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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #54261 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54261)
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-Project Gutenberg's The Harvest of a Quiet Eye, by John Richard Vernon
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-Title: The Harvest of a Quiet Eye
-       Leisure Thoughts for Busy Lives
-
-Author: John Richard Vernon
-
-Release Date: February 28, 2017 [EBook #54261]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARVEST OF A QUIET EYE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Howard, and the
-Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-The Harvest of a Quiet Eye.
-
-
-
-
-  _With Numerous Illustrations by
-  Noel Humphreys, Harrison Weir, Wimperis Pritchett, Miss Edwards,
-  and other eminent Artists._
-
-
-
-
-  THE HARVEST OF A QUIET EYE.
-
-
-  LEISURE THOUGHTS
-  FOR
-  BUSY LIVES.
-
-
-  BY THE AUTHOR OF “MY STUDY CHAIR,” “MUSINGS,” ETC.
-
-
-  [Illustration]
-
-
-  LONDON:
-  THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
-  56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD;
-  AND 164, PICCADILLY.
-
-
-[Illustration:
-
-   “_The outward shows of sky and earth,
-    Of hill and valley he has viewed;
-    And impulses of deeper birth
-    Have come to him in solitude._
-
-   “_In common things that round us lie,
-    Some random truths he can impart,
-    --The harvest of a quiet eye
-    That broods and sleeps on his own heart._”
-
-                WORDSWORTH.
-]
-
-
-
-
-[Illustration: CONTENTS.]
-
-
-                   PAGE
-
-  THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW           1
-
-  MUSINGS ON THE THRESHOLD           23
-
-  SPRING DAYS       41
-
-  MUSINGS IN A WOOD        63
-
-  THE MAY-DAYS OF THE SOUL           85
-
-  SUMMER DAYS          101
-
-  MUSINGS IN THE HAY       123
-
-  THE BEAUTY OF RAIN           145
-
-  AUTUMN DAYS           161
-
-  MUSINGS ON THE SEA-SHORE         183
-
-  MUSINGS ON THE MOUNTAINS           199
-
-  MUSINGS IN THE TWILIGHT            221
-
-  WINTER DAYS        241
-
-  THE END OF THE SEASONS            265
-
-  UNDER BARE BOUGHS               283
-
-
-
-
-[Illustration: Preface]
-
-
-These papers, written in the intervals of parish work, have appeared
-in the pages of the _Leisure Hour_ and the _Sunday at Home_. Their
-publication in a collected form having been decided upon by others, it
-only remained for me, by careful revision and excision, to render them
-as little unworthy as might be of starting for themselves in the wide
-world.
-
-I shall not say that I am sorry that they are thus sent forth on
-their humble mission. Indeed, I am glad. “Brief life is here our
-portion”:--and surely the wish is one natural to all earnest hearts,
-that our work for our Master in this sad and sinful world should not
-have its term together with the quick ending of our short day’s labour
-here:--and a book has the possibility of a longer life than that of a
-man. The Night cometh, when none can work; how sweet, if it might be,
-that when the day is ended, when the warfare, for us, is over, we may
-have left some strong watchwords, or some comfortable and cheering
-utterances, still ringing in the ears of those who stepped into our
-place in the unbroken ranks.
-
-Yes, the evening soon falls on the field; the day is brief, nor fully
-employed; inanimate things seem to have an advantage over us; streams
-flow on, and mountains stand;
-
-   “While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
-    We men, who, in our morn of youth, defied
-    The elements, must vanish:--be it so!
-    Enough, if something from our hands have power
-    To live, and act, and serve the future hour.”
-
-And I may be permitted to hope that possibly these meditations may have
-such power and perform such, service in their modest way. They have but
-the ambition of a flower that looks up to cheer, or a bird’s note that
-tranquilly, amid storms, continues a simple melody from the heart of
-its tree. They will, like these, be easily passed by, but, like these,
-may have a message for hearts that will look and listen.
-
-There is certainly, in the present age, a want of writing that
-shall rest and brace the mind; of meditative writing of a tendency
-merely holy and practical, rather shunning than plunging into
-controversy:--not the cry of the angry or startled bird, but its
-evening and morning orisons rather. A contemplative strain; one linked
-with things of earth, and hallowing them--one heard beside “the common
-path that common men pursue”:--one rising from the common work-a-day
-experiences, joys, and pains--rising from these and carrying them up
-with it heavenward, until even earth’s exhalations catch the light of
-an unearthly glory. We want more of this spiritual rest; more of this
-standing apart from the perturbations of the day; more of retirement
-and retired thought--thought that shall leave the throng, with its
-absorbed purpose and pushing and jostling, always eager, often angry;
-and having secured a lonely standing-point apart from it all, become
-better able to judge of the real truth and importance, also of the just
-relation of things.
-
-I cannot claim to have done more than make a slight attempt towards
-the supply of this want. Nay, I would rather lay claim not to have
-_attempted_. This is the age of effort and strain; it were well that
-thought were sometimes permitted to be natural, spontaneous, and simply
-expressive of that which the heart’s meditations have laid by in store.
-A stream thus welling up will want the precision and the single aim of
-the artificial jet, but it will have its modest use and value to cheer
-and to refresh lowly grasses, and perhaps to water the roots of loftier
-growths in its vagaries and meanderings.
-
-In these times men will be held nothing if not controversial; and
-rival parties will skim the book for shibboleths before they read or
-throw it by. Assuredly fixed principles and definite teaching are
-(if ever at one time more than another) of special importance in the
-present day; and I am not one who think it well to blow both hot and
-cold at pleasure. Only I would ask, is there absolute need that we be
-_always blowing_ either? may we not sometimes be permitted simply to
-breathe? There are occasions on which I find myself compelled to blow
-one or the other, but I grudge the good breath spent in the exertion,
-and prefer to return to the normal state of even respiration. A story,
-told of Archbishop Leighton’s youth, is to the point:--“In a synod
-he was publicly reprimanded for not ‘preaching up the times.’ ‘Who,’
-he asked, ‘does preach up the times?’ It was answered that all the
-brethren did it. ‘Then,’ he rejoined, ‘if all of you preach up the
-times, you may surely allow one poor brother to preach up Christ Jesus
-and eternity.’”
-
-No doubt, we must be militant here on earth, militant against every
-form of error--old error undisguised, and old error in a new dress; but
-the more need that we should secure breathing times when we may sheathe
-the biting sword and lay the heavy armour by. Perhaps many with whom
-we war, or from whom we stand aloof in suspicion, would be found, when
-the vizors were raised, to be brothers, and henceforth warriors by our
-side.
-
-One word as to the title of this book. “The Harvest of a Quiet Eye.”
-This has always been a favourite line with me, and now I take it to
-describe my unpretentious volume, though this be rather a handful
-gleaned than a harvest got in. With some people this gleaning by the
-way would be contemned, in their single-eyed advance upon some goal;
-with some it is a thing continual and habitual, this instinctive
-gathering and half-unconscious storing of hints and touches of wayside
-beauty--a process so well described in Wordsworth’s verses. To have
-an eye for the wide pictures and slight studies of Nature; to gather
-them up, in solitary walks which thus are not lonely; to lay them
-by, together with the heart’s deeper thoughts, its associations,
-meditations, and reminiscences;--this is to fashion common things into
-a beauty which, to the fashioner at least, may be a joy for ever.
-
-   “To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,
-    To listen to the woods’ expiring lay,
-    To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,
-    To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,
-    On the waste fields to trace the gleaner’s way,
-    And moralise on mortal joy and pain,”
-
---this has been with me the secondary occupation of many a walk,
-solitary or in company. A rosy sunbeam slanting down a bank, and
-catching the stems of the ferns and the tops of the grasses; a coral
-twist of briony berries; a daisy in December;--the eye would be
-caught, and the train of grave or anxious musing intermitted without
-being broken off, by the ever-allowed claim of Nature’s silent poetry.
-And often the deeper meaning of such poetry would run parallel with the
-mind’s thought--sometimes suggest for it a new path.
-
-“Few ears of scattered grain.” Though this be all my harvest, yet if
-that be grain at all which has been collected, it may have its use. He
-who with a very little fed a great multitude, has a ministry for even
-our humble handfuls. At His feet be this laid: may He accept and bless
-it, and deign to refresh and hearten by its means some few at least of
-those who, faint and weary, are following Him in the wilderness of this
-world!
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-A Happy New Year!
-
-Words repeated by how many myriads, in how many zones--tropic,
-temperate, frigid, wherever the English tongue is spoken! Words said
-commonly with more of meaning and sincerity than fall to the lot of
-many almost-of-course salutations. Words in which there is a shade of
-melancholy, and a gleam of gladness; a lingering of regret, with the
-very new birth of anticipation. “A Happy New Year.”
-
-Ah, but it is not unlike parting with an old friend, the saying
-good-bye to the Old Year. And it seems unkind to turn from him who has
-so long dwelt with us, and to take up too jauntily with a new friend.
-
-He had his faults: but, at any rate, we know them; and those of the
-new-comer have yet to be discovered. And his virtues seem to stand out
-in bolder relief, now that we feel that we shall never see him again.
-Such experiences, too, we have had together! we have been sad and merry
-in company, and the days of our past society come with a warm rush to
-our heart:--
-
-   “Though his eyes are waxing dim,
-    And though his foes speak ill of him,
-    He was a friend to me.”
-
-And so we keep hold still of his hand, loth, very loth indeed to
-part--as we sit in silence by the flickering fire, and listen to the
-sudden bursts and sinking of the bells.
-
-It is our habit--(I speak in the name of myself, and of many of my
-readers)--it is an immemorial custom with us, to assemble, all that
-can do so, in the old home, from which we have at different times
-taken wing--to gather together there again, on the last night of
-the Old Year. I have heard the plan objected to, but I never heard
-any objections that to my mind seemed weighty ones. True, the gaps
-that must come from time to time, are perhaps most of all brought
-prominently, sadly before us, at such a gathering as this. We miss
-the husband, the brother, the sweet girl-daughter, the little one’s
-pattering feet--ah, sorely, sorely then! Last year the familiar face
-was here, and now, now, far away, under the white sheet of snow. This
-is sad, but it is not a mere unstarlit night of gloom. Nay, I maintain
-that, to those who look at it rightly, more and brighter stars of
-comfort shine out then than at other times to compensate for the
-deepening dark. There is the comfort of sympathy, and of seeing in all
-surrounding faces how the lost one was loved. But, especially, it seems
-as though, when all are met again, he may not be far away from the
-circle that was so unbroken upon earth:--
-
-   “Nor count me all to blame if I
-      Conjecture of a stiller guest,
-      Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
-    And, though in silence, wishing joy.”
-
-And most of all, there is the old-fashioned, but ever new
-comfort--balm, indeed, of Gilead, for every bereaved heart.
-
-  “I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them
-    which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have
-    no hope.
-
-  “For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them
-    also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.”
-
-And these home gatherings, yearly growing more incomplete, and yearly
-increasing, lead the heart to glad thought of that reunion hereafter,
-in that House of our Father in which the mansions are many, the Home,
-one.
-
-Well, you are gathered, my friend and reader, you and your dear ones,
-about your father’s fireside on this last night of the Old Year. The
-hours have stolen on: at ten o’clock the servants came in, and the
-last family prayers have been offered up, and the last thanksgiving of
-the assembled household for this year; and the chamber candlesticks
-have been set out, and the father has drawn his chair near the fire,
-and another log cast upon it crackles and flashes; and each and all
-announce the intention of seeing the Old Year out and the New Year in.
-
-Cheery talk, reminiscent talk, pensive talk, thankful talk; a little
-silence. The wind flaps against the window, and throws against it a
-handful of the Old Year’s cast-off leaves. The clock on the mantelpiece
-gives eleven sharp, clear tings. The year has but an hour to live. And
-now the wind brings up a clear ring of bells; and then sinks, that
-the Old Year may die in peace, and his requiem be well heard over the
-waking land.
-
-But an hour to live! And the burden of depression that ever comes
-with the exceeding sweetness of bells, loads, grain after grain, the
-descending scale of your spirits. It is a solemn time, a time for
-quiet: a time in which it is well to leave even the dear faces, and to
-get you apart alone with God.
-
-So you steal away from the fireside blaze; and ascend the creaking
-stairs, and enter your own room; and close the door, even as a
-dear Friend long ago advised; and offer the last worship of the
-year--confessions, supplications, intercessions, praises. You go over
-the dear names, sweet beads of the heart’s rosary, telling them one by
-one to God, with their several wants and needs. You mention once more
-the special blessings to them and to yourself of the past year. You
-put, once more, all the future for them and for you into that kind,
-wise Father’s hand; and you feel rested then, and at peace. A few words
-read, for the last time this year, in the Book of books; and now there
-is yet a little space for quiet thought about the dying year, before
-his successor enters at the door.
-
-And it is then, as you sit pensively before the dancing fire, alone in
-your silent room--while the bell music now comes in bursts, and now
-dies in whispers--that a sort of abstract of many thoughts that have
-hovered about you all day is summoned up before your mind. It is the
-hour of soft regret, helped, I say, by those merry, melancholy bells,
-which
-
-   “Swell up and fail, as though a door
-    Were shut between you and the sound.”
-
-You have had your sad times in the year that is so nearly dead; you
-have shed your bitter tears; you have had your lonely hours, your
-weariness of this unsatisfying, disappointing world. Unkindness,
-estrangement, bereavement, intense solitariness of the spirit,
-when it is conscious that not another being than the Creator can
-ever understand, far less supply, its want, or heal its woe--these
-experiences, these wearing, shaping, refining operations of the kind
-Father are part of your memories of the dying year. While their
-bitterness was present with you, you would have said that it was
-impossible that you could ever regret to part with the year that
-brought them. “Ring out,” you would have said, “ring out, wild bells,
-this unkind and bitter year; this year that hath brought a blight over
-my life; this year that hath dispelled the dreams of youth, and changed
-into a wilderness that which did blossom as the rose. Ring out, and let
-this hard year die. Fleet, hours and days and weeks and months, and set
-a distance between me and what I long to call the _past_. Ring out,
-wild bells, to the wild sky; gladly would I say now, even now, while I
-listened to you--
-
-   “The year is dying--let it die!”
-
-But those hours of bitterness are now, even now, of the past. That
-sharp pain, or that weary ache, is dulled, perhaps removed. Perhaps you
-have learned God’s lesson in it, and can thank Him, though the ache
-still dwells in the heart’s heart; at any rate, the Old Year is passing
-away; the sad Old Year, the glad Old Year; on the whole--yes, on the
-whole, the _dear_ Old Year. He is with you but for a few minutes more;
-he has come to say good-bye.
-
-Who does not unbend at such a time? In all the friendships, in all
-the ties of life, there comes up surely all the warmth, all the
-kindly feeling of the heart, when the time comes which is to end that
-connection for ever. There may have been some old grudges, discontents,
-heart-burnings, jealousies, disappointments. But they are forgotten
-now, and the eyes have a kindly light, and the lips a tender word, and
-the hand a hearty shake, when it has indeed come to saying good-bye.
-
-And so with the Old Year, whatever he has been to us, whatever little
-disagreements we may have had, whatever heart-burnings, they are not
-much remembered now.
-
-It is a friend that is leaving you, you are not glad to part with him;
-_good-bye, Old Year, good-bye_.
-
-Another regretful thought, as the twilight flickers and dances on the
-blind, and those bells still dance hand-in-hand, row after row, close
-up to the window, and still pass away hardly perceived into the distant
-fields. The dying Year brought some happiness, some love; this is now
-warm and safe in the nest of the heart; the coming time may fledge it,
-and it may, some summer day, take sudden wing and fly.
-
-   “He brought me a friend, and a true, true love,
-    And the New Year will take ’em away.”
-
-Youth is especially the time, perhaps, for a sort of tender prophetic
-hint of the evanescence and passing away of hopes, loves, dreams. It
-is indeed but a rose-leaf weight on the heart, but a gossamer passing
-across the sun; yet there it frequently is. The iron hand of real
-crushing bereavement, of actual anguish, has never yet had the heart in
-its gripe, to crush out all that more tender sentiment. Yet some soft,
-faint shadows of darker hours do, unaccountably, fall early across the
-daisy fields of youth. And thus in youth a certain foreshadowing, in
-mature years a stern experience, brings into the heart at this time
-a thoughtful dread of losing what we already have; an undefinable
-apprehension of the future. This time next year, when the New Year
-has become the Old, and its time has come round to say good-bye, what
-changes may have come to us, to our circle, to our home! Will all be
-then as it is now? Will love, perhaps newly-acquired, still nestle in
-our heart, or will it have even taken wings like a dove, and have left
-it--
-
-   “Like a forsaken bird’s nest filled with snow”?
-
-Oh, who shall tell? Answer, quiet heart, that hast learned to trust in
-God; and rest, rest peacefully, brightly, hopefully, on the answer that
-God hath taught thee!
-
-But a quarter of an hour left now of the Old Year’s life! and the wind
-brings the bells in a sudden burst like rain against the window. Before
-you join the group downstairs there is yet another, the saddest subject
-for regretful thought. The past hours of the past days of the year
-nearly past might have been better spent, oh, how much so, than they
-have been!
-
-“_Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might._” Has _that_
-been the rule of the past year? Ah, if it had been, how different a
-year to look back upon! How many opportunities neglected altogether!
-How many but weakly and slackly employed! Opportunities that can never
-come again, that, employed or neglected, are past now. The word that
-might have done infinite good, but that was not spoken--cowardice,
-weak complaisance, in a word, _worldliness_, God’s enemy, fettered
-the tongue: excuses were ready, though the heart did not believe
-them, and God’s soldier failed, and the devil had the better of that
-field. Again, actions, that sloth or love of worldly ease caused to
-die out into smoke when they should have been eager leaping fire. An
-opportunity came, once and again, of doing something for God. The duty
-was a laborious one, a painful one; nevertheless, however painful, it
-must be done; you had resolved that it should be done; you had even
-sought help upon your knees for the work. But mark the carnal coward
-spirit creeping over the spiritual manly resolve: a friend came in,
-a persuasion turned you; your heart, alas! hardly really in earnest,
-did not set itself as a flint to its purpose; too willing to be turned
-aside, it basely accepted the tempting excuse, and laboured thereupon
-to believe itself really acquitted from the duty. Those opportunities
-passed away, the noble action was not done, the faithful word was
-never spoken, the heart’s reproaches became dull, and the duty ceased
-its ceaseless gnawing at the conscience. But amid the fitful sinking
-and falling of the firelight and the bells as you sit on the rug,
-hand-shading your eyes--the neglected opportunity comes back, with
-all its reproach, even newer and keener than at the first; back again
-to accuse your faint-heartedness, to upbraid your lukewarm love; to
-tell you of One who died for you, and yet for whom you shirk the least
-distasteful labour, the least taking up the cross, and denying yourself
-to follow Him.
-
-And, besides all this, when you think of the whole past year, even
-of its hours (how few, and how grudged!) when you have tried to do
-the work which the Master put into your power to perform for Him, how
-conscious you are of the want of heart in even your best endeavours;
-you cannot but feel how hard the world’s votaries have been working for
-their master, and how slackly you have been labouring for your Master
-and only Saviour--how they have been running, with eyes fixed on the
-goal; and how you have been hobbling and limping, looking behind, and
-on this side and on that, not with single purpose, pressing towards the
-mark--ah, no!
-
-And you think, then, what this life might have been--might be. A life
-that looked straight forward, that turned not to the right hand nor to
-the left, that paused for no alluring of pleasure, for no constraining
-of business--
-
-  “This way and that dividing the swift mind,”
-
-and wasting its energy and powers. A life that set God first, utterly
-first; that shouldered aside the world’s jostling, distracting
-importunities; that left the little concerns, the little loves, the
-little jealousies of this brief life, staring after its eager, swift,
-stedfast advance, whenever they would have interposed to hinder
-it. A life that really and in good earnest, not half-heartedly and
-in pretence, should leave all to follow Christ. Something of the
-unflinching, unswerving, unpausing persistency of those old Jesuits;
-only in the service of Christ, and not in that of the Pope and the
-Inquisition. You think of a St. Paul, and his onward, onward still, “in
-weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in
-fastings often, in cold and nakedness,” and you think of your lagging,
-loitering----!
-
-Ah, well, that is best: on your knees once more, for pardon and for
-grace--grace to love Him more and serve Him better in the year so near
-at hand! God shall wipe away all those tears that love for Him made to
-flow, and the blessed Saviour’s perfect righteousness shall hide all
-our vile and miserable rags; yet even the saved, we can almost fancy,
-will wish with a feeling akin to regret, to have loved the blessed Lord
-more; and he who has gained but five pounds will surely wish that it
-had been ten. For our opportunities, it often seems to me, are such as
-angels might long to have. Where all are serving God, and we have no
-longer a sinful nature dragging us back, nor a glittering world around
-us, nor a subtle tempter at our ear--it will seem little, methinks,
-to serve God then and there. But now, and here, in a world lying in
-wickedness, where the more part are not on Christ’s side, but rather
-leagued with or deserters to the devil, the world, and the flesh--oh,
-what an Abdiel opportunity to stand up, a speaking, living protest
-in life’s least and greatest thought, word, and act; a burning and a
-shining light, reflecting the beams of the Sun of Righteousness in a
-dark and naughty world!
-
-Ah, may this quiet hour of thought, of regretful meditation, by
-God’s grace, be the point on which you have collected your powers
-and energies for a forward spring, that shall not grow slack through
-eternity!
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Five minutes to twelve now. The hour of Regret is near its close. The
-hour of Anticipation is close at hand. The Old Year’s bells are running
-down, and the Old Year’s life is passing with them. Five minutes more.
-First you bow your head, and adore the Almighty and the All-loving--God
-the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost--for the Past, for the
-Present, and for the Future. Then you go downstairs, according to old
-custom, to join the rest of the dear circle at the open window, and to
-listen for the ceasing of the bells.
-
-They are gathered at the window, standing quietly and thoughtfully;
-those that are nearest and dearest linked with loving arms; they are
-silent, or speak in a subdued tone. You might almost think that they
-were indeed standing by some bedside, watching the last breathing of a
-friend; for a solemn thing it is, the passing from one to another of
-these stepping-stones in the brook of life, and seeing the other shore
-seem to gather a more distinct shape through the mist of the future.
-
-You join the group. A cold, moist air, full of films of snow, comes out
-of the dark night into the warm, bright room. The bells are running
-away; you might almost fancy them the sands, the last few grains of the
-Old Year’s life. Suddenly they stop, and in the breathing silence a
-deep clang falls from the church tower,--another,--ten more yet,--and
-the Old Year is dead.
-
-“A happy New Year!--a happy New Year!” Warm kisses, and hearty shakes
-of the hand, and, like the crash of a great breaker that has seemed to
-pause for a moment in the air, down bursts the glad, the melancholy
-ring of bells again, and floods the bare shore of silence,--still
-lingering, seething, receding, gathering into new bursts again, and yet
-again.
-
-A happy New Year! The Past is past, the Old Year is dead, the hour of
-Regret is gone by, the time of Anticipation is here; not good-bye now,
-but welcome; not lingering retrospect, but earnest advance. Life is too
-short for long mourning; not much time can be spared to meditate by the
-fresh grave of the past. Forward, towards the unknown future: grasp its
-opportunities, its sorrows, its joys, to be woven into some fabric for
-the Master’s use! On, towards the untried future, bravely, trustfully,
-hopefully, cheerfully; but remember you can never overtake it. It
-changes into the present even as you come up with it; and it is now, or
-never, that you must be serving God.
-
-   “Trust no future, howe’er pleasant,
-    Let the dead past bury its dead;
-    Act, act in the living present,
-    Heart within, and God o’erhead.”
-
-But good night to all, or good morning--which?--and then upstairs, and
-tired, to bed. When you wake, things will go on much as usual, though
-the Old Year be dead, and sentry January have relieved sentry December.
-Only for a time you will find yourself dating still 18--, and, if
-untidy, you will have to smear, if tidy, to erase, the last figure, and
-substitute the number of your new friend.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Anticipation. This is especially the dower of the young, if Regret
-be often the possession of the old. What a strange, glorious thing
-a New Year is to the child! Little of the feelings that I have been
-describing find place in the breast of the boy and girl, that were
-fast asleep and warm in their beds, while you and the bells were at
-conference: little of such musings trouble them, as they bound out
-of bed in the morning, and scuttle off in their night-gowns, patter
-patter, in a race, to be the first to wish father and mother a happy
-New Year. They are growing out of childhood: _that_ is the joy for
-them: another of those vast periods has passed. Happy Spring, that
-does but long to shed and cast away her myriad white blossoms; and to
-rush on towards the full-grown Summer:--unknowing in the least, of the
-sober, misty, tear-strung, if fruitful, Autumn boughs! A happy New
-Year, little ones! Far be it from me to strip Spring boughs in order to
-imitate the Autumn which they cannot know! God keep you, my children;
-God teach you, and God bless you!
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-A little farther on. Anticipation is glowing warmly in the heart of the
-young man and the young woman. The time of childhood is left behind.
-The time of independence, the time of manhood, is drawing near: that
-time which shall transform into realities the great things,--the noble,
-world-stirring deeds, that have hitherto been only schemes. That time
-when the loves that are budding in the heart shall burst into exquisite
-blossoms, and never a frost nip them, and never a rude wind carry at
-unawares a loose petal away.
-
-A happy New Year. The heart accepts this wish, fearlessly, without
-doubt, before the strife; before the rough work of a field or two in
-the scarce-tried warfare of life has smirched the glittering armour,
-and shorn the gay plumes, and changed the song before the battle
-into hard labouring sobs, in the stern hand-to-hand tussle with sin
-and with sorrow, with disappointment and dismay. Before many a scheme
-overturned, many a brave effort fallen dead as bullets against a stone
-wall, many a seeming hopeful struggle forced back by the sheer dead
-weight of evil, has made the heart sick and the knees to tremble,
-and brought an early weariness and hint of despair over the amazed
-Recruit; a touch of that felt by the Sage of old: “It is enough: evil
-is too strong for me: I can do no more than others have done before: my
-schemes have come to nothing, my bubbles have burst: now let me die.”
-But the Recruit becomes the Veteran, and is content to wait, where he
-was once ready to despair. He does not hope so much, and therefore is
-not so much dismayed; he relies now not so much on earthquake efforts,
-as on the still small voice uttered to the world by the life which is
-given to God. He is content to labour,--and to leave it to the Master
-to give the increase.
-
-Yes, the young heart, even when lit with heavenly love, and full of
-great designs for God, must submit to the overthrow of the bright
-visions that anticipation set before it. How much more, when its fire
-was lit from earth; and earth’s loves, or fame, or pleasure, or power,
-were the prizes for which life’s battle was to be fought. Vanity and
-vexation of spirit, disappointment, dismay, despair; these are the
-ruins that shall be won for Moscows, if that battle be fought to the
-end!
-
-A happy New Year. That glad wish of youth may come to sound, to the
-man, nothing but bitter irony. But much of the early hope, and more
-than the early peace, comes back to the veteran worker for God.
-
-   “Who, but the Christian, through all life
-      That blessing may prolong?
-    Who, through the world’s sad day of strife,
-      Still chant his morning song?”
-
-A happy New Year, young man and young woman! God grant it you, in the
-one true sense of the word. It need not be a freedom from sorrow: this
-is an ennobling, useful discipline, that I may not wish you to avoid.
-But, to be happy, it must be free from sloth and wilful sin.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Look out from your window again, at the snow sheet which has silently,
-deeply, fallen upon the earth. Let it be very early in the morning,
-while the world is asleep and the broad moon and the glittering stars
-watch alone over the smooth, sparkling, white face of the land. Not
-a footstep, so far as you see, has impressed the smooth, pure snow;
-not a dark cart-track has yet left a long stain on the spotless road.
-No thawing penitential drippings have made dark wells in it here and
-there; no rude sweeping has piled the snow in stained heaps hither and
-thither by the path. All is yet pure, untouched, undefiled.
-
-This is the New Year upon which we have entered, as we look at it from
-the casement of the Old Year, before yet one step has been placed on
-its first moment. All as yet unstained, and white, and calm.
-
-For how short a time to remain so! Can we set our first step upon it
-without somewhat marring its virgin beauty? And then the traffic, the
-hurrying of many feet, the crushing of many wheels; thought, word, and
-deed, too often unwatched and unsanctified by prayer; oh, what a change
-soon, and how short a time that purity and calm has lasted!
-
-New Year; clean New Year; how dark, how defiled, how changed will you
-be, when you also are now waxing old, and ready to vanish away! The
-white virgin opportunity all passed by, leaving dark, dreary, sodden
-fields, and roads churned up into yellow mud. The clinging spotless
-moments--flakes that, in innumerable combination, made up the great
-stainless carpet of the untrodden New Year; for them there will be
-many a trickling rivulet of penitential tears; and the steam and mist
-of heavy sighs that go up to God because of life’s work too faintly,
-slackly done. Well then, that is well. Better, of course, if this
-could have been, that the pure year had remained unstained.
-
-   “My little children, these things write I unto you, _that
-          ye sin not_.”
-
-But well, if we are indeed humbly striving, and if hearty repentance,
-and a true, lively, cleansing faith follow upon our many, many sad
-failings, faults, and shortcomings. For, sweet words!--
-
-  “_If any man sin_, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus
-    Christ the righteous: and He is the propitiation for our sins.”
-
-And, glorious thought! if we are indeed loving and seeking after
-purity and holiness, striving because of the hope within us, to purify
-ourselves, even as He is pure--then know this, we shall not love, and
-seek, and strive in vain.
-
-   “When He shall appear, _we shall be like Him_.”
-
-Think of that! So that, when our last hour comes, and the bellringers
-are ready for us, to ring out the Old Year of this life, and to ring in
-the New Year of the next; and we are looking (our near and dear ones
-still by us) out of the casement of the Old Year of TIME, what may
-we then see? There shall be stretched out before us the immeasurable
-unstained tract of the New Year of ETERNITY, unsullied, spotless, pure
-and white; and we need not then be afraid to enter upon that. The blood
-of Jesus, which cleanseth from all sin, will have so cleansed us, that
-even _our_ footprints will not stain nor mar it. The spots and the
-defilements, the tears and the sighs, they will lie all behind us then,
-in the Old Year which is dead. Ring out, oh, ringers, then--toll not,
-but ring out the year of sadness and of sin, of weak strivings, cold
-hearts, and dull love! Ring out the year of partings and estrangements,
-of death and tears! And ring in--oh, that it might be so for every
-reader of this chapter!--ring with none but joy-notes, ring in that
-everlastingly HAPPY NEW YEAR!
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MUSINGS ON THE THRESHOLD.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-I call February the Threshold of the Year. In January we were indoors,
-beside the fire, and there seemed little of new and various to tempt
-us out. But February comes, and with it the first dream of change, the
-first scarce-heard whisper of the Spring. The faint possibility of a
-snowdrop, hinting its yet undrooping white through a peaked green film;
-the distant hope of a primrose bud, peeping--with yellow point, for all
-the world just like that of a coloured crayon--out of the young, crisp,
-green leaves that are crowning the limp, ragged ones of last year; the
-wild dream of a find of those sweet buds--little geologists’ hammers,
-with white or violet noses--among their round seeds and drilled leaves,
-in some warmer corner; such, summonings as these woo the steps to the
-threshold on a strayed mild day late in February. The black, soaked
-trees have, we find, taken a warm hue of life; the dull willow bushes
-have the gleam of golden hair; the first soft air of the year comes to
-our hearts with a gush of promises; flowers and leaves seem possible to
-the heart waking from its winter stagnation; trees and men alike feel
-a new life, a fresh impulse. Even though we have become hard wood and
-wrinkled rind, our sap is, nevertheless, stirred:
-
-   “And even in our inmost ring
-      A pleasure is discerned,
-    From those blind motions of the Spring,
-      That show the year is turned.”
-
-And, perhaps, we are content to pause on the threshold, and lean
-against the lintel, and survey the smile close at hand, and the gleam
-far away; and, while the robin draws near in a cheerful, not to say
-jovial, sympathy with our humour, and the faint branchy shadows move
-tenderly on the glistening lawn, to muse on the year’s threshold,
-concerning the programme that the wind is whispering among the bushes,
-and the promises that the warm air is wafting into the heart.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Musings on the Threshold. Such musings might take many an obvious high
-road, or quaint turn, we must feel, as we stand on the threshold of our
-house, and of the year, looking out upon the herald-gleam, and fanned
-by what seems a Spring air; an air that summons sweet thoughts of
-March, April, May--scarce June yet; certainly not October or November.
-On the threshold of the Spring; this we would rather say, and forget
-that it is really the threshold of the year,--that thing composed of
-smiles and tears, of gleams and showers, of full green boughs and
-bare sticks, of promises and disappointments, of growth and life, and
-decay and death. For instance, with regard to these threshold musings,
-how often, ere we shall have passed on so far in life’s journey, that
-we stand on the threshold of the next state,--how often do we pause
-for awhile upon some threshold, and lean back against the door and
-muse. On the threshold of joy, or on the threshold of misery; on the
-threshold of hope, or on the threshold of despair; on the threshold of
-school, or of the holidays; on the threshold of wearing tail-coats;
-of being flogged or expelled; of gaining the three head prizes of
-the school,--these gave musings to some in early days. Later, on the
-threshold of a pluck, or of a double first-class; on the threshold of
-first love; and--oh, the dim, delicious look-out, and long, ecstatic
-musings!--on the threshold of being married; of parting with some
-beloved one,--and ah, how a stern hand seems to drag you forth from
-your contemplation here, when your musings were scarce begun! On the
-threshold of the first fall from purity or honour,--and, alas, the
-dismal journey that shall follow upon the threshold left, and the
-first step taken! On the threshold of repentance; and angel-eyes watch
-eagerly, and angel-hands poise above their golden harps; and at the
-first step forward a ringing rapture peals up into the trembling roof
-of Heaven. “Musings on the Threshold”:--are there not then, highways
-and by-paths which such musings might well take? But it is time for us
-to choose our present road; and, to do so, we will even go back to the
-beginning of a certain well-trodden way, upon which every one of us is
-found, some far back, some near the middle, some tottering on close to
-the goal.
-
-_On the threshold of Life._ Yes, once upon a time we stood there: and
-the Spring air was rife with half-shaped songs and indistinct delicious
-whispers; and we knew that the hedges and copses were full of all sweet
-promise-buds; and there were songs in the distance, and an interminable
-thronging of inexhaustible flowers; and life seemed too sweet, when the
-first blossom that was our own was grasped in our hand, and the stir of
-life growing conscious and intelligent first made the heart glow and
-kindle, as we paused musing upon the Threshold, and looked out upon the
-sweet, strange opening year of Life.
-
-Ah well, the step soon has to be taken, that marks the beginning of
-separation from those lovely, unreal dreams. There is Solomon’s way of
-leaving them--much labour, and little profit, and a bitter heart at
-the end. And there is that other way of leaving them--the hearing once
-and again, and gradually heeding, an oft-repeated solemn call, “Follow
-Me.” Out of the sunshine into the shadow; away from dreamy threshold
-musings, into the rough and stony highway; drop the flowers and clasp
-the cross: for how run the instructions given long ago, and given to
-all; given by precept, and given by example? “Whosoever will come after
-Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.”
-
-How true of those who--at last, and after long hesitation--take the
-first step, and leave the threshold of this world’s young dreams, and
-begin to follow Him; how true that “little did they know to what they
-pledged themselves, when, in that first season of awe, they arose and
-followed His voice. But now they cannot go back, for they are too nigh
-to the unseen One, and His words have sunk deeply within them. Day
-by day they are giving up their old waking dreams; things they have
-pictured out and acted over in their imaginations and their hopes,
-one by one they let them go, with saddened but willing hearts. They
-feel as if they had fallen under some irresistible attraction, which
-is hurrying them into the world unseen; and so in truth it is. He is
-fulfilling to them His promise: ‘And I, if I be lifted up from the
-earth, will draw all men unto Me.’ Their turn is come at last, that is
-all. Before, they had only heard of the mystery; now, they feel it. He
-has fastened on them His look of love, even as on Peter and on Mary;
-and they cannot choose but follow, and in following Him, altogether
-forget both themselves and all their visions of life.”
-
-How strange it is, verily, after we have for many years now, followed
-that Voice,--followed it, no doubt, with many a declension, many a
-wavering, many a wayward swerving, and almost turning back; yet, on
-the whole, followed it, and that with less of timidity, and more of
-implicitness, as experience justified hope;--how strange, about midway
-in the journey, to look back at life’s threshold! The January of
-infancy had past; the February of awakening, conscious life had come,
-and we came out from our dormant state, and paused upon the threshold,
-and looked forth upon the world. And now we look back, and with a
-strange, wondering interest, contemplate that single lonely figure
-that was ourself, leaning in wrapt musing; the small home behind it;
-and before, the siren murmurs, and warm, flattering airs of the fairy,
-enticing Future. The magic dreams, the mirage-reveries, the profuse
-promises, the unshaped hopes, the just-caught notes of some divine,
-distant melody: all the flowers to blossom; and all the birds to come.
-Ah, what sweet, wild musings were those! Far away we seemed to catch a
-gleam of that
-
-   “Light that never was on sea or land,
-    The consecration, and the poet’s dream.”
-
-And even tears had their sparkle, and melancholy its charm, and death
-its unreal beauty.
-
-   “To think of passing bells, of death and dying--
-      ’Twere good, methought, in early youth to die,
-    So loved, lamented: in such sweet sleep lying,
-      The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary
-    Stuck o’er by loving hands.”
-
-Thus, we remember, once stood that figure, solitary in its own
-individuality, upon the threshold, and looking out upon life. And,
-contemplating our present self, we feel that it is “the same, yet not
-the same.” How changed all has become! It is not only nor chiefly that
-flowers are less valued than fruit-germs, or sparkling glass than
-rough, hereafter-to-be-cut diamonds; it is not only, nor so much, that
-the world’s promises and life’s young dreams have failed us, as that we
-have turned away from them. That our taste has altered; that the things
-that then were all, are now nearly nothing; that what once rose before
-us a golden mirage, seems now as but bare sand; that what seemed gain,
-would be now held as loss; that what seemed too rare, and delicious,
-and high, and exquisite, and sublime, for more than trembling hope, has
-now become as refuse in our thought.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Time was, when other thoughts and purposes than these which now
-possess us, held sway in our hearts. Time was, when we stood on the
-threshold, dazzled, and wondering, in a delicious dream, which of all
-the sublime or lovely paths that opened before us we should pursue.
-Time was, when at last we began to heed a kind, but still small Voice,
-that had from the first been speaking to us; when a grave Eye that
-had from the first watched us, at last fixed our attention. Time was,
-when we were compelled as it were, at first with hesitating, reluctant
-step, to follow that Voice and that Look--away from those bright gay
-paths, or grand aspiring ways, down a lowly, narrow way, strewn with
-thorns and stones, and sloping into a mist-hid valley. Time was--if
-we followed still--that the disturbing, distracting sounds and sights
-above being left behind and hushed,--the mist lifted, and, lo! the
-valley was a pleasant valley, an abode of “peace that the world cannot
-give”: and if the way were still rough sometimes, there were undying
-flowers of unearthly beauty here and there; and if the lark was away,
-the nightingale was singing; and it was answered to us, yea, our heart
-returned answer to itself, that, albeit narrow and strait at first, the
-name of that way was, in very truth, the Way of Pleasantness and the
-Path of Peace.
-
-Ah, yes, if once we, with purpose of heart, set ourselves to follow
-His guiding, how God draws us on! We clutch at this, and would rest at
-that; and surely this is the Chief good, and the Ideal beauty? But
-no; the early flowers depart, and the late, and we leave the threshold
-and wander on; and February goes, and March goes, and even June, and
-August; and sorrowfully and wonderingly we look up at God, following
-Him on through life, even into the grave September, and the hushed
-October, and the tearful November; and so into the winter of alienation
-from the world, which death’s snow comes to seal.
-
-But ere this we have found out His meaning in life, and the flowers of
-earth are no more regretted; and there is no point at which we would
-choose to have rested, now that we look back upon the past experiences
-and events of the journey; and both our hands are laid in His, and we
-look up with unutterable trust and ineffable love. It was not so once:
-
-   “I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
-              Wouldst lead me on;
-    I loved to see and choose my path, but now
-              Lead Thou me on.”
-
-And then He has led you, little by little, with gentle steps, hiding
-the full length of the way that you must tread, lest you should start
-aside in fear, and faint for weariness. And as it has been, so it must
-be; onward you must go; He will not leave you here; there is yet in
-store for you more contrition, more devotion, more delight in Him. A
-few years hence, and you will see how true these words are. If by that
-time you have not forsaken Him, you will be nigher still, walking in
-strange, it may be solitary paths, in ways that are “called desert”;
-but knowing Him, as now you know Him not, with a fulness of knowledge,
-and a bowing of heart, and a holy self-renouncement, and a joy that
-you are altogether His. What now seems too much, shall then seem all
-too little; what too nigh, not nigh enough to His awful cross. Oh, how
-our thoughts change! A few years ago, and you would have thought your
-present state excessive and severe; you would have shrunk from it then,
-as at this time you shrink from the hereafter. But now you look back,
-and know that all was well. In all your past life you would not have
-one grief the less, or one joy the more. It is all well.
-
-And so it is, then, that we are led on from our February threshold, on
-through the maturing, decaying months, until the silent Winter comes.
-And what then? Is it to be the same over again--the same promises and
-disappointments, the same dreams and awakenings, the same unreal glory
-at the threshold, and the same gradual weaning from it on the journey?
-
-Not so. To us the years are not repeated, nor is the “second life, only
-the first renewed.”
-
-   “I know not, oh, I know not
-      What joys await us there;
-    What radiancy of glory,
-      What bliss beyond compare.”
-
-But I love to wander, nevertheless, in my musings far beyond the
-journey to the Land whither the journey is tending. Beyond this state
-of probation to that of fruition; beyond striving, to attainment;
-beyond discipline, to perfection; beyond warfare, to victory;
-beyond labour, to rest; beyond constant slips and shortcomings, and
-half-heartedness at best, to stedfast holiness; beyond the cross, to
-the crown. We are yet within doors: oh, what will open before us on the
-threshold of that next year!--when the first wonder of its January has
-passed, and the amazed and almost dizzied soul has straightened and
-uncrumpled its wings, and collected its powers, and can calmly begin to
-understand its change, and to muse on its future, and to grasp the idea
-of the possession upon which it has come: to anticipate the endless
-succession of amaranthine flowers, ever increasing in glory throughout
-the months of Eternity, and the songs that shall ever throng more and
-more abundant and ecstatic, and never migrate nor pass away!
-
-On the Threshold. Those in Paradise are now musing on the threshold,
-waiting for their full consummation and bliss both in body and soul,
-waiting for that coming of the Lord with regard to which they are still
-crying out, “How long?” and are bid to “rest yet for a little season.”
-And so then they rest, and wait upon the threshold, and contemplate the
-mighty and magnificent panorama outspread before them as their Future.
-The Voice is still there, and the Look; and they wait its summons, to
-leave the threshold, and to follow once again. But how different that
-following then! How far other than of old that summons! Not to paths
-of humiliation and discipline, and hills of difficulty, and valleys
-of shadow, but to realms of brightness and beauty unspeakable, and to
-heights to which earth’s ambitions never soared. From the threshold
-of blessedness into the domain of glory; from Abraham’s bosom to the
-throne of the Lamb; from a star to the Sun in His strength.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-And so may we think of our dead that fell asleep in Jesus, as waiting
-upon that blessed threshold, contemplating that ravishing prospect,
-which is theirs, and may be ours. Nor do we enough thus think of and
-realise the state of the departed. The poisonous fungi of error have
-made us shy of the mushroom of truth. “The superstition of ages past
-has recoiled into the sadduceeism of to-day.” And so we, the dying,
-compassionate those who have begun to live, and who stand upon the
-threshold of the yet higher and more perfect life of the resurrection.
-Let us think of them more nobly, more worthily, more truly. Let us
-not heap their burial with gloom; let not our souls dwell with their
-bodies under the sodden clay. They are changed, but they are not lost;
-they are “still the same, and yet are not what they were; they have
-passed from the humiliation of the body to the majesty of the spirit.
-The weakness, and the littleness, and the abasement of life are gone;
-they are now excellent in strength, full of heavenly light, ardent
-with love, above fallen humanity, akin to angels.” “Blessed and happy
-dead!--great and mighty dead! In them the work of the new creation is
-well-nigh accomplished; what feebly stirs in us, in them is well-nigh
-full. They have passed within the vail, and there remaineth only one
-more change for them,--a change full of a foreseen, foretasted bliss.
-How calm, how pure, how sainted are they now! A few short years ago,
-and they were almost as weak and poor as we; burdened with the dying
-body we now bear about; harassed by temptations, often overcome,
-weeping in bitterness of soul, struggling with faithful, though fearful
-hearts, towards that dark shadow from which they shrank, as we shrink
-now.”
-
-We on our threshold and they on theirs; then let us think of them and
-of ourselves so. We have left the threshold of life, and are nearing
-the threshold of Death, or rather of the beginning of Life indeed.
-They behold the prospect at which we guess, and which we burn to see.
-But because it may be ours one day, we are already sharers with them,
-and our higher union is rather cemented than interrupted. “The unity
-of the saints on earth with the Church unseen is the straitest bond of
-all. Hell has no power over it, sin cannot blight it, schism cannot
-rend it, death itself can but knit it more strongly. Nothing is changed
-but the relations of sight: like as when the head of a far-stretching
-procession, winding through a broken, hollow land, hides itself in
-some bending vale, it is still all one; all advancing together; they
-that are farthest onward in the way are conscious of their lengthened
-following; they that linger with the last are drawn forward as it were
-by the attraction of the advancing multitude.” Or, in another figure,
-beautifully has it been said, that when the Sun of Righteousness passed
-out of sight, the splendour of His hidden shining is reflected by His
-saints, “till the night starts out full of silver stars.” “In stedfast
-and silent course” they pass on, some disappearing below the horizon,
-some resplendent in mid-heaven, some just emerging from the other
-boundaries. And when the last has arisen, and some are yet sparkling
-in the blue vault, the Sun shall arise with sudden glory, and they
-all shall render to Him their light. But until that time, which no
-man knoweth, neither the angels of heaven, it is awaiting upon the
-threshold, in mighty musing upon the glory yet to be revealed; and,
-“until all is fulfilled,” the desire of the Church unseen is stayed
-with the “white robes” and the sound of the “Bridegroom’s voice.” Let
-us comfort one another with these words and these thoughts.
-
-And now thus have we mused upon the Threshold, beginning first with
-the threshold of the life that is expecting death, and then soaring
-boldly to the threshold of the life that is expecting the Resurrection.
-We need reminding in this age that there are two sides to _this_
-expectation. There is “a certain fearful looking for of judgment and
-of fiery indignation,” as well as an ardent, and eager, and rapturous
-anticipation and longing for His coming who cometh quickly, though He
-seem to tarry. And it is well to ask, when death ends our journey here,
-upon which threshold shall we prefer to wait, and which musing shall
-be our choice: the dreadful looking-for of judgment, or the ecstatic
-longing to hear that Voice which once said, “Follow Me,” speak again
-to us, even to us, the incredible words--“Well done, thou good and
-faithful servant: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.” Choose we, my
-friends, carefully, prayerfully, deliberately, finally, and at once;
-for “Behold, _now_ is the accepted time; behold, _now_ is the day of
-salvation.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-SPRING DAYS.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-              “Forth in the pleasing Spring
-    Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.
-    Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm;
-    Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
-    And every sense, and every heart, is joy.”
-
-
-What a delicious thing is the first real Spring day! A burst into
-a buttercup-field! What a thing of mad enjoyment for the legs, and
-eyes, and hands, and mind of the young human animal! What a sweet time
-to think of, in our sentimental moods, now that we are growing old!
-And yet, in that time of fresh animal life, there was not reflection
-enough to allow of deliberate and actual enjoyment of its hilarity and
-lightness of heart. It welled up bubbling and singing with the gladness
-of a spring, that yet is glad only because it is glad, and not because
-it is pure and bright. For it knows not yet of aught that is muddy and
-foul, shallow and stagnant. It knows not of drought, and deadness, and
-impurity, and dulness, and death. How knows it, therefore, why it ought
-to be glad? Sing on, sweet stream, but you must be left to learn, as
-you roll seawards, into a sober old river, _why_ you used to sing as a
-bright untroubled stream.
-
-So, I suppose, except for the impetus and rush of early life, in its
-Spring days, before it has been checked here, and wasted there, and
-hemmed in, and spread out, and turned away, and thwarted, until its
-rush, and song, and glee have settled into a quiet, useful soberness,
-or into a foul stagnant pool that cannot often bear to call to mind
-those old pure, careless days--except for that first impetus and rush,
-I suppose it is more an absence of something than a presence of aught,
-that makes the child’s heart so glad. Anxious thought for soul and body
-of self and others; disappointment, regret, estrangements, remorse,
-satiety, failing powers; none of these check the young limbs, and the
-young lungs, and the young heart, as a sight of the brimming Spring
-meadow bursts upon the enchanted young eyes, and there is a shout, and
-a scamper, and a bound; and lo! the little naked legs are deep in green
-grass, and yellow bobbing buttercups, and starry radiant daisies.
-
-I can’t feel towards the buttercups and daisies exactly as I did in
-those very early days. It is indeed a very primitive state of things,
-when these are as gold and silver coins to the young eager grasping
-hand, that would yet hold more when already by twos, and ones, and
-threes, the white discs and yellow cups struggle out of the little
-space that the finger and thumb cannot quite close in. You very soon
-get to slight these humble flowers; and, losing your easy content, aim
-higher, even at cowslips, primroses, and here and there an early purple
-orchis. That is, perhaps, the most simple-hearted and easily-contented
-time of life, which asks no more for its riches than both hands full of
-buttercups and daisies, guineas and shillings bright and fresh coined
-from the mint of Spring.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-I remember well a wide meadow shut in with tall hedges, in which, for
-a Spring or two, while we were young enough to enjoy them, there was,
-for my two sisters and myself, a very scramble of such coins. Out on
-some mild April day, when the sun shone brightly, and the air was a
-growing air, and the paths dry. Out with our governess, we three, for
-a walk. A fortnight of soft April showers, or warm damp days, keeping
-us within the garden while the field was being dressed, had prepared
-for us a surprise. We ran our hoops along the dry paths, until the
-winner of the race caught sight of that fair meadow. Through the white
-wicket-gate then, the hoop thrown aside into the yielding grass, and
-the three pairs of little hands were busy enough soon. At first, the
-aim was merely to pick what came to hand, and quantity, not quality,
-was in demand. But, so soon do we begin to undervalue that which is
-abundant for that which is less easily attained, in a little while we
-were busy after rarities; mere white daisies were passed over, and
-those with a “crimson head” were sought; also, I remember, those with
-a scarlet jewel in the centre of the boss of gold. Cowslips were rare
-in the fields about us; were anyhow rare at that early time of year.
-Fancy then our exultation, if we should come upon a pale bent head,
-the delicate trembling spotted yellow, curving upwards towards the
-sheath of faint green. The bound towards it; the excitement of feeling
-the juicy crisp stalk break, and then rushing away with the treasure!
-I remember such a _find_ now, though I be far on in life beyond that
-early stage marked by that slight drooping flower.
-
-But of course the daisies and buttercups, even before “whole summer
-fields were theirs by right,” soon lost their fascination, even in
-those early simplest days, before the advance of other rarer flowers.
-We could pass the meadow soon, without bounding into it, on our way
-round the park wall on a violet expedition. We could scent these out,
-and would eagerly part the crowding leaves and the binding ivy-nets
-that hid them. Not much fear lest we should gather enough of them to
-risk dropping any from an over-filled hand. Still, we mostly went
-home well content, with a close-clipped neat dark-blue bunch in one
-hand, with here and there a pure white prize, or a large one merely
-purple tinged, gleaming out of the dark. These white- and purple-tinged
-violets, you must know, had become our prizes, being rare, found seldom
-indeed by the park wall, but oftener on some mighty sandhills, that
-towered above the road a little way beyond our daisy-field, and seemed
-to bury the deep-lying road, with its winding carriages and pigmy
-passengers.
-
-Out for a long walk now, even to that deep chalk-pit, where not _one_
-cowslip hung, rare, unique, precious, but _hundreds_, nay _thousands_,
-bent their pale yellow heads, and scented the air with their sweet
-faint breath. So juicily they snapped, without that drawback which
-I deplore in primroses--the long sinew that a hasty picking leaves
-behind, to the marring of the flower. Baskets we had, trowels in
-them, to collect some roots for the misused pieces of ground known as
-our gardens: and woe betide an early orchis, if we came across it.
-Nearly always, after a long and patient digging, when the final _pull_
-came, a long blanched stalk, with no root at the end, would meet our
-disappointed eyes.
-
-But of course the great thing was to collect unlimited flowers. And
-really, if you turned me loose into the Bank of England, into that
-room in which those aggravating fellows shovel about the gold in
-coal-scuttle scoops, and bade me gather my fill, I am sure the delight
-would be neither so fresh, so sweet, nor so wholesome, as that entering
-unchecked upon the rich cowslip-wealth, trembling all over the short
-turf of the sloping side of the chalk-pit which ended our expedition.
-Two principal objects had we in collecting these flowers--for as the
-year goes on, even children seek _use_ as well as _beauty_ in their
-gettings; first to make cowslip balls, many and large, when we got
-home; next, to make cowslip tea. There is, or was, a keen delight in
-the former of these pursuits. The excitement and delight of the first
-cowslip ball made is feverish and unsettling. The long, tight string
-upon which are hung the poor flowers with their tails pinched off;
-the filling that string, the tying it, with here and there a cowslip
-tumbling out; and then the playing with the sweet-scented soft toy,
-till the room is littered with its scattered wealth, these are things
-to remember even now. But, no doubt, the _great_ thing was the cowslip
-tea--allowed to us that night instead of milk-and-water; and to be
-drunk in real teacups instead of mugs. The solemn shredding the yellow
-crown out of its green calyx; seated, all three, at our little low
-table with the deep rim; the growing heap of prepared flowers; then the
-piling them into the teapot, the excitement of seeing the boiling water
-poured upon them; the grave momentous pause while the tea was brewing;
-and the hearty, but really at last abortive, endeavour to persuade
-ourselves and each other that we liked the filthy concoction, and
-found it really a treat. Ah, life has many a cup of cowslip tea in it;
-delightful in the preparation, exciting in the anticipation, but most
-disappointing when it comes to the actual partaking!
-
-We must not stop now to run down that green path into the wood--our
-one wood, nor to see which shall first enter it with a bound; we must
-not stop, although we know that a little later in the year there were
-some rare choice treasures there. A firmament of starry wood anemones;
-and here and there a bent spike of wild hyacinth, not yet ripened into
-its deep full blue; and here and there a pale green orchis, coming
-out of its two ribbed leaves, valued because rarer than its purple
-brother, that but rarely yet towered with its tall rich spike above the
-clustering milky flowers. And on one bank that we knew, just two or
-three roots of primroses, the only roots that grew wild for miles about
-that part, each tendering to us its crowded offering of sweet faint
-flowers, and deeper yellow buds imbedded in the crisp, crumpled leaves.
-And then the lords and ladies: _lord_, handsomest--_lady_, rarest: I
-could pick and unroll them now. They call to mind a glad, bright little
-address of a child to the flowers, with which I will conclude these
-reminiscent wanderings among the old wildflower fields of youth:--
-
-   “Oh velvet bee, you’re a dusty fellow,
-      You’ve powdered your legs with gold!
-    Oh brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow,
-      Give me your money to hold!
-    Oh columbine, open your folded wrapper,
-      Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
-    Oh cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper
-      That hangs in your clear green bell!”
-
-Why have I recalled these child remembrances of early Spring days?
-Why, but to add that those keen delights, those exquisite, though
-unintellectual and reasonless, appreciations are gone--in this life
-for ever! Wherefore I say _in this life_, I mean presently to show:
-suffice it _now_ to say that the Summer and Autumn of human life, dry
-and dusty, or sorrowful and decaying, have done quite, except for some
-tender sweet reminiscent hints, with the freshness, and the glee, and
-the gladness of the old Spring days.
-
-   “There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
-      The earth, and every common sight,
-        To me did seem,
-      Apparelled in celestial light,
-    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
-    It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
-      Turn wheresoe’er I may,
-        By night or day,
-    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.”
-
-These lines of Wordsworth express, very exquisitely, the thought at
-which I have just been catching. Something goes, as we grow old--a
-gladness, a suddenness of appreciation of enjoyment is lost; and the
-dark Summer foliage is not the same with the fresh light green of the
-young Spring leaves. And when a gush of the old keen relish comes back
-for a moment, there is regret as well as sweetness in the tears that
-suddenly dim the eyes.
-
-Spring days, sweet Spring days, my quiet heart and rested eye tell me
-that there is no fear but that I enjoy you still!
-
-   “For, lo, the winter is past,
-    The rain is over and gone;
-    The flowers appear on the earth;
-    The time of the singing of birds is come,
-    And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”
-
-This exquisite poetry has its voice of delight for me, and as I shut my
-eyes, it brings a change over the bare boughs and the Winter land. I
-dream of the chill black hedges and trees, flushing first into redness,
-and then “a million emeralds burst from the ruby buds.” I dream of
-the birds coming back, one after one, until the poetry of the flowers
-is all set to music. And I go out into the land to behold, not only
-to dream of and image, these things. I watch for the delicious green,
-tasselling the earliest larch (there is one every year a fortnight
-in advance of the others) in the clump of those trees beside the
-road on my way home. I look, in a warm patch that I know, for the
-first primroses, and when I find them mildly and quietly gazing up
-at me from the moss, and ivy, and broken sticks, and dead leaves, a
-surprise, although I was expecting them, and a dim reflection of that
-old child-joy, bring with a rush to my heart again those “Thoughts that
-do often lie too deep for tears.” And in the garden I wander through
-the bare shrubberies, varied with bright green box, and gather in my
-harvest there. The little Queen Elizabeth aconites, gold-crowned in
-their wide-frilled green collars; these are no more scant, and just
-breaking with bent head through cracking frosty ground. They have
-carpeted the brown beds, and are even waxing old and past now. The
-snowdrops have but left a straggler here and there; and the miniature
-golden volcano of the crocus has spent its columns of fire. The hazels
-are draped with slender, drooping catkins; the sweetbriar is letting
-the soft sweet-breathed leaves here and there out of the clenched hand
-of the bud. The cherry-tree is preparing to dress itself almost in
-angels’ clothing, white and glistening, and delicious with all soft
-recesses of clear grey shadow, seen against the mild blue sky. The
-long branches of the horse-chestnut trees, laid low upon the lawn, are
-lighting up all over with the ravishing crumpled emerald that bursts
-like light out of the brown sticky bud---as sometimes holy heavenly
-thoughts may come from one whose first look we disliked; or as God’s
-dear lessons unfold out of the dark sheath of trouble. The fairy
-almond-tree--of so tender a hue that you might fantastically imagine
-it a cherry-tree blushing--casts a light scarf over a dark corner of
-the shrubbery. The laburnum is preparing for the Summer, and is all
-hung with tiny green festoons. Against the blue sky, on a bare sycamore
-branch, that stretches out straight from the trunk, a glad-voiced
-thrush seems thanking God that the Spring days are come. Wedged tight
-into three branching boughs, near the stem of a box-tree, I find a
-warm secure nest, filled with five little blue-green eggs. It is still
-a delight to me to find a nest; a delight, if not now a rapture, an
-intoxication.
-
-All these I see on one Spring day or another, as I walk into my garden,
-or out into the changing lanes. All these I see, and all these I love.
-But I see them, and I love them tenderly and quietly, not with the
-wonder and the glee of life’s early Spring days. I am sad, partly
-because I know that a great deal of that old wondering ecstatic thrill
-has gone.
-
-        “The rainbow comes and goes,
-        And lovely is the rose,
-        The moon doth with delight
-      Look round her when the heavens are bare;
-        Waters on a starry night
-        Are beautiful and fair;
-      The sunshine is a glorious birth;
-      But yet I know, where’er I go,
-    That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.”
-
-It must be so, naturally, if only from the mere fact that things must
-lose their newness, and so their wonder, to the eye and the heart. Do
-what you will, you must become accustomed to things. And the scent of
-a hyacinth or of the may, will cease when familiar to be the wonderful
-enchanting thing that childhood held it to be. And the _thirtieth_ time
-that we see, to notice, the first snowdrop bursting through the pale
-green sheath above the brown bed, is a different thing from the _third_
-time. We appreciate delights keenly when we are young, seek the same in
-later years, but never find them; and then all our life remember the
-search more or less regretfully. So Wordsworth, the old man, addresses
-the cuckoo that brought back his young days and his young thoughts by
-its magic voice:--
-
-   “Thou bringest unto me a tale
-      Of visionary hours.
-
-   “Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
-      _Even yet_ thou art to me
-    No bird, but an invisible thing,
-      A voice, a mystery:
-
-   “To seek thee did I often rove
-      Through woods and on the green;
-    And thou wert still a hope, a love;
-      Still longed for, never seen.
-
-   “And I can listen to thee yet;
-      Can lie upon the plain
-    And listen, till I do beget
-      _That golden time again_.”
-
-Ah well, I must get on to my moral. I must not wail like an Autumn wind
-among the young flowers, and the bright leaves, and the blithe songs of
-the sweet Spring days, else I shall lay myself open to the reproach of
-the poet describing one who--
-
-   “Words of little weight let fall,
-      The fancy of the lower mind--
-    That waxing life must needs leave all
-      Its best behind.”
-
-It is not true really, that we are leaving behind our best, when we
-have passed into the Summer, or even into the Autumn days. But there
-is a degree, a portion of truth in it. There is a sense, no doubt,
-in which even the Summer does lose a beauty which is the peculiar
-possession of life’s Spring days.
-
-First then (to divide sermon-wise), what is that we lose, when we lose
-Spring days? I have hinted at this loss in nearly all that has been
-written above. We lose the _gladness of inexperience_, the gladness and
-enjoyment that is not _thoughtful_, nor such as can give a reason for
-itself, but that is merely _natural_, and welling up irresistibly like
-a spring. We lose the newness of things--aye, more, far more than this,
-we lose the _newness of ourselves_, the _freshness of our own heart_.
-_This_ is (with some in a greater, with some in a less degree) what we
-discover that we have left behind, when we look back on life’s Spring
-days. Some of us, with a tender half-regretful watering, keep a hint,
-a reminiscence, of that old freshness. But many heedlessly suffer the
-world’s dust to coat it over, and the world’s drought to shrivel it up.
-
-But now, what may we have gained, if there be something lost in our
-leaving Spring days behind? If we lose a little, let us not fear but
-that our gain is far larger than our loss. We gain gladness and we
-gain sadness (I use the word _gain_ advisedly)--the gladness and the
-sadness of _experience_. A gladness that is part of the depth of a
-grave river now; profound, if not light-hearted like the little spring.
-A gladness that, when it comes, is more rational than merely animal;
-that has a reason to give for itself, and does not exist merely because
-it exists. A joy that is far more rare, also less ecstatic, but that is
-higher and deeper, having its birth in the _intellect_, and not simply
-in the _life_ of the human creature.
-
-To exemplify my meaning. In art, compare the mere admiration without
-knowledge, with the intelligent appreciation. Turned loose without
-knowledge into a picture-gallery, how many things you admire, almost
-everything; and how fresh and uncritical is your admiration! But
-gain knowledge of art, gain experience; and you straightway lose in
-_quantity_ what you yet gain in _quality_. You admire fewer pictures,
-but your admiration of the few is a different thing from that old
-admiration of the many. It is a higher thing, more intelligent, more
-subtle, more refined. It is an appreciation now, not merely an ignorant
-admiration. You are harder to please; in one sense you have lost; but
-manifestly, on the whole you have gained.
-
-And so with the gladness of manhood. It is a deeper, graver, more
-fastidious, yet a more reasonable and higher feeling than the gladness
-of the child. The sparkle, and bubble, and glitter, and singing have
-gone; but in their stead is a strength, an earnestness, an undercurrent
-not easily stayed or stemmed or turned aside. The gladness which is
-intelligent is better than the gladness which is instinctive.
-
-And the sadness of experience (for we cannot live long in this world
-without discovering that life is exquisitely sad)--the sadness which
-comes with experience--is _this_ also a gain? No doubt it is--no doubt
-it is. A wise man once told us that sorrow is better than laughter;
-that the house of mourning is better than the house of feasting. And
-a Greater than Solomon endorsed with His lips and with His life the
-declaration, “Blessed are they that mourn.”
-
-And who that regards life in its true aspect, but must bow a grave
-assent to this verdict? He who watches the effect on himself of
-God’s teaching, and of the lessons which He sets to be learnt, will
-understand what the Master means by His saying. He who regards his own
-life as something more than a bee’s life, or a butterfly’s life; he who
-sees that the life of man has its _schooling_, meant to raise it above
-our natural meannesses, and petulances, and impulses, and weaknesses,
-and selfishnesses, and ungenerousness--into something high and noble
-and stedfast, exalted, sublime, angelic, godlike; he who thus thinks
-of life, and watches life with this idea ever in view,--will find it
-not hard in time to thank God for having made him sad, even while the
-sadness is fresh and new and keen in his subdued and wounded heart.
-Disappointed in many things, and with many people, he will accept the
-disappointment with a quiet, anguished, thankful heart, feeling that
-God, who tore from him his prop, is raising the trailing vine from the
-ground, and instructing its tendrils to twine around Himself, the only
-support that can never fail them. And this is well, he knows, who is a
-watcher of life, and a learner of its lessons.
-
-And when sadness has produced this, its right and intended effect
-of sweetening, and not souring the soul, a fresh advantage and gain
-steals, starlike, into the darkened sky. The heart that has been made
-lonely, except for God’s then most nearly felt presence, in a sorrow,
-is that which is the most braced and disentangled for the great and
-noble deeds of life. With a sad and a disappointed, if _yet still a
-loving, tender_ heart, we can go out on God’s work, go out to face
-evil, or to do good, more easily and thoroughly oftentimes, than when
-this great grave, the world, shows to us “its sunny side.” Sadness,
-to him who humbly and prayerfully is seeking to learn God’s lesson
-in life, has not a weakening, but a tonic power. God, who sends the
-sadness, sends also the health and the strength; yea, the strength
-arises from the sadness. Something of what I mean is grandly expressed
-in the following extract:--
-
-“There are moments when we seem to tread above this earth, superior
-to its allurements, able to do without its kindness, firmly bracing
-ourselves to do our work as He did His. Those moments are not the
-sunshine of life. They did not come when the world would have said that
-all around you was glad; but it was when outward trials had shaken the
-soul to its very centre, then there came from Him ... grace to help in
-time of need.”
-
-Sadness, then, which braces and strengthens the character, which
-raises it into something nobler than it would otherwise have been;
-which sets a man free and stirs him up for great and noble acts, for a
-resolute devoted doing of Christ’s work on earth--such an experience is
-certainly a gain; and if this be our own, even when the Autumn woods
-are growing bare, we are not to wish to have back the old sweet Spring
-days.
-
-Now one more loss and gain has occurred to my mind, contemplating those
-Spring days that seem, but are not, so far behind me in life. How often
-we pine after the innocence of childhood! how the poetry of our hearts,
-and of our writers, loves mournfully to recur to this!
-
-   “The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
-      Poured back into my empty soul and frame
-    The times when I remember to have been
-      Joyful, _and free from blame_.”
-
-But here again a little thought will show us that we _need_ not have
-left our best behind, when the Spring days are with us no more.
-Deliberate and intelligent goodness and holiness is a better thing
-than mere innocence of childhood, which, again, is rather the absence
-of something than the presence of aught. There has been merely neither
-time nor opportunity yet for much evil doing: there was no intelligent
-choice of good because of its goodness. And thus, if the man (although
-he have sinned far more than the child can have done) has yet, at last,
-and through much sharp experience, learnt life’s great lesson, and has
-become (however it be but incipiently) holy and good, that deliberate
-and positive, though imperfect goodness, is far better than the _mere
-negative innocence of the child_. Angelic innocence is, and the
-innocence of Adam would have been, no doubt, _intelligent_ innocence.
-But now that we have fallen, that innocence (which, after all, is but
-comparative) of childhood is little else but the lack of time and
-knowledge and opportunity for sin. Such innocence is merely a negative
-thing, while holiness is positive. And he who is ripening into holiness
-in life’s Summer, need not regret the mere innocence of its Spring
-days. In life’s filled, and alas, blotted pages, if, amid many smears
-and stains, the golden letters of GOODNESS at last begin to gleam forth
-in a clear predominance, he who considers wisely will not regret much
-the newness of the book, whose pages are only white and pure, because
-scarce yet written in at all.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-“The world passeth away, and the lust thereof.” All is evanescent,
-passing away; not only the objects that we desire, but even our desire
-and appreciation of them too. Nor does this only apply to that which
-is _worldly_, in an evil sense, but to some objects sad to lose, but
-which to have still, but no longer to be able to appreciate, is yet a
-sadder but an inevitable loss. When we look back upon life’s Spring
-days, something really sweet, and beautiful, and desirable, seems left
-behind and gone. Not life’s best; not the _grape_, but the _bloom_
-on it; not the deep blue day, but the strange glory of the morning
-sky. Something seems lost. I am fond of maintaining that it will yet
-hereafter be found. In Heaven, I think, there will be not only beauty,
-fairer than our fairest Spring days; but an appreciative power,
-undying, ever existing; and _hearts_ that shall not know what it is to
-be _growing old_. This life is one, I again toll, of incessant _passing
-away_. Friends and joys leave us, and even if they did not, the power
-of enjoying often goes, and hands that were once little close-locked
-hands, deteriorate into flabby, cold fishes’ fins.
-
-_Here_, you must lose, if you would gain; you must spend if you would
-buy. _Hereafter_ it may be different. A hint of this seems given in
-an old prophecy of choice things to be had without money, and without
-price. ’Tis all clear profit _there_, I conclude; you add, without
-subtracting.
-
-Yes, in that Land (to illustrate by a fancy) the Winter flowers will
-come, one after one, breaking through the frost-bound beds, and when
-the time comes at which we shall expect them to go, they will surprise
-us by staying with us still. The sweet, faint, mild Spring primroses
-will brim the copses, and spill over, trickling down the banks; the
-daffodils (not _Lent_-lilies there) will dance over the meadows in
-a golden sheet, and will wonder to find that they are _additions_,
-not _substitutes_. The trembling cowslips, the starry anemones, the
-wood-fulls of hyacinths, the rose campions, the purple orchis spires,
-these will supplement, not supplant, the fair growth that used to fade
-at the first footfall of their advent. And so the sweetbriar roses,
-red and burning, and their paler sisters with unscented leaves, and
-the clematis snow, and the honeysuckle clusters, and the meadow-sweet;
-these will come not to fill an empty cup, but a full one, and one that
-yet, though full, is ever capable of containing more. And so snowdrops
-need not die for violets to come, nor violets vanish to make room for
-the rose. And Autumn will not supersede Summer, nor come, except to add
-its quota of beauty. “How then?” ask you, “shall we not soon arrive at
-the end of the delights of the year, and weary with their sameness?”
-No, I reply, for I think we shall not stop at Summer in Heaven, but
-ever go on into new and lovelier seasons; appreciating old pleasures
-with unweary hearts, but ever adding to them new.
-
-“Old things are passed away.” That is, perhaps, this old fading
-state of things, of objects, and capacity of enjoying them: and our
-hearts that once were young, but that still (except for the youth and
-freshness that religion can preserve in them) _will_ be ever growing so
-old--so old.
-
-“Behold I make all things new.” _All_ things--our hearts then, too:
-they will be again fresh, and that old forgotten or sorrowfully
-remembered child wonder, and appreciation, and love may come back; and
-the “forgets” of our later years be called to mind again:--
-
-   “Is it warm in that green valley,
-      Vale of childhood, where you dwell?
-    Is it calm in that green valley
-      Round whose bournes such great hills swell?
-    Are there giants in the valley,--
-      Giants leaving footprints yet?
-    Are there angels in the valley?
-      Tell me----I forget.”
-
-But nothing that is beautiful to remember will be forgotten _there_.
-And the poet will no more lament a light gone out, a glory faded; our
-worn-out feelings, and spirits, and appreciations, and hopes, and
-beliefs, and wonders, and admirations, will be restored to us new. So
-altogether new, so quite different in nature, as well as in degree,
-from the old, that they will _keep_ new, and not fade and perish in
-the using. _That_ world will not pass away, nor the enjoyment thereof.
-For all there will be in perfect harmony with the will of God, which
-abideth for ever.
-
-Everlasting Spring days! Think of that! I mean an everlasting Spring
-season and freshness in the _heart_. Oh the sadness which is an
-undercurrent of all earth’s poetry, from the nightingale’s, upward,
-will have left our songs then!
-
-              “We look before and after,
-                And pine for what is not;
-              Our sincerest laughter
-                With some pain is fraught;
-    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”
-
-But this will then and there be no longer the case, for life will
-no longer be “A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.”
-Season after season, joy after joy, will indeed dance into light,
-but will not, after a little brief while of enjoyment, die into the
-shade. Heaven’s everlasting flowers will not grow dry, and dusty, and
-colourless; but for ever retain and increase the freshness, and the
-abundance, and the light, and the exquisite glory of those unimagined
-SPRING DAYS.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MUSINGS IN A WOOD.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Two sweet little pictures, entitled, “The Lark,” and “The Nightingale,”
-have greatly charmed me. In one, there was a blue-flecked sky, a Spring
-morning landscape, and a glad-eyed girl, with a lapful of daisies,
-lying back and looking up with shaded gaze and listening eyes, into
-those blue depths, wherein
-
-   “The lark became a sightless song.”
-
-In the other, there was an evening glow: warm, orange-grey sky, cooling
-into steel-blue; a bower of rose-leaves; an earnest face, with darker
-hair, and pensive brow, flushed into warmth by the setting sun. And you
-would know, even had you not been told, that the child, old enough just
-to enjoy that young melancholy which is pleasant,--is listening to that
-
-   “Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
-    Rings Eden through the budded quicks.”
-
-For in neither case is the songster seen: with true art the minstrel
-is left to the imagination to supply, and this subtler artist can
-furnish voice, form, motion; only one of which three could be given by
-the painter.
-
-These pictures were in the Winter Exhibition; hence, no doubt, their
-suggestion of the absent bird-songs was the more valued. For perhaps
-these, like other delights, are the sweetest when they are not
-possessed, but only remembered and longed-for.
-
-That remembrance, however, of Winter, will serve, by contrast, to
-freshen our enjoyment, as we start, on this warm March day, for Bramley
-Wood, to descry and collect the old familiar bird-songs as they come
-back to us in the Spring. To collect these and the flowers, I say, in
-the heart’s cases and herbarium, for use when Winter comes, and woods
-are dead, and bird-songs gone. This is a better way than to crowd the
-staircase and hall with stuffed, silent birds, or to encumber your
-shelves with dried, brittle, brown specimens; which can never suggest
-the fresh, juicy, sweet-breathed blossoms, or the quick, never-still,
-bright-glancing inhabitants of the bushes. For the heart keeps these
-collections all fresh and full of life, and if a picture or a poem
-or a strain of music does but summon them up, why, there they are in
-a minute. Though they may have seemed laid by and forgotten, yet, at
-the magic call, lo! the heart is a lane of primroses, or a copse of
-bluebells; the lark is high in the heaven, and the thrush answering the
-blackbird out of great white sheets of the may.
-
-We soon settle down to the bird-songs when once they have really all
-come back; and we plod on our preoccupied way, hearing them without
-hearing, unless, indeed, one day-note of a nightingale should
-electrify our heart. But there is no doubt that, at first returning,
-the silver minstrelsy of the woods is welcomed by most. And we never
-grow too old to feel a heart-kindling and a brightening of the eye,
-on that mild November day, when we start, and listen, and--yes, it
-_is_, the first Thrush-song breaking the meditative misty hush of the
-landscape. Autumn is stringing the woods with tears, and the first
-gripe of Winter has ere now pinched to death the more delicate garden
-flowers; but, even before his reign has begun in earnest, here is
-a voice which prophesies of his overthrow. Then the frosts come in
-defiance, and the last leaves spin down, and the snow-sheet falls, and
-the thrush is silent as though dead, and resistance seems overcome,
-and Winter’s reign established. An observant eye will, however, still
-detect a speckled clean breast, flitting into alternate concealment and
-sight behind the bushes in the shrubbery, and rustling the counterpane
-of dry leaves, under which those many little dull-green points are
-crowding out of the frost-held ground. But his song is kept in reserve
-for a time. And it seems that Spring is close at hand, and that the
-year is indeed turned, when next you hear him, high on the boughs of
-that tulip tree, large against the pale blue sky, singing out loud and
-clear from early morning to dusk of a bright February day. And the dry
-leaves have huddled away from the searching wind, and left the brown
-moist beds, over which trembles a surprise of delicate white cups,
-where the blunt dull-green points had been.
-
-But I mean now to muse in a fanciful way about the characteristics of
-these returning songs, and the teaching that may be gathered from
-them. Canon Evans’ little book, “The Songs of the Birds,” might seem
-to have preoccupied this ground, but the treatment will differ, if the
-idea be the same.
-
-To what, then, shall we liken the song of the Thrush? Different
-temperaments of men and women may well be illustrated by the variety in
-the character of the bird-songs. In the thrush’s song, then, I seem to
-hear the utterance of the strong and happy Christian. He has never been
-troubled with any doubts; the dark dismays and hidden misgivings of
-other minds are without meaning to him. Clear and glad, and untroubled,
-and strong in faith, the soul of this man sits upon wintry trees, above
-few trembling flowers, under a pale still sky, and sings from the early
-morning to the dusking eve an unwavering, undoubting, happy song. A
-song in which there are not weird mysterious depths of feeling, nor
-ecstatic, incomprehensible heights, but in which there is ever an even
-tenor, a stedfast sustained gladness, an unchecked unvarying trust.
-A song, perhaps, not of the highest intellect, but of the firmest
-faith. Here are no dark questionings, that must be content to pause
-for an answer hereafter; no evil suggestions, fiery darts which the
-shield of faith must ever be upheld to quench. There is almost a hard
-ignoring and turning away from minds otherwise fashioned; minds full
-of anxieties and searchings, that are troubles indeed, but not doubts;
-struggles, but not defeats, because faith upholds where sight fails.
-These sing more broken snatches of more passionate music, amid thicker
-branches, and in the dusk; while the thrush-spirit, unknowing of these
-fierce alternations, sings out, up there upon the naked bough, clear
-and distinct against the blue soft sky.
-
-There is a wild stormy note which must detain us awhile from our March
-wood. It comes early in January, and on stormy days, under thin driving
-clouds, you may hear short bursts, as though the broken song of a
-husky blackbird, flung from the ivy-clad top of some tall, ancient
-spruce-fir. This is the note of the Missel-thrush, or Storm-cock. He
-seems rather to exult in the disturbed sky, and swaying boughs, and
-passing gleams and showers. There is a wild beauty, tempered with a
-_little_ harshness, in the short sharp snatches of defiant and militant
-song. In him I find a type of the religious controversialist and
-disputant; the watchman set on his tower amid storms and lowering days.
-Such watchers there are, and they are useful to detect and descry the
-insidious approach of error. Controversialists-born, as it were, you
-shall ever hear their sharp short utterances under a stormy sky; and
-while you value the note, you will often detect and deplore some touch
-of harshness that grates upon the heart, some falling short of the
-mellow flute-like tones of Love.
-
-But on our way to the wood, and as we pass through this meadow, a
-Skylark springs up, and flutters higher and higher; fountain-like, as
-it rises, scattering about its silver spray of song. Very soon the eye
-wanders about, searching after it for some time in vain, pleased at
-last to recover the dim black speck in the grey sky.
-
-I suppose that the picture of which I spoke above gives the natural
-embodiment of the song of the lark.
-
-   “Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
-      Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;
-    A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,
-      And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall.”
-
-Up into the sky, bright thoughts and dreams, quivering wings, swelling
-throat, hurrying ecstasies and crowding notes of joy, impatient, yet
-impossible to be uttered. Careless flowers upon the lap,--withering,
-are they? But there is a worldful more to be had for the gathering.
-Oh yes, the lark’s song is that of the young heart--young enough to
-stop short at the attainment of simple gladness. There is not yet upon
-it the sweet hush even of love and sentiment, the upward soaring has
-no alternate dip and rise; the quick beat of the wings no pause; the
-bright flash of song no dyings-down into shade. Wonder at life goes
-hand in hand with joy in it; all is new and all is delicious; all is
-hope, and nothing is disappointing; the whole widening prospect is
-one of beauty and glad surprise. The year is in its early Spring, and
-has never so much as heard of Autumn yet; nor can guess, nor cares
-to try to divine, what those old brown leaves can mean, out of which
-huddle the thick primrose clumps. Higher and higher, and brighter and
-brighter, and gladder and gladder, and more and more impetuous the
-thronging notes, and more and more untiring the ecstatic wing. And
-God loves to see this, for He gave the feeling; and we may perceive
-that He has allotted to most things a young life of fresh colour and
-unmixed joyfulness. Kittens and lambs, and Spring leaves, and young
-children--they all sober down soon enough--and well they should.
-But let us not grudge the short hour of pure lightness of heart,
-that was God’s gift; nor hunt for ripe fruit among the sheets of
-blossom; nor dull with our heart’s twilight the first flush of the
-morning; nor desire, in the song of the lark, the thoughtfulness of
-the blackbird--far less the moan of the dove. Let not our work ever be
-to _check_, only to guide, and to tend, and to develop, the heart’s
-songful gladness, pointing it, indeed, heavenward; or, again, ready to
-tend the germ which some gust has stolen from its white petal-wings.
-
-I spoke of the Blackbird. And here, as we near the wood, towards
-which for some long time we have been walking, we catch the smooth,
-rich, lyric fragments of this deep-hearted poet. Less openly, freely,
-fearlessly confident and exulting in an unclouded soul, than the
-thrush,--there is something exceedingly fascinating in the intermitted,
-but not broken song of the blackbird. The pauses which sever the
-stanzas of his song, seem well suited to its lyric character. There are
-in these separate and finished verses the polish and completeness, also
-the richness and liquid flow, of a set of stanzas of “In Memoriam,”
-and, moreover, something of their wild mournfulness and tender, deep,
-questioning thought. The blackbird’s song is that of the grave, mature
-mind, highly intellectual, somewhat touched with sadness, but more with
-love, and that has had to battle hard through life to keep both faith
-and love unimpaired.
-
-   “The blackbird’s song at eventide”:
-
-thus it is described, and, in truth, it seems the passionate earnest
-utterance of one who can understand the difficulties which have
-blown down unrooted trees, and yet has itself possession of that
-faith which can control into music notes that make a jarring in
-undisciplined minds. The riddle of this painful earth has often wrung
-the heart of this man, but his sorrowful thoughts concerning it have
-shaped themselves into these rich utterances of yearning love. This
-trumpet gives no uncertain sound; the speaking is clear, and distinct,
-and unfaltering. You are, as I said, reminded of the controversial
-storm-bird by its tones, but all that would have been harsh in its
-outspoken truthfulness, is mellowed and softened by an exquisite
-overmastering charm of tender and patient love. So that the blackbird’s
-song is that of mature faith, which has met and vanquished anxious
-questionings, and which, if that of a controversialist at all, is only
-that of one on whom old age is stealing, and whom experience has made
-gentle and patient; and yearning for souls has made passionate; and
-love of Christ has made tenderly and invincibly loving. And so when it
-thrills out clear and full from his hidden quiet retreat in the evening
-time, even those that think that there is cause for old grudges against
-the minstrel are arrested reverently to listen to his deep, thoughtful,
-loving song.
-
-We are at the wood now, at last. We have followed a pleasant stream
-that played hide-and-seek among its willows, and, while we talked and
-listened, we have gathered in gleanings of its beauty. And now we
-cross the narrow plank--parting the branches that half conceal it--and
-enter the wood. There are tiny pink balls ready to burst into vivid
-buds, gemming the hawthorn bushes; but the trees and underwood are
-bare, except for the willow catkins and the hazel tassels, or perhaps
-the dull green of the elder in a tuft here and there, or the early
-leaf-bud of a twining honeysuckle. But the pale smooth ash saplings,
-tall and slim, and silver-grey in the sun, with a narrow shadow edge,
-the branches studded with black buds; and the golden twigs of the
-white-stemmed birch; and the warm light brown of the hazel boughs; and
-the red of the cherry,--these make the wood, though bare, yet neither
-dull nor colourless. And here, farther in, the many stems are fringed
-and bearded with the hoary and abundant growth of lichen, cool as the
-bloom on a greengage, against the pale orange which still lingers in
-ragged patches upon the six-feet stalks of last year’s bracken.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Certainly there is, all around us in the wood, much material for
-musing. But we have come hither for a special end. For it is the
-thirteenth of March, and by this time the first of the train of those
-songsters, that fly to warmer shores to escape our Winter, ought
-to have returned. So, all ears, we proceed over the crisp leaves,
-disturbing the bobbing rabbits. And there! I heard the note--simple
-enough, yet pleasing even in itself, and sweet as being the forerunner
-of songs more rich. _Chiff-chaff_,--this dissyllable gives this
-Willow-wren’s note and name. There is not much in it, may be, still it
-is the little tuning-fork of the coming concert. And we are reminded
-by it of some gentle spirit which longs and tries to say a cheery and
-hopeful word to a heart which has been under wintry skies; that which
-it repeats may not indeed be very new, very powerful, or very varied;
-still, it is accepted and loved for the sake of its truth and affection.
-
-This bird has a relation, due some few days later, whose song, though
-but little more pretentious, is yet a great favourite with me. I call
-it the laughing Willow-wren; and indeed its note does at once suggest a
-small silvery peal of merry light-hearted glee. Again and again, peal
-after peal; flitting through the boughs, almost the tiniest of slim
-birdlings.
-
-   “Gaiety without eclipse,”
-
-it certainly is, and yet it does not weary us, this ceaseless
-“silver-treble laughter.” This song has its parallel in some life, gay
-and blight and glad from first to last; hiding for a sobered moment
-from a shower or a storm, but anon and on a sudden recovering its
-innocent glee again. Delicate and slim, and easily frightened, but
-never long troubled; very winning and loveable; too tender and pretty
-for the hardest hand to crush; never doing huge deeds in the world,
-but of the same value that a fugitive sunbeam would be in a heavy and
-gloomy wood, or a daisy in a desert. Keeping the Child’s heart through
-the Woman’s life; feeling sorrow lightly, and with an April heart;
-disarming anger or harshness by its simple gleeful innocence; frail yet
-safe as a feather upon the whirls and eddies of life. Laugh on, light
-and cheery heart, amid the jay’s harsh dissonance, and the blackbird’s
-thought, and the thrush’s strength, and the dove’s sadness! Amid Life’s
-gravities and stern realities there is a grateful place for the gleams
-of a glad-hearted song like thine!
-
-[Illustration]
-
-What variety in the character of the bird-music! Hark, for a moment,
-at those wise, solemn caws, and watch those sedate, respectable,
-gravely-clad Rooks sailing across this opening above us; so black and
-cleanly painted against the filmy blue. _Caw!_ This is the voice of a
-steady, respectable mediocrity, that by reason of its deep, portentous
-gravity, and weighty utterance, and staid appearance, might be almost
-mistaken for philosophy. True, the utterance, if profound, is not
-remarkable for variety; but then the manner will often make up for lack
-of matter. And it is something to have one maxim or apophthegm which
-may be fitted to every case. To all the world’s customs and businesses,
-its problems and aspirings, its cries and laughter, he gravely and
-meditatively listens. And when you eagerly await his verdict, he puts
-his sapient head on one side, looks at you out of one eye,
-
-   “And says,--what says he? CAW!”
-
-The young impatient askers, the subtle and patient tracers of truth’s
-hidden vein, will chafe at his sedate utterances, and in time take
-their confidences elsewhere. But he can get on without them, and will
-never want for company of his kind. Raised above all intellectual
-excitements, and never in a hurry, the rooks step side by side with
-stately dignity over the scarred earth; or wing a heavy and cautious
-flight towards the trees; or sail serene in the still sky. For though
-there may be times when
-
-   “The rooks are blown about the skies,”
-
-this haste is involuntary, and must no doubt for the time much
-discomfort the methodical and stately traveller. And no doubt such
-characters are as useful ballast in the world, and well counterbalance
-the full excited sails, and the mad fluttering pennons above them.
-Commonplace, unruffled, happy Christians are these; with some they gain
-reputation for wisdom, with some for folly; but they go evenly on; not
-much troubled by sunshine or storm; not caring to enter into the dusks
-and gleams of the more passionate songsters and thinkers; ever with one
-quiet and not unmelodious answer: a life rather of deeds than of words.
-_Caw_, to all your spasms and heart-searchings,--and then I must just
-away to my work. Up in the tall trees, bending and swaying to break off
-the twigs for the nest; practical, if not colloquial; early at work
-in the morning, and at home in good time in the evening; a life not
-excited nor greatly eventful, but that has its own quiet, serene lesson.
-
-A day or two hence we might hear a notable and distinguished visitor
-to the woods and shrubberies. Even now, I have once or twice paused,
-half-fancying that I heard his voice, and ready to do honour to such
-a guest. For, while you are momently expecting to hear the Blackcap,
-the warbling of the meditative Robin has, here and there, a note which
-puzzles you. You follow out the voice, and there, on an elm branch,
-is the dark eye, and the warm breast, and the comfortable shape; and
-you feel half ashamed to have mistaken such a familiar friend for a
-stranger.
-
-The Blackcap is indeed a wonderful little warbler. So small and so
-energetic, thrilling song and swelling throat; brown body and whitish
-chest and jetty head. There are those who trace a resemblance to the
-nightingale’s song in its quick joyous utterances. If so, certainly
-the melody is but a suggestion here and there, and not a sustained and
-continuous resemblance. Shall I be unkind to the sweet little songster,
-if here I write that its song has its counterpart in the life of
-unequal Christians? Many there are who, now and then, in thought, word,
-or deed, seem to touch some perfect chord, and then disappoint the
-intent listener by sinking down to the more commonplace again.
-
-A moment, and there seemed a strain of angelic utterance, but it was
-not sustained, and you turn away disappointed at a more homely song
-which would otherwise have pleased you well. You do not look for
-Seraph notes in the hedge-sparrow’s song, or the wren’s chatting, and
-so you are well content with these. But high hopes unfulfilled become
-disappointment, and you feel an injury in having to resign the exalted
-idea which you had taken up; until, at last you see _yourself_ in the
-sweet, but unequal and inadequate song; and learn to reverence and to
-love the ever-failing and unsustained effort after higher things. Thus,
-ay thus, do you aim high, and ever fall below your aim; there is one
-touch of heaven, and a hundred of earth, in the broken and unsustained
-song of your life; and yet you would rather strive with hopeless
-yearning after the nightingale’s music, than acquiesce content with
-the lesser warblings, which accomplish the less that they attempted.
-Sing on, then, little bird, to an answering heart! In your song I read
-the rises and falls, the endeavours and failings, the aspirings and
-rare glimpses of attainment, which are the sweet exceptions, and the
-commonplace and every-day Christianity, which is the rule, of a life
-that would fain become the song of an Angel, but that scarce reaches
-the homeliest warble of the simplest wayside bird. Let us aim high, if
-we still fall below our passionate striving; let us never acquiesce
-quietly in less than Perfection; hereafter--who knows? who knows?
-
-[Illustration]
-
-It is evening now, as we wend our way home. A thin sickle of light
-is barred by the slender topmost ash twigs, and the sky is deepening
-to that cold, clear dusk, that foreruns twilight. We hear a quiet
-song, far away--the Woodlark’s note always seems far away--you would
-have asked me the name of the not-generally-familiar songster, but I
-have just given it. “_That_, the woodlark? Well, I never heard, or
-never noticed it before” I dare say. But if is a quiet, saintly song;
-a heavenly voice, serene and clear, never passionate: a twilight,
-still, calm song, removed far away from the world’s bustle, and
-deeply imbued with wisdom and melody from a Land far beyond this eager
-fevered strife. It is not glad, nor sorrowful; nor so much thoughtful
-as spiritual. It images to us that life which, separated from the
-world, is yet not ascetic; unobtrusive, yet fascinating when once
-perceived and heeded; simple, somewhat as is the language of St. John,
-but with unfathomable suggestions and revelations when you come to
-study and learn it. Quite away from controversy and strife, there is in
-it a divine peace, an entranced contemplation, a serene and peaceful
-uplifting of the soul. Perhaps the writings of Archbishop Leighton best
-give words to my ideal of the woodlark’s song.
-
-But those throbbing coos must stay our foot ere we quite leave the
-wood. The Dove--its voice is, of course, the embodiment of love;
-troubled, but not passionate; earnest, but not of earth merely. It has
-a melancholy vehemence, a sobbing urging of its cause, that is rather
-the voice of one seeking the good of another than its own delight.
-There is a tremulousness, a trembling fulness that might be that of
-one bidding farewell in death to some very dear friend whom he fain
-would win to the right and happy path, but for whom he sadly stands
-in doubt. There is such abundance from which to speak, such love and
-such mournfulness in saying it, that you smile with the tears near
-your eyes, on suddenly recollecting whither fancy was leading you, and
-that it is, after all, but the old old story being beautifully and
-melodiously told. For you caught a sight of the ash-blue wing, the mild
-eye, and swelling crop, and of the mate on a branch close by; and so
-your fancy was overturned.
-
-But there is one song which we shall not hear yet, as we return home
-from the wood; of which, nevertheless, some words must be said. Yet
-what words have even the greatest word-masters yet found for the
-NIGHTINGALE’S unearthly melody! What other song has even a likeness
-of the instantaneous and riveting fascination that is produced by
-one note of this? It is music which speaks, not to what we call the
-heart, merely, or the intellect, merely, but straight at once to that
-mysterious divine thing within us, which we call the spirit.
-
-And so it represents that recognition of, and yearning for, an ideal
-perfection and beauty, which many own, but few can express. And thus we
-start to hear it represented and embodied in sound without language,
-and, without knowing how, acknowledge a dumb music in ourselves which
-is closely akin to this superhuman and unearthly song. And we cannot,
-if we try, exactly define its character; some call it joyous; more
-sorrowful. But perhaps there is a hint in it of something within us
-higher and deeper than either of these; else how can it thus startle
-and electrify our being? At least it tells us of melody that we cannot
-yet grasp or fully understand, of beauty and harmony and perfection
-that is not yet our own. And I liken it to the raptured speakings of
-the prophet, or to an echo of the angelic messages seldom brought to
-earth.
-
-Well, ’tis difficult, and perhaps hopeless, to strive to interpret
-the songs of these little minstrels of God. After all, each heart
-will set them to words of its own. And, by leading others to do so,
-perhaps my musings may best fulfil their end. Many a one who would have
-appreciated them, misses the pictures in earth’s great gallery, and
-the music of earth’s great concert, for want of a finger to point him
-once to the one, and a hand on his shoulder to arrest his attention for
-the other. And it is worth regarding pictures at which God is working,
-and to listen to songs which yet remain in a saddened world, exactly as
-He first taught them.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-THE MAY-DAYS OF THE SOUL.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-   “All things are new: the buds, the leaves,
-    That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest;
-    And e’en the nest beneath the eaves:
-    There are no birds in last year’s nest!”
-
-
-May has come; that time of year has passed the sweet April time,
-
-   “When all the wood stands in a mist of green,
-      And nothing perfect.”
-
-The sparsely-gemmed hedges have thickened now, so that you cannot
-see the gardens through their bare ribs; and little bunches of
-tight-clenched buds give abundant promise of the sweet-breathed,
-shell-petaled hawthorn flowers. The coy ash-trees have begun to fringe
-over with their feather foliage; the ruddy bushy growth that seemed
-comically like whiskers, at the base of the elms and the lindens, has
-changed into a surprise of glorified green; the low shoots from the
-stump of the old oak-tree in the hedge bring out their wealth of soft,
-crumpled, young red leaves; the elders on the banks have gotten a deep,
-full garment of green upon them now; above the ash-hued stem of the
-maples there is a numberless array of small maroon-tinged fists; the
-tender beech-leaves edge the low boughs that are spread out just above
-the grass.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The birds are full of importance, and excitement, and enjoyment. The
-robin has his “fuller crimson”; the “livelier iris shines upon the
-burnished dove,” The black rook sails lazily with broad wing up in the
-blue sky: he, too, has his high nest to attend to; but life, on such
-a day as this, imperatively demands to be enjoyed. The copse rings
-with the laugh of the little willow-wren; the chiff-chaff ceaselessly
-announces his presence; the woodpecker cries as he leaves tree for
-tree; the blackcap, not singing just now, makes that “check, check,”
-like the striking of two marbles together; the cuckoo, besides telling
-his name to all the hills, has also a low, cooing, wooing voice for his
-mate; also another cry, as of a startled blackbird, but flute-like and
-liquid.
-
-   “Flattered with promise of escape
-      From every hurtful blast,
-    Spring takes, O sprightly May, thy shape,
-      Her loveliest and her last.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-A sweet grey tint, that had begun to overspread the bare parts of the
-copse, is deepening into such a sapphire sheet, that our ungrateful
-hearts half forget or retract the regret they felt, when the fair young
-hazels and the tall thin ash-wands bowed in the Winter before the cruel
-bill. Only lately, it seems, on the way across the fields to the
-station, a delicate fairy mass, the light lilac of the “faint sweet
-cuckoo-flower,” had spread its kindly screen over the hacked and maimed
-stumps of the fallen wood. But the hyacinths take their place now; and,
-after these, we expect the bright rose of the ragged-robin; and, after
-these, quite a garden of tall spires of the foxglove, alternating from
-pale to darker red, with, rarely and preciously, a clustered sceptre of
-milky white.
-
-But why go on to the ragged-robin and the foxglove, later flowers of
-the year? Truly, there are flowers enough at this season to satisfy the
-most avaricious. Look but at the yellow meadows of the daffodils.
-
-   “I wandered lonely as a cloud
-    That floats on high o’er dales and hills,
-    When all at once I saw a crowd,
-    A host of golden daffodils,
-    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
-    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
-
-   “Continuous as the stars that shine
-    And twinkle on the milky way,
-    They stretched in never-ending line
-    Along the margin of a bay:
-    Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
-    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”
-
-So the poet; and how could he but be of a May-day heart, amid such a
-May wealth of flowers? It was a light, a gleam, a possession that he
-thenceforth held; a sweet, living landscape of the heart, a landscape
-alive, indeed, not only with colour and light and shade, but with
-ceaseless gleeful motion.
-
-   “I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
-    What wealth the show to me had brought.”
-
-No; for often, when May-days were far away, and perhaps shallow snow,
-streaked with patches of brown land, slanted away under a pale grey
-sky, even at such times that wealth and glory, and abundance of the
-flowers, suddenly would
-
-   “Flash upon that inward eye,
-    Which is the bliss of solitude.”
-
-And then, even in a lonely hour, a time of dulness and depression, a
-time when this sad life seemed saddest; in such a time even, that glad
-gleeful yellow landscape would come back, with something of the light
-and joy of a kind deed done, or a strong word said; and, amid the pale
-snow, and the ever-increasing depression, well can the possessor say
-that--then,
-
-   “Then my heart with pleasure fills,
-    And dances with the daffodils.”
-
-Life has its May-days, as well as the year. They come, sometimes;
-rarely to some, but exquisitely beautiful when God sends them--the
-May-days of the soul. The times when the Winter fogs have passed away,
-and the clear sun shines down in its glory on the land; the times
-when the bare brown trees have become ruddy, and have then flushed
-into crowded variety of leaf; the times when the flowers, that had
-been thought to be buried for ever, dawn like a smile upon earth’s
-pale and furrowed face; the times when youth’s forgotten glow comes
-back, and a hint of the vigour to which dreams seemed realities, and
-impossibilities possible, stirs the sluggish sap of the soul. Such
-times there are, when the mists of November have departed, and the
-frosts of the succeeding months, and the bitter winds of March, and
-the flooding tears of April; it is the May, with its lavish promise
-and exuberant life, and ecstatic beauty! Times when illness or earth
-or laziness or lack of power no longer chill the soul that is indeed
-eager to burst into leaf; times when we are winged, when the hardest
-toils are easy to us, the heaviest stone rolled away; times when soul
-and body seem in perfect accord, and tongue and limb and eye instantly
-execute the least mandate of the ruler within; times when the ship
-obeys the lightest touch of the man at the helm; times that come like
-holidays scattered through the dull half-year of school-days; times of
-exuberant life and spirits and powers that visit us rarely, sweetly,
-now and then, as May-day comes in the year.
-
-I often think how little we use life thoroughly; how little we really
-live our life; how seldom we are in the humour to carry out its great
-and solemn purposes: how we let its opportunities fly by us, like
-thistledown on the wind. Why are we not _always_ denying ourselves,
-taking up the cross, and following our Master? Why are we not _always_
-on the watch for every occasion in which a word may be said, or a deed
-done, or a thought thought, that shall be a protest for Christ, in this
-vain and sinful world? Why is God’s love but a rare Wintry gleam, and
-never a steady Summer in our soul? Think, for instance, of such a thing
-as Prayer; what a wonderful and beautiful thing it is! To kneel, an
-atom in creation, at the Throne of the Almighty! To be able to bare our
-hearts to Him, and to feel sure that the least throbs, as well as the
-great spasms, are perfectly appreciated, felt, understood, sympathised
-with, by that awful, loving Mind!
-
-And yet, how Wintry our hearts are in our prayers! how seldom they
-burst into exuberant flower! how constantly the sky above us seems pale
-and heavy, and dull and impenetrable, and our hearts beneath abiding in
-their Wintry sleep! Or a snowdrop here and there wanders out, and now
-and then a pinched primrose--not enough for even the poorest garland.
-
-But that is not all; not only in religion is it that we are more often
-Wintry-hearted than May-hearted. I have heard of an artist who used
-sometimes to keep his sitter waiting a whole morning, and at last send
-him away, unable to _win_ the right humour to his heart, and feeling
-that his work would not be well done if he _forced_ it. And in reading
-Haydon’s life you may often find traces of how difficult is this mood
-to attract, when it has not a mind to come.
-
-So, too, in composition, whether grave or light, how different a thing
-it is, according to our mood! How delicious a thing is it when the soul
-has a May-day, and when the pen cannot overtake the mind! when
-
-   “Thought leaps out to wed with thought,
-    Ere thought can wed itself with speech!”
-
-when ideas throng
-
-                          “Glad and thick,
-    As leaves upon a tree in primrose time!”
-
-when we seem to see,
-
-          “Smiling upward from the page,
-    The image of the thought within the soul!”
-
-But these times, at least after one has written a good deal, are
-comparatively rare times, and it is more often February than May within
-us. A subject that seemed full of leaf when it occurred to the mind
-some weeks ago, in a May-day mood, stands often a stripped bare Winter
-tree when we sit down to work it out.
-
-Yes, in most of the business of life that is not mere routine and
-machine-work, no doubt the soul has its May-days--its times of _being
-in the humour_ for its work, and of doing that work easily and glibly.
-How many a Clergyman would endorse this, merely in the every-day case
-of taking a class in his school! Words, earnest and abundant and
-interesting, throng forth at one time; at another, how bare the mind,
-and how unready the tongue!
-
-And now, to what do these thoughts lead us? I think to two
-considerations--one of warning, one of encouragement.
-
-The warning is an obvious one, and yet one much and often neglected.
-Let such times of warmth and light and glow and possession of blossom
-be not only _enjoyed_ but _employed_. The soul’s Flower-time should
-never be allowed to pass away _without having left some noble fruit
-set_. It is common-place to repeat that the May-days of the soul are
-most abundant and most glowing in youth, the May-time of life. And,
-in connection with this whole subject, I quote, with an addition,
-Longfellow’s verse:--
-
-   “Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
-    Enjoy thy youth: it will not stay;
-    Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
-    For oh! it is not always May.”
-
-This is gentle and tender advice; and far am I from wishing to correct
-it, or to do otherwise than allow it, in its degree. Only there is
-deeper and more grave advice to be given _with_ it, not _instead_ of
-it. It is well to enjoy the soul’s May-time, but only well if it be
-_employed_ as well as _enjoyed_; otherwise it will pass, and no trace
-be left. We may make a great May-day show by merely gathering our
-flowers and weaving them into garlands; and there may be much dancing
-and excitement and glee. But then, it seems purely and simply sad to
-see them next day lying neglected, limp, and withering, in patches and
-dribblets, on the ground; whereas, although the apple-tree and the
-primrose bank may look sobered and saddened when their blossom-time is
-past, you yet know that all trace of that sweet adornment is not lost;
-they are busy henceforth, maturing fruit and seed from the germs that
-the bloom has left.
-
-Therefore, to return to the principal thing, namely, Religion:
-remember, when the blossom-time comes, or returns, that its fairy
-brightness is evanescent. It must pass, therefore use it; enjoy it,
-but put it out to usury; let it not fade and fall without having left
-a germ of noble fruit behind. When the heaven seems open to prayer,
-when the dull sky has cleared, and, thick and sweet as May-flowers,
-the earnest longings and ready words burst from your bare heart,
-seize the auspicious hour; let it not pass unemployed. Do not merely
-taste, but exhaust its sweetness. When God seems to make His listening
-apparent, refrain not; besiege His throne with prayers, supplications,
-praises. And again, when the heart has thawed from its deadness and
-indifference, and a very May-gathering of zeal for God, of love for
-God and man, of high and holy yearnings and longings and resolves and
-purposes, crowd upon the Winter sleep of the soul; oh, then, indulge
-not in a mere sensuality of spiritual enjoyment; stay not at mere
-revelling in the warm sky and profuse up-springing of flowers; set
-to work to form, in that propitious hour, some germs of fruit, some
-careful reforms, some holy resolves, some earnest and lofty purposes,
-some self-denials, some pressing towards the mark. Prayerfully and
-painfully set to work, so that, by God’s grace, when the beauty has
-gone, the use may remain, and the boughs bend with fruit that were once
-winged with bloom.
-
-Oh, we all know, I say, these May-days of the soul: times when the love
-of God seems natural to us, and our hearts overflow into a spontaneous
-love of man; times when hard things are easy, and Apollyon in the
-way, or Giant Maul coming out of his cave, rather stir the soul to
-exultation than daunt it with dismay; times when God seems to us not an
-abstraction, but a reality; when we can fancy the Saviour beside us, as
-in old days He stood beside Peter or John; times when it seems a light
-thing to spend and to be spent for Christ’s sake and the brethren;
-times when the World has no allurements and the Flesh no power, and
-Satan seems already beat down under our feet; times when we go out to
-face the hardest duties with no secret desire that the call on us may
-not be made, but rather with grave steady resolution and with face set
-like a flint. There are times, I say, when God’s image seems to shine
-out for a while, clearly and brightly, from the rust and mildew of
-marring sin and sloth; times when, Samson-like, we rise from sleep, and
-the fetters that have hitherto tied us down from life’s great deeds
-become upon our shoulders like as tow when it hath seen the fire. Yes,
-May seasons there are for the soul, in which there is a press and hurry
-of blossom, that is well and fair if it be secured for God.
-
-For, note this--_it is not always May_. The glow will pass, the
-sunlight die, the flowers will fade, the bird-songs sink into silence.
-And, if you have not profited by that gleam of heaven which opened
-upon your soul, you are certain to have lost by it, especially when
-such a warmth, such a light, broke, by God’s grace, through the dull
-sky of a cold and worldly life. If any message from God have warmed
-your bare heart into leaf and bloom, beware how you let the golden
-opportunity remain unemployed. Beware lest the east winds return, and
-nip and scatter the frail petals ere the germ of some good fruit be
-formed. Life is ever offering to us Sybilline books, and very often we
-have at last to give as much effort in old age, for the attaining of
-a poor service to God, as we should have given, long ago, for a full,
-rich, hearty, life-long serving Him. Late or early, however, employ
-the excitements, the May-warmths of the soul. “Excitement has its
-uses; impression has its value. Ye that have been impressed, beware
-how you let those impressions die away. Die they must: we cannot
-live in excitement for ever; but beware of their leaving behind them
-nothing except a languid, jaded heart. If God gives you the excitements
-of religion, breaking in upon your monotony, take care. There is no
-restoring of elasticity to the spring that has been over-bent. Let
-impression pass on at once to action.”
-
-The _warning_ was obvious; somewhat less so, perhaps, the
-_encouragement_. Still, this violet is to be found if we part
-the brambles, and seek it among its leaves. The May feeling is
-delicious--is, indeed, a foretaste of heaven, when hard things seem
-easy to us, and the face of duty is scarce distinguishable from that
-of pleasure. Prayer is sweet, sweet indeed, when it is easy to pray;
-praise is delicious when it seems almost the spontaneous growth of the
-heart. It is pleasanter to speak a painful word, to perform a painful
-duty, in those moods when the uplifted heart almost exults at having it
-to do. It is nothing to deny ourselves when some gleam of heaven has so
-exalted us that the world and the flesh and the devil have nothing to
-offer which can turn us from the ecstatic contemplation of Christ, and
-the Home whither He has gone to prepare. But is prayer more acceptable,
-is praise more beautiful in God’s sight when the heart is all in
-flower, or when it is Winterly indeed, but exceeding sorrowful at this,
-and sadly trying to gather for God a snowdrop out of its Wintry beds?
-Is it more acceptable in God’s sight to speak a true word when the
-heart is braced and strong, and the effort small, or _still to speak
-it_ when the heart is shrinking and weak, and the effort great? Is the
-deed of love or of justice or of self-denial noblest when most easy or
-when most difficult to be done?
-
-Ah, well, God knows; and He sends the May-days, and He permits the dull
-days and the bitter winds. Let us serve Him through both, and then all
-will be well. No doubt we _ought_ always to have a May-day in our heart
-for this service. And yet, perhaps, indeed almost surely, He does not
-mean this to be so in this life of discipline. Here it must not be
-always easy and delicious to serve Him. Here we must serve Him through
-cold and warm weather, through calm and storm, up the hill Difficulty,
-as well as in the quiet valley.
-
-Religious feelings are very variable; but rarely, comparatively,
-a May-day comes: the flowers are few, and the sky closed, almost
-generally. Let us, then, use diligently the warm blossom-time, when
-it is with us, but let us not be dismayed when it passes from the
-soul. _Perhaps_ the best words we say are those that seemed to us the
-worst, and the teaching that sank most into the heart was that which
-we thought weakest and most inadequate; thus may God be pleased, while
-He deigns to use us and to accept our work, yet to keep us humble.
-Perhaps the service that was so hard to render, and in which we had so
-to fight against listlessness and wandering thoughts, may, if still
-earnest, prevail or please more--who knows?--than that which seemed to
-fly up at once full-fledged to heaven’s gates. If, though limping, we
-still hobble on with all our might, we may be really making as much
-progress as when we seemed to be skimming the ground; for God gives
-both the wings and the crutches. Of course I am not supposing that
-the hindrances to love and service arise from want of watchfulness,
-that let the world creep in, or want of prayer for the Help which
-alone is sufficient for us. But, generally, we must make up our mind
-to have more days of weary toiling through the desert sands than of
-refreshments at “Elim, with its palms and wells”; only, when the rare
-refreshment comes, it should have braced us for the toilsome march,
-when we must leave the pleasant spot behind, and labour toilsomely on
-again. And, if May-days of the soul come but seldom now, and it is
-oftener difficult than easy to serve God now, fear not, fail not, my
-Brother or Sister. Rejoice that God gives thee something not easy to do
-for Him, and think of a time, beyond this brief life, when it will be
-ever natural and instinctive to love and serve God, when it _will_ be
-“_always May_.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-SUMMER DAYS.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-  “Consider the work of God.”
-
-
-We have passed, from late Spring into Summer. Let us go out into the
-balmy air and mark what changes have passed over the land since we had
-our Spring scamper among the fields. It will befit these graver months
-of the year soberly to walk now. And a quiet sauntering walk over the
-fields is in truth a delightful thing upon a Summer’s day.
-
-How delicious to thread the narrow parting through the deep hay, just
-ready to be cut, meadow after meadow full of tall, silky, waving
-grass; here a patch feathery, and of silvery lilac hue; here the
-rough crowfoot; here the drooping oat-grass; here trembling, delicate
-pyramids; here miniature bulrushes; and, choice and rare, the graceful
-quaking grass, with its thin filaments, and its fruit shot with faint
-purple, and pale green, and light brown. Numberless flowers,--gold,
-and rose, and crimson, and lilac, and amethyst,--these smile up at you
-close to the path, and give a sweet hint of stronger colour, far away
-throughout the hues and many unpronounced tints of the grass.
-
-You spring over a stile, and, sweet surprise! come upon a field
-half-mown. It is the first you have seen this year,--the first deep
-ranks of close tall growth falling before the scythe,--the first scent
-of hay; and the first waft of this is to the scent what the first
-note of the cuckoo is to the ear. There the deep swathes lie in long
-rows, the innocent sweet flowers looking up at first with something
-of sad wonder, but soon drooping in a death which shall not be called
-untimely, because it is useful, and following on completed work. Of
-it we may say with the wise king, that “being made perfect in a short
-time, it fulfilled a long time.” And, like a loved memory after a holy
-death, the scent of the dying grass and flowers lingers sweetly in the
-soft air.
-
-Well, we surmount another stile, and enter a wheat-field. How beautiful
-the myriad stalks and the broad drooping leaves, of a more sober bluer
-green than that of grass! I always notice that as soon as the hay is
-made, or making, the full bulging sheaths of the wheat begin to open,
-and to divulge the secret wealth of the green ear. The pointed flag
-falls over it; but very soon it bursts the swaddling bands, and rises
-proudly above the now obsequious deposed leaves, like an heir above his
-nurses. And then the whole wheat-field stands in blossom, the little
-trembling stamens escaping all over the husks, and the great width of
-tall ears begins its solemn stately waving and bending, and its undying
-whisper in the faint warm Summer airs.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-And through the long colonnades there are here also sweet and
-fair flowers: the bright pimpernel, the dull-grey cud-weed, the glad
-speedwell, the small blue forget-me-not, the white feverfew,--these
-are the low carpet growth. Then higher, and like illuminations hung
-through the columns, there is the rich blue corn-flower, and the purple
-corn-cockle in its green star-shaped cup; and last in order, but almost
-first in beauty, the glorious scarlet poppy, with its satin-black
-eye,--a flower of dazzling splendour, but calumniated and ill-used
-beyond my endurance. “Flaunting poppies,” indeed! Why, they are the
-drooping banners of God’s army of the corn! Here they are waving out
-in all their glory; here they are folded up (somewhat crumpled) within
-that green case, out of which they are gleaming, just ready to be
-unfurled for the march. I love the violet--none better; but I protest
-against the folly, and, in a minor degree, injustice, of instituting
-an inane comparison between it and the poppy, to the discredit of
-my favourite of the corn-fields. A better lesson might be taught by
-pointing out how each fulfils the duties of that state to which it
-has pleased God to call it: the sweet violet among its leaves, like
-the modest wife at home; the brave poppy among the open and wealthy
-corn-fields, like the husband called out into the business of the
-thronged world.
-
-This is a digression, however. Let us get back to Summer days, and the
-fallen grass, and the wide wheat-fields in flower.
-
-Many days have not passed before that flower falls, and the delicate
-paleness of the new-born ear passes away, and the corn-fields settle
-down to the grave work of the year.
-
-   “Long grass swaying in the playing of the almost wearied breeze;
-    Flowers bowed beneath a crowd of the tawny-armoured bees;
-    Sumptuous forests, filled with twilight, like a dreamy old romance;
-    Rivers falling, rivers calling, in their indolent advance.”
-
-That was all very well in the year’s early manhood, scarcely
-distinguishable from youth. But a more prosaic gravity has toned down
-those romantic feelings, and it has discovered that there is work,
-grave work--work sometimes a little wearisome and dull--to be done. The
-fairy lightness and greenness, the delicacy and exquisite freshness,
-of the year, have passed away. It is not Dream-land any longer--not a
-scene of faint rose-flushed or dazzling white blossom, but of hushed,
-sober colour, and of somewhat of monotony and sameness. The fair Bride
-fruit-trees are clad in dark garments now, and busy with their families
-of little unripe things, that have to be educated into ripeness and
-usefulness. The oaks are no more clad in “glad light green” or very
-red leaves, and the elms have toned down even the little brightening
-up of Summer growth at the end of their branches, all into that quiet,
-dust-dulled, dark hue. And so with all the trees; and under the
-tall growth of the copses there is not the play and dance of myriad
-butterflies of sunlight in soft meadows of shade; but the shadow is
-almost gloomy, and the stillness is quite solemn. Thin tall grass or
-broad grave ferns have taken the place of the sheets of glad primroses,
-and bright wood anemones, and azure hyacinths, and rich orchis.
-
-There is no disguising it: the freshness and first energy of things has
-spent itself and gone, the landscape is dulled and dustied. A little
-while ago every day was different; now every day seems much the same.
-There is not the constant progression, the still developing beauty, the
-ever new delights of every new day. New birds to greet, new clothing
-for the meadows, new carpets for the woods, new glories for the trees:
-all these
-
-   “Faded in the distance, where the thickening leaves were piled.”
-
-And the year has done with its extravagantly profuse promises, its
-eager pressing on to some ideal and impossible beauty not yet attained,
-never to be attained, though it would not believe this, in those old
-inexperienced days, when it cast away blossom and freshness of leaf as
-things that did but impede it, in the impatience of its hurry after
-that Perfection which is a dream on earth, though it be true in Heaven.
-True also in Him, in whom earth and Heaven have met; this stooping to
-the tangible, and that raised to the sublime.
-
-Yes, the year seems at a standstill now, and sobered down, and
-sedate, and hushed. Above all, it is silent. Those ecstatic melodies,
-those “pæans clear,” that rang out through the groves--the song
-of the willow-wren, the thrush, the blackbird, the blackcap, the
-nightingale--all are silent. Even the little robin has no voice for
-Summer days; only the yellow-hammer reiterates its short, plaintive,
-monotonous note on the dusty wayside hedge.
-
-   “Dear is the morning gale of Spring,
-      And dear th’ autumnal eve;
-    But few delights can Summer bring
-      A poet’s crown to weave.
-
-   “Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,
-      And ever Fancy’s wing
-    Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky
-      To Autumn or to Spring.
-
-   “Sweet is the infant’s waking smile,
-      And sweet the old man’s rest;
-    But middle age by no fond wile,
-      No soothing calm is blest.”
-
-Sweet Summer days! I am far from meaning to depreciate you, or to
-deny to you the need of much beauty and calm delight; but it is true,
-nevertheless, and must be conceded, that the poet’s complaint has some
-ground of reason. We miss something in Summer days: it must ever be
-so in this world. Attainment must ever disappoint: reality is another
-thing from the image of our dreams. The finished painting is not all
-that the first rough sketch hinted and shadowed out. Spring may be
-high-spirited and eager--Summer must ever be grave, and hushed, and
-sedate.
-
-And what then? Something is missed: but is nothing found? What is the
-year doing in the gravity, and monotony, and silence of Summer days?
-Our life is much like that of the year. It has its Spring and its
-Summer, its Autumn and its Winter. We, too, pass out of youth, and
-excitement, and impetuosity, and hope, into manhood, and gravity, and
-calmness--and disappointment. What, then, is the year doing in this
-stage of its life? If we look aside from our own experience to its
-example, what does that example teach us?
-
-The question, “What is the year doing?” suggests the answer to our
-inquiries. The year _is doing_. It is gravely, quietly, perseveringly
-_at work_. And earnest, hearty, steady work at that which God has
-given us to do--work hearty, if a little dull and monotonous--this is
-the lesson taught by Summer days.
-
-Work, steady work, dry, monotonous work, aye, this is the lesson of
-Life’s Summer; this succeeds its dream-time, this precedes its rest.
-Yes, in truth, the Spring anticipation and eager energy have gone. The
-Autumn repose has not yet come. The year is gravely, and steadily,
-and prosaically at work now; its ardour and ecstasies calmed, its
-wild impossible hopes toned down, its grace of blossom vanished. All
-vegetation is busy, maturing seed and fruit, sober grain and useful
-hay. The earth, like her child, the ant,
-
-   “Provideth her meat in the summer,
-    And gathereth her food in the harvest.”
-
-Toiling in the dust and heat; toiling without rest, wearily often,
-uncheered by songs. For the little choristers of the trees are
-themselves grave and sedate now, and busied with their nests, and
-with the care of rearing their family. There is little change, save
-a deepening of colour; the morning finds the earth still ceaselessly
-at work, and in the tender evenings and grey nights, the glimpsing
-lightnings and the intent stars disclose or behold the same scene:
-
-   “Rapid, rosy-tinted lightnings, where the rocky clouds are riven,
-    Like the lifting of a veil before the inner courts of heaven:
-    Silver stars in azure evenings, slowly climbing up the steep”:
-
-What do these still discover? What but
-
-   “Corn-fields ripening to the harvest, and the wide seas smooth
-          with sleep.”
-
-Let Summer days then teach us, as, one after one, they greet us and
-depart, their wise, but unobtruded lesson. The Summer time being the
-time of grave steady work, and there being also such a time in our
-lives, a time of dust, and heat, and toil, when our spirits sometimes
-seem to flag, and the very sameness of labour brings over us a
-depression, and a lingering longing after the time of blossom, and of
-clear new verdure; there being this resemblance between us, let us
-examine the year’s work, if perhaps we may gather some hints for ours.
-_How_ does the year work? and how should _we_ work, when that first
-zest that made work easy has gone, and the time of rest is on the other
-side of our labour.
-
-The year works _thoroughly_, more implicitly obedient than man to this
-teaching of its Maker,
-
-   “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”
-
-God seems to have made, in all the wonderful animal and vegetable
-growth which surrounds us, some to honour, and some to dishonour. Even
-as with nations, there were the chosen people, and there were those
-left yet degraded--and as with individuals, there are those whose
-work is to evangelise a world, and there are those whose work is to
-follow the plough, or to order the household--so it is with plants, and
-flowers, and trees.
-
-And from this point of view we shall find that they have much to teach
-us in our work. How thoroughly it is all done, and with the might;
-the noble as well as the homely work! There are some plants busy
-maturing groundsel-seed and beech-mast, some maturing strawberries,
-and peaches, and pines. But each does _its utmost_, and the _work_ of
-the inferior degree is equal in quality with that of the higher. The
-shepherd’s-purse and the thistledown are as perfectly and exquisitely
-finished, as are the apricot and the grape.
-
-And this strikes me as leading up to a cheering and beautiful
-thought--to a thought which has often occurred to me in reading the
-parable of the _Talents_. There is, let me remark, this difference
-between this parable and that of the Pounds: that in the one case the
-_work_ was equal in quality, bearing exactly the same proportion to the
-advantages, which were dissimilar; in the other case the advantages and
-opportunities were the same for each, but the _work_ was unequal and
-greatly differing in quality. Thus each has its separate teaching.
-
-And in this parable of the Talents, the same heartening thought came to
-me as that wafted from fields, and trees, and gardens, on the breath
-of Summer days. It was cheering, and a matter of much thankfulness,
-to recollect that it was possible, in a low condition, and with less
-advantages, to serve God in the same proportion with the greatest of
-God’s saints: to fight as well and as nobly in the ranks as any officer
-could do who waved his soldiers to the charge. It was, I say, very
-comforting to read, after
-
-  “Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have
-    gained beside them five talents more”;
-
-and the “Well done” that followed--it was exceedingly sweet to read,
-farther on,
-
-  “He also that had received two talents came and said, Lord, thou
-    deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two
-    other talents beside them.”
-
-And then to hear just the same ringing glorious words, “Well done!”
-words that come like a burst of joy-bells across the heart. For I said
-to myself, “Cheer up, and be bold,--humble, insignificant, lowly though
-thou be, and sorrowfully, impotently longing to do great things, to
-fight a good fight, for Him who died for thee and rose again. Yea, be
-of good courage, and do even thy best with that thou hast. The one
-had ten talents to bring, the other but four, yet cheerily, bravely,
-modestly, did he bring them; the amount was different, _the work was
-the same_. Each had wrought in the same proportion. He with five
-talents had indeed doubled them. But he with two talents _had likewise
-doubled these_.”
-
-Therefore, men, my brothers, women, my sisters, let us thank God and
-take courage. Let us not repine if our sphere be narrow, and our work
-seemingly insignificant; let us not look enviously at those with great
-talents, and grand opportunities, and wide work. Let us take heart, as
-we look at the tiny wayside plant, and at the laden fruit-tree, all at
-work, under the sun, in the quiet Summer days. There is no caprice,
-but there is much to surprise us in the allotment of work in God’s
-world. So, art thou an oak, capable, as it seems to thee, of great
-deeds and noble fruit? Scorn not, however, to spend thy life making
-and maturing acorns, if thus it please God to employ thee. Art thou a
-lowly strawberry plant, weak, and easily trampled, and (thou deemest)
-capable of nothing worthy? Shrink not, at God’s bidding, to endeavour
-to fashion rich and precious fruit, which, if thou art patient and
-faithful, God’s rain shall nourish, and His sun shall ripen. Such an
-oak might St. Paul have seemed, chained to the Roman soldiers, yet I
-wot he then fashioned acorns, whose branches have since overspread the
-world. Such a lowly plant was Moses, deprecating God’s behests at the
-burning bush. Yet I trow that was noble fruit that he was enabled to
-mature.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-For the comfortable thought is, that we work not in our own strength,
-nor from our own resources. God supplies strength and material, and
-then undoubtedly it is for us to use them. Yet the principle of growth
-is His gift; and so also are the sun, and the wind, and the rain.
-Without Him, we can do nothing. But with Him, everything.
-
-   “I can do all things,--through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
-
-Let us then be brave-hearted and true-hearted, and learn this lesson
-from the earth’s work under the sun. Never to envy nor to repine, nor
-to be amazed at life, but just to give all our heart to the maturing
-and perfecting the work which God has entrusted to us to do for Him--if
-in the garden bed, the choice fruit; if by the wayside, the small seed
-which He has prepared for us to tend. Let us work _thoroughly_, in
-these short Summer days.
-
-Another hint from the year’s work. It works leisurely, bringing forth
-fruit _with patience_. Thus the poets sweetly describe its work:
-
-   “Lo! in the middle of the wood,
-    The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud,
-    With winds upon the branch, and there
-    Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
-    Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon
-    Nightly dew-fed; and, turning yellow,
-    Falls and floats adown the air.
-    Lo! sweetened with the Summer light,
-    The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
-    Drops in a silent Autumn night.
-    All its allotted length of days
-    The flower ripens in its place,
-    Ripens, and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
-    Fast rooted in the fruitful soil.”
-
-Thus flower, and leaf, and fruit, do their part thoroughly, and expect
-God’s blessing patiently, and trustfully leave all to Him. There is no
-hurry, though there is no idleness or slackness. Again, as a contrast
-to our heat and fever, and hurry, and distrust, regard the sublime calm
-of nature:
-
-    “Sweet is the leisure of the bird,
-    She craves no time for work deferred;
-    Her wings are not to aching stirred,
-        Providing for her helpless ones.
-
-    “Fair is the leisure of the wheat;
-    All night the damps about it fleet,
-    All day it basketh in the heat,
-        And grows, and whispers orisons.
-
-    “Grand is the leisure of the earth;
-    She gives her happy myriads birth,
-    And after harvest fears not dearth,
-        But goes to sleep in snow wreaths dim.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Yes, as the Great Teacher said (and the saying seems to me one of the
-most suggestive of even His sayings), the earth brings forth her fruit
-_with patience_. And now, what a contrast is this to our work! How
-distrustful, how impatient we are! How apt to be in a hurry! We would
-have the whole long Summer’s work done in the first short Spring day.
-We want the leaves perfect, and the blossom gone, and the fruit not
-only set, but ripened all at once. We cannot ourselves bring forth
-fruit with patience, nor be content to wait its gradual growth and
-ripening in others.
-
-I give two examples of this. One is of the education of children. We
-want the ripe fruit, too often, before the bud has even well developed
-for the bloom. What unnatural precocity do some well-meaning religious
-parents bring out, and exult over, in the little delicate undeveloped
-minds that God has given to their care. It pains me to read the stories
-that are so prized by some people. They force upon one the sense of
-such utter unreality. What experience has that infant mind gathered
-of the deep feelings and inward struggles, the defeats and victories,
-the repentances and recoveries, the depressions and ecstasies, the
-wrestlings in prayer, the astonishments, the dismays, the failings, and
-the attainments, that are familiar to the veteran in the battles of the
-Lord? And yet we would make him talk the language of the soldier of the
-hundred fights, when, only very lately brought into the camp, he does
-but sit among the tents, hardly yet even seeing or hearing
-
-   “The distant battle flash and ring.”
-
-Experience will come, but until he has had it, why should you require
-its tokens? The war is at hand, but is it wise to bid him ape its
-trophies while its grim earnest is scarcely yet to him a dream?
-Parents, anxious parents, heartily do I sympathise with your yearnings.
-You long to know certainly that your child is indeed a faithful and
-obedient child of God. Nevertheless, to hurry the work is often to mar
-it. Forced fruit, if you get it, is poor and flavourless, compared to
-the natural growth. And how much falls blighted from the bough! You
-have seen gooseberries red before full grown, and while others about
-them were green. But you know that this is not ripeness, but only its
-caricature. And I have seen such a mere painful caricature in the talk
-and conduct of the child. Be content,
-
-   “Learn to labour,--and to wait.”
-
-Put in the seed watchfully, wisely, diligently, not rashly, nor over
-profusely; pray before, and during, and after the sowing; and then
-trust to God and wait. Dig not up the seed to see if it is sprouting;
-despair not if through long Winter months scarce any tender blade
-appear; suffer that the ground which ye have diligently, painfully,
-prayerfully sown, should _bring forth fruit with patience_.
-
-My other instance is that of the desire and endeavour for holiness. How
-many that are but beginners in the race, chafe and fret because they
-cannot be at once at the goal. How many a one, but a babe in holiness,
-expects to be at once a man, without the gradual growth, the patient
-succession of day and night, and sun and shower, through this dusty
-toilsome Summer of our life. And depression, discouragement, sometimes
-falling away, results on this unwise hurry. The seed tries to grow with
-unnatural rapidity, and, therefore, having no root, it withers away. Oh
-wait, and work, and trust, seedling saint, and fear not but that God
-will send the full growth: yea, if thou wilt, even bid thee bend with
-fruit an hundredfold for Him. Only remember, God’s order is, first the
-blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear.
-
-Yes, let us take comfort from the thought of the gradual growth and
-ripening of Summer days. Every day’s sun, every night’s dew, add a
-little. And at last the grain bows heavy and ripe, and the fruit
-reddens upon the branch, and weighs it towards the ground--that was
-once but a thin weak blade, or a small crude, sour, green bullet.
-
-And---for an ending of the discourse of Summer days--working
-thoroughly, and working patiently, the earth also works _steadily_ on,
-and in spite of discouragement; of the loss of many dreams, and the
-experience of many failures. Its songs have gone; its freshness is
-over-gloomed; and dust has gathered upon its light and glory. Blights,
-and caterpillars, and frosts, have marred much; and the poetry and
-early fascination of Spring is over now.
-
-But it goes on steadily, in the dry Summer glare, in the drought,
-and dust, and silence; patiently, uncheered by showers, and with
-many a leaf curling, many a fruit dropping. Though life often seems
-monotonous, and prosaic, and dry, it none the less steadily and
-persistently, and without giving up or losing heart, toils on.
-
-Ah, thus in our Summer days, in the time of our manhood, when life’s
-poetry has fled, and we are not that we wished to be, and we do not
-that we wished to do; and the romance, and the glory, and the glitter
-of the once distant warfare, when
-
-   “Among the tents we paused and sung,”
-
-has resolved itself into the stern realities, and prose, and smirch,
-and dust, of the long toilsome march, the weary watching, and the
-sob and sweat of the struggle and the contest; when this is so, let
-us gravely, solemnly settle down to the, at first sight, uncheered
-duties and blank programme of the work of Summer days. Yes, when the
-dull every-day routine of dry work is near to making us heart-sick and
-over-tired; when
-
-   “Still in the world’s hot, restless gleam
-      We ply our weary task,
-    While vainly for some pleasant dream
-      Our restless glances ask,”
-
-let us remember that, whatever our work be, so it be honest, God gave
-it us to do, and the homeliest act, or repetition of monotonous acts,
-is ennobled, if the motive be noble, and the labour stedfast and
-brave--if it be done heartily and well, as to the Lord, and not as unto
-men. Think of St. Paul making tents--yea, of CHRIST in the carpenter’s
-shop--and weary not--oh sick at heart, and disappointed of youth’s
-sweet Spring dreams and high imaginings!--of the work--however homely,
-however monotonous, however dull and prosaic--which yet God hath given
-thee to be done.
-
-Friends, let us work in Summer days. The Spring is past; we will not,
-therefore, spend our golden hours in useless regrets. The Autumn has
-not yet come. But the Summer is with us now. Beyond it there may be a
-land of Beulah, even here, when the dust, and toil, and strain pass
-by a little, and something of the old-remembered brightness of colour
-and beauty flushes over the land. Whether or no such an Autumn-quiet be
-attained, the Summer will pass, and the great Winter sleep will come.
-And beyond that there shall be Spring without its evanescence, Summer
-without its toil and weariness, and Autumn without its melancholy and
-death. Beyond the short labour of Summer days, “_There remaineth a rest
-for the people of God_.” Let us, therefore, labour, that we may enter
-into that rest.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MUSINGS IN THE HAY.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Ah! now I am seated as I love to be, the June blue over me, and the
-sweet, warm, new-made hay underneath. On the shadow side of a great
-haycock, here have I selected my seat, plunging down and feeling the
-soft cushion give, until it has attained consistency enough to resist
-me. I have been busy, very busy, all this week, and the week before
-that, and indeed several weeks back. And I have earned, and mean
-to indulge in, a quiet long afternoon, and perhaps evening, in the
-hay-field. I have a book with me, but I do not pledge myself to read
-much. I have not come out here to read; not to do much, indeed, but
-just to sit and muse, nay, chiefly to enjoy the feeling of being able
-to rest. To feel that there is, or shall be, so far as I can choose, no
-call for the remainder of this day upon anxious heart and weary brain;
-no parish troubles; no sick, whose silent cry in the distance forbids
-the pastor to sit still; no sermon, no article, to think out or to
-write; no letters to pour into that insatiable post-office,--the true
-sieve of the Danaids; not even any gardening to do or to superintend;
-no, nothing necessary but to sit on the side of a haycock “in the
-leafy month of June.” We may go on and on in the round of every day’s
-business, on and on, unpausing, till we drop: the mere energy of
-spinning may keep us up, though perhaps on a weak and tottering peg;
-and work begets work; and busy day will chase busy day like the sails
-of a windmill; and we hardly dare stop, because we foreknow how we
-shall then have a long bill to pay, all the arrears of those fatigues
-and that weariness that we bade stand aside as we laboured on; and
-we know that if we once stop to give them a hearing, it will be hard
-work to set the heavy machinery going again. For myself, I often feel
-that to go on working, is to be able to work; to pause is to collapse,
-and to feel incapable. Still, in fact, we make life go farther by
-careful trading, than by spending all our capital at once. And both
-for purposes of devotional retirement and of necessary recreation, it
-is well sometimes just “to sport our oak” (to speak in Oxford phrase)
-upon the noisy and importunate throng of things clamorous to be done,
-and yet which, if discharged, would but give place to as many more. I
-could dizzy my brain with thoughts of business that I might do, and
-want to do. But for some weeks I have worked on and worked on, hoping
-to satisfy all claims; waiting for a pause, which never would come;
-and now I will no longer wait for it, but make it. Away! crowding
-calls, for this afternoon, for all the rest of this day. The wrestling,
-restless, toiling, moiling, weary world is quite shut out from me
-behind this mighty chain of haycocks. I hear the sharpening of scythes,
-and their long sweep in the bending swathes; once or twice in the
-afternoon a cuckoo sails with broad wing over me, and voice which
-stammers now near the end of his monotonous but prized oration; there
-is a scattered rain of larks’ songs falling all around; and, on a hedge
-near by, the short plaintive cadence of the yellow-hammer’s few notes.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Grass is always beautiful,--thus I am led to think as, leaning on one
-arm, I inspect the material of my couch. Beautiful after the winter
-lethargy, and when it grows lush and green, vividly green, and taller
-and taller under the showers, at the roots of the pines that step
-forward here and there from the shrubberies into the lawn. Beautiful
-again, when the scythe and mowing-machine have destroyed _this_
-beauty, and substituted that of the smooth, well-kept velvet sward.
-Beautiful, growing in the meadows, and deepening for hay; a sweet
-close under-growth of white or dull pink clover; of orange-flowered
-trefoil; of purple self-heal; of bright yellow-rattle; of small red
-orchis; of orchis pale lilac specked with dark; and, more desultory and
-thinner, above these the tall grass and flower-stalks: “all grass of
-silky feather”; bright rose ragged-robin; white ox-eye daisy; brimstone
-toad-flax; tall buttercups; pale pink centaury; numberless varieties
-of fringed flowers, all yellow; and bobbing myriads of the ribwort
-plantain, to which we are all, when children, very Henry VIII.’s; tall
-slight sorrel; tougher dock. Beautiful, when the scythe has laid all
-this in broad, lowly lines upon the whole face of the field; and the
-mowers advance yet steadily upon the long yielding ranks. Beautiful
-when the green has turned grey, and the brighter colours of the flowers
-are dull, the clover not yet brown, only faded, the yellow tassels
-showing, as they droop, the paler under-wing of the closing flower,
-the buttercups spoiled of their square varnished petals, and showing
-only the green spiked ball, the miniature head of Gog or Magog’s mace.
-Beautiful to lie in the grey mounds of the soft, fragrant, new-made
-hay, dying, if this be to die, so graciously, and sweetly, and
-blessingly; lovely in life, and sweet in death. Beautiful when even
-this bloom-grey has gone, and we shake out from their close-pressed
-sleep the loose masses of the yellow hay, and brown leaves and flowers,
-all, however, still fragrant, and full of hints in Winter days, of the
-warm Summer. Beautiful when the last cart is carried, and the rick is
-being thatched, and a pale bright under-growth has given to the dry hot
-field, in the parched Summer-time, something of a faint imitation of
-the early green of Spring.
-
-So I lean, listless, idle, and examine my couch. Much I find to examine
-in it; besides the embalmed flowers, there is a small zoological
-garden--brown ants climbing up the pole of an upright grass-stem;
-leopard-spotted lady-birds; alligator grasshoppers; woolly-bear
-caterpillars; bird-of-paradise butterflies. I am left alone with these,
-and so can be quite quiet; for I am in the rear of the haymakers.
-
-                    “All in a row
-    Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,
-    While, as they rake the green-appearing ground,
-    And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
-    The russet haycock rises thick behind.”
-
-And my couch is one of these same pale hills that they have done with.
-My wife is away with the children: I shall not therefore run the
-risk of being buried, with shouts, under the piled heaps of the hay.
-My servant has gone out for a walk: I thus escape the apprehension of
-seeing her advance into my field steering among the haycocks, and, with
-hand shading her eyes, looking about all over its wide glare for me. I
-can lean on this arm until it is tired, then change to the other, then
-lie on my back and watch the fleecy blue, with handkerchief spread for
-fear of insects; then turn over again, and resume my inspection of the
-grass. I am thus particular in description, because I would fain carry
-my hay-field into hot London. A few distinct details may help out many
-a memory; and the clerk really in the baking, staring London street
-may yet, if his imagination be my ally, lean back among the yielding
-warm-breathed hay to muse with me upon the grass and its teachings.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-For it is, after all, impossible to be absolutely doing nothing. The
-mind, that busy alchemist, works on and works on in the worn laboratory
-of the body, and transmutes gold into earth, or earth into gold, as the
-case may be, in its peculiar crucible. And so, since I cannot but muse
-on the hay into which I am closely peering, I may as well also jot my
-musings down.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Flesh, and grass: how natural the now common-place connection between
-the short-lived beauty of the two! It is one of those commonplaces,
-however, which new thoughts could not easily better. The hay-fields,
-with their life and glee, and loveliness of flowers just now, and now
-these faded mounds! The generations of men in the gaiety or toil of the
-world, and then the churchyard with its “shadowed swells”! Half a year
-for the one growth, and sometimes less, sometimes more, for the other;
-but all lying in the bending swathes at last. Take the extreme case:
-
-  “All the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine
-    years.”
-
-Was flesh like grass then? What! a thousand years akin to the life of a
-few months? Yes, closely akin; banded together by the last words of the
-life of both; for how ends the short history of the longest liver of
-mortal men?
-
-   “----_and he died._”
-
-Yea, the growth, the ripening was longer in progress, but the scythe
-came at last:
-
-   “The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry?
-    All flesh is grass,--and all the goodliness thereof is as the
-          flower of the field;
-    The grass withereth, the flower fadeth.”
-
-And again:
-
-   “Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.
-    He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down:
-    He fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.”
-
-And again:
-
-   “As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so
-          he flourisheth.
-    For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone;
-    And the place thereof shall know it no more.”
-
-And again:
-
-   “In the morning they are like grass which groweth up;
-    In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up;
-    In the evening it is cut down, and withereth.”
-
-Oh, faded couch on which I lean, here are witnesses enough of the
-highest authority of all, to establish a brotherhood between us! I look
-at these hands which can write and work, I look at these limbs which
-can rise and go, I consider the brain which can busily toil:--and from
-these I turn to regard the dry heap that once was living grass;--and
-I think how slack, and void of energy, and lifeless will these also
-lie, in the long swathes which ever and ever fall before the advancing
-mower, Death.
-
-   “‘Consider well,’ the voice replied,
-    ‘His face, that two hours since hath died;
-    Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride?’”
-
-No; each lies in that especial long line of mown grass that we call his
-generation:
-
-  “Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now
-    perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any
-    thing that is done under the sun.”
-
-Flesh, and grass: are they not akin? These ever-succeeding
-generations;--how the grass still grows after every mowing.
-
-   “One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh”;
-
---there is not a word of abiding at all, says Archbishop Leighton.
-But, however, there is a notice of constant succession, and the grass
-grows as fast as it is mown. Load after load is added to the store
-of Eternity; but the mower Death knows no pause. Ever and ever the
-tall grass and the sweet flowers bend before that industrious scythe.
-Where is the glad growth of fifty years ago; and where the life that
-preceded that; and so on, back to Adam? In long fallen ranks they lie,
-generation parallel with generation, all across the wide field of the
-world’s history. Flowers, and plain grass, and wholesome fodder, and
-prickly thistles, and poison weeds, they bowed at the edge of the
-scythe; so far they are equal:
-
-  “There is one event to the righteous, and to the wicked; to
-    the good and to the clean, and to the unclean; to him that
-    sacrificeth, and to him that sacrificeth not; as is the good,
-    so is the sinner; and he that sweareth, as he that feareth an
-    oath. This is an evil among all things that are done under the
-    sun, that there is one event unto all.”
-
-Yes, all lie in the swathes, and are equal there; the almost bitter
-saying of the wise man, to whom sin had made even wisdom sadness, is
-so far true. True while we consider the field after the scythe; true
-while we look on Death, but not applying any longer when we imagine the
-Resurrection. A very Life shall revive, or a very Death shall wither,
-each stalk of the myriads that lie waiting in the field, each in the
-place where it fell.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-I cannot help being also reminded by this history of mowing and
-growing, of the special field of each human life, with its ever
-springing, ever falling hopes and dreams. One day it is a carpet of
-brightness and glory; the next, the withered lines lie on the bare
-field. Yet look closer, and you will find already the tender green
-of a new growth appearing to clothe the scarred meadow. A constant
-succession, ever mown and still growing; every year and often in
-the year a fresh attire, however the heart, when that common-place
-desolation was new to it, refused in dismay to believe in the
-possibility of any further crops. Fond thing! even while it thus
-protested, _the grass had already begun to grow_; and it was in vain
-to try in sullenness or self-respect to check the smiling flowers that
-_would_ crowd up over the ruin. Many a one of us can say, of some past
-sorrow, that,
-
-   “When less keen it seemed to grow,
-    I was not pleased--I wished to go
-    Mourning adown this vale of woe,
-      For all my life uncomforted.”
-
-It could not be, except in the case of a hypochondriac. In healthy
-lands the growth cannot be checked.
-
-   “I thought that I should never more
-    Feel any pleasure near me glow”:
-
-and again:
-
-   “I grudged myself the lightsome air,
-    That makes men cheerful unaware;
-    When comfort came, I did not care
-      To take it in, to feel it stir.”
-
-After that devastating flood you did not care to take in the dove with
-the olive-leaf; you had rather sit moodily alone. Very well for a time,
-but “will you nill you,” the second crop begins to cover the scars. And
-soon you can tranquilly and thankfully say,
-
-   “But I have learned, though this I had,
-    ’Tis sometimes natural to be glad,
-    And no man can be always sad,
-      Unless he wills to have it so.”
-
-For it is an ordinance of God that the grass shall keep on growing.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-But, of course, especially, and above all, the analogy before indicated
-is that which connects this brief life of ours with the grass of the
-field. We are, above all, alike in our _frailty and evanescence_.
-
-   “All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the
-          flower of grass.
-      The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.”
-
-How exquisitely Archbishop Leighton comments upon this text! An idea
-so anciently true as almost to have become, in our ordinary speech,
-common-place, blossoms into new beauty under his holy thought. So,
-however, do what seem to ordinary thinkers bare rods in the teaching
-of the Bible, yet bloom and bear fruit abundantly in the shrine of
-a congenial heart. “All flesh is as grass.” Yes, he expands it, and
-“grass hath its root in the earth, and is fed by the moisture of it
-for awhile; but, besides that, it is under the hazard of such weather
-as favours it not, or of the scythe that cuts it down, give it all
-the forbearance that may be, let it be free from both those, yet how
-quickly will it wither of itself! Set aside those many accidents, the
-smallest of which is able to destroy our natural life, the diseases of
-our own bodies and outward violences, and casualties that cut down many
-in their greenness, in the flower of their youth, the utmost term is
-not long; in the course of nature it will wither. Our life indeed is
-a lighted torch, either blown out by some stroke or some wind; or, if
-spared, yet within awhile it burns away, and will die out of itself.”
-
-A new idea is here given us as to the mowing. This poet makes the
-scythe to be the sweeping of disease or accident or violence that
-every day prostrate their thousands; accidents or violence represent
-the mowing; and there is, beside these, the withering too. As though a
-field of deep grass should be left unmown; yet how soon then would its
-life and light and laughter depart, and a skeleton array of thin, sere,
-shivering yellow stalks meet the October winds. Even if unmown, we must
-wither, and either will at times seem saddest to us, until we remember
-that this field is but the field of Time, and that the eternal God is
-ordering all.
-
-But Leighton proceeds to develope another exquisite thought, which to
-many would lie hidden and unperceived in the short and simple word of
-God--“All flesh is as grass, _and all the glory of man as the flower of
-grass_.” On the hint of this latter member of the sentence he speaks:
-
-“There is indeed a great deal of seeming difference betwixt the outward
-conditions of life amongst men. Shall the rich and honourable and
-beautiful and healthful go in together, under the same name, with the
-baser and unhappier part, the poor, wretched sort of the world, who
-seem to be born for nothing but sufferings and miseries? At least,
-hath the wise no advantage beyond the fools? Is all grass? Make you
-no distinction? No; _all is grass_, or if you will have some other
-name, be it so; once this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if
-that glory which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference,
-then this is all it can have--it is but the flower of that same grass;
-somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a little comelier and
-better apparelled than it, but partaker of its frail and fading nature;
-it hath no privilege nor immunity that way; yea, of the two, is the
-less durable, and usually shorter lived; at the best, it decays with
-it--_The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away_.”
-
-Yes, grass and its flower--loveliness, might, wisdom: Helen of Troy
-shared the fate of the meanest weed; Julius Cæsar and Napoleon lie
-with the rank and file; Solomon in his glorious wisdom is at last now
-equalled with those lilies of the field, that grass which to-day is,
-and to-morrow is cast into the oven. We in the lower rank, we mere
-grass of the field, look at and admire the glory above us, the flower
-of the grass, the choice gifts of intellect, of power, of beauty:
-but even as we gaze, and before the scythe can come, or the sun can
-wither it, we miss it--“The flower thereof fadeth, and the grace of the
-fashion of it perisheth”:
-
-   “The wind passeth over it, and it is gone.
-    And the place thereof shall know it no more.”
-
-“The instances are not few, of those who have on a sudden fallen from
-the top of honour into the foulest disgraces, not by degrees coming
-down the stair they went up, but tumbled down headlong. And the most
-vigorous beauty and strength of body, how doth a few days’ sickness,
-or, if it escape that, a few years’ time, blast that flower!”
-
-And, sadder still, we must feel it to be, the ornaments of the mind are
-as short-lived; and we watch, with the keenest regret, great intellects
-quenched by decay or death, and minds that are the most stored with
-knowledge and learning cut off in a day.
-
-“Yea, those higher advantages which have somewhat both of truer and
-more lasting beauty in them, the endowments of wit, and learning, and
-eloquence, yea, and of moral goodness and virtue, yet they cannot rise
-above this world, they are still, in all their glory, but the _flower
-of grass_; their root is in the earth. When men have endured the toil
-of study night and day, it is but a small parcel of knowledge they can
-attend to, and they are forced to lie down in the dust in the midst of
-their pursuit of it; that head that lodges most sciences shall within
-a while be disfurnished of them all; and the tongue that speaks most
-languages be silenced.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Yes, and again I look at the jumble of common grass and flower of
-grass, and bright blossoms all withered, in which I am reclining,
-and think how our bright days and our commonplace days, our
-ordinary life and our pageants, fade into dulness even as we live
-on, and are all swept down at last, as it seems to a superficial
-thinker, into one common oblivion by Death. “What is become of all
-the pompous solemnities of kings and princes at their births and
-marriages, coronations and triumphs? They are now as a dream.” And
-so with our first flushes of success, our earliest tastes of fame,
-our new ecstasies of love, our wonders and admirations when life was
-young--where are they very soon? Lying in the mown ranks, void of their
-living movement and vivid lustre; numbered with the heap of every-day
-events and emotions; still distinguished from these, still marked as
-flowers, but the glory of them dried out under the air of use and the
-sun of experience. Precious they are still, and dear, but the dreams of
-youth are not to Age what Youth imagined them; the hay is valuable and
-sweet, but it is not that field which the least air could stir into a
-sea of silky light and shade, and a tossing of myriad colours. It was
-the Flower of grass, and it cannot be, on earth, but that “_the grass
-withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away_.”
-
-“Would we consider this, in the midst of those varieties that toss our
-light minds to and fro, it would give us wiser thoughts, and ballast
-our hearts; make them more solid and stedfast in those spiritual
-endeavours which concern a durable condition, a being that abides for
-ever; in comparison of which the longest term of natural life is less
-than a moment, and the happiest estate is but a heap of miseries. Were
-all of us more constantly prosperous than any one of us is, yet that
-one thing were enough to cry down the price we put upon this life, that
-it continues not. As he answered to one who had a mind to flatter him
-in the midst of a pompous triumph, by saying, What is wanting here?
-_Continuance_, said he.”
-
-Yes, this is the moral of it all, “_we have no abiding city_.” What
-then? “_But we seek one to come._” And St. Peter, if he talk, it might
-seem mournfully, of the fading and dying growth from all earth’s
-sowings, is not really trying to sadden, but rather to cheer us. For he
-has been telling but just now of incorruptible seed; and he sums up the
-teaching of the fading grass and its withering glory, with these words
-of quietness and confidence,
-
-   “But the Word of the Lord endureth for ever.”
-
-And this is always the distinction between the Worldling’s or the
-Sentimentalist’s cry of the vanity of human life and of its glory of
-hopes and loves and ambitions; and the Inspired declarations of this
-vanity. In the former it is but a wind which comes with a blight and
-passes away with a wail. In the latter, some better thing is ever held
-before us, to which our heart’s yearning tendrils, gently disentangled
-from their withering support, may safely cling: and if the vanities and
-emptiness of Time are clearly set before us, we are offered instead the
-realities and the fulness of Eternity.
-
-   “The world passeth away, and the lust thereof”;
-
-yes; but
-
-   “He that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.”
-
-I have mused away my afternoon, and the sun is near the hills, and
-this day is falling beneath the scythe, and will soon lie behind me
-in the swathe, as I advance upon the yet unmown field or strip of my
-life. There are in this flowers, and nettles, and thistles, no doubt,
-and much common undistinguishable grass. Ah, may it, in the end, be
-found to be, upon the whole, good and useful hay! Yes; but here the
-life of man outruns the analogy, for the days that are passed are not
-done with: they remain dried and stored, either to rise and revive
-their flowers in far more than their pristine beauty; or to be burnt
-as rubbish and waste. Nothing that God wrought of good or beautiful
-in us here, but will, fresher and fairer than at first, remain with
-us hereafter. And there is One for whose sake even the nettles and
-thistles that mixed with the useful grass and fair flowers, shall have
-vanished from those hearts that loved Him, and be counted as though
-they had never been.
-
-Let me lie back for a little while, as the sun sets, and a cool air
-fans me, to quiet my heart with this happy trust and confidence.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-THE BEAUTY OF RAIN.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-At the time at which I am writing, a soft shower has just fallen. For
-months we have had scarcely any rain. Even the massed primrose roots in
-the hedges, with the last few stragglings of their Easter decorations
-here and there about them, have drooped their long broad leaves. The
-grass and the trees have seemed to remain at a standstill, as though
-waiting for something. The plough-land has stood in great unbroken
-lumps. The marsh-land has gaped open in huge cracks. The ponds have
-sunk a foot below their usual mark; the ditches give no savoury smell
-from their shallow green soup. The roads are like grindstones, wearing
-down your shoe-leather with myriad-pointed flint-powder, and your
-patience with loose stones that carry your legs away from your control
-and supervision. The roofs want washing, the drains want flooding,
-the butts want filling. When I pour waterpot after waterpot of water
-about the roots of some favourite or needy plant, the water runs off
-the caked ground as though it were a duck’s back; or, the mould being
-loosened, is sucked in, without the chance of collecting into a pool,
-and, seemingly, without quenching the fever-thirst of the earth.
-
-All things and all people want rain: the farmers for their land, the
-cottager for his garden--a steady three or four hours’ downpour, not
-only such a slight shower as this, that, scarce having browned the
-beds, is already drying off from them.
-
-Just now, it is certain, rain would be appreciated, but still even now
-more for its usefulness, than for its beauty. For the beauty of rain is
-a thing often missed, I think, even by those who do keep, as they pass
-through this world, a keen eye for the Creator’s thoughts, embodied in
-beauty about them: poems written on the world’s open page by the Hand
-of the great _Poet_, or Maker. For, rightly regarded, from the vast
-epic of the starry heavens, to the simple pastoral of a dewdrop, or
-the lyric a bird, God’s works are to us the expression of His mind,
-the language which conveys to us His ideas. Man’s noblest descriptive
-poetry--what is it but a weak endeavour to interpret to less gifted
-seers the beautiful thoughts of God?
-
-And rain is one of these thoughts--a realised idea of the mind of
-the Almighty. And since I find, both in men and in books, a general
-neglect, if not a rooted dislike, with regard to rain--_as such_, and
-putting out of sight its _usefulness_--I shall devote a few pages to
-the endeavour to set forth the beauty of this thought of God.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Even Tennyson, nature-loving Tennyson, what word has he for the rain?
-Of Enid we are told--
-
-                    “She did not weep,
-    But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist,
-    Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
-    Before the _useful trouble_ of the rain.”
-
-Nothing, then, even in the desire to praise it, better than “_useful
-trouble_”? I do not think that even Wordsworth dwells with much
-frequency or delight on this friend of mine. Longfellow has--
-
-   “The day is cold, and dark, and dreary,
-    It rains, and the wind is never weary.”
-
-One who sent out, some years ago, a volume of unfulfilled promise,
-writes--
-
-   “How beautiful the yesterday that stood
-    Over me like a rainbow! I am alone,
-    The past is past. I see the future stretch
-    All dark and barren as a rainy sea.”
-
-And so on, generally; all that is dreary, uninviting, dismal, seems
-connected in the English mind with rain. In the English mind, I say,
-for I suppose the want of appreciation of it arises from its somewhat
-abundance in our climate. But how differently is it regarded by the
-poets of an Eastern land! How beautiful the description--
-
-   “Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it;
-    Thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is
-          full of water:
-    Thou preparest them corn, when Thou hast so provided for it:
-    Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: Thou settlest the
-          furrows thereof:
-    Thou makest it soft with showers: Thou blessest the springing
-          thereof.”
-
-How lovingly it is spoken of! That “gracious rain upon Thine
-inheritance,” refreshing it when it was weary; the “rain upon the mown
-grass, and showers that water the earth.” How its mention is a signal
-for thanksgiving--“Sing unto the Lord, who covereth the heaven with
-clouds, who prepareth rain for the earth.”
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-To be rightly appreciated in our climate, rain should certainly come
-after a drought. Most people, no doubt, then appreciate it, because of
-its watering the crops, or laying the dust. But the true lover of rain
-regards it not merely or chiefly in this utilitarian matter-of-fact
-aspect. He has a deep inner enjoyment of the rain, _as rain_, and his
-sense of its beauty drinks it in as thirstily as does the drinking
-earth. It refreshes and cools his heart and brain; he longs to go forth
-into the fields, to feel its steady stream, to scent its fragrance; to
-stand under some heavy-foliaged chestnut-tree, and hear the rushing
-music on the crowded leaves. Let the drought have continued two months;
-let the glass have been, at last, steadily falling for a day or two;
-let, at last, a delicious mellow gloom have overspread the hot glaring
-heavens; let it have brooded all day, with a constant momently yet
-lingering promise of rain. The cattle stand about with a sort of
-pleasing dreamy anticipation; they know rain is coming, and no more
-muddy shallow ponds, and dry choking herbage for them. The birds expect
-it, and chirp and nestle in the foliage, important, excited, joyful.
-Or some one thrush or blackbird, amid the chirping hush of the others,
-constitutes himself the loud spokesman of their joy. So Keble--
-
-   “Deep is the silence as of summer noon,
-            When a soft shower
-            Will trickle soon,
-    A gracious rain, freshening the weary bower--
-    Oh sweetly then far off is heard
-    The clear note of some lonely bird.”
-
-And at last it comes. You hear a patter here and there; you see a
-leaf here and there bob and blink about you; you feel a spot on your
-face, on your hand. And then the gracious rain comes, gathering its
-forces--steady, close, abundant. Lean out of window, and watch, and
-listen. How delicious! The gradually-browning beds; the verandah
-beneath losing its scattered spots in a sheet of luminous wet; and,
-never pausing, the close, heavy, soft-rushing noise; the patter from
-the eaves, the
-
-                    “Two-fold sound,
-    The clash hard by, and the murmur all round.”
-
-The crisp drenching rustle from the dry foliage of the perceptibly
-grateful trees, broad pavilions for ever-chirping birds; the little
-plants, in speechless ecstasy, receiving cupful after cupful into the
-outspread leaves, that silently empty their gracious load, time after
-time, into the still expecting roots, and open their hands still for
-more. You can hardly leave the window. You come again at night; you
-have heard that ceaseless pour on the roof, on the skylight, and the
-loud clashing under the eaves, in the silence, as you went up late to
-bed. You open the window and let the mild cool air in, and look through
-the darkness, and listen, for you cannot see. On the vine-leaves about
-the casement is the steady
-
-                  “Sound of falling rain;
-    A bird, awakened in its nest,
-    Gives a faint twitter of unrest,
-    Then smooths its plumes, and sleeps again.”
-
-Your light shines out into the deep dark, and touches the trees just
-about the house, and gives a dull gleam to some portion of the
-streaming lines. Unwillingly you shut the window, and hear still, as
-you kneel and there is silence, the rushing undertone. Or, if a cool
-breeze arise, sudden bursts of rattling drops come impetuously against
-the panes, with intervals of dreamy rustling, or in quick succession.
-You like to hear that sound as you lie in bed, for you think of the
-bedding plants that you have just put out, or of the burnt patches in
-the lawn, or of the turnip and onion seed; or, with a larger sympathy,
-you think of the great thirsty fields of corn, yellowing for want
-of rain; of the mill-stream, so long shallow and inadequate; of the
-wells in the cottage-gardens about you, and their turbid or exhausted
-condition. You look forward, ere you lose consciousness, to how next
-day all vegetation will have advanced and appear refreshed.
-
-And next morning you look out from your window, as you dress, with a
-deep sense of luxurious enjoyment. The rain has continued steadily
-all night, until six in the morning. But it has ceased now, though
-the warm tender gloom still continues, and only just veils the bright
-sun, which now and then breaks through it. As you contemplate the
-scene from the open window, the refreshed look of the rich brown road,
-that was so white and dusty, makes you long to sally forth upon it.
-Tearful puddles smile here and there on the walks; the drenched grass
-twinkles and sparkles, and reminds you of that exquisite description
-of “the tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining
-after rain.” And, breakfast over, you walk out, through the garden
-gate, a little way into the road. There is a peculiar, as it were,
-_growing_ warmth in the air. Everything seems to have attained a week’s
-growth in the one night. You remark the vivid gold-green patches
-in the hedges. The lime-trees--indeed, all the trees--make a most
-effective background with their black wet stems and branches for the
-radiant emeralds that have burst their pink caskets all over them. The
-corn-blades, the hedge-banks, the drooping boughs, have all a drenched,
-tearfully-grateful look.
-
-You pass, well pleased, back into the garden again. How well the peas
-show in the dark mould, and how much taller are they than they were
-yesterday! The dull green of the potatoes, that appeared but here and
-there last time you looked, seems now to cover the beds. The little
-crumpled flowers of the currant and gooseberry bushes have developed
-all over them into many blossom-laden strings. In the flower-beds the
-annuals appear above the round sanded patches; and of the bedding
-plants, no geranium, heliotrope, or verbena droops a leaf. You go
-back into the house refreshed by the beauty of the rain, as much
-as vegetation has been by the rain itself. The worst of such a day
-is, that it makes you feel idle, indisposed to settle down to work,
-inclined from time to time to saunter out and watch nature chewing the
-cud of its late refreshment.
-
-But this is only one example of the deliciousness of rain--one, you
-will say, picked, selected, exceptional. There are many other times
-at which it is beautiful. It is beautiful when it comes hurried and
-passionate, fleeing from the storm wind, hurled, like a volley of small
-musketry, against your streaming panes; and the few tarnished gold
-leaves of the beech-trees are struck down one after one by the bullets.
-It is beautiful in the Midsummer, when it comes in light, soft
-showers, or, more in earnest, accompanied with thunder-music, straight
-and heavy; when, as the poet says--
-
-            “Rolling as in sleep,
-    Low thunders bring the mellow rain.”
-
-It is beautiful when it rains far away in the distance, the bright
-sun shining on the mound on which you stand, and only a few guerilla
-drops heralding the approach of the shower towards you. It is beautiful
-among leafless trees, in early Spring or late Autumn, under an avenue,
-or in a copse, when every long bough and black branch is glittering,
-strung with trembling diamonds; when, the force of the wind and rain
-being kept from you by the trees and underwood, the gentle sadness
-and quiet melancholy of the scene can be gathered into your heart. It
-is beautiful in a town, when you stand at the window, and watch the
-emptying streets; the gutters pour by in a yellow, twisted flood; the
-street becomes a river, and, as the sudden gust drives them before it,
-
-                    “Skirmishing drops
-    Rush with bright bayonets across the road.”
-
-The window is lined with rows of brilliants, that gradually grow bigger
-and bigger, and waver and fall, ever supplied by a constant succession
-of new comers, like the Scotch at Flodden,
-
-   “Each stepping where his comrade stood
-    The instant that he fell.”
-
-And, since I have mostly spoken of the beauty of rain in the country, I
-will quote a description of its beauty in London:--
-
-“A slight, quick, fervid shower--tears more of happiness brimming over
-than anger breaking its bounds--had just fallen, and pricked the dry
-grey pavement into a dark lace pattern of spots, out of which you could
-select the newest by their being sharper in outline and darker than the
-rest. The aristocracy of five minutes ago, and the parvenues of the
-last moment, alike, as the soft warm rain fell now quicker and more
-petulantly passionate, melting one into the other, losing shape, place,
-and purpose, as the stone washed luminous brown, and transparent as
-slabs of Cairngorm agate.”
-
-Londoners caught in a shower will surely thank me for this extract, and
-recall the description while they admire the process.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-But if some people, notwithstanding my special pleading, still agree
-with Coleridge’s address to the rain,--
-
-   “Oh, rain, that I lie listening to
-    You’re but a doleful sound at best,”
-
-and echo his decision,--
-
-   “And, by the by, ’tis understood,
-    You’re not so pleasant as you’re good”
-
-for these I have yet a word.
-
-If we cannot _enjoy_, let us _accept_ rain at any rate without
-grumbling; ay, even though it last day after day; ay, though it spoil
-our pleasure-plans, or our crops--remembering at Whose ordering it
-comes. People who grumble at the weather always remind me of the
-Israelites grumbling at Moses and Aaron, the mere instruments used by
-the Supreme. “_What are we? Your murmurings are not against us, but
-against the Lord._”
-
-From whence comes the shower that stops our pleasure-party; the
-drenching rain that falls, just when the hay or the corn was fit to
-carry? If such events move our ill-temper, or make us irritable and
-angry (and many are apt to be so), with whom is it that we are vexed?
-who has aggrieved us so that we speak as injured persons? Let us
-have a care. What is that “it” that we speak of as being “tiresome,”
-“annoying”? The clouds, the winds, the rain--_what are these, that
-we murmur against them?_ Are not such murmurings really against the
-Sender, if we trace them home? Such a result is commonly born of
-thoughtlessness more than of purpose. But that will not excuse it.
-
-   “Evil is wrought by want of thought,
-    As well as want of heart.”
-
-But evil it still is, and must remain. Therefore grumbling at the
-weather appears to me to be something more than foolish and ungrateful.
-A little thought on the matter seems to mark it as impious and profane.
-A heathen philosopher would have despised the _silliness_ of losing the
-balance of your temper, when there is no one that you dare blame for
-the cause. A Christian ought surely to soar beyond this, and, in things
-little or large, to accustom himself to recognise a Father’s ordering,
-and cheerfully to accept it, as sure to be the best and wisest.
-
-I said a heathen might despise the folly of those who lose their temper
-because it rains. A beautiful anecdote occurs to me, which I met with
-in a very pleasant book, “Domestic Life in Palestine,” by Mary Eliza
-Rogers. This lady and her party were traversing, under the conduct of
-their guide, the fertile plains west of the Carmel range. “Rain began
-to fall in torrents; Mohammed, our groom, threw a large Arab cloak
-over me, saying, ‘May Allah preserve you, O lady! while He is blessing
-the fields!’ Thus pleasantly reminded, I could no longer feel sorry to
-see the pouring rain, but rode on rejoicing, for the sake of the sweet
-Spring flowers and the broad fields of wheat and barley.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Can you fancy a more exquisite instance of the “art of putting things”?
-Can you not imagine yourself positively enjoying the wetting, even
-though no whit alive to the beauty of rain, _as_ rain? So much depends
-on the manner in which a thing is put before you; so much depends on
-the lead which is given to your way of looking at it. Had a grumbling
-Christian been beside the lady instead of the at least pious-languaged
-Moslem, to mutter, and repine, and reiterate, “How very unfortunate”
-(whatever this word may mean) “we are!” would not a gloom and dulness
-obscure the memory of that ride, in her mind? Whereas the beautiful
-thought of the Arab, as it made the idea of the rain pleasant and
-lovely at the time, so it dwells with a rainbow brightness on all
-after-memories of that cloud.
-
-But enough has been said as to the beauty of rain. It seems, after
-all, that much depends on our way of looking at the thing. If we
-regard rather the inconveniences that will sometimes attend it, we
-shall probably not even think of looking for the beauty that I have
-endeavoured to describe. But if our way is to look rather for what is
-pleasant than for what is disagreeable, in the common events of life;
-if we love nature in all her moods, and watch, with a lover’s eye,
-each sweet change in her face; especially if we regard God’s works as
-the language of God’s thoughts, and consider nothing as the offspring
-of chance, but all things as consequent on His ordering, who sees
-the sparrows fall, and by whom the very hairs of the head are all
-numbered--if this be our manner of regarding those dispensations which
-are above our control, I dare affirm that in nothing that the Great
-Maker expresses, shall we miss finding, not only _use_, but _beauty_.
-And if I have suggested to some minds any thoughts that may hereafter
-lead them to share my love for the beautiful rain, I rejoice that
-I have been to them the exponent of a beauty that they have missed
-hitherto; and I shall receive their gratitude when the soft showers
-come that water the earth. And if my meditations be read, unhappily
-for them, not during a dearth, but during a glut of rain, my pleasant
-labour will not have been in vain, if, though failing to make many
-admirers, I yet quiet some fretfulness, and correct some thoughtless
-repining. Some rain, as well as some days, must be dark and dreary.
-But, after all, it rather receives its tinge of pleasantness or gloom
-from the colour of our own mind at the time, than itself influences
-our thoughts. Let there be within us the clear shining of a contented
-mind, and the darkest clouds will never want for a rainbow. Yea, such a
-mind, predisposed to enjoy and admire all that the Creator sends, will
-need no mediation of an interpreter to bid it discern and gather in for
-itself the exceeding beauty of rain.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-AUTUMN DAYS.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Entering upon the last week of August, I may call the year still
-Summer,--yes, still Summer, but the Autumn days are drawing near.
-“_September_”--directly I pen that word in the right-hand corner of my
-letters, a great gap seems to have opened between the Summer and me.
-Autumn days are here: the gladness and glee of the year have gone, and
-a tender sweet sadness and mellow lucid gloom seem to have gathered
-over the still calm expecting landscape. The corn is all cut and
-carried, the pale stubble fields, edged with the deep green hedges,
-lie a little blankly on the hill-side or in the valley; the brighter
-Summer-shoots of the elms and the apple-trees have all sobered down now
-into uniform darkness; the little blue harebells tremble in clusters
-on the dried sunny hedge-banks; the gossamers twinkle on the grass,
-late into the morning, with a thick dew that has not yet quite made up
-its mind to be frost. The partridges whirr up from under your feet as
-you throw your leg over that stile; the rooks wheel home much earlier
-to bed. The fungus tribe begins to look up, and after a shower you
-come suddenly, as you cross the meadow, upon a cluster of buff-white
-mushrooms, with the delicious rose-grey under their eaves, and
-gathering them for the wife at home, you wander here and there to catch
-the white gleam among the grass, and are pleased, when successful, as a
-child with his first Spring daisies. Quiet, tenderly-sad Autumn days,
-after the harvest is gathered in and the plums are picked!
-
-[Illustration]
-
-   “Autumn! Forth from glowing orchards stepped he gaily, in a gown
-    Of warm russet, freaked with gold, and with a visage sunny brown;
-    And he laughed for very joy, and he danced from too much pleasure,
-    And he sang old songs of harvest, and he quaffed a mighty measure.
-
-    But above this wild delight an overmastering graveness rose,
-    And the fields and trees seemed thoughtful in their absolute repose;
-    And I saw the woods consuming in a many-coloured death--
-    Streaks of yellow flame, down-deepening through the green
-          that lingereth;
-
-    Sanguine flushes, like a sunset, and austerely-shadowing brown.
-    And I heard within the silence the nuts sharply rattling down;
-    And I saw the long dark hedges all alight with scarlet fire,
-    Where the berries, pulpy-ripe, had spread their bird-feasts
-          on the briar.”
-
-We have here, save for some little flaws, a perfect painting of the
-intensely still, calm, expecting attitude of nature, the absolute
-repose of the year, which rests by its work done, and asks, in a quiet
-peace, in a deep trust, of the All-wise and the All-loving, “What next?”
-
-   “Calm is the morn without a sound,
-      Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
-      And only through the faded leaf,
-    The chestnut pattering to the ground.”
-
-Autumn days! I think they would be very sad indeed if we could only see
-decay in them, and if God had not put a little safe bud and germ of
-hope into every bulb and upon every branch--a promise of future life
-amid universal death: just as He put that green promise-bud into the
-heart of Adam and Eve, when such a dreadful death had gathered about
-the present and the future for them--declaring, to their seemingly
-victorious foe, of the woman’s seed, that
-
-   “It shall bruise thy head.”
-
-A tiny dear little germ of a bud, and oh, how many hundred Summers and
-Winters passed before it developed into the glorious perfect flower!
-And so now there is yet a sadness, but only a cheery, gentle, tender
-sadness, about Autumn days to the heart that is waiting for God. And
-it seems to me wonderful that He should have given us one of His own
-minstrels to sit on the twigs as they grow bare and lonely-looking,
-and to express to us just the feeling that Autumn calls up within the
-heart, and that we yearn to have set to music for us. The little Robin
-waits his time; he does not cease, indeed, to trill his note in Spring,
-although we do not notice him then amid our blackbirds and thrushes and
-blackcaps and nightingales; for he is very humble-hearted, and content
-to be set aside when we can do without him. But Autumn days come, and
-the nightingale has fled, and the blackcap is far away, and the lark
-and the thrush and the blackbird are silent;--then the robin draws
-near. Close to our houses he comes, with his cheery warm breast, and
-kind bright eye, and his message from God. And then he interprets the
-Autumn to us, in those broken, tenderly-glad thrills of song, that,
-simple though they be, can sometimes disturb the heart with beauty that
-it cannot fathom, but that agitates and shakes it even to the sudden
-brimming of the eyes with tears. “Yes, it _is_ sad,” he says, “to see
-the flowers dying, and the leaves falling, and the harvest over. It
-_is_ sad--not a little sad--still, cheer up, cheer up; have a good
-heart. God has told me, and my little warm heart knows, that it is not
-_all_ sad. I know it is not. I can’t tell why. But it can’t be all sad;
-for God sent me to sing in the Autumn days. He taught me my song, and I
-know that there is a great deal in it about peace and joy. And it must
-be right; for though my nest is choked up, and my little ones are
-flown, and my mate has left me, I can’t help singing it. Cheer up. It
-is sad, but not all sad. Peace and joy--joy and peace.”
-
-      “The morning mist is cleared away,
-      Yet still the face of heaven is grey,
-    Nor yet th’ autumnal breeze has stirred the grove,
-      Faded, yet full, a paler green
-      Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,
-    The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.
-
-      “Sweet messenger of ‘calm decay,’
-      Saluting sorrow as you may,
-    As one still bent to find or make the best,
-      In thee and in this quiet mead,
-      The lesson of sweet peace I read,
-    Rather in all to be resigned than blest.
-
-      “Oh cheerful, tender strain! the heart
-      That duly bears with you its part,
-    Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,
-      Though gone and spent its joyous prime,
-      And on the world’s Autumnal time,
-    ’Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast,
-
-   “That is the heart for watchman true,
-    _Waiting to see what God will do_.”
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Let us walk out into the garden. I love an Autumn garden, and I think
-that at any season of the year a garden is a book in which we may read
-a great deal about God. On the Sunday evenings, therefore, I like to
-sit there, under a tree may be, with some peaceful heavenly book,
-sometimes to read, and sometimes to close over my thumb, and keep just
-as company while I meditate; and God’s works seem an apt comment on
-God’s Word, which I have heard or read that day.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But now we will go in the early morning before breakfast--
-
-   “To bathe our brain from drowsy night
-    In the sharp air and golden light.
-    The dew, like frost, is on the pane,
-    The year begins, though fair, to wane:
-    There is a fragrance in its breath,
-    Which is not of the flowers, but death.”
-
-And we pass out of the window that opens into the garden under the
-tulip-tree standing so tall and still, with pale green and now
-yellow-touched leaves, that harmonise well with the pale sky against
-which you see them. The beech in the shrubbery has begun to “gather
-brown”; the tall dark elms that shut it in remind you vividly of the
-poet’s description of
-
-   “Autumn laying here and there
-    A fiery finger on the leaves.”
-
-Against the thick box-trees underneath you love to see
-
-        “The sunflower, shining fair,
-    Ray round with flames her disc of seed,”
-
-and some tall hollyhocks, still keeping up a brave cheer of
-rose-coloured and primrose and black blossoms upon their highest spike.
-The grass is glistening with heavy dew, sapphire, rose-diamond, pure
-brilliant, and yellow-diamond;--move a little, and one drop changes
-from one to the other of these. Walking across the lawn towards
-that rose-bed, you leave distinct green foot-prints upon the hoary
-grass. Perhaps the feeling that at last almost weighs upon you, and
-depresses you, is the intense, _waiting_ stillness of everything. That
-apple-tree, bending down to the lawn with rosy apples, it seems so
-perfectly still and resting, that it quite makes you start to hear one
-of its red apples drop upon the path. The hurry and bustle and eager
-growth of the year has all gone by: these roses, that used to send out
-crowding bud after bud;--for some weeks a pause, a waiting, has come
-over them. This one purely white blossom, you watched it developing,
-unfolding so slowly, that it never seemed to change, taking a week for
-what would have taken no more than half a summer day, until at last it
-had opened fully, and hung down its head towards the brown damp mould.
-And there it seemed to stop. It seems not to have changed now for a
-week or two--why should it hurry to fade?--there were no more to come
-after it should go. Now half of it has detached itself, and lies in
-a little unbroken snowy heap on the ground. How quietly it must have
-fallen there! And the other half still stays on the tree, and leans
-down, and watches with a strange calm over the fallen white heaped
-petals,
-
-   “Innumerably frost impearled.”
-
-Something of depression comes over you, I say, and there happens to be
-no cheery robin just now to put in a word, nor sedate rook sailing with
-still wings overhead across the pale sky, to give you even the poorer
-encouragement of his mere stoic _caw_. Why are you depressed? What is
-this strange sadness that seems to you to lurk under the exquisite calm
-and beautiful stillness of the Autumn morning?
-
-Do you hardly know? I will tell you. That quiet is the quiet of Death
-coming on; that calm waiting and expectancy is the herald of its
-approach, the beauty is the hectic flush of the consumptive cheek.
-Death is sad for Life to contemplate; and we are so much akin to all
-this decay, that this quiet tells us of it almost more than the heavy
-bell that now and then stirs the air of the Summer morning. The coming
-death of the Summer leaves and the Summer flowers preaches to us a
-solemn sermon of our own death drawing near. Watch that leaf circling
-down from that silent tree, and listen to the echo in your own heart:
-
-   “We all do fade as a leaf.”
-
-Yes, death, the sense of advancing death, is at the root of
-your sadness and depression. Death in its beauty, in a tender
-loveliness--death, the angel, not the skeleton, yet still DEATH. And,
-
-   “Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
-    No life that breathes with human breath
-    Has ever truly longed for death.
-
-   “’Tis LIFE, whereof our nerves are scant,
-    Oh life, not death, for which we pant,
-    More life, and fuller, that I want.”
-
-And a great warrior, of long ago, one who had less cause than most to
-fear death, yet said:
-
-  “We that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened; not
-    for that we would be _unclothed_, but _clothed upon_, that
-    _mortality_ might be swallowed up of _life_.”
-
-Well, this sadness must remain in some measure; the flowers must die,
-and the leaves must fall, and the robin’s attempts to cheer us bring
-the tears very near our eyes. “_Sin entered into the world, and death
-by sin_”: and the child of such a parent cannot bring joy as his
-attendant. Still, let us go on with our garden walk, and see whether,
-even in the face of nature, there be nothing else but only this
-peaceful waiting sadness.
-
-Take these branches of the Lilac bushes, that we remember bending under
-their scented masses in the warm early Summer days. Bare and damp,
-bare of flowers, and only clad with sickly yellow leaves; but what
-else can we see in them? There is not one (examine them well) which
-has not already a full green bud of promise, developed even before the
-leaves, the old leaves, have fallen away. Look on the ground in the
-shrubberies. What are these little green points that begin just to
-break the mould? Ah, they are indeed the myriad white constellations of
-snowdrops already beginning to dawn, and the frail flower will sleep
-warm and safe in the bulb, under the patchwork counterpane of gold
-beech leaves, and bronze-purple pear-leaves, and silver-white poplar,
-and come out among the first to tell you that nature is not dead, but
-sleepeth. Look farther, on to the flower borders, at the base of the
-tall gaunt stalks of the once stately Queen of flowers. Lo, there
-already
-
-   “Green above the ground appear
-    The lilies of another year.”
-
-Not all sad, then; no, not all sad! Memory droops indeed with
-dewy eyes, but the baby, Hope, is laughing on her lap. There is a
-resurrection for the flowers and the trees; true, this of itself could
-not assure us that there is one for man. But God has told us in the
-Book of His Word, the meaning of what we read in the Book of His Works.
-And we know now what the robin meant, in his small song without words,
-and we know what the promise of Spring means, hidden in each Autumn
-twig; and indeed, the garden and the field, and every hedgerow, and
-every grass, gather now into a great chorus that take up an Apostle’s
-words,
-
-  “This corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must
-    put on immortality. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where
-    is thy victory?”
-
-But it is now nearly half-past eight o’clock, and the family will
-be assembling for prayer. Let us pass round this walk, with hearts
-cheerful, or only tinged with a shade rather of quiet than of gloom--
-
-   “And then return, by walls of peach,
-    And pear-trees bending to our reach,
-    And rose-beds with the roses gone,
-      To bright-laid breakfast.”
-
-Autumn days. Such thoughts as these may interpret to us the strange
-oppressive sadness that comes over us, as we watch them stealing on;
-also, why it is that this is such a tender, sweet sadness, and not a
-dark, deadly gloom--the shade of a solemn grove, not the blackness of
-a vault. Death is indeed a valley of shadow still. But the rays of
-the Sun of Righteousness have penetrated even there--and the hideous
-darkness is softened to a tender twilight hush. Oh,
-
-  “Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord
-    Jesus Christ.”
-
-And now the Autumn days are very calm and restful to think upon, and
-there is a deep peace in the Autumn of life, for which we are well
-content to exchange the flush and glee of Spring, and the glory and
-glow of Summer. Our snowdrops and our primroses are all over, our lilac
-and laburnum, roses and lilies, all died long ago; even the fruit is
-plucked, except for the gleam of a stray red apple that burns upon
-the nearly leafless bough; and the corn is all carried, and we are
-wandering over life’s once waving fields, collecting just the last
-gleanings for our Master. Our larks are silent in the fallows, our
-thrushes and blackbirds voiceless in the groves; the rich flood of the
-nightingale’s thrilling song has long been lost to our hearts. The
-withered leaves sail down about us, the mists sleep on the hills, the
-dew lies thick in the valleys. But we are very happy and peaceful;
-even here there is a stray flower or two, and the Autumn crocus
-droops on the garden beds; and the berries are bright in the hedges,
-under the feathery tufts of the “traveller’s joy.” And our heart is
-well satisfied with the robin’s song of trust and content, that has
-taken the place of--if richer and fuller--yet less spiritual and more
-distracting strains. There is an intense waiting calm; but, oh, such
-thoughts of Life!--life everlasting, life indeed--push their way
-through the yet unfallen leaves of this frail existence, and that small
-cheery melody is, we well know, the prelude to the full symphonies that
-shall burst from Angel choirs.
-
-How beautiful a time, thus thought of, is life’s Autumn time! I love
-to read of such a calm season in the life of a good man--a calm only
-broken by flashes of exultation, that come, like the aurora borealis,
-into the twilight sky. There is a sadness, no doubt--there _must_
-be--in the coming shade of death which deepens on the path. But the
-bud of life in the very heart of death; of this we are more and more
-conscious, the closer we draw near to the withered branches. And, like
-the fabled scent of the Spice Islands, even over the darkening seas are
-wafted to us sweet odours from the Promised Land.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Autumn days--when the flowers are over, and the harvest well-nigh
-gathered in, and the flush and the eagerness very far behind, and the
-strength and the vigour things also of the past:--I think they are
-sweet days to which to look forward amid life’s hurry and bustle, its
-excitement of laughter and tears. A very peaceful land, a land of
-Beulah, where repose seems to reign, and all seems “only waiting.” No
-more wild dreams, it is true, of what life is going to be, but then no
-sad wakings, and, lo, it was a dream! No more quick blood coursing in
-the veins, no more excess of animal life making stillness impossible
-and silence torture; no more young devotion and quick enthusiasm,
-warming the heart even to tinder, ready to flare at the first spark of
-friendship or love. No more glow of poetry cast about every face, and
-every daisy, and every sky, and every scene of every act of the coming
-years. No more expectation of becoming a great poet, a mighty warrior,
-an evangeliser of the world. And then no vigour to act, as when life
-went on; no leading the front of the battle, striking strong strokes
-for the right; no rejoicing in the strength that has now come, and that
-is still, still in its prime.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-All that, and more, has passed away from life’s Autumn days. It was,
-perhaps, rather sad to feel these things departing; to notice growth
-first come to a standstill--and then, here and there the streak of
-Autumn, and the first yellow leaves stealing down. To find the years
-so short, instead of so long; to lose the wonder and the thrill at the
-first snowdrop, the first cowslip; the first nest low in the bushes
-with five blue eggs; the first excursion round the park wall for
-violets, or into the wood for nuts. To lose the glow of early love,
-the despair of early disappointment, the vigour of early intention and
-action; and to mellow down into a half-light, undisturbed by any of
-those violent lights and shadows. It was, I say, perhaps rather sad to
-feel these things departing.
-
-But now they have gone, and the Autumn days have come, and the heart
-has settled down to this state of things, and is content that it should
-be so. It is better, far better, the old man sees, to be in the Autumn
-of life, though he yet thinks tenderly, lovingly, of those young days
-in the impetuous, over-blossomed Spring. The “visionary gleam” has
-left his sky. But a truer, if a quieter lustre has arisen in it and
-abides. “_There hath passed a glory from the earth._” But the glory has
-been transferred to Heaven. It was sad, at first, when the glamour,
-and the magic, and the glow, passed away from this world, which, to
-youth’s heart seemed so exceedingly, inexpressibly glorious and fair.
-But it is better so. A mirage gave, indeed, a certain sweet mysterious
-light to life’s horizon, and he could not but feel dashed at first to
-find little but bare sand where the unreal brightness had been. But
-he journeyed on, learning, somewhat sadly, in manhood, God’s loving
-lesson, that we are strangers and pilgrims upon earth, that we have
-_no continuing city here_, not love, nor fame, nor wealth, nor power;
-none of these could, even had we attained it, prove a City of Rest: we
-must still journey on before we can sit down satisfied. And God’s true
-servant, in his Autumn days, has learned not to miss nor to mourn over
-youth’s mirage. Nay, his future has “no need of the sun, neither of the
-moon, to shine in it. For the glory of God doth lighten it, and the
-Lamb is the light thereof.”
-
-He looks at the sky, which is certainly darkening, because life’s
-one-day sun is going down. But, the lower it sinks, the less he laments
-it, for he finds that it did indeed hide from him the vast tracts of
-Infinity, and close him in, by its light, in a small low-ceiled room.
-Oh quiet days of peace and reverence and mild serenity; the rocking
-waves of the passions asleep about the tossed heart, and the glittering
-thoughts of heaven reflected instead from the calm soul; and its
-speechless infinite depths gradually mirroring themselves in the being!
-Happy days, when life’s feverish, exciting novel is closed, and we are
-just reading quietly for an hour in the Book of peace, before the time
-comes for us to go off to bed! Happy days; when God Himself is striking
-off one by one the fetters and manacles of earth, and will soon send
-His Angel to open for us the last iron gate of earth’s prison!
-
-How thankful we should be, as we grow into the Autumn, for those kind
-words which assure us that life’s beginning, not life’s end, is then
-really near; that it is but the bud of immortal youth that is pushing
-off those withered leaves of mortality; for those who have given the
-year of their life to God; or, at least (such is His mercy in Christ
-Jesus), the earnest gleaning of its late months. For else, how sad to
-watch the sun setting, the only sun we know of, and to hope for no long
-day beyond. Think of what a wise heathen said of old age. Cicero wrote
-a treatise, a wonderfully beautiful treatise, in praise of it. But all
-this was but playing with his own sadness, in his old age; pleading the
-cause of a client, in whose cause he did not believe. For, after all,
-he writes his real thought to his friend Atticus. “_Old age_,” he says,
-“_has embittered me--my life is spent_.” Sad, yet true from his point
-of view. Sad--all spent; and no good hope of a “treasure in the heavens
-_that faileth not_.” How even one of the little ones in our village
-schools could have cheered up sad Cicero!
-
-Now see what Christianity can do, and has done. Think of waiting Simeon:
-
-   “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,
-    According to Thy word:
-    For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation.”
-
-Hear aged Paul, the great champion Apostle, leaning now on his sword,
-and exhorting the younger warriors who are leading on that war, that he
-soon must leave. What peace, nay, what exultation, flashes through his
-waiting!
-
-And a picture arises before us of another aged, very aged man, ending
-the Bible and his life with the solemn rapturous words of glowing
-expectation--
-
-  “He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly.
-    Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!”
-
-There is another aspect of Autumn days, dreary and sad as they apply
-to the worldling. But to the obedient faithful child of God, their
-sadness, we have seen, is gentle, peaceful sadness, a tender hush
-more than counterbalanced by the promise of we know not yet, _what_
-exceeding ecstasy and glow of life, while we speak of it as _the life
-everlasting_. Aye,
-
-   “The grass withereth, the flower fadeth,”
-
-and there must be a hush over Autumn days, because death must be sad,
-even when it is beautiful. But how sweet and glorious, amid the fall
-and decay of the loveliness and beauty around us, to be able to rest
-our heart quietly upon a land beyond earth’s horizon; and to look
-forward brightly and happily across these changes, “to an inheritance
-incorruptible and undefiled, and _that fadeth not away_.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MUSINGS ON THE SEA-SHORE.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-      “Mourn on, mourn on, O solitary sea
-        I love to hear thy moan,
-      The world’s mixed cries attuned to melody
-        In thy undying tone.
-      Lo, on the yielding sand I lie alone,
-      And the white cliffs around me draw their screen,
-      And part me from the world. Let me disown
-      For one short hour its pleasure and its spleen,
-    And wrapt in dreamy thought, some peaceful moments glean.”
-
-
-The tide is coming in; the waves are big enough to be called waves,
-yet they break upon the shelving shore from a perfectly calm sea.
-And the long ranks rise and fall at my feet, curving and breaking in
-endless succession; line after line sent forth by the stern mandate of
-General Ocean, to die each in his turn upon the impregnable rampart
-of the Land. Ever since the third day of Creation has this assault
-been protracted, now by craft, now with the thunder of artillery and
-the violence of the storm; although it be really so hopeless that
-the balance of things remains about as it was at the beginning. If
-the armies of the Sea have made a breach here, fresh earthworks have
-been thrown up in another place by its stubborn antagonist, and the
-interminable strife remains equal still.
-
-But the solemn Sea forbids longer trifling; and its oppressive
-vastness, and melancholy murmur, and mysterious whisper of ever born
-and ever dying waves, own, surely, some grave meaning.
-
-                  “The earnest sea,
-    Which strives to gain an utterance on the shore,
-    But ne’er can shape unto the listening hills
-    The lore it gathered in its awful age--”
-
-it seems to demand an interpreter. Let it be my mood to disentangle
-some of its utterances. Let me employ this hour of thought upon the
-lonely shore, in guessing at the meaning of the voice of the long lines
-which ever bow to the ground before me with eastern salaam, and then
-retire, having delivered their message.
-
-      “The sea approaches, with its weary heart
-        Mourning unquietly;
-      An earnest grief, too tranquil to depart,
-        Speaks in that troubled sigh;
-      Yet the glad waves sweep onward merrily,
-      For hope from them conceals the warning tone,
-      Gaily they rush toward the shore--to die.
-      All their bright spray upon the bare sand thrown,
-    How soon they learn their part in that old ceaseless moan!”
-
-Yes, this well-worn lesson shall be the first that the waves shall
-teach us--the vanity and disappointment of human aspirations and
-early hopes and dreams. See now how glad and gleeful and bright and
-energetic they come on, twinkling with a myriad laugh, line behind
-line, eager ridge chasing eager ridge; all setting towards the cold
-sullen shore of the unsympathetic earth. Oh the clear pure curve, and
-the unsullied transparency; and the glancing crest of feathers and
-diamonds, and the rainbow tints as at last the longed-for shore is
-reached, and the eager plunge made! Oh the dis-illusion, the broken
-enchantment, the check, the change, the fall, when the white glittering
-spray lies now, lost and sullied and broken, upon the defiling earth;
-and the wave--amazed, daunted, shattered, quickly changing from
-over-hope to over-despair--flees back with a wild cry to the great Sea.
-Another and another and another, the warning is not taken; it is true
-that earth scattered this bright hope, this strong purpose, this brave
-design, this gleaming ambition; it is true that the yellow sands have
-been busy, ever since the Fall, inviting and then defeating the eager
-waves; receiving, marring, and sucking in the trembling snowy spray,
-the rainbow-tinged bubble dreams that the heart lavished upon them; and
-changing joyous onsets into moaning retreats. Yet who will expect the
-young heart to believe in the destiny of all its mere earth-dreams,
-_so long as, within it, the tide is coming up_? You almost smile,
-though with no scorn, to hear that momentary despairing sigh. For _you_
-stand now on a point from which you can see a seemingly exhaustless
-and endless array of ever-new schemes, and hopes, and fancies, and
-purposes, and ambitions and dreams, line chasing line, towards that
-magic disenchanting shore. Those behind cry “Forward!” Vain for those
-before to cry “Back!” Yea, themselves soon pick up their broken forces,
-and swell the energy and join in the advance of the crested lines that
-chase one another to the shore.
-
-This, then, is to me one lesson of the waves coming in. Human
-aspirations and dreams, advancing gaily in youth, awhile seeming to
-make some progress; but learning at high tide that they have but been
-conquering unprofitable tracts of barren sand. Then yielding ground
-inch by inch, losing their grasp of the world and relinquishing the
-very lust thereof; and spoiled, and stained, and marred, and with
-a very heart-moan, sinking to low ebb as life turns. Was not this
-Solomon’s story? Wave after wave dancing to the shore, curve after
-curve breaking eagerly upon it, scheme after scheme, toil after toil,
-pleasure after pleasure, hope after hope, ambition after ambition,
-dream after dream; the eye is bewildered and dizzied with the
-ceaseless motion, the steady endless advance of the gay and crested
-waters--“Whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld
-not my heart from any joy: for my heart rejoiced in all my labour.” It
-was gladdening, exhilarating, exciting to see the flashing battalions
-of earthward plans, and earthward dreams, pressing each close upon
-each, to the inexorable, impassive line of rocks or sand--what matter
-that here one shattered with a crash against a cruel blunt crag,
-and fled with a scream, and that another left its light and beauty
-trembling and sinking into the sand, while itself slunk back with a
-hollow sigh; what matter these single and insignificant experiences of
-the vanity of things mundane, while there was yet a whole rising tide
-of wildly eager waters, coming in fast, fast, exhaustless, infinite,
-flashing and gleaming and dancing in the sun? On, gaily on, and what
-if some die? Are there not myriads to follow! Why heed the waste, amid
-youth’s profusion?
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But a pause comes over all the glad onset; a stagnant time, a period
-of neither advance nor retreat: the tide is at the full. You mark no
-change for awhile either way: then at last a space of wet sand begins
-to border the line of dying spray. Broadening and broadening; but it
-was quite enough that it had once begun. The tide has turned. Here is
-“the check, the change, the fall.” An eager strife, a wild race, an
-impetuous advance, a profuse and uncalculating spending all youth’s
-energies, and purposes, and powers, and aspirations; an excited
-resistless march. And with what result? An unprofitable and transitory
-conquest of a narrow track of barren sand.
-
-Oh draw off, draw off your broken forces, defeated in that they were
-victorious; disappointed by the very fact of attainment; steal back
-with that heart-sigh of “Vanity, vanity, vanity: all is vanity,”--back
-into the deep sea again! Leaving, it is true, the colour, and the
-light, and the gladness, and the purity; the crested spray, the diamond
-drops, the rainbow gleam; all lying wrecked and sucked in by the hungry
-shore. Leaving the spoils of youth, yet glad anyhow to get away; for
-what can equal the bitterness of that moment when the tide, long
-sluggish, begins at last to turn?
-
-  “Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and
-    on the labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was
-    vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under
-    the sun.”
-
-No,--and the bitter thought is, that not the missing, but the attaining
-the prize, has disappointed; not failure, but success, has embittered:
-and that it might have been known from the very first that thus it must
-be--that the coveted possession was but lifeless rock or bare sand.
-There was a warning voice to this effect, but, oh, who heard or heeded
-it in that glorious advance of the long battalions of battling gleaming
-waters? And, to add bitterness to the cup, this was all an old story;
-we were not, as we dreamed, invading new worlds; no, those ancient
-sands have borne the furrows of myriads upon myriads of just such
-excited, eager, leaping tides. The anguish has not even the pathos of
-novelty; it is actually commonplace. That which seemed so new to us, at
-what more than millionth hand we received it!
-
-  “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that
-    which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new
-    thing under the sun.
-
-  “Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it
-    hath been already of old time, which was before us.”
-
-And so hark to the moan of the waves as they draw off, when the tide
-has turned, and the disenchantment has come, sigh after sigh, moan
-upon moan, in the weary and desolate retreat. “_Vanity of vanities;
-all is vanity._” Yes; and farther on, a more bitter wail, as it passes
-back over some spot where some of the gayest morning hopes were spilt:
-“_I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold,
-all is vanity and vexation of spirit._” Lower and lower yet, with yet
-duller and heavier moan: “_What hath man of all his labour, and of the
-vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun? For all
-his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not
-rest in the night. This is also vanity._” And now an almost fierce and
-angry cry: “_Therefore I hated life; because the work that is wrought
-under the sun is grievous unto me; for all is vanity and vexation of
-spirit._”
-
-And what then? Is this the end of all? Is there no hope for the wailing
-tide; no redemption for the scattered spray?
-
-I have seen what has seemed to me a sweet and touching answer to this
-question. Over the desolate sands a quiet Mist has been drawn, while
-the Sea moaned far away down at low tide. And I seemed thus taught how
-even earth’s wrecks may be repaired, and earth’s ruin turned into gain.
-Better to give to God the fresh sparkle and the first eager and joyous
-onset of life. But if not, and if the waves must set towards some earth
-shore, until they are broken, sullied, and wrecked there, see what the
-rising mist teaches. Let them remember themselves, and at last come
-homeward, leaving the stain and the defilement behind. So merciful is
-God, that even these ruins and disappointments are all messages of His
-patient love to us. If we will not turn at first to Him, He will let us
-break our hearts upon the shore of earth, content if but at last our
-hopes and aspirations will rise in a pure repentant mist from their
-overthrow and ruin, and wait beside the gate of heaven, touched now
-with the clear moonlight of peace, and expecting the rich sunburst of
-glory hereafter. The very overthrows and dissatisfactions of earth may
-thus rise, spiritualised and purified, to God at last.
-
-This, no doubt, is the intention of the disappointments and
-inadequacies of this earth, upon which the heart, at the time of the
-coming in of the tide, spends so much of its powers, and against
-which it bursts and dies down into wild cries and weary sighings.
-This is the intention--an intention, alas! too often unfulfilled. For
-if God is saying, “Turn, my children, from that careless dwelling
-upon earth’s pursuits, excitements, and enterprises, to heavenly
-aspirations, letting your heart and mind, like rising mist from broken
-waves, ascend, instead of dwelling in tears on the bare sands that
-were never worth the winning--ascend thither, whither He who loved you
-is gone before, and continually dwell with Him, in the place called
-Fair Havens, where the waves of this troublesome world have ceased
-their restless eager quest, and are lulled into a peace beyond all
-understanding”--if God thus invites us, even by that sigh of our broken
-retiring waves, there is another voice, commonly heard, and too often
-heeded--a voice counselling hardness, repining, rebellion: a moan of
-sullenness, of despair, of defiance--a voice that whispers, “Curse God
-and die,” rather than, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
-The voice, oh let us be assured, of folly, not of wisdom; of our Enemy,
-and not of a friend.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The waves are still tumbling upon the shore; with scarce perceptible
-progress they have advanced really a broad piece since I took my
-station here. Ever gathering their forces in long parallels, ever
-bending and falling, and seething back in wide sheets of white foam,
-seemingly ever repulsed, but really ever advancing, they bring to my
-mind an idea of great beauty and truth that I have somewhere met with,
-though where I cannot recall. It was a comparison of the earnest humble
-Christian’s progress in holiness to this coming in of the tide. The
-healthy Christian life will always be advancing; there must ever be a
-progression in holiness. Stagnant water is deteriorating water; it does
-not remain the same as when it ceased to flow. And this oft-repeated
-truth will come sadliest home to the more earnest, who are therefore
-the more humble. There ought to be, there _must_ be an advance, if the
-water be a living sea, and not a stagnant pool.
-
-But dare we hope that there _is_ any such progress, such steady
-continuous advance in our own Christian life? Alas! we look sadly back
-at it and see long lines of earnest endeavours, at least of passionate
-yearnings, after better things, after perfection, after the beauty of
-holiness, after Christ-like consistency: they came in, and come in
-still, bright perhaps, and intent, and resolved; and, lo! how they
-trip and fall as they reach the shore of trial, and slide back, losing
-all the ground again! Ever advancing, only to recede; ever rising,
-but to fall; ever trying, yet still baffled; only able to weep over
-their own weakness, and to sigh continually with a depression that
-men call a morbid pain. New yearnings at every special time of solemn
-self-examination; new resolves, driven on by the breath of prayers;
-new endeavours; and, after all, old failures! How the waves come in,
-earnest, but impotent, each running up the little way on the shore that
-its predecessor had attained, and giving ground again, to be succeeded
-by another as weak.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-But to cheer and encourage us sometimes, amid all this depressing
-history of failures, which may well serve to keep us humble, there
-is another analogy with the rising tide besides that of its endless
-endeavours and endless failings. There is, as with the waters, _an
-advance upon the whole_, though they seem to keep at much the same
-point, and to be doing little but ceaselessly recede and fail. You
-might mark, were you a watching angel, how this point is reached,
-and that passed; and how, though (and better for them here and now)
-the sighing waters perceive it not, each day’s expiring and almost
-despairing, but still earnest and prayerful efforts, have increased
-a little upon the shore to-day, and deepened and secured yesterday’s
-work. And quiet earnestness seems recommended by this thought: for have
-we not seen some impetuous waves come dashing in, as though to take the
-shore at one rush? And it is these most commonly which, meeting steady
-and sustained resistance, and feeling the strength which excitement had
-lent dying out from them; it is these impatient spirits that then lose
-heart most deeply, and sink back the farther, and sometimes quite fall
-away with a shrill and bitter cry, and lose themselves in the Deep, too
-dismayed to return,--rather, too little really in earnest to face the
-necessity of the daily, hourly strife--the inch by inch advance, the
-little by little, the day of small things.
-
-If we are humbly in earnest, and if we are stedfastly, quietly
-striving, with unyielding watch and instant prayer, and faithful
-use of every means of grace, then we may hope, amid that which seems
-sometimes scarce anything but a sad history of failures, that thus
-there may be yet _advance upon the whole_.
-
-But now I remember that there is, in appearance, and to the unpractised
-or uncareful beholder, little difference between the tide that is
-advancing and that which is going down. Still the endless hurry of
-flocking waves, still the appearance of life and purpose, still the
-advance and retreat upon the shore--and what is the difference?
-If there are many, many broken, defeated, and baffled endeavours,
-why so there were when the tide was rising. Ay, but there we found
-advance,--here we find retrogression--_upon the whole_. Alas! how great
-is the danger that is subtle and unseen; and in a spiritual falling
-back, it is the very slightness and imperceptibility of the loss of
-ground that makes the case so perilous. They have given over their
-watchfulness, their close observation of marks; the breath of prayer
-has fallen to a stillness; the waves seem to gleam and ripple and
-rustle as of old, and how shall the unearnest heart and the unwatchful
-eye ever know that _the tide is going down_?--a sinking so gradual, so
-stealthy, with such slight difference from day to day.
-
-Many noteworthy causes there are of this lamentable failure and
-decline, many subtle enemies, that is to say, to diligent watchfulness
-and continual prayer. “Much trading, or much toiling for advancement,
-or much popularity, or much intercourse in the usages and engagements
-of society, or the giving up of much time to the refinements of a soft
-life--these, and many like snares, steal away the quick powers of
-the heart, and leave us estranged from God.” “How awfully do people
-deceive themselves in this matter! We hear them saying, ‘It does me no
-harm to go into the world. I come away, and can go into my room and
-pray as usual.’ Oh, surest sign of a heart half laid asleep! You are
-not aware of the change, _because it has passed upon you_. Once, in
-days of livelier faith, you would have wept over the indevoutness of
-your present prayers, and joined them to the confession of your other
-backslidings; but now your heart is not more earnest than your prayers,
-and there is no index to mark the decline. Even they that lament the
-loss of their former earnestness do not half know the real measure of
-their loss. The growth of a duller feeling has the power of masking
-itself. Little by little it creeps on, marked by no great changes.” And
-yet you would start, had you an Angel’s point of view, to see how wide
-a strip of former advance is relinquished now. The treacherous sands
-suck in the wet line, and it ever seems just before you--just a narrow
-band such as always edges the advancing and retiring waters, whether
-at ebb or flow. And how great does this danger then appear to be!--how
-deadly the craft of an Enemy too subtle ever to startle us!--how
-needful to watch for that retrogression which can hardly be perceived!
-Little by little we advance, and commonly little by little we decline.
-Even a great fall, it has been pointed out--one which seemed a sudden
-catastrophe, unheralded by any warnings--what a slow gradual process
-of “retirement neglected and hurried prayers” had been long preparing
-secretly for this. But now a saint, men think--and on a sudden a
-notorious sinner! Ah, they know not for how long, how secretly, how
-imperceptibly and undetected, how surely and how fatally _the tide had
-been going down_.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Enough of these desultory musings. Let us pause awhile in reverent
-silence, contemplating the mighty Sea as a whole, assuredly of things
-upon this earth our greatest emblem--an emblem grand, oppressive in its
-vastness--of Eternity and Infinity.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MUSINGS ON THE MOUNTAINS.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Mountains! I scarcely feel myself competent to fulfil the promise
-of this title, for I was never upon one in my life! Never had I the
-advantage of contemplating the mighty eminences of America; I have
-not even had the experience of standing beneath and toiling up to the
-summit of the white-haired Alps; nay, even the grand hills of Scotland,
-or the classic watchers beside the English lakes, have never been
-visited by me. Still imagination will often supplement the deficiencies
-of experience, and it is a good thing, I am convinced, for us all, so
-far as we can, to leave sometimes the plain of our daily routine of
-life, and to muse upon at least relatively higher ground.
-
-I will begin by recalling my nearest approach to any experience of
-mountain ascent.
-
-I was staying in Herefordshire with my brother, in his parish among
-the hills and woods. When a friend is with us, we seem to think it
-a necessity, both for his sake and our own, to rove somewhat, and
-to explore some of the more distant country. Accordingly we fell to
-planning expeditions, and after divers suggestions, contemplations, and
-rejections, fixed upon a small village beside a lovely stream renowned
-for its trout and grayling, and near a hill famous in those parts, and
-named Croft Ambrey. We were to sleep two nights at a small inn near
-the stream, and from that stream we were to extract our breakfast.
-There is always a great charm about these expeditions--a novelty, an
-independence, a breaking through the trammels of life’s daily routine,
-in their enterprising pic-nic character. And so my brother, his wife
-and I, started on the appointed morning, in high glee. We were, I
-remember, however, employed half the day in the vain endeavour to catch
-the white pony; and were at one time almost in despair of our getting
-off at all. The little rogue had been put up to some sly tricks by
-a horse with whom he had been observed to have been conferring over
-the fence for some days previously, and I remember the almost comic
-provocation with which he let us sidle up to him, with blandishments
-and barley, until just within range for the halter, and then, at the
-very moment of attainment, was off, and anon standing demure and meek
-at the other end of the field. Nor did we fare better if we altered our
-tactics, and, like wolves over the northern snows, tried to hem in our
-prey in a deadly half-circle. He ever contrived to give us the slip,
-and it was not until we were wearied out, and on the point of giving
-up our expedition for that day, that he surrendered at discretion.
-
-We started, nevertheless, wound up again as to our spirits for the
-excursion, and thoroughly enjoying a twenty-miles drive through lovely
-scenery. It was so late, however, when we arrived near Croft Ambrey,
-that we had but time that afternoon for a walk towards it, and up a
-lesser hill, and so back to our quiet little inn, close to the Lugg.
-How one enjoys the meals on these occasions! That broiled ham and
-eggs, and home-brewed beer, in the little sanded room; what venison
-and champagne refection could for a moment compare with them? It is
-the charm of novelty, I suppose, in scene and room and everything. Of
-course, it is easy to understand the zest that attends a dish of trout
-and grayling of your own catching.
-
-But to return to Croft Ambrey. Next day we were prevented by other
-engagements from fulfilling that with our hill. And, since we were
-to start quite early on the morrow, the chance of my ascending it
-seemed over when I retired to my homely but clean little bedroom at
-night. However, I had not quite given the thing up. It was in my mind,
-could I but contrive to wake at five in the morning, to sally forth,
-while great part of the world was asleep, and explore the peaks,
-passes, and glaciers of that noble hill. I am not good at waking,
-unless called. But--and this seems an illustration of how the mind
-controls the body--it is certain that if you go to sleep with a strong
-desire or sense of duty concerning the waking at a certain hour,
-you not unfrequently, after a careful fumbling under the pillow,
-find your watch demonstrating pretty nearly the time that your mind
-had appointed. This may be a mere coincidence, but it is one whose
-recurrence I have often marked. At any rate, I know that next morning
-I awoke, with a sudden instinct consulted my privy counsellor, and was
-by it informed that five o’clock was yet a few minutes distant. And so
-I arose, and drew the blind, and looked out upon the still world, in
-the sharp cool morning air. The light seemed clear and cold, and there
-was an incessant twitter and loud chirping dialogue of many awakened
-birds. A thin mist was withdrawing from the fields, and yet lay upon
-the course of the river. I hastened my dressing, and quietly slid down
-stairs. How well most of us know the weird strangeness of the house
-at the early morning hour, when all in it are still asleep, but day
-is peering in through closed shutters, and above locked doors! The
-darkling light; the breathing hush; the dog curled on the mat, rising
-uneasily, and surveying matters suspiciously, but, reassured, settling
-himself down again with a preliminary shake, when
-
-   “His sagacious eye an inmate owns”;
-
-the sullen disturbing sound at the street door, of bolts and locks,
-and bars, that would have seemed noiseless enough by day. And then the
-clear sharp feeling of the air, when you step into the road; the silent
-unpeopled worship of nature at its matins’ hour; the shadows, long as
-those of evening, and more grey and pearly, along the white empty road.
-And, enhancing the stillness, perhaps one lonely traveller met, seeming
-the world’s only inhabitant; and, as you walk farther on into the day,
-presently
-
-   “The carter, and his arch-necked, sturdy team,
-    Following their shadows on the early road.”
-
-Thus, then, I sallied forth, and to my mind the details of that
-morning walk are even more distinct than when I trod it. The pause
-of consideration as to the turning to be taken; the selection, as it
-happened, of just the right gate; the belt of pines half-way up the
-hill, that from below seemed so near the highest point, but attained,
-showed a great height still to be surmounted--much like all striving
-upwards here after any excellence, especially after holiness; the
-pleasure when at last the summit was attained; the little incidents
-connected with that attainment; the frail harebell plucked, and pressed
-even now in my pocket-book; the curious war that I found and left going
-on between a hawk and a rook; each striving to get above the other,
-each making and each avoiding the hostile swoop; all these slight
-matters are the details which make that day’s whole still a distinct
-sharp picture to my mind.
-
-And very full of matter for musing appears to me now that morning
-expedition. I forget how many counties of England and Wales lay
-outspread before me; some six or seven, I think. Certainly a mist
-brooded over them, and I did not see them clearly; but yet there
-they were, and I know not but that the half-appearance may have more
-impressed (imagination being called in to complete the scene) than a
-clear panorama would have done. The world’s ordinary sights and sounds
-lay far beneath me; the narrow scope of the ordinary view was widened;
-for fields, I surveyed counties in my landscape, and for hedges, lines
-of distant hills. All things were wider and larger, and I breathed a
-more expansive, freer air; and I seemed, I think, a little raised above
-life’s pettinesses, by the quiet and the breadth of view of that early
-morning ascent.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Ah, friends,--and brothers in both the meannesses and the great
-expectations of this strange finite, infinite existence,--how we need,
-how we need, these periodical ascents into Higher ground! How large
-life is; and yet, how little! How we fret and fume about fields and
-hedges--merest trifles, when counties and hills--nay, continents and
-seas--nay, worlds or systems, and space, might lie under the ken of our
-perception and contemplation, which, indeed, has no bounds, forward,
-through eternal time, and infinite space! How, in the littleness of
-things, are we apt to swamp the largeness which they might present to
-our thought! How life’s pettinesses overmaster the mighty tremendous
-prospect that God has set before us, looming indeed through a veil
-of mist, far below our feet! Oh, how grand, how stupendous, how
-magnificent, might this our life, rightly thought of, become! Money,
-love, fame, power; it is, while we stand on the mountain, the tinkle
-of a sheep-bell far below us in the valley; it is the pigmy form, it
-is the muffled cry of those things which seemed to us large and of
-full growth, when we met them down far below in the bustle and busy
-intercourse of life. I think of Martha, with the ordering of a meal
-the great matter in her eyes; Mary, indeed at the Saviour’s feet,
-but thus seated, placed, in good truth, upon a mountain, from whose
-wide range of view all merely of this world seemed petty, worthless,
-mean. Oh, for a mountain view of life! Oh, for an angel’s view! Then
-money, power, talents, influence, all would be noble, as offerings to
-Christ; contemptible in any other aspect. How I crave to take always
-that standing-point; to survey life--so far as such as I am can--from
-God’s point of sight; to look at time as, after all, only a tooth in
-the great cog-wheel of Eternity, as something very small, that fits
-into something very large! The littleness of life; its scandals, its
-jealousies, its irritations, its safe voyages or its wrecks, its gains
-or losses of a fast-flying hour; its loves and hopes, its hates and
-despairs, its ecstasies and anguishes; these are the fields and hedges
-that are perceived no longer, when we have ascended above this brief
-and transient state of things, and look down upon counties, continents,
-worlds.
-
-How I mourn over life’s pettinesses! How I grieve, in my better
-mountain hours, to find myself always easily moved and disturbed,
-either to enjoyment or vexation, by the merest and most absolute
-trifles! How bitter it is to me, next time I get the wider view, to
-perceive how easily, and naturally, and contemptibly, I descended,
-after the last ascent, down among the thronging, chafing, soul-lowering
-interests and phantasies of this lower world, this span-long life
-again! Ah, spark of the Infinite, that finite things can so absorb
-thee! Ah, heir of Eternity, that time’s dancing motes can affect thee
-so much! Ah, member of Christ, child of God and inheritor of the
-Kingdom of Heaven, that it can much concern thee in what station of
-life, in what external condition, it may please Him that thou shouldst
-serve Him, here, and now, in this minute of space and time!
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-In life’s morning we may all, I think, be said to stand on the
-mountain, and, although it be a morning view, made illusive by mist
-and early sunshine, obtain the widest, least petty, view. More wide,
-more noble, more expansive--all these the scope of youth’s sight must
-be conceded to be. There is not the suspicion, the narrow thought, the
-selfishness, the intent consideration of the present interest; there
-is a broader, more generous way of contemplating life than we shall
-find later in its course. Doubtless there is the greater proneness
-to be deceived. The eye is not yet trained to calculate distances;
-arduous undertakings are misjudged; easy attainments are regarded
-with admiration and awe; there are many mistakes, much proof of want
-of experience. But as life goes on, and as men descend to gain this
-knowledge and correctness of estimation, often the wider view narrows,
-the freer air is left behind, and the eye that roamed over and took in
-that nobler scope becomes shut in by surrounding trees and hedges into
-the range of but one small field. Could we, as a few have done, not
-barter youth’s aspirations and superb ideas for manhood’s experience
-and practical mind, but add the riches of manhood to the riches of
-youth, how much greater a thing we might make this life of ours to be!
-For certainly in youth we do stand upon an eminence, and look round
-upon counties and hills, and gradually, as manhood gains upon us, are
-apt to descend towards mere gardens, fields, and fences.
-
-And so the evil to be guarded against--or to be deplored--will be
-the declension of the mind and heart from this wider, more open and
-generous view, a loss inward, not outward. Mixing, as we soon must,
-among life’s pettinesses, how many of us forget the mountain upon which
-we once stood, nor care to ascend it still from time to time, but are
-content to sink into hardness, coldness of heart, narrow-mindedness,
-selfishness, a cynical, unsympathetic temper, a habit of low suspicion,
-a littleness of caution, a close hand, an absorbed heart. So that we
-should try, from time to time, to draw apart from the highways and
-byways and crowded walks of life’s daily cares and concerns, and to
-ascend a point which overlooks them and brings them more into their
-just proportion with that wider view which diminishes if it does not
-absorb them.
-
-In reading some of the highest poetry I have found this ascent gained.
-It carries you up into the ideal, from life’s mean realities and
-commonplaces; there is an atmosphere of honour and love and generosity;
-men think and act grandly, and money-getting is not the mainspring of
-all. And this is one profit of high and wholesome poetry, that it does
-water and keep alive those nobler greater ideas and yearnings that the
-dust of the world’s traffic might otherwise choke. For the heart’s true
-poetic sense (I do not mean mere sentimentality) is no doubt one of the
-links nearest to God in the chain which connects us with Him.
-
-How much of the sublimest poetry we find, in truth, in the Bible. And
-here I would point out especially how we may indeed breathe a mountain
-air--indeed obtain a mountain view, namely, in the sacredly-kept
-times of morning devotional reading. In a trouble, whether a small
-worry or a crushing anguish, how sweet, when the time has come round
-for the reading and meditation on the things of Eternity and of God.
-How, as we go on with our upward winding path, the fret or the agony
-insensibly takes its place in the wider landscape, and diminishes by
-an imperceptible process from the exaggerated size it presented to
-us when we stood beside it on the plain. Other greater objects open
-upon our view, and attract our attention; the far scenery of God’s
-mighty workings widens out before us, and the vast Ocean of Eternity
-stretching round and embracing the little island of Time; and we
-seem to feel a cool air fanning our hot tear-tired eyes, and we breathe
-more freely, and our heart, despite of itself, loses somewhat of its
-weary load. The world is left below; even the clouds sleep under our
-feet; and heaven is nearer, not only for that hour, but during the rest
-of the day.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-And how naturally may this thought of mountain-quiet and distance from
-earth’s noises lead us to the consideration of that most exquisite and
-precious communion with God which we know by the name of Prayer. In
-associating the time of prayer with the idea of mountain seclusion,
-two pictures rise at once before the mind, because in them actually a
-mountain was the scene, and not only the type, of earnest and retired
-prayer. We see first the top of Carmel, bare and burnt under the sun of
-Palestine, and overlooking the intensely blue sea. Upon it the solitary
-prophet Elijah bends to the ground, prostrate on the earth, with his
-face between his knees. A watching form stands on a point towards the
-sea, until, at last, far away over the water, in the sultry horizon,
-a little dark speck, like a man’s hand, arises, and, on rapid wing,
-the delicious cool clouds gather and spread their awning between the
-burnt earth and the pitiless sun. Then the glorious sudden rush of the
-restoring rain, steady, incessant, abundant, settling in pools on the
-caked ground, streaming down the sides of the orange hills, sending
-eddying torrents to brim the parched cracked river-beds. Thus impetuous
-and profuse came the answer to the prophet’s lonely mountain prayer.
-
-And another dearer picture we never weary of contemplating; another
-account of One who, after the day’s toil of healing, of teaching, of
-feeding the multitudes, sends the thronging crowd away, dismisses even
-His disciples in a ship across the lake, and then, when
-
-      “The feast is o’er, the guests are gone,
-      And over all that upland lone,
-    The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old,”
-
-retires up into a mountain apart to pray, and continues all night in
-prayer to God. What a lesson! The crush and press dismissed; even the
-closest and most intimate companions avoided, and a quiet time secured
-for we know not what prayers to the co-equal Father.
-
-Ah, that we more entirely followed His example: how, if our prayers
-had more leisure secured for them, were more strictly protected from
-intrusion and disturbance, more lonely--how they would aid us to
-breathe the air of the mountain, to keep ever before us its wider
-view, even when we had descended to mix again with life’s thronging
-necessities in the plain. Even in our room, when the door is closed
-upon us (for I am speaking here of private prayer, not of public
-worship),--even thus, we are not necessarily upon the mountain,
-speaking through the stars to God. The larger crowd may have been
-satisfied and dismissed, but we have taken with us into our retirement
-some few that were more intimate and close to our heart, and we have
-not been careful enough to be _alone_. The preparation of dismissing
-the multitude, and even the disciples, then the ascent of the mountain,
-by the winding path of meditation, and then the unrestricted view, the
-sky nearest, indeed touching us, and earth spread out far below, and
-the soul left to calm, leisure, unharassed communion with God; all
-these are necessary; all these we learn from the example of that mild
-yet awful Being who is God manifest in the flesh. Let us arm ourselves
-with the same mind.
-
-But my thoughts, returning to that morning walk which introduced
-this essay, remind me that there is one suggestive point in it which
-deserves a little attention. It is _the time of day_ at which the
-ascent was made. Early prayer, while the world’s cares are asleep, and
-the road lies hushed and still, not thronged with jostling passengers,
-nor stunned with noisy vehicles--this is that, which of all our private
-devotions, most aids in consecrating life to God. Descending from
-that early hour of high communion, to take our part in the awakening
-toil and interest of earth, it is then easier to give their proper
-proportion to the events and employments of the day. Be it a joy or a
-sorrow, be it a loss or a gain, it takes its just place in the grand
-scheme of things, and does not monopolise the heart, nor obscure the
-vision; far less will the mere straws in the path, or the butterflies
-that dance by, catch and retain the absorbed regard of the heirs of
-immortality. The trifling irritations, the mean jealousies, the little
-rankling grudges, the petty quarrels, also the transitory enjoyments
-and short-lived profits, of each day’s life, will not greatly, nor for
-long, move the heart that retains its memory of that far-stretching
-Morning view. And it will be less difficult to rescue life from its
-proneness to become ignoble, and to free ourselves from the narrowing,
-stunting, dwarfing process which it often is, but which it was never
-intended to be. Yet, but for these mountain-pauses, but for these
-retirements from the over-familiarity and intrusiveness of trifles, how
-shall we avoid the danger of habitually, and soon, entirely bounding
-our view and mode of thought by the hedges which shut in our eyes and
-hearts, down in the valley of our ordinary employments?
-
-And how much the saints of God have valued this early hour of prayer!
-It has been called the Dew which the later hours have irretrievably
-dried up; the Manna which has vanished when the sun has gained
-strength. And there is no doubt in my mind that the quality of the
-spiritual life greatly depends upon the jealous guarding of this
-priceless hour, which so easily and quickly escapes us. At that hour
-Jordan stands in a heap, and leaves us a clear passage heavenward, but
-the rapid stream of cares, businesses, anxieties, worries, returns to
-its strength as the morning appeareth, and if we would cross at all,
-it must be during a distracting and wearisome buffeting with those
-crowding waters.
-
-Let me say here how valuable appear to me to be the retreats that are
-being established in many parts of England. Who does not know how the
-routine of little cares, and small wearing anxieties, and petty, yet
-necessary employments, are apt to eat out the spirituality from even
-the clergyman’s life, especially if he be placed in a sphere which
-presents labour after which he is ever toiling, but which he can never
-overtake? They seem to me, at least, formed upon the very model of our
-Lord’s custom, and at once to commend themselves to any unprejudiced
-mind, or even any prejudiced mind that has preserved the power of calm
-and fair thought. I will let Cowper continue and conclude this train of
-musing for me:
-
-   “Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce
-    A superstitious and monastic course;
-    Truth is not local, God alike pervades
-    And fills the world of traffic and the shades,
-    And may be feared amid the busiest scenes,
-    Or scorned where business never intervenes.
-    But ’tis not easy, with a mind like ours,
-    Conscious of weakness in its noblest powers,
-    And in a world, where, other ills apart,
-    The roving eye misleads the careless heart,
-    To limit thought, by nature prone to stray
-    Wherever freakish fancy points the way;
-    To bid the pleadings of self-love be still,
-    Resign our own, and seek our Teacher’s will;
-    To spread the page of Scripture, and compare
-    Our conduct with the laws engraven there;
-    To measure all that passes in the breast,
-    Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;
-    To dive into the secret deeps within,
-    To spare no passion and no favourite sin,
-    And search the themes, important above all,
-    Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall,
-    --But leisure, silence, and a mind released
-    From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased;
-    How to secure, in some propitious hour,
-    The point of interest, or the post of power;
-    A soul serene, and equally retired
-    From objects too much dreaded or desired,
-    Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute,--
-    At least are friendly to the great pursuit.”
-
-To complete the ideal of a mountain, at least in a picture, it seems
-necessary to see a lake lying at its foot. I have such a picture in my
-mind’s eye, besides that of Scott’s,
-
-        “--On yonder liquid lawn,
-    In hues of bright reflection drawn,
-    Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,
-    Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky.”
-
-[Illustration: “In hues of bright reflection drawn, distinct the shaggy
-mountains lie.”]
-
-And a beautiful lesson seems by their association suggested to my mind.
-For thus ought the mirror of our daily life, which lies at their foot,
-clearly and constantly to reflect the calm and the beauty and the
-elevation of those mountain-hours. Beware of influences, sudden winds
-and treacherous currents, which, ruffling and wrinkling the lake, shall
-mar and blur the image of those high moments, and of the heaven yet far
-above the mountains.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-MUSINGS IN THE TWILIGHT.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But now the quiet days of September are come. September, which is
-the Twilight of the year--rather, I would call it the first hint of
-twilight, when the flush and glow are sobering down, and a cast of
-thoughtfulness is deepening day by day upon the months. “Autumn has
-o’erbrimmed the clammy cells” of the bees; the fields, where the long
-rows of many sheaves stand, gradually grow bare; the intensely dark
-summer green of the elms and of the hedgerows out of which they rise,
-is interrupted here and there by a tenderer tinge; the spruce firs in
-the copses begin to appear more dark, distinct, and particular; the
-larches begin to show faint hearts, and to look more delicate beside
-their sombre brothers. There is rather the augury, the prescience,
-than the perceived presence of a change. I have fancied sometimes that
-the trees have plotted together and banded themselves by an agreement
-not to give in, this time, but to defy the utmost power of stripping,
-desolating Winter. And it is curious, with this idea, to watch them.
-Throughout September, they at least keep up appearances well, and from
-one to another the watchword is whispered,--
-
-   “Keep a good heart, O trees, and hold
-    The Winter stern at bay!”
-
-and for a time they moult no feather, drop no leaf; or, if one circles
-down here and there, it is huddled by in a corner, and they flatter
-themselves that none has noticed. But you watch with pitying love,
-knowing what the end must be. And you perceive how great the effort,
-the strain, becomes, to keep up appearances. Here and there, at last,
-despite of their utmost endeavour, the hidden fire bursts out; and
-finally, with a wild Autumnal wail, some weaker tree, in despair, gives
-up the unnatural and too excessive strain, and casts down a great
-profusion of yellow sickly foliage. There is a murmur among the stouter
-trees; but, in good truth, they are not sorry for the excuse, while,
-muttering that all is rendered useless now, like avowed bankrupts, they
-give up the effort to sustain appearances, and, as it were, with a sigh
-of relief and rest, resign them to the fate they vainly strove against
-and could not long avert. So the elm flames out into bars and patches,
-very yellow in the dark; and the chesnut is all tinged and burnt with
-brown; and the mulberry has slipped off all her leaves in a single
-night; and the ash and the sycamore blacken; and the white poplar
-leaves change to pale gold; and the pear to bronze; and the wild cherry
-to scarlet; and the maple to orange; and the bramble at their feet to
-bright crimson.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Not so yet, in the Twilight of the year. It is the month of
-tranquillity, of peaceful hush. If there be a hint of decay, it is
-but what has been called “calm decay”; it is but evening with the
-landscape, the Evening of the year. You might forget, as you looked
-at the resting stationary aspect of things, that the further change,
-the Night of Winter, was indeed drawing near. There seems no prophecy
-of those wild tossing October arms, with the stream of leaves hurrying
-away in the wind; no presage of the dull November days, when, from the
-scanty foliage of the trees, great drops plash down upon the decaying
-leaves beneath, and the whole wood looms out of the fog. Far less, in
-the full-bosomed, sober, rather air- than mist-mellowed woodlands, do
-you detect any foretelling of the time when all will stand, a bare
-thicket of gaunt boughs and naked twigs, dully shadowed in the ice, or
-made darker and more dreary by the great white fields of snow.
-
-Of all this there is no hint given yet, nor need we yet awake to the
-knowledge that we have indeed bid the Summer farewell till next year.
-The evenings are still warm, warm with that cool warmth which is so
-delicious: it will be some time yet before we can see our breath as
-we talk: we can stay out well until eight or later, and hear through
-the open window the clatter of arranging tea-cups, and watch the lamp,
-still faint in the twilight, warm the room with a dim orange glow.
-
-Therefore I shall sit here awhile on this garden seat, and muse in
-and upon the twilight. The scene and place are favourable for quiet
-thought. The lawn is smooth and shaven; at my feet lie beds of profuse
-geranium, verbena, calceolaria, petunia, in their rich Autumn prime,
-before any hint of frost has visited them. The air is quite heavy with
-the scent of the massed heliotrope. The colours, if sobered, are not
-yet lost in the fading light; the scarlets and purples are hushing
-and blending; the cherry colour, yellow, and white, have grown more
-distinct, and stand out more apparent upon the grass. Overhead, the
-sky is deepening to that dusk steel blue which soon discloses the
-very faint yet eye-catching glimmer of one white star. Across the
-quiet dome, and between the still, outstretched, motionless branches,
-the silent bats flit to and fro; there is a rustle of chafers in the
-lime. One sweet melancholy monotonous sound gives a background to the
-silence, an undertone that enhances, not in the least disturbs, the
-quiet. For the great charm of this garden, which lies on the slope
-of a hill, is, that near the foot of that hill swells and fails the
-ever-moving Sea. And looking from my garden seat through the near
-rose-bushes and above the taller growth lower down the slope, I see the
-broad silver shield, rising, as it seems to me on my hill-seat, up the
-circle of its horizon. An hour ago I was admiring the brilliancy and
-intensity of its colour, green shoaling into blue, and sparkling in
-the sun; now the faint light of the broad moon shares the sway of the
-decaying sunlight; and I see above and through the branches a space of
-pale bright grey. The jewel blue of afternoon has died out from it, but
-the more neutral tint accords better, I feel, with the sober hour and
-hushed sounds of twilight. How complete is the harmony and the balance
-of colour in all God’s pictures!
-
-And I love these twilight studies, that are much like the paintings, so
-Robert Browning tells us, of Andrea del Sarto, the faultless painter.
-Pictures in which--
-
-   “A common greyness silvers everything,
-    All in a twilight.”
-
-This is essentially a twilight poem I always think; silver-grey; a
-quiet calmed heart that has settled down into a deep still sadness and
-disappointment. He longs for those higher aspirations which can here be
-but imperfectly expressed, knowing that it is not well unless we hold
-an ideal far above our fulfilment here; and that, if we have attained
-all we sought in our pursuit of the beautiful and the good, we have not
-intended nobly enough:--
-
-   “There’s the bell clinking from the chapel-top;
-    That length of convent wall across the way
-    Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;
-    The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease
-    And Autumn grows, Autumn in everything.
-    Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
-    As if I saw alike my work and self,
-    And all that I was born to be and do,
-    A twilight piece.”
-
-Is not the tone of thought here expressed one natural to us all at
-certain times, when for us life’s vivid lights and deep shadows have
-all toned into a uniform half tint? We all have such twilight hours:
-times when the sun has sunk, and our heart has gone down with it,
-and a grey depression settles gradually upon the soul. Times when we
-feel that our life is little, and low, and mean: when we yearn for a
-sympathy that earth has not to give; when we turn away disheartened and
-disgusted from our life and from ourselves, and turn the faces of what
-seemed our most faultless works to the wall, and care not if we never
-saw them again. Times when we go about to cause our heart to despair of
-all the labour which we took under the sun. Times when the failures of
-others seem better than our successes; times when we lament over the
-lowness of our aim, the meanness of our intention, the winglessness
-of our soul; and yet times when our very discontent with all that we
-are and have accomplished, our very disgust at our grovelling minds,
-prove our affinity with higher things than any of these that we have
-grasped here. Those anguished yearnings to be nobler prove that we are
-something nobler than we hold ourselves to be. The depression of the
-twilight marks our kindred with the golden glory of the sun. Thus may
-we cheer our hearts, that in their dull hours are wont to judge our
-aims by our attainments, and from the inadequacy of the performance, to
-conclude the lowness of the intention. The workman’s dissatisfaction
-with his own life’s work is the clear proof that his inmost self
-is nobler, not only than his attainments, but often even than his
-endeavours.
-
-I awake from my abstraction, however, and look around. The twilight has
-deepened, the flowers are losing their colour, the surrounding objects
-their distinctness. One peculiar property, sometimes a charm, sometimes
-a dread, of this light neither clear nor dark, begins to be developed.
-I mean the uncertainty, the indefiniteness, the illusions of twilight.
-And how many analogies occur to my mind as I sit here musing on the
-twilight, and comparing with it the indistinctness and the ænigma in
-which we are living here.
-
-And first I think of God’s ancient people: how many of God’s promises
-to them were misconceived because of the twilight in which they were
-seen. And we might, thinking shallowly, wonder that the light of
-prophecy was such twilight, so dim, and the objects seen in it so
-undefined and uncertain. For instance, how obscure and almost confusing
-seems to us the light given to the Jews as to the spiritual nature of
-the Messiah’s kingdom. Through the twilight of prophecy we may very
-well fancy that a grand earthly kingdom of power and conquest loomed
-upon the hope and imagination of the people of Israel. Because of the
-hardness of their hearts, indeed, and the lowness of their spiritual
-standard, spiritual revelations had to be clothed for them in a body
-of flesh. The people that could worship the golden calf under the
-very cloud that rested upon Sinai, would have ill-received, we may be
-sure, a clear revelation of the manner of the Messiah’s kingdom. A
-kingdom not of this world, with no outward show of pomp and glory; a
-King despised and rejected of men, and nailed upon the accursed tree:
-how would those carnal hearts have received such a programme? Nay,
-how _did_ this people, even in the Messiah’s time, receive it? Behold
-the shouting crowds, one preceding, one following the King of the
-Jews! Behold the waving palms, the strewn cloaks! Hear the “Hosannas”
-ring out as the concourse arrives in sight of the royal city; and the
-enthusiastic burst, “Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the
-name of the Lord!” What visions, we perceive, were seething and working
-in their minds--visions of restored freedom, and rule, and power, and
-the sway of Israel restored, as in those old glorious days, from the
-river even unto the sea. Grand, and splendid, and indistinct, that
-promised kingdom towered before them in the twilight; they threw loose
-reins on their imagination, and let it carry them whither it would.
-
-But when the truth which they had so misconceived and misinterpreted
-stood close to them, and they perceived its entire difference from
-their excited dreams, mark the change--the revulsion. The King is
-crowned; His kingdom is proclaimed as being not of this world: the
-crowd are shouting still; but the cry is now, “_Crucify Him! Crucify
-Him!_” Nay further yet. The discovery of the real proportions and
-character of that fabric which had appeared so majestic and superb
-through the twilight: this discovery had proved too much even for their
-faith who had formed the chosen court of the King Messiah. “We trusted
-that it had been he which should have redeemed Israel”; but, lo! the
-Shepherd is smitten, and the sheep are scattered.
-
-Now, as it has been pointed out before this, an illusion of the
-twilight was converted by the impatience and the carnal hearts of the
-Jews, into a delusion. It was true that a mighty King was coming, that
-He should set up a kingdom great and glorious, one which should crumble
-widest kingdoms into the dust. It was true that the enemies of God’s
-people should fall before this kingdom which should have no end; true
-that this King was He which should redeem Israel. All this which was
-prophesied was no delusion: all was true: all came to pass.
-
-But now let us search out the fault of the Jews, who were deluded by
-revelation, and blinded by partial light. They were told that these
-great things would be: they were bidden to prepare to receive them.
-Forthwith they decided in their own minds _how_ and _in what way_ God
-would bring them about; they gave form and shape to those indistinct
-half-seen masses after the pattern and desire of their own vain hearts;
-they decided that God would give them the exact reality of their own
-carnal dreams; they prepared their heart therefore to receive its
-own interpretation, and shut it close against any other. And so when
-the course of time brought them close to that which their fancy in
-the twilight had thus disguised, they could not recognise it, they
-refused to believe it: they passed on beyond it, still searching
-after the unreal fabric of their own imagination; and even now, while
-the twilight seems deepening to darkness about them, they go on and
-on across the blank desert, seeking those gigantic hopes which have
-already, could they but believe it, been much more than fulfilled.
-
-   “Oh, say, in all the bleak expanse,
-    Is there a spot to win your glance,
-      So bright, so dark as this?
-    A hopeless faith, a homeless race,
-    Yet seeking the most holy place,
-      And owning the true bliss!”
-
-That this was not God’s doing, but the result of their own impatience,
-and of the earthliness of their own hearts, we have abundant proof. In
-that light, neither clear nor dark, there were those who were content
-to wait until God Himself should reveal the manner of those great
-things that He had foreshadowed; many died thus implicitly waiting;
-some, with Elizabeth, and Simeon, and holy Anna, departed in peace,
-their eyes having just seen His salvation. They had by diligent use
-of the light they had, attained to a more spiritual understanding of
-prophecy; and so to them was fulfilled that saying, “Unto you that have
-shall more be given.”
-
-But have we not passed out of the twilight even now that Christ’s
-fuller revelation has come? No: for, I take it, still, while we live
-here, do we walk in the dusk; it is with us _waiting_ still for the
-grand indistinct objects of prophecy to assume a definite outline
-as we draw near to them; it is the passing on in a twilight march,
-contemplating the attained reality of one dim foreshadowing, and
-straightway looking up to see before us the gigantic distant form of
-another, awful in its dimness and uncertainty.
-
-Is not this what the Great Teacher would have us learn when He declares
-that the spirit of a little child is the right and necessary spirit for
-those who would receive the kingdom of God? In these mighty mysteries
-we are to be content to be children now, not yet men: it is to be
-twilight here; noon hereafter. How it saddens me, then, sitting in the
-twilight and waiting for the wonderful panorama of morning; how it
-saddens me to hear the loud talk nowadays of our attained manhood--of
-our possessed noon. Nowadays, forsooth, we are so full grown, have such
-clear light, that we are to handle doubts familiarly, and to decide at
-once concerning that which God has but half revealed; and to reject
-what we cannot understand, and to deny that which we cannot define.
-Man’s reason--methought that, at present, it had to work in the sphere
-of the twilight; but this idea is by some rejected with scorn, and they
-would fain persuade us that it is already placed in the full blaze of
-day. The “province of reason,” we hear great talk of this; and yet now
-let me ask what really _is_ the true province of reason? Is it, can it
-be, to determine and decide, to fathom and understand concerning the
-deep and mysterious ways of God, and His counsel secret to us and _past
-finding out_? One would think so, to see men casting overboard this and
-that revealed truth because they cannot understand it in the twilight,
-or because it will not piece in with that creation of their own fancy,
-which they would substitute for our revealed God. Yet to me it seems
-that we have not the material, the data, for such an exercise of
-reason; we have not _revelation_ enough for this; the light is too dim.
-
-No, as we sit here in the twilight it seems to me that the province of
-reason is not to be straining its eyes to map out the huge mysteries
-which still lie in the dim distance; and to declare that those masses
-are shapeless, whose shape it cannot trace. Is it not rather to
-consider and to decide concerning those things which are placed within
-its scope? To satisfy itself as to our Guide, as to the reliability of
-the proofs of His being really what He claims to be; to search whether
-these things be so, and then implicitly to follow that Guide through
-uncertainty into certainty, out of the twilight into the clear day?
-This is not to fetter reason, to cramp thought. It is merely to confine
-it to its legitimate sphere. It is to acknowledge ourselves now in the
-dusk, but expecting the full morning; to own ourselves children now,
-but children who will one day be men.
-
-Are we not little children here; our very reason doubtless in its
-twilight; probably as unable--even were they explained to us--to take
-in God’s counsels, as a child just capable of an addition-sum would be
-unable to master and understand the science of astronomy? Would anyone
-who considered wisely of these things, even wish that this present
-state should be our manhood? Oh, low view to take of man’s magnificent
-destiny! What? This all? To-day’s blunders food for to-morrow’s
-corrections; schemes of science changing every year; nothing certain,
-nothing known? Are we to grow no bigger in knowledge, are we to grow
-no bigger in capacity, than this? Is such dim twilight really our full
-day? Ah, dreary prospect then, mournful lot! But away with so mean a
-view of man’s future; with such a cramping of man’s reason!
-
-Little children are we, must we be, with regard to the stupendous plans
-and counsels of God, so long as we have no more than our present amount
-of Revelation. We may advance in the world’s knowledge, but we must be
-content to sit down in the twilight before God’s ways and counsels,
-still as listeners, still as learners, reverent, teachable, humble;
-little children still. How can it be otherwise? We hear of the boasted
-advance of education and knowledge; we hear of reason more cultivated,
-and thought more free to soar. All very well; but does this, can this
-touch the subject of which I speak? In acquiring any further knowledge
-of God’s hidden things, have we advanced at all? Is there in our
-possession any more material on which to set reason to work, than since
-the last Apostle wrote the last epistle? Have we advanced? can we
-advance? Must we not still be children, must we not still make the most
-of twilight, until, having grown to manhood, the full light bursts upon
-us in another world, and we see no more in an ænigma darkly, but face
-to face; know no more in part only, but even as we are known?
-
-Oh, brother, doubting brother--if any such should hear this my talking
-out loud with myself--who waverest where thou shouldest stand firm, and
-art ready to let that slip, which thou shouldest keep in thy heart’s
-heart--wilt thou not take these words of the Wisest and Best of all, of
-a Teacher most mighty in intellect, most vast in knowledge; yea, who
-spake as never did man: wilt thou not say them to thy tossing soul,
-until there fall on it a great calm? A little child, a little child;
-that is the model for us here. Noon, one day; but now, twilight: men,
-hereafter; but here, children: called upon here not to explain and to
-fathom, but to listen and to believe. First, of course, let reason
-determine whether our Teacher be trustworthy; but, this decided, cannot
-we be content to be taught by Him? Toil on in the half-light, and the
-full light shall break on thee! Do the works, and thou shalt know of
-the doctrine, whether it be of God. Yea, but you say, this is none
-other than a leap in the dark. Before I _feel_ the divinity of the
-doctrine, why should I do the works? What is my warrant, that I should
-do, before I know? This, O man, _satisfy thyself as to thy Guide_.
-Examine whether He be what He pretends to be. And then commit thyself
-to His guidance. Implicitly, entirely, like a child that likes to put
-his hand into his Father’s, _because_ of the uncertain light.
-
-Do, then, the works, on this warrant. Believe me, the doing them will
-make thy faith rock-firm. Is there not, I would ask the sceptic--is
-there not something in a simple child-like faith, leading to a holy
-angelic life, that brings the protest of a great reality against all
-your doubts and waverings? Watching such a quiet unearthly life, you
-feel, through all your shadows and questionings, that here, at least,
-is something _real_. While you have been making religion a series
-of puzzles, he has been making it a series of deeds. You studied
-Revelation in order to find out its difficulties; he studied it in
-order to learn its precepts, to learn how to live. And, depend upon it,
-he has thus gained a far deeper insight even into those unfathomable
-mysteries by _his_ study than you can ever do by yours. Do: then thou
-shalt know much more even of the doctrine.
-
-Oh, my brother, be content; ’tis only waiting! Receive the kingdom of
-God as a little child. “Hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this
-world?” If we enter the lists with Him as equals, He will mock us,
-and let us be puzzled, and bring to nothing the understanding of even
-the prudent and intellectual. Thus did our Lord with the cavilling
-Pharisees, perplexing them with the question how Messiah could be
-David’s son, and yet his Lord. But if we sit at His feet as learners,
-He will teach us much that the humble alone may know. Granted that
-in this dim light some of His ways puzzle us, and seem inexplicable.
-Granted that His own words are true, “_What I do thou knowest not
-now_.” But there is no need to understand His counsels, for the
-attaining salvation. And let us take it on trust, as well we may, that
-what may seem God’s harshness, is kinder than man’s kindness; that what
-may seem God’s foolishness, is wiser than man’s wisdom; that what seems
-God’s weakness, is stronger than man’s strength.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-I have mused in the twilight, near the boundless, restless,
-ever-tumbling sea, and under the vast canopy of heaven; I have mused
-in the twilight, until the darkness has fallen, and the heaven is
-eloquent with its sign-speech of stars. Sitting in a speck of one of
-those myriad worlds that, flying along with inconceivable velocity,
-yet appear to me intensely still in the dark, I catch a glimpse of the
-immensity of the plans and designs of God. Star whirls by star, system
-fits into system, all in an astounding complex order; none clashing,
-each kept in its due place and its right proportion by the Infinite
-Mind. And I gather a hint of a reply to many questions that perplex
-us, many problems that weary us here; questions that are often best
-answered by the confession that here we cannot answer them; questions
-worst answered by an inadequate attempt resulting in an inadequate
-explanation; questions that we may perhaps quiet with such thoughts
-as these:--Who knows into what other schemes and systems this life of
-our globe and of ourselves may be fitted; who knows, seated in this
-isolated planet, in this narrow twilight of time, how the vast day of
-Eternity before, and the vast day of Eternity behind, may make at once
-evident things that here were deepest, seemingly shapeless, mysteries
-to our mind? The moon rolls round the earth, and the earth round the
-sun, and this again, with all its planets, round some greater centre;
-and so on, perhaps, who shall guess how far? For space, as well as
-time, is infinite, boundless, with the eternal God. And thus, too, I
-divine, with that vastness and complexity of scheme which we shall not
-begin to understand until we gain the standing-point of Eternity; thus
-too, I seem entitled to prophesy, with the infinite designs of God, and
-with the interwoven system of His counsels. How can we, how _should_
-we, understand the different bearings, the linked relations, of His
-eternal plans? A fly perched on one nut in the enormous machinery of
-some manufactory, and deciding upon the plan and purpose and working
-of the whole, from the twistings of the point on which he stood; nay,
-this is not even a poor analogy with the position of man standing on
-this speck of Time, and complacently deciding concerning the tremendous
-counsels of Him who inhabiteth Eternity.
-
-Heaven is revealed to us as night deepens. Thus, as the Twilight of the
-good man’s life dusks towards night, stars, unperceived before, stars
-of certainty, of knowledge, of hope, of trust, steal out one by one
-into his sky, until the heaven is one glitter above him. Earth dies
-out, and becomes indistinct; its colours are toned down, its scenery
-becomes less absorbing and obtrusive; it begins to take its proper
-place in that eternal glittering dust of worlds. And so amid that
-speaking silence he falls asleep. I suppose that then, in Paradise, a
-clear morning breaks, which afterwards, in Heaven, becomes the full
-light of noon.
-
-But the Twilight has gone: night has come down upon the sea: the
-earnest silence of those infinitely multiplied stars becomes
-oppressive: I am getting chilly also, and want my tea. Therefore I go
-indoors, close the shutters, and rest my strained thoughts with the
-sight of the cheery lamp-lit room; and, asking and obtaining of my wife
-some half-dozen of my favourite “Songs without Words,” call back my
-musings from those exhausting mysteries of our twilight state, and lull
-them with the gentler and more peaceful mystery of music.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-WINTER DAYS.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-There is always, I think, much more of sadness in the anticipation of
-Winter days than we find that they at all deserved when they are once
-fairly at home with us. The anticipation, the _transition_, is sad from
-Autumn profusion to Winter bareness. The month that severs the two is
-a month somewhat tinged with melancholy, and clad in a weeping robe of
-fogs and mists. There is a certain chill and gloom in wandering about
-the shrouded face of the so-lately rich Autumn fields,--
-
-      “When a blanket wraps the day,
-    When the rotten woodland drips,
-      And the leaf is stamped in clay,”--
-
-there is something sad in passing through the sodden lanes, thickly
-carpeted with flat damp leaves, and strewn with the bright sienna
-chesnuts; here the gleaming nut, and there the three-fold shattered
-husk, brown-green, with cream-white lining.
-
-You may find a sort of pleasing melancholy, of tender romance, in
-watching the first tints of Autumn stealing over the Summer, from the
-very first, when
-
-   “The long-smouldering fire within the trees
-      Begins to blaze through vents,”
-
-until,--tree by tree, wood by wood, landscape by landscape,--they stand
-in their glory--
-
-   “The death-flushed trees, that, in the falling year,
-    As the Assyrian monarch, clothe themselves
-    In their most gorgeous pageantry to die.”
-
-Then the first frosts, and the calm clear mornings, and the grey fresh
-blue of the evenings, with their sprinkling of intensely piercingly
-glittering stars. And then the deep spell upon the trees is broken, and
-we stand and watch while, now in a shower and now singly,
-
-                    “The calm leaves float
-    Each to his rest beneath their parent shade,”
-
-and the year seems just passing away like a beautiful dissolving view.
-
-There is also something to keep you up, something of excitement and
-stir, and glow, in the brave October days, when a great wind comes
-roaring and booming over the land, and you see the tall ash trees toss
-up their wild arms in dismay, and a deep roar gathers in the elms, and
-a far hissing in the pines, and from that beech avenue,
-
-   “The flying gold of the ruined woodlands
-    Drives through the air.”
-
-You can walk out, and press your hat on to your head, and button
-your coat, and labour up the rising downs, yielding no foot to the
-blustering screaming wind; and a glow and exhilaration tingles in your
-veins as you march on, with pace no whit slackened for all its vehement
-opposition.
-
-But November has come; and the calm quiet hectic of September and the
-hale vigour of October have now passed away. The rain has sodden and
-struck down leaf after leaf, heaping the roadside, until you might
-count the leaves left upon the trees that edge the lanes. A sense of
-bareness and desolation oppresses you, and an aspect of dreariness and
-moist death has overspread the landscape. You walk into the garden:
-the dahlias are blackened with the frosts of October; the pinched
-geraniums, verbenas, heliotropes, lie wrecked on the beds; the few
-straggling chrysanthemums and scattered Michaelmas daisies--these are
-not enough to cheer you; for even these are drooping in the universal
-damp, and strung with trembling glittering diamonds of sorrowful tears.
-The dark sodden walnut-leaves thickly carpet the side paths, and the
-most cheerful thing in them is here and there the black wet walnut
-lying, with just a warm hint of the clean bright yellow shell within,
-betrayed through a torn fibrous gap. Day after day the fog sleeps over
-the land, and you see your breath in the morning in the cold damp
-air. You are brought face to face--earth stripped of its poetry and
-romance--face to face with Winter days.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-And their approach seems gloomy. The light, and warmth, and the glory
-of the year have gone; but, as yet, the memory of them has not all
-quite departed. There are still the gleeful leaves lying, poor dead
-things, in the lanes; there are yet the unburied flowers, black on the
-garden-beds; the air is tepid; the trees are not entirely bare; the
-state is one of transition.
-
-   “The year’s in the wane,
-    There is nothing adorning,
-    The night has no eve,
-    And the day has no morning;--
-    Cold Winter gives warning.”
-
-Yes, the approach of Winter days seems gloomy. We have more in our
-thought the chill drear outside of Winter, than his warm comfortable
-core, glowing as the heart of a burst pomegranate.
-
-But November has now ended, and December has come. The early days of
-this month seem stragglers from that which has just gone out, and the
-same chill warm gloom prevails. There is a muggy closeness in the
-air; everything feels damp to the touch, and an oppressive scent of
-decay dwells in the gardens and the fields. You seem to see low fevers
-brooding over the lanes and alleys of the city, and you apprehend that
-“green Yule,” which “makes a fat kirkyard.” Your spirits, if your
-health be such as that they are a little dependent on the weather,
-seem drooping and languid and foggy too. And in this mood it is that
-you determine after lunch to call for a friend, and take a walk for a
-mile or two, with thick boots and trousers turned up, because of the
-drenched roads and the sticky fields. And you warm into a better mood
-with the walk and the talk, and make the mile or two five or six miles;
-indeed the sun is setting, and a deepening dusk in the sky shows a
-pale star here and there, while you are yet a mile from home. A sort
-of clearness and freshness seems to have come into the air since you
-started homewards; and you notice as you walk on, the frosty glitter
-in the stars, and you perceive that the road is actually growing rough
-and hard under your feet, and the road-side puddles are gathering a
-lace-work at their edge.
-
-   “By the breath of God frost is given:
-    And the breadth of the waters is straitened.”
-
-And so either “the hoary frost of heaven” falls upon the earth, making
-a white feather of every straw, and a crisp fairy forest of the lawn,
-and a fernery of the windows, and hanging gardens of the spider’s
-webs, and a wondrous dreamland of the asparagus bed, a mist of white
-feather-foliage, with a lovely scattering of red fruit glowing among
-it here and there; or a black frost descends on the lands and waters,
-holding them with a gripe that grows closer, closer, and stiffens with
-more iron rigidity every day, until
-
-   “The waters are hid as with a stone,
-    And the face of the deep is frozen.”
-
-And the blood tingles in the veins, and life and health come back with
-sudden rush, and you leave who will to stay by the fire, while you
-start forth with swinging skates to do the next best thing to flying;
-having dined hastily at midday, so as to have a long evening.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-And one night you go to bed, leaving a yellow dun sky sleeping over
-the hard fields. At a little before seven you rise, and drawing aside
-the blind with something of a shiver and a yawn, rub your eyes with
-amaze. In the half dark you seem to look out from your dim-lit room
-upon one large Twelfthcake, with a dark figure here and there for an
-ornament. And when you put out your candle, and draw up the blind,
-on how strange a sight do you look! How changed the appearance of
-everything since last night! What a heavy fall of snow there has been;
-and how sudden, and how silent! Against the slate sky a few dark
-flakes steal down, or a small drift dances, changing into a pearl-white
-as they sink lower, and are seen against the black bare trees, or the
-full evergreens. You are fascinated; you _must_ stand at the window
-and watch. That araucaria--how _can_ its long dark arms hold such a
-piled sheer height of snow? How deep and dazzling it lies upon the
-window sill! what a broad sheet upon the roof of that barn! how of the
-thinnest twigs of the nut trees and the acacias each sustains his piled
-inch and-a-half in the complete stillness! how the laurels bend down
-under great heavy loads of snow; and the erect holly shows a prickly
-dark gleam, and a burning berry here and there! All the sad traces of
-the dead Summer are buried, and the bustling birds chirp and huddle
-upon the anew foliaged branches, raining down a miniature snow-storm
-as they fidget about the trees. All the sodden leaves, and the black
-flower-stalks, and the bare fields are hidden now, and Autumn and
-Summer are buried; and the Winter days are come in earnest. Ah, yes,
-the sadness was more in the transition, and now that that is over and
-the change made, did you not discover that--
-
-   “Some beauty still was found; for, when the fogs had passed away,
-    The wide lands came glittering forward in a fresh and strange array;
-    Naked trees had got snow foliage, soft, and feathery, and bright,
-    And the earth looked dressed for heaven, in its spiritual white.
-
-   “Black and cold as iron armour lay the frozen lakes and streams;
-    Round about the fenny plashes shone the long and pointed gleams
-    Of the tall reeds, ice-encrusted; the old hollies, jewel-spread,
-    Warmed the white, marmoreal chillness with an ardency of red:
-
-   “Upon desolate morasses, stood the heron like a ghost,
-    Beneath the gliding shadows of the wild fowls’ noisy host;
-    And the bittern clamoured harshly from his nest among the sedge,
-    Where the indistinct, dull moss had blurred the rugged water’s
-          edge.”
-
-But, O writer, your pen has wandered; and this mere description of
-God’s snow and frost is mere secular writing. Dear Reader, let me
-contradict you, and plead--“_It is not so_.” A careful loving observer
-of God’s works, attains also the privilege of becoming a reader of
-a second volume of God’s word. And if you would have for what I say
-authority from the sacred volume, take it down and turn to the 104th
-Psalm. You will find in that, God’s works abundantly brought in and
-interwoven with God’s word, still further, as I may say, embellishing
-and beautifying it; and illuminating the text with initial letters
-and little gems of illustration. Here is a bird’s nest, you will
-find, swung securely in the long flat arm of a cedar; here a breadth
-of bright green grass, with cattle feeding upon it; here a tinkling
-spring, trickling down the hill side, whilst, as it sleeps in the
-valley, the beasts of the field gather about it, and the wild asses
-quench their thirst. The birds chirp and sing among the branches, the
-murmuring rain descends from the chambers of God upon the grateful
-hills and the satisfied earth; the tender grapes appear, and the
-“olive-hoary capes,” and the wide waving fields of the deep golden
-grain. The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and the conies
-stud the rocks here and there. There are moonlight scenes, and sunsets,
-and an Eastern night, with its great luminous stars, and the deep roar
-of the lion creeping under the shadow of those tall silent palms.
-There is a field with labourers at work, coming out from their homes as
-the sun rises, and the beasts of prey slink back to theirs.
-
-And there are sea pieces too: we turn from the land to the hoary
-wrinkled ocean, with its ships, and its monsters, and its innumerable
-population, all gathering their meat from God. And in other psalms,
-and in many another part of the Bible, we find God’s word studded with
-illustrations from God’s works. In the 147th Psalm, for instance, there
-is something to our present purpose:
-
-   “He sendeth forth His commandment upon earth:
-    His word runneth very swiftly.
-    He giveth snow like wool: He scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes.
-    He casteth forth His ice like morsels: who can stand before His
-          cold?”
-
-Further, who will not recall our Saviour’s teaching, so interwoven with
-pictures from the wonders of beauty and design which, the clue having
-been once given, reveal God to us through Nature. “_Consider the lilies
-of the field, how they grow._” “_Behold the fowls of the air._” Then
-the corn-field, the vineyard, the fig-tree, the fall of the sparrows,
-the red evening and morning sky,--through all these Christ teaches us.
-And St. Paul, forthshadowing the resurrection body, what does he but
-use the image of the seed sown in the plough-lands, and rising again
-with the new and glorious body which God gives it, as it pleaseth Him?
-
-Religion, in truth, is too much thought of as “a star that dwells
-apart,” and is not one with our common life; not as the daisy by our
-hedgerows, or the rose in our gardens, as well as the light in our sky.
-It should not be a mere Sunday garb, to be wrapped up and put away in
-a drawer till Sunday comes again; if we understand and use it aright,
-it is our holiday dress, and our every-day dress too; and no need to
-fear lest we should shabby it, or wear it out. The world may look on it
-as an artificial restraint, a thing _to be put on_, and not our common
-apparel; as a light which has to be lit after a great deal of fuss in
-striking the match; or a moon only useful in the night of sorrow. But
-we should learn to make it a light ever at hand, and ever in use; there
-needs not that we should have to make a disturbance in order to procure
-it at any moment:--
-
-                    “But close to us it gleams,
-                    Its soothing lustre streams
-    Around our Home’s green walls, and on our Churchway path.”
-
-Only thoughts on Nature should really lead on to thoughts of God; else
-we do but look at the type, but are not reading the book. And I must
-here own to something of deeper meaning underlying these stray jottings
-on Winter days. For it struck me that, taking the reader’s arm, and
-walking out for a short stroll into the frosty air through the vista of
-November, I might show, perchance, from one or two points of view, the
-cheeriness and the calm, and the deep heart of peace, that underlies
-all even of the sadnesses that God sends. There is a bitter kernel to
-all the sorrows that we bring on ourselves--the kernel of remorse and
-unavailing regret. But there is a sweet kernel, believe me, to all the
-bitter-cased walnuts which fall, naturally, straight down from God’s
-trees. There is use, yea, also, beauty, in His dying fields and His
-shrouded earth; in His November, and in His Winter days.
-
-Let me gather a thought here and there that seem to come up, like
-Christmas roses, from the bare beds of Winter days.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The life of man has its November time; a time of sheer, literal,
-moist decay; no romantic flush of Autumn woods, freaking them with a
-thousand fancies and poetic hues, and crowning death with an intense,
-fascinating, dreamy glory. The wild abundant Spring blossoms are over
-long ago; the achievements of Summer, sobered though they were, have
-passed away, and the tinge of pleasant dreamy melancholy that touched
-their first decay has died out; and the heart sinks as we look around
-us.
-
-   “That time of life thou dost in him behold,
-    When yellow leaves, or few or none, do hang
-    Upon the boughs that shake against the cold,
-    Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”
-
-The ageing man looks back upon his past life, and on all the works
-that his hands have wrought, and on the labour that he has laboured
-to do; and behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit, and there
-was no profit under the sun. What we meant to be, and what we are!
-The bright, soaring, heaven-adorned bubbles that gleamed about us,
-and the little mess of soapsuds that are sinking into the ground here
-and there! The crowd, the rush of emerald vivid buds that our boyhood
-knew; and now the bare, poor black twigs and branches, that drip
-above the yellow stained heaps below! Hopes, ambition, dreams, love,
-friendships, aspirations, yearnings, plans, resolves, scattered and
-lying about the lanes of our life, or here and there heaped in a mass
-at some well-remembered turn or corner, dead, and sodden, and desolate
-exceedingly.
-
-   “Oh! ’tis sad to lie and reckon
-      All the days of faded youth,
-    All the vows that we believed in,
-      All the words we spoke in truth.”
-
-Well, and what then? Can there be a December to follow upon and
-beautify those sad chilly hours? I think so. Sometimes it is just when
-the leaves are all fallen, and the flowers all dead, and the fruits
-only represented by a straggler lying here and there, and when the
-bare boughs are strung with trembling tears that gleam with a dull
-light in the heavy enfolding mist; sometimes it is even then that a
-wondrous work is wrought. A pinching frost comes with, as it seems, the
-finishing stroke, and the last sere leaf circles down, and even the
-fading chrysanthemums blacken, and the little robin lies dead on the
-iron border. A dim sky overglooms all, and you go your sad way from the
-scene as night deepens over it. But God wakens you some morning, and
-bids you look out of the dim-lit room in which your heart was shut;
-and lo! a strange transformation! His consolations, and His teaching
-of the deep meaning of things, have descended thick and abundant from
-heaven, and even earth’s dull ruins and desolations are glorified and
-transfigured by the beauty of that heavenly snow. You are content now
-that the earthly foliage should have made way for and given place to
-that unearthly glory which reclothes earth’s bare boughs; you can think
-calmly, quietly, without any anguish, of those desolate leaves, and
-stained flowers, and cold robin, that all sleep undisturbedly under the
-snow. God’s snow, I think--the snow which He sends down upon hearts
-desolate and deserted,
-
-   “That once were gay, and felt the Spring.”
-
-God’s quiet snow, I think, that succeeds all the Spring and Summer
-excitements, and ecstasies, and heats of life, is just that _peace of
-God which passeth all understanding_ sent down to keep our heart and
-mind, that its life be not destroyed nor its aspirations all cut off,
-but that it may be folded over warm and safe until the Resurrection,
-that Spring time, better than earth’s Springs, which do but reform
-perishable buds and leaves; a Spring which shall know no November,
-no Winter days; a Spring which shall no doubt revive and recover
-every feeling, and thought, and love, and aspiration which was really
-God-given and beautiful, and shall make those blighted hopes bright
-with the blossom of unearthly beauty, and shall bend the bare boughs of
-those unquiet inexpressible yearnings low towards Him with the abundant
-fruit of satisfaction.
-
-   “Brighter, fairer far than living,
-      With no trace of change or stain,
-    Robed in everlasting beauty,
-      Shall we see them once again.”
-
-I think the contemplation a little way off, of any sorrow or
-bereavement, bears out what I have said concerning the _anticipation_
-of Winter being really the worst and most cheerless time--a time when
-only the chill, and the death, and the dreariness is in our thoughts,
-and we do not suspect the strange beauties that will accompany it, nor
-the warm glow that is hidden in its heart. We only see the trouble
-coming, and we know not, until the time of need is even with us, of
-the consolation, and the support, and the spiritual loveliness that
-are coming too; coming with the silent step of the snow, or the unseen
-breath of the frost, to adorn thoughts, and feelings, and character
-with a fringe and foliage of heavenly beauty; coming with a glow of
-consolation, like Christmas in the heart of Winter--the warm fire of
-God’s love, which can keep out earth’s sharpest and most piercing cold.
-So that when the Winter has really come, and we look out on the soft
-snow of God’s peace, and creep closer to the fire of God’s love, we
-find that even the sharpest Winter days are not so terrible as November
-painted them; and, revolving and realising their beauty and their use,
-we can enter into his feelings who said, “It is good for me that I have
-been afflicted”; and say Amen with quiet grateful hearts to those once
-inexplicable words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be
-comforted.”
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-The thought of Winter days seems to lead us at once, by analogy, to the
-Winter of Death drawing near any one of us, old men and maidens, young
-men and children. And indeed this time, seen from the misty avenues of
-November, is apt to seem chill and cold to the mind and heart. Still,
-I am sure that death, since the Saviour died, is not a time of real
-unlovely or uncomforted gloom to the obedient and faithful child of
-God. Oh no! when that Winter has indeed come, such a one then perceives
-and realises its Christmas heart of warm comfort, and its unearthly
-frost work of strange sweet thoughts and teachings. To such a one, if
-gloomy, it is only gloomy by anticipation, and while the traces of
-earth’s Summers yet linger, and the tears and regrets of earth are yet
-glittering on the empty trees, bare lands, and faded flowers; only
-gloomy until God has quite weaned us, first by His chastenings and then
-by His consolations.
-
-How sad it is that, in our common ideas, and representations,
-and modes of speech, Death, even the good man’s death--should be
-overshadowed with such dismal gloom! I remember a curious proof of
-this, if proof were needed.
-
-In a small illustrated edition of Longfellow’s poems, the artist
-has chosen for illustration those sweet verses, “The Reaper and the
-Flowers.” You know them, of course, my reader, by heart. You remember
-these graceful lines:--
-
-   “He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
-      He kissed their drooping leaves;
-    It was for the Lord of Paradise
-      He bound them in his sheaves.
-
-   “‘My Lord hath need of these flow’rets gay,’
-      The Reaper said, and smiled;
-    ‘Dear tokens of the earth are they,
-      Where He was once a Child.’”
-
-And how do you think the artist has represented that gentle
-Angel-Reaper? Actually as a hideous Skeleton with a lank scythe! So
-ingrained is that ghastly and loathsome idea of death in the common
-thought of men. Then think of all the impenetrable gloom with which we
-surround death in this Christian England in this nineteenth century;
-of the utter absence of hope or beauty (save for the glorious pæan of
-the service) in our obsequies. Listen, as soon as the happy, hopeful
-Christian has “fallen asleep,” to the manner in which we tell the news
-to the family of our village or town. Drop, drop, like melted lead
-falling, for a whole hour sometimes comes that dull monotony of gloom,
-TOLL, TOLL, TOLL, till the heart dies down into depression for the day.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Save that we know that that recurring note comes from the belfry of
-the peaceful little church that presides hopefully and holily over
-its gathering of sleepers--save for this, would there, I ask, be any
-thought but of dreariness in that dull ceaseless repetition of one
-desolate tone? Death is, indeed
-
-always a grave and solemn thing, and it were well that a grave and
-solemn voice should announce its presence to the clustered or the
-scattered homes. But why change solemnity into despair? Why fill the
-air with nought but heavy gloom for a whole hour or half-hour? I would
-not say, in the words of Poe:--
-
-   “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise,
-    But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!
-    Let _no_ bell toll! lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
-    Should catch the note as it doth float up from the weeping earth.”
-
-For there _must_ be sadness here, if there be joy where the spirit
-has gone. Only let not the dark cloud be debarred from any the least
-silver lining. Something gentle, tender, and sweet, in accordance, so
-far as earth’s lamenting can accord, with the glory and rapture of the
-released one, would surely be better for the living than that slow
-prolonged numbering the beads of their own sorrow. _I_ would have the
-bells rung, as for a wedding; only with a minute’s interval between
-each note. So the joy and the sorrow would each claim its share.
-
-The early Christians used to speak of and commemorate the day of death,
-as “τὰ γενέθλια,” the birthday feast of the Dead. What a different way
-of putting things from our compassionate mention--not of the surviving,
-but of the dead. _Poor so-and-so! How sad!_--this, for the spirit, that
-we feel a good hope, is in Paradise! How the having it put before you
-in the just view--rather as an entering into true life, than a dying
-from it, casts a glow on what most seem to regard as nought but gloom.
-A most exquisite instance of such a beautiful putting of such a sharp
-Winter day to even a bereaved father and mother, I find in one of
-Archbishop Leighton’s heavenly letters. In what a different light must
-their loss, surely, have appeared to them, after its perusal.
-
-“Indeed,” he writes, “it was a sharp stroke of a pen, that told me
-your pretty Johnny was dead: and I felt it truly more than, to my
-remembrance, I did the death of any child in my lifetime. Sweet thing!
-and is he so quickly _laid to sleep? Happy he!_ Though we shall have no
-more the pleasure of his lisping and laughing, he shall have no more
-the pain of crying, nor of being sick, nor of dying: and hath wholly
-escaped the trouble of schooling, and all other sufferings of boys,
-and the riper and deeper griefs of riper years, this poor life being
-all along but a linked chain of many sorrows and many deaths. Tell my
-dear sister she is now much more akin to the other world; and this will
-quickly be passed to us all. _John is but gone an hour or two sooner to
-bed, as children use to do, and we are undressing to follow._”
-
-In another letter the same writer says of himself--
-
-“I am grown exceedingly uneasy in writing and speaking, yea, almost in
-thinking, when I reflect how cloudy our clearest thoughts are; but, I
-think again what other can we do, till the day break and the shadows
-flee away, as one that lieth awake in the night must be thinking;
-and one thought that will likely oftenest return, when by all other
-thoughts he finds little relief, is, _when will it be day?_”
-
-You see he would have wondered to be spoken of thus--“Poor Leighton has
-gone.” Answer, “How very sad,”--when at last he had attained to that
-day.
-
-Let me show, by another noble instance, that, as Winter days, when they
-come, bring often unforeseen beauty and gladness with them, so not
-even the anticipation is always necessarily sad to the eye of exalted
-faith. Remember you those words of the mighty Apostle of Christ--when
-the Winter time was yet somewhat removed--with their more than calm
-anticipation of it, their deep warmth of joy?
-
- “To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. What I shall choose
-          I wot not.
-  For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and
-          to be with Christ; _which is far better_.”
-
-And then the stirring tones of exultation and triumph, as now but few
-leaves were left, and Winter days were even at the door.
-
- “I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
-  I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept
-          the faith:
-  Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which
-          the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.”
-
-Here is an aurora borealis flashing up to the heavens in light and
-splendour, over the wide snow landscape of Winter days.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-THE END OF THE SEASONS.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The Summer is past, the Autumn is passing quite away, the Harvest is
-long ended, the fruit all garnered. And the year seems as desolate as
-Solomon in his sad time, having been clad in more than all his glory.
-It has gathered gardens, and orchards, and pools, and singers, and
-delights; and whatsoever its eyes desired it kept not from them, nor
-withheld its heart from any joy or beauty; and it rejoiced in all its
-labour. But now what a change! You may fancy that it has looked on all
-the works that it had wrought, and on the labour that it had laboured
-to do,--and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there
-was no profit under the sun! And so it hastens to cast away all its
-gathered store and cherished delights, and stands naked, desolate,
-bankrupt, under the cold searching gaze of the clear bright stars. Ah!
-
-   “Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime,--
-    The many, many leaves all twinkling? Three
-    On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime,
-    Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree!”
-
-Nature is always beautiful to those who always look for beauty in her.
-But perhaps she is _least_ lovely when clad in a close thick fog. And
-it is thus that we have seen her continually of late. The wet black
-trees stood dim and ghostlike in the mist, and much like seaweed under
-tissue-paper. The hedges looked unreal and distant, as you passed
-between them on the pale road. Passengers and carriages loomed blurred
-and big and indistinct, out of the chill cloud in front of you, long
-after the wheels and the steps had been heard. Dull unglittering dew
-strung the branches that stretched over you, and gave a blunt light
-here and there in the hedge. You were isolated from your kind; scarce
-could you see one approaching until he was close upon you; and then,
-a few steps, and he was straightway swallowed up. It was not a fading
-morning mist; but a good November fog, one developing from cold blue to
-grey, and thence to yellow, and so on to tawny dun. Homeward-bound, you
-emerge from it into the railway-station. The train is late; the fire is
-pleasant; and you muse or doze away half-an-hour by the waiting-room
-fire. Presently a red spot dyes part of the mist; a behemoth mass
-is perceivable beside the platform; you get into a carriage, the
-whistle shrills, the train moves, and the station lights are gone in a
-minute,--and you also are swallowed up in the fog.
-
-And as you pass, up the garden, home,--the chance is that you hurry
-on, where you would have paused to admire beauty. In the cold fog,
-the asparagus, hung with leaden mist-drops that chilly gleam here and
-there, bends and falls about its mounded bed; a black, wet, sere leaf
-or two clings to the ragged black sticks against that wall; the acacias
-drop pattering drops upon the broad fallen sycamore leaves: you might
-as well walk through water, as cross that lawn for a short cut to the
-warm mellow room, at whose window, which opens to the ground, stands
-she who chiefly makes that house, home. You are not sorry to shut the
-windows, and to have the curtains drawn, and to let the earth stand
-without, like a shrouded ghost, clad in winding-sheet of fog, while
-you enjoy the genial blaze, the cosy meal, the little ones on your lap
-after dinner, the gentle wifely smile that loves to see these loved.
-
-Well, I contend that there is beauty even in the fog; but I will not
-stop to prove this now. I will only say that there is less beauty in
-this than in most other aspects of nature, and much excuse for the
-connecting the foggy bare time of year with chill and dreary thoughts.
-Then, growth of flower and fruit seems suspended, save for a scarlet
-splash on the hedge here and there; and dead-fingered fungi crowd in
-bunches above the graves of the flowers, and at the roots of the trees.
-
-The fields are bare, with no coming crops; only swart and
-self-satisfied pigs roam in herds over them: the grass has stopped
-growing; there is neither blossom nor fruit, nor leaves upon the trees;
-the birds’ nests are empty and sodden; hope and fulfilment seem alike
-departed, and death seems to reign in solitary gloom over the pale and
-shrouded land. Is not all this sad beyond tears?
-
-No; we are sure that this is not sad in the year, really; for that
-memory and hope are alike supporting the year’s aged steps, as it
-totters into December. The hope is to be found in every twig, as well
-as in the broad brown lands that are beginning to be ruled in music
-lines of thin emerald. The memory suggests by analogy, and in a sweet
-figure, those words that have comforted many a mourner,--
-
-  “I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are
-    the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the
-    Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works
-    do follow them.”
-
-It is not sad, really, to see the year in its bareness and barrenness;
-lonely winds searching over the cornless uplands, and sighing amid the
-stripped boughs; dull fogs brooding over the damp fields, and shrouding
-the universal desolation and decay. No; because the fruits _have been_,
-and are garnered in. It is not that the year’s work has been left,
-until too late, to do. It is only that _it is done_. It is not sad,
-really; for when we walk through the dull bare fields, that once moved
-with millions of stalks and one whisper, we think of the heaped, massed
-grain, or of the crumbling white flour, or of the tawny square loaves.
-Or, if we miss the dancing grass and the bobbing clover, we look at the
-goodly camps of close-stacked hay, under the peaked roofs of straw. And
-walking through the garden or the orchard, if for a moment we are
-chilled by the bare look of the pitiful cold boughs, black, and ragged,
-and starred with tears, our thought flies from these to the bright,
-smooth red or white cherries, and the dark blue-bloomed damsons, and
-the ruddy plums, and the yellow pears, and the grey greengages, and
-the dead-orange apricots, and the smooth nectarines, and the soft,
-crimson-hearted peaches,--all of which were, in their turn, yielded
-faithfully by those desolate branches. Ay, and we think with double
-satisfaction of a store yet left; of the cosy apples and freckled
-pears, sorted, wiped, and laid by in rows--brown-yellow nonpareils,
-streaked ribstones, mellow Blenheim oranges, and russets, betraying
-a gleam of gold just where the brown has rubbed. We may, perhaps,
-think--but this is a pleasing thought,--how different all would be with
-the year, were all this otherwise, and had the Spring, and Summer, and
-Autumn been squandered in merely making wreaths of dying flowers, that
-perished at the chill breath of the fogs and frosts.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Thus, then, our sober thought concludes. But still, to our fancy the
-year seems desolate, forlorn, and sad; the fog is a chill and heavy
-depression; the rain sobs out its heart in tears; the wind--
-
-                            “Like a broken worldling wails,
-    And the flying gold of the ruined woodland drives through the air.”
-
-In poetry, and even in prose, we do not most readily think of the
-year, between November and Christmas, as asleep after work done, but
-as stagnant, and brooding in despair over a wasted life and lost
-opportunities, and hopes withered and gone by. Why does this aspect
-arise most naturally to our mind? for no such thought would trouble
-that of a contemplating angel.
-
-Well, the truth is, that _we_ look through coloured glass, tinting with
-a hue of sadness to the mind’s eye things not really sad. We see the
-leaves circle down, and straightway are reminded that--
-
-   “We all do fade as a leaf.”
-
-We see the mists gather and the rain descend, and no one but can
-recall heavy mists of sorrow that rose over the heart’s landscape,
-and glooming clouds that burst in bitter tears. And the wind gets its
-wail as it passes through our heart, and not from the bare boughs of
-the watered resting trees. And we choose to represent the year as
-thoughtlessly glad and wastefully profuse in its lost seasons, and as
-_now_ broken-hearted and despairing; because this is so common a case,
-if not in our own experience, yet in the history of so very many about
-us. We cannot but think how this idle business and succeeding gloom is
-indeed to be found too often, too often, in the year of man’s life.
-Flowers, when he is young; flowers, in life’s prime; flowers, in its
-Autumn; and what will ye do in the end thereof? What, when the fogs
-and the frosts have come, and the evil days are close at hand, and the
-years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them? Where
-is the secure store, the treasure laid up in the safe garner, to cheer
-the heart when the sap has gone down for this year, and the fields are
-blank, and growth is stayed?
-
-How foolish, we can see and should readily acknowledge; how
-unpardonably shortsighted it would be of the Year to postpone its work
-of preparing, maturing, ripening its fruits until the dark, short,
-chill days towards its end. “It is the sweet pleasure time, this
-Spring; wait for Summer, I will then begin. Summer, with its thick
-leaves and hazy blue--who would begin at such a time as this to work?
-Autumn--let me enjoy the cool bracing air after Summer’s heat; soon,
-really, a start shall be made.” And so November--and all the year’s
-harvest, and all the year’s fruits to be begun, grown, matured, all
-the year’s work crowded into the last thin group of dwindling days.
-Desolate, indeed, would the year be then, and a wild wail of “Too
-late!” would sweep with a shiver over the dreary land; no sunshine
-now, no time, no opportunity, no inclination, no power. The sap would
-be sluggish, the impulse of growth gone by; and at last a stolid, hard
-frost of indifference and fixed sterility close the sad story of the
-year.
-
-Well, this may be fanciful--yet, brothers and sisters mine, that
-which is fanciful in the year of Nature, which always does God’s work
-faithfully, even while it enjoys His glad sun and refreshing rain, and
-smiles up to Him in flowers--that which is fanciful applied to the life
-of the Year, is gravely, heart-touchingly true of many and many a life
-of Man. Nature,
-
-   “True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed,
-    She renders for each scattered seed,
-    And to her Lord with duteous heed
-        Gives large increase:
-    Thus year by year she works unfee’d,
-        And will not cease.”
-
-But, many among us, how do _we_ look at this life, this brief life
-which God has given to each--a life which has so many close analogies
-with Nature’s year? For what is our short year given us? To trifle
-away? or to use in God’s service in preparing fruit for eternity--wheat
-that shall be gathered into God’s barn? The latter, you will own; and
-happy, if not your lips only, but your life gives this answer, too!
-
-But how many, owning the truth of this grave view of life with their
-words, deny it with their deeds! Yet a little longer--there is time
-enough. It is now the time for enjoyment--the time for work will come.
-Vain to answer,
-
-   “But if indeed with reckless faith,
-      We trust the flattering voice,
-    Which whispers, ‘Take thy fill ere death,
-      Indulge thee, and rejoice,’
-
-   “Too surely, every setting day,
-      Some lost delight we mourn,
-    The flowers all die along our way,
-      Till we, too, die forlorn”;
-
-and there is, then, indeed, an unredeemed bareness and desolation
-without the glow of memory or hope, in life’s ending days. Vain to urge
-this: even if the words call up a grave look for a while, the thought
-is soon shelved till “a convenient season.” And the life, if not the
-lips, of many proclaims--Let the world have my Spring, Summer, Autumn;
-and after that no doubt a good crop of holiness and heavenly-mindedness
-will yet be found in the thin last sere days of Life’s year. Let the
-world have the best of the year; we will spare its fragments and
-leavings for God. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, and Spring
-goes, and Summer passes, and Autumn dwindles, and the foolish heart
-begins to discover that it is too late then. For its life is chilled,
-its sap gone down, its fertility exhausted. It is not the time for
-blossoms now, or fruit; habits are fixed, and effort is paralysed;
-often ugly fungi have sprung from the ruins of comparatively innocent
-thoughtless delights. And this was not foreseen, nor will men believe
-it, although you sadly warn them of it. We read it from the Bible, we
-cry it from the pulpit--
-
-   “They that seek Me early shall find Me.”
-
-   “Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,
-    While the evil days come not,
-    Nor the years draw nigh,
-    When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.”
-
-   “To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts.”
-
-But young and old listen, and then go home to their Sunday dinner; and
-other talk, and other interests, and other thoughts, dry up the water
-that had stood in a little pool upon the heart, but had not sunk in.
-God’s Spirit could have drawn it in, but His help was not heartily
-asked, even if asked at all.
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Ah yes, is it not true, as one writes, that “men are ever beguiling
-themselves with the dream that they shall one day be what they are not
-now; they balance their present consciousness of a low worldly life,
-and of a mind heavy and dull to spiritual things, with the lazy thought
-that some day God will bring home to them in power the realities
-of faith in Christ. Who is there that has not at some time secretly
-indulged this soothing flattery, that the staid gravity of age, when
-youth is quelled, or the leisure of retirement, when the fret of busy
-life is over, or, it may be, the inevitable pains and griefs which are
-man’s inheritance, shall break up in his heart the now-sealed fountains
-of repentance, and make, at last, his religion a reality? So men dream
-away their lives in pleasures, sloth, trade, or study. Who has not
-allayed the uneasy consciousness of a meagre religion, with the hope
-of a future change? Who has not been thus mocked by the enemy of man?
-Who has not listened, all too readily, to him who would cheat us of the
-hour that is, and of all the spiritual earnings which faith makes day
-by day in God’s service, stealing from us the present hour, and leaving
-us a lie in exchange? And yet, this present hour is all we have.
-To-morrow must be to-day before we can use it; and day after day we
-squander in the hope of a to-morrow; but to-morrow shall be stolen away
-too, as to-day and yesterday. God’s kingdom was very nigh to him who
-trembled at the judgment to come. Felix trembled once; we nowhere read
-that he trembled again.”
-
-Habits are stronger when we are weaker. People forget this, and imagine
-that they can cast off fetters that have grown from silken to iron,
-and that with force that has dwindled from vigour to impotence. That
-they can lie fallow all the growing time of life, and cram clearing,
-ploughing, sowing, growth, harvest, all into the dark, few, shortening
-days of life’s decay. “A convenient season!” Ah! does this mean, then,
-_the end of the seasons_--the meagre leavings of life’s year? Is this
-the season convenient for God’s work--for the great purpose of our
-being? Is spiritual life likely to be then first lifting up its head,
-when all life is fading away?
-
-“Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” This is a command
-exquisitely applicable to the gleanings of an old age, whose harvest
-has been given to God:
-
-   “They shall still bring forth fruit in old age”;
-
---not like the old age of the year--for the fruit of this, at the best,
-is hips and haws, and holly-berries.
-
-But can the command ever apply to a life of which the world, and the
-flesh, and the devil have had the harvest? Will God accept the mere
-gleanings?
-
-        “Autumn departs--from busy fields no more
-        Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer;
-        Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o’er,
-        No more the distant reaper’s mirth we hear.
-        The last blithe shout hath died upon the ear,
-        And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain:
-        On the waste hill no forms of life appear,
-        Save where, sad laggard of the Autumnal train,
-    Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.”
-
-Thus, when the world’s shouts and glee have passed by him, may we
-sometimes see the sad late seeker of God occupied. Sometimes, not
-often; for be it well laid to heart that God’s enemies seldom leave any
-gleanings on their fields, but are busy with careful rake to collect
-even life’s last days. Not often; for settled habits are hardest to
-overcome; and when the character and tastes are formed, there will
-seldom remain even the hearty wish to alter. Not often, then, but
-_sometimes_, in later life the worldling, or the devil’s labourer,
-turns back with wrung hands and tears--smitten and pricked to the heart
-by some sharp voice from God--and wanders over the bare, desolate
-fields in life’s chill and fog, and shakes the dreary boughs;--if
-perhaps there may be a little handful of corn, or an overlooked grape,
-or any fruit, that yet may be tremblingly offered to the Master of the
-Harvest, when He comes to take account with His labourers.
-
-And now the question is, Is this late labour, labour in vain?
-
-   “Will God indeed with fragments bear,
-    Snatched late from the decaying year?
-    Or can the Saviour’s blood endear
-      The dregs of a polluted life?”
-
-He will: it can. If the heart be _truly_ turned to Him at last, it
-will not be turned to Him in vain. Many of my readers will recall a
-beautiful allegory of servants trading for their lord, and how one,
-late caused to tremble and to turn, brought at the reckoning-day salt
-tears and rough sackcloth, that changed as he bore them into rich
-stuff and jewels. Aye, a broken and a contrite heart, if real, at _no_
-time in life will He despise. Better give the harvest than only the
-gleanings, but better these than nothing.
-
-It is a base truth that men often only desert the world when the
-world deserts them. But, I have seen it observed, there is something
-very touching in the fact that men thus find that they must turn to
-God at last, after all, without Him, has disappointed, and that if
-they truly turn, so gracious is He, that He will deign to accept the
-world’s leavings. The story of the lost sheep, of the piece of money,
-but chiefly of the prodigal son, assure us of the truth of this. When
-he had spent all, it was,--all his rich patrimony of young powers,
-feelings, hopes, and after he had even gone after swine’s husks,--after
-he had spent _all_, the Father accepted the empty casket! When the
-seed-time, and the ripening-time, and the harvest-time had passed, the
-bare November fields and stripped boughs were accepted, because over
-them had gathered the mournful mist of true repentance, and because
-they were thickly strung with abundance of sorrowful tears!
-
-Oh, wonderful love, not of earth, but divine!--God deigns to prize what
-earth has thrown away! Therefore let those who seem even settled on
-their lees, fixed in the ways of the world or of sin, let them tremble
-exceedingly, but let them not despair. If they _will_, they yet _may_.
-Let them cry to the Helper, let them retrace the path with tears,
-gleaning as they go a scattered rare grain here and there,--redeeming
-the time, although the evil days have come. There is One for whose
-perfect merits the harvest of the saint and the handful of the sinner
-shall alike find acceptance; and though ’tis best to “sin not,”
-nevertheless, “if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father,
-Jesus Christ the righteous.”
-
-Let none presume, however; for the gleaning commonly goes the same way
-that the harvest has gone. And it were base indeed, designedly, to set
-apart only life’s leavings for God’s share. Oh, rather let those who
-can give life’s whole broad year to God!
-
-Too late, too late! This, if the year had postponed its work, must be
-the sad burden of the winds’ wailing over its desolate and weed-strewn
-fields. But it is a thought to humble the heart, and bring tears of
-shame and gratitude into the eyes, that no human life with which God’s
-Spirit is still striving need take that bitter wail for its own. Too
-late to love God? Nay, be assured that, if it _be_ love, it shall be
-as tenderly, gladly welcomed as the dawn of the lonely white Christmas
-rose on the bare Winter beds.
-
-          “For love too late can never glow;
-          The scattered fragments love can glean,
-          Refine the dregs, and yield us clean
-          To regions where one thought serene
-    Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-UNDER BARE BOUGHS.
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-December is here--one of those mild cheery days, however, when you
-can hardly realise that the boughs are indeed bare, and the beds
-flowerless, and the Spring birds far away;--one of those days which
-tempt you out into the garden, to saunter and loiter there, and look
-at the patches that will be snowdrops soon, and to think longingly
-of leaves where you had before naturally and as of course acquiesced
-in the canopy of bare boughs;--a day on which you--at least _I_--do
-not care to go beyond the garden. To me it seems a peaceful, and far
-from gloomy, churchyard. Like a spire that tall, ancient, ivy-clothed
-spruce-fir stands out of the shrubbery; here, near it, the gay laburnum
-tresses lie buried; here the pink apple-blossom crumbled into dust;
-each round bed along the lawn is sacred to the memory of some choice
-rose; the violets sleep under that high wall--the lilies, tall,
-white, stately, but dead and gone--claim remembrance from each side of
-the walk; the geraniums, verbenas, heliotropes, petunias, have their
-cemetery in those dark beds on the smooth sward, and each flower has
-some spot specially or generally consecrated to it.
-
-The memory of my old friends and companions has a tender charm for me,
-and I look at the stripped rose-twigs, and at the brown mould where the
-flowers were, with a faint halo of that feeling which is keen at the
-heart, when we pace among the mounds that hide the dust of friends.
-There is promise everywhere, I know, and the naked twigs are strung
-with germs of future leaves, and there are next year’s flowers sleeping
-at the heart of the rose. But I rather cling to any relic of the past,
-than care just now to look forward; and I hail this lingering arrested
-bud with the buff-yellow petals, or this half-shattered pure white
-blossom, as belonging to the sweet array of the dead flowers. True, I
-accept this cluster of the winter-cherry, leaning forward on to the
-path, an orange globe in a golden network; and the unfolding buds of
-the Christmas rose,--as being a link between the past and the future.
-But my thoughts slant backwards now, as I look upon the setting sun of
-the year; nor am I, in this mood, regarding it from the point that it
-will rise again all fresh and new to-morrow. No, I am not now concerned
-with the lovely wealth of leaves and flowers, the new year’s dower,--so
-soon all spent,--so soon all spent;--I am now of a mind to muse under
-the
-
-   “Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”
-
-Let me sit down under this network of sycamore and chesnut boughs,
-while the faint patches of pale sunlight move about me on the rank and
-drenched, yet ungrowing grass; let me sit down under the bare boughs,
-while the brown, wet, marred leaves huddle by the side of the garden
-seat, and under the barred plank that serves as my footstool. I dare
-say my old and unfailing friend will soon come and perch near me, his
-lover, and match the sad cheery gleams of sunlight with sad cheery
-gleams of song. Bird of the mild dark loving eye, and quick quiet
-motion, and olive plumage, and warm sienna-red breast; bird of the
-soft song,--passion subdued now to tenderness, hope that has sunk to
-patience, eagerness that is merged in tranquillity,--faithful bird,
-whose every tone and motion, familiar and loved, seems to fit the
-Winter heart as well as the Spring fancy,--those fervent, passionate
-songsters of the Spring, that now are flown, they never drowned to
-my ear thy quiet song of peace; no, not even in the days when the
-nightingale’s thrilling utterance made the world as it were full of
-the unsubstantial beauty of a dream. And so now I feel a sort of right
-to the calm and comfort of thy tranquil, unfailing utterance, when the
-evanescent dream has passed away, and the disenchanted world stands
-naked. Thus, while you are young, O my friends, and all the boughs are
-clothed, and all the birds are singing, and your heart makes answer
-to the loveliness and the music,--do not disdain, then, to listen to
-and to heed that quieter voice which tells, in an undertone, very
-beautiful, if attended to, of the love of God. Your heart, if you knew
-it, cannot really afford to dispense with it when all the woods are
-loud, “and all the trees are green.” And if you _did_ hear and heed and
-love it then, ah, how exquisite, how refreshing, how more than cheering
-the faithful notes appear, as you sit meditating under a pale winter
-sky, and looking at silent, leafless boughs,--and the songster draws
-nearer to you then, finding you alone!
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Well, let me, I say, sit me down on this garden seat, under these “bare
-ruined choirs,” and hail the one little chorister, whose quiet, modest
-song ever seems to me to compensate for the absence of all the rest.
-The dewdrops twinkle about me in the drenched grass, groups of brown
-toadstools cluster here and there, and wax-white fungi straggle away
-in a broken line; there is a scarlet gleam of hips in the rose-bushes
-under the shrubbery, and of mountain-ash higher above them. It is
-Winter, but nature has not forgotten to stick some sprays of Christmas
-about her bare pillars, and to twist them in devices about her arches,
-that run up around me into this groined roof above.
-
-The first thing that we all should muse about, under the bare boughs,
-would be, I suppose, the leaves that once clad them. Ay, even if, under
-the full shading foliage, we never thought to give them an upward
-glance of gratitude, love, and admiration. But they are gone, and what
-was taken as a matter of course is valued, now that it is missed. There
-is repining as to the desolation of Winter, and this from those who did
-not consciously enjoy the Summer.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-I cannot reproach myself on this score. I have loved and learnt by
-heart every shape and development, from the first vivid light of green
-to the sombre sameness of hue, and then the rich variety that dispersed
-this;--all this growth, and attainment, and decay have I heedfully and
-affectionately noted, during the space which separated last year’s bare
-boughs from these.
-
-   “A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime.”
-
-Yes, I saw that,--and I watched the juicy foliage deepen, and the thin
-maize-coloured strips of flower chequer the darkening full mass, and
-change the picture into
-
-   “The lime, a summer home of murmurous wings.”
-
-Then those curved chesnut boughs near the grass--I detected the first
-fresh crumpled gleam, bursting from the brown sticky buds, until all
-over the tree, as in an illumination,
-
-   “The budding twigs spread out their fan
-      To catch the breezy air.”
-
-And so I watched them into milky spires, and swarthy green globes,
-that grew brown, and fell, and burst threefold, lying among the heaped
-leaves, such a picture, with the white lining and bright nut!
-
-The beech, changing from soft silky fledging of its boughs into hardier
-green foliage, and afterwards becoming a very mint, each branch
-
-   “All overlaid with patines of bright gold”;
-
-and so subsiding into a sparer dress of sienna brown.
-
-   “The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores.”
-
-The brave oaks, soon passing out of their Chaucerian attire,
-
-   “Some very red, and some a glad light green,”
-
-and now all gnarled and knotted, and only clutching still a wisp of
-pale dull dry leaves here and there:--all these, be sure, have had
-their meed of attention and of regard from me. And so I sit under the
-bare boughs with no remorseful if with some regretful feelings. But
-still, I say, who can look up at the stripped branches in the Winter
-without sometimes giving fancy and memory leave to clothe them again
-with the fair frail dreams and hopes and enjoyments that, though they
-were evanescent, yet were beautiful, and that, though passing away with
-the Summer of Time, yet no doubt have influenced the Eternal growth of
-the Tree. Yes, sometimes it will be graceful, and at least not harmful,
-to let memory wander back into the days of childhood and of youth, and
-bid the frail and inexperienced foliage cover the branches again with
-that rich but short-lived beauty:
-
-   “Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
-      And phantom hopes assemble;
-    And that child’s heart within the man’s
-      Begins to move and tremble.”
-
-Aye, there they are again, for a moment, shimmering in the sunlight
-and in the shade, “clapping their little hands in glee.” But we start,
-and they are gone. And, instead, how clearly we may see the blue Sky
-through the stripped boughs!
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-I remember, some time ago, sitting under some sycamore trees, near
-the sea-side. Of course those trees are all bare now, but the leaves
-were then at the fall. It was just at that time of the year when all
-the sweeping in the world will not keep the lawn tidy, and every gust
-littered it with the crisp, curled leaves. Amid this surely advancing
-decay there was, however, a pathetic effort towards renovation and new
-life. The year could hardly yet quietly acquiesce in the truth that
-its once exuberant power of growth was over, and that it must give in
-to stagnation increasing to decay. The like of this we may trace in
-the human year: in the faded Beauty; in the worn-out Author and Wit;
-and there is always a sadness about the sight. Under the nearly black
-leaves some very yellow-green ones were clustering upon the lower
-shoots; a late frond or two bent timidly amid the burnt and battered
-growth of the fernery; autumn crocuses came like ghosts upon the rich
-moist beds, but fell prone with an overmastering weakness; one gleam
-of laburnum drooped, and two white clusters of pear-blossom tried to
-ignore the heavy mellowing fruit; and some frail crumpled bramble-bloom
-appeared among the blackberries; tenderest and most touching, but
-wildest and most abortive endeavour, a primrose, too pale even for
-that pale flower, started up here and there out of the long draggled,
-ragged leaves. I know that many days ago winter must have frightened
-away all this frail gathering, the more easily and suddenly, because
-of their weakness and timidity. But I took pleasure in watching and
-moralising upon the impotent yet graceful struggle. And then, I recall,
-I sat down under the trees, much as I do now, and in much such a day.
-The flickering spots of faint sunlight moved slowly on the sward: the
-day was calm, after a wild windy Summer. It was cool for Autumn as
-this is warm for Winter, and so the two days were near akin, except
-for this one difference, that the leaves were mostly still upon the
-trees. They had begun in good earnest to fall, but they were still
-left in considerable numbers upon the boughs. And I fell, after some
-unconscious watching these leaves, into a fit of musing upon them.
-There was a peculiarity about them all which caught my attention. Let
-me set down, under these bare boughs, some of my thoughts at that time.
-It can be done the less unkindly now that that generation of leaves
-has all, some weeks ago, fluttered away.
-
-The peculiarity was this. The trees being within the scope of many
-contending and fierce and unremitting winds, there was not upon any
-twig, that I could see, one single _perfect_ leaf. Perhaps a young one,
-just born, and to die almost as soon as born, might keep somewhat of
-its intended shape. But those that had endured the fierce winds and the
-heat and the rain and the blights,--ah, how shattered and scarred and
-stained they were! Some marred out of any trace of the intention of
-their birth; rent and beaten into a sorry strip, hardly to be called a
-leaf at all. But even the best were defaced and disfigured, spotted and
-imperfect.
-
-Now sentiment about these leaves would, obviously, be extremely
-ill-placed. But my thought traced in these battered masses of the
-sycamore a picture of this life of ours, until the trees almost became
-a mirror, in which I, with the myriad race of much-enduring men, seemed
-to be exactly reflected. _Not one_ perfect leaf; many _so_ shattered
-and stained and marred. So beaten out of that pattern to which God had
-designed them. Some with hardly the very least trace of that Image in
-which mankind was at first moulded. Most with little to remind us of
-it. But, saddest of all, it seemed to me, there was not one, not even
-the best, which would bear close inspection. Not one but, even if the
-shape were somewhat preserved, had yet some ugly scar or hole or crack;
-not one perfect, no, not one!
-
-And so it is, that we are in truth fain to accept for our idea of a
-good man here, merely that one who is least defaced and disfigured.
-The wise among men, what is he, but only one not quite so foolish as
-most others. The kind, only one that is less often cruel. The dutiful,
-and obedient, only one that is at least and at best inadequately
-trying among the gross that are utterly careless, to fear God, and to
-regard man. How negative most of our goodness is, and the qualities
-whose possession inspires our fellow-men with admiration! A good son,
-a good husband--this surely only means one who is not bad, undutiful,
-unjust, unkind. And yet who could lay claim to either title, nor
-exhibit some, yea many, flaws and spots? And for positive goodness--ah,
-well, if it were not for the utterly marred and ragged growth with
-which we are surrounded, there would be little fear, surely of any,
-such as are we, laying claim to the possession of that here. _Great
-and good men?_--Rent and shattered, rent and shattered; and if in
-comparison with the shreds about us, we trace in ourselves some hint
-of the original shape, how often we must then think, “I was more in
-shelter, lower down on the tree,” and how little inclined shall we be,
-contemplating sadly our own stains and clefts, to think superciliously
-and pharisaically of those mere strips that, growing on the higher
-boughs, seemed the prey of every rough wind that blew.
-
-   “Safe home, safe home in port!--
-    Rent cordage, shattered deck,
-    Torn sails, provisions short,
-    And _only not a wreck_.”
-
-This seems the most that the best can say. And that this is so, appears
-to me sad. God’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; and I
-puzzle about this long and universal history of successes which are but
-half-failures. Inveterate as is the evil of our nature, vast as has
-been its fall, yet, I ask myself, is there any limit to the stores of
-God’s grace? And, with such an armoury, ought the fight to be so sorry,
-only just not a defeat? I know we cannot attain; I know that perfection
-must fly before us, and ever elude our grasp, in this state. I know, by
-a guess, that the nearer we seem to it, in the view of others, surely
-the farther we shall, in our own view, appear to be behind it, the
-more vainly striving after it. And I know, nevertheless, that the soul
-hungry and thirsty for righteousness shall have even here some daily
-bread, to satisfy just the most restless gnawing of its desire, and
-that hereafter it shall fully feast, and be satisfied, at the Marriage
-Supper of the Lamb.
-
-But what distresses me is this: that even truly good men are often, if
-not always, so disappointing. You were awakened to the loveliness of
-Christianity, and yearning for sympathy and advice; you sought one of
-those ideals which seemed, to hope and fancy, sure to be embodiments
-of it--and how often a chilling want of gentleness, or patience, or
-tenderness, closed up the heart’s opening blossom! Or carrying some
-opportunity for serving Christ in the person of a poor member of
-His Body, to one who, you felt sure, would, at least, meet you with
-kindliness, if unfortunately other calls precluded aid: how often a
-cold manner or a chilling snub disappoints and damps you! There is
-frequently too much bloodless, abstract faith, where you expected warm
-human interest; and wounded and hurt and baffled, you betake yourself
-to the only perfect sympathy, that of God. There is hardness, where
-you had taken for granted Christ’s tenderness would be found; there is
-bitterness, where you had counted upon Christ’s badge of love (St. John
-xiii. 35); there is pride, even, where you had never dreamed of finding
-anything but absolute humility. There is anxiety about worldly matters,
-where you had pictured a perfect, restful trust in God; carefulness
-and trouble about many things, where you had looked forward to seeing
-at last the calm sitting at the Saviour’s feet. There is irritability,
-and fussiness at trifles, where you had dreamed that things of eternal
-moment would alone have greatly moved: there is, upon the whole,
-disappointment, where you had looked for the realisation of that Ideal
-which you possess, and after which you did not wonder to find your own
-weak self vainly toiling. The winds and the blights seem too much for
-poor human nature, that will not draw, as it might, upon Divine grace;
-and upon every branch that we examine, there is not a leaf that is not
-sadly marred and imperfect; no, not one.
-
-I know this must be, in a measure, in this wingless, fallen state.
-I know that in the sight of God and of angels, yea, of our own
-selves, if we have at all really learned what goodness is, the best
-of us are but weak buffeters of those waters of evil in which many
-around us are drowning. Still, without taking an Angel’s point of
-view, might not our light, at least before men, shine a little more
-brightly and consistently, and not be made up of mere alternations of
-spasmodic flares and dimness or darkness? Must there be so many spots
-of inconsistency, so many rents of surely elementary and avoidable
-unloveliness; so many high places not taken away, even though God be
-served somewhat in His Temple; such marring flies making even genuine
-and precious ointment to stink?
-
-Oh, I often think that in this world and in this day, there lies a
-great opportunity unclaimed! When we see the powerful influence which
-even a broken and unequal attempt at service, at fulfilling the mere
-elements of our duty to God and to man, exerts upon a world where
-it is the rare exception even to _attempt_ earnestly, then I think,
-what might not a perseverance beyond the first steps (and God’s grace
-knows no stint), what might not a steady advance towards perfection
-work in this sceptical, critical, anxious, weary world? This world
-narrowly watches for flaws, and, finding them, strengthens itself in
-its carelessness and godlessness. But if compelled to acknowledge a
-reality, a fulfilment of those theories which it has come to consider
-as scarcely meant, quite impossible, to be reduced to practice; if
-forced to acknowledge a sterling goodness, human and yet Divine, which
-stands the searching tests by which men try profession; it will then
-fall vanquished before it, and, in many things, surrender itself to the
-influence of a goodness alike strict, gracious, and glad. If the good
-man set sentinels at all sides of his life, and not only at one or two
-chosen posts; if he were ever trimming his lamp, seeking and pouring
-in more oil; not letting any slovenly black fungus grow on the wick,
-and dim part of the flame--how much might a few such bright and steady
-lights do in reproving the darkness, and bringing out sister gleams!
-How might we, thus rebuked, instead of resting proud of our sickly
-glimmer, set to work in good earnest, with watchfulness and prayer,
-to mend our flame, until the noble rays of the lighthouse, and the
-clustering lesser lights beneath, might lure some that were driven and
-tossed homelessly upon the treacherous, troubled seas. Now the lights
-often go out when they are wanted, and the beacon is dark just when a
-despairing look was cast towards it; and so the dreary, hopeless course
-is renewed.
-
-A perfect man must be kind and wise, patient and loving,--not one
-whose life shall make the worldling sore and resentful, but shall
-rather make him sad and longing,--not one who boasts to be a “man of
-prayer,” but forgets to be a man of love,--not one who makes Faith the
-cuckoo nestling that edges out Charity,--not one too much absorbed in
-devotion, and even divine and religious contemplation, to enter into
-the difficulties, and wants, and cries, and doubts, and struggles of
-those beneath the mountain which he is ascending. He must be one of
-a universal kindliness,--of an always ready sympathy for any feeling
-which he perceives to be real, howsoever it find no echo in his own
-heart; one ever just, generous, forbearing, forgiving; ever ready to
-stop and to descend to raise the fallen; firm and fixed in principle,
-but tender and gentle in heart; speaking the truth, but speaking it
-still in love; severity against sin never swamping yearning for the
-sinner; never base or mean in things large or little; always ready to
-suppose the best of others; never vaunting, never puffed up; not easily
-provoked; thinking no evil; rejoicing with the joyful, weeping with
-the sad; hard only upon himself; bearing all things, believing all
-things, hoping all things, enduring all things. Never giving others
-to understand that he has already attained, or is already perfect; not
-counting himself to have apprehended, but _pressing toward the mark_.
-Alas! it is true that men are mostly content with a very low standard,
-and if they seem to themselves and others to have attained that, easily
-rest there;--and the great opportunity passes away ungrasped.
-
-Torn leaves, tattered leaves, at best marred and imperfect, not one
-approaching perfection, not one without a flaw. Ah, yes, one,--and one
-only. How glorious the thought that in Christ, born into the world, and
-taking our nature upon Him,--in Christ, the Seed of the woman,--this
-our poor human nature, tattered, torn, and defaced, is exalted into
-absolute and eternal Perfection. All the fiercest storms and blights
-and heats attacked our nature in Him, but attacked it in vain. The most
-minute and scrutinising examination can here detect no least speck, or
-swerving from the ideal of symmetry. In Him we see what we long, vainly
-it seems, to be. In Him we see that towards which He would exalt us, if
-we will be exalted,--that which we may in a sense attain, if we will be
-perfected. And so at last we turn from sad contemplation of innumerable
-greater or less failures, and dwell restfully and hopefully upon the
-only and all-sufficient perfect One. To be like Him when He shall
-appear, oh, glorious hope that He has given us! to awake thus in the
-Spring of the Next Year, and this in a Land where there are no blights,
-nor colds, nor heats, to mar that shape. But let us remember, that
-having this hope, we should even now be purifying ourselves, even as He
-is pure.
-
-But here a burst of little ones comes into the garden, anxious for
-my leave and help to cut boughs of the holly and the box to clothe
-the rooms for Christmas, and to divert thoughts of the bare boughs
-that stand without. And it is well that my musings should thus be
-interrupted, and should thus end. Among the bare branches of the
-saddest thought there may still be found warm-berried evergreens,
-planted by God’s love here and there. And all that tells here of Death
-and Winter, tells of that which is temporary and evanescent, now that
-the LIFE has come into the world. Even the cold stripped trees and the
-buried flowers,--there is hope in their death,--and how much are we
-better than they!
-
-And thus the Poet whom I quoted above goes on to thought of that Spring
-from the contemplation of the rending winds and stripping Winter here:
-
-      “Safe home, safe home in port!--
-      Rent cordage, shattered deck,
-      Torn sails, provisions short,
-      And only not a wreck.
-    _But, oh, the joy upon the shore,
-    To tell our voyage perils o’er!_
-
-      “The prize, the prize secure!
-      The athlete nearly fell,
-      Bare all he could endure,
-      And bare not always well;
-    _But he may smile at troubles gone,
-    Who sets the victor garland on._”
-
-Well, I must muse no longer, I see, but give up myself to the will
-of the children. Come along, then, and let us make all bright and
-cheery at this joyous season. Tall sprays of thick-berried holly;
-golden winter cherries, laurel, and yew, and box; ay, and if you will,
-Cyril shall climb the old mossy gnarled apple-tree, and bring down a
-branching bunch of that pale-green, Druid-loved parasite, with its
-berries like opal beads. In this happy time the children may well claim
-to have their “time to laugh,” and to rejoice; and the elders may look
-on or join with kindly geniality. Yea, we may say, “It is _meet_ that
-we should make merry and be glad;--for this our earth was dead, and is
-alive again; and was lost, and is found.”
-
-Laugh and be happy, therefore, at the Christmas time. Only in enjoying
-the holiday, let not its etymology and true meaning be altogether
-lost sight of. And remember that it is only the thought of the Spring
-of Eternity that can take away the sadness from the contemplation of
-Time’s bare boughs.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-  LONDON:
-  ROBERT K. BURT, PRINTER,
-  WINE OFFICE COURT, FLEET STREET.
-
-
-
-
-Transcriber’s Notes
-
-
-Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
-predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not
-changed.
-
-Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
-quotation marks retained.
-
-Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.
-
-Text uses both “chesnut” and “chestnut”; both retained here.
-
-Some illustrations intertwined with the text. That appearance has
-been followed in versions of this eBook capable of such visual
-presentations; in other versions, the illustrations precede the text.
-However, when the illustration included the first letter of the first
-word of a chapter, that letter has been repeated here as part of the
-text.
-
-
-
-
-
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-<pre>
-
-Project Gutenberg's The Harvest of a Quiet Eye, by John Richard Vernon
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-Title: The Harvest of a Quiet Eye
-       Leisure Thoughts for Busy Lives
-
-Author: John Richard Vernon
-
-Release Date: February 28, 2017 [EBook #54261]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARVEST OF A QUIET EYE ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Howard, and the
-Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-
-<h1>The Harvest of a Quiet Eye.</h1>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p class="newpage p4 center vspace">
-<i>With Numerous Illustrations by<br />
-Noel Humphreys, Harrison Weir, Wimperis Pritchett, Miss Edwards,<br />
-and other eminent Artists.</i>
-</p>
-
-<hr />
-
-<div class="newpage p4 bbox2"><div class="bbox">
-<p class="p2 center larger">
-THE HARVEST OF A QUIET EYE.</p>
-
-<p class="p2 center xxlarge vspace">LEISURE THOUGHTS<br />
-<span class="xxsmall"><span class="small">FOR</span></span><br />
-BUSY LIVES.</p>
-
-<p class="p2 center smaller"><span class="smcap">By the Author of “My Study Chair,” “Musings,” etc.</span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 12.5625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_003.jpg" width="201" height="31" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="p2 center vspace"><span class="smaller">LONDON:<br />
-THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,<br />
-<span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">56, Paternoster Row</span>; <span class="smcap">65, St. Paul’s Churchyard</span>;<br />
-<span class="smcap">And 164, Piccadilly</span>.</span></span>
-</p>
-</div></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_005a.jpg" width="467" height="600" alt="" />
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“<em>The outward shows of sky and earth,</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>Of hill and valley he has viewed;</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>And impulses of deeper birth</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>Have come to him in solitude.</em><br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“<em>In common things that round us lie,</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>Some random truths he can impart,</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>&mdash;The harvest of a quiet eye</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>That broods and sleeps on his own heart.</em>”<br /></span>
-</div>
-<div class="attrib">WORDSWORTH.</div>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<div id="CONTENTS" class="chapter">
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 24.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_007-0.jpg" width="387" height="298" alt="Contents" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="padding-left: 4em; width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_007-1.jpg" width="387" height="114" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="padding-left: 4em; max-width: 8.1875em;"><img src="images/i_007-2.jpg" width="131" height="185" alt="" /></div>
-<p class="large bold center l4"> <br />CONTENTS.</p>
-
-<table summary="Contents">
-  <tr class="small">
-    <td> </td>
-    <td class="tdr nopad">PAGE</td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Old Year and the New</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#THE_OLD_YEAR_AND_THE_NEW">1</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Musings on the Threshold</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#MUSINGS_ON_THE_THRESHOLD">23</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Spring Days</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#SPRING_DAYS">41</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Musings in a Wood</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#MUSINGS_IN_A_WOOD">63</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The May-days of the Soul</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#THE_MAY-DAYS_OF_THE_SOUL">85</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Summer Days</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#SUMMER_DAYS">101</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Musings in the Hay</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#MUSINGS_IN_THE_HAY">123</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Beauty of Rain</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#THE_BEAUTY_OF_RAIN">145</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Autumn Days</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#AUTUMN_DAYS">161</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Musings on the Sea-shore</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#MUSINGS_ON_THE_SEA-SHORE">183</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Musings on the Mountains</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#MUSINGS_ON_THE_MOUNTAINS">199</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Musings in the Twilight</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#MUSINGS_IN_THE_TWILIGHT">221</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Winter Days</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#WINTER_DAYS">241</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The End of the Seasons</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#THE_END_OF_THE_SEASONS">265</a></td></tr>
-  <tr>
-    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Under Bare Boughs</span></td>
-    <td class="tdr"><a href="#UNDER_BARE_BOUGHS">283</a></td></tr>
-</table>
-</div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix">ix</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="Preface"></a>Preface</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33.125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_009.jpg" width="530" height="379" alt="Preface" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">These</span> papers, written in the intervals of parish work, have
-appeared in the pages of the <cite>Leisure Hour</cite> and the <cite>Sunday at
-Home</cite>. Their publication in a collected form having been decided
-upon by others, it only remained for me, by careful revision and
-excision, to render them as little unworthy as might be of
-starting for themselves in the wide world.</p>
-
-<p>I shall not say that I am sorry that they are thus sent forth
-on their humble mission. Indeed, I am glad. “Brief life is
-here our portion”:&mdash;and surely the wish is one natural to
-all earnest hearts, that our work for our Master in this sad
-and sinful world should not have its term together with the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x">x</a></span>
-quick ending of our short day’s labour here:&mdash;and a book
-has the possibility of a longer life than that of a man. The
-Night cometh, when none can work; how sweet, if it might
-be, that when the day is ended, when the warfare, for us,
-is over, we may have left some strong watchwords, or some
-comfortable and cheering utterances, still ringing in the ears
-of those who stepped into our place in the unbroken ranks.</p>
-
-<p>Yes, the evening soon falls on the field; the day is brief,
-nor fully employed; inanimate things seem to have an advantage
-over us; streams flow on, and mountains stand;</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We men, who, in our morn of youth, defied<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The elements, must vanish:&mdash;be it so!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Enough, if something from our hands have power<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To live, and act, and serve the future hour.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And I may be permitted to hope that possibly these meditations
-may have such power and perform such, service in their
-modest way. They have but the ambition of a flower that
-looks up to cheer, or a bird’s note that tranquilly, amid storms,
-continues a simple melody from the heart of its tree. They
-will, like these, be easily passed by, but, like these, may have
-a message for hearts that will look and listen.</p>
-
-<p>There is certainly, in the present age, a want of writing that
-shall rest and brace the mind; of meditative writing of a
-tendency merely holy and practical, rather shunning than plunging<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi">xi</a></span>
-into controversy:&mdash;not the cry of the angry or startled bird,
-but its evening and morning orisons rather. A contemplative
-strain; one linked with things of earth, and hallowing them&mdash;one
-heard beside “the common path that common men
-pursue”:&mdash;one rising from the common work-a-day experiences,
-joys, and pains&mdash;rising from these and carrying them up with
-it heavenward, until even earth’s exhalations catch the light
-of an unearthly glory. We want more of this spiritual rest;
-more of this standing apart from the perturbations of the day;
-more of retirement and retired thought&mdash;thought that shall
-leave the throng, with its absorbed purpose and pushing and
-jostling, always eager, often angry; and having secured a lonely
-standing-point apart from it all, become better able to judge of
-the real truth and importance, also of the just relation of things.</p>
-
-<p>I cannot claim to have done more than make a slight attempt
-towards the supply of this want. Nay, I would rather lay claim
-not to have <em>attempted</em>. This is the age of effort and strain; it
-were well that thought were sometimes permitted to be natural,
-spontaneous, and simply expressive of that which the heart’s
-meditations have laid by in store. A stream thus welling up
-will want the precision and the single aim of the artificial jet,
-but it will have its modest use and value to cheer and to
-refresh lowly grasses, and perhaps to water the roots of loftier
-growths in its vagaries and meanderings.</p>
-
-<p>In these times men will be held nothing if not controversial;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii">xii</a></span>
-and rival parties will skim the book for shibboleths before they
-read or throw it by. Assuredly fixed principles and definite
-teaching are (if ever at one time more than another) of
-special importance in the present day; and I am not one who
-think it well to blow both hot and cold at pleasure. Only
-I would ask, is there absolute need that we be <em>always blowing</em>
-either? may we not sometimes be permitted simply to breathe?
-There are occasions on which I find myself compelled to blow
-one or the other, but I grudge the good breath spent in the
-exertion, and prefer to return to the normal state of even
-respiration. A story, told of Archbishop Leighton’s youth, is
-to the point:&mdash;“In a synod he was publicly reprimanded for
-not ‘preaching up the times.’ ‘Who,’ he asked, ‘does preach
-up the times?’ It was answered that all the brethren did
-it. ‘Then,’ he rejoined, ‘if all of you preach up the times,
-you may surely allow one poor brother to preach up Christ
-Jesus and eternity.’”</p>
-
-<p>No doubt, we must be militant here on earth, militant
-against every form of error&mdash;old error undisguised, and old
-error in a new dress; but the more need that we should
-secure breathing times when we may sheathe the biting sword
-and lay the heavy armour by. Perhaps many with whom we
-war, or from whom we stand aloof in suspicion, would be
-found, when the vizors were raised, to be brothers, and henceforth
-warriors by our side.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii">xiii</a></span>
-One word as to the title of this book. “The Harvest of a
-Quiet Eye.” This has always been a favourite line with me,
-and now I take it to describe my unpretentious volume, though
-this be rather a handful gleaned than a harvest got in. With
-some people this gleaning by the way would be contemned, in
-their single-eyed advance upon some goal; with some it is a
-thing continual and habitual, this instinctive gathering and half-unconscious
-storing of hints and touches of wayside beauty&mdash;a
-process so well described in Wordsworth’s verses. To have an
-eye for the wide pictures and slight studies of Nature; to gather
-them up, in solitary walks which thus are not lonely; to lay
-them by, together with the heart’s deeper thoughts, its associations,
-meditations, and reminiscences;&mdash;this is to fashion common
-things into a beauty which, to the fashioner at least, may be a
-joy for ever.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“To see the heath-flower withered on the hill,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To listen to the woods’ expiring lay,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On the waste fields to trace the gleaner’s way,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And moralise on mortal joy and pain,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">&mdash;this has been with me the secondary occupation of many a
-walk, solitary or in company. A rosy sunbeam slanting down
-a bank, and catching the stems of the ferns and the tops of
-the grasses; a coral twist of briony berries; a daisy in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiv">xiv</a></span>
-December;&mdash;the eye would be caught, and the train of grave
-or anxious musing intermitted without being broken off, by
-the ever-allowed claim of Nature’s silent poetry. And often
-the deeper meaning of such poetry would run parallel with
-the mind’s thought&mdash;sometimes suggest for it a new path.</p>
-
-<p>“Few ears of scattered grain.” Though this be all my
-harvest, yet if that be grain at all which has been collected,
-it may have its use. He who with a very little fed a great
-multitude, has a ministry for even our humble handfuls. At
-His feet be this laid: may He accept and bless it, and deign
-to refresh and hearten by its means some few at least of those
-who, faint and weary, are following Him in the wilderness of
-this world!</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 9.9375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_014.jpg" width="159" height="115" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1">1</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">3</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="THE_OLD_YEAR_AND_THE_NEW"></a>THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 34.25em;">
-  <img src="images/i_017-0.jpg" width="548" height="341" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 34.25em;"><img src="images/i_017-1.jpg" width="548" height="197" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 12.5em;"><img src="images/i_017-2.jpg" width="200" height="144" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0 larger">A HAPPY NEW YEAR!</p>
-
-<p>Words repeated by how many myriads,
-in how many zones&mdash;tropic, temperate,
-frigid, wherever the English tongue is
-spoken! Words said commonly with
-more of meaning and sincerity than fall
-to the lot of many almost-of-course salutations. Words in
-which there is a shade of melancholy, and a gleam of gladness;
-a lingering of regret, with the very new birth of anticipation.
-“A Happy New Year.”</p>
-
-<p>Ah, but it is not unlike parting with an old friend, the
-saying good-bye to the Old Year. And it seems unkind
-to turn from him who has so long dwelt with us, and to
-take up too jauntily with a new friend.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">4</a></span>
-He had his faults: but, at any rate, we know them; and
-those of the new-comer have yet to be discovered. And his
-virtues seem to stand out in bolder relief, now that we feel that
-we shall never see him again. Such experiences, too, we have
-had together! we have been sad and merry in company, and
-the days of our past society come with a warm rush to our
-<span class="locked">heart:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Though his eyes are waxing dim,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And though his foes speak ill of him,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He was a friend to me.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>And so we keep hold still of his hand, loth, very loth indeed
-to part&mdash;as we sit in silence by the flickering fire, and listen to
-the sudden bursts and sinking of the bells.</p>
-
-<p>It is our habit&mdash;(I speak in the name of myself, and of many
-of my readers)&mdash;it is an immemorial custom with us, to
-assemble, all that can do so, in the old home, from which we
-have at different times taken wing&mdash;to gather together there
-again, on the last night of the Old Year. I have heard the
-plan objected to, but I never heard any objections that to my
-mind seemed weighty ones. True, the gaps that must come
-from time to time, are perhaps most of all brought prominently,
-sadly before us, at such a gathering as this. We miss the
-husband, the brother, the sweet girl-daughter, the little one’s
-pattering feet&mdash;ah, sorely, sorely then! Last year the familiar
-face was here, and now, now, far away, under the white sheet
-of snow. This is sad, but it is not a mere unstarlit night of
-gloom. Nay, I maintain that, to those who look at it rightly,
-more and brighter stars of comfort shine out then than at
-other times to compensate for the deepening dark. There is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">5</a></span>
-the comfort of sympathy, and of seeing in all surrounding faces
-how the lost one was loved. But, especially, it seems as though,
-when all are met again, he may not be far away from the circle
-that was so unbroken upon <span class="locked">earth:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Nor count me all to blame if I<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Conjecture of a stiller guest,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Perchance, perchance, among the rest,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And, though in silence, wishing joy.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>And most of all, there is the old-fashioned, but ever new
-comfort&mdash;balm, indeed, of Gilead, for every bereaved heart.</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which
-are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.</p>
-
-<p>“For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them
-also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>And these home gatherings, yearly growing more incomplete,
-and yearly increasing, lead the heart to glad thought of that
-reunion hereafter, in that House of our Father in which the
-mansions are many, the Home, one.</p>
-
-<p>Well, you are gathered, my friend and reader, you and your
-dear ones, about your father’s fireside on this last night of the
-Old Year. The hours have stolen on: at ten o’clock the
-servants came in, and the last family prayers have been offered
-up, and the last thanksgiving of the assembled household for
-this year; and the chamber candlesticks have been set out, and
-the father has drawn his chair near the fire, and another log
-cast upon it crackles and flashes; and each and all announce
-the intention of seeing the Old Year out and the New Year in.</p>
-
-<p>Cheery talk, reminiscent talk, pensive talk, thankful talk;
-a little silence. The wind flaps against the window, and throws<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">6</a></span>
-against it a handful of the Old Year’s cast-off leaves. The
-clock on the mantelpiece gives eleven sharp, clear tings. The
-year has but an hour to live. And now the wind brings
-up a clear ring of bells; and then sinks, that the Old
-Year may die in peace, and his requiem be well heard over
-the waking land.</p>
-
-<p>But an hour to live! And the burden of depression that
-ever comes with the exceeding sweetness of bells, loads, grain
-after grain, the descending scale of your spirits. It is a
-solemn time, a time for quiet: a time in which it is well
-to leave even the dear faces, and to get you apart alone
-with God.</p>
-
-<p>So you steal away from the fireside blaze; and ascend the
-creaking stairs, and enter your own room; and close the door,
-even as a dear Friend long ago advised; and offer the last
-worship of the year&mdash;confessions, supplications, intercessions,
-praises. You go over the dear names, sweet beads of the
-heart’s rosary, telling them one by one to God, with their
-several wants and needs. You mention once more the special
-blessings to them and to yourself of the past year. You put,
-once more, all the future for them and for you into that kind,
-wise Father’s hand; and you feel rested then, and at peace.
-A few words read, for the last time this year, in the Book of
-books; and now there is yet a little space for quiet thought
-about the dying year, before his successor enters at the door.</p>
-
-<p>And it is then, as you sit pensively before the dancing fire,
-alone in your silent room&mdash;while the bell music now comes in
-bursts, and now dies in whispers&mdash;that a sort of abstract of
-many thoughts that have hovered about you all day is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7">7</a></span>
-summoned up before your mind. It is the hour of soft regret,
-helped, I say, by those merry, melancholy bells, which</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Swell up and fail, as though a door<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Were shut between you and the sound.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>You have had your sad times in the year that is so nearly
-dead; you have shed your bitter tears; you have had your
-lonely hours, your weariness of this unsatisfying, disappointing
-world. Unkindness, estrangement, bereavement, intense
-solitariness of the spirit, when it is conscious that not another
-being than the Creator can ever understand, far less supply,
-its want, or heal its woe&mdash;these experiences, these wearing,
-shaping, refining operations of the kind Father are part of
-your memories of the dying year. While their bitterness was
-present with you, you would have said that it was impossible
-that you could ever regret to part with the year that brought
-them. “Ring out,” you would have said, “ring out, wild
-bells, this unkind and bitter year; this year that hath brought
-a blight over my life; this year that hath dispelled the dreams
-of youth, and changed into a wilderness that which did blossom
-as the rose. Ring out, and let this hard year die. Fleet, hours
-and days and weeks and months, and set a distance between me
-and what I long to call the <em>past</em>. Ring out, wild bells, to the
-wild sky; gladly would I say now, even now, while I listened
-to <span class="locked">you&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The year is dying&mdash;let it die!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But those hours of bitterness are now, even now, of the past.
-That sharp pain, or that weary ache, is dulled, perhaps removed.
-Perhaps you have learned God’s lesson in it, and can thank<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">8</a></span>
-Him, though the ache still dwells in the heart’s heart; at any
-rate, the Old Year is passing away; the sad Old Year, the glad
-Old Year; on the whole&mdash;yes, on the whole, the <em>dear</em> Old Year.
-He is with you but for a few minutes more; he has come to say
-good-bye.</p>
-
-<p>Who does not unbend at such a time? In all the friendships,
-in all the ties of life, there comes up surely all the warmth, all
-the kindly feeling of the heart, when the time comes which is
-to end that connection for ever. There may have been some
-old grudges, discontents, heart-burnings, jealousies, disappointments.
-But they are forgotten now, and the eyes have a kindly
-light, and the lips a tender word, and the hand a hearty shake,
-when it has indeed come to saying good-bye.</p>
-
-<p>And so with the Old Year, whatever he has been to us,
-whatever little disagreements we may have had, whatever heart-burnings,
-they are not much remembered now.</p>
-
-<p>It is a friend that is leaving you, you are not glad to part
-with him; <em>good-bye, Old Year, good-bye</em>.</p>
-
-<p>Another regretful thought, as the twilight flickers and dances
-on the blind, and those bells still dance hand-in-hand, row
-after row, close up to the window, and still pass away hardly
-perceived into the distant fields. The dying Year brought
-some happiness, some love; this is now warm and safe in the
-nest of the heart; the coming time may fledge it, and it may,
-some summer day, take sudden wing and fly.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“He brought me a friend, and a true, true love,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the New Year will take ’em away.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Youth is especially the time, perhaps, for a sort of tender<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">9</a></span>
-prophetic hint of the evanescence and passing away of hopes,
-loves, dreams. It is indeed but a rose-leaf weight on the
-heart, but a gossamer passing across the sun; yet there it
-frequently is. The iron hand of real crushing bereavement, of
-actual anguish, has never yet had the heart in its gripe, to
-crush out all that more tender sentiment. Yet some soft, faint
-shadows of darker hours do, unaccountably, fall early across
-the daisy fields of youth. And thus in youth a certain foreshadowing,
-in mature years a stern experience, brings into the
-heart at this time a thoughtful dread of losing what we already
-have; an undefinable apprehension of the future. This time
-next year, when the New Year has become the Old, and its
-time has come round to say good-bye, what changes may have
-come to us, to our circle, to our home! Will all be then as it
-is now? Will love, perhaps newly-acquired, still nestle in our
-heart, or will it have even taken wings like a dove, and have
-left <span class="locked">it&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Like a forsaken bird’s nest filled with snow”?<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Oh, who shall tell? Answer, quiet heart, that hast learned to
-trust in God; and rest, rest peacefully, brightly, hopefully, on
-the answer that God hath taught thee!</p>
-
-<p>But a quarter of an hour left now of the Old Year’s life! and
-the wind brings the bells in a sudden burst like rain against
-the window. Before you join the group downstairs there is yet
-another, the saddest subject for regretful thought. The past
-hours of the past days of the year nearly past might have been
-better spent, oh, how much so, than they have been!</p>
-
-<p>“<em>Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.</em>”
-Has <em>that</em> been the rule of the past year? Ah, if it had been,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10">10</a></span>
-how different a year to look back upon! How many
-opportunities neglected altogether! How many but weakly
-and slackly employed! Opportunities that can never come
-again, that, employed or neglected, are past now. The word
-that might have done infinite good, but that was not spoken&mdash;cowardice,
-weak complaisance, in a word, <em>worldliness</em>, God’s
-enemy, fettered the tongue: excuses were ready, though the
-heart did not believe them, and God’s soldier failed, and the
-devil had the better of that field. Again, actions, that sloth or
-love of worldly ease caused to die out into smoke when they
-should have been eager leaping fire. An opportunity came,
-once and again, of doing something for God. The duty was
-a laborious one, a painful one; nevertheless, however painful,
-it must be done; you had resolved that it should be done; you
-had even sought help upon your knees for the work. But
-mark the carnal coward spirit creeping over the spiritual
-manly resolve: a friend came in, a persuasion turned you;
-your heart, alas! hardly really in earnest, did not set itself as
-a flint to its purpose; too willing to be turned aside, it basely
-accepted the tempting excuse, and laboured thereupon to
-believe itself really acquitted from the duty. Those opportunities
-passed away, the noble action was not done, the
-faithful word was never spoken, the heart’s reproaches became
-dull, and the duty ceased its ceaseless gnawing at the
-conscience. But amid the fitful sinking and falling of the
-firelight and the bells as you sit on the rug, hand-shading your
-eyes&mdash;the neglected opportunity comes back, with all its
-reproach, even newer and keener than at the first; back again
-to accuse your faint-heartedness, to upbraid your lukewarm<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">11</a></span>
-love; to tell you of One who died for you, and yet for whom
-you shirk the least distasteful labour, the least taking up the
-cross, and denying yourself to follow Him.</p>
-
-<p>And, besides all this, when you think of the whole past year,
-even of its hours (how few, and how grudged!) when you have
-tried to do the work which the Master put into your power to
-perform for Him, how conscious you are of the want of heart in
-even your best endeavours; you cannot but feel how hard the
-world’s votaries have been working for their master, and how
-slackly you have been labouring for your Master and only
-Saviour&mdash;how they have been running, with eyes fixed on the
-goal; and how you have been hobbling and limping, looking
-behind, and on this side and on that, not with single purpose,
-pressing towards the mark&mdash;ah, no!</p>
-
-<p>And you think, then, what this life might have been&mdash;might
-be. A life that looked straight forward, that turned not to the
-right hand nor to the left, that paused for no alluring of
-pleasure, for no constraining of <span class="locked">business&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p class="center">“This way and that dividing the swift mind,”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">and wasting its energy and powers. A life that set God first,
-utterly first; that shouldered aside the world’s jostling,
-distracting importunities; that left the little concerns, the
-little loves, the little jealousies of this brief life, staring after
-its eager, swift, stedfast advance, whenever they would have
-interposed to hinder it. A life that really and in good earnest,
-not half-heartedly and in pretence, should leave all to follow
-Christ. Something of the unflinching, unswerving, unpausing
-persistency of those old Jesuits; only in the service of Christ,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">12</a></span>
-and not in that of the Pope and the Inquisition. You think
-of a St. Paul, and his onward, onward still, “in weariness and
-painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in
-fastings often, in cold and nakedness,” and you think of your
-lagging, loitering&mdash;&mdash;!</p>
-
-<p>Ah, well, that is best: on your knees once more, for pardon
-and for grace&mdash;grace to love Him more and serve Him better
-in the year so near at hand! God shall wipe away all those
-tears that love for Him made to flow, and the blessed Saviour’s
-perfect righteousness shall hide all our vile and miserable
-rags; yet even the saved, we can almost fancy, will wish with
-a feeling akin to regret, to have loved the blessed Lord more;
-and he who has gained but five pounds will surely wish that
-it had been ten. For our opportunities, it often seems to me,
-are such as angels might long to have. Where all are serving
-God, and we have no longer a sinful nature dragging us back,
-nor a glittering world around us, nor a subtle tempter at our
-ear&mdash;it will seem little, methinks, to serve God then and there.
-But now, and here, in a world lying in wickedness, where the
-more part are not on Christ’s side, but rather leagued with or
-deserters to the devil, the world, and the flesh&mdash;oh, what an
-Abdiel opportunity to stand up, a speaking, living protest in
-life’s least and greatest thought, word, and act; a burning
-and a shining light, reflecting the beams of the Sun of
-Righteousness in a dark and naughty world!</p>
-
-<p>Ah, may this quiet hour of thought, of regretful meditation,
-by God’s grace, be the point on which you have collected your
-powers and energies for a forward spring, that shall not grow
-slack through eternity!</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_028.jpg" width="437" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">15</a></span>
-Five minutes to twelve now. The hour of Regret is near its
-close. The hour of Anticipation is close at hand. The Old
-Year’s bells are running down, and the Old Year’s life is
-passing with them. Five minutes more. First you bow your
-head, and adore the Almighty and the All-loving&mdash;God the
-Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost&mdash;for the
-Past, for the Present, and for the Future. Then you go
-downstairs, according to old custom, to join the rest of the
-dear circle at the open window, and to listen for the ceasing
-of the bells.</p>
-
-<p>They are gathered at the window, standing quietly and
-thoughtfully; those that are nearest and dearest linked with
-loving arms; they are silent, or speak in a subdued tone. You
-might almost think that they were indeed standing by some
-bedside, watching the last breathing of a friend; for a solemn
-thing it is, the passing from one to another of these stepping-stones
-in the brook of life, and seeing the other shore seem
-to gather a more distinct shape through the mist of the future.</p>
-
-<p>You join the group. A cold, moist air, full of films
-of snow, comes out of the dark night into the warm, bright
-room. The bells are running away; you might almost fancy
-them the sands, the last few grains of the Old Year’s life.
-Suddenly they stop, and in the breathing silence a deep clang
-falls from the church tower,&mdash;another,&mdash;ten more yet,&mdash;and
-the Old Year is dead.</p>
-
-<p>“A happy New Year!&mdash;a happy New Year!” Warm
-kisses, and hearty shakes of the hand, and, like the crash of
-a great breaker that has seemed to pause for a moment in the
-air, down bursts the glad, the melancholy ring of bells again,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">16</a></span>
-and floods the bare shore of silence,&mdash;still lingering, seething,
-receding, gathering into new bursts again, and yet again.</p>
-
-<p>A happy New Year! The Past is past, the Old Year is dead,
-the hour of Regret is gone by, the time of Anticipation is here;
-not good-bye now, but welcome; not lingering retrospect, but
-earnest advance. Life is too short for long mourning; not
-much time can be spared to meditate by the fresh grave of
-the past. Forward, towards the unknown future: grasp its
-opportunities, its sorrows, its joys, to be woven into some fabric
-for the Master’s use! On, towards the untried future, bravely,
-trustfully, hopefully, cheerfully; but remember you can never
-overtake it. It changes into the present even as you come up
-with it; and it is now, or never, that you must be serving God.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Trust no future, howe’er pleasant,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Let the dead past bury its dead;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Act, act in the living present,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Heart within, and God o’erhead.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But good night to all, or good morning&mdash;which?&mdash;and then
-upstairs, and tired, to bed. When you wake, things will go on
-much as usual, though the Old Year be dead, and sentry
-January have relieved sentry December. Only for a time you
-will find yourself dating still 18&mdash;, and, if untidy, you will
-have to smear, if tidy, to erase, the last figure, and substitute
-the number of your new friend.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Anticipation. This is especially the dower of the young, if
-Regret be often the possession of the old. What a strange,
-glorious thing a New Year is to the child! Little of the
-feelings that I have been describing find place in the breast<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17">17</a></span>
-of the boy and girl, that were fast asleep and warm in their
-beds, while you and the bells were at conference: little of
-such musings trouble them, as they bound out of bed in the
-morning, and scuttle off in their night-gowns, patter patter,
-in a race, to be the first to wish father and mother a happy
-New Year. They are growing out of childhood: <em>that</em> is the
-joy for them: another of those vast periods has passed.
-Happy Spring, that does but long to shed and cast away
-her myriad white blossoms; and to rush on towards the
-full-grown Summer:&mdash;unknowing in the least, of the sober,
-misty, tear-strung, if fruitful, Autumn boughs! A happy
-New Year, little ones! Far be it from me to strip Spring
-boughs in order to imitate the Autumn which they cannot
-know! God keep you, my children; God teach you, and
-God bless you!</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>A little farther on. Anticipation is glowing warmly in the
-heart of the young man and the young woman. The time
-of childhood is left behind. The time of independence, the
-time of manhood, is drawing near: that time which shall
-transform into realities the great things,&mdash;the noble, world-stirring
-deeds, that have hitherto been only schemes. That
-time when the loves that are budding in the heart shall burst
-into exquisite blossoms, and never a frost nip them, and never
-a rude wind carry at unawares a loose petal away.</p>
-
-<p>A happy New Year. The heart accepts this wish, fearlessly,
-without doubt, before the strife; before the rough work of a
-field or two in the scarce-tried warfare of life has smirched the
-glittering armour, and shorn the gay plumes, and changed the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18">18</a></span>
-song before the battle into hard labouring sobs, in the stern
-hand-to-hand tussle with sin and with sorrow, with disappointment
-and dismay. Before many a scheme overturned, many a
-brave effort fallen dead as bullets against a stone wall, many a
-seeming hopeful struggle forced back by the sheer dead weight
-of evil, has made the heart sick and the knees to tremble, and
-brought an early weariness and hint of despair over the amazed
-Recruit; a touch of that felt by the Sage of old: “It is
-enough: evil is too strong for me: I can do no more than
-others have done before: my schemes have come to nothing,
-my bubbles have burst: now let me die.” But the Recruit
-becomes the Veteran, and is content to wait, where he was
-once ready to despair. He does not hope so much, and
-therefore is not so much dismayed; he relies now not so
-much on earthquake efforts, as on the still small voice
-uttered to the world by the life which is given to God.
-He is content to labour,&mdash;and to leave it to the Master to
-give the increase.</p>
-
-<p>Yes, the young heart, even when lit with heavenly love, and
-full of great designs for God, must submit to the overthrow
-of the bright visions that anticipation set before it. How
-much more, when its fire was lit from earth; and earth’s loves,
-or fame, or pleasure, or power, were the prizes for which life’s
-battle was to be fought. Vanity and vexation of spirit,
-disappointment, dismay, despair; these are the ruins that
-shall be won for Moscows, if that battle be fought to the
-end!</p>
-
-<p>A happy New Year. That glad wish of youth may come to
-sound, to the man, nothing but bitter irony. But much of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">19</a></span>
-early hope, and more than the early peace, comes back to the
-veteran worker for God.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Who, but the Christian, through all life<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">That blessing may prolong?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who, through the world’s sad day of strife,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Still chant his morning song?”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>A happy New Year, young man and young woman! God
-grant it you, in the one true sense of the word. It need not
-be a freedom from sorrow: this is an ennobling, useful
-discipline, that I may not wish you to avoid. But, to be
-happy, it must be free from sloth and wilful sin.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_033.jpg" width="550" height="342" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Look out from your window again, at the snow sheet which
-has silently, deeply, fallen upon the earth. Let it be very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">20</a></span>
-early in the morning, while the world is asleep and the broad
-moon and the glittering stars watch alone over the smooth,
-sparkling, white face of the land. Not a footstep, so far as
-you see, has impressed the smooth, pure snow; not a dark cart-track
-has yet left a long stain on the spotless road. No
-thawing penitential drippings have made dark wells in it
-here and there; no rude sweeping has piled the snow in
-stained heaps hither and thither by the path. All is yet
-pure, untouched, undefiled.</p>
-
-<p>This is the New Year upon which we have entered, as we
-look at it from the casement of the Old Year, before yet one
-step has been placed on its first moment. All as yet unstained,
-and white, and calm.</p>
-
-<p>For how short a time to remain so! Can we set our first
-step upon it without somewhat marring its virgin beauty?
-And then the traffic, the hurrying of many feet, the crushing
-of many wheels; thought, word, and deed, too often unwatched
-and unsanctified by prayer; oh, what a change soon, and how
-short a time that purity and calm has lasted!</p>
-
-<p>New Year; clean New Year; how dark, how defiled, how
-changed will you be, when you also are now waxing old,
-and ready to vanish away! The white virgin opportunity
-all passed by, leaving dark, dreary, sodden fields, and roads
-churned up into yellow mud. The clinging spotless moments&mdash;flakes
-that, in innumerable combination, made up the great
-stainless carpet of the untrodden New Year; for them there
-will be many a trickling rivulet of penitential tears; and the
-steam and mist of heavy sighs that go up to God because of
-life’s work too faintly, slackly done. Well then, that is well.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21">21</a></span>
-Better, of course, if this could have been, that the pure year
-had remained unstained.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“My little children, these things write I unto you, <em>that ye sin not</em>.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But well, if we are indeed humbly striving, and if hearty
-repentance, and a true, lively, cleansing faith follow upon our
-many, many sad failings, faults, and shortcomings. For,
-sweet words!&mdash;</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“<em>If any man sin</em>, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ
-the righteous: and He is the propitiation for our sins.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>And, glorious thought! if we are indeed loving and seeking
-after purity and holiness, striving because of the hope within
-us, to purify ourselves, even as He is pure&mdash;then know this, we
-shall not love, and seek, and strive in vain.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“When He shall appear, <em>we shall be like Him</em>.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Think of that! So that, when our last hour comes, and the
-bellringers are ready for us, to ring out the Old Year of this
-life, and to ring in the New Year of the next; and we are
-looking (our near and dear ones still by us) out of the casement
-of the Old Year of <span class="smcap smaller">TIME</span>, what may we then see? There shall
-be stretched out before us the immeasurable unstained tract of
-the New Year of <span class="smcap smaller">ETERNITY</span>, unsullied, spotless, pure and white;
-and we need not then be afraid to enter upon that. The blood
-of Jesus, which cleanseth from all sin, will have so cleansed
-us, that even <em>our</em> footprints will not stain nor mar it. The
-spots and the defilements, the tears and the sighs, they will lie
-all behind us then, in the Old Year which is dead. Ring out,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">22</a></span>
-oh, ringers, then&mdash;toll not, but ring out the year of sadness and
-of sin, of weak strivings, cold hearts, and dull love! Ring out
-the year of partings and estrangements, of death and tears!
-And ring in&mdash;oh, that it might be so for every reader of this
-chapter!&mdash;ring with none but joy-notes, ring in that everlastingly
-<span class="smcap">happy New Year</span>!</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22.625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_036.jpg" width="362" height="502" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">23</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">25</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="MUSINGS_ON_THE_THRESHOLD"></a>MUSINGS ON THE THRESHOLD.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 34.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_039-0.jpg" width="550" height="347" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 34.375em;"><img src="images/i_039-1.jpg" width="550" height="200" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 13.625em;"><img src="images/i_039-2.jpg" width="218" height="146" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">I call</span> February the Threshold of
-the Year. In January we were
-indoors, beside the fire, and there
-seemed little of new and various
-to tempt us out. But February
-comes, and with it the first dream
-of change, the first scarce-heard whisper of the Spring. The
-faint possibility of a snowdrop, hinting its yet undrooping
-white through a peaked green film; the distant hope of a
-primrose bud, peeping&mdash;with yellow point, for all the world
-just like that of a coloured crayon&mdash;out of the young, crisp,
-green leaves that are crowning the limp, ragged ones of
-last year; the wild dream of a find of those sweet buds&mdash;little
-geologists’ hammers, with white or violet noses&mdash;among
-their round seeds and drilled leaves, in some warmer corner;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">26</a></span>
-such, summonings as these woo the steps to the threshold on
-a strayed mild day late in February. The black, soaked
-trees have, we find, taken a warm hue of life; the dull
-willow bushes have the gleam of golden hair; the first soft
-air of the year comes to our hearts with a gush of promises;
-flowers and leaves seem possible to the heart waking from
-its winter stagnation; trees and men alike feel a new life,
-a fresh impulse. Even though we have become hard wood
-and wrinkled rind, our sap is, nevertheless, stirred:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“And even in our inmost ring<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">A pleasure is discerned,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From those blind motions of the Spring,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">That show the year is turned.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And, perhaps, we are content to pause on the threshold, and
-lean against the lintel, and survey the smile close at hand, and
-the gleam far away; and, while the robin draws near in a cheerful,
-not to say jovial, sympathy with our humour, and the faint
-branchy shadows move tenderly on the glistening lawn, to
-muse on the year’s threshold, concerning the programme that
-the wind is whispering among the bushes, and the promises
-that the warm air is wafting into the heart.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Musings on the Threshold. Such musings might take many
-an obvious high road, or quaint turn, we must feel, as we stand
-on the threshold of our house, and of the year, looking out
-upon the herald-gleam, and fanned by what seems a Spring air;
-an air that summons sweet thoughts of March, April, May&mdash;scarce
-June yet; certainly not October or November. On the
-threshold of the Spring; this we would rather say, and forget<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">27</a></span>
-that it is really the threshold of the year,&mdash;that thing composed
-of smiles and tears, of gleams and showers, of full green
-boughs and bare sticks, of promises and disappointments, of
-growth and life, and decay and death. For instance, with
-regard to these threshold musings, how often, ere we shall have
-passed on so far in life’s journey, that we stand on the
-threshold of the next state,&mdash;how often do we pause for awhile
-upon some threshold, and lean back against the door and muse.
-On the threshold of joy, or on the threshold of misery; on the
-threshold of hope, or on the threshold of despair; on the
-threshold of school, or of the holidays; on the threshold of
-wearing tail-coats; of being flogged or expelled; of gaining
-the three head prizes of the school,&mdash;these gave musings to
-some in early days. Later, on the threshold of a pluck, or of
-a double first-class; on the threshold of first love; and&mdash;oh, the
-dim, delicious look-out, and long, ecstatic musings!&mdash;on the
-threshold of being married; of parting with some beloved
-one,&mdash;and ah, how a stern hand seems to drag you forth from
-your contemplation here, when your musings were scarce
-begun! On the threshold of the first fall from purity or
-honour,&mdash;and, alas, the dismal journey that shall follow upon
-the threshold left, and the first step taken! On the threshold
-of repentance; and angel-eyes watch eagerly, and angel-hands
-poise above their golden harps; and at the first step forward a
-ringing rapture peals up into the trembling roof of Heaven.
-“Musings on the Threshold”:&mdash;are there not then, highways
-and by-paths which such musings might well take? But it
-is time for us to choose our present road; and, to do so, we will
-even go back to the beginning of a certain well-trodden way,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28">28</a></span>
-upon which every one of us is found, some far back, some near
-the middle, some tottering on close to the goal.</p>
-
-<p><em>On the threshold of Life.</em> Yes, once upon a time we stood
-there: and the Spring air was rife with half-shaped songs and
-indistinct delicious whispers; and we knew that the hedges
-and copses were full of all sweet promise-buds; and there
-were songs in the distance, and an interminable thronging of
-inexhaustible flowers; and life seemed too sweet, when the first
-blossom that was our own was grasped in our hand, and the
-stir of life growing conscious and intelligent first made the
-heart glow and kindle, as we paused musing upon the
-Threshold, and looked out upon the sweet, strange opening
-year of Life.</p>
-
-<p>Ah well, the step soon has to be taken, that marks the
-beginning of separation from those lovely, unreal dreams.
-There is Solomon’s way of leaving them&mdash;much labour, and
-little profit, and a bitter heart at the end. And there is
-that other way of leaving them&mdash;the hearing once and again,
-and gradually heeding, an oft-repeated solemn call, “Follow
-Me.” Out of the sunshine into the shadow; away from
-dreamy threshold musings, into the rough and stony highway;
-drop the flowers and clasp the cross: for how run the
-instructions given long ago, and given to all; given by
-precept, and given by example? “Whosoever will come
-after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and
-follow Me.”</p>
-
-<p>How true of those who&mdash;at last, and after long hesitation&mdash;take
-the first step, and leave the threshold of this world’s
-young dreams, and begin to follow Him; how true that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">29</a></span>
-“little did they know to what they pledged themselves, when,
-in that first season of awe, they arose and followed His
-voice. But now they cannot go back, for they are too nigh
-to the unseen One, and His words have sunk deeply within
-them. Day by day they are giving up their old waking
-dreams; things they have pictured out and acted over
-in their imaginations and their hopes, one by one they let
-them go, with saddened but willing hearts. They feel as
-if they had fallen under some irresistible attraction, which is
-hurrying them into the world unseen; and so in truth it is.
-He is fulfilling to them His promise: ‘And I, if I be lifted
-up from the earth, will draw all men unto Me.’ Their turn is
-come at last, that is all. Before, they had only heard of the
-mystery; now, they feel it. He has fastened on them His look
-of love, even as on Peter and on Mary; and they cannot
-choose but follow, and in following Him, altogether forget
-both themselves and all their visions of life.”</p>
-
-<p>How strange it is, verily, after we have for many years
-now, followed that Voice,&mdash;followed it, no doubt, with many
-a declension, many a wavering, many a wayward swerving,
-and almost turning back; yet, on the whole, followed it, and
-that with less of timidity, and more of implicitness, as
-experience justified hope;&mdash;how strange, about midway in the
-journey, to look back at life’s threshold! The January of
-infancy had past; the February of awakening, conscious life
-had come, and we came out from our dormant state, and
-paused upon the threshold, and looked forth upon the world.
-And now we look back, and with a strange, wondering interest,
-contemplate that single lonely figure that was ourself, leaning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">30</a></span>
-in wrapt musing; the small home behind it; and before, the
-siren murmurs, and warm, flattering airs of the fairy, enticing
-Future. The magic dreams, the mirage-reveries, the profuse
-promises, the unshaped hopes, the just-caught notes of some
-divine, distant melody: all the flowers to blossom; and all
-the birds to come. Ah, what sweet, wild musings were those!
-Far away we seemed to catch a gleam of that</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Light that never was on sea or land,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The consecration, and the poet’s dream.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And even tears had their sparkle, and melancholy its charm,
-and death its unreal beauty.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“To think of passing bells, of death and dying&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">’Twere good, methought, in early youth to die,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">So loved, lamented: in such sweet sleep lying,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Stuck o’er by loving hands.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Thus, we remember, once stood that figure, solitary in its
-own individuality, upon the threshold, and looking out upon
-life. And, contemplating our present self, we feel that it is
-“the same, yet not the same.” How changed all has become!
-It is not only nor chiefly that flowers are less valued than
-fruit-germs, or sparkling glass than rough, hereafter-to-be-cut
-diamonds; it is not only, nor so much, that the world’s
-promises and life’s young dreams have failed us, as that we
-have turned away from them. That our taste has altered;
-that the things that then were all, are now nearly nothing;
-that what once rose before us a golden mirage, seems now as
-but bare sand; that what seemed gain, would be now held<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">33</a></span>
-as loss; that what seemed too rare, and delicious, and
-high, and exquisite, and sublime, for more than trembling
-hope, has now become as refuse in our thought.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27.5em;">
-  <img src="images/i_046.jpg" width="440" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Time was, when other thoughts and purposes than these
-which now possess us, held sway in our hearts. Time was,
-when we stood on the threshold, dazzled, and wondering, in
-a delicious dream, which of all the sublime or lovely paths
-that opened before us we should pursue. Time was, when
-at last we began to heed a kind, but still small Voice, that
-had from the first been speaking to us; when a grave Eye
-that had from the first watched us, at last fixed our attention.
-Time was, when we were compelled as it were, at first with
-hesitating, reluctant step, to follow that Voice and that Look&mdash;away
-from those bright gay paths, or grand aspiring ways,
-down a lowly, narrow way, strewn with thorns and stones,
-and sloping into a mist-hid valley. Time was&mdash;if we followed
-still&mdash;that the disturbing, distracting sounds and sights above
-being left behind and hushed,&mdash;the mist lifted, and, lo! the
-valley was a pleasant valley, an abode of “peace that the
-world cannot give”: and if the way were still rough sometimes,
-there were undying flowers of unearthly beauty here
-and there; and if the lark was away, the nightingale was
-singing; and it was answered to us, yea, our heart returned
-answer to itself, that, albeit narrow and strait at first, the
-name of that way was, in very truth, the Way of Pleasantness
-and the Path of Peace.</p>
-
-<p>Ah, yes, if once we, with purpose of heart, set ourselves to
-follow His guiding, how God draws us on! We clutch at this,
-and would rest at that; and surely this is the Chief good, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34">34</a></span>
-the Ideal beauty? But no; the early flowers depart, and the
-late, and we leave the threshold and wander on; and February
-goes, and March goes, and even June, and August; and sorrowfully
-and wonderingly we look up at God, following Him on
-through life, even into the grave September, and the hushed
-October, and the tearful November; and so into the winter
-of alienation from the world, which death’s snow comes to seal.</p>
-
-<p>But ere this we have found out His meaning in life, and
-the flowers of earth are no more regretted; and there is no
-point at which we would choose to have rested, now that we
-look back upon the past experiences and events of the journey;
-and both our hands are laid in His, and we look up with
-unutterable trust and ineffable love. It was not so once:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou<br /></span>
-<span class="i10">Wouldst lead me on;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I loved to see and choose my path, but now<br /></span>
-<span class="i10">Lead Thou me on.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>And then He has led you, little by little, with gentle steps,
-hiding the full length of the way that you must tread, lest
-you should start aside in fear, and faint for weariness. And as
-it has been, so it must be; onward you must go; He will not
-leave you here; there is yet in store for you more contrition,
-more devotion, more delight in Him. A few years hence,
-and you will see how true these words are. If by that time
-you have not forsaken Him, you will be nigher still, walking
-in strange, it may be solitary paths, in ways that are “called
-desert”; but knowing Him, as now you know Him not, with a
-fulness of knowledge, and a bowing of heart, and a holy self-renouncement,
-and a joy that you are altogether His. What<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">35</a></span>
-now seems too much, shall then seem all too little; what too
-nigh, not nigh enough to His awful cross. Oh, how our
-thoughts change! A few years ago, and you would have
-thought your present state excessive and severe; you would
-have shrunk from it then, as at this time you shrink from the
-hereafter. But now you look back, and know that all was
-well. In all your past life you would not have one grief the
-less, or one joy the more. It is all well.</p>
-
-<p>And so it is, then, that we are led on from our February
-threshold, on through the maturing, decaying months, until the
-silent Winter comes. And what then? Is it to be the same
-over again&mdash;the same promises and disappointments, the same
-dreams and awakenings, the same unreal glory at the threshold,
-and the same gradual weaning from it on the journey?</p>
-
-<p>Not so. To us the years are not repeated, nor is the
-“second life, only the first renewed.”</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I know not, oh, I know not<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">What joys await us there;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">What radiancy of glory,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">What bliss beyond compare.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">But I love to wander, nevertheless, in my musings far beyond
-the journey to the Land whither the journey is tending.
-Beyond this state of probation to that of fruition; beyond
-striving, to attainment; beyond discipline, to perfection;
-beyond warfare, to victory; beyond labour, to rest; beyond
-constant slips and shortcomings, and half-heartedness at best,
-to stedfast holiness; beyond the cross, to the crown. We are
-yet within doors: oh, what will open before us on the threshold
-of that next year!&mdash;when the first wonder of its January<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36">36</a></span>
-has passed, and the amazed and almost dizzied soul has
-straightened and uncrumpled its wings, and collected its
-powers, and can calmly begin to understand its change, and
-to muse on its future, and to grasp the idea of the possession
-upon which it has come: to anticipate the endless succession
-of amaranthine flowers, ever increasing in glory throughout
-the months of Eternity, and the songs that shall ever throng
-more and more abundant and ecstatic, and never migrate nor
-pass away!</p>
-
-<p>On the Threshold. Those in Paradise are now musing on
-the threshold, waiting for their full consummation and bliss
-both in body and soul, waiting for that coming of the Lord
-with regard to which they are still crying out, “How long?”
-and are bid to “rest yet for a little season.” And so then
-they rest, and wait upon the threshold, and contemplate the
-mighty and magnificent panorama outspread before them as
-their Future. The Voice is still there, and the Look; and
-they wait its summons, to leave the threshold, and to follow
-once again. But how different that following then! How
-far other than of old that summons! Not to paths of
-humiliation and discipline, and hills of difficulty, and valleys
-of shadow, but to realms of brightness and beauty unspeakable,
-and to heights to which earth’s ambitions never soared. From
-the threshold of blessedness into the domain of glory; from
-Abraham’s bosom to the throne of the Lamb; from a star
-to the Sun in His strength.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.5625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_051.jpg" width="553" height="342" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>And so may we think of our dead that fell asleep in Jesus,
-as waiting upon that blessed threshold, contemplating that
-ravishing prospect, which is theirs, and may be ours. Nor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">37</a></span>
-do we enough thus think of and realise the state of the
-departed. The poisonous fungi of error have made us shy
-of the mushroom of truth. “The superstition of ages past
-has recoiled into the sadduceeism of to-day.” And so we,
-the dying, compassionate those who have begun to live, and
-who stand upon the threshold of the yet higher and more
-perfect life of the resurrection. Let us think of them more
-nobly, more worthily, more truly. Let us not heap their
-burial with gloom; let not our souls dwell with their bodies
-under the sodden clay. They are changed, but they are not
-lost; they are “still the same, and yet are not what they
-were; they have passed from the humiliation of the body to
-the majesty of the spirit. The weakness, and the littleness,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">38</a></span>
-and the abasement of life are gone; they are now excellent
-in strength, full of heavenly light, ardent with love, above
-fallen humanity, akin to angels.” “Blessed and happy dead!&mdash;great
-and mighty dead! In them the work of the new
-creation is well-nigh accomplished; what feebly stirs in us,
-in them is well-nigh full. They have passed within the vail,
-and there remaineth only one more change for them,&mdash;a
-change full of a foreseen, foretasted bliss. How calm, how
-pure, how sainted are they now! A few short years ago, and
-they were almost as weak and poor as we; burdened with the
-dying body we now bear about; harassed by temptations,
-often overcome, weeping in bitterness of soul, struggling with
-faithful, though fearful hearts, towards that dark shadow from
-which they shrank, as we shrink now.”</p>
-
-<p>We on our threshold and they on theirs; then let us think
-of them and of ourselves so. We have left the threshold of
-life, and are nearing the threshold of Death, or rather of
-the beginning of Life indeed. They behold the prospect at
-which we guess, and which we burn to see. But because
-it may be ours one day, we are already sharers with them,
-and our higher union is rather cemented than interrupted.
-“The unity of the saints on earth with the Church unseen
-is the straitest bond of all. Hell has no power over it,
-sin cannot blight it, schism cannot rend it, death itself can
-but knit it more strongly. Nothing is changed but the
-relations of sight: like as when the head of a far-stretching
-procession, winding through a broken, hollow land, hides
-itself in some bending vale, it is still all one; all advancing
-together; they that are farthest onward in the way are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">39</a></span>
-conscious of their lengthened following; they that linger
-with the last are drawn forward as it were by the attraction
-of the advancing multitude.” Or, in another figure, beautifully
-has it been said, that when the Sun of Righteousness
-passed out of sight, the splendour of His hidden shining is
-reflected by His saints, “till the night starts out full of silver
-stars.” “In stedfast and silent course” they pass on, some
-disappearing below the horizon, some resplendent in mid-heaven,
-some just emerging from the other boundaries. And
-when the last has arisen, and some are yet sparkling in the
-blue vault, the Sun shall arise with sudden glory, and they all
-shall render to Him their light. But until that time, which
-no man knoweth, neither the angels of heaven, it is awaiting
-upon the threshold, in mighty musing upon the glory yet to
-be revealed; and, “until all is fulfilled,” the desire of the
-Church unseen is stayed with the “white robes” and the
-sound of the “Bridegroom’s voice.” Let us comfort one
-another with these words and these thoughts.</p>
-
-<p>And now thus have we mused upon the Threshold,
-beginning first with the threshold of the life that is expecting
-death, and then soaring boldly to the threshold of the
-life that is expecting the Resurrection. We need reminding
-in this age that there are two sides to <em>this</em> expectation. There
-is “a certain fearful looking for of judgment and of fiery
-indignation,” as well as an ardent, and eager, and rapturous
-anticipation and longing for His coming who cometh quickly,
-though He seem to tarry. And it is well to ask, when death
-ends our journey here, upon which threshold shall we prefer
-to wait, and which musing shall be our choice: the dreadful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">40</a></span>
-looking-for of judgment, or the ecstatic longing to hear that
-Voice which once said, “Follow Me,” speak again to us, even
-to us, the incredible words&mdash;“Well done, thou good and
-faithful servant: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”
-Choose we, my friends, carefully, prayerfully, deliberately,
-finally, and at once; for “Behold, <em>now</em> is the accepted time;
-behold, <em>now</em> is the day of salvation.”</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 25.4375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_054.jpg" width="407" height="510" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">41</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">43</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="SPRING_DAYS"></a>SPRING DAYS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 14.625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_057-0.jpg" width="234" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 12.1875em;"><img src="images/i_057-1.jpg" width="195" height="157" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 16.0625em;"><img src="images/i_057-2.jpg" width="257" height="275" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 12.8125em;"><img src="images/i_057-3.jpg" width="205" height="75" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 10.8125em;"><img src="images/i_057-4.jpg" width="173" height="55" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9.75em;"><img src="images/i_057-5.jpg" width="156" height="60" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 6.8125em;"><img src="images/i_057-6.jpg" width="109" height="36" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem smaller"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i12">“Forth in the pleasing Spring<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And every sense, and every heart, is joy.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">What</span> a delicious thing is the first
-real Spring day! A burst into
-a buttercup-field! What a thing
-of mad enjoyment for the legs,
-and eyes, and hands, and mind
-of the young human animal!
-What a sweet time to think of, in our
-sentimental moods, now that we are
-growing old! And yet, in that time
-of fresh animal life, there was not
-reflection enough to allow of deliberate
-and actual enjoyment of its hilarity
-and lightness of heart. It welled up
-bubbling and singing with the gladness
-of a spring, that yet is glad only because
-it is glad, and not because it is pure and bright.
-For it knows not yet of aught that is muddy and foul,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">44</a></span>
-shallow and stagnant. It knows not of drought, and deadness,
-and impurity, and dulness, and death. How knows it, therefore,
-why it ought to be glad? Sing on, sweet stream, but
-you must be left to learn, as you roll seawards, into a sober
-old river, <em>why</em> you used to sing as a bright untroubled stream.</p>
-
-<p>So, I suppose, except for the impetus and rush of early
-life, in its Spring days, before it has been checked here, and
-wasted there, and hemmed in, and spread out, and turned
-away, and thwarted, until its rush, and song, and glee have
-settled into a quiet, useful soberness, or into a foul stagnant
-pool that cannot often bear to call to mind those old pure,
-careless days&mdash;except for that first impetus and rush, I suppose
-it is more an absence of something than a presence of aught,
-that makes the child’s heart so glad. Anxious thought for
-soul and body of self and others; disappointment, regret,
-estrangements, remorse, satiety, failing powers; none of these
-check the young limbs, and the young lungs, and the young
-heart, as a sight of the brimming Spring meadow bursts upon
-the enchanted young eyes, and there is a shout, and a scamper,
-and a bound; and lo! the little naked legs are deep in green
-grass, and yellow bobbing buttercups, and starry radiant daisies.</p>
-
-<p>I can’t feel towards the buttercups and daisies exactly as I
-did in those very early days. It is indeed a very primitive
-state of things, when these are as gold and silver coins to the
-young eager grasping hand, that would yet hold more when
-already by twos, and ones, and threes, the white discs and
-yellow cups struggle out of the little space that the finger and
-thumb cannot quite close in. You very soon get to slight
-these humble flowers; and, losing your easy content, aim<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">45</a></span>
-higher, even at cowslips, primroses, and here and there an
-early purple orchis. That is, perhaps, the most simple-hearted
-and easily-contented time of life, which asks no more for its
-riches than both hands full of buttercups and daisies, guineas
-and shillings bright and fresh coined from the mint of Spring.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_059.jpg" width="547" height="340" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>I remember well a wide meadow shut in with tall hedges,
-in which, for a Spring or two, while we were young enough to
-enjoy them, there was, for my two sisters and myself, a very
-scramble of such coins. Out on some mild April day, when
-the sun shone brightly, and the air was a growing air, and the
-paths dry. Out with our governess, we three, for a walk.
-A fortnight of soft April showers, or warm damp days, keeping
-us within the garden while the field was being dressed, had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">46</a></span>
-prepared for us a surprise. We ran our hoops along the dry
-paths, until the winner of the race caught sight of that fair
-meadow. Through the white wicket-gate then, the hoop
-thrown aside into the yielding grass, and the three pairs of
-little hands were busy enough soon. At first, the aim was
-merely to pick what came to hand, and quantity, not quality,
-was in demand. But, so soon do we begin to undervalue that
-which is abundant for that which is less easily attained, in a
-little while we were busy after rarities; mere white daisies
-were passed over, and those with a “crimson head” were
-sought; also, I remember, those with a scarlet jewel in the
-centre of the boss of gold. Cowslips were rare in the fields
-about us; were anyhow rare at that early time of year. Fancy
-then our exultation, if we should come upon a pale bent head,
-the delicate trembling spotted yellow, curving upwards towards
-the sheath of faint green. The bound towards it; the excitement
-of feeling the juicy crisp stalk break, and then rushing
-away with the treasure! I remember such a <em>find</em> now, though
-I be far on in life beyond that early stage marked by that
-slight drooping flower.</p>
-
-<p>But of course the daisies and buttercups, even before
-“whole summer fields were theirs by right,” soon lost their
-fascination, even in those early simplest days, before the
-advance of other rarer flowers. We could pass the meadow
-soon, without bounding into it, on our way round the park
-wall on a violet expedition. We could scent these out, and
-would eagerly part the crowding leaves and the binding ivy-nets
-that hid them. Not much fear lest we should gather
-enough of them to risk dropping any from an over-filled hand.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">47</a></span>
-Still, we mostly went home well content, with a close-clipped
-neat dark-blue bunch in one hand, with here and there a pure
-white prize, or a large one merely purple tinged, gleaming out
-of the dark. These white- and purple-tinged violets, you must
-know, had become our prizes, being rare, found seldom indeed
-by the park wall, but oftener on some mighty sandhills, that
-towered above the road a little way beyond our daisy-field, and
-seemed to bury the deep-lying road, with its winding carriages
-and pigmy passengers.</p>
-
-<p>Out for a long walk now, even to that deep chalk-pit, where
-not <em>one</em> cowslip hung, rare, unique, precious, but <em>hundreds</em>, nay
-<em>thousands</em>, bent their pale yellow heads, and scented the air
-with their sweet faint breath. So juicily they snapped, without
-that drawback which I deplore in primroses&mdash;the long sinew
-that a hasty picking leaves behind, to the marring of the
-flower. Baskets we had, trowels in them, to collect some roots
-for the misused pieces of ground known as our gardens: and
-woe betide an early orchis, if we came across it. Nearly
-always, after a long and patient digging, when the final <em>pull</em>
-came, a long blanched stalk, with no root at the end, would
-meet our disappointed eyes.</p>
-
-<p>But of course the great thing was to collect unlimited
-flowers. And really, if you turned me loose into the Bank of
-England, into that room in which those aggravating fellows
-shovel about the gold in coal-scuttle scoops, and bade me
-gather my fill, I am sure the delight would be neither so fresh,
-so sweet, nor so wholesome, as that entering unchecked upon
-the rich cowslip-wealth, trembling all over the short turf of
-the sloping side of the chalk-pit which ended our expedition.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">48</a></span>
-Two principal objects had we in collecting these flowers&mdash;for
-as the year goes on, even children seek <em>use</em> as well as <em>beauty</em> in
-their gettings; first to make cowslip balls, many and large,
-when we got home; next, to make cowslip tea. There is, or
-was, a keen delight in the former of these pursuits. The
-excitement and delight of the first cowslip ball made is
-feverish and unsettling. The long, tight string upon which are
-hung the poor flowers with their tails pinched off; the filling
-that string, the tying it, with here and there a cowslip
-tumbling out; and then the playing with the sweet-scented
-soft toy, till the room is littered with its scattered wealth, these
-are things to remember even now. But, no doubt, the <em>great</em>
-thing was the cowslip tea&mdash;allowed to us that night instead
-of milk-and-water; and to be drunk in real teacups instead
-of mugs. The solemn shredding the yellow crown out of its
-green calyx; seated, all three, at our little low table with the
-deep rim; the growing heap of prepared flowers; then the
-piling them into the teapot, the excitement of seeing the
-boiling water poured upon them; the grave momentous pause
-while the tea was brewing; and the hearty, but really at last
-abortive, endeavour to persuade ourselves and each other that
-we liked the filthy concoction, and found it really a treat. Ah,
-life has many a cup of cowslip tea in it; delightful in the
-preparation, exciting in the anticipation, but most disappointing
-when it comes to the actual partaking!</p>
-
-<p>We must not stop now to run down that green path into
-the wood&mdash;our one wood, nor to see which shall first enter it
-with a bound; we must not stop, although we know that a
-little later in the year there were some rare choice treasures<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">49</a></span>
-there. A firmament of starry wood anemones; and here and
-there a bent spike of wild hyacinth, not yet ripened into its
-deep full blue; and here and there a pale green orchis, coming
-out of its two ribbed leaves, valued because rarer than its
-purple brother, that but rarely yet towered with its tall rich
-spike above the clustering milky flowers. And on one bank
-that we knew, just two or three roots of primroses, the only
-roots that grew wild for miles about that part, each tendering
-to us its crowded offering of sweet faint flowers, and deeper
-yellow buds imbedded in the crisp, crumpled leaves. And then
-the lords and ladies: <em>lord</em>, handsomest&mdash;<em>lady</em>, rarest: I could
-pick and unroll them now. They call to mind a glad, bright
-little address of a child to the flowers, with which I will
-conclude these reminiscent wanderings among the old wildflower
-fields of <span class="locked">youth:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Oh velvet bee, you’re a dusty fellow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">You’ve powdered your legs with gold!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Oh brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Give me your money to hold!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Oh columbine, open your folded wrapper,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Oh cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">That hangs in your clear green bell!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Why have I recalled these child remembrances of early
-Spring days? Why, but to add that those keen delights,
-those exquisite, though unintellectual and reasonless, appreciations
-are gone&mdash;in this life for ever! Wherefore I say <em>in this
-life</em>, I mean presently to show: suffice it <em>now</em> to say that the
-Summer and Autumn of human life, dry and dusty, or
-sorrowful and decaying, have done quite, except for some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">50</a></span>
-tender sweet reminiscent hints, with the freshness, and the
-glee, and the gladness of the old Spring days.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The earth, and every common sight,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">To me did seem,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Apparelled in celestial light,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The glory and the freshness of a dream.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It is not now as it hath been of yore;&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Turn wheresoe’er I may,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">By night or day,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The things which I have seen I now can see no more.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>These lines of Wordsworth express, very exquisitely, the
-thought at which I have just been catching. Something goes,
-as we grow old&mdash;a gladness, a suddenness of appreciation of
-enjoyment is lost; and the dark Summer foliage is not the same
-with the fresh light green of the young Spring leaves. And
-when a gush of the old keen relish comes back for a moment,
-there is regret as well as sweetness in the tears that suddenly
-dim the eyes.</p>
-
-<p>Spring days, sweet Spring days, my quiet heart and rested
-eye tell me that there is no fear but that I enjoy you still!</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“For, lo, the winter is past,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The rain is over and gone;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The flowers appear on the earth;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The time of the singing of birds is come,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>This exquisite poetry has its voice of delight for me, and as
-I shut my eyes, it brings a change over the bare boughs and
-the Winter land. I dream of the chill black hedges and trees,
-flushing first into redness, and then “a million emeralds burst<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">51</a></span>
-from the ruby buds.” I dream of the birds coming back, one
-after one, until the poetry of the flowers is all set to music.
-And I go out into the land to behold, not only to dream of
-and image, these things. I watch for the delicious green,
-tasselling the earliest larch (there is one every year a fortnight
-in advance of the others) in the clump of those trees
-beside the road on my way home. I look, in a warm patch
-that I know, for the first primroses, and when I find them
-mildly and quietly gazing up at me from the moss, and ivy,
-and broken sticks, and dead leaves, a surprise, although I was
-expecting them, and a dim reflection of that old child-joy,
-bring with a rush to my heart again those “Thoughts that
-do often lie too deep for tears.” And in the garden I wander
-through the bare shrubberies, varied with bright green box,
-and gather in my harvest there. The little Queen Elizabeth
-aconites, gold-crowned in their wide-frilled green collars;
-these are no more scant, and just breaking with bent head
-through cracking frosty ground. They have carpeted the
-brown beds, and are even waxing old and past now. The
-snowdrops have but left a straggler here and there; and the
-miniature golden volcano of the crocus has spent its columns of
-fire. The hazels are draped with slender, drooping catkins; the
-sweetbriar is letting the soft sweet-breathed leaves here and
-there out of the clenched hand of the bud. The cherry-tree is
-preparing to dress itself almost in angels’ clothing, white and
-glistening, and delicious with all soft recesses of clear grey
-shadow, seen against the mild blue sky. The long branches
-of the horse-chestnut trees, laid low upon the lawn, are lighting
-up all over with the ravishing crumpled emerald that bursts<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52">52</a></span>
-like light out of the brown sticky bud&mdash;-as sometimes holy
-heavenly thoughts may come from one whose first look we
-disliked; or as God’s dear lessons unfold out of the dark
-sheath of trouble. The fairy almond-tree&mdash;of so tender a hue
-that you might fantastically imagine it a cherry-tree blushing&mdash;casts
-a light scarf over a dark corner of the shrubbery.
-The laburnum is preparing for the Summer, and is all hung
-with tiny green festoons. Against the blue sky, on a bare
-sycamore branch, that stretches out straight from the trunk,
-a glad-voiced thrush seems thanking God that the Spring
-days are come. Wedged tight into three branching boughs,
-near the stem of a box-tree, I find a warm secure nest, filled
-with five little blue-green eggs. It is still a delight to me
-to find a nest; a delight, if not now a rapture, an intoxication.</p>
-
-<p>All these I see on one Spring day or another, as I walk into
-my garden, or out into the changing lanes. All these I see,
-and all these I love. But I see them, and I love them tenderly
-and quietly, not with the wonder and the glee of life’s early
-Spring days. I am sad, partly because I know that a great
-deal of that old wondering ecstatic thrill has gone.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i4">“The rainbow comes and goes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">And lovely is the rose,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">The moon doth with delight<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Look round her when the heavens are bare;<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Waters on a starry night<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Are beautiful and fair;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The sunshine is a glorious birth;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">But yet I know, where’er I go,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>It must be so, naturally, if only from the mere fact that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">53</a></span>
-things must lose their newness, and so their wonder, to the eye
-and the heart. Do what you will, you must become accustomed
-to things. And the scent of a hyacinth or of the may, will
-cease when familiar to be the wonderful enchanting thing that
-childhood held it to be. And the <em>thirtieth</em> time that we
-see, to notice, the first snowdrop bursting through the pale
-green sheath above the brown bed, is a different thing from the
-<em>third</em> time. We appreciate delights keenly when we are
-young, seek the same in later years, but never find them; and
-then all our life remember the search more or less regretfully.
-So Wordsworth, the old man, addresses the cuckoo that
-brought back his young days and his young thoughts by its
-magic <span class="locked">voice:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Thou bringest unto me a tale<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Of visionary hours.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!<br /></span>
-<span class="i2"><em>Even yet</em> thou art to me<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No bird, but an invisible thing,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">A voice, a mystery:<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“To seek thee did I often rove<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Through woods and on the green;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And thou wert still a hope, a love;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Still longed for, never seen.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“And I can listen to thee yet;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Can lie upon the plain<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And listen, till I do beget<br /></span>
-<span class="i2"><em>That golden time again</em>.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Ah well, I must get on to my moral. I must not wail like
-an Autumn wind among the young flowers, and the bright
-leaves, and the blithe songs of the sweet Spring days, else I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">54</a></span>
-shall lay myself open to the reproach of the poet describing
-one <span class="locked">who&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Words of little weight let fall,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The fancy of the lower mind&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That waxing life must needs leave all<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Its best behind.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>It is not true really, that we are leaving behind our best,
-when we have passed into the Summer, or even into the
-Autumn days. But there is a degree, a portion of truth in it.
-There is a sense, no doubt, in which even the Summer does
-lose a beauty which is the peculiar possession of life’s Spring
-days.</p>
-
-<p>First then (to divide sermon-wise), what is that we lose,
-when we lose Spring days? I have hinted at this loss in
-nearly all that has been written above. We lose the <em>gladness
-of inexperience</em>, the gladness and enjoyment that is not
-<em>thoughtful</em>, nor such as can give a reason for itself, but that is
-merely <em>natural</em>, and welling up irresistibly like a spring. We
-lose the newness of things&mdash;aye, more, far more than this, we
-lose the <em>newness of ourselves</em>, the <em>freshness of our own heart</em>.
-<em>This</em> is (with some in a greater, with some in a less degree)
-what we discover that we have left behind, when we look back
-on life’s Spring days. Some of us, with a tender half-regretful
-watering, keep a hint, a reminiscence, of that old freshness.
-But many heedlessly suffer the world’s dust to coat it over, and
-the world’s drought to shrivel it up.</p>
-
-<p>But now, what may we have gained, if there be something
-lost in our leaving Spring days behind? If we lose a little, let
-us not fear but that our gain is far larger than our loss. We<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">55</a></span>
-gain gladness and we gain sadness (I use the word <em>gain</em>
-advisedly)&mdash;the gladness and the sadness of <em>experience</em>. A
-gladness that is part of the depth of a grave river now; profound,
-if not light-hearted like the little spring. A gladness
-that, when it comes, is more rational than merely animal;
-that has a reason to give for itself, and does not exist merely
-because it exists. A joy that is far more rare, also less ecstatic,
-but that is higher and deeper, having its birth in the <em>intellect</em>,
-and not simply in the <em>life</em> of the human creature.</p>
-
-<p>To exemplify my meaning. In art, compare the mere
-admiration without knowledge, with the intelligent appreciation.
-Turned loose without knowledge into a picture-gallery,
-how many things you admire, almost everything; and how
-fresh and uncritical is your admiration! But gain knowledge
-of art, gain experience; and you straightway lose in <em>quantity</em>
-what you yet gain in <em>quality</em>. You admire fewer pictures, but
-your admiration of the few is a different thing from that old
-admiration of the many. It is a higher thing, more intelligent,
-more subtle, more refined. It is an appreciation now, not
-merely an ignorant admiration. You are harder to please; in
-one sense you have lost; but manifestly, on the whole you
-have gained.</p>
-
-<p>And so with the gladness of manhood. It is a deeper,
-graver, more fastidious, yet a more reasonable and higher
-feeling than the gladness of the child. The sparkle, and
-bubble, and glitter, and singing have gone; but in their
-stead is a strength, an earnestness, an undercurrent not easily
-stayed or stemmed or turned aside. The gladness which is
-intelligent is better than the gladness which is instinctive.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">56</a></span>
-And the sadness of experience (for we cannot live long in
-this world without discovering that life is exquisitely sad)&mdash;the
-sadness which comes with experience&mdash;is <em>this</em> also a gain?
-No doubt it is&mdash;no doubt it is. A wise man once told us that
-sorrow is better than laughter; that the house of mourning
-is better than the house of feasting. And a Greater than
-Solomon endorsed with His lips and with His life the
-declaration, “Blessed are they that mourn.”</p>
-
-<p>And who that regards life in its true aspect, but must bow
-a grave assent to this verdict? He who watches the effect
-on himself of God’s teaching, and of the lessons which He sets
-to be learnt, will understand what the Master means by His
-saying. He who regards his own life as something more
-than a bee’s life, or a butterfly’s life; he who sees that the
-life of man has its <em>schooling</em>, meant to raise it above our natural
-meannesses, and petulances, and impulses, and weaknesses, and
-selfishnesses, and ungenerousness&mdash;into something high and
-noble and stedfast, exalted, sublime, angelic, godlike; he who
-thus thinks of life, and watches life with this idea ever
-in view,&mdash;will find it not hard in time to thank God
-for having made him sad, even while the sadness is fresh
-and new and keen in his subdued and wounded heart.
-Disappointed in many things, and with many people, he will
-accept the disappointment with a quiet, anguished, thankful
-heart, feeling that God, who tore from him his prop, is raising
-the trailing vine from the ground, and instructing its tendrils
-to twine around Himself, the only support that can never fail
-them. And this is well, he knows, who is a watcher of life,
-and a learner of its lessons.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">57</a></span>
-And when sadness has produced this, its right and intended
-effect of sweetening, and not souring the soul, a fresh advantage
-and gain steals, starlike, into the darkened sky. The heart
-that has been made lonely, except for God’s then most nearly
-felt presence, in a sorrow, is that which is the most braced and
-disentangled for the great and noble deeds of life. With a sad
-and a disappointed, if <em>yet still a loving, tender</em> heart, we can go
-out on God’s work, go out to face evil, or to do good, more
-easily and thoroughly oftentimes, than when this great
-grave, the world, shows to us “its sunny side.” Sadness, to
-him who humbly and prayerfully is seeking to learn God’s
-lesson in life, has not a weakening, but a tonic power. God,
-who sends the sadness, sends also the health and the strength;
-yea, the strength arises from the sadness. Something of what
-I mean is grandly expressed in the following <span class="locked">extract:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<p>“There are moments when we seem to tread above this
-earth, superior to its allurements, able to do without its
-kindness, firmly bracing ourselves to do our work as He did
-His. Those moments are not the sunshine of life. They did
-not come when the world would have said that all around you
-was glad; but it was when outward trials had shaken the soul
-to its very centre, then there came from Him ... grace
-to help in time of need.”</p>
-
-<p>Sadness, then, which braces and strengthens the character,
-which raises it into something nobler than it would otherwise
-have been; which sets a man free and stirs him up for great
-and noble acts, for a resolute devoted doing of Christ’s work
-on earth&mdash;such an experience is certainly a gain; and if
-this be our own, even when the Autumn woods are growing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">58</a></span>
-bare, we are not to wish to have back the old sweet
-Spring days.</p>
-
-<p>Now one more loss and gain has occurred to my mind,
-contemplating those Spring days that seem, but are not, so far
-behind me in life. How often we pine after the innocence of
-childhood! how the poetry of our hearts, and of our writers,
-loves mournfully to recur to this!</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The smell of violets, hidden in the green,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Poured back into my empty soul and frame<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The times when I remember to have been<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Joyful, <em>and free from blame</em>.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But here again a little thought will show us that we <em>need</em> not
-have left our best behind, when the Spring days are with us no
-more. Deliberate and intelligent goodness and holiness is a
-better thing than mere innocence of childhood, which, again,
-is rather the absence of something than the presence of aught.
-There has been merely neither time nor opportunity yet for
-much evil doing: there was no intelligent choice of good
-because of its goodness. And thus, if the man (although he
-have sinned far more than the child can have done) has yet, at
-last, and through much sharp experience, learnt life’s great
-lesson, and has become (however it be but incipiently) holy
-and good, that deliberate and positive, though imperfect
-goodness, is far better than the <em>mere negative innocence of the
-child</em>. Angelic innocence is, and the innocence of Adam would
-have been, no doubt, <em>intelligent</em> innocence. But now that
-we have fallen, that innocence (which, after all, is but
-comparative) of childhood is little else but the lack of time
-and knowledge and opportunity for sin. Such innocence is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59">59</a></span>
-merely a negative thing, while holiness is positive. And
-he who is ripening into holiness in life’s Summer, need
-not regret the mere innocence of its Spring days. In
-life’s filled, and alas, blotted pages, if, amid many smears
-and stains, the golden letters of <span class="smcap smaller">GOODNESS</span> at last begin to
-gleam forth in a clear predominance, he who considers
-wisely will not regret much the newness of the book, whose
-pages are only white and pure, because scarce yet written
-in at all.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>“The world passeth away, and the lust thereof.” All is
-evanescent, passing away; not only the objects that we desire,
-but even our desire and appreciation of them too. Nor does
-this only apply to that which is <em>worldly</em>, in an evil sense, but
-to some objects sad to lose, but which to have still, but no
-longer to be able to appreciate, is yet a sadder but an inevitable
-loss. When we look back upon life’s Spring days, something
-really sweet, and beautiful, and desirable, seems left behind and
-gone. Not life’s best; not the <em>grape</em>, but the <em>bloom</em> on it;
-not the deep blue day, but the strange glory of the morning
-sky. Something seems lost. I am fond of maintaining that
-it will yet hereafter be found. In Heaven, I think, there will
-be not only beauty, fairer than our fairest Spring days; but
-an appreciative power, undying, ever existing; and <em>hearts</em> that
-shall not know what it is to be <em>growing old</em>. This life is one,
-I again toll, of incessant <em>passing away</em>. Friends and joys leave
-us, and even if they did not, the power of enjoying often goes,
-and hands that were once little close-locked hands, deteriorate
-into flabby, cold fishes’ fins.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60">60</a></span>
-<em>Here</em>, you must lose, if you would gain; you must spend if
-you would buy. <em>Hereafter</em> it may be different. A hint of this
-seems given in an old prophecy of choice things to be had
-without money, and without price. ’Tis all clear profit <em>there</em>,
-I conclude; you add, without subtracting.</p>
-
-<p>Yes, in that Land (to illustrate by a fancy) the Winter
-flowers will come, one after one, breaking through the frost-bound
-beds, and when the time comes at which we shall expect
-them to go, they will surprise us by staying with us still. The
-sweet, faint, mild Spring primroses will brim the copses, and
-spill over, trickling down the banks; the daffodils (not
-<em>Lent</em>-lilies there) will dance over the meadows in a golden
-sheet, and will wonder to find that they are <em>additions</em>, not
-<em>substitutes</em>. The trembling cowslips, the starry anemones, the
-wood-fulls of hyacinths, the rose campions, the purple orchis
-spires, these will supplement, not supplant, the fair growth
-that used to fade at the first footfall of their advent. And so
-the sweetbriar roses, red and burning, and their paler sisters
-with unscented leaves, and the clematis snow, and the honeysuckle
-clusters, and the meadow-sweet; these will come not
-to fill an empty cup, but a full one, and one that yet, though
-full, is ever capable of containing more. And so snowdrops
-need not die for violets to come, nor violets vanish to make
-room for the rose. And Autumn will not supersede Summer,
-nor come, except to add its quota of beauty. “How
-then?” ask you, “shall we not soon arrive at the end of
-the delights of the year, and weary with their sameness?”
-No, I reply, for I think we shall not stop at Summer in
-Heaven, but ever go on into new and lovelier seasons;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">61</a></span>
-appreciating old pleasures with unweary hearts, but ever
-adding to them new.</p>
-
-<p>“Old things are passed away.” That is, perhaps, this old
-fading state of things, of objects, and capacity of enjoying
-them: and our hearts that once were young, but that still
-(except for the youth and freshness that religion can preserve
-in them) <em>will</em> be ever growing so old&mdash;so old.</p>
-
-<p>“Behold I make all things new.” <em>All</em> things&mdash;our hearts
-then, too: they will be again fresh, and that old forgotten or
-sorrowfully remembered child wonder, and appreciation, and
-love may come back; and the “forgets” of our later years
-be called to mind <span class="locked">again:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Is it warm in that green valley,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Vale of childhood, where you dwell?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Is it calm in that green valley<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Round whose bournes such great hills swell?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Are there giants in the valley,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Giants leaving footprints yet?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Are there angels in the valley?<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Tell me&mdash;&mdash;I forget.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But nothing that is beautiful to remember will be forgotten
-<em>there</em>. And the poet will no more lament a light gone out, a
-glory faded; our worn-out feelings, and spirits, and appreciations,
-and hopes, and beliefs, and wonders, and admirations,
-will be restored to us new. So altogether new, so quite
-different in nature, as well as in degree, from the old, that they
-will <em>keep</em> new, and not fade and perish in the using. <em>That</em>
-world will not pass away, nor the enjoyment thereof. For all
-there will be in perfect harmony with the will of God, which
-abideth for ever.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">62</a></span>
-Everlasting Spring days! Think of that! I mean an
-everlasting Spring season and freshness in the <em>heart</em>. Oh
-the sadness which is an undercurrent of all earth’s poetry,
-from the nightingale’s, upward, will have left our songs then!</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i10">“We look before and after,<br /></span>
-<span class="i12">And pine for what is not;<br /></span>
-<span class="i10">Our sincerest laughter<br /></span>
-<span class="i12">With some pain is fraught;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But this will then and there be no longer the case, for life
-will no longer be “A thing wherein we feel there is some
-hidden want.” Season after season, joy after joy, will indeed
-dance into light, but will not, after a little brief while of
-enjoyment, die into the shade. Heaven’s everlasting flowers
-will not grow dry, and dusty, and colourless; but for ever
-retain and increase the freshness, and the abundance, and
-the light, and the exquisite glory of those unimagined
-<span class="smcap">Spring Days</span>.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23.9375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_076.jpg" width="383" height="253" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">63</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">65</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="MUSINGS_IN_A_WOOD"></a>MUSINGS IN A WOOD.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 17.8125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_079-0.jpg" width="285" height="382" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_079-1.jpg" width="285" height="130" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 11em;"><img src="images/i_079-2.jpg" width="176" height="140" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 8.125em;"><img src="images/i_079-3.jpg" width="130" height="48" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 5.1875em;"><img src="images/i_079-4.jpg" width="83" height="64" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">Two</span> sweet little pictures, entitled, “The
-Lark,” and “The Nightingale,” have
-greatly charmed me. In one, there was
-a blue-flecked sky, a Spring morning
-landscape, and a glad-eyed girl, with a
-lapful of daisies, lying back and looking
-up with shaded gaze and listening eyes, into
-those blue depths, wherein</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The lark became a sightless song.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">In the other, there was an evening glow: warm, orange-grey
-sky, cooling into steel-blue; a bower of rose-leaves; an earnest
-face, with darker hair, and pensive brow, flushed into warmth
-by the setting sun. And you would know, even had you
-not been told, that the child, old enough just to enjoy that
-young melancholy which is pleasant,&mdash;is listening to that</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rings Eden through the budded quicks.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">For in neither case is the songster seen: with true art the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66">66</a></span>
-minstrel is left to the imagination to supply, and this subtler
-artist can furnish voice, form, motion; only one of which three
-could be given by the painter.</p>
-
-<p>These pictures were in the Winter Exhibition; hence, no
-doubt, their suggestion of the absent bird-songs was the more
-valued. For perhaps these, like other delights, are the sweetest
-when they are not possessed, but only remembered and
-longed-for.</p>
-
-<p>That remembrance, however, of Winter, will serve, by
-contrast, to freshen our enjoyment, as we start, on this warm
-March day, for Bramley Wood, to descry and collect the old
-familiar bird-songs as they come back to us in the Spring.
-To collect these and the flowers, I say, in the heart’s cases and
-herbarium, for use when Winter comes, and woods are dead,
-and bird-songs gone. This is a better way than to crowd the
-staircase and hall with stuffed, silent birds, or to encumber
-your shelves with dried, brittle, brown specimens; which can
-never suggest the fresh, juicy, sweet-breathed blossoms, or the
-quick, never-still, bright-glancing inhabitants of the bushes.
-For the heart keeps these collections all fresh and full of life,
-and if a picture or a poem or a strain of music does but
-summon them up, why, there they are in a minute. Though
-they may have seemed laid by and forgotten, yet, at the magic
-call, lo! the heart is a lane of primroses, or a copse of bluebells;
-the lark is high in the heaven, and the thrush answering
-the blackbird out of great white sheets of the may.</p>
-
-<p>We soon settle down to the bird-songs when once they have
-really all come back; and we plod on our preoccupied way,
-hearing them without hearing, unless, indeed, one day-note of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">67</a></span>
-nightingale should electrify our heart. But there is no doubt
-that, at first returning, the silver minstrelsy of the woods is
-welcomed by most. And we never grow too old to feel a
-heart-kindling and a brightening of the eye, on that mild
-November day, when we start, and listen, and&mdash;yes, it <em>is</em>, the
-first Thrush-song breaking the meditative misty hush of the
-landscape. Autumn is stringing the woods with tears, and the
-first gripe of Winter has ere now pinched to death the more
-delicate garden flowers; but, even before his reign has begun
-in earnest, here is a voice which prophesies of his overthrow.
-Then the frosts come in defiance, and the last leaves spin down,
-and the snow-sheet falls, and the thrush is silent as though
-dead, and resistance seems overcome, and Winter’s reign
-established. An observant eye will, however, still detect a
-speckled clean breast, flitting into alternate concealment and
-sight behind the bushes in the shrubbery, and rustling the
-counterpane of dry leaves, under which those many little dull-green
-points are crowding out of the frost-held ground. But
-his song is kept in reserve for a time. And it seems that
-Spring is close at hand, and that the year is indeed turned,
-when next you hear him, high on the boughs of that tulip
-tree, large against the pale blue sky, singing out loud and
-clear from early morning to dusk of a bright February day.
-And the dry leaves have huddled away from the searching
-wind, and left the brown moist beds, over which trembles a
-surprise of delicate white cups, where the blunt dull-green
-points had been.</p>
-
-<p>But I mean now to muse in a fanciful way about the
-characteristics of these returning songs, and the teaching that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">68</a></span>
-may be gathered from them. Canon Evans’ little book,
-“The Songs of the Birds,” might seem to have preoccupied
-this ground, but the treatment will differ, if the idea be
-the same.</p>
-
-<p>To what, then, shall we liken the song of the Thrush?
-Different temperaments of men and women may well be
-illustrated by the variety in the character of the bird-songs.
-In the thrush’s song, then, I seem to hear the utterance of the
-strong and happy Christian. He has never been troubled with
-any doubts; the dark dismays and hidden misgivings of other
-minds are without meaning to him. Clear and glad, and
-untroubled, and strong in faith, the soul of this man sits upon
-wintry trees, above few trembling flowers, under a pale still
-sky, and sings from the early morning to the dusking eve an
-unwavering, undoubting, happy song. A song in which there
-are not weird mysterious depths of feeling, nor ecstatic,
-incomprehensible heights, but in which there is ever an even
-tenor, a stedfast sustained gladness, an unchecked unvarying
-trust. A song, perhaps, not of the highest intellect, but of the
-firmest faith. Here are no dark questionings, that must be
-content to pause for an answer hereafter; no evil suggestions,
-fiery darts which the shield of faith must ever be upheld to
-quench. There is almost a hard ignoring and turning away
-from minds otherwise fashioned; minds full of anxieties and
-searchings, that are troubles indeed, but not doubts; struggles,
-but not defeats, because faith upholds where sight fails. These
-sing more broken snatches of more passionate music, amid
-thicker branches, and in the dusk; while the thrush-spirit,
-unknowing of these fierce alternations, sings out, up there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">69</a></span>
-upon the naked bough, clear and distinct against the blue
-soft sky.</p>
-
-<p>There is a wild stormy note which must detain us awhile
-from our March wood. It comes early in January, and on
-stormy days, under thin driving clouds, you may hear short
-bursts, as though the broken song of a husky blackbird, flung
-from the ivy-clad top of some tall, ancient spruce-fir. This
-is the note of the Missel-thrush, or Storm-cock. He seems
-rather to exult in the disturbed sky, and swaying boughs,
-and passing gleams and showers. There is a wild beauty,
-tempered with a <em>little</em> harshness, in the short sharp snatches
-of defiant and militant song. In him I find a type of the
-religious controversialist and disputant; the watchman set on
-his tower amid storms and lowering days. Such watchers
-there are, and they are useful to detect and descry the insidious
-approach of error. Controversialists-born, as it were,
-you shall ever hear their sharp short utterances under a
-stormy sky; and while you value the note, you will often
-detect and deplore some touch of harshness that grates upon
-the heart, some falling short of the mellow flute-like tones
-of Love.</p>
-
-<p>But on our way to the wood, and as we pass through this
-meadow, a Skylark springs up, and flutters higher and higher;
-fountain-like, as it rises, scattering about its silver spray of
-song. Very soon the eye wanders about, searching after it for
-some time in vain, pleased at last to recover the dim black
-speck in the grey sky.</p>
-
-<p>I suppose that the picture of which I spoke above gives the
-natural embodiment of the song of the lark.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70">70</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Up into the sky, bright thoughts and dreams, quivering wings,
-swelling throat, hurrying ecstasies and crowding notes of joy,
-impatient, yet impossible to be uttered. Careless flowers upon
-the lap,&mdash;withering, are they? But there is a worldful more
-to be had for the gathering. Oh yes, the lark’s song is that of
-the young heart&mdash;young enough to stop short at the attainment
-of simple gladness. There is not yet upon it the sweet hush
-even of love and sentiment, the upward soaring has no alternate
-dip and rise; the quick beat of the wings no pause; the bright
-flash of song no dyings-down into shade. Wonder at life goes
-hand in hand with joy in it; all is new and all is delicious;
-all is hope, and nothing is disappointing; the whole widening
-prospect is one of beauty and glad surprise. The year is in
-its early Spring, and has never so much as heard of Autumn
-yet; nor can guess, nor cares to try to divine, what those old
-brown leaves can mean, out of which huddle the thick primrose
-clumps. Higher and higher, and brighter and brighter, and
-gladder and gladder, and more and more impetuous the
-thronging notes, and more and more untiring the ecstatic wing.
-And God loves to see this, for He gave the feeling; and we may
-perceive that He has allotted to most things a young life of fresh
-colour and unmixed joyfulness. Kittens and lambs, and Spring
-leaves, and young children&mdash;they all sober down soon enough&mdash;and
-well they should. But let us not grudge the short hour of
-pure lightness of heart, that was God’s gift; nor hunt for ripe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">71</a></span>
-fruit among the sheets of blossom; nor dull with our heart’s
-twilight the first flush of the morning; nor desire, in the song
-of the lark, the thoughtfulness of the blackbird&mdash;far less the
-moan of the dove. Let not our work ever be to <em>check</em>, only to
-guide, and to tend, and to develop, the heart’s songful gladness,
-pointing it, indeed, heavenward; or, again, ready to tend
-the germ which some gust has stolen from its white petal-wings.</p>
-
-<p>I spoke of the Blackbird. And here, as we near the wood,
-towards which for some long time we have been walking, we
-catch the smooth, rich, lyric fragments of this deep-hearted
-poet. Less openly, freely, fearlessly confident and exulting in
-an unclouded soul, than the thrush,&mdash;there is something
-exceedingly fascinating in the intermitted, but not broken song
-of the blackbird. The pauses which sever the stanzas of his
-song, seem well suited to its lyric character. There are in
-these separate and finished verses the polish and completeness,
-also the richness and liquid flow, of a set of stanzas of “In
-Memoriam,” and, moreover, something of their wild mournfulness
-and tender, deep, questioning thought. The blackbird’s
-song is that of the grave, mature mind, highly intellectual,
-somewhat touched with sadness, but more with love, and that
-has had to battle hard through life to keep both faith and love
-unimpaired.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The blackbird’s song at eventide”:<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">thus it is described, and, in truth, it seems the passionate
-earnest utterance of one who can understand the difficulties
-which have blown down unrooted trees, and yet has itself<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">72</a></span>
-possession of that faith which can control into music notes
-that make a jarring in undisciplined minds. The riddle of this
-painful earth has often wrung the heart of this man, but his
-sorrowful thoughts concerning it have shaped themselves into
-these rich utterances of yearning love. This trumpet gives
-no uncertain sound; the speaking is clear, and distinct, and
-unfaltering. You are, as I said, reminded of the controversial
-storm-bird by its tones, but all that would have been harsh in
-its outspoken truthfulness, is mellowed and softened by an
-exquisite overmastering charm of tender and patient love.
-So that the blackbird’s song is that of mature faith, which
-has met and vanquished anxious questionings, and which, if
-that of a controversialist at all, is only that of one on whom
-old age is stealing, and whom experience has made gentle
-and patient; and yearning for souls has made passionate;
-and love of Christ has made tenderly and invincibly loving.
-And so when it thrills out clear and full from his hidden
-quiet retreat in the evening time, even those that think that
-there is cause for old grudges against the minstrel are arrested
-reverently to listen to his deep, thoughtful, loving song.</p>
-
-<p>We are at the wood now, at last. We have followed a
-pleasant stream that played hide-and-seek among its willows,
-and, while we talked and listened, we have gathered in
-gleanings of its beauty. And now we cross the narrow plank&mdash;parting
-the branches that half conceal it&mdash;and enter the
-wood. There are tiny pink balls ready to burst into vivid buds,
-gemming the hawthorn bushes; but the trees and underwood
-are bare, except for the willow catkins and the hazel tassels,
-or perhaps the dull green of the elder in a tuft here and there,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">75</a></span>
-or the early leaf-bud of a twining honeysuckle. But the pale
-smooth ash saplings, tall and slim, and silver-grey in the sun,
-with a narrow shadow edge, the branches studded with black
-buds; and the golden twigs of the white-stemmed birch; and
-the warm light brown of the hazel boughs; and the red of the
-cherry,&mdash;these make the wood, though bare, yet neither dull
-nor colourless. And here, farther in, the many stems are
-fringed and bearded with the hoary and abundant growth of
-lichen, cool as the bloom on a greengage, against the pale
-orange which still lingers in ragged patches upon the six-feet
-stalks of last year’s bracken.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
-  <img src="images/i_088.jpg" width="600" height="460" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Certainly there is, all around us in the wood, much material
-for musing. But we have come hither for a special end. For
-it is the thirteenth of March, and by this time the first of the
-train of those songsters, that fly to warmer shores to escape our
-Winter, ought to have returned. So, all ears, we proceed over
-the crisp leaves, disturbing the bobbing rabbits. And there! I
-heard the note&mdash;simple enough, yet pleasing even in itself, and
-sweet as being the forerunner of songs more rich. <em>Chiff-chaff</em>,&mdash;this
-dissyllable gives this Willow-wren’s note and name.
-There is not much in it, may be, still it is the little tuning-fork
-of the coming concert. And we are reminded by it of some
-gentle spirit which longs and tries to say a cheery and hopeful
-word to a heart which has been under wintry skies; that which
-it repeats may not indeed be very new, very powerful, or very
-varied; still, it is accepted and loved for the sake of its truth
-and affection.</p>
-
-<p>This bird has a relation, due some few days later, whose song,
-though but little more pretentious, is yet a great favourite<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">76</a></span>
-with me. I call it the laughing Willow-wren; and indeed its
-note does at once suggest a small silvery peal of merry light-hearted
-glee. Again and again, peal after peal; flitting
-through the boughs, almost the tiniest of slim birdlings.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Gaiety without eclipse,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">it certainly is, and yet it does not weary us, this ceaseless
-“silver-treble laughter.” This song has its parallel in some
-life, gay and blight and glad from first to last; hiding for
-a sobered moment from a shower or a storm, but anon and on
-a sudden recovering its innocent glee again. Delicate and slim,
-and easily frightened, but never long troubled; very winning
-and loveable; too tender and pretty for the hardest hand to
-crush; never doing huge deeds in the world, but of the same
-value that a fugitive sunbeam would be in a heavy and gloomy
-wood, or a daisy in a desert. Keeping the Child’s heart
-through the Woman’s life; feeling sorrow lightly, and with an
-April heart; disarming anger or harshness by its simple gleeful
-innocence; frail yet safe as a feather upon the whirls and
-eddies of life. Laugh on, light and cheery heart, amid the
-jay’s harsh dissonance, and the blackbird’s thought, and the
-thrush’s strength, and the dove’s sadness! Amid Life’s
-gravities and stern realities there is a grateful place for the
-gleams of a glad-hearted song like thine!</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.5625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_091.jpg" width="553" height="334" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>What variety in the character of the bird-music! Hark, for
-a moment, at those wise, solemn caws, and watch those sedate,
-respectable, gravely-clad Rooks sailing across this opening
-above us; so black and cleanly painted against the filmy blue.
-<em>Caw!</em> This is the voice of a steady, respectable mediocrity,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77">77</a></span>
-that by reason of its deep, portentous gravity, and weighty
-utterance, and staid appearance, might be almost mistaken for
-philosophy. True, the utterance, if profound, is not remarkable
-for variety; but then the manner will often make up for lack
-of matter. And it is something to have one maxim or
-apophthegm which may be fitted to every case. To all the
-world’s customs and businesses, its problems and aspirings, its
-cries and laughter, he gravely and meditatively listens. And
-when you eagerly await his verdict, he puts his sapient head
-on one side, looks at you out of one eye,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“And says,&mdash;what says he? <span class="smcap">Caw!</span>”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">The young impatient askers, the subtle and patient tracers of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">78</a></span>
-truth’s hidden vein, will chafe at his sedate utterances, and
-in time take their confidences elsewhere. But he can get on
-without them, and will never want for company of his kind.
-Raised above all intellectual excitements, and never in a hurry,
-the rooks step side by side with stately dignity over the scarred
-earth; or wing a heavy and cautious flight towards the trees;
-or sail serene in the still sky. For though there may be times
-when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The rooks are blown about the skies,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">this haste is involuntary, and must no doubt for the time
-much discomfort the methodical and stately traveller. And
-no doubt such characters are as useful ballast in the world,
-and well counterbalance the full excited sails, and the mad
-fluttering pennons above them. Commonplace, unruffled,
-happy Christians are these; with some they gain reputation
-for wisdom, with some for folly; but they go evenly on; not
-much troubled by sunshine or storm; not caring to enter
-into the dusks and gleams of the more passionate songsters and
-thinkers; ever with one quiet and not unmelodious answer:
-a life rather of deeds than of words. <em>Caw</em>, to all your spasms
-and heart-searchings,&mdash;and then I must just away to my work.
-Up in the tall trees, bending and swaying to break off the
-twigs for the nest; practical, if not colloquial; early at work
-in the morning, and at home in good time in the evening;
-a life not excited nor greatly eventful, but that has its own
-quiet, serene lesson.</p>
-
-<p>A day or two hence we might hear a notable and
-distinguished visitor to the woods and shrubberies. Even now,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">79</a></span>
-I have once or twice paused, half-fancying that I heard his voice,
-and ready to do honour to such a guest. For, while you are
-momently expecting to hear the Blackcap, the warbling of the
-meditative Robin has, here and there, a note which puzzles you.
-You follow out the voice, and there, on an elm branch, is the
-dark eye, and the warm breast, and the comfortable shape;
-and you feel half ashamed to have mistaken such a familiar
-friend for a stranger.</p>
-
-<p>The Blackcap is indeed a wonderful little warbler. So small
-and so energetic, thrilling song and swelling throat; brown
-body and whitish chest and jetty head. There are those who
-trace a resemblance to the nightingale’s song in its quick
-joyous utterances. If so, certainly the melody is but a
-suggestion here and there, and not a sustained and continuous
-resemblance. Shall I be unkind to the sweet little songster, if
-here I write that its song has its counterpart in the life of
-unequal Christians? Many there are who, now and then, in
-thought, word, or deed, seem to touch some perfect chord, and
-then disappoint the intent listener by sinking down to the
-more commonplace again.</p>
-
-<p>A moment, and there seemed a strain of angelic utterance,
-but it was not sustained, and you turn away disappointed at
-a more homely song which would otherwise have pleased you
-well. You do not look for Seraph notes in the hedge-sparrow’s
-song, or the wren’s chatting, and so you are well content with
-these. But high hopes unfulfilled become disappointment, and
-you feel an injury in having to resign the exalted idea which
-you had taken up; until, at last you see <em>yourself</em> in the sweet,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80">80</a></span>
-but unequal and inadequate song; and learn to reverence and to
-love the ever-failing and unsustained effort after higher things.
-Thus, ay thus, do you aim high, and ever fall below your
-aim; there is one touch of heaven, and a hundred of earth,
-in the broken and unsustained song of your life; and yet
-you would rather strive with hopeless yearning after the
-nightingale’s music, than acquiesce content with the lesser
-warblings, which accomplish the less that they attempted.
-Sing on, then, little bird, to an answering heart! In your
-song I read the rises and falls, the endeavours and failings,
-the aspirings and rare glimpses of attainment, which are
-the sweet exceptions, and the commonplace and every-day
-Christianity, which is the rule, of a life that would fain
-become the song of an Angel, but that scarce reaches the
-homeliest warble of the simplest wayside bird. Let us aim
-high, if we still fall below our passionate striving; let us
-never acquiesce quietly in less than Perfection; hereafter&mdash;who
-knows? who knows?</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;">
-  <img src="images/i_095.jpg" width="416" height="561" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>It is evening now, as we wend our way home. A thin
-sickle of light is barred by the slender topmost ash twigs, and
-the sky is deepening to that cold, clear dusk, that foreruns
-twilight. We hear a quiet song, far away&mdash;the Woodlark’s
-note always seems far away&mdash;you would have asked me the
-name of the not-generally-familiar songster, but I have just
-given it. “<em>That</em>, the woodlark? Well, I never heard, or
-never noticed it before” I dare say. But if is a quiet, saintly
-song; a heavenly voice, serene and clear, never passionate:
-a twilight, still, calm song, removed far away from the world’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">81</a></span>
-bustle, and deeply imbued with wisdom and melody from a
-Land far beyond this eager fevered strife. It is not glad, nor
-sorrowful; nor so much thoughtful as spiritual. It images to
-us that life which, separated from the world, is yet not ascetic;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">82</a></span>
-unobtrusive, yet fascinating when once perceived and heeded;
-simple, somewhat as is the language of St. John, but with
-unfathomable suggestions and revelations when you come to
-study and learn it. Quite away from controversy and strife,
-there is in it a divine peace, an entranced contemplation, a
-serene and peaceful uplifting of the soul. Perhaps the writings
-of Archbishop Leighton best give words to my ideal of the
-woodlark’s song.</p>
-
-<p>But those throbbing coos must stay our foot ere we quite
-leave the wood. The Dove&mdash;its voice is, of course, the
-embodiment of love; troubled, but not passionate; earnest,
-but not of earth merely. It has a melancholy vehemence,
-a sobbing urging of its cause, that is rather the voice of one
-seeking the good of another than its own delight. There is
-a tremulousness, a trembling fulness that might be that of one
-bidding farewell in death to some very dear friend whom he
-fain would win to the right and happy path, but for whom he
-sadly stands in doubt. There is such abundance from which to
-speak, such love and such mournfulness in saying it, that you
-smile with the tears near your eyes, on suddenly recollecting
-whither fancy was leading you, and that it is, after all, but the
-old old story being beautifully and melodiously told. For you
-caught a sight of the ash-blue wing, the mild eye, and swelling
-crop, and of the mate on a branch close by; and so your fancy
-was overturned.</p>
-
-<p>But there is one song which we shall not hear yet, as we
-return home from the wood; of which, nevertheless, some
-words must be said. Yet what words have even the greatest<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">83</a></span>
-word-masters yet found for the <span class="smcap">Nightingale’s</span> unearthly
-melody! What other song has even a likeness of the
-instantaneous and riveting fascination that is produced by
-one note of this? It is music which speaks, not to what
-we call the heart, merely, or the intellect, merely, but
-straight at once to that mysterious divine thing within us,
-which we call the spirit.</p>
-
-<p>And so it represents that recognition of, and yearning for,
-an ideal perfection and beauty, which many own, but few
-can express. And thus we start to hear it represented and
-embodied in sound without language, and, without knowing
-how, acknowledge a dumb music in ourselves which is closely
-akin to this superhuman and unearthly song. And we cannot,
-if we try, exactly define its character; some call it joyous;
-more sorrowful. But perhaps there is a hint in it of something
-within us higher and deeper than either of these; else
-how can it thus startle and electrify our being? At least
-it tells us of melody that we cannot yet grasp or fully
-understand, of beauty and harmony and perfection that is
-not yet our own. And I liken it to the raptured speakings
-of the prophet, or to an echo of the angelic messages seldom
-brought to earth.</p>
-
-<p>Well, ’tis difficult, and perhaps hopeless, to strive to
-interpret the songs of these little minstrels of God. After
-all, each heart will set them to words of its own. And,
-by leading others to do so, perhaps my musings may
-best fulfil their end. Many a one who would have appreciated
-them, misses the pictures in earth’s great gallery, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84">84</a></span>
-the music of earth’s great concert, for want of a finger to
-point him once to the one, and a hand on his shoulder to
-arrest his attention for the other. And it is worth regarding
-pictures at which God is working, and to listen to songs
-which yet remain in a saddened world, exactly as He first
-taught them.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19.8125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_098.jpg" width="317" height="374" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">85</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">87</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="THE_MAY-DAYS_OF_THE_SOUL"></a>THE MAY-DAYS OF THE SOUL.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 18em;">
-  <img src="images/i_101-0.jpg" width="288" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 19.3125em;"><img src="images/i_101-1.jpg" width="309" height="170" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 15.6875em;"><img src="images/i_101-2.jpg" width="251" height="132" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 13.9375em;"><img src="images/i_101-3.jpg" width="223" height="95" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 11.8125em;"><img src="images/i_101-4.jpg" width="189" height="67" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9.4375em;"><img src="images/i_101-5.jpg" width="151" height="179" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem smaller"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“All things are new: the buds, the leaves,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And e’en the nest beneath the eaves:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">There are no birds in last year’s nest!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">May</span> has come; that time of year has
-passed the sweet April time,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“When all the wood stands in a<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">mist of green,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And nothing perfect.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>The sparsely-gemmed hedges have
-thickened now, so that you cannot
-see the gardens through their bare
-ribs; and little bunches of tight-clenched
-buds give abundant promise of
-the sweet-breathed, shell-petaled hawthorn
-flowers. The coy ash-trees have
-begun to fringe over with their feather foliage;
-the ruddy bushy growth that seemed comically
-like whiskers, at the base of the elms and the
-lindens, has changed into a surprise of glorified
-green; the low shoots from the stump of the
-old oak-tree in the hedge bring out their wealth
-of soft, crumpled, young red leaves; the elders
-on the banks have gotten a deep, full garment of green upon
-them now; above the ash-hued stem of the maples there is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88">88</a></span>
-a numberless array of small maroon-tinged fists; the tender
-beech-leaves edge the low boughs that are spread out just
-above the grass.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_102.jpg" width="550" height="355" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>The birds are full of importance, and excitement, and
-enjoyment. The robin has his “fuller crimson”; the “livelier
-iris shines upon the burnished dove,” The black rook sails
-lazily with broad wing up in the blue sky: he, too, has his high
-nest to attend to; but life, on such a day as this, imperatively
-demands to be enjoyed. The copse rings with the laugh of the
-little willow-wren; the chiff-chaff ceaselessly announces his
-presence; the woodpecker cries as he leaves tree for tree;
-the blackcap, not singing just now, makes that “check,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">89</a></span>
-check,” like the striking of two marbles together; the
-cuckoo, besides telling his name to all the hills, has also
-a low, cooing, wooing voice for his mate; also another
-cry, as of a startled blackbird, but flute-like and liquid.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Flattered with promise of escape<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">From every hurtful blast,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Spring takes, O sprightly May, thy shape,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Her loveliest and her last.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
-  <img src="images/i_103.jpg" width="560" height="350" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>A sweet grey tint, that had begun to overspread the bare
-parts of the copse, is deepening into such a sapphire sheet, that
-our ungrateful hearts half forget or retract the regret they felt,
-when the fair young hazels and the tall thin ash-wands
-bowed in the Winter before the cruel bill. Only lately, it seems,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">90</a></span>
-on the way across the fields to the station, a delicate fairy mass,
-the light lilac of the “faint sweet cuckoo-flower,” had spread
-its kindly screen over the hacked and maimed stumps of the
-fallen wood. But the hyacinths take their place now; and,
-after these, we expect the bright rose of the ragged-robin;
-and, after these, quite a garden of tall spires of the foxglove,
-alternating from pale to darker red, with, rarely and
-preciously, a clustered sceptre of milky white.</p>
-
-<p>But why go on to the ragged-robin and the foxglove, later
-flowers of the year? Truly, there are flowers enough at this
-season to satisfy the most avaricious. Look but at the yellow
-meadows of the daffodils.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I wandered lonely as a cloud<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That floats on high o’er dales and hills,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When all at once I saw a crowd,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A host of golden daffodils,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Beside the lake, beneath the trees,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Continuous as the stars that shine<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And twinkle on the milky way,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">They stretched in never-ending line<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Along the margin of a bay:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ten thousand saw I at a glance,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>So the poet; and how could he but be of a May-day heart,
-amid such a May wealth of flowers? It was a light, a gleam,
-a possession that he thenceforth held; a sweet, living landscape
-of the heart, a landscape alive, indeed, not only with colour and
-light and shade, but with ceaseless gleeful motion.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">91</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I gazed, and gazed, but little thought<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">What wealth the show to me had brought.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">No; for often, when May-days were far away, and perhaps
-shallow snow, streaked with patches of brown land, slanted
-away under a pale grey sky, even at such times that wealth
-and glory, and abundance of the flowers, suddenly would</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Flash upon that inward eye,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which is the bliss of solitude.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And then, even in a lonely hour, a time of dulness and
-depression, a time when this sad life seemed saddest; in such
-a time even, that glad gleeful yellow landscape would come
-back, with something of the light and joy of a kind deed done,
-or a strong word said; and, amid the pale snow, and the ever-increasing
-depression, well can the possessor say that&mdash;then,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Then my heart with pleasure fills,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And dances with the daffodils.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Life has its May-days, as well as the year. They come, sometimes;
-rarely to some, but exquisitely beautiful when God sends
-them&mdash;the May-days of the soul. The times when the Winter
-fogs have passed away, and the clear sun shines down in its
-glory on the land; the times when the bare brown trees have
-become ruddy, and have then flushed into crowded variety of
-leaf; the times when the flowers, that had been thought to be
-buried for ever, dawn like a smile upon earth’s pale and
-furrowed face; the times when youth’s forgotten glow comes
-back, and a hint of the vigour to which dreams seemed
-realities, and impossibilities possible, stirs the sluggish sap of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">92</a></span>
-the soul. Such times there are, when the mists of November
-have departed, and the frosts of the succeeding months, and
-the bitter winds of March, and the flooding tears of April;
-it is the May, with its lavish promise and exuberant life, and
-ecstatic beauty! Times when illness or earth or laziness or
-lack of power no longer chill the soul that is indeed eager to
-burst into leaf; times when we are winged, when the hardest
-toils are easy to us, the heaviest stone rolled away; times when
-soul and body seem in perfect accord, and tongue and limb and
-eye instantly execute the least mandate of the ruler within;
-times when the ship obeys the lightest touch of the man at the
-helm; times that come like holidays scattered through the dull
-half-year of school-days; times of exuberant life and spirits
-and powers that visit us rarely, sweetly, now and then, as
-May-day comes in the year.</p>
-
-<p>I often think how little we use life thoroughly; how little we
-really live our life; how seldom we are in the humour to carry
-out its great and solemn purposes: how we let its opportunities
-fly by us, like thistledown on the wind. Why are we not
-<em>always</em> denying ourselves, taking up the cross, and following
-our Master? Why are we not <em>always</em> on the watch for every
-occasion in which a word may be said, or a deed done, or a
-thought thought, that shall be a protest for Christ, in this
-vain and sinful world? Why is God’s love but a rare Wintry
-gleam, and never a steady Summer in our soul? Think, for
-instance, of such a thing as Prayer; what a wonderful and
-beautiful thing it is! To kneel, an atom in creation, at the
-Throne of the Almighty! To be able to bare our hearts to
-Him, and to feel sure that the least throbs, as well as the great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">93</a></span>
-spasms, are perfectly appreciated, felt, understood, sympathised
-with, by that awful, loving Mind!</p>
-
-<p>And yet, how Wintry our hearts are in our prayers! how
-seldom they burst into exuberant flower! how constantly the
-sky above us seems pale and heavy, and dull and impenetrable,
-and our hearts beneath abiding in their Wintry sleep! Or a
-snowdrop here and there wanders out, and now and then a
-pinched primrose&mdash;not enough for even the poorest garland.</p>
-
-<p>But that is not all; not only in religion is it that we are
-more often Wintry-hearted than May-hearted. I have heard
-of an artist who used sometimes to keep his sitter waiting a
-whole morning, and at last send him away, unable to <em>win</em>
-the right humour to his heart, and feeling that his work
-would not be well done if he <em>forced</em> it. And in reading
-Haydon’s life you may often find traces of how difficult is
-this mood to attract, when it has not a mind to come.</p>
-
-<p>So, too, in composition, whether grave or light, how different
-a thing it is, according to our mood! How delicious a thing
-is it when the soul has a May-day, and when the pen cannot
-overtake the mind! when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Thought leaps out to wed with thought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ere thought can wed itself with speech!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">when ideas throng</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i22">“Glad and thick,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As leaves upon a tree in primrose time!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">when we seem to see,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i6">“Smiling upward from the page,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The image of the thought within the soul!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p class="in0"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">94</a></span>
-But these times, at least after one has written a good deal, are
-comparatively rare times, and it is more often February than
-May within us. A subject that seemed full of leaf when it
-occurred to the mind some weeks ago, in a May-day mood,
-stands often a stripped bare Winter tree when we sit down to
-work it out.</p>
-
-<p>Yes, in most of the business of life that is not mere routine
-and machine-work, no doubt the soul has its May-days&mdash;its
-times of <em>being in the humour</em> for its work, and of doing that
-work easily and glibly. How many a Clergyman would
-endorse this, merely in the every-day case of taking a class in
-his school! Words, earnest and abundant and interesting,
-throng forth at one time; at another, how bare the mind, and
-how unready the tongue!</p>
-
-<p>And now, to what do these thoughts lead us? I think
-to two considerations&mdash;one of warning, one of encouragement.</p>
-
-<p>The warning is an obvious one, and yet one much and often
-neglected. Let such times of warmth and light and glow and
-possession of blossom be not only <em>enjoyed</em> but <em>employed</em>. The
-soul’s Flower-time should never be allowed to pass away <em>without
-having left some noble fruit set</em>. It is common-place to repeat
-that the May-days of the soul are most abundant and most
-glowing in youth, the May-time of life. And, in connection
-with this whole subject, I quote, with an addition, Longfellow’s
-<span class="locked">verse:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Enjoy thy youth: it will not stay;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For oh! it is not always May.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">95</a></span>
-This is gentle and tender advice; and far am I from wishing
-to correct it, or to do otherwise than allow it, in its degree.
-Only there is deeper and more grave advice to be given <em>with</em> it,
-not <em>instead</em> of it. It is well to enjoy the soul’s May-time, but
-only well if it be <em>employed</em> as well as <em>enjoyed</em>; otherwise it will
-pass, and no trace be left. We may make a great May-day
-show by merely gathering our flowers and weaving them into
-garlands; and there may be much dancing and excitement and
-glee. But then, it seems purely and simply sad to see them
-next day lying neglected, limp, and withering, in patches and
-dribblets, on the ground; whereas, although the apple-tree and
-the primrose bank may look sobered and saddened when their
-blossom-time is past, you yet know that all trace of that sweet
-adornment is not lost; they are busy henceforth, maturing
-fruit and seed from the germs that the bloom has left.</p>
-
-<p>Therefore, to return to the principal thing, namely, Religion:
-remember, when the blossom-time comes, or returns, that its
-fairy brightness is evanescent. It must pass, therefore use it;
-enjoy it, but put it out to usury; let it not fade and fall without
-having left a germ of noble fruit behind. When the heaven
-seems open to prayer, when the dull sky has cleared, and,
-thick and sweet as May-flowers, the earnest longings and ready
-words burst from your bare heart, seize the auspicious hour;
-let it not pass unemployed. Do not merely taste, but exhaust
-its sweetness. When God seems to make His listening
-apparent, refrain not; besiege His throne with prayers,
-supplications, praises. And again, when the heart has thawed
-from its deadness and indifference, and a very May-gathering
-of zeal for God, of love for God and man, of high and holy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">96</a></span>
-yearnings and longings and resolves and purposes, crowd upon
-the Winter sleep of the soul; oh, then, indulge not in a mere
-sensuality of spiritual enjoyment; stay not at mere revelling
-in the warm sky and profuse up-springing of flowers; set to
-work to form, in that propitious hour, some germs of fruit,
-some careful reforms, some holy resolves, some earnest and
-lofty purposes, some self-denials, some pressing towards the
-mark. Prayerfully and painfully set to work, so that, by
-God’s grace, when the beauty has gone, the use may remain,
-and the boughs bend with fruit that were once winged with
-bloom.</p>
-
-<p>Oh, we all know, I say, these May-days of the soul: times
-when the love of God seems natural to us, and our hearts
-overflow into a spontaneous love of man; times when hard
-things are easy, and Apollyon in the way, or Giant Maul
-coming out of his cave, rather stir the soul to exultation than
-daunt it with dismay; times when God seems to us not an
-abstraction, but a reality; when we can fancy the Saviour
-beside us, as in old days He stood beside Peter or John;
-times when it seems a light thing to spend and to be spent for
-Christ’s sake and the brethren; times when the World has no
-allurements and the Flesh no power, and Satan seems already
-beat down under our feet; times when we go out to face the
-hardest duties with no secret desire that the call on us may not
-be made, but rather with grave steady resolution and with face
-set like a flint. There are times, I say, when God’s image
-seems to shine out for a while, clearly and brightly, from the
-rust and mildew of marring sin and sloth; times when, Samson-like,
-we rise from sleep, and the fetters that have hitherto tied<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">97</a></span>
-us down from life’s great deeds become upon our shoulders like
-as tow when it hath seen the fire. Yes, May seasons there
-are for the soul, in which there is a press and hurry of blossom,
-that is well and fair if it be secured for God.</p>
-
-<p>For, note this&mdash;<em>it is not always May</em>. The glow will pass, the
-sunlight die, the flowers will fade, the bird-songs sink into
-silence. And, if you have not profited by that gleam of heaven
-which opened upon your soul, you are certain to have lost by
-it, especially when such a warmth, such a light, broke, by God’s
-grace, through the dull sky of a cold and worldly life. If any
-message from God have warmed your bare heart into leaf and
-bloom, beware how you let the golden opportunity remain
-unemployed. Beware lest the east winds return, and nip and
-scatter the frail petals ere the germ of some good fruit be
-formed. Life is ever offering to us Sybilline books, and very
-often we have at last to give as much effort in old age, for the
-attaining of a poor service to God, as we should have given,
-long ago, for a full, rich, hearty, life-long serving Him. Late
-or early, however, employ the excitements, the May-warmths
-of the soul. “Excitement has its uses; impression has its
-value. Ye that have been impressed, beware how you let
-those impressions die away. Die they must: we cannot live
-in excitement for ever; but beware of their leaving behind
-them nothing except a languid, jaded heart. If God gives
-you the excitements of religion, breaking in upon your
-monotony, take care. There is no restoring of elasticity to
-the spring that has been over-bent. Let impression pass on
-at once to action.”</p>
-
-<p>The <em>warning</em> was obvious; somewhat less so, perhaps, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98">98</a></span>
-<em>encouragement</em>. Still, this violet is to be found if we part the
-brambles, and seek it among its leaves. The May feeling is
-delicious&mdash;is, indeed, a foretaste of heaven, when hard things
-seem easy to us, and the face of duty is scarce distinguishable
-from that of pleasure. Prayer is sweet, sweet indeed, when it
-is easy to pray; praise is delicious when it seems almost the
-spontaneous growth of the heart. It is pleasanter to speak a
-painful word, to perform a painful duty, in those moods when
-the uplifted heart almost exults at having it to do. It is
-nothing to deny ourselves when some gleam of heaven has so
-exalted us that the world and the flesh and the devil have
-nothing to offer which can turn us from the ecstatic
-contemplation of Christ, and the Home whither He has gone
-to prepare. But is prayer more acceptable, is praise more
-beautiful in God’s sight when the heart is all in flower, or
-when it is Winterly indeed, but exceeding sorrowful at this,
-and sadly trying to gather for God a snowdrop out of its
-Wintry beds? Is it more acceptable in God’s sight to speak
-a true word when the heart is braced and strong, and the
-effort small, or <em>still to speak it</em> when the heart is shrinking
-and weak, and the effort great? Is the deed of love or of
-justice or of self-denial noblest when most easy or when
-most difficult to be done?</p>
-
-<p>Ah, well, God knows; and He sends the May-days, and He
-permits the dull days and the bitter winds. Let us serve Him
-through both, and then all will be well. No doubt we <em>ought</em>
-always to have a May-day in our heart for this service. And
-yet, perhaps, indeed almost surely, He does not mean this to
-be so in this life of discipline. Here it must not be always<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">99</a></span>
-easy and delicious to serve Him. Here we must serve Him
-through cold and warm weather, through calm and storm,
-up the hill Difficulty, as well as in the quiet valley.</p>
-
-<p>Religious feelings are very variable; but rarely, comparatively,
-a May-day comes: the flowers are few, and the sky
-closed, almost generally. Let us, then, use diligently the warm
-blossom-time, when it is with us, but let us not be dismayed
-when it passes from the soul. <em>Perhaps</em> the best words we say
-are those that seemed to us the worst, and the teaching that
-sank most into the heart was that which we thought weakest
-and most inadequate; thus may God be pleased, while He deigns
-to use us and to accept our work, yet to keep us humble.
-Perhaps the service that was so hard to render, and in which
-we had so to fight against listlessness and wandering thoughts,
-may, if still earnest, prevail or please more&mdash;who knows?&mdash;than
-that which seemed to fly up at once full-fledged to
-heaven’s gates. If, though limping, we still hobble on with all
-our might, we may be really making as much progress as when
-we seemed to be skimming the ground; for God gives both the
-wings and the crutches. Of course I am not supposing that the
-hindrances to love and service arise from want of watchfulness,
-that let the world creep in, or want of prayer for the Help
-which alone is sufficient for us. But, generally, we must make
-up our mind to have more days of weary toiling through the
-desert sands than of refreshments at “Elim, with its palms and
-wells”; only, when the rare refreshment comes, it should have
-braced us for the toilsome march, when we must leave the
-pleasant spot behind, and labour toilsomely on again. And, if
-May-days of the soul come but seldom now, and it is oftener<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">100</a></span>
-difficult than easy to serve God now, fear not, fail not, my
-Brother or Sister. Rejoice that God gives thee something not
-easy to do for Him, and think of a time, beyond this brief life,
-when it will be ever natural and instinctive to love and serve
-God, when it <em>will</em> be “<em>always May</em>.”</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22.0625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_114.jpg" width="353" height="509" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">101</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">103</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="SUMMER_DAYS"></a>SUMMER DAYS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 20.875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_117-0.jpg" width="334" height="446" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 20.875em;"><img src="images/i_117-1.jpg" width="334" height="148" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 10.8125em;"><img src="images/i_117-2.jpg" width="173" height="43" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9em;"><img src="images/i_117-3.jpg" width="144" height="47" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 8.3125em;"><img src="images/i_117-4.jpg" width="133" height="133" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 5.125em;"><img src="images/i_117-5.jpg" width="82" height="74" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="p4 center smaller">“Consider the work of God.”</p>
-
-<p class="p2 in0"><span class="smcap">We</span> have passed, from late Spring into
-Summer. Let us go out into the balmy
-air and mark what changes have passed
-over the land since we had our Spring
-scamper among the fields. It will befit
-these graver months of the year soberly to
-walk now. And a quiet sauntering walk
-over the fields is in truth a delightful thing
-upon a Summer’s day.</p>
-
-<p>How delicious to thread the narrow parting
-through the deep hay, just ready to be cut,
-meadow after meadow full of tall, silky,
-waving grass; here a patch feathery, and
-of silvery lilac hue; here the rough crowfoot; here the
-drooping oat-grass; here trembling, delicate pyramids; here
-miniature bulrushes; and, choice and rare, the graceful
-quaking grass, with its thin filaments, and its fruit shot
-with faint purple, and pale green, and light brown. Numberless
-flowers,&mdash;gold, and rose, and crimson, and lilac, and
-amethyst,&mdash;these smile up at you close to the path, and give<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">104</a></span>
-a sweet hint of stronger colour, far away throughout the hues
-and many unpronounced tints of the grass.</p>
-
-<p>You spring over a stile, and, sweet surprise! come upon a
-field half-mown. It is the first you have seen this year,&mdash;the
-first deep ranks of close tall growth falling before the
-scythe,&mdash;the first scent of hay; and the first waft of this is
-to the scent what the first note of the cuckoo is to the ear.
-There the deep swathes lie in long rows, the innocent sweet
-flowers looking up at first with something of sad wonder, but
-soon drooping in a death which shall not be called untimely,
-because it is useful, and following on completed work. Of it
-we may say with the wise king, that “being made perfect in
-a short time, it fulfilled a long time.” And, like a loved
-memory after a holy death, the scent of the dying grass and
-flowers lingers sweetly in the soft air.</p>
-
-<p>Well, we surmount another stile, and enter a wheat-field.
-How beautiful the myriad stalks and the broad drooping leaves,
-of a more sober bluer green than that of grass! I always
-notice that as soon as the hay is made, or making, the full
-bulging sheaths of the wheat begin to open, and to divulge the
-secret wealth of the green ear. The pointed flag falls over it;
-but very soon it bursts the swaddling bands, and rises proudly
-above the now obsequious deposed leaves, like an heir above
-his nurses. And then the whole wheat-field stands in blossom,
-the little trembling stamens escaping all over the husks, and
-the great width of tall ears begins its solemn stately waving
-and bending, and its undying whisper in the faint warm
-Summer airs.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_119.jpg" width="549" height="598" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>And through the long colonnades there are here also sweet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">107</a></span>
-and fair flowers: the bright pimpernel, the dull-grey cud-weed,
-the glad speedwell, the small blue forget-me-not, the
-white feverfew,&mdash;these are the low carpet growth. Then
-higher, and like illuminations hung through the columns, there
-is the rich blue corn-flower, and the purple corn-cockle in its
-green star-shaped cup; and last in order, but almost first in
-beauty, the glorious scarlet poppy, with its satin-black eye,&mdash;a
-flower of dazzling splendour, but calumniated and ill-used
-beyond my endurance. “Flaunting poppies,” indeed! Why,
-they are the drooping banners of God’s army of the corn!
-Here they are waving out in all their glory; here they are
-folded up (somewhat crumpled) within that green case, out of
-which they are gleaming, just ready to be unfurled for the
-march. I love the violet&mdash;none better; but I protest against
-the folly, and, in a minor degree, injustice, of instituting an
-inane comparison between it and the poppy, to the discredit of
-my favourite of the corn-fields. A better lesson might be
-taught by pointing out how each fulfils the duties of that state
-to which it has pleased God to call it: the sweet violet among
-its leaves, like the modest wife at home; the brave poppy
-among the open and wealthy corn-fields, like the husband called
-out into the business of the thronged world.</p>
-
-<p>This is a digression, however. Let us get back to Summer
-days, and the fallen grass, and the wide wheat-fields in
-flower.</p>
-
-<p>Many days have not passed before that flower falls,
-and the delicate paleness of the new-born ear passes away,
-and the corn-fields settle down to the grave work of the
-year.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108">108</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Long grass swaying in the playing of the almost wearied breeze;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Flowers bowed beneath a crowd of the tawny-armoured bees;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Sumptuous forests, filled with twilight, like a dreamy old romance;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rivers falling, rivers calling, in their indolent advance.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>That was all very well in the year’s early manhood, scarcely
-distinguishable from youth. But a more prosaic gravity has
-toned down those romantic feelings, and it has discovered that
-there is work, grave work&mdash;work sometimes a little wearisome
-and dull&mdash;to be done. The fairy lightness and greenness, the
-delicacy and exquisite freshness, of the year, have passed away.
-It is not Dream-land any longer&mdash;not a scene of faint rose-flushed
-or dazzling white blossom, but of hushed, sober colour,
-and of somewhat of monotony and sameness. The fair Bride
-fruit-trees are clad in dark garments now, and busy with their
-families of little unripe things, that have to be educated into
-ripeness and usefulness. The oaks are no more clad in “glad
-light green” or very red leaves, and the elms have toned down
-even the little brightening up of Summer growth at the end of
-their branches, all into that quiet, dust-dulled, dark hue. And
-so with all the trees; and under the tall growth of the copses
-there is not the play and dance of myriad butterflies of sunlight
-in soft meadows of shade; but the shadow is almost gloomy,
-and the stillness is quite solemn. Thin tall grass or broad
-grave ferns have taken the place of the sheets of glad
-primroses, and bright wood anemones, and azure hyacinths,
-and rich orchis.</p>
-
-<p>There is no disguising it: the freshness and first energy of
-things has spent itself and gone, the landscape is dulled and
-dustied. A little while ago every day was different; now every<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">109</a></span>
-day seems much the same. There is not the constant
-progression, the still developing beauty, the ever new delights
-of every new day. New birds to greet, new clothing for the
-meadows, new carpets for the woods, new glories for the trees:
-all these</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Faded in the distance, where the thickening leaves were piled.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And the year has done with its extravagantly profuse promises,
-its eager pressing on to some ideal and impossible beauty
-not yet attained, never to be attained, though it would not
-believe this, in those old inexperienced days, when it cast
-away blossom and freshness of leaf as things that did but
-impede it, in the impatience of its hurry after that Perfection
-which is a dream on earth, though it be true in
-Heaven. True also in Him, in whom earth and Heaven
-have met; this stooping to the tangible, and that raised to
-the sublime.</p>
-
-<p>Yes, the year seems at a standstill now, and sobered down,
-and sedate, and hushed. Above all, it is silent. Those ecstatic
-melodies, those “pæans clear,” that rang out through the
-groves&mdash;the song of the willow-wren, the thrush, the blackbird,
-the blackcap, the nightingale&mdash;all are silent. Even the
-little robin has no voice for Summer days; only the yellow-hammer
-reiterates its short, plaintive, monotonous note on the
-dusty wayside hedge.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Dear is the morning gale of Spring,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And dear th’ autumnal eve;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But few delights can Summer bring<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">A poet’s crown to weave.<br /></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">110</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And ever Fancy’s wing<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">To Autumn or to Spring.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Sweet is the infant’s waking smile,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And sweet the old man’s rest;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But middle age by no fond wile,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">No soothing calm is blest.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Sweet Summer days! I am far from meaning to depreciate
-you, or to deny to you the need of much beauty and calm
-delight; but it is true, nevertheless, and must be conceded, that
-the poet’s complaint has some ground of reason. We miss
-something in Summer days: it must ever be so in this world.
-Attainment must ever disappoint: reality is another thing from
-the image of our dreams. The finished painting is not all that
-the first rough sketch hinted and shadowed out. Spring may
-be high-spirited and eager&mdash;Summer must ever be grave, and
-hushed, and sedate.</p>
-
-<p>And what then? Something is missed: but is nothing
-found? What is the year doing in the gravity, and monotony,
-and silence of Summer days? Our life is much like that of
-the year. It has its Spring and its Summer, its Autumn and
-its Winter. We, too, pass out of youth, and excitement, and
-impetuosity, and hope, into manhood, and gravity, and
-calmness&mdash;and disappointment. What, then, is the year doing
-in this stage of its life? If we look aside from our own
-experience to its example, what does that example teach us?</p>
-
-<p>The question, “What is the year doing?” suggests the
-answer to our inquiries. The year <em>is doing</em>. It is gravely,
-quietly, perseveringly <em>at work</em>. And earnest, hearty, steady<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">111</a></span>
-work at that which God has given us to do&mdash;work hearty, if
-a little dull and monotonous&mdash;this is the lesson taught by
-Summer days.</p>
-
-<p>Work, steady work, dry, monotonous work, aye, this is the
-lesson of Life’s Summer; this succeeds its dream-time, this
-precedes its rest. Yes, in truth, the Spring anticipation and
-eager energy have gone. The Autumn repose has not yet
-come. The year is gravely, and steadily, and prosaically at
-work now; its ardour and ecstasies calmed, its wild impossible
-hopes toned down, its grace of blossom vanished. All
-vegetation is busy, maturing seed and fruit, sober grain and
-useful hay. The earth, like her child, the ant,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Provideth her meat in the summer,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And gathereth her food in the harvest.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Toiling in the dust and heat; toiling without rest, wearily
-often, uncheered by songs. For the little choristers of the
-trees are themselves grave and sedate now, and busied with
-their nests, and with the care of rearing their family. There is
-little change, save a deepening of colour; the morning finds the
-earth still ceaselessly at work, and in the tender evenings and
-grey nights, the glimpsing lightnings and the intent stars
-disclose or behold the same scene:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Rapid, rosy-tinted lightnings, where the rocky clouds are riven,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Like the lifting of a veil before the inner courts of heaven:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Silver stars in azure evenings, slowly climbing up the steep”:<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">What do these still discover? What but</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Corn-fields ripening to the harvest, and the wide seas smooth with sleep.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">112</a></span>
-Let Summer days then teach us, as, one after one, they greet
-us and depart, their wise, but unobtruded lesson. The
-Summer time being the time of grave steady work, and there
-being also such a time in our lives, a time of dust, and heat,
-and toil, when our spirits sometimes seem to flag, and the very
-sameness of labour brings over us a depression, and a lingering
-longing after the time of blossom, and of clear new verdure;
-there being this resemblance between us, let us examine the
-year’s work, if perhaps we may gather some hints for ours.
-<em>How</em> does the year work? and how should <em>we</em> work, when
-that first zest that made work easy has gone, and the time
-of rest is on the other side of our labour.</p>
-
-<p>The year works <em>thoroughly</em>, more implicitly obedient than
-man to this teaching of its Maker,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>God seems to have made, in all the wonderful animal and
-vegetable growth which surrounds us, some to honour, and
-some to dishonour. Even as with nations, there were the
-chosen people, and there were those left yet degraded&mdash;and as
-with individuals, there are those whose work is to evangelise a
-world, and there are those whose work is to follow the plough,
-or to order the household&mdash;so it is with plants, and flowers,
-and trees.</p>
-
-<p>And from this point of view we shall find that they have
-much to teach us in our work. How thoroughly it is all done,
-and with the might; the noble as well as the homely work!
-There are some plants busy maturing groundsel-seed and
-beech-mast, some maturing strawberries, and peaches, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">113</a></span>
-pines. But each does <em>its utmost</em>, and the <em>work</em> of the inferior
-degree is equal in quality with that of the higher. The
-shepherd’s-purse and the thistledown are as perfectly and
-exquisitely finished, as are the apricot and the grape.</p>
-
-<p>And this strikes me as leading up to a cheering and beautiful
-thought&mdash;to a thought which has often occurred to me in
-reading the parable of the <em>Talents</em>. There is, let me remark,
-this difference between this parable and that of the Pounds:
-that in the one case the <em>work</em> was equal in quality, bearing
-exactly the same proportion to the advantages, which were
-dissimilar; in the other case the advantages and opportunities
-were the same for each, but the <em>work</em> was unequal and greatly
-differing in quality. Thus each has its separate teaching.</p>
-
-<p>And in this parable of the Talents, the same heartening
-thought came to me as that wafted from fields, and trees, and
-gardens, on the breath of Summer days. It was cheering,
-and a matter of much thankfulness, to recollect that it was
-possible, in a low condition, and with less advantages, to
-serve God in the same proportion with the greatest of God’s
-saints: to fight as well and as nobly in the ranks as any
-officer could do who waved his soldiers to the charge. It
-was, I say, very comforting to read, after</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have gained
-beside them five talents more”;</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">and the “Well done” that followed&mdash;it was exceedingly sweet
-to read, farther on,</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“He also that had received two talents came and said, Lord, thou
-deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other
-talents beside them.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">114</a></span></p>
-
-<p class="in0">And then to hear just the same ringing glorious words, “Well
-done!” words that come like a burst of joy-bells across the
-heart. For I said to myself, “Cheer up, and be bold,&mdash;humble,
-insignificant, lowly though thou be, and sorrowfully, impotently
-longing to do great things, to fight a good fight, for Him who
-died for thee and rose again. Yea, be of good courage, and do
-even thy best with that thou hast. The one had ten talents to
-bring, the other but four, yet cheerily, bravely, modestly, did
-he bring them; the amount was different, <em>the work was the same</em>.
-Each had wrought in the same proportion. He with five
-talents had indeed doubled them. But he with two talents
-<em>had likewise doubled these</em>.”</p>
-
-<p>Therefore, men, my brothers, women, my sisters, let us thank
-God and take courage. Let us not repine if our sphere be
-narrow, and our work seemingly insignificant; let us not look
-enviously at those with great talents, and grand opportunities,
-and wide work. Let us take heart, as we look at the tiny wayside
-plant, and at the laden fruit-tree, all at work, under the sun,
-in the quiet Summer days. There is no caprice, but there is
-much to surprise us in the allotment of work in God’s world.
-So, art thou an oak, capable, as it seems to thee, of great deeds
-and noble fruit? Scorn not, however, to spend thy life making
-and maturing acorns, if thus it please God to employ thee.
-Art thou a lowly strawberry plant, weak, and easily trampled,
-and (thou deemest) capable of nothing worthy? Shrink not,
-at God’s bidding, to endeavour to fashion rich and precious
-fruit, which, if thou art patient and faithful, God’s rain shall
-nourish, and His sun shall ripen. Such an oak might St. Paul
-have seemed, chained to the Roman soldiers, yet I wot he then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">115</a></span>
-fashioned acorns, whose branches have since overspread the
-world. Such a lowly plant was Moses, deprecating God’s
-behests at the burning bush. Yet I trow that was noble fruit
-that he was enabled to mature.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32.9375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_129.jpg" width="527" height="486" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>For the comfortable thought is, that we work not in our
-own strength, nor from our own resources. God supplies
-strength and material, and then undoubtedly it is for us to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116">116</a></span>
-use them. Yet the principle of growth is His gift; and so
-also are the sun, and the wind, and the rain. Without Him,
-we can do nothing. But with Him, everything.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I can do all things,&mdash;through Christ which strengtheneth me.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Let us then be brave-hearted and true-hearted, and learn
-this lesson from the earth’s work under the sun. Never to
-envy nor to repine, nor to be amazed at life, but just to give
-all our heart to the maturing and perfecting the work which
-God has entrusted to us to do for Him&mdash;if in the garden bed, the
-choice fruit; if by the wayside, the small seed which He has
-prepared for us to tend. Let us work <em>thoroughly</em>, in these
-short Summer days.</p>
-
-<p>Another hint from the year’s work. It works leisurely,
-bringing forth fruit <em>with patience</em>. Thus the poets sweetly
-describe its work:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Lo! in the middle of the wood,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With winds upon the branch, and there<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Grows green and broad, and takes no care,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nightly dew-fed; and, turning yellow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Falls and floats adown the air.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Lo! sweetened with the Summer light,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Drops in a silent Autumn night.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All its allotted length of days<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The flower ripens in its place,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ripens, and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fast rooted in the fruitful soil.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Thus flower, and leaf, and fruit, do their part thoroughly, and
-expect God’s blessing patiently, and trustfully leave all to Him.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">117</a></span>
-There is no hurry, though there is no idleness or slackness.
-Again, as a contrast to our heat and fever, and hurry, and
-distrust, regard the sublime calm of nature:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Sweet is the leisure of the bird,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">She craves no time for work deferred;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Her wings are not to aching stirred,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Providing for her helpless ones.</span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Fair is the leisure of the wheat;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All night the damps about it fleet,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All day it basketh in the heat,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">And grows, and whispers orisons.</span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Grand is the leisure of the earth;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">She gives her happy myriads birth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And after harvest fears not dearth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">But goes to sleep in snow wreaths dim.”</span>
-</div>
-</div></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">118</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_131.jpg" width="549" height="323" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Yes, as the Great Teacher said (and the saying seems to me
-one of the most suggestive of even His sayings), the earth
-brings forth her fruit <em>with patience</em>. And now, what a contrast
-is this to our work! How distrustful, how impatient we are!
-How apt to be in a hurry! We would have the whole long
-Summer’s work done in the first short Spring day. We want
-the leaves perfect, and the blossom gone, and the fruit not
-only set, but ripened all at once. We cannot ourselves bring
-forth fruit with patience, nor be content to wait its gradual
-growth and ripening in others.</p>
-
-<p>I give two examples of this. One is of the education of
-children. We want the ripe fruit, too often, before the bud has
-even well developed for the bloom. What unnatural precocity
-do some well-meaning religious parents bring out, and exult
-over, in the little delicate undeveloped minds that God has
-given to their care. It pains me to read the stories that are so
-prized by some people. They force upon one the sense of such
-utter unreality. What experience has that infant mind
-gathered of the deep feelings and inward struggles, the defeats
-and victories, the repentances and recoveries, the depressions
-and ecstasies, the wrestlings in prayer, the astonishments, the
-dismays, the failings, and the attainments, that are familiar
-to the veteran in the battles of the Lord? And yet we
-would make him talk the language of the soldier of the
-hundred fights, when, only very lately brought into the
-camp, he does but sit among the tents, hardly yet even seeing
-or hearing</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The distant battle flash and ring.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Experience will come, but until he has had it, why should you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">119</a></span>
-require its tokens? The war is at hand, but is it wise to bid
-him ape its trophies while its grim earnest is scarcely yet
-to him a dream? Parents, anxious parents, heartily do I
-sympathise with your yearnings. You long to know certainly
-that your child is indeed a faithful and obedient child of God.
-Nevertheless, to hurry the work is often to mar it. Forced
-fruit, if you get it, is poor and flavourless, compared to the
-natural growth. And how much falls blighted from the
-bough! You have seen gooseberries red before full grown,
-and while others about them were green. But you know that
-this is not ripeness, but only its caricature. And I have seen
-such a mere painful caricature in the talk and conduct of the
-child. Be content,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Learn to labour,&mdash;and to wait.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Put in the seed watchfully, wisely, diligently, not rashly, nor
-over profusely; pray before, and during, and after the
-sowing; and then trust to God and wait. Dig not up the
-seed to see if it is sprouting; despair not if through long
-Winter months scarce any tender blade appear; suffer that
-the ground which ye have diligently, painfully, prayerfully
-sown, should <em>bring forth fruit with patience</em>.</p>
-
-<p>My other instance is that of the desire and endeavour for
-holiness. How many that are but beginners in the race, chafe
-and fret because they cannot be at once at the goal. How
-many a one, but a babe in holiness, expects to be at once a
-man, without the gradual growth, the patient succession of day
-and night, and sun and shower, through this dusty toilsome
-Summer of our life. And depression, discouragement, sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">120</a></span>
-falling away, results on this unwise hurry. The seed
-tries to grow with unnatural rapidity, and, therefore, having
-no root, it withers away. Oh wait, and work, and trust,
-seedling saint, and fear not but that God will send the full
-growth: yea, if thou wilt, even bid thee bend with fruit an
-hundredfold for Him. Only remember, God’s order is, first
-the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear.</p>
-
-<p>Yes, let us take comfort from the thought of the gradual
-growth and ripening of Summer days. Every day’s sun,
-every night’s dew, add a little. And at last the grain bows
-heavy and ripe, and the fruit reddens upon the branch, and
-weighs it towards the ground&mdash;that was once but a thin weak
-blade, or a small crude, sour, green bullet.</p>
-
-<p>And&mdash;-for an ending of the discourse of Summer days&mdash;working
-thoroughly, and working patiently, the earth also
-works <em>steadily</em> on, and in spite of discouragement; of the loss
-of many dreams, and the experience of many failures. Its
-songs have gone; its freshness is over-gloomed; and dust has
-gathered upon its light and glory. Blights, and caterpillars,
-and frosts, have marred much; and the poetry and early
-fascination of Spring is over now.</p>
-
-<p>But it goes on steadily, in the dry Summer glare, in the
-drought, and dust, and silence; patiently, uncheered by
-showers, and with many a leaf curling, many a fruit dropping.
-Though life often seems monotonous, and prosaic, and dry, it
-none the less steadily and persistently, and without giving
-up or losing heart, toils on.</p>
-
-<p>Ah, thus in our Summer days, in the time of our manhood,
-when life’s poetry has fled, and we are not that we wished to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121">121</a></span>
-be, and we do not that we wished to do; and the romance, and
-the glory, and the glitter of the once distant warfare, when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Among the tents we paused and sung,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">has resolved itself into the stern realities, and prose, and
-smirch, and dust, of the long toilsome march, the weary watching,
-and the sob and sweat of the struggle and the contest;
-when this is so, let us gravely, solemnly settle down to the, at
-first sight, uncheered duties and blank programme of the work
-of Summer days. Yes, when the dull every-day routine of
-dry work is near to making us heart-sick and over-tired; when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Still in the world’s hot, restless gleam<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">We ply our weary task,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">While vainly for some pleasant dream<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Our restless glances ask,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">let us remember that, whatever our work be, so it be honest,
-God gave it us to do, and the homeliest act, or repetition of
-monotonous acts, is ennobled, if the motive be noble, and the
-labour stedfast and brave&mdash;if it be done heartily and well, as
-to the Lord, and not as unto men. Think of St. Paul making
-tents&mdash;yea, of <span class="smcap">Christ</span> in the carpenter’s shop&mdash;and weary not&mdash;oh
-sick at heart, and disappointed of youth’s sweet Spring
-dreams and high imaginings!&mdash;of the work&mdash;however homely,
-however monotonous, however dull and prosaic&mdash;which yet
-God hath given thee to be done.</p>
-
-<p>Friends, let us work in Summer days. The Spring is past;
-we will not, therefore, spend our golden hours in useless regrets.
-The Autumn has not yet come. But the Summer is with us
-now. Beyond it there may be a land of Beulah, even here,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122">122</a></span>
-when the dust, and toil, and strain pass by a little, and something
-of the old-remembered brightness of colour and beauty
-flushes over the land. Whether or no such an Autumn-quiet
-be attained, the Summer will pass, and the great Winter sleep
-will come. And beyond that there shall be Spring without
-its evanescence, Summer without its toil and weariness, and
-Autumn without its melancholy and death. Beyond the short
-labour of Summer days, “<em>There remaineth a rest for the people
-of God</em>.” Let us, therefore, labour, that we may enter into
-that rest.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19.4375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_136.jpg" width="311" height="409" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">123</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">125</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="MUSINGS_IN_THE_HAY"></a>MUSINGS IN THE HAY.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 17.4375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_139-0.jpg" width="279" height="389" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 17.4375em;"><img src="images/i_139-1.jpg" width="279" height="95" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 14.6875em;"><img src="images/i_139-2.jpg" width="235" height="69" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 8.0625em;"><img src="images/i_139-3.jpg" width="129" height="137" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 4.9375em;"><img src="images/i_139-4.jpg" width="79" height="66" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 3.125em;"><img src="images/i_139-5.jpg" width="50" height="23" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div style="margin-top: 11em;"> </div>
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">Ah!</span> now I am seated as I love
-to be, the June blue over me,
-and the sweet, warm, new-made
-hay underneath. On the shadow side of a
-great haycock, here have I selected my seat,
-plunging down and feeling the soft cushion
-give, until it has attained consistency enough
-to resist me. I have been busy, very busy,
-all this week, and the week before that, and
-indeed several weeks back. And I have earned,
-and mean to indulge in, a quiet long afternoon,
-and perhaps evening, in the hay-field. I have
-a book with me, but I do not pledge myself to read much.
-I have not come out here to read; not to do much, indeed,
-but just to sit and muse, nay, chiefly to enjoy the feeling of
-being able to rest. To feel that there is, or shall be, so far
-as I can choose, no call for the remainder of this day upon
-anxious heart and weary brain; no parish troubles; no sick,
-whose silent cry in the distance forbids the pastor to sit
-still; no sermon, no article, to think out or to write; no
-letters to pour into that insatiable post-office,&mdash;the true<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">126</a></span>
-sieve of the Danaids; not even any gardening to do or to
-superintend; no, nothing necessary but to sit on the side of
-a haycock “in the leafy month of June.” We may go on
-and on in the round of every day’s business, on and on,
-unpausing, till we drop: the mere energy of spinning may
-keep us up, though perhaps on a weak and tottering peg;
-and work begets work; and busy day will chase busy day like
-the sails of a windmill; and we hardly dare stop, because we
-foreknow how we shall then have a long bill to pay, all the
-arrears of those fatigues and that weariness that we bade stand
-aside as we laboured on; and we know that if we once stop to
-give them a hearing, it will be hard work to set the heavy
-machinery going again. For myself, I often feel that to go on
-working, is to be able to work; to pause is to collapse, and to
-feel incapable. Still, in fact, we make life go farther by careful
-trading, than by spending all our capital at once. And both
-for purposes of devotional retirement and of necessary recreation,
-it is well sometimes just “to sport our oak” (to speak
-in Oxford phrase) upon the noisy and importunate throng of
-things clamorous to be done, and yet which, if discharged,
-would but give place to as many more. I could dizzy my
-brain with thoughts of business that I might do, and want to
-do. But for some weeks I have worked on and worked on,
-hoping to satisfy all claims; waiting for a pause, which never
-would come; and now I will no longer wait for it, but make it.
-Away! crowding calls, for this afternoon, for all the rest of
-this day. The wrestling, restless, toiling, moiling, weary
-world is quite shut out from me behind this mighty chain of
-haycocks. I hear the sharpening of scythes, and their long<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">129</a></span>
-sweep in the bending swathes; once or twice in the afternoon
-a cuckoo sails with broad wing over me, and voice which
-stammers now near the end of his monotonous but prized
-oration; there is a scattered rain of larks’ songs falling all
-around; and, on a hedge near by, the short plaintive cadence
-of the yellow-hammer’s few notes.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_141.jpg" width="515" height="590" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Grass is always beautiful,&mdash;thus I am led to think as,
-leaning on one arm, I inspect the material of my couch.
-Beautiful after the winter lethargy, and when it grows lush
-and green, vividly green, and taller and taller under the
-showers, at the roots of the pines that step forward here and
-there from the shrubberies into the lawn. Beautiful again,
-when the scythe and mowing-machine have destroyed <em>this</em>
-beauty, and substituted that of the smooth, well-kept velvet
-sward. Beautiful, growing in the meadows, and deepening for
-hay; a sweet close under-growth of white or dull pink clover;
-of orange-flowered trefoil; of purple self-heal; of bright
-yellow-rattle; of small red orchis; of orchis pale lilac specked
-with dark; and, more desultory and thinner, above these the
-tall grass and flower-stalks: “all grass of silky feather”;
-bright rose ragged-robin; white ox-eye daisy; brimstone
-toad-flax; tall buttercups; pale pink centaury; numberless
-varieties of fringed flowers, all yellow; and bobbing myriads
-of the ribwort plantain, to which we are all, when children,
-very Henry <span class="smcap smaller">VIII.</span>’s; tall slight sorrel; tougher dock. Beautiful,
-when the scythe has laid all this in broad, lowly lines upon the
-whole face of the field; and the mowers advance yet steadily
-upon the long yielding ranks. Beautiful when the green has
-turned grey, and the brighter colours of the flowers are dull,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">130</a></span>
-the clover not yet brown, only faded, the yellow tassels
-showing, as they droop, the paler under-wing of the closing
-flower, the buttercups spoiled of their square varnished petals,
-and showing only the green spiked ball, the miniature head of
-Gog or Magog’s mace. Beautiful to lie in the grey mounds of
-the soft, fragrant, new-made hay, dying, if this be to die, so
-graciously, and sweetly, and blessingly; lovely in life, and
-sweet in death. Beautiful when even this bloom-grey has
-gone, and we shake out from their close-pressed sleep the loose
-masses of the yellow hay, and brown leaves and flowers, all,
-however, still fragrant, and full of hints in Winter days, of the
-warm Summer. Beautiful when the last cart is carried, and
-the rick is being thatched, and a pale bright under-growth
-has given to the dry hot field, in the parched Summer-time,
-something of a faint imitation of the early green of Spring.</p>
-
-<p>So I lean, listless, idle, and examine my couch. Much I
-find to examine in it; besides the embalmed flowers, there is
-a small zoological garden&mdash;brown ants climbing up the pole of
-an upright grass-stem; leopard-spotted lady-birds; alligator
-grasshoppers; woolly-bear caterpillars; bird-of-paradise butterflies.
-I am left alone with these, and so can be quite quiet;
-for I am in the rear of the haymakers.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i16">“All in a row<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">While, as they rake the green-appearing ground,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And drive the dusky wave along the mead,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The russet haycock rises thick behind.”</span>
-</div>
-</div></div>
-
-<p>And my couch is one of these same pale hills that they have
-done with. My wife is away with the children: I shall not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133">133</a></span>
-therefore run the risk of being buried, with shouts, under the
-piled heaps of the hay. My servant has gone out for a walk:
-I thus escape the apprehension of seeing her advance into my
-field steering among the haycocks, and, with hand shading her
-eyes, looking about all over its wide glare for me. I can lean
-on this arm until it is tired, then change to the other, then lie
-on my back and watch the fleecy blue, with handkerchief
-spread for fear of insects; then turn over again, and resume
-my inspection of the grass. I am thus particular in description,
-because I would fain carry my hay-field into hot London. A
-few distinct details may help out many a memory; and the
-clerk really in the baking, staring London street may yet, if
-his imagination be my ally, lean back among the yielding
-warm-breathed hay to muse with me upon the grass and its
-teachings.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27.75em;">
-  <img src="images/i_145.jpg" width="444" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>For it is, after all, impossible to be absolutely doing
-nothing. The mind, that busy alchemist, works on and
-works on in the worn laboratory of the body, and transmutes
-gold into earth, or earth into gold, as the case may be,
-in its peculiar crucible. And so, since I cannot but muse on
-the hay into which I am closely peering, I may as well also
-jot my musings down.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Flesh, and grass: how natural the now common-place connection
-between the short-lived beauty of the two! It is one
-of those commonplaces, however, which new thoughts could
-not easily better. The hay-fields, with their life and glee,
-and loveliness of flowers just now, and now these faded mounds!
-The generations of men in the gaiety or toil of the world, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134">134</a></span>
-then the churchyard with its “shadowed swells”! Half a
-year for the one growth, and sometimes less, sometimes
-more, for the other; but all lying in the bending swathes at
-last. Take the extreme case:</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“All the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">Was flesh like grass then? What! a thousand years akin to
-the life of a few months? Yes, closely akin; banded together
-by the last words of the life of both; for how ends the short
-history of the longest liver of mortal men?</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“&mdash;&mdash;<em>and he died.</em>”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Yea, the growth, the ripening was longer in progress, but the
-scythe came at last:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All flesh is grass,&mdash;and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The grass withereth, the flower fadeth.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And again:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And again:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the place thereof shall know it no more.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">135</a></span></p>
-<p class="in0">And again:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“In the morning they are like grass which groweth up;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In the evening it is cut down, and withereth.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Oh, faded couch on which I lean, here are witnesses enough
-of the highest authority of all, to establish a brotherhood
-between us! I look at these hands which can write and work,
-I look at these limbs which can rise and go, I consider the
-brain which can busily toil:&mdash;and from these I turn to regard
-the dry heap that once was living grass;&mdash;and I think how
-slack, and void of energy, and lifeless will these also lie, in the
-long swathes which ever and ever fall before the advancing
-mower, Death.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“‘Consider well,’ the voice replied,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">‘His face, that two hours since hath died;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride?’”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">No; each lies in that especial long line of mown grass that we
-call his generation:</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now perished;
-neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that
-is done under the sun.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">Flesh, and grass: are they not akin? These ever-succeeding
-generations;&mdash;how the grass still grows after every mowing.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh”;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">&mdash;there is not a word of abiding at all, says Archbishop
-Leighton. But, however, there is a notice of constant succession,
-and the grass grows as fast as it is mown. Load after
-load is added to the store of Eternity; but the mower Death<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">136</a></span>
-knows no pause. Ever and ever the tall grass and the sweet
-flowers bend before that industrious scythe. Where is the glad
-growth of fifty years ago; and where the life that preceded
-that; and so on, back to Adam? In long fallen ranks they
-lie, generation parallel with generation, all across the wide
-field of the world’s history. Flowers, and plain grass, and
-wholesome fodder, and prickly thistles, and poison weeds, they
-bowed at the edge of the scythe; so far they are equal:</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“There is one event to the righteous, and to the wicked; to the
-good and to the clean, and to the unclean; to him that sacrificeth,
-and to him that sacrificeth not; as is the good, so is the sinner;
-and he that sweareth, as he that feareth an oath. This is an
-evil among all things that are done under the sun, that there is
-one event unto all.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>Yes, all lie in the swathes, and are equal there; the almost
-bitter saying of the wise man, to whom sin had made even
-wisdom sadness, is so far true. True while we consider the
-field after the scythe; true while we look on Death, but not
-applying any longer when we imagine the Resurrection. A
-very Life shall revive, or a very Death shall wither, each stalk
-of the myriads that lie waiting in the field, each in the place
-where it fell.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>I cannot help being also reminded by this history of mowing
-and growing, of the special field of each human life, with its
-ever springing, ever falling hopes and dreams. One day it is a
-carpet of brightness and glory; the next, the withered lines lie
-on the bare field. Yet look closer, and you will find already the
-tender green of a new growth appearing to clothe the scarred<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">137</a></span>
-meadow. A constant succession, ever mown and still growing;
-every year and often in the year a fresh attire, however the
-heart, when that common-place desolation was new to it, refused
-in dismay to believe in the possibility of any further crops.
-Fond thing! even while it thus protested, <em>the grass had already
-begun to grow</em>; and it was in vain to try in sullenness or self-respect
-to check the smiling flowers that <em>would</em> crowd up over
-the ruin. Many a one of us can say, of some past sorrow, that,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“When less keen it seemed to grow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I was not pleased&mdash;I wished to go<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Mourning adown this vale of woe,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">For all my life uncomforted.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">It could not be, except in the case of a hypochondriac. In
-healthy lands the growth cannot be checked.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I thought that I should never more<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Feel any pleasure near me glow”:<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and again:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I grudged myself the lightsome air,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That makes men cheerful unaware;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When comfort came, I did not care<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">To take it in, to feel it stir.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">After that devastating flood you did not care to take in the
-dove with the olive-leaf; you had rather sit moodily alone.
-Very well for a time, but “will you nill you,” the second crop
-begins to cover the scars. And soon you can tranquilly and
-thankfully say,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“But I have learned, though this I had,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">’Tis sometimes natural to be glad,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And no man can be always sad,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Unless he wills to have it so.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">138</a></span></p>
-<p class="in0">For it is an ordinance of God that the grass shall keep on
-growing.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>But, of course, especially, and above all, the analogy before
-indicated is that which connects this brief life of ours with the
-grass of the field. We are, above all, alike in our <em>frailty and
-evanescence</em>.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass.<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>How exquisitely Archbishop Leighton comments upon this
-text! An idea so anciently true as almost to have become, in
-our ordinary speech, common-place, blossoms into new beauty
-under his holy thought. So, however, do what seem to ordinary
-thinkers bare rods in the teaching of the Bible, yet bloom and
-bear fruit abundantly in the shrine of a congenial heart. “All
-flesh is as grass.” Yes, he expands it, and “grass hath its
-root in the earth, and is fed by the moisture of it for awhile;
-but, besides that, it is under the hazard of such weather as
-favours it not, or of the scythe that cuts it down, give it all
-the forbearance that may be, let it be free from both those, yet
-how quickly will it wither of itself! Set aside those many
-accidents, the smallest of which is able to destroy our natural
-life, the diseases of our own bodies and outward violences, and
-casualties that cut down many in their greenness, in the flower
-of their youth, the utmost term is not long; in the course of
-nature it will wither. Our life indeed is a lighted torch, either
-blown out by some stroke or some wind; or, if spared, yet
-within awhile it burns away, and will die out of itself.”</p>
-
-<p>A new idea is here given us as to the mowing. This poet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">139</a></span>
-makes the scythe to be the sweeping of disease or accident or
-violence that every day prostrate their thousands; accidents or
-violence represent the mowing; and there is, beside these, the
-withering too. As though a field of deep grass should be left
-unmown; yet how soon then would its life and light and
-laughter depart, and a skeleton array of thin, sere, shivering
-yellow stalks meet the October winds. Even if unmown, we
-must wither, and either will at times seem saddest to us, until
-we remember that this field is but the field of Time, and that
-the eternal God is ordering all.</p>
-
-<p>But Leighton proceeds to develope another exquisite thought,
-which to many would lie hidden and unperceived in the short
-and simple word of God&mdash;“All flesh is as grass, <em>and all the
-glory of man as the flower of grass</em>.” On the hint of this latter
-member of the sentence he speaks:</p>
-
-<p>“There is indeed a great deal of seeming difference betwixt
-the outward conditions of life amongst men. Shall the rich and
-honourable and beautiful and healthful go in together, under
-the same name, with the baser and unhappier part, the poor,
-wretched sort of the world, who seem to be born for nothing but
-sufferings and miseries? At least, hath the wise no advantage
-beyond the fools? Is all grass? Make you no distinction?
-No; <em>all is grass</em>, or if you will have some other name, be it
-so; once this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if that glory
-which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference, then
-this is all it can have&mdash;it is but the flower of that same grass;
-somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a little comelier
-and better apparelled than it, but partaker of its frail and
-fading nature; it hath no privilege nor immunity that way;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">140</a></span>
-yea, of the two, is the less durable, and usually shorter lived;
-at the best, it decays with it&mdash;<em>The grass withereth, and the flower
-thereof falleth away</em>.”</p>
-
-<p>Yes, grass and its flower&mdash;loveliness, might, wisdom: Helen
-of Troy shared the fate of the meanest weed; Julius Cæsar and
-Napoleon lie with the rank and file; Solomon in his glorious
-wisdom is at last now equalled with those lilies of the field,
-that grass which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven.
-We in the lower rank, we mere grass of the field, look at and
-admire the glory above us, the flower of the grass, the choice
-gifts of intellect, of power, of beauty: but even as we gaze, and
-before the scythe can come, or the sun can wither it, we miss
-it&mdash;“The flower thereof fadeth, and the grace of the fashion
-of it perisheth”:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The wind passeth over it, and it is gone.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the place thereof shall know it no more.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>“The instances are not few, of those who have on a sudden
-fallen from the top of honour into the foulest disgraces, not by
-degrees coming down the stair they went up, but tumbled down
-headlong. And the most vigorous beauty and strength of
-body, how doth a few days’ sickness, or, if it escape that, a few
-years’ time, blast that flower!”</p>
-
-<p>And, sadder still, we must feel it to be, the ornaments of the
-mind are as short-lived; and we watch, with the keenest regret,
-great intellects quenched by decay or death, and minds that are
-the most stored with knowledge and learning cut off in a day.</p>
-
-<p>“Yea, those higher advantages which have somewhat both of
-truer and more lasting beauty in them, the endowments of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">141</a></span>
-wit, and learning, and eloquence, yea, and of moral goodness
-and virtue, yet they cannot rise above this world, they are still,
-in all their glory, but the <em>flower of grass</em>; their root is in the
-earth. When men have endured the toil of study night and
-day, it is but a small parcel of knowledge they can attend to,
-and they are forced to lie down in the dust in the midst of their
-pursuit of it; that head that lodges most sciences shall within
-a while be disfurnished of them all; and the tongue that speaks
-most languages be silenced.”</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33.875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_155.jpg" width="542" height="347" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Yes, and again I look at the jumble of common grass and
-flower of grass, and bright blossoms all withered, in which I
-am reclining, and think how our bright days and our commonplace<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">142</a></span>
-days, our ordinary life and our pageants, fade into dulness
-even as we live on, and are all swept down at last, as it seems
-to a superficial thinker, into one common oblivion by Death.
-“What is become of all the pompous solemnities of kings and
-princes at their births and marriages, coronations and triumphs?
-They are now as a dream.” And so with our first flushes of
-success, our earliest tastes of fame, our new ecstasies of love,
-our wonders and admirations when life was young&mdash;where are
-they very soon? Lying in the mown ranks, void of their
-living movement and vivid lustre; numbered with the heap of
-every-day events and emotions; still distinguished from these,
-still marked as flowers, but the glory of them dried out under
-the air of use and the sun of experience. Precious they are
-still, and dear, but the dreams of youth are not to Age what
-Youth imagined them; the hay is valuable and sweet, but it
-is not that field which the least air could stir into a sea of
-silky light and shade, and a tossing of myriad colours. It
-was the Flower of grass, and it cannot be, on earth, but that
-“<em>the grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away</em>.”</p>
-
-<p>“Would we consider this, in the midst of those varieties
-that toss our light minds to and fro, it would give us wiser
-thoughts, and ballast our hearts; make them more solid and
-stedfast in those spiritual endeavours which concern a
-durable condition, a being that abides for ever; in comparison
-of which the longest term of natural life is less than a
-moment, and the happiest estate is but a heap of miseries.
-Were all of us more constantly prosperous than any one of
-us is, yet that one thing were enough to cry down the price
-we put upon this life, that it continues not. As he answered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">143</a></span>
-to one who had a mind to flatter him in the midst of a
-pompous triumph, by saying, What is wanting here?
-<em>Continuance</em>, said he.”</p>
-
-<p>Yes, this is the moral of it all, “<em>we have no abiding city</em>.”
-What then? “<em>But we seek one to come.</em>” And St. Peter,
-if he talk, it might seem mournfully, of the fading and dying
-growth from all earth’s sowings, is not really trying to sadden,
-but rather to cheer us. For he has been telling but just now
-of incorruptible seed; and he sums up the teaching of the
-fading grass and its withering glory, with these words of
-quietness and confidence,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“But the Word of the Lord endureth for ever.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And this is always the distinction between the Worldling’s or
-the Sentimentalist’s cry of the vanity of human life and of its
-glory of hopes and loves and ambitions; and the Inspired
-declarations of this vanity. In the former it is but a wind
-which comes with a blight and passes away with a wail. In
-the latter, some better thing is ever held before us, to which
-our heart’s yearning tendrils, gently disentangled from their
-withering support, may safely cling: and if the vanities and
-emptiness of Time are clearly set before us, we are offered
-instead the realities and the fulness of Eternity.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The world passeth away, and the lust thereof”;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">yes; but</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“He that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>I have mused away my afternoon, and the sun is near the
-hills, and this day is falling beneath the scythe, and will soon<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">144</a></span>
-lie behind me in the swathe, as I advance upon the yet
-unmown field or strip of my life. There are in this flowers,
-and nettles, and thistles, no doubt, and much common undistinguishable
-grass. Ah, may it, in the end, be found to be,
-upon the whole, good and useful hay! Yes; but here the life
-of man outruns the analogy, for the days that are passed are
-not done with: they remain dried and stored, either to rise and
-revive their flowers in far more than their pristine beauty; or
-to be burnt as rubbish and waste. Nothing that God wrought
-of good or beautiful in us here, but will, fresher and fairer than
-at first, remain with us hereafter. And there is One for whose
-sake even the nettles and thistles that mixed with the useful
-grass and fair flowers, shall have vanished from those hearts
-that loved Him, and be counted as though they had never
-been.</p>
-
-<p>Let me lie back for a little while, as the sun sets, and a cool
-air fans me, to quiet my heart with this happy trust and
-confidence.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 18.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_158.jpg" width="293" height="266" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">145</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">147</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="THE_BEAUTY_OF_RAIN"></a>THE BEAUTY OF RAIN.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 14.75em;">
-  <img src="images/i_161-0.jpg" width="236" height="418" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 14.75em;"><img src="images/i_161-1.jpg" width="236" height="77" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 13.625em;"><img src="images/i_161-2.jpg" width="218" height="341" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">At</span> the time at which I am writing,
-a soft shower has just
-fallen. For months we have
-had scarcely any rain. Even the
-massed primrose roots in the
-hedges, with the last few stragglings
-of their Easter decorations
-here and there about them, have
-drooped their long broad leaves.
-The grass and the trees have
-seemed to remain at a standstill,
-as though waiting for something.
-The plough-land has stood in great
-unbroken lumps. The marsh-land
-has gaped open in huge cracks.
-The ponds have sunk a foot below
-their usual mark; the ditches give
-no savoury smell from their shallow
-green soup. The roads are like grindstones, wearing down
-your shoe-leather with myriad-pointed flint-powder, and your
-patience with loose stones that carry your legs away from
-your control and supervision. The roofs want washing, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148">148</a></span>
-drains want flooding, the butts want filling. When I pour
-waterpot after waterpot of water about the roots of some
-favourite or needy plant, the water runs off the caked ground
-as though it were a duck’s back; or, the mould being loosened,
-is sucked in, without the chance of collecting into a pool, and,
-seemingly, without quenching the fever-thirst of the earth.</p>
-
-<p>All things and all people want rain: the farmers for their
-land, the cottager for his garden&mdash;a steady three or four
-hours’ downpour, not only such a slight shower as this,
-that, scarce having browned the beds, is already drying off
-from them.</p>
-
-<p>Just now, it is certain, rain would be appreciated, but still
-even now more for its usefulness, than for its beauty. For the
-beauty of rain is a thing often missed, I think, even by those
-who do keep, as they pass through this world, a keen eye for
-the Creator’s thoughts, embodied in beauty about them: poems
-written on the world’s open page by the Hand of the great
-<em>Poet</em>, or Maker. For, rightly regarded, from the vast epic of
-the starry heavens, to the simple pastoral of a dewdrop, or the
-lyric a bird, God’s works are to us the expression of His
-mind, the language which conveys to us His ideas. Man’s
-noblest descriptive poetry&mdash;what is it but a weak endeavour to
-interpret to less gifted seers the beautiful thoughts of God?</p>
-
-<p>And rain is one of these thoughts&mdash;a realised idea of the
-mind of the Almighty. And since I find, both in men and in
-books, a general neglect, if not a rooted dislike, with regard to
-rain&mdash;<em>as such</em>, and putting out of sight its <em>usefulness</em>&mdash;I shall
-devote a few pages to the endeavour to set forth the beauty of
-this thought of God.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">149</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 25.6875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_163.jpg" width="411" height="543" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Even Tennyson, nature-loving Tennyson, what word has he
-for the rain? Of Enid we are <span class="locked">told&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i16">“She did not weep,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Like that which kept the heart of Eden green<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Before the <em>useful trouble</em> of the rain.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150">150</a></span>
-Nothing, then, even in the desire to praise it, better than
-“<em>useful trouble</em>”? I do not think that even Wordsworth
-dwells with much frequency or delight on this friend of
-mine. Longfellow <span class="locked">has&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It rains, and the wind is never weary.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>One who sent out, some years ago, a volume of unfulfilled
-promise, <span class="locked">writes&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“How beautiful the yesterday that stood<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Over me like a rainbow! I am alone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The past is past. I see the future stretch<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All dark and barren as a rainy sea.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>And so on, generally; all that is dreary, uninviting, dismal,
-seems connected in the English mind with rain. In the
-English mind, I say, for I suppose the want of appreciation
-of it arises from its somewhat abundance in our climate. But
-how differently is it regarded by the poets of an Eastern land!
-How beautiful the <span class="locked">description&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thou preparest them corn, when Thou hast so provided for it:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: Thou settlest the furrows thereof:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thou makest it soft with showers: Thou blessest the springing thereof.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>How lovingly it is spoken of! That “gracious rain upon
-Thine inheritance,” refreshing it when it was weary; the “rain
-upon the mown grass, and showers that water the earth.”
-How its mention is a signal for thanksgiving&mdash;“Sing unto the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">151</a></span>
-Lord, who covereth the heaven with clouds, who prepareth
-rain for the earth.”</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>To be rightly appreciated in our climate, rain should
-certainly come after a drought. Most people, no doubt, then
-appreciate it, because of its watering the crops, or laying the
-dust. But the true lover of rain regards it not merely or
-chiefly in this utilitarian matter-of-fact aspect. He has a deep
-inner enjoyment of the rain, <em>as rain</em>, and his sense of its beauty
-drinks it in as thirstily as does the drinking earth. It
-refreshes and cools his heart and brain; he longs to go forth
-into the fields, to feel its steady stream, to scent its fragrance;
-to stand under some heavy-foliaged chestnut-tree, and hear the
-rushing music on the crowded leaves. Let the drought have
-continued two months; let the glass have been, at last, steadily
-falling for a day or two; let, at last, a delicious mellow gloom
-have overspread the hot glaring heavens; let it have brooded
-all day, with a constant momently yet lingering promise of
-rain. The cattle stand about with a sort of pleasing dreamy
-anticipation; they know rain is coming, and no more muddy
-shallow ponds, and dry choking herbage for them. The birds
-expect it, and chirp and nestle in the foliage, important,
-excited, joyful. Or some one thrush or blackbird, amid the
-chirping hush of the others, constitutes himself the loud
-spokesman of their joy. So <span class="locked">Keble&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Deep is the silence as of summer noon,<br /></span>
-<span class="i8">When a soft shower<br /></span>
-<span class="i8">Will trickle soon,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A gracious rain, freshening the weary bower&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Oh sweetly then far off is heard<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The clear note of some lonely bird.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">152</a></span>
-And at last it comes. You hear a patter here and there;
-you see a leaf here and there bob and blink about you; you
-feel a spot on your face, on your hand. And then the gracious
-rain comes, gathering its forces&mdash;steady, close, abundant. Lean
-out of window, and watch, and listen. How delicious! The
-gradually-browning beds; the verandah beneath losing its
-scattered spots in a sheet of luminous wet; and, never pausing,
-the close, heavy, soft-rushing noise; the patter from the eaves,
-the</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i14">“Two-fold sound,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The clash hard by, and the murmur all round.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">The crisp drenching rustle from the dry foliage of the
-perceptibly grateful trees, broad pavilions for ever-chirping
-birds; the little plants, in speechless ecstasy, receiving cupful
-after cupful into the outspread leaves, that silently empty
-their gracious load, time after time, into the still expecting
-roots, and open their hands still for more. You can hardly
-leave the window. You come again at night; you have heard
-that ceaseless pour on the roof, on the skylight, and the loud
-clashing under the eaves, in the silence, as you went up late
-to bed. You open the window and let the mild cool air in,
-and look through the darkness, and listen, for you cannot see.
-On the vine-leaves about the casement is the steady</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i14">“Sound of falling rain;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A bird, awakened in its nest,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Gives a faint twitter of unrest,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Then smooths its plumes, and sleeps again.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Your light shines out into the deep dark, and touches the trees
-just about the house, and gives a dull gleam to some portion of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">153</a></span>
-the streaming lines. Unwillingly you shut the window, and
-hear still, as you kneel and there is silence, the rushing
-undertone. Or, if a cool breeze arise, sudden bursts of rattling
-drops come impetuously against the panes, with intervals of
-dreamy rustling, or in quick succession. You like to hear
-that sound as you lie in bed, for you think of the bedding
-plants that you have just put out, or of the burnt patches
-in the lawn, or of the turnip and onion seed; or, with a
-larger sympathy, you think of the great thirsty fields of corn,
-yellowing for want of rain; of the mill-stream, so long shallow
-and inadequate; of the wells in the cottage-gardens about you,
-and their turbid or exhausted condition. You look forward,
-ere you lose consciousness, to how next day all vegetation will
-have advanced and appear refreshed.</p>
-
-<p>And next morning you look out from your window, as you
-dress, with a deep sense of luxurious enjoyment. The rain
-has continued steadily all night, until six in the morning.
-But it has ceased now, though the warm tender gloom still
-continues, and only just veils the bright sun, which now and
-then breaks through it. As you contemplate the scene from
-the open window, the refreshed look of the rich brown road,
-that was so white and dusty, makes you long to sally forth
-upon it. Tearful puddles smile here and there on the walks;
-the drenched grass twinkles and sparkles, and reminds you of
-that exquisite description of “the tender grass springing out
-of the earth by clear shining after rain.” And, breakfast
-over, you walk out, through the garden gate, a little way into
-the road. There is a peculiar, as it were, <em>growing</em> warmth in
-the air. Everything seems to have attained a week’s growth<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">154</a></span>
-in the one night. You remark the vivid gold-green patches
-in the hedges. The lime-trees&mdash;indeed, all the trees&mdash;make a
-most effective background with their black wet stems and
-branches for the radiant emeralds that have burst their pink
-caskets all over them. The corn-blades, the hedge-banks, the
-drooping boughs, have all a drenched, tearfully-grateful look.</p>
-
-<p>You pass, well pleased, back into the garden again. How
-well the peas show in the dark mould, and how much taller
-are they than they were yesterday! The dull green of the
-potatoes, that appeared but here and there last time you looked,
-seems now to cover the beds. The little crumpled flowers of
-the currant and gooseberry bushes have developed all over
-them into many blossom-laden strings. In the flower-beds
-the annuals appear above the round sanded patches; and of
-the bedding plants, no geranium, heliotrope, or verbena droops
-a leaf. You go back into the house refreshed by the beauty
-of the rain, as much as vegetation has been by the rain itself.
-The worst of such a day is, that it makes you feel idle,
-indisposed to settle down to work, inclined from time to time
-to saunter out and watch nature chewing the cud of its late
-refreshment.</p>
-
-<p>But this is only one example of the deliciousness of rain&mdash;one,
-you will say, picked, selected, exceptional. There are
-many other times at which it is beautiful. It is beautiful
-when it comes hurried and passionate, fleeing from the storm
-wind, hurled, like a volley of small musketry, against your
-streaming panes; and the few tarnished gold leaves of the
-beech-trees are struck down one after one by the bullets. It
-is beautiful in the Midsummer, when it comes in light, soft<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">155</a></span>
-showers, or, more in earnest, accompanied with thunder-music,
-straight and heavy; when, as the poet <span class="locked">says&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i8">“Rolling as in sleep,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Low thunders bring the mellow rain.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>It is beautiful when it rains far away in the distance, the
-bright sun shining on the mound on which you stand, and
-only a few guerilla drops heralding the approach of the shower
-towards you. It is beautiful among leafless trees, in early
-Spring or late Autumn, under an avenue, or in a copse, when
-every long bough and black branch is glittering, strung with
-trembling diamonds; when, the force of the wind and rain
-being kept from you by the trees and underwood, the gentle
-sadness and quiet melancholy of the scene can be gathered
-into your heart. It is beautiful in a town, when you stand
-at the window, and watch the emptying streets; the gutters
-pour by in a yellow, twisted flood; the street becomes a river,
-and, as the sudden gust drives them before it,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i16">“Skirmishing drops<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rush with bright bayonets across the road.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">The window is lined with rows of brilliants, that gradually
-grow bigger and bigger, and waver and fall, ever supplied by a
-constant succession of new comers, like the Scotch at Flodden,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Each stepping where his comrade stood<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The instant that he fell.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And, since I have mostly spoken of the beauty of rain in the
-country, I will quote a description of its beauty in <span class="locked">London:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">156</a></span>
-“A slight, quick, fervid shower&mdash;tears more of happiness
-brimming over than anger breaking its bounds&mdash;had just fallen,
-and pricked the dry grey pavement into a dark lace pattern of
-spots, out of which you could select the newest by their being
-sharper in outline and darker than the rest. The aristocracy
-of five minutes ago, and the parvenues of the last moment,
-alike, as the soft warm rain fell now quicker and more
-petulantly passionate, melting one into the other, losing shape,
-place, and purpose, as the stone washed luminous brown,
-and transparent as slabs of Cairngorm agate.”</p>
-
-<p>Londoners caught in a shower will surely thank me for
-this extract, and recall the description while they admire the
-process.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>But if some people, notwithstanding my special pleading,
-still agree with Coleridge’s address to the <span class="locked">rain,&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Oh, rain, that I lie listening to<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">You’re but a doleful sound at best,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and echo his <span class="locked">decision,&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“And, by the by, ’tis understood,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">You’re not so pleasant as you’re good”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">for these I have yet a word.</p>
-
-<p>If we cannot <em>enjoy</em>, let us <em>accept</em> rain at any rate without
-grumbling; ay, even though it last day after day; ay, though
-it spoil our pleasure-plans, or our crops&mdash;remembering at Whose
-ordering it comes. People who grumble at the weather always
-remind me of the Israelites grumbling at Moses and Aaron, the
-mere instruments used by the Supreme. “<em>What are we?
-Your murmurings are not against us, but against the Lord.</em>”</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">157</a></span>
-From whence comes the shower that stops our pleasure-party;
-the drenching rain that falls, just when the hay or the corn was
-fit to carry? If such events move our ill-temper, or make us
-irritable and angry (and many are apt to be so), with whom is
-it that we are vexed? who has aggrieved us so that we speak
-as injured persons? Let us have a care. What is that “it”
-that we speak of as being “tiresome,” “annoying”? The
-clouds, the winds, the rain&mdash;<em>what are these, that we murmur
-against them?</em> Are not such murmurings really against the
-Sender, if we trace them home? Such a result is commonly
-born of thoughtlessness more than of purpose. But that will
-not excuse it.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Evil is wrought by want of thought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As well as want of heart.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">But evil it still is, and must remain. Therefore grumbling at
-the weather appears to me to be something more than foolish
-and ungrateful. A little thought on the matter seems to mark
-it as impious and profane. A heathen philosopher would have
-despised the <em>silliness</em> of losing the balance of your temper, when
-there is no one that you dare blame for the cause. A Christian
-ought surely to soar beyond this, and, in things little or large,
-to accustom himself to recognise a Father’s ordering, and
-cheerfully to accept it, as sure to be the best and wisest.</p>
-
-<p>I said a heathen might despise the folly of those who lose
-their temper because it rains. A beautiful anecdote occurs to
-me, which I met with in a very pleasant book, “Domestic Life
-in Palestine,” by Mary Eliza Rogers. This lady and her party
-were traversing, under the conduct of their guide, the fertile<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">158</a></span>
-plains west of the Carmel range. “Rain began to fall in
-torrents; Mohammed, our groom, threw a large Arab cloak
-over me, saying, ‘May Allah preserve you, O lady! while He
-is blessing the fields!’ Thus pleasantly reminded, I could no
-longer feel sorry to see the pouring rain, but rode on rejoicing,
-for the sake of the sweet Spring flowers and the broad fields
-of wheat and barley.”</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_172.jpg" width="550" height="234" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Can you fancy a more exquisite instance of the “art of
-putting things”? Can you not imagine yourself positively
-enjoying the wetting, even though no whit alive to the beauty
-of rain, <em>as</em> rain? So much depends on the manner in which a
-thing is put before you; so much depends on the lead which is
-given to your way of looking at it. Had a grumbling Christian
-been beside the lady instead of the at least pious-languaged
-Moslem, to mutter, and repine, and reiterate, “How very
-unfortunate” (whatever this word may mean) “we are!”
-would not a gloom and dulness obscure the memory of that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">159</a></span>
-ride, in her mind? Whereas the beautiful thought of the
-Arab, as it made the idea of the rain pleasant and lovely at the
-time, so it dwells with a rainbow brightness on all after-memories
-of that cloud.</p>
-
-<p>But enough has been said as to the beauty of rain. It seems,
-after all, that much depends on our way of looking at the thing.
-If we regard rather the inconveniences that will sometimes
-attend it, we shall probably not even think of looking for the
-beauty that I have endeavoured to describe. But if our way is
-to look rather for what is pleasant than for what is disagreeable,
-in the common events of life; if we love nature in all her
-moods, and watch, with a lover’s eye, each sweet change in her
-face; especially if we regard God’s works as the language of
-God’s thoughts, and consider nothing as the offspring of
-chance, but all things as consequent on His ordering, who sees
-the sparrows fall, and by whom the very hairs of the head are all
-numbered&mdash;if this be our manner of regarding those dispensations
-which are above our control, I dare affirm that in nothing
-that the Great Maker expresses, shall we miss finding, not only
-<em>use</em>, but <em>beauty</em>. And if I have suggested to some minds any
-thoughts that may hereafter lead them to share my love for the
-beautiful rain, I rejoice that I have been to them the exponent
-of a beauty that they have missed hitherto; and I shall receive
-their gratitude when the soft showers come that water the
-earth. And if my meditations be read, unhappily for them,
-not during a dearth, but during a glut of rain, my pleasant
-labour will not have been in vain, if, though failing to make
-many admirers, I yet quiet some fretfulness, and correct some
-thoughtless repining. Some rain, as well as some days, must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">160</a></span>
-be dark and dreary. But, after all, it rather receives its tinge
-of pleasantness or gloom from the colour of our own mind
-at the time, than itself influences our thoughts. Let there be
-within us the clear shining of a contented mind, and the
-darkest clouds will never want for a rainbow. Yea, such a
-mind, predisposed to enjoy and admire all that the Creator
-sends, will need no mediation of an interpreter to bid it discern
-and gather in for itself the exceeding beauty of rain.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28.5em;">
-  <img src="images/i_174.jpg" width="456" height="471" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">163</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="AUTUMN_DAYS"></a>AUTUMN DAYS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 20.8125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_177-0.jpg" width="333" height="416" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_177-1.jpg" width="333" height="128" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 7.25em;"><img src="images/i_177-2.jpg" width="116" height="55" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 6em;"><img src="images/i_177-3.jpg" width="96" height="79" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 5.4375em;"><img src="images/i_177-4.jpg" width="87" height="62" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 4.875em;"><img src="images/i_177-5.jpg" width="78" height="92" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">Entering</span> upon the last week of August, I
-may call the year still Summer,&mdash;yes, still
-Summer, but the Autumn days are drawing
-near. “<em>September</em>”&mdash;directly I pen that word
-in the right-hand corner of my letters, a
-great gap seems to have opened between the
-Summer and me. Autumn days are here:
-the gladness and glee of the year have gone,
-and a tender sweet sadness and mellow lucid
-gloom seem to have gathered over the still
-calm expecting landscape. The corn is all
-cut and carried, the pale stubble fields, edged
-with the deep green hedges, lie a little blankly on the hill-side
-or in the valley; the brighter Summer-shoots of the elms
-and the apple-trees have all sobered down now into uniform
-darkness; the little blue harebells tremble in clusters on the
-dried sunny hedge-banks; the gossamers twinkle on the
-grass, late into the morning, with a thick dew that has not
-yet quite made up its mind to be frost. The partridges whirr
-up from under your feet as you throw your leg over that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">164</a></span>
-stile; the rooks wheel home much earlier to bed. The fungus
-tribe begins to look up, and after a shower you come suddenly,
-as you cross the meadow, upon a cluster of buff-white
-mushrooms, with the delicious rose-grey under their eaves,
-and gathering them for the wife at home, you wander here
-and there to catch the white gleam among the grass, and
-are pleased, when successful, as a child with his first Spring
-daisies. Quiet, tenderly-sad Autumn days, after the harvest
-is gathered in and the plums are picked!</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33.0625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_178.jpg" width="529" height="362" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">165</a></span></p><div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Autumn! Forth from glowing orchards stepped he gaily, in a gown<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of warm russet, freaked with gold, and with a visage sunny brown;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And he laughed for very joy, and he danced from too much pleasure,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And he sang old songs of harvest, and he quaffed a mighty measure.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">But above this wild delight an overmastering graveness rose,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the fields and trees seemed thoughtful in their absolute repose;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And I saw the woods consuming in a many-coloured death&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Streaks of yellow flame, down-deepening through the green that lingereth;<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Sanguine flushes, like a sunset, and austerely-shadowing brown.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And I heard within the silence the nuts sharply rattling down;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And I saw the long dark hedges all alight with scarlet fire,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where the berries, pulpy-ripe, had spread their bird-feasts on the briar.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>We have here, save for some little flaws, a perfect painting
-of the intensely still, calm, expecting attitude of nature, the
-absolute repose of the year, which rests by its work done, and
-asks, in a quiet peace, in a deep trust, of the All-wise and the
-All-loving, “What next?”</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Calm is the morn without a sound,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Calm as to suit a calmer grief,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And only through the faded leaf,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The chestnut pattering to the ground.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Autumn days! I think they would be very sad indeed if we
-could only see decay in them, and if God had not put a little
-safe bud and germ of hope into every bulb and upon every
-branch&mdash;a promise of future life amid universal death: just as
-He put that green promise-bud into the heart of Adam and
-Eve, when such a dreadful death had gathered about the
-present and the future for them&mdash;declaring, to their seemingly
-victorious foe, of the woman’s seed, that</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“It shall bruise thy head.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">A tiny dear little germ of a bud, and oh, how many hundred
-Summers and Winters passed before it developed into the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">166</a></span>
-glorious perfect flower! And so now there is yet a sadness,
-but only a cheery, gentle, tender sadness, about Autumn days
-to the heart that is waiting for God. And it seems to me
-wonderful that He should have given us one of His own
-minstrels to sit on the twigs as they grow bare and lonely-looking,
-and to express to us just the feeling that Autumn calls
-up within the heart, and that we yearn to have set to music for
-us. The little Robin waits his time; he does not cease, indeed,
-to trill his note in Spring, although we do not notice him
-then amid our blackbirds and thrushes and blackcaps and
-nightingales; for he is very humble-hearted, and content to
-be set aside when we can do without him. But Autumn days
-come, and the nightingale has fled, and the blackcap is far
-away, and the lark and the thrush and the blackbird are silent;&mdash;then
-the robin draws near. Close to our houses he comes,
-with his cheery warm breast, and kind bright eye, and his
-message from God. And then he interprets the Autumn to
-us, in those broken, tenderly-glad thrills of song, that, simple
-though they be, can sometimes disturb the heart with beauty
-that it cannot fathom, but that agitates and shakes it even to
-the sudden brimming of the eyes with tears. “Yes, it <em>is</em> sad,”
-he says, “to see the flowers dying, and the leaves falling, and
-the harvest over. It <em>is</em> sad&mdash;not a little sad&mdash;still, cheer up,
-cheer up; have a good heart. God has told me, and my little
-warm heart knows, that it is not <em>all</em> sad. I know it is not. I
-can’t tell why. But it can’t be all sad; for God sent me to sing
-in the Autumn days. He taught me my song, and I know
-that there is a great deal in it about peace and joy. And it
-must be right; for though my nest is choked up, and my little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">167</a></span>
-ones are flown, and my mate has left me, I can’t help singing
-it. Cheer up. It is sad, but not all sad. Peace and joy&mdash;joy
-and peace.”</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“The morning mist is cleared away,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Yet still the face of heaven is grey,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor yet th’ autumnal breeze has stirred the grove,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Faded, yet full, a paler green<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“Sweet messenger of ‘calm decay,’<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Saluting sorrow as you may,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As one still bent to find or make the best,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">In thee and in this quiet mead,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The lesson of sweet peace I read,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rather in all to be resigned than blest.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“Oh cheerful, tender strain! the heart<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">That duly bears with you its part,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Though gone and spent its joyous prime,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And on the world’s Autumnal time,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">’Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast,<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“That is the heart for watchman true,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>Waiting to see what God will do</em>.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Let us walk out into the garden. I love an Autumn garden,
-and I think that at any season of the year a garden is a book
-in which we may read a great deal about God. On the Sunday
-evenings, therefore, I like to sit there, under a tree may be,
-with some peaceful heavenly book, sometimes to read, and
-sometimes to close over my thumb, and keep just as company
-while I meditate; and God’s works seem an apt comment on
-God’s Word, which I have heard or read that day.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">168</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32.125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_182.jpg" width="514" height="566" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>But now we will go in the early morning before <span class="locked">breakfast&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“To bathe our brain from drowsy night<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In the sharp air and golden light.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The dew, like frost, is on the pane,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The year begins, though fair, to wane:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">There is a fragrance in its breath,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which is not of the flowers, but death.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And we pass out of the window that opens into the garden
-under the tulip-tree standing so tall and still, with pale green
-and now yellow-touched leaves, that harmonise well with the
-pale sky against which you see them. The beech in the
-shrubbery has begun to “gather brown”; the tall dark elms
-that shut it in remind you vividly of the poet’s description of</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Autumn laying here and there<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A fiery finger on the leaves.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Against the thick box-trees underneath you love to see</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i4">“The sunflower, shining fair,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ray round with flames her disc of seed,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and some tall hollyhocks, still keeping up a brave cheer of rose-coloured
-and primrose and black blossoms upon their highest
-spike. The grass is glistening with heavy dew, sapphire, rose-diamond,
-pure brilliant, and yellow-diamond;&mdash;move a little,
-and one drop changes from one to the other of these. Walking
-across the lawn towards that rose-bed, you leave distinct green
-foot-prints upon the hoary grass. Perhaps the feeling that at
-last almost weighs upon you, and depresses you, is the intense,
-<em>waiting</em> stillness of everything. That apple-tree, bending down
-to the lawn with rosy apples, it seems so perfectly still and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">169</a></span>
-resting, that it quite makes you start to hear one of its red
-apples drop upon the path. The hurry and bustle and eager
-growth of the year has all gone by: these roses, that used to
-send out crowding bud after bud;&mdash;for some weeks a pause, a
-waiting, has come over them. This one purely white blossom,
-you watched it developing, unfolding so slowly, that it never
-seemed to change, taking a week for what would have taken no
-more than half a summer day, until at last it had opened fully,
-and hung down its head towards the brown damp mould. And
-there it seemed to stop. It seems not to have changed now for
-a week or two&mdash;why should it hurry to fade?&mdash;there were no
-more to come after it should go. Now half of it has detached
-itself, and lies in a little unbroken snowy heap on the ground.
-How quietly it must have fallen there! And the other half
-still stays on the tree, and leans down, and watches with a
-strange calm over the fallen white heaped petals,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Innumerably frost impearled.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Something of depression comes over you, I say, and there
-happens to be no cheery robin just now to put in a word, nor
-sedate rook sailing with still wings overhead across the pale
-sky, to give you even the poorer encouragement of his mere
-stoic <em>caw</em>. Why are you depressed? What is this strange
-sadness that seems to you to lurk under the exquisite calm
-and beautiful stillness of the Autumn morning?</p>
-
-<p>Do you hardly know? I will tell you. That quiet is the
-quiet of Death coming on; that calm waiting and expectancy
-is the herald of its approach, the beauty is the hectic flush of
-the consumptive cheek. Death is sad for Life to contemplate;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">170</a></span>
-and we are so much akin to all this decay, that this quiet tells
-us of it almost more than the heavy bell that now and then
-stirs the air of the Summer morning. The coming death of
-the Summer leaves and the Summer flowers preaches to us a
-solemn sermon of our own death drawing near. Watch that
-leaf circling down from that silent tree, and listen to the
-echo in your own heart:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“We all do fade as a leaf.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Yes, death, the sense of advancing death, is at the root of your
-sadness and depression. Death in its beauty, in a tender
-loveliness&mdash;death, the angel, not the skeleton, yet still <span class="smcap smaller">DEATH</span>.
-And,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Whatever crazy sorrow saith,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No life that breathes with human breath<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Has ever truly longed for death.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“’Tis <span class="smcap smaller">LIFE</span>, whereof our nerves are scant,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Oh life, not death, for which we pant,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">More life, and fuller, that I want.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And a great warrior, of long ago, one who had less cause than
-most to fear death, yet said:</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“We that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened; not for
-that we would be <em>unclothed</em>, but <em>clothed upon</em>, that <em>mortality</em>
-might be swallowed up of <em>life</em>.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">Well, this sadness must remain in some measure; the flowers
-must die, and the leaves must fall, and the robin’s attempts to
-cheer us bring the tears very near our eyes. “<em>Sin entered into
-the world, and death by sin</em>”: and the child of such a parent
-cannot bring joy as his attendant. Still, let us go on with our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">171</a></span>
-garden walk, and see whether, even in the face of nature, there
-be nothing else but only this peaceful waiting sadness.</p>
-
-<p>Take these branches of the Lilac bushes, that we remember
-bending under their scented masses in the warm early Summer
-days. Bare and damp, bare of flowers, and only clad with
-sickly yellow leaves; but what else can we see in them?
-There is not one (examine them well) which has not already a
-full green bud of promise, developed even before the leaves,
-the old leaves, have fallen away. Look on the ground in the
-shrubberies. What are these little green points that begin
-just to break the mould? Ah, they are indeed the myriad
-white constellations of snowdrops already beginning to dawn,
-and the frail flower will sleep warm and safe in the bulb,
-under the patchwork counterpane of gold beech leaves, and
-bronze-purple pear-leaves, and silver-white poplar, and come
-out among the first to tell you that nature is not dead, but
-sleepeth. Look farther, on to the flower borders, at the base
-of the tall gaunt stalks of the once stately Queen of flowers.
-Lo, there already</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Green above the ground appear<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The lilies of another year.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Not all sad, then; no, not all sad! Memory droops indeed
-with dewy eyes, but the baby, Hope, is laughing on her lap.
-There is a resurrection for the flowers and the trees; true,
-this of itself could not assure us that there is one for man.
-But God has told us in the Book of His Word, the meaning
-of what we read in the Book of His Works. And we know
-now what the robin meant, in his small song without words,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172">172</a></span>
-and we know what the promise of Spring means, hidden in
-each Autumn twig; and indeed, the garden and the field, and
-every hedgerow, and every grass, gather now into a great
-chorus that take up an Apostle’s words,</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“This corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must
-put on immortality. O death, where is thy sting? O grave,
-where is thy victory?”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>But it is now nearly half-past eight o’clock, and the family
-will be assembling for prayer. Let us pass round this walk,
-with hearts cheerful, or only tinged with a shade rather of
-quiet than of <span class="locked">gloom&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“And then return, by walls of peach,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And pear-trees bending to our reach,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And rose-beds with the roses gone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">To bright-laid breakfast.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Autumn days. Such thoughts as these may interpret to us
-the strange oppressive sadness that comes over us, as we
-watch them stealing on; also, why it is that this is such a
-tender, sweet sadness, and not a dark, deadly gloom&mdash;the
-shade of a solemn grove, not the blackness of a vault. Death
-is indeed a valley of shadow still. But the rays of the Sun
-of Righteousness have penetrated even there&mdash;and the hideous
-darkness is softened to a tender twilight hush. Oh,</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>And now the Autumn days are very calm and restful to
-think upon, and there is a deep peace in the Autumn of life,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">173</a></span>
-for which we are well content to exchange the flush and glee
-of Spring, and the glory and glow of Summer. Our snowdrops
-and our primroses are all over, our lilac and laburnum, roses
-and lilies, all died long ago; even the fruit is plucked, except
-for the gleam of a stray red apple that burns upon the nearly
-leafless bough; and the corn is all carried, and we are
-wandering over life’s once waving fields, collecting just the last
-gleanings for our Master. Our larks are silent in the fallows,
-our thrushes and blackbirds voiceless in the groves; the rich
-flood of the nightingale’s thrilling song has long been lost to
-our hearts. The withered leaves sail down about us, the mists
-sleep on the hills, the dew lies thick in the valleys. But we
-are very happy and peaceful; even here there is a stray flower
-or two, and the Autumn crocus droops on the garden beds; and
-the berries are bright in the hedges, under the feathery tufts
-of the “traveller’s joy.” And our heart is well satisfied with
-the robin’s song of trust and content, that has taken the place
-of&mdash;if richer and fuller&mdash;yet less spiritual and more distracting
-strains. There is an intense waiting calm; but, oh, such
-thoughts of Life!&mdash;life everlasting, life indeed&mdash;push their
-way through the yet unfallen leaves of this frail existence,
-and that small cheery melody is, we well know, the prelude
-to the full symphonies that shall burst from Angel choirs.</p>
-
-<p>How beautiful a time, thus thought of, is life’s Autumn time!
-I love to read of such a calm season in the life of a good man&mdash;a
-calm only broken by flashes of exultation, that come, like
-the aurora borealis, into the twilight sky. There is a sadness,
-no doubt&mdash;there <em>must</em> be&mdash;in the coming shade of death which
-deepens on the path. But the bud of life in the very heart of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">174</a></span>
-death; of this we are more and more conscious, the closer we
-draw near to the withered branches. And, like the fabled
-scent of the Spice Islands, even over the darkening seas are
-wafted to us sweet odours from the Promised Land.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Autumn days&mdash;when the flowers are over, and the harvest
-well-nigh gathered in, and the flush and the eagerness very far
-behind, and the strength and the vigour things also of the
-past:&mdash;I think they are sweet days to which to look forward
-amid life’s hurry and bustle, its excitement of laughter and
-tears. A very peaceful land, a land of Beulah, where repose
-seems to reign, and all seems “only waiting.” No more wild
-dreams, it is true, of what life is going to be, but then no sad
-wakings, and, lo, it was a dream! No more quick blood
-coursing in the veins, no more excess of animal life making
-stillness impossible and silence torture; no more young
-devotion and quick enthusiasm, warming the heart even to
-tinder, ready to flare at the first spark of friendship or love.
-No more glow of poetry cast about every face, and every daisy,
-and every sky, and every scene of every act of the coming
-years. No more expectation of becoming a great poet, a
-mighty warrior, an evangeliser of the world. And then no
-vigour to act, as when life went on; no leading the front of
-the battle, striking strong strokes for the right; no rejoicing
-in the strength that has now come, and that is still, still
-in its prime.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26.0625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_191.jpg" width="417" height="570" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>All that, and more, has passed away from life’s Autumn days.
-It was, perhaps, rather sad to feel these things departing; to
-notice growth first come to a standstill&mdash;and then, here and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">175</a></span>
-there the streak of Autumn, and the first yellow leaves
-stealing down. To find the years so short, instead of so long;
-to lose the wonder and the thrill at the first snowdrop, the first
-cowslip; the first nest low in the bushes with five blue eggs;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">176</a></span>
-the first excursion round the park wall for violets, or into the
-wood for nuts. To lose the glow of early love, the despair of
-early disappointment, the vigour of early intention and action;
-and to mellow down into a half-light, undisturbed by any of
-those violent lights and shadows. It was, I say, perhaps rather
-sad to feel these things departing.</p>
-
-<p>But now they have gone, and the Autumn days have come,
-and the heart has settled down to this state of things, and is
-content that it should be so. It is better, far better, the old
-man sees, to be in the Autumn of life, though he yet thinks
-tenderly, lovingly, of those young days in the impetuous, over-blossomed
-Spring. The “visionary gleam” has left his sky.
-But a truer, if a quieter lustre has arisen in it and abides.
-“<em>There hath passed a glory from the earth.</em>” But the glory has
-been transferred to Heaven. It was sad, at first, when the
-glamour, and the magic, and the glow, passed away from
-this world, which, to youth’s heart seemed so exceedingly,
-inexpressibly glorious and fair. But it is better so. A mirage
-gave, indeed, a certain sweet mysterious light to life’s horizon,
-and he could not but feel dashed at first to find little but bare
-sand where the unreal brightness had been. But he journeyed
-on, learning, somewhat sadly, in manhood, God’s loving lesson,
-that we are strangers and pilgrims upon earth, that we have
-<em>no continuing city here</em>, not love, nor fame, nor wealth, nor
-power; none of these could, even had we attained it, prove a
-City of Rest: we must still journey on before we can sit down
-satisfied. And God’s true servant, in his Autumn days, has
-learned not to miss nor to mourn over youth’s mirage. Nay,
-his future has “no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">177</a></span>
-shine in it. For the glory of God doth lighten it, and the
-Lamb is the light thereof.”</p>
-
-<p>He looks at the sky, which is certainly darkening, because
-life’s one-day sun is going down. But, the lower it sinks, the
-less he laments it, for he finds that it did indeed hide from him
-the vast tracts of Infinity, and close him in, by its light, in a
-small low-ceiled room. Oh quiet days of peace and reverence
-and mild serenity; the rocking waves of the passions asleep
-about the tossed heart, and the glittering thoughts of heaven
-reflected instead from the calm soul; and its speechless infinite
-depths gradually mirroring themselves in the being! Happy
-days, when life’s feverish, exciting novel is closed, and we are
-just reading quietly for an hour in the Book of peace, before
-the time comes for us to go off to bed! Happy days; when
-God Himself is striking off one by one the fetters and manacles
-of earth, and will soon send His Angel to open for us the last
-iron gate of earth’s prison!</p>
-
-<p>How thankful we should be, as we grow into the Autumn,
-for those kind words which assure us that life’s beginning, not
-life’s end, is then really near; that it is but the bud of immortal
-youth that is pushing off those withered leaves of mortality;
-for those who have given the year of their life to God; or, at
-least (such is His mercy in Christ Jesus), the earnest gleaning
-of its late months. For else, how sad to watch the sun setting,
-the only sun we know of, and to hope for no long day
-beyond. Think of what a wise heathen said of old age.
-Cicero wrote a treatise, a wonderfully beautiful treatise, in
-praise of it. But all this was but playing with his own sadness,
-in his old age; pleading the cause of a client, in whose cause<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">178</a></span>
-he did not believe. For, after all, he writes his real thought to
-his friend Atticus. “<em>Old age</em>,” he says, “<em>has embittered me&mdash;my
-life is spent</em>.” Sad, yet true from his point of view. Sad&mdash;all
-spent; and no good hope of a “treasure in the heavens
-<em>that faileth not</em>.” How even one of the little ones in our village
-schools could have cheered up sad Cicero!</p>
-
-<p>Now see what Christianity can do, and has done. Think of
-waiting Simeon:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">According to Thy word:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Hear aged Paul, the great champion Apostle, leaning now
-on his sword, and exhorting the younger warriors who are
-leading on that war, that he soon must leave. What peace,
-nay, what exultation, flashes through his waiting!</p>
-
-<p>And a picture arises before us of another aged, very aged
-man, ending the Bible and his life with the solemn rapturous
-words of glowing <span class="locked">expectation&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly.
-Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>There is another aspect of Autumn days, dreary and sad
-as they apply to the worldling. But to the obedient faithful
-child of God, their sadness, we have seen, is gentle, peaceful
-sadness, a tender hush more than counterbalanced by the
-promise of we know not yet, <em>what</em> exceeding ecstasy and
-glow of life, while we speak of it as <em>the life everlasting</em>.
-Aye,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The grass withereth, the flower fadeth,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">179</a></span></p>
-<p class="in0">and there must be a hush over Autumn days, because death
-must be sad, even when it is beautiful. But how sweet and
-glorious, amid the fall and decay of the loveliness and beauty
-around us, to be able to rest our heart quietly upon a land
-beyond earth’s horizon; and to look forward brightly and
-happily across these changes, “to an inheritance incorruptible
-and undefiled, and <em>that fadeth not away</em>.”</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_195.jpg" width="518" height="374" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">183</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">185</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="MUSINGS_ON_THE_SEA-SHORE"></a>MUSINGS ON THE SEA-SHORE.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23.25em;">
-  <img src="images/i_199a.jpg" width="372" height="195" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i4q">“Mourn on, mourn on, O solitary sea<br /></span>
-<span class="i6">I love to hear thy moan,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">The world’s mixed cries attuned to melody<br /></span>
-<span class="i6">In thy undying tone.<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Lo, on the yielding sand I lie alone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">And the white cliffs around me draw their screen,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">And part me from the world. Let me disown<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">For one short hour its pleasure and its spleen,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And wrapt in dreamy thought, some peaceful moments glean.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="p1">
-  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_199b.jpg" width="63" height="64" alt="T" /></div>
-<p class="in0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap">The</span> tide is coming in; the waves are big enough
-to be called waves, yet they break upon the
-shelving shore from a perfectly calm sea. And
-the long ranks rise and fall at my feet, curving
-and breaking in endless succession; line after line sent forth
-by the stern mandate of General Ocean, to die each in his
-turn upon the impregnable rampart of the Land. Ever since
-the third day of Creation has this assault been protracted,
-now by craft, now with the thunder of artillery and the
-violence of the storm; although it be really so hopeless that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">186</a></span>
-the balance of things remains about as it was at the beginning.
-If the armies of the Sea have made a breach here, fresh
-earthworks have been thrown up in another place by its
-stubborn antagonist, and the interminable strife remains
-equal still.</p>
-
-<p>But the solemn Sea forbids longer trifling; and its oppressive
-vastness, and melancholy murmur, and mysterious whisper
-of ever born and ever dying waves, own, surely, some grave
-meaning.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i14">“The earnest sea,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which strives to gain an utterance on the shore,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But ne’er can shape unto the listening hills<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The lore it gathered in its awful age&mdash;”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">it seems to demand an interpreter. Let it be my mood to
-disentangle some of its utterances. Let me employ this hour of
-thought upon the lonely shore, in guessing at the meaning of
-the voice of the long lines which ever bow to the ground before
-me with eastern salaam, and then retire, having delivered their
-message.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“The sea approaches, with its weary heart<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Mourning unquietly;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">An earnest grief, too tranquil to depart,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Speaks in that troubled sigh;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Yet the glad waves sweep onward merrily,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">For hope from them conceals the warning tone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Gaily they rush toward the shore&mdash;to die.<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">All their bright spray upon the bare sand thrown,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">How soon they learn their part in that old ceaseless moan!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Yes, this well-worn lesson shall be the first that the waves
-shall teach us&mdash;the vanity and disappointment of human
-aspirations and early hopes and dreams. See now how glad<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">187</a></span>
-and gleeful and bright and energetic they come on, twinkling
-with a myriad laugh, line behind line, eager ridge chasing
-eager ridge; all setting towards the cold sullen shore of the
-unsympathetic earth. Oh the clear pure curve, and the unsullied
-transparency; and the glancing crest of feathers and diamonds,
-and the rainbow tints as at last the longed-for shore is reached,
-and the eager plunge made! Oh the dis-illusion, the broken
-enchantment, the check, the change, the fall, when the white
-glittering spray lies now, lost and sullied and broken, upon the
-defiling earth; and the wave&mdash;amazed, daunted, shattered,
-quickly changing from over-hope to over-despair&mdash;flees back
-with a wild cry to the great Sea. Another and another and
-another, the warning is not taken; it is true that earth
-scattered this bright hope, this strong purpose, this brave
-design, this gleaming ambition; it is true that the yellow sands
-have been busy, ever since the Fall, inviting and then defeating
-the eager waves; receiving, marring, and sucking in the
-trembling snowy spray, the rainbow-tinged bubble dreams that
-the heart lavished upon them; and changing joyous onsets into
-moaning retreats. Yet who will expect the young heart to
-believe in the destiny of all its mere earth-dreams, <em>so long as,
-within it, the tide is coming up</em>? You almost smile, though with
-no scorn, to hear that momentary despairing sigh. For <em>you</em>
-stand now on a point from which you can see a seemingly
-exhaustless and endless array of ever-new schemes, and hopes,
-and fancies, and purposes, and ambitions and dreams, line
-chasing line, towards that magic disenchanting shore. Those
-behind cry “Forward!” Vain for those before to cry “Back!”
-Yea, themselves soon pick up their broken forces, and swell the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">188</a></span>
-energy and join in the advance of the crested lines that chase
-one another to the shore.</p>
-
-<p>This, then, is to me one lesson of the waves coming in.
-Human aspirations and dreams, advancing gaily in youth,
-awhile seeming to make some progress; but learning at high
-tide that they have but been conquering unprofitable tracts of
-barren sand. Then yielding ground inch by inch, losing their
-grasp of the world and relinquishing the very lust thereof;
-and spoiled, and stained, and marred, and with a very heart-moan,
-sinking to low ebb as life turns. Was not this
-Solomon’s story? Wave after wave dancing to the shore,
-curve after curve breaking eagerly upon it, scheme after
-scheme, toil after toil, pleasure after pleasure, hope after
-hope, ambition after ambition, dream after dream; the eye
-is bewildered and dizzied with the ceaseless motion, the
-steady endless advance of the gay and crested waters&mdash;“Whatsoever
-mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I
-withheld not my heart from any joy: for my heart rejoiced in
-all my labour.” It was gladdening, exhilarating, exciting
-to see the flashing battalions of earthward plans, and earthward
-dreams, pressing each close upon each, to the inexorable,
-impassive line of rocks or sand&mdash;what matter that here one
-shattered with a crash against a cruel blunt crag, and fled with
-a scream, and that another left its light and beauty trembling
-and sinking into the sand, while itself slunk back with a hollow
-sigh; what matter these single and insignificant experiences of
-the vanity of things mundane, while there was yet a whole
-rising tide of wildly eager waters, coming in fast, fast,
-exhaustless, infinite, flashing and gleaming and dancing in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">189</a></span>
-the sun? On, gaily on, and what if some die? Are there
-not myriads to follow! Why heed the waste, amid youth’s
-profusion?</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29.125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_203.jpg" width="466" height="399" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>But a pause comes over all the glad onset; a stagnant time,
-a period of neither advance nor retreat: the tide is at the full.
-You mark no change for awhile either way: then at last a
-space of wet sand begins to border the line of dying spray.
-Broadening and broadening; but it was quite enough that it
-had once begun. The tide has turned. Here is “the check,
-the change, the fall.” An eager strife, a wild race, an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">190</a></span>
-impetuous advance, a profuse and uncalculating spending all
-youth’s energies, and purposes, and powers, and aspirations;
-an excited resistless march. And with what result? An
-unprofitable and transitory conquest of a narrow track of
-barren sand.</p>
-
-<p>Oh draw off, draw off your broken forces, defeated in that
-they were victorious; disappointed by the very fact of attainment;
-steal back with that heart-sigh of “Vanity, vanity,
-vanity: all is vanity,”&mdash;back into the deep sea again!
-Leaving, it is true, the colour, and the light, and the gladness,
-and the purity; the crested spray, the diamond drops, the
-rainbow gleam; all lying wrecked and sucked in by the
-hungry shore. Leaving the spoils of youth, yet glad anyhow
-to get away; for what can equal the bitterness of that moment
-when the tide, long sluggish, begins at last to turn?</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and
-on the labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was
-vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the
-sun.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">No,&mdash;and the bitter thought is, that not the missing, but the
-attaining the prize, has disappointed; not failure, but success,
-has embittered: and that it might have been known from the
-very first that thus it must be&mdash;that the coveted possession
-was but lifeless rock or bare sand. There was a warning voice
-to this effect, but, oh, who heard or heeded it in that glorious
-advance of the long battalions of battling gleaming waters?
-And, to add bitterness to the cup, this was all an old story;
-we were not, as we dreamed, invading new worlds; no, those
-ancient sands have borne the furrows of myriads upon myriads<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">191</a></span>
-of just such excited, eager, leaping tides. The anguish has not
-even the pathos of novelty; it is actually commonplace. That
-which seemed so new to us, at what more than millionth hand
-we received it!</p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which
-is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing
-under the sun.</p>
-
-<p>“Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath
-been already of old time, which was before us.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p class="in0">And so hark to the moan of the waves as they draw off, when
-the tide has turned, and the disenchantment has come, sigh
-after sigh, moan upon moan, in the weary and desolate retreat.
-“<em>Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.</em>” Yes; and farther on, a
-more bitter wail, as it passes back over some spot where some
-of the gayest morning hopes were spilt: “<em>I have seen all the
-works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and
-vexation of spirit.</em>” Lower and lower yet, with yet duller and
-heavier moan: “<em>What hath man of all his labour, and of the
-vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun?
-For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart
-taketh not rest in the night. This is also vanity.</em>” And now an
-almost fierce and angry cry: “<em>Therefore I hated life; because
-the work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto me; for
-all is vanity and vexation of spirit.</em>”</p>
-
-<p>And what then? Is this the end of all? Is there no hope
-for the wailing tide; no redemption for the scattered spray?</p>
-
-<p>I have seen what has seemed to me a sweet and touching
-answer to this question. Over the desolate sands a quiet
-Mist has been drawn, while the Sea moaned far away down<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">192</a></span>
-at low tide. And I seemed thus taught how even earth’s
-wrecks may be repaired, and earth’s ruin turned into gain.
-Better to give to God the fresh sparkle and the first eager
-and joyous onset of life. But if not, and if the waves must
-set towards some earth shore, until they are broken, sullied,
-and wrecked there, see what the rising mist teaches. Let
-them remember themselves, and at last come homeward,
-leaving the stain and the defilement behind. So merciful is
-God, that even these ruins and disappointments are all
-messages of His patient love to us. If we will not turn at
-first to Him, He will let us break our hearts upon the shore of
-earth, content if but at last our hopes and aspirations will rise
-in a pure repentant mist from their overthrow and ruin, and
-wait beside the gate of heaven, touched now with the clear
-moonlight of peace, and expecting the rich sunburst of glory
-hereafter. The very overthrows and dissatisfactions of earth
-may thus rise, spiritualised and purified, to God at last.</p>
-
-<p>This, no doubt, is the intention of the disappointments and
-inadequacies of this earth, upon which the heart, at the time of
-the coming in of the tide, spends so much of its powers, and
-against which it bursts and dies down into wild cries and
-weary sighings. This is the intention&mdash;an intention, alas! too
-often unfulfilled. For if God is saying, “Turn, my children,
-from that careless dwelling upon earth’s pursuits, excitements,
-and enterprises, to heavenly aspirations, letting your heart and
-mind, like rising mist from broken waves, ascend, instead of
-dwelling in tears on the bare sands that were never worth the
-winning&mdash;ascend thither, whither He who loved you is gone
-before, and continually dwell with Him, in the place called<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">193</a></span>
-Fair Havens, where the waves of this troublesome world have
-ceased their restless eager quest, and are lulled into a peace
-beyond all understanding”&mdash;if God thus invites us, even by
-that sigh of our broken retiring waves, there is another voice,
-commonly heard, and too often heeded&mdash;a voice counselling
-hardness, repining, rebellion: a moan of sullenness, of despair,
-of defiance&mdash;a voice that whispers, “Curse God and die,”
-rather than, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
-The voice, oh let us be assured, of folly, not of wisdom; of
-our Enemy, and not of a friend.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35.875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_207.jpg" width="574" height="308" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>The waves are still tumbling upon the shore; with scarce
-perceptible progress they have advanced really a broad piece
-since I took my station here. Ever gathering their forces in
-long parallels, ever bending and falling, and seething back in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">194</a></span>
-wide sheets of white foam, seemingly ever repulsed, but
-really ever advancing, they bring to my mind an idea of
-great beauty and truth that I have somewhere met with,
-though where I cannot recall. It was a comparison of the
-earnest humble Christian’s progress in holiness to this coming
-in of the tide. The healthy Christian life will always be
-advancing; there must ever be a progression in holiness.
-Stagnant water is deteriorating water; it does not remain the
-same as when it ceased to flow. And this oft-repeated truth
-will come sadliest home to the more earnest, who are therefore
-the more humble. There ought to be, there <em>must</em> be an
-advance, if the water be a living sea, and not a stagnant
-pool.</p>
-
-<p>But dare we hope that there <em>is</em> any such progress, such
-steady continuous advance in our own Christian life? Alas!
-we look sadly back at it and see long lines of earnest endeavours,
-at least of passionate yearnings, after better things,
-after perfection, after the beauty of holiness, after Christ-like
-consistency: they came in, and come in still, bright perhaps,
-and intent, and resolved; and, lo! how they trip and fall as
-they reach the shore of trial, and slide back, losing all the
-ground again! Ever advancing, only to recede; ever rising,
-but to fall; ever trying, yet still baffled; only able to weep
-over their own weakness, and to sigh continually with a
-depression that men call a morbid pain. New yearnings at
-every special time of solemn self-examination; new resolves,
-driven on by the breath of prayers; new endeavours; and,
-after all, old failures! How the waves come in, earnest, but
-impotent, each running up the little way on the shore that its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">195</a></span>
-predecessor had attained, and giving ground again, to be
-succeeded by another as weak.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>But to cheer and encourage us sometimes, amid all this
-depressing history of failures, which may well serve to keep us
-humble, there is another analogy with the rising tide besides
-that of its endless endeavours and endless failings. There is,
-as with the waters, <em>an advance upon the whole</em>, though they seem
-to keep at much the same point, and to be doing little but
-ceaselessly recede and fail. You might mark, were you a
-watching angel, how this point is reached, and that passed;
-and how, though (and better for them here and now) the
-sighing waters perceive it not, each day’s expiring and
-almost despairing, but still earnest and prayerful efforts, have
-increased a little upon the shore to-day, and deepened and
-secured yesterday’s work. And quiet earnestness seems recommended
-by this thought: for have we not seen some impetuous
-waves come dashing in, as though to take the shore at one
-rush? And it is these most commonly which, meeting
-steady and sustained resistance, and feeling the strength
-which excitement had lent dying out from them; it is these
-impatient spirits that then lose heart most deeply, and sink
-back the farther, and sometimes quite fall away with a shrill
-and bitter cry, and lose themselves in the Deep, too dismayed
-to return,&mdash;rather, too little really in earnest to face the
-necessity of the daily, hourly strife&mdash;the inch by inch advance,
-the little by little, the day of small things.</p>
-
-<p>If we are humbly in earnest, and if we are stedfastly,
-quietly striving, with unyielding watch and instant prayer,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">196</a></span>
-and faithful use of every means of grace, then we may hope,
-amid that which seems sometimes scarce anything but a sad
-history of failures, that thus there may be yet <em>advance upon
-the whole</em>.</p>
-
-<p>But now I remember that there is, in appearance, and to the
-unpractised or uncareful beholder, little difference between the
-tide that is advancing and that which is going down. Still
-the endless hurry of flocking waves, still the appearance of life
-and purpose, still the advance and retreat upon the shore&mdash;and
-what is the difference? If there are many, many broken,
-defeated, and baffled endeavours, why so there were when the
-tide was rising. Ay, but there we found advance,&mdash;here we
-find retrogression&mdash;<em>upon the whole</em>. Alas! how great is the
-danger that is subtle and unseen; and in a spiritual falling
-back, it is the very slightness and imperceptibility of the loss
-of ground that makes the case so perilous. They have given
-over their watchfulness, their close observation of marks; the
-breath of prayer has fallen to a stillness; the waves seem to
-gleam and ripple and rustle as of old, and how shall the
-unearnest heart and the unwatchful eye ever know that <em>the
-tide is going down</em>?&mdash;a sinking so gradual, so stealthy, with
-such slight difference from day to day.</p>
-
-<p>Many noteworthy causes there are of this lamentable
-failure and decline, many subtle enemies, that is to say, to
-diligent watchfulness and continual prayer. “Much trading,
-or much toiling for advancement, or much popularity, or much
-intercourse in the usages and engagements of society, or the
-giving up of much time to the refinements of a soft life&mdash;these,
-and many like snares, steal away the quick powers of the heart,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">197</a></span>
-and leave us estranged from God.” “How awfully do people
-deceive themselves in this matter! We hear them saying, ‘It
-does me no harm to go into the world. I come away, and can
-go into my room and pray as usual.’ Oh, surest sign of a
-heart half laid asleep! You are not aware of the change,
-<em>because it has passed upon you</em>. Once, in days of livelier
-faith, you would have wept over the indevoutness of your
-present prayers, and joined them to the confession of your
-other backslidings; but now your heart is not more earnest
-than your prayers, and there is no index to mark the decline.
-Even they that lament the loss of their former earnestness do
-not half know the real measure of their loss. The growth of
-a duller feeling has the power of masking itself. Little by
-little it creeps on, marked by no great changes.” And yet
-you would start, had you an Angel’s point of view, to see how
-wide a strip of former advance is relinquished now. The
-treacherous sands suck in the wet line, and it ever seems just
-before you&mdash;just a narrow band such as always edges the
-advancing and retiring waters, whether at ebb or flow. And
-how great does this danger then appear to be!&mdash;how deadly the
-craft of an Enemy too subtle ever to startle us!&mdash;how needful
-to watch for that retrogression which can hardly be perceived!
-Little by little we advance, and commonly little by little we
-decline. Even a great fall, it has been pointed out&mdash;one which
-seemed a sudden catastrophe, unheralded by any warnings&mdash;what
-a slow gradual process of “retirement neglected and
-hurried prayers” had been long preparing secretly for this.
-But now a saint, men think&mdash;and on a sudden a notorious
-sinner! Ah, they know not for how long, how secretly, how<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">198</a></span>
-imperceptibly and undetected, how surely and how fatally <em>the
-tide had been going down</em>.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Enough of these desultory musings. Let us pause awhile
-in reverent silence, contemplating the mighty Sea as a whole,
-assuredly of things upon this earth our greatest emblem&mdash;an
-emblem grand, oppressive in its vastness&mdash;of Eternity and
-Infinity.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 20.5625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_212.jpg" width="329" height="241" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">199</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">201</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="MUSINGS_ON_THE_MOUNTAINS"></a>MUSINGS ON THE MOUNTAINS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 10.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_215-0.jpg" width="165" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_215-1.jpg" width="153" height="138" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 12em;"><img src="images/i_215-2.jpg" width="192" height="138" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 8.8125em;"><img src="images/i_215-3.jpg" width="141" height="425" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">Mountains!</span> I scarcely feel myself
-competent to fulfil the promise of
-this title, for I was never upon one
-in my life! Never had I the advantage
-of contemplating the mighty
-eminences of America; I have not even
-had the experience of standing beneath
-and toiling up to the summit of the white-haired
-Alps; nay, even the grand hills of
-Scotland, or the classic watchers beside the
-English lakes, have never been visited by
-me. Still imagination will often supplement
-the deficiencies of experience, and it
-is a good thing, I am convinced, for us
-all, so far as we can, to leave sometimes
-the plain of our daily routine of life, and
-to muse upon at least relatively higher
-ground.</p>
-
-<p>I will begin by recalling my nearest
-approach to any experience of mountain
-ascent.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">202</a></span>
-I was staying in Herefordshire with my brother, in his
-parish among the hills and woods. When a friend is
-with us, we seem to think it a necessity, both for his
-sake and our own, to rove somewhat, and to explore
-some of the more distant country. Accordingly we fell
-to planning expeditions, and after divers suggestions, contemplations,
-and rejections, fixed upon a small village beside
-a lovely stream renowned for its trout and grayling, and
-near a hill famous in those parts, and named Croft
-Ambrey. We were to sleep two nights at a small inn
-near the stream, and from that stream we were to extract
-our breakfast. There is always a great charm about these
-expeditions&mdash;a novelty, an independence, a breaking through
-the trammels of life’s daily routine, in their enterprising
-pic-nic character. And so my brother, his wife and I,
-started on the appointed morning, in high glee. We were,
-I remember, however, employed half the day in the vain
-endeavour to catch the white pony; and were at one time
-almost in despair of our getting off at all. The little rogue
-had been put up to some sly tricks by a horse with whom he
-had been observed to have been conferring over the fence for
-some days previously, and I remember the almost comic provocation
-with which he let us sidle up to him, with blandishments
-and barley, until just within range for the halter, and
-then, at the very moment of attainment, was off, and anon
-standing demure and meek at the other end of the field. Nor
-did we fare better if we altered our tactics, and, like wolves
-over the northern snows, tried to hem in our prey in a deadly
-half-circle. He ever contrived to give us the slip, and it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">203</a></span>
-not until we were wearied out, and on the point of giving
-up our expedition for that day, that he surrendered at discretion.</p>
-
-<p>We started, nevertheless, wound up again as to our spirits
-for the excursion, and thoroughly enjoying a twenty-miles
-drive through lovely scenery. It was so late, however, when
-we arrived near Croft Ambrey, that we had but time that
-afternoon for a walk towards it, and up a lesser hill, and so
-back to our quiet little inn, close to the Lugg. How one
-enjoys the meals on these occasions! That broiled ham and
-eggs, and home-brewed beer, in the little sanded room; what
-venison and champagne refection could for a moment compare
-with them? It is the charm of novelty, I suppose, in scene
-and room and everything. Of course, it is easy to understand
-the zest that attends a dish of trout and grayling of your own
-catching.</p>
-
-<p>But to return to Croft Ambrey. Next day we were prevented
-by other engagements from fulfilling that with our hill. And,
-since we were to start quite early on the morrow, the chance of
-my ascending it seemed over when I retired to my homely
-but clean little bedroom at night. However, I had not quite
-given the thing up. It was in my mind, could I but contrive
-to wake at five in the morning, to sally forth, while great part
-of the world was asleep, and explore the peaks, passes, and
-glaciers of that noble hill. I am not good at waking, unless
-called. But&mdash;and this seems an illustration of how the mind
-controls the body&mdash;it is certain that if you go to sleep with a
-strong desire or sense of duty concerning the waking at a
-certain hour, you not unfrequently, after a careful fumbling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">204</a></span>
-under the pillow, find your watch demonstrating pretty nearly
-the time that your mind had appointed. This may be a mere
-coincidence, but it is one whose recurrence I have often
-marked. At any rate, I know that next morning I awoke,
-with a sudden instinct consulted my privy counsellor, and was
-by it informed that five o’clock was yet a few minutes distant.
-And so I arose, and drew the blind, and looked out upon the
-still world, in the sharp cool morning air. The light seemed
-clear and cold, and there was an incessant twitter and loud
-chirping dialogue of many awakened birds. A thin mist was
-withdrawing from the fields, and yet lay upon the course of the
-river. I hastened my dressing, and quietly slid down stairs.
-How well most of us know the weird strangeness of the house
-at the early morning hour, when all in it are still asleep, but
-day is peering in through closed shutters, and above locked
-doors! The darkling light; the breathing hush; the dog
-curled on the mat, rising uneasily, and surveying matters
-suspiciously, but, reassured, settling himself down again with
-a preliminary shake, when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“His sagacious eye an inmate owns”;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">the sullen disturbing sound at the street door, of bolts
-and locks, and bars, that would have seemed noiseless
-enough by day. And then the clear sharp feeling of the
-air, when you step into the road; the silent unpeopled
-worship of nature at its matins’ hour; the shadows, long as
-those of evening, and more grey and pearly, along the
-white empty road. And, enhancing the stillness, perhaps
-one lonely traveller met, seeming the world’s only inhabitant;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">205</a></span>
-and, as you walk farther on into the day,
-presently</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The carter, and his arch-necked, sturdy team,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Following their shadows on the early road.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Thus, then, I sallied forth, and to my mind the details of that
-morning walk are even more distinct than when I trod it.
-The pause of consideration as to the turning to be taken; the
-selection, as it happened, of just the right gate; the belt of
-pines half-way up the hill, that from below seemed so near the
-highest point, but attained, showed a great height still to be
-surmounted&mdash;much like all striving upwards here after any
-excellence, especially after holiness; the pleasure when at last
-the summit was attained; the little incidents connected with
-that attainment; the frail harebell plucked, and pressed even
-now in my pocket-book; the curious war that I found
-and left going on between a hawk and a rook; each striving
-to get above the other, each making and each avoiding the
-hostile swoop; all these slight matters are the details which
-make that day’s whole still a distinct sharp picture to my
-mind.</p>
-
-<p>And very full of matter for musing appears to me now that
-morning expedition. I forget how many counties of England
-and Wales lay outspread before me; some six or seven, I
-think. Certainly a mist brooded over them, and I did not see
-them clearly; but yet there they were, and I know not but
-that the half-appearance may have more impressed (imagination
-being called in to complete the scene) than a clear
-panorama would have done. The world’s ordinary sights and
-sounds lay far beneath me; the narrow scope of the ordinary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">206</a></span>
-view was widened; for fields, I surveyed counties in my landscape,
-and for hedges, lines of distant hills. All things were
-wider and larger, and I breathed a more expansive, freer air;
-and I seemed, I think, a little raised above life’s pettinesses,
-by the quiet and the breadth of view of that early morning
-ascent.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22.6875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_220.jpg" width="363" height="422" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Ah, friends,&mdash;and brothers in both the meannesses and the
-great expectations of this strange finite, infinite existence,&mdash;how
-we need, how we need, these periodical ascents into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">207</a></span>
-Higher ground! How large life is; and yet, how little!
-How we fret and fume about fields and hedges&mdash;merest trifles,
-when counties and hills&mdash;nay, continents and seas&mdash;nay,
-worlds or systems, and space, might lie under the ken of our
-perception and contemplation, which, indeed, has no bounds,
-forward, through eternal time, and infinite space! How, in
-the littleness of things, are we apt to swamp the largeness
-which they might present to our thought! How life’s
-pettinesses overmaster the mighty tremendous prospect that
-God has set before us, looming indeed through a veil of mist,
-far below our feet! Oh, how grand, how stupendous, how
-magnificent, might this our life, rightly thought of, become!
-Money, love, fame, power; it is, while we stand on the mountain,
-the tinkle of a sheep-bell far below us in the valley; it
-is the pigmy form, it is the muffled cry of those things which
-seemed to us large and of full growth, when we met them
-down far below in the bustle and busy intercourse of life.
-I think of Martha, with the ordering of a meal the great
-matter in her eyes; Mary, indeed at the Saviour’s feet, but
-thus seated, placed, in good truth, upon a mountain, from
-whose wide range of view all merely of this world seemed
-petty, worthless, mean. Oh, for a mountain view of life!
-Oh, for an angel’s view! Then money, power, talents, influence,
-all would be noble, as offerings to Christ; contemptible
-in any other aspect. How I crave to take always that
-standing-point; to survey life&mdash;so far as such as I am can&mdash;from
-God’s point of sight; to look at time as, after all, only a
-tooth in the great cog-wheel of Eternity, as something very
-small, that fits into something very large! The littleness of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">208</a></span>
-life; its scandals, its jealousies, its irritations, its safe voyages
-or its wrecks, its gains or losses of a fast-flying hour; its loves
-and hopes, its hates and despairs, its ecstasies and anguishes;
-these are the fields and hedges that are perceived no longer,
-when we have ascended above this brief and transient state
-of things, and look down upon counties, continents, worlds.</p>
-
-<p>How I mourn over life’s pettinesses! How I grieve, in my
-better mountain hours, to find myself always easily moved and
-disturbed, either to enjoyment or vexation, by the merest and
-most absolute trifles! How bitter it is to me, next time I get
-the wider view, to perceive how easily, and naturally, and
-contemptibly, I descended, after the last ascent, down among
-the thronging, chafing, soul-lowering interests and phantasies
-of this lower world, this span-long life again! Ah, spark of
-the Infinite, that finite things can so absorb thee! Ah, heir of
-Eternity, that time’s dancing motes can affect thee so much!
-Ah, member of Christ, child of God and inheritor of the
-Kingdom of Heaven, that it can much concern thee in what
-station of life, in what external condition, it may please Him
-that thou shouldst serve Him, here, and now, in this minute
-of space and time!</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>In life’s morning we may all, I think, be said to stand on
-the mountain, and, although it be a morning view, made
-illusive by mist and early sunshine, obtain the widest, least
-petty, view. More wide, more noble, more expansive&mdash;all
-these the scope of youth’s sight must be conceded to be. There
-is not the suspicion, the narrow thought, the selfishness, the
-intent consideration of the present interest; there is a broader,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">209</a></span>
-more generous way of contemplating life than we shall find
-later in its course. Doubtless there is the greater proneness to
-be deceived. The eye is not yet trained to calculate distances;
-arduous undertakings are misjudged; easy attainments are
-regarded with admiration and awe; there are many mistakes,
-much proof of want of experience. But as life goes on, and as
-men descend to gain this knowledge and correctness of estimation,
-often the wider view narrows, the freer air is left behind,
-and the eye that roamed over and took in that nobler scope
-becomes shut in by surrounding trees and hedges into the
-range of but one small field. Could we, as a few have done,
-not barter youth’s aspirations and superb ideas for manhood’s
-experience and practical mind, but add the riches of manhood
-to the riches of youth, how much greater a thing we might
-make this life of ours to be! For certainly in youth we do
-stand upon an eminence, and look round upon counties and
-hills, and gradually, as manhood gains upon us, are apt to
-descend towards mere gardens, fields, and fences.</p>
-
-<p>And so the evil to be guarded against&mdash;or to be deplored&mdash;will
-be the declension of the mind and heart from this wider,
-more open and generous view, a loss inward, not outward.
-Mixing, as we soon must, among life’s pettinesses, how many
-of us forget the mountain upon which we once stood, nor care
-to ascend it still from time to time, but are content to sink into
-hardness, coldness of heart, narrow-mindedness, selfishness, a
-cynical, unsympathetic temper, a habit of low suspicion, a
-littleness of caution, a close hand, an absorbed heart. So that
-we should try, from time to time, to draw apart from the highways
-and byways and crowded walks of life’s daily cares and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210">210</a></span>
-concerns, and to ascend a point which overlooks them and
-brings them more into their just proportion with that wider
-view which diminishes if it does not absorb them.</p>
-
-<p>In reading some of the highest poetry I have found this
-ascent gained. It carries you up into the ideal, from life’s
-mean realities and commonplaces; there is an atmosphere of
-honour and love and generosity; men think and act grandly,
-and money-getting is not the mainspring of all. And this is
-one profit of high and wholesome poetry, that it does water and
-keep alive those nobler greater ideas and yearnings that the
-dust of the world’s traffic might otherwise choke. For the
-heart’s true poetic sense (I do not mean mere sentimentality) is
-no doubt one of the links nearest to God in the chain which
-connects us with Him.</p>
-
-<p>How much of the sublimest poetry we find, in truth, in the
-Bible. And here I would point out especially how we may
-indeed breathe a mountain air&mdash;indeed obtain a mountain
-view, namely, in the sacredly-kept times of morning devotional
-reading. In a trouble, whether a small worry or a
-crushing anguish, how sweet, when the time has come round
-for the reading and meditation on the things of Eternity
-and of God. How, as we go on with our upward winding
-path, the fret or the agony insensibly takes its place in the
-wider landscape, and diminishes by an imperceptible process
-from the exaggerated size it presented to us when we stood
-beside it on the plain. Other greater objects open upon our
-view, and attract our attention; the far scenery of God’s
-mighty workings widens out before us, and the vast Ocean
-of Eternity stretching round and embracing the little island<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">213</a></span>
-of Time; and we seem to feel a cool air fanning our hot
-tear-tired eyes, and we breathe more freely, and our heart,
-despite of itself, loses somewhat of its weary load. The
-world is left below; even the clouds sleep under our feet;
-and heaven is nearer, not only for that hour, but during the
-rest of the day.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26.4375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_225.jpg" width="423" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>And how naturally may this thought of mountain-quiet and
-distance from earth’s noises lead us to the consideration of that
-most exquisite and precious communion with God which we
-know by the name of Prayer. In associating the time of
-prayer with the idea of mountain seclusion, two pictures rise at
-once before the mind, because in them actually a mountain was
-the scene, and not only the type, of earnest and retired prayer.
-We see first the top of Carmel, bare and burnt under the sun
-of Palestine, and overlooking the intensely blue sea. Upon it
-the solitary prophet Elijah bends to the ground, prostrate on
-the earth, with his face between his knees. A watching form
-stands on a point towards the sea, until, at last, far away over
-the water, in the sultry horizon, a little dark speck, like a
-man’s hand, arises, and, on rapid wing, the delicious cool
-clouds gather and spread their awning between the burnt earth
-and the pitiless sun. Then the glorious sudden rush of the
-restoring rain, steady, incessant, abundant, settling in pools on
-the caked ground, streaming down the sides of the orange hills,
-sending eddying torrents to brim the parched cracked river-beds.
-Thus impetuous and profuse came the answer to the
-prophet’s lonely mountain prayer.</p>
-
-<p>And another dearer picture we never weary of contemplating;
-another account of One who, after the day’s toil of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">214</a></span>
-healing, of teaching, of feeding the multitudes, sends the
-thronging crowd away, dismisses even His disciples in a ship
-across the lake, and then, when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“The feast is o’er, the guests are gone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And over all that upland lone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">retires up into a mountain apart to pray, and continues all
-night in prayer to God. What a lesson! The crush and press
-dismissed; even the closest and most intimate companions
-avoided, and a quiet time secured for we know not what
-prayers to the co-equal Father.</p>
-
-<p>Ah, that we more entirely followed His example: how, if
-our prayers had more leisure secured for them, were more
-strictly protected from intrusion and disturbance, more lonely&mdash;how
-they would aid us to breathe the air of the mountain,
-to keep ever before us its wider view, even when we had
-descended to mix again with life’s thronging necessities in the
-plain. Even in our room, when the door is closed upon us (for
-I am speaking here of private prayer, not of public worship),&mdash;even
-thus, we are not necessarily upon the mountain, speaking
-through the stars to God. The larger crowd may have been
-satisfied and dismissed, but we have taken with us into our
-retirement some few that were more intimate and close to our
-heart, and we have not been careful enough to be <em>alone</em>. The
-preparation of dismissing the multitude, and even the disciples,
-then the ascent of the mountain, by the winding path of
-meditation, and then the unrestricted view, the sky nearest,
-indeed touching us, and earth spread out far below, and the
-soul left to calm, leisure, unharassed communion with God; all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">215</a></span>
-these are necessary; all these we learn from the example of
-that mild yet awful Being who is God manifest in the flesh.
-Let us arm ourselves with the same mind.</p>
-
-<p>But my thoughts, returning to that morning walk which
-introduced this essay, remind me that there is one suggestive
-point in it which deserves a little attention. It is <em>the time of
-day</em> at which the ascent was made. Early prayer, while the
-world’s cares are asleep, and the road lies hushed and still, not
-thronged with jostling passengers, nor stunned with noisy
-vehicles&mdash;this is that, which of all our private devotions, most
-aids in consecrating life to God. Descending from that early
-hour of high communion, to take our part in the awakening
-toil and interest of earth, it is then easier to give their proper
-proportion to the events and employments of the day. Be it
-a joy or a sorrow, be it a loss or a gain, it takes its just place
-in the grand scheme of things, and does not monopolise the
-heart, nor obscure the vision; far less will the mere straws in
-the path, or the butterflies that dance by, catch and retain the
-absorbed regard of the heirs of immortality. The trifling
-irritations, the mean jealousies, the little rankling grudges, the
-petty quarrels, also the transitory enjoyments and short-lived
-profits, of each day’s life, will not greatly, nor for long, move
-the heart that retains its memory of that far-stretching
-Morning view. And it will be less difficult to rescue life
-from its proneness to become ignoble, and to free ourselves
-from the narrowing, stunting, dwarfing process which it often
-is, but which it was never intended to be. Yet, but for these
-mountain-pauses, but for these retirements from the over-familiarity
-and intrusiveness of trifles, how shall we avoid the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">216</a></span>
-danger of habitually, and soon, entirely bounding our view
-and mode of thought by the hedges which shut in our eyes
-and hearts, down in the valley of our ordinary employments?</p>
-
-<p>And how much the saints of God have valued this early
-hour of prayer! It has been called the Dew which the later
-hours have irretrievably dried up; the Manna which has
-vanished when the sun has gained strength. And there is no
-doubt in my mind that the quality of the spiritual life greatly
-depends upon the jealous guarding of this priceless hour,
-which so easily and quickly escapes us. At that hour Jordan
-stands in a heap, and leaves us a clear passage heavenward,
-but the rapid stream of cares, businesses, anxieties, worries,
-returns to its strength as the morning appeareth, and if we
-would cross at all, it must be during a distracting and wearisome
-buffeting with those crowding waters.</p>
-
-<p>Let me say here how valuable appear to me to be the retreats
-that are being established in many parts of England. Who
-does not know how the routine of little cares, and small
-wearing anxieties, and petty, yet necessary employments, are
-apt to eat out the spirituality from even the clergyman’s life,
-especially if he be placed in a sphere which presents labour
-after which he is ever toiling, but which he can never
-overtake? They seem to me, at least, formed upon the very
-model of our Lord’s custom, and at once to commend themselves
-to any unprejudiced mind, or even any prejudiced mind
-that has preserved the power of calm and fair thought. I will
-let Cowper continue and conclude this train of musing for me:</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">219</a></span></p><div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A superstitious and monastic course;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Truth is not local, God alike pervades<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And fills the world of traffic and the shades,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And may be feared amid the busiest scenes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or scorned where business never intervenes.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But ’tis not easy, with a mind like ours,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Conscious of weakness in its noblest powers,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And in a world, where, other ills apart,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The roving eye misleads the careless heart,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To limit thought, by nature prone to stray<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Wherever freakish fancy points the way;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To bid the pleadings of self-love be still,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Resign our own, and seek our Teacher’s will;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To spread the page of Scripture, and compare<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our conduct with the laws engraven there;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To measure all that passes in the breast,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To dive into the secret deeps within,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To spare no passion and no favourite sin,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And search the themes, important above all,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">&mdash;But leisure, silence, and a mind released<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">How to secure, in some propitious hour,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The point of interest, or the post of power;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A soul serene, and equally retired<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From objects too much dreaded or desired,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">At least are friendly to the great pursuit.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>To complete the ideal of a mountain, at least in a picture, it
-seems necessary to see a lake lying at its foot. I have such a
-picture in my mind’s eye, besides that of Scott’s,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i4">“&mdash;On yonder liquid lawn,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In hues of bright reflection drawn,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
-  <img src="images/i_232.jpg" width="600" height="425" alt="" /><div class="caption">“In hues of bright reflection drawn, distinct the shaggy mountains lie.”</div></div>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">220</a></span>
-And a beautiful lesson seems by their association suggested
-to my mind. For thus ought the mirror of our daily life,
-which lies at their foot, clearly and constantly to reflect the
-calm and the beauty and the elevation of those mountain-hours.
-Beware of influences, sudden winds and treacherous
-currents, which, ruffling and wrinkling the lake, shall mar
-and blur the image of those high moments, and of the heaven
-yet far above the mountains.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24.625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_234.jpg" width="394" height="353" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">221</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">223</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="MUSINGS_IN_THE_TWILIGHT"></a>MUSINGS IN THE TWILIGHT.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 16.0625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_237-0.jpg" width="257" height="540" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_237-1.jpg" width="257" height="123" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 13.0625em;"><img src="images/i_237-2.jpg" width="209" height="37" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 12.25em;"><img src="images/i_237-3.jpg" width="196" height="126" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 10.3125em;"><img src="images/i_237-4.jpg" width="165" height="49" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9.8125em;"><img src="images/i_237-5.jpg" width="157" height="139" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9.0625em;"><img src="images/i_237-6.jpg" width="145" height="67" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">But</span> now the quiet days of September
-are come. September, which is the
-Twilight of the year&mdash;rather, I would
-call it the first hint of twilight,
-when the flush and glow are sobering
-down, and a cast of thoughtfulness
-is deepening day by day upon the
-months. “Autumn has o’erbrimmed
-the clammy cells” of the bees; the
-fields, where the long rows of many
-sheaves stand, gradually grow bare; the
-intensely dark summer green of the elms
-and of the hedgerows out of which they
-rise, is interrupted here and there by
-a tenderer tinge; the spruce firs in the
-copses begin to appear more dark, distinct,
-and particular; the larches begin to show faint hearts, and
-to look more delicate beside their sombre brothers. There is
-rather the augury, the prescience, than the perceived presence
-of a change. I have fancied sometimes that the trees have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">224</a></span>
-plotted together and banded themselves by an agreement
-not to give in, this time, but to defy the utmost power of
-stripping, desolating Winter. And it is curious, with this
-idea, to watch them. Throughout September, they at least
-keep up appearances well, and from one to another the
-watchword is <span class="locked">whispered,&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Keep a good heart, O trees, and hold<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The Winter stern at bay!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and for a time they moult no feather, drop no leaf; or, if
-one circles down here and there, it is huddled by in a
-corner, and they flatter themselves that none has noticed.
-But you watch with pitying love, knowing what the end
-must be. And you perceive how great the effort, the
-strain, becomes, to keep up appearances. Here and there,
-at last, despite of their utmost endeavour, the hidden fire
-bursts out; and finally, with a wild Autumnal wail, some
-weaker tree, in despair, gives up the unnatural and too
-excessive strain, and casts down a great profusion of yellow
-sickly foliage. There is a murmur among the stouter trees;
-but, in good truth, they are not sorry for the excuse, while,
-muttering that all is rendered useless now, like avowed
-bankrupts, they give up the effort to sustain appearances,
-and, as it were, with a sigh of relief and rest, resign them
-to the fate they vainly strove against and could not long
-avert. So the elm flames out into bars and patches, very
-yellow in the dark; and the chesnut is all tinged and burnt
-with brown; and the mulberry has slipped off all her leaves
-in a single night; and the ash and the sycamore blacken;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">225</a></span>
-and the white poplar leaves change to pale gold; and the
-pear to bronze; and the wild cherry to scarlet; and the
-maple to orange; and the bramble at their feet to bright
-crimson.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33.8125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_239.jpg" width="541" height="423" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Not so yet, in the Twilight of the year. It is the month
-of tranquillity, of peaceful hush. If there be a hint of decay,
-it is but what has been called “calm decay”; it is but
-evening with the landscape, the Evening of the year. You
-might forget, as you looked at the resting stationary aspect<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">226</a></span>
-of things, that the further change, the Night of Winter,
-was indeed drawing near. There seems no prophecy of those
-wild tossing October arms, with the stream of leaves hurrying
-away in the wind; no presage of the dull November days,
-when, from the scanty foliage of the trees, great drops plash
-down upon the decaying leaves beneath, and the whole wood
-looms out of the fog. Far less, in the full-bosomed, sober,
-rather air- than mist-mellowed woodlands, do you detect any
-foretelling of the time when all will stand, a bare thicket
-of gaunt boughs and naked twigs, dully shadowed in the ice,
-or made darker and more dreary by the great white fields
-of snow.</p>
-
-<p>Of all this there is no hint given yet, nor need we yet
-awake to the knowledge that we have indeed bid the
-Summer farewell till next year. The evenings are still
-warm, warm with that cool warmth which is so delicious:
-it will be some time yet before we can see our breath as
-we talk: we can stay out well until eight or later, and hear
-through the open window the clatter of arranging tea-cups,
-and watch the lamp, still faint in the twilight, warm the
-room with a dim orange glow.</p>
-
-<p>Therefore I shall sit here awhile on this garden seat, and
-muse in and upon the twilight. The scene and place are
-favourable for quiet thought. The lawn is smooth and shaven;
-at my feet lie beds of profuse geranium, verbena, calceolaria,
-petunia, in their rich Autumn prime, before any hint of frost
-has visited them. The air is quite heavy with the scent of
-the massed heliotrope. The colours, if sobered, are not yet
-lost in the fading light; the scarlets and purples are hushing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227">227</a></span>
-and blending; the cherry colour, yellow, and white,
-have grown more distinct, and stand out more apparent upon
-the grass. Overhead, the sky is deepening to that dusk
-steel blue which soon discloses the very faint yet eye-catching
-glimmer of one white star. Across the quiet dome,
-and between the still, outstretched, motionless branches, the
-silent bats flit to and fro; there is a rustle of chafers in the
-lime. One sweet melancholy monotonous sound gives a background
-to the silence, an undertone that enhances, not in
-the least disturbs, the quiet. For the great charm of this
-garden, which lies on the slope of a hill, is, that near the
-foot of that hill swells and fails the ever-moving Sea. And
-looking from my garden seat through the near rose-bushes
-and above the taller growth lower down the slope, I see the
-broad silver shield, rising, as it seems to me on my hill-seat,
-up the circle of its horizon. An hour ago I was admiring
-the brilliancy and intensity of its colour, green shoaling into
-blue, and sparkling in the sun; now the faint light of the
-broad moon shares the sway of the decaying sunlight; and
-I see above and through the branches a space of pale bright
-grey. The jewel blue of afternoon has died out from it, but
-the more neutral tint accords better, I feel, with the sober
-hour and hushed sounds of twilight. How complete is the
-harmony and the balance of colour in all God’s pictures!</p>
-
-<p>And I love these twilight studies, that are much like the
-paintings, so Robert Browning tells us, of Andrea del Sarto,
-the faultless painter. Pictures in <span class="locked">which&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“A common greyness silvers everything,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All in a twilight.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228">228</a></span></p>
-<p class="in0">This is essentially a twilight poem I always think; silver-grey;
-a quiet calmed heart that has settled down into a
-deep still sadness and disappointment. He longs for those
-higher aspirations which can here be but imperfectly expressed,
-knowing that it is not well unless we hold an
-ideal far above our fulfilment here; and that, if we have
-attained all we sought in our pursuit of the beautiful and
-the good, we have not intended nobly <span class="locked">enough:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“There’s the bell clinking from the chapel-top;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That length of convent wall across the way<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And Autumn grows, Autumn in everything.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As if I saw alike my work and self,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And all that I was born to be and do,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A twilight piece.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Is not the tone of thought here expressed one natural to
-us all at certain times, when for us life’s vivid lights and
-deep shadows have all toned into a uniform half tint? We
-all have such twilight hours: times when the sun has sunk,
-and our heart has gone down with it, and a grey depression
-settles gradually upon the soul. Times when we feel
-that our life is little, and low, and mean: when we yearn
-for a sympathy that earth has not to give; when we turn
-away disheartened and disgusted from our life and from
-ourselves, and turn the faces of what seemed our most
-faultless works to the wall, and care not if we never saw
-them again. Times when we go about to cause our heart
-to despair of all the labour which we took under the sun.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229">229</a></span>
-Times when the failures of others seem better than our
-successes; times when we lament over the lowness of our
-aim, the meanness of our intention, the winglessness of our
-soul; and yet times when our very discontent with all that
-we are and have accomplished, our very disgust at our
-grovelling minds, prove our affinity with higher things than
-any of these that we have grasped here. Those anguished
-yearnings to be nobler prove that we are something nobler
-than we hold ourselves to be. The depression of the twilight
-marks our kindred with the golden glory of the sun.
-Thus may we cheer our hearts, that in their dull hours are
-wont to judge our aims by our attainments, and from the
-inadequacy of the performance, to conclude the lowness of
-the intention. The workman’s dissatisfaction with his own
-life’s work is the clear proof that his inmost self is nobler,
-not only than his attainments, but often even than his
-endeavours.</p>
-
-<p>I awake from my abstraction, however, and look around.
-The twilight has deepened, the flowers are losing their
-colour, the surrounding objects their distinctness. One
-peculiar property, sometimes a charm, sometimes a dread, of
-this light neither clear nor dark, begins to be developed. I
-mean the uncertainty, the indefiniteness, the illusions of
-twilight. And how many analogies occur to my mind as I
-sit here musing on the twilight, and comparing with it the
-indistinctness and the ænigma in which we are living here.</p>
-
-<p>And first I think of God’s ancient people: how many of
-God’s promises to them were misconceived because of the
-twilight in which they were seen. And we might, thinking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230">230</a></span>
-shallowly, wonder that the light of prophecy was such
-twilight, so dim, and the objects seen in it so undefined
-and uncertain. For instance, how obscure and almost confusing
-seems to us the light given to the Jews as to the
-spiritual nature of the Messiah’s kingdom. Through the
-twilight of prophecy we may very well fancy that a grand
-earthly kingdom of power and conquest loomed upon the
-hope and imagination of the people of Israel. Because of
-the hardness of their hearts, indeed, and the lowness of
-their spiritual standard, spiritual revelations had to be
-clothed for them in a body of flesh. The people that
-could worship the golden calf under the very cloud that
-rested upon Sinai, would have ill-received, we may be sure,
-a clear revelation of the manner of the Messiah’s kingdom.
-A kingdom not of this world, with no outward show of
-pomp and glory; a King despised and rejected of men, and
-nailed upon the accursed tree: how would those carnal
-hearts have received such a programme? Nay, how <em>did</em>
-this people, even in the Messiah’s time, receive it? Behold
-the shouting crowds, one preceding, one following the
-King of the Jews! Behold the waving palms, the strewn
-cloaks! Hear the “Hosannas” ring out as the concourse
-arrives in sight of the royal city; and the enthusiastic
-burst, “Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the
-name of the Lord!” What visions, we perceive, were
-seething and working in their minds&mdash;visions of restored
-freedom, and rule, and power, and the sway of Israel
-restored, as in those old glorious days, from the river even
-unto the sea. Grand, and splendid, and indistinct, that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231">231</a></span>
-promised kingdom towered before them in the twilight; they
-threw loose reins on their imagination, and let it carry them
-whither it would.</p>
-
-<p>But when the truth which they had so misconceived and misinterpreted
-stood close to them, and they perceived its entire
-difference from their excited dreams, mark the change&mdash;the
-revulsion. The King is crowned; His kingdom is proclaimed
-as being not of this world: the crowd are shouting still;
-but the cry is now, “<em>Crucify Him! Crucify Him!</em>” Nay
-further yet. The discovery of the real proportions and character
-of that fabric which had appeared so majestic and
-superb through the twilight: this discovery had proved too
-much even for their faith who had formed the chosen court
-of the King Messiah. “We trusted that it had been he
-which should have redeemed Israel”; but, lo! the Shepherd
-is smitten, and the sheep are scattered.</p>
-
-<p>Now, as it has been pointed out before this, an illusion
-of the twilight was converted by the impatience and the
-carnal hearts of the Jews, into a delusion. It was true
-that a mighty King was coming, that He should set up a
-kingdom great and glorious, one which should crumble
-widest kingdoms into the dust. It was true that the
-enemies of God’s people should fall before this kingdom
-which should have no end; true that this King was He
-which should redeem Israel. All this which was prophesied
-was no delusion: all was true: all came to pass.</p>
-
-<p>But now let us search out the fault of the Jews, who were
-deluded by revelation, and blinded by partial light. They
-were told that these great things would be: they were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232">232</a></span>
-bidden to prepare to receive them. Forthwith they decided
-in their own minds <em>how</em> and <em>in what way</em> God would bring
-them about; they gave form and shape to those indistinct
-half-seen masses after the pattern and desire of their own
-vain hearts; they decided that God would give them the
-exact reality of their own carnal dreams; they prepared
-their heart therefore to receive its own interpretation, and
-shut it close against any other. And so when the course
-of time brought them close to that which their fancy in
-the twilight had thus disguised, they could not recognise it,
-they refused to believe it: they passed on beyond it, still
-searching after the unreal fabric of their own imagination;
-and even now, while the twilight seems deepening to darkness
-about them, they go on and on across the blank desert,
-seeking those gigantic hopes which have already, could they
-but believe it, been much more than fulfilled.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Oh, say, in all the bleak expanse,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Is there a spot to win your glance,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">So bright, so dark as this?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A hopeless faith, a homeless race,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Yet seeking the most holy place,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And owning the true bliss!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">That this was not God’s doing, but the result of their own
-impatience, and of the earthliness of their own hearts, we
-have abundant proof. In that light, neither clear nor dark,
-there were those who were content to wait until God Himself
-should reveal the manner of those great things that He had
-foreshadowed; many died thus implicitly waiting; some, with
-Elizabeth, and Simeon, and holy Anna, departed in peace,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233">233</a></span>
-their eyes having just seen His salvation. They had by
-diligent use of the light they had, attained to a more spiritual
-understanding of prophecy; and so to them was fulfilled that
-saying, “Unto you that have shall more be given.”</p>
-
-<p>But have we not passed out of the twilight even now
-that Christ’s fuller revelation has come? No: for, I take it,
-still, while we live here, do we walk in the dusk; it is
-with us <em>waiting</em> still for the grand indistinct objects of
-prophecy to assume a definite outline as we draw near to
-them; it is the passing on in a twilight march, contemplating
-the attained reality of one dim foreshadowing, and
-straightway looking up to see before us the gigantic distant
-form of another, awful in its dimness and uncertainty.</p>
-
-<p>Is not this what the Great Teacher would have us learn when
-He declares that the spirit of a little child is the right and
-necessary spirit for those who would receive the kingdom of
-God? In these mighty mysteries we are to be content to be
-children now, not yet men: it is to be twilight here; noon
-hereafter. How it saddens me, then, sitting in the twilight
-and waiting for the wonderful panorama of morning; how
-it saddens me to hear the loud talk nowadays of our attained
-manhood&mdash;of our possessed noon. Nowadays, forsooth, we
-are so full grown, have such clear light, that we are to handle
-doubts familiarly, and to decide at once concerning that which
-God has but half revealed; and to reject what we cannot
-understand, and to deny that which we cannot define. Man’s
-reason&mdash;methought that, at present, it had to work in the
-sphere of the twilight; but this idea is by some rejected with
-scorn, and they would fain persuade us that it is already placed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234">234</a></span>
-in the full blaze of day. The “province of reason,” we hear
-great talk of this; and yet now let me ask what really <em>is</em>
-the true province of reason? Is it, can it be, to determine
-and decide, to fathom and understand concerning the deep
-and mysterious ways of God, and His counsel secret to us and
-<em>past finding out</em>? One would think so, to see men casting
-overboard this and that revealed truth because they cannot
-understand it in the twilight, or because it will not piece in
-with that creation of their own fancy, which they would
-substitute for our revealed God. Yet to me it seems that we
-have not the material, the data, for such an exercise of reason;
-we have not <em>revelation</em> enough for this; the light is too dim.</p>
-
-<p>No, as we sit here in the twilight it seems to me that the
-province of reason is not to be straining its eyes to map out
-the huge mysteries which still lie in the dim distance; and to
-declare that those masses are shapeless, whose shape it cannot
-trace. Is it not rather to consider and to decide concerning
-those things which are placed within its scope? To satisfy
-itself as to our Guide, as to the reliability of the proofs of His
-being really what He claims to be; to search whether these
-things be so, and then implicitly to follow that Guide through
-uncertainty into certainty, out of the twilight into the clear
-day? This is not to fetter reason, to cramp thought. It
-is merely to confine it to its legitimate sphere. It is to
-acknowledge ourselves now in the dusk, but expecting the
-full morning; to own ourselves children now, but children
-who will one day be men.</p>
-
-<p>Are we not little children here; our very reason doubtless
-in its twilight; probably as unable&mdash;even were they explained<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235">235</a></span>
-to us&mdash;to take in God’s counsels, as a child just capable of an
-addition-sum would be unable to master and understand the
-science of astronomy? Would anyone who considered wisely
-of these things, even wish that this present state should be our
-manhood? Oh, low view to take of man’s magnificent destiny!
-What? This all? To-day’s blunders food for to-morrow’s
-corrections; schemes of science changing every year; nothing
-certain, nothing known? Are we to grow no bigger in
-knowledge, are we to grow no bigger in capacity, than this?
-Is such dim twilight really our full day? Ah, dreary prospect
-then, mournful lot! But away with so mean a view of man’s
-future; with such a cramping of man’s reason!</p>
-
-<p>Little children are we, must we be, with regard to the
-stupendous plans and counsels of God, so long as we have
-no more than our present amount of Revelation. We may
-advance in the world’s knowledge, but we must be content
-to sit down in the twilight before God’s ways and counsels,
-still as listeners, still as learners, reverent, teachable, humble;
-little children still. How can it be otherwise? We hear of
-the boasted advance of education and knowledge; we hear
-of reason more cultivated, and thought more free to soar.
-All very well; but does this, can this touch the subject of
-which I speak? In acquiring any further knowledge of God’s
-hidden things, have we advanced at all? Is there in our
-possession any more material on which to set reason to work,
-than since the last Apostle wrote the last epistle? Have we
-advanced? can we advance? Must we not still be children,
-must we not still make the most of twilight, until, having
-grown to manhood, the full light bursts upon us in another<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236">236</a></span>
-world, and we see no more in an ænigma darkly, but face to
-face; know no more in part only, but even as we are known?</p>
-
-<p>Oh, brother, doubting brother&mdash;if any such should hear this
-my talking out loud with myself&mdash;who waverest where thou
-shouldest stand firm, and art ready to let that slip, which thou
-shouldest keep in thy heart’s heart&mdash;wilt thou not take these
-words of the Wisest and Best of all, of a Teacher most
-mighty in intellect, most vast in knowledge; yea, who spake
-as never did man: wilt thou not say them to thy tossing soul,
-until there fall on it a great calm? A little child, a little
-child; that is the model for us here. Noon, one day; but
-now, twilight: men, hereafter; but here, children: called
-upon here not to explain and to fathom, but to listen and to
-believe. First, of course, let reason determine whether our
-Teacher be trustworthy; but, this decided, cannot we be content
-to be taught by Him? Toil on in the half-light, and the
-full light shall break on thee! Do the works, and thou shalt
-know of the doctrine, whether it be of God. Yea, but you
-say, this is none other than a leap in the dark. Before I <em>feel</em>
-the divinity of the doctrine, why should I do the works?
-What is my warrant, that I should do, before I know? This,
-O man, <em>satisfy thyself as to thy Guide</em>. Examine whether He
-be what He pretends to be. And then commit thyself to His
-guidance. Implicitly, entirely, like a child that likes to put
-his hand into his Father’s, <em>because</em> of the uncertain light.</p>
-
-<p>Do, then, the works, on this warrant. Believe me, the
-doing them will make thy faith rock-firm. Is there not, I
-would ask the sceptic&mdash;is there not something in a simple
-child-like faith, leading to a holy angelic life, that brings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237">237</a></span>
-the protest of a great reality against all your doubts and
-waverings? Watching such a quiet unearthly life, you feel,
-through all your shadows and questionings, that here, at
-least, is something <em>real</em>. While you have been making
-religion a series of puzzles, he has been making it a series
-of deeds. You studied Revelation in order to find out its
-difficulties; he studied it in order to learn its precepts, to
-learn how to live. And, depend upon it, he has thus gained
-a far deeper insight even into those unfathomable mysteries
-by <em>his</em> study than you can ever do by yours. Do: then thou
-shalt know much more even of the doctrine.</p>
-
-<p>Oh, my brother, be content; ’tis only waiting! Receive
-the kingdom of God as a little child. “Hath not God made
-foolish the wisdom of this world?” If we enter the lists
-with Him as equals, He will mock us, and let us be
-puzzled, and bring to nothing the understanding of even
-the prudent and intellectual. Thus did our Lord with the
-cavilling Pharisees, perplexing them with the question how
-Messiah could be David’s son, and yet his Lord. But if we
-sit at His feet as learners, He will teach us much that the
-humble alone may know. Granted that in this dim light
-some of His ways puzzle us, and seem inexplicable. Granted
-that His own words are true, “<em>What I do thou knowest not
-now</em>.” But there is no need to understand His counsels, for
-the attaining salvation. And let us take it on trust, as well
-we may, that what may seem God’s harshness, is kinder than
-man’s kindness; that what may seem God’s foolishness, is
-wiser than man’s wisdom; that what seems God’s weakness,
-is stronger than man’s strength.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238">238</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_252.jpg" width="534" height="296" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>I have mused in the twilight, near the boundless, restless,
-ever-tumbling sea, and under the vast canopy of heaven;
-I have mused in the twilight, until the darkness has fallen,
-and the heaven is eloquent with its sign-speech of stars.
-Sitting in a speck of one of those myriad worlds that,
-flying along with inconceivable velocity, yet appear to me
-intensely still in the dark, I catch a glimpse of the immensity
-of the plans and designs of God. Star whirls by star, system
-fits into system, all in an astounding complex order; none
-clashing, each kept in its due place and its right proportion
-by the Infinite Mind. And I gather a hint of a reply to
-many questions that perplex us, many problems that weary
-us here; questions that are often best answered by the
-confession that here we cannot answer them; questions worst<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239">239</a></span>
-answered by an inadequate attempt resulting in an inadequate
-explanation; questions that we may perhaps quiet with such
-thoughts as these:&mdash;Who knows into what other schemes and
-systems this life of our globe and of ourselves may be fitted;
-who knows, seated in this isolated planet, in this narrow
-twilight of time, how the vast day of Eternity before, and
-the vast day of Eternity behind, may make at once evident
-things that here were deepest, seemingly shapeless, mysteries
-to our mind? The moon rolls round the earth, and the earth
-round the sun, and this again, with all its planets, round some
-greater centre; and so on, perhaps, who shall guess how far?
-For space, as well as time, is infinite, boundless, with the
-eternal God. And thus, too, I divine, with that vastness and
-complexity of scheme which we shall not begin to understand
-until we gain the standing-point of Eternity; thus too, I seem
-entitled to prophesy, with the infinite designs of God, and
-with the interwoven system of His counsels. How can we,
-how <em>should</em> we, understand the different bearings, the linked
-relations, of His eternal plans? A fly perched on one nut
-in the enormous machinery of some manufactory, and deciding
-upon the plan and purpose and working of the whole, from
-the twistings of the point on which he stood; nay, this
-is not even a poor analogy with the position of man standing
-on this speck of Time, and complacently deciding concerning
-the tremendous counsels of Him who inhabiteth Eternity.</p>
-
-<p>Heaven is revealed to us as night deepens. Thus, as the
-Twilight of the good man’s life dusks towards night, stars,
-unperceived before, stars of certainty, of knowledge, of hope,
-of trust, steal out one by one into his sky, until the heaven<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240">240</a></span>
-is one glitter above him. Earth dies out, and becomes
-indistinct; its colours are toned down, its scenery becomes
-less absorbing and obtrusive; it begins to take its proper
-place in that eternal glittering dust of worlds. And so amid
-that speaking silence he falls asleep. I suppose that then,
-in Paradise, a clear morning breaks, which afterwards, in
-Heaven, becomes the full light of noon.</p>
-
-<p>But the Twilight has gone: night has come down upon the
-sea: the earnest silence of those infinitely multiplied stars
-becomes oppressive: I am getting chilly also, and want my
-tea. Therefore I go indoors, close the shutters, and rest my
-strained thoughts with the sight of the cheery lamp-lit room;
-and, asking and obtaining of my wife some half-dozen of my
-favourite “Songs without Words,” call back my musings from
-those exhausting mysteries of our twilight state, and lull them
-with the gentler and more peaceful mystery of music.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 16.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_254.jpg" width="259" height="255" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243">243</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="WINTER_DAYS"></a>WINTER DAYS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 24.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_257-0.jpg" width="387" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_257-1.jpg" width="135" height="118" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 11.1875em;"><img src="images/i_257-2.jpg" width="179" height="162" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9.5em;"><img src="images/i_257-3.jpg" width="152" height="80" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 8.9375em;"><img src="images/i_257-4.jpg" width="143" height="164" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 14.375em;"><img src="images/i_257-5.jpg" width="230" height="58" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 29.1875em;"><img src="images/i_257-6.jpg" width="467" height="141" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">There</span> is always, I think, much more of
-sadness in the anticipation of Winter days
-than we find that they at all deserved
-when they are once fairly at home with
-us. The anticipation, the <em>transition</em>, is
-sad from Autumn profusion to Winter
-bareness. The month that severs the two
-is a month somewhat tinged with melancholy,
-and clad in a weeping robe of fogs
-and mists. There is a certain chill and
-gloom in wandering about the shrouded face
-of the so-lately rich Autumn <span class="locked">fields,&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“When a blanket wraps the day,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When the rotten woodland drips,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And the leaf is stamped in clay,”&mdash;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">there is something sad in passing
-through the sodden lanes, thickly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244">244</a></span>
-carpeted with flat damp leaves, and strewn with the bright
-sienna chesnuts; here the gleaming nut, and there the
-three-fold shattered husk, brown-green, with cream-white
-lining.</p>
-
-<p>You may find a sort of pleasing melancholy, of tender
-romance, in watching the first tints of Autumn stealing over
-the Summer, from the very first, when</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poemb"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The long-smouldering fire within the trees<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Begins to blaze through vents,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0 clear">until,&mdash;tree by tree, wood by wood, landscape by landscape,&mdash;they
-stand in their <span class="locked">glory&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The death-flushed trees, that, in the falling year,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As the Assyrian monarch, clothe themselves<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In their most gorgeous pageantry to die.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Then the first frosts, and the calm clear mornings, and the
-grey fresh blue of the evenings, with their sprinkling of
-intensely piercingly glittering stars. And then the deep
-spell upon the trees is broken, and we stand and watch while,
-now in a shower and now singly,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i14">“The calm leaves float<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Each to his rest beneath their parent shade,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and the year seems just passing away like a beautiful
-dissolving view.</p>
-
-<p>There is also something to keep you up, something of
-excitement and stir, and glow, in the brave October days,
-when a great wind comes roaring and booming over the land,
-and you see the tall ash trees toss up their wild arms in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245">245</a></span>
-dismay, and a deep roar gathers in the elms, and a far
-hissing in the pines, and from that beech avenue,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The flying gold of the ruined woodlands<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Drives through the air.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">You can walk out, and press your hat on to your head, and
-button your coat, and labour up the rising downs, yielding
-no foot to the blustering screaming wind; and a glow and
-exhilaration tingles in your veins as you march on, with pace
-no whit slackened for all its vehement opposition.</p>
-
-<p>But November has come; and the calm quiet hectic of
-September and the hale vigour of October have now passed
-away. The rain has sodden and struck down leaf after leaf,
-heaping the roadside, until you might count the leaves left
-upon the trees that edge the lanes. A sense of bareness and
-desolation oppresses you, and an aspect of dreariness and
-moist death has overspread the landscape. You walk into
-the garden: the dahlias are blackened with the frosts of
-October; the pinched geraniums, verbenas, heliotropes, lie
-wrecked on the beds; the few straggling chrysanthemums
-and scattered Michaelmas daisies&mdash;these are not enough to
-cheer you; for even these are drooping in the universal damp,
-and strung with trembling glittering diamonds of sorrowful
-tears. The dark sodden walnut-leaves thickly carpet the
-side paths, and the most cheerful thing in them is here and
-there the black wet walnut lying, with just a warm hint of
-the clean bright yellow shell within, betrayed through a torn
-fibrous gap. Day after day the fog sleeps over the land, and
-you see your breath in the morning in the cold damp air.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246">246</a></span>
-You are brought face to face&mdash;earth stripped of its poetry
-and romance&mdash;face to face with Winter days.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35.1875em;">
-  <img src="images/i_260.jpg" width="563" height="353" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>And their approach seems gloomy. The light, and warmth,
-and the glory of the year have gone; but, as yet, the memory
-of them has not all quite departed. There are still the gleeful
-leaves lying, poor dead things, in the lanes; there are yet
-the unburied flowers, black on the garden-beds; the air is
-tepid; the trees are not entirely bare; the state is one of
-transition.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The year’s in the wane,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">There is nothing adorning,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The night has no eve,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the day has no morning;&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Cold Winter gives warning.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247">247</a></span>
-Yes, the approach of Winter days seems gloomy. We have
-more in our thought the chill drear outside of Winter, than
-his warm comfortable core, glowing as the heart of a burst
-pomegranate.</p>
-
-<p>But November has now ended, and December has come.
-The early days of this month seem stragglers from that
-which has just gone out, and the same chill warm gloom
-prevails. There is a muggy closeness in the air; everything
-feels damp to the touch, and an oppressive scent
-of decay dwells in the gardens and the fields. You seem
-to see low fevers brooding over the lanes and alleys of
-the city, and you apprehend that “green Yule,” which
-“makes a fat kirkyard.” Your spirits, if your health be
-such as that they are a little dependent on the weather,
-seem drooping and languid and foggy too. And in this
-mood it is that you determine after lunch to call for a
-friend, and take a walk for a mile or two, with thick
-boots and trousers turned up, because of the drenched
-roads and the sticky fields. And you warm into a better
-mood with the walk and the talk, and make the mile
-or two five or six miles; indeed the sun is setting, and
-a deepening dusk in the sky shows a pale star here and
-there, while you are yet a mile from home. A sort of
-clearness and freshness seems to have come into the air
-since you started homewards; and you notice as you
-walk on, the frosty glitter in the stars, and you perceive
-that the road is actually growing rough and hard under
-your feet, and the road-side puddles are gathering a lace-work
-at their edge.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248">248</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“By the breath of God frost is given:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the breadth of the waters is straitened.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And so either “the hoary frost of heaven” falls upon the
-earth, making a white feather of every straw, and a crisp
-fairy forest of the lawn, and a fernery of the windows, and
-hanging gardens of the spider’s webs, and a wondrous dreamland
-of the asparagus bed, a mist of white feather-foliage,
-with a lovely scattering of red fruit glowing among it here
-and there; or a black frost descends on the lands and waters,
-holding them with a gripe that grows closer, closer, and
-stiffens with more iron rigidity every day, until</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The waters are hid as with a stone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the face of the deep is frozen.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And the blood tingles in the veins, and life and health come
-back with sudden rush, and you leave who will to stay by
-the fire, while you start forth with swinging skates to do
-the next best thing to flying; having dined hastily at
-midday, so as to have a long evening.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28.8125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_263.jpg" width="461" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>And one night you go to bed, leaving a yellow dun sky
-sleeping over the hard fields. At a little before seven you
-rise, and drawing aside the blind with something of a shiver
-and a yawn, rub your eyes with amaze. In the half dark
-you seem to look out from your dim-lit room upon one
-large Twelfthcake, with a dark figure here and there for
-an ornament. And when you put out your candle, and
-draw up the blind, on how strange a sight do you look!
-How changed the appearance of everything since last night!
-What a heavy fall of snow there has been; and how sudden,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251">251</a></span>
-and how silent! Against the slate sky a few dark flakes
-steal down, or a small drift dances, changing into a pearl-white
-as they sink lower, and are seen against the black
-bare trees, or the full evergreens. You are fascinated;
-you <em>must</em> stand at the window and watch. That araucaria&mdash;how
-<em>can</em> its long dark arms hold such a piled sheer
-height of snow? How deep and dazzling it lies upon the
-window sill! what a broad sheet upon the roof of that
-barn! how of the thinnest twigs of the nut trees and the
-acacias each sustains his piled inch and-a-half in the complete
-stillness! how the laurels bend down under great
-heavy loads of snow; and the erect holly shows a prickly
-dark gleam, and a burning berry here and there! All
-the sad traces of the dead Summer are buried, and
-the bustling birds chirp and huddle upon the anew
-foliaged branches, raining down a miniature snow-storm
-as they fidget about the trees. All the sodden leaves, and
-the black flower-stalks, and the bare fields are hidden
-now, and Autumn and Summer are buried; and the Winter
-days are come in earnest. Ah, yes, the sadness was more
-in the transition, and now that that is over and the
-change made, did you not discover <span class="locked">that&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252">252</a></span></p><div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Some beauty still was found; for, when the fogs had passed away,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The wide lands came glittering forward in a fresh and strange array;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Naked trees had got snow foliage, soft, and feathery, and bright,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the earth looked dressed for heaven, in its spiritual white.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Black and cold as iron armour lay the frozen lakes and streams;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Round about the fenny plashes shone the long and pointed gleams<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of the tall reeds, ice-encrusted; the old hollies, jewel-spread,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Warmed the white, marmoreal chillness with an ardency of red:<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Upon desolate morasses, stood the heron like a ghost,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Beneath the gliding shadows of the wild fowls’ noisy host;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the bittern clamoured harshly from his nest among the sedge,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where the indistinct, dull moss had blurred the rugged water’s edge.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>But, O writer, your pen has wandered; and this mere
-description of God’s snow and frost is mere secular writing.
-Dear Reader, let me contradict you, and plead&mdash;“<em>It is not
-so</em>.” A careful loving observer of God’s works, attains also
-the privilege of becoming a reader of a second volume of God’s
-word. And if you would have for what I say authority
-from the sacred volume, take it down and turn to the
-104th Psalm. You will find in that, God’s works abundantly
-brought in and interwoven with God’s word, still
-further, as I may say, embellishing and beautifying it; and
-illuminating the text with initial letters and little gems of
-illustration. Here is a bird’s nest, you will find, swung
-securely in the long flat arm of a cedar; here a breadth
-of bright green grass, with cattle feeding upon it; here a
-tinkling spring, trickling down the hill side, whilst, as it
-sleeps in the valley, the beasts of the field gather about it,
-and the wild asses quench their thirst. The birds chirp
-and sing among the branches, the murmuring rain descends
-from the chambers of God upon the grateful hills and the
-satisfied earth; the tender grapes appear, and the “olive-hoary
-capes,” and the wide waving fields of the deep
-golden grain. The high hills are a refuge for the wild
-goats, and the conies stud the rocks here and there. There
-are moonlight scenes, and sunsets, and an Eastern night,
-with its great luminous stars, and the deep roar of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253">253</a></span>
-lion creeping under the shadow of those tall silent palms.
-There is a field with labourers at work, coming out from
-their homes as the sun rises, and the beasts of prey slink
-back to theirs.</p>
-
-<p>And there are sea pieces too: we turn from the land to
-the hoary wrinkled ocean, with its ships, and its monsters,
-and its innumerable population, all gathering their meat
-from God. And in other psalms, and in many another
-part of the Bible, we find God’s word studded with illustrations
-from God’s works. In the 147th Psalm, for
-instance, there is something to our present purpose:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“He sendeth forth His commandment upon earth:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">His word runneth very swiftly.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He giveth snow like wool: He scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He casteth forth His ice like morsels: who can stand before His cold?”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Further, who will not recall our Saviour’s teaching, so
-interwoven with pictures from the wonders of beauty and
-design which, the clue having been once given, reveal God to
-us through Nature. “<em>Consider the lilies of the field, how they
-grow.</em>” “<em>Behold the fowls of the air.</em>” Then the corn-field,
-the vineyard, the fig-tree, the fall of the sparrows, the red
-evening and morning sky,&mdash;through all these Christ teaches
-us. And St. Paul, forthshadowing the resurrection body,
-what does he but use the image of the seed sown in the
-plough-lands, and rising again with the new and glorious
-body which God gives it, as it pleaseth Him?</p>
-
-<p>Religion, in truth, is too much thought of as “a star that
-dwells apart,” and is not one with our common life; not as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254">254</a></span>
-the daisy by our hedgerows, or the rose in our gardens,
-as well as the light in our sky. It should not be a mere
-Sunday garb, to be wrapped up and put away in a drawer
-till Sunday comes again; if we understand and use it
-aright, it is our holiday dress, and our every-day dress
-too; and no need to fear lest we should shabby it, or
-wear it out. The world may look on it as an artificial
-restraint, a thing <em>to be put on</em>, and not our common
-apparel; as a light which has to be lit after a great deal
-of fuss in striking the match; or a moon only useful in
-the night of sorrow. But we should learn to make it a
-light ever at hand, and ever in use; there needs not that
-we should have to make a disturbance in order to procure
-it at any <span class="locked">moment:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i16">“But close to us it gleams,<br /></span>
-<span class="i16">Its soothing lustre streams<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Around our Home’s green walls, and on our Churchway path.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Only thoughts on Nature should really lead on to
-thoughts of God; else we do but look at the type, but
-are not reading the book. And I must here own to something
-of deeper meaning underlying these stray jottings on
-Winter days. For it struck me that, taking the reader’s
-arm, and walking out for a short stroll into the frosty air
-through the vista of November, I might show, perchance,
-from one or two points of view, the cheeriness and the
-calm, and the deep heart of peace, that underlies all even
-of the sadnesses that God sends. There is a bitter kernel
-to all the sorrows that we bring on ourselves&mdash;the kernel
-of remorse and unavailing regret. But there is a sweet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255">255</a></span>
-kernel, believe me, to all the bitter-cased walnuts which
-fall, naturally, straight down from God’s trees. There is
-use, yea, also, beauty, in His dying fields and His shrouded
-earth; in His November, and in His Winter days.</p>
-
-<p>Let me gather a thought here and there that seem to
-come up, like Christmas roses, from the bare beds of Winter
-days.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_269.jpg" width="549" height="354" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>The life of man has its November time; a time of sheer,
-literal, moist decay; no romantic flush of Autumn woods,
-freaking them with a thousand fancies and poetic hues, and
-crowning death with an intense, fascinating, dreamy glory.
-The wild abundant Spring blossoms are over long ago; the
-achievements of Summer, sobered though they were, have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256">256</a></span>
-passed away, and the tinge of pleasant dreamy melancholy
-that touched their first decay has died out; and the heart
-sinks as we look around us.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“That time of life thou dost in him behold,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When yellow leaves, or few or none, do hang<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Upon the boughs that shake against the cold,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>The ageing man looks back upon his past life, and on
-all the works that his hands have wrought, and on the
-labour that he has laboured to do; and behold, all is vanity
-and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.
-What we meant to be, and what we are! The bright,
-soaring, heaven-adorned bubbles that gleamed about us, and
-the little mess of soapsuds that are sinking into the ground
-here and there! The crowd, the rush of emerald vivid
-buds that our boyhood knew; and now the bare, poor black
-twigs and branches, that drip above the yellow stained
-heaps below! Hopes, ambition, dreams, love, friendships,
-aspirations, yearnings, plans, resolves, scattered and lying
-about the lanes of our life, or here and there heaped in a
-mass at some well-remembered turn or corner, dead, and
-sodden, and desolate exceedingly.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Oh! ’tis sad to lie and reckon<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">All the days of faded youth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All the vows that we believed in,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">All the words we spoke in truth.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Well, and what then? Can there be a December to
-follow upon and beautify those sad chilly hours? I think
-so. Sometimes it is just when the leaves are all fallen,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257">257</a></span>
-and the flowers all dead, and the fruits only represented
-by a straggler lying here and there, and when the bare
-boughs are strung with trembling tears that gleam with a
-dull light in the heavy enfolding mist; sometimes it is even
-then that a wondrous work is wrought. A pinching frost
-comes with, as it seems, the finishing stroke, and the last
-sere leaf circles down, and even the fading chrysanthemums
-blacken, and the little robin lies dead on the iron border.
-A dim sky overglooms all, and you go your sad way from
-the scene as night deepens over it. But God wakens you
-some morning, and bids you look out of the dim-lit room
-in which your heart was shut; and lo! a strange transformation!
-His consolations, and His teaching of the deep
-meaning of things, have descended thick and abundant
-from heaven, and even earth’s dull ruins and desolations
-are glorified and transfigured by the beauty of that heavenly
-snow. You are content now that the earthly foliage should
-have made way for and given place to that unearthly
-glory which reclothes earth’s bare boughs; you can think
-calmly, quietly, without any anguish, of those desolate leaves,
-and stained flowers, and cold robin, that all sleep undisturbedly
-under the snow. God’s snow, I think&mdash;the snow
-which He sends down upon hearts desolate and deserted,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“That once were gay, and felt the Spring.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">God’s quiet snow, I think, that succeeds all the Spring
-and Summer excitements, and ecstasies, and heats of life,
-is just that <em>peace of God which passeth all understanding</em> sent
-down to keep our heart and mind, that its life be not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258">258</a></span>
-destroyed nor its aspirations all cut off, but that it may be
-folded over warm and safe until the Resurrection, that
-Spring time, better than earth’s Springs, which do but
-reform perishable buds and leaves; a Spring which shall
-know no November, no Winter days; a Spring which shall
-no doubt revive and recover every feeling, and thought,
-and love, and aspiration which was really God-given and
-beautiful, and shall make those blighted hopes bright with
-the blossom of unearthly beauty, and shall bend the bare
-boughs of those unquiet inexpressible yearnings low towards
-Him with the abundant fruit of satisfaction.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Brighter, fairer far than living,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">With no trace of change or stain,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Robed in everlasting beauty,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Shall we see them once again.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>I think the contemplation a little way off, of any sorrow
-or bereavement, bears out what I have said concerning
-the <em>anticipation</em> of Winter being really the worst and most
-cheerless time&mdash;a time when only the chill, and the death,
-and the dreariness is in our thoughts, and we do not
-suspect the strange beauties that will accompany it, nor
-the warm glow that is hidden in its heart. We only see
-the trouble coming, and we know not, until the time of
-need is even with us, of the consolation, and the support,
-and the spiritual loveliness that are coming too; coming
-with the silent step of the snow, or the unseen breath of
-the frost, to adorn thoughts, and feelings, and character
-with a fringe and foliage of heavenly beauty; coming with
-a glow of consolation, like Christmas in the heart of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259">259</a></span>
-Winter&mdash;the warm fire of God’s love, which can keep out
-earth’s sharpest and most piercing cold. So that when the
-Winter has really come, and we look out on the soft snow
-of God’s peace, and creep closer to the fire of God’s love,
-we find that even the sharpest Winter days are not so
-terrible as November painted them; and, revolving and
-realising their beauty and their use, we can enter into
-his feelings who said, “It is good for me that I have
-been afflicted”; and say Amen with quiet grateful hearts
-to those once inexplicable words, “Blessed are they that
-mourn, for they shall be comforted.”</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>The thought of Winter days seems to lead us at once, by
-analogy, to the Winter of Death drawing near any one of
-us, old men and maidens, young men and children. And
-indeed this time, seen from the misty avenues of November,
-is apt to seem chill and cold to the mind and heart. Still,
-I am sure that death, since the Saviour died, is not a time
-of real unlovely or uncomforted gloom to the obedient and
-faithful child of God. Oh no! when that Winter has indeed
-come, such a one then perceives and realises its Christmas
-heart of warm comfort, and its unearthly frost work of
-strange sweet thoughts and teachings. To such a one, if
-gloomy, it is only gloomy by anticipation, and while the traces
-of earth’s Summers yet linger, and the tears and regrets of
-earth are yet glittering on the empty trees, bare lands, and
-faded flowers; only gloomy until God has quite weaned us,
-first by His chastenings and then by His consolations.</p>
-
-<p>How sad it is that, in our common ideas, and representations,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260">260</a></span>
-and modes of speech, Death, even the good man’s
-death&mdash;should be overshadowed with such dismal gloom! I
-remember a curious proof of this, if proof were needed.</p>
-
-<p>In a small illustrated edition of Longfellow’s poems, the
-artist has chosen for illustration those sweet verses, “The
-Reaper and the Flowers.” You know them, of course, my
-reader, by heart. You remember these graceful <span class="locked">lines:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">He kissed their drooping leaves;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It was for the Lord of Paradise<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">He bound them in his sheaves.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“‘My Lord hath need of these flow’rets gay,’<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The Reaper said, and smiled;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">‘Dear tokens of the earth are they,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Where He was once a Child.’”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>And how do you think the artist has represented that
-gentle Angel-Reaper? Actually as a hideous Skeleton with
-a lank scythe! So ingrained is that ghastly and loathsome
-idea of death in the common thought of men. Then think
-of all the impenetrable gloom with which we surround death
-in this Christian England in this nineteenth century; of
-the utter absence of hope or beauty (save for the glorious
-pæan of the service) in our obsequies. Listen, as soon as the
-happy, hopeful Christian has “fallen asleep,” to the manner
-in which we tell the news to the family of our village or
-town. Drop, drop, like melted lead falling, for a whole
-hour sometimes comes that dull monotony of gloom, <span class="smcap smaller">TOLL,
-TOLL, TOLL</span>, till the heart dies down into depression for the
-day.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261">261</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26.5625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_275.jpg" width="425" height="396" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Save that we know that that recurring note comes from
-the belfry of the peaceful little church that presides hopefully
-and holily over its gathering of sleepers&mdash;save for this, would
-there, I ask, be any thought but of dreariness in that dull
-ceaseless repetition of one desolate tone? Death is, indeed</p>
-
-<p class="in0">always a grave and solemn thing, and it were well that a
-grave and solemn voice should announce its presence to the
-clustered or the scattered homes. But why change solemnity
-into despair? Why fill the air with nought but heavy
-gloom for a whole hour or half-hour? I would not say, in
-the words of <span class="locked">Poe:&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262">262</a></span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Let <em>no</em> bell toll! lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Should catch the note as it doth float up from the weeping earth.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>For there <em>must</em> be sadness here, if there be joy where the
-spirit has gone. Only let not the dark cloud be debarred
-from any the least silver lining. Something gentle, tender,
-and sweet, in accordance, so far as earth’s lamenting can
-accord, with the glory and rapture of the released one, would
-surely be better for the living than that slow prolonged
-numbering the beads of their own sorrow. <em>I</em> would have
-the bells rung, as for a wedding; only with a minute’s
-interval between each note. So the joy and the sorrow would
-each claim its share.</p>
-
-<p>The early Christians used to speak of and commemorate
-the day of death, as “τὰ γενέθλια,” the birthday feast of
-the Dead. What a different way of putting things from
-our compassionate mention&mdash;not of the surviving, but of
-the dead. <em>Poor so-and-so! How sad!</em>&mdash;this, for the spirit,
-that we feel a good hope, is in Paradise! How the having
-it put before you in the just view&mdash;rather as an entering
-into true life, than a dying from it, casts a glow on what
-most seem to regard as nought but gloom. A most exquisite
-instance of such a beautiful putting of such a sharp Winter
-day to even a bereaved father and mother, I find in one of
-Archbishop Leighton’s heavenly letters. In what a different
-light must their loss, surely, have appeared to them, after its
-perusal.</p>
-
-<p>“Indeed,” he writes, “it was a sharp stroke of a pen,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263">263</a></span>
-that told me your pretty Johnny was dead: and I felt it
-truly more than, to my remembrance, I did the death of
-any child in my lifetime. Sweet thing! and is he so quickly
-<em>laid to sleep? Happy he!</em> Though we shall have no more
-the pleasure of his lisping and laughing, he shall have no
-more the pain of crying, nor of being sick, nor of dying:
-and hath wholly escaped the trouble of schooling, and all
-other sufferings of boys, and the riper and deeper griefs of
-riper years, this poor life being all along but a linked chain
-of many sorrows and many deaths. Tell my dear sister she is
-now much more akin to the other world; and this will quickly
-be passed to us all. <em>John is but gone an hour or two sooner
-to bed, as children use to do, and we are undressing to follow.</em>”</p>
-
-<p>In another letter the same writer says of <span class="locked">himself&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<p>“I am grown exceedingly uneasy in writing and speaking,
-yea, almost in thinking, when I reflect how cloudy our
-clearest thoughts are; but, I think again what other can
-we do, till the day break and the shadows flee away, as one
-that lieth awake in the night must be thinking; and one
-thought that will likely oftenest return, when by all other
-thoughts he finds little relief, is, <em>when will it be day?</em>”</p>
-
-<p>You see he would have wondered to be spoken of thus&mdash;“Poor
-Leighton has gone.” Answer, “How very sad,”&mdash;when
-at last he had attained to that day.</p>
-
-<p>Let me show, by another noble instance, that, as Winter
-days, when they come, bring often unforeseen beauty and
-gladness with them, so not even the anticipation is always
-necessarily sad to the eye of exalted faith. Remember you
-those words of the mighty Apostle of Christ&mdash;when the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264">264</a></span>
-Winter time was yet somewhat removed&mdash;with their more
-than calm anticipation of it, their deep warmth of joy?</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. What I shall choose I wot not.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; <em>which is far better</em>.”</span>
-</div></div></div>
-
-<p>And then the stirring tones of exultation and triumph, as
-now but few leaves were left, and Winter days were even
-at the door.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.”</span>
-</div></div></div>
-
-<p>Here is an aurora borealis flashing up to the heavens in
-light and splendour, over the wide snow landscape of Winter
-days.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34.0625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_278.jpg" width="545" height="213" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265">265</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267">267</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="THE_END_OF_THE_SEASONS"></a>THE END OF THE SEASONS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 28.125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_281-0.jpg" width="450" height="299" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_281-1.jpg" width="450" height="238" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 12.625em;"><img src="images/i_281-2.jpg" width="202" height="60" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">The</span> Summer is past, the Autumn is
-passing quite away, the Harvest is
-long ended, the fruit all garnered.
-And the year seems as desolate as Solomon in his sad time,
-having been clad in more than all his glory. It has gathered
-gardens, and orchards, and pools, and singers, and delights;
-and whatsoever its eyes desired it kept not from them, nor
-withheld its heart from any joy or beauty; and it rejoiced
-in all its labour. But now what a change! You may fancy
-that it has looked on all the works that it had wrought, and
-on the labour that it had laboured to do,&mdash;and, behold, all
-was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit
-under the sun! And so it hastens to cast away all its
-gathered store and cherished delights, and stands naked,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268">268</a></span>
-desolate, bankrupt, under the cold searching gaze of the clear
-bright stars. Ah!</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The many, many leaves all twinkling? Three<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Trembling,&mdash;and one upon the old oak tree!”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Nature is always beautiful to those who always look for beauty
-in her. But perhaps she is <em>least</em> lovely when clad in a close
-thick fog. And it is thus that we have seen her continually of
-late. The wet black trees stood dim and ghostlike in the mist,
-and much like seaweed under tissue-paper. The hedges looked
-unreal and distant, as you passed between them on the pale
-road. Passengers and carriages loomed blurred and big and
-indistinct, out of the chill cloud in front of you, long after the
-wheels and the steps had been heard. Dull unglittering dew
-strung the branches that stretched over you, and gave a blunt
-light here and there in the hedge. You were isolated from
-your kind; scarce could you see one approaching until he was
-close upon you; and then, a few steps, and he was straightway
-swallowed up. It was not a fading morning mist; but a good
-November fog, one developing from cold blue to grey, and
-thence to yellow, and so on to tawny dun. Homeward-bound,
-you emerge from it into the railway-station. The train is
-late; the fire is pleasant; and you muse or doze away half-an-hour
-by the waiting-room fire. Presently a red spot dyes
-part of the mist; a behemoth mass is perceivable beside the
-platform; you get into a carriage, the whistle shrills, the
-train moves, and the station lights are gone in a minute,&mdash;and
-you also are swallowed up in the fog.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269">269</a></span>
-And as you pass, up the garden, home,&mdash;the chance is that
-you hurry on, where you would have paused to admire
-beauty. In the cold fog, the asparagus, hung with leaden
-mist-drops that chilly gleam here and there, bends and falls
-about its mounded bed; a black, wet, sere leaf or two clings
-to the ragged black sticks against that wall; the acacias
-drop pattering drops upon the broad fallen sycamore leaves:
-you might as well walk through water, as cross that lawn for
-a short cut to the warm mellow room, at whose window,
-which opens to the ground, stands she who chiefly makes that
-house, home. You are not sorry to shut the windows, and to
-have the curtains drawn, and to let the earth stand without,
-like a shrouded ghost, clad in winding-sheet of fog, while
-you enjoy the genial blaze, the cosy meal, the little ones on
-your lap after dinner, the gentle wifely smile that loves to
-see these loved.</p>
-
-<p>Well, I contend that there is beauty even in the fog; but
-I will not stop to prove this now. I will only say that there
-is less beauty in this than in most other aspects of nature,
-and much excuse for the connecting the foggy bare time of
-year with chill and dreary thoughts. Then, growth of flower
-and fruit seems suspended, save for a scarlet splash on the
-hedge here and there; and dead-fingered fungi crowd in
-bunches above the graves of the flowers, and at the roots of
-the trees.</p>
-
-<p>The fields are bare, with no coming crops; only swart and
-self-satisfied pigs roam in herds over them: the grass has
-stopped growing; there is neither blossom nor fruit, nor
-leaves upon the trees; the birds’ nests are empty and sodden;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270">270</a></span>
-hope and fulfilment seem alike departed, and death seems
-to reign in solitary gloom over the pale and shrouded land.
-Is not all this sad beyond tears?</p>
-
-<p>No; we are sure that this is not sad in the year, really;
-for that memory and hope are alike supporting the year’s
-aged steps, as it totters into December. The hope is to be
-found in every twig, as well as in the broad brown lands
-that are beginning to be ruled in music lines of thin
-emerald. The memory suggests by analogy, and in a
-sweet figure, those words that have comforted many a
-<span class="locked">mourner,&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<blockquote>
-
-<p>“I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are
-the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith
-the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their
-works do follow them.”</p></blockquote>
-
-<p>It is not sad, really, to see the year in its bareness and
-barrenness; lonely winds searching over the cornless uplands,
-and sighing amid the stripped boughs; dull fogs brooding
-over the damp fields, and shrouding the universal desolation
-and decay. No; because the fruits <em>have been</em>, and are garnered
-in. It is not that the year’s work has been left, until too late,
-to do. It is only that <em>it is done</em>. It is not sad, really; for
-when we walk through the dull bare fields, that once moved
-with millions of stalks and one whisper, we think of the
-heaped, massed grain, or of the crumbling white flour, or
-of the tawny square loaves. Or, if we miss the dancing grass
-and the bobbing clover, we look at the goodly camps of close-stacked
-hay, under the peaked roofs of straw. And walking
-through the garden or the orchard, if for a moment we are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271">271</a></span>
-chilled by the bare look of the pitiful cold boughs, black, and
-ragged, and starred with tears, our thought flies from these
-to the bright, smooth red or white cherries, and the dark
-blue-bloomed damsons, and the ruddy plums, and the yellow
-pears, and the grey greengages, and the dead-orange apricots,
-and the smooth nectarines, and the soft, crimson-hearted
-peaches,&mdash;all of which were, in their turn, yielded faithfully
-by those desolate branches. Ay, and we think with double
-satisfaction of a store yet left; of the cosy apples and freckled
-pears, sorted, wiped, and laid by in rows&mdash;brown-yellow
-nonpareils, streaked ribstones, mellow Blenheim oranges, and
-russets, betraying a gleam of gold just where the brown has
-rubbed. We may, perhaps, think&mdash;but this is a pleasing
-thought,&mdash;how different all would be with the year, were
-all this otherwise, and had the Spring, and Summer, and
-Autumn been squandered in merely making wreaths of
-dying flowers, that perished at the chill breath of the fogs
-and frosts.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23.125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_285.jpg" width="370" height="600" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>Thus, then, our sober thought concludes. But still, to our
-fancy the year seems desolate, forlorn, and sad; the fog is a
-chill and heavy depression; the rain sobs out its heart in
-tears; the <span class="locked">wind&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i24">“Like a broken worldling wails,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the flying gold of the ruined woodland drives through the air.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>In poetry, and even in prose, we do not most readily think
-of the year, between November and Christmas, as asleep
-after work done, but as stagnant, and brooding in despair
-over a wasted life and lost opportunities, and hopes withered
-and gone by. Why does this aspect arise most naturally<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272">272</a></span>
-to our mind? for no such thought would trouble that of a
-contemplating angel.</p>
-
-<p>Well, the truth is, that <em>we</em> look through coloured glass,
-tinting with a hue of sadness to the mind’s eye things not
-really sad. We see the leaves circle down, and straightway
-are reminded <span class="locked">that&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“We all do fade as a leaf.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">We see the mists gather and the rain descend, and no one
-but can recall heavy mists of sorrow that rose over the heart’s
-landscape, and glooming clouds that burst in bitter tears.
-And the wind gets its wail as it passes through our heart,
-and not from the bare boughs of the watered resting trees.
-And we choose to represent the year as thoughtlessly glad
-and wastefully profuse in its lost seasons, and as <em>now</em> broken-hearted
-and despairing; because this is so common a case, if
-not in our own experience, yet in the history of so very
-many about us. We cannot but think how this idle business
-and succeeding gloom is indeed to be found too often, too
-often, in the year of man’s life. Flowers, when he is young;
-flowers, in life’s prime; flowers, in its Autumn; and what will
-ye do in the end thereof? What, when the fogs and the
-frosts have come, and the evil days are close at hand, and the
-years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in
-them? Where is the secure store, the treasure laid up in
-the safe garner, to cheer the heart when the sap has gone
-down for this year, and the fields are blank, and growth is
-stayed?</p>
-
-<p>How foolish, we can see and should readily acknowledge;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273">273</a></span>
-how unpardonably shortsighted it would be of the Year to
-postpone its work of preparing, maturing, ripening its fruits
-until the dark, short, chill days towards its end. “It is the
-sweet pleasure time, this Spring; wait for Summer, I will then
-begin. Summer, with its thick leaves and hazy blue&mdash;who
-would begin at such a time as this to work? Autumn&mdash;let me
-enjoy the cool bracing air after Summer’s heat; soon, really, a
-start shall be made.” And so November&mdash;and all the year’s
-harvest, and all the year’s fruits to be begun, grown, matured,
-all the year’s work crowded into the last thin group of
-dwindling days. Desolate, indeed, would the year be then,
-and a wild wail of “Too late!” would sweep with a shiver
-over the dreary land; no sunshine now, no time, no opportunity,
-no inclination, no power. The sap would be sluggish,
-the impulse of growth gone by; and at last a stolid, hard frost
-of indifference and fixed sterility close the sad story of the
-year.</p>
-
-<p>Well, this may be fanciful&mdash;yet, brothers and sisters mine,
-that which is fanciful in the year of Nature, which always
-does God’s work faithfully, even while it enjoys His glad
-sun and refreshing rain, and smiles up to Him in flowers&mdash;that
-which is fanciful applied to the life of the Year, is
-gravely, heart-touchingly true of many and many a life of
-Man. Nature,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">She renders for each scattered seed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And to her Lord with duteous heed<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Gives large increase:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thus year by year she works unfee’d,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">And will not cease.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274">274</a></span></p>
-<p class="in0">But, many among us, how do <em>we</em> look at this life, this brief life
-which God has given to each&mdash;a life which has so many close
-analogies with Nature’s year? For what is our short year
-given us? To trifle away? or to use in God’s service in
-preparing fruit for eternity&mdash;wheat that shall be gathered into
-God’s barn? The latter, you will own; and happy, if not
-your lips only, but your life gives this answer, too!</p>
-
-<p>But how many, owning the truth of this grave view of life
-with their words, deny it with their deeds! Yet a little longer&mdash;there
-is time enough. It is now the time for enjoyment&mdash;the
-time for work will come. Vain to answer,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“But if indeed with reckless faith,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">We trust the flattering voice,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which whispers, ‘Take thy fill ere death,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Indulge thee, and rejoice,’<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Too surely, every setting day,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Some lost delight we mourn,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The flowers all die along our way,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Till we, too, die forlorn”;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and there is, then, indeed, an unredeemed bareness and desolation
-without the glow of memory or hope, in life’s ending days.
-Vain to urge this: even if the words call up a grave look for
-a while, the thought is soon shelved till “a convenient season.”
-And the life, if not the lips, of many proclaims&mdash;Let the world
-have my Spring, Summer, Autumn; and after that no doubt
-a good crop of holiness and heavenly-mindedness will yet be
-found in the thin last sere days of Life’s year. Let the world
-have the best of the year; we will spare its fragments and
-leavings for God. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275">275</a></span>
-and Spring goes, and Summer passes, and Autumn dwindles,
-and the foolish heart begins to discover that it is too late then.
-For its life is chilled, its sap gone down, its fertility exhausted.
-It is not the time for blossoms now, or fruit; habits are fixed,
-and effort is paralysed; often ugly fungi have sprung from
-the ruins of comparatively innocent thoughtless delights.
-And this was not foreseen, nor will men believe it, although
-you sadly warn them of it. We read it from the Bible, we
-cry it from the <span class="locked">pulpit&mdash;</span></p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“They that seek Me early shall find Me.”<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">While the evil days come not,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor the years draw nigh,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.”<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">But young and old listen, and then go home to their Sunday
-dinner; and other talk, and other interests, and other
-thoughts, dry up the water that had stood in a little pool
-upon the heart, but had not sunk in. God’s Spirit could
-have drawn it in, but His help was not heartily asked, even if
-asked at all.</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Ah yes, is it not true, as one writes, that “men are ever
-beguiling themselves with the dream that they shall one
-day be what they are not now; they balance their present
-consciousness of a low worldly life, and of a mind heavy
-and dull to spiritual things, with the lazy thought that
-some day God will bring home to them in power the realities<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276">276</a></span>
-of faith in Christ. Who is there that has not at some time
-secretly indulged this soothing flattery, that the staid gravity
-of age, when youth is quelled, or the leisure of retirement,
-when the fret of busy life is over, or, it may be, the
-inevitable pains and griefs which are man’s inheritance, shall
-break up in his heart the now-sealed fountains of repentance,
-and make, at last, his religion a reality? So men dream away
-their lives in pleasures, sloth, trade, or study. Who has not
-allayed the uneasy consciousness of a meagre religion, with
-the hope of a future change? Who has not been thus mocked
-by the enemy of man? Who has not listened, all too readily,
-to him who would cheat us of the hour that is, and of all
-the spiritual earnings which faith makes day by day in God’s
-service, stealing from us the present hour, and leaving us
-a lie in exchange? And yet, this present hour is all we
-have. To-morrow must be to-day before we can use it; and
-day after day we squander in the hope of a to-morrow; but
-to-morrow shall be stolen away too, as to-day and yesterday.
-God’s kingdom was very nigh to him who trembled at the
-judgment to come. Felix trembled once; we nowhere read
-that he trembled again.”</p>
-
-<p>Habits are stronger when we are weaker. People forget
-this, and imagine that they can cast off fetters that have
-grown from silken to iron, and that with force that has
-dwindled from vigour to impotence. That they can lie fallow
-all the growing time of life, and cram clearing, ploughing,
-sowing, growth, harvest, all into the dark, few, shortening
-days of life’s decay. “A convenient season!” Ah! does
-this mean, then, <em>the end of the seasons</em>&mdash;the meagre leavings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277">277</a></span>
-of life’s year? Is this the season convenient for God’s work&mdash;for
-the great purpose of our being? Is spiritual life likely
-to be then first lifting up its head, when all life is fading
-away?</p>
-
-<p>“Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” This
-is a command exquisitely applicable to the gleanings of an
-old age, whose harvest has been given to God:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“They shall still bring forth fruit in old age”;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">&mdash;not like the old age of the year&mdash;for the fruit of this, at
-the best, is hips and haws, and holly-berries.</p>
-
-<p>But can the command ever apply to a life of which the
-world, and the flesh, and the devil have had the harvest?
-Will God accept the mere gleanings?</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i4">“Autumn departs&mdash;from busy fields no more<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer;<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o’er,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">No more the distant reaper’s mirth we hear.<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">The last blithe shout hath died upon the ear,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain:<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">On the waste hill no forms of life appear,<br /></span>
-<span class="i4">Save where, sad laggard of the Autumnal train,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Thus, when the world’s shouts and glee have passed by him,
-may we sometimes see the sad late seeker of God occupied.
-Sometimes, not often; for be it well laid to heart that God’s
-enemies seldom leave any gleanings on their fields, but are
-busy with careful rake to collect even life’s last days. Not
-often; for settled habits are hardest to overcome; and when
-the character and tastes are formed, there will seldom remain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278">278</a></span>
-even the hearty wish to alter. Not often, then, but <em>sometimes</em>,
-in later life the worldling, or the devil’s labourer, turns back
-with wrung hands and tears&mdash;smitten and pricked to the heart
-by some sharp voice from God&mdash;and wanders over the bare,
-desolate fields in life’s chill and fog, and shakes the dreary
-boughs;&mdash;if perhaps there may be a little handful of corn,
-or an overlooked grape, or any fruit, that yet may be
-tremblingly offered to the Master of the Harvest, when He
-comes to take account with His labourers.</p>
-
-<p>And now the question is, Is this late labour, labour in
-vain?</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Will God indeed with fragments bear,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Snatched late from the decaying year?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or can the Saviour’s blood endear<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The dregs of a polluted life?”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>He will: it can. If the heart be <em>truly</em> turned to Him at
-last, it will not be turned to Him in vain. Many of my
-readers will recall a beautiful allegory of servants trading
-for their lord, and how one, late caused to tremble and to
-turn, brought at the reckoning-day salt tears and rough
-sackcloth, that changed as he bore them into rich stuff and
-jewels. Aye, a broken and a contrite heart, if real, at <em>no</em>
-time in life will He despise. Better give the harvest than
-only the gleanings, but better these than nothing.</p>
-
-<p>It is a base truth that men often only desert the world when
-the world deserts them. But, I have seen it observed, there is
-something very touching in the fact that men thus find that
-they must turn to God at last, after all, without Him, has
-disappointed, and that if they truly turn, so gracious is He,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279">279</a></span>
-that He will deign to accept the world’s leavings. The story
-of the lost sheep, of the piece of money, but chiefly of the
-prodigal son, assure us of the truth of this. When he had
-spent all, it was,&mdash;all his rich patrimony of young powers,
-feelings, hopes, and after he had even gone after swine’s husks,&mdash;after
-he had spent <em>all</em>, the Father accepted the empty casket!
-When the seed-time, and the ripening-time, and the harvest-time
-had passed, the bare November fields and stripped boughs
-were accepted, because over them had gathered the mournful
-mist of true repentance, and because they were thickly strung
-with abundance of sorrowful tears!</p>
-
-<p>Oh, wonderful love, not of earth, but divine!&mdash;God deigns
-to prize what earth has thrown away! Therefore let those
-who seem even settled on their lees, fixed in the ways of the
-world or of sin, let them tremble exceedingly, but let them not
-despair. If they <em>will</em>, they yet <em>may</em>. Let them cry to the
-Helper, let them retrace the path with tears, gleaning as they
-go a scattered rare grain here and there,&mdash;redeeming the time,
-although the evil days have come. There is One for whose
-perfect merits the harvest of the saint and the handful of the
-sinner shall alike find acceptance; and though ’tis best to “sin
-not,” nevertheless, “if any man sin, we have an advocate
-with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.”</p>
-
-<p>Let none presume, however; for the gleaning commonly goes
-the same way that the harvest has gone. And it were base
-indeed, designedly, to set apart only life’s leavings for God’s
-share. Oh, rather let those who can give life’s whole broad
-year to God!</p>
-
-<p>Too late, too late! This, if the year had postponed its work,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280">280</a></span>
-must be the sad burden of the winds’ wailing over its desolate
-and weed-strewn fields. But it is a thought to humble the
-heart, and bring tears of shame and gratitude into the eyes,
-that no human life with which God’s Spirit is still striving
-need take that bitter wail for its own. Too late to love God?
-Nay, be assured that, if it <em>be</em> love, it shall be as tenderly, gladly
-welcomed as the dawn of the lonely white Christmas rose
-on the bare Winter beds.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i6">“For love too late can never glow;<br /></span>
-<span class="i6">The scattered fragments love can glean,<br /></span>
-<span class="i6">Refine the dregs, and yield us clean<br /></span>
-<span class="i6">To regions where one thought serene<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35.0625em;">
-  <img src="images/i_296.jpg" width="561" height="244" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281">281</a></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285">285</a></span></p>
-<div class="chapter">
-<h2><a id="UNDER_BARE_BOUGHS"></a>UNDER BARE BOUGHS.</h2>
-</div>
-
-<div class="figcenter epubonly" style="max-width: 21.8125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_299-0.jpg" width="349" height="424" alt="" /></div>
-
-<div class="figleft" style="width: 100%;"><img src="images/i_299-1.jpg" width="349" height="149" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 14.875em;"><img src="images/i_299-2.jpg" width="238" height="63" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 13.0625em;"><img src="images/i_299-3.jpg" width="209" height="76" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 10.1875em;"><img src="images/i_299-4.jpg" width="163" height="44" alt="" /></div>
-<div class="figleft" style="max-width: 9em;"><img src="images/i_299-5.jpg" width="144" height="92" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">December</span> is here&mdash;one of those mild
-cheery days, however, when you
-can hardly realise that the boughs
-are indeed bare, and the beds
-flowerless, and the Spring birds
-far away;&mdash;one of those days
-which tempt you out into the garden, to
-saunter and loiter there, and look at the
-patches that will be snowdrops soon, and
-to think longingly of leaves where you
-had before naturally and as of course
-acquiesced in the canopy of bare boughs;&mdash;a day on which
-you&mdash;at least <em>I</em>&mdash;do not care to go beyond the garden. To
-me it seems a peaceful, and far from gloomy, churchyard.
-Like a spire that tall, ancient, ivy-clothed spruce-fir stands
-out of the shrubbery; here, near it, the gay laburnum tresses
-lie buried; here the pink apple-blossom crumbled into dust;
-each round bed along the lawn is sacred to the memory of
-some choice rose; the violets sleep under that high wall&mdash;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286">286</a></span>the
-lilies, tall, white, stately, but dead and gone&mdash;claim
-remembrance from each side of the walk; the geraniums,
-verbenas, heliotropes, petunias, have their cemetery in those
-dark beds on the smooth sward, and each flower has some
-spot specially or generally consecrated to it.</p>
-
-<p>The memory of my old friends and companions has a
-tender charm for me, and I look at the stripped rose-twigs,
-and at the brown mould where the flowers were, with a faint
-halo of that feeling which is keen at the heart, when we
-pace among the mounds that hide the dust of friends. There
-is promise everywhere, I know, and the naked twigs are
-strung with germs of future leaves, and there are next year’s
-flowers sleeping at the heart of the rose. But I rather cling
-to any relic of the past, than care just now to look forward;
-and I hail this lingering arrested bud with the buff-yellow
-petals, or this half-shattered pure white blossom, as belonging
-to the sweet array of the dead flowers. True, I accept this
-cluster of the winter-cherry, leaning forward on to the path,
-an orange globe in a golden network; and the unfolding
-buds of the Christmas rose,&mdash;as being a link between the past
-and the future. But my thoughts slant backwards now, as
-I look upon the setting sun of the year; nor am I, in this
-mood, regarding it from the point that it will rise again all
-fresh and new to-morrow. No, I am not now concerned
-with the lovely wealth of leaves and flowers, the new year’s
-dower,&mdash;so soon all spent,&mdash;so soon all spent;&mdash;I am now
-of a mind to muse under the</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287">287</a></span>
-Let me sit down under this network of sycamore and
-chesnut boughs, while the faint patches of pale sunlight
-move about me on the rank and drenched, yet ungrowing
-grass; let me sit down under the bare boughs, while the
-brown, wet, marred leaves huddle by the side of the garden
-seat, and under the barred plank that serves as my footstool.
-I dare say my old and unfailing friend will soon come and
-perch near me, his lover, and match the sad cheery gleams
-of sunlight with sad cheery gleams of song. Bird of the
-mild dark loving eye, and quick quiet motion, and olive
-plumage, and warm sienna-red breast; bird of the soft
-song,&mdash;passion subdued now to tenderness, hope that has
-sunk to patience, eagerness that is merged in tranquillity,&mdash;faithful
-bird, whose every tone and motion, familiar and
-loved, seems to fit the Winter heart as well as the Spring
-fancy,&mdash;those fervent, passionate songsters of the Spring,
-that now are flown, they never drowned to my ear thy quiet
-song of peace; no, not even in the days when the nightingale’s
-thrilling utterance made the world as it were full of
-the unsubstantial beauty of a dream. And so now I feel
-a sort of right to the calm and comfort of thy tranquil,
-unfailing utterance, when the evanescent dream has passed
-away, and the disenchanted world stands naked. Thus, while
-you are young, O my friends, and all the boughs are clothed,
-and all the birds are singing, and your heart makes answer
-to the loveliness and the music,&mdash;do not disdain, then, to
-listen to and to heed that quieter voice which tells, in an
-undertone, very beautiful, if attended to, of the love of God.
-Your heart, if you knew it, cannot really afford to dispense<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288">288</a></span>
-with it when all the woods are loud, “and all the trees are
-green.” And if you <em>did</em> hear and heed and love it then,
-ah, how exquisite, how refreshing, how more than cheering
-the faithful notes appear, as you sit meditating under a pale
-winter sky, and looking at silent, leafless boughs,&mdash;and the
-songster draws nearer to you then, finding you alone!</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>Well, let me, I say, sit me down on this garden seat,
-under these “bare ruined choirs,” and hail the one little
-chorister, whose quiet, modest song ever seems to me to
-compensate for the absence of all the rest. The dewdrops
-twinkle about me in the drenched grass, groups of brown
-toadstools cluster here and there, and wax-white fungi
-straggle away in a broken line; there is a scarlet gleam of
-hips in the rose-bushes under the shrubbery, and of mountain-ash
-higher above them. It is Winter, but nature has not
-forgotten to stick some sprays of Christmas about her bare
-pillars, and to twist them in devices about her arches, that
-run up around me into this groined roof above.</p>
-
-<p>The first thing that we all should muse about, under the
-bare boughs, would be, I suppose, the leaves that once clad
-them. Ay, even if, under the full shading foliage, we never
-thought to give them an upward glance of gratitude, love,
-and admiration. But they are gone, and what was taken as
-a matter of course is valued, now that it is missed. There
-is repining as to the desolation of Winter, and this from
-those who did not consciously enjoy the Summer.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33.375em;">
-  <img src="images/i_304.jpg" width="534" height="386" alt="" /></div>
-
-<p>I cannot reproach myself on this score. I have loved and
-learnt by heart every shape and development, from the first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289">289</a></span>
-vivid light of green to the sombre sameness of hue, and
-then the rich variety that dispersed this;&mdash;all this growth,
-and attainment, and decay have I heedfully and affectionately
-noted, during the space which separated last year’s bare
-boughs from these.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Yes, I saw that,&mdash;and I watched the juicy foliage deepen,
-and the thin maize-coloured strips of flower chequer the
-darkening full mass, and change the picture into</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The lime, a summer home of murmurous wings.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Then those curved chesnut boughs near the grass&mdash;I detected
-the first fresh crumpled gleam, bursting from the brown
-sticky buds, until all over the tree, as in an illumination,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The budding twigs spread out their fan<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">To catch the breezy air.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">And so I watched them into milky spires, and swarthy green
-globes, that grew brown, and fell, and burst threefold, lying
-among the heaped leaves, such a picture, with the white
-lining and bright nut!</p>
-
-<p>The beech, changing from soft silky fledging of its boughs
-into hardier green foliage, and afterwards becoming a very
-mint, each branch</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“All overlaid with patines of bright gold”;<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and so subsiding into a sparer dress of sienna brown.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290">290</a></span></p>
-<p class="in0">The brave oaks, soon passing out of their Chaucerian attire,</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Some very red, and some a glad light green,”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">and now all gnarled and knotted, and only clutching still
-a wisp of pale dull dry leaves here and there:&mdash;all these,
-be sure, have had their meed of attention and of regard from
-me. And so I sit under the bare boughs with no remorseful
-if with some regretful feelings. But still, I say, who can
-look up at the stripped branches in the Winter without
-sometimes giving fancy and memory leave to clothe them
-again with the fair frail dreams and hopes and enjoyments<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291">291</a></span>
-that, though they were evanescent, yet were beautiful, and
-that, though passing away with the Summer of Time, yet no
-doubt have influenced the Eternal growth of the Tree. Yes,
-sometimes it will be graceful, and at least not harmful, to
-let memory wander back into the days of childhood and of
-youth, and bid the frail and inexperienced foliage cover the
-branches again with that rich but short-lived beauty:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And phantom hopes assemble;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And that child’s heart within the man’s<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Begins to move and tremble.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="in0">Aye, there they are again, for a moment, shimmering in the
-sunlight and in the shade, “clapping their little hands in
-glee.” But we start, and they are gone. And, instead,
-how clearly we may see the blue Sky through the stripped
-boughs!</p>
-
-<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
-
-<p>I remember, some time ago, sitting under some sycamore
-trees, near the sea-side. Of course those trees are all bare
-now, but the leaves were then at the fall. It was just at
-that time of the year when all the sweeping in the world
-will not keep the lawn tidy, and every gust littered it with
-the crisp, curled leaves. Amid this surely advancing decay
-there was, however, a pathetic effort towards renovation and
-new life. The year could hardly yet quietly acquiesce in
-the truth that its once exuberant power of growth was over,
-and that it must give in to stagnation increasing to decay.
-The like of this we may trace in the human year: in the
-faded Beauty; in the worn-out Author and Wit; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292">292</a></span>
-there is always a sadness about the sight. Under the
-nearly black leaves some very yellow-green ones were
-clustering upon the lower shoots; a late frond or two bent
-timidly amid the burnt and battered growth of the fernery;
-autumn crocuses came like ghosts upon the rich moist
-beds, but fell prone with an overmastering weakness; one
-gleam of laburnum drooped, and two white clusters of pear-blossom
-tried to ignore the heavy mellowing fruit; and some
-frail crumpled bramble-bloom appeared among the blackberries;
-tenderest and most touching, but wildest and most
-abortive endeavour, a primrose, too pale even for that pale
-flower, started up here and there out of the long draggled,
-ragged leaves. I know that many days ago winter must
-have frightened away all this frail gathering, the more easily
-and suddenly, because of their weakness and timidity. But
-I took pleasure in watching and moralising upon the impotent
-yet graceful struggle. And then, I recall, I sat down under
-the trees, much as I do now, and in much such a day. The
-flickering spots of faint sunlight moved slowly on the sward:
-the day was calm, after a wild windy Summer. It was cool
-for Autumn as this is warm for Winter, and so the two
-days were near akin, except for this one difference, that the
-leaves were mostly still upon the trees. They had begun in
-good earnest to fall, but they were still left in considerable
-numbers upon the boughs. And I fell, after some unconscious
-watching these leaves, into a fit of musing upon them. There
-was a peculiarity about them all which caught my attention.
-Let me set down, under these bare boughs, some of my
-thoughts at that time. It can be done the less unkindly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293">293</a></span>
-now that that generation of leaves has all, some weeks ago,
-fluttered away.</p>
-
-<p>The peculiarity was this. The trees being within the scope
-of many contending and fierce and unremitting winds, there
-was not upon any twig, that I could see, one single <em>perfect</em>
-leaf. Perhaps a young one, just born, and to die almost as
-soon as born, might keep somewhat of its intended shape.
-But those that had endured the fierce winds and the heat
-and the rain and the blights,&mdash;ah, how shattered and scarred
-and stained they were! Some marred out of any trace of
-the intention of their birth; rent and beaten into a sorry
-strip, hardly to be called a leaf at all. But even the best
-were defaced and disfigured, spotted and imperfect.</p>
-
-<p>Now sentiment about these leaves would, obviously, be
-extremely ill-placed. But my thought traced in these battered
-masses of the sycamore a picture of this life of ours,
-until the trees almost became a mirror, in which I, with the
-myriad race of much-enduring men, seemed to be exactly
-reflected. <em>Not one</em> perfect leaf; many <em>so</em> shattered and stained
-and marred. So beaten out of that pattern to which God
-had designed them. Some with hardly the very least trace
-of that Image in which mankind was at first moulded. Most
-with little to remind us of it. But, saddest of all, it seemed
-to me, there was not one, not even the best, which would
-bear close inspection. Not one but, even if the shape were
-somewhat preserved, had yet some ugly scar or hole or crack;
-not one perfect, no, not one!</p>
-
-<p>And so it is, that we are in truth fain to accept for our
-idea of a good man here, merely that one who is least defaced<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294">294</a></span>
-and disfigured. The wise among men, what is he, but only
-one not quite so foolish as most others. The kind, only one
-that is less often cruel. The dutiful, and obedient, only one
-that is at least and at best inadequately trying among the
-gross that are utterly careless, to fear God, and to regard
-man. How negative most of our goodness is, and the qualities
-whose possession inspires our fellow-men with admiration!
-A good son, a good husband&mdash;this surely only means one
-who is not bad, undutiful, unjust, unkind. And yet who
-could lay claim to either title, nor exhibit some, yea many,
-flaws and spots? And for positive goodness&mdash;ah, well, if it
-were not for the utterly marred and ragged growth with
-which we are surrounded, there would be little fear, surely
-of any, such as are we, laying claim to the possession of that
-here. <em>Great and good men?</em>&mdash;Rent and shattered, rent and
-shattered; and if in comparison with the shreds about us,
-we trace in ourselves some hint of the original shape, how
-often we must then think, “I was more in shelter, lower
-down on the tree,” and how little inclined shall we be,
-contemplating sadly our own stains and clefts, to think
-superciliously and pharisaically of those mere strips that,
-growing on the higher boughs, seemed the prey of every rough
-wind that blew.</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="iq">“Safe home, safe home in port!&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rent cordage, shattered deck,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Torn sails, provisions short,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And <em>only not a wreck</em>.”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>This seems the most that the best can say. And that this
-is so, appears to me sad. God’s hand is not shortened, that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295">295</a></span>
-it cannot save; and I puzzle about this long and universal
-history of successes which are but half-failures. Inveterate
-as is the evil of our nature, vast as has been its fall, yet,
-I ask myself, is there any limit to the stores of God’s grace?
-And, with such an armoury, ought the fight to be so sorry,
-only just not a defeat? I know we cannot attain; I know
-that perfection must fly before us, and ever elude our grasp,
-in this state. I know, by a guess, that the nearer we seem
-to it, in the view of others, surely the farther we shall, in
-our own view, appear to be behind it, the more vainly striving
-after it. And I know, nevertheless, that the soul hungry and
-thirsty for righteousness shall have even here some daily
-bread, to satisfy just the most restless gnawing of its desire,
-and that hereafter it shall fully feast, and be satisfied, at the
-Marriage Supper of the Lamb.</p>
-
-<p>But what distresses me is this: that even truly good
-men are often, if not always, so disappointing. You were
-awakened to the loveliness of Christianity, and yearning
-for sympathy and advice; you sought one of those ideals
-which seemed, to hope and fancy, sure to be embodiments
-of it&mdash;and how often a chilling want of gentleness, or
-patience, or tenderness, closed up the heart’s opening blossom!
-Or carrying some opportunity for serving Christ in the
-person of a poor member of His Body, to one who, you felt
-sure, would, at least, meet you with kindliness, if unfortunately
-other calls precluded aid: how often a cold
-manner or a chilling snub disappoints and damps you!
-There is frequently too much bloodless, abstract faith, where
-you expected warm human interest; and wounded and hurt<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296">296</a></span>
-and baffled, you betake yourself to the only perfect sympathy,
-that of God. There is hardness, where you had taken for
-granted Christ’s tenderness would be found; there is bitterness,
-where you had counted upon Christ’s badge of love
-(St. John xiii. 35); there is pride, even, where you had
-never dreamed of finding anything but absolute humility.
-There is anxiety about worldly matters, where you had
-pictured a perfect, restful trust in God; carefulness and
-trouble about many things, where you had looked forward
-to seeing at last the calm sitting at the Saviour’s feet.
-There is irritability, and fussiness at trifles, where you had
-dreamed that things of eternal moment would alone have
-greatly moved: there is, upon the whole, disappointment,
-where you had looked for the realisation of that Ideal
-which you possess, and after which you did not wonder to
-find your own weak self vainly toiling. The winds and the
-blights seem too much for poor human nature, that will not
-draw, as it might, upon Divine grace; and upon every
-branch that we examine, there is not a leaf that is not sadly
-marred and imperfect; no, not one.</p>
-
-<p>I know this must be, in a measure, in this wingless, fallen
-state. I know that in the sight of God and of angels, yea, of
-our own selves, if we have at all really learned what goodness
-is, the best of us are but weak buffeters of those waters of evil
-in which many around us are drowning. Still, without taking
-an Angel’s point of view, might not our light, at least before
-men, shine a little more brightly and consistently, and not be
-made up of mere alternations of spasmodic flares and dimness
-or darkness? Must there be so many spots of inconsistency, so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297">297</a></span>
-many rents of surely elementary and avoidable unloveliness;
-so many high places not taken away, even though God be
-served somewhat in His Temple; such marring flies making
-even genuine and precious ointment to stink?</p>
-
-<p>Oh, I often think that in this world and in this day, there
-lies a great opportunity unclaimed! When we see the powerful
-influence which even a broken and unequal attempt at service,
-at fulfilling the mere elements of our duty to God and to man,
-exerts upon a world where it is the rare exception even to
-<em>attempt</em> earnestly, then I think, what might not a perseverance
-beyond the first steps (and God’s grace knows no
-stint), what might not a steady advance towards perfection
-work in this sceptical, critical, anxious, weary world? This
-world narrowly watches for flaws, and, finding them,
-strengthens itself in its carelessness and godlessness. But
-if compelled to acknowledge a reality, a fulfilment of those
-theories which it has come to consider as scarcely meant,
-quite impossible, to be reduced to practice; if forced to
-acknowledge a sterling goodness, human and yet Divine,
-which stands the searching tests by which men try profession;
-it will then fall vanquished before it, and, in many things,
-surrender itself to the influence of a goodness alike strict,
-gracious, and glad. If the good man set sentinels at all sides
-of his life, and not only at one or two chosen posts; if he were
-ever trimming his lamp, seeking and pouring in more oil; not
-letting any slovenly black fungus grow on the wick, and dim
-part of the flame&mdash;how much might a few such bright and
-steady lights do in reproving the darkness, and bringing out
-sister gleams! How might we, thus rebuked, instead of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298">298</a></span>
-resting proud of our sickly glimmer, set to work in good
-earnest, with watchfulness and prayer, to mend our flame, until
-the noble rays of the lighthouse, and the clustering lesser
-lights beneath, might lure some that were driven and tossed
-homelessly upon the treacherous, troubled seas. Now the
-lights often go out when they are wanted, and the beacon
-is dark just when a despairing look was cast towards it; and
-so the dreary, hopeless course is renewed.</p>
-
-<p>A perfect man must be kind and wise, patient and loving,&mdash;not
-one whose life shall make the worldling sore and resentful,
-but shall rather make him sad and longing,&mdash;not one who
-boasts to be a “man of prayer,” but forgets to be a man of
-love,&mdash;not one who makes Faith the cuckoo nestling that
-edges out Charity,&mdash;not one too much absorbed in devotion,
-and even divine and religious contemplation, to enter into
-the difficulties, and wants, and cries, and doubts, and struggles
-of those beneath the mountain which he is ascending. He must
-be one of a universal kindliness,&mdash;of an always ready sympathy
-for any feeling which he perceives to be real, howsoever it
-find no echo in his own heart; one ever just, generous,
-forbearing, forgiving; ever ready to stop and to descend to
-raise the fallen; firm and fixed in principle, but tender and
-gentle in heart; speaking the truth, but speaking it still in
-love; severity against sin never swamping yearning for the
-sinner; never base or mean in things large or little; always
-ready to suppose the best of others; never vaunting, never
-puffed up; not easily provoked; thinking no evil; rejoicing
-with the joyful, weeping with the sad; hard only upon
-himself; bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299">299</a></span>
-things, enduring all things. Never giving others to understand
-that he has already attained, or is already perfect; not
-counting himself to have apprehended, but <em>pressing toward
-the mark</em>. Alas! it is true that men are mostly content with
-a very low standard, and if they seem to themselves and
-others to have attained that, easily rest there;&mdash;and the great
-opportunity passes away ungrasped.</p>
-
-<p>Torn leaves, tattered leaves, at best marred and imperfect,
-not one approaching perfection, not one without a flaw. Ah,
-yes, one,&mdash;and one only. How glorious the thought that
-in Christ, born into the world, and taking our nature upon
-Him,&mdash;in Christ, the Seed of the woman,&mdash;this our poor
-human nature, tattered, torn, and defaced, is exalted into
-absolute and eternal Perfection. All the fiercest storms and
-blights and heats attacked our nature in Him, but attacked
-it in vain. The most minute and scrutinising examination
-can here detect no least speck, or swerving from the ideal of
-symmetry. In Him we see what we long, vainly it seems, to
-be. In Him we see that towards which He would exalt us, if
-we will be exalted,&mdash;that which we may in a sense attain, if we
-will be perfected. And so at last we turn from sad contemplation
-of innumerable greater or less failures, and dwell restfully
-and hopefully upon the only and all-sufficient perfect One. To
-be like Him when He shall appear, oh, glorious hope that He
-has given us! to awake thus in the Spring of the Next Year,
-and this in a Land where there are no blights, nor colds, nor
-heats, to mar that shape. But let us remember, that having
-this hope, we should even now be purifying ourselves, even as
-He is pure.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300">300</a></span>
-But here a burst of little ones comes into the garden,
-anxious for my leave and help to cut boughs of the holly
-and the box to clothe the rooms for Christmas, and to divert
-thoughts of the bare boughs that stand without. And it
-is well that my musings should thus be interrupted, and
-should thus end. Among the bare branches of the saddest
-thought there may still be found warm-berried evergreens,
-planted by God’s love here and there. And all that tells here
-of Death and Winter, tells of that which is temporary and
-evanescent, now that the LIFE has come into the world.
-Even the cold stripped trees and the buried flowers,&mdash;there
-is hope in their death,&mdash;and how much are we better than
-they!</p>
-
-<p>And thus the Poet whom I quoted above goes on to thought
-of that Spring from the contemplation of the rending winds
-and stripping Winter here:</p>
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“Safe home, safe home in port!&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Rent cordage, shattered deck,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Torn sails, provisions short,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And only not a wreck.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>But, oh, the joy upon the shore,</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>To tell our voyage perils o’er!</em><br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i2">“The prize, the prize secure!<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">The athlete nearly fell,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">Bare all he could endure,<br /></span>
-<span class="i2">And bare not always well;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>But he may smile at troubles gone,</em><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><em>Who sets the victor garland on.</em>”<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Well, I must muse no longer, I see, but give up myself to
-the will of the children. Come along, then, and let us make<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301">301</a></span>
-all bright and cheery at this joyous season. Tall sprays of
-thick-berried holly; golden winter cherries, laurel, and yew,
-and box; ay, and if you will, Cyril shall climb the old mossy
-gnarled apple-tree, and bring down a branching bunch of that
-pale-green, Druid-loved parasite, with its berries like opal
-beads. In this happy time the children may well claim to
-have their “time to laugh,” and to rejoice; and the elders
-may look on or join with kindly geniality. Yea, we may say,
-“It is <em>meet</em> that we should make merry and be glad;&mdash;for this
-our earth was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is
-found.”</p>
-
-<p>Laugh and be happy, therefore, at the Christmas time.
-Only in enjoying the holiday, let not its etymology and true
-meaning be altogether lost sight of. And remember that it is
-only the thought of the Spring of Eternity that can take away
-the sadness from the contemplation of Time’s bare boughs.</p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28.3125em;">
-  <img src="images/i_315.jpg" width="453" height="297" alt="" /></div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p class="newpage p2 center small vspace">
-LONDON:<br />
-ROBERT K. BURT, PRINTER,<br />
-WINE OFFICE COURT, FLEET STREET.
-</p>
-
-<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote">
-<h2 class="nobreak p1"><a id="Transcribers_Notes"></a>Transcriber’s Notes</h2>
-
-<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
-preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.</p>
-
-<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
-quotation marks retained.</p>
-
-<p>Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.</p>
-
-<p>Text uses both “chesnut” and “chestnut”; both retained here.</p>
-
-<p>Some illustrations intertwined with the text.  That
-appearance has been followed in versions of this eBook
-capable of such visual presentations; in other versions,
-the illustrations precede the text.  However,
-when the illustration included the first letter of the first
-word of a chapter, that letter has been repeated here as part
-of the text.</p>
-</div></div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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