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diff --git a/old/54261-0.txt b/old/54261-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 97d42bb..0000000 --- a/old/54261-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7089 +0,0 @@ -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. 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