Ji.^ 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 ^^ ;^ /^::S^i!r*.*^r:^^-^ c^CCri^
 
 THE CHILDREX IN THE CAVE. 
 Black Ship* pbontispzeci. 
 
 p. 7.
 
 THE 
 
 BLACK SHIP: 
 
 ©tbcr 9lIlErforirs anti ^arablrs. 
 
 bv tue autiiok of 
 
 'the voice of christian life in sdnq, 
 "the three ■wakings," etc. 
 
 XEJF YORK: 
 
 Gen. Prot. Episc. S. S. Union and 
 
 Church Book Society, 
 
 762 broadway, 
 
 1862.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 the black ship, 
 
 the ruined temple, 
 
 the jewel of the order of the 
 king's own, 
 
 the cathedral chimes, . 
 
 what makes things musical? 
 
 the acorn, , . . = 
 
 parables in household things, 
 
 PACK 
 I 
 
 47 
 
 69 
 
 lOI 
 
 137 
 153 
 
 PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A FERN, 169 
 
 62S6ri6
 
 IV 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PARABLES — 
 
 THE CLOCK-BELL AND THE ALARM- 
 BELL, . . . . . .187 
 
 THORNS AND SPINES, . . • IQS 
 
 SUNSHINE, DAYLIGHT, AND THE 
 
 ROCK, 203 
 
 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS, . . 20/ 
 
 THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS, . 215 
 
 THE THREE DREAMS, . . .221 
 
 THOU AND I, . . . . 229
 
 elje Blacfe ^Ijip.
 
 m}t Black ^!jip. 
 
 [HEY lived at the foot of the 
 Pine Mountains, in the island 
 of the King's Garden, the 
 mother, with her little son and daughter. 
 The boy's name was Hope, and the 
 little girl's, May. The ehildren loved 
 each other dearly, and were never sepa- 
 rated. They never had any quarrels, be- 
 cause Hope was the leader in all their 
 expeditions and plays ; and May firmly 
 believed that everything which Hope 
 planned and did, was better planned and 
 better done than it would have been by
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 any one else in the world, by which May 
 meant the island. Hope, on his side, 
 had always a tender consideration for 
 little May in his schemes, such as kings 
 should have for their subjects. May 
 would never have dreamed of originat- 
 ing any scheme herself, or of question- 
 ing any which Hope planned. Tf you 
 had taken away May from Hope, you 
 would have taken away his kingdom, 
 his armv, his right hand; if you had 
 taken away Hope from May, you would 
 have robbed her of her leader, her king, 
 her head, her sun. Bereaved of May, 
 I think Hope would have been driven 
 from his desolate home into the wide 
 world; bereaved of Hope, I am sure May 
 would never have left her home, but sat 
 silent there until she pined away. But
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 together, life was one holiday to them ; 
 work was a keener kind of play, and 
 every day was too narrow for the happy 
 occupations of which each hour was 
 brimful. Their cottage was at the foot 
 of the mountains, on the sea-shore. 
 Indeed, every house and cottage in the 
 island stood on the sea-shore, because 
 the island was so long and narrow, that, 
 from the top of the mountain range 
 which divided it, you could see the sea 
 on both sides. If in any place the coast 
 widened, little creeks ran in among the 
 hills, and made the sea accessible from 
 all points. The island consisted entirely 
 of this one mountain range towering to 
 the clouds; the higlier peaks covered 
 with snow, with a strip of coast at their 
 feet, sometimes narrowinii; to a little
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 fchingly beach, sometimes expanding 
 to a fertile plain, where beautiful cities 
 with fairy bell-towers and marble palaces 
 gleamed like ivory carvings amidst the 
 palms and thick green trees. 
 
 But Hope and May knew nothing of 
 the island beyond the little bay they lived 
 in, and no one they had ever seen or 
 heard of had scaled the mountain range 
 and looked on the other side; no one, 
 either in the scattered fishermen's huts 
 around them, or in the white town which 
 perched like a sea-bird on the crags on 
 the opposite side of the bay. Indeed, it 
 was only from their mother's words that 
 the children knew their country was an 
 island ; and ever since they had heard this, 
 the great subject of Hope's dreams, and 
 the great object of his schemes, had been
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 to scale the mountains and look on the 
 other side. But this was quite a secret 
 between Hope and May; the happy 
 secret which formed the endless interest 
 of their long talks and rambles, but which 
 they could not speak of to their mother, 
 because she was so tenderly timid about 
 them, and because it was to be the great 
 surprise which one day was to enchant 
 her, when Hope was a man. He was 
 to scale the mountains, penetrate to the 
 wondrous land on the other side, and 
 brine thence untold treasures and tales 
 of marvels to May and his mother. 
 
 The children thought Hope would 
 very soon be old enough to go ; and 
 they had a little cave in the rocks close 
 to the sea where they treasured up dried 
 fruits and bits of iron to make tools of
 
 8 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 with which to chop away the tangled 
 branches in the forests, and cut steps in 
 the glaciers which Hope was to traverse. 
 The lower hills the children knew well ; 
 and the ravine which wound up far 
 among the hills they had nearly fixed on 
 as the commencement of the journey. 
 
 So the days passed on with the chil- 
 dren, rich in purposes and bright with 
 happy work. For they were helpful to 
 their mother. From their mountain 
 expeditions they brought her firewood, 
 and forest-honev, and cffffs of wild-fowl, 
 and various sweet wild - berries, and 
 wholesome roots. They always noticed 
 that their mother encouraged these 
 mountain expeditions, and seemed much 
 happier when they took that direction 
 than when they kept by the sea.
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 Once Hope had said to her — 
 "Mother, how beautiful our country 
 is! and I think it is so happy always to 
 be in sight of the sea. How dull those 
 lands must be you tell us of which are 
 so large that many people have to live 
 out of hearing of the waves ! I could not 
 bear to live there; it must seem so nar- 
 row and close to be shut in on the land 
 with nothing beyond. But here we can 
 never get out of sight of the sea. May 
 and I always find, wherever we roam 
 among the hills, we never lose the sea. 
 When we wander far back from the 
 shore, the beautiful blue waters seem to 
 follow us as if they loved us; and in 
 the inmost recesses of the mountains we 
 always sec beneath us some glimpse of 
 bright water in the creeks, which run
 
 10 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 up among the hills, or the rivers which 
 come down to meet them. The sea 
 seems to love every corner of our coun- 
 try, mother, and penetrate everywhere." 
 
 A cold shudder passed over the 
 mother's frame, and tears gathered in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " The sea is indeed everywhere, my 
 children," she murmured, and then with 
 a burst of irresistible emotion she clasped 
 them to her heart, and added bitterly, 
 " Happy the country which that sea 
 cannot approach ! " 
 
 May and Hope wondered greatly at 
 her words; but there was something in 
 her manner which awed them into si- 
 lence. For some time after that, they 
 often speculated together as to what 
 her words could mean, a vague terror
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. II 
 
 seemed to murmur in the ripple of the 
 waves. But gradually the impression 
 wore off in the happy forgetf'ulness of 
 childhood, and their old schemes were 
 resumed with the same zest as before. 
 
 One evening, however, as they were 
 busied with their treasures in the cave, 
 the tide surprised them, and when they 
 set out to return home they found 
 the rocky point which separated them 
 from their cottage surrounded with 
 deep water. The sides of the cliff in 
 the little cove where their cave lav were 
 sheer precipices of smooth rock, too 
 steep to climb, so that the children had 
 to wait some hours before they could 
 creep round the point. Eagerlv they 
 watched the declining sun and the re- 
 treating tide, and when the waves were
 
 12, THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 only anklc-dcep they bounded through 
 them, and in a few minutes were at the 
 cottage door. It was not yet dark, and 
 the children were dancing into the cot- 
 tage full of spirits at their adventure, 
 when they were startled at the appear- 
 ance of their mother. She was leaning, 
 stony and motionless, with fixed eyes 
 and clasped hands, against the door- 
 post, and for a moment the sight of her 
 darlings did not seem to rouse her. 
 Then springing up with a wild cry, she 
 strained them to her heart, covered 
 them with kisses, laughed a wild laugh, 
 broken with convulsive sobs, and at last 
 fell fainting on the floor. 
 
 The children knelt beside her, and 
 o-radually she revived, and fell into a 
 sleep. But every now and then she
 
 THE ELACK SHIP. I3 
 
 started as if with some terrible dream, 
 and murmured in her sleep, " The ship 
 — the Black Ship ; not now, not yet ; 
 take me, not them ; or take us all — take 
 us all!" 
 
 The terrified children could not sleep, 
 and all the next day they clung close to 
 their mother, and scarcely spoke a word. 
 In the evening, however, she rallied, and 
 tried to speak cheerfully and account 
 for her alarm. 
 
 " You were late, darlings; and I knew 
 you were by the sea — the terrible sea.^' 
 
 But the children could not be com- 
 forted. They felt the weight of some 
 vague apprehension; they could not 
 be tempted to leave their mother ; they 
 crept noiselessly about, watching her 
 movements, until at last one night they
 
 14 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 whispered together, and resolved to take 
 courage and ask their mother what made 
 her dread the sea ; and then they con- 
 sulted long as to the best way of intro- 
 ducing the forbidden subject. 
 
 The next evening, as they sat to- 
 gether by the fireside, Hope began, and 
 forgetting all the speeches they had pre- 
 pared, fixed his large eyes on his mother's, 
 and said abruptly, "Mother, what is 
 there terrible in the sea?^' 
 
 She paused a moment, her face grew 
 deadly pale, and her lips trembled. 
 
 " Children, why should you wish to 
 know ? You will learn too soon with- 
 out ray telling you." 
 
 " O mother, tell us," said May. " We 
 can bear anything from you. Do not 
 let anv one else tell us."
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. I5 
 
 A sudden thought seemed to flash 
 across her, and she said, " Children, 
 you are right." 
 
 Then folding one arm around Hope 
 as he stood by her, and taking May 
 on her knee, she said, " It is not the 
 sea I dread; it is the Black Ship. That 
 is the terrible secret ; and it is, indeed, 
 better you should learn it from my lips 
 than learn it by losing me, and no one 
 be left to tell you how. My children," 
 she continued, making a great effort to 
 speak calmly, " this is the one sorrow 
 of our country. From time to time a 
 Black Ship, without sails or oars, glides 
 silently to our shores, and anchors 
 there. A dark, veiled Figure lands from 
 it, and seizes any one of our people 
 whom it chooses, without violence,
 
 I 6 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 without a sound, but with irresistible 
 |)ower, and quietly leads the victim away 
 to the Ship, which immediately glides 
 away again from our coasts ~as swiftly 
 and noiselessly as it came ; but no one 
 ever sees those who are thus borne away 
 any more/' 
 
 "Whence does the Ship come, 
 mother?" asked Hope, after a long 
 silence, "and whither does it go?" 
 
 " No one knows, my child. That is 
 the terrible thing about it. There is 
 no sound nor voice. The agonized 
 cries of those who are thus bereaved 
 avail not to bring one word of reply 
 from those lip?, or to raise one fold of 
 that dark veil. If we only knew, we 
 could bear it." 
 
 " Have you ever seen it, mother ? '*
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 1 7 
 
 asked Hope, determined bravely to 
 plunge to the bottom of the terrible 
 mystery, while May could only cling 
 round her mother's neck and cry. 
 
 " I have seen it twice," she replied, 
 speaking low and rapidly. " We did 
 not always live here. Your father was 
 rich and a man of rank, and loving us 
 most dearly, he resolved to do all in his 
 power to keep the terrible Form away. 
 For this end he built that castle you 
 have often seen above the white tower. 
 It is far above the sea; the rocks arc 
 perpendicular; it is built of solid stone; 
 the doors were of oak, studded with 
 iron; the windows barred with iron. 
 No one was ever to be permitted to cross 
 the moat without being strictly scrutin- 
 ized. The gates were always to be closed.
 
 l8 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 When it was finished he made a feast, 
 and after it, when the guests had left, and 
 every bolt was drawn, we stood at the 
 window of the room where you slept, and 
 looked down triumphantly on the sea. 
 A little sister of yours was sleeping in 
 my arms. In the bay at our feet was 
 moored the Black Ship. Our eyes 
 seemed fascinated to it, and we could 
 not speak. We saw the Veiled Figure 
 descend the side, and slowly scale the 
 precipice beneath us, as if it had been 
 a road made for it to tread. It 
 walked over the waters of the castle 
 moat, which did not seem to wet its 
 feet. It stood on the balcony outside 
 our window, and we could not stir. It 
 passed through the iron bars. It laid 
 its hand on my sleeping babe. Your
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. I9 
 
 father's strong arm was around us both, 
 but before we could utter a crj^, the 
 darling had glided like a shadow from 
 our embrace. The brioht face of our 
 
 O 
 
 baby was hidden from us under the 
 folds of that impenetrable veil. We 
 watched the terrible Form noiselessly 
 descend the steep, re-enter the ship, and 
 not until the Black Ship was already 
 gliding swiftly out of sight could we 
 overcome the terrible fascination. Then 
 my cries of agony awoke the household, 
 boats were manned in pursuit, but in vain, 
 in vain — we felt it was in vain. We never 
 saw the babe again. '^ She spoke with 
 the lano-uor of a sorrow which had been 
 overwhelmed by greater sorrows still. 
 
 " But our fethcr ? " asked Hope. 
 
 " He left the castle the next day,"
 
 20 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 she answered ; '•' we never letiirned to 
 it. He said the strong walls only 
 mocked our helplessness, and since then 
 the castle has been empty. Birds build 
 their nests in our chambers, wild beasts 
 make their lair in our gardens, the iron 
 bars rust on the open doors ; and if the 
 Veiled Figure enters again, it will find 
 no prey." 
 
 " But where did you go? " 
 
 " We came here. Your father said 
 he would dare the foe, and, since no 
 fortification could keep it out, meet 
 it on its own ground. So he built 
 this cottage close to the sea, and here 
 we have lived ever since. I was con- 
 tent to remain here, because I thought 
 we might avoid seeing any one, and 
 keep the terrible secret from you.
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 21 
 
 " And here," she continued with 
 the cahnness of despair, " one morn- 
 ing we saw the Black Ship moored, 
 and your father went to meet it. I 
 wept and chmg to him to keep him 
 back, but he said, ' It shall speak to 
 me.' 
 
 " The Dark Form came up, a black 
 shadow across the sunny beach. Your 
 father encountered it boldly, and said, 
 ' Where is my child ? ' 
 
 " There was no sound in reply. For 
 a moment there seemed to be a struggle. 
 I rushed towards them, but the terrible 
 touch was on your father's hand. There 
 seemed no violence, no chain was on his 
 arm — only that paralysing touch. He 
 went from me silent and helpless as the 
 babe.
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 "'Whither, whither?' I cried; 'only 
 tell me where ! ' 
 
 " He looked back once, but he spoke 
 to me no more. I rushed madly into 
 the sea, but the ship was gone in a 
 minute, and your voices, your baby 
 voices, called me back, and I came." 
 
 " Is there no help, mother ? " said 
 Hope, at last. "Has no one ever tried ? 
 If I were but a man 1 Oh, surely some 
 help could be found! " 
 
 " So thousands have thought, tried, 
 and asked in vain. Fleets have scoured 
 the seas, but none ever came on the 
 Black Ship's track. Have you seen that 
 line of surg-e far out on the sea ? '* 
 
 " The reef, mother ? Yes ; we have 
 ofteii wondered what it was." 
 
 " It is the G;rcat sea-wall which our
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 23 
 
 people built ages since. The whole 
 nation combined once to encircle the 
 island with a gigantic sea-wall which 
 no ship might pass. On the day of its 
 completion there was a great national 
 festival on the sea-shore. But at noon- 
 day, as they danced and feasted, one 
 who was watching saw a black speck 
 on the horizon. The festivities were 
 suspended, and the people gathered on 
 the beach to look. It grew larger and 
 darker — it came to the sea-wall — with- 
 out a moment's pause it glided through, 
 and the multitude could gaze no longer. 
 They scattered in all directions to their 
 homes ; and before morning from hun- 
 dreds of families one was gone — princes, 
 nobles, peasants — one sweeping yet ter- 
 ribly discriminating desolation. But in
 
 24 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 the sea-wall not the smallest breach 
 could be found. Since then it has 
 never been repaired, and the waves have 
 worn it down to a broken reef, over 
 which our boats pass freely." 
 
 Hope was silenced, and the little 
 family sat up together that night. They 
 did not dare to separate, even to their 
 beds, yet before long the children were 
 asleep. 
 
 Sleep revived the brother and sister; 
 and by the evening Hope's ardent heart 
 had found another point to rest on. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " if we could 
 only find out whence the Black Ship 
 comes, we might be comforted. Per- 
 haps it comes from a happy place. Can 
 no one even guess ?" 
 
 " There are some who profess to
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 25 
 
 know something of it," she replied; 
 " but your father never believed them." 
 
 "Who are they?" asked Hope. 
 
 " The amulet-makers. There are a 
 band of men in the White Town, and 
 one of them in many of the villages, 
 who profess to know something of the 
 country from which the Black Ship 
 comes, and who sends it. But they 
 talk very mysteriously, in learned words; 
 and I do not understand them. Your 
 father said it was all a deception ; be- 
 cause some of them profess to make 
 amulets or charms which keep the 
 Veiled Form away; and your little sister 
 had one round her neck when she was 
 taken from us. You have each one, 
 but I cannot trust it ; and I never could 
 find out that the amulet-makers had
 
 2,6 THE BLACK SHIP, 
 
 anything but guesses as to where the 
 ship came from ; and your father said 
 we could guess as well as they. There 
 is one thing," she added, with a faint 
 smile, " which gives me more comfort 
 than anything they ever said. When 
 our baby was taken from my arms — 
 when she felt that terrible touch — she 
 did not seem to be at all afraid. She 
 looked up in my face, and then at the 
 Veiled Form, and stretched out her baby 
 arms from me to it, and smiled. At 
 first, I hated to think of that. It seemed 
 as if some cruel charm was on her to 
 win even her heart from me; but often 
 in the night, in my dreams, that smile 
 has come back to me, like a promise; 
 and I have awaked, comforted — I hardly 
 know why."
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 1"] 
 
 " Perhaps they are hi a happy place, 
 mother," said Httle May. 
 
 And Hope said — " Mother, I am 
 going to question the amulet-makers hi 
 the White Town," And his mother 
 suffered him to go. 
 
 In two days, Hope came back. But 
 his step was spiritless and slow, and his 
 face very sad. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "I think my 
 father was rio;ht. I am afraid no one 
 knows anything about the country from 
 which the Black Ship comes. At fust 
 the amulet-makers promised to tell me 
 a great deal. Some of them told me 
 they believed it was a great king, an 
 enemy of our race, who sent the ship ; 
 but that if we kept certain rules, and 
 put on a certain dress they would sell
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 US, or give them certain treasures to 
 throw into the sea when the Ship ap- 
 peared, they would watch for us, and 
 make the powers beyond the sea favour- 
 able to us. But when I came to the 
 ([uestion — how they knew this to be 
 true, or if they had ever had any mes- 
 sage from beyond the sea, or seen any 
 one who came thence, they grew silent, 
 and sometimes angry, and told me I 
 was a presumptuous child. There was 
 one old man, however, who was kind 
 to me ; and he came and spoke to me 
 alone, and said, ' My child, be happy 
 to-day — to be good is to be happv. 
 What is beyond to-day, or beyond the 
 sea, no one knows, or ever can know. 
 Go back to your mother, and live as 
 before.' So I came," concluded Hope.
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 29 
 
 " But it can never, never he with us 
 arain as before we knew." 
 
 From that time the boy seemed to 
 cease to be a child, or to take interest in 
 any childish schemes. He was gentle 
 and tender as his father could have been 
 to his mother and to May, and seemed 
 to take on himself to watch over and 
 protect them. He never left them out 
 of sight; until, one day, as they came, in 
 their ramble in search of shell-fish, on 
 their old cave, and looked once more at 
 their little stores, so joyously hoarded 
 there, May suddenly exclaimed, " What 
 if they should know o]i the other side 
 of the mountains \" 
 
 The thought flashed on Hope like a 
 breath of new life; and from that dav 
 his old schemes were resumed, but with
 
 30 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 ail intensity and a purpose which could 
 not be quenched. He would scale 
 the mountains, to see if any tidings 
 from beyond the sea had reached the 
 land across the mountains 1 
 
 His mother's consent was gained ; 
 and in a few days, spent in eager pre- 
 parations, Hope was to start. 
 
 But before those days w^ere ended, 
 one evening, a white-haired old man 
 knocked at the cottage - door. He 
 was nearly exhausted with travel, his 
 clothes were torn, and his feet bleed- 
 ing. 
 
 They led him to the fire, bathed his 
 feet, and set food before him. But 
 before he would touch anything, the 
 old man said — 
 
 " I have tidings for you — glad tidings."
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 3I 
 
 " Do you come from across the 
 mountains?" exclaimed Hope, starting 
 to his feet. 
 
 The old man bowed in assent. 
 
 " I come from across the mountains, 
 and I bring you glad tidings from be- 
 yond the sea.^' 
 
 "Glad tidings!" they all exclaimed. 
 
 " Glad tidings, if you will obey 
 them," he replied ; — " if not, the 
 saddest you ever heard. It is not an 
 enemy who sends the Black Ship, but 
 a friend." 
 
 Not a question, scarcely a breath in- 
 terrupted him ; and he continued, in 
 brief, broken sentences — 
 
 " It is our Kinir. Our island bclonsrs 
 to Him. He jravc it us. But, lonji 
 ago, our ])eople rebelled against Ilim.
 
 32 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 They were seduced by a wicked prince, 
 His deadly enemy, and, alas! ours. Tliev 
 sent the King a defiance ; they defaced 
 His statues, which were a type of all 
 beauty ; they broke His laws, which are 
 the unfolding of all goodness. He 
 sent ambassadors to reclaim them ; He, 
 who could have crushed the revolt, 
 and destroyed our nation with one of 
 His armies in a day, descended from 
 His dignity, and stooped to entreat our 
 deluded people to return to their alle- 
 giance. But they treated His conde- 
 scension as weakness. They defied His 
 ambassadors, and maltreated them and 
 drove them from the island. He had 
 warned them against the usurper, and 
 told them the consequences of revolting; 
 and too snrelv they have been fulfilled.
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 33 
 
 The Black Ship is the punishment in- 
 flicted by our offended Monarch ; but 
 those who return to His allegiance need 
 not dread it." 
 
 "Some, then, have submitted to the 
 King?" asked Hope. 
 
 " Every ambassador He sent has per- 
 suaded some to recognise the King." 
 
 " Why not all ? " asked Hope. " !f 
 the King is good and is our King, and 
 will receive us, why not all return?" 
 
 "The usurper seduces them still," 
 replied the old man. " Many hate the 
 King's good laws ; many take pride in 
 what they call their independence; most 
 will not listen, or will not believe. They 
 mock the King's messengers, and declare 
 that they are impostors, that their mes- 
 sages are a delusion, and some even per-
 
 34 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 sist in declaring that there is no King, 
 and no country beyond the sea." 
 
 ".But the Black Ship is not a delu- 
 sion! " said Hope, " it must come from 
 some land. What proof have these 
 ambassadors given? Have they ever 
 been in the land beyond the sea?" 
 
 "They gave many proofs, but I bring 
 vou better news than this. A few years 
 since, the King's Son came Himself. 
 Many of us have seen and spoken with 
 Him. He stayed many days. He spoke 
 words of such power, and in tones of 
 such tenderness as none who heard can 
 ever forget. We could trace in His fea- 
 tures the lineaments of the statues we 
 had defaced. Some of the worst rebels 
 among us were melted to repentance, 
 and fell at His feet, and besought His
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 35 
 
 pardon. I was one. He gave us not 
 only His pardon, but His friendship. 
 But His enemies prevailed. Especially 
 the amulet-makers organised a conspi- 
 racy against Him ; they feared for their 
 trade, and secretly prepared to drive 
 Him from the island. He had come 
 alone, for He came not to compel but to 
 win. And He came for another purpose, 
 which, until He was gone, we could not 
 comprehend. The conspirators triumph- 
 ed. One day they came in force and 
 seized Him. Alas, a base panic seized us 
 who loved Him, and we fled. They bound 
 Him with thongs, they treated Him with 
 the most barbarous cruelty and the bas- 
 est indio;nitv and drove Him to the sea. 
 We thouo-ht a fleet and an armv would 
 have appeared to avenge His insulted
 
 36 TIIK BLACK SHIP. 
 
 majesty, and proclaim him King with 
 power, or bear Him in pomp away; but 
 to our surprise and dismay nothing 
 came for Him but the Black Ship, and 
 the Dark Form bore Him from us, as if 
 He had been a rebel like one of us. He 
 had told us something of the probabilitv 
 of this before it happened, but we could 
 not comprehend what He meant. Never 
 were days of such sorrow as those which 
 passed over us after His be'mg taken from 
 us. His enemies were in full triumph ; 
 they mocked our Prince's claims, they 
 insulted us, they threatened us, but all 
 they could say or do was nothing in 
 comparison with the anguish in our 
 hearts. For what could we think ? He 
 we had loved and trusted was jrone, 
 borne oft in triumph by the very foe He
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 37 
 
 came to deliver us from. We hid our- 
 selves in caves and lonely beaches by the 
 sea, and recalled to each other His pre- 
 cious words, and gazed out over the sea 
 u'ith a vaoue vearninsr, which was 
 scarcely hope, and yet kept us lingering 
 on the shore. 
 
 On the third morning, in the gray 
 lioht of earlv dawn, one of" us saw Him 
 on the shore — one who had owed Him 
 everything, and loved Him most de- 
 votedly. She called us to come. One 
 by one we gathered round Him. Some 
 (;f us cculd scarcely believe our senses 
 for joy. But it was Himself"; the solid 
 certainty of* that unutterable joy grew 
 stronger. And then He told us wonders, 
 how He suffered all this for us — had 
 borne this indignity and captivity in
 
 ^8 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 obedience to His Father's will, to set us 
 free — had gone in the Black Ship itself 
 to the heart of the enemy's country, 
 and alone trodden those terrible regions 
 of lawless wickedness to which he seeks 
 to drag his deluded victims, and alone 
 vanquished him there. He stayed with 
 us some days, and talked with us fa- 
 miliarly, as of old ; but how glorious 
 His conunonest words were — how over- 
 powering His forgiving looks — how in- 
 spiring His firm and tender tones, I can 
 never tell. He could not remain with us 
 then. He said we must be His messen- 
 gers, and win back His rebels to allegi- 
 ance; we must learn to be brave, to speak 
 and suffer for Him, and to act as men ; and 
 He promised to come again one day with 
 fleets and armies, and all the pomp of His
 
 THE ELACK SHIP. 39 
 
 Father's kingdom. But, meantime, He 
 said the Blaek Ship should never more 
 be a terror to any of us who loved Him ; 
 for He himself would come in it each 
 time. He would be veiled, so that none 
 could see Him but the one He came for ; 
 but surely as the Black Ship came, in- 
 stead of the Dark Form, He would come 
 Himself for every one of us, and bear us 
 home to His Father's house to abide with 
 Him, and with Him hereafter to return." 
 
 There was a breathless silence, broken 
 only by the mother's sobs. 
 
 She clasped her hands, and mur- 
 mured — 
 
 "Then it was He — it was surely He 
 himself who came and took my babe. 
 No wonder my darling smiled, and was 
 willing to jio."
 
 40 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 The mother and the children that 
 very evening received from the stranger 
 the medal which was worn by all those 
 who returned to their allegiance. It was 
 a Black Ship, surrounded with rays of 
 glory, and behind it the towers of a city. 
 
 Never were a happier company than 
 the four who gathered round the cot- 
 tage table that evening. They were too 
 happy, and had too much to ask, to 
 sleep, and far into the night the ques- 
 tions and answers continued, every re- 
 ply of the old man's only revealing some 
 fresh endearino- excellence in the Kino; 
 and the King-'s Son, until they longed 
 for the Black Ship to come and fetch 
 them home. 
 
 " If only," said little May, " it would 
 fetch us all at once ! "
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 4I 
 
 "That the King will do when He 
 comes with His armies in the day of His 
 triumph. Till then, my child, this is 
 the one only sorrow connected with the 
 Black Ship for those who love the King. 
 We go one by one, and blessed as it is 
 for the one who goes, it must be sad 
 sometimes for those who are left." 
 
 "Why do not those who go to Him 
 ask Him to come quickly ?" asked Hope. 
 
 "They do," replied the old man. 
 " ' Come quickly ' is the entreaty of all 
 who love Him here and beyond the sea; 
 but His time is best. And, meantime, 
 have we forgotten the multitudes who 
 arc still deceived by the usurper, to 
 whom the Black Ship is still a horrible 
 end of all things, and the Veiled Form 
 of the Kino; of Terrors r "
 
 42 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 Hope rose and stood before the old 
 man. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " it is for this we 
 must Yive. Think of the desolate hearts 
 in the homes around us. Think of the 
 thousands who know not our blessed 
 secret in the White Town." 
 
 The old man rose and laid his hand 
 on Hope's head. 
 
 "My King!" he said, "when wilt 
 Thou come for me? Is not my work 
 done ? Will not this youthful voice 
 speak for Thee here as my quivering 
 tones no loncrer can ? Wilt Thou not 
 come ? I have many dear ones with 
 Thee ; but when Thou wilt is best." 
 
 Then he persuaded them all to lie 
 down to rest, and he himself composed 
 himself quietly to sleep.
 
 THE BLACK SHIP. 43 
 
 But in the night a wondrous light filled 
 the room — a wondrous light and frag- 
 rance. The mother woke, and the chil- 
 dren, and they saw the old man standing, 
 gazing towards the door, which was open. 
 There stood a Veiled Form, dark to the 
 mother's eyes as the dreaded form she 
 knew too well ; yet its presence filled the 
 room with the light as of a rosy dawn, 
 and the fragrance as of spring flowers. 
 The old man's hair was silvery, and his 
 form tottering as ever, but in his face 
 there was the beauty of youth, and in 
 his eyes the rapture of joy. 
 
 " Farewell, my friends,'^ he said ; 
 "your day of joy will come like this of 
 mine. Thou art come for me at last 
 — Thou thyself. I see Thy face, I 
 hear Thy voice ; I come — it is Thou."
 
 44 THE BLACK SHIP. 
 
 A hand was laid tenderly on his 
 hand, and they walked away together 
 into the niffht. But as the mother and 
 children looked after him from the door, 
 they saw the Black Ship, only at its 
 prow was a star, and as it passed 
 away, the mother, and Hope, and May 
 thought it left a track of light upon the 
 sea. 
 
 The three had henceforth enough to 
 live and suffer for. To the lonely fish- 
 ermen's huts went May and her mother, 
 into the White Town went Hope, and 
 everywhere they bore their tidings of 
 jov. They had much to suffer, and 
 many mocked, and against them also 
 the amulet-makers combined, and would 
 notlisten. But some did listen, and 
 believe, and love, and to such, as to
 
 .THE BLACK SHIP. 45 
 
 the mother, and Hope, and May, the 
 Black Ship^ instead of a phantom of 
 terror, became a messenger of surpass- 
 ing joy.
 
 Clje Euincti 'ZlTeniple*
 
 ^.\)Z Euinefi ^niiple. 
 
 [HE Temple was in ruins, and 
 the Priestess sat, a captive 
 in chains, among its fallen 
 and scattered fragments. It had been 
 a temple of the most ancient form, open 
 to the sky, beautiful beyond any temple 
 upon earth, beautiful and sacred, and 
 some remnants of its beauty hung about 
 it still — fragments of exquisite carvings 
 and broken shafts of graceful columns. 
 But everything was shattered and out 
 of place, the window tracery shivered 
 in a thousand fragments and strewn on
 
 50 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 the ground, columns prostrate, sacred 
 vessels lying rusted among the weed^, 
 the pure spring which had gushed from 
 beneath the altar choked up and drv, 
 and instruments of sacred music mute 
 and broken on. the ground. 
 
 On the walls in some places were the 
 traces of violence, but it was remarkable 
 that they seemed to have been assaulted 
 only from within. Indeed, the temple 
 had been a fortress, so impregnably situ- 
 ated and built that except from within 
 not one stone could ever have been dis- 
 placed. 
 
 This was, in fact, the saddest part of 
 its history. The temple had been dese- 
 crated before it had been ruined, and in 
 its ruin it was a temple still, but, alas! 
 no longer sacred to Him in whose
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 51 
 
 honour it had been reared. Many 
 senseless or loathsome idol-images were 
 carved on the walls, strangely contrast- 
 ing, in their shap.^lessncss or deformity, 
 with the symmetry of every fragment 
 of the original structure. On the broken 
 altar in the centre stood an imao;e of 
 the Priestess herself. This was the ear- 
 liest idol which had entered there^ and 
 with the entrance of this the ruin had 
 begun. The Enemy who had, with 
 subtle flatteries, introduced this idol 
 had ever since had access to the temple, 
 and step by step the Priestess had 
 sunk beneath his power. He had 
 led her into wild orgies, in which sh(r 
 herself had defaced the delicate tracery 
 and torn down the walls; and when 
 she awoke from the frenzy and wept,
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 as sometimes she would, he silenced her 
 cries with blows or with mocking threats 
 of the vengeance of" Him to whom the 
 temple had been consecrated. Some- 
 times, however, she woke to a moment's 
 full consciousness of the desolation 
 around her, and then she would wail 
 and lament until he seemed to fear some 
 unseen Friend would hear ; and at such 
 seasons he grew more gentle, and re- 
 newed the old persuasions and flatteries 
 by which he had misled her first. He 
 would even encourage her at times, when 
 all other methods failed, to trv and col- 
 lect the scattered stones, and repair the 
 breaches in the shattered walls and re- 
 string the broken harp, for he knew well 
 her puny efforts must fail, and that no 
 hands but those of the builder could
 
 THE RUFNED TEMPLE. 
 
 53 
 
 ever restore the ruin she had wrought. 
 So, after a few faint endeavours, she, as 
 he expcetcd, would give up in despair, 
 and sit cowering hopelessly on the 
 ground afraid of him, afraid of Him 
 whose priestess she was, afraid of her 
 own voiee. 
 
 In such bitter hours he would a^ain 
 grow bold, and mock her with the me- 
 mory of the past, until the spirit of indig- 
 nant resistance seemed rousedwithin her, 
 when, once more softening his tone, he 
 would point her with flattering words to 
 her own image on the broken altar. He 
 would shew her the beauty still linger- 
 ing in its marred and weather-worn 
 features, and help her to decorate it 
 with gay colours and tinsel ornaments, 
 placing in her hands the golden censer,
 
 54 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 with the sweet incense which had been 
 made in happier days for far other uses ; 
 and she would wave the fragrant com- 
 pound before the idol image of herself. 
 But with the pure spices which made it 
 sweet, the enemy had mixed a narcotic 
 poison, and as she languidly swung the 
 censer to and fro, her brain would be- 
 come intoxicated with the voluptuous 
 sweetness, until, in a dream of vain de- 
 light, she would fall asleep, and forget 
 all her miseries; and ever, as she slept, 
 he would rivet faster the chain which, 
 unpcrceived by her, was being bound 
 around her, every year making her 
 range of action narrower and her 
 movements less free. 
 
 Wild beasts, also, made their lair in 
 the desolate temple-chambers, prowling
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 55 
 
 in and out where formerly meek and 
 lieavenly beings had ministered, and 
 makino- the shattered walls echo with 
 their loud howls and sullen roarings, 
 where once had sounded strains of pure 
 and joyous music. 
 
 Thus day by day the ruin spread, and 
 the desolation and desecration became 
 more complete. 
 
 But it happened one spring that two 
 little singing-birds came back from the 
 sunny clime where they had wintered, 
 and bcffan buildino- their nest above the 
 ancient altar. There was something; in 
 the spring-time which often brought 
 tears to the eyes of the fallen priestess, 
 she scarcely knew why. The world 
 seemed then like one happy temple full 
 of thankful songs; and as, day by da)-,
 
 55 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 the sun repaired the ruins of winter, and 
 the choral services of the woods took a 
 fuller tone, on her heart there fell the 
 mournful sense of the ruins around her, 
 which no spring-tide could restore. Yet 
 something of a softer feeling, a melan- 
 choly which breathed of hope, stole over 
 her, and she watched those two happy 
 birds building their nest, and warbling 
 as they worked. 
 
 At last, the nest was finished, the 
 happy mother -bird sat on her eggs, 
 and the pair had much leisure for con- 
 tidential conversation. 
 
 " How desolate this place is," said 
 the mother-bird. 
 
 " And it was once so beautiful," re- 
 plied her mate. 
 
 "Why is it not rebuilt?" she asked-
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 57 
 
 " None can rebuild but the hand that 
 built," was the mysterious reply. 
 
 ^' But would not the architect come 
 if asked? He is so good. Was it not 
 he who taught us to build our nest ; 
 and I am sure nothino- can be better 
 done than that." 
 
 " That is the difficulty," was the reply. 
 " The priestess does not know he is so 
 good, and is afraid to utter his name. If 
 she only called him, he would come." 
 
 " Is he near enough ? " 
 
 " He is always near." 
 
 "Are you sure?" said the mother- 
 bird. " What can we do to help her." 
 
 " I do not know," replied the mate, 
 " except it is to sing his praise. Perhaps 
 she may hsten, and understand one day 
 how good he is."
 
 58 THE RUINHD TEMPLE. 
 
 So all the spring the httle happy 
 creatures chirped and sang, until the 
 nestlings were flcdjicd, and the whole 
 family flew away. 
 
 But their songs had penetrated deep 
 into the priestess' heart. And one 
 night, when the Enemy was absent, and 
 the wild beasts prowling far away, she 
 threw herself on the earth before her 
 desecrated altar, and lamented and wept. 
 But for the first time her lamentations, 
 instead of solitary, hopeless wailings, 
 echoing back from the ruined walls, be- 
 came a broken cry for help. 
 
 " Thou, if thou art indeed so good — 
 if thou art indeed near, come and help 
 me," she sobbed ; " repair my ruins, 
 and save me.'' 
 
 And for the first time, as she wept
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 59 
 
 and Implored, she felt the weight of her 
 fetters binding hand and foot, and, clasp- 
 ine her chained hands, she cried more 
 earnestly, " Come and set me free!" 
 
 And before tlie day dawned a voice 
 came softly through the silence — 
 
 " I will come. 
 
 But with the morning light how- 
 bitter was the sio;ht which burst on her 
 aching eyes ! All had been as desolate 
 Ions: before ; but she had never seen it as 
 she saw it now. Noisome beasts, which 
 prowled fearlessly around her; skulls 
 and ghastly skeletons of their murdered 
 prey strewn about; on the ground the 
 broken, rusted harp ; on her hands the 
 heavy chain; and, worse than all, the 
 door she had opened to the Enemy ever 
 open, and inviting his approach.
 
 6o THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 Too surely he came. He mocked 
 her hope until it appeared baseless as a 
 dream ; and nothing seemed real, but 
 the ruin to which he scornfully directed 
 her gaze, and the chain which now, for 
 the first time without concealment, he 
 held up triumphantly, dragging her by it 
 to every corner of the polluted and ruined 
 temple, to shew her how complete and 
 hopeless the ruin was. Then drawing 
 the links tighter than before, so that 
 they galled and wounded her wrists, he 
 led her to the image of herself, which 
 he had adorned, and painted, and so 
 often flattered. He dragged off the 
 tinsel ornaments, and effaced the delu- 
 sive colouring, and left her, at last, face 
 to face with the defaced and broken 
 idol, saving —
 
 YOiVLAVO sc 
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 Black Ship. 
 
 p.61
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 6l 
 
 "This is the worship you yourself 
 have chosen. Pursue it still. There is 
 no other for you." 
 
 She could not bear to gaze on it; 
 and as he went she fell prostrate on the 
 altar steps, and hid her face on the 
 stones. Yet still, though with but a 
 feeble hope, she sobbed out — . 
 
 "If thou art good — if thou canst 
 help me, come, — oh, come, and set 
 me free!" 
 
 Weariness at last brought sleep, and 
 in her dreams she saw a lovelv vision of 
 the temple as it once had been. White 
 columns gleamed, sweet and solcnm 
 music sounded, and she herself minis- 
 tered in white robes at the altar, before 
 a Radiant Form, on which she could 
 scarcely for a moment gaze.
 
 62 THE RUINKD TEMPLE. 
 
 The awaking from this dream to the 
 desolation around her was more terrible 
 than all she had felt before. It must 
 have bereft her of reason, but for the 
 echo of three cheering words, which 
 seemed to have awakened her — " I will 
 come." 
 
 The next day, with the light of that 
 radiant vision on her heart, she dragged 
 her fettered limbs to the altar, and 
 strove with her feeble and trcmblinc; 
 hands to tear that marred imao;e from 
 the shrine. But in vain. It was too 
 firmly imbedded there; and she could 
 only turn her face from it, and weep, 
 and cry for help. And before the 
 next morning's dawn help came. In 
 the night, a heavenly visitant de- 
 scended ; and with human words, in a
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 6^ 
 
 language she had not spoken for years, 
 but every word of which melted her 
 heart like the accents of her mother- 
 tongue, he touched her chains, and they 
 fell off; he spoke, and the wild beasts 
 fled, howling; he touched her broken 
 harp, and it was restrung and tuned ; 
 he touched the dry and choked-up 
 channel of the sacred spring, and it 
 welled forth pure and fresh from be- 
 neath the altar; he touched the idol on 
 the altar, and it fell, and in its stead 
 shone that wondrous Radiance which 
 she had seen in her dream ; then he 
 poured on her head the fragrant oil of 
 consecration, and clothed her in a white 
 vestal priestly garment, and placed the 
 restrung harp in her hand, and rose 
 again to heaven.
 
 64 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 At first her joy knew no measure. 
 She gazed on the sacred shrine, and in 
 its glory at times she perceived the 
 hneaments of the form of Him who had 
 done all this for her. She touched her 
 harp, and the sweet strings responded 
 as if they knew her hand ; she sang holy 
 songs in that old, long-forgotten, yet 
 familiar tongue, so heavenly and happy 
 that the wild beasts would not venture 
 near, and the morning-birds were silent 
 to listen. She bathed in the newlv- 
 opened fountain and drank of it, and 
 as she drank her strength and her youth 
 came back. 
 
 For a tune her joy was without cloud 
 or measure; but as the daylight return- 
 ed, the desolation of the ruined temple 
 struck sadly on her heart. It was indeed
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 65 
 
 a sacred place once more, and she its 
 consecrated priestess ; but was this ruin 
 never to be repaired ? 
 
 She began to cleanse the sacred ves- 
 sels and to sweep the earth of all the 
 refuse and dry bones which had been 
 gathered there; and then, with her re- 
 newed strength, she set herself to collect 
 the fallen fratrmcnts of the columns, 
 and tried to piece together the shattered 
 tracery and the delicate carvings of 
 flower and foliage. But it was in vain. 
 She could indeed bring the scattered 
 fragments tooether and see what thev 
 had been, but she could not join them, 
 or replace one prostrate shaft or capital ; 
 and as she sat down mournfully be- 
 fore her shrine, tears dimmed her eyes, 
 so that she could scarcely see the Radi-
 
 66 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 ance there, and, falling on her harp- 
 strings, would have rusted them and 
 marred their sweetness; whilst in the 
 silence a voice, too long and hitterly 
 familiar, was heard at the door. Turn- 
 ing round, she perceived the form of the 
 Enemy there, whilst behind him glared 
 fierce and hungry eyes, and in her terror 
 the harp almost fell from her hands. 
 
 But she threw herself on her knees 
 before the altar, pressed the harp con- 
 vulsively to her heart, and cried, " Will 
 these ruins never be repaired, these 
 doors never closed against my enemy 
 and thine?" The pressure of her 
 tremblino- fin2"ers drew forth some 
 plaintive strains, like the wind on 
 ^olian strings; but low and plaintive 
 as they were, the enemy disappeared, and
 
 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 67 
 
 the wild beasts fled h owl i no; from them. 
 Then she bccan to perceive the power 
 of her harp, and drew from it a song of 
 joy and triumph ; and as she still gazed 
 on the radiant shrine a veil seemed to be 
 withdrawn from it, and she perceived 
 that it was a window, so that the liaht 
 streamed through it, not from it. Won- 
 dering she gazed, until, penetrating fur- 
 ther and further throuoh the lioht, she 
 saw in the depths of lieavcn a Temple 
 like her own, only perfect, glorious be- 
 vond comparison, and full; — full of wor- 
 shippers robed and singing like herself, 
 and full of that wondrous radiance 
 which streamed from the heavenly form 
 she had seen. She laid her harp upon 
 the altar, and to her surprise the 
 strings began to quiver of their own
 
 68 THE RUINED TEMPLE. 
 
 accord. An electric current united them 
 to the harps in the heavenly teinpie, 
 and they vibrated in exquisite har- 
 monies the echo of the harmonies 
 above. 
 
 And with the heavenly strains came 
 a voice divine and human, mighty as 
 the sound of many waters, yet soft and 
 near as a whisper in her ear : — 
 
 " Here all ruins are repaired, the 
 enemy cannot enter here, but here thou 
 shalt dwell for ever." 
 
 And softly floated down these other 
 words : — 
 
 " For we know that if our earthly 
 house of this tabernacle were dissolved, 
 we have a building of God, an house 
 not made with hands, eternal in the 
 heavens.^'
 
 m)t letoel oe tijc £)ut>0C of tlje
 
 %\)z 3!etocl of tlje Crtici* of tlje 
 
 |XCE on the sea-shore, in a 
 land a long way off, I met an 
 old man dressed as a galley- 
 slave, and toiluig at conviets' work, with 
 a heavy chain around one of his arms ; 
 but his face and bearing were stamped 
 with the truest nobility. I felt sure he 
 must be a victim of some political cabal, 
 and not a criminal, for not a trace of 
 crime or remorse debased that calm brow 
 and those clear, honest eyes. 'Ihis 
 might not have struck mc as remark-
 
 72 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 able, since such unmerited sufferings 
 were but too common in that country. 
 What arrested my attention was the 
 expression of unfeigned and lofty joj 
 which irradiated his aged counten- 
 ance. 
 
 In the interval of noonday rest 
 allowed him, as well as the other con- 
 victs, I sate down beside him and 
 entered into conversation with him. T 
 found he was an old soldier; and at 
 length 1 was encouraged by his frank- 
 ness to inquire the cause of the strange 
 contrast between his expression and his 
 circumstances. 
 
 The veteran lifted his cap, and said 
 mysteriously, " The King shall enjoy 
 his own again. The spring will come, 
 and with it the violets."
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 73 
 
 The thouQ-ht struck me that some 
 harmless and happy insanity had 
 risen, hke a soft mist, to veil from 
 him his miserable lot ; and, follow- 
 ing his train of thought, I said, " You 
 wait for a king, and hope cheers 
 you. Yet you must have waited 
 long ; and hope deferred makcth the 
 heart sick." 
 
 " The uncertainty of hope," he re- 
 plied, " often makes the heart sick with 
 fear of disappointment, but my hope is 
 sure, and every day of delay certainly 
 brings me nearer to it. Every night, 
 as I look out from my convict's cell 
 over the sea, before I lie down to sleep, 
 I think before to-morrow the white 
 sails of his fleet may stud the blue 
 waters — for he will not return alone ;
 
 74 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 and when morning dawns gray across 
 the bare horizon, I am not cast down, 
 because I know the morning we wait 
 for will surely come at last." 
 
 "But," I said, reverently, and half 
 hesitating to disturb his happy dream, 
 " when that morning dawns will you 
 still be hOrc r " 
 
 " Here or there," he answered, so- 
 lemnly. " Either with the few who 
 look for him here, or with the countless 
 multitudes who will accompany him 
 thence." 
 
 Knowino" how such leo;ends of ihc 
 return of exiled princes linger in the 
 hearts of a nation, and wondering 
 whether the old man spoke from the 
 delusion of his own peculiar madness or 
 of a tradition current among his people,
 
 OF THE king's own. 75 
 
 I said, " Your words arc strange to ir.e. 
 Tell me the history."' 
 
 " After the great battle," the old 
 soldier replied, a smile bright as a 
 child's, yet tender as tears, lighting np 
 his whole countenance — " after the last 
 great battle the Kino; the true Kino; 
 our own King, has never been seen 
 publicly in our country. They wounded 
 him, and left him for dead on the field 
 — they had wounded his heart to the 
 core. Traitors were amongst them ; it 
 was not only an open enemy that did 
 him this dishonour. But thev were 
 mistaken; he is not dead. AVe who 
 loved him know. We bore him 
 secretly from the field. He lingered a 
 few days amongst us after his wounds 
 had healed, In disguise ; but although his
 
 76 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 loyal state was hidden for a time, we 
 who knew his voice, could tell him 
 blindfold from a million; and since he 
 left us, his faithful adherents, who be- 
 fore his departure could be counted by 
 tens, have increased to thousands." 
 
 " An unusual fortune," I remarked, 
 " for a cause whose last effort seems 
 generally to have been considered a de- 
 feat, and whose leader has apparently 
 abandoned it." 
 
 " There are many reasons," said the 
 old man, " why it should be so, and 
 amono; the chief of these is this one. 
 When our Prince left us, he gave to 
 each of his adherents a precious gift as 
 a token of his love, and a sign by which 
 we may know each other," 
 
 As he spoke he drew aside his poor
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 77 
 
 p-arment, and ou his breast there 
 sparkled a gem more briUiant than any 
 star or decoration I had ever seen. 
 
 " This is the star of the King's own 
 order," he said ; and as I looked at it 
 a wonderful transformation seemed to 
 have taken place in the old man's dress. 
 His poor convict's garb seemed meta- 
 morphosed into the richest robes, such 
 as princes wore in that southern land, 
 of the costliest materials, and all of a 
 glistening white, at once royal and 
 bridal, whilst his chain glittered like a 
 jewelled bracelet. The veteran smiled 
 at my surprise, and unclasping his 
 jewel, bound it on his brow. In- 
 stantly the same magical change passed 
 over his face. Noble as it was before, 
 his countenance now shone as if it had
 
 yS THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 been the face of an angel. Every trace 
 of care or age was effaced, the eyes 
 shone under the cahn, nnfurrowed brow 
 with the sparkle of early youth, and 
 nothino; was left to indicate ae;e but a 
 depth in the glance and a history in 
 the expression, which youth cannot 
 have. 
 
 "Eut," I said, "surely your ene- 
 mies must seek to rob you of such a 
 treasure ? " 
 
 " Try,'^ he replied, " if you can take 
 it from me." 
 
 I endeavoured gently to detach the 
 jewel from his brow, but my fingers had 
 scarcely touched it when it sprang up 
 like glittering drops from a fountain, 
 and was gone, yet leaving the glory on 
 the old man's face.
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 79 
 
 He smiled, and observed quietiv, 
 " Our jewel no man taketh from us." 
 
 Then, again unclasping the fillet 
 which had bound it round his brow, 
 the magic gem reappeared in his hand. 
 
 It was mid-day, and the usual fare 
 of the convicts was brought to him — 
 scanty and coarse fare, with bad water. 
 He humbly and thankfully partook of 
 the poor food, but poured out the con- 
 tents of the cup on the ground. 
 
 " The water of this land is bad,^' he 
 said. -'The people render it palatable 
 by mixing it with a fiery stimulant, 
 which, alas! onlv increases their thirst, 
 so that thev ever thirst a^-aln ; but we 
 do not need this." 
 
 Then gently laying his finger on the 
 gem, it expanded, like a lilv-bell in the
 
 So THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 sun, into a crystal vase, and in it 
 bubbled up a miniature fountain of 
 pure, sparkling water. 
 
 " In us a well of water springing up," 
 he murmured, as if to himself, as he 
 drank and was refreshed ; and touching 
 the vase again, it folded up, like a eon- 
 volvulus going to sleep when the sun 
 sets. 
 
 I wondered he had not had the cour- 
 tesy to offer me a draught. He read 
 my thoughts, and said, " This water is 
 untransferable. Each of us must have 
 his own jewel.'' 
 
 "Then," I replied, "if your Prince 
 left those jewels to you at his departure, 
 and has not returned since, how can his 
 followers have increased, if th's token is 
 essential to them, and, indeed, as vou
 
 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDEE OF THE KING'S OWN. 
 Black Ship. p. 81.
 
 OF THE KING'S OWN, 8l 
 
 intimated, an inducement to many to 
 enlist under his banner ? ^' 
 
 " It is free to all, and yet a secret/' 
 he replied. " Whenever any one de- 
 sires to enlist in our Prince's service, he 
 must repair alone, before daybreak, to 
 a lonely beach on our shores, and wait 
 there for what the King will send. 
 There, when the sun rises, not always 
 the first morning, or the second, or the 
 third, but always at last, his first rays 
 gleam on a new jewel, exactly like the 
 others, sparkling among the shells and 
 pebbles. The young soldier takes it up, 
 presses it to his lips, murmurs the name 
 written on it, binds it on his heart, and 
 it is his own, and he is the King's for 
 ever. None ever saw it come, though 
 some fancv tlicv have seen a streak of 
 
 r
 
 83 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 light on the sea when it first appears, as 
 of the track of an ilkimination out on 
 the waters." 
 
 "What name is engraved on it?" 1 
 asked. 
 
 " The King's name," he replied, bow- 
 ing his head reverently. 
 
 "May I see it/' I said. 
 
 " You could not," he replied, gravely. 
 "None of us can read that name, ex- 
 cept on our own jewels." 
 
 I was silent for a moment. He con- 
 tinued — 
 
 '• But I have a greater wonder yet to 
 tell you of our jewel — the greatest won- 
 der of all ; and this you must take at 
 my word. The light and glory of this 
 gem is entirely reflected from a jewel of 
 the same kind, but infinitely more glo-
 
 OF THE king's OWN. 83 
 
 rious, which sparkles on the King's own 
 heart. When I raise this gem to my 
 eyes, and look through it," he added in 
 a tone which thrilled with the deepest 
 emotion, raising it at the same time like 
 a telescope to his eyes, " this country 
 vanishes from me altogether, and I see 
 wonders." 
 
 " What do you see ? " I asked, half 
 trembling. 
 
 " I see the King in his beauty,'^ he 
 replied. " I sec the land which is very 
 far off. I see a city which has no need 
 of the sun. I see a palace where his 
 servants^ serve him. I sec a throne 
 which is as jasper, and, above it, a rain- 
 bow like an emerald ; and, above all I 
 see, I see him, with the jewel on his 
 heart; but his jewel is no mere gem, no
 
 84 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 reflection — it is a star, it is light itself; 
 and in its richness the city, the palace, 
 and the throne, and the happy faces of 
 his servants round him, glow and shine." 
 And as he spoke, I looked at the old 
 man's jewel, and his countenance itself 
 grew so glorious, that I could not gaze 
 any longer, but cast down my dazzled 
 eyes, and was silent. At length, after a 
 pause of some moments, my eagerness 
 to hear more constrained me to resume 
 the conversation; and when I looked up, 
 the jewel was again hidden in the old 
 man's breast, his appearance had taken 
 its soberer beauty, and the presence of 
 that marvellous treasure was only be- 
 trayed by the strange calm and peace 
 which had first attracted me in the ve- 
 teran's face.
 
 OF THE king's OWN. 85 
 
 " But," I asked, " if such a possession 
 indeed is yours, the wonder now seems 
 to iiie to be, how the King's enemies can 
 have a follower left. Have your oppo- 
 nents any similar reward to offer?" 
 
 ••« Similar things," he replied, " they 
 at one time often tried to make, but the 
 same they could never have ; and even 
 to imitate the outside beauty of it they 
 found so difficult, that the soberest men 
 of the party have, for the most part, 
 ^Iven it up in despair, and say it is all a 
 
 cheat." 
 
 "But why, at least, does not each 
 one try for himself," I asked, " and see 
 if it is true or not?" 
 
 "There are many reasons," he re- 
 plied, sorrowfully, " which keep the land 
 from returning nationally to its allcgi-
 
 S6 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 ance. The usurper is still in power, 
 and gives away the offices of state as he 
 pleases ; bonds and imprisonments often 
 await uSj as you see is the case with me ; 
 and many prefer the possession oi" lands 
 and houses, or even less, to the reversion 
 of a city, and the service of a prince they 
 have never seen/' 
 
 " I understand," I replied. 
 
 " Besides, '^ he added, '' there are 
 strict rules binding our order. The 
 people of the usurper do each what is 
 right in his own eyes; but we are sub- 
 ject to our Prince's laws, which, though 
 most blessed to those who keep them, 
 seem to those who are outside, and live 
 lawlessly, severe and strict. We are 
 subject to our Prince, and to one an- 
 other for his sake ; and only those who
 
 OF THE king's OWN. 87 
 
 have proved the joy of that subjection 
 and service know how much happier 
 it is than the tyranny of their lawless- 
 ness and self-\\'ill." 
 
 "What are those counterfeit jewels 
 you alluded to?" I asked. 
 
 " They are of various construction," 
 he replied ; " some try to imitate one 
 quality of our jewel, and some another. 
 Some of the court jewellers of the usur- 
 per make a paste or tinsel jewel, which, 
 when the sun shines, has a lustre a 
 little like that of ours. The young- 
 courtiers often wear this; bat when the 
 sun is clouded or sets, it ceases to shine, 
 so that even its outward resemblance is 
 very imperfect, and it docs not even pre- 
 tend to imitate the secret of the foun- 
 tain or the magic glass. And, more-
 
 88 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 over, it can be stolen or broken : often, 
 even in the courtly revels, it is broken ; 
 often it is stolen or dropped, and, even 
 if it is retained, in a few years the lustre 
 fades awav and can never be restored. 
 Then," he continued, " some made 
 a bold effort to imitate our jewel in its 
 form of the crystal vase ; but the crystal 
 itself is dim ; and for the living foun- 
 tain they have never been able to sub- 
 stitute anything but a fiery liquid, 
 needing constantly to be replenished, 
 and, in reality, only increasing the 
 thirst it professes to still, until it be- 
 comes a burning;, consuming inward 
 fever. But as they have never tasted 
 of our water, the wretched deluded 
 ones persist in saying theirs is the 
 true."
 
 OF THE king's OWN. 89 
 
 '•'And the telescope?" I inquired — 
 " the magic glass ?" 
 
 " The telescope/' he replied, with a 
 smile, which had no mockery, but much 
 sadness in it — "the mao-ic glass thcv 
 have never even attempted to imitate ; 
 and, therefore, as none can ever look 
 through it but its possessor, they say it 
 is a lie and a cheat; and our persisting in 
 declaring what it really is, is the source 
 of many of our sufferings. For this we 
 arc thrown into madhouses and prisons, 
 and led to the scaffold and the stake.^' 
 
 After a brief pause, he resumed — 
 
 '■' The wise men and statesmen of the 
 usurper's party now, however, for the 
 most part, take an entirely different 
 method. They discourage all these 
 counterfeits, which they say are paying
 
 90 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 a most undeserved compliment to us. 
 They say our jewels are mere sham and 
 tinsel; that the light they shed exists 
 only in the fancy of the spectators; 
 that the living water is nothing but a 
 mirage; and that the visions we see 
 through the telescope are simply a lie. 
 They affect to despise us too much to 
 punish us; and if they persecute us at 
 all, it is simply by contemptuously 
 shutting us up in asylums as enthusiasts 
 — harmless, unless we mislead others. It 
 is only a few of the most inveterate, 
 such as myself, who may succeed in 
 bringing over too many to the side of 
 our King, that they occasionally make 
 examples of to sober the rest. But it is 
 all entirely useless," he added, very joy- 
 fully; "the King's followers increase, his
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 9T 
 
 cause is gaining ground, and," he added, 
 with a subdued voice, " the King him- 
 self is coming." 
 
 " Is it really true," I asked, after a 
 time, " that nothing, or no man, can 
 rob vou of this treasure?" 
 
 *' Our treasure no man takcth from 
 us," he replied. " This he gave us, 
 this he left with us : not as the world 
 gh'cth, gave he unto us." 
 
 " But can nothing you yourselves do, 
 or omit to do, spoil or dim your jewel ?" 
 I resumed. 
 
 His brow saddened. 
 
 " Alas ! there and there only have 
 our enemies any real strength against 
 us,-' he replied. " Sorrows only add to 
 its lustre; in the loss of everything else 
 it only shines the brighter; hunger and
 
 93 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 thirst but prove the unfaihng nature ot 
 the fountain in the crystal vase ; desti- 
 tution and darkness, dungeons and tor- 
 tures, only make the bright visions of 
 our telescope more glorious; but we, 
 we ourselves may indeed dim its lustre, 
 or, if we will, yield it up altogether." 
 
 " All this is natural and comprehen- 
 sible," I said. *'Thc dungeon must 
 make the jewel brighter; the drought, 
 the unfailing spring more precious; the 
 narrowing of all prospects here, enhance 
 the visions of that magic glass; the cruel- 
 tics of the usurper, endear the sight of 
 the Prince you serve." 
 
 " This the wisest of our enemies 
 have found out," the old man replied. 
 "They find that nothing they can 
 do harms us, but only what they can
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 93 
 
 make us do ourselves; and to this they 
 direct their efforts.'^ 
 
 "In what way ?" I inquired. 
 
 " In many ways/' he answered, sadly. 
 " The jewel, which nothing external can 
 dim, is sensitive to the Itast change in us. 
 Any infringement of our King's laws, 
 or, especially, any unfaithfulness to our 
 King, dims its lustre at once; any 
 drinking of these forbidden cups of in- 
 toxication dries up the crystal foun- 
 tain; any yielding to the usurper's ser- 
 vice blots out from our magic glass 
 its glorious visions, and the sight of 
 our King in his beauty." 
 
 "Are there any other dangers?" I 
 inquired. 
 
 " Countless dangers," he replied. 
 " Especially three devices have been
 
 94 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 found too successful against us. Our 
 jewel only keeps bright with use^ anJ in 
 three ways our enemies endeavour to 
 deter us from using it. The timid they 
 threaten, and induce to hide it from 
 fear : and the cowardly concealing of 
 our treasure inflicts on us two evils : it 
 prevents our winning by it fresh fol- 
 lowers to our Prince ; and in conceal- 
 ment the jewel itself invariably grows 
 dim. The young and careless they en- 
 gage in the ambitious pursuus or the 
 gay amusements of the cosirt, until they 
 forget to use the precious gem, and in 
 ceasing to use it they necessarily cease 
 to shine with its lio-ht, and grow like 
 any of the usurper's train. And again, 
 there are some poor, and distrusting, 
 and fearful ones, whom our enemies
 
 OF THE king's OWN. 95 
 
 persuade that it is a daring presumption 
 for such as they to pretend they have 
 had especial communication with the 
 King, and even at times torment them 
 into thinking the King's own jewel 
 tinsel; so that, in looking and looking 
 to see if it is a true jewel, they forget to 
 clasp it on their hearts, or drink the 
 living water, or look through the magic 
 glass." 
 
 "That is a strange delusion," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 "Yes," he said; '-'but it is easily 
 cured, if once we can persuade them 
 to look through the jewel instead of 
 looking at it; for then they sec the 
 King with the jewel on his breast, and 
 the smile in his eyes, and their doubts 
 melt away in floods of happy tears.
 
 g6 THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER 
 
 This I know," he added, " for I was 
 once one of these. I had neglected to use 
 my jewel ; and then an enemy, in the 
 guise of a friend, persuaded me to ques- 
 tion its genuineness; but I ventured to 
 look through it once again, and since 
 then I do not look at my jewel, but 
 craze throuo;h it to the Kino-'s heart: 
 and from that day my jewel has not 
 grown dim." 
 
 " But you spoke of some who lost it 
 altogether," I said. 
 
 " They are those," he said, solemnly, 
 " who have deliberately yielded it up to 
 enter the service of the usurper, or those 
 who, in base timidity, have cast it away 
 in denvino; our Kino-." 
 
 " And for such can it ever be re- 
 covered?" I said.
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 97 
 
 " For one such, as disloyal as any, it 
 was," he answered. " He went out and 
 ivept bitterly; the King forgave him, 
 and in time the treasure was restored to 
 him, and he became one of our most 
 glorious veterans." 
 
 " How is the jewel to be recovered if 
 lost?" I asked. 
 
 " By going to the place where first 
 it was found," he replied. "There, on 
 the lonely beach, before daybreak, it 
 must be sought, morning after morning, 
 until the sun's first rays reveal it once 
 more glittering among the shingle as at 
 first. But the waiting is often longer 
 than it was at first." 
 
 " Will you wear your jewel," I 
 asked, " when the King comes, or when 
 you go to join him beyond the sea? "
 
 q8 the jewel of the order 
 
 "There," he replied, with an expres- 
 sion of rapturous joy, "we shall see the 
 jewel on the King's heart. There we 
 shall have no need of the hidden foun- 
 tain, for the river of living waters flows 
 there, bright as crystal ; and no need of 
 the magic glass, for the King is near ; 
 but the jewel will shine in that happy 
 place on brow and breast for ever and 
 ever/' 
 
 And as I left the sea-shore and the 
 o|^d man, these words floated through 
 my heart, as if they were echoes of his 
 history, or his story an echo of them : — 
 
 " Be not ye, as the hypocrites, of a 
 sad countenance." 
 
 " Peace I leave with you, my peace I 
 give unto you : not as the world giveth, 
 give I unto you."
 
 OF THE KING S OWN. 99 
 
 " Rejoice in the Lord alway : and 
 again 1 say, Rejoice.'^ 
 
 " Your joy no man taketh from 
 you."
 
 %l)z Cartjcoral Cljimcs 
 
 A LEGEND.
 
 A lEGEND. 
 
 N a city whose history dates 
 from the ages of sUvery bells 
 and stately buildings, there 
 stood, and stands now for aught I know, 
 a cathedral, rich in all the endless fancies 
 of Gothic art. Inside, it was solemn 
 with shade, and gorgeous with light 
 which came in through the elaborate 
 tracciy of the stained windows, many- 
 coloured, and broken as the sunbeams 
 through a tropical forest. Outside, 
 fretted pinnacles and carved bell-towers
 
 104- THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 sprang upward, grand yet fairy-like, as li 
 stone towers rose as easily and naturally 
 towards heaven as oaks and pines. But 
 the chief glory of this cathedral was its 
 bells. They were the pride of the citj', 
 and the jrreat attraction to stran2cers. 
 Their history formed an important part 
 of the civic chronicles. 
 
 A lady of a royal house had given 
 them as a thankofFcring for her lord's 
 safe return from the Crusades. All her 
 silver-plate and ornaments, w^ith spoils 
 of Saracens from the recovered Holy 
 Land, had been poured into the mould 
 wdien they were made, so that from 
 their birth all tender and sacred memo- 
 ries had been fused into their very 
 essence, and their first tones echoed far- 
 oif times and lands. A bishop who
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. I05 
 
 afterwards suffered martyrdom in the 
 hands of African Moslems had blessed 
 them. Their first peal had sounded in 
 honour of a great victory. They had 
 summoned the people through ages oi 
 conflict to defend their liberties. Thev 
 had blended their life with the life of 
 every home, — in family joys and family 
 sorrows, at wedding, christening, and 
 funeral. They had made Sundays and 
 holidays glad with their joyous voices. 
 And last, but not least, by aid of an 
 elaborate mechanism of hammers, rope, 
 and pulleys, they had for centuries cele- 
 brated the departure of every hour with 
 a chorale, and every half hour with a 
 strain like the vcrsicle of a chant, and 
 every quarter of an hour with a little 
 sprinkle of sweet sound.
 
 IC6 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 Imagine, then, the dismay of the citi- 
 zens, when, one Monday morning, eight 
 o'clock came, and no sound issued from 
 the cathedral; half-past eight, silence; 
 nine, not a note of warning! Their 
 wonder was increased when the usual 
 peal rung out, clear and full as ever, for 
 the morning service, and by mid-day the 
 whole city was in a commotion. It was 
 plain something must be wrong with the 
 machinery of the chimes. 
 
 Immediately the most skilful me- 
 chanics of the town, clock-makers and 
 bell-founders, with the men of science, 
 and the whole corporation, in a state- 
 procession, mounted the clock-tower. 
 " We will soon set it right," they said 
 to the agitated crowd as they entered 
 the belfry-door. The ropes of the ma-
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHliMES. IO7 
 
 chlnery were tested, — all were sound; 
 not a flaw in the hammers ; not a clog 
 in the wheels ; not a crack in the silvery 
 metal. Microscopes were employed, 
 conjectures were hazarded, experiments 
 of all kinds were tried, but not a ray of 
 light was thrown on the perplexity. 
 The clever hands, and the wise heads, 
 and the will of the authorities were all 
 baffled ; and the procession reappeared 
 to the assembled multitudes with very 
 crestfallen looks. 
 
 That afternoon little work was done 
 in the workshops, few lessons were 
 learned in the schools, all the routine 
 of household habits was interrupted ; 
 and when it grew dark the Great Square 
 was filled with people who were afraid 
 to separate and go to bed without the
 
 108 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 sanction of the cathedral chimes. Many 
 foreboded some terrible disaster to the 
 city, and some thought the end of the 
 world was come. 
 
 But when it was dark a sound very 
 weird and strange, yet with a music like 
 the old familiar tones, came from the 
 church-tower, as it rose dim and grand 
 against the starry sky. It was a voice, 
 not human, yet with a strange like- 
 ness to a human voice, silvery as a 
 stream, thrilling as a battle-trumpet, 
 familiar to each listener as his own, 
 like the blended voices of a spirit and a 
 bell. 
 
 " We have borne it too long," said the 
 bell-voice. "We were set here on hio-h 
 for other purposes than men have put 
 us to. Is not this a cathedral, a sane-
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. IC9 
 
 tuary, and a shrine, sacred with the dust 
 of martyrs, and dedicated to the service 
 of Heaven ? Were not we christened 
 like immortals ? Were not we conse- 
 secrated like priests? The touch of 
 holy hands is on us, and shall we be 
 debased to secular uses ? Set apart like 
 sacred ministers in a sacred dwelling, 
 shall we be required to mingle in the 
 common circumstances of your daily 
 life? Raised on high to be near the 
 heavens we serve, shall our saintly voices 
 serve to tell you when to eat and sleep ? 
 We have borne it too long. We will 
 still serve Heaven, and summon you on 
 Sundays and Holydays. We will call 
 you to the solemn services of the Church. 
 We will, if necessary, sound a trium- 
 phant peal on days of national thanks-
 
 no THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 giving, in remembrance of the Victory 
 which first awoke us into music. We 
 will even condescend to ring at your 
 weddings — because marriage is a sacred 
 office — and at your baptisms. We will 
 toll solemnly when your spirits pass 
 from earth, and when your bodies are 
 laid in the churchyard we have seen 
 slowly raised with the dust of your 
 dying generations. But henceforth ex- 
 pect us not to do work which your com- 
 monest house-clocks can do as well. 
 Let your eight-day clocks — your gilded 
 time-pieces — call you to work, and eat, 
 and rest. We are sacred things, set 
 solemnly apart from all secular uses. 
 Our business is with Eternity, and the 
 Church, and Heaven. Call on us no 
 more to commune with the things of
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. Ill 
 
 the world, and earth, and time. We 
 are your cathedral bells, but we will 
 be your household clock-chimes no 
 longer." 
 
 Then the voice died away on the 
 night air. For a few minutes there 
 was silence, but soon it was broken by 
 sobs and lamentations, and all the 
 people lifted up their voice as one man, 
 and wept. 
 
 The house-father said, " Shall we 
 never more hear your voice calling 
 us to morning and evening prayer? 
 Whenever you told us it was the 
 hour, the mother came from her work, 
 and the children from their play, and 
 together we knelt a united family, and 
 committed each other to God." 
 
 And the mother said, " Your voices
 
 Iia THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 are blended with every happy household 
 time. Sweet bells, will you mingle w ith 
 our family joys no more ? In the morn- 
 ing you wakened us to begin another 
 busy day, and the sun's beams and your 
 voices came together to call us to serve 
 God in our lowly calling ; and both, we 
 thought, came to us from heaven ; and 
 both, we thought, were meek and 
 lowly, and ready to minister to us in 
 our daily lives, because both were sent 
 from Him who came among us once, 
 not to be ministered unto, but to minis- 
 ter; and both, we thought, had caught 
 something of the light of the eyes which 
 wept at Bethany, and of the tones of 
 the voice which spoke at Cana and at 
 Nain. At midday you told me it was 
 time to send the dinner to my husband
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. II3 
 
 and my elder sons. At six your voice 
 was welcome to us all, because we knew 
 the father's step would soon be on the 
 threshold. At eight you reminded me 
 it was time to lay the little ones to rest, 
 and many a time have you brought 
 happy and holy thoughts to me in those 
 psalms you sang to me whilst I hushed 
 my babes to sleep; and all my every- 
 day life seemed to be more linked with 
 sacred things, to become, as it were, a 
 part of the service of God, because it 
 moved to the music of your voices. 
 And again at night your tones were 
 welcome, as in the morning, when they 
 told us the day's work was over, and, 
 wearied, we lay down to peaceful rest ; 
 for throuo-h the night we knew your 
 
 sacred voices would sound to Heaven 
 H
 
 114 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 above our sleeping city, like the voices 
 of the angels, who rest not day nor 
 night, saying, Holy, holy, holy. Sweet 
 bells, will you never chime for us 
 again?" 
 
 And the children said, in their clear, 
 sweet, ringing voices, " Dear chimes, do 
 not cease to play to us. You wake us to 
 thehappyday,you set usfree from school, 
 and send us home laughing and dancing 
 for joy J you call our fathers home to us, 
 at night you sing us to sleep, and your 
 voices are blended with our mothers' 
 in our happy dreams. Sweet chimes, 
 you sang so rnany years to our fathers 
 and mothers; and our grandfathers re- 
 member you when they were little chil- 
 dren like us. Dear chimes, sing to us 
 still."
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. IT5 
 
 And from the sick-chamber, which 
 looked into the cathedral square, where 
 the windows were darkened all day, and 
 sand was strewn before the door, that 
 the din of the passing wheels might jar 
 less roughly on the aching head with- 
 in, came a low and plaintive voice, — 
 " Sweet bells, your commonest tones 
 are sacred to me. You are my church 
 music, the only church music I can 
 ever hear. When I hear you chime 
 the hour on Sundays and on the fes- 
 tivals, I feel mvself amono; the multi- 
 tude within your sacred walls, and 
 your voice seems to bear their sono-s 
 of praise to me, and I am no more 
 alone, but one of the worshippers. But 
 at night it is I prize you most. All 
 through the hours of darkness, so often
 
 il6 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 sleepless to me, your voice is the voice of 
 a friend, familiar as my mother's, yet 
 solemn as the chants of the choir. It 
 helps me to measure off the hours of 
 pain, and say, 'Thank God, an hour 
 less of night, and an hour nearer morn- 
 ing.' And how often, when my suf- 
 fering is great, you have come with the 
 old psalm-tune, and every tone has 
 brought its word to me, and spoken to 
 me as if direct from God, and filled my 
 heart with trust and peace ! Your least 
 sprinkles of sweet sound arc precious to 
 me. I fancy they are like the waters 
 of time falling musically from stone to 
 stone on their way to the great sea. I 
 feel they are as the echoes of the foot- 
 steps of Him who is drawing nearer and 
 nearer to me, and they draw my heart
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. II7 
 
 nearer to Him. Sweet bells^ your com- 
 monest tones are sacred, for what is 
 the World but that which becomes the 
 Church when it learns how God has 
 loved it, and turns from self to Him ? 
 and what is Earth but the floor of 
 Heaven, which heavenly feet once trod ? 
 and what is Time but the little fra2;ment 
 of Eternity in which we live on earth ? 
 Sweet bells, make not my sleepless 
 nights lonely and silent, but sing to 
 me, sing to us all, as of old. Make all 
 our life sacred by linking every frag- 
 ment of our life to God.^'' 
 
 But still no responsive sound came 
 from the cathedral tower, and the people 
 waited on in the silence and the dark- 
 ness. At last a young priest came for 
 ward and ventured a bold susio'cstion:
 
 I I 8 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 — " Are not the devils proud, and the 
 angels lowly ? Did the angel think it 
 beneath him to say to Elijah, Arise, 
 and eat?' Did Gabriel hesitate to de- 
 scend from the presence of God to bear 
 to an aged priest the tidings of the 
 birth of a child? Did that other ano;el 
 
 CD 
 
 deem it secular to say to Peter the 
 apostle, ' Gird thyself, and bind on thy 
 sandals, and cast thy garment about 
 thee,' before he led him over the stony 
 streets through the cold night air? 
 And should our cathedral bells scorn 
 to bid us 'rise and eat/ or to chime at 
 our births, or to summon us to 'gird 
 and clothe ' ourselves for every day's 
 work ? Brethren, proud thoughts, and 
 scorn of daily service, and voices which 
 call our everyday life common and un-
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. II9 
 
 clean, are not from Heaven. The bells 
 are possessed by a proud and evil spirit. 
 Let us exorcise thcm/^ 
 
 The suowstion at first startled the 
 people as daring, and irreverent to the 
 church bells, but in their despair they 
 at length agreed to try it. A solemn 
 procession of priests and holy men 
 and women mounted the cathedral 
 tower, and, in ancient formulas, with 
 prayer and incense, and the music of 
 holy hymns, they exorcised the fiend. 
 
 Then at once a tide of pent-up music 
 flowed from the liberated bells. They 
 conscientiouslv ranii; out all at once 
 every hour and half-hour they had 
 omitted, and then meekly and steadily 
 resumed their wonted chimes, and con 
 tinned them ever afterwards, like voices
 
 120 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 
 
 of happy and lowly angels calling men 
 to wake and pray, to " rise and eat," to 
 pray and rest, cheering the workman to 
 his daily labonr, and welcoming him 
 from it, chanting to the mother as she 
 lulled her babe, and in the sick-chamber 
 soothing the lonely hours with melo- 
 dious sound, and waking in the lonely 
 heart sweet echoes of the psalms of 
 praise. 
 
 Here the Legend ended. I heard, 
 however, afterwards that the young 
 priest, who exorcised them, lived to 
 spread Glad Tidings through the city, 
 but that he was at last burned in 
 the cathedral square for preaching to 
 men what he had said about the church 
 bells. Yet in the flames, it was said, 
 he looked up to the cathedral tower,
 
 THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES. 121 
 
 and sang the words of a psalm of praise 
 the old bells were chiming, till his voice 
 was silenced in death. And ever since 
 the chimes have taken up his message, 
 and cfeant to those who will listen, hour 
 
 by hour. 
 
 " Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, 
 or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory 
 of God."
 
 Jlfllljat malvC0 tEIjings 9^u0ical:
 
 CLlUjat ma^CiS ^Ijinggi iSI^UiSfcal? 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 fiHE Sun ! " said the Forest. 
 " In the night I am still 
 and voiceless. A weight of 
 silence lies upon my heart. If you pass 
 through me, the sound of your own 
 footstep echoes fearfully, like the foot- 
 fall of a ghost. If you speak to break 
 the spell, the silence closes in on your 
 words, like the ocean on a pebble you 
 throw into it. The wind sighs far off 
 among the branches, as if he were hush- 
 ing his breath to listen. If a little bird
 
 126 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL? 
 
 chirps uneasily in its nest, it is silenced 
 before you can find out whence the 
 sound came. But the dawn breaks. Be- 
 fore a gray streak can be seen, my trees 
 feci it, and quiver through every old 
 trunk and tiny twig w ith joy ; my birds 
 feel it, and stir dreamily in their nests, 
 as if they were just murmuring to each 
 other, ' How comfortable we are !' 
 Then the wind awakes, and tunes m) 
 trees for the concert, striking his hand 
 across one and another, until all their 
 varied harmonies are astir; the soft, 
 liquid rustlings of my oaks and beeches 
 make the rich treble to the deep, plain- 
 tive tones of my pines. Then my early 
 birds awake one by one, and answer each 
 other in sweet responses, mitil the Sun 
 rises, and the whole joyous chorus bursts
 
 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL ? 127 
 
 into song to the organ and flute accom- 
 paniments of my evergreens and sum- 
 mer leaves ; and in the pauses countless 
 happy insects chirp, and buzz, and whirl 
 with contented murmuring among my 
 ferns and flower-bells. The Sun makes 
 me musical," said the Forest. 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 " Storms ! " said the Sea. " In calm 
 weather I lie still and sleep, or, now^ and 
 then, say a few quiet words to the 
 beaches I ripple on, or the boats which 
 glide through my waters. But in the 
 tempest you learn what my voice is, 
 when all my slumbering powers awake, 
 and I thunder through the caverns, and 
 rush with all my battle-music on the 
 rocks, whilst, between the grand artillery
 
 128 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL? 
 
 of my breakers, the wind peals its wild 
 trumpet-pealsj and the waters rush back 
 to my breast from the cliffs they have 
 scaled, in torrents and cascades, like the 
 voices of a thousand rivers. My music 
 is battle-music. Storms make me 
 musical," said the Sea. 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 " Action \" said the Stream. " I lay 
 still in my mountain-cradle for a long 
 while. It is very silent up there. Oc- 
 casionally the shadow of an eagle swept 
 across me with a wild cry; but gene- 
 rally, from morning till night, I knew 
 no change save the shadows of miy rocky 
 cradle, which went round steadily with 
 the sun, and the shadows of the clouds, 
 which glided across me, without my
 
 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL? I29 
 
 ever knowing whence or whither. But 
 the rocks and clouds are very silent. 
 The sinoinof-birds did not venture so 
 hioh : and the insects had nothino- to 
 tempt them near me, because no honey- 
 ed flower-bells bent over me there — no- 
 thing but little mosses and gray lichens, 
 and these, though very lovely, are quiet 
 creatures, and make no stir. I used to 
 find it monotonous sometimes, and 
 longed to have power to wake the 
 hills ; and I should have found it more 
 so, had I not felt I was growing, and 
 should flow forth to bless the fields 
 by and by. Every drop that fell into 
 my rocky basin I welcomed; and, at 
 last, the spring rains came, and all my 
 rocks sent me down little rills on every 
 
 side, and the snows melted into my 
 I
 
 130 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL? 
 
 cup ; and, at last, T rose beyond the 
 rim of my dwelling, and was free. 
 Then I danced down over the hills, and 
 sang as I went, till all the lonely places 
 were glad with my voice; and I tinkled 
 over the stones like bells, and crept 
 among my cresses like fairy flutes, and 
 dashed over the rocks and plunged into 
 the pools with all my endless harmonies. 
 Action makes me musical," said the 
 Stream. 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 ''Suffering!" said the Harp-strings. 
 " We were dull lumps of silver and 
 copper-ore in the mines; and no silence 
 on the living, sunny earth is like the 
 i)lank of voiceless ages in those dead 
 and sunless depths. But, since then,
 
 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL? T3I 
 
 we have passed through many fires. The 
 hidden earth-fires underneath the moun- 
 tains first moulded us, millenniums since, 
 to ore; and then, in these last years, 
 human hands have finished the training 
 which makes us what we are. We have 
 been smelted in furnaces heated seven 
 times, till all our dross was gone; and 
 then we have been drawn out on the rack, 
 and hammered and fused, and, at last, 
 stretched on these wooden frames, and 
 drawn tighter and tighter, until we won- 
 der at ourselves, and at the gentle hand 
 which strikes such rich and wondrous 
 chords and melodies from us — from us, 
 who were once silent lumps of ore in the 
 silent mines. Fires and blows have 
 done it for us. Suffering has made us 
 musical,^' said the Harp-strings.
 
 132 what makes things musical? 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 " Union ! " said the Rocks. " What 
 could be less musical than we, as we 
 rose in bare crags from the hill-tops, or 
 lay strewn about in huge isolated boul- 
 ders in the valleys ? The trees which 
 sprang from our crevices had each its 
 voice; the forests which clothed our 
 sides had all these voices blended in 
 richest harmonies when the wind touch- 
 ed them; the streams which gushed 
 from our stony hearts sang joyous carols 
 to us all day and all night long; the 
 grasses and wild-flowers which clasped 
 their tiny fingers round us had each some 
 sweet murmur of delight as the breezes 
 played with them; but we, who ever 
 thought there was music in us? Yet
 
 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL ? I33 
 
 now a human hand has gathered us from 
 moor and mountain and lonely fell, and 
 side by side we lie and give out music to 
 the hand that strikes us. Thus we, 
 who had lain for centuries unconscious 
 that there was a note of music in our 
 hearts, answer one another in melodious 
 tones, and combine in rich chords, just 
 because we have been brought together. 
 Union makes us musical," said the 
 Rocks. 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 "Life!" said the Oak-beam in the 
 good ship. " I know it by its loss. 
 Once T quivered in the forest at the 
 touch of every breeze. Every living 
 leaf of mine had melody, and all to- 
 gether made a stream of many-voiced
 
 134 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL ? 
 
 music 5 whilst around me were countless 
 living trees like myself, who woke at 
 every dawn to a chorus in the morning 
 breeze. But since the axe was laid 
 at our roots, all the music has gone 
 from our branches. "We are useful still, 
 they say, in the gallant ship, and our 
 country mentions us with honour even 
 in death ; but the music has gone from 
 us with life for ever, and we can only 
 groan and creak in the storms. Life 
 made us musical," said the Oak-beam. 
 
 What makes creatures musical? 
 "Joy!" laughed the Children, and 
 their happy laughter pealed through the 
 sweet fresh air as they bounded over the 
 fields, as if it had caught the most m usical 
 tones of everything musical in nature, —
 
 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL ? I 35 
 
 the ripple of waves, the thikiing ot 
 brooks, the morning songs of birds. 
 '^JoY makes creatures musical," said 
 the Children. 
 
 What makes things musical? 
 
 "Love!" said the little Thrush, as 
 he warbled to his mate on the spring 
 morning, and the Mother, as she sang 
 soft lullabies to her babe. And all the 
 Creatures said — 
 
 " Amen ! Love makes us musical. 
 In Storms and Sunshine, Suffering and 
 Joy, Action, Union, Life, Love is the 
 music at the heart of all. Love makes 
 us musical," said all the Creatures. 
 
 And from the multitude before the 
 throne, who, through fires of Tribula- 
 tion and Storms of conflict, had learned
 
 1^6 WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL ? 
 
 the new song, and from depths of Dark- 
 ness and the silence of Isolation had 
 been broug-ht tocrether in the Lio;ht of 
 Life to sing it, floated down a soft 
 " Amen, for God is Love."
 
 Clje acorn. 
 
 HEN will my training be- 
 gin ? " said the acorn to 
 itself, as it unfolded its 
 delicately-carved cup and saucer on the 
 branch of an old oak on the edge of a 
 forest. " I understand I am to be an 
 oak one day, like my father. All the 
 acorns say that is what we are to be, 
 but there certainly seems little chance 
 of it at present. I have been sitting 
 here for no one knows how many days, 
 and I feel no change, except that I look 
 less pretty than I did when I was young
 
 140 THE ACORN. 
 
 . « 
 
 and green, and begin to feel rather dry, 
 and shrivelled, and old. At this rate, 
 I do not see much chance of my be- 
 coming an oak, or anything else but an 
 old, dry acorn. When will ray train- 
 ins beoin ? " 
 
 As it meditated thus, a strong breeze 
 sighed mournfully through the autunm 
 woods, and shook down many brown 
 leaves from the old oak, and with them 
 the acorn. 
 
 " This will hinder my progress again," 
 thought the acorn, "for it is evident 
 such a downfall as this can have no- 
 thing to do with my education. When 
 will my training begin ? " 
 
 A day or two afterwards a drove of 
 hoos was turned into the forest, and 
 they began grunting and grubbing
 
 THE ACORN. I4I 
 
 amono; the dead leaves for acorns. 
 Many of its brethren did our acorn see 
 ruthlessly hurried into those voracious 
 jaws. It kept v^ery quiet under the dead 
 leaves to avoid a similar fate, but it 
 thought — "This is a sad delay. It is too 
 plain that being trampled on and tossed 
 about in this way can teach no one any- 
 thing. When will my training begin ?" 
 Meanwhile, the swine rummaged 
 among the dead leaves, and trod them 
 under foot, and tossed the decaying 
 mould hither and thither with their 
 snouts and feet, until one of them by 
 accident rolled our acorn down a little 
 hill, where it lay buried under some 
 stray leaves many yards from the edge 
 of the forest, in the outskirts of a park. 
 There it lay unobserved all the rest of
 
 14-2 THE ACORN. 
 
 the winter. Even this was a pleasant 
 change after having been tossed about 
 and trodden under foot so long, but in 
 its fall its shrivelled brown skin had 
 cracked, and the acorn thought — "This 
 is a sad disaster. How ever am I to grow 
 into an oak^ when I am so crushed and 
 cracked that scarcely any one would re- 
 cognise me for an acorn ? When will 
 my training begin ? " 
 
 All the winter the rain pattered on it, 
 and sank it deeper and deeper under 
 the dead leaves and under the earth- 
 clods, until all its acorn beauty was 
 marred and crushed out of it, and it 
 fell asleep in the dark, under the cold, 
 damp earth ; and the snows came and 
 folded it in under their white, eider- 
 down pillows. At last, the warm touch,
 
 TH2; ACORN. I43 
 
 that comes to all sleeping nature in the 
 spring, came softly on it, and it awoke. 
 
 " What a pity/' it said, " I should 
 have lost so much time by falling asleep ! 
 I can scarcely make out what I am like, 
 or where I am. What a sad waste of 
 time ! It is clear no one can o;o on 
 with his education in sleep. When 
 will my training begin ?" 
 
 With these thoughts, it stretched out 
 two little green things on each side of 
 it, which felt like wings ; and tried to 
 peep out of its hole, and, to its delight, 
 it succeeded, and, with a few more 
 efforts, even contrived to keep its head 
 steadily above ground, and look around 
 it. 
 
 " There is my father, the old oak," 
 it said. " He looks quite green again.
 
 144 THE ACORN. 
 
 But I am a long way off from him, 
 and how very small and close to the 
 ground ! When shall I begin to be 
 like him?" 
 
 But meantime it was very happy. It 
 felt so full of life, although so small ; 
 and the sun shone so graciously on it, 
 and all the showers and dews seemed so 
 full of kindly desires to help and nourish 
 it ; and more and more little green leaves 
 expanded from its sides, and more and 
 more little busy roots shot down into 
 the earth, and the leaves breathed and 
 drank in the sunshine, and the roots were 
 great chemists and cooks, and concocted 
 a perpetual feast for it out of the earth 
 and stones. But it thought sometimes, 
 " This Is all exceedingly pleasant, and I 
 am very happy ; but, of course, this is
 
 THE ACORN. 
 
 145 
 
 not education; it is only enjoying my- 
 self. When will my training begin ? " 
 
 The next spring the early frosts had 
 much more power over it in its de- 
 tached, exposed situation than over the 
 saplings in the shelter of the forest, and 
 it saw the trees in the wood growino- 
 green, and tempting the song-birds be- 
 neath their leafy tents, whilst the sap still 
 flowed feebly upward through its tiny 
 cells, and its twigs and leaf-buds were 
 still brown and hard. 
 
 "This must be a great hindrance to 
 me," it thought — " this, no doubt, 
 will retard my education considerably. 
 What a pity I stand here so detached 
 and unprotected ! When will my train- 
 ing begin?" 
 
 But in the late spring came some 
 
 K
 
 146 THE ACORN. 
 
 days of black east wind and bitter frost, 
 and it saw the more forward leaves in 
 the wood turn pale and shrivel before 
 they unfolded, and then fall off, nipped 
 and lifeless, to join the old dead leaves 
 of the past autumn, whilst its own little 
 buds lay safe within their hard and 
 glossy casings, protected by one enemy 
 against a worse. And when the east 
 wind and the black frosts were gone, the 
 little sapling shot up freely. 
 
 In that summer, and the next, and 
 the next, it made great progress ; but in 
 the fourth autumn a great disappoint- 
 ment awaited it. The owner of the 
 park in which it grew came by, and 
 stood beside it, and said to his forester — 
 
 " That sapling is worth preserving, 
 it is so vigorous and healthy; and,
 
 THE ACORN. 
 
 147 
 
 Standing in this detached position, it 
 will break the line of the wood, and 
 look well from my house. We will 
 watch it, and set a fence around it to 
 guard it from the cattle. But it has 
 thrown out a false leader. Take your 
 knife and cut this straggling shoot away, 
 and next year, I have no doubt, it will 
 grow well," 
 
 Then the forester applied his knife 
 carefully to the false leader, and cut it off. 
 But the sapling, not having understood 
 the master's words, nor observed with 
 what care and design the knife was ap- 
 plied, felt wounded to the core. 
 
 "My best and strongest shoot,'' it 
 sighed to itself. " It was a cruel cut. 
 It will take me a long time to repair 
 that loss. I am afraid it has lost me at
 
 148 THE ACORX. 
 
 least a vear. When will mv trainino" 
 begin?" 
 
 But the next year the master's words 
 were fulfilled. 
 
 Thus years passed on. And slowly, 
 twig by twig-, and shoot by shoot, the 
 sapling grew. Sunbeams expanded its 
 leaves ; rains nourished Its roots ; frosts, 
 checking its early buds, hardened its 
 wood; winds swaying it hither and 
 thither, as if they were determined to 
 level it, only rooted it more firmly. 
 And year by year the top grew a little 
 higher, and the wood a little firmer, 
 and the trunk a little thicker, and the 
 roots a little deeper ; but so slowly, that 
 summer by summer it said — 
 
 "This is very pleasant; but it is only 
 breathing, and being happy. It cer-
 
 THE ACOBN. I49 
 
 tainly cannot be the discipline which 
 forms the great oaks. When will my 
 trainins; bcsrin ?" 
 
 And autumn by autumn, as the sap 
 ■flowed downward, and the buds ceased 
 to expand, and the branches grew leaf- 
 less and dry, it thought — 
 
 *' This is a sad loss of time. Now I 
 am falling into torpor again, and shall 
 make not an inch of progress for six 
 long months. When will my training 
 besfin ?" 
 
 And winter by winter, as the winds 
 bent it to and fro, and made its branches 
 creak, and threatened its very existence, 
 and the heavy snows sometimes broke 
 its boughs — 
 
 "These are sore trials. I may be 
 thankful if T barelv strucrole through
 
 150 THE ACORN. 
 
 them ! In days like these existence is 
 an effort, and endurance the utmost one 
 can attain. When will my training be- 
 gin V 
 
 And in the spring, when the frosts 
 nipped its finest buds — 
 
 " These little nips and checks are 
 very annoying ; but one must bear them 
 patiently. They are certainly hind- 
 rances; and it is disheartening, when 
 one does one's best, to be continually 
 thrown back by these trifling checks. 
 When will my training begin V 
 
 But, one summer day, a little girl 
 and an old man came and seated them- 
 selves under its shade. By this time it 
 had seen some generations of men, and 
 had learned sometliing of human lan- 
 guage.
 
 THE ACORN. 151 
 
 The old man said — " I remember, 
 when I was a very Httle boy, my grand- 
 fat lie r tellmg me how. when he vyas 
 young, he had marked this tree, then a 
 mere sapling, and pruned it of a false 
 shoot, whieh would have spoiled its 
 beauty, and had it fenced and preserved. 
 And now mv little orand- daughter and I 
 sit \nider its shade ! The fence has long 
 since decayed ; but it is not needed. 
 The cattle come and lie under its shadow, 
 as we do. It is a noble oak-tree now, 
 and gives shelter instead of needing 
 it.'"' 
 
 Then the oak rustled above them ; 
 and the old man and the child thouoht 
 it was a summer breeze stirring the 
 branches. But in reality it was the oak 
 laughing to itself, as it thought —
 
 ] <52 THE ACORN. 
 
 *^ Then I am really a tree 1 and, 
 whilst I was wondering when my train- 
 ing would begin, it has been finished, 
 and I am an oak after all 1 "
 
 f acalilcss III lr}ou<Jc6oiCi ^Iji'ngsf,
 
 PacdlUefJ lit llloujSeljolD '(Eljfan;^* 
 
 jIHE sick o;irl lav In her shaded 
 room, in the street of a great 
 city, and thought, " If I could 
 only leave this prison of mine, and look 
 at the beautiful world, I know I should 
 grow happier and holier with every 
 breath I drew. The thorny bud on the 
 brown branches in spring would give me 
 promise of resurrection ; every butterfly 
 would tell me of life through death; 
 every flower would lift my heart to Him 
 who cares for our little pleasures; every 
 bubbling spring would murmur to me
 
 155 PARABLES IN 
 
 of the living water ; every corn-field and 
 garden would repeat the sacred parables. 
 But here I can see nothing of God's 
 making but the sky, and that is too high 
 and far. I want some steps to take my 
 feeble thoughts gently up to heaven. 
 But around me arc only manufactured 
 things, which speak to me only of earth, 
 and time, and man.'' 
 
 She leant back listlessly on her couch. 
 Twilight cameover the room,theglowing 
 coals stirred quietly as they burnt away, 
 and then it seemed as if an angel's hand 
 touched her ears and opened them, for the 
 dark and silent room became full of soft 
 and soothing harmonies. All the mute 
 and inanimate things about her found 
 voices and spoke comfort to her heart. 
 
 Together they said — " It is true we are
 
 HOUSEHOLD THINGS. 157 
 
 only manufactured things ; but do not 
 despise us for that ! We came originally, 
 as much as you yourself, or the flowers, 
 and the trees, and the sunbeams, from 
 one Divine Hand. It is only that we 
 have been trahied and moulded by human 
 hands to be what we are. And just so 
 are you; God creates you, but life 
 moulds you. Your trial and your train- 
 ing come like ours, mostly through hu- 
 man hands, although you are destined 
 for higher plans and more blessed ser- 
 vices. Listen to us, for we have mes- 
 sages for you, each one of us." 
 
 Then the stones from the wall said — 
 "We come from the mountains far 
 away, from the sides of the craggy hills. 
 Fire and water worked on us for ages, 
 but only made us crao-s. Human hands
 
 158 PARABLES IN 
 
 have made us into a dwelling where the 
 children of your immortal race are born, 
 and sufter, and rejoice, and find rest and 
 shelter, and learn the lessons set them 
 by our Maker and yours. ' But we have 
 passed through much to fit us for this. 
 Gunpowder has rent our very heart; 
 pickaxes have cleaved and broken us, it 
 seemed to us often without design or 
 meaning, as we lay misshapen stones in 
 the quarry ; but gradually we were cut 
 into blocks, and some of us were chisel- 
 led with finer instruments to a sharper 
 edge. But we are complete now, and 
 are in our places, and are of service. 
 You are in the quarry still, and not 
 complete, and therefore to you, as once 
 to us, much is inexplicable. But you 
 are destined for a higher building, and
 
 HOUSEHOLD THINGS. I59 
 
 one day you will be placed in it by hands 
 not human ; a living stone in a hea- 
 venly temple." 
 
 Then the glass water-beaker said — " I 
 was hard flint and waste sand on the 
 desolate sea-shore once, but human 
 hands gathered me, and fused me in 
 furnaces heated seven times, and took 
 me out to let me cool^ and cast me in 
 again, and shaped and cut me till at last 
 I carry your water from the spring, and 
 am pressed with many a thankful glance 
 to your parched lips. I am complete. 
 But you, when you have passed through 
 vour fires, will be a vessel of living water 
 ina better hand, and bear many a draught 
 of refreshment to weary and thirsty 
 hearts." 
 
 " I also have been in many furnaces/'
 
 l6o PARABLES IN 
 
 said the china flower -vase. "The 
 colours you so often admire in me^ have 
 been burnt in slowly, stage by stage, 
 every fresh colour requiring a fresh fus- 
 ing in the furnace. But vou, when vour 
 trial is over, shall carry flowers of Para- 
 dise and leaves from the tree of life for 
 the healing of the nations." 
 
 "And I," said the clock, "am scarcely 
 an individual being. I am a little world 
 in myself^ — a w^ondrous combination of 
 mechanism. Each of my wheels and 
 springs, with my unwearied pendulum, 
 has its own history of fires and blows 
 and ruthless instruments. None of us 
 could form the slightest idea, as we lav 
 dismembered in our various workshops, 
 what we were designed for. Only in 
 combination with every other part, has
 
 HOUSEHOLD THINGS. l6l 
 
 any part of us any meaning. You 
 are not a little world like me, but a 
 fragment of a great world. When all 
 that belong to you are gathered together, 
 you will understand it all as we do now. 
 And your voice will mark with joyous 
 music the flio-ht of blessed ao;es which 
 only lead to others more and more 
 blessed throutrhout eternity." 
 
 "And T,'^ said the bronze pastille- 
 burner, " came from ages of darkness in 
 the depths of the earth. Human hands 
 brought me to the lioht, moulded and 
 sculptured me, and set me here to burn 
 sweet perfumes, and diffuse fragrance 
 around me. But you will be an incense- 
 bearer in a Temple by and by, and from 
 you shall stream a fragrance of love and 
 praise acceptable to God."
 
 j6z parables in 
 
 ''The quarries were my birthplace 
 also/' said the alabaster night-lamp j 
 " but you shall be a light-bearer, when 
 your training is complete, of a light 
 which is life, and which has no need of 
 night, like my dim flame, to make it 
 visible." 
 
 "I," sang the guitar, with the wooden 
 frame and metallic strin2;s, " am a two- 
 fold being. I lived and waved in the 
 forest once J and then the woodman's 
 axe was laid on me, and I fell, — I fell, 
 and the life departed from me; and from 
 a living, life-bearing tree, I became mere 
 inanimate timber. More blows, more 
 tearing with saws, more sharp cutting 
 with knife and chisel, and I became 
 melodious again, simply from being 
 united with these metallic strings, which
 
 HOUSEHOLD THINGS. 163 
 
 never had life, but lay silent in mines, till 
 the hand of man woke them into music. 
 And thus together we respond to your 
 gentle touch, and soothe for you many 
 a lonely hour. Life from death, music 
 through fires of trial : this is also your 
 destiny. Hereafter every nerve of your 
 tried and perfected being shall respond 
 to the sliohtcst touch of the Hand 
 
 O 
 
 you love, filling heaven with happy 
 music." 
 
 " As for me," said the pages of the 
 Prayer-book, " my discipline has, per- 
 haps, been the severest of all. Once 
 rustling in the flax-field, rejoicing in 
 the dews and sunshine, I was torn, 
 racked, twisted, and woven by many 
 iron hands into linen. Then, for a 
 time, treated carefully, decorated and
 
 • 
 
 164. PARABLES IN 
 
 treasured, and washed and perfumed, I 
 was afterwards thrown scornftdly away. 
 Yet, even in that low estate, I found 
 comfort. Even as a rag I bound up 
 the wounds of suffcrhig soldiers in a 
 military hospital. But I was to sink 
 lower yet. I was thrown into a mill, 
 and pounded, crushed, and torn, till I 
 was a mere shapeless pulp. Yet from 
 those depths my true life began. Pro- 
 cess after process succeeded, till here, at 
 last, I am to speak to you undying 
 words of hope and love. And you also, 
 one dav, shall shine forth a living 
 epistle, proclaiming to angels and men 
 for ever and for ever such words as speak 
 to you from my pages now ! " 
 
 The sick cirl smiled, and was com- 
 forted. " Yet," she said, " the fires
 
 HOUSEHOLD THINGS. 165 
 
 are fierce, the blows are heavy, the trial 
 is long. The end is, indeed, well worth 
 them all ', but sometimes the end seems 
 distant!" 
 
 " Yes," responded the Prayer-book, 
 " my history resembles yours in one 
 happy feature more than that of any of 
 us besides. For even in your days of 
 training you are of service. You may 
 clothe cold limbs, and bind up many 
 wounds even now, as I did when I was 
 a poor linen-rag. And, more than that, 
 even now, in your time of trial, the minis- 
 tries you are destined for at last may be 
 begun. Even now you may be a living 
 epistle, a book wherein many may read 
 lessons of hope and patience, and sing 
 praises, as they look on you, as you do 
 when you look on me."
 
 l66 PAUABLES IN 
 
 '' Yes," responded the stones ; " even 
 now you are a living stone. The temple 
 you are to form is building even now." 
 And the pastille-burner : — " Even 
 now your prayers and praises may rise 
 like sweet incense." 
 
 And the water-glass : — " Many a 
 draught of living water may you carry, 
 even now, in the dry and thirsty land, to • 
 hearts that need it." 
 
 And the night-lamp: — "Even now 
 in the night, thou, child of the day, 
 sheddest light around thee — a little light, 
 it may be, in a narrow circle, yet which, 
 though thou mayest not know it, cheers 
 and guides not a few, even now." 
 
 And the guitar: — "Many a strain 
 of thankful song has come from the 
 depths of your heart, even now, in these
 
 HOUSEHOLD THINGS. 167 
 
 your days of trial, to blend with my har- 
 monies, and to soar to regions which 
 my poor metallic music can never 
 reach 1 ** 
 
 And all the mute things sang to- 
 gether — " We are complete and rejoice 
 to serve vou, vessels meet for your 
 using. One day you also shall be per- 
 fected, a vessel meet for the Master's 
 use. And then He will take you into 
 His house, unto the temple which is a 
 home and your home for ever. Like 
 us, when you are perfected, you shall 
 serve; Lur, unlike us, even whilst you 
 are being perfected, you may serve ! " 
 
 Then the sufferer turned over the 
 leaves of another Book, and saw how 
 the Master had written His parables, not 
 in streams, and corn-fields, and birds.
 
 l6S PARABLES, ETC. 
 
 and flowerSj and fruitful earth, and 
 starry sky alone, but in common house- 
 hold things, and common human ties. 
 And henceforth, not nature only, but 
 every-day cares, and duties, and relation- 
 ships, and all things around her, became 
 for her illuminated with the lessons of 
 His love.
 
 of a iFcnu
 
 Pcr5^an:c5 from tijc %it'z 
 ot a fcriu 
 
 ^Y life has been one of such 
 extraordinary vicissitudes as 
 might have made many almost 
 doubt their own identity. But it is only 
 to-day that I have learned its real pur- 
 pose. To-day, for the first time, I 
 am content. A light has dawned on 
 me which makes all the dark passages 
 of my former life clear and luminous, 
 and unites the whole into one har- 
 monious picture. I will narrate a few 
 of my adventures to you while I am full 
 of this happy discovery.
 
 172 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 The first thino- I can remember is 
 beinor in a world bvcrflowins; with life 
 in every form. It was a tropical forest. 
 Gigantic palms rose above me so high 
 that I could not see their feathery 
 crowns. From one erect stem to an- 
 other hang tangled festoons of parasites 
 and climbing plants, broad, rich, green 
 leaves which fell into stately crowns with 
 their own weight, enormous gorgeous 
 flowers, delicate wreaths of intertwined 
 many-coloured blossoms and inany- 
 shaped foliage; so that when I looked 
 up I could scarcely see one point of the 
 deep blue sky, except when a strong 
 wind made rifts in mv Iretted roof. 
 Scarcely one ray of light fell on me pure, 
 but broken and green and tremulous, 
 softly shaded, or tinted like a rainbow
 
 LIFE OF A FERN. 1 73 
 
 throuoh the flowers. The animals which 
 lived in our forest depths I cannot dis- 
 tinctly recall. I have not seen any like 
 them for so many thousand years. But 
 all was gigantic, and many would seem 
 misshapen monsters to us now. Yet 
 then it was quite natural, and an every- 
 day thing, to hear the great tree-eaters 
 tramping each like an army through the 
 forest shades, cropping the tops of the 
 highest trees, and devouring branches 
 as our animals crop the herbage. Trees 
 crackled under them like brambles. 
 We dreaded much, we smaller crea- 
 tures, to see these approach, for they 
 trampled down a generation of us under 
 the tread of their ponderous feet. There 
 were lizards whose scales glittered like 
 the waves of the sea in the sunshine.
 
 174 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 each scale a massive prismatic metallic 
 plate. And from the lower reaches of 
 the forest, where the hot mist steamed 
 up from the marshy hollows, monstrous 
 creatures, half-fish, half-forcst-climbers, 
 occasionally strayed among us. 
 
 I cannot recall if there was music in 
 the forest; yet I think I hear across 
 these countless years the dim echoes of 
 strange voices, which have been silenced 
 for ages on the earth, a confusion of wild 
 calls and cries in the mornings and even- 
 ings, weird bell-notes tolling through the 
 sultry noon-day silences, and a confused 
 whirr, and buzzing, and croaking, and 
 whizzing;, and rustling of countless 
 smaller animals which have perished 
 and left no trace of their existence be- 
 hind.
 
 LIFE OF A FERN. 
 
 ^15 
 
 But the creatures which impressed the 
 restless character on my being, which 
 only to-day the sun has smiled away, 
 weresome near relations of my own. For, 
 although I was but a little fern, manv 
 of mv race were amono: the lords of the 
 forest. Their roots spread into magni- 
 ficent curved pedestals ; their stems rose, 
 decorated, and erect as the palms, to the 
 height of the tallest trees; and their 
 fronds expanded into ribbed and fretted 
 roofs, beneath which hundreds like mc 
 could find shade and shelter, yet everv 
 frond as delicatelv iVintred and edoed as 
 any of ours. 
 
 I thought — " These are my elder 
 sisters. One day T shall grow like 
 them." Thus my own daily life seemed 
 empty and shadowy to me, because of
 
 l']6 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 the Strong 3'earnlng that possessed me 
 to be great like them. It did not make 
 me discontented or desponding, hut 
 filled me with a wild and feverish ex- 
 pectation which made the present appear 
 nothing to me. I stretched out my 
 little fronds, and caught every sunbeam 
 and rain-drop I could; and when a 
 shower came, and the life-oivino- waters 
 circulated through my veins, I throbbed 
 with vaoue desire, and thouo'ht, " Now 
 T am to be something. '^ 
 
 But with all mv efforts I never could 
 grow to be any thing but a little fern ! 
 So the summer passed, and then T felt 
 myself growing shrivelled and old. My 
 limbs contracted, mv fronds curled up 
 and turned dry and brown, and in a 
 few weeks I was scarcely visible. But
 
 LUK OF A FERN. 1^} 
 
 the spring revived me and my yearnings, 
 and I grew certainly very handsome and 
 tall for one of my branch of our family ; 
 but still only a little fern ! 
 
 The forest decayed, I know not how. 
 The marsh extended, and, instead of the 
 world of varied exuberant life, we lay a 
 long time a mass of steaming, moulder- 
 ing decay. And then, through millen- 
 niums more, we stiffened and hai"dened 
 and grew black and shapeless, and were 
 buried in the dark, no one can say how 
 lono;, for to us, throughout those change- 
 less aQ;es, there were no davs and no 
 seasons to measure time. 
 
 At last a light came to us, not the sun, 
 but a little trembling light, in the hands 
 of a living creature, such as wc had never 
 seen. I know now it was a man. Then
 
 178 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 followed a time of stir and noise and 
 knocking" about, such as I shall never 
 forget. We were hewn with pick-axes, 
 and tossed into buckets, and, at last, 
 lifted into the real old sunlight we had 
 not seen for countless ages. The sun 
 was the same as ever, as young and 
 bright, it seemed, as he had been thou- 
 sands of years before; but we did not 
 bask lono; in his beams. 
 
 A period followed of darkness and 
 cold and silence, in which all the world 
 seemed to have forgotten my existence, 
 although I had been dragged out of my 
 native bed, and stored in this den with 
 so much pains. But they remembered 
 us at last. One evening, after passing 
 through a great deal of commotion, I 
 found myself in an open place, with
 
 LIFE OF A FERN. I79 
 
 many of my brethren. A light hke that 
 \vc had first seen, after our ages of dark- 
 ness in the heart of the earth, was ap- 
 plied to us, and then the strangest trans- 
 formation passed over me. Just as the 
 water had streamed through my green 
 veins in the forest of old, a new element 
 bco-an to course through all my black and 
 stony heart. That light ran through 
 and through mc, until I became, not a 
 receiver, but actually a giver of lioht. 
 Instead of my green fronds, delicate 
 pencils of red and golden flame streamed 
 from mc, until I became one glowing 
 substance ; and, in my own light, I ac- 
 tually saw living faces looking thank- 
 fully at me, and human hands stretched 
 out to feel my warmth, just as of old I 
 had spread my fronds in the rays of the
 
 l8o PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 sun. But I was too full of my.old vague 
 longings to enjoy or observe any of thost 
 things much, for I thought, with glow- 
 in cr confidence, " Now, I am to be some- 
 thing great at last ! " 
 
 It was the last gUmmer of that vague 
 ambition in me. My light faded, I grew 
 cold, and, which was worse, I fell to 
 pieces, became mere dust, and was wafted 
 about by the shghtest breath, so that I 
 had the greatest difficulty in preserving 
 my own identity. 1 avos even ignomi- 
 niously swept iiway by the very hands 
 which had spread so gra,tefully in my 
 light only a few hours before, and toss- 
 ed contemptuously out into a rubbish 
 heap behind the house. But there, 
 happily for me, I was once more in the 
 sunshine; and the sun, and all heavenly
 
 LIFE OF A FERN. l8l 
 
 creatures, think scorn of no one. Thev 
 smiled on me, a poor heap of ashes, 
 as if I had hcen a tree-tern ; and the 
 gentle dews descended on me, as if I 
 had been a flower; and the birds and 
 winds scattered seeds amongst us, until 
 I began to feel once more something 
 like the stirrings of life within me. I 
 had blended my being with a little 
 seed, and in the spring green tufts 
 of life burst out from my shrivelled 
 heart. I grew, and spread, and drank 
 in rain and sunshine, until at length I 
 waved and expanded in the summer 
 breeze — a little fern ! 
 
 Then a bright, transforming thought 
 flashed through me. In the tropical 
 forest, in the black coal-beds, on the 
 glowing hearth, I had not been an im-
 
 l82 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 perfect likeness and a vague promise of 
 something else, but myself, in my little 
 degree, pleasant and serviceable; exactlv 
 the best thing it was possible for me to 
 be, filling up my tiny measure of ser- 
 vice in the world, so that the world 
 would have been the poorer for that 
 tiny measure of pleasure and good with- 
 out me. How happy I might have 
 been always if I had known this before ! 
 How happy I am to know it now ! 
 
 I begin life again, but I have learned 
 my lesson. I am something ; not some- 
 thing great, but something I was meant 
 to be — a little green happy fern. At 
 this moment I tremble with joy in the 
 soft breezes, I thrill with life, I drink 
 the rain-drops, and the next moment 
 and to-morrow will brins; each its store
 
 LIFE OF A FERN. 183 
 
 of work and joy for mc, and I shall be 
 the highest thing I could wish to be, 
 the thing I was made to be. And now 
 I am here near the tall trees, and 
 among the many-coloured flowers, a 
 little, happy, lowly fern.
 
 JPat:able0,
 
 SLlann-Mll 
 
 « I 
 
 E have lived a long time here 
 together," said the ponder- 
 ous Alarm-bell to the little 
 brisk bell in the clock-tower of the 
 Orphan-house, *^and a useful life yours 
 has been ! I have watched carefully, 
 and never once during these hundred 
 years that we have stood side by side 
 have you failed to tell the hours and half- 
 hours by day and night. I have plenty 
 of leisure for thought ; but it would 
 be beyond my powers to calculate how
 
 l88 THE CLOCK-BELL AND 
 
 often your voice has been heard in the 
 service of man. I observe, too, how 
 much attention is paid you by all, and 
 with how much vi^ell-deserved respect 
 you are regarded. Nothing is done in 
 house or field without your sanction. 
 At your early call, this little busy hive 
 begins to stir in the morning. At your 
 mid-day invitation, the boys gather from 
 the fields where they have been working, 
 and the girls from the laundries and work- 
 rooms to the noonday meal. At your 
 evenino; summons, the doors are closed 
 at night, and not a sound is heard 
 afterwards in house or field until your 
 steady voice wakens our little world 
 again. Yours is, indeed, a useful, 
 honoured life 3 but as for me, who can 
 tell what I am made for? Since I
 
 THE ALARM-BELL. 189 
 
 was placed here first, a hundred years 
 ago, lifted up with enormous trouble 
 and labour, and safely roofed in my 
 belfry, not a creature has heard my 
 voice, or been the better for my existence. 
 I might as well have been lying still a 
 lump of unsmelted ore in the depths of 
 the mines. I feel so stiff and rusty, 
 that I sometimes question if they could 
 move me if they tried. For you, daily, 
 hourly usefulness ! for me, a hundred 
 years of silence 1 And who can say how 
 many more? I do not complain; but 
 our destinies are very different. It must 
 be wonderfully happy to be so useful, 
 and to be looked on by every one with 
 such attention and regard. Of course, 
 I could not expect to be as serviceable 
 as you — I, with my cumbrous, pon-
 
 190 THE CLOCK-BELL AND 
 
 derous mass of heavy metal, and you, 
 hung so hghtly, so graceful in your 
 shape, so brisk in all your movements, 
 so cheery and pleasant in your voice. 
 But I should like to be of some use 
 once in my life, even if it were only to 
 know for what purpose I was made, 
 and set on high." 
 
 "Wait!" said the Clock-bell; "there 
 must be some work for you. It would 
 have taken a hundred such as I am to 
 make one like you. Think of the 
 trouble there must have been in aettinji 
 a mould large enough for you — of the 
 labour it was to raise you so high. You 
 must be set there for some end, although 
 we do not yet know what. Wait!" 
 said the Clock-bell, cheerily, and struck 
 nine.
 
 THE ALARM-BELL. I91 
 
 Then there was a sound from withui 
 the house, as of many childish voices 
 singing an evening hymn. A few mi- 
 nutes after, all was still, and ten o'clock 
 echoed over the silent fields to the sleep- 
 ing city near at hand. 
 
 But that night there was an unusual 
 stir in the Orphan-house. Feet were 
 heard rushing hither and thither; and 
 from every window poured forth the 
 cry : — " Fire ! fire ! — the Orphan-house 
 is on fireP' And, through the dark- 
 ness, lurid smoke hegan to rise from an 
 outhouse attached to the main buildino;. 
 Then came another cry : — "The Alarm- 
 bell ! Ring the Alarm-bell!" And feet 
 were heard on the steps of the belfry- 
 tower; and hands began pulling vigor- 
 ously at the ropes, and in a moment,
 
 193 THE CLOCK-BELL AND 
 
 for the first time, the deep tones of the 
 long silent bell pealed heavily on the mid- 
 night air. They awoke the city. In a 
 short time, fire-engines were on the way. 
 Streams of water played on the flames, 
 and quenched them; and the children 
 and the Orphan-house were saved. • 
 
 The next morning all was silent again, 
 as if nothing had happened; the out- 
 house lay in ashes, but the Orphan-house 
 was uninjured. At eight the Clock- 
 bell called the children to their morn- 
 ing prayer ; whilst the Alarm-bell had 
 relapsed into silence, perhaps for another 
 century. 
 
 But the Clock-bell said — "You 
 have done in an hour the service of a 
 century. Had it not been for you I 
 should never have struck another hour."
 
 THE ALARM-BELL. I93 
 
 And the grateful children often 
 looked up as they passed beneath, and 
 said — " Had it not been for our good 
 Alarm-bell we might all have perished !" 
 
 So the Alarm-bell learned what it was 
 made for ; and was content to wait an- 
 other hundred years, or morcj before its 
 voice was heard again.
 
 ^Ijont0 aulJ »)pine2f»* 
 
 SN a garden there once grew a 
 beautiful, blossoming thorn. 
 When the spring came, for a 
 fortnight it was always clothed with a 
 robe of white blossoms. They seemed 
 at once relics of winter, and promises of 
 summer. It v/as as if Winter, in de- 
 parting from the earth, had left behind 
 a fragment of his snowy vestments; and 
 
 * Thorns are abortive leaf-buds. Spines are the 
 lower leaves of plants metamorphosed into bristles, 
 to gxiard the yoimg tree from the attacks of cattle. 
 This little parable was suggested by a passage in 
 "Modem Painters."
 
 196 THORNS AND SPINES. 
 
 Spring, touching them with her magic 
 wandj had transformed them from snow- 
 wreaths into wreaths of snowy blossoms. 
 They were beautiful even in fading ; and 
 for many days after the whiteness had 
 gone, they glowed into a delicate pink, 
 and strewed the earth with silky petals 
 when they fell. On this thorn, one 
 spring, a little brown leaf-bud formed, 
 at the foot of a green twig, the cradle 
 of the green twigs of the next spring. 
 But it happened that, as this brown 
 leaf-bud watched the beauty of the 
 flowers, it grew discontented with its 
 destiny : — 
 
 " Why am not I a flower-bud ? " it 
 murmured, inside its little brown casing. 
 " That would be worth living for ! — to 
 fill the air with delicate fragrance, to
 
 THORNS AND SPINES. I97 
 
 be suno; to by the birds, to be o-athered 
 by human hands as a treasure ; or even 
 to live unnoticed by any one, but only 
 to be a flower! — a beautiful, fragrant 
 creature, with a coat of many colours, 
 and a crown of golden stamens, and 
 with promise in its heart; — that would 
 be worth living; for! But to be a leaf- 
 bud, a brown, dark, hard leaf-bud ! — it 
 would be better to die at once." 
 
 And a discontented shiver ran through 
 its veins; and all that summer it never 
 cared to drink in sun or rain, but sat 
 and shivered, and shrivelled on its stem, 
 while all around it meek and happy buds 
 were growing strong and full of life, nour- 
 ished by the same rainand sunshine. And 
 in the spring, when the white shower of 
 snowy flowers came ajrain on the thorn-
 
 iy8 THORNS AND SPINES. 
 
 tree, and the other leaf -buds had ex- 
 panded into green twigs, waving and 
 whispering in the breeze, with each a 
 new bud at its feet, the envious and 
 discontented bud had shrivelled and 
 narrowed itself into a thorn, which 
 pierced the hand of the child, as it 
 reached up to gather the spray of fair 
 white blossom. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 In a field near this garden there grew 
 a green shrub, which at the top ex- 
 panded into luxuriant branches, giving 
 shade at mid-day to man and beast. 
 But from the lower branches, instead 
 of broad green leaves, grew long sharp 
 spines. One summer day, these spines 
 said to each other, in their short and 
 broken speech, for they could not
 
 THORNS AND SPINES. I99 
 
 wave and rustle in the wind like the 
 leaves : — 
 
 "We are not worthy to live on the 
 same tree with the beautiful forest 
 leaves which wave in the fresh air above 
 us. We can make no refreshing sound 
 as they do; we giv^e no shade as 
 they do to any creature; and we only 
 prick any one that tries to touch us. 
 But it is very pleasant to us to be 
 allowed to grow from the same trunk 
 as they ; and it is very kind of the 
 sweet.leaves to sinjr to us as if we be- 
 lono;ed to them, and not to be ashamed 
 of us. We are certainly most happily 
 situated; so far beyond what we have 
 any right to expect!" 
 
 But all the leaves rustled in a joyous 
 chorus, and said : — " You are our elder
 
 20O THORNS AND SPINES. 
 
 sisters, meek and useful spines! If it 
 had not been for you, we should never 
 have come into life at all, and man and 
 beast would have had no shade from us. 
 The hungry cattle would have eaten us 
 before we unfolded, and our parent-tree 
 would never have grown to what it is, 
 had it not been for you, our faithful 
 and patient guardians. If you had re- 
 belled against the gracious hand that 
 moulds us all, and prevented our ex- 
 panding into leaves, we should all have 
 perished together long ago. We owe 
 our life to you ! " murmured the leaves. 
 
 And the rough spines quivered 
 throuo-h all their faithful hearts at the 
 words of the leaves. 
 
 Then the master passed by, and he 
 said : — " Well done, my faithful spines !
 
 THORNS AND SPINES. 20I 
 
 3'ou have done your work, and guarded 
 my treasures well. But for you my 
 trees would have had no leaves, and my 
 fields no shade." 
 
 And the spines wondered, and rejoiced 
 greatly; for they had never thought that, 
 in meekly and contentedly bearing their 
 rough lot, and being what they v/cre 
 meant to be, they were serving the 
 master, and doing such good work for 
 others.
 
 
 UNSHINE and Daylight had 
 one day a serious difference 
 of opinion about a rocky 
 waste, over which their course led them. 
 " I am not severe/' said Daylight, 
 fixing her clear, generalising gray eyes 
 on the Rock. " If I cannot, like some 
 people, see nothing but what I wish to 
 see, no one ever accused me of blacken- 
 ing any one's character. I have known 
 that old rock more years than I care to 
 
 * Reprinted from "Excelsior."
 
 204 SUNSHINE, DAYLIGHT, 
 
 mention ; not a jagged edge, nor a 
 whimsical cranny, but I am intimately 
 acquainted with, and I do not hesitate 
 to say, that a more barren, unmitigated 
 rock I seldom meet with. I do not 
 slander it. I only say, it is nothing 
 more or less than a rock." 
 
 Sunshine said nothing, but peeped 
 round the shoulder of her cousin's gray 
 cloak, until the smile of her soft eye met 
 the eye of a little blue violet, which, 
 by dint of hard living, had contrived to 
 obtain a secure footing in a crevice of 
 the old rock ; and a flutter of joy passed 
 throuffh the blossoms and leaves of the 
 violet, and communicated itself to a 
 tuft of dry short grass, which had en- 
 sconced itself behind. The red and gray 
 cups of some tiny moss and lichens.
 
 AND THE ROCK. %0^ 
 
 which had crept into corners here and 
 there, next drank in her kind glances, 
 and fancied themselves wine-cups at a 
 feast. Here and there specks of colour 
 and points of life revealed themselves, 
 and, as they looked, expanded. 
 
 By this time Sunshine had folded 
 Daylight to sleep on her warm breast. 
 Many weeks had passed, when, one quiet 
 afternoon, Davlioht ao-ain came that 
 way, and glancing critically around, she 
 murmured to Sunshine, "Where is the 
 old gray rock you were so sanguine 
 about ? " 
 
 Sunshine was silent : her motto beinir, 
 " Not in word, neither in tongue, but 
 in deed and in truth;" and at length 
 Daylight's quiet eyes awoke to the fact, 
 that the grassy knoll where flowers —
 
 205 SUNSHINE, DAYLIGHT, ETC. 
 
 tiny rock-plants indeed, but still flowers 
 — and mosses lay dozing unawakened 
 by her sober tread, was none other than 
 the rock she had known of old. And 
 she said, meekly, " Truly I find that one 
 way to create beauty is to perceive it." 
 Then an anocl, who was hoverinir 
 near, on his way back from some mes- 
 sage of mercy (for the angels never 
 linger till their messages are given), sang 
 softly, "Love veileth a multitude of 
 sins." And the old Rock answered in 
 a chorus, through its moss-threads, and 
 lichen-cups, and leaves, and blossoms, 
 "And under the warm veil spring a 
 multitude of flowers."
 
 lllauLicvcrs anb |Jilc^iiiui
 
 Sfllantierer^ anti IBilgn'm^. 
 
 LARGE tract of country lay 
 spread before me; upland 
 and lowland^ hill and plain. 
 The whole land seemed stirrino- with 
 perpetual movement, all in one direction; 
 — from the bright hills at its commence- 
 ment, to the dark mountains at the end. 
 Earth and sky seemed moving, as when 
 an enormous flight of migratory birds 
 is passing by, but earth and sky were 
 really stationary. This movement was 
 one constant tide of human life, cease- 
 lessly streaming across the land.
 
 208 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS. 
 
 It began on a range of wooded 
 hills, with their sunny southern slopes, 
 forests and flowery banks, and grassy 
 and golden fields. Down these slopes 
 joyous bands ran fast. As I looked 
 closer, I saw the movement was not in- 
 cessant in the case of each individual ; 
 only the ceaseless passing of the great 
 tide of life made it seem so. Merry 
 groups paused onthehill-sides,and made 
 fairy gardens, and twined leafy tents 
 where they would sit a little while and 
 sing and dance. But only a little while ! 
 No hand seemed driving them on ; it 
 appeared only an inward irresistible in- 
 stinct. Yet soon the bright groups 
 were scattered, and moved down ajrain 
 over the hills, often never joining more. 
 
 " Why do you hasten away from these
 
 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS. 209 
 
 sunny slopes?" I said. "There seems 
 nothing so pleasant in all the land be- 
 sides.^' 
 
 " Perhaps not," the travellers replied, 
 with a slidit sioh ; but it ended in a 
 snatch of song as they danced gaily on. 
 " Perhaps not, but we are a race of 
 Wanderers ! We cannot stay ; and per- 
 haps better things await us in the 
 plain." 
 
 "Whither are you going?" I asked. 
 " We know not," was the answer : 
 " only onward, onward ! " 
 
 In the plain were buildings of more 
 solid construction, houses and cities. 
 And here I observed many of the tra- 
 vellers would have gladly lingered, but 
 it could not be. Homesteads, and corn- 
 fields, and vineyards, all had to be left; 
 
 o
 
 210 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS. 
 
 and still the tide of life streamed on and 
 on. 
 
 "Why?" I asked. 
 
 "It is the doom of our race/^ they 
 saidj sorrowfully; "we are a people of 
 Wanderers." 
 
 "Whither?" I inquired. 
 
 " We do not know," was the reply ; 
 " only onwards and onwards to the dark 
 mountains !" 
 
 Slower and slower grew the footsteps 
 of the Wanderers, more and more re- 
 gretful the glances they cast behind. 
 Slower, yet with fewer pauses. The 
 strange restless impulse drove them 
 steadily on, until, wearied and tottering, 
 they began the ascent of the dark moun- 
 tains. 
 
 "What is on the other side?" I asked.
 
 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS. 311 
 
 "The sea," they said, "the Great Sea/' 
 
 " How will you cross it, and what is 
 beyond }" 
 
 "We know not," they said, with 
 bitter tears. "But we are a doomed 
 race of Wanderers — onwards, onwards ; 
 we may not stay ! " 
 
 Then first I perceived that, among 
 these multitudes of aimless Wanderers, 
 there was one band who kept close to- 
 gether, and moved with a freedom and 
 a purpose, as if they journeyed on not 
 from a blind, irresistible impulse, but 
 from choice. Their looks were seldom 
 turned regretfully behind them, or only 
 on the dark mountains. They looked 
 to something higher. 
 
 I asked them— "Why are you thus 
 hastino; on ?"
 
 212 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS. 
 
 "We are Pilgrims," they replied; 
 "we would not linger here." 
 
 "Whither are you going?" I in- 
 quired. 
 
 " Home ! " they answered, joyfully — 
 " to a Holy City which is our Home.'^ 
 
 " But how do you know the way ?" I 
 asked, for no barriers seemed to limit 
 their path, so that any of the Wanderers 
 might join it at any point. 
 
 "We know it by two marks,'' they 
 answered — " by the footsteps of One 
 who trod it once, and left indelible foot- 
 prints wherever He stepped. And we 
 know it also by the goal to which it 
 tends!" 
 
 Then looking up, I saw resting on 
 the mountauis where this path ended, a 
 bridge like a rainbow, and beyond it, in
 
 WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS. 213 
 
 the sky, a range of towers and walls, 
 pearl and opal, ruby and golden, such 
 as in a summer evenino; is sometimes 
 faintly pictured on the clouds, when 
 the setting sun shines through them. 
 And the little band chanted as they 
 went, ^'The doom of our race is re- 
 versed for us. We are not Wanderers ; 
 we are Pilgrims. We would not ling-er 
 here ; this is not our rest. Onwards, 
 upwards, to the City 1 — to the Home'.''
 
 Ctje acfe anti t^t ifortre00. 
 
 |NE day, I had been thinking 
 
 about the terrors of the Great 
 
 Flood, when it seemed to me 
 
 that I saw back through the long ages 
 
 to that distant day, as you look with a 
 
 night-glass through the night to an 
 
 illuminated planet. I saw an old man, 
 
 venerable with the centuries by which 
 
 we count the lives of nations, not of 
 
 men, yet vigorous with the vitality of 
 
 one who had still centuries to live. He 
 
 stood on an inland plain, far from any 
 
 sea; yet above him rose the sides of a 
 
 21$
 
 2l6 THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS. 
 
 large ship. It had been finished that 
 day. Once more the old man warned 
 the laughing crowds around of the 
 waters which would surely come and 
 float the vessel high above the sub- 
 merged world. He had told them the 
 same truth for a hundred and twenty 
 years. There had been no indefinite- 
 ness about his prophecy. As, since then, 
 men have been warned by the uncer- 
 tainty of a doom which may come at 
 any moment; then, they were warned by 
 the certainty of a period definitely fixed. 
 Every fall of the leaf had brought it pre- 
 cisely a year nearer. And now the last 
 evening of the last year had come, and 
 once more the patient preacher of righte- 
 ousness stood and warned them to for- 
 sake the sin which must bring the doom.
 
 THE AUK AND THE FORTRESS. 217 
 
 But in vain. There was no persecu- 
 tion : perhaps some mockery, as thev 
 pointed to the cloudless sky, and the 
 fields and forests growing daily greener 
 in the spring-tide simshine; but for the 
 most part simply unbelief and indiffer- 
 ence. " They ate, they drank, they 
 married, they were given in marriage." 
 And so the last warning was finished, 
 and the last evenins; closed. 
 
 But one little group seemed to me to 
 detach itself from the rest with a bolder 
 confidence. They pointed to a fortress 
 on the highest summit of the mountain- 
 range above them, and said : — " If what 
 you say is true, surely we shall be safer 
 there .than in a floating ark like yours. 
 In the rushing of the great water-floods 
 you speak of, and the beating of the
 
 2l8 THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS. 
 
 Storms, our mountain fortress will serve 
 us better, at least, than your wooden 
 walls. We shall look down from our 
 height on your waters, and, perehancc, 
 see the wreck of your vessel drifted to 
 our feet ! " 
 
 The patriarch and his family were 
 shut in the ark. Before the next 
 morning, the day of doom had set 
 in. Not a break in the pitiless roof 
 of clouds. Steadily the torrents pour- 
 ed from the opened flood-gates of 
 heaven, whilst the waters from be- 
 neath broke their barriers, and the re- 
 servoirs under the hills burst forth in 
 sudden rivers. 
 
 The flood had begun. The valleys 
 became lakes, the plains seas; but the 
 builders of the mountain fortress had
 
 THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS. 219 
 
 fled to it, and looked triumphantly down 
 on the waves. 
 
 Higher and higher they rose. The 
 lower hills were covered. The moun- 
 tain range was isolated. But the 
 dwellers in the fortress thought, " We 
 are well provisioned. This cannot last 
 for ever !" 
 
 The waters rose. Peak after peak 
 hecamc an island. And at last, the 
 highest peak, on which the fortress 
 stood, looked out alone upon the waste 
 of waters, and the floating ark buoyed 
 up securely on them. 
 
 Thev looked still down on the waters, 
 but with trembling hearts. The wild 
 waves dashed furiously against this 
 one remaining obstacle. The firmest 
 human masonry cannot stand like the
 
 2^IO THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS. 
 
 everlasting rocks. The strong founda- 
 tions gave way, and with a crash, and 
 a wail of anguish, the fortress fell, 
 and nothing rose above the waters but 
 the floatino; ark. For nothing that is 
 founded on earth can escape the doom 
 of earth. But 
 
 " Planted Paradise was not so firm 
 As was, and is, Thy floating ark."
 
 %l)t %\)ut 3DrcamsS» 
 
 HAD once three dreams in 
 close SLiccesslonj which I will 
 relate to vou. 
 In the first, I saw a magnificent 
 palace, a little world of gardens and 
 buildings, a city in itself. All was en- 
 closed within a high wall, so that from 
 outside you could see nothing of it ex- 
 cept the fairy white minarets, pencilled 
 delicately against the blue sky, some loftv 
 battlemcnted watch-towers, and several 
 graceful campaniles, with the tops of a 
 few of the highest trees. But a delicious
 
 2%% THE THREE DREAMS. 
 
 blendino: of the fragrance of a thousand 
 ilowers came thence in summer evenings, 
 and every night, bcll-tower, watch-tower, 
 spire, and dome, and minaret were illu- 
 minated with innumerable starry lamps, 
 as if every day within the palace were a 
 festival. 
 
 Around the palace were the lanes and 
 alleys of the city — scenes of poverty and 
 squalor — which contrasted strangely 
 with it ; and wretched, half-starved- 
 looking creatures, with tattered garments 
 and faces worn with deep marks of 
 want and woe, lingered round the gates. 
 Outside the gates ! — and this was one 
 strange incongruity of my dream, for on 
 the gates were emblazoned in golden 
 letters, which were illuminated into 
 transparencies at night, the words —
 
 THE THREE DREAMS. 
 
 223 
 
 " KNOCK, AND IT SHALL BE OPENED 
 UNTO YOU." 
 
 The gates were solid, and enormously 
 massive, like blocks of black marble. 
 No violence could have forced them. 
 There was no crevice at which any one 
 could get a glimpse of what was within. 
 But the golden knocker, underneath 
 those golden words, was so low as to be 
 within reach of the youngest children. 
 Indeed, I noticed that none tried it so 
 often as little children; and whenever 
 any one knocked with the very feeblest 
 sound, in time, and often immediately, 
 the stately portals opened from within, 
 turniuii; on their massive hinsies with 
 a sound like the music of many choirs, 
 and the applicant was quietly drawn 
 inside. Then I saw that the inside of
 
 224 '^^^^^ THREE DREAMS. 
 
 the gates was of translucent pearl. A 
 stream of lioht and fragrance for a mo- 
 ment came through, and induced others 
 afterwards to knock. But immediately 
 the gates were closed, and stood a wall 
 of impenetrable marble as before. 
 
 I aw^oke, and whilst meditating on 
 my dream fell asleep again. 
 
 In my second dream, I saw the same 
 palace as in my first, but the massive 
 doors were gone, and in their place stood 
 the form of One whom, although 1 had 
 never seen Him, I had heard so often 
 described, and so faithfully, by those who 
 had seen Him, that I knew Him at once. 
 The same wretched beings were cowering 
 round ; but the massive barriers were 
 gone, and in their place He stood, and 
 said, in tones that every one could hear —
 
 THE THREE DREAMS. 325 
 
 " / am the Door. By me if any man 
 enter he shall be saved." 
 
 One wretched and woe-worn woman 
 o-ave a tremblino- o-lance at His face, and 
 then listenino; a^ain to those tones, not 
 welcoming merely, but pleading and per- 
 suasively tender, she ventured close to 
 Him^ and fell on her knees to kiss the 
 hem of His garment. But He stooped, 
 and stretched out His hand, and took 
 her hand, and led her in. Then I un- 
 derstood what His words had meant; 
 — that by saying, " I am the door," He 
 must have meant that there \\as no 
 barrier, no impenetrable gate, but that 
 in the doorway, where the door had 
 been, He stood, and, instead of the 
 lifeless knocker, stretched out His living 
 
 hands to aid and welcome all who came. 
 
 p
 
 226 THE THREE DREAMS. 
 
 And I awoke from my second dream. 
 
 TP 'ff "^ ^ 
 
 Before long I fell asleep again, and 
 then again I saw the same palace, with 
 the massive portals flung open wide, but 
 that gracious princely form stood in 
 them no more. Among the most 
 wretched of that crowd He went — 
 among the maimed, the halt, and the 
 blind. They thronged aroimd Him, 
 yet many of them scarcely seemed to 
 heed, they were so intent on their own 
 sordid pursuits. Some were crowding 
 with sharp, eager faces round a rag 
 merchant, bargaining with the most 
 absorbing passion for his wretched wares, 
 and then separating to quarrel and fight 
 over their purchases, or bartering their 
 rags again as eagerly for a draught of
 
 THE THREE DREAMS. 227 
 
 the intoxicating drinks which had made 
 so many of them the lost creatures they 
 were. Not a rag or a burning drop was 
 to be had except for money, and often 
 for a price which to them was life itself. 
 And He came to them from the palace, 
 and offered them the palace freely, yet few 
 listened. But with that strange absence 
 ofthe sense of incongruity and the emo- 
 tion of surprise characteristic of dreams, 
 T did not wonder! Patiently Tie went 
 in and out among them, pleading with 
 one and another, often encountering 
 rough words and blows; yet still His 
 words were — " I come to seek and save 
 that which was lost.'^ And some even of 
 the most wretched listened, and returned 
 with Him, and were welcomed inside. 
 As if" Knock, and it shall be opened!"
 
 Z2S THE THREE DREAMS. 
 
 were not free enough, the gates were 
 thrown open wide, and He stood there, 
 the outstretched hand, instead of the 
 door, the living friend, instead of the 
 written words of welcome. And as if 
 that were not enough, instead of saying, 
 " Come to me ! " He came Himself — 
 He "came to seek and to save that 
 which was lost."
 
 ^EIjou ann 31** 
 
 jiN a room in a stately mansion, 
 a little babe lay in its mother's 
 arms. All kinds of beautiful 
 things were around, and many people 
 passed in and out. Pictures by the first 
 masters were on the walls ; the rarest 
 exotics filled the air with choice per- 
 fumes. The chair in which the mother 
 sat was gilded and tapestried ; the carpet 
 her feet rested on was soft as mossy 
 
 * Suggested by a passage in Sartorius' " Lehre 
 von der heiligen Liebe," contrasting the world of a 
 cold philosophy, " Ich und Nicht Ich," with the 
 Christian's world, " Ich und Du."
 
 230 THOU AND I. 
 
 turf, and delicate as embroidery. Jewels 
 sparkled on her dress. The windows 
 opened on a magnificent landscape, 
 of park and lake, woodland and distant 
 hills. But the little babe saw" nothing 
 but its mother's smile — understood no- 
 thins:, but that it was on its mother's 
 knee. Its only consciousness was " Thou 
 and 1 1" and love. 
 
 ffp "fr %■ flp 
 
 The railway train was entering a long 
 tunnel. The babe was still on its 
 mother's knee. The darkness grew 
 deeper. The heavy train thundered 
 through the hollow earth. Another 
 met it, and rushed past with a deafening 
 din. An older child in the carriage 
 screamed with terror. Many of the pas- 
 sengers felt uneasy, and were impatient
 
 THOU AND 1. 231 
 
 to see the light again. But the baby cared 
 
 nothing for tlic noise or the darkness. 
 
 It looked in the dim lamp-light into its 
 
 mother's face, and saw her smile, and 
 
 smiled again. It knew nothing; of the 
 
 world but " Thou and I !" and love. 
 # * * * 
 
 The ship was tossing fearfully on the 
 stormy sea. Eveiy timber strained, 
 every wave seemed as if it must engulph 
 the vessel. The weak and timid cried 
 out in an agony of fear. The brave 
 and loving moved about with white, 
 compressed lips, and contracted brows, 
 striving now and then to say some brief 
 reassuring words to those for whose 
 safety they feared. But the babe lay 
 tranquil and happy in its mother's 
 arms. Her breast was to it a shelter
 
 232 THOU AND I. 
 
 against the world. It knew nothing ot 
 danffcr or fear. Its world was " Thou 
 
 and I ! " and love. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Years passed away, and the haby 
 p;rew into a child, and the child into a 
 man. His life was one of many vicissi- 
 tudes/ of passionate hopes, and bitter 
 sorrows, and wild ambition. He wor- 
 shipped the world in many forms, and 
 wandered farther and farther from the 
 Father's house, until the world which 
 first had beguiled him with its choice 
 things, came to feed him on its husks; 
 and a long; wav off he thought of the 
 Father and the home, and rose to re- 
 turn. His steps were doubtful and 
 slow, bat the heart which met him had 
 no hesitation and no upbraidings. Then
 
 THOU AND I. 235 
 
 the wanderer understood the love witli 
 wliieh he had been watched and pitied 
 all those desolate years, the love with 
 which he was welcomed now. The 
 earth, and sky, and human life grew 
 sacred and beautiful to him as tliey had 
 never been, because through them all a 
 living Presence was around him, a Yiv- 
 ing heart met him ; and, as of old on 
 the mother's knee, once more, as he 
 looked up to God his Father, his 
 world became only "Thou and I !" and 
 love. 
 
 His life moved rapidly on to its dark 
 goal. He had to leave the sunshine of 
 earth, its pleasant fields, and cherished 
 homes, and all familiar things, for ever. 
 The light grew dimmer, and the dark- 
 ness deepened. But he had no fear.
 
 234 THOU AND 1. 
 
 In the darkness, and the bewildering 
 rush of new experience, he was again 
 as the babe on the mother's knee. To 
 him there was no darkness, no con- 
 fusion. He looked into his Father's 
 face, and smiled. Life and death and 
 earth, all he left, and all he went 
 to, were as nothino^ to him then. He 
 had nothinp- but that one livins:, lovino- 
 Presence, but it was enough. Again it 
 was "Thou and I !" and lov^e. 
 
 And death found that childlike and 
 angelic smile upon his lips, and left it 
 there. • 
 
 * * :» * 
 
 A day will come of storm, and fire, 
 and tempest, and convulsion, when 
 earth and heaven shall mingle and be 
 rolled up as a scroll and pass away. But
 
 THOU AND I. 235 
 
 in that day what will such have to fear ? 
 Amidst all the convulsed worlds the re- 
 deemed will rest tranquil as the infant 
 in the storm on its mother's breast. 
 For amidst it all, their eyes will rest on 
 the Face which was bowed in death to 
 save them, and will know no fear. It 
 will be, " Thou and I, and Thou art 
 love !" for ever. 
 
 THE END.
 
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