Part 5

‘What think you of this passage?’ he cried after an exchange of greetings. ‘It is from a comparatively modern book--from a novel, to be precise, by Henry Harland. I fancy it should put us in the right mood for our saunter. There is an open estate across the heath into which we may go and find much of the splendour mentioned.’

As we sauntered forward, he read the passage for my benefit in his rich, musical voice: ‘“Beyond the shade, the sunshine broke into a mosaic of merry colours, on larkspur and iris, pansies and pink geraniums, jessamine, sweet-peas, tulips shameless in their extravagance of green and crimson, red and white carnations, red, white, and yellow roses. The sunshine broke into colour, it laughed, it danced, it almost rioted, among the flowers; but in the prim alleys, and on the formal hedges of box, and the quaintly clipped yews, and the old purple brick walls, where fruit-trees were trellised, it lay fast, fast asleep. Without the walls, in the cool greenery of the park, there was a perpetual drip-drip of bird-notes. This was the web upon which a chosen handful of more accomplished birds were embroidering and cross-embroidering their bold, clear arabesques of song.”’

You will notice that this pleasing passage is in lighter vein than the style of writing that usually won my friend’s admiration. I think the reason lay in his desire to show that a man might suffer from indifferent health and still enjoy a bright and lively spirit. I wish you could have heard him give voice to the following passage, as we made our way over the heath, through a wealth of fresh green undergrowth. He looked up, as he recited the words, at the blue sky, and spoke half playfully, half seriously:

‘“The sky is an inverted bowl of blue Sèvres--that priceless bleu-royal. The air is full of gold like _eau-de-vie de Dantzic_; if we only had a liquefying apparatus, we could recapture the first fine careless nectar of the gods, the poor dead gods of Greece. The earth is as aromatic as an orange stuck with cloves; I can’t begin to tell you all the wondrous woody, mossy, racy things it smells of. And the birds, the robins and the throstles, the blackbirds and the blackcaps, the linnets and the little Jenny wrens, knowing the value of silence, are hoarding it like misers; but, like prodigals, they’re squandering sound. The ear of mortal never heard such a delirious, delicious, such a crystalline, argentine, ivory-smooth, velvety-soft, such a ravishing, such an enravished tumult of sweet voices. Showers, cascades of pearls and rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires.”’

He laughed aloud, after the last word had left his lips, out of pure lightness of heart, then went on to speak of the value of pure air as a health restorer: ‘Pure air and an unsophisticated spirit in the presence of Nature--these are the best medical appliances.’ Bright colour showed in his cheeks as he continued to speak in playful vein of the doctor and his pharmacopoeia. To his mind, Mother Nature was the best of doctors. Had not Stevenson and many others written in praise of the soothing influence of conditions such as we enjoyed that day, the happy impressions, the sense of peace and wellbeing?

Then the conversation drifted into other channels, and we fell to talking of the time spent together in my friend’s little room--of his books, his pictures, his china, and of the photographs he had shown me. And here our talk took on a serious complexion; but we were still conscious of the flood of sunlight, the happy surroundings. Therefore, our tone, though serious, had nothing of melancholy. I learnt that the photographs that had aroused my curiosity had been taken at an establishment in old Hampstead, now demolished. In those days my friend had lived in a large, well-appointed house overlooking the heath. His means had been ample, his position seemingly secure. But misfortune had come, business reverses, the failure of a company in which large interests were vested, the betrayal of a friend in whom confidence had been placed. Then followed the sickness and death of his wife and child.

I looked at my friend and marvelled at his courage in the face of such misfortunes. At our first meeting he had said that without his rose-coloured spectacles, his bright point of view, all seemed dark. The meaning of his words was now touchingly clear. How could he have continued to live had he not been blessed with an indomitable spirit?

I wish I could give a faithful idea of the inspiring manner in which he interwove his story with bright and consoling touches; but so much depended upon his manner, the inflexions of his voice, the expression in his eyes, that I cannot hope to convey an adequate impression. I can only say that no spark of hope or consolation escaped his gratitude; that his bright and cheerful spirit was as ‘pervasive as sweet lavender, unavoidable as the sunset before the westward-bound traveller.’ The blue sky above, the foliage around, the rich growth beneath our feet--all had their message. Nature was our ‘good host’ for the day, and he ‘looked through Nature up to Nature’s God.’

So the day passed by, and the shadows lengthened, but the light still shone upon the hill-tops; whilst the sun set in a glory of red. ‘I wonder,’ said my friend, ‘if you remember Thoreau’s beautiful passage: “We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a herdsman driving us home at evening.

‘“So we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.”’

XIII

A PILGRIMAGE

‘SO we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.’ These were the last words I heard from my friend’s lips. He had a serious relapse, shortly after our visit to the country, and died within a few days. And now I am divided between a deep sense of personal loss and my duty to his memory. He would, I know, have had me look upon his journey to the ‘Other Side’ in the light of a pilgrimage, gone upon bravely, cheerfully, in perfect confidence.

By my side is a letter in which he speaks of this attitude in the course of a reference to our day in the country. ‘I have been reading,’ he says, ‘a volume of Mr. A. C. Benson’s essays, procured from a circulating library, and am filled with gratitude for their soothing influence. The following passage from his essay on “Beauty” will recall the conversation we had at our last meeting--our day in the country: “Nature has a magic for many of us--that is to say, a secret power that strikes across our lives at intervals, with a message from an unknown region. And this message is aroused by symbols; a tree, a flash of light on lonely clouds, a flower, a stream--simple things that we have seen a thousand times--have sometimes the power to cast a spell over our spirit, and to bring something that is great and incommunicable near us. This must be called magic, for it is not a thing which can be explained by ordinary laws, or defined in precise terms; but the spell is there, real, insistent, undeniable; it seems to make a bridge for the spirit to pass into a far-off, dimly apprehended region; it gives us a sense of great issues and remote visions; it leaves us with a longing which has no mortal fulfilment.”’

‘I mention this,’ the letter continues, ‘because it seems to me to lead to certain deep issues of life about which I have seldom spoken. I have always felt a certain diffidence in touching upon matters relating to the soul and the life hereafter. Yet, I have not let others do _all_ the thinking. I have had my own thoughts, my own visions. But, after all, refined speculations are of little use if there be not some tangible belief at the back of them. I like the passage just quoted, and I like the author’s reference, in another part of the volume, to the guarded city of life. But I think the following passage makes the strongest appeal, for _all_ may participate in the deep yet simple feelings expressed: “What are the thoughts of the mighty unresting heart, to whose vastness and agelessness the whole mass of these flying and glowing suns are but as a handful of dust that a boy flings upon the air? How has He set me here, a tiny moving atom, yet more sure of my own identity than I am of all the vast panorama of things which lie outside of me? Has He, indeed, a tender and patient thought of me, the frail creature whom He has moulded and made? I do not doubt it; I look upon the star-sown spaces, and the old aspiration rises in my heart, ‘Oh, that I knew where I might find Him! that I might come into His presence!’ How would I go, like a tired and sorrowful child to his father’s knee, to be comforted and encouraged, in perfect trust and love, to be raised in His arms, to be held to His heart! He would but look in my face, and I should understand without a question, without a word.”’

When I think of this passage and others which were included in letters written by my friend during his illness, I see clearly that he must have realized that he stood on the brink of the unknown. But no fears were expressed. Indeed, I gathered nothing from his letters regarding his physical condition. He made no mention of sickness or pain, dropped no hint of weariness. On the contrary, the letters of which I speak struck a deeper and truer note of cheerfulness and courage than any previous communications from his hand. I like to think that he continued, as of old, to speak of his rose-coloured spectacles, his point of view. ‘The secret of a happy life,’ he remarks, in the letter from which I have just quoted, ‘consists in immediately clearing away the specks of dust which are so apt to fall upon one’s rose-coloured spectacles, the little annoyances, the petty worries, the hundred and one little dark specks which I leave you to name at your leisure.’

Then follows a deeper note, taken, I think, from Epictetus: ‘Happiness is not in strength, or wealth or power, or all three. It lies in ourselves, in true freedom, in the conquest of every ignoble fear, in perfect self-government, in a power of contentment and peace, the even flow of life, even in poverty, exile, disease, and the very valley of the shadow of death.’

‘So you see,’ my friend continues, ‘there are also dark fogs and thick mists against which the would-be cheerful man must contend--deep trials compared to which our daily petty annoyances are, indeed, but specks of dust. But these, too, may be overcome. The truth is “the cheerful life is neither a matter of circumstance nor of temperament. It is a gift of God, and we can covet no better gift. The black hag of care can no longer sit on the shoulder of the man whose cheerfulness is the child of reason, not of impulse; whose heart is light because he can trust, not because the sky is blue and the world smiling.”’

I wish I could give you some account, from personal knowledge, of the way my friend spent his last days. This I cannot do, for many miles stood between us. But I am told by those who nursed him that up till the end his mind retained its clearness and vigour; that he never ceased to take an interest in his surroundings, in the great world outside his little room, in the many ill-favoured ones whom he had befriended.

Close by my side stands a shelf upon which are stored a number of volumes from his library. They are typical of his treasured collection, some of the best of the world’s best books, each volume showing signs of much reading and meditation, each page bearing marginal notes--original observations and thoughts from other sources, showing how one great writer differed from others, or, in the main, was of like opinion with his contemporaries. Many of the observations seem to me to be remarkably fresh and interesting--quite simple, it is true, but of the type of simplicity that captivates.

I shall hope to set down some of these, together with the passages to which they refer. Here is one example, which will serve to convey an idea of my friend’s manner of commenting upon an author’s words. The passage in point reads thus: ‘When thou hast been compelled by circumstances to be disturbed in a manner, quickly return to thyself, and do not remain out of tune longer than the compulsion lasts; for thou wilt have more mastery over the harmony by continually recurring to it.’ By the side of this, written in lead pencil, are the following words: ‘Might not human life be compared to an orchestra, composed of all kinds of instruments? I mean that each of our natures is, so to say, an instrument, some more pleasing and, seemingly, more useful than others; but of equal value when played in accord with the combined orchestra. And if we, at any time, drop out of him, is it not because we have failed to give our attention to the Great Conductor of all?’

They tell me that towards the end he referred repeatedly to the help he had derived from keeping his spiritual vision clear, his faith unclouded. So far as I can gather, his closing words were these: ‘Faith kept in lively exercise can make roses spring out of the midst of thorns, and change the briers of the wilderness into the fruit-trees of Paradise.’

XIV

FAREWELL

I HAVE attained my desire: I have introduced you to a true book-lover. And if you wonder why I have chosen a life shadowed by sorrow, I answer that love comes that way. ’Tis no new teaching, that which shows how sorrow and tribulation are the paths by which men travel to perfection. We start upon life’s journey with a glad cry; but many fall from the ranks some distance from the ‘first milestone,’ and fortunate are the fallen ones who find an open book by the wayside.

It was thus the love of books came to my friend of the rose-coloured spectacles. Shadows fell across his path, and he fell from the ranks; but out of the shadows came sweet voices, telling of gentle fancies and strength-giving realities. This was the road (need I hesitate in confessing it?) upon which I, too, came by the love of books.

Oh! how much we book-lovers owe to ‘those little sheets of paper that teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.... We ought to (and surely do) reverence books, to look upon them as good and mighty things. Whether they are about religion or politics, farming, trade, or medicine, they are messages of the Teacher of all truth.’

More cannot be said. And so farewell, fellow book-lover. May you find upon the way many wise and friendly books.

But wait! I hear as though voiced in clear tones the beautiful passage to be found in the little _book-friend_ whose name is on so many lips. Let me follow the pleasing example of my friend of the rose-coloured spectacles. Let me echo the brief passage before I take leave of you: ‘It is scarcely farewell, for my road is ubiquitous, eternal; there are green ways in Paradise and golden streets in the beautiful City of God. Nevertheless my heart is heavy; for, viewed by the light of the waning year, roadmending seems a great and wonderful work which I have poorly conceived of and meanly performed: yet I have learnt to understand dimly the truths of the three paradoxes--the blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, the companionship of solitude--and so take my leave of this stretch of the road, and of you who have fared along the white highway through the medium of a printed page.’

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._

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THE CHEERFUL LIFE: A Series of Papers in Praise of Cheerfulness. Edited by E. W. WALTERS.

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‘Here is the very book for hours of gloom and hours of gladness. None of the papers are superficial, and two or three of them are of the highest order of literary art.’--_Great Thoughts_.

‘The best comment upon these pages is that they leave one cheerful. The book has at times a literary and always a human flavour, which redeems it from either dullness or mere sentiment.’--_Daily News_.

THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS: An Anthology. Edited by E. W. WALTERS.

‘A fresh and valuable anthology ... the selection has been made with taste and judgement, and the passages arranged with art and skill.’--_London Quarterly Review_.

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CHARLES H. KELLY, 25-35 City Road, and 26 Paternoster Row, LONDON, E.C. AND OF ALL BOOKSELLERS

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Obvious typographical errors have been silently changed.

Inconsistent hyphenation has been corrected.