Part 6

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 through the blossoms and leaves of the violet, and communicated itself to a tuft of dry short grass, which had ensconced itself behind. The red and gray cups of some tiny moss and lichens, 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, Daylight again 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 being, "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—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 angel, who was hovering near, on his way back from some message 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."

Wanderers and Pilgrims.

—————

A LARGE tract of country lay spread before me; upland and lowland, hill and plain. The whole land seemed stirring with perpetual movement, all in one direction;—from the bright hills at its commencement, 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, ceaselessly streaming across the land.

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 incessant in the case of each individual; only the ceaseless passing of the great tide of life made it seem so. Merry groups paused on the hill-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 instinct. Yet soon the bright groups were scattered, and moved down again over the hills, often never joining more.

"Why do you hasten away from these sunny slopes?" I said. "There seems nothing so pleasant in all the land besides."

"Perhaps not," the travellers replied, with a slight sigh; 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 perhaps 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 travellers would have gladly lingered, but it could not be. Homesteads, and corn-fields, and vineyards, all had to be left; and still the tide of life streamed on and on.

"Why?" I asked.

"It is the doom of our race," they said, 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 regretful 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 mountains.

"What is on the other side?" I asked.

"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 together, 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 hasting on?"

"We are Pilgrims," they replied; "we would not linger here."

"Whither are you going?" I inquired.

"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 footprints wherever He stepped. And we know it also by the goal to which it tends!"

Then looking up, I saw resting on the mountains where this path ended, a bridge like a rainbow, and beyond it, in the sky, a range of towers and walls, pearl and opal, ruby and golden, such as in a summer evening 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 reversed for us. We are not Wanderers; we are Pilgrims. We would not linger here; this is not our rest. Onwards, upwards, to the City!—To the Home!"

The Ark and the Fortress.

—————

ONE 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 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 submerged world. He had told them the same truth for a hundred and twenty years. There had been no indefiniteness about his prophecy. As, since then, men have been warned by the uncertainty 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 precisely a year nearer. And now the last evening of the last year had come, and once more the patient preacher of righteousness stood and warned them to forsake the sin which must bring the doom.

But in vain. There was no persecution; perhaps some mockery, as they pointed to the cloudless sky, and the fields and forests growing daily greener in the spring-tide sunshine; but for the most part simply unbelief and indifference. "They ate, they drank, they married, they were given in marriage." And so the last warning was finished, and the last evening 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 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, perchance, 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 poured from the opened flood-gates of heaven, whilst the waters from beneath broke their barriers, and the reservoirs 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 fled to it, and looked triumphantly down on the waves.

Higher and higher they rose. The lower hills were covered. The mountain 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 became 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.

They 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 everlasting rocks. The strong foundations gave way, and with a crash, and a wail of anguish, the fortress fell, and nothing rose above the waters but the floating 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."

The Three Dreams.

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I HAD once three dreams in close succession, which I will relate to you.

In the first, I saw a magnificent palace, a little world of gardens and buildings, a city in itself. All was enclosed within a high wall, so that from outside you could see nothing of it except the fairy white minarets, pencilled delicately against the blue sky, some lofty battlemented watch-towers, and several graceful campaniles, with the tops of a few of the highest trees. But a delicious blending of the fragrance of a thousand flowers came thence in summer evenings; and every night, bell-tower, watch-tower, spire, and dome, and minaret were illuminated 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—

"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, turning on their massive hinges with a sound like the music of many choirs, and the applicant was quietly drawn inside.

Then I saw that the inside of the gates was of translucent pearl. A stream of light and fragrance for a moment came through, and induced others afterwards to knock. But immediately the gates were closed, and stood a wall of impenetrable marble as before.

I awoke, 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 I 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—

"'I am the Door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved.'"

One wretched and woe-worn woman gave a trembling glance at His face, and then listening again to those tones, not welcoming merely, but pleading and persuasively 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 understood what His words had meant;—that by saying, "I am the door," He must have meant that there was 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.

And I awoke from my second dream.

* * * *

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 around 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 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 of the sense of incongruity and the emotion of surprise characteristic of dreams, I did not wonder! Patiently He 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 to 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!" 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."

Thou and I. *

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IN 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 perfumes. The chair in which the mother sat was gilded and tapestried; the carpet her feet rested on was soft as mossy turf, and delicate as embroidery. Jewels sparkled on her dress.

* Suggested by a passage in Sartorius' "Lehre von der heiligen Liebe," contrasting the world of a cold philosophy, "Ich and Nicht Ich," with the Christian's world, "Ich und Du."

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 nothing, but that it was on its mother's knee. Its only consciousness was "Thou and I!" and love.

* * * *

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 passengers felt uneasy, and were impatient to see the light again. But the baby cared nothing for the 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. Every 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 against the world. It knew nothing of danger or fear. Its world was "Thou and I!" and love.

* * * *

Years passed away, and the baby grew into a child, and the child into a man. His life was one of many vicissitudes, of passionate hopes, and bitter sorrows, and wild ambition. He worshipped 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 choicest things, came to feed him on its husks.

And a long way off, he thought of the Father and the home, and rose to return. His steps were doubtful and slow, but the heart which met him had no hesitation and no upbraidings. Then the wanderer understood the love with which 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 they had never been, because through them all, a living Presence was around him, a living 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 darkness deepened. But he had no fear.

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 confusion. He looked into his Father's face, and smiled. Life and death and earth, all he left, and all he went to, were as nothing to him then. He had nothing but that one living, loving Presence, but it was enough.

Again it was "Thou and I!" and love.

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 in that day, what will such have to fear? Amidst all the convulsed worlds, the redeemed 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.

———————————————————————————————— Ballantyne & Company, Printers, Edinburgh.