Chapter 8

"Something to comfort you still more, Mamma."

She could not speak.

"Mamma, you are crying! I feel your tears on my hand. Do not cry about me."

"Go on, dear Roderick."

"Don't you think," continued the child, "that people who wont listen to what is told them, and wont be cured of being foolish and wicked, are very like the old Jews you told us about yesterday, who had God among them, and Moses teaching them what God wished them to do, and still were as disobedient as ever?"

"It is true, Roderick, we are all apt to resemble the Jews in their journey through the wilderness."

"Yes, Mamma; and particularly people who can't trust in God, though they know He is everywhere. The Jews knew He was in the cloud and the pillar, and still were always afraid He couldn't take care of them. And what came into my head was, that I used to be as bad as those old Jews once; knowing that God was present everywhere to take care of me, and still not _feeling_ it so as really to believe it, and not be afraid. But the blindness has quite cured me, and is it not very likely that it came on purpose to do so, and to make me trust in God; for I have done so more and more, dear Mamma, as I groped about this year, for I have all along hoped He would take care of me, and keep me from falling; and, therefore, I think the blindness has done me a great deal of good, and I hope I shall never be like the naughty old Jews again! This is what I had to say; and I hope you will be as glad as I am."

"I will try, my darling," cried poor Madeline.

The tenderest love, the bitterest grief, mixed with earnest struggles for resignation to the will of Heaven, contended in the Mother's bosom, as she clasped her innocent child to her heart. He was almost frightened. She lifted him on to her knees, and buried her face on his shoulder. He put his young arms round her neck, and almost wondered why she sobbed so bitterly; but he felt he must not speak.

There was a painful pause. Suddenly, however, a strange faint light began to creep into the room, which had hitherto been gradually darkening in the twilight. It was a mysterious gleam, like nothing that is ever seen. It increased in strength and brilliancy, till at length the whole place became illuminated.

Roderick's head was against his Mother's breast; and, besides, _he_ could not see.

She, however, suddenly started up; the light had become so powerful, it had forced her from her grief. She sprung up in terror, and a faint shriek burst from her lips.

"Mamma, what is the matter?" cried Roderick, holding her fast.

"Oh, the light--the light, my child! there is such a light!" answered Madeline.

"Mother, you are not afraid of _Light_!" exclaimed the bewildered Roderick.

"Oh, but _this_ light! it is like no other;--it is awful!"

"Mother,--it is not the light of _Fire_, is it," cried poor Roderick, now at last turning pale. "But even if it is, remember that I can help you _now_; I can go everywhere,--all over, and fear nothing. I can go and fetch my brothers and sisters, one by one! Oh, send me; send me, Mamma! I shall be less afraid than any of you, for I cannot see the horrid light that frightens you!"

As he finished, a gentle, prolonged "Hush!" resounded through the room; like the soothing, quieting sound of lullaby to an infant. And in the midst of the beaming light, the form of the long-forgotten Fairy Eudora appeared before the eyes of the astonished Madeline.

"The Sea Castle is not on Fire, you dear, brave child," cried the Fairy; "and your Mother has no cause for fear. I am a friend."

"Cousin!" cried the bewildered Madeline, "why are you here?" and a terrible suspicion flashed through her mind: and she pointed to her boy, and added, trembling with agony--

"Is that _your_ doing?"

"What if I say it _is_, Cousin Madeline. There is a long story about that, but we shall have time for it hereafter.--Dear little Cousin Roderick," pursued the Fairy, seating herself, and drawing Roderick to her. "You have been a good boy, and got _light out of darkness_. Mind you hold it fast. You did not use the light well, though, when you had it, Cousin Roderick."

"I know I didn't," was his answer.

"If you could live the light time over again, you would be wiser, Roderick."

"I hope I should indeed," he murmured fervently; "but it is not likely I shall ever see the light again."

"Little boys shouldn't say things are not likely, when they don't know any thing about them," cried the Fairy gaily, to cheer them up.

"I dare say, if I were to ask you, you would tell me it was a bit of sand that got into your eyes last year, that made you blind; but it was no such thing, clever Master Roderick. Your naughty Cousin Eudora had something to do with that; but, luckily, she can put her own work straight again. Cousin Madeline, what do you think of my pretty light?"

"Eudora, it is dreadful."

"Then shut your eyes, poor thing, we don't want to blind you. But Roderick and I have not done talking yet. Come, little boy, lift up your face towards me, and open those pretty eyes wide, that I may see if I can't do them some good. Why, they are as blue as the water round our island! There, now, they are looking at my face. Mind you tell me if you think me pretty."

"Eudora!" exclaimed Madeline.

"Sit down, sit down, and shut your eyes, good woman. Now, Roderick, wont even my Fairy light break through your darkness?"

"I think it will," sighed Roderick; "there is a white light all round me, as if I had gone up into a bright white cloud. You frighten me, Fairy! Take away the light, and put me back into the darkness again."

"Not so, my pretty Roderick; but I will soften it a little;" and she waved her wand, and the brilliancy subsided.

"Fairy, I see you now," screamed Roderick, springing up, for he was sitting at her feet; "and oh, how beautiful you are!"

"Roderick!" cried a voice from behind him. He turned; and Mother and Son were locked in each other's arms.

Surely I need say no more about this? though perhaps nobody but a Mother can quite know how happy and thankful Lady Madeline was. And as to Roderick, he was delighted too! Not but what he had been very happy and contented before; but sight was a new pleasure to him now; a sort of treat, like a birthday or Christmas present, which puts every one into high spirits. It was so charming to him, poor fellow, (for he was very affectionate), to actually _see_ his Mamma again; and this put something else into his head, and off he ran out of the room.

"Eudora," Madeline began, "how am I to thank you! Can you ever forgive my old unkindness?"

"Cousin Madeline," replied the Fairy, "I bear no malice to any one, least of all to you, who come of a race I love, and of a family I consider my own. No, no, good soul. I have never borne you ill-will, though my kindness has been severe. Look! I know you love me _now_. Love me always, Cousin Madeline, and let me ramble undisturbed about your earthly home; but, mind! no more unkind wishes, however slight. They come like evil winds to our Fairy island. You kept me away long enough by those; and when you wished me with you, to get your child out of his folly, I was very angry, and thought I wouldn't come; but your, and your husband's wish was so strong and earnest, it haunted me day and night; and I had no comfort till I had resolved to help you. And here, Madeline, you have something to forgive _me_. My remedy has been a harsh, a very harsh one for so slight a fault; but at first I intended it to last only a few days. Afterwards, however, seeing how it was acting upon him, and upon you all, for good, I let it work its full effect: and I think it has been greatly blessed! Now, farewell! Time is flying, and I must begone."

And thus the Fairy and Madeline walked to the window, which the latter reopened, and there was the full moon sailing in the cloudless sky, and lighting up the lovely, and, this evening, calm and unruffled sea.

The cousins embraced; and in a few minutes the Fairy had disappeared in the distance. Madeline lingered awhile at the casement, thinking tenderly of the gentle-hearted Fairy, and watching the horizon. At last the outline of the Fairy's home appeared clear and bright against the dark blue heaven, and then subsided gently by degrees. And Madeline closed the window, grateful and happy, and went after her boy. But she had not far to go; for he was coming along the passages with all his brothers and sisters, wild with delight. And oh, how Roderick chattered and talked about all their faces, and how he loved to see the fat cheeks of one near his own age, and how some had grown, and their noses improved, and what beautiful curls another had! In short, if he had gone on long they would all have got quite conceited and fancy, and fancied themselves a set of downright beauties. But you see it was _love_ that made poor Roderick admire them all so much; and, above all, he was charmed when they smiled. Ah, how little do brothers and sisters know how tender their recollections of each others' faces would become, were a separation to take place among them! Then all the sweet smiles and pretty looks would be recalled, that in every day life are seen with such indifference. "Little children, love one another," during the happy days when you live together in health and comfort.

Can you guess, dear readers, what a joyous evening it was, that day at the Sea Castle Home? How the poor Father rejoiced, and how the old Hall was lighted up for the Servants, to share in the joy by a merry dance; and how all the children danced too; and how a barrel of good ale was tapped, for every one to drink to the health and happiness of Master Roderick, and all the family. But you never _can_ guess how Roderick teased all his brothers and sisters that evening, by constantly kissing them. In the midst of a country dance he would run right across to the ladies, when he ought to be standing still and polite, and kiss two or three of his sisters as they were waiting to dance in their turn, and tell them how nice they looked! Or he would actually run right away from his place, to his Papa and Mamma;--jump on their knees, and hug them very hard, and then run back again, perhaps, into the middle of the dance, and put every thing into confusion. But the happiest scene of all was, when the Father and Mother thanked God that night for the blessing that had returned to their little boy.

And do not ask me, I beg, if he ever was afraid of being in the dark again. No, dear Readers, his temporary misfortune had taught him the best of all lessons;--A LIVING FAITH AND TRUST IN THE PROTECTING OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.

THE LOVE OF GOD.

PREAMBLE (FROM LIFE.)

_Van Artevelde_. These are but words. _Elena_. My lord, they're full of meaning! _Van Artevelde_.

Grace had been said, and Mamma was busy carving for the large party of youngsters who sat around the comfortable dinner-table, when a little voice from among them called out,

"Mamma, do you think a giant could see a carraway seed?"

Now there was no sweet loaf on the table, nor even on the sideboard--neither had there been any plum cake in the house for some time--nor were there any carraway seeds in the biscuits just then. --In short, there was nothing which could be supposed to have suggested the idea of carraway seeds to the little boy who made the enquiry. Still he did make it, and though he went on quietly with his dinner, he expected to receive an answer.

Had the good Lady at the head of the table not been the mother of a large family, she might possibly have dropt the carving knife and fork, in sheer astonishment at the unaccountableness of the question, but as it was, she had heard so many other odd ones before, that she did not by outward sign demonstrate the amusement she felt at this, but simply said,--"_Perhaps he could_"--for she knew that it was out of her power to speak positively as to whether a Giant could see a carraway seed or not.

Now dear little readers, what do _you_ think about this very important affair? Do you think a Giant could see a carraway seed or not?--"Oh yes," you all cry,--"_of course he could!_"

Nay, my dears, there is no "of course" at all in the matter! Can any of you, for example, see the creatures that float about and fight in a drop of water from the Serpentine River? No, certainly not! except through a microscope. Well, but _why_ not?--you do not know. That I can easily believe! But then you must never again say that "_of course_" a Giant could see a carraway seed.

It is entirely a question of _relative proportion_: so now you feel quite small, and admit your total ignorance, I hope. Yes! it all depends upon whether the giant is as much bigger than the carraway seed, as you are bigger than the curious little insects that float about and fight in the drop of water from the Serpentine river--for if he is, we may conclude from analogy that a giant could _not_ see a carraway seed except through a microscope. You see it is a sort of rule of three sum, but as I cannot work it out, I tell you honestly that neither do I know whether a giant could see so small an object or not, and I advise you all to be as modest as I am myself, and never speak positively on so difficult a point.

But enough of this! Turn we now to another point, about which I _can_ speak positively--namely, that in _one_ sense the world is full of Giants who cannot see Carraway seeds.

"It must be in the sense of _Non_sense I should think then!" observes somewhat scornfully the young lady who is reading this story aloud--"as if we could believe in there being giants now!"

Very wittily remarked! my dear young lady, for your age.--I take you to be about seventeen, and I see by the compression of your pretty mouth that you consider yourself quite a judge and an authority. Only take care you don't grow up into one of those Giants yourself! There is something very suspicious to me in the glance of your eye. "Ridiculous!" murmurs the fair damsel in question.

Not at all so: only you travel too fast; by which I mean you speak too hastily. You learn Italian, I dare say? Oh yes, of course, for you sing. Well then, _Ombra adorata_ that is "beloved shadow;" _aspetta_ that is, "wait"--"wait, my beloved shadow" (of a charming young lady), give me breathing time, and I will explain myself. As you are an Italian student, I presume you have heard of the great Italian poet Dante. Now Dante in his _Convito_ or "Banquet" tells his readers that writings may be understood, and therefore ought to be explained in four different senses or meanings. There is first the literal sense; secondly, the allegorical; thirdly, the moral; and fourthly, the _anagorical_. Now I know you can't explain this last word to me, for I would wager a large sum that you never tasted of Dante's Banquet--no, not so much as the smallest crumb from it; and therefore how _should_ you know what he means by the anagorical sense? Give me leave to have the honour of enlightening you, then. The anagorical is what the dictionaries call the _anagogical_ sense. A sense beyond this world; a sense above the senses; a spiritual sense making common things divine. It is hard to be arrived at and difficult of comprehension. Now in the matter of the nice little boy's question about the Giant and the carraway seed, (for none but a nice little boy could have excogitated any thing so comical), I have set my heart upon talking to you about it in the four above mentioned senses. And having already descanted on the _literal_ sense, I had just made an assertion which appertained to the _allegorical_ sense, when you so inopportunely interrupted me, My Ombra Adorata, with your sharp observation about _non_sense: so now we will go on in peace and quietness, if you please.

In an allegorical sense the world is full of giants who cannot see carraway seeds.

For what are Giants but great men and great women? and the world abounds with people who consider themselves as belonging to that class. And a great many of them--Giants of Cleverness, Giants of Riches, Giants of Rank--Giants of I know not how many things besides, who are walking about the world every day, very often feel themselves to be quite raised above the point of attending to trifles; so that you see I may (in an allegorical sense) say strictly of them that they cannot see carraway seeds. Oh my dears, however elevated you may be, or may become; however great or rich or learned, beware, I pray you, of being a Giant who cannot see a carraway seed!

For, as my explanation of the _moral_ sense now goes on to show you; it is so far from being, as these Giants suppose, a proof of their _superiority_ that they cannot see or notice things they consider beneath them--that it is, in fact, an evidence of some imperfection or defect in either their moral or intellectual structure. Just as it is a proof of our eyes being imperfect, that we cannot see the little water insects as well as a great big elephant. I am sure you will allow there is nothing _to boast of_ in this, and so if the contemplation of great things makes you incapable of attending to small ones, do remember that _'tis nothing to boast about or be proud of_. And take very great care you make no mistakes as to what is great and what is insignificant. With which warning I close my remarks on the moral lesson, and proceed to that _anagogical_ or spiritual meaning, which will I hope be my justification for dwelling so long on the subject, and my best introduction to a story of a serious though not of a melancholy character. But first, my dear little readers, let me call upon you in the words which you hear in church:

"Lift up your hearts!"

and I would have you answer,

"We lift them up unto the Lord."

For it is indeed of Him--the Lord of all Lords, that I now wish to speak to you. He made the Sun and Stars and the great mountains of our earth; but He made also the smallest insects that crowd the air and water, and which are invisible to our imperfect eyes.

He rules the nations by His word, and "binds kings in chains, and nobles with links of iron," as the psalm expresses it; but also not a sparrow falls to the ground without His knowledge and consent. Angels and Archangels worship around His throne, but His ears are equally open to the prayer of the youngest child who lifts up its little heart to Him!

The universe is at His feet, but the smallest events of our lives are under His especial superintendence and care. Yes! nothing, however small and insignificant, that is connected with the present or future welfare of the smallest and most insignificant of his creatures, is _beneath the notice of God_!

Ah! here is indeed a lesson for the fancied Giants of the world!--For, in this picture of Almighty greatness combined with infinite condescension, we see that real Perfection requires no Pride to elevate it.

But I said this anagogical sense was hard to be attained to and difficult of comprehension.

And is it not so? Is it not very difficult to believe thoroughly that the great God whom we hear about, really and truly cares how we behave and what we do--really and truly listens to our prayers--really and truly takes as much interest in us as our earthly Fathers and Mothers do?

Ah, I am sure it must be very difficult, because so few people do it, although we should all be both better and happier if we did. We should say our prayers so much more earnestly, try to keep out of sin and naughtiness so much more heartily, and, above all, always be contented with whatever happened; for who could be anxious, and discontented about their condition or circumstances, if they _quite_ believed that every thing that happened to them was watched over and arranged for their good, by the wisest, kindest, and most powerful of Beings? If you, my dear children, who have been reading the fairy tales in this book, were to be told that a most wise, most kind, and most powerful Fairy had suddenly taken you for life under her particular care, and that she would never lose sight of you by night or by day, how delighted you would be!

Yet just so are you under the particular care and watchful concern of Almighty God!

But now, say you, you begin to feel the difficulty of believing it possible that the great God of the Universe takes this tender interest in such insignificant and sinful creatures as men and women.

Consider, then, that we are told that "God is Love;" and if He loves us, there is no difficulty in believing that He feels all this interest in us. Do not judge Him by earthly Kings and Potentates. These are Giants who cannot see carraway seeds. We do not blame them, for it is impossible they should be interested for every body. But very very different is both the power and the feeling of the King of Kings!

Still we have not got over the difficulty yet, for of all the wonderful truths we are commanded to believe, no one is so wonderful and so incomprehensible as _the Love of God_ to the sinful human race.

And yet it is a truth, and of all truths the most important and most comfortable; and therefore it is much to be desired that we should thoroughly believe it: and _I think_ I can make you understand that it is possible, _by something which you feel in your own hearts_. I think God has placed even in our own hearts a witness of the possibility of this great Truth.

My idea is this. We _know_ that God has been merciful to us--(His very creation of man was an act of mercy), and _therefore_ we know that He loves us. _He loves us because He has been merciful to us_. If you cannot see why this should be, I refer you to the following story, and advise you to _try for yourselves_. Only be kind to any living creature, whether a human being, or an irrational animal, and see if you can keep your heart from _loving_ it! Certainly it does not become us to try to search out the unsearchable mind of God, but I think it is permitted us to hope, that the remarkable fast of _Kindness engendering Love_, which we experience in our own hearts, is intended to lead us upwards as by a holy guiding thread, to some comprehension of the Love of that God, who in Christ Jesus actually _gave Himself for us_.

THE TALE.

Lift up the curtain!

In a baronial hall, not of the size and grandeur of that at Warwick Castle, which those who have never seen should try to see before they die: but still in a hall as antique and interesting in style, fits a young man reading.

It is evening, though the sun has not yet set, but it is evening, and the young man is sitting at a small oak table in a recess in one of the ancient windows, and before him lies open a book, and on the book, which he touches not with his hands, but on which his eyes, blinded by tears, are fixed, there lies a faded primrose.

The book is the Bible, and the faded primrose lies on that verse in the Psalm, "Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for his goodness, and declare the wonders that he doeth for the children of men!" and some hand had placed a slight pencil mark before these words.

This scene brings before you a story of distress, and yet this young man is the possessor of a large estate;--the baronial hall and house are his own, and he is young and amiable, and till within the last few months had led a life of almost uninterrupted comfort and prosperity from his cradle upwards. Two years ago he became the betrothed lover of a young lady no less interesting than himself, and as no obstacle prevented their union, both had for these two years looked forward to it, as the one certain and sure event of their lives. The young man's parents had died when he was very young; but, in compliance with the wishes of his Guardians, he deferred his marriage till he should have come of age.