Chapter 2

The road curved to the right; round the bend, cut in the living rock, was a cave; the shepherds stopped and knelt, and there was no sound but the soft rapid breathing of the flock. Then the Child was filled with an overmastering longing, a desire so great that the tears sprang hot to her eyes. She dropped the Recluse’s hand and went forward where the shepherds knelt. Once again the air was full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry of the bells; but within all was silence. The cave was rough-hewn, and stabled an ox and an ass; close to the front a tall strong man leaning on a staff kept watch and ward; within knelt a peasant Maid, and on a heap of yellow straw lay a tiny new-born Babe loosely wrapped in a linen cloth: around and above were wonderful figures of fire and mist.

The infinite, visible and attainable.

The mystery which is the greatest possible wisdom.

* * * * *

“Come, Child,” said the Recluse.

The fire had burnt low; it was quite dark, save for the glow of the live embers.

He threw on a great dry pine log; it flared like a torch. The cats’ stretched in the sudden blaze, and then settled to sleep again. The Child and the Recluse passed out into the forest. The moon was very bright and the snow reflected its rays, so that it was light in spite of the great trees. The air was full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry of the bells; and the Child sang as she went in a half-dream by the side of the Recluse:—

“In dieser heil’gen Weihnachtszeit, Alleluja! Sei, Gott der Herr, gebenedeit, Alleluja! Alleluja!”

and wondered when she would wake up. They came to the old, old church in the forest, and the pictured saints looked out at them from the lighted window; through the open door they could see figures moving about with tapers in their hands; save for these the church was still empty.

The Recluse led the way up the nave to the north side of the Altar. The Child started a little; she was really dreaming then a kind of circular dream, for again she stood before the cave, again the reverend figure kept watch and ward over the kneeling Maid and the little Babe. The sheep and the shepherds were not there, but a little lamb had strayed in; and the wonderful figures of fire and mist—they were there in their place.

“Little one,” said the Recluse softly, “here is a symbol—concealment yet revelation—the King as servant—the strong helpless—the Almighty a little child; and thus the infinite stands revealed for all of us, visible and attainable, if we will have it so. It is the centre of all mystery, the greatest possible wisdom, the Eternal Child.”

“You showed it me before,” said the Child, “only we were out of doors, and the shepherds were there with the sheep; but the angels are here just the same.”

The Recluse bowed his head.

“Wait for me here with them, dear Child, I will fetch you after service.”

The church began to fill; old men in smock frocks and tall hats, little children wrapped warm against the cold, lads, shining and spruce, old women in crossed shawls and wonderful bonnets. The service was not very long; then the Recluse went up into the old grey stone pulpit. The villagers settled to listen—he did not often preach.

“My brothers and sisters, to-night we keep the Birth of the Holy Babe, and to-night you and I stand at the gate of the Kingdom of Heaven, the gate which is undone only at the cry of a little child. ‘Except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter.’

“The Kingdom is a great one, nay, a limitless one; and many enter in calling it by another name. It includes your own hearts and this wonderful forest, all the wise and beautiful works that men have ever thought of or done, and your daily toil; it includes your nearest and dearest, the outcast, the prisoner, and the stranger; it holds your cottage home and the jewelled City, the New Jerusalem itself. People are apt to think the Kingdom of Heaven is like church on Sunday, a place to enter once a week in one’s best: whereas it holds every flower, and has room for the ox and the ass, and the least of all creatures, as well as for our prayer and worship and praise.

“‘Except ye become as little children.’ How are we to be born again, simple children with wondering eyes?

“We must learn to lie in helpless dependence, to open our mouth wide that it may be filled, to speak with halting tongue the language we think we know; we must learn above all our own ignorance, and keep alight and cherish the flame of innocency in our hearts.

“It is a tired world, my brethren, and we are most of us tired men and women who live on it, for we seek ever after some new thing. Let us pass out through the gate into the Kingdom of Heaven and not be tired any more, because there we shall find the new thing that we seek. Heaven is on earth, the Kingdom is here and now; the gate stands wide to-night, for it is the birthright of the Eternal Child. We are none of us too poor, or stupid, or lowly; it was the simple shepherds who saw Him first. We are none of us too great, or learned, or rich; it was the three wise kings who came next and offered gifts. We are none of us too young; it was little children who first laid down their lives for Him; or too old, for Simeon saw and recognised Him. There is only one thing against most of us—we are too proud.

“My brethren, ‘let us now go even to Bethlehem, and face this thing which is come to pass, which the LORD hath made known unto us.’”

* * * * *

The lights were out in the church when the Recluse came to fetch the Child. She was still kneeling by the crêche, keeping watch with the wonderful figures of fire and mist.

“Was _this_ a dream or the other?” said the Child.

“Neither,” said the Recluse, and he blessed her in the moonlit dark.

The air was full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry of the bells.

The Manifestation

GOD said; “Let there be light”; and in the East A star rose flaming from night’s purple sea— The star of Truth, the star of Joy, the star Seen by the prophets down the lonely years; Set for a light to show the Perfect Way; Set for a sign that wayfarers might find; Set for a seal to mark the Godhead’s home. And three Kings in their palaces afar, Who waited ardently for promised things, Beheld, and read aright. Straightway the road Was hot with pad of camel, horse’s hoof, While night was quick as day with spurring men And light with flaring torch. “Haste, haste!” they cried, “We seek the King, the King! for in the East His star’s alight.”

BETHLEHEM

_The Angels_

Soft and slow, soft and slow, With angels’ wings of fire and snow, To rock Him gently to and fro. Fire to stay the chill at night, Snow to cool the noonday bright; And overhead His star’s alight.

Pale and sweet, pale and sweet, Maid Mary keeps her vigil meet, While Joseph waits with patient feet. Mary’s love for soft embrace, Joseph’s strength to guard the place. Lo! from the East Kings ride apace.

Gold and myrrh, gold and myrrh, Frankincense for harbinger, Myrrh to make His sepulchre. Roses white and roses red, Thorns arrayed for His dear Head. Hail! hail! Wise Men who seek His bed

_Joseph_

Little One, Little One, Saviour and Child, Father and Mother, my Husband and Son; Born of the lily, the maid undefiled, Babe of my Love, the Beatified One.

Little One, Little One, Master and LORD, Kings of the Earth come, desiring Thy Face; I, Thy poor servitor, lowly afford All that my life holds, for all is Thy Grace.

Little One, Little One, GOD over all, Earth is thy footstool, and Heav’n is Thy throne: Joseph the carpenter, prostrate I fall; Praise thee, adore Thee, and claim Thee mine own.

_Maid Mary_

Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, my heart’s delight, The myrrh between my breasts at night, My little Rose, my Lily white, My Babe for whom the star’s alight.

Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, GOD’S only SON, Foretold, foreseen, since earth begun; Desire of nations, Promised One When Eve was first by sin undone.

Babe, dear Babe! Mine own, mine own, the whole world’s Child! Born of each heart that’s undefiled, Nursed at the breast of Mercy mild, And in the arms of Love asiled.

Babe, dear Babe! My crown of glory, sorrow’s sword, My Maker, King, Redeemer, Lord, My Saviour and my great Reward; My little Son, my Babe adored.

_The Three Kings_

Hail! Hail thou wondrous little King! To Thy dear Feet Our offerings meet With bended knee we bring; O mighty baby King, Accept the offering.

_First King_

LORD, I stoop low My head of snow, Thus I, the great, hail Thee, the Least! And swing the censer for the Priest, The Priest with hands upraised to bless, The Priest of this world’s bitterness. As I stoop low My head of snow, Bless me, O Priest, before I go.

_Second King_

Behold me, King! A man of might, Who rules dominions infinite; Strong in the harvest of the years, And one who counts no kings as peers. O little King, Behold my crown! I lay it down, And bow before Thy lowly bed My all unworthy uncrowned head, For I am naught and Thou art All. And Thou shalt climb a throne set high, Between sad earth and silent sky, Thereon to agonize and die; And at Thy Feet the world shall fall. Stretch out Thy little Hands, O King, Behold the world’s imagining!

_Third King_

Out of the shadow of the night I come, led by the starshine bright, With broken heart to bring to Thee The fruit of Thine Epiphany, The gift my fellows send by me, The myrrh to bed Thine agony. I set it here beneath Thy Feet, In token of Death’s great defeat; And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife; And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life. All hail! All hail the Virgin’s Son! All hail! Thou little helpless One! All hail! Thou King upon the Tree! All hail! The Babe on Mary’s knee, The centre of all mystery!

All Souls’ Day in a German Town

THE leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs Whispers the world’s infirmities, Whispers the tale of the waning years, While slow mists gather in shrouding tears On All Souls’ Day; and the bells are slow In steeple and tower. Sad folk go Away from the township, past the mill, And mount the slope of a grassy hill Carved into terraces broad and steep, To the inn where wearied travellers sleep, Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows, And no man stirs in his long repose. They wend their way past the haunts of life, Father and daughter, grandmother, wife, To deck with candle and deathless cross, The house which holds their dearest loss. I, who stand on the crest of the hill, Watch how beneath me, busied still, The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers. Awhile the veil of the twilight hours Falls softly, softly, over the hill, Shadows the cross:—creeps on until Swiftly upon us is flung the dark. Then, as if lit by a sudden spark, Each grave is vivid with points of light, Earth is as Heaven’s mirror to-night; The air is still as a spirit’s breath, The lights burn bright in the realm of Death. Then silent the mourners mourning go, Wending their way to the church below; While the bells toll out to bid them speed, With eager Pater and prayerful bead, The souls of the dead, whose bodies still Lie in the churchyard under the hill; While they wait and wonder in Paradise, And gaze on the dawning mysteries, Praying for us in our hours of need; For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.

Rivers and Streams

RUNNING water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for drooping flowers; and they who wander in the garden of God with listening ears learn of its many voices.

When the strain of a working day has left me weary, perhaps troubled and perplexed, I find my way to the river. I step into a boat and pull up stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and then I make fast to the old alder-stump where last year the reed-piper nested, and lie back in the stern and think.

The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the current; the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side eddies, of course, and little disturbing whirlpools near the big stones, but they are all gathered into the broad sweep of the stream, carried down to the great catholic sea. And while I listen to the murmur of the water and watch its quiet strength the day’s wrinkles are smoothed out of my face; and at last the river bears me homeward rested and at peace.

There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart from the world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore heart. Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the banks, a solitary not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch the stream ‘never hasting, never resting’: the grass that grows beside it is always green, the flowers are fresh; it makes long embracing curves—I could cross from point to point in a minute, but to follow takes five. The ways of the water are ways of healing; I have a companion who makes no mistakes, touches none of my tender spots.

Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide sweep. Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green leaves and wait for their lover the moon; for then they open their silvery leaves and bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath the hot rays of the sun. Then, too, the buds rise out of the water and the moon kisses them into bloom and fragrance. Near by are the little yellow water-lilies, set for beauty against a background of great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall feathery meadowsweet. The river still sweeps on its way, but the pool is undisturbed; it lies out of the current. They say it is very deep—no one knows quite how deep—and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through the clear water, following the thick lily-stalks—a forest where solemn carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze—and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and the evening glow lying at my feet.

I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with flowers of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that reflect, in light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.

I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the old grey church stands out clear and distinct against the fading sky.

* * * * *

One of the happiest memories of my childhood is the little brook in the home field. I know it was not a very clean little brook—it passed through an industrious manufacturing world—but to me then this mattered not at all.

Where it had its source I never found out; it came from a little cave in the side of the hill, and I remember that one of its banks was always higher than the other. I once sought to penetrate the cave, but with sad results in the shape of bed before dinner and no pudding, such small sympathy have one’s elders with the spirit of research. Just beyond the cave the brook was quite a respectable width,—even my big boy cousin fell into mud and disgrace when he tried to jump it—and there was a gravelly beach, at least several inches square, where we launched our boats of hollowed elder-wood. Soon, however, it narrowed, it could even be stepped over; but it was still exciting and delightful, with two perilous rapids over which the boats had to be guided, and many boulders—for the brook was a brave stream, and had fashioned its bed in rocky soil. Further down was our bridge, one flat stone dragged thither by really herculean efforts. It was unnecessary, but a triumph. A little below this outcome of our engineering skill the brook widened again before disappearing under a flagged tunnel into the neighbouring field. Here, in the shallows, we built an aquarium. It was not altogether successful, because whenever it rained at all hard the beasts were washed out; but there was always joy in restocking it. Under one of the banks close by lived a fat frog for whom I felt great respect. We used to sit and gaze at each other in silent intercourse, until he became bored—I think I never did—and flopped into the water with a splash.

But it was the brook itself that was my chief and dearest companion. It chattered and sang to me, and told me of the goblins who lived under the hill, of fairies dancing on the grass on moonlight nights, and scolding the pale lilac milk-maids on the banks; and of a sad little old man dressed in brown, always sad because his dear water-children ran away from him when they heard the voice of the great river telling them of the calling of the sea.

It spoke to me of other more wonderful things, not even now to be put into words, things of the mysteries of a child’s imagination; and these linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until they are fulfilled.

* * * * *

I have another friend—a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring when the fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do not even know its name; it has its source up among the old grey tors, and doubtless in its beginning had a hard fight for existence. When it reaches the plain it is a good-sized stream, although nowhere navigable. I do not think it even turns a mill; it just flows along and waters the flowers. I have seen it with my bodily eyes only once; but it has left in my life a blessing, a picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling water—and whispered secrets not forgotten.

All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They chatter cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their bed. Some of them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past, of the worship of the false god when blood stained the clear waters; tales, too, of feud and warfare, of grave council and martial gathering; and happy stories of fairy and pixy our eyes are too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen with foreign ways and terror of all human beings. Their banks are bright with tormentil, blue with forget-me-not, rich in treasures of starry moss; the water is clear, cool in the hottest summer—they rise under the shadow of the everlasting hills, and their goal is the sea.

* * * * *

There are other times when I must leave the clean waters and the good brown earth, to live, for a while, in London: and there I go on pilgrimage that I may listen to the river’s voice.

I stand sometimes at a wharf where the ships are being unloaded of the riches of every country, of fruits of labour by my unknown brothers in strange lands; and the river speaks of citizenship in the great world of God, wherein all men have place, each man have his own place, and every one should be neighbour to him who may have need.

I pass on to London Bridge, our Bridge of Sighs. How many of these my brethren have sought refuge in the cold grey arms of the river from something worse than death? What drove them to this dreadful resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These things, too, are my concern, the river says.

Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair, glowing colours of grass and sky and trees, and shining streams that bring peace. It is drawn in hard black and white; but the voice of its dark waters must be heard all the same.

* * * * *

I would not leave my rivers in the shadow. After all, this life is only a prelude, a beginning: we pass on to where “the rivers and streams make glad the city of God.” But if we will not listen here how shall we understand hereafter.

Spring

HARK how the merry daffodils, Fling golden music to the hills! And how the hills send echoing down, Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown, The murmurs of a thousand rills That mock the song-birds’ liquid trills! The hedge released from Winter’s frown Shews jewelled branch and willow crown; While all the earth with pleasure trills, And ‘dances with the daffodils.’

Out, out, ye flowers! Up and shout! Staid Winter’s passed and Spring’s about To lead your ranks in joyous rout; To string the hawthorn’s milky pearls, And gild the grass with celandine; To dress the catkins’ tasselled curls, To twist the tendrils of the vine. She wakes the wind-flower from her sleep, And lights the woods with April’s moon; The violets lift their heads to peep, The daisies brave the sun at noon.

The gentle wind from out the west Toys with the lilac pretty maids; Ruffles the meadow’s verdant-vest, And rings the bluebells in the glades; The ash-buds change their sombre suit, The orchards blossom white and red— Promise of Autumn’s riper fruit, When Spring’s voluptuousness has fled. Awake! awake, O throstle sweet! And haste with all your choir to greet This Queen who comes with wakening feet.

Persephone with grateful eyes Salutes the Sun—’tis Paradise: Then hastens down the dewy meads, Past where the herd contented feeds, Past where the furrows hide the grain, For harvesting of sun and rain; To where Demeter patient stands With longing lips and outstretched hands, Until the dawning of one face Across the void of time and space Shall bring again her day of grace. Rejoice, O Earth! Rejoice and sing! This is the promise of the Spring, And this the world’s remembering.

A Lark’s Song

SWEET, sweet! I rise to greet The sapphire sky The air slips by On either side As up I ride On mounting wing, And sing and sing— Then reach my bliss, The sun’s great kiss; And poise a space To see his face, Sweet, sweet, In radiant grace, Ah, sweet! ah, sweet!

Sweet, sweet! Beneath my feet My nestlings call: And down I fall Unerring, true, Through heaven’s blue; And haste to fill Each noisy bill. My brooding breast Stills their unrest. Sweet, sweet, Their quick hearts beat, Safe in the nest: Ah, sweet, sweet, sweet! Ah, sweet!

Sweet, sweet The calling sky That bids me fly Up—up—on high. Sweet, sweet The claiming earth; It holds my nest And draws me down To where Love’s crown Of priceless worth Awaits my breast. Sweet, sweet! Ah, this is best And this most meet, Sweet, sweet! ah, sweet!

‘Luvly Miss’

NOBODY thought of consequences. There was a lighted paraffin lamp on the table and nothing else handy. Mrs Brown’s head presented a tempting mark, and of course Mr Brown’s lengthy stay at ‘The Three Fingers’ had something to do with it; but nobody thought of Miss Brown, aged four, who was playing happily on the floor, unruffled by the storm to which she was so well accustomed.

Mrs Brown ducked; there was a smash, a scream, and poor little Miss Brown was in a blaze. The shock sobered the father and silenced the mother. Miss Brown was extinguished with the aid of a table-cover, much water, and many neighbours; but she was horribly burnt all over, except her face.

* * * * *