Chapter 18

With these legacies of devout souls, it seems to me, the little volume herewith presented is not wholly unworthy of a place. It assumes the life and power of the gospel as a matter of actual experience; it bears unmistakable evidence of a realization, on the part of its author, of the truth, that Christianity is not simply historical and traditional, but present and permanent, with its roots in the infinite past and its branches in the infinite future, the eternal spring and growth of Divine love; not the dying echo of words uttered centuries ago, never to be repeated, but God's good tidings spoken afresh in every soul,--the perennial fountain and unstinted outflow of wisdom and goodness, forever old and forever new. It is a lofty plea for patience, trust, hope, and holy confidence, under the shadow, as well as in the light, of Christian experience, whether the cloud seems to rest on the tabernacle, or moves guidingly forward. It is perhaps too exclusively addressed to those who minister in the inner sanctuary, to be entirely intelligible to the vaster number who wait in the outer courts; it overlooks, perhaps, too much the solidarity and oneness of humanity;' but all who read it will feel its earnestness, and confess to the singular beauty of its style, the strong, steady march of its argument, and the wide and varied learning which illustrates it.

("The good are not so good as I once thought, nor the bad so evil, and in all there is more for grace to make advantage of, and more to testify for God and holiness, than I once believed."--Baxter.)

To use the language of one of its reviewers in the Scottish press:--

"Beauty there is in the book; exquisite glimpses into the loveliness of nature here and there shine out from its lines,--a charm wanting which meditative writing always seems to have a defect; beautiful gleams, too, there are of the choicest things of art, and frequent allusions by the way to legend or picture of the religious past; so that, while you read, you wander by a clear brook of thought, coining far from the beautiful hills, and winding away from beneath the sunshine of gladness and beauty into the dense, mysterious forest of human existence, that loves to sing, amid the shadow of human darkness and anguish, its music of heavenborn consolation; bringing, too, its pure waters of cleansing and healing, yet evermore making its praise of holy affection and gladness; while it is still haunted by the spirits of prophet, saint, and poet, repeating snatches of their strains, and is led on, as by a spirit from above, to join the great river of God's truth. . . .

"This is a book for Christian men, for the quiet hour of holy solitude, when the heart longs and waits for access to the presence of the Master. The weary heart that thirsts amidst its conflicts and its toils for refreshing water will drink eagerly of these sweet and refreshing words. To thoughtful men and women, especially such as have learnt any of the patience of hope in the experiences of sorrow and trial, we commend this little volume most heartily and earnestly."

_The Patience of Hope_ fell into my hands soon after its publication in Edinburgh, some two years ago. I was at once impressed by its extraordinary richness of language and imagery,--its deep and solemn tone of meditation in rare combination with an eminently practical tendency,-- philosophy warm and glowing with love. It will, perhaps, be less the fault of the writer than of her readers, if they are not always able to eliminate from her highly poetical and imaginative language the subtle metaphysical verity or phase of religious experience which she seeks to express, or that they are compelled to pass over, without appropriation, many things which are nevertheless profoundly suggestive as vague possibilities of the highest life. All may not be able to find in some of her Scriptural citations the exact weight and significance so apparent to her own mind. She startles us, at times, by her novel applications of familiar texts, by meanings reflected upon them from her own spiritual intuitions, making the barren Baca of the letter a well. If the rendering be questionable, the beauty and quaint felicity of illustration and comparison are unmistakable; and we call to mind Augustine's saying, that two or more widely varying interpretations of Scripture may be alike true in themselves considered. "When one saith, Moses meant as I do,' and another saith, 'Nay, but as I do,' I ask, more reverently, 'Why not rather as both, if both be true?"

Some minds, for instance, will hesitate to assent to the use of certain Scriptural passages as evidence that He who is the Light of men, the Way and the Truth, in the mystery of His economy, designedly "delays, withdraws, and even hides Himself from those who love and follow Him." They will prefer to impute spiritual dearth and darkness to human weakness, to the selfishness which seeks a sign for itself, to evil imaginations indulged, to the taint and burden of some secret sin, or to some disease and exaggeration of the conscience, growing out of bodily infirmity, rather than to any purpose on the part of our Heavenly Father to perplex and mislead His children. The sun does not shine the less because one side of our planet is in darkness. To borrow the words of Augustine "Thou, Lord, forsakest nothing thou hast made. Thou alone art near to those even who remove far from thee. Let them turn and seek thee, for not as they have forsaken their Creator hast thou forsaken thy creation." It is only by holding fast the thought of Infinite Goodness, and interpreting doubtful Scripture and inward spiritual experience by the light of that central idea, that we can altogether escape the dreadful conclusion of Pascal, that revelation has been given us in dubious cipher, contradictory and mystical, in order that some, through miraculous aid, may understand it to their salvation, and others be mystified by it to their eternal loss.

I might mention other points of probable divergence between reader and writer, and indicate more particularly my own doubtful parse and hesitancy over some of these pages. But it is impossible for me to make one to whom I am so deeply indebted an offender for a word or a Scriptural rendering. On the grave and awful themes which she discusses, I have little to say in the way of controversy. I would listen, rather than criticise. The utterances of pious souls, in all ages, are to me often like fountains in a thirsty land, strengthening and refreshing, yet not without an after-taste of human frailty and inadequateness, a slight bitterness of disappointment and unsatisfied quest. Who has not felt at times that the letter killeth, that prophecies fail, and tongues cease to edify, and been ready to say, with the author of the Imitation of Christ: "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth. Let not Moses nor the prophets speak to me, but speak thou rather, who art the Inspirer and Enlightener of all. I am weary with reading and hearing many things; let all teachers hold their peace; let all creatures keep silence: speak thou alone to me."

The writer of The Patience of Hope had, previous to its publication, announced herself to a fit, if small, audience of earnest and thoughtful Christians, in a little volume entitled, A Present Heaven. She has recently published a collection of poems, of which so competent a judge as Dr. Brown, the author of _Horae Subsecivae_ and _Rab and his Friends_, thus speaks, in the _North British Review_:--

"Such of our readers--a fast increasing number--as have read and enjoyed _The Patience of Hope_, listening to the gifted nature which, through such deep and subtile thought, and through affection and godliness still deeper and more quick, has charmed and soothed them, will not be surprised to learn that she is not only poetical, but, what is more, a poet, and one as true as George Herbert and Henry Vaughan, or our own Cowper; for, with all our admiration of the searching, fearless speculation, the wonderful power of speaking clearly upon dark and all but unspeakable subjects, the rich outcome of 'thoughts that wander through eternity,' which increases every time we take up that wonderful little book, we confess we were surprised at the kind and the amount of true poetic _vis_ in these poems, from the same fine and strong hand. There is a personality and immediateness, a sort of sacredness and privacy, as if they were overheard rather than read, which gives to these remarkable productions a charm and a flavor all their own. With no effort, no consciousness of any end but that of uttering the inmost thoughts and desires of the heart, they flow out as clear, as living, as gladdening as the wayside well, coming from out the darkness of the central depths, filtered into purity by time and travel. The waters are copious, sometimes to overflowing; but they are always limpid and unforced, singing their own quiet tune, not saddening, though sometimes sad, and their darkness not that of obscurity, but of depth, like that of the deep sea.

"This is not a book to criticise or speak about, and we give no extracts from the longer, and in this case, we think, the better poems. In reading this Cardiphonia set to music, we have been often reminded, not only of Herbert and Vaughan, but of Keble,--a likeness of the spirit, not of the letter; for if there is any one poet who has given a bent to her mind, it is Wordsworth,--the greatest of all our century's poets, both in himself and in his power of making poets."

In the belief that whoever peruses the following pages will be sufficiently interested in their author to be induced to turn back and read over again, with renewed pleasure, extracts from her metrical writings, I copy from the volume so warmly commended a few brief pieces and extracts from the longer poems.

Here are three sonnets, each a sermon in itself:--

ASCENDING.

They who from mountain-peaks have gazed upon The wide, illimitable heavens have said, That, still receding as they climbed, outspread, The blue vault deepens over them, and, one By one drawn further back, each starry sun Shoots down a feebler splendor overhead So, Saviour, as our mounting spirits, led Along Faith's living way to Thee, have won A nearer access, up the difficult track Still pressing, on that rarer atmosphere, When low beneath us flits the cloudy rack, We see Thee drawn within a widening sphere Of glory, from us further, further back,-- Yet is it then because we are more near.

LIFE TAPESTRY.

Top long have I, methought, with tearful eye Pored o'er this tangled work of mine, and mused Above each stitch awry and thread confused; Now will I think on what in years gone by I heard of them that weave rare tapestry At royal looms, and hew they constant use To work on the rough side, and still peruse The pictured pattern set above them high; So will I set my copy high above, And gaze and gaze till on my spirit grows Its gracious impress; till some line of love, Transferred upon my canvas, faintly glows; Nor look too much on warp or woof, provide He whom I work for sees their fairer side!

HOPE.

When I do think on thee, sweet Hope, and how Thou followest on our steps, a coaxing child Oft chidden hence, yet quickly reconciled, Still turning on us a glad, beaming brow, And red, ripe lips for kisses: even now Thou mindest me of him, the Ruler mild, Who led God's chosen people through the wild, And bore with wayward murmurers, meek as thou That bringest waters from the Rock, with bread Of angels strewing Earth for us! like him Thy force abates not, nor thine eye grows dim; But still with milk and honey-droppings fed, Thou leadest to the Promised Country fair, Though thou, like Moses, may'st not enter there

There is something very weird and striking in the following lines:--

GONE.

Alone, at midnight as he knelt, his spirit was aware Of Somewhat falling in between the silence and the prayer;

A bell's dull clangor that hath sped so far, it faints and dies So soon as it hath reached the ear whereto its errand lies;

And as he rose up from his knees, his spirit was aware Of Somewhat, forceful and unseen, that sought to hold him there;

As of a Form that stood behind, and on his shoulders prest Both hands to stay his rising up, and Somewhat in his breast,

In accents clearer far than words, spake, "Pray yet longer, pray, For one that ever prayed for thee this night hath passed away;

"A soul, that climbing hour by hour the silver-shining stair That leads to God's great treasure-house, grew covetous; and there

"Was stored no blessing and no boon, for thee she did not claim, (So lowly, yet importunate!) and ever with thy name

"She link'd--that none in earth or heaven might hinder it or stay-- One Other Name, so strong, that thine hath never missed its way.

"This very night within my arms this gracious soul I bore Within the Gate, where many a prayer of hers had gone before;

"And where she resteth, evermore one constant song they raise Of 'Holy, holy,' so that now I know not if she prays;

"But for the voice of praise in Heaven, a voice of Prayer hath gone From Earth; thy name upriseth now no more; pray on, pray on!"

The following may serve as a specimen of the writer's lighter, half- playful strain of moralizing:--

SEEKING.

"And where, and among what pleasant places, Have ye been, that ye come again With your laps so full of flowers, and your faces Like buds blown fresh after rain?"

"We have been," said the children, speaking In their gladness, as the birds chime, All together,--"we have been seeking For the Fairies of olden time; For we thought, they are only hidden,-- They would never surely go From this green earth all unbidden, And the children that love them so. Though they come not around us leaping, As they did when they and the world Were young, we shall find them sleeping Within some broad leaf curled; For the lily its white doors closes But only over the bee, And we looked through the summer roses, Leaf by leaf, so carefully.

But we thought, rolled up we shall find them Among mosses old and dry; From gossamer threads that bind them, They will start like the butterfly, All winged: so we went forth seeking, Yet still they have kept unseen; Though we think our feet have been keeping The track where they have been, For we saw where their dance went flying O'er the pastures,--snowy white."

Their seats and their tables lying, O'erthrown in their sudden flight. And they, too, have had their losses, For we found the goblets white And red in the old spiked mosses, That they drank from over-night; And in the pale horn of the woodbine Was some wine left, clear and bright; "But we found," said the children, speaking More quickly, "so many things, That we soon forgot we were seeking,-- Forgot all the Fairy rings, Forgot all the stories olden That we hear round the fire at night, Of their gifts and their favors golden,-- The sunshine was so bright; And the flowers,--we found so many That it almost made us grieve To think there were some, sweet as any, That we were forced to leave; As we left, by the brook-side lying, The balls of drifted foam, And brought (after all our trying) These Guelder-roses home."

"Then, oh!" I heard one speaking Beside me soft and low, "I have been, like the blessed children, seeking, Still seeking, to and fro; Yet not, like them, for the Fairies,-- They might pass unmourned away For me, that had looked on angels,-- On angels that would not stay; No! not though in haste before them I spread all my heart's best cheer, And made love my banner o'er them, If it might but keep them here; They stayed but a while to rest them; Long, long before its close, From my feast, though I mourned and prest them The radiant guests arose; And their flitting wings struck sadness And silence; never more Hath my soul won back the gladness, That was its own before. No; I mourned not for the Fairies When I had seen hopes decay, That were sweet unto my spirit So long; I said, 'If they, That through shade and sunny weather Have twined about my heart, Should fade, we must go together, For we can never part!' But my care was not availing; I found their sweetness gone; I saw their bright tints paling;-- They died; yet I lived on.

"Yet seeking, ever seeking, Like the children, I have won A guerdon all undreamt of

When first my quest begun, And my thoughts come back like wanderers, Out-wearied, to my breast; What they sought for long they found not, Yet was the Unsought best. For I sought not out for crosses, I did not seek for pain; Yet I find the heart's sore losses Were the spirit's surest gain."

In _A Meditation_, the writer ventures, not without awe and reverence, upon that dim, unsounded ocean of mystery, the life beyond:--

"But is there prayer Within your quiet homes, and is there care For those ye leave behind? I would address My spirit to this theme in humbleness No tongue nor pen hath uttered or made known This mystery, and thus I do but guess At clearer types through lowlier patterns shown; Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own? Ye may not quit your sweetness; in the Vine More firmly rooted than of old, your wine Hath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grown To fuller stature; though the shock was keen That severed you from us, how oft below Hath sorest parting smitten but to show True hearts their hidden wealth that quickly grow The closer for that anguish,--friend to friend Revealed more clear,--and what is Death to rend The ties of life and love, when He must fade In light of very Life, when He must bend To love, that, loving, loveth to the end?

"I do not deem ye look Upon us now, for be it that your eyes Are sealed or clear, a burden on them lies Too deep and blissful for their gaze to brook Our troubled strife; enough that once ye dwelt Where now we dwell, enough that once ye felt As now we feel, to bid you recognize Our claim of kindred cherished though unseen; And Love that is to you for eye and ear Hath ways unknown to us to bring you near,-- To keep you near for all that comes between; As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer, As distant friends, that see not, and yet share (I speak of what I know) each other's care, So may your spirits blend with ours! Above Ye know not haply of our state, yet Love Acquaints you with our need, and through a way More sure than that of knowledge--so ye pray!

"And even thus we meet, And even thus we commune! spirits freed And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need To seek a common atmosphere, the air Is meet for either in this olden, sweet, Primeval breathing of Man's spirit,--Prayer!"

I give, in conclusion, a portion of one of her most characteristic poems, _The Reconciler_:--

"Our dreams are reconciled, Since Thou didst come to turn them all to Truth; The World, the Heart, are dreamers in their youth Of visions beautiful, and strange and wild; And Thou, our Life's Interpreter, dost still At once make clear these visions and fulfil;

Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme, Each mythic tale sublime Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue, Each morning dream the few, Wisdom's first lovers told, if read in Thee comes true.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Thou, O Friend From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own, Dost pierce the broken language of its moan-- Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy! Each yearning deep and wide, Each claim, is justified; Our young illusions fail not, though they die Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed To happy death, like early clouds that lie About the gates of Dawn,--a golden mist Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.

"The World that puts Thee by, That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train, That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry, 'We will not have Thee over us to reign,' Itself Both testify through searchings vain Of Thee and of its need, and for the good It will not, of some base similitude Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood, Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tear Its own illusions grown too thin and bare To wrap it longer; for within the gate Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate, A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies, And he who answers not its questions dies,-- Still changing form and speech, but with the same Vexed riddles, Gordian-twisted, bringing shame Upon the nations that with eager cry Hail each new solver of the mystery; Yet he, of these the best, Bold guesser, hath but prest Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong; True Champion, that hast wrought Our help of old, and brought Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong.

"O Bearer of the key That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet Its turning in the wards is melody, All things we move among are incomplete And vain until we fashion them in Thee! We labor in the fire, Thick smoke is round about us; through the din Of words that darken counsel clamors dire Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where within Two Giants toil, that even from their birth With travail-pangs have torn their mother Earth, And wearied out her children with their keen Upbraidings of the other, till between Thou tamest, saying, 'Wherefore do ye wrong Each other?--ye are Brethren.' Then these twain Will own their kindred, and in Thee retain Their claims in peace, because Thy land is wide As it is goodly! here they pasture free, This lion and this leopard, side by side, A little child doth lead them with a song; Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no more Doth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore, For one did ask a Brother, one a King, So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring-- Thou, King forevermore, forever Priest, Thou, Brother of our own from bonds released A Law of Liberty, A Service making free, A Commonweal where each has all in Thee.