{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_73027/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_73027","id":"gutenberg_73027","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73027","summary":null,"tags":["Art and religion -- Juvenile fiction","Artists -- Juvenile fiction","Category: Art","Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Death -- Juvenile fiction","Friendship -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.\n\n[Illustration: The Persian listened with curiosity, and the Afghan\n with some attention; but it was on the old Sikh that the holy words\n fell like rain from Heaven.]\n\n\n\n                               PERCIVAL'S\n\n                            PICTURE GALLERY.\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                              A. L. O. E.\n\n         Authoress of \"Pearls of Wisdom from the Parables,\"\n      \"The Young Pilgrim,\" \"The Shepherd of Bethlehem,\" &c., &c.\n\n\n\n                            [Illustration]\n\n\n\n                        LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT\n                       (OFFICE OF \"The Christian\")\n                     12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.\n                  And may be ordered of any Bookseller.\n\n\n\n                               PREFACE.\n\nTHIS little volume may, I hope, awaken in some minds thoughts of a\ndevotional character. Some of the ideas contained in it came to me in a\nchamber of sickness, which was at one time expected to be my chamber of\ndeath.\n\nThe thoughts were pleasant and soothing to myself. May they, by God's\nblessing, be so also to some of my fellow-pilgrims.\n\n                                                       A. L. O. E.\n\n\n\n                              Contents.\n\nCHAPTER\n\n    I. INTRODUCTORY\n\n   II. THE PASSAGE THROUGH THE RED SEA\n\n  III. KING DAVID'S VISION\n\n   IV. THE CARPENTER'S DEATH\n\n    V. HOMELESS\n\n   VI. LEGEND OF THE SELF-MADE GRAVE\n\n  VII. THE THREE \"BIHISTIS\"\n\n VIII. LEGEND OF THE SHEKEL\n\n   IX. THE NIGHT AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION\n\n    X. THE LEGEND OF THE ROMAN SOLDIER\n\n   XI. ASLEEP!\n\n\n\n                               PERCIVAL'S\n                            PICTURE GALLERY.\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nIntroductory.\n\n\"NO, Sir, no; the doctor gives no hope that the poor young gentleman\nwill ever walk again; and as for life, the doctor says that it may be a\nmatter of months, or perhaps of years. But Mr. Percival is going down\nto the grave sure and certain; and he knows that himself.\"\n\nSuch was the sad reply given by his landlady, to my enquiries regarding\nmy old schoolfellow, when I called at his lodging in London. I had been\nabsent on the Continent for six weeks in the long vacation. A painful\nmalady in his knee had prevented Percival's being, as we had both\nhoped, my travelling companion; and it was no small disappointment to\nus both when he had to be left behind.\n\nHow we had looked forward to a visit to Italy, to luxuriate amongst the\ntreasures of art; which Percival's cultivated taste and knowledge of\npainting, would enable him so thoroughly to appreciate! I had however\nfelt no serious anxiety regarding my friend; his letters had been\ncheerful, and contained little allusion to the state of his health. It\nwas therefore with a shock of surprise that I heard that Percival was\nnow a hopeless invalid, unable to rise from the couch on which he had\nsuffered so long.\n\nI held no long parley with the landlady, but hurried up the long narrow\nstaircase to the attic-room, in which Percival expected to pass the\nremainder of his days under constant medical care. A lonely life his\nmust be, for he had lost every near relative in the world; and, at\nthe season when London is comparatively empty, few acquaintances were\nlikely to find their way to a dull lodging in the neighbourhood of\nRussell Square.\n\nSlender means; solitude and sickness; confinement to one small room,\nwhen others were enjoying fresh breezes on the ocean or the heathery\nmoor\u2014what a combination of trials for one still in the flower of his\nyouth! I had known Percival as the cleverest, handsomest boy in our\nschool; the hero of the cricket-ground; the first in the race; the\nwinner of numerous prizes: I could hardly realize the possibility of\nsuch a deep shadow falling on a life so bright.\n\nFrom early childhood, Percival had had a remarkable talent for drawing,\nwhich had occasionally led him into trouble. Before the boy's small\nfingers could write one word, they had begun to use a pencil; and\nquaint grotesque figures were scrawled on the nursery door.\n\nAt school Percival fell into many a scrape from scribbling faces over\nthe margins of books\u2014not always his own; and from making curious\nillustrations in dictionaries and grammars. We saw our own likenesses,\nunmistakable ones, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed walls. Every\nPanel of the door served as a canvas: and the young artist was\nsometimes rewarded for his skill by long impositions of Latin verses,\nwhich he learned with the book in one hand and the pencil in the other.\n\nOn reaching the landing-place, I did not stop to knock at the door\nbefore me; but at once entered the attic-room where Percival lay on his\ncouch, an easel beside him, and a palette bedaubed with many colours,\na box of oil-paints, and brushes, on a small table placed within easy\nreach of his arm. Unframed paintings hanging on the dingy wall somewhat\nrelieved the dull effect of scanty third-rate furniture, and of an old\ncarpet with the pattern well-nigh worn-out of it, which looked as if it\nhad never been new.\n\nPercival's pale face flushed with sudden pleasure as he caught sight of\nmine. He dropped the brush with which he had been painting, and holding\nout his thin hand, grasped mine with the joyous exclamation, \"Seyton,\nold boy! who thought of seeing you here!\"\n\nThen he added, smiling, \"Take a chair\u2014no, not that with the broken\nback\u2014sit down, and tell me about your travels. I want to see all that\nyou have seen, hear all that you have heard, and enjoy a trip to Italy\nby proxy.\"\n\nI seated myself by my suffering friend, and did what I could to divert\nhis mind from his affliction, by describing whatever I thought most\nlikely to interest him. Percival showed keen pleasure in hearing\nabout the works of art which I had seen in foreign galleries: of the\nprincipal ones he had already gathered a fair knowledge from books.\n\nWhen I paused at last, Percival remarked, \"Will you think me a Goth\nor a Vandal, Seyton, if I own to you that there seems to me a good\ndeal of sameness in these subjects chosen by Italian artists: so many\n'Madonnas' clad as Mary of Nazareth never was dressed; so many 'Saints'\nwith haloes round their heads; so many 'Holy Families' and pictures of\nthe 'Last Supper,' where none of the accessories convey to the mind a\ntrue idea of the actual scene. If I were an artist\u2014\"\n\n\"You are one,\" I interrupted; \"if artists, like poets, are born\u2014not\nmade. With a little study of the Old Masters you would, I am certain,\nhave made your mark amongst English painters.\"\n\n\"I doubt whether I should ever have earned butter to my bread,\"\nobserved Percival. \"I am too fond of striking out a line of my own. But\nI do intensely love the art; and am heartily glad that I have lost the\nuse of my knee instead of that of my hand.\"\n\n\"I see that you paint still,\" said I, glancing at the palette. \"Have\nyou no difficulty in procuring models?\"\n\n\"You think that my good old landlady, Mrs. Bond, in her black lace cap\nand false front, would hardly serve as one,\" laughed Percival. \"She is\nthe only specimen of the fair sex that I ever see; except, indeed, the\nred-haired maid of all work, who is only remarkable for the number of\ncups and glasses which she breaks. I have to do without models, Seyton;\nor rather to content myself with the forms which I see in my dreams.\"\n\n\"In your dreams?\" I repeated enquiringly.\n\n\"I mean waking dreams,\" said my friend. \"I often cannot get rest at\nnight; or at least, till\u2014\n\n   \"'Yon dull steeple's drowsy chime\u2014'\n\n\"has struck one or more of the small hours. So, making a virtue of\nnecessity, I lie still, and amuse myself with my thoughts.\"\n\n\"I am so grieved\u2014\" I began; but Percival cut me short.\n\n\"Grieve not for me, dear friend. Some of the happiest moments which I\nhave ever spent, have been in those still night hours. I have sometimes\nfelt as if admitted to a private interview with the King. He giveth\n'songs in the night.' I have thrown that idea into the form of rhyme.\nWould you care to hear the lines? They are of no value but as the\ntranscript of the experience of a sick man.\"\n\nOn my expressing a wish to hear the little poem, Percival repeated it\nwith a good deal of feeling; warming into joyousness as he recited the\nconcluding verse.\n\n\n                Song in the Night.\n\n   O thou, on thy sick-bed kept watchful and waking\n     By pain, all the weary night through!\n   It seems as if God were His servant forsaking,\n     His servant\u2014so trustful and true.\n\n   Oh no! For He giveth me songs in the darkness\n     That never were heard in the day:\n  \"Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,\n     The land that is far, far away.\"\n\n   Poor sufferer! The noises of earth must oppress thee,\n     That rise through the sullen night air;\n   The sound of the world's mirth must surely distress thee,\n     That mirth which thou never may'st share.\n\n   Oh no! For an angel is sitting beside me,\n     And warbling so low\u2014yet so clear,\n  \"Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty:\"\n     And this is the song which I hear.\n\n\n                The Angel's Song.\n\n  \"I come down to cheer thee, O happy immortal!\n     From sin's condemnation set free;\n   Whilst yet thou art ling'ring beside the high portal,\n     Whose door soon will open for thee.\n\n  \"I bring thee a promise, the sweetest\u2014the surest\u2014\n    'Tis sent by the God who is Love,\n  'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,'\n     When thou art with angels above.\n\n  \"I saw Him when in His own world, as a stranger,\n     Appeared the Omnipotent Lord;\n   I hovered in ecstasy over His manger\n     With worshipping shepherds adored:\n   I the first faint infant cry from the Monarch\n     Whose voice bade the universe be;\n   Mine eyes then beheld the King in His weakness,\n     I saw Him, and marvelled to see.\n\n  \"I saw Him in manhood, despised and neglected,\n     A mourner, 'acquainted with grief,'\n   I longed\u2014how I longed!\u2014that when mortals rejected\n     The angels might bring Him relief!\n   I heard the fierce blasphemies scornfully uttered\n     By Scribe and by proud Pharisee;\n   Mine eyes then beheld the King in His trials,\n     I saw\u2014much perplexed to see.\n\n  \"I saw\u2014but the tongue of a seraph must falter\n     Such myst'ry of love to declare!\u2014\n   I saw upon Calvary raised the high Altar,\n     A Cross\u2014and the Victim was there!\n   There was silence in Heaven\u2014strange wonder in Heaven\u2014\n     All gazing on that awful tree;\n   Mine eyes then beheld the King in His anguish,\n     I saw Him\u2014and trembled to see!\n\n  \"And thou too shalt see Him\u2014such bliss is before thee\u2014\n     But not in His weakness and pain;\n   When girded with power, and mantled in glory\n     The Victim returneth\u2014to reign:\n   Shalt see Him, no stranger, but One whom thou lovest,\n     Thy Saviour, Redeemer, and Friend;\n  'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,'\n     Through ages that never shall end!\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nThe Passage through the Red Sea.\n\nA PAUSE followed the recital: Percival's deep blue eyes seemed to be\nfull of the light of another world.\n\nAfter awhile I observed, \"Poetry soothes your wakeful hours; but you\nhave not at night the resource of painting.\"\n\n\"It is at night that I form my designs,\" he replied, \"and draw in\nimagination scenes that look meagre enough when transferred to canvas.\nMy execution falls sadly short of what I see in my waking dreams.\"\n\n\"I suppose that you choose subjects from Scripture,\" said I.\n\n\"Not exactly,\" answered my friend; \"I take subjects rather from what\nScripture suggests, than follow in the beaten track of innumerable\nartists by actually illustrating Scripture.\"\n\n\"I do not quite understand you,\" said I.\n\n\"Well, take for example the subject of the Children of Israel crossing\nthe Red Sea. You must have seen pictures of that. What impression have\nthey left on your mind?\"\n\n\"That of a vast multitude of men, women and children, with large flocks\nand herds, passing through something like a deep valley, with a pillar\nof light above to guide them on their way.\"\n\n\"Amongst multitudes we are apt to forget the units,\" Percival observed.\n\"Have you never thought how many episodes of deep interest must have\noccurred during that hasty flight\u2014incidents which would draw out the\ncharacters of individuals? Has your fancy never imagined some single\nfamily group separate from the mass of fugitives flying from their\noppressors?\"\n\n\"My fancy is not so lively as yours,\" I replied.\n\n\"You have never pictured to yourself what the Israelites may have seen\nof the wonders of the deep, hitherto as a locked casket, in\u2014\n\n   \"'Those profound abysses where\n     Was never voice from upper air'?\"\n\n\"What could the people have seen but sand; and perchance, sea-weed?\"\nsaid I.\n\n\"Would it trouble you, Seyton, to lift yon picture from the nail, and\nbring it here? MY pictures are guiltless of frames, so they are more\neasily moved. You will see on the canvas my idea of an episode which\nmay have occurred during the passage through the Red Sea.\"\n\nI did as desired, and brought the picture to the side of my friend.\n\nPoor Percival! His paintings are framed now; and the one which I am\nabout to describe hangs opposite to the table at which I am writing. He\nbequeathed to me the sketches which were the children of his brain, his\nhand, his heart.\n\nTo avoid needless repetition of the objectionable \"I\" in my brief\ndescriptions of Percival's picture gallery, I shall make my\nrecollections take the form of dialogue: except where what my friend\ncalled \"A Legend\" comes in, which I will copy from the MS * left by the\nauthor.\n\n   * Manuscript\n\nIt is impossible, however, to give on paper the charm of Percival's\nvoice; the lighting up of his countenance; his soul-absorption in his\nsubjects. My description looks to me like the colourless photograph of\na window of fine stained glass; the beauty lost; the bare outline of\nthe pattern depicted.\n\nBut it may be that friendship for the departed \"casts a halo\" over\nworks on which he so lovingly wrought. Percival did not himself set a\nhigh value on his pictures; though their subjects had a fascination for\nhis mind. He often lamented his want of finish, and said that he could\nnot delineate as an artist what he might dream as a poet.\n\n\n                The Passage through the Red Sea.\n\nSeyton. Why, Percival, this strange, weird production of yours must\nhave been the outcome of a nightmare!\n\nPercival. The idea of it came to my mind during a night somewhat more\npainful and restless than usual.\n\nSeyton. Let me see what I can make out of it. Here, in the centre, the\nfirst object to catch the eye is the skeleton of some huge leviathan;\nsome monster unknown to modern science, who might have taken his\npastime in the deep waters, or lashed the surface of the sea into foam\nin the days of Noah. Half of the picture is in light, and half in\nshadow, for in upper air hangs the pillar of cloud and fire; thus one\nhalf of the skeleton reflects the ruddy glare, which gilds the bare\nribs, and partly reveals the vast proportions of the sea monster; while\ndarkness on the other hand conceals the length of the leviathan, as\nhe lies on his bed of sea-weed, green and brown, with the glimmering\nglassy wall of water as a background behind him.\n\nPercival. Is the skeleton the only object seen in the sketch?\n\nSeyton. No, no; let me examine more closely. Here, to the left, I\ndimly trace the heads and fore-parts of two horses; the animals, with\ndistended nostrils and ears turned back, evidently starting in fear at\nsuddenly coming on such an object of grisly horror lying right in their\npath.\n\nThe horses appear to belong to some Egyptian of rank: they wear the\ncumbrous trappings with which the antiquities at the Museum make us\nfamiliar. Had there been space on your canvas, we should doubtless have\ntraced on it the outline of some gorgeous chariot, perhaps that of\nPharaoh himself.\n\nPercival. I have tried, by the tightly-drawn reins, to show that the\ndriver of the chariot has suddenly perceived the ghastly obstacle in\nhis path. By that skeleton, I intended to convey to the mind an image\nof death\u2014that sudden death which was so close to Pharaoh and his\ngodless hosts, even while they were pressing forward in eager pursuit\nof spoil and revenge.\n\nSeyton. Now let us turn to the right hand of the picture which your\npencil has bathed in mysterious light. I see an Israelite mother. Her\nmantle, falling back, shows a face of Oriental beauty, full of anxiety\nand fear.\n\nPercival. Yes, she has heard the tramp and the snorting of the\nwar-horses of Pharaoh; and she knows that she is the last of all the\nfugitives, the one nearest to the enemy. She has been left behind the\nrest: for in the confusion she had been separated from her child; and\nshe has wildly sought him, and found him at last almost close to the\nfierce pursuers.\n\nSeyton. And evidently utterly unconscious of danger. That bare-footed,\nbeautiful little boy, whose face beams with delight, presents an\nexpressive contrast to the anxious mother, who, grasping one of his\nsmall hands, is trying to draw him hastily away.\n\nPercival. The child is exulting; for he has found a prize in the\nleviathan's fleshless jaws. His hand holds a beautiful coral.\n\nSeyton. Percival! is this a picture or a parable?\n\nPercival. Perhaps both. Do you grasp the meaning of the latter?\n\nSeyton. You have given the clue by telling me that the huge skeleton\nrepresents death. On the one side, we see it an object of natural\nhorror to those who, unprepared and unforgiven, find it suddenly close\nat hand, dimly beheld in darkness: while to the children of light, it\nis no object of terror; and even little ones can pluck the treasure of\njoy from that which the worldling dreads and shrinks from.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nKing David's Vision.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nSEYTON. The subject of this picture of yours is simple enough. The\nharp at his feet; the crown by his side; the scroll before him\u2014mark\nDavid, the poet-king. He appears to be under the immediate influence\nof inspiration, there is such intense earnestness in his upward\ngaze. The reed-pen has dropped from his hand; and one would think\nthat Heaven was opening before his eyes, save for the pained\u2014almost\nterrified\u2014expression on his countenance, an expression which could come\nfrom no vision of bliss. Why have you represented the prophet thus?\n\nPercival. A legend of King David formed itself out of some thoughts\nwhich came into my mind, while meditating over the Twenty-second\nPsalm. To us, with the scene on Calvary as its key, the meaning of the\nprophecy contained in that Psalm is clear. But what a mystery it must\nhave been to him who wrote it under the inspiration of the Spirit!\n\nSeyton. Had its meaning been clear to the prophet's understanding, his\nfaith could hardly have borne the strain. To us\u2014looking back upon the\nmystery of the Cross\u2014it appears marvellous indeed; but to one looking\nforward to it as a future event, such a sacrifice as that of Christ\nwould have appeared impossible.\n\nPercival. You have struck on my vein of thought. I considered what\nwould be the natural emotions raised in the heart of one so impulsive\nand enthusiastic as David, had the death of his Lord been revealed to\nhim clearly, and not as through a glass, very darkly. My short piece,\n\"King David's Vision,\" is beside me, if you would care to hear it.\n\nI copy the following from the paper which Percival, at my request, drew\nfrom the drawer of his table.\n\n\n                        King David's Vision.\n\nThe prophet-king sat alone. When the spirit of inspiration came upon\nhim, no human presence was suffered to disturb his solitude. He was\nleft in solemn communion with his God.\n\nOften had glowing words of thanksgiving and praise burst from his lips\nas he struck his harp of ten strings, and then been noted down on a\nscroll to be handed down as a precious legacy to the people of Israel,\nor rather to the whole Church of God. On this day, the harp had had a\nstrange, solemn, and wailing sound; and involuntary tears had started\nto the poet's eyes as he sang that mysterious ode which we call the\nTwenty-second Psalm. The hand of King David trembled as he wrote down\nthe words.\n\n\"What hath the Spirit dictated to God's slave?\" cried the wondering\nmonarch. \"This is no transcript of mine own experience. I have known\nwhat it is to pass through deep waters of trouble; to struggle for life\nwith the lion; to grapple and wrestle with the foe. I have known what\nit is to hide in the cave, and to be hunted like the partridge on the\nmountains. But my God never forsook me. He was never far from me in the\ntime of my trouble. There is nothing in the past which answers to these\nmysterious words:\n\n  \"'They pierced My hands and My feet,\n    They parted My garments amongst them;\n    And on My vesture they cast lots.'\n\n\"Is this some awful trial looming before me? Or is it revealed\nregarding another? Oh that I could penetrate the depth of meaning\nconveyed in this Psalm! Lord, draw aside the thick curtain, if but for\na moment! Let me know who is to be tortured, mocked at, and pierced;\nwho is to be deserted by his friends, and forsaken even by his God.\"\n\nAs the king prayed, a thick mist seemed to fill the royal apartment;\nand a horror of darkness fell on the prophet's soul. Then slowly before\nhis straining gaze something took shape before him: dimly at first, as\nif seen through mist; then gradually becoming distinct. David beheld a\nCross, and an agonized Victim hanging upon it. The prophet saw all the\nterrible accessories which his own inspired pen had described. He was\nso horror-struck that he was scarcely at first aware of the presence of\na white-winged angel beside him; though a halo of light shining around\nthe heavenly guest had been the means of revealing the Cross and the\nsacred Sufferer.\n\n\"Oh, Spirit of light,\" exclaimed the king, \"tell me the meaning of this\nterrible vision!\"\n\n\"David, son of Jesse, thou art a sinner,\" was the angel's reply.\n\n\"I know it, I own it: I acknowledge my transgressions; and my sin is\never before me!\" cried the penitent king.\n\n\"And all men are sinners,\" continued the angel. \"The highest and\nholiest of human works are but as the shrivelling leaves worn by the\nfather of mankind; and they have the slime of the serpent upon them.\nThe sins of mortals are numerous as the hairs of their heads. How then\ncan man stand justified before a pure and holy God?\"\n\n\"We offer sacrifices, burnt offerings, and oblations,\" said David,\nhis eyes still fixed on the visionary form on the Cross; for even the\nangel's presence and words could not draw his rapt attention from\nthe pale face, crowned with thorns, from which slowly trickled the\nblood-drops.\n\n\"All your sacrifices are shadows\u2014types\u2014pictures,\" said the white-winged\nmessenger of God. \"Not the blood of thousands of bullocks, nor that of\nall the lambs in Judea, could wash out the stain of a single sin. It\nneeds something infinitely more precious to redeem one guilty soul.\"\n\n\"Wouldst thou bid me despair?\" cried the king; cold drops of agony\nstarting from his brow\u2014whilst still, he gazed on One on the Cross.\n\n\"There is but one means of salvation,\" said the angel. \"The price of\na world's redemption must be the blood\u2014the sacrifice of One body,\nperfect, divine. He of whom thou hast wonderingly written, 'The Lord\nhath said unto Me, Thou art My Son!' He who sitteth at God's right\nhand\u2014He alone can offer that sacrifice; be that Sacrifice; and become\nthe Saviour of the world. Down on thy knees, O David; lay thy brow in\nthe dust: implore the Son of God to leave His throne in Heaven; to\nbe born a feeble baby; to consent to be scourged and crucified; to\nbecome a Victim for thy sake\u2014even as the Form before thee now. Weep and\npray; and if the Lord grant thy prayer, thou mayest be justified and\naccepted.\"\n\n\"Never could lip crave, nor heart desire such a Sacrifice!\" exclaimed\nDavid with vehemence. \"Shall a worm ask thee, O child of light, to\nexchange thy radiant form for his, and be trampled under foot for his\nsake? Thou biddest me offer a presumptuous prayer, such as no mortal\ndare utter, and to which no immortal would listen.\"\n\n\"If the Holy One die not, thou diest\u2014and for ever!\" said the pitying\nangel.\n\n\"Oh, is it so? Is there no redemption for me and my people, save by\nthis!\" cried David, raising his clasped hands towards the visionary\nCross. \"Are we then doomed to perdition? Is there no mercy in Heaven?\nHave I then cried in blind ignorance?\u2014'The Lord is my Shepherd: I will\nfear no evil, for Thou art with me!'\"\n\nFor an instant the eyes of Him who was dying on the Cross met those of\nDavid with a look of ineffable love; and the lips of the divine Victim\nin the vision uttered the words: \"The Good Shepherd giveth His life for\nthe sheep.\"\n\nThe prophet-king heard no more, saw no more. He lay prostrate and\nsenseless on the marble floor of his palace. There David remained\ntill the shadows of night enwrapped him, and the silvery moon arose.\nStartled at his absence at the hour when the board was spread for the\nevening repast; and at the utter silence in the chamber from which the\nsound of the harp and the song of praise were wont to be heard\u2014the\nking's attendants ventured at last to intrude on solitude so prolonged.\nThey were alarmed to find their lord in a swoon.\n\nRaising him gently, the attendants placed David on the royal couch,\nand applied such restoratives as, in those times, were most highly\nesteemed. Gradually the king's senses returned: he sat up; drained a\nsilver goblet of water; then rose and waved his attendants away. And\nnever, even to his wife, even to his most cherished friend, did David\nspeak of his vision: he locked his secret in his heart.\n\nNo one dared to ask the king questions; but it was noticed by those\nwho watched him most closely, that David could never command his voice\nto sing the Twenty-second Psalm, nor could hear it recited by others,\nwithout a burst of silent tears.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nThe Carpenter's Death.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nSCARCELY had Percival finished reading his legend, when we were\ninterrupted by the visit of the medical man. Having other calls to\nmake, I took my leave of Percival, promising to return on the following\nday, to make myself better acquainted with his little picture gallery.\n\nThe next morning, after some conversation on other subjects, we\nexamined together another oil-painting taken down from the wall.\n\nSeyton. This is doubtless a representation of the interior of the\nhumble abode in Nazareth, in which for many years Christ found a home.\nThe youth whose back is turned towards us, so that scarcely any of\nhis face is seen, is doubtless intended for the Saviour Himself. But\nwhy should only the outline of the cheek be given; and even that, be\nhalf-hidden by the auburn locks that fall downwards as the Lord stoops,\nas if to catch the faint utterance of the dying man by whose couch He\nstands?\n\nPercival. Thrice did I begin that picture. In my first attempt, I\nsketched a full face as that of Christ; but so utterly did I fail in\ndepicting on it Divine power and dignity, blended with human love, that\nin despair, I began another picture. In that, the position chosen for\nthe chief figure showed the complete profile; and as far as earthly\nbeauty was concerned, I may say that my sketch was not a failure. Every\nfeature was as faultless as my poor skill could make it; but still I\nwas utterly dissatisfied with my work. The beauty was classic and not\ncelestial; nor did the face show any sign of toil.\n\nPercival continued: \"Then I felt convinced that imagination could\ndepict the Divine Youth far better than could my weak pencil: so I\nconcentrated my efforts on the face of the dying Joseph, making it\nreflect, as it were, the brightness of the countenance of Him who bends\nover His foster-father.\"\n\nSeyton. Even as artists, unable to give the blaze of the noonday sun,\njust indicate its presence by lights and shadows thrown on terrestrial\nobjects. Perhaps you did wisely, Percival. One is often pained by the\nlifeless, soulless countenances given as representations of Christ! Who\ncould depict \"the heaven of His eyes,\" the unearthly sweetness of the\nlips that spake as never man spake?\n\nPercival. You see the accessories by which I have endeavoured to make\nthe picture tell its own story.\n\nSeyton. There is Mary, dressed in simplest Eastern garb; she has\nsunk on the floor, exhausted, as it seems, with night after night of\nwatching. Sleep has stolen over her at last. The thin pale countenance\nshows how much it was needed.\n\nPercival. And her Son will not awaken her.\n\nSeyton. Christ appears to have entered with noiseless step by that open\ndoor through which stream the rays of the setting sun on the bed of him\nwhose life-sun is sinking fast. But why should we suppose that Christ\nhad left His mother, even for a little while, to keep her sad watch\nalone?\n\nPercival. Will you think me too realistic if I point out the small heap\nof copper coins in that niche in the wall, and the tools on the earthen\nfloor? Christ may have had to take finished work to an employer, and\nreceive the price of His labour; that to the miseries of sickness in\nthat home might not be added that of want.\n\nSeyton. This is being too realistic for me. I can scarcely conceive\nthat He who formed heaven and earth, \"without whom nothing was made\nthat was made,\" actually did common carpenter's work. I can hardly\nrealize that Christ measured, sawed, and planed; that the sound of His\nhammer was heard; that He actually laboured till He was weary, and then\nreceived into a toil-hardened hand, the paltry coins earned by His\ntoil. Can one believe that perhaps He, like poor workmen now, had to\ncall again and again to get even a trifling payment for His work from\nsome purse-proud Jew?\n\nPercival. To gain bread by the sweat of the face was part of the\nprimeval curse; and He who came to bear the more terrible effects of\nthat curse would not be likely to shrink from this. Whatever Christ\ndid, He did as unto God. In His workmanship no flaw could be found.\nWhat Christ made, He made to last. And He who was to purchase the\nredemption of a world, would deem it no disgrace to earn food by His\ndaily toil. In all things, but sin, the Saviour was made like unto us.\nAnd this picture is designed to show the shadow of bereavement falling\nheavily on the Man of Sorrows; probably in the earlier part of His life.\n\nSeyton. We know that Christ wept at the grave of His friend.\n\nPercival. But here the Lord's tears are sacred\u2014those caused by the\nanguish of bereavement. Christ knew that He was about to raise Lazarus\nfrom the sleep of death: therefore the Lord's grief must have had a\ndeeper source than that of mere sympathy with mourners, whose sorrow\nwas in a few minutes to be changed into joy. Christ probably saw in the\ngrave of the dead, and the grief of the living, an image of all earth's\nmisery\u2014all the ravages caused by sin.\n\nSeyton. The Lord may have thought of His own mother; so soon to be\na mourner for Him. Christ Himself spake comfort to the sisters of\nLazarus: but who would speak comfort to Mary in the hour of her great\ndesolation?\n\nPercival. The pang caused by bereavement must have come to the Lord,\nwhen He saw the death of Joseph, His foster-father; the guardian of\nHis infancy, the friend of His boyhood. If Christ were at the time\nconscious of His own supernatural power (held in abeyance only for a\ntime, until the hour appointed by the Father should come), it must have\nrequired a greater effort of submission not to have exercised it then,\nthan when the Saviour, faint with hunger, refrained from turning stones\ninto bread.\n\nSeyton. Yes. If the Son of Mary knew that by a word He could still the\nrapid beating of the pulse; turn pain into ease; and make His mother's\nheart bound with delight\u2014not to speak that word must have cost Him\nan agonizing effort indeed. What meaning do you intend to convey by\nwriting at the bottom of your picture, \"I have found a ransom\"?\n\nPercival. I wished to represent the Saviour as repeating, by a\ndeath-bed, those marvellous words from the Book of Job. Joseph, like\nthe patriarch, had been a just man before his fellow-mortals: but how\ncould he be justified before God? Christ, the Lamb of God, was in the\nworld: but He had not yet suffered for sin; He had not yet borne the\niniquity of all. Joseph, on the brink of Death's dark river, may have\nfelt some natural fear: he may have reviewed his past life and seen how\nfar his obedience had fallen short of that required by the Law.\n\nPercival continued: \"Joseph may\u2014it is not improbable\u2014have felt himself\nbound by the chain of his iniquities. But, on such a man as Joseph, a\nhope inspired by the words of an angel would shine like Bethlehem's\nstar. I fancy I hear the dying one exclaiming, 'Oh, Jesus, I am a\nsinner! But it was told me before Thy birth that Thou, even Thou,\nwouldst save Thy people from their sins.' I have sought to depict\nthe holy joy awakened by the answer, coming in the familiar words of\nScripture, from the lips of the Lamb of God\u2014'I have found a ransom!'\"\n\nSeyton. The exclamation of Job, \"I know that my Redeemer liveth; and\nthat He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth,\" might be changed\nby Joseph to \"He liveth\u2014He standeth beside me: it is His hand that\nsupports my head! Yea, though my heart and flesh faileth, His love\nshall be my portion for ever!\"\n\nPercival. And so with the star-like hope above him, and the peace of\nGod filling his soul, the poor carpenter is sinking to rest. And Christ\nwill weep the natural tears of human love, and will mingle His sorrow\nwith that of the widowed Mary; and He will help her to lay out a cold\nform for burial, comforting His own sad heart with the inspired Word:\n\"I HAVE FOUND A RANSOM.\" * \"I will ransom thee from the power of the\ngrave; I will redeem thee from death. O death, where are thy plagues?\nO grave, where is thy destruction?\" \u2020\n\n   * Job xxxiii. 24       \u2020 Hosea xiii. 14. R.V.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nHomeless.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"SHALL I go to Percival to-day or not?\" was the question which I asked\nmyself as I looked out\u2014not for first or second time that morning\u2014from\nthe window, dimmed by pattering rain.\n\nThe day was one of the worse to be seen, even in London; the sky\nblotted out by dense smoke; the pavement brown and wet, and the road\nall mud; the rain pouring down incessantly; and the wind howling\ndismally in the chimneys. Now and then a foot-passenger hurried past,\nstruggling to prevent his dripping umbrella from being turned inside\nout by the gale.\n\nSometimes a cab was driven along the miry road, appearing for a few\nmoments, then disappearing in the misty gloom. I had attempted to hail\none which was empty; but the driver took no notice. No cab-stand was\nnear: so if I should sally forth it must be on foot, with a river of\nmud to ford. I was, however, ashamed of my hesitation: on so dreary a\nday, my invalid friend would specially welcome a visit; so I took my\numbrella and sallied forth.\n\nI knocked at the door of Percival's lodging, which was opened, as\nusual, by the landlady in her mob cap. She cast uneasy glances at the\nmud-prints left by my boots on the old oil-cloth in her hall. On the\nnarrow staircase I met the maid of all work carrying down an untasted,\nand by no means tempting-looking, dinner. Dirty and slip-shod the girl\nalways was; but now she looked sulky also.\n\n\"He won't eat nothin',\" she said, almost angrily, as she pushed\npast me. And the odour of the meat which she was taking away, quite\naccounted for the invalid's want of appetite for his meal.\n\n\"Of all dreary, miserable places in the world, a lodging in Fog Street\nmust be the worst,\" I muttered to myself, as I reached the top of the\nlong narrow staircase.\n\nThe sight of the room which I entered by no means altered my opinion. A\npane of glass had been smashed in the window; and through the aperture\nswept the cold wind and the driven rain, the latter making tiny\nrivulets on the damp carpetless floor.\n\n\"How is this? How comes that pane to be broken?\" I exclaimed. \"The\nwindow was all right yesterday.\"\n\n\"It is only a bit of Polly's handiwork; or more correctly, elbow-work,\"\nanswered Percival with a smile. \"The girl put her elbow through the\nglass yesterday evening, when she brought in my supper.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say that the window has remained in that state all\nnight; with the rain drifting on to your bed, and the wind making the\nroom like an ice-house!\"\n\nAs I spoke, I was vigorously stopping up the hole with a many-tinted\ntowel, which Percival had been using for his painting.\n\n\"I could not get at the window myself. Mrs. Bond was out taking tea\nwith a neighbour; and Polly was in one of her little tempers: so I had\njust to make the best of my position,\" said my friend.\n\n\"But have you not suffered from this inexcusable carelessness?\" I\nasked, seeing a look of suppressed pain on the pale countenance of the\nartist.\n\n\"Only a touch of neuralgia,\" was Percival's reply, its cheerful tone\ncontrasting with the appearance of suffering on his pallid features.\n\nI made the invalid as comfortable, or rather as little uncomfortable,\nas circumstances permitted; and then took a chair by his side.\n\n\"Percival, I cannot bear to see you in this depth of discomfort!\" I\ncried.\n\n\"One could descend a good deal lower than this,\" was the playful reply.\n\"I have a roof over my head; a good bed under me; food, when I can eat\nit; my palette; and my friend: and more, much more besides,\" Percival\nadded more gravely, as he glanced at the Bible which lay by his side.\n\nSeyton. You are the most long-suffering of men! But is not even your\npatience strained to the snapping point in a wretched lodging like this?\n\nPercival. Very nearly, sometimes, I confess: at least it was so a\nlittle time since. Not great trials, but little ones, made it almost\ngive way. It is not the heavy blow; but constant friction, that wears\nout the chain. I bore with tolerable fortitude the doctor's verdict\nwhich condemned me to a life of helplessness and pain, with no prospect\nof my sufferings ending on this side the grave; I saw before me a\ncross, and was given grace to take it up; but\u2014but\u2014\n\nSeyton. But the thousand and one worries of existence in Fog Street; a\nservant's slatternly habits and sullen temper; bad cooking; loneliness;\nthe absence of anything to give a colour to existence\u2014would make a\nsaint's temper and patience give way.\n\nPercival. I own that I was anything but philosophic in regard to some\ncornet practice in the room just below this. Every evening, sometimes\ntill late in the night, the horrid discordant blare effectually chased\nsleep from my eye-lids. Difficult passages were practised over and\nover with a resolute patience which all but exhausted mine. A hundred\ntimes I felt disposed to strike the floor violently with my stick, in\nhopes of stopping my tormentor below. In fact I did strike more than\nonce: but the trumpeting went on all the same; its noise, perhaps,\noverpowering that which I made.\n\nSeyton. Why did you not speak to your landlady about the annoyance?\n\nPercival. I did; but was silenced by her reply, \"Oh dear, yes: the poor\ngentleman loves his horn as if it were his child. I think it is the\nonly pleasure he has; for he is hard at work in his office all day, and\nnever goes out of an evening.\" Then I asked myself whether it would be\nreasonable or right to tax the kindness of a stranger by asking him to\nforego his one indulgence; and that a harmless one too. Would it not be\nbetter, thought I, to train my own mind to bear the petty annoyance?\n\nSeyton. Not a petty one to an invalid, with a refined taste for music.\nDid you succeed, my dear fellow, in training your mind?\n\nPercival. Fairly well\u2014after a time. I was most helped by trying to fix\nmy thoughts on the daily trials which were, no doubt, the Master's\nportion on earth. We are apt to think of the great temptation in the\nwilderness, and the sufferings in Gethsemane and on Calvary; as though\nthey included almost all that Christ had to endure: but there were\ndoubtless a thousand minor links of pain and annoyance which made\nChrist's earthly life a net-work of trial.\n\nSeyton. Yes, even His brethren did not believe in Him; and his\ndull-minded disciples were always mistaking His meaning.\n\nPercival. I was alluding to commoner trials than these. Hunger; thirst;\nthe sense of privation; the extreme weariness, which caused the Lord to\nsleep on in the midst of a tempest: very often must such trials have\noppressed Him, who was \"made like unto\" us in all things. Our Saviour\ntravelled on foot: how often must He, like ourselves, have felt \"the\nlanguid pulse, the aching limb;\" have longed in the noonday for shade;\nor, dragging His weary steps along the dusty highway, have wished for\nsome stream in which to lave His burning feet!\n\nPercival proceeded: I pondered on these things till thought took its\nusual form\u2014on canvas. I made this sketch; and, slight as it is, it has\nhad a wondrous effect in allaying my natural impatience of disposition,\nand the irritability of nerves caused by my illness.\n\nSeyton. I see that you have depicted the Master walking alone on the\nside of a hill. The landscape around is dreary and almost devoid of\nvegetation, save that thorn-bushes overgrow the path: some fluttering\nfragments of white clothing upon them denote that a way has had to be\nforced with difficulty through them. The Wanderer's feet look bruised;\nand there are red traces on His hands.\n\nPercival. Yes, many were earth's thorns which wounded Christ's mortal\nframe, before they\u2014as a climax\u2014crowned His sacred brow.\n\nSeyton. You have written under your sketch, \"The Son of Man hath not\nwhere to lay His head;\" and the picture forms a comment on the words.\nThe sky above is dark and louring, showing that a storm is about\nto burst: we see lightning already flashing in the background. The\nWanderer has no heavy mantle to wrap around His slightly clad form:\nevery heavy drop will penetrate and chill. Christ's eyes are raised\ntowards the mass of threatening clouds above Him. We see that He would\nwillingly seek shelter; but none is near.\n\nPercival. None for Him, the Lord of Creation. But notice yon small hole\nin the side of the sandy bank. The little fox of Palestine finds its\nhome there; the fierce storm will not reach it. The wild creature knows\nmore of comfort than does the Master! Seyton, when I had drawn this\nfeeble picture of One who was homeless on the earth which He had made,\nI felt humbled and ashamed at ever having felt impatient under the\nslight annoyances which, cheerfully borne, will be found amongst the\nall things which work together for good to them that love God.\n\nHere the conversation closed; but I may mention that by an arrangement\nwith a kind relative of my own, Percival passed the short remainder\nof his life in comparative freedom from all trials from which woman's\ntenderness and considerate kindness could shield him.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nLegend of the Self-made Grave.\n\nTHE next day Percival was moved to a house in Portland Place, in which\nmy aunt, Lady Mar, resided. Every comfort was provided to make the\nlittle journey as easy as possible to one who could not even be carried\ndownstairs without enduring a good deal of pain.\n\nI took upon myself the care of arrangements for the removal of the\nvery little property which my poor friend possessed. A few books, and\nclothes; a desk; materials for painting; a palette; and some dozen\nunframed pictures\u2014comprised almost all that Percival owned in the\nworld. He lay on his couch, watching my movements, as I wrapped up his\npictures one by one.\n\n\"This one does not tell its own story,\" I observed.\n\n\"It illustrates the Legend of a sketch, which I made a short time ago;\nbut I did not think it worth writing down,\" said my friend.\n\n\"I hope that at some leisure time you will repeat it: Lady Mar has a\nweakness for Legends. But here comes your landlady to bid you a tearful\nfarewell: and Polly too; belikes in hope of a present, which she does\nnot deserve.\"\n\nWhether merited or not, the present was given; and a kindly good-bye\nwas said to each of the women. Mrs. Bond declared that she had never\nhad such a nice-spoken gentleman for a lodger\u2014never! That she had done\nall for him that a mother could have done for a son; and that it was\nhard to have him go away and leave her. Polly was not so eloquent; but\nI forgave her the broken pane, and her little tempers, when I saw tears\nof genuine sorrow running down the poor girl's cheeks. Both mistress\nand servant felt that they would never look again on the pale, patient\nface of the lodger.\n\nPercival was soon installed in his new, and comparatively luxurious,\nabode; but its comforts could only alleviate, not remove pain. He\nsometimes enjoyed conversation with my aunt, who is a very intelligent\nwoman; yet at other times relaxed into greater languor, and did not\ncare to touch his pencil.\n\nBoth Lady Mar and I more than once asked Percival to repeat to us his\nlegend of the sketch, but he always evaded doing so.\n\n\"The story was too childish; too slight a thing for repetition to any\none but a child,\" he said, a faint colour tinging his cheek. Percival\nwas evidently shy in the presence of a lady.\n\nMy aunt, however, is one possessing tact to draw out those under her\ninfluence, and make them unconsciously follow her lead. She saw that\nPercival's spirits were drooping; and that, perhaps from fearing her\ncritical eye, even his inclination to paint was passing away. Lady Mar\nnoticed that her guest could hardly affect cheerfulness, though he\nmanfully struggled to do so.\n\n\"My eyes are tired, and the daylight is fading,\" said my aunt one\nafternoon, laying down a book with which she had been vainly trying to\namuse my poor friend. \"The piano cannot be touched till after the visit\nof the tuner. We will not ring for candles yet; it is so pleasant to\nchat by twilight.\"\n\n\"Suppose we tell each other stories or legends,\" I suggested.\n\n\"If you begin, I'll try to follow suit,\" said my aunt; \"and I'm sure\nthat Percival\u2014\" (for the first time she dropped the \"Mr.\") \"will not\nrefuse his little contribution to the general amusement.\"\n\nPercival was silent, but I saw that one point was gained: the invalid\nwould try to forget languor and suffering in the attempt to give a few\nminutes' passing amusement to his friends, if others broke the ice.\n\nI had a short Legend ready, and not being troubled with shyness,\nbegan the story which follows. I fear that it is not quite original:\ncertainly its lesson has been often taught; but not perhaps in just the\nsame form as in my little narration.\n\n\n                   Legend of a Self-made Grave.\n\nIt is said that in olden times, a man very covetous of gain, was\ntempted to make a compact with a spirit, who was not a spirit of light.\nIn Oriental language, such a mythical being is called a \"jin.\" Some\nservice secretly rendered by the miser to the jin was to be rewarded by\nthe gift of untold wealth.\n\nThe jin carried the man to a lonely spot near a dark, weed-overgrown\nmorass, a place seldom visited by men, save some poor basket-makers,\nwho went to gather reeds and rushes. The place was said to be haunted\nby snakes and other vermin. The miser, according to the jin's\ndirections, had brought with him a heavy spade for digging, and a large\nsack to contain his gold.\n\n\"In this spot,\" quoth the jin, striking the earth with his foot, \"thou\nshall find inexhaustible treasure. Only one limit is affixed to thy\ngains. When thou dost cease to dig, thou shalt cease to find.\" As he\nthus spake, the jin vanished from sight.\n\nThe man took his spade, plied it vigorously, and with wondrous success.\nFirst, silver coins; then, heavy gold ones\u2014plentifully rewarded his\ntoil. The miser never raised his eyes from the earth except ever and\nanon to glance timidly around, while his hand still used the spade, to\nsee if any unwelcome intruder were watching him at his work. But no one\ninterrupted him. The man's work was begun at dawn; he continued to dig\nat noon when the sun's fiercest rays blazed over his head, drawing up\nfoul exhalations from the marsh. The digger dared not seek for shelter,\nlest his golden harvest should suddenly come to an end. His muscles\nached; his mouth was parched with thirst: but the gold-seeker, though\nshining heaps lay around him, would not pause even to go for a draught\nof water.\n\nAs the sun sloped towards the west, strong fever came on the digger;\nbut though already possessed of prodigious wealth, still he went on\ndigging. At last, as night closed in, shivering and trembling, the\nmiser felt that he must give over work: deep and long was the hole he\nhad made by his diligent toil; large the golden harvest he had won. Yet\nwas he loth to stay his hand, for the man remembered the words of the\njin: \"When thou dost cease to dig thou shalt cease to find.\"\n\n\"Just one spadeful more!\" cried the miser. And stooping low, with his\ntool in his hand, over the hole made by his incessant labour, the poor\nwretch's senses failed him; he swooned, and fell into a self-made\ngrave! The loose earth fell in from the sides and covered the wealthy\nfool!\n\nThe basket-makers who chanced to come in the morning gathered up the\nheaps of silver and gold which were found near the spot, beneath which\nlay the corpse of him who had purchased them with his life.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nThe Three \"Bihistis.\"\n\n\"I AM afraid that your miser has many prototypes in real life,\"\nobserved Percival, when I paused. \"Many a man has sold his life for\ngold.\"\n\n\"And his soul also,\" said Lady Mar. \"How few realize the depth of truth\ncontained in the lines:\"\n\n   \"'The greatest evil we can fear\n     Is\u2014to possess our portion here!'\"\n\nAfter a little more conversation on the subject, Lady Mar was called\nupon for her story, which she thus began:\n\n\"I suppose that I need hardly preface my little tale by telling you\nwhat bihistis are\u2014Oriental water-carriers, bending beneath the weight\nof their mushaks (skins filled with water): these have been made so\nfamiliar by pictures, even to those who have never been, like myself,\nin India.\"\n\n\"I knew nothing about mushaks in my boyhood,\" observed Percival; \"so\nour Lord's words about old and new bottles were to me an insoluble\npuzzle; until some one in a Bible-class mentioned that Eastern bottles\nwere skins, of which old, worn ones would be liable to burst if filled\nwith new, fermenting wine.\"\n\n\"What does the word bihisti mean?\" I enquired. \"Probably it is some\ncombination of 'carry' and 'water.'\"\n\n\"No, the title is a curious one,\" replied Lady Mar, \"and conveys a\npoetical idea.\"\n\n\"Bihisti means 'one of Paradise,' and is probably given to the humble\nsupplier of one of our first blessings, from water being regarded in\nthe East as emphatically 'the gift of God.' 'Bihisti' is a beautiful\nname bestowed on an honest, hard-working class, who bear a heavy\nburden, in order to relieve the thirst of others in a dry and weary\nland.\"\n\n\"These bihistis are often seen in India filling their mushaks at a\nwell, or pouring water from them at railway stations when the train\nstops for a few minutes. Bihistis enter even the guarded zenanas\nto perform their needful task of filling earthen jars; though the\nappearance of the poor water-carrier sometimes causes a stampede\namongst the ladies.\"\n\n\"I was startled once, when showing my album to several bibis,* by their\nsuddenly springing to their feet and running away, leaving me alone to\nencounter the danger, whatever it might be. Was it a mad dog or a tiger\nthat had entered the zenana? No; only a quiet, sober-looking bihisti,\nwith his eyes on the ground, and his burden on his back, and his hand\non the mouth of his mushak, to guide its contents into the jars placed\nready to receive them.\"\n\n   * Ladies.\n\n\"And now for my story.\"\n\n\"Outside a serai (native inn) sat in the moonlight four men, smoking\ntheir hookahs, and having one of those long talks which natives of the\nEast delight in, and sometimes prolong far into the night. One of the\nmost striking figures in the group was that of a venerable Sikh, whose\nhair and beard, never touched by razor, were now of silvery whiteness.\nThe other men were of various nationalities, but used Urdu as a tongue\ncommon to all.\"\n\n\"The first speaker, a Persian, was giving a flowery account of his own\ncountry, which none of the others had ever seen. Such horses, such\nfruits, such cities, he described\u2014that to hear him, one might think\nthat Persia, of all the lands of earth, was the most beautiful and most\nblest.\"\n\n\"And our men are unmatched for size and strength,\" pursued the speaker,\nusing a good deal of gesticulation. \"I am one of a family of ten sons;\nand not one of my brothers but is taller and stronger than I am. What\nwould you say to our bihisti? He is some eight feet in height, and\ncarries a mushak made of the hide of an ox, which, when full, five of\nyour ordinary men could not lift!\"\n\n\"Wah! Wah!\" exclaimed the listeners.\n\nThe sage old Sikh rather incredulously shook his head, and muttered, \"I\nshould like to see such a bihisti.\"\n\nThen spake a fine tall Afghan. \"I could tell you of a bihisti,\" he\nsaid, \"compared to whom your bihisti is but an emmet. I know one who\ncan carry a mushak big as a mountain, and white as the snows on the\nHimalayas. This water-carrier can travel thousands of miles without\nstopping or feeling weary, sometimes whistling, and sometimes howling\nas he goes.\"\n\n\"Wah! Wah!\" cried those around him.\n\nBut the Persian rather angrily said, \"I will never believe such a pack\nof lies!\"\n\n\"Oh, brother,\" said the old Sikh smiling, \"there is more truth in the\nAfghan's tale than in thine. Look yonder,\" he continued, as a white\ncloud passed over the face of the moon, \"and listen to the rushing\nblast which is shaking the leaves of yon palms. The wind is the mighty\nbihisti whom the great Creator employs to bear swiftly the huge white\nmushaks which convey His gift of rain. The words of the Pathan are not\nthe words of folly.\"\n\n\"Thou art wise, O father!\" said the youngest man in the group, who\nhad hitherto spoken but little. \"Now listen whilst I tell of a third\nbihisti; not tall like the first, nor strong like the second, but\nbearing a more wonderful mushak than either. This mushak is small, not\nlonger than my hand; it is very old too, and it is carried by a very\nfeeble man.\"\n\n\"Useless! Good for nothing!\" exclaimed the Persian.\n\n\"Listen before you say so. In this mushak is water of such wonderful\nvirtue, that if but a few drops fall on good soil, a spring of\nsurpassing sweetness bursts forth, sometimes spreading and spreading:\ntill first a brook; then a wide stream; then a glorious river\u2014appears.\nThe most learned cannot calculate, nor ages on ages limit, the effects\nof a few living drops from that blessed mushak!\"\n\nThe Persian and Afghan uttered exclamations of surprise; but a\nthoughtful inquiring look was on the face of the aged Sikh.\n\n\"Where can that mushak be seen?\" he enquired.\n\n\"Here,\" replied the Bengali; and he drew a Bible from his vest. \"This\nbook contains the Word of God; and its contents, when received with\nfaith, are spirit and life.\"\n\n\"It is the Christian's Scriptures,\" said the old Sikh, raising his hand\nto his brow in token of respect.\n\n\"Let me pour forth some drops of the living water,\" said the native\nevangelist; \"as the moonlight is so bright that I can, by it, read a\nlittle from the pages which I know and love so well.\"\n\nNo one made any objection: the Persian listened with curiosity, and the\nAfghan with some attention; but it was on the old Sikh that the holy\nwords fell like the rain from Heaven. This was not the first time that\nhe had drunk from the precious mushak of inspired Truth, and its water\nbecame to him as a stream of life which should never fail him till time\nshould be lost in eternity.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nThe Legend of the Shekel.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"IT is your turn now, Percival,\" said my aunt.\n\n\"Give us the Legend of the Shekel,\" I rejoined. \"It is getting too dark\nto examine your picture: but I remember it well. It represents a man,\napparently a poor one, clad in a common Jewish dress. He is gazing,\nwith wonder and delight, at some silver coin, which he holds in his\nbrown wrinkled palm. I have been trying in vain to recall any incident\nin Scripture which would correspond with the picture.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said my aunt, \"Percival must have represented St. Peter with\nthe money found in the mouth of the fish.\"\n\n\"I thought of that at first,\" I observed. \"But the man in the picture,\nthin and weak in appearance, does not at all suit our idea of a hardy\nfisherman: he looks more like a worn-out mechanic. Percival, you must\ntell us what meaning you intended to convey.\"\n\nPercival. The shekel is meant for that brought by the fish; but the man\nin the picture is certainly not the Apostle.\n\nLady Mar. For whom then is this figure intended?\n\nPercival as his reply repeated the following legend. I wrote it down\nafterwards from memory, as it was not to be found amongst the papers\nleft by my friend.\n\n\n                   The Legend of the Shekel.\n\nWhen St. Peter, in obedience to the Master's command, had cast a hook\ninto the sea, and drawn forth a fish in whose mouth he found a shekel,\nwith which to pay the Temple tribute, his soul was filled with wonder.\nHow had that piece of silver come into the mouth of the quivering,\nstruggling creature, whose habitation had been the deep waters?\n\nThat silvery fish had, in some most mysterious manner, obeyed the\nbehest of its Creator; and St. Peter resolved to restore the wounded\ncreature to its native element.\n\n\"I will not take the life of the dumb fish that has ministered to the\nMaster's need,\" thought Peter, as he cast it back into the water. For a\nmoment, the shining scales glittered in the sunlight, then disappeared\nunder the waves.\n\nThe shekel was duly paid into the Temple treasury as the tribute-money\ncontributed by the Lord and His apostle.\n\nIn that treasury, under the care of the avaricious and worldly priests,\nthe money remained for awhile. They saw in it nothing remarkable;\nit was merely, to them, a bright, newly-coined piece of silver,\nresembling, in everything but its freshness, the thousands of shekels\nthat passed through their hands.\n\nAt last, for some needful work done in the Temple, the shekel was paid\nout to a poor artisan, who thought at first that it had been hardly\nearned by the labour of several days.\n\nMichael, however, took the shekel without a murmur from the hand\nof a pampered priest, who seemed almost to grudge the workman his\nwell-earned hire. Michael turned from the door of the Temple, which had\nbecome a den of thieves; made his way amongst bleating flocks; passed\nthe gate of the money-changers; and would have turned his shekel into\nsmaller coin, had not conscience hindered the pious Jew from doing any\nworldly business in precincts so holy.\n\n\"I will change my shekel elsewhere,\" said Michael to himself; \"though I\nam a little loth to part with one which looks so unsullied by the touch\nof man.\"\n\nLooking down at the money in his hand, Michael was amazed to behold on\nit in letters distinct as if fresh from a dye, but extremely minute,\nthe first verse of the book of Psalms.\n\nWith wonder and delight Michael gazed on the marvellous coin; and as\nhe gazed his wonder increased. The words melted away before his eyes;\nbut no blank remained on the miraculous silver. The second verse of the\nPsalm had succeeded the first; and this, in a few seconds, was followed\nby the third: and so on to the end of the Psalm. The shining shekel,\nwon from the sea, was like a roll of the Holy Scriptures\u2014Psalm after\nPsalm, in regular progression, appearing on the small bright disc.\n\n\"Oh, marvellous! Most marvellous and blessed shekel!\" exclaimed the\nenraptured Michael. \"Possessed of thee, I am the owner of inestimable\nwealth! I would not part with thee for a thousand pieces of gold.\"\n\nMichael saw a learned Scribe advancing towards him; and, eager to know\nmore of the nature of a thing of such miraculous virtue, the artisan\nran towards the interpreter of the law, and eagerly showed him the\npiece of silver.\n\n\"What is this wonderful coin?\" exclaimed Michael.\n\nThe Levite examined it, and a look of contempt came on his face. \"Fool,\nhave you never seen a shekel before?\" he enquired.\n\n\"Never such a one as this!\" cried Michael.\n\n\"It is like any other shekel,\" said the Levite scornfully, and he\ntossed it down in the dust.\n\nIt was only the eye of Faith that saw any special value, in that which\na miracle had produced.\n\n\"Did my eyes deceive me when I read verse after verse of God's Word\nfrom that coin?\" said Michael to himself, as he raised from the earth\nhis shekel, quite undimmed by the dust. \"No, for another Psalm is\ncommenced. Blessed shekel! I desire to keep thee to my dying day, and\nthen have thee buried with me in my grave.\"\n\nMichael kept to his resolution for some length of time. Each day, when\nthere came any pause in his work, he drank in comfort and instruction\nfrom the words visible to him alone on his wonderful piece of silver.\nThey were the first thing which he studied when rising at dawn; and\nwhen the sun set, he read till the light faded away. Then, kindling his\nsmall earthen lamp, Michael still pursued his blessed study: never did\nthe minute characters engraved on the silver shine more brightly than\nthen.\n\nAnd yet Michael did break his resolution; did part with his treasure!\nAnd this was how it happened.\n\nPartly from prophetic verses seen on his coin, but still more from\nhearing the Divine Preacher Himself, Michael had become a devout\nbeliever in the holy Jesus of Nazareth. One memorable day, Michael met\ntwo of the Lord's followers, and heard them conversing together in\ntroubled tones.\n\n\"The Master commanded us to provide things needful for the feast,\" said\none; \"and we have nothing wherewith to buy them. Judas hath the bag;\nand we wot not whither he has gone. The day is wearing on, and there is\nnothing ready for the Master.\"\n\n\"Surely God Himself will provide,\" said the other disciple.\n\nMichael was a poor man, and knew not how to prepare the usual feast for\nhimself; for he had shrunk from spending his precious shekel. But here\nthe need was the Lord's; and should he not give to the Master of the\nvery best that he had? How could his precious coin be better bestowed?\nSo in lowly faith and love, the poor artisan gave his all to supply the\ntable of the dear Master. Michael little knew that he was paying for\nthe bread and wine which, at the Last Supper, should be distributed as\nemblems of His own sacred body and blood by the Lamb about to be slain.\n\nMichael was no loser by his free-will offering of love. All the words\nwhich had before been engraven on the shekel were now clearly written\nin his own heart, as if by the pen of an angel. A thousandfold blessed\nwas the man who had given what he most prized to the Lord.\n\nAnd even of the fish that had unwittingly helped the Master, the legend\nsays that it had been reserved to be used again in His service. When\nthe disciples were gathered together after the Resurrection of Christ,\nand their Lord appeared amongst them, the broiled fish which formed\npart of the repast was that which had borne in its mouth to Peter the\nwonderful shekel.\n\n\"I have been thinking,\" said I, as Percival concluded, \"what kind of\nmoral one could draw from your legend, which one could imagine some\nmonk in the dark ages composing in his cell.\"\n\n\"To me it seems to convey the lesson that a blessing may be gained,\neven by a surrender of some spiritual privileges for the service of the\nLord,\" said Lady Mar.\n\n\"The quiet, peaceful Sabbath evening given up for the Sabbath class\nin some heated, crowded room; the congenial society of God's people\nsurrendered for that of rude, ignorant unbelievers, either at home or\nabroad\u2014such sacrifices are well-pleasing in His sight. Few earnest\nfollowers of Him who left Heaven and its angels to toil amongst wicked\nmen but know something of what it is to surrender the precious shekel,\nand gain a thousandfold in exchange.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nThe Night after the Crucifixion.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTHERE was no third person present when Percival and I talked over the\nsubject of the picture on which he had bestowed his most loving pains.\n\nIt was the only one, as he told me, in which he had ventured to\nintroduce more than two figures. His mind had so pondered over his\nsubject that to him, at least, the scene appeared to be real.\n\nPercival had, as it were, sat on the ground with the mourners for a\ncrucified Master; realized their sense of desolation; with them, bowed\nhis head and wept. What must have been the darkness when the Sun of\nRighteousness had set! What the appalling stillness, when the sacred\nbody of the murdered Hope of Israel lay cold in the rock-hewn tomb!\n\nThe scene depicted was a room on the ground-floor of some Jerusalem\nhome. Scarcely any furniture is seen save a few mats on the earthen\nfloor, and clay lamps burning dimly in niches on the wall.\n\nThere is also a low bedstead, on which, in a half-reclining position,\nappears the principal female figure, with another woman crouching on\nthe ground, in silent unutterable woe, at her feet. A third, standing\nwith clasped hands and upturned gaze, is seen near, but her wan face\nbears an expression of trustful confidence which has in it something of\nthe sublime. She is not crushed, but exalted by trial.\n\nSeyton. Here we doubtless see the three Maries. The central form is\nthat of the Lord's desolate mother; but she seems rather to be absorbed\nin deep thought, than overwhelmed by the bitter grief of bereavement.\n\nPercival. I pictured in my mind the three Maries, as types of Memory,\nLove, and Faith. The mother, in her silent sorrow, is meditating over\nwondrous recollections of the past; which, like the wall-lamps, cast\nsome light on what would otherwise appear as one chaos of gloom. \"Is it\npossible that He whose coming was foretold to me by a glorious angel;\nat whose birth seraphs sang and the shepherds were glad\u2014is it possible\nthat He has really passed from earth like a dream! Was it for nothing\nthat holy Elisabeth and Anna prophesied, and the aged Simeon rejoiced?\nThe sword has indeed pierced my soul; aye, drank as it were my very\nlife's blood: but was not this also foretold! Doth God give the bitter,\nand withhold the sweet? Must not prophecies be fulfilled?\"\n\nSeyton. It has struck me that the circumstance of Mary of Nazareth's\nnot being mentioned amongst the women who visited the sepulchre\u2014may\nhave arisen from her stronger faith. She, the Lord's mother, did not,\nas far as we know, seek the living amongst the dead: at least, her so\ndoing is not recorded by any one of the four Evangelists.\n\nPercival. The things which Mary so long pondered in her heart may,\nlike buried seeds, have sprung to light in the hour of her bitterest\nanguish. The Lord's mother was a thoughtful woman; and she knew that\nthe Babe whom she had folded in her arms and pressed to her bosom was\nindeed the Son of God.\n\nSeyton. But there is nothing of hope expressed in the attitude of Mary\nMagdalene in your picture.\n\nPercival. No; she has loved, and she has lost, her Lord; lost Him, as\nshe thinks, for ever, as regards this mortal life. Mary has kissed the\ndead feet; has pressed to her lips the wounded hand; and her tears have\ndropped on the thorn-encircled brow. Even the sight of angels will\nconvey to her no comfort; her grief-dimmed eyes will not recognize the\nrisen Christ Himself, till she hears His own beloved voice pronounce\nher familiar name.\n\nSeyton. The third Mary presents a contrast to the Magdalene: the sister\nof Lazarus, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, looks as if on\nher pale lips could almost dawn a triumphant smile.\n\nPercival. Have you never thought what was probably the subject of the\nLord's discourse to Mary of Bethany when, absorbed in listening, she\nsat at His feet? Is it not likely that Christ was disclosing to her,\nas He did to less believing disciples, the approaching sacrifice on\nCalvary, and the glory which was to follow?\n\nSeyton. If such were the subject of Christ's discourse, how Martha's\nimpetuous interruption must have jarred both on the Divine Teacher and\nthe listener who was drinking in such soul-absorbing truths!\n\nPercival. Surely it was not in blind ignorance of the meaning of what\nshe did, that Mary brought her precious ointment to pour on the feet of\nthe Master! He who could read her inmost thoughts said, \"She did it for\nMy burial.\" Were not Mary's thoughts, then, something like this\u2014\n\n\"He hath said it\u2014alas! alas!\u2014and all that my Lord says must be true.\nThe holy Jesus will be delivered into the hands of the Gentiles. He\nwill be mocked, scourged, and slain. Yes, He who called my brother from\nthe grave must Himself die! And they who murder Him will not, perhaps,\nsuffer due honour to be paid to the holy corpse; I may not be able to\napproach the sacred form! I will be beforehand with Christ's cruel\nfoes; what I may not be allowed to do after His death, I will do ere\nthe awful moment come when the Lamb of God must be sacrificed for our\nsins. I will anoint Him for His burial!\"\n\nSeyton. And when the sacrifice had been offered, you believe that Mary\nof Bethany, unlike any of the apostles, had faith to look beyond death\nto Christ's Resurrection?\n\nPercival. There is nothing in Scripture that I know of to lead us to\ndoubt it. The piety of Mary of Bethany seems to have been of a higher,\na more spiritual type, than that of her sister. It was not Mary who\nexclaimed against the removal of the stone from the sepulchre's mouth.\nMary perhaps saw in the resurrection of Lazarus a type and pledge of\nthat of her Lord. If so, her joy must have been yet more intense than\nthat of Martha, even as her gratitude took a more palpable form.\n\nSeyton. It is interesting and refreshing to the spirit thus to meditate\nover Scripture characters. What to some are merely like ancient\nstatues, when we gaze on them thus, become human beings instinct with\nlife.\n\nPercival. And such meditation makes us realize the tie which binds\nChristians of to-day to saints of the olden time; at least, it has that\neffect with me. I feel almost as if those whose forms I have attempted\nto depict on my canvas had become my familiar friends. I look forward\nto meeting those three Maries hereafter: perhaps that time may not be\nfar off.\n\nSeyton. There are two male figures in the background of your picture,\nrepresented as just about to enter the room. One, the elder, appears to\nbe struggling to retire: he is unwilling to intrude on the sacredness\nof grief.\n\nPercival. Can you not read sorrow and shame on his half-averted face?\n\nSeyton. His younger companion is using loving persuasion to draw him\nforward: his arm is thrown around the elder, and his face expresses\ncompassion and love. The two figures must represent John and Peter.\n\nPercival. Such was the idea in my mind. Where would poor broken-hearted\nPeter hide himself when, pierced by that look of his Lord, he went\nforth and bitterly wept? Would he not seek the solemn shade of the\nolives in the Garden of Gethsemane, and prostrate himself on the spot\nwhere the Master had knelt in agonized prayer? Would not Peter lay his\nthrobbing brow on the sod where he could trace red signs of the bloody\nsweat, and try to efface them with his hot tears?\n\nPercival went on: How terrible to Peter must have been the darkness\nwhich for three hours covered the earth, a sign that the fearful deed\nwas being done, on which the sun could not look! He who had thrice\ndenied his Lord dared not go near His cross; but the disciple's\nanguished soul would vividly picture its horrors. Peter must have\ntrembled at the shock of the earthquake which told that all was over.\nHow could he rise from the earth? How endure ever to look again on the\nface of a fellow-apostle?\n\nSeyton. And you have imagined John, with tender sympathy, seeking out\nhis erring brother in the place where he would be most likely to find\nhim.\n\nPercival. And entreating Peter not to remain apart from all his\nbrethren; not to give way to despair: but to join those who, like\nhimself, were mourning their crucified Lord.\n\nSeyton. No marvel that Peter should shrink from entering the presence\nof the bereaved mother of Christ!\n\nPercival. Mary would not turn from him; she would utter no word of\nreproach: she would raise her tearful eyes, and give the penitent Peter\na look which would remind him of that which he had last seen on the\nsacred face of her Son.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nThe Legend of the Roman Soldier.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nI HAD fastened up several of Percival's pictures on the wall of the\nroom which he now occupied; and in which he received frequent visits\nfrom my aunt. On one occasion the following conversation was held\nbetween them.\n\nLady Mar. Percival, I cannot take my eyes from that picture of yours\nhung in the corner: it is so dramatic in composition, so vigorous in\nexecution. Yet I find it so difficult to trace any connexion between it\nand any narrative contained in the Bible. I understood from my nephew\nthat you only illustrate passages from Scripture.\n\nPercival. Not exactly so, dear Lady Mar. The connection of my poor\nfancies with the Scriptures is like that of the mistletoe with the oak.\nThe mistletoe is a weak little plant; of a nature different to, and far\nless noble than, the tree on which it rests: yet from that tree, it\nderives both nourishment and support.\n\nLady Mar. And the mistletoe bears delicate white berries, which serve\nto make winter brighter. But this picture before me has red berries\nrather than white ones. Despondency and attempted suicide appear to\nform its subject. A powerfully-made soldier, evidently a Roman, is\nabout to fall on his own sword, his face expressing the despair which\nis driving him on to self-destruction. Another man, a Jew, has caught\nhold of his arm, evidently to prevent the warrior from accomplishing\nhis desperate purpose.\n\nLady Mar continued: \"Please tell us on what branch of the oak your\nparasite grows. You cannot refuse us anything this evening, as my\nnephew leaves us for college to-morrow; so to one of us, as you see,\nthis will be the last night of meeting for some months to come.\"\n\nI thought sadly, \"Possibly indeed the last meeting. Shall I find\nPercival here on my return?\"\n\n\"I happen to have written out my little Legend,\" was Percival's reply.\n\"If Seyton cares to read it, and you to listen, it is quite at your\nservice.\"\n\n\"Whilst my nephew reads, I will keep my eye on the picture,\" said Lady\nMar. \"I feel a sympathy with that stalwart Roman, who seems in such a\ndesperate plight.\"\n\n\n                The Legend of the Roman Soldier.\n\nA soldier sought the silence and solitude of a forest; for the presence\nof his fellow-creatures had become hateful to his soul. The moonbeams,\npiercing like silver lances between the branches, glimmered on the\nsteel breastplate and arms which had been borne in many a fight.\n\nMarcus was a tried warrior, who had distinguished himself from his\ncomrades by feats of strength and deeds of daring. But now all his\nspirit was gone: he would not have cared to raise his powerful arm to\nward off a blow; nay, he would have welcomed the sharp steel which\nshould cut him off from the earth, which had become to him worse than a\nprison.\n\n\"Now let me end my misery!\" exclaimed Marcus. \"I am a guilty wretch not\nfit to live! There is only one good deed which I can perform\u2014use this\naccursed hand to avenge the innocent blood which it shed.\"\n\nClenching his teeth with fierce resolution, Marcus fixed the hilt\nof his sword firmly between the gnarled roots of a tree; hastily\nunfastened his breastplate, and flung it clanging on the earth; then\nnerved himself for the desperate act of throwing himself on the point\nof his sharp weapon.\n\nBut at that moment, the muscular arm of the strong soldier was seized\nby a Jew, who, unseen in the shade, had watched his movements.\n\n\"Madman! In Christ's name forbear!\" exclaimed the Jew.\n\nMarcus was startled at the word. \"What! Are you one of the followers\nof Him who died on Calvary?\" cried the soldier, drawing back, and\nsurveying almost with fear one whom by a slight exertion of his giant\nstrength, he could have dashed to the ground. \"If you be a disciple of\nChrist, far from staying the execution of justice, you will slay me\nyourself, and trample my blood under your feet! Take yon sword, and\nstrike home!\"\n\n\"What hast thou done,\" asked the Christian, \"that thou shouldst bid me\nslay thee?\"\n\n\"Hear, if thou wilt; for I can no longer endure to bear my burden in\nsilence. Hear and then strike; for I have well-merited death from the\nhand of a disciple.\"\n\nSo saying, Marcus flung himself down on the gnarled roots, which\nafforded a rude kind of seat, and signed to the Jew to take his place\non a large stone near.\n\nAsahel, such was his name, obeyed the sign, and prepared himself to\nlisten.\n\nBut for some minutes only deep groans were heard from the unhappy\nRoman, who seemed to shrink from beginning his terrible confession. At\nlast, averting his eyes, he thus began:\n\n\"Is it not enough to say that I was one of the Pr\u00e6torian band on that\nday\u2014not many moons have waxed and waned since then\u2014when there was\ndarkness and an earthquake; and the Temple curtain was rent in twain.\"\n\n\"What! Thou wast one of those Roman soldiers! Thou didst mock the\nBlessed One, and crown Him with thorns!\"\n\n\"I did not!\" cried Marcus fiercely. \"I was not base enough for that.\nWhen I looked at that calm majestic Sufferer, I thought Him more kingly\nin His robe of mockery, than Pontius Pilate in all his state!\"\n\n\"When I heard the yelling of the savage mob, thirsty for blood, I said\nto myself, 'Were I in the place of our Governor, those slaves might\nshout as they pleased, I would never give Him up, innocent as He is, to\nfanatic priest or frantic people! I would not so play the coward!'\"\n\nAsahel winced, as if some acute pain had suddenly struck him.\n\n\"But it was my duty, my detestable office, to execute the sentence\nwhich I thought unjust as well as cruel. I was accustomed as a soldier\nto obey orders without question, and without remorse. Hardened as I am\nby familiarity with executions, without mercy or scruple I crucified\none of the wretched thieves. His yell of agony as I did my work did not\neven awake a feeling of pity in my heart.\"\n\n\"But it was very different with me when I laid my hand\u2014would that\nlightning had blasted it!\u2014on the hammer, and did what I would now give\nmy life to undo! He uttered no groan\u2014no curse; He submitted like a lamb\nin the slaughterer's grasp. He but said\u2014I cannot repeat what He said.\"\n\nThe soldier's head sank on his broad breast, and the strong man wept.\n\n\"Christ said, 'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!'\"\nsaid Asahel, softly.\n\n\"I was present through all,\" continued the soldier, when he had\nrecovered his self-command, \"I saw the sudden darkness: it fell over me\nlike a shroud! Every hour of that fearful time convinced me the more\nthat I was helping to torture\u2014to murder\u2014One who was more than man. At\nlast, when I heard the faint words, 'I thirst!' I ran; and putting a\nsponge filled with vinegar on a reed, I moistened the white, parched\nlips of the Dying.\"\n\n\"Oh that I had done that!\" cried the Christian Jew, bursting into\ntears. \"Blessed man! Thou wert the only one, then, to relieve the\nSaviour's dying anguish!\"\n\nThe Roman gazed in astonishment at his companion. \"I thought, O\nfollower of Christ!\" said he. \"That thou wouldst abhor me, even as I\nabhor mine own self.\"\n\n\"I am a thousandfold more guilty than thou art!\" cried Asahel. \"I was\none of the savage mob. It was as if under the direct influence of Satan\nthat I shouted even as they did. I saw Him suffer\u2014and I did not pity!\nThou didst act under compulsion. I\u2014I struck Him; and yet I live!\"\n\nMarcus started to his feet with something like an imprecation. \"Wretch!\nThou art beyond pardon!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"I have found pardon!\" cried the believer. \"And where I found it, so\nmay'st thou.\"\n\nThen, in a voice trembling with emotion, Asahel recounted the wonders\nof the Day of Pentecost; and repeated, almost word for word, that\naddress of Peter, on hearing which, three thousand sinners were pricked\nto the heart and repented.\n\n\"I was one of that three thousand,\" said the converted Jew. \"I\nbelieved, and I was forgiven. The blood which flowed on the cross was a\nfull, sufficient, atonement even for guilt such as mine.\"\n\n\"And will it avail even for me?\" exclaimed Marcus, the first ray of\nhope glimmering on the midnight of his despair.\n\n\"Did Christ not pray for thee, O brother? And art thou not already\nforgiven?\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nAsleep.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nI SHALL ever remember that evening: what followed impressed it so\ndeeply on my mind.\n\nPercival seemed unconscious of any one's presence; his lips softly\nrepeated the last word forgiven, and I thought that he smiled.\n\nA brief prayer closed our meeting that night: I now doubt whether\nPercival heard it.\n\nMy aunt, seeing that the invalid was unusually drowsy, hastened the\npreparation for his nightly rest.\n\nIn the morning. I went to Percival's room early, to bid him good-bye\nere I started for college. I knocked at his door: there was no reply.\nI knocked again: still silence within. I opened the door softly; and\nentering, approached his bed.\n\nMy first glance at the countenance, so white\u2014so still\u2014so beautiful,\ntold me that the spirit had fled.\n\n   \"For death had come in the land of sleep;\n      And his lifeless body lay\n    Like a worn-out fetter, which the soul\n      Had broken and cast away!\"\n\nWe had anticipated for Percival a long, slow, painful descent to the\nriver of death: but some chord had given way within; he was free, and\nhad cleared the river at a bound. I could not have laid a detaining\nhand on the freed and rejoicing spirit!\n\nNothing is now left, in this world, of Henry Percival\u2014but a modest\ntomb, a fragrant memory, and his little gallery of pictures.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nLONDON: MORGAN & SCOTT, 12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS.\n\n\n\n[Illustration]","title":"Percival's picture gallery","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":14508}