{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_74714/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_74714","id":"gutenberg_74714","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74714","summary":null,"tags":["Allegories -- Juvenile literature","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Parables -- Juvenile literature","Sunday school literature"],"text":"Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.\n\nNew original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the\npublic domain.\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                THE\n\n                            BLACK SHIP:\n\n                               WITH\n\n                 Other Allegories and Parables.\n\n\n                         BY THE AUTHOR OF\n\n             \"TALES AND SKETCHES OF CHRISTIAN LIFE,\"\n              \"THE VOICE OF CHRISTIAN LIFE IN SONG,\"\n                             ETC. ETC.\n\n                     [Elizabeth Rundle Charles]\n\n\n\n                              LONDON:\n                 J. NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.\n                               1861.\n\n\n\n                           \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n             Printed by Ballantyne & Company, Edinburgh.\n\n\n\n                            CONTENTS.\n\n                              \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n   THE BLACK SHIP\n\n   THE RUINED TEMPLE\n\n   THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER OF THE KING'S OWN\n\n   THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES\n\n   WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n   THE ACORN\n\n   PARABLES IN HOUSEHOLD THINGS\n\n   PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A FERN\n\n   PARABLES\u2014\n\n      THE CLOCK-BELL AND THE ALARM-BELL\n\n      THORNS AND SPINES\n\n      SUNSHINE, DAYLIGHT, AND THE ROCK\n\n      WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS\n\n      THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS\n\n      THE THREE DREAMS\n\n      THOU AND I\n\n\n\n                          The Black Ship.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nTHEY lived at the foot of the Pine Mountains, in the island of the\nKing's Garden, the mother, with her little son and daughter. The boy's\nname was Hope, and the little girl's, May.\n\nThe children loved each other dearly, and were never separated. They\nnever had any quarrels, because Hope was the leader in all their\nexpeditions and plays; and May firmly believed that everything which\nHope planned and did, was better planned and better done than it would\nhave been by any one else in the world, by which May meant the island.\nHope, on his side, had always a tender consideration for little May in\nhis schemes, such as kings should have for their subjects. May would\nnever have dreamed of originating any scheme herself, or of questioning\nany which Hope planned. If you had taken away May from Hope, you would\nhave taken away his kingdom, his army, his right hand; if you had\ntaken away Hope from May, you would have robbed her of her leader, her\nking, her head, her sun. Bereaved of May, I think Hope would have been\ndriven from his desolate home into the wide world; bereaved of Hope,\nI am sure May would never have left her home, but sat silent there\nuntil she pined away. But together, life was one holiday to them; work\nwas a keener kind of play, and every day was too narrow for the happy\noccupations of which each hour was brimful.\n\nTheir cottage was at the foot of the mountains, on the sea-shore.\nIndeed, every house and cottage in the island stood on the sea-shore,\nbecause the island was so long and narrow, that, from the top of\nthe mountain range which divided it, you could see the sea on both\nsides. If in any place the coast widened, little creeks ran in among\nthe hills, and made the sea accessible from all points. The island\nconsisted entirely of this one mountain range towering to the clouds;\nthe higher peaks covered with snow, with a strip of coast at their\nfeet, sometimes narrowing to a little shingly beach, sometimes\nexpanding to a fertile plain, where beautiful cities with fairy\nbell-towers and marble palaces gleamed like ivory carvings amidst the\npalms and thick green trees.\n\nBut Hope and May knew nothing of the island beyond the little bay they\nlived in, and no one they had ever seen or heard of had scaled the\nmountain range and looked on the other side; no one, either in the\nscattered fishermen's huts around them, or in the white town which\nperched like a sea-bird on the crags on the opposite side of the bay.\nIndeed, it was only from their mother's words that the children knew\ntheir country was an island; and ever since they had heard this, the\ngreat subject of Hope's dreams, and the great object of his schemes,\nhad been to scale the mountains and look on the other side. But this\nwas quite a secret between Hope and May; the happy secret which formed\nthe endless interest of their long talks and rambles, but which they\ncould not speak of to their mother, because she was so tenderly timid\nabout them, and because it was to be the great surprise which one day\nwas to enchant her, when Hope was a man. He was to scale the mountains,\npenetrate to the wondrous land on the other side, and bring thence\nuntold treasures and tales of marvels to May and his mother.\n\nThe children thought Hope would very soon be old enough to go; and they\nhad a little cave in the rocks close to the sea where they treasured\nup dried fruits and bits of iron to make tools of with which to chop\naway the tangled branches in the forests, and cut steps in the glaciers\nwhich Hope was to traverse. The lower hills the children knew well; and\nthe ravine which wound up far among the hills they had nearly fixed on\nas the commencement of the journey.\n\nSo the days passed on with the children, rich in purposes and bright\nwith happy work. For they were helpful to their mother. From their\nmountain expeditions they brought her firewood, and forest-honey,\nand eggs of wild-fowl, and various sweet wild-berries, and wholesome\nroots. They always noticed that their mother encouraged these mountain\nexpeditions, and seemed much happier when they took that direction than\nwhen they kept by the sea.\n\nOnce Hope had said to her\u2014\n\n\"Mother, how beautiful our country is! And I think it is so happy\nalways to be in sight of the sea. How dull those lands must be you tell\nus of which are so large that many people have to live out of hearing\nof the waves! I could not bear to live there; it must seem so narrow\nand close to be shut in on the land with nothing beyond. But here we\ncan never get out of sight of the sea. May and I always find, wherever\nwe roam among the hills, we never lose the sea. When we wander far\nback from the shore, the beautiful blue waters seem to follow us as if\nthey loved us; and in the inmost recesses of the mountains we always\nsee beneath us some glimpse of bright water in the creeks, which run\nup among the hills, or the rivers which come down to meet them. The\nsea seems to love every corner of our country, mother, and penetrate\neverywhere.\"\n\nA cold shudder passed over the mother's frame, and tears gathered in\nher eyes.\n\n\"The sea is indeed everywhere, my children,\" she murmured, and then\nwith a burst of irresistible emotion she clasped them to her heart, and\nadded bitterly, \"Happy the country which that sea cannot approach!\"\n\nMay and Hope wondered greatly at her words; but there was something\nin her manner which awed them into silence. For some time after that,\nthey often speculated together as to what her words could mean, a vague\nterror seemed to murmur in the ripple of the waves. But gradually the\nimpression wore off in the happy forgetfulness of childhood, and their\nold schemes were resumed with the same zest as before.\n\nOne evening, however, as they were busied with their treasures in the\ncave, the tide surprised them, and when they set out to return home,\nthey found the rocky point which separated them from their cottage\nsurrounded with deep water. The sides of the cliff in the little cove\nwhere their cave lay were sheer precipices of smooth rock, too steep to\nclimb, so that the children had to wait some hours before they could\ncreep round the point. Eagerly they watched the declining sun and the\nretreating tide, and when the waves were only ankle-deep they bounded\nthrough them, and in a few minutes were at the cottage door.\n\nIt was not yet dark, and the children were dancing into the cottage\nfull of spirits at their adventure, when they were startled at the\nappearance of their mother. She was leaning, stony and motionless, with\nfixed eyes and clasped hands, against the doorpost, and for a moment\nthe sight of her darlings did not seem to rouse her. Then springing\nup with a wild cry, she strained them to her heart, covered them with\nkisses, laughed a wild laugh, broken with convulsive sobs, and at last\nfell fainting on the floor.\n\nThe children knelt beside her, and gradually she revived, and fell into\na sleep. But every now and then she started as if with some terrible\ndream, and murmured in her sleep, \"The ship\u2014the Black Ship; not now,\nnot yet; take me, not them; or take us all\u2014take us all!\"\n\nThe terrified children could not sleep, and all the next day they clung\nclose to their mother, and scarcely spoke a word. In the evening,\nhowever, she rallied, and tried to speak cheerfully and account for her\nalarm.\n\n\"You were late, darlings; and I knew you were by the sea\u2014the terrible\nsea.\"\n\nBut the children could not be comforted. They felt the weight of some\nvague apprehension; they could not be tempted to leave their mother;\nthey crept noiselessly about, watching her movements. Until at last one\nnight they whispered together, and resolved to take courage and ask\ntheir mother what made her dread the sea; and then they consulted long\nas to the best way of introducing the forbidden subject.\n\nThe next evening, as they sat together by the fireside, Hope began, and\nforgetting all the speeches they had prepared, fixed his large eyes on\nhis mother's, and said abruptly, \"Mother, what is there terrible in the\nsea?\"\n\nShe paused a moment, her face grew deadly pale, and her lips trembled.\n\n\"Children, why should you wish to know? You will learn too soon without\nmy telling you.\"\n\n\"O mother, tell us,\" said May. \"We can bear anything from you. Do not\nlet any one else tell us.\"\n\nA sudden thought seemed to flash across her, and she said, \"Children,\nyou are right.\"\n\nThen folding one arm around Hope as he stood by her, and taking May on\nher knee, she said, \"It is not the sea I dread; it is the Black Ship.\nThat is the terrible secret; and it is, indeed, better you should learn\nit from my lips than learn it by losing me, and no one be left to tell\nyou how.\n\n\"My children,\" she continued, making a great effort to speak calmly,\n\"this is the one sorrow of our country. From time to time a Black Ship,\nwithout sails or oars, glides silently to our shores, and anchors\nthere. A dark, veiled Figure lands from it, and seizes any one of our\npeople whom it chooses, without violence, without a sound, but with\nirresistible power, and quietly leads the victim away to the Ship,\nwhich immediately glides away again from our coasts as swiftly and\nnoiselessly as it came; but no one ever sees those who are thus borne\naway any more.\"\n\n\"Whence does the Ship come, mother?\" asked Hope, after a long silence.\n\"And whither does it go?\"\n\n\"No one knows, my child. That is the terrible thing about it. There is\nno sound nor voice. The agonised cries of those who are thus bereaved\navail not to bring one word of reply from those lips, or to raise one\nfold of that dark veil. If we only knew, we could bear it.\"\n\n\"Have you ever seen it, mother?\" asked Hope, determined bravely to\nplunge to the bottom of the terrible mystery, while May could only\ncling round her mother's neck and cry.\n\n\"I have seen it twice,\" she replied, speaking low and rapidly. \"We\ndid not always live here. Your father was rich and a man of rank, and\nloving us most dearly, he resolved to do all in his power to keep\nthe terrible Form away. For this end, he built that castle you have\noften seen above the white tower. It is far above the sea; the rocks\nare perpendicular; it is built of solid stone; the doors were of oak,\nstudded with iron; the windows barred with iron. No one was ever to be\npermitted to cross the moat without being strictly scrutinised. The\ngates were always to be closed.\n\n\"When it was finished, he made a feast. And after it, when the guests\nhad left, and every bolt was drawn, we stood at the window of the room\nwhere you slept, and looked down triumphantly on the sea. A little\nsister of yours was sleeping in my arms. In the bay at our feet was\nmoored the Black Ship. Our eyes seemed fascinated to it, and we could\nnot speak. We saw the Veiled Figure; descend the side, and slowly scale\nthe precipice beneath us, as if it had been a road made for it to\ntread. It walked over the waters of the castle moat, which did not seem\nto wet its feet. It stood on the balcony outside our window, and we\ncould not stir. It passed through the iron bars. It laid its hand on my\nsleeping babe.\n\n\"Your father's strong arm was around us both, but before we could\nutter a cry, the darling had glided like a shadow from our embrace.\nThe bright face of our baby was hidden from us under the folds of\nthat impenetrable veil. We watched the terrible Form noiselessly\ndescend the steep, re-enter the ship, and not until the Black Ship was\nalready gliding swiftly out of sight could we overcome the terrible\nfascination. Then my cries of agony awoke the household, boats were\nmanned in pursuit, but in vain, in vain\u2014we felt it was in vain. We\nnever saw the babe again.\"\n\nShe spoke with the languor of a sorrow which had been overwhelmed by\ngreater sorrows still.\n\n\"But our father?\" asked Hope.\n\n\"He left the castle the next day,\" she answered; \"we never returned\nto it. He said the strong walls only mocked our helplessness, and\nsince then the castle has been empty. Birds build their nests in our\nchambers, wild beasts make their lair in our gardens, the iron bars\nrust on the open doors; and if the Veiled Figure enters again, it will\nfind no prey.\"\n\n\"But where did you go?\"\n\n\"We came here. Your father said he would dare the foe, and, since no\nfortification could keep it out, meet it on its own ground. So he built\nthis cottage close to the sea, and here we have lived ever since. I was\ncontent to remain here, because I thought we might avoid seeing any\none, and keep the terrible secret from you.\n\n\"And here,\" she continued with the calmness of despair, \"one morning we\nsaw the Black Ship moored, and your father went to meet it. I wept and\nclung to him to keep him back, but he said, 'It shall speak to me.'\n\n\"The Dark Form came up, a black shadow across the sunny beach. Your\nfather encountered it boldly, and said, 'Where is my child?'\n\n\"There was no sound in reply. For a moment there seemed to be a\nstruggle. I rushed towards them, but the terrible touch was on your\nfather's hand. There seemed no violence, no chain was on his arm\u2014only\nthat paralysing touch. He went from me silent and helpless as the babe.\n\n\"'Whither, whither?' I cried. 'Only tell me where!'\n\n\"He looked back once, but he spoke to me no more. I rushed madly into\nthe sea, but the ship was gone in a minute, and your voices, your baby\nvoices, called me back, and I came.\"\n\n\"Is there no help, mother?\" said Hope, at last. \"Has no one ever tried?\nIf I were but a man! Oh, surely some help could be found?\"\n\n\"So thousands have thought, tried, and asked in vain. Fleets have\nscoured the seas, but none ever came on the Black Ship's track. Have\nyou seen that line of surge far out on the sea?\"\n\n\"The reef, mother? Yes; we have often wondered what it was.\"\n\n\"It is the great sea-wall which our people built ages since. The whole\nnation combined once to encircle the island with a gigantic sea-wall\nwhich no ship might pass. On the day of its completion, there was a\ngreat national festival on the sea-shore. But at noon-day, as they\ndanced and feasted, one who was watching saw a black speck on the\nhorizon.\n\n\"The festivities were suspended, and every one gathered on the beach\nto look. It grew larger and darker\u2014it came to the sea-wall\u2014without\na moment's pause it glided through, and the multitude could gaze no\nlonger. They scattered in all directions to their homes; and before\nmorning, from hundreds of families, one was gone\u2014princes, nobles,\npeasants\u2014one sweeping yet terribly discriminating desolation. But in\nthe sea-wall not the smallest breach could be found. Since then it has\nnever been repaired, and the waves have worn it down to a broken reef,\nover which our boats pass freely.\"\n\nHope was silenced, and the little family sat up together that night.\nThey did not dare to separate, even to their beds, yet before long, the\nchildren were asleep.\n\nSleep revived the brother and sister. And by the evening, Hope's ardent\nheart had found another point to rest on.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"if we could only find out whence the Black Ship\ncomes, we might be comforted. Perhaps it comes from a happy place. Can\nno one even guess?\"\n\n\"There are some who profess to know something of it,\" she replied; \"but\nyour father never believed them.\"\n\n\"Who are they?\" asked Hope.\n\n\"The amulet-makers. There are a band of men in the White Town, and one\nof them in many of the villages, who profess to know something of the\ncountry from which the Black Ship comes, and who sends it. But they\ntalk very mysteriously, in learned words; and I do not understand them.\nYour father said it was all a deception; because some of them profess\nto make amulets or charms which keep the Veiled Form away; and your\nlittle sister had one round her neck when she was taken from us. You\nhave each one, but I cannot trust it; and I never could find out that\nthe amulet-makers had anything but guesses as to where the ship came\nfrom; and your father said we could guess as well as they.\n\n\"There is one thing,\" she added, with a faint smile, \"which gives me\nmore comfort than anything they ever said. When our baby was taken\nfrom my arms\u2014when she felt that terrible touch\u2014she did not seem to be\nat all afraid. She looked up in my face, and then at the Veiled Form,\nand stretched out her baby arms from me to it, and smiled. At first,\nI hated to think of that. It seemed as if some cruel charm was on her\nto win even her heart from me; but often in the night, in my dreams,\nthat smile has come back to me, like a promise; and I have awaked,\ncomforted\u2014I hardly know why.\"\n\n\"Perhaps they are in a happy place, mother,\" said little May.\n\nAnd Hope said\u2014\"Mother, I am going to question the amulet-makers in the\nWhite Town.\"\n\nAnd his mother suffered him to go.\n\nIn two days, Hope came back. But his step was spiritless and slow, and\nhis face very sad.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"I think my father was right. I am afraid no one\nknows anything about the country from which the Black Ship comes. At\nfirst the amulet-makers promised to tell me a great deal. Some of them\ntold me they believed it was a great king, an enemy of our race, who\nsent the ship; but that if we kept certain rules, and put on a certain\ndress they would sell us, or give them certain treasures to throw into\nthe sea when the Ship appeared, they would watch for us, and make\nthe powers beyond the sea favourable to us. But when I came to the\nquestion\u2014how they knew this to be true, or if they had ever had any\nmessage from beyond the sea, or seen any one who came thence, they grew\nsilent, and sometimes angry, and told me I was a presumptuous child.\n\n\"There was one old man, however, who was kind to me; and he came and\nspoke to me alone, and said, 'My child, be happy to-day\u2014to be good is\nto be happy. What is beyond to-day, or beyond the sea, no one knows, or\never can know. Go back to your mother, and live as before.' So I came,\"\nconcluded Hope. \"But it can never, never be with us again as before we\nknew.\"\n\nFrom that time the boy seemed to cease to be a child, or to take\ninterest in any childish schemes. He was gentle and tender as his\nfather could have been to his mother and to May, and seemed to take on\nhimself to watch over and protect them. He never left them out of sight.\n\nUntil, one day, as they came, in their ramble in search of shell-fish,\non their old cave, and looked once more at their little stores, so\njoyously hoarded there, May suddenly exclaimed, \"What if they should\nknow on the other side of the mountains!\"\n\nThe thought flashed on Hope like a breath of new life; and from that\nday his old schemes were resumed, but with an intensity and a purpose\nwhich could not be quenched. He would scale the mountains, to see\nif any tidings from beyond the sea had reached the land across the\nmountains!\n\nHis mother's consent was gained; and in a few days, spent in eager\npreparations, Hope was to start.\n\nBut before those days were ended, one evening, a white-haired old man\nknocked at the cottage door. He was nearly exhausted with travel, his\nclothes were torn, and his feet bleeding.\n\nThey led him to the fire, bathed his feet, and set food before him. But\nbefore he would touch anything, the old man said\u2014\n\n\"I have tidings for you\u2014glad tidings.\"\n\n\"Do you come from across the mountains?\" exclaimed Hope, starting to\nhis feet.\n\nThe old man bowed in assent.\n\n\"I come from across the mountains, and I bring you glad tidings from\nbeyond the sea.\"\n\n\"Glad tidings!\" they all exclaimed.\n\n\"Glad tidings, if you will obey them,\" he replied;\u2014\"if not, the saddest\nyou ever heard. It is not an enemy who sends the Black Ship, but a\nfriend.\"\n\nNot a question, scarcely a breath interrupted him; and he continued, in\nbrief, broken sentences\u2014\n\n\"It is our King. Our island belongs to Him. He gave it us. But, long\nago, our people rebelled against Him. They were seduced by a wicked\nprince, His deadly enemy, and, alas! ours. They sent the King a\ndefiance; they defaced His statues, which were a type of all beauty;\nthey broke His laws, which are the unfolding of all goodness. He sent\nambassadors to reclaim them; He, who could have crushed the revolt,\nand destroyed our nation with one of His armies in a day, descended\nfrom His dignity, and stooped to entreat our deluded people to return\nto their allegiance. But they treated his condescension as weakness.\nThey defied His ambassadors, and maltreated them and drove them from\nthe island. He had warned them against the usurper, and told them the\nconsequences of revolting; and too surely they have been fulfilled.\n\n\"The Black Ship is the punishment inflicted by our offended Monarch;\nbut those who return to His allegiance need not dread it.\"\n\n\"Some, then, have submitted to the King?\" asked Hope.\n\n\"Every ambassador He sent has persuaded some to recognise the King.\"\n\n\"Why not all?\" asked Hope. \"If the King is good and is our King, and\nwill receive us, why not all return?\"\n\n\"The usurper seduces them still,\" replied the old man. \"Many hate the\nKing's good laws; many take pride in what they call their independence;\nmost will not listen, or will not believe. They mock the King's\nmessengers, and declare that they are impostors, that their messages\nare a delusion, and some even persist in declaring that there is no\nKing, and no country beyond the sea.\"\n\n\"But the Black Ship is not a delusion!\" said Hope. \"It must come from\nsome land. What proof have these ambassadors given? Have they ever been\nin the land beyond the sea?\"\n\n\"They gave many proofs, but I bring you better news than this. A few\nyears since, the King's Son came Himself. Many of us have seen and\nspoken with Him. He stayed many days. He spoke words of such power, and\nin tones of such tenderness as none who heard can ever forget. We could\ntrace in His features the lineaments of the statues we had defaced.\nSome of the worst rebels among us were melted to repentance, and fell\nat His feet, and besought His pardon. I was one.\n\n\"He gave us not only His pardon, but His friendship. But His enemies\nprevailed. Especially the amulet-makers organised a conspiracy against\nHim; they feared for their trade, and secretly prepared to drive Him\nfrom the island. He had come alone, for He came not to compel but to\nwin. And He came for another purpose, which, until He was gone, we\ncould not comprehend. The conspirators triumphed. One day they came in\nforce and seized Him. Alas, a base panic seized us who loved Him, and\nwe fled.\n\n\"They bound Him with thongs, they treated Him with the most barbarous\ncruelty and the basest indignity and drove Him to the sea. We thought a\nfleet and an army would have appeared to avenge His insulted majesty,\nand proclaim him King with power, or bear Him in pomp away. But to our\nsurprise and dismay, nothing came for Him but the Black Ship, and the\nDark Form bore Him from us, as if He had been a rebel like one of us.\n\n\"He had told us something of the probability of this before it\nhappened, but we could not comprehend what He meant. Never were days of\nsuch sorrow as those which passed over us after His being taken from\nus. His enemies were in full triumph; they mocked our Prince's claims,\nthey insulted us, they threatened us, but all they could say or do was\nnothing in comparison with the anguish in our hearts.\n\n\"For what could we think? He we had loved and trusted was gone, borne\noff in triumph by the very foe He came to deliver us from. We hid\nourselves in caves and lonely beaches by the sea, and recalled to each\nother His precious words, and gazed out over the sea with a vague\nyearning, which was scarcely hope, and yet kept us lingering on the\nshore.\n\n\"On the third morning, in the gray light of early dawn, one of us\nsaw Him on the shore\u2014one who had owed Him everything, and loved Him\nmost devotedly. She called us to come. One by one we gathered round\nHim. Some of us could scarcely believe our senses for joy. But it was\nHimself; the solid certainty of that unutterable joy grew stronger.\nAnd then He told us wonders, how He suffered all this for us\u2014had borne\nthis indignity and captivity in obedience to His Father's will, to set\nus free\u2014had gone in the Black Ship itself to the heart of the enemy's\ncountry, and alone trodden those terrible regions of lawless wickedness\nto which he seeks to drag his deluded victims, and alone vanquished him\nthere.\n\n\"He stayed with us some days, and talked with us familiarly, as of\nold; but how glorious His commonest words were\u2014how overpowering\nHis forgiving looks\u2014how inspiring His firm and tender tones, I can\nnever tell. He could not remain with us then. He said we must be His\nmessengers, and win back His rebels to allegiance; we must learn to be\nbrave, to speak and suffer for Him, and to act as men; and He promised\nto come again one day with fleets and armies, and all the pomp of His\nFather's kingdom.\n\n\"But, meantime, He said the Black Ship should never more be a terror to\nany of us who loved Him; for He himself would come in it each time. He\nwould be veiled, so that none could see Him but the one He came for;\nbut surely as the Black Ship came, instead of the Dark Form, He would\ncome Himself for every one of us, and bear us home to His Father's\nhouse to abide with Him, and with Him hereafter to return.\"\n\nThere was a breathless silence, broken only by the mother's sobs.\n\nShe clasped her hands, and murmured\u2014\n\n\"Then it was He\u2014it was surely He himself who came and took my babe. No\nwonder my darling smiled, and was willing to go.\"\n\nThe mother and the children that very evening received from the\nstranger the medal which was worn by all those who returned to their\nallegiance. It was a Black Ship, surrounded with rays of glory, and\nbehind it the towers of a city.\n\nNever were a happier company than the four who gathered round the\ncottage table that evening. They were too happy, and had too much\nto ask, to sleep. And far into the night the questions and answers\ncontinued, every reply of the old man's only revealing some fresh\nendearing excellence in the King and the King's Son, until they longed\nfor the Black Ship to come and fetch them home.\n\n\"If only,\" said little May, \"it would fetch us all at once!\"\n\n\"That the King will do when He comes with His armies in the day of His\ntriumph. Till then, my child, this is the one only sorrow connected\nwith the Black Ship for those who love the King. We go one by one, and\nblessed as it is for the one who goes, it must be sad sometimes for\nthose who are left.\"\n\n\"Why do not those who go to Him ask Him to come quickly?\" asked Hope.\n\n\"They do,\" replied the old man. \"'Come quickly' is the entreaty of\nall who love Him here and beyond the sea; but His time is best. And,\nmeantime, have we forgotten the multitudes who are still deceived by\nthe usurper, to whom the Black Ship is still a horrible end of all\nthings, and the Veiled Form of the King of Terrors?\"\n\nHope rose and stood before the old man.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"it is for this we must live. Think of the desolate\nhearts in the homes around us. Think of the thousands who know not our\nblessed secret in the White Town.\"\n\nThe old man rose and laid his hand on Hope's head.\n\n\"My King!\" he said. \"When wilt Thou come for me? Is not my work done?\nWill not this youthful voice speak for Thee here as my quivering tones\nno longer can? Wilt Thou not come? I have many dear ones with Thee; but\nwhen Thou wilt is best.\"\n\nThen he persuaded them all to lie down to rest, and he himself composed\nhimself quietly to sleep.\n\nBut in the night, a wondrous light filled the room\u2014a wondrous light and\nfragrance. The mother woke, and the children, and they saw the old man\nstanding, gazing towards the door, which was open. There stood a Veiled\nForm, dark to the mother's eyes as the dreaded form she knew too well;\nyet its presence filled the room with the light as of a rosy dawn, and\nthe fragrance as of spring flowers. The old man's hair was silvery, and\nhis form tottering as ever, but in his face there was the beauty of\nyouth, and in his eyes the rapture of joy.\n\n\"Farewell, my friends,\" he said; \"your day of joy will come like this\nof mine. Thou art come for me at last\u2014Thou thyself. I see Thy face, I\nhear Thy voice; I come\u2014it is Thou.\"\n\nA hand was laid tenderly on his hand, and they walked away together\ninto the night.\n\nBut as the mother and children looked after him from the door, they saw\nthe Black Ship, only at its prow was a star. And as it passed away, the\nmother, and Hope, and May thought it left a track of light upon the sea.\n\nThe three had henceforth enough to live and suffer for. To the lonely\nfishermen's huts went May and her mother, into the White Town went\nHope, and everywhere they bore their tidings of joy. They had much\nto suffer, and many mocked, and against them also the amulet-makers\ncombined, and would not listen. But some did listen, and believe, and\nlove, and to such, as to the mother, and Hope, and May, the Black Ship,\ninstead of a phantom of terror, became a messenger of surpassing joy.\n\n\n\n                        The Ruined Temple.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nTHE Temple was in ruins, and the Priestess sat, a captive in chains,\namong its broken and scattered fragments.\n\nIt had been a temple of the most ancient form, open to the sky,\nbeautiful beyond any temple upon earth, beautiful and sacred, and some\nremnants of its beauty hung about it still\u2014fragments of exquisite\ncarvings and broken shafts of graceful columns. But everything was\nshattered and out of place, the window tracery shivered in a thousand\nfragments and strewn on the ground, columns prostrate, sacred vessels\nlying rusted among the weeds, the pure spring which had gushed from\nbeneath the altar choked up and dry, and instruments of sacred music\nmute and broken on the ground.\n\nOn the walls in some places were the traces of violence, but it was\nremarkable that they seemed to have been assaulted only from within.\nIndeed, the temple had been a fortress, so impregnably situated and\nbuilt, that except from within, not one stone could ever have been\ndisplaced.\n\nThis was, in fact, the saddest part of its history. The temple had been\ndesecrated before it had been ruined, and in its ruin it was a temple\nstill, but, alas! no longer sacred to Him in whose honour it had been\nreared.\n\nMany senseless or loathsome idol-images were carved on the walls,\nstrangely contrasting, in their shapelessness or deformity, with the\nsymmetry of every fragment of the original structure. On the broken\naltar in the centre stood an image of the Priestess herself. This was\nthe earliest idol which had entered there, and with the entrance of\nthis, the ruin had begun. The Enemy who had, with subtle flatteries,\nintroduced this idol, had ever since had access to the temple, and step\nby step the Priestess had sunk beneath his power. He had led her into\nwild orgies, in which she herself had defaced the delicate tracery and\ntorn down the walls; and when she awoke from the frenzy and wept, as\nsometimes she would, he silenced her tears with blows or with mocking\nthreats of the vengeance of Him to whom the temple had been consecrated.\n\nSometimes, however, she woke to a moment's full consciousness of the\ndesolation around her, and then she would wail and lament until he\nseemed to fear some unseen Friend would hear; and at such seasons he\ngrew more gentle, and renewed the old persuasions and flatteries by\nwhich he had misled her first. He would even encourage her at times,\nwhen all other methods failed, to try and collect the scattered stones,\nand repair the breaches in the shattered walls and re-string the broken\nharp, for he knew well her puny efforts must fail, and that no hands\nbut those of the builder could ever restore the ruin she had wrought.\n\nSo, after a few faint endeavours, she, as he expected, would give up\nin despair, and sit cowering hopelessly on the ground afraid of him,\nafraid of Him whose priestess she was, afraid of her own voice.\n\nIn such bitter hours, he would again grow bold, and mock her with\nthe memory of the past, until the spirit of indignant resistance\nseemed roused within her, when, once more softening his tone, he\nwould point her with flattering words to her own image on the broken\naltar. He would shew her the beauty still lingering in its marred and\nweather-worn features, and help her to decorate it with gay colours\nand tinsel ornaments, placing in her hands the golden censer, with the\nsweet incense which had been made in happier days for far other uses;\nand she would wave the fragrant compound before the idol image of\nherself.\n\nBut with the pure spices which made it sweet, the enemy had mixed a\nnarcotic poison, and as she languidly swung the censer to and fro, her\nbrain would become intoxicated with the voluptuous sweetness, until,\nin a dream of vain delight, she would fall asleep, and forget all her\nmiseries. And ever, as she slept, he would rivet faster the chain\nwhich, unperceived by her, was being bound around her, every year\nmaking her range of action narrower and her movements less free.\n\nWild beasts, also, made their lair in the desolate temple-chambers,\nprowling in and out where formerly meek and heavenly beings had\nministered, and making the shattered walls echo with their loud howls\nand sullen roarings, where once had sounded strains of pure and joyous\nmusic.\n\nThus, day by day, the ruin spread, and the desolation and desecration\nbecame more complete.\n\nBut it happened one spring, that two little singing-birds came back\nfrom the sunny clime where they had wintered, and began building their\nnest above the ancient altar. There was something in the spring-time\nwhich often brought tears to the eyes of the fallen priestess, she\nscarcely knew why. The world seemed then like one happy temple full\nof thankful songs; and as, day by day, the sun repaired the ruins of\nwinter, and the choral services of the woods took a fuller tone, on\nher heart there fell the mournful sense of the ruins around her, which\nno spring-tide could restore. Yet something of a softer feeling, a\nmelancholy which breathed of hope, stole over her, and she watched\nthose two happy birds building their nest, and warbling as they worked.\n\nAt last, the nest was finished, the happy mother-bird sat on her eggs,\nand the pair had much leisure for confidential conversation.\n\n\"How desolate this place is,\" said the mother-bird.\n\n\"And it was once so beautiful,\" replied her mate.\n\n\"Why is it not rebuilt?\" she asked.\n\n\"None can rebuild but the hand that built,\" was the mysterious reply.\n\n\"But would not the architect come if asked? He is so good. Was it not\nhe who taught us to build our nest; and I am sure nothing can be better\ndone than that.\"\n\n\"That is the difficulty,\" was the reply. \"The priestess does not know\nhe is so good, and is afraid to utter his name. If she only called him,\nhe would come.\"\n\n\"Is he near enough?\"\n\n\"He is always near.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\" said the mother-bird. \"What can we do to help her?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" replied the mate, \"except it is to sing his praise.\nPerhaps she may listen, and understand one day how good he is.\"\n\nSo all the spring, the little happy creatures chirped and sang, until\nthe nestlings were fledged, and the whole family flew away.\n\nBut their songs had penetrated deep into the priestess' heart. And one\nnight, when the Enemy was absent, and the wild beasts prowling far\naway, she threw herself on the earth before her desecrated altar, and\nlamented and wept. But for the first time her lamentations, instead of\nsolitary, hopeless wailings, echoing back from the ruined walls, became\na broken cry for help.\n\n\"Thou, if thou art indeed so good\u2014if thou art indeed near, come and\nhelp me,\" she sobbed; \"repair my ruins, and save me.\"\n\nAnd for the first time, as she wept and implored, she felt the weight\nof her fetters binding hand and foot, and, clasping her chained hands,\nshe cried more earnestly, \"Come and set me free!\"\n\nAnd before the day dawned, a voice came softly through the silence\u2014\n\n   \"I will come.\"\n\nBut with the morning light, how bitter was the sight which burst on her\naching eyes! All had been as desolate long before; but she had never\nseen it as she saw it now. Noisome beasts, which prowled fearlessly\naround her; skulls and ghastly skeletons of their murdered prey strewn\nabout; on the ground the broken, rusted harp; on her hands the heavy\nchain; and, worse than all, the door she had opened to the Enemy ever\nopen, and inviting his approach.\n\nToo surely he came. He mocked her hope until it appeared baseless as\na dream; and nothing seemed real, but the ruin to which he scornfully\ndirected her gaze, and the chain which now, for the first time without\nconcealment, he held up triumphantly, dragging her by it to every\ncorner of the polluted and ruined temple, to show her how complete and\nhopeless the ruin was. Then drawing the links tighter than before, so\nthat they galled and wounded her wrists, he led her to the image of\nherself, which he had adorned, and painted, and so often flattered. He\ndragged off the tinsel ornaments, and effaced the delusive colouring,\nand left her, at last, face to face with the defaced and broken idol,\nsaying\u2014\n\n\"This is the worship you yourself have chosen. Pursue it still. There\nis no other for you.\"\n\nShe could not bear to gaze on it; and as he went, she fell prostrate on\nthe altar steps, and hid her face on the stones. Yet still, though with\nbut a feeble hope, she sobbed out\u2014\n\n\"If thou art good\u2014if thou canst help me, come,\u2014oh, come, and set me\nfree!\"\n\nWeariness at last brought sleep, and in her dreams she saw a lovely\nvision of the temple as it once had been. White columns gleamed, sweet\nand solemn music sounded, and she herself ministered in white robes at\nthe altar, before a Radiant Form, on which she could scarcely for a\nmoment gaze.\n\nThe awaking from this dream to the desolation around her was more\nterrible than all she had felt before. It must have bereft her of\nreason, but for the echo of three cheering words, which seemed to have\nawakened her\u2014\n\n   \"I will come.\"\n\nThe next day, with the light of that radiant vision on her heart, she\ndragged her fettered limbs to the altar, and strove with her feeble and\ntrembling hands to tear that marred image from the shrine. But in vain.\nIt was too firmly imbedded there; and she could only turn her face from\nit, and weep, and cry for help.\n\nAnd before the next morning's dawn, help came.\n\nIn the night, a heavenly visitant descended; and with human words, in a\nlanguage she had not spoken for years, but every word of which melted\nher heart like the accents of her mother-tongue, he touched her chains,\nand they fell off.\n\nHe spoke, and the wild beasts fled, howling; he touched her broken\nharp, and it was restrung and tuned; he touched the dry and choked up\nchannel of the sacred spring, and it welled forth pure and fresh from\nbeneath the altar; he touched the idol on the shrine, and it fell, and\nin its stead shone that wondrous Radiance which she had seen in her\ndream. Then he poured on her head the fragrant oil of consecration, and\nclothed her in a white vestal priestly garment, and placed the restrung\nharp in her hand, and rose again to heaven.\n\nAt first her joy knew no measure. She gazed on the sacred shrine, and\nin its glory at times she perceived the lineaments of the form of Him\nwho had done all this for her. She touched her harp, and the sweet\nstrings responded as if they knew her hand; she sang holy songs in that\nold, long-forgotten, yet familiar tongue, so heavenly and happy that\nthe wild beasts would not venture near, and the morning-birds were\nsilent to listen. She bathed in the newly-opened fountain and drank of\nit, and as she drank, her strength and her youth came back.\n\nFor a time her joy was without cloud or measure; but as the daylight\nreturned, the desolation or the ruined temple struck sadly on her\nheart. It was indeed a sacred place once more, and she its consecrated\npriestess; but was this ruin never to be repaired?\n\nShe began to cleanse the sacred vessels and to sweep the earth of all\nthe refuse and dry bones which had been gathered there. And then, with\nher renewed strength, she set herself to collect the broken fragments\nof the columns, and tried to piece together the shattered tracery and\nthe delicate carvings of flower and foliage. But it was in vain. She\ncould indeed bring the shattered fragments together and see what they\nhad been, but she could not join them, or replace one prostrate shaft\nor capital.\n\nAnd as she sat down mournfully before her shrine, tears dimmed her\neyes, so that she could scarcely see the Radiance there, and, falling\non her harp-strings, would have rusted them and marred their sweetness;\nwhilst in the silence, a voice, too long and bitterly familiar, was\nheard at the door. Turning round, she perceived the form of the Enemy\nthere, whilst behind him glared fierce and hungry eyes, and in her\nterror, the harp almost fell from her hands.\n\nBut she threw herself on her knees before the altar, pressed the harp\nconvulsively to her heart, and cried, \"Will these ruins never be\nrepaired, these doors never closed against my enemy and thine?\"\n\nThe pressure of her trembling fingers drew forth some plaintive\nstrains, like the wind on \u00c6olian strings; but low and plaintive as they\nwere, the enemy disappeared, and the wild beasts fled howling from them.\n\nThen she began to perceive the power of her harp, and drew from it a\nsong of joy and triumph. And as she still gazed on the radiant shrine,\na veil seemed to be withdrawn from it, and she perceived that it was a\nwindow, so that the light streamed through it, not from it.\n\nWondering, she gazed, until, penetrating further and further through\nthe light, she saw in the depths of heaven a Temple like her own, only\nperfect, glorious beyond comparison, and full;\u2014full of worshippers\nrobed and singing like herself, and full of that wondrous radiance\nwhich streamed from the heavenly form she had seen.\n\nShe laid her harp upon the shrine, and to her surprise the strings\nbegan to quiver of their own accord. An electric current united them\nto the harps in the heavenly temple, and they vibrated in exquisite\nharmonies the echo of the harmonies above.\n\nAnd with the heavenly strains, came a voice divine and human, mighty as\nthe sound of many waters, yet soft and near as a whisper in her ear:\n\n\"Here all ruins are repaired, the enemy cannot enter here, but here\nthou shalt dwell for ever.\"\n\nAnd softly floated down these other words:\u2014\n\n\"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were\ndissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands,\neternal in the heavens.\"\n\n\n\n               The Jewel of the Order of the King's Own.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nONCE on the sea-shore, in a land a long way off, I met an old man\ndressed as a galley-slave, and toiling at convicts' work, with a\nheavy chain around one of his arms; but his face and bearing were\nstamped with the truest nobility. I felt sure he must be a victim of\nsome political cabal, and not a criminal, for not a trace of crime\nor remorse debased that calm brow and those clear, honest eyes. This\nmight not have struck me as remarkable, since such unmerited sufferings\nwere but too common in that country. What arrested my attention was\nthe expression of unfeigned and lofty joy which irradiated his aged\ncountenance.\n\nIn the interval of noon-day rest allowed him, as well as the other\nconvicts, I sate down beside him and entered into conversation with\nhim. I found he was an old soldier. And at length, I was encouraged by\nhis frankness to inquire the cause of the strange contrast between his\nexpression and his circumstances.\n\nThe veteran lifted his cap, and said mysteriously, \"The King shall\nenjoy his own again. The spring will come, and with it the violets.\"\n\nThe thought struck me that some harmless and happy insanity had risen,\nlike a soft mist, to veil from him his miserable lot. And, following\nhis train of thought, I said, \"You wait for a king, and hope cheers\nyou. Yet you must have waited long; and hope deferred maketh the heart\nsick.\"\n\n\"The uncertainty of hope,\" he replied, \"often makes the heart sick with\nfear of disappointment, but my hope is sure, and every day of delay\ncertainly brings me nearer to it. Every night, as I look out from my\nconvict's cell over the sea, before I lie down to sleep, I think before\nto-morrow the white sails of his fleet may stud the blue waters\u2014for\nhe will not return alone; and when morning dawns gray across the bare\nhorizon, I am not cast down, because I know the morning we wait for\nwill surely come at last.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, reverently, and half hesitating to disturb his happy\ndream, \"when that morning dawns will you still be here?\"\n\n\"Here or there,\" he answered, solemnly. \"Either with the few who look\nfor him here, or with the countless multitudes who will accompany him\nthence.\"\n\nKnowing how such legends of the return of exiled princes linger in the\nhearts of a nation, and wondering whether the old man spoke from the\ndelusion of his own peculiar madness or of a tradition current among\nhis people, I said, \"Your words are strange to me. Tell me the history.\"\n\n\"After the great battle,\" the old soldier replied, a smile bright as a\nchild's, yet tender as tears, lighting up his whole countenance\u2014\"after\nthe last great battle, the King, the true King, our own King, has\nnever been seen publicly in our country. They wounded him, and left\nhim for dead on the field\u2014they had wounded his heart to the core.\nTraitors were amongst them; it was not only an open enemy that did him\nthis dishonour. But they were mistaken; he is not dead. We who loved\nhim know. We bore him secretly from the field. He lingered a few days\namongst us after his wounds had healed, in disguise; but although\nhis royal state was hidden for a time, we who knew his voice, could\ntell him blindfold from a million. And since he left us, his faithful\nadherents, who before his departure could be counted by tens, have\nincreased to thousands.\"\n\n\"An unusual fortune,\" I remarked, \"for a cause whose last effort seems\ngenerally to have been considered a defeat, and whose leader has\napparently abandoned it.\"\n\n\"There are many reasons,\" said the old man, \"why it should be so, and\namong the chief of these is this one. When our Prince left us, he gave\nto each of his adherents a precious gift as a token of his love, and a\nsign by which we may know each other.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he drew aside his poor garment, and on his breast there\nsparkled a gem more brilliant than any star or decoration I had ever\nseen.\n\n\"This is the star of the King's own order,\" he said.\n\nAnd as I looked at it, a wonderful transformation seemed to have\ntaken place in the old man's dress. His poor convict's garb seemed\nmetamorphosed into the richest robes, such as princes wore in that\nsouthern land, of the costliest materials, and all of a glistening\nwhite, at once royal and bridal, whilst his chain glittered like a\njewelled bracelet.\n\nThe veteran smiled at my surprise, and unclasping his jewel, bound it\non his brow. Instantly the same magical change passed over his face.\nNoble as it was before, his countenance now shone as if it had been\nthe face of an angel. Every trace of care or age was effaced, the eyes\nshone under the calm, unfurrowed brow with the sparkle of early youth,\nand nothing was left to indicate age but a depth in the glance and a\nhistory in the expression, which youth cannot have.\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"surely your enemies must seek to rob you of such a\ntreasure?\"\n\n\"Try,\" he replied, \"if you can take it from me.\"\n\nI endeavoured gently to detach the jewel from his brow, but my fingers\nhad scarcely touched it, when it sprang up like glittering drops from a\nfountain, and was gone, yet leaving the glory on the old man's face.\n\nHe smiled, and observed quietly, \"Our jewel no man taketh from us.\"\n\nThen, again unclasping the fillet which had bound it round his brow,\nthe magic gem reappeared in his hand.\n\nIt was mid-day, and the usual fare of the convicts was brought to\nhim\u2014scanty and coarse fare, with bad water. He humbly and thankfully\npartook of the poor food, but poured out the contents of the cup on the\nground.\n\n\"The water of this land is bad,\" he said. \"The people render it\npalatable by mixing it with a fiery stimulant, which, alas! only\nincreases their thirst, so that they ever thirst again; but we do not\nneed this.\"\n\nThen gently laying his finger on the gem, it expanded, like a lily-bell\nin the sun, into a crystal vase, and in it bubbled up a miniature\nfountain of pure, sparkling water.\n\n\"In us a well of water springing up,\" he murmured, as if to himself, as\nhe drank and was refreshed. And touching the vase again, it folded up,\nlike a convolvulus going to sleep when the sun sets.\n\nI wondered he had not had the courtesy to offer me a draught.\n\nHe read my thoughts, and said, \"This water is untransferable. Each of\nus must have his own jewel.\"\n\n\"Then,\" I replied, \"if your Prince left those jewels to you at his\ndeparture, and has not returned since, how can his followers have\nincreased, if this token is essential to them, and, indeed, as you\nintimated, an inducement to many to enlist under his banner?\"\n\n\"It is free to all, and yet a secret,\" he replied. \"Whenever any one\ndesires to enlist in our Prince's service, he must repair alone, before\ndaybreak, to a lonely beach on our shores, and wait there for what\nthe King will send. There, when the sun rises, not always the first\nmorning, or the second, or the third, but always at last, his first\nrays gleam on a new jewel, exactly like the others, sparkling among the\nshells and pebbles. The young soldier takes it up, presses it to his\nlips, murmurs the name written on it, binds it on his heart, and it is\nhis own, and he is the King's for ever. None ever saw it come, though\nsome fancy they have seen a streak of light on the sea when it first\nappears, as of the track of an illumination out on the waters.\"\n\n\"'What name is engraved on it?\" I asked.\n\n\"The King's name,\" he replied, bowing his head reverently.\n\n\"May I see it,\" I said.\n\n\"You could not,\" he replied, gravely. \"None of us can read that name,\nexcept on our own jewels.\"\n\nI was silent for a moment.\n\nHe continued\u2014\n\n\"But I have a greater wonder yet to tell you of our jewel\u2014the greatest\nwonder of all; and this you must take at my word. The light and glory\nof this gem is entirely reflected from a jewel of the same kind, but\ninfinitely more glorious, which sparkles on the King's own heart.\nWhen I raise this gem to my eyes, and look through it,\" he added in a\ntone which thrilled with the deepest emotion, raising it at the same\ntime like a telescope to his eyes, \"this country vanishes from me\naltogether, and I see wonders.\"\n\n\"What do you see?\" I asked, half trembling.\n\n\"I see the King in his beauty,\" he replied. \"I see the land which\nis very far-off. I see a city which has no need of the sun. I see a\npalace where his servants serve him. I see a throne which is as jasper,\nand, above it, a rainbow like an emerald; and, above all I see, I see\nhim, with the jewel on his heart; but his jewel is no mere gem, no\nreflection\u2014it is a star, it is light itself; and in its richness the\ncity, the palace, and the throne, and the happy faces of his servants\nround him, glow and shine.\"\n\nAnd as he spoke, I looked at the old man's jewel, and his countenance\nitself grew so glorious, that I could not gaze any longer, but cast\ndown my dazzled eyes, and was silent. At length, after a pause of\nsome moments, my eagerness to hear more constrained me to resume the\nconversation. And when I looked up, the jewel was again hidden in the\nold man's breast, his appearance had taken its soberer beauty, and the\npresence of that marvellous treasure was only betrayed by the strange\ncalm and peace which had first attracted me in the veteran's face.\n\n\"But,\" I asked, \"if such a possession indeed is yours, the wonder now\nseems to me to be, how the King's enemies can have a follower left.\nHave your opponents any similar reward to offer?\"\n\n\"Similar things,\" he replied, \"they at one time often tried to make,\nbut the same they could never have; and even to imitate the outside\nbeauty of it, they found so difficult, that the soberest men of the\nparty have, for the most part, given it up in despair, and say it is\nall a cheat.\"\n\n\"But why, at least, does not each one try for himself,\" I asked, \"and\nsee if it is true or not?\"\n\n\"There are many reasons,\" he replied, sorrowfully, \"which keep the\nland from returning nationally to its allegiance. The usurper is still\nin power, and gives away the offices of state as he pleases; bonds\nand imprisonments often await us, as you see is the case with me; and\nmany prefer the possession of lands and houses, or even less, to the\nreversion of a city, and the service of a prince they have never seen.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" I replied.\n\n\"Besides,\" he added, \"there are strict rules binding our order. The\npeople of the usurper do each what is right in his own eyes; but we\nare subject to our Prince's laws, which, though most blessed to those\nwho keep them, seem to those who are outside, and live lawlessly,\nsevere and strict. We are subject to our Prince, and to one another for\nhis sake; and only those who have proved the joy of that subjection\nand service know how much happier it is than the tyranny of their\nlawlessness and self-will.\"\n\n\"What are those counterfeit jewels you alluded to?\" I asked.\n\n\"They are of various construction,\" he replied; \"some try to imitate\none quality of our jewel, and some another. Some of the court jewellers\nof the usurper make a paste or tinsel jewel, which, when the sun\nshines, has a lustre a little like that of ours. The young courtiers\noften wear this; but when the sun is clouded or sets, it ceases to\nshine, so that even its outward resemblance is very imperfect, and it\ndoes not even pretend to imitate the secret of the fountain or the\nmagic glass. And, moreover, it can be stolen or broken: often, even in\nthe courtly revels, it is broken; often it is stolen or dropped, and,\neven if it is retained, in a few years the lustre fades away and can\nnever be restored.\n\n\"Then,\" he continued, \"some made a bold effort to imitate our jewel in\nits form of the crystal vase, but the crystal itself is dim. And for\nthe living fountain, they have never been able to substitute anything\nbut a fiery liquid, needing constantly to be replenished, and, in\nreality, only increasing the thirst it professes to still, until it\nbecomes a burning, consuming inward fever. But as they have never\ntasted of our water, the wretched deluded ones persist in saying theirs\nis the true.\"\n\n\"And the telescope?\" I inquired\u2014\"The magic glass?\"\n\n\"The telescope,\" he replied, with a smile, which had no mockery, but\nmuch sadness in it\u2014\"the magic glass they have never even attempted\nto imitate; and, therefore, as none can ever look through it but its\npossessor, they say it is a lie and a cheat. And our persisting in\ndeclaring what it really is, is the source of many of our sufferings.\nFor this, we are thrown into madhouses and prisons, and led to the\nscaffold and the stake.\"\n\nAfter a brief pause, he resumed\u2014\n\n\"The wise men and statesmen of the usurper's party now, however, for\nthe most part, take an entirely different method. They discourage\nall these counterfeits, which they say are paying a most undeserved\ncompliment to us. They say our jewels are mere sham and tinsel; that\nthe light they shed exists only in the fancy of the spectators; that\nthe living water is nothing but a mirage; and that the visions we see\nthrough the telescope are simply a lie. They affect to despise us\ntoo much to punish us; and if they persecute us at all, it is simply\nby contemptuously shutting us up in asylums as enthusiasts\u2014harmless,\nunless we mislead others.\n\n\"It is only a few of the most inveterate, such as myself; who may\nsucceed in bringing over too many to the side of our King, that they\noccasionally make examples of, to sober the rest. But it is all\nentirely useless,\" he added, very joyfully; \"the King's followers\nincrease, his cause is gaining ground, and,\" he added, with a subdued\nvoice, \"the King himself is coming.\"\n\n\"Is it really true,\" I asked, after a time, \"that nothing, or no man,\ncan rob you of this treasure?\"\n\n\"Our treasure no man taketh from us,\" he replied. \"This he gave us,\nthis he left with us: not as the world giveth, gave he unto us.\"\n\n\"But can nothing you yourselves do, or omit to do, spoil or dim your\njewel?\" I resumed.\n\nHis brow saddened.\n\n\"Alas! There and there only have our enemies any real strength\nagainst us,\" he replied. \"Sorrows only add to its lustre; in the loss\nof everything else it only shines the brighter; hunger and thirst\nbut prove the unfailing nature of the fountain in the crystal vase;\ndestitution and darkness, dungeons and tortures, only make the bright\nvisions of our telescope more glorious; but we, we ourselves may indeed\ndim its lustre, or, if we will, yield it up altogether.\"\n\n\"All this is natural and comprehensible,\" I said. \"The dungeon must\nmake the jewel brighter; the drought, the unfailing spring more\nprecious; the narrowing of all prospects here, enhance the visions of\nthat magic glass; the cruelties of the usurper, endear the sight of the\nPrince you serve.\"\n\n\"This the wisest of our enemies have found out,\" the old man replied.\n\"They find that nothing they can do harms us, but only what they can\nmake us do ourselves; and to this they direct their efforts.\"\n\n\"In what way?\" I inquired.\n\n\"In many ways,\" he answered, sadly. \"The jewel, which nothing external\ncan dim, is sensitive to the least change in us. Any infringement\nof our King's laws, or, especially, any unfaithfulness to our King,\ndims its lustre at once; any drinking of these forbidden cups of\nintoxication dries up the crystal fountain; any yielding to the\nusurper's service blots out from our magic glass its glorious visions,\nand the sight of our King in his beauty.\"\n\n\"Are there any other dangers?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Countless dangers,\" he replied. \"Especially three devices have been\nfound too successful against us. Our jewel only keeps bright with use,\nand in three ways our enemies endeavour to deter us from using it. The\ntimid they threaten, and induce to hide it from fear: and the cowardly\nconcealing of our treasure inflicts on us two evils: it prevents our\nwinning by it fresh followers to our Prince; and in concealment the\njewel itself invariably grows dim. The young and careless they engage\nin the ambitious pursuits or the gay amusements of the court, until\nthey forget to use the precious gem, and in ceasing to use it, they\nnecessarily cease to shine with its light, and grow like any of the\nusurper's train.\n\n\"And again, there are some poor, and distrusting, and fearful ones,\nwhom our enemies persuade that it is a daring presumption for such as\nthey to pretend they have had especial communication with the King, and\neven at times torment them into thinking the King's own jewel tinsel.\nSo that, in looking and looking to see if it is a true jewel, they\nforget to clasp it on their hearts, or drink the living water, or look\nthrough the magic glass.\"\n\n\"That is a strange delusion,\" I remarked.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"but it is easily cured, if once we can persuade them\nto look through the jewel instead of looking at it; for then they see\nthe King with the jewel on his breast, and the smile in his eyes, and\ntheir doubts melt away in floods of happy tears.\n\n\"This I know,\" he added, \"for I was once one of these. I had neglected\nto use my jewel; and then an enemy, in the guise of a friend, persuaded\nme to question its genuineness; but I ventured to look through it once\nagain, and since then, I do not look at my jewel, but gaze through it\nto the King's heart; and from that day, my jewel has not grown dim.\"\n\n\"But you spoke of some who lost it altogether,\" I said.\n\n\"They are those,\" he said, solemnly, \"who have deliberately yielded it\nup to enter the service of the usurper, or those who, in base timidity,\nhave cast it away in denying our King.\"\n\n\"And for such can it ever be recovered?\" I said.\n\n\"For one such, as disloyal as any, it was,\" he answered. \"He went out\nand wept bitterly; the King forgave him, and in time the treasure was\nrestored to him, and he became one of our most glorious veterans.\"\n\n\"How is the jewel to be recovered if lost?\" I asked.\n\n\"By going to the place where first it was found,\" he replied. \"There,\non the lonely beach, before daybreak, it must be sought, morning after\nmorning, until the sun's first rays reveal it once more glittering\namong the shingle as at first. But the waiting is often longer than it\nwas at first.\"\n\n\"Will you wear your jewel,\" I asked, \"when the King comes, or when you\ngo to join him beyond the sea?\"\n\n\"There,\" he replied, with an expression of rapturous joy, \"we shall\nsee the jewel on the King's heart. There we shall have no need of the\nhidden fountain, for the river of living waters flows there, bright as\ncrystal; and no need of the magic glass, for the King is near; but the\njewel will shine in that happy place on brow and breast for ever and\never.\"\n\nAnd as I left the sea-shore and the old man, these words floated\nthrough my heart, as if they were echoes of his history, or his story\nan echo of them:\n\n   \"'Be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance.'\"\n\n   \"'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world\ngiveth, give I unto you.'\"\n\n   \"'Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, Rejoice.'\"\n\n   \"'Your joy no man taketh from you.'\"\n\n\n\n                       The Cathedral Chimes:\n\n                             A LEGEND.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nIN a city whose history dates from the ages of silvery bells and\nstately buildings, there stood, and stands now for aught I know, a\ncathedral, rich in all the endless fancies of Gothic art. Inside, it\nwas solemn with shade, and gorgeous with light which came in through\nthe elaborate tracery of the stained windows, many-coloured, and broken\nas the sunbeams through a tropical forest. Outside, fretted pinnacles\nand carved bell-towers sprang upward, grand yet fairy-like, as if stone\ntowers rose as easily and naturally towards heaven as oaks and pines.\nBut the chief glory of this cathedral was its bells. They were the\npride of the city, and the great attraction to strangers. Their history\nformed an important part of the civic chronicles.\n\nA lady of a royal house had given them as a thank offering for her\nlord's safe return from the Crusades. All her silver-plate and\nornaments, with spoils of Saracens from the recovered Holy Land, had\nbeen poured into the mould when they were made, so that from their\nbirth all tender and sacred memories had been fused into their very\nessence, and their first tones echoed far-off times and lands.\n\nA bishop who afterwards suffered martyrdom in the hands of African\nMoslems had blessed them. Their first peal had sounded in honour of a\ngreat victory. They had summoned the people through ages of conflict to\ndefend their liberties. They had blended their life with the life of\nevery home,\u2014in family joys and family sorrows, at wedding, christening,\nand funeral. They had made Sundays and holidays glad with their joyous\nvoices. And last, but not least, by aid of an elaborate mechanism of\nhammers, rope, and pulleys, they had for centuries celebrated the\ndeparture of every hour with a chorale, and every half-hour with a\nstrain like the versicle of a chant, and every quarter of an hour with\na little sprinkle of sweet sound.\n\nImagine, then, the dismay of the citizens, when, one Monday morning,\neight o'clock came, and no sound issued from the cathedral; half-past\neight, silence; nine, not a note of warning! Their wonder was increased\nwhen the usual peal rung out, clear and full as ever, for the morning\nservice, and by mid-day the whole city was in a commotion. It was plain\nsomething must be wrong with the machinery of the chimes.\n\nImmediately the most skilful mechanics of the town, clock-makers and\nbell-founders, with the men of science, and the whole corporation, in a\nstate-procession, mounted the clock-tower.\n\n\"We will soon set it right,\" they said to the agitated crowd as they\nentered the belfry-door.\n\nThe ropes of the machinery were tested,\u2014all were sound; not a\nflaw in the hammers; not a clog in the wheels; not a crack in the\nsilvery metal. Microscopes were employed, conjectures were hazarded,\nexperiments of all kinds were tried, but not a ray of light was thrown\non the perplexity. The clever hands, and the wise heads, and the will\nof the authorities were all baffled; and the procession reappeared to\nthe assembled multitudes with very crestfallen looks.\n\nThat afternoon little work was done in the workshops, few lessons\nwere learned in the schools, all the routine of household habits was\ninterrupted. And when it grew dark, the Great Square was filled with\npeople who were afraid to separate and go to bed without the sanction\nof the cathedral chimes. Many foreboded some terrible disaster to the\ncity, and some thought the end of the world was come.\n\nBut when it was dark, a sound very weird and strange, yet with a music\nlike the old familiar tones, came from the church-tower, as it rose dim\nand grand against the starry sky. It was a voice, not human, yet with a\nstrange likeness to a human voice, silvery as a stream, thrilling as a\nbattle-trumpet, familiar to each listener as his own, like the blended\nvoices of a spirit and a bell.\n\n\"We have borne it too long,\" said the bell-voice. \"We were set here\non high for other purposes than men have put us to. Is not this a\ncathedral, a sanctuary, and a shrine, sacred with the dust of martyrs,\nand dedicated to the service of Heaven? Were not we christened like\nimmortals? Were not we consecrated like priests? The touch of holy\nhands is on us, and shall we be debased to secular uses? Set apart like\nsacred ministers in a sacred dwelling, shall we be required to mingle\nin the common circumstances of your daily life? Raised on high to be\nnear the heavens we serve, shall our saintly voices serve to tell you\nwhen to eat and sleep?\n\n\"We have borne it too long. We will still serve Heaven, and summon you\non Sundays and Holydays. We will call you to the solemn services of\nthe Church. We will, if necessary, sound a triumphant peal on days of\nnational thanksgiving, in remembrance of the Victory which first awoke\nus into music. We will even condescend to ring at your weddings\u2014because\nmarriage is a sacrament\u2014and at your baptisms. We will toll solemnly\nwhen your spirits pass from earth, and when your bodies are laid in\nthe churchyard we have seen slowly raised with the dust of your dying\ngenerations.\n\n\"But henceforth expect us not to do work which your commonest\nhouse-clocks can do as well. Let your eight-day clocks\u2014your gilded\ntime-pieces\u2014call you to work, and eat, and rest. We are sacred\nthings, set solemnly apart from all secular uses. Our business is\nwith Eternity, and the Church, and Heaven. Call on us no more to\ncommune with the things of the world, and earth, and time. We are your\ncathedral bells, but we will be your household clock-chimes no longer.\"\n\nThen the voice died away on the night air. For a few minutes there was\nsilence, but soon it was broken by sobs and lamentations, and all the\npeople lifted up their voice as one man, and wept.\n\nThe house-father said, \"Shall we never more hear your voice calling us\nto morning and evening prayer? Whenever you told us it was the hour,\nthe mother came from her work, and the children from their play, and\ntogether we knelt a united family, and committed each other to God.\"\n\nAnd the mother said, \"Your voices are blended with every happy\nhousehold time. Sweet bells, will you mingle with our family joys no\nmore? In the morning you wakened us to begin another busy day, and the\nsun's beams and your voices came together to call us to serve God in\nour lowly calling; and both, we thought, came to us from heaven; and\nboth, we thought, were meek and lowly, and ready to minister to us in\nour daily lives, because both were sent from Him who came among us\nonce, not to be ministered unto, but to minister; and both, we thought,\nhad caught something of the light of the eyes which wept at Bethany,\nand of the tones of the voice which spoke at Cana and at Nain.\n\n\"At mid-day you told me it was time to send the dinner to my husband\nand my elder sons. At six your voice was welcome to us all, because we\nknew the father's step would soon be on the threshold. At eight you\nreminded me it was time to lay the little ones to rest, and many a time\nhave you brought happy and holy thoughts to me in those psalms you\nsang to me whilst I hushed my babes to sleep; and all my everyday life\nseemed to be more linked with sacred things, to become, as it were,\na part of the service of God, because it moved to the music of your\nvoices.\n\n\"And again at night your tones were welcome, as in the morning, when\nthey told us the day's work was over, and, wearied, we lay down to\npeaceful rest. For through the night we knew your sacred voices would\nsound to Heaven above our sleeping city, like the voices of the angels,\nwho rest not day nor night, saying, Holy, holy, holy. Sweet bells, will\nyou never chime for us again?\"\n\nAnd the children said, in their clear, sweet, ringing voices, \"Dear\nchimes, do not cease to play to us. You wake us to the happy day, you\nset us free from school, and send us home laughing and dancing for joy;\nyou call our fathers home to us, at night you sing us to sleep, and\nyour voices are blended with our mothers' in our happy dreams. Sweet\nchimes, you sang so many years to our fathers and mothers; and our\ngrandfathers remember you when they were little children like us. Dear\nchimes, sing to us still.\"\n\nAnd from the sick-chamber, which looked into the cathedral square,\nwhere the windows were darkened all day, and sand was strewn before the\ndoor, that the din of the passing wheels might jar less roughly on the\naching head within, came a low and plaintive voice,\u2014\"Sweet bells, your\ncommonest tones are sacred to me. You are my church music, the only\nchurch music I can ever hear. When I hear you chime the hour on Sundays\nand on the festivals, I feel myself among the multitude within your\nsacred walls, and your voice seems to bear their songs of praise to me,\nand I am no more alone, but one of the worshippers.\n\n\"But at night it is I prize you most. All through the hours of\ndarkness, so often sleepless to me, your voice is the voice of a\nfriend, familiar as my mother's, yet solemn as the chants of the choir.\nIt helps me to measure off the hours of pain, and say, 'Thank God, an\nhour less of night, and an hour nearer morning.' And how often, when my\nsuffering is great, you have come with the old psalm-tune, and every\ntone has brought its word to me, and spoken to me as if direct from\nGod, and filled my heart with trust and peace! Your least sprinkles of\nsweet sound are precious to me. I fancy they are like the waters of\ntime falling musically from stone to stone on their way to the great\nsea. I feel they are as the echoes of the footsteps of Him who is\ndrawing nearer and nearer to me, and they draw my heart nearer to Him.\n\n\"Sweet bells, your commonest tones are sacred, for what is the world\nbut that which becomes the Church when it learns how God has loved\nit, and turns from self to Him? And what is Earth but the floor of\nHeaven, which heavenly feet once trod? And what is Time but the little\nfragment of Eternity in which we live on earth? Sweet bells, make not\nmy sleepless nights lonely and silent, but sing to me, sing to us all,\nas of old. Make all our life sacred by linking every fragment of our\nlife to God.\"\n\nBut still no responsive sound came from the cathedral tower, and the\npeople waited on in the silence and the darkness. At last a young\npriest, an Augustinian friar, ventured a bold suggestion:\n\n\"Are not the devils proud, and the angels lowly? Did the angel think it\nbeneath him to say to Elijah, 'Arise, and eat?' Did Gabriel hesitate to\ndescend from the presence of God to bear to an aged priest the tidings\nof the birth of a child? Did that other angel deem it secular to say to\nPeter the apostle, 'Gird thyself, and bind on thy sandals, and cast thy\ngarment about thee,' before he led him over the stony streets through\nthe cold night air? And should our cathedral bells scorn to bid us\n'rise and eat,' or to chime at our births, or to summon us to 'gird and\nclothe' ourselves for every day's work? Brethren, proud thoughts, and\nscorn of daily service, and voices which call our everyday life common\nand unclean, are not from Heaven. The bells are possessed by a proud\nand evil spirit. Let us exorcise them.\"\n\nThe suggestion at first startled the people as daring, and irreverent\nto the church bells, but in their despair, they at length agreed to try\nit. A solemn procession of priests and holy men and women mounted the\ncathedral tower, and, in ancient formulas, with prayer and incense, and\nthe music of holy hymns, they exorcised the fiend.\n\nThen at once a tide of pent-up music flowed from the liberated bells.\nThey conscientiously rang out all at once every hour and half-hour\nthey had omitted, and then meekly and steadily resumed their wonted\nchimes, and continued them ever afterwards, like voices of happy and\nlowly angels calling men to wake and pray, to \"rise and eat,\" to pray\nand rest, cheering the workman to his daily labour, and welcoming him\nfrom it, chanting to the mother as she lulled her babe, and in the\nsick-chamber soothing the lonely hours with melodious sound, and waking\nin the lonely heart sweet echoes of the psalms of praise.\n\nHere the Legend ended. I heard, however, afterwards that the young\npriest, the Augustinian friar, lived to spread Glad Tidings through\nthe city, but that he was at last burned in the cathedral square for\npreaching to men what he had said about the church bells. Yet in the\nflames, it was said, he looked up to the cathedral tower, and sang the\nwords of a psalm of praise the old bells were chiming, till his voice\nwas silenced in death. And ever since, the chimes have taken up his\nmessage, and chant to those who will listen, hour by hour.\n\n\"'Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to\nthe glory of God.'\"\n\n\n\n                     What Makes Things Musical?\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"THE SUN!\" said the Forest. \"In the night I am still and voiceless. A\nweight of silence lies upon my heart. If you pass through me, the sound\nof your own footstep echoes fearfully, like the footfall of a ghost. If\nyou speak to break the spell, the silence closes in on your words, like\nthe ocean on a pebble you throw into it. The wind sighs far-off among\nthe branches, as if he were hushing his breath to listen. If a little\nbird chirps uneasily in its nest, it is silenced before you can find\nout whence the sound came.\n\n\"But the dawn breaks. Before a gray streak can be seen, my trees feel\nit, and quiver through every old trunk and tiny twig with joy; my\nbirds feel it, and stir dreamily in their nests, as if they were just\nmurmuring to each other, 'How comfortable we are!'\n\n\"Then the wind awakes, and tunes my trees for the concert, striking\nhis hand across one and another, until all their varied harmonies are\nastir; the soft, liquid rustlings of my oaks and beeches make the rich\ntreble to the deep, plaintive tones of my pines. Then my early birds\nawake one by one, and answer each other in sweet responses, until the\nSun rises, and the whole joyous chorus bursts into song to the organ\nand flute accompaniments of my evergreens and summer leaves. And in\nthe pauses, countless happy insects chirp, and buzz, and whirl with\ncontented murmuring among my ferns and flower-bells. The SUN makes me\nmusical,\" said the Forest.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"STORMS!\" said the Sea. \"In calm weather I lie still and sleep, or,\nnow and then, say a few quiet words to the beaches I ripple on, or\nthe boats which glide through my waters. But in the tempest you learn\nwhat my voice is, when all my slumbering powers awake, and I thunder\nthrough the caverns, and rush with all my battle-music on the rocks,\nwhilst, between the grand artillery of my breakers, the wind peals its\nwild trumpet-peals, and the waters rush back to my breast from the\ncliffs they have scaled, in torrents and cascades, like the voices of\na thousand rivers. My music is battle-music. STORMS make me musical,\"\nsaid the Sea.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"ACTION!\" said the Stream. \"I lay still in my mountain-cradle for a\nlong while. It is very silent up there. Occasionally the shadow of an\neagle swept across me with a wild cry; but generally, from morning till\nnight, I knew no change save the shadows of my rocky cradle, which\nwent round steadily with the sun, and the shadows of the clouds, which\nglided across me, without my ever knowing whence or whither. But the\nrocks and clouds are very silent. The singing-birds did not venture so\nhigh; and the insects had nothing to tempt them near me, because no\nhonied flower-bells bent over me there\u2014nothing but little mosses and\ngray lichens, and these, though very lovely, are quiet creatures, and\nmake no stir.\n\n\"I used to find it monotonous sometimes, and longed to have power to\nwake the hills; and I should have found it more so, had I not felt I\nwas growing, and should flow forth to bless the fields by and by. Every\ndrop that fell into my rocky basin I welcomed. And, at last, the spring\nrains came, and all my rocks sent me down little rills on every side,\nand the snows melted into my cup; and, at last, I rose beyond the rim\nof my dwelling, and was free.\n\n\"Then I danced down over the hills, and sang as I went, till all\nthe lonely places were glad with my voice; and I tinkled over the\nstones like bells, and crept among my cresses like fairy flutes, and\ndashed over the rocks and plunged into the pools with all my endless\nharmonies. ACTION makes me musical,\" said the Stream.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"SUFFERING!\" said the Harp-strings. \"We were dull lumps of silver and\ncopper-ore in the mines; and no silence on the living, sunny earth is\nlike the blank of voiceless ages in those dead and sunless depths. But,\nsince then, we have passed through many fires. The hidden earth-fires\nunderneath the mountains first moulded us, millenniums since, to ore;\nand then, in these last years, human hands have finished the training\nwhich makes us what we are.\n\n\"We have been smelted in furnaces heated seven times, till all our\ndross was gone; and then we have been drawn out on the rack, and\nhammered and fused, and, at last, stretched on these wooden frames, and\ndrawn tighter and tighter, until we wonder at ourselves, and at the\ngentle hand which strikes such rich and wondrous chords and melodies\nfrom us\u2014from us, who were once silent lumps of ore in the silent mines.\nFires and blows have done it for us. SUFFERING has made us musical,\"\nsaid the Harp-strings.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"UNION!\" said the Rocks. \"What could be less musical than we, as we\nrose in bare crags from the hill-tops, or lay strewn about in huge\nisolated boulders in the valleys? The trees which sprang from our\ncrevices had each its voice; the forests which clothed our sides had\nall these voices blended in richest harmonies when the wind touched\nthem; the streams which gushed from our stony hearts sang joyous carols\nto us all day and all night long; the grasses and wild-flowers which\nclasped their tiny fingers round us had each some sweet murmur of\ndelight as the breezes played with them; but we, who ever thought there\nwas music in us?\n\n\"Yet now a human hand has gathered us from moor and mountain and lonely\nfell, and side by side we lie and give out music to the hand that\nstrikes us. Thus we, who had lain for centuries unconscious that there\nwas a note of music in our hearts, answer one another in melodious\ntones, and combine in rich chords, just because we have been brought\ntogether. UNION makes us musical,\" said the Rocks.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"LIFE!\" said the Oak-beam in the good ship. \"I know it by its loss.\nOnce I quivered in the forest at the touch of every breeze. Every\nliving leaf of mine had melody, and all together made a stream of\nmany-voiced music; whilst around me were countless living trees like\nmyself, who woke at every dawn to a chorus in the morning breeze. But\nsince the axe was laid at our roots, all the music has gone from our\nbranches. We are useful still, they say, in the gallant ship, and our\ncountry mentions us with honour even in death; but the music has gone\nfrom us with life for ever, and we can only groan and creak in the\nstorms. LIFE made us musical,\" said the Oak-beam.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES CREATURES MUSICAL?\n\n\"JOY!\" laughed the Children, and their happy laughter pealed through\nthe sweet fresh air as they bounded over the fields, as if it had\ncaught the most musical tones of everything musical in nature,\u2014the\nripple of waves, the tinkling of brooks, the morning songs of birds.\n\"JOY makes creatures musical,\" said the Children.\n\n                     WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?\n\n\"LOVE!\" said the little Thrush, as he warbled to his mate on the spring\nmorning, and the Mother, as she sang soft lullabies to her babe. And\nall the Creatures said\u2014\n\n\"Amen! LOVE makes us musical. In Storms and Sunshine, Suffering and\nJoy, Action, Union, Life, LOVE is the music at the heart of all. LOVE\nmakes us musical,\" said all the Creatures.\n\nAnd from the multitude before the throne, who, through fires of\nTribulation and Storms of conflict, had learned the new song, and\nfrom depths of Darkness and the silence of Isolation had been brought\ntogether in the Light of Life to sing it, floated down a soft \"Amen,\nfor GOD is LOVE.\"\n\n\n\n                             The Acorn.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\"WHEN will my training begin?\" said the acorn to itself, as it unfolded\nits delicately-carved cup and saucer on the branch of an old oak on\nthe edge of a forest. \"I understand I am to be an oak one day, like\nmy father. All the acorns say that is what we are to be, but there\ncertainly seems little chance of it at present. I have been sitting\nhere for no one knows how many days, and I feel no change, except that\nI look less pretty than I did when I was young and green, and begin to\nfeel rather dry, and shrivelled, and old. At this rate, I do not see\nmuch chance of my becoming an oak, or anything else but an old, dry\nacorn. When will my training begin?\"\n\nAs it meditated thus, a strong breeze sighed mournfully through the\nautumn woods, and shook down many brown leaves from the old oak, and\nwith them the acorn.\n\n\"This will hinder my progress again,\" thought the acorn, \"for it\nis evident such a downfall as this can have nothing to do with my\neducation. When will my training begin?\"\n\nA day or two afterwards, a drove of hogs was turned into the forest,\nand they began grunting and grubbing among the dead leaves for acorns.\nMany of its brethren did our acorn see ruthlessly hurried into those\nvoracious snouts. It kept very quiet under the dead leaves to avoid\na similar fate, but it thought\u2014\"This is a sad delay. It is too plain\nthat being trampled on and tossed about in this way can teach no one\nanything. When will my training begin?\"\n\nMeanwhile, the swine rummaged among the dead leaves, and trod them\nunder foot, and tossed the decaying mould hither and thither with their\nsnouts and feet, until one of them by accident rolled our acorn down\na little hill, where it lay buried under some stray leaves many yards\nfrom the edge of the forest, in the outskirts of a park. There it lay\nunobserved all the rest of the winter.\n\nEven this was a pleasant change after having been tossed about and\ntrodden under foot so long, but in its fall its shrivelled brown skin\nhad cracked, and the acorn thought\u2014\"This is a sad disaster. How ever am\nI to grow into an oak when I am so crushed and cracked that scarcely\nany one would recognise me for an acorn? When will my training begin?\"\n\nAll the winter the rain pattered on it, and sank it deeper and deeper\nunder the dead leaves and under the earth-clods, until all its acorn\nbeauty was marred and crushed out of it, and it fell asleep in the\ndark, under the cold, damp earth; and the snows came and folded it in\nunder their white, eiderdown pillows. At last, the warm touch, that\ncomes to all sleeping nature in the spring, came softly on it, and it\nawoke.\n\n\"What a pity,\" it said, \"I should have lost so much time by falling\nasleep! I can scarcely make out what I am like, or where I am. What a\nsad waste of time! It is clear no one can go on with his education in\nsleep. When will my training begin?\"\n\nWith these thoughts, it stretched out two little green things on each\nside of it, which felt like wings; and tried to peep out of its hole.\nAnd, to its delight, it succeeded, and, with a few more efforts, even\ncontrived to keep its head steadily above ground, and look around it.\n\n\"There is my father, the old oak,\" it said. \"He looks quite green\nagain. But I am a long way off from him, and how very small and close\nto the ground! When shall I begin to be like him?\"\n\nBut meantime it was very happy. It felt so full of life, although so\nsmall; and the sun shone so graciously on it, and all the showers and\ndews seemed so full of kindly desires to help and nourish it. And\nmore and more little green leaves expanded from its sides, and more\nand snore little busy roots shot down into the earth, and the leaves\nbreathed and drank in the sunshine, and the roots were great chemists\nand cooks, and concocted a perpetual feast for it out of the earth and\nstones.\n\nBut it thought sometimes, \"This is all exceedingly pleasant, and I am\nvery happy; but, of course, this is not education; it is only enjoying\nmyself. When will my training begin?\"\n\nThe next spring, the early frosts had much more power over it in its\ndetached, exposed situation than over the saplings in the shelter\nof the forest. And it saw the trees in the wood growing green, and\ntempting the song-birds beneath their leafy tents, whilst the sap\nstill flowed feebly upward through its tiny cells, and its twigs and\nleaf-buds were still brown and hard.\n\n\"This must be a great hindrance to me,\" it thought\u2014\"this, no doubt,\nwill retard my education considerably. What a pity I stand here so\ndetached and unprotected! When will my training begin?\"\n\nBut in the late spring came some days of black east wind and bitter\nfrost, and it saw the more forward leaves in the wood turn pale and\nshrivel before they unfolded, and then fall off; nipped and lifeless,\nto join the old dead leaves of the past autumn, whilst its own little\nbuds lay safe within their hard and glossy casings, protected by one\nenemy against a worse. And when the east wind and the black frosts were\ngone, the little sapling shot up freely.\n\nIn that summer, and the next, and the next, it made great progress. But\nin the fourth autumn, a great disappointment awaited it. The owner of\nthe park in which it grew came by, and stood beside it, and said to his\nforester\u2014\n\n\"That sapling is worth preserving, it is so vigorous and healthy; and,\nstanding in this detached position, it will break the line of the wood,\nand look well from my house. We will watch it, and set a fence around\nit to guard it from the cattle. But it has thrown out a false leader.\nTake your knife and cut this straggling shoot away, and next year, I\nhave no doubt, it will grow well.\"\n\nThen the forester applied his knife carefully to the false leader, and\ncut it off. But the sapling, not having understood the master's words,\nnor observed with what care and design the knife was applied, felt\nwounded to the core.\n\n\"My best and strongest shoot,\" it sighed to itself. \"It was a cruel\ncut. It will take me a long time to repair that loss. T am afraid it\nhas lost me at least a year. When will my training begin?\"\n\nBut the next year the master's words were fulfilled.\n\nThus years passed on. And slowly, twig by twig, and shoot by shoot, the\nsapling grew. Sunbeams expanded its leaves; rains nourished its roots;\nfrosts, checking its early buds, hardened its wood; winds swaying it\nhither and thither, as if they were determined to level it, only rooted\nit more firmly. And year by year the top grew a little higher, and the\nwood a little firmer, and the trunk a little thicker, and the roots a\nlittle deeper; but so slowly, that summer by summer it said\u2014\n\n\"This is very pleasant; but it is only breathing, and being happy. It\ncertainly cannot be the discipline which forms the great oaks. When\nwill my training begin?\"\n\nAnd autumn by autumn, as the sap flowed downward, and the buds ceased\nto expand, and the branches grew leafless and dry, it thought\u2014\n\n\"This is a sad loss of time. Now I am falling into torpor again, and\nshall make not an inch of progress for six long months. When will my\ntraining begin?\"\n\nAnd winter by winter, as the winds bent it to and fro, and made its\nbranches creak, and threatened its very existence, and the heavy snows\nsometimes broke its boughs\u2014\n\n\"These are sore trials. I may be thankful if I barely struggle through\nthem! In days like these existence is an effort, and endurance the\nutmost one can attain. When will my training begin?\"\n\nAnd in the spring, when the frosts nipped its finest buds\u2014\n\n\"These little nips and checks are very annoying; but one must bear them\npatiently. They are certainly hindrances; and it is disheartening, when\none does one's best, to be continually thrown back by these trifling\nchecks. When will my training begin?\"\n\nBut, one summer day, a little girl and an old man came and seated\nthemselves under its shade. By this time it had seen some generations\nof men, and had learned something of human language.\n\nThe old man said\u2014\"I remember, when I was a very little boy, my\ngrandfather telling me how, when he was young, he had marked this\ntree, then a mere sapling, and pruned it of a false shoot, which would\nhave spoiled its beauty, and had it fenced and preserved. And now my\nlittle grand-daughter and I sit under its shade! The fence has long\nsince decayed; but it is not needed. The cattle come and lie under its\nshadow, as we do. It is a noble oak-tree now, and gives shelter instead\nof needing it.\"\n\nThen the oak rustled above them; and the old man and the child thought\nit was a summer breeze stirring the branches. But in reality it was the\noak laughing to itself, as it thought\u2014\n\n\"Then I am really a tree! And, whilst I was wondering when my training\nwould begin, it has been finished, and I am an oak after all!\"\n\n\n\n                   Parables in Household Things.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nTHE sick girl lay in her shaded room, in the street of a great city,\nand thought, \"If I could only leave this prison of mine, and look at\nthe beautiful world, I know I should grow happier and holier with every\nbreath I drew. The thorny bud on the brown branches in spring would\ngive me promise of resurrection; every butterfly would tell me of\nlife through death; every flower would lift my heart to Him who cares\nfor our little pleasures; every bubbling spring would murmur to me of\nthe living water; every corn-field and garden would repeat the sacred\nparables. But here I can see nothing of God's making but the sky, and\nthat is too high and far. I want some steps to take my feeble thoughts\ngently up to heaven. But around me are only manufactured things, which\nspeak to me only of earth, and time, and man.\"\n\nShe leant back listlessly on her couch. Twilight came over the room,\nthe glowing coals stirred quietly as they burnt away, and then it\nseemed as if an angel's hand touched her ears and opened them, for the\ndark and silent room became full of soft and soothing harmonics. All\nthe mute and inanimate things about her found voices and spoke comfort\nto her heart.\n\nTogether they said\u2014\"It is true we are only manufactured things; but do\nnot despise us for that! We came originally, as much as you yourself,\nor the flowers, and the trees, and the sunbeams, from one Divine Hand.\nIt is only that we have been trained and moulded by human hands to be\nwhat we are. And just so are you; God creates you, but life moulds\nyou. Your trial and your training come like ours, mostly through human\nhands, although you are destined for higher plans and more blessed\nservices. Listen to us, for we have messages for you, each one of us.\"\n\nThen the stones from the wall said\u2014\"We come from the mountains far\naway, from the sides of the craggy hills. Fire and water worked on\nus for ages, but only made us crags. Human hands have made us into a\ndwelling where the children of your immortal race are born, and suffer,\nand rejoice, and find rest and shelter, and learn the lessons set them\nby our Maker and yours. But we have passed through much to fit us for\nthis. Gunpowder has rent our very heart; pickaxes have cleaved and\nbroken us, it seemed to us often without design or meaning, as we lay\nmisshapen stones in the quarry; but gradually we were cut into blocks,\nand some of us were chiselled with finer instruments to a sharper edge.\nBut we are complete now, and are in our places, and are of service.\nYou are in the quarry still, and not complete, and therefore to you,\nas once to us, much is inexplicable. But you are destined for a higher\nbuilding, and one day you will be placed in it by hands not human; a\nliving stone in a heavenly temple.\"\n\nThen the glass water-beaker said\u2014\"I was hard flint and waste sand on\nthe desolate sea-shore once, but human hands gathered me, and fused me\nin furnaces heated seven times, and took me out to let me cool, and\ncast me in again, and shaped and cut me till at last I carry your water\nfrom the spring, and am pressed with many a thankful glance to your\nparched lips. I am complete. But you, when you have passed through your\nfires, will be a vessel of living water in a better hand, and bear many\na draught of refreshment to weary and thirsty hearts.\"\n\n\"I also have been in many furnaces,\" said the china flower-vase. \"The\ncolours you so often admire in me, have been burnt in slowly, stage\nby stage, every fresh colour requiring a fresh fusing in the furnace.\nBut you, when your trial is over, shall carry flowers of Paradise and\nleaves from the tree of life for the healing of the nations.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the clock, \"am scarcely an individual being. I am a\nlittle world in myself\u2014a wondrous combination of mechanism. Each of my\nwheels and springs, with my unwearied pendulum, has its own history of\nfires and blows and ruthless instruments. None of us could form the\nslightest idea, as we lay dismembered in our various workshops, what\nwe were designed for. Only in combination with every other part, has\nany part of us any meaning. You are not a little world like me, but a\nfragment of a great world. When all that belong to you are gathered\ntogether, you will understand it all as we do now. And your voice will\nmark with joyous music the flight of blessed ages which only lead to\nothers more and more blessed throughout eternity.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the bronze pastille-burner, \"came from ages of darkness\nin the depths of the earth. Human hands brought me to the light,\nmoulded and sculptured me, and set me here to burn sweet perfumes, and\ndiffuse fragrance around me. But you will be an incense-bearer in a\nTemple by and by, and from you shall stream a fragrance of love and\npraise acceptable to God.\"\n\n\"The quarries were my birthplace also,\" said the alabaster night-lamp;\n\"but you shall be a light-bearer, when your training is complete, of a\nlight which is life, and which has no need of night, like my dim flame,\nto make it visible.\"\n\n\"I,\" sang the guitar, with the wooden frame and metallic strings, \"am\na twofold being. I lived and waved in the forest once; and then the\nwoodman's axe was laid on me, and I fell,\u2014I fell, and the life departed\nfrom me; and from a living, life-bearing tree, I became mere inanimate\ntimber. More blows, more tearing with saws, more sharp cutting with\nknife and chisel, and I became melodious again, simply from being\nunited with these metallic strings, which never had life, but lay\nsilent in mines, till the hand of man woke them into music. And thus\ntogether we respond to your gentle touch, and soothe for you many a\nlonely hour. Life from death, music through fires of trial: this is\nalso your destiny. Hereafter every nerve of your tried and perfected\nbeing shall respond to the slightest touch of the Hand you love,\nfilling heaven with happy music.\"\n\n\"As for me,\" said the pages of the hymn-book, \"my discipline has,\nperhaps, been the severest of all. Once rustling in the flax-field,\nrejoicing in the dews and sunshine, I was torn, racked, twisted,\nand woven by many iron hands into linen. Then, for a time, treated\ncarefully, decorated and treasured, and washed and perfumed, I was\nafterwards thrown scornfully away. Yet, even in that low estate,\nI found comfort. Even as a rag I bound up the wounds of suffering\nsoldiers in a military hospital. But I was to sink lower yet. I was\nthrown into a mill, and pounded, crushed, and torn, till I was a mere\nshapeless pulp. Yet from those depths, my true life began. Process\nafter process succeeded, till here, at last, I am to speak to you\nundying words of hope and love. And you also, one day, shall shine\nforth a living epistle, proclaiming to angels and men for ever and for\never such words as speak to you from my pages now!\"\n\nThe sick girl smiled, and was comforted. \"Yet,\" she said, \"the fires\nare fierce, the blows are heavy, the trial is long. The end is, indeed,\nwell worth them all; but sometimes the end seems distant!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" responded the hymn-book; \"my history resembles yours in one\nhappy feature more than that of any of us besides. For even in your\ndays of training you are of service. You may clothe cold limbs, and\nbind up many wounds even now, as I did when I was a poor linen-rag.\nAnd, more than that, even now, in your time of trial, the ministries\nyou are destined for at last may be begun. Even now you may be a living\nepistle, a book wherein many may read lessons of hope and patience, and\nsing praises, as they look on you, as you do when you look on me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" responded the stones; \"even now you are a living stone. The\ntemple you are to form is building even now.\"\n\nAnd the pastille-burner:\u2014\"Even now your prayers and praises may rise\nlike sweet incense.\"\n\nAnd the water-glass:\u2014\"Many a draught of living water may you carry,\neven now, in the dry and thirsty land, to hearts that need it.\"\n\nAnd the night-lamp:\u2014\"Even now in the night, thou, child of the day,\nsheddest light around thee\u2014a little light, it may be, in a narrow\ncircle, yet which, though thou mayest not know it, cheers and guides\nnot a few, even now.\"\n\nAnd the guitar:\u2014\"Many a strain of thankful song has come from the\ndepths of your heart, even now, in these your days of trial, to blend\nwith my harmonies, and to soar to regions which my poor metallic music\ncan never reach!\"\n\nAnd all the mute things sang together\u2014\"We are complete and rejoice\nto serve you, vessels meet for your using. One day you also shall be\nperfected, a vessel meet for the Master's use. And then He will take\nyou into His house, unto the temple which is a home and your home for\never. Like us, when you are perfected, you shall serve; but, unlike us,\neven whilst you are being perfected, you may serve!\"\n\nThen the sufferer turned over the leaves of another Book, and saw how\nthe Master had written His parables, not in streams, and corn-fields,\nand birds, and flowers, and fruitful earth, and starry sky alone, but\nin common household things, and common human ties. And henceforth, not\nnature only, but everyday cares, and duties, and relationships, and all\nthings around her, became for her illuminated with the lessons of His\nlove.\n\n\n\n                 Passages from the Life of a Fern.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nMY life has been one of such extraordinary vicissitudes as might have\nmade many almost doubt their own identity. But it is only to-day that\nI have learned its real purpose. To-day, for the first time, I am\ncontent. A light has dawned on me which makes all the dark passages\nof my former life clear and luminous, and unites the whole into one\nharmonious picture. I will narrate a few of my adventures to you while\nI am full of this happy discovery.\n\nThe first thing I can remember is being in a world overflowing with\nlife in every form. It was a tropical forest. Gigantic palms rose above\nme so high that I could not see their feathery crowns. From one erect\nstem to another hung tangled festoons of parasites and climbing plants,\nbroad, rich, green leaves which fell into stately crowns with their\nown weight, enormous gorgeous flowers, delicate wreaths of intertwined\nmany-coloured blossoms and many-shaped foliage; so that when I looked\nup, I could scarcely see one point of the deep blue sky, except when a\nstrong wind made rifts in my fretted roof. Scarcely one ray of light\nfell on me pure, but broken and green and tremulous, softly shaded, or\ntinted like a rainbow through the flowers.\n\nThe animals which lived in our forest depths I cannot distinctly\nrecall. I have not seen any like them for so many thousand years. But\nall was gigantic, and many would seem misshapen monsters to us now. Yet\nthen it was quite natural, and an everyday thing, to hear the great\ntree-eaters tramping each like an army through the forest shades,\ncropping the tops of the highest trees, and devouring branches as our\nanimals crop the herbage. Trees crackled under them like brambles.\n\nWe dreaded much, we smaller creatures, to see these approach, for they\ntrampled down a generation of us under the tread of their ponderous\nfeet. There were lizards whose scales glittered like the waves of\nthe sea in the sunshine, each scale a massive prismatic metallic\nplate. And from the lower reaches of the forest, where the hot mist\nsteamed up from the marshy hollows, monstrous creatures, half-fish,\nhalf-forest-climbers, occasionally strayed among us.\n\nI cannot recall if there was music in the forest; yet I think I hear\nacross these countless years the dim echoes of strange voices, which\nhave been silenced for ages on the earth, a confusion of wild calls and\ncries in the mornings and evenings, weird bell-notes tolling through\nthe sultry noon-day silences, and a confused whirr, and buzzing, and\ncroaking, and whizzing, and rustling of countless smaller animals which\nhave perished and left no trace of their existence behind.\n\nBut the creatures which impressed the restless character on my being,\nwhich only to-day the sun has smiled away, were some near relations of\nmy own. For, although I was but a little fern, many of my race were\namong the lords of the forest. Their roots spread into magnificent\ncurved pedestals; their stems rose, decorated, and erect as the palms,\nto the height of the tallest trees; and their fronds expanded into\nribbed and fretted roofs, beneath which hundreds like me could find\nshade and shelter, yet every frond as delicately fringed and edged as\nany of ours.\n\nI thought\u2014\"These are my elder sisters. One day I shall grow like them.\"\n\nThus my own daily life seemed empty and shadowy to me, because of the\nstrong yearning that possessed me to be great like them. It did not\nmake me discontented or desponding, but filled me with a wild and\nfeverish expectation which made the present appear nothing to me. I\nstretched out my little fronds, and caught every sunbeam and rain-drop\nI could; and when a shower came, and the life-giving waters circulated\nthrough my veins, I throbbed with vague desire, and thought, \"Now I am\nto be something.\"\n\nBut with all my efforts, I never could grow to be any thing but a\nlittle fern! So the summer passed, and then I felt myself growing\nshrivelled and old. My limbs contracted, my fronds curled up and turned\ndry and brown, and in a few weeks I was scarcely visible. But the\nspring revived me and my yearnings, and I grew certainly very handsome\nand tall for one of my branch of our family; but still only a little\nfern!\n\nThe forest decayed, I know not how. The marsh extended, and, instead\nof the world of varied exuberant life, we lay a long time a mass of\nsteaming, mouldering decay. And then, through millenniums more, we\nstiffened and hardened and grew black and shapeless, and were buried\nin the dark, no one can say how long, for to us, throughout those\nchangeless ages, there were no days and no seasons to measure time.\n\nAt last a light came to us, not the sun, but a little trembling light,\nin the hands of a living creature, such as we had never seen. I know\nnow it was a man. Then followed a time of stir and noise and knocking\nabout, such as I shall never forget. We were hewn with pickaxes, and\ntossed into buckets, and, at last, lifted into the real old sunlight we\nhad not seen for countless ages. The sun was the same as ever, as young\nand bright, it seemed, as he had been thousands of years before; but we\ndid not bask long in his beams.\n\nA period followed of darkness and cold and silence, in which all the\nworld seemed to have forgotten my existence, although I had been\ndragged out of my native bed, and stored in this den with so much\npains. But they remembered us at last.\n\nOne evening, after passing through a great deal of commotion, I found\nmyself in an open place, with many of my brethren. A light like that we\nhad first seen, after our ages of darkness in the heart of the earth,\nwas applied to us, and then the strangest transformation passed over me.\n\nJust as the water had streamed through my green veins in the forest\nof old, a new element began to course through all my black and stony\nheart. That light ran through and through me, until I became, not a\nreceiver, but actually a giver of light. Instead of my green fronds,\ndelicate pencils of red and golden flame streamed from me, until I\nbecame one glowing substance; and, in my own light, I actually saw\nliving faces looking thankfully at me, and human hands stretched out to\nfeel my warmth, just as of old I had spread my fronds in the rays of\nthe sun.\n\nBut I was too full of my old vague longings to enjoy or observe any of\nthose things much, for I thought, with glowing confidence, \"Now, I am\nto be something great at last!\"\n\nIt was the last glimmer of that vague ambition in me. My light\nfaded, I grew cold, and, which was worse, I fell to pieces, became\nmere dust, and was wafted about by the slightest breath, so that I\nhad the greatest difficulty in preserving my own identity. I was\neven ignominiously swept away by the very hands which had spread\nso gratefully in my light only a few hours before, and tossed\ncontemptuously out into a rubbish heap behind the house.\n\nBut there, happily for me, I was once more in the sunshine; and the\nsun, and all heavenly creatures, think scorn of no one. They smiled on\nme, a poor heap of ashes, as if I had been a tree-fern; and the gentle\ndews descended on me, as if had been a flower; and the birds and winds\nscattered seeds amongst us, until I began to feel once more something\nlike the stirrings of life within me. I had blended my being with a\nlittle seed, and in the spring, green tufts of life burst out from my\nshrivelled heart. I grew, and spread, and drank in rain and sunshine,\nuntil at length I waved and expanded in the summer breeze\u2014a little fern!\n\nThen a bright, transforming thought flashed through me. In the tropical\nforest, in the black coal-beds, on the glowing hearth, I had not been\nan imperfect likeness and a vague promise of something else, but\nmyself, in my little degree, pleasant and serviceable; exactly the\nbest thing it was possible for me to be, filling up my tiny measure of\nservice in the world, so that the world would have been the poorer for\nthat tiny measure of pleasure and good without me. How happy I might\nhave been always, if I had known this before! How happy I am to know it\nnow!\n\nI begin life again, but I have learned my lesson. I am something; not\nsomething great, but something I was meant to be\u2014a little green happy\nfern. At this moment I tremble with joy in the soft breezes, I thrill\nwith life, I drink the rain-drops, and the next moment and to-morrow\nwill bring each its store of work and joy for me, and I shall be the\nhighest thing I could wish to be, the thing I was made to be. And now\nI am here near the tall trees, and among the many-coloured flowers, a\nlittle, happy, lowly fern.\n\n\n\n                             Parables.\n\n\n\n                 The Clock-bell and the Alarm-bell.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\"WE have lived a long time here together,\" said the ponderous\nAlarm-bell to the little brisk bell in the clock-tower of the\nOrphan-house, \"and a useful life yours has been! I have watched\ncarefully, and never once during these hundred years that we have stood\nside by side have you failed to tell the hours and half-hours by day\nand night. I have plenty of leisure for thought; but it would be beyond\nmy powers to calculate how often your voice has been heard in the\nservice of man.\n\n\"I observe, too, how much attention is paid you by all, and with how\nmuch well-deserved respect you are regarded. Nothing is done in house\nor field without your sanction. At your early call, this little busy\nhive begins to stir in the morning. At your mid-day invitation, the\nboys gather from the fields where they have been working; and the girls\nfrom the laundries and workrooms to the noon-day meal. At your evening\nsummons, the doors are closed at night, and not a sound is heard\nafterwards in house or field until your steady voice wakens our little\nworld again.\n\n\"Yours is, indeed, a useful, honoured life; but as for me, who can tell\nwhat I am made for? Since I was placed here first, a hundred years ago,\nlifted up with enormous trouble and labour, and safely roofed in my\nbelfry, not a creature has heard my voice, or been the better for my\nexistence. I might as well have been lying still a lump of unsmelted\nore in the depths of the mines. I feel so stiff and rusty, that I\nsometimes question if they could move me if they tried.\n\n\"For you, daily, hourly usefulness! For me, a hundred years of silence!\nAnd who can say how many more? I do not complain; but our destinies are\nvery different. It must be wonderfully happy to be so useful, and to\nbe looked on by every one with such attention and regard. Of course,\nI could not expect to be as serviceable as you\u2014I, with my cumbrous,\nponderous mass of heavy metal, and you, hung so lightly, so graceful in\nyour shape, so brisk in all your movements, so cheery and pleasant in\nyour voice. But I should like to be of some use once in my life, even\nif it were only to know for what purpose I was made, and set on high.\"\n\n\"Wait!\" said the Clock-bell. \"There must be some work for you. It would\nhave taken a hundred such as I am to make one like you. Think of the\ntrouble there must have been in getting a mould large enough for you\u2014of\nthe labour it was to raise you so high. You must be set there for some\nend, although we do not yet know what. Wait!\" said the Clock-bell,\ncheerily, and struck nine.\n\nThen there was a sound from within the house, as of many childish\nvoices singing an evening hymn. A few minutes after, all was still, and\nten o'clock echoed over the silent fields to the sleeping city near at\nhand.\n\nBut that night there was an unusual stir in the Orphan-house. Feet were\nheard rushing hither and thither; and from every window poured forth\nthe cry: \"Fire! Fire! The Orphan-house is on fire!\"\n\nAnd, through the darkness, lurid smoke began to rise from an outhouse\nattached to the main building.\n\nThen came another cry: \"The Alarm-bell! Ring the Alarm-bell!\"\n\nAnd feet were heard on the steps of the belfry-tower; and hands began\npulling vigorously at the ropes, and in a moment, for the first time,\nthe deep tones of the long silent bell pealed heavily on the midnight\nair. They awoke the city. In a short time, fire-engines were on the\nway. Streams of water played on the flames, and quenched them; and the\nchildren and the Orphan-house were saved.\n\nThe next morning all was silent again, as if nothing had happened; the\nouthouse lay in ashes, but the Orphan-house was uninjured. At eight\nthe Clock-bell called the children to their morning prayer; whilst the\nAlarm-bell had relapsed into silence, perhaps for another century.\n\nBut the Clock-bell said\u2014\"You have done in an hour the service of a\ncentury. Had it not been for you, I should never have struck another\nhour.\"\n\nAnd the grateful children often looked up as they passed beneath,\nand said\u2014\"Had it not been for our good Alarm-bell, we might all have\nperished!\"\n\nSo the Alarm-bell learned what it was made for; and was content to wait\nanother hundred years, or more, before its voice was heard again.\n\n\n\n                        Thorns and Spines. *\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nIN a garden there once grew a beautiful, blossoming thorn. When the\nspring came, for a fortnight it was always clothed with a robe of white\nblossoms. They seemed at once relics of winter, and promises of summer.\nIt was as if Winter, in departing from the earth, had left behind a\nfragment of his snowy vestments; and Spring, touching them with her\nmagic wand, had transformed them from snow-wreaths into wreaths of\nsnowy blossoms. They were beautiful even in fading; and for many days\nafter the whiteness had gone, they glowed into a delicate pink, and\nstrewed the earth with silky petals when they fell.\n\n   * Thorns are abortive leaf-buds. Spines are the lower leaves of plants\nmetamorphosed into bristles, to guard the young tree from the attacks\nof cattle. This little parable was suggested by a passage in \"Modern\nPainters.\"\n\nOn this thorn, one spring, a little brown leaf-bud formed, at the foot\nof a green twig, the cradle of the green twigs of the next spring. But\nit happened that, as this brown leaf-bud watched the beauty of the\nflowers, it grew discontented with its destiny:\u2014\n\n\"Why am not I a flower-bud?\" it murmured, inside its little brown\ncasing. \"That would be worth living for!\u2014To fill the air with delicate\nfragrance, to be sung to by the birds, to be gathered by human hands\nas a treasure; or even to live unnoticed by any one, but only to be a\nflower!\u2014A beautiful, fragrant creature, with a coat of many colours,\nand a crown of golden stamens, and with promise in its heart;\u2014that\nwould be worth living for! But to be a leaf-bud, a brown, dark, hard\nleaf-bud!\u2014It would be better to die at once.\"\n\nAnd a discontented shiver ran through its veins; and all that summer\nit never cared to drink in sun or rain, but sat and shivered, and\nshrivelled on its stem, while all around it, meek and happy buds\nwere growing strong and full of life, nourished by the same rain and\nsunshine. And in the spring, when the white shower of snowy flowers\ncame again on the thorn-tree, and the other leaf-buds had expanded\ninto green twigs, waving and whispering in the breeze, with each a new\nbud at its feet, the envious and discontented bud had shrivelled and\nnarrowed itself into a thorn, which pierced the hand of the child, as\nit reached up to gather the spray of fair white blossom.\n\n          *          *          *          *\n\nIn a field near this garden, there grew a green shrub, which at the top\nexpanded into luxuriant branches, giving shade at mid-day to man and\nbeast. But from the lower branches, instead of broad green leaves, grew\nlong sharp spines. One summer day, these spines said to each other, in\ntheir short and broken speech, for they could not wave and rustle in\nthe wind like the leaves:\u2014\n\n\"We are not worthy to live on the same tree with the beautiful forest\nleaves which wave in the fresh air above us. We can make no refreshing\nsound as they do; we give no shade as they do to any creature; and we\nonly prick any one that tries to touch us. But it is very pleasant to\nus to be allowed to grow from the same trunk as they; and it is very\nkind of the sweet leaves to sing to us as if we belonged to them, and\nnot to be ashamed of us. We are certainly most happily situated; so far\nbeyond what we have any right to expect!\"\n\nBut all the leaves rustled in a joyous chorus, and said:\u2014\"You are our\nelder sisters, meek and useful spines! If it had not been for you, we\nshould never have come into life at all, and man and beast would have\nhad no shade from us. The hungry cattle would have eaten us before we\nunfolded, and our parent-tree would never have grown to what it is, had\nit not been for you, our faithful and patient guardians. If you had\nrebelled against the gracious hand that moulds us all, and prevented\nour expanding into leaves, we should all have perished together long\nago. We owe our life to you!\" murmured the leaves.\n\nAnd the rough spines quivered through all their faithful hearts at the\nwords of the leaves.\n\nThen the master passed by, and he said:\u2014\"Well done, my faithful spines!\nYou have done your work, and guarded my treasures well. But for you, my\ntrees would have had no leaves, and my fields no shade.\"\n\nAnd the spines wondered, and rejoiced greatly; for they had never\nthought that, in meekly and contentedly bearing their rough lot, and\nbeing what they were meant to be, they were serving the master, and\ndoing such good work for others.\n\n\n\n                 Sunshine, Daylight, and the Rock. *\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nSUNSHINE and Daylight had one day a serious difference of opinion about\na rocky waste, over which their course led them.\n\n   * Reprinted from \"Excelsior.\"\n\n\"I am not severe,\" said Daylight, fixing her clear, generalising\ngray eyes on the Rock. \"If I cannot, like some people, see nothing\nbut what I wish to see, no one ever accused me of blackening any\none's character. I have known that old rock more years than I care to\nmention; not a jagged edge, nor a whimsical cranny, but I am intimately\nacquainted with, and I do not hesitate to say, that a more barren,\nunmitigated rock I seldom meet with. I do not slander it. I only say,\nit is nothing more or less than a rock.\"\n\nSunshine said nothing, but peeped round the shoulder of her cousin's\ngray cloak, until the smile of her soft eye met the eye of a little\nblue violet, which, by dint of hard living, had contrived to obtain\na secure footing in a crevice of the old rock; and a flutter of joy\npassed through the blossoms and leaves of the violet, and communicated\nitself to a tuft of dry short grass, which had ensconced itself behind.\nThe red and gray cups of some tiny moss and lichens, which had crept\ninto corners here and there, next drank in her kind glances, and\nfancied themselves wine-cups at a feast. Here and there specks of\ncolour and points of life revealed themselves, and, as they looked,\nexpanded.\n\nBy this time, Sunshine had folded Daylight to sleep on her warm breast.\nMany weeks had passed, when, one quiet afternoon, Daylight again came\nthat way, and glancing critically around, she murmured to Sunshine,\n\"Where is the old gray rock you were so sanguine about?\"\n\nSunshine was silent: her motto being, \"Not 'in word, neither in tongue;\nbut in deed and in truth.'\"\n\nAnd at length, Daylight's quiet eyes awoke to the fact, that the grassy\nknoll where flowers\u2014tiny rock-plants indeed, but still flowers\u2014and\nmosses lay dozing unawakened by her sober tread, was none other than\nthe rock she had known of old. And she said, meekly, \"Truly I find that\none way to create beauty is to perceive it.\"\n\nThen an angel, who was hovering near, on his way back from some message\nof mercy (for the angels never linger till their messages are given),\nsang softly, \"Love veileth a multitude of sins.\"\n\nAnd the old Rock answered in a chorus, through its moss-threads, and\nlichen-cups, and leaves, and blossoms, \"And under the warm veil spring\na multitude of flowers.\"\n\n\n\n                       Wanderers and Pilgrims.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nA LARGE tract of country lay spread before me; upland and lowland, hill\nand plain. The whole land seemed stirring with perpetual movement, all\nin one direction;\u2014from the bright hills at its commencement, to the\ndark mountains at the end. Earth and sky seemed moving, as when an\nenormous flight of migratory birds is passing by, but earth and sky\nwere really stationary. This movement was one constant tide of human\nlife, ceaselessly streaming across the land.\n\nIt began on a range of wooded hills, with their sunny southern slopes,\nforests and flowery banks, and grassy and golden fields. Down these\nslopes, joyous bands ran fast. As I looked closer, I saw the movement\nwas not incessant in the case of each individual; only the ceaseless\npassing of the great tide of life made it seem so. Merry groups paused\non the hill-sides, and made fairy gardens, and twined leafy tents where\nthey would sit a little while and sing and dance. But only a little\nwhile! No hand seemed driving them on; it appeared only an inward\nirresistible instinct. Yet soon the bright groups were scattered, and\nmoved down again over the hills, often never joining more.\n\n\"Why do you hasten away from these sunny slopes?\" I said. \"There seems\nnothing so pleasant in all the land besides.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" the travellers replied, with a slight sigh; but it ended\nin a snatch of song as they danced gaily on. \"Perhaps not, but we are a\nrace of Wanderers! We cannot stay; and perhaps better things await us\nin the plain.\"\n\n\"Whither are you going?\" I asked.\n\n\"We know not,\" was the answer; \"only onward, onward!\"\n\nIn the plain were buildings of more solid construction, houses and\ncities. And here I observed many of the travellers would have gladly\nlingered, but it could not be. Homesteads, and corn-fields, and\nvineyards, all had to be left; and still the tide of life streamed on\nand on.\n\n\"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"It is the doom of our race,\" they said, sorrowfully; \"we are a people\nof Wanderers.\"\n\n\"Whither?\" I inquired.\n\n\"We do not know,\" was the reply; \"only onwards and onwards to the dark\nmountains!\"\n\nSlower and slower grew the footsteps of the Wanderers, more and more\nregretful the glances they cast behind. Slower, yet with fewer pauses.\nThe strange restless impulse drove them steadily on, until, wearied and\ntottering, they began the ascent of the dark mountains.\n\n\"What is on the other side?\" I asked.\n\n\"The sea,\" they said, \"the Great Sea.\"\n\n\"How will you cross it, and what is beyond?\"\n\n\"We know not,\" they said, with bitter tears. \"But we are a doomed race\nof Wanderers\u2014onwards, onwards; we may not stay!\"\n\nThen first I perceived that, among these multitudes of aimless\nWanderers, there was one band who kept close together, and moved with\na freedom and a purpose, as if they journeyed on not from a blind,\nirresistible impulse, but from choice. Their looks were seldom turned\nregretfully behind them, or only on the dark mountains. They looked to\nsomething higher.\n\nI asked them\u2014\"Why are you thus hasting on?\"\n\n\"We are Pilgrims,\" they replied; \"we would not linger here.\"\n\n\"Whither are you going?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Home!\" they answered, joyfully. \"To a Holy City which is our Home.\"\n\n\"But how do you know the way?\" I asked, for no barriers seemed to limit\ntheir path, so that any of the Wanderers might join it at any point.\n\n\"We know it by two marks,\" they answered\u2014\"by the footsteps of One who\ntrod it once, and left indelible footprints wherever He stepped. And we\nknow it also by the goal to which it tends!\"\n\nThen looking up, I saw resting on the mountains where this path ended,\na bridge like a rainbow, and beyond it, in the sky, a range of towers\nand walls, pearl and opal, ruby and golden, such as in a summer evening\nis sometimes faintly pictured on the clouds, when the setting sun\nshines through them.\n\nAnd the little band chanted as they went, \"The doom of our race is\nreversed for us. We are not Wanderers; we are Pilgrims. We would not\nlinger here; this is not our rest. Onwards, upwards, to the City!\u2014To\nthe Home!\"\n\n\n\n                     The Ark and the Fortress.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nONE day, I had been thinking about the terrors of the Great Flood, when\nit seemed to me that I saw back through the long ages to that distant\nday, as you look with a night-glass through the night to an illuminated\nplanet.\n\nI saw an old man, venerable with the centuries by which we count the\nlives of nations, not of men, yet vigorous with the vitality of one who\nhad still centuries to live. He stood on an inland plain, far from any\nsea; yet above him rose the sides of a large ship. It had been finished\nthat day.\n\nOnce more the old man warned the laughing crowds around of the waters\nwhich would surely come and float the vessel high above the submerged\nworld. He had told them the same truth for a hundred and twenty years.\nThere had been no indefiniteness about his prophecy. As, since then,\nmen have been warned by the uncertainty of a doom which may come at any\nmoment; then, they were warned by the certainty of a period definitely\nfixed. Every fall of the leaf had brought it precisely a year nearer.\nAnd now the last evening of the last year had come, and once more the\npatient preacher of righteousness stood and warned them to forsake the\nsin which must bring the doom.\n\nBut in vain. There was no persecution; perhaps some mockery, as they\npointed to the cloudless sky, and the fields and forests growing daily\ngreener in the spring-tide sunshine; but for the most part simply\nunbelief and indifference. \"They ate, they drank, they married, they\nwere given in marriage.\" And so the last warning was finished, and the\nlast evening closed.\n\nBut one little group seemed to me to detach itself from the rest with a\nbolder confidence. They pointed to a fortress on the highest summit of\nthe mountain range above them, and said:\u2014\n\n\"If what you say is true, surely we shall be safer there than in a\nfloating ark like yours. In the rushing of the great water-floods you\nspeak of, and the beating of the storms, our mountain fortress will\nserve us better, at least, than your wooden walls. We shall look down\nfrom our height on your waters, and, perchance, see the wreck of your\nvessel drifted to our feet!\"\n\nThe patriarch and his family were shut in the ark. Before the next\nmorning, the day of doom had set in. Not a break in the pitiless roof\nof clouds. Steadily the torrents poured from the opened flood-gates of\nheaven, whilst the waters from beneath broke their barriers, and the\nreservoirs under the hills burst forth in sudden rivers.\n\nThe flood had begun. The valleys became lakes, the plains seas; but\nthe builders of the mountain fortress had fled to it, and looked\ntriumphantly down on the waves.\n\nHigher and higher they rose. The lower hills were covered. The mountain\nrange was isolated. But the dwellers in the fortress thought, \"We are\nwell provisioned. This cannot last for ever!\"\n\nThe waters rose. Peak after peak became an island. And at last, the\nhighest peak, on which the fortress stood, looked out alone upon the\nwaste of waters, and the floating ark buoyed up securely on them.\n\nThey looked still down on the waters, but with trembling hearts. The\nwild waves dashed furiously against this one remaining obstacle. The\nfirmest human masonry cannot stand like the everlasting rocks. The\nstrong foundations gave way, and with a crash, and a wail of anguish,\nthe fortress fell, and nothing rose above the waters but the floating\nark. For nothing that is founded on earth can escape the doom of earth.\nBut\u2014\n\n   \"Planted Paradise was not so firm\n    As was, and is, Thy floating ark.\"\n\n\n\n                          The Three Dreams.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nI HAD once three dreams in close succession, which I will relate to you.\n\nIn the first, I saw a magnificent palace, a little world of gardens\nand buildings, a city in itself. All was enclosed within a high wall,\nso that from outside you could see nothing of it except the fairy\nwhite minarets, pencilled delicately against the blue sky, some lofty\nbattlemented watch-towers, and several graceful campaniles, with the\ntops of a few of the highest trees. But a delicious blending of the\nfragrance of a thousand flowers came thence in summer evenings; and\nevery night, bell-tower, watch-tower, spire, and dome, and minaret were\nilluminated with innumerable starry lamps, as if every day within the\npalace were a festival.\n\nAround the palace were the lanes and alleys of the city\u2014scenes of\npoverty and squalor\u2014which contrasted strangely with it; and wretched,\nhalf-starved-looking creatures, with tattered garments and faces worn\nwith deep marks of want and woe, lingered round the gates. Outside the\ngates!\u2014and this was one strange incongruity of my dream, for on the\ngates were emblazoned in golden letters, which were illuminated into\ntransparencies at night, the words\u2014\n\n   \"KNOCK, AND IT SHALL BE OPENED UNTO YOU.\"\n\nThe gates were solid, and enormously massive, like blocks of black\nmarble. No violence could have forced them. There was no crevice at\nwhich any one could get a glimpse of what was within. But the golden\nknocker, underneath those golden words, was so low as to be within\nreach of the youngest children. Indeed, I noticed that none tried it so\noften as little children; and whenever any one knocked with the very\nfeeblest sound, in time, and often immediately, the stately portals\nopened from within, turning on their massive hinges with a sound like\nthe music of many choirs, and the applicant was quietly drawn inside.\n\nThen I saw that the inside of the gates was of translucent pearl. A\nstream of light and fragrance for a moment came through, and induced\nothers afterwards to knock. But immediately the gates were closed, and\nstood a wall of impenetrable marble as before.\n\nI awoke, and whilst meditating on my dream fell asleep again.\n\nIn my second dream, I saw the same palace as in my first, but the\nmassive doors were gone, and in their place stood the form of One whom,\nalthough I had never seen Him, I had heard so often described, and so\nfaithfully, by those who had seen Him, that I knew Him at once. The\nsame wretched beings were cowering round; but the massive barriers were\ngone, and in their place He stood, and said, in tones that every one\ncould hear\u2014\n\n   \"'I am the Door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved.'\"\n\nOne wretched and woe-worn woman gave a trembling glance at His face,\nand then listening again to those tones, not welcoming merely, but\npleading and persuasively tender, she ventured close to Him, and fell\non her knees to kiss the hem of His garment.\n\nBut He stooped, and stretched out His hand, and took her hand, and led\nher in.\n\nThen I understood what His words had meant;\u2014that by saying, \"I am the\ndoor,\" He must have meant that there was no barrier, no impenetrable\ngate, but that in the doorway, where the door had been, He stood, and,\ninstead of the lifeless knocker, stretched out His living hands to aid\nand welcome all who came.\n\nAnd I awoke from my second dream.\n\n          *          *          *          *\n\nBefore long I fell asleep again, and then again I saw the same palace,\nwith the massive portals flung open wide, but that gracious princely\nform stood in them no more. Among the most wretched of that crowd He\nwent\u2014among the maimed, the halt, and the blind.\n\nThey thronged around Him, yet many of them scarcely seemed to heed,\nthey were so intent on their own sordid pursuits. Some were crowding\nwith sharp, eager faces round a rag merchant, bargaining with the\nmost absorbing passion for his wretched wares, and then separating to\nquarrel and fight over their purchases, or bartering their rags again\nas eagerly for a draught of the intoxicating drinks which had made so\nmany of them the lost creatures they were. Not a rag or a burning drop\nwas to be had except for money, and often for a price which to them was\nlife itself.\n\nAnd He came to them from the palace, and offered them the palace\nfreely, yet few listened. But with that strange absence of the sense of\nincongruity and the emotion of surprise characteristic of dreams, I did\nnot wonder! Patiently He went in and out among them, pleading with one\nand another, often encountering rough words and blows; yet still His\nwords were\u2014\n\n   \"I come to seek and to save that which was lost.\"\n\nAnd some even of the most wretched listened, and returned with Him, and\nwere welcomed inside.\n\nAs if \"Knock, and it shall be opened!\" were not free enough, the gates\nwere thrown open wide, and He stood there, the outstretched hand,\ninstead of the door, the living friend, instead of the written words of\nwelcome.\n\nAnd as if that were not enough, instead of saying, \"Come to me!\" He\ncame Himself\u2014He \"came to seek and to save that which was lost.\"\n\n\n\n                            Thou and I. *\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nIN a room in a stately mansion, a little babe lay in its mother's arms.\nAll kinds of beautiful things were around, and many people passed in\nand out. Pictures by the first Masters were on the walls; the rarest\nexotics filled the air with choice perfumes. The chair in which the\nmother sat was gilded and tapestried; the carpet her feet rested on was\nsoft as mossy turf, and delicate as embroidery. Jewels sparkled on her\ndress.\n\n   * Suggested by a passage in Sartorius' \"Lehre von der heiligen Liebe,\"\ncontrasting the world of a cold philosophy, \"Ich and Nicht Ich,\" with\nthe Christian's world, \"Ich und Du.\"\n\nThe windows opened on a magnificent landscape, of park and lake,\nwoodland and distant hills. But the little babe saw nothing but its\nmother's smile\u2014understood nothing, but that it was on its mother's\nknee. Its only consciousness was \"Thou and I!\" and love.\n\n          *          *          *          *\n\nThe railway train was entering a long tunnel. The babe was still on\nits mother's knee. The darkness grew deeper. The heavy train thundered\nthrough the hollow earth. Another met it, and rushed past with a\ndeafening din. An older child in the carriage screamed with terror.\nMany of the passengers felt uneasy, and were impatient to see the light\nagain. But the baby cared nothing for the noise or the darkness. It\nlooked in the dim lamp-light into its mother's face, and saw her smile,\nand smiled again. It knew nothing of the world but \"Thou and I!\" and\nlove.\n\n          *          *          *          *\n\nThe ship was tossing fearfully on the stormy sea. Every timber\nstrained, every wave seemed as if it must engulph the vessel. The weak\nand timid cried out in an agony of fear. The brave and loving moved\nabout with white, compressed lips, and contracted brows, striving now\nand then to say some brief reassuring words to those for whose safety\nthey feared. But the babe lay tranquil and happy in its mother's arms.\nHer breast was to it a shelter against the world. It knew nothing of\ndanger or fear. Its world was \"Thou and I!\" and love.\n\n          *          *          *          *\n\nYears passed away, and the baby grew into a child, and the child into\na man. His life was one of many vicissitudes, of passionate hopes, and\nbitter sorrows, and wild ambition. He worshipped the world in many\nforms, and wandered farther and farther from the Father's house, until\nthe world which first had beguiled him with its choicest things, came\nto feed him on its husks.\n\nAnd a long way off, he thought of the Father and the home, and rose\nto return. His steps were doubtful and slow, but the heart which met\nhim had no hesitation and no upbraidings. Then the wanderer understood\nthe love with which he had been watched and pitied all those desolate\nyears, the love with which he was welcomed now.\n\nThe earth, and sky, and human life grew sacred and beautiful to him\nas they had never been, because through them all, a living Presence\nwas around him, a living heart met him; and, as of old on the mother's\nknee, once more, as he looked up to God his Father, his world became\nonly \"Thou and I!\" and love.\n\nHis life moved rapidly on to its dark goal. He had to leave the\nsunshine of earth, its pleasant fields, and cherished homes, and all\nfamiliar things, for ever. The light grew dimmer, and the darkness\ndeepened. But he had no fear.\n\nIn the darkness, and the bewildering rush of new experience, he was\nagain as the babe on the mother's knee. To him there was no darkness,\nno confusion. He looked into his Father's face, and smiled. Life and\ndeath and earth, all he left, and all he went to, were as nothing to\nhim then. He had nothing but that one living, loving Presence, but it\nwas enough.\n\nAgain it was \"Thou and I!\" and love.\n\nAnd death found that childlike and angelic smile upon his lips, and\nleft it there.\n\n          *          *          *          *\n\nA day will come of storm, and fire, and tempest, and convulsion, when\nearth and heaven shall mingle and be rolled up as a scroll and pass\naway. But in that day, what will such have to fear? Amidst all the\nconvulsed worlds, the redeemed will rest tranquil as the infant in the\nstorm on its mother's breast. For amidst it all, their eyes will rest\non the Face which was bowed in death to save them, and will know no\nfear. It will be, \"Thou and I, and Thou art love!\" for ever.\n\n\n\n                              THE END.\n\n\n\n                  \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n             Ballantyne & Company, Printers, Edinburgh.","title":"The black ship: with other allegories and parables","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":24984}