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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/705-0.txt b/705-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f0aaf2 --- /dev/null +++ b/705-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2867 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Roadmender, by Michael Fairless + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Roadmender + + +Author: Michael Fairless + + + +Release Date: February 5, 2013 [eBook #705] +[This file was first posted on November 6, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROADMENDER*** + + +Transcribed from the 1911 Duckworth and Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + The Roadmender + + + By + + Michael Fairless + + Author of + “The Gathering of Brother Hilarius” + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + * * * * * + + London + + Duckworth & Co. + + 3 Henrietta Street, W.C. + 1911 + + * * * * * + +This series of papers appeared in _The Pilot_ and is now republished by +permission of the Editor. + + * * * * * + + A. M. D. G. + + * * * * * + + TO + MY MOTHER: + AND TO EARTH, MY MOTHER, + WHOM I LOVE. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +THE ROADMENDER 1 +OUT OF THE SHADOW 61 +AT THE WHITE GATE 119 + +The Roadmender + + +CHAPTER I + + +I HAVE attained my ideal: I am a roadmender, some say stonebreaker. Both +titles are correct, but the one is more pregnant than the other. All day +I sit by the roadside on a stretch of grass under a high hedge of +saplings and a tangle of traveller’s joy, woodbine, sweetbrier, and late +roses. Opposite me is a white gate, seldom used, if one may judge from +the trail of honeysuckle growing tranquilly along it: I know now that +whenever and wherever I die my soul will pass out through this white +gate; and then, thank God, I shall not have need to undo that trail. + +In our youth we discussed our ideals freely: I wonder how many beside +myself have attained, or would understand my attaining. After all, what +do we ask of life, here or indeed hereafter, but leave to serve, to live, +to commune with our fellowmen and with ourselves; and from the lap of +earth to look up into the face of God? All these gifts are mine as I sit +by the winding white road and serve the footsteps of my fellows. There +is no room in my life for avarice or anxiety; I who serve at the altar +live of the altar: I lack nothing but have nothing over; and when the +winter of life comes I shall join the company of weary old men who sit on +the sunny side of the workhouse wall and wait for the tender mercies of +God. + +Just now it is the summer of things; there is life and music +everywhere—in the stones themselves, and I live to-day beating out the +rhythmical hammer-song of The Ring. There is real physical joy in the +rise and swing of the arm, in the jar of a fair stroke, the split and +scatter of the quartz: I am learning to be ambidextrous, for why should +Esau sell his birthright when there is enough for both? Then the +rest-hour comes, bringing the luxurious ache of tired but not weary +limbs; and I lie outstretched and renew my strength, sometimes with my +face deep-nestled in the cool green grass, sometimes on my back looking +up into the blue sky which no wise man would wish to fathom. + +The birds have no fear of me; am I not also of the brown brethren in my +sober fustian livery? They share my meals—at least the little dun-coated +Franciscans do; the blackbirds and thrushes care not a whit for such +simple food as crumbs, but with legs well apart and claws tense with +purchase they disinter poor brother worm, having first mocked him with +sound of rain. The robin that lives by the gate regards my heap of +stones as subject to his special inspection. He sits atop and practises +the trill of his summer song until it shrills above and through the +metallic clang of my strokes; and when I pause he cocks his tail, with a +humorous twinkle of his round eye which means—“What! shirking, big +brother?”—and I fall, ashamed, to my mending of roads. + +The other day, as I lay with my face in the grass, I heard a gentle +rustle, and raised my head to find a hedge-snake watching me fearless, +unwinking. I stretched out my hand, picked it up unresisting, and put it +in my coat like the husbandman of old. Was he so ill-rewarded, I wonder, +with the kiss that reveals secrets? My snake slept in peace while I +hammered away with an odd quickening of heart as I thought how to me, as +to Melampus, had come the messenger—had come, but to ears deafened by +centuries of misrule, blindness, and oppression; so that, with all my +longing, I am shut out of the wondrous world where walked Melampus and +the Saint. To me there is no suggestion of evil in the little silent +creatures, harmless, or deadly only with the Death which is Life. The +beasts who turn upon us, as a rule maul and tear unreflectingly; with the +snake there is the swift, silent strike, the tiny, tiny wound, then sleep +and a forgetting. + +My brown friend, with its message unspoken, slid away into the grass at +sundown to tell its tale in unstopped ears; and I, my task done, went +home across the fields to the solitary cottage where I lodge. It is old +and decrepit—two rooms, with a quasi-attic over them reached by a ladder +from the kitchen and reached only by me. It is furnished with the +luxuries of life, a truckle bed, table, chair, and huge earthenware pan +which I fill from the ice-cold well at the back of the cottage. Morning +and night I serve with the Gibeonites, their curse my blessing, as no +doubt it was theirs when their hearts were purged by service. Morning +and night I send down the moss-grown bucket with its urgent message from +a dry and dusty world; the chain tightens through my hand as the liquid +treasure responds to the messenger, and then with creak and jangle—the +welcome of labouring earth—the bucket slowly nears the top and disperses +the treasure in the waiting vessels. The Gibeonites were servants in the +house of God, ministers of the sacrament of service even as the High +Priest himself; and I, sharing their high office of servitude, thank God +that the ground was accursed for my sake, for surely that curse was the +womb of all unborn blessing. + +The old widow with whom I lodge has been deaf for the last twenty years. +She speaks in the strained high voice which protests against her own +infirmity, and her eyes have the pathetic look of those who search in +silence. For many years she lived alone with her son, who laboured on +the farm two miles away. He met his death rescuing a carthorse from its +burning stable; and the farmer gave the cottage rent free and a weekly +half-crown for life to the poor old woman whose dearest terror was the +workhouse. With my shilling a week rent, and sharing of supplies, we +live in the lines of comfort. Of death she has no fears, for in the long +chest in the kitchen lie a web of coarse white linen, two pennies covered +with the same to keep down tired eyelids, decent white stockings, and a +white cotton sun-bonnet—a decorous death-suit truly—and enough money in +the little bag for self-respecting burial. The farmer buried his servant +handsomely—good man, he knew the love of reticent grief for a ‘kind’ +burial—and one day Harry’s mother is to lie beside him in the little +churchyard which has been a cornfield, and may some day be one again. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +ON Sundays my feet take ever the same way. First my temple service, and +then five miles tramp over the tender, dewy fields, with their ineffable +earthy smell, until I reach the little church at the foot of the +grey-green down. Here, every Sunday, a young priest from a neighbouring +village says Mass for the tiny hamlet, where all are very old or very +young—for the heyday of life has no part under the long shadow of the +hills, but is away at sea or in service. There is a beautiful seemliness +in the extreme youth of the priest who serves these aged children of God. +He bends to communicate them with the reverent tenderness of a son, and +reads with the careful intonation of far-seeing love. To the old people +he is the son of their old age, God-sent to guide their tottering +footsteps along the highway of foolish wayfarers; and he, with his youth +and strength, wishes no better task. Service ended, we greet each other +friendly—for men should not be strange in the acre of God; and I pass +through the little hamlet and out and up on the grey down beyond. Here, +at the last gate, I pause for breakfast; and then up and on with +quickening pulse, and evergreen memory of the weary war-worn Greeks who +broke rank to greet the great blue Mother-way that led to home. I stand +on the summit hatless, the wind in my hair, the smack of salt on my +cheek, all round me rolling stretches of cloud-shadowed down, no sound +but the shrill mourn of the peewit and the gathering of the sea. + +The hours pass, the shadows lengthen, the sheep-bells clang; and I lie in +my niche under the stunted hawthorn watching the to and fro of the sea, +and Æolus shepherding his white sheep across the blue. I love the sea +with its impenetrable fathoms, its wash and undertow, and rasp of shingle +sucked anew. I love it for its secret dead in the Caverns of Peace, of +which account must be given when the books are opened and earth and +heaven have fled away. Yet in my love there is a paradox, for as I watch +the restless, ineffective waves I think of the measureless, reflective +depths of the still and silent Sea of Glass, of the dead, small and +great, rich or poor, with the works which follow them, and of the Voice +as the voice of many waters, when the multitude of one mind rends heaven +with alleluia: and I lie so still that I almost feel the kiss of White +Peace on my mouth. Later still, when the flare of the sinking sun has +died away and the stars rise out of a veil of purple cloud, I take my way +home, down the slopes, through the hamlet, and across miles of sleeping +fields; over which night has thrown her shifting web of mist—home to the +little attic, the deep, cool well, the kindly wrinkled face with its +listening eyes—peace in my heart and thankfulness for the rhythm of the +road. + +Monday brings the joy of work, second only to the Sabbath of rest, and I +settle to my heap by the white gate. Soon I hear the distant stamp of +horsehoofs, heralding the grind and roll of the wheels which reaches me +later—a heavy flour-waggon with a team of four great gentle horses, gay +with brass trappings and scarlet ear-caps. On the top of the craftily +piled sacks lies the white-clad waggoner, a pink in his mouth which he +mumbles meditatively, and the reins looped over the inactive whip—why +should he drive a willing team that knows the journey and responds as +strenuously to a cheery chirrup as to the well-directed lash? We greet +and pass the time of day, and as he mounts the rise he calls back a +warning of coming rain. I am already white with dust as he with flour, +sacramental dust, the outward and visible sign of the stir and beat of +the heart of labouring life. + +Next to pass down the road is an anxious ruffled hen, her speckled breast +astir with maternal troubles. She walks delicately, lifting her feet +high and glancing furtively from side to side with comb low dressed. The +sight of man, the heartless egg-collector, from whose haunts she has +fled, wrings from her a startled cluck, and she makes for the white gate, +climbs through, and disappears. I know her feelings too well to intrude. +Many times already has she hidden herself, amassed four or five precious +treasures, brooding over them with anxious hope; and then, after a brief +desertion to seek the necessary food, she has returned to find her +efforts at concealment vain, her treasures gone. At last, with the +courage of despair she has resolved to brave the terrors of the unknown +and seek a haunt beyond the tyranny of man. I will watch over her from +afar, and when her mother-hope is fulfilled I will marshal her and her +brood back to the farm where she belongs; for what end I care not to +think, it is of the mystery which lies at the heart of things; and we are +all God’s beasts, says St Augustine. + +Here is my stone-song, a paraphrase of the Treasure Motif. + + [Picture: Music score: F# dotted crotchet, F# quaver, F# quaver, F# + dotted crotchet, D crotchet, E crotchet. This bar is then repeated once + more] + +What a wonderful work Wagner has done for humanity in translating the +toil of life into the readable script of music! For those who seek the +tale of other worlds his magic is silent; but earth-travail under his +wand becomes instinct with rhythmic song to an accompaniment of the +elements, and the blare and crash of the bottomless pit itself. The +Pilgrim’s March is the sad sound of footsore men; the San Graal the +tremulous yearning of servitude for richer, deeper bondage. The yellow, +thirsty flames lick up the willing sacrifice, the water wails the secret +of the river and the sea; the birds and beasts, the shepherd with his +pipe, the underground life in rocks and caverns, all cry their message to +this nineteenth-century toiling, labouring world—and to me as I mend my +road. + +Two tramps come and fling themselves by me as I eat my noonday meal. The +one, red-eyed, furtive, lies on his side with restless, clutching hands +that tear and twist and torture the living grass, while his lips mutter +incoherently. The other sits stooped, bare-footed, legs wide apart, his +face grey, almost as grey as his stubbly beard; and it is not long since +Death looked him in the eyes. He tells me querulously of a two hundred +miles tramp since early spring, of search for work, casual jobs with more +kicks than halfpence, and a brief but blissful sojourn in a hospital bed, +from which he was dismissed with sentence passed upon him. For himself, +he is determined to die on the road under a hedge, where a man can see +and breathe. His anxiety is all for his fellow; _he_ has said he will +“do for a man”; he wants to “swing,” to get out of his “dog’s life.” I +watch him as he lies, this Ishmael and would-be Lamech. Ignorance, +hunger, terror, the exhaustion of past generations, have done their work. +The man is mad, and would kill his fellowman. + +Presently we part, and the two go, dogged and footsore, down the road +which is to lead them into the great silence. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +YESTERDAY was a day of encounters. + +First, early in the morning, a young girl came down the road on a +bicycle. Her dressguard was loose, and she stopped to ask for a piece of +string. When I had tied it for her she looked at me, at my worn dusty +clothes and burnt face; and then she took a Niphetos rose from her belt +and laid it shyly in my dirty disfigured palm. I bared my head, and +stood hat in hand looking after her as she rode away up the hill. Then I +took my treasure and put it in a nest of cool dewy grass under the hedge. +_Ecce ancilla Domini_. + +My next visitor was a fellow-worker on his way to a job at the +cross-roads. He stood gazing meditatively at my heap of stones. + +“Ow long ’ave yer bin at this job that y’ere in such a hurry?” + +I stayed my hammer to answer—“Four months.” + +“Seen better days?” + +“Never,” I said emphatically, and punctuated the remark with a stone +split neatly in four. + +The man surveyed me in silence for a moment; then he said slowly, “Mean +ter say yer like crackin’ these blamed stones to fill ’oles some other +fool’s made?” + +I nodded. + +“Well, that beats everything. Now, I ’_ave_ seen better days; worked in +a big brewery over near Maidstone—a town that, and something doing; and +now, ’ere I am, ’ammering me ’eart out on these blasted stones for a bit +o’ bread and a pipe o’ baccy once a week—it ain’t good enough.” He +pulled a blackened clay from his pocket and began slowly filling it with +rank tobacco; then he lit it carefully behind his battered hat, put the +spent match back in his pocket, rose to his feet, hitched his braces, +and, with a silent nod to me, went on to his job. + +Why do we give these tired children, whose minds move slowly, whose eyes +are holden that they cannot read the Book, whose hearts are full of sore +resentment against they know not what, such work as this to do—hammering +their hearts out for a bit of bread? All the pathos of unreasoning +labour rings in these few words. We fit the collar on unwilling necks; +and when their service is over we bid them go out free; but we break the +good Mosaic law and send them away empty. What wonder there is so little +willing service, so few ears ready to be thrust through against the +master’s door. + +The swift stride of civilisation is leaving behind individual effort, and +turning man into the Dæmon of a machine. To and fro in front of the long +loom, lifting a lever at either end, paces he who once with painstaking +intelligence drove the shuttle. _Then_ he tasted the joy of completed +work, that which his eye had looked upon, and his hands had handled; now +his work is as little finished as the web of Penelope. Once the reaper +grasped the golden corn stems, and with dexterous sweep of sickle set +free the treasure of the earth. Once the creatures of the field were +known to him, and his eye caught the flare of scarlet and blue as the +frail poppies and sturdy corn-cockles laid down their beauty at his feet; +now he sits serene on Juggernaut’s car, its guiding Dæmon, and the field +is silent to him. + +As with the web and the grain so with the wood and stone in the +treasure-house of our needs. The ground was accursed _for our sake_ that +in the sweat of our brow we might eat bread. Now the many live in the +brain-sweat of the few; and it must be so, for as little as great King +Cnut could stay the sea until it had reached the appointed place, so +little can we raise a barrier to the wave of progress, and say, “Thus far +and no further shalt thou come.” + +What then? This at least; if we live in an age of mechanism let us see +to it that we are a race of intelligent mechanics; and if man is to be +the Dæmon of a machine let him know the setting of the knives, the rise +of the piston, the part that each wheel and rod plays in the economy of +the whole, the part that he himself plays, co-operating with it. Then, +when he has lived and served intelligently, let us give him of our flocks +and of our floor that he may learn to rest in the lengthening shadows +until he is called to his work above. + +So I sat, hammering out my thoughts, and with them the conviction that +stonebreaking should be allotted to minor poets or vagrant children of +nature like myself, never to such tired folk as my poor mate at the +cross-roads and his fellows. + +At noon, when I stopped for my meal, the sun was baking the hard white +road in a pitiless glare. Several waggons and carts passed, the horses +sweating and straining, with drooping, fly-tormented ears. The men for +the most part nodded slumberously on the shaft, seeking the little +shelter the cart afforded; but one shuffled in the white dust, with an +occasional chirrup and friendly pressure on the tired horse’s neck. + +Then an old woman and a small child appeared in sight, both with enormous +sun-bonnets and carrying baskets. As they came up with me the woman +stopped and swept her face with her hand, while the child, depositing the +basket in the dust with great care, wiped her little sticky fingers on +her pinafore. Then the shady hedge beckoned them and they came and sat +down near me. The woman looked about seventy, tall, angular, dauntless, +good for another ten years of hard work. The little maid—her only +grandchild, she told me—was just four, her father away soldiering, and +the mother died in childbed, so for four years the child had known no +other guardian or playmate than the old woman. She was not the least +shy, but had the strange self-possession which comes from associating +with one who has travelled far on life’s journey. + +“I couldn’t leave her alone in the house,” said her grandmother, “and she +wouldn’t leave the kitten for fear it should be lonesome”—with a +humorous, tender glance at the child—“but it’s a long tramp in the heat +for the little one, and we’ve another mile to go.” + +“Will you let her bide here till you come back?” I said. “She’ll be all +right by me.” + +The old lady hesitated. + +“Will ’ee stay by him, dearie?” she said. + +The small child nodded, drew from her miniature pocket a piece of +sweetstuff, extracted from the basket a small black cat, and settled in +for the afternoon. Her grandmother rose, took her basket, and, with a +nod and “Thank ’ee kindly, mister,” went off down the road. + +I went back to my work a little depressed—why had I not white hair?—for a +few minutes had shown me that I was not old enough for the child despite +my forty years. She was quite happy with the little black cat, which lay +in the small lap blinking its yellow eyes at the sun; and presently an +old man came by, lame and bent, with gnarled twisted hands, leaning +heavily on his stick. + +He greeted me in a high, piping voice, limped across to the child, and +sat down. “Your little maid, mister?” he said. + +I explained. + +“Ah,” he said, “I’ve left a little darlin’ like this at ’ome. It’s ’ard +on us old folks when we’re one too many; but the little mouths must be +filled, and my son, ’e said ’e didn’t see they could keep me on the +arf-crown, with another child on the way; so I’m tramping to N—, to the +House; but it’s a ’ard pinch, leavin’ the little ones.” + +I looked at him—a typical countryman, with white hair, mild blue eyes, +and a rosy, childish, unwrinkled face. + +“I’m eighty-four,” he went on, “and terrible bad with the rheumatics and +my chest. Maybe it’ll not be long before the Lord remembers me.” + +The child crept close and put a sticky little hand confidingly into the +tired old palm. The two looked strangely alike, for the world seems much +the same to those who leave it behind as to those who have but taken the +first step on its circular pathway. + +“’Ook at my kitty,” she said, pointing to the small creature in her lap. +Then, as the old man touched it with trembling fingers she went on—“’Oo +isn’t my grandad; he’s away in the sky, but I’ll kiss ’oo.” + +I worked on, hearing at intervals the old piping voice and the +child-treble, much of a note; and thinking of the blessings vouchsafed to +the simple old age which crowns a harmless working-life spent in the +fields. The two under the hedge had everything in common and were +boundlessly content together, the sting of the knowledge of good and evil +past for the one, and for the other still to come; while I stood on the +battlefield of the world, the flesh, and the devil, though, thank God, +with my face to the foe. + +The old man sat resting: I had promised him a lift with my friend the +driver of the flour-cart, and he was almost due when the child’s +grandmother came down the road. + +When she saw my other visitor she stood amazed. + +“What, Richard Hunton, that worked with my old man years ago up at +Ditton, whatever are you doin’ all these miles from your own place?” + +“Is it Eliza Jakes?” + +He looked at her dazed, doubtful. + +“An’ who else should it be? Where’s your memory gone, Richard Hunton, +and you not such a great age either? Where are you stayin’?” + +Shame overcame him; his lips trembled, his mild blue eyes filled with +tears. I told the tale as I had heard it, and Mrs Jakes’s indignation +was good to see. + +“Not keep you on ’alf a crown! Send you to the House! May the Lord +forgive them! You wouldn’t eat no more than a fair-sized cat, and not +long for this world either, that’s plain to see. No, Richard Hunton, you +don’t go to the House while I’m above ground; it’d make my good man turn +to think of it. You’ll come ’ome with me and the little ’un there. I’ve +my washin’, and a bit put by for a rainy day, and a bed to spare, and the +Lord and the parson will see I don’t come to want.” + +She stopped breathless, her defensive motherhood in arms. + +The old man said quaveringly, in the pathetic, grudging phrase of the +poor, which veils their gratitude while it testifies their independence, +“Maybe I might as well.” He rose with difficulty, picked up his bundle +and stick, the small child replaced the kitten in its basket, and thrust +her hand in her new friend’s. + +“Then ’oo _is_ grandad tum back,” she said. + +Mrs Jakes had been fumbling in her pocket, and extracted a penny, which +she pressed on me. + +“It’s little enough, mister,” she said. + +Then, as I tried to return it: “Nay, I’ve enough, and yours is poor paid +work.” + +I hope I shall always be able to keep that penny; and as I watched the +three going down the dusty white road, with the child in the middle, I +thanked God for the Brotherhood of the Poor. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +YESTERDAY a funeral passed, from the work-house at N—, a quaint sepulture +without solemnities. The rough, ungarnished coffin of stained deal lay +bare and unsightly on the floor of an old market-cart; a woman sat +beside, steadying it with her feet. The husband drove; and the most +depressed of the three was the horse, a broken-kneed, flea-bitten grey. +It was pathetic, this bringing home in death of the old father whom, +while he lived, they had been too poor to house; it was at no small +sacrifice that they had spared him that terror of old age, a pauper’s +grave, and brought him to lie by his wife in our quiet churchyard. They +felt no emotion, this husband and wife, only a dull sense of filial duty +done, respectability preserved; and above and through all, the bitter but +necessary counting the cost of this last bed. + +It is strange how pagan many of us are in our beliefs. True, the funeral +libations have made way for the comfortable bake-meats; still, to the +large majority Death is Pluto, king of the dark Unknown whence no +traveller returns, rather than Azrael, brother and friend, lord of this +mansion of life. Strange how men shun him as he waits in the shadow, +watching our puny straining after immortality, sending his comrade sleep +to prepare us for himself. When the hour strikes he comes—very gently, +very tenderly, if we will but have it so—folds the tired hands together, +takes the way-worn feet in his broad strong palm; and lifting us in his +wonderful arms he bears us swiftly down the valley and across the waters +of Remembrance. + +Very pleasant art thou, O Brother Death, thy love is wonderful, passing +the love of women. + + * * * * * + +To-day I have lived in a whirl of dust. To-morrow is the great annual +Cattle Fair at E—, and through the long hot hours the beasts from all the +district round have streamed in broken procession along my road, to +change hands or to die. Surely the lordship over creation implies wise +and gentle rule for intelligent use, not the pursuit of a mere immediate +end, without any thought of community in the great sacrament of life. + +For the most part mystery has ceased for this working Western world, and +with it reverence. Coventry Patmore says: “God clothes Himself actually +and literally with His whole creation. Herbs take up and assimilate +minerals, beasts assimilate herbs, and God, in the Incarnation and its +proper Sacrament, assimilates us, who, says St Augustine, ‘are God’s +beasts.’” It is man in his blind self-seeking who separates woof from +weft in the living garment of God, and loses the more as he neglects the +outward and visible signs of a world-wide grace. + +In olden days the herd led his flock, going first in the post of danger +to defend the creatures he had weaned from their natural habits for his +various uses. Now that good relationship has ceased for us to exist, man +drives the beasts before him, means to his end, but with no harmony +between end and means. All day long the droves of sheep pass me on their +lame and patient way, no longer freely and instinctively following a +protector and forerunner, but _driven_, impelled by force and resistless +will—the same will which once went before without force. They are all +trimmed as much as possible to one pattern, and all make the same sad +plaint. It is a day on which to thank God for the unknown tongue. The +drover and his lad in dusty blue coats plod along stolidly, deaf and +blind to all but the way before them; no longer wielding the crook, +instrument of deliverance, or at most of gentle compulsion, but armed +with a heavy stick and mechanically dealing blows on the short thick +fleeces; without evil intent because without thought—it is the ritual of +the trade. + +Of all the poor dumb pilgrims of the road the bullocks are the most +terrible to see. They are not patient, but go most unwillingly with +lowered head and furtive sideways motion, in their eyes a horror of great +fear. The sleek cattle, knee deep in pasture, massed at the gate, and +stared mild-eyed and with inquiring bellow at the retreating drove; but +these passed without answer on to the Unknown, and for them it spelt +death. + +Behind a squadron of sleek, well-fed cart-horses, formed in fours, with +straw braid in mane and tail, came the ponies, for the most part a merry +company. Long strings of rusty, shaggy two-year-olds, unbroken, unkempt, +the short Down grass still sweet on their tongues; full of fun, frolic, +and wickedness, biting and pulling, casting longing eyes at the +hedgerows. The boys appear to recognise them as kindred spirits, and are +curiously forbearing and patient. Soon both ponies and boys vanish in a +white whirl, and a long line of carts, which had evidently waited for the +dust to subside, comes slowly up the incline. For the most part they +carry the pigs and fowls, carriage folk of the road. The latter are hot, +crowded, and dusty under the open netting; the former for the most part +cheerfully remonstrative. + +I drew a breath of relief as the noise of wheels died away and my road +sank into silence. The hedgerows are no longer green but white and +choked with dust, a sight to move good sister Rain to welcome tears. The +birds seem to have fled before the noisy confusion. I wonder whether my +snake has seen and smiled at the clumsy ruling of the lord he so little +heeds? I turned aside through the gate to plunge face and hands into the +cool of the sheltered grass that side the hedge, and then rested my eyes +on the stretch of green I had lacked all day. The rabbits had apparently +played and browsed unmindful of the stir, and were still flirting their +white tails along the hedgerows; a lark rose, another and another, and I +went back to my road. Peace still reigned, for the shadows were +lengthening, and there would be little more traffic for the fair. I +turned to my work, grateful for the stillness, and saw on the white +stretch of road a lone old man and a pig. Surely I knew that tall figure +in the quaint grey smock, surely I knew the face, furrowed like nature’s +face in springtime, and crowned by a round, soft hat? And the pig, the +black pig walking decorously free? Ay, I knew them. + +In the early spring I took a whole holiday and a long tramp; and towards +afternoon, tired and thirsty, sought water at a little lonely cottage +whose windows peered and blinked under overhanging brows of thatch. I +had, not the water I asked for, but milk and a bowl of sweet porridge for +which I paid only thanks; and stayed for a chat with my kindly hosts. +They were a quaint old couple of the kind rarely met with nowadays. They +enjoyed a little pension from the Squire and a garden in which vegetables +and flowers lived side by side in friendliest fashion. Bees worked and +sang over the thyme and marjoram, blooming early in a sunny nook; and in +a homely sty lived a solemn black pig, a pig with a history. + +It was no common utilitarian pig, but the honoured guest of the old +couple, and it knew it. A year before, their youngest and only surviving +child, then a man of five-and-twenty, had brought his mother the result +of his savings in the shape of a fine young pig: a week later he lay dead +of the typhoid that scourged Maidstone. Hence the pig was sacred, cared +for and loved by this Darby and Joan. + +“Ee be mos’ like a child to me and the mother, an’ mos’ as sensible as a +Christian, ee be,” the old man had said; and I could hardly credit my +eyes when I saw the tall bent figure side by side with the black pig, +coming along my road on such a day. + +I hailed the old man, and both turned aside; but he gazed at me without +remembrance. + +I spoke of the pig and its history. He nodded wearily. “Ay, ay, lad, +you’ve got it; ’tis poor Dick’s pig right enow.” + +“But you’re never going to take it to E—?” + +“Ay, but I be, and comin’ back alone, if the Lord be marciful. The +missus has been terrible bad this two mouths and more; Squire’s in +foreign parts; and food-stuffs such as the old woman wants is hard buying +for poor folks. The stocking’s empty, now ’tis the pig must go, and I +believe he’d be glad for to do the missus a turn; she were terrible good +to him, were the missus, and fond, too. I dursn’t tell her he was to go; +she’d sooner starve than lose poor Dick’s pig. Well, we’d best be +movin’; ’tis a fairish step.” + +The pig followed comprehending and docile, and as the quaint couple +passed from sight I thought I heard Brother Death stir in the shadow. He +is a strong angel and of great pity. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +THERE is always a little fire of wood on the open hearth in the kitchen +when I get home at night; the old lady says it is “company” for her, and +sits in the lonely twilight, her knotted hands lying quiet on her lap, +her listening eyes fixed on the burning sticks. + +I wonder sometimes whether she hears music in the leap and lick of the +fiery tongues, music such as he of Bayreuth draws from the violins till +the hot energy of the fire spirit is on us, embodied in sound. + +Surely she hears some voice, that lonely old woman on whom is set the +seal of great silence? + +It is a great truth tenderly said that God builds the nest for the blind +bird; and may it not be that He opens closed eyes and unstops deaf ears +to sights and sounds from which others by these very senses are debarred? + +Here the best of us see through a mist of tears men as trees walking; it +is only in the land which is very far off and yet very near that we shall +have fulness of sight and see the King in His beauty; and I cannot think +that any listening ears listen in vain. + +The coppice at our back is full of birds, for it is far from the road and +they nest there undisturbed year after year. Through the still night I +heard the nightingales calling, calling, until I could bear it no longer +and went softly out into the luminous dark. + +The little wood was manifold with sound, I heard my little brothers who +move by night rustling in grass and tree. A hedgehog crossed my path +with a dull squeak, the bats shrilled high to the stars, a white owl +swept past me crying his hunting note, a beetle boomed suddenly in my +face; and above and through it all the nightingales sang—and sang! + +The night wind bent the listening trees, and the stars yearned earthward +to hear the song of deathless love. Louder and louder the wonderful +notes rose and fell in a passion of melody; and then sank to rest on that +low thrilling call which it is said Death once heard, and stayed his +hand. + +They will scarcely sing again this year, these nightingales, for they are +late on the wing as it is. It seems as if on such nights they sang as +the swan sings, knowing it to be the last time—with the lavish note of +one who bids an eternal farewell. + +At last there was silence. Sitting under the big beech tree, the giant +of the coppice, I rested my tired self in the lap of mother earth, +breathed of her breath and listened to her voice in the quickening +silence until my flesh came again as the flesh of a little child, for it +is true recreation to sit at the footstool of God wrapped in a fold of +His living robe, the while night smoothes our tired face with her healing +hands. + +The grey dawn awoke and stole with trailing robes across earth’s floor. +At her footsteps the birds roused from sleep and cried a greeting; the +sky flushed and paled conscious of coming splendour; and overhead a file +of swans passed with broad strong flight to the reeded waters of the +sequestered pool. + +Another hour of silence while the light throbbed and flamed in the east; +then the larks rose harmonious from a neighbouring field, the rabbits +scurried with ears alert to their morning meal, the day had begun. + +I passed through the coppice and out into the fields beyond. The dew lay +heavy on leaf and blade and gossamer, a cool fresh wind swept clear over +dale and down from the sea, and the clover field rippled like a silvery +lake in the breeze. + +There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the unused day, something +beautiful in the fact that it is still untouched, unsoiled; and town and +country share alike in this loveliness. At half-past three on a June +morning even London has not assumed her responsibilities, but smiles and +glows lighthearted and smokeless under the caresses of the morning sun. + +Five o’clock. The bell rings out crisp and clear from the monastery +where the Bedesmen of St Hugh watch and pray for the souls on this +labouring forgetful earth. Every hour the note of comfort and warning +cries across the land, tells the Sanctus, the Angelus, and the Hours of +the Passion, and calls to remembrance and prayer. + +When the wind is north, the sound carries as far as my road, and +companies me through the day; and if to His dumb children God in His +mercy reckons work as prayer, most certainly those who have forged +through the ages an unbroken chain of supplication and thanksgiving will +be counted among the stalwart labourers of the house of the Lord. + +Sun and bell together are my only clock: it is time for my water drawing; +and gathering a pile of mushrooms, children of the night, I hasten home. + +The cottage is dear to me in its quaint untidiness and want of rectitude, +dear because we are to be its last denizens, last of the long line of +toilers who have sweated and sown that others might reap, and have passed +away leaving no trace. + +I once saw a tall cross in a seaboard churchyard, inscribed, “To the +memory of the unknown dead who have perished in these waters.” There +might be one in every village sleeping-place to the unhonoured many who +made fruitful the land with sweat and tears. It is a consolation to +think that when we look back on this stretch of life’s road from beyond +the first milestone, which, it is instructive to remember, is always a +grave, we may hope to see the work of this world with open eyes, and to +judge of it with a due sense of proportion. + +A bee with laden honey-bag hummed and buzzed in the hedge as I got ready +for work, importuning the flowers for that which he could not carry, and +finally giving up the attempt in despair fell asleep on a buttercup, the +best place for his weary little velvet body. In five minutes—they may +have been five hours to him—he awoke a new bee, sensible and +clear-sighted, and flew blithely away to the hive with his sufficiency—an +example this weary world would be wise to follow. + +My road has been lonely to-day. A parson came by in the afternoon, a +stranger in the neighbourhood, for he asked his way. He talked awhile, +and with kindly rebuke said it was sad to see a man of my education +brought so low, which shows how the outside appearance may mislead the +prejudiced observer. “Was it misfortune?” “Nay, the best of good luck,” +I answered, gaily. + +The good man with beautiful readiness sat down on a heap of stones and +bade me say on. “Read me a sermon in stone,” he said, simply; and I +stayed my hand to read. + +He listened with courteous intelligence. + +“You hold a roadmender has a vocation?” he asked. + +“As the monk or the artist, for, like both, he is universal. The world +is his home; he serves all men alike, ay, and for him the beasts have +equal honour with the men. His soul is ‘bound up in the bundle of life’ +with all other souls, he sees his father, his mother, his brethren in the +children of the road. For him there is nothing unclean, nothing common; +the very stones cry out that they serve.” + +Parson nodded his head. + +“It is all true,” he said; “beautifully true. But need such a view of +life necessitate the work of roadmending? Surely all men should be +roadmenders.” + +O wise parson, so to read the lesson of the road! + +“It is true,” I answered; “but some of us find our salvation in the +actual work, and earn our bread better in this than in any other way. No +man is dependent on our earning, all men on our work. We are ‘rich +beyond the dreams of avarice’ because we have all that we need, and yet +we taste the life and poverty of the very poor. We are, if you will, +uncloistered monks, preaching friars who speak not with the tongue, +disciples who hear the wise words of a silent master.” + +“Robert Louis Stevenson was a roadmender,” said the wise parson. + +“Ay, and with more than his pen,” I answered. “I wonder was he ever so +truly great, so entirely the man we know and love, as when he inspired +the chiefs to make a highway in the wilderness. Surely no more fitting +monument could exist to his memory than the Road of Gratitude, cut, laid, +and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of Samoa.” + +Parson nodded. + +“He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out from intelligent +participation in the world’s brotherhood.” He filled his pipe, thinking +the while, then he held out his pouch to me. + +“Try some of this baccy,” he said; “Sherwood of Magdalen sent it me from +some outlandish place.” + +I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to the lot of few +roadmenders. + +He rose to go. + +“I wish I could come and break stones,” he said, a little wistfully. + +“Nay,” said I, “few men have such weary roadmending as yours, and perhaps +you need my road less than most men, and less than most parsons.” + +We shook hands, and he went down the road and out of my life. + +He little guessed that I knew Sherwood, ay, and knew him too, for had not +Sherwood told me of the man he delighted to honour. + +Ah, well! I am no Browning Junior, and Sherwood’s name is not Sherwood. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +AWHILE ago I took a holiday; mouched, played truant from my road. Jem +the waggoner hailed me as he passed—he was going to the mill—would I ride +with him and come back atop of the full sacks? + +I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon white and +fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself down on the empty +flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin framed the long vista of my road +with the downs beyond; and I lay in the cool dark, caressed by the fresh +breeze in its thoroughfare, soothed by the strong monotonous tramp of the +great grey team and the music of the jangling harness. + +Jem walked at the leaders’ heads; it is his rule when the waggon is +empty, a rule no “company” will make him break. At first I regretted it, +but soon discovered I learnt to know him better so, as he plodded along, +his thickset figure slightly bent, his hands in his pockets, his whip +under one arm, whistling hymn tunes in a low minor, while the great +horses answered to his voice without touch of lash or guiding rein. + +I lay as in a blissful dream and watched my road unfold. The sun set the +pine-boles aflare where the hedge is sparse, and stretched the long +shadows of the besom poplars in slanting bars across the white highway; +the roadside gardens smiled friendly with their trim-cut laurels and rows +of stately sunflowers—a seemly proximity this, Daphne and Clytie, sisters +in experience, wrapped in the warm caress of the god whose wooing they +need no longer fear. Here and there we passed little groups of women and +children off to work in the early cornfields, and Jem paused in his fond +repetition of “The Lord my pasture shall prepare” to give them good-day. + +It is like Life, this travelling backwards—that which has been, alone +visible—like Life, which is after all, retrospective with a steady moving +on into the Unknown, Unseen, until Faith is lost in Sight and experience +is no longer the touchstone of humanity. The face of the son of Adam is +set on the road his brothers have travelled, marking their landmarks, +tracing their journeyings; but with the eyes of a child of God he looks +forward, straining to catch a glimpse of the jewelled walls of his future +home, the city “Eternal in the Heavens.” + +Presently we left my road for the deep shade of a narrow country way +where the great oaks and beeches meet overhead and no hedge-clipper sets +his hand to stay nature’s profusion; and so by pleasant lanes scarce the +waggon’s width across, now shady, now sunny, here bordered by thickset +coverts, there giving on fruitful fields, we came at length to the mill. + +I left Jem to his business with the miller and wandered down the flowery +meadow to listen to the merry clack of the stream and the voice of the +waters on the weir. The great wheel was at rest, as I love best to see +it in the later afternoon; the splash and churn of the water belong +rather to the morning hours. It is the chief mistake we make in +portioning out our day that we banish rest to the night-time, which is +for sleep and recreating, instead of setting apart the later afternoon +and quiet twilight hours for the stretching of weary limbs and repose of +tired mind after a day’s toil that should begin and end at five. + +The little stone bridge over the mill-stream is almost on a level with +the clear running water, and I lay there and gazed at the huge wheel +which, under multitudinous forms and uses, is one of the world’s wonders, +because one of the few things we imitative children have not learnt from +nature. Is it perchance a memory out of that past when Adam walked +clear-eyed in Paradise and talked with the Lord in the cool of the day? +Did he see then the flaming wheels instinct with service, wondrous +messengers of the Most High vouchsafed in vision to the later prophets? + +Maybe he did, and going forth from before the avenging sword of his own +forging to the bitterness of an accursed earth, took with him this bright +memory of perfect, ceaseless service, and so fashioned our labouring +wheel—pathetic link with the time of his innocency. It is one of many +unanswered questions, good to ask because it has no answer, only the +suggestion of a train of thought: perhaps we are never so receptive as +when with folded hands we say simply, “This is a great mystery.” I +watched and wondered until Jem called, and I had to leave the rippling +weir and the water’s side, and the wheel with its untold secret. + +The miller’s wife gave me tea and a crust of home-made bread, and the +miller’s little maid sat on my knee while I told the sad tale of a little +pink cloud separated from its parents and teazed and hunted by +mischievous little airs. To-morrow, if I mistake not, her garden will be +wet with its tears, and, let us hope, point a moral; for the tale had its +origin in a frenzied chicken driven from the side of an anxious mother, +and pursued by a sturdy, relentless figure in a white sun-bonnet. + +The little maid trotted off, greatly sobered, to look somewhat +prematurely for the cloud’s tears; and I climbed to my place at the top +of the piled-up sacks, and thence watched twilight pass to starlight +through my narrow peep, and, so watching, slept until Jem’s voice hailed +me from Dreamland, and I went, only half awake, across the dark fields +home. + +Autumn is here and it is already late. He has painted the hedges russet +and gold, scarlet and black, and a tangle of grey; now he has damp brown +leaves in his hair and frost in his finger-tips. + +It is a season of contrasts; at first all is stir and bustle, the +ingathering of man and beast; barn and rickyard stand filled with golden +treasure; at the farm the sound of threshing; in wood and copse the +squirrels busied ’twixt tree and storehouse, while the ripe nuts fall +with thud of thunder rain. When the harvesting is over, the fruit +gathered, the last rick thatched, there comes a pause. Earth strips off +her bright colours and shows a bare and furrowed face; the dead leaves +fall gently and sadly through the calm, sweet air; grey mists drape the +fields and hedges. The migratory birds have left, save a few late +swallows; and as I sit at work in the soft, still rain, I can hear the +blackbird’s melancholy trill and the thin pipe of the redbreast’s winter +song—the air is full of the sound of farewell. + +Forethought and preparation for the Future which shall be; farewell, +because of the Future which may never be—for us; “Man, thou hast goods +laid up for many years, and it is well; but, remember, this night _thy_ +soul may be required”; is the unvoiced lesson of autumn. There is +growing up among us a great fear; it stares at us white, wide-eyed, from +the faces of men and women alike—the fear of pain, mental and bodily +pain. For the last twenty years we have waged war with suffering—a noble +war when fought in the interest of the many, but fraught with great +danger to each individual man. It is the fear which should not be, +rather than the ‘hope which is in us,’ that leads men in these days to +drape Death in a flowery mantle, to lay stress on the shortness of +parting, the speedy reunion, to postpone their good-byes until the last +moment, or avoid saying them altogether; and this fear is a poor, ignoble +thing, unworthy of those who are as gods, knowing good and evil. We are +still paying the price of that knowledge; suffering in both kinds is a +substantial part of it, and brings its own healing. Let us pay like men, +our face to the open heaven, neither whimpering like children in the +dark, nor lulled to unnecessary oblivion by some lethal drug; for it is +manly, not morbid, to dare to taste the pungent savour of pain, the +lingering sadness of farewell which emphasises the aftermath of life; it +should have its place in all our preparation as a part of our inheritance +we dare not be without. + +There is an old couple in our village who are past work. The married +daughter has made shift to take her mother and the parish half-crown, but +there is neither room nor food for the father, and he must go to N—. If +husband and wife went together, they would be separated at the workhouse +door. The parting had to come; it came yesterday. I saw them stumbling +lamely down the road on their last journey together, walking side by side +without touch or speech, seeing and heeding nothing but a blank future. +As they passed me the old man said gruffly, “’Tis far eno’; better be +gettin’ back”; but the woman shook her head, and they breasted the hill +together. At the top they paused, shook hands, and separated; one went +on, the other turned back; and as the old woman limped blindly by I +turned away, for there are sights a man dare not look upon. She passed; +and I heard a child’s shrill voice say, “I come to look for you, gran”; +and I thanked God that there need be no utter loneliness in the world +while it holds a little child. + +Now it is my turn, and I must leave the wayside to serve in the +sheepfolds during the winter months. It is scarcely a farewell, for my +road is ubiquitous, eternal; there are green ways in Paradise and golden +streets in the beautiful City of God. Nevertheless, my heart is heavy; +for, viewed by the light of the waning year, roadmending seems a great +and wonderful work which I have poorly conceived of and meanly performed: +yet I have learnt to understand dimly the truths of three great +paradoxes—the blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, the +companionship of solitude—and so take my leave of this stretch of road, +and of you who have fared along the white highway through the medium of a +printed page. + +Farewell! It is a roadmender’s word; I cry you Godspeed to the next +milestone—and beyond. + + + + +OUT OF THE SHADOW + + +CHAPTER I + + +I AM no longer a roadmender; the stretch of white highway which leads to +the end of the world will know me no more; the fields and hedgerows, +grass and leaf stiff with the crisp rime of winter’s breath, lie beyond +my horizon; the ewes in the folding, their mysterious eyes quick with the +consciousness of coming motherhood, answer another’s voice and hand; +while I lie here, not in the lonely companionship of my expectations, but +where the shadow is bright with kindly faces and gentle hands, until one +kinder and gentler still carries me down the stairway into the larger +room. + +But now the veil was held aside and one went by crowned with the majesty +of years, wearing the ermine of an unstained rule, the purple of her +people’s loyalty. Nations stood with bated breath to see her pass in the +starlit mist of her children’s tears; a monarch—greatest of her time; an +empress—conquered men called mother; a woman—Englishmen cried queen; +still the crowned captive of her people’s heart—the prisoner of love. + +The night-goers passed under my window in silence, neither song nor shout +broke the welcome dark; next morning the workmen who went by were +strangely quiet. + + ‘VICTORIA DEI GRATIA BRITANNIARUM REGINA.’ + +Did they think of how that legend would disappear, and of all it meant, +as they paid their pennies at the coffee-stall? The feet rarely know the +true value and work of the head; but all Englishmen have been and will be +quick to acknowledge and revere Victoria by the grace of God a wise +woman, a great and loving mother. + +Years ago, I, standing at a level crossing, saw her pass. The train +slowed down and she caught sight of the gatekeeper’s little girl who had +climbed the barrier. Such a smile as she gave her! And then I caught a +quick startled gesture as she slipped from my vision; I thought +afterwards it was that she feared the child might fall. Mother first, +then Queen; even so rest came to her—not in one of the royal palaces, but +in her own home, surrounded by the immediate circle of her nearest and +dearest, while the world kept watch and ward. + +I, a shy lover of the fields and woods, longed always, should a painless +passing be vouchsafed me, to make my bed on the fragrant pine needles in +the aloneness of a great forest; to lie once again as I had lain many a +time, bathed in the bitter sweetness of the sun-blessed pines, lapped in +the manifold silence; my ear attuned to the wind of Heaven with its call +from the Cities of Peace. In sterner mood, when Love’s hand held a +scourge, I craved rather the stress of the moorland with its bleaker mind +imperative of sacrifice. To rest again under the lee of Rippon Tor swept +by the strong peat-smelling breeze; to stare untired at the long +cloud-shadowed reaches, and watch the mist-wraiths huddle and shrink +round the stones of blood; until my sacrifice too was accomplished, and +my soul had fled. A wild waste moor; a vast void sky; and naught between +heaven and earth but man, his sin-glazed eyes seeking afar the distant +light of his own heart. + +With years came counsels more profound, and the knowledge that man was no +mere dweller in the woods to follow the footsteps of the piping god, but +an integral part of an organised whole, in which Pan too has his +fulfilment. The wise Venetians knew; and read pantheism into +Christianity when they set these words round Ezekiel’s living creatures +in the altar vault of St Mark’s:— + + QUAEQUE SUB OBSCURIS DE CRISTO DICTA FIGURIS + HIS APERIRE DATUR ET IN HIS, DEUS IPSE NOTATUR. + +“Thou shalt have none other gods but me.” If man had been able to keep +this one commandment perfectly the other nine would never have been +written; instead he has comprehensively disregarded it, and perhaps never +more than now in the twentieth century. Ah, well! this world, in spite +of all its sinning, is still the Garden of Eden where the Lord walked +with man, not in the cool of evening, but in the heat and stress of the +immediate working day. There is no angel now with flaming sword to keep +the way of the Tree of Life, but tapers alight morning by morning in the +Hostel of God to point us to it; and we, who are as gods knowing good and +evil, partake of that fruit “whereof whoso eateth shall never die”; the +greatest gift or the most awful penalty—Eternal Life. + +I then, with my craving for tree and sky, held that a great capital with +its stir of life and death, of toil and strife and pleasure, was an ill +place for a sick man to wait in; a place to shrink from as a child +shrinks from the rude blow of one out of authority. Yet here, far from +moor and forest, hillside and hedgerow, in the family sitting-room of the +English-speaking peoples, the London much misunderstood, I find the +fulfilment by antithesis of all desire. For the loneliness of the +moorland, there is the warmth and companionship of London’s swift beating +heart. For silence there is sound—the sound and stir of service—for the +most part far in excess of its earthly equivalent. Against the fragrant +incense of the pines I set the honest sweat of the man whose lifetime is +the measure of his working day. “He that loveth not his brother whom he +hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath not seen?” wrote Blessed +John, who himself loved so much that he beheld the Lamb as it had been +slain from the beginning when Adam fell, and the City of God with light +most precious. The burden of corporate sin, the sword of corporate +sorrow, the joy of corporate righteousness; thus we become citizens in +the Kingdom of God, and companions of all his creatures. “It is not good +that the man should be alone,” said the Lord God. + +I live now as it were in two worlds, the world of sight, and the world of +sound; and they scarcely ever touch each other. I hear the grind of +heavy traffic, the struggle of horses on the frost-breathed ground, the +decorous jolt of omnibuses, the jangle of cab bells, the sharp warning of +bicycles at the corner, the swift rattle of costers’ carts as they go +south at night with their shouting, goading crew. All these things I +hear, and more; but I see no road, only the silent river of my heart with +its tale of wonder and years, and the white beat of seagulls’ wings in +strong inquiring flight. + +Sometimes there is naught to see on the waterway but a solitary black +hull, a very Stygian ferry-boat, manned by a solitary figure, and moving +slowly up under the impulse of the far-reaching sweeps. Then the great +barges pass with their coffined treasure, drawn by a small self-righteous +steam-tug. Later, lightened of their load, and waiting on wind and tide, +I see them swooping by like birds set free; tawny sails that mind me of +red-roofed Whitby with its northern fleet; black sails as of some +heedless Theseus; white sails that sweep out of the morning mist “like +restless gossameres.” They make the bridge, which is just within my +vision, and then away past Westminster and Blackfriars where St Paul’s +great dome lifts the cross high over a self-seeking city; past Southwark +where England’s poet illuminates in the scroll of divine wisdom the sign +of the Tabard; past the Tower with its haunting ghosts of history; past +Greenwich, fairy city, caught in the meshes of riverside mist; and then +the salt and speer of the sea, the companying with great ships, the fresh +burden. + +At night I see them again, silent, mysterious; searching the darkness +with unwinking yellow stare, led by a great green light. They creep up +under the bridge which spans the river with its watching eyes, and +vanish, crying back a warning note as they make the upper reach, or +strident hail, as a chain of kindred phantoms passes, ploughing a +contrary tide. + +Throughout the long watches of the night I follow them; and in the early +morning they slide by, their eyes pale in the twilight; while the stars +flicker and fade, and the gas lamps die down into a dull yellow blotch +against the glory and glow of a new day. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +FEBRUARY is here, February fill-dyke; the month of purification, of +cleansing rains and pulsing bounding streams, and white mist clinging +insistent to field and hedgerow so that when her veil is withdrawn +greenness may make us glad. + +The river has been uniformly grey of late, with no wind to ruffle its +surface or to speed the barges dropping slowly and sullenly down with the +tide through a blurring haze. I watched one yesterday, its useless sails +half-furled and no sign of life save the man at the helm. It drifted +stealthily past, and a little behind, flying low, came a solitary +seagull, grey as the river’s haze—a following bird. + +Once again I lay on my back in the bottom of the tarry old fishing smack, +blue sky above and no sound but the knock, knock of the waves, and the +thud and curl of falling foam as the old boat’s blunt nose breasted the +coming sea. Then Daddy Whiddon spoke. + +“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said. + +I got up, and looked across the blue field we were ploughing into white +furrows. Far away a tiny sail scarred the great solitude, and astern +came a gull flying slowly close to the water’s breast. + +Daddy Whiddon waved his pipe towards it. + +“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said, again; and again I waited; questions were +not grateful to him. + +“There be a carpse there, sure enough, a carpse driftin’ and shiftin’ on +the floor of the sea. There be those as can’t rest, poor sawls, and +her’ll be mun, her’ll be mun, and the sperrit of her is with the bürrd.” + +The clumsy boom swung across as we changed our course, and the water ran +from us in smooth reaches on either side: the bird flew steadily on. + +“What will the spirit do?” I said. + +The old man looked at me gravely. + +“Her’ll rest in the Lard’s time, in the Lard’s gude time—but now her’ll +just be follerin’ on with the bürrd.” + +The gull was flying close to us now, and a cold wind swept the sunny sea. +I shivered: Daddy looked at me curiously. + +“There be reason enough to be cawld if us did but knaw it, but I he mos’ +used to ’em, poor sawls.” He shaded his keen old blue eyes, and looked +away across the water. His face kindled. “There be a skule comin’, and +by my sawl ’tis mackerel they be drivin’.” + +I watched eagerly, and saw the dark line rise and fall in the trough of +the sea, and, away behind, the stir and rush of tumbling porpoises as +they chased their prey. + +Again we changed our tack, and each taking an oar, pulled lustily for the +beach. + +“Please God her’ll break inshore,” said Daddy Whiddon; and he shouted the +news to the idle waiting men who hailed us. + +In a moment all was stir, for the fishing had been slack. Two boats put +out with the lithe brown seine. The dark line had turned, but the school +was still behind, churning the water in clumsy haste; they were coming +in. + +Then the brit broke in silvery leaping waves on the shelving beach. The +threefold hunt was over; the porpoises turned out to sea in search of +fresh quarry; and the seine, dragged by ready hands, came slowly, +stubbornly in with its quivering treasure of fish. They had sought a +haven and found none; the brit lay dying in flickering iridescent heaps +as the bare-legged babies of the village gathered them up; and far away +over the water I saw a single grey speck; it was the following bird. + + * * * * * + +The curtain of river haze falls back; barge and bird are alike gone, and +the lamplighter has lit the first gas-lamp on the far side of the bridge. +Every night I watch him come, his progress marked by the great yellow +eyes that wake the dark. Sometimes he walks quickly; sometimes he +loiters on the bridge to chat, or stare at the dark water; but he always +comes, leaving his watchful deterrent train behind him to police the +night. + +Once Demeter in the black anguish of her desolation searched for lost +Persephone by the light of Hecate’s torch; and searching all in vain, +spurned beneath her empty feet an earth barren of her smile; froze with +set brows the merry brooks and streams; and smote forest, and plain, and +fruitful field, with the breath of her last despair, until even Iambe’s +laughing jest was still. And then when the desolation was complete, +across the wasted valley where the starveling cattle scarcely longed to +browse, came the dreadful chariot—and Persephone. The day of the +prisoner of Hades had dawned; and as the sun flamed slowly up to light +her thwarted eyes the world sprang into blossom at her feet. + +We can never be too Pagan when we are truly Christian, and the old myths +are eternal truths held fast in the Church’s net. Prometheus fetched +fire from Heaven, to be slain forever in the fetching; and lo, a Greater +than Prometheus came to fire the cresset of the Cross. Demeter waits now +patiently enough. Persephone waits, too, in the faith of the sun she +cannot see: and every lamp lit carries on the crusade which has for its +goal a sunless, moonless, city whose light is the Light of the world. + + “Lume è lassù, che visibile face + lo creatore a quella creatura, + che solo in lui vedere ha la sua pace.” + +Immediately outside my window is a lime tree—a little black skeleton of +abundant branches—in which sparrows congregate to chirp and bicker. +Farther away I have a glimpse of graceful planes, children of moonlight +and mist; their dainty robes, still more or less unsullied, gleam ghostly +in the gaslight athwart the dark. They make a brave show even in winter +with their feathery branches and swinging tassels, whereas my little tree +stands stark and uncompromising, with its horde of sooty sparrows cockney +to the last tail feather, and a pathetic inability to look anything but +black. Rain comes with strong caressing fingers, and the branches seem +no whit the cleaner for her care; but then their glistening blackness +mirrors back the succeeding sunlight, as a muddy pavement will sometimes +lap our feet in a sea of gold. The little wet sparrows are for the +moment equally transformed, for the sun turns their dun-coloured coats to +a ruddy bronze, and cries Chrysostom as it kisses each shiny beak. They +are dumb Chrysostoms; but they preach a golden gospel, for the sparrows +are to London what the rainbow was to eight saved souls out of a waste of +waters—a perpetual sign of the remembering mercies of God. + +Last night there was a sudden clatter of hoofs, a shout, and then +silence. A runaway cab-horse, a dark night, a wide crossing, and a heavy +burden: so death came to a poor woman. People from the house went out to +help; and I heard of her, the centre of an unknowing curious crowd, as +she lay bonnetless in the mud of the road, her head on the kerb. A rude +but painless death: the misery lay in her life; for this woman—worn, +white-haired, and wrinkled—had but fifty years to set against such a +condition. The policeman reported her respectable, hard-working, living +apart from her husband with a sister; but although they shared rooms, +they “did not speak,” and the sister refused all responsibility; so the +parish buried the dead woman, and thus ended an uneventful tragedy. + +Was it her own fault? If so, the greater pathos. The lonely souls that +hold out timid hands to an unheeding world have their meed of interior +comfort even here, while the sons of consolation wait on the thresh-hold +for their footfall: but God help the soul that bars its own door! It is +kicking against the pricks of Divine ordinance, the ordinance of a triune +God; whether it be the dweller in crowded street or tenement who is proud +to say, “I keep myself to myself,” or Seneca writing in pitiful +complacency, “Whenever I have gone among men, I have returned home less +of a man.” Whatever the next world holds in store, we are bidden in this +to seek and serve God in our fellow-men, and in the creatures of His +making whom He calls by name. + +It was once my privilege to know an old organ-grinder named Gawdine. He +was a hard swearer, a hard drinker, a hard liver, and he fortified +himself body and soul against the world: he even drank alone, which is an +evil sign. + +One day to Gawdine sober came a little dirty child, who clung to his +empty trouser leg—he had lost a limb years before—with a persistent +unintelligible request. He shook the little chap off with a blow and a +curse; and the child was trotting dismally away, when it suddenly turned, +ran back, and held up a dirty face for a kiss. + +Two days later Gawdine fell under a passing dray which inflicted terrible +internal injuries on him. They patched him up in hospital, and he went +back to his organ-grinding, taking with him two friends—a pain which fell +suddenly upon him to rack and rend with an anguish of crucifixion, and +the memory of a child’s upturned face. Outwardly he was the same save +that he changed the tunes of his organ, out of long-hoarded savings, for +the jigs and reels which children hold dear, and stood patiently playing +them in child-crowded alleys, where pennies are not as plentiful as +elsewhere. + +He continued to drink; it did not come within his new code to stop, since +he could “carry his liquor well;” but he rarely, if ever, swore. He told +me this tale through the throes of his anguish as he lay crouched on a +mattress on the floor; and as the grip of the pain took him he tore and +bit at his hands until they were maimed and bleeding, to keep the ready +curses off his lips. + +He told the story, but he gave no reason, offered no explanation: he has +been dead now many a year, and thus would I write his epitaph:— + +He saw the face of a little child and looked on God. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +“TWO began, in a low voice, ‘Why, the fact is, you see, Miss, this here +ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by +mistake.’” + +As I look round this room I feel sure Two, and Five, and Seven, have all +been at work on it, and made no mistakes, for round the walls runs a +frieze of squat standard rose-trees, red as red can be, and just like +those that Alice saw in the Queen’s garden. In between them are +Chaucer’s name-children, prim little daisies, peering wideawake from +green grass. This same grass has a history which I have heard. In the +original stencil for the frieze it was purely conventional like the rest, +and met in spikey curves round each tree; the painter, however, who was +doing the work, was a lover of the fields; and feeling that such grass +was a travesty, he added on his own account dainty little tussocks, and +softened the hard line into a tufted carpet, the grass growing +irregularly, bent at will by the wind. + +The result from the standpoint of conventional art is indeed disastrous; +but my sympathy and gratitude are with the painter. I see, as he saw, +the far-reaching robe of living ineffable green, of whose brilliance the +eye never has too much, and in whose weft no two threads are alike; and +shrink as he did from the conventionalising of that windswept glory. + +The sea has its crested waves of recognisable form; the river its eddy +and swirl and separate vortices; but the grass! The wind bloweth where +it listeth and the grass bows as the wind blows—“thou canst not tell +whither it goeth.” It takes no pattern, it obeys no recognised law; it +is like a beautiful creature of a thousand wayward moods, and its voice +is like nothing else in the wide world. It bids you rest and bury your +tired face in the green coolness, and breathe of its breath and of the +breath of the good earth from which man was taken and to which he will +one day return. Then, if you lend your ear and are silent minded, you +may hear wondrous things of the deep places of the earth; of life in +mineral and stone as well as in pulsing sap; of a green world as the +stars saw it before man trod it under foot—of the emerald which has its +place with the rest in the City of God. + + “What if earth + Be but the shadow of heaven, and things therein, + Each to each other like, more than on earth to thought?” + +It is a natural part of civilisation’s lust of re-arrangement that we +should be so ready to conventionalise the beauty of this world into +decorative patterns for our pilgrim tents. It is a phase, and will melt +into other phases; but it tends to the increase of artificiality, and +exists not only in art but in everything. It is no new thing for jaded +sentiment to crave the spur of the unnatural, to prefer the clever +imitation, to live in a Devachan where the surroundings appear that which +we would have them to be; but it is an interesting record of the pulse of +the present day that ‘An Englishwoman’s Love Letters’ should have taken +society by storm in the way it certainly has. + +It is a delightful book to leave about, with its vellum binding, dainty +ribbons, and the hallmark of a great publisher’s name. But when we seek +within we find love with its thousand voices and wayward moods, its shy +graces and seemly reticences, love which has its throne and robe of state +as well as the garment of the beggar maid, love which is before time was, +which knew the world when the stars took up their courses, presented to +us in gushing outpourings, the appropriate language of a woman’s heart to +the boor she delights to honour. + +“It is woman who is the glory of man,” says the author of ‘The House of +Wisdom and Love,’ “_Regina mundi_, greater, because so far the less; and +man is her head, but only as he serves his queen.” Set this sober +aphorism against the school girl love-making which kisses a man’s feet +and gaily refuses him the barren honour of having loved her first. + +There is scant need for the apologia which precedes the letters; a few +pages dispels the fear that we are prying into another’s soul. As for +the authorship, there is a woman’s influence, an artist’s poorly +concealed bias in the foreign letters; and for the rest a man’s +blunders—so much easier to see in another than to avoid oneself—writ +large from cover to cover. King Cophetua, who sends “profoundly grateful +remembrances,” has most surely written the letters he would wish to +receive. + +“Mrs Meynell!” cries one reviewer, triumphantly. Nay, the saints be good +to us, what has Mrs Meynell in common with the “Englishwoman’s” language, +style, or most unconvincing passion? Men can write as from a woman’s +heart when they are minded to do so in desperate earnestness—there is +Clarissa Harlowe and Stevenson’s Kirstie, and many more to prove it; but +when a man writes as the author of the “Love Letters” writes, I feel, as +did the painter of the frieze, that pattern-making has gone too far and +included that which, like the grass, should be spared such a convention. + +“I quite agree with you,” said the Duchess, “and the moral of that is—‘Be +what you would seem to be’—or, if you’d like to put it more simply—‘never +imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others +that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had +been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.’” And so by way of the +Queen’s garden I come back to my room again. + +My heart’s affections are still centred on my old attic, with boarded +floor and white-washed walls, where the sun blazoned a frieze of red and +gold until he travelled too far towards the north, the moon streamed in +to paint the trees in inky wavering shadows, and the stars flashed their +glory to me across the years. But now sun and moon greet me only +indirectly, and under the red roses hang pictures, some of them the dear +companions of my days. Opposite me is the Arundel print of the +Presentation, painted by the gentle “Brother of the Angels.” Priest +Simeon, a stately figure in green and gold, great with prophecy, gazes +adoringly at the Bambino he holds with fatherly care. Our Lady, in robe +of red and veil of shadowed purple, is instinct with light despite the +sombre colouring, as she stretches out hungering, awe-struck hands for +her soul’s delight. St Joseph, dignified guardian and servitor, stands +behind, holding the Sacrifice of the Poor to redeem the First-begotten. + +St Peter Martyr and the Dominican nun, gazing in rapt contemplation at +the scene, are not one whit surprised to find themselves in the presence +of eternal mysteries. In the Entombment, which hangs on the opposite +wall, St Dominic comes round the corner full of grievous amaze and +tenderest sympathy, but with no sense of shock or intrusion, for was he +not “famigliar di Cristo”? And so he takes it all in; the stone bed +empty and waiting; the Beloved cradled for the last time on His mother’s +knees to be washed, lapped round, and laid to rest as if He were again +the Babe of Bethlehem. He sees the Magdalen anointing the Sacred Feet; +Blessed John caring for the living and the Dead; and he, Dominic—hound of +the Lord—having his real, living share in the anguish and hope, the +bedding of the dearest Dead, who did but leave this earth that He might +manifest Himself more completely. + +Underneath, with a leap across the centuries, is Rossetti’s picture; +Dante this time the onlooker, Beatrice, in her pale beauty, the +death-kissed one. The same idea under different representations; the one +conceived in childlike simplicity, the other recalling, even in the +photograph, its wealth of colour and imagining; the one a world-wide +ideal, the other an individual expression of it. + +Beatrice was to Dante the inclusion of belief. She was more to him than +he himself knew, far more to him after her death than before. And, +therefore, the analogy between the pictures has at core a common reality. +“It is expedient for you that I go away,” is constantly being said to us +as we cling earthlike to the outward expression, rather than to the +inward manifestation—and blessed are those who hear and understand, for +it is spoken only to such as have been with Him from the beginning. The +eternal mysteries come into time for us individually under widely +differing forms. The tiny child mothers its doll, croons to it, spends +herself upon it, why she cannot tell you; and we who are here in our +extreme youth, never to be men and women grown in this world, nurse our +ideal, exchange it, refashion it, call it by many names; and at last in +here or hereafter we find in its naked truth the Child in the manger, +even as the Wise Men found Him when they came from the East to seek a +great King. There is but one necessary condition of this finding; we +must follow the particular manifestation of light given us, never resting +until it rests—over the place of the Child. And there is but one +insurmountable hindrance, the extinction of or drawing back from the +light truly apprehended by us. We forget this, and judge other men by +the light of our own soul. + +I think the old bishop must have understood it. He is my friend of +friends as he lies opposite my window in his alabaster sleep, clad in +pontifical robes, with unshod feet, a little island of white peace in a +many-coloured marble sea. The faithful sculptor has given every line and +wrinkle, the heavy eyelids and sunken face of tired old age, but withal +the smile of a contented child. + +I do not even know my bishop’s name, only that the work is of the +thirteenth century; but he is good to company with through the day, for +he has known darkness and light and the minds of many men; most surely, +too, he has known that God fulfils Himself in strange ways, so with the +shadow of his feet upon the polished floor he rests in peace. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +ON Sunday my little tree was limned in white and the sparrows were +craving shelter at my window from the blizzard. Now the mild thin air +brings a breath of spring in its wake and the daffodils in the garden +wait the kisses of the sun. Hand-in-hand with memory I slip away down +the years, and remember a day when I awoke at earliest dawn, for across +my sleep I had heard the lusty golden-throated trumpeters heralding the +spring. + +The air was sharp-set; a delicate rime frosted roof and road; the sea lay +hazy and still like a great pearl. Then as the sky stirred with flush +upon flush of warm rosy light, it passed from misty pearl to opal with +heart of flame, from opal to gleaming sapphire. The earth called, the +fields called, the river called—that pied piper to whose music a man +cannot stop his ears. It was with me as with the Canterbury pilgrims:— + + “So priketh hem nature in hir corages; + Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages.” + +Half an hour later I was away by the early train that carries the branch +mails and a few workmen, and was delivered at the little wayside station +with the letters. The kind air went singing past as I swung along the +reverberating road between the high tree-crowned banks which we call +hedges in merry Devon, with all the world to myself and the Brethren. A +great blackbird flew out with a loud “chook, chook,” and the red of the +haw on his yellow bill. A robin trilled from a low rose-bush; two wrens +searched diligently on a fallen tree for breakfast, quite unconcerned +when I rested a moment beside them; and a shrewmouse slipped across the +road followed directly by its mate. March violets bloomed under the +sheltered hedge with here and there a pale primrose; a frosted bramble +spray still held its autumn tints clinging to the semblance of the past; +and great branches of snowy blackthorn broke the barren hedgeway as if +spring made a mock of winter’s snows. + +Light of heart and foot with the new wine of the year I sped on again, +stray daffodils lighting the wayside, until I heard the voice of the +stream and reached the field gate which leads to the lower meadows. +There before me lay spring’s pageant; green pennons waving, dainty maids +curtseying, and a host of joyous yellow trumpeters proclaiming ‘Victory’ +to an awakened earth. They range in serried ranks right down to the +river, so that a man must walk warily to reach the water’s edge where +they stand gazing down at themselves in fairest semblance like their most +tragic progenitor, and, rising from the bright grass in their thousands, +stretch away until they melt in a golden cloud at the far end of the +misty mead. Through the field gate and across the road I see them, +starring the steep earth bank that leads to the upper copse, gleaming +like pale flames against the dark tree-boles. There they have but frail +tenure; here, in the meadows, they reign supreme. + +At the upper end of the field the river provides yet closer sanctuary for +these children of the spring. Held in its embracing arms lies an island +long and narrow, some thirty feet by twelve, a veritable untrod Eldorado, +glorious in gold from end to end, a fringe of reeds by the water’s edge, +and save for that—daffodils. A great oak stands at the meadow’s neck, an +oak with gnarled and wandering roots where a man may rest, for it is bare +of daffodils save for a group of three, and a solitary one apart growing +close to the old tree’s side. I sat down by my lonely little sister, +blue sky overhead, green grass at my feet decked, like the pastures of +the Blessèd, in glorious sheen; a sea of triumphant, golden heads tossing +blithely back as the wind swept down to play with them at his pleasure. + +It was all mine to have and to hold without severing a single slender +stem or harbouring a thought of covetousness; mine, as the whole earth +was mine, to appropriate to myself without the burden and bane of worldly +possession. “Thou sayest that I am—a King,” said the Lord before Pilate, +and “My kingdom is not of this world.” We who are made kings after His +likeness possess all things, not after this world’s fashion but in +proportion to our poverty; and when we cease to toil and spin, are +arrayed as the lilies, in a glory transcending Solomon’s. Bride +Poverty—she who climbed the Cross with Christ—stretched out eager hands +to free us from our chains, but we flee from her, and lay up treasure +against her importunity, while Amytas on his seaweed bed weeps tears of +pure pity for crave-mouth Cæsar of great possessions. + +Presently another of spring’s lovers cried across the water “Cuckoo, +cuckoo,” and the voice of the stream sang joyously in unison. It is free +from burden, this merry little river, and neither weir nor mill bars its +quick way to the sea as it completes the eternal circle, lavishing gifts +of coolness and refreshment on the children of the meadows. + +It has its birth on the great lone moor, cradled in a wonderful +peat-smelling bog, with a many-hued coverlet of soft mosses—pale gold, +orange, emerald, tawny, olive and white, with the red stain of sun-dew +and tufted cotton-grass. Under the old grey rocks which watch it rise, +yellow-eyed tormantil stars the turf, and bids “Godspeed” to the little +child of earth and sky. Thus the journey begins; and with +ever-increasing strength the stream carves a way through the dear brown +peat, wears a fresh wrinkle on the patient stones, and patters merrily +under a clapper bridge which spanned its breadth when the mistletoe +reigned and Bottor, the grim rock idol, exacted the toll of human life +that made him great. On and on goes the stream, for it may not stay; +leaving of its freshness with the great osmunda that stretches eager +roots towards the running water; flowing awhile with a brother stream, to +part again east and west as each takes up his separate burden of +service—my friend to cherish the lower meadows in their flowery +joyance—and so by the great sea-gate back to sky and earth again. + +The river of God is full of water. The streets of the City are pure +gold. Verily, here also having nothing we possess all things. + + * * * * * + +The air was keen and still as I walked back in the early evening, and a +daffodil light was in the sky as if Heaven mirrored back earth’s +radiance. Near the station some children flitted past, like little white +miller moths homing through the dusk. As I climbed the hill the moon +rode high in a golden field—it was daffodils to the last. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +THE seagulls from the upper reaches pass down the river in sober steady +flight seeking the open sea. I shall miss the swoop and circle of silver +wings in the sunlight and the plaintive call which sounds so strangely +away from rock and shore, but it is good to know that they have gone from +mudbank and murky town back to the free airs of their inheritance, to the +shadow of sun-swept cliffs and the curling crest of the wind-beaten +waves, to brood again over the great ocean of a world’s tears. + +My little tree is gemmed with buds, shy, immature, but full of promise. +The sparrows busied with nest-building in the neighbouring pipes and +gutters use it for a vantage ground, and crowd there in numbers, each +little beak sealed with long golden straw or downy feather. + +The river is heavy with hay barges, the last fruits of winter’s +storehouse; the lengthening days slowly and steadily oust the dark; the +air is loud with a growing clamour of life: spring is not only +proclaimed, but on this Feast she is crowned, and despite the warring +wind the days bring their meed of sunshine. We stand for a moment at the +meeting of the ways, the handclasp of Winter and Spring, of Sleep and +Wakening, of Life and Death; and there is between them not even the thin +line which Rabbi Jochanan on his death-bed beheld as all that divided +hell from heaven. + +“_Sphæra cujus centrum ubique_, _circumferentia nullibus_,” was said of +Mercury, that messenger of the gods who marshalled reluctant spirits to +the Underworld; and for Mercury we may write Life with Death as its great +sacrament of brotherhood and release, to be dreaded only as we dread to +partake unworthily of great benefits. Like all sacraments it has its +rightful time and due solemnities; the horror and sin of suicide lie in +the presumption of free will, the forestalling of a gift,—the sin of Eve +in Paradise, who took that which might only be given at the hand of the +Lord. It has too its physical pains, but they are those of a woman in +travail, and we remember them no more for joy that a child-man is born +into the world naked and not ashamed: beholding ourselves as we are we +shall see also the leaves of the Tree of Life set for the healing of the +nations. + +We are slowly, very slowly, abandoning our belief in sudden and violent +transitions for a surer and fuller acceptance of the doctrine of +evolution; but most of us still draw a sharp line of demarcation between +this world and the next, and expect a radical change in ourselves and our +surroundings, a break in the chain of continuity entirely contrary to the +teaching of nature and experience. In the same way we cling to the +specious untruth that we can begin over and over again in this world, +forgetting that while our sorrow and repentance bring sacramental gifts +of grace and strength, God Himself cannot, by His own limitation, rewrite +the Past. We are in our sorrow that which we have made ourselves in our +sin; our temptations are there as well as the way of escape. We are in +the image of God. We create our world, our undying selves, our heaven, +or our hell. “_Qui creavit te sine te non salvabit te sine te_.” It is +stupendous, magnificent, and most appalling. A man does not change as he +crosses the threshold of the larger room. His personality remains the +same, although the expression of it may be altered. Here we have +material bodies in a material world—there, perhaps, ether bodies in an +ether world. There is no indecency in reasonable speculation and +curiosity about the life to come. One end of the thread is between our +fingers, but we are haunted for the most part by the snap of Atropos’ +shears. + +Socrates faced death with the magnificent calm bred of dignified +familiarity. He had built for himself a desired heaven of colour, light, +and precious stones—the philosophic formula of those who set the +spiritual above the material, and worship truth in the beauty of +holiness. He is not troubled by doubts or regrets, for the path of the +just lies plain before his face. He forbids mourning and lamentations as +out of place, obeys minutely and cheerily the directions of his +executioner, and passes with unaffected dignity to the apprehension of +that larger truth for which he had constantly prepared himself. His +friends may bury him provided they will remember they are not burying +Socrates; and that all things may be done decently and in order, a cock +must go to Æsculapius. + +Long before, in the days of the Captivity, there lived in godless, +blood-shedding Nineveh an exiled Jew whose father had fallen from the +faith. He was a simple man, child-like and direct; living the careful, +kindly life of an orthodox Jew, suffering many persecutions for +conscience’ sake, and in constant danger of death. He narrates the story +of his life and of the blindness which fell on him, with gentle +placidity, and checks the exuberance of his more emotional wife with the +assurance of untroubled faith. Finally, when his pious expectations are +fulfilled, his sight restored, and his son prosperously established +beside him, he breaks into a prayer of rejoicing which reveals the secret +of his confident content. He made use of two great faculties: the sense +of proportion, which enabled him to apprise life and its accidents +justly, and the gift of in-seeing, which led Socrates after him, and +Blessed John in lonely exile on Patmos, to look through the things +temporal to the hidden meanings of eternity. + +“Let my soul bless God the great King,” he cries; and looks away past the +present distress; past the Restoration which was to end in fresh +scattering and confusion; past the dream of gold, and porphyry, and +marble defaced by the eagles and emblems of the conqueror; until his eyes +are held by the Jerusalem of God, “built up with sapphires, and emeralds, +and precious stones,” with battlements of pure gold, and the cry of +‘Alleluia’ in her streets. + +Many years later, when he was very aged, he called his son to him and +gave him as heritage his own simple rule of life, adding but one request: +“Keep thou the law and the commandments, and shew thyself merciful and +just, that it may go well with thee. . . . Consider what alms doeth, and +how righteousness doth deliver. . . . And bury me decently, and thy +mother with me.” Having so said, he went his way quietly and contentedly +to the Jerusalem of his heart. + +It is the simple note of familiarity that is wanting in us; that by which +we link world with world. Once, years ago, I sat by the bedside of a +dying man in a wretched garret in the East End. He was entirely +ignorant, entirely quiescent, and entirely uninterested. The minister of +a neighbouring chapel came to see him and spoke to him at some length of +the need for repentance and the joys of heaven. After he had gone my +friend lay staring restlessly at the mass of decrepit broken chimney pots +which made his horizon. At last he spoke, and there was a new note in +his voice:— + +“Ee said as ’ow there were golding streets in them parts. I ain’t no +ways particler wot they’re made of, but it’ll feel natral like if there’s +chimleys too.” + +The sun stretched a sudden finger and painted the chimney pots red and +gold against the smoke-dimmed sky, and with his face alight with +surprised relief my friend died. + +We are one with the earth, one in sin, one in redemption. It is the +fringe of the garment of God. “If I may but touch the hem,” said a +certain woman. + +On the great Death-day which shadows the early spring with a shadow of +which it may be said _Umbra Dei est Lux_, the earth brought gifts of +grief, the fruit of the curse, barren thorns, hollow reed, and the wood +of the cross; the sea made offering of Tyrian purple; the sky veiled her +face in great darkness, while the nation of priests crucified for the +last time their Paschal lamb. “I will hear, saith the Lord; I will hear +the heavens, and they shall hear the earth, and the earth shall hear the +corn and wine and oil, and they shall hear Jezreel, and I will sow her +unto me in the earth; and I will have mercy upon her that had not +obtained mercy, and I will say unto them which were not my people, ‘Thou +art my people,’ and they shall say ‘Thou art my God.’” + +The second Adam stood in the garden with quickening feet, and all the +earth pulsed and sang for joy of the new hope and the new life quickening +within her, to be hers through the pains of travail, the pangs of +dissolution. The Tree of Life bears Bread and Wine—food of the wayfaring +man. The day of divisions is past, the day of unity has dawned. One has +risen from the dead, and in the Valley of Achor stands wide the Door of +Hope—the Sacrament of Death. + + Scio Domine, et vere scio . . . quia non sum dignus accedere ad + tantum mysterium propter nimia peccata mea et infinitas negligentias + meas. Sed scio . . . quia tu potes me facere dignum. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +“ANYTUS and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot hurt me,” said Socrates; +and Governor Sancho, with all the itch of newly-acquired authority, could +not make the young weaver of steel-heads for lances sleep in prison. In +the Vision of Er the souls passed straight forward under the throne of +necessity, and out into the plains of forgetfulness, where they must +severally drink of the river of unmindfulness whose waters cannot be held +in any vessel. The throne, the plain, and the river are still here, but +in the distance rise the great lone heavenward hills, and the wise among +us no longer ask of the gods Lethe, but rather remembrance. Necessity +can set me helpless on my back, but she cannot keep me there; nor can +four walls limit my vision. I pass out from under her throne into the +garden of God a free man, to my ultimate beatitude or my exceeding shame. +All day long this world lies open to me; ay, and other worlds also, if I +will but have it so; and when night comes I pass into the kingdom and +power of the dark. + +I lie through the long hours and watch my bridge, which is set with +lights across the gloom; watch the traffic which is for me but so many +passing lamps telling their tale by varying height and brightness. I +hear under my window the sprint of over-tired horses, the rattle of +uncertain wheels as the street-sellers hasten south; the jangle of cab +bells as the theatre-goers take their homeward way; the gruff altercation +of weary men, the unmelodious song and clamorous laugh of women whose +merriment is wearier still. Then comes a time of stillness when the +light in the sky waxes and wanes, when the cloud-drifts obscure the +stars, and I gaze out into blackness set with watching eyes. No sound +comes from without but the voice of the night-wind and the cry of the +hour. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks imperatively, for a check has +fallen on the familiarity which breeds a disregard of common things, and +a reason has to be sought for each sound which claims a hearing. The +pause is wonderful while it lasts, but it is not for long. The working +world awakes, the poorer brethren take up the burden of service; the dawn +lights the sky; remembrance cries an end to forgetting. + +Sometimes in the country on a night in early summer you may shut the +cottage door to step out into an immense darkness which palls heaven and +earth. Going forward into the embrace of the great gloom, you are as a +babe swaddled by the hands of night into helpless quiescence. Your feet +tread an unseen path, your hands grasp at a void, or shrink from the +contact they cannot realise; your eyes are holden; your voice would die +in your throat did you seek to rend the veil of that impenetrable +silence. + +Shut in by the intangible dark, we are brought up against those worlds +within worlds blotted out by our concrete daily life. The working of the +great microcosm at which we peer dimly through the little window of +science; the wonderful, breathing earth; the pulsing, throbbing sap; the +growing fragrance shut in the calyx of to-morrow’s flower; the heart-beat +of a sleeping world that we dream that we know; and around, above, and +interpenetrating all, the world of dreams, of angels and of spirits. + +It was this world which Jacob saw on the first night of his exile, and +again when he wrestled in Peniel until the break of day. It was this +world which Elisha saw with open eyes; which Job knew when darkness fell +on him; which Ezekiel gazed into from his place among the captives; which +Daniel beheld as he stood alone by the great river, the river Hiddekel. + +For the moment we have left behind the realm of question and explanation, +of power over matter and the exercise of bodily faculties; and passed +into darkness alight with visions we cannot see, into silence alive with +voices we cannot hear. Like helpless men we set our all on the one thing +left us, and lift up our hearts, knowing that we are but a mere speck +among a myriad worlds, yet greater than the sum of them; having our roots +in the dark places of the earth, but our branches in the sweet airs of +heaven. + +It is the material counterpart of the ‘Night of the Soul.’ We have left +our house and set forth in the darkness which paralyses those faculties +that make us men in the world of men. But surely the great mystics, with +all their insight and heavenly love, fell short when they sought freedom +in complete separateness from creation instead of in perfect unity with +it. The Greeks knew better when they flung Ariadne’s crown among the +stars, and wrote Demeter’s grief on a barren earth, and Persephone’s joy +in the fruitful field. For the earth is gathered up in man; he is the +whole which is greater than the sum of its parts. Standing in the image +of God, and clothed in the garment of God, he lifts up priestly hands and +presents the sacrifice of redeemed earth before the throne of the +All-Father. “Dust and ashes and a house of devils,” he cries; and there +comes back for answer, “_Rex concupiscet decorem tuam_.” + +The Angel of Death has broad wings of silence and mystery with which he +shadows the valley where we need fear no evil, and where the voice which +speaks to us is as the “voice of doves, tabering upon their breasts.” It +is a place of healing and preparation, of peace and refreshing after the +sharply-defined outlines of a garish day. Walking there we learn to use +those natural faculties of the soul which are hampered by the familiarity +of bodily progress, to apprehend the truths which we have intellectually +accepted. It is the place of secrets where the humility which embraces +all attainable knowledge cries “I know not”; and while we proclaim from +the house-tops that which we have learnt, the manner of our learning lies +hid for each one of us in the sanctuary of our souls. + +The Egyptians, in their ancient wisdom, act in the desert a great +androsphinx, image of mystery and silence, staring from under level brows +across the arid sands of the sea-way. The Greeks borrowed and debased +the image, turning the inscrutable into a semi-woman who asked a foolish +riddle, and hurled herself down in petulant pride when Œdipus answered +aright. So we, marring the office of silence, question its mystery; +thwart ourselves with riddles of our own suggesting; and turn away, +leaving our offering but half consumed on the altar of the unknown god. +It was not the theft of fire that brought the vengeance of heaven upon +Prometheus, but the mocking sacrifice. Orpheus lost Eurydice because he +must see her face before the appointed time. Persephone ate of the +pomegranate and hungered in gloom for the day of light which should have +been endless. + +The universe is full of miracle and mystery; the darkness and silence are +set for a sign we dare not despise. The pall of night lifts, leaving us +engulphed in the light of immensity under a tossing heaven of stars. The +dawn breaks, but it does not surprise us, for we have watched from the +valley and seen the pale twilight. Through the wondrous Sabbath of +faithful souls, the long day of rosemary and rue, the light brightens in +the East; and we pass on towards it with quiet feet and opening eyes, +bearing with us all of the redeemed earth that we have made our own, +until we are fulfilled in the sunrise of the great Easter Day, and the +peoples come from north and south and east and west to the City which +lieth foursquare—the Beatific Vision of God. + + Vere Ierusalem est illa civitas + Cuius pax iugis et summa iucunditas; + Ubi non prævenit rem desiderium, + Nec desiderio minus est præmium. + + + + +AT THE WHITE GATE + + +CHAPTER I + + +A GREAT joy has come to me; one of those unexpected gifts which life +loves to bestow after we have learnt to loose our grip of her. I am back +in my own place very near my road—the white gate lies within my distant +vision; near the lean grey Downs which keep watch and ward between the +country and the sea; very near, nay, in the lap of Mother Earth, for as I +write I am lying on a green carpet, powdered yellow and white with the +sun’s own flowers; overhead a great sycamore where the bees toil and +sing; and sighing shimmering poplars golden grey against the blue. The +day of Persephone has dawned for me, and I, set free like Demeter’s +child, gladden my eyes with this foretaste of coming radiance, and rest +my tired sense with the scent and sound of home. Away down the meadow I +hear the early scythe song, and the warm air is fragrant with the fallen +grass. It has its own message for me as I lie here, I who have obtained +yet one more mercy, and the burden of it is life, not death. + +I remember when, taking a grace from my road, I helped to mow Farmer +Marler’s ten-acre field, rich in ripe upstanding grass. The mechanism of +the ancient reaper had given way under the strain of the home meadows, +and if this crop was to be saved it must be by hand. I have kept the +record of those days of joyous labour under a June sky. Men were hard to +get in our village; old Dodden, who was over seventy, volunteered his +services—he had done yeoman work with the scythe in his youth—and two of +the farm hands with their master completed our strength. + +We took our places under a five o’clock morning sky, and the larks cried +down to us as we stood knee-deep in the fragrant dew-steeped grass, each +man with his gleaming scythe poised ready for its sweeping swing. Old +Dodden led by right of age and ripe experience; bent like a sickle, brown +and dry as a nut, his face a tracery of innumerable wrinkles, he has +never ailed a day, and the cunning of his craft was still with him. At +first we worked stiffly, unreadily, but soon the monotonous motion +possessed us with its insistent rhythm, and the grass bowed to each +sibilant swish and fell in sweet-smelling swathes at our feet. Now and +then a startled rabbit scurried through the miniature forest to vanish +with white flick of tail in the tangled hedge; here and there a mother +lark was discovered sitting motionless, immovable upon her little brood; +but save for these infrequent incidents we paced steadily on with no +speech save the cry of the hone on the steel and the swish of the falling +swathes. The sun rose high in the heaven and burnt on bent neck and bare +and aching arms, the blood beat and drummed in my veins with the unwonted +posture and exercise; I worked as a man who sees and hears in a mist. +Once, as I paused to whet my scythe, my eye caught the line of the +untroubled hills strong and still in the broad sunshine; then to work +again in the labouring, fertile valley. + +Rest time came, and wiping the sweat from brow and blade we sought the +welcome shadow of the hedge and the cool sweet oatmeal water with which +the wise reaper quenches his thirst. Farmer Marler hastened off to see +with master-eye that all went well elsewhere; the farm men slept +tranquilly, stretched at full length, clasped hands for pillow; and old +Dodden, sitting with crooked fingers interlaced to check their trembling +betrayal of old age, told how in his youth he had “swep” a four-acre +field single-handed in three days—an almost impossible feat—and of the +first reaping machine in these parts, and how it brought, to his +thinking, the ruin of agricultural morals with it. “’Tis again nature,” +he said, “the Lard gave us the land an’ the seed, but ’Ee said that a man +should sweat. Where’s the sweat drivin’ round wi’ two horses cuttin’ the +straw down an’ gatherin’ it again, wi’ scarce a hand’s turn i’ the day’s +work?” + +Old Dodden’s high-pitched quavering voice rose and fell, mournful as he +surveyed the present, vehement as he recorded the heroic past. He spoke +of the rural exodus and shook his head mournfully. “We old ’uns were +content wi’ earth and the open sky like our feythers before us, but wi’ +the children ’tis first machines to save doin’ a hand’s turn o’ honest +work, an’ then land an’ sky ain’t big enough seemin’ly, nor grand enough; +it must be town an’ a paved street, an’ they sweat their lives out atwixt +four walls an’ call it seein’ life—’tis death an’ worse comes to the most +of ’em. Ay, ’tis better to stay by the land, as the Lard said, till time +comes to lie under it.” I looked away across the field where the hot air +throbbed and quivered, and the fallen grass, robbed already of its +freshness, lay prone at the feet of its upstanding fellows. It is quite +useless to argue with old Dodden; he only shakes his head and says +firmly, “An old man, seventy-five come Martinmass knows more o’ life than +a young chap, stands ter reason”; besides, his epitome of the town life +he knows nothing of was a just one as far as it went; and his own son is +the sweeper of a Holborn crossing, and many other things that he should +not be; but that is the parson’s secret and mine. + +We took rank again and swept steadily on through the hot still hours into +the evening shadows, until the sinking sun set a _Gloria_ to the psalm of +another working day. Only a third of the field lay mown, for we were not +skilled labourers to cut our acre a day; I saw it again that night under +the moonlight and the starlight, wrapped in a shroud of summer’s mist. + +The women joined us on the third day to begin haymaking, and the air was +fragrant of tossed and sun-dried grass. One of them walked apart from +the rest, without interest or freedom of movement; her face, sealed and +impassive, was aged beyond the vigour of her years. I knew the woman by +sight, and her history by hearsay. We have a code of morals here—not +indeed peculiar to this place or people—that a wedding is ‘respectable’ +if it precedes child-birth by a bare month, tolerable, and to be +recognised, should it succeed the same by less than a year (provided the +pair are not living in the same village); but the child that has never +been ‘fathered’ and the wife without a ring are ‘anathema,’ and such in +one was Elizabeth Banks. She went away a maid and came back a year ago +with a child and without a name. Her mother was dead, her father and the +village would have none of her: the homing instinct is very strong, or +she would scarcely have returned, knowing the traditions of the place. +Old Dodden, seeing her, grumbled to me in the rest-time.—“Can’t think +what the farmer wants wi’ Lizzie Banks in ’is field.” “She must live,” I +said, “and by all showing her life is a hard one.” “She ’ad the makin’ +of ’er bed,” he went on, obstinately. “What for do she bring her +disgrace home, wi’ a fatherless brat for all folks to see? We don’t want +them sort in our village. The Lord’s hand is heavy, an’ a brat’s a curse +that cannot be hid.” + +When tea-time came I crossed the field to look for a missing hone, and +saw Elizabeth Banks far from the other women, busied with a bundle under +the hedge. I passed close on my search, and lo! the bundle was a little +boy. He lay smiling and stretching, fighting the air with his small pink +fists, while the wind played with his curls. “A curse that cannot be +hid,” old Dodden had said. The mother knelt a moment, devouring him with +her eyes, then snatched him to her with aching greed and covered him with +kisses. I saw the poor, plain face illumined, transfigured, alive with a +mother’s love, and remembered how the word came once to a Hebrew +prophet:— + + Say unto your brethren Ammi, and to your sisters Ruhamah. + +The evening sky was clouding fast, the sound of rain was in the air; +Farmer Marler shook his head as he looked at the grass lying in ordered +rows. I was the last to leave, and as I lingered at the gate drinking in +the scent of the field and the cool of the coming rain, the first drops +fell on my upturned face and kissed the poor dry swathes at my feet, and +I was glad. + +David, child of the fields and the sheepfolds, his kingship laid aside, +sees through the parted curtain of the years the advent of his greater +Son, and cries in his psalm of the hilltops, his last prophetic prayer:— + + He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass. + +Even so He came, and shall still come. Three days ago the field, in its +pageant of fresh beauty, with shimmering blades and tossing banners, +greeted sun and shower alike with joy for the furtherance of its life and +purpose; now, laid low, it hears the young grass whisper the splendour of +its coming green; and the poor swathes are glad at the telling, but full +of grief for their own apparent failure. Then in great pity comes the +rain, the rain of summer, gentle, refreshing, penetrating, and the +swathes are comforted, for they know that standing to greet or prostrate +to suffer, the consolations of the former and the latter rain are still +their own, with tender touch and cool caress. Then, once more parched by +the sun, they are borne away to the new service their apparent failure +has fitted them for; and perhaps as they wait in the dark for the unknown +that is still to come they hear sometimes the call of the distant rain, +and at the sound the dry sap stirs afresh—they are not forgotten and can +wait. + +“_Say unto your sisters Ruhamah_,” cries the prophet. + +“_He shall come down like rain on the mown grass_,” sang the poet of the +sheepfolds. + +“_My ways are not your ways_, _saith the Lord_.” + + * * * * * + +I remember how I went home along the damp sweet-scented lanes through the +grey mist of the rain, thinking of the mown field and Elizabeth Banks and +many, many more; and that night, when the sky had cleared and the +nightingale sang, I looked out at the moon riding at anchor, a silver +boat in a still blue sea ablaze with the headlights of the stars, and the +saying of the herdsman of Tekoa came to me—as it has come oftentimes +since:— + + Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the + shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night; + that calleth for the waters of the sea and poureth them out upon the + face of earth; the Lord is His name. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +THIS garden is an epitome of peace; sun and wind, rain, flowers, and +birds gather me into the blessedness of their active harmony. The world +holds no wish for me, now that I have come home to die with my own +people, for verify I think that the sap of grass and trees must run in my +veins, so steady is their pull upon my heart-strings. London claimed all +my philosophy, but the country gives all, and asks of me only the warm +receptivity of a child in its mother’s arms. + +When I lie in my cool light room on the garden level, I look across the +bright grass—_il verde smalto_—to a great red rose bush in lavish +disarray against the dark cypress. Near by, amid a tangle of many-hued +corn-flowers I see the promise of coming lilies, the sudden crimson of a +solitary pæony; and in lowlier state against the poor parched earth glow +the golden cups of the eschseholtzias. Beyond the low hedge lies pasture +bright with buttercups, where the cattle feed. Farther off, where the +scythe has been busy, are sheep, clean and shorn, with merry, well-grown +lambs; and in the farthest field I can see the great horses moving in +slow steady pace as the farmer turns his furrow. + +The birds are noisy comrades and old friends, from the lark which chants +the dew-steeped morning, to the nightingale that breaks the silence of +the most wonderful nights. I hear the wisdom of the rooks in the great +elms; the lifting lilt of the linnet, and the robin’s quaint little +summer song. The starlings chatter ceaselessly, their queer strident +voices harsh against the melodious gossip of the other birds; the martins +shrill softly as they swoop to and fro busied with their nesting under +the caves; thrush and blackbird vie in friendly rivalry like the +Meister-singer of old; sometimes I hear the drawling cry of a peacock +strayed from the great house, or the laugh of the woodpecker; and at +night the hunting note of the owl reaches me as he sweeps by in search of +prey. + +To-day I am out again; and the great sycamore showers honey and flowers +on me as I lie beneath it. Sometimes a bee falls like an over-ripe +fruit, and waits awhile to clean his pollen-coated legs ere he flies home +to discharge his burden. He is too busy to be friendly, but his great +velvety cousin is much more sociable, and stays for a gentle rub between +his noisy shimmering wings, and a nap in the hollow of my hand, for he is +an idle friendly soul with plenty of time at his own disposal and no +responsibilities. Looking across I can watch the martins at work; they +have a starling and a sparrow for near neighbours in the wooden gutter. +One nest is already complete all but the coping, the other two are +a-building: I wonder whether I or they will be first to go south through +the mist. + +This great tree is a world in itself, and the denizens appear full of +curiosity as to the Gulliver who has taken up his abode beneath it. Pale +green caterpillars and spiders of all sizes come spinning down to visit +me, and have to be persuaded with infinite difficulty to ascend their +threads again. There are flies with beautiful iridescent wings, beetles +of all shapes, some of them like tiny jewels in the sunlight. Their +nomenclature is a sealed book to me; of their life and habits I know +nothing; yet this is but a little corner of the cosmos I am leaving, and +I feel not so much desire for the beauty to come, as a great longing to +open my eyes a little wider during the time which remains to me in this +beautiful world of God’s making, where each moment tells its own tale of +active, progressive life in which there is no undoing. Nature knows +naught of the web of Penelope, that acme of anxious pathetic waiting, but +goes steadily on in ever widening circle towards the fulfilment of the +mystery of God. + +There are, I take it, two master-keys to the secrets of the universe, +viewed _sub specie æternitatis_, the Incarnation of God, and the +Personality of Man; with these it is true for us as for the pantheistic +little man of contemptible speech, that “all things are ours,” yea, even +unto the third heaven. + +I have lost my voracious appetite for books; their language is less plain +than scent and song and the wind in the trees; and for me the clue to the +next world lies in the wisdom of earth rather than in the learning of +men. “_Libera me ab fuscina Hophni_,” prayed the good Bishop fearful of +religious greed. I know too much, not too little; it is realisation that +I lack, wherefore I desire these last days to confirm in myself the +sustaining goodness of God, the love which is our continuing city, the +New Jerusalem whose length, breadth, and height are all one. It is a +time of exceeding peace. There is a place waiting for me under the firs +in the quiet churchyard; thanks to my poverty I have no worldly anxieties +or personal dispositions; and I am rich in friends, many of them unknown +to me, who lavishly supply my needs and make it ideal to live on the +charity of one’s fellow-men. I am most gladly in debt to all the world; +and to Earth, my mother, for her great beauty. + +I can never remember the time when I did not love her, this mother of +mine with her wonderful garments and ordered loveliness, her tender care +and patient bearing of man’s burden. In the earliest days of my lonely +childhood I used to lie chin on hand amid the milkmaids, red sorrel, and +heavy spear-grass listening to her many voices, and above all to the +voice of the little brook which ran through the meadows where I used to +play: I think it has run through my whole life also, to lose itself at +last, not in the great sea but in the river that maketh glad the City of +God. Valley and plain, mountain and fruitful field; the lark’s song and +the speedwell in the grass; surely a man need not sigh for greater +loveliness until he has read something more of this living letter, and +knelt before that earth of which he is the only confusion. + +It is a grave matter that the word religion holds such away among us, +making the very gap seem to yawn again which the Incarnation once and for +ever filled full. We have banished the protecting gods that ruled in +river and mountain, tree and grove; we have gainsayed for the most part +folk-lore and myth, superstition and fairy-tale, evil only in their +abuse. We have done away with mystery, or named it deceit. All this we +have done in an enlightened age, but despite this policy of destruction +we have left ourselves a belief, the grandest and most simple the world +has ever known, which sanctifies the water that is shed by every passing +cloud; and gathers up in its great central act vineyard and cornfield, +proclaiming them to be that Life of the world without which a man is dead +while he liveth. Further, it is a belief whose foundations are the most +heavenly mystery of the Trinity, but whose centre is a little Child: it +sets a price upon the head of the sparrow, and reckons the riches of this +world at their true value; it points to a way of holiness where the fool +shall not err, and the sage may find the realisation of his far-seeking; +and yet, despite its inclusiveness, it is a belief which cannot save the +birds from destruction, the silent mountains from advertisement, or the +stream from pollution, in an avowedly Christian land. John Ruskin +scolded and fought and did yeoman service, somewhat hindered by his +over-good conceit of himself; but it is not the worship of beauty we need +so much as the beauty of holiness. Little by little the barrier grows +and ‘religion’ becomes a _rule_ of life, not life itself, although the +Bride stands ready to interpret, likened in her loveliness to the chief +treasures of her handmaid-Earth. There is more truth in the believing +cry, “Come from thy white cliffs, O Pan!” than in the religion that +measures a man’s life by the letter of the Ten Commandments, and erects +itself as judge and ruler over him, instead of throwing open the gate of +the garden where God walks with man from morning until morning. + +As I write the sun is setting; in the pale radiance of the sky above his +glory there dawns the evening star; and earth like a tired child turns +her face to the bosom of the night. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +ONCE again I have paid a rare visit to my tree to find many things +changed since my last sojourn there. The bees are silent, for the +honey-laden flowers of the sycamore are gone and in their place hang +dainty two-fold keys. The poplar has lost its metallic shimmer, the +chestnut its tall white candles; and the sound of the wind in the +fully-leaved branches is like the sighing of the sea. The martins’ nests +are finished, and one is occupied by a shrill-voiced brood; but for the +most part the birds’ parental cares are over, and the nestlings in bold +flight no longer flutter on inefficient wings across the lawn with +clamorous, open bill. The robins show promise of their ruddy vests, the +slim young thrush is diligently practising maturer notes, and soon Maid +June will have fled. + +It is such a wonderful world that I cannot find it in my heart to sigh +for fresh beauty amid these glories of the Lord on which I look, seeing +men as trees walking, in my material impotence which awaits the final +anointing. The marigolds with their orange suns, the lilies’ white +flame, the corncockle’s blue crown of many flowers, the honeysuckle’s +horn of fragrance—I can paraphrase them, name, class, dissect them; and +then, save for the purposes of human intercourse, I stand where I stood +before, my world bounded by my capacity, the secret of colour and +fragrance still kept. It is difficult to believe that the second lesson +will not be the sequence of the first, and death prove a “feast of +opening eyes” to all these wonders, instead of the heavy-lidded slumber +to which we so often liken it. “Earth to earth?” Yes, “dust thou art, +and unto dust thou shalt return,” but what of the rest? What of the +folded grave clothes, and the Forty Days? If the next state be, as it +well might, space of four dimensions, and the first veil which will lift +for me be the material one, then the “other” world which is hidden from +our grosser material organism will lie open, and declare still further to +my widening eyes and unstopped ears the glory and purpose of the manifold +garment of God. Knowledge will give place to understanding in that +second chamber of the House of Wisdom and Love. Revelation is always +measured by capacity: “Open thy mouth wide,” and it shall be filled with +a satisfaction that in itself is desire. + +There is a child here, a happy quiet little creature holding gently to +its two months of life. Sometimes they lay it beside me, I the more +helpless of the two—perhaps the more ignorant—and equally dependent for +the supply of my smallest need. I feel indecently large as I survey its +minute perfections and the tiny balled fist lying in my great palm. The +little creature fixes me with the wise wide stare of a soul in advance of +its medium of expression; and I, gazing back at the mystery in those +eyes, feel the thrill of contact between my worn and sustained self and +the innocence of a little white child. It is wonderful to watch a +woman’s rapturous familiarity with these newcomers. A man’s love has far +more awe in it, and the passionate animal instinct of defence is wanting +in him. “A woman shall be saved through the child-bearing,” said St +Paul; not necessarily her own, but by participation in the great act of +motherhood which is the crown and glory of her sex. She is the “prisoner +of love,” caught in a net of her own weaving; held fast by little hands +which rule by impotence, pursued by feet the swifter for their faltering. + +It seems incredible that this is what a woman will barter for the right +to “live her own life”—surely the most empty of desires. Man—_vir_, +woman—_femina_, go to make up _the_ man—_homo_. There can be no +comparison, no rivalry between them; they are the complement of each +other, and a little child shall lead them. It is easy to understand that +desire to shelter under the dear mantle of motherhood which has led to +one of the abuses of modern Romanism. I met an old peasant couple at +Bornhofen who had tramped many weary miles to the famous shrine of Our +Lady to plead for their only son. They had a few pence saved for a +candle, and afterwards when they told me their tale the old woman heaved +a sigh of relief, “Es wird bald gut gehen: Die da, Sie versteht,” and I +saw her later paying a farewell visit to the great understanding Mother +whom she could trust. Superstitious misapprehension if you will, but +also the recognition of a divine principle. + +It was Behmen, I believe, who cried with the breath of inspiration, “Only +when I know God shall I know myself”; and so man remains the last of all +the riddles, to be solved it may be only in Heaven’s perfection and the +light of the Beatific Vision. “Know thyself” is a vain legend, the more +so when emphasised by a skull; and so I company with a friend and a +stranger, and looking across at the white gate I wonder concerning the +quiet pastures and still waters that lie beyond, even as Brother Ambrose +wondered long years ago in the monastery by the forest. + + The Brother Ambrose was ever a saintly man approved of God and + beloved by the Brethren. To him one night, as he lay abed in the + dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying, “Come, and I will show + thee the Bride, the Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose and was + carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision of + Blessed John. ’Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother + Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; and lo! the + stars gathered themselves together on either side until they stood as + walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about as in a mantle + and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. Then between the + stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacle aflame, and walls + aglow with such colours as no earthly limner dreams of, and much + gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every gate + an angel with wings of snow and fire, and a face no man dare look on + because of its exceeding radiance. + + Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great + longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between + the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but only + heard a sound as of a great multitude crying ‘Alleluia’; and suddenly + the winds came about him again, and lo! he found himself in his bed + in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing to + Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest. But when the + Brethren left the choir Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, + hearing and seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds + they found him and told the Prior. + + He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the + Vision bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the + Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours + he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous fair + city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the + sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city + seemed aflame with the glory of God; but the angels he could not + limn, nor could he set the rest of the colours as he saw them, nor + the wall of stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick + because of the exceeding great longing he had to limn the Holy City, + and was very sad; but the Prior bade him thank God, and remember the + infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey cloud, veiled + Jerusalem to his sight. + +As I write the monastery bell hard by rings out across the lark’s song. +They still have time for visions behind those guarding walls, but for +most of us it is not so. We let slip the ideal for what we call the +real, and the golden dreams vanish while we clutch at phantoms: we speed +along life’s pathway, counting to the full the sixty minutes of every +hour, yet the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong. +Lying here in this quiet backwater it is hard to believe that the world +without is turbulent with storm and stress and the ebb and flow of +uncertain tides. The little yellow cat rolling on its back among the +daisies, the staid tortoise making a stately meal off the buttercups near +me, these are great events in this haven of peace. And yet, looking back +to the working days, I know how much goodness and loving kindness there +is under the froth and foam. If we do not know ourselves we most +certainly do not know our brethren: that revelation awaits us, it may be, +first in Heaven. To have faith is to create; to have hope is to call +down blessing; to have love is to work miracles. Above all let us see +visions, visions of colour and light, of green fields and broad rivers, +of palaces laid with fair colours, and gardens where a place is found for +rosemary and rue. + +It is our prerogative to be dreamers, but there will always be men ready +to offer us death for our dreams. And if it must be so let us choose +death; it is gain, not loss, and the gloomy portal when we reach it is +but a white gate, the white gate maybe we have known all our lives barred +by the tendrils of the woodbine. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +RAIN, rain, rain: the little flagged path outside my window is a +streaming way, where the coming raindrops meet again the grey clouds +whose storehouse they have but just now left. The grass grows greener as +I watch it, the burnt patches fade, a thousand thirsty beads are uplifted +for the cooling draught. + +The great thrush that robs the raspberry canes is busy; yesterday he had +little but dust for his guerdon, but now fresh, juicy fruit repays him as +he swings to and fro on the pliant branches. The blackbirds and +starlings find the worms an easy prey—poor brother worm ever ready for +sacrifice. I can hear the soft expectant chatter of the family of +martins under the roof; there will be good hunting, and they know it, for +the flies are out when the rain is over, and there are clamorous mouths +awaiting. My little brown brothers, the sparrows, remain my chief +delight. Of all the birds these nestle closest to my heart, be they +grimy little cockneys or their trim and dainty country cousins. They +come day by day for their meed of crumbs spread for them outside my +window, and at this season they eat leisurely and with good appetite, for +there are no hungry babies pestering to be fed. Very early in the +morning I hear the whirr and rustle of eager wings, and the tap, tap, of +little beaks upon the stone. The sound carries me back, for it was the +first to greet me when I rose to draw water and gather kindling in my +roadmender days; and if I slip back another decade they survey me, +reproving my laziness, from the foot of the narrow bed in my little attic +overseas. + +Looking along the roadway that we have travelled we see the landmarks, +great and small, which have determined the direction of our feet. For +some those of childhood stand out above all the rest; but I remember few +notable ones, and those few the emphatic chord of the universe, rather +than any commerce with my fellows. There was the night of my great +disappointment, when I was borne from my comfortable bed to see the +wonders of the moon’s eclipse. Disappointment was so great that it +sealed my lips; but, once back on my pillow, I sobbed for grief that I +had seen a wonder so far below my expectation. Then there was a night at +Whitby, when the wind made speech impossible, and the seas rushed up and +over the great lighthouse like the hungry spirits of the deep. I like +better to remember the scent of the first cowslip field under the warm +side of the hedge, when I sang to myself for pure joy of their colour and +fragrance. Again, there were the bluebells in the deserted quarry like +the backwash of a southern sea, and below them the miniature forest of +sheltering bracken with its quaint conceits; and, crowned above all, the +day I stood on Watcombe Down, and looked across a stretch of golden gorse +and new-turned blood-red field, the green of the headland, and beyond, +the sapphire sea. + +Time sped, and there came a day when I first set foot on German soil and +felt the throb of its paternity, the beat of our common Life. England is +my mother, and most dearly do I love her swelling breasts and wind-swept, +salt-strewn hair. Scotland gave me my name, with its haunting derivation +handed down by brave men; but Germany has always been to me the +Fatherland _par excellence_. True, my love is limited to the southern +provinces, with their medieval memories; for the progressive guttural +north I have little sympathy, but the Rhine claimed me from the first, +calling, calling, with that wonderful voice which speaks of death and +life, of chivalry and greed of gold. If you would have the river’s +company you should wander, a happy solitary, along its banks, watching +its gleaming current in the early morning, its golden glory as it answers +the farewell of parting day. Then, in the silence of the night, you can +hear the wash and eddy calling one to another, count the heart-beats of +the great bearer of burdens, and watch in the moonlight the sisters of +the mist as they lament with wringing hands the days that are gone. + +The forests, too, are ready with story hid in the fastness of their +solitude, and it is a joy to think that those great pines, pointing ever +upwards, go for the most part to carry the sails of great ships seeking +afar under open sky. The forest holds other wonders still. It seems but +last night that I wandered down the road which led to the little unheeded +village where I had made my temporary home. The warm-scented breath of +the pines and the stillness of the night wrapped me in great content; the +summer lightning leapt in a lambent arch across the east, and the stars, +seen dimly through the sombre tree crests, were outrivalled by the +glow-worms which shone in countless points of light from bank and hedge; +even two charcoal-burners, who passed with friendly greeting, had +wreathed their hats with the living flame. The tiny shifting lamps were +everywhere; pale yellow, purely white, or green as the underside of a +northern wave. By day but an ugly, repellent worm; but darkness comes, +and lo, a star alight. Nature is full for us of seeming inconsistencies +and glad surprises. The world’s asleep, say you; on your ear falls the +nightingale’s song and the stir of living creatures in bush and brake. +The mantle of night falls, and all unattended the wind leaps up and +scatters the clouds which veil the constant stars; or in the hour of the +great dark, dawn parts the curtain with the long foregleam of the coming +day. It is hard to turn one’s back on night with her kiss of peace for +tired eye-lids, the kiss which is not sleep but its neglected forerunner. +I made my way at last down to the vine-girt bridge asleep under the stars +and up the winding stairs of the old grey tower; and a stone’s-throw away +the Rhine slipped quietly past in the midsummer moonlight. Switzerland +came in its turn, unearthly in its white loveliness and glory of lake and +sky. But perhaps the landmark which stands out most clearly is the +solitary blue gentian which I found in the short slippery grass of the +Rigi, gazing up at the sky whose blue could not hope to excel it. It was +my first; and what need of another, for finding one I had gazed into the +mystery of all. This side the Pass, snow and the blue of heaven; later I +entered Italy through fields of many-hued lilies, her past glories +blazoned in the flowers of the field. + +Now it is a strangely uneventful road that leads to my White Gate. Each +day questions me as it passes; each day makes answer for me “not yet.” +There is no material preparation to be made for this journey of mine into +a far country—a simple fact which adds to the ‘unknowableness’ of the +other side. Do I travel alone, or am I one of a great company, swift yet +unhurried in their passage? The voices of Penelope’s suitors shrilled on +the ears of Ulysses, as they journeyed to the nether-world, like +nocturnal birds and bats in the inarticulateness of their speech. They +had abused the gift, and fled self-condemned. Maybe silence commends +itself as most suitable for the wayfarers towards the sunrise—silence +because they seek the Word—but for those hastening towards the confusion +they have wrought there falls already the sharp oncoming of the curse. + +While we are still here the language of worship seems far, and yet lies +very nigh; for what better note can our frail tongues lisp than the voice +of wind and sea, river and stream, those grateful servants giving all and +asking nothing, the soft whisper of snow and rain eager to replenish, or +the thunder proclaiming a majesty too great for utterance? Here, too, +stands the angel with the censer gathering up the fragrance of teeming +earth and forest-tree, of flower and fruit, and sweetly pungent herb +distilled by sun and rain for joyful use. Here, too, come acolytes +lighting the dark with tapers—sun, moon, and stars—gifts of the Lord that +His sanctuary may stand ever served. + +It lies here ready to our hand, this life of adoration which we needs +must live hand in hand with earth, for has she not borne the curse with +us? But beyond the white gate and the trail of woodbine falls the +silence greater than speech, darkness greater than light, a pause of “a +little while”; and then the touch of that healing garment as we pass to +the King in His beauty, in a land from which there is no return. + +At the gateway then I cry you farewell. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROADMENDER*** + + +******* This file should be named 705-0.txt or 705-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/0/705 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Roadmender + + +Author: Michael Fairless + + + +Release Date: February 5, 2013 [eBook #705] +[This file was first posted on November 6, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROADMENDER*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1911 Duckworth and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>The Roadmender</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">By</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">Michael Fairless</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">Author +of</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">“The Gathering of Brother +Hilarius”</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">London</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Duckworth & Co.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">3 Henrietta Street, W.C.<br /> +1911</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>This series of papers appeared in <i>The Pilot</i> and is now +republished by permission of the Editor.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">A. M. D. G.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br +/> +MY MOTHER:<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND TO EARTH, MY MOTHER,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WHOM I LOVE.</span></p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Roadmender</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Out of the Shadow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At the White Gate</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>The +Roadmender</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>CHAPTER +I</h3> +<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> attained my ideal: I am a +roadmender, some say stonebreaker. Both titles are correct, +but the one is more pregnant than the other. All day I sit +by the roadside on a stretch of grass under a high hedge of +saplings and a tangle of traveller’s joy, woodbine, +sweetbrier, and late roses. Opposite me is a white gate, +seldom used, if one may judge from the trail of honeysuckle +growing tranquilly along it: I know now that whenever and +wherever I die my soul will pass out through this white gate; and +then, thank God, I shall not have need to undo that trail.</p> +<p>In our youth we discussed our ideals freely: I wonder how many +beside myself have attained, or would understand my +attaining. After all, what do we ask of life, here or +indeed hereafter, but leave to serve, to live, to commune with +our fellowmen and with ourselves; and from the lap of earth to +look up into the face of God? All these gifts are mine as I +sit by the winding white road and serve the footsteps of my +fellows. There is no room in my life for avarice or +anxiety; I who serve at the altar live of the altar: I lack +nothing but have nothing over; and when the winter of life comes +I shall join the company of weary old men who sit on the sunny +side of the workhouse wall and wait for the tender mercies of +God.</p> +<p>Just now it is the summer of things; there is life and music +everywhere—in the stones themselves, and I live to-day +beating out the rhythmical hammer-song of The Ring. There +is real physical joy in the rise and swing of the arm, in the jar +of a fair stroke, the split and scatter of the quartz: I am +learning to be ambidextrous, for why should Esau sell his +birthright when there is enough for both? Then the +rest-hour comes, bringing the luxurious ache of tired but not +weary limbs; and I lie outstretched and renew my strength, +sometimes with my face deep-nestled in the cool green grass, +sometimes on my back looking up into the blue sky which no wise +man would wish to fathom.</p> +<p>The birds have no fear of me; am I not also of the brown +brethren in my sober fustian livery? They share my +meals—at least the little dun-coated Franciscans do; the +blackbirds and thrushes care not a whit for such simple food as +crumbs, but with legs well apart and claws tense with purchase +they disinter poor brother worm, having first mocked him with +sound of rain. The robin that lives by the gate regards my +heap of stones as subject to his special inspection. He +sits atop and practises the trill of his summer song until it +shrills above and through the metallic clang of my strokes; and +when I pause he cocks his tail, with a humorous twinkle of his +round eye which means—“What! shirking, big +brother?”—and I fall, ashamed, to my mending of +roads.</p> +<p>The other day, as I lay with my face in the grass, I heard a +gentle rustle, and raised my head to find a hedge-snake watching +me fearless, unwinking. I stretched out my hand, picked it +up unresisting, and put it in my coat like the husbandman of +old. Was he so ill-rewarded, I wonder, with the kiss that +reveals secrets? My snake slept in peace while I hammered +away with an odd quickening of heart as I thought how to me, as +to Melampus, had come the messenger—had come, but to ears +deafened by centuries of misrule, blindness, and oppression; so +that, with all my longing, I am shut out of the wondrous world +where walked Melampus and the Saint. To me there is no +suggestion of evil in the little silent creatures, harmless, or +deadly only with the Death which is Life. The beasts who +turn upon us, as a rule maul and tear unreflectingly; with the +snake there is the swift, silent strike, the tiny, tiny wound, +then sleep and a forgetting.</p> +<p>My brown friend, with its message unspoken, slid away into the +grass at sundown to tell its tale in unstopped ears; and I, my +task done, went home across the fields to the solitary cottage +where I lodge. It is old and decrepit—two rooms, with +a quasi-attic over them reached by a ladder from the kitchen and +reached only by me. It is furnished with the luxuries of +life, a truckle bed, table, chair, and huge earthenware pan which +I fill from the ice-cold well at the back of the cottage. +Morning and night I serve with the Gibeonites, their curse my +blessing, as no doubt it was theirs when their hearts were purged +by service. Morning and night I send down the moss-grown +bucket with its urgent message from a dry and dusty world; the +chain tightens through my hand as the liquid treasure responds to +the messenger, and then with creak and jangle—the welcome +of labouring earth—the bucket slowly nears the top and +disperses the treasure in the waiting vessels. The +Gibeonites were servants in the house of God, ministers of the +sacrament of service even as the High Priest himself; and I, +sharing their high office of servitude, thank God that the ground +was accursed for my sake, for surely that curse was the womb of +all unborn blessing.</p> +<p>The old widow with whom I lodge has been deaf for the last +twenty years. She speaks in the strained high voice which +protests against her own infirmity, and her eyes have the +pathetic look of those who search in silence. For many +years she lived alone with her son, who laboured on the farm two +miles away. He met his death rescuing a carthorse from its +burning stable; and the farmer gave the cottage rent free and a +weekly half-crown for life to the poor old woman whose dearest +terror was the workhouse. With my shilling a week rent, and +sharing of supplies, we live in the lines of comfort. Of +death she has no fears, for in the long chest in the kitchen lie +a web of coarse white linen, two pennies covered with the same to +keep down tired eyelids, decent white stockings, and a white +cotton sun-bonnet—a decorous death-suit truly—and +enough money in the little bag for self-respecting burial. +The farmer buried his servant handsomely—good man, he knew +the love of reticent grief for a ‘kind’ +burial—and one day Harry’s mother is to lie beside +him in the little churchyard which has been a cornfield, and may +some day be one again.</p> +<h3><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> Sundays my feet take ever the +same way. First my temple service, and then five miles +tramp over the tender, dewy fields, with their ineffable earthy +smell, until I reach the little church at the foot of the +grey-green down. Here, every Sunday, a young priest from a +neighbouring village says Mass for the tiny hamlet, where all are +very old or very young—for the heyday of life has no part +under the long shadow of the hills, but is away at sea or in +service. There is a beautiful seemliness in the extreme +youth of the priest who serves these aged children of God. +He bends to communicate them with the reverent tenderness of a +son, and reads with the careful intonation of far-seeing +love. To the old people he is the son of their old age, +God-sent to guide their tottering footsteps along the highway of +foolish wayfarers; and he, with his youth and strength, wishes no +better task. Service ended, we greet each other +friendly—for men should not be strange in the acre of God; +and I pass through the little hamlet and out and up on the grey +down beyond. Here, at the last gate, I pause for breakfast; +and then up and on with quickening pulse, and evergreen memory of +the weary war-worn Greeks who broke rank to greet the great blue +Mother-way that led to home. I stand on the summit hatless, +the wind in my hair, the smack of salt on my cheek, all round me +rolling stretches of cloud-shadowed down, no sound but the shrill +mourn of the peewit and the gathering of the sea.</p> +<p>The hours pass, the shadows lengthen, the sheep-bells clang; +and I lie in my niche under the stunted hawthorn watching the to +and fro of the sea, and Æolus shepherding his white sheep +across the blue. I love the sea with its impenetrable +fathoms, its wash and undertow, and rasp of shingle sucked +anew. I love it for its secret dead in the Caverns of +Peace, of which account must be given when the books are opened +and earth and heaven have fled away. Yet in my love there +is a paradox, for as I watch the restless, ineffective waves I +think of the measureless, reflective depths of the still and +silent Sea of Glass, of the dead, small and great, rich or poor, +with the works which follow them, and of the Voice as the voice +of many waters, when the multitude of one mind rends heaven with +alleluia: and I lie so still that I almost feel the kiss of White +Peace on my mouth. Later still, when the flare of the +sinking sun has died away and the stars rise out of a veil of +purple cloud, I take my way home, down the slopes, through the +hamlet, and across miles of sleeping fields; over which night has +thrown her shifting web of mist—home to the little attic, +the deep, cool well, the kindly wrinkled face with its listening +eyes—peace in my heart and thankfulness for the rhythm of +the road.</p> +<p>Monday brings the joy of work, second only to the Sabbath of +rest, and I settle to my heap by the white gate. Soon I +hear the distant stamp of horsehoofs, heralding the grind and +roll of the wheels which reaches me later—a heavy +flour-waggon with a team of four great gentle horses, gay with +brass trappings and scarlet ear-caps. On the top of the +craftily piled sacks lies the white-clad waggoner, a pink in his +mouth which he mumbles meditatively, and the reins looped over +the inactive whip—why should he drive a willing team that +knows the journey and responds as strenuously to a cheery chirrup +as to the well-directed lash? We greet and pass the time of +day, and as he mounts the rise he calls back a warning of coming +rain. I am already white with dust as he with flour, +sacramental dust, the outward and visible sign of the stir and +beat of the heart of labouring life.</p> +<p>Next to pass down the road is an anxious ruffled hen, her +speckled breast astir with maternal troubles. She walks +delicately, lifting her feet high and glancing furtively from +side to side with comb low dressed. The sight of man, the +heartless egg-collector, from whose haunts she has fled, wrings +from her a startled cluck, and she makes for the white gate, +climbs through, and disappears. I know her feelings too +well to intrude. Many times already has she hidden herself, +amassed four or five precious treasures, brooding over them with +anxious hope; and then, after a brief desertion to seek the +necessary food, she has returned to find her efforts at +concealment vain, her treasures gone. At last, with the +courage of despair she has resolved to brave the terrors of the +unknown and seek a haunt beyond the tyranny of man. I will +watch over her from afar, and when her mother-hope is fulfilled I +will marshal her and her brood back to the farm where she +belongs; for what end I care not to think, it is of the mystery +which lies at the heart of things; and we are all God’s +beasts, says St Augustine.</p> +<p>Here is my stone-song, a paraphrase of the Treasure Motif.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p15b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Music score: F# dotted crotchet, F# quaver, F# quaver, F# dotted +crotchet, D crotchet, E crotchet. This bar is then repeated once +more" +title= +"Music score: F# dotted crotchet, F# quaver, F# quaver, F# dotted +crotchet, D crotchet, E crotchet. This bar is then repeated once +more" +src="images/p15s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>What a wonderful work Wagner has done for humanity in +translating the toil of life into the readable script of +music! For those who seek the tale of other worlds his +magic is silent; but earth-travail under his wand becomes +instinct with rhythmic song to an accompaniment of the elements, +and the blare and crash of the bottomless pit itself. The +Pilgrim’s March is the sad sound of footsore men; the San +Graal the tremulous yearning of servitude for richer, deeper +bondage. The yellow, thirsty flames lick up the willing +sacrifice, the water wails the secret of the river and the sea; +the birds and beasts, the shepherd with his pipe, the underground +life in rocks and caverns, all cry their message to this +nineteenth-century toiling, labouring world—and to me as I +mend my road.</p> +<p>Two tramps come and fling themselves by me as I eat my noonday +meal. The one, red-eyed, furtive, lies on his side with +restless, clutching hands that tear and twist and torture the +living grass, while his lips mutter incoherently. The other +sits stooped, bare-footed, legs wide apart, his face grey, almost +as grey as his stubbly beard; and it is not long since Death +looked him in the eyes. He tells me querulously of a two +hundred miles tramp since early spring, of search for work, +casual jobs with more kicks than halfpence, and a brief but +blissful sojourn in a hospital bed, from which he was dismissed +with sentence passed upon him. For himself, he is +determined to die on the road under a hedge, where a man can see +and breathe. His anxiety is all for his fellow; <i>he</i> +has said he will “do for a man”; he wants to +“swing,” to get out of his “dog’s +life.” I watch him as he lies, this Ishmael and +would-be Lamech. Ignorance, hunger, terror, the exhaustion +of past generations, have done their work. The man is mad, +and would kill his fellowman.</p> +<p>Presently we part, and the two go, dogged and footsore, down +the road which is to lead them into the great silence.</p> +<h3><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Yesterday</span> was a day of +encounters.</p> +<p>First, early in the morning, a young girl came down the road +on a bicycle. Her dressguard was loose, and she stopped to +ask for a piece of string. When I had tied it for her she +looked at me, at my worn dusty clothes and burnt face; and then +she took a Niphetos rose from her belt and laid it shyly in my +dirty disfigured palm. I bared my head, and stood hat in +hand looking after her as she rode away up the hill. Then I +took my treasure and put it in a nest of cool dewy grass under +the hedge. <i>Ecce ancilla Domini</i>.</p> +<p>My next visitor was a fellow-worker on his way to a job at the +cross-roads. He stood gazing meditatively at my heap of +stones.</p> +<p>“Ow long ’ave yer bin at this job that y’ere +in such a hurry?”</p> +<p>I stayed my hammer to answer—“Four +months.”</p> +<p>“Seen better days?”</p> +<p>“Never,” I said emphatically, and punctuated the +remark with a stone split neatly in four.</p> +<p>The man surveyed me in silence for a moment; then he said +slowly, “Mean ter say yer like crackin’ these blamed +stones to fill ’oles some other fool’s +made?”</p> +<p>I nodded.</p> +<p>“Well, that beats everything. Now, I +’<i>ave</i> seen better days; worked in a big brewery over +near Maidstone—a town that, and something doing; and now, +’ere I am, ’ammering me ’eart out on these +blasted stones for a bit o’ bread and a pipe o’ baccy +once a week—it ain’t good enough.” He +pulled a blackened clay from his pocket and began slowly filling +it with rank tobacco; then he lit it carefully behind his +battered hat, put the spent match back in his pocket, rose to his +feet, hitched his braces, and, with a silent nod to me, went on +to his job.</p> +<p>Why do we give these tired children, whose minds move slowly, +whose eyes are holden that they cannot read the Book, whose +hearts are full of sore resentment against they know not what, +such work as this to do—hammering their hearts out for a +bit of bread? All the pathos of unreasoning labour rings in +these few words. We fit the collar on unwilling necks; and +when their service is over we bid them go out free; but we break +the good Mosaic law and send them away empty. What wonder +there is so little willing service, so few ears ready to be +thrust through against the master’s door.</p> +<p>The swift stride of civilisation is leaving behind individual +effort, and turning man into the Dæmon of a machine. +To and fro in front of the long loom, lifting a lever at either +end, paces he who once with painstaking intelligence drove the +shuttle. <i>Then</i> he tasted the joy of completed work, +that which his eye had looked upon, and his hands had handled; +now his work is as little finished as the web of Penelope. +Once the reaper grasped the golden corn stems, and with dexterous +sweep of sickle set free the treasure of the earth. Once +the creatures of the field were known to him, and his eye caught +the flare of scarlet and blue as the frail poppies and sturdy +corn-cockles laid down their beauty at his feet; now he sits +serene on Juggernaut’s car, its guiding Dæmon, and +the field is silent to him.</p> +<p>As with the web and the grain so with the wood and stone in +the treasure-house of our needs. The ground was accursed +<i>for our sake</i> that in the sweat of our brow we might eat +bread. Now the many live in the brain-sweat of the few; and +it must be so, for as little as great King Cnut could stay the +sea until it had reached the appointed place, so little can we +raise a barrier to the wave of progress, and say, “Thus far +and no further shalt thou come.”</p> +<p>What then? This at least; if we live in an age of +mechanism let us see to it that we are a race of intelligent +mechanics; and if man is to be the Dæmon of a machine let +him know the setting of the knives, the rise of the piston, the +part that each wheel and rod plays in the economy of the whole, +the part that he himself plays, co-operating with it. Then, +when he has lived and served intelligently, let us give him of +our flocks and of our floor that he may learn to rest in the +lengthening shadows until he is called to his work above.</p> +<p>So I sat, hammering out my thoughts, and with them the +conviction that stonebreaking should be allotted to minor poets +or vagrant children of nature like myself, never to such tired +folk as my poor mate at the cross-roads and his fellows.</p> +<p>At noon, when I stopped for my meal, the sun was baking the +hard white road in a pitiless glare. Several waggons and +carts passed, the horses sweating and straining, with drooping, +fly-tormented ears. The men for the most part nodded +slumberously on the shaft, seeking the little shelter the cart +afforded; but one shuffled in the white dust, with an occasional +chirrup and friendly pressure on the tired horse’s +neck.</p> +<p>Then an old woman and a small child appeared in sight, both +with enormous sun-bonnets and carrying baskets. As they +came up with me the woman stopped and swept her face with her +hand, while the child, depositing the basket in the dust with +great care, wiped her little sticky fingers on her +pinafore. Then the shady hedge beckoned them and they came +and sat down near me. The woman looked about seventy, tall, +angular, dauntless, good for another ten years of hard +work. The little maid—her only grandchild, she told +me—was just four, her father away soldiering, and the +mother died in childbed, so for four years the child had known no +other guardian or playmate than the old woman. She was not +the least shy, but had the strange self-possession which comes +from associating with one who has travelled far on life’s +journey.</p> +<p>“I couldn’t leave her alone in the house,” +said her grandmother, “and she wouldn’t leave the +kitten for fear it should be lonesome”—with a +humorous, tender glance at the child—“but it’s +a long tramp in the heat for the little one, and we’ve +another mile to go.”</p> +<p>“Will you let her bide here till you come back?” I +said. “She’ll be all right by me.”</p> +<p>The old lady hesitated.</p> +<p>“Will ’ee stay by him, dearie?” she +said.</p> +<p>The small child nodded, drew from her miniature pocket a piece +of sweetstuff, extracted from the basket a small black cat, and +settled in for the afternoon. Her grandmother rose, took +her basket, and, with a nod and “Thank ’ee kindly, +mister,” went off down the road.</p> +<p>I went back to my work a little depressed—why had I not +white hair?—for a few minutes had shown me that I was not +old enough for the child despite my forty years. She was +quite happy with the little black cat, which lay in the small lap +blinking its yellow eyes at the sun; and presently an old man +came by, lame and bent, with gnarled twisted hands, leaning +heavily on his stick.</p> +<p>He greeted me in a high, piping voice, limped across to the +child, and sat down. “Your little maid, +mister?” he said.</p> +<p>I explained.</p> +<p>“Ah,” he said, “I’ve left a little +darlin’ like this at ’ome. It’s +’ard on us old folks when we’re one too many; but the +little mouths must be filled, and my son, ’e said ’e +didn’t see they could keep me on the arf-crown, with +another child on the way; so I’m tramping to N—, to +the House; but it’s a ’ard pinch, leavin’ the +little ones.”</p> +<p>I looked at him—a typical countryman, with white hair, +mild blue eyes, and a rosy, childish, unwrinkled face.</p> +<p>“I’m eighty-four,” he went on, “and +terrible bad with the rheumatics and my chest. Maybe +it’ll not be long before the Lord remembers me.”</p> +<p>The child crept close and put a sticky little hand confidingly +into the tired old palm. The two looked strangely alike, +for the world seems much the same to those who leave it behind as +to those who have but taken the first step on its circular +pathway.</p> +<p>“’Ook at my kitty,” she said, pointing to +the small creature in her lap. Then, as the old man touched +it with trembling fingers she went on—“’Oo +isn’t my grandad; he’s away in the sky, but +I’ll kiss ’oo.”</p> +<p>I worked on, hearing at intervals the old piping voice and the +child-treble, much of a note; and thinking of the blessings +vouchsafed to the simple old age which crowns a harmless +working-life spent in the fields. The two under the hedge +had everything in common and were boundlessly content together, +the sting of the knowledge of good and evil past for the one, and +for the other still to come; while I stood on the battlefield of +the world, the flesh, and the devil, though, thank God, with my +face to the foe.</p> +<p>The old man sat resting: I had promised him a lift with my +friend the driver of the flour-cart, and he was almost due when +the child’s grandmother came down the road.</p> +<p>When she saw my other visitor she stood amazed.</p> +<p>“What, Richard Hunton, that worked with my old man years +ago up at Ditton, whatever are you doin’ all these miles +from your own place?”</p> +<p>“Is it Eliza Jakes?”</p> +<p>He looked at her dazed, doubtful.</p> +<p>“An’ who else should it be? Where’s +your memory gone, Richard Hunton, and you not such a great age +either? Where are you stayin’?”</p> +<p>Shame overcame him; his lips trembled, his mild blue eyes +filled with tears. I told the tale as I had heard it, and +Mrs Jakes’s indignation was good to see.</p> +<p>“Not keep you on ’alf a crown! Send you to +the House! May the Lord forgive them! You +wouldn’t eat no more than a fair-sized cat, and not long +for this world either, that’s plain to see. No, +Richard Hunton, you don’t go to the House while I’m +above ground; it’d make my good man turn to think of +it. You’ll come ’ome with me and the little +’un there. I’ve my washin’, and a bit put +by for a rainy day, and a bed to spare, and the Lord and the +parson will see I don’t come to want.”</p> +<p>She stopped breathless, her defensive motherhood in arms.</p> +<p>The old man said quaveringly, in the pathetic, grudging phrase +of the poor, which veils their gratitude while it testifies their +independence, “Maybe I might as well.” He rose +with difficulty, picked up his bundle and stick, the small child +replaced the kitten in its basket, and thrust her hand in her new +friend’s.</p> +<p>“Then ’oo <i>is</i> grandad tum back,” she +said.</p> +<p>Mrs Jakes had been fumbling in her pocket, and extracted a +penny, which she pressed on me.</p> +<p>“It’s little enough, mister,” she said.</p> +<p>Then, as I tried to return it: “Nay, I’ve enough, +and yours is poor paid work.”</p> +<p>I hope I shall always be able to keep that penny; and as I +watched the three going down the dusty white road, with the child +in the middle, I thanked God for the Brotherhood of the Poor.</p> +<h3><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Yesterday</span> a funeral passed, from +the work-house at N—, a quaint sepulture without +solemnities. The rough, ungarnished coffin of stained deal +lay bare and unsightly on the floor of an old market-cart; a +woman sat beside, steadying it with her feet. The husband +drove; and the most depressed of the three was the horse, a +broken-kneed, flea-bitten grey. It was pathetic, this +bringing home in death of the old father whom, while he lived, +they had been too poor to house; it was at no small sacrifice +that they had spared him that terror of old age, a pauper’s +grave, and brought him to lie by his wife in our quiet +churchyard. They felt no emotion, this husband and wife, +only a dull sense of filial duty done, respectability preserved; +and above and through all, the bitter but necessary counting the +cost of this last bed.</p> +<p>It is strange how pagan many of us are in our beliefs. +True, the funeral libations have made way for the comfortable +bake-meats; still, to the large majority Death is Pluto, king of +the dark Unknown whence no traveller returns, rather than Azrael, +brother and friend, lord of this mansion of life. Strange +how men shun him as he waits in the shadow, watching our puny +straining after immortality, sending his comrade sleep to prepare +us for himself. When the hour strikes he comes—very +gently, very tenderly, if we will but have it so—folds the +tired hands together, takes the way-worn feet in his broad strong +palm; and lifting us in his wonderful arms he bears us swiftly +down the valley and across the waters of Remembrance.</p> +<p>Very pleasant art thou, O Brother Death, thy love is +wonderful, passing the love of women.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>To-day I have lived in a whirl of dust. To-morrow is the +great annual Cattle Fair at E—, and through the long hot +hours the beasts from all the district round have streamed in +broken procession along my road, to change hands or to die. +Surely the lordship over creation implies wise and gentle rule +for intelligent use, not the pursuit of a mere immediate end, +without any thought of community in the great sacrament of +life.</p> +<p>For the most part mystery has ceased for this working Western +world, and with it reverence. Coventry Patmore says: +“God clothes Himself actually and literally with His whole +creation. Herbs take up and assimilate minerals, beasts +assimilate herbs, and God, in the Incarnation and its proper +Sacrament, assimilates us, who, says St Augustine, ‘are +God’s beasts.’” It is man in his blind +self-seeking who separates woof from weft in the living garment +of God, and loses the more as he neglects the outward and visible +signs of a world-wide grace.</p> +<p>In olden days the herd led his flock, going first in the post +of danger to defend the creatures he had weaned from their +natural habits for his various uses. Now that good +relationship has ceased for us to exist, man drives the beasts +before him, means to his end, but with no harmony between end and +means. All day long the droves of sheep pass me on their +lame and patient way, no longer freely and instinctively +following a protector and forerunner, but <i>driven</i>, impelled +by force and resistless will—the same will which once went +before without force. They are all trimmed as much as +possible to one pattern, and all make the same sad plaint. +It is a day on which to thank God for the unknown tongue. +The drover and his lad in dusty blue coats plod along stolidly, +deaf and blind to all but the way before them; no longer wielding +the crook, instrument of deliverance, or at most of gentle +compulsion, but armed with a heavy stick and mechanically dealing +blows on the short thick fleeces; without evil intent because +without thought—it is the ritual of the trade.</p> +<p>Of all the poor dumb pilgrims of the road the bullocks are the +most terrible to see. They are not patient, but go most +unwillingly with lowered head and furtive sideways motion, in +their eyes a horror of great fear. The sleek cattle, knee +deep in pasture, massed at the gate, and stared mild-eyed and +with inquiring bellow at the retreating drove; but these passed +without answer on to the Unknown, and for them it spelt +death.</p> +<p>Behind a squadron of sleek, well-fed cart-horses, formed in +fours, with straw braid in mane and tail, came the ponies, for +the most part a merry company. Long strings of rusty, +shaggy two-year-olds, unbroken, unkempt, the short Down grass +still sweet on their tongues; full of fun, frolic, and +wickedness, biting and pulling, casting longing eyes at the +hedgerows. The boys appear to recognise them as kindred +spirits, and are curiously forbearing and patient. Soon +both ponies and boys vanish in a white whirl, and a long line of +carts, which had evidently waited for the dust to subside, comes +slowly up the incline. For the most part they carry the +pigs and fowls, carriage folk of the road. The latter are +hot, crowded, and dusty under the open netting; the former for +the most part cheerfully remonstrative.</p> +<p>I drew a breath of relief as the noise of wheels died away and +my road sank into silence. The hedgerows are no longer +green but white and choked with dust, a sight to move good sister +Rain to welcome tears. The birds seem to have fled before +the noisy confusion. I wonder whether my snake has seen and +smiled at the clumsy ruling of the lord he so little heeds? +I turned aside through the gate to plunge face and hands into the +cool of the sheltered grass that side the hedge, and then rested +my eyes on the stretch of green I had lacked all day. The +rabbits had apparently played and browsed unmindful of the stir, +and were still flirting their white tails along the hedgerows; a +lark rose, another and another, and I went back to my road. +Peace still reigned, for the shadows were lengthening, and there +would be little more traffic for the fair. I turned to my +work, grateful for the stillness, and saw on the white stretch of +road a lone old man and a pig. Surely I knew that tall +figure in the quaint grey smock, surely I knew the face, furrowed +like nature’s face in springtime, and crowned by a round, +soft hat? And the pig, the black pig walking decorously +free? Ay, I knew them.</p> +<p>In the early spring I took a whole holiday and a long tramp; +and towards afternoon, tired and thirsty, sought water at a +little lonely cottage whose windows peered and blinked under +overhanging brows of thatch. I had, not the water I asked +for, but milk and a bowl of sweet porridge for which I paid only +thanks; and stayed for a chat with my kindly hosts. They +were a quaint old couple of the kind rarely met with +nowadays. They enjoyed a little pension from the Squire and +a garden in which vegetables and flowers lived side by side in +friendliest fashion. Bees worked and sang over the thyme +and marjoram, blooming early in a sunny nook; and in a homely sty +lived a solemn black pig, a pig with a history.</p> +<p>It was no common utilitarian pig, but the honoured guest of +the old couple, and it knew it. A year before, their +youngest and only surviving child, then a man of five-and-twenty, +had brought his mother the result of his savings in the shape of +a fine young pig: a week later he lay dead of the typhoid that +scourged Maidstone. Hence the pig was sacred, cared for and +loved by this Darby and Joan.</p> +<p>“Ee be mos’ like a child to me and the mother, +an’ mos’ as sensible as a Christian, ee be,” +the old man had said; and I could hardly credit my eyes when I +saw the tall bent figure side by side with the black pig, coming +along my road on such a day.</p> +<p>I hailed the old man, and both turned aside; but he gazed at +me without remembrance.</p> +<p>I spoke of the pig and its history. He nodded +wearily. “Ay, ay, lad, you’ve got it; +’tis poor Dick’s pig right enow.”</p> +<p>“But you’re never going to take it to +E—?”</p> +<p>“Ay, but I be, and comin’ back alone, if the Lord +be marciful. The missus has been terrible bad this two +mouths and more; Squire’s in foreign parts; and food-stuffs +such as the old woman wants is hard buying for poor folks. +The stocking’s empty, now ’tis the pig must go, and I +believe he’d be glad for to do the missus a turn; she were +terrible good to him, were the missus, and fond, too. I +dursn’t tell her he was to go; she’d sooner starve +than lose poor Dick’s pig. Well, we’d best be +movin’; ’tis a fairish step.”</p> +<p>The pig followed comprehending and docile, and as the quaint +couple passed from sight I thought I heard Brother Death stir in +the shadow. He is a strong angel and of great pity.</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>CHAPTER V</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is always a little fire of +wood on the open hearth in the kitchen when I get home at night; +the old lady says it is “company” for her, and sits +in the lonely twilight, her knotted hands lying quiet on her lap, +her listening eyes fixed on the burning sticks.</p> +<p>I wonder sometimes whether she hears music in the leap and +lick of the fiery tongues, music such as he of Bayreuth draws +from the violins till the hot energy of the fire spirit is on us, +embodied in sound.</p> +<p>Surely she hears some voice, that lonely old woman on whom is +set the seal of great silence?</p> +<p>It is a great truth tenderly said that God builds the nest for +the blind bird; and may it not be that He opens closed eyes and +unstops deaf ears to sights and sounds from which others by these +very senses are debarred?</p> +<p>Here the best of us see through a mist of tears men as trees +walking; it is only in the land which is very far off and yet +very near that we shall have fulness of sight and see the King in +His beauty; and I cannot think that any listening ears listen in +vain.</p> +<p>The coppice at our back is full of birds, for it is far from +the road and they nest there undisturbed year after year. +Through the still night I heard the nightingales calling, +calling, until I could bear it no longer and went softly out into +the luminous dark.</p> +<p>The little wood was manifold with sound, I heard my little +brothers who move by night rustling in grass and tree. A +hedgehog crossed my path with a dull squeak, the bats shrilled +high to the stars, a white owl swept past me crying his hunting +note, a beetle boomed suddenly in my face; and above and through +it all the nightingales sang—and sang!</p> +<p>The night wind bent the listening trees, and the stars yearned +earthward to hear the song of deathless love. Louder and +louder the wonderful notes rose and fell in a passion of melody; +and then sank to rest on that low thrilling call which it is said +Death once heard, and stayed his hand.</p> +<p>They will scarcely sing again this year, these nightingales, +for they are late on the wing as it is. It seems as if on +such nights they sang as the swan sings, knowing it to be the +last time—with the lavish note of one who bids an eternal +farewell.</p> +<p>At last there was silence. Sitting under the big beech +tree, the giant of the coppice, I rested my tired self in the lap +of mother earth, breathed of her breath and listened to her voice +in the quickening silence until my flesh came again as the flesh +of a little child, for it is true recreation to sit at the +footstool of God wrapped in a fold of His living robe, the while +night smoothes our tired face with her healing hands.</p> +<p>The grey dawn awoke and stole with trailing robes across +earth’s floor. At her footsteps the birds roused from +sleep and cried a greeting; the sky flushed and paled conscious +of coming splendour; and overhead a file of swans passed with +broad strong flight to the reeded waters of the sequestered +pool.</p> +<p>Another hour of silence while the light throbbed and flamed in +the east; then the larks rose harmonious from a neighbouring +field, the rabbits scurried with ears alert to their morning +meal, the day had begun.</p> +<p>I passed through the coppice and out into the fields +beyond. The dew lay heavy on leaf and blade and gossamer, a +cool fresh wind swept clear over dale and down from the sea, and +the clover field rippled like a silvery lake in the breeze.</p> +<p>There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the unused day, +something beautiful in the fact that it is still untouched, +unsoiled; and town and country share alike in this +loveliness. At half-past three on a June morning even +London has not assumed her responsibilities, but smiles and glows +lighthearted and smokeless under the caresses of the morning +sun.</p> +<p>Five o’clock. The bell rings out crisp and clear +from the monastery where the Bedesmen of St Hugh watch and pray +for the souls on this labouring forgetful earth. Every hour +the note of comfort and warning cries across the land, tells the +Sanctus, the Angelus, and the Hours of the Passion, and calls to +remembrance and prayer.</p> +<p>When the wind is north, the sound carries as far as my road, +and companies me through the day; and if to His dumb children God +in His mercy reckons work as prayer, most certainly those who +have forged through the ages an unbroken chain of supplication +and thanksgiving will be counted among the stalwart labourers of +the house of the Lord.</p> +<p>Sun and bell together are my only clock: it is time for my +water drawing; and gathering a pile of mushrooms, children of the +night, I hasten home.</p> +<p>The cottage is dear to me in its quaint untidiness and want of +rectitude, dear because we are to be its last denizens, last of +the long line of toilers who have sweated and sown that others +might reap, and have passed away leaving no trace.</p> +<p>I once saw a tall cross in a seaboard churchyard, inscribed, +“To the memory of the unknown dead who have perished in +these waters.” There might be one in every village +sleeping-place to the unhonoured many who made fruitful the land +with sweat and tears. It is a consolation to think that +when we look back on this stretch of life’s road from +beyond the first milestone, which, it is instructive to remember, +is always a grave, we may hope to see the work of this world with +open eyes, and to judge of it with a due sense of proportion.</p> +<p>A bee with laden honey-bag hummed and buzzed in the hedge as I +got ready for work, importuning the flowers for that which he +could not carry, and finally giving up the attempt in despair +fell asleep on a buttercup, the best place for his weary little +velvet body. In five minutes—they may have been five +hours to him—he awoke a new bee, sensible and +clear-sighted, and flew blithely away to the hive with his +sufficiency—an example this weary world would be wise to +follow.</p> +<p>My road has been lonely to-day. A parson came by in the +afternoon, a stranger in the neighbourhood, for he asked his +way. He talked awhile, and with kindly rebuke said it was +sad to see a man of my education brought so low, which shows how +the outside appearance may mislead the prejudiced observer. +“Was it misfortune?” “Nay, the best of +good luck,” I answered, gaily.</p> +<p>The good man with beautiful readiness sat down on a heap of +stones and bade me say on. “Read me a sermon in +stone,” he said, simply; and I stayed my hand to read.</p> +<p>He listened with courteous intelligence.</p> +<p>“You hold a roadmender has a vocation?” he +asked.</p> +<p>“As the monk or the artist, for, like both, he is +universal. The world is his home; he serves all men alike, +ay, and for him the beasts have equal honour with the men. +His soul is ‘bound up in the bundle of life’ with all +other souls, he sees his father, his mother, his brethren in the +children of the road. For him there is nothing unclean, +nothing common; the very stones cry out that they +serve.”</p> +<p>Parson nodded his head.</p> +<p>“It is all true,” he said; “beautifully +true. But need such a view of life necessitate the work of +roadmending? Surely all men should be +roadmenders.”</p> +<p>O wise parson, so to read the lesson of the road!</p> +<p>“It is true,” I answered; “but some of us +find our salvation in the actual work, and earn our bread better +in this than in any other way. No man is dependent on our +earning, all men on our work. We are ‘rich beyond the +dreams of avarice’ because we have all that we need, and +yet we taste the life and poverty of the very poor. We are, +if you will, uncloistered monks, preaching friars who speak not +with the tongue, disciples who hear the wise words of a silent +master.”</p> +<p>“Robert Louis Stevenson was a roadmender,” said +the wise parson.</p> +<p>“Ay, and with more than his pen,” I +answered. “I wonder was he ever so truly great, so +entirely the man we know and love, as when he inspired the chiefs +to make a highway in the wilderness. Surely no more fitting +monument could exist to his memory than the Road of Gratitude, +cut, laid, and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of +Samoa.”</p> +<p>Parson nodded.</p> +<p>“He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out +from intelligent participation in the world’s +brotherhood.” He filled his pipe, thinking the while, +then he held out his pouch to me.</p> +<p>“Try some of this baccy,” he said; “Sherwood +of Magdalen sent it me from some outlandish place.”</p> +<p>I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to +the lot of few roadmenders.</p> +<p>He rose to go.</p> +<p>“I wish I could come and break stones,” he said, a +little wistfully.</p> +<p>“Nay,” said I, “few men have such weary +roadmending as yours, and perhaps you need my road less than most +men, and less than most parsons.”</p> +<p>We shook hands, and he went down the road and out of my +life.</p> +<p>He little guessed that I knew Sherwood, ay, and knew him too, +for had not Sherwood told me of the man he delighted to +honour.</p> +<p>Ah, well! I am no Browning Junior, and Sherwood’s +name is not Sherwood.</p> +<h3><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>CHAPTER VI</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Awhile</span> ago I took a holiday; +mouched, played truant from my road. Jem the waggoner +hailed me as he passed—he was going to the mill—would +I ride with him and come back atop of the full sacks?</p> +<p>I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon +white and fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself +down on the empty flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin +framed the long vista of my road with the downs beyond; and I lay +in the cool dark, caressed by the fresh breeze in its +thoroughfare, soothed by the strong monotonous tramp of the great +grey team and the music of the jangling harness.</p> +<p>Jem walked at the leaders’ heads; it is his rule when +the waggon is empty, a rule no “company” will make +him break. At first I regretted it, but soon discovered I +learnt to know him better so, as he plodded along, his thickset +figure slightly bent, his hands in his pockets, his whip under +one arm, whistling hymn tunes in a low minor, while the great +horses answered to his voice without touch of lash or guiding +rein.</p> +<p>I lay as in a blissful dream and watched my road unfold. +The sun set the pine-boles aflare where the hedge is sparse, and +stretched the long shadows of the besom poplars in slanting bars +across the white highway; the roadside gardens smiled friendly +with their trim-cut laurels and rows of stately +sunflowers—a seemly proximity this, Daphne and Clytie, +sisters in experience, wrapped in the warm caress of the god +whose wooing they need no longer fear. Here and there we +passed little groups of women and children off to work in the +early cornfields, and Jem paused in his fond repetition of +“The Lord my pasture shall prepare” to give them +good-day.</p> +<p>It is like Life, this travelling backwards—that which +has been, alone visible—like Life, which is after all, +retrospective with a steady moving on into the Unknown, Unseen, +until Faith is lost in Sight and experience is no longer the +touchstone of humanity. The face of the son of Adam is set +on the road his brothers have travelled, marking their landmarks, +tracing their journeyings; but with the eyes of a child of God he +looks forward, straining to catch a glimpse of the jewelled walls +of his future home, the city “Eternal in the +Heavens.”</p> +<p>Presently we left my road for the deep shade of a narrow +country way where the great oaks and beeches meet overhead and no +hedge-clipper sets his hand to stay nature’s profusion; and +so by pleasant lanes scarce the waggon’s width across, now +shady, now sunny, here bordered by thickset coverts, there giving +on fruitful fields, we came at length to the mill.</p> +<p>I left Jem to his business with the miller and wandered down +the flowery meadow to listen to the merry clack of the stream and +the voice of the waters on the weir. The great wheel was at +rest, as I love best to see it in the later afternoon; the splash +and churn of the water belong rather to the morning hours. +It is the chief mistake we make in portioning out our day that we +banish rest to the night-time, which is for sleep and recreating, +instead of setting apart the later afternoon and quiet twilight +hours for the stretching of weary limbs and repose of tired mind +after a day’s toil that should begin and end at five.</p> +<p>The little stone bridge over the mill-stream is almost on a +level with the clear running water, and I lay there and gazed at +the huge wheel which, under multitudinous forms and uses, is one +of the world’s wonders, because one of the few things we +imitative children have not learnt from nature. Is it +perchance a memory out of that past when Adam walked clear-eyed +in Paradise and talked with the Lord in the cool of the +day? Did he see then the flaming wheels instinct with +service, wondrous messengers of the Most High vouchsafed in +vision to the later prophets?</p> +<p>Maybe he did, and going forth from before the avenging sword +of his own forging to the bitterness of an accursed earth, took +with him this bright memory of perfect, ceaseless service, and so +fashioned our labouring wheel—pathetic link with the time +of his innocency. It is one of many unanswered questions, +good to ask because it has no answer, only the suggestion of a +train of thought: perhaps we are never so receptive as when with +folded hands we say simply, “This is a great +mystery.” I watched and wondered until Jem called, +and I had to leave the rippling weir and the water’s side, +and the wheel with its untold secret.</p> +<p>The miller’s wife gave me tea and a crust of home-made +bread, and the miller’s little maid sat on my knee while I +told the sad tale of a little pink cloud separated from its +parents and teazed and hunted by mischievous little airs. +To-morrow, if I mistake not, her garden will be wet with its +tears, and, let us hope, point a moral; for the tale had its +origin in a frenzied chicken driven from the side of an anxious +mother, and pursued by a sturdy, relentless figure in a white +sun-bonnet.</p> +<p>The little maid trotted off, greatly sobered, to look somewhat +prematurely for the cloud’s tears; and I climbed to my +place at the top of the piled-up sacks, and thence watched +twilight pass to starlight through my narrow peep, and, so +watching, slept until Jem’s voice hailed me from Dreamland, +and I went, only half awake, across the dark fields home.</p> +<p>Autumn is here and it is already late. He has painted +the hedges russet and gold, scarlet and black, and a tangle of +grey; now he has damp brown leaves in his hair and frost in his +finger-tips.</p> +<p>It is a season of contrasts; at first all is stir and bustle, +the ingathering of man and beast; barn and rickyard stand filled +with golden treasure; at the farm the sound of threshing; in wood +and copse the squirrels busied ’twixt tree and storehouse, +while the ripe nuts fall with thud of thunder rain. When +the harvesting is over, the fruit gathered, the last rick +thatched, there comes a pause. Earth strips off her bright +colours and shows a bare and furrowed face; the dead leaves fall +gently and sadly through the calm, sweet air; grey mists drape +the fields and hedges. The migratory birds have left, save +a few late swallows; and as I sit at work in the soft, still +rain, I can hear the blackbird’s melancholy trill and the +thin pipe of the redbreast’s winter song—the air is +full of the sound of farewell.</p> +<p>Forethought and preparation for the Future which shall be; +farewell, because of the Future which may never be—for us; +“Man, thou hast goods laid up for many years, and it is +well; but, remember, this night <i>thy</i> soul may be +required”; is the unvoiced lesson of autumn. There is +growing up among us a great fear; it stares at us white, +wide-eyed, from the faces of men and women alike—the fear +of pain, mental and bodily pain. For the last twenty years +we have waged war with suffering—a noble war when fought in +the interest of the many, but fraught with great danger to each +individual man. It is the fear which should not be, rather +than the ‘hope which is in us,’ that leads men in +these days to drape Death in a flowery mantle, to lay stress on +the shortness of parting, the speedy reunion, to postpone their +good-byes until the last moment, or avoid saying them altogether; +and this fear is a poor, ignoble thing, unworthy of those who are +as gods, knowing good and evil. We are still paying the +price of that knowledge; suffering in both kinds is a substantial +part of it, and brings its own healing. Let us pay like +men, our face to the open heaven, neither whimpering like +children in the dark, nor lulled to unnecessary oblivion by some +lethal drug; for it is manly, not morbid, to dare to taste the +pungent savour of pain, the lingering sadness of farewell which +emphasises the aftermath of life; it should have its place in all +our preparation as a part of our inheritance we dare not be +without.</p> +<p>There is an old couple in our village who are past work. +The married daughter has made shift to take her mother and the +parish half-crown, but there is neither room nor food for the +father, and he must go to N—. If husband and wife +went together, they would be separated at the workhouse +door. The parting had to come; it came yesterday. I +saw them stumbling lamely down the road on their last journey +together, walking side by side without touch or speech, seeing +and heeding nothing but a blank future. As they passed me +the old man said gruffly, “’Tis far eno’; +better be gettin’ back”; but the woman shook her +head, and they breasted the hill together. At the top they +paused, shook hands, and separated; one went on, the other turned +back; and as the old woman limped blindly by I turned away, for +there are sights a man dare not look upon. She passed; and +I heard a child’s shrill voice say, “I come to look +for you, gran”; and I thanked God that there need be no +utter loneliness in the world while it holds a little child.</p> +<p>Now it is my turn, and I must leave the wayside to serve in +the sheepfolds during the winter months. It is scarcely a +farewell, for my road is ubiquitous, eternal; there are green +ways in Paradise and golden streets in the beautiful City of +God. Nevertheless, my heart is heavy; for, viewed by the +light of the waning year, roadmending seems a great and wonderful +work which I have poorly conceived of and meanly performed: yet I +have learnt to understand dimly the truths of three great +paradoxes—the blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, +the companionship of solitude—and so take my leave of this +stretch of road, and of you who have fared along the white +highway through the medium of a printed page.</p> +<p>Farewell! It is a roadmender’s word; I cry you +Godspeed to the next milestone—and beyond.</p> +<h2><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>OUT OF +THE SHADOW</h2> +<h3><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> no longer a roadmender; the +stretch of white highway which leads to the end of the world will +know me no more; the fields and hedgerows, grass and leaf stiff +with the crisp rime of winter’s breath, lie beyond my +horizon; the ewes in the folding, their mysterious eyes quick +with the consciousness of coming motherhood, answer +another’s voice and hand; while I lie here, not in the +lonely companionship of my expectations, but where the shadow is +bright with kindly faces and gentle hands, until one kinder and +gentler still carries me down the stairway into the larger +room.</p> +<p>But now the veil was held aside and one went by crowned with +the majesty of years, wearing the ermine of an unstained rule, +the purple of her people’s loyalty. Nations stood +with bated breath to see her pass in the starlit mist of her +children’s tears; a monarch—greatest of her time; an +empress—conquered men called mother; a +woman—Englishmen cried queen; still the crowned captive of +her people’s heart—the prisoner of love.</p> +<p>The night-goers passed under my window in silence, neither +song nor shout broke the welcome dark; next morning the workmen +who went by were strangely quiet.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap">Victoria Dei Gratia +Britanniarum Regina</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Did they think of how that legend would disappear, and of all +it meant, as they paid their pennies at the coffee-stall? +The feet rarely know the true value and work of the head; but all +Englishmen have been and will be quick to acknowledge and revere +Victoria by the grace of God a wise woman, a great and loving +mother.</p> +<p>Years ago, I, standing at a level crossing, saw her +pass. The train slowed down and she caught sight of the +gatekeeper’s little girl who had climbed the barrier. +Such a smile as she gave her! And then I caught a quick +startled gesture as she slipped from my vision; I thought +afterwards it was that she feared the child might fall. +Mother first, then Queen; even so rest came to her—not in +one of the royal palaces, but in her own home, surrounded by the +immediate circle of her nearest and dearest, while the world kept +watch and ward.</p> +<p>I, a shy lover of the fields and woods, longed always, should +a painless passing be vouchsafed me, to make my bed on the +fragrant pine needles in the aloneness of a great forest; to lie +once again as I had lain many a time, bathed in the bitter +sweetness of the sun-blessed pines, lapped in the manifold +silence; my ear attuned to the wind of Heaven with its call from +the Cities of Peace. In sterner mood, when Love’s +hand held a scourge, I craved rather the stress of the moorland +with its bleaker mind imperative of sacrifice. To rest +again under the lee of Rippon Tor swept by the strong +peat-smelling breeze; to stare untired at the long cloud-shadowed +reaches, and watch the mist-wraiths huddle and shrink round the +stones of blood; until my sacrifice too was accomplished, and my +soul had fled. A wild waste moor; a vast void sky; and +naught between heaven and earth but man, his sin-glazed eyes +seeking afar the distant light of his own heart.</p> +<p>With years came counsels more profound, and the knowledge that +man was no mere dweller in the woods to follow the footsteps of +the piping god, but an integral part of an organised whole, in +which Pan too has his fulfilment. The wise Venetians knew; +and read pantheism into Christianity when they set these words +round Ezekiel’s living creatures in the altar vault of St +Mark’s:—</p> +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Quaeque sub obscuris de Cristo +Dicta figuris</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">His aperire datur et in his, Deus ipse +notatur</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Thou shalt have none other gods but me.” If +man had been able to keep this one commandment perfectly the +other nine would never have been written; instead he has +comprehensively disregarded it, and perhaps never more than now +in the twentieth century. Ah, well! this world, in spite of +all its sinning, is still the Garden of Eden where the Lord +walked with man, not in the cool of evening, but in the heat and +stress of the immediate working day. There is no angel now +with flaming sword to keep the way of the Tree of Life, but +tapers alight morning by morning in the Hostel of God to point us +to it; and we, who are as gods knowing good and evil, partake of +that fruit “whereof whoso eateth shall never die”; +the greatest gift or the most awful penalty—Eternal +Life.</p> +<p>I then, with my craving for tree and sky, held that a great +capital with its stir of life and death, of toil and strife and +pleasure, was an ill place for a sick man to wait in; a place to +shrink from as a child shrinks from the rude blow of one out of +authority. Yet here, far from moor and forest, hillside and +hedgerow, in the family sitting-room of the English-speaking +peoples, the London much misunderstood, I find the fulfilment by +antithesis of all desire. For the loneliness of the +moorland, there is the warmth and companionship of London’s +swift beating heart. For silence there is sound—the +sound and stir of service—for the most part far in excess +of its earthly equivalent. Against the fragrant incense of +the pines I set the honest sweat of the man whose lifetime is the +measure of his working day. “He that loveth not his +brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath not +seen?” wrote Blessed John, who himself loved so much that +he beheld the Lamb as it had been slain from the beginning when +Adam fell, and the City of God with light most precious. +The burden of corporate sin, the sword of corporate sorrow, the +joy of corporate righteousness; thus we become citizens in the +Kingdom of God, and companions of all his creatures. +“It is not good that the man should be alone,” said +the Lord God.</p> +<p>I live now as it were in two worlds, the world of sight, and +the world of sound; and they scarcely ever touch each +other. I hear the grind of heavy traffic, the struggle of +horses on the frost-breathed ground, the decorous jolt of +omnibuses, the jangle of cab bells, the sharp warning of bicycles +at the corner, the swift rattle of costers’ carts as they +go south at night with their shouting, goading crew. All +these things I hear, and more; but I see no road, only the silent +river of my heart with its tale of wonder and years, and the +white beat of seagulls’ wings in strong inquiring +flight.</p> +<p>Sometimes there is naught to see on the waterway but a +solitary black hull, a very Stygian ferry-boat, manned by a +solitary figure, and moving slowly up under the impulse of the +far-reaching sweeps. Then the great barges pass with their +coffined treasure, drawn by a small self-righteous +steam-tug. Later, lightened of their load, and waiting on +wind and tide, I see them swooping by like birds set free; tawny +sails that mind me of red-roofed Whitby with its northern fleet; +black sails as of some heedless Theseus; white sails that sweep +out of the morning mist “like restless +gossameres.” They make the bridge, which is just +within my vision, and then away past Westminster and Blackfriars +where St Paul’s great dome lifts the cross high over a +self-seeking city; past Southwark where England’s poet +illuminates in the scroll of divine wisdom the sign of the +Tabard; past the Tower with its haunting ghosts of history; past +Greenwich, fairy city, caught in the meshes of riverside mist; +and then the salt and speer of the sea, the companying with great +ships, the fresh burden.</p> +<p>At night I see them again, silent, mysterious; searching the +darkness with unwinking yellow stare, led by a great green +light. They creep up under the bridge which spans the river +with its watching eyes, and vanish, crying back a warning note as +they make the upper reach, or strident hail, as a chain of +kindred phantoms passes, ploughing a contrary tide.</p> +<p>Throughout the long watches of the night I follow them; and in +the early morning they slide by, their eyes pale in the twilight; +while the stars flicker and fade, and the gas lamps die down into +a dull yellow blotch against the glory and glow of a new day.</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">February</span> is here, February +fill-dyke; the month of purification, of cleansing rains and +pulsing bounding streams, and white mist clinging insistent to +field and hedgerow so that when her veil is withdrawn greenness +may make us glad.</p> +<p>The river has been uniformly grey of late, with no wind to +ruffle its surface or to speed the barges dropping slowly and +sullenly down with the tide through a blurring haze. I +watched one yesterday, its useless sails half-furled and no sign +of life save the man at the helm. It drifted stealthily +past, and a little behind, flying low, came a solitary seagull, +grey as the river’s haze—a following bird.</p> +<p>Once again I lay on my back in the bottom of the tarry old +fishing smack, blue sky above and no sound but the knock, knock +of the waves, and the thud and curl of falling foam as the old +boat’s blunt nose breasted the coming sea. Then Daddy +Whiddon spoke.</p> +<p>“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said.</p> +<p>I got up, and looked across the blue field we were ploughing +into white furrows. Far away a tiny sail scarred the great +solitude, and astern came a gull flying slowly close to the +water’s breast.</p> +<p>Daddy Whiddon waved his pipe towards it.</p> +<p>“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said, again; +and again I waited; questions were not grateful to him.</p> +<p>“There be a carpse there, sure enough, a carpse +driftin’ and shiftin’ on the floor of the sea. +There be those as can’t rest, poor sawls, and her’ll +be mun, her’ll be mun, and the sperrit of her is with the +bürrd.”</p> +<p>The clumsy boom swung across as we changed our course, and the +water ran from us in smooth reaches on either side: the bird flew +steadily on.</p> +<p>“What will the spirit do?” I said.</p> +<p>The old man looked at me gravely.</p> +<p>“Her’ll rest in the Lard’s time, in the +Lard’s gude time—but now her’ll just be +follerin’ on with the bürrd.”</p> +<p>The gull was flying close to us now, and a cold wind swept the +sunny sea. I shivered: Daddy looked at me curiously.</p> +<p>“There be reason enough to be cawld if us did but knaw +it, but I he mos’ used to ’em, poor +sawls.” He shaded his keen old blue eyes, and looked +away across the water. His face kindled. “There +be a skule comin’, and by my sawl ’tis mackerel they +be drivin’.”</p> +<p>I watched eagerly, and saw the dark line rise and fall in the +trough of the sea, and, away behind, the stir and rush of +tumbling porpoises as they chased their prey.</p> +<p>Again we changed our tack, and each taking an oar, pulled +lustily for the beach.</p> +<p>“Please God her’ll break inshore,” said +Daddy Whiddon; and he shouted the news to the idle waiting men +who hailed us.</p> +<p>In a moment all was stir, for the fishing had been +slack. Two boats put out with the lithe brown seine. +The dark line had turned, but the school was still behind, +churning the water in clumsy haste; they were coming in.</p> +<p>Then the brit broke in silvery leaping waves on the shelving +beach. The threefold hunt was over; the porpoises turned +out to sea in search of fresh quarry; and the seine, dragged by +ready hands, came slowly, stubbornly in with its quivering +treasure of fish. They had sought a haven and found none; +the brit lay dying in flickering iridescent heaps as the +bare-legged babies of the village gathered them up; and far away +over the water I saw a single grey speck; it was the following +bird.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The curtain of river haze falls back; barge and bird are alike +gone, and the lamplighter has lit the first gas-lamp on the far +side of the bridge. Every night I watch him come, his +progress marked by the great yellow eyes that wake the +dark. Sometimes he walks quickly; sometimes he loiters on +the bridge to chat, or stare at the dark water; but he always +comes, leaving his watchful deterrent train behind him to police +the night.</p> +<p>Once Demeter in the black anguish of her desolation searched +for lost Persephone by the light of Hecate’s torch; and +searching all in vain, spurned beneath her empty feet an earth +barren of her smile; froze with set brows the merry brooks and +streams; and smote forest, and plain, and fruitful field, with +the breath of her last despair, until even Iambe’s laughing +jest was still. And then when the desolation was complete, +across the wasted valley where the starveling cattle scarcely +longed to browse, came the dreadful chariot—and +Persephone. The day of the prisoner of Hades had dawned; +and as the sun flamed slowly up to light her thwarted eyes the +world sprang into blossom at her feet.</p> +<p>We can never be too Pagan when we are truly Christian, and the +old myths are eternal truths held fast in the Church’s +net. Prometheus fetched fire from Heaven, to be slain +forever in the fetching; and lo, a Greater than Prometheus came +to fire the cresset of the Cross. Demeter waits now +patiently enough. Persephone waits, too, in the faith of +the sun she cannot see: and every lamp lit carries on the crusade +which has for its goal a sunless, moonless, city whose light is +the Light of the world.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Lume è lassù, che visibile +face<br /> +lo creatore a quella creatura,<br /> +che solo in lui vedere ha la sua pace.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Immediately outside my window is a lime tree—a little +black skeleton of abundant branches—in which sparrows +congregate to chirp and bicker. Farther away I have a +glimpse of graceful planes, children of moonlight and mist; their +dainty robes, still more or less unsullied, gleam ghostly in the +gaslight athwart the dark. They make a brave show even in +winter with their feathery branches and swinging tassels, whereas +my little tree stands stark and uncompromising, with its horde of +sooty sparrows cockney to the last tail feather, and a pathetic +inability to look anything but black. Rain comes with +strong caressing fingers, and the branches seem no whit the +cleaner for her care; but then their glistening blackness mirrors +back the succeeding sunlight, as a muddy pavement will sometimes +lap our feet in a sea of gold. The little wet sparrows are +for the moment equally transformed, for the sun turns their +dun-coloured coats to a ruddy bronze, and cries Chrysostom as it +kisses each shiny beak. They are dumb Chrysostoms; but they +preach a golden gospel, for the sparrows are to London what the +rainbow was to eight saved souls out of a waste of waters—a +perpetual sign of the remembering mercies of God.</p> +<p>Last night there was a sudden clatter of hoofs, a shout, and +then silence. A runaway cab-horse, a dark night, a wide +crossing, and a heavy burden: so death came to a poor +woman. People from the house went out to help; and I heard +of her, the centre of an unknowing curious crowd, as she lay +bonnetless in the mud of the road, her head on the kerb. A +rude but painless death: the misery lay in her life; for this +woman—worn, white-haired, and wrinkled—had but fifty +years to set against such a condition. The policeman +reported her respectable, hard-working, living apart from her +husband with a sister; but although they shared rooms, they +“did not speak,” and the sister refused all +responsibility; so the parish buried the dead woman, and thus +ended an uneventful tragedy.</p> +<p>Was it her own fault? If so, the greater pathos. +The lonely souls that hold out timid hands to an unheeding world +have their meed of interior comfort even here, while the sons of +consolation wait on the thresh-hold for their footfall: but God +help the soul that bars its own door! It is kicking against +the pricks of Divine ordinance, the ordinance of a triune God; +whether it be the dweller in crowded street or tenement who is +proud to say, “I keep myself to myself,” or Seneca +writing in pitiful complacency, “Whenever I have gone among +men, I have returned home less of a man.” Whatever +the next world holds in store, we are bidden in this to seek and +serve God in our fellow-men, and in the creatures of His making +whom He calls by name.</p> +<p>It was once my privilege to know an old organ-grinder named +Gawdine. He was a hard swearer, a hard drinker, a hard +liver, and he fortified himself body and soul against the world: +he even drank alone, which is an evil sign.</p> +<p>One day to Gawdine sober came a little dirty child, who clung +to his empty trouser leg—he had lost a limb years +before—with a persistent unintelligible request. He +shook the little chap off with a blow and a curse; and the child +was trotting dismally away, when it suddenly turned, ran back, +and held up a dirty face for a kiss.</p> +<p>Two days later Gawdine fell under a passing dray which +inflicted terrible internal injuries on him. They patched +him up in hospital, and he went back to his organ-grinding, +taking with him two friends—a pain which fell suddenly upon +him to rack and rend with an anguish of crucifixion, and the +memory of a child’s upturned face. Outwardly he was +the same save that he changed the tunes of his organ, out of +long-hoarded savings, for the jigs and reels which children hold +dear, and stood patiently playing them in child-crowded alleys, +where pennies are not as plentiful as elsewhere.</p> +<p>He continued to drink; it did not come within his new code to +stop, since he could “carry his liquor well;” but he +rarely, if ever, swore. He told me this tale through the +throes of his anguish as he lay crouched on a mattress on the +floor; and as the grip of the pain took him he tore and bit at +his hands until they were maimed and bleeding, to keep the ready +curses off his lips.</p> +<p>He told the story, but he gave no reason, offered no +explanation: he has been dead now many a year, and thus would I +write his epitaph:—</p> +<p>He saw the face of a little child and looked on God.</p> +<h3><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Two</span> began, in a low voice, +‘Why, the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have +been a <i>red</i> rose-tree, and we put a white one in by +mistake.’”</p> +<p>As I look round this room I feel sure Two, and Five, and +Seven, have all been at work on it, and made no mistakes, for +round the walls runs a frieze of squat standard rose-trees, red +as red can be, and just like those that Alice saw in the +Queen’s garden. In between them are Chaucer’s +name-children, prim little daisies, peering wideawake from green +grass. This same grass has a history which I have +heard. In the original stencil for the frieze it was purely +conventional like the rest, and met in spikey curves round each +tree; the painter, however, who was doing the work, was a lover +of the fields; and feeling that such grass was a travesty, he +added on his own account dainty little tussocks, and softened the +hard line into a tufted carpet, the grass growing irregularly, +bent at will by the wind.</p> +<p>The result from the standpoint of conventional art is indeed +disastrous; but my sympathy and gratitude are with the +painter. I see, as he saw, the far-reaching robe of living +ineffable green, of whose brilliance the eye never has too much, +and in whose weft no two threads are alike; and shrink as he did +from the conventionalising of that windswept glory.</p> +<p>The sea has its crested waves of recognisable form; the river +its eddy and swirl and separate vortices; but the grass! +The wind bloweth where it listeth and the grass bows as the wind +blows—“thou canst not tell whither it +goeth.” It takes no pattern, it obeys no recognised +law; it is like a beautiful creature of a thousand wayward moods, +and its voice is like nothing else in the wide world. It +bids you rest and bury your tired face in the green coolness, and +breathe of its breath and of the breath of the good earth from +which man was taken and to which he will one day return. +Then, if you lend your ear and are silent minded, you may hear +wondrous things of the deep places of the earth; of life in +mineral and stone as well as in pulsing sap; of a green world as +the stars saw it before man trod it under foot—of the +emerald which has its place with the rest in the City of God.</p> + +<blockquote><p> “What +if earth<br /> +Be but the shadow of heaven, and things therein,<br /> +Each to each other like, more than on earth to +thought?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is a natural part of civilisation’s lust of +re-arrangement that we should be so ready to conventionalise the +beauty of this world into decorative patterns for our pilgrim +tents. It is a phase, and will melt into other phases; but +it tends to the increase of artificiality, and exists not only in +art but in everything. It is no new thing for jaded +sentiment to crave the spur of the unnatural, to prefer the +clever imitation, to live in a Devachan where the surroundings +appear that which we would have them to be; but it is an +interesting record of the pulse of the present day that ‘An +Englishwoman’s Love Letters’ should have taken +society by storm in the way it certainly has.</p> +<p>It is a delightful book to leave about, with its vellum +binding, dainty ribbons, and the hallmark of a great +publisher’s name. But when we seek within we find +love with its thousand voices and wayward moods, its shy graces +and seemly reticences, love which has its throne and robe of +state as well as the garment of the beggar maid, love which is +before time was, which knew the world when the stars took up +their courses, presented to us in gushing outpourings, the +appropriate language of a woman’s heart to the boor she +delights to honour.</p> +<p>“It is woman who is the glory of man,” says the +author of ‘The House of Wisdom and Love,’ +“<i>Regina mundi</i>, greater, because so far the less; and +man is her head, but only as he serves his queen.” +Set this sober aphorism against the school girl love-making which +kisses a man’s feet and gaily refuses him the barren honour +of having loved her first.</p> +<p>There is scant need for the apologia which precedes the +letters; a few pages dispels the fear that we are prying into +another’s soul. As for the authorship, there is a +woman’s influence, an artist’s poorly concealed bias +in the foreign letters; and for the rest a man’s +blunders—so much easier to see in another than to avoid +oneself—writ large from cover to cover. King +Cophetua, who sends “profoundly grateful +remembrances,” has most surely written the letters he would +wish to receive.</p> +<p>“Mrs Meynell!” cries one reviewer, +triumphantly. Nay, the saints be good to us, what has Mrs +Meynell in common with the “Englishwoman’s” +language, style, or most unconvincing passion? Men can +write as from a woman’s heart when they are minded to do so +in desperate earnestness—there is Clarissa Harlowe and +Stevenson’s Kirstie, and many more to prove it; but when a +man writes as the author of the “Love Letters” +writes, I feel, as did the painter of the frieze, that +pattern-making has gone too far and included that which, like the +grass, should be spared such a convention.</p> +<p>“I quite agree with you,” said the Duchess, +“and the moral of that is—‘Be what you would +seem to be’—or, if you’d like to put it more +simply—‘never imagine yourself not to be otherwise +than what it might appear to others that what you were or might +have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have +appeared to them to be otherwise.’” And so by +way of the Queen’s garden I come back to my room again.</p> +<p>My heart’s affections are still centred on my old attic, +with boarded floor and white-washed walls, where the sun blazoned +a frieze of red and gold until he travelled too far towards the +north, the moon streamed in to paint the trees in inky wavering +shadows, and the stars flashed their glory to me across the +years. But now sun and moon greet me only indirectly, and +under the red roses hang pictures, some of them the dear +companions of my days. Opposite me is the Arundel print of +the Presentation, painted by the gentle “Brother of the +Angels.” Priest Simeon, a stately figure in green and +gold, great with prophecy, gazes adoringly at the Bambino he +holds with fatherly care. Our Lady, in robe of red and veil +of shadowed purple, is instinct with light despite the sombre +colouring, as she stretches out hungering, awe-struck hands for +her soul’s delight. St Joseph, dignified guardian and +servitor, stands behind, holding the Sacrifice of the Poor to +redeem the First-begotten.</p> +<p>St Peter Martyr and the Dominican nun, gazing in rapt +contemplation at the scene, are not one whit surprised to find +themselves in the presence of eternal mysteries. In the +Entombment, which hangs on the opposite wall, St Dominic comes +round the corner full of grievous amaze and tenderest sympathy, +but with no sense of shock or intrusion, for was he not +“famigliar di Cristo”? And so he takes it all +in; the stone bed empty and waiting; the Beloved cradled for the +last time on His mother’s knees to be washed, lapped round, +and laid to rest as if He were again the Babe of Bethlehem. +He sees the Magdalen anointing the Sacred Feet; Blessed John +caring for the living and the Dead; and he, Dominic—hound +of the Lord—having his real, living share in the anguish +and hope, the bedding of the dearest Dead, who did but leave this +earth that He might manifest Himself more completely.</p> +<p>Underneath, with a leap across the centuries, is +Rossetti’s picture; Dante this time the onlooker, Beatrice, +in her pale beauty, the death-kissed one. The same idea +under different representations; the one conceived in childlike +simplicity, the other recalling, even in the photograph, its +wealth of colour and imagining; the one a world-wide ideal, the +other an individual expression of it.</p> +<p>Beatrice was to Dante the inclusion of belief. She was +more to him than he himself knew, far more to him after her death +than before. And, therefore, the analogy between the +pictures has at core a common reality. “It is +expedient for you that I go away,” is constantly being said +to us as we cling earthlike to the outward expression, rather +than to the inward manifestation—and blessed are those who +hear and understand, for it is spoken only to such as have been +with Him from the beginning. The eternal mysteries come +into time for us individually under widely differing forms. +The tiny child mothers its doll, croons to it, spends herself +upon it, why she cannot tell you; and we who are here in our +extreme youth, never to be men and women grown in this world, +nurse our ideal, exchange it, refashion it, call it by many +names; and at last in here or hereafter we find in its naked +truth the Child in the manger, even as the Wise Men found Him +when they came from the East to seek a great King. There is +but one necessary condition of this finding; we must follow the +particular manifestation of light given us, never resting until +it rests—over the place of the Child. And there is +but one insurmountable hindrance, the extinction of or drawing +back from the light truly apprehended by us. We forget +this, and judge other men by the light of our own soul.</p> +<p>I think the old bishop must have understood it. He is my +friend of friends as he lies opposite my window in his alabaster +sleep, clad in pontifical robes, with unshod feet, a little +island of white peace in a many-coloured marble sea. The +faithful sculptor has given every line and wrinkle, the heavy +eyelids and sunken face of tired old age, but withal the smile of +a contented child.</p> +<p>I do not even know my bishop’s name, only that the work +is of the thirteenth century; but he is good to company with +through the day, for he has known darkness and light and the +minds of many men; most surely, too, he has known that God +fulfils Himself in strange ways, so with the shadow of his feet +upon the polished floor he rests in peace.</p> +<h3><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> Sunday my little tree was limned +in white and the sparrows were craving shelter at my window from +the blizzard. Now the mild thin air brings a breath of +spring in its wake and the daffodils in the garden wait the +kisses of the sun. Hand-in-hand with memory I slip away +down the years, and remember a day when I awoke at earliest dawn, +for across my sleep I had heard the lusty golden-throated +trumpeters heralding the spring.</p> +<p>The air was sharp-set; a delicate rime frosted roof and road; +the sea lay hazy and still like a great pearl. Then as the +sky stirred with flush upon flush of warm rosy light, it passed +from misty pearl to opal with heart of flame, from opal to +gleaming sapphire. The earth called, the fields called, the +river called—that pied piper to whose music a man cannot +stop his ears. It was with me as with the Canterbury +pilgrims:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“So priketh hem nature in hir corages;<br /> +Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Half an hour later I was away by the early train that carries +the branch mails and a few workmen, and was delivered at the +little wayside station with the letters. The kind air went +singing past as I swung along the reverberating road between the +high tree-crowned banks which we call hedges in merry Devon, with +all the world to myself and the Brethren. A great blackbird +flew out with a loud “chook, chook,” and the red of +the haw on his yellow bill. A robin trilled from a low +rose-bush; two wrens searched diligently on a fallen tree for +breakfast, quite unconcerned when I rested a moment beside them; +and a shrewmouse slipped across the road followed directly by its +mate. March violets bloomed under the sheltered hedge with +here and there a pale primrose; a frosted bramble spray still +held its autumn tints clinging to the semblance of the past; and +great branches of snowy blackthorn broke the barren hedgeway as +if spring made a mock of winter’s snows.</p> +<p>Light of heart and foot with the new wine of the year I sped +on again, stray daffodils lighting the wayside, until I heard the +voice of the stream and reached the field gate which leads to the +lower meadows. There before me lay spring’s pageant; +green pennons waving, dainty maids curtseying, and a host of +joyous yellow trumpeters proclaiming ‘Victory’ to an +awakened earth. They range in serried ranks right down to +the river, so that a man must walk warily to reach the +water’s edge where they stand gazing down at themselves in +fairest semblance like their most tragic progenitor, and, rising +from the bright grass in their thousands, stretch away until they +melt in a golden cloud at the far end of the misty mead. +Through the field gate and across the road I see them, starring +the steep earth bank that leads to the upper copse, gleaming like +pale flames against the dark tree-boles. There they have +but frail tenure; here, in the meadows, they reign supreme.</p> +<p>At the upper end of the field the river provides yet closer +sanctuary for these children of the spring. Held in its +embracing arms lies an island long and narrow, some thirty feet +by twelve, a veritable untrod Eldorado, glorious in gold from end +to end, a fringe of reeds by the water’s edge, and save for +that—daffodils. A great oak stands at the +meadow’s neck, an oak with gnarled and wandering roots +where a man may rest, for it is bare of daffodils save for a +group of three, and a solitary one apart growing close to the old +tree’s side. I sat down by my lonely little sister, +blue sky overhead, green grass at my feet decked, like the +pastures of the Blessèd, in glorious sheen; a sea of +triumphant, golden heads tossing blithely back as the wind swept +down to play with them at his pleasure.</p> +<p>It was all mine to have and to hold without severing a single +slender stem or harbouring a thought of covetousness; mine, as +the whole earth was mine, to appropriate to myself without the +burden and bane of worldly possession. “Thou sayest +that I am—a King,” said the Lord before Pilate, and +“My kingdom is not of this world.” We who are +made kings after His likeness possess all things, not after this +world’s fashion but in proportion to our poverty; and when +we cease to toil and spin, are arrayed as the lilies, in a glory +transcending Solomon’s. Bride Poverty—she who +climbed the Cross with Christ—stretched out eager hands to +free us from our chains, but we flee from her, and lay up +treasure against her importunity, while Amytas on his seaweed bed +weeps tears of pure pity for crave-mouth Cæsar of great +possessions.</p> +<p>Presently another of spring’s lovers cried across the +water “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” and the voice of the stream +sang joyously in unison. It is free from burden, this merry +little river, and neither weir nor mill bars its quick way to the +sea as it completes the eternal circle, lavishing gifts of +coolness and refreshment on the children of the meadows.</p> +<p>It has its birth on the great lone moor, cradled in a +wonderful peat-smelling bog, with a many-hued coverlet of soft +mosses—pale gold, orange, emerald, tawny, olive and white, +with the red stain of sun-dew and tufted cotton-grass. +Under the old grey rocks which watch it rise, yellow-eyed +tormantil stars the turf, and bids “Godspeed” to the +little child of earth and sky. Thus the journey begins; and +with ever-increasing strength the stream carves a way through the +dear brown peat, wears a fresh wrinkle on the patient stones, and +patters merrily under a clapper bridge which spanned its breadth +when the mistletoe reigned and Bottor, the grim rock idol, +exacted the toll of human life that made him great. On and +on goes the stream, for it may not stay; leaving of its freshness +with the great osmunda that stretches eager roots towards the +running water; flowing awhile with a brother stream, to part +again east and west as each takes up his separate burden of +service—my friend to cherish the lower meadows in their +flowery joyance—and so by the great sea-gate back to sky +and earth again.</p> +<p>The river of God is full of water. The streets of the +City are pure gold. Verily, here also having nothing we +possess all things.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The air was keen and still as I walked back in the early +evening, and a daffodil light was in the sky as if Heaven +mirrored back earth’s radiance. Near the station some +children flitted past, like little white miller moths homing +through the dusk. As I climbed the hill the moon rode high +in a golden field—it was daffodils to the last.</p> +<h3><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>CHAPTER V</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> seagulls from the upper reaches +pass down the river in sober steady flight seeking the open +sea. I shall miss the swoop and circle of silver wings in +the sunlight and the plaintive call which sounds so strangely +away from rock and shore, but it is good to know that they have +gone from mudbank and murky town back to the free airs of their +inheritance, to the shadow of sun-swept cliffs and the curling +crest of the wind-beaten waves, to brood again over the great +ocean of a world’s tears.</p> +<p>My little tree is gemmed with buds, shy, immature, but full of +promise. The sparrows busied with nest-building in the +neighbouring pipes and gutters use it for a vantage ground, and +crowd there in numbers, each little beak sealed with long golden +straw or downy feather.</p> +<p>The river is heavy with hay barges, the last fruits of +winter’s storehouse; the lengthening days slowly and +steadily oust the dark; the air is loud with a growing clamour of +life: spring is not only proclaimed, but on this Feast she is +crowned, and despite the warring wind the days bring their meed +of sunshine. We stand for a moment at the meeting of the +ways, the handclasp of Winter and Spring, of Sleep and Wakening, +of Life and Death; and there is between them not even the thin +line which Rabbi Jochanan on his death-bed beheld as all that +divided hell from heaven.</p> +<p>“<i>Sphæra cujus centrum ubique</i>, +<i>circumferentia nullibus</i>,” was said of Mercury, that +messenger of the gods who marshalled reluctant spirits to the +Underworld; and for Mercury we may write Life with Death as its +great sacrament of brotherhood and release, to be dreaded only as +we dread to partake unworthily of great benefits. Like all +sacraments it has its rightful time and due solemnities; the +horror and sin of suicide lie in the presumption of free will, +the forestalling of a gift,—the sin of Eve in Paradise, who +took that which might only be given at the hand of the +Lord. It has too its physical pains, but they are those of +a woman in travail, and we remember them no more for joy that a +child-man is born into the world naked and not ashamed: beholding +ourselves as we are we shall see also the leaves of the Tree of +Life set for the healing of the nations.</p> +<p>We are slowly, very slowly, abandoning our belief in sudden +and violent transitions for a surer and fuller acceptance of the +doctrine of evolution; but most of us still draw a sharp line of +demarcation between this world and the next, and expect a radical +change in ourselves and our surroundings, a break in the chain of +continuity entirely contrary to the teaching of nature and +experience. In the same way we cling to the specious +untruth that we can begin over and over again in this world, +forgetting that while our sorrow and repentance bring sacramental +gifts of grace and strength, God Himself cannot, by His own +limitation, rewrite the Past. We are in our sorrow that +which we have made ourselves in our sin; our temptations are +there as well as the way of escape. We are in the image of +God. We create our world, our undying selves, our heaven, +or our hell. “<i>Qui creavit te sine te non salvabit +te sine te</i>.” It is stupendous, magnificent, and +most appalling. A man does not change as he crosses the +threshold of the larger room. His personality remains the +same, although the expression of it may be altered. Here we +have material bodies in a material world—there, perhaps, +ether bodies in an ether world. There is no indecency in +reasonable speculation and curiosity about the life to +come. One end of the thread is between our fingers, but we +are haunted for the most part by the snap of Atropos’ +shears.</p> +<p>Socrates faced death with the magnificent calm bred of +dignified familiarity. He had built for himself a desired +heaven of colour, light, and precious stones—the +philosophic formula of those who set the spiritual above the +material, and worship truth in the beauty of holiness. He +is not troubled by doubts or regrets, for the path of the just +lies plain before his face. He forbids mourning and +lamentations as out of place, obeys minutely and cheerily the +directions of his executioner, and passes with unaffected dignity +to the apprehension of that larger truth for which he had +constantly prepared himself. His friends may bury him +provided they will remember they are not burying Socrates; and +that all things may be done decently and in order, a cock must go +to Æsculapius.</p> +<p>Long before, in the days of the Captivity, there lived in +godless, blood-shedding Nineveh an exiled Jew whose father had +fallen from the faith. He was a simple man, child-like and +direct; living the careful, kindly life of an orthodox Jew, +suffering many persecutions for conscience’ sake, and in +constant danger of death. He narrates the story of his life +and of the blindness which fell on him, with gentle placidity, +and checks the exuberance of his more emotional wife with the +assurance of untroubled faith. Finally, when his pious +expectations are fulfilled, his sight restored, and his son +prosperously established beside him, he breaks into a prayer of +rejoicing which reveals the secret of his confident +content. He made use of two great faculties: the sense of +proportion, which enabled him to apprise life and its accidents +justly, and the gift of in-seeing, which led Socrates after him, +and Blessed John in lonely exile on Patmos, to look through the +things temporal to the hidden meanings of eternity.</p> +<p>“Let my soul bless God the great King,” he cries; +and looks away past the present distress; past the Restoration +which was to end in fresh scattering and confusion; past the +dream of gold, and porphyry, and marble defaced by the eagles and +emblems of the conqueror; until his eyes are held by the +Jerusalem of God, “built up with sapphires, and emeralds, +and precious stones,” with battlements of pure gold, and +the cry of ‘Alleluia’ in her streets.</p> +<p>Many years later, when he was very aged, he called his son to +him and gave him as heritage his own simple rule of life, adding +but one request: “Keep thou the law and the commandments, +and shew thyself merciful and just, that it may go well with +thee. . . . Consider what alms doeth, and how righteousness doth +deliver. . . . And bury me decently, and thy mother with +me.” Having so said, he went his way quietly and +contentedly to the Jerusalem of his heart.</p> +<p>It is the simple note of familiarity that is wanting in us; +that by which we link world with world. Once, years ago, I +sat by the bedside of a dying man in a wretched garret in the +East End. He was entirely ignorant, entirely quiescent, and +entirely uninterested. The minister of a neighbouring +chapel came to see him and spoke to him at some length of the +need for repentance and the joys of heaven. After he had +gone my friend lay staring restlessly at the mass of decrepit +broken chimney pots which made his horizon. At last he +spoke, and there was a new note in his voice:—</p> +<p>“Ee said as ’ow there were golding streets in them +parts. I ain’t no ways particler wot they’re +made of, but it’ll feel natral like if there’s +chimleys too.”</p> +<p>The sun stretched a sudden finger and painted the chimney pots +red and gold against the smoke-dimmed sky, and with his face +alight with surprised relief my friend died.</p> +<p>We are one with the earth, one in sin, one in +redemption. It is the fringe of the garment of God. +“If I may but touch the hem,” said a certain +woman.</p> +<p>On the great Death-day which shadows the early spring with a +shadow of which it may be said <i>Umbra Dei est Lux</i>, the +earth brought gifts of grief, the fruit of the curse, barren +thorns, hollow reed, and the wood of the cross; the sea made +offering of Tyrian purple; the sky veiled her face in great +darkness, while the nation of priests crucified for the last time +their Paschal lamb. “I will hear, saith the Lord; I +will hear the heavens, and they shall hear the earth, and the +earth shall hear the corn and wine and oil, and they shall hear +Jezreel, and I will sow her unto me in the earth; and I will have +mercy upon her that had not obtained mercy, and I will say unto +them which were not my people, ‘Thou art my people,’ +and they shall say ‘Thou art my God.’”</p> +<p>The second Adam stood in the garden with quickening feet, and +all the earth pulsed and sang for joy of the new hope and the new +life quickening within her, to be hers through the pains of +travail, the pangs of dissolution. The Tree of Life bears +Bread and Wine—food of the wayfaring man. The day of +divisions is past, the day of unity has dawned. One has +risen from the dead, and in the Valley of Achor stands wide the +Door of Hope—the Sacrament of Death.</p> +<blockquote><p>Scio Domine, et vere scio . . . quia non sum +dignus accedere ad tantum mysterium propter nimia peccata mea et +infinitas negligentias meas. Sed scio . . . quia tu potes +me facere dignum.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>CHAPTER VI</h3> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Anytus</span> and Meletus can kill +me, but they cannot hurt me,” said Socrates; and Governor +Sancho, with all the itch of newly-acquired authority, could not +make the young weaver of steel-heads for lances sleep in +prison. In the Vision of Er the souls passed straight +forward under the throne of necessity, and out into the plains of +forgetfulness, where they must severally drink of the river of +unmindfulness whose waters cannot be held in any vessel. +The throne, the plain, and the river are still here, but in the +distance rise the great lone heavenward hills, and the wise among +us no longer ask of the gods Lethe, but rather remembrance. +Necessity can set me helpless on my back, but she cannot keep me +there; nor can four walls limit my vision. I pass out from +under her throne into the garden of God a free man, to my +ultimate beatitude or my exceeding shame. All day long this +world lies open to me; ay, and other worlds also, if I will but +have it so; and when night comes I pass into the kingdom and +power of the dark.</p> +<p>I lie through the long hours and watch my bridge, which is set +with lights across the gloom; watch the traffic which is for me +but so many passing lamps telling their tale by varying height +and brightness. I hear under my window the sprint of +over-tired horses, the rattle of uncertain wheels as the +street-sellers hasten south; the jangle of cab bells as the +theatre-goers take their homeward way; the gruff altercation of +weary men, the unmelodious song and clamorous laugh of women +whose merriment is wearier still. Then comes a time of +stillness when the light in the sky waxes and wanes, when the +cloud-drifts obscure the stars, and I gaze out into blackness set +with watching eyes. No sound comes from without but the +voice of the night-wind and the cry of the hour. The clock +on the mantelpiece ticks imperatively, for a check has fallen on +the familiarity which breeds a disregard of common things, and a +reason has to be sought for each sound which claims a +hearing. The pause is wonderful while it lasts, but it is +not for long. The working world awakes, the poorer brethren +take up the burden of service; the dawn lights the sky; +remembrance cries an end to forgetting.</p> +<p>Sometimes in the country on a night in early summer you may +shut the cottage door to step out into an immense darkness which +palls heaven and earth. Going forward into the embrace of +the great gloom, you are as a babe swaddled by the hands of night +into helpless quiescence. Your feet tread an unseen path, +your hands grasp at a void, or shrink from the contact they +cannot realise; your eyes are holden; your voice would die in +your throat did you seek to rend the veil of that impenetrable +silence.</p> +<p>Shut in by the intangible dark, we are brought up against +those worlds within worlds blotted out by our concrete daily +life. The working of the great microcosm at which we peer +dimly through the little window of science; the wonderful, +breathing earth; the pulsing, throbbing sap; the growing +fragrance shut in the calyx of to-morrow’s flower; the +heart-beat of a sleeping world that we dream that we know; and +around, above, and interpenetrating all, the world of dreams, of +angels and of spirits.</p> +<p>It was this world which Jacob saw on the first night of his +exile, and again when he wrestled in Peniel until the break of +day. It was this world which Elisha saw with open eyes; +which Job knew when darkness fell on him; which Ezekiel gazed +into from his place among the captives; which Daniel beheld as he +stood alone by the great river, the river Hiddekel.</p> +<p>For the moment we have left behind the realm of question and +explanation, of power over matter and the exercise of bodily +faculties; and passed into darkness alight with visions we cannot +see, into silence alive with voices we cannot hear. Like +helpless men we set our all on the one thing left us, and lift up +our hearts, knowing that we are but a mere speck among a myriad +worlds, yet greater than the sum of them; having our roots in the +dark places of the earth, but our branches in the sweet airs of +heaven.</p> +<p>It is the material counterpart of the ‘Night of the +Soul.’ We have left our house and set forth in the +darkness which paralyses those faculties that make us men in the +world of men. But surely the great mystics, with all their +insight and heavenly love, fell short when they sought freedom in +complete separateness from creation instead of in perfect unity +with it. The Greeks knew better when they flung +Ariadne’s crown among the stars, and wrote Demeter’s +grief on a barren earth, and Persephone’s joy in the +fruitful field. For the earth is gathered up in man; he is +the whole which is greater than the sum of its parts. +Standing in the image of God, and clothed in the garment of God, +he lifts up priestly hands and presents the sacrifice of redeemed +earth before the throne of the All-Father. “Dust and +ashes and a house of devils,” he cries; and there comes +back for answer, “<i>Rex concupiscet decorem +tuam</i>.”</p> +<p>The Angel of Death has broad wings of silence and mystery with +which he shadows the valley where we need fear no evil, and where +the voice which speaks to us is as the “voice of doves, +tabering upon their breasts.” It is a place of +healing and preparation, of peace and refreshing after the +sharply-defined outlines of a garish day. Walking there we +learn to use those natural faculties of the soul which are +hampered by the familiarity of bodily progress, to apprehend the +truths which we have intellectually accepted. It is the +place of secrets where the humility which embraces all attainable +knowledge cries “I know not”; and while we proclaim +from the house-tops that which we have learnt, the manner of our +learning lies hid for each one of us in the sanctuary of our +souls.</p> +<p>The Egyptians, in their ancient wisdom, act in the desert a +great androsphinx, image of mystery and silence, staring from +under level brows across the arid sands of the sea-way. The +Greeks borrowed and debased the image, turning the inscrutable +into a semi-woman who asked a foolish riddle, and hurled herself +down in petulant pride when Œdipus answered aright. +So we, marring the office of silence, question its mystery; +thwart ourselves with riddles of our own suggesting; and turn +away, leaving our offering but half consumed on the altar of the +unknown god. It was not the theft of fire that brought the +vengeance of heaven upon Prometheus, but the mocking +sacrifice. Orpheus lost Eurydice because he must see her +face before the appointed time. Persephone ate of the +pomegranate and hungered in gloom for the day of light which +should have been endless.</p> +<p>The universe is full of miracle and mystery; the darkness and +silence are set for a sign we dare not despise. The pall of +night lifts, leaving us engulphed in the light of immensity under +a tossing heaven of stars. The dawn breaks, but it does not +surprise us, for we have watched from the valley and seen the +pale twilight. Through the wondrous Sabbath of faithful +souls, the long day of rosemary and rue, the light brightens in +the East; and we pass on towards it with quiet feet and opening +eyes, bearing with us all of the redeemed earth that we have made +our own, until we are fulfilled in the sunrise of the great +Easter Day, and the peoples come from north and south and east +and west to the City which lieth foursquare—the Beatific +Vision of God.</p> +<blockquote><p>Vere Ierusalem est illa civitas<br /> +Cuius pax iugis et summa iucunditas;<br /> +Ubi non prævenit rem desiderium,<br /> +Nec desiderio minus est præmium.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>AT +THE WHITE GATE</h2> +<h3><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>A <span class="smcap">great</span> joy has come to me; one of +those unexpected gifts which life loves to bestow after we have +learnt to loose our grip of her. I am back in my own place +very near my road—the white gate lies within my distant +vision; near the lean grey Downs which keep watch and ward +between the country and the sea; very near, nay, in the lap of +Mother Earth, for as I write I am lying on a green carpet, +powdered yellow and white with the sun’s own flowers; +overhead a great sycamore where the bees toil and sing; and +sighing shimmering poplars golden grey against the blue. +The day of Persephone has dawned for me, and I, set free like +Demeter’s child, gladden my eyes with this foretaste of +coming radiance, and rest my tired sense with the scent and sound +of home. Away down the meadow I hear the early scythe song, +and the warm air is fragrant with the fallen grass. It has +its own message for me as I lie here, I who have obtained yet one +more mercy, and the burden of it is life, not death.</p> +<p>I remember when, taking a grace from my road, I helped to mow +Farmer Marler’s ten-acre field, rich in ripe upstanding +grass. The mechanism of the ancient reaper had given way +under the strain of the home meadows, and if this crop was to be +saved it must be by hand. I have kept the record of those +days of joyous labour under a June sky. Men were hard to +get in our village; old Dodden, who was over seventy, volunteered +his services—he had done yeoman work with the scythe in his +youth—and two of the farm hands with their master completed +our strength.</p> +<p>We took our places under a five o’clock morning sky, and +the larks cried down to us as we stood knee-deep in the fragrant +dew-steeped grass, each man with his gleaming scythe poised ready +for its sweeping swing. Old Dodden led by right of age and +ripe experience; bent like a sickle, brown and dry as a nut, his +face a tracery of innumerable wrinkles, he has never ailed a day, +and the cunning of his craft was still with him. At first +we worked stiffly, unreadily, but soon the monotonous motion +possessed us with its insistent rhythm, and the grass bowed to +each sibilant swish and fell in sweet-smelling swathes at our +feet. Now and then a startled rabbit scurried through the +miniature forest to vanish with white flick of tail in the +tangled hedge; here and there a mother lark was discovered +sitting motionless, immovable upon her little brood; but save for +these infrequent incidents we paced steadily on with no speech +save the cry of the hone on the steel and the swish of the +falling swathes. The sun rose high in the heaven and burnt +on bent neck and bare and aching arms, the blood beat and drummed +in my veins with the unwonted posture and exercise; I worked as a +man who sees and hears in a mist. Once, as I paused to whet +my scythe, my eye caught the line of the untroubled hills strong +and still in the broad sunshine; then to work again in the +labouring, fertile valley.</p> +<p>Rest time came, and wiping the sweat from brow and blade we +sought the welcome shadow of the hedge and the cool sweet oatmeal +water with which the wise reaper quenches his thirst. +Farmer Marler hastened off to see with master-eye that all went +well elsewhere; the farm men slept tranquilly, stretched at full +length, clasped hands for pillow; and old Dodden, sitting with +crooked fingers interlaced to check their trembling betrayal of +old age, told how in his youth he had “swep” a +four-acre field single-handed in three days—an almost +impossible feat—and of the first reaping machine in these +parts, and how it brought, to his thinking, the ruin of +agricultural morals with it. “’Tis again +nature,” he said, “the Lard gave us the land +an’ the seed, but ’Ee said that a man should +sweat. Where’s the sweat drivin’ round +wi’ two horses cuttin’ the straw down an’ +gatherin’ it again, wi’ scarce a hand’s turn +i’ the day’s work?”</p> +<p>Old Dodden’s high-pitched quavering voice rose and fell, +mournful as he surveyed the present, vehement as he recorded the +heroic past. He spoke of the rural exodus and shook his +head mournfully. “We old ’uns were content +wi’ earth and the open sky like our feythers before us, but +wi’ the children ’tis first machines to save +doin’ a hand’s turn o’ honest work, an’ +then land an’ sky ain’t big enough seemin’ly, +nor grand enough; it must be town an’ a paved street, +an’ they sweat their lives out atwixt four walls an’ +call it seein’ life—’tis death an’ worse +comes to the most of ’em. Ay, ’tis better to +stay by the land, as the Lard said, till time comes to lie under +it.” I looked away across the field where the hot air +throbbed and quivered, and the fallen grass, robbed already of +its freshness, lay prone at the feet of its upstanding +fellows. It is quite useless to argue with old Dodden; he +only shakes his head and says firmly, “An old man, +seventy-five come Martinmass knows more o’ life than a +young chap, stands ter reason”; besides, his epitome of the +town life he knows nothing of was a just one as far as it went; +and his own son is the sweeper of a Holborn crossing, and many +other things that he should not be; but that is the +parson’s secret and mine.</p> +<p>We took rank again and swept steadily on through the hot still +hours into the evening shadows, until the sinking sun set a +<i>Gloria</i> to the psalm of another working day. Only a +third of the field lay mown, for we were not skilled labourers to +cut our acre a day; I saw it again that night under the moonlight +and the starlight, wrapped in a shroud of summer’s +mist.</p> +<p>The women joined us on the third day to begin haymaking, and +the air was fragrant of tossed and sun-dried grass. One of +them walked apart from the rest, without interest or freedom of +movement; her face, sealed and impassive, was aged beyond the +vigour of her years. I knew the woman by sight, and her +history by hearsay. We have a code of morals here—not +indeed peculiar to this place or people—that a wedding is +‘respectable’ if it precedes child-birth by a bare +month, tolerable, and to be recognised, should it succeed the +same by less than a year (provided the pair are not living in the +same village); but the child that has never been +‘fathered’ and the wife without a ring are +‘anathema,’ and such in one was Elizabeth +Banks. She went away a maid and came back a year ago with a +child and without a name. Her mother was dead, her father +and the village would have none of her: the homing instinct is +very strong, or she would scarcely have returned, knowing the +traditions of the place. Old Dodden, seeing her, grumbled +to me in the rest-time.—“Can’t think what the +farmer wants wi’ Lizzie Banks in ’is +field.” “She must live,” I said, +“and by all showing her life is a hard one.” +“She ’ad the makin’ of ’er bed,” he +went on, obstinately. “What for do she bring her +disgrace home, wi’ a fatherless brat for all folks to +see? We don’t want them sort in our village. +The Lord’s hand is heavy, an’ a brat’s a curse +that cannot be hid.”</p> +<p>When tea-time came I crossed the field to look for a missing +hone, and saw Elizabeth Banks far from the other women, busied +with a bundle under the hedge. I passed close on my search, +and lo! the bundle was a little boy. He lay smiling and +stretching, fighting the air with his small pink fists, while the +wind played with his curls. “A curse that cannot be +hid,” old Dodden had said. The mother knelt a moment, +devouring him with her eyes, then snatched him to her with aching +greed and covered him with kisses. I saw the poor, plain +face illumined, transfigured, alive with a mother’s love, +and remembered how the word came once to a Hebrew +prophet:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Say unto your brethren Ammi, and to your sisters +Ruhamah.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The evening sky was clouding fast, the sound of rain was in +the air; Farmer Marler shook his head as he looked at the grass +lying in ordered rows. I was the last to leave, and as I +lingered at the gate drinking in the scent of the field and the +cool of the coming rain, the first drops fell on my upturned face +and kissed the poor dry swathes at my feet, and I was glad.</p> +<p>David, child of the fields and the sheepfolds, his kingship +laid aside, sees through the parted curtain of the years the +advent of his greater Son, and cries in his psalm of the +hilltops, his last prophetic prayer:—</p> +<blockquote><p>He shall come down like rain upon the mown +grass.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Even so He came, and shall still come. Three days ago +the field, in its pageant of fresh beauty, with shimmering blades +and tossing banners, greeted sun and shower alike with joy for +the furtherance of its life and purpose; now, laid low, it hears +the young grass whisper the splendour of its coming green; and +the poor swathes are glad at the telling, but full of grief for +their own apparent failure. Then in great pity comes the +rain, the rain of summer, gentle, refreshing, penetrating, and +the swathes are comforted, for they know that standing to greet +or prostrate to suffer, the consolations of the former and the +latter rain are still their own, with tender touch and cool +caress. Then, once more parched by the sun, they are borne +away to the new service their apparent failure has fitted them +for; and perhaps as they wait in the dark for the unknown that is +still to come they hear sometimes the call of the distant rain, +and at the sound the dry sap stirs afresh—they are not +forgotten and can wait.</p> +<p>“<i>Say unto your sisters Ruhamah</i>,” cries the +prophet.</p> +<p>“<i>He shall come down like rain on the mown +grass</i>,” sang the poet of the sheepfolds.</p> +<p>“<i>My ways are not your ways</i>, <i>saith the +Lord</i>.”</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>I remember how I went home along the damp sweet-scented lanes +through the grey mist of the rain, thinking of the mown field and +Elizabeth Banks and many, many more; and that night, when the sky +had cleared and the nightingale sang, I looked out at the moon +riding at anchor, a silver boat in a still blue sea ablaze with +the headlights of the stars, and the saying of the herdsman of +Tekoa came to me—as it has come oftentimes +since:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, +and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the +day dark with night; that calleth for the waters of the sea and +poureth them out upon the face of earth; the Lord is His +name.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> garden is an epitome of peace; +sun and wind, rain, flowers, and birds gather me into the +blessedness of their active harmony. The world holds no +wish for me, now that I have come home to die with my own people, +for verify I think that the sap of grass and trees must run in my +veins, so steady is their pull upon my heart-strings. +London claimed all my philosophy, but the country gives all, and +asks of me only the warm receptivity of a child in its +mother’s arms.</p> +<p>When I lie in my cool light room on the garden level, I look +across the bright grass—<i>il verde smalto</i>—to a +great red rose bush in lavish disarray against the dark +cypress. Near by, amid a tangle of many-hued corn-flowers I +see the promise of coming lilies, the sudden crimson of a +solitary pæony; and in lowlier state against the poor +parched earth glow the golden cups of the eschseholtzias. +Beyond the low hedge lies pasture bright with buttercups, where +the cattle feed. Farther off, where the scythe has been +busy, are sheep, clean and shorn, with merry, well-grown lambs; +and in the farthest field I can see the great horses moving in +slow steady pace as the farmer turns his furrow.</p> +<p>The birds are noisy comrades and old friends, from the lark +which chants the dew-steeped morning, to the nightingale that +breaks the silence of the most wonderful nights. I hear the +wisdom of the rooks in the great elms; the lifting lilt of the +linnet, and the robin’s quaint little summer song. +The starlings chatter ceaselessly, their queer strident voices +harsh against the melodious gossip of the other birds; the +martins shrill softly as they swoop to and fro busied with their +nesting under the caves; thrush and blackbird vie in friendly +rivalry like the Meister-singer of old; sometimes I hear the +drawling cry of a peacock strayed from the great house, or the +laugh of the woodpecker; and at night the hunting note of the owl +reaches me as he sweeps by in search of prey.</p> +<p>To-day I am out again; and the great sycamore showers honey +and flowers on me as I lie beneath it. Sometimes a bee +falls like an over-ripe fruit, and waits awhile to clean his +pollen-coated legs ere he flies home to discharge his +burden. He is too busy to be friendly, but his great +velvety cousin is much more sociable, and stays for a gentle rub +between his noisy shimmering wings, and a nap in the hollow of my +hand, for he is an idle friendly soul with plenty of time at his +own disposal and no responsibilities. Looking across I can +watch the martins at work; they have a starling and a sparrow for +near neighbours in the wooden gutter. One nest is already +complete all but the coping, the other two are a-building: I +wonder whether I or they will be first to go south through the +mist.</p> +<p>This great tree is a world in itself, and the denizens appear +full of curiosity as to the Gulliver who has taken up his abode +beneath it. Pale green caterpillars and spiders of all +sizes come spinning down to visit me, and have to be persuaded +with infinite difficulty to ascend their threads again. +There are flies with beautiful iridescent wings, beetles of all +shapes, some of them like tiny jewels in the sunlight. +Their nomenclature is a sealed book to me; of their life and +habits I know nothing; yet this is but a little corner of the +cosmos I am leaving, and I feel not so much desire for the beauty +to come, as a great longing to open my eyes a little wider during +the time which remains to me in this beautiful world of +God’s making, where each moment tells its own tale of +active, progressive life in which there is no undoing. +Nature knows naught of the web of Penelope, that acme of anxious +pathetic waiting, but goes steadily on in ever widening circle +towards the fulfilment of the mystery of God.</p> +<p>There are, I take it, two master-keys to the secrets of the +universe, viewed <i>sub specie æternitatis</i>, the +Incarnation of God, and the Personality of Man; with these it is +true for us as for the pantheistic little man of contemptible +speech, that “all things are ours,” yea, even unto +the third heaven.</p> +<p>I have lost my voracious appetite for books; their language is +less plain than scent and song and the wind in the trees; and for +me the clue to the next world lies in the wisdom of earth rather +than in the learning of men. “<i>Libera me ab fuscina +Hophni</i>,” prayed the good Bishop fearful of religious +greed. I know too much, not too little; it is realisation +that I lack, wherefore I desire these last days to confirm in +myself the sustaining goodness of God, the love which is our +continuing city, the New Jerusalem whose length, breadth, and +height are all one. It is a time of exceeding peace. +There is a place waiting for me under the firs in the quiet +churchyard; thanks to my poverty I have no worldly anxieties or +personal dispositions; and I am rich in friends, many of them +unknown to me, who lavishly supply my needs and make it ideal to +live on the charity of one’s fellow-men. I am most +gladly in debt to all the world; and to Earth, my mother, for her +great beauty.</p> +<p>I can never remember the time when I did not love her, this +mother of mine with her wonderful garments and ordered +loveliness, her tender care and patient bearing of man’s +burden. In the earliest days of my lonely childhood I used +to lie chin on hand amid the milkmaids, red sorrel, and heavy +spear-grass listening to her many voices, and above all to the +voice of the little brook which ran through the meadows where I +used to play: I think it has run through my whole life also, to +lose itself at last, not in the great sea but in the river that +maketh glad the City of God. Valley and plain, mountain and +fruitful field; the lark’s song and the speedwell in the +grass; surely a man need not sigh for greater loveliness until he +has read something more of this living letter, and knelt before +that earth of which he is the only confusion.</p> +<p>It is a grave matter that the word religion holds such away +among us, making the very gap seem to yawn again which the +Incarnation once and for ever filled full. We have banished +the protecting gods that ruled in river and mountain, tree and +grove; we have gainsayed for the most part folk-lore and myth, +superstition and fairy-tale, evil only in their abuse. We +have done away with mystery, or named it deceit. All this +we have done in an enlightened age, but despite this policy of +destruction we have left ourselves a belief, the grandest and +most simple the world has ever known, which sanctifies the water +that is shed by every passing cloud; and gathers up in its great +central act vineyard and cornfield, proclaiming them to be that +Life of the world without which a man is dead while he +liveth. Further, it is a belief whose foundations are the +most heavenly mystery of the Trinity, but whose centre is a +little Child: it sets a price upon the head of the sparrow, and +reckons the riches of this world at their true value; it points +to a way of holiness where the fool shall not err, and the sage +may find the realisation of his far-seeking; and yet, despite its +inclusiveness, it is a belief which cannot save the birds from +destruction, the silent mountains from advertisement, or the +stream from pollution, in an avowedly Christian land. John +Ruskin scolded and fought and did yeoman service, somewhat +hindered by his over-good conceit of himself; but it is not the +worship of beauty we need so much as the beauty of +holiness. Little by little the barrier grows and +‘religion’ becomes a <i>rule</i> of life, not life +itself, although the Bride stands ready to interpret, likened in +her loveliness to the chief treasures of her +handmaid-Earth. There is more truth in the believing cry, +“Come from thy white cliffs, O Pan!” than in the +religion that measures a man’s life by the letter of the +Ten Commandments, and erects itself as judge and ruler over him, +instead of throwing open the gate of the garden where God walks +with man from morning until morning.</p> +<p>As I write the sun is setting; in the pale radiance of the sky +above his glory there dawns the evening star; and earth like a +tired child turns her face to the bosom of the night.</p> +<h3><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Once</span> again I have paid a rare visit +to my tree to find many things changed since my last sojourn +there. The bees are silent, for the honey-laden flowers of +the sycamore are gone and in their place hang dainty two-fold +keys. The poplar has lost its metallic shimmer, the +chestnut its tall white candles; and the sound of the wind in the +fully-leaved branches is like the sighing of the sea. The +martins’ nests are finished, and one is occupied by a +shrill-voiced brood; but for the most part the birds’ +parental cares are over, and the nestlings in bold flight no +longer flutter on inefficient wings across the lawn with +clamorous, open bill. The robins show promise of their +ruddy vests, the slim young thrush is diligently practising +maturer notes, and soon Maid June will have fled.</p> +<p>It is such a wonderful world that I cannot find it in my heart +to sigh for fresh beauty amid these glories of the Lord on which +I look, seeing men as trees walking, in my material impotence +which awaits the final anointing. The marigolds with their +orange suns, the lilies’ white flame, the +corncockle’s blue crown of many flowers, the +honeysuckle’s horn of fragrance—I can paraphrase +them, name, class, dissect them; and then, save for the purposes +of human intercourse, I stand where I stood before, my world +bounded by my capacity, the secret of colour and fragrance still +kept. It is difficult to believe that the second lesson +will not be the sequence of the first, and death prove a +“feast of opening eyes” to all these wonders, instead +of the heavy-lidded slumber to which we so often liken it. +“Earth to earth?” Yes, “dust thou art, +and unto dust thou shalt return,” but what of the +rest? What of the folded grave clothes, and the Forty +Days? If the next state be, as it well might, space of four +dimensions, and the first veil which will lift for me be the +material one, then the “other” world which is hidden +from our grosser material organism will lie open, and declare +still further to my widening eyes and unstopped ears the glory +and purpose of the manifold garment of God. Knowledge will +give place to understanding in that second chamber of the House +of Wisdom and Love. Revelation is always measured by +capacity: “Open thy mouth wide,” and it shall be +filled with a satisfaction that in itself is desire.</p> +<p>There is a child here, a happy quiet little creature holding +gently to its two months of life. Sometimes they lay it +beside me, I the more helpless of the two—perhaps the more +ignorant—and equally dependent for the supply of my +smallest need. I feel indecently large as I survey its +minute perfections and the tiny balled fist lying in my great +palm. The little creature fixes me with the wise wide stare +of a soul in advance of its medium of expression; and I, gazing +back at the mystery in those eyes, feel the thrill of contact +between my worn and sustained self and the innocence of a little +white child. It is wonderful to watch a woman’s +rapturous familiarity with these newcomers. A man’s +love has far more awe in it, and the passionate animal instinct +of defence is wanting in him. “A woman shall be saved +through the child-bearing,” said St Paul; not necessarily +her own, but by participation in the great act of motherhood +which is the crown and glory of her sex. She is the +“prisoner of love,” caught in a net of her own +weaving; held fast by little hands which rule by impotence, +pursued by feet the swifter for their faltering.</p> +<p>It seems incredible that this is what a woman will barter for +the right to “live her own life”—surely the +most empty of desires. Man—<i>vir</i>, +woman—<i>femina</i>, go to make up <i>the</i> +man—<i>homo</i>. There can be no comparison, no +rivalry between them; they are the complement of each other, and +a little child shall lead them. It is easy to understand +that desire to shelter under the dear mantle of motherhood which +has led to one of the abuses of modern Romanism. I met an +old peasant couple at Bornhofen who had tramped many weary miles +to the famous shrine of Our Lady to plead for their only +son. They had a few pence saved for a candle, and +afterwards when they told me their tale the old woman heaved a +sigh of relief, “Es wird bald gut gehen: Die da, Sie +versteht,” and I saw her later paying a farewell visit to +the great understanding Mother whom she could trust. +Superstitious misapprehension if you will, but also the +recognition of a divine principle.</p> +<p>It was Behmen, I believe, who cried with the breath of +inspiration, “Only when I know God shall I know +myself”; and so man remains the last of all the riddles, to +be solved it may be only in Heaven’s perfection and the +light of the Beatific Vision. “Know thyself” is +a vain legend, the more so when emphasised by a skull; and so I +company with a friend and a stranger, and looking across at the +white gate I wonder concerning the quiet pastures and still +waters that lie beyond, even as Brother Ambrose wondered long +years ago in the monastery by the forest.</p> +<blockquote><p>The Brother Ambrose was ever a saintly man +approved of God and beloved by the Brethren. To him one +night, as he lay abed in the dormitory, came the word of the +Lord, saying, “Come, and I will show thee the Bride, the +Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose and was +carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision of +Blessed John. ’Twas a still night of many stars, and +Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; +and lo! the stars gathered themselves together on either side +until they stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him +about as in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming +roadway. Then between the stars came the Holy City with +roof and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no +earthly limner dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose +beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every gate an angel with wings +of snow and fire, and a face no man dare look on because of its +exceeding radiance.</p> +<p>Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his +great longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung +between the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the +Vision, but only heard a sound as of a great multitude crying +‘Alleluia’; and suddenly the winds came about him +again, and lo! he found himself in his bed in the dormitory, and +it was midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and he rose +and went down with the rest. But when the Brethren left the +choir Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing and +seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds they +found him and told the Prior.</p> +<p>He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard +the Vision bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; +and the Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and +what colours he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose +limned a wondrous fair city of gold with turrets and spires; and +he inlaid blue for the sapphire, and green for the emerald, and +vermilion where the city seemed aflame with the glory of God; but +the angels he could not limn, nor could he set the rest of the +colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; and +Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the exceeding great longing +he had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad; but the Prior +bade him thank God, and remember the infirmity of the flesh, +which, like the little grey cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his +sight.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As I write the monastery bell hard by rings out across the +lark’s song. They still have time for visions behind +those guarding walls, but for most of us it is not so. We +let slip the ideal for what we call the real, and the golden +dreams vanish while we clutch at phantoms: we speed along +life’s pathway, counting to the full the sixty minutes of +every hour, yet the race is not to the swift nor the battle to +the strong. Lying here in this quiet backwater it is hard +to believe that the world without is turbulent with storm and +stress and the ebb and flow of uncertain tides. The little +yellow cat rolling on its back among the daisies, the staid +tortoise making a stately meal off the buttercups near me, these +are great events in this haven of peace. And yet, looking +back to the working days, I know how much goodness and loving +kindness there is under the froth and foam. If we do not +know ourselves we most certainly do not know our brethren: that +revelation awaits us, it may be, first in Heaven. To have +faith is to create; to have hope is to call down blessing; to +have love is to work miracles. Above all let us see +visions, visions of colour and light, of green fields and broad +rivers, of palaces laid with fair colours, and gardens where a +place is found for rosemary and rue.</p> +<p>It is our prerogative to be dreamers, but there will always be +men ready to offer us death for our dreams. And if it must +be so let us choose death; it is gain, not loss, and the gloomy +portal when we reach it is but a white gate, the white gate maybe +we have known all our lives barred by the tendrils of the +woodbine.</p> +<h3><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Rain</span>, rain, rain: the little +flagged path outside my window is a streaming way, where the +coming raindrops meet again the grey clouds whose storehouse they +have but just now left. The grass grows greener as I watch +it, the burnt patches fade, a thousand thirsty beads are uplifted +for the cooling draught.</p> +<p>The great thrush that robs the raspberry canes is busy; +yesterday he had little but dust for his guerdon, but now fresh, +juicy fruit repays him as he swings to and fro on the pliant +branches. The blackbirds and starlings find the worms an +easy prey—poor brother worm ever ready for sacrifice. +I can hear the soft expectant chatter of the family of martins +under the roof; there will be good hunting, and they know it, for +the flies are out when the rain is over, and there are clamorous +mouths awaiting. My little brown brothers, the sparrows, +remain my chief delight. Of all the birds these nestle +closest to my heart, be they grimy little cockneys or their trim +and dainty country cousins. They come day by day for their +meed of crumbs spread for them outside my window, and at this +season they eat leisurely and with good appetite, for there are +no hungry babies pestering to be fed. Very early in the +morning I hear the whirr and rustle of eager wings, and the tap, +tap, of little beaks upon the stone. The sound carries me +back, for it was the first to greet me when I rose to draw water +and gather kindling in my roadmender days; and if I slip back +another decade they survey me, reproving my laziness, from the +foot of the narrow bed in my little attic overseas.</p> +<p>Looking along the roadway that we have travelled we see the +landmarks, great and small, which have determined the direction +of our feet. For some those of childhood stand out above +all the rest; but I remember few notable ones, and those few the +emphatic chord of the universe, rather than any commerce with my +fellows. There was the night of my great disappointment, +when I was borne from my comfortable bed to see the wonders of +the moon’s eclipse. Disappointment was so great that +it sealed my lips; but, once back on my pillow, I sobbed for +grief that I had seen a wonder so far below my expectation. +Then there was a night at Whitby, when the wind made speech +impossible, and the seas rushed up and over the great lighthouse +like the hungry spirits of the deep. I like better to +remember the scent of the first cowslip field under the warm side +of the hedge, when I sang to myself for pure joy of their colour +and fragrance. Again, there were the bluebells in the +deserted quarry like the backwash of a southern sea, and below +them the miniature forest of sheltering bracken with its quaint +conceits; and, crowned above all, the day I stood on Watcombe +Down, and looked across a stretch of golden gorse and new-turned +blood-red field, the green of the headland, and beyond, the +sapphire sea.</p> +<p>Time sped, and there came a day when I first set foot on +German soil and felt the throb of its paternity, the beat of our +common Life. England is my mother, and most dearly do I +love her swelling breasts and wind-swept, salt-strewn hair. +Scotland gave me my name, with its haunting derivation handed +down by brave men; but Germany has always been to me the +Fatherland <i>par excellence</i>. True, my love is limited +to the southern provinces, with their medieval memories; for the +progressive guttural north I have little sympathy, but the Rhine +claimed me from the first, calling, calling, with that wonderful +voice which speaks of death and life, of chivalry and greed of +gold. If you would have the river’s company you +should wander, a happy solitary, along its banks, watching its +gleaming current in the early morning, its golden glory as it +answers the farewell of parting day. Then, in the silence +of the night, you can hear the wash and eddy calling one to +another, count the heart-beats of the great bearer of burdens, +and watch in the moonlight the sisters of the mist as they lament +with wringing hands the days that are gone.</p> +<p>The forests, too, are ready with story hid in the fastness of +their solitude, and it is a joy to think that those great pines, +pointing ever upwards, go for the most part to carry the sails of +great ships seeking afar under open sky. The forest holds +other wonders still. It seems but last night that I +wandered down the road which led to the little unheeded village +where I had made my temporary home. The warm-scented breath +of the pines and the stillness of the night wrapped me in great +content; the summer lightning leapt in a lambent arch across the +east, and the stars, seen dimly through the sombre tree crests, +were outrivalled by the glow-worms which shone in countless +points of light from bank and hedge; even two charcoal-burners, +who passed with friendly greeting, had wreathed their hats with +the living flame. The tiny shifting lamps were everywhere; +pale yellow, purely white, or green as the underside of a +northern wave. By day but an ugly, repellent worm; but +darkness comes, and lo, a star alight. Nature is full for +us of seeming inconsistencies and glad surprises. The +world’s asleep, say you; on your ear falls the +nightingale’s song and the stir of living creatures in bush +and brake. The mantle of night falls, and all unattended +the wind leaps up and scatters the clouds which veil the constant +stars; or in the hour of the great dark, dawn parts the curtain +with the long foregleam of the coming day. It is hard to +turn one’s back on night with her kiss of peace for tired +eye-lids, the kiss which is not sleep but its neglected +forerunner. I made my way at last down to the vine-girt +bridge asleep under the stars and up the winding stairs of the +old grey tower; and a stone’s-throw away the Rhine slipped +quietly past in the midsummer moonlight. Switzerland came +in its turn, unearthly in its white loveliness and glory of lake +and sky. But perhaps the landmark which stands out most +clearly is the solitary blue gentian which I found in the short +slippery grass of the Rigi, gazing up at the sky whose blue could +not hope to excel it. It was my first; and what need of +another, for finding one I had gazed into the mystery of +all. This side the Pass, snow and the blue of heaven; later +I entered Italy through fields of many-hued lilies, her past +glories blazoned in the flowers of the field.</p> +<p>Now it is a strangely uneventful road that leads to my White +Gate. Each day questions me as it passes; each day makes +answer for me “not yet.” There is no material +preparation to be made for this journey of mine into a far +country—a simple fact which adds to the +‘unknowableness’ of the other side. Do I travel +alone, or am I one of a great company, swift yet unhurried in +their passage? The voices of Penelope’s suitors +shrilled on the ears of Ulysses, as they journeyed to the +nether-world, like nocturnal birds and bats in the +inarticulateness of their speech. They had abused the gift, +and fled self-condemned. Maybe silence commends itself as +most suitable for the wayfarers towards the sunrise—silence +because they seek the Word—but for those hastening towards +the confusion they have wrought there falls already the sharp +oncoming of the curse.</p> +<p>While we are still here the language of worship seems far, and +yet lies very nigh; for what better note can our frail tongues +lisp than the voice of wind and sea, river and stream, those +grateful servants giving all and asking nothing, the soft whisper +of snow and rain eager to replenish, or the thunder proclaiming a +majesty too great for utterance? Here, too, stands the +angel with the censer gathering up the fragrance of teeming earth +and forest-tree, of flower and fruit, and sweetly pungent herb +distilled by sun and rain for joyful use. Here, too, come +acolytes lighting the dark with tapers—sun, moon, and +stars—gifts of the Lord that His sanctuary may stand ever +served.</p> +<p>It lies here ready to our hand, this life of adoration which +we needs must live hand in hand with earth, for has she not borne +the curse with us? But beyond the white gate and the trail +of woodbine falls the silence greater than speech, darkness +greater than light, a pause of “a little while”; and +then the touch of that healing garment as we pass to the King in +His beauty, in a land from which there is no return.</p> +<p>At the gateway then I cry you farewell.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROADMENDER***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 705-h.htm or 705-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/0/705 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Roadmender + +Author: Michael Fairless + +Release Date: November, 1996 [EBook #705] +[This file was first posted on November 6, 1996] +[Most recently updated: September 8, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE ROADMENDER *** + + + + +Transcribed from the 1911 Duckworth and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +THE ROADMENDER + + + + +I have attained my ideal: I am a roadmender, some say +stonebreaker. Both titles are correct, but the one is more +pregnant than the other. All day I sit by the roadside on a +stretch of grass under a high hedge of saplings and a tangle of +traveller's joy, woodbine, sweetbrier, and late roses. Opposite me +is a white gate, seldom used, if one may judge from the trail of +honeysuckle growing tranquilly along it: I know now that whenever +and wherever I die my soul will pass out through this white gate; +and then, thank God, I shall not have need to undo that trail. + +In our youth we discussed our ideals freely: I wonder how many +beside myself have attained, or would understand my attaining. +After all, what do we ask of life, here or indeed hereafter, but +leave to serve, to live, to commune with our fellowmen and with +ourselves; and from the lap of earth to look up into the face of +God? All these gifts are mine as I sit by the winding white road +and serve the footsteps of my fellows. There is no room in my life +for avarice or anxiety; I who serve at the altar live of the altar: +I lack nothing but have nothing over; and when the winter of life +comes I shall join the company of weary old men who sit on the +sunny side of the workhouse wall and wait for the tender mercies of +God. + +Just now it is the summer of things; there is life and music +everywhere--in the stones themselves, and I live to-day beating out +the rhythmical hammer-song of The Ring. There is real physical joy +in the rise and swing of the arm, in the jar of a fair stroke, the +split and scatter of the quartz: I am learning to be ambidextrous, +for why should Esau sell his birthright when there is enough for +both? Then the rest-hour comes, bringing the luxurious ache of +tired but not weary limbs; and I lie outstretched and renew my +strength, sometimes with my face deep-nestled in the cool green +grass, sometimes on my back looking up into the blue sky which no +wise man would wish to fathom. + +The birds have no fear of me; am I not also of the brown brethren +in my sober fustian livery? They share my meals--at least the +little dun-coated Franciscans do; the blackbirds and thrushes care +not a whit for such simple food as crumbs, but with legs well apart +and claws tense with purchase they disinter poor brother worm, +having first mocked him with sound of rain. The robin that lives +by the gate regards my heap of stones as subject to his special +inspection. He sits atop and practises the trill of his summer +song until it shrills above and through the metallic clang of my +strokes; and when I pause he cocks his tail, with a humorous +twinkle of his round eye which means--"What! shirking, big +brother?"--and I fall, ashamed, to my mending of roads. + +The other day, as I lay with my face in the grass, I heard a gentle +rustle, and raised my head to find a hedge-snake watching me +fearless, unwinking. I stretched out my hand, picked it up +unresisting, and put it in my coat like the husbandman of old. Was +he so ill-rewarded, I wonder, with the kiss that reveals secrets? +My snake slept in peace while I hammered away with an odd +quickening of heart as I thought how to me, as to Melampus, had +come the messenger--had come, but to ears deafened by centuries of +misrule, blindness, and oppression; so that, with all my longing, I +am shut out of the wondrous world where walked Melampus and the +Saint. To me there is no suggestion of evil in the little silent +creatures, harmless, or deadly only with the Death which is Life. +The beasts who turn upon us, as a rule maul and tear +unreflectingly; with the snake there is the swift, silent strike, +the tiny, tiny wound, then sleep and a forgetting. + +My brown friend, with its message unspoken, slid away into the +grass at sundown to tell its tale in unstopped ears; and I, my task +done, went home across the fields to the solitary cottage where I +lodge. It is old and decrepit--two rooms, with a quasi-attic over +them reached by a ladder from the kitchen and reached only by me. +It is furnished with the luxuries of life, a truckle bed, table, +chair, and huge earthenware pan which I fill from the ice-cold well +at the back of the cottage. Morning and night I serve with the +Gibeonites, their curse my blessing, as no doubt it was theirs when +their hearts were purged by service. Morning and night I send down +the moss-grown bucket with its urgent message from a dry and dusty +world; the chain tightens through my hand as the liquid treasure +responds to the messenger, and then with creak and jangle--the +welcome of labouring earth--the bucket slowly nears the top and +disperses the treasure in the waiting vessels. The Gibeonites were +servants in the house of God, ministers of the sacrament of service +even as the High Priest himself; and I, sharing their high office +of servitude, thank God that the ground was accursed for my sake, +for surely that curse was the womb of all unborn blessing. + +The old widow with whom I lodge has been deaf for the last twenty +years. She speaks in the strained high voice which protests +against her own infirmity, and her eyes have the pathetic look of +those who search in silence. For many years she lived alone with +her son, who laboured on the farm two miles away. He met his death +rescuing a carthorse from its burning stable; and the farmer gave +the cottage rent free and a weekly half-crown for life to the poor +old woman whose dearest terror was the workhouse. With my shilling +a week rent, and sharing of supplies, we live in the lines of +comfort. Of death she has no fears, for in the long chest in the +kitchen lie a web of coarse white linen, two pennies covered with +the same to keep down tired eyelids, decent white stockings, and a +white cotton sun-bonnet--a decorous death-suit truly--and enough +money in the little bag for self-respecting burial. The farmer +buried his servant handsomely--good man, he knew the love of +reticent grief for a 'kind' burial--and one day Harry's mother is +to lie beside him in the little churchyard which has been a +cornfield, and may some day be one again. + + + +CHAPTER II + + + +On Sundays my feet take ever the same way. First my temple +service, and then five miles tramp over the tender, dewy fields, +with their ineffable earthy smell, until I reach the little church +at the foot of the grey-green down. Here, every Sunday, a young +priest from a neighbouring village says Mass for the tiny hamlet, +where all are very old or very young--for the heyday of life has no +part under the long shadow of the hills, but is away at sea or in +service. There is a beautiful seemliness in the extreme youth of +the priest who serves these aged children of God. He bends to +communicate them with the reverent tenderness of a son, and reads +with the careful intonation of far-seeing love. To the old people +he is the son of their old age, God-sent to guide their tottering +footsteps along the highway of foolish wayfarers; and he, with his +youth and strength, wishes no better task. Service ended, we greet +each other friendly--for men should not be strange in the acre of +God; and I pass through the little hamlet and out and up on the +grey down beyond. Here, at the last gate, I pause for breakfast; +and then up and on with quickening pulse, and evergreen memory of +the weary war-worn Greeks who broke rank to greet the great blue +Mother-way that led to home. I stand on the summit hatless, the +wind in my hair, the smack of salt on my cheek, all round me +rolling stretches of cloud-shadowed down, no sound but the shrill +mourn of the peewit and the gathering of the sea. + +The hours pass, the shadows lengthen, the sheep-bells clang; and I +lie in my niche under the stunted hawthorn watching the to and fro +of the sea, and AEolus shepherding his white sheep across the blue. +I love the sea with its impenetrable fathoms, its wash and +undertow, and rasp of shingle sucked anew. I love it for its +secret dead in the Caverns of Peace, of which account must be given +when the books are opened and earth and heaven have fled away. Yet +in my love there is a paradox, for as I watch the restless, +ineffective waves I think of the measureless, reflective depths of +the still and silent Sea of Glass, of the dead, small and great, +rich or poor, with the works which follow them, and of the Voice as +the voice of many waters, when the multitude of one mind rends +heaven with alleluia: and I lie so still that I almost feel the +kiss of White Peace on my mouth. Later still, when the flare of +the sinking sun has died away and the stars rise out of a veil of +purple cloud, I take my way home, down the slopes, through the +hamlet, and across miles of sleeping fields; over which night has +thrown her shifting web of mist--home to the little attic, the +deep, cool well, the kindly wrinkled face with its listening eyes-- +peace in my heart and thankfulness for the rhythm of the road. + +Monday brings the joy of work, second only to the Sabbath of rest, +and I settle to my heap by the white gate. Soon I hear the distant +stamp of horsehoofs, heralding the grind and roll of the wheels +which reaches me later--a heavy flour-waggon with a team of four +great gentle horses, gay with brass trappings and scarlet ear-caps. +On the top of the craftily piled sacks lies the white-clad +waggoner, a pink in his mouth which he mumbles meditatively, and +the reins looped over the inactive whip--why should he drive a +willing team that knows the journey and responds as strenuously to +a cheery chirrup as to the well-directed lash? We greet and pass +the time of day, and as he mounts the rise he calls back a warning +of coming rain. I am already white with dust as he with flour, +sacramental dust, the outward and visible sign of the stir and beat +of the heart of labouring life. + +Next to pass down the road is an anxious ruffled hen, her speckled +breast astir with maternal troubles. She walks delicately, lifting +her feet high and glancing furtively from side to side with comb +low dressed. The sight of man, the heartless egg-collector, from +whose haunts she has fled, wrings from her a startled cluck, and +she makes for the white gate, climbs through, and disappears. I +know her feelings too well to intrude. Many times already has she +hidden herself, amassed four or five precious treasures, brooding +over them with anxious hope; and then, after a brief desertion to +seek the necessary food, she has returned to find her efforts at +concealment vain, her treasures gone. At last, with the courage of +despair she has resolved to brave the terrors of the unknown and +seek a haunt beyond the tyranny of man. I will watch over her from +afar, and when her mother-hope is fulfilled I will marshal her and +her brood back to the farm where she belongs; for what end I care +not to think, it is of the mystery which lies at the heart of +things; and we are all God's beasts, says St Augustine. + +Here is my stone-song, a paraphrase of the Treasure Motif. + +[Music score which cannot be reproduced. It is F# dotted crotchet, +F# quaver, F# quaver, F# dotted crotchet, D crotchet, E crotchet. +This bar is then repeated once more.] + +What a wonderful work Wagner has done for humanity in translating +the toil of life into the readable script of music! For those who +seek the tale of other worlds his magic is silent; but earth- +travail under his wand becomes instinct with rhythmic song to an +accompaniment of the elements, and the blare and crash of the +bottomless pit itself. The Pilgrim's March is the sad sound of +footsore men; the San Graal the tremulous yearning of servitude for +richer, deeper bondage. The yellow, thirsty flames lick up the +willing sacrifice, the water wails the secret of the river and the +sea; the birds and beasts, the shepherd with his pipe, the +underground life in rocks and caverns, all cry their message to +this nineteenth-century toiling, labouring world--and to me as I +mend my road. + +Two tramps come and fling themselves by me as I eat my noonday +meal. The one, red-eyed, furtive, lies on his side with restless, +clutching hands that tear and twist and torture the living grass, +while his lips mutter incoherently. The other sits stooped, bare- +footed, legs wide apart, his face grey, almost as grey as his +stubbly beard; and it is not long since Death looked him in the +eyes. He tells me querulously of a two hundred miles tramp since +early spring, of search for work, casual jobs with more kicks than +halfpence, and a brief but blissful sojourn in a hospital bed, from +which he was dismissed with sentence passed upon him. For himself, +he is determined to die on the road under a hedge, where a man can +see and breathe. His anxiety is all for his fellow; HE has said he +will "do for a man"; he wants to "swing," to get out of his "dog's +life." I watch him as he lies, this Ishmael and would-be Lamech. +Ignorance, hunger, terror, the exhaustion of past generations, have +done their work. The man is mad, and would kill his fellowman. + +Presently we part, and the two go, dogged and footsore, down the +road which is to lead them into the great silence. + + + +CHAPTER III + + + +Yesterday was a day of encounters. + +First, early in the morning, a young girl came down the road on a +bicycle. Her dressguard was loose, and she stopped to ask for a +piece of string. When I had tied it for her she looked at me, at +my worn dusty clothes and burnt face; and then she took a Niphetos +rose from her belt and laid it shyly in my dirty disfigured palm. +I bared my head, and stood hat in hand looking after her as she +rode away up the hill. Then I took my treasure and put it in a +nest of cool dewy grass under the hedge. Ecce ancilla Domini. + +My next visitor was a fellow-worker on his way to a job at the +cross-roads. He stood gazing meditatively at my heap of stones. + +"Ow long 'ave yer bin at this job that y'ere in such a hurry?" + +I stayed my hammer to answer--"Four months." + +"Seen better days?" + +"Never," I said emphatically, and punctuated the remark with a +stone split neatly in four. + +The man surveyed me in silence for a moment; then he said slowly, +"Mean ter say yer like crackin' these blamed stones to fill 'oles +some other fool's made?" + +I nodded. + +"Well, that beats everything. Now, I 'AVE seen better days; worked +in a big brewery over near Maidstone--a town that, and something +doing; and now, 'ere I am, 'ammering me 'eart out on these blasted +stones for a bit o' bread and a pipe o' baccy once a week--it ain't +good enough." He pulled a blackened clay from his pocket and began +slowly filling it with rank tobacco; then he lit it carefully +behind his battered hat, put the spent match back in his pocket, +rose to his feet, hitched his braces, and, with a silent nod to me, +went on to his job. + +Why do we give these tired children, whose minds move slowly, whose +eyes are holden that they cannot read the Book, whose hearts are +full of sore resentment against they know not what, such work as +this to do--hammering their hearts out for a bit of bread? All the +pathos of unreasoning labour rings in these few words. We fit the +collar on unwilling necks; and when their service is over we bid +them go out free; but we break the good Mosaic law and send them +away empty. What wonder there is so little willing service, so few +ears ready to be thrust through against the master's door. + +The swift stride of civilisation is leaving behind individual +effort, and turning man into the Daemon of a machine. To and fro +in front of the long loom, lifting a lever at either end, paces he +who once with painstaking intelligence drove the shuttle. THEN he +tasted the joy of completed work, that which his eye had looked +upon, and his hands had handled; now his work is as little finished +as the web of Penelope. Once the reaper grasped the golden corn +stems, and with dexterous sweep of sickle set free the treasure of +the earth. Once the creatures of the field were known to him, and +his eye caught the flare of scarlet and blue as the frail poppies +and sturdy corn-cockles laid down their beauty at his feet; now he +sits serene on Juggernaut's car, its guiding Daemon, and the field +is silent to him. + +As with the web and the grain so with the wood and stone in the +treasure-house of our needs. The ground was accursed FOR OUR SAKE +that in the sweat of our brow we might eat bread. Now the many +live in the brain-sweat of the few; and it must be so, for as +little as great King Cnut could stay the sea until it had reached +the appointed place, so little can we raise a barrier to the wave +of progress, and say, "Thus far and no further shalt thou come." + +What then? This at least; if we live in an age of mechanism let us +see to it that we are a race of intelligent mechanics; and if man +is to be the Daemon of a machine let him know the setting of the +knives, the rise of the piston, the part that each wheel and rod +plays in the economy of the whole, the part that he himself plays, +co-operating with it. Then, when he has lived and served +intelligently, let us give him of our flocks and of our floor that +he may learn to rest in the lengthening shadows until he is called +to his work above. + +So I sat, hammering out my thoughts, and with them the conviction +that stonebreaking should be allotted to minor poets or vagrant +children of nature like myself, never to such tired folk as my poor +mate at the cross-roads and his fellows. + +At noon, when I stopped for my meal, the sun was baking the hard +white road in a pitiless glare. Several waggons and carts passed, +the horses sweating and straining, with drooping, fly-tormented +ears. The men for the most part nodded slumberously on the shaft, +seeking the little shelter the cart afforded; but one shuffled in +the white dust, with an occasional chirrup and friendly pressure on +the tired horse's neck. + +Then an old woman and a small child appeared in sight, both with +enormous sun-bonnets and carrying baskets. As they came up with me +the woman stopped and swept her face with her hand, while the +child, depositing the basket in the dust with great care, wiped her +little sticky fingers on her pinafore. Then the shady hedge +beckoned them and they came and sat down near me. The woman looked +about seventy, tall, angular, dauntless, good for another ten years +of hard work. The little maid--her only grandchild, she told me-- +was just four, her father away soldiering, and the mother died in +childbed, so for four years the child had known no other guardian +or playmate than the old woman. She was not the least shy, but had +the strange self-possession which comes from associating with one +who has travelled far on life's journey. + +"I couldn't leave her alone in the house," said her grandmother, +"and she wouldn't leave the kitten for fear it should be lonesome"- +-with a humorous, tender glance at the child--"but it's a long +tramp in the heat for the little one, and we've another mile to +go." + +"Will you let her bide here till you come back?" I said. "She'll +be all right by me." + +The old lady hesitated. + +"Will 'ee stay by him, dearie?" she said. + +The small child nodded, drew from her miniature pocket a piece of +sweetstuff, extracted from the basket a small black cat, and +settled in for the afternoon. Her grandmother rose, took her +basket, and, with a nod and "Thank 'ee kindly, mister," went off +down the road. + +I went back to my work a little depressed--why had I not white +hair?--for a few minutes had shown me that I was not old enough for +the child despite my forty years. She was quite happy with the +little black cat, which lay in the small lap blinking its yellow +eyes at the sun; and presently an old man came by, lame and bent, +with gnarled twisted hands, leaning heavily on his stick. + +He greeted me in a high, piping voice, limped across to the child, +and sat down. "Your little maid, mister?" he said. + +I explained. + +"Ah," he said, "I've left a little darlin' like this at 'ome. It's +'ard on us old folks when we're one too many; but the little mouths +must be filled, and my son, 'e said 'e didn't see they could keep +me on the arf-crown, with another child on the way; so I'm tramping +to N-, to the House; but it's a 'ard pinch, leavin' the little +ones." + +I looked at him--a typical countryman, with white hair, mild blue +eyes, and a rosy, childish, unwrinkled face. + +"I'm eighty-four," he went on, "and terrible bad with the +rheumatics and my chest. Maybe it'll not be long before the Lord +remembers me." + +The child crept close and put a sticky little hand confidingly into +the tired old palm. The two looked strangely alike, for the world +seems much the same to those who leave it behind as to those who +have but taken the first step on its circular pathway. + +"'Ook at my kitty," she said, pointing to the small creature in her +lap. Then, as the old man touched it with trembling fingers she +went on--"'Oo isn't my grandad; he's away in the sky, but I'll kiss +'oo." + +I worked on, hearing at intervals the old piping voice and the +child-treble, much of a note; and thinking of the blessings +vouchsafed to the simple old age which crowns a harmless working- +life spent in the fields. The two under the hedge had everything +in common and were boundlessly content together, the sting of the +knowledge of good and evil past for the one, and for the other +still to come; while I stood on the battlefield of the world, the +flesh, and the devil, though, thank God, with my face to the foe. + +The old man sat resting: I had promised him a lift with my friend +the driver of the flour-cart, and he was almost due when the +child's grandmother came down the road. + +When she saw my other visitor she stood amazed. + +"What, Richard Hunton, that worked with my old man years ago up at +Ditton, whatever are you doin' all these miles from your own +place?" + +"Is it Eliza Jakes?" + +He looked at her dazed, doubtful. + +"An' who else should it be? Where's your memory gone, Richard +Hunton, and you not such a great age either? Where are you +stayin'?" + +Shame overcame him; his lips trembled, his mild blue eyes filled +with tears. I told the tale as I had heard it, and Mrs Jakes's +indignation was good to see. + +"Not keep you on 'alf a crown! Send you to the House! May the +Lord forgive them! You wouldn't eat no more than a fair-sized cat, +and not long for this world either, that's plain to see. No, +Richard Hunton, you don't go to the House while I'm above ground; +it'd make my good man turn to think of it. You'll come 'ome with +me and the little 'un there. I've my washin', and a bit put by for +a rainy day, and a bed to spare, and the Lord and the parson will +see I don't come to want." + +She stopped breathless, her defensive motherhood in arms. + +The old man said quaveringly, in the pathetic, grudging phrase of +the poor, which veils their gratitude while it testifies their +independence, "Maybe I might as well." He rose with difficulty, +picked up his bundle and stick, the small child replaced the kitten +in its basket, and thrust her hand in her new friend's. + +"Then 'oo IS grandad tum back," she said. + +Mrs Jakes had been fumbling in her pocket, and extracted a penny, +which she pressed on me. + +"It's little enough, mister," she said. + +Then, as I tried to return it: "Nay, I've enough, and yours is +poor paid work." + +I hope I shall always be able to keep that penny; and as I watched +the three going down the dusty white road, with the child in the +middle, I thanked God for the Brotherhood of the Poor. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + + +Yesterday a funeral passed, from the work-house at N-, a quaint +sepulture without solemnities. The rough, ungarnished coffin of +stained deal lay bare and unsightly on the floor of an old market- +cart; a woman sat beside, steadying it with her feet. The husband +drove; and the most depressed of the three was the horse, a broken- +kneed, flea-bitten grey. It was pathetic, this bringing home in +death of the old father whom, while he lived, they had been too +poor to house; it was at no small sacrifice that they had spared +him that terror of old age, a pauper's grave, and brought him to +lie by his wife in our quiet churchyard. They felt no emotion, +this husband and wife, only a dull sense of filial duty done, +respectability preserved; and above and through all, the bitter but +necessary counting the cost of this last bed. + +It is strange how pagan many of us are in our beliefs. True, the +funeral libations have made way for the comfortable bake-meats; +still, to the large majority Death is Pluto, king of the dark +Unknown whence no traveller returns, rather than Azrael, brother +and friend, lord of this mansion of life. Strange how men shun him +as he waits in the shadow, watching our puny straining after +immortality, sending his comrade sleep to prepare us for himself. +When the hour strikes he comes--very gently, very tenderly, if we +will but have it so--folds the tired hands together, takes the way- +worn feet in his broad strong palm; and lifting us in his wonderful +arms he bears us swiftly down the valley and across the waters of +Remembrance. + +Very pleasant art thou, O Brother Death, thy love is wonderful, +passing the love of women. + +* * * * * * + +To-day I have lived in a whirl of dust. To-morrow is the great +annual Cattle Fair at E-, and through the long hot hours the beasts +from all the district round have streamed in broken procession +along my road, to change hands or to die. Surely the lordship over +creation implies wise and gentle rule for intelligent use, not the +pursuit of a mere immediate end, without any thought of community +in the great sacrament of life. + +For the most part mystery has ceased for this working Western +world, and with it reverence. Coventry Patmore says: "God clothes +Himself actually and literally with His whole creation. Herbs take +up and assimilate minerals, beasts assimilate herbs, and God, in +the Incarnation and its proper Sacrament, assimilates us, who, says +St Augustine, 'are God's beasts.'" It is man in his blind self- +seeking who separates woof from weft in the living garment of God, +and loses the more as he neglects the outward and visible signs of +a world-wide grace. + +In olden days the herd led his flock, going first in the post of +danger to defend the creatures he had weaned from their natural +habits for his various uses. Now that good relationship has ceased +for us to exist, man drives the beasts before him, means to his +end, but with no harmony between end and means. All day long the +droves of sheep pass me on their lame and patient way, no longer +freely and instinctively following a protector and forerunner, but +DRIVEN, impelled by force and resistless will--the same will which +once went before without force. They are all trimmed as much as +possible to one pattern, and all make the same sad plaint. It is a +day on which to thank God for the unknown tongue. The drover and +his lad in dusty blue coats plod along stolidly, deaf and blind to +all but the way before them; no longer wielding the crook, +instrument of deliverance, or at most of gentle compulsion, but +armed with a heavy stick and mechanically dealing blows on the +short thick fleeces; without evil intent because without thought-- +it is the ritual of the trade. + +Of all the poor dumb pilgrims of the road the bullocks are the most +terrible to see. They are not patient, but go most unwillingly +with lowered head and furtive sideways motion, in their eyes a +horror of great fear. The sleek cattle, knee deep in pasture, +massed at the gate, and stared mild-eyed and with inquiring bellow +at the retreating drove; but these passed without answer on to the +Unknown, and for them it spelt death. + +Behind a squadron of sleek, well-fed cart-horses, formed in fours, +with straw braid in mane and tail, came the ponies, for the most +part a merry company. Long strings of rusty, shaggy two-year-olds, +unbroken, unkempt, the short Down grass still sweet on their +tongues; full of fun, frolic, and wickedness, biting and pulling, +casting longing eyes at the hedgerows. The boys appear to +recognise them as kindred spirits, and are curiously forbearing and +patient. Soon both ponies and boys vanish in a white whirl, and a +long line of carts, which had evidently waited for the dust to +subside, comes slowly up the incline. For the most part they carry +the pigs and fowls, carriage folk of the road. The latter are hot, +crowded, and dusty under the open netting; the former for the most +part cheerfully remonstrative. + +I drew a breath of relief as the noise of wheels died away and my +road sank into silence. The hedgerows are no longer green but +white and choked with dust, a sight to move good sister Rain to +welcome tears. The birds seem to have fled before the noisy +confusion. I wonder whether my snake has seen and smiled at the +clumsy ruling of the lord he so little heeds? I turned aside +through the gate to plunge face and hands into the cool of the +sheltered grass that side the hedge, and then rested my eyes on the +stretch of green I had lacked all day. The rabbits had apparently +played and browsed unmindful of the stir, and were still flirting +their white tails along the hedgerows; a lark rose, another and +another, and I went back to my road. Peace still reigned, for the +shadows were lengthening, and there would be little more traffic +for the fair. I turned to my work, grateful for the stillness, and +saw on the white stretch of road a lone old man and a pig. Surely +I knew that tall figure in the quaint grey smock, surely I knew the +face, furrowed like nature's face in springtime, and crowned by a +round, soft hat? And the pig, the black pig walking decorously +free? Ay, I knew them. + +In the early spring I took a whole holiday and a long tramp; and +towards afternoon, tired and thirsty, sought water at a little +lonely cottage whose windows peered and blinked under overhanging +brows of thatch. I had, not the water I asked for, but milk and a +bowl of sweet porridge for which I paid only thanks; and stayed for +a chat with my kindly hosts. They were a quaint old couple of the +kind rarely met with nowadays. They enjoyed a little pension from +the Squire and a garden in which vegetables and flowers lived side +by side in friendliest fashion. Bees worked and sang over the +thyme and marjoram, blooming early in a sunny nook; and in a homely +sty lived a solemn black pig, a pig with a history. + +It was no common utilitarian pig, but the honoured guest of the old +couple, and it knew it. A year before, their youngest and only +surviving child, then a man of five-and-twenty, had brought his +mother the result of his savings in the shape of a fine young pig: +a week later he lay dead of the typhoid that scourged Maidstone. +Hence the pig was sacred, cared for and loved by this Darby and +Joan. + +"Ee be mos' like a child to me and the mother, an' mos' as sensible +as a Christian, ee be," the old man had said; and I could hardly +credit my eyes when I saw the tall bent figure side by side with +the black pig, coming along my road on such a day. + +I hailed the old man, and both turned aside; but he gazed at me +without remembrance. + +I spoke of the pig and its history. He nodded wearily. "Ay, ay, +lad, you've got it; 'tis poor Dick's pig right enow." + +"But you're never going to take it to E--?" + +"Ay, but I be, and comin' back alone, if the Lord be marciful. The +missus has been terrible bad this two mouths and more; Squire's in +foreign parts; and food-stuffs such as the old woman wants is hard +buying for poor folks. The stocking's empty, now 'tis the pig must +go, and I believe he'd be glad for to do the missus a turn; she +were terrible good to him, were the missus, and fond, too. I +dursn't tell her he was to go; she'd sooner starve than lose poor +Dick's pig. Well, we'd best be movin'; 'tis a fairish step." + +The pig followed comprehending and docile, and as the quaint couple +passed from sight I thought I heard Brother Death stir in the +shadow. He is a strong angel and of great pity. + + + +CHAPTER V + + + +There is always a little fire of wood on the open hearth in the +kitchen when I get home at night; the old lady says it is "company" +for her, and sits in the lonely twilight, her knotted hands lying +quiet on her lap, her listening eyes fixed on the burning sticks. + +I wonder sometimes whether she hears music in the leap and lick of +the fiery tongues, music such as he of Bayreuth draws from the +violins till the hot energy of the fire spirit is on us, embodied +in sound. + +Surely she hears some voice, that lonely old woman on whom is set +the seal of great silence? + +It is a great truth tenderly said that God builds the nest for the +blind bird; and may it not be that He opens closed eyes and unstops +deaf ears to sights and sounds from which others by these very +senses are debarred? + +Here the best of us see through a mist of tears men as trees +walking; it is only in the land which is very far off and yet very +near that we shall have fulness of sight and see the King in His +beauty; and I cannot think that any listening ears listen in vain. + +The coppice at our back is full of birds, for it is far from the +road and they nest there undisturbed year after year. Through the +still night I heard the nightingales calling, calling, until I +could bear it no longer and went softly out into the luminous dark. + +The little wood was manifold with sound, I heard my little brothers +who move by night rustling in grass and tree. A hedgehog crossed +my path with a dull squeak, the bats shrilled high to the stars, a +white owl swept past me crying his hunting note, a beetle boomed +suddenly in my face; and above and through it all the nightingales +sang--and sang! + +The night wind bent the listening trees, and the stars yearned +earthward to hear the song of deathless love. Louder and louder +the wonderful notes rose and fell in a passion of melody; and then +sank to rest on that low thrilling call which it is said Death once +heard, and stayed his hand. + +They will scarcely sing again this year, these nightingales, for +they are late on the wing as it is. It seems as if on such nights +they sang as the swan sings, knowing it to be the last time--with +the lavish note of one who bids an eternal farewell. + +At last there was silence. Sitting under the big beech tree, the +giant of the coppice, I rested my tired self in the lap of mother +earth, breathed of her breath and listened to her voice in the +quickening silence until my flesh came again as the flesh of a +little child, for it is true recreation to sit at the footstool of +God wrapped in a fold of His living robe, the while night smoothes +our tired face with her healing hands. + +The grey dawn awoke and stole with trailing robes across earth's +floor. At her footsteps the birds roused from sleep and cried a +greeting; the sky flushed and paled conscious of coming splendour; +and overhead a file of swans passed with broad strong flight to the +reeded waters of the sequestered pool. + +Another hour of silence while the light throbbed and flamed in the +east; then the larks rose harmonious from a neighbouring field, the +rabbits scurried with ears alert to their morning meal, the day had +begun. + +I passed through the coppice and out into the fields beyond. The +dew lay heavy on leaf and blade and gossamer, a cool fresh wind +swept clear over dale and down from the sea, and the clover field +rippled like a silvery lake in the breeze. + +There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the unused day, +something beautiful in the fact that it is still untouched, +unsoiled; and town and country share alike in this loveliness. At +half-past three on a June morning even London has not assumed her +responsibilities, but smiles and glows lighthearted and smokeless +under the caresses of the morning sun. + +Five o'clock. The bell rings out crisp and clear from the +monastery where the Bedesmen of St Hugh watch and pray for the +souls on this labouring forgetful earth. Every hour the note of +comfort and warning cries across the land, tells the Sanctus, the +Angelus, and the Hours of the Passion, and calls to remembrance and +prayer. + +When the wind is north, the sound carries as far as my road, and +companies me through the day; and if to His dumb children God in +His mercy reckons work as prayer, most certainly those who have +forged through the ages an unbroken chain of supplication and +thanksgiving will be counted among the stalwart labourers of the +house of the Lord. + +Sun and bell together are my only clock: it is time for my water +drawing; and gathering a pile of mushrooms, children of the night, +I hasten home. + +The cottage is dear to me in its quaint untidiness and want of +rectitude, dear because we are to be its last denizens, last of the +long line of toilers who have sweated and sown that others might +reap, and have passed away leaving no trace. + +I once saw a tall cross in a seaboard churchyard, inscribed, "To +the memory of the unknown dead who have perished in these waters." +There might be one in every village sleeping-place to the +unhonoured many who made fruitful the land with sweat and tears. +It is a consolation to think that when we look back on this stretch +of life's road from beyond the first milestone, which, it is +instructive to remember, is always a grave, we may hope to see the +work of this world with open eyes, and to judge of it with a due +sense of proportion. + +A bee with laden honey-bag hummed and buzzed in the hedge as I got +ready for work, importuning the flowers for that which he could not +carry, and finally giving up the attempt in despair fell asleep on +a buttercup, the best place for his weary little velvet body. In +five minutes--they may have been five hours to him--he awoke a new +bee, sensible and clear-sighted, and flew blithely away to the hive +with his sufficiency--an example this weary world would be wise to +follow. + +My road has been lonely to-day. A parson came by in the afternoon, +a stranger in the neighbourhood, for he asked his way. He talked +awhile, and with kindly rebuke said it was sad to see a man of my +education brought so low, which shows how the outside appearance +may mislead the prejudiced observer. "Was it misfortune?" "Nay, +the best of good luck," I answered, gaily. + +The good man with beautiful readiness sat down on a heap of stones +and bade me say on. "Read me a sermon in stone," he said, simply; +and I stayed my hand to read. + +He listened with courteous intelligence. + +"You hold a roadmender has a vocation?" he asked. + +"As the monk or the artist, for, like both, he is universal. The +world is his home; he serves all men alike, ay, and for him the +beasts have equal honour with the men. His soul is 'bound up in +the bundle of life' with all other souls, he sees his father, his +mother, his brethren in the children of the road. For him there is +nothing unclean, nothing common; the very stones cry out that they +serve." + +Parson nodded his head. + +"It is all true," he said; "beautifully true. But need such a view +of life necessitate the work of roadmending? Surely all men should +be roadmenders." + +O wise parson, so to read the lesson of the road! + +"It is true," I answered; "but some of us find our salvation in the +actual work, and earn our bread better in this than in any other +way. No man is dependent on our earning, all men on our work. We +are 'rich beyond the dreams of avarice' because we have all that we +need, and yet we taste the life and poverty of the very poor. We +are, if you will, uncloistered monks, preaching friars who speak +not with the tongue, disciples who hear the wise words of a silent +master." + +"Robert Louis Stevenson was a roadmender," said the wise parson. + +"Ay, and with more than his pen," I answered. "I wonder was he +ever so truly great, so entirely the man we know and love, as when +he inspired the chiefs to make a highway in the wilderness. Surely +no more fitting monument could exist to his memory than the Road of +Gratitude, cut, laid, and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of +Samoa." + +Parson nodded. + +"He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out from +intelligent participation in the world's brotherhood." He filled +his pipe, thinking the while, then he held out his pouch to me. + +"Try some of this baccy," he said; "Sherwood of Magdalen sent it me +from some outlandish place." + +I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to the lot of +few roadmenders. + +He rose to go. + +"I wish I could come and break stones," he said, a little +wistfully. + +"Nay," said I, "few men have such weary roadmending as yours, and +perhaps you need my road less than most men, and less than most +parsons." + +We shook hands, and he went down the road and out of my life. + +He little guessed that I knew Sherwood, ay, and knew him too, for +had not Sherwood told me of the man he delighted to honour. + +Ah, well! I am no Browning Junior, and Sherwood's name is not +Sherwood. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + + +A while ago I took a holiday; mouched, played truant from my road. +Jem the waggoner hailed me as he passed--he was going to the mill-- +would I ride with him and come back atop of the full sacks? + +I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon white +and fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself down on +the empty flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin framed the long +vista of my road with the downs beyond; and I lay in the cool dark, +caressed by the fresh breeze in its thoroughfare, soothed by the +strong monotonous tramp of the great grey team and the music of the +jangling harness. + +Jem walked at the leaders' heads; it is his rule when the waggon is +empty, a rule no "company" will make him break. At first I +regretted it, but soon discovered I learnt to know him better so, +as he plodded along, his thickset figure slightly bent, his hands +in his pockets, his whip under one arm, whistling hymn tunes in a +low minor, while the great horses answered to his voice without +touch of lash or guiding rein. + +I lay as in a blissful dream and watched my road unfold. The sun +set the pine-boles aflare where the hedge is sparse, and stretched +the long shadows of the besom poplars in slanting bars across the +white highway; the roadside gardens smiled friendly with their +trim-cut laurels and rows of stately sunflowers--a seemly proximity +this, Daphne and Clytie, sisters in experience, wrapped in the warm +caress of the god whose wooing they need no longer fear. Here and +there we passed little groups of women and children off to work in +the early cornfields, and Jem paused in his fond repetition of "The +Lord my pasture shall prepare" to give them good-day. + +It is like Life, this travelling backwards--that which has been, +alone visible--like Life, which is after all, retrospective with a +steady moving on into the Unknown, Unseen, until Faith is lost in +Sight and experience is no longer the touchstone of humanity. The +face of the son of Adam is set on the road his brothers have +travelled, marking their landmarks, tracing their journeyings; but +with the eyes of a child of God he looks forward, straining to +catch a glimpse of the jewelled walls of his future home, the city +"Eternal in the Heavens." + +Presently we left my road for the deep shade of a narrow country +way where the great oaks and beeches meet overhead and no hedge- +clipper sets his hand to stay nature's profusion; and so by +pleasant lanes scarce the waggon's width across, now shady, now +sunny, here bordered by thickset coverts, there giving on fruitful +fields, we came at length to the mill. + +I left Jem to his business with the miller and wandered down the +flowery meadow to listen to the merry clack of the stream and the +voice of the waters on the weir. The great wheel was at rest, as I +love best to see it in the later afternoon; the splash and churn of +the water belong rather to the morning hours. It is the chief +mistake we make in portioning out our day that we banish rest to +the night-time, which is for sleep and recreating, instead of +setting apart the later afternoon and quiet twilight hours for the +stretching of weary limbs and repose of tired mind after a day's +toil that should begin and end at five. + +The little stone bridge over the mill-stream is almost on a level +with the clear running water, and I lay there and gazed at the huge +wheel which, under multitudinous forms and uses, is one of the +world's wonders, because one of the few things we imitative +children have not learnt from nature. Is it perchance a memory out +of that past when Adam walked clear-eyed in Paradise and talked +with the Lord in the cool of the day? Did he see then the flaming +wheels instinct with service, wondrous messengers of the Most High +vouchsafed in vision to the later prophets? + +Maybe he did, and going forth from before the avenging sword of his +own forging to the bitterness of an accursed earth, took with him +this bright memory of perfect, ceaseless service, and so fashioned +our labouring wheel--pathetic link with the time of his innocency. +It is one of many unanswered questions, good to ask because it has +no answer, only the suggestion of a train of thought: perhaps we +are never so receptive as when with folded hands we say simply, +"This is a great mystery." I watched and wondered until Jem +called, and I had to leave the rippling weir and the water's side, +and the wheel with its untold secret. + +The miller's wife gave me tea and a crust of home-made bread, and +the miller's little maid sat on my knee while I told the sad tale +of a little pink cloud separated from its parents and teazed and +hunted by mischievous little airs. To-morrow, if I mistake not, +her garden will be wet with its tears, and, let us hope, point a +moral; for the tale had its origin in a frenzied chicken driven +from the side of an anxious mother, and pursued by a sturdy, +relentless figure in a white sun-bonnet. + +The little maid trotted off, greatly sobered, to look somewhat +prematurely for the cloud's tears; and I climbed to my place at the +top of the piled-up sacks, and thence watched twilight pass to +starlight through my narrow peep, and, so watching, slept until +Jem's voice hailed me from Dreamland, and I went, only half awake, +across the dark fields home. + +Autumn is here and it is already late. He has painted the hedges +russet and gold, scarlet and black, and a tangle of grey; now he +has damp brown leaves in his hair and frost in his finger-tips. + +It is a season of contrasts; at first all is stir and bustle, the +ingathering of man and beast; barn and rickyard stand filled with +golden treasure; at the farm the sound of threshing; in wood and +copse the squirrels busied 'twixt tree and storehouse, while the +ripe nuts fall with thud of thunder rain. When the harvesting is +over, the fruit gathered, the last rick thatched, there comes a +pause. Earth strips off her bright colours and shows a bare and +furrowed face; the dead leaves fall gently and sadly through the +calm, sweet air; grey mists drape the fields and hedges. The +migratory birds have left, save a few late swallows; and as I sit +at work in the soft, still rain, I can hear the blackbird's +melancholy trill and the thin pipe of the redbreast's winter song-- +the air is full of the sound of farewell. + +Forethought and preparation for the Future which shall be; +farewell, because of the Future which may never be--for us; "Man, +thou hast goods laid up for many years, and it is well; but, +remember, this night THY soul may be required"; is the unvoiced +lesson of autumn. There is growing up among us a great fear; it +stares at us white, wide-eyed, from the faces of men and women +alike--the fear of pain, mental and bodily pain. For the last +twenty years we have waged war with suffering--a noble war when +fought in the interest of the many, but fraught with great danger +to each individual man. It is the fear which should not be, rather +than the 'hope which is in us,' that leads men in these days to +drape Death in a flowery mantle, to lay stress on the shortness of +parting, the speedy reunion, to postpone their good-byes until the +last moment, or avoid saying them altogether; and this fear is a +poor, ignoble thing, unworthy of those who are as gods, knowing +good and evil. We are still paying the price of that knowledge; +suffering in both kinds is a substantial part of it, and brings its +own healing. Let us pay like men, our face to the open heaven, +neither whimpering like children in the dark, nor lulled to +unnecessary oblivion by some lethal drug; for it is manly, not +morbid, to dare to taste the pungent savour of pain, the lingering +sadness of farewell which emphasises the aftermath of life; it +should have its place in all our preparation as a part of our +inheritance we dare not be without. + +There is an old couple in our village who are past work. The +married daughter has made shift to take her mother and the parish +half-crown, but there is neither room nor food for the father, and +he must go to N-. If husband and wife went together, they would be +separated at the workhouse door. The parting had to come; it came +yesterday. I saw them stumbling lamely down the road on their last +journey together, walking side by side without touch or speech, +seeing and heeding nothing but a blank future. As they passed me +the old man said gruffly, "'Tis far eno'; better be gettin' back"; +but the woman shook her head, and they breasted the hill together. +At the top they paused, shook hands, and separated; one went on, +the other turned back; and as the old woman limped blindly by I +turned away, for there are sights a man dare not look upon. She +passed; and I heard a child's shrill voice say, "I come to look for +you, gran"; and I thanked God that there need be no utter +loneliness in the world while it holds a little child. + +Now it is my turn, and I must leave the wayside to serve in the +sheepfolds during the winter months. It is scarcely a farewell, +for my road is ubiquitous, eternal; there are green ways in +Paradise and golden streets in the beautiful City of God. +Nevertheless, my heart is heavy; for, viewed by the light of the +waning year, roadmending seems a great and wonderful work which I +have poorly conceived of and meanly performed: yet I have learnt +to understand dimly the truths of three great paradoxes--the +blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, the companionship of +solitude--and so take my leave of this stretch of road, and of you +who have fared along the white highway through the medium of a +printed page. + +Farewell! It is a roadmender's word; I cry you Godspeed to the +next milestone--and beyond. + + + +OUT OF THE SHADOW + + + +CHAPTER I + + + +I am no longer a roadmender; the stretch of white highway which +leads to the end of the world will know me no more; the fields and +hedgerows, grass and leaf stiff with the crisp rime of winter's +breath, lie beyond my horizon; the ewes in the folding, their +mysterious eyes quick with the consciousness of coming motherhood, +answer another's voice and hand; while I lie here, not in the +lonely companionship of my expectations, but where the shadow is +bright with kindly faces and gentle hands, until one kinder and +gentler still carries me down the stairway into the larger room. + +But now the veil was held aside and one went by crowned with the +majesty of years, wearing the ermine of an unstained rule, the +purple of her people's loyalty. Nations stood with bated breath to +see her pass in the starlit mist of her children's tears; a +monarch--greatest of her time; an empress--conquered men called +mother; a woman--Englishmen cried queen; still the crowned captive +of her people's heart--the prisoner of love. + +The night-goers passed under my window in silence, neither song nor +shout broke the welcome dark; next morning the workmen who went by +were strangely quiet. + + +'VICTORIA DEI GRATIA BRITANNIARUM REGINA.' + + +Did they think of how that legend would disappear, and of all it +meant, as they paid their pennies at the coffee-stall? The feet +rarely know the true value and work of the head; but all Englishmen +have been and will be quick to acknowledge and revere Victoria by +the grace of God a wise woman, a great and loving mother. + +Years ago, I, standing at a level crossing, saw her pass. The +train slowed down and she caught sight of the gatekeeper's little +girl who had climbed the barrier. Such a smile as she gave her! +And then I caught a quick startled gesture as she slipped from my +vision; I thought afterwards it was that she feared the child might +fall. Mother first, then Queen; even so rest came to her--not in +one of the royal palaces, but in her own home, surrounded by the +immediate circle of her nearest and dearest, while the world kept +watch and ward. + +I, a shy lover of the fields and woods, longed always, should a +painless passing be vouchsafed me, to make my bed on the fragrant +pine needles in the aloneness of a great forest; to lie once again +as I had lain many a time, bathed in the bitter sweetness of the +sun-blessed pines, lapped in the manifold silence; my ear attuned +to the wind of Heaven with its call from the Cities of Peace. In +sterner mood, when Love's hand held a scourge, I craved rather the +stress of the moorland with its bleaker mind imperative of +sacrifice. To rest again under the lee of Rippon Tor swept by the +strong peat-smelling breeze; to stare untired at the long cloud- +shadowed reaches, and watch the mist-wraiths huddle and shrink +round the stones of blood; until my sacrifice too was accomplished, +and my soul had fled. A wild waste moor; a vast void sky; and +naught between heaven and earth but man, his sin-glazed eyes +seeking afar the distant light of his own heart. + +With years came counsels more profound, and the knowledge that man +was no mere dweller in the woods to follow the footsteps of the +piping god, but an integral part of an organised whole, in which +Pan too has his fulfilment. The wise Venetians knew; and read +pantheism into Christianity when they set these words round +Ezekiel's living creatures in the altar vault of St Mark's:- + + +QUAEQUE SUB OBSCURIS DE CRISTO DICTA FIGURIS HIS APERIRE DATUR ET +IN HIS, DEUS IPSE NOTATUR. + + +"Thou shalt have none other gods but me." If man had been able to +keep this one commandment perfectly the other nine would never have +been written; instead he has comprehensively disregarded it, and +perhaps never more than now in the twentieth century. Ah, well! +this world, in spite of all its sinning, is still the Garden of +Eden where the Lord walked with man, not in the cool of evening, +but in the heat and stress of the immediate working day. There is +no angel now with flaming sword to keep the way of the Tree of +Life, but tapers alight morning by morning in the Hostel of God to +point us to it; and we, who are as gods knowing good and evil, +partake of that fruit "whereof whoso eateth shall never die"; the +greatest gift or the most awful penalty--Eternal Life. + +I then, with my craving for tree and sky, held that a great capital +with its stir of life and death, of toil and strife and pleasure, +was an ill place for a sick man to wait in; a place to shrink from +as a child shrinks from the rude blow of one out of authority. Yet +here, far from moor and forest, hillside and hedgerow, in the +family sitting-room of the English-speaking peoples, the London +much misunderstood, I find the fulfilment by antithesis of all +desire. For the loneliness of the moorland, there is the warmth +and companionship of London's swift beating heart. For silence +there is sound--the sound and stir of service--for the most part +far in excess of its earthly equivalent. Against the fragrant +incense of the pines I set the honest sweat of the man whose +lifetime is the measure of his working day. "He that loveth not +his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath +not seen?" wrote Blessed John, who himself loved so much that he +beheld the Lamb as it had been slain from the beginning when Adam +fell, and the City of God with light most precious. The burden of +corporate sin, the sword of corporate sorrow, the joy of corporate +righteousness; thus we become citizens in the Kingdom of God, and +companions of all his creatures. "It is not good that the man +should be alone," said the Lord God. + +I live now as it were in two worlds, the world of sight, and the +world of sound; and they scarcely ever touch each other. I hear +the grind of heavy traffic, the struggle of horses on the frost- +breathed ground, the decorous jolt of omnibuses, the jangle of cab +bells, the sharp warning of bicycles at the corner, the swift +rattle of costers' carts as they go south at night with their +shouting, goading crew. All these things I hear, and more; but I +see no road, only the silent river of my heart with its tale of +wonder and years, and the white beat of seagulls' wings in strong +inquiring flight. + +Sometimes there is naught to see on the waterway but a solitary +black hull, a very Stygian ferry-boat, manned by a solitary figure, +and moving slowly up under the impulse of the far-reaching sweeps. +Then the great barges pass with their coffined treasure, drawn by a +small self-righteous steam-tug. Later, lightened of their load, +and waiting on wind and tide, I see them swooping by like birds set +free; tawny sails that mind me of red-roofed Whitby with its +northern fleet; black sails as of some heedless Theseus; white +sails that sweep out of the morning mist "like restless +gossameres." They make the bridge, which is just within my vision, +and then away past Westminster and Blackfriars where St Paul's +great dome lifts the cross high over a self-seeking city; past +Southwark where England's poet illuminates in the scroll of divine +wisdom the sign of the Tabard; past the Tower with its haunting +ghosts of history; past Greenwich, fairy city, caught in the meshes +of riverside mist; and then the salt and speer of the sea, the +companying with great ships, the fresh burden. + +At night I see them again, silent, mysterious; searching the +darkness with unwinking yellow stare, led by a great green light. +They creep up under the bridge which spans the river with its +watching eyes, and vanish, crying back a warning note as they make +the upper reach, or strident hail, as a chain of kindred phantoms +passes, ploughing a contrary tide. + +Throughout the long watches of the night I follow them; and in the +early morning they slide by, their eyes pale in the twilight; while +the stars flicker and fade, and the gas lamps die down into a dull +yellow blotch against the glory and glow of a new day. + + + +CHAPTER II + + + +February is here, February fill-dyke; the month of purification, of +cleansing rains and pulsing bounding streams, and white mist +clinging insistent to field and hedgerow so that when her veil is +withdrawn greenness may make us glad. + +The river has been uniformly grey of late, with no wind to ruffle +its surface or to speed the barges dropping slowly and sullenly +down with the tide through a blurring haze. I watched one +yesterday, its useless sails half-furled and no sign of life save +the man at the helm. It drifted stealthily past, and a little +behind, flying low, came a solitary seagull, grey as the river's +haze--a following bird. + +Once again I lay on my back in the bottom of the tarry old fishing +smack, blue sky above and no sound but the knock, knock of the +waves, and the thud and curl of falling foam as the old boat's +blunt nose breasted the coming sea. Then Daddy Whiddon spoke. + +"A follerin' burrd," he said. + +I got up, and looked across the blue field we were ploughing into +white furrows. Far away a tiny sail scarred the great solitude, +and astern came a gull flying slowly close to the water's breast. + +Daddy Whiddon waved his pipe towards it. + +"A follerin' burrd," he said, again; and again I waited; questions +were not grateful to him. + +"There be a carpse there, sure enough, a carpse driftin' and +shiftin' on the floor of the sea. There be those as can't rest, +poor sawls, and her'll be mun, her'll be mun, and the sperrit of +her is with the burrd." + +The clumsy boom swung across as we changed our course, and the +water ran from us in smooth reaches on either side: the bird flew +steadily on. + +"What will the spirit do?" I said. + +The old man looked at me gravely. + +"Her'll rest in the Lard's time, in the Lard's gude time--but now +her'll just be follerin' on with the burrd." + +The gull was flying close to us now, and a cold wind swept the +sunny sea. I shivered: Daddy looked at me curiously. + +"There be reason enough to be cawld if us did but knaw it, but I he +mos' used to 'em, poor sawls." He shaded his keen old blue eyes, +and looked away across the water. His face kindled. "There be a +skule comin', and by my sawl 'tis mackerel they be drivin'." + +I watched eagerly, and saw the dark line rise and fall in the +trough of the sea, and, away behind, the stir and rush of tumbling +porpoises as they chased their prey. + +Again we changed our tack, and each taking an oar, pulled lustily +for the beach. + +"Please God her'll break inshore," said Daddy Whiddon; and he +shouted the news to the idle waiting men who hailed us. + +In a moment all was stir, for the fishing had been slack. Two +boats put out with the lithe brown seine. The dark line had +turned, but the school was still behind, churning the water in +clumsy haste; they were coming in. + +Then the brit broke in silvery leaping waves on the shelving beach. +The threefold hunt was over; the porpoises turned out to sea in +search of fresh quarry; and the seine, dragged by ready hands, came +slowly, stubbornly in with its quivering treasure of fish. They +had sought a haven and found none; the brit lay dying in flickering +iridescent heaps as the bare-legged babies of the village gathered +them up; and far away over the water I saw a single grey speck; it +was the following bird. + + +The curtain of river haze falls back; barge and bird are alike +gone, and the lamplighter has lit the first gas-lamp on the far +side of the bridge. Every night I watch him come, his progress +marked by the great yellow eyes that wake the dark. Sometimes he +walks quickly; sometimes he loiters on the bridge to chat, or stare +at the dark water; but he always comes, leaving his watchful +deterrent train behind him to police the night. + +Once Demeter in the black anguish of her desolation searched for +lost Persephone by the light of Hecate's torch; and searching all +in vain, spurned beneath her empty feet an earth barren of her +smile; froze with set brows the merry brooks and streams; and smote +forest, and plain, and fruitful field, with the breath of her last +despair, until even Iambe's laughing jest was still. And then when +the desolation was complete, across the wasted valley where the +starveling cattle scarcely longed to browse, came the dreadful +chariot--and Persephone. The day of the prisoner of Hades had +dawned; and as the sun flamed slowly up to light her thwarted eyes +the world sprang into blossom at her feet. + +We can never be too Pagan when we are truly Christian, and the old +myths are eternal truths held fast in the Church's net. Prometheus +fetched fire from Heaven, to be slain forever in the fetching; and +lo, a Greater than Prometheus came to fire the cresset of the +Cross. Demeter waits now patiently enough. Persephone waits, too, +in the faith of the sun she cannot see: and every lamp lit carries +on the crusade which has for its goal a sunless, moonless, city +whose light is the Light of the world. + + +"Lume e lassu, che visibile face +lo creatore a quella creatura, +che solo in lui vedere ha la sua pace." + + +Immediately outside my window is a lime tree--a little black +skeleton of abundant branches--in which sparrows congregate to +chirp and bicker. Farther away I have a glimpse of graceful +planes, children of moonlight and mist; their dainty robes, still +more or less unsullied, gleam ghostly in the gaslight athwart the +dark. They make a brave show even in winter with their feathery +branches and swinging tassels, whereas my little tree stands stark +and uncompromising, with its horde of sooty sparrows cockney to the +last tail feather, and a pathetic inability to look anything but +black. Rain comes with strong caressing fingers, and the branches +seem no whit the cleaner for her care; but then their glistening +blackness mirrors back the succeeding sunlight, as a muddy pavement +will sometimes lap our feet in a sea of gold. The little wet +sparrows are for the moment equally transformed, for the sun turns +their dun-coloured coats to a ruddy bronze, and cries Chrysostom as +it kisses each shiny beak. They are dumb Chrysostoms; but they +preach a golden gospel, for the sparrows are to London what the +rainbow was to eight saved souls out of a waste of waters--a +perpetual sign of the remembering mercies of God. + +Last night there was a sudden clatter of hoofs, a shout, and then +silence. A runaway cab-horse, a dark night, a wide crossing, and a +heavy burden: so death came to a poor woman. People from the +house went out to help; and I heard of her, the centre of an +unknowing curious crowd, as she lay bonnetless in the mud of the +road, her head on the kerb. A rude but painless death: the misery +lay in her life; for this woman--worn, white-haired, and wrinkled-- +had but fifty years to set against such a condition. The policeman +reported her respectable, hard-working, living apart from her +husband with a sister; but although they shared rooms, they "did +not speak," and the sister refused all responsibility; so the +parish buried the dead woman, and thus ended an uneventful tragedy. + +Was it her own fault? If so, the greater pathos. The lonely souls +that hold out timid hands to an unheeding world have their meed of +interior comfort even here, while the sons of consolation wait on +the thresh-hold for their footfall: but God help the soul that +bars its own door! It is kicking against the pricks of Divine +ordinance, the ordinance of a triune God; whether it be the dweller +in crowded street or tenement who is proud to say, "I keep myself +to myself," or Seneca writing in pitiful complacency, "Whenever I +have gone among men, I have returned home less of a man." Whatever +the next world holds in store, we are bidden in this to seek and +serve God in our fellow-men, and in the creatures of His making +whom He calls by name. + +It was once my privilege to know an old organ-grinder named +Gawdine. He was a hard swearer, a hard drinker, a hard liver, and +he fortified himself body and soul against the world: he even +drank alone, which is an evil sign. + +One day to Gawdine sober came a little dirty child, who clung to +his empty trouser leg--he had lost a limb years before--with a +persistent unintelligible request. He shook the little chap off +with a blow and a curse; and the child was trotting dismally away, +when it suddenly turned, ran back, and held up a dirty face for a +kiss. + +Two days later Gawdine fell under a passing dray which inflicted +terrible internal injuries on him. They patched him up in +hospital, and he went back to his organ-grinding, taking with him +two friends--a pain which fell suddenly upon him to rack and rend +with an anguish of crucifixion, and the memory of a child's +upturned face. Outwardly he was the same save that he changed the +tunes of his organ, out of long-hoarded savings, for the jigs and +reels which children hold dear, and stood patiently playing them in +child-crowded alleys, where pennies are not as plentiful as +elsewhere. + +He continued to drink; it did not come within his new code to stop, +since he could "carry his liquor well;" but he rarely, if ever, +swore. He told me this tale through the throes of his anguish as +he lay crouched on a mattress on the floor; and as the grip of the +pain took him he tore and bit at his hands until they were maimed +and bleeding, to keep the ready curses off his lips. + +He told the story, but he gave no reason, offered no explanation: +he has been dead now many a year, and thus would I write his +epitaph:- + +He saw the face of a little child and looked on God. + + + +CHAPTER III + + + +"Two began, in a low voice, 'Why, the fact is, you see, Miss, this +here ought to have been a RED rose-tree, and we put a white one in +by mistake.'" + +As I look round this room I feel sure Two, and Five, and Seven, +have all been at work on it, and made no mistakes, for round the +walls runs a frieze of squat standard rose-trees, red as red can +be, and just like those that Alice saw in the Queen's garden. In +between them are Chaucer's name-children, prim little daisies, +peering wideawake from green grass. This same grass has a history +which I have heard. In the original stencil for the frieze it was +purely conventional like the rest, and met in spikey curves round +each tree; the painter, however, who was doing the work, was a +lover of the fields; and feeling that such grass was a travesty, he +added on his own account dainty little tussocks, and softened the +hard line into a tufted carpet, the grass growing irregularly, bent +at will by the wind. + +The result from the standpoint of conventional art is indeed +disastrous; but my sympathy and gratitude are with the painter. I +see, as he saw, the far-reaching robe of living ineffable green, of +whose brilliance the eye never has too much, and in whose weft no +two threads are alike; and shrink as he did from the +conventionalising of that windswept glory. + +The sea has its crested waves of recognisable form; the river its +eddy and swirl and separate vortices; but the grass! The wind +bloweth where it listeth and the grass bows as the wind blows-- +"thou canst not tell whither it goeth." It takes no pattern, it +obeys no recognised law; it is like a beautiful creature of a +thousand wayward moods, and its voice is like nothing else in the +wide world. It bids you rest and bury your tired face in the green +coolness, and breathe of its breath and of the breath of the good +earth from which man was taken and to which he will one day return. +Then, if you lend your ear and are silent minded, you may hear +wondrous things of the deep places of the earth; of life in mineral +and stone as well as in pulsing sap; of a green world as the stars +saw it before man trod it under foot--of the emerald which has its +place with the rest in the City of God. + + +"What if earth +Be but the shadow of heaven, and things therein, +Each to each other like, more than on earth to thought?" + + +It is a natural part of civilisation's lust of re-arrangement that +we should be so ready to conventionalise the beauty of this world +into decorative patterns for our pilgrim tents. It is a phase, and +will melt into other phases; but it tends to the increase of +artificiality, and exists not only in art but in everything. It is +no new thing for jaded sentiment to crave the spur of the +unnatural, to prefer the clever imitation, to live in a Devachan +where the surroundings appear that which we would have them to be; +but it is an interesting record of the pulse of the present day +that 'An Englishwoman's Love Letters' should have taken society by +storm in the way it certainly has. + +It is a delightful book to leave about, with its vellum binding, +dainty ribbons, and the hallmark of a great publisher's name. But +when we seek within we find love with its thousand voices and +wayward moods, its shy graces and seemly reticences, love which has +its throne and robe of state as well as the garment of the beggar +maid, love which is before time was, which knew the world when the +stars took up their courses, presented to us in gushing +outpourings, the appropriate language of a woman's heart to the +boor she delights to honour. + +"It is woman who is the glory of man," says the author of 'The +House of Wisdom and Love,' "Regina mundi, greater, because so far +the less; and man is her head, but only as he serves his queen." +Set this sober aphorism against the school girl love-making which +kisses a man's feet and gaily refuses him the barren honour of +having loved her first. + +There is scant need for the apologia which precedes the letters; a +few pages dispels the fear that we are prying into another's soul. +As for the authorship, there is a woman's influence, an artist's +poorly concealed bias in the foreign letters; and for the rest a +man's blunders--so much easier to see in another than to avoid +oneself--writ large from cover to cover. King Cophetua, who sends +"profoundly grateful remembrances," has most surely written the +letters he would wish to receive. + +"Mrs Meynell!" cries one reviewer, triumphantly. Nay, the saints +be good to us, what has Mrs Meynell in common with the +"Englishwoman's" language, style, or most unconvincing passion? +Men can write as from a woman's heart when they are minded to do so +in desperate earnestness--there is Clarissa Harlowe and Stevenson's +Kirstie, and many more to prove it; but when a man writes as the +author of the "Love Letters" writes, I feel, as did the painter of +the frieze, that pattern-making has gone too far and included that +which, like the grass, should be spared such a convention. + +"I quite agree with you," said the Duchess, "and the moral of that +is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or, if you'd like to put it +more simply--'never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what +it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was +not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to +be otherwise.'" And so by way of the Queen's garden I come back to +my room again. + +My heart's affections are still centred on my old attic, with +boarded floor and white-washed walls, where the sun blazoned a +frieze of red and gold until he travelled too far towards the +north, the moon streamed in to paint the trees in inky wavering +shadows, and the stars flashed their glory to me across the years. +But now sun and moon greet me only indirectly, and under the red +roses hang pictures, some of them the dear companions of my days. +Opposite me is the Arundel print of the Presentation, painted by +the gentle "Brother of the Angels." Priest Simeon, a stately +figure in green and gold, great with prophecy, gazes adoringly at +the Bambino he holds with fatherly care. Our Lady, in robe of red +and veil of shadowed purple, is instinct with light despite the +sombre colouring, as she stretches out hungering, awe-struck hands +for her soul's delight. St Joseph, dignified guardian and +servitor, stands behind, holding the Sacrifice of the Poor to +redeem the First-begotten. + +St Peter Martyr and the Dominican nun, gazing in rapt contemplation +at the scene, are not one whit surprised to find themselves in the +presence of eternal mysteries. In the Entombment, which hangs on +the opposite wall, St Dominic comes round the corner full of +grievous amaze and tenderest sympathy, but with no sense of shock +or intrusion, for was he not "famigliar di Cristo"? And so he +takes it all in; the stone bed empty and waiting; the Beloved +cradled for the last time on His mother's knees to be washed, +lapped round, and laid to rest as if He were again the Babe of +Bethlehem. He sees the Magdalen anointing the Sacred Feet; Blessed +John caring for the living and the Dead; and he, Dominic--hound of +the Lord--having his real, living share in the anguish and hope, +the bedding of the dearest Dead, who did but leave this earth that +He might manifest Himself more completely. + +Underneath, with a leap across the centuries, is Rossetti's +picture; Dante this time the onlooker, Beatrice, in her pale +beauty, the death-kissed one. The same idea under different +representations; the one conceived in childlike simplicity, the +other recalling, even in the photograph, its wealth of colour and +imagining; the one a world-wide ideal, the other an individual +expression of it. + +Beatrice was to Dante the inclusion of belief. She was more to him +than he himself knew, far more to him after her death than before. +And, therefore, the analogy between the pictures has at core a +common reality. "It is expedient for you that I go away," is +constantly being said to us as we cling earthlike to the outward +expression, rather than to the inward manifestation--and blessed +are those who hear and understand, for it is spoken only to such as +have been with Him from the beginning. The eternal mysteries come +into time for us individually under widely differing forms. The +tiny child mothers its doll, croons to it, spends herself upon it, +why she cannot tell you; and we who are here in our extreme youth, +never to be men and women grown in this world, nurse our ideal, +exchange it, refashion it, call it by many names; and at last in +here or hereafter we find in its naked truth the Child in the +manger, even as the Wise Men found Him when they came from the East +to seek a great King. There is but one necessary condition of this +finding; we must follow the particular manifestation of light given +us, never resting until it rests--over the place of the Child. And +there is but one insurmountable hindrance, the extinction of or +drawing back from the light truly apprehended by us. We forget +this, and judge other men by the light of our own soul. + +I think the old bishop must have understood it. He is my friend of +friends as he lies opposite my window in his alabaster sleep, clad +in pontifical robes, with unshod feet, a little island of white +peace in a many-coloured marble sea. The faithful sculptor has +given every line and wrinkle, the heavy eyelids and sunken face of +tired old age, but withal the smile of a contented child. + +I do not even know my bishop's name, only that the work is of the +thirteenth century; but he is good to company with through the day, +for he has known darkness and light and the minds of many men; most +surely, too, he has known that God fulfils Himself in strange ways, +so with the shadow of his feet upon the polished floor he rests in +peace. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + + +On Sunday my little tree was limned in white and the sparrows were +craving shelter at my window from the blizzard. Now the mild thin +air brings a breath of spring in its wake and the daffodils in the +garden wait the kisses of the sun. Hand-in-hand with memory I slip +away down the years, and remember a day when I awoke at earliest +dawn, for across my sleep I had heard the lusty golden-throated +trumpeters heralding the spring. + +The air was sharp-set; a delicate rime frosted roof and road; the +sea lay hazy and still like a great pearl. Then as the sky stirred +with flush upon flush of warm rosy light, it passed from misty +pearl to opal with heart of flame, from opal to gleaming sapphire. +The earth called, the fields called, the river called--that pied +piper to whose music a man cannot stop his ears. It was with me as +with the Canterbury pilgrims:- + + +"So priketh hem nature in hir corages; +Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages." + + +Half an hour later I was away by the early train that carries the +branch mails and a few workmen, and was delivered at the little +wayside station with the letters. The kind air went singing past +as I swung along the reverberating road between the high tree- +crowned banks which we call hedges in merry Devon, with all the +world to myself and the Brethren. A great blackbird flew out with +a loud "chook, chook," and the red of the haw on his yellow bill. +A robin trilled from a low rose-bush; two wrens searched diligently +on a fallen tree for breakfast, quite unconcerned when I rested a +moment beside them; and a shrewmouse slipped across the road +followed directly by its mate. March violets bloomed under the +sheltered hedge with here and there a pale primrose; a frosted +bramble spray still held its autumn tints clinging to the semblance +of the past; and great branches of snowy blackthorn broke the +barren hedgeway as if spring made a mock of winter's snows. + +Light of heart and foot with the new wine of the year I sped on +again, stray daffodils lighting the wayside, until I heard the +voice of the stream and reached the field gate which leads to the +lower meadows. There before me lay spring's pageant; green pennons +waving, dainty maids curtseying, and a host of joyous yellow +trumpeters proclaiming 'Victory' to an awakened earth. They range +in serried ranks right down to the river, so that a man must walk +warily to reach the water's edge where they stand gazing down at +themselves in fairest semblance like their most tragic progenitor, +and, rising from the bright grass in their thousands, stretch away +until they melt in a golden cloud at the far end of the misty mead. +Through the field gate and across the road I see them, starring the +steep earth bank that leads to the upper copse, gleaming like pale +flames against the dark tree-boles. There they have but frail +tenure; here, in the meadows, they reign supreme. + +At the upper end of the field the river provides yet closer +sanctuary for these children of the spring. Held in its embracing +arms lies an island long and narrow, some thirty feet by twelve, a +veritable untrod Eldorado, glorious in gold from end to end, a +fringe of reeds by the water's edge, and save for that--daffodils. +A great oak stands at the meadow's neck, an oak with gnarled and +wandering roots where a man may rest, for it is bare of daffodils +save for a group of three, and a solitary one apart growing close +to the old tree's side. I sat down by my lonely little sister, +blue sky overhead, green grass at my feet decked, like the pastures +of the Blessed, in glorious sheen; a sea of triumphant, golden +heads tossing blithely back as the wind swept down to play with +them at his pleasure. + +It was all mine to have and to hold without severing a single +slender stem or harbouring a thought of covetousness; mine, as the +whole earth was mine, to appropriate to myself without the burden +and bane of worldly possession. "Thou sayest that I am--a King," +said the Lord before Pilate, and "My kingdom is not of this world." +We who are made kings after His likeness possess all things, not +after this world's fashion but in proportion to our poverty; and +when we cease to toil and spin, are arrayed as the lilies, in a +glory transcending Solomon's. Bride Poverty--she who climbed the +Cross with Christ--stretched out eager hands to free us from our +chains, but we flee from her, and lay up treasure against her +importunity, while Amytas on his seaweed bed weeps tears of pure +pity for crave-mouth Caesar of great possessions. + +Presently another of spring's lovers cried across the water +"Cuckoo, cuckoo," and the voice of the stream sang joyously in +unison. It is free from burden, this merry little river, and +neither weir nor mill bars its quick way to the sea as it completes +the eternal circle, lavishing gifts of coolness and refreshment on +the children of the meadows. + +It has its birth on the great lone moor, cradled in a wonderful +peat-smelling bog, with a many-hued coverlet of soft mosses--pale +gold, orange, emerald, tawny, olive and white, with the red stain +of sun-dew and tufted cotton-grass. Under the old grey rocks which +watch it rise, yellow-eyed tormantil stars the turf, and bids +"Godspeed" to the little child of earth and sky. Thus the journey +begins; and with ever-increasing strength the stream carves a way +through the dear brown peat, wears a fresh wrinkle on the patient +stones, and patters merrily under a clapper bridge which spanned +its breadth when the mistletoe reigned and Bottor, the grim rock +idol, exacted the toll of human life that made him great. On and +on goes the stream, for it may not stay; leaving of its freshness +with the great osmunda that stretches eager roots towards the +running water; flowing awhile with a brother stream, to part again +east and west as each takes up his separate burden of service--my +friend to cherish the lower meadows in their flowery joyance--and +so by the great sea-gate back to sky and earth again. + +The river of God is full of water. The streets of the City are +pure gold. Verily, here also having nothing we possess all things. + + +The air was keen and still as I walked back in the early evening, +and a daffodil light was in the sky as if Heaven mirrored back +earth's radiance. Near the station some children flitted past, +like little white miller moths homing through the dusk. As I +climbed the hill the moon rode high in a golden field--it was +daffodils to the last. + + + +CHAPTER V + + + +The seagulls from the upper reaches pass down the river in sober +steady flight seeking the open sea. I shall miss the swoop and +circle of silver wings in the sunlight and the plaintive call which +sounds so strangely away from rock and shore, but it is good to +know that they have gone from mudbank and murky town back to the +free airs of their inheritance, to the shadow of sun-swept cliffs +and the curling crest of the wind-beaten waves, to brood again over +the great ocean of a world's tears. + +My little tree is gemmed with buds, shy, immature, but full of +promise. The sparrows busied with nest-building in the +neighbouring pipes and gutters use it for a vantage ground, and +crowd there in numbers, each little beak sealed with long golden +straw or downy feather. + +The river is heavy with hay barges, the last fruits of winter's +storehouse; the lengthening days slowly and steadily oust the dark; +the air is loud with a growing clamour of life: spring is not only +proclaimed, but on this Feast she is crowned, and despite the +warring wind the days bring their meed of sunshine. We stand for a +moment at the meeting of the ways, the handclasp of Winter and +Spring, of Sleep and Wakening, of Life and Death; and there is +between them not even the thin line which Rabbi Jochanan on his +death-bed beheld as all that divided hell from heaven. + +"Sphaera cujus centrum ubique, circumferentia nullibus," was said +of Mercury, that messenger of the gods who marshalled reluctant +spirits to the Underworld; and for Mercury we may write Life with +Death as its great sacrament of brotherhood and release, to be +dreaded only as we dread to partake unworthily of great benefits. +Like all sacraments it has its rightful time and due solemnities; +the horror and sin of suicide lie in the presumption of free will, +the forestalling of a gift,--the sin of Eve in Paradise, who took +that which might only be given at the hand of the Lord. It has too +its physical pains, but they are those of a woman in travail, and +we remember them no more for joy that a child-man is born into the +world naked and not ashamed: beholding ourselves as we are we +shall see also the leaves of the Tree of Life set for the healing +of the nations. + +We are slowly, very slowly, abandoning our belief in sudden and +violent transitions for a surer and fuller acceptance of the +doctrine of evolution; but most of us still draw a sharp line of +demarcation between this world and the next, and expect a radical +change in ourselves and our surroundings, a break in the chain of +continuity entirely contrary to the teaching of nature and +experience. In the same way we cling to the specious untruth that +we can begin over and over again in this world, forgetting that +while our sorrow and repentance bring sacramental gifts of grace +and strength, God Himself cannot, by His own limitation, rewrite +the Past. We are in our sorrow that which we have made ourselves +in our sin; our temptations are there as well as the way of escape. +We are in the image of God. We create our world, our undying +selves, our heaven, or our hell. "Qui creavit te sine te non +salvabit te sine te." It is stupendous, magnificent, and most +appalling. A man does not change as he crosses the threshold of +the larger room. His personality remains the same, although the +expression of it may be altered. Here we have material bodies in a +material world--there, perhaps, ether bodies in an ether world. +There is no indecency in reasonable speculation and curiosity about +the life to come. One end of the thread is between our fingers, +but we are haunted for the most part by the snap of Atropos' +shears. + +Socrates faced death with the magnificent calm bred of dignified +familiarity. He had built for himself a desired heaven of colour, +light, and precious stones--the philosophic formula of those who +set the spiritual above the material, and worship truth in the +beauty of holiness. He is not troubled by doubts or regrets, for +the path of the just lies plain before his face. He forbids +mourning and lamentations as out of place, obeys minutely and +cheerily the directions of his executioner, and passes with +unaffected dignity to the apprehension of that larger truth for +which he had constantly prepared himself. His friends may bury him +provided they will remember they are not burying Socrates; and that +all things may be done decently and in order, a cock must go to +AEsculapius. + +Long before, in the days of the Captivity, there lived in godless, +blood-shedding Nineveh an exiled Jew whose father had fallen from +the faith. He was a simple man, child-like and direct; living the +careful, kindly life of an orthodox Jew, suffering many +persecutions for conscience' sake, and in constant danger of death. +He narrates the story of his life and of the blindness which fell +on him, with gentle placidity, and checks the exuberance of his +more emotional wife with the assurance of untroubled faith. +Finally, when his pious expectations are fulfilled, his sight +restored, and his son prosperously established beside him, he +breaks into a prayer of rejoicing which reveals the secret of his +confident content. He made use of two great faculties: the sense +of proportion, which enabled him to apprise life and its accidents +justly, and the gift of in-seeing, which led Socrates after him, +and Blessed John in lonely exile on Patmos, to look through the +things temporal to the hidden meanings of eternity. + +"Let my soul bless God the great King," he cries; and looks away +past the present distress; past the Restoration which was to end in +fresh scattering and confusion; past the dream of gold, and +porphyry, and marble defaced by the eagles and emblems of the +conqueror; until his eyes are held by the Jerusalem of God, "built +up with sapphires, and emeralds, and precious stones," with +battlements of pure gold, and the cry of 'Alleluia' in her streets. + +Many years later, when he was very aged, he called his son to him +and gave him as heritage his own simple rule of life, adding but +one request: "Keep thou the law and the commandments, and shew +thyself merciful and just, that it may go well with thee. . . . +Consider what alms doeth, and how righteousness doth deliver. . . . +And bury me decently, and thy mother with me." Having so said, he +went his way quietly and contentedly to the Jerusalem of his heart. + +It is the simple note of familiarity that is wanting in us; that by +which we link world with world. Once, years ago, I sat by the +bedside of a dying man in a wretched garret in the East End. He +was entirely ignorant, entirely quiescent, and entirely +uninterested. The minister of a neighbouring chapel came to see +him and spoke to him at some length of the need for repentance and +the joys of heaven. After he had gone my friend lay staring +restlessly at the mass of decrepit broken chimney pots which made +his horizon. At last he spoke, and there was a new note in his +voice:- + +"Ee said as 'ow there were golding streets in them parts. I ain't +no ways particler wot they're made of, but it'll feel natral like +if there's chimleys too." + +The sun stretched a sudden finger and painted the chimney pots red +and gold against the smoke-dimmed sky, and with his face alight +with surprised relief my friend died. + +We are one with the earth, one in sin, one in redemption. It is +the fringe of the garment of God. "If I may but touch the hem," +said a certain woman. + +On the great Death-day which shadows the early spring with a shadow +of which it may be said Umbra Dei est Lux, the earth brought gifts +of grief, the fruit of the curse, barren thorns, hollow reed, and +the wood of the cross; the sea made offering of Tyrian purple; the +sky veiled her face in great darkness, while the nation of priests +crucified for the last time their Paschal lamb. "I will hear, +saith the Lord; I will hear the heavens, and they shall hear the +earth, and the earth shall hear the corn and wine and oil, and they +shall hear Jezreel, and I will sow her unto me in the earth; and I +will have mercy upon her that had not obtained mercy, and I will +say unto them which were not my people, 'Thou art my people,' and +they shall say 'Thou art my God.'" + +The second Adam stood in the garden with quickening feet, and all +the earth pulsed and sang for joy of the new hope and the new life +quickening within her, to be hers through the pains of travail, the +pangs of dissolution. The Tree of Life bears Bread and Wine--food +of the wayfaring man. The day of divisions is past, the day of +unity has dawned. One has risen from the dead, and in the Valley +of Achor stands wide the Door of Hope--the Sacrament of Death. + + +Scio Domine, et vere scio . . . quia non sum dignus accedere ad +tantum mysterium propter nimia peccata mea et infinitas +negligentias meas. Sed scio . . . quia tu potes me facere dignum. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + + +"Anytus and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot hurt me," said +Socrates; and Governor Sancho, with all the itch of newly-acquired +authority, could not make the young weaver of steel-heads for +lances sleep in prison. In the Vision of Er the souls passed +straight forward under the throne of necessity, and out into the +plains of forgetfulness, where they must severally drink of the +river of unmindfulness whose waters cannot be held in any vessel. +The throne, the plain, and the river are still here, but in the +distance rise the great lone heavenward hills, and the wise among +us no longer ask of the gods Lethe, but rather remembrance. +Necessity can set me helpless on my back, but she cannot keep me +there; nor can four walls limit my vision. I pass out from under +her throne into the garden of God a free man, to my ultimate +beatitude or my exceeding shame. All day long this world lies open +to me; ay, and other worlds also, if I will but have it so; and +when night comes I pass into the kingdom and power of the dark. + +I lie through the long hours and watch my bridge, which is set with +lights across the gloom; watch the traffic which is for me but so +many passing lamps telling their tale by varying height and +brightness. I hear under my window the sprint of over-tired +horses, the rattle of uncertain wheels as the street-sellers hasten +south; the jangle of cab bells as the theatre-goers take their +homeward way; the gruff altercation of weary men, the unmelodious +song and clamorous laugh of women whose merriment is wearier still. +Then comes a time of stillness when the light in the sky waxes and +wanes, when the cloud-drifts obscure the stars, and I gaze out into +blackness set with watching eyes. No sound comes from without but +the voice of the night-wind and the cry of the hour. The clock on +the mantelpiece ticks imperatively, for a check has fallen on the +familiarity which breeds a disregard of common things, and a reason +has to be sought for each sound which claims a hearing. The pause +is wonderful while it lasts, but it is not for long. The working +world awakes, the poorer brethren take up the burden of service; +the dawn lights the sky; remembrance cries an end to forgetting. + +Sometimes in the country on a night in early summer you may shut +the cottage door to step out into an immense darkness which palls +heaven and earth. Going forward into the embrace of the great +gloom, you are as a babe swaddled by the hands of night into +helpless quiescence. Your feet tread an unseen path, your hands +grasp at a void, or shrink from the contact they cannot realise; +your eyes are holden; your voice would die in your throat did you +seek to rend the veil of that impenetrable silence. + +Shut in by the intangible dark, we are brought up against those +worlds within worlds blotted out by our concrete daily life. The +working of the great microcosm at which we peer dimly through the +little window of science; the wonderful, breathing earth; the +pulsing, throbbing sap; the growing fragrance shut in the calyx of +to-morrow's flower; the heart-beat of a sleeping world that we +dream that we know; and around, above, and interpenetrating all, +the world of dreams, of angels and of spirits. + +It was this world which Jacob saw on the first night of his exile, +and again when he wrestled in Peniel until the break of day. It +was this world which Elisha saw with open eyes; which Job knew when +darkness fell on him; which Ezekiel gazed into from his place among +the captives; which Daniel beheld as he stood alone by the great +river, the river Hiddekel. + +For the moment we have left behind the realm of question and +explanation, of power over matter and the exercise of bodily +faculties; and passed into darkness alight with visions we cannot +see, into silence alive with voices we cannot hear. Like helpless +men we set our all on the one thing left us, and lift up our +hearts, knowing that we are but a mere speck among a myriad worlds, +yet greater than the sum of them; having our roots in the dark +places of the earth, but our branches in the sweet airs of heaven. + +It is the material counterpart of the 'Night of the Soul.' We have +left our house and set forth in the darkness which paralyses those +faculties that make us men in the world of men. But surely the +great mystics, with all their insight and heavenly love, fell short +when they sought freedom in complete separateness from creation +instead of in perfect unity with it. The Greeks knew better when +they flung Ariadne's crown among the stars, and wrote Demeter's +grief on a barren earth, and Persephone's joy in the fruitful +field. For the earth is gathered up in man; he is the whole which +is greater than the sum of its parts. Standing in the image of +God, and clothed in the garment of God, he lifts up priestly hands +and presents the sacrifice of redeemed earth before the throne of +the All-Father. "Dust and ashes and a house of devils," he cries; +and there comes back for answer, "Rex concupiscet decorem tuam." + +The Angel of Death has broad wings of silence and mystery with +which he shadows the valley where we need fear no evil, and where +the voice which speaks to us is as the "voice of doves, tabering +upon their breasts." It is a place of healing and preparation, of +peace and refreshing after the sharply-defined outlines of a garish +day. Walking there we learn to use those natural faculties of the +soul which are hampered by the familiarity of bodily progress, to +apprehend the truths which we have intellectually accepted. It is +the place of secrets where the humility which embraces all +attainable knowledge cries "I know not"; and while we proclaim from +the house-tops that which we have learnt, the manner of our +learning lies hid for each one of us in the sanctuary of our souls. + +The Egyptians, in their ancient wisdom, act in the desert a great +androsphinx, image of mystery and silence, staring from under level +brows across the arid sands of the sea-way. The Greeks borrowed +and debased the image, turning the inscrutable into a semi-woman +who asked a foolish riddle, and hurled herself down in petulant +pride when OEdipus answered aright. So we, marring the office of +silence, question its mystery; thwart ourselves with riddles of our +own suggesting; and turn away, leaving our offering but half +consumed on the altar of the unknown god. It was not the theft of +fire that brought the vengeance of heaven upon Prometheus, but the +mocking sacrifice. Orpheus lost Eurydice because he must see her +face before the appointed time. Persephone ate of the pomegranate +and hungered in gloom for the day of light which should have been +endless. + +The universe is full of miracle and mystery; the darkness and +silence are set for a sign we dare not despise. The pall of night +lifts, leaving us engulphed in the light of immensity under a +tossing heaven of stars. The dawn breaks, but it does not surprise +us, for we have watched from the valley and seen the pale twilight. +Through the wondrous Sabbath of faithful souls, the long day of +rosemary and rue, the light brightens in the East; and we pass on +towards it with quiet feet and opening eyes, bearing with us all of +the redeemed earth that we have made our own, until we are +fulfilled in the sunrise of the great Easter Day, and the peoples +come from north and south and east and west to the City which lieth +foursquare--the Beatific Vision of God. + + +Vere Ierusalem est illa civitas +Cuius pax iugis et summa iucunditas; +Ubi non praevenit rem desiderium, +Nec desiderio minus est praemium. + + + +AT THE WHITE GATE + + + +CHAPTER I + + + +A great joy has come to me; one of those unexpected gifts which +life loves to bestow after we have learnt to loose our grip of her. +I am back in my own place very near my road--the white gate lies +within my distant vision; near the lean grey Downs which keep watch +and ward between the country and the sea; very near, nay, in the +lap of Mother Earth, for as I write I am lying on a green carpet, +powdered yellow and white with the sun's own flowers; overhead a +great sycamore where the bees toil and sing; and sighing shimmering +poplars golden grey against the blue. The day of Persephone has +dawned for me, and I, set free like Demeter's child, gladden my +eyes with this foretaste of coming radiance, and rest my tired +sense with the scent and sound of home. Away down the meadow I +hear the early scythe song, and the warm air is fragrant with the +fallen grass. It has its own message for me as I lie here, I who +have obtained yet one more mercy, and the burden of it is life, not +death. + +I remember when, taking a grace from my road, I helped to mow +Farmer Marler's ten-acre field, rich in ripe upstanding grass. The +mechanism of the ancient reaper had given way under the strain of +the home meadows, and if this crop was to be saved it must be by +hand. I have kept the record of those days of joyous labour under +a June sky. Men were hard to get in our village; old Dodden, who +was over seventy, volunteered his services--he had done yeoman work +with the scythe in his youth--and two of the farm hands with their +master completed our strength. + +We took our places under a five o'clock morning sky, and the larks +cried down to us as we stood knee-deep in the fragrant dew-steeped +grass, each man with his gleaming scythe poised ready for its +sweeping swing. Old Dodden led by right of age and ripe +experience; bent like a sickle, brown and dry as a nut, his face a +tracery of innumerable wrinkles, he has never ailed a day, and the +cunning of his craft was still with him. At first we worked +stiffly, unreadily, but soon the monotonous motion possessed us +with its insistent rhythm, and the grass bowed to each sibilant +swish and fell in sweet-smelling swathes at our feet. Now and then +a startled rabbit scurried through the miniature forest to vanish +with white flick of tail in the tangled hedge; here and there a +mother lark was discovered sitting motionless, immovable upon her +little brood; but save for these infrequent incidents we paced +steadily on with no speech save the cry of the hone on the steel +and the swish of the falling swathes. The sun rose high in the +heaven and burnt on bent neck and bare and aching arms, the blood +beat and drummed in my veins with the unwonted posture and +exercise; I worked as a man who sees and hears in a mist. Once, as +I paused to whet my scythe, my eye caught the line of the +untroubled hills strong and still in the broad sunshine; then to +work again in the labouring, fertile valley. + +Rest time came, and wiping the sweat from brow and blade we sought +the welcome shadow of the hedge and the cool sweet oatmeal water +with which the wise reaper quenches his thirst. Farmer Marler +hastened off to see with master-eye that all went well elsewhere; +the farm men slept tranquilly, stretched at full length, clasped +hands for pillow; and old Dodden, sitting with crooked fingers +interlaced to check their trembling betrayal of old age, told how +in his youth he had "swep" a four-acre field single-handed in three +days--an almost impossible feat--and of the first reaping machine +in these parts, and how it brought, to his thinking, the ruin of +agricultural morals with it. "'Tis again nature," he said, "the +Lard gave us the land an' the seed, but 'Ee said that a man should +sweat. Where's the sweat drivin' round wi' two horses cuttin' the +straw down an' gatherin' it again, wi' scarce a hand's turn i' the +day's work?" + +Old Dodden's high-pitched quavering voice rose and fell, mournful +as he surveyed the present, vehement as he recorded the heroic +past. He spoke of the rural exodus and shook his head mournfully. +"We old 'uns were content wi' earth and the open sky like our +feythers before us, but wi' the children 'tis first machines to +save doin' a hand's turn o' honest work, an' then land an' sky +ain't big enough seemin'ly, nor grand enough; it must be town an' a +paved street, an' they sweat their lives out atwixt four walls an' +call it seein' life--'tis death an' worse comes to the most of 'em. +Ay, 'tis better to stay by the land, as the Lard said, till time +comes to lie under it." I looked away across the field where the +hot air throbbed and quivered, and the fallen grass, robbed already +of its freshness, lay prone at the feet of its upstanding fellows. +It is quite useless to argue with old Dodden; he only shakes his +head and says firmly, "An old man, seventy-five come Martinmass +knows more o' life than a young chap, stands ter reason"; besides, +his epitome of the town life he knows nothing of was a just one as +far as it went; and his own son is the sweeper of a Holborn +crossing, and many other things that he should not be; but that is +the parson's secret and mine. + +We took rank again and swept steadily on through the hot still +hours into the evening shadows, until the sinking sun set a Gloria +to the psalm of another working day. Only a third of the field lay +mown, for we were not skilled labourers to cut our acre a day; I +saw it again that night under the moonlight and the starlight, +wrapped in a shroud of summer's mist. + +The women joined us on the third day to begin haymaking, and the +air was fragrant of tossed and sun-dried grass. One of them walked +apart from the rest, without interest or freedom of movement; her +face, sealed and impassive, was aged beyond the vigour of her +years. I knew the woman by sight, and her history by hearsay. We +have a code of morals here--not indeed peculiar to this place or +people--that a wedding is 'respectable' if it precedes child-birth +by a bare month, tolerable, and to be recognised, should it succeed +the same by less than a year (provided the pair are not living in +the same village); but the child that has never been 'fathered' and +the wife without a ring are 'anathema,' and such in one was +Elizabeth Banks. She went away a maid and came back a year ago +with a child and without a name. Her mother was dead, her father +and the village would have none of her: the homing instinct is +very strong, or she would scarcely have returned, knowing the +traditions of the place. Old Dodden, seeing her, grumbled to me in +the rest-time.--"Can't think what the farmer wants wi' Lizzie Banks +in 'is field." "She must live," I said, "and by all showing her +life is a hard one." "She 'ad the makin' of 'er bed," he went on, +obstinately. "What for do she bring her disgrace home, wi' a +fatherless brat for all folks to see? We don't want them sort in +our village. The Lord's hand is heavy, an' a brat's a curse that +cannot be hid." + +When tea-time came I crossed the field to look for a missing hone, +and saw Elizabeth Banks far from the other women, busied with a +bundle under the hedge. I passed close on my search, and lo! the +bundle was a little boy. He lay smiling and stretching, fighting +the air with his small pink fists, while the wind played with his +curls. "A curse that cannot be hid," old Dodden had said. The +mother knelt a moment, devouring him with her eyes, then snatched +him to her with aching greed and covered him with kisses. I saw +the poor, plain face illumined, transfigured, alive with a mother's +love, and remembered how the word came once to a Hebrew prophet:- + + +Say unto your brethren Ammi, and to your sisters Ruhamah. + + +The evening sky was clouding fast, the sound of rain was in the +air; Farmer Marler shook his head as he looked at the grass lying +in ordered rows. I was the last to leave, and as I lingered at the +gate drinking in the scent of the field and the cool of the coming +rain, the first drops fell on my upturned face and kissed the poor +dry swathes at my feet, and I was glad. + +David, child of the fields and the sheepfolds, his kingship laid +aside, sees through the parted curtain of the years the advent of +his greater Son, and cries in his psalm of the hilltops, his last +prophetic prayer:- + + +He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass. + + +Even so He came, and shall still come. Three days ago the field, +in its pageant of fresh beauty, with shimmering blades and tossing +banners, greeted sun and shower alike with joy for the furtherance +of its life and purpose; now, laid low, it hears the young grass +whisper the splendour of its coming green; and the poor swathes are +glad at the telling, but full of grief for their own apparent +failure. Then in great pity comes the rain, the rain of summer, +gentle, refreshing, penetrating, and the swathes are comforted, for +they know that standing to greet or prostrate to suffer, the +consolations of the former and the latter rain are still their own, +with tender touch and cool caress. Then, once more parched by the +sun, they are borne away to the new service their apparent failure +has fitted them for; and perhaps as they wait in the dark for the +unknown that is still to come they hear sometimes the call of the +distant rain, and at the sound the dry sap stirs afresh--they are +not forgotten and can wait. + +"Say unto your sisters Ruhamah," cries the prophet. + +"He shall come down like rain on the mown grass," sang the poet of +the sheepfolds. + +"My ways are not your ways, saith the Lord." + + +I remember how I went home along the damp sweet-scented lanes +through the grey mist of the rain, thinking of the mown field and +Elizabeth Banks and many, many more; and that night, when the sky +had cleared and the nightingale sang, I looked out at the moon +riding at anchor, a silver boat in a still blue sea ablaze with the +headlights of the stars, and the saying of the herdsman of Tekoa +came to me--as it has come oftentimes since:- + + +Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the +shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with +night; that calleth for the waters of the sea and poureth them out +upon the face of earth; the Lord is His name. + + + +CHAPTER II + + + +This garden is an epitome of peace; sun and wind, rain, flowers, +and birds gather me into the blessedness of their active harmony. +The world holds no wish for me, now that I have come home to die +with my own people, for verify I think that the sap of grass and +trees must run in my veins, so steady is their pull upon my heart- +strings. London claimed all my philosophy, but the country gives +all, and asks of me only the warm receptivity of a child in its +mother's arms. + +When I lie in my cool light room on the garden level, I look across +the bright grass--il verde smalto--to a great red rose bush in +lavish disarray against the dark cypress. Near by, amid a tangle +of many-hued corn-flowers I see the promise of coming lilies, the +sudden crimson of a solitary paeony; and in lowlier state against +the poor parched earth glow the golden cups of the eschseholtzias. +Beyond the low hedge lies pasture bright with buttercups, where the +cattle feed. Farther off, where the scythe has been busy, are +sheep, clean and shorn, with merry, well-grown lambs; and in the +farthest field I can see the great horses moving in slow steady +pace as the farmer turns his furrow. + +The birds are noisy comrades and old friends, from the lark which +chants the dew-steeped morning, to the nightingale that breaks the +silence of the most wonderful nights. I hear the wisdom of the +rooks in the great elms; the lifting lilt of the linnet, and the +robin's quaint little summer song. The starlings chatter +ceaselessly, their queer strident voices harsh against the +melodious gossip of the other birds; the martins shrill softly as +they swoop to and fro busied with their nesting under the caves; +thrush and blackbird vie in friendly rivalry like the Meister- +singer of old; sometimes I hear the drawling cry of a peacock +strayed from the great house, or the laugh of the woodpecker; and +at night the hunting note of the owl reaches me as he sweeps by in +search of prey. + +To-day I am out again; and the great sycamore showers honey and +flowers on me as I lie beneath it. Sometimes a bee falls like an +over-ripe fruit, and waits awhile to clean his pollen-coated legs +ere he flies home to discharge his burden. He is too busy to be +friendly, but his great velvety cousin is much more sociable, and +stays for a gentle rub between his noisy shimmering wings, and a +nap in the hollow of my hand, for he is an idle friendly soul with +plenty of time at his own disposal and no responsibilities. +Looking across I can watch the martins at work; they have a +starling and a sparrow for near neighbours in the wooden gutter. +One nest is already complete all but the coping, the other two are +a-building: I wonder whether I or they will be first to go south +through the mist. + +This great tree is a world in itself, and the denizens appear full +of curiosity as to the Gulliver who has taken up his abode beneath +it. Pale green caterpillars and spiders of all sizes come spinning +down to visit me, and have to be persuaded with infinite difficulty +to ascend their threads again. There are flies with beautiful +iridescent wings, beetles of all shapes, some of them like tiny +jewels in the sunlight. Their nomenclature is a sealed book to me; +of their life and habits I know nothing; yet this is but a little +corner of the cosmos I am leaving, and I feel not so much desire +for the beauty to come, as a great longing to open my eyes a little +wider during the time which remains to me in this beautiful world +of God's making, where each moment tells its own tale of active, +progressive life in which there is no undoing. Nature knows naught +of the web of Penelope, that acme of anxious pathetic waiting, but +goes steadily on in ever widening circle towards the fulfilment of +the mystery of God. + +There are, I take it, two master-keys to the secrets of the +universe, viewed sub specie aeternitatis, the Incarnation of God, +and the Personality of Man; with these it is true for us as for the +pantheistic little man of contemptible speech, that "all things are +ours," yea, even unto the third heaven. + +I have lost my voracious appetite for books; their language is less +plain than scent and song and the wind in the trees; and for me the +clue to the next world lies in the wisdom of earth rather than in +the learning of men. "Libera me ab fuscina Hophni," prayed the +good Bishop fearful of religious greed. I know too much, not too +little; it is realisation that I lack, wherefore I desire these +last days to confirm in myself the sustaining goodness of God, the +love which is our continuing city, the New Jerusalem whose length, +breadth, and height are all one. It is a time of exceeding peace. +There is a place waiting for me under the firs in the quiet +churchyard; thanks to my poverty I have no worldly anxieties or +personal dispositions; and I am rich in friends, many of them +unknown to me, who lavishly supply my needs and make it ideal to +live on the charity of one's fellow-men. I am most gladly in debt +to all the world; and to Earth, my mother, for her great beauty. + +I can never remember the time when I did not love her, this mother +of mine with her wonderful garments and ordered loveliness, her +tender care and patient bearing of man's burden. In the earliest +days of my lonely childhood I used to lie chin on hand amid the +milkmaids, red sorrel, and heavy spear-grass listening to her many +voices, and above all to the voice of the little brook which ran +through the meadows where I used to play: I think it has run +through my whole life also, to lose itself at last, not in the +great sea but in the river that maketh glad the City of God. +Valley and plain, mountain and fruitful field; the lark's song and +the speedwell in the grass; surely a man need not sigh for greater +loveliness until he has read something more of this living letter, +and knelt before that earth of which he is the only confusion. + +It is a grave matter that the word religion holds such away among +us, making the very gap seem to yawn again which the Incarnation +once and for ever filled full. We have banished the protecting +gods that ruled in river and mountain, tree and grove; we have +gainsayed for the most part folk-lore and myth, superstition and +fairy-tale, evil only in their abuse. We have done away with +mystery, or named it deceit. All this we have done in an +enlightened age, but despite this policy of destruction we have +left ourselves a belief, the grandest and most simple the world has +ever known, which sanctifies the water that is shed by every +passing cloud; and gathers up in its great central act vineyard and +cornfield, proclaiming them to be that Life of the world without +which a man is dead while he liveth. Further, it is a belief whose +foundations are the most heavenly mystery of the Trinity, but whose +centre is a little Child: it sets a price upon the head of the +sparrow, and reckons the riches of this world at their true value; +it points to a way of holiness where the fool shall not err, and +the sage may find the realisation of his far-seeking; and yet, +despite its inclusiveness, it is a belief which cannot save the +birds from destruction, the silent mountains from advertisement, or +the stream from pollution, in an avowedly Christian land. John +Ruskin scolded and fought and did yeoman service, somewhat hindered +by his over-good conceit of himself; but it is not the worship of +beauty we need so much as the beauty of holiness. Little by little +the barrier grows and 'religion' becomes a RULE of life, not life +itself, although the Bride stands ready to interpret, likened in +her loveliness to the chief treasures of her handmaid-Earth. There +is more truth in the believing cry, "Come from thy white cliffs, O +Pan!" than in the religion that measures a man's life by the letter +of the Ten Commandments, and erects itself as judge and ruler over +him, instead of throwing open the gate of the garden where God +walks with man from morning until morning. + +As I write the sun is setting; in the pale radiance of the sky +above his glory there dawns the evening star; and earth like a +tired child turns her face to the bosom of the night. + + + +CHAPTER III + + + +Once again I have paid a rare visit to my tree to find many things +changed since my last sojourn there. The bees are silent, for the +honey-laden flowers of the sycamore are gone and in their place +hang dainty two-fold keys. The poplar has lost its metallic +shimmer, the chestnut its tall white candles; and the sound of the +wind in the fully-leaved branches is like the sighing of the sea. +The martins' nests are finished, and one is occupied by a shrill- +voiced brood; but for the most part the birds' parental cares are +over, and the nestlings in bold flight no longer flutter on +inefficient wings across the lawn with clamorous, open bill. The +robins show promise of their ruddy vests, the slim young thrush is +diligently practising maturer notes, and soon Maid June will have +fled. + +It is such a wonderful world that I cannot find it in my heart to +sigh for fresh beauty amid these glories of the Lord on which I +look, seeing men as trees walking, in my material impotence which +awaits the final anointing. The marigolds with their orange suns, +the lilies' white flame, the corncockle's blue crown of many +flowers, the honeysuckle's horn of fragrance--I can paraphrase +them, name, class, dissect them; and then, save for the purposes of +human intercourse, I stand where I stood before, my world bounded +by my capacity, the secret of colour and fragrance still kept. It +is difficult to believe that the second lesson will not be the +sequence of the first, and death prove a "feast of opening eyes" to +all these wonders, instead of the heavy-lidded slumber to which we +so often liken it. "Earth to earth?" Yes, "dust thou art, and +unto dust thou shalt return," but what of the rest? What of the +folded grave clothes, and the Forty Days? If the next state be, as +it well might, space of four dimensions, and the first veil which +will lift for me be the material one, then the "other" world which +is hidden from our grosser material organism will lie open, and +declare still further to my widening eyes and unstopped ears the +glory and purpose of the manifold garment of God. Knowledge will +give place to understanding in that second chamber of the House of +Wisdom and Love. Revelation is always measured by capacity: "Open +thy mouth wide," and it shall be filled with a satisfaction that in +itself is desire. + +There is a child here, a happy quiet little creature holding gently +to its two months of life. Sometimes they lay it beside me, I the +more helpless of the two--perhaps the more ignorant--and equally +dependent for the supply of my smallest need. I feel indecently +large as I survey its minute perfections and the tiny balled fist +lying in my great palm. The little creature fixes me with the wise +wide stare of a soul in advance of its medium of expression; and I, +gazing back at the mystery in those eyes, feel the thrill of +contact between my worn and sustained self and the innocence of a +little white child. It is wonderful to watch a woman's rapturous +familiarity with these newcomers. A man's love has far more awe in +it, and the passionate animal instinct of defence is wanting in +him. "A woman shall be saved through the child-bearing," said St +Paul; not necessarily her own, but by participation in the great +act of motherhood which is the crown and glory of her sex. She is +the "prisoner of love," caught in a net of her own weaving; held +fast by little hands which rule by impotence, pursued by feet the +swifter for their faltering. + +It seems incredible that this is what a woman will barter for the +right to "live her own life"--surely the most empty of desires. +Man--vir, woman--femina, go to make up THE man--homo. There can be +no comparison, no rivalry between them; they are the complement of +each other, and a little child shall lead them. It is easy to +understand that desire to shelter under the dear mantle of +motherhood which has led to one of the abuses of modern Romanism. +I met an old peasant couple at Bornhofen who had tramped many weary +miles to the famous shrine of Our Lady to plead for their only son. +They had a few pence saved for a candle, and afterwards when they +told me their tale the old woman heaved a sigh of relief, "Es wird +bald gut gehen: Die da, Sie versteht," and I saw her later paying +a farewell visit to the great understanding Mother whom she could +trust. Superstitious misapprehension if you will, but also the +recognition of a divine principle. + +It was Behmen, I believe, who cried with the breath of inspiration, +"Only when I know God shall I know myself"; and so man remains the +last of all the riddles, to be solved it may be only in Heaven's +perfection and the light of the Beatific Vision. "Know thyself" is +a vain legend, the more so when emphasised by a skull; and so I +company with a friend and a stranger, and looking across at the +white gate I wonder concerning the quiet pastures and still waters +that lie beyond, even as Brother Ambrose wondered long years ago in +the monastery by the forest. + + +The Brother Ambrose was ever a saintly man approved of God and +beloved by the Brethren. To him one night, as he lay abed in the +dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying, "Come, and I will +show thee the Bride, the Lamb's wife." And Brother Ambrose arose +and was carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision +of Blessed John. 'Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother +Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; and lo! the +stars gathered themselves together on either side until they stood +as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about as in a +mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. Then +between the stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacle aflame, +and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly limner dreams of, +and much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by +every gate an angel with wings of snow and fire, and a face no man +dare look on because of its exceeding radiance. + +Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great +longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between +the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but +only heard a sound as of a great multitude crying 'Alleluia'; and +suddenly the winds came about him again, and lo! he found himself +in his bed in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell was +ringing to Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest. But +when the Brethren left the choir Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his +place, hearing and seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and +at Lauds they found him and told the Prior. + +He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the +Vision bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the +Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what +colours he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a +wondrous fair city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid +blue for the sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilion +where the city seemed aflame with the glory of God; but the angels +he could not limn, nor could he set the rest of the colours as he +saw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrose +fell sick because of the exceeding great longing he had to limn the +Holy City, and was very sad; but the Prior bade him thank God, and +remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey +cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight. + + +As I write the monastery bell hard by rings out across the lark's +song. They still have time for visions behind those guarding +walls, but for most of us it is not so. We let slip the ideal for +what we call the real, and the golden dreams vanish while we clutch +at phantoms: we speed along life's pathway, counting to the full +the sixty minutes of every hour, yet the race is not to the swift +nor the battle to the strong. Lying here in this quiet backwater +it is hard to believe that the world without is turbulent with +storm and stress and the ebb and flow of uncertain tides. The +little yellow cat rolling on its back among the daisies, the staid +tortoise making a stately meal off the buttercups near me, these +are great events in this haven of peace. And yet, looking back to +the working days, I know how much goodness and loving kindness +there is under the froth and foam. If we do not know ourselves we +most certainly do not know our brethren: that revelation awaits +us, it may be, first in Heaven. To have faith is to create; to +have hope is to call down blessing; to have love is to work +miracles. Above all let us see visions, visions of colour and +light, of green fields and broad rivers, of palaces laid with fair +colours, and gardens where a place is found for rosemary and rue. + +It is our prerogative to be dreamers, but there will always be men +ready to offer us death for our dreams. And if it must be so let +us choose death; it is gain, not loss, and the gloomy portal when +we reach it is but a white gate, the white gate maybe we have known +all our lives barred by the tendrils of the woodbine. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + + +Rain, rain, rain: the little flagged path outside my window is a +streaming way, where the coming raindrops meet again the grey +clouds whose storehouse they have but just now left. The grass +grows greener as I watch it, the burnt patches fade, a thousand +thirsty beads are uplifted for the cooling draught. + +The great thrush that robs the raspberry canes is busy; yesterday +he had little but dust for his guerdon, but now fresh, juicy fruit +repays him as he swings to and fro on the pliant branches. The +blackbirds and starlings find the worms an easy prey--poor brother +worm ever ready for sacrifice. I can hear the soft expectant +chatter of the family of martins under the roof; there will be good +hunting, and they know it, for the flies are out when the rain is +over, and there are clamorous mouths awaiting. My little brown +brothers, the sparrows, remain my chief delight. Of all the birds +these nestle closest to my heart, be they grimy little cockneys or +their trim and dainty country cousins. They come day by day for +their meed of crumbs spread for them outside my window, and at this +season they eat leisurely and with good appetite, for there are no +hungry babies pestering to be fed. Very early in the morning I +hear the whirr and rustle of eager wings, and the tap, tap, of +little beaks upon the stone. The sound carries me back, for it was +the first to greet me when I rose to draw water and gather kindling +in my roadmender days; and if I slip back another decade they +survey me, reproving my laziness, from the foot of the narrow bed +in my little attic overseas. + +Looking along the roadway that we have travelled we see the +landmarks, great and small, which have determined the direction of +our feet. For some those of childhood stand out above all the +rest; but I remember few notable ones, and those few the emphatic +chord of the universe, rather than any commerce with my fellows. +There was the night of my great disappointment, when I was borne +from my comfortable bed to see the wonders of the moon's eclipse. +Disappointment was so great that it sealed my lips; but, once back +on my pillow, I sobbed for grief that I had seen a wonder so far +below my expectation. Then there was a night at Whitby, when the +wind made speech impossible, and the seas rushed up and over the +great lighthouse like the hungry spirits of the deep. I like +better to remember the scent of the first cowslip field under the +warm side of the hedge, when I sang to myself for pure joy of their +colour and fragrance. Again, there were the bluebells in the +deserted quarry like the backwash of a southern sea, and below them +the miniature forest of sheltering bracken with its quaint +conceits; and, crowned above all, the day I stood on Watcombe Down, +and looked across a stretch of golden gorse and new-turned blood- +red field, the green of the headland, and beyond, the sapphire sea. + +Time sped, and there came a day when I first set foot on German +soil and felt the throb of its paternity, the beat of our common +Life. England is my mother, and most dearly do I love her swelling +breasts and wind-swept, salt-strewn hair. Scotland gave me my +name, with its haunting derivation handed down by brave men; but +Germany has always been to me the Fatherland par excellence. True, +my love is limited to the southern provinces, with their medieval +memories; for the progressive guttural north I have little +sympathy, but the Rhine claimed me from the first, calling, +calling, with that wonderful voice which speaks of death and life, +of chivalry and greed of gold. If you would have the river's +company you should wander, a happy solitary, along its banks, +watching its gleaming current in the early morning, its golden +glory as it answers the farewell of parting day. Then, in the +silence of the night, you can hear the wash and eddy calling one to +another, count the heart-beats of the great bearer of burdens, and +watch in the moonlight the sisters of the mist as they lament with +wringing hands the days that are gone. + +The forests, too, are ready with story hid in the fastness of their +solitude, and it is a joy to think that those great pines, pointing +ever upwards, go for the most part to carry the sails of great +ships seeking afar under open sky. The forest holds other wonders +still. It seems but last night that I wandered down the road which +led to the little unheeded village where I had made my temporary +home. The warm-scented breath of the pines and the stillness of +the night wrapped me in great content; the summer lightning leapt +in a lambent arch across the east, and the stars, seen dimly +through the sombre tree crests, were outrivalled by the glow-worms +which shone in countless points of light from bank and hedge; even +two charcoal-burners, who passed with friendly greeting, had +wreathed their hats with the living flame. The tiny shifting lamps +were everywhere; pale yellow, purely white, or green as the +underside of a northern wave. By day but an ugly, repellent worm; +but darkness comes, and lo, a star alight. Nature is full for us +of seeming inconsistencies and glad surprises. The world's asleep, +say you; on your ear falls the nightingale's song and the stir of +living creatures in bush and brake. The mantle of night falls, and +all unattended the wind leaps up and scatters the clouds which veil +the constant stars; or in the hour of the great dark, dawn parts +the curtain with the long foregleam of the coming day. It is hard +to turn one's back on night with her kiss of peace for tired eye- +lids, the kiss which is not sleep but its neglected forerunner. I +made my way at last down to the vine-girt bridge asleep under the +stars and up the winding stairs of the old grey tower; and a +stone's-throw away the Rhine slipped quietly past in the midsummer +moonlight. Switzerland came in its turn, unearthly in its white +loveliness and glory of lake and sky. But perhaps the landmark +which stands out most clearly is the solitary blue gentian which I +found in the short slippery grass of the Rigi, gazing up at the sky +whose blue could not hope to excel it. It was my first; and what +need of another, for finding one I had gazed into the mystery of +all. This side the Pass, snow and the blue of heaven; later I +entered Italy through fields of many-hued lilies, her past glories +blazoned in the flowers of the field. + +Now it is a strangely uneventful road that leads to my White Gate. +Each day questions me as it passes; each day makes answer for me +"not yet." There is no material preparation to be made for this +journey of mine into a far country--a simple fact which adds to the +'unknowableness' of the other side. Do I travel alone, or am I one +of a great company, swift yet unhurried in their passage? The +voices of Penelope's suitors shrilled on the ears of Ulysses, as +they journeyed to the nether-world, like nocturnal birds and bats +in the inarticulateness of their speech. They had abused the gift, +and fled self-condemned. Maybe silence commends itself as most +suitable for the wayfarers towards the sunrise--silence because +they seek the Word--but for those hastening towards the confusion +they have wrought there falls already the sharp oncoming of the +curse. + +While we are still here the language of worship seems far, and yet +lies very nigh; for what better note can our frail tongues lisp +than the voice of wind and sea, river and stream, those grateful +servants giving all and asking nothing, the soft whisper of snow +and rain eager to replenish, or the thunder proclaiming a majesty +too great for utterance? Here, too, stands the angel with the +censer gathering up the fragrance of teeming earth and forest-tree, +of flower and fruit, and sweetly pungent herb distilled by sun and +rain for joyful use. Here, too, come acolytes lighting the dark +with tapers--sun, moon, and stars--gifts of the Lord that His +sanctuary may stand ever served. + +It lies here ready to our hand, this life of adoration which we +needs must live hand in hand with earth, for has she not borne the +curse with us? But beyond the white gate and the trail of woodbine +falls the silence greater than speech, darkness greater than light, +a pause of "a little while"; and then the touch of that healing +garment as we pass to the King in His beauty, in a land from which +there is no return. + +At the gateway then I cry you farewell. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE ROADMENDER *** + +This file should be named rmend10.txt or rmend10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, rmend11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rmend10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Roadmender + +Author: Michael Fairless + +Release Date: November, 1996 [EBook #705] +[This file was first posted on November 6, 1996] +[Most recently updated: September 8, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p> +<a name="startoftext"></a> +Transcribed from the 1911 Duckworth and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE ROADMENDER<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I have attained my ideal: I am a roadmender, some say stonebreaker. +Both titles are correct, but the one is more pregnant than the other. +All day I sit by the roadside on a stretch of grass under a high hedge +of saplings and a tangle of traveller’s joy, woodbine, sweetbrier, +and late roses. Opposite me is a white gate, seldom used, if one +may judge from the trail of honeysuckle growing tranquilly along it: +I know now that whenever and wherever I die my soul will pass out through +this white gate; and then, thank God, I shall not have need to undo +that trail.<br> +<br> +In our youth we discussed our ideals freely: I wonder how many beside +myself have attained, or would understand my attaining. After +all, what do we ask of life, here or indeed hereafter, but leave to +serve, to live, to commune with our fellowmen and with ourselves; and +from the lap of earth to look up into the face of God? All these +gifts are mine as I sit by the winding white road and serve the footsteps +of my fellows. There is no room in my life for avarice or anxiety; +I who serve at the altar live of the altar: I lack nothing but have +nothing over; and when the winter of life comes I shall join the company +of weary old men who sit on the sunny side of the workhouse wall and +wait for the tender mercies of God.<br> +<br> +Just now it is the summer of things; there is life and music everywhere +- in the stones themselves, and I live to-day beating out the rhythmical +hammer-song of The Ring. There is real physical joy in the rise +and swing of the arm, in the jar of a fair stroke, the split and scatter +of the quartz: I am learning to be ambidextrous, for why should Esau +sell his birthright when there is enough for both? Then the rest-hour +comes, bringing the luxurious ache of tired but not weary limbs; and +I lie outstretched and renew my strength, sometimes with my face deep-nestled +in the cool green grass, sometimes on my back looking up into the blue +sky which no wise man would wish to fathom.<br> +<br> +The birds have no fear of me; am I not also of the brown brethren in +my sober fustian livery? They share my meals - at least the little +dun-coated Franciscans do; the blackbirds and thrushes care not a whit +for such simple food as crumbs, but with legs well apart and claws tense +with purchase they disinter poor brother worm, having first mocked him +with sound of rain. The robin that lives by the gate regards my +heap of stones as subject to his special inspection. He sits atop +and practises the trill of his summer song until it shrills above and +through the metallic clang of my strokes; and when I pause he cocks +his tail, with a humorous twinkle of his round eye which means - “What! +shirking, big brother?” - and I fall, ashamed, to my mending of +roads.<br> +<br> +The other day, as I lay with my face in the grass, I heard a gentle +rustle, and raised my head to find a hedge-snake watching me fearless, +unwinking. I stretched out my hand, picked it up unresisting, +and put it in my coat like the husbandman of old. Was he so ill-rewarded, +I wonder, with the kiss that reveals secrets? My snake slept in +peace while I hammered away with an odd quickening of heart as I thought +how to me, as to Melampus, had come the messenger - had come, but to +ears deafened by centuries of misrule, blindness, and oppression; so +that, with all my longing, I am shut out of the wondrous world where +walked Melampus and the Saint. To me there is no suggestion of +evil in the little silent creatures, harmless, or deadly only with the +Death which is Life. The beasts who turn upon us, as a rule maul +and tear unreflectingly; with the snake there is the swift, silent strike, +the tiny, tiny wound, then sleep and a forgetting.<br> +<br> +My brown friend, with its message unspoken, slid away into the grass +at sundown to tell its tale in unstopped ears; and I, my task done, +went home across the fields to the solitary cottage where I lodge. +It is old and decrepit - two rooms, with a quasi-attic over them reached +by a ladder from the kitchen and reached only by me. It is furnished +with the luxuries of life, a truckle bed, table, chair, and huge earthenware +pan which I fill from the ice-cold well at the back of the cottage. +Morning and night I serve with the Gibeonites, their curse my blessing, +as no doubt it was theirs when their hearts were purged by service. +Morning and night I send down the moss-grown bucket with its urgent +message from a dry and dusty world; the chain tightens through my hand +as the liquid treasure responds to the messenger, and then with creak +and jangle - the welcome of labouring earth - the bucket slowly nears +the top and disperses the treasure in the waiting vessels. The +Gibeonites were servants in the house of God, ministers of the sacrament +of service even as the High Priest himself; and I, sharing their high +office of servitude, thank God that the ground was accursed for my sake, +for surely that curse was the womb of all unborn blessing.<br> +<br> +The old widow with whom I lodge has been deaf for the last twenty years. +She speaks in the strained high voice which protests against her own +infirmity, and her eyes have the pathetic look of those who search in +silence. For many years she lived alone with her son, who laboured +on the farm two miles away. He met his death rescuing a carthorse +from its burning stable; and the farmer gave the cottage rent free and +a weekly half-crown for life to the poor old woman whose dearest terror +was the workhouse. With my shilling a week rent, and sharing of +supplies, we live in the lines of comfort. Of death she has no +fears, for in the long chest in the kitchen lie a web of coarse white +linen, two pennies covered with the same to keep down tired eyelids, +decent white stockings, and a white cotton sun-bonnet - a decorous death-suit +truly - and enough money in the little bag for self-respecting burial. +The farmer buried his servant handsomely - good man, he knew the love +of reticent grief for a ‘kind’ burial - and one day Harry’s +mother is to lie beside him in the little churchyard which has been +a cornfield, and may some day be one again.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +On Sundays my feet take ever the same way. First my temple service, +and then five miles tramp over the tender, dewy fields, with their ineffable +earthy smell, until I reach the little church at the foot of the grey-green +down. Here, every Sunday, a young priest from a neighbouring village +says Mass for the tiny hamlet, where all are very old or very young +- for the heyday of life has no part under the long shadow of the hills, +but is away at sea or in service. There is a beautiful seemliness +in the extreme youth of the priest who serves these aged children of +God. He bends to communicate them with the reverent tenderness +of a son, and reads with the careful intonation of far-seeing love. +To the old people he is the son of their old age, God-sent to guide +their tottering footsteps along the highway of foolish wayfarers; and +he, with his youth and strength, wishes no better task. Service +ended, we greet each other friendly - for men should not be strange +in the acre of God; and I pass through the little hamlet and out and +up on the grey down beyond. Here, at the last gate, I pause for +breakfast; and then up and on with quickening pulse, and evergreen memory +of the weary war-worn Greeks who broke rank to greet the great blue +Mother-way that led to home. I stand on the summit hatless, the +wind in my hair, the smack of salt on my cheek, all round me rolling +stretches of cloud-shadowed down, no sound but the shrill mourn of the +peewit and the gathering of the sea.<br> +<br> +The hours pass, the shadows lengthen, the sheep-bells clang; and I lie +in my niche under the stunted hawthorn watching the to and fro of the +sea, and AEolus shepherding his white sheep across the blue. I +love the sea with its impenetrable fathoms, its wash and undertow, and +rasp of shingle sucked anew. I love it for its secret dead in +the Caverns of Peace, of which account must be given when the books +are opened and earth and heaven have fled away. Yet in my love +there is a paradox, for as I watch the restless, ineffective waves I +think of the measureless, reflective depths of the still and silent +Sea of Glass, of the dead, small and great, rich or poor, with the works +which follow them, and of the Voice as the voice of many waters, when +the multitude of one mind rends heaven with alleluia: and I lie so still +that I almost feel the kiss of White Peace on my mouth. Later +still, when the flare of the sinking sun has died away and the stars +rise out of a veil of purple cloud, I take my way home, down the slopes, +through the hamlet, and across miles of sleeping fields; over which +night has thrown her shifting web of mist - home to the little attic, +the deep, cool well, the kindly wrinkled face with its listening eyes +- peace in my heart and thankfulness for the rhythm of the road.<br> +<br> +Monday brings the joy of work, second only to the Sabbath of rest, and +I settle to my heap by the white gate. Soon I hear the distant +stamp of horsehoofs, heralding the grind and roll of the wheels which +reaches me later - a heavy flour-waggon with a team of four great gentle +horses, gay with brass trappings and scarlet ear-caps. On the +top of the craftily piled sacks lies the white-clad waggoner, a pink +in his mouth which he mumbles meditatively, and the reins looped over +the inactive whip - why should he drive a willing team that knows the +journey and responds as strenuously to a cheery chirrup as to the well-directed +lash? We greet and pass the time of day, and as he mounts the +rise he calls back a warning of coming rain. I am already white +with dust as he with flour, sacramental dust, the outward and visible +sign of the stir and beat of the heart of labouring life.<br> +<br> +Next to pass down the road is an anxious ruffled hen, her speckled breast +astir with maternal troubles. She walks delicately, lifting her +feet high and glancing furtively from side to side with comb low dressed. +The sight of man, the heartless egg-collector, from whose haunts she +has fled, wrings from her a startled cluck, and she makes for the white +gate, climbs through, and disappears. I know her feelings too +well to intrude. Many times already has she hidden herself, amassed +four or five precious treasures, brooding over them with anxious hope; +and then, after a brief desertion to seek the necessary food, she has +returned to find her efforts at concealment vain, her treasures gone. +At last, with the courage of despair she has resolved to brave the terrors +of the unknown and seek a haunt beyond the tyranny of man. I will +watch over her from afar, and when her mother-hope is fulfilled I will +marshal her and her brood back to the farm where she belongs; for what +end I care not to think, it is of the mystery which lies at the heart +of things; and we are all God’s beasts, says St Augustine.<br> +<br> +Here is my stone-song, a paraphrase of the Treasure Motif.<br> +<br> +[Music score which cannot be reproduced. It is F# dotted crotchet, +F# quaver, F# quaver, F# dotted crotchet, D crotchet, E crotchet. +This bar is then repeated once more.]<br> +<br> +What a wonderful work Wagner has done for humanity in translating the +toil of life into the readable script of music! For those who +seek the tale of other worlds his magic is silent; but earth-travail +under his wand becomes instinct with rhythmic song to an accompaniment +of the elements, and the blare and crash of the bottomless pit itself. +The Pilgrim’s March is the sad sound of footsore men; the San +Graal the tremulous yearning of servitude for richer, deeper bondage. +The yellow, thirsty flames lick up the willing sacrifice, the water +wails the secret of the river and the sea; the birds and beasts, the +shepherd with his pipe, the underground life in rocks and caverns, all +cry their message to this nineteenth-century toiling, labouring world +- and to me as I mend my road.<br> +<br> +Two tramps come and fling themselves by me as I eat my noonday meal. +The one, red-eyed, furtive, lies on his side with restless, clutching +hands that tear and twist and torture the living grass, while his lips +mutter incoherently. The other sits stooped, bare-footed, legs +wide apart, his face grey, almost as grey as his stubbly beard; and +it is not long since Death looked him in the eyes. He tells me +querulously of a two hundred miles tramp since early spring, of search +for work, casual jobs with more kicks than halfpence, and a brief but +blissful sojourn in a hospital bed, from which he was dismissed with +sentence passed upon him. For himself, he is determined to die +on the road under a hedge, where a man can see and breathe. His +anxiety is all for his fellow; <i>he</i> has said he will “do +for a man”; he wants to “swing,” to get out of his +“dog’s life.” I watch him as he lies, this Ishmael +and would-be Lamech. Ignorance, hunger, terror, the exhaustion +of past generations, have done their work. The man is mad, and +would kill his fellowman.<br> +<br> +Presently we part, and the two go, dogged and footsore, down the road +which is to lead them into the great silence.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Yesterday was a day of encounters.<br> +<br> +First, early in the morning, a young girl came down the road on a bicycle. +Her dressguard was loose, and she stopped to ask for a piece of string. +When I had tied it for her she looked at me, at my worn dusty clothes +and burnt face; and then she took a Niphetos rose from her belt and +laid it shyly in my dirty disfigured palm. I bared my head, and +stood hat in hand looking after her as she rode away up the hill. +Then I took my treasure and put it in a nest of cool dewy grass under +the hedge. <i>Ecce ancilla Domini</i>.<br> +<br> +My next visitor was a fellow-worker on his way to a job at the cross-roads. +He stood gazing meditatively at my heap of stones.<br> +<br> +“Ow long ’ave yer bin at this job that y’ere in such +a hurry?”<br> +<br> +I stayed my hammer to answer - “Four months.”<br> +<br> +“Seen better days?”<br> +<br> +“Never,” I said emphatically, and punctuated the remark +with a stone split neatly in four.<br> +<br> +The man surveyed me in silence for a moment; then he said slowly, “Mean +ter say yer like crackin’ these blamed stones to fill ’oles +some other fool’s made?”<br> +<br> +I nodded.<br> +<br> +“Well, that beats everything. Now, I ’<i>ave</i> seen +better days; worked in a big brewery over near Maidstone - a town that, +and something doing; and now, ’ere I am, ’ammering me ’eart +out on these blasted stones for a bit o’ bread and a pipe o’ +baccy once a week - it ain’t good enough.” He pulled +a blackened clay from his pocket and began slowly filling it with rank +tobacco; then he lit it carefully behind his battered hat, put the spent +match back in his pocket, rose to his feet, hitched his braces, and, +with a silent nod to me, went on to his job.<br> +<br> +Why do we give these tired children, whose minds move slowly, whose +eyes are holden that they cannot read the Book, whose hearts are full +of sore resentment against they know not what, such work as this to +do - hammering their hearts out for a bit of bread? All the pathos +of unreasoning labour rings in these few words. We fit the collar +on unwilling necks; and when their service is over we bid them go out +free; but we break the good Mosaic law and send them away empty. +What wonder there is so little willing service, so few ears ready to +be thrust through against the master’s door.<br> +<br> +The swift stride of civilisation is leaving behind individual effort, +and turning man into the Daemon of a machine. To and fro in front +of the long loom, lifting a lever at either end, paces he who once with +painstaking intelligence drove the shuttle. <i>Then</i> he tasted +the joy of completed work, that which his eye had looked upon, and his +hands had handled; now his work is as little finished as the web of +Penelope. Once the reaper grasped the golden corn stems, and with +dexterous sweep of sickle set free the treasure of the earth. +Once the creatures of the field were known to him, and his eye caught +the flare of scarlet and blue as the frail poppies and sturdy corn-cockles +laid down their beauty at his feet; now he sits serene on Juggernaut’s +car, its guiding Daemon, and the field is silent to him.<br> +<br> +As with the web and the grain so with the wood and stone in the treasure-house +of our needs. The ground was accursed <i>for our sake</i> that +in the sweat of our brow we might eat bread. Now the many live +in the brain-sweat of the few; and it must be so, for as little as great +King Cnut could stay the sea until it had reached the appointed place, +so little can we raise a barrier to the wave of progress, and say, “Thus +far and no further shalt thou come.”<br> +<br> +What then? This at least; if we live in an age of mechanism let +us see to it that we are a race of intelligent mechanics; and if man +is to be the Daemon of a machine let him know the setting of the knives, +the rise of the piston, the part that each wheel and rod plays in the +economy of the whole, the part that he himself plays, co-operating with +it. Then, when he has lived and served intelligently, let us give +him of our flocks and of our floor that he may learn to rest in the +lengthening shadows until he is called to his work above.<br> +<br> +So I sat, hammering out my thoughts, and with them the conviction that +stonebreaking should be allotted to minor poets or vagrant children +of nature like myself, never to such tired folk as my poor mate at the +cross-roads and his fellows.<br> +<br> +At noon, when I stopped for my meal, the sun was baking the hard white +road in a pitiless glare. Several waggons and carts passed, the +horses sweating and straining, with drooping, fly-tormented ears. +The men for the most part nodded slumberously on the shaft, seeking +the little shelter the cart afforded; but one shuffled in the white +dust, with an occasional chirrup and friendly pressure on the tired +horse’s neck.<br> +<br> +Then an old woman and a small child appeared in sight, both with enormous +sun-bonnets and carrying baskets. As they came up with me the +woman stopped and swept her face with her hand, while the child, depositing +the basket in the dust with great care, wiped her little sticky fingers +on her pinafore. Then the shady hedge beckoned them and they came +and sat down near me. The woman looked about seventy, tall, angular, +dauntless, good for another ten years of hard work. The little +maid - her only grandchild, she told me - was just four, her father +away soldiering, and the mother died in childbed, so for four years +the child had known no other guardian or playmate than the old woman. +She was not the least shy, but had the strange self-possession which +comes from associating with one who has travelled far on life’s +journey.<br> +<br> +“I couldn’t leave her alone in the house,” said her +grandmother, “and she wouldn’t leave the kitten for fear +it should be lonesome” - with a humorous, tender glance at the +child - “but it’s a long tramp in the heat for the little +one, and we’ve another mile to go.”<br> +<br> +“Will you let her bide here till you come back?” I said. +“She’ll be all right by me.”<br> +<br> +The old lady hesitated.<br> +<br> +“Will ’ee stay by him, dearie?” she said.<br> +<br> +The small child nodded, drew from her miniature pocket a piece of sweetstuff, +extracted from the basket a small black cat, and settled in for the +afternoon. Her grandmother rose, took her basket, and, with a +nod and “Thank ’ee kindly, mister,” went off down +the road.<br> +<br> +I went back to my work a little depressed - why had I not white hair? +- for a few minutes had shown me that I was not old enough for the child +despite my forty years. She was quite happy with the little black +cat, which lay in the small lap blinking its yellow eyes at the sun; +and presently an old man came by, lame and bent, with gnarled twisted +hands, leaning heavily on his stick.<br> +<br> +He greeted me in a high, piping voice, limped across to the child, and +sat down. “Your little maid, mister?” he said.<br> +<br> +I explained.<br> +<br> +“Ah,” he said, “I’ve left a little darlin’ +like this at ’ome. It’s ’ard on us old folks +when we’re one too many; but the little mouths must be filled, +and my son, ’e said ’e didn’t see they could keep +me on the arf-crown, with another child on the way; so I’m tramping +to N-, to the House; but it’s a ’ard pinch, leavin’ +the little ones.”<br> +<br> +I looked at him - a typical countryman, with white hair, mild blue eyes, +and a rosy, childish, unwrinkled face.<br> +<br> +“I’m eighty-four,” he went on, “and terrible +bad with the rheumatics and my chest. Maybe it’ll not be +long before the Lord remembers me.”<br> +<br> +The child crept close and put a sticky little hand confidingly into +the tired old palm. The two looked strangely alike, for the world +seems much the same to those who leave it behind as to those who have +but taken the first step on its circular pathway.<br> +<br> +“’Ook at my kitty,” she said, pointing to the small +creature in her lap. Then, as the old man touched it with trembling +fingers she went on - “’Oo isn’t my grandad; he’s +away in the sky, but I’ll kiss ’oo.”<br> +<br> +I worked on, hearing at intervals the old piping voice and the child-treble, +much of a note; and thinking of the blessings vouchsafed to the simple +old age which crowns a harmless working-life spent in the fields. +The two under the hedge had everything in common and were boundlessly +content together, the sting of the knowledge of good and evil past for +the one, and for the other still to come; while I stood on the battlefield +of the world, the flesh, and the devil, though, thank God, with my face +to the foe.<br> +<br> +The old man sat resting: I had promised him a lift with my friend the +driver of the flour-cart, and he was almost due when the child’s +grandmother came down the road.<br> +<br> +When she saw my other visitor she stood amazed.<br> +<br> +“What, Richard Hunton, that worked with my old man years ago up +at Ditton, whatever are you doin’ all these miles from your own +place?”<br> +<br> +“Is it Eliza Jakes?”<br> +<br> +He looked at her dazed, doubtful.<br> +<br> +“An’ who else should it be? Where’s your memory +gone, Richard Hunton, and you not such a great age either? Where +are you stayin’?”<br> +<br> +Shame overcame him; his lips trembled, his mild blue eyes filled with +tears. I told the tale as I had heard it, and Mrs Jakes’s +indignation was good to see.<br> +<br> +“Not keep you on ’alf a crown! Send you to the House! +May the Lord forgive them! You wouldn’t eat no more than +a fair-sized cat, and not long for this world either, that’s plain +to see. No, Richard Hunton, you don’t go to the House while +I’m above ground; it’d make my good man turn to think of +it. You’ll come ’ome with me and the little ’un +there. I’ve my washin’, and a bit put by for a rainy +day, and a bed to spare, and the Lord and the parson will see I don’t +come to want.”<br> +<br> +She stopped breathless, her defensive motherhood in arms.<br> +<br> +The old man said quaveringly, in the pathetic, grudging phrase of the +poor, which veils their gratitude while it testifies their independence, +“Maybe I might as well.” He rose with difficulty, +picked up his bundle and stick, the small child replaced the kitten +in its basket, and thrust her hand in her new friend’s.<br> +<br> +“Then ’oo <i>is</i> grandad tum back,” she said.<br> +<br> +Mrs Jakes had been fumbling in her pocket, and extracted a penny, which +she pressed on me.<br> +<br> +“It’s little enough, mister,” she said.<br> +<br> +Then, as I tried to return it: “Nay, I’ve enough, and yours +is poor paid work.”<br> +<br> +I hope I shall always be able to keep that penny; and as I watched the +three going down the dusty white road, with the child in the middle, +I thanked God for the Brotherhood of the Poor.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Yesterday a funeral passed, from the work-house at N-, a quaint sepulture +without solemnities. The rough, ungarnished coffin of stained +deal lay bare and unsightly on the floor of an old market-cart; a woman +sat beside, steadying it with her feet. The husband drove; and +the most depressed of the three was the horse, a broken-kneed, flea-bitten +grey. It was pathetic, this bringing home in death of the old +father whom, while he lived, they had been too poor to house; it was +at no small sacrifice that they had spared him that terror of old age, +a pauper’s grave, and brought him to lie by his wife in our quiet +churchyard. They felt no emotion, this husband and wife, only +a dull sense of filial duty done, respectability preserved; and above +and through all, the bitter but necessary counting the cost of this +last bed.<br> +<br> +It is strange how pagan many of us are in our beliefs. True, the +funeral libations have made way for the comfortable bake-meats; still, +to the large majority Death is Pluto, king of the dark Unknown whence +no traveller returns, rather than Azrael, brother and friend, lord of +this mansion of life. Strange how men shun him as he waits in +the shadow, watching our puny straining after immortality, sending his +comrade sleep to prepare us for himself. When the hour strikes +he comes - very gently, very tenderly, if we will but have it so - folds +the tired hands together, takes the way-worn feet in his broad strong +palm; and lifting us in his wonderful arms he bears us swiftly down +the valley and across the waters of Remembrance.<br> +<br> +Very pleasant art thou, O Brother Death, thy love is wonderful, passing +the love of women.<br> +<br> +* * * * * *<br> +<br> +To-day I have lived in a whirl of dust. To-morrow is the great +annual Cattle Fair at E-, and through the long hot hours the beasts +from all the district round have streamed in broken procession along +my road, to change hands or to die. Surely the lordship over creation +implies wise and gentle rule for intelligent use, not the pursuit of +a mere immediate end, without any thought of community in the great +sacrament of life.<br> +<br> +For the most part mystery has ceased for this working Western world, +and with it reverence. Coventry Patmore says: “God clothes +Himself actually and literally with His whole creation. Herbs +take up and assimilate minerals, beasts assimilate herbs, and God, in +the Incarnation and its proper Sacrament, assimilates us, who, says +St Augustine, ‘are God’s beasts.’” It +is man in his blind self-seeking who separates woof from weft in the +living garment of God, and loses the more as he neglects the outward +and visible signs of a world-wide grace.<br> +<br> +In olden days the herd led his flock, going first in the post of danger +to defend the creatures he had weaned from their natural habits for +his various uses. Now that good relationship has ceased for us +to exist, man drives the beasts before him, means to his end, but with +no harmony between end and means. All day long the droves of sheep +pass me on their lame and patient way, no longer freely and instinctively +following a protector and forerunner, but <i>driven</i>, impelled by +force and resistless will - the same will which once went before without +force. They are all trimmed as much as possible to one pattern, +and all make the same sad plaint. It is a day on which to thank +God for the unknown tongue. The drover and his lad in dusty blue +coats plod along stolidly, deaf and blind to all but the way before +them; no longer wielding the crook, instrument of deliverance, or at +most of gentle compulsion, but armed with a heavy stick and mechanically +dealing blows on the short thick fleeces; without evil intent because +without thought - it is the ritual of the trade.<br> +<br> +Of all the poor dumb pilgrims of the road the bullocks are the most +terrible to see. They are not patient, but go most unwillingly +with lowered head and furtive sideways motion, in their eyes a horror +of great fear. The sleek cattle, knee deep in pasture, massed +at the gate, and stared mild-eyed and with inquiring bellow at the retreating +drove; but these passed without answer on to the Unknown, and for them +it spelt death.<br> +<br> +Behind a squadron of sleek, well-fed cart-horses, formed in fours, with +straw braid in mane and tail, came the ponies, for the most part a merry +company. Long strings of rusty, shaggy two-year-olds, unbroken, +unkempt, the short Down grass still sweet on their tongues; full of +fun, frolic, and wickedness, biting and pulling, casting longing eyes +at the hedgerows. The boys appear to recognise them as kindred +spirits, and are curiously forbearing and patient. Soon both ponies +and boys vanish in a white whirl, and a long line of carts, which had +evidently waited for the dust to subside, comes slowly up the incline. +For the most part they carry the pigs and fowls, carriage folk of the +road. The latter are hot, crowded, and dusty under the open netting; +the former for the most part cheerfully remonstrative.<br> +<br> +I drew a breath of relief as the noise of wheels died away and my road +sank into silence. The hedgerows are no longer green but white +and choked with dust, a sight to move good sister Rain to welcome tears. +The birds seem to have fled before the noisy confusion. I wonder +whether my snake has seen and smiled at the clumsy ruling of the lord +he so little heeds? I turned aside through the gate to plunge +face and hands into the cool of the sheltered grass that side the hedge, +and then rested my eyes on the stretch of green I had lacked all day. +The rabbits had apparently played and browsed unmindful of the stir, +and were still flirting their white tails along the hedgerows; a lark +rose, another and another, and I went back to my road. Peace still +reigned, for the shadows were lengthening, and there would be little +more traffic for the fair. I turned to my work, grateful for the +stillness, and saw on the white stretch of road a lone old man and a +pig. Surely I knew that tall figure in the quaint grey smock, +surely I knew the face, furrowed like nature’s face in springtime, +and crowned by a round, soft hat? And the pig, the black pig walking +decorously free? Ay, I knew them.<br> +<br> +In the early spring I took a whole holiday and a long tramp; and towards +afternoon, tired and thirsty, sought water at a little lonely cottage +whose windows peered and blinked under overhanging brows of thatch. +I had, not the water I asked for, but milk and a bowl of sweet porridge +for which I paid only thanks; and stayed for a chat with my kindly hosts. +They were a quaint old couple of the kind rarely met with nowadays. +They enjoyed a little pension from the Squire and a garden in which +vegetables and flowers lived side by side in friendliest fashion. +Bees worked and sang over the thyme and marjoram, blooming early in +a sunny nook; and in a homely sty lived a solemn black pig, a pig with +a history.<br> +<br> +It was no common utilitarian pig, but the honoured guest of the old +couple, and it knew it. A year before, their youngest and only +surviving child, then a man of five-and-twenty, had brought his mother +the result of his savings in the shape of a fine young pig: a week later +he lay dead of the typhoid that scourged Maidstone. Hence the +pig was sacred, cared for and loved by this Darby and Joan.<br> +<br> +“Ee be mos’ like a child to me and the mother, an’ +mos’ as sensible as a Christian, ee be,” the old man had +said; and I could hardly credit my eyes when I saw the tall bent figure +side by side with the black pig, coming along my road on such a day.<br> +<br> +I hailed the old man, and both turned aside; but he gazed at me without +remembrance.<br> +<br> +I spoke of the pig and its history. He nodded wearily. “Ay, +ay, lad, you’ve got it; ’tis poor Dick’s pig right +enow.”<br> +<br> +“But you’re never going to take it to E - ?”<br> +<br> +“Ay, but I be, and comin’ back alone, if the Lord be marciful. +The missus has been terrible bad this two mouths and more; Squire’s +in foreign parts; and food-stuffs such as the old woman wants is hard +buying for poor folks. The stocking’s empty, now ’tis +the pig must go, and I believe he’d be glad for to do the missus +a turn; she were terrible good to him, were the missus, and fond, too. +I dursn’t tell her he was to go; she’d sooner starve than +lose poor Dick’s pig. Well, we’d best be movin’; +’tis a fairish step.”<br> +<br> +The pig followed comprehending and docile, and as the quaint couple +passed from sight I thought I heard Brother Death stir in the shadow. +He is a strong angel and of great pity.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +There is always a little fire of wood on the open hearth in the kitchen +when I get home at night; the old lady says it is “company” +for her, and sits in the lonely twilight, her knotted hands lying quiet +on her lap, her listening eyes fixed on the burning sticks.<br> +<br> +I wonder sometimes whether she hears music in the leap and lick of the +fiery tongues, music such as he of Bayreuth draws from the violins till +the hot energy of the fire spirit is on us, embodied in sound.<br> +<br> +Surely she hears some voice, that lonely old woman on whom is set the +seal of great silence?<br> +<br> +It is a great truth tenderly said that God builds the nest for the blind +bird; and may it not be that He opens closed eyes and unstops deaf ears +to sights and sounds from which others by these very senses are debarred?<br> +<br> +Here the best of us see through a mist of tears men as trees walking; +it is only in the land which is very far off and yet very near that +we shall have fulness of sight and see the King in His beauty; and I +cannot think that any listening ears listen in vain.<br> +<br> +The coppice at our back is full of birds, for it is far from the road +and they nest there undisturbed year after year. Through the still +night I heard the nightingales calling, calling, until I could bear +it no longer and went softly out into the luminous dark.<br> +<br> +The little wood was manifold with sound, I heard my little brothers +who move by night rustling in grass and tree. A hedgehog crossed +my path with a dull squeak, the bats shrilled high to the stars, a white +owl swept past me crying his hunting note, a beetle boomed suddenly +in my face; and above and through it all the nightingales sang - and +sang!<br> +<br> +The night wind bent the listening trees, and the stars yearned earthward +to hear the song of deathless love. Louder and louder the wonderful +notes rose and fell in a passion of melody; and then sank to rest on +that low thrilling call which it is said Death once heard, and stayed +his hand.<br> +<br> +They will scarcely sing again this year, these nightingales, for they +are late on the wing as it is. It seems as if on such nights they +sang as the swan sings, knowing it to be the last time - with the lavish +note of one who bids an eternal farewell.<br> +<br> +At last there was silence. Sitting under the big beech tree, the +giant of the coppice, I rested my tired self in the lap of mother earth, +breathed of her breath and listened to her voice in the quickening silence +until my flesh came again as the flesh of a little child, for it is +true recreation to sit at the footstool of God wrapped in a fold of +His living robe, the while night smoothes our tired face with her healing +hands.<br> +<br> +The grey dawn awoke and stole with trailing robes across earth’s +floor. At her footsteps the birds roused from sleep and cried +a greeting; the sky flushed and paled conscious of coming splendour; +and overhead a file of swans passed with broad strong flight to the +reeded waters of the sequestered pool.<br> +<br> +Another hour of silence while the light throbbed and flamed in the east; +then the larks rose harmonious from a neighbouring field, the rabbits +scurried with ears alert to their morning meal, the day had begun.<br> +<br> +I passed through the coppice and out into the fields beyond. The +dew lay heavy on leaf and blade and gossamer, a cool fresh wind swept +clear over dale and down from the sea, and the clover field rippled +like a silvery lake in the breeze.<br> +<br> +There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the unused day, something +beautiful in the fact that it is still untouched, unsoiled; and town +and country share alike in this loveliness. At half-past three +on a June morning even London has not assumed her responsibilities, +but smiles and glows lighthearted and smokeless under the caresses of +the morning sun.<br> +<br> +Five o’clock. The bell rings out crisp and clear from the +monastery where the Bedesmen of St Hugh watch and pray for the souls +on this labouring forgetful earth. Every hour the note of comfort +and warning cries across the land, tells the Sanctus, the Angelus, and +the Hours of the Passion, and calls to remembrance and prayer.<br> +<br> +When the wind is north, the sound carries as far as my road, and companies +me through the day; and if to His dumb children God in His mercy reckons +work as prayer, most certainly those who have forged through the ages +an unbroken chain of supplication and thanksgiving will be counted among +the stalwart labourers of the house of the Lord.<br> +<br> +Sun and bell together are my only clock: it is time for my water drawing; +and gathering a pile of mushrooms, children of the night, I hasten home.<br> +<br> +The cottage is dear to me in its quaint untidiness and want of rectitude, +dear because we are to be its last denizens, last of the long line of +toilers who have sweated and sown that others might reap, and have passed +away leaving no trace.<br> +<br> +I once saw a tall cross in a seaboard churchyard, inscribed, “To +the memory of the unknown dead who have perished in these waters.” +There might be one in every village sleeping-place to the unhonoured +many who made fruitful the land with sweat and tears. It is a +consolation to think that when we look back on this stretch of life’s +road from beyond the first milestone, which, it is instructive to remember, +is always a grave, we may hope to see the work of this world with open +eyes, and to judge of it with a due sense of proportion.<br> +<br> +A bee with laden honey-bag hummed and buzzed in the hedge as I got ready +for work, importuning the flowers for that which he could not carry, +and finally giving up the attempt in despair fell asleep on a buttercup, +the best place for his weary little velvet body. In five minutes +- they may have been five hours to him - he awoke a new bee, sensible +and clear-sighted, and flew blithely away to the hive with his sufficiency +- an example this weary world would be wise to follow.<br> +<br> +My road has been lonely to-day. A parson came by in the afternoon, +a stranger in the neighbourhood, for he asked his way. He talked +awhile, and with kindly rebuke said it was sad to see a man of my education +brought so low, which shows how the outside appearance may mislead the +prejudiced observer. “Was it misfortune?” “Nay, +the best of good luck,” I answered, gaily.<br> +<br> +The good man with beautiful readiness sat down on a heap of stones and +bade me say on. “Read me a sermon in stone,” he said, +simply; and I stayed my hand to read.<br> +<br> +He listened with courteous intelligence.<br> +<br> +“You hold a roadmender has a vocation?” he asked.<br> +<br> +“As the monk or the artist, for, like both, he is universal. +The world is his home; he serves all men alike, ay, and for him the +beasts have equal honour with the men. His soul is ‘bound +up in the bundle of life’ with all other souls, he sees his father, +his mother, his brethren in the children of the road. For him +there is nothing unclean, nothing common; the very stones cry out that +they serve.”<br> +<br> +Parson nodded his head.<br> +<br> +“It is all true,” he said; “beautifully true. +But need such a view of life necessitate the work of roadmending? +Surely all men should be roadmenders.”<br> +<br> +O wise parson, so to read the lesson of the road!<br> +<br> +“It is true,” I answered; “but some of us find our +salvation in the actual work, and earn our bread better in this than +in any other way. No man is dependent on our earning, all men +on our work. We are ‘rich beyond the dreams of avarice’ +because we have all that we need, and yet we taste the life and poverty +of the very poor. We are, if you will, uncloistered monks, preaching +friars who speak not with the tongue, disciples who hear the wise words +of a silent master.”<br> +<br> +“Robert Louis Stevenson was a roadmender,” said the wise +parson.<br> +<br> +“Ay, and with more than his pen,” I answered. “I +wonder was he ever so truly great, so entirely the man we know and love, +as when he inspired the chiefs to make a highway in the wilderness. +Surely no more fitting monument could exist to his memory than the Road +of Gratitude, cut, laid, and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of +Samoa.”<br> +<br> +Parson nodded.<br> +<br> +“He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out from +intelligent participation in the world’s brotherhood.” +He filled his pipe, thinking the while, then he held out his pouch to +me.<br> +<br> +“Try some of this baccy,” he said; “Sherwood of Magdalen +sent it me from some outlandish place.”<br> +<br> +I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to the lot +of few roadmenders.<br> +<br> +He rose to go.<br> +<br> +“I wish I could come and break stones,” he said, a little +wistfully.<br> +<br> +“Nay,” said I, “few men have such weary roadmending +as yours, and perhaps you need my road less than most men, and less +than most parsons.”<br> +<br> +We shook hands, and he went down the road and out of my life.<br> +<br> +He little guessed that I knew Sherwood, ay, and knew him too, for had +not Sherwood told me of the man he delighted to honour.<br> +<br> +Ah, well! I am no Browning Junior, and Sherwood’s name is +not Sherwood.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VI<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A while ago I took a holiday; mouched, played truant from my road. +Jem the waggoner hailed me as he passed - he was going to the mill - +would I ride with him and come back atop of the full sacks?<br> +<br> +I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon white and +fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself down on the empty +flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin framed the long vista of +my road with the downs beyond; and I lay in the cool dark, caressed +by the fresh breeze in its thoroughfare, soothed by the strong monotonous +tramp of the great grey team and the music of the jangling harness.<br> +<br> +Jem walked at the leaders’ heads; it is his rule when the waggon +is empty, a rule no “company” will make him break. +At first I regretted it, but soon discovered I learnt to know him better +so, as he plodded along, his thickset figure slightly bent, his hands +in his pockets, his whip under one arm, whistling hymn tunes in a low +minor, while the great horses answered to his voice without touch of +lash or guiding rein.<br> +<br> +I lay as in a blissful dream and watched my road unfold. The sun +set the pine-boles aflare where the hedge is sparse, and stretched the +long shadows of the besom poplars in slanting bars across the white +highway; the roadside gardens smiled friendly with their trim-cut laurels +and rows of stately sunflowers - a seemly proximity this, Daphne and +Clytie, sisters in experience, wrapped in the warm caress of the god +whose wooing they need no longer fear. Here and there we passed +little groups of women and children off to work in the early cornfields, +and Jem paused in his fond repetition of “The Lord my pasture +shall prepare” to give them good-day.<br> +<br> +It is like Life, this travelling backwards - that which has been, alone +visible - like Life, which is after all, retrospective with a steady +moving on into the Unknown, Unseen, until Faith is lost in Sight and +experience is no longer the touchstone of humanity. The face of +the son of Adam is set on the road his brothers have travelled, marking +their landmarks, tracing their journeyings; but with the eyes of a child +of God he looks forward, straining to catch a glimpse of the jewelled +walls of his future home, the city “Eternal in the Heavens.”<br> +<br> +Presently we left my road for the deep shade of a narrow country way +where the great oaks and beeches meet overhead and no hedge-clipper +sets his hand to stay nature’s profusion; and so by pleasant lanes +scarce the waggon’s width across, now shady, now sunny, here bordered +by thickset coverts, there giving on fruitful fields, we came at length +to the mill.<br> +<br> +I left Jem to his business with the miller and wandered down the flowery +meadow to listen to the merry clack of the stream and the voice of the +waters on the weir. The great wheel was at rest, as I love best +to see it in the later afternoon; the splash and churn of the water +belong rather to the morning hours. It is the chief mistake we +make in portioning out our day that we banish rest to the night-time, +which is for sleep and recreating, instead of setting apart the later +afternoon and quiet twilight hours for the stretching of weary limbs +and repose of tired mind after a day’s toil that should begin +and end at five.<br> +<br> +The little stone bridge over the mill-stream is almost on a level with +the clear running water, and I lay there and gazed at the huge wheel +which, under multitudinous forms and uses, is one of the world’s +wonders, because one of the few things we imitative children have not +learnt from nature. Is it perchance a memory out of that past +when Adam walked clear-eyed in Paradise and talked with the Lord in +the cool of the day? Did he see then the flaming wheels instinct +with service, wondrous messengers of the Most High vouchsafed in vision +to the later prophets?<br> +<br> +Maybe he did, and going forth from before the avenging sword of his +own forging to the bitterness of an accursed earth, took with him this +bright memory of perfect, ceaseless service, and so fashioned our labouring +wheel - pathetic link with the time of his innocency. It is one +of many unanswered questions, good to ask because it has no answer, +only the suggestion of a train of thought: perhaps we are never so receptive +as when with folded hands we say simply, “This is a great mystery.” +I watched and wondered until Jem called, and I had to leave the rippling +weir and the water’s side, and the wheel with its untold secret.<br> +<br> +The miller’s wife gave me tea and a crust of home-made bread, +and the miller’s little maid sat on my knee while I told the sad +tale of a little pink cloud separated from its parents and teazed and +hunted by mischievous little airs. To-morrow, if I mistake not, +her garden will be wet with its tears, and, let us hope, point a moral; +for the tale had its origin in a frenzied chicken driven from the side +of an anxious mother, and pursued by a sturdy, relentless figure in +a white sun-bonnet.<br> +<br> +The little maid trotted off, greatly sobered, to look somewhat prematurely +for the cloud’s tears; and I climbed to my place at the top of +the piled-up sacks, and thence watched twilight pass to starlight through +my narrow peep, and, so watching, slept until Jem’s voice hailed +me from Dreamland, and I went, only half awake, across the dark fields +home.<br> +<br> +Autumn is here and it is already late. He has painted the hedges +russet and gold, scarlet and black, and a tangle of grey; now he has +damp brown leaves in his hair and frost in his finger-tips.<br> +<br> +It is a season of contrasts; at first all is stir and bustle, the ingathering +of man and beast; barn and rickyard stand filled with golden treasure; +at the farm the sound of threshing; in wood and copse the squirrels +busied ’twixt tree and storehouse, while the ripe nuts fall with +thud of thunder rain. When the harvesting is over, the fruit gathered, +the last rick thatched, there comes a pause. Earth strips off +her bright colours and shows a bare and furrowed face; the dead leaves +fall gently and sadly through the calm, sweet air; grey mists drape +the fields and hedges. The migratory birds have left, save a few +late swallows; and as I sit at work in the soft, still rain, I can hear +the blackbird’s melancholy trill and the thin pipe of the redbreast’s +winter song - the air is full of the sound of farewell.<br> +<br> +Forethought and preparation for the Future which shall be; farewell, +because of the Future which may never be - for us; “Man, thou +hast goods laid up for many years, and it is well; but, remember, this +night <i>thy</i> soul may be required”; is the unvoiced lesson +of autumn. There is growing up among us a great fear; it stares +at us white, wide-eyed, from the faces of men and women alike - the +fear of pain, mental and bodily pain. For the last twenty years +we have waged war with suffering - a noble war when fought in the interest +of the many, but fraught with great danger to each individual man. +It is the fear which should not be, rather than the ‘hope which +is in us,’ that leads men in these days to drape Death in a flowery +mantle, to lay stress on the shortness of parting, the speedy reunion, +to postpone their good-byes until the last moment, or avoid saying them +altogether; and this fear is a poor, ignoble thing, unworthy of those +who are as gods, knowing good and evil. We are still paying the +price of that knowledge; suffering in both kinds is a substantial part +of it, and brings its own healing. Let us pay like men, our face +to the open heaven, neither whimpering like children in the dark, nor +lulled to unnecessary oblivion by some lethal drug; for it is manly, +not morbid, to dare to taste the pungent savour of pain, the lingering +sadness of farewell which emphasises the aftermath of life; it should +have its place in all our preparation as a part of our inheritance we +dare not be without.<br> +<br> +There is an old couple in our village who are past work. The married +daughter has made shift to take her mother and the parish half-crown, +but there is neither room nor food for the father, and he must go to +N-. If husband and wife went together, they would be separated +at the workhouse door. The parting had to come; it came yesterday. +I saw them stumbling lamely down the road on their last journey together, +walking side by side without touch or speech, seeing and heeding nothing +but a blank future. As they passed me the old man said gruffly, +“’Tis far eno’; better be gettin’ back”; +but the woman shook her head, and they breasted the hill together. +At the top they paused, shook hands, and separated; one went on, the +other turned back; and as the old woman limped blindly by I turned away, +for there are sights a man dare not look upon. She passed; and +I heard a child’s shrill voice say, “I come to look for +you, gran”; and I thanked God that there need be no utter loneliness +in the world while it holds a little child.<br> +<br> +Now it is my turn, and I must leave the wayside to serve in the sheepfolds +during the winter months. It is scarcely a farewell, for my road +is ubiquitous, eternal; there are green ways in Paradise and golden +streets in the beautiful City of God. Nevertheless, my heart is +heavy; for, viewed by the light of the waning year, roadmending seems +a great and wonderful work which I have poorly conceived of and meanly +performed: yet I have learnt to understand dimly the truths of three +great paradoxes - the blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, the +companionship of solitude - and so take my leave of this stretch of +road, and of you who have fared along the white highway through the +medium of a printed page.<br> +<br> +Farewell! It is a roadmender’s word; I cry you Godspeed +to the next milestone - and beyond.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +OUT OF THE SHADOW<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +I am no longer a roadmender; the stretch of white highway which leads +to the end of the world will know me no more; the fields and hedgerows, +grass and leaf stiff with the crisp rime of winter’s breath, lie +beyond my horizon; the ewes in the folding, their mysterious eyes quick +with the consciousness of coming motherhood, answer another’s +voice and hand; while I lie here, not in the lonely companionship of +my expectations, but where the shadow is bright with kindly faces and +gentle hands, until one kinder and gentler still carries me down the +stairway into the larger room.<br> +<br> +But now the veil was held aside and one went by crowned with the majesty +of years, wearing the ermine of an unstained rule, the purple of her +people’s loyalty. Nations stood with bated breath to see +her pass in the starlit mist of her children’s tears; a monarch +- greatest of her time; an empress - conquered men called mother; a +woman - Englishmen cried queen; still the crowned captive of her people’s +heart - the prisoner of love.<br> +<br> +The night-goers passed under my window in silence, neither song nor +shout broke the welcome dark; next morning the workmen who went by were +strangely quiet.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘VICTORIA DEI GRATIA BRITANNIARUM REGINA.’<br> +<br> +<br> +Did they think of how that legend would disappear, and of all it meant, +as they paid their pennies at the coffee-stall? The feet rarely +know the true value and work of the head; but all Englishmen have been +and will be quick to acknowledge and revere Victoria by the grace of +God a wise woman, a great and loving mother.<br> +<br> +Years ago, I, standing at a level crossing, saw her pass. The +train slowed down and she caught sight of the gatekeeper’s little +girl who had climbed the barrier. Such a smile as she gave her! +And then I caught a quick startled gesture as she slipped from my vision; +I thought afterwards it was that she feared the child might fall. +Mother first, then Queen; even so rest came to her - not in one of the +royal palaces, but in her own home, surrounded by the immediate circle +of her nearest and dearest, while the world kept watch and ward.<br> +<br> +I, a shy lover of the fields and woods, longed always, should a painless +passing be vouchsafed me, to make my bed on the fragrant pine needles +in the aloneness of a great forest; to lie once again as I had lain +many a time, bathed in the bitter sweetness of the sun-blessed pines, +lapped in the manifold silence; my ear attuned to the wind of Heaven +with its call from the Cities of Peace. In sterner mood, when +Love’s hand held a scourge, I craved rather the stress of the +moorland with its bleaker mind imperative of sacrifice. To rest +again under the lee of Rippon Tor swept by the strong peat-smelling +breeze; to stare untired at the long cloud-shadowed reaches, and watch +the mist-wraiths huddle and shrink round the stones of blood; until +my sacrifice too was accomplished, and my soul had fled. A wild +waste moor; a vast void sky; and naught between heaven and earth but +man, his sin-glazed eyes seeking afar the distant light of his own heart.<br> +<br> +With years came counsels more profound, and the knowledge that man was +no mere dweller in the woods to follow the footsteps of the piping god, +but an integral part of an organised whole, in which Pan too has his +fulfilment. The wise Venetians knew; and read pantheism into Christianity +when they set these words round Ezekiel’s living creatures in +the altar vault of St Mark’s:-<br> +<br> +<br> +QUAEQUE SUB OBSCURIS DE CRISTO DICTA FIGURIS HIS APERIRE DATUR ET IN +HIS, DEUS IPSE NOTATUR.<br> +<br> +<br> +“Thou shalt have none other gods but me.” If man had +been able to keep this one commandment perfectly the other nine would +never have been written; instead he has comprehensively disregarded +it, and perhaps never more than now in the twentieth century. +Ah, well! this world, in spite of all its sinning, is still the Garden +of Eden where the Lord walked with man, not in the cool of evening, +but in the heat and stress of the immediate working day. There +is no angel now with flaming sword to keep the way of the Tree of Life, +but tapers alight morning by morning in the Hostel of God to point us +to it; and we, who are as gods knowing good and evil, partake of that +fruit “whereof whoso eateth shall never die”; the greatest +gift or the most awful penalty - Eternal Life.<br> +<br> +I then, with my craving for tree and sky, held that a great capital +with its stir of life and death, of toil and strife and pleasure, was +an ill place for a sick man to wait in; a place to shrink from as a +child shrinks from the rude blow of one out of authority. Yet +here, far from moor and forest, hillside and hedgerow, in the family +sitting-room of the English-speaking peoples, the London much misunderstood, +I find the fulfilment by antithesis of all desire. For the loneliness +of the moorland, there is the warmth and companionship of London’s +swift beating heart. For silence there is sound - the sound and +stir of service - for the most part far in excess of its earthly equivalent. +Against the fragrant incense of the pines I set the honest sweat of +the man whose lifetime is the measure of his working day. “He +that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God +whom he hath not seen?” wrote Blessed John, who himself loved +so much that he beheld the Lamb as it had been slain from the beginning +when Adam fell, and the City of God with light most precious. +The burden of corporate sin, the sword of corporate sorrow, the joy +of corporate righteousness; thus we become citizens in the Kingdom of +God, and companions of all his creatures. “It is not good +that the man should be alone,” said the Lord God.<br> +<br> +I live now as it were in two worlds, the world of sight, and the world +of sound; and they scarcely ever touch each other. I hear the +grind of heavy traffic, the struggle of horses on the frost-breathed +ground, the decorous jolt of omnibuses, the jangle of cab bells, the +sharp warning of bicycles at the corner, the swift rattle of costers’ +carts as they go south at night with their shouting, goading crew. +All these things I hear, and more; but I see no road, only the silent +river of my heart with its tale of wonder and years, and the white beat +of seagulls’ wings in strong inquiring flight.<br> +<br> +Sometimes there is naught to see on the waterway but a solitary black +hull, a very Stygian ferry-boat, manned by a solitary figure, and moving +slowly up under the impulse of the far-reaching sweeps. Then the +great barges pass with their coffined treasure, drawn by a small self-righteous +steam-tug. Later, lightened of their load, and waiting on wind +and tide, I see them swooping by like birds set free; tawny sails that +mind me of red-roofed Whitby with its northern fleet; black sails as +of some heedless Theseus; white sails that sweep out of the morning +mist “like restless gossameres.” They make the bridge, +which is just within my vision, and then away past Westminster and Blackfriars +where St Paul’s great dome lifts the cross high over a self-seeking +city; past Southwark where England’s poet illuminates in the scroll +of divine wisdom the sign of the Tabard; past the Tower with its haunting +ghosts of history; past Greenwich, fairy city, caught in the meshes +of riverside mist; and then the salt and speer of the sea, the companying +with great ships, the fresh burden.<br> +<br> +At night I see them again, silent, mysterious; searching the darkness +with unwinking yellow stare, led by a great green light. They +creep up under the bridge which spans the river with its watching eyes, +and vanish, crying back a warning note as they make the upper reach, +or strident hail, as a chain of kindred phantoms passes, ploughing a +contrary tide.<br> +<br> +Throughout the long watches of the night I follow them; and in the early +morning they slide by, their eyes pale in the twilight; while the stars +flicker and fade, and the gas lamps die down into a dull yellow blotch +against the glory and glow of a new day.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +February is here, February fill-dyke; the month of purification, of +cleansing rains and pulsing bounding streams, and white mist clinging +insistent to field and hedgerow so that when her veil is withdrawn greenness +may make us glad.<br> +<br> +The river has been uniformly grey of late, with no wind to ruffle its +surface or to speed the barges dropping slowly and sullenly down with +the tide through a blurring haze. I watched one yesterday, its +useless sails half-furled and no sign of life save the man at the helm. +It drifted stealthily past, and a little behind, flying low, came a +solitary seagull, grey as the river’s haze - a following bird.<br> +<br> +Once again I lay on my back in the bottom of the tarry old fishing smack, +blue sky above and no sound but the knock, knock of the waves, and the +thud and curl of falling foam as the old boat’s blunt nose breasted +the coming sea. Then Daddy Whiddon spoke.<br> +<br> +“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said.<br> +<br> +I got up, and looked across the blue field we were ploughing into white +furrows. Far away a tiny sail scarred the great solitude, and +astern came a gull flying slowly close to the water’s breast.<br> +<br> +Daddy Whiddon waved his pipe towards it.<br> +<br> +“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said, again; and again +I waited; questions were not grateful to him.<br> +<br> +“There be a carpse there, sure enough, a carpse driftin’ +and shiftin’ on the floor of the sea. There be those as +can’t rest, poor sawls, and her’ll be mun, her’ll +be mun, and the sperrit of her is with the bürrd.”<br> +<br> +The clumsy boom swung across as we changed our course, and the water +ran from us in smooth reaches on either side: the bird flew steadily +on.<br> +<br> +“What will the spirit do?” I said.<br> +<br> +The old man looked at me gravely.<br> +<br> +“Her’ll rest in the Lard’s time, in the Lard’s +gude time - but now her’ll just be follerin’ on with the +bürrd.”<br> +<br> +The gull was flying close to us now, and a cold wind swept the sunny +sea. I shivered: Daddy looked at me curiously.<br> +<br> +“There be reason enough to be cawld if us did but knaw it, but +I he mos’ used to ’em, poor sawls.” He shaded +his keen old blue eyes, and looked away across the water. His +face kindled. “There be a skule comin’, and by my +sawl ’tis mackerel they be drivin’.”<br> +<br> +I watched eagerly, and saw the dark line rise and fall in the trough +of the sea, and, away behind, the stir and rush of tumbling porpoises +as they chased their prey.<br> +<br> +Again we changed our tack, and each taking an oar, pulled lustily for +the beach.<br> +<br> +“Please God her’ll break inshore,” said Daddy Whiddon; +and he shouted the news to the idle waiting men who hailed us.<br> +<br> +In a moment all was stir, for the fishing had been slack. Two +boats put out with the lithe brown seine. The dark line had turned, +but the school was still behind, churning the water in clumsy haste; +they were coming in.<br> +<br> +Then the brit broke in silvery leaping waves on the shelving beach. +The threefold hunt was over; the porpoises turned out to sea in search +of fresh quarry; and the seine, dragged by ready hands, came slowly, +stubbornly in with its quivering treasure of fish. They had sought +a haven and found none; the brit lay dying in flickering iridescent +heaps as the bare-legged babies of the village gathered them up; and +far away over the water I saw a single grey speck; it was the following +bird.<br> +<br> +<br> +The curtain of river haze falls back; barge and bird are alike gone, +and the lamplighter has lit the first gas-lamp on the far side of the +bridge. Every night I watch him come, his progress marked by the +great yellow eyes that wake the dark. Sometimes he walks quickly; +sometimes he loiters on the bridge to chat, or stare at the dark water; +but he always comes, leaving his watchful deterrent train behind him +to police the night.<br> +<br> +Once Demeter in the black anguish of her desolation searched for lost +Persephone by the light of Hecate’s torch; and searching all in +vain, spurned beneath her empty feet an earth barren of her smile; froze +with set brows the merry brooks and streams; and smote forest, and plain, +and fruitful field, with the breath of her last despair, until even +Iambe’s laughing jest was still. And then when the desolation +was complete, across the wasted valley where the starveling cattle scarcely +longed to browse, came the dreadful chariot - and Persephone. +The day of the prisoner of Hades had dawned; and as the sun flamed slowly +up to light her thwarted eyes the world sprang into blossom at her feet.<br> +<br> +We can never be too Pagan when we are truly Christian, and the old myths +are eternal truths held fast in the Church’s net. Prometheus +fetched fire from Heaven, to be slain forever in the fetching; and lo, +a Greater than Prometheus came to fire the cresset of the Cross. +Demeter waits now patiently enough. Persephone waits, too, in +the faith of the sun she cannot see: and every lamp lit carries on the +crusade which has for its goal a sunless, moonless, city whose light +is the Light of the world.<br> +<br> +<br> +“Lume è lassù, che visibile face<br> +lo creatore a quella creatura,<br> +che solo in lui vedere ha la sua pace.”<br> +<br> +<br> +Immediately outside my window is a lime tree - a little black skeleton +of abundant branches - in which sparrows congregate to chirp and bicker. +Farther away I have a glimpse of graceful planes, children of moonlight +and mist; their dainty robes, still more or less unsullied, gleam ghostly +in the gaslight athwart the dark. They make a brave show even +in winter with their feathery branches and swinging tassels, whereas +my little tree stands stark and uncompromising, with its horde of sooty +sparrows cockney to the last tail feather, and a pathetic inability +to look anything but black. Rain comes with strong caressing fingers, +and the branches seem no whit the cleaner for her care; but then their +glistening blackness mirrors back the succeeding sunlight, as a muddy +pavement will sometimes lap our feet in a sea of gold. The little +wet sparrows are for the moment equally transformed, for the sun turns +their dun-coloured coats to a ruddy bronze, and cries Chrysostom as +it kisses each shiny beak. They are dumb Chrysostoms; but they +preach a golden gospel, for the sparrows are to London what the rainbow +was to eight saved souls out of a waste of waters - a perpetual sign +of the remembering mercies of God.<br> +<br> +Last night there was a sudden clatter of hoofs, a shout, and then silence. +A runaway cab-horse, a dark night, a wide crossing, and a heavy burden: +so death came to a poor woman. People from the house went out +to help; and I heard of her, the centre of an unknowing curious crowd, +as she lay bonnetless in the mud of the road, her head on the kerb. +A rude but painless death: the misery lay in her life; for this woman +- worn, white-haired, and wrinkled - had but fifty years to set against +such a condition. The policeman reported her respectable, hard-working, +living apart from her husband with a sister; but although they shared +rooms, they “did not speak,” and the sister refused all +responsibility; so the parish buried the dead woman, and thus ended +an uneventful tragedy.<br> +<br> +Was it her own fault? If so, the greater pathos. The lonely +souls that hold out timid hands to an unheeding world have their meed +of interior comfort even here, while the sons of consolation wait on +the thresh-hold for their footfall: but God help the soul that bars +its own door! It is kicking against the pricks of Divine ordinance, +the ordinance of a triune God; whether it be the dweller in crowded +street or tenement who is proud to say, “I keep myself to myself,” +or Seneca writing in pitiful complacency, “Whenever I have gone +among men, I have returned home less of a man.” Whatever +the next world holds in store, we are bidden in this to seek and serve +God in our fellow-men, and in the creatures of His making whom He calls +by name.<br> +<br> +It was once my privilege to know an old organ-grinder named Gawdine. +He was a hard swearer, a hard drinker, a hard liver, and he fortified +himself body and soul against the world: he even drank alone, which +is an evil sign.<br> +<br> +One day to Gawdine sober came a little dirty child, who clung to his +empty trouser leg - he had lost a limb years before - with a persistent +unintelligible request. He shook the little chap off with a blow +and a curse; and the child was trotting dismally away, when it suddenly +turned, ran back, and held up a dirty face for a kiss.<br> +<br> +Two days later Gawdine fell under a passing dray which inflicted terrible +internal injuries on him. They patched him up in hospital, and +he went back to his organ-grinding, taking with him two friends - a +pain which fell suddenly upon him to rack and rend with an anguish of +crucifixion, and the memory of a child’s upturned face. +Outwardly he was the same save that he changed the tunes of his organ, +out of long-hoarded savings, for the jigs and reels which children hold +dear, and stood patiently playing them in child-crowded alleys, where +pennies are not as plentiful as elsewhere.<br> +<br> +He continued to drink; it did not come within his new code to stop, +since he could “carry his liquor well;” but he rarely, if +ever, swore. He told me this tale through the throes of his anguish +as he lay crouched on a mattress on the floor; and as the grip of the +pain took him he tore and bit at his hands until they were maimed and +bleeding, to keep the ready curses off his lips.<br> +<br> +He told the story, but he gave no reason, offered no explanation: he +has been dead now many a year, and thus would I write his epitaph:-<br> +<br> +He saw the face of a little child and looked on God.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +“Two began, in a low voice, ‘Why, the fact is, you see, +Miss, this here ought to have been a <i>red</i> rose-tree, and we put +a white one in by mistake.’”<br> +<br> +As I look round this room I feel sure Two, and Five, and Seven, have +all been at work on it, and made no mistakes, for round the walls runs +a frieze of squat standard rose-trees, red as red can be, and just like +those that Alice saw in the Queen’s garden. In between them +are Chaucer’s name-children, prim little daisies, peering wideawake +from green grass. This same grass has a history which I have heard. +In the original stencil for the frieze it was purely conventional like +the rest, and met in spikey curves round each tree; the painter, however, +who was doing the work, was a lover of the fields; and feeling that +such grass was a travesty, he added on his own account dainty little +tussocks, and softened the hard line into a tufted carpet, the grass +growing irregularly, bent at will by the wind.<br> +<br> +The result from the standpoint of conventional art is indeed disastrous; +but my sympathy and gratitude are with the painter. I see, as +he saw, the far-reaching robe of living ineffable green, of whose brilliance +the eye never has too much, and in whose weft no two threads are alike; +and shrink as he did from the conventionalising of that windswept glory.<br> +<br> +The sea has its crested waves of recognisable form; the river its eddy +and swirl and separate vortices; but the grass! The wind bloweth +where it listeth and the grass bows as the wind blows - “thou +canst not tell whither it goeth.” It takes no pattern, it +obeys no recognised law; it is like a beautiful creature of a thousand +wayward moods, and its voice is like nothing else in the wide world. +It bids you rest and bury your tired face in the green coolness, and +breathe of its breath and of the breath of the good earth from which +man was taken and to which he will one day return. Then, if you +lend your ear and are silent minded, you may hear wondrous things of +the deep places of the earth; of life in mineral and stone as well as +in pulsing sap; of a green world as the stars saw it before man trod +it under foot - of the emerald which has its place with the rest in +the City of God.<br> +<br> +<br> +“What if earth<br> +Be but the shadow of heaven, and things therein,<br> +Each to each other like, more than on earth to thought?”<br> +<br> +<br> +It is a natural part of civilisation’s lust of re-arrangement +that we should be so ready to conventionalise the beauty of this world +into decorative patterns for our pilgrim tents. It is a phase, +and will melt into other phases; but it tends to the increase of artificiality, +and exists not only in art but in everything. It is no new thing +for jaded sentiment to crave the spur of the unnatural, to prefer the +clever imitation, to live in a Devachan where the surroundings appear +that which we would have them to be; but it is an interesting record +of the pulse of the present day that ‘An Englishwoman’s +Love Letters’ should have taken society by storm in the way it +certainly has.<br> +<br> +It is a delightful book to leave about, with its vellum binding, dainty +ribbons, and the hallmark of a great publisher’s name. But +when we seek within we find love with its thousand voices and wayward +moods, its shy graces and seemly reticences, love which has its throne +and robe of state as well as the garment of the beggar maid, love which +is before time was, which knew the world when the stars took up their +courses, presented to us in gushing outpourings, the appropriate language +of a woman’s heart to the boor she delights to honour.<br> +<br> +“It is woman who is the glory of man,” says the author of +‘The House of Wisdom and Love,’ “<i>Regina</i> <i>mundi</i>, +greater, because so far the less; and man is her head, but only as he +serves his queen.” Set this sober aphorism against the school +girl love-making which kisses a man’s feet and gaily refuses him +the barren honour of having loved her first.<br> +<br> +There is scant need for the apologia which precedes the letters; a few +pages dispels the fear that we are prying into another’s soul. +As for the authorship, there is a woman’s influence, an artist’s +poorly concealed bias in the foreign letters; and for the rest a man’s +blunders - so much easier to see in another than to avoid oneself - +writ large from cover to cover. King Cophetua, who sends “profoundly +grateful remembrances,” has most surely written the letters he +would wish to receive.<br> +<br> +“Mrs Meynell!” cries one reviewer, triumphantly. Nay, +the saints be good to us, what has Mrs Meynell in common with the “Englishwoman’s” +language, style, or most unconvincing passion? Men can write as +from a woman’s heart when they are minded to do so in desperate +earnestness - there is Clarissa Harlowe and Stevenson’s Kirstie, +and many more to prove it; but when a man writes as the author of the +“Love Letters” writes, I feel, as did the painter of the +frieze, that pattern-making has gone too far and included that which, +like the grass, should be spared such a convention.<br> +<br> +“I quite agree with you,” said the Duchess, “and the +moral of that is - ‘Be what you would seem to be’ - or, +if you’d like to put it more simply - ‘never imagine yourself +not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you +were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would +have appeared to them to be otherwise.’” And so by +way of the Queen’s garden I come back to my room again.<br> +<br> +My heart’s affections are still centred on my old attic, with +boarded floor and white-washed walls, where the sun blazoned a frieze +of red and gold until he travelled too far towards the north, the moon +streamed in to paint the trees in inky wavering shadows, and the stars +flashed their glory to me across the years. But now sun and moon +greet me only indirectly, and under the red roses hang pictures, some +of them the dear companions of my days. Opposite me is the Arundel +print of the Presentation, painted by the gentle “Brother of the +Angels.” Priest Simeon, a stately figure in green and gold, +great with prophecy, gazes adoringly at the Bambino he holds with fatherly +care. Our Lady, in robe of red and veil of shadowed purple, is +instinct with light despite the sombre colouring, as she stretches out +hungering, awe-struck hands for her soul’s delight. St Joseph, +dignified guardian and servitor, stands behind, holding the Sacrifice +of the Poor to redeem the First-begotten.<br> +<br> +St Peter Martyr and the Dominican nun, gazing in rapt contemplation +at the scene, are not one whit surprised to find themselves in the presence +of eternal mysteries. In the Entombment, which hangs on the opposite +wall, St Dominic comes round the corner full of grievous amaze and tenderest +sympathy, but with no sense of shock or intrusion, for was he not “famigliar +di Cristo”? And so he takes it all in; the stone bed empty +and waiting; the Beloved cradled for the last time on His mother’s +knees to be washed, lapped round, and laid to rest as if He were again +the Babe of Bethlehem. He sees the Magdalen anointing the Sacred +Feet; Blessed John caring for the living and the Dead; and he, Dominic +- hound of the Lord - having his real, living share in the anguish and +hope, the bedding of the dearest Dead, who did but leave this earth +that He might manifest Himself more completely.<br> +<br> +Underneath, with a leap across the centuries, is Rossetti’s picture; +Dante this time the onlooker, Beatrice, in her pale beauty, the death-kissed +one. The same idea under different representations; the one conceived +in childlike simplicity, the other recalling, even in the photograph, +its wealth of colour and imagining; the one a world-wide ideal, the +other an individual expression of it.<br> +<br> +Beatrice was to Dante the inclusion of belief. She was more to +him than he himself knew, far more to him after her death than before. +And, therefore, the analogy between the pictures has at core a common +reality. “It is expedient for you that I go away,” +is constantly being said to us as we cling earthlike to the outward +expression, rather than to the inward manifestation - and blessed are +those who hear and understand, for it is spoken only to such as have +been with Him from the beginning. The eternal mysteries come into +time for us individually under widely differing forms. The tiny +child mothers its doll, croons to it, spends herself upon it, why she +cannot tell you; and we who are here in our extreme youth, never to +be men and women grown in this world, nurse our ideal, exchange it, +refashion it, call it by many names; and at last in here or hereafter +we find in its naked truth the Child in the manger, even as the Wise +Men found Him when they came from the East to seek a great King. +There is but one necessary condition of this finding; we must follow +the particular manifestation of light given us, never resting until +it rests - over the place of the Child. And there is but one insurmountable +hindrance, the extinction of or drawing back from the light truly apprehended +by us. We forget this, and judge other men by the light of our +own soul.<br> +<br> +I think the old bishop must have understood it. He is my friend +of friends as he lies opposite my window in his alabaster sleep, clad +in pontifical robes, with unshod feet, a little island of white peace +in a many-coloured marble sea. The faithful sculptor has given +every line and wrinkle, the heavy eyelids and sunken face of tired old +age, but withal the smile of a contented child.<br> +<br> +I do not even know my bishop’s name, only that the work is of +the thirteenth century; but he is good to company with through the day, +for he has known darkness and light and the minds of many men; most +surely, too, he has known that God fulfils Himself in strange ways, +so with the shadow of his feet upon the polished floor he rests in peace.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +On Sunday my little tree was limned in white and the sparrows were craving +shelter at my window from the blizzard. Now the mild thin air +brings a breath of spring in its wake and the daffodils in the garden +wait the kisses of the sun. Hand-in-hand with memory I slip away +down the years, and remember a day when I awoke at earliest dawn, for +across my sleep I had heard the lusty golden-throated trumpeters heralding +the spring.<br> +<br> +The air was sharp-set; a delicate rime frosted roof and road; the sea +lay hazy and still like a great pearl. Then as the sky stirred +with flush upon flush of warm rosy light, it passed from misty pearl +to opal with heart of flame, from opal to gleaming sapphire. The +earth called, the fields called, the river called - that pied piper +to whose music a man cannot stop his ears. It was with me as with +the Canterbury pilgrims:-<br> +<br> +<br> +“So priketh hem nature in hir corages;<br> +Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages.”<br> +<br> +<br> +Half an hour later I was away by the early train that carries the branch +mails and a few workmen, and was delivered at the little wayside station +with the letters. The kind air went singing past as I swung along +the reverberating road between the high tree-crowned banks which we +call hedges in merry Devon, with all the world to myself and the Brethren. +A great blackbird flew out with a loud “chook, chook,” and +the red of the haw on his yellow bill. A robin trilled from a +low rose-bush; two wrens searched diligently on a fallen tree for breakfast, +quite unconcerned when I rested a moment beside them; and a shrewmouse +slipped across the road followed directly by its mate. March violets +bloomed under the sheltered hedge with here and there a pale primrose; +a frosted bramble spray still held its autumn tints clinging to the +semblance of the past; and great branches of snowy blackthorn broke +the barren hedgeway as if spring made a mock of winter’s snows.<br> +<br> +Light of heart and foot with the new wine of the year I sped on again, +stray daffodils lighting the wayside, until I heard the voice of the +stream and reached the field gate which leads to the lower meadows. +There before me lay spring’s pageant; green pennons waving, dainty +maids curtseying, and a host of joyous yellow trumpeters proclaiming +‘Victory’ to an awakened earth. They range in serried +ranks right down to the river, so that a man must walk warily to reach +the water’s edge where they stand gazing down at themselves in +fairest semblance like their most tragic progenitor, and, rising from +the bright grass in their thousands, stretch away until they melt in +a golden cloud at the far end of the misty mead. Through the field +gate and across the road I see them, starring the steep earth bank that +leads to the upper copse, gleaming like pale flames against the dark +tree-boles. There they have but frail tenure; here, in the meadows, +they reign supreme.<br> +<br> +At the upper end of the field the river provides yet closer sanctuary +for these children of the spring. Held in its embracing arms lies +an island long and narrow, some thirty feet by twelve, a veritable untrod +Eldorado, glorious in gold from end to end, a fringe of reeds by the +water’s edge, and save for that - daffodils. A great oak +stands at the meadow’s neck, an oak with gnarled and wandering +roots where a man may rest, for it is bare of daffodils save for a group +of three, and a solitary one apart growing close to the old tree’s +side. I sat down by my lonely little sister, blue sky overhead, +green grass at my feet decked, like the pastures of the Blessèd, +in glorious sheen; a sea of triumphant, golden heads tossing blithely +back as the wind swept down to play with them at his pleasure.<br> +<br> +It was all mine to have and to hold without severing a single slender +stem or harbouring a thought of covetousness; mine, as the whole earth +was mine, to appropriate to myself without the burden and bane of worldly +possession. “Thou sayest that I am - a King,” said +the Lord before Pilate, and “My kingdom is not of this world.” +We who are made kings after His likeness possess all things, not after +this world’s fashion but in proportion to our poverty; and when +we cease to toil and spin, are arrayed as the lilies, in a glory transcending +Solomon’s. Bride Poverty - she who climbed the Cross with +Christ - stretched out eager hands to free us from our chains, but we +flee from her, and lay up treasure against her importunity, while Amytas +on his seaweed bed weeps tears of pure pity for crave-mouth Caesar of +great possessions.<br> +<br> +Presently another of spring’s lovers cried across the water “Cuckoo, +cuckoo,” and the voice of the stream sang joyously in unison. +It is free from burden, this merry little river, and neither weir nor +mill bars its quick way to the sea as it completes the eternal circle, +lavishing gifts of coolness and refreshment on the children of the meadows.<br> +<br> +It has its birth on the great lone moor, cradled in a wonderful peat-smelling +bog, with a many-hued coverlet of soft mosses - pale gold, orange, emerald, +tawny, olive and white, with the red stain of sun-dew and tufted cotton-grass. +Under the old grey rocks which watch it rise, yellow-eyed tormantil +stars the turf, and bids “Godspeed” to the little child +of earth and sky. Thus the journey begins; and with ever-increasing +strength the stream carves a way through the dear brown peat, wears +a fresh wrinkle on the patient stones, and patters merrily under a clapper +bridge which spanned its breadth when the mistletoe reigned and Bottor, +the grim rock idol, exacted the toll of human life that made him great. +On and on goes the stream, for it may not stay; leaving of its freshness +with the great osmunda that stretches eager roots towards the running +water; flowing awhile with a brother stream, to part again east and +west as each takes up his separate burden of service - my friend to +cherish the lower meadows in their flowery joyance - and so by the great +sea-gate back to sky and earth again.<br> +<br> +The river of God is full of water. The streets of the City are +pure gold. Verily, here also having nothing we possess all things.<br> +<br> +<br> +The air was keen and still as I walked back in the early evening, and +a daffodil light was in the sky as if Heaven mirrored back earth’s +radiance. Near the station some children flitted past, like little +white miller moths homing through the dusk. As I climbed the hill +the moon rode high in a golden field - it was daffodils to the last.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The seagulls from the upper reaches pass down the river in sober steady +flight seeking the open sea. I shall miss the swoop and circle +of silver wings in the sunlight and the plaintive call which sounds +so strangely away from rock and shore, but it is good to know that they +have gone from mudbank and murky town back to the free airs of their +inheritance, to the shadow of sun-swept cliffs and the curling crest +of the wind-beaten waves, to brood again over the great ocean of a world’s +tears.<br> +<br> +My little tree is gemmed with buds, shy, immature, but full of promise. +The sparrows busied with nest-building in the neighbouring pipes and +gutters use it for a vantage ground, and crowd there in numbers, each +little beak sealed with long golden straw or downy feather.<br> +<br> +The river is heavy with hay barges, the last fruits of winter’s +storehouse; the lengthening days slowly and steadily oust the dark; +the air is loud with a growing clamour of life: spring is not only proclaimed, +but on this Feast she is crowned, and despite the warring wind the days +bring their meed of sunshine. We stand for a moment at the meeting +of the ways, the handclasp of Winter and Spring, of Sleep and Wakening, +of Life and Death; and there is between them not even the thin line +which Rabbi Jochanan on his death-bed beheld as all that divided hell +from heaven.<br> +<br> +“<i>Sphaera cujus centrum ubique, circumferentia nullibus</i>,” +was said of Mercury, that messenger of the gods who marshalled reluctant +spirits to the Underworld; and for Mercury we may write Life with Death +as its great sacrament of brotherhood and release, to be dreaded only +as we dread to partake unworthily of great benefits. Like all +sacraments it has its rightful time and due solemnities; the horror +and sin of suicide lie in the presumption of free will, the forestalling +of a gift, - the sin of Eve in Paradise, who took that which might only +be given at the hand of the Lord. It has too its physical pains, +but they are those of a woman in travail, and we remember them no more +for joy that a child-man is born into the world naked and not ashamed: +beholding ourselves as we are we shall see also the leaves of the Tree +of Life set for the healing of the nations.<br> +<br> +We are slowly, very slowly, abandoning our belief in sudden and violent +transitions for a surer and fuller acceptance of the doctrine of evolution; +but most of us still draw a sharp line of demarcation between this world +and the next, and expect a radical change in ourselves and our surroundings, +a break in the chain of continuity entirely contrary to the teaching +of nature and experience. In the same way we cling to the specious +untruth that we can begin over and over again in this world, forgetting +that while our sorrow and repentance bring sacramental gifts of grace +and strength, God Himself cannot, by His own limitation, rewrite the +Past. We are in our sorrow that which we have made ourselves in +our sin; our temptations are there as well as the way of escape. +We are in the image of God. We create our world, our undying selves, +our heaven, or our hell. “<i>Qui creavit te sine te non +salvabit te sine</i> <i>te</i>.” It is stupendous, magnificent, +and most appalling. A man does not change as he crosses the threshold +of the larger room. His personality remains the same, although +the expression of it may be altered. Here we have material bodies +in a material world - there, perhaps, ether bodies in an ether world. +There is no indecency in reasonable speculation and curiosity about +the life to come. One end of the thread is between our fingers, +but we are haunted for the most part by the snap of Atropos’ shears.<br> +<br> +Socrates faced death with the magnificent calm bred of dignified familiarity. +He had built for himself a desired heaven of colour, light, and precious +stones - the philosophic formula of those who set the spiritual above +the material, and worship truth in the beauty of holiness. He +is not troubled by doubts or regrets, for the path of the just lies +plain before his face. He forbids mourning and lamentations as +out of place, obeys minutely and cheerily the directions of his executioner, +and passes with unaffected dignity to the apprehension of that larger +truth for which he had constantly prepared himself. His friends +may bury him provided they will remember they are not burying Socrates; +and that all things may be done decently and in order, a cock must go +to AEsculapius.<br> +<br> +Long before, in the days of the Captivity, there lived in godless, blood-shedding +Nineveh an exiled Jew whose father had fallen from the faith. +He was a simple man, child-like and direct; living the careful, kindly +life of an orthodox Jew, suffering many persecutions for conscience’ +sake, and in constant danger of death. He narrates the story of +his life and of the blindness which fell on him, with gentle placidity, +and checks the exuberance of his more emotional wife with the assurance +of untroubled faith. Finally, when his pious expectations are +fulfilled, his sight restored, and his son prosperously established +beside him, he breaks into a prayer of rejoicing which reveals the secret +of his confident content. He made use of two great faculties: +the sense of proportion, which enabled him to apprise life and its accidents +justly, and the gift of in-seeing, which led Socrates after him, and +Blessed John in lonely exile on Patmos, to look through the things temporal +to the hidden meanings of eternity.<br> +<br> +“Let my soul bless God the great King,” he cries; and looks +away past the present distress; past the Restoration which was to end +in fresh scattering and confusion; past the dream of gold, and porphyry, +and marble defaced by the eagles and emblems of the conqueror; until +his eyes are held by the Jerusalem of God, “built up with sapphires, +and emeralds, and precious stones,” with battlements of pure gold, +and the cry of ‘Alleluia’ in her streets.<br> +<br> +Many years later, when he was very aged, he called his son to him and +gave him as heritage his own simple rule of life, adding but one request: +“Keep thou the law and the commandments, and shew thyself merciful +and just, that it may go well with thee. . . . Consider what alms doeth, +and how righteousness doth deliver. . . . And bury me decently, and +thy mother with me.” Having so said, he went his way quietly +and contentedly to the Jerusalem of his heart.<br> +<br> +It is the simple note of familiarity that is wanting in us; that by +which we link world with world. Once, years ago, I sat by the +bedside of a dying man in a wretched garret in the East End. He +was entirely ignorant, entirely quiescent, and entirely uninterested. +The minister of a neighbouring chapel came to see him and spoke to him +at some length of the need for repentance and the joys of heaven. +After he had gone my friend lay staring restlessly at the mass of decrepit +broken chimney pots which made his horizon. At last he spoke, +and there was a new note in his voice:-<br> +<br> +“Ee said as ’ow there were golding streets in them parts. +I ain’t no ways particler wot they’re made of, but it’ll +feel natral like if there’s chimleys too.”<br> +<br> +The sun stretched a sudden finger and painted the chimney pots red and +gold against the smoke-dimmed sky, and with his face alight with surprised +relief my friend died.<br> +<br> +We are one with the earth, one in sin, one in redemption. It is +the fringe of the garment of God. “If I may but touch the +hem,” said a certain woman.<br> +<br> +On the great Death-day which shadows the early spring with a shadow +of which it may be said <i>Umbra Dei est Lux</i>, the earth brought +gifts of grief, the fruit of the curse, barren thorns, hollow reed, +and the wood of the cross; the sea made offering of Tyrian purple; the +sky veiled her face in great darkness, while the nation of priests crucified +for the last time their Paschal lamb. “I will hear, saith +the Lord; I will hear the heavens, and they shall hear the earth, and +the earth shall hear the corn and wine and oil, and they shall hear +Jezreel, and I will sow her unto me in the earth; and I will have mercy +upon her that had not obtained mercy, and I will say unto them which +were not my people, ‘Thou art my people,’ and they shall +say ‘Thou art my God.’”<br> +<br> +The second Adam stood in the garden with quickening feet, and all the +earth pulsed and sang for joy of the new hope and the new life quickening +within her, to be hers through the pains of travail, the pangs of dissolution. +The Tree of Life bears Bread and Wine - food of the wayfaring man. +The day of divisions is past, the day of unity has dawned. One +has risen from the dead, and in the Valley of Achor stands wide the +Door of Hope - the Sacrament of Death.<br> +<br> +<br> +Scio Domine, et vere scio . . . quia non sum dignus accedere ad tantum +mysterium propter nimia peccata mea et infinitas negligentias meas. +Sed scio . . . quia tu potes me facere dignum.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VI<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +“Anytus and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot hurt me,” +said Socrates; and Governor Sancho, with all the itch of newly-acquired +authority, could not make the young weaver of steel-heads for lances +sleep in prison. In the Vision of Er the souls passed straight +forward under the throne of necessity, and out into the plains of forgetfulness, +where they must severally drink of the river of unmindfulness whose +waters cannot be held in any vessel. The throne, the plain, and +the river are still here, but in the distance rise the great lone heavenward +hills, and the wise among us no longer ask of the gods Lethe, but rather +remembrance. Necessity can set me helpless on my back, but she +cannot keep me there; nor can four walls limit my vision. I pass +out from under her throne into the garden of God a free man, to my ultimate +beatitude or my exceeding shame. All day long this world lies +open to me; ay, and other worlds also, if I will but have it so; and +when night comes I pass into the kingdom and power of the dark.<br> +<br> +I lie through the long hours and watch my bridge, which is set with +lights across the gloom; watch the traffic which is for me but so many +passing lamps telling their tale by varying height and brightness. +I hear under my window the sprint of over-tired horses, the rattle of +uncertain wheels as the street-sellers hasten south; the jangle of cab +bells as the theatre-goers take their homeward way; the gruff altercation +of weary men, the unmelodious song and clamorous laugh of women whose +merriment is wearier still. Then comes a time of stillness when +the light in the sky waxes and wanes, when the cloud-drifts obscure +the stars, and I gaze out into blackness set with watching eyes. +No sound comes from without but the voice of the night-wind and the +cry of the hour. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks imperatively, +for a check has fallen on the familiarity which breeds a disregard of +common things, and a reason has to be sought for each sound which claims +a hearing. The pause is wonderful while it lasts, but it is not +for long. The working world awakes, the poorer brethren take up +the burden of service; the dawn lights the sky; remembrance cries an +end to forgetting.<br> +<br> +Sometimes in the country on a night in early summer you may shut the +cottage door to step out into an immense darkness which palls heaven +and earth. Going forward into the embrace of the great gloom, +you are as a babe swaddled by the hands of night into helpless quiescence. +Your feet tread an unseen path, your hands grasp at a void, or shrink +from the contact they cannot realise; your eyes are holden; your voice +would die in your throat did you seek to rend the veil of that impenetrable +silence.<br> +<br> +Shut in by the intangible dark, we are brought up against those worlds +within worlds blotted out by our concrete daily life. The working +of the great microcosm at which we peer dimly through the little window +of science; the wonderful, breathing earth; the pulsing, throbbing sap; +the growing fragrance shut in the calyx of to-morrow’s flower; +the heart-beat of a sleeping world that we dream that we know; and around, +above, and interpenetrating all, the world of dreams, of angels and +of spirits.<br> +<br> +It was this world which Jacob saw on the first night of his exile, and +again when he wrestled in Peniel until the break of day. It was +this world which Elisha saw with open eyes; which Job knew when darkness +fell on him; which Ezekiel gazed into from his place among the captives; +which Daniel beheld as he stood alone by the great river, the river +Hiddekel.<br> +<br> +For the moment we have left behind the realm of question and explanation, +of power over matter and the exercise of bodily faculties; and passed +into darkness alight with visions we cannot see, into silence alive +with voices we cannot hear. Like helpless men we set our all on +the one thing left us, and lift up our hearts, knowing that we are but +a mere speck among a myriad worlds, yet greater than the sum of them; +having our roots in the dark places of the earth, but our branches in +the sweet airs of heaven.<br> +<br> +It is the material counterpart of the ‘Night of the Soul.’ +We have left our house and set forth in the darkness which paralyses +those faculties that make us men in the world of men. But surely +the great mystics, with all their insight and heavenly love, fell short +when they sought freedom in complete separateness from creation instead +of in perfect unity with it. The Greeks knew better when they +flung Ariadne’s crown among the stars, and wrote Demeter’s +grief on a barren earth, and Persephone’s joy in the fruitful +field. For the earth is gathered up in man; he is the whole which +is greater than the sum of its parts. Standing in the image of +God, and clothed in the garment of God, he lifts up priestly hands and +presents the sacrifice of redeemed earth before the throne of the All-Father. +“Dust and ashes and a house of devils,” he cries; and there +comes back for answer, “<i>Rex concupiscet decorem tuam</i>.”<br> +<br> +The Angel of Death has broad wings of silence and mystery with which +he shadows the valley where we need fear no evil, and where the voice +which speaks to us is as the “voice of doves, tabering upon their +breasts.” It is a place of healing and preparation, of peace +and refreshing after the sharply-defined outlines of a garish day. +Walking there we learn to use those natural faculties of the soul which +are hampered by the familiarity of bodily progress, to apprehend the +truths which we have intellectually accepted. It is the place +of secrets where the humility which embraces all attainable knowledge +cries “I know not”; and while we proclaim from the house-tops +that which we have learnt, the manner of our learning lies hid for each +one of us in the sanctuary of our souls.<br> +<br> +The Egyptians, in their ancient wisdom, act in the desert a great androsphinx, +image of mystery and silence, staring from under level brows across +the arid sands of the sea-way. The Greeks borrowed and debased +the image, turning the inscrutable into a semi-woman who asked a foolish +riddle, and hurled herself down in petulant pride when OEdipus answered +aright. So we, marring the office of silence, question its mystery; +thwart ourselves with riddles of our own suggesting; and turn away, +leaving our offering but half consumed on the altar of the unknown god. +It was not the theft of fire that brought the vengeance of heaven upon +Prometheus, but the mocking sacrifice. Orpheus lost Eurydice because +he must see her face before the appointed time. Persephone ate +of the pomegranate and hungered in gloom for the day of light which +should have been endless.<br> +<br> +The universe is full of miracle and mystery; the darkness and silence +are set for a sign we dare not despise. The pall of night lifts, +leaving us engulphed in the light of immensity under a tossing heaven +of stars. The dawn breaks, but it does not surprise us, for we +have watched from the valley and seen the pale twilight. Through +the wondrous Sabbath of faithful souls, the long day of rosemary and +rue, the light brightens in the East; and we pass on towards it with +quiet feet and opening eyes, bearing with us all of the redeemed earth +that we have made our own, until we are fulfilled in the sunrise of +the great Easter Day, and the peoples come from north and south and +east and west to the City which lieth foursquare - the Beatific Vision +of God.<br> +<br> +<br> +Vere Ierusalem est illa civitas<br> +Cuius pax iugis et summa iucunditas;<br> +Ubi non praevenit rem desiderium,<br> +Nec desiderio minus est praemium.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +AT THE WHITE GATE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A great joy has come to me; one of those unexpected gifts which life +loves to bestow after we have learnt to loose our grip of her. +I am back in my own place very near my road - the white gate lies within +my distant vision; near the lean grey Downs which keep watch and ward +between the country and the sea; very near, nay, in the lap of Mother +Earth, for as I write I am lying on a green carpet, powdered yellow +and white with the sun’s own flowers; overhead a great sycamore +where the bees toil and sing; and sighing shimmering poplars golden +grey against the blue. The day of Persephone has dawned for me, +and I, set free like Demeter’s child, gladden my eyes with this +foretaste of coming radiance, and rest my tired sense with the scent +and sound of home. Away down the meadow I hear the early scythe +song, and the warm air is fragrant with the fallen grass. It has +its own message for me as I lie here, I who have obtained yet one more +mercy, and the burden of it is life, not death.<br> +<br> +I remember when, taking a grace from my road, I helped to mow Farmer +Marler’s ten-acre field, rich in ripe upstanding grass. +The mechanism of the ancient reaper had given way under the strain of +the home meadows, and if this crop was to be saved it must be by hand. +I have kept the record of those days of joyous labour under a June sky. +Men were hard to get in our village; old Dodden, who was over seventy, +volunteered his services - he had done yeoman work with the scythe in +his youth - and two of the farm hands with their master completed our +strength.<br> +<br> +We took our places under a five o’clock morning sky, and the larks +cried down to us as we stood knee-deep in the fragrant dew-steeped grass, +each man with his gleaming scythe poised ready for its sweeping swing. +Old Dodden led by right of age and ripe experience; bent like a sickle, +brown and dry as a nut, his face a tracery of innumerable wrinkles, +he has never ailed a day, and the cunning of his craft was still with +him. At first we worked stiffly, unreadily, but soon the monotonous +motion possessed us with its insistent rhythm, and the grass bowed to +each sibilant swish and fell in sweet-smelling swathes at our feet. +Now and then a startled rabbit scurried through the miniature forest +to vanish with white flick of tail in the tangled hedge; here and there +a mother lark was discovered sitting motionless, immovable upon her +little brood; but save for these infrequent incidents we paced steadily +on with no speech save the cry of the hone on the steel and the swish +of the falling swathes. The sun rose high in the heaven and burnt +on bent neck and bare and aching arms, the blood beat and drummed in +my veins with the unwonted posture and exercise; I worked as a man who +sees and hears in a mist. Once, as I paused to whet my scythe, +my eye caught the line of the untroubled hills strong and still in the +broad sunshine; then to work again in the labouring, fertile valley.<br> +<br> +Rest time came, and wiping the sweat from brow and blade we sought the +welcome shadow of the hedge and the cool sweet oatmeal water with which +the wise reaper quenches his thirst. Farmer Marler hastened off +to see with master-eye that all went well elsewhere; the farm men slept +tranquilly, stretched at full length, clasped hands for pillow; and +old Dodden, sitting with crooked fingers interlaced to check their trembling +betrayal of old age, told how in his youth he had “swep” +a four-acre field single-handed in three days - an almost impossible +feat - and of the first reaping machine in these parts, and how it brought, +to his thinking, the ruin of agricultural morals with it. “’Tis +again nature,” he said, “the Lard gave us the land an’ +the seed, but ’Ee said that a man should sweat. Where’s +the sweat drivin’ round wi’ two horses cuttin’ the +straw down an’ gatherin’ it again, wi’ scarce a hand’s +turn i’ the day’s work?”<br> +<br> +Old Dodden’s high-pitched quavering voice rose and fell, mournful +as he surveyed the present, vehement as he recorded the heroic past. +He spoke of the rural exodus and shook his head mournfully. “We +old ’uns were content wi’ earth and the open sky like our +feythers before us, but wi’ the children ’tis first machines +to save doin’ a hand’s turn o’ honest work, an’ +then land an’ sky ain’t big enough seemin’ly, nor +grand enough; it must be town an’ a paved street, an’ they +sweat their lives out atwixt four walls an’ call it seein’ +life - ’tis death an’ worse comes to the most of ’em. +Ay, ’tis better to stay by the land, as the Lard said, till time +comes to lie under it.” I looked away across the field where +the hot air throbbed and quivered, and the fallen grass, robbed already +of its freshness, lay prone at the feet of its upstanding fellows. +It is quite useless to argue with old Dodden; he only shakes his head +and says firmly, “An old man, seventy-five come Martinmass knows +more o’ life than a young chap, stands ter reason”; besides, +his epitome of the town life he knows nothing of was a just one as far +as it went; and his own son is the sweeper of a Holborn crossing, and +many other things that he should not be; but that is the parson’s +secret and mine.<br> +<br> +We took rank again and swept steadily on through the hot still hours +into the evening shadows, until the sinking sun set a <i>Gloria</i> +to the psalm of another working day. Only a third of the field +lay mown, for we were not skilled labourers to cut our acre a day; I +saw it again that night under the moonlight and the starlight, wrapped +in a shroud of summer’s mist.<br> +<br> +The women joined us on the third day to begin haymaking, and the air +was fragrant of tossed and sun-dried grass. One of them walked +apart from the rest, without interest or freedom of movement; her face, +sealed and impassive, was aged beyond the vigour of her years. +I knew the woman by sight, and her history by hearsay. We have +a code of morals here - not indeed peculiar to this place or people +- that a wedding is ‘respectable’ if it precedes child-birth +by a bare month, tolerable, and to be recognised, should it succeed +the same by less than a year (provided the pair are not living in the +same village); but the child that has never been ‘fathered’ +and the wife without a ring are ‘anathema,’ and such in +one was Elizabeth Banks. She went away a maid and came back a +year ago with a child and without a name. Her mother was dead, +her father and the village would have none of her: the homing instinct +is very strong, or she would scarcely have returned, knowing the traditions +of the place. Old Dodden, seeing her, grumbled to me in the rest-time. +- “Can’t think what the farmer wants wi’ Lizzie Banks +in ’is field.” “She must live,” I said, +“and by all showing her life is a hard one.” “She +’ad the makin’ of ’er bed,” he went on, obstinately. +“What for do she bring her disgrace home, wi’ a fatherless +brat for all folks to see? We don’t want them sort in our +village. The Lord’s hand is heavy, an’ a brat’s +a curse that cannot be hid.”<br> +<br> +When tea-time came I crossed the field to look for a missing hone, and +saw Elizabeth Banks far from the other women, busied with a bundle under +the hedge. I passed close on my search, and lo! the bundle was +a little boy. He lay smiling and stretching, fighting the air +with his small pink fists, while the wind played with his curls. +“A curse that cannot be hid,” old Dodden had said. +The mother knelt a moment, devouring him with her eyes, then snatched +him to her with aching greed and covered him with kisses. I saw +the poor, plain face illumined, transfigured, alive with a mother’s +love, and remembered how the word came once to a Hebrew prophet:-<br> +<br> +<br> +Say unto your brethren Ammi, and to your sisters Ruhamah.<br> +<br> +<br> +The evening sky was clouding fast, the sound of rain was in the air; +Farmer Marler shook his head as he looked at the grass lying in ordered +rows. I was the last to leave, and as I lingered at the gate drinking +in the scent of the field and the cool of the coming rain, the first +drops fell on my upturned face and kissed the poor dry swathes at my +feet, and I was glad.<br> +<br> +David, child of the fields and the sheepfolds, his kingship laid aside, +sees through the parted curtain of the years the advent of his greater +Son, and cries in his psalm of the hilltops, his last prophetic prayer:-<br> +<br> +<br> +He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass.<br> +<br> +<br> +Even so He came, and shall still come. Three days ago the field, +in its pageant of fresh beauty, with shimmering blades and tossing banners, +greeted sun and shower alike with joy for the furtherance of its life +and purpose; now, laid low, it hears the young grass whisper the splendour +of its coming green; and the poor swathes are glad at the telling, but +full of grief for their own apparent failure. Then in great pity +comes the rain, the rain of summer, gentle, refreshing, penetrating, +and the swathes are comforted, for they know that standing to greet +or prostrate to suffer, the consolations of the former and the latter +rain are still their own, with tender touch and cool caress. Then, +once more parched by the sun, they are borne away to the new service +their apparent failure has fitted them for; and perhaps as they wait +in the dark for the unknown that is still to come they hear sometimes +the call of the distant rain, and at the sound the dry sap stirs afresh +- they are not forgotten and can wait.<br> +<br> +“<i>Say unto your sisters Ruhamah</i>,” cries the prophet.<br> +<br> +“<i>He shall come down like rain on the mown grass</i>,” +sang the poet of the sheepfolds.<br> +<br> +“<i>My ways are not your ways, saith the Lord</i>.”<br> +<br> +<br> +I remember how I went home along the damp sweet-scented lanes through +the grey mist of the rain, thinking of the mown field and Elizabeth +Banks and many, many more; and that night, when the sky had cleared +and the nightingale sang, I looked out at the moon riding at anchor, +a silver boat in a still blue sea ablaze with the headlights of the +stars, and the saying of the herdsman of Tekoa came to me - as it has +come oftentimes since:-<br> +<br> +<br> +Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow +of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night; that +calleth for the waters of the sea and poureth them out upon the face +of earth; the Lord is His name.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +This garden is an epitome of peace; sun and wind, rain, flowers, and +birds gather me into the blessedness of their active harmony. +The world holds no wish for me, now that I have come home to die with +my own people, for verify I think that the sap of grass and trees must +run in my veins, so steady is their pull upon my heart-strings. +London claimed all my philosophy, but the country gives all, and asks +of me only the warm receptivity of a child in its mother’s arms.<br> +<br> +When I lie in my cool light room on the garden level, I look across +the bright grass - <i>il verde smalto</i> - to a great red rose bush +in lavish disarray against the dark cypress. Near by, amid a tangle +of many-hued corn-flowers I see the promise of coming lilies, the sudden +crimson of a solitary paeony; and in lowlier state against the poor +parched earth glow the golden cups of the eschseholtzias. Beyond +the low hedge lies pasture bright with buttercups, where the cattle +feed. Farther off, where the scythe has been busy, are sheep, +clean and shorn, with merry, well-grown lambs; and in the farthest field +I can see the great horses moving in slow steady pace as the farmer +turns his furrow.<br> +<br> +The birds are noisy comrades and old friends, from the lark which chants +the dew-steeped morning, to the nightingale that breaks the silence +of the most wonderful nights. I hear the wisdom of the rooks in +the great elms; the lifting lilt of the linnet, and the robin’s +quaint little summer song. The starlings chatter ceaselessly, +their queer strident voices harsh against the melodious gossip of the +other birds; the martins shrill softly as they swoop to and fro busied +with their nesting under the caves; thrush and blackbird vie in friendly +rivalry like the Meister-singer of old; sometimes I hear the drawling +cry of a peacock strayed from the great house, or the laugh of the woodpecker; +and at night the hunting note of the owl reaches me as he sweeps by +in search of prey.<br> +<br> +To-day I am out again; and the great sycamore showers honey and flowers +on me as I lie beneath it. Sometimes a bee falls like an over-ripe +fruit, and waits awhile to clean his pollen-coated legs ere he flies +home to discharge his burden. He is too busy to be friendly, but +his great velvety cousin is much more sociable, and stays for a gentle +rub between his noisy shimmering wings, and a nap in the hollow of my +hand, for he is an idle friendly soul with plenty of time at his own +disposal and no responsibilities. Looking across I can watch the +martins at work; they have a starling and a sparrow for near neighbours +in the wooden gutter. One nest is already complete all but the +coping, the other two are a-building: I wonder whether I or they will +be first to go south through the mist.<br> +<br> +This great tree is a world in itself, and the denizens appear full of +curiosity as to the Gulliver who has taken up his abode beneath it. +Pale green caterpillars and spiders of all sizes come spinning down +to visit me, and have to be persuaded with infinite difficulty to ascend +their threads again. There are flies with beautiful iridescent +wings, beetles of all shapes, some of them like tiny jewels in the sunlight. +Their nomenclature is a sealed book to me; of their life and habits +I know nothing; yet this is but a little corner of the cosmos I am leaving, +and I feel not so much desire for the beauty to come, as a great longing +to open my eyes a little wider during the time which remains to me in +this beautiful world of God’s making, where each moment tells +its own tale of active, progressive life in which there is no undoing. +Nature knows naught of the web of Penelope, that acme of anxious pathetic +waiting, but goes steadily on in ever widening circle towards the fulfilment +of the mystery of God.<br> +<br> +There are, I take it, two master-keys to the secrets of the universe, +viewed <i>sub specie</i> <i>aeternitatis</i>, the Incarnation of God, +and the Personality of Man; with these it is true for us as for the +pantheistic little man of contemptible speech, that “all things +are ours,” yea, even unto the third heaven.<br> +<br> +I have lost my voracious appetite for books; their language is less +plain than scent and song and the wind in the trees; and for me the +clue to the next world lies in the wisdom of earth rather than in the +learning of men. “<i>Libera me ab fuscina Hophni</i>,” +prayed the good Bishop fearful of religious greed. I know too +much, not too little; it is realisation that I lack, wherefore I desire +these last days to confirm in myself the sustaining goodness of God, +the love which is our continuing city, the New Jerusalem whose length, +breadth, and height are all one. It is a time of exceeding peace. +There is a place waiting for me under the firs in the quiet churchyard; +thanks to my poverty I have no worldly anxieties or personal dispositions; +and I am rich in friends, many of them unknown to me, who lavishly supply +my needs and make it ideal to live on the charity of one’s fellow-men. +I am most gladly in debt to all the world; and to Earth, my mother, +for her great beauty.<br> +<br> +I can never remember the time when I did not love her, this mother of +mine with her wonderful garments and ordered loveliness, her tender +care and patient bearing of man’s burden. In the earliest +days of my lonely childhood I used to lie chin on hand amid the milkmaids, +red sorrel, and heavy spear-grass listening to her many voices, and +above all to the voice of the little brook which ran through the meadows +where I used to play: I think it has run through my whole life also, +to lose itself at last, not in the great sea but in the river that maketh +glad the City of God. Valley and plain, mountain and fruitful +field; the lark’s song and the speedwell in the grass; surely +a man need not sigh for greater loveliness until he has read something +more of this living letter, and knelt before that earth of which he +is the only confusion.<br> +<br> +It is a grave matter that the word religion holds such away among us, +making the very gap seem to yawn again which the Incarnation once and +for ever filled full. We have banished the protecting gods that +ruled in river and mountain, tree and grove; we have gainsayed for the +most part folk-lore and myth, superstition and fairy-tale, evil only +in their abuse. We have done away with mystery, or named it deceit. +All this we have done in an enlightened age, but despite this policy +of destruction we have left ourselves a belief, the grandest and most +simple the world has ever known, which sanctifies the water that is +shed by every passing cloud; and gathers up in its great central act +vineyard and cornfield, proclaiming them to be that Life of the world +without which a man is dead while he liveth. Further, it is a +belief whose foundations are the most heavenly mystery of the Trinity, +but whose centre is a little Child: it sets a price upon the head of +the sparrow, and reckons the riches of this world at their true value; +it points to a way of holiness where the fool shall not err, and the +sage may find the realisation of his far-seeking; and yet, despite its +inclusiveness, it is a belief which cannot save the birds from destruction, +the silent mountains from advertisement, or the stream from pollution, +in an avowedly Christian land. John Ruskin scolded and fought +and did yeoman service, somewhat hindered by his over-good conceit of +himself; but it is not the worship of beauty we need so much as the +beauty of holiness. Little by little the barrier grows and ‘religion’ +becomes a <i>rule</i> of life, not life itself, although the Bride stands +ready to interpret, likened in her loveliness to the chief treasures +of her handmaid-Earth. There is more truth in the believing cry, +“Come from thy white cliffs, O Pan!” than in the religion +that measures a man’s life by the letter of the Ten Commandments, +and erects itself as judge and ruler over him, instead of throwing open +the gate of the garden where God walks with man from morning until morning.<br> +<br> +As I write the sun is setting; in the pale radiance of the sky above +his glory there dawns the evening star; and earth like a tired child +turns her face to the bosom of the night.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Once again I have paid a rare visit to my tree to find many things changed +since my last sojourn there. The bees are silent, for the honey-laden +flowers of the sycamore are gone and in their place hang dainty two-fold +keys. The poplar has lost its metallic shimmer, the chestnut its +tall white candles; and the sound of the wind in the fully-leaved branches +is like the sighing of the sea. The martins’ nests are finished, +and one is occupied by a shrill-voiced brood; but for the most part +the birds’ parental cares are over, and the nestlings in bold +flight no longer flutter on inefficient wings across the lawn with clamorous, +open bill. The robins show promise of their ruddy vests, the slim +young thrush is diligently practising maturer notes, and soon Maid June +will have fled.<br> +<br> +It is such a wonderful world that I cannot find it in my heart to sigh +for fresh beauty amid these glories of the Lord on which I look, seeing +men as trees walking, in my material impotence which awaits the final +anointing. The marigolds with their orange suns, the lilies’ +white flame, the corncockle’s blue crown of many flowers, the +honeysuckle’s horn of fragrance - I can paraphrase them, name, +class, dissect them; and then, save for the purposes of human intercourse, +I stand where I stood before, my world bounded by my capacity, the secret +of colour and fragrance still kept. It is difficult to believe +that the second lesson will not be the sequence of the first, and death +prove a “feast of opening eyes” to all these wonders, instead +of the heavy-lidded slumber to which we so often liken it. “Earth +to earth?” Yes, “dust thou art, and unto dust thou +shalt return,” but what of the rest? What of the folded +grave clothes, and the Forty Days? If the next state be, as it +well might, space of four dimensions, and the first veil which will +lift for me be the material one, then the “other” world +which is hidden from our grosser material organism will lie open, and +declare still further to my widening eyes and unstopped ears the glory +and purpose of the manifold garment of God. Knowledge will give +place to understanding in that second chamber of the House of Wisdom +and Love. Revelation is always measured by capacity: “Open +thy mouth wide,” and it shall be filled with a satisfaction that +in itself is desire.<br> +<br> +There is a child here, a happy quiet little creature holding gently +to its two months of life. Sometimes they lay it beside me, I +the more helpless of the two - perhaps the more ignorant - and equally +dependent for the supply of my smallest need. I feel indecently +large as I survey its minute perfections and the tiny balled fist lying +in my great palm. The little creature fixes me with the wise wide +stare of a soul in advance of its medium of expression; and I, gazing +back at the mystery in those eyes, feel the thrill of contact between +my worn and sustained self and the innocence of a little white child. +It is wonderful to watch a woman’s rapturous familiarity with +these newcomers. A man’s love has far more awe in it, and +the passionate animal instinct of defence is wanting in him. “A +woman shall be saved through the child-bearing,” said St Paul; +not necessarily her own, but by participation in the great act of motherhood +which is the crown and glory of her sex. She is the “prisoner +of love,” caught in a net of her own weaving; held fast by little +hands which rule by impotence, pursued by feet the swifter for their +faltering.<br> +<br> +It seems incredible that this is what a woman will barter for the right +to “live her own life” - surely the most empty of desires. +Man - <i>vir</i>, woman - <i>femina</i>, go to make up <i>the</i> man +- <i>homo</i>. There can be no comparison, no rivalry between +them; they are the complement of each other, and a little child shall +lead them. It is easy to understand that desire to shelter under +the dear mantle of motherhood which has led to one of the abuses of +modern Romanism. I met an old peasant couple at Bornhofen who +had tramped many weary miles to the famous shrine of Our Lady to plead +for their only son. They had a few pence saved for a candle, and +afterwards when they told me their tale the old woman heaved a sigh +of relief, “Es wird bald gut gehen: Die da, Sie versteht,” +and I saw her later paying a farewell visit to the great understanding +Mother whom she could trust. Superstitious misapprehension if +you will, but also the recognition of a divine principle.<br> +<br> +It was Behmen, I believe, who cried with the breath of inspiration, +“Only when I know God shall I know myself”; and so man remains +the last of all the riddles, to be solved it may be only in Heaven’s +perfection and the light of the Beatific Vision. “Know thyself” +is a vain legend, the more so when emphasised by a skull; and so I company +with a friend and a stranger, and looking across at the white gate I +wonder concerning the quiet pastures and still waters that lie beyond, +even as Brother Ambrose wondered long years ago in the monastery by +the forest.<br> +<br> +<br> +The Brother Ambrose was ever a saintly man approved of God and beloved +by the Brethren. To him one night, as he lay abed in the dormitory, +came the word of the Lord, saying, “Come, and I will show thee +the Bride, the Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose +and was carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision +of Blessed John. ’Twas a still night of many stars, and +Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; and +lo! the stars gathered themselves together on either side until they +stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about as in a +mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. Then +between the stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacle aflame, +and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly limner dreams of, and +much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every +gate an angel with wings of snow and fire, and a face no man dare look +on because of its exceeding radiance.<br> +<br> +Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great +longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between +the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but only +heard a sound as of a great multitude crying ‘Alleluia’; +and suddenly the winds came about him again, and lo! he found himself +in his bed in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing +to Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest. But when the +Brethren left the choir Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing +and seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds they found +him and told the Prior.<br> +<br> +He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the Vision +bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the Precentor +gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours he asked +for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous fair city +of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the sapphire, +and green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city seemed aflame +with the glory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor could he +set the rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars on +either hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the exceeding +great longing he had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad; but the +Prior bade him thank God, and remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, +like the little grey cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight.<br> +<br> +<br> +As I write the monastery bell hard by rings out across the lark’s +song. They still have time for visions behind those guarding walls, +but for most of us it is not so. We let slip the ideal for what +we call the real, and the golden dreams vanish while we clutch at phantoms: +we speed along life’s pathway, counting to the full the sixty +minutes of every hour, yet the race is not to the swift nor the battle +to the strong. Lying here in this quiet backwater it is hard to +believe that the world without is turbulent with storm and stress and +the ebb and flow of uncertain tides. The little yellow cat rolling +on its back among the daisies, the staid tortoise making a stately meal +off the buttercups near me, these are great events in this haven of +peace. And yet, looking back to the working days, I know how much +goodness and loving kindness there is under the froth and foam. +If we do not know ourselves we most certainly do not know our brethren: +that revelation awaits us, it may be, first in Heaven. To have +faith is to create; to have hope is to call down blessing; to have love +is to work miracles. Above all let us see visions, visions of +colour and light, of green fields and broad rivers, of palaces laid +with fair colours, and gardens where a place is found for rosemary and +rue.<br> +<br> +It is our prerogative to be dreamers, but there will always be men ready +to offer us death for our dreams. And if it must be so let us +choose death; it is gain, not loss, and the gloomy portal when we reach +it is but a white gate, the white gate maybe we have known all our lives +barred by the tendrils of the woodbine.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Rain, rain, rain: the little flagged path outside my window is a streaming +way, where the coming raindrops meet again the grey clouds whose storehouse +they have but just now left. The grass grows greener as I watch +it, the burnt patches fade, a thousand thirsty beads are uplifted for +the cooling draught.<br> +<br> +The great thrush that robs the raspberry canes is busy; yesterday he +had little but dust for his guerdon, but now fresh, juicy fruit repays +him as he swings to and fro on the pliant branches. The blackbirds +and starlings find the worms an easy prey - poor brother worm ever ready +for sacrifice. I can hear the soft expectant chatter of the family +of martins under the roof; there will be good hunting, and they know +it, for the flies are out when the rain is over, and there are clamorous +mouths awaiting. My little brown brothers, the sparrows, remain +my chief delight. Of all the birds these nestle closest to my +heart, be they grimy little cockneys or their trim and dainty country +cousins. They come day by day for their meed of crumbs spread +for them outside my window, and at this season they eat leisurely and +with good appetite, for there are no hungry babies pestering to be fed. +Very early in the morning I hear the whirr and rustle of eager wings, +and the tap, tap, of little beaks upon the stone. The sound carries +me back, for it was the first to greet me when I rose to draw water +and gather kindling in my roadmender days; and if I slip back another +decade they survey me, reproving my laziness, from the foot of the narrow +bed in my little attic overseas.<br> +<br> +Looking along the roadway that we have travelled we see the landmarks, +great and small, which have determined the direction of our feet. +For some those of childhood stand out above all the rest; but I remember +few notable ones, and those few the emphatic chord of the universe, +rather than any commerce with my fellows. There was the night +of my great disappointment, when I was borne from my comfortable bed +to see the wonders of the moon’s eclipse. Disappointment +was so great that it sealed my lips; but, once back on my pillow, I +sobbed for grief that I had seen a wonder so far below my expectation. +Then there was a night at Whitby, when the wind made speech impossible, +and the seas rushed up and over the great lighthouse like the hungry +spirits of the deep. I like better to remember the scent of the +first cowslip field under the warm side of the hedge, when I sang to +myself for pure joy of their colour and fragrance. Again, there +were the bluebells in the deserted quarry like the backwash of a southern +sea, and below them the miniature forest of sheltering bracken with +its quaint conceits; and, crowned above all, the day I stood on Watcombe +Down, and looked across a stretch of golden gorse and new-turned blood-red +field, the green of the headland, and beyond, the sapphire sea.<br> +<br> +Time sped, and there came a day when I first set foot on German soil +and felt the throb of its paternity, the beat of our common Life. +England is my mother, and most dearly do I love her swelling breasts +and wind-swept, salt-strewn hair. Scotland gave me my name, with +its haunting derivation handed down by brave men; but Germany has always +been to me the Fatherland <i>par</i> <i>excellence</i>. True, +my love is limited to the southern provinces, with their medieval memories; +for the progressive guttural north I have little sympathy, but the Rhine +claimed me from the first, calling, calling, with that wonderful voice +which speaks of death and life, of chivalry and greed of gold. +If you would have the river’s company you should wander, a happy +solitary, along its banks, watching its gleaming current in the early +morning, its golden glory as it answers the farewell of parting day. +Then, in the silence of the night, you can hear the wash and eddy calling +one to another, count the heart-beats of the great bearer of burdens, +and watch in the moonlight the sisters of the mist as they lament with +wringing hands the days that are gone.<br> +<br> +The forests, too, are ready with story hid in the fastness of their +solitude, and it is a joy to think that those great pines, pointing +ever upwards, go for the most part to carry the sails of great ships +seeking afar under open sky. The forest holds other wonders still. +It seems but last night that I wandered down the road which led to the +little unheeded village where I had made my temporary home. The +warm-scented breath of the pines and the stillness of the night wrapped +me in great content; the summer lightning leapt in a lambent arch across +the east, and the stars, seen dimly through the sombre tree crests, +were outrivalled by the glow-worms which shone in countless points of +light from bank and hedge; even two charcoal-burners, who passed with +friendly greeting, had wreathed their hats with the living flame. +The tiny shifting lamps were everywhere; pale yellow, purely white, +or green as the underside of a northern wave. By day but an ugly, +repellent worm; but darkness comes, and lo, a star alight. Nature +is full for us of seeming inconsistencies and glad surprises. +The world’s asleep, say you; on your ear falls the nightingale’s +song and the stir of living creatures in bush and brake. The mantle +of night falls, and all unattended the wind leaps up and scatters the +clouds which veil the constant stars; or in the hour of the great dark, +dawn parts the curtain with the long foregleam of the coming day. +It is hard to turn one’s back on night with her kiss of peace +for tired eye-lids, the kiss which is not sleep but its neglected forerunner. +I made my way at last down to the vine-girt bridge asleep under the +stars and up the winding stairs of the old grey tower; and a stone’s-throw +away the Rhine slipped quietly past in the midsummer moonlight. +Switzerland came in its turn, unearthly in its white loveliness and +glory of lake and sky. But perhaps the landmark which stands out +most clearly is the solitary blue gentian which I found in the short +slippery grass of the Rigi, gazing up at the sky whose blue could not +hope to excel it. It was my first; and what need of another, for +finding one I had gazed into the mystery of all. This side the +Pass, snow and the blue of heaven; later I entered Italy through fields +of many-hued lilies, her past glories blazoned in the flowers of the +field.<br> +<br> +Now it is a strangely uneventful road that leads to my White Gate. +Each day questions me as it passes; each day makes answer for me “not +yet.” There is no material preparation to be made for this +journey of mine into a far country - a simple fact which adds to the +‘unknowableness’ of the other side. Do I travel alone, +or am I one of a great company, swift yet unhurried in their passage? +The voices of Penelope’s suitors shrilled on the ears of Ulysses, +as they journeyed to the nether-world, like nocturnal birds and bats +in the inarticulateness of their speech. They had abused the gift, +and fled self-condemned. Maybe silence commends itself as most +suitable for the wayfarers towards the sunrise - silence because they +seek the Word - but for those hastening towards the confusion they have +wrought there falls already the sharp oncoming of the curse.<br> +<br> +While we are still here the language of worship seems far, and yet lies +very nigh; for what better note can our frail tongues lisp than the +voice of wind and sea, river and stream, those grateful servants giving +all and asking nothing, the soft whisper of snow and rain eager to replenish, +or the thunder proclaiming a majesty too great for utterance? +Here, too, stands the angel with the censer gathering up the fragrance +of teeming earth and forest-tree, of flower and fruit, and sweetly pungent +herb distilled by sun and rain for joyful use. Here, too, come +acolytes lighting the dark with tapers - sun, moon, and stars - gifts +of the Lord that His sanctuary may stand ever served.<br> +<br> +It lies here ready to our hand, this life of adoration which we needs +must live hand in hand with earth, for has she not borne the curse with +us? But beyond the white gate and the trail of woodbine falls +the silence greater than speech, darkness greater than light, a pause +of “a little while”; and then the touch of that healing +garment as we pass to the King in His beauty, in a land from which there +is no return.<br> +<br> +At the gateway then I cry you farewell.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE ROADMENDER ***<br> +<pre> + +******This file should be named rmend10h.htm or rmend10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, rmend11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rmend10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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