Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

which, however inexplicably, makes us feel at once that this book or this stranger understands us, refreshes and helps us is to us like a flower in a sick room, or a cup of water in a riverless land.

It would be curious to trace, if any but immortal eyes ever could trace, how strongly many lives have been influenced by these instinctive sympathies; and what a heap of unknown love and benediction may follow until death many a man-or woman-who walks humbly and unconsciously, on, perhaps, a very obscure and difficult way, fulfilling this silent ministry of consolation.

We are speaking of consolation first, and not without purpose; let us now say a little word about sorrow.

It may seem an anomaly, and yet is most true, that the grief which is at once the heaviest and the easiest to bear is a grief of which nobody knows"; something, no matter what, which, for whatever reason, must be kept for the depth of the heart, neither asking nor desiring sympathy, counsel, or alleviation. Such things are-oftener perhaps than we know of; and, if the suf ferer can bear it at all, it is the best and easiest way of bearing grief, even as the grief itself becomes the highest, we had almost said the divinest form of sorrow upon earth. For it harms no one, it wounds and wrongs no one; it is that solitary agony unto which the angels come and minister-making the night glo ous with the shining of their wings.

Likewise, in any blow utterly irremediable, which strikes at the very core of life, we little heed what irks and irritates us much in lesser pain-namely, to see the round of daily existence moving on untroubled. We feel it not; we are rather glad of its monotonous motion. And to be saved from all external demonstrations is a priceless relief; neither to be watched, nor soothed, nor reasoned with, nor pitied to wrap safely round us the convenances of society, or of mechanical household association; and only at times to drop them

new-born child, crying aloud unto Him who alone can understand our total agony of desolation. But this great solitude of suffering is impossible to many; and indeed can only be sustained without injury by those strongly religious natures unto whom the sense of the Divine presence is not merely a tacit belief, or a poetical imagination, but a proved fact as real as any of the facts of daily life are to other people. With whom it is impossible to argue. Let him that readeth understand, if he can; or if it be given him to understand, these great mysteries.

But one truth concerning sorrow is simple and clear enough for a child's comprehension; and it were well if from childhood we were all taught it; namely, that that grief is the most nobly borne which is allowed to weigh the least heavily on any one else. Not all people, however, are unselfish enough to perceive this. Many feel a certain pride in putting on and long retaining their "sackcloth and ashes," nay, they conceive that when they have sustained a heavy affliction, there is a sort of disgrace in appearing too easily to "get over it." But here they make the frequent error of shallow surface-judging minds. They cannot see that any real wound in a deep, true, and loving heart is never "got over." We may bury our dead out of our sight, or out of our neighbour's sight, which is of more importance; we may cease to miss them from the routine of our daily existence, and learn to name people, things, places and times, as calmly as if no pulse had ever throbbed horribly at the merest allusion to them-but they are not forgotten. They have merely passed from the outer to the inner fold of our double life. Which fold lies nearest to us, we know; and which are usually the most precious, the things we have and hold, or the things we have lost-we also know.

It may seem a cruel word to say-but a long-indulged and openly displayed sorrow, of any sort, is often an ignoble, and invariably a selfish feeling; being a sacrifice of the many to the few. If

quaintance, with its percentage, large or small, of those whom we heartily respect, we shall always find that it is the highest and most affectionate natures which conquer sorrow soonest and best; those unselfish ones who can view a misfortune in its result on others as well as on their own precious individuality; and those in which great capacity of loving acts at once as bane and antidote, giving them, with a keen susceptibility to pain, a power of enduring it which to the unloving is not only impossible but incredible. It is the weak, the self-engrossed, and self-important, who chiefly make to themselves public altars of perpetual woe, at which they worship, not the Dii manes of departed joys, but the apotheoses of living ill-humours.

An incurable regret is an unwholesome, unnatural thing to the indulger of it; an injury to others, an accusation against Divinity itself. The pastor's reproof to the weeping mother-"What, have you not yet forgiven God Almighty?" contains a truth which it were good all mourners laid to heart. How hard it is to any of us to "forgive God Almighty;" not only for the heavy afflictions which he has sent to us, but for the infinitude of small annoyances, which (common sense would tell us, if we used it) we mostly bring upon ourselves! Yet even when calamity comes undoubted, inevitable calamity -surely, putting religion altogether aside, the wisest thing you can do with a wound is to heal it, or rather to let it heal; which it will do slowly and naturally, if you do not voluntarily keep it open into a running sore.

Some people, with the very best intentions, seem to act upon us like a poultice over gaping flesh; and others again officiate as surgical instruments, laying bare every quivering nerve, and pressing upon every festering spot till we cry out in our agony that we had rather be left to die in peace, unhealed. Very few have the blessed art of letting nature alone to do her benign work, and only aiding her by those simple means which suggest themselves to the

tion and wisdom combined; which nothing, but tender instinct united to a certain degree of personal suitability, will ever supply. For, like a poet, a nurse, either of body or mind, nascitur non fit. We all must know many excellent and well-meaning people, whom in sickness or misfortune we would as soon admit into our chamber of sorrow as we would a live hippopotamus or a herd of wild buffaloes.

Perhaps (another anomaly) the sharpest affliction that any human being can endure is one which is not a personal grief at all, but the sorrow of somebody else. To see any one dearly beloved writhing under a heavy stroke, or consumed by a daily misery which we are powerless to remove or even to soften, is a trial heavy indeed-heavier in one sense than any affliction of one's own, because of that we know the height and depth, the aggravations and alleviations. But we can never fathom another's sorrow,—not one, even the keenest-eyed and tenderest-hearted among us, can ever be so familiar with the ins and outs of it as to be sure always to minister to its piteous needs at the right time and in the right way. Watch as we may, we are continually more or less in the dark, often irritating where we would soothe, and wounding where we would give our lives to heal.

Also, resignation to what may be termed a vicarious sorrow is cruelly hard to learn. We sometimes are goaded into a state of half maddened protestation against Providence, feeling as if we kept bound hand and foot on the shore-were set to watch a fellowcreature drowning. To be able to believe that Infinite Wisdom really knows what is best for that beloved fellowcreature far more than we do, is the highest state to which faith can attain; and the most religious can only catch it in brief glimpses through a darkness of angry doubt that almost rises at times into blasphemous despair. From such agonies no human strength can save; and while they last every human consolation fails. We can only lie humble at

[ocr errors]

into His hands not only ourselves but our all. And surely if there be such a thing as angelic ministry, much of it must needs be spent not only on sufferers, but on those whose lot it is to stand by and see others suffer, generally having all the time to wear a countenance cheerful, hopeful, or calmly indifferent, which in its piteous hypocrisy dare give no sign of the devouring anxiety that preys on the loving heart below.

Mention has been made of those griefs, wholly secret and silent, which are never guessed by even closest friends; the sacred self-control of which makes them easier to bear than many a lesser anguish. In contrast to these may be placed the griefs that everybody knows and nobody speaks of,-such as domestic unhappiness, disappointed love, carking worldly cares, half-guessed unkindnesses, dimly suspected wrongs; miseries which the sufferer refuses to acknowledge, but suffers on in a proud or heroic silence that precludes all others from offering either aid or sympathy, even if either were possible, which frequently it is not. In many of the conjunctures, crises, and involvements of human life, the only safe, or kind, or wise course is this solemn though heartbroken silence, under the shadow of which it nevertheless often happens that wrongs slowly work themselves right; pains lessen, at all events, to the level of

quiet endurance; or an unseen hand, by some strange and sudden sweep of destiny, clears the dark and thorny pathway, and makes everything easy and peaceful and plain.

But this does not always happen. There are hundreds of silent martyrs in whom a keen observer can see the shirt of horse-hair or the belt of steel points under the finest and most elegantly-worn clothes; and for whom, to the shortseeing human eye, there appears no possible release but death. The only consolation for such is the lesson,-sublime enough to lighten a little even the worst torment,-taught and learnt by that majestic life-long endurance which has for its sustenance strength celestial that we know not of, and for which in the end await the martyr's bliss and the martyr's crown.

These "few words" are said. They may have been said, and better said, a hundred times before. There is hardly any deep-thinking or deep-feeling human being who has not said them to himself over and over again; yet sometimes a truth strikes truer and clearer when we hear it repeated by another, instead of only listening to its dim echoes in our own often bewildered mind. To all who understand the meaning of the word sorrow, we commend these disjointed thoughts to be thought out by themselves at leisure. And so farewell.

[blocks in formation]

craft, in which they spent most of the hours between breakfast and dinner. Hardy did not take out a certificate, and wouldn't shoot without one; so, as the best autumn exercise, they selected a tough old pollard elm, infinitely ugly, with knotted and twisted roots, curiously difficult to get at and cut through, which had been long marked as a blot by Mr. Brown, and condemned to be felled as soon as there was nothing more pressing for his men to do. But there was always something of more importance; so that the cross-grained old tree might have remained until this day, had not Hardy and Tom pitched on him as a foeman worthy of their axes. They shovelled, and picked, and hewed away with great energy. The woodman who visited them occasionally, and who, on examining their first efforts, had remarked that the severed roots looked a little "as tho' the dogs had been a gnawin' at 'em," began to hold them in respect, and to tender his advice with some deference. By the time the tree was felled and shrouded, Tom was in a convalescent state.

Their occupation had naturally led to discussions on the advantages of emigration, the delights of clearing one's own estate, building one's own house, and getting away from conventional life with a few tried friends. Of course the pictures which were painted included foregrounds with beautiful children playing about the clearing, and graceful women, wives of the happy squatters, flitting in and out of the loghouses and sheds, clothed and occupied after the manner of our ideal grandmothers; with the health and strength of Amazons, the refinement of high-bred ladies, and wondrous skill in all domestic works, confections, and contrivances. The log-houses would also contain fascinating select libraries, continually reinforced from home, sufficient to keep all dwellers in the happy clearing in communion with all the highest minds of their own and former generations. Wondrous games in the neighbouring forest, dear old home customs established and taking root in the wilderness,

conservatories, and pianofortes-a millennium on a small scale, with universal education, competence, prosperity, and equal rights! Such castle-building, as an accompaniment to the hard exercise of woodcraft, worked wonders for Tom in the next week, and may be safely recommended to parties in like evil case with him.

But more practical discussions were not neglected, and it was agreed that they should make a day at Englebourn together before their return to Oxford, Hardy undertaking to invade the rectory with the view of re-establishing his friend's character there.

Tom wrote a letter to Katie to prepare her for a visit. The day after the ancient elm was fairly disposed of they started early for Englebourn, and separated at the entrance to the village

Hardy proceeding to the rectory to fulfil his mission, which he felt to be rather an embarrassing one, and Tom to look after the constable, or whoever else could give him information about Harry.

He arrived at the Red Lion, their appointed trysting place, before Hardy, and spent a restless half-hour in the porch and bar waiting for his return. At last Hardy came, and Tom hurried him into the inn's best room, where bread and cheese and ale awaited them, and, as soon as the hostess could be got out of the room, began impatiently"Well; you have seen her?"

"Yes, I have come straight here from the rectory."

"And is it all right, eh? Had she got my letter?"

"Yes, she had had your letter." "And you think she is satisfied?" "Satisfied? No, you can't expect her to be satisfied."

"I mean, is she satisfied that it isn't so bad after all as it looked the other day? What does Katie think of me?"

"I think she is still very fond of you, but that she has been puzzled and outraged by this discovery, and cannot get over it all at once."

[ocr errors]

Why didn't you tell her the whole

"I tried to do so as well as I could." "Oh, but I can see you haven't done it. She doesn't really understand how it is."

"Perhaps not; but you must remember it is an awkward subject to be talking about to a young woman. I would sooner stand another fellowship examination than go through it again."

"Thank you, old fellow," said Tom, laying his hand on Hardy's shoulder; "I feel that I'm unreasonable and impatient; but you can excuse it; you know that I don't mean it."

"Don't say another word; I only wish I could have done more for you." "But what do you suppose Katie thinks of me?"

in

Why, you see, it sums itself up this she sees that you have been making serious love to Patty, and have turned the poor girl's head, more or less, and that now you are in love with somebody else. Why, put it how we will, we can't get out of that. There

are the facts, pure and simple, and she wouldn't be half a woman if she didn't resent it."

"But it's hard lines, too, isn't it, old fellow? No, I won't say that; I deserve it all, and much worse. But you think I may come round all right?"

"Yes, all in good time. I hope there's no danger in any other quarter?"

"Goodness knows! There's the rub, you see. She will go back to town disgusted with me; I shan't see her again, and she won't hear of me for I don't know how long; and she will be meeting heaps of men. Has Katie been over to Barton ?" "Yes; she was there last week, just before they left."

Well, what happened?" "She wouldn't say much; but I gathered that they are very well."

"Oh, yes, bother it, of course, they are very well. But didn't she talk to Katie about what happened last week?" "Of course she did. What else should they talk about?"

"But you don't know what they said?" "No; but you may depend on it that Miss Winter will be your friend. My

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

66

Oh, no good," said Tom; "he was turned out, as I thought, and has gone to live with an old woman up on the heath here, who is no better than she should be; and none of the farmers will employ him."

"You didn't see him, I suppose?"

"No; he is away with some of the heath people, hawking besoms and chairs about the country. They make them when there is no harvest work, and loaf about into Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling them." "No good will come of that sort of life, I'm afraid."

"No; but what is he to do?"

"I called at the lodge as I came away, and saw Patty and her mother. It's all right in that quarter. The old woman doesn't seem to think anything of it; and Patty is a good girl, and will make Harry Winburn, or anybody else, a capital wife. Here's your locket and the letters; so now that's all over."

"Did she seem to mind giving them

up?"

"Not very much. No, you are lucky there. She will get over it."

"But you told her that I am her friend for life, and that she is to let me know if I can ever do anything for her?"

"Yes; and now I hope this is the last job of the kind I shall ever have to do for you."

"But what bad luck it has been! If I had only seen her before, or known who she was, nothing of all this would have happened."

To which Hardy made no reply; and

« ZurückWeiter »