Victor Hugo gives the following impressive description of a death in
the quicksand off certain coasts of Brittany, or Scotland. He says:--
It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on the
beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for
several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand
beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick to it; it is sand no
longer--it is glue.
The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he
lifts his foot the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye,
however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and
tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes
the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous
little cloud of sand fleas continue to leap tumultuously over the
wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to
the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious.
Anxious about what? Only he feels somehow as if the weight of his feet
increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in.
He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right
road; he stops to take his bearings. All at once he looks at his feet.
They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the
sand; he will retrace his steps; he turns back; he sinks in deeper.
The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws
himself to the left; the sand is half-leg deep. He throws himself to
the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with
unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has
beneath him the fearful medium in which man can no more walk than the
fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself
like a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his
knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains
on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far
off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over.
He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible,
implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten, which endures for
hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which
draws you by the feet, which at every effort that you make, at every
shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into
the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon
the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The
victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he
makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is
being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs.
Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is
now only a bust. He raises his arm, utters furious groans, clutches
the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his
elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath, sobs frenziedly; the
sand rises. The sand reaches his shoulders; the sand reaches his neck;
the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it;
silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them; night. Now the
forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand; a hand
comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, and disappears.
It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes
a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave.
Could anything more graphically describe the progress of a young man,
from the first cup of wine to the last?
"ONCE AGAIN."
Lord, in the silence of the night,
Lord, in the turmoil of the day;
In time of rapture and delight,
In hours of sorrow and dismay;
Yea, when my voice is filled with laughter,
Yea, when my lips are thinned with pain;
For present joy, and joy hereafter,
Lord, I would thank thee once again.
--_Elmer James Bailey._
"WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT?"
"Why, Archie Allen, you are not ready for church yet; we shall surely
be late," said the young wife as she entered the elegant library where
her husband sat reading a choice volume of poetry. It was Clara's
first Sabbath in her new home. She had but lately left the sheltering
roof of a kind great-uncle, who had taken her to his home when a
lonely orphan, and reared her very tenderly, surrounding her with
every comfort and many of the elegancies of life. A gentleman some
years her senior had won her heart's affection, and now she was
installed as mistress of his beautiful city home. Six months before
she had publicly professed her love for the Saviour, but she was yet
in the morning of her religious life. She needed the fostering care of
an experienced, devoted Christian. Would she meet with such aid from
him who was to be her future companion and protector? "Marry only in
the Lord," was the advice of an aged friend to the young girl.
"Archie is not a professor of religion," she reasoned with herself;
"but he respects religion, I know, and who can tell what influence I
may exert over him?"
"You are not really going to church to-day, Clara, dear, cold as it
is?" said the young man dropping his book and looking up with a smile.
"Why, who ever heard of such a thing as staying at home from church
unless one was ill!"
"I think I am not very well, Clara. Won't you stay at home and take
care of me? Read me some poetry and sing a few of your sweet songs."
Clara looked at him a moment a little incredulously and then replied,
"You are quite well, I know by your laughing. I think it is very wrong
to stay at home from church; indeed I do, Archie. Won't you go with
me?"
"But where shall we go, my good wife?"
"Wherever you are accustomed to."
"I am accustomed to attend that cozy little brick church down by your
uncle's, and I thought I had done duty so well there I should be
considered religious enough for the rest of my days. But don't look so
sad, Clara. I will go anywhere to please you. I know of a splendid
marble church on the Avenue. We will drive there if you like, though I
really have no idea of what persuasion it is. I will order the
carriage and be ready in a few minutes," and he left the room gaily
humming the fragment of an opera air.
It was an elegant, stately church. The brilliant light which flowed
through the stained windows almost dazzled the sight of the young
girl, accustomed only to the plain green shades of the humble village
church. The voice of the deep-toned organ rolled through the marble
hall and then burst forth into a light, gay air, which, to her
unaccustomed ears, sounded strangely in a house of worship. God seemed
nearer in the little church at home, which, nestled down among the
grassy mounds and moss-grown headstones, seemed always pointing to a
life beyond.
When the minister arose she marked well his graceful air, the polished
words and sentences which flowed so smoothly from his lips as he read
them from the page before him. But, alas!
"So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there."
Clara felt that her soul had not been fed, as the carriage rolled away
from the marble church; but there was much around her to attract the
gaze of one who had never before spent a Sabbath in the city. Her
husband was glad to be released from the sound of "the prosy old
doctor's essay," and was in quite good humor with himself for his act
of self-denial in going to church. So the drive home was quite a
pleasant one, though considerably longer than the one to church.
When they reached home a note was brought in containing an invitation
from a fashionable friend of Mr. Allen's to take a little drive out to
the new park grounds that afternoon. The carriage would call at three
o'clock.
Clara was greatly shocked at such a disregard of the sanctity of God's
holy day, and her husband employed a great deal of skilful rhetoric
and much more subtle sophistry before she could be brought even to
entertain such a project.
"You know I went to church to please you this morning. I am sure you
will be kind enough to oblige me by accepting my friend's invitation.
I know he would be seriously offended if we did not."
Alas for youth, when the counselors it relies on "counsel to do
wickedly"! Clara yielded, though with sad misgivings, and dressed
herself for the ride.
The lady beside her was very courteous and attentive, and the gay
conversation turned on various frivolous worldly subjects, till in the
pleasant excitement of the drive Clara almost forgot the day. When
they turned back again Mrs. Harvey insisted that they should dine with
her, and the carriage stopped at their residence. A gay evening was
spent, Clara being prevailed upon to play some of her choicest music
and join her new acquaintance in singing some popular songs, which she
did with most exquisite grace and expression. Her dark eye grew
brighter and her fair cheek flushed softly, as she felt the proud,
admiring glance of her husband bent upon her. But underneath all her
pleasure was a dull sense of pain and a consciousness of wrong-doing,
which was a very serpent trail among her fragrant flowers. When she
reached her home again a flood of regretful sorrow overwhelmed her
heart, and she wept bitterly. Her husband sought most tenderly to
soothe her grief, and secretly resolved to undermine the "superstition
which caused the dear girl so much unhappiness."
"You have done nothing wrong, dear Clara, that you should reproach
yourself so bitterly. You have only spent a pleasant afternoon and
evening with a friend. We must have dined somewhere, and what
difference whether at their house or our own! what is life given us
for except to make it just as full of happiness as we can, and to make
others around us happy! Just think how much pleasure your sweet
singing gave my friends and me. Harvey said it was better than the
finest opera he ever heard. Religion ought to make people happy. I am
afraid yours has not to-day, Clara, so I cannot think it is just the
right sort for you. Now, really, did not the drive to and from church
do you more good than the sermon? I am quite sure it did; so I always
intend to take a good long road to church in the future."
It was some consolation to know that her husband intended to go to
church with her in the future; so Clara dried her eyes and listened to
a little gem of poetry he had selected to read to her that morning.
Little by little the rock of her faith was worn away, and she was fast
learning to look on happiness as the true end of existence instead of
_holiness_, "without which no man shall see the Lord." And, alas! many
whose associations are far less worldly make this mistake, and look
mainly for a great deal of joy and exalted happiness in their
religious life. Because they do not attain it they go mourning all
their days, looking with weeping eyes on those whom they regard as
more favored of God, because the light of gladness shines upon their
pathway. Desponding heart! there is no true happiness in religion
where that alone is the end you seek. Holiness must be the end and aim
of your whole course, or your joy will be like the "hope of the
hypocrite, but for a moment." "Be ye holy, for I am holy," is the
divine command.
How strange that a truly loving heart could enter upon such a task as
that which Mr. Allen now commenced--the work of loosing a trusting
nature from its only safe moorings, leaving it to drift without a
compass or a guiding star upon a sea abounding with fearful rocks and
angry breakers. But such is the hatred of the natural heart to the
humbling doctrine of the cross and salvation alone through Him who was
crucified upon it.
Clara was fond of reading, and her husband took care to place in her
way certain fascinating writers, then quite popular, whose frequent
merry flashes and sarcastic allusions to the "orthodoxy" tended more
surely than serious reasoning would have done to make her think
lightly of the faith in which she had been trained. The old-fashioned
Bible was skilfully tortured out of its plainest meaning by these
so-called reformers, or utterly ignored where it could not be
distorted to suit their views. What their opinions of its inspiration
were could never be clearly seen by others, if, indeed, they had ever
given such a trifling matter any consideration whatever. Instead of
the sure foundation which has Jesus Christ for its corner-stone, and a
religion which teaches faith, humility, self-denial, earnest labor for
souls, and all lowly virtues, they profess to throw wide open the
doors of a "broad church," which should gather in all mankind as
brothers, which should teach them the dignity and excellence of
humanity, and give every one a free pass at last on the swift train
over the celestial railway. In their great harvest-field they claimed
the tares to be as valuable as the wheat, and never gave thought to
the "harvest day." But, alas! calling the tares wheat will not avail
when "the Lord of the harvest" comes and the command is given, "Bind
them in bundles to burn them."
But the form in which the fatal error was clothed was fair and
pleasing, especially so when her husband would
"Lend to the charm of the poet
The music of his voice."
There was one favorite writer who seemed to possess a magic power in
painting every shady nook and mossy wayside spring of the human heart.
No old, gray rock or fathomless shadow of feeling seemed to escape
that observing eye. And there were clear, bold strokes sometimes which
showed a strength not often given to a woman's hand. Through all her
writings ran a thread of light reflected from God's word, though bent
out of its own right line by the prism through which it flowed. Much
was said of the love and tender mercy of God, but the fact that he is
also a just God, and will in nowise clear the guilty, was set aside as
a hard doctrine. The gay scoffer, the one who despises Christ's tender
offers of love and pardon, provided he is amiable and pleasant among
his friends and associates, must not be given over to a just
retribution. God is too loving a Father to see such a lovely scorner
perish. It is "so incongruous" to think of the one with whom we have
had such pleasant converse here being forever lost. The sophistry
gradually wrought its work; the more readily, as poor Clara, in the
whirl of fashion and gaiety, failed to bring it to the test of "the
law and the testimony."
Time rolled on, and Clara was becoming more thoughtful and studious.
Various philosophical works which her husband admired, and which he
often read and discussed with her, were becoming favorite volumes.
There was something grand in the old philosopher's views of life and
its little ills and joys. There was something wonderful in their
curious speculations respecting the mysteries of the world beyond. Her
husband delighted in leading her mind through all their fantastic
windings as they groped for the truth so clearly revealed to us. He
praised his wife for her appreciation of such intellectual food, and
rejoiced that he had been so successful in winning the affection of a
truly intellectual woman. Her self-love was gratified, and her
diligence in diving deeper into his favorite works daily increased.
In her own home circle her heart had room to expand its choicest
tendrils. A noble boy three summers old was prattling at her feet, and
all the demands of fashion could not make her forget a mother's
duties. Still they were only the duties that pertained to his temporal
welfare, for the flame of devotion had smoldered to ashes on the
hearthstone of her heart.
The rain was dashing against the closed shutters one November night as
an anxious group gathered in Mrs. Allen's chamber. They were standing
on either side of a beautiful rosewood crib, whose hangings of azure
gauze were closely drawn aside. There lay a little form tossing and
restless, his little face and throat seemed scarlet as they rested on
the snowy pillow, and his little hand moved restlessly to and fro, as
if vainly striving to cool the burning heat. It was the mother's hand
that tirelessly bathed the scarlet brow and burning limbs. Servants
were constantly in waiting, but no hand but her husband's was allowed
to take her place.
"Do you think there is hope, doctor?" was the question she longed to
ask, but could not frame it into words. It came at length from her
husband's lips. The answer was only a straw to grasp at.
"He is in a very critical state, indeed. If I had been at home when he
was first taken ill I think the fever would not have reached such a
height. But everything almost depends on the first steps. We must do
what we can now to make up for lost hours."
But all that the best medical skill could do proved useless. The
little sufferer lingered through the long night watch, and when the
morning dawned seemed once more to know them all. "My mamma," were the
first words which fell from his lips, sending a thrill of joy to all
their hearts. It was bliss to see the smile of recognition light once
more those sweet blue eyes, and the parents grasped each other's hand
in silent joy. The old physician alone looked grave and sorrowful. The
little light was fast fading out, and this was its dying flicker.
"Mamma, please take Bertie," said the little one, holding up the
dimpled hands. Very tenderly was he lifted up and laid in her arms.
"Good night, papa, it's most dark now; Bertie is going to sleep."
His mother's tearful face bent over him, and as the strange hand of
Death was laid upon his heart-strings he clasped her closely about the
neck, as if she were a refuge from every danger.
They took the little one gently from her arms and laid him on his
couch again. Her husband could not even strive to comfort her. He saw
the joy and pride of his existence, the heir of his name and fortune,
around whom so many fair hopes clustered, "taken away by a stroke,"
and his soul seemed crushed within him. He bowed his head upon his
hands, and, regardless of other eyes, the proud man groaned, and
sobbed, and wept as never in his life he had done before. Both were
too deeply stricken to utter words of comfort. Clara felt her bleeding
heart torn from her bosom. Yet no tears came to her relief. Her brain
seemed bursting with the pressure upon it. Where was the sustaining
power of boasted philosophy in this hour of darkness?
Ah, when the afflictions of life come home to "the bone and marrow of
our own households" they are far different to us from those which
concern only our neighbors. It is an easy thing to look on pleasure
philosophically, or even the afflictions of others, but when our turn
to suffer comes we shall feel our need of a strong staff to lean upon,
a sure support that can keep us in perfect peace, even in the furnace.
Clara had sought to pray when the agony of fear was upon her, but God
seemed too far away to listen.
"I cannot give him up, my husband!" was the agonized cry of the mother
as they stood for the last time by his side before he was to be taken
forever from their chamber. "I cannot give him up," was the despairing
language of both their hearts. There can be no true resignation where
a loving Father's hand is not recognized in the affliction; where this
poor world is allowed to bound the spirit's vision. But at last the
precious dust was borne away to be seen no more by mortal eye till the
resurrection morning.
[Illustration: Christ the Good Shepherd.]
Time, the great healer, wore away the sharpness of the bereavement,
but Clara could never again delight in her former pursuits. How like
very dust and ashes seemed the food she had been seeking to nourish
her soul upon! A softened melancholy rested upon her heart, and she
would wander about her house looking at the relics of her lost one.
And day by day the roses faded from her cheek, her step grew lighter
on the stair, and she rapidly declined, till at length she was
startled at the shadowy form and face her mirror revealed to her. Her
long-neglected Bible was once more sought for, and she read with all
the desperate eagerness of a drowning man, who catches at every chance
of safety. It was her mother's Bible, and along the margin were
delicate pencil tracings, pointing to many precious passages. How
eagerly she read them over! and when she was too weary herself, she
gave the book into her husband's hand. Still he could give her no
advice in her spiritual distress, and looked upon it with compassion
as the result of her disease. He gave her the tenderest worldly
consolation, but it brought no peace to her anxious soul. Was there no
one to offer a word of true counsel? From a very humble source came
the advice she so much needed. The kind nurse, Margaret, whom little
Bertie had loved next to his parents, was an earnest, humble
Christian. It was from her lips he had learned to lisp his morning and
evening prayer, and her low, gentle voice that told him over and over
the sweet story he never tired of hearing--the story of the Babe of
Bethlehem.
Plainly and simply she pointed Clara's mind to the Lamb of God as the
only Saviour, praying hourly in her heart that God would bring home
the truth with power to her.
At length a little light broke in upon her mind. "It may be he will
receive even such a wandering sheep as I," she said, "oh, I will cast
myself upon his mercy only, for I can do nothing to make myself
better!"
The thin hands were folded over the Bible, the eyes closed wearily, a
faint motion of the lips told of the silent prayer her heart was
offering, as gently she breathed her life away.
A few months later Mr. Allen became a wanderer in many lands.
Do you ever sigh and disquiet your heart, Christian pilgrim, because
God has not given you wealth and worldly ease? Remember the words of
One who never gave a needless caution nor spoke an untruthful
word--"How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom
of heaven!"
It is a dangerous step indeed for a young heart to form a life-long
union with one who is a stranger to its hopes of heaven. "Be ye not
unequally yoked together with unbelievers," is a command which may not
be lightly broken. Where all of this world, and very probably the
world to come, are at stake, the cost should be well counted. "What
shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own
soul?" Even the most devoted affection the world can bestow will be no
substitute for God's loving favor. "What shall a man give in exchange
for his soul?"
"Jesus, my all in all thou art,
My rest in toil, my ease in pain;
The healing of my broken heart,
In strife my peace, in loss my gain;
My smile beneath the tyrant's frown,
In shame my glory and my crown."