Produced by Wright American Fiction, Curtis Weyant, Mary
Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Allegories of Life
BY MRS. J. S. ADAMS
1872
CONTENTS.
I. THE BELLS
II. THE HEIGHT
III. THE PILGRIM
IV. FAITH
V. HOPE
VI. JOY AND SORROW
VII. UPWARD
VIII. THE OAK
IX. TRUTH AND ERROR
X. THE TREE
XI. THE TWO WAYS
XII. THE URNS
XIII. SELF-EXERTION
XIV. THE VINES
XV. IN THE WORLD
XVI. FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY
XVII. GOING FORTH
XVIII. THE FEAST
XIX. THE LESSON OF THE STONE
XX. THE SEEDS
XXI. ONLY GOLD
XXII. THE SACRIFICE
XXIII. STRANGERS
I.
THE BELLS.
In the steeple of an old church was a beautiful chime of bells, which
for many years had rung out joyous peals at the touch of the sexton's
hand upon the rope.
"I'll make the air full of music to-morrow," said the white-haired man,
as he lay down to his slumbers. "To-morrow is Christmas, and the people
shall be glad and gay. Ah, yes! right merry will be the chimes I shall
ring them." Soon sleep gathered him in a close embrace, and visions of
the morrow's joy flitted over his brain.
At midnight some dark clouds swept over the tower, while darker shadows
of discontent fell on the peaceful chime.
Hark! what was that? A low, discordant sound was heard among the bells.
"Here we have been ringing for seven long years," murmured the highest
bell in the chime.
"Well, what of it? That's what we are placed here for," said a voice
from one of the deeper-toned bells.
"But I have rung long enough. Besides, I am weary of always singing
one tone," answered the high bell, in a clear, sharp voice.
"Together we make sweetest harmony," returned the bell next the
complainer.
"I well know that, but I am tired of my one tone, while you can bear
monotony. For my part, I do not mean to answer to the call of the rope
to-morrow."
"What! not ring on Christmas Day!" exclaimed all the bells together.
"No, I don't. You may exclaim as much as you please; but, if you
had common sympathy, you would see in a moment how weary I am of
singing this one high tone."
"But we all have to give our notes," responded a low, sweet-voiced bell.
"That's just what I mean to change. We are all weary of our notes,
and need change."
"But we should have to be recast," said the low-toned bell, sadly.
"Most certainly we should. _I_ should like the fun of that. Now how
many of you will be silent in the morning when the old sexton comes to
ring us?"
"I will," answered the lowest-toned bell, boldly.
"If part of us are silent and refuse to ring, of what use will the rest
be?" said one who had remained quiet until then. "For a chime all of
us are needed," she added, sadly.
"That's just the point," remarked the leader. "If all will be still, none
will be blamed: the people will think we are worn out and need making
over. So we shall be taken down from this tower where we have been so
long, and stand a chance of seeing something of the world. For _my_
part, I am tired to death of being up here, and seeing nothing but this
quiet valley."
A murmur ran from one to another, till all agreed to be silent on the
morrow, though many of the chime would have preferred to ring as usual.
The man who had presented the bells to the church returned at midnight,
after a long journey to his native valley, bringing with him a friend,
almost solely to hear the beautiful chime on the morrow.
As he passed the church, on his way home, the murmuring of the bells
was just ceasing. "The wind moves them--the beautiful bells," he said.
"But to-morrow you shall hear how sweet they will sing," he added,
casting a loving glance up to the tower where hung the bells.
A few miles from the valley, close to the roadside, stood a cottage
inhabited by a man and wife whose only child was fast fading from the
world.
"Raise me up a little, mother," said the dying boy, "so I can hear the
Christmas chime. It will be the last time I shall hear them here, mother.
Is it almost morning?"
The pale mother wiped the death-dew from his brow and kissed him,
saying, "Yes, dear, it's almost morning. The bells will chime soon as
the first ray comes over the hills."
Patiently the child sat, pillowed in his bed, till the golden arrows of
light flashed over the earth. Day had come, but no chime.
"What can be the matter?" said the anxious mother, as she strained her
eyes in the direction of the tower.
What if the old sexton were dead? The thought took all her strength
away. If death had taken him first, who would lay her boy tenderly away?
"Is it almost time?"
"Almost, Jimmy, darling. Perhaps the old sexton has slept late."
"Will the bells chime in heaven, mother?"
"Yes, dear, I hope so."
"Will they ring them for me if--if--I--mother! hark! the bells _are_
ringing! The good old sexton has gone to the church at last!"
The boy's eyes glistened with a strange light. In vain the mother
listened. No sound came to _her_ ears. All was still as death.
"Oh, how beautiful they sing!" he said, and fell back and died.
Other chimes fell on his ear, sweeter far than the bells of St. Auburn.
For more than an hour the old sexton had been working at the ropes
in vain. No sound come forth from either bell.
"What can be the matter?" he exclaimed, nervously. "For seven long years
they have not failed to ring out their tones. I'll try once more." And he
did so, vigorously.
Just then the figure of a man stood in the doorway. It was the owner
of the chime. He had gone to the sexton's house, not hearing the bells
at the usual hour, thinking he had overslept; and, not finding him, had
sought him at the church.
He tried the ropes himself, but with no more success than the sexton.
"What can it mean?" he said, as he turned sorrowfully away.
It was a sad Christmas in the pleasant valley. To have those sweet
sounds missing, and on such a day,--it was a loss to all, and an omen
of ill to many.
The next day, workmen were sent to the tower to examine the bells. No
defect was perceptible. They were sound and whole, and no mischief-making
lad, as some had suggested, had stolen their tongues.
The bells were taken down and carried to a distant city to be recast.
"There! didn't I tell you we should see the world?" said their leader,
after they were packed and on their way.
"I don't think we are seeing much of it now, in this dark box," answered
one of the bells.
"Wait till we are at our journey's end. We are in a transition state
now. Haven't I listened to the old pastor many a time, and heard him
say those very words? I could not comprehend them then, but I can now.
Oh, how delightful it is to have the prospect of some change before
us!" Thus the old bell chatted to the journey's end, while the other
bells had but little to say.
Three days later they were at the end of their long ride, and placed,
one by one, in a fiery furnace. Instead of murmurs now, their groans
filled the air.
"Oh, for one moment's rest from the heat and the hammer! Oh, that we
were all at the sweet vale of St. Auburn!" said the leader of all their
sorrow.
"How sweetly would we sing!" echoed all.
"It's a terrible thing to be recast!" sighed the deepest-toned bell;
and he quivered with fear as they placed him in the furnace.
At last, after much suffering, they were pronounced perfect, and repacked
for their return.
The same tone was given to each, but the quality was finer, softer, and
richer than before. The workmen knew not why--none but the suffering
bells, and the master hand who put them into the furnace of affliction.
They were all hung once more in the tower--wiser and better bells.
Never again was heard a murmur of discontent from either because but
one tone was its mission. In the moonlight they talk among themselves,
of their sad but needful experience, and of the lesson which it taught
them,--as we hope it has our reader,--that each must be faithful to the
quality or tone which the Master has given us, and which is needful to
the rich and full harmonies of life.
II.
THE HEIGHT.
There was once an aged man who lived upon an exceeding high mountain for
many years; but, as his strength began to decline, he found the ascent so
tedious for his feeble steps that he went into the valley to live.
It was very hard for him to give up the view from its lofty height of
the sun which sank so peacefully to rest. Long before the sleepers in
the valley awoke, he was watching the golden orb as it broke through the
mists and flung its beauties over the hills.
"This must be my last day upon the mountain top," he said. "The little
strength which is left me I must devote to the culture of fruit and
flowers in the valley, and no longer spend it in climbing up and down
these hills, whose tops rest their peaks in the fleecy clouds. I have
enjoyed many years of repose and grandeur, and must devote the remainder
of my life to helping the people in the valley."
At sunset the old man descended, with staff in hand, and went slowly down
the mountain side. Such lovely blossoms, pink, golden, and scarlet, met
his eye as he gazed on the gardens of the laborers, that he involuntarily
exclaimed, "I fear I have spent my days not wisely on yonder mountain
top, taking at least a third of my time in climbing up and down. Richer
flowers grow here in the valley; the air is softer, and the grass like
velvet to the tread. I'll see if there is a vacant cottage for me."
Saying this, he accosted a laborer who was just returning from his
toil: "Good man, do you know of any cottage near which I can rent?"
"Why! you are the old man from the mountain," exclaimed the astonished
person addressed.
"I am coming to the valley to live. I am now seeking a shelter."
"Yonder," answered the man, "is a cottage just vacated by a man and
wife. Would that suit you?"
"Anything that will shelter me will suit," was the answer. "Dost thou
know who owns the house?"
"Von Nellser, the gardener. He lives down by the river now, and works for
all the rich men in the valley."
"I'll see him to-night," said the old man, and, thanking his informant,
was moving on.
"But, good father, the sun has already set; the night shades appear.
Come and share my shelter and bread to-night, and in the morning seek
Von Nellser."
The old man gladly accepted his kind offer. "The vale makes men kindly of
heart and feeling," he said, as he uncovered his head to enter the home
of the laborer. A fair woman of forty came forward, and clasped his hand
with a warmth of manner which made him feel more at ease than many words
of welcome would have done.
The three sat together at supper, and refreshed themselves with food
and thought.
He retired early to the nice apartment assigned him, and lay awake a
long time, musing on the past and the present. "Ah, I see," he said to
himself, "why I am an object of wonder and something of awe to the
people of the valley. I have lived apart from human ties, while they have
grown old and ripe together. I must be a riddle to them all--a something
which they have invested with an air of veneration, because I was not
daily in their midst. Had it been otherwise, I should have been neither
new nor fresh to them. How know I but this is God's reserve force
wherewith each may become refreshed, and myself an humble instrument
sent in the right moment to vivify those who have been thinking alike too
much?"
He fell asleep, and awoke just as the sun was throwing its bright rays
over his bed. "Dear old day-god," he said, with reverence, and arose
and dressed himself, still eying the sun's early rays. "One of thy golden
messengers must content me now," he said, a little sadly. "I can no
longer see thee in all thy majesty marching up the mountain side; no
longer can I follow thee walking over the hill-tops, and resting thy head
against the crimson sky at evening: but smile on me, Sun, while in the
vale I tarry, and warm my seeds to life while on thy daily march."
The old man went from his room refreshed by sleep, and partook of the
bread and honey which the kind woman had ready for him. Then, thanking
them for their hospitality, he departed.
The laborer and wife watched him out of sight, and thought they had
never seen anything more beautiful than his white hair waving in the
morning breeze.
At dusk a light shone in the vacant cottage, and they sent him fresh
cakes, milk, and honey for his evening meal.
* * * * *
Ten years passed away. The old man had cultured his land, and no fairer
flowers or sweeter fruits grew in the valley than his own. He had taught
the people many truths which he had learned in his solitary life on the
mountain, and in return had learned much from them. He faded slowly away.
The brilliant flowers within his garden grew suddenly distasteful to him.
He longed to look once more on a pure white blossom which grew only at
the mountain top. With its whiteness no flower could compare. There were
others, growing half way up, that approached its purity, but none equaled
the flower on the summit.
"I should like, of all things," answered the old man, when they desired
to know what would most please him,--for he had become a great favorite
in the valley,--"to look once more upon my pure white flower ere I die;
but it's so far to the mountain top, none will care to climb."
"Thou _shalt_ see it!" exclaimed a strong youth, who was courageous,
but seldom completed anything he undertook, for lack of perseverance.
The old man blessed him. He started for the mountain, and walked a
long way up its side, often missing his footing, and at one time seeking
aid from a rotten branch, which broke in his grasp and nearly threw him
to the base.
After repeated efforts to reach the summit, he found a sweet, pale
blossom growing in a mossy nook by a rock.
"Ah! here it is--the same, I dare say, as those on the mountain top.
So what need of climbing farther? What a lucky fellow I am to save so
many steps for myself!" and he went down the mountain side as fast as
he could, amid the rank and tangled wood, with the flower in his hand.
Day was walking over the meadows with golden feet when he entered
the cottage and placed the blossom exultingly in the old man's palm.
"What! so quick returned?" he said. "Thou must have been very swift--but
this, my good young man, never grew on the mountain top! Thee must have
found this half way up. I remember well those little flowers--they grew
by the rocks where I used to rest when on my journey up."
The crowd who had come to see the strange white flower now laughed aloud,
which made the youth withdraw, abashed and much humbled. Had he been
strong of heart, he would have tried again, and not returned without the
blossom from the mountain top. Many others tried, but never had the
courage to reach its height; while the old man daily grew weaker.
"He'll die without setting eyes on his flower," said the good woman
who had given him shelter the night he came to the valley. She had not
the courage to try the ascent, but she endeavored to stimulate others to
go to the top and bring the blossom to cheer his heart. She offered, as
reward, choice fruits and linen from her stores; but all had some excuse,
although they loved the old man tenderly: none felt equal to the effort.
Towards noon, a pale, fragile girl, from a distant part of the vale,
appeared, who had heard of his desire, and stood at the door of his
cottage and knocked.
"What dost thou wish?" he asked from within.
"To go to the mountain for the flower and place it in thy hand," she
answered, as she entered his room and meekly stood before him.
"Thou art very frail of body," he replied, "but strong of heart. Go,
try, and my soul will follow and strengthen thee, fair daughter."
She kissed his hand, and departed.
The morning came, and she returned not. The end of the second day
drew nigh, and yet she came not back.
"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the
cottage. "Such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death. The old
man ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs
so much labor to get it."
"So think me," said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; "so
think me. Our flowers are pretty, and good 'nough, too. Sure, he
orter be content with what grows 'round him, and not be sending folk
a-climbing." This said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked
very wise.
* * * * *
The aged man of the mountain was passing rapidly away. The kind
neighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around
the room. Some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the
mountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without
the flower to gladden his eyes.
"The girl's gone a long time," remarked one of the women.
"The longer she's gone, the surer the sign she's reached the mountain
top. It's a long way up there, and a weary journey back. My feet have
trod it often, and I know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches
in the way. But she will come yet. I hear footsteps not far away."
"But too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she
bring it."
"Then put it on my grave--but hark! she comes--some one approaches!"
Through the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl,
with torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes. The old man
raised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing.
"Fair girl,"--he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever
use,--"the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels'
garments. Its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks
it, making it white as their robes. To all who persevere to the mountain
top and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter
and remain forever. For is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses
not till the summit is gained?"
"Oh! good man, the mountain view was so grand, I fain would have lingered
to gaze; but, longing to lay the blossom in thy hand, I hastened back."
"Thou shalt behold all the grandeur thy toil has earned thee. Unto
those who climb to the mountain summit, who mind not the sharp rocks
and loose, rough grass beneath their tread,--unto such shall all the
views be given; for they shall some day be lifted in vision, without aid
of feet, to grander heights than their weary limbs have reached."
The old man lay back and died.
They buried him, with the flower on his breast, one day just as the sun
was setting. Ere the winter snows fell, many of the laborers, both men
and women, went up the mountain to its very top, and brought back the
white blossoms to deck his grave.
* * * * *
The summit only has the view, and the white flower of purity grows
upon it. Shall we ascend and gather it? or, like the youth, climb but
half the distance, and cheat our eyes and souls of the view from the
height?
III.
THE PILGRIM.
One sultry summer day a youthful pilgrim sat by the roadside, weary and
dispirited, saying, "I cannot see why I was ordered to tarry beside this
hard, unsightly rock, after journeying as many days as I have. Something
better should have been given me to rest upon after walking so far. If it
were only beside some shady tree, I could wait the appearance of the
guide. My lot is hard indeed. I do not see any pilgrim here. Others are
probably resting beneath green trees and by running brooks. I will look
at my directions once more;" and she drew the paper from her girdle and
read slowly these words: "Tarry at the rock, and do not go on till the
guide appears to conduct you to your journey's end." She folded and
replaced the paper with a sigh, while the murmur still went on: "It's
very hard, when beyond I see beautiful green trees, whose long branches
would shelter me from the burning sun. How thirsty I am, too! My bread is
no longer sweet, for want of water. Oh, that I could search for a spring!
I am sure I could find one if permitted to go on my journey. If the rock
was not so hard I could pillow my head upon it. Ah me! I have been so
often told that the guide had great wisdom, and knew what was good and
best for us pilgrims; but this surely looks very dark."
Here weariness overcame the pilgrim, and involuntarily she laid her
head upon the rock; when, lo! a sudden spring was touched, and the
waters leaped, pure and sparkling, from the hard, unsightly spot. This
was the guide's provision for his pilgrim. It was no longer mystical why
he had ordered her to tarry there.
When she had drank, and the parched throat was cool and the whole
being refreshed, the guide appeared rounding a gentle curve of the road,
and bade her follow him through a dense forest which lay between the
rock and the journey's end. The steps of the pilgrim now were more
firm, for trust was begotten within her, and the light of hope gleamed
on her brow--as it will at last upon us all, when the waters have gushed
from the bare rocks which lie in the pathways of our lives.
At last we shall learn that our Father, the great Guide, leads us where
flow living waters, and that he never forsakes us in time of need.
IV.
FAITH.
"Children," said a faithful father, one day, to his sons and daughters,
"I have a journey to take which will keep me many days, perhaps weeks,
from you; and as we have no power over conditions,--such as storms,
sickness, or any of the so-called accidents of life,--I may be detained
long beyond my appointed time of absence. I trust, however, that you will
each have confidence in me; and, should illness to myself or others
detain me, that you will all trust and wait."
"We will, father!" shouted a chorus of voices, which was music to his
ears.
With a fond embrace to each, he left them. Slowly he walked down
the winding path which led from his home. He heard the voices of his
children on the air long after he entered the highway--voices which he
might not hear, perchance, for many months. Sweeter than music to his
soul were those sounds floating on the summer air. Over the hill and
dale he rode till night came on, and then, before reposing, he lifted his
soul to heaven for blessings on his household.
With the sun he arose and pursued his journey. The summer days
went down into autumn; the emerald leaves changed their hues for gold
and scarlet; ripe fruits hung in ruby and yellow clusters from their
strong boughs; while over the rocks, crimson vines were trailing. Slowly
the tints of autumn faded. Soon the white frosts lay on the meadows
like snow-sheets; the days were shorter and the air more crisp and chill.
Around the evening fire the household of the absent parent began to
gather. While summer's beauties abounded they had not missed him so
much, but now they talked each to the other, and grew strangely restless
at his long delay.
"Did he not tell us," said the eldest, "that sickness or accident might
delay him?"
"But he sends us no word, no sign, to make us at rest."
"The roads may not be passable," replied the brother, whose faith as
yet was not dimmed. "Already the snow has blocked them for miles
around us, and we know not what greater obstacles lie beyond. No, let
us trust our father," he added, with a depth of feeling which touched
them all; and for a few days they rested in the faith that he would come
and be again in their midst. But, alas! how short-lived is the trust of
the human heart! how limited its vision! It cannot pierce the passing
clouds, nor stretch forth its hand in darkness.
Together they sat one evening, in outer and inner darkness,--again in
the shadows of distrust.
"He will never return," said one of the group, in sad and sorrowing
tones.
"My father will come," lisped the youngest of them all,--the one on
whom the others looked as but a babe in thought and feeling.
"I am weary with watching," said another, as she went from the window
where she had been looking, for so many days, for the loved form. "Our
father has forgotten us all," she moaned, and bowed her head and wept.
There was no one to comfort; for all were sad, knowing that naught but a
few crusts remained for their morrow's food--and who would provide for
the coming days? Lights and fuel too were wanting, and winter but half
gone. Even the faith of the eldest had long since departed, and he too
had yielded to distrust.
"My father will come," still whispered the little one, strong in her
child-trust, while the others doubted.
"It's because she's so young, and cannot reason like us," they said
among themselves.
"Perhaps God can speak to her because she is so simple," said one of
the household with whom words were few.
They looked at each other as though a ray of sunlight had flashed
through their dwelling. Something akin to hope began to spring in their
hearts, but died away as the chilling blasts came moaning around them.
Three days passed, while the storm raged and threatened to bury their
home beneath the heavy snows. There was no food now to share between
them. The last crumb had been given the child to soften her cries of
hunger.
"I can stand this no longer," said the eldest, wrapping his garments
around him, and preparing to go forth to find labor and bread for his
brothers and sisters. "Ah, that I should ever have lived to see this
day!"--he murmured--"the day in which we are deserted and forgotten
by our father."
The sound of murmuring within now mingled with the sighing of the winds
without. He stepped to the door; but for an instant the fierce blasts
drove him back--yet but for an instant. "I will not add cowardice to
sorrow," he said to them, in reply to their entreaties not to go in the
storm. With one strong effort he faced the chilling sleet, which so
blinded him that he could not find the path which led to the highway;
yet he went bravely on, till hunger and chill overcame him, and he could
no longer see or even feel. He grew strangely dizzy, and would have
fallen to the ground, but for a pair of strong arms which at that instant
held him fast. He was too much overcome to know who it was that thus
enfolded him; but soon a well-known voice rose above the wind and the
storm,--he knew that his father's arms were about him, and he feared
no more. In the hour of greatest need the father had come. There, in
that hour of brave effort, he was spared a long exposure to the wintry
blast. A carriage laden with food, fuel, and timely gifts, for each, was
already on the road, and would soon deposit its bounties at the door of
those whose faith had deserted them.
What a happy household gathered around the father that night! There
was no need of lamps to reveal the joy on their faces, and the darkness
could not hide the tears which coursed down their cheeks. The little one
awoke shouting, in her child-trust, "My father has come! me knew him
would!"
And they called her Faith from that hour.
The only alloy in the joy of the others was, as the kind father explained
to them the causes of his delay, that they had not trusted him with the
faith of the little child; and when he told them of the strange people he
had been among, who needed counsel and instruction, and their great
need of his ministrations, they sorrowed much that doubt had shadowed
for a moment their trust in their father.
Thus do we distrust our Heavenly Parent; and when our needs rise
like mountains before us, and all _seems_ dark, we cry, "Alas! he has
forgotten us!" And yet in our deepest night a light appears, his strong
arm uplifts us, and we are taught how holy a thing is Faith.
V.
HOPE.
Darkness had been upon the earth for a long time. It was a period of war
and bloodshed, crime and disaster.
The old earth seemed draped in habiliments of mourning; and there
was cause for aching hearts, for out of many homes had gone unto battle
sons, fathers, and husbands, who would return no more. They fell in
service; and kind mothers and wives could not take one farewell look at
their still, white faces, but must go about their homes as though life
had lost none of its helps.
* * * * *
"The poor, sad earth!" said one of a glad band, belonging to a starry
sphere above. "I long to comfort its people; but my mission is given
me to guide souls through the death valley, and bear them to their
friends in the summer-land. I must not leave my post of duty. Who will
go?"
"I will," said Love, in sweet, silvery tones.
"You are too frail to descend into such darkness as at present envelops
the earth; beside, they need another, a different element just now, to
prepare the way for better things."
"Who shall it be?" they all said, and looked from one to the other.
"Hope," said their leader, the queen of the starry band.
There was to be high festival that night, in a temple dedicated to the
Muses; and it was quite a sacrifice for any of their number to leave
their happy sphere, for one so dark as that of earth.
Hope came forward at the mention of her name, holding in her hand
the half-finished garland which she had been twining for one of the
Graces.
"Wilt thou go to earth to-night, fair Hope?" asked the queen.
The star on her fair brow glittered brighter as she said unhesitatingly,
"I will."
"Your mission will be to carry garlands to every habitation which has
a light within. The others you cannot, of course, discern. Come now,
and let me clasp this strong girdle about thy waist, to which I shall
attach a cord, by which to let you down to earth."
They filled her arms with garlands, and flung some about her neck, till
she was laden and ready to go.
"Now," said their leader, "descend on this passing cloud; and while
you are gone we will sing anthems for you, to keep your heart bright and
linked to ours."
Then she fastened the cord to her golden girdle, and let her down
gently from the skies.
* * * * *
In a little cottage by a roadside sat Mary Deane and her sister, reading.
They were two fair orphans whose father and brother were lost in battle.
"Let's put out the light, and look at the stars awhile," said the
youngest.
"Not yet, dear, it's too early. There may be some passer-by, and a
light is such a comfort to a traveler on the road. Many a time our
neighbor's light has sent a glow over me which has enabled me to reach
home much sooner, if not in better humor."
"As you like, sister,--but hark! I thought I heard footsteps."
They listened, and, hearing nothing more, finished their reading and
retired to rest.
On opening their door the next morning, their eyes were gladdened by
a lovely garland which hung on the knob. The flowers were rich in,
perfume and color--unlike anything they had seen on earth.
Much they marveled, and wondered from whence they came, and still
greater was their joy to find they did not fade.
Hope found a great many dwellings with lights in them, but had to pass
many, as there was no lamp to signal them. At the door of the former
she left garlands to gladden the inmates.
"It's no use to waste our oil: we have nothing to read or interest
us," said one of two lonely women, on the night Hope came to the earth.
So they sat down gloomily together, the darkness adding to their
cheerlessness, while a bright glow within would have gladdened them and
all without.
Hope went by, laden with garlands, just as they took their seats in the
shadows. She would gladly have left them, for she had enough and to
spare; but, seeing no sign of a habitation, walked on.
The two women talked of the dreary world until they went to rest. What
was their surprise, in the morning, to find their neighbors rejoicing
over their mysterious gifts.
"Why had we none?" they said again and again. "The poor never have half
as much given them as the wealthy," they cried, and went back to their
gloom and despair.
"Did you find a wreath on your doorstep this morning?" inquired a
bright, hopeful woman at noon, who had brought them a part of her
dinner.
"No, indeed!" they answered. "Did you find one on yours?"
"The handsomest wreath I ever saw. Who ever could have made
one so lovely? But"--she stopped suddenly, on seeing their sad faces.
"You shall have part of mine: I will cut it in two."
"Never!" said the eldest quickly. "There is some reason why we
were omitted; and, until we can know the cause, you must keep your
wreath unbroken."
It was very noble of her to come out of herself and refuse to accept
what she instinctively felt did not belong to her.
A week passed away. A child in the village had had strange dreams
concerning the gifts, which, in substance, was that a beautiful angel
had come from the stars above, and brought flowers to every house in
which a light was seen.
"We did not have any light that night,--don't you remember?" remarked the
eldest of the women, as their neighbor told them of the strange dream.
"There must be _something_ in it," answered the little bright-eyed
woman. "For all the dwellings had flowers which were lighted."
"I suppose we ought always to be more hopeful," said the women
together. "The lamps of our houses should typify the light of hope,
which should never be dim, nor cease burning."
* * * * *
Hope was taken up, by a golden cord, to her abode. The starry group
sang heavenly anthems to refresh her, and Love twined a fresh garland
for her brow. They held another festival in the temple, in honor of her
and her safe return from the earth.
Ever since she has been the brightest light in the group; and at night,
when the clouds rising from the earth obscure all the others, the star on
the brow of Hope is shining with a heavenly lustre, and seen by all whose
gaze is upward.
VI.
JOY AND SORROW.
Many years ago, two visitors were sent from realms above, to enter the
homes of earth's inhabitants, and see how much of true happiness and real
sorrow there were in their midst. Hand in hand they walked together, till
they entered a pleasant valley nestled among green hills. At the base of
one of these stood a cottage covered with roses and honeysuckles, which
looked very inviting; and the external did not belie the interior.
The family consisted of a man and wife somewhat advanced in years,
an aged and infirm brother, and two lovely young girls, grandchildren
of the couple.
The pleasant murmur of voices floated on the air,--pleasant to the ear
as the perfume of the roses climbing over the door was to the sense of
smell. It chimed with the spell of the summer morning, and the sisters
knew that harmony was within.
"Let us enter," said Joy.
Sorrow, who was unwilling to go into any abode, lingered outside.
Within, all was as clean and orderly as one could desire: the young
girls were diligently sewing, while before them lay an open volume, from
which they occasionally read a page or so, thus mingling instruction with
labor.
Joy entered, and accosted them with, "A bright morning."
"Very lovely," answered the girls, and they arose and placed a chair
for their visitor.
"We have much to be grateful for every day, but very much on such a
day as this," remarked the grandmother.
"You're a busy family," said Joy.
"Yes, we all labor, and are fond of it," answered the woman, looking
fondly at the girls. "We have many blessings, far more than we can be
grateful for, I sometimes think."
"Yes, I tell mother," broke in the husband, "that we must never lose
sight of our blessings; in fact, they are all such, though often in
disguise."
At that moment Sorrow looked in at the open door. It was so seldom
that _she_ was recognized that she longed to enter.
"You have a friend out there: ask her in," said the woman.
Joy turned and motioned her sister to enter. She came in softly, and
sat beside Joy, while the woman spoke of her family, at the desire of
each of the sisters to know of her causes of happiness.
"Yes, they are all blessings in disguise," she said, "though I could not
think thus when I laid my fair-eyed boy in the grave; nor, later, when
my next child was born blind."
"Had you none other?" asked Joy.
"One other, and she died of a broken heart."
Sorrow sighed deeply, and would rather have heard no more; but Joy
wished to hear the whole, and asked the woman to go on.
"Yes, she died heart-broken; and these two girls are hers. It was
very hard that day to see the hand of God in the cloud when they
brought the body of her husband home all mangled, and so torn that
not a feature could be recognized; and then to see poor Mary, his wife,
pine day by day until we laid her beside him."
"But the blessing was in it, mother: we have found it so. They have
only gone to prepare the way, and we have much left us."
The words of the old man were true, and it was beautiful to see the
face of his wife as it glowed with recognition.
At that moment the sisters threw back their veils. Such a radiant
face was never seen in that cottage as the beaming countenance of Joy;
while that of her sister was dark and sad to look upon.
"Oh, stay with us," exclaimed the girls to Joy, as the sisters rose to
depart.
"Most gladly would I, but I have a work to perform in your village;
and, beside, I cannot leave my sister."
"But she is so dark and sad, why not leave her to go alone?" said the
youngest girl, who had never seen Sorrow nor heard of her mission to
earth before.
Sorrow was standing in the door and heard her remark. She hoped
the day would never come when _she_ should have to carry woe to her
young heart; but her life was so uncertain she knew not who would be
the next whom she would have to envelop in clouds. She sighed, plucked
a rose, and pressed it to her nostrils, as though it was the last
sweetness she would ever inhale.
"How I pity her!" said the grandmother, her warm, blue eyes filling
with tears, as she looked at the bowed form in the doorway.
"Ah, good woman, she needs it; for few recognize her mission to them.
She is sent by our master to administer woes which contain heavenly
truths, while I convey glad tidings. I shall never leave my sister save
when our labors are divided."
Thus spoke Joy, while tears filled the eyes of all.
Then the kind woman went and plucked some roses and gave them to
Sorrow, who was weeping.
"I did not half know myself," she said, addressing the sad form; "I
thought I could see God's angels everywhere, but this time how have I
failed! Forgive me," she said to Sorrow, "and when you are weary and
need rest, come to our cottage."
Sorrow gave her a sad but heavenly smile, and the sisters departed to
the next abode.
"Did you ever see them before?" asked the children of their grandparents
after the sisters had gone.
"Often: they have been going round the world for ages," answered
their grandparents.
"But Joy looks so young, grandpa."
"That's because she has naught to do with trouble. She belongs to the
bright side. She carries good tidings and pleasure to all; while Sorrow,
her sister, administers the woes."
"But Joy is good not to leave her sister."
"She cannot," said the grandparent.
"Cannot! Why?"
"Because Providence has so ordered it that Joy and Sorrow go hand in
hand,--pleasure and pain. No two forces in nature which are alike are
coupled. Day and night, sunshine and shadow, pleasure and pain, forever."
"But I should like to have Joy stay with us," said Helen, the youngest,
to her grandparent.
"We shall ever be glad to see her; but we must never treat her sister
coldly or with indifference, as though she had no right to be among us;
because, though in the external she is unlovely, within she is equally
radiant with her sister,--not the same charm of brilliancy, but a softer,
diviner radiance shines about her soul."
"Why, grandpa, you make me almost love her," said Marion, the eldest,
while Helen looked thoughtful and earnest.
The seeds of truth were dropped which at some future time would bear
fruit.
* * * * *
It was a large and elegant house at which the sisters stopped next. A
beautiful lawn, hedged by hawthorne, sloped to the finely-graded street;
while over its surface beds of brilliant flowers were blooming,
contrasting finely with the bright green carpet. They ascended the
granite steps which led to the portico, and rang the bell. A servant
answered the summons, and impatiently awaited their message.
"We would see the mistress of the mansion," said Joy.
They were shown into an elegant drawing-room, so large they could
scarcely see the farther end. It was furnished in a most dazzling style,
and gave none of that feeling of repose which is so desirable in a home.
After what seemed a long time, the lady of the mansion appeared, looking
very much as though her visitors were intruders.
"A lovely day," said Joy.
"Beautiful for youth and health," she answered curtly; "but all days
are the same to me."
"You are ill, then," said Joy, sympathetically.
"Ill, and weary of this life. Nothing goes well in this world: there is
too much sorrow to enjoy anything. But," she added after a brief silence,
"you are young, and cannot enter into my griefs."
"I have come for the purpose of bringing you comfort and hope if you
will but accept it," answered Joy, modestly.
"A stranger could scarcely show me what I cannot find. Be assured,
young maiden, if I had the pleasures you suppose I possess, I should not
be tardy in seeing them. No, no: my life is a succession of cares and
burdens."
Joy was silent a moment, and then said, "But you have health, a home,
and plenty to dispense to the needy, which must be a comfort, at least,
in a world of so much need."
"My home is large and elegant, I admit; but, believe me, the care of
the servants is a burden too great for human flesh."
Joy thought how much better a cottage was, with just enough to meet
the wants of life, than a mansion full of hirelings; and she said,
hopefully, "Our blessings ever outnumber our woes. If we but look for
them, we shall be surprised each day to see how many they are. I am
on a visit to earth," continued Joy, "to see how much real happiness I
can find, and help, if possible, to remove obstacles that hinder its
advancement. This is my sister, Sorrow," she continued, turning to her,
"who, like myself, has a mission, though by no means a pleasant one."
The sisters unveiled their faces.
A flush of pleasure stole over the sallow face of the woman as she
gazed upon the brightness of Joy's countenance; but the look quickly
faded at the sight of Sorrow's worn and weary features.
"My sister must tarry here," said Joy, as she rose to leave.
"Here! With me? Why! I can scarcely live now. What can I do
with her added to my troubles?"
"It is thus decreed," answered Joy. "You need the discipline which
she will bring to you."
And she departed, leaving her sister in the elegant but cheerless
mansion.
The mistress of the luxurious home had one fair daughter, whom she
was bringing up to lead a listless, indolent, and selfish life,--a life
which would result in no good to herself or others.
Sorrow grew sadder each day as she saw the girl walking amid all the
beauties with which she was surrounded, careless of her own culture.
She felt, also, that she must at some time, and it might be soon,
be removed from her luxuries, or they from her. Each hour the fair girl's
step grew heavier, till at last she was too weak to walk, or even rise
from her bed.
"All this comes of having that sad woman here," exclaimed the weeping
mother as she bent over her daughter. "I'll have her sent from the
house this day." And she rang for a servant to send Sorrow away.
After delivering her message to her maid, she felt somewhat relieved.
The servant went in search of Sorrow, but could not find her either in
the house, garden, on the lawn, or among the dark pines where she often
walked.
Whither had she fled?
All the servants of the house were summoned to the search; but Sorrow
was not to be found, and they reported to the mistress their failure
to find her.
"No matter," she replied, "so long as she is no longer among us. Go
to your labors now, keep the house very quiet, and be sure, before dark,
to lock all the doors, that she may not enter unperceived."
They need not have bolted nor barred her out; for her work was done,
and she had no cause to return.
She was sent to the house of wealth to carry the blight of death. Her
mission was over, and she was on her way, seeking Joy.
The young girl faded slowly and died.
The mother mourned without hope, and was soon laid beside her daughter.
The home passed into the hands of those who felt that none must live for
themselves alone; that sorrows must be borne without murmur; and joys
appreciated so well that the angel of sorrow may not have to bear some
treasure away to uplift the heart and give the vision a higher range.
Sorrow met Joy on the road that night. There was no moon, even
the stars were dim; but for the shining face of her sister, she would
have passed her. They joined hands, and walked together till morning
broke. They came in sight of a low cottage just as the day dawned.
"Oh, dear!" said Sorrow, as they approached the familiar spot, "how
often have I been there to carry woe! Do you go now, Joy, and give
them gladness!"
"If it is the master's hour I will most gladly," said Joy, looking
tenderly on the weary face of her sister, who sat by the roadside to rest
awhile while she lifted her heart to heaven, asking that she might no
more carry woe to that humble home; and her prayer was answered.
"I feel to go there," said Joy, as Sorrow wiped her tears away. "Wait
here till I return;" and she ran merrily on.
She entered the humble home with gladness in her beaming eyes, and,
as she bore no resemblance to her sister, they welcomed her with much
greeting; nor did they know but for Sorrow, Joy would not have been
among them. She talked with them a long time, and listened patiently
to the story of their woes.
Sickness, death, and adversity had been their part for many years.
"But they are passing away," said Joy, confidently, "and health and
prosperity shall yet be among you."
"We shall know their full value," whispered a voice from the corner
of the room which Joy's eyes had not penetrated. On a low cot lay an
invalid, helpless and blind.
The tears fell from her own eyes an instant, and then sparkled with a
greater brilliancy than before, as she said, "And this, too, shall pass
away."
The closed eyes, from which all light had been shut out for seven long
years, now slowly opened; the palsied limbs relaxed; life leaped through
the veins once more; and she arose from her bed, while the household
gathered round her.
A son, who was supposed to have been lost at sea, after an absence of
many years returned at that moment, laden with gold and other treasures
far greater, than the glittering ore,--lessons of life, which, through
suffering, he had wrought into his mind.
Joy departed, amid their tumult of rejoicing, and joined her sister.
The happy family did not miss her for a time; yet when their great
and sudden happiness subsided into realization they sought her, but in
vain.
They needed her not; for the essence of her life was with them, while
she was walking over the earth, carrying pleasure and happiness to
thousands; yet doing the work of her father no more than her worn and
sad-eyed sister.
VII.
UPWARD.
There was once an aged man who owned and lived in a large house
the height of which was three stories. His only child was a daughter,
of whom he was very fond, and who listened generally to his words
of counsel and instruction; but no amount of persuasion could induce
her to ascend to the highest story of their dwelling, where her father
spent many hours in watching the varied landscape which it overlooked.
It was an alloyed pleasure as he sat there evening after evening alone,
looking at the lovely cloud tints, and rivers winding like veins of
silver through the meadows. It detracted from his joy to know that the
view from the lower window offered naught but trees thickly set and dry
hedges.
"Come up, child," he called, morning and evening, year after year, with
the same result. It seemed of no avail. "She will die and never know
what beauties lie around her dwelling," he said, as he sat looking at the
wealth of beauty. It seemed to him that the clouds were never so
brilliant, nor the trees and meadows so strangely gilded by the sun's
rays, as on that evening. He longed more than ever to share with his
child the pleasure he experienced, and resolved upon a plan by which he
hoped to attain his wish.
"I will have workmen shut out the light of all the stories below with
thick boards, and bar the door that she may not escape. I will give her
a harmless drink to-night that will deepen her slumbers while the work
is being done; for by these seemingly harsh means alone can I induce my
child to ascend."
That night, while she slumbered, the work was done, and she awoke
not at the sound of the hammer on the nails. When all was completed,
the father ascended to await the rays of morning, and listen for the
voice of his child, which soon broke in suppliant tones upon his ears:--
"Father! my father! It's dark! I cannot see!"
"Come up, my child!" still he cried. "Come to me, and behold new
glories."
She gave no answer; but he heard her weeping, and groped his way
below to lead her up. She no longer resisted. Her steps, though slow,
were willing ones: they were upward now, and the father cared not how
slow, so long as they were ascending.