RUNNING water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of which
one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of
secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for
drooping flowers; and they who wander in the garden of God with listening
ears learn of its many voices.
When the strain of a working day has left me weary, perhaps troubled and
perplexed, I find my way to the river. I step into a boat and pull up
stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and then I make fast to the
old alder-stump where last year the reed-piper nested, and lie back in
the stern and think.
The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the current;
the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side eddies, of
course, and little disturbing whirlpools near the big stones, but they
are all gathered into the broad sweep of the stream, carried down to the
great catholic sea. And while I listen to the murmur of the water and
watch its quiet strength the day’s wrinkles are smoothed out of my face;
and at last the river bears me homeward rested and at peace.
There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart from the
world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore heart. Then I
turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the banks, a solitary
not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch the stream ‘never hasting,
never resting’: the grass that grows beside it is always green, the
flowers are fresh; it makes long embracing curves—I could cross from
point to point in a minute, but to follow takes five. The ways of the
water are ways of healing; I have a companion who makes no mistakes,
touches none of my tender spots.
Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide sweep.
Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green leaves and wait
for their lover the moon; for then they open their silvery leaves and
bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath the hot rays of the sun.
Then, too, the buds rise out of the water and the moon kisses them into
bloom and fragrance. Near by are the little yellow water-lilies, set for
beauty against a background of great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall
feathery meadowsweet. The river still sweeps on its way, but the pool is
undisturbed; it lies out of the current. They say it is very deep—no one
knows quite how deep—and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through
the clear water, following the thick lily-stalks—a forest where solemn
carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze—and
beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its stillness; but I
may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and the evening glow lying
at my feet.
I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with flowers
of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that reflect, in
light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.
I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town where the
red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and the old grey church
stands out clear and distinct against the fading sky.
* * * * *
One of the happiest memories of my childhood is the little brook in the
home field. I know it was not a very clean little brook—it passed
through an industrious manufacturing world—but to me then this mattered
not at all.
Where it had its source I never found out; it came from a little cave in
the side of the hill, and I remember that one of its banks was always
higher than the other. I once sought to penetrate the cave, but with sad
results in the shape of bed before dinner and no pudding, such small
sympathy have one’s elders with the spirit of research. Just beyond the
cave the brook was quite a respectable width,—even my big boy cousin fell
into mud and disgrace when he tried to jump it—and there was a gravelly
beach, at least several inches square, where we launched our boats of
hollowed elder-wood. Soon, however, it narrowed, it could even be
stepped over; but it was still exciting and delightful, with two perilous
rapids over which the boats had to be guided, and many boulders—for the
brook was a brave stream, and had fashioned its bed in rocky soil.
Further down was our bridge, one flat stone dragged thither by really
herculean efforts. It was unnecessary, but a triumph. A little below
this outcome of our engineering skill the brook widened again before
disappearing under a flagged tunnel into the neighbouring field. Here,
in the shallows, we built an aquarium. It was not altogether successful,
because whenever it rained at all hard the beasts were washed out; but
there was always joy in restocking it. Under one of the banks close by
lived a fat frog for whom I felt great respect. We used to sit and gaze
at each other in silent intercourse, until he became bored—I think I
never did—and flopped into the water with a splash.
But it was the brook itself that was my chief and dearest companion. It
chattered and sang to me, and told me of the goblins who lived under the
hill, of fairies dancing on the grass on moonlight nights, and scolding
the pale lilac milk-maids on the banks; and of a sad little old man
dressed in brown, always sad because his dear water-children ran away
from him when they heard the voice of the great river telling them of the
calling of the sea.
It spoke to me of other more wonderful things, not even now to be put
into words, things of the mysteries of a child’s imagination; and these
linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until they are
fulfilled.
* * * * *
I have another friend—a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring when the
fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do not even know
its name; it has its source up among the old grey tors, and doubtless in
its beginning had a hard fight for existence. When it reaches the plain
it is a good-sized stream, although nowhere navigable. I do not think it
even turns a mill; it just flows along and waters the flowers. I have
seen it with my bodily eyes only once; but it has left in my life a
blessing, a picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling
water—and whispered secrets not forgotten.
All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They chatter
cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their bed. Some of
them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past, of the worship of
the false god when blood stained the clear waters; tales, too, of feud
and warfare, of grave council and martial gathering; and happy stories of
fairy and pixy our eyes are too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen
with foreign ways and terror of all human beings. Their banks are bright
with tormentil, blue with forget-me-not, rich in treasures of starry
moss; the water is clear, cool in the hottest summer—they rise under the
shadow of the everlasting hills, and their goal is the sea.
* * * * *
There are other times when I must leave the clean waters and the good
brown earth, to live, for a while, in London: and there I go on
pilgrimage that I may listen to the river’s voice.
I stand sometimes at a wharf where the ships are being unloaded of the
riches of every country, of fruits of labour by my unknown brothers in
strange lands; and the river speaks of citizenship in the great world of
God, wherein all men have place, each man have his own place, and every
one should be neighbour to him who may have need.
I pass on to London Bridge, our Bridge of Sighs. How many of these my
brethren have sought refuge in the cold grey arms of the river from
something worse than death? What drove them to this dreadful
resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These things,
too, are my concern, the river says.
Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair, glowing
colours of grass and sky and trees, and shining streams that bring peace.
It is drawn in hard black and white; but the voice of its dark waters
must be heard all the same.
* * * * *
I would not leave my rivers in the shadow. After all, this life is only
a prelude, a beginning: we pass on to where “the rivers and streams make
glad the city of God.” But if we will not listen here how shall we
understand hereafter.