"My friend, we can make the effort, certainly,--and we are bound to

make it, because it is our duty,--but in ninety-nine cases out of a

hundred we shall fail of our persuasion. What can I, or you, or any

one, do against the iron force of Free-Will? God Himself will not

constrain it,--how then shall we? In the Books of Esdras, which have

already been of such use to you, you will find the following

significant words: 'The Most High hath made this world for many, but

the world to come for few. As when thou askest the earth, it shall say

unto thee that it giveth much mold wherein earthen vessels are made,

and but little dust that gold cometh of, even so is the course of this

present world. There be many created but FEW shall be saved.'--God

elects to be served by CHOICE--and NOT by compulsion; it is His Law

that Man shall work out his own immortal destiny,--and nothing can

alter this overwhelming Fact. The sublime Example of Christ was given

us as a means to assist us in forming our own conclusions,--but there

is no coercion in it,--only a Divine Love. You, for instance, were, and

are, still perfectly free to reject the whole of your experience on the

Field of Ardath as a delusion,--nothing would be easier, and, from the

world's point of view, nothing more natural. Faith and Doubt are

equally voluntary acts,--the one is the instinct of the immortal Soul,

the other the tendency of the perishable Body,--and the Will decides

which of the two shall conquer in the end. I know that you are firm in

your high and true conviction,--I know also what thoughts are at work

in your brain,--you are bending all your energies on the task of trying

to instil into the minds of your fellow-men some comprehension of the

enlightenment and hope you yourself possess. Ah, you must prepare for

disappointment!--for though the times are tending toward strange

upheavals and terrors, when the trumpet-voice of an inspired Poet may

do enormous good,--still the name of the wilfully ignorant is

Legion,--the age is one of the grossest Mammon worship, and coarsest

Atheism,--and the noblest teachings of the noblest teacher, were he

even another Shakespeare, must of necessity be but a casting of pearls

before swine. Still"--and his rare sweet smile brightened the serene

dignity of his features--"fling out the pearls freely all the

same,--the swine may grunt at, but cannot rend you,--and a poet's

genius should be like the sunlight, that falls on rich and poor, good

and bad, with glorious impartiality! If you can comfort one sorrow,

check one sin, or rescue one soul from the widening quicksand of the

Atheist world, you have sufficient reason to be devoutly thankful."

By this time their walk had led them imperceptibly to one of the gates

of egress from the Park, and Heliobas, pointing to a huge square

building opposite, said:

"There is the hotel at which I am staying--one of the Americanized

monster fabrics in which tired travellers find much splendid show, and

little rest! Will you lunch with me?--I am quite alone."

Alwyn gladly assented,--he was most unwilling to part at once from this

man, to whom in a measure he felt he owed his present happy and

tranquil condition of body and mind; besides, he was curious to find

out more about him--to obtain from him, if possible, an entire

explanation of the actual tenets and chief characteristics of the

system of religious worship he himself practiced and followed. Heliobas

seemed to guess his thoughts, for suddenly turning upon him with a

quick glance, he observed:

"You want to 'pluck out the heart of my mystery,' as Hamlet says, do

you not, my friend?"--and he smiled--"Well, so you shall, if you can

discover aught in me that is not already in yourself! I assure you

there is nothing preternatural about me,--my peculiar 'eccentricity'

consists in steadily adapting myself to the scientific spiritual, as

well as scientific material, laws of the Universe. The two sets of laws

united make harmony,--hence I find my life harmonious and

satisfactory,--this is my 'abnormal' condition of mind,--and you are

now fully as 'abnormal' as I am. Come, we will discuss our mutual

strange non-conformity to the wild world's custom or caprice over a

glass of good wine,--observe, please, that I am neither a 'total

abstainer' nor a 'vegetarian,' and that I have a curious fashion of

being TEMPERATE, and of using all the gifts of beneficent Nature

equally, and without prejudice!' While he spoke, they had crossed the

road, and they now entered the vestibule of the hotel, where, declining

the hall-porter's offer of the "lift," Heliobas ascended the stairs

leisurely to the second floor, and ushered his companion into a

comfortable private sitting-room.

"Fancy men consenting to be drawn up to their apartments like babes in

a basket!" he said laughingly, alluding to the "lift" process--"Upon my

word, when I think of the strong people of a past age and compare them

with the enervated race of to-day, I feel not only pity, but shame, for

the visible degeneration of mankind. Frail nerves, weak hearts,

uncertain limbs,--these are common characteristics of the young,

nowadays, instead of being as formerly the natural failings of the old.

Wear and tear and worry of modern existence?--Oh yes, I know!--but why

the wear tear and worry at all? What is it for? Simply for the

OVER-GETTING of money. One must live? ... certainly,--but one is not

bound to live in foolish luxury for the sake of out-flaunting one's

neighbors. Better to live simply and preserve health, than gain a

fortune and be a moping dyspeptic for life. But unless one toils and

moils like a beast of burden, one cannot even live simply, some will

say! I don't believe that assertion. The peasants of France live

simply, and save,--the peasants of England live wretchedly, and waste!

Voila la difference! As with nations, so with individuals,--it is all

a question of Will. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' is a

dreadfully trite copybook maxim, but it's amazingly true all the same.

Now let us to the acceptation of these good things,"--this, as a

pallid, boyish-looking waiter just then entered the room with the

luncheon, and in his bustling to and fro manifested unusual eagerness

to make himself agreeable--"I have made excellent friends with this

young Ganymede,--he has sworn never to palm off raisin-wine upon me for

Chambertin!"

The waiter blushed and chuckled as though he were conscious of having

gained special new dignity and importance,--and having laid the table,

and set the chairs, he departed with a flourishing bow worthy of a

prince's maitre-d'hotel.

"Your name must seem a curious one to these fellows"--observed Alwyn,

when he had gone,--"Unusual and even mysterious?"

"Why, yes!"--returned Heliobas with a laugh--"It would be judged so, I

suppose, if I ever gave it,--but I don't. It was only in England, and

by an Englishman, that I was once, to my utter amazement, addressed as

'He-ly-oh-bas'--and I was quite alarmed at the sound of it! One would

think that most people in these educational days knew the Greek word

helios,--and one would also imagine it as easy to say Heliobas as

heliograph. But now to avoid mistakes, whenever I touch British

territory and come into contact with British tongues, I give my

Christian name only, Cassimir--the result of which arrangement is, that

I am known in this hotel as Mr. Kasmer! Oh, I don't mind in the

least--why should I?--neither the English nor the Americans ever

pronounce foreign names properly. Why I met a newly established young

publisher yesterday, who assured me that most of his authors, the

female ones especially, are so ignorant of foreign literature that he

doubts whether any of them know whether Cervantes was a writer or an

ointment!"

Alwyn laughed. "I dare say the young publisher may be perfectly

right,"--he said--"But all the same he has no business to publish the

literary emanations of such ignorance."

"Perhaps not!--but what is he to do, if nothing else is offered to him?

He has to keep his occupation going somehow,--from bad he must select

the best. He cannot create a great genius--he has to wait till Nature,

in the course of events, evolves one from the elements. And in the

present general dearth of high ability the publishers are really more

sinned against than sinning. They spend large sums, and incur large

risks, in launching new ventures on the fickle sea of popular favor,

and often their trouble is taken all in vain. It is really the stupid

egotism of authors that is the stumbling-block in the way of true

literature,--each little scribbler that produces a shilling sensational

thinks his or her own work a marvel of genius, and nothing can shake

them from their obstinate conviction. If every man or woman, before

putting pen to paper, would be sure they had something new, suggestive,

symbolical, or beautiful to say, how greatly Art might gain by their

labors! Authors who take up arms against publishers en masse, and in

every transaction expect to be cheated, are doing themselves

irreparable injury--they betray the cloven hoof,--namely a greed for

money--and when once that passion dominates them, down goes their

reputation and they with it. It is the old story over again--'ye cannot

serve God and Mammon,'--and all Art is a portion of God,--a descending

of the Divine into Humanity."

Alwyn sat for a minute silent and thoughtful. "A descending of the

Divine into Humanity!" he repeated slowly--"It seems to me that

'miracle' is forever being enacted--and yet ... we doubt!"

"WE do not doubt--" said Heliobas--"WE know,--we have touched Reality!

But see yonder!"--and he pointed through the window to the crowded

thoroughfare below--"There are the flying phantoms of life,--the men

and women who are God-oblivious, and who are therefore no more actually

LIVING than the shadows of Al-Kyris! They shall pass as a breath and be

no more,--and this roaring, trafficking metropolis, this immediate

centre of civilization, shall ere long disappear off the surface of the

earth, and leave not a stone to mark the spot where once it stood! So

have thousands of such cities fallen since this planet was flung into

space,--and even so shall thousands still fall. Learning, civilization,

science, progress,--these things exist merely for the training and

education of a chosen few--and out of many earth centuries and

generations of men, shall be won only a very small company of angels!

Be glad that you have fathomed the mystery of your own life's

purpose,--for you are now as much a Positive Identity among vanishing

spectres, as you were when, on the Field of Ardath, you witnessed and

took part in the Mirage of your Past."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A MISSING RECORD.

He spoke the last words with deep feeling and earnestness, and Alwyn,

meeting his clear, grave, brilliant eyes, was more than ever impressed

by the singular dignity and overpowering magnetism of his presence.

Remembering how insufficiently he had realized this man's true worth,

when he had first sought him out in his monastic retreat, he was struck

by a sudden sense of remorse, and leaning across the table, gently

touched his hand.

"How greatly I wronged you once, Heliobas!" he said penitently, with a

tremor of appeal in his voice--"Forgive me, will you?--though I shall

never forgive myself!"

Heliobas smiled, and cordially pressed the extended hand in his own.

"Nay, there is nothing to forgive, my friend," he answered

cheerfully--"and nothing to regret. Your doubts of me were very

natural,--indeed, viewed by the world's standard of opinion, much more

natural than your present faith, for faith is always a SUPER-natural

instinct. Would you be practically sensible according to modern social

theories?--then learn to suspect everybody and everything, even your

best friend's good intentions!"

He laughed, and the luncheon being concluded, he rose from the table,

and taking an easy-chair nearer the window, motioned Alwyn to do the

same.

"I want to talk to you"--he continued, "We may not meet again for

years,--you are entering on a difficult career, and a few hints from

one who knows and thoroughly understands your position may possibly be

of use to you. In the first place, then, let me ask you, have you told

any one, save me, the story of your Ardath adventure?"

"One friend only,--my old school comrade, Frank Villiers"--replied

Alwyn.

"And what does he say about it?"

"Oh, he thinks it was a dream from beginning to end,"--and Alwyn smiled

a little,--"He believes that I set out on my journey with my brain

already heated to an imaginative excess, and that the whole thing, even

my Angel's presence, was a pure delusion of my own overwrought

fancy,--a curious and wonderful delusion, but always a delusion."

"He is a very excellent fellow to judge you so leniently"--observed

Heliobas composedly, "Most people would call you mad."

"Mad!" exclaimed Alwyn hotly--"Why, I am as sane as any man in London!"

"Saner, I should say,"--replied Heliobas, smiling,--"Compared with some

of the eminently 'practical' speculating maniacs that howl and struggle

among the fluctuating currents of the Stock Exchange, for instance, you

are indeed a marvel of sound and wholesome mental capability! But let

us view the matter coolly. You must not expect such an exceptional

experience as yours to be believed in by ordinary persons. Because the

majority of people, being utterly UNspiritual and worldly, have NO such

experiences, and they therefore deem them impossible;--they are the

gold-fish born in a bowl, who have no consciousness of the existence of

an ocean. Moreover, you have no proofs of the truth of your narrative,

beyond the change in your own life and disposition,--and that can be

easily referred to various other causes. You spoke of having gathered

one of the miracle-flowers on the Prophet's field,--may I see it?"

Silently Alwyn drew from his breast-pocket the velvet case in which he

always kept the cherished blossom, and taking it tenderly out, placed

it in his companion's hand.

"An immortelle"--said Heliobas softly, while the flower, uncurling its

silvery petals in the warmth of his palm, opened star-like and white as

snow. "An immortelle, rare and possibly unique!--that is all the world

would say of it! It cannot be matched,--it will not fade,--true! but

you will get no one to believe that! Frown not, good Poet!--I want you

to consider me for the moment a practical worldling, bent on driving

you from the spiritual position yon have taken up,--and you will see

how necessary it is for you to keep the secret of your own

enlightenment to yourself, or at least only hint at it through the

parables of poesy."

He gave back the Ardath blossom to its owner with reverent care,--and

when Alwyn had as reverently put it by, he resumed:

"Your friend Villiers has offered you a perfectly logical and

common-sense solution of the mystery of Ardath,--one which, if you

chose to accept it, would drive you back into skepticism as easily as a

strong wind blows a straw. Only see how simple the intricate problem is

unravelled by this means! You, a man of ardent and imaginative

temperament, made more or less unhappy by the doctrines of materialism,

come to me, Heliobas, a Chaldean student of the Higher Philosophies, an

individual whose supposed mysterious power and inexplicably studious

way of life entitle him to be considered by the world at large an

IMPOSTER!--Now don't look so indignant!"--and he laughed,--"I am merely

discussing the question from the point of view that would be sure to be

adopted by 'wise' modern society! Thus--I, Heliobas, the impostor, take

advantage of your state of mind to throw you into a trance, in which,

by occult means, you see the vision of an Angel, who bids you meet her

at a place called Ardath,--and you, also, in your hypnotized condition,

write a poem which you entitle 'Nourhalma.' Then I,--always playing my

own little underhand game!--read you portions of 'Esdras,' and prove to

you that 'Ardath' exists, while I delicately SUGGEST, if I do not

absolutely COMMAND, your going thither. You go,--but I, still by

magnetic power, retain my influence over you. You visit Elzear, a

hermit, whom we will, for the sake of the present argument, call my

accomplice,--he reads between the lines of the letter you deliver to

him from me, and he understands its secret import. He continues, no

matter how, your delusion. You broke your fast with him,--and surely it

was easy for him to place some potent drug in the wine he gave you,

which made you DREAM the rest;--nay, viewed from this standpoint, it is

open to question whether you ever went to the Field of Ardath at all,

but merely DREAMED you did! You see how admirably I can, with little

trouble, disprove the whole story, and make myself out to be the

veriest charlatan and trickster that ever duped his credulous

fellow-man! How do you like my practical dissection of your new-found

joys?"

Alwyn was gazing at him with puzzled and anxious eyes.

"I do not like it at all"--he murmured, in a pained tone--"It is an

insidious SEMBLANCE of truth;--but I know it is not the Truth itself!"

"Why, how obstinate you are!" said Heliobas, good-humoredly, with a

quick, flashing glance at him. "You insist on seeing things in a

directly reverse way to that in which the world sees them! How can you

be so foolish! To the world your Ardath adventure is the SEMBLANCE of

truth,--and only man's opinion thereon is worth trusting as the Truth

itself!"

Over the wistful, brooding thoughtfulness of Alwyn's countenance swept

a sudden light of magnificent resolution.

"Heliobas, do not jest with me!" he cried passionately--"I know, better

perhaps than most men, how divine things can be argued away by the

jargon of tongues, till heart and brain grow weary,--I know, God help

me!--how the noblest ideals of the soul can be swept down and dispersed

into blank ruin, by the specious arguments of cold-blooded

casuists,--but I also know, by a supreme INNER knowledge beyond all

human proving, that GOD EXISTS, and with His Being exist likewise all

splendors, great and small, spiritual and material,--splendors vaster

than our intelligence can reach,--ideals loftier than imagination can

depict! I want no proof of this save those that burn in my own

individual consciousness,--I do not need a miserable taper of human

reason to help me to discern the Sun! I, OF MY OWN CHOICE, PRAYER, AND

HOPE, voluntarily believe in God, in Christ, in angels, in all things

beautiful and pure and grand!--let the world and its ephemeral opinions

wither, I will NOT be shaken down from the first step of the ladder

whereon one climbs to Heaven!"

His features were radiant with fervor and feeling,--his eyes brilliant

with the kindling inward light of noblest aspiration,--and Heliobas,

who had watched him intently, now bent toward him with a grave gesture

of the gentlest homage.

"How strong is he whom an Angel's love makes glorious!" he said--"We

are partners in the same destiny, my friend,--and I have but spoken to

you as the world might speak, to prepare you for opposition. The

specious arguments of men confront us at every turn, in every book, in

every society,--and it is not always that we are ready to meet them. As

a rule, silence on all matters of personal faith is best,--let your

life bear witness for you;--it shall thunder loud oracles when your

mortal limbs are dumb."

He paused a moment--then went on: "You have desired to know the secret

of the active and often miraculous power of the special form of

religion I and my brethren follow; well, it is all contained in Christ,

and Christ only. His is the only true Spiritualism in the world--there

was never any before He came. We obey Christ in the simple rules he

preached,--Christ according to His own enunciated wish and will.

Moreover, we,--that is, our Fraternity,--received our commission from

Christ Himself in person."

Alwyn started,--his eyes dilated with amazement and awe.

"From Christ Himself in person?"--he echoed incredulously.

"Even so"--returned Heliobas calmly. "What do you suppose our Divine

Master was about during the years between His appearance among the

Rabbis of the Temple and the commencement of His public preaching? Do

you, can you, imagine with the rest of the purblind world, that he

would have left His marvellous Gospel in the charge of a few fishermen

and common folk ONLY."

"I never thought,--I never inquired--" began Alwyn hurriedly.

"No!"--and Heliobas smiled rather sadly, "Few men do think or inquire

very far on sacred subjects! Listen,--for what I have to say to you

will but strengthen you in your faith,--and you will need more than all

the strength of the Four Evangelists to bear you stiffly up against the

suicidal Negation of this present disastrous epoch. Ages ago,--ay, more

than six or seven thousand years ago, there were certain communities of

men in the East,--scholars, sages, poets, astronomers, and scientists,

who, desiring to give themselves up entirely to study and research,

withdrew from the world, and formed themselves into Fraternities,

dividing whatever goods they had in common, and living together under

one roof as the brotherhoods of the Catholic Church do to this day. The

primal object of these men's investigations was a search after the

Divine Cause of Creation; and as it was undertaken with prayer,

penance, humility, and reverence, much enlightenment was vouchsafed to

them, and secrets of science, both spiritual and material, were

discovered by them,--secrets which the wisest of modern sages know

nothing of as yet. Out of these Fraternities came many of the prophets

and preachers of the Old Testament,--Esdras for one,--Isaiah for

another. They were the chroniclers of many now forgotten events,--they

kept the history of the times, as far is it was possible,--and in their

ancient records your city of Al-Kyris is mentioned as a great and

populous place, which was suddenly destroyed by the bursting out of a

volcano beneath its foundations--Yes!"--this as Alwyn uttered an eager

exclamation,--"Your vision was a perfectly faithful reflection of the

manner in which it perished. I must tell you, however, that nothing

concerning its kings or great men has been preserved,--only a few

allusions to one Hyspiros, a writer of tragedies, whose genius seems to

have corresponded to that of our Shakespeare of to-day. The name of

Sah-luma is nowhere extant."

A burning wave of color flushed Alwyn's face, but he was silent.

Heliobas went on gently:

"At a very early period of their formation, these Fraternities I tell

you of were in possession of most of the MATERIAL scientific facts of

the present day,--such things as the electric wire and battery, the

phonograph, the telephone, and other 'new' discoveries, being perfectly

familiar to them. The SPIRITUAL manifestations of Nature were more

intricate and difficult to penetrate,--and though they knew that

material effects could only be produced by spiritual causes, they

worked in the dark, as it were, only groping toward the light. However,

the wisdom and purity of the lives they led was not without its

effect,--emperors and kings sought their advice, and gave them great

stores of wealth, which they divided, according to rule, into equal

portions, and used for the benefit of those in need, willing the

remainder to their successors; so that, at the present time, the few

brotherhoods that are left hold immense treasures accumulated through

many centuries,--treasures which are theirs to share with one another

in prosecution of discoveries and the carrying on of good works in

secret. Ages before the coming of Christ, one Aselzion, a man of

austere and strict life, belonging to a Fraternity stationed in Syria,

was engaged in working out a calculation of the average quantity of

heat and light provided per minute by the sun's rays, when, glancing

upward at the sky, the hour being clear noonday, he beheld a Cross of

crimson hue suspended in the sky, whereon hung the cloudy semblance of

a human figure. Believing himself to be the victim of some optical

delusion, he hastened to fetch some of his brethren, who at a glance

perceived the self-same marvel,--which presently was viewed with

reverent wonder by the whole assembled community. For one entire hour

the Symbol stayed--then vanished suddenly, a noise like thunder

accompanying its departure. Within a few months of its appearance,

messages came from all the other Fraternities stationed in Egypt, in

Spain, in Greece, in Etruria, stating that they also had seen this

singular sight, and suggesting that from henceforth the Cross should be

adopted by the united Brotherhoods as a holy sign of some Deity

unrevealed,--a proposition that was at once agreed to. This happened

some five thousand years before Christ,--and hence the Sign of the

Cross became known in all, or nearly all, the ancient rites of worship,

the multitude considering that because it was the emblem of the

Philosophical Fraternities, it must have some sacred meaning. So it was

used in the service of Serapis and the adoration of the Nile-god,--it

has been found carved on Egyptian disks and obelisks, and it was

included among the numerous symbols of Saturn."

He paused. Alwyn was listening with eager, almost breathless, attention.

"After this"--went on Heliobas--"came a long period of prefigurements;

types and suggestions, that, running through all the various religions

that sprang up swiftly and as swiftly decayed, hinted vaguely at the

birth of a child,--offspring of a pure Virgin--a miraculously generated

God-in-Man--an absolutely Sinless One, who should be sent to remind

Humanity of its intended final high destiny, and who should, by precept

and example, draw the Earth nearer to Heaven. I would here ask you to

note what most people seem to forget,--namely, that since Christ came,

all these shadowy types and prefigurements have CEASED; a notable fact,

even to skeptical minds. The world waited dimly for something, it knew

not what,--the various Fraternities of the Cross waited also, feeling

conscious that some great era of hope and happiness was about to dawn

for all men. When the Star in the East arose announcing the Redeemer's

birth, there were some forty or fifty of these Fraternities existing,

three in the ancient province of Chaldea, from whence a company of the

wisest seers and sages were sent to acknowledge by their immediate

homage the Divinity born in Bethlehem. These were the 'wise men out of

the East' mentioned in the Gospel. We knew--I say WE, because I am

descended directly from one of these men, and have always belonged to

their Brotherhood--we knew it was DIVINITY that had come amongst

us,--and in our parchment chronicles there is a long account of how the

deserts of Arabia rang with music that holy night--what wealth of

flowers sprang up in places that had hither to lain waste and dry--how

the sky blazed with rings of roseate radiance,--how fair and wondrous

shapes were seen flitting across the heavens,--the road of

communication between men and Angels being opened at a touch by the

Saviour's advent."

Again he paused,--and after a little silence resumed:

"Then we added the Star to our existing Symbol, the Cross, and became

the Brotherhood of the Cross and Star. As such, after the Redeemer's

birth, we put all other matters from us, and set ourselves to chronicle

His life and actions, to pray and wait, unknowing what might be the

course of His work or will. One Day He came to us,--ah! happy those

whom He found watching, and whose privilege it was to receive their

Divine Guest!"

His voice had a passionate thrill within it, as of tears,--and Alwyn's

heart beat fast,--what a wonderful new chapter was here revealed of the

old, old story of the Only Perfect Life on earth!

"One of the Fraternities," went on Heliobas, "had its habitation in the

wilderness where, some years later, the Master wandered fasting forty

days and forty nights. To that solitary abode of prayerful men He came,

when He was about twenty-three earthly years of age; the record of His

visit has been reverently penned and preserved, and from it we know how

fair and strong He was,--how stately and like a King--how gracious and

noble in bearing--how far exceeding in beauty all the sons of men! His

speech was music that thrilled to the heart,--the wondrous glory of His

eyes gave life to those who knelt and worshipped Him--His touch was

pardon--His smile was peace! From His own lips a store of wisdom was

set down,--and prophecies concerning the fate of His own teaching,

which then He uttered, are only now, at this very day, being fulfilled.

Therefore we know the time has come--" he broke off, and sighed deeply.

"The time has come for what?" demanded Alwyn eagerly.

"For certain secrets to be made known to the world which till now have

been kept sacred," returned Heliobas,--"You must understand that the

chief vow of the Fraternity of the Cross and Star is SECRECY,--a

promise never to divulge the mysteries of God and Nature to those who

are unfitted to receive such high instruction. It is Christ's own

saying--'A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no

sign shall be given.' You surely are aware how, even in the simplest

discoveries of material science, the world's attitude is at first one

of jeering incredulity,--how much more so, then, in things which

pertain solely to the spiritual side of existence! But God will not be

mocked,--and it behooves us to think long, and pray much, before we

unveil even one of the lesser mysteries to the eyes of the vulgar.

Christ knew the immutable condition of Free-Will,--He knew that faith,

humility, and obedience are the hardest of all hard virtues to the

self-sufficient arrogance of man; and we learned from Him that His

Gospel, simple though it is, would be denied, disputed, quarrelled

over, shamefully distorted, and almost lost sight of in a multitude of

'free' opinions,--that His life-giving Truth would be obscured and

rendered incomprehensible by the WILFUL obstinacy of human arguments

concerning it. Christ has no part whatever in the distinctly human

atrocities that have been perpetrated under cover of His Name,--such as

the Inquisition, the Wars of the Crusades, the slaughter of martyrs,

and the degrading bitterness of SECTS; in all these things Christ's

teaching is entirely set aside and lost. He knew how the proud of this

world would misread His words--that is why He came to men who for

thousands of years in succession had steadily practised the qualities

He most desired,--namely, faith, humility, and obedience,--and finding

them ready to carry out His will, He left with them the mystic secrets

of His doctrine, which He forbade them to give to the multitude till

men's quarrels and disputations had called His very existence into

doubt. Then,--through pure channels and by slow degrees--we were to

proclaim to the world His last message."

Alwyn's eyes rested on the speaker in reverent yet anxious inquiry.

"Surely"--he said--"you will begin to proclaim it now?"

"Yes, we shall begin," answered Heliobas, his brow darkening as with a

cloud of troubled thought--"But we are in a certain difficulty,--for we

may not speak in public ourselves, nor write for publication,--our

ancient vow binds us to this, and may not be broken. Moreover, the

Master gave us a strange command,--namely, that when the hour came for

the gradual declaration of the Secret of His Doctrine, we should

intrust it, in the first place, to the hands of one who should be

young,--IN the world, yet not OF it,--simple as a child, yet wise with

the wisdom of faith,--of little or no estimation among men,--and who

should have the distinctive quality of loving NOTHING in earth or

Heaven more dearly than His Name and Honor. For this unique being we

have searched, and are searching still,--we can find many who are young

and both wise and innocent, but, alas! one who loves the unseen Christ

actually more than all things,--this is indeed a perplexity! I have

fancied of late that I have discovered in my own circle,--that is,

among those who have been DRAWN to study God and Nature according to my

views,--one who makes swift and steady progress in the higher sciences,

and who, so far as I have been able to trace, really loves our Master

with singular adoration above all joys on earth and hopes of Heaven;

but I cannot be sure--and there are many tests and trials to be gone

through before we dare bid this little human lamp of love shine forth

upon the raging storm."

He was silent a moment,--then went on in a low tone, as though speaking

to himself:

"WHEN THE MECHANISM OF THIS UNIVERSE IS EXPLAINED IN SUCH WISE THAT NO

DISCOVERY OF SCIENCE CAN EVER DISPROVE, BUT MUST RATHER SUPPORT IT, . .

WHEN THE ESSENCE OF THE IMMORTAL SOUL IN MAN IS DESCRIBED IN CLEAR AND

CONCISE LANGUAGE,--AND WHEN THE MARVELLOUS ACTION OF SPIRIT ON MATTER

IS SHOWN TO BE ACTUALLY EXISTENT AND NEVER IDLE,--then, if the world

still doubts and denies God, it will only have itself to blame!--But to

you"--and he resumed his ordinary tone--"all things, through your

Angel's love, are made more or less plain,--and I have told you the

history of our Fraternity merely that you may understand how it is we

know so much that the outer world is ignorant of. There are very few of

us left nowadays,--only a dozen Brotherhoods scattered far apart on

different portions of the earth,--but, such as we are, we are all

UNITED, and have never, through these eighteen hundred years, had a

shade of difference in opinion concerning the Divinity of Christ.

Through Him we have learned TRUE Spiritualism, and all the miraculous

power which is the result of it; and as there is a great deal of FALSE

spiritualism rampant just now, I may as well give you a few hints

whereby you may distinguish it at once,--Imprimis: if a so-called

Spiritualist tells you that he can summon spirits who will remove

tables and chairs, write letters, play the piano, and rap on the walls,

he is a CHARLATAN. FOR SPIRITS CAN TOUCH NOTHING CORPOREAL UNLESS THEY

TAKE CORPOREAL SHAPE FOR THE MOMENT, as in the case of your angelic

Edris. But in this condition, they are only seen by the one person whom

they visit,--never by several persons at once--remember that! Nor can

they keep their corporeal state long,--except, by their express wish

and will, they should seek to enter absolutely into the life of

humanity, which, I must tell you, HAS BEEN DONE, but so seldom, that in

all the history of Christian Spirituality there are only about four

examples. Here are six tests for all the 'spiritualists' you may chance

to meet:

"First. Do they serve themselves more than others? If so, they are

entirely lacking in spiritual attributes.

"Secondly. Will they take money for their professed knowledge? If so,

they condemn themselves as paid tricksters.

"Thirdly. Are they men and women of commonplace and thoroughly material

life? Then, it is plain they cannot influence others to strive for a

higher existence.

"Fourthly. Do they love notoriety? If they do, the gates of the unseen

world are shut upon them.

"Fifthly. Do they disagree among themselves, and speak against one

another? If so, they contradict by their own behavior all the laws of

spiritual force and harmony.

"Sixthly and lastly.--Do they reject Christ! If they do, they know

nothing whatever about Spiritualism, there being NONE without Him.

Again, when you observe professing psychists living in any eccentric

way, so as to cause their trifling every-day actions to be remarked and

commented upon, you may be sure the real power is not in them,--as, for

instance, people who become vegetarians because they imagine that by so

doing they will see spirits--people who adopt a singular mode of dress

in order to appear different from their fellow-creatures--people who

are lachrymose, dissatisfied, or in any way morbid. Never forget that

TRUE Spiritualism engenders HEALTH OF BODY AND MIND, serenity and

brightness of aspect, cheerfulness and perfect contentment,--and that

its influence on those who are brought within its radius is distinctly

MARKED and BENEFICIAL. The chief characteristic of a true, that is,

CHRISTIAN, spiritualist is, that he or she CANNOT be shaken from faith,

or thrown into despair by any earthly misfortune whatsoever. And while

on this subject, I will show you where the existing forms of

Christianity depart from the teachings of Christ: first, in LACK OF

SELF ABNEGATION,--secondly, in LACK OF UNITY,--thirdly, in failing to

prove to the multitude that Death is is not DESTRUCTION, but simply

CHANGE. Nothing really DIES; and the priests should make use of Science

to illustrate this fact to the people. Each of these virtues has its

Miracle Effect: Unity is strength; Self abnegation attracts the Divine

Influences, and Death, viewed as a glorious transformation, which it

IS, inspires the soul with a sense of larger life. Sects are

UNChristian,--there should be only ONE vast, UNITED Church for all the

Christian world--a Church, whose pure doctrines should include all the

hints received from Nature and the scientific working of the

Universe,--the marvels of the stars and the planetary systems,--the

wonders of plants and minerals,--the magic of light and color and

music; and the TRUE MIRACLES of Spirit and Matter should be inquired

into reverently, prayerfully, and always with the deepest

HUMILITY;--while the first act of worship performed every holy Morn and

Eve should be Gratitude! Gratitude--gratitude! Ay, even for a sorrow we

should be thankful,--it may conceal a blessing we wot not of! For

sight, for sense, for touch, for the natural beauty of this present

world,--for the smile on a face we love--for the dignity and

responsibility of our lives, and the immortality with which we are

endowed,--Oh my friend! would that every breath we drew could in some

way express to the All Loving Creator our adoring recognition of His

countless benefits!"

Carried away by his inward fervor, his eyes flashed with extraordinary

brilliancy,--his countenance was grand, inspired, and beautiful, and

Alwyn gazed at him in wondering, fascinated silence. Here was a man who

had indeed made the best of his manhood!--what a life was his! how

satisfying and serene! Master of himself, he was, as it were, master of

the world,--all Nature ministered to him, and the pageant of passing

history was as a mere brilliant picture painted for his instruction,--a

picture on which he, looking, learned all that it was needful for him

to know. And concerning this mystic Brotherhood of the Cross and Star,

what treasures of wisdom they must have secreted in their chronicles

through so many thousands of years! What a privilege it would be to

explore such world-forgotten tracks of time! Yielding to a sudden

impulse, Alwyn spoke his thought aloud:

"Heliobas," he said, "tell me, could not I, too, become a member of

your Fraternity?"

Heliobas smiled kindly. "You could, assuredly"--he replied--"if you

chose to submit to fifteen years' severe trial and study. But I think a

different sphere of duty is designed for you. Wait and see! The rules

of our Order forbid the disclosure of knowledge attained, save through

the medium of others not connected with us; and we may not write out

our discoveries for open publication. Such a vow would be the

death-blow to your poetical labors,--and the command your Angel gave

you points distinctly to a life lived IN the world of men,--not out of

it."

"But you yourself are in the world of men at this moment"--argued

Alwyn--"And you are free; did you not tell me you were bound for

Mexico?"

"Does going to Mexico constitute liberty?" laughed Heliobas. "I assure

you I am closely constrained by my vows wherever I am,--as closely as

though I were shut in our turret among the heights of Caucasus! I am

going to Mexico solely to receive some manuscripts from one of our

brethren, who is dying there. He has lived as a recluse, like Elzear of

Melyana, and to him have been confided certain important chronicles,

which must be taken into trustworthy hands for preservation. Such is

the object of my journey. But now, tell me, have you thoroughly

understood all I have said to you?"

"Perfectly!" rejoined Alwyn. "My way seems very clear before me,--a

happy way enough, too, if it were not quite so lonely!" And he sighed a

little.

Heliobas rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder. "Courage!"...he

said softly. "Bear with the loneliness a while, IT MAY NOT LAST LONG!"

A slight thrill ran through Alwyn's nerves,--he felt as though he were

on the giddy verge of some great and unexpected joy,--his heart beat

quickly and his eyes grew dim. Mastering the strange emotion with an

effort, he was reluctantly beginning to think it was time to take his

leave, when Heliobas, who had been watching him intently, spoke in a

cheerful, friendly tone:

"Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. Alwyn, suppose you come

with me and hear the Ange-Demon of music at St. James's Hall? Will you?

He can bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet sound,--a

benediction not to be despised in this workaday world of clamor,--and

out of all the exquisite symbols of Heaven offered to us on earth,

Music, I think, is the grandest and best."

"I will go with you wherever you please," replied Alwyn, glad of any

excuse that gave him more of the attractive Chaldean's company,--"But

what Ange-Demon are you speaking of?"

"Sarasate,--or 'Sarah Sayty,' as some of the clear Britishers call

him--" laughed Heliobas, putting on his overcoat as he spoke; "the

'Spanish fiddler,' as the crabbed musical critics define him when they

want to be contemptuous, which they do pretty often. These, together

with the literary 'oracles,' have their special cliques,--their little

chalked out circles, in which they, like tranced geese, stand cackling,

unable to move beyond the marked narrow limit. As there are fools to be

found who have the ignorance, as well as the effrontery, to declare

that the obfuscated, ill-expressed, and ephemeral productions of

Browning are equal, if not superior, to the clear, majestic, matchless,

and immortal utterances of Shakespeare,--ye gods! the force of asinine

braying can no further go than this! ... even so there are similar

fools who say that the cold, correct, student-like playing of Joachim

is superior to that of Sarasate. But come and judge for yourself,--if

you have never heard him, it will be a sort of musical revelation to

you,--he is not so much a violinist, as a human violin played by some

invisible sprite of song. London listens to him, but doesn't know quite

what to make of him,--he is a riddle that only poets can read. If we

start now, we shall be just in time,--I have two stalls. Shall we go?"

Alwyn needed no second invitation,--he was passionately fond of

music,--his interest was aroused, his curiosity excited,--moreover,

whatever the fine taste of Heliobas pronounced as good must, he felt

sure, be super-excellent. In a few minutes they had left the hotel

together, and were walking briskly toward Piccadilly, their singularly

handsome faces and stately figures causing many a passer-by to glance

after them admiringly, and murmur sotto voce, "Splendid-looking

fellows! ... not English!" For though Englishmen are second to none in

mere muscular strength and symmetry of form, it is a fact worth noting,

that if any one possessing poetic distinction of look, or picturesque

and animated grace of bearing, be seen suddenly among the more or less

monotonously uniform crowd in the streets of London, he or she is

pretty sure to be set down, rightly or wrongly, as "NOT English." Is

not this rather a pity?--for England!

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE WIZARD OF THE BOW.

When they entered the concert-hall, the orchestra had already begun the

programme of the day with Mendelssohn's "Italian" Symphony. The house

was crowded to excess; numbers of people were standing, apparently

willing to endure a whole afternoon's fatigue, rather than miss hearing

the Orpheus of Andalusia,--the "Endymion out of Spain," as one of our

latest and best poets has aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant

interest was shown in the orchestral performance,--the "Italian"

Symphony is not a really great or suggestive work, and this is probably

the reason why it so often fails to arouse popular enthusiasm. For, be

it understood by the critical elect, that the heart-whole appreciation

of the million is by no means so "vulgar" as it is frequently

considered,--it is the impulsive response of those who, not being bound

hand and foot by any special fetters of thought or prejudice, express

what they instinctively FEEL to be true. You cannot force these

"vulgar," by any amount of "societies," to adopt Browning as a

household god,--but they will appropriate Shakespeare, and glory in

him, too, without any one's compulsion. If authors, painters, and

musicians would probe more earnestly than they do to the core of this

INSTINCTIVE HIGHER ASPIRATION OF PEOPLES, it would be all the better

for their future fame. For each human unit in a nation has its great,

as well as base passions,--and it is the clear duty of all the votaries

of art to appeal to and support the noblest side of nature

only--moreover, to do so with a simple, unforced, yet graphic eloquence

of meaning that can be grasped equally and at once by both the humble

and exalted.

"It is not in the least Italian"--said Heliobas, alluding to the

Symphony, when it was concluded, and the buzz of conversation surged

through the hall like the noise that might be made by thousands of

swarming bees,--"There is not a breath of Italian air or a glimpse of

Italian light about it. The dreamy warmth of the South,--the radiant

color that lies all day and all night on the lakes and mountains of

Dante's land,--the fragrance of flowers--the snatches of peasants' and

fishermen's songs--the tunefulness of nightingales in the

moonlight,--the tinkle of passing mandolins,--all these things should

be hinted at in an 'Italian' Symphony--and all these are lacking.

Mendelssohn tried to do what was not in him,--I do not believe the

half-phlegmatic, half-philosophical nature of a German could ever

understand the impetuously passionate soul of Italy."

As he spoke, a fair girl, with gray eyes that were almost black,

glanced round at him inquiringly,--a faint blush flitted over her

cheeks, and she seemed about to speak, but, as though restrained by

timidity, she looked away again and said nothing. Heliobas smiled.

"That pretty child is Italian," he whispered to Alwyn. "Patriotism

sparkled in those bright eyes of hers--love for the land of lilies,

from which she is at present one transplanted!"

Alwyn smiled also, assentingly, and thought how gracious, kindly, and

gentle were the look and voice of the speaker. He found it difficult to

realize that this man, who now sat beside him in the stalls of a

fashionable London concert-room, was precisely the same one who, clad

in the long flowing white robes of his Order, had stood before the

Altar in the chapel at Dariel, a stately embodiment of evangelical

authority, intoning the Seven Glorias! It seemed strange, and yet not

strange, for Heliobas was a personage who might be imagined

anywhere,--by the bedside of a dying child, among the parliaments of

the learned, in the most brilliant social assemblies, at the head of a

church,--anything he chose to do would equally become him, inasmuch as

it was utterly impossible to depict him engaged in otherwise than good

and noble deeds. At that moment a tumultuous clamor of applause broke

out on all sides,--applause that was joined in by the members of the

orchestra as well as the audience,--a figure emerged from a side door

on the left and ascended the platform--a slight, agile creature, with

rough, dark hair and eager, passionate eyes--no other than the hero of

the occasion, Sarasate himself. Sarasate e il suo Violino!--there they

were, the two companions; master and servant--king and subject. The

one, a lithe, active looking man of handsome, somewhat serious

countenance and absorbed expression,--the other, a mere frame of wood

with four strings deftly knotted across it, in which cunningly

contrived little bit of mechanism was imprisoned the intangible, yet

living Spirit of Sound. A miracle in its way!--that out of such common

and even vile materials as wood, catgut, and horsehair, the divinest

music can be drawn forth by the hand of the master who knows how to use

these rough implements! Suggestive, too, is it not, my friends?--for if

man can by his own poor skill and limited intelligence so invoke

spiritual melody by material means,--shall not God contrive some

wondrous tunefulness for Himself even out of our common earthly

discord? .... Hush!--A sound sweet and far as the chime of angelic

bells in some vast sky-tower, rang clearly through the hall over the

heads of the now hushed and attentive audience--and Alwyn, hearing the

penetrating silveriness of those first notes that fell from Sarasate's

bow, gave a quick sigh of amazement and ecstasy,--such marvellous

purity of tone was intoxicating to his senses, and set his nerves

quivering for sheer delight in sympathetic tune. He glanced at the

programme,--"Concerto--Beethoven"--and swift as a flash there came to

his mind some lines he had lately read and learned to love:

"It was the Kaiser of the Land of Song,

The giant singer who did storm the gates

Of Heaven and Hell--a man to whom the Fates

Were fierce as furies,--and who suffered wrong,

And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong

And grand as ocean when its rage abates."

Beethoven! ... Musical fullness of divine light! how the glorious

nightingale notes of his unworded poesy came dropping through the air

like pearls, rolling off the magic wand of the Violin Wizard, whose

delicate dark face, now slightly flushed with the glow of inspiration,

seemed to reflect by its very expression the various phases of the

mighty composer's thought! Alwyn half closed his eyes and listened

entranced, allowing his soul to drift like an oarless boat on the

sweeping waves of the music's will. He was under the supreme sway of

two Emperors of Art,--Beethoven and Sarasate,--and he was content to

follow such leaders through whatever sweet tangles and tall growths of

melody they might devise for his wandering. At one mad passage of

dancing semitones he started,--it was as though a sudden wind, dreaming

an enraged dream, had leaped up to shake tall trees to and fro,--and

the Pass of Dariel, with its frozen mountain-peaks, its tottering

pines, and howling hurricanes, loomed back upon his imagination as he

had seen it first on the night he had arrived at the Monastery--but

soon these wild notes sank and slept again in the dulcet harmony of an

Adagio softer than a lover's song at midnight. Many strange suggestions

began to glimmer ghost-like through this same Adagio,--the fair, dead

face of Niphrata flitted past him, as a wandering moonbeam flits

athwart a cloud,--then came flashing reflections of light and

color,--the bewildering dazzlement of Lysia's beauty shone before the

eyes of his memory with a blinding lustre as of flame, . . the

phantasmagoria of the city of Al-Kyris seemed to float in the air like

a faintly discovered mirage ascending from the sea,--again he saw its

picturesque streets, its domes and bell-towers, its courts and

gardens.. again he heard the dreamy melody of the dance that had

followed the death of Nir-jalis, and saw the cruel Lysia's wondrous

garden lying white in the radiance of the moon; anon he beheld the

great Square, with its fallen Obelisk and the prostrate, lifeless form

of the Prophet Khosrul.. and... Oh, most sad and dear remembrance of

all! ... the cherished Shadow of Himself, the brilliant, the joyous

Sah-luma appeared to beckon him from the other side of some vast gulf

of mist and darkness, with a smile that was sorrowful, yet persuasive;

a smile that seemed to say--"O friend, why hast thou left me as though

I were a dead thing and unworthy of regard?--Lo, I have never died,

--_I am_ here, an abandoned part of THEE, ready to become thine

inseparable comrade once more if thou make but the slightest

sign!"--Then it seemed as though voices whispered in his

ear--"Sah-luma! beloved Sah-luma!"--and "Theos! Theos, my

beloved!"--till, moved by a vague tremor of anxiety, he lifted his

drooping eyelids and gazed full in a sort of half-incredulous,

half-reproachful amaze at the musical necromancer who had conjured up

all these apparitions,--what did this wonderful Sarasate know of his

Past?

Nothing, indeed,--he had ceased, and was gravely bowing to the audience

in response to the thunder of applause, that, like a sudden whirlwind,

seemed to shake the building. But he had not quite finished his

incantations,--the last part of the Concerto was yet to come,--and as

soon as the hubbub of excitement had calmed down, he dashed into it

with the delicious speed and joy of a lark soaring into the springtide

air. And now on all sides what clear showers and sparkling coruscations

of melody!--what a broad, blue sky above!--what a fair, green earth

below!--how warm and odorous this radiating space, made resonant with

the ring of sweet bird-harmonies!--wild thrills of ecstasy and

lover-like tenderness--snatches of song caught up from the

flower-filled meadows and set to float in echoing liberty through the

azure dome of heaven!--and in all and above all, the light and heat and

lustre of the unclouded sun!--Here there was no dreaming possible, . .

nothing but glad life, glad youth, glad love! With an ambrosial rush of

tune, like the lark descending, the dancing bow cast forth the final

chord from the violin as though it were a diamond flung from the hand

of a king, a flawless jewel of pure sound,--and the Minstrel monarch of

Andalusia, serenely saluting the now wildly enthusiastic audience, left

the platform. But he was not allowed to escape so soon,--again and

again, and yet again, the enormous crowd summoned him before them, for

the mere satisfaction of looking at his slight figure, his dark, poetic

face, and soft, half-passionate, half-melancholy eyes, as though

anxious to convince themselves that he was indeed human, and not a

supernatural being, as his marvellous genius seemed to indicate. When

at last he had retired for a breathing-while, Heliobas turned to Alwyn

with the question:

"What do you think of him?"

"Think of him!" echoed Alwyn--"Why, what CAN one think,--what CAN one

say of such an artist!--He is like a grand sunrise,--baffling all

description and all criticism!"

Heliobas smiled,--there was a little touch of satire in his smile.

"Do you see that gentleman?" he said, in a low tone, pointing out by a

gesture a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging languidly in

a stall not very far from where they themselves sat,--"He is the

musical critic for one of the leading London daily papers. He has not

stirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during Sarasate's

performance,--and the violent applause of the audience was manifestly

distasteful to him! He has merely written one line down in his

note-book,--it is most probably to the effect that the 'Spanish fiddler

met with his usual success at the hands of the undiscriminating

public!'"

Alwyn laughed. "Not possible!"--and he eyed the impassive individual in

question with a certain compassionate amusement,--"Why, if he cannot

admire such a magnificent artist as Sarasate, what is there in the

world that WILL rouse his admiration!"

"Nothing!" rejoined Heliobas, his eyes twinkling humorously as he

spoke--"Nothing,--unless it is his own perspicuity! Nil admirari is the

critic's motto. The modern 'Zabastes' must always be careful to impress

his readers in the first place with his personal superiority to all men

and all things,--and the musical Oracle yonder will no doubt be clever

enough to make his report of Sarasate in such a manner as to suggest

the idea that he could play the violin much better himself, if he only

cared to try!"

"Ass!" said Alwyn under his breath--"One would like to shake him out of

his absurd self-complacency!"

Heliobas shrugged his shoulders expressively:

"My dear fellow, he would only bray!--and the braying of an ass is not

euphonious! No!--you might as well shake a dry clothes-prop and expect

it to blossom into fruit and flower, as argue with a musical critic,

and expect him to be enthusiastic! The worst of it is, these men are

not REALLY musical,--they perhaps know a little of the grammar and

technique of the thing, but they cannot understand its full eloquence.

In the presence of a genius like Pablo de Sarasate they are more or

less perplexed,--it is as though you ask them to describe in set, cold

terms the counterpoint and thoroughbass of the wind's symphony to the

trees,--the great ocean's sonata to the shore, or the delicate

madrigals sung almost inaudibly by little bell-blossoms to the tinkling

fall of April rain. The man is too great for them--he is a blazing star

that dazzles and confounds their sight--and, after the manner of their

craft, they abuse what they can't understand. Music is distinctly the

language of the emotions,--and they have no emotion. They therefore

generally prefer Joachim,--the good, stolid Joachim, who so delights

all the dreary old spinsters and dowagers who nod over their

knitting-needles at the 'Monday Popular' concerts, and fancy themselves

lovers of the 'classical' in music. Sarasate appeals to those who have

loved, and thought, and suffered--those who have climbed the heights of

passion and wrung out the depths of pain,--and therefore the PEOPLE,

taken en masse, as, for instance, in this crowded hall, instinctively

respond to his magic touch. And why?--Because the greater majority of

human beings are full of the deepest and most passionate feelings, not

as yet having been 'educated' OUT of them!"

Here the orchestra commenced Liszt's "Preludes"--and all conversation

ceased. Afterwards Sarasate came again to bestow upon his eager

admirers another saving grace of sound, in the shape of the famous

Mendelssohn Concerto, which he performed with such fiery ardor,

tenderness, purity of tone, and marvellous execution that many

listeners held their breath for sheer amazement and delighted awe.

Anything approaching the beauty of his rendering of the final "Allegro"

Alwyn had never heard,--and indeed it is probable none WILL ever hear a

more poetical, more exquisite SINGING OF THOUGHT than this matchless

example of Sarasate's genius and power. Who would not warm to the

brightness and delicacy of those delicious rippling tones, that seemed

to leap from the strings alive like sparks of fire--the dainty,

tripping ease of the arpeggi, that float from the bow with the grace of

rainbow bubbles blown forth upon the air,--the brilliant runs, that

glide and glitter up and down like chattering brooks sparkling among

violets and meadow-sweet,--the lovely softer notes, that here and there

sigh between the varied harmonies with the dreamy passion of lovers who

part, only to meet again in a rush of eager joy!--Alwyn sat absorbed

and spellbound; he forgot the passing of time,--he forgot even the

presence of Heliobas,--he could only listen, and gratefully drink in

every drop of sweetness that was so lavishly poured upon him from such

a glorious sky of sunlit sound.

Presently, toward the end of the performance, a curious thing happened.

Sarasate had appeared to play the last piece set down for him,--a

composition of his own, entitled "Zigeunerweisen." A gypsy song, or

medley of gypsy songs, it would be, thought Alwyn, glancing at his

programme,--then, looking towards the artist, who stood with lifted bow

like another Prospero, prepared to summon forth the Ariel of music at a

touch, he saw that the dark Spanish eyes of the maestro were fixed full

upon him, with, as he then fancied, a strange, penetrating smile in

their fiery depths. One instant.. and a weird lament came sobbing from

the smitten violin,--a wildly beautiful despair was wordlessly

proclaimed, . . a melody that went straight to the heart and made it

ache, and burn, and throb with a rising tumult of unlanguaged passion

and desire! The solemn, yet unfettered, grace of its rhythmic

respiration suggested to Alwyn, first darkness,--then twilight--then

the gradual far-glimmering of a silvery dawn,--till out of the

shuddering notes there seemed to grow up a vague, vast, and cool

whiteness, splendid and mystical,--a whiteness that from shapeless,

fleecy mist took gradual form and substance, ... the great

concert-hall, with its closely packed throng of people, appeared to

fade away like vanishing smoke,--and lo!--before the poet's entranced

gaze there rose up a wondrous vision of stately architectural

grandeur,--a vision of snowy columns and lofty arches, upon which fell

a shimmering play of radiant color flung by the beams of the sun

through stained glass windows glistening jewel-wise,--a tremulous sound

of voices floated aloft, singing, "Kyrie Eleison!--Kyrie Eleison!"--and

the murmuring undertone of the organ shook the still air with deep

vibrations of holy tune. Everywhere peace,--everywhere purity!

everywhere that spacious whiteness, flecked with side-gleams of royal

purple, gold, and ardent crimson,--and in the midst of all,--O dearest

tenderness!--O fairest glory!--a face, shining forth like a star in a

cloud!--a face dazzlingly beautiful and sweet,--a golden head, above

which the pale halo of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant

ring!

"EDRIS!"--The chaste name breathed itself silently in Alwyn's

thoughts,--silently and yet with all the passion of a lover's prayer!

How was it, he wondered dimly, that he saw her thus distinctly

NOW,--now, when the violin-music wept its wildest tears--now when love,

love, love, seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from the

low, pulsating melody of the marvellous "Zigeunerweisen," a melody

which, despite its name, had revealed to one listener, at any rate,

nothing concerning the wanderings of gypsies over forest and

moorland,--but on the contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral

arches, this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was

his life! How had he found his way into such a dream sanctuary of

frozen snow?--what was his mission there?--and why, when the picture

slowly faded, did it still haunt his memory

invitingly,--persuasively,--nay, almost commandingly?

He could not tell,--but his mind was entirely ravished and possessed by

an absorbing impression of white, sculptured calm,--and he was as

startled as though he had been brusquely awakened from a deep sleep,

when the loud plaudits of the people made him aware that Sarasate had

finished his programme, and was departing from the scene of his

triumphs. The frenzied shouts and encores, however brought him once

more before the excited public, to play a set of Spanish dances,

fanciful and delicate as the gamboling of a light breeze over

rose-gardens and dashing fountains,--and when this wonder-music ceased,

Alwyn woke from tranced rapture into enthusiasm, and joined in the

thunders of applause with fervent warmth and zeal. Eight several times

did the wearied, but ever affable, maestro ascend the platform to bow

and smile his graceful acknowledgments, till the audience, satisfied

with having thoroughly emphasized their hearty appreciation of his

genius, permitted him to finally retire. Then the people flocked out of

the hall in crowds, talking, laughing, and delightedly commenting upon

the afternoon's enjoyment, the brief remarks exchanged by two Americans

who were sauntering on immediately in front of Heliobas and Alwyn being

perhaps the very pith and essence of the universal opinion concerning

the great artist they had just heard.

"I tell you what he is," said one, "he's a demi-god!"

"Oh, don't halve it!" rejoined the other wittily, "he's the whole thing

anyway!"

Once outside the hall and in the busy street, now rendered doubly

brilliant by the deep saffron light of a gloriously setting sun,

Heliobas prepared to take leave of his somewhat silent and preoccupied

companion.

"I see you are still under the sway of the Ange-Demon," he remarked

cheerfully, as he shook hands, "Is he not an amazing fellow? That bow

of his is a veritable divining-rod, it finds out the fountain of

Elusidis [Footnote: A miraculous fountain spoken of in old chronicles,

whose waters rose to the sound of music, and, the music ceasing, sank

again.] in each human heart,--it has but to pronounce a note, and

straightway the hidden waters begin to bubble. But don't forget to read

the newspaper accounts of this concert! You will see that the critics

will make no allusion whatever to the enthusiasm of the audience, and

that the numerous encores will not even be mentioned!"

"That is unfair," said Alwyn quickly. "The expression of the people's

appreciation should always be chronicled."

"Of course!--but it never is, unless it suits the immediate taste of

the cliques. Clique-Art, clique-Literature, clique-Criticism, keep all

three things on a low ground that slopes daily more and more toward

decadence. And the pity of it is, that the English get judged abroad

chiefly by what their own journalists say of them,--thus, if Sarasate

is coldly criticised, foreigners laugh at the 'UNmusical English,'

whereas, the fact is that the nation itself is NOT unmusical, but its

musical critics mostly are. They are very often picked out of the rank

and file of the dullest Academy students and contrapuntists, who are

incapable of understanding anything original, and therefore are the

persons most unfitted to form a correct estimate of genius. However, it

has always been so, and I suppose it always will be so,--don't you

remember that when Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain

critic-ass-ter wrote of him, 'The absurdity of his effort is only

equalled by the hideousness of its result'."

He laughed lightly, and once more shook hands, while Alwyn, looking at

him wistfully, said:

"I wonder when we shall meet again?"

"Oh, very soon, I dare say," he rejoined. "The world is a wonderfully

small place, after all, as men find when they jostle up against each

other unexpectedly in the most unlikely corners of far countries. You

may, if you choose, correspond with me, and that is a privilege I

accord to few, I assure you!" He smiled, and then went on in a more

serious tone, "You are, of course, welcome at our monastery whenever

you wish to come, but, take my advice, do not wilfully step out of the

sphere in which you are placed. Live IN society, it needs men of your

stamp and intellectual calibre; show it a high and consistent

example--let no eccentricity mar your daily actions--work at your

destiny steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest to God,

and--the angels!"

There was a slight, tender inflection in his voice as he spoke the last

words,--and Alwyn gave him a quick, searching glance. But his blue,

penetrating eyes were calm and steadfast, full of their usual luminous

softness and pathos, and there was nothing expressed in them but the

gentlest friendliness.

"Well! I'm glad I may write to you, at any rate," said Alwyn at last,

reluctantly releasing his hand. "It is possible I may not remain long

in London; I want to finish my poem, and it gets on too slowly in the

tumult of daily life in town."

"Then will you go abroad again?" inquired Heliobas.

"Perhaps. I may. Bonn, where I was once a student for a time. It is a

peaceful, sleepy little place,--I shall probably complete my work

easily there. Moreover, it will be like going back to a bit of my

youth. I remember I first began to entertain all my dreams of poesy at

Bonn."

"Inspired by the Seven Mountains and the Drachenfels!" laughed

Heliobas. "No wonder you recalled the lost 'Sah-luma' period in the

sight of the entrancing Rhine! Ah, Sir Poet, you have had your fill of

fame! and I fear the plaudits of London will never be like those of

Al-Kyris! No monarchs will honor you now, but rather despise! for the

kings and queens of this age prefer financiers to Laureates! Now,

wherever you wander, let me hear of your well-being and progress in

contentment; when you write, address to our Dariel retreat, for though

on my return from Mexico I shall probably visit Lemnos, my letters will

always be forwarded. Adieu!"

"Adieu!" and their eyes met. A grave sweet smile brightened the

Chaldean's handsome features.

"God remain with you, my friend!" he said, in a low, thrillingly

earnest tone. "Believe me, you are elected to a strangely happy

fate!--far happier than you at present know!"

With these words he turned and was gone,--lost to sight in the surging

throng of passers-by. Alwyn looked eagerly after him, but saw him no

more. His tall figure had vanished as utterly as any of the phantom

shapes in Al-Kyris, only that, far from being spectre-like, he had

seemed more actually a living personality than any of the people in the

streets who were hurrying to and fro on their various errands of

business or pleasure.

That same night when Alwyn related his day's adventure to Villiers, who

heard it with the most absorbed interest, he was describing the effect

of Sarasate's violin-playing, when all at once he was seized by the

same curious, overpowering impression of white, lofty arches, stained

windows, and jewel-like glimmerings of color, and he suddenly stopped

short in the midst of his narrative.

"What's the matter?" asked Villiers, astonished. "Go on!--you were

saying,--"

"That Sarasate is one of the divinest of God's wandering melodies,"

went on Alwyn, slowly and with a faint smile. "And that though, as a

rule, musicians are forgotten when their music ceases, this Andalusian

Orpheus in Thrace will be remembered long after his violin is laid

aside, and he himself has journeyed to a sunnier land than Spain! But I

am not master of my thoughts to-night, Villiers; my Chaldean friend has

perhaps mesmerized me--who knows! and I have an odd fancy upon me. I

should like to spend an hour in some great and beautiful cathedral, and

see the light of the rising sun flashing through the stained windows

across the altar!"

"Poet and dreamer!" laughed Villiers. "You can't gratify that whim in

London; there's no 'great and beautiful' edifice of the kind

here,--only the unfinished Oratory, Westminster Abbey, broken up into

ugly pews and vile monuments, and the repellently grimy St. Paul's--so

go to bed, old boy, and indulge yourself in some more 'visions,' for I

assure you you'll never find any reality come up to your ideal of

things in general."

"No?" and Alwyn smiled. "Strange that I see it in quite the reverse

way! It seems to me, no ideal will ever come up to the splendor of

reality!"

"But remember," said Villiers quickly, "YOUR reality is heaven,--a

'reality' that is every one else's myth!"

"True! terribly true!".. and Alwyn's eyes darkened sorrowfully. "Yet

the world's myth is the only Eternal Real, and for the shadows of this

present Seeming we barter our immortal Substance!"

CHAPTER XXXIX.

BY THE RHINE.

In the two or three weeks that followed his meeting with Heliobas,

Alwyn made up his mind to leave London for a while. He was tired and

restless,--tired of the routine society more or less imposed upon

him,--restless because he had come to a standstill in his work--an

invisible barrier, over which his creative fancy was unable to take its

usual sweeping flight. He had an idea of seeking some quiet spot among

mountains, as far remote as possible from the travelling world of

men,--a peaceful place, where, with the majestic silence of Nature all

about him, he might plead in lover-like retirement with his refractory

Muse, and strive to coax her into a sweeter and more indulgent humor.

It was not that thoughts were lacking to him,--what he complained of

was the monotony of language and the difficulty of finding new, true,

and choice forms of expression. A great thought leaps into the brain

like a lightning flash; there it is, an indescribable mystery, warming

the soul and pervading the intellect, but the proper expression of that

thought is a matter of the deepest anxiety to the true poet, who, if he

be worthy of his vocation, is bound not only to proclaim it to the

world CLEARLY, but also clad in such a perfection of wording that it

shall chime on men's ears with a musical sound as of purest golden

bells. There are very few faultless examples of this felicitous

utterance in English or in any literature, so few, indeed, that they

could almost all be included in one newspaper column of ordinary print.

Keats's exquisite line:

"AEea's Isle was wondering at the moon"..

in which the word "wondering" paints a whole landscape of dreamy

enchantment, and the couplet in the "Ode to a Nightingale," that speaks

with a delicious vagueness of

"Magic casements opening on the foam

Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn,"--

are absolutely unique and unrivalled, as is the exquisite alliteration

taken from a poet of our own day:

"The holy lark,

With fire from heaven and sunlight on his wing,

Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark,

Renewed in rapture in the reddening air!"

Again from the same:

"The chords of the lute are entranced

With the weight of the wonder of things";

and

"his skyward notes

Have drenched the summer with the dews of song! ..."

this last line being certainly one of the most suggestive and beautiful

in all poetical literature. Such expressions have the intrinsic quality

of COMPLETENESS,--once said, we feel that they can never be said

again;--they belong to the centuries, rather than the seasons, and any

imitation of them we immediately and instinctively resent as an outrage.

And Theos Alwyn was essentially, and above all things, faithful to the

lofty purpose of his calling,--he dealt with his art reverently, and

not in rough haste and scrambling carelessness,--if he worked out any

idea in rhyme, the idea was distinct and the rhyme was perfect,--he was

not content, like Browning, to jumble together such hideous and

ludicrous combinations as "high;--Humph!" and "triumph,"--moreover, he

knew that what he had to tell his public must be told comprehensively,

yet grandly, with all the authority and persuasiveness of incisive

rhetoric, yet also with all the sweetness and fascination of a

passioned love-song. Occupied with such work as this, London, with its

myriad mad noises and vulgar distractions, became impossible to

him,--and Villiers, his fidus Achates, who had read portions of his

great poem and was impatient to see it finished, knowing, as he did,

what an enormous sensation it would create when published, warmly

seconded his own desire to gain a couple of months complete seclusion

and tranquillity.

He left town, therefore, about the middle of May and started across the

Channel, resolving to make for Switzerland by the leisurely and

delightful way of the Rhine, in order to visit Bonn, the scene of his

old student days. What days they had been!--days of dreaming, more than

action, for he had always regarded learning as a pastime rather than a

drudgery, and so had easily distanced his comrades in the race for

knowledge. While they were flirting with the Lischen or Gretchen of the

hour, he had willingly absorbed himself in study--thus he had attained

the head of his classes with scarce an effort, and, in fact, had often

found time hanging heavily on his hands for want of something more to

do. He had astonished the university professors--but he had not

astonished himself, inasmuch as no special branch of learning presented

any difficulties to him, and the more he mastered the more dissatisfied

he became. It had seemed such a little thing to win the honors of

scholarship! for at that time his ambition was always climbing up the

apparently inaccessible heights of fame,--fame, that he then imagined

was the greatest glory any human being could aspire to. He smiled as he

recollected this, and thought how changed he was since then! What a

difference between the former discontented mutability of his nature,

and the deep, unswerving calm of patience that characterized it now!

Learning and scholarship? these were the mere child's alphabet of

things,--and fame was a passing breath that ruffled for one brief

moment the on-rushing flood of time--a bubble blown in the air to break

into nothingness. Thus much wisdom he had acquired,--and what more? A

great deal more! he had won the difficult comprehension of HIMSELF; he

had grasped the priceless knowledge that man has no enemy save THAT

WHICH IS WITHIN HIM, and that the pride of a rebellious Will is the

parent Sin from which all others are generated. The old Scriptural

saying is true for all time, that through pride the angels fell; and it

is only through humility that they will ever rise again. Pride! the

proud Will that is left FREE by Divine Law, to work for itself and

answer for itself, and wreak upon its own head the punishment of its

own errors,--the Will that once voluntarily crushed down, in the dust

at the Cross of Christ, with these words truly drawn from the depths of

penitence, "Lord, not as I will, but as Thou wilt!" is straightway

lifted up from its humiliation, a supreme, stately Force, resistless,

miraculous, world-commanding;--smoothing the way for all greatness and

all goodness, and guiding the happy Soul from joy to joy, from glory to

glory, till Heaven itself is reached and the perfection of all love and

life begins. For true humility is not slavish, as some people imagine,

but rather royal, since, while acknowledging the supremacy of God, it

claims close kindred with Him, and is at once invested with all the

diviner virtues. Fame and wealth, the two perishable prizes for which

men struggle with one another in ceaseless and cruel combat, bring no

absolute satisfaction in the end--they are toys that please for a time

and then grow wearisome. But the conquering of Self is a battle in

which each fresh victory bestows a deeper content, a larger happiness,

a more perfect peace,--and neither poverty, sickness, nor misfortune

can quench the courage, or abate the ardor, of the warrior who is

absorbed in a crusade against his own worser passions. Egotism is the

vice of this age,--the maxim of modern society is "each man for

himself, and no one for his neighbor"--and in such a state of things,

when personal interest or advantage is the chief boon desired, we

cannot look for honesty in either religion, politics, or commerce. Nor

can we expect any grand work to be done in art or literature. When

pictures are painted and books are written for money only,--when

laborers take no pleasure in labor save for the wage it brings,--when

no real enthusiasm is shown in anything except the accumulation of

wealth,--and when all the finer sentiments and nobler instincts of men

are made subject to Mammon worship, is any one so mad and blind as to

think that good can come of it? Nothing but evil upon evil can accrue

from such a system,--and those who have prophetic eyes to see through

the veil of events can perceive, even now, the not far distant

end--namely, the ruin of the country that has permitted itself to

degenerate into a mere nation of shopkeepers,--and something worse

than ruin,--degradation!

It was past eight in the evening when Alwyn, after having spent a

couple of days in bright little Brussels, arrived at Cologne. Most

travelers know to their cost how noisy, narrow, and unattractive are

the streets of this ancient Colonia Agrippina of the Romans,--how

persistent and wearying is the rattle of the vehicles over the rough,

cobbly stones--how irritating to the nerves is the incessant shrieking

whistle and clank of the Rhine steamboats as they glide in, or glide

out, from the cheerless and dirty pier. But at night, when these

unpleasant sounds have partially subsided, and the lights twinkle in

the shop-windows, and the majestic mass of the Cathedral casts its

broad shadow on the moonlit Dom-Platz, and a few soldiers, with

clanking swords and glittering spurs, come marching out from some dark

stone archway, and the green gleam of the river sparkles along in

luminous ripples,--then it is that a something weird and mystical

creeps over the town, and the glamour of ancient historical memories

begins to cling about its irregular buildings,--one thinks of the

legendary Three Kings, and believes in them, too,--of St. Ursula and

her company of virgins; of Marie de Medicis dying alone in that

tumbled-down house in the Stern-gasse,--of Rubens, who, it is said,

here first saw the light of this world,--of an angry Satan flinging his

Teufelstein from the Seven Mountains in an impotent attempt to destroy

the Dom; and gradually, the indestructible romantic spell of the Rhine

steals into the spirit of common things that were unlovely by day, and

makes the old city beautiful under the sacred glory of the stars.

Alwyn dined at his hotel, and then, finding it still too early to

retire to rest, strolled slowly across the Platz, looking up at the

sublime God's Temple above him, the stately Cathedral, with its

wondrously delicate carvings and flying buttresses, on which the

moonlight glittered like little points of pale flame. He knew it of

old; many and many a time had he taken train from Bonn, for the sole

pleasure of spending an hour in gazing on that splendid "sermon in

stone,"--one of the grandest testimonies in the world of man's

instinctive desire to acknowledge and honor, by his noblest design and

work, the unseen but felt majesty of the Creator. He had a great

longing to enter it now, and ascended the steps with that intention;

but, much to his vexation, the doors were shut. He walked from the side

to the principal entrance; that superb western frontage which is so

cruelly blocked in by a dwarfish street of the commonest shops and

meanest houses,--and found that also closed against him. Disappointed

and sorry, he went back again to the side of the colossal structure,

and stood on the top of the steps, close to the central barred doors,

studying the sculptured saints in the niches, and feeling a sudden,

singular impression of extreme LONELINESS,--a sense of being shut out,

as it were, from some high festival in which he would gladly have taken

part.

Not a cloud was in the sky, ... the evening was one of the most

absolute calm, and a delicious warmth pervaded the air,--the warmth of

a fully declared and balmy spring. The Platz was almost deserted,--only

a few persons crossed it now and then, like flitting shadows,--and

somewhere down in one of the opposite streets a long way off, there was

a sound of men's voices singing a part-song. Presently, however, this

distant music ceased, and a deep silence followed. Alwyn still remained

in the sombre shade of the cathedral archway, arguing with himself

against the foolish and unaccountable depression that had seized him,

and watching the brilliant May moon soar up higher and higher in the

heavens; when,--all at once, the throbbing murmur of the great organ

inside the Dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift

attention. He listened,--the rich, round notes thundered through the

stillness with forceful and majestic harmony; anon, wierd tones, like

the passionate lament of Sarasate's "Zigeunerweisen" floated around and

above him: then, a silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn

unison:

"Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!"

A faint cold tremor crept through his veins,--his heart beat

violently,--again he vainly strove to open the great door. Was there a

choir practising inside at this hour of the night? Surely not!

Then,--from whence had this music its origin? Stooping, he bent his ear

to the crevice of the closed portal,--but, as suddenly as they had

begun, the harmonies ceased; and all was once more profoundly still.

Drawing a long, deep breath, he stood for a moment amazed and lost in

thought--these sounds, he felt sure, were not of earth but of heaven!

they had the same ringing sweetness as those he had heard on the Field

of Ardath! What might they mean to him, here and now? Quick as a flash

the answer came--DEATH! God had taken pity upon his solitary earth

wanderings,--and the prayers of Edris had shortened his world-exile and

probation! He was to die! and that solemn singing was the warning,--or

the promise,--of his approaching end!

Yes! it must be so, he decided, as, with a strange, half-sad peace at

his heart, he quietly descended the steps of the Dom,-he would perhaps

be permitted to finish the work he was at present doing,--and

then,--then, the poet-pen would be laid aside forever, chains would be

undone, and he would be set at liberty! Such was his fixed idea. Was he

glad of the prospect, he asked himself? Yes, and No! For himself he was

glad; but in these latter days he had come to understand the thousand

wordless wants and aspirations of mankind,--wants and aspirations to

which only the Poet can give fitting speech; he had begun to see how

much can be done to cheer and raise and ennoble the world by even ONE

true, brave, earnest, and unselfish worker,--and he had attained to

such a height in sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and

drawbacks of others, that he had ceased to consider himself at all in

the question, either with regard to the Present or the immortal

Future,--he was, without knowing it, in the simple, unconsciously

perfect attitude of a Soul that is absolutely at one with God, and that

thus, in involuntary God-likeness, is only happy in the engendering of

happiness. He believed that, with the Divine help, he could do a

lasting good for his fellow-men,--and to this cause he was willing to

sacrifice everything that pertained to his own mere personal advantage.

But now,--now,--or so he imagined,--he was not to be allowed to pursue

his labors of love,--his trial was to end suddenly,--and he, so long

banished from his higher heritage, was to be restored to it without

delay,--restored and drawn back to the land of perfect loveliness where

Edris, his Angel, waited for him, his saint, his queen, his bride!

A thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him,--joy intermingled with an

almost supernal pain. For he had not as yet said enough to the

world,--the world of many afflictions,--the little Sorrowful Star

covered with toiling, anxious, deluded God-forgetting millions, in

every unit of which was a spark of Heavenly flame, a germ of the

spiritual essence that makes the angel, if only fostered aright.

Lost in a deep reverie, his footsteps had led him unconsciously to the

Rhine bridge,--paying the customary fee, he walked about half-way

across it, and stood for a while listening to the incessant swift rush

of the river beneath him. Lights twinkled from the boats moored on

either side,--the moon poured down a wide shower of white beams on the

rapid flood,--the city, dusky and dream-like, crowned with the majestic

towers of the Dom, looked picturesquely calm and grand--it was a night

of perfect beauty and wondrous peace. And he was to die!--to die and

leave all this, the present fairness of the world,--he was to depart,

with, as he felt, his message half unspoken,--he was to be made

eternally happy, while many of the thousands he left behind were,

through ignorance, wilfully electing to be eternally miserable! A

great, almost divine longing to save ONE,--only ONE downward drifting

soul, possessed him,--and the comprehension of Christ's Sacrifice was

no longer a mystery! Yet he was so certain that death, sudden and

speedy closely, awaited him that he seemed to feel it in the very

air,--not like a coming chill of dread, but like the soft approach of

some holy seraph bringing benediction. It mattered little to him that

he was actually in the very plenitude of health and strength,--that

perhaps in all his life he had never felt such a keen delight in the

physical perfection of his manhood as now,--death, without warning and

at a touch, could smite down the most vigorous, and to be so smitten,

he believed, was his imminent destiny. And while he lingered on the

bridge, fancy-perplexed between grief and joy, a small window opened in

a quaint house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the gleaming

water, and a girl, holding a small lamp, looked out for a moment. Her

face, fresh and smiling, was fair to see against the background of

dense shadow,--the light she carried flashed like a star,--and leaning

down from the lattice she sang half-timidly, half mischievously, the

first two or three bars of the old song.. "Du, du, liegst in mein

Herzen ... !" "Ah! Gute Nacht, Liebchen!" said a man's voice below.

"Gute Nacht! Schlafen sie wohl!"

A light laugh, and the window closed, "Good-night! Sleep well!" Love's

best wish!--and for some sad souls life's last hope,--a "good-night and

sleep well!" Poor tired World, for whose weary inhabitants oftentimes

the greatest blessing is sleep! Good-night! sleep well! but the sleep

implies waking.--waking to a morning of pleasure or sorrow,--or labor

that is only lightened by,--Love! Love!--love divine,--love

human,--and, sweetest love of all for us, as Christ has taught when

both divine and human are mingled in one!

Alwyn, glancing up at the clustering stars, hanging like pendent

fire-jewels above him, thought of this marvel-glory of Love,--this

celestial visitant who, on noiseless pinions, comes flying divinely

into the poorest homes, transfiguring common life with ethereal

radiance, making toil easy, giving beauty to the plainest faces and

poetry to the dullest brains. Love! its tremulous hand-clasp,--its

rapturous kiss,--the speechless eloquence it gives to gentle eyes!--the

grace it bestows on even the smallest gift from lover to beloved, were

such gift but a handful of meadow blossoms tied with some silken

threads of hair!

Not for the poet creator of "Nourhulma" such love any more,--had he not

drained the cup of Passion to the dregs in the far Past, and tasted its

mixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence? All

that was over;--and yet, as he walked away from the bridge, back to his

hotel in the quiet moonlight, he thought what a transcendent thing Love

might be, even on earth, between two whose spirits were SPIRITUALLY

AKIN,--whose lives were like two notes played in tuneful

concord,--whose hearts beat echoing faith and tenderness to one

another,--and who held their love as a sacred bond of union--a gift

from God, not to be despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely

brings contempt. And then before his fancy appeared to float the

radiant visage of Edris, half-child, half-angel,--he seemed to see her

beautiful eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge of

sin,--and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, whose work he

specially admired, occurred to him with singular suggestiveness:

"Oh, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid

Is more than kingdoms,--more than light and shade

In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell,

And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell.

Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this,

And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss,

Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain,

Athwart the raptures of a vision'd bliss.

"I'll seek no joy that is not linked with thine,

No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine,

And after death, no home in any star,

That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar

As here thou'rt first and foremost of all things!

Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings

That wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway,

Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings!"

Had not she, Edris, consigned him to his "own disdain, Athwart the

raptures of a visioned bliss?" Ay! truly and deservedly!--and this

disdain of himself had now reached its culminating point,--namely, that

he did not consider himself worthy of her love,--or worthy to do aught

than sink again into far spaces of darkness and perpetually

retrospective Memory, there to explore the uttermost depths of anguish,

and count up his errors one by one from the very beginning of life, in

every separate phase he had passed through, till he had penitently

striven his best to atone for them all! Christ had atoned! yes,--but

was it not almost base on his part to shield himself with that Divine

Light and do nothing further? He could not yet thoroughly grasp the

amazing truth that ONE ABSOLUTELY PURE act of faith in Christ, blots

out Past Sin forever,--it seemed too marvellous and great a boon!

When he retired to rest that night he was fully and firmly PREPARED TO

DIE. With this expectation upon him he was nevertheless happy and

tranquil. The line--"Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings"

haunted him, and he repeated it over and over again without knowing

why. Wings! the brilliant shafts of radiance that part angels from

mortals,--wings, that, after all, are not really wings, but lambent

rays of living lightning, of which neither painter nor poet has any

true conception, . . long, dazzling rays such as encircled God's

maiden, Edris, with an arch of roseate effulgence, so that the very air

was sunset-colored in the splendor of her presence! How if she were a

wingless angel,--made woman?

"Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings!" And with the name of his

angel-love upon his lips he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and

dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER XL.

IN THE CATHEDRAL.

A booming, thunderous, yet mellow sound! a grand, solemn, sonorous

swing of full and weighty rhythm, striking the air with deep, slowly

measured resonance like the rolling of close cannon! Awake, all ye

people!--Awake to prayer and praise! for the Night is past and sweet

Morning reddens in the east, ... another Day is born,--a day in which

to win God's grace and pardon,--another wonder of Light, Movement,

Creation, Beauty, Love! Awake, awake! Be glad and grateful for the

present joy of life,--this life, dear harbinger of life to come! open

your eyes, ye drowsy mortals, to the divine blue of the beneficent sky,

the golden beams of the sun, the color of flowers, the foliage of

trees, the flash of sparkling waters!--open your ears to the singing of

birds, the whispering of winds, the gay ripple of children's laughter,

the soft murmurs of home affection,--for all these things are freely

bestowed upon you with each breaking dawn, and will you offer unto God

NO thanksgiving?--Awake! Awake! the Voice you have yourselves set in

your high Cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its iron

tongue, and summons you all to worship Him the Ever-Glorious, through

whose mercy alone you live!

To and fro,--to and fro,--gravely persistent, sublimely eloquent, the

huge, sustained, and heavy monotone went thudding through the

stillness,--till, startled from his profound sleep by such loud, lofty,

and incessant clangor, Alwyn turned on his pillow and listened,

half-aroused, half-bewildered,--then, remembering where he was, he

understood; it was the great Bell of the Dom pealing forth its first

summons to the earliest Mass. He lay quiet for a little while, dreamily

counting the number of reverberations each separate stroke sent

quivering on the air,--but presently, finding it impossible to sleep

again, he got up, and drawing aside the curtain looked out of the

window of his room, which fronted on the Platz. Though it was not yet

six o'clock, the city was all astir,--the Rhinelanders are an early

working people, and to see the sun rise is not with them a mere fiction

of poesy, but a daily fact. It was one of the loveliest of lovely

spring mornings--the sky was clear as a pale, polished sapphire, and

every little bib of delicate carving and sculpture on the Dom stood out

from its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness. And as

his gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and

sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind,--he felt as

one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness,--some great and

wondrous celebration or feast of joy! The thoughts of death, on which

he had brooded so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled,

leaving no trace behind,--only a keen and vigorous delight in life

absorbed him now. It was good to be alive, even on this present earth!

it was good to see, to feel, to know! and there was much to be thankful

for in the mere capability of easy and healthful breathing!

Full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to himself

as he moved about his room,--his desire to view the interior of the

Cathedral had not abated with sleep, but had rather augmented,--and he

resolved to visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in

all the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity. For he knew that

by the time he was dressed, the first Mass would be over,--the priests

and people would be gone,--and he would be alone to enjoy the

magnificence of the place in full poet-luxury,--the luxury of silence

and solitude. He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous

eagerness,--he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the Dom as he

had been to arrive at the Field of Ardath! The same feverish impatience

was upon him--impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not

account for,--his fancy busied itself with a whole host of memories,

and fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had written in his youth,

came back to him without his wish or will,--songs that he instinctively

felt belonged to his Past, when as "Sah-luma" he had won golden

opinions in Al-Kyris. And though they were but echoes, they seemed this

morning to touch him with half-pleasing, half-tender

suggestiveness,--two lines especially from the Idyl of Roses he had

penned so long,--ah! so very long ago,--came floating through his brain

like a message sent from some other world,--

"By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase,

And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace."

The "lilies of peace" and the flowers of Ardath,--the "roses of

passion" and the love of Edris, these were all mingled almost

unconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy sense of

tremulous expectation,--expectation of he knew not what-he went,

walking as one in haste, across the broad Platz and ascended the steps

of the Cathedral. But the side-entrance was fast shut, as on the

previous night,--he therefore made his rapid way round to the great

western door. That stood open,--the bell had long ago ceased,--Mass was

over,--and all was profoundly still.

Out of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the vast, cool,

clear-obscure, white glory of the stately shrine,--with bared head and

noiseless, reverent feet, he advanced a little way up the nave, and

then stood motionless, every artistic perception in him satisfied,

soothed, and entranced anew, as in his student-days, by the tranquil

grandeur of the scene. What majestic silence! What hallowed peace! How

jewel-like the radiance of the sun pouring through the rich stained

glass on those superb carved pillars, that, like petrified stems of

forest-trees, bear lightly up the lofty, vaulted roof to that vast

height suggestive of a white sky rather than stone!

Moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized by an

overpowering impression,--a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of

shock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune!--a wild melody,

haunting and passionate, rang in his eras,--the melody that Sarasate,

the Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the heart of his speaking

violin,--the sobbing love-lament of the "Zigeunerweisen"--the weird

minor-music that had so forcibly suggested--What? THIS VERY

PLACE!--these snowy columns,--this sculptured sanctity--this flashing

light of rose and blue and amber,--this wondrous hush of consecrated

calm! What next? Dear God! Sweet Christ! what next? The face of

Edris?--Would that heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those

rainbow-colored beams that struck slantwise down toward him?--and

should he presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into

deeper ecstasy?

Overcome by a sensation that was something like fear, he stopped

abruptly, and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches,

strove to control the quick, excited throbbing of his heart,--then

gradually, very gradually he become conscious that HE WAS NOT

ALONE,--another besides himself was in the church,--another, whom it

was necessary for him to see!

He could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this,--but he was

soon so completely possessed by the idea, that for a moment he dared

not raise his eyes, or move! Some invincible force held him there

spell-bound, yet trembling in every limb,--and while he thus waited

hesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful

utterance,--wave after wave of richest harmony rolled through the

stately aisles and ... "Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!" rang forth in

loud, full, and golden-toned chorus!

Lifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him; not a living

creature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the

cathedral! His lips parted,--he felt as though he could scarcely

breathe,--strong shudders ran through him, and he was penetrated by a

pleasing terror that was almost a physical pang,--an agonized

entrancement, like death or the desire of love! Presently, mastering

himself by a determined effort, he advanced steadily with the absorbed

air of one who is drawn along by magnetic power ... steadily and slowly

up the nave, ... and as he went, the music surged more tumultuously

among the vaulted arches,--there was a faint echo afar off, as of

tinkling crystal bells; and at each onward step he gained a new access

of courage, strength, firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every

timorous doubt and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front

of the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined Cross, and seeing for the

moment nothing save that Divine Symbol alone. And still the organ

played, and still the voices sang,--he knew these sounds were not of

earth, and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to

him,--but WHAT meaning?

All at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right hand

side of the altar, where the great statue of St. Christopher stands,

and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great

carven gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous

shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone pavement,

one solitary worshipper,--a girl. Her hands were clasped, and her face

was bent upon them so that her features were not visible,--but the

radiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling

it with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus,--and round her

slight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald,

flickered in wide and lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting

sun on a translucent sea. How very still she was! ... how fervently

absorbed in prayer!

Vaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, indefinable instinct,

Alwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread, his eyes

dwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form with

fascinated and eager attention. She was clad in gray,--a soft, silken,

dove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped

folds,--he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely

refrain from a loud cry of amazement! What flowers were those she wore

at her breast!--so white, so star-like, so suggestive of paradise

lilies new-gathered? Were they not the flowers of ARDATH? Dizzy with

the sudden tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees beside

her,--she did not stir! Was she REAL?--or a phantom? Trembling

violently, he touched her garment--it was of tangible, smooth texture,

actual enough, if the sense of touch could be relied upon. In an agony

of excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or

custom,--her bewildering presence must be explained,--he must know who

she was,--he must speak to her,--speak, if he died for it!

"Pardon me!" he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own words;

"I fancy,--I think,--we have met,--before! May I, . . dare I, . . ask

your name?"

Slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly, she

lifted her bent head, and smiled at him! Oh, the lovely light upon her

face! Oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!

"My name is EDRIS!"--she said, and as the pure bell-like tone of her

voice smote the air with its silvery sound, the mysterious music of the

organ and the invisible singers throbbed away,--away,--away,--into

softer and softer echoes, that died at last tremulously and with a

sigh, as of farewell, into the deepest silence.

"EDRIS!"--In a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her

hand,--the warm, delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in

submissive tenderness,--pulsations of terror, pain, and wild joy, all

commingled, rushed through him,--with adoring, wistful gaze he scanned

every feature of that love-smiling countenance,--a countenance no

longer lustrous with Heaven's blinding glory, but only most maiden-like

and innocently fair,--dazzled, perplexed, and half afraid, he could not

at once grasp the true comprehension of his ineffable delight! He had

no doubt of her identity--he knew her well! she was his own

heartworshipped Angel,--but on what errand had she wandered out of

paradise? Had she come once more, as on the Field of Ardath, to comfort

him for a brief space with the beauty of her visible existence, or did

she bring from Heaven the warrant for his death?

"Edris!" he said, as softly as one may murmur a prayer, "Edris, my

life, my love! Speak to me again! make me sure that I am not dreaming!

Tell me where I have failed in my sworn faith since we parted; teach me

how I must still further atone! Is this the hour appointed for my

spirit's ransom?--has this dear and sacred hand I hold, brought me my

quittance of earth?--and have I so soon won the privilege to die?"

As he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the glistening light of

the stained window falling royally about her,--and he obeying her mute

gesture, rose also and faced her in wondering ecstasy, half expecting

to see her vanish suddenly in the sun-rays that poured through the

Cathedral, even as she had vanished before like a white cloud absorbed

in clear space. But no! She remained quiet as a tame bird,--her eyes

met his with beautiful trust and tenderness,--and when she answered

him, her low, sweet accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note

of HUMAN affection, as well as of angelic sympathy!

"Theos, my Beloved, I am ALL THINE!" she said, a holy rapture vibrating

through her exquisite voice.--"Thine now, in mortal life as in

immortal!--one with thee in nature and condition,--pent up in

perishable clay, even as thou art,--subject to sorrow, and pain, and

weariness,--willing to share with thee thine earthly lot,--ready to

take my part in thy grief or joy! By mine own choice have I come

hither,--sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but safe in Christ! Every

time thou hast renounced the desire of thine own happiness, so much the

nearer hast thou drawn me to thee; every time thou hast prayed God for

my peace, rather than thine own, so much the closer has my existence

been linked with thine! And now, O my Poet, my lord, my king!--we are

together forever more,--together in the brief Present, as in the

eternal Future!--the solitary heaven-days of Edris are past, and her

mission is not Death, but Love!"

Oh, the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her face!--the

splendid hope, faith, and triumph of her attitude! What strange miracle

was here accomplished!--an Angel had become human for the sake of love,

even as light substantiates itself in the colors of flowers!--the Eden

lily had consented to be gathered,--the paradise dove had fluttered

down to earth! Breathless, bewildered, lifted to a height of transport

beyond all words, Alwyn gazed upon her in entranced, devout

silence,--the vast cathedral seemed to swing round and round in great

glittering circles, and nothing was real, nothing steadfast, but that

slight, sweet maiden in her soft gray robes, with the Ardath-blossoms

gleaming white against her breast! Angel she was,--angel she ever would

be,--and yet--what did she SEEM? Naught but:

"A child-like woman, wise and very fair,

Crowned with the garland of her golden hair!"

This, and no more,--and yet in this was all earth and all heaven

comprised!--He gazed and gazed, overwhelmed by the amazement of his own

bliss,--he could have gazed upon her so in speechless ravishment for

hours, when, with a gesture of infinite grace and appeal, she stretched

out her hands toward him:

"Speak to me, dearest one!" she murmured wistfully--"Tell me,--am I

welcome?"

"O exquisite humility!--O beautiful maiden-timid hesitation! Was

she,--even she, God's Angel, so far removed from pride, as to be

uncertain of her lover's reception of such a gift of love? Roused from

his half-swooning sense of wonder, he caught those gentle hands, and

laid them tenderly against his breast,--tremblingly, and all devoutly,

he drew the lovely, yielding form into his arms, close to his

heart,--with dazzled sight he gazed down into that pure, perfect face,

those clear and holy eyes shining like new-created stars beneath the

soft cloud of clustering fair hair!

"Welcome!" he echoed, in a tone that thrilled with passionate awe and

ecstasy;--"My Edris! My Saint! My Queen! Welcome, more welcome than the

first flowers seen after winter snows!--welcome, more welcome than

swift rescue to one in dire peril!--welcome, my Angel, into the

darkness of mortal things, which haply so sweet a Presence shall make

bright! O sacred innocence that I am not worthy to shield! ... O

sinless beauty that I am all unfitted to claim or possess! Welcome to

my life, my heart, my soul! Welcome, sweet Trust, sweet Hope, sweet

Love, that as Christ lives, I will never wrong, betray, or resign again

through all the glory spaces of far Eternity!"

As he spoke, his arms closed more surely about her,--his lips met

hers,--and in the mingled human and divine rapture of that moment,

there came a rushing noise, as of thousands of wings beating the air,

followed by a mighty wave of music that rolled approachingly and then

departingly through and through the Cathedral arches--and a Voice,

clear and resonant as a silver clarion, proclaimed aloud:

"Those whom GOD hath joined together, let no MAN put asunder!"

Then, with a surging, jubilant sound, like the sea in a storm, the

music seemed to tread past in a measured march of stately harmony,--and

presently there was silence once more,--the silence and sunshine of the

morning pouring through the rose windows of the church and sparkling on

the Cross above the Altar,--the silence of a love made perfect,--of

twin souls made ONE!

And then Edris drew herself gently from her lover's embrace and raised

her head,--putting her hand confidingly in his, a lovely smile played

on her sweetly parted lips:

"Take me, Theos," she said softly, "Lead me,--into the World!"

* * * * * *

Slowly the great side-doors of the Cathedral swung back on their

hinges,--and out on the steps in a glorious blaze of sunlight came Poet

and Angel together. The one, a man in the full prime of splendid and

vigorous manhood,--the other, a maiden, timid and sweet, robed in gray

attire with a posy of white flowers at her throat. A simple girl, and

most distinctly human,--the fresh, pure color reddened in her

cheeks,--the soft springtide wind fanned her gold hair, and the

sunbeams seemed to dance about her in a bright revel of amaze and

curiosity. Her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy Platz below with a

vaguely compassionate wonder--a look that suggested some far

foreknowledge of things, that at the same time were strangely

unfamiliar. Hand in hand with her companion she stood,--while he,

holding her fast, drunk in the pureness of her beauty, the love-light

of her glance, the holy radiance of her smile, till every sense in him

was spiritualized anew by the passionate faith and reverence in his

heart, the marvellous glory that had fallen upon his life, the nameless

rapture that possessed his soul!--To have knelt at her feet, and bowed

his head before her in worshipping silence, would have been to follow

the strongest impulse in him,--but she had given him a higher duty than

this. He was to "LEAD HER,"--lead her "into the world!"--the dreary,

dark world, so unfitted to receive such brightness,--she had come to

him clad in all the sacred weakness of womanhood; and it was his proud

privilege to guard and shelter her from evil,--from the evil in others,

but chiefly from the evil in himself. No taint must touch that spotless

life with which God had entrusted him!--sorrow might come--nay, MUST

come, since, so long as humanity errs, so long must angels

grieve,--sorrow, but not sin! A grand, awed sense of responsibility

filled him,--a responsibility that he accepted with passionate

gratitude and joy ... he had attained a vaster dignity than any king on

any throne, ... and all the visible Universe was transfigured into a

golden pageant of loveliness and light, fairer than the fabled Valley

of Avilion!

Yet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of the mighty Dom,

half-longing, half-hesitating to take her further, and ever and anon

assailed by a dreamy doubt as to whether she might not even now pass

away from him suddenly and swiftly, as a mist fading into heaven,--when

all at once the sound of beating drums and martial trumpets struck

loudly on the quiet morning air. A brilliant regiment of mounted Uhlans

emerged from an opposite street, and cantered sharply across the Platz

and over the Rhine-bridge, with streaming pennons, burnished helmets

and accoutrements glistening in a long compact line of silvery white,

that vanished as speedily as it had appeared, like a winding flash of

meteor flame. Alwyn drew a deep, quick breath; the sight of those armed

soldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually in the turmoil of

present daily events,--that his supernal happiness was no vision, but

REALITY,--that Edris, his Spirit-love, was with him in tangible human

guise of flesh and blood,--though how such a mysterious marvel had been

accomplished, he knew no more than scientists know how the lovely life

of green leaf and perfect flower can still be existent in seeds that

have lain dormant and dry in old tombs for thousands of years! And as

he looked at her proudly,--adoringly,--she raised her beautiful,

innocent, questioning eyes to his.

"This is a city?" she asked--"a city of men who labor for good, and

serve each other?"

"Alas, not so, my sweet!" he answered, his voice trembling with its own

infinite tenderness; "there is no city on the sad Earth where men do

not labor for mere vanity's sake, and oppose each other!"

Her inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compassion.

"Come,--let us go!" she said gently. "We twain, made one in love and

faith, must hasten to begin our work!--darkness gathers and deepens

over the Sorrowful Star,--but we, perchance, with Christ's most holy

Blessing, may help to lift the Shadows into Light!"

* * * * * * *

Away in a sheltered mountainous retreat, apart from the louder clamor

of the world, the Poet and his heavenly companion dwell in peace

together. Their love, their wondrous happiness, no mortal language can

define,--for spiritual love perfected as far exceeds material passion

as the steadfast glory of the sun outshines the nickering of an earthly

taper. Few, very few, there are who recognize, or who attain, such

joy,--for men chiefly occupy themselves with the SEMBLANCES of things,

and therefore fail to grasp all high realities. Perishable

beauty,--perishable fame,--these are mere appearances; imperishable

Worth is the only positive and lasting good, and in the search for

imperishable Worth alone, the seeker must needs encounter Angels

unawares!

But for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all spiritual life

and being, the history of Theos Alwyn can be disposed of with much

languid ease and cold logic, as a foolish chimera scarce worth

narrating. Practically viewed, there is nothing wonderful in it, since

it can all be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic skill. Tranced

into a dream bewilderment by the arts of the mystic Chaldean,

Heliobas,--tricked into visiting the Field of Ardath, what more likely

than that a real earth-born maiden, trained to her part, should have

met the dreamer there, and, with the secret aid of the hermit Elezar,

continued his strange delusion? What more fitting as a sequel to the

whole, than that the same maiden should have been sent to him again in

the great Rhine Cathedral, to complete the deception and satisfy his

imagination by linking her life finally with his?--It is a perfectly

simple explanation of what some credulous souls might be inclined to

consider a mystery,--and let the dear, wise, oracular people who cannot

admit any mystery in anything, and who love to trace all seeming

miracles to clever imposture, accept this elucidation by all

means,--they will be able to fit every incident of the story into such

an hypothesis, with most admirable and consecutive neatness! Al-Kyris

was truly a Vision,--the rest was,--What? Merely the working of a

poetic imagination under mesmeric influence!

So be it! The Poet knows the truth,--but what are Poets? Only the

Prophets and Seers! Only the Eyes of Time, which clearly behold

Heaven's Fact beyond this world's Fable. Let them sing if they choose,

and we will hear them in our idle hours,--we will give them a little of

our gold,--a little of our grudging praise, together with much of our

private practical contempt and misprisal! So say the unthinking and

foolish--so will they ever say,--and hence it is, that though the fame

of Theos Alwyn widens year by year, and his sweet clarion harp of Song

rings loud warning, promise, hope, and consolation above the noisy

tumult of the whirling age, people listen to him merely in vague

wonderment and awe, doubting his prophet utterance, and loth to put

away their sin. But he, never weary in well-doing, works on, ... ever

regardless of Self, caring nothing for Fame, but giving all the riches

of his thought for Love. Clear, grand, pure, and musical, his writings

fill the time with hope and passionate faith and courage,--his

inspiration fails not, and can never fail, since Edris is his fount of

ecstasy,--his name, made glorious by God's blessing, shall never, as in

his perished Past, be again forgotten!

And what of Edris? What of the "Flower-crowned Wonder" of the Field of

Ardath, strayed for a while out of her native Heaven? Does the world

know her marvellous origin? Perhaps the mystic Heliobas knows,--perhaps

even good Frank Villiers has hazarded a reverent guess at his friend's

great secret--but to the uninstructed, what does she seem?

Nothing but a WOMAN, MOST PURE WOMANLY; a woman whose influence on all

is strangely sweet and lasting,--whose spirit overflows with tenderest

sympathy for the many wants and sorrows of mankind,--whose voice charms

away care,--whose smile engenders peace,--whose eyes, lustrous and

thoughtful, are unclouded by any shadow of sin,--and on whose serene

beauty the passing of years leaves no visible trace. That she is fair

and wise, joyous, radiant, and holy is apparent to all,--but only the

Poet, her lover and lord, her subject and servant, can tell how truly

his Edris is not so much sweet woman as most perfect Angel! A Dream of

Heaven made human! ... Let some of us hesitate ere we doubt the

Miracle; for we are sleepers and dreamers all,--and the hour is close

at hand when--we shall Wake.

THE END.