[Frontispiece: "And I also shall go home." Page 31]
THE
OLD MAN'S HOME.
BY THE REV. WILLIAM ADAMS, M. A.
AUTHOR OF "THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS,"
AND "THE DISTANT HILLS," ETC.
With Engravings from Original Designs,
BY WEIR.
NEW-YORK:
GENERAL PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION,
DANIEL DANA, Jr., AGENT,
Depository 20 John Street.
1848.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
ENTERED according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by JOHN W.
MITCHELL, (as TREASURER of the General Protestant Episcopal Sunday
School Union,) in the Office of the Clerk of the United States
District Court for the Southern District of New York.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
JOHN ADAMS,
Serjeant at Law,
AS A MARK OF FILIAL GRATITUDE
And Affection,
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED
BY
THE AUTHOR.
FOR THEY
THAT SAY SUCH THINGS
DECLARE PLAINLY
THAT THEY SEEK A COUNTRY.
HEB. xi, 14.
The Old Man's Home.
CHAPTER I.
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,
Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart;
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow--
Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
There is a scene on the coast of the Isle of Wight with which I have
long since become familiar, but which never fails to exercise a
soothing influence on my mind. It is at the eastern extremity of the
landslip. Large portions of the cliff have fallen away, and formed a
dell so broken and irregular, that the ground has the appearance of
having at one time been agitated by an earthquake. But Nature has
only suffered the convulsion to take place, in order that afterwards
she might bestow her gifts upon this favoured spot with a more
unsparing hand. The wild and picturesque character of the landscape
is now almost lost sight of in its richness and repose. The new soil
is protected from the storms of winter by the cliff from which it has
fallen, and, sloping towards the south, is open to the full warmth
and radiance of the sun. In consequence of this, the landslip has as
it were, a climate of its own; and often when the more exposed parts
of the country still look dreary and desolate, is in the enjoyment of
the blessings of an early spring. Such was the season at which I
first visited it. The grey fragments of rock which lay scattered on
the ground are almost hid by the luxuriance of the underwood, and
countless wild flowers were growing beneath their shade. Below, the
eye rested upon a little bay, formed by the gradual advance of the
sea; and all was so calm and peaceful, that as I watched the gentle
undulation of the waters, I could fancy them to be moving to and fro
with a stealthy step, lest they should disturb the tranquillity of
the scene.
I have said that a visit to this favoured spot never fails with me to
have a soothing influence. I feel as though I were treading on
enchanted ground, and the whole scene were allegorical; for it
reminds me that, in like manner, the wreck of all our earthly hopes
and plans may but lay open our hearts to the influence of a warmer
sunshine, and enrich them with flowers which the storms of life have
no longer power to destroy. But I cannot now tell whether these
thoughts have their origin in the scene itself, or in an incident
that occurred the first time I visited it.
It was on the evening of the 18th of April, 1843. I had been long
gazing upon it, and had imagined that I was alone, when my attention
was arrested by a sigh from some one near me. I turned round, and
saw a venerable old man seated upon a fragment of the fallen cliff,
beneath which the violets were very thickly clustering. His hair was
white as silver; his face deeply furrowed, and yet pervaded by a
general expression of childish simplicity, which formed a strong
contrast to the lines which must have been indented upon it by care
and suffering, no less than the lapse of years. I cannot recall the
words of the chance observation which I addressed to him; but it
related to the lateness and inclemency of the season, and I was at
once struck by the singularity of his reply: "Yes, yes," he said,
musingly, "the winter has indeed been very long and dreary; and yet
it has been gladdened, from time to time, by glimpses of the coming
spring."
I now observed him more closely. There was a strangeness in his
dress which first excited my suspicion, and I fancied that I could
detect a restlessness in his light blue eye which spoke of a mind
that had gone astray. "Old man," I said, "you seem tired; have you
come from far?"
"Ah, woe is me," he replied, in the same melancholy tone as before;
"I have indeed travelled a long and solitary journey; and at times I
am weary, very weary; but my resting-place now must be near at hand."
"And whither, then," I asked, "are you going?"
"Home, sir, home," he replied; and while his voice lost its sadness,
his face seemed to brighten and his eye grow steady at the thought;
"I hope and believe that I am going home."
I now imagined that I had judged him hastily, and that the answers
which I had ascribed to a wandering intellect proceeded in truth from
depth of religious feeling. In order to ascertain this, I asked:
"Have you been long a traveller?"
"Four score and thirteen years," he replied; and observing my look of
assumed wonder, he repeated a second time, more slowly and sadly than
before, "Four score and thirteen years."
"The home," I said, "must be very far off that requires so long a
journey."
"Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he answered: "our home is
never far off; and I might perhaps have arrived at it years and years
ago. But often during the early spring I stopped to gather the
flowers that grew beneath my feet; and once I laid me down and fell
asleep upon the way. And so more than four score and thirteen years
have been wanted to bring me to the home which many reach in a few
days. Alas! all whom I love most dearly have long since passed me on
the road, and I am now left to finish my journey alone."
During this reply, I had become altogether ashamed of my former
suspicion, and I now looked into the old man's face with a feeling of
reverence and love. The features were unchanged; but instead of the
childish expression which I had before observed, I believed them to
be brightened with the heavenliness of the second childhood, while
the restlessness of the light blue eye only spoke to me of an
imagination which loved to wander amid the treasures of the unseen
world. I purposely, however, continued the conversation under the
same metaphor as before. "You have not, then," I said, "been always
a solitary traveller?"
"Ah, no," he replied: "for a few years a dear wife was walking step
by step at my side; and there were little children, too, who were
just beginning to follow us. And I was so happy then, that I
sometimes forgot we were but travellers, and fancied that I had found
a home. But my wife, sir, never forgot it. She would again and
again remind me that 'we must so live together in this life, that in
the world to come we might have life everlasting.' They are words
that I scarcely regarded at the time, but I love to repeat them now.
They speak to me of meeting her again at the end of our journey."
"And have all your children left you?" I asked.
"All, all," he replied. "My wife took them with her when she went
away. She stayed with me, sir, but six years, and left me on the
very day on which she came. It seems strange now that I could have
lived with them day after day without a thought that they were so
near their journey's end, while I should travel onward so many
winters alone. It is now sixty years since they all went home, and
have been waiting for me there. But, sir, I often think that the
time, which has seemed so long and dreary to me, has passed away like
a few short hours to them."
"And are you sure, then," I said, "that they are all gone home?" It
was a thoughtless question, and I repented the words almost before
they were spoken. The tears rose quickly in the old man's eyes, and
his voice trembled with emotion, as he replied: "Oh! sir, do not bid
me doubt it. Surely, every one of them is gone home; one, at least,
of the number is undoubtedly there; and they all went away together,
as though they were travelling to the same place; besides, sir, my
wife was constantly speaking to them of their home; and would not
their journey as well as my own have been prolonged, if their home
had not been ready for them? And when I think of them, I always
think of home; am I not, then, right in believing that all of them
are there?"
There were allusions in this answer which I did not at the time
understand; but the old man's grief was too sacred for me to intrude
further upon it. I felt, also, that any words of my own would be too
feeble to calm the agitation which my thoughtless observation had
caused. I merely repeated a passage from holy Scripture, in reply,
"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit,
for they rest from their labours."
The old man's face again brightened, and as he wiped away the tears,
he added, "And 'Blessed,' also, 'are they that mourn, for they shall
be comforted.' There is not only a blessing for those who have been
taken to their rest, but there is the image of that blessing to cheer
the old man who is left to pursue his solitary journey."
At this moment, the sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud,
suddenly shone forth, and its rays were reflected by a path of gold
in the silent waters. The old man pointed to it with a quiet smile;
the change was in such harmony with his own thoughts, that I do not
wonder at the metaphor it suggested to him. "There," said he, "is
the blessing of the mourner! See! how it shines down from the heaven
above, and gilds with its radiance the dreary sea of life."
"True," I replied; "and the sea of life would be no longer dreary, if
it were not for the passing clouds which at times keep back from it
the light of Heaven." His immediate answer to this observation
proved the image which he had employed, to be one long familiar to
his own mind. "There are indeed clouds," he said, "but they are
never in Heaven; they hover very near the earth; and it is only
because our sight is so dim and indistinct that they seem to be in
the sky."
A silence of some minutes followed this remark. I was, in truth,
anxious that the old man should pursue the metaphor farther. But the
gleam of light passed away as the sun sunk behind the western hills.
His feelings appeared to undergo a corresponding change, and he
exclaimed, hastily, "The day is fast drawing to a close; and the
night must be near at hand: I must hasten onward on my journey.
Come, kind sir, and I will show you where my friends are waiting for
me."
I was wondering whether he now spoke metaphorically or not, when my
thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel, and my former
painful suspicions returned. As the old man leant upon his staff,
his wrists became exposed to view, and I saw that they were marked
with deep blue lines, which could only have been caused by the
galling of a chain in former years.
The poor wanderer observed the look I gave them. A sudden flush of
shame overspread his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down his
garment to conceal them. It was, however, but a momentary impulse;
he again exposed them to my view, and himself gazed sadly upon them,
as he said, "Why should I try to hide them, when they are left there
to remind me constantly of my true condition? For in times past I
have borne the pressure of more wearing bonds than those; and though
I have been released from them now, no one can tell how dark and deep
is the stain that they have left upon the soul." Something more he
added, but his eye was turned meekly towards Heaven, and it was only
from the movement of his lips that I fancied I could trace the words
of the prayer, "Though we be tied and bound with the chain of our
sins, yet let the pitifulness of Thy great mercy loose us."
He now began to move slowly forward. The ground was rough and
uneven, and his step so very feeble, that I expected every instant to
see him fall. He struck his foot against a stone, and I sprang
forward to his assistance. "Thank you, kind sir," he said, in his
quiet way; "but do not fear for me; my own frail limbs could not
support me for an instant: but I have a staff on which I lean; and
though I may stumble at times, I cannot fall."
Again I was in doubt whether to interpret his words literally or not;
but my belief was that the old man almost unconsciously used the
language of allegory. Long habit had so taught him to blend together
the seen and the unseen world, that he could not separate them. Life
was to him a mirror, and in the passing objects of sight and sense,
he never failed to recognise the images of spiritual things.