VI

"ANYTUS and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot hurt me," said

Socrates; and Governor Sancho, with all the itch of newly-acquired

authority, could not make the young weaver of steel-heads for lances

sleep in prison. In the Vision of Er the souls passed straight

forward under the throne of necessity, and out into the plains of

forgetfulness, where they must severally drink of the river of

unmindfulness whose waters cannot be held in any vessel. The throne,

the plain, and the river are still here, but in the distance rise the

great lone heavenward hills, and the wise among us no longer ask of the

gods Lethe, but rather remembrance. Necessity can set me helpless on my

back, but she cannot keep me there; nor can four walls limit my vision.

I pass out from under her throne into the garden of God a free man, to

my ultimate beatitude or my exceeding shame. All day long this world

lies open to me; ay, and other worlds also, if I will but have it so;

and when night comes I pass into the kingdom and power of the dark.

I lie through the long hours and watch my bridge, which is set with

lights across the gloom; watch the traffic which is for me but so many

passing lamps telling their tale by varying height and brightness.

I hear under my window the sprint of over-tired horses; the rattle

of uncertain wheels as the street-sellers hasten south; the jangle

of cab bells as the theatre-goers take their homeward way; the gruff

altercation of weary men, the unmelodious song and clamorous laugh of

women whose merriment is wearier still. Then comes a time of stillness

when the light in the sky waxes and wanes, when the cloud-drifts

obscure the stars, and I gaze out into blackness set with watching

eyes. No sound comes from without but the voice of the night-wind and

the cry of the hour. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks imperatively,

for a check has fallen on the familiarity which breeds a disregard

of common things, and a reason has to be sought for each sound which

claims a hearing. The pause is wonderful while it lasts, but it is not

for long. The working world awakes, the poorer brethren take up the

burden of service; the dawn lights the sky; remembrance cries an end to

forgetting.

Sometimes in the country on a night in early summer you may shut the

cottage door to step out into an immense darkness which palls heaven

and earth. Going forward into the embrace of the great gloom, you are

as a babe swaddled by the hands of night into helpless quiescence. Your

feet tread an unseen path, your hands grasp at a void, or shrink from

the contact they cannot realise; your eyes are holden; your voice would

die in your throat did you seek to rend the veil of that impenetrable

silence.

Shut in by the intangible dark, we are brought up against those worlds

within worlds blotted out by our concrete daily life. The working of

the great microcosm at which we peer dimly through the little window of

science; the wonderful, breathing earth; the pulsing, throbbing sap;

the growing fragrance shut in the calyx of to-morrow's flower; the

heartbeat of a sleeping world that we dream that we know; and around,

above, and interpenetrating all, the world of dreams, of angels and of

spirits.

It was this world which Jacob saw on the first night of his exile,

and again when he wrestled in Peniel until the break of day. It was

this world which Elisha saw with open eyes; which Job knew when

darkness fell on him; which Ezekiel gazed into from his place among the

captives; which Daniel beheld as he stood alone by the great river, the

river Hiddekel.

For the moment we have left behind the realm of question and

explanation, of power over matter and the exercise of bodily faculties;

and passed into darkness alight with visions we cannot see, into

silence alive with voices we cannot hear. Like helpless men we set our

all on the one thing left us, and lift up our hearts, knowing that we

are but a mere speck among a myriad worlds, yet greater than the sum

of them; having our roots in the dark places of the earth, but our

branches in the sweet airs of heaven.

It is the material counterpart of the 'Night of the Soul.' We have left

our house and set forth in the darkness which paralyses those faculties

that make us men in the world of men. But surely the great mystics,

with all their insight and heavenly love, fell short when they sought

freedom in complete separateness from creation instead of in perfect

unity with it. The Greeks knew better when they flung Ariadne's crown

among the stars, and wrote Demeter's grief on a barren earth, and

Persephone's joy in the fruitful field. For the earth is gathered up

in man; he is the whole which is greater than the sum of its parts.

Standing in the image of God, and clothed in the garment of God, he

lifts up priestly hands and presents the sacrifice of redeemed earth

before the throne of the All-Father. "Dust and ashes and a house of

devils," he cries; and there comes back for answer, "_Rex concupiscet

decorem tuam_."

The Angel of Death has broad wings of silence and mystery with which

he shadows the valley where we need fear no evil, and where the voice

which speaks to us is as the "voice of doves, tabering upon their

breasts." It is a place of healing and preparation, of peace and

refreshing after the sharply-defined outlines of a garish day. Walking

there we learn to use those natural faculties of the soul which are

hampered by the familiarity of bodily progress, to apprehend the truths

which we have intellectually accepted. It is the place of secrets

where the humility which embraces all attainable knowledge cries "I

know not"; and while we proclaim from the housetops that which we have

learnt, the manner of our learning lies hid for each one of us in the

sanctuary of our souls.

The Egyptians, in their ancient wisdom, set in the desert a great

androsphinx, image of mystery and silence, staring from under level

brows across the arid sands of the sea-way. The Greeks borrowed and

debased the image, turning the inscrutable into a semi-woman who

asked a foolish riddle, and hurled herself down in petulant pride

when Oedipus answered aright. So we, marring the office of silence,

question its mystery; thwart ourselves with riddles of our own

suggesting; and turn away, leaving our offering but half consumed

on the altar of the unknown god. It was not the theft of fire that

brought the vengeance of heaven upon Prometheus, but the mocking

sacrifice. Orpheus lost Eurydice because he must see her face before

the appointed time. Persephone ate of the pomegranate and hungered in

gloom for the day of light which should have been endless.

The universe is full of miracle and mystery; the darkness and silence

are set for a sign we dare not despise. The pall of night lifts,

leaving us engulphed in the light of immensity under a tossing heaven

of stars. The dawn breaks, but it does not surprise us, for we have

watched from the valley and seen the pale twilight. Through the

wondrous Sabbath of faithful souls, the long day of rosemary and rue,

the light brightens in the East; and we pass on towards it with quiet

feet and opening eyes, bearing with us all of the redeemed earth that

we have made our own, until we are fulfilled in the sunrise of the

great Easter Day, and the peoples come from north and south and east

and west to the City which lieth foursquare--the Beatific Vision of God.

Vere Ierusalem est illa civitas

Cuius pax iugis et summa iucunditas;

Ubi non prævenit rem desiderium,

Nec desiderio minus est præmium.