RAIN, rain, rain: the little flagged path outside my window is a
streaming way, where the coming raindrops meet again the grey clouds
whose storehouse they have but just now left. The grass grows greener
as I watch it, the burnt patches fade, a thousand thirsty heads are
uplifted for the cooling draught.
The great thrush that robs the raspberry canes is busy; yesterday he
had little but dust for his guerdon, but now fresh, juicy fruit repays
him as he swings to and fro on the pliant branches. The blackbirds
and starlings find the worms an easy prey--poor brother worm ever
ready for sacrifice. I can hear the soft expectant chatter of the
family of martins under the roof; there will be good hunting, and they
know it, for the flies are out when the rain is over, and there are
clamorous mouths awaiting. My little brown brothers, the sparrows,
remain my chief delight. Of all the birds these nestle closest to my
heart, be they grimy little cockneys or their trim and dainty country
cousins. They come day by day for their meed of crumbs spread for them
outside my window, and at this season they eat leisurely and with
good appetite, for there are no hungry babies pestering to be fed.
Very early in the morning I hear the whirr and rustle of eager wings,
and the tap, tap, of little beaks upon the stone. The sound carries
me back, for it was the first to greet me when I rose to draw water
and gather kindling in my roadmender days; and if I slip back another
decade they survey me, reproving my laziness, from the foot of the
narrow bed in my little attic overseas.
Looking along the roadway that we have travelled we see the landmarks,
great and small, which have determined the direction of our feet. For
some those of childhood stand out above all the rest; but I remember
few notable ones, and those few the emphatic chord of the universe,
rather than any commerce with my fellows. There was the night of my
great disappointment, when I was borne from my comfortable bed to see
the wonders of the moon's eclipse. Disappointment was so great that
it sealed my lips; but, once back on my pillow, I sobbed for grief
that I had seen a wonder so far below my expectation. Then there was
a night at Whitby, when the wind made speech impossible, and the seas
rushed up and over the great lighthouse like the hungry spirits of the
deep. I like better to remember the scent of the first cowslip field
under the warm side of the hedge, when I sang to myself for pure joy
of their colour and fragrance. Again, there were the bluebells in the
deserted quarry like the backwash of a southern sea, and below them the
miniature forest of sheltering bracken with its quaint conceits; and,
crowned above all, the day I stood on Watcombe Down, and looked across
a stretch of golden gorse and new-turned blood-red field, the green of
the headland, and beyond, the sapphire sea.
Time sped, and there came a day when I first set foot on German soil
and felt the throb of its paternity, the beat of our common life.
England is my mother, and most dearly do I love her swelling breasts
and wind-swept, salt-strewn hair. Scotland gave me my name, with
its haunting derivation handed down by brave men; but Germany has
always been to me the Fatherland _par excellence_. True, my love is
limited to the southern provinces, with their mediæval memories; for
the progressive guttural north I have little sympathy, but the Rhine
claimed me from the first, calling, calling, with that wonderful voice
which speaks of death and life, of chivalry and greed of gold. If you
would have the river's company you should wander, a happy solitary,
along its banks, watching its gleaming current in the early morning,
its golden glory as it answers the farewell of parting day. Then, in
the silence of the night, you can hear the wash and eddy calling one
to another, count the heart-beats of the great bearer of burdens, and
watch in the moonlight the sisters of the mist as they lament with
wringing hands the days that are gone.
The forests, too, are ready with story hid in the fastness of their
solitude, and it is a joy to think that those great pines, pointing
ever upwards, go for the most part to carry the sails of great ships
seeking afar under open sky. The forest holds other wonders still.
It seems but last night that I wandered down the road which led to
the little unheeded village where I had made my temporary home. The
warm-scented breath of the pines and the stillness of the night wrapped
me in great content; the summer lightning leapt in a lambent arch
across the east, and the stars, seen dimly through the sombre tree
crests, were outrivalled by the glow-worms which shone in countless
points of light from bank and hedge; even two charcoal-burners, who
passed with friendly greeting, had wreathed their hats with the living
flame. The tiny shifting lamps were everywhere; pale yellow, purely
white, or green as the underside of a northern wave. By day but an
ugly, repellent worm; but darkness comes, and lo, a star alight. Nature
is full for us of seeming inconsistencies and glad surprises. The
world's asleep, say you; on your ear falls the nightingale's song and
the stir of living creatures in bush and brake. The mantle of night
falls, and all unattended the wind leaps up and scatters the clouds
which veil the constant stars; or in the hour of the great dark, dawn
parts the curtain with the long foregleam of the coming day. It is hard
to turn one's back on night with her kiss of peace for tired eye-lids,
the kiss which is not sleep but its neglected forerunner. I made my
way at last down to the vine-girt bridge asleep under the stars and up
the winding stairs of the old grey tower; and a stone's-throw away the
Rhine slipped quietly past in the midsummer moonlight.
Switzerland came in its turn, unearthly in its white loveliness and
glory of lake and sky. But perhaps the landmark which stands out
most clearly is the solitary blue gentian which I found in the short
slippery grass of the Rigi, gazing up at the sky whose blue could
not hope to excel it. It was my first; and what need of another, for
finding one I had gazed into the mystery of all. This side the Pass,
snow and the blue of heaven; later I entered Italy through fields of
many-hued lilies, her past glories blazoned in the flowers of the field.
Now it is a strangely uneventful road that leads to my White Gate. Each
day questions me as it passes; each day makes answer for me "not yet."
There is no material preparation to be made for this journey of mine
into a far country--a simple fact which adds to the 'unknowableness'
of the other side. Do I travel alone, or am I one of a great company,
swift yet unhurried in their passage? The voices of Penelope's
suitors shrilled on the ears of Ulysses, as they journeyed to the
nether-world, like nocturnal birds and bats in the inarticulateness of
their speech. They had abused the gift, and fled self-condemned. Maybe
silence commends itself as most suitable for the wayfarers towards the
sunrise--silence because they seek the Word--but for those hastening
towards the confusion they have wrought there falls already the sharp
oncoming of the curse.
While we are still here the language of worship seems far, and yet
lies very nigh; for what better note can our frail tongues lisp than
the voice of wind and sea, river and stream, those grateful servants
giving all and asking nothing, the soft whisper of snow and rain eager
to replenish, or the thunder proclaiming a majesty too great for
utterance? Here, too, stands the angel with the censer gathering up
the fragrance of teeming earth and forest-tree, of flower and fruit,
and sweetly pungent herb distilled by sun and rain for joyful use.
Here, too, come acolytes lighting the dark with tapers--sun, moon, and
stars--gifts of the Lord that His sanctuary may stand ever served.
It lies here ready to our hand, this life of adoration which we needs
must live hand in hand with earth, for has she not borne the curse
with us? But beyond the white gate and the trail of woodbine falls the
silence greater than speech, darkness greater than light, a pause of "a
little while"; and then the touch of that healing garment as we pass to
the King in His beauty, in a land from which there is no return.
At the gateway then I cry you farewell.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes: