A BROTHER’S EFFORT.
“Solicit not thy thoughts with matters hid,
Leave them to God above; him serve and fear.
... Heaven is for thee too high
To know what passes there. Be lowly wise.”
MILTON.
“The calm philosopher may analyze
The elements that form a water-drop;
But will the faint and thirsty pilgrim stop
To scan its nature, ere the fount he tries?
Thus, while the haughty soul God’s truth receives
With cold indifference, reasoning, doubting still,—
The poor in spirit from the sacred rill
Drinks life, and, ere he comprehends, believes.”
The red glow of sunset had ceased to light up the latticed windows of
the vicarage, or bathe its smooth lawn and thick shrubbery in a crimson
glow. The rosy tint of the sky had faded into grey, and the evening
mist had begun to rise, but still the vicar prolonged his walk on the
gravel path in front of his dwelling. Up and down he slowly paced, with
his hands behind him, his eyes bent on the ground, and an expression of
thought—painful thought—upon his benevolent face. Ida passed him on her
return from a class, but, contrary to his usual habit, he took no notice
of his daughter. Mabel tripped through the open window,—a mode of exit
which she usually preferred to the door,—and, running lightly up to her
father, locked her arm within his, with a playful remark on his solitary
mood. The remark did not call up an answering smile; Mr. Aumerle did not
appear even to have heard it, so Mabel, concluding from his manner that
he must be composing a funeral sermon, quietly left him to his grave
meditations.
At length, with a little sigh, as if he had just arrived at the
conclusion of some painful line of reflection, the clergyman turned
towards the house, and entering at the door, made his way towards his own
little study.
As he had expected, the room was not empty. His brother sat reading at
the table by the light of a lamp, which threw into strong relief the
classic outline of his handsome features. Aumerle saw not—no mortal could
see—the dim, dark form beside him, or mark the gigantic shadow cast over
the reader by the bat-like wing extended over him by Pride.
Mr. Aumerle sat down near Augustine in silence. He surveyed his brother
some moments with a look of anxious tenderness, then gave a little cough,
as if to arouse his attention.
Augustine glanced up from the volume of German philosophy which he had
been perusing. He had perhaps an idea that something unpleasant was
coming, for he did not choose to commence the conversation.
“My dear Augustine,” began Lawrence Aumerle, after another uneasy little
cough, “I have been for some time wishing to speak to you on a subject of
great interest to us both. You must be aware,—you cannot but feel that
the light observation which escaped you to-day at dinner, was of a nature
to give me considerable pain.”
“What I said about the Bible?” replied his brother. “Well, it was a
thoughtless observation, I own; but I certainly never intended to pain
you. Your good lady came down upon me so sharp, and gave me such an
oratorical cudgelling, that even Ida herself must have confessed that the
punishment exceeded the offence.”
“Augustine, this is no jesting matter,” said his brother.
“I own that I was indiscreet and wrong in talking after that fashion in
presence of the girls. Are you not satisfied with that frank confession?”
“I am not satisfied; I cannot be satisfied while I remain in doubt as to
whether those careless words did not really express the opinion of my
brother. Ever since you have been here on this visit, Augustine, it has
seemed to me as if a change had passed over you; you are no longer what
you once were. There is not the frank interchange of thought between us
that there used to be in former years.”
“I am no longer a boy,” replied Augustine, leaning carelessly back in his
chair.
“When you were a boy,” continued Mr. Aumerle, “you used often to express
to me your desire to enter the ministry.”
“Oh, that’s all over,” replied Augustine quickly; “my views on many
points have changed. I have discovered that there are many paths open
to speculative thought besides the dry beaten one which you and all the
pious world have been content for generations to tread.”
“There is nothing,” murmured Pride, “so hateful to an exalted spirit as
travelling in a crowd.”
“Is it well,” said Aumerle, “to wander from the narrow path, in which so
many have found happiness in life, and peace in death?”
“There are stumbling-blocks in that path,” replied Augustine;
“difficulties which it would puzzle even a theologian like yourself to
remove, and over which the learned and the zealous have wrangled from
time immemorial. How can you explain to me this?” and the young man ran
over, with rapid eloquence, one after another of the difficult questions
which have for ages put human wisdom to fault. “How can you explain all
this?” he repeated, at the close of his argument.
“These things are beyond the grasp of the human mind,” replied the
clergyman; “they are not contrary to reason, but above it.”
“Reason is the guide allotted to intellectual man,” said Augustine; “I go
as far as she leads me, and no further.”
“Reason is the guide that leads to the temple of revelation. There is
an overwhelming mass of evidence, external and internal, to convince
any unprejudiced mind that the Bible is the word of God. Prophecies
accomplished, types fulfilled, the divine Spirit breathed through the
pages, the unearthly perfection of One character there portrayed, with
superhuman knowledge of the frailties and requirements of man; the
devotion of the early witnesses to its truth, who sealed their testimony
with their blood; the standing miracles foretold in the Scriptures, of
the Jewish people scattered amongst all nations, and yet separate, and of
a Church which, rising in an obscure land from the tomb of its Founder,
has spread against the opposition of earth and hell, has swept away the
barriers raised against it by temporal power and spiritual idolatry, and
the natural opposition of every unregenerate heart, and which still goes
on conquering and to conquer;—is not all this sufficient to bring reason
to the position of the handmaid of religion, and make her, as I said at
the first, the guide to the temple of revelation?”
“Granted,” said Augustine, after a pause; “but, when we enter that
temple, when we scrutinize the mysteries which it contains—”
“Reason is no longer capable of guiding the soul; the appointed guardian
of these mysteries is faith.”
“Who would lead us blindfold!” said Augustine impatiently. “Here it is
that I would make my stand, for I maintain that no man—”
_Pride._—“Gifted, intellectual man—”
_Augustine._—“Is bound to believe what he cannot understand!”
_Aumerle._—“Augustine, Augustine, all nature refutes you! What do we
understand of the physical wonders that have environed man for thousands
of years? We note facts, but in what innumerable instances are we baffled
when we attempt to trace back effects to their causes! We hear the power
of electricity in the thunder-clap, see it in the flash of lightning,
nay, make it the servant of our will to unite distant continents
together; but who can say that he understands it? We give it a name, we
calculate its force, but reason grasps not its nature. Who can say how
the soul is united to the body? Who can say what the faculty of memory
may be, where it hoards up its life-accumulated treasures, and produces
on the moment from the mass the very idea which it requires? These are
not foreign subjects, they are subjects brought daily to the attention of
myriads of reasoning beings, and during sixty centuries what has reason
made of them? She is content to give up her place to faith; we believe,
but we _cannot_ understand. And can we expect that aught else should
be the case when a weak, helpless worm like man fixes his thoughts upon
the solemn mysteries of the invisible world,—when the finite attempts
to comprehend the infinite! Reason, your boasted reason, at once shows
the folly of such an expectation. On this earth we are in the infancy
of our existence. As little could the young child of a monarch, while
scarcely yet able to read, expect to grasp the difficult science of
administration, and make himself master of the details of the business of
an empire, as man, with his limited faculties, fathom the deep things of
God!”
“In this your favourite simile,” said Augustine, “you must admit that
some children are more advanced than the rest.”
“I believe that he is most advanced in spiritual knowledge,” replied
Aumerle, “who can adopt the language of the gifted warrior-king of
Israel.” He opened the Bible which lay on the table, and read aloud from
the 131st Psalm:—
“_Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I
exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Surely I
have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother:
my soul is even as a weaned child._”
“One would almost think,” observed Augustine, “that you consider
intellect as rather a disqualification than a help in penetrating the
mysteries of religion.”
“These mysteries are beyond the province allotted to human intellect,”
replied his brother. “The Bible assures us that _the natural man
receiveth not the things of God, for they are spiritually discerned_.
Our Lord thanked his Father that these things, being hidden _from the
wise and prudent_ (wise in the world’s wisdom, prudent in their own
eyes), were yet _revealed unto babes_. Depend upon it, my dear brother,”
continued the clergyman earnestly, “the true stumbling-block in our path
is our pride! Is it not written in the word, _The meek will he guide in
judgment, and the meek will he teach his way_?”
“Do you mean to assert,” said Augustine, “that none of the meek and
devout have ever been troubled with difficulties and doubts?”
“Not so; I believe that many of God’s best servants have been much
exercised with such spiritual trials. But it has been beautifully
written, ‘A sign is granted to the doubt of love which is not given to
the doubt of indifference.’ The meek are not left in darkness,—such are
not given up to the adversary. But it is because they oppose him, not in
the intellectual armour of subtle reasoning and metaphysical argument,
but armed with the sling of prayer, humble and persevering prayer. To
such the promise of the Comforter is given, whose office is to guide unto
all truth.’”
_Augustine._—“You, doubtless, are amongst those spiritually enlightened,
though I suspect that you regard me as still in darkness. I should like
to know how far, with faith your infallible guide, you have penetrated
into such a mystery, for instance, as that of the origin of sin.”
_Pride._—“Nail him with that difficulty; wrest his one weapon out of his
hand, and see how he comes off in the contest when your intellect fairly
grapples with his!”
_Aumerle._—“I find it more profitable, my brother, to trace the effects
of sin in my own heart, than to dive into such a mystery. The existence
of sin within us concerns us more nearly than its origin.”
_Augustine._—“Now own to me frankly, Lawrence, whether there be not
something conventional and strained in this perpetual talk—I had almost
said _cant_—about sin, which we hear from the best people in the world?
I look upon it as the affectation of humility, because without that
crowning virtue the most saintly character is not considered to be
absolutely perfect.”
_Aumerle._—“Can you doubt the all-pervading influence of sin? _The
heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. All our
righteousnesses are as filthy rags. There is none that doeth good, no not
one_; this is the scriptural estimate of human nature.”
_Augustine._—“Lay aside the Scriptures for a moment, and come to actual
facts as we see them around us. Look now at such a character as that of
Ida—pure, unworldly, self-denying, devoted; such a description of evil
cannot for a moment be applied to her.”
_Aumerle._—“You see her, God be praised, as she is by grace, and not by
nature.”
_Augustine._—“But she continues to regard herself as a sinner,—for aught
that I know as the chief of sinners, she is ever repenting of errors
which no one but herself can perceive.”
_Aumerle._—“With faculties as limited as ours, our not perceiving errors
is no proof of their non-existence. What to the naked eye is so pure as
a crystal stream, or so glorious as the orb of day? yet the microscope
reveals to us impurities in the water, and the telescope—blots in the
sun.”
_Augustine (smiling)._—“Leave to me the unassisted vision. I do not
wish to think ill of human nature. I believe that a man may walk serenely
through life, and find himself in heaven at the end of it, without this
incessant judging and condemning either himself or his fellow-creatures.”
_Pride._—“Yes; one who is like yourself possesses an unblemished
character, and a high moral standard, and who seeks to benefit his kind,
without professions of superior sanctity.”
_Aumerle._—“Augustine, I see but too clearly why your mind delights
to seek out only the difficulties and doubts in religion! You can sit
tranquilly as a judge, because you have never recognised your position
as a criminal. You are, with all your brilliant intellect, ignorant
of the very alphabet of spiritual knowledge. You do not know your own
weakness and sin.”
_Pride._—“He imagines himself addressing one of the ignorant rustics of
his parish. His mind is narrowed by professional bigotry. It requires at
least the virtue of patience to listen to such illiberal cant.”
_Augustine (smiling)._—“It seems, Lawrence, that you would have me
acknowledge myself not only a child, but a very naughty child.”
_Aumerle._—“Augustine, this is no subject for trifling. The difference
between our ages long made me regard you rather as a beloved son than a
brother. In some points our relative positions may be reversed. You have
shown yourself to be possessed of talents to which I can lay no claim; I
cheerfully cede to you the palm in all that regards intellectual power.
But in one thing riper years still give me the advantage. Experience is
the natural growth of time; spiritual experience of self-examination and
prayer. I am persuaded that every step of the Christian’s life opens to
him a wider prospect of the evil of his sinful nature. He learns it not
only from the Bible, but by painful remembrance of broken resolutions,
neglected duties, and secret backslidings, even if the Almighty preserve
him from falls visible to others. Spiritual pride, nay, all pride, can be
but the offspring of ignorance, ignorance of the requirements of God’s
law, and of our failure in fulfilling that law,—ignorance of the infinite
holiness of the Creator, and of the infirmity and guilt of the creature!”
Pride started at the words of Aumerle, and fiercely shook his sable wing.
The earnestness and tenderness of the clergyman’s manner might have made
some impression on his brother, but Pride threw himself between them, and
laid an iron grasp on his slave. Oh, how difficult is it to speak rebuke,
without arousing the demon of Pride, and arming his giant strength
against us!
Augustine rose from his seat, and said coldly, “Lawrence, we have had
enough of this, and more than enough. Thanks for your well-meant sermon,
though it savours more of the musty volumes of old divinity, than the
enlightened systems of an age of progress. You and I will never look upon
these matters in the same light; let the subject be dropped henceforth
between us!” And so saying, and taking with him his philosophical book,
Augustine Aumerle quitted the study.
The vicar remained behind, sad, disappointed, almost disheartened. His
words appeared to have had no effect but that of irritating his brother,
and weakening the bond between them. But Aumerle had another resource,
and he failed not to avail himself of it. While Augustine in the
drawing-room was amusing himself and delighting his nieces by a playful
critique upon Tennyson’s poetry (theology he had determined carefully to
avoid entering upon again at the vicarage), Lawrence was upon his knees
in his study, fervently imploring his heavenly Father to open the eyes of
one who appeared to be gifted with all knowledge except that which could
alone make him _wise unto salvation_!
Perhaps the minister’s present failure was to himself a blessing. It was
sent to humble and prove him, to make him feel how powerless he was to
influence a single soul without the aid of God’s Holy Spirit. It made
him more earnest in prayer, more fervent in supplication. How many in a
better world may find that they have reason to thank God, not only for
their successes, but their failures, and see that the blessings which
they had invoked upon others, had been returned a hundred-fold into their
own bosoms!