THE KNOTTED ROPE.
We must return to Dermot Denis, clinging to his rope, and descending
on his perilous way.
Dangerous it was, that he knew; but his bold and buoyant spirit was
full of hope, as soon as by violent effort he had succeeded in
squeezing his body through the window. He clambered down as rapidly
as he could, for the doubt soon forced itself on his mind whether his
arms, whose muscles were unaccustomed to that peculiar kind of
effort, could support the weight of his body for any great length of
time. The knots were in one way a help, affording small projections
for the feet; but they made it impossible for the rope to slip
rapidly through his hands, as cordage through those of a sailor.
Denis intuitively counted them as he passed them; each knot was a
step towards freedom, but their number was appalling. Denis had, he
knew, made two hundred and fifteen knots; his arms ached before he
had passed twenty. He could dimly distinguish the outline of the top
of the fort cutting the blue sky above him; if he attempted to glance
downwards, there was nothing but darkness beneath--he seemed to be
descending into unfathomable space! Down, down, down! Eighty knots
were passed; the tension of the muscles now was agony, but Denis did
not dare to let go. He could hardly even guess how far he was from
the bottom; he was alarmed to see how small a space he seemed to have
placed between himself and the top. The climber feared that he could
not have gone half the distance, and he was as one on the rack!
Desperately the bold Irishman held on his way; ninety-seven,
ninety-eight, ninety-nine, then he felt the knot which he now grasped
not like the rest; it was slipping--giving way--oh horror! the next
moment the unfortunate Denis was dashed to the bottom! With
characteristic carelessness he had not fully tested one knot,--_only
one_,--and that carelessness cost him his life!
Low down amongst the brushwood, where no human foot ever had trodden,
lay the mangled, broken corpse of the unfortunate Denis. No time to
pray, he had said ere he started; he had thrown away his last
opportunity; oh, had he but known that it was his last!
Denis had never deliberately rejected religion; he had, as has been
said, never disgraced himself by indulging in any gross vice.
Selfishness and self-will were his bane, and he had never looked upon
them as sins; he had never thought that they imperilled his soul.
Denis had never paused to consider, as he formed his life-rope of
pleasures and plans, that he was in truth hanging over an abyss, into
which a mere accident might precipitate him for ever!
O reader! pause for a few moments and consider your own state in the
sight of God. My little book may not be in the hands of the openly
wicked and profane, but is it now in the hands of the self-willed and
selfish? Honestly ask a question of your conscience--"Is my eye
watching the fiery cloudy pillar? is the will of my God, and not my
own, _habitually_ directing my movements? Do I do nothing without
seeking direction from on high, and if that direction lead to what
seems a desert, am I ready to follow it without hesitation?" This is
taking up the cross, this is following fully the Lord who _pleased
not Himself_.
What would have been the fate of an Israelite who, when the heavenly
pillar moved on, should have wilfully lingered in some tempting
oasis, under the shade of the date trees? He would have lost the
_manna_, he would have lost the _water_ which, gushing from the
smitten rock, supplied the wants of the host. He might for a-while
have drunk from an earthly well, and enjoyed the shade and the fruit,
but they would not have really satisfied, and must have failed him at
last.
Do not turn lightly away from my warning, do not throw away the book,
or quickly turn over its pages to find something more pleasant; I
would plead with you heart to heart, my brother or sister, in this
still hour in which I am writing in the dim twilight before sunrise.
Look into your own heart and see what occupies the central place
within it. Is it the _Saviour_, or _self_. In your common habits,
your round of daily occupations, is your thought, "This pleases me,"
or "Would it please my holy Lord?" However innocent may be your
amusements, however useful your occupations, however attractive you
may be to those around you, if you form your own course according to
your own will, you are trusting your safety to a rope which must
break, your immortal soul is in peril. Down on your knees, ask for
the eye of Faith to see the guiding Pillar; ask for the foot of
obedience to follow wherever it lead; pray for the spirit of love to
Christ to triumph over self-love; and doubt not that the light before
you will shine forth more and more unto the fulness of joy.