A spirit near me said, “Look forth upon the Land of Life. What do you
see?”
“Steep mountains, covered by a mighty plain, a table-land of
many-coloured beauty. Beauty, nay, it seems all beautiful at first, but
now I see that there are some parts barren.”
“Are they quite barren?—look more closely still!”
“No, in the wildest deserts, now, I see some gum-dropping acacias, and
the crimson blossom of the cactus. But there are regions that rejoice
abundantly in flower and fruit; and now, O Spirit, I see men and women
moving to and fro.”
“Observe them, mortal.”
“I behold a world of love; the men have women’s arms entwined about
them; some upon the verge of precipices—friends are running to the
rescue. There are many wandering like strangers, who know not their
road, and they look upward. Spirit, how many, many eyes are looking up
as if to God! Ah, now I see some strike their neighbours down into the
dust; I see some wallowing like swine; I see that there are men and
women brutal.”
“Are they quite brutal?—look more closely still.”
“No, I see prickly sorrow growing out of crime, and penitence awakened
by a look of love. I see good gifts bestowed out of the hand of murder,
and see truth issue out of lying lips. But in this plain, O Spirit, I
see regions—wide, bright regions,—yielding fruit and flower, while
others seem perpetually veiled with fogs, and in them no fruit ripens. I
see pleasant regions where the rock is full of clefts, and people fall
into them. The men who dwell beneath the fog deal lovingly, and yet they
have small enjoyment in the world around them, which they scarcely see.
But whither are these women going?”
“Follow them.”
“I have followed down the mountains to a haven in the vale below. All
that is lovely in the world of flowers makes a fragrant bed for the dear
children; birds singing, they breathe upon the pleasant air; the
butterflies play with them. Their limbs shine white among the blossoms,
and their mothers come down full of joy to share their innocent delight.
They pelt each other with the lilies of the valley. They call up at will
fantastic masques, grim giants play to make them merry, a thousand
grotesque loving phantoms kiss them; to each the mother is the one thing
real, the highest bliss—the next bliss is the dream of all the world
beside. Some that are motherless, all mother’s love. Every gesture,
every look, every odour, every song, adds to the charm of love which
fills the valley. Some little figures fall and die, and on the valley’s
soil they crumble into violets and lilies, with love-tears to hang in
them like dew.
“Who dares to come down with a frown into this happy valley? A severe
man seizes an unhappy, shrieking child, and leads it to the roughest
ascent of the mountain. He will lead it over steep rocks to the plain of
the mature. On ugly needle-points he makes the child sit down, and
teaches it its duty in the world above.”
“Its duty, mortal! do you listen to the teacher?”
“Spirit, I hear now. The child is informed about two languages spoken by
nations extinct centuries ago, and something also, O Spirit, about the
base of a hypothenuse.”
“Does the child attend?”
“Not much; but it is beaten sorely, and its knees are bruised against
the rocks, till it is hauled up, woe-begone and weary, to the upper
plain. It looks about bewildered; all is strange,—it knows not how to
act. Fogs crown the barren mountain paths. Spirit, I am unhappy; there
are many children thus hauled up, and as young men upon the plain; they
walk in fog, or among brambles; some fall into pits; and many, getting
into flower-paths, lie down and learn. Some become active, seeking
right, but ignorant of what right is; they wander among men out of their
fog-land, preaching folly. Let me go back among the children.”
“Have they no better guide?”
“Yes, now there comes one with a smiling face, and rolls upon the
flowers with the little ones, and they are drawn to him. And he has
magic spells to conjure up glorious spectacles of fairy land. He frolics
with them and might be first cousin to the butterflies. He wreathes
their little heads with flower garlands, and with his fairy land upon
his lips he walks toward the mountains; eagerly they follow. He seeks
the smoothest upward path, and that is but a rough one, yet they run up
merrily, guide and children, butterflies pursuing still the flowers as
they nod over a host of laughing faces. They talk of the delightful
fairy world, and resting in the shady places learn of the yet more
delightful world of God. They learn to love the Maker of the Flowers, to
know how great the Father of the Stars must be, how good must be the
Father of the Beetle. They listen to the story of the race they go to
labour with upon the plain, and love it for the labour it has done. They
learn old languages of men, to understand the past—more eagerly they
learn the voices of the men of their own day, that they may take part
with the present. And in their study when they flag, they fall back upon
thoughts of the Child Valley they are leaving. Sports and fancies are
the rod and spur that bring them with new vigour to the lessons. When
they reach the plain they cry, ‘We know you, men and women; we know to
what you have aspired for centuries; we know the love there is in you;
we know the love there is in God; we come prepared to labour with you,
dear, good friends. We will not call you clumsy when we see you tumble,
we will try to pick you up; when we fall, you shall pick us up. We have
been trained to love, and therefore we can aid you heartily, for love is
labour!’”
The Spirit whispered, “You have seen and you have heard. Go now, and
speak unto your fellow-men: ask justice for the child.”
To-day should love To-morrow, for it is a thing of hope; let the young
Future not be nursed by Care. God gave not fancy to the child that men
should stamp its blossoms down into the loose soil of intellect. The
child’s heart was not made full to the brim of love, that men should
pour its love away, and bruise instead of kiss the trusting innocent.
Love and fancy are the stems on which we may graft knowledge readily.
What is called by some dry folks a solid foundation may be a thing not
desirable. To cut down all the trees and root up all the flowers in a
garden, to cover walks and flower-beds alike with a hard crust of
well-rolled gravel, that would be to lay down your solid foundation
after a plan which some think good in a child’s mind, though not quite
worth adopting in a garden. O, teacher, love the child and learn of it;
so let it love and learn of you.