Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: The Persian listened with curiosity, and the Afghan
with some attention; but it was on the old Sikh that the holy words
fell like rain from Heaven.]
PERCIVAL'S
PICTURE GALLERY.
BY
A. L. O. E.
Authoress of "Pearls of Wisdom from the Parables,"
"The Young Pilgrim," "The Shepherd of Bethlehem," &c., &c.
[Illustration]
LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT
(OFFICE OF "The Christian")
12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.
And may be ordered of any Bookseller.
PREFACE.
THIS little volume may, I hope, awaken in some minds thoughts of a
devotional character. Some of the ideas contained in it came to me in a
chamber of sickness, which was at one time expected to be my chamber of
death.
The thoughts were pleasant and soothing to myself. May they, by God's
blessing, be so also to some of my fellow-pilgrims.
A. L. O. E.
Contents.
CHAPTER
I. INTRODUCTORY
II. THE PASSAGE THROUGH THE RED SEA
III. KING DAVID'S VISION
IV. THE CARPENTER'S DEATH
V. HOMELESS
VI. LEGEND OF THE SELF-MADE GRAVE
VII. THE THREE "BIHISTIS"
VIII. LEGEND OF THE SHEKEL
IX. THE NIGHT AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION
X. THE LEGEND OF THE ROMAN SOLDIER
XI. ASLEEP!
PERCIVAL'S
PICTURE GALLERY.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
Introductory.
"NO, Sir, no; the doctor gives no hope that the poor young gentleman
will ever walk again; and as for life, the doctor says that it may be a
matter of months, or perhaps of years. But Mr. Percival is going down
to the grave sure and certain; and he knows that himself."
Such was the sad reply given by his landlady, to my enquiries regarding
my old schoolfellow, when I called at his lodging in London. I had been
absent on the Continent for six weeks in the long vacation. A painful
malady in his knee had prevented Percival's being, as we had both
hoped, my travelling companion; and it was no small disappointment to
us both when he had to be left behind.
How we had looked forward to a visit to Italy, to luxuriate amongst the
treasures of art; which Percival's cultivated taste and knowledge of
painting, would enable him so thoroughly to appreciate! I had however
felt no serious anxiety regarding my friend; his letters had been
cheerful, and contained little allusion to the state of his health. It
was therefore with a shock of surprise that I heard that Percival was
now a hopeless invalid, unable to rise from the couch on which he had
suffered so long.
I held no long parley with the landlady, but hurried up the long narrow
staircase to the attic-room, in which Percival expected to pass the
remainder of his days under constant medical care. A lonely life his
must be, for he had lost every near relative in the world; and, at
the season when London is comparatively empty, few acquaintances were
likely to find their way to a dull lodging in the neighbourhood of
Russell Square.
Slender means; solitude and sickness; confinement to one small room,
when others were enjoying fresh breezes on the ocean or the heathery
moor—what a combination of trials for one still in the flower of his
youth! I had known Percival as the cleverest, handsomest boy in our
school; the hero of the cricket-ground; the first in the race; the
winner of numerous prizes: I could hardly realize the possibility of
such a deep shadow falling on a life so bright.
From early childhood, Percival had had a remarkable talent for drawing,
which had occasionally led him into trouble. Before the boy's small
fingers could write one word, they had begun to use a pencil; and
quaint grotesque figures were scrawled on the nursery door.
At school Percival fell into many a scrape from scribbling faces over
the margins of books—not always his own; and from making curious
illustrations in dictionaries and grammars. We saw our own likenesses,
unmistakable ones, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed walls. Every
Panel of the door served as a canvas: and the young artist was
sometimes rewarded for his skill by long impositions of Latin verses,
which he learned with the book in one hand and the pencil in the other.
On reaching the landing-place, I did not stop to knock at the door
before me; but at once entered the attic-room where Percival lay on his
couch, an easel beside him, and a palette bedaubed with many colours,
a box of oil-paints, and brushes, on a small table placed within easy
reach of his arm. Unframed paintings hanging on the dingy wall somewhat
relieved the dull effect of scanty third-rate furniture, and of an old
carpet with the pattern well-nigh worn-out of it, which looked as if it
had never been new.
Percival's pale face flushed with sudden pleasure as he caught sight of
mine. He dropped the brush with which he had been painting, and holding
out his thin hand, grasped mine with the joyous exclamation, "Seyton,
old boy! who thought of seeing you here!"
Then he added, smiling, "Take a chair—no, not that with the broken
back—sit down, and tell me about your travels. I want to see all that
you have seen, hear all that you have heard, and enjoy a trip to Italy
by proxy."
I seated myself by my suffering friend, and did what I could to divert
his mind from his affliction, by describing whatever I thought most
likely to interest him. Percival showed keen pleasure in hearing
about the works of art which I had seen in foreign galleries: of the
principal ones he had already gathered a fair knowledge from books.
When I paused at last, Percival remarked, "Will you think me a Goth
or a Vandal, Seyton, if I own to you that there seems to me a good
deal of sameness in these subjects chosen by Italian artists: so many
'Madonnas' clad as Mary of Nazareth never was dressed; so many 'Saints'
with haloes round their heads; so many 'Holy Families' and pictures of
the 'Last Supper,' where none of the accessories convey to the mind a
true idea of the actual scene. If I were an artist—"
"You are one," I interrupted; "if artists, like poets, are born—not
made. With a little study of the Old Masters you would, I am certain,
have made your mark amongst English painters."
"I doubt whether I should ever have earned butter to my bread,"
observed Percival. "I am too fond of striking out a line of my own. But
I do intensely love the art; and am heartily glad that I have lost the
use of my knee instead of that of my hand."
"I see that you paint still," said I, glancing at the palette. "Have
you no difficulty in procuring models?"
"You think that my good old landlady, Mrs. Bond, in her black lace cap
and false front, would hardly serve as one," laughed Percival. "She is
the only specimen of the fair sex that I ever see; except, indeed, the
red-haired maid of all work, who is only remarkable for the number of
cups and glasses which she breaks. I have to do without models, Seyton;
or rather to content myself with the forms which I see in my dreams."
"In your dreams?" I repeated enquiringly.
"I mean waking dreams," said my friend. "I often cannot get rest at
night; or at least, till—
"'Yon dull steeple's drowsy chime—'
"has struck one or more of the small hours. So, making a virtue of
necessity, I lie still, and amuse myself with my thoughts."
"I am so grieved—" I began; but Percival cut me short.
"Grieve not for me, dear friend. Some of the happiest moments which I
have ever spent, have been in those still night hours. I have sometimes
felt as if admitted to a private interview with the King. He giveth
'songs in the night.' I have thrown that idea into the form of rhyme.
Would you care to hear the lines? They are of no value but as the
transcript of the experience of a sick man."
On my expressing a wish to hear the little poem, Percival repeated it
with a good deal of feeling; warming into joyousness as he recited the
concluding verse.
Song in the Night.
O thou, on thy sick-bed kept watchful and waking
By pain, all the weary night through!
It seems as if God were His servant forsaking,
His servant—so trustful and true.
Oh no! For He giveth me songs in the darkness
That never were heard in the day:
"Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,
The land that is far, far away."
Poor sufferer! The noises of earth must oppress thee,
That rise through the sullen night air;
The sound of the world's mirth must surely distress thee,
That mirth which thou never may'st share.
Oh no! For an angel is sitting beside me,
And warbling so low—yet so clear,
"Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty:"
And this is the song which I hear.
The Angel's Song.
"I come down to cheer thee, O happy immortal!
From sin's condemnation set free;
Whilst yet thou art ling'ring beside the high portal,
Whose door soon will open for thee.
"I bring thee a promise, the sweetest—the surest—
'Tis sent by the God who is Love,
'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,'
When thou art with angels above.
"I saw Him when in His own world, as a stranger,
Appeared the Omnipotent Lord;
I hovered in ecstasy over His manger
With worshipping shepherds adored:
I the first faint infant cry from the Monarch
Whose voice bade the universe be;
Mine eyes then beheld the King in His weakness,
I saw Him, and marvelled to see.
"I saw Him in manhood, despised and neglected,
A mourner, 'acquainted with grief,'
I longed—how I longed!—that when mortals rejected
The angels might bring Him relief!
I heard the fierce blasphemies scornfully uttered
By Scribe and by proud Pharisee;
Mine eyes then beheld the King in His trials,
I saw—much perplexed to see.
"I saw—but the tongue of a seraph must falter
Such myst'ry of love to declare!—
I saw upon Calvary raised the high Altar,
A Cross—and the Victim was there!
There was silence in Heaven—strange wonder in Heaven—
All gazing on that awful tree;
Mine eyes then beheld the King in His anguish,
I saw Him—and trembled to see!
"And thou too shalt see Him—such bliss is before thee—
But not in His weakness and pain;
When girded with power, and mantled in glory
The Victim returneth—to reign:
Shalt see Him, no stranger, but One whom thou lovest,
Thy Saviour, Redeemer, and Friend;
'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,'
Through ages that never shall end!"
[Illustration]