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Mountains! I scarcely feel myself competent to fulfil the promise
of this title, for I was never upon one in my life! Never had I the
advantage of contemplating the mighty eminences of America; I have
not even had the experience of standing beneath and toiling up to the
summit of the white-haired Alps; nay, even the grand hills of Scotland,
or the classic watchers beside the English lakes, have never been
visited by me. Still imagination will often supplement the deficiencies
of experience, and it is a good thing, I am convinced, for us all, so
far as we can, to leave sometimes the plain of our daily routine of
life, and to muse upon at least relatively higher ground.
I will begin by recalling my nearest approach to any experience of
mountain ascent.
I was staying in Herefordshire with my brother, in his parish among
the hills and woods. When a friend is with us, we seem to think it
a necessity, both for his sake and our own, to rove somewhat, and
to explore some of the more distant country. Accordingly we fell to
planning expeditions, and after divers suggestions, contemplations, and
rejections, fixed upon a small village beside a lovely stream renowned
for its trout and grayling, and near a hill famous in those parts, and
named Croft Ambrey. We were to sleep two nights at a small inn near
the stream, and from that stream we were to extract our breakfast.
There is always a great charm about these expeditions--a novelty, an
independence, a breaking through the trammels of life’s daily routine,
in their enterprising pic-nic character. And so my brother, his wife
and I, started on the appointed morning, in high glee. We were, I
remember, however, employed half the day in the vain endeavour to catch
the white pony; and were at one time almost in despair of our getting
off at all. The little rogue had been put up to some sly tricks by
a horse with whom he had been observed to have been conferring over
the fence for some days previously, and I remember the almost comic
provocation with which he let us sidle up to him, with blandishments
and barley, until just within range for the halter, and then, at the
very moment of attainment, was off, and anon standing demure and meek
at the other end of the field. Nor did we fare better if we altered our
tactics, and, like wolves over the northern snows, tried to hem in our
prey in a deadly half-circle. He ever contrived to give us the slip,
and it was not until we were wearied out, and on the point of giving
up our expedition for that day, that he surrendered at discretion.
We started, nevertheless, wound up again as to our spirits for the
excursion, and thoroughly enjoying a twenty-miles drive through lovely
scenery. It was so late, however, when we arrived near Croft Ambrey,
that we had but time that afternoon for a walk towards it, and up a
lesser hill, and so back to our quiet little inn, close to the Lugg.
How one enjoys the meals on these occasions! That broiled ham and
eggs, and home-brewed beer, in the little sanded room; what venison
and champagne refection could for a moment compare with them? It is
the charm of novelty, I suppose, in scene and room and everything. Of
course, it is easy to understand the zest that attends a dish of trout
and grayling of your own catching.
But to return to Croft Ambrey. Next day we were prevented by other
engagements from fulfilling that with our hill. And, since we were
to start quite early on the morrow, the chance of my ascending it
seemed over when I retired to my homely but clean little bedroom at
night. However, I had not quite given the thing up. It was in my mind,
could I but contrive to wake at five in the morning, to sally forth,
while great part of the world was asleep, and explore the peaks,
passes, and glaciers of that noble hill. I am not good at waking,
unless called. But--and this seems an illustration of how the mind
controls the body--it is certain that if you go to sleep with a strong
desire or sense of duty concerning the waking at a certain hour,
you not unfrequently, after a careful fumbling under the pillow,
find your watch demonstrating pretty nearly the time that your mind
had appointed. This may be a mere coincidence, but it is one whose
recurrence I have often marked. At any rate, I know that next morning
I awoke, with a sudden instinct consulted my privy counsellor, and was
by it informed that five o’clock was yet a few minutes distant. And so
I arose, and drew the blind, and looked out upon the still world, in
the sharp cool morning air. The light seemed clear and cold, and there
was an incessant twitter and loud chirping dialogue of many awakened
birds. A thin mist was withdrawing from the fields, and yet lay upon
the course of the river. I hastened my dressing, and quietly slid down
stairs. How well most of us know the weird strangeness of the house
at the early morning hour, when all in it are still asleep, but day
is peering in through closed shutters, and above locked doors! The
darkling light; the breathing hush; the dog curled on the mat, rising
uneasily, and surveying matters suspiciously, but, reassured, settling
himself down again with a preliminary shake, when
“His sagacious eye an inmate owns”;
the sullen disturbing sound at the street door, of bolts and locks,
and bars, that would have seemed noiseless enough by day. And then the
clear sharp feeling of the air, when you step into the road; the silent
unpeopled worship of nature at its matins’ hour; the shadows, long as
those of evening, and more grey and pearly, along the white empty road.
And, enhancing the stillness, perhaps one lonely traveller met, seeming
the world’s only inhabitant; and, as you walk farther on into the day,
presently
“The carter, and his arch-necked, sturdy team,
Following their shadows on the early road.”
Thus, then, I sallied forth, and to my mind the details of that
morning walk are even more distinct than when I trod it. The pause
of consideration as to the turning to be taken; the selection, as it
happened, of just the right gate; the belt of pines half-way up the
hill, that from below seemed so near the highest point, but attained,
showed a great height still to be surmounted--much like all striving
upwards here after any excellence, especially after holiness; the
pleasure when at last the summit was attained; the little incidents
connected with that attainment; the frail harebell plucked, and pressed
even now in my pocket-book; the curious war that I found and left going
on between a hawk and a rook; each striving to get above the other,
each making and each avoiding the hostile swoop; all these slight
matters are the details which make that day’s whole still a distinct
sharp picture to my mind.
And very full of matter for musing appears to me now that morning
expedition. I forget how many counties of England and Wales lay
outspread before me; some six or seven, I think. Certainly a mist
brooded over them, and I did not see them clearly; but yet there
they were, and I know not but that the half-appearance may have more
impressed (imagination being called in to complete the scene) than a
clear panorama would have done. The world’s ordinary sights and sounds
lay far beneath me; the narrow scope of the ordinary view was widened;
for fields, I surveyed counties in my landscape, and for hedges, lines
of distant hills. All things were wider and larger, and I breathed a
more expansive, freer air; and I seemed, I think, a little raised above
life’s pettinesses, by the quiet and the breadth of view of that early
morning ascent.
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* * * * *
Ah, friends,--and brothers in both the meannesses and the great
expectations of this strange finite, infinite existence,--how we need,
how we need, these periodical ascents into Higher ground! How large
life is; and yet, how little! How we fret and fume about fields and
hedges--merest trifles, when counties and hills--nay, continents and
seas--nay, worlds or systems, and space, might lie under the ken of our
perception and contemplation, which, indeed, has no bounds, forward,
through eternal time, and infinite space! How, in the littleness of
things, are we apt to swamp the largeness which they might present to
our thought! How life’s pettinesses overmaster the mighty tremendous
prospect that God has set before us, looming indeed through a veil
of mist, far below our feet! Oh, how grand, how stupendous, how
magnificent, might this our life, rightly thought of, become! Money,
love, fame, power; it is, while we stand on the mountain, the tinkle
of a sheep-bell far below us in the valley; it is the pigmy form, it
is the muffled cry of those things which seemed to us large and of
full growth, when we met them down far below in the bustle and busy
intercourse of life. I think of Martha, with the ordering of a meal
the great matter in her eyes; Mary, indeed at the Saviour’s feet,
but thus seated, placed, in good truth, upon a mountain, from whose
wide range of view all merely of this world seemed petty, worthless,
mean. Oh, for a mountain view of life! Oh, for an angel’s view! Then
money, power, talents, influence, all would be noble, as offerings to
Christ; contemptible in any other aspect. How I crave to take always
that standing-point; to survey life--so far as such as I am can--from
God’s point of sight; to look at time as, after all, only a tooth in
the great cog-wheel of Eternity, as something very small, that fits
into something very large! The littleness of life; its scandals, its
jealousies, its irritations, its safe voyages or its wrecks, its gains
or losses of a fast-flying hour; its loves and hopes, its hates and
despairs, its ecstasies and anguishes; these are the fields and hedges
that are perceived no longer, when we have ascended above this brief
and transient state of things, and look down upon counties, continents,
worlds.
How I mourn over life’s pettinesses! How I grieve, in my better
mountain hours, to find myself always easily moved and disturbed,
either to enjoyment or vexation, by the merest and most absolute
trifles! How bitter it is to me, next time I get the wider view, to
perceive how easily, and naturally, and contemptibly, I descended,
after the last ascent, down among the thronging, chafing, soul-lowering
interests and phantasies of this lower world, this span-long life
again! Ah, spark of the Infinite, that finite things can so absorb
thee! Ah, heir of Eternity, that time’s dancing motes can affect thee
so much! Ah, member of Christ, child of God and inheritor of the
Kingdom of Heaven, that it can much concern thee in what station of
life, in what external condition, it may please Him that thou shouldst
serve Him, here, and now, in this minute of space and time!
* * * * *
In life’s morning we may all, I think, be said to stand on the
mountain, and, although it be a morning view, made illusive by mist
and early sunshine, obtain the widest, least petty, view. More wide,
more noble, more expansive--all these the scope of youth’s sight must
be conceded to be. There is not the suspicion, the narrow thought, the
selfishness, the intent consideration of the present interest; there
is a broader, more generous way of contemplating life than we shall
find later in its course. Doubtless there is the greater proneness
to be deceived. The eye is not yet trained to calculate distances;
arduous undertakings are misjudged; easy attainments are regarded
with admiration and awe; there are many mistakes, much proof of want
of experience. But as life goes on, and as men descend to gain this
knowledge and correctness of estimation, often the wider view narrows,
the freer air is left behind, and the eye that roamed over and took in
that nobler scope becomes shut in by surrounding trees and hedges into
the range of but one small field. Could we, as a few have done, not
barter youth’s aspirations and superb ideas for manhood’s experience
and practical mind, but add the riches of manhood to the riches of
youth, how much greater a thing we might make this life of ours to be!
For certainly in youth we do stand upon an eminence, and look round
upon counties and hills, and gradually, as manhood gains upon us, are
apt to descend towards mere gardens, fields, and fences.
And so the evil to be guarded against--or to be deplored--will be
the declension of the mind and heart from this wider, more open and
generous view, a loss inward, not outward. Mixing, as we soon must,
among life’s pettinesses, how many of us forget the mountain upon which
we once stood, nor care to ascend it still from time to time, but are
content to sink into hardness, coldness of heart, narrow-mindedness,
selfishness, a cynical, unsympathetic temper, a habit of low suspicion,
a littleness of caution, a close hand, an absorbed heart. So that we
should try, from time to time, to draw apart from the highways and
byways and crowded walks of life’s daily cares and concerns, and to
ascend a point which overlooks them and brings them more into their
just proportion with that wider view which diminishes if it does not
absorb them.
In reading some of the highest poetry I have found this ascent gained.
It carries you up into the ideal, from life’s mean realities and
commonplaces; there is an atmosphere of honour and love and generosity;
men think and act grandly, and money-getting is not the mainspring of
all. And this is one profit of high and wholesome poetry, that it does
water and keep alive those nobler greater ideas and yearnings that the
dust of the world’s traffic might otherwise choke. For the heart’s true
poetic sense (I do not mean mere sentimentality) is no doubt one of the
links nearest to God in the chain which connects us with Him.
How much of the sublimest poetry we find, in truth, in the Bible. And
here I would point out especially how we may indeed breathe a mountain
air--indeed obtain a mountain view, namely, in the sacredly-kept
times of morning devotional reading. In a trouble, whether a small
worry or a crushing anguish, how sweet, when the time has come round
for the reading and meditation on the things of Eternity and of God.
How, as we go on with our upward winding path, the fret or the agony
insensibly takes its place in the wider landscape, and diminishes by
an imperceptible process from the exaggerated size it presented to
us when we stood beside it on the plain. Other greater objects open
upon our view, and attract our attention; the far scenery of God’s
mighty workings widens out before us, and the vast Ocean of Eternity
stretching round and embracing the little island of Time; and we
seem to feel a cool air fanning our hot tear-tired eyes, and we breathe
more freely, and our heart, despite of itself, loses somewhat of its
weary load. The world is left below; even the clouds sleep under our
feet; and heaven is nearer, not only for that hour, but during the rest
of the day.
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And how naturally may this thought of mountain-quiet and distance from
earth’s noises lead us to the consideration of that most exquisite and
precious communion with God which we know by the name of Prayer. In
associating the time of prayer with the idea of mountain seclusion,
two pictures rise at once before the mind, because in them actually a
mountain was the scene, and not only the type, of earnest and retired
prayer. We see first the top of Carmel, bare and burnt under the sun of
Palestine, and overlooking the intensely blue sea. Upon it the solitary
prophet Elijah bends to the ground, prostrate on the earth, with his
face between his knees. A watching form stands on a point towards the
sea, until, at last, far away over the water, in the sultry horizon,
a little dark speck, like a man’s hand, arises, and, on rapid wing,
the delicious cool clouds gather and spread their awning between the
burnt earth and the pitiless sun. Then the glorious sudden rush of the
restoring rain, steady, incessant, abundant, settling in pools on the
caked ground, streaming down the sides of the orange hills, sending
eddying torrents to brim the parched cracked river-beds. Thus impetuous
and profuse came the answer to the prophet’s lonely mountain prayer.
And another dearer picture we never weary of contemplating; another
account of One who, after the day’s toil of healing, of teaching, of
feeding the multitudes, sends the thronging crowd away, dismisses even
His disciples in a ship across the lake, and then, when
“The feast is o’er, the guests are gone,
And over all that upland lone,
The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old,”
retires up into a mountain apart to pray, and continues all night in
prayer to God. What a lesson! The crush and press dismissed; even the
closest and most intimate companions avoided, and a quiet time secured
for we know not what prayers to the co-equal Father.
Ah, that we more entirely followed His example: how, if our prayers
had more leisure secured for them, were more strictly protected from
intrusion and disturbance, more lonely--how they would aid us to
breathe the air of the mountain, to keep ever before us its wider
view, even when we had descended to mix again with life’s thronging
necessities in the plain. Even in our room, when the door is closed
upon us (for I am speaking here of private prayer, not of public
worship),--even thus, we are not necessarily upon the mountain,
speaking through the stars to God. The larger crowd may have been
satisfied and dismissed, but we have taken with us into our retirement
some few that were more intimate and close to our heart, and we have
not been careful enough to be _alone_. The preparation of dismissing
the multitude, and even the disciples, then the ascent of the mountain,
by the winding path of meditation, and then the unrestricted view, the
sky nearest, indeed touching us, and earth spread out far below, and
the soul left to calm, leisure, unharassed communion with God; all
these are necessary; all these we learn from the example of that mild
yet awful Being who is God manifest in the flesh. Let us arm ourselves
with the same mind.
But my thoughts, returning to that morning walk which introduced
this essay, remind me that there is one suggestive point in it which
deserves a little attention. It is _the time of day_ at which the
ascent was made. Early prayer, while the world’s cares are asleep, and
the road lies hushed and still, not thronged with jostling passengers,
nor stunned with noisy vehicles--this is that, which of all our private
devotions, most aids in consecrating life to God. Descending from
that early hour of high communion, to take our part in the awakening
toil and interest of earth, it is then easier to give their proper
proportion to the events and employments of the day. Be it a joy or a
sorrow, be it a loss or a gain, it takes its just place in the grand
scheme of things, and does not monopolise the heart, nor obscure the
vision; far less will the mere straws in the path, or the butterflies
that dance by, catch and retain the absorbed regard of the heirs of
immortality. The trifling irritations, the mean jealousies, the little
rankling grudges, the petty quarrels, also the transitory enjoyments
and short-lived profits, of each day’s life, will not greatly, nor for
long, move the heart that retains its memory of that far-stretching
Morning view. And it will be less difficult to rescue life from its
proneness to become ignoble, and to free ourselves from the narrowing,
stunting, dwarfing process which it often is, but which it was never
intended to be. Yet, but for these mountain-pauses, but for these
retirements from the over-familiarity and intrusiveness of trifles, how
shall we avoid the danger of habitually, and soon, entirely bounding
our view and mode of thought by the hedges which shut in our eyes and
hearts, down in the valley of our ordinary employments?
And how much the saints of God have valued this early hour of prayer!
It has been called the Dew which the later hours have irretrievably
dried up; the Manna which has vanished when the sun has gained
strength. And there is no doubt in my mind that the quality of the
spiritual life greatly depends upon the jealous guarding of this
priceless hour, which so easily and quickly escapes us. At that hour
Jordan stands in a heap, and leaves us a clear passage heavenward, but
the rapid stream of cares, businesses, anxieties, worries, returns to
its strength as the morning appeareth, and if we would cross at all,
it must be during a distracting and wearisome buffeting with those
crowding waters.
Let me say here how valuable appear to me to be the retreats that are
being established in many parts of England. Who does not know how the
routine of little cares, and small wearing anxieties, and petty, yet
necessary employments, are apt to eat out the spirituality from even
the clergyman’s life, especially if he be placed in a sphere which
presents labour after which he is ever toiling, but which he can never
overtake? They seem to me, at least, formed upon the very model of our
Lord’s custom, and at once to commend themselves to any unprejudiced
mind, or even any prejudiced mind that has preserved the power of calm
and fair thought. I will let Cowper continue and conclude this train of
musing for me:
“Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce
A superstitious and monastic course;
Truth is not local, God alike pervades
And fills the world of traffic and the shades,
And may be feared amid the busiest scenes,
Or scorned where business never intervenes.
But ’tis not easy, with a mind like ours,
Conscious of weakness in its noblest powers,
And in a world, where, other ills apart,
The roving eye misleads the careless heart,
To limit thought, by nature prone to stray
Wherever freakish fancy points the way;
To bid the pleadings of self-love be still,
Resign our own, and seek our Teacher’s will;
To spread the page of Scripture, and compare
Our conduct with the laws engraven there;
To measure all that passes in the breast,
Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;
To dive into the secret deeps within,
To spare no passion and no favourite sin,
And search the themes, important above all,
Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall,
--But leisure, silence, and a mind released
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased;
How to secure, in some propitious hour,
The point of interest, or the post of power;
A soul serene, and equally retired
From objects too much dreaded or desired,
Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute,--
At least are friendly to the great pursuit.”
To complete the ideal of a mountain, at least in a picture, it seems
necessary to see a lake lying at its foot. I have such a picture in my
mind’s eye, besides that of Scott’s,
“--On yonder liquid lawn,
In hues of bright reflection drawn,
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky.”
[Illustration: “In hues of bright reflection drawn, distinct the shaggy
mountains lie.”]
And a beautiful lesson seems by their association suggested to my mind.
For thus ought the mirror of our daily life, which lies at their foot,
clearly and constantly to reflect the calm and the beauty and the
elevation of those mountain-hours. Beware of influences, sudden winds
and treacherous currents, which, ruffling and wrinkling the lake, shall
mar and blur the image of those high moments, and of the heaven yet far
above the mountains.
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