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The Summer is past, the Autumn is passing quite away, the Harvest is
long ended, the fruit all garnered. And the year seems as desolate as
Solomon in his sad time, having been clad in more than all his glory.
It has gathered gardens, and orchards, and pools, and singers, and
delights; and whatsoever its eyes desired it kept not from them, nor
withheld its heart from any joy or beauty; and it rejoiced in all its
labour. But now what a change! You may fancy that it has looked on all
the works that it had wrought, and on the labour that it had laboured
to do,--and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there
was no profit under the sun! And so it hastens to cast away all its
gathered store and cherished delights, and stands naked, desolate,
bankrupt, under the cold searching gaze of the clear bright stars. Ah!
“Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime,--
The many, many leaves all twinkling? Three
On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime,
Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree!”
Nature is always beautiful to those who always look for beauty in her.
But perhaps she is _least_ lovely when clad in a close thick fog. And
it is thus that we have seen her continually of late. The wet black
trees stood dim and ghostlike in the mist, and much like seaweed under
tissue-paper. The hedges looked unreal and distant, as you passed
between them on the pale road. Passengers and carriages loomed blurred
and big and indistinct, out of the chill cloud in front of you, long
after the wheels and the steps had been heard. Dull unglittering dew
strung the branches that stretched over you, and gave a blunt light
here and there in the hedge. You were isolated from your kind; scarce
could you see one approaching until he was close upon you; and then,
a few steps, and he was straightway swallowed up. It was not a fading
morning mist; but a good November fog, one developing from cold blue to
grey, and thence to yellow, and so on to tawny dun. Homeward-bound, you
emerge from it into the railway-station. The train is late; the fire is
pleasant; and you muse or doze away half-an-hour by the waiting-room
fire. Presently a red spot dyes part of the mist; a behemoth mass
is perceivable beside the platform; you get into a carriage, the
whistle shrills, the train moves, and the station lights are gone in a
minute,--and you also are swallowed up in the fog.
And as you pass, up the garden, home,--the chance is that you hurry
on, where you would have paused to admire beauty. In the cold fog,
the asparagus, hung with leaden mist-drops that chilly gleam here and
there, bends and falls about its mounded bed; a black, wet, sere leaf
or two clings to the ragged black sticks against that wall; the acacias
drop pattering drops upon the broad fallen sycamore leaves: you might
as well walk through water, as cross that lawn for a short cut to the
warm mellow room, at whose window, which opens to the ground, stands
she who chiefly makes that house, home. You are not sorry to shut the
windows, and to have the curtains drawn, and to let the earth stand
without, like a shrouded ghost, clad in winding-sheet of fog, while
you enjoy the genial blaze, the cosy meal, the little ones on your lap
after dinner, the gentle wifely smile that loves to see these loved.
Well, I contend that there is beauty even in the fog; but I will not
stop to prove this now. I will only say that there is less beauty in
this than in most other aspects of nature, and much excuse for the
connecting the foggy bare time of year with chill and dreary thoughts.
Then, growth of flower and fruit seems suspended, save for a scarlet
splash on the hedge here and there; and dead-fingered fungi crowd in
bunches above the graves of the flowers, and at the roots of the trees.
The fields are bare, with no coming crops; only swart and
self-satisfied pigs roam in herds over them: the grass has stopped
growing; there is neither blossom nor fruit, nor leaves upon the trees;
the birds’ nests are empty and sodden; hope and fulfilment seem alike
departed, and death seems to reign in solitary gloom over the pale and
shrouded land. Is not all this sad beyond tears?
No; we are sure that this is not sad in the year, really; for that
memory and hope are alike supporting the year’s aged steps, as it
totters into December. The hope is to be found in every twig, as well
as in the broad brown lands that are beginning to be ruled in music
lines of thin emerald. The memory suggests by analogy, and in a sweet
figure, those words that have comforted many a mourner,--
“I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are
the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the
Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works
do follow them.”
It is not sad, really, to see the year in its bareness and barrenness;
lonely winds searching over the cornless uplands, and sighing amid the
stripped boughs; dull fogs brooding over the damp fields, and shrouding
the universal desolation and decay. No; because the fruits _have been_,
and are garnered in. It is not that the year’s work has been left,
until too late, to do. It is only that _it is done_. It is not sad,
really; for when we walk through the dull bare fields, that once moved
with millions of stalks and one whisper, we think of the heaped, massed
grain, or of the crumbling white flour, or of the tawny square loaves.
Or, if we miss the dancing grass and the bobbing clover, we look at the
goodly camps of close-stacked hay, under the peaked roofs of straw. And
walking through the garden or the orchard, if for a moment we are
chilled by the bare look of the pitiful cold boughs, black, and ragged,
and starred with tears, our thought flies from these to the bright,
smooth red or white cherries, and the dark blue-bloomed damsons, and
the ruddy plums, and the yellow pears, and the grey greengages, and
the dead-orange apricots, and the smooth nectarines, and the soft,
crimson-hearted peaches,--all of which were, in their turn, yielded
faithfully by those desolate branches. Ay, and we think with double
satisfaction of a store yet left; of the cosy apples and freckled
pears, sorted, wiped, and laid by in rows--brown-yellow nonpareils,
streaked ribstones, mellow Blenheim oranges, and russets, betraying
a gleam of gold just where the brown has rubbed. We may, perhaps,
think--but this is a pleasing thought,--how different all would be with
the year, were all this otherwise, and had the Spring, and Summer, and
Autumn been squandered in merely making wreaths of dying flowers, that
perished at the chill breath of the fogs and frosts.
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Thus, then, our sober thought concludes. But still, to our fancy the
year seems desolate, forlorn, and sad; the fog is a chill and heavy
depression; the rain sobs out its heart in tears; the wind--
“Like a broken worldling wails,
And the flying gold of the ruined woodland drives through the air.”
In poetry, and even in prose, we do not most readily think of the
year, between November and Christmas, as asleep after work done, but
as stagnant, and brooding in despair over a wasted life and lost
opportunities, and hopes withered and gone by. Why does this aspect
arise most naturally to our mind? for no such thought would trouble
that of a contemplating angel.
Well, the truth is, that _we_ look through coloured glass, tinting with
a hue of sadness to the mind’s eye things not really sad. We see the
leaves circle down, and straightway are reminded that--
“We all do fade as a leaf.”
We see the mists gather and the rain descend, and no one but can
recall heavy mists of sorrow that rose over the heart’s landscape,
and glooming clouds that burst in bitter tears. And the wind gets its
wail as it passes through our heart, and not from the bare boughs of
the watered resting trees. And we choose to represent the year as
thoughtlessly glad and wastefully profuse in its lost seasons, and as
_now_ broken-hearted and despairing; because this is so common a case,
if not in our own experience, yet in the history of so very many about
us. We cannot but think how this idle business and succeeding gloom is
indeed to be found too often, too often, in the year of man’s life.
Flowers, when he is young; flowers, in life’s prime; flowers, in its
Autumn; and what will ye do in the end thereof? What, when the fogs
and the frosts have come, and the evil days are close at hand, and the
years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them? Where
is the secure store, the treasure laid up in the safe garner, to cheer
the heart when the sap has gone down for this year, and the fields are
blank, and growth is stayed?
How foolish, we can see and should readily acknowledge; how
unpardonably shortsighted it would be of the Year to postpone its work
of preparing, maturing, ripening its fruits until the dark, short,
chill days towards its end. “It is the sweet pleasure time, this
Spring; wait for Summer, I will then begin. Summer, with its thick
leaves and hazy blue--who would begin at such a time as this to work?
Autumn--let me enjoy the cool bracing air after Summer’s heat; soon,
really, a start shall be made.” And so November--and all the year’s
harvest, and all the year’s fruits to be begun, grown, matured, all
the year’s work crowded into the last thin group of dwindling days.
Desolate, indeed, would the year be then, and a wild wail of “Too
late!” would sweep with a shiver over the dreary land; no sunshine
now, no time, no opportunity, no inclination, no power. The sap would
be sluggish, the impulse of growth gone by; and at last a stolid, hard
frost of indifference and fixed sterility close the sad story of the
year.
Well, this may be fanciful--yet, brothers and sisters mine, that
which is fanciful in the year of Nature, which always does God’s work
faithfully, even while it enjoys His glad sun and refreshing rain, and
smiles up to Him in flowers--that which is fanciful applied to the life
of the Year, is gravely, heart-touchingly true of many and many a life
of Man. Nature,
“True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed,
She renders for each scattered seed,
And to her Lord with duteous heed
Gives large increase:
Thus year by year she works unfee’d,
And will not cease.”
But, many among us, how do _we_ look at this life, this brief life
which God has given to each--a life which has so many close analogies
with Nature’s year? For what is our short year given us? To trifle
away? or to use in God’s service in preparing fruit for eternity--wheat
that shall be gathered into God’s barn? The latter, you will own; and
happy, if not your lips only, but your life gives this answer, too!
But how many, owning the truth of this grave view of life with their
words, deny it with their deeds! Yet a little longer--there is time
enough. It is now the time for enjoyment--the time for work will come.
Vain to answer,
“But if indeed with reckless faith,
We trust the flattering voice,
Which whispers, ‘Take thy fill ere death,
Indulge thee, and rejoice,’
“Too surely, every setting day,
Some lost delight we mourn,
The flowers all die along our way,
Till we, too, die forlorn”;
and there is, then, indeed, an unredeemed bareness and desolation
without the glow of memory or hope, in life’s ending days. Vain to urge
this: even if the words call up a grave look for a while, the thought
is soon shelved till “a convenient season.” And the life, if not the
lips, of many proclaims--Let the world have my Spring, Summer, Autumn;
and after that no doubt a good crop of holiness and heavenly-mindedness
will yet be found in the thin last sere days of Life’s year. Let the
world have the best of the year; we will spare its fragments and
leavings for God. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, and Spring
goes, and Summer passes, and Autumn dwindles, and the foolish heart
begins to discover that it is too late then. For its life is chilled,
its sap gone down, its fertility exhausted. It is not the time for
blossoms now, or fruit; habits are fixed, and effort is paralysed;
often ugly fungi have sprung from the ruins of comparatively innocent
thoughtless delights. And this was not foreseen, nor will men believe
it, although you sadly warn them of it. We read it from the Bible, we
cry it from the pulpit--
“They that seek Me early shall find Me.”
“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,
While the evil days come not,
Nor the years draw nigh,
When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.”
“To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts.”
But young and old listen, and then go home to their Sunday dinner; and
other talk, and other interests, and other thoughts, dry up the water
that had stood in a little pool upon the heart, but had not sunk in.
God’s Spirit could have drawn it in, but His help was not heartily
asked, even if asked at all.
* * * * *
Ah yes, is it not true, as one writes, that “men are ever beguiling
themselves with the dream that they shall one day be what they are not
now; they balance their present consciousness of a low worldly life,
and of a mind heavy and dull to spiritual things, with the lazy thought
that some day God will bring home to them in power the realities
of faith in Christ. Who is there that has not at some time secretly
indulged this soothing flattery, that the staid gravity of age, when
youth is quelled, or the leisure of retirement, when the fret of busy
life is over, or, it may be, the inevitable pains and griefs which are
man’s inheritance, shall break up in his heart the now-sealed fountains
of repentance, and make, at last, his religion a reality? So men dream
away their lives in pleasures, sloth, trade, or study. Who has not
allayed the uneasy consciousness of a meagre religion, with the hope
of a future change? Who has not been thus mocked by the enemy of man?
Who has not listened, all too readily, to him who would cheat us of the
hour that is, and of all the spiritual earnings which faith makes day
by day in God’s service, stealing from us the present hour, and leaving
us a lie in exchange? And yet, this present hour is all we have.
To-morrow must be to-day before we can use it; and day after day we
squander in the hope of a to-morrow; but to-morrow shall be stolen away
too, as to-day and yesterday. God’s kingdom was very nigh to him who
trembled at the judgment to come. Felix trembled once; we nowhere read
that he trembled again.”
Habits are stronger when we are weaker. People forget this, and imagine
that they can cast off fetters that have grown from silken to iron,
and that with force that has dwindled from vigour to impotence. That
they can lie fallow all the growing time of life, and cram clearing,
ploughing, sowing, growth, harvest, all into the dark, few, shortening
days of life’s decay. “A convenient season!” Ah! does this mean, then,
_the end of the seasons_--the meagre leavings of life’s year? Is this
the season convenient for God’s work--for the great purpose of our
being? Is spiritual life likely to be then first lifting up its head,
when all life is fading away?
“Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” This is a command
exquisitely applicable to the gleanings of an old age, whose harvest
has been given to God:
“They shall still bring forth fruit in old age”;
--not like the old age of the year--for the fruit of this, at the best,
is hips and haws, and holly-berries.
But can the command ever apply to a life of which the world, and the
flesh, and the devil have had the harvest? Will God accept the mere
gleanings?
“Autumn departs--from busy fields no more
Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer;
Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o’er,
No more the distant reaper’s mirth we hear.
The last blithe shout hath died upon the ear,
And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain:
On the waste hill no forms of life appear,
Save where, sad laggard of the Autumnal train,
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.”
Thus, when the world’s shouts and glee have passed by him, may we
sometimes see the sad late seeker of God occupied. Sometimes, not
often; for be it well laid to heart that God’s enemies seldom leave any
gleanings on their fields, but are busy with careful rake to collect
even life’s last days. Not often; for settled habits are hardest to
overcome; and when the character and tastes are formed, there will
seldom remain even the hearty wish to alter. Not often, then, but
_sometimes_, in later life the worldling, or the devil’s labourer,
turns back with wrung hands and tears--smitten and pricked to the heart
by some sharp voice from God--and wanders over the bare, desolate
fields in life’s chill and fog, and shakes the dreary boughs;--if
perhaps there may be a little handful of corn, or an overlooked grape,
or any fruit, that yet may be tremblingly offered to the Master of the
Harvest, when He comes to take account with His labourers.
And now the question is, Is this late labour, labour in vain?
“Will God indeed with fragments bear,
Snatched late from the decaying year?
Or can the Saviour’s blood endear
The dregs of a polluted life?”
He will: it can. If the heart be _truly_ turned to Him at last, it
will not be turned to Him in vain. Many of my readers will recall a
beautiful allegory of servants trading for their lord, and how one,
late caused to tremble and to turn, brought at the reckoning-day salt
tears and rough sackcloth, that changed as he bore them into rich
stuff and jewels. Aye, a broken and a contrite heart, if real, at _no_
time in life will He despise. Better give the harvest than only the
gleanings, but better these than nothing.
It is a base truth that men often only desert the world when the
world deserts them. But, I have seen it observed, there is something
very touching in the fact that men thus find that they must turn to
God at last, after all, without Him, has disappointed, and that if
they truly turn, so gracious is He, that He will deign to accept the
world’s leavings. The story of the lost sheep, of the piece of money,
but chiefly of the prodigal son, assure us of the truth of this. When
he had spent all, it was,--all his rich patrimony of young powers,
feelings, hopes, and after he had even gone after swine’s husks,--after
he had spent _all_, the Father accepted the empty casket! When the
seed-time, and the ripening-time, and the harvest-time had passed, the
bare November fields and stripped boughs were accepted, because over
them had gathered the mournful mist of true repentance, and because
they were thickly strung with abundance of sorrowful tears!
Oh, wonderful love, not of earth, but divine!--God deigns to prize what
earth has thrown away! Therefore let those who seem even settled on
their lees, fixed in the ways of the world or of sin, let them tremble
exceedingly, but let them not despair. If they _will_, they yet _may_.
Let them cry to the Helper, let them retrace the path with tears,
gleaning as they go a scattered rare grain here and there,--redeeming
the time, although the evil days have come. There is One for whose
perfect merits the harvest of the saint and the handful of the sinner
shall alike find acceptance; and though ’tis best to “sin not,”
nevertheless, “if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father,
Jesus Christ the righteous.”
Let none presume, however; for the gleaning commonly goes the same way
that the harvest has gone. And it were base indeed, designedly, to set
apart only life’s leavings for God’s share. Oh, rather let those who
can give life’s whole broad year to God!
Too late, too late! This, if the year had postponed its work, must be
the sad burden of the winds’ wailing over its desolate and weed-strewn
fields. But it is a thought to humble the heart, and bring tears of
shame and gratitude into the eyes, that no human life with which God’s
Spirit is still striving need take that bitter wail for its own. Too
late to love God? Nay, be assured that, if it _be_ love, it shall be
as tenderly, gladly welcomed as the dawn of the lonely white Christmas
rose on the bare Winter beds.
“For love too late can never glow;
The scattered fragments love can glean,
Refine the dregs, and yield us clean
To regions where one thought serene
Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.”
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