[Illustration]
December is here--one of those mild cheery days, however, when you
can hardly realise that the boughs are indeed bare, and the beds
flowerless, and the Spring birds far away;--one of those days which
tempt you out into the garden, to saunter and loiter there, and look
at the patches that will be snowdrops soon, and to think longingly
of leaves where you had before naturally and as of course acquiesced
in the canopy of bare boughs;--a day on which you--at least _I_--do
not care to go beyond the garden. To me it seems a peaceful, and far
from gloomy, churchyard. Like a spire that tall, ancient, ivy-clothed
spruce-fir stands out of the shrubbery; here, near it, the gay laburnum
tresses lie buried; here the pink apple-blossom crumbled into dust;
each round bed along the lawn is sacred to the memory of some choice
rose; the violets sleep under that high wall--the lilies, tall,
white, stately, but dead and gone--claim remembrance from each side of
the walk; the geraniums, verbenas, heliotropes, petunias, have their
cemetery in those dark beds on the smooth sward, and each flower has
some spot specially or generally consecrated to it.
The memory of my old friends and companions has a tender charm for me,
and I look at the stripped rose-twigs, and at the brown mould where the
flowers were, with a faint halo of that feeling which is keen at the
heart, when we pace among the mounds that hide the dust of friends.
There is promise everywhere, I know, and the naked twigs are strung
with germs of future leaves, and there are next year’s flowers sleeping
at the heart of the rose. But I rather cling to any relic of the past,
than care just now to look forward; and I hail this lingering arrested
bud with the buff-yellow petals, or this half-shattered pure white
blossom, as belonging to the sweet array of the dead flowers. True, I
accept this cluster of the winter-cherry, leaning forward on to the
path, an orange globe in a golden network; and the unfolding buds of
the Christmas rose,--as being a link between the past and the future.
But my thoughts slant backwards now, as I look upon the setting sun of
the year; nor am I, in this mood, regarding it from the point that it
will rise again all fresh and new to-morrow. No, I am not now concerned
with the lovely wealth of leaves and flowers, the new year’s dower,--so
soon all spent,--so soon all spent;--I am now of a mind to muse under
the
“Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”
Let me sit down under this network of sycamore and chesnut boughs,
while the faint patches of pale sunlight move about me on the rank and
drenched, yet ungrowing grass; let me sit down under the bare boughs,
while the brown, wet, marred leaves huddle by the side of the garden
seat, and under the barred plank that serves as my footstool. I dare
say my old and unfailing friend will soon come and perch near me, his
lover, and match the sad cheery gleams of sunlight with sad cheery
gleams of song. Bird of the mild dark loving eye, and quick quiet
motion, and olive plumage, and warm sienna-red breast; bird of the
soft song,--passion subdued now to tenderness, hope that has sunk to
patience, eagerness that is merged in tranquillity,--faithful bird,
whose every tone and motion, familiar and loved, seems to fit the
Winter heart as well as the Spring fancy,--those fervent, passionate
songsters of the Spring, that now are flown, they never drowned to
my ear thy quiet song of peace; no, not even in the days when the
nightingale’s thrilling utterance made the world as it were full of
the unsubstantial beauty of a dream. And so now I feel a sort of right
to the calm and comfort of thy tranquil, unfailing utterance, when the
evanescent dream has passed away, and the disenchanted world stands
naked. Thus, while you are young, O my friends, and all the boughs are
clothed, and all the birds are singing, and your heart makes answer
to the loveliness and the music,--do not disdain, then, to listen to
and to heed that quieter voice which tells, in an undertone, very
beautiful, if attended to, of the love of God. Your heart, if you knew
it, cannot really afford to dispense with it when all the woods are
loud, “and all the trees are green.” And if you _did_ hear and heed and
love it then, ah, how exquisite, how refreshing, how more than cheering
the faithful notes appear, as you sit meditating under a pale winter
sky, and looking at silent, leafless boughs,--and the songster draws
nearer to you then, finding you alone!
* * * * *
Well, let me, I say, sit me down on this garden seat, under these “bare
ruined choirs,” and hail the one little chorister, whose quiet, modest
song ever seems to me to compensate for the absence of all the rest.
The dewdrops twinkle about me in the drenched grass, groups of brown
toadstools cluster here and there, and wax-white fungi straggle away
in a broken line; there is a scarlet gleam of hips in the rose-bushes
under the shrubbery, and of mountain-ash higher above them. It is
Winter, but nature has not forgotten to stick some sprays of Christmas
about her bare pillars, and to twist them in devices about her arches,
that run up around me into this groined roof above.
The first thing that we all should muse about, under the bare boughs,
would be, I suppose, the leaves that once clad them. Ay, even if, under
the full shading foliage, we never thought to give them an upward
glance of gratitude, love, and admiration. But they are gone, and what
was taken as a matter of course is valued, now that it is missed. There
is repining as to the desolation of Winter, and this from those who did
not consciously enjoy the Summer.
[Illustration]
I cannot reproach myself on this score. I have loved and learnt by
heart every shape and development, from the first vivid light of green
to the sombre sameness of hue, and then the rich variety that dispersed
this;--all this growth, and attainment, and decay have I heedfully and
affectionately noted, during the space which separated last year’s bare
boughs from these.
“A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime.”
Yes, I saw that,--and I watched the juicy foliage deepen, and the thin
maize-coloured strips of flower chequer the darkening full mass, and
change the picture into
“The lime, a summer home of murmurous wings.”
Then those curved chesnut boughs near the grass--I detected the first
fresh crumpled gleam, bursting from the brown sticky buds, until all
over the tree, as in an illumination,
“The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air.”
And so I watched them into milky spires, and swarthy green globes,
that grew brown, and fell, and burst threefold, lying among the heaped
leaves, such a picture, with the white lining and bright nut!
The beech, changing from soft silky fledging of its boughs into hardier
green foliage, and afterwards becoming a very mint, each branch
“All overlaid with patines of bright gold”;
and so subsiding into a sparer dress of sienna brown.
“The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores.”
The brave oaks, soon passing out of their Chaucerian attire,
“Some very red, and some a glad light green,”
and now all gnarled and knotted, and only clutching still a wisp of
pale dull dry leaves here and there:--all these, be sure, have had
their meed of attention and of regard from me. And so I sit under the
bare boughs with no remorseful if with some regretful feelings. But
still, I say, who can look up at the stripped branches in the Winter
without sometimes giving fancy and memory leave to clothe them again
with the fair frail dreams and hopes and enjoyments that, though they
were evanescent, yet were beautiful, and that, though passing away with
the Summer of Time, yet no doubt have influenced the Eternal growth of
the Tree. Yes, sometimes it will be graceful, and at least not harmful,
to let memory wander back into the days of childhood and of youth, and
bid the frail and inexperienced foliage cover the branches again with
that rich but short-lived beauty:
“Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child’s heart within the man’s
Begins to move and tremble.”
Aye, there they are again, for a moment, shimmering in the sunlight
and in the shade, “clapping their little hands in glee.” But we start,
and they are gone. And, instead, how clearly we may see the blue Sky
through the stripped boughs!
* * * * *
I remember, some time ago, sitting under some sycamore trees, near
the sea-side. Of course those trees are all bare now, but the leaves
were then at the fall. It was just at that time of the year when all
the sweeping in the world will not keep the lawn tidy, and every gust
littered it with the crisp, curled leaves. Amid this surely advancing
decay there was, however, a pathetic effort towards renovation and new
life. The year could hardly yet quietly acquiesce in the truth that
its once exuberant power of growth was over, and that it must give in
to stagnation increasing to decay. The like of this we may trace in
the human year: in the faded Beauty; in the worn-out Author and Wit;
and there is always a sadness about the sight. Under the nearly black
leaves some very yellow-green ones were clustering upon the lower
shoots; a late frond or two bent timidly amid the burnt and battered
growth of the fernery; autumn crocuses came like ghosts upon the rich
moist beds, but fell prone with an overmastering weakness; one gleam
of laburnum drooped, and two white clusters of pear-blossom tried to
ignore the heavy mellowing fruit; and some frail crumpled bramble-bloom
appeared among the blackberries; tenderest and most touching, but
wildest and most abortive endeavour, a primrose, too pale even for
that pale flower, started up here and there out of the long draggled,
ragged leaves. I know that many days ago winter must have frightened
away all this frail gathering, the more easily and suddenly, because
of their weakness and timidity. But I took pleasure in watching and
moralising upon the impotent yet graceful struggle. And then, I recall,
I sat down under the trees, much as I do now, and in much such a day.
The flickering spots of faint sunlight moved slowly on the sward: the
day was calm, after a wild windy Summer. It was cool for Autumn as
this is warm for Winter, and so the two days were near akin, except
for this one difference, that the leaves were mostly still upon the
trees. They had begun in good earnest to fall, but they were still
left in considerable numbers upon the boughs. And I fell, after some
unconscious watching these leaves, into a fit of musing upon them.
There was a peculiarity about them all which caught my attention. Let
me set down, under these bare boughs, some of my thoughts at that time.
It can be done the less unkindly now that that generation of leaves
has all, some weeks ago, fluttered away.
The peculiarity was this. The trees being within the scope of many
contending and fierce and unremitting winds, there was not upon any
twig, that I could see, one single _perfect_ leaf. Perhaps a young one,
just born, and to die almost as soon as born, might keep somewhat of
its intended shape. But those that had endured the fierce winds and the
heat and the rain and the blights,--ah, how shattered and scarred and
stained they were! Some marred out of any trace of the intention of
their birth; rent and beaten into a sorry strip, hardly to be called a
leaf at all. But even the best were defaced and disfigured, spotted and
imperfect.
Now sentiment about these leaves would, obviously, be extremely
ill-placed. But my thought traced in these battered masses of the
sycamore a picture of this life of ours, until the trees almost became
a mirror, in which I, with the myriad race of much-enduring men, seemed
to be exactly reflected. _Not one_ perfect leaf; many _so_ shattered
and stained and marred. So beaten out of that pattern to which God had
designed them. Some with hardly the very least trace of that Image in
which mankind was at first moulded. Most with little to remind us of
it. But, saddest of all, it seemed to me, there was not one, not even
the best, which would bear close inspection. Not one but, even if the
shape were somewhat preserved, had yet some ugly scar or hole or crack;
not one perfect, no, not one!
And so it is, that we are in truth fain to accept for our idea of a
good man here, merely that one who is least defaced and disfigured.
The wise among men, what is he, but only one not quite so foolish as
most others. The kind, only one that is less often cruel. The dutiful,
and obedient, only one that is at least and at best inadequately
trying among the gross that are utterly careless, to fear God, and to
regard man. How negative most of our goodness is, and the qualities
whose possession inspires our fellow-men with admiration! A good son,
a good husband--this surely only means one who is not bad, undutiful,
unjust, unkind. And yet who could lay claim to either title, nor
exhibit some, yea many, flaws and spots? And for positive goodness--ah,
well, if it were not for the utterly marred and ragged growth with
which we are surrounded, there would be little fear, surely of any,
such as are we, laying claim to the possession of that here. _Great
and good men?_--Rent and shattered, rent and shattered; and if in
comparison with the shreds about us, we trace in ourselves some hint
of the original shape, how often we must then think, “I was more in
shelter, lower down on the tree,” and how little inclined shall we be,
contemplating sadly our own stains and clefts, to think superciliously
and pharisaically of those mere strips that, growing on the higher
boughs, seemed the prey of every rough wind that blew.
“Safe home, safe home in port!--
Rent cordage, shattered deck,
Torn sails, provisions short,
And _only not a wreck_.”
This seems the most that the best can say. And that this is so, appears
to me sad. God’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; and I
puzzle about this long and universal history of successes which are but
half-failures. Inveterate as is the evil of our nature, vast as has
been its fall, yet, I ask myself, is there any limit to the stores of
God’s grace? And, with such an armoury, ought the fight to be so sorry,
only just not a defeat? I know we cannot attain; I know that perfection
must fly before us, and ever elude our grasp, in this state. I know, by
a guess, that the nearer we seem to it, in the view of others, surely
the farther we shall, in our own view, appear to be behind it, the
more vainly striving after it. And I know, nevertheless, that the soul
hungry and thirsty for righteousness shall have even here some daily
bread, to satisfy just the most restless gnawing of its desire, and
that hereafter it shall fully feast, and be satisfied, at the Marriage
Supper of the Lamb.
But what distresses me is this: that even truly good men are often, if
not always, so disappointing. You were awakened to the loveliness of
Christianity, and yearning for sympathy and advice; you sought one of
those ideals which seemed, to hope and fancy, sure to be embodiments
of it--and how often a chilling want of gentleness, or patience, or
tenderness, closed up the heart’s opening blossom! Or carrying some
opportunity for serving Christ in the person of a poor member of
His Body, to one who, you felt sure, would, at least, meet you with
kindliness, if unfortunately other calls precluded aid: how often a
cold manner or a chilling snub disappoints and damps you! There is
frequently too much bloodless, abstract faith, where you expected warm
human interest; and wounded and hurt and baffled, you betake yourself
to the only perfect sympathy, that of God. There is hardness, where
you had taken for granted Christ’s tenderness would be found; there is
bitterness, where you had counted upon Christ’s badge of love (St. John
xiii. 35); there is pride, even, where you had never dreamed of finding
anything but absolute humility. There is anxiety about worldly matters,
where you had pictured a perfect, restful trust in God; carefulness
and trouble about many things, where you had looked forward to seeing
at last the calm sitting at the Saviour’s feet. There is irritability,
and fussiness at trifles, where you had dreamed that things of eternal
moment would alone have greatly moved: there is, upon the whole,
disappointment, where you had looked for the realisation of that Ideal
which you possess, and after which you did not wonder to find your own
weak self vainly toiling. The winds and the blights seem too much for
poor human nature, that will not draw, as it might, upon Divine grace;
and upon every branch that we examine, there is not a leaf that is not
sadly marred and imperfect; no, not one.
I know this must be, in a measure, in this wingless, fallen state.
I know that in the sight of God and of angels, yea, of our own
selves, if we have at all really learned what goodness is, the best
of us are but weak buffeters of those waters of evil in which many
around us are drowning. Still, without taking an Angel’s point of
view, might not our light, at least before men, shine a little more
brightly and consistently, and not be made up of mere alternations of
spasmodic flares and dimness or darkness? Must there be so many spots
of inconsistency, so many rents of surely elementary and avoidable
unloveliness; so many high places not taken away, even though God be
served somewhat in His Temple; such marring flies making even genuine
and precious ointment to stink?
Oh, I often think that in this world and in this day, there lies a
great opportunity unclaimed! When we see the powerful influence which
even a broken and unequal attempt at service, at fulfilling the mere
elements of our duty to God and to man, exerts upon a world where
it is the rare exception even to _attempt_ earnestly, then I think,
what might not a perseverance beyond the first steps (and God’s grace
knows no stint), what might not a steady advance towards perfection
work in this sceptical, critical, anxious, weary world? This world
narrowly watches for flaws, and, finding them, strengthens itself in
its carelessness and godlessness. But if compelled to acknowledge a
reality, a fulfilment of those theories which it has come to consider
as scarcely meant, quite impossible, to be reduced to practice; if
forced to acknowledge a sterling goodness, human and yet Divine, which
stands the searching tests by which men try profession; it will then
fall vanquished before it, and, in many things, surrender itself to the
influence of a goodness alike strict, gracious, and glad. If the good
man set sentinels at all sides of his life, and not only at one or two
chosen posts; if he were ever trimming his lamp, seeking and pouring
in more oil; not letting any slovenly black fungus grow on the wick,
and dim part of the flame--how much might a few such bright and steady
lights do in reproving the darkness, and bringing out sister gleams!
How might we, thus rebuked, instead of resting proud of our sickly
glimmer, set to work in good earnest, with watchfulness and prayer,
to mend our flame, until the noble rays of the lighthouse, and the
clustering lesser lights beneath, might lure some that were driven and
tossed homelessly upon the treacherous, troubled seas. Now the lights
often go out when they are wanted, and the beacon is dark just when a
despairing look was cast towards it; and so the dreary, hopeless course
is renewed.
A perfect man must be kind and wise, patient and loving,--not one
whose life shall make the worldling sore and resentful, but shall
rather make him sad and longing,--not one who boasts to be a “man of
prayer,” but forgets to be a man of love,--not one who makes Faith the
cuckoo nestling that edges out Charity,--not one too much absorbed in
devotion, and even divine and religious contemplation, to enter into
the difficulties, and wants, and cries, and doubts, and struggles of
those beneath the mountain which he is ascending. He must be one of
a universal kindliness,--of an always ready sympathy for any feeling
which he perceives to be real, howsoever it find no echo in his own
heart; one ever just, generous, forbearing, forgiving; ever ready to
stop and to descend to raise the fallen; firm and fixed in principle,
but tender and gentle in heart; speaking the truth, but speaking it
still in love; severity against sin never swamping yearning for the
sinner; never base or mean in things large or little; always ready to
suppose the best of others; never vaunting, never puffed up; not easily
provoked; thinking no evil; rejoicing with the joyful, weeping with
the sad; hard only upon himself; bearing all things, believing all
things, hoping all things, enduring all things. Never giving others
to understand that he has already attained, or is already perfect; not
counting himself to have apprehended, but _pressing toward the mark_.
Alas! it is true that men are mostly content with a very low standard,
and if they seem to themselves and others to have attained that, easily
rest there;--and the great opportunity passes away ungrasped.
Torn leaves, tattered leaves, at best marred and imperfect, not one
approaching perfection, not one without a flaw. Ah, yes, one,--and one
only. How glorious the thought that in Christ, born into the world, and
taking our nature upon Him,--in Christ, the Seed of the woman,--this
our poor human nature, tattered, torn, and defaced, is exalted into
absolute and eternal Perfection. All the fiercest storms and blights
and heats attacked our nature in Him, but attacked it in vain. The most
minute and scrutinising examination can here detect no least speck, or
swerving from the ideal of symmetry. In Him we see what we long, vainly
it seems, to be. In Him we see that towards which He would exalt us, if
we will be exalted,--that which we may in a sense attain, if we will be
perfected. And so at last we turn from sad contemplation of innumerable
greater or less failures, and dwell restfully and hopefully upon the
only and all-sufficient perfect One. To be like Him when He shall
appear, oh, glorious hope that He has given us! to awake thus in the
Spring of the Next Year, and this in a Land where there are no blights,
nor colds, nor heats, to mar that shape. But let us remember, that
having this hope, we should even now be purifying ourselves, even as He
is pure.
But here a burst of little ones comes into the garden, anxious for
my leave and help to cut boughs of the holly and the box to clothe
the rooms for Christmas, and to divert thoughts of the bare boughs
that stand without. And it is well that my musings should thus be
interrupted, and should thus end. Among the bare branches of the
saddest thought there may still be found warm-berried evergreens,
planted by God’s love here and there. And all that tells here of Death
and Winter, tells of that which is temporary and evanescent, now that
the LIFE has come into the world. Even the cold stripped trees and the
buried flowers,--there is hope in their death,--and how much are we
better than they!
And thus the Poet whom I quoted above goes on to thought of that Spring
from the contemplation of the rending winds and stripping Winter here:
“Safe home, safe home in port!--
Rent cordage, shattered deck,
Torn sails, provisions short,
And only not a wreck.
_But, oh, the joy upon the shore,
To tell our voyage perils o’er!_
“The prize, the prize secure!
The athlete nearly fell,
Bare all he could endure,
And bare not always well;
_But he may smile at troubles gone,
Who sets the victor garland on._”
Well, I must muse no longer, I see, but give up myself to the will
of the children. Come along, then, and let us make all bright and
cheery at this joyous season. Tall sprays of thick-berried holly;
golden winter cherries, laurel, and yew, and box; ay, and if you will,
Cyril shall climb the old mossy gnarled apple-tree, and bring down a
branching bunch of that pale-green, Druid-loved parasite, with its
berries like opal beads. In this happy time the children may well claim
to have their “time to laugh,” and to rejoice; and the elders may look
on or join with kindly geniality. Yea, we may say, “It is _meet_ that
we should make merry and be glad;--for this our earth was dead, and is
alive again; and was lost, and is found.”
Laugh and be happy, therefore, at the Christmas time. Only in enjoying
the holiday, let not its etymology and true meaning be altogether
lost sight of. And remember that it is only the thought of the Spring
of Eternity that can take away the sadness from the contemplation of
Time’s bare boughs.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
ROBERT K. BURT, PRINTER,
WINE OFFICE COURT, FLEET STREET.