sideboard--neither had there been any plum cake in the house for some
time--nor were there any carraway seeds in the biscuits just then.
--In short, there was nothing which could be supposed to have
suggested the idea of carraway seeds to the little boy who made the
enquiry. Still he did make it, and though he went on quietly with his
dinner, he expected to receive an answer.
Had the good Lady at the head of the table not been the mother of a
large family, she might possibly have dropt the carving knife and
fork, in sheer astonishment at the unaccountableness of the question,
but as it was, she had heard so many other odd ones before, that she
did not by outward sign demonstrate the amusement she felt at this,
but simply said,--"_Perhaps he could_"--for she knew that it was out
of her power to speak positively as to whether a Giant could see a
carraway seed or not.
Now dear little readers, what do _you_ think about this very important
affair? Do you think a Giant could see a carraway seed or not?--"Oh
yes," you all cry,--"_of course he could!_"
Nay, my dears, there is no "of course" at all in the matter! Can any
of you, for example, see the creatures that float about and fight in a
drop of water from the Serpentine River? No, certainly not! except
through a microscope. Well, but _why_ not?--you do not know. That I
can easily believe! But then you must never again say that "_of
course_" a Giant could see a carraway seed.
It is entirely a question of _relative proportion_: so now you feel
quite small, and admit your total ignorance, I hope. Yes! it all
depends upon whether the giant is as much bigger than the carraway
seed, as you are bigger than the curious little insects that float
about and fight in the drop of water from the Serpentine river--for if
he is, we may conclude from analogy that a giant could _not_ see a
carraway seed except through a microscope. You see it is a sort of
rule of three sum, but as I cannot work it out, I tell you honestly
that neither do I know whether a giant could see so small an object or
not, and I advise you all to be as modest as I am myself, and never
speak positively on so difficult a point.
But enough of this! Turn we now to another point, about which I _can_
speak positively--namely, that in _one_ sense the world is full of
Giants who cannot see Carraway seeds.
"It must be in the sense of _Non_sense I should think then!" observes
somewhat scornfully the young lady who is reading this story
aloud--"as if we could believe in there being giants now!"
Very wittily remarked! my dear young lady, for your age.--I take you
to be about seventeen, and I see by the compression of your pretty
mouth that you consider yourself quite a judge and an authority. Only
take care you don't grow up into one of those Giants yourself! There
is something very suspicious to me in the glance of your eye.
"Ridiculous!" murmurs the fair damsel in question.
Not at all so: only you travel too fast; by which I mean you speak too
hastily. You learn Italian, I dare say? Oh yes, of course, for you
sing. Well then, _Ombra adorata_ that is "beloved shadow;" _aspetta_
that is, "wait"--"wait, my beloved shadow" (of a charming young lady),
give me breathing time, and I will explain myself. As you are an
Italian student, I presume you have heard of the great Italian poet
Dante. Now Dante in his _Convito_ or "Banquet" tells his readers that
writings may be understood, and therefore ought to be explained in
four different senses or meanings. There is first the literal sense;
secondly, the allegorical; thirdly, the moral; and fourthly, the
_anagorical_. Now I know you can't explain this last word to me, for I
would wager a large sum that you never tasted of Dante's Banquet--no,
not so much as the smallest crumb from it; and therefore how _should_
you know what he means by the anagorical sense? Give me leave to have
the honour of enlightening you, then. The anagorical is what the
dictionaries call the _anagogical_ sense. A sense beyond this world; a
sense above the senses; a spiritual sense making common things divine.
It is hard to be arrived at and difficult of comprehension. Now in the
matter of the nice little boy's question about the Giant and the
carraway seed, (for none but a nice little boy could have excogitated
any thing so comical), I have set my heart upon talking to you about
it in the four above mentioned senses. And having already descanted on
the _literal_ sense, I had just made an assertion which appertained to
the _allegorical_ sense, when you so inopportunely interrupted me, My
Ombra Adorata, with your sharp observation about _non_sense: so now we
will go on in peace and quietness, if you please.
In an allegorical sense the world is full of giants who cannot see
carraway seeds.
For what are Giants but great men and great women? and the world
abounds with people who consider themselves as belonging to that
class. And a great many of them--Giants of Cleverness, Giants of
Riches, Giants of Rank--Giants of I know not how many things besides,
who are walking about the world every day, very often feel themselves
to be quite raised above the point of attending to trifles; so that
you see I may (in an allegorical sense) say strictly of them that they
cannot see carraway seeds. Oh my dears, however elevated you may be,
or may become; however great or rich or learned, beware, I pray you,
of being a Giant who cannot see a carraway seed!
For, as my explanation of the _moral_ sense now goes on to show you;
it is so far from being, as these Giants suppose, a proof of their
_superiority_ that they cannot see or notice things they consider
beneath them--that it is, in fact, an evidence of some imperfection or
defect in either their moral or intellectual structure. Just as it is
a proof of our eyes being imperfect, that we cannot see the little
water insects as well as a great big elephant. I am sure you will
allow there is nothing _to boast of_ in this, and so if the
contemplation of great things makes you incapable of attending to
small ones, do remember that _'tis nothing to boast about or be proud
of_. And take very great care you make no mistakes as to what is great
and what is insignificant. With which warning I close my remarks on
the moral lesson, and proceed to that _anagogical_ or spiritual
meaning, which will I hope be my justification for dwelling so long on
the subject, and my best introduction to a story of a serious though
not of a melancholy character. But first, my dear little readers, let
me call upon you in the words which you hear in church:
"Lift up your hearts!"
and I would have you answer,
"We lift them up unto the Lord."
For it is indeed of Him--the Lord of all Lords, that I now wish to
speak to you. He made the Sun and Stars and the great mountains of our
earth; but He made also the smallest insects that crowd the air and
water, and which are invisible to our imperfect eyes.
He rules the nations by His word, and "binds kings in chains, and
nobles with links of iron," as the psalm expresses it; but also not a
sparrow falls to the ground without His knowledge and consent. Angels
and Archangels worship around His throne, but His ears are equally
open to the prayer of the youngest child who lifts up its little heart
to Him!
The universe is at His feet, but the smallest events of our lives are
under His especial superintendence and care. Yes! nothing, however
small and insignificant, that is connected with the present or future
welfare of the smallest and most insignificant of his creatures, is
_beneath the notice of God_!
Ah! here is indeed a lesson for the fancied Giants of the world!--For,
in this picture of Almighty greatness combined with infinite
condescension, we see that real Perfection requires no Pride to
elevate it.
But I said this anagogical sense was hard to be attained to and
difficult of comprehension.
And is it not so? Is it not very difficult to believe thoroughly that
the great God whom we hear about, really and truly cares how we behave
and what we do--really and truly listens to our prayers--really and
truly takes as much interest in us as our earthly Fathers and Mothers
do?
Ah, I am sure it must be very difficult, because so few people do it,
although we should all be both better and happier if we did. We should
say our prayers so much more earnestly, try to keep out of sin and
naughtiness so much more heartily, and, above all, always be contented
with whatever happened; for who could be anxious, and discontented
about their condition or circumstances, if they _quite_ believed that
every thing that happened to them was watched over and arranged for
their good, by the wisest, kindest, and most powerful of Beings? If
you, my dear children, who have been reading the fairy tales in this
book, were to be told that a most wise, most kind, and most powerful
Fairy had suddenly taken you for life under her particular care, and
that she would never lose sight of you by night or by day, how
delighted you would be!
Yet just so are you under the particular care and watchful concern of
Almighty God!
But now, say you, you begin to feel the difficulty of believing it
possible that the great God of the Universe takes this tender interest
in such insignificant and sinful creatures as men and women.
Consider, then, that we are told that "God is Love;" and if He loves
us, there is no difficulty in believing that He feels all this
interest in us. Do not judge Him by earthly Kings and Potentates.
These are Giants who cannot see carraway seeds. We do not blame them,
for it is impossible they should be interested for every body. But
very very different is both the power and the feeling of the King of
Kings!
Still we have not got over the difficulty yet, for of all the
wonderful truths we are commanded to believe, no one is so wonderful
and so incomprehensible as _the Love of God_ to the sinful human race.
And yet it is a truth, and of all truths the most important and most
comfortable; and therefore it is much to be desired that we should
thoroughly believe it: and _I think_ I can make you understand that it
is possible, _by something which you feel in your own hearts_. I think
God has placed even in our own hearts a witness of the possibility of
this great Truth.
My idea is this. We _know_ that God has been merciful to us--(His very
creation of man was an act of mercy), and _therefore_ we know that He
loves us. _He loves us because He has been merciful to us_. If you
cannot see why this should be, I refer you to the following story, and
advise you to _try for yourselves_. Only be kind to any living
creature, whether a human being, or an irrational animal, and see if
you can keep your heart from _loving_ it! Certainly it does not become
us to try to search out the unsearchable mind of God, but I think it
is permitted us to hope, that the remarkable fast of _Kindness
engendering Love_, which we experience in our own hearts, is intended
to lead us upwards as by a holy guiding thread, to some comprehension
of the Love of that God, who in Christ Jesus actually _gave Himself
for us_.
THE TALE.
Lift up the curtain!
In a baronial hall, not of the size and grandeur of that at Warwick
Castle, which those who have never seen should try to see before they
die: but still in a hall as antique and interesting in style, fits a
young man reading.
It is evening, though the sun has not yet set, but it is evening, and
the young man is sitting at a small oak table in a recess in one of
the ancient windows, and before him lies open a book, and on the book,
which he touches not with his hands, but on which his eyes, blinded by
tears, are fixed, there lies a faded primrose.
The book is the Bible, and the faded primrose lies on that verse in
the Psalm, "Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for his
goodness, and declare the wonders that he doeth for the children of
men!" and some hand had placed a slight pencil mark before these
words.
This scene brings before you a story of distress, and yet this young
man is the possessor of a large estate;--the baronial hall and house
are his own, and he is young and amiable, and till within the last few
months had led a life of almost uninterrupted comfort and prosperity
from his cradle upwards. Two years ago he became the betrothed lover
of a young lady no less interesting than himself, and as no obstacle
prevented their union, both had for these two years looked forward to
it, as the one certain and sure event of their lives. The young man's
parents had died when he was very young; but, in compliance with the
wishes of his Guardians, he deferred his marriage till he should have
come of age.
Meanwhile, as the time of probation drew near its close, it had been
his delight to sit up the old place in such a manner as should become
his bride, and the alterations had, in many cases, been made under her
eye and according to her wishes, for she was already by anticipation,
and in the heart of its owner, the mistress of the place.
At last the wedding day was fixed; but a few weeks before the time
came, one of those sad diseases which steal mysteriously into the
vitals of the young and wear away life long before its natural period,
fell upon her:--and _now_, nothing remained to him, who had hoped to
have her as his companion through life, but the Bible she had used
during her sickness, and which was found on the table by her couch
after her death, open and marked at the very place I have told you
about; together with the faded primrose which he had gathered for her
on the last morning of her life.
This was a very sad event for those who were left behind to lament the
loss of one whom they had loved so dearly. The Mother indeed, who had
known other trials of life, bent her head submissively to this one,
and cherishing sweet recollections of her daughter's piety and
goodness, looked forward to a time of reunion in a happier world. But
the poor young man, whose name was Theodore, never having known a care
or a sorrow before, was stupefied and overpowered by this sudden
destruction of all his hopes and happiness. Seeing, however, that
_her_ last thought had been the mercy and goodness of God, he tried to
make it _his_ thought too; and he would sit for hours looking at the
verse which she had marked in the Bible.
But unfortunately he made no effort besides, and having no kind
relatives or friends near him to rouse him from his melancholy stupor
to some of the active duties of life, he spent many many weeks in
listless sorrow, not caring much what became either of himself, his
dependents, or his property. And though he had become, by degrees, so
far resigned as to believe that every thing was for the best--even
_her_ death--he now took up a strange and dismal fancy, that though
the Almighty was a God of goodness and justice, it was quite
impossible that He should _love_ any beings so sinful and ungrateful
as the human race. This vain distinction of a morbid imagination was
the result of that solitude, inactivity, and the constantly dwelling
upon himself and his own troubles, to which he had unfortunately given
himself up, and which had brought his mind into such an unhealthy
state, that he could neither reason nor think properly.
In this condition of feeling, having one day wandered to a
considerable distance from home, he sat down on the greensward to
rest; when lo! after he had remained there for some little time
musing, as usual, he saw approaching him two shining creatures, who
looked like spirits or angels, and as they came up to him they looked
at him very earnestly, and one said to the other,
"He is doubting the goodness of God!?"
Then Theodore shuddered, and said, "I am not! once perhaps I did, but
not now: all things happen for the best." Yet the Spirit repeated, "He
is doubting the goodness of God!" Theodore shuddered again, and cried
out "I am _not!_" for he felt as if it was a heavy accusation.
Whereupon the Spirit continued, "To disbelieve the love of God is to
doubt His goodness."
"No, no," exclaimed Theodore eagerly, "it is not! I do not doubt His
goodness--His compassion even for the wretched creatures whom He
formed out of dust. But I--thoughtless in my youth; self-confident in
prosperity; ungrateful and rebellious under affliction; how can such a
wretch as _I_ have been, believe in the _love_ of God to me! God is
good and just, but do not talk to me of His Love to man, as if it were
possible He could feel for them the tenderness of kind affection! Who
are you?"
Without noticing this question, the Spirit repeated, in emphatic
tones, "To disbelieve the Love of God is to doubt His goodness, and
deny the perfection of His nature!"
"I tell you, No!" shouted Theodore, wildly: "It is _because_ of His
goodness and _because_ of the perfection of His nature, that I
disbelieve the possibility of His Love to the wretched race of man!"
"Judge by your own heart!" exclaimed the Spirit who had not yet
spoken.
But when Theodore raised his eyes to look upon her, both had
disappeared. He felt grieved, he knew not why. "_My own heart!_" he
murmured; "ah! my own heart has been the witness against me. It has
taught me the dreadful truth."
"Truth never yet was found of him who leads a life of selfish misery,"
whispered a soft voice receding into the distance; "Theodore! Judge by
your own heart. Even it may teach you better things!"
Theodore started up and looked hastily around. He felt as if he could
have followed that soft receding voice into eternity. But there was no
one near. That sound, however, had been like an echo from hopes buried
in the grave; and the poor youth sank to the ground on his knees, and,
hiding his face in his hands, wept bitterly. Suddenly one thought took
possession of him out of what had been said. And it was one (as usual)
of self-reproach. The Spirit had reproached him with leading a life of
selfish misery! Vividly impressed by this idea, he started off
hurriedly for his home, crying aloud--"Oh, the wasted time; the lost
hours; the precious moments that might have been employed in
usefulness!" And thus he pursued his way till he had left the outer
country behind him, and had entered the gates that bounded his
extensive domain when, all at once, his course was stopped by
something he struck against as he was walking quickly along.
Looking down, he perceived that a sickly, hungry-looking child was
stretched across the road asleep, and that by its side sat a woman,
the picture of misery and want. Theodore felt a strong sensation of
compassion seize him as he gazed at the child, and he stooped and
lifted it from the ground.
The woman observed Theodore's eye, and said, "Ay, without help we
shall neither of us be here long!"
"I will help you," said Theodore, "tell me what I can do!"
"What can you or any one do, for a dying woman and a half-starved
child?" groaned the poor creature. "Food, food! medicine and help!"
These words burst from her in broken accents--I am dying!"
"Are you so _very_ ill?" asked Theodore, turning deadly pale; and he
murmured to himself--"Death again! I dare not see it again so soon!
Here!" continued he, thrusting gold into her hand, "now you see that I
will help you! Look, I will send you food, and you shall be brought
to the house: but let me take the child, he cannot do you good, and I
will see to him." "He must not see her die;" was Theodore's inward
thought.
"Ay, take him," muttered the woman gloomily, "and send me cordials. No
one wants to go even an hour before their time!"
Theodore obeyed almost mechanically, and lifting up the little boy, he
made a shift to carry him to the house. On arriving there, he called
for his housekeeper and desired her to take food and wine to the woman
he had left, and to bring her to the house. Then he sent another
servant for a doctor, and afterwards undertook himself the care of the
forlorn child. He placed him on a sofa in his study and sat down by
him.
"Are you ill?" was his first question.
"I don't know," was the answer.
"Are you hungry?"
"Very!"
Here Theodore got up and went to the next room, where preparations
were being made for dinner, and fetched bread and gave it to the boy,
who ate it greedily, without once lifting up his eyes. "Poor child,"
thought Theodore, "life has no _mental_ troubles for him!"
"Are you sorry your mother is so ill?" was his next inquiry.
"She's not my mother," muttered the boy.
Theodore started--"What do you mean? Are you not that woman's
_child_?"
"No! She told me I wasn't."
"Who are you, then?"
"I don't know. She told me she had stolen me to beg for her."
"And do you remember nothing about it?"
"No, its too long ago."
Theodore now fetched him more bread, but whilst he was eating it he no
longer sat by him, but walked up and down the room. Every now and then
as he stopped and looked at the thin, sickly looking object he had
brought into the house, he was overtaken by a strong feeling of pity
for his miserable condition.
This child was as desolate as himself, only in another way. Stolen
from his parents to beg for the strange woman, he had lived with her
so long that he had forgotten his real home altogether! Bound by no
ties of kindred and comfort to this world. "He is more desolate than I
am myself!" repeated Theodore, again and again.
After a time he approached the boy again.
"The woman will say you are her child, and make you go back and beg
for her if she gets better, will she not?"
"She doesn't want me now."
"How so?"
"She says, I'm too hungry, and eat all the bread away from her, and
don't get enough for us both."
A curious expression passed across Theodore's face as he turned away
and sat down in his chair once more. It looked like a gleam of
satisfaction. The boy, meanwhile, sat quite still, looking round the
room. He had a grave and somewhat interesting face, but that the dark
eyes looked a little too keen and restless to be quite pleasant.
Still, when he smiled, and he had smiled brightly when he first saw
the bread, his countenance improved; and there was, besides, something
about his open forehead which redeemed the covert expression of his
eye. He was about seven years old, and precocious in quickness of a
particular kind, as is very often the case with vagrant children.
Theodore's reverie was broken at last by the arrival of his good old
housekeeper, who came in, flurried and indignant, to inform him that
the woman she had been in search of was no where to be found. She had
been, "she was sure," up and down all the carriage roads, and made
enquiries at all the lodges, and finally discovered that a beggar
woman had passed out at one of them upwards of an hour before, very
hurriedly, and indeed almost at a running pace.
Theodore glanced at the child, but his countenance never changed. Only
he sat eying the housekeeper as she spoke, apparently indifferent to
the result. The housekeeper now began to ejaculate in broken
sentences, "The base creature! To think that you should have taken all
this trouble, Sir! and had the child actually into the house!
and--gracious me," added she in a half whisper, "hadn't I better call
the butler, Sir; hadn't he" (nodding significantly towards the child)
"better be taken to the workhouse at once, Sir?"
"I think not," answered Theodore slowly--"not yet, I think. The truth
is, I find he's not her own child, but has been stolen; and--and--in
fact, we can send him to the workhouse to-morrow. Perhaps, after all,
the woman may come here for him. But, at any rate, there is time
enough. You see this is an odd affair; and, as the boy is not _hers_,
we don't know who he may not turn out to be some day." And, as
Theodore thus concluded his sentence, he got up and looked at the old
housekeeper with a smile--a melancholy one it is true, but still it
was a smile--the first that had been seen on his face since his
terrible bereavement.
And the faithful servant was so much pleased that she forgot every
thing else in a desire to keep up the interest that had lured her
young master so unaccountably from his misery.
"Well, to be sure, Sir, what you say's quite right, and we can make
the poor thing comfortable for to-night, and then you can do as you
please to-morrow. Shall I take him with me, Sir, and make him clean,
while you dine? I can borrow some tidy clothes from the bailiff's
wife, I dare say; and after he's made respectable, you can see him
again, Sir, if you think proper."