Oh, that a man could speak to men in the language of the Spring!” cried
Mr. Wesley, when his horse stopped unbidden and unchidden and looked
over the curved green roof of the hedge across the broad green pasturage
beyond. “Oh, that my lips could speak that language which every ear
can understand and every heart feel! What shall it profit a man to
understand if he does not feel--feel--feel? The man who understands is
the one who holds in his hand the doctor's prescription. The man who
feels is the one who grasps the healing herbs; and 'tis the Spring that
yields these for all to gather who will.”
And then, automatically he took his feet out of the stirrups for greater
ease, and his eyes gazed across the meadow-land which sloped gently
upward to the woods where the sunbeams were snared among the endless
network of the boughs, for the season was not advanced far enough
to make the foliage dense; the leaves were still thin and
transparent--shavings of translucent emerald--a shade without being
shadowy.
Everything that he saw was a symbol to him. He looked straight into the
face of Nature herself and saw in each of its features something of the
Great Message to man with which his own heart was filled to overflowing.
He was a poet whose imagination saw beneath the surface of everything.
He was a physician who could put his finger upon the pulse of Nature and
feel from its faintest flutter the mighty heart which throbbed through
the whole creation.
What man was there that failed to understand the message of Nature as
he understood it? He could not believe that any should be so dense as to
misinterpret it. It was not a book written in a strange tongue; it was a
book made up of an infinite number of pictures, full of colour that any
child could appreciate, even though it had never learned to read. There
was the meadow beyond the hedgerow. It was full of herbs, bitter as well
as sweet. Could anyone doubt that these were the symbols of the Truth;
herbs for the healing of the nations, and if some of them were bitter to
the taste, were their curative properties the less on this account? Nay,
everyone knew that the bitterest herbs were oftentimes the most healing.
What a symbol of the Truth! It was not the dulcet truths that were
purifying to the soul of man, but the harsh and unpalatable.
“God do so to me and more also if ever I should become an unfaithful
physician and offer to the poor souls of men only those Truths that
taste sweet in their mouths and that smell grateful to their nostrils!”
he cried.
And he did not forget himself in the tumult of his thought upon his
message. He was not the physician who looked on himself as standing in
no need of healing.
“I have tasted of the bitter medicine myself and know what is its power.
Oh, may I be given grace to welcome it again should my soul stand in
need of it!”
A lark rose from the grass of the sloping meadow and began its ecstatic
song as it climbed its ærie ladder upward to the pure blue. He listened
to the quivering notes--a bubbling spring of melody babbling and
wimpling and gurgling and flitting and fluttering as it fell through the
sweet morning air.
“Oh, marvel of liquid melody!” cried the man, letting his eyes soar
with the soaring bird. “What is the message that is thine! What is that
message which fills thy heart with joy and sends thee soaring out of the
sight of man, enraptured to the sky? Is it a message from the sons of
men that thou bear-est to the heavens? Is it a message from Heaven that
thou sendest down to earth?”
A butterfly fluttered up from beyond the hedge, carrying with it the
delicate scent of unseen primroses. It hovered over the moss of the bank
for a moment and then allowed itself to be blown like a brown leaf in
the breeze in a fantastic course toward the group of harebells that made
a faint blue mist over a yard of meadow.
He watched its flight. The butterfly had once been taken as an emblem of
the immortality of the soul, he remembered. Was it right that it should
be thought such a symbol, he wondered. In latter years it was looked on
as an example of all that is fickle and frivolous. Was it possible that
the ancients saw more deeply into the heart of things--more deeply into
the spirit of these forms of Nature?
“Who can say what wise purpose of the Creator that gaudy insect may
fulfil in the course of its brief existence?” said he. “We know that
nothing had been made in vain. It may be that it flutters from flower to
flower under no impulse of its own, but guided by the Master of Nature,
whose great design would not be complete without its existence. That
which we in our ignorance regard as an emblem of all that is vain and
light may, in truth, be working out one of the gravest purposes of the
All Wise.”
He remained under the influence of this train of thought for some time.
Then his horse gave a little start that brought back his rider from the
realm into which he had been borne by his imagination. He caught up the
rein, slipped his feet into his stirrups, and perceived that it was the
fluttering dress of a girl, who had apparently sprung from the primrose
hollow beyond the hedge, that had startled the animal. It seemed that
the girl herself was also startled; she stood a dozen yards away, with
her lips parted, and gave signs of flight a moment before he recognised
her as one of the girls who had been at the Mill the night before--the
girl who had been the central figure in the game which his entrance had
interrupted.
“Another butterfly--another butterfly!” he said aloud, raising his hand
to salute Nelly Polwhele, who dropped him a curtsey with a faint reply
to his “Good-morning.”
He pushed his horse closer to her, saying:
“A fair morning to you, my child! You are not a slug-a-bed. Have you
come for the gathering of mushrooms or primroses? Not the latter; the
borders of the Mill stream must be strewn with them to-day.”
“I am on my way to my home, sir,” she replied. “I set out on my return
to the village an hour ago. I should be back in less than another--'tis
scarce four mile onward.”
“I remember that you told me you had come from Porthawn--my destination
also. I wished for a chat with you, but somehow we drifted a long
way from Porthawn--we drifted across the Atlantic and got lost in the
backwoods of America.”
“Ah, no, sir, not lost,” said the girl.
“I was a poor guide,” said he. “I have only had a glimpse of the
backwoods, and so could only lead you all a rood or two beyond their
fringes of maple. The true guide is one that hath been on every forest
track and can tell by the tinges on the tree trunk in what direction
his feet tend. What a pity 'tis, my dear, that we cannot be so guided
through this great tangled forest of life that we are travers-. ing now
on to the place of light that is far beyond--a place where there is no
darkness--a shelter but no shadow! There, you see, I begin to preach to
the first person whom I overtake. That is the way of the man who feels
laid upon him the command to preach.”
“It does not sound like preaching, sir,” said the girl. “I would not
tire listening to words like that.”
“That is how you know preaching from--well, from what is not preaching:
you tire of the one, not of the other?” said he, smiling down at her.
She hung her head. Somehow in the presence of this man all her readiness
of speech--sharpness of reply--seemed to vanish.
“I do not say that you have not made a very honest and a very excellent
attempt to convey to me what is the impression of many people,” he
resumed. “But there is a form of preaching of which you can never grow
weary. I have been listening to it since our good friend Hal Holmes
helped me to mount the horse that he had just shod.”
“Preaching, sir?” she said. “There are not many preachers hereabouts.
Parson Rodney gives us a good ten minutes on Sunday, but he does not
trouble us on week-days.”
“Doth his preaching trouble you on Sunday, child? If so, I think more
highly of your parson than I should be disposed to think, seeing that
I have heard nothing about him save that he is the best judge of
a game-cock in Cornwall. But the sermon that makes a listener feel
troubled in spirit is wholesome. Ah, never mind that. I tell you that
I have been listening to sermons all this lovely morning--the sermon of
that eminent preacher, the sun, to the exhortation of the fields, the
homily of the bursting flowers, the psalm of the soaring lark, the
parable of the butterfly. I was thinking upon the butterfly when you
appeared.”
“You are different from Parson Rodney, if it please you, sir.”
“It does please me, my child; but, indeed, I am sure that there are
worse parsons than those who take part in the homely sports of their
parish, rude though some of these sports may be. I wonder if your ears
are open to the speech--the divine music of such a morn as this.”
“I love the morning, sir--the smell of the flowers and the meadows--the
lilt of the birds.”
“You have felt that they bring gladness into our life? I knew that your
child's heart would respond to their language--they speak to the heart
of such as you. And for myself, my thought when I found myself drinking
in of all the sweet things in earth and air and sky--drinking of that
overflowing chalice which the morning offered to me--my thought--my
yearning was for such a voice as that which I heard come from everything
about me on this Spring morning. 'Oh, that a man might speak to men in
the language of this morn!' I cried.”
There was a long pause. His eyes were looking far away from her. He
seemed to forget that he was addressing anyone.
She, however, had not taken her eyes off his face. She saw the light
that came into it while he was speaking, and she was silent. It seemed
to her to speak just then would have been as unseemly as to interrupt at
one's prayers.
But in another moment he was looking at her.
“You surely are one of the sweet and innocent things of this dewy morn,”
said he. “And surely you live as do they to the glory of God. Surely you
were meant to join in creation's hymn of glory to the Creator!”
She bent her head and then shook it.
“Nay,” said he, “you will not be the sole creature to remain dumb while
the Creator is revealing Himself in the reanimation of His world after
the dark days of Winter, when the icy finger which touched everything
seemed to be the finger of Death!”
His voice had not the inflection of a preacher's. She did not feel as if
he were reading her a homily that needed no answer.
But what answer could she make? She was, indeed, so much a part of the
things of Nature that, like them, she could only utter what was in
her heart. And what was in her heart except a consciousness of her own
unworthiness?
“Ah, sir,” she murmured, “only last night had I for the first time a
sense of what I should be.”
His face lit up again when she spoke. His hands clasped, mechanically as
it seemed.
“I knew it,” he said in a low voice, turning away his head. “I was
assured of it. When my horse cast his shoe I felt that it was no
mischance. I heard the voice of a little child calling to me through the
night. No doubt crossed my mind. I thank Thee--I thank Thee abundantly,
O my Master!”
Then he turned to Nelly, saying:
“Child, my child, we are going the same way. Will you give me permission
to walk by your side for the sake of company?”
“Nay, sir, will not you be weary a-walking?” she said. “'Tis a good
three mile to the Port, and the road is rough when we leave the valley.”
“Three miles are not much,” said he, dismounting. “The distance will
seem as nothing when we begin to talk.”
“Indeed that is so, sir,” said she. “Last night fled on wings while you
were telling us the story of the backwoods.”
“It fled so fast that I had no time to fulfil my promise to ask you
about your friends at Port-hawn,” said he. “That is why I am glad of
the opportunity offered to me this morning. I am anxious to become
acquainted with all sorts and conditions of people. Now, if I were to
meet one of your neighbours to-day I should start conversation by asking
him about you. But is there any reason why you should not tell me about
yourself?”
She laughed, as they set out together, Mr. Wesley looping his horse's
bridle over his arm.
“There is naught to be told about myself, sir; I am only the daughter of
a fisherman at Porthawn. I am the least important person in the world.”
“'Tis not safe, my child, to assign relative degrees of importance to
people whom we meet,” said he. “The most seemingly insignificant is very
precious in the sight of the Master. Who can say that the humblest of
men or women may not be called upon some day to fulfil a great purpose?
Have you read history? A very little knowledge of history will be enough
to bear out what I say. When the Master calls He does not restrict
Himself to the important folk; He says to the humblest,
'Follow Me and do My work--the work for which I have chosen thee.' God
forbid that I should look on any of God's creatures as of no account.
What is in my thought just now is this: How does it come that you, who
are, as you have told me, the daughter of a fisherman in a small village
far removed from any large city--how does it come that you speak as a
person of education and some refinement? Should I be right to assume
that all the folk at your village are as you in speech and bearing?”
The little flush of vanity that came to her face when he had put his
question to her lasted but a few seconds.
She shook her head.
“I have had such advantages--I do not know if you would look on them
as advantages, sir; but the truth is that the Squire's lady and her
daughters, have been kind to me. My father did the Squire a service a
long time ago. His son, Master Anthony, was carried out to sea in his
pleasure boat and there was a great gale. My father was the only man who
ventured forth at the risk of his life to save the young gentleman, and
he saved him. They were two days in the channel in an open boat, and
my father was well-nigh dead himself through exhaustion. But the young
squire was brought back without hurt. The Squire and his lady never
forgot that service. My father was given money to carry out the plans
that he had long cherished of making the port the foremost one for
fishing on our coast, and the ladies had me taught by their own
governess, so that I was at the Court well nigh every day. I know not
whether or not it was a real kindness.”
“It was no real kindness if you were thereby made discontented with your
home and your friends.”
“Yes, Mr. Wesley; that is just what came about. I thought myself a deal
better than anyone in the village--nay, than my own father and mother.
I had a scorn of those of my neighbours who were ignorant of books and
music and the working of embroidery, and other things that I learned
with the young ladies. I was unhappy myself, and I knew that I made
others unhappy.”
“Ah, such things have happened before. But you seemed on good terms with
the miller's family and the others who supped last evening at the Mill.
And did not you walk all the way from your village carrying that heavy
fish for their entertainment?--our entertainment, I may say, for I was
benefited with the others.”
The girl turned her head away; she seemed somewhat disturbed in her
mind. She did not reply at once, and it was in a low voice that she said:
“A year ago I--I--was brought to see that--that--I cannot tell you
exactly how it came about, sir; 'tis enough for me to say that something
happened that made me feel I was at heart no different from my own folk,
though I had played the organ at church many times when Mr. Havlings was
sick and though the young ladies made much of me.”
Mr. Wesley did not smile. He was greatly interested in the story which
the girl had told to him. Had she told him only the first part he
would have been able to supply the sequel out of his own experience and
knowledge of life. Here was this girl, possessing the charms of youth
and vivacity, indiscreetly educated, as people would say, “above her
station,” and without an opportunity of mingling on equal terms with
any except her own people--how should she be otherwise than dissatisfied
with her life? How could she fail to make herself disagreeable to the
homely, unambitious folk with whom she was forced to associate?
He had too much delicacy to ask her how it was that she had been brought
to see the mistake that she had made in thinking slightingly of her
own kin who remained in ignorance of the accomplishments which she
had acquired? He had no difficulty in supplying the details which she
omitted. He could see this poor, unhappy girl being so carried away by
a sense of her own superiority to her natural surroundings as to presume
upon the good nature of her patrons, the result being humiliation to
herself.
“I sympathise with you with all my heart, dear child,” he said. “But the
lesson which you have had is the most important in your education--the
most important in the strengthening of your character, making you see,
I doubt not, that the simple virtues are worthy of being held in far
higher esteem than the mere graces of life. Your father would shake his
head over a boat that was beautifully painted and gilded from stem to
stern. Would he be satisfied, do you think, to go to sea in such a craft
on the strength of its gold leaf? Would he not first satisfy himself
that the painted timbers were made of stout wood? 'Tis not the paint
or the gilding that makes a trustworthy boat, but the timber that is
beneath. So it is not education nor graceful accomplishments that
are most valuable to a man or woman, but integrity, steadfastness of
purpose, content These are the virtues that tend to happiness. Above
all, the most highly cultivated man or woman is he or she that has
cultivated simplicity. I thank you for telling me your story in answer
to my enquiry. And now that you have satisfied my curiosity on this
point, it may be that you will go so far as to let me know why it was
that you were filling the room in the Mill with shrieks last evening
when I entered.”