"But I have a greater wonder yet to tell you of our jewel—the greatest
wonder of all; and this you must take at my word. The light and glory
of this gem is entirely reflected from a jewel of the same kind, but
infinitely more glorious, which sparkles on the King's own heart.
When I raise this gem to my eyes, and look through it," he added in a
tone which thrilled with the deepest emotion, raising it at the same
time like a telescope to his eyes, "this country vanishes from me
altogether, and I see wonders."
"What do you see?" I asked, half trembling.
"I see the King in his beauty," he replied. "I see the land which
is very far-off. I see a city which has no need of the sun. I see a
palace where his servants serve him. I see a throne which is as jasper,
and, above it, a rainbow like an emerald; and, above all I see, I see
him, with the jewel on his heart; but his jewel is no mere gem, no
reflection—it is a star, it is light itself; and in its richness the
city, the palace, and the throne, and the happy faces of his servants
round him, glow and shine."
And as he spoke, I looked at the old man's jewel, and his countenance
itself grew so glorious, that I could not gaze any longer, but cast
down my dazzled eyes, and was silent. At length, after a pause of
some moments, my eagerness to hear more constrained me to resume the
conversation. And when I looked up, the jewel was again hidden in the
old man's breast, his appearance had taken its soberer beauty, and the
presence of that marvellous treasure was only betrayed by the strange
calm and peace which had first attracted me in the veteran's face.
"But," I asked, "if such a possession indeed is yours, the wonder now
seems to me to be, how the King's enemies can have a follower left.
Have your opponents any similar reward to offer?"
"Similar things," he replied, "they at one time often tried to make,
but the same they could never have; and even to imitate the outside
beauty of it, they found so difficult, that the soberest men of the
party have, for the most part, given it up in despair, and say it is
all a cheat."
"But why, at least, does not each one try for himself," I asked, "and
see if it is true or not?"
"There are many reasons," he replied, sorrowfully, "which keep the
land from returning nationally to its allegiance. The usurper is still
in power, and gives away the offices of state as he pleases; bonds
and imprisonments often await us, as you see is the case with me; and
many prefer the possession of lands and houses, or even less, to the
reversion of a city, and the service of a prince they have never seen."
"I understand," I replied.
"Besides," he added, "there are strict rules binding our order. The
people of the usurper do each what is right in his own eyes; but we
are subject to our Prince's laws, which, though most blessed to those
who keep them, seem to those who are outside, and live lawlessly,
severe and strict. We are subject to our Prince, and to one another for
his sake; and only those who have proved the joy of that subjection
and service know how much happier it is than the tyranny of their
lawlessness and self-will."
"What are those counterfeit jewels you alluded to?" I asked.
"They are of various construction," he replied; "some try to imitate
one quality of our jewel, and some another. Some of the court jewellers
of the usurper make a paste or tinsel jewel, which, when the sun
shines, has a lustre a little like that of ours. The young courtiers
often wear this; but when the sun is clouded or sets, it ceases to
shine, so that even its outward resemblance is very imperfect, and it
does not even pretend to imitate the secret of the fountain or the
magic glass. And, moreover, it can be stolen or broken: often, even in
the courtly revels, it is broken; often it is stolen or dropped, and,
even if it is retained, in a few years the lustre fades away and can
never be restored.
"Then," he continued, "some made a bold effort to imitate our jewel in
its form of the crystal vase, but the crystal itself is dim. And for
the living fountain, they have never been able to substitute anything
but a fiery liquid, needing constantly to be replenished, and, in
reality, only increasing the thirst it professes to still, until it
becomes a burning, consuming inward fever. But as they have never
tasted of our water, the wretched deluded ones persist in saying theirs
is the true."
"And the telescope?" I inquired—"The magic glass?"
"The telescope," he replied, with a smile, which had no mockery, but
much sadness in it—"the magic glass they have never even attempted
to imitate; and, therefore, as none can ever look through it but its
possessor, they say it is a lie and a cheat. And our persisting in
declaring what it really is, is the source of many of our sufferings.
For this, we are thrown into madhouses and prisons, and led to the
scaffold and the stake."