SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
“As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee.”
“What a vision of beauty!”
Such was the exclamation of Amabel, as for the first time she looked upon
the deep blue Mediterranean.
The sun was just about to hide himself below the rim of the boundless
mirror‐like expanse of water, as the newly wedded pair seated themselves
upon one of the house‐tops of Cæsarea.
Their journey from Jerusalem had been taken by easy stages, and two hours
before they had arrived at the new seaport which had been built by Herod
the Great, and named for his imperial master at Rome.
Here, where threescore years before there had been but an insignificant
fishing‐town with no harbor, now stood the imposing capital of Judea, with
a commerce of no mean proportions. Besides the spacious and pretentious
Herodian palace, there was a temple dedicated to the “divine Cæsar,” a
theatre, amphitheatre, and other public buildings, which gave it the
aspect of a metropolis. The harbor had been artificially constructed at
enormous expense by Roman skill and enterprise under Herod’s direction. He
caused immense blocks of stone to be brought from a long distance, and
sunk to the depth of twenty fathoms, forming a semi‐circular mole,
protected from the south and west, with a narrow entrance on the north,
within which ships could find secure anchorage and refuge.
The strong hand of Rome reached out in every direction during the days of
her imperial greatness, and her works, marvellous in their extent and
solidity, reached almost to the “ends of the earth.” Far outlasting the
conquests of her panoplied legions and the sweep of her civil authority,
her massive bridges, roads, harbors, palaces, and towers formed enduring
monuments of a material greatness, unique in human history. What might she
not have accomplished had not corruption, sensuality, and cruelty, like
gnawing worms, eaten out her very heart and life, leaving her a gilded
sepulchre?
Absorbed by the picturesque charm and unwonted variety of the scenery
about them, Serenus and Amabel sat for some time silent, while feasting
their souls upon its richness. Behind them, to the north and east, were
the green, wide‐stretching slopes of Mount Carmel, with vineyards and
olive‐groves, softened by a purple haze which seemed like a mystical
benediction—the parting gift of day.
The endless expanse of the great sea before them was so calm in its
unruffled peacefulness that it seemed to be sleeping upon the bosom of the
Infinite. The warm and dreamy atmosphere was laden with the perfume of
gardens, which skirted the shore and climbed the hill‐sides, while their
dark green foliage, with blossoms of many hues, was reflected with a
gentle quiver in the neighboring deeps. The inspiration of the scene
justified the feeling that God dwells with and in men, and that his Spirit
and Life shine through all material things, even though unrecognized, save
by those whose eyes have been opened to the higher and deeper vision of
the Real.
A few fishermen were lazily rowing their light craft homeward, while
others, who had already landed, were hanging their nets upon the cliffs to
dry. In the distance the shrill tones of the shepherd’s pipe calling his
flock, the varying vibrations of bird‐notes, and the hum of insects,
rounded out the delicious harmony of sound and sight. At length the sun
disappeared, and the radiant afterglow seemed to transform the sea into a
great pearl, whose ever‐changing opalescence gradually deepened as evening
drew on.
“How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures; nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full‐orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths;
Beneath her steady ray
The desert circle spreads
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!”
Serenus aroused himself from deep contemplation.
“Behold, O Amabel! what we see is but an unrolled parchment inscribed with
living characters for our translation. The voice of God through his works
is even more direct than that which cometh through the mouths of
patriarchs and prophets. Saith the sweet singer of Israel,—
‘Day unto day uttereth speech,
And night unto night sheweth knowledge.’”
“But, O Serenus! who is wise enough to give it interpretation? What sayest
thou of the Greeks, who worship Nature, and vainly imagine that they hear
her many voices? Are they not corrupt and deluded?”
“The Grecian pantheism is not a communion with and aspiration after God,
who is beneficent and universal, but rather an homage paid to blind,
discordant, and warring forces, which are but the reflection of the lower
and sensuous thoughts of the worshipper. The love of the beautiful in the
Greek is a wholesome element in itself, but it is concerned mainly with
appearances, rather than with the divine love which is articulated through
them. Outward forms are but shadows, and he who doth not look through and
beyond them is unable to translate their low, sweet language.”
“Canst thou teach thy willing disciple why the same Nature exalteth some,
while others find no pleasure even in scenes like this?”
“Dear Amabel! it may be likened unto a great mirror, in which one seeth
the qualities of his own thought and soul reflected. To the cruel, Nature
is pitiless, and even malignant; to the sorrowing, she is sad; and to the
joyful, a delight. Even though the base may see some comeliness in her
graceful forms, yet in spirit and character she is to every one whatsoever
he maketh her.”
“How can that be?”
“Behold, every man giveth color to things without, by the manner of his
thought concerning them. To the good, all things are good, and to the
pure, all things are pure. We gradually transform them by a transformation
in ourselves, and such an inward growth may be compassed in an orderly
manner with assurance.”
“But worldly wisdom hath not discerned this hidden path.”
“Verily it hath not! But it will be our delight to help in spreading this
truth, and to enlighten darkened minds, as effectual doors are opened unto
us. As you have learned also, the bodily tabernacle may be lifted from
vexatious conditions so that it may render reasonable and pleasing service
through the renewing of the mind.”
“Light of my life! truly the understanding of these things is above the
price of rubies!”
“Thou speakest wisely, dear Amabel! Its very nearness causeth it to be
veiled from the logic and learning of the schools. They look only with the
eyes of outward observation and are moved by ‘lo here,’ and ‘lo there,’
having no light within. The creative power of high thoughts and divine
ideals hath not been discovered by them. God in Nature is the Universal
Life, and in man, the Son and Brother,—the Christ!”
“How beautiful! Did the prophet of Nazareth teach these things?”
“Yea, verily; to him Nature was transparent. The lilies of the field and
the fowls of the air furnished him with lessons to men, and the childlike
spirit of little ones was interpreted and likened to the kingdom of
heaven. His judgment had to do with the thoughts and intents of the heart
rather than with outward appearances and observances. He saw God’s image
in himself. Other men have it in the inmost, but ignorantly cover it with
vain and delusive imaginings. They will continue to be self‐deceived so
long as they behold their bodies as themselves. They who dwell in
appearances cannot discern the Spirit. Some of the ancient prophets and
poets saw God everywhere; but of this generation, both Jew and Gentile
only feel him in special temples and synagogues, and at set times and
seasons.”
“But, O Serenus! if all forces and lives are a part of the one and
universal life of God, whence cometh tempests and lightnings and floods?”
“The lack of a spiritual self‐consciousness, and the mistaken feeling that
our seen forms are our real selves, make such things seem evil. They are
but the labor and travail of Nature, and with our spiritual growth their
terrors will disappear. At length we shall learn their laws, and make them
our willing servants. This would be so now, were we not, ignorantly,
slaves of the seen!”
“Hast thou attained unto all that thou makest known unto me?”
“No one can fully separate himself from his day and generation, even
though the spiritual pattern be truly discerned. We have not overcome, but
are overcoming. The Ideal is the inmost Real, but no one save Jesus of
Nazareth hath made it fully manifest. We press forward toward the Christly
mind as shown through him, and can count as already ours that measure of
spiritual stature which filleth our desire.”
“Whence hast thou this wisdom, which my father, the famous teacher and
Rabban, never found?”
“It cometh not through scholastic excellence and the logic of the head,
but by simple openness to the Spirit of Truth. The power of God‐likeness
groweth through the earnest desire of at‐one‐ment, rather than by a
reasoning philosophy concerning it.”
“Behold, as thy disciple, I now perceive how one may be in the seen and
yet of the unseen!”
“They are one; yet the outer is only an aspect of the living realities
which repose behind it.”
“O my dear husband and teacher!” exclaimed Amabel with delight; “Nature
will be more beautiful than ever before, because I feel its spirit, and
behold it as a visible revelation.”
“Yea, bride of my heart! Love is everywhere written in living characters!
Our deeper vision must be open to read them!”
The shadows of evening were thickening, and the happy pair reluctantly
bade adieu to their delectable vision upon the house‐top, and descended
again to mingle with their kind, and minister to human necessity.
Serenus had expected to find some vessel at Cæsarea bound directly for
Italy, which would land at Puteoli or Brundusium, from either of which
ports the journey to Rome would be made by land. But upon ascertaining
that there was no immediate prospect for such an opportunity, and that the
Salapiæ, a merchantman of good repute, was already laden for Tarsus, and
to sail on the following day, he decided to embark for the Cilician
capital. They would remain there for a time, until they were minded to
take the rest of the proposed journey.
Tarsus, being a great metropolis, the seat of important schools of
learning, and the meeting‐place of many peoples and races, might prove a
fertile field for sowing the seed of the New Faith. Amabel entered
heartily into the plan. Though the birthplace of Saulus, it was beyond the
reach of the Judean persecutions.
The Salapiæ was a Phœnician vessel, commanded by a Roman named Vivian, of
favorable reputation and experience. She was staunch and large, having a
tonnage of about eight hundred tons, and rigged after the Phœnician
pattern, with a ponderous mast carrying a very large mainsail upon a long
yard. A much smaller triangular foresail was rigged upon a bowsprit, which
projected over the stem of the vessel forward. She carried various carved
images and symbols designed to insure the favor of the gods, including a
finely wrought Grecian statue of a favorite goddess, which was placed upon
the stem‐post at the bow.
The hour for setting sail arrived, and everything betokened a prosperous
voyage. The decks were noisy with the final bustle of preparation, and
with much effort the heavy anchors were weighed and secured in their
places. A light favoring breeze was blowing from the south, and at length
a lusty command rang out to “hoist all sail;” and soon the canvas began to
fill, and the good ship drew steadily away upon her northward course.
Serenus and Amabel stood upon the upper deck, and with mingled emotions
looked back upon the picturesque shore of Samaria which was slowly
receding. Though exiles from the Holy City, the world was before them, and
they were happy. Without the enjoyment of freedom of soul, even native
land was but a prison.
The day wore away, the white towers and roofs of Cæsarea faded from sight,
and the bold range of Mount Carmel, which formed the rim of the eastern
horizon, grew dim and distant.
The voyage was pleasant and uneventful, and upon the fourth day they made
the harbor of Salamis on the eastern end of the island of Cyprus, where
vessels from the south usually touched on the way to Tarsus. This was a
large commercial city, made especially conspicuous by its important temple
of the Salaminian Jupiter. Beyond the temple and city was a rich plain,
encircled by hills, and watered by the abundant streams of Pediæus. As in
other cities where the Jews of the Dispersion had settled, there were
several synagogues. During the day, over which the Salapiæ remained,
Serenus visited two or three of them, making known the New Faith, and
restoring some sick‐folk through the orderly working of the divine power
within him. He was cordially received by the more liberal of the
Hellenistic Jews, and they were sorrowful at his departure.
Early the next morning the Salapiæ again set sail, and it was expected
that, with favoring winds, Tarsus would be reached on the third day.
Everything went well until after they had rounded the point of the
promontory of Dinaretum, at the northeastern extremity of the island, when
with almost no warning, the vessel was suddenly struck by a tempest of
great violence, throwing her nearly upon her beam‐ends. It came with so
little premonition that the sailors had barely begun to lower the great
clumsy mainsail when it was rent in twain by the force of the wind. This
eased the vessel except for a list to the leeward, caused by the shifting
of the cargo. Shrieks, cries, imprecations, and prayers to the gods were
mingled with the roar of the storm. So great was the panic that the master
found it difficult to maintain any semblance of order among a crew which
was made up of a mixture of different races and tongues.
The air was thick with blinding spray, and the stricken ship, like a
wounded animal, staggered onward, laboring and straining in the boiling
sea. Heavy waves washed the decks, and the soaking mass of shattered
canvas swung to and fro, its tattered shreds no longer resisting the wind,
which howled through them with a thunderous roar.
“By Hercules!” quoth master Vivian; “if it _must_ come, the gods were
merciful in rending the sail, else she would have foundered at the first
stroke!”
The tempest was not an “Elisian,” as certain gales from the northwest were
designated in the Levant, but blew from the southeast, from which quarter
it finally settled into a steady gale.
The immediate danger seemed to be past.
The remnants of the mainsail were gradually cleared away, and the Salapiæ
scudded before the wind, under bare poles, with the exception of the
closely reefed foresail, which somewhat steadied her. After the decks were
cleared of rubbish, all hands were put to work to right the cargo, which
was done with great difficulty. The hoarse roar of the gale continued
unbroken. It came from a little to the east of south, which was in a
direction to drive them directly toward their destination, and there was
plenty of sea room which was much in their favor. For their escape the
gods were thanked in various tongues, libations poured, and the commotion,
which had been so noisy, was quieted.
But anon a cry came up from the lower hold that the Salapiæ was leaking.
The first terrible strain of the great mainmast had opened some of the
seams, and they were taking water. Once more there was despair upon the
faces of the bravest‐hearted sailors. The gods of all grades were again
invoked, and vows renewed. But the master believed in works as well as
petitions.
“Bring out the cables!” he cried. “She must be undergirded!”
With great labor a cable was slipped down over the bow, being held from
each side, and passed under and back until it encircled the hull
amidships, and then another, and both were strained and fastened as snugly
as possible over the deck. It was a vain effort. If it prevented a further
opening, it did not stop the leak. The pumps were put in motion with
frequent relays.
Soon the eventful day came to an end, and the darkness of night closed
around them. The bellowing wind held from the same quarter with no
diminution, and the speed, even with little canvas spread, was rapid. If
the leak gained upon the pumps, the only safety lay in making Tarsus, and
therefore the small amount of sail was then increased as much as it would
bear, and the Salapiæ swept on before the wind.
Amidst all the confusion of tongues and conflict of elements, Serenus
remained calm and unmoved. Amabel was at first disturbed, but after some
reassuring words from her husband, she remained quietly in the cabin,
performing such little services for the overworked and panic‐stricken
sailors as were possible for the delicate hands of a woman. A part of the
time Serenus was at her side, and at intervals he went out upon deck to
speak words of encouragement to officers and men.
The master sent the second officer below to make reports concerning the
progress of the leak. There was intense anxiety to learn whether the
Salapiæ were settling, or if the pumps were equal to the inflow.
“Two cubita,” came up in hollow but distinct tones from below.
An hour then wearily passed, with the relay at the pumps doing their
utmost.
“Two cubita and one‐eighth!”
As the report came to his ear through a small aperture from below, the
face of Vivian lost color; but despite the news he went over to the pumps
and gave words of encouragement to the workers.
“By the Salaminian Jupiter, we shall win!” said he; and then passing
along, he ordered a part of the crew to begin at once to throw the cargo
overboard. He said nothing of the report from below, but the significance
of the last order was understood by all. Over the slippery, reeling decks
they began with a will to unload the Salapiæ.
They were still swept along with unabated speed. The few dim, moving
lanterns, like fireflies in the blackness, seemed to make the night
thicker. The shrill creaking of the pumps sounded like ominous groans of
prophetic woe as it rose above the steady, deep bellowing of the gale.
Another hour dragged itself slowly by.
“Two cubita and a quarter!”
The night had hardly begun.
Their former enemy, the wind, now gave them the most hope. But if it held,
they could not hope to reach Tarsus before the morning of the third day
from Salamis.
It was a race!
Which would win? the leak or the pumps?
The cool self‐possession of Serenus greatly impressed Vivian, and the
master, recognizing him as a man of uncommon character, confided to him
the true state of affairs.
Serenus was silent for a moment, and then replied,—
“With your leave, I would speak briefly with you again in two hours.”
“As you will,” he replied, hardly knowing what he said, and thinking the
request of little importance.
Serenus returned to the cabin, and seated himself by Amabel’s side, taking
her hand in his own.
“Bride of my heart! the Salapiæ is in some peril! Art thou repentant that
thou left thy father’s house?”
“Nay, my husband! Whatever may betide, I am joyfully with thee! But for
thee my life would have gone out before. Thou hast taught me that all
things work together for the best for such as have faith. I believe it!
Even if our _bodies_ sink in the tumultuous sea, _we_ will go on hand in
hand, on missions of love and mercy!”
“God bless thee, dear Amabel! The growth in thy spiritual consciousness
hath been marvellously quick and steadfast!”
A gentle smile and a warm pressure of his hand were her answer.
“And now, dear Amabel! I would spend a little season alone. Peradventure
some light may come to me concerning this present trial, its meaning and
conclusion.”
“Light of my life! may thou be truly exalted in the silence.”
Amabel remained in the cabin, while Serenus retired to their little room
and closed the door.
The gift to lift the curtain which veils the future, in varying degree,
has come to a rare soul, here and there, in all ages. But more properly it
is not a favor, specially bestowed from without, but a supernal attainment
_within_,—an unwonted spiritual altitude. The prophetic instinct lies
deeply embedded in the soul of man, but few there be who can strip away
the thick coverings of sense, so as to read the direction of the delicate
needle of the spiritual compass. Such a power is no miracle in the sense
of a change or improved action on the part of the Unchangeable Perfection,
but an orderly lifting of the soul into a close communion with It,—the
Divine Mind. Through spiritual law, steadfast in its regularity,—of which
the world at large has yet had but fitful glimpses,—events not only
distant, but of the future, are clearly laid open to highly attuned souls.
History, both ancient and modern, is marked with such demonstrations of
the potency of a higher law. They are crowning‐points of light, like the
few widely separated stars of great magnitude in the black firmament of
night.
There is a psychical unfoldment without its proportionate spiritual
counterpart, and there is a possible reverse order; but it is the supreme
and rounded combination of _both_ which makes the true prophet.
Such was Victor Serenus.
He was in the little room alone—no, not alone. It was his to climb the
Mount of Transfiguration, and gain a view from its summit.
* * * * * * * * * *
The great turbulent waves broke upon the Salapiæ, making her quiver in
every timber—but he felt it not! The howling of the wind, groaning of the
hard‐pressed pumps, and a Babel of voices rent the air—but he heard them
not. The peril which threatened every soul on board steadily increased—but
he knew it not. His animate form reclined in the little room, but _he_ was
not there.
The embrace of the Infinite was about him!
* * * * * * * * * *
As man reckons the time of the eternal now, nearly two hours passed, when
the door opened, and Serenus made his appearance.