It was needful that I should learn the meaning of that text, "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth."Since I have been taught in the school of trial I have felt, as Inever could before, how precious an inheritance is the smallest patrimony of faith.When everything seemed gone from me, I found Ihad still one possession.The bruised reed that I had never leaned on became my staff.The smoking flax which had been a worry to my eyes burst into flame, and I lighted the taper at it which has since guided all my footsteps.And I am but one of the thousands who have had the same experience.They have been through the depths of affliction, and know the needs of the human soul.It will find its God in the unseen,--Father, Saviour, Divine Spirit, Virgin Mother, it must and will breathe its longings and its griefs into the heart of a Being capable of understanding all its necessities and sympathizing with all its woes.
I am jealous, yes, I own I am jealous of any word, spoken or written, that would tend to impair that birthright of reverence which becomes for so many in after years the basis of a deeper religious sentiment.
And yet, as I have said, I cannot and will not shut my eyes to the problems which may seriously affect our modes of conceiving the eternal truths on which, and by which, our souls must live.What a fearful time is this into which we poor sensitive and timid creatures are born! I suppose the life of every century has more or less special resemblance to that of some particular Apostle.I cannot help thinking this century has Thomas for its model.How do you suppose the other Apostles felt when that experimental philosopher explored the wounds of the Being who to them was divine with his inquisitive forefinger? In our time that finger has multiplied itself into ten thousand thousand implements of research, challenging all mysteries, weighing the world as in a balance, and sifting through its prisms and spectroscopes the light that comes from the throne of the Eternal.
Pity us, dear Lord, pity us! The peace in believing which belonged to other ages is not for us.Again Thy wounds are opened that we may know whether it is the blood of one like ourselves which flows from them, or whether it is a Divinity that is bleeding for His creatures.
Wilt Thou not take the doubt of Thy children whom the time commands to try all things in the place of the unquestioning faith of earlier and simpler-hearted generations? We too have need of Thee.Thy martyrs in other ages were cast into the flames, but no fire could touch their immortal and indestructible faith.We sit in safety and in peace, so far as these poor bodies are concerned; but our cherished beliefs, the hopes, the trust that stayed the hearts of those we loved who have gone before us, are cast into the fiery furnace of an age which is fast turning to dross the certainties and the sanctities once prized as our most precious inheritance.
You will understand me, my dear sir, and all my solicitudes and apprehensions.Had I never been assailed by the questions that meet all thinking persons in our time, I might not have thought so anxiously about the risk of perplexing others.I know as well as you must that there are many articles of belief clinging to the skirts of our time which are the bequests of the ages of ignorance that God winked at.But for all that I would train a child in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, according to the simplest and best creed Icould disentangle from those barbarisms, and I would in every way try to keep up in young persons that standard of reverence for all sacred subjects which may, without any violent transition, grow and ripen into the devotion of later years.Believe me, Very sincerely yours,I have thought a good deal about this letter and the writer of it lately.She seemed at first removed to a distance from all of us, but here I find myself in somewhat near relations with her.What has surprised me more than that, however, is to find that she is becoming so much acquainted with the Register of Deeds.Of all persons in the world, I should least have thought of him as like to be interested in her, and still less, if possible, of her fancying him.I can only say they have been in pretty close conversation several times of late, and, if I dared to think it of so very calm and dignified a personage, I should say that her color was a little heightened after one or more of these interviews.No! that would be too absurd! But I begin to think nothing is absurd in the matter of the relations of the two sexes; and if this high-bred woman fancies the attentions of a piece of human machinery like this elderly individual, it is none of my business.
I have been at work on some more of the Young Astronomer's lines.Ifind less occasion for meddling with them as he grows more used to versification.I think I could analyze the processes going on in his mind, and the conflict of instincts which he cannot in the nature of things understand.But it is as well to give the reader a chance to find out for himself what is going on in the young man's heart and intellect.
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
III
The snows that glittered on the disk of Mars Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb Rolls in the crimson summer of its year;But what to me the summer or the snow Of worlds that throb with life in forms unknown, If life indeed be theirs; I heed not these.
My heart is simply human; all my care For them whose dust is fashioned like mine own;These ache with cold and hunger, live in pain, And shake with fear of worlds more full of woe;There may be others worthier of my love, But such I know not save through these I know.
There are two veils of language, hid beneath Whose sheltering folds, we dare to be ourselves;And not that other self which nods and smiles And babbles in our name; the one is Prayer, Lending its licensed freedom to the tongue That tells our sorrows and our sins to Heaven;The other, Verse, that throws its spangled web Around our naked speech and makes it bold.
