Chapter II: Part 2

"In us a well of water springing up," he murmured, as if to himself, as he drank and was refreshed. And touching the vase again, it folded up, like a convolvulus going to sleep when the sun sets.

I wondered he had not had the courtesy to offer me a draught.

He read my thoughts, and said, "This water is untransferable. Each of us must have his own jewel."

"Then," I replied, "if your Prince left those jewels to you at his departure, and has not returned since, how can his followers have increased, if this token is essential to them, and, indeed, as you intimated, an inducement to many to enlist under his banner?"

"It is free to all, and yet a secret," he replied. "Whenever any one desires to enlist in our Prince's service, he must repair alone, before daybreak, to a lonely beach on our shores, and wait there for what the King will send. There, when the sun rises, not always the first morning, or the second, or the third, but always at last, his first rays gleam on a new jewel, exactly like the others, sparkling among the shells and pebbles. The young soldier takes it up, presses it to his lips, murmurs the name written on it, binds it on his heart, and it is his own, and he is the King's for ever. None ever saw it come, though some fancy they have seen a streak of light on the sea when it first appears, as of the track of an illumination out on the waters."

"'What name is engraved on it?" I asked.

"The King's name," he replied, bowing his head reverently.

"May I see it," I said.

"You could not," he replied, gravely. "None of us can read that name, except on our own jewels."

I was silent for a moment.

He continued—

"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."

After a brief pause, he resumed—

"The wise men and statesmen of the usurper's party now, however, for the most part, take an entirely different method. They discourage all these counterfeits, which they say are paying a most undeserved compliment to us. They say our jewels are mere sham and tinsel; that the light they shed exists only in the fancy of the spectators; that the living water is nothing but a mirage; and that the visions we see through the telescope are simply a lie. They affect to despise us too much to punish us; and if they persecute us at all, it is simply by contemptuously shutting us up in asylums as enthusiasts—harmless, unless we mislead others.

"It is only a few of the most inveterate, such as myself; who may succeed in bringing over too many to the side of our King, that they occasionally make examples of, to sober the rest. But it is all entirely useless," he added, very joyfully; "the King's followers increase, his cause is gaining ground, and," he added, with a subdued voice, "the King himself is coming."

"Is it really true," I asked, after a time, "that nothing, or no man, can rob you of this treasure?"

"Our treasure no man taketh from us," he replied. "This he gave us, this he left with us: not as the world giveth, gave he unto us."

"But can nothing you yourselves do, or omit to do, spoil or dim your jewel?" I resumed.

His brow saddened.

"Alas! There and there only have our enemies any real strength against us," he replied. "Sorrows only add to its lustre; in the loss of everything else it only shines the brighter; hunger and thirst but prove the unfailing nature of the fountain in the crystal vase; destitution and darkness, dungeons and tortures, only make the bright visions of our telescope more glorious; but we, we ourselves may indeed dim its lustre, or, if we will, yield it up altogether."

"All this is natural and comprehensible," I said. "The dungeon must make the jewel brighter; the drought, the unfailing spring more precious; the narrowing of all prospects here, enhance the visions of that magic glass; the cruelties of the usurper, endear the sight of the Prince you serve."

"This the wisest of our enemies have found out," the old man replied. "They find that nothing they can do harms us, but only what they can make us do ourselves; and to this they direct their efforts."

"In what way?" I inquired.

"In many ways," he answered, sadly. "The jewel, which nothing external can dim, is sensitive to the least change in us. Any infringement of our King's laws, or, especially, any unfaithfulness to our King, dims its lustre at once; any drinking of these forbidden cups of intoxication dries up the crystal fountain; any yielding to the usurper's service blots out from our magic glass its glorious visions, and the sight of our King in his beauty."

"Are there any other dangers?" I inquired.

"Countless dangers," he replied. "Especially three devices have been found too successful against us. Our jewel only keeps bright with use, and in three ways our enemies endeavour to deter us from using it. The timid they threaten, and induce to hide it from fear: and the cowardly concealing of our treasure inflicts on us two evils: it prevents our winning by it fresh followers to our Prince; and in concealment the jewel itself invariably grows dim. The young and careless they engage in the ambitious pursuits or the gay amusements of the court, until they forget to use the precious gem, and in ceasing to use it, they necessarily cease to shine with its light, and grow like any of the usurper's train.

"And again, there are some poor, and distrusting, and fearful ones, whom our enemies persuade that it is a daring presumption for such as they to pretend they have had especial communication with the King, and even at times torment them into thinking the King's own jewel tinsel. So that, in looking and looking to see if it is a true jewel, they forget to clasp it on their hearts, or drink the living water, or look through the magic glass."

"That is a strange delusion," I remarked.

"Yes," he said; "but it is easily cured, if once we can persuade them to look through the jewel instead of looking at it; for then they see the King with the jewel on his breast, and the smile in his eyes, and their doubts melt away in floods of happy tears.

"This I know," he added, "for I was once one of these. I had neglected to use my jewel; and then an enemy, in the guise of a friend, persuaded me to question its genuineness; but I ventured to look through it once again, and since then, I do not look at my jewel, but gaze through it to the King's heart; and from that day, my jewel has not grown dim."

"But you spoke of some who lost it altogether," I said.

"They are those," he said, solemnly, "who have deliberately yielded it up to enter the service of the usurper, or those who, in base timidity, have cast it away in denying our King."

"And for such can it ever be recovered?" I said.

"For one such, as disloyal as any, it was," he answered. "He went out and wept bitterly; the King forgave him, and in time the treasure was restored to him, and he became one of our most glorious veterans."

"How is the jewel to be recovered if lost?" I asked.

"By going to the place where first it was found," he replied. "There, on the lonely beach, before daybreak, it must be sought, morning after morning, until the sun's first rays reveal it once more glittering among the shingle as at first. But the waiting is often longer than it was at first."

"Will you wear your jewel," I asked, "when the King comes, or when you go to join him beyond the sea?"

"There," he replied, with an expression of rapturous joy, "we shall see the jewel on the King's heart. There we shall have no need of the hidden fountain, for the river of living waters flows there, bright as crystal; and no need of the magic glass, for the King is near; but the jewel will shine in that happy place on brow and breast for ever and ever."

And as I left the sea-shore and the old man, these words floated through my heart, as if they were echoes of his history, or his story an echo of them:

"'Be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance.'"

"'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world
giveth, give I unto you.'"

"'Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, Rejoice.'"

"'Your joy no man taketh from you.'"

The Cathedral Chimes:

A LEGEND.

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IN a city whose history dates from the ages of silvery bells and stately buildings, there stood, and stands now for aught I know, a cathedral, rich in all the endless fancies of Gothic art. Inside, it was solemn with shade, and gorgeous with light which came in through the elaborate tracery of the stained windows, many-coloured, and broken as the sunbeams through a tropical forest. Outside, fretted pinnacles and carved bell-towers sprang upward, grand yet fairy-like, as if stone towers rose as easily and naturally towards heaven as oaks and pines. But the chief glory of this cathedral was its bells. They were the pride of the city, and the great attraction to strangers. Their history formed an important part of the civic chronicles.

A lady of a royal house had given them as a thank offering for her lord's safe return from the Crusades. All her silver-plate and ornaments, with spoils of Saracens from the recovered Holy Land, had been poured into the mould when they were made, so that from their birth all tender and sacred memories had been fused into their very essence, and their first tones echoed far-off times and lands.

A bishop who afterwards suffered martyrdom in the hands of African Moslems had blessed them. Their first peal had sounded in honour of a great victory. They had summoned the people through ages of conflict to defend their liberties. They had blended their life with the life of every home,—in family joys and family sorrows, at wedding, christening, and funeral. They had made Sundays and holidays glad with their joyous voices. And last, but not least, by aid of an elaborate mechanism of hammers, rope, and pulleys, they had for centuries celebrated the departure of every hour with a chorale, and every half-hour with a strain like the versicle of a chant, and every quarter of an hour with a little sprinkle of sweet sound.

Imagine, then, the dismay of the citizens, when, one Monday morning, eight o'clock came, and no sound issued from the cathedral; half-past eight, silence; nine, not a note of warning! Their wonder was increased when the usual peal rung out, clear and full as ever, for the morning service, and by mid-day the whole city was in a commotion. It was plain something must be wrong with the machinery of the chimes.

Immediately the most skilful mechanics of the town, clock-makers and bell-founders, with the men of science, and the whole corporation, in a state-procession, mounted the clock-tower.

"We will soon set it right," they said to the agitated crowd as they entered the belfry-door.

The ropes of the machinery were tested,—all were sound; not a flaw in the hammers; not a clog in the wheels; not a crack in the silvery metal. Microscopes were employed, conjectures were hazarded, experiments of all kinds were tried, but not a ray of light was thrown on the perplexity. The clever hands, and the wise heads, and the will of the authorities were all baffled; and the procession reappeared to the assembled multitudes with very crestfallen looks.

That afternoon little work was done in the workshops, few lessons were learned in the schools, all the routine of household habits was interrupted. And when it grew dark, the Great Square was filled with people who were afraid to separate and go to bed without the sanction of the cathedral chimes. Many foreboded some terrible disaster to the city, and some thought the end of the world was come.

But when it was dark, a sound very weird and strange, yet with a music like the old familiar tones, came from the church-tower, as it rose dim and grand against the starry sky. It was a voice, not human, yet with a strange likeness to a human voice, silvery as a stream, thrilling as a battle-trumpet, familiar to each listener as his own, like the blended voices of a spirit and a bell.

"We have borne it too long," said the bell-voice. "We were set here on high for other purposes than men have put us to. Is not this a cathedral, a sanctuary, and a shrine, sacred with the dust of martyrs, and dedicated to the service of Heaven? Were not we christened like immortals? Were not we consecrated like priests? The touch of holy hands is on us, and shall we be debased to secular uses? Set apart like sacred ministers in a sacred dwelling, shall we be required to mingle in the common circumstances of your daily life? Raised on high to be near the heavens we serve, shall our saintly voices serve to tell you when to eat and sleep?

"We have borne it too long. We will still serve Heaven, and summon you on Sundays and Holydays. We will call you to the solemn services of the Church. We will, if necessary, sound a triumphant peal on days of national thanksgiving, in remembrance of the Victory which first awoke us into music. We will even condescend to ring at your weddings—because marriage is a sacrament—and at your baptisms. We will toll solemnly when your spirits pass from earth, and when your bodies are laid in the churchyard we have seen slowly raised with the dust of your dying generations.

"But henceforth expect us not to do work which your commonest house-clocks can do as well. Let your eight-day clocks—your gilded time-pieces—call you to work, and eat, and rest. We are sacred things, set solemnly apart from all secular uses. Our business is with Eternity, and the Church, and Heaven. Call on us no more to commune with the things of the world, and earth, and time. We are your cathedral bells, but we will be your household clock-chimes no longer."

Then the voice died away on the night air. For a few minutes there was silence, but soon it was broken by sobs and lamentations, and all the people lifted up their voice as one man, and wept.

The house-father said, "Shall we never more hear your voice calling us to morning and evening prayer? Whenever you told us it was the hour, the mother came from her work, and the children from their play, and together we knelt a united family, and committed each other to God."

And the mother said, "Your voices are blended with every happy household time. Sweet bells, will you mingle with our family joys no more? In the morning you wakened us to begin another busy day, and the sun's beams and your voices came together to call us to serve God in our lowly calling; and both, we thought, came to us from heaven; and both, we thought, were meek and lowly, and ready to minister to us in our daily lives, because both were sent from Him who came among us once, not to be ministered unto, but to minister; and both, we thought, had caught something of the light of the eyes which wept at Bethany, and of the tones of the voice which spoke at Cana and at Nain.

"At mid-day you told me it was time to send the dinner to my husband and my elder sons. At six your voice was welcome to us all, because we knew the father's step would soon be on the threshold. At eight you reminded me it was time to lay the little ones to rest, and many a time have you brought happy and holy thoughts to me in those psalms you sang to me whilst I hushed my babes to sleep; and all my everyday life seemed to be more linked with sacred things, to become, as it were, a part of the service of God, because it moved to the music of your voices.

"And again at night your tones were welcome, as in the morning, when they told us the day's work was over, and, wearied, we lay down to peaceful rest. For through the night we knew your sacred voices would sound to Heaven above our sleeping city, like the voices of the angels, who rest not day nor night, saying, Holy, holy, holy. Sweet bells, will you never chime for us again?"

And the children said, in their clear, sweet, ringing voices, "Dear chimes, do not cease to play to us. You wake us to the happy day, you set us free from school, and send us home laughing and dancing for joy; you call our fathers home to us, at night you sing us to sleep, and your voices are blended with our mothers' in our happy dreams. Sweet chimes, you sang so many years to our fathers and mothers; and our grandfathers remember you when they were little children like us. Dear chimes, sing to us still."

And from the sick-chamber, which looked into the cathedral square, where the windows were darkened all day, and sand was strewn before the door, that the din of the passing wheels might jar less roughly on the aching head within, came a low and plaintive voice,—"Sweet bells, your commonest tones are sacred to me. You are my church music, the only church music I can ever hear. When I hear you chime the hour on Sundays and on the festivals, I feel myself among the multitude within your sacred walls, and your voice seems to bear their songs of praise to me, and I am no more alone, but one of the worshippers.

"But at night it is I prize you most. All through the hours of darkness, so often sleepless to me, your voice is the voice of a friend, familiar as my mother's, yet solemn as the chants of the choir. It helps me to measure off the hours of pain, and say, 'Thank God, an hour less of night, and an hour nearer morning.' And how often, when my suffering is great, you have come with the old psalm-tune, and every tone has brought its word to me, and spoken to me as if direct from God, and filled my heart with trust and peace! Your least sprinkles of sweet sound are precious to me. I fancy they are like the waters of time falling musically from stone to stone on their way to the great sea. I feel they are as the echoes of the footsteps of Him who is drawing nearer and nearer to me, and they draw my heart nearer to Him.

"Sweet bells, your commonest tones are sacred, for what is the world but that which becomes the Church when it learns how God has loved it, and turns from self to Him? And what is Earth but the floor of Heaven, which heavenly feet once trod? And what is Time but the little fragment of Eternity in which we live on earth? Sweet bells, make not my sleepless nights lonely and silent, but sing to me, sing to us all, as of old. Make all our life sacred by linking every fragment of our life to God."

But still no responsive sound came from the cathedral tower, and the people waited on in the silence and the darkness. At last a young priest, an Augustinian friar, ventured a bold suggestion:

"Are not the devils proud, and the angels lowly? Did the angel think it beneath him to say to Elijah, 'Arise, and eat?' Did Gabriel hesitate to descend from the presence of God to bear to an aged priest the tidings of the birth of a child? Did that other angel deem it secular to say to Peter the apostle, 'Gird thyself, and bind on thy sandals, and cast thy garment about thee,' before he led him over the stony streets through the cold night air? And should our cathedral bells scorn to bid us 'rise and eat,' or to chime at our births, or to summon us to 'gird and clothe' ourselves for every day's work? Brethren, proud thoughts, and scorn of daily service, and voices which call our everyday life common and unclean, are not from Heaven. The bells are possessed by a proud and evil spirit. Let us exorcise them."

The suggestion at first startled the people as daring, and irreverent to the church bells, but in their despair, they at length agreed to try it. A solemn procession of priests and holy men and women mounted the cathedral tower, and, in ancient formulas, with prayer and incense, and the music of holy hymns, they exorcised the fiend.

Then at once a tide of pent-up music flowed from the liberated bells. They conscientiously rang out all at once every hour and half-hour they had omitted, and then meekly and steadily resumed their wonted chimes, and continued them ever afterwards, like voices of happy and lowly angels calling men to wake and pray, to "rise and eat," to pray and rest, cheering the workman to his daily labour, and welcoming him from it, chanting to the mother as she lulled her babe, and in the sick-chamber soothing the lonely hours with melodious sound, and waking in the lonely heart sweet echoes of the psalms of praise.

Here the Legend ended. I heard, however, afterwards that the young priest, the Augustinian friar, lived to spread Glad Tidings through the city, but that he was at last burned in the cathedral square for preaching to men what he had said about the church bells. Yet in the flames, it was said, he looked up to the cathedral tower, and sang the words of a psalm of praise the old bells were chiming, till his voice was silenced in death. And ever since, the chimes have taken up his message, and chant to those who will listen, hour by hour.

"'Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'"

What Makes Things Musical?

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WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"THE SUN!" said the Forest. "In the night I am still and voiceless. A weight of silence lies upon my heart. If you pass through me, the sound of your own footstep echoes fearfully, like the footfall of a ghost. If you speak to break the spell, the silence closes in on your words, like the ocean on a pebble you throw into it. The wind sighs far-off among the branches, as if he were hushing his breath to listen. If a little bird chirps uneasily in its nest, it is silenced before you can find out whence the sound came.

"But the dawn breaks. Before a gray streak can be seen, my trees feel it, and quiver through every old trunk and tiny twig with joy; my birds feel it, and stir dreamily in their nests, as if they were just murmuring to each other, 'How comfortable we are!'

"Then the wind awakes, and tunes my trees for the concert, striking his hand across one and another, until all their varied harmonies are astir; the soft, liquid rustlings of my oaks and beeches make the rich treble to the deep, plaintive tones of my pines. Then my early birds awake one by one, and answer each other in sweet responses, until the Sun rises, and the whole joyous chorus bursts into song to the organ and flute accompaniments of my evergreens and summer leaves. And in the pauses, countless happy insects chirp, and buzz, and whirl with contented murmuring among my ferns and flower-bells. The SUN makes me musical," said the Forest.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"STORMS!" said the Sea. "In calm weather I lie still and sleep, or, now and then, say a few quiet words to the beaches I ripple on, or the boats which glide through my waters. But in the tempest you learn what my voice is, when all my slumbering powers awake, and I thunder through the caverns, and rush with all my battle-music on the rocks, whilst, between the grand artillery of my breakers, the wind peals its wild trumpet-peals, and the waters rush back to my breast from the cliffs they have scaled, in torrents and cascades, like the voices of a thousand rivers. My music is battle-music. STORMS make me musical," said the Sea.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"ACTION!" said the Stream. "I lay still in my mountain-cradle for a long while. It is very silent up there. Occasionally the shadow of an eagle swept across me with a wild cry; but generally, from morning till night, I knew no change save the shadows of my rocky cradle, which went round steadily with the sun, and the shadows of the clouds, which glided across me, without my ever knowing whence or whither. But the rocks and clouds are very silent. The singing-birds did not venture so high; and the insects had nothing to tempt them near me, because no honied flower-bells bent over me there—nothing but little mosses and gray lichens, and these, though very lovely, are quiet creatures, and make no stir.

"I used to find it monotonous sometimes, and longed to have power to wake the hills; and I should have found it more so, had I not felt I was growing, and should flow forth to bless the fields by and by. Every drop that fell into my rocky basin I welcomed. And, at last, the spring rains came, and all my rocks sent me down little rills on every side, and the snows melted into my cup; and, at last, I rose beyond the rim of my dwelling, and was free.

"Then I danced down over the hills, and sang as I went, till all the lonely places were glad with my voice; and I tinkled over the stones like bells, and crept among my cresses like fairy flutes, and dashed over the rocks and plunged into the pools with all my endless harmonies. ACTION makes me musical," said the Stream.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"SUFFERING!" said the Harp-strings. "We were dull lumps of silver and copper-ore in the mines; and no silence on the living, sunny earth is like the blank of voiceless ages in those dead and sunless depths. But, since then, we have passed through many fires. The hidden earth-fires underneath the mountains first moulded us, millenniums since, to ore; and then, in these last years, human hands have finished the training which makes us what we are.

"We have been smelted in furnaces heated seven times, till all our dross was gone; and then we have been drawn out on the rack, and hammered and fused, and, at last, stretched on these wooden frames, and drawn tighter and tighter, until we wonder at ourselves, and at the gentle hand which strikes such rich and wondrous chords and melodies from us—from us, who were once silent lumps of ore in the silent mines. Fires and blows have done it for us. SUFFERING has made us musical," said the Harp-strings.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"UNION!" said the Rocks. "What could be less musical than we, as we rose in bare crags from the hill-tops, or lay strewn about in huge isolated boulders in the valleys? The trees which sprang from our crevices had each its voice; the forests which clothed our sides had all these voices blended in richest harmonies when the wind touched them; the streams which gushed from our stony hearts sang joyous carols to us all day and all night long; the grasses and wild-flowers which clasped their tiny fingers round us had each some sweet murmur of delight as the breezes played with them; but we, who ever thought there was music in us?

"Yet now a human hand has gathered us from moor and mountain and lonely fell, and side by side we lie and give out music to the hand that strikes us. Thus we, who had lain for centuries unconscious that there was a note of music in our hearts, answer one another in melodious tones, and combine in rich chords, just because we have been brought together. UNION makes us musical," said the Rocks.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"LIFE!" said the Oak-beam in the good ship. "I know it by its loss. Once I quivered in the forest at the touch of every breeze. Every living leaf of mine had melody, and all together made a stream of many-voiced music; whilst around me were countless living trees like myself, who woke at every dawn to a chorus in the morning breeze. But since the axe was laid at our roots, all the music has gone from our branches. We are useful still, they say, in the gallant ship, and our country mentions us with honour even in death; but the music has gone from us with life for ever, and we can only groan and creak in the storms. LIFE made us musical," said the Oak-beam.

WHAT MAKES CREATURES MUSICAL?

"JOY!" laughed the Children, and their happy laughter pealed through the sweet fresh air as they bounded over the fields, as if it had caught the most musical tones of everything musical in nature,—the ripple of waves, the tinkling of brooks, the morning songs of birds. "JOY makes creatures musical," said the Children.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"LOVE!" said the little Thrush, as he warbled to his mate on the spring morning, and the Mother, as she sang soft lullabies to her babe. And all the Creatures said—

"Amen! LOVE makes us musical. In Storms and Sunshine, Suffering and Joy, Action, Union, Life, LOVE is the music at the heart of all. LOVE makes us musical," said all the Creatures.

And from the multitude before the throne, who, through fires of Tribulation and Storms of conflict, had learned the new song, and from depths of Darkness and the silence of Isolation had been brought together in the Light of Life to sing it, floated down a soft "Amen, for GOD is LOVE."

The Acorn.

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"WHEN will my training begin?" said the acorn to itself, as it unfolded its delicately-carved cup and saucer on the branch of an old oak on the edge of a forest. "I understand I am to be an oak one day, like my father. All the acorns say that is what we are to be, but there certainly seems little chance of it at present. I have been sitting here for no one knows how many days, and I feel no change, except that I look less pretty than I did when I was young and green, and begin to feel rather dry, and shrivelled, and old. At this rate, I do not see much chance of my becoming an oak, or anything else but an old, dry acorn. When will my training begin?"

As it meditated thus, a strong breeze sighed mournfully through the autumn woods, and shook down many brown leaves from the old oak, and with them the acorn.

"This will hinder my progress again," thought the acorn, "for it is evident such a downfall as this can have nothing to do with my education. When will my training begin?"

A day or two afterwards, a drove of hogs was turned into the forest, and they began grunting and grubbing among the dead leaves for acorns. Many of its brethren did our acorn see ruthlessly hurried into those voracious snouts. It kept very quiet under the dead leaves to avoid a similar fate, but it thought—"This is a sad delay. It is too plain that being trampled on and tossed about in this way can teach no one anything. When will my training begin?"

Meanwhile, the swine rummaged among the dead leaves, and trod them under foot, and tossed the decaying mould hither and thither with their snouts and feet, until one of them by accident rolled our acorn down a little hill, where it lay buried under some stray leaves many yards from the edge of the forest, in the outskirts of a park. There it lay unobserved all the rest of the winter.

Even this was a pleasant change after having been tossed about and trodden under foot so long, but in its fall its shrivelled brown skin had cracked, and the acorn thought—"This is a sad disaster. How ever am I to grow into an oak when I am so crushed and cracked that scarcely any one would recognise me for an acorn? When will my training begin?"

All the winter the rain pattered on it, and sank it deeper and deeper under the dead leaves and under the earth-clods, until all its acorn beauty was marred and crushed out of it, and it fell asleep in the dark, under the cold, damp earth; and the snows came and folded it in under their white, eiderdown pillows. At last, the warm touch, that comes to all sleeping nature in the spring, came softly on it, and it awoke.

"What a pity," it said, "I should have lost so much time by falling asleep! I can scarcely make out what I am like, or where I am. What a sad waste of time! It is clear no one can go on with his education in sleep. When will my training begin?"

With these thoughts, it stretched out two little green things on each side of it, which felt like wings; and tried to peep out of its hole. And, to its delight, it succeeded, and, with a few more efforts, even contrived to keep its head steadily above ground, and look around it.

"There is my father, the old oak," it said. "He looks quite green again. But I am a long way off from him, and how very small and close to the ground! When shall I begin to be like him?"

But meantime it was very happy. It felt so full of life, although so small; and the sun shone so graciously on it, and all the showers and dews seemed so full of kindly desires to help and nourish it. And more and more little green leaves expanded from its sides, and more and snore little busy roots shot down into the earth, and the leaves breathed and drank in the sunshine, and the roots were great chemists and cooks, and concocted a perpetual feast for it out of the earth and stones.

But it thought sometimes, "This is all exceedingly pleasant, and I am very happy; but, of course, this is not education; it is only enjoying myself. When will my training begin?"

The next spring, the early frosts had much more power over it in its detached, exposed situation than over the saplings in the shelter of the forest. And it saw the trees in the wood growing green, and tempting the song-birds beneath their leafy tents, whilst the sap still flowed feebly upward through its tiny cells, and its twigs and leaf-buds were still brown and hard.

"This must be a great hindrance to me," it thought—"this, no doubt, will retard my education considerably. What a pity I stand here so detached and unprotected! When will my training begin?"

But in the late spring came some days of black east wind and bitter frost, and it saw the more forward leaves in the wood turn pale and shrivel before they unfolded, and then fall off; nipped and lifeless, to join the old dead leaves of the past autumn, whilst its own little buds lay safe within their hard and glossy casings, protected by one enemy against a worse. And when the east wind and the black frosts were gone, the little sapling shot up freely.

In that summer, and the next, and the next, it made great progress. But in the fourth autumn, a great disappointment awaited it. The owner of the park in which it grew came by, and stood beside it, and said to his forester—

"That sapling is worth preserving, it is so vigorous and healthy; and, standing in this detached position, it will break the line of the wood, and look well from my house. We will watch it, and set a fence around it to guard it from the cattle. But it has thrown out a false leader. Take your knife and cut this straggling shoot away, and next year, I have no doubt, it will grow well."

Then the forester applied his knife carefully to the false leader, and cut it off. But the sapling, not having understood the master's words, nor observed with what care and design the knife was applied, felt wounded to the core.

"My best and strongest shoot," it sighed to itself. "It was a cruel cut. It will take me a long time to repair that loss. T am afraid it has lost me at least a year. When will my training begin?"

But the next year the master's words were fulfilled.

Thus years passed on. And slowly, twig by twig, and shoot by shoot, the sapling grew. Sunbeams expanded its leaves; rains nourished its roots; frosts, checking its early buds, hardened its wood; winds swaying it hither and thither, as if they were determined to level it, only rooted it more firmly. And year by year the top grew a little higher, and the wood a little firmer, and the trunk a little thicker, and the roots a little deeper; but so slowly, that summer by summer it said—

"This is very pleasant; but it is only breathing, and being happy. It certainly cannot be the discipline which forms the great oaks. When will my training begin?"

And autumn by autumn, as the sap flowed downward, and the buds ceased to expand, and the branches grew leafless and dry, it thought—

"This is a sad loss of time. Now I am falling into torpor again, and shall make not an inch of progress for six long months. When will my training begin?"

And winter by winter, as the winds bent it to and fro, and made its branches creak, and threatened its very existence, and the heavy snows sometimes broke its boughs—

"These are sore trials. I may be thankful if I barely struggle through them! In days like these existence is an effort, and endurance the utmost one can attain. When will my training begin?"

And in the spring, when the frosts nipped its finest buds—

"These little nips and checks are very annoying; but one must bear them patiently. They are certainly hindrances; and it is disheartening, when one does one's best, to be continually thrown back by these trifling checks. When will my training begin?"

But, one summer day, a little girl and an old man came and seated themselves under its shade. By this time it had seen some generations of men, and had learned something of human language.

The old man said—"I remember, when I was a very little boy, my grandfather telling me how, when he was young, he had marked this tree, then a mere sapling, and pruned it of a false shoot, which would have spoiled its beauty, and had it fenced and preserved. And now my little grand-daughter and I sit under its shade! The fence has long since decayed; but it is not needed. The cattle come and lie under its shadow, as we do. It is a noble oak-tree now, and gives shelter instead of needing it."

Then the oak rustled above them; and the old man and the child thought it was a summer breeze stirring the branches. But in reality it was the oak laughing to itself, as it thought—

"Then I am really a tree! And, whilst I was wondering when my training would begin, it has been finished, and I am an oak after all!"

Parables in Household Things.

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THE sick girl lay in her shaded room, in the street of a great city, and thought, "If I could only leave this prison of mine, and look at the beautiful world, I know I should grow happier and holier with every breath I drew. The thorny bud on the brown branches in spring would give me promise of resurrection; every butterfly would tell me of life through death; every flower would lift my heart to Him who cares for our little pleasures; every bubbling spring would murmur to me of the living water; every corn-field and garden would repeat the sacred parables. But here I can see nothing of God's making but the sky, and that is too high and far. I want some steps to take my feeble thoughts gently up to heaven. But around me are only manufactured things, which speak to me only of earth, and time, and man."

She leant back listlessly on her couch. Twilight came over the room, the glowing coals stirred quietly as they burnt away, and then it seemed as if an angel's hand touched her ears and opened them, for the dark and silent room became full of soft and soothing harmonics. All the mute and inanimate things about her found voices and spoke comfort to her heart.

Together they said—"It is true we are only manufactured things; but do not despise us for that! We came originally, as much as you yourself, or the flowers, and the trees, and the sunbeams, from one Divine Hand. It is only that we have been trained and moulded by human hands to be what we are. And just so are you; God creates you, but life moulds you. Your trial and your training come like ours, mostly through human hands, although you are destined for higher plans and more blessed services. Listen to us, for we have messages for you, each one of us."

Then the stones from the wall said—"We come from the mountains far away, from the sides of the craggy hills. Fire and water worked on us for ages, but only made us crags. Human hands have made us into a dwelling where the children of your immortal race are born, and suffer, and rejoice, and find rest and shelter, and learn the lessons set them by our Maker and yours. But we have passed through much to fit us for this. Gunpowder has rent our very heart; pickaxes have cleaved and broken us, it seemed to us often without design or meaning, as we lay misshapen stones in the quarry; but gradually we were cut into blocks, and some of us were chiselled with finer instruments to a sharper edge. But we are complete now, and are in our places, and are of service. You are in the quarry still, and not complete, and therefore to you, as once to us, much is inexplicable. But you are destined for a higher building, and one day you will be placed in it by hands not human; a living stone in a heavenly temple."

Then the glass water-beaker said—"I was hard flint and waste sand on the desolate sea-shore once, but human hands gathered me, and fused me in furnaces heated seven times, and took me out to let me cool, and cast me in again, and shaped and cut me till at last I carry your water from the spring, and am pressed with many a thankful glance to your parched lips. I am complete. But you, when you have passed through your fires, will be a vessel of living water in a better hand, and bear many a draught of refreshment to weary and thirsty hearts."

"I also have been in many furnaces," said the china flower-vase. "The colours you so often admire in me, have been burnt in slowly, stage by stage, every fresh colour requiring a fresh fusing in the furnace. But you, when your trial is over, shall carry flowers of Paradise and leaves from the tree of life for the healing of the nations."

"And I," said the clock, "am scarcely an individual being. I am a little world in myself—a wondrous combination of mechanism. Each of my wheels and springs, with my unwearied pendulum, has its own history of fires and blows and ruthless instruments. None of us could form the slightest idea, as we lay dismembered in our various workshops, what we were designed for. Only in combination with every other part, has any part of us any meaning. You are not a little world like me, but a fragment of a great world. When all that belong to you are gathered together, you will understand it all as we do now. And your voice will mark with joyous music the flight of blessed ages which only lead to others more and more blessed throughout eternity."

"And I," said the bronze pastille-burner, "came from ages of darkness in the depths of the earth. Human hands brought me to the light, moulded and sculptured me, and set me here to burn sweet perfumes, and diffuse fragrance around me. But you will be an incense-bearer in a Temple by and by, and from you shall stream a fragrance of love and praise acceptable to God."

"The quarries were my birthplace also," said the alabaster night-lamp; "but you shall be a light-bearer, when your training is complete, of a light which is life, and which has no need of night, like my dim flame, to make it visible."

"I," sang the guitar, with the wooden frame and metallic strings, "am a twofold being. I lived and waved in the forest once; and then the woodman's axe was laid on me, and I fell,—I fell, and the life departed from me; and from a living, life-bearing tree, I became mere inanimate timber. More blows, more tearing with saws, more sharp cutting with knife and chisel, and I became melodious again, simply from being united with these metallic strings, which never had life, but lay silent in mines, till the hand of man woke them into music. And thus together we respond to your gentle touch, and soothe for you many a lonely hour. Life from death, music through fires of trial: this is also your destiny. Hereafter every nerve of your tried and perfected being shall respond to the slightest touch of the Hand you love, filling heaven with happy music."

"As for me," said the pages of the hymn-book, "my discipline has, perhaps, been the severest of all. Once rustling in the flax-field, rejoicing in the dews and sunshine, I was torn, racked, twisted, and woven by many iron hands into linen. Then, for a time, treated carefully, decorated and treasured, and washed and perfumed, I was afterwards thrown scornfully away. Yet, even in that low estate, I found comfort. Even as a rag I bound up the wounds of suffering soldiers in a military hospital. But I was to sink lower yet. I was thrown into a mill, and pounded, crushed, and torn, till I was a mere shapeless pulp. Yet from those depths, my true life began. Process after process succeeded, till here, at last, I am to speak to you undying words of hope and love. And you also, one day, shall shine forth a living epistle, proclaiming to angels and men for ever and for ever such words as speak to you from my pages now!"

The sick girl smiled, and was comforted. "Yet," she said, "the fires are fierce, the blows are heavy, the trial is long. The end is, indeed, well worth them all; but sometimes the end seems distant!"