Chapter VIII: Part 8

Oh, I often think that in this world and in this day, there lies a great opportunity unclaimed! When we see the powerful influence which even a broken and unequal attempt at service, at fulfilling the mere elements of our duty to God and to man, exerts upon a world where it is the rare exception even to _attempt_ earnestly, then I think, what might not a perseverance beyond the first steps (and God’s grace knows no stint), what might not a steady advance towards perfection work in this sceptical, critical, anxious, weary world? This world narrowly watches for flaws, and, finding them, strengthens itself in its carelessness and godlessness. But if compelled to acknowledge a reality, a fulfilment of those theories which it has come to consider as scarcely meant, quite impossible, to be reduced to practice; if forced to acknowledge a sterling goodness, human and yet Divine, which stands the searching tests by which men try profession; it will then fall vanquished before it, and, in many things, surrender itself to the influence of a goodness alike strict, gracious, and glad. If the good man set sentinels at all sides of his life, and not only at one or two chosen posts; if he were ever trimming his lamp, seeking and pouring in more oil; not letting any slovenly black fungus grow on the wick, and dim part of the flame--how much might a few such bright and steady lights do in reproving the darkness, and bringing out sister gleams! How might we, thus rebuked, instead of resting proud of our sickly glimmer, set to work in good earnest, with watchfulness and prayer, to mend our flame, until the noble rays of the lighthouse, and the clustering lesser lights beneath, might lure some that were driven and tossed homelessly upon the treacherous, troubled seas. Now the lights often go out when they are wanted, and the beacon is dark just when a despairing look was cast towards it; and so the dreary, hopeless course is renewed.

A perfect man must be kind and wise, patient and loving,--not one whose life shall make the worldling sore and resentful, but shall rather make him sad and longing,--not one who boasts to be a “man of prayer,” but forgets to be a man of love,--not one who makes Faith the cuckoo nestling that edges out Charity,--not one too much absorbed in devotion, and even divine and religious contemplation, to enter into the difficulties, and wants, and cries, and doubts, and struggles of those beneath the mountain which he is ascending. He must be one of a universal kindliness,--of an always ready sympathy for any feeling which he perceives to be real, howsoever it find no echo in his own heart; one ever just, generous, forbearing, forgiving; ever ready to stop and to descend to raise the fallen; firm and fixed in principle, but tender and gentle in heart; speaking the truth, but speaking it still in love; severity against sin never swamping yearning for the sinner; never base or mean in things large or little; always ready to suppose the best of others; never vaunting, never puffed up; not easily provoked; thinking no evil; rejoicing with the joyful, weeping with the sad; hard only upon himself; bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things. Never giving others to understand that he has already attained, or is already perfect; not counting himself to have apprehended, but _pressing toward the mark_. Alas! it is true that men are mostly content with a very low standard, and if they seem to themselves and others to have attained that, easily rest there;--and the great opportunity passes away ungrasped.

Torn leaves, tattered leaves, at best marred and imperfect, not one approaching perfection, not one without a flaw. Ah, yes, one,--and one only. How glorious the thought that in Christ, born into the world, and taking our nature upon Him,--in Christ, the Seed of the woman,--this our poor human nature, tattered, torn, and defaced, is exalted into absolute and eternal Perfection. All the fiercest storms and blights and heats attacked our nature in Him, but attacked it in vain. The most minute and scrutinising examination can here detect no least speck, or swerving from the ideal of symmetry. In Him we see what we long, vainly it seems, to be. In Him we see that towards which He would exalt us, if we will be exalted,--that which we may in a sense attain, if we will be perfected. And so at last we turn from sad contemplation of innumerable greater or less failures, and dwell restfully and hopefully upon the only and all-sufficient perfect One. To be like Him when He shall appear, oh, glorious hope that He has given us! to awake thus in the Spring of the Next Year, and this in a Land where there are no blights, nor colds, nor heats, to mar that shape. But let us remember, that having this hope, we should even now be purifying ourselves, even as He is pure.

But here a burst of little ones comes into the garden, anxious for my leave and help to cut boughs of the holly and the box to clothe the rooms for Christmas, and to divert thoughts of the bare boughs that stand without. And it is well that my musings should thus be interrupted, and should thus end. Among the bare branches of the saddest thought there may still be found warm-berried evergreens, planted by God’s love here and there. And all that tells here of Death and Winter, tells of that which is temporary and evanescent, now that the LIFE has come into the world. Even the cold stripped trees and the buried flowers,--there is hope in their death,--and how much are we better than they!

And thus the Poet whom I quoted above goes on to thought of that Spring from the contemplation of the rending winds and stripping Winter here:

“Safe home, safe home in port!--
Rent cordage, shattered deck,
Torn sails, provisions short,
And only not a wreck.
_But, oh, the joy upon the shore,
To tell our voyage perils o’er!_

“The prize, the prize secure!
The athlete nearly fell,
Bare all he could endure,
And bare not always well;
_But he may smile at troubles gone,
Who sets the victor garland on._”

Well, I must muse no longer, I see, but give up myself to the will of the children. Come along, then, and let us make all bright and cheery at this joyous season. Tall sprays of thick-berried holly; golden winter cherries, laurel, and yew, and box; ay, and if you will, Cyril shall climb the old mossy gnarled apple-tree, and bring down a branching bunch of that pale-green, Druid-loved parasite, with its berries like opal beads. In this happy time the children may well claim to have their “time to laugh,” and to rejoice; and the elders may look on or join with kindly geniality. Yea, we may say, “It is _meet_ that we should make merry and be glad;--for this our earth was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.”

Laugh and be happy, therefore, at the Christmas time. Only in enjoying the holiday, let not its etymology and true meaning be altogether lost sight of. And remember that it is only the thought of the Spring of Eternity that can take away the sadness from the contemplation of Time’s bare boughs.

LONDON:
ROBERT K. BURT, PRINTER,
WINE OFFICE COURT, FLEET STREET.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained.

Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

Text uses both “chesnut” and “chestnut”; both retained here.

Some illustrations intertwined with the text. That appearance has been followed in versions of this eBook capable of such visual presentations; in other versions, the illustrations precede the text. However, when the illustration included the first letter of the first word of a chapter, that letter has been repeated here as part of the text.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Harvest of a Quiet Eye, by John Richard Vernon