The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2
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George MacDonald >> The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2
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"Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?"
"Nothing, papa," answered Charlie. "Only it's so jolly!"
"What is jolly, my boy?" I asked.
"O, I don't know, papa! It's _so_ jolly!"
"Is it the sunshine?" thought I; "and the wind? God's world all over? The
God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, then,
that they cannot tell yet what it is!"
I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the
noise--I knew Connie did not mind it--listened to it with a kind of
reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had kindled
in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim growls of
expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground for believing
that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I stopped that and the
noise together, sending Charlie to find out where the tide would be between
one and two o'clock, and Harry to run to the top of the hill, and find out
the direction of the wind. Before I was dressed, Charlie was knocking at my
door with the news that it would he half-tide about one; and Harry speedily
followed with the discovery that the wind was north-east by south-west,
which of course determined that the sun would shine all day.
As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at their
head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter of the
rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter returned, we bore
our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of the retreating tide,
which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under her, wetting our feet with
innocuous rush. The child's delight was extreme, as she thus skimmed the
edge of the ocean, with the little ones gambolling about her, and her mamma
and Wynnie walking quietly on the landward side, for she wished to have no
one between her and the sea.
After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping at
Connie's request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, which
somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, we set
her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And there was
our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the cave. The
cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously angled strata.
The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the brilliant yellow
sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright blue water withdrew
itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide it all up again, now
uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. Before we had finished our
dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so far away over the plain of the
sand, that it seemed a long walk to the edge that had been almost at
our feet a little while ago. Between us and it lay a lovely desert of
glittering sand.
When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was time
to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, carrying
Connie and laying her down in the midst of "the ribbed sea-sand," which
was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off from her lay her baby,
crowing and kicking with the same jollity that had possessed the boys ever
since the morning. I wandered about with Wynnie on the sands, picking
up amongst other things strange creatures in thin shells ending in
vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. My wife sat on the end of
Connie's litter, and Dora and the boys, a little way off, were trying how
far the full force of three wooden spades could, in digging a hole, keep
ahead of the water which was ever tumbling in the sand from the sides of
the same. Behind, the servants were busy washing the plates in a pool, and
burying the fragments of the feast; for I made it a rule wherever we went
that the fair face of nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken the
part of excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, against
those who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed by their
inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst
them--that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than all,
pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or at least
defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes will be
defiled with these floating abominations--not abominations at all if they
are decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly abominations
when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over the grass, or on
the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after those who have thus
left their shame behind them have returned to their shops or factories. I
forgive them for trampling down the grass and the ferns. That cannot be
helped, and in comparison of the good they get, is not to be considered at
all. But why should they leave such a savage trail behind them as this,
forgetting too that though they have done with the spot, there are others
coming after them to whom these remnants must be an offence?
At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of rock,
rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came suddenly
upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with a small easel
before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had his back towards
us, so that we saw at once what he was painting.
"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did not
see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much."
"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke.
I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had been
making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay on
the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the same
direction now.
"Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?"
"Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember that
most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage," he answered.
I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark.
"Here is no common man," I said to myself, and responded to him in
something of a similar style.
"I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings
themselves, as well as their works," I said aloud.
The painter looked at me, and I looked at him.
"We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume," he
said.
"But," I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his easel,
"your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to nothing--
perhaps I ought to say nothing at all--this picture must have long ago
passed the chaotic stage."
"It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it," he returned. "I
hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather pleasing, my
own fancy at present."
"Apparently," I remarked, "you had the conical rock outside the hay for
your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards it.
How is that?"
"I will soon explain," he answered. "The moment I saw this rock, it
reminded me of Dante's Purgatory."
"Ah, you are a reader of Dante?" I said. "In the original, I hope."
"Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going with
that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never knew what
intensity _per se_ was till I began to read Dante."
"That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture."
"Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it suggest
the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given of the place
_ab extra_ by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth canto of the Inferno.
Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet it has certain mountain
forms about it. I have put it at a much greater distance, you see, and have
sought to make it look a solitary mountain in the midst of a great water.
You will discover even now that the circles of the Purgatory are suggested
without any approach, I think, to artificial structure; and there are
occasional hints at figures, which you cannot definitely detach from the
rocks--which, by the way, you must remember, were in one part full of
sculptures. I have kept the mountain near enough, however, to indicate
the great expanse of wild flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy
gathering. I want to indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial
paradise, ever and always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"--
for the young man, getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each
other for some time--and here he repeated the purport of Dante's words in
English:
"An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow,
With no more strength than in a soft wind lies,
Smote peacefully against me on the brow.
By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise,
Did every one bend thitherward to where
The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise."
"I thought you said you did not use translations?"
"I thought it possible that--Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively this--"might
not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem pedantic."
"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose
translation do you quote?"
He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly:
"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself."
"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; "and
that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can possess."
"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further
remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" Here
he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember--I think she was making a
drawing of the rock at the same time I was--how the seagulls, or some such
birds--only two or three of them--kept flitting about the top of it?"
"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me.
"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been
attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For she
said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to get
loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, and risen
in triumph into the air."
Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, looked
at Wynnie almost with a start.
"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said.
"Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the free
souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind of
purgatory anyhow--is it not, Mr. Walton?"
"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work
is--whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious
stones."
"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little
picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, and
began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and Beatrice on
their way to the sphere of the moon."
"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of corresponding
to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what group of things, in
which the natural man will not see merely the things of nature, but the
spiritual man the things of the spirit?"
"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat
coldly.
But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she
thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for
her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my way
of it: here might be something new.
"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be
happy," he said, turning again towards me.
But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I
received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish to
make more marked than his own towards my last observation.
"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an
artist."
I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to
Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said
something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make
amends.
"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, I see,
have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to introduce you
to Mrs. Walton?"
"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he
spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a fine-built,
black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes notwithstanding, a
rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But there was an air of
suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, did not in the least
interfere with the manliness of his countenance, or of its expression.
"But," I said, "how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet
know your name."
I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr.
Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied,
"My name is Percivale--Charles Percivale."
"A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur's Round Table?"
"I cannot count quite so far back," he answered, "as that--not quite to the
Conquest," he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. "I do
come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale."
We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves towards
the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and Wynnie
lingering behind.
"O, do look here papa!" she cried, from some little distance.
We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet.
Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles,
which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and passing
out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and not always,
I do not know. But there they were--and such colours! deep rose and grassy
green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, yet brilliant and
intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were of a solid-looking
burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on behind translucent
crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth turning to see; and so
I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on vanishing, one by one.
Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and was nowhere.
We walked away again towards the rest of our party.
"Don't you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones you
ever saw, papa?"
"Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, God
seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal."
"And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?' she said
interrogatively.
"Many--perhaps most flowers are," I granted. "And did you ever see such
curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?"
"I think not--in the cirrhous clouds at least--the frozen ones. But what
are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?"
"O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end
with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to
answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one of
us should ask you some day."
"No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my
children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children
should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or that
by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have found out
some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your catechism, Wynnie.
Now for your puzzle!"
"It's not a funny question, papa; it's a very serious one. I can't think
why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful things
wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be no more.
Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?"
"In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we will
not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the more
material loveliness of which you have been speaking--though, in truth, no
loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; it is, I think,
because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all beautiful things
vanish quickly."
"I do not understand you, papa."
"I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr.
Percivale will excuse me."
"On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the
answer."
"Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something like
them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to love the
body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die continually,
that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is full of beautiful
things, but God has saved many men from loving the mere bodies of them, by
making them poor; and more still by reminding them that if they be as rich
as Croesus all their lives, they will be as poor as Diogenes--poorer,
without even a tub--when this world, with all its pictures, scenery, books,
and--alas for some Christians!--bibles even, shall have vanished away."
"Why do you say _alas_, papa--if they are Christians especially?"
"I say _alas_ only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean such as
are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving themselves
any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the anise and cummin,
and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These worship the body of the
truth, and forget the soul of it. If the flowers were not perishable, we
should cease to contemplate their beauty, either blinded by the passion for
hoarding the bodies of them, or dulled by the hebetude of commonplaceness
that the constant presence of them would occasion. To compare great things
with small, the flowers wither, the bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets
pass, for the very same holy reason, in the degree of its application to
them, for which the Lord withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to
his Father--that the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things,
might come to them and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the
Father be revealed. The flower is not its loveliness, and its loveliness
we must love, else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy children,
who gather and gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a mere desire
of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but the same in kind, however
harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice of the miser.
Therefore God, that we may always have them, and ever learn to love their
beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the beneficent winter that we may
think about what we have lost, and welcome them when they come again with
greater tenderness and love, with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts
to understand, the spirit that dwells in them. We cannot do without the
'winter of our discontent.' Shakspere surely saw that when he makes Titania
say, in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_:
'The human mortals want their winter here'--
namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter the
line seem to have been capable of understanding its import."
"I think I understand you a little," answered Wynnie. Then, changing her
tone, "I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn't I?"
"Yes, my child; but with this difference--I found the answer to meet my own
necessities, not yours."
"And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it."
"Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you give
away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right to offer
any spiritual dish to his neighbour."
Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had presented
him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects by a somewhat
stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation into a farewell, and,
either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having changed his mind, withdrew,
a little to my disappointment, for, notwithstanding his lack of response
where some things he said would have led me to expect it, I had begun to
feel much interested in him.
He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her digging,
with an eager look on her sunny face.
"Hasn't he got nice boots, papa?"
"Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I never
saw his boots."
"I did, then," returned the child; "and I never saw such nice boots."
"I accept the statement willingly," I replied; and we heard no more of the
boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I see
himself again for some days--not in fact till next Sunday--though why he
should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, especially
when I knew him better.
CHAPTER III.
THE BLACKSMITH.
The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. It
was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the first
to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the village, I
soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have no doubt, could
shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any greater delicacy of
touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I heard of a young smith
who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of miles distant, but still
within the parish. In the afternoon I set out to find him. To my surprise,
he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking man, with a huge frame, which
appeared worn rather than naturally thin, and large eyes that looked at the
anvil as if it was the horizon of the world. He had got a horse-shoe in his
tongs when I entered. Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the hearth,
and the sparks that flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his person,
the place looked very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze of the
almost noontide sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through which I had
come, and which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the
smith by the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was
dark.
"Good-morning," I said. "It is a good thing to find a man by his work. I
heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the glow of
your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire."
He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly as
if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip.
"I don't know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in weather
like this," he answered.
"If I did not," I returned, "that would be the fault of my weakness, and
would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine thing to
work in fire."
"Well, you may be right," he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the
horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next let
the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his head
for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. "It does not much
matter to me," he went on, "if I only get through my work and have done
with it. No man shall say I shirked what I'd got to do. And then when it's
over there won't be a word to say agen me, or--"
He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying in a
somewhat dreary patch, if the word _dreary_ can be truly used with respect
to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor.
"I hope you are not ill," I said.
He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam one
of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and put it on
the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it in the fire,
and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. "This man will do for my
work," I said to myself; "though I should not wonder from the look of him
if it was the last piece of work he ever did under the New Jerusalem." The
smith's words broke in on my meditations.
"When I was a little boy," he said, "I once wanted to stay at home from
school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. I
told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped her at
her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in the afternoon
the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he asked me what was
the matter with me, and my mother answered for me that I had a bad head,
and he looked at me; and as my head was quite well by this time, I could
not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, I suppose, sir, for I can't
account for what he said any other way; and he turned to me, and he said to
me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad enough to send you to the Lord Jesus
to make you whole?' I could not speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I
suppose, for I was but ten years old. So he followed it up, as they say:
'Then you ought to be at school,' says he. I said nothing, because I
couldn't. But never since then have I given in as long as I could stand.
And I can stand now, and lift my hammer, too," he said, as he took the
horse-shoe from the forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of
coruscating iron.
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