The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, though. Sometimes—perhaps generally—we see the sky as a flat dome, spangled with star-points, and painted blue. Now I see it as an awful depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will about time and space,—and I daresay they are right,—are yet very awful to me. Thank God, my dear,” I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror of mere space grew upon me, “for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history.”

“I understand you now, husband,” said my wife.

“I knew you would,” I answered.

“But,” she said again, “is it not something the same with the things inside us? I can’t put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?”

“I am not sure that I do. You must try again.”

“You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where you can talk,” said my wife, putting her hand in mine. “But I will try. Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to a conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear to yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a picture, and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you happen to cast a look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on the wall, your picture has gone through it—opens out into some region you don’t know where—shows you far-receding distances of air and sea—in short, where you thought one question was settled for ever, a hundred are opened up for the present hour.”

“Bravo, wife!” I cried in true delight. “I do indeed understand you now. You have said it better than I could ever have done. That’s the plague of you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries that there is little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won’t try. Therefore we men know no more than you do whether it is in you or not. And when you do try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in Parliament all at once.”

“Do you apply that remark to me, sir?” demanded Ethelwyn.

“You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion,” I answered.

“I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine,” she replied.

“Then I may go on?” I said, with interrogation.

“Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness—I believe you called it—of nature.”

“And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are so accustomed to regard everything in the flat, as dogma cut and—not always dried my moral olfactories aver—that if you prove to them the very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no help for it. Even St. Paul’s chief opposition came from the Judaizing Christians of his time, who did not believe that God could love the Gentiles, and therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must not be fierce with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors goes to account for their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, and that they are, in very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, who can deny? The worst of it is, that no man who is conceited can be convinced of the fact.”

“Don’t say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion.”

“You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he ceases to be conceited. But there must be a final judgment, and the true man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man’s business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother’s eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.—‘The Mote-Pulling Society!’—That ought to take with a certain part of the public.”

“Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don’t come near you.”

“They can’t touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be sure—not daggers.”

“But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, and have forgotten all about ‘the cubicalness of nature.’”

“You are right, my love, as you generally are,” I answered, laughing. “Look at that great antlered elk, or moose—fit quarry for Diana of the silver bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?”

“Stop, stop, Harry,” said my wife. “It makes me unhappy to hear grand words clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, and the truth only.”

“If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant yields, and is ‘shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,’ so is each of us borne onward to an unseen destiny—a glorious one if we will but yield to the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth—with a grand listing—coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The very clouds of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and history of man.”

“I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds assume. I see I was wrong, though.”

“The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all for? They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and they go nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving symbols of the motions of man’s spirit and destiny.”

A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing forms—great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm—the icebergs of the upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke.

“I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night,” she said. “How he must be enjoying it if he is!”

“I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours,” I said. “Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking.”

“He is laying in stock, though, I suppose,” answered my wife.

“I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember.”

“Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets with the things God cares to fashion.”

“Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at present is our Wynnie.”

“Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?” returned Ethelwyn, looking up in my face with an arch expression.

“Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about.”

My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said,

“Don’t you like him, Harry?”

“Yes. I like him very much.”

“Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?”

“I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing.”

“I should like to be surer of Wynnie’s.”

I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed.

“Don’t you think they might do each other good?”

Still I could not reply.

“They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don’t perhaps know what it is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it would very likely make them both more desirous of finding it still.”

“Perhaps,” I said at last. “But you are talking about awfully serious things, Ethelwyn.”

“Yes, as serious as life,” she answered.

“You make me very anxious,” I said. “The young man has not, I fear, any means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself.”

“Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content with an art and a living by it.”

“I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each other,” I said, hardly heeding my wife’s words.

“It came about quite naturally,” she rejoined. “If you had opposed their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other.”

“He hasn’t said anything—has he?” I asked in positive alarm.

“O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him,” she added, with a sweet laugh.