The whirling wheels of Time and Fate

Fragment*

I thank Thee, Lord, who hast through devious ways Led me to know Thy Praise, And to this Wildernesse Hast brought me out, Thine Israel to blesse.

If I should faint with Thirst, or weary, sink, To these my Soule is Drink, To these the Majick Rod Is Life, and mine is hid with Christ in G.o.d.

---------- * These are not properly dream-verses, having been suddenly presented to the waking vision one day in Paris while gazing at the bright sky. (Ed.)

Signs of the Times

Eyes of the dawning in heaven?

Sparks from the opening of h.e.l.l?

Gleams from the altar-lamps seven?

Can you tell?

Is it the glare of a fire?

Is it the breaking of day?

Birth lights, or funeral pyre?

Who shall say?

--April 19, 1886.

With the G.o.ds

Sweet lengths of sh.o.r.e with sea between, Sweet gleams of tender blue and green, Sweet wind caressive and unseen, Soft breathing from the deep;

What joy have I in all sweet things; How clear and bright my spirit sings; Rising aloft on mystic wings; While sense and body sleep.

In some such dream of grace and light, My soul shall pa.s.s into the sight Of the dear G.o.ds who in the height Of inward being dwell;

And joyful at Her perfect feet Whom most of all I long to greet, My soul shall lie in meadow sweet All white with asphodel.

--August 31, 1887.

Part II. Dream-Stories

I. A Village of Seers-- A Christmas Story

A day or two before Christmas, a few years since, I found myself compelled by business to leave England for the Continent.

I am an American, junior partner in a London mercantile house having a large Swiss connection; and a transaction--needless to specify her--required immediate and personal supervision abroad, at a season of the year when I would gladly have kept festival in London with my friends. But my journey was destined to bring me an adventure of a very remarkable character, which made me full amends for the loss of Christmas cheer at home.

I crossed the Channel at night from Dover to Calais. The pa.s.sage was bleak and snowy, and the pa.s.sengers were very few. On board the steamboat I remarked one traveler whose appearance and manner struck me as altogether unusual and interesting, and I deemed it by no means a disagreeable circ.u.mstance that, on arriving at Calais, this man entered the compartment of the railway carriage in which I had already seated myself.

So far as the dim light permitted me a glimpse of the stranger's face, I judged him to be about fifty years of age. The features were delicate and refined in type, the eyes dark and deep-sunken, but full of intelligence and thought, and the whole aspect of the man denoted good birth, a nature given to study and meditation, and a life of much sorrowful experience.

Two other travelers occupied our carriage until Amiens was reached.

They then left us, and the interesting stranger and I remained alone together.

"A bitter night," I said to him, as I drew up the window, "and the worst of it is yet to come! The early hours of dawn are always the coldest."

"I suppose so," he answered in a grave voice.

The voice impressed me as strongly as the face; it was subdued and restrained, the voice of a man undergoing great mental suffering.

"You will find Paris bleak at this season of the year," I continued, longing to make him talk. "It was colder there last winter than in London."

"I do not stay in Paris," he replied, "save to breakfast."

"Indeed; that is my case. I am going on to Bale."

"And I also," he said, "and further yet."

Then he turned his face to the window, and would say no more. My speculations regarding him multiplied with his taciturnity. I felt convinced that he was a man with a romance, and a desire to know its nature became strong in me. We breakfasted apart at Paris, but I watched him into his compartment for Bale, and sprang in after him. During the first part of our journey we slept; but, as we neared the Swiss frontier, a spirit of wakefulness took hold of us, and fitful sentences were exchanged. My companion, it appeared, intended to rest but a single day at Bale. He was bound for far-away Alpine regions, ordinarily visited by tourists during the summer months only, and, one would think, impa.s.sable at this season of the year.

"And you go alone?" I asked him. "You will have no companions to join you?"

"I shall have guides," he answered, and relapsed into meditative silence.

Presently I ventured another question: "You go on business, perhaps-- not on pleasure?"

He turned his melancholy eyes on mine. "Do I look as if I were traveling for pleasure's sake?" he asked gently.

I felt rebuked, and hastened to apologise. "Pardon me; I ought not to have said that. But you interest me greatly, and I wish, if possible, to be of service to you. If you are going into Alpine districts on business and alone, at this time of the year--"