Part 16 (1/2)

But deep, deep, Never to waken more!

To thy dark chambers, mother Earth, I come, Prepare my dreamless bed in my last home; Shut down the marble door, And leave me,-let me sleep!

But deep, deep, Never to waken more!

Now I lie down,-I close my aching eyes, If on this night another morn must rise, Wake me not, I implore!

I only ask to sleep, And deep, deep, Never to waken more!

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Theological Fragments.

1.

THE HERMIT AND THE MINSTREL.

(A PARABLE, FROM ST. JEROME.)

A certain holy anchorite had pa.s.sed a long life in a cave of the Thebaid, remote from all communion with men; and eschewing, as he would the gates of h.e.l.l, even the very presence of a woman; and he fasted and prayed, and performed many and severe penances; and his whole thought was how he should make himself of account in the sight of G.o.d, that he might enter into his paradise.

And having lived this life for three score and ten years he was puffed up with the notion of his own great virtue and sanct.i.ty, and, like to St. Anthony, he besought the Lord to show him what saint he should emulate as greater than himself, thinking perhaps, in his heart, that the Lord would answer that none was greater or holier. And the same night the angel of G.o.d appeared to him, and said, ”If thou wouldst excel all others in virtue and sanct.i.ty, thou must strive to be like a certain minstrel who goes begging and singing from door to door.”

And the holy man was in great astonishment, and he arose and took his staff and ran forth in search of this minstrel; and when he had found him he questioned him earnestly, saying, ”Tell me, I pray thee, my brother, what good works thou hast performed in thy lifetime, and by what prayers and penances thou hast made thyself acceptable to G.o.d?”

And the man, greatly wondering and ashamed to be so questioned, hung down his head as he replied, ”I beseech thee, holy father, mock me not!

I have performed no good works, and as to praying, alas! sinner that I am, I am not worthy to pray. I do nothing but go about from door to door amusing the people with my viol and my flute.”

And the holy man insisted and said, ”Nay, but peradventure in the midst of this thy evil life thou hast done some good works?” And the minstrel replied, ”I know of nothing good that I have done.” And the hermit, wondering more and more, said, ”How hast thou become a beggar: hast thou spent thy substance in riotous living, like most others of thy calling?”

and the man answering, said, ”Nay; but there was a poor woman whom I found running hither and thither in distraction, for her husband and her children had been sold into slavery to pay a debt. And the woman being very fair, certain sons of Belial pursued after her; so I took her home to my hut and protected her from them, and I gave her all I possessed to redeem her family, and conducted her in safety to the city, where she was reunited to her husband and children. But what of that, my father; is there a man who would not have done the same?”

And the hermit, hearing the minstrel speak these words, wept bitterly, saying, ”For my part, I have not done so much good in all my life; and yet they call me a man of G.o.d, and thou art only a poor minstrel!”

At Vienna, some years ago, I saw a picture by Von Schwind, which was conceived in the spirit of this old apologue. It exhibited the lives of two twin brothers diverging from the cradle. One of them, by profound study, becomes a most learned and skilful physician, and ministers to the sick; attaining to great riches and honours through his labours and his philanthropy. The other brother, who has no turn for study, becomes a poor fiddler, and spends his life in consoling, by his music, sufferings beyond the reach of the healing art. In the end, the two brothers meet at the close of life. He who had been fiddling through the world is sick and worn out: his brother prescribes for him, and is seen culling simples for his restoration, while the fiddler touches his instrument for the solace of his kind physician.

It is in such representations that painting did once speak, and might again speak to the hearts of the people.

Another version of the same thought, we find in De Berenger's pretty ballad, ”_Les deux Surs de Charite_.”

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2.