Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art Fifth Series No. 31 Vol. I August 2 1884 by Various

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THE SKULL AND THE ROSE

The Singing Mouse peeped out from the hollow orbit of the white skull which lies upon the table next to the volume of Shakespeare. It reached down a tiny pink paw and touched a leaf of the brave red rose which every day lies before the skull. It plucked the leaf, which made a buckler for its small throbbing breast. It spoke:

"The rose is bold and red," said the Singing Mouse. "Blood is red. A skull is white. The rose and the skull love one another. They understand. We do not understand.

"As I sat by the skull I saw a dream of the past go by. It was as you see it now.

"Do you see the waving grasses of the valleys? Do you see the unmoving front of the white old mountains? Do you see the red roses growing down among the grasses?

"It is peace upon the land. I can see one who has seen the lands. He smiles, but he is sad. He crosses the wide sea, but cares not. He travels upon rails of iron, and he smiles, but still is sad, because he thinks; and he who thinks must weep. He leaves the ship and the iron rail, and his road is narrower and slower, for he travels now by wheels of wood. He sees the valleys, and his smile has more of peace. His trail becomes narrower yet. He goes by saddle, and the mountains hem him in, but now he smiles the more. Now he must leave even the saddle, and the trail is dim and hard. See, the trail is gone! Here, where no foot has trod, where the mountains close about, where the trees whisper, he sits and looks about him. Do you see the red rose on his breast? Always the rose is there. Do you see him look up at the mountains, about him at the trees? Do you see him lay his head upon the earth? Do you still see his smile, the smile which is weary and yet not afraid? Do you hear him sigh? And what is this he whispers, here at the end of the long and narrowing way--'I know not if this be the end or the beginning!' Ah, what does this man mean who whispers to himself in riddles?

"Look! It is the time of war. There is music. The blood stings. The heart leaps. The eye flames. The soul exults. Flickering of light on steel, the flash of servant forces used to slay, the reverberant growl of engines made for death, the passing of men in cloth and men in blankets, the tramp of hurrying hoofs, the falling of men who die--can you see this--can you catch the horror, the exultation, the joy of this, I say? They come, they go; they run their race, and it is all.

"Here are those who ride against those who slay. Do you know this one who rides at the head, smiling, swinging his sword well and smiling all the time? It is he who said in the mountains that riddle of the end and the beginning--who knew that to the heart of nature we must come, for either the end or the beginning of this, our life. Do you see upon his breast the red rose? I think he rides to battle with the rose, knowing what fate will come.

"You know of this biting whistle in the air--this small thing that smites unseen? Do you know the mowing of the death scythes? Hark! I hear the singing of this unseen thing. See! he of the rose is bitten. He has fallen. Ay! ay! He was so brave and strong! His horse has gone. He is alone. The grass here was so green. It is red. The rose upon his breast is red. His face is white, but still the smile is there; and now it is calmer and more sweet, though still he whispers, 'I know not if it be the end or the beginning!'

"He is alone with Nature again. The heavens weep for him. The grasses and leaves begin with busy fingers to cover him up. The earth pillows him. He sleeps. It is all. It is done. It is the way of life. It is the end and the beginning.

"He loved the valley, the mountain, the grass, the rose. Now, since he cherished the rose so well, see, the rose will not leave him. Out of the dust it rises, it grows, it blooms. Against his lips it presses. It is the beginning! He loved, he thought, he knew. He is not dead He is with Nature. It is but the beginning!

"Let the rose press against his lips in an eternal, pure caress. There is no end. They understand. We do not yet understand."

The pink flame of the unreal light died away. The pageant of the hills, the panorama of the battle, faded and were gone. The table and the books came back. Wondering at these words, I scarce could tell when the Singing Mouse went away, leaving me staring at the barren walls and at the white skull by my hand. ... For a moment it nearly seemed to me the hollow eyes had light and spoke to me. For a moment almost it seemed to me that the rose stirred deep down among its petals, and that a wider perfume floated out upon the air.

THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN

"Once there was a man," said the Singing Mouse, "who loved to go into the mountains. He would go alone, far into the mountains, and climb up to the tops of the tallest peaks. Nothing pleased him so much as to climb to the top of some mountain where no other man had ever been. No one ever knew what he said to the mountains, or what the mountains said to him, but that they understood each other very well was sure, for he could go among the mountains where other men dared not go. At the tops of the high mountains he would sit and look out over the country that lay beyond. He would not say what he saw, for he said he could not tell, and that, moreover, the people would not understand it, for they did not know the way the mountains thought.

"One time this man climbed to the top of a very high mountain peak in a distant country. This peak looked out over a wide land, and the man knew that from its summit he could see many things.

"The man was now growing old, so when he got to the top of this mountain he sat down to rest. When he sat down, he put his chin in his hand, and his arm upon his knee; and so he looked out over the land, seeing many things.

"The sun came up, but the man did not move, but sat and thought. The moon came, but still he did not move. He only looked, and thought and smiled.

"After many days it was seen that this man would not come down from the mountain. The mountain made him part of itself, and turned him into stone, as he sat there, with his chin in his hand. He is there to-day, looking out over many things. He never moves, for he is now of stone. I have seen that place myself. Once I thought I heard this man whisper of the things he saw. He sits there to-day."

AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS

"Do you know what the oak says?" asked the Singing Mouse, as it sat upon my knee. It had needed to nibble again at my fingers before it could waken me from the dream into which I had fallen, gazing at the fading fire. "Do you know what the oak says?" it repeated. "Do you hear it? Do you hear the talking of the leaves?...

"I know what the oak says," said the Singing Mouse. "When the wind is soft, the oak says: 'Peace! Peace!' When the breeze is sharp it sighs and says: 'Pity! Pity! Pity!' And when the storm has fallen, the oak sobs and cries: 'Woe! Woe! Woe.'

"Do you see the oaks?" asked the Singing Mouse. "Do you see the little lake? Do you know this place of the oaks? Behold it now!" It waved a tiny hand.

I gazed at the naked, cheerless wall, seamed and rent with cracks along its sallow width. And as I gazed the seams and scars blended and composed into the lines of a map of a noble country. And as I gazed more intently the map took on color, and narrowed its semblance to that of a certain region. And as I gazed yet more eagerly the map faded quite away, and there lay in its stead the smiling face of an enchanted land.

There was the little silver lake, rippling on its shore of rushes. Around rose the long curved hills, swelling back from the shore. The baby river babbled on at the mouth of the lake, kissing its mother a continual farewell. The small springs tinkled metallically cold into the silver of the lake. The tender green of the gentle glades rolled softly back, dividing the two hills in peaceful separation. And there were the oaks. At the water's edge, near the lesser spring, the wild apple trees twisted, but upon the hills and over the great glades stood the reserved, mysterious oaks, tall and strong.

One oak, a mighty one, now resolved itself more prominently forth. Did I not know it well? Could one forget the tortured but noble soul of this oak? Could one forget the strong arm of comfort it extended over this most precious spot of all the glade? One must suffer before one may comfort. The oak had suffered somewhere. We do not know all things. But over this spot the great tree reached out sheltering hands, and certainly from its hands dropped benedictions plenteously down.

Under the arm of the oak I saw a tiny house of white--neat, well-ordered, full of cheerfulness. Through the wall of canvas--for it now seemed to be after dusk--there shone a faint pink gleam of light, the soul of the white house, its pure spirit of content. As it shone, it scarce seemed lit by mortal hand.

Near the small house of white, and under the oak's protecting arm, there burned a little flame, of small compass save in the vast shadows it set dancing among the trees. Those who built this fire here, so many times, so many years, each time first craved pardon of the green grass of that happy glade, for they would not harm the grass. But the grass said yea to all they asked, this was sure, for each year the tiny hearth spot was greener than any other spot, because it remembered what the fire had said and done. And each year the oak dropped down food enough for the little fire. The oak took pay in the vast shadows the fire made for it. That was the way the oak saw the spirits of the Past, and when it saw them it sighed; but still it welcomed the shadows of the Past. So the fire, and the grass, and the oak, and the shadows of the Past were friends, and each year they met here. It had been thus for many years. Each year, for many years, the same hand had laid the little fire, in the same place, and so given back to the oak its Past. Now, the Past is a very sad but tender thing.

Near by the little fire I saw a small table formed of straight-laid boughs, and at either side of this were seats made cunningly in the workshop of the woods. There were two forms at this small table. I saw them both. One was gray and bowed somewhat, stooped as the oaks are, silvered as the oaks are in the winter days. The other was younger and more erect. Once the younger looked to the older for counsel, but now it seemed to me the bowed figure turned to the one that had become more strong.

I saw the savory vapors rise. Even, it seemed to me, I could note a faint, clear odor of innocent potency. I saw the table laid, not with gleam of snow and silver, but with plain vessels which, nevertheless, seemed now to have a radiance of their own. I knew all this. It was as though there actually lay at hand these pleasant scenes, as though there actually arose the appealing fragrance of the evening meal.

Now as I looked, the gray figure bowed its head, there, under the arm of the oak, and asked on the humble board the blessing of the God who made the oak, and gave the fire and spread the pleasant waters on the land. Every mealtime, every year, for many years, it had been thus. Ever, the oak knew, the gray figure would first bow and ask the blessing of God. And each time at the close the oak with rustling leaves pronounced distinct Amen! Let those jest who will. I do not know. I think perhaps the oak knows or it would not thus for years have whispered reverently its distinct Amen! I will not scoff. It is perhaps we who are ignorant. We do not know all things.

I ask not what nor who were these two who had come each year to this place of the oaks, but surely they were friends. In shadow, I could hear them talk. In shadow, I could see them smile.

These friends sat by the little fire a time before they went to rest in the tiny house of white. After they had gone, the fire did strange things. All men know that, though you see the fire burned down, when you go into the tent you will some time in the night see the walls lit up by a sudden flash or so, now and then, from the fire which was thought to be dead.

That is the business of the fire, and of the oaks and of the shadows. I know that the shadows dance strangely, and hover and come near at hand, in those late hours of the night; but what then occurs I do not know. These two friends never questioned this. They knew it was the secret of the night, and gave the oak its own request, in pay for its protection and consent. They gave the oak its union with the sacred Past.

In the night I have heard the oak sob. Yet in the morning, when the sun was silvering the wake of all the leaping fishes, the oak was always gentle, and it said, "Wake, wake! God is wise. Waken, waken! God is good!"

As pure shining beads upon a thread of gold I saw this small, dear picture, reiterant and unchanged, year after year, always with the same calm and pure surroundings. Only as year added itself to year, slipping forward on the golden string, I saw the gray figure grow more gray, more bowed, more feeble. Alas! it seemed to me I saw the silver coming upon the head of the younger man, and his eyes growing weary, as of one who looks at the earth too closely . Yet the years came, to the oaks and to the grasses and to the friends.

The grass dies every year, but it is born again. The oak dies in centuries, but it is born again. Man dies in three score years and ten; but he, too, is born again.

As I looked, I could see the passing of the years. In all but the unaltering fire of friendship I could see change creeping on. Grayer, grayer, more bent, more feeble--is it not so, Singing Mouse? And now, this time, what was this gentle warning that the oak tried to whisper softly down? Perhaps the grayer friend heard it, as he sat musing by the fire. He rose and looked about him, as one who had dreamed and was content. He looked up at the solemn stars unafraid, and so murmured to himself. "Day unto day uttereth speech," he said; "Night unto night showeth knowledge."

Day unto day, Singing Mouse. Day unto day.

Woe is me, Singing Mouse, and these are bitter tears for that which you have shown I see it all again, the oaks, the glade, the tiny house of white, the small pleasant fire. Here again is the little table, and here is the evening meal. The table is still spread for two. A double portion is served as was wont before. Yet why? For all is not the same. At this table there is but one form now. The younger man is there, although now he has grown gray and stooped. Year unto year, day unto day, the beads have slipped along the string. Once young, now old, he keeps the camp alone!

But is he then alone? Hush! The squirrels have grown still, and even the oak is silent. What is that opposite, across the table, at the seat long years held only by the elder of these two? Tell me, Singing Mouse, is it not true that I see there, sitting as of old at the table, the same sturdy form, the same simple, innocent and believing face? It is the gray ghost of one grown gray in goodness. It is the shadow of a shadow, the apparition of a soul!

The one at the table pauses, as was the wont before the beginning of a meal. He looks across the table to the shadow, as if the shadow were his friend. The shadow bows its head. The living man bows also his head at the board. The shadow moves its lips. Doubt not those words are heard this day.

See, the sun rises through the trees. The glorious day sets on once more. Doubt not, fear not, sorrow not, ye two. Bow the head still, ye two, and let not my picture perish. Whisper again the benediction of the years, and let me hear once more the murmur of the oak's Amen!

THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS

"Do you know the story of the Wedding of the Times?" said the Singing Mouse. "You know, all life is a wedding. The flowers love, and the grasses, and the trees; and the circle of the wedding ring is the circle of life and the sign of eternity. Death and life, not life and then death, is the order and the law.

"The hours are born of parents, as are the flowers. The hours of the day are born of the wedding of Night and Morning. It is the way of Life. Come with me."

So with the Singing Mouse I went into a place where I was once long before. I could see it very well. It was in the deep woods, far away. Near by there were tall, sweet grasses. I could hear the faint tinkle of a falling stream. Other than that, it was silent in the deep woods. Overhead the sky was clear and filled with stars. The stars trembled and twinkled and shone radiantly fair. So now all at once I knew they were the jewels on the veil of Night. And the far shadows were the drapery of the Night, and the greater light of the heavens was the star upon her coronal.

When I first looked forth, the Night was a babe, but as I gazed it grew. The Night is full of change and charm. Those who live within the walls do not see these things. When I saw them, I could not sleep, for the Night in all her changes seemed to speak.

The Night grew older, drawing about her her more ornate garb of witchery. Across her bosom fell a wondrous tissue, trembling with exuberance of unprismed light. These were the gems in thousands of the skies, all fair against the blackness of the robes of Night, and I knew that the blackness of the one was as lovely as the radiance of the other. Nor could one separate one from the other, for there arose a thin mist of light, so that one saw form or features only dimly, as through a cloth of silver lace, such as the spiders weave upon a morning.

The Night grew on, changing at every moment, for change is the law. There were small frowns of clouds which were replaced by smiles of light. Did never you hear the laughter of the Night? It is a strange thing. Not all men have heard it. The Singing Mouse told me of this.

Now as I lay and looked at this glorious apparition, there came still another change, and one most wonderful. In the heart of the Night there came a tremulous exultation. Upon the face of the Night appeared a roseate tinge of joyous perturbation. So then I knew the lover of the Night was coming, and knew, too, whence we have derived the signs of love as among human beings we see it indicated. I saw the flush upon the cheek of Night flame slowly and faintly up, until it touched her very forehead. This is the way of Love. But the Night went on, for this is the way of Life. Love and Life, these are ever and for ever. We mock at them and understand them not, but they are ever and for ever.

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