Allegories of Life by Mrs. J. S. Adams
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6 Allegories of Life
BY MRS. J. S. ADAMS
1872
CONTENTS.
I. THE BELLS
II. THE HEIGHT
III. THE PILGRIM
IV. FAITH
V. HOPE
VI. JOY AND SORROW
VII. UPWARD
VIII. THE OAK
IX. TRUTH AND ERROR
X. THE TREE
XI. THE TWO WAYS
XII. THE URNS
XIII. SELF-EXERTION
XIV. THE VINES
XV. IN THE WORLD
XVI. FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY
XVII. GOING FORTH
XVIII. THE FEAST
XIX. THE LESSON OF THE STONE
XX. THE SEEDS
XXI. ONLY GOLD
XXII. THE SACRIFICE
XXIII. STRANGERS
I.
THE BELLS.
In the steeple of an old church was a beautiful chime of bells, which
for many years had rung out joyous peals at the touch of the sexton's
hand upon the rope.
"I'll make the air full of music to-morrow," said the white-haired man,
as he lay down to his slumbers. "To-morrow is Christmas, and the people
shall be glad and gay. Ah, yes! right merry will be the chimes I shall
ring them." Soon sleep gathered him in a close embrace, and visions of
the morrow's joy flitted over his brain.
At midnight some dark clouds swept over the tower, while darker shadows
of discontent fell on the peaceful chime.
Hark! what was that? A low, discordant sound was heard among the bells.
"Here we have been ringing for seven long years," murmured the highest
bell in the chime.
"Well, what of it? That's what we are placed here for," said a voice
from one of the deeper-toned bells.
"But I have rung long enough. Besides, I am weary of always singing
one tone," answered the high bell, in a clear, sharp voice.
"Together we make sweetest harmony," returned the bell next the
complainer.
"I well know that, but I am tired of my one tone, while you can bear
monotony. For my part, I do not mean to answer to the call of the rope
to-morrow."
"What! not ring on Christmas Day!" exclaimed all the bells together.
"No, I don't. You may exclaim as much as you please; but, if you
had common sympathy, you would see in a moment how weary I am of
singing this one high tone."
"But we all have to give our notes," responded a low, sweet-voiced bell.
"That's just what I mean to change. We are all weary of our notes,
and need change."
"But we should have to be recast," said the low-toned bell, sadly.
"Most certainly we should. _I_ should like the fun of that. Now how
many of you will be silent in the morning when the old sexton comes to
ring us?"
"I will," answered the lowest-toned bell, boldly.
"If part of us are silent and refuse to ring, of what use will the rest
be?" said one who had remained quiet until then. "For a chime all of
us are needed," she added, sadly.
"That's just the point," remarked the leader. "If all will be still, none
will be blamed: the people will think we are worn out and need making
over. So we shall be taken down from this tower where we have been so
long, and stand a chance of seeing something of the world. For _my_
part, I am tired to death of being up here, and seeing nothing but this
quiet valley."
A murmur ran from one to another, till all agreed to be silent on the
morrow, though many of the chime would have preferred to ring as usual.
The man who had presented the bells to the church returned at midnight,
after a long journey to his native valley, bringing with him a friend,
almost solely to hear the beautiful chime on the morrow.
As he passed the church, on his way home, the murmuring of the bells
was just ceasing. "The wind moves them--the beautiful bells," he said.
"But to-morrow you shall hear how sweet they will sing," he added,
casting a loving glance up to the tower where hung the bells.
A few miles from the valley, close to the roadside, stood a cottage
inhabited by a man and wife whose only child was fast fading from the
world.
"Raise me up a little, mother," said the dying boy, "so I can hear the
Christmas chime. It will be the last time I shall hear them here, mother.
Is it almost morning?"
The pale mother wiped the death-dew from his brow and kissed him,
saying, "Yes, dear, it's almost morning. The bells will chime soon as
the first ray comes over the hills."
Patiently the child sat, pillowed in his bed, till the golden arrows of
light flashed over the earth. Day had come, but no chime.
"What can be the matter?" said the anxious mother, as she strained her
eyes in the direction of the tower.
What if the old sexton were dead? The thought took all her strength
away. If death had taken him first, who would lay her boy tenderly away?
"Is it almost time?"
"Almost, Jimmy, darling. Perhaps the old sexton has slept late."
"Will the bells chime in heaven, mother?"
"Yes, dear, I hope so."
"Will they ring them for me if--if--I--mother! hark! the bells _are_
ringing! The good old sexton has gone to the church at last!"
The boy's eyes glistened with a strange light. In vain the mother
listened. No sound came to _her_ ears. All was still as death.
"Oh, how beautiful they sing!" he said, and fell back and died.
Other chimes fell on his ear, sweeter far than the bells of St. Auburn.
For more than an hour the old sexton had been working at the ropes
in vain. No sound come forth from either bell.
"What can be the matter?" he exclaimed, nervously. "For seven long years
they have not failed to ring out their tones. I'll try once more." And he
did so, vigorously.
Just then the figure of a man stood in the doorway. It was the owner
of the chime. He had gone to the sexton's house, not hearing the bells
at the usual hour, thinking he had overslept; and, not finding him, had
sought him at the church.
He tried the ropes himself, but with no more success than the sexton.
"What can it mean?" he said, as he turned sorrowfully away.
It was a sad Christmas in the pleasant valley. To have those sweet
sounds missing, and on such a day,--it was a loss to all, and an omen
of ill to many.
The next day, workmen were sent to the tower to examine the bells. No
defect was perceptible. They were sound and whole, and no mischief-making
lad, as some had suggested, had stolen their tongues.
The bells were taken down and carried to a distant city to be recast.
"There! didn't I tell you we should see the world?" said their leader,
after they were packed and on their way.
"I don't think we are seeing much of it now, in this dark box," answered
one of the bells.
"Wait till we are at our journey's end. We are in a transition state
now. Haven't I listened to the old pastor many a time, and heard him
say those very words? I could not comprehend them then, but I can now.
Oh, how delightful it is to have the prospect of some change before
us!" Thus the old bell chatted to the journey's end, while the other
bells had but little to say.
Three days later they were at the end of their long ride, and placed,
one by one, in a fiery furnace. Instead of murmurs now, their groans
filled the air.
"Oh, for one moment's rest from the heat and the hammer! Oh, that we
were all at the sweet vale of St. Auburn!" said the leader of all their
sorrow.
"How sweetly would we sing!" echoed all.
"It's a terrible thing to be recast!" sighed the deepest-toned bell;
and he quivered with fear as they placed him in the furnace.
At last, after much suffering, they were pronounced perfect, and repacked
for their return.
The same tone was given to each, but the quality was finer, softer, and
richer than before. The workmen knew not why--none but the suffering
bells, and the master hand who put them into the furnace of affliction.
They were all hung once more in the tower--wiser and better bells.
Never again was heard a murmur of discontent from either because but
one tone was its mission. In the moonlight they talk among themselves,
of their sad but needful experience, and of the lesson which it taught
them,--as we hope it has our reader,--that each must be faithful to the
quality or tone which the Master has given us, and which is needful to
the rich and full harmonies of life.
II.
THE HEIGHT.
There was once an aged man who lived upon an exceeding high mountain for
many years; but, as his strength began to decline, he found the ascent so
tedious for his feeble steps that he went into the valley to live.
It was very hard for him to give up the view from its lofty height of
the sun which sank so peacefully to rest. Long before the sleepers in
the valley awoke, he was watching the golden orb as it broke through the
mists and flung its beauties over the hills.
"This must be my last day upon the mountain top," he said. "The little
strength which is left me I must devote to the culture of fruit and
flowers in the valley, and no longer spend it in climbing up and down
these hills, whose tops rest their peaks in the fleecy clouds. I have
enjoyed many years of repose and grandeur, and must devote the remainder
of my life to helping the people in the valley."
At sunset the old man descended, with staff in hand, and went slowly down
the mountain side. Such lovely blossoms, pink, golden, and scarlet, met
his eye as he gazed on the gardens of the laborers, that he involuntarily
exclaimed, "I fear I have spent my days not wisely on yonder mountain
top, taking at least a third of my time in climbing up and down. Richer
flowers grow here in the valley; the air is softer, and the grass like
velvet to the tread. I'll see if there is a vacant cottage for me."
Saying this, he accosted a laborer who was just returning from his
toil: "Good man, do you know of any cottage near which I can rent?"
"Why! you are the old man from the mountain," exclaimed the astonished
person addressed.
"I am coming to the valley to live. I am now seeking a shelter."
"Yonder," answered the man, "is a cottage just vacated by a man and
wife. Would that suit you?"
"Anything that will shelter me will suit," was the answer. "Dost thou
know who owns the house?"
"Von Nellser, the gardener. He lives down by the river now, and works for
all the rich men in the valley."
"I'll see him to-night," said the old man, and, thanking his informant,
was moving on.
"But, good father, the sun has already set; the night shades appear.
Come and share my shelter and bread to-night, and in the morning seek
Von Nellser."
The old man gladly accepted his kind offer. "The vale makes men kindly of
heart and feeling," he said, as he uncovered his head to enter the home
of the laborer. A fair woman of forty came forward, and clasped his hand
with a warmth of manner which made him feel more at ease than many words
of welcome would have done.
The three sat together at supper, and refreshed themselves with food
and thought.
He retired early to the nice apartment assigned him, and lay awake a
long time, musing on the past and the present. "Ah, I see," he said to
himself, "why I am an object of wonder and something of awe to the
people of the valley. I have lived apart from human ties, while they have
grown old and ripe together. I must be a riddle to them all--a something
which they have invested with an air of veneration, because I was not
daily in their midst. Had it been otherwise, I should have been neither
new nor fresh to them. How know I but this is God's reserve force
wherewith each may become refreshed, and myself an humble instrument
sent in the right moment to vivify those who have been thinking alike too
much?"
He fell asleep, and awoke just as the sun was throwing its bright rays
over his bed. "Dear old day-god," he said, with reverence, and arose
and dressed himself, still eying the sun's early rays. "One of thy golden
messengers must content me now," he said, a little sadly. "I can no
longer see thee in all thy majesty marching up the mountain side; no
longer can I follow thee walking over the hill-tops, and resting thy head
against the crimson sky at evening: but smile on me, Sun, while in the
vale I tarry, and warm my seeds to life while on thy daily march."
The old man went from his room refreshed by sleep, and partook of the
bread and honey which the kind woman had ready for him. Then, thanking
them for their hospitality, he departed.
The laborer and wife watched him out of sight, and thought they had
never seen anything more beautiful than his white hair waving in the
morning breeze.
At dusk a light shone in the vacant cottage, and they sent him fresh
cakes, milk, and honey for his evening meal.
* * * * *
Ten years passed away. The old man had cultured his land, and no fairer
flowers or sweeter fruits grew in the valley than his own. He had taught
the people many truths which he had learned in his solitary life on the
mountain, and in return had learned much from them. He faded slowly away.
The brilliant flowers within his garden grew suddenly distasteful to him.
He longed to look once more on a pure white blossom which grew only at
the mountain top. With its whiteness no flower could compare. There were
others, growing half way up, that approached its purity, but none equaled
the flower on the summit.
"I should like, of all things," answered the old man, when they desired
to know what would most please him,--for he had become a great favorite
in the valley,--"to look once more upon my pure white flower ere I die;
but it's so far to the mountain top, none will care to climb."
"Thou _shalt_ see it!" exclaimed a strong youth, who was courageous,
but seldom completed anything he undertook, for lack of perseverance.
The old man blessed him. He started for the mountain, and walked a
long way up its side, often missing his footing, and at one time seeking
aid from a rotten branch, which broke in his grasp and nearly threw him
to the base.
After repeated efforts to reach the summit, he found a sweet, pale
blossom growing in a mossy nook by a rock.
"Ah! here it is--the same, I dare say, as those on the mountain top.
So what need of climbing farther? What a lucky fellow I am to save so
many steps for myself!" and he went down the mountain side as fast as
he could, amid the rank and tangled wood, with the flower in his hand.
Day was walking over the meadows with golden feet when he entered
the cottage and placed the blossom exultingly in the old man's palm.
"What! so quick returned?" he said. "Thou must have been very swift--but
this, my good young man, never grew on the mountain top! Thee must have
found this half way up. I remember well those little flowers--they grew
by the rocks where I used to rest when on my journey up."
The crowd who had come to see the strange white flower now laughed aloud,
which made the youth withdraw, abashed and much humbled. Had he been
strong of heart, he would have tried again, and not returned without the
blossom from the mountain top. Many others tried, but never had the
courage to reach its height; while the old man daily grew weaker.
"He'll die without setting eyes on his flower," said the good woman
who had given him shelter the night he came to the valley. She had not
the courage to try the ascent, but she endeavored to stimulate others to
go to the top and bring the blossom to cheer his heart. She offered, as
reward, choice fruits and linen from her stores; but all had some excuse,
although they loved the old man tenderly: none felt equal to the effort.
Towards noon, a pale, fragile girl, from a distant part of the vale,
appeared, who had heard of his desire, and stood at the door of his
cottage and knocked.
"What dost thou wish?" he asked from within.
"To go to the mountain for the flower and place it in thy hand," she
answered, as she entered his room and meekly stood before him.
"Thou art very frail of body," he replied, "but strong of heart. Go,
try, and my soul will follow and strengthen thee, fair daughter."
She kissed his hand, and departed.
The morning came, and she returned not. The end of the second day
drew nigh, and yet she came not back.
"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the
cottage. "Such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death. The old
man ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs
so much labor to get it."
"So think me," said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; "so
think me. Our flowers are pretty, and good 'nough, too. Sure, he
orter be content with what grows 'round him, and not be sending folk
a-climbing." This said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked
very wise.
* * * * *
The aged man of the mountain was passing rapidly away. The kind
neighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around
the room. Some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the
mountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without
the flower to gladden his eyes.
"The girl's gone a long time," remarked one of the women.
"The longer she's gone, the surer the sign she's reached the mountain
top. It's a long way up there, and a weary journey back. My feet have
trod it often, and I know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches
in the way. But she will come yet. I hear footsteps not far away."
"But too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she
bring it."
"Then put it on my grave--but hark! she comes--some one approaches!"
Through the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl,
with torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes. The old man
raised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing.
"Fair girl,"--he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever
use,--"the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels'
garments. Its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks
it, making it white as their robes. To all who persevere to the mountain
top and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter
and remain forever. For is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses
not till the summit is gained?"
"Oh! good man, the mountain view was so grand, I fain would have lingered
to gaze; but, longing to lay the blossom in thy hand, I hastened back."
"Thou shalt behold all the grandeur thy toil has earned thee. Unto
those who climb to the mountain summit, who mind not the sharp rocks
and loose, rough grass beneath their tread,--unto such shall all the
views be given; for they shall some day be lifted in vision, without aid
of feet, to grander heights than their weary limbs have reached."
The old man lay back and died.
They buried him, with the flower on his breast, one day just as the sun
was setting. Ere the winter snows fell, many of the laborers, both men
and women, went up the mountain to its very top, and brought back the
white blossoms to deck his grave.
* * * * *
The summit only has the view, and the white flower of purity grows
upon it. Shall we ascend and gather it? or, like the youth, climb but
half the distance, and cheat our eyes and souls of the view from the
height?
III.
THE PILGRIM.
One sultry summer day a youthful pilgrim sat by the roadside, weary and
dispirited, saying, "I cannot see why I was ordered to tarry beside this
hard, unsightly rock, after journeying as many days as I have. Something
better should have been given me to rest upon after walking so far. If it
were only beside some shady tree, I could wait the appearance of the
guide. My lot is hard indeed. I do not see any pilgrim here. Others are
probably resting beneath green trees and by running brooks. I will look
at my directions once more;" and she drew the paper from her girdle and
read slowly these words: "Tarry at the rock, and do not go on till the
guide appears to conduct you to your journey's end." She folded and
replaced the paper with a sigh, while the murmur still went on: "It's
very hard, when beyond I see beautiful green trees, whose long branches
would shelter me from the burning sun. How thirsty I am, too! My bread is
no longer sweet, for want of water. Oh, that I could search for a spring!
I am sure I could find one if permitted to go on my journey. If the rock
was not so hard I could pillow my head upon it. Ah me! I have been so
often told that the guide had great wisdom, and knew what was good and
best for us pilgrims; but this surely looks very dark."
Here weariness overcame the pilgrim, and involuntarily she laid her
head upon the rock; when, lo! a sudden spring was touched, and the
waters leaped, pure and sparkling, from the hard, unsightly spot. This
was the guide's provision for his pilgrim. It was no longer mystical why
he had ordered her to tarry there.
When she had drank, and the parched throat was cool and the whole
being refreshed, the guide appeared rounding a gentle curve of the road,
and bade her follow him through a dense forest which lay between the
rock and the journey's end. The steps of the pilgrim now were more
firm, for trust was begotten within her, and the light of hope gleamed
on her brow--as it will at last upon us all, when the waters have gushed
from the bare rocks which lie in the pathways of our lives.
At last we shall learn that our Father, the great Guide, leads us where
flow living waters, and that he never forsakes us in time of need.
IV.
FAITH.
"Children," said a faithful father, one day, to his sons and daughters,
"I have a journey to take which will keep me many days, perhaps weeks,
from you; and as we have no power over conditions,--such as storms,
sickness, or any of the so-called accidents of life,--I may be detained
long beyond my appointed time of absence. I trust, however, that you will
each have confidence in me; and, should illness to myself or others
detain me, that you will all trust and wait."
"We will, father!" shouted a chorus of voices, which was music to his
ears.
With a fond embrace to each, he left them. Slowly he walked down
the winding path which led from his home. He heard the voices of his
children on the air long after he entered the highway--voices which he
might not hear, perchance, for many months. Sweeter than music to his
soul were those sounds floating on the summer air. Over the hill and
dale he rode till night came on, and then, before reposing, he lifted his
soul to heaven for blessings on his household.
With the sun he arose and pursued his journey. The summer days
went down into autumn; the emerald leaves changed their hues for gold
and scarlet; ripe fruits hung in ruby and yellow clusters from their
strong boughs; while over the rocks, crimson vines were trailing. Slowly
the tints of autumn faded. Soon the white frosts lay on the meadows
like snow-sheets; the days were shorter and the air more crisp and chill.
Around the evening fire the household of the absent parent began to
gather. While summer's beauties abounded they had not missed him so
much, but now they talked each to the other, and grew strangely restless
at his long delay.
"Did he not tell us," said the eldest, "that sickness or accident might
delay him?"
"But he sends us no word, no sign, to make us at rest."
"The roads may not be passable," replied the brother, whose faith as
yet was not dimmed. "Already the snow has blocked them for miles
around us, and we know not what greater obstacles lie beyond. No, let
us trust our father," he added, with a depth of feeling which touched
them all; and for a few days they rested in the faith that he would come
and be again in their midst. But, alas! how short-lived is the trust of
the human heart! how limited its vision! It cannot pierce the passing
clouds, nor stretch forth its hand in darkness.
Together they sat one evening, in outer and inner darkness,--again in
the shadows of distrust.
"He will never return," said one of the group, in sad and sorrowing
tones.
"My father will come," lisped the youngest of them all,--the one on
whom the others looked as but a babe in thought and feeling.
"I am weary with watching," said another, as she went from the window
where she had been looking, for so many days, for the loved form. "Our
father has forgotten us all," she moaned, and bowed her head and wept.
There was no one to comfort; for all were sad, knowing that naught but a
few crusts remained for their morrow's food--and who would provide for
the coming days? Lights and fuel too were wanting, and winter but half
gone. Even the faith of the eldest had long since departed, and he too
had yielded to distrust.
"My father will come," still whispered the little one, strong in her
child-trust, while the others doubted.
"It's because she's so young, and cannot reason like us," they said
among themselves.
"Perhaps God can speak to her because she is so simple," said one of
the household with whom words were few.
They looked at each other as though a ray of sunlight had flashed
through their dwelling. Something akin to hope began to spring in their
hearts, but died away as the chilling blasts came moaning around them.
Three days passed, while the storm raged and threatened to bury their
home beneath the heavy snows. There was no food now to share between
them. The last crumb had been given the child to soften her cries of
hunger.
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