pushingDavid and Sandy pushed with all their might.
David and Sandy pushed with all their might.
David and Sandy pushed with all their might.
"Somebody'll p'r'aps remember us," he said with a catch in his voice. "Mother——"; and then, for the sake of his manhood, he stopped short. No one remembered having ever seen a tear from David.
"We'd best put the fam'ly to bed," suggested Sandy at this period.
"They'll be awful cold," responded David.
"Not in the blanket, an' us sittin' close round outside to keep out the cold. Hens sit on their little ones, so do cats—curl round 'em, that is—and there's our jackets," said Sandy lightly.
But first there were remonstrances from the babies to combat, when it was explained to them what they were expected to do.
"Orme kicks an' frows off all the clothes," objected Ross.
"So do Ross," eagerly excused Orme. But the novelty of Barbara as a bed-fellow was some consolation.
"Barbedie no go bed—in f'ock," remarked Barbara indignantly.
Sandy plumped down upon the leads, and took her on his insufficient knees.
When she was quite settled there, with her arm round his neck to keep herself from slipping, Sandy explained matters.
"It's 'stead of your nightie-gown, Barbie," with an entreaty in his tone, in itself a sufficient betrayal of weakness to the baby's feminineintelligence. "We forgot to bring your nightie-gown."
"Fesh it," she ordered, looking up at David, who stood by.
"Can't, Barbie—very sorry," David said apologetically.
"Fesh Barbedie's nightie-gown," she said majestically to the two revolutionaries.
But not all the boys' chivalric devotion, unstinted through that troublous night, could produce the desired garment. At last, arrayed in David's coat as a substitute, over her own dainty garments, little Barbedie Pelham fell to repose.
By this time the two little boys, huddled together like kittens or young-puppies on the outspread blanket, had fallen fast asleep. Barbara was snuggled in beside them, and the blanket carefully wrapped round the three. Sandy and David, with their backs against the parapet—the latter with Barbara's head upon his knees, whilst Sandy's performed the same office of pillow for his little brothers—prepared to win through the hours of darkness as patiently as they might. No word of reproof or bitterness had been said by either boy. Each bore his share manfully of the difficulty, for which both were perhaps equally responsible.
Down below, the lanterns flashed in and out of the ruins, and across the Palace grounds. Voices called, which, if the boys heard at all, seemed to them only the distant sounds of the day, to which they were accustomed. Their own frantic shouts some time ago, even Sandy's whistle, had been unheard and unheeded.
When the midnight chimes rang out softly over their heads, Sandy, rousing, said sleepily, "We forgot somefing, Dave. I've been dreamin' 'bout it."
"What?" David asked. He had not yet slept, and his mind had been busy, thinking, wondering, sorrowing, chiefly about his mother. In difficulties, hers was the personality which always presented itself to her children.
"We've forgot all our prayers."
"Say them now," suggested David after a pause.
"It'll wake 'em!"
"Not if we don't move."
"Will it be proper prayers sittin' here?"
"Old Mrs. Jones always sits in church," suggested David.
"I b'lieve her legs won't bend."
"Mother can't kneel down," David said in a low voice.
"More she can." Sandy was hopeful again at this thought. "There's two apiece," he went on thoughtfully, "and one over. You say yours an' Ross's—I'll say mine an' Orme's. How 'bout Barbie's? We couldn't say half each, could we?" doubtfully.
"No; we will both say Barbie's prayers for her," decided David.
The low voices stopped. For a space there was silence. Then Sandy spoke—
"Have you nearly done, Dave? I've got as far's Barbie's."
There was no response, and Sandy, respecting the silence which he took for the hush of devotion, held his peace, and essayed for the third time his evening prayer.
In a few moments, whilst below was desolation and the anguish of bereavement—up above, under the stars, all the children slept.
MMeeting no one, Marjorie and Mr. Pelham hastily ascended the spiral stairs.
Meeting no one, Marjorie and Mr. Pelham hastily ascended the spiral stairs.
Issuing on to the leads, Marjorie glanced hastily round. Together they hurried, till, under the little turret, they stood beside the, as yet, unawakened group. It looked very pathetic in the morning greyness, the little huddled-up party, which the sun had not yet reached.
The man's frame trembled as he stooped—doubting, fearing, his keen eyes noting the care which had been bestowed upon his little child. Not much of her was visible—only a rosy cheek, under the tangle of hair which lay across David's knee. The boy's body had sunk slightly as the muscles relaxed in sleep; and he and Sandy were now propped together. Both of them were jacketless: Sandy's little body was covered only by his vest.
David's hand lay protectingly across Barbara, over whom his jacket lay outspread. She was warm and rosy; so were the two babies curled up under the little coat—a scanty covering—of which Sandy had divested himself.
Marjorie sank down beside Sandy. He looked white and wan, and there was a look of disturbance and unrest on his sleeping face. His head rested uncomfortably against David's shoulder. Solicitously, she gathered his unprotected little body into her warm arms; and at her movement he opened startled blue eyes upon her.
"Is it mornin'?" he asked; then quickly, "Is the fam'ly safe?"
"How could you, Sandy?" Marjorie asked, tenderly kissing the impertinent little nose turned up to her. And that was all the reproach Sandy ever heard.
huddling"THE LITTLE HUDDLED-UP PARTY."
"THE LITTLE HUDDLED-UP PARTY."
"THE LITTLE HUDDLED-UP PARTY."
"Didn't mean to, Margie," eagerly. "The door got locked 'fore we got down. Howdid you guess we were here?" he went on, the fascination of the "game," now that he again felt safe and irresponsible, filling his imagination. "Was it the signal?"
He listened much gratified, as Marjorie described how the fluttering sash had caught her sight.
The children woke one by one, Barbara climbing into her father's arms to be divested of her strange night-clothes. She returned the coat to its owner, with a gracious "Barbedie's done."
Sandy and David listened amazed to the warmth of Mr. Pelham's thanks.
"You have been good to my baby. I shall never forget it, never. You are two little men."
With hurrying, trembling fingers, Marjorie tidied up the children—some impulse making her wish her mother's first sight of them to be wholly without alarm. Barbara refused to leave her father's arms, so her rescued sash was tied on under his eloquent eyes. Now that they had once delivered their message, they were masterful and compelling. Marjorie's fell before them; but something in the quiver of her lip, and the wanness of her face in the sunlight, under his closer scrutiny, made him hasten to speak. He caught her fingers, and they lay for a moment pressed close against his breast.
"Mine, Marjorie! Mine now," he said. "Dearest, do not shrink," he whispered, turning hurriedly to see what was producing the startled change in the kindling face before him. Mr. Warde stood in the doorway surveying the little scene.
With just a glance at the two, who for the moment had forgotten everyone but themselves, he stooped and picked up Orme—a disconsolate, woe-begone baby, whose ideas would need much readjusting after this eventful night.
The others followed, pitter-patter down the stairs, and along the gravelled path. But it was Marjorie who entered first through the open door into her mother's presence.
Mr. Bethune still sat beside his wife's couch. He put up a hand to hush the intruder, but Marjorie saw beyond him the wide, questioning eyes and the wave of colour rushing into her mother's face. She did not know that she herself—radiant, sparkling, with a look upon her face only to be seen on a maiden's face in presence of her beloved—was sufficient herald of good news. It scarcely needed her words.
"All quite safe, mother," even if Sandy's rush past her restraining hand had not told the tale.
The children entered like a conquering army. Mr. Warde slid Orme, murmuring satisfaction, down on to the sofa beside his mother, and watched with an unaccountable pang at his heart as she gathered them all into her arms. The parents accepted David's rapid "Didn't mean to, father," and his explanation of the mishap which they had never counted on—too glad to see them safe, too accustomed to their enterprise, too certain that what they said was true, to give the scolding they perhaps deserved.
As the news of their safety spread, sympathisers flocked in. Like a young turkey-cock lifting up its crest, Sandy stood a captive at Mrs. Lytchett's knee, his jacket held tightly in her firm grasp.
"I hope your father's going to whip you," she said severely.
"Ain't," said Sandy.
"Then he ought. Do you know you've nearly killed your mother?"
Sandy's glance crossed the room, his conscience giving a repentant twinge.
His mother's laughing, merry eyes met his, and repentance fled.
"Let me go, please," giving his jacket a tug. "I want to go to my mother." Sandy always said "My mother" when he wished to be impressive.
Mrs. Lytchett watched him insinuate his small body to his mother's side, where he stood defiant, only the mother guessing all that the clinging clasp of his fingers round her arm was meant to say.
Marjorie came down to say that the little ones were safe in bed; and David and Sandy walked off beside her with uplifted heads.
With the house still, and the children of which it had been bereaved once more within its walls, with the need for exertion and control giving place to a languor which would not permit sleep, Marjorie felt a load like lead descend upon her. In spite of visions that came to her wakeful senses, of ardent eyes and a tender tone, although her fingers tingled still with the warm clasp of those stronger ones, she was very unhappy. On her bed, alone with rushing thoughts, staring with wakeful eyes on to the green bravery outside her window, she thought over all that had happened, and knew that she had played a sorry part. An engaged girl—she had let another man make love to her. Marjorie shrank as she realised her action.
"What have I done? It came to me upon the roof! Oh! why didn't I find out before? What can I tell Mr. Warde? How can I tell him that I never cared for him a bit? Is it I—can it be I, who have behaved so badly? But I must tell him, straight away. Not a minute longer than I can help will I be so double-faced."
At her usual hour she dressed and went downstairs. The empty breakfast-room added strength to her resolve. Pausing but for amoment on the doorstep, to catch at her slipping courage, she ran down the flagged path of the Court, and knocked at Mr. Warde's door.
Mr. Warde, like herself, had been wakeful. Marjorie's face on the roof had been a startling revelation. And yet he had to confess to himself that in his inmost heart he had gauged rightly her love. Even in the dawn, whilst he had rejoiced at its expression, a cold hand had seemed to pluck it away. And now—he had seen her kindling face—he had seen the mounting flush, he had seen the love-light in her dark eyes, in that glance when he had surprised the lovers. It was a very different girl who had borne his caresses, when for a few moments she had leant her tired body against his strength.
He realised it all. She loved Antony Pelham; she only bore with him.
Entering Mr. Warde's house, the door at the end of the hall leading into the garden stood open before her. Many a time in her childish life, Marjorie had sought her friend by way of the study window. Some impulse now made her seek that mode of approach. It was a French window, not quite open to the ground. She had to mount two steps, and step over a low framework, which in former days her small feet had found a sufficient barrier.
The window was wide open. Marjorie tapped upon the pane. Mr. Warde was sitting at his bureau, and she could not see his face.
"May I come in?"
As the loved voice fell upon his ear, the man rose, and pushed the letter he was writing aside.
"Like old days, Marjorie," he smiled, coming forward to meet her, but his face looked pale and drawn.
Something in hers, something to him admirable in the courage which had prompted her visit—for he knew why she had come—some desire to save her pain made him say:
"I was writing to you, Marjorie."
"Yes?" Her troubled eyes sought some comfort from his.
"But now you have come—it was good of you to come, Marjorie—I did not like to disturb you, or I would have saved you. Sit there in the old place—your chair has never been moved."
But instead, Marjorie moved restlessly to the window, and looked out upon the trim luxuriance of the rose-filled garden. Her courage was oozing fast in face of his kindness and the old associations.
"I came to tell you," she said slowly, "that what I said the other day was wrong. I have found out—that I cannot——"
"I know, Marjorie. No need to say it," he said softly.
"I have behaved very badly," she went on. "I let you think I cared for you. I did not know—then. I never did care. I never can—I know now." Unconsciously her tone took a note of triumph, which made her hearer wince. He forced himself to reply:
"It was a mistake, dear. I realised that it was only a chance—that you were but a child whom I have loved very dearly. That is it, Marjorie. That is how it is between us."
She lifted her foot over the threshold of the window, and the straying rose-branches fell about her. She looked very slight and young, as she stood there for a moment, the sun burnishing the bright tendrils of her hair into a halo round her face. The man's soul went out in a sigh of longing as he saw the beauty of the picture—saw her standing as he had dreamt she would stand, his own loved possession, in her home.
"I think you will be happy," he forced himself to say; "I think Mr. Pelham——"
handsShe put up her hands to ward off his speech.
She put up her hands to ward off his speech.
She put up her hands to ward off his speech.
She put up her hands to ward off his speech, and her face grew scarlet.
"Good-bye," she said softly.
There was a rustle of soft drapery, a hasty footfall, a blank. The window was vacant. The man stared at it, still for a moment possessed with the vision of her presence. Then he turned, and looked painfully round the luxurious room.
All was there that man could want—every expression of a cultivated taste. As he looked, his loneliness—the loneliness that would never now be satisfied—fell in desolation round him.
The adventurers were gathered on the lawn on a rug and cushions Marjorie had found for them. After a long sleep, as school was out of the question for that day, they had spent some hours in shovelling the earth back into their hole.
"Never knew such a funny fing in all my life!" Sandy had exclaimed during this process. "It all came out, and on'y 'bout half will go in. How do you splain that, Dave?"
"Don't want to explain," said David, jumping in and stamping vigorously. "It's got to go, whether it will or no."
"It's like a grave," Sandy said, observing him. "On'y there's nothing buried. You'll get buried in a minute, Orme, if you don't look out."
"Me s'ant."
"You will. There!" as a clatter of earth fell over and around the busy baby. "Didn't I tell you so?"
Orme looked round, his chubby moon-face a surprised interrogation. Then as fast as he could trot, he went off to his mother. To her he imparted the information that the "'ky had fell, an' it was a dirty 'ky."
It was after they had tired themselves with digging that the four had sought Marjorie and a fairy story. In the middle of this, when the prince and the heroine were engaged in a customary understanding, Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative and relapsed into thought.
narrativeMarjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative.
Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative.
Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative.
"Seems, Margie, as if you felt dreffle 'bout something," said David.
Marjorie did not reply. Her thoughts had ascended the hill, and there was a dreamy, unseeing look in her eyes.
Almost every day Ross and Orme go and stamp upon the mound of earth in the corner of the garden, the monument of the boys' enterprise. Ross does it out of hatred, and Orme in the hope of bringing down the "ky."
But to Marjorie that mound tells a tale of love, found and won—and mistakes buried, happily before it was too late. Sometimes her young brothers wonder at some unlooked-for expression of affection, and look at her reproachfully, resenting the sudden kiss. Sandy one day said to her—
"Why did you kiss Orme—sudden—like that? He ain't gooder than usual—an' he's dirty."
"Yes, I like him dirty. He reminded me——"
She stopped at the sound of a step.
"'Minded you? Your cheeks get redder an' redder the nearer Mr. Pelham comes. 'Minded you—what?"
"Of that dreadful night," she whispered.
But it was no "dreadful" reminiscence that shone in the welcome of her uplifted eye.
THE END.
"None of these things move me."—Acts xx. 24.
TThe "things" of which St. Paul spoke were very definite things indeed. They were the things which befell him as he continued to fulfill his ministry and to proclaim the Gospel in Jerusalem and elsewhere. It is true he says that he did not know the things that would befall him when he reached Jerusalem. He meant that he could not exactly describe beforehand all that would happen to him. But his experience of the past could have left him in no doubt as to the sort of experience that awaited him in the future. Bonds and imprisonment, persecution in its many different forms, opposition to the great message which he had to deliver, contempt and ridicule, hardship and toil, pain and the risk of death—these were the things with which, his experience had been filled since he became an apostle of Christ. They were the things which, as he well knew, he should have to encounter whithersoever he might go. They were the things which he had clearly before his mind when he declared "None of these things move me."
The "things" of which St. Paul spoke were very definite things indeed. They were the things which befell him as he continued to fulfill his ministry and to proclaim the Gospel in Jerusalem and elsewhere. It is true he says that he did not know the things that would befall him when he reached Jerusalem. He meant that he could not exactly describe beforehand all that would happen to him. But his experience of the past could have left him in no doubt as to the sort of experience that awaited him in the future. Bonds and imprisonment, persecution in its many different forms, opposition to the great message which he had to deliver, contempt and ridicule, hardship and toil, pain and the risk of death—these were the things with which, his experience had been filled since he became an apostle of Christ. They were the things which, as he well knew, he should have to encounter whithersoever he might go. They were the things which he had clearly before his mind when he declared "None of these things move me."
As he speaks the words, we are at once placed in the presence of that life which is one of the great treasures of the Church of Christ—that life, the record of which has animated tens of thousands of the soldiers of Christ, and has encouraged myriads of sufferers in their times of need, and has, over and over again, made men heroes and martyrs. Delicate health, unceasing toil, bodily suffering, constant privations, long journeys by sea and land, long imprisonments, cruel scourgings, vexations and disappointments, and the ever-present danger of death—such were the experiences of that life. We, as we read the record, wonder at the steadfastness and endurance which made such a life possible. And while we admire the set purpose and the unflinching courage of the man, we pity him for the things which made up the experiences of his life. But he does not for a moment pity himself. On the contrary, he says of it all, "None of these things move me."
What did St. Paul really mean by saying that the sufferings of his life did not move him?
Is he speaking the language of mere bravado? Have we before us a man who is merely giving utterance to great swelling words? Is this some proud and foolish boaster who does not mean what he says? Men of this sort are not by any means uncommon. We have not to go far to come across those who, to judge by their fine words and their swaggering boastfulness, are brave and good, and superior to others, but who are, in reality, cowardly and mean and contemptible. Such men are to be met with in all departments of human life—in the family circle, in society, in politics, in the church. But no one that ever lived on this earth has been farther from the character of an empty boaster than the Apostle Paul. There were two reasons why it was impossible that he could ever have been a mere boaster. One reason is that he was absolutely true to his very heart's core. The other reason is that all his thoughts of himself were thoughts of the very deepest humility. The man who could feel himself to be the "chief of sinners," and whose whole life was manifestly sincere and true, was quite incapable of a windy boast. It is plain that mere bravado could have had nothing whatever to do with the words "None of these things move me."
Then, are his words those of a Stoic? Are we listening to the language of one whose philosophy has taught him that human virtue could have no more conspicuous triumph than to be able to suppress every emotion of the soul, and to petrify into a marble death that warm, living thing which God has given to every man, and which we call his "heart"? There were those in St.Paul's days who were philosophers after this sort. They were the men who succeeded in killing all feeling. They practised their philosophy so well, and were so obedient to its principles, that they were never conscious of a real transport of joy, and refused to acknowledge any pangs of sorrow. They turned themselves from men into marble statues. A Stoic could move about the world with a cold, contemptuous smile upon his lips; and as he passed through scenes of joy and happiness, as he listened to the happy laughter of an innocent maiden, or watched the bounding joyousness of a young man in the heyday of his youth, as he looked upon the agonies of bodily suffering, or witnessed the bitter tears of some bereaved one, or stood in the presence of the terrible realities of death, he could say—and say it with truth—"None of these things move me."
Is it with this stoical indifference that St. Paul speaks? We might as well imagine that the sun could become cold and dark, as that the warm, tender heart of the apostle could become stoical. A very cursory glance at that life, so full of love and tenderness, is enough to tell us that there could have been nothing of the Stoic about the apostle. A single moment's recollection will bring to our memories words that he spoke or wrote, which could only have come from a nature that was sensitive, tender, and emotional. St. Paul was one who loved strongly and felt deeply. He was easily lifted up with joy, and cut to the quick by pain and suffering. His love and sympathy flowed out to all around him. He welcomed the love and sympathy of others. The warm heart that was in him spoke to and influenced the hearts of others; for, as Goethe says,
"You never can make heart throb with heartUnless your own heart first has struck the tone."
Assuredly he was far from being anything approaching to a Stoic. On the contrary, he was a man who daily grew more and more into the likeness of Him Who suffered, and felt, and loved more than any other man, Who, in his wonderful tenderness and boundless sympathy, is the Great Model for us to copy.
When, therefore, St. Paul said, "None of these things move me," he could not possibly have said it out of the cold, passionless heart of a Stoic.
What, then, did he really mean by what he said? He himself has made plain to us what he meant. He says that he must finish his course with joy, and the ministry, which he has received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God. Nothing must interfere with the fulfilment of his ministry. That ministry was his life's work, to which he had been specially called. There could be no possibility of mistake about it. From the time of his conversion no shadow of a misgiving or doubt concerning it had ever for a moment crossed his mind. He was absolutely certain that he was commissioned by God to testify the gospel of His grace. His mission was to go whithersoever the providence of God might lead him—over land or sea, in sunshine or in storm—in order that he might proclaim the great message of the love of God. The thought of that mission so entirely possessed him, so penetrated his whole being, that nothing in the world could turn him aside from it, even for a moment. And the steadfast purpose of his heart to fulfil his ministry at all costs is breathed out in his words, "None of these things move me." He meant that nothing, however vexatious or disappointing or painful, could hold him back from his great work. The Holy Ghost had witnessed to him that bonds and imprisonment awaited him. It made no difference. Nothing could move him. He had received his charge to preach the gospel, and preach it he must.
We cannot but admire this courageous steadfastness of purpose, this unswerving faithfulness. But behind it all, and inspiring it all, there was the clear, bright, living faith—the open eye of his soul—which looked full on the great reality of the love of God. His faith was absolutely convinced of the love of God to him and to all mankind. The great certainty lighted up an answering love in his heart towards God and towards all men; and therefore, come what might, he must preach Christ. No doubt steadfastness and courage lie in the words, "None of these things move me." Yet even more are they the words of faith. He who speaks them is one whoknowsin Whom he has believed.
Why is it that we are not able to do greater things for God? Why do we so easily lose heart? Why does our energy so quickly flag? Why are our sacrifices so poor and small? Why does our courage so soon ebb away? Why do we so cry out when we are hurt? Why is our endurance so short-lived? Surely the reason is plain. If we had the strong faith of St. Paul, instead of a faith that is so often feeble and halting and irresolute, we should be better able to pass through the varied experiences of human life and say, "None of these things move me. Nothing can move me from my trust in God and from the work which He has given me to do."
But there is a further meaning in the apostle's words. They express the living faith which inspired the steadfastness of purpose with which he clung to his life's work. Yet they express more than this. As he speaks there is a scene before his eyes which, no doubt, he had often witnessed. He sees the runners in a race striving together for victory. He sees the one who, when the race is run, receives the prize. He sees the joy of victory that beams in his eyes as the chaplet is placed on his brow.
It is a picture of himself. He is running in a race. He is still in the midst of the course. And he expects to finish his course with the joy of victory. That is the hope set before him, and from that hope nothing could move him. It is out of the assuredness of that hope, which he knew would not be disappointed, that he can say of all his troubles and anxieties, "None of these things move me." He meant that nothing could shake his hope of finishing his course with joy. For was not that hope founded upon the promises of God? Was it not bound up with the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead? Had he not received ten thousand tokens of the faithfulness of God? His hope was no delusion—no baseless fabric of a dream. It was a certainty of which nothing could rob him.
It is a joy to us to remember that what was St. Paul's hope is ours also. For it is the hope of the Christian. It is the hope of glory set before all the followers of Christ. Let our faith only grasp the love of God, and win our lives from sin to the service to God, and then this blessed hope will become the golden treasure of the lives that have been renewed.
We live in a strange and sad world. Dark clouds of mystery are around us on every side. Vexation, disappointment, suffering, pain, death, confront us, and we cannot escape them. We are, more or less, sufferers all and mourners all. Oh, that we might be able to say, not with the boastfulness of fools, nor yet with the icy indifference of Stoics, but with humble faith and ever-brightening hope, "None of these things move me"! Blessed is the steadfastness which nothing can move either from the conviction of the love of God which the cross of Christ reveals, or from the path of duty which lies before us, or from the Christian hope of the life to come.
decorative
twice
TThose travellers who have noticed how turbaned or fezzed native merchants will gladly wait for half a dozen hours under the colonnade of some hotel at Tangiers or Cairo on the doubtful chance of concluding a bargain with the errant Englishman, which does not involve half a dozen francs, may have some idea of the small value which the modern Oriental sets upon his time. The sun is his only clock, and even that suits him rather to bask in than to scrutinise. The thoughts and habits of men change even less in the East than the features of Nature, and we are confronted with just the same easy elasticity as regards anything to do with definite hours when we restore for ourselves the sacred scenes of the earlier Bible history, and put back the timepiece of our own contemplation for two or three thousand years. To the Hebrew or Canaanite of Joshua's day the phenomenon of the "sun standing still," conveyed into Holy Writ from the highly wrought poetic imagery of the lost Book of Jasher, would be little of a miracle—that luminary was often stationary for the popular convenience.
Those travellers who have noticed how turbaned or fezzed native merchants will gladly wait for half a dozen hours under the colonnade of some hotel at Tangiers or Cairo on the doubtful chance of concluding a bargain with the errant Englishman, which does not involve half a dozen francs, may have some idea of the small value which the modern Oriental sets upon his time. The sun is his only clock, and even that suits him rather to bask in than to scrutinise. The thoughts and habits of men change even less in the East than the features of Nature, and we are confronted with just the same easy elasticity as regards anything to do with definite hours when we restore for ourselves the sacred scenes of the earlier Bible history, and put back the timepiece of our own contemplation for two or three thousand years. To the Hebrew or Canaanite of Joshua's day the phenomenon of the "sun standing still," conveyed into Holy Writ from the highly wrought poetic imagery of the lost Book of Jasher, would be little of a miracle—that luminary was often stationary for the popular convenience.
Exact notes of time are very hard to discover in the Old Testament. We have for the most part to depend on such expressions as "dawn," "morning," "noon," "heat of day," "cool of day," "evening," "twilight," "night," and no attempt that Hebrew scholars have made to set those terms in their correct chronological order has met with more than very partial success. The word "hour" is itself mentioned only once: Dan. iv. 19. It seems difficult to suppose that some simple method of measuring the hours was not in use, such as the trickling of sand or water from a vessel, but our knowledge on the subject is scanty. We must even resign ourselves to the prosaic probability that the famous sun-dial of Ahaz was a very different contrivance from the lichened stone pillar, with weather-beaten brass face, which we associate in the Western world with the odorous lawn of some sequestered manor garden. It is more likely that Ahaz had upon his terrace a slanting tower, upon a certain number of the steps of which the shadow fell. Such towers were known in ancient India. The only formal computation of time that we can discover in the Old Testament is by three watches. There was the "beginning of watches" (Lam. ii. 19), from sunset to 10 p.m.; the middle watch, Judges vii. 19 (we speak of this incident later), from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m.; the morning watch, from 2 a.m. to sunrise (Exodus xiv. 24), when the Lord looked on the Egyptians, and discomfited them in the midst of the Red Sea.
clockTHE BIBLE CLOCK.
THE BIBLE CLOCK.
THE BIBLE CLOCK.
But the rough and ready indications of hours, supplied by the progress of the day from dawn to darkness, were quite enough for the men and women of theearlier Hebrew centuries, and if we are willing to shake off our Occidental precision and the tyranny of Greenwich, many a Bible scene would take a place upon the clock with moderate exactitude. It is in the glow of the rising sun that Abraham gazes upon the destruction of Sodom, that Jacob beholds the face of the Unknown who has wrestled with him at Peniel, that Achan is marked out before the congregation for the doom of his theft, that Hannah asks God so earnestly for the son for whom she longs; that poor, over-persuaded Darius hastens to the den of lions, to see whether his faithful favourite Daniel is alive. It is in the very early hours that Giant Goliath struts out to defy the armies of the living God, and that fair Rebekah rides away, with the day-spring on her face, to meet the love which has been predestined for her, beyond the plains of Padan-aram. It is in the heat of the day that the three mysterious Visitors greet Abraham at his tent door, and that Saul completes the slaughter of the Ammonites and wins the hearts of his people. It is at high noon that Joseph provides Benjamin with a dinner five times as large as that of his other brothers, in the sunny courts of Pharaoh, and that Ishbosheth's siesta leads to hisassassination at the hands of the sons of Rimmon. It is towards evening that the weary dove returns to the ark's refuge, that Joshua takes down the bodies of the five kings from their gibbet, that Ezekiel's wife dies, and that the haunted life of King Ahab ebbs painfully away. The night scenes are numerous. It is in the darkness that the hosts of Sennacherib are destroyed, that the awful cry is heard in Egypt on the death of the first-born, and that, while Belshazzar banquets, the Angel of Death "is whetting his sword upon the stones of Babylon." We survey these pictures, so far as their exact hour is concerned, through the haze of Oriental indefiniteness, but they have been limned for ever by the genius of inspiration upon the retina of universal humanity.
When we come to New Testament times we are, at least by comparison, on more reliable ground. It was certainly Roman influence which brought the system of hours into Palestine. That this system existed in our Lord's day is undoubted. "Are there not twelve hours in the day?" said Jesus Christ Himself.
There were two modes of reckoning, one used by St. John and the other by the rest of the New Testament writers. St. John counts his hours just as we do, from midnight to noon and from noon to midnight. His fellow-evangelists reckon from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. and from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., according to the ordinary Jewish fashion. We may add in passing that the Romans divided the night not into three but into four watches. These watches lasted three hours each. Thus, when Christ appeared to His disciples walking on the sea "in the fourth watch of the night," it must have been some time between 3 and 6 a.m.
Let us now say a few things about the big, bald clock face, with no hands, with which we have furnished those who are jogging along with us on our chronological quest. Our clock makes a bold attempt (the first, so far as we know) to fix a Scripture event on to each hour of the twenty-four. We do not profess that the proofs which we can offer for the time of each event are equally sound, but we have made it a rule that sheer guess-work should never be employed. Consequently, there is a partial failure. We have succeeded in discovering no reasonably probable event for 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. May we console ourselves with the reflection that in Eastern countries most people during those hours are asleep? Except as regards the particular incidents we are about to consider, we will leave our big clock to tick his own tale. Whatever his faults, he is not half as much of a story-teller as another of his kind would be, who had been neglected in a lumber room for over twenty centuries. Let us, however, just defend one or two selections which might seem groundless or arbitrary. What authority have we for alleging that our Lord's friends endeavoured to arrest Him, as being "beside Himself," at 11 a.m.? This. St. Mark shows us in his minute and vivid way that owing to the insistency of the crowd the Master and His disciples could not take their meal. The usual hour for this would be about eleven in the morning. Then we have ventured to place the feeding of the five thousand about 4 p.m.; for the month was April, and St. Luke tells us that "the day began to wear away." We cannot, therefore, be very far out. Again, Jairus would hardly have come to our Lord before late in the afternoon, for Christ had had a long day and a voyage over the lake; the people also were waiting as though they expected Him earlier. And since the two Maries and Salome would be all eagerness to procure their spices for the anointing of Christ's body, and could not buy them till the Sabbath ended at six, they would not accomplish their shopping later than 7 p.m.
Now let us take out our watches and check them by our big clock. We will picture for ourselves some scenes in Old and New Testament history at the hour in which they happened. For such hours the evidence is in most of our instances good, and in the rest more than tolerable. Our selections shall start from 2 a.m. and go on in due order up to midnight.
2 A.M.
2 A.M.
2 A.M.
At this hour, when the stay-at-home often awakes for a little after his "first sleep," and the modern roysterer is thinking about his pillow, St. Peter stood in the glare ofthe coal fire, while darkness still shrouded the most dreadful night in history. St. Luke (xxii. 59) clearly tells us that there was an hour's interval between the denials. We may well believe that the nerves of the sturdy but emotional apostle were all on edge from the surprises and horrors through which he had already passed. Scared or nettled by the inquiry of a sharp maid-servant, he takes the primary step in a sin of which the very blackness is a beacon for aftertime of the far-reaching power of divine forgiveness.
4AM4 A.M.
4 A.M.
4 A.M.
"The musky daughter of the Nile, with plaited hair and almond eyes." This is how Oliver Wendell Holmes prettily, if too fancifully, describes Hagar. The pathetic dismissal by the patriarch of this ill-starred Egyptian and her son Ishmael, has always been a theme dear to poetry and art. We are not astray in shedding over the picture the grey tints of earliest dawn. "Abraham," we are told, "rose up early in the morning," and it seems probable, from the narrative, that the unhappy business was concluded before Sarah was about. The wife of an Arab sheik would rise betimes.
5AM5 A.M.
5 A.M.
5 A.M.
We are fairly secure in fixing this for the hour on that memorable Sabbath when, after the six days' single investiture, Joshua ordered the seven priests, with the seven trumpets of rams' horns, to bear the Ark seven times round the walls of Jericho. "They rose early, about the dawning of the day." The date, calculating from the previous Passover, was about April 23rd. The dawn at this season would bring us roughly to 5 a.m. Jericho was a city of considerable extent, and allowing that it took the procession an hour and a half or more to finish each of the seven circuits, it is not likely that the leader would be able to exclaim, "Shout, for the Lord hath given you the city," and to command the massacre, till 6 p.m., when the Sabbath would be over.
The old method of the commentators, which made St. John reckon his hours like the other three evangelists, would place the call of himself and St. Andrew at 4 p.m. The theory that St. John counted his hours as we do is supported by the high authority of Bishops Wordsworth and Westcott, and many others. It surely gives a more natural sense to this passage: The two apostles abode with their Master, after their call, "that day." It would be a short day which began at four in the afternoon, instead of ten in the morning, and St. Andrew's search for his brother, together with St. Peter's subsequent call, are recorded in "that day" besides.
10AM10 A.M.
10 A.M.
10 A.M.
It was at noon, upon the knees of his mother, that the son of the Shunammite lady died. We remember how the little boy, the cherished child of many prayers, toddled out to meet his aged father in one of those rich harvest fields which nestled round the base of Mount Carmel; and how, smitten by the fierce Syrian sun, he called out to his father, "My head, my head!" and a lad carried him home to his mother. The picture is none the less fresh because we look upon it blurred by the tears of many generations, and the simple story ends in smiles, for God, through Elisha, graciously gave back the treasured life.
noon12 NOON.
12 NOON.
12 NOON.
3PM3 P.M.
3 P.M.
3 P.M.
The hour of prayer at the Temple. Here we are chronologically as secure as if we had heard three o'clock struck by the clock at Westminster Abbey, where the week-day service is held at the same hour. When we read this account of the miraculous healing, at the Beautiful Gate, of the cripple who was over forty years old, we may recall the story of Pope Innocent III. and St. Thomas of Aquinum. "You see, son," said the Pontiff, as they surveyed the massive ingots being carried into the Vatican, "the day has gone by when the Churchneed say, 'Silver and gold have I none.'" "Yes, holy father," responded the honest saint, "and the day has gone by, too, when the Church could say to the paralytic, 'Arise, take up thy bed and walk.'"