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Little Rivers [32]

By Root 2518 0
it was

simply the truth of what she said and the gentleness with which she

said it. Epigrams are worth little for guidance to the perplexed,

and less for comfort to the wounded. But the plain, homely sayings

which come from a soul that has learned the lesson of patient

courage in the school of real experience, fall upon the wound like

drops of balsam, and like a soothing lotion up on the eyes smarting

and blinded with passion.



She spoke of those who had walked with her long ago in her garden,

and for whose sake, now that they had all gone into the world of

light, every flower was doubly dear. Would it be a true proof of

loyalty to them if she lived gloomily or despondently because they

were away? She spoke of the duty of being ready to welcome

happiness as well as to endure pain, and of the strength that

endurance wins by being grateful for small daily joys, like the

evening light, and the smell of roses, and the singing of birds.

She spoke of the faith that rests on the Unseen Wisdom and Love

like a child on its mother's breast, and of the melting away of

doubts in the warmth of an effort to do some good in the world.

And if that effort has conflict, and adventure, and confused noise,

and mistakes, and even defeats mingled with it, in the stormy years

of youth, is not that to be expected? The burn roars and leaps in

the den; the stream chafes and frets through the rapids of the

glen; the river does not grow calm and smooth until it nears the

sea. Courage is a virtue that the young cannot spare; to lose it

is to grow old before the time; it is better to make a thousand

mistakes and suffer a thousand reverses than to refuse the battle.

Resignation is the final courage of old age; it arrives in its own

season; and it is a good day when it comes to us. Then there are

no more disappointments; for we have learned that it is even better

to desire the things that we have than to have the things that we

desire. And is not the best of all our hopes--the hope of

immortality--always before us? How can we be dull or heavy while

we have that new experience to look forward to? It will be the

most joyful of all our travels and adventures. It will bring us

our best acquaintances and friendships. But there is only one way

to get ready for immortality, and that is to love this life, and

live it as bravely and cheerfully and faithfully as we can.



So my gentle teacher with the silver hair showed me the treasures

of her ancient, simple faith; and I felt that no sermons, nor

books, nor arguments can strengthen the doubting heart so deeply as

just to come into touch with a soul which has proved the truth of

that plain religion whose highest philosophy is "Trust in the Lord

and do good." At the end of the evening the household was gathered

for prayers, and the Mistress kneeled among her servants, leading

them, in her soft Scottish accent, through the old familiar

petitions for pardon for the errors of the day, and refreshing

sleep through the night and strength for the morrow. It is good to

be in a land where the people are not ashamed to pray. I have

shared the blessing of Catholics at their table in lowly huts among

the mountains of the Tyrol, and knelt with Covenanters at their

household altar in the glens of Scotland; and all around the world,

where the spirit of prayer is, there is peace. The genius of the

Scotch has made many contributions to literature, but none I think,

more precious, and none that comes closer to the heart, than the

prayer which Robert Louis Stevenson wrote for his family in distant

Samoa, the night before he died:--





"We beseech thee, Lord, to behold us with favour, folk of many

families and nations, gathered together in the peace of this roof:

weak men and women subsisting under the covert of thy patience. Be

patient still; suffer us yet a while longer--with our broken

promises of good, with our idle endeavours
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