1Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,

2Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart;

3Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow—

4Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart

5CHRISTIAN YEAR.

6There is a scene on the coast of the Isle of Wight with which I have long since become familiar, but which never fails to exercise a soothing influence on my mind. It is at the eastern extremity of the landslip. Large portions of the cliff have fallen away, and formed a dell so broken and irregular, that the ground has the appearance of having at one time been agitated by an earthquake. But Nature has only suffered the convulsion to take place, in order that afterwards she might bestow her gifts upon this favoured spot with a more unsparing hand. The wild and picturesque character of the landscape is now almost lost sight of in its richness and repose. The new soil is protected from the storms of winter by the cliff from which it has fallen, and, sloping towards the south, is open to the full warmth and radiance of the sun. In consequence of this, the landslip has as it were, a climate of its own; and often when the more exposed parts of the country still look dreary and desolate, is in the enjoyment of the blessings of an early spring. Such was the season at which I first visited it. The grey fragments of rock which lay scattered on the ground are almost hid by the luxuriance of the underwood, and countless wild flowers were growing beneath their shade. Below, the eye rested upon a little bay, formed by the gradual advance of the sea; and all was so calm and peaceful, that as I watched the gentle undulation of the waters, I could fancy them to be moving to and fro with a stealthy step, lest they should disturb the tranquillity of the scene.

7I have said that a visit to this favoured spot never fails with me to have a soothing influence. I feel as though I were treading on enchanted ground, and the whole scene were allegorical; for it reminds me that, in like manner, the wreck of all our earthly hopes and plans may but lay open our hearts to the influence of a warmer sunshine, and enrich them with flowers which the storms of life have no longer power to destroy. But I cannot now tell whether these thoughts have their origin in the scene itself, or in an incident that occurred the first time I visited it.

8It was on the evening of the 18th of April, 1843. I had been long gazing upon it, and had imagined that I was alone, when my attention was arrested by a sigh from some one near me. I turned round, and saw a venerable old man seated upon a fragment of the fallen cliff, beneath which the violets were very thickly clustering. His hair was white as silver; his face deeply furrowed, and yet pervaded by a general expression of childish simplicity, which formed a strong contrast to the lines which must have been indented upon it by care and suffering, no less than the lapse of years. I cannot recall the words of the chance observation which I addressed to him; but it related to the lateness and inclemency of the season, and I was at once struck by the singularity of his reply: "Yes, yes," he said, musingly, "the winter has indeed been very long and dreary; and yet it has been gladdened, from time to time, by glimpses of the coming spring."

9I now observed him more closely. There was a strangeness in his dress which first excited my suspicion, and I fancied that I could detect a restlessness in his light blue eye which spoke of a mind that had gone astray. "Old man," I said, "you seem tired; have you come from far?"

10"Ah, woe is me," he replied, in the same melancholy tone as before; "I have indeed travelled a long and solitary journey; and at times I am weary, very weary; but my resting-place now must be near at hand."

11"And whither, then," I asked, "are you going?"

12"Home, sir, home," he replied; and while his voice lost its sadness, his face seemed to brighten and his eye grow steady at the thought; "I hope and believe that I am going home."

13I now imagined that I had judged him hastily, and that the answers which I had ascribed to a wandering intellect proceeded in truth from depth of religious feeling. In order to ascertain this, I asked: "Have you been long a traveller?"

14"Four score and thirteen years," he replied; and observing my look of assumed wonder, he repeated a second time, more slowly and sadly than before, "Four score and thirteen years."

15"The home," I said, "must be very far off that requires so long a journey."

16"Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he answered: "our home is never far off; and I might perhaps have arrived at it years and years ago. But often during the early spring I stopped to gather the flowers that grew beneath my feet; and once I laid me down and fell asleep upon the way. And so more than four score and thirteen years have been wanted to bring me to the home which many reach in a few days. Alas! all whom I love most dearly have long since passed me on the road, and I am now left to finish my journey alone."

17During this reply, I had become altogether ashamed of my former suspicion, and I now looked into the old man's face with a feeling of reverence and love. The features were unchanged; but instead of the childish expression which I had before observed, I believed them to be brightened with the heavenliness of the second childhood, while the restlessness of the light blue eye only spoke to me of an imagination which loved to wander amid the treasures of the unseen world. I purposely, however, continued the conversation under the same metaphor as before. "You have not, then," I said, "been always a solitary traveller?"

18"Ah, no," he replied: "for a few years a dear wife was walking step by step at my side; and there were little children, too, who were just beginning to follow us. And I was so happy then, that I sometimes forgot we were but travellers, and fancied that I had found a home. But my wife, sir, never forgot it. She would again and again remind me that 'we must so live together in this life, that in the world to come we might have life everlasting.' They are words that I scarcely regarded at the time, but I love to repeat them now. They speak to me of meeting her again at the end of our journey."

19"And have all your children left you?" I asked.

20"All, all," he replied. "My wife took them with her when she went away. She stayed with me, sir, but six years, and left me on the very day on which she came. It seems strange now that I could have lived with them day after day without a thought that they were so near their journey's end, while I should travel onward so many winters alone. It is now sixty years since they all went home, and have been waiting for me there. But, sir, I often think that the time, which has seemed so long and dreary to me, has passed away like a few short hours to them."

21"And are you sure, then," I said, "that they are all gone home?" It was a thoughtless question, and I repented the words almost before they were spoken. The tears rose quickly in the old man's eyes, and his voice trembled with emotion, as he replied: "Oh! sir, do not bid me doubt it. Surely, every one of them is gone home; one, at least, of the number is undoubtedly there; and they all went away together, as though they were travelling to the same place; besides, sir, my wife was constantly speaking to them of their home; and would not their journey as well as my own have been prolonged, if their home had not been ready for them? And when I think of them, I always think of home; am I not, then, right in believing that all of them are there?"

22There were allusions in this answer which I did not at the time understand; but the old man's grief was too sacred for me to intrude further upon it. I felt, also, that any words of my own would be too feeble to calm the agitation which my thoughtless observation had caused. I merely repeated a passage from holy Scripture, in reply, "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours."

23The old man's face again brightened, and as he wiped away the tears, he added, "And 'Blessed,' also, 'are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' There is not only a blessing for those who have been taken to their rest, but there is the image of that blessing to cheer the old man who is left to pursue his solitary journey."

24At this moment, the sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, suddenly shone forth, and its rays were reflected by a path of gold in the silent waters. The old man pointed to it with a quiet smile; the change was in such harmony with his own thoughts, that I do not wonder at the metaphor it suggested to him. "There," said he, "is the blessing of the mourner! See! how it shines down from the heaven above, and gilds with its radiance the dreary sea of life."

25"True," I replied; "and the sea of life would be no longer dreary, if it were not for the passing clouds which at times keep back from it the light of Heaven." His immediate answer to this observation proved the image which he had employed, to be one long familiar to his own mind. "There are indeed clouds," he said, "but they are never in Heaven; they hover very near the earth; and it is only because our sight is so dim and indistinct that they seem to be in the sky."

26A silence of some minutes followed this remark. I was, in truth, anxious that the old man should pursue the metaphor farther. But the gleam of light passed away as the sun sunk behind the western hills. His feelings appeared to undergo a corresponding change, and he exclaimed, hastily, "The day is fast drawing to a close; and the night must be near at hand: I must hasten onward on my journey. Come, kind sir, and I will show you where my friends are waiting for me."

27I was wondering whether he now spoke metaphorically or not, when my thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel, and my former painful suspicions returned. As the old man leant upon his staff, his wrists became exposed to view, and I saw that they were marked with deep blue lines, which could only have been caused by the galling of a chain in former years.

28The poor wanderer observed the look I gave them. A sudden flush of shame overspread his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down his garment to conceal them. It was, however, but a momentary impulse; he again exposed them to my view, and himself gazed sadly upon them, as he said, "Why should I try to hide them, when they are left there to remind me constantly of my true condition? For in times past I have borne the pressure of more wearing bonds than those; and though I have been released from them now, no one can tell how dark and deep is the stain that they have left upon the soul." Something more he added, but his eye was turned meekly towards Heaven, and it was only from the movement of his lips that I fancied I could trace the words of the prayer, "Though we be tied and bound with the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of Thy great mercy loose us."

29He now began to move slowly forward. The ground was rough and uneven, and his step so very feeble, that I expected every instant to see him fall. He struck his foot against a stone, and I sprang forward to his assistance. "Thank you, kind sir," he said, in his quiet way; "but do not fear for me; my own frail limbs could not support me for an instant: but I have a staff on which I lean; and though I may stumble at times, I cannot fall."

30Again I was in doubt whether to interpret his words literally or not; but my belief was that the old man almost unconsciously used the language of allegory. Long habit had so taught him to blend together the seen and the unseen world, that he could not separate them. Life was to him a mirror, and in the passing objects of sight and sense, he never failed to recognise the images of spiritual things.