Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: The Persian listened with curiosity, and the Afghan
 with some attention; but it was on the old Sikh that the holy words
 fell like rain from Heaven.]



                               PERCIVAL'S

                            PICTURE GALLERY.


                                  BY

                              A. L. O. E.

         Authoress of "Pearls of Wisdom from the Parables,"
      "The Young Pilgrim," "The Shepherd of Bethlehem," &c., &c.



                            [Illustration]



                        LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT
                       (OFFICE OF "The Christian")
                     12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.
                  And may be ordered of any Bookseller.



                               PREFACE.

THIS little volume may, I hope, awaken in some minds thoughts of a
devotional character. Some of the ideas contained in it came to me in a
chamber of sickness, which was at one time expected to be my chamber of
death.

The thoughts were pleasant and soothing to myself. May they, by God's
blessing, be so also to some of my fellow-pilgrims.

                                                       A. L. O. E.



                              Contents.

CHAPTER

    I. INTRODUCTORY

   II. THE PASSAGE THROUGH THE RED SEA

  III. KING DAVID'S VISION

   IV. THE CARPENTER'S DEATH

    V. HOMELESS

   VI. LEGEND OF THE SELF-MADE GRAVE

  VII. THE THREE "BIHISTIS"

 VIII. LEGEND OF THE SHEKEL

   IX. THE NIGHT AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION

    X. THE LEGEND OF THE ROMAN SOLDIER

   XI. ASLEEP!



                               PERCIVAL'S
                            PICTURE GALLERY.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

Introductory.

"NO, Sir, no; the doctor gives no hope that the poor young gentleman
will ever walk again; and as for life, the doctor says that it may be a
matter of months, or perhaps of years. But Mr. Percival is going down
to the grave sure and certain; and he knows that himself."

Such was the sad reply given by his landlady, to my enquiries regarding
my old schoolfellow, when I called at his lodging in London. I had been
absent on the Continent for six weeks in the long vacation. A painful
malady in his knee had prevented Percival's being, as we had both
hoped, my travelling companion; and it was no small disappointment to
us both when he had to be left behind.

How we had looked forward to a visit to Italy, to luxuriate amongst the
treasures of art; which Percival's cultivated taste and knowledge of
painting, would enable him so thoroughly to appreciate! I had however
felt no serious anxiety regarding my friend; his letters had been
cheerful, and contained little allusion to the state of his health. It
was therefore with a shock of surprise that I heard that Percival was
now a hopeless invalid, unable to rise from the couch on which he had
suffered so long.

I held no long parley with the landlady, but hurried up the long narrow
staircase to the attic-room, in which Percival expected to pass the
remainder of his days under constant medical care. A lonely life his
must be, for he had lost every near relative in the world; and, at
the season when London is comparatively empty, few acquaintances were
likely to find their way to a dull lodging in the neighbourhood of
Russell Square.

Slender means; solitude and sickness; confinement to one small room,
when others were enjoying fresh breezes on the ocean or the heathery
moor—what a combination of trials for one still in the flower of his
youth! I had known Percival as the cleverest, handsomest boy in our
school; the hero of the cricket-ground; the first in the race; the
winner of numerous prizes: I could hardly realize the possibility of
such a deep shadow falling on a life so bright.

From early childhood, Percival had had a remarkable talent for drawing,
which had occasionally led him into trouble. Before the boy's small
fingers could write one word, they had begun to use a pencil; and
quaint grotesque figures were scrawled on the nursery door.

At school Percival fell into many a scrape from scribbling faces over
the margins of books—not always his own; and from making curious
illustrations in dictionaries and grammars. We saw our own likenesses,
unmistakable ones, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed walls. Every
Panel of the door served as a canvas: and the young artist was
sometimes rewarded for his skill by long impositions of Latin verses,
which he learned with the book in one hand and the pencil in the other.

On reaching the landing-place, I did not stop to knock at the door
before me; but at once entered the attic-room where Percival lay on his
couch, an easel beside him, and a palette bedaubed with many colours,
a box of oil-paints, and brushes, on a small table placed within easy
reach of his arm. Unframed paintings hanging on the dingy wall somewhat
relieved the dull effect of scanty third-rate furniture, and of an old
carpet with the pattern well-nigh worn-out of it, which looked as if it
had never been new.

Percival's pale face flushed with sudden pleasure as he caught sight of
mine. He dropped the brush with which he had been painting, and holding
out his thin hand, grasped mine with the joyous exclamation, "Seyton,
old boy! who thought of seeing you here!"

Then he added, smiling, "Take a chair—no, not that with the broken
back—sit down, and tell me about your travels. I want to see all that
you have seen, hear all that you have heard, and enjoy a trip to Italy
by proxy."

I seated myself by my suffering friend, and did what I could to divert
his mind from his affliction, by describing whatever I thought most
likely to interest him. Percival showed keen pleasure in hearing
about the works of art which I had seen in foreign galleries: of the
principal ones he had already gathered a fair knowledge from books.

When I paused at last, Percival remarked, "Will you think me a Goth
or a Vandal, Seyton, if I own to you that there seems to me a good
deal of sameness in these subjects chosen by Italian artists: so many
'Madonnas' clad as Mary of Nazareth never was dressed; so many 'Saints'
with haloes round their heads; so many 'Holy Families' and pictures of
the 'Last Supper,' where none of the accessories convey to the mind a
true idea of the actual scene. If I were an artist—"

"You are one," I interrupted; "if artists, like poets, are born—not
made. With a little study of the Old Masters you would, I am certain,
have made your mark amongst English painters."

"I doubt whether I should ever have earned butter to my bread,"
observed Percival. "I am too fond of striking out a line of my own. But
I do intensely love the art; and am heartily glad that I have lost the
use of my knee instead of that of my hand."

"I see that you paint still," said I, glancing at the palette. "Have
you no difficulty in procuring models?"

"You think that my good old landlady, Mrs. Bond, in her black lace cap
and false front, would hardly serve as one," laughed Percival. "She is
the only specimen of the fair sex that I ever see; except, indeed, the
red-haired maid of all work, who is only remarkable for the number of
cups and glasses which she breaks. I have to do without models, Seyton;
or rather to content myself with the forms which I see in my dreams."

"In your dreams?" I repeated enquiringly.

"I mean waking dreams," said my friend. "I often cannot get rest at
night; or at least, till—

   "'Yon dull steeple's drowsy chime—'

"has struck one or more of the small hours. So, making a virtue of
necessity, I lie still, and amuse myself with my thoughts."

"I am so grieved—" I began; but Percival cut me short.

"Grieve not for me, dear friend. Some of the happiest moments which I
have ever spent, have been in those still night hours. I have sometimes
felt as if admitted to a private interview with the King. He giveth
'songs in the night.' I have thrown that idea into the form of rhyme.
Would you care to hear the lines? They are of no value but as the
transcript of the experience of a sick man."

On my expressing a wish to hear the little poem, Percival repeated it
with a good deal of feeling; warming into joyousness as he recited the
concluding verse.


                Song in the Night.

   O thou, on thy sick-bed kept watchful and waking
     By pain, all the weary night through!
   It seems as if God were His servant forsaking,
     His servant—so trustful and true.

   Oh no! For He giveth me songs in the darkness
     That never were heard in the day:
  "Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,
     The land that is far, far away."

   Poor sufferer! The noises of earth must oppress thee,
     That rise through the sullen night air;
   The sound of the world's mirth must surely distress thee,
     That mirth which thou never may'st share.

   Oh no! For an angel is sitting beside me,
     And warbling so low—yet so clear,
  "Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty:"
     And this is the song which I hear.


                The Angel's Song.

  "I come down to cheer thee, O happy immortal!
     From sin's condemnation set free;
   Whilst yet thou art ling'ring beside the high portal,
     Whose door soon will open for thee.

  "I bring thee a promise, the sweetest—the surest—
    'Tis sent by the God who is Love,
  'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,'
     When thou art with angels above.

  "I saw Him when in His own world, as a stranger,
     Appeared the Omnipotent Lord;
   I hovered in ecstasy over His manger
     With worshipping shepherds adored:
   I the first faint infant cry from the Monarch
     Whose voice bade the universe be;
   Mine eyes then beheld the King in His weakness,
     I saw Him, and marvelled to see.

  "I saw Him in manhood, despised and neglected,
     A mourner, 'acquainted with grief,'
   I longed—how I longed!—that when mortals rejected
     The angels might bring Him relief!
   I heard the fierce blasphemies scornfully uttered
     By Scribe and by proud Pharisee;
   Mine eyes then beheld the King in His trials,
     I saw—much perplexed to see.

  "I saw—but the tongue of a seraph must falter
     Such myst'ry of love to declare!—
   I saw upon Calvary raised the high Altar,
     A Cross—and the Victim was there!
   There was silence in Heaven—strange wonder in Heaven—
     All gazing on that awful tree;
   Mine eyes then beheld the King in His anguish,
     I saw Him—and trembled to see!

  "And thou too shalt see Him—such bliss is before thee—
     But not in His weakness and pain;
   When girded with power, and mantled in glory
     The Victim returneth—to reign:
   Shalt see Him, no stranger, but One whom thou lovest,
     Thy Saviour, Redeemer, and Friend;
  'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,'
     Through ages that never shall end!"

[Illustration]



CHAPTER II.

The Passage through the Red Sea.

A PAUSE followed the recital: Percival's deep blue eyes seemed to be
full of the light of another world.

After awhile I observed, "Poetry soothes your wakeful hours; but you
have not at night the resource of painting."

"It is at night that I form my designs," he replied, "and draw in
imagination scenes that look meagre enough when transferred to canvas.
My execution falls sadly short of what I see in my waking dreams."

"I suppose that you choose subjects from Scripture," said I.

"Not exactly," answered my friend; "I take subjects rather from what
Scripture suggests, than follow in the beaten track of innumerable
artists by actually illustrating Scripture."

"I do not quite understand you," said I.

"Well, take for example the subject of the Children of Israel crossing
the Red Sea. You must have seen pictures of that. What impression have
they left on your mind?"

"That of a vast multitude of men, women and children, with large flocks
and herds, passing through something like a deep valley, with a pillar
of light above to guide them on their way."

"Amongst multitudes we are apt to forget the units," Percival observed.
"Have you never thought how many episodes of deep interest must have
occurred during that hasty flight—incidents which would draw out the
characters of individuals? Has your fancy never imagined some single
family group separate from the mass of fugitives flying from their
oppressors?"

"My fancy is not so lively as yours," I replied.

"You have never pictured to yourself what the Israelites may have seen
of the wonders of the deep, hitherto as a locked casket, in—

   "'Those profound abysses where
     Was never voice from upper air'?"

"What could the people have seen but sand; and perchance, sea-weed?"
said I.

"Would it trouble you, Seyton, to lift yon picture from the nail, and
bring it here? MY pictures are guiltless of frames, so they are more
easily moved. You will see on the canvas my idea of an episode which
may have occurred during the passage through the Red Sea."

I did as desired, and brought the picture to the side of my friend.

Poor Percival! His paintings are framed now; and the one which I am
about to describe hangs opposite to the table at which I am writing. He
bequeathed to me the sketches which were the children of his brain, his
hand, his heart.

To avoid needless repetition of the objectionable "I" in my brief
descriptions of Percival's picture gallery, I shall make my
recollections take the form of dialogue: except where what my friend
called "A Legend" comes in, which I will copy from the MS * left by the
author.

   * Manuscript

It is impossible, however, to give on paper the charm of Percival's
voice; the lighting up of his countenance; his soul-absorption in his
subjects. My description looks to me like the colourless photograph of
a window of fine stained glass; the beauty lost; the bare outline of
the pattern depicted.

But it may be that friendship for the departed "casts a halo" over
works on which he so lovingly wrought. Percival did not himself set a
high value on his pictures; though their subjects had a fascination for
his mind. He often lamented his want of finish, and said that he could
not delineate as an artist what he might dream as a poet.


                The Passage through the Red Sea.

Seyton. Why, Percival, this strange, weird production of yours must
have been the outcome of a nightmare!

Percival. The idea of it came to my mind during a night somewhat more
painful and restless than usual.

Seyton. Let me see what I can make out of it. Here, in the centre, the
first object to catch the eye is the skeleton of some huge leviathan;
some monster unknown to modern science, who might have taken his
pastime in the deep waters, or lashed the surface of the sea into foam
in the days of Noah. Half of the picture is in light, and half in
shadow, for in upper air hangs the pillar of cloud and fire; thus one
half of the skeleton reflects the ruddy glare, which gilds the bare
ribs, and partly reveals the vast proportions of the sea monster; while
darkness on the other hand conceals the length of the leviathan, as
he lies on his bed of sea-weed, green and brown, with the glimmering
glassy wall of water as a background behind him.

Percival. Is the skeleton the only object seen in the sketch?

Seyton. No, no; let me examine more closely. Here, to the left, I
dimly trace the heads and fore-parts of two horses; the animals, with
distended nostrils and ears turned back, evidently starting in fear at
suddenly coming on such an object of grisly horror lying right in their
path.

The horses appear to belong to some Egyptian of rank: they wear the
cumbrous trappings with which the antiquities at the Museum make us
familiar. Had there been space on your canvas, we should doubtless have
traced on it the outline of some gorgeous chariot, perhaps that of
Pharaoh himself.

Percival. I have tried, by the tightly-drawn reins, to show that the
driver of the chariot has suddenly perceived the ghastly obstacle in
his path. By that skeleton, I intended to convey to the mind an image
of death—that sudden death which was so close to Pharaoh and his
godless hosts, even while they were pressing forward in eager pursuit
of spoil and revenge.

Seyton. Now let us turn to the right hand of the picture which your
pencil has bathed in mysterious light. I see an Israelite mother. Her
mantle, falling back, shows a face of Oriental beauty, full of anxiety
and fear.

Percival. Yes, she has heard the tramp and the snorting of the
war-horses of Pharaoh; and she knows that she is the last of all the
fugitives, the one nearest to the enemy. She has been left behind the
rest: for in the confusion she had been separated from her child; and
she has wildly sought him, and found him at last almost close to the
fierce pursuers.

Seyton. And evidently utterly unconscious of danger. That bare-footed,
beautiful little boy, whose face beams with delight, presents an
expressive contrast to the anxious mother, who, grasping one of his
small hands, is trying to draw him hastily away.

Percival. The child is exulting; for he has found a prize in the
leviathan's fleshless jaws. His hand holds a beautiful coral.

Seyton. Percival! is this a picture or a parable?

Percival. Perhaps both. Do you grasp the meaning of the latter?

Seyton. You have given the clue by telling me that the huge skeleton
represents death. On the one side, we see it an object of natural
horror to those who, unprepared and unforgiven, find it suddenly close
at hand, dimly beheld in darkness: while to the children of light, it
is no object of terror; and even little ones can pluck the treasure of
joy from that which the worldling dreads and shrinks from.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER III.

King David's Vision.

[Illustration]


SEYTON. The subject of this picture of yours is simple enough. The
harp at his feet; the crown by his side; the scroll before him—mark
David, the poet-king. He appears to be under the immediate influence
of inspiration, there is such intense earnestness in his upward
gaze. The reed-pen has dropped from his hand; and one would think
that Heaven was opening before his eyes, save for the pained—almost
terrified—expression on his countenance, an expression which could come
from no vision of bliss. Why have you represented the prophet thus?

Percival. A legend of King David formed itself out of some thoughts
which came into my mind, while meditating over the Twenty-second
Psalm. To us, with the scene on Calvary as its key, the meaning of the
prophecy contained in that Psalm is clear. But what a mystery it must
have been to him who wrote it under the inspiration of the Spirit!

Seyton. Had its meaning been clear to the prophet's understanding, his
faith could hardly have borne the strain. To us—looking back upon the
mystery of the Cross—it appears marvellous indeed; but to one looking
forward to it as a future event, such a sacrifice as that of Christ
would have appeared impossible.

Percival. You have struck on my vein of thought. I considered what
would be the natural emotions raised in the heart of one so impulsive
and enthusiastic as David, had the death of his Lord been revealed to
him clearly, and not as through a glass, very darkly. My short piece,
"King David's Vision," is beside me, if you would care to hear it.

I copy the following from the paper which Percival, at my request, drew
from the drawer of his table.


                        King David's Vision.

The prophet-king sat alone. When the spirit of inspiration came upon
him, no human presence was suffered to disturb his solitude. He was
left in solemn communion with his God.

Often had glowing words of thanksgiving and praise burst from his lips
as he struck his harp of ten strings, and then been noted down on a
scroll to be handed down as a precious legacy to the people of Israel,
or rather to the whole Church of God. On this day, the harp had had a
strange, solemn, and wailing sound; and involuntary tears had started
to the poet's eyes as he sang that mysterious ode which we call the
Twenty-second Psalm. The hand of King David trembled as he wrote down
the words.

"What hath the Spirit dictated to God's slave?" cried the wondering
monarch. "This is no transcript of mine own experience. I have known
what it is to pass through deep waters of trouble; to struggle for life
with the lion; to grapple and wrestle with the foe. I have known what
it is to hide in the cave, and to be hunted like the partridge on the
mountains. But my God never forsook me. He was never far from me in the
time of my trouble. There is nothing in the past which answers to these
mysterious words:

  "'They pierced My hands and My feet,
    They parted My garments amongst them;
    And on My vesture they cast lots.'

"Is this some awful trial looming before me? Or is it revealed
regarding another? Oh that I could penetrate the depth of meaning
conveyed in this Psalm! Lord, draw aside the thick curtain, if but for
a moment! Let me know who is to be tortured, mocked at, and pierced;
who is to be deserted by his friends, and forsaken even by his God."

As the king prayed, a thick mist seemed to fill the royal apartment;
and a horror of darkness fell on the prophet's soul. Then slowly before
his straining gaze something took shape before him: dimly at first, as
if seen through mist; then gradually becoming distinct. David beheld a
Cross, and an agonized Victim hanging upon it. The prophet saw all the
terrible accessories which his own inspired pen had described. He was
so horror-struck that he was scarcely at first aware of the presence of
a white-winged angel beside him; though a halo of light shining around
the heavenly guest had been the means of revealing the Cross and the
sacred Sufferer.

"Oh, Spirit of light," exclaimed the king, "tell me the meaning of this
terrible vision!"

"David, son of Jesse, thou art a sinner," was the angel's reply.

"I know it, I own it: I acknowledge my transgressions; and my sin is
ever before me!" cried the penitent king.

"And all men are sinners," continued the angel. "The highest and
holiest of human works are but as the shrivelling leaves worn by the
father of mankind; and they have the slime of the serpent upon them.
The sins of mortals are numerous as the hairs of their heads. How then
can man stand justified before a pure and holy God?"

"We offer sacrifices, burnt offerings, and oblations," said David,
his eyes still fixed on the visionary form on the Cross; for even the
angel's presence and words could not draw his rapt attention from
the pale face, crowned with thorns, from which slowly trickled the
blood-drops.

"All your sacrifices are shadows—types—pictures," said the white-winged
messenger of God. "Not the blood of thousands of bullocks, nor that of
all the lambs in Judea, could wash out the stain of a single sin. It
needs something infinitely more precious to redeem one guilty soul."

"Wouldst thou bid me despair?" cried the king; cold drops of agony
starting from his brow—whilst still, he gazed on One on the Cross.

"There is but one means of salvation," said the angel. "The price of
a world's redemption must be the blood—the sacrifice of One body,
perfect, divine. He of whom thou hast wonderingly written, 'The Lord
hath said unto Me, Thou art My Son!' He who sitteth at God's right
hand—He alone can offer that sacrifice; be that Sacrifice; and become
the Saviour of the world. Down on thy knees, O David; lay thy brow in
the dust: implore the Son of God to leave His throne in Heaven; to
be born a feeble baby; to consent to be scourged and crucified; to
become a Victim for thy sake—even as the Form before thee now. Weep and
pray; and if the Lord grant thy prayer, thou mayest be justified and
accepted."

"Never could lip crave, nor heart desire such a Sacrifice!" exclaimed
David with vehemence. "Shall a worm ask thee, O child of light, to
exchange thy radiant form for his, and be trampled under foot for his
sake? Thou biddest me offer a presumptuous prayer, such as no mortal
dare utter, and to which no immortal would listen."

"If the Holy One die not, thou diest—and for ever!" said the pitying
angel.

"Oh, is it so? Is there no redemption for me and my people, save by
this!" cried David, raising his clasped hands towards the visionary
Cross. "Are we then doomed to perdition? Is there no mercy in Heaven?
Have I then cried in blind ignorance?—'The Lord is my Shepherd: I will
fear no evil, for Thou art with me!'"

For an instant the eyes of Him who was dying on the Cross met those of
David with a look of ineffable love; and the lips of the divine Victim
in the vision uttered the words: "The Good Shepherd giveth His life for
the sheep."

The prophet-king heard no more, saw no more. He lay prostrate and
senseless on the marble floor of his palace. There David remained
till the shadows of night enwrapped him, and the silvery moon arose.
Startled at his absence at the hour when the board was spread for the
evening repast; and at the utter silence in the chamber from which the
sound of the harp and the song of praise were wont to be heard—the
king's attendants ventured at last to intrude on solitude so prolonged.
They were alarmed to find their lord in a swoon.

Raising him gently, the attendants placed David on the royal couch,
and applied such restoratives as, in those times, were most highly
esteemed. Gradually the king's senses returned: he sat up; drained a
silver goblet of water; then rose and waved his attendants away. And
never, even to his wife, even to his most cherished friend, did David
speak of his vision: he locked his secret in his heart.

No one dared to ask the king questions; but it was noticed by those
who watched him most closely, that David could never command his voice
to sing the Twenty-second Psalm, nor could hear it recited by others,
without a burst of silent tears.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER IV.

The Carpenter's Death.

[Illustration]

SCARCELY had Percival finished reading his legend, when we were
interrupted by the visit of the medical man. Having other calls to
make, I took my leave of Percival, promising to return on the following
day, to make myself better acquainted with his little picture gallery.

The next morning, after some conversation on other subjects, we
examined together another oil-painting taken down from the wall.

Seyton. This is doubtless a representation of the interior of the
humble abode in Nazareth, in which for many years Christ found a home.
The youth whose back is turned towards us, so that scarcely any of
his face is seen, is doubtless intended for the Saviour Himself. But
why should only the outline of the cheek be given; and even that, be
half-hidden by the auburn locks that fall downwards as the Lord stoops,
as if to catch the faint utterance of the dying man by whose couch He
stands?

Percival. Thrice did I begin that picture. In my first attempt, I
sketched a full face as that of Christ; but so utterly did I fail in
depicting on it Divine power and dignity, blended with human love, that
in despair, I began another picture. In that, the position chosen for
the chief figure showed the complete profile; and as far as earthly
beauty was concerned, I may say that my sketch was not a failure. Every
feature was as faultless as my poor skill could make it; but still I
was utterly dissatisfied with my work. The beauty was classic and not
celestial; nor did the face show any sign of toil.

Percival continued: "Then I felt convinced that imagination could
depict the Divine Youth far better than could my weak pencil: so I
concentrated my efforts on the face of the dying Joseph, making it
reflect, as it were, the brightness of the countenance of Him who bends
over His foster-father."

Seyton. Even as artists, unable to give the blaze of the noonday sun,
just indicate its presence by lights and shadows thrown on terrestrial
objects. Perhaps you did wisely, Percival. One is often pained by the
lifeless, soulless countenances given as representations of Christ! Who
could depict "the heaven of His eyes," the unearthly sweetness of the
lips that spake as never man spake?

Percival. You see the accessories by which I have endeavoured to make
the picture tell its own story.

Seyton. There is Mary, dressed in simplest Eastern garb; she has
sunk on the floor, exhausted, as it seems, with night after night of
watching. Sleep has stolen over her at last. The thin pale countenance
shows how much it was needed.

Percival. And her Son will not awaken her.

Seyton. Christ appears to have entered with noiseless step by that open
door through which stream the rays of the setting sun on the bed of him
whose life-sun is sinking fast. But why should we suppose that Christ
had left His mother, even for a little while, to keep her sad watch
alone?

Percival. Will you think me too realistic if I point out the small heap
of copper coins in that niche in the wall, and the tools on the earthen
floor? Christ may have had to take finished work to an employer, and
receive the price of His labour; that to the miseries of sickness in
that home might not be added that of want.

Seyton. This is being too realistic for me. I can scarcely conceive
that He who formed heaven and earth, "without whom nothing was made
that was made," actually did common carpenter's work. I can hardly
realize that Christ measured, sawed, and planed; that the sound of His
hammer was heard; that He actually laboured till He was weary, and then
received into a toil-hardened hand, the paltry coins earned by His
toil. Can one believe that perhaps He, like poor workmen now, had to
call again and again to get even a trifling payment for His work from
some purse-proud Jew?

Percival. To gain bread by the sweat of the face was part of the
primeval curse; and He who came to bear the more terrible effects of
that curse would not be likely to shrink from this. Whatever Christ
did, He did as unto God. In His workmanship no flaw could be found.
What Christ made, He made to last. And He who was to purchase the
redemption of a world, would deem it no disgrace to earn food by His
daily toil. In all things, but sin, the Saviour was made like unto us.
And this picture is designed to show the shadow of bereavement falling
heavily on the Man of Sorrows; probably in the earlier part of His life.

Seyton. We know that Christ wept at the grave of His friend.

Percival. But here the Lord's tears are sacred—those caused by the
anguish of bereavement. Christ knew that He was about to raise Lazarus
from the sleep of death: therefore the Lord's grief must have had a
deeper source than that of mere sympathy with mourners, whose sorrow
was in a few minutes to be changed into joy. Christ probably saw in the
grave of the dead, and the grief of the living, an image of all earth's
misery—all the ravages caused by sin.

Seyton. The Lord may have thought of His own mother; so soon to be
a mourner for Him. Christ Himself spake comfort to the sisters of
Lazarus: but who would speak comfort to Mary in the hour of her great
desolation?

Percival. The pang caused by bereavement must have come to the Lord,
when He saw the death of Joseph, His foster-father; the guardian of
His infancy, the friend of His boyhood. If Christ were at the time
conscious of His own supernatural power (held in abeyance only for a
time, until the hour appointed by the Father should come), it must have
required a greater effort of submission not to have exercised it then,
than when the Saviour, faint with hunger, refrained from turning stones
into bread.

Seyton. Yes. If the Son of Mary knew that by a word He could still the
rapid beating of the pulse; turn pain into ease; and make His mother's
heart bound with delight—not to speak that word must have cost Him
an agonizing effort indeed. What meaning do you intend to convey by
writing at the bottom of your picture, "I have found a ransom"?

Percival. I wished to represent the Saviour as repeating, by a
death-bed, those marvellous words from the Book of Job. Joseph, like
the patriarch, had been a just man before his fellow-mortals: but how
could he be justified before God? Christ, the Lamb of God, was in the
world: but He had not yet suffered for sin; He had not yet borne the
iniquity of all. Joseph, on the brink of Death's dark river, may have
felt some natural fear: he may have reviewed his past life and seen how
far his obedience had fallen short of that required by the Law.

Percival continued: "Joseph may—it is not improbable—have felt himself
bound by the chain of his iniquities. But, on such a man as Joseph, a
hope inspired by the words of an angel would shine like Bethlehem's
star. I fancy I hear the dying one exclaiming, 'Oh, Jesus, I am a
sinner! But it was told me before Thy birth that Thou, even Thou,
wouldst save Thy people from their sins.' I have sought to depict
the holy joy awakened by the answer, coming in the familiar words of
Scripture, from the lips of the Lamb of God—'I have found a ransom!'"

Seyton. The exclamation of Job, "I know that my Redeemer liveth; and
that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth," might be changed
by Joseph to "He liveth—He standeth beside me: it is His hand that
supports my head! Yea, though my heart and flesh faileth, His love
shall be my portion for ever!"

Percival. And so with the star-like hope above him, and the peace of
God filling his soul, the poor carpenter is sinking to rest. And Christ
will weep the natural tears of human love, and will mingle His sorrow
with that of the widowed Mary; and He will help her to lay out a cold
form for burial, comforting His own sad heart with the inspired Word:
"I HAVE FOUND A RANSOM." * "I will ransom thee from the power of the
grave; I will redeem thee from death. O death, where are thy plagues?
O grave, where is thy destruction?" †

   * Job xxxiii. 24       † Hosea xiii. 14. R.V.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER V.

Homeless.

[Illustration]

"SHALL I go to Percival to-day or not?" was the question which I asked
myself as I looked out—not for first or second time that morning—from
the window, dimmed by pattering rain.

The day was one of the worse to be seen, even in London; the sky
blotted out by dense smoke; the pavement brown and wet, and the road
all mud; the rain pouring down incessantly; and the wind howling
dismally in the chimneys. Now and then a foot-passenger hurried past,
struggling to prevent his dripping umbrella from being turned inside
out by the gale.

Sometimes a cab was driven along the miry road, appearing for a few
moments, then disappearing in the misty gloom. I had attempted to hail
one which was empty; but the driver took no notice. No cab-stand was
near: so if I should sally forth it must be on foot, with a river of
mud to ford. I was, however, ashamed of my hesitation: on so dreary a
day, my invalid friend would specially welcome a visit; so I took my
umbrella and sallied forth.

I knocked at the door of Percival's lodging, which was opened, as
usual, by the landlady in her mob cap. She cast uneasy glances at the
mud-prints left by my boots on the old oil-cloth in her hall. On the
narrow staircase I met the maid of all work carrying down an untasted,
and by no means tempting-looking, dinner. Dirty and slip-shod the girl
always was; but now she looked sulky also.

"He won't eat nothin'," she said, almost angrily, as she pushed
past me. And the odour of the meat which she was taking away, quite
accounted for the invalid's want of appetite for his meal.

"Of all dreary, miserable places in the world, a lodging in Fog Street
must be the worst," I muttered to myself, as I reached the top of the
long narrow staircase.

The sight of the room which I entered by no means altered my opinion. A
pane of glass had been smashed in the window; and through the aperture
swept the cold wind and the driven rain, the latter making tiny
rivulets on the damp carpetless floor.

"How is this? How comes that pane to be broken?" I exclaimed. "The
window was all right yesterday."

"It is only a bit of Polly's handiwork; or more correctly, elbow-work,"
answered Percival with a smile. "The girl put her elbow through the
glass yesterday evening, when she brought in my supper."

"You don't mean to say that the window has remained in that state all
night; with the rain drifting on to your bed, and the wind making the
room like an ice-house!"

As I spoke, I was vigorously stopping up the hole with a many-tinted
towel, which Percival had been using for his painting.

"I could not get at the window myself. Mrs. Bond was out taking tea
with a neighbour; and Polly was in one of her little tempers: so I had
just to make the best of my position," said my friend.

"But have you not suffered from this inexcusable carelessness?" I
asked, seeing a look of suppressed pain on the pale countenance of the
artist.

"Only a touch of neuralgia," was Percival's reply, its cheerful tone
contrasting with the appearance of suffering on his pallid features.

I made the invalid as comfortable, or rather as little uncomfortable,
as circumstances permitted; and then took a chair by his side.

"Percival, I cannot bear to see you in this depth of discomfort!" I
cried.

"One could descend a good deal lower than this," was the playful reply.
"I have a roof over my head; a good bed under me; food, when I can eat
it; my palette; and my friend: and more, much more besides," Percival
added more gravely, as he glanced at the Bible which lay by his side.

Seyton. You are the most long-suffering of men! But is not even your
patience strained to the snapping point in a wretched lodging like this?

Percival. Very nearly, sometimes, I confess: at least it was so a
little time since. Not great trials, but little ones, made it almost
give way. It is not the heavy blow; but constant friction, that wears
out the chain. I bore with tolerable fortitude the doctor's verdict
which condemned me to a life of helplessness and pain, with no prospect
of my sufferings ending on this side the grave; I saw before me a
cross, and was given grace to take it up; but—but—

Seyton. But the thousand and one worries of existence in Fog Street; a
servant's slatternly habits and sullen temper; bad cooking; loneliness;
the absence of anything to give a colour to existence—would make a
saint's temper and patience give way.

Percival. I own that I was anything but philosophic in regard to some
cornet practice in the room just below this. Every evening, sometimes
till late in the night, the horrid discordant blare effectually chased
sleep from my eye-lids. Difficult passages were practised over and
over with a resolute patience which all but exhausted mine. A hundred
times I felt disposed to strike the floor violently with my stick, in
hopes of stopping my tormentor below. In fact I did strike more than
once: but the trumpeting went on all the same; its noise, perhaps,
overpowering that which I made.

Seyton. Why did you not speak to your landlady about the annoyance?

Percival. I did; but was silenced by her reply, "Oh dear, yes: the poor
gentleman loves his horn as if it were his child. I think it is the
only pleasure he has; for he is hard at work in his office all day, and
never goes out of an evening." Then I asked myself whether it would be
reasonable or right to tax the kindness of a stranger by asking him to
forego his one indulgence; and that a harmless one too. Would it not be
better, thought I, to train my own mind to bear the petty annoyance?

Seyton. Not a petty one to an invalid, with a refined taste for music.
Did you succeed, my dear fellow, in training your mind?

Percival. Fairly well—after a time. I was most helped by trying to fix
my thoughts on the daily trials which were, no doubt, the Master's
portion on earth. We are apt to think of the great temptation in the
wilderness, and the sufferings in Gethsemane and on Calvary; as though
they included almost all that Christ had to endure: but there were
doubtless a thousand minor links of pain and annoyance which made
Christ's earthly life a net-work of trial.

Seyton. Yes, even His brethren did not believe in Him; and his
dull-minded disciples were always mistaking His meaning.

Percival. I was alluding to commoner trials than these. Hunger; thirst;
the sense of privation; the extreme weariness, which caused the Lord to
sleep on in the midst of a tempest: very often must such trials have
oppressed Him, who was "made like unto" us in all things. Our Saviour
travelled on foot: how often must He, like ourselves, have felt "the
languid pulse, the aching limb;" have longed in the noonday for shade;
or, dragging His weary steps along the dusty highway, have wished for
some stream in which to lave His burning feet!

Percival proceeded: I pondered on these things till thought took its
usual form—on canvas. I made this sketch; and, slight as it is, it has
had a wondrous effect in allaying my natural impatience of disposition,
and the irritability of nerves caused by my illness.

Seyton. I see that you have depicted the Master walking alone on the
side of a hill. The landscape around is dreary and almost devoid of
vegetation, save that thorn-bushes overgrow the path: some fluttering
fragments of white clothing upon them denote that a way has had to be
forced with difficulty through them. The Wanderer's feet look bruised;
and there are red traces on His hands.

Percival. Yes, many were earth's thorns which wounded Christ's mortal
frame, before they—as a climax—crowned His sacred brow.

Seyton. You have written under your sketch, "The Son of Man hath not
where to lay His head;" and the picture forms a comment on the words.
The sky above is dark and louring, showing that a storm is about
to burst: we see lightning already flashing in the background. The
Wanderer has no heavy mantle to wrap around His slightly clad form:
every heavy drop will penetrate and chill. Christ's eyes are raised
towards the mass of threatening clouds above Him. We see that He would
willingly seek shelter; but none is near.

Percival. None for Him, the Lord of Creation. But notice yon small hole
in the side of the sandy bank. The little fox of Palestine finds its
home there; the fierce storm will not reach it. The wild creature knows
more of comfort than does the Master! Seyton, when I had drawn this
feeble picture of One who was homeless on the earth which He had made,
I felt humbled and ashamed at ever having felt impatient under the
slight annoyances which, cheerfully borne, will be found amongst the
all things which work together for good to them that love God.

Here the conversation closed; but I may mention that by an arrangement
with a kind relative of my own, Percival passed the short remainder
of his life in comparative freedom from all trials from which woman's
tenderness and considerate kindness could shield him.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER VI.

Legend of the Self-made Grave.

THE next day Percival was moved to a house in Portland Place, in which
my aunt, Lady Mar, resided. Every comfort was provided to make the
little journey as easy as possible to one who could not even be carried
downstairs without enduring a good deal of pain.

I took upon myself the care of arrangements for the removal of the
very little property which my poor friend possessed. A few books, and
clothes; a desk; materials for painting; a palette; and some dozen
unframed pictures—comprised almost all that Percival owned in the
world. He lay on his couch, watching my movements, as I wrapped up his
pictures one by one.

"This one does not tell its own story," I observed.

"It illustrates the Legend of a sketch, which I made a short time ago;
but I did not think it worth writing down," said my friend.

"I hope that at some leisure time you will repeat it: Lady Mar has a
weakness for Legends. But here comes your landlady to bid you a tearful
farewell: and Polly too; belikes in hope of a present, which she does
not deserve."

Whether merited or not, the present was given; and a kindly good-bye
was said to each of the women. Mrs. Bond declared that she had never
had such a nice-spoken gentleman for a lodger—never! That she had done
all for him that a mother could have done for a son; and that it was
hard to have him go away and leave her. Polly was not so eloquent; but
I forgave her the broken pane, and her little tempers, when I saw tears
of genuine sorrow running down the poor girl's cheeks. Both mistress
and servant felt that they would never look again on the pale, patient
face of the lodger.

Percival was soon installed in his new, and comparatively luxurious,
abode; but its comforts could only alleviate, not remove pain. He
sometimes enjoyed conversation with my aunt, who is a very intelligent
woman; yet at other times relaxed into greater languor, and did not
care to touch his pencil.

Both Lady Mar and I more than once asked Percival to repeat to us his
legend of the sketch, but he always evaded doing so.

"The story was too childish; too slight a thing for repetition to any
one but a child," he said, a faint colour tinging his cheek. Percival
was evidently shy in the presence of a lady.

My aunt, however, is one possessing tact to draw out those under her
influence, and make them unconsciously follow her lead. She saw that
Percival's spirits were drooping; and that, perhaps from fearing her
critical eye, even his inclination to paint was passing away. Lady Mar
noticed that her guest could hardly affect cheerfulness, though he
manfully struggled to do so.

"My eyes are tired, and the daylight is fading," said my aunt one
afternoon, laying down a book with which she had been vainly trying to
amuse my poor friend. "The piano cannot be touched till after the visit
of the tuner. We will not ring for candles yet; it is so pleasant to
chat by twilight."

"Suppose we tell each other stories or legends," I suggested.

"If you begin, I'll try to follow suit," said my aunt; "and I'm sure
that Percival—" (for the first time she dropped the "Mr.") "will not
refuse his little contribution to the general amusement."

Percival was silent, but I saw that one point was gained: the invalid
would try to forget languor and suffering in the attempt to give a few
minutes' passing amusement to his friends, if others broke the ice.

I had a short Legend ready, and not being troubled with shyness,
began the story which follows. I fear that it is not quite original:
certainly its lesson has been often taught; but not perhaps in just the
same form as in my little narration.


                   Legend of a Self-made Grave.

It is said that in olden times, a man very covetous of gain, was
tempted to make a compact with a spirit, who was not a spirit of light.
In Oriental language, such a mythical being is called a "jin." Some
service secretly rendered by the miser to the jin was to be rewarded by
the gift of untold wealth.

The jin carried the man to a lonely spot near a dark, weed-overgrown
morass, a place seldom visited by men, save some poor basket-makers,
who went to gather reeds and rushes. The place was said to be haunted
by snakes and other vermin. The miser, according to the jin's
directions, had brought with him a heavy spade for digging, and a large
sack to contain his gold.

"In this spot," quoth the jin, striking the earth with his foot, "thou
shall find inexhaustible treasure. Only one limit is affixed to thy
gains. When thou dost cease to dig, thou shalt cease to find." As he
thus spake, the jin vanished from sight.

The man took his spade, plied it vigorously, and with wondrous success.
First, silver coins; then, heavy gold ones—plentifully rewarded his
toil. The miser never raised his eyes from the earth except ever and
anon to glance timidly around, while his hand still used the spade, to
see if any unwelcome intruder were watching him at his work. But no one
interrupted him. The man's work was begun at dawn; he continued to dig
at noon when the sun's fiercest rays blazed over his head, drawing up
foul exhalations from the marsh. The digger dared not seek for shelter,
lest his golden harvest should suddenly come to an end. His muscles
ached; his mouth was parched with thirst: but the gold-seeker, though
shining heaps lay around him, would not pause even to go for a draught
of water.

As the sun sloped towards the west, strong fever came on the digger;
but though already possessed of prodigious wealth, still he went on
digging. At last, as night closed in, shivering and trembling, the
miser felt that he must give over work: deep and long was the hole he
had made by his diligent toil; large the golden harvest he had won. Yet
was he loth to stay his hand, for the man remembered the words of the
jin: "When thou dost cease to dig thou shalt cease to find."

"Just one spadeful more!" cried the miser. And stooping low, with his
tool in his hand, over the hole made by his incessant labour, the poor
wretch's senses failed him; he swooned, and fell into a self-made
grave! The loose earth fell in from the sides and covered the wealthy
fool!

The basket-makers who chanced to come in the morning gathered up the
heaps of silver and gold which were found near the spot, beneath which
lay the corpse of him who had purchased them with his life.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER VII.

The Three "Bihistis."

"I AM afraid that your miser has many prototypes in real life,"
observed Percival, when I paused. "Many a man has sold his life for
gold."

"And his soul also," said Lady Mar. "How few realize the depth of truth
contained in the lines:"

   "'The greatest evil we can fear
     Is—to possess our portion here!'"

After a little more conversation on the subject, Lady Mar was called
upon for her story, which she thus began:

"I suppose that I need hardly preface my little tale by telling you
what bihistis are—Oriental water-carriers, bending beneath the weight
of their mushaks (skins filled with water): these have been made so
familiar by pictures, even to those who have never been, like myself,
in India."

"I knew nothing about mushaks in my boyhood," observed Percival; "so
our Lord's words about old and new bottles were to me an insoluble
puzzle; until some one in a Bible-class mentioned that Eastern bottles
were skins, of which old, worn ones would be liable to burst if filled
with new, fermenting wine."

"What does the word bihisti mean?" I enquired. "Probably it is some
combination of 'carry' and 'water.'"

"No, the title is a curious one," replied Lady Mar, "and conveys a
poetical idea."

"Bihisti means 'one of Paradise,' and is probably given to the humble
supplier of one of our first blessings, from water being regarded in
the East as emphatically 'the gift of God.' 'Bihisti' is a beautiful
name bestowed on an honest, hard-working class, who bear a heavy
burden, in order to relieve the thirst of others in a dry and weary
land."

"These bihistis are often seen in India filling their mushaks at a
well, or pouring water from them at railway stations when the train
stops for a few minutes. Bihistis enter even the guarded zenanas
to perform their needful task of filling earthen jars; though the
appearance of the poor water-carrier sometimes causes a stampede
amongst the ladies."

"I was startled once, when showing my album to several bibis,* by their
suddenly springing to their feet and running away, leaving me alone to
encounter the danger, whatever it might be. Was it a mad dog or a tiger
that had entered the zenana? No; only a quiet, sober-looking bihisti,
with his eyes on the ground, and his burden on his back, and his hand
on the mouth of his mushak, to guide its contents into the jars placed
ready to receive them."

   * Ladies.

"And now for my story."

"Outside a serai (native inn) sat in the moonlight four men, smoking
their hookahs, and having one of those long talks which natives of the
East delight in, and sometimes prolong far into the night. One of the
most striking figures in the group was that of a venerable Sikh, whose
hair and beard, never touched by razor, were now of silvery whiteness.
The other men were of various nationalities, but used Urdu as a tongue
common to all."

"The first speaker, a Persian, was giving a flowery account of his own
country, which none of the others had ever seen. Such horses, such
fruits, such cities, he described—that to hear him, one might think
that Persia, of all the lands of earth, was the most beautiful and most
blest."

"And our men are unmatched for size and strength," pursued the speaker,
using a good deal of gesticulation. "I am one of a family of ten sons;
and not one of my brothers but is taller and stronger than I am. What
would you say to our bihisti? He is some eight feet in height, and
carries a mushak made of the hide of an ox, which, when full, five of
your ordinary men could not lift!"

"Wah! Wah!" exclaimed the listeners.

The sage old Sikh rather incredulously shook his head, and muttered, "I
should like to see such a bihisti."

Then spake a fine tall Afghan. "I could tell you of a bihisti," he
said, "compared to whom your bihisti is but an emmet. I know one who
can carry a mushak big as a mountain, and white as the snows on the
Himalayas. This water-carrier can travel thousands of miles without
stopping or feeling weary, sometimes whistling, and sometimes howling
as he goes."

"Wah! Wah!" cried those around him.

But the Persian rather angrily said, "I will never believe such a pack
of lies!"

"Oh, brother," said the old Sikh smiling, "there is more truth in the
Afghan's tale than in thine. Look yonder," he continued, as a white
cloud passed over the face of the moon, "and listen to the rushing
blast which is shaking the leaves of yon palms. The wind is the mighty
bihisti whom the great Creator employs to bear swiftly the huge white
mushaks which convey His gift of rain. The words of the Pathan are not
the words of folly."

"Thou art wise, O father!" said the youngest man in the group, who
had hitherto spoken but little. "Now listen whilst I tell of a third
bihisti; not tall like the first, nor strong like the second, but
bearing a more wonderful mushak than either. This mushak is small, not
longer than my hand; it is very old too, and it is carried by a very
feeble man."

"Useless! Good for nothing!" exclaimed the Persian.

"Listen before you say so. In this mushak is water of such wonderful
virtue, that if but a few drops fall on good soil, a spring of
surpassing sweetness bursts forth, sometimes spreading and spreading:
till first a brook; then a wide stream; then a glorious river—appears.
The most learned cannot calculate, nor ages on ages limit, the effects
of a few living drops from that blessed mushak!"

The Persian and Afghan uttered exclamations of surprise; but a
thoughtful inquiring look was on the face of the aged Sikh.

"Where can that mushak be seen?" he enquired.

"Here," replied the Bengali; and he drew a Bible from his vest. "This
book contains the Word of God; and its contents, when received with
faith, are spirit and life."

"It is the Christian's Scriptures," said the old Sikh, raising his hand
to his brow in token of respect.

"Let me pour forth some drops of the living water," said the native
evangelist; "as the moonlight is so bright that I can, by it, read a
little from the pages which I know and love so well."

No one made any objection: the Persian listened with curiosity, and the
Afghan with some attention; but it was on the old Sikh that the holy
words fell like the rain from Heaven. This was not the first time that
he had drunk from the precious mushak of inspired Truth, and its water
became to him as a stream of life which should never fail him till time
should be lost in eternity.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER VIII.

The Legend of the Shekel.

[Illustration]

"IT is your turn now, Percival," said my aunt.

"Give us the Legend of the Shekel," I rejoined. "It is getting too dark
to examine your picture: but I remember it well. It represents a man,
apparently a poor one, clad in a common Jewish dress. He is gazing,
with wonder and delight, at some silver coin, which he holds in his
brown wrinkled palm. I have been trying in vain to recall any incident
in Scripture which would correspond with the picture."

"Surely," said my aunt, "Percival must have represented St. Peter with
the money found in the mouth of the fish."

"I thought of that at first," I observed. "But the man in the picture,
thin and weak in appearance, does not at all suit our idea of a hardy
fisherman: he looks more like a worn-out mechanic. Percival, you must
tell us what meaning you intended to convey."

Percival. The shekel is meant for that brought by the fish; but the man
in the picture is certainly not the Apostle.

Lady Mar. For whom then is this figure intended?

Percival as his reply repeated the following legend. I wrote it down
afterwards from memory, as it was not to be found amongst the papers
left by my friend.


                   The Legend of the Shekel.

When St. Peter, in obedience to the Master's command, had cast a hook
into the sea, and drawn forth a fish in whose mouth he found a shekel,
with which to pay the Temple tribute, his soul was filled with wonder.
How had that piece of silver come into the mouth of the quivering,
struggling creature, whose habitation had been the deep waters?

That silvery fish had, in some most mysterious manner, obeyed the
behest of its Creator; and St. Peter resolved to restore the wounded
creature to its native element.

"I will not take the life of the dumb fish that has ministered to the
Master's need," thought Peter, as he cast it back into the water. For a
moment, the shining scales glittered in the sunlight, then disappeared
under the waves.

The shekel was duly paid into the Temple treasury as the tribute-money
contributed by the Lord and His apostle.

In that treasury, under the care of the avaricious and worldly priests,
the money remained for awhile. They saw in it nothing remarkable;
it was merely, to them, a bright, newly-coined piece of silver,
resembling, in everything but its freshness, the thousands of shekels
that passed through their hands.

At last, for some needful work done in the Temple, the shekel was paid
out to a poor artisan, who thought at first that it had been hardly
earned by the labour of several days.

Michael, however, took the shekel without a murmur from the hand
of a pampered priest, who seemed almost to grudge the workman his
well-earned hire. Michael turned from the door of the Temple, which had
become a den of thieves; made his way amongst bleating flocks; passed
the gate of the money-changers; and would have turned his shekel into
smaller coin, had not conscience hindered the pious Jew from doing any
worldly business in precincts so holy.

"I will change my shekel elsewhere," said Michael to himself; "though I
am a little loth to part with one which looks so unsullied by the touch
of man."

Looking down at the money in his hand, Michael was amazed to behold on
it in letters distinct as if fresh from a dye, but extremely minute,
the first verse of the book of Psalms.

With wonder and delight Michael gazed on the marvellous coin; and as
he gazed his wonder increased. The words melted away before his eyes;
but no blank remained on the miraculous silver. The second verse of the
Psalm had succeeded the first; and this, in a few seconds, was followed
by the third: and so on to the end of the Psalm. The shining shekel,
won from the sea, was like a roll of the Holy Scriptures—Psalm after
Psalm, in regular progression, appearing on the small bright disc.

"Oh, marvellous! Most marvellous and blessed shekel!" exclaimed the
enraptured Michael. "Possessed of thee, I am the owner of inestimable
wealth! I would not part with thee for a thousand pieces of gold."

Michael saw a learned Scribe advancing towards him; and, eager to know
more of the nature of a thing of such miraculous virtue, the artisan
ran towards the interpreter of the law, and eagerly showed him the
piece of silver.

"What is this wonderful coin?" exclaimed Michael.

The Levite examined it, and a look of contempt came on his face. "Fool,
have you never seen a shekel before?" he enquired.

"Never such a one as this!" cried Michael.

"It is like any other shekel," said the Levite scornfully, and he
tossed it down in the dust.

It was only the eye of Faith that saw any special value, in that which
a miracle had produced.

"Did my eyes deceive me when I read verse after verse of God's Word
from that coin?" said Michael to himself, as he raised from the earth
his shekel, quite undimmed by the dust. "No, for another Psalm is
commenced. Blessed shekel! I desire to keep thee to my dying day, and
then have thee buried with me in my grave."

Michael kept to his resolution for some length of time. Each day, when
there came any pause in his work, he drank in comfort and instruction
from the words visible to him alone on his wonderful piece of silver.
They were the first thing which he studied when rising at dawn; and
when the sun set, he read till the light faded away. Then, kindling his
small earthen lamp, Michael still pursued his blessed study: never did
the minute characters engraved on the silver shine more brightly than
then.

And yet Michael did break his resolution; did part with his treasure!
And this was how it happened.

Partly from prophetic verses seen on his coin, but still more from
hearing the Divine Preacher Himself, Michael had become a devout
believer in the holy Jesus of Nazareth. One memorable day, Michael met
two of the Lord's followers, and heard them conversing together in
troubled tones.

"The Master commanded us to provide things needful for the feast," said
one; "and we have nothing wherewith to buy them. Judas hath the bag;
and we wot not whither he has gone. The day is wearing on, and there is
nothing ready for the Master."

"Surely God Himself will provide," said the other disciple.

Michael was a poor man, and knew not how to prepare the usual feast for
himself; for he had shrunk from spending his precious shekel. But here
the need was the Lord's; and should he not give to the Master of the
very best that he had? How could his precious coin be better bestowed?
So in lowly faith and love, the poor artisan gave his all to supply the
table of the dear Master. Michael little knew that he was paying for
the bread and wine which, at the Last Supper, should be distributed as
emblems of His own sacred body and blood by the Lamb about to be slain.

Michael was no loser by his free-will offering of love. All the words
which had before been engraven on the shekel were now clearly written
in his own heart, as if by the pen of an angel. A thousandfold blessed
was the man who had given what he most prized to the Lord.

And even of the fish that had unwittingly helped the Master, the legend
says that it had been reserved to be used again in His service. When
the disciples were gathered together after the Resurrection of Christ,
and their Lord appeared amongst them, the broiled fish which formed
part of the repast was that which had borne in its mouth to Peter the
wonderful shekel.

"I have been thinking," said I, as Percival concluded, "what kind of
moral one could draw from your legend, which one could imagine some
monk in the dark ages composing in his cell."

"To me it seems to convey the lesson that a blessing may be gained,
even by a surrender of some spiritual privileges for the service of the
Lord," said Lady Mar.

"The quiet, peaceful Sabbath evening given up for the Sabbath class
in some heated, crowded room; the congenial society of God's people
surrendered for that of rude, ignorant unbelievers, either at home or
abroad—such sacrifices are well-pleasing in His sight. Few earnest
followers of Him who left Heaven and its angels to toil amongst wicked
men but know something of what it is to surrender the precious shekel,
and gain a thousandfold in exchange."

[Illustration]



CHAPTER IX.

The Night after the Crucifixion.

[Illustration]

THERE was no third person present when Percival and I talked over the
subject of the picture on which he had bestowed his most loving pains.

It was the only one, as he told me, in which he had ventured to
introduce more than two figures. His mind had so pondered over his
subject that to him, at least, the scene appeared to be real.

Percival had, as it were, sat on the ground with the mourners for a
crucified Master; realized their sense of desolation; with them, bowed
his head and wept. What must have been the darkness when the Sun of
Righteousness had set! What the appalling stillness, when the sacred
body of the murdered Hope of Israel lay cold in the rock-hewn tomb!

The scene depicted was a room on the ground-floor of some Jerusalem
home. Scarcely any furniture is seen save a few mats on the earthen
floor, and clay lamps burning dimly in niches on the wall.

There is also a low bedstead, on which, in a half-reclining position,
appears the principal female figure, with another woman crouching on
the ground, in silent unutterable woe, at her feet. A third, standing
with clasped hands and upturned gaze, is seen near, but her wan face
bears an expression of trustful confidence which has in it something of
the sublime. She is not crushed, but exalted by trial.

Seyton. Here we doubtless see the three Maries. The central form is
that of the Lord's desolate mother; but she seems rather to be absorbed
in deep thought, than overwhelmed by the bitter grief of bereavement.

Percival. I pictured in my mind the three Maries, as types of Memory,
Love, and Faith. The mother, in her silent sorrow, is meditating over
wondrous recollections of the past; which, like the wall-lamps, cast
some light on what would otherwise appear as one chaos of gloom. "Is it
possible that He whose coming was foretold to me by a glorious angel;
at whose birth seraphs sang and the shepherds were glad—is it possible
that He has really passed from earth like a dream! Was it for nothing
that holy Elisabeth and Anna prophesied, and the aged Simeon rejoiced?
The sword has indeed pierced my soul; aye, drank as it were my very
life's blood: but was not this also foretold! Doth God give the bitter,
and withhold the sweet? Must not prophecies be fulfilled?"

Seyton. It has struck me that the circumstance of Mary of Nazareth's
not being mentioned amongst the women who visited the sepulchre—may
have arisen from her stronger faith. She, the Lord's mother, did not,
as far as we know, seek the living amongst the dead: at least, her so
doing is not recorded by any one of the four Evangelists.

Percival. The things which Mary so long pondered in her heart may,
like buried seeds, have sprung to light in the hour of her bitterest
anguish. The Lord's mother was a thoughtful woman; and she knew that
the Babe whom she had folded in her arms and pressed to her bosom was
indeed the Son of God.

Seyton. But there is nothing of hope expressed in the attitude of Mary
Magdalene in your picture.

Percival. No; she has loved, and she has lost, her Lord; lost Him, as
she thinks, for ever, as regards this mortal life. Mary has kissed the
dead feet; has pressed to her lips the wounded hand; and her tears have
dropped on the thorn-encircled brow. Even the sight of angels will
convey to her no comfort; her grief-dimmed eyes will not recognize the
risen Christ Himself, till she hears His own beloved voice pronounce
her familiar name.

Seyton. The third Mary presents a contrast to the Magdalene: the sister
of Lazarus, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, looks as if on
her pale lips could almost dawn a triumphant smile.

Percival. Have you never thought what was probably the subject of the
Lord's discourse to Mary of Bethany when, absorbed in listening, she
sat at His feet? Is it not likely that Christ was disclosing to her,
as He did to less believing disciples, the approaching sacrifice on
Calvary, and the glory which was to follow?

Seyton. If such were the subject of Christ's discourse, how Martha's
impetuous interruption must have jarred both on the Divine Teacher and
the listener who was drinking in such soul-absorbing truths!

Percival. Surely it was not in blind ignorance of the meaning of what
she did, that Mary brought her precious ointment to pour on the feet of
the Master! He who could read her inmost thoughts said, "She did it for
My burial." Were not Mary's thoughts, then, something like this—

"He hath said it—alas! alas!—and all that my Lord says must be true.
The holy Jesus will be delivered into the hands of the Gentiles. He
will be mocked, scourged, and slain. Yes, He who called my brother from
the grave must Himself die! And they who murder Him will not, perhaps,
suffer due honour to be paid to the holy corpse; I may not be able to
approach the sacred form! I will be beforehand with Christ's cruel
foes; what I may not be allowed to do after His death, I will do ere
the awful moment come when the Lamb of God must be sacrificed for our
sins. I will anoint Him for His burial!"

Seyton. And when the sacrifice had been offered, you believe that Mary
of Bethany, unlike any of the apostles, had faith to look beyond death
to Christ's Resurrection?

Percival. There is nothing in Scripture that I know of to lead us to
doubt it. The piety of Mary of Bethany seems to have been of a higher,
a more spiritual type, than that of her sister. It was not Mary who
exclaimed against the removal of the stone from the sepulchre's mouth.
Mary perhaps saw in the resurrection of Lazarus a type and pledge of
that of her Lord. If so, her joy must have been yet more intense than
that of Martha, even as her gratitude took a more palpable form.

Seyton. It is interesting and refreshing to the spirit thus to meditate
over Scripture characters. What to some are merely like ancient
statues, when we gaze on them thus, become human beings instinct with
life.

Percival. And such meditation makes us realize the tie which binds
Christians of to-day to saints of the olden time; at least, it has that
effect with me. I feel almost as if those whose forms I have attempted
to depict on my canvas had become my familiar friends. I look forward
to meeting those three Maries hereafter: perhaps that time may not be
far off.

Seyton. There are two male figures in the background of your picture,
represented as just about to enter the room. One, the elder, appears to
be struggling to retire: he is unwilling to intrude on the sacredness
of grief.

Percival. Can you not read sorrow and shame on his half-averted face?

Seyton. His younger companion is using loving persuasion to draw him
forward: his arm is thrown around the elder, and his face expresses
compassion and love. The two figures must represent John and Peter.

Percival. Such was the idea in my mind. Where would poor broken-hearted
Peter hide himself when, pierced by that look of his Lord, he went
forth and bitterly wept? Would he not seek the solemn shade of the
olives in the Garden of Gethsemane, and prostrate himself on the spot
where the Master had knelt in agonized prayer? Would not Peter lay his
throbbing brow on the sod where he could trace red signs of the bloody
sweat, and try to efface them with his hot tears?

Percival went on: How terrible to Peter must have been the darkness
which for three hours covered the earth, a sign that the fearful deed
was being done, on which the sun could not look! He who had thrice
denied his Lord dared not go near His cross; but the disciple's
anguished soul would vividly picture its horrors. Peter must have
trembled at the shock of the earthquake which told that all was over.
How could he rise from the earth? How endure ever to look again on the
face of a fellow-apostle?

Seyton. And you have imagined John, with tender sympathy, seeking out
his erring brother in the place where he would be most likely to find
him.

Percival. And entreating Peter not to remain apart from all his
brethren; not to give way to despair: but to join those who, like
himself, were mourning their crucified Lord.

Seyton. No marvel that Peter should shrink from entering the presence
of the bereaved mother of Christ!

Percival. Mary would not turn from him; she would utter no word of
reproach: she would raise her tearful eyes, and give the penitent Peter
a look which would remind him of that which he had last seen on the
sacred face of her Son.



CHAPTER X.

The Legend of the Roman Soldier.

[Illustration]

I HAD fastened up several of Percival's pictures on the wall of the
room which he now occupied; and in which he received frequent visits
from my aunt. On one occasion the following conversation was held
between them.

Lady Mar. Percival, I cannot take my eyes from that picture of yours
hung in the corner: it is so dramatic in composition, so vigorous in
execution. Yet I find it so difficult to trace any connexion between it
and any narrative contained in the Bible. I understood from my nephew
that you only illustrate passages from Scripture.

Percival. Not exactly so, dear Lady Mar. The connection of my poor
fancies with the Scriptures is like that of the mistletoe with the oak.
The mistletoe is a weak little plant; of a nature different to, and far
less noble than, the tree on which it rests: yet from that tree, it
derives both nourishment and support.

Lady Mar. And the mistletoe bears delicate white berries, which serve
to make winter brighter. But this picture before me has red berries
rather than white ones. Despondency and attempted suicide appear to
form its subject. A powerfully-made soldier, evidently a Roman, is
about to fall on his own sword, his face expressing the despair which
is driving him on to self-destruction. Another man, a Jew, has caught
hold of his arm, evidently to prevent the warrior from accomplishing
his desperate purpose.

Lady Mar continued: "Please tell us on what branch of the oak your
parasite grows. You cannot refuse us anything this evening, as my
nephew leaves us for college to-morrow; so to one of us, as you see,
this will be the last night of meeting for some months to come."

I thought sadly, "Possibly indeed the last meeting. Shall I find
Percival here on my return?"

"I happen to have written out my little Legend," was Percival's reply.
"If Seyton cares to read it, and you to listen, it is quite at your
service."

"Whilst my nephew reads, I will keep my eye on the picture," said Lady
Mar. "I feel a sympathy with that stalwart Roman, who seems in such a
desperate plight."


                The Legend of the Roman Soldier.

A soldier sought the silence and solitude of a forest; for the presence
of his fellow-creatures had become hateful to his soul. The moonbeams,
piercing like silver lances between the branches, glimmered on the
steel breastplate and arms which had been borne in many a fight.

Marcus was a tried warrior, who had distinguished himself from his
comrades by feats of strength and deeds of daring. But now all his
spirit was gone: he would not have cared to raise his powerful arm to
ward off a blow; nay, he would have welcomed the sharp steel which
should cut him off from the earth, which had become to him worse than a
prison.

"Now let me end my misery!" exclaimed Marcus. "I am a guilty wretch not
fit to live! There is only one good deed which I can perform—use this
accursed hand to avenge the innocent blood which it shed."

Clenching his teeth with fierce resolution, Marcus fixed the hilt
of his sword firmly between the gnarled roots of a tree; hastily
unfastened his breastplate, and flung it clanging on the earth; then
nerved himself for the desperate act of throwing himself on the point
of his sharp weapon.

But at that moment, the muscular arm of the strong soldier was seized
by a Jew, who, unseen in the shade, had watched his movements.

"Madman! In Christ's name forbear!" exclaimed the Jew.

Marcus was startled at the word. "What! Are you one of the followers
of Him who died on Calvary?" cried the soldier, drawing back, and
surveying almost with fear one whom by a slight exertion of his giant
strength, he could have dashed to the ground. "If you be a disciple of
Christ, far from staying the execution of justice, you will slay me
yourself, and trample my blood under your feet! Take yon sword, and
strike home!"

"What hast thou done," asked the Christian, "that thou shouldst bid me
slay thee?"

"Hear, if thou wilt; for I can no longer endure to bear my burden in
silence. Hear and then strike; for I have well-merited death from the
hand of a disciple."

So saying, Marcus flung himself down on the gnarled roots, which
afforded a rude kind of seat, and signed to the Jew to take his place
on a large stone near.

Asahel, such was his name, obeyed the sign, and prepared himself to
listen.

But for some minutes only deep groans were heard from the unhappy
Roman, who seemed to shrink from beginning his terrible confession. At
last, averting his eyes, he thus began:

"Is it not enough to say that I was one of the Prætorian band on that
day—not many moons have waxed and waned since then—when there was
darkness and an earthquake; and the Temple curtain was rent in twain."

"What! Thou wast one of those Roman soldiers! Thou didst mock the
Blessed One, and crown Him with thorns!"

"I did not!" cried Marcus fiercely. "I was not base enough for that.
When I looked at that calm majestic Sufferer, I thought Him more kingly
in His robe of mockery, than Pontius Pilate in all his state!"

"When I heard the yelling of the savage mob, thirsty for blood, I said
to myself, 'Were I in the place of our Governor, those slaves might
shout as they pleased, I would never give Him up, innocent as He is, to
fanatic priest or frantic people! I would not so play the coward!'"

Asahel winced, as if some acute pain had suddenly struck him.

"But it was my duty, my detestable office, to execute the sentence
which I thought unjust as well as cruel. I was accustomed as a soldier
to obey orders without question, and without remorse. Hardened as I am
by familiarity with executions, without mercy or scruple I crucified
one of the wretched thieves. His yell of agony as I did my work did not
even awake a feeling of pity in my heart."

"But it was very different with me when I laid my hand—would that
lightning had blasted it!—on the hammer, and did what I would now give
my life to undo! He uttered no groan—no curse; He submitted like a lamb
in the slaughterer's grasp. He but said—I cannot repeat what He said."

The soldier's head sank on his broad breast, and the strong man wept.

"Christ said, 'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!'"
said Asahel, softly.

"I was present through all," continued the soldier, when he had
recovered his self-command, "I saw the sudden darkness: it fell over me
like a shroud! Every hour of that fearful time convinced me the more
that I was helping to torture—to murder—One who was more than man. At
last, when I heard the faint words, 'I thirst!' I ran; and putting a
sponge filled with vinegar on a reed, I moistened the white, parched
lips of the Dying."

"Oh that I had done that!" cried the Christian Jew, bursting into
tears. "Blessed man! Thou wert the only one, then, to relieve the
Saviour's dying anguish!"

The Roman gazed in astonishment at his companion. "I thought, O
follower of Christ!" said he. "That thou wouldst abhor me, even as I
abhor mine own self."

"I am a thousandfold more guilty than thou art!" cried Asahel. "I was
one of the savage mob. It was as if under the direct influence of Satan
that I shouted even as they did. I saw Him suffer—and I did not pity!
Thou didst act under compulsion. I—I struck Him; and yet I live!"

Marcus started to his feet with something like an imprecation. "Wretch!
Thou art beyond pardon!" he exclaimed.

"I have found pardon!" cried the believer. "And where I found it, so
may'st thou."

Then, in a voice trembling with emotion, Asahel recounted the wonders
of the Day of Pentecost; and repeated, almost word for word, that
address of Peter, on hearing which, three thousand sinners were pricked
to the heart and repented.

"I was one of that three thousand," said the converted Jew. "I
believed, and I was forgiven. The blood which flowed on the cross was a
full, sufficient, atonement even for guilt such as mine."

"And will it avail even for me?" exclaimed Marcus, the first ray of
hope glimmering on the midnight of his despair.

"Did Christ not pray for thee, O brother? And art thou not already
forgiven?"

[Illustration]



CHAPTER XI.

Asleep.

[Illustration]


I SHALL ever remember that evening: what followed impressed it so
deeply on my mind.

Percival seemed unconscious of any one's presence; his lips softly
repeated the last word forgiven, and I thought that he smiled.

A brief prayer closed our meeting that night: I now doubt whether
Percival heard it.

My aunt, seeing that the invalid was unusually drowsy, hastened the
preparation for his nightly rest.

In the morning. I went to Percival's room early, to bid him good-bye
ere I started for college. I knocked at his door: there was no reply.
I knocked again: still silence within. I opened the door softly; and
entering, approached his bed.

My first glance at the countenance, so white—so still—so beautiful,
told me that the spirit had fled.

   "For death had come in the land of sleep;
      And his lifeless body lay
    Like a worn-out fetter, which the soul
      Had broken and cast away!"

We had anticipated for Percival a long, slow, painful descent to the
river of death: but some chord had given way within; he was free, and
had cleared the river at a bound. I could not have laid a detaining
hand on the freed and rejoicing spirit!

Nothing is now left, in this world, of Henry Percival—but a modest
tomb, a fragrant memory, and his little gallery of pictures.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



LONDON: MORGAN & SCOTT, 12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS.



[Illustration]