Faces in the Fire, and Other Fancies

many of the things that I love, and loathe many of the things that I abhor. Nature, however, is not usually capricious. Some deep policy g

ak. He was quite alone. His parents had not thought it worth their while to accompany him to the function, and thus show their interest in h

I exclaimed,'wha

he replied, b

earth are yo

ing!' he

ntion that there is more in Nothing than you would suppose. Nor had I gone far before still further corroboration greeted me. For, at

as this for

' he answered

you must have done som

s made clear to me that there is a good deal in Nothing. Nothing is worth thinking about. It is a huge mistake to take things at their

d or pen-mark appeared! With a calm smile the clergyman cast his eyes over the congregation, and then said, 'Brethren, here is Nothing. Blessed is he whom Nothing can annoy, whom Nothing can make afraid or swerve from his duty. We read that God from Nothing made all things. And yet look at the stupendous majesty of His infinite creation! And does not Job tell us that Nothing is the foundation of everythi

only the most disgusting food; they lived the lives of wild beasts. 'Even sleep, the last refuge of the unhappy, was rigorously measured; the vacant hours rolled heavily on, without business and without pleasure; and, before the close of each day, the tedious progress of the sun was repeatedly accursed.' Here was an amazing phenomenon. It was, of course, only a passing fancy, the merest piece of coquetry on the Church's part. It is unthinkable that she thought seriously of Doing-Nothing, and of settling down with him for the rest of her natural life. The glamour of this casual flirtation soon wore off. The Church discovered to her mortification that there was nothing in Nothing. Saint Anthony, of Alexandria, who felt that the life of the city was too full of incitement to 83 frivolity and pleasure, fled to the desert, to escape from these temptations. He became a hermit. But he gave it up, and returned to Alexandria. The abominable imaginations that haunted his mind in the solitude were far more loathsome and deg

nsternation of his friends, they received a letter from the gay young soldier, telling them of his intention to lead an entirely new life. 'I am thinking of taking a wife more beautiful, more rich, more pure than you could ever imagine.' The wife was the Lady Poverty; and Giotto, in a fresco at Assisi, has represented Francis placing the ring on the finger of his bride. The feminine figure i

who have been driven by poverty from the ways of honour, and to hundreds of women who have been forced by poverty from the paths of virtue. It all comes back to this: there is nothing in Nothing. Doing-Nothing and Having-Nothing are deceivers-the pair of them; and the Church must not be beguiled by their blandishments. Work and money are both good things. Even William Law saw that. His Serious Call has often almost made a monk of me, but a sudden flash of common sense always breaks from the page just in time. 'There a

ke, the great philosopher, used to say that, in the hour of temptation, he preferred any company rather than his own. If possible, he sought the companionship of children. Anything rather than Nothing. It reminds us of Hannibal. The great Carthaginian led his troops up the Alpine passes, but he found that the heights were strongly held by the Romans. Attack was out of the question. Hannibal watched closely one night, however, and discovered that, unde

s haunted by one particular species of butterfly; and, as it was a still, bright day, he hoped to find a specimen.' At first Mark Rutherford felt a kind of contempt for a man who could give himself up to so childish a pastime. But, later on, he heard his story. Years before he had married a delicate girl, of whom he was devotedly fond. She died in childbirth, leaving him completely broken. And, by some inscrutable mystery of fate, the child grew up to be a cripple, horribly deformed, inexpressibly hideous, as ugly as an ape, as lustful as a satyr, and as ferocious as a tiger! The son, after many years, died in a mad-house; and the horror of it all nearly consigned his poor father to a

ure devises.' We are

um'; it was at that p

ver satisfy me. I want something; aye, more, I want Some One; and until I find Him my restless s