Crying for the Light Volume II

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

CHAPTER PAGE
XI. THE STRUGGLES OF A SOUL 1
XII. IN LOW COMPANY 30
XIII. CONCERNING SAL 54
XIV. AN ENCOUNTER 73
XV. ELECTIONEERING 94
XVI. ELECTIONEERING AGAIN 114
XVII. QUIET TALKS 138
XVIII. THE IRISH PRASTE 176
XIX. WENTWORTH RETIRES 195
XX. A STORM BREWING 212
XXI. AN UNPLEASANT RENCONTRE 232



CHAPTER XI.
THE STRUGGLES OF A SOUL.


There comes to us all a time when we seek something for the heart to rely
on, to anchor to, when we see the hollowness of the world, the
deceitfulness of riches; how fleeting is all earthly pleasure, how great
is the need of spiritual strength, how, when the storm comes, we require
a shelter that can defy its utmost force. Out of the depths the heart of
man ever cries out for the living God. The actress Rose felt this as
much amid the glare of life and the triumphs of the stage as the monk in
his cloister or the hermit in his desert cell. Like all of us, in whom
the brute has not quenched the Divine light which lighteth everyone who
cometh into the world, she felt, as Wordsworth writes:

‘The world is too much with us, late and soon;
Getting and spending we lay waste our power.
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away a sordid boon.’

She felt, as we all must feel, that there is something more than this
feverish dream we call life—something greater and grander and more
enduring beyond. To her the heavens declared the glory of a God, and the
firmament showed forth His handiwork. To her day unto day uttered
speech, and night unto night showed forth knowledge. She had no wish to
shut out Divine speech. Her labour was how best to hear it, and most
quickly to obey. The history of humanity testifies to this one
all-pervading desire in ages most remote, in countries the most savage.
As the great Sir James Mackintosh wrote to Dr. Parr in 1799, after the
loss of his wife: ‘Governed by those feelings which have in every age and
region of the world actuated the human mind to seek relief, I find it in
the soothing hope and consolatory reflection that a benevolent wisdom
inflicts the chastisements, as well as bestows the enjoyments of human
life; that superintending goodness will one day enlighten the darkness
which surrounds our nature and hangs over our prospects; that this dreary
and wretched life is not the whole of man; that an animal so sagacious
and provident, and capable of such science and virtue, is not like the
beasts that perish; that there is a dwelling-place prepared for the
spirits of the just, and that the ways of God will yet be vindicated to
man.’ Our actress felt the same; she had, she felt, a soul to be saved,
a God to be loved, a heaven to be won.

But how? Ah! that was the question. Naturally she turned to the old
Church of Christendom, the Church that calls itself Catholic and
universal. She went to the priest; he showed her a bleeding Saviour, and
a burning, bottomless pit. She trembled as she stood in the old dim
cathedral, where no light of heaven ever came, where no voice of mercy
ever penetrated, where the whole air of the place was redolent of
priestcraft and artifice and sham.

‘You,’ screams the priest, ‘are all unjust, extortioners, adulterers,
dead in trespasses and sins. Give me money, and I will make it right
with the Almighty. Down on your marrow-bones, eat fish on a Friday,
count your beads, confess to me—a man no better than yourself—pay for
Masses. In my hand is the key to eternal joy; pay my fees, and the door
shall be unlocked, and you shall straightway go to paradise.’

Refuse, and he shows you an angry Jehovah, in His rage destroying a fair
world which He Himself had called into being and filled with life, and
sweeping millions into torments that never end. The sight is awful.
Happily, reason comes to the rescue, and the priest and the cathedral,
and the Mass and the music, the incense and wax lights, disappear.