Where No Fear Was | Page 2

that await him. He does not understand,
he does not attend, he is looking at the pattern of the carpet, and
wondering for the hundredth time whether the oddly- shaped blue thing
which appears and reappears at intervals is a bird or a flower--yes, it is
certainly meant for a bird perched on a bough! He wishes the talk were
over, he looks at the little scar on his father's hand, and remembers that
he has been told that he cut it in a cucumber-frame when he was a boy.
And then, long afterwards perhaps, when he has made a mistake and is
suffering for it, he sees that it was THAT of which they spoke, and
wonders that they could not have explained it better.
And this is so all along! We cannot recognise the dark tower, to which
in the story Childe Roland came, by any description. We must go there
ourselves; and not till we feel the teeth of the trap biting into us, do we
see that it was exactly in such a place that we had been warned that it
would be laid.
There is an episode in that strange and beautiful book Phantastes, by
George Macdonald, which comes often to my mind. The boy is
wandering in the enchanted forest, and he is told to avoid the house
where the Daughter of the Ogre lives. His morose young guide shows
him where the paths divide, and he takes the one indicated to him with
a sense of misgiving.
A little while before he had been deceived by the Alder-maiden, and
had given her his love in error. This has taken some of the old joy out
of his heart, but he has made his escape from her, and thinks he has
learned his lesson.
But he comes at last to the long low house in the clearing; he finds
within it an ancient woman reading out of an old volume; he enters, he
examines the room in which she sits, and yielding to curiosity, he opens
the door of the great cupboard in the corner, in spite of a muttered
warning. He thinks, on first opening it, that it is just a dark cupboard;
but he sees with a shock of surprise that he is looking into a long dark
passage, which leads out, far away from where he stands, into the starlit

night. Then a figure, which seems to have been running from a long
distance, turns the corner, and comes speeding down towards him. He
has not time to close the door, but stands aside to let it pass; it passes,
and slips behind him; and soon he sees that it is a shadow of himself,
which has fallen on the floor at his feet. He asks what has happened,
and then the old woman says that he has found his shadow, a thing
which happens to many people; and then for the first time she raises her
head and looks at him, and he sees that her mouth is full of long white
teeth; he knows where he is at last, and stumbles out, with the dark
shadow at his heels, which is to haunt him so miserably for many a sad
day.
That is a very fine and true similitude of what befalls many men and
women. They go astray, they give up some precious thing--their
innocence perhaps--to a deluding temptation. They are delivered for a
time; and then a little while after they find their shadow, which no tears
or anguish of regret can take away, till the healing of life and work and
purpose annuls it. Neither is it always annulled, even in length of days.
But it is a paltry and inglorious mistake to let the shadow have its
disheartening will of us. It is only a shadow, after all! And if we
capitulate after our first disastrous encounter, it does not mean that we
shall be for ever vanquished, though it means perhaps a long and dreary
waste of shame-stained days. That is what we must try to avoid--any
WASTE of time and strength. For if anything is certain, it is that we
have all to fight until we conquer, and the sooner we take up the
dropped sword again the better.
And we have also to learn that no one can help us except ourselves.
Other people can sympathise and console, try to soothe our injured
vanity, try to persuade us that the dangers and disasters ahead are not so
dreadful as they appear to be, and that the mistakes we have made are
not irreparable. But no one can remove danger or regret from us, or
relieve us of the necessity of facing our own troubles; the most that
they can do, indeed, is to