THE HIDDEN SERVANTS





This is a legend about a hermit who lived long ago. He lived high up on

the mountainside in a tiny cave; his food was roots and acorns, a bit of

bread given by a peasant, or a cheese brought by a woman who wanted his

prayers; his work was praying, and thinking about God. For forty years

he lived so, preaching to the people, praying for them, comforting them

in trouble, and, most of all, worshipping in his heart. There was just

one thing he cared about: it was to make his soul so pure and perfect

that it could be one of the stones in God's great Temple of Heaven.



One day, after the forty years, he had a great longing to know how far

along he had got with his work,--how it looked to the Heavenly Father.

And he prayed that he might be shown a man--



"Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown

To the selfsame measure as his own;

Whose treasure on the celestial shore

Could neither be less than his nor more."



As he looked up from his prayer, a white-robed angel stood in the path

before him. The hermit bowed before the messenger with great gladness,

for he knew that his wish was answered. "Go to the nearest town," the

angel said, "and there, in the public square, you will find a mountebank

(a clown) making the people laugh for money. He is the man you seek; his

soul has grown to the selfsame stature as your own; his treasure on the

celestial shore is neither less than yours nor more."



When the angel had faded from sight, the hermit bowed his head again,

but this time with great sorrow and fear. Had his forty years of prayer

been a terrible mistake, and was his soul indeed like a clown, fooling

in the market-place? He knew not what to think. Almost he hoped he

should not find the man, and could believe that he had dreamed the angel

vision. But when he came, after a long, tiring walk to the village, and

the square, alas! there was the clown, doing his silly tricks for the

crowd.



The hermit stood and looked at him with terror and sadness, for he felt

that he was looking at his own soul. The face he saw was thin and tired,

and though it kept a smile or a grin for the people, it seemed very sad

to the hermit. Soon the man felt the hermit's eyes; he could not go on

with his tricks. And when he had stopped and the crowd had left, the

hermit went and drew the man aside to a place where they could rest; for

he wanted more than anything else on earth to know what the man's soul

was like, because what it was, his was.



So, after a little, he asked the clown, very gently, what his life was,

what it had been. And the clown answered, very sadly, that it was just

as it looked,--a life of foolish tricks, for that was the only way of

earning his bread that he knew.



"But have you never been anything different?" asked the hermit,

painfully.



The clown's head sank in his hands. "Yes, holy father," he said, "I have

been something else. I was a thief! I once belonged to the most wicked

band of mountain robbers that ever tormented the land, and I was as

wicked as the worst."



Alas! The hermit felt that his heart was breaking. Was this how he

looked to the Heavenly Father--like a thief, a cruel mountain robber? He

could hardly speak, and the tears streamed from his old eyes, but he

gathered strength to ask one more question. "I beg you," he said, "if

you have ever done a single good deed in your life, remember it now, and

tell it to me"; for he thought that even one good deed would save him

from utter despair.



"Yes, one," the clown said, "but it was so small, it is not worth

telling; my life has been worthless."



"Tell me that one!" pleaded the hermit.



"Once," said the man, "our band broke into a convent garden and stole

away one of the nuns, to sell as a slave or to keep for a ransom. We

dragged her with us over the rough, long way to our mountain camp, and

set a guard over her for the night. The poor thing prayed to us so

piteously to let her go! And as she begged, she looked from one hard

face to another, with trusting, imploring eyes, as if she could not

believe men could be really bad. Father, when her eyes met mine

something pierced my heart! Pity and shame leaped up, for the first

time, within me. But I made my face as hard and cruel as the rest, and

she turned away, hopeless.



"When all was dark and still, I stole like a cat to where she lay bound.

I put my hand on her wrist and whispered, 'Trust me, and I will take you

safely home.' I cut her bonds with my knife, and she looked at me to

show that she trusted. Father, by terrible ways that I knew, hidden from

the others, I took her safe to the convent gate. She knocked; they

opened; and she slipped inside. And, as she left me, she turned and

said, 'God will remember.'



"That was all. I could not go back to the old bad life, and I had never

learned an honest way to earn my bread. So I became a clown, and must be

a clown until I die."



"No! no! my son," cried the hermit, and now his tears were tears of joy.

"God has remembered; your soul is in his sight even as mine, who have

prayed and preached for forty years. Your treasure waits for you on the

heavenly shore just as mine does."



"As _yours_? Father, you mock me!" said the clown.



But when the hermit told him the story of his prayer and the angel's

answer, the poor clown was transfigured with joy, for he knew that his

sins were forgiven. And when the hermit went home to his mountain, the

clown went with him. He, too, became a hermit, and spent his time in

praise and prayer.



Together they lived, and worked, and helped the poor. And when, after

two years, the man who had been a clown died, the hermit felt that he

had lost a brother more holy than himself.



For ten years more the hermit lived in his mountain hut, thinking always

of God, fasting and praying, and doing no least thing that was wrong.

Then, one day, the wish once more came, to know how his work was

growing, and once more he prayed that he might see a being--



"Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown

To the selfsame measure as his own;

Whose treasure on the celestial shore

Could neither be less than his nor more."



Once more his prayer was answered. The angel came to him, and told him

to go to a certain village on the other side of the mountain, and to a

small farm in it, where two women lived. In them he should find two

souls like his own, in God's sight.



When the hermit came to the door of the little farm, the two women who

lived there were overjoyed to see him, for everyone loved and honoured

his name. They put a chair for him on the cool porch, and brought food

and drink. But the hermit was too eager to wait. He longed greatly to

know what the souls of the two women were like, and from their looks he

could see only that they were gentle and honest. One was old, and the

other of middle age.



Presently he asked them about their lives. They told him the little

there was to tell: they had worked hard always, in the fields with their

husbands, or in the house; they had many children; they had seen hard

times,--sickness, sorrow; but they had never despaired.



"But what of your good deeds," the hermit asked,--"what have you done

for God?"



"Very little," they said, sadly, for they were too poor to give much. To

be sure, twice every year, when they killed a sheep for food, they gave

half to their poorer neighbours.



"That is very good, very faithful," the hermit said. "And is there any

other good deed you have done?"



"Nothing," said the older woman, "unless, unless--it might be called a

good deed----" She looked at the younger woman, who smiled back at her.



"What?" said the hermit.



Still the woman hesitated; but at last she said, timidly, "It is not

much to tell, father, only this, that it is twenty years since my

sister-in-law and I came to live together in the house; we have brought

up our families here; and in all the twenty years there has never been a

cross word between us, or a look that was less than kind."



The hermit bent his head before the two women, and gave thanks in his

heart. "If my soul is as these," he said, "I am blessed indeed."



And suddenly a great light came into the hermit's mind, and he saw how

many ways there are of serving God. Some serve him in churches and in

hermits' cells, by praise and prayer; some poor souls who have been very

wicked turn from their wickedness with sorrow, and serve him with

repentance; some live faithfully and gently in humble homes, working,

bringing up children, keeping kind and cheerful; some bear pain

patiently, for His sake. Endless, endless ways there are, that only the

Heavenly Father sees.



And so, as the hermit climbed the mountain again, he thought,--



"As he saw the star-like glow

Of light, in the cottage windows far,

How many God's hidden servants are!"





THE HIDDEN LIGHT THE HISTORY OF DICK WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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