| J.R. MIller | Page 13 |
Renan, in one of his books, recalls an old French legend of a buried city on the coast of Brittany. With its homes, public buildings, churches, and thronged streets, it sank instantly into the sea. The legend says that the city’s life goes on as before down beneath the waves. The fishermen, when in calm weather they row over the place, sometimes think they can see the gleaming tips of the church spires deep in the water, and fancy they can hear the chiming of bells in the old belfries, and even the murmur of the city’s noises. There are men who, in their later years, seem to have an experience like this. The life of youthful hopes, dreams, successes, and joys had been sunk out of sight, submerged in misfortunes and adversities, vanished altogether. All that remains is a memory. In their discouragement they seem to hear the echoes of the old songs of hope and gladness, and to catch visions of the old beauty and splendor, but that is all. They have nothing real left. They have grown hopeless and bitter.
But this is not worthy living for one who is immortal, who was born to be a child of God. The hard things are not meant to mar our life, — they are meant to make it all the braver, the worthier, the nobler. Adversities and misfortunes are meant to sweeten our spirits, not to make them sour and bitter.
“Confide ye aye in Providence,
For Providence is kind,
And bear ye a’ life’s changes
Wi’ a calm and tranquil mind.
Tho’ pressed and hemmed on every side,
Hae faith and ye’ll win through,
For ilka blade o’ grass keps
Its ain drap o’ dew.”
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