the coldstreams and their guest now adjourned into the veranda to enjoy the evening air, and the golden glow on foliage and flower which gives such a charm to the sunset hour in the east. io brought out her work; she was knitting a delicate shawl for her mother. the young matron felt tranquilly happy. she was much pleased to see the friendship which appeared to be already growing up between her husband and the fair-haired, gentle and earnest chaplain.
“it is just what oscar needed,” thought io, as her fingers plied the ivory needles, whilst her eyes rested on the two gentlemen conversing together. “my husband required a brother-like, pious friend with whom to speak freely on religious subjects—one whose pleasant society may rouse him at last from his mysterious sadness. mr. lawrence will be to oscar in spiritual things what dear old dr. pinny will be in matters relating to health. my beloved one will gradually—oh, may heaven grant it!—recover his natural tone of mind. i shall take care to invite the good chaplain very often to the house. i like his quiet, unobtrusive manner; he is just the person to win the confidence of my husband.”
the conversation in the veranda chiefly related to the curious traditions existing amongst the karens. mark lawrence had made them his study, and they had beguiled many an hour that might otherwise have been sad and lonely. the young chaplain had hitherto met with no kindred spirit in the limited society of moulmein. full of earnest devotion himself, and a warm sympathizer in the missionary cause, mark had been discouraged by the difficulty of imbuing others with his own zeal; it was like dragging a heavy load up a hill. the easy-going worldliness of the doctor, the carelessness of pogson, the stolidity of cottle, the vulgar loquacity of his wife, made mark often sadly contrast his position in moulmein with the happy life which he had led in england in a rural parish where he had almost as many friends as hearers, and where he was a member of a large family circle. now and then the chaplain had met with missionaries whose names are still honoured and whose work still flourishes. those days had been red-letter days to mark lawrence; but they had been “few and far between”—little oases in a dull, sandy plain. now, in the accomplished, highly-educated young merchant who had come to reside in moulmein, the chaplain thought that he had found a real friend—one who would join with him in every labour of love.
“you were much struck, i saw at the tradition of the fall,” said mr. lawrence to oscar; “but still more curious, at least to my mind, are the prophecies which amongst the karens have been handed down from father to son during ages which no one is able to count.”
“what kind of prophecies?” asked oscar.
“mysterious foretellings of both the first and second advent of our lord,” was the reply,—“foretellings which force us on to the conclusion that the ancient ancestor of this singular race must have been a kind of post-diluvian enoch, inspired by the spirit of truth.”
“you greatly raise my curiosity,” said oscar. “can you remember any of these remarkable predictions?”
“hear the following, which i have committed to memory as well as written down,” replied mr. lawrence. “what i am about to repeat seems clearly to relate to a divine being appearing in great humility on earth:—‘before god comes, satan will come deceiving men; but follow him not, children and grandchildren. after satan will come one with scarcely clothes enough to cover him. follow him; that one is god. when god comes, he will take the appearance of the poorest of men, and will dress in rags. follow him!’”
“oh, is it not as if the ancient sage had caught the sound of the saviour’s then unuttered words—follow me!” exclaimed io.
“the poorest of men,” repeated oscar meditatively; “he who had not where to lay his head!”
“but you said that there is a prophecy of the second advent also,” cried io. “if you can remember it, pray repeat it.”
“the ancient prophet bursts into a triumphant song which has a true advent ring about it,” said the chaplain; and with animation he repeated a translation of the karen poem:—
“god comes down, comes down,
god descends, descends;
he comes—blowing a trumpet:
blowing he gathers men, like the flowers of the areca,
sounding he gathers people, like the flowers of the areca;
the glittering, the angels of heaven,
the dazzling, the angels of heaven,
the great trumpet that god comes blowing,
the great one that strikes the golden harp.”
“that is glorious!” exclaimed io, with kindling eyes. “we might set that translation to music and sing it in church.”
“such traditions must have wonderfully prepared the way for christian missionaries,” observed oscar.
“they did indeed,” replied the chaplain. “the word of god was received and welcomed too; for there was a prophecy that something was coming which would affect the destiny of the karen race. this curious prophecy runs thus: ‘children and grandchildren, if the thing come by land, weep; if by water, laugh. it will not come in our days, but it will in yours.’”
“the english came by water!” exclaimed io.
“yes; and they came bringing the word of life. the once down-trodden karens joyously sang:—
‘the sons of god, the white foreigners,
dress in shining black and shining white;
the sons of god, the white foreigners,
obtained the words of god.’
the gospel,” continued the chaplain, “has made rapid progress amongst the karens, and the work, as far as i know, seems to be thorough and deep.”
“i shall take double pleasure in teaching my little maha now,” observed io. “i shall not regard her as one of a savage race, but as the descendant of some ancient mysterious prophet who, like enoch, walked with god.”
