do," the other was no less steadily persevering
in the path which led to the object of his desire. The less
ambitious object, as the world would say.
He was ever indefatigable in his work of love amidst the poor and
sick, and gained the approbation of his superiors most thoroughly,
although in the stern coldness which they thought an essential part
of true discipline, they were scant of their encomiums. Men ought
to work, they said, simply from a sense of duty to God, and earthly
praise was the "dead fly which makes the apothecary's ointment to
stink." So they allowed their younger brethren to toil on without
any such mundane reward, only they cheered them by their brotherly
love, shown in a hundred different ways.
One long-remembered day in the summer of the year 1259, Martin
strolled down the river's banks, to indulge in meditation and
prayer. But the banks were too crowded for him that day. He marked
the boats as they came up from Abingdon, drawn by horses, laden
with commodities; or shot down the swift stream without such
adventitious aid. Pleasure wherries darted about impelled by the
young scholars of Oxford, as in these modern days. Fishermen plied
their trade or sport. The river was the great highway; no, there
was no solitude there.
So into the forest which lay between Oxford and Abingdon, now only
surviving in Bagley Wood, plunged our novice. As the poet says:
Into the forest, darker, deeper, grayer,
His lips moving as if in prayer,
Walked the monk Martin, all alone:
Around him the tops of the forest trees
Waving, made the sign of the Cross
And muttered their benedicites.
The woods were God's first temples; and even now where does one
feel so alone with one's Maker? How sweet the solemn silence! where
the freed spirit, freed from external influences, can hold
communion with its heavenly Father. So felt Martin. The very birds
seemed to him to be singing carols; and the insects to join, with
their hum, the universal hymn of praise.
Oh how the serpent lurks in Eden--beneath earthly beauty lies the
mystery of pain and suffering.
A wail struck on Martin's ears--the voice of a little child, and
soon he brushed aside the branches in the direction of the cry,
until he struck upon a faintly trodden path, which led to the
cottage of one of the foresters, or as we should say "keepers."
At the gate of the little enclosure, which surrounded the patch of
cultivated ground attached to the house, a young
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