VAIN REGRETS

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1685, 15 June 1904, Page 14

VAIN REGRETS

The cliffs were crowned with vineyards and oliveyards. An indolent blue_ sea crept up the reddish sand. In an horn the tide wpuld turn. In his eavo dwelling in the clifts, w lth his eyes on the beantiinl scene before him, an aged philosopher lay dying, farther back m the cave stood his disciples, ready at a word or sign to minister to him. He had been a man of great sanctity and an ascetic life. All had been given to the services of his gods and his fellows. He had passed from a youth without pleasure to an old age without regret, Foi all the years that he had lived in the world, and in spite of all the work ne had done lor the world, he had never been of it. On summer nights as he croucheu in his cave and listened to the sea's unending elegy visions had cpme to him, that are not given to the youths or to the aged that belong wholly to the world. Tnese visions he had recorded, and on them he had based his teachings; and his repute was so great, that young men came long journeys to see him and to learn from him. ...... He beckoned with one hand and his disciples came forward. “Seat yourselves near my bed,”, he said. “My voice already grows weak, and I think that I speak to you for the lasttime. And, firstly, do you,” he said, turning to the youngest there, “tell me how men speak of me up in the town where all my long life I have been known.” . “They say,” said the youth m a clear voice, “that you have never been as others, but always above them, and that with you the body has ever been the slave of the spirit—that you have never known the love of women, that you drink no wine, that you fast often. They say that in the night watches you have spoken with the gods themselves, and that your tvisdom is more than mortal and that your teaching is as pure gold. So, too, say We all.” “For the most part,” said the old man, dreamily, “it is true. But of the wisdom and df the sanctity of my life I now doubt, for I pass from it, and I know not whither I am going. And I feel as one who has left a banquet—tasted and may not return to it again. EveryAvhere there is beauty—in the young tendrils of the vine and in the wrenched and twisted trunks of the olive trees; wherever there is sunlight and wherever there is water; in the scent of the violets and in the scent of the newly turned earth; and in starry nights; and in women that are meet to be loved. Of my own will I have put the love of women from me, hoping for other and higher rewards. And now, at the end of my life, these rewards grow pale and faint and there is no savour in them. And that which I have missed is vivid and warm and near.”

He paused and closed his eyes ao that for a moment his disciples thought he had fallen asleep, and then he went on in a weak and drowsy voice: '“I wonder lyhere she is now. Such eyes! They rarned one; they would not let one sleep, ind it might have been. That one evening when we two‘together brought back the stray sheep from the mountains I knew that it might have been/’ His disciples looked at him in silent wonder, for it was not after this manner that he had been accustomed to teach them. , , .“For me,” he went on, ‘ the vines have been laden in vain, and women have been fair in vain; and now must I come before the gods as a surly fellow, a very churl, one that refuses their gifts. Be warned by me,” he said, opening his eyes and fixing them on his disciples. rc Xret the words that X speak dying blot out from your memory the teachings of my lifetime. Who am I that I should say

what is high and what is loAvly? Have not the same hands that gave the one given the other ? I repeat most bitterly. If it were to be done again, it should be done differently. Be warned by me.” And now he closed his eyes and lay quite still, and as the disciples gazed at one another the eldest of them, a singularly austere young-man, tapped his forehead significantly. Undoubtedly their reverend teacher no longer knew Avhat he was saying. It Avas inexpressibly sad, but it should be forgotten. Other disciples nodded assent, but not the youngest. He made no sign whatever, but stepping gently to the bedside saAV that the old man Avas noAV dead. And everywhere there Avas great lamentation. Up in the town they said that there was pone to come after him except it might be the eldest of his disciples. And they Buried him Avitli great honour in a marble tomb on the cliffs above his cavern home.

And one starry night the youngest of his disciples Avent out on to the mountains to find stray sheep. And there Avent wn'.i him a brown-skinned maiden. —The “Sphere.”