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The Beautiful Gate
by
Yes! though you would never have imagined such a thing, that is, if you are in the habit of judging folks from their outward appearance–he had such a rough, wrinkled face, brown with freckles and tan, such coarse, shaggy grey hair, and such a short, crooked, awkward figure, you never would have guessed what songs he was for ever singing in his heart with his inward voice–they were songs which worldly people would never hear–only God and the angels heard them. Only God and the holy angels!–for as to Kitty, though she was Josiah’s best earthly friend, though she knew he was such an excellent man, though she believed that there was not a better man than he in all the world, though year by year he had been growing lovelier and lovelier in her eyes–yes! though his hair, of course, became rougher and greyer, and his figure more bent, and his hands harder, and his teeth were nearly all gone!–growing lovelier because of his excellence, which increased with age as good wine does–still even she, who knew him better than any person on earth, even she knew him so little that she never so much as dreamed that this wonderful voice of Tiny’s was but the echo of what had been going on in Josiah’s heart and mind ever since he was himself a child!
It was because he understood all this so very well that Josiah was troubled when he thought about his son.
But to go back to the singer in the chimney-corner. Tiny sat alone on his side of the fire-place, in the little chair fashioned out of knotted twigs of oak which his father had made for him long ago. Opposite him were the old folks–the father with his arms folded on his broad chest, the mother knitting beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at the old man to see how it went with him.
Wonderful was that song which Tiny sung!
Even the winter wind seemed hushing its voice to hear it, and through the little windows looked the astonished moon.
Josiah lifted up his eyes in great amazement as he heard it, as if he had altogether lost himself. It was nothing like his dream that Tiny sang, though to be sure it was all about a Beautiful Gate.
Altogether about the Beautiful Gate! and of the young poet, who, passing through it, went his way into the great Temple of the World, singing his great songs, borne like a conqueror with a golden canopy carried over him, and a golden crown upon his head! Riding upon a white horse splendidly caparisoned, and crowds of people strewing multitudes of flowers before him! And of the lady who placed the victor’s crown upon his head! She was by his side, more beautiful than any dream, rejoicing in his triumph, and leading him on towards her father’s palace, the Beautiful Pearl Gates of which were thrown wide open, and the king himself with a bare head stood there on foot, to welcome the poet to the great feast.
With this the song ended, and with a grand sweep of the silver strings Tiny gently arose, and hung the harp against the wall, and sat down again with folded hands and blushing cheek, half frightened, now when all was over, to think what he had done. The fire had vanished from his eyes, and the red glow of his cheek went following after; and if you had gone into Josiah’s kitchen just then, you never would have guessed that he was the enchanter who had been raising such a storm of splendid music.
At first the old man could not speak–tears choked his words. “Ahem,” said he once or twice, and he cleared his voice with the intention of speaking; but for a long time no words followed. At length he said, shaking his head,–“It isn’t like what I dreamed–it isn’t like what I dreamed;” and one would have supposed that the old man felt himself guilty of a sin by the way he looked at Tiny, it was with so very sad a look.