Page:The English Peasant.djvu/325

 appeared so near. It was but "a moment's mockery." Every new effort he had made, every new pleasure he had tasted, only proved that the "distance" was more "hopeless" than ever, and that the land of earthly satisfaction was an illusion; that though it might seem to rise for an hour on the horizon, it would only be to

"Flash on despair the joy it could not reach."

So he sank down as he did when a child, footsore and heartsore, longing for a father's hand to help him home again. But no labourer in a neighbouring field came to him now. No one even offered him the driest crust of Divine truth, whereon he might stay his soul till he reached the Father's home again.

Conscious that Nature-worship could afford him no relief, he turned instinctively to where he believed God was to be found. He took down the Bible; he began to read in a blind sort of way the theological books he possessed. But though he read, he could not understand. He was like the eunuch, who, reading the most pregnant chapter in the Old Testament, answered the question, "Understandest thou what thou readest?" with the humble reply, "How can I, unless some one teach me?" But there was none to teach Clare, and so he lost himself in admiration of the poetry of the Bible. He was so captivated with the golden tints, the brilliant hues, the aerial perspective, that he forgot these were but the glorious and transitory garments of eternal truths which he had yet to find. As was natural to every troubled man coming to the Bible for consolation, he fastened on the Psalms and the Book of Job. When the doctor came to see him he could talk of nothing but the Bible. He told him that he meant to write a volume of religious poetry, simple explanations of the truths of the Bible.

The doctor was pleased, and told Clare that he would leave no stone unturned to get him subscribers. This he did, but to his surprise, whenever he came with news of what he was doing, Clare seemed utterly indifferent, and could only talk about the Bible. On one occasion he cried out, "Is not this Book of Job a wonderful poem? Let me read you my paraphrase of it." In a tremulous voice he read until he came to the last lines, and then burst into tears. The kind doctor was alarmed. It looked as if there was