1 July: Boreham on the Need for Sanctuary

The Law of Sanctuary
It was on November 4, 1830 that Victor Hugo wrote the last sheets of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." In its pages Victor Hugo presents two outstanding characters—Esmeralda, the dancing girl, exquisitely beautiful, and Quasimodo, the hunchback, hideously ugly. And the climax of the great romance is reached when, on the day that was to have been the day of Esmeralda's execution, the ugly but athletic dwarf suddenly descends the facade of Notre Dame, snatches up the dainty Esmeralda as a boy might snatch up a doll, reclimbs the cathedral wall with Esmeralda over his arm, and cries triumphantly, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" For there, on the sacred fabric, no power can touch her. And, in the next chapter, Victor Hugo traces the law of sanctuary as, in the Middle Ages, it applied to many such sites in Europe.

Never, since this world began, have so many people sought some sort of sanctuary from the pressure of life as at this moment.[1] The craving is not the fruit of cowardice. It is not that they wish to shirk their responsibilities, close their eyes to facts or turn their backs upon life's problems, On the contrary, they covet a breathing-space so that, instead of breaking down, they may be fitted to play their part more bravely. Nature herself provides most of her furry and feathered clients with places of refuge from the seclusion of which they may temporarily defy their pursuers. In an interesting volume on European trees, Mr. J. W. Gofton discusses the fondness of small birds for the holly-tree. The birds know that the tree sheds many of its prickly leaves after Summer has set in. So formidable are their hard and pointed spines that cats, weasels, and foxes, with their sensitive feet, like to give them a wide berth. In the branches of the holly-tree, therefore, sparrows, linnets, buntings, and blackbirds find grateful sanctuary.

In his "Fields of France," too, Mr. Macdougall tells how, in the merry month of May, the stag eludes its keenest pursuers. Among the picturesque fields and forests of Fontainebleau the hounds and huntsmen meet. The scent is found and the chase opens gaily. But soon the flying stag takes to the valleys thickly carpeted with lilies. Far off up the slopes the trembling creature hears the baying of the disappointed pack, but he has found a sanctuary amid the perfume of the petals. Mr. Seton and Mr. Stewart White have both told of the way in which the hunted animals of the great African and American forests will fly for sanctuary even to the camps of men. "Every night," says Mr. White, "a fawn used to sleep outside my friend's tent, within a foot of his head." It was seeking protection from the wolves by which its mother had been killed.

Nature's Sweet Restorer—Balmy Sleep
When we turn from these creatures of the wilds and explore the realm of human experience and adventure, we confront the same law at every turn. The ordinance is woven into the complicated texture of our humanity. What happens, for example, when we go to sleep? A man spends his day in toil or worry or anxiety. Then, at night, he throws himself wearily upon his couch and there follows one of the most astonishing wonders known to science. He closes his eyes and where is he? In a trice he has left all his worries behind. In the mystery of slumber he has found sanctuary. Or suppose that, after a street accident, one finds himself nursing a wounded limb. The pain reaches a certain point, but beyond that limit the anguish cannot go. At that stage the limb becomes numb and the sufferer escape's further torture. Similarly, in a moment of sudden terror or mental agony, one loses consciousness. It is a way we have of leaving the horror behind us. By swooning we plunge into oblivion and there find sanctuary.

Why do men who scarcely know how to get through the year's work go to the bush or to the beach for holidays? Mr. Herbert Tucker sings of a rural paradise particularly dear to him:

And to its gracious solitude I steal
When my vexed spirit feels the stress of
things,
Like some hawk-harried bird that hides to heal
Its blood-red
plumes and rest its weary wings.

In an earlier stanza Mr. Tucker refers to this leafy retreat as his "sanctuary within the woods." The philosophy underlies all our fondness for hard-earned vacations, our resort to places of entertainment, our open-air sports, our attachment to crosswords, jigsaws and table-games, and to all our assiduously cultivated hobbies.

A Cosy Nook And A Pleasant Book
For that matter it applies with no less force to literature, especially fiction. "Is your world a small one?" asks Myrtle Reed. "Is it made unendurable to you by a thousand petty cares? Are the heart and soul of you cast down by bitter disappointment? Would you leave it all, if only for an hour, and come back with a new point of view? Then open the covers of a book!" And has not Mr. Edward Thomas told us, in "Horae Solitariae," of the village scholar who finds a refuge from the shadows of the world among the realities of books? He sets his little cabin door between the restless world and himself, and feels a sublime pity for plutocrats, plenipotentiaries and princes! In the domain of social and domestic life we meet the same phenomenon in a new guise. When a man is tired and feels that the world is going hardly with him, he turns from his tasks at sunset and goes home. And, having turned that handle and set that door between himself and his cares, losing himself in the love of a wife who worships him and of children who clamber gaily to his knee, he feels that he has found a sanctuary indeed.

During the evening, it may be, friends drop in, and, in the ideal friendship, he finds the same sense of enjoyment and repose. All through the day he has been on his guard. He was compelled by the exigencies of the case to set a watch upon his lips, speaking, under a sense of responsibility, with caution and reserve. But now he can fling such restraints to the winds. He has secrets no longer. He can rattle on with delightful abandon. He is in the company of those whom he perfectly trusts and who perfectly trust him. In such congenial intercourse the mind finds welcome relief. It would be superfluous to refer to the churches. The very word "sanctuary" has become, by affectionate and reverent usage, their peculiar property. They are, in a special sense, the refuge of the browbeaten and perplexed. All through life, alike on its lowliest and loftiest levels, the necessity appears, and, at every turn, the gratification of that human craving generously presents itself.

F W Boreham

Image: Sanctuary: Painting by MichaelaA seen on:
www.art.net/~michaela/galleryofferings-2.htm

[1] This editorial appears in the Hobart Mercury on October 31, 1942.