home. These are words that are sweet to all who have lived upon the
earth and known its ways; but far, far were they from that meaning which
is sweet. The dark hours had passed, and men had slept, and the night
was over. The sun was rising in the sky, which was keen and clear with
the pleasure of the morning. The air was fresh with the dew, and the
birds awaking in the trees, and the breeze so sweet that it seemed to
blow from heaven; and to the two travellers it seemed almost in the joy
of the new day as if the Lord had already come. But here was one who
proved that it was not so. He had not slept all the night, nor had night
been silent to him nor dark, but full of glaring light and noise and
riot; his eyes were red with fever and weariness, and his soul was sick
within him, and the morning looked him in the face and upbraided him as
a sister might have upbraided him, who loved him; and he said in his
heart, as One had said of old, that all was vanity--that it was vain to
live, and evil to have been born--that the day of death was better than
the day of birth, and all was delusion, and love but a word, and life a
lie. His footsteps on the road seemed to sound all through the sleeping
world, and when he looked the morning in the face he was ashamed and
cursed the light. The two went after him into a silent house, where
everybody slept. The light that had burned for him all night was sick
like a guilty thing in the eye of day, and all that had been prepared
for his repose was ghastly to him in the hour of awaking as if prepared
not for sleep but for death. His heart was sick like the watch-light,
and life flickered within him with disgust and disappointment. For why
had he been born, if this were all?--for all was vanity. The night and
the day had been passed in pleasure, and it was vanity; and now his soul
loathed his pleasures, yet he knew that was vanity too, and that next
day he would resume them as before. All was vain--the morning and the
evening, and the spirit of man and the ways of human life. He looked
himself in the face and loathed this dream of existence, and knew that
it was naught. So much as it had cost to be born, to be fed, and
guarded, and taught, and cared for, and all for this! He said to himself
that it was better to die than to live, and never to have been than to
be.
As these spectators stood by with much pity and tenderness looking into
the weariness and sickness of this soul, there began to be enacted
before them a scene such as no man could have seen, which no one was
aware of save he who was concerned, and which even to him was not clear
in its meanings, but rather like a phantasmagoria, a thing of the mists;
yet which was great and solemn as is the council of a king in which
great things are debated for the welfare of the nations. The air seemed
in a moment to be full of the sound of footsteps, and of something more
subtle which the Sage and the Pilgrim knew to be wings; and as they
looked there grew before them the semblance of a court of justice, with
accusers and defenders: but the judge and the criminal were one. Then
was put forth that indictment which he had been making up in his soul
against life and against the world: and again another indictment which
was against himself. And then the advocates began their pleadings.
Voices were there great and eloquent, such as are familiar in the courts
above, which sounded forth in the spectators’ ears earnest as those who
plead for life and death. And these speakers declared that sin only is
vanity, that life is noble and love sweet, and every man made in the
image of God, to serve both God and man; and they set forth their
reasons before the judge and showed him mysteries of life and death; and
they took up the counter-indictment and proved to him how in all the
world he had sought but himself, his own pleasure and profit, his own
will, not the will of God, nor even the good desire of humble nature,
but only that which pleased his sick fancies and his self-loving heart.
And they besought him with a thousand arguments to return and choose
again the better way. ‘Arise,’ they cried, ‘thou, miserable, and become
great; arise thou vain soul and become noble; take thy birthright, O
son, and behold the face of the Father.’ And then there came a
whispering of lower voices, very penetrating and sweet like the voices
of women and children who murmured and cried, ‘O father! O brother! O
love! O my child!’ The man who was the accused, yet who was the judge,
listened and his heart burned, and a longing arose within him for the
face of the Father and the better way. But then there came a clang and
clamour of sound on the other side; and voices called out to him as
comrade, as lover, as friend, and reminded him of the delights which
once had been so sweet to him, and of the freedom he loved; and boasted
the right of man to seek what was pleasant and what was sweet, and
flouted him as a coward whose aim was to save himself, and scorned him
as a believer in old wives’ tales and superstitions that men had
outgrown. And their voices were so vehement and full of passion that by
times they mastered the others, so that it was as if a tempest raged
round the soul which sat in the midst, and who was the offender and yet
the judge of all.
The two spectators watched the conflict, as those who watch the trial
upon which hangs a man’s life. It seemed to the little Pilgrim that she
could not keep silent, and that there were things which she could tell
him which no one knew but she. She put her hand upon the arm of the Sage
and called to him, ‘Speak you, speak you! he will hear you; and I too
will speak, and he will not resist what we say.’ But even as she said
this, eager and straining against her companion’s control, the strangest
thing ensued. The man who was set there to judge himself and his life,
he who was the criminal, yet august upon his seat, to weigh all and
give the decision--he before whom all those great advocates were
pleading--a haze stole over his eyes. He was but a man and he was weary,
and subject to the sway of the little over the great, the moment over
the life, which is the condition of man. While yet the judgment was not
given or the issue decided, while still the pleadings were in his ears,
in a moment his head dropped back upon his pillow and he fell asleep. He
slept like a child, as if there was no evil, nor conflict, nor danger,
nor questions, more than how best to rest when you are weary, in all the
world. And straightway all was silent in the place. Those who had been
conducting this great cause departed to other courts and tribunals,
having done all that was permitted them to do. And the man slept, and
when it was noon woke and remembered no more.
The Sage led the little Pilgrim forth in a great confusion, so that she
could not speak for wonder. But he said, ‘This sleep also was from the
Father; for the mind of the man was weary, and not able to form a
judgment. It is adjourned until a better day.’
The little Pilgrim hung her head and cried, ‘I do not understand. Will
not the Lord interfere? Will not the Father make it clear to him? Is he
the judge between good and evil? Is it all in his own hand?’
The Sage spoke softly as if with awe. He said ‘This is the burden of our
nature, which is not like the angels. There is none in heaven or on
earth that can take from him what is his right and great honour among
the creatures of God. The Father respects that which He has made. He
will force no child of His. And there is no haste with Him. Nor has it
ever been fathomed among us how long He will wait, or if there is any
end. The air is full of the coming and going of those who plead before
the sons of men; and sometimes in great misery and trouble there will be
a cause won and a judgment recorded which makes the universe rejoice.
And in everything at the end it is proved that our Lord’s way is the
best, and that all can be accomplished in His name.’
The little Pilgrim went on her way in silence, knowing that the longing
in her heart which was to compel them to come in, like that king who
sent to gather his guests from the highways and the hedges, could not be
right since it was not the Father’s way, yet confused in her soul, and
full of an eager desire to go back and wake that man and tell him all
that had been in her heart while she watched him sitting on his
judgment-seat. But there came recollections wafted across her mind as by
breezes of the past, of scenes in her earthly life when she had spoken
without avail, when she had said all that was in her heart and failed,
and done harm when she had meant to do good. And slowly it came upon her
that her companion spoke the truth, and that no man can save his
brother, but each must sit and hear the pleadings and pronounce that
judgment which is for life or death. ‘But oh,’ she cried, ‘how long! and
how bitter it is for those who love them, and must stand by and can give
no aid!’
Then her companion unfolded to her the patience of the Lord, and how He
is not discouraged, nor ever weary, but opens His great assizes year by
year and day by day: and how the cause was argued again, as she had seen
it, before the souls of men, sometimes again and again, and over and
over, till the pleadings of the advocates carried conviction and the
judge perceived the truth and consented to it. He showed her that this
was the great thing in human life, and that though it was not enough to
make a man perfect, yet that he who sinned against his will was
different from the man who sinned with his will: and how in all things
the choice of the man for good or evil was all in all. And he led her
about the world so that she could see how everywhere the heavenly
advocates were travelling, entering into the secret places of the souls
and pleading with each man to his face. And the little Pilgrim looked on
with pitying and tender eyes, and it seemed to her that the heart of the
judge, before whom that great question was debated, leant mostly to the
right, and acknowledged that the way of the Lord was the best way: but
either that sleep overpowered him and weariness, or the other voices
deafened his ears, or something betrayed him that he forgot the reasons
of the wise and the judgment of his own soul. At first it comforted her
to see how something nobler in every man would answer to the pleadings;
and then her heart failed her to perceive that notwithstanding this the
judge would leave his seat without a decision, and all would end in
vanity. ‘And oh, friend,’ she cried, ‘what shall be done to those who
see and yet refuse?’--her heart being wrung by the disappointment and
the failure. But her companion smiled still, and he said, ‘They are the
children of the Father. Can a woman forget her child that she should
not have compassion on the son of her womb? She may forget: yet will not
He forget.’ And thus they went on and on.
But time would not suffice to tell what these two pilgrims saw as they
wandered among the ways of men. They saw poverty and misery and pain,
which came of the evil which man had done upon the earth, and were his
punishment, and could be cured by nothing but by the return of each to
his Father, and the giving up of all self-worship and self-seeking and
sin. But amid all the confusion and among those who had fallen the
lowest they found not one who was forsaken, whose name the Father had
forgotten, or who was not made to pause in his appointed moment, and to
sit upon his throne and hear the pleadings before him of the great
advocates of God, reasoning of temperance and righteousness and judgment
to come.
But once before they returned to their home, a great thing befell them:
and they beheld that court sit, and the pleadings made, for the last
time upon earth, which was a sight more solemn and terrible than
anything they had yet seen. They found themselves in a chamber where sat
a man who had lived long and known both good and evil, and fulfilled
many great offices, so that he was famed and honoured among men. He was
a man who was wise in all the learning of the earth, standing but a
little way below those who have begun the higher learning in the world
beyond, and lifting up his head as if he would reach the stars. The
travellers stood by him in his beautiful house, which was as the palace
of wisdom, and saw him in the midst of all his honours. The lamps were
lit within, and the night was sweet without, breathing of rest and happy
ease, and riches and knowledge as if they would endure for ever. And the
man looked round on all he had, and all he had achieved, and everything
which he possessed, to enjoy it. For of wisdom and of glory he had his
fill, and his soul was yet strong to take pleasure in what was his, and
he looked around him like God, and said that everything was good--so
that the little Pilgrim gazed and wondered whether this could indeed be
one of the brethren of the earth, or if he was one who had wandered
hither from another sphere.
But as the thought arose, she heard, and lo! the steps of the pleaders
and the sound of their entry. They came slowly like a solemn procession,
more grave and awful in their looks than any she had seen, for they were
great and the greatest of all, such as come forth but rarely when the
last word is to be said. The words they said were few, but they stood
round him reminding him of all that had been, and of what must be: and
of many things which were known but to God and him alone: and calling
upon him yet once more before time should come to an end and life be
lost. But the sound of their voices in his ear was but as some great
strain of music which he had heard many times and knew and heeded not.
He turned to the goods which he had laid up for many years, and all the
knowledge he had stored, and said to himself, Soul, take thine ease. And
to the heavenly advocates he smiled and replied that life was strong and
wisdom the master of all. Then there came a chill and a shiver over all,
as if the earth had been stopped in her career or the sun fallen from
the sky; and the little Pilgrim, looking on, could see the heavenly
pleaders come forth with bowed heads and the door of hope shut to, and a
whisper which crept about from sea to sea and said, ‘In vain--in vain!’
And as they went forth from the gates an icy breath swept in, and the
voice of the Death-Angel saying, ‘Thou fool, this night thy soul shall
be required of thee!’ The sound went through her heart as if it had been
pierced by a sword, and she gave a cry of anguish, for she could not
bear that a brother should be lost. But when she looked up at the face
of her companion, though it was pale with the pity and the terror of
that which had been thus accomplished, there was still upon it a smile:
and he said, ‘Not yet--not yet. The Father loves not less, but more than
ever.’--‘O friend,’ she cried, ‘will there ever come a moment when the
Father will forget? is there any place where He cannot go?’
Then he who was wise turned towards her, and a great light came upon his
face: and he said, ‘We have searched the records, and heard all
witnesses from the beginnings of time: but we have never found the
boundary of His mercy, and there is no country known to man that is
without His presence. And never has it been known that He has shut His
ear to those who called upon Him, or forgotten one who is His. The
heavenly pleaders may be silenced, but never our Lord, who pleads for
all: and heaven and earth may forget, yet will He never forget who is
the Father of all. And every child of His is to Him as if there was
none other in the world.’
Then the little Pilgrim lifted her face and beheld that radiance which
is over all, which is the love that lights the world, both angels and
the great spheres above and the little brethren who stumble and struggle
and weep; and in that light there was no darkness at all, but everything
shone as in the morning, sweet yet terrible, but ever clear and fair.
And immediately, ere she was aware, the rough roads of the earth were
left far behind, and she had returned to her place, and to her peaceful
state, and to the work which had been given her--to receive the
wanderers and to bid them a happy welcome as the doors opened and they
entered into their inheritance. And thus her soul was satisfied, though
she knew now nothing more than she had known always, that the eye of the
Father is over all, and that He can neither forget nor forsake.
III
ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS
I
When the little Pilgrim had been thus permitted to see the secret
workings of God in earthly places, and among the brethren who are still
in the land of hope--these being things which the angels desire to look
into, and which are the subject of story and of song not only in the
little world below, but in the great realms above--her heart for a long
time reposed and was satisfied, and asked no further question. For she
had seen what the dealings of the Father were in the hearts of men, and
how till the end came He did not cease to send His messengers to plead
in every heart, and to hold a court of justice that no man might be
deceived, but each know whither his steps were tending, and what was the
way of wisdom. After this it was permitted to her to read in the
archives of the heavenly country the story of one who, neglecting all
that the advocates of God could say, had found himself, when the little
life was completed, not upon the threshold of a better country, but in
the midst of the Land of Darkness--that region in which the souls of men
are left by God to their own devices, and the Father stands aloof, and
hides His face and calls them not, neither persuades them more. Over
this story the little pilgrim had shed many tears: for she knew well,
being enlightened in her great simplicity by the heavenly wisdom, that
it was pain and grief to the Father to turn away His face; and that no
one who has but the little heart of a man can imagine to himself what
that sorrow is in the being of the great God. And a great awe came over
her mind at the thought, which seemed well-nigh a blasphemy, that He
could grieve: yet in her heart, being His child, she knew that it was
true. And her own little spirit throbbed through and through with
longing and with desire to help those who were thus utterly lost. ‘And
oh!’ she said, ‘if I could but go! There is nothing which could make a
child afraid, save to see them suffer. What are darkness and terror when
the Father is with you? I am not afraid--if I might but go!’ And by
reason of her often pleading, and of the thought that was ever in her
mind, it was at last said that one of those who knew might instruct her,
and show her by what way alone the travellers who come from that
miserable land could approach and be admitted on high.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘that between us and them there is a gulf fixed, and
that they who would come from thence cannot come, neither can any
one----’
But here she stopped in great dismay, for it seemed that she had thus
answered her own longing and prayer.
The guide who had come for her smiled upon her and said, ‘But that was
before the Lord had ended His work. And now all the paths are free:
wherever there is a mountain-pass or a river-ford: the roads are all
blessed, and they are all open, and no barriers for those who will.’
‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘dear friend, is that true for all?’
He looked away from her into the depths of the lovely air, and he
replied: ‘Little sister, our faith is without bounds, but not our
knowledge. I who speak to you am no more than a man. The princes and
powers that are in high places know more than I; but if there be any
place where a heart can stir and cry out to the Father and He take no
heed--if it be only in a groan--if it be only with a sigh--I know not
that place: yet many depths I know.’ He put out his hand and took hers,
after a pause, and then he said, ‘There are some who are stumbling upon
the dark mountains. Come and see.’
As they passed along there were many who paused to look at them, for he
had the mien of a great prince, a lord among men: and his face still
bore the trace of sorrow and toil, and there was about him an awe and
wonder which was more than could be put in words; so that those who saw
him understood as he went by, not who he was, nor what he had been, but
that he had come out of great tribulation, of sorrow beyond the sorrows
of men. The sweetness of the heavenly country had soothed away his care,
and taken the cloud from his face; but he was as yet unaccustomed to
smile--though when he remembered and looked round him, and saw that all
was well, his countenance lightened like the morning sky, and his eyes
woke up in splendour like the sun rising. The little pilgrim did not
know who her brother was, but yet gave thanks to God for him she knew
not why.
How far they went cannot be estimated in words, for distance matters
little in that place; but at the end they came to a path which sloped a
little downwards to the edge of a delightful moorland country, all
brilliant with the hues of the mountain flowers. It was like a flowery
plateau high among the hills, in a region where are no frosts to check
the glow of the flowers, or scorch the grass. It spread far around in
hollows and ravines and softly swelling hills, with the rush over them
of a cheerful breeze full of mountain scents and sounds; and high above
them rose the mountain-heights of the celestial world, veiled in those
blue breadths of distance which are heaven itself when man’s fancy
ascends to them from the low world at their feet. All the little earth
can do in colour and mists, and travelling shadows fleet as the breath,
and the sweet steadfast shining of the sun, was there, but with a
tenfold splendour. They rose up into the sky, every peak and jagged rock
all touched with the light and the smile of God, and every little
blossom on the turf rejoicing in the warmth and freedom and peace. The
heart of the little pilgrim swelled, and she cried out, ‘There is
nothing so glorious as the everlasting hills. Though the valleys and the
plains are sweet, they are not like them. They say to us, lift up your
heart!’
Her guide smiled, but he did not speak. His smile was full of joy, but
grave, like that of a man whose thoughts are bent on other things: and
he pointed where the road wound downward by the feet of these triumphant
hills. She kept her eyes upon them as she moved along. Those heights
rose into the very sky, but bore upon them neither snow nor storm. Here
and there a whiteness like a film of air rounded out over a peak, and
she recognised that it was one of those angels who travel far and wide
with God’s commissions, going to the other worlds that are in the
firmament as in a sea. The softness of these films of white was like the
summer clouds that she used to watch in the blue of the summer sky in
the little world which none of its children can cease to love: and she
wondered now whether it might not sometimes have been the same dear
angels whose flight she had watched unknowing, higher than thought could
soar or knowledge penetrate. Watching those floating heavenly
messengers, and the heights of the great miraculous mountains rising up
into the sky, the little pilgrim ceased to think whither she was going,
although she knew from the feeling of the ground under her feet that she
was descending, still softly, but more quickly than at first, until she
was brought to herself by the sensation of a great wind coming in her
face, cold as from a sudden vacancy. She turned her head quickly from
gazing above to what was before her, and started with a cry of wonder.
For below lay a great gulf of darkness, out of which rose at first some
shadowy peaks and shoulders of rock, all falling away into a gloom which
eyes accustomed to the sunshine could not penetrate. Where she stood was
the edge of the light--before her feet lay a line of shadow slowly
darkening out of daylight into twilight, and beyond into that
measureless blackness of night; and the wind in her face was like that
which comes from a great depth below of either sea or land--the sweep of
the current which moves a vast atmosphere in which there is nothing to
break its force. The little pilgrim was so startled by these unexpected
sensations that she caught the arm of her guide in her sudden alarm, and
clung to him, lest she should fall into the terrible darkness and the
deep abyss below.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ he said, ‘there is a way. To us who are
above there is no danger at all--and it is the way of life to those who
are below.’
‘I see nothing,’ she cried, ‘save a few points of rock, and the
precipice--the pit which is below. Oh, tell me what is it?--is it where
the fires are and despair dwells? I did not think that was true. Let me
go and hide myself and not see it, for I never thought that was true.’
‘Look again,’ said the guide.