They walked with her softly in the silence, in the sound of

THE LITTLE PILGRIM:

Further Experiences

By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant

I.

THE LITTLE PILGRIM IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN.

The little Pilgrim, whose story has been told in another place, and who

had arrived but lately on the other side, among those who know trouble

and sorrow no more, was one whose heart was always full of pity for the

suffering. And after the first rapture of her arrival, and of the blessed

work which had been given to her to do, and all the wonderful things she

had learned of the new life, there returned to her in the midst of her

happiness so many questions and longing thoughts that They were touched

by them who have the care of the younger brethren, the simple ones of

heaven. These questions did not disturb her peace or joy, for she knew

that which is so often veiled on earth,--that all is accomplished by the

will of the Father, and that nothing can happen but according to His

appointment and under His care. And she was also aware that the end

is as the beginning to Him who knows all, and that nothing is lost that

is in His hand. But though she would herself have willingly borne the

sufferings of earth ten times over for the sake of all that was now hers,

yet it pierced her soul to think of those who were struggling in

darkness, and whose hearts were stifled within them by all the bitterness

of the mortal life. Sometimes she would be ready to cry out with wonder

that the Lord did not hasten His steps and go down again upon the earth

to make all plain; or how the Father himself could restrain His power,

and did not send down ten legions of angels to make all that was wrong

right, and turn all that was mournful into joy.

'It is but for a little time,' said her companions. 'When we have reached

this place we remember no more the anguish.' 'But to them in their

trouble it does not seem a little time,' the Pilgrim said. And in her

heart there rose a great longing. Oh that He would send me! that I might

tell my brethren,--not like the poor man in the land of darkness, of the

gloom and misery of that distant place, but a happier message, of the

light and brightness of this, and how soon all pain would be over. She

would not put this into a prayer, for she knew that to refuse a prayer

is pain to the Father, if in His great glory any pain can be. And then

she reasoned with herself and said, 'What can I tell them, except that

all will soon be well? and this they know, for our Lord has said it; but

I am like them, and I do not understand.'

One fair morning while she turned over these thoughts in her mind there

suddenly came towards her one whom she knew as a sage, of the number of

those who know many mysteries and search into the deep things of the

Father. For a moment she wondered if perhaps he came to reprove her for

too many questionings, and rose up and advanced a little towards him with

folded hands and a thankful heart, to receive the reproof if it should be

so,--for whether it were praise or whether it were blame, it was from the

Father, and a great honor and happiness to receive. But as he came

towards her he smiled and bade her not to fear. 'I am come,' he said, 'to

tell you some things you long to know, and to show you some things that

are hidden to most. Little sister, you are not to be charged with any

mission--'

'Oh, no,' she said, 'oh, no. I was not so presuming--'

'It is not presuming to wish to carry comfort to any soul; but it is

permitted to me to open up to you, so far as I may, some of the secrets.

The secrets of the Father are all beautiful, but there is sorrow in them

as well as joy; and Pain, you know, is one of the great angels at the

door.'

'Is his name Pain? and I took him for Consolation!' the little Pilgrim

said.

'He is not Consolation; he is the schoolmaster whose face is often stern.

But I did not come to tell you of him whom you know; I am going to take

you--back,' the wise man said.

'Back!' She knew what this meant, and a great pleasure, yet mingled with

fear, came into her mind. She hesitated, and looked at him, and did not

know how to accept, though she longed to do so, for at the same time she

was afraid. He smiled when he saw the alarm in her face.

'Do you think,' he said, 'that you are to go this journey on your own

charges? Had you insisted, as some do, to go at all hazards, you might

indeed have feared. And even now I cannot promise that you will not feel

the thorns of the earth as you pass; but you will be cared for, so that

no harm can come.'

'Ah,' she said wistfully, 'it is not for harm--' and could say nothing

more.

He laid his hand upon her arm, and he said, 'Do not fear; though they see

you not, it is yet sweet for a moment to be there, and as you pass, it

brings thoughts of you to their minds.'

For these two understood each other, and knew that to see and yet not be

seen is only a pleasure for those who are most like the Father, and can

love without thought of love in return.

When he touched her, it seemed to the little Pilgrim suddenly that

everything changed round her, and that she was no longer in her own

place, but walking along a weary length of road. It was narrow and rough,

and the skies were dim; and as she went on by the side of her guide she

saw houses and gardens which were to her like the houses that children

build, and the little gardens in which they sow seeds and plant flowers,

and take them up again to see if they are growing. She turned to the

Sage, saying, 'What are--?' and then stopped and gazed again, and burst

out into something that was between laughing and tears. 'For it is home,'

she cried, 'and I did not know it! dear home!' Her heart was remorseful,

as if she had wounded the little diminished place.

'This is what happens with those who have been living in the king's

palaces,' he said with a smile.

'But I love it dearly, I love it dearly!' the little Pilgrim said,

stretching out her hands as if for pardon. He smiled at her, consoling

her; and then his face changed and grew very grave.

'Little sister,' he said, 'you have come not to see happiness but pain.

We want no explanation of the joy, for that flows freely from the heart

of the Father, and all is clear between us and Him; but that which you

desire to know is why trouble should be. Therefore you must think of Him

and be strong, for here is what will rend your heart.'

The little Pilgrim was seized once more with mortal fear. 'O friend,' she

cried, 'I have done with pain. Must I go and see others suffering and do

nothing for them?'

'If anything comes into your heart to do or say, it will be well for

them,' the Sage replied: and he took her by the hand and led her into a

house she knew. She began to know them all now, as her vision became

accustomed to the atmosphere of the earth. She perceived that the sun was

shining, though it had appeared so dim, and that it was a clear summer

morning, very early, with still the colors of the dawn in the east. When

she went indoors, at first she saw nothing, for the room was darkened,

the windows all closed, and a miserable watch-light only burning. In the

bed there lay a child whom she knew. She knew them all,--the mother at

the bedside, the father near the door, even the nurse who was flitting

about disturbing the silence. Her heart gave a great throb when she

recognized them all; and though she had been glad for the first moment to

think that she had come just in time to give welcome to a little brother

stepping out of earth into the better country, a shadow of trouble and

pain enveloped her when she saw the others and remembered and knew. For

he was their beloved child; on all the earth there was nothing they held

so dear. They would have given up their home and all they possessed, and

become poor and homeless and wanderers with joy, if God, as they said,

would have but spared their child. She saw into their hearts and read all

this there; and knowing them, she knew it without even that insight.

Everything they would have given up and rejoiced, if but they might have

kept him. And there he lay, and was about to die. The little Pilgrim

forgot all but the pity of it, and their hearts that were breaking, and

the vacant place that was soon to be. She cried out aloud upon the Father

with a great cry. She forgot that it was a grief to Him in His great

glory to refuse.

There came no reply; but the room grew light as with a reflection out of

heaven, and the child in the bed, who had been moving restlessly in the

weariness of ending life, turned his head towards her, and his eyes

opened wide, and he saw her where she stood. He cried out, 'Look! mother,

mother!' The mother, who was on her knees by the bedside, lifted her head

and cried, 'What is it, what is it, O my darling?' and the father, who

had turned away his face not to see the child die, came nearer to the

bed, hoping they knew not what. Their faces were paler than the face of

the dying, upon which there was light; but no light came to them out of

the hidden heaven. 'Look! she has come for me,' he said; but his voice

was so weak they could not hear him, nor take any comfort. At this the

little Pilgrim put out her arms to him, forgetting in her joy the poor

people who were mourning, and cried out, 'Oh, but I must go with him! I

must take him home!' For this was her own work, and she thought of her

wonderings and her questions no more.

Some one touched her on the shoulder, and she looked round; and behind

her was a great company of the dear children from the better country,

whom the Father had sent, and not her,--lest he should grieve for those

he had left behind,--to come for the child and show him the way. She

paused for a moment, scarcely willing to give him up; but then her

companion touched her and pointed to the other side. Ah, that was

different! The mother lay by the side of the bed, her face turned only to

the little white body which her child had dropped from him as he came out

of his sickness,--her eyes wild with misery, without tears; her feverish

mouth open, but no cry in it. The sword of the angel had gone through and

through her. She did not even writhe upon it, but lay motionless, cut

down, dumb with anguish. The father had turned round again and leaned his

head upon the wall. All was over,--all over! The love and the hope of a

dozen lovely years, the little sweet companion, the daily joy, the future

trust--all--over--as if a child had never been born. Then there rose in

the stillness a great and exceeding bitter cry, 'God!' that was all,

pealing up to heaven, to the Father, whom they could not see in their

anguish, accusing Him, reproaching Him who had done it. Was He their

enemy that He had done it? No man was ever so wicked, ever so cruel but

he would have spared them their boy,--taken everything and spared them

their boy; but God, God! The little Pilgrim stood by and wept. She could

do nothing but weep, weep, her heart aching with the pity and the

anguish. How were they to be told that it was not God, but the Father;

that God was only His common name, His name in law, and that He was the

Father. This was all she could think of; she had not a word to say. And

the boy had shaken his little bright soul out of the sickness and the

weakness with such a look of delight! He knew in a moment! But they--oh,

when, when would they know?

Presently she sat outside in the soft breathing airs and little morning

breezes, and dried her aching eyes. And the Sage who was her companion

soothed her with kind words. 'I said you would feel the thorns as you

passed,' he said. 'We cannot be free of them, we who are of mankind.'

'But oh,' she cried amid her tears, 'why,--why? The air of the earth is

in my eyes, I cannot see. Oh, what pain it is, what misery! Was it

because they loved him too much, and that he drew their hearts away?'

The Sage only shook his head at her, smiling. 'Can one love too much?' he

said.

'O brother, it is very hard to live and to see another--I am confused in

my mind,' said the little Pilgrim, putting her hand to her eyes. 'The

tears of those that weep have got into my soul. To live and see another

die,--that was what I was saying; but the child lives like you and me.

Tell me, for I am confused in my mind.'

'Listen!' said the Sage; and when she listened she heard the sound of the

children going back with a great murmur and ringing of pleasant voices

like silver bells in the air, and among them the voice of the child

asking a thousand questions, calling them by their names. The two

pilgrims listened and laughed to each other for love at the sound of the

children. 'Is it for the little brother that you are troubled?' the Sage

said in her ear.

Then she was ashamed, and turned from the joyful sounds that were

ascending ever higher and higher to the little house that stood below,

with all its windows closed upon the light. It was wrapped in darkness

though the sun was shining, the windows closed as if they never would

open more, and the people within turning their faces to the wall,

covering their eyes that they might not see the light of day. 'O

miserable day!' they were saying; 'O dark hour! O life that will never

smile again!' She sat between earth and heaven, her eyes smiling, but her

mouth beginning to quiver once more. 'Is it to raise their thoughts and

their hearts?' she said.

'Little sister,' said he, 'when the Father speaks to you, it is not for

me nor for another that He speaks. And what He says to you is--' 'Ah,'

said the little Pilgrim, with joy, 'it is for myself, myself alone! As if

I were a great angel, as if I were a saint. It drops into my heart like

the dew. It is what I need, not for you, though I love you, but for me

only. It is my secret between me and Him.'

Her companion bowed his head. 'It is so. And thus has He spoken to the

little child. But what He said or why He said it, is not for you or me to

know. It is His secret; it is between the little one and his Father. Who

can interfere between these two? Many and many are there born on earth

whose work and whose life are ordained elsewhere,--for there is no way of

entrance into the race of man which is the nature of the Lord, but by the

gates of birth; and the work which the Father has to do is so great and

manifold that there are multitudes who do but pass through those gates to

ascend to their work elsewhere. But the Father alone knows whom he has

chosen. It is between the child and Him. It is their secret; it is as you

have said.'

The little Pilgrim was silent for a moment, but then turned her head from

the bright shining of the skies and the voices of the children which

floated farther and farther off, and looked at the house in which there

was sorrow and despair. She pointed towards it, and looked at him who was

her instructor, and had come to show her how these things were.

'They are to blame,' he said; 'but none will blame them. The little life

is hard. The Father, though He is very near, seems far off; and sometimes

even His word is as a dream. It is to them as if they had lost their

child. Can you not remember?--that was what we said. We have lost--'

Then the little Pilgrim, musing, began to smile, but wept again as she

thought of the father and the mother. 'If we were to go,' she said, 'hand

in hand, you and I, and tell them that the Father had need of him, that

it was not for the little life but for the great and beautiful world

above that the child was born; and that he had got great promotion and

was gone with the princes and the angels according as was ordained?

And why should they mourn? Let us go and tell them--'

He shook his head. 'They could not see us; they would not know us. We

should be to them as dreams. If they do not take comfort from our Lord,

how could they take comfort from you and me? We could not bring them back

their child. They want their child, not only to know that all is well

with him,--for they know that all is well with him,--but what they want

is their child. They are to blame; but who shall blame them? Not any one

that is born of woman. How can we tell them what is the Father's secret

and the child's?'

'And yet we could tell them why it must be so?' said the little Pilgrim.

'For they prayed and besought the Lord. O brother, I have no

understanding. For the Lord said, "Ask, and it shall be given you;" and

they asked, yet they are refused.'

'Little sister, the Father must judge between His children; and he must

first be heard who is most concerned. While they were praying, the Father

and the child talked together and said what we know not; but this we

know, that his heart was satisfied with that which was said to him. Must

not the Father do what is best for the child He loves, whatever the other

children may say? Nay, did not our own fathers do this on earth, and we

submitted to them; how much more He who sees all?'

The little Pilgrim stole softly from his side when he had done speaking,

and went back into the darkened house, and saw the mother where she sat

weeping and refusing to be comforted, in her sorrow perceiving not heaven

nor any consolation, nor understanding that her child had gone joyfully

to his Father and her Father, as his soul had required, and as the Lord

had willed. Yet though she had not joy but only anguish in her faith, and

though her eyes were darkened that she could not see, yet the woman

ceased not to call upon God, God, and to hold by Him who had smitten her.

And the father of the child had gone into his chamber and shut the door,

and sat dumb, opening not his mouth, thinking upon his delightsome boy,

and how they had walked together and talked together, and should do so

again nevermore. And in their hearts they reproached their God, the giver

of all, and accused the Lord to His face, as if He had deceived them, yet

clung to Him still, weeping and upbraiding, and would not let Him go. The

little Pilgrim wept too, and said many things to them which they could

not hear. But when she saw that though they were in darkness and misery,

God was in all their thoughts, she bethought herself suddenly of what the

poet had said in the celestial city, and of the songs he sang, which were

a wonder to the Angels and Powers, of the little life and the sorrowful

earth, where men endured all things, yet overcame by the name of the

Lord. When this came into her mind, she rose up again softly with a

sacred awe, and wept not, but did them reverence; for without any light

or guidance in their anguish they yet wavered not, died not, but endured,

and in the end would overcome. It seemed to her that she saw the great

beautiful angels looking on, the great souls that are called to love and

to serve, but not to suffer like the little brethren of the earth; and

that among the princes of heaven there was reverence and awe, and even

envy of those who thus had their garments bathed in blood, and suffered

loss and pain and misery, yet never abandoned their life and the work

that had been given them to do.

As she came forth again comforted, she found the Sage standing with his

face lifted to heaven, smiling still at the sound, though faint and

distant, of the children all calling to each other and shouting together

as they reached the gate. 'Oh, hush!' she said; 'let not the mother hear

them! for it will make her heart more bitter to think she can never hear

again her child's voice.'

'But it is her child's voice,' he said; then very gently, 'they are to

blame; but no one will be found to blame them either in earth or heaven.'

The earth pilgrims went far after this, yet more softly than when they

first left their beautiful country,--for then the little Pilgrim had been

glad, believing that as all had been made clear to her in her own life,

so that all that concerned the life of man should be made clear; but this

was more hard and encompassed with pain and darkness, as that which is in

the doing is always more hard to understand than that which is

accomplished. And she learned now what she had not understood, though her

companion warned her, how sharp are those thorns of earth that pierce the

wayfarer's foot, and that those who come back cannot help but suffer

because of love and fellow-feeling. And she learned that though she could

smile and give thanks to the Father in the recollection of her own griefs

that were past, yet those that are present are too poignant, and to look

upon others in their hour of darkness makes His ways more hard to

comprehend than even when the sorrow is your own.

While she mused thus, there was suddenly revealed to her another sight.

They had gone far before they came to this new scene. Night had crept

over the skies all gray and dark; and the sea came in with a whisper

which sounded to some like the hush of peace, and to some like the voice

of sorrow and moaning, and to some was but the monotony of endless

recurrence, in which was no soul. The skies were dark overhead, but

opened with a clear shining of light which had no color, towards the

west,--for the sun had long gone down, and it was night. The two

travellers perceived a woman who came out of a house all lit with lamps

and firelight, and took the lonely path towards the sea. And the little

Pilgrim knew her, as she had known the father and mother in the darkened

house, and would have joined her with a cry of pleasure; but she

remembered that the friend could not see her or hear her, being wrapped

still in the mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of thoughts

and cares. The Sage made her a sign to follow, and these two tender

companions accompanied her who saw them not, walking darkling by the

silent way. The heart of the woman was heavy in her breast. It was so

sore by reason of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds of the past, and

all the fears that beset her life to come, that she walked, not weeping

because of being beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her thoughts

being in her little way like those of His upon whose brow there once

stood drops as it were of blood; and out of her heart there came a

moaning which was without words. If words had been possible, they would

have been as His also, who said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not

what they do.' For those who had wounded her were those whom in all the

world she loved most dear; and the quivering of anguish was in her as she

walked, seeking the darkness and the silence, and to hide herself, if

that might be, from her own thoughts. She went along the lonely path with

the stinging of her wounds so keen and sharp that all her body and soul

were as one pain. Greater grief hath no man than this, to be slain and

tortured by those whom he loves. When her soul could speak, this was what

it said 'Father, forgive them! Father, save them!' She had no strength

for more.

This the heavenly pilgrims saw,--for they stood by her as in their own

country, where every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But as they

followed her and looked into her soul--with their hearts, which were

human too, wrung at the sight of hers in its anguish--there suddenly

became visible before them a strange sight such as they had never seen

before. It was like the rising of the sun; but it was not the sun.

Suddenly into the heart upon which they looked there came a great silence

and calm. There was nothing said that even they could hear, nor done that

they could see; but for a moment the throbbing was stilled, and the

anguish calmed, and there came a great peace. The woman in whom this

wonder was wrought was astonished, as they were. She gave a low cry in

the darkness for wonder that the pain had gone from her in an instant, in

the twinkling of an eye. There was no promise made to her that her prayer

would be granted, and no new light given to guide her for the time to

come; but her pain was taken away. She stood hushed, and lifted her eyes;

and the gray of the sea, and the low cloud that was like a canopy above,

and the lightening of colorless light towards the west, entered with

their great quiet into her heart. 'Is this the peace that passeth all

understanding?' she said to herself, confused with the sudden calm. In

all her life it had never so happened to her before,--to be healed of her

grievous wounds, yet without cause; and while no change was wrought, yet

to be put to rest.

'It is our Brother,' said the little Pilgrim, shedding tears of joy. 'It

is the secret of the Lord,' said the Sage; but not even they had seen Him

passing by.

They walked with her softly in the silence, in the sound of the sea, till

the wonder in her was hushed like the pain, and talked with her, though

she knew it not. For very soon questions arose in her heart. 'And oh,'

she said, 'is this the Lord's reply?' with thankfulness and awe; but

because she was human, and knew so little, and was full of impatience,

'Oh, and is this _all_?' was what she next said. 'I asked for _them_, and

Thou hast given to _me_--' then the voice of her heart grew louder, and

she cried, with the sound of the pain coming back, 'I ask one thing, and

Thou givest another. I asked no blessing for me. I asked for them, my

Lord, my God. Give it to them--to them!' with disappointment rising in

her heart. The little Pilgrim laid her hand upon the woman's arm,--for

she was afraid lest our Lord might be displeased, forgetting (for she was

still imperfect) that He sees all that is in the soul, and understands

and takes no offence,--and said quickly, 'Oh, be not afraid; He will save

them too. The blessing will come for them too.'

'At His own time,' said the Sage, 'and in His own way.'

These thoughts rose in the woman's soul. She did not know that they were

said to her, nor who said them, but accepted them as if they had come

from her own thoughts. For she said to herself, 'This is what is meant by

the answer of prayer. It is not what we ask; yet what I ask is according

to Thy will, my Lord. It is not riches, nor honors, nor beauty, nor

health, nor long life, nor anything of this world. If I have been

impatient, this is my punishment,--that the Lord has thought, not of

them, but of me. But I can bear all, O my Lord! that and a thousand times

more, if Thou wilt but think of them and not of me!'

Nevertheless she returned to her home stilled and comforted; for though

her trouble returned to her and was not changed, yet for a moment it

had been lifted from her, and the peace which passeth all understanding

had entered her heart.

'But why, then,' said the little Pilgrim to her companion, when the

friend was gone, 'why will not the Father give to her what she asks? for

I know what it is. It is that those whom she loves should love Him and

serve Him; and that is His will too, for He would have all love Him, He

who loves all.'

'Little sister,' said her companion, 'you asked me why He did not let the

child remain upon the earth.'

'Ah, but that is different,' she cried; 'oh, it is different! When you

said that the secret was between the child and the Father I knew that

it was so; for it is just that the Father should consider us first one

by one, and do for us what is best. But it is always best to serve Him.

It is best to love him; it is best to give up all the world and cleave

to Him, and follow wherever He goes. No man can say otherwise than

this,--that to follow the Lord and serve Him, that is well for all, and

always the best!'

She spoke so hotly and hastily that her companion could find no room for

reply. But he was in no haste; he waited till she had said what was in

her heart. Then he replied, 'If it were even so, if the Father heard all

prayers, and put forth His hand and forced those who were far off to come

near--'

The little Pilgrim looked up with horror in her face, as if he had

blasphemed, and said, 'Forced! not so; not so!'

'Yet it must be so,' he said, 'if it is against their desire and will.'

'Oh, not so; not so!' she cried, 'but that He should change their

hearts.'

'Yet that too against their will,' he said.

The little Pilgrim paused upon the way; and her heart rose against her

companion, who spoke things so hard to be received, and that seemed to

dishonor the work of the Lord. But she remembered that it could not be

so, and paused before she spoke, and looked up at him with eyes that were

full of wonder and almost of fear. 'Then must they perish?' she said,

'and must her heart break?' and her voice sank low for pity and sorrow.

Though she was herself among the blessed, yet the thorns and briers of

the earth caught at her garments and pierced her tender feet.

'Little sister,' said the Sage, 'to us who are born of the earth it is

hard to remember that the child belongs not first to the parents, nor the

husband to the wife, nor the wife to the husband, but that all are the

children of the Father. And He is just; He will not neglect the little

one because of those prayers which the father and the mother pour forth

to Him, although they cry with anguish and with tears. Nor will He break

His great law and violate the nature He has made, and compel His own

child to what it wills not and loves not. The woman is comforted in the

breaking of her heart; but those whom she loves, are not they also the

children of the Father, who loves them more than she does? And each is to

Him as if there were not another in the world. Nor is there any other in

the world,--for none can come between the Father and the child.'

A smile came upon the little Pilgrim's face, yet she trembled. 'It is dim

before me,' she said, 'and I cannot see clearly. Oh, if the time would

but hasten, that our Lord might come, and all struggles be ended, and the

darkness vanish away!'

'He will come when all things are ready,' said the Sage; and as they went

upon their way be showed her other sights, and the mysteries of the heart

of man, and the great patience of our Lord.

It happened to them suddenly to perceive in their way a man returning

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 clamor 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 honor 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, leaned 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 honored 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 honors. 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 forever. 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.

II.

ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS.

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?'