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