The Little Pilgrim: Further Experiences. - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
'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?'
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 splendor 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.