CHAPTER XIII.
A DREAM OF ETERNAL REST.
"Do you see that young man with the dark, delicate features?" she continued, giving an unexpected turn to the conversation. "I mean the one with the brown eyes that have so strange a look in them. He is a poet, and when he was on earth he was blind, but his songs were sad as the sighing of the wind in the pine trees, and sweet with sound, and perfume, and the love of woman. He and I were then, as now, the most devoted of friends, and it was our custom to spend one evening at least in each week together. Sometimes we talked of places or of pictures (in both of which, notwithstanding his blindness, he took a singular interest), sometimes of poetry or flowers. Not seldom he would sketch out for me the plot of some story he was writing, and often I would read aloud while he sat listening with tranquil face and closed eyes in his accustomed place by the fireside. I remember that on one occasion the piece which we thus read together was Jean Paul's Dream of the Dead Christ saying there is no God, and that when next I saw my poet-friend, he told me that after I had left him, he had fallen asleep, and dreamed a dream which he spoke of as 'the most impudent piece of plagiaristic imitation which ever was perpetrated,' and which he called his 'Dream of Eternal Rest.'
"'As I sat here in the darkness which has now become to me like a house of which I am the only tenant,' he said, 'I fell asleep and dreamed that I saw my life lying behind me like the line of phosphorescent light which marks the track of a fallen star—a line traced in darkness, and which arising in darkness dies away into darkness again; and in my dream an angel appeared unto me, and, laying his hand upon my shoulder, said, "Thou who probest the mysteries of life, and peerest into the time which is to be, arise, come with me, and I will show thee something of that which thou seekest." So saying, he stretched forth his hand, which I clasped, and we set forth on our infinite journey.
"'What abysmal realms of space we passed I know not, for I was as one bewildered by the swiftness of our flight and by the rushing beat of the angel's pinions. I remember that ever and anon there swam up in the darkness a gleam of light that was at first no bigger than a single star, but which, as I looked, loomed out ever larger and larger, and each moment seemed to double in magnitude, until I trembled lest it should break the bounds of the heavens; but even as I trembled, it swept whirling by with a sound like that of infinite thunders, and, receding again, lessened before my eyes as visibly as it had increased, and finally dwindling to a mere point of light, died away into darkness. Ere long, however, there appeared a flush in the distant east, and as we drew nearer I saw that, below me and afar, there lay a land in which the sun shone with such exceeding splendour, that the atmosphere, light-filled and luminous unto sparkling, was in colour like unto the colour of a rainbow. And I saw also that the rays neither dazzled nor scorched, as do the rays of the earthly sun. And far as the eye could reach stretched shining hills, seen through soft vistas of purple and gold, and sunny meadows wherein bloomed flowers beautiful as the blush of a maiden, and pure as an angel's thought. And winding in and out among the meadows ran many a rippling river; and fountains also I saw, the waters of which, as they rose and fell scintillating like a shower of starbeams or spray of diamonds, discoursed music sweeter than the sighing of Æolian harps. Then as I looked yet closer, I saw, wandering hand in hand among the meadows, many white-clad figures, whereat my soul wept for gladness; and I turned to the angel saying, "Surely this is that Heaven whereof we read and wherein I would rest for ever? for I am sore wearied with the toil and the labour of earth." But he answered me, "Mortal, thou knowest not what thou askest. Lift up thine eyes, and see if thou beholdest aught else."
"'And I looked to the right hand and to the left, yet saw I only the sunny meadows and rivers of the land of flowers, and the blue distance of the bordering hills. Then I turned me round and gazed whence we came, but could nothing discern save remote plains of darkness, athwart the gloom of which I saw flash ever and anon (as one sees flash the eyes of a beast at midnight) the glimmer of a moving world. Then the angel stretched forth his hand, pointing me yet again to the distant east, and far away beyond the beauteous realm I beheld a vast plain of desolation, and beyond that a land whereof I could nothing see, save that a darkness, as of a twilight in which there is no moon, brooded above it like a cloud.
"'Whereat a shuddering horror seized me, so that I could look no more, and turning to the angel, I said, "Alas! lieth the region of endless night so nigh unto the realm of eternal day?" But he answered me sternly, "Mortal, thou speakest that of which thou art ignorant. Come, let us go thither, that thou mayest see, and seeing, learn." And I cast a longing look upon the beauteous land, and, lo! on the faces of those who walked therein, I saw a shadow as of something incomplete—not discontent, neither sorrow nor care, but the look as of an unfulfilled aspiration; but, even as I gazed, the angel smote the air with eagle pinion, and I beheld no more until we came nigh unto our journey's end. Then, every stroke of his wing bringing us nearer, he turned to me, once again bidding me "See, and seeing, learn," but at my heart lay such a nameless terror that I was as one spell-bound, and durst not look upon his face. And with trembling voice I made answer, "Suffer me rather to depart, I pray thee! for I would not that mine eyes should behold the horrors whereof I have heard, and my soul longeth to return to the land of flowers wherein they toil not, neither sorrow, and where I shall cease from labour and be at rest."
"'But for the third time he bade me "See, and seeing, learn;" and as I looked upon the land which lay below me, I saw—instead of the realm of endless night—a shining city of such unimaginable beauty, that my heart sank within me in breathless awe. Then the angel spread forth his wings still and motionless, and we reposed on the azure air as a planet floats upon the purple bosom of night; and though neither sun nor moon was set in the peaceful heaven, I saw that there rested over the city the soft splendour as of a world of far-off stars. There was but one gate, and over that was written in letters of light, "My Father worketh hitherto, and I work," at which I marvelled exceedingly; and inside the gate walked beings of such divine dignity and soul beauty that I could have knelt worshipping before them, were it not that they too were of human form and feature; and I saw that all were earnestly but unhastily engaged in some manner of work, at which they toiled serenely. And on every forehead was set the seal of a high purpose, and over the city there rested the calm of an immeasurable peace. Then silently upstole in the sky the dawnings of a great light, deep and wide as the infinite of Heaven, and athwart the glory thereof there spread the fore-splendours as of the approach of an Awful Presence.
"'And around me fell a darkness like unto midnight, and, turning to me yet again the angel said, "Mortal, thou mayest behold no more. Return to thy home and to thy labour, never more to murmur or complain, and when thou longest after the repose of the world to come, know for a surety that there is no rest either in earth or in heaven, save in the fulfilment of the work which God would have thee to do;" and so saying, he too passed away into the darkness, and—I awoke.'"
"That is a singular dream," I said, "although it was scarcely necessary to have mentioned that your friend had been making a study of Jean Paul. But I suppose there really is work to do in Heaven?"
"It is very much as it is on earth in that respect," she answered, "excepting that here one loves one's work, and, although here too, there are alternate periods of labour and repose, it would be difficult for some of us to say which is the sweeter. I could tell you which I love the more, but then all our work is of our Father's ordering, and He knows just what is best for each of us. Some who come here (never mind my smile! I was thinking of the 'tired woman' who was 'going to do nothing for ever and ever') have to take a very long holiday before they are allowed to put hand to anything; and others there are whose first task it is to learn those lessons which, through unfavourable circumstances or the accidents of their birth, it was hardly to be expected they could have learned on earth. There are some of the poorest of the poor in East London, among whom by our Father's direction I am now working, who I believe have had scarcely more opportunity of knowing what Christianity means to them than have the very heathen. Some, when they come here, have to start from the beginning, so you can believe that for you who can write, as well as for those who can preach, there is every opportunity for the exercise of God's gifts—only remember!" she added sadly, but with a smile, "that the popular preacher of earth, be he poet or parson, is not always the man who can do most good in heaven, for here one is expected to practise as well as to preach."
"So you are entrusted with the task of ministering to certain of the poor in East London?" I said; "I had no idea that our Father permitted those who had once left the world to return to it again."
"Half of our work, and more, is on earth," she made answer. "It was to tell you of that that I pointed out my poet-friend, the dreamer of dreams, to you. Himself a poet, he was the son of a poet, who had lived to see all else he loved on earth pass away before him; and when this boy, his darling hope and only companion, was also taken, the old man was left lonely, desolate and infirm. But not so lonely as one might imagine, for his boy seldom leaves him, and the work which God has set apart for the poet-son, and which is to him the resting-work of heaven, is to be with his father in all sorrow, to minister to him in all pain, and to be with him in every wakeful or weary moment, his unseen comforter and friend."
I was interested in what she related, for I remembered that when I was sitting one evening with the poet-father, he had told me that, for all his loneliness, he was never alone. "No, I am never lonely," he said, "although you will perhaps think what I am going to tell you is but an old mans' fancy. A night or two after my dear boy died, I was thinking of my dead youth, and of my dead wife, of my dead friends and my dead children, until it seemed to me as if I, too, ought long since to have been buried, for I was lingering on (like a spectral moon when the sun is high) the living ghost of a vanished past. The generation had departed which I knew, and the one which was growing up around me was too busy listening to the songs of its own singers to give ear to mine. As the thought of my loneliness, my loveless life, and my boy's newly-made grave, away out in the dreary cemetery, came over me, I did that which was cowardly and faithless, and dropped my head upon my hands and wept. Then it was that there came a touch upon my arm, and a voice in my ear, and though I knew none else was in the room, I was not afraid, but answered without looking up: 'Who is it?'
"'It is only I, dear father,' the voice replied, 'only your boy. You must not be unhappy about me, for though I have greatly sinned, yet I have been greatly forgiven, and am perfectly, peacefully happy.'
"My son then went on to tell me," the old man continued, "that for me there was to be no more loneliness, for that in all my sleepless nights and sorrowful days, he would be with me ever and always, my constant companion and comforter, until for me too the time shall come when,
"'Midnight waking, twilight weeping, heavy noontide—all are done.'"
"That is a very touching incident," said my friend, when I had related this conversation to her. "If all earth-dwellers were as spiritually-minded as yonder poet's poet-father, and were as capable of apprehending how real a thing spiritual companionship may be, our dead would soon cease to be called our 'lost ones,' and death would no longer be spoken of as the 'great parting.' Death gives us more friends than he takes from us, and often brings us nearer to those who have gone before, than we were during their lifetime. Though it is nineteen hundred years since our Master, Christ, trod the earth a visible Presence, yet He is more to the world to-day, and nearer to each separate soul in it, than ever He was to the men and women who touched garments with Him when He walked the fields of Palestine. Then such as sought His aid had often to wait His coming in weariness and weakness of soul, whilst not seldom it happened that they could not obtain access to him 'because of the throng,' and we read even of one who was fain to climb a tree to catch a glimpse of Him in passing. Now He stands by each of us, waiting and willing to hear. Then they had to go to Him; now He comes to us, and is with us always and in every place. I tell you that Jesus Christ is as real a Presence to-day in the streets of London or Boston, as He was in the homes of Nazareth or Jerusalem. He is as near to us now as He was to Martha and to Mary, and is as willing to help and hear you or me, as He was to heal the sick, or to pardon the dying thief;" and then in a low, sweet voice she repeated the following lines from Whittier's poem, "Our Master":—
"But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
A present help is He;
And faith has still its Olivet,
And love its Galilee.
"The healing of His seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again.
"Through Him the first fond prayers are said,
Our lips of childhood frame,
The last low whispers of our dead
Are burdened with His name."
"The thought that the 'last low whispers' of the loved ones who have left us were 'burdened' with the Name which we first learned to lisp at our mother's knee is a very tender and beautiful one," she said reverently, after a moment's silence. "We seem to see our own fathers and mothers, and their fathers and mothers, linked to ourselves, and through us to our children and our children's children, until all the generations of the world—past, present, and future—become as one family in a great bond of fellowship, even as all the joy and sorrow of humanity find one common home in the heart of the Lord Christ who loves us."
"I am not sure that I realize this love of His of which you speak," I said sadly. "It is so vague and vast that I become lost, and feel that I have no personal hold upon it. How can He love the whole world, and yet love each separate individual in it with an affection as distinct as that which I feel for my wife and children?"
"You cannot realize it as existing in yourself," she made answer, "although even you love all your children, and yet love each one of them with a distinct and personal love; but then you cannot order the succession of the seasons, or stay a planet upon its course, and you might just as well try to measure God's power by your power, as try to apprehend the love which passeth understanding by likening it to your own. But you will know what Christ is to us one day."
"Tell me more of Him," I whispered eagerly; "tell me more of Him. Did you love Him as earnestly and believe in Him as trustfully when you were on earth as you do now?"
"Not always," she answered sadly, "not always (and, oh! it was such 'cold comfort'—the talk of the Pantheists and the Deists to whom I had gone), but I came at last to see that the Cross of Christ is humanity's only hope. I came, too, to think that I could better bear to disbelieve in a God at all than to disbelieve in the Saviour. 'By Atheism,' I said to myself, 'I lose only a Deity of whom (excepting for the gospel-revelation) I know practically nothing, but in losing Christ I lose all—this world's hope as well as the next's.' There is not a creed which has been offered us during the last eighteen hundred years as a substitute for faith in the Saviour which does not take the very basis of its being from Christianity."
"Yes," I said; "but many people will tell you that Christianity is nothing more than a skilfully-framed fable, cunningly devised to adapt itself to our human needs."
"Christ was, and Christianity was before humanity or its needs came into being," she made answer; "and the sacrifice of the Cross was no afterthought given as a concession to our human requirements. On the contrary, our human requirements were given us that we, through them, might come by way of Calvary to the feet of Christ; and it is because it has been God's purpose from all eternity to save the sinner by the sacrifice of Himself that you and I feel our need of a Saviour."
"Yes," I said, "I do indeed feel that whatever help comes to me must be something outside myself, and that no sorrowing of mine can atone for the past; but I feel also that I, and I only, am responsible for what I have done, and that to lay that responsibility upon another is utterly inadequate to satisfy even my limited sense of justice—besides which I never can and never will believe in the possibility of the innocent being allowed to suffer for the guilty."
"But the innocent do suffer for the guilty," she said, "even in the very earth-world, by the laws of which you wish to judge the heavenly one. You profess yourself willing to abide by the evidence of your senses, and if you will only look back upon the earth-life which you have left, you will see that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, and that the innocent are suffering for the guilty every day, and that God, for some good reason of His own, allows it to be so. As for what you say about your sense of justice, I agree with you that if a man run into your debt—run into your debt by wilful and wicked courses—he must be held answerable for the repayment of the money. But supposing one comes forward who loves him, and who has watched his sinnings with sorrow, and says, 'I will pay for my friend that which he cannot pay for himself,' would not your sense of justice be satisfied?"
"Even then the moral obligation remains," I objected.
"Yes, but that obligation has been transferred," she said, "although as a matter of fact, it is against God rather than against man, that our blackest sins are committed. But, independently of that side of the question, Christ has taken the consequences of your sin, and of the wrong you did Dorothy—the consequences to her, as well as to yourself—upon Himself, and has suffered for you and for her in His own person, and if He be willing to forgive, then are you forgiven indeed!
"That reconciliation by the Saviour should at any time have been to me an intellectual stumbling-block is now beyond my comprehension," she continued earnestly. "In its very adaptability to our human needs, Christianity bears the stamp of its divine origin. Left to himself, the very best of us must feel his inability either to atone for the evil he has already done, or to withstand the temptations which yet await him in the future, and though he struggle right manfully to clamber out of the gulf into which he has fallen, the dead-weight of his sins, which he carries and must carry chained log-like about him, is ever the heaviest clog to drag him back. But Christianity does more for a man than merely forgive him his debts. It sets the bankrupt upon his legs again, a solvent man and sane, with a clean bill of health, and with a fresh start in life. It is the religion of Hope, for none is too sinful for the Saviour to save, and to the man who brings his sins, as well as his inability to resist his sins, to the feet of Christ, there is indeed a present Help and Hope in all his troubles! There is much—very much—in Christianity that I cannot and do not pretend to understand, but I can understand enough to make me very loving and very trustful. The only mystery which still sometimes troubles me is that most terrible of all mysteries—the mystery of human suffering. But even that I am content to leave, for is not our God Himself a suffering God? and who that witnessed the sufferings of Jesus Christ (and what sufferings were ever like to His?) could have foreseen that the cruel Cross whereon He hung should hereafter be the finger-post to point the way to heaven? or that beneath His cry of agony in the garden, God heard the triumph-song of a ransomed world?"
