n utter stranger to the 'bus routes of the twin cities of London and Westminster, the young pilgrim made his way afoot - up Fleet Street, along the Strand, past Charing Cross, through Whitehall, and came, at last, to Parliament Street. The month was November, the morning drear. Over street and park and river a blanketing fog hung like a vapoury pall, and half-hidden in its mephitic folds, St. Stephen's and the Abbey loomed in the half-light, like a pair of grotesque, gigantic shadows.
ided by the guidance given him by a friendly policeman, the Pilgrim made his way in the general direction of Buckingham Gate. Despite the prevailing gloom, the face of the traveler was illumined as by the radiance of an inner light. And this was because his whole being was aglow with a tense, eager expectancy. With each successive stride, he knew himself to be drawing nearer to his desired goal - to the one place which, in all vast wilderness men called London, he had fared forth to seek. Soon he would gaze with physical eyes upon that which for years he had been fashioning in the chambers of his imagery and giving form and substance to in the province of his dreams.
way amid the silences of his native Western hills, he had long and ardently awaited the coming of this day, and prayed for its speedier dawning. He had draped the shrine towards which his steps were now were now bent in the habiliments of beauty, and had conceived of it as being altogether lovely. Should he discover the pillars of the place he sought to be of glistening alabaster, the discovery would occasion him no surprise. Were its casements found to be of crystal and its gateways of pure gold, nothing more deeply-seated than a satisfying sense of fitness would be appealed to by the revolution, and no enhancement or enrichment made in the magic of his dreams.
or this young stranger in the English metropolis, the years of youth and early manhood years were years of circumscribed opportunity. Often discouraged, sometimes despairing, he had lived through the slack, laggard days, which came and went with a maddening tardiness, such as left the goal of his longing still far away. Yet within his soul some undying aspirations burned as cleanly and fiercely as a forest flame. Impelled by them, stung into action by them, he would reach forward, only to grasp at shadows, and upward, only to clutch at empty air. Yet, despite the futility of his outward seeming, the flame within him still continued to burn.
n the silent watches of the night, too, there were visions that came to him which gladdened for him the darkened hours- visions of persons, and places, and possibilities, which made his soul glad and his heart to rejoice. When morning came he would awaken to find himself strangely refreshed and greatly strengthened. With renewed hope and vigour he would square his shoulders and set out on yet another stretch of the hard and lonely road.
ccasionally, when, during the long hours of the dragging day, he desired some measure of mental respite, he would climb the slopes of his favorite hill. Reaching the summit, he would gaze away to the southward, and permit his thoughts to overleap the intervening distances which lay between that hilltop and London Town - between himself and the great house of worship that had become to him a hallowed shrine. And that which his imagination conjured up, brought a glow to his cheek and a light to his eye. In some strange, unexplained way, all weariness of body and staleness of mind would drop away from him, as he contemplated the visions that came to him, amid the clarified atmosphere of the uplands. After this fashion, had the thought of London and of one especial sanctuary within her gates, inspired the young man of the hills.
o the little cottage wherein he dwelt, the village postman often brought an eagerly awaited and a gladly welcomed message. Upon its cover it bore the legend- The Westminster Pulpit, and in its pages were the words which became as wings to his soul. Sermons, which had blessed and enheartened a great London congregation but a fews days before, blessed and enheartened him. In them he found satisfying spiritual sustenance. They became to him as "wine, and milk, and gospel grace."
nd now at "the lang last," amid the murk of a London fog the pilgrim drew near to the Mecca of his dre3ams. The great sanctuary was just around the bend. Would he be disappointed with its contour? Would it outward appearance match the dinginess of the streets through which he hurried? Or would it be all he had imagined it, in the profuse magnificence of its visioned splendor?
t last he came upon it looming darkly through the fog. To be sure, there were no alabaster columns to be seen, no jasper facade; the windows were not of crystal, nor innocent of city grime; the doors certainly were not of gold, and not open. Yet the Pilgrim's heart leaped within him, the vision in his soul remained unimpaired. He was instantly enamoured of the dull red brick of the exterior- the grim, doughty character of the place- and straightway dismissed the claims of crystal and alabaster, once and forever.
e tried the vestry door, and it yielded to his touch. No one appeared to be in attendance, so unchallenged he made his way along a passage and so on into the body of the church. The great pulpit faced him. Slowly, fearfully, he ascended its stairs and stood facing the vast auditorium, now empty and silent. After a few moments spent in reverent meditation, he knelt in prayer. Recollections of past blessing crowded into the foreground of his memory, chief among them being the thought of all that that sanctuary and its gifted minister- through whom God had spoken so clearly- had meant to his soul, and for these inestimable blessings his prayer of thanksgiving rose reverently to God. Never was prayer offered in greater sincerity; never any hour more definitely more sacred in the life of any man, than this, in the life of the young Pilgrim. Never had he looked upon the face of the man who ministered in that holy place; and yet, in that hour, he knew him to be what he had been for years- what he still is- the very father of his soul.
ong years were to pass ere the Preacher and the Pilgrim stood face to face. When they did, the story of the pilgrimage was duly told. As the latter related it, the eyes of the former filled with tears. "May God bless you, my young friend," he said, as he turned aside. Walking a short distance away, he stood for a moment or two with face uplifted. Then he returned and placed his hand on the other's shoulder.
"ou have done my soul much good," he said quietly. "I sorely needed a word, such as you have brought me in this hour. Of a very truth, God does move in a mysterious way."
n utter stranger to the 'bus routes of the twin cities of London and Westminster, the young pilgrim made his way afoot - up Fleet Street, along the Strand, past Charing Cross, through Whitehall, and came, at last, to Parliament Street. The month was November, the morning drear. Over street and park and river a blanketing fog hung like a vapoury pall, and half-hidden in its mephitic folds, St. Stephen's and the Abbey loomed in the half-light, like a pair of grotesque, gigantic shadows.
or this young stranger in the English metropolis, the years of youth and early manhood years were years of circumscribed opportunity. Often discouraged, sometimes despairing, he had lived through the slack, laggard days, which came and went with a maddening tardiness, such as left the goal of his longing still far away. Yet within his soul some undying aspirations burned as cleanly and fiercely as a forest flame. Impelled by them, stung into action by them, he would reach forward, only to grasp at shadows, and upward, only to clutch at empty air. Yet, despite the futility of his outward seeming, the flame within him still continued to burn.
n the silent watches of the night, too, there were visions that came to him which gladdened for him the darkened hours- visions of persons, and places, and possibilities, which made his soul glad and his heart to rejoice. When morning came he would awaken to find himself strangely refreshed and greatly strengthened. With renewed hope and vigour he would square his shoulders and set out on yet another stretch of the hard and lonely road.
ccasionally, when, during the long hours of the dragging day, he desired some measure of mental respite, he would climb the slopes of his favorite hill. Reaching the summit, he would gaze away to the southward, and permit his thoughts to overleap the intervening distances which lay between that hilltop and London Town - between himself and the great house of worship that had become to him a hallowed shrine. And that which his imagination conjured up, brought a glow to his cheek and a light to his eye. In some strange, unexplained way, all weariness of body and staleness of mind would drop away from him, as he contemplated the visions that came to him, amid the clarified atmosphere of the uplands. After this fashion, had the thought of London and of one especial sanctuary within her gates, inspired the young man of the hills.
o the little cottage wherein he dwelt, the village postman often brought an eagerly awaited and a gladly welcomed message. Upon its cover it bore the legend- The Westminster Pulpit, and in its pages were the words which became as wings to his soul. Sermons, which had blessed and enheartened a great London congregation but a fews days before, blessed and enheartened him. In them he found satisfying spiritual sustenance. They became to him as "wine, and milk, and gospel grace."
e tried the vestry door, and it yielded to his touch. No one appeared to be in attendance, so unchallenged he made his way along a passage and so on into the body of the church. The great pulpit faced him. Slowly, fearfully, he ascended its stairs and stood facing the vast auditorium, now empty and silent. After a few moments spent in reverent meditation, he knelt in prayer. Recollections of past blessing crowded into the foreground of his memory, chief among them being the thought of all that that sanctuary and its gifted minister- through whom God had spoken so clearly- had meant to his soul, and for these inestimable blessings his prayer of thanksgiving rose reverently to God. Never was prayer offered in greater sincerity; never any hour more definitely more sacred in the life of any man, than this, in the life of the young Pilgrim. Never had he looked upon the face of the man who ministered in that holy place; and yet, in that hour, he knew him to be what he had been for years- what he still is- the very father of his soul.
ong years were to pass ere the Preacher and the Pilgrim stood face to face. When they did, the story of the pilgrimage was duly told. As the latter related it, the eyes of the former filled with tears. "May God bless you, my young friend," he said, as he turned aside. Walking a short distance away, he stood for a moment or two with face uplifted. Then he returned and placed his hand on the other's shoulder.
ou have done my soul much good," he said quietly. "I sorely needed a word, such as you have brought me in this hour. Of a very truth, God does move in a mysterious way."