CHAPTER XLII.

THE MOTHER OF SORROWS TRIUMPHANT AT LAST

Are we not kings? Both night and day. From early unto late, About our bed, about our way, A guard of angels wait! And so we watch and work and pray In more than royal state. Are we not more? Out life shall be Immortal and divine; The nature MARY gave to THEE, Dear JESUS, still is THINE; Adoring, in THY heart I see Such blood as beats in mine.—A. A. PROCTOR.

Hundreds were assembled within the “_Temple of Allegory_,” and other hundreds, unable to effect an entrance, tarried around about it. The knell of Miriamne, the Angel of the Mount, had called the vast congregation together from Bethany, from the country round about and from the City of Jerusalem.

There were many signs of subdued sorrow, but the intensive expression of grief common in the East was absent; neither was there any of the paganish blackness, which sometimes characterizes Christians’ funerals, manifest. Though Miriamne was dead, her sweet, trustful, cheerful spirit still survived and still ruled.

The knights of Jerusalem, led by the Hospitaler, were present, the latter to direct the services, by request generally extended.

After a “grail” song by his companions, and at its last words, “_I shall be satisfied when I awake in His likeness_,” the Hospitaler began discoursing.

“Men and women, death, the leveler, makes us all akin; therefore all of us feel impoverished by the departure of the angel who shone upon us here from the form that lies yonder. Miriamne Woelfkin, daughter of a knight, consort of a Gospel herald, devoted friend of womankind, disciple of Jesus, was gifted with almost prophetic insight and power of alluring unsurpassed in our day. Hers was the power of a burning heart entranced of a superb ideal, and therefore was it the power of immortal influence. She will live not more truly in the life she died to give than in the lives she lived to save. She was an unique woman, but only so because of her superior womanliness. Being dead, she reaches the reward generally denied the living, full appreciation. Her career was in part a parallel of her choice exemplar’s. You have heard how the Mother of our Lord sung her ‘_Magnificat_’ out of a heart as free as a girl’s, yet as proud as that of a woman’s glowing in the prospect of honoring maternity. But the last note of her rapture died on her lips full soon, and she never after in this life rose to such measure of joy. God permitted her life to pass through a series of suppressions and griefs, doubtless that she might exemplify the sad side of woman’s career. The histories of women, mostly written by men, are marred by the conceits of their writers, and are at best but obscure pictures. The man with the pen lacks insight as to the being, whose life is so largely an expression of heart and soul. The lordly writer clothes his heroes in the light of his fevered imagination, depicting with bold stroke the mighty deeds of stalwartness; but he sees few heroines in his horizon. Those he does see are beyond his power of analysis. He falls to actual worship of his masculine demi-gods, perhaps as a partial atonement for his failings toward the fine and noble characters whose traits are too spiritual for his thought-limits or vocabularies. The generality of those who discourse concerning women, do it in a patronizing way, and feel to praise themselves as paragons in doing justice in this, even by halves. The queenship of Mary is constantly disputed, and so her lot is more closely linked with that of her sex. As she received the royal gifts of the Magi, holding them as a sacred trust for Him to whom her life was utterly devoted, so woman, the bearer and nurse of the race, gives all that she has without stint to others. Her life is a suppression; all bestowing; her reward the joy she has in the lavishness of her bestowals. Hers is the joy of the fountain that sings because it flows.

“But recently ye saw the Jewish priests deposit on his mount, after a custom constant since Moses, the ashes of the red heifer. They burned their sacrifice with red wood. Red pointed to the blood that can only atone for sin. But underneath all lies a deep lesson. ’Twas the female instead of the male thus offered, and her ashes gave potency to the waters of purification. I read this hidden truth: the sacrifices of the gentler sex work out the purification of the race. As the moss in the heart of the stone, I see this truth lying in the heart of the ceremonial! As Christ’s cross precedes the cleansing of regeneration, so woman’s cross is the means by which the decays of life are offset by new created beings. By the bier of the wondrous comforter of others, I may surely appeal to those who hear me and loved her to seek with quickened ardor to offer the pain-assuaging myrrhs to those grand souls who go along the way to life’s crucial glories. I’d have such justice done as would cause all women to cease pitying themselves because they are such, and go about rejoicing that God gave them the superlative privileges of womanhood.”

There came forth a loud cry, with moanings, from the part of the temple, called the “Mother’s Pillow,” where the honored dead lay.

“Miriamne, oh, Miriamne, you brought me through Gethsemane to your Calvary!”

A silence almost oppressive fell on the assembly. It was the silence of a pity too deep for words.

Then spake the Hospitaler, in words as invigorating as a herald of God’s should be, and yet as soothing as a mother’s to her child in pain:

“Christ, who loved the young man who was very good and yet not perfect, loves thee, for He is unchanging in His mercy. Hear me, an old man, stricken with the years that have schooled, and one who has experienced the bitterness of widowerhood after loyal, full loving. God’s hand is on thee. He is schooling thee to carry on the work begun by thy wondrous consort now asleep.”

“Oh, Miriamne, Miriamne! alone in the dark, I move through Gethsemane toward thy Calvary!”

Again the silence of pity was broken by the voice of the knight.

“Remember how David of the White Kingdom was called and furnished for his kingship. ‘He chose David, also, His servant, and took him from the sheep folds, from following the ewes great with young. He brought him to feed Jacob, His people, and Israel, His inheritance.’

“Missioner-shepherd, God calls thee to a ministry of love, for those whose trials thou hast now been taught, in part, to measure. You have heard how Hadadrimmon, the fabled god of the harvest, ever comes, bearing sheaves, with tears.

“Thus speaks the prophet:

“‘In that day shall there be a great mourning in Jerusalem, as the mourning of Hadadrimmon.

“‘And the land shall mourn, every family apart; the family of the house of David apart, and their wives apart.’

“Young man, God is giving thee a crown in David’s royal line.

“Once more I turn to her who was thy Miriamne’s exemplar and queen. Let me tell you all of the last hours of Mary, that you may find instructive parallels. I’ll read from my treasured book of traditions:

“After the ascension of Jesus, our Mary dwelt in the house of John upon Mount of Olives, and she spent her last days in visiting places which had been hallowed by her Divine Son; not as seeking the living among the dead, but for consolation and for remembrance and that she might perform works of charity.

“In the twenty-second year after the ascension of the Lord, she was filled with an inexpressible longing to be with her Son; and, lo, an angel appearing with the salutation, ‘Hail, Mary, I bring thee a palm-branch, gathered in paradise; command that it be carried before thy bier, for thou shalt enter where thy son awaits thee.’ And Mary prayed that it be permitted that the apostles, now widely scattered under their great commission to gospel the world, be gathered about her dying couch; also that her soul be not affrighted in the passage through the pale realm of death. The angel departed; the palm-branch beside her shed light like stars from every leaf; the house was filled with splendor, and angel voices chanted the celestial canticles. The Holy Spirit caught up John as he was preaching at Ephesus, and Peter, offering sacrifice at Rome, and Paul, from his place of labor, Thomas, from India, while Matthew and James were summoned from afar. After these were called, Philip, Andrew, Luke, Simon, Mark and Bartholemew were awakened from their sleep of death. These holy ones were carried to the Virgin’s home on clouds bright as the morning, and angels and powers gathered round about in multitudes. There were Gabriel and Michael close beside her, fanning her with their wings, which never cease their loving motions. That night a supernal perfume of ravishing delightsomeness filled the house, and immediately Jesus, with an innumerable company of patriarchs and holy ones, the elect of God, approached the dying mother. And Jesus stretched out His hand in benediction as He did when ascending from the world, long before at Bethany. Then Mary tenderly took the hand and kissed it, saying: ‘I bow before the hand that made heaven and earth. Oh, Lord, take me to Thyself!’ Thereupon Christ said, ‘Arise, my beloved; come unto me.’ ‘My heart is ready,’ she replied; a few moments after: ‘Lord, unto thy hands I commend my spirit.’ Then having gently closed her eyes, the holy Virgin expired without a malady; simply of consuming love, permitted now by the loving Creator to melt the golden cord binding spirit to body. And triumphantly amid mourners who rejoiced exceedingly in spirit, the body of this Queen of the House of David was entombed amid the solemn cedars and olive trees of Gethsemane. Now, this happened upon the day that the true Ark of the Covenant was placed in the eternal temple of the new heavenly Jerusalem, as they say; and the saying is good, for surely, in her heart, this saintly woman kept the law; the divine manna as well. Even more, she was the fulfillment of God’s covenant that a woman should bear the masterers of sin.”

The speaker then knelt; all heads were bowed; he spread out his hands as in benediction, but spoke not. Yet all in the silence were blessed, for the manifestation of Christ was there. After the benediction the companion knights chanted an old grail psalm, repeating again and again the stately words:

“_I am the resurrection and the life._”

As they sang their eyes were turned upward in a rapture as of men who saw a glorious appearing; and indeed they had a vision of splendor; but they saw it within, not without.

“There are angels hovering round,” reverently whispered Mahmood to his camel. He was too full to keep silent; too distrustful of his wisdom to confide his thoughts to a human being. But the thought of the old Druse was as exalted as that of the Hospitaler, for the latter exclaimed, as the congregation slowly moved out to the strains of the organ:

“Methinks I hear the beatings of mighty wings! Not far away is Gabriel, the ‘angel of mothers’ and of victories! Yea, verily, I believe that the spirits of Adolphus, Rizpah, Sir Charleroy and Ichabod are ministering nigh us!”

Many looked up through their tears fixedly, as if they felt what the knight had said in their souls.

Then they laid the body of Miriamne in a new-made tomb nigh the Garden of Olives, not far from the burial-place of Mary the mother of Jesus.