NEAR the north end of the Dead Sea, there rises up, towards the west, a mountain steep and high. The base of this mountain is hideously rough. Chasms and pitfalls are numerous. Loose rocks and boulders are scattered promiscuously around, while thorns, thistles, and cactus plants everywhere abound. Higher up the mountain there are not so many pitfalls; the rocks and boulders are fewer and smaller, and the thorns and thistles are by no means so numerous. Here is a sprig of growing grass, and yonder is a cluster of opening flowers. Straggling olive trees are occasionally seen. In climbing the mountain, one finds that the roughness gradually ceases, while the grass, flowers and trees gradually increase respectively in freshness, fragrance and foliage. Continuing the ascent, the atmosphere becomes purer, the prospect grows broader, and the vision is increasingly beautiful.

Standing in the valley, I see two Russian pilgrims, husband and wife, climbing this mountain. They are all bowed down beneath the weight of three score years and ten; their heads are white with the accumulated frosts of seventy winters. Their steps are slow and feeble, but on and up they go. Now they are side by side; and now the husband goes in front to remove, as best he can, the rocks and boulders, the thorns and thistles, from his wife’s pathway. See, they both stop! What is the matter? They have come to a boulder that they can not well surmount. What is to be done? The wife puts her hand under the husband’s elbow, and pushes him up on the rock. Then he reaches back, and, catching hold of her hand, pulls her up. Again he removes the rocks and thorns from the wife’s pathway. Again she helps him over some rough place, and he draws her up after him. Now he goes out to the right and left of the path, and plucks flowers for his companion. Yonder they stand, high on the mountain side, leaning on a rock, and resting underneath an olive tree. They enjoy the pure air and the wide expanse of vision. They talk about the hardships they have undergone, and the difficulties they have encountered. They look back whence they have come, and then turn their faces and their footsteps on towards Jerusalem, whither they are going.

That is a picture of life. That’s the hill of life. Pilgrims of life are we all. The base of life’s hill is rough. Rocks and boulders are strewn broadcast. Thorns and thistles grow promiscuously around. Numberless traps and pitfalls beset the way. Many a young man knows all about these rough places in life. His feet have been pricked and pierced by the thorns and thistles. Traps have been set for him. Chasms have yawned before him, and pitfalls have gaped at his feet. The moral atmosphere surrounding him is bad. But no weakling he. There is iron in his blood, phosphorus in his brain, fire in his bones, and courage in his heart. He is a man! He says:

“The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sag with doubt or shake with fear.”

He asks the girl of his choice to wear his name, and share his joys and sorrows. They have nothing but a firm faith in God, and a loyal love for each other. He leads her to Hymen’s altar, and there the twain are made one. Now they start up the hill of life, on the long, long pilgrimage. They walk side by side—

“Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.”

The way becomes rough. The husband goes in front to ward off the danger, to remove rocks and boulders, thorns and briers. He does all he can to smooth his wife’s pathway. Now and then he comes to some formidable obstacle that he can not surmount. Here the wife, with her kindly counsels, with her sympathy, co-operation and prayers, pushes her husband up on the rock. The poet says:

“Unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!”

The woman helps the man to “erect himself above himself.” Then the man, if he be a man, draws the woman up to his level.

As they climb life’s hill together, the roughness decreases, the way becomes smoother. Instead of the thorn, comes up the fir-tree; instead of the brier, comes up the myrtle-tree. The moral atmosphere grows purer, and the prospect more pleasing. He constantly plucks flowers from the garden of the heart, and weaves them into bouquets for his companion. And, as Byron beautifully says,

“These flowers of love make glad the garden of life.”

Standing high on life’s hillside, they lean on the Rock of Ages, and rest under the olive-branch of peace. Together they speak of their rough places in life, about their sufferings and sorrows, their troubles and triumphs. They look back at the valley whence they have come, and then turn their faces on towards the New Jerusalem, city of the soul, to which they are journeying. Their steps are growing slow and feeble. They lean on each other, and both lean on Christ. They are approaching the end of their pilgrimage. The shadows of evening are falling long and deep around them. Their white locks are streaming in the winds of winter. Their latest sun is sinking fast; but, sinking, he lights up the Star of Hope, and flings it out like a glorious chandelier to light the pilgrims home to glory and to God. Ask me, “Is life worth living?” I say, there’s the answer. That’s the poetry of life. That’s

“The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.”

Do you say this is an ideal picture? Well, yes; the latter part of it is; but ‘tis a fancy resting on fact. Besides,

“The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence.”