What are the phantom spirit-armies of the dead?

Spirit Franchezzo now sees before him these powerful leaders engaged in a struggle worse than deadly, since no death comes to end the contest, which they renew over and over again―or until the satiety of mind of one―or other makes him long for some nobler form of contest―some higher triumph of the soul than is won over these miserable beings in battles―where victory gives only a fresh right to torture and oppress the vanquished.

The same instincts and natural gifts, which are now perverted to personal ambition and the lust for cruelty and dominion as their only aim will when purified make these spirit-lives mighty helpers, and the same powers of evil will help forward the progress they now retard.

When this progress will take place depends for each on the latent nobility of the soul itself―

The awakening of the dormant love―or goodness and justice to be found in all.

Though―like seeds―these germs of better things may lie long hidden beneath the mass of evil that overloads them.

There must―does―come a time for each when the better soul awakens and these germs of good send out shoots that lead to repentance and bring forth an abounding harvest of virtue and good works.

Spirit Franchezzo and Faithful Friend look over the vast plain and now see the two mighty hosts of spirit-lives draw up to confront one another in the array of battle.

Here and there Spirit Franchezzo sees powerful spirits leading each band of regiment as in an earthly army.

In the van of the opposing forces were two majestic beings who might have been models for Milton’s Lucifer, so strong was the sense of power and high intellect with which they impressed him.

In each, there was a certain beauty and grandeur of form and feature―a regal majesty even in the degradation of Hell, but the beauty was that of a wild fierce tiger―or lion that watches how he may rend his enemy in pieces and drag his prey into his den.

Their countenances were dark and forbidding―their gleaming eyes ferocious, and their false smile showed their sharp teeth like those animals of prey.

The serpent's cunning was in their looks and the pitiless hunger of the vulture was in their smile.

Each rode in his chariot of war―drawn, not by horses, but by the spirit-lives of degraded men whom they lashed forward as beasts of burden and driven furiously on to be trampled down in the melee as cattle.

Wild strains of music that sounded like the shrieks of the souls of the damned, and the thunders of a mighty storm broke from the assembled armies, and with one fell swoop, they rushed forward and bore down on each other, flying and hurrying through the air―or dragging themselves along the ground.

They came pushing, hustling, jostling and trampling like a herd of wild armies, and as they met, their fierce cries and shouts and imprecations rented the air and made even Hell more hideous.

They charged―recharged―these phantom spirit-armies of the dead, even as they had done in the battles of earth-life.

They fought, and wrestled like demons―not men―for they had no weapons save those of wild beasts―their teeth and claws―and they fought as wolves and tigers might.

The two powerful leaders directed the mass, urging them on, and guiding the fight as the tide of battle swept back one side―or the other.

These two dark regal spirits towered over all, and now no longer content to let their soldiers fight, but bent each on the destruction of the other, they rose from the fighting mass, and soaring high above them turned their looks on each other with deadliest hate.

They flew through the air with their dark robes extended behind and above them like wings, and grappled and wrestled together in a fierce struggle for supremacy.

It was as though two eagles fought in mid-air while a mass of carrion crows grubbed and fought for worms beneath them.

Spirit Franchezzo turned from the crows to watch the eagles, and marked how―with no weapons, but their hands and powerful wills―they fought as wild beasts do in a forest.

They uttered no sound―no cry―but gripped each other with a death-grip that neither would relax, and swayed to and fro in the air before them.

Now one upward―now the other―their fierce eyes stabbing each other with their fiery darts―their hot breath scorching each other’s faces―their fingers clutching at each other’s throats, and both sought for a chance to fasten on their enemy with their teeth.

Backwards and forwards―up and down―they swayed and writhed in a death struggle.

At last one seemed to fail.

He sank below the other who was bearing him to the ground to dash him over a deep precipice into a chasm in the rocks that skirted the field of battle―a deep and dark and awful pit into which he meant to hurl the vanquished one and keep him prisoner.

The struggle was fierce and strong, for the one below would not give in and clung to the other to drag him down with him, but in vain.

His powers were failing fast, and as they reached the black chasm, and hung poised over it, Spirit Franchezzo saw the uppermost one wrench himself free and fling the other from him―down into those awful depths.

With a shudder, Spirit Franchezzo turned away and observed that the battle had been raging as fiercely on the plain.

Those spectral hosts had fought and the army of the victorious general had beaten back the forces of the vanquished foe until they were broken and dispersed in all directions, leaving their disabled comrades on the field lying as wounded men do in an earthly battle, while the victors were dragging away with them their captives―to what fate, Spirit Franchezzo could only well guess.

Sickened and disgusted with their brutishness, Spirit Franchezzo would have left this place, but Faithful Friend, touching his shoulder, said―

The time has come for our work, my friend.

Let us descend below and see if there are any whom we can help.

We may find among the fallen and vanquished those who are as sick of war and its horrors as you, and who would be glad of our help.

So they went down to the plain.

Spirit Franchezzo stood among a writhing, moaning mass of beings―there were so many―it was worse―a thousand times worse―than any mortal battlefield.

His heart ached and bled for them, and he burned with shame and anger.

In this awful Hell, there was no hope and no death to relieve their suffering―no morning that would dawn on the night of their miseries.

If they revived, it would be to live again this awful life―to find themselves surrounded ever by this awful night and these fierce wild beasts of men.

Spirit Franchezzo stooped down and tried to raise the head of one poor wretch who lay moaning at his feet―crushed until his spirit-body seemed a shapeless mass, and as he did so, the mysterious voice spoke in his ears, and said―

Even in Hell there is hope.

The darkest hour is ever before the dawn, and for these―the vanquished and the fallen―has come the hour of their change.

The very cause that had made them bear down and trample under was that which would now raise them.

The desire for higher and better things―the shrinking from the evil around them has rendered them weak, in the wickedness, which is Hell's strength, and has made them waiver and hesitate to thrust at and harm another with the ruthless force of these other wild and worthless beings.

Their fall from power here will open to them the doors of a higher state, and the grey glimmer of a higher hope dawns for them.

Do not mourn for them, but ease their sufferings that they may sink into a sleep of death to this sphere and waken to a new life in the sphere next above.

And what, Spirit Franchezzo asked, of that powerful spirit whom I saw thrown into the dark chasm?

He will be helped in time, but his soul is not yet ripe for help, and it is of no use to try until then.

The voice ceased, and Faithful Friend who was beside him made signs to show him how to soothe these weary ones to sleep.

He pointed out to him numerous stars of light, which had gathered on that field of pain, and said―

They are carried by those of their brotherhood who are like themselves drawn here on their mission of love and mercy.

Before long, the writhing, moaning forms sank into unconsciousness, and Spirit Franchezzo saw a strange and wonderful sight.

Over each silent form a faint misty floating vapour rose such as he had seen once before.

Gradually, these vapours took shape and solidity, and assumed the form of the released spirit―or soul, and each was borne away by bands of bright ethereal spirits until the last was gone, and their work was done.