Transcribed from the 1849 (tenth) Francis & John Rivington edition by
David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





THE ROCKY ISLAND,
AND
OTHER SIMILITUDES.


BY SAMUEL WILBERFORCE, D.D.
LORD BISHOP OF OXFORD.

"Fed my lambs."--S. JOHN xxi. 15.

TENTH EDITION

LONDON:
FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON,
ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD, AND WATERLOO PLACE.
1849.

{The Rocky Island: p0.jpg}




PREFACE.


The advertisement to a work of similar character to the present expresses
the author's principle and wishes as to this little volume.  It is
constructed on the same plan, and, like the former, has had the test of
the observations of his own children before it was given to the public.
The reception of "Agathos" has shewn that many parents have felt the want
which these little volumes are intended to supply, and leads the author
to hope that he has in some measure been able to meet it.

It is a peculiar gratification to him to be able thus to enter many a
Christian household, and fulfil, in some measure, his Master's charge,
"Feed my lambs."

May it please God to give His blessing to this new attempt.

S. W

_Winchester_, _Sept._ 29, 1840.




The Rocky Island.


I saw in my dream a rough rocky island rising straight out of the midst
of a roaring sea.  In the midst of the island rose a black steep
mountain; dark clouds rested gloomily upon its top; and into the midst of
the clouds it cast forth ever and anon red flames, which lit them up like
the thick curling smoke at the top of a furnace-chimney.  Peals of loud
thunder sounded constantly from these thick clouds; and now and then
angry lightning shot its forked tongue, white, and red, and blue, from
the midst of them, and fell upon the rocks, or the few trees which just
clung to their sides, splitting them violently down, and scattering the
broken and shivered pieces on all sides.  It was a sad, dreary-looking
island at the first view, and I thought that no one could dwell in it;
but as I looked closer at its shores, I saw that they were covered with
children at play.  A soft white sand formed its beach, and there these
children played.  I saw no grown people among them; but the children were
all busy--some picking up shells; some playing with the bright-coloured
berries of a prickly dwarf-plant which grew upon those sands; some
watching the waves as they ran up and then fell back again on that shore;
some running after the sea-birds, which ran with quick light feet along
the wet sand, and ever flew off, skimming just along the wave-top, and
uttering a quick sharp note as the children came close upon them:--so
some sported in one way, and some in another, but all were busily at
play.  Now I wondered in my dream to see these children thus busy whilst
the burning mountain lay close behind them, and the thunder made the air
ring.

Sometimes, indeed, when it shone out redder and fiercer than usual, or
when the thunder seemed close over their heads, the children would be
startled for a little while, and run together, and cry, and scream; but
very soon it was all forgotten, and they were as full of their sports as
ever.

While I was musing upon this, I saw a man appear suddenly amongst the
children.  He was of a noble and kingly countenance, and yet so gentle
withal that there was not a child of them all who seemed afraid to look
in his face, or to listen to his kind voice when he opened his mouth, for
soon I found that he was speaking to them.  "My dear children," I heard
him say, "you will all be certainly killed, if you stay upon this rocky
island.  Here no one ever grows up happily.  Here all play turns into
death--the burning mountain, and the forked lightning, and the dreadful
breath of the hill-storm,--these sweep down over all that stay here, and
slay them all; and if you stay here, for these childish pleasures of
yours, you will all perish."

Then the children grew very grave, and they gazed one upon another, and
all looked up into the face of the man, to see if he spoke in earnest.
They saw directly that he did, for that kind face looked full of care as
well as of love: so from him they looked out upon the waves of the sea,
and one whispered to another, "Where shall we go? how shall we ever get
over that sea? we can never swim across it: had we not better go back,
and play and be happy, until the time comes for us to die?"

"No," said the man, looking round kindly upon them all; "you cannot swim
over; you never could get over of yourselves: but you need not stay here
and die; for I have found a way of escape for you.  Follow me, and you
shall see it."

So I saw that he led them round a high rough rock, to where the calm
waves of the sea ran up into a little bay, upon the white sand of which
only a gentle ripple broke with a very pleasant sound.  This bay was full
of boats, small painted boats, with just room in each for one person,
with a small rudder to guide them at the stern, and a little sail as
white as snow, and over all a flag, on which a bright red cross was
flapping in the gentle sea-breeze.

Then when the children saw these beautiful boats, they clapped their
little hands together for very joy of heart.  But the man spoke to them
again and said, "You will all have a deep, and dangerous, and stormy sea
to pass over in these little boats.  They will carry you quite safely, if
you are careful to do just as I bid you, for then neither are wind nor
the sea can harm them; but they will bear you safely over the foaming
waves to a bright and beautiful land--to a country where there is no
burning mountain, and no angry lightning, and no bare rocks, and no
blasting hill-storm; but where there are trees bearing golden fruits by
the side of beautiful rivers, into which they sweep their green boughs.
There the trees are always green, and the leaves ever fresh.  There the
fruit ripens every month, {6} and the very leaves upon the trees are
healing.  There is always glad and joyful light.  There are happy
children who have passed this sea; and there are others who have grown
old full of happiness; there are some of your fathers, and mothers, and
brothers, and sisters; and there am I ever present to keep and to comfort
you."  Now when they heard this, all the children wished to jump into the
boats, and he was kindly ready to help them, only he put each one in
carefully and slowly; and as he put him in, he gave him his charge.  He
told them that they must never look round to this island they were
leaving, but must be always setting their faces towards the happy land
they sought for.  He told them that they must leave behind them all the
shells and the berries which had pleased them here, for if they tried to
take these with them in their boats, some accident would certainly befall
them.  Then some of the children, when they heard all this, drew secretly
away, and ran round the point, and gave up the boats and the sea, and
began their old idle play again.  And some of them, I thought, hid the
shells and the berries they had got, and then jumped into the boat,
pretending they had left all behind them.

Then I saw that the man gave different presents to each of them, as they
seated themselves in the boat.  One was a little compass in a wooden box.
"This," he said, "will always shew you which way to steer; you are to
follow me, for I shall always be before you on the waters; but often when
the darkness of the night comes on, or the thick mist seethes up from the
wave's brim, or the calm has fallen upon you so that your boat has stood
still,--often at such times as these you may not be able even to mark my
track before you: then you must look at the compass, and its finger will
always point true and straight to where I am; and if you will follow me
there, you will be safe."  He gave them, too, a musical instrument, which
made a soft murmuring sound when they breathed earnestly into it; "and
this," he said, "you must use when you are becalmed and so cannot get on,
or when the waves swell into a storm around you and threaten to swallow
you up."  He gave them, too, bread and water for many days.

So I saw that they all set out upon their voyage, and a beautiful sight
it was to look upon.  Their snow-white sails upon the deep sea shone like
stars upon the blue of the firmament; and now they all followed close
upon the leader's ship, and their little boats danced lightly and
joyfully over the trackless waves, which lifted up their breasts to waft
them over: and so they started.  But I looked again in a little while,
and they were beginning to be scattered very widely asunder: here and
there three or four of the boats kept well together, and followed
steadily in the track of the leader's vessel; then there was a long space
of the sea with no boat upon it at all; then came a straggler or two, and
then another company; and then, far off on the right and on the left,
were other boats, which seemed to be wandering quite away from the
leader's path.

Now, as I watched them closer, I saw that there were many different
things which drew them away: one I saw, soon after they started, who
turned back to look at the rocky island, forgetting the man's command.  He
saw the other children playing on the beach; he heard their merry voices;
and then looking round again towards the sea, it looked rough and dark
before him; and he forgot the burning mountain, and the terrible thunder,
and the bright happy land for which he was bound, and the goodly company
he was in, and the kind face of the kingly man; and he was like one in a
dream, before whose eyes all sorts of shapes and colours fly, and in
whose ears all sounds are ringing; and he thought no more of the helm,
nor watched the sails; and so the driving swell carried his boat idly
along with its long roll; and in a few minutes more I saw it at the top
of a white foaming breaker, and then he and it were dashed down upon the
rocks which girdled the sandy beach, and he was seen again no more.

Then I turned my eyes to two other boats, which were going fast away from
the true course, for no reason which I could see; but when I looked at
them more closely, I saw that they were in a sort of angry race; each
wished to get to the wind-side of the other; and they were so busy
thinking about this, and looking at one another with angry glances, and
calling out to one another with angry words, that they forgot to look for
the leader's ship, or to watch the finger of the compass; and so they
were going altogether wide of the track along which they should have
passed.

Then I looked closely at another, which was shooting quite away in
another direction; and I saw that the poor child had left the rudder, and
was playing with something in the bottom of the boat; and as I looked
nearer in it, I saw that it was with some of the bright berries of the
rocky island which he had brought with him that he was so foolishly busy.

Foolish, indeed, he was; and kind had been the warning of the man who
bade them leave all these behind: for whilst I was watching him, and
wondering what would be the end of such a careless voyage, I saw his
little boat strike suddenly upon a hidden rock, which broke a hole in its
wooden sides, and the water rushed in, and the boat began to sink, and
there was no help near, and the poor boy was soon drowned in the midst of
the waves.

Then I turned sadly away to watch the boats which were following their
leader; and here, too, I saw strange things; for though the sea when
looked at from afar seemed just alike to all, yet when I watched any one,
I saw that he had some difficulties, and some frights, and some helps of
his own, which I did not see the others have.

Sometimes it would fall all at once quite dark, like a thick night, all
round a boat; and if he that was in it could hear the voice of a
companion near him for a little while, that gladdened him greatly; and
then oftentimes all sound of voices died away, and all was dark, still,
deep night, and he knew not where to steer.  Now if, when this fell upon
him, the child went straight to his compass, and looked close upon it, in
spite of the darkness, there came always a faint flashing light out of
the darkness, which played just over the compass, so as to shew him its
straight blue finger, if he saw no more; and then, if he took up his
musical instrument, and blew into it, though the thickness of the heavy
air seemed at first to drown its sound, yet, after awhile, if he was but
earnest, I could hear its sweet murmuring sound begin; and then directly
the child lost his fears, and did not want company; sweet echoes of his
music talked with his spirit out of the darkness, and within a little
time the gloom would lift itself quite up again, or melt away into the
softest light: and lo! he had got on far on his voyage even in this time
of darkness, so that sometimes he could see the beloved form just before
him; and at times even the wooded shore of the happy land would lift
itself up, and shine on his glad eyes, over the level brim of the silver
sea.

From another boat it would seem that the very air of the heaven died
away.  There it lay, like a painted sail in a picture--the snow-white
canvass drooping lazily, or flapping to and fro, as the long dull swell
heaved up the boat, and let it sink again into the trough of the waves:
other boats, but a little way off, would sail by with a full breeze; but
he could not move; his very flag shewed no sign of life.  Now if the
little sailor began to amuse himself when this happened, it seemed to me
that there he lay, and would lie, till the dark night overtook him, and
parted him from all his company.  But if, instead of this, he took up his
musical instrument, and played upon it with all his earnestness, its soft
breath, as it whispered to the wind, soon woke up its gentle sighing; the
long flag lifted itself on high; the blood-red cross waved over the
water; the snowy sails swelled out, and the little boat danced on along
its joyful way.

I noticed also that before those boats which were passing on the fastest,
the sea would every now and then look very dark and threatening.  Great
waves would seem to lift their white heads just before them; whilst every
where else the sea looked calm and enticing.  Then the little sailor
would strain his eye after his master's course, or look down at the
faithful compass; and by both of these sure signs he saw that his way lay
straight through these threatening waves.  Well was it for him, if, with
a bold heart and a faithful hand, he steered right into them.  For always
did I see, that just as he got where it seemed to be most dangerous, the
tossing waves sank, as if to yield him an easy passage; the wind favoured
him more than at any part of his voyage; and he got on in the right way
faster than ever before.  Especially was this so, if at first he was
somewhat tossed, and yet held straight on; for then he shot into a glassy
calm, where tide and wind bore him steadily along unto the desired haven.
But sad was it for him, if, instead of then trusting to the compass, he
steered for the smoother water.  One or two such trembling sailors I
especially observed.  One of them had long been sailing with the foremost
boats; he had met with less darkness, fewer mists or troubled places,
than the boats around him; and when he saw the white crests of the
threatening waves lift up their strength before him, his heart began to
sink; and after wavering for a moment, he turned his little boat aside to
seek the calmer water.  Through it he seemed to be gliding on most
happily, when all at once his little boat struck upon a hidden sandbank,
and was fixed so firmly on its side, that it could not get afloat again.
I saw not his end; but I sadly feared that when next the sea wrought with
a troubled motion, and the surf broke upon that bank, his little boat
must soon be shivered, and he perish in the waves.

The other who turned aside followed closely after him; for this was one
thing which I noted through all the voyage.  Whenever one boat went
astray, some thoughtless follower or other would forget his compass, to
sail after the unhappy wanderer; and it often happened that these
followers of others went the farthest wrong of any.  So it was in this
case; for when the first boat struck upon the sandbank, the other,
thinking to escape it, bore still farther off; and so chancing to pass
just where the shoal ended, and an unruly current swept by its farthest
edge, the boat was upset in a moment, and the poor child in it drowned.

And now I turned to three or four boats which had kept together from the
time they left the harbour.  Few were forwarder than they; few had
smoother water or more prosperous gales.  I could see, when I looked
close into their faces, that they were all children of one family; and
that all the voyage through they were helping, cheering, and directing
one another.  As I watched their ways, I noticed this, too, which seemed
wonderful.  If one of them had got into some trouble with its tackle, and
the others stayed awhile to help it, and to bring it on its way, instead
of losing ground by this their kindness, they seemed all to make the
greater progress, and press on the further in their course.

And now I longed to see the ending of this voyage; and so looking on to
those which were most forward, I resolved to trace them to the end.

Then I found that all, without exception, came into a belt of storms and
darkness before they reached the happy land.  True, it was much rougher
and more dark with some than others; but to every one there was a deep
night and a troubled sea.  I saw, too, that when they reached this place,
they were always parted one from another.  Even those which had kept most
close together all the voyage before, until just upon the edge of this
dark part, they, like the rest, were scattered here, and toiled on awhile
singly and alone.

They seemed to me to fare the best who entered on it with the fullest
sails, and had kept hitherto the straightest course.  Indeed, as a common
rule I found this always true--that those who had watched the compass,
and held the rudder, and cheered themselves with the appointed music, and
eaten the master's bread, and steered straight after him, they passed
through this cloud and darkness easily and swiftly.

Next to these were those who sought most earnestly to cheer its gloom
with the sound of their appointed music.  The Lord of these seas, indeed,
had many ways of cheering His followers.  Even in the thickest of that
darkness His face of beaming love would look out upon them; and He seemed
nearer to them then than He had done heretofore through all their voyage.

Then, moreover, it was never long; and bright light lay beyond it.  For
they passed straight out of it into "the haven where they would be."
Sweet sounds broke upon their glad ears even as they left that darkness.
A great crowd of happy children--parents who had gone before them--friends
whom they had loved, and holy persons whose names they had long
known--these all lined the banks, waiting to receive and welcome them.
Amidst these moved up and down shining forms of beautiful beings, such as
the children's eyes had seen only in some happy dream; and they, too,
were their friends; they, too, waited for them on the bank; they, too,
welcomed them with singing, and bore the happy new-comer with songs of
triumph into the shining presence of the merciful King.  Then, on the
throne royal, and with the glorious crown upon His head, they saw the
same kind face of gentle majesty which had looked upon them when they
played on the shores of that far rocky isle.  They heard again the voice
which had bid them fly the burning mountain.  They saw Him who had taken
them into His convoy; who had given them their boats; who had been near
them in the storm; who had given them light in the darkness; who had
helped them in the dull calm; who had never left them; but who had kept
and guided them across the ocean; and who now received them to His never-
ending rest.

* * * * *

_Father_.  Who are the children playing on the shores of the rocky
island?

_Child_.  The fallen children of fallen parents, born into this sinful
world.

F.  What does the burning mountain, and the lightning, and the
hill-storm, represent?

C.  The wrath of God ever burning against sinners.

F.  Who is He who warned these thoughtless children?

C.  The Lord Jesus, who, by His ministers, warns men to "flee from the
wrath to come."

F.  What are the boats by which they are to escape?

C.  The "ark of Christ's Church," into which we are admitted by baptism.

F.  Many of the children who embarked in the boats were lost,--what is
shewn by this?

C.  That it is not enough to be received into the congregation of
Christ's flock; but that we must always "manfully fight under His banner
against the world, the flesh, and the devil, and continue Christ's
faithful soldiers and servants unto our lives' end."

F.  What is the compass, and the musical instrument, and the bread, and
the water?

C.  God's word, and the privilege of prayer and holy sacraments, and the
other gifts of God to His Church.

F.  What is the gentle wind which the musical instrument awoke?

C.  The grace of God's Holy Spirit, promised to the members of His
Church, to be sought by earnest prayer, and in all the means of grace.

F.  What means the boy playing with the berries, and so striking on the
rock?

C.  One who having been given up to Christ in baptism follows worldly
pleasures, and so "makes shipwreck of the faith."

F.  What are the dark places and calms into which different boats enter?

C.  The different temptations and dangers of the Christian life.

F.  What are the threatening waves which seemed to be right ahead of the
boat?

C.  The dangers and self-denials which they must meet with who will
follow Christ.

F.  What is meant by the boat which turned aside, and ran upon the shoal?

C.  That they who will turn aside from following Christ because danger
and self-denials meet them cannot reach heaven.

F.  What is shewn in the boat which followed this one?

C.  How ready we are to follow a bad example, and go beyond it.

F.  What was the little company of boats which kept together?

C.  A Christian family earnestly serving God.

F.  Why did those who helped others find that they got on the fastest?

C.  Because God, who has bid us "bear one another's burdens, and so
fulfil the law of Christ," will greatly help and bless all such.

F.  What is the belt of storm and darkness which all must pass through?

C.  Death.

F.  Why were all separated in it?

C.  Because we must die alone.

F.  Who are those that generally passed through it most easily?

C.  Those whose life had been most holy and obedient.  "Keep innocency,
and take heed unto the thing that is right; for that shall bring a man
peace at the last" (Ps. xxxvii. 38).

F.  Who were the next?

C.  Those who entered on it with much prayer.

F.  What was their great support in it?

C.  The presence of Jesus Christ our Lord.

F.  What declaration have we on this subject in God's word?

C.  "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee."  "I am
the resurrection and the life; he that believeth on me shall never die."

F.  What lies beyond this to the faithful Christian?

C.  The blessed rest of paradise and the bright glories of heaven.




The Vision of the Three States.


I saw, in my vision, two glorious creatures walking together through a
beautiful garden.  I thought at first they must be angels, so bright and
happy did they seem.  The garden, also, in which they were, seemed too
beautiful for earth.  Every flower which I had ever seen, and numbers
which my eye had never looked upon, grew in abundance round them.  They
walked, as it were, upon a carpet of flowers.  The breeze was quite full
of the rich scent which arose from them.  The sun shone upon them with a
brightness such as I had never seen before; whilst the air sparkled with
myriads of winged things, which flew here and there, as if to shew how
happy they were.

All through the garden, too, I saw every sort of beast, in all its
natural grace and beauty; and all at peace.  Great lions moved about
amongst tender sheep; and striped tigers lay down quietly to sleep
amongst the dappled fawns which sported around them.  But, amidst all
these beautiful sights, my eyes followed more than all, the two glorious
forms which were walking together with such a kingly majesty through the
happy garden: they were, truly, I could see, beings of this earth; they
were talking to each other; they were speaking of ONE who had made them
out of the dust of the earth; who had given to them living souls: who was
their Father and their Friend; who had planted for them this beautiful
garden, and made them the rulers of all that was in it.

Now I marked them as they talked, and I could see that their eyes were
often turned from all the beauty round them towards one far end of the
garden; and as I watched them, I saw that they were still passing on
towards it.  Then I also fixed my eyes there, and in a while I could see
that, at the end of the garden to which they were moving, there was a
bright light, brighter and purer than the light of the sun; and I thought
that in it I could see here and there heavenly forms moving up and down,
flying upon silver wings, or borne along upon the light breath of the
sunny air.  But as I strained my eyes to pierce into it, it seemed to
dazzle and confound them by its great lustre.  Then, again, I heard the
words of the two; and they spake of what was before them; of the bright
light, and the heavenly forms: and I found that they were only travellers
through this beautiful garden; that the King who had placed them in it
dwelt in that light, the brightness of which had so confounded my gaze;
that they were on their way to His presence, and that when they reached
it, they should be happy for ever; even as those shining spirits were
already, whose golden figures I had been just able to discover.

Now, whilst I was pondering upon these things, and casting my eyes round
and round this beautiful garden, I heard all at once a most terrible
sound, as of thunder, such as man's ears had never heard.  I looked up,
and the bright light at the end of the garden seemed to turn itself into
angry fire, and to flash red and threatening through thick black clouds,
which were forming themselves into terrible shapes all over the garden.
Then I looked for the two that I had seen before: I could just see them;
sorrow sat upon their faces, and fear made them deadly pale; a serpent
was gliding from them into the bushes; and their eyes were fixed upon the
air, as though voices, which I heard not, were speaking terrible things
to their inner ears.  Then, as I looked, it grew darker and darker--the
thunder pealed all round me--cries came forth from every hill, as of
fierce and deadly beasts in wild dreadful fight.  The flowers round me
were withering up, as if a burning blight had passed over them; and soon
it was all dark, and dreary, and desolate.

Then when my heart was very heavy within me, methought there stood by me
one of the forms of light whom I had seen at the garden's end; and my
knees smote together through fear of his glory; but he looked upon me
kindly, and spoke to me in a voice of pity, and he said, "Wouldst thou
see the end of this sight?"  Then my heart gathered courage, and I told
him, that if it were lawful, I would indeed fain look upon it.

With that he lifted me, and we flew through the air, and I knew not where
he had borne me; but in a while he set me on my feet, and bade me look
right down beneath me.  Then I looked down at his word, but could see
nothing.  My eyes seemed to rest upon the thick mantle of the night, and
they could not pierce through it.  Now, while I was striving to pierce
through the darkness, strange noises rose from it to my ears.  All sounds
that ever were, came up from it, so mingled together that I could not say
what they were.  Whether it were a groan, or a cry, or a roaring, or
music, or shouting, or the voice of anger or of sorrow; for all of these
seemed joined together into one; but the groaning was louder than the
laughing, and the voice of crying well nigh drowned the music.  Then I
asked my guide what was this strange noise; and he told me that it was
the voice of all THE WORLD, as it rose up to the ears of those that were
on high.  Then I begged of him, if it might be, to let me see those from
whom it came.  With that he touched my eyes; and now methought, though
the darkness remained, that I could see in the midst of its thickness,
even as in the brightness of the day.

It was a strange place into which I looked.  Instead of the beautiful
garden I had seen before, and two glorious creatures passing through it;
now I saw a multitude of men, women, and children, passing on through a
waste and desolate wilderness.  Here and there, indeed, there were still
flowery spots, but they were soon trodden down by the feet of those who
passed along.  Strange too were their steps.  Now, instead of passing
straight on, they moved round and round, for they were all in the black
darkness.  The ground was full of pitfalls, in the low bottoms of which I
could see red fire burning fierce and hot, and one after another fell
over into these pitfalls, and I saw them no more.  Evil beasts, too,
moved amongst them, slaying one, and tearing another; and as if this was
not enough, oftentimes they would quarrel and fight with one another,
until the ground all around was covered with their bodies strewed upon
it.

Yet for all this, some would sing, and dance, and frolic; and this seemed
to me the saddest of all, for they were like mad men; and mad in truth
they were, for in the midst of their dancing and their singing, one and
another would get near the side of some great pitfall, and step over into
its flames, even with the song upon their lips.

In vain did I strain my eyes to see any light at the end, as I had seen
it in the garden.  If it was there, the black clouds had rolled over it
so thick and dark that not a ray of it was left.

Yet I heard one and another offering to lead those that would follow
them, safely through this terrible wilderness; and such men never wanted
followers: so I watched many of these leaders, to see what they would do
for those that trusted them.  Little help could any of them render.  Some
put their followers on a path which led straight down into the deepest
and most frightful pitfalls; some set them on a path which wandered round
and round, and brought them at the end back to the same place from which
they started; some led them into thorny places, where the poor pilgrims
pierced their bleeding feet with many a wound: but not one did I see who
brought them into any better place, or took them any nearer to their
journey's end.

How they found their way at all, was at first my wonder.  But as I looked
more closely, I saw in all their hands little lanterns, which just threw
a feeble light upon the darkness round them.  These were always brightest
in the young, for they soon grew very dim; and the falls and blows they
met with, bruised and shattered them so much, that some had hardly any
glimmering left, even of the feeble light which they had seemed to cast
of old.

I looked at them until my heart was very sad, for there was no peace, no
safety, no hope; but all went heavily and sadly, groaning and weeping, or
laughing like madmen, until, sooner or later, they seemed all to perish
in the fearful pitfalls!

Then my angel-guide spoke to me again, marking my sadness, and he said,
"Hast thou well observed this sight?" and I answered, "Yes."  Then he
said, "And wouldst thou see more?"  So when I had said "yes," methought
we were once more flying through the air, until again he set me on my
feet, and bid me look down.  Now here, too, strange noises reached my
ears; but as I listened to them, I found that there were mixed with them
such sounds as I had not heard before.  Sweet clear voices came up now
from the din, speaking, as it were from one close by me, words of faith,
and of hope, and of love; and they sounded to me like the happy talking
which I had heard at the first between the glorious beings in the garden.

So when my guide touched my eyes, I bent them eagerly down into the
darkness below me.

At first I thought that it was the same place I had seen last, for there
was a busy multitude passing to and fro; and there was music and dancing,
and sobbing and crying; there were pitfalls, too, and wild beasts.  But
as I looked closer, I saw that, in spite of all this, it was not the
place that I had seen before.  Even at a glance I could see that there
were many more flowers here than there; and that many amongst the
pilgrims were going straight on, with happy faces, by a road which passed
safely by all the pitfalls.  I could see, too, that at the end of the
road was a dim shining of that happy light which had been so bright in
the beautiful garden.

Now, as I looked, I saw that there were but a few who kept to this
straight safe road, and that many were scattered all over the plain.  I
saw many leave this path even as I looked upon it; and very few did I see
come back to it: those who did, seemed to me to find it very hard to get
into it again; whether it was that its sides were slippery, or its banks
so steep, many fainted and gave up, after trying to climb into it again.
But it seemed quite easy to leave it; for every one who left it went on
at first lightly and pleasantly.  Sometimes, indeed, they seemed greatly
startled after taking their first step out of it, and some of them turned
straight back, and after a few struggles, more or less, such always got
into it again.  But if once after this first check they set out for the
plain, they seemed to go easily along, until their path lay straight by
the den of some destroying beast, or led them into the midst of the
pitfalls, where they wholly lost their reckoning, and knew not how to get
on, or how to get back.

I saw, too, after a while, that they had got lanterns in their hands,
some of which gave a great deal of light.  Those which were carried along
the narrow path shot out bright rays on all sides, until towards the end
they quite blazed with light.  I could see, too, that these travellers
had some way of trimming and dressing their lamps; and that much of their
light seemed to come from an open book which they carried in their hands,
from the leaves of which there flashed out continually streams of light,
which made their lamps burn so brightly that all their road shone with
it.  But as they got further and further from the path, their lamps began
to burn dim.  All these travellers, too, had the book of light closed; or
if they now and then opened it, they shut it up again, some carelessly,
and some as if its light frightened them; and not one could I see who
stopped to trim his light: so that just when they got amongst the
pitfalls, and wanted light the most, they were all the most nearly in
darkness.

Now, when I had looked at them for a space, and wondered, my guide said
to me, "Wouldst thou see how they enter on this plain?"  Then he took me
to a fair porch, which came from the wilderness I had looked upon before;
and there I saw a man standing in white robes, and speaking good words,
and giving good gifts to each one as he came in.  There were persons
coming in of all nations and people, and some, too, of all ages, though
the greatest number were little children, so small that their little
hands would not hold the man's gifts, and so he hung them round their
necks, for them to use as soon as they were able.

Then I joined myself to the group, to hear and see the better what was
passing.  The man in white was speaking with a grave kind voice as I came
up.  He told the pilgrims that the great Lord of the land had built that
porch, and set him there to help the poor travellers, who were before
without hope or help amongst the beasts, and snares, and pitfalls of the
terrible wilderness; he told them that the blood of the King's own Son
had been shed, that that porch might be built; that the King had prepared
them a narrow way to walk in, which led straight from that porch to His
own blessed presence, and that they might all pass along it safely if
they would; he told them that if they left that path, they would surely
get again amongst the pitfalls which they had left in the wilderness;
nay, that they would be worse off than they had been even there, for that
there was no other porch where they could again be set right, and no
other place where the gifts that he was giving them now, could ever be
got any more, if they were once thrown quite away.

Then I looked to see what these gifts were.  I saw the man bring forth
clear and sparkling water, which shone as if with living light; and with
this he washed from them the dirt and the bruises of the terrible
wilderness: with this, too, he touched their little lamps, and as it
touched them, they grew so bright and clear, that the light within poured
freely forth on all around them.  Then he looked in their faces, and gave
them a name, which he wrote down in the King's book; and he told them,
that by this name they should be known, not only by their
fellow-travellers, but that this would remain written in the King's book
here, unless they wholly left His path; and that every name which
remained written here, they would find written in another book in letters
of gold and of fire, when they reached the other end of the path; and
that for every pilgrim, whose name was written there, the golden gate
would open of itself, and he would find a place and a crown in the
presence of the King.

Then, as he spoke all these glorious words, my heart burned within me to
see how the travellers sped.

But he had not yet done with them; for he brought out of his stores a
golden vial for each one; and he told them that in it the King had stored
the oil of light and beauty for the dressing of their lamps.

Then he shewed them how to use it: not carelessly or lightly, for then
the oil would not flow; but earnestly, and with great care; and then
sweet odours issued from the vial, and the flame of the lamp burned
brightly and high.  He gave them, too, the precious light-book, which I
had seen; and he bade them read in it when it was dark, or the way was
slippery; and that they should ever find that it was a "lantern unto
their feet, and a light unto their paths."  He put, too, into the hand of
each a trusty staff, suited to their age; and then he told them, while
they leant upon it, it would bear them up at many a pinch, and ever grow
with their growth, and strengthen with their strength.  "Church-truth" he
called these staffs; and they were made after a marvellous fashion, for
they were as if many wands had been woven together to make one; and as I
looked, I could see "example," and "experience," and "discipline," and
"creeds," written upon some of these wands, which grew together into
"Church-truth."

Then I longed greatly to follow forth some of these whom I had seen under
the porch; and as I gazed, I saw the man look earnestly into the face of
a fair boy, who stood before him: he gave him the name of "Gottlieb,"
{45a} and entered it in the book, and put the staff in his hand, and
washed him with living water, and hung the vial at his side, and put the
banded staff into his hands; and, bidding him God-speed, set him out upon
his journey.

Then he looked steadily into the face of another, and it, too, was fair
to look upon; but it had not the quiet happy peace of the last.  The man
wrote it down as "Irrgeist;" {45b} and I thought a shade of sadness swept
over his brow as he gave to him the King's goodly gifts.

Then he sent forth a third, whose timid eye seemed hardly firm enough for
so long a journey; and I heard the name that was given him, and it was
"Furchtsam." {45c}  Close to him went another, with a firm step, and an
eye of steady gentleness; and I saw, by the King's book, that he bore the
name of "Gehulfe." {46}

So these four set out upon their journey; and I followed them to see how
they should fare.  Now, I saw that at first, when they started, they were
so small that they could not read in the goodly book, neither could they
use the golden vials; and their little banded sticks would have fallen
from their hands, if they had not been small and thin, like the first
green shoots of the spring.  Their lamps, too, cast no light outwardly,
yet still they made some way upon the path; and whilst I wondered how
this might be, I saw that a loving hand was stretched out of the darkness
round them, which held them up and guided them on their way.

But, anon, in a while they were grown larger; and I could see Gottlieb
walking on the first, and his book of light was open in his hand, and his
lamp burned bright, for he often refreshed it with oil, and he leant upon
his good staff, and strode along the road.

Then, as he walked on, I saw that there stood upon his path a shadowy
figure, as of one in flowing robes, and on her head she seemed to wear a
chaplet of many flowers; in her hands was a cup of what seemed to be
crystal water, and a basket of what looked like cool and refreshing
fruit.  A beautiful light played all round her, and half shewed her and
her gifts to the boy.  She bid him welcome, as he came up to her; so he
raised his eyes from his book, and looked to see who spoke to him.  Then
she spoke kindly to him; and she held forth the cup towards him, and
asked him if he would not drink.  Now, the boy was hot with walking, for
the air was close, so he stretched out his hand to take the cup; but
though it seemed so near to him, he could not reach it.  And at the same
moment she spake to him again, and asked him to come where these fruits
grew, and where the breeze whispered amongst the boughs of yonder
trees,--and there to drink and rest, and then go on his way again.  Then
I saw that she had power to call out of the darkness the likeness of all
she spoke of.  So he looked at the trees to which she pointed; and the
sun seemed to shine around them, and the shade looked cool and tempting
under them, and the pleasant breeze rustled amongst their fresh leaves;
and he thought the road upon which he was travelling was hotter and
darker, and more tiring than ever; and he put up his hand to his burning
brow, and she said to him, as he lingered, "come."  Now, the trees to
which she pointed him lay off his road, or he would gladly have rested
under them; and whilst he doubted what to do, he looked down to the book
that was open in his hand; and the light shot out upon it bright and
clear, and the words which he read were these, "None that go unto her
return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life." {49a}  And as
he read it, he looked again at the stranger; and now he could see more
clearly through the wild light which played around her, and he knew that
it was the evil enemy who stood before him; the sparkling cup, too, and
the fruit, turned into bitter ashes; and the pleasant shady grass became
a thorny and a troublesome brake: so, pushing by her with the help of his
staff, he began to mend his pace; and looking down into the book of
light, there shone out, as in letters of fire, "Wherewithal shall a young
man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to Thy word." {49b}

Then I saw that he was feeding his lamp, which had begun to grow dim as
he parleyed with the tempter, and that he ceased not till it streamed out
as bright and as clear as ever.

But still the air was hot and sultry, and no cool breath blew upon him;
and if he looked off for a moment from his book, the fair form of the
tempter stood again beside him in silver light; the cold water sparkled
close to his lips; and trees with shady boughs waving backward and
forward over fresh green grass, and full, in every spray, of
singing-birds, seemed to spring up around him.  For a little moment his
step faltered; but as his lamp streamed out its light, all the vain
shadows passed away: and I heard him say, as he struck his staff upon the
ground, "I have made a covenant with my eyes;" and even as she heard it,
the tempter passed away, and left him to himself.  Scarcely was she gone,
before he passed by the door of a beautiful arbour.  It was strewn with
the softest moss; roses and honeysuckle hung down over its porch; light,
as from a living diamond, gleamed from its roof; and in the midst of its
floor, a clear, cool, sparkling stream of the purest water bubbled ever
up from the deep fountain below it.  Now, as this lay on the road,
Gottlieb halted for a moment to look at it; and the light of his lamp
waxed not dim, though he thus stayed to see it; the book of fire, too,
spoke to him of rest, and of halting by "palm-trees and wells of water;"
and as he looked, he read in letters of light over the door-way--

   Faithful pilgrim, banish fear,
   Thou mayst enter safely here:
   Rest for thee thy Lord did win;
   Faithful pilgrim, enter in.

Then Gottlieb rejoiced greatly, and cast himself gladly upon the mossy
floor, and bent down his parched lips to drink of the cool spring which
bubbled up before him.

Now, whilst he was resting safely here, I turned to see how it fared with
the others who had set out with him from the porch, for they had not got
as far as Gottlieb.

The first of them was Irrgeist; and when I looked upon him, he was
drawing near to the place where Gottlieb had fallen in with the tempter.
Irrgeist was walking quickly on--so quickly that, at the first glance, I
thought he would soon be by the side of Gottlieb.  But, upon looking more
closely, I saw that Gottlieb's steps had been far more steady and even
than those with which Irrgeist was pressing on; for Irrgeist's lamp
burned but dimly, and gave him no sure light to walk in.  Very near to
the place where Gottlieb had met with her, the tempter stood beside
Irrgeist.  He was not looking at his book, as the other had been; and he
did not wait to be spoken to; for as soon as he saw the light which
played round her figure, he began to speak to her, and asked who she was.
She told him that her name was "Pleasure;" and forthwith she shewed to
him her crystal cup and fruits; and she brought before the charmed eyes
of the wanderer all the gay show with which she had tried before to
mislead the faithful Gottlieb.  There was the bright sunshine, and the
green path, and the waving trees, and the rustling of the wind, and the
song of birds, and the sweet resting-shade.  Irrgeist looked eagerly at
all she shewed him, and in his haste to reach out his hand for the cup,
he dropped altogether the trusty staff of "Church-truth."  Then the cup
seemed to draw away from him, just as it had done from Gottlieb; but he
followed thoughtlessly after it.  And soon I saw that he left the path
upon which he had been set; and though he started suddenly as soon as he
was off it, yet it was but a moment's start,--the cup was close before
him, the shadowy form led him on, the grass was green, and the trees and
the sunlight but a little farther.

And now I saw him drink some of the enchanted water; and as he drank it,
his look grew wild, and his cheek burnt like the cheek of one in a fever;
and he walked after the deceitful figure with a quicker step than ever:
but I saw that his lamp was almost out, that the book of living light had
fallen from his hands, and the golden vial hung down, ready, as it
seemed, to fall from him altogether.

Still he walked on; and a strange flitting light, from the form which was
before him, lightened the darkness of the valley, so that he could pass
on quickly; the meadow, also, was smooth and even, and there was a
rustling breeze, which played around him: so that he got on faster than
he had ever done upon the narrow path, and thought that he was getting
well on to his journey's end.  Many times did he put forth his hand for
the sparkling cup, and drank of it again and again.

But now I saw, as I thought, a strange change which was coming over him;
for he drank oftener of the bowl, but appeared each time to find it less
refreshing.  Sometimes it seemed almost bitter, and yet he could not but
take it the very moment he had thrust it from him.  The shadowy form,
also, before him seemed altogether altering; he looked again, and her
beautiful features and pleasant countenance had changed into a sharp,
stern, and reproachful frown.  His own voice, which had been heretofore
almost like one singing, grew sad and angry.  The very figure of his
guide seemed vanishing from his eyes; the light which floated round her
grew wilder and more uncertain, and his own lamp was almost out.  He felt
puzzled and bewildered, and hardly knew which way to go: he had got into
a broad beaten path, and he found that many besides himself were going
here and there along it.  Sometimes they sang; and, in very bitterness of
heart, he tried to sing too, that he might not think: but every now and
then, when a flashing light came, and he saw the look of the travellers
amongst whom he was, it made his very heart shiver--they looked so sad
and so wretched.  Now, none went straight on: some turned into this path,
some into that; and then he soon lost sight of them altogether.  Sometimes
he heard fearful cries, as if wild beasts had seized them; sometimes a
dreadful burst of flame from the horrid pits which I had seen, made him
fear that they had fallen over into them: for poor Irrgeist had got now
into the midst of the deep pits and the ravenous beasts.  And soon he
found how terrible was his danger.  He had been following one who had
made him believe that he had light to guide his steps; he had gone with
him out of the beaten path; and they were pressing on together, when
Irrgeist suddenly lost sight of him in the darkness; and whether it was
that he had fallen into a pit, or become the prey of some evil beast,
Irrgeist knew not; only, he found that he was more alone than ever, and
near to some great peril.  Poor Irrgeist sprang aside with all his force,
thinking only of the danger which he feared; but, feeling his feet
slipping under him, he turned, and saw that he had got upon the
treacherous brink of a fearful pit; down which, at the very moment,
another pilgrim fell.  The fierce red flames rose out of it with a roar
like thunder, and a blaze like the mouth of a furnace; and the wind blew
the flames into the face of Irrgeist, so that he was singed and almost
blinded.  Then the poor boy called in the bitterness of his heart upon
Pleasure, who had led him out of the way, and now had forsaken him; but
she came no more--only terrible thoughts troubled him; and he heard the
hissing of serpents as they slid along in the bushes near him, and all
evil noises sounded in his ears, till he scarcely knew where he was
standing.  Then he thought of his staff, which he had dropped when
Pleasure had first tempted him, and he grieved that it was gone; and he
felt in the folds of his mantle, hoping that he might still have the book
of light within it; for he had too often thrust it there at the beginning
of his journey; but he could not find it.  Then he strove to get some
light from his little lamp; for, hurt as it was, he had it still in his
hand, and he thought there was just a little blue light playing most
faintly within it; but this was not enough to direct him on his way,
rather did it make his way more dark.  Then at last he bethought him of
the golden vial.  Few were there of those near him but had lost theirs
altogether, and his hung only by a single thread.  But it was not gone;
and when he had striven long, he just drew from it a single drop of oil,
and he trimmed his lamp, and it yielded forth a little trembling light,
just enough to shew that it was not altogether dead.  With the help of
this light he saw that when he had dropped his book of fire, one single
leaf had been torn from it, and stuck to his mantle; so he seized it
eagerly, and strove to draw light from it; but all that it would yield
was red and angry-looking light, and all that he could read was, "the way
of transgressors is hard."

Poor Irrgeist! he sat down almost in despair, and wept as if his heart
would break.  "O, that I had never trusted Pleasure;" "O, that I had
never left the path;" "O, that I had my book of light, and my lamp's
former brightness, and my goodly stick;" "O, that one would lighten my
darkness."

Then did it seem to me as if in the murmur of the air around him two
voices were speaking to the boy.  One was like the gentle voice of the
man whom I had seen at the porch of the valley; and it seemed to whisper,
"return," "return;" "mercy," and "forgiveness."  And as he listened,
something like hope mixed with the bitter tears which ran down the face
of the wanderer.  But then would sound the other voice, harsh, and loud,
and threatening; and it said, "too late," "too late," "despair,"
"despair."

So the poor boy was sadly torn and scattered in his thoughts by these two
different voices; but methought, as he guarded his golden vial, and
strove to trim his dying lamp, that the gentle voice became more
constant, and the voice of terror more dull and distant.

Then, as I was watching him, all at once the boy sprang up, and he seemed
to see a light before him, so straight on did he walk: many crossed his
path and jostled against him, but he cared not; he heard the sweet voice
plainer and plainer, like the soft murmuring of the cushat dove in the
early summer, and he would follow where it led.  Hitherto his pathway had
been smooth, and he had hastened along it; but this did not last, for now
it narrowed almost to a line, and ran straight between two horrible
pitfalls; so he paused for a moment; but the roaring of a lion was behind
him, and forward he pressed.  It was a sore passage for Irrgeist, for the
whole ground was strewed with thorns, which pierced his feet at every
step, and the sparks from the fire-pits flew ever round him, and now and
then fell in showers over him.  Neither did he hear now the pleasant
sound of the voice of kindness; whether it were that it had died away, he
knew not, or whether it were that the crackling and roaring of the fierce
flames, and the voice of the beasts behind, and his own groans and
crying, drowned its soft music, so that he heard it not.

I had looked at him until I could bear it no more; for the path seemed to
grow narrower and narrower; the flames from the two pits already almost
touched; and I could not endure to see, as I feared I should, the little
one, whom I had watched, become the prey of their devouring fierceness.
So, with a bitter groan for Irrgeist, I turned me back to the road to see
how it fared with Furchtsam and Gehulfe.

They had fallen far behind the others from the first.  Poor little
Furchtsam had a trembling tottering gait; and as he walked, he looked on
this side and on that, as if every step was dangerous.  This led him
often to look off his book of light, and then it would shut up its
leaves, and then his little lamp grew dimmer and dimmer, and his feet
stumbled, and he trembled so, that he almost dropped his staff out of his
hands.  Yet still he kept the right path, only he got along it very
slowly and with pain.

Whether it was that Gehulfe was too tender spirited to leave him, or why
else, I know not, but he kept close by the little trembler, and seemed
ever waiting to help him.  Many a time did he catch him by the hand when
he was ready to fall, and speak to him a word of comfort, when without it
he would have sunk down through fear.  So they got on together, and now
they came to the part of the pathway which the evil enchantress haunted.
She used all her skill upon them, and brought up before their eyes all
the visions she could raise; sunshine, and singing-birds, and waving
boughs, and green grass, and sparkling water, they all passed before
their eyes,--but they heeded them not: once, indeed, poor Furchtsam for a
moment looked with a longing eye at the painted sunshine, as if its warm
light would have driven off some of his fears; but it was but for a
moment.  And as for Gehulfe, whether it was that he was reading his book
of light too closely, or trimming too carefully his lamp, or helping too
constantly his trembling friend, for some cause or other he scarcely
seemed to see the visions which the sorceress had spread around him.  So
when she had tried all her skill for a season, and found it in vain, she
vanished altogether from them, and they saw her no more.  But their
dangers were not over yet.  When Gottlieb passed along this road, he had
gone on so boldly, that I had not noticed how fearful it was in parts to
any giddy head or fainting heart.  But now I saw well how it terrified
Furchtsam.  For here it seemed to rise straight up to a dangerous height,
and to become so narrow at the same time, and to be so bare of any side-
wall or parapet, that it was indeed a giddy thing to pass along it.  Yet
when one walked over it, as Gottlieb did, leaning on his staff of Church-
truth, reading diligently in his book, and trimming ever and anon his
lamp, such a light fell upon the narrow path, and the darkness so veiled
the precipice, that the pilgrim did not know that there was any thing to
fear.  But not so when you stopped to look--then it became terrible
indeed; you soon lost all sight of the path before you; for the brightest
lamp only lighted the road just by your feet, and that seemed rising
almost to an edge, whilst the flash of distant lights here and there
shewed that a fearful precipice was on each side.

Furchtsam trembled exceedingly when he looked at it; and even Gehulfe,
when, instead of marching on, he stopped to talk about it, began to be
troubled with fears.  Now, as they looked here and there, Furchtsam saw
an easy safe-looking path, which promised to lead them in the same
direction, but along the bottom of the cliffs.  Right glad was he to see
it; and so taking the lead for once, he let fall his staff, that by
catching hold of the bushes on the bank, he might drop down more easily
upon the lower path; and there he got with very little trouble.

It was all done in a moment; and when he was out of the path, Gehulfe
turned round and saw where he was gone.  Then he tried to follow after
him; but he could not draw his staff with him through the gap, or climb
down the bank without letting it go.  And, happily for him, he held it so
firmly, that after one or two trials he stopped.  Then, indeed, was he
glad, as soon as he had time to think; and he held his good stick firmer
in his hand than ever, for now he saw plainly that Furchtsam was quite
out of the road, and that he had himself well-nigh followed him.  So
leaning over the side, he began to call to his poor timid companion, and
encourage him to mount up again, by the bank which he had slipped down,
and venture along the right way with him.  At first Furchtsam shook his
head mournfully, and would not hear of it.  But when Gehulfe reminded him
that they had a true promise from the King, that nothing should harm them
whilst they kept to the high way of holiness, and that the way upon which
he had now entered was full of pitfalls, and wild beasts, and every sort
of danger, and that in it he must be alone,--then his reason began to
come back to him, and Furchtsam saw into what an evil state he had
brought himself; and with all his heart he wished himself back again by
the side of Gehulfe.  But it was no such easy matter to get back.  His
lamp was so bruised and shaken as he slid down, that it threw scarcely
any light at all; while it had never seemed, he thought, so dark as it
did now: he could not see the bushes to which he had clung just before,
or the half path which had brought him down.  Gehulfe's voice from above
was some guide to him, and shewed him in which direction to turn; but
when he tried to mount the bank, it was so steep and so slippery, he
could scarcely cling to it; and he had no staff to lean upon, and no
friendly hand to help him.  Surely if it had not been for the kind
encouraging voice of Gehulfe, the weak and trembling heart of Furchtsam
would have failed utterly, and he would have given up altogether.

Now, just at this time, whilst he was reaching out to Furchtsam, and
urging him to strive more earnestly, he heard a noise as of one running
upon the path behind him; and he looked round and saw one of the King's
own messengers coming fast upon it: so when he came up to Gehulfe, he
stopped and asked him what made him tarry thus upon the King's path.  Then
Gehulfe answered very humbly, that he was striving to help back poor
Furchtsam into the right way, from which he had been driven by his fears.
Then the messenger of the King looked upon him kindly, and bid him "fear
not."  "Rightly," he said, "art thou named Gehulfe, for thou hast been
ready to help the weak; and the Lord, who has bidden his children 'to
bear one another's burdens,' has watched thee all alone thy way, and
looked upon thee with an eye of love; and forasmuch as thou seemest to
have been hindered in thy own course by helping thy brother, the King has
sent me to carry thee on up this steep place, and over this dangerous
road."  With that, I saw that he lifted up the boy, and was about to fly
with him through the air.  Then, seeing that he cast a longing look
towards the steep bank, down which Furchtsam had slipped, and that the
sound of his sad voice was still ringing in his ear; the King's messenger
said to him, "'Cast thy burden upon the Lord.'  'The Lord careth for
thee.'  'For the very hairs of your head are numbered,' and 'the Lord is
full of compassion, pitiful, and of great mercy.'"  So the heart of
Gehulfe was soothed, and with a happy mind he gave himself to the
messenger, and he bore him speedily along the dangerous path, as if his
feet never touched the ground, but refreshing airs breathed upon his
forehead as he swept along, and silver voices chanted holy words to his
glad heart.  "He shall gather the lambs in his arms," said one; and
another and a sweeter took up the strain and sang, "and he shall carry
them in his bosom."  And so he passed along the way swiftly and most
happily.

Then I saw that he bore him to the mouth of the arbour into which
Gottlieb had turned to rest.  And now as he came up to it, Gottlieb was
just coming forth again to renew his journey.  Right glad was Gottlieb of
the company of such a comrade; so they joined their hands together, and
walked along the road speaking to one another of the kindness of the
King, and telling one to the other all that had befallen them hitherto.  A
pleasant thing it was to see them marching along that road, their good
staffs in their hands, their lamps burning brightly, and their books
sending forth streams of light, to shew them the way that they should go.
But now I saw they got into a part of the road which was rough and full
of stones; and unless they kept the lights they bore with them ever
turned towards the road, and looked, too, most carefully to their
footing, they were in constant danger of falling.  The air, also, seemed
to have some power here of sending them to sleep, for I saw that
Gottlieb's steps were not as steady and active as they had been; and he
looked often from this side to that, to see if there were any other
resting-place provided for him; but none could he see: and then
methought, as he walked on, his eyes would close as he bent them down
over his book, like one falling asleep from exceeding weariness.

Gehulfe saw the danger of his friend; and though he felt the air heavy,
his fear for Gottlieb kept him wide awake.  "What are those words," he
asked his drowsy friend, "which burn so brightly in your book?"  When he
heard the voice, Gottlieb roused himself, and read; and it was written,
"Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation; the spirit truly is
willing, but the flesh is weak."  Then, for a little while, Gottlieb was
warned, and he walked like one awake; but, after a time, such power had
this sleepy air, he was again almost as drowsy as ever, and his eyes were
nearly closed.  Then, before Gehulfe could give him a second warning, he
placed his foot in a hole, which he would have easily passed by, if he
had been watching; and, falling suddenly down, he would have rolled quite
out of the road (for it was raised here with a steep bank on either
side), if Gehulfe had not been nigh to catch him again by the hand, and
keep him in the path.  He was sorely bruised and shaken by the fall, and
his lamp, too, was dusted and hurt; so that he could not, at first, press
on the way as he wished to do.  But now his drowsiness was gone; and,
with many bitter tears, he lamented that he had given way to it before.
One strange thing I noted, too: he had dropped his staff in his fall, and
he could not rise till he had taken it again in his hand; but now, when
he tried to take it, it pricked and hurt his hand, as if it had been
rough and sharp with thorns.  Then I looked at it, and saw that one of
the stems which were twined together, and which bore the name of
"discipline," was very rough and thorny; and this, which had turned
inwardly before, was now, by his fall, forced to the outside of the
staff, so that he must hold that or none.  Now I heard the boy groan as
he laid hold of it; but lay hold of it he did, and that boldly, for he
could not rise or travel without it, and to rise and travel he was
determined.  Then he looked into his book of light, and he read out of it
these words, "Make the bones which Thou hast broken to rejoice."  And as
he read them, he gathered courage, and made a great effort, and stood
upon his feet, and pressed on beside Gehulfe.

Then I saw that the road changed again, and became smoother than they had
ever known it.  Gottlieb's staff, too, was now smooth and easy in his
hand, as it had been at first.  Soon also a pleasant air sprung up, and
blew softly and yet cool upon their foreheads.  And now they heard the
song of birds, as if the sunshine was very near them, though they saw it
not yet.  There were, too, every now and then, sounds sweeter than the
songs of birds, as if blessed angels were near them, and they were let to
hear their heavenly voices.  A little further, and the day began to dawn
upon them--bright light shone out some way before them, and its glad
reflection was already cast upon their path.  But still there was one
more trial before them; for when they had enjoyed this light for a
season, and I thought they must be close upon the sunshine, I saw that
they had got into greater darkness than ever.  Here, also, they lost
sight of one another; for it was a part of the King's appointment, that
each one must pass that dark part alone--it was called "the shadow of
death."  Gehulfe, I saw, walked through it easily; his feet were nimble
and active, his lamp was bright, his golden vial ever in his hand, his
staff firm to lean upon, and the book of light close before his eyes: he
was still reading it aloud, and I heard him speak of his King as giving
"songs in the night,"--and so, with a glad heart, he passed through the
darkness.  The brightest sunshine lay close upon the other side of it;
and there he was waited for by messengers in robes of light, and they
clad him in the same, and carried him with songs and music into the
presence of the King.

But Gottlieb did not pass through so easily.  It seemed as if that
darkness had power to bring out any weakness with which past accidents
had at the time affected the pilgrim: for so it was, that when Gottlieb
was in it, he felt all the stunning of his fall come back again upon him,
and, for a moment, he seemed well-nigh lost.  But his heart was sound,
and there was One who was faithful holding him up: so he grasped his good
staff tighter than ever, though its roughness had come out again and
sorely pricked his hand; but this seemed only to quicken his steps; and
when he had gone on a little while thus firmly, as he looked into his
book he saw written on its open page, "I will make darkness light before
thee." {76}  And as he read them, the words seemed to be fulfilled, for
he stepped joyfully out of the darkness into the clear sunlight.  And for
him too the messengers were waiting; for him too were garments ready
woven of the light; around him were songs, and music, and rejoicing; and
so they bare him into the presence of the King.

Now, when I had seen these two pass so happily through their journey into
rest, I thought again of the poor trembling Furchtsam, and longed to know
that he had got again into the road.  But upon looking back to where I
had lost sight of him, I saw that he was still lying at the foot of the
steep bank, down whose side he had stepped so easily.  He had toiled and
laboured, and striven to climb up, but it had been all in vain.  Still he
would not cease his labour; and now he was but waiting to recover his
breath to begin to strive again.  He was, too, continually calling on the
King for aid.  Then I saw a figure approaching him in the midst of his
cries.  And poor Furchtsam trembled exceedingly, for he was of a very
timorous heart, and he scarcely dared to look up to him who stood by him.
After a while I heard the man speak to him, and he asked him in a grave,
pitying voice, "What doest thou here?"  Then the poor boy sobbed out in
broken words the confession of his folly, and told how he had feared and
left the road, and how he had laboured to get back into it, and how he
almost thought that he should never reach it.  Then I saw the man look
down upon him with a face of tenderness and love; and he stretched forth
his hand towards him; and Furchtsam saw that it was the hand which had
been pierced for him: so he raised the boy up, and set him on his feet;
and he led him straight up the steepest bank.  And now it seemed easy to
his steps; and he put him back again in the road, and gave the staff into
his hand, and bid him "redeem the time, because the days are evil;" and
then he added, "Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble
knees."  "Say to them that are of a fearful heart, 'be strong:' 'fear
not.'" {79a}  Such strength had his touch, his words, and his kind look,
given to the heart of the timid boy, that he seized the staff, though its
most prickly "discipline" sorely hurt his tender flesh; and leaning on
it, he set bravely out without a moment's delay.  And I heard him reading
in his book of light as he climbed up the steep path which had affrighted
him; and what he read was this: "Before I was afflicted, I went astray;
but now have I kept Thy word." {79b}

When he had almost reached the arbour, another danger awaited him; for in
the dim light round him he saw, as he thought, the form of an evil beast
lying in the pathway before him.  Then did some of his old terrors begin
to trouble him; and he had turned aside, perhaps, out of the way, but
that the wholesome roughness of his staff still pricked his hand and
forced him to recall his former fall.  Instead, therefore, of turning
aside, he looked into his book of light, and there he read in fiery
letters, "Thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and
the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet:" and this gave him comfort.
So, on he went, determining still to read in his book, and not to look at
all at that which affrighted him: and so it was, that when he came to the
place, he saw that it was only a bush, which his fears had turned into
the figure of a beast of prey; and at the same moment he found where it
was written in his book, "No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast
shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall
walk there." {80}

And now he stood beside the arbour, where he rested a while, and then
pursued his journey.  Now I noticed, that as he got further on the road,
and read more in his book, and leant upon his staff, that he grew bolder
and firmer in his gait: and I thought that I could see why Gehulfe, who
had been needful to him in his first weakness, had afterwards been
carried away from him: for surely he had leant more upon him, and less
upon his book and his good staff, unless he had walked there alone.

However this might be, he grew continually bolder.  As he drew near the
last sad darkness, I began again to tremble for him; but I need not have
done so; for he walked on so straight through it, that it seemed scarcely
to make any difference to him at all.  In the best part of the road his
feebleness had taught him to lean altogether upon Him who had so
mercifully helped him on the bank, and who had held up his fainting steps
hitherto; and this strength could hold him up as well even in this
extreme darkness.  I heard him, as he parsed along, say, "When I am weak,
then am I strong;" and with that he broke out into singing:

   "Through death's dark valley without fear
      My feeble steps have trod,
   Because I know my God is near;
      I feel His staff and rod."

With that he too passed out of the shade and darkness into the joyful
sunshine.  And oh, it was indeed a happy time!  It made my heart bound
when I saw his face, which had so often turned pale and drooped with
terror, now lighted up with the glow of the heavenly light; when, instead
of the evil things which his fears had summoned up, I saw around him the
bands of holy ones, and the children of the day: and so they passed
along.  And soon, I thought, he would see again the hand which had been
stretched out to save him on the bank, and hear the kind and merciful
voice which had soothed his terror and despair, and live in the present
sunshine of that gracious countenance.

And now methought I heard an earnest and sorrowful voice, as of one
crying aloud for help; so I turned me round to see where he was that
uttered it, and by the side of the King's path I could see one striving
to mount the bank, and slipping back again as often as he tried.  He was
trying in right earnest: his cries were piteous to hear, and he laboured
as if he would carry his point by storm.  But it was all in vain; the
more he struggled, the worse his case grew; for the bank, and all the
path up to it, got so quagged and miry with his eager striving, that he
seemed farther and farther from getting safely up.  At last, as he was
once more struggling violently up, his feet quite slipped from under him,
and he fell upon his side: and so he lay sobbing and struggling for
breath, but still crying out to the King, who had helped him before, and
delivered him from the flames of the pit, to help him once more, and lift
him again into the right way.  My heart pitied the poor boy, and I looked
more closely into his face, and saw that it was Irrgeist--not Irrgeist as
he had been when he had walked at first with Gottlieb along the road, or
as he had been when he had first followed the deceitful phantom
"Pleasure" out of it,--but Irrgeist still, though brought by his
wanderings and his trouble to paleness, and weariness, and sorrow.  Now,
whilst I was looking at him, as he lay in this misery, and longing for
some helper to come to him, lo, his cries stopped for a moment, and I saw
that it was because One stood by him and spoke to him.  Then I could see
under the mantle, which almost hid Him, that it was the same form which
had visited Furchtsam, and delivered him when he had cried.  Now, too, I
saw the hand held out, and I saw Irrgeist seize it; and it raised him up,
and he stood upon his feet: and the staff was given to him,--exceeding
rough, but needful and trusty; and his lamp shone out, and the book of
light was his; and his feet were again in the road.

But I marked well that Irrgeist trod it not as the others had done.  Truly
did he go along it weeping.  Whether it was that the thought of what he
had gone through amongst the pitfalls dwelt ever on his mind; or whether
it were shame of having wandered, I know not,--but his road seemed
evermore one of toil and sorrow.  Still, in the midst of tears, a song
was often put into his mouth, and his tongue was ever speaking of the
great kindness of Him who had restored the wanderer: his head, too, was
so bowed down, that he marked every stone upon the road, and therefore
never stumbled; but still his speed was little, and his troubles were
many.  When he got to the dark part, he had a sore trial: his feet seemed
too weak and trembling to bear him; and more than once I heard him cry
out, as if he thought that he were again between the pitfalls, and the
fire were ready to break out upon him.  But then did it seem as if there
were some sweet hopes given him, and his face brightened up; and in a
faint, feeble voice, he would break out again into his song and
thanksgiving.  As he drew towards the end, things somewhat mended with
him; and when he was just upon the sunlight, and began to see its
brightness through the haze, and to hear the voices of the heavenly ones,
methought his heart would have burst, so did it beat with joy: and withal
he smote upon his breast, and said,--"And this for me!  And this for the
wanderer!  O mercy, choicest mercy!  Who is a God like unto Thee, that
pardonest iniquity?"  And so saying, he entered on the heavenly light,
and left for ever behind him the darkness and the danger of the pitfalls,
and the face of shame, and the besetting weakness; for he too was clothed
in raiment of light, and borne with joy before the Lord the King.

* * * * *

_Father_.  Who were those who were walking in the beautiful garden as its
lords?

_Child_.  Man in Paradise before the fall.

F.  What was the dreadful change that came upon them?

C.  Their fall into sin and misery.

F.  What was the second estate seen in the vision?

C.  Their fallen children in this sinful world, without the knowledge of
God; wandering in the darkness of heathenism amongst the pitfalls of
error.

F.  What was the porch which let them into a better way?

C.  The entrance into the Church of the redeemed by baptism.

F.  What does our Catechism say about this?

C.  That it is our being "called to a state of salvation."

F.  What are the gifts bestowed upon them?

C.  God's word is the book of light; conscience enlightened by God is the
little lamp of each; the oil in the golden vial is the help and teaching
of God's grace; and the staff is the help and assistance of the Church.

F.  Why was it so easy to get out of the path, and so hard to get back?

C.  Because it is easy to go wrong, and very hard to return into the way
of righteousness.

F.  What were the baits which the phantom offered to the youths?

C.  The pleasures of sin, which are but for a season.

F.  Why was the staff rough to those that were coming back from
wandering?

C.  Because the discipline of the Church, which is easy to the obedient,
is often galling to those who offend.

F.  Why was Irrgeist, after he was brought back, still so sad a pilgrim?

C.  Because, though he was accepted and forgiven, the effects of his
former sins still weakened and grieved him: as says the Lord, by the
mouth of the Prophet Ezekiel (chap. xvi. ver. 63), "That thou mayest
remember, and be confounded, and never open thy mouth any more because of
thy shame, when I am pacified toward thee for all that thou hast done,
saith the Lord God."




The Little Wanderers.


In a miserable little hovel, built on the edge of a wide and desolate
common, lived a poor widow woman, who had two sons.  The eldest of them
was quite young, and the least was scarcely more than an infant.  They
were dressed in torn and dirty rags, for the widow had no better clothes
to put upon them; and often they were very hungry and very cold, for she
had not food or fire with which to feed and warm them.  No one taught the
biggest boy any thing; and as for the poor mother, she did not know a
letter.  She had no friends; and the only playfellows the little ones
ever knew were other children as poor, and as dirty, and as untaught as
they were themselves, from whom they learnt nothing but to say bad words
and do naughty tricks.  Poor children! it was a sad life, you would say,
which lay before them.

Just at this time the widow was taken very ill with a fever.  Long she
lay in that desolate hut, groaning and suffering, and no one knew how ill
she was but the little children.  They would sit and cry by her miserable
bed all day, for they were very hungry and very sad.  When she had lain
in this state for more than a week, she grew light-headed, and after a
while died.  The youngest child thought she was asleep, and that he could
not waken her; but the elder boy rushed weeping out of the house, knowing
that she was really dead, and that they were left alone in the wide
world.

Just at that very moment a man passed by, who looked into the pale, thin,
hungry face of the sobbing child, with a kind, gentle look, and let
himself be led into the wretched hut, where the poor dead mother lay.  His
heart bled for the poor orphans, for he was one who was full of
tenderness: so he spake kind words to them; and when his servants came up
after a while, he gave orders that their dead mother should be buried,
and that the children should be taken from the miserable hut, to dwell in
his own beautiful castle.

To it the children were removed.  The servants of the Lord of the castle
put on them clean fresh clothes--washed their old dirt from them; and as
no one knew what were their names, they gave them two new names, which
shewed they belonged to this family; and they were cared for, and given
all they wanted.

Happy was now their lot.  They had all they wanted: good food in plenty,
instead of hunger and thirst; clean raiment, instead of rags and
nakedness; and kind teachers, who instructed them day by day as they were
able to bear it.  There were a multitude of other happy children too in
the castle, with whom they lived, and learned, and spent their glad days.
Sometimes they played in the castle, and sometimes they ran about in the
grounds that were round it, where were all sorts of flowers, and
beautiful trees full of singing birds, and green grass, and painted
butterflies; and they were as happy as children could be.

All over these grounds they might play about as they would: only on one
side of them they were forbidden to go.  There the garden ended in a wide
waste plain, and there seemed to be nothing to tempt children to leave
the happy garden to walk in it, especially as the kind Lord of the castle
bid them never set foot on it: and yet it was said that some children had
wandered into it, and that of these, many had never come back again.  For
in that desert dwelt the enemies of the Lord of the castle; and there was
nothing they loved better than to pounce down upon any children whom he
had taken as his own, and carry them off, to be their slaves in the midst
of the waste and dreary sands.

Many ways too had these enemies by which they enticed children to come on
the plain; for as long as they stayed within the boundary, and played
only in the happy garden, the evil one could not touch them.  Sometimes
they would drop gay and shining flowers all about the beginning of the
waste, hoping that the children would come across the border to pick them
up: and so it was, that if once a child went over, as soon as he had got
into his hands the flower for which he had gone, it seemed to fade and
wither away; but just beyond him he thought he saw another, brighter and
more beautiful; and so, too, often it happened that, throwing down the
first, he went on to take the second; and then throwing down the second,
he went on to reach a third; until, suddenly, the enemy dashed upon him,
and whirled him away with them in a moment.

Often and often had little Kuhn {95a}--for so the eldest boy had been
named--looked out over this desert, and longed, as he saw the gay flowers
dropped here and there, to run over the border and pick them up.  His
little brother, who was now old enough to run about with him, would stand
and tremble by him as he got close to the desert; but little Zart {95b}
would never leave him: and sometimes, I am afraid, they would have both
been lost, if it had not been for a dear little girl, who was almost
always with them, and who never would go even near to the line.  When
Kuhn was looking into it, as if he longed for the painted flowers, the
gentle Glaube {96} would grow quite sad, and bending her dark sorrowful
eyes upon him, their long lashes would become wet with tears, and she
would whisper in a voice almost too solemn for a child, "O Kuhn,
remember."  Then Kuhn, who could not bear to see her sad, would tear
himself away; and the flowers seemed directly to lose their brightness,
and the desert looked dry and hot, and the garden cool and delicious, and
they played happily together, and forgot their sorrow.

But it was very dangerous for Kuhn to go so near.  The servants of the
Lord of the castle often told the children this; and seeing a bold and
daring spirit in Kuhn, they had spoken to him over and over again.  What
made it so dangerous was this,--that the flowers of the wilderness never
looked gay until you got near to its border; afar off it seemed dusty,
dry, and hot; but the nearer you got to it, the brighter shone the
flowers; they seemed also to grow in number, until you could hardly see
its dry hot sands, for the flowery carpet that was drawn over them.

Poor Kuhn! he was often in danger.  Never yet had he crossed the border;
but it is a sad thing to go near temptation; and so this unhappy child
found to his cost.

One day he was sauntering close to the forbidden border, when the hoop
which he was trundling slipped from him and ran into the desert.  In a
moment he was over after it; and just as he stooped to pick it up, he
saw, right before him, a beautiful and sparkling flower.  He would
certainly have gone after it, but that at the instant he caught the eye
of Glaube looking sadly after him, and it struck upon his heart, and he
hastened back, and was safe.  For a while his legs trembled under him,
and Zart looked up quite frightened into his pale face; Glaube too could
scarcely speak to him; and it was long before they were laughing merrily
again under the tall palm-trees of the garden.  But by the next day all
Kuhn's fears had flown away, and he went with a bolder foot than ever to
the very edge of the desert.

{The Little Wanderers: p98.jpg}

Glaube was further off than usual; and just as Kuhn and Zart were in this
great danger, a beautiful bird started up under their feet.  The boys had
never seen such a bird.  All the colours of the rainbow shone upon his
feathers, and his black and scarlet head seemed quite to sparkle in the
sunshine.  It tried to fly; but whether its wing was hurt, or what, I
know not, but it could not rise, and ran before them flapping its painted
wings, screaming with a harsh voice, and keeping only just before them.
The boys were soon in full chase, and every thing else was forgotten;
when, just as they thought the bird was their own, he fluttered across
the border, and both the boys followed him,--Kuhn boldly and without
thought, for he had been across it before; but poor little Zart trembled
and turned pale, and clung to his bolder brother, as if he never would
have crossed it alone.

Once over, however, on they went, and the bird still seemed to keep close
before them; and they never noticed how far they were getting from the
garden, until suddenly they heard a dreadful noise; the air looked thick
before them, as if whole clouds of dust were sweeping on; shining spear-
heads were all they could see in the midst of the dust; and they heard
the trampling of a multitude of horses.  The boys were too much
frightened to shriek, but they clung to one another, pale and trembling,
and ready to sink into the earth.  In a minute rude hands seized them;
they heard rough voices round them; and they could see that they were in
the midst of the enemies of the Lord of the castle.  In another minute
they were torn asunder, they were snatched up on horseback, and were
galloping off towards the sad abode in which the evil men of the desert
dwelt.  In vain the boys cried, and begged to be taken home; away
galloped the horses; whilst no one thought of heeding their cries and
prayers.  They had gone on long in this way, and the dark-frowning towers
of the desert castle were in sight.  The little boys looked sadly at one
another; for here there was no flowering garden, there were no sheltering
trees, but all looked bare, and dry, and wretched; and they could see
little narrow windows covered with iron bars, which seemed to be dungeon-
rooms, where they thought they should be barred in, and never more play
together amongst the flowers and in the sunlight.

Just at this moment the little Zart felt that, by some means or other,
the strap which bound him to the horse had grown loose, and in another
moment he had slipped down its side, and fallen upon his head on the
ground.  No one noticed his fall; and there he lay upon the sand for a
while stunned and insensible.  When he woke up, the trampling of horses
had died away in the distance; the light sand of the desert, which their
feet had stirred, had settled down again like the heavy night-dew, so
that he could see no trace of their footmarks.  The frowning castle-walls
were out of sight; look which way he would, he could see nothing but the
hot flat sand below, and the hot bright sun in the clear sky above him.
He called for his brother, but no voice answered him; he started up, and
began to run he knew not where: but the sun beat on his head, the hot
sand scorched his weary feet; his parched tongue began to cleave to his
mouth; and he sunk down upon the desert again to die.

As he lay there he thought upon the castle-garden and its kind Lord; upon
the sorrowful face with which Glaube was used to look on them, when he
and Kuhn drew near to the forbidden border; and his tears broke out
afresh when he thought of his brother in the enemies' dungeon, and
himself dying in the desolate wilderness.  Then he called upon the Lord
of the castle, for he remembered to have heard how He had pitied
wandering children, and heard their cry from afar, and had brought them
back again to His own happy castle.  And as he lay upon the sand, crying
out to the Lord of the castle, he thought that he heard a footstep, as of
one walking towards him.  Then there came a shade between the sun and his
burning head, and looking languidly up he saw the kind face of the Lord
of the castle turned towards him.  He was looking on the poor child as He
had looked on him when He had pitied him by the side of the hut; and that
kind face seemed to speak comfort.  Then He stretched out to him His
hand, and He bade him rise; and He lifted up the child, and bore him in
His bosom over that waste and scorching wilderness, nor ever set him down
until He had brought him again into the pleasant garden.  Once as he lay
in that bosom, Zart thought that he heard in the distance the tramping of
horse-hoofs; and he saw the dusty cloud lifting itself up: but he felt
that he was safe; and so he was, for the enemy did not dare to approach
that Mighty One who was bearing him.

When he reached the garden again, the gentle Glaube met him, and welcomed
him back again to their peaceful home.  But he hung down his head with
shame and with sorrow; and as he looked up into the face of the Lord of
the garden, he saw in it such kindness and love, that his tears rolled
down his cheeks to think how he had broken His command, and wandered into
the wilderness of His enemies.  Then he tried to speak for his brother,
for his heart was sore and heavy with thinking of him; but the Lord of
the castle answered not.  Many, many days did Glaube and Zart pray for
him; but they heard nothing of him: whether he died in the enemies'
dungeon; or whether, as they still dared to hope, he might even yet one
day find his way back to the garden of peace; or whether, as they
sometimes trembled to think, he had grown up amongst the enemies of their
Lord, and become one of them,--they knew not, and they dared not to ask.
But they never thought of him without trembling and tears, and Zart more
even than Glaube: for he had crossed that terrible border; he had been
seized by the fierce enemy; he had lain alone in the wide scorching
desert; and had only been brought back again from death by the great love
of the mighty and merciful Lord of that most happy garden.

* * * * *

_Father_.  Who are meant by these children born in the wretched hovel?

_Child_.  All the children of fallen parents.

F.  Who are such?

C.  All who are born.  For we were "by nature born in sin, and the
children of wrath."

F.  Who is the kind Lord of the castle who takes pity on them?

C.  Jesus Christ our Lord.

F.  What is meant by His taking them to His castle?

C.  His receiving us when children into His Church.

F.  When was this done?

C.  At our baptism.  For "being by nature children of wrath, we were
hereby made the children of grace."

F.  What is meant by the clean raiment and the new name He gave them?

C.  The "forgiveness of all our sins" (see Collect in
Confirmation-Service), and the giving us our Christian name.

F.  Why is it called your Christian name?

C.  To mark its difference from our natural, or parents' name.

F.  Why was it given you at that time?

C.  Because then I was taken into God's family, and "made a member of
Christ, child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven."

F.  What was the food with which they were fed?

C.  All the means of grace of the Church of Christ.

F.  What was the desert, and who those who dwelt in it who were enemies
to the Lord?

C.  The ways of sin, and the devil and his angels.

F.  What were the bright flowers and the bird?

C.  The baits and temptations of sin.

F.  Why did Kuhn, or "bold," cross the border more easily the second
time?

C.  Because one sin makes another easier.

F.  Why did Zart, or "tender," follow him?

C.  Because bold sinners lead weaker sinners after them.

F.  What were the dry sands into which Kuhn and Zart were carried?

C.  The evil ways of sin.

F.  Who came to Zart's rescue when he prayed?

C.  The gracious Lord who had at first received him into His Church by
baptism.

F.  Why was he still sad and ashamed after he was brought back?

C.  Because he had wandered.

F.  Did he then doubt whether he was forgiven?

C.  No: but he "remembered and was confounded, and never opened his mouth
any more, when the Lord was pacified toward him for all his iniquity."

F.  What was the end of Kuhn, or the "bold?"

C.  We know not; but they who "draw back unto perdition" are punished
above all others.

F.  What are we to learn from the whole?

C.  The blessedness of being taken into the Church in our infancy; and
our need of prayer and watching, lest we turn it into a curse.




The King and his Servants.


A great king once called his servants to him, and said to them,--"You
have all often professed to love me, and to wish to serve me; and I have
never yet made trial of you.  But now I am about to try you all, that it
may be known who does in truth desire to serve me, and who is a servant
only in name.  To morrow your trial will begin; so meet me here in the
morning, and be ready to set out upon a journey on which I shall send
you."

When the king had so spoken, he left them; and there was a great deal of
bustle and talking amongst these servants.  Not that they were all alike.
Some were very busy, and said a great deal of the services they should
render; and that they hoped it would be some really hard trial on which
the king would set them.  Others were quiet and thoughtful, saying little
or nothing, but, as it seemed, thinking silently of the words the king
had spoken, as if they feared lest they should fail in their trial.  For
they loved that king greatly; he had been as a father to them all.  Once
they had been slaves, and cruelly treated by a wicked tyrant who had
taken them prisoners, and cast some of them into dungeons, and made
others work in dark mines, and dealt evil with them all.  But the king
had triumphed over this their enemy, and rescued them from his hands.  His
own son had sought them in the dungeons and dark pits into which they had
been cast, and had brought them out; and now he had given them places in
his service, and fed them from his own kingly table; and he promised to
such as were faithful, that he would raise them yet higher; that he would
even set them upon thrones, and put crowns upon their heads; and that
they should remain always in his presence, and rule and dwell with him.
Now, when the time of their trial was come, these faithful servants were
grave and thoughtful, fearing lest they should fail, and be led to forget
him their kind and gracious king.  But one thought held them up.  He had
said unto them all, "As your day, so shall your strength be."  They knew,
therefore, that he would put on them no task beyond their strength.  They
remembered his kindness and his love in taking them out of the dungeons
of the enemy.  They desired greatly to serve him; and so they rejoiced
that their trial was come, even while they feared it; and they trusted in
him to help them, even whilst they trembled for themselves.

These servants spent much of the night in preparing for their journey; in
thinking over all the directions the king had ever given them; for many
times had he spoken to them of this coming trial; and even written down
plain rules for them, which should teach them always how he would have
them act.  All these they gathered together, lest in the hurry of setting
out, they should forget any one of them; and so they went into the court
of the palace to meet the king.

Then he came forth from his palace-door, and gave them all their charge.

From the great treasure-chambers of that palace he brought out many
different gifts, and laid them before these his servants.  One had gold
and silver, and another had precious stuffs; but all had something good
and costly: and as he gave them these gifts, he told them that this was
to be their trial.  He was about to send them with these gifts into an
exceeding great and rich city, which lay afar off from his palace; and in
that city they were all to trade for him.  They were to take his gifts
and use them wisely, so that each one of them might bring something back
to him.  He gave them also very close and particular instructions.  He
told them that there were many in that city who would try to rob them of
these his gifts; and he told them how to keep them safely.  He told them
that many would seek to make them waste what he had given to them on
pleasing themselves.  But that they must remember always, that what they
had belonged to him; that they would have to give him an account of their
way of using all his gifts; and that of his mere mercy he, who had
redeemed them from the dungeon and made them able to serve him, would
graciously reward hereafter all their efforts to use his gifts for him.
He told them also to set about trading for him as early as they could;
for that all the merchants' goods were freshest in the morning; that then
the precious stones were the finest and the truest; but that those who
waited till the evening would find all the best goods sold; and that,
perhaps, before they had any thing ready, the trumpet would sound which
was to call them all out of the city, and then they would have to come
back to him empty-handed and disgraced.

When he had given them these charges, he sent them from his presence to
begin their journey to the great city.  All that day they travelled with
horses and camels over plains and hills, and fruitful fields and deserts,
until, just as the sun went down, they came to the walls of a great city;
and they knew that it was here they were to traffic for their king upon
the morrow.

Then the thoughtful servants began carefully to unpack their goods; they
looked into their bales of precious stuffs to see that they had got no
injury from the dust and sand of the desert; they counted over their bags
of money to see that all was right; and began to lay them all in order,
that they might enter the town as soon as the gates were open, and trade
for their king in the morning hours, which he had told them were the
best.

{The King and His Servants: p115.jpg}

But some of the other servants laughed at them for taking all this care
and trouble.  "Surely it will be time enough," they said, "to get every
thing ready when the markets are open to-morrow.  We have had a long,
hot, weary journey, and we must rest and refresh ourselves before we
think of trading."  So they spread the tables, and began to feast in a
riotous way, quite forgetting the king's service, and putting the morrow
out of their thoughts.

Now as soon as the sun was up, in the morning, there was a great stir
amongst the servants.  Those who had been careful and watchful in the
evening were ready with all their bales; and as soon as ever the city-
gates were open, they marched in through them with their goods.  It was a
great wide city into which they entered, and must hold, they thought, a
vast multitude of men.  Houses and streets of all sizes met their eyes
here and there; but they passed easily along, because it was still so
early in the morning, that few persons were in the streets, and those few
were all bent upon business, as they were themselves.  So they passed on
to the great market where the merchants bought and sold, and here they
set out all their goods; and the merchants came round them to look over
their wares, and to shew them what they had to sell in return.  Now they
found it true as the king had foretold them.  For they had the first
choice of all that the merchants could offer.  One of them opened his
stores, and shewed them rubies, and diamonds, and pearls, such as they
had never seen before for size and beauty.  So they chose a pearl of
great price, and they bought it for their prince, and they trafficked in
their other wares, and gained for him more than as many bags of treasure
as he had given them at first.  Thus they traded according to their
skill, and every one had now secured something for his lord.  The pearl
of great price was stored by some; others had rich dresses adorned with
gold and precious stones; others had bags of the most refined gold;
others had the spices of Arabia and the frankincense of the islands of
the East.

One there was amongst them who seemed to have got nothing to carry home
with him; and yet he, as well as the rest, had laid out his master's
gifts.  Then some of the other servants asked him, what he had stored up
for the king? and he said that he had no riches which he could shew to
them, but that he had an offering which he knew that the merciful heart
of the king would make him love and value.  Then they asked him to tell
them his story; so he said that, as he was walking through the market, he
had seen a poor woman weeping and wringing her hands, as if her heart
would break: he stopped, and asked her the cause of her sorrow; and she
told him that she was a widow, and that some merchants, to whom her
husband had owed large sums of money, had come that morning to her house
and taken all that she had, and seized her children too; and that they
were dragging them away to the slave-market to sell them for slaves in a
far land, that they might pay themselves the debt which her husband had
owed them.  So when he heard her sad tale, he opened his bag of treasure,
and found that all the gold which he had got in it would just pay the
widow's debt and set her children free.  Then he went with her to the
merchants, and he told out to them all that sum, and set the children of
the widow free, and gave them back to their mother; "and I am taking," he
said, "to our merciful king the offering of the widow's tears and
gratitude; and I know well that this is an offering which will be well-
pleasing in his sight."

So it fared with these faithful servants in their trading; and all the
while they were cheerful and light-hearted, because they remembered
constantly the love and kindness which their king had shewed to them; and
they rejoiced that they were able to serve him and to trade for him with
his gifts.  They thought also of the goodness of the king's son towards
them; they remembered how he had sought them when they were prisoners in
the dark dungeons of their tyrant enemy; and they were full of joy when
they thought that they should be able to offer to him the goodly pearl,
and the other curious gifts, which they had bought.  They thought of
these things until they longed to hear the trumpet sound, which was to
call them out of the town and gather them together for their journey
home.  When that trumpet might sound, they knew not; but the sun was now
passed its noon, and the town, which had been so quiet when they came in
the early morning along its empty streets, was now full of noise, and
bustle, and confusion, as great towns are wont to be, when all the
multitude of sleepers awaken and pour out for pleasure, or business, or
idleness, into the streets, and squares, and market-places.

Heartily glad were they now that they had been so early at their traffic.
Now the merchants had shut up all their richest stores; and the markets
were full of others who brought false pearls and mock diamonds, instead
of the costly gems for which they had traded in the morning.  There
seemed to be hardly any true traders left.  Idlers were there in numbers,
and shows and noisy revels were passing up and down the streets; and they
could see thieves and bad men lurking about at all the corners, seeking
whom they could catch, and rob, and plunder.

On all these things the servants looked; sometimes they saw beautiful
sights pass by them, which gladdened their eyes; and sometimes sweet
music would fill their ears, as bands of merry harpers and singers walked
up and down through the market; and they rejoiced in all of these, but
still their hearts were full of thoughts of their kind king, and
recollections of his son their prince; and they longed to be at home with
them, even when the sights round them were the gayest, and the sounds in
their ears were the sweetest; and they were ever watching for the voice
of the trumpet, which was to call them again homeward.

But this happy case was not that of all the servants.  When these
watchful men had been entering the gates of the city in the morning, the
thoughtless servants were not yet awake.  They had sat up late at their
feasting and rejoicings, and when the morning sun rose upon them, they
were still in their first deep sleep.  The stirring of their
fellow-servants moved them a little, and for a while they seemed ready to
rise and join them.  But their goods were not ready, so they could not go
with them; and they might as well, therefore, they thought, wait a little
longer and rest themselves, and then follow them to the market.  They did
not mean to be late, but they saw no reason why they should be so very
early.

They slept, therefore, till the sun was high, and then they rose in some
confusion, because it was now so late; and they had all their goods to
unpack, their stuffs to smooth out, and the dust to shake off from them.
Soon they began about every little thing to find fault with one another,
because they were secretly angry with themselves.  Each one thought that
if his neighbour had not persuaded him to stay, he should have been up,
and have entered the city with the earliest: so high words arose between
them; and instead of helping one another, and making the best they could
of the time which remained, they only hindered one another, and made it
later and later before they were ready to begin their trading.

At length, after many hard words and much bad temper, one by one they got
away; each as soon as he was ready, and often with his goods all in
confusion; every one following his own path, and wandering by himself up
the crowded streets of the full town.

Hard work they had to get at all along it when they had passed the gates.
All the stream of people seemed now to be setting against them.  The
idlers jested upon their strange dress; and if they did but try to
traffic for their lord, the rude children of the town would gather round
them, and hoot, and cry: so that they could not manage to carry on any
trade at all.

Then, as I watched them, I saw that some who had been the loudest in
talking of what they should do when they were tried, were now the first
to give up altogether making any head at all against the crowd of that
city.  They packed up what goods they might have, and began to think only
of looking about them, and following the crowd, and pleasing themselves,
like any of the men around them.  Then I looked after some of these, and
I saw that one of them was led on by the crowd to a place in the town
where there was a great show.  Outside of it were men in many-coloured
dresses, who blew with trumpets, and jested, and cried aloud, and begged
all to come in and see the strange sights which were stored within.

Now when the servant came to this place, he watched one and another go
in, until at last he also longed to go in and see the sights which were
to be gazed on within.  So he went to the door, and the porter asked him
for money; but when he drew out his purse, and the porter saw that his
money belonged to some strange place, and was quite unlike the coin used
in that town, he only laughed at it, and said it was good for nothing
there, and bid him "stand back."  So as he turned away, the porter saw
the rich bundle on his back, and then he spoke to him in another tone,
and he said, "I will let you in, if you like to give me that bundle of
goods."  Then for a moment the servant was checked.  He thought of his
lord and of the reckoning, and he remembered the words, "As good stewards
of the manifold grace of God;" and he had almost determined to turn back,
and to fight his way to the market-place, and to trade for his lord, let
it cost him what it might;--but just at the moment there was a great
burst of the showman's trumpets; and he heard the people shouting for joy
within; and so he forgot all but his great desire, and slipping off the
bundle from his shoulders, he put it into the hands of the porter, and
passed in, and I saw him no more.

Then I saw another, who was standing at the corner of a street gating at
some strange antics which were being played by a company of the townsmen.
And as he gazed upon them, he forgot all about his trading for his
master, and thought only of seeing more of this strange sight.  Then I
saw that whilst he was thinking only of these follies, some evil-minded
men gathered round him, and before he was aware of it, they secretly
stole from him all the gold which his lord had given him to lay out for
him.  The servant did not even know when it was gone, so much was he
thinking of staring at the sight before him.  But it made me very sad to
think that when he went to buy for his master, he would find out, too
late, his loss; and that when the trumpet sounded, he would have nothing
to carry back with him on the day of reckoning.

Some of these loiterers, too, were treated even worse than this.  One of
them I saw whom the shows and lights of that town led on from street to
street, until he came quite to its farther end; and then he thought that
he saw before him, beyond some lonely palings, still finer sights than
any he had left; and so he set out to cross over those fields, and see
those sights.  And when he was half over, some wicked robbers, who laid
wait in those desolate places, rushed out upon him from their lurking-
place, and ill used him sorely, and robbed him of all his goods and
money, and left him upon the ground hardly able to get back to the town
which he had left.

Then I saw one of these loiterers who, as he was looking idly at the
sights round him, grew very grave, and began to tremble from head to
foot.  One of his fellows, who stood by and saw him, quickly asked him
what made him tremble.  At first he could not answer; but after a while
he said, that the sound of the trumpet which they had just heard had made
him think of the great trumpet-sound of their master, which was to call
them all back to his presence, and that he trembled because the evening
was coming on, and he had not yet traded for his lord.  And "How," he
said in great fear, "how shall we ever stand that reckoning with our
hands empty?"  Then some of his companions in idleness laughed and jeered
greatly, and mocked the poor trembler.  But his fears were wiser than
their mockings; and so, it seemed, he knew, for he cared nothing for
them; but only said to them, very sadly and gravely, "You are in the same
danger, how then can you jeer at me?"  And with that he pointed their
eyes up to the sky, and shewed them how low the sun had got already, and
that it wanted but an hour at the most to his setting, and then that the
trumpet might sound at any moment, and they have nothing to bear home to
their lord.

Now, as he spoke, one listened eagerly to him; and whilst the others
jeered, he said very gravely, "What can we do?  Is it quite too late?"
"It is never too late," said the other, "till the trumpet sounds; and
though we have lost so much of the day, perchance we can yet do
something: come with me to the market-place, and we will try."  So the
other joined him, and off they set, passing through their companions, who
shouted after them all the way they went, until the townsmen who stood
round began to jeer and shout after them also: so that all the town was
moved.  A hard time those two had now, and much they wished that they had
gone to the market-place in the early morning, when the streets were
empty, and the busy servants had passed so easily along.  Many were the
rough words they had now to bear; many the angry, or ill-natured, crowd
through which they had to push; and if any where they met one of their
late and idle companions, he was sure to stir up all the street against
them, when he saw them pushing on to the market-place.

"Do you think that we shall ever get there?" said he who had been moved
by the other's words to him, who led the way, and buffeted with the
crowd, like a man swimming through many rough waves in the strong stream
of some swift river.  "Do you think that we shall ever get there?"  "Yes,
yes," said the other; "we shall get there still, if we do but persevere."
"But it is so hard to make any way, and the streets seem to grow fuller
and fuller; I am afraid that I shall never get through."

Just as he spoke, a great band of the townspeople, with music, and
trumpets, and dancing, met them like a mighty wave of the sea, and seemed
sure to drive them back: one of their old companions was dancing amongst
the rest; and as I looked hard at him, I saw that it was the same who had
given away his precious burden in order to go into the show.  Now, as
soon as he saw these his former fellows, he called to them by their
names, and bid them join him and the townsmen round him.  But he that was
leading the way shook his head, and said boldly: "No: we will not join
with you; we are going to the market-place to traffic for our lord."  "It
is too late for that," said he; "you lost the morning, and now you cannot
trade."  Then I saw that he who before had trembled exceedingly grew very
pale; but still he held on his way; and he said,--"Yes, we have lost the
morning, and a sore thing it is for us; but our good lord will help us
even yet; and we WILL serve him, 'redeeming the time, because the days
are evil.'"  Then he turned to the other and said to him,--

"And will not you stop either?  Do not be fooled by this madman: what use
is it to go to buy when the shops are all shut, and the market empty?"
Then he hung down his head, and looked as though he would have turned
back, and fallen into the throng; but his fellow seized him by the hand,
and bid him take courage, and think upon his kind master, and upon the
king's son, whose very blood had been shed for them; and with that he
seemed to gather a little confidence, and held for a while on in his way
with the other.

Then their old companion turned all his seeming love into hatred, and he
called upon the crowd round him to lay hands on them and stop them; and
this the rabble would fain have done, but that, as it seemed to me, a
power greater than their own was with those servants, and strengthened
them; until they pushed the rude people aside on the right and on the
left, and passed safely through them into another street.

Here there were fewer persons, and they had a breathing-time for a while;
and as they heard the sound of music and of the crowd passing by at some
little distance from them, they began to gather heart, and to talk to one
another.  "I never thought," said the one, "that I could have held on
through that crowd; and I never could, if you had not stretched out your
hand to help me."  "Say, rather, if our master's strength had not been
with us," said the other.  "But do you think," said he that was fearful,
"that he will accept any thing we can bring him now, when the best part
of the day is over?"  "Yes, I do," he replied.  "I have a good hope that
he will; for I remember how he said, 'Return, ye backsliding children,
return ye even unto me.'"  "But how can one who is so trembling and
fearful as I am ever traffic for him?"  "You can, if you will but hold
on; for he has once spoken of his servants 'as faint yet pursuing.'"
"Well," said the other, "I wish that I had your courage; but I do believe
that I should not dare to meet such another crowd as that we have just
passed through; I really thought that they would tear us in pieces."  "Our
king will never let that be," said the other, "if only we trust in him."
"But are you sure," replied he, "that our king does see us in this town?"

Just as he said this, and before his companion had time to answer him
again, they heard a louder noise than ever, of men dancing, and singing,
and crowding, and music playing, and horns blowing, as if all the mad
sports of the city were coming upon them in one burst.  At the front of
all they could see their old companion; for the band had turned round by
a different street, and now were just beginning to come down that one up
which they were passing.  Then he who had been affrighted before, turned
white as snow; and he looked this way and that, to see what he could do.

Now it so happened, that just by where they stood was a great shop, and
in its windows there seemed to shine precious stones and jewels, and fine
crystals, and gold and ivory.  And, as he looked, his eyes fell full upon
the shop, and he said to his fellow,--"Look here; surely here is what we
want: let us turn in here and traffic for our master, and then we shall
escape all this rout which is coming upon us."  "No, no!" said the other;
"we must push on to the market; that is our appointed place; there our
lord bids us trade: we must not turn aside from the trouble which our
lateness has brought upon us--we must not offer to our master that which
costs us nothing.  Play the man, and we shall soon be in the market."

"But we shall be torn in pieces," said the other.  "Look at the great
crowd: and even now it seems that our old companion sees me, and is
beginning to lead the rabble upon us."  "Never fear," said he who led the
way; "our king will keep us.  'I will not be afraid for ten thousands of
the people who have set themselves against us round about.'"

Then I saw that he to whom he spoke did not seem to hear these last
words, for the master of the shop had noticed how he cast his eyes upon
the goods that were in the window, and was ready in a moment to invite
him in.  "Come in, come in," he said, "before the crowd sweep you away;
come in and buy my pearls, and my diamonds, and my precious stones; come
in, come in."  And while he halted for a moment to parley with the man,
the crowd came upon them, and he was parted from his friend, who had held
up his fainting steps; and so he sprung trembling into the shop, scarcely
thinking himself safe even there.

Now the man into whose house he had turned, though he was a fair-spoken
man, and one who knew well how to seem honest and true, was altogether a
deceiver.  All his seeming jewels, and diamonds, and pearls, were but
shining and painted glass, which was worth nothing at all to him who was
so foolish as to buy it: but this the servant knew not.  If it had been
in the bright clear light of the morning, he would easily have seen that
the diamonds and the pearls were only sparkling and painted glass, and
the gold nothing but tinsel; but the bright light of the morning had
passed away, and in the red slanting light of the evening sun he could
not see clearly; and so the false man persuaded him, and he parted with
all the rich treasures which his king had given him, and got nothing for
them in exchange which was worth the having, for he filled his bag with
bits of painted glass, which his lord would never accept.

However, he knew not how he had been cheated; or if, perhaps, a thought
crossed his mind that all was not right, it was followed by another,
which said that it was now too late to alter, and that if he had chosen
wrongly, still he must abide by it; and so he waited for the trumpet.  But
he was not altogether happy; and often and often he wished that he had
faced the strife of the multitude, and pressed on with his trusting
companion to the market.

A hard struggle had been his before he had reached it.  It seemed indeed
at times as if the words of his fearful companion were coming true, and
he would be torn altogether in pieces, so fiercely did the crowd press
upon him and throng him.  But as I watched him in the thickest part of
it, I saw that always, just at his last need, something seemed to favour
him, and the crowd broke off and left room for him to struggle by.  I
could hear him chanting, as it were, to himself, when the crowd looked
upon him the most fiercely, "I will not be afraid for ten thousands of
the people that have set themselves against me round about."  And even as
he chanted the words, the crowd divided itself in two parts, like a
rushing stream glancing by some black rock; and on he passed, as though
they saw him not.

So it continued, even till he reached the market-place.  Right glad was
he to find himself there: but even now all his trials were not over.  Many
of the stalls were empty, and from many more the fair and true traders
were gone away; and instead of them were come false and deceitful men,
who tried to put off any who dealt with them with pretended jewels and
bad goods.

Then did he look anxiously round and round the market, fearing every
moment lest the trumpet should sound before he had purchased any thing
for his lord.  Never, perhaps, all along the way, did he so bitterly
regret his early sloth as now, for he wrung his hands together, and said
in great bitterness, "What shall I do?" and, "How shall I, a loiterer,
traffic for my lord?"

Then his eyes fell upon a shop where were no jewels, nor gold, nor costly
silks, nor pearls of great price; but all that was in it was coarse
sackcloth, and rough and hairy garments, and heaps of ashes, and here and
there a loaf of bitter bread, and bitter herbs, and bottles wherein tears
were stored.  As he gazed on this shop something seemed to whisper to his
heart, "Go and buy."  So he went with his sorrowful heart, as one not
worthy to traffic for his master, and he bought the coarsest sackcloth,
and the ashes of affliction, and many bitter tears: and so he waited for
the sounding of the trumpet.

Then suddenly, as some loud noise breaks upon the slumbers of men who
sleep, that great trumpet sounded.  All through the air came its voice,
still waxing louder and louder; and even as it pealed across the sky, all
that great city, and its multitudes, and its lofty palaces, and its show,
and its noise, and its revels, all melted away, and were not.  And in a
moment all the servants were gathered together, and their lord and king
stood amongst them.  All else was gone, and they and their works were
alone with him.

Then was there a fearful trial of every man's work.  Then were they
crowned with light and gladness who had risen early and traded
diligently, and who now brought before their master the fruit of that
toil, and labour, and pain.  Each one had his own reward; and amongst the
richest and the best--as though he brought what the king greatly
loved--was his reward who brought unto his master the offering of
gratitude from the broken-hearted widow.

Then drew near the servant who had wasted the morning, but had repented
of his sloth, and had fought his way through the crowds, and had at last
bought the sackcloth.  Now he came bringing it with him; and it looked
poor, and mean, and coarse, as he bore it amongst the heaps of gold, and
jewels, and silks, which lay piled up all around; yet did he draw near
unto the king; and as he came, he spoke, and said, "A broken and a
contrite heart wilt thou not despise."  And as he spake, the king looked
graciously upon him: a mild and an approving smile sat upon his
countenance, and he spoke to him also the blessed words, "Well done, thou
good and faithful servant."  Then did the coarse sackcloth shine as the
most rich cloth of gold; then did the ashes of the furnace sparkle as a
monarch's jewels; whilst every bitter tear which was stored in the bottle
changed into pearls and rubies which were above all price.

Then the king turned to the careless servants, and his voice was terrible
to hear, and from his face they fled away.  I dared not to look upon
them; but I heard their just and most terrible sentence, and I knew that
they were driven away for ever from the presence of the king, in which is
life and peace; and that they were bound under chains and darkness,
deeper and more dreadful than those from which the king's son had
graciously delivered them.

* * * * *

_Father_.  In what part of God's word do we read such a parable as this?

_Child_.  In the 25th chapter of St. Matthew's gospel, and at the 15th
verse.

F.  Who is the King who called his servants thus together?

C.  Almighty God.

F.  Who are meant by these servants trading in the town?

C.  All of us Christians.

F.  How do you know that they were Christians?

C.  Because they had been delivered from slavery and dungeons by the
King's own Son.

F.  What is the great town to which they were sent?

C.  This world.

F.  What are the goods which God gave them to lay out for him?

C.  Every thing which we have in this life: our strength, and health, and
reason, and money, and time.

F.  How may we trade with these for the King?

C.  By trying to use them all so as to please Him and set forth His
glory.

F.  Who are those who rose up early to go into the town?

C.  Those who begin to serve the Lord even from their youth.

F.  What is shewn by their finding the streets easy to pass, and the
markets full of rich goods?

C.  That this service of God is far easier to such as begin to serve Him
in youth; and that such are able to offer to Him the best gifts of early
devotion, and their first love, and the zeal of youth, and tender hearts,
and unclouded consciences.

F.  What is taught us by their seeing the beautiful things of the city at
their ease, after their diligent trading?

C.  That those who serve God truly in a youthful piety commonly find more
than others, that "godliness has promise of the life which now is, as
well as of that which is to come."

F.  Why were those who were late ready to quarrel with one another?

C.  Because companions in sin have no real love for each other, but are
always ready to fall out; being all selfish and separate from God.

F.  What were the full streets they met with when they entered the town?

C.  The many difficulties and hindrances which beset those who set about
serving God late in life.

F.  What were the shows, and the thieves, and the robbers, which troubled
them?

C.  The different temptations which come from the devil, the world, and
the flesh.

F.  Who were the crowds who withstood them?

C.  Those who love this present world, and who therefore withstand those
who seek to live for God's glory.

F.  Who was he who sold the false jewels?

C.  One of those who often make a prey of persons beginning, after a
negligent youth, to feel earnest about religion, and of whom we read,
Rom. xvi. 17, 18, "Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause
divisions and offences, contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned;
and avoid them.  For they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ,
but their own belly; and by good words and fair speeches deceive the
hearts of the simple."

F.  Who was he who held on through all difficulties to the market-place?

C.  A truly humble penitent, who having turned to God with all his heart,
leans not to his own understanding, but follows God's leading in all
things; cleaving close to Christ's Church.

F.  What were the sackcloth and ashes which he bought?

C.  The true contrition of heart and deep sense of sin, which God gives
to those who seek earnestly to turn away from all iniquity.

F.  What was the sound of the trumpet?

C.  The call of men to the general judgment.

F.  Who were those whose trading the master was pleased to reward?

C.  Those who had served God early; those who had given to Him the best
of their youth; those who had been kind to others and helped the needy
for His sake; those who had turned to Him in truth, and clave to Him with
a humble penitence.

F.  What was the end of the careless servants?

C.  It is an awful end, which our blessed Saviour Jesus Christ speaks of
thus: "Cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall
be weeping and gnashing of teeth." {148a}  And, again, "These shall go
away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal."
{148b}




The Prophet's Guard.


It was the very earliest morning.  The day was not breaking as it does in
this land of England, with a dewy twilight and a gradual dawning--first a
dull glow all over the east, then blood-red rays, catching any fleecy
cloud which is stealing over the sky, and turning all its misty whiteness
into gold and fire;--but day was breaking as it does in those eastern
countries--sudden, and bright, and hot.  Darkness flew away as at a word;
the thick shadows were all at once gone, and the broad glaring sun rose
proudly in the sky, rejoicing in his strength.  The people of the town
woke up again to life and business.  Doors were flung wide open, and some
were passing through them; the flat roofs of the houses began to be
peopled--on one was a man praying, on others two or three standing
together; but most of the people were hastening here and there to get
through their necessary work before the full heat of the day came on;
numbers were passing and repassing to the clear dancing fountain, the
cool waters of which bubbled up in the midst of a broad square within
that city.

And now, what is it which one suddenly sees, and, after gazing at it for
a while, points out to another, and he to a third?  As each hears, they
look eagerly up to the hill, which rises high above their town, until
they gather into a knot; and then, as one and another are added to their
company, grow into almost a crowd.  Still it is in the same quarter that
all eyes are fixed; their water-vessels are set idly down, as if they
could not think of them.  Those which were set under the fountain have
been quite full this long time, but no one stooped to remove them; and
the water has been running over their brimming sides, while its liquid
silver flew all round in a shower of sparkling drops.  But no one thinks
of them.  What is it which so chains all eyes and fixes the attention of
all?

The hill is quite full of armed men.  There were none there overnight:
they have come up from the vale silently and stealthily during the
darkness, while men slept, like some great mist rising in stillness from
the waters, and they seem to be hemming in the town on every side.  Look
which way you will, the sun lights upon the burnished points of spears,
or falls on strong shields, or flashes like lightning from polished and
cutting swords, or is thrown a thousand ways by the rolling wheels of
those war-chariots.  "Who are they?" is the question of all; and no one
likes to say what all have felt for a long time--"they are our enemies,
and we are their prey."

But there is no use in shutting the eyes any longer to the truth.  The
morning breeze has just floated off in its airy waves that flag which
before hung down lifelessly by the side of its staff.  It has shewn all.
They are enemies; they are fierce and bitter enemies; they are the
Syrians, and they are at war with Israel.

But why are they come against this little town?  When they have licked up
it and its people like the dust from the face of the earth, they will be
scarcely further on in their war against Israel.  Why did not they begin
with some of the great and royal cities?  Why was it not against
Jerusalem, or Jezreel, or even against the newly rebuilt Jericho?  Why
should they come against this little town?

Then one, an evil-looking man of a dark countenance, one who feared not
God and loved not His servants, whispered to those around him, and said,
"Have you not heard how Elisha the prophet, who dwells amongst us, has
discovered to the king of Israel the secrets of the army of the king of
Syria?  No doubt it is because Elisha is dwelling here that the king of
Syria has come upon us.  And now shall we, and our wives, and our sweet
babes, and our houses, and our treasures, become the prey of the king of
Syria, for the sake of this Elisha.  I never thought that good would come
from his dwelling here."

Now, fear makes men cruel and suspicious, and fills their minds with hard
thoughts; and many of these men were full of fear: and so, when they
heard these words, they began to have hard bad thoughts of God's prophet,
and to hate him, as the cause of all the evils which they were afraid
would very soon come upon them.

Just then the door of another house opened: it was the prophet's house,
and his servant came forth with the water-vessels to fill them at the
fountain.  He wondered to see the crowd of men gathered together, and he
drew near to ask them what was stirring.  He could read upon their dark
scowling faces that something moved them exceedingly; but what it was he
could not gather.  He could not tell why they would scarcely speak to
him, but looked on him with angry faces, and spoke under their breath,
and said, "This is one of them."  "'Twere best to give them up."  "They
will destroy us all."  Then the man was altogether astonished; for his
master had been ever humble, and kind, and gentle; no poor man had ever
turned away without help when he had come in his sorrows to the prophet
of the Lord.  And yet, why were they thus angry with him, if it were not
for his master's sake?

Broken sentences were all that he could gather; but, by little and
little, he learned what they feared and what they threatened; he saw,
also, the hosts of armed men gathered all around the city; and his heart,
also, was filled with fear.  He believed that it was for his master's
sake that they were there; he saw that all around him were turned against
his master, and he trembled exceedingly.  For some time he stood amongst
the rest, scarce knowing what to do, neither liking to remain nor daring
to go; until at last, as some more stragglers joined themselves to the
company, he slunk away like one ashamed, without stopping even to fill
the water-vessels he had brought.

And so he entered his own door, heavy-hearted and trembling; and he went
to the prophet's chamber, for he deemed that he still slept.  But the man
of God was risen; and he knew, therefore, where he should find him--that
he would be upon the flat roof of his house, calling upon the name of the
Lord his God, who had made another morning's sun to rise in its glory.

{The Prophet's Guard: p156.jpg}

So he followed his master to the housetop; and there, even as he had
supposed, he found the holy man.  It was a striking sight, could any one
have seen the difference between these two men.  The one pale and
trembling and affrighted, like a man out of himself, and with no stay on
which to rest his mind; the other calm and earnest, as, in deep and
solemn prayer, with his head bowed and his hands clasped together, his
low voice poured forth his thanksgiving, or spake of his needs; he also,
as it seemed, was out of himself, but going out of himself that he might
rest upon One who was near to him though his eye saw Him not, and who
spake to him though his outward ear heard no voice of words.

Thus he continued for a season, as if he knew not that any man was nigh
unto him; as if he knew not that there were, in the great world around
him, any one besides his God with whom he communed, and his own soul
which spake unto his God.  All this time his servant stood by him, pale
and trembling, but not daring to break in upon that hour of prayer; until
at length the prophet paused, and his eye fell upon the trembler; and he
turned towards him, and said kindly, "What ails thee, my son?"  Then the
servant answered, "O my father, look unto the hill."  And he stood gazing
in the prophet's face, as though he expected to see paleness and terror
overspread it when his eyes gathered in the sight of those angry hosts.
But it was not so.  No change passed over his countenance; his brow was
open as it was before; the colour never left his cheeks; and, with almost
a smile, he turned unto the servant, and said, "And why does this
affright thee?"  "It is for thee they seek, my father--it is for thee
they seek; and the wicked men of the town are ready to fall upon thee and
deliver thee into their hands.  Even now, as I walked along the street,
they looked on me with fierce and cruel eyes; and they breathed threats
which these lips may not utter, and said, that thou hadst brought this
trouble upon them, and their wives, and their little ones; and I feared
that they would curse thee and thy God."  But the prophet was not moved
by his words, for he only answered, "Fear them not; they that are with us
are more than they that are against us."  Then did the servant cast his
eyes to the ground, and he spake not, yet his lips moved; and if any one
had heard the words which he whispered, they might perhaps have heard him
ask how this could be, when they were but two, and their enemies were so
many and so mighty.

Now the prophet's eye rested upon him, and he read all his secret
thoughts; and he pitied his weakness, for that holy man was full of pity
for the weak: so he chid him not; but, bowing his knees again on that
flat roof, he prayed unto his God to open the eyes of his affrighted
servant.  His prayer was heard.  For there fell from them as it were
films; and now, when he looked out, he saw a glorious sight.  All the
mountain was full; and they were a wonderful company which filled it.  The
dark hosts of the Syrians, and their glancing swords and clashing
chariots, now looked but as a mere handful; for the whole mountain round
them was full of that heavenly army.  Chariots of fire and horsemen of
fire thronged it in every part.  High up into the viewless air mounted
their wheeling bands: rank beyond rank, and army beyond army, they seemed
to stretch on into the vastness of space, until the gazer's wearied eye
was unable to gaze on them.  And all of these were gathered round his
master.  They were God's host, keeping guard over God's servant.  And
they who would injure him must first turn aside those flashing swords,
must break up that strong and serried array, and be able to do battle
with God's mighty angels.

Then was the weak heart strong.  Then did the poor trembler see that he
was safe; and know that he who is on God's side can never want companions
and defenders.




The Brothers' Meeting;
OR,
The Sins of Youth.


A large company was winding its way slowly out of the vale in which the
river Jordan runs.  The sun was just beginning to strike hotly upon them,
and make them long for rest and shelter, as they toiled up the open sandy
hills and amongst the great masses of rock with which that country was
strewn.

It was a striking sight to see those travellers.  First went three troops
of kine, lowing as they went; camels with their arched necks, stooping
shoulders, and forward ears; asses with their foals; ewes and lambs; and
goats with their kids, which mounted idly upon every rock that lay by
their road-side, and then jumped as idly down again; and before and after
these, drivers in stately turbans and long flowing robes, keeping the
flocks and herds to their appointed way.  Then came large droves of
cattle, and sheep, and goats, and asses, stirring up with their many feet
the dust of the sandy plain, till it fell like a gentle shower powdering
with its small grains all the rough and prickly plants which grew in
tufts over the waste.  Then was there a space; and after that were seen
two bands of camels,--the best they seemed to be of all the flock, those
which came last especially,--and on them were children and women riding,
over whom hung long veils to shelter their faces from the hot breath of
the sandy desert through which they had travelled.  And after all these
came one man, with his staff in his hand and a turban on his head,
walking slowly, as one who walked in pain and yet walked on, following
those who went before.

If you had stood near to that man, you might, perhaps, have heard him
speaking to God in prayer and thanksgiving; you might have heard him
saying to himself, "with my staff passed I over this Jordan, and now I am
become two bands:" or you might have heard him earnestly calling upon the
God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac his father, to keep him safe in the
great danger which now lay close before him.  His mind was certainly very
full of that danger; for he kept looking up from the sand on which his
eyes were often fixed, and gazing as far as he could see over the hills
before him, as if he expected to see some great danger suddenly meet him
on his way, and as if, therefore, he wished to be quite ready for it.

If you looked into his face, you could see at once that he was not a
common man.  He was not a very old man; his hair was not yet grey upon
his head; and yet it seemed, at the first glance, as if he was very old.
But as you looked closer, you saw that it was not so; but that many, many
thoughts had passed through his mind, and left those deep marks stamped
even on his face.  It was not only sorrow, though there was much of that;
nor care, though he was now full of care; but besides these, it seemed as
if he had seen, and done, and felt great things--things in which all a
man's soul is called up, and so, which leave their impress behind them,
even when they have passed away.

He HAD seen great things, and felt great things.  He had seen God's most
holy angels going up to heaven, and coming down to earth upon their
messages of mercy.  He had heard the voice of the Lord of all, promising
to be his Father and his Friend.  And only the night before, the Angel of
the covenant had made himself known to him in the stillness of his lonely
tent, and made him strong to wrestle with him for a blessing, until the
breaking of the day.  So that it was no wonder, that when you looked into
his face, it was not like the face of a common man, but one which was
full of thought, which bore almost outwardly the stamp of great
mysteries.

But what was it which now filled this man with care?  He was returning
home from a far land where he had been staying twenty years, to the land
where his father dwelt.  He had gone out a poor man; he was coming home a
rich man.  He was bringing back with him his wives, and his children, and
his servants, and his flocks, and his herds; and of what was he afraid?
Surely he could trust the God who had kept him and blessed him all these
twenty years, and who had led him now so far on his journey?

Why should he fear now, when he was almost at his father's tent?

It was because he heard that HIS BROTHER was coming to meet him.  But why
should this fill him with such fear?  Surely it would be a happy meeting;
brothers born of the same father and of the same mother, who had dwelt
together in one tent, kneeled before one father's knees in prayer, and
joined together in the common plays of childhood,--surely their meeting
must be happy, now that they have been twenty years asunder, and God has
blessed them both, and they are about to see each other again in peace
and safety, and to shew to each other the children whom God had given
them, and who must remind them of their days of common childhood.  And
why then is the man afraid?  Because when he left his father's house this
brother was very angry with him, and he fears that he may have remembered
his anger all these twenty years, and be ready now to revenge himself for
that old quarrel.

And yet, why should this make such an one to fear?  Even if his brother
be still angry with him, and have cruel and evil thoughts against him,
cannot God deliver him?--cannot the same God who has kept him safely all
these twenty years of toil and labour, help and save him now?  Why then
does he fear so greatly?  He has not forgotten that this God can save
him--he has not for a moment forgotten it; for see how earnestly he makes
his prayer unto Him: hear his vows that if God will again deliver him, he
and all of his shall ever praise and serve him for this mercy.  Yet still
he is in fear; and he seems like a man who thought that there was some
reason why the God who had heard him in other cases should not hear him
in this.

What was it, then, which pressed so heavily upon this man's mind?  It was
the remembrance of an old sin.  He feared that God would leave him now to
Esau's wrath, because he knew that Esau's wrath was God's punishment of
his sin.  He feared that Esau's hand would slay his children, as God's
chastisement for the sins of his childhood.  He remembered that he had
lied to Isaac his father, and mocked the dimness of his aged eyes by a
false appearance; now he trembled lest his father's God should leave the
deceiver and the mocker to eat the bitter fruit of his old sin.  It was
not so much Esau's wrath, and Esau's company, and Esau's arms, which he
feared--though all these were very terrible to this peaceful man,--as it
was his own sin in days long past, which now met him again, and seemed to
frown upon him from the darkness before him.  In vain did he strive to
look on and see whether God would guide him there, for his sin clouded
over the light of God's countenance.  It was as when he strained his eyes
into the great sand-drifts of the desert through which he had passed:
they danced and whirled fearfully before him, and baffled all the
strivings of his earnest gaze.

But the time of trial was drawing very near.  And how did it end?  Instead
of falling upon him and slaying him and his; instead of making a spoil of
the oxen, and the asses, and the camels, and giving the young children to
the sword, Esau's heart melted as soon as they met; he fell upon his
brother's neck and kissed him; he looked lovingly upon the children who
had been born to him in the far land; he spake kindly of the old days of
their remembered childhood, of the grey-haired man at home; and he would
not take even the present which his brother had set apart for him.

Jacob knew who it was that had turned his brother's heart, and he felt
more than ever what a strong and blessed thing prayer and supplication
was.  Nor did he forget his childhood's sin against his God.  It had
looked out again upon him in manhood, and reminded him of God's holiness,
of his many past misdeeds, and made him pray more earnestly not to be
made to "possess the iniquities of his youth."

* * * * *

_Father_.  What should we learn from this account of Jacob's meeting
Esau?

_Child_.  That God remembers and often visits long afterwards the sins of
our childhood.

F.  Does not God, then, forgive the sins of children?

C.  Yes, He does forgive them, and blot them out for Christ's sake.

F.  Why, then, do we say that He visits them?

C.  Because He often allows the effects of past sins to be still their
punishment, even when He has forgiven them.

F.  Why does He do so?

C.  To shew us how He hates sin.

F.  What should we learn from this?

C.  To watch against every sin most carefully, because we never can know
what may be its effects; to remember how God has punished it, often for
years, in His true servants; to pray against sin; to think no sin little.

F.  What should we do, if we find the consequences of past sin coming
upon us?

C.  Take our chastisement meekly; humble ourselves under God's hand; pray
for deliverance, as, "Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my
transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness'
sake, O Lord" (Ps. xxv. 7).

F.  What should be the effect on us when God hears our prayer, and
delivers us?

C.  It should make us more humbly remember our sins and unworthiness, and
strive to shew forth our thankfulness, "not with our lips only, but in
our lives."

{Finis: p172.jpg}

LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT & RIVINGTON,
St. John's Square.




Footnotes:


{6}  Rev. xxii. 2.

{45a}  Lover of God.

{45b}  Wanderer.

{45c}  Timid.

{46}  Help.

{49a}  Prov. ii. 19.

{49b}  Ps. cxix. 9.

{76}  Isaiah xlii. 16.

{79a}  Isaiah xxxv. 3, 4.

{79b}  Ps. cxix. 67.

{80}  Isaiah xxxv. 9.

{95a}  Bold, or Rash.

{95b}  Tender.

{96}  Faith.

{148a}  Matt. xxv. 30.

{148b}  Ib. xxv. 46.