AMUMLtf 
 



 
 
SACRED ALLEGORIES. 
 
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 Distant lilli 
 (Dli Satfs lirau. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 EEV. W, ADAMS, M.A. 
 
 iLate JFellotn of ffierton (College, 
 
 FRANCIS & JOHN RIYINGTON, 
 
 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD AND WATERLOO-PLACE. 
 MDCCCXLIX. 
 
Hontrofl : 
 
 BREAD 8TKEET BILL. 
 
43 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR v 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS 1 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS . 91 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME 195 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS . . 283 
 
 M70019O 
 
 A 2 
 
Mtmm nf tjje 
 
 THE Life of an individual called so early 
 from this state of probation and trial, 
 and who passed so many of his later 
 years in privacy, can present no features 
 of striking interest ; and yet it is so 
 impossible to become familiar with the 
 contents of this volume, without acquiring 
 a strong feeling of personal attachment 
 to its Author, that a short memorial of 
 him may not prove unacceptable to its 
 readers. 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 He was the second son of Mr. Serjeant 
 Adams, and grandson of the late Simon 
 Adams, Esq. of Ansty Hall, Warwickshire, 
 in which county his family have been long 
 settled. His mother, who survived his 
 Ibirth but a few days, was the only 
 daughter of the late William Nation, Esq. 
 of Exeter. He was remarkable in his 
 childhood for the vivacity and playfulness 
 of his disposition, but until his twelfth 
 year he exhibited no marks of those 
 superior powers which he subsequently 
 displayed. We believe, indeed, there is 
 a letter still extant of that period, in 
 which his father speaks of their develop- 
 ment, and of his future hopes. In his 
 thirteenth year he was sent to Eton, 
 whence he passed with the greatest ex- 
 pectations to Oxford, and there closed a 
 brilliant career with the highest honours 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 the University can bestow, having, inde- 
 pendently of other distinctions, obtained a 
 double first-class degree in the year 1836, 
 therein having followed the steps of his 
 beloved elder brother, who had obtained 
 the same honours eighteen months before, 
 and who survived him only a few months. 
 In the following year he was elected fellow 
 and tutor of Merton College, and was 
 shortly afterwards presented to the vicarage 
 of St. Peter's-in-the-east, at Oxford, a small 
 living belonging to that College. 
 
 He continued actively and sedulously to 
 discharge both his college and parochial 
 duties until the spring of 1842, when he 
 was appointed one of the Examiners for 
 the Newcastle Scholarship at Eton; and 
 whilst attending that Examination caught 
 a violent cold, from bathing after a day of 
 
 vii 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 much excitement and exertion, which falling 
 upon the lungs, ultimately terminated 
 fatally. 
 
 To one so devoted to the service of his 
 Divine Master, the blow that thus forced 
 him to give up his residence in the Uni- 
 versity, and the care of his parish, was pecu- 
 liarly hard to bear, and for a short period 
 he clung to the hope that he might be again 
 enabled to resume his charge ; but when 
 experience had shown him, that although 
 his life might be prolonged a few years 
 by care and repose, he could not hope 
 again to resume the active duties of his 
 profession, he resigned the living, but 
 without ceasing to feel the deepest interest 
 in his late parishioners ; and he evinced 
 his remembrance of, and affection for 
 them, by re- writing and dedicating to them, 
 
 viii 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 next in order was " The Fall of Croesus/' 
 which was followed, at no long interval, 
 by the most universally admired of all his 
 writings, "The Old Man's Home." His 
 last work, " The King's Messengers," was 
 published only a few days before his 
 death. 
 
 The design of the first two of these 
 publications was in many respects the same ; 
 the endeavour in both of them being to 
 impress upon the minds of the children of 
 the Church, first, the blessedness of the 
 position in which they are placed by holy 
 baptism ; secondly, the danger they incur, 
 from their earliest years, of forfeiting that 
 blessedness by giving way to temptation ; 
 and, thirdly, the fearful extent to which that 
 danger may be increased by unrepented 
 sin. 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOtt. 
 
 The author has thus explained his views 
 in his preface to the joint edition of these 
 two works : " Two distinct views may 
 be taken of our position in the Church 
 upon earth. We may either regard it 
 as enabling us, by the light that shines 
 upon it from above, to pass in safety 
 through the trials of life; or as affording 
 us a field of contemplation altogether 
 removed from the present world. The 
 former view has been principally adopted 
 in the Shadow of the Cross, the latter 
 in the Distant Hills ; and it is hoped 
 that the two combined may, by God's 
 grace, be a means of leading those who 
 read them to endeavour to exercise and 
 retain all their baptismal privileges, both 
 by seeking the mark of the cross on 
 the earthly objects around them, and 
 also by setting their affections on things 
 
 xii 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 a few months before Ms death, a series 
 of Lectures he had in the early part of 
 his ministry preached in his parish church, 
 called "The Warnings of the Holy Week/* 
 
 In this work he day by day narrates, 
 in clear and simple language, the incidents 
 of the last days of our Saviour's ministry, 
 and brings out the warnings in a touching 
 and affectionate manner peculiar to himself. 
 This work, although of a different character 
 from his other publications, has attained 
 great celebrity, and bears upon it decisive 
 proofs of his deep thought and knowledge, 
 and of his fitness for the duties of a 
 Christian Pastor. 
 
 t 
 
 The ALLEGORIES, which form the subject 
 of this volume, are the works by which he 
 first attracted the attention of the public, 
 
 A 3 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 and won the sympathy of a large class of 
 readers. This style of writing, uniting the 
 assumption of a state of things altogether 
 imaginary with the inculcation of the most 
 serious truths, the ingenuity of the man 
 of fancy with the earnest piety of the 
 Christian teacher, was excellently adapted 
 to his powers ; and the rapidity with which 
 his volumes followed each other, bore evi- 
 dence to his facility, and also to the favour 
 with which they were received. 
 
 The "Shadow of the Cross" was the 
 first in order, and was the only one that 
 was written before his attack of illness, 
 which came on shortly after the manuscript 
 was complete. It was published in the 
 autumn of 1842, on the eve of his de- 
 parture for the island of Madeira. " The 
 Distant Hills" appeared in 1844. The 
 
MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
 above, and having their conversation in 
 Heaven." 
 
 " The Old Man's Home" was written 
 with the view of bringing out strongly 
 and distinctly the realities of the unseen 
 world, and the incidents it contains were 
 designed only as a medium for allegorical 
 teaching; yet such is the skill with which 
 this simple tale is written, that an 
 erroneous impression at first prevailed 
 that "The Old Man's Home" was a true 
 story, and the incidents real. 
 
 His last work "The 'King's Messen- 
 gers" is of a higher and more dramatic 
 cast than any of his other publications. 
 There is a stronger development of inci- 
 dent, and a more varied interest given to 
 the story ; there are reverses of fortune, 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 and opposition of character, and perhaps 
 more skill exhibited in conducting all the 
 threads of the narrative to the one designed 
 conclusion, than has been shown in any 
 recent work of the kind. The tale differs 
 also, in some respects, both in design and 
 character, from the preceding Allegories. 
 Their intention is to give a general view 
 of our state as Christians, " The King's 
 Messengers " merely to bring forward, 
 prominently and distinctively, a single 
 Christian duty. " In consequence of this/' 
 says the author, " it involves very little 
 of doctrinal teaching; while the allegorical 
 meaning lies so completely on the surface, 
 that the youngest child cannot fail to 
 apprehend it. For both these reasons, 
 any explanatory conversations have been 
 considered unnecessary. But a conver- 
 sation of a different character has been 
 
 xiv 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 annexed, in order to obviate the miscon- 
 struction to which the dwelling on any 
 one duty to the exclusion of others is 
 always liable, and at the same time to 
 apply and illustrate the truths conveyed 
 in the story/ 3 
 
 The object of "The Pall of Croesus," 
 which, as well as " The Warnings of the 
 Holy Week/' is not included in this 
 volume, is to connect the study of history 
 with a belief in the doctrine of a super- 
 intending Providence; and to point out, 
 that whilst on the surface of history man 
 forms his own schemes and carries them 
 into effect, an under-current pervades it, 
 which, by a hidden influence, controls 
 his course, and forces him, whether in the 
 success or failure of his plans, to accomplish 
 the unchangeable decrees of God. 
 
MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It is difficult to convey to the readers 
 of this memorial, by those general features 
 to which we are limited, a just conception 
 of the true character of this amiable and 
 excellent man. Whilst the higher virtues 
 of the Christian shone conspicuously 
 around him, and his varied knowledge and 
 literary success acted on his well-regulated 
 mind only as a farther inducement to 
 meekness and humility, his .manners were 
 gentle and attractive, and there was a 
 charming playfulness, a vein of mirth 
 running through his lively conversation, 
 peculiarly winning. Knowing the perfect 
 simplicity of his mind, his self-denying 
 spirit, and the unrepining, almost tri- 
 umphant submission with which he bore 
 his long and irremediable illness, the 
 listener was reminded of the poet's beau- 
 tiful explanation of the union that frequently 
 
 xvi 
 

 
MEMOIR OE THE AUTHOR. 
 
 exists between the deepest piety and the 
 most sparkling wit : 
 
 "For the root of some grave earnest thought is under- 
 struck so rightly, 
 As to justify the foliage and spreading flowers above." 
 
 He passed the last five years of his 
 valuable life in strict privacy, at the 
 beautiful village of Bonchurch, in the Isle 
 of Wight, devoting the proceeds of his 
 valuable works to public and private cha- 
 rities, and solaced in his intervals of rest 
 by the companionship of the valued and 
 attached friends by whom he was sur- 
 rounded, and affording to them an example 
 of Christian fortitude under suffering, and 
 of resignation to the Divine will. 
 
 The soundness of his views upon the 
 great doctrines of the Christian revelation 
 will be best estimated by a perusal of his 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 works ; and if, in addition to those views, 
 the humblest submission to the will of God 
 a Catholic faith, which hopeth all things, 
 endureth all things and a Catholic love, 
 which embraced all, however opposed to 
 his views of Church polity, can give an 
 erring mortal a right to be considered as 
 a faithful member of the Church of Christ, 
 this character will not be denied to the 
 author of these pages, which breathe in 
 every line " Glory to God in the highest, 
 on earth peace, good- will towards men." 
 
 xviii 
 
THE 
 
 SHADOW OF THE CKOSS. 
 
 And he said unto them all, If any man will come after me, 
 let him deny himself, and take up his Cross DAILY, and follow 
 me. St. Luke ix. 23. 
 
CJjt jjflfrmn nf tjit Cram 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, 
 As more of Heaven in each we see : 
 Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
 Shall dawn on every cross and care. 
 
 A THICK darkness was spread over the earth, 
 and as I stood on the top of a lofty mountain, 
 the only object that I could see was the sun, 
 which had risen in the far east with a won- 
 derful glory. It was as a ball of clear and 
 living fire ; and yet so soft and chastened was 
 its ray, that, while I gazed, my eye was not 
 dazzled, and I felt I should love to look upon 
 it for ever. Presently, as it shone upon the 
 mists which rested on the earth, they became 
 tremulous with light, and in a moment they 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 floated by, and a scene of life and beauty was 
 opened to my view. 
 
 I saw a spot of ground, so rich and fertile, 
 that it might well be called a garden; the 
 sweetest flowers were growing wild in the fields, 
 and the very pathways appeared to sparkle 
 with rubies and emeralds ; there were, too, the 
 most luxuriant orchards, and cool groves of 
 orange trees and myrtles, and the breeze of the 
 morning was playing among their branches. 
 Now, as I watched the butterflies that fluttered 
 over the flowers, and the lambs sporting on the 
 smooth grass, and as I listened to the song of 
 the nightingales in the woods, I fancied it was 
 some scene of enchantment which I saw, it was 
 so very full of happiness and life. Every where, 
 at the extremity of the view, my eye rested on 
 a clear narrow stream: I could trace neither 
 mountain from which it rose, nor ocean into 
 which it fell ; but it glided round and round in 
 an endless circular course, forming as it were a 
 border of silver to that lovely garden on which 
 the sun was shining. The morning light ever 
 kept adding fresh beauty to each tree and flower 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 on which it fell, but the brightest and clearest 
 rays were those which were reflected by this 
 narrow stream; and at this I wondered the 
 rather, because, on the other side of the ring of 
 water, all was still wrapt in a thick and gloomy 
 fog, and though I gazed long and earnestly, I 
 saw nothing. 
 
 Young and lovely children were continually 
 crossing the narrow stream ; there was no other 
 way of escaping from the land of darkness to 
 the land of light. Their garments became white 
 as snow by their passage through the water, and 
 sparkled with a dazzling brightness as the sun 
 first shone upon upon them; I observed, too, 
 that each child, as he entered the garden, held 
 a little cross in his hand. Now, when I reflected 
 how many millions might still be wandering in 
 the dark and gloomy region beyond, on whom 
 the glorious sun would never shed its cheering 
 warmth, I could not help thinking how happy 
 the children were to have found thus early the 
 narrow stream, and I said in my heart, Surely 
 this lovely garden was made for them, and they 
 will live in it for ever. 
 
 B 2 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 While I was musing thus, it seemed that, in 
 answer, a still soft Voice came floating on the 
 breeze, and said, " It is indeed for such children 
 as these that the sun is shining, and for them 
 that the mists have been cleared away, but none 
 of the beautiful things in the garden belong to 
 them; they are waiting here as strangers, till 
 their Father shall summon them home; and 
 when they go hence, they can take nothing 
 away with them but the little crosses in their 
 hands, and the white garments which they 
 wear." "Who, then, are these children?" I 
 asked, " and what is the name of the garden ? 
 and when they are taken from it, whither will 
 they go?" And the Voice said, " The children 
 are sons of a mighty King, and the garden is 
 called the Garden of t$t &{)a&0fo Of tj) CtOSS ; 
 but no one can tell whither each child will go 
 when he is taken away it will depend on how 
 far he escapes the dangers of the gardens. If 
 they carelessly lose their crosses, or so stain 
 their beautiful garments, that they can be 
 made white no more, they will be thought un- 
 worthy of the presence of the great King, and 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 will be hid in an outer darkness, more thick 
 and terrible than that which they have just 
 left. But if, when they go away, the crosses 
 are still in their hands, and they so far keep 
 themselves clean that the King may recognise 
 them for His own children, then will their 
 garments be washed until they become more 
 shining white than snow, and they will be 
 taken to a brighter and happier land, in which 
 they will live with their Father for ever." 
 
 But I understood not what the Voice meant 
 by the dangers of the garden, and I wondered, 
 too, that it should speak to me of a brighter and 
 happier land ; for I thought within myself, that 
 no land could be more beautiful than that on 
 which I gazed, and no sun more glorious than 
 that which was shining there. And the Voice 
 again answered my thoughts, and said, " It is 
 indeed true, that no sun surpasseth in glory 
 that which is shining on the land encircled by 
 the silver stream ; but were it not for the light 
 so resting upon it, there is nothing to be desired 
 in the garden itself. At one time every thing, 
 not only here, but in the country around, was 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 
 
 very good there was no mist or darkness then ; 
 but now an enemy of the King has corrupted 
 all. The very air the children breathe is wont 
 to sully their white garments, and each delight 
 of the garden is full of hidden danger and 
 deceit. While every thing appears to the eye 
 so beautiful and innocent, there is, in truth, 
 a poison lurking in each fruit and flower; 
 cunning serpents are hiding in the grass; 
 snares and stumbling-blocks innumerable are 
 placed in the broad ways that look so bright 
 and smooth ; and even in the groves of myrtle 
 roaring lions are wandering about, anxious to 
 tear the children that come thither, and to 
 stain their white garments with blood." 
 
 And when I heard this, I wept bitterly for 
 the poor children, whom I had thought so happy 
 before, and I said, " Oh wretched children, thus 
 to be placed in a garden so full of dangers, and 
 to be tempted by fruits and flowers which you 
 dare not gather ! Surely there is not one of you 
 who will not at last imbibe some secret poison, 
 or fall into some dreadful snare, or be stung by 
 a serpent, or torn by a lion ; and so you will be 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 prevented from entering that better country 
 which your Father has prepared for you. " 
 And the Voice said, " There is not one of the 
 King's children who may not dwell in peace and 
 happiness in the garden. Not only is their 
 Father Himself ever present with them, though 
 they cannot see Him, but He has given to each 
 a talisman, which will enable them to live here 
 in security, and even to enjoy the fruits and 
 flowers, until it is His good pleasure to call them 
 to Himself. You see that the sun is shining 
 brightly and gloriously in the east; you see, 
 too, that each little one has been provided with 
 a cross: so long then as the cross is so held 
 that the rays of the sun fall upon it, and cast a 
 shadow on the surrounding objects, they will 
 remain safe and happy in their garden; for 
 every fruit on which the mark of the cross is 
 seen, may be tasted of without fear, and each 
 path may be trodden in safety on which its 
 shadow rests. 
 
 "But will not," I asked, "the hands of the 
 children become wearied by holding the cross, 
 and their eyes grow dim while they watch the 
 
 7 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 shadows?" And the Voice replied, "Their 
 hands would indeed soon become weary, and 
 their eyes grow dim, if their sight or their 
 strength were their own ; but these are among 
 the number of those precious gifts, that each 
 child, as he crossed the stream, received from 
 his Father. He is ever at hand to watch over 
 them ; and, so long as they are really anxious 
 to be guided by the cross, He will not suffer 
 their sight or strength to fail. Nay more, He 
 has appointed means, by which they themselves 
 may seek the renewal of these gifts day after 
 day, and hour after hour." 
 
 When I heard this I wept no more, but 
 I thought how good and kind that Father must 
 be, who took such care of each little child. 
 From this time I ceased to watch the trees and 
 the flowers, or even the bright ring of water 
 that kept flowing round the garden ; for I felt 
 deeply interested about the King's children, and 
 I fancied it would be very beautiful to see them 
 throwing shadows from their little crosses, and 
 so living unhurt in the garden of the Shadow 
 of the Cross. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Now, I had expected that, as there was no 
 difference in the crosses themselves, so, too, 
 would there be none in the shadows, and that 
 every child who held the cross would make the 
 same use of it. But I soon found that, though 
 the crosses were indeed all alike, there was 
 very great variety in the images which they 
 cast. There were some which were very dark 
 and gloomy, and some, on the contrary, were so 
 fair and soft, that they were more beautiful to 
 look upon than the surrounding light ; some fell 
 fixed and steadfast, some faint and wavering ; 
 some fell in clusters, and some alone. There 
 was also a very great difference in the way in 
 which the children held their crosses : some 
 merely raised them on high, and then walked 
 quietly wherever the shadow fell ; some kept 
 twisting them backwards and forwards, as though 
 it were a work of much difficulty to form the 
 shadow ; and some, methought, even when the 
 image was most distinct, were unable to see it. 
 Many, too, there were who hid their crosses, 
 and only used them now and then, and I knew 
 that those poor children were in continual 
 
 B 3 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 danger ; and some, too, had thrown them away 
 altogether, and I feared that they would be lost. 
 At length my eye grew weary with the confusion 
 of the scene, and I resolved to fix it steadily 
 on some one child, and to watch its progress 
 through the garden. One little girl there was 
 amidst a group of children, with features so 
 pure and lovely, that, when she had once 
 attracted my attention, I could easily distinguish 
 her from the rest. The name of " Innocence" 
 was written on her forehead; and, from the 
 whiteness of her garments, I thought that she 
 must have entered very lately into the garden. 
 I watched her as she played with her companions 
 in the fields, and I loved to see her stop with 
 them to taste the fruits or gather the flowers by 
 the way ; for I observed that she chose not the 
 greenest paths, nor the ripest fruits, nor the 
 fairest flowers, but only those on which the 
 image of her cross was seen. Nay, neither 
 fruit nor flower seemed to have any charms for 
 her, unless the cross had thrown its shadow 
 there ; and I wondered not that it was so, for 
 the more I gazed, the more soft and beautiful 
 
 10 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 seemed the outline that it traced. The child 
 was always happy; her sole pleasure was in 
 her little cross and the shadows it formed ; fall 
 where they would, she was sure to follow them. 
 I saw, too, that she taught her friends to seek 
 the shadows also, and when the mark of her 
 cross and theirs might be discerned on the same 
 object, then was she happiest of all. 
 
 And as I gazed, behold ! a snow-white dove 
 was resting on the cross, and the form of the 
 little one began already to fade from my view ; 
 her features became less bright, though not less 
 pure, than they were before, and I knew that 
 young Innocence, with her garments still white, 
 was passing away from the garden. In a little 
 while her companions were weeping, and the 
 child was gone. I did not weep, for I felt she 
 had been taken away to that brighter and 
 happier land of which the Voice had spoken ; 
 yet long after we had ceased to see her, I fancied 
 she was still present in the garden, and, as she 
 had been wont to do, was holding her little 
 cross in the light of the sun ; for its shadow 
 continued to play around all the objects she 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 had loved; I could trace it not only on the 
 faces of her friends, but on the flowers she 
 had gathered, and the very pathways she had 
 trod. I observed, too, that these images 
 became brighter and more distinct from the 
 tears that fell upon them, and images from 
 other crosses kept clustering around them, and 
 I thought, if the beautiful child were indeed 
 still looking on the garden, how happy she must 
 be that the crosses of those who wept for her 
 were thus blended with her own. 
 
 12 
 
THE SHADOW OP THE CROSS. 
 
 Conversation on Chapter X. 
 
 diL WHAT is signified by the bright and 
 glorious sun that appeared in the east ? 
 
 &. Jesus Christ our Lord. 
 
 (!il. Yes ; he is spoken of as the " Sun of 
 Righteousness" by the prophet Malachi. And 
 the beautiful garden on which its rays fell, is 
 the kingdom that our Lord established upon 
 earth ; now, why is that kingdom represented 
 as surrounded by a silver stream ? 
 
 S^ Because it is through the water of 
 baptism that we enter it. 
 
 (Osl* Do you remember how this was typified 
 in the history of the children of Israel ? 
 
 St. Yes; you explained to me in the Bap- 
 tismal Service, that it was by the passage through 
 the Red Sea. The words there, I think, are, 
 "Who didst safely lead the children of Israel 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 through the Red Sea, figuring thereby thy holy 
 baptism." 
 
 (01. You can, then, tell me on which side of 
 the stream you were born. 
 
 &. In the land of darkness ; for I was born 
 in sin, and a child of wrath. 
 
 <0i. And when you were baptized, you were 
 cleansed from your sin, and carried, as it were, 
 through the clear stream in your garment of 
 white, with your little cross in your hand. As 
 soon as you thus entered the garden, you 
 were made a member of Christ. Who, then, 
 became your Father, and what inheritance was 
 promised you ? 
 
 ^. Heaven was my inheritance, and God 
 became my Father ; for, at the same time that 
 I was made a member of Christ, I became also 
 a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom 
 of heaven. 
 
 (HI. Why are we told that neither the sight 
 nor the strength of the children was their 
 own? 
 
 &. Because we can do nothing except through 
 the influence of the Holy Ghost. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 (Hi. Why is it said that the children re- 
 ceived these precious gifts as they crossed the 
 stream ? 
 
 . Because it is at our Baptism that we 
 receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 dlt. What, then, is signified by the constant 
 renewal of their sight and strength ? 
 
 &. The being daily renewed by the Holy 
 Spirit of God. 
 
 <&, And how must we seek for such re- 
 newal? 
 
 g(. By prayer. 
 
 <?it. Yes ; and by Holy Communion, and 
 all the other means of grace which God has 
 appointed to refresh and support the Christian 
 in his daily walk. What is meant by the 
 children being placed in the garden, in order 
 to prepare them for their Father's presence ? 
 
 &. That the Christian is to endeavour so 
 to live in the present world, that hereafter 
 he may be thought worthy to be with God for 
 for ever. 
 
 (&. How were the children to prepare them- 
 selves ? 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 &. They were to keep their garments white, 
 and hold fast their crosses. 
 
 dEl. In the same way, then, each one of us 
 must prepare himself for heaven, by abstaining 
 from sin and impurity, and holding fast the 
 profession of Christ. Can you tell me how the 
 sign of the cross is spoken of in the Baptismal 
 Service ? 
 
 &. As a token that hereafter we shall not 
 be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ cru- 
 cified, and manfully to fight under his banner, 
 against sin, the world, and the devil, and to 
 continue Christ's faithful soldiers and servants 
 unto our life's end. 
 
 (Hi. How are sin, the world, and the devil 
 represented in the allegory ? 
 
 jit. They are the poisons, the snares, the ser- 
 pents, and the other dangers of the garden. 
 
 dBt. You are right. But, instead of fighting 
 against them, we are here, under a different 
 image, represented as passing safely through 
 them by means of the shadow of the cross. 
 What will be the fate of those unhappy children 
 who neglect that safeguard ? 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 &. When they leave the garden, they will 
 never again behold the glorious Sun, but they 
 will be cast into outer darkness, where there 
 shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. 
 
 (01. Such in another world will be the punish- 
 ment of the faithless followers of Christ. But 
 now tell me how it was that, while the chil- 
 dren were in the garden, there was so much 
 variety in the shadows that fell from different 
 crosses ? 
 
 ^ Is it because religion seems a bright and 
 cheerful thing to some, while it is sad and 
 gloomy to others ? 
 
 dH. It is so. God has ordained that Chris- 
 tianity should shed, as it were, a different 
 complexion on different minds, and that the 
 course, which is easy and natural to one dis- 
 position, should be hard and laborious to another. 
 There is one great cause of this variety, that 
 will be explained in the following part of the 
 allegory. You will find that those children who 
 neglected for a time to consult their crosses, 
 afterwards found it a very difficult task to tread 
 in their shadow ; for though we are told that 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 the ways of wisdom are, in themselves, ways of 
 pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace, 
 the return to them is always by a hard way and 
 rugged path. 
 
 {. Little Innocence found them peaceful 
 and pleasant, because she always continued 
 there. 
 
 <!lt. She did so for the short time she remained 
 in the garden. You know what is meant by her 
 fading away ? 
 
 ^. She was taken to heaven. 
 
 (S. And by the shadow that still seemed to 
 fall from her cross? 
 
 &. The remembrance that she left upon the 
 earth. 
 
 (Hi. Yes. There is an almost sacred feeling 
 with which we regard every thing connected 
 with those little ones who have lived and died 
 in the Lord. The shadow of their cross may 
 indeed be said to rest on each innocent amuse- 
 ment and occupation that they have loved ; and 
 the images from other crosses will cluster around 
 it, for no soil is more kindly to good and holy 
 resolutions than the remembrance of departed 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 friends : " to be with them is to be with Christ." 
 There are affections and sympathies which are 
 fixed upon them during their lives, which by 
 their deaths it often pleases God to draw 
 Himself. 
 
of tfje 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 When with dear friends sweet talk I hold, 
 And all the flowers of life unfold; 
 Let not my heart within me burn. 
 Except in all I Thee discern. 
 
 WHEN Innocence had thus early been called 
 away from the garden, I selected one of the 
 little group of mourners, whom I next resolved 
 to watch. He was a very beautiful boy, and 
 had been one of the favourite friends of 
 Innocence, and when I first observed him, was 
 crying bitterly for his loss. But he soon dried 
 his tears, and as I looked on his clear and open 
 forehead, the name of " Mirth " was written 
 there. Long after he had ceased weeping, I 
 could see that he had not forgotten his com- 
 panion, for he continued to play in the same 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 field in which Innocence had left him, and 
 affection for his former playmate ever led him 
 to choose those flowers on which the shadow of 
 her cross was lingering still. 
 
 While he remained there, I knew that the 
 boy was safe from danger; but afterwards, 
 when he began to wander to other parts of the 
 garden, I grew alarmed lest some evil might 
 befal him; for, though he grasped his own 
 cross firmly in his hand, so quick and lively 
 was his step, that I feared he might soon be 
 tempted to move beyond its shadow. However, 
 I was beginning to hope there was no good 
 reason for my alarm; for, though he gathered 
 more abundantly than Innocence had done of 
 the flowers that were by the way, I observed 
 that he never touched them until the shadow 
 of his cross had rested upon them ; and if there 
 were any on which it did not fall, he passed 
 them by. But before long it seemed that his 
 eye was attracted by a beautiful bed of roses 
 and violets that grew on a little hill, at the foot 
 of which he was walking : I saw him hold his 
 cross for a moment between them and the sun, 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 and he quite laughed for joy as he caught a 
 glimpse of its shadow there; he bounded lightly 
 forward, and, intending to gather a lovely nose- 
 gay, began in haste to scramble up the hill. 
 Now, this I perceived with sorrow, for I was 
 afraid the little fellow had not observed that 
 there were many roses there on which no part 
 of the shadow fell ; and I feared lest in his 
 eagerness he should seize one of them, and, 
 by doing so, I knew not what risk he might 
 incur. There was good cause for my fear. 
 The child, breathless with his scramble up 
 the hill, stretched out his hand and plucked 
 the finest rose that he saw; it was one of 
 those on which no shadow had fallen, and he 
 had scarce held it a moment, when a wasp, 
 that had concealed itself among the leaves, 
 crawled out and stung him on the finger: 
 the poor boy screamed with pain, for the 
 sting of the wasp was unlike anything he had 
 felt before. He hastily dashed the flower to 
 the ground; but one leaf, I observed, was 
 blown back by the wind, and rested on his 
 clothes: Mirth saw it also, and brushed it 
 
 22 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 away ; but, when it was gone, there was a 
 stain on those garments which had been so 
 white before. It was but a very little spot, 
 and, as the tears trickled down upon it, grew 
 so faint, that it could hardly be discerned at 
 all ; but still the spot was there. The smart, 
 however, that the sting caused was of no 
 long continuance, and in a short time little 
 Mirth was going merrily on his way, as 
 though no accident had happened. 
 
 By and by, as he was walking by a bright 
 path across a field, one of his former companions 
 perceived him, and ran over the green to meet 
 him ; I could see that he shook Mirth warmly 
 by the hand, and persuaded him that for a 
 little while they should amuse themselves to- 
 gether. But I was grieved that the friend of 
 Innocence should join company with the child, 
 for there was many a soil on his white garments, 
 and there was no cross in his hand, and the 
 name of " Wayward " was written on his brow. 
 I thought, too, that Mirth looked shocked when 
 first he met him, and I heard him ask after his 
 cross ; but Wayward laughed, and told him it 
 
 23 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 was so troublesome to keep it always in his 
 hand, that he now carried it in his clothes. He 
 said, however, that he never forgot to take it 
 out when there were any difficulties in the 
 way ; but in the green fields and smooth paths 
 he needed not its shadow. 
 
 Now, methought, the stains on his clothes 
 proved that, without the cross, neither the 
 greenest fields nor the smoothest paths were 
 safe ; but it would seem that Mirth did not 
 observe them, for his mind appeared at ease, 
 when he found Wayward had not thrown away 
 the cross ; and the two boys walked on together. 
 Little Mirth still, however, kept his own cross 
 in his hand, and its shadow ever fell clear 
 and distinct on the bright path he trod ; while 
 Wayward walked heedlessly along the soft turf 
 by his side, and laughed at the caution of his 
 companion. But I soon observed that Mirth 
 was growing weary of the narrow way, and 
 tired of placing his footsteps exactly in the 
 print of the cross, and that by little and little 
 he deviated from it ; he ventured first close by 
 the side of the grass, and then just to tread on 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 its edge, and so he walked nearer to his com- 
 panion. Now they had not gone far, when, at 
 the point where the turf looked most soft and 
 inviting, they fell into swampy ground, and in 
 an instant the green miry water rose above 
 their ankles. Poor Mirth, directly he felt it, 
 leaped back upon the road, for it was at no 
 great distance ; but before he could reach it his 
 garments were already splashed, and there was 
 a sad shade of green all around their border. 
 Wayward fell deeper into the marsh than 
 Mirth, because he had been walking farther 
 from the path; but, when he had forced his 
 way out, he treated his misfortune lightly, and 
 scarce stopped a moment to wipe the dirt from 
 his clothes ; nor did I wonder at this, for they 
 were so stained before, that the splashes of the 
 green mud could hardly be seen on them at all; 
 but it made me feel the more pity for Mirth, as 
 he looked sadly at his own stains ; and I 
 thought how foolish a thing it was, for a child, 
 still clad in raiment of white, to walk with one 
 whose garments were so defiled. 
 
 It seemed, however, that Mirth thought not 
 
 25 C 
 
THE SHADOW OP THE CROSS. 
 
 of that, for he still allowed Wayward to ac- 
 company him ; nay, in a little while I almost 
 fancied he began to look discontented at the 
 whiteness of his clothes, for the fear of spoiling 
 them often forced him to pick his way over 
 stones with care, while his companion could 
 walk heedlessly through the mud. Alas I if it 
 were so, the silly child had not much longer 
 such cause for discontent ; for a beautiful 
 butterfly in a neighbouring field caught the 
 attention of Wayward, and in a moment away 
 he ran, calling to his companion to follow; and 
 I saw that, for the first time, Mirth joined in 
 the pursuit without consulting his cross. Now, 
 I have no doubt the boys thought they would 
 have to go but a very little way before they 
 gained possession of their prize, for I too 
 fancied so at first ; but, as they came near, the 
 butterfly opened its bright wings to the sun, 
 and fluttered away, settling first on one flower, 
 then on another, and ever, as the children 
 stretched out their hands to take it, just eluded 
 their grasp. A long and wearisome chase it 
 led them in the end. At first they went 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 merrily through the green fields; but after- 
 wards, as they grew more eager in the pursuit, 
 and the bright butterfly tempted them on, they 
 climbed steep hills, and scrambled down into 
 the valleys beneath ; they ran through brooks, 
 leaped over ditches, and broke through hedges 
 in their way, and yet the provoking insect was 
 no nearer than before. And I said, " Oh that 
 Mirth had tried whether the shadow of his 
 cross would rest on its glittering wings, before 
 he began thus hastily to follow it ! " for many 
 a splash of mud had fallen upon him in the 
 eagerness of the pursuit, and his little hands 
 were so scratched with thorns, that in some 
 parts they had sprinkled his clothes with 
 blood. 
 
 At length they came to a smooth grassy 
 plain, at the border of which was a lovely grove 
 of myrtles. The butterfly flew high in the 
 air towards the distant trees, for there was 
 neither plant nor flower in the plain itself. 
 Now, I observed that Mirth had outstripped 
 Wayward in the chase ; and as he ran heedlessly 
 on, gazing upwards towards the butterfly, his 
 
 27 C 2 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 foot struck against a stone concealed in the 
 long grass, and he was thrown violently to the 
 ground. The careless child was well nigh 
 stunned by the fall; and when he recovered 
 his feet, he trembled exceedingly, and the mark 
 of the green grass was deeply imprinted on his 
 clothes ; yet I was glad that the accident made 
 him grasp his little cross, which before he had 
 well nigh forgotten, the more firmly in his 
 hand. Just as his companion joined him, he 
 held it thoughtfully towards the sun ; and 
 when he saw that its image was not reflected 
 on the wood, but on a hard dull path, leading 
 in an opposite direction, he at once turned 
 aside from the beautiful butterfly which he 
 had so long been following. 
 
 Wayward too seemed a little frightened by 
 his companion's fall, for he also took out his 
 cross; and when its dim shadow fell on the 
 same hard, dull path, he too relinquished the 
 pursuit of the butterfly, and accompanied Mirth. 
 So the two boys walked on, sadly and silently, 
 together ; but Mirth limped a little as he went, 
 from the pain of his fall. Yery glad I was 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 that they had not ventured to enter the wood ; 
 for, though they saw them not, I could see the 
 bright eyes of a serpent gleaming from beneath 
 the myrtle on which the butterfly was resting. 
 He seemed to be waiting anxiously for the 
 approach of the children, and I doubt not there 
 was poison in his fang. 
 
 . Now, I have said that the road by which 
 Mirth and Wayward left the grove of myrtles 
 was dull and hard; for I had by this time 
 discovered that, soft and beautiful as every 
 thing looked in the distance, there were not 
 only some paths in the garden deceitful and 
 dangerous, but others hard and dull. It led 
 them by many a withered leaf and faded 
 flower; and each leaf and flower was watered 
 by the tears of Mirth, for his eyes were ever 
 fixed downward upon the ground: he was as one 
 who was unconscious whither he was walking, 
 and whose only care was so to measure each 
 step that it might fall exactly in the shadow 
 before him. Wayward, too, for a little while, 
 looked downward also, and step by step trod in 
 the same path with Ihis companion : but, when 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 they had gone on for some time in safety, from 
 the force of habit he left off carrying his cross 
 in his hand, and concealed it as he had done 
 before; and then he soon grew weary of the 
 dulness of the road, and longed to turn aside 
 to some of the pleasant paths on the right hand 
 or on the left. He appeared to me, however, 
 to be half afraid of wandering alone; for I 
 heard him coaxing Mirth to leave off watching 
 those gloomy images, and to come and join with 
 him in some merry game, saying that, by doing 
 so, he would the sooner forget the effects of his 
 fall. But Mirth still walked on in the same 
 disconsolate way, with his eyes fixed upon the 
 ground. His heart was then indeed too full of 
 heaviness to suffer him to think of play at all ; 
 yet, perhaps, he might not have been able to 
 resist very long the entreaties of Wayward, 
 had it not so happened that the boys did not 
 much further continue their walk together. 
 
 A sudden turn in the dull road brought them 
 to one of those fields over which in happier 
 times Mirth had often loved to ramble with 
 Innocence ; and the shadow of his cross rested 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 full on a faded lily, which had been sown and 
 watered by the hands of his former friend. 
 Here the poor little fellow paused, and sobbed 
 as though his very heart would break. I too 
 felt very sorrowful ; for my mind went back to 
 the lovely scene when the two children had been 
 playing together in the garden, and Mirth had 
 been taught by Innocence to find pleasure in 
 the cross. I remembered how happy they had 
 both looked in their shining raiment of white, 
 and how beautiful were the first holy images 
 which fell on the objects around them; and, 
 above all, I recollected the hour when the dove 
 had settled so peacefully on the cross of her 
 who was taken, while she was fading from my 
 view: and then, as I gazed upon the. one who 
 had been left, and saw how his garments since 
 then had been stained by many a dark and 
 filthy spot, the bitter thought came upon me 
 whether, if his friend still looked upon the 
 garden, she would recognise him now, and 
 whether, if Mirth were called away, he would 
 be received in that better country to which 
 Innocence was gone. 
 
 31 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Such thoughts, also, seemed to force them- 
 selves on the mind of Mirth ; for he knelt 
 clown by the lily to which the shadow had led 
 him, and, as the tears chased each other down 
 his cheeks, and fell on the stains, I could hear 
 him murmur, " Oh, purge me with hyssop, and 
 I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be 
 whiter than snow!" Then I knew he was 
 speaking to the kind Father, who was ever 
 present among His children in the garden; 
 and I remembered how the Voice had told me 
 that there were means by which the sight and 
 strength of the children might be renewed. 
 Presently I saw him bend low and gaze 
 earnestly on the faded flower ; and while the 
 big tear fell upon it, methought that his eye 
 became less dim, and there was a gleam of hope 
 and gladness on his face, as though he could 
 again trace upon the leaves the light and 
 lovely outline of the cross of Innocence. Then 
 I also, in the midst of my sorrow, was glad; 
 and I felt that Mirth was really happier as he 
 wept over the lily of his friend, than he had 
 been while, in the thoughtlessness of his heart, 
 
 32 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 he was chasing the painted butterfly on the 
 green. Moreover, as I watched him, I saw 
 him kiss his little cross and press it to his 
 heart ; and I wondered not that he did so, for 
 I knew it was that little cross, and that 
 alone, which had freed him from all his 
 perils; for, without it, he must have been 
 bitten by the serpent in the myrtle grove; 
 and had he not trod in its shadow along 
 the hard dull road, he would not have been 
 guided to the flower of Innocence at last. 
 
 C 3 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 (Eonbmatton on adapter H. 
 
 (JR. WHY was it that Mirth was safe while 
 he remained where he had been playing with 
 Innocence ? 
 
 iH. Because, as you have already said, when 
 we think of companions and friends that are 
 gone, our own hearts are drawn more closely to 
 our Saviour. 
 
 (&. As soon as he left that field, what was 
 the particular danger of Mirth ? 
 
 &. He was too fond of pleasure. 
 
 (&. Yes ; however anxious we may be to 
 follow the cross, if we care too much for that 
 which is pleasant, we shall be likely to err ; for 
 good and evil grow so close together in this 
 world, that, unless we look quietly and care- 
 fully, we shall not always be able to dis- 
 tinguish between them. How is this shown 
 in the allegory ? 
 
 M 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 gfc. By the beautiful bed of flowers, from 
 which Mirth, in his haste, gathered a rose on 
 which the shadow did not fall. 
 
 (JBL What is the sting of the wasp ? 
 
 &. The pain caused by sin. 
 
 <&. What the mark of the rose leaf? 
 
 a. The stain left by sin. 
 
 <&. When Mirth met Wayward, we are told 
 that the cross of the latter was not in his hand : 
 what is meant by this ? 
 
 a. He was not trying to hold fast his 
 Christian profession. 
 
 . Had he, then, altogether renounced the 
 service of Christ ? 
 
 a. No, for he still said he kept the cross, 
 though he did not use it. 
 
 <m. Well, then, he thought that in trifling 
 matters he might please himself, provided he 
 abstained from great and notorious offences. 
 He merely designed to use his cross now and 
 then, and forgot that it was intended to guide 
 him every moment that he continued in the 
 garden. What had already been the sad con- 
 sequence of this negligence ? 
 
 M 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 21. He had really committed many sins, 
 though he might consider them to be trivial, or 
 not sins at all ; for there were spots and stains 
 on all parts of his clothes. 
 
 (&. What was the effect of Mirth's joining 
 him? 
 
 21. His clothes also soon lost their white- 
 ness, for the two boys fell into a swamp 
 together. 
 
 dH. What do we learn from this ? 
 
 21. The danger of joining in the pursuits 
 of those who talk lightly of religion, and do 
 not profess in all things to be guided by the 
 cross. 
 
 (JR. What is afterwards signified by the 
 discontent of Mirth, when he was not able to 
 do as Wayward did ? 
 
 21. Envy at the pleasures that the wicked 
 seem to enjoy. 
 
 (JR. Yes. And such envy is not only very 
 sinful in itself, but also, if we indulge it, is 
 sure to lead us to share in their unlawful 
 pursuits. How is this shown in the allegory ? 
 
 21. By the chase after the beautiful but- 
 
 36 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 terfly, in which Mirth united with Wayward 
 without consulting his cross. 
 
 dEl. How was it that this chase led the boys 
 so much farther than they expected ? 
 
 St. Because, when we begin to follow an 
 unlawful pleasure, we cannot be aware of all 
 the sin and sorrow through which it will lead 
 us. 
 
 (JH. Did the children get possession of the 
 butterfly at last? 
 
 SI. No, they gave it up in consequence of 
 the stumble of Mirth. 
 
 dil. Why did that cause them to give it 
 up? 
 
 St. It led Mirth to consult his cross, and 
 then he saw that its shadow fell in an opposite 
 direction. 
 
 (Si. Yes. And often thus, by an unexpected 
 stumble, it pleases God to check the sinner in 
 his heedless course, and to awaken him to a 
 sense of his danger. What is signified by the 
 serpent concealed under the myrtle ? 
 
 St. Satan was lying in wait to take ad- 
 vantage of their sin. 
 
 37 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 {&. What was the hard dull path by which 
 the children began to return ? 
 
 &. The path of repentance. 
 
 (&. And the withered leaves and faded 
 flowers are the recollection of opportunities 
 neglected and blessings forfeited, which are 
 always strewed along it. What is signified 
 by the return to the field of Innocence ? 
 
 gl. Mirth was led to think of the happy 
 days that in their childhood they had passed 
 together, and of the quiet life, and above all, 
 of the tranquil and holy death of his former 
 friend. 
 
 dH. How did these thoughts at first affect 
 him? 
 
 &. He wept more bitterly than before. 
 
 <!Bl. He did so, for there is nothing that 
 causes the tears of repentance to flow more 
 freely, than to go back in thought to days of 
 peace and purity, and to reflect on the change 
 that sin may have produced in our condition 
 since those whom we once loved have been 
 taken away. But did Mirth rest satisfied with 
 tears alone ? 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 &. No ; for his sorrow led him to pray very 
 earnestly to his Father. 
 
 (!il. And the consequence of this was, that 
 he soon felt happy, while he traced the mark of 
 the cross on the faded flower of Innocence. 
 And so it is written, " Blessed are they that 
 mourn, for they shall be comforted." To what 
 did Mirth ascribe his present comfort, and his 
 escape from danger ? 
 
 &. He ascribed every thing to the little 
 cross he had been enabled to hold in his 
 hand. 
 
 OH. And that is intended to remind us that 
 we can do nothing of ourselves to help our- 
 selves. It is the special grace of God that 
 points out to the sinner the error of his way, 
 and guides him along the path of repentance, 
 and at length vouchsafes to him pardon and 
 peace. 
 
 39 
 
of t|) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 But if, indeed, with reckless faith 
 
 We trust the flattering voice, 
 . Which whispers, " Take thy Jill ere death, 
 " Indulge thee and rejoice : " 
 
 Too surely, every setting day, 
 
 Some lost delight we mourn ; 
 The flowers all die along our way, 
 
 Till we, too, die forlorn. 
 
 THE tears were fast rising in my eyes as I 
 turned them away from the kneeling child, so 
 affecting was the scene ; but for the present I 
 watched him no more, for about him my mind 
 was now at rest ; but I felt fearfully anxious to 
 trace the course of his companion who neglected 
 the cross. Wayward had not seen the shadow 
 resting on the flower, but had walked care- 
 lessly through the field ; otherwise his thoughts 
 also might have gone back to the time when 
 
 40 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 he played with Innocence, and he would 
 perhaps have wept together with his com- 
 panion. He had advanced some distance before 
 he observed that Mirth had ceased to ac- 
 company him ; but as soon as he perceived it 
 he was alarmed to find himself alone ; for, 
 though he cared but little for the cross himself, 
 he had felt some sort of safety from being near 
 to one who trod within its shadow. He first 
 looked anxiously around, and then in a hurried 
 manner began to retrace his steps. I had no 
 doubt that his intention was to rejoin his 
 companion ; but, short as was the distance 
 back, in his haste he managed to lose the way, 
 and got into a path that led him farther and 
 farther from the field in which Mirth was 
 kneeling. I could plainly hear his companion's 
 voice calling to him to return, and I saw that 
 Wayward heard it also, for he continually 
 paused and listened, as though he wished to 
 ascertain the direction of the distant sound. 
 And then the unhappy boy would shout loudly 
 in reply, and turning to the right hand or the 
 left, begin to hurry along some new track ; but, 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 each time that he started again, he made some 
 fresh error in the way, and as I watched him I 
 knew that it would be so, for his cross was not 
 in his hand. 
 
 In a little time he had got quite to a different 
 part of the garden from that in which he had 
 parted with Mirth. He saw there a pretty 
 group of children, whom he was very anxious 
 to join ; but they were frightened when they 
 observed that he had no cross, and one of them 
 cried out that his dirty hands would soil the 
 whiteness of their garments ; so they refused to 
 let him take part in their play. He tried one or 
 two other groups, but some hurried away as he 
 approached, and others shrunk back from his 
 touch, until at last he found a party of boys 
 who had no crosses, and whose clothes were 
 more filthy than his own. These boys welcomed 
 him gladly, and he began to leap and run with 
 them. They all laughed loudly, and tried to 
 be merry; but no shadow fell on the ground 
 which they trod, and they soon grew weary of 
 laughter itself. So their game terminated in a 
 quarrel, and that brought on blows, which added 
 
 42 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 fresh stains to the clothes of these unhappy 
 children. Even Wayward grew shocked at the 
 scene which he now witnessed, and, hastening 
 away from his companions, again began to 
 ramble through the garden alone. 
 
 He now seemed to be wandering to and fro 
 without any object, as a child that was blind ; 
 but I saw that he plenteously gathered of the 
 flowers, and ate of the fruits that he found; 
 and as he did so his garments became more and 
 more discoloured, and his countenance pale and 
 sickly, and his manner full of restlessness and 
 languor, so that I was very greatly alarmed, 
 for I could not but remember how the Voice 
 had said that there was poison in the garden. 
 I saw, too, that Wayward had become not only 
 sickly but wretched also ; he no longer could 
 derive enjoyment from anything he tasted or 
 touched, but was suspicious of them all. Some- 
 times I thought he looked anxiously about him 
 for the shadow of the cross ; and yet, whether 
 it were from indolence, or from the force of 
 habit, or from some fatal delusion, I cannot tell, 
 but the cross itself he did not hold. 
 
 43 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 At length in his wanderings he came to a 
 long high wall, on the Western side of which 
 there was a tree loaded with nectarines, riper 
 and more beautiful than any he had before seen. 
 Now, at first he seemed as though he were 
 going to turn away, for, though he held not his 
 cross, he knew at once that the bright sun 
 shining in the East could shed no image there ; 
 and yet he lingered and looked wistfully at 
 the fruit ; and as he looked, he perceived one 
 gathering from the tree, whose garments were 
 yet white, and whose cross was in her hand. 
 I also looked at her that gathered the fruit, and 
 I could read the name of" Selfdeceit" imprinted 
 upon her brow ; and I saw there was something 
 foul and horrible even in the very whiteness of 
 her garments, and that wan and ghastly were 
 the images that fell from her cross. Now, I 
 began to wonder how those images were formed, 
 and behold ! there gleamed in the air behind 
 her a dark blue flame ; then I discovered that 
 there were false meteor lights in the Garden 
 of the Shadow of the Cross: doubtless they 
 were placed there by the enemy of the King, 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 in order to tempt the children to taste the 
 poisonous fruits; but I shuddered exceed- 
 ingly when I saw that the cross might thus be 
 converted into an instrument of destruction : 
 yet so unlike were the false images to those 
 formed by the clear and brilliant sun in the 
 East, that they could deceive none but the eye 
 that had been long a stranger to the real image, 
 and the heart that was anxious to believe them 
 true. Even Wayward, as he drew nigh, trem- 
 bled, and felt there was something unnatural in 
 the shadows that fell on the Western wall ; but 
 when Selfdeceit offered him one of the ripest 
 nectarines, and pointed triumphantly to the 
 pale outline that might be traced upon it, he 
 was tempted, and he took it and did eat. While 
 he was eating, some of the juice oozed out from 
 the fruit (for it was very ripe) and fell upon his 
 clothes : it marked them with a stain which, 
 though they were already much discoloured, 
 was of a deeper crimson than any I had seen 
 Before. Wayward threw down the remain- 
 der of the nectarine and was hastening away, 
 but Selfdeceit called to him to stop, and said 
 
 45 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CIIOSS. 
 
 that she could very easily remove the stain. 
 So Wayward stopped, and Selfdeceit took a 
 substance which seemed to me like chalk, and 
 rubbed it over the spot on which the juice had 
 fallen, and not that spot only, but over the 
 whole of the garments of her companion, until 
 she had produced upon them the same foul and 
 horrible whiteness that I had remarked upon 
 her own. When it was done, I thought that 
 Wayward tried to smile, as though he again 
 were clean ; but the smile passed away in a 
 sigh, for in his inmost heart he knew that the 
 stains were hidden but not removed, and that 
 the all- seeing eye of his Father could perceive 
 them still. 
 
 Yet he did not fly from Selfdeceit as he ought 
 to have done, but still continued in her com- 
 pany, eating the fruits on which the false images 
 fell, and allowing the treacherous chalk to be 
 rubbed upon his clothes. The children did not 
 walk very long together ; but during that time 
 the appearance of Wayward became so altered, 
 that before they parted I doubt whether Mirth 
 could have recognised him again: the form 
 
 46 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 emaciated by disease, the feverish and uncertain 
 step, the hectic flush on his sallow cheek, and 
 the wildness in his bloodshot eye, had left but 
 little of the gay, though careless, child who had 
 run so lightly after the butterfly on the green. 
 Yet, great as was the change in his appearance 
 owing to the poison on which he lived, the 
 change that had taken place in his dress was 
 greater still ; for his garments were more dis- 
 guised by the strange whiteness caused by the 
 chalk, than they could have been by the darkest 
 stain. He was, however, fast becoming accus- 
 tomed to its use, for it was astonishing how 
 many accidents befell Wayward and Selfdeceit 
 as they moved along ; sometimes they slipped, 
 and rolled into the mire ; sometimes they were 
 tripped up, and fell on the swampy grass ; 
 sometimes they stained themselves with fruit; 
 sometimes noxious reptiles would crawl over 
 their clothes ; and sometimes foul spots, as 
 in a leprosy, would suddenly break out upon 
 them, without any cause which they could 
 discern : and on each of these occasions, 
 Selfdeceit would take out her chalk, and 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 apply it to her companion's garments and her 
 own. 
 
 In this wretched way they kept walking side 
 by side, until they came to the borders of a 
 great wood, and there Selfdeceit bade her com- 
 panion go first, saying that she would follow; 
 but Wayward drew back, and refused to advance 
 farther before he had first consulted his cross. I 
 do not know why at that particular moment he 
 should have paused ; it may be that it merely 
 proceeded from his usual dislike to go first ; or 
 it may be he was frightened by a deep and angry 
 sound, even as the roaring of a lion, which issued 
 from the wood, and yet his ears had now grown 
 so dull, that I cannot tell whether he heard it 
 at all ; and I think it most likely that he only 
 delayed, because the scene brought back to his 
 memory the hour in which he had stood with 
 Mirth, at the entrance of the myrtle-grove, when 
 the holy image had warned them both to turn 
 aside. But be the cause what it may, he stood 
 still, and drew his long-neglected cross from his 
 bosom. 
 
 It was, indeed, a scene that caused my heart 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 to beat high with interest. Wayward was 
 standing a little in advance of Selfdeceit, and 
 one step more would have brought him within 
 the borders of the wood ; and, as he raised his 
 cross with a trembling hand, I could see a smile 
 of mockery pass over the countenance of his 
 companion. In a moment the meteor lights 
 were flickering in the air around them, and a 
 crowd of confused and ghastly shadows fell at 
 the feet of the bewildered boy. He had suffered 
 his eyes to become so very dim, that it was in 
 vain he now endeavoured to distinguish the true 
 image from the false : but I observed that from 
 that very uncertainty he hesitated whether to 
 advance ; and I believe at last he would have 
 turned aside, had not Selfdeceit with her own 
 hand lighted a torch behind him, which threw 
 one long deep shadow in the direction of the 
 forest. Then Wayward ventured to move for- 
 ward; but scarce had he made the first step, 
 when there was a laugh as of fiends in the air, 
 and behold ! the earth opened beneath the feet 
 of Selfdeceit, and she and her flaming torch and 
 her whited garments were swallowed up, and 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 I saw them no more. Together with the light 
 which had caused it, the long deep shadow also 
 passed away, and Wayward once more looked 
 round him in doubt ; he then saw the fate of 
 his companion, and uttered a shrill and piercing 
 cry, and,, in his alarm dropping the cross out of 
 his hand, he ran hastily from the wood. But 
 now, alas ! it was too late for flight ; the lion, 
 that had lain in wait for him there, had already 
 made his fatal spring: he seized on his prey, 
 and puUed him down upon the ground, and in a 
 moment was griping with his savage teeth, and 
 tearing to pieces with his claws, the companion 
 of Selfdeceit. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 <2Doniwsatt'on on adapter ffi. 
 
 (&. How was it that Wayward did not con- 
 tinue in the same field with Mirth ? 
 
 &. Because he no longer watched the shadow 
 of the cross. 
 
 (&,. That is to say, though he appeared to be 
 following the same course with his companion, 
 he did not in truth resemble him ; for he made 
 no real effort to regulate each thought, word, 
 and deed, by the rule of his Christian profession. 
 But when he first missed him, did he endeavour 
 to join him again ? 
 
 &. He was very anxious to do so, and yet 
 could not resolve to consult his cross. 
 
 <*H. Yes; and so he afterwards wished to 
 play with those children whose garments were 
 still white. Now, what does this signify ? 
 
 51 D 2 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Si* That sinners who are not yet hardened 
 feel a sort of security in seeming to follow the 
 same occupations with good men. 
 
 dll. Did Wayward succeed in this wish ? 
 
 Si. No. On the contrary, he began to play 
 with the boys who had no crosses, and garments 
 more filthy than his own. 
 
 (S. And what does that signify ? 
 
 Si. Careless Christians are often forced into 
 the company of those who have advanced 
 farther along the paths of destruction than 
 themselves. 
 
 (Si. What were the fruits and flowers which 
 afterwards so discoloured the garments of Way- 
 ward, and rendered him sickly and pale ? 
 
 Si* They were the idle pursuits and pleasures 
 in which in mere thoughtlessness he indulged. 
 
 (SI. What is signified by his longing for the 
 nectarine on the western wall ? 
 
 Si. A desire which he could not help know- 
 ing was sinful, but which he still sought some 
 excuse to gratify. 
 
 (&. And did he find any such excuse ? 
 
 Si* Yes ; it was afforded him by the false 
 
 52 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 lights that were in the garden, and the cross 
 that was held by Selfdeceit. 
 
 dH. Who was it that placed the false lights 
 in the garden ? 
 
 3. Satan, the enemy of the King, who is 
 able to transform himself into an angel of light. 
 
 <S. What was the state of Selfdeceit ? 
 
 13. She had become so very bad, that she 
 could no longer distinguish between good and 
 evil. 
 
 (01. Yes ; it was that state which is called 
 judicial blindness. And remember that we all 
 are liable to be brought into it, by resisting the 
 Holy Spirit of God. If we persist in desiring 
 what we know to be wrong, we shall soon 
 endeavour to think it right, and then Satan 
 will half convince us that it is so, and our 
 understanding will be gradually darkened, and 
 we shall become hardened and impenitent ; 
 then the cross of Christ will become to us of 
 no effect. Such you may remember was the 
 condition of the Jewish people, when the day 
 of their visitation was passed, and they thought 
 they were doing an action well-pleasing to God 
 
 53 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 in crucifying their Saviour. Did Wayward 
 fall into that miserable state ? 
 
 &. Not entirely; for, though he yielded 
 to the persuasion of Selfdeceit, his heart was 
 always full of sorrow and fear. 
 
 <m. What was that crimson stain which the 
 juice of the nectarine left upon his clothes ? 
 
 &. That deep and fearful mark which is pro- 
 duced by a wilful and deliberate act of sin. 
 
 <&. What is signified by the chalk that Self- 
 deceit persuaded him to employ ? 
 
 &. He endeavoured to hide from himself 
 and from others the consequence of his sin. 
 
 dH. Yes. He assumed that white covering, 
 which makes all outwardly appear well, while 
 there is nothing but rottenness within. Such 
 we know to have been the state of the Scribes 
 and Pharisees in the time of our Saviour. 
 
 &. I remember that he himself declares they 
 were but " whited sepulchres." 
 
 <&. What do we learn from the numerous 
 spots and stains that afterwards broke out on 
 Wayward and Selfdeceit ? 
 
 &. That our sins will increase upon us in 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 proportion as we endeavour to keep them out 
 of sight, 
 
 (01. What is signified by the edge of the 
 forest at which "Wayward again consulted his 
 cross ? 
 
 21. It was one of those important occasions 
 on which he did endeavour to act rightly. 
 
 <&. How then was it that he consulted it in 
 vain ? 
 
 21. Because he had so long neglected it, 
 and been contented with watching the false 
 shadows. 
 
 (Hi. He experienced that doubt and per- 
 plexity which is the consequence of sin unre- 
 pented of. And was the dimness of his sight 
 in any way to be attributed to himself ? 
 
 21. Yes ; it must have been entirely owing 
 to his own neglect ; for we are told that the 
 sight of those children would never grow dim 
 who used the means that their Father had 
 appointed for preserving it. 
 
 (OH. What is signified by Selfdeceit holding 
 a false light behind him ? 
 
 21. She endeavoured by wicked and lying 
 
 55 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 arguments to overcome the fearfulness of 
 Wayward, and lead him to continue in his 
 sinful course. 
 
 <&. And, by doing so, she acted the part 
 of the first tempter of mankind. The earth 
 opening and swallowing her up, is designed to 
 represent the fearful judgment which even in 
 this life sometimes overtakes the sinner. What 
 effect had this judgment upon her companion ? 
 
 21. He ran hastily away, but as he did so 
 he dropped his cross, and was seized by the 
 lion out of the forest. 
 
 (0=1. Who is signified by the lion ? 
 
 &. " Our adversary the devil, who goeth 
 about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may 
 devour." 
 
 (OH. And what is meant by dropping the 
 cross ? 
 
 &, Abandoning the faith of Christ. 
 
 (S. The sudden consciousness of his danger 
 will often cause the sinner to fall away alto- 
 gether from the faith, and, as it were, to give 
 himself over to the power of Satan. Such 
 would appear to have been the case of Judas 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Iscariot, when he went out and hanged him- 
 self, after he had betrayed his Lord: instead 
 of that repentance which would have led him 
 onward to hope, he felt only the agony of that 
 remorse which brought him into the depth of 
 despair. Remember, then, that it is possible 
 to be aroused too late to a sense of the fearful 
 consequences of sin. 
 
 -7 
 
 D 3 
 
fefmtoofo of ffte ODross. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Refresh us, Lord, to hold it fast ; 
 And when thy veil is drawn at last, 
 Let us depart where shadows cease, 
 With words of blessing and of peace. 
 
 I HAD already begun to mourn for Wayward, 
 as for one who was lost ; for even had he been 
 in health and vigour, his strength would have 
 been but weakness against the ferocious animal 
 that was devouring him now ; but sickly and 
 powerless as he had been rendered by disease, 
 save by his fearful shrieks he could offer no 
 resistance at all. His cries for help were be- 
 coming fainter and fainter, when behold ! there 
 came forth from the forest a fair and gentle girl ; 
 her garments were almost of a spotless white, 
 and yet methought she seemed as though she 
 had been long in the garden, and the name of 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 
 
 " Charity" was written on her brow. And 
 I wondered at first how she could have wan- 
 dered through that gloomy forest alone, and 
 I was alarmed lest the lion that was tearing 
 Wayward might turn his fury upon her ; but 
 I soon found there was cause neither for won- 
 der nor alarm, for her cross was in her hand. 
 The shadow fell full on the forehead of the 
 savage beast, and with a low sullen growl he 
 forsook his prey, and crouched in servile fear 
 before the little child. His eyes glared horribly 
 as he turned back, and he kept moving his head 
 to and fro, as though he fain would have shaken 
 off the holy image ; but his struggles to resist 
 its influence were all in vain, and step by step 
 he was forced to shrink away, and hide himself 
 in the darkness of the forest. Then did Charity 
 draw nigh to the faint and bleeding boy, and 
 bandage his mangled limbs, and stanch the 
 blood that was gushing copiously from the 
 wounds ; and, as she did so, the purple stream 
 that flowed upon her garments of white, left 
 no stain upon them, but only made them 
 brighter than before. 
 
 5!) 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CllOSS. 
 
 Wayward had had a very narrow escape 
 from destruction, and it was a long time before 
 he so far came to himself as to be able to stand 
 up. I cannot tell what fearful dreams he may 
 have had while he was lying prostrate on the 
 ground; but the moment that he arose, his 
 first thought was of his cross : he felt for it in 
 his bosom, but he found that it was not there ; 
 and I shall not easily forget the look of anguish 
 and despair that was on his face when he 
 remembered he had let it fall. He threw him- 
 self down on the ground, and searched very 
 anxiously for the treasure he had neglected so 
 long; but his head swam and his sight was 
 dizzy, and he looked for it in vain. Nay, it had 
 fallen so near the forest, and the grass was so 
 long, and the bushes so numerous, that there 
 was little hope of his recovering it again ; and 
 yet he now felt that, if he found it not, he 
 himself was lost. He told Charity of his sad 
 loss, and with tears and groans besought her 
 earnestly to assist him in the search. So 
 Charity raised her own cross on high, and the 
 dark outline fell on a thick bush of furze close 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 by the outskirts of the wood : it was there that 
 the cross of Wayward had fallen, and she bade 
 the boy call earnestly on his gracious Father, 
 and advance with a good courage, telling him 
 that, though others might point out where it 
 was, no hand but his own could take it up. 
 Wayward did advance, but it was with fear 
 and trembling ; he often raised his eyes timidly 
 towards the forest, as though he was afraid lest 
 the lion might seize upon him again: when, 
 too, he stood by the bush, and stretched out his 
 hand, it was sad to see how the noxious insects 
 stung him, and the thorns entered into the new 
 made wounds ; twice in anguish did he draw it 
 back; the second time that he did so, a low 
 growl was heard issuing from the wood, and 
 then in haste he thrust his hand down again, 
 regardless of the pain, and seizing on his lost 
 treasure hurried back to the side of Charity. 
 
 Now I rejoiced greatly that Wayward had 
 recovered his cross ; I was glad, too, that the 
 chalk with which Selfdeceit had bedaubed his 
 clothes was gone, for the red streams of blood 
 had washed it away. Yet still was I very 
 
 61 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 sorrowful when I saw how fearfully they were 
 now denied; it seemed that whole rivers of 
 tears would be unable to restore to them any 
 portion of their original whiteness, and I could 
 not but doubt whether poor Wayward might 
 hereafter be recognised as the King's child. 
 The same thoughts, too, were weighing him 
 down, for he groaned deeply and was very sor- 
 rowful ; and then I heard Charity speaking to 
 him of the tender mercies of their King and 
 Father, and telling him that, if only he was 
 able to hold steadfastly for the time to come by 
 the cross, and walk carefully in its shadow, he 
 need in no wise despair, for, though his own 
 tears could not cleanse his garments, there was 
 One who might wash them for him with the 
 water of life, so that, though they were now as 
 scarlet, they would become as white as snow, 
 though they were red like crimson, they should 
 be as wool. 
 
 When he heard this, Wayward looked down 
 upon his cross, but there still was very much 
 of sadness in his gaze ; he felt in truth that his 
 hand was too feeble to hold it steadfastly for 
 
 62 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 the time to come, and his eye too dim to dis- 
 cern its shadow. But Charity again addressed 
 him with words of comfort ; she reminded him 
 that they were not alone in the garden, and 
 that there were means by which, if only he 
 would be diligent in employing them, his 
 strength and his sight would gradually be 
 renewed ; " The same kind Father," she said, 
 "who has given you the will and the power 
 to recover your cross, can render it once more 
 the guardian of your steps." 
 
 Then did he take comfort, and while he 
 feebly raised his cross, methought that he earn- 
 estly besought his Father to restore to him a 
 portion of his former strength. 
 
 For some little while Charity walked by his 
 side, and gently holding him by the hand, 
 guided him safely through the snares and 
 stumbling-blocks which beset them on their 
 way. But before long the warning shadows 
 bade them proceed along different paths, that 
 of Charity leading her through a smooth ver- 
 dant meadow, that of Wayward falling on a 
 rough uneven ground, close to the border of the 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 wood. So, with many a parting warning, and 
 ever, as she went, holding on high the sacred 
 sign, Charity bade adieu to "Wayward, and I 
 cannot tell that she ever beheld him again. For 
 a moment I watched her light graceful form as 
 she passed through the pleasant fields : it was, 
 indeed, a lovely sight ; the long grass and the 
 flowers appeared to bend as she approached, 
 lest they might stain the hem of her white 
 garments ; the little lambs would come to lick 
 the hand which held the cross, and the birds 
 sung more . tunefully as its shadow fell upon 
 them. 
 
 But I turned from this pleasing picture, for 
 I was anxious to know what would become of 
 Wayward now he was once more alone; he 
 too had been watching the retreating form of 
 Charity, and the tear rose in his eye as he felt 
 it was not for him to accompany her along the 
 ways of pleasantness and peace. He began his 
 solitary journey, and I could see that he was 
 struggling hard to hold firmly by the cross, 
 and was inwardly resolving to follow the advice 
 of Charity. But, alas ! that which might have 
 
 M 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 been sweet and easy once had become a task 
 of much labour and difficulty now ; for though 
 his Father did not suffer his strength or sight 
 altogether to fail, he was allowed continually to 
 feel the ill effects of his former wanderings. 
 His arm grew faint and weary when he lifted it 
 on high ; and his cross itself would at one time 
 glow with a burning heat, and raise blisters 
 on his hand; and at another, would become 
 cold as a mass of ice, until his numbed fingers 
 could scarce retain it in their grasp. Its shadow, 
 too, no longer fell on fruits or on flowers, nor 
 on any thing desirable to the eye, but on husks 
 and withered leaves, and all the refuse of the 
 earth. I saw, also, that he staggered to and 
 fro as he walked along, and that, from his very 
 anxiety to place his footsteps right, he often 
 stumbled and well nigh fell, and, by the con- 
 tinued difficulties of the path, he was brought 
 into so great trouble and misery, that he went 
 mourning all the day long. How strange must 
 he now have thought it, that there had been a 
 time when he fancied that he could walk safely 
 without the aid of his cross ! and how often 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 must he have wished that it would again afford 
 him that clear and distinct shadow, which it 
 was wont to shed when first he entered the 
 garden ! For even this comfort was denied him 
 now. The meteor lights which he had allowed 
 to accompany him in his wanderings with Self- 
 deceit still continued to hover around him, and 
 kept throwing their deceitful shadows on secret 
 poisons and hidden snares: many a time did 
 he pause long and anxiously, before he could 
 distinguish between the true image and the 
 false, and often had he reason to rejoice that 
 the real shadow was dark and gloomy, because 
 he could the more easily discern it. He knew 
 also that he had good reason to be alarmed, for 
 the roar of the lion that had torn him once was 
 ever sounding in his ears ; and each time that 
 he hesitated, he fancied he could perceive his 
 fierce eyes glaring upon him from the wood : 
 it seemed as though the beast, having once 
 marked him for his own, was watching every 
 step that he took, and ready in a moment to 
 pounce upon his prey. At length the shadow 
 fell upon a pathway leading directly into the 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 wood; Wayward gazed doubtfully upon it a 
 little while, but, when he saw that it was the 
 true image, with slow and trembling steps he 
 continued to follow it. I soon lost sight of him 
 among the trees, so that I cannot tell what may 
 have befallen him there ; but I have a good hope 
 that he walked in safety through all its dangers, 
 for, though his garments were stained with 
 blood, and his limbs were faint, and his eyes 
 dim, and though the beasts of the forests were 
 howling around him, his cross was in his hand. 
 Still I was not sorry that I could no longer 
 watch him, for it had become very painful to 
 me to trace his steps; not only was there 
 trouble in each path that he trod, but there was 
 even much to render me sad in the gloomy 
 shadows that fell from his cross ; so I suffered 
 my eye to wander towards the more lovely 
 parts of the garden, in hopes that once again it 
 might rest upon Mirth. I soon discovered him 
 not far from the field in which Wayward had 
 left him ; he had altered very little since then, 
 except that the cheerfulness of his countenance 
 and the buoyancy of his step had returned. 
 
 G7 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 He was holding his cross towards the sun, and 
 his face beamed bright with gratitude as he 
 traced its outline on the flowers strewed in his 
 path. The shadows were not, indeed, so light 
 and lovely as those which had fallen from the 
 cross of Innocence, yet still they were very 
 beautiful, more beautiful than the fairest 
 flowers on which they fell. The garments of 
 Mirth had almost recovered their whiteness, 
 yet they, too, were not so bright and shining 
 as those of Innocence had been ; nay, I fancied 
 I could yet trace upon them the dim outline of 
 each former stain, not only the deeper marks 
 that had been caused by his careless chase with 
 Wayward, but even the first little spot that the 
 falling rose leaf had left. The marks were so 
 very faint, that while the shadow of the cross 
 rested upon them they could not be discerned ; 
 but, when they were exposed to the clear and 
 brilliant light of the sun, I could see that they 
 still were there. " Surely, then," I said within 
 myself, " the children whose garments are yet 
 unsullied, would run less heedlessly, if they 
 knew that their early stains would continue 
 
THE SHADOW OP THE CKOSS. 
 
 with them so long ! " Mirth was happy now, 
 but he would have been far happier if he had 
 never left the shadow of his cross; for there 
 was often a momentary expression of sadness 
 on his face, when some gay butterfly with its 
 golden wings fluttered across his path, and 
 brought to his remembrance his former wander- 
 ings. Yet were his garments so white, that it 
 was easy to recognise him for the King's child ; 
 and I knew that his kind Father would cleanse 
 them at last from every spot, and I almost 
 longed for the time when the white dove might 
 settle on his cross, and Mirth should be called 
 away from the garden. 
 
 Then did my thoughts wander to the land to 
 which Innocence was gone, and I said in my 
 heart, how glorious must that land be in which 
 this same bright sun is shining, while all the 
 children are clad in raiment of a dazzling 
 whiteness ! It must be that the cross, which 
 is their safeguard here, will there be their 
 delight; they will love for ever to watch the 
 holy shadows ; and yet will they then require 
 them no more, for in that better land there 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 will be neither danger in the fields, nor poison 
 in the flowers. 
 
 And the still soft Voice replied : " In that 
 better land there will be neither fields nor 
 flowers such as you now behold ; for the grass 
 wither eth, and the flower fadeth, but there will 
 be nothing there that can either wither or fade. 
 In that better land the cross will indeed be 
 the delight of the children, and the bright sun 
 will be reflected on their garments of dazzling 
 whiteness ; but, when raised on high, the cross 
 will cast no shadow there ; it will itself shine 
 with exceeding lustre, the rays of immortality 
 will be shed from it, and all things will be filled 
 with light and gladness by its pure and living 
 fire." 
 
 Now, while I wondered at this, and tried to 
 picture to myself a land lovely without fields 
 or flowers, and in which the cross might be 
 raised towards the sun and yet no shadow be 
 discerned, behold ! the vision of the fair garden 
 passed away, and I saw no more. 
 
 70 
 
THE SHADOW OP THE CROSS. 
 
 Conbnsatton on OD&apter 
 
 . How was Wayward released from his 
 perilous condition ? 
 
 21. Charity came with her white garments 
 from the wood, and drove away the beast that 
 was devouring him. 
 
 (01. Did she do so by her own strength ? 
 
 &U No ; but by the shadow which fell from 
 the cross which she was enabled to hold in her 
 hand. 
 
 <S. We learn, then, from this, that, though 
 man may be made the instrument of rescuing 
 the sinner from the power of Satan, it is only 
 by means of the cross of Christ that he is able 
 to do so. What is signified by Charity binding 
 the mangled limbs, and stanching the blood? 
 
 &. Praying for the sinner, and offering him 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 the hope of pardon by the comforting promises 
 of the gospel. 
 
 (Jil. What effect upon the garments of Charity 
 had the purple stream that flowed from the 
 wounds of Wayward ? 
 
 gt. It only rendered them brighter than 
 before. 
 
 (Oi. Yes ; for if we seek the company of sin- 
 ners, with a sincere desire to lead them into the 
 ways of life, our minds will not be polluted by 
 their wickedness, but our very efforts to save 
 them will, by the grace of God, be a means of 
 keeping ourselves unspotted from the world. 
 How is this declared in the conclusion of the 
 Epistle of St. James? 
 
 gt. " He which converteth the sinner from 
 the error of his way, shall save a soul from 
 death, and shall hide a multitude of sins." 
 
 (JR. And it is probably with a similar allu- 
 sion that St. Peter tells us, " that charity shall 
 cover the multitude of sins." What is signified 
 by Wayward seeking in vain for the cross he 
 had dropped ? 
 
 3. He knew not how to turn himself towards 
 
 72 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 God, until Charity pointed out to him the 
 way. 
 
 <!R. But why is it said that no hand but his 
 own could take up the cross ? 
 
 gt. Because other men cannot repent for us. 
 They can only show us what we are to do, but 
 we must act for ourselves. 
 
 <!Bl* Yes; the sinner will always find he 
 must take up his own cross to follow Christ; 
 none can bear it for him. But what is signified 
 by the thorns and noxious insects that caused 
 him twice to draw back his hand ? 
 
 &. They are the bitter pains of remorse, the 
 doubtfulness and the other thoughts of anguish, 
 which attend our first struggle to set ourselves 
 free from long-continued sin. 
 
 (&. What is meant by his recovery of the 
 cross ? 
 
 3. He was led by the grace of God to turn 
 for mercy to the cross of Christ, and once more 
 to rest his hopes on the privileges he had 
 received in baptism. 
 
 (fit. And did this at once remove all his fear- 
 fulness and alarm? 
 
 73 E 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 &. No ; for we are told that he groaned very 
 deeply when he saw how his white garments 
 had been defiled. 
 
 ([t. How did Charity afford him comfort ? 
 
 gfc. She reminded him that there was One 
 who was both able and willing to cleanse them 
 for him. 
 
 <&. To whom does this refer ? 
 
 &. To the Lord Jesus Christ, who will wash 
 away the stain of sin from those who believe 
 in Him, by the precious blood that He shed 
 upon the cross. 
 
 dll. But was the fearfulness of Wayward 
 caused by the past alone ? 
 
 gl. He feared for the future also; for he 
 became more and more conscious of the in- 
 firmity and blindness that had been caused by 
 his long neglect. 
 
 (Hi. How did Charity again afford him com- 
 fort? 
 
 &. She reminded him of the continual 
 presence of their Father, and the means that 
 He had appointed for the renewal of their 
 strength and sight. 
 
THE SHADOW OP THE CROSS. 
 
 <!EL Yes; and we may consider Wayward 
 as employing those means, when he sorrowed 
 for the past, and besought his Father to restore 
 to him a portion of his former strength. Why 
 is he represented as not continuing long with 
 Charity ? 
 
 $H. Because the returning sinner, even 
 though his penitence be sincere, must not 
 expect to tread the same pleasant paths with 
 those who from their youth up have been mind- 
 ful of their God. 
 
 (0=1. What is signified by the grass and the 
 flowers bending at the approach of Charity ? 
 
 ^K. Wherever she went she was attended by 
 purity and peace. 
 
 (!H. Yes. It again reminds us that her occu- 
 pation was the conversion of sinners. It was 
 this that rendered her garments bright, for it is 
 written, " They that turn many to righteous- 
 ness, shall shine as the stars for ever and ever." 
 What is signified by the weariness of the 
 arm of Wayward, and his staggering on the 
 way? v* 
 
 &. That, even after the sinner has begun a 
 
 75 E 2 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 course of repentance, he will find great diffi- 
 culty in continuing therein. 
 
 <&. Where have we this difficulty most fully 
 described ? 
 
 &. In the penitential Psalms of David, who 
 says of himself, that " he was brought into so 
 great trouble and misery, that he went mourn- 
 ing all the day long." 
 
 (Si. What do you understand by the burning 
 heat and the icy coldness of the cross that 
 Wayward held ? 
 
 gt. Even while he tries to hold fast his 
 faith in Christ, the mind of the penitent is 
 sometimes too much elated by presumptuous 
 hopes, and sometimes too much cast down by 
 despair. 
 
 <&. What were the false lights ? 
 
 &. The delusions that in some sort still con- 
 tinued, as a consequence of his former sin. 
 
 (OH. Why is he said to have rejoiced in the 
 gloominess of the shadows ? 
 
 &. Because the sincere penitent can often 
 see most clearly the path of duty by means of 
 the sacrifices it requires of him. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 <&. What was the roar of the lion that he 
 always continued to hear ? 
 
 JH. He felt that Satan, into whose power he 
 had once fallen, would ever be upon the watch 
 to seize upon him again. 
 
 (&. Yes. And in the same way our Saviour 
 warns us that the evil spirit, when it is gone 
 out of a man, will return again with seven 
 other spirits more wicked than itself, and en- 
 deavour to gain possession of its former home. 
 Did Wayward finally escape his snares ? 
 
 &. It is left in uncertainty. 
 
 <&. It is so. When we lose sight of him he 
 is doing well ; and we trust that God may be 
 pleased to accomplish the good work that He 
 has begun in him : but our hope can never be 
 unmingled with alarm. New trials and new 
 dangers ever keep springing up under his feet, 
 as a consequence of his former wanderings ; 
 and each step that he advances, we are fearful 
 lest he may fall. Let us now return to Mirth : 
 what do we learn from the contrast his con- 
 dition affords? 
 
 &. The comparatively peaceful end of those, 
 
 77 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 who, though they may have lived carelessly 
 a little while, still in the days of their youth 
 come back to the ways of virtue, and endea- 
 vour afterwards, by God's grace, to continue 
 therein. 
 
 <&. But does it not also warn us of the 
 danger of the faults of childhood and the follies 
 of youth, by showing us that our after-years 
 will in some sort bear upon them the mark of 
 each early wandering ? 
 
 gfc. Yes; for the stain even of the rose-leaf 
 might be seen on the white garments of 
 Mirth, and there was sadness on his counte- 
 nance when a butterfly with its golden wings 
 flew across his path. 
 
 O, How then is that stain and how is that 
 sorrow to be removed ? 
 
 &. If we hold fast the cross, the blood of 
 the Lord Jesus will cleanse us from all sin, 
 and wipe away all tears from our faces here- 
 after. 
 
 <&. Why is it, that, in the garden, the cross 
 is always spoken of as casting a shadow ? 
 
 &. Because religion seems to take away 
 
 78 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 their brightness from the various objects that 
 we desire in this world. 
 
 (111. Yes. Our Christian profession may truly 
 be represented as throwing a continual shadow 
 on our present existence. The cross of Christ 
 has not greatly changed the pleasures and 
 occupations of mankind, but it gives them all 
 a complexion of its own; and thus, while in 
 truth it renders them better and more lovely 
 than before, it robs them of the false colouring 
 with which Satan is wont to invest them : for 
 they have no longer that glare and brilliancy 
 which proves so attractive to the eye of man. 
 In another and happier world, the false colour- 
 ing will no longer exist, the cross itself will be 
 all in all, ancl therefore it will cast no shadow 
 there. In another and happier world those 
 little children who have held their crosses to 
 the end, and followed faithfully the shadows of 
 them, whether they have been for very many 
 years or only for a few hours in the garden, 
 whether they have trodden the hard way of 
 repentance, or the peaceful and pleasant paths, 
 whether the images that have guided them 
 
 79 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 have been gloomy and dull, or soft and beau- 
 tiful, will all once more be united together, and 
 enjoy perpetual rest and felicity in the presence 
 of their Saviour. 
 
 so 
 
THE SHADOW OF TEE CROSS. 
 
 tots from 3^o!g ^capture. 
 
 The following and similar passages of Scripture may be 
 impressed on the minds of children, by pointing out their 
 connexion with the different parts of the Allegory. 
 
 " THE Sun of righteousness (shall) arise with 
 healing in his wings." Mai. iv. 2. 
 
 " The darkness is past, and the true light 
 now shineth." 1 John ii. 8. 
 
 "That was the true Light, which lighteth 
 every man that cometh into the world." John 
 i. 9. 
 
 " Ye are all the children of light, and the 
 children of the day : we are not of the night, 
 nor of darkness." 1 Thess. v. 5. 
 
 " That ye should show forth the praises of 
 him who hath called you out of darkness into 
 his marvellous light." 1 Pet. ii. 9. 
 
 " Except a man be born of water and of the 
 
 81 E3 
 
THE SHADOW OP THE CROSS. 
 
 Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of 
 God." John iii. 5. 
 
 " The like figure whereunto even baptism 
 doth also now save us (not the putting away of 
 the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good 
 conscience towards God) by the resurrection of 
 Jesus Christ." 1 Pet. iii. 21. 
 
 " God is faithful, who will not suffer you to 
 be tempted above that ye are able ; but will, 
 with the temptation, also make a way to escape, 
 that ye may be able to bear it." 1 Cor. x. 13. 
 
 " The Lord is their strength, and he is 
 the saving strength of his anointed." Psalm 
 xxviii. 8. 
 
 "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my 
 strength is made perfect in weakness." 2 Cor. 
 xii. 9. 
 
 " When that which is perfect is come, then 
 that which is in part shall be done away." 
 1 Cor. xiii. 10. 
 
 " I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, 
 as all my fathers were." Psalm xxxix. 12. 
 
 "For they that say such things declare 
 plainly that they seek a country." Heb. xi. 14. 
 
 82 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 " But now they desire a better country, that 
 is, an heavenly : wherefore God is not ashamed 
 to be called their God: for he hath prepared 
 for them a city," Heb. xi. 16. 
 
 " Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the 
 kingdom prepared for you from the foundation 
 of the world." Matt. xxv. 34. 
 
 " The children of the kingdom shall be cast 
 out into outer darkness ; there shall be weeping 
 and gnashing of teeth." Matt. viii. 12. 
 
 " Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and 
 lean not unto thine own understanding. In all 
 thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct 
 thy paths." Prov. iii. 5, 6. 
 
 ec Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
 her paths are peace." Prov. iii. 17. 
 
 "Yea, though I walk through the valley of 
 the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for 
 thou art with me ; thy rod and thy staff, they 
 comfort me." Psalm xxiii. 4. 
 
 " I heard a voice from heaven saying unto 
 me, 'Write, Blessed are the dead which die 
 in the Lord from henceforth.'" Rev. xiv. 13. 
 
 l( But I would not have you to be ignorant, 
 
 83 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 brethren, concerning them which are asleep, 
 that ye sorrow not, even as others which have 
 no hope." 1 Thess. iv. 13. 
 
 " IT is better to go to the house of mourn- 
 ing, than to go to the house of feasting: for 
 that is the end of all men ; and the living will 
 lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than 
 laughter : for by the sadness of the countenance 
 the heart is made better." Eccl. vii. 2, 3. 
 
 " Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and 
 scourgeth every son whom he receiveth." Heb. 
 xii. 6. 
 
 " Enter not into the path of the wicked, and 
 go not in the way of evil men." Prov. iv. 14. 
 
 " There is a way that seemeth right unto 
 a man, but the end thereof are the ways of 
 death." Prov. xvi. 25. 
 
 " As for me, my feet were almost gone, my 
 steps had well nigh slipped ; for I was envious 
 at the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the 
 wicked." Psalm Ixxiii. 2, 3. 
 
 " The way of the wicked is as darkness ; 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 they know not at what they stumble." Prov. 
 v. 19. 
 
 "Before I was afflicted I went astray, but 
 now have I kept thy word." Psalm cxix. 67. 
 
 " Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine 
 eyelids look straight before thee. Ponder the 
 path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be esta- 
 blished. Turn not to the right hand nor to 
 the left: remove thy foot from evil." Prov. iv. 
 25, 26, 27. 
 
 " Now I rejoice, not that ye were made sorry, 
 but that ye sorrowed to repentance: for ye 
 were made sorry after a godly manner, that ye 
 might receive damage by us in nothing. For 
 godly sorrow worketh repentance to salvation, 
 not to be repented of: but the sorrow of the 
 world worketh death." 2 Cor. vii. 9, 10. 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall 
 be comforted." Matt. v. 4. 
 
 "A DOUBLE-MINDED man is unstable in all 
 his ways." James i. 8. 
 
 " So they did eat, and were well filled : for 
 
 85 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 he gave them their own desire ; they were not 
 estranged from their lust. But while their 
 meat was yet in their mouths, the wrath of 
 God came upon them." Psalm Ixxviii. 29, 31. 
 
 " Take heed, brethren, lest there be in any 
 of you an evil heart of unbelief, in departing 
 from the living God. But exhort one another 
 daily, while it is called To-day ; lest any of you 
 be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin." 
 Heb. iii. 12, 13. 
 
 " In whom the god of this world hath blinded 
 the minds of them which believe not, lest the 
 light of the glorious gospel of Christ, who is 
 the image of God, should shine unto them." 
 2 Cor. iv. 4. 
 
 " For such are false apostles, deceitful work- 
 ers, transforming themselves into the apostles 
 of Christ. And no marvel ; for Satan himself 
 is transformed into an angel of light." 2 Cor. 
 xi. 13, 14. 
 
 "Hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited 
 sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful out- 
 ward, but are within full of dead men's bones, 
 and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also out- 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 wardly appear righteous unto men, but within, 
 ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity." Matt, 
 xxiii. 27, 28. 
 
 " The way of peace they know not, and 
 there is no judgment in their goings: they 
 have made them crooked paths ; whosoever 
 goeth therein shall not know peace." Isa. lix. 8. 
 
 "Woe unto them that call evil good, and 
 good evil; that put darkness for light, and 
 light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, 
 and sweet for bitter." Isa. v. 20. 
 
 " For many walk of whom I have told you 
 often, and now tell you even weeping, that 
 they are the enemies of the cross of Christ, 
 whose end is destruction." Phil. iii. 18, 19. 
 
 " When your fear cometh as desolation, and 
 your destruction cometh as a whirlwind, when 
 distress and anguish cometh upon you, then 
 shall they call upon me, but I will not answer : 
 they shall seek me early, but they shall not 
 find me." Prov. i. 27, 28. 
 
 "Then shall two be in the field; the one 
 shall be taken, and the other left." Matt, 
 xxiv. 40. 
 
 87 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CllOSS, 
 
 " To the Lord our God belong mercies and 
 forgivenesses, though we have rebelled against 
 him ; neither have we obeyed the voice of the 
 Lord our God, to walk in his laws which he 
 set before us." Dan. ix. 9, 10. 
 
 "Brethren, if any of you do err from the 
 truth, and one convert him, let him know, 
 that he which converteth the sinner from the 
 error of his way shall save a soul from death, 
 and shall hide a multitude of sins." James v. 
 19, 20. 
 
 " Woe unto us that we have sinned ! for 
 this our heart is faint; for these things our 
 eyes are dim." Lam. v. 16, 17. 
 
 "If any man will come after me, let him 
 deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow 
 me. For what is a man profited, if he shall 
 gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? 
 or what shall a man give in exchange for his 
 soul?" Matt. xvi. 24, 26. 
 
 "They that turn many to righteousness, 
 (shall shine) as the stars for ever and ever." 
 Dan. xii. 3. 
 
 " There is no soundness in my flesh because 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 of thine anger ; neither is there any rest in my 
 bones because of my sin. For mine iniquities 
 are gone over mine head : as an heavy burden 
 they are too heavy for me. My wounds stink 
 and are corrupt, because of my foolishness. 
 I am troubled; I am bowed down greatly; I 
 go mourning all the day long." Psalm xxxviii. 
 3, 4, 5, 6. 
 
 " Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, 
 and cleanse me from my sin; for I acknow- 
 ledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever 
 before me." Psalm li. 2, 3. 
 
 " The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit : 
 a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou 
 wilt not despise." Psalm li. 17. 
 
 " For the Lord will not cast off for ever : but 
 though he cause grief, yet will he have com- 
 passion according to the multitude of his mer- 
 cies." Lam. iii. 31, 32. 
 
 "Mark the perfect man, and behold the 
 upright : for the end of that man is peace." 
 Psalm xxxvii. 37. 
 
 " If thou, O Lord, shouldst mark iniquities, 
 Lord, who shall stand? but there is forgive- 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 ness with thee, that thou mayest be feared." 
 Psalm cxxx. 3, 4. 
 
 "And he carried me away in the spirit to a 
 great and high mountain, and shewed me that 
 great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out 
 of heaven from God, having the glory of God: 
 and her light was like unto a stone most pre- 
 cious, even like unto a jasper stone clear as 
 crystal." Rev. xxi. 10, 11. 
 
 " And I heard a great voice out of heaven, 
 saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with 
 men, and he will dwell with them, and they 
 shall be his people, and God himself shall be 
 with them, and be their God. And God shall 
 wipe away all tears from their eyes ; and there 
 shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor 
 crying, neither shall there be any more pain: 
 for the former things are passed away." Rev. 
 xxi. 3, 4. 
 
THE 
 
 DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence 
 cometh my help. 
 
 My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven 
 and earth. Psalm cxxi. 1, 2. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 Abide with me from morn till eve, 
 For without Thee I cannot live : 
 Abide with me when night is nigh, 
 For without Thee I dare not die. 
 
 IT was a dreary night, and the wind moaned 
 among the trees of a vast and gloomy forest; 
 dark wintry clouds were flitting across the 
 sky ; the moon and the stars gleamed forth at 
 intervals, but their partial light was intercepted 
 by the thick branches of the wood. Two 
 poor orphans had been benighted there, and 
 could find no track to lead them through its 
 gloom. They felt that it was in vain for 
 them to wander to and fro without some 
 friendly hand to guide their steps ; yet they 
 
 93 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 were afraid to call out for assistance, lest the 
 wild beasts that howled around might be at- 
 tracted by their cries ; and at length, cold, faint, 
 and weary, they sank down side by side on the 
 damp earth, and gave themselves over for lost. 
 Now, while they were in this miserable 
 condition, they were startled by hearing the 
 footstep of one who trod softly among the 
 leaves of the forest; the roar of the lion, the 
 hissing of the serpent, and all other evil 
 sounds, were hushed as it drew near; and 
 presently the silence was broken by a gentle 
 voice, which asked the children whether they 
 would be glad to leave that dangerous wood, 
 and to be taken to a bright, cheerful, and 
 happy home. The poor orphans scarcely un- 
 derstood the meaning of the words ; they made 
 an effort to arise; but their limbs were too 
 feeble to support them; they tried to speak, 
 but their voices also failed ; so they could 
 only look up to the stranger with tearful 
 eyes, as though they fain would have besought 
 him to have pity upon them, and carry them 
 away from that terrible place. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Then the stranger took the little girls in 
 
 his arms, and with a quick, unerring step, 
 
 walked straight on, until he had brought them 
 
 to a river at the boundary of the forest. 
 
 Here he paused for a moment, and bathed 
 
 the children in the refreshing water. He 
 
 then crossed over to a gentle eminence beyond, 
 
 and suffered them to rest on the soft grass. 
 
 Now, such was the virtue of that river in 
 
 which the two sisters had been bathed, that 
 
 it not only had washed away from their 
 
 garments the stains that had clung to them 
 
 in the wood, but it had also removed the 
 
 stiffness and weariness of their limbs, and 
 
 given them, as it were, new life. The night, 
 
 too, had passed away, and a fresh morning 
 
 now dawned upon them ; and as the early 
 
 sun shone brightly, they felt cheerful and 
 
 happy, and began, with grateful hearts, to 
 
 thank the kind stranger for their deliverance. 
 
 He looked down, and putting one hand on 
 
 the head of each, smiled graciously upon 
 
 them, and told them that they were now 
 
 among the number of his Father's adopted 
 
 03 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 children, and that their names were Rhoda 
 and Minna; he promised also that if they 
 would be content to love and obey him, he 
 had yet greater kindness in store for them 
 than that which they had received. 
 
 While the children wondered at these words, 
 he raised his finger, and, pointing to the 
 east, asked them what they saw. Rhoda and 
 Minna looked up and gazed in silence, for 
 they were unable to describe .the grandeur 
 of the scene.- It seemed as though there were 
 a vast ocean of hills and mountains, rising 
 majestically one above the other \ the sides of 
 them were covered with the brightest flowers 
 and greenest verdure, but the top of them 
 they were unable to see, for a bright and 
 fleecy cloud was resting upon it. 
 
 And the stranger said, " Among those\ 
 glorious mountains my Father has his dwell- 
 ing-place, and you, from this hour, must learn 
 to look upon them as your home. Thousands 
 and thousands of happy children are living 
 there; they already regard you as members 
 of the same family as themselves, and at this 
 
 96 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 moment, in their morning song, are rejoicing 
 at your, deliverance from the dangers of the 
 forest Listen, and you will hear their voices." 
 Then there arose a soft and gentle breeze ; 
 it was fragrant with the flowers that grew 
 upon the mountains, and strains of heavenly 
 music came floating upon it, 
 
 Rhoda and Minna listened in rapture to 
 the sound, and they wondered whether their 
 kind deliverer would bear them at once to 
 those distant hills, and allow them to unite 
 their voices in the song of joy. But he 
 answered their thoughts, and said, "Not yet, 
 my children ; I cannot yet suffer you to dwell 
 with the rest of my family in their happy 
 home ; you must be content for a little while 
 to think of it, to watch it, to wish for 
 it, and to love it. For one day and one 
 night I shall leave you on the spot where 
 you now are. Here you will have a period 
 of light, and a period of darkness; during 
 the former you must be watchful, during the 
 latter you must rest; but the length of each 
 of them is uncertain. I shall not tell you 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 how many the hours of light, and how many 
 those of darkness will be. It may be that 
 you will be allowed the gradual succession 
 of morning, noon, and evening; and will 
 experience also the changes of sunshine and 
 of storm ; or it may be that the sun which now 
 shines upon you will sink in a moment, while 
 yet it seems to be in the east, and the 
 night will suddenly arrive. But whatever be 
 the length of the day, the service that I re- 
 quire of you is the same: you are to keep 
 raising your eyes to those beautiful hills in 
 the distance; to take delight in the mountain 
 breeze, and to listen with joy and thankfulness 
 to the soft strains of music that you hear. 
 So will your hearts and voices be in harmony 
 with the rest of my Father's children, when 
 the hour comes at which I shall return to 
 take you to the land where they dwell. I 
 do not, indeed, forbid you to enjoy the beauties 
 of the spot on which you will be left; you 
 may employ yourselves in cultivating the 
 ground, and endeavour, as far as you are 
 able, to increase its loveliness; you may also, 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 if you wish it, play together upon the grass, 
 and gather freely of the flowers that are around 
 you; but do not suffer your affections to be 
 fixed upon them, or regard them as your own : 
 they cannot afford you lasting pleasure; for 
 they will soon themselves wither and die : 
 the garden in which they grow is only for a 
 little while your resting-place, the distant 
 hills are your home. Of all the objects that 
 you now see, those hills alone are eternal, 
 and will never disappoint your love ; if any 
 trouble or affliction befal you, it is to them 
 that you must lift up your eyes, for upon 
 them are herbs that can assuage every care 
 and sorrow, and trees and flowers that never 
 fade. This, then, is the easy service that I 
 require of you during the present day. Do 
 not forget that at any moment it may close, 
 and that, sooner or later, a long night will 
 succeed it. You will then feel your eyes 
 grow heavy, and a deep sleep, that you can- 
 not resist, will fall upon you ; but if you have 
 remained within view of the eastern mountains, 
 you may lie down to rest without fear, for 
 
 99 F 2 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 no evil shall befal you during the long hours 
 of the night. On the morrow the shrill blast 
 of a trumpet will arouse you from your repose, 
 and I will then return with the children to 
 whose voices you have been listening, and 
 carry you away to the beautiful hills. There 
 you will live with me for ever; for to that 
 happy land there is no morning, noon, or 
 evening, but the joy and unchanging bright- 
 ness of an everlasting day." 
 
 The stranger paused a little while, that the 
 hearts of the sisters might indulge in those glad 
 and grateful feelings which his promise had 
 called forth; he then directed their attention 
 to a long ruinous wall, situated between the 
 eminence on which they stood and the beauti- 
 ful mountains in the east, and with sadder 
 accents again addressed them. "Whatever, 
 my children, be the events of the day, let 
 neither sunshine nor storm tempt you to take 
 shelter beneath that ruined building. At 
 present you can hardly discern its outline, 
 but when the sun shall have risen higher in 
 the heavens it will become clearer, and you 
 
 100 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 will see much that is hidden from you now. 
 I warn you, therefore, beforehand, that the 
 flowers that grow there are poisonous, the 
 huge stones ready at any. instant to fall, and 
 that everything about it is full of danger ; and, 
 above all, remember that though from this 
 point it appear low and insignificant, when 
 compared with the height immeasurable of the 
 distant hills, yet, if you stand close under it, 
 they will be shut out altogether from your 
 view. Do not imagine that when you once lose 
 sight of them you can come back as soon as 
 you wish it, and raise your eyes to them again ; 
 difficulties that you know not of will meet you 
 on your way ; nay, it may be that the day will 
 close so suddenly that you will have no oppor- 
 tunity to return ; and, should it be otherwise, 
 there are strange sights and sounds in the 
 neighbourhood of the wall, which will soon blot 
 out the remembrance of all you now love to 
 see and hear. You will gradually forget the 
 distant hills, and the sweet notes of music 
 that proceed from them ; for there will be 
 nothing to recall them to your minds. If, when 
 
 KH 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 your eyes grow heavy, be it sooner or later, 
 you are still found lingering under the wall, 
 sad indeed will be your fate ; for, however 
 long the night may be, you will then be 
 unable to leave the spot where sleep shall 
 first steal upon you ; and to-morrow, when the 
 trumpet sounds, the whole of that building 
 will fall with violence to the ground, and 
 those who lie under it will be crushed beneath 
 its ruins. Do not, then, my dear children, 
 allow for one instant the frail and perishable 
 wall to intercept your prospect of the distant 
 and eternal hills." 
 
 After this grave warning, the kind stranger 
 gave to each child a flute, telling them that 
 his father loved to hear the voices of all his 
 children, and that they must endeavour to 
 take part in the music of the happy family 
 that dwelt around his throne. He bade them 
 also, if at any time they had carelessly wan- 
 dered from the spot where he placed them, 
 to think of him, and with sorrowful hearts 
 to play upon these flutes, that so they might 
 be brought back to it again; for that though 
 
 102 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 they were afar off, and their voices very 
 faint and feeble, still each note would find its 
 echo among the mountains, and that he himself 
 would never fail to send an answer to their 
 song. 
 
 Now as Rhoda and Minna raised their eyes 
 to thank him for his gift and promise, they 
 found they were alone. He had already left 
 them, and was gone to the distant hills. 
 
 The sisters stood for a little while, holding 
 each other by the hand, and meditated in 
 silence on the words they had heard. They 
 had thought first of all that it would be a very 
 pleasant and easy task to watch continually 
 the glorious view that opened upon them 
 from the east, and to hope for their kind 
 benefactor's return; and yet now they could 
 not help trembling with an instinctive alarm 
 at the warning he had given them about the 
 dangerous wall. How very sad would be 
 their fate, if on the morrow, when he came 
 back to take them to their promised home, 
 they should be found crushed to pieces by 
 the ruin. 
 
 103 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Ehoda was the first to endeavour to set 
 this feeling aside. "Look, sister," she said, 
 "at that dark mouldering pile of bricks and 
 stones; surely there is little there to tempt 
 us from the green grass and pleasant flowers 
 of the spot on which we are. Nay, had it 
 not been pointed out to us, we should scarcely 
 have observed it at all." But Minna raised her 
 eyes very timidly, and replied, " Some danger 
 there must be, or our kind protector would not 
 have cautioned us against it. Remember that 
 this is but the first beginning of our day; 
 and he warned us, that while the sun was 
 in the east, we should not be able to see 
 clearly the things that grew upon the wall. 
 Doubtless, under a clearer light, or if haply 
 we approach nearer, it will seem brighter 
 and more attractive than it does now. Let 
 us, then, my dear sister, resolve to look at it 
 no more, but at once to fix our gaze upon 
 the distant hills." 
 
 As she thus spoke, she breathed lightly upon 
 her flute, and a soft note of music proceeded 
 from it : in an instant, the cloud that rested 
 
 104 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 upon the mountains was stirred by a gentle 
 breeze, and a strain of far sweeter melody 
 was wafted back to the children. Then Rhoda 
 also breathed upon her flute, and played it 
 in harmony with that of Minna ; and when 
 the distant music was again heard in reply, 
 both the sisters found pleasure in the thought, 
 that they formed part of the same choir with 
 the children who dwelt upon the hills, and 
 that the kind stranger, according to his 
 promise, was listening to their song. 
 
 For the few first hours of their day of 
 trial the two sisters lived happily together 
 on the spot where they had been left: they 
 had, indeed, but little temptation to wander 
 from it: all was new to them; everything 
 near seemed bright and cheerful, and they 
 gladly availed themselves of the permission 
 they had received to enjoy their beauties. 
 They did not begin by cultivating the ground, 
 but gathered plenteously of the flowers that 
 already grew there; many of the most beau- 
 tiful withered at their touch, and there were 
 thorns concealed in others, which tore their 
 
 105 F 3 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 hands ; but so light and joyous were the 
 hearts of the children, that each little pain 
 and disappointment was no sooner felt than it 
 was forgotten. Sometimes, they would weave 
 sweet garlands, and playfully entwine them 
 in their hair; sometimes, in the buoyancy of 
 their spirits, they would chase one another 
 along the green turf; and, when they were 
 weary, they would sit side by side under a 
 myrtle, and listen to the warbling of the 
 birds that fluttered among the branches. 
 
 During these periods, Minna would often 
 contrast the sad and gloomy forest with the 
 pleasant spot on which she was now per- 
 mitted to dwell ; and, while she meditated 
 with gratitude on the stranger's kind promises, 
 she would wonder how many hours might 
 elapse before he came back for her again. 
 Then she would softly whisper her thoughts 
 to Rhoda, and remind her that their day 
 might be short, and that they must practise 
 continually on their flutes, in order that, on 
 the morrow, their ears and voices might be 
 in harmony with those of the happy family 
 
 1C6 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 who already dwelt upon the distant hills. 
 Rhoda never refused to accompany her sister ; 
 but she seemed to raise her eyes more lan- 
 guidly towards the east, and to listen less 
 gladly than Minna to the answering melody 
 that came from thence ; nay, there were times 
 at which it appeared doubtful whether she 
 heard it at all : her attention was drawn away 
 by the rustling of the leaves, and the chirping 
 of the birds; and the reason of this must 
 have been, that even while her flute was at 
 her lips, her heart was not meditating on 
 the kind stranger's return. 
 
 There was, in truth, at this time, a 
 very great difference between the two sisters, 
 though their pleasures and occupations seemed 
 to be the same. The mind of Minna was 
 evidently fixed on her future home ; she could 
 not, indeed, pass her whole time in playing 
 upon her flute, but she felt that the minutes 
 given to amusement were in some sort dan- 
 gerous, and was very careful lest her affections 
 might be carried away by the pleasures which 
 she was allowed to enjoy. Thus she would 
 
 107 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 often stop in the midst of her play, and raise 
 her eyes, to be quite sure she was still in 
 sight of the distant hills ; when the flowers 
 were sweetest, she would hold them up on 
 high, and try to increase their fragrance by 
 the perfumes wafted from the mountain breeze ; 
 and when the birds Were singing most merrily 
 around her, she would breathe gently on her 
 flute, lest her ear might be too long captivated 
 with the gladness of their song. But it was 
 not thus with Rhoda : during the time passed 
 in amusement the distant hills were forgotten, 
 and she would probably, in her eagerness, 
 have more than once lost sight of them alto- 
 gether, if Minna had not warned her of her 
 danger. Her eyes, too, were continually 
 wandering towards the forbidden wall; its 
 outline was gradually becoming less and less 
 indistinct; and, if truth be told, it no longer 
 appeared to her so destitute of attraction as 
 in the first instance she had declared it to 
 be. 
 
 Meanwhile the hours glided by; there was 
 no sudden change ; l}ut the sun continued 
 
 108 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 quietly on its course till the fresh breeze of the 
 morning had given way to a bright and burning 
 heat. The children knew not why, but they 
 felt that they themselves were affected by 
 the progress of the day. Their former joy 
 and excitement were succeeded by feelings of 
 restlessness and disappointment. The spot 
 on which they stood seemed to them to have 
 lost much of its cheerfulness and beauty, 
 and they could no longer take delight in the 
 same simple pleasures as before. Hitherto 
 they had gone on in happy thoughtlessness, 
 twining garland after garland; but they now 
 observed that the fairest and sweetest flowers 
 were always the first to fade, and so they 
 gathered them no more. Their former games 
 had lost their interest, nay, the air itself was 
 too hot and oppressive to suffer them to play. 
 Their very listlessness prevented either sister 
 from having recourse to her flute, the music 
 of which would at once have soothed her 
 mind; and they were far too dispirited to 
 seek employment in the cultivation of their 
 garden : they sat idly together under their 
 
 109 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 favourite tree, while each gave way to her 
 own sad and discontented thoughts. 
 
 Minna looked from time to time, not on 
 the hills themselves, but on the cloud that 
 rested upon them: there it remained, quiet 
 and beautiful as before. The prospect towards 
 the east had in no respect altered since it 
 had first excited the admiration of the children. 
 But Minna now gazed with a longing desire 
 to behold something more; she was half dis- 
 posed to murmur that the glories of the 
 summit of the mountain should still be con- 
 cealed from her view ; and as she watched the 
 cloud with this feeling, it seemed to fall lower, 
 and to grow darker than before. 
 
 Rhoda, with yet more unquiet thoughts, 
 was looking wistfully at the wall. Unlike 
 the distant hills, it had greatly changed in 
 appearance since the morning; for the whole 
 outline had been now rendered clear and dis- 
 tinct by the glare of the noon-day sun. It was 
 a long irregular pile of building, very far from 
 being altogether destitute of beauty; and 
 though parts of it had been much impaired 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS, 
 
 by time, few who looked at it from a distance 
 would have discovered the dangerous state in 
 which it was. Here and there were broken 
 towers and buttresses, but the ruined parts 
 of them were concealed by the dark leaf of 
 the ivy; the mouldering stones were covered 
 with soft and delicate mosses, while, from the 
 chinks and crevices of the wall itself, grew a 
 variety of red and yellow flowers, which 
 dazzled the eye by the gaudiness of their 
 colours. All this attracted the admiration 
 of Rhoda, and while she thus gazed, she forgot 
 that the whole building was a ruin, which 
 could stand only a single day, and that on 
 the morrow, those who were found near it 
 would be crushed by its fall. She had indeed 
 no immediate intention of approaching it, but 
 her affections were already there, and some 
 momentary impulse alone was required to 
 
 cause her to follow them. 
 
 
 
 While her mind was in this state, a bright 
 green lizard darted suddenly from a chink in 
 the wall, and ran along its surface; for an 
 
 instant it glittered in the sun, and then lay 
 
 in 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 half-concealed beneath the leaves of the ivy. 
 Rhoda sprang up, and seizing Minna by the 
 hand, exclaimed, "Look, sister, look at that 
 bright glittering creature ! Nay, but it is 
 hiding itself from us now; let us go a little 
 nearer." As she said this she began to draw 
 her sister down the hill. Minna had been 
 too occupied by her own thoughts to observe 
 Rhoda; she was now taken by surprise, and 
 allowed herself to be hurried a little way 
 towards the wall. She had not, indeed, seen 
 the lizard, but she was anxious for something 
 new, and her curiosity was excited by the 
 admiration of Rhoda. Before, however, she 
 had advanced many steps, she raised her eyes, 
 as in walking she was wont to do, towards 
 the distant hills. Great was her alarm when 
 she found that the cloud on their summit was 
 all that was now visible; the sides of the 
 mountains were already hidden from her, by 
 her approach to the wall. " Stay, sister, 
 stay," she said, t( indeed we must go no farther, 
 we cannot do so without losing sight of our 
 happy home." Now, Rhoda was one step in 
 
 112 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 advance of her sister, and as she raised her 
 eyes, she found that not even the cloud itself 
 was visible from the point on which she stood ; 
 yet this only seemed to increase her eagerness 
 to get close to the wall. " A few steps 
 farther," she urged, " will bring us to the 
 very spot, at which the lizard is concealed; 
 we need only look at it for a single instant, 
 and then we can return." But Minna replied, 
 "' Supposing in that single instant our day 
 were to close, and the hour of darkness to 
 arrive, how very terrible it would be to have 
 to pass the long night under the wall, and 
 on the morrow to be buried beneath its ruins." 
 Still Rhoda was not satisfied. " Sister/' 
 she said, " from the spot where the stranger 
 left us we have watched the sun rise gradually 
 from the east; it has not yet reached the 
 centre of the heavens; no mist or vapour is 
 near it, and we can see nothing to impede its 
 course; surely then it is most unlikely that 
 its light should altogether disappear during 
 the little while we are away." " But why," 
 answered Minna, "why should we needlessly 
 
 113 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 incur so great a risk ? To do so, were to 
 
 
 
 neglect the warning the kind stranger has 
 given us, of the uncertainty of our day; and 
 even if many hours of light do remain, re- 
 member what he told us of the difficulties of 
 a return. We do not, indeed, know what 
 they are ; but in part I can already understand 
 them. Look behind us, and you will see 
 that it will be no easy task to climb up that 
 portion of the hill down which we have so 
 thoughtlessly come. Every moment it appears 
 to grow more steep and slippery than it was ; 
 besides, there is something oppressive in the 
 air we now breathe, that will unfit us for the 
 effort ; even my flute seems to feel its deaden- 
 ing influence ; listen, how faint and languid is 
 its sound." 
 
 As she thus spoke, she raised the instrument 
 to her lips, and a few plaintive notes proceeded 
 from it; they were in truth very feeble, but 
 they found their echo among the eastern 
 mountains. Rhoda heard it, and her heart 
 was moved. The heavenly music had more 
 effect upon her than even the affectionate 
 
 114 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 entreaties of her sister ; the tears rose so 
 quickly in her eyes, that she no longer saw 
 the dangerous wall; the temptation for the 
 time passed away, and turning round, she, 
 together with Minna, struggled resolutely up 
 the steep ascent, until they came to the spot 
 at which in the morning they had been left. 
 
 The sisters stood for a moment breathless 
 with the haste they had made, but the moun- 
 tain breeze soon refreshed them, and then 
 they raised their eyes, and gazed fondly on 
 the lovely prospect that was again open to 
 their view. They did not forget to play upon 
 their flutes a song of thanksgiving ; and as the 
 grateful strains were echoed among the distant 
 hills, the cloud that rested upon them grew 
 brighter and brighter, and there was a strain of 
 gladness in the answering melody, as though 
 the happy family that dwelt there were re- 
 joicing at their return. 
 
 115 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Questions on (adapter I. 
 
 <m. WHAT is signified by the condition 
 of the children who were benighted in the 
 forest ? 
 
 &. The natural state of man, which is 
 rendered dark and miserable by original sin. 
 
 (OH. Who was the stranger that delivered 
 them from the dangers to which they were 
 exposed? 
 
 &. Jesus Christ, our Saviour. 
 
 (Oi. Why is it said, that when He found 
 them they were unable to speak or move ? 
 
 &.. Because we have no power to pray 
 to Christ, or to rise and follow Him, without 
 his special grace. 
 
 (&. What is meant by the river, at the 
 boundary of the wood? 
 
 &. The waters of Holy Baptism, through 
 
 116 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 which Jesus Christ vouchsafes, as it were, 
 to carry us in his arms from the state of 
 nature to the state of grace. 
 
 <!R. What other effect had the waters upon 
 the children, besides washing away the stains 
 from their garments ? 
 
 gl. It removed their weariness, and gave 
 them new vigour and strength. 
 
 (0=1. In the same way, also, Holy Baptism 
 not only purifies us from past sins, but endues 
 us with the strength of the Holy Spirit, to 
 enable us to walk in newness of life. Why 
 did the stranger tell them that they were now 
 the adopted children of his Father ? 
 
 &. Because by Baptism we are made mem- 
 bers of Christ, and children of God. 
 
 (&. And what were those distant hills in the 
 east, that He then pointed out to them ? 
 
 ^. Their inheritance in heaven. 
 
 (&. Who were the happy family that 
 already dwelt there ? 
 
 gl. The holy angels. 
 
 . Why is it said that a cloud covered 
 the top of the mountains? 
 
 117 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 ISL Because we cannot understand the joys 
 of heaven. 
 
 dEl. Yes ; though much has been revealed to 
 us by our Saviour, there is still very much 
 that we cannot yet realize in that blessed 
 state for which we are preparing. We must 
 still be content to see in part, and know in 
 part, and exercise the virtues of faith and hope. 
 What is signified by the place in which the 
 stranger left the children ? 
 
 &. The church upon earth. 
 
 (01. It is there that our Saviour leaves those 
 whom by Baptism He has admitted to his 
 kingdom, to wait for his return. It forms, as 
 it were, a sort of resting-place between the 
 region of darkness, from which He has taken 
 us, and those mansions of perfect light, which 
 He has gone to prepare for us in heaven. 
 What is intended by the day and night tbat 
 were to elapse before his return? 
 
 gl. The day is the period of life the flight, 
 the period that will elapse between death and 
 judgment. ?* > 
 
 <&. Why are they said to be of uncertain 
 
 118 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 length, and what is meant by the changes of 
 morning, noon, and evening, and the succession 
 of sunshine, and of storm ? 
 
 &. The morning, noon, and evening, re- 
 present the several periods of childhood, youth, 
 and age. The sunshine is prosperity; the 
 storm, adversity ; the day is of uncertain length, 
 because we may die in childhood; the night, 
 because we cannot tell how long we may rest 
 in our graves before we are aroused from 
 our sleep by the second advent of our 
 Saviour. 
 
 (JRy What was to be the employment of the 
 children while the day continued ? 
 
 &. They were to remain on the spot where 
 they were left, and to gaze constantly on the 
 distant hills, and to learn to love them more 
 and more. 
 
 (01. What duty of Christians is this designed 
 to teach us ? 
 
 &. That while we are upon earth we must 
 set our affections on things above, and so 
 endeavour to prepare ourselves for heaven. 
 
 0. What is meant by the ground the 
 
 119 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 children were to cultivate, and the flowers they 
 were allowed to gather ? 
 
 13. The occupations and pleasures which 
 it has pleased God to give us in this life, and 
 which only become dangerous when we so 
 dwell upon them, that they draw away our 
 minds from thoughts of our Saviour. 
 
 (OH. What is signified by the ruined wall ? 
 
 & The world. 
 
 dEl. Yes, in that sense in which St. John 
 speaks of it, when he tells us that " if any 
 man love the world, the love of the Father is 
 not in him." And it is possible for those who 
 are placed in the Church to live notwith- 
 standing as children of the world; for we 
 must remember that the Church upon earth 
 does not secure us against temptations to 
 evil; otherwise our Lord would not have 
 compared it to a field in which the tares and 
 wheat were growing together; and a net, in 
 which good and bad fish were found. There 
 is a world within it, and though Christians 
 having been once baptized cannot again cross 
 the stream, and return to the forest beyond, 
 
 120 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 yet, by seeking that world, and by a neglect of 
 the Gospel promises, they may forfeit all those 
 privileges that their baptism was intended to 
 bestow. Now, why were the children for- 
 bidden to approach the wall? 
 
 & Because the things that grew on it 
 were poisonous, and the stones ready to fall, 
 but chiefly because, if they came too near it, 
 it would shut them out from the prospect of 
 the distant hills. 
 
 (Si. Remember, then, that in the same way 
 the pomps and vanities of this world may shut 
 us out from the contemplation of the far higher 
 joys of heaven ; and things temporal may hide 
 from us things eternal. What danger did they 
 incur by disobedience ? 
 
 3. They were told, that if they fell asleep 
 beneath the wall, on the morrow it would 
 give way, and they would be crushed to pieces 
 by its fall. 
 
 (Oi. What do you understand by this ? 
 
 3. That those whom death finds with their 
 affections set upon the world, will perish 
 everlastingly in the day of judgment, when 
 
 121 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 the world and the lust thereof shall pass 
 away. 
 
 dEL What is signified by the flutes that were 
 left with the children ? 
 
 &. The gift of prayer, and other means of 
 holding communion with God. 
 
 <!B. Yes, and for these great blessings we are 
 indebted to our Saviour. It is He who thus 
 enables Christians upon earth to share the high 
 privilege of the holy angels in heaven ; and to 
 prepare themselves for that employment which 
 will hereafter be their chief delight, when 
 they are admitted to the presence of God. 
 By the answering echo among the distant 
 mountains, we are to understand that spiritual 
 joy and comfort which sincere and earnest 
 prayer never fails to afford us. Why is it said 
 that the outline of the wall was indistinct 
 during the morning ? 
 
 gfc. Is it because during our infancy and 
 childhood we cannot clearly see the dangers 
 of the world? 
 
 <&. We not only cannot see its dangers, 
 but we cannot even understand the nature 
 
 122 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 of many of its temptations. God hides, as 
 it were, from little children much that is 
 impure and evil, while he opens to them 
 at once the prospect of heaven. He gives 
 them their early years to devote themselves 
 to his service, and to prepare for trials to 
 which they will afterwards be exposed. What 
 do you understand by the description of the 
 way in which Ehoda and Minna passed the 
 morning ? 
 
 &. They were allowed to enjoy quietly 
 the pleasures of childhood, and neither of 
 them neglected the outward exercises of re- 
 ligion. 
 
 dH. So far they were both alike. What 
 was the real difference between them? 
 
 &. The heart of Minna was with Christ, 
 that of Rhoda inclined to the unknown 
 vanities of the world. 
 
 (JR. Yes ; and in this way, sisters who 
 are brought up together, receive the same 
 instructions, say the same prayers, attend 
 the same church, and whose daily occupations 
 seem to be exactly alike, may already have 
 
 123 G 2 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS, 
 
 wandered far from one another in the sight 
 of God. They may appear to their friends 
 to be treading the same path, because neither 
 of them has yet fallen into any great sin, 
 but the thoughts of their hearts may be very 
 different ; and we must remember that while 
 man can only look on outward actions, 
 God looketh on the heart. What do you 
 understand by the apparent beauty of the 
 wall when the sun shone upon it? 
 
 gl. That in our youth the world offers 
 many allurements to sin, and we cannot see 
 the mischief that lurks beneath them. 
 
 . What is meant by the appearance of 
 the lizard ? 
 
 &. A sudden temptation to a worldly 
 pleasure, to which in her youth Rhoda 
 became exposed. 
 
 <m. And she yielded to it at once, without 
 inquiring whether it were sinful, because her 
 heart was already set upon the world. But 
 why did Minna begin to follow her ? 
 
 &, Because, although she was not, like 
 her sister, coveting the forbidden pleasures 
 
 124 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 of this life, she was dissatisfied with her in- 
 distinct perception of the joys of heaven. 
 
 <&. This is signified by her complaint 
 that the cloud still concealed the top of the 
 mountains. Why is it said that, as she 
 watched it with this feeling, it grew darker 
 and sunk lower than before ? 
 
 2H. It means that she knew less instead 
 of more of heavenly things. 
 
 <&. Yes. When we murmur because we 
 cannot see more than God has vouchsafed 
 to reveal to us, we only darken our own 
 understanding. How was Minna saved from 
 approaching the wall? 
 
 &. She observed that it was gradually 
 hiding the beautiful mountains from her view. 
 
 CH. Yes ; and she observed this in con- 
 sequence of her habit of raising her eyes 
 towards the East. The best of us are liable 
 to err. They alone are safe whose thoughts 
 are so habitually directed heavenward, that 
 they discover at once when they are about 
 to lose sight of their promised home. How 
 do you understand the arguments by which 
 
 125 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Minna tried to persuade Rhoda to hasten back 
 to the spot where they had been left ? 
 
 13. She reminded her that the day might 
 close suddenly, meaning that though they 
 were young and healthy, death might at any 
 moment take them by surprise, and that after 
 death it would be impossible for them to re- 
 cover the bright prospect which they had lost. 
 
 (&. Why did she say that the hill was 
 increasing in steepness behind them? 
 
 13. Because the return to virtue becomes 
 more and more laborious the longer we 
 defer it. 
 
 (HL You know what is meant by her 
 playing upon her flute ? 
 
 13* That she offered a sincere and earnest 
 prayer for herself and her sister, which God 
 in his mercy heard and answered. 
 
 <&. What do you understand by the tears 
 of Rhoda preventing her seeing any longer 
 the dangerous wall? 
 
 i3. Sorrow for her past transgression re- 
 moved for a time the temptation to further 
 sin. 
 
 120 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 (HL Why is it said that, when the children 
 had returned from their wandering, there 
 were strains of unusual gladness in the music 
 of the distant hills? 
 
 &. Because we are tola* that there is joy 
 in heaven in the presence of the angels of 
 God over the penitent sinner. 
 
 127 
 
distant 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Sisters in blood and nurture too 
 Aliens in heart will often prove; 
 
 One lose, the other keep Heaven's due; 
 One dwell in wrath, and one in love. 
 
 IT was only for a little while that the two 
 sisters shared the same feelings of thankful- 
 ness and joy: no sooner had the first excite- 
 ment passed away, than Rhoda grew weary 
 of watching the distant hills, and suffered 
 her eyes to wander back in the direction 
 of the wall. Her having once approached 
 it, only increased the temptation to return ; 
 for there were many other objects besides 
 the bright lizard which she had now half 
 seen, but which she was unable to distin- 
 guish from the spot where the stranger had 
 
 128 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 left her. The more she pictured them to 
 herself, the more beautiful she fancied they 
 must be; and she half regretted that she 
 had not gone on to examine them when she 
 was already so far on her way. She said 
 within herself, "Oh, that I had satisfied my 
 curiosity once for all, and then I could have 
 left the building without a wish to return 
 to it again I" These thoughts would, doubt- 
 less, of themselves have gradually led her 
 on to fresh wanderings, and they proved 
 but an ill preparation for the trial that 
 was near at hand. 
 
 Hitherto the children had enjoyed so unin- 
 terrupted a sunshine, that they had almost 
 forgotten to be thankful for so great a 
 blessing: they looked upon it as their own, 
 and it did not occur to them that in a few 
 minutes it might pass away. But towards 
 the afternoon a great change took place in 
 the appearance of the day. A cold wind 
 arose from the east, and there were dark 
 watery clouds sweeping across the sky. Minna 
 was the first to observe them. " Look, 
 
 129 G 3 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 sister," she said, "how gloomy and threaten- 
 ing all around us has become; every instant 
 the darkness seems to increase. I remember 
 the kind stranger warned us that, as the day 
 advanced, the sunshine might be followed by 
 a storm. Let us then prepare ourselves to 
 endure it. Already I can feel the first heavy 
 drops of rain, the sign of its approach." She 
 had scarcely finished speaking when a vivid 
 flash of lightning shot through the air. It 
 was followed by a loud and angry peal of 
 thunder; arid then the tempest began in all 
 its fury. The rain poured down in torrents: 
 at the same time the wind increased, and the 
 spot on which the children stood seemed more 
 than any other exposed to its violence. Some 
 trees were torn up by the roots, while large 
 branches from others were broken off and 
 carried away by the storm. 
 
 The two sisters stood for a moment in 
 silent terror, and then Minna looked timidly 
 around for a place of shelter ; but Rhoda 
 exclaimed, " The rain is slanting from the 
 east, we shall escape it under the shadow of 
 
 130 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 the wall; follow me and you will be safe." 
 Without waiting for a reply, she rushed hastily 
 down the hill, and took refuge under the ruin. 
 Minna's first impulse was to follow her; but 
 in an instant she recollected the danger, and 
 called out earnestly and loudly on her sister to 
 return. Rhoda did not hear her, for the voice 
 was lost in the noise of the wind. Minna 
 then began to play upon her flute ; but though 
 each gentle note, even in the midst of the 
 tempest, was echoed back from the distant 
 hills, still the sound did not reach Rhoda as 
 she stood under the shadow of the wall. 
 
 At length Minna was obliged to abandon 
 the attempt to recall her sister, and began , 
 once more to look for some spot in which 
 she might safely rest until the storm was over. 
 She did not look for it in vain. While she 
 had been playing on her flute, a large cypress 
 had been blown down by the wind. The 
 trunk of the tree was now supported at one 
 end by the upper boughs, and at the other 
 by the roots which had been torn out of the 
 ground. These, with the earth that still clung 
 
 131 
 
THE DISTANT HELLS. 
 
 to them, offered an effectual protection from 
 the rain. Minna crept beneath the thick 
 branches, and sat down under the fallen 
 tree ; and as she sat there her heart was 
 very full of heaviness and sorrow. She grieved 
 because the bright sunshine of the day had 
 passed and given place to cold piercing winds 
 and a clouded sky; she grieved to see the 
 trees that she loved stripped of their branches, 
 and the green leaves scattered hither and 
 thither, and her favourite flowers drooping 
 under the violence of the storm ; but most 
 bitterly did she grieve for her sister, for she 
 loved her very dearly, and she now feared 
 that she never might behold her again. 
 " Alas ! " she said, " these showers may per- 
 haps continue until sleep steals upon Rhoda 
 in her dangerous lurking place, and then when 
 the new morning arrives she will perish under 
 the ruin." Yet, in the midst of her sorrow, 
 Minna could find comfort in her grateful affec- 
 tion for her kind protector, and in gazing 
 stedfastly on her future home. The sky did 
 indeed look black and lowering, but one 
 
 132 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 shining cloud there was, which was only ren- 
 dered the more bright and beautiful by the sur- 
 rounding darkness, and the child knew that it 
 was the cloud that rested on the distant hills. 
 When she breathed upon her flute, it was 
 thence that the answering melody came ; the 
 sweet notes were borne back to her in an 
 instant by the rushing wind, and they sounded 
 no less clear and distinct than they had done 
 in the stillness of the morning. 
 
 But let us leave Minna, and return to the 
 history of her sister. After she had run down 
 the hill, she had no difficulty in finding the 
 shelter she sought. The wall was sufficiently 
 high to afford a complete protection from the 
 rain ; but, alas, at the same time, it shut out 
 from her the whole of the eastern view. It 
 was with a feeling of solitude, and almost of 
 terror, that she crouched for the first time 
 beneath the mouldering ruin. She forgot all 
 the beautiful objects that she had so lately 
 longed to see ; her head turned giddy with the 
 strong scent of the flowers, and the buzzing 
 of insects, and other strange murmurings that 
 
 133 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 she heard; and her heart sickened at the 
 thought that, perhaps, she never might return 
 to her sister again. More than once she half 
 resolved to begin the attempt, but the rain 
 seemed to descend faster than ever, and Rhoda 
 had not courage to face the storm. 
 
 She still, therefore, lingered on, until her 
 ear became accustomed to the humming sounds, 
 and her fears and anxieties began to subside. 
 She soon learned to forget the innocent joys of 
 the morning, and the distant hills, and the 
 heavenly music: her thoughts were confined 
 to the narrow spot on which she stood, while, 
 at the same time, all that the stranger had 
 told her of its danger was scarce remembered 
 at all. She now looked stealthily around, and 
 began to examine the different plants and 
 shrubs that grew upon the wall. There were 
 some rich crimson mosses very near, and they 
 were so unlike anything she had before seen, 
 that they immediately attracted her attention. 
 She raised her hand and touched one of them, 
 and when it felt soft and delicate, she could 
 not resist the temptation to gather it ; yet she 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 trembled exceedingly as she tried to separate 
 it from the mouldering stone, for this was her 
 first attempt to take anything from the ruin, 
 and she half feared that it might altogether 
 give way and crush her by its fall. There 
 seemed, however, to be no immediate danger ; 
 the moss yielded at once to her slightest effort, 
 and Rhoda pressed it gently to her cheek, and 
 then concealed it in her bosom. 
 
 After this she gradually became bolder, and, 
 leaving the place in which she had first taken 
 refuge, crept along the side of the wall. She 
 entered into every nook and corner, and 
 gathered abundantly of the strange flowers 
 that she found. It seemed wonderful that she 
 should think them beautiful; for neither the 
 rose, nor the lily, nor the gentle harebell, nor 
 the humble violet, were there ; but rank weeds, 
 and poisonous herbs, and shrubs that loved the 
 darkness, and shrank from the cheerful light of 
 day. All these, by some strange infatuation, 
 now proved attractive to the unhappy child ; 
 but one purple floweret there was, which she 
 admired more than all the rest. She wove it 
 
 135 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 into a chaplet, and entwined it in her hair. 
 Alas! she knew not that it was the deadly 
 nightshade ! 
 
 Meanwhile the hours glided on; and when 
 the noon had some time passed, the wind was 
 lulled and the storm ceased. Minna left her 
 place of shelter, and looked anxiously for her 
 sister. It was some little while before she was 
 able to distinguish her; at length, however, 
 she caught a glimpse of her figure, half hidden 
 among the leaves of the ivy; but Rhoda did 
 not see Minna, for her eyes were too intently 
 fixed upon the wall. Then Minna played 
 upon her flute, in the hope that the well-known 
 sound might induce the wanderer to return; 
 but though there was stillness in the air 
 around, Rhoda heard neither the music itself, 
 nor its echo among the mountains ; her ear was 
 no longer awake to the distant melody it had 
 been too much deadened by the low and con- 
 fused murmurs that issued from the ruin. 
 
 She still, indeed, held her own flute in her 
 hand, and every now and then would raise it 
 hurriedly to her lips, but she cared not how 
 
 136 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 irregular were the notes that proceeded from 
 it : and she neither sought nor expected an 
 answer to her song. Yet we must not suppose 
 that she had determined to continue where she 
 was during the rest of the day ; for there were 
 times at which she thought, with fear and 
 trembling, of the danger of falling asleep 
 beneath the wall. But she fancied the hour of 
 slumber was still very far off, and that she 
 might safely remain until the dim twilight 
 warned her of its approach. Then, she said 
 within herself, she would hasten quickly away, 
 and gaze once more upon the distant hills. 
 
 Even the reappearance of the sun, which her 
 sister fondly fancied might remind her to come 
 back, only brought with it a fresh temptation 
 to linger near the building. Many thousand 
 insects and reptiles, that had concealed them- 
 selves during the storm, now crept forth from 
 their lurking places, to bask in the sunshine. 
 Rhoda recognised among them the bright green 
 lizard. It stood still upon a projecting stone, 
 and, turning round, fixed its sparkling eyes 
 upon the child. She thought it would prove 
 
 137 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 an easy prize, and advanced gently to take it 
 in her hand ; but, as she was approaching, the 
 subtle creature glided along the surface of the 
 wall, and again paused, and stood glittering in 
 the light, at a little distance from her. Rhoda 
 followed it, and springing suddenly forward, 
 imagined this time that the lizard could not 
 possibly escape her; but in an instant it had 
 darted away, and was concealed behind the ivy. 
 A slight rustling in the neighbouring leaves 
 betrayed the hiding-place to Rhoda. She crept 
 onward to the spot, and looking cautiously 
 among the branches, was just able to distin- 
 guish the object of her search. " Ah, silly 
 creature," thought she, "you flatter yourself 
 you have escaped me, but I have caught you 
 at last." At the same moment she closed her 
 hands upon the ivy, and doubled over the leaf 
 that covered the lizard. She then tore it from 
 the stem, and fancied that her wished-for prize 
 was there. But she found that it was but an 
 empty leaf which she held; the lizard was 
 again clinging to the wall, a little in advance of 
 her, and looking bright and beautiful as ever. 
 
 138 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 In this way it gradually tempted the child 
 on, always waiting for her, and always just 
 eluding her grasp, until it had brought her 
 to the fragment of an old tower, more dark 
 and ruinous than anything she had yet seen. 
 But Rhoda was too eager in her pursuit to 
 observe its state of decay ; nay, at the entrance 
 she threw away the flute, which hitherto she 
 had retained in her hand, because she fancied 
 it had more than once prevented her seizing 
 the lizard. She went into the tower, and saw 
 the bright eyes again looking at her, from a 
 projecting stone beyond her reach. Without 
 a moment's hesitation, she began to climb the 
 wall. When she had reached a sufficient 
 height, she clung with one hand to the ruin, 
 while she stretched out the other to take the 
 lizard. This time it made no effort to escape, 
 and the delighted child took it, and placed it 
 on the soft moss in her bosom ; but no sooner 
 had she done this than part of the building 
 gave way ; her feet and hands slipped, and she 
 fell down, and the stone on which the lizard 
 had been came rolling upon her. The un- 
 
 139 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 happy child was crushed and bruised beneath 
 its weight, and, as she attempted to rise, she 
 found that her ancle had been sprained 
 violently by her fall. She had just sufficient 
 strength to crawl a few paces from the tower, 
 and then, faint and dizzy with the intensity 
 of the pain, she again sank upon the ground. 
 
 She remained there senseless for a little 
 while. Alas ! she was still under the shadow 
 of the wall ; and as the evening was stealing 
 on, it seemed all hope of her escape from it 
 was at an end. But suddenly she was aroused 
 from her stupor by the noise of distant music. 
 It came from the mountains in the far east, 
 yet was unlike those gentle notes to which, 
 in her bright and happy morning, Rhoda had 
 loved to listen ; there was now the shrill blast 
 of the trumpet, and the beat of the drum, 
 and other sounds of war ; they seemed to 
 approach nearer and nearer, and to grow more 
 terribly loud, while they rolled like thunder 
 through the hollow places of the wall, until 
 the large stones tottered as though its foun- 
 dations were giving way. The child awoke 
 
 140 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 in an agony of alarm. She imagined the 
 night must have already passed, and that 
 the new morning had arrived, and she ex- 
 pected every instant to be overwhelmed by 
 the ruin. She attempted to rise, and in the 
 struggle her hand rested on something that 
 was lying near her ; it proved to be the 
 flute, which she had thrown down as she 
 entered the tower. She took it with fear 
 and trembling, and raised it to her lips, with 
 an anxious wish that her kind protector might 
 now listen to her song ; and though her own 
 ear was all too dull to catch the feeble sound 
 that proceeded from it, it was heard and 
 welcomed among the distant hills. 
 
 It seemed as though Minna must have 
 heard it also, for she played one joyous strain 
 upon her flute, and then began to hasten to 
 the assistance of Rhoda. She paused, how- 
 ever, after she had advanced a few steps; 
 for much as she loved her sister, she was 
 afraid to venture in the neighbourhood of 
 the wall; but as she raised her eyes towards 
 the east, a new and glorious vision was open 
 
 141 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 to her view. The beautiful mountains, and 
 the cloud that rested on their summit, were 
 reflected from above in the clear blue sky, 
 so that the ruin could no longer conceal 
 them, and, still gazing stedfastly on her 
 future home, she proceeded downward on 
 her task of love. 
 
 When she reached her sister, after tenderly 
 embracing her, she tore away from her gar- 
 ments all the strange shrubs and flowers that 
 had been gathered from the wall. To Minna 
 their smell was like that of the deadliest 
 poisons, and such in truth they were. Rhoda 
 breathed more freely when they were gone ; 
 happily she had already lost her wreath of 
 nightshade in her fall from the tower. By 
 the aid of her sister she was now able to 
 rise, and while her ears yet tingled with the 
 noise of the drums and trumpets, she slowly 
 and painfully began her return. It was in- 
 deed a work of the greatest difficulty and 
 labour ; her limbs had been crushed and 
 bruised under the weight of the stone, and 
 she suffered the most acute agony from the 
 
 142 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 sprain in her ankle. More than once she 
 was tempted to stand still, or to throw her- 
 self despairingly upon the ground. But the 
 ascent was so steep and slippery, that she 
 felt, if she once ceased moving forward, 
 she must slide back again to the ruin ; and, 
 while she recollected its dangerous state, the 
 very pain she endured caused her to struggle 
 the more earnestly to escape from it. 
 
 Minna would fain have carried her in her 
 arms, as the kind stranger had done when 
 he found them both perishing in the wood; 
 but her own strength was far too feeble for 
 so great an effort; she was only able now 
 and then to assist and guide her steps, and 
 ever to soothe and cheer her by the soft 
 music of her flute. She tried, too, to point 
 out to her the glorious vision in the eastern 
 sky; but Rhoda sought for it in vain. To 
 her eyes all above looked dark and gloomy 
 there was no reflection either of the beautiful 
 hills, or the bright cloud; still, however, she 
 persevered in the painful ascent, until the 
 outline of the hills themselves appeared above 
 
 143 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 the summit of the wall. Here her appre- 
 hensions began to subside; she looked round, 
 and imagined that if the building were to 
 give way, none of the falling stones could 
 reach her, on the point where she stood; 
 so she told her sister that she would wait 
 there a little while until the pain in her ancle 
 should cease. It was in vain that Minna 
 entreated her to go on a few steps farther, 
 that so they might rest on the very spot where 
 the stranger had placed them. She replied 
 that she was faint and weary, and that there 
 could be no danger while they saw any part 
 of the eastern mountains. So she sat down 
 under the shade of a tree ; and as she sat 
 down, the wall again became a sufficient 
 barrier to hide the mountains from her view. 
 
 Minna, when she found her entreaties of 
 no avail, stood affectionately by the side of 
 her sister, waiting till she had recovered 
 strength to resume her journey. The tears 
 rose quickly to her eyes, as she now had 
 time to observe the change in Rhoda's appear- 
 ance that her wanderings had produced. Not 
 
 144 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 only were her garments soiled, and her limbs 
 bruised, and her hands torn ; but her cheek 
 looked wan and pale, and she seemed alto- 
 gether in a far worse state than when the 
 stranger had saved her from the wood, and 
 given her new life by washing her in the 
 waters of the refreshing stream. Minna re- 
 membered, with a sigh, that there was no 
 returning to those clear waters again; still, 
 however, she did not despair that the health 
 and strength of her sister might be restored, 
 for there were herbs upon the distant hills 
 which were a remedy for every disease and 
 sorrow, and Minna fondly hoped that the 
 evening breeze would waft their fragrance 
 to Rhoda, and so soothe her sufferings and 
 assuage her pain, that when the night closed 
 upon her, she might lie down in peace to 
 rest. Alas! she did not know that her sister 
 carried that in her bosom which would cause 
 those freshening winds to blow upon her in 
 vain. 
 
 145 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Questions on (S^apter HE. 
 
 (fit, WHAT is meant by the morning sun- 
 shine which the children expected to continue 
 throughout the day ? 
 
 gC. The peace and happiness of their early 
 years, which caused them to forget that trials 
 might await them in after life. 
 
 (0=1, What is the approach of the storm ? 
 
 Si. The coming of a time of trouble. 
 
 <&,. Why are we told that the spot on 
 which Rhoda and Minna stood was more than 
 any other exposed to the wind and rain? 
 
 Si. Does it not mean that it was their 
 religion which exposed them to trouble ? 
 
 <&. Yes. It often pleases God that a strict 
 obedience to his commands should be a cause 
 of present trouble to us. We may not, indeed, 
 be called upon to lay down our lives for the 
 
 146 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 sake of Christ, as were the holy martyrs of 
 old; but we must still take up our cross in 
 order to follow Him. If we are resolved 
 to continue His faithful disciples, we must 
 be content to endure many trials and afflictions 
 which we might avoid at once by forsaking 
 Him, and conforming ourselves to the world. 
 Now, what effect had the storm on Rhoda? 
 
 &. She took shelter beneath the dangerous 
 wall. 
 
 (!&. What effect had it upon Minna? 
 
 1. She remained on the spot where she 
 had been left, and played upon her flute. 
 
 (S. Observe, then, that the very same trial 
 caused one sister to seek refuge in the world, 
 the other to have recourse to prayer; and 
 the reason was, that the one in her heart 
 loved the things of the world, while the other 
 loved God. What is signified by the cypress- 
 tree being blown down by the storm, and 
 affording shelter to Minna? 
 
 &. That God, even out of affliction itself, 
 can bring us comfort, if we pray for His assist- 
 ance, and patiently wait for it. 
 
 147 H 2 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 (&. Yes, and will often, in the most un- 
 expected manner, raise up a defence and 
 protection to those who in quietness and con- 
 fidence put their trust in Him. What is 
 signified by the uneasiness and fears of Rhoda, 
 when first she found refuge beneath the ruin ? 
 
 &* The consciousness of having done wrong, 
 and the dread of punishment. 
 
 . Why did she not at once hasten back ? 
 
 &. Because she had not resolution to face 
 the storm, from which the wall afforded her 
 protection. 
 
 (OH. ' That is to say, she was anxious for 
 that peace of mind which religion alone could 
 afford her, but would not make the sacrifice 
 by which it was to be obtained. What do 
 you understand by her head growing giddy 
 with the smell of the flowers, and the buzzing 
 of the insects ? 
 
 &. The cares and pleasures of the world 
 gradually overcame her better feelings, and 
 made her forgetful of her danger. 
 
 <OsL What is signified by the moss which 
 Rhoda plucked from the ruin ? 
 
 148 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 &. Some sinful pleasure in which she de- 
 liberately indulged. 
 
 (Hi. Why is it said that no part of the 
 building gave way? 
 
 ^. It means that she escaped punishment. 
 
 (&. Yes, and the consequence was, that 
 she afterwards gathered abundantly of all the 
 poisonous herbs that grew upon the wall. 
 Such is too often the gradual progress of the 
 sinner. He begins by refusing to make some 
 sacrifice which religion requires of him, and 
 thus for a time loses sight of his heavenly 
 inheritance; he then becomes more and more 
 worldly-minded, until the voice of the Spirit 
 dies away in his breast ; next he commits 
 some deliberate act of sin, and so is led on 
 to an habitually sinful life. When we once 
 allow ourselves to neglect our duty to God, 
 we cannot tell how very wicked we in a 
 little while may become. Why are we told 
 that the return of sunshine made Rhoda the 
 more unwilling to quit the wall ? 
 
 g(. It means that prosperity only afforded 
 her fresh temptations to continue in sin. 
 
 149 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 <!BL What do you understand by her pursuit 
 after the lizard ? 
 
 21 . That some evil passion, which she was 
 resolved to gratify, led her on through a long 
 course of wickedness. 
 
 (III. What is meant by her throwing down 
 her flute? 
 
 Si. That she gave up the outward form 
 of praying to God. 
 
 dH. Yes, the spirit of prayer had long been 
 absent from her heart, she now abandoned its 
 words also ; and she did this because they 
 seemed to act as a restraint upon her in her 
 pursuit of evil. What is signified by her 
 falling from the tower directly she had obtained 
 possession of the lizard ? 
 
 21. That no sooner had she gratified her 
 evil passion, than it pleased God to visit her 
 sin with an immediate punishment. 
 
 <&. What effect had this upon Ehoda ? 
 
 21. She hurried away from the ruined tower, 
 and then sank upon the ground. 
 
 <HL From this we are to understand that 
 the judgment which God sent in mercy, while 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 it drove her away from a further commission 
 of sin, overwhelmed her for a time with 
 despair. What do you understand by the 
 music from the east, that aroused her from 
 her stupor? 
 
 S. The working of God's Holy Spirit in 
 her heart. 
 
 (0=1. Yes, and the sounds are described as 
 loud and terrible, because it pleased God to 
 awaken her by the pangs of remorse, and the 
 dread of His anger. How was Minna enabled 
 to come to assist Rhoda without losing sight 
 of the distant hills ? 
 
 a* She saw them reflected in the sky. 
 
 (OH. From this, then, we are to learn, that 
 if we seek the company of sinners, with the 
 sincere desire of bringing them back to the 
 way of life, God will not suffer the evil we 
 are forced to behold to hinder our contem- 
 plation of the joys of heaven. What do you 
 understand by Minna tearing away the shrubs 
 and flowers from the garments of her sister ? 
 
 a. She persuaded her to renounce her 
 worldly pleasures. 
 
 151 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 (0!l. What is signified by the bruises and 
 the sprain, which caused the ascent from the 
 wall to be so painful to Rhoda? 
 
 &. The anguish of spirit, and the deep 
 sense of shame, which were the consequences 
 of her former sin. 
 
 <&. Why are we told that the ascent was 
 so slippery that she could not stand still? 
 
 &. Because, when we resolve to amend 
 our lives, we must struggle continually against 
 our evil habits, or we shall fall into them 
 again. 
 
 (!EL Yes, it will not do to halt in the path 
 of repentance ; to hesitate to return to God, 
 is, in truth, to suffer ourselves to be drawn 
 back to the world. Why is it said that Minna 
 was unable to carry her sister in her arms 
 as the kind stranger had done in the morning ? 
 
 &. Because none but our Saviour can 
 deliver us from the bondage of sin. He may 
 send others to point out the path, but it is 
 His Spirit alone that can sustain us while we 
 walk therein. 
 
 dEl, What is signified by Rhoda sitting 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 down to rest as soon as the distant hills ap- 
 peared in view ? 
 
 ^. She was content with an imperfect 
 repentance, and did not persevere unto the 
 end. As soon as the immediate dread of 
 God's wrath subsided, and her hopes of Heaven 
 were partially restored, she made no effort 
 to grow in grace, and devote her whole heart 
 to the service of Christ. 
 
 dEL What was the consequence of this ? 
 
 &. That as she sat down her hope of heaven 
 passed away, for she again lost sight of the 
 distant hills. 
 
 (&. Observe, then, that while she stood up 
 and continued her struggle against sin, she 
 saw heaven; but labour and painful watch- 
 fulness were the only means by which God 
 as yet permitted her to behold it ; no sooner 
 did she venture to rest, than, though she 
 remained on the very same spot, she saw it no 
 more. The whole path of repentance is beset 
 with snares; but no point is more dangerous 
 than that at which we first feel the burthen 
 of our sins lessened, and the fear of punishment 
 
 153 H 3 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 removed. We are then, like Rhoda, tempted to 
 give way to the presumptuous thought, that we 
 have done enough, and may rest a little while 
 before we endeavour to increase in holiness. 
 Alas ! if we yield to this temptation, not only 
 will the hope of heaven pass away from our 
 hearts, but the evil spirit that has been driven 
 from thence, finding them thus empty, will 
 return again, and we shall soon fall into a 
 worse state than before. Do you recollect 
 the words of our Saviour, to which I am now 
 alluding ? 
 
 13. Yes. He tells us that, when the evil 
 spirit has been driven out of a man, he will 
 after a time return, and if he find the house, 
 that he has left, empty, swept, and garnished, 
 he will enter in with seven other spirits, more 
 wicked than himself, and take possession of it 
 again. 
 
 154 
 
Bfetam 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Once gain the mountain top and thou art free, 
 
 Till then who rest presume, who turn to look are lost. 
 
 THE pain in Rhoda's ankle began to subside 
 after she had remained a few minutes under 
 the tree; still she made no effort to resume 
 the ascent ; she seemed to be sitting in a kind 
 of dreamy state ; her eyes were turned vacantly 
 towards the dangerous wall, while every now 
 and then her hands moved to and fro over her 
 garments, as though she were feeling for her 
 weeds and poisonous herbs, and wondering 
 that they were gone. It was in vain that her 
 sister gathered for her a nosegay of the sweetest 
 flowers that grew around; they were such as 
 Rhoda once had loved to wear, but her sight 
 
 155 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 and smell had been so affected by the noxious 
 plants that grew upon the ruin, that they were 
 lost upon her now. She thrust them fretfully 
 aside, and said, with truth, that she could not 
 discover in them either fragrance or beauty. 
 
 Still Minna would not forsake her sister ; 
 and at length, by her earnest entreaties, she 
 persuaded her to rise. Rhoda even then 
 appeared to hesitate whether to recede or 
 advance, but Minna led her gently a few steps 
 further up the slope, until they stood on a spot 
 where the wall no longer deadened the force of 
 the eastern wind, and the whole outline of the 
 beautiful mountains could clearly be discerned. 
 Here the children again paused: Minna's 
 heart beat high with a mingled feeling of 
 anxiety and joy ; she could not help herself 
 rejoicing once more in the glory of the view, 
 but when she turned for sympathy to her sister, 
 she found no flush of pleasure on her face; 
 she had merely raised her eyes for a single 
 instant towards the east, and had then looked 
 down and fixed them stedfastly on the wall. 
 
 Minna could hardly suppress her tears of 
 
 156 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 disappointment, but she made one more attempt 
 to move the heart of Rhoda ; she breathed upon 
 her flute, and proposed that they should unite 
 in one of those thankful songs, which they 
 had often played together during their bright 
 and happy morning. Khoda raised her flute 
 to her lips, but the notes that proceeded from 
 it were very harsh and full of discord, when 
 compared with the sweet music of her sister, 
 and they found no echo among the distant 
 hills ; for at the very moment that she sent 
 them forth, her eyes were still fixed downward 
 upon the ruin. She soon, therefore, grew 
 weary of playing, and began to retire slowly 
 towards the tree she had left. But Minna 
 once more seized her hand, and pressing it 
 fondly to her lips entreated her to remain. 
 " Stay, dearest sister," she said, " do not 
 venture one step backward towards the for- 
 bidden wall; from this spot you may behold 
 the beautiful mountains ; see how noble is their 
 outline, and how lovely the tints that are now 
 shed upon them by the western sun ! Only 
 
 gaze on them stedfastly, and our kind pro- 
 is; 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 tector who dwells there will watch you, and 
 comfort you ; he will soothe you with the soft 
 voices of the children who are around him, 
 and though you feel sick and weary, he will 
 restore you to your health and strength. The 
 very breeze that he is now sending us is full 
 of freshness and life ; do not suffer the wall to 
 screen you from it again. " But Rhoda replied, 
 " Sister, in the morning I loved with you to 
 gaze on the distant hills, but I can now 
 perceive no beautiful variety in their colouring : 
 one dark shadow is resting upon them all, and 
 their loveliness is gone. In the morning the 
 music sounded to me, as to you, like the soft 
 voices of children ; but now, when I hear it at 
 all, it rings terribly in my ears, as the war- 
 cry of some mighty host, and I tremble while 
 I listen to it. In the morning I rejoiced with 
 you in the freshness of the eastern breeze, 
 but now, alas ! it blows so cold and cheerless 
 on my breast, that I fain would shelter myself 
 from it, even under the shadow of the wall." 
 
 As she said this she pressed her garment 
 more closely to her bosom, and immediately 
 
 158 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 the lizard, that she had concealed there, came 
 forth from its lurking-place and looked wist- 
 fully around. Minna uttered a scream of 
 surprise and terror. "Oh, Rhoda!" she ex- 
 claimed, " cast that reptile from you, remember 
 that it is an inhabitant of the wall; it may 
 haply be the cause that the winds have lost 
 their freshening influence, the music its soft- 
 ness, and the mountains their beauty." The 
 lizard was startled at the voice of Minna, 
 and gliding quickly to the ground ran a few 
 yards down the hill, and then turned round 
 and looked at the children. Rhoda coloured 
 very deeply as she replied, " Nay, Minna, 
 I did not feel the touch of the lizard, and 
 had in truth forgotten that it was in my bosom. 
 It must have been lying between my garment 
 and some beautiful moss that I gathered from 
 the wall." "But why," answered Minna, 
 "should you thus cherish a moss that once 
 grew upon the ruin? we cannot tell what subtle 
 poison it may contain. Oh, sister! even if 
 it cling to you so closely that you must rend 
 your garment in order to take it away, still 
 
 159 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 pluck it out, and throw it from you, and open 
 your bosom to the mountain breeze." 
 
 Rhoda hesitated ; she still loved Minna, and 
 could scarcely help yielding to her affectionate 
 request ; alas ! in the moment of doubt, she did 
 not raise her eyes or play upon her flute, but 
 looked listlessly on the ground. There, once 
 more, the bright lizard met her view; it had 
 remained on the spot to which it had run 
 when startled by her sister's voice, and seemed 
 as though it longed to return to her, but was 
 afraid to venture. All Rhoda's better thoughts 
 passed away in a moment, she struggled to 
 withdraw her hand, and impatiently exclaimed, 
 "You know, Minna, that even now I can 
 scarcely bear the keen blasts of the wind ; 
 why, then, should I part with my warm and 
 beautiful moss ? It is so soft and pleasant that 
 I am sure it must be innocent but let us 
 speak of this another time. That beautiful 
 lizard is waiting for me to come to it, and if 
 it be but to bid adieu to it for ever, I 
 will caress it once more." It was in vain 
 that Minna pointed sorrowfully to the west, 
 
 160 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 and reminded her how much of the day was 
 already gone. Rhoda had forgotten the long 
 chase of the morning, and the thousand arts 
 by which the deceitful reptile had tempted 
 her on ; she was sure that she could overtake 
 it in a moment, and then promised to come 
 back and remain by the side of her sister. 
 Doubtless, she intended to do so, and under 
 this delusion she went away, and was led 
 gradually to the ruin ; but she never returned 
 from it again. 
 
 Minna used every effort to detain her, and 
 it was not until Rhoda, in her struggles to 
 escape, began to drag her also down the slope 
 that she was forced to release her hold. She 
 raised her eyes, and saw that the image of 
 the bright cloud and distant hills had now faded 
 from the sky; she knew, therefore, that she 
 must not again approach the ruin, for she could 
 not do so without losing sight of her promised 
 home; but, with a heart full of anguish, and 
 the tears streaming down her cheeks, she 
 watched her sister's receding steps. 
 
 Rhoda's path downward proved very smooth 
 
 161 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 and easy; even her wounds and bruises were 
 forgotten for a time, and the sprain of her 
 ankle no longer impeded her walk; the green 
 lizard kept enticing her on, always creeping 
 a few steps farther as she stooped to take it 
 in her hand ; it led her by all the steepest parts 
 of the descent, so that, even had she wished, 
 she could not have stood still; but it seemed 
 to Minna that she did not once pause in the 
 pursuit, nor cast a single look behind. In 
 a few minutes she had traced her to the 
 wall; she watched her hurrying along its side, 
 until Rhoda again entered the ruined tower and 
 was hidden from her view. 
 
 She then turned away and felt very sorrow- 
 ful ; but her heart would have been still heavier 
 had she been permitted to know the remainder 
 of her sister's history. It is in truth a very 
 painful one. The green lizard did not this time 
 remain in the ruined tower, but, passing through 
 it, still glided along the side of the building to 
 other parts, which were in a yet more dan- 
 gerous state. Rhoda was resolved to follow it ; 
 her path, indeed, was no longer smooth and 
 
 162 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 easy, as it had been while she was descending 
 the hill ; but she had gone so far that she would 
 not abandon the pursuit. Alas ! half the pains 
 that she now bestowed upon it, might have 
 enabled her to get back again to that spot on 
 which alone she could be safe. Sometimes she 
 had to climb over loose slippery stones, and at 
 others to crawl on her hands and knees through 
 narrow crevices in the wall ; her eyes were 
 filled with dust and dirt, and her limbs sorely 
 bruised by fragments of the building that kept 
 rolling upon them. She very often lost her 
 footing and fell heavily upon the ground, but 
 no sooner did she rise again than she still 
 struggled on. The unhappy child seemed 
 insensible alike to pain and danger, until faint, 
 breathless, and weary, she once more held the 
 beautiful lizard in her grasp. 
 
 She now for the first time paused, and 
 the feeling of joy and triumph, caused by 
 her success, gave way in a moment to a sensa- 
 tion of alarm. She had come she knew not 
 whither, and it seemed hopeless to think of 
 retracing her steps. Her flute was gone ; 
 
 163 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 she could not even tell where she had left 
 it, but only had an indistinct recollection of 
 having thrown it aside after one of her falls. 
 An unusual swarm of noisy insects were 
 buzzing around her, and the shrubs that 
 clung to the side of the building yielded a 
 more noxious odour even than those which 
 she had gathered in the morning. Yet it was 
 none of these things that first gave rise to her 
 alarm; but it was the terrible darkness that 
 began to steal upon her. When she had left 
 her sister, the sun had far to travel before it 
 sank to rest; and, though the pursuit had 
 occupied her longer than she was aware of, 
 the hour of twilight had not yet really arrived. 
 But the eminence that rose behind the wall 
 excluded it altogether from the western light, 
 no ray of the setting sun was ever reflected 
 upon it, and the early evening was so dim and 
 cheerless, that Rhoda imagined the night had 
 already closed in. Still not even now could 
 she resolve to make one vigorous effort to 
 escape ; she struggled against her own sad 
 fears, and thought she would yet play for 
 
 164 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 a few minutes with her favourite lizard before 
 she began to return. 
 
 She tried to be calm; but her limbs shook 
 and her heart sunk within her, as she gradually 
 unclosed her hand ; the lizard did not move : 
 she looked at it, but the green skin no longer 
 glittered, and the brightness of its eye was 
 gone : she touched it, and it felt clammy and 
 cold the lizard was dead. No tears fell from 
 Rhoda, for she could not weep for it. Her 
 delight in its former beauty was now suc- 
 ceeded by a feeling of horror ; she turned 
 away her face, and said within herself, " Is it, 
 then, for this perishable object that I have 
 gone through so many dangers, and abandoned 
 the hope of my promised home ? " 
 
 She now in haste began to climb the hill ; 
 but the ascent, at the point to which she had 
 come, was very steep, and covered with loose 
 rolling stones; it slanted down close to the 
 very foot of the ruin ; there was no interme- 
 diate space between them; the stones slipped 
 under the feet of Rhoda every step that she 
 took ; fear inspired her with a momentary 
 
 165 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 strength, but all her efforts proved fruitless; 
 sometimes she advanced a little way; but no 
 sooner did she stop to breathe, than she again 
 slid back, so that after much labour and 
 weariness, she still found herself standing 
 beneath the dangerous wall. 
 
 We cannot wonder that it was so, for she 
 did not pause to search for the flute that she 
 had thrown aside : the distant hills and their 
 soothing music had passed away altogether 
 from her mind. She felt, indeed, the extent 
 of her danger, and longed to get back to the 
 pleasant spot on which she had spent the 
 morning of her day, but she could not fix her 
 affections on that kind protector who had 
 promised, if she called out for his aid, to assist 
 her to return. 
 
 166 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Questions on adapter ffl. 
 
 (OH. WHY is it said, that as Rhoda sate 
 under the tree she began to search again for 
 the poisonous herbs which she had gathered 
 from the wall ? 
 
 &. It means that while she paused in the 
 path of repentance, she suffered her mind to 
 wander back to the worldly pleasures which 
 she had enjoyed, and to regret their loss. 
 
 . Why could she find no beauty or 
 fragrance in the sweet flowers that Minna 
 brought her ? 
 
 &. Because her mind had been so tainted by 
 the continued gratification of evil passions, that 
 she could no longer take delight in simple and 
 innocent amusements. 
 
 dll. Yes. This is one punishment which is 
 sure to follow the long indulgence of sin. 
 
 167 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Those who forsake an evil habit must not 
 expect to be so happy as they would have been 
 if they had never formed it ; for its effects 
 will still remain so as to unfit them for 
 many pleasures which they might otherwise 
 have enjoyed. How did Minna try to comfort 
 her sister ? 
 
 &. She persuaded her to play upon her flute, 
 and to watch the distant hills, and welcome the 
 eastern breeze. 
 
 dH. That is to say, she bade her have 
 recourse to prayer, and to fix her affections on 
 heavenly things, and await the influence of 
 God's sustaining Spirit. Though earthly occu- 
 pations and amusements cannot cure the disease 
 that sin leaves in the soul, and we have 
 recourse to them in vain, God, in his mercy, 
 has provided us with a remedy. If we fix our 
 thoughts on our Saviour, and pray to Him 
 earnestly, he will sooner or later turn our 
 sorrow into joy. But why is it said that when 
 Rhoda did play upon her flute, it produced no 
 echo among the distant hills ? 
 
 &. Because, when she prayed to God with 
 
 168 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 her lips, her heart was far from him, and, 
 therefore, her prayer was unanswered. 
 
 <!El. And why are we told that she saw a 
 dark shadow resting on the eastern mountains, 
 and that the wind that blew from thence 
 seemed cheerless and cold ? 
 
 &. She was cherishing, in secret, sin that 
 she had professed to renounce, and, therefore, 
 she could find no comfort in religion, but it 
 only awoke in her mind gloomy thoughts and 
 a fear of the judgments of God. 
 
 dH. How is the secret sin that she cherished 
 represented in the allegory ? 
 
 &. By the moss and the lizard that she had 
 concealed in her bosom. 
 
 (01. Yes. And we may observe that, though 
 she knew of the presence of the moss, she was 
 not aware that the lizard was lying upon it. 
 That is to say, that, while there was one evil 
 passion which she was conscious of and would 
 not renounce, there was another unobserved 
 even by herself, and seen only by the Searcher 
 of hearts. From this we may learn the neces- 
 sity of self-examination and earnest prayer to 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 God, that he will deliver us from our secret 
 faults; otherwise they remain in our breast, 
 and go on infecting us with their poison, and 
 gaining a silent dominion over us, while we are 
 ignorant that they are there : this is a danger 
 to which we are more especially exposed, when, 
 as was the case with Rhoda, we wilfully 
 cherish some one sinful affection, however 
 trifling it may seem. What is signified by the 
 lizard coming forth from its lurking-place ? 
 
 {, That a new temptation brought to light 
 the evil passion that lurked in the bosom of 
 Rhoda. 
 
 <&. What is meant by. her resolution to 
 caress the lizard once more before she parted 
 with it for ever ? 
 
 &, She determined that she would once 
 again taste the pleasure of sin before she 
 finally renounced it. 
 
 (!BL Thus Satan often makes men believe 
 that they are about to indulge in some favourite 
 sin for the last time, and does not allow them 
 to see how far in the ways of wickedness that 
 one indulgence may lead them. Why is it 
 
 170 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 said that Khoda's path downward was smooth 
 and easy ? 
 
 &. Because it is easy to return to the sins 
 we have left. 
 
 (&. Yes. There is nothing painful or diffi- 
 cult in giving up the struggle of repentance, 
 and allowing ourselves to fall back upon the 
 pleasures of the world. We are not only by 
 nature prone to sin, but there is always an 
 increased liability of our returning to those 
 evil habits which we have once suffered to gain 
 dominion over us ; and for this reason it is said 
 that Rhoda did not once pause and look back 
 during the steep descent. But why are we 
 afterwards told that she found so much trouble 
 and weariness in her pursuit after the lizard? 
 
 &. Does it not mean that, though the 
 attempt to gratify our evil passions seems so 
 pleasant at first, it will in the end make us 
 anxious and miserable ? 
 
 (Oi. It does so. Many have found, with 
 Rhoda, that it would not only have been safer, 
 but easier, for them to have persevered in the 
 up-hill path of repentance, than to have 
 
 171 I 2 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 followed out those crooked and dangerous ways 
 for which they were persuaded to leave it 
 What do you understand by the increasing 
 darkness which Rhoda observed as soon as she 
 had caught the lizard ? 
 
 i(. No sooner had she gratified her evil 
 passion, than the fear of death began to steal 
 upon her. 
 
 (OH. Did this cause her at once to hasten 
 from the wall ? 
 
 &. No. She still thought she would continue 
 a little while longer in the enjoyment of sin 
 before she attempted to return. 
 
 (OH. Thus it is that those who begin by 
 wilfully putting off the time of repentance from 
 year to year, still go on deferring it a little 
 while longer, even when they feel their lives 
 to be drawing to a close, and they count by 
 months instead of years the short season they 
 are to remain upon earth. Many who are 
 young and healthy imagine that if sickness or 
 old age were to come upon them, they would 
 have no difficulty in forsaking the world and 
 fixing their affections upon God. So Rhoda 
 
 172 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 had once believed. And yet when the evening 
 approached, she found repentance no less 
 difficult than before. But why, even if it were 
 easier to return to the service of God in age 
 than in youth, would it be a dangerous thought 
 for us to dwell upon ? 
 
 S(. Because we have no certainty that we 
 shall not die in childhood. 
 
 <&. We must never forget that it may please 
 God to suffer the night to close suddenly upon 
 us without allowing us the gradual succession 
 of morning, noon, and evening, which he 
 afforded Rhoda. What do you understand by 
 the death of the lizard? 
 
 St. That sin lost its pleasure. 
 
 (*H. Yes ; though the stains of sin, unless we 
 repent, will remain with us for ever, the 
 pleasures of it endure but for a season. We 
 may go on refusing to forsake them until they, 
 in a manner, forsake us, their beauty passes 
 away, and we can enjoy them no more. Then, 
 like Rhoda, we shall look back upon them with 
 disgust and horror, and think bitterly of the 
 fearful price at which they were obtained. 
 
 173 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 What is meant by her sudden attempt to climb 
 the hill from the point where she was standing ? 
 
 St. An effort to escape from the terrible 
 judgments denounced against sin. 
 
 <!il. Why, then, did she not succeed ? 
 
 St. Because she did not first of all try to 
 have recourse to prayer, and to fix her thoughts 
 upon her Saviour. 
 
 174 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Ever the richest, tenderest glow, 
 
 Sets round the Autumnal sun 
 But there sight fails; no heart may know 
 
 The bliss when life is done. 
 
 WHILE Rhoda was struggling in vain to ascend 
 the hill, the darkness gradually increased, and 
 she grew more and more alarmed. She cast 
 a fearful glance around, and feeling the full 
 misery of her loneliness, began to think, with 
 bitter regret, of the flute that she had lost. 
 For a few minutes she groped her way over 
 the fallen stones, and sought anxiously for it 
 among the crevices of the wall : happy would it 
 have been for her had she persevered in the 
 search; but she met with so many unexpected 
 difficulties that she relinquished it in despair. 
 
 175 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Not only was there so thick a darkness that she 
 could hardly see her path ; but every time that 
 she stooped down to feel for her flute, the 
 swarm of insects that had hitherto only buzzed 
 around her, began to worry her with their 
 stings ; her eyes were so swollen that she 
 was almost blinded with pain, while the sharp 
 flint stones pierced her hands, and more than 
 one serpent crawled from its lurking place and 
 bit her with its poisoned fang. We cannot 
 think it strange that Rhoda should soon have 
 abandoned so painful a search, when we 
 remember that in the afternoon, while the sun 
 yet shone brightly upon her and she was 
 cheered by her sister's voice, she wanted reso- 
 lution to advance the few steps which might 
 then have brought her to a place of security. 
 
 She now crept into a hollow part of the ruin, 
 and sitting down on a fallen stone, resolved to 
 await quietly the approach of night. But she 
 found that in quiet she could not await it ; she 
 whispered peace to her heart, but no peace was 
 there; thoughts of terror would arise, and it 
 was impossible for her to drive them away. It 
 
 176 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 was in vain that she tried to believe that the 
 spot on which she rested was free from danger, 
 and that the wall would afford her a sure 
 protection during the long hours of the night ; 
 the huge fragments that continually crumbled 
 away mocked her idle hopes, and the wind that 
 howled among the mouldering stones seemed 
 to echo back the warning which had been given 
 her, that, if in the morning she were found 
 beneath them, she would be crushed to pieces 
 by their fall. It was a terrible thing to sit 
 helplessly down and await so miserable a fate. 
 Khoda felt that it was so, and her heart was 
 full of bitterness ; neither could she find any 
 joy or comfort in the present hour to relieve 
 the dreary prospect of the future. I have 
 already said that the cheerful light of evening 
 was never shed upon the wall. A thick heavy 
 fog now rested on it, and noxious vapours were 
 fast rising from the ground. All was cold and 
 wretched. The rank herbs, at the approach of 
 night, sent forth the most strong and deadly 
 odours, and Rhoda felt that she was breathing 
 poison. Meanwhile the flowers had lost their 
 
 177 I 3 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 gaudy colouring, and the beauty of everything 
 that had once attracted the love and admiration 
 of the child, like that of the green lizard, had 
 passed away. 
 
 Even while she was indulging these sad 
 thoughts, she felt something move upon her 
 bosom; she hastily thrust in her hand, and 
 found that the soft bright moss, which she had 
 placed there in the morning, and refused to part 
 with at the request of Minna, had become a 
 mass of rottenness and decay, and that slimy 
 worms were, crawling out of it. She now 
 threw it from her with loathing and disgust, 
 and, springing from her seat, made one more 
 effort to escape from the fatal ruin. But the 
 noxious vapours had already taken their effect ; 
 she staggered to and fro, and knew not whither 
 she was going ; for a few moments she leaned 
 for support against the wall, and then a thick 
 mist obscured her sight, and she sank down 
 in a heavy slumber close beneath the ruin. 
 
 It is a pleasing task to turn our eyes from 
 this sad picture, and gaze upon the soft sunset 
 of the day of Minna. During the afternoon 
 
 178 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 her employment had been to sweep away the 
 withered leaves from the ground, and to prop 
 the broken boughs and nurse the plants that had 
 been injured by the storm. She found more real 
 pleasure in this quiet occupation, than she had 
 done in the joyous sports of the morning. It 
 was, too, one of which she did not grow weary ; 
 no listlessness followed it; the flowers gradually 
 increased in beauty, as though to thank her for 
 her care, until the ground assumed the appear- 
 ance of a garden, and the child felt more and 
 more grateful to the kind protector who had 
 placed her in so fair a spot, to wait for his 
 return. She did not now make nosegays of the 
 flowers, or weave them into perishable garlands, 
 but she learned to watch their silent growth, 
 and inhale their fragrance without a wish to 
 gather them. Still there were times when 
 some favourite plant, even while she looked at 
 it, began to wither and die ; and then she 
 would raise her wistful eyes towards the dis- 
 tant hills, and longed for those brighter flowers 
 which blossomed there but could not fade. 
 Minna had left these peaceful occupations for 
 
 179 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 a little while in order to assist Rhoda to escape 
 from the wall. It had been the one wish of 
 her heart that the sister who had been her 
 playfellow in the morning, should come back 
 and pass the quiet hours of the evening with 
 herself. When all her hopes were disappointed 
 and she a second time lost sight of Rhoda, she 
 wept bitterly and was very sorrowful. It was 
 in vain that she returned to the garden which 
 she had cultivated ; her favourite flowers failed 
 to afford her the same pleasure as before ; 
 beautiful as they were, there was now a void in 
 her heart that their loveliness could not satisfy. 
 But Minna knew where to turn for comfort; 
 she breathed upon her flute, and the soft and 
 solemn music that floated back from the east 
 seemed to sympathise with her own sad 
 thoughts. She felt that she was not really 
 alone ; the unseen choir of children who dwelt 
 afar off were sharers in her sorrow ; one chord 
 of affection had been snapped asunder, but she 
 knew that those which united her to her kind 
 protector and his happy family would remain 
 unbroken for ever. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Such thoughts afforded joy and peace to 
 Minna, even in the midst of her tears, and as 
 the evening closed in, she dwelt upon them 
 more and more. A soft languor began to 
 steal upon her, and now she gave up her 
 employment in the garden, and passed her time 
 in playing glad songs upon her flute, and 
 watching the beauties of the surrounding view. 
 The very same hours that Rhoda found so dark 
 and terrible, breathed upon her a pure and holy 
 calm. There were no damp fogs, no unhealthy 
 vapours rising from the ground, no noxious 
 smells, no swarm of insects buzzing in the air. 
 Bright as had been the morning of the day, the 
 evening far surpassed it in its quiet loveliness. 
 Minna could see by the western light the clear 
 stream that she had crossed in the morning, 
 while in the distance was the dim outline of 
 the forest from which she had escaped. Her 
 heart was very full of gratitude ; one short day 
 had passed since the wild beasts were howling 
 around her, and now that a new night was 
 approaching, she could lie down without fear, 
 for her kind protector had promised to watch 
 
 181 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 over her sleep. But it was towards the east 
 that the eye of the child was more frequently 
 turned. There on the morrow would be her 
 dwelling place. The beautiful mountains, 
 when seen by the indistinct twilight, appeared 
 to be brought nearer than before, and there was 
 a fringe of gold on the cloud that rested upon 
 them, as it caught the last rays of the setting 
 sun. The song of the birds was hushed, and 
 no sound broke the stillness of the evening but 
 the gentle notes of Minna's flute, and the clear 
 soft music that was wafted back to her from 
 the distant hills. 
 
 The child gradually yielded to the soothing 
 influence of the scene ; her languor increased ; 
 she sank down upon a bed of violets, and 
 having raised herself for a moment to gaze 
 earnestly upon the east, she closed her eyes 
 in a soft untroubled sleep. 
 
 The hours of night passed slowly on, the 
 pale moon and the stars appeared, and Minna 
 still continued in the same quiet repose. No 
 new trials or temptations could befal her; 
 there were to be no more changes of joy and 
 
THE DISTANT HELLS. 
 
 sorrow ; she had been weary, but she was now 
 at rest and so refreshing was that rest, that all 
 signs of her former care and anxiety passed 
 away ; the traces of the tears that she had shed 
 were gone; and as the soft moon-beams 
 played upon her face, it shone with a bright 
 and holy loveliness. She slept quietly on, but 
 it was not the heavy sleep of unconsciousness 
 and oblivion ; a warm breeze from the moun- 
 tains fanned her cheek, and the songs that 
 she had loved still floated in the air. The 
 smile of hope yet lingered on her features 
 while they were hushed in the stillness of 
 sleep ; and she slept as one who so rested 
 from her labours, that she was ready to arise 
 at the first appearance of dawn ; who en- 
 joyed the tranquillity of the night, but was 
 dreaming all the while of the life and gladness 
 of the morning. 
 
 And Rhoda also slept, but her slumbers 
 were very different from those of Minna. 
 There was no peaceful security, no refreshing 
 quietness, in her repose. As the night 
 advanced, her features only became more wan 
 
 183 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 and haggard than before, as though the troubles 
 of the day and the fears and anxieties of the 
 evening had formed themselves into dreams 
 and visions that disturbed her rest. It may be 
 that she still fancied she was struggling to 
 escape from the wall ; but she could now only 
 weary herself with the imaginary efforts of a 
 dream. She remained powerless on the ground, 
 and all her restlessness could not move her one 
 step from the spot on which she had sunk to 
 repose. The stranger had warned her that this 
 would be the case: in the morning he had 
 brought her to a place of security, which, in 
 the folly of her heart, she had wilfully left ; 
 the hours of darkness had arrived, and it was 
 now impossible for her to return. She had 
 abandoned the prospect of the distant hills, and 
 from this time forth she would see them no 
 more; she had refused to listen to the heavenly 
 music, and she would never be allowed to 
 hear it again. During the day time she had 
 taken up her portion with the fatal ruin ; 
 it was there she had spent the evening, it 
 was there that slumber had overtaken her, 
 
 184 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 and she was now forced to sleep beneath it 
 until it should give way and crush her by 
 its fall. 
 
 Minna and Rhoda still slumber, for that 
 trumpet has not yet sounded which alone can 
 wake them from their repose. We cannot 
 farther pursue their history, but we must think 
 of them as sleeping at this very moment, the 
 one within view of the beautiful mountains, 
 the other under the dark shadow of the wall. 
 The building has become very old and ruinous, 
 but it is still permitted to remain. The day of 
 the children passed quickly by ; but their long 
 night may not even now be drawing to a close ; 
 no one can number its silent hours, or tell how 
 near or how distant the dawn of the morrow 
 may be. 
 
 185 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 (Questions on OT&apttr 
 
 <&. WHAT do you understand by Khoda 
 groping her way in search of her flute ? 
 
 &. That she wished to resume the habit of 
 constant prayer, in order that God might 
 enable her to repent. 
 
 dBt. Why, then, as she now chose the right 
 means, did she still fail in her attempt ? 
 
 &. Because she had not grace to persevere ; 
 for we are told that she soon abandoned the 
 search, on account of the stinging insects, the 
 sharp flint stones, and the serpents which 
 opposed her progress. 
 
 (SH. By these, then, we are to understand 
 those temptations of the world, the flesh, and 
 the devil, against which they will have to 
 contend who, after having long taken up their 
 portion with the world, endeavour in the 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 evening of life to turn themselves unto God. 
 There will be the mockery of their former 
 companions, and their own evil habits, and, in 
 addition to these, the thoughts of terror and 
 despondency which Satan himself will stir up 
 in their hearts. What is meant by Rhoda 
 taking shelter in the crevice of the wall ? 
 ^. She gave herself over to despair. 
 (111. What is meant by her trying to persuade 
 herself that she might sleep in safety beneath 
 the ruin ? 
 
 &. She endeavoured to disbelieve the reality 
 of a day of judgment, and to imagine that 
 the present world would continue for ever. 
 <&. Did she succeed in doing so ? 
 &. No, for the crumbling stones continually 
 warned her that the building, sooner or later, 
 would crush her by its fall. 
 
 <&. Remember, then, that wilful and un- 
 repented sin will bring those who have once 
 tasted the knowledge of the truth into this 
 awful state. They will wish to doubt all that 
 they formerly loved to believe; but they will 
 really be unable to do so. In spite of them- 
 
 187 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 selves, each change will remind them that the 
 world in which they trust is fast passing away, 
 and when their last hope of the promises of the 
 gospel is gone, " a certain fearful looking for 
 of judgment and fiery indignation " will still 
 remain. Did not Rhoda after this make one 
 last effort to escape from the wall ? 
 
 ^. Yes ; when she found that her favourite 
 moss had become putrid and corrupt ; but this 
 time sleep overpowered her, and she sank 
 beneath the ruin. 
 
 <&. That is to say, she died in her sins. 
 We must not, however, imagine from this that 
 any period of time is too short for the really 
 penitent to obtain the forgiveness of God ; we 
 know that with Him a thousand years are as 
 one day, and one day as a thousand years. 
 Had Rhoda been able to repent, her last 
 staggering footsteps might have carried her 
 beyond the reach of the fall of the ruin; for 
 there was One who was both able and willing 
 to support them, if she could put her trust 
 in Him. But by constant neglect of warnings 
 and long continuance in sin, her heart had been 
 
 188 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 hardened, so that she found no place for repent- 
 ance, and even the near approach of death 
 awakened in her only remorse. Such, alas, it 
 is to be feared, is the case with too many who 
 imagine that their thoughts and feelings in old 
 age or sickness will be different from those 
 which they have cherished during the whole of 
 their lives. Let us now return to Minna. 
 What is meant by her cultivating the ground 
 when the storm had passed by ? 
 
 gl. That she learned from adversity to seek 
 pleasure in doing good to others. 
 
 dH. And why are we told that the flowers 
 she loved best still withered and died ? 
 
 gt. Is it because in this life not even charity 
 itself can secure us from disappointment ? 
 
 <&. It is so. And God has doubtless 
 ordained that it should be so, in order to teach 
 us, like Minna, to fix our best hopes and 
 affections upon Heaven. What do you under- 
 stand by the period when she gave up her 
 employment in the garden ? 
 
 &. The time when sickness interrupted 
 her earthly occupations, and she was able to 
 
 189 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 devote herself entirely to prayer" and holy 
 meditation. 
 
 <0=L What is meant by the beauty and 
 quietness of the evening ? 
 
 SI* The peaceful end of the righteous. 
 
 (111. It is not, however, any outward peace 
 that is here referred to; for good men may, 
 like the holy martyrs, die in the midst of much 
 apparent pain and suffering. But, whatever be 
 their bodily anguish, they will have within the 
 peace of God that passeth man's understanding. 
 The distant hills will seem to approach near 
 them, and the fringe of gold will rest upon the 
 cloud. Do you remember the vision that 
 cheered the last moments of St. Stephen ? 
 
 21. It is said that he saw the heavens opened, 
 and the Son of Man standing on the right 
 hand of God. 
 
 (&. Yes, and though he was killed by stones, 
 nothing could be more tranquil than the de- 
 scription of his death ; it is merely written that 
 "he fell asleep." Can you recollect any 
 parable of our Saviour in which death is 
 spoken of as a period of sleep ? 
 
 190 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 &. That of the wise and foolish virgins. 
 We are told that while the bridegroom tarried, 
 they all slumbered and slept. 
 
 <&. And so also in the Old Testament, in 
 speaking of the deaths of the Kings of Israel 
 and Judah, it is generally said of each of them, 
 that " he slept with his fathers." Thus, then, 
 we may regard the good and bad alike as 
 sleeping from the hour of death to the day of 
 judgment. They have to wait till the night is 
 over, before they are either received into their 
 happy home or crushed by the fall of the 
 ruin. This will be the case with all except 
 those who will still be found upon earth at 
 the second advent of Christ. But is there 
 any other parable which appears to imply 
 that there will be a consciousness in that 
 sleep ? 
 
 &. That of the rich man and Lazarus ? 
 (31. Yes, the rich man is certainly spoken of 
 as sensible of pain ; and though Lazarus was 
 conveyed to the bosom of Abraham a place 
 that gives us the idea of the most perfect 
 rest it would seem to be implied in the 
 
 191 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 narrative that he is in a state of consciousness. 
 But there is a passage in the book of 
 Revelation, which, so far as we can enter into 
 the depth of its meaning, expressly speaks of 
 the Holy Martyrs as disturbed in their rest, 
 by their anxious longing for the day of judg- 
 ment. 
 
 &. " They cried with a loud voice, saying, 
 How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou 
 not return and avenge our blood on them that 
 dwell on the earth? And white robes were 
 given unto every one of them ; and it was said 
 unto them, that they should rest yet for a little 
 season, until their fellow-servants also and 
 their brethren, that should be killed as they 
 were, should be fulfilled."* 
 
 <OL From all this, then, we may learn that, 
 to those who die before Christ's second coming, 
 there will be a certain interval between the 
 time of their trial upon earth, and the day at 
 which they will finally render in their account 
 to God; and further it would appear, that, 
 during this interval, the good and the bad 
 * Rev. vi 10, 11. 
 
 192 
 
-THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 will alike have their visions ; the one of hope, 
 the other of anguish and terror. How is this 
 represented in the allegory ? 
 
 3. By the smile that rested on the features 
 of Minna, and the troubled sleep of Ehoda. 
 
 (!H. Why is it said that Rhoda could then 
 make only the imaginary efforts of a dream ? 
 
 &. Because nothing that we can do after 
 death, will enable us to escape the punishment 
 due to our sins. 
 
 (S. Yes. It will be then impossible for us 
 either to change from the service of God to the 
 service of Satan, or from the service of Satan 
 to the service of God. During this life some 
 are walking within view of the distant hills, 
 while others afar off are dwelling under the 
 shadow of the wall. And, though to us they 
 may appear to be treading the same paths, 
 there is doubtless a gulf, which separates 
 them, that is seen by the Searcher of hearts. 
 But while they continue upon earth, we be- 
 lieve that many move to and fro across it, 
 according as Satan leads them into sin, or God 
 gives them grace to repent. That deep gulf 
 
 193 K 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 will become impassable in another world, and 
 each will remain for all eternity on the same 
 side of it on which in the hour of death he 
 was found. 
 
 194 
 
THE 
 
 OLD MAN'S HOME, 
 
 For they that say such things declare plainly, that they 
 seek a country. Heb. xi. 14. 
 
 K 2 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN ADAMS 
 
 Serjeant at 2.ato 
 
 AS A MARK OF FILIAL GRATITUDE 
 
 AND AFFECTION 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe, 
 Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart ; 
 
 Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow- 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrow'dfrom the heart. 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAH. 
 
 THERE is a scene on the coast of the Isle of 
 Wight with which I have long since become 
 familiar, but which never fails to exercise a 
 soothing influence on my mind. It is at the 
 eastern extremity of the landslip. Large 
 portions of the cliff have fallen away, and 
 formed a dell so broken and irregular, that the 
 ground has the appearance of having at one 
 time been agitated by an earthquake. But 
 Nature has only suffered the convulsion to 
 take place, in order that afterwards she might 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 bestow her gifts upon this favoured spot with 
 a more unsparing hand. The wild and pic- 
 turesque character of the landscape is now 
 almost lost sight of in its richness and repose. 
 The new soil is protected from the storms of 
 winter by the cliff from which it has fallen, 
 and, sloping towards the south, is open to the 
 full warmth and radiance of the sun. In 
 consequence of this, the landslip has, as it 
 were, a climate of its own; and often, when 
 the more exposed parts of the country still 
 look dreary and desolate, is in the enjoyment of 
 the blessings of an early spring. Such was the 
 season at which I first visited it. The grey 
 fragments of rock which lay scattered on the 
 ground were almost hid by the luxuriance of 
 the underwood, and countless wild flowers were 
 growing beneath their shade. Below, the eye 
 rested upon a little bay, formed by the gradual 
 advance of the sea ; and all was so calm and 
 peaceful, that as I watched the gentle undu- 
 lation of the waters, I could fancy them to be 
 moving to and fro with a stealthy step, lest they 
 should disturb the tranquillity of the scene. 
 
 200 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 I have said that a visit to this favoured spot 
 never fails with me to have a soothing in- 
 fluence. I feel as though I were treading on 
 enchanted ground, and the whole scene were 
 allegorical; for it reminds me that, in like 
 manner, the wreck of all our earthly hopes and 
 plans may but lay open our hearts to the 
 influence of a warmer sunshine, and enrich 
 them with flowers which the storms of life 
 have no longer power to destroy. But I 
 cannot now tell whether these thoughts have 
 their origin in the scene itself, or in an in- 
 cident that occurred the first time I visited it. 
 
 It was on the evening of the 18th of April, 
 1843. I had been long gazing upon it, and 
 had imagined that I was alone, when my 
 attention was arrested by a sigh from some one 
 near me. I turned round, and saw a venerable 
 old man seated upon a fragment of the fallen 
 cliff, beneath which the violets were very thickly 
 clustering. His hair was white as silver; his 
 face deeply furrowed, and yet pervaded by a 
 general expression of childish simplicity, which 
 formed a strong contrast to the lines which 
 
 201 K 3 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 must have been indented upon it by care and 
 suffering, no less than the lapse of years. I 
 cannot recall the words of the chance observa- 
 tion which I addressed to him: but it related 
 to the lateness and inclemency of the season, 
 and I was at once struck by the singularity of 
 his reply. " Yes, yes/' he said, musingly, " the 
 winter has indeed been very long and dreary ; 
 and yet it has been gladdened, from time to 
 time, by glimpses of the coming spring." 
 
 I now observed him more closely. There 
 was a strangeness in his dress which first 
 excited my suspicion, and I fancied that I 
 could detect a restlessness in his light blue eye 
 which spoke of a mind that had gone astray. 
 " Old man," I said, " you seem tired ; have 
 you come from far ? " 
 
 "Ah, woe is me," he replied, in the same 
 melancholy tone as before ; " I have indeed 
 travelled a long and solitary journey ; and at 
 times I am weary, very weary; but my 
 resting-place now must be near at hand." 
 
 " And whither, then," I asked, " are you 
 going?" 
 
 202 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME, 
 
 " Home, sir, home," he replied ; and while 
 his voice lost its sadness, his face seemed to 
 brighten, and his eye grow steady at the 
 thought ; " I hope and believe that I am going 
 home." 
 
 I now imagined that I had judged him 
 hastily, and that the answers which I had 
 ascribed to a wandering intellect proceeded in 
 truth from depth of religious feeling. In 
 order to ascertain this, I asked : " Have you 
 been long a traveller ? " 
 
 " Four score and thirteen years," he replied ; 
 and observing my look of assumed wonder, he 
 repeated a second time, more slowly and sadly 
 than before, " Four score and thirteen years." 
 
 " The home," I said, " must be very far off 
 that requires so long a journey." 
 
 " Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he 
 answered: "our home is never far off; and 
 I might perhaps have arrived at it years and 
 years ago. But often during the early spring 
 I stopped to gather the flowers that grew be- 
 neath my feet ; and once I laid me down and 
 fell asleep upon the way. And so more than 
 
 203 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 four score and thirteen years have been wanted 
 to bring me to the home which many reach in 
 a few days. Alas! all whom I love most dearly 
 have long since passed me on the road, and I 
 am now left to finish my journey alone." 
 
 During this reply, I had become altogether 
 ashamed of my former suspicion, and I now 
 looked into the old man's face with a feeling of 
 reverence and love. The features were un- 
 changed ; but instead of the childish expression 
 which I had before observed, I believed them 
 to be brightened with the heavenliness of the 
 second childhood, while the restlessness of the 
 light blue eye only spoke to me of an imagina- 
 tion which loved to wander amid the treasures 
 of the unseen world. I purposely, however, 
 continued the conversation under the same 
 metaphor as before. " You have not, then," I 
 said, " been always a solitary traveller ? " 
 
 " Ah, no," he replied : " for a few years a 
 dear wife was walking step by step at my 
 side ; and there were little children, too, who 
 were just beginning to follow us. And I was 
 so happy then, that I sometimes forgot we 
 
 204 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 were but travellers, and fancied that I had 
 found a home. But my wife, sir, never forgot 
 it. She would again and again remind me 
 that 'we must so live together in this life, 
 that in the world to come we might have life 
 everlasting.' They are words that I scarcely 
 regarded at the time, but I love to repeat them 
 now. They speak to me of meeting her again 
 at the end of our journey." 
 
 " And have all your children left you ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " All, all," he replied. My wife took 
 them with her when she went away. She 
 stayed with me, sir, but seven years, and left 
 me on the very day on which she came. It 
 seems strange now that I could have lived 
 with them day after day without a thought 
 that they were so near their journey's end, 
 while I should travel onward so many winters 
 alone. It is now sixty years since they all 
 went home, and have been waiting for me 
 there. But, sir, I often think that the time, 
 which has seemed so long and dreary to me, 
 has passed away like a few short hours to them." 
 
 205 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 "And are you sure, then," I said, "that 
 they are all gone home? " It was a thoughtless 
 question, and I repented the words almost 
 before they were spoken. The tears rose 
 quickly in the old man's eyes, and his voice 
 trembled with emotion, as he replied : " Oh ! 
 sir, do not bid me doubt it. Surely, every one 
 of them is gone home ; one, at least, of the 
 number is undoubtedly there ; and they all 
 went away together, as though they were tra- 
 velling to the same place ; besides, sir, my 
 wife was constantly speaking to them of their 
 home ; and would not their journey as well as 
 my own have been prolonged, if their home 
 had not been ready for them? And when I 
 think of them, I always think of home ; am I 
 not, then, right in believing that all of them 
 are there ? " 
 
 There were allusions in this answer which 
 I did not at the time understand ; but the old 
 man's grief was too sacred for me to intrude 
 further upon it. I felt, also, that any words 
 of my own would be too feeble to calm the 
 agitation which my thoughtless observation had 
 
 206 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 caused. I merely repeated a passage from 
 holy Scripture, in reply, " Blessed are the 
 dead that die in the Lord, even so saith the 
 Spirit, for they rest from their labours/' 
 
 The old man's face again brightened, and as 
 he wiped away the tears, he added, " And 
 6 Blessed,' also, 6 are they that mourn, for they 
 shall be comforted.' There is not only a 
 blessing for those who have been taken to their 
 rest, but there is the image of that blessing to 
 cheer the old man who is left to pursue his 
 solitary journey." 
 
 At this moment, the sun, which had been 
 obscured by a passing cloud, suddenly shone 
 forth, and its rays were reflected by a path of 
 gold in the silent waters. The old man 
 pointed to it with a quiet smile: the change 
 was in such harmony with his own thoughts, 
 that I do not wonder at the metaphor it 
 suggested to him. "There," said he, "is the 
 blessing of the mourner ! See ! how it shines 
 down from the heaven above, and gilds with its 
 radiance the dreary sea of life." 
 
 "True," I replied; "and the sea of life 
 
 207 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 would be no longer dreary, if it were not for 
 the passing clouds which at times keep back 
 from it the light of Heaven." His immediate 
 answer to this observation proved the image, 
 which he had employed, to be one long 
 familiar to his own mind. " There are indeed 
 clouds," he said, "but they are never in 
 Heaven; they hover very near the earth; 
 and it is only because our sight is so dim and 
 indistinct that they seem to be in the sky." 
 
 A silence of some minutes followed this 
 remark. I was, in truth, anxious that the old 
 man should pursue the metaphor farther. But 
 the gleam of light passed away as the sun 
 sunk behind the western hills. His feelings 
 appeared to undergo a corresponding change, 
 and he exclaimed, hastily, "The day is fast 
 drawing to a close ; and the night must be 
 near at hand ; I must hasten onward on my 
 journey. Come, kind sir, and I will show you 
 where my friends are waiting for me." 
 
 I was wondering whether he now spoke 
 metaphorically or not, when my thoughts were 
 suddenly turned into a new channel, and my 
 
 208 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 former painful suspicions returned. As the 
 old man leant upon his staff, his wrists became 
 exposed to view, and I saw that they were 
 marked with deep blue lines, which could only 
 have been caused by the galling of a chain in 
 former years. 
 
 The poor wanderer observed the look I gave 
 them. A sudden flush of shame overspread 
 his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down 
 his garment to conceal them. It was, how- 
 ever, but a momentary impulse; he again 
 exposed them to my view, and himself gazed 
 sadly upon them, as he said, " Why should I 
 try to hide them, when they are left there to 
 remind me constantly of my true condition? 
 For in times past I have borne the pressure of 
 more wearing bonds than those ; and though I 
 have been released from them now, no one can 
 tell how dark and deep is the stain that they 
 have left upon the soul." Something more he 
 added, but his eye was turned meekly towards 
 Heaven, and it was only from the movement 
 of his lips that I fancied I could trace the 
 words of the prayer, " Though we be tied and 
 
 2C9 
 
bound with the chain of our sins, yet let the 
 pitifulness of thy great mercy loose us." 
 
 He now began to move slowly forward. 
 The ground was rough and uneven, and his 
 step so very feeble, that I expected every 
 instant to see him fall. He struck his foot 
 against a stone, and I sprang forward to his 
 assistance. " Thank you, kind sir," he said, 
 in his quiet way ; " but do not fear for me ; 
 my own frail limbs could not support me for 
 an instant : but I have a staff on which I 
 lean ; and though I may stumble at times, 
 I cannot fall." 
 
 Again I was in doubt whether to interpret 
 his words literally or not ; but my belief now 
 was that the old man almost unconsciously used 
 the language of allegory. Long habit had so 
 taught him to blend together the seen and the 
 unseen world, that he could not separate them. 
 Life was to him a mirror, and in the passing 
 objects of sight and sense, he never failed to 
 recognise the images of spiritual things. 
 
 210 
 
<&Ur plan's f^ome. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 So wanderers, ever fond and true, 
 
 Look homeward through the evening sky, 
 
 Without a streak of heaven's soft blue, 
 To aid affection's dreaming eye. 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 AT the conclusion of the last chapter I gave 
 the opinion that I formed of the old man from 
 the brief conversation I myself had with him. 
 The following incident cast, as it were, a 
 shadow upon it, and robbed it of its brightness, 
 but did not really alter it. My intercourse 
 with him was brought to a sudden and painful 
 conclusion. It was at my persuasion that he 
 crossed a stile which separated the wild scenery 
 of the landslip from the public road leading 
 
 to the little village of B . I thought it 
 
 would be easier for him to walk along the 
 
 211 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 more beaten track. He had yielded with 
 apparent reluctance to my request. His un- 
 willingness appeared to proceed from instinct 
 rather than reason. It may in part have 
 arisen from a kind of natural sympathy which 
 attracted him to that wild luxuriant spot; in 
 part from an unconscious dread of the danger 
 to which he actually became exposed. He 
 simply said, " This smooth way was not made 
 for the like of me, kind sir ; but, under your 
 protection, I will venture along it." 
 
 Alas! I little thought of the kind of pro- 
 tection he required. "We had advanced but 
 a few hundred yards, and had just reached the 
 summit of the hill which commanded the first 
 view of the village church. The old man had 
 paused for a little while, and appeared to gaze 
 upon it with a feeling of the most intense 
 interest ; I was afraid, even by a passing 
 question, to interrupt the quiet current of 
 his thoughts; when the silence was suddenly 
 broken by the creaking of a cart-wheel, which 
 grated harshly on my ear ; and almost before 
 I could look round, I heard a voice of rude 
 
 212 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 triumph behind me, crying out, " There he is 
 -there he is there goes the old boy ! Stop 
 him, stop him, sir ! he is mad." 
 
 I have no heart to describe the scene that 
 followed : the poor wanderer shuffled forward, 
 with a nervous hurried step; but in a few 
 seconds the cart was at his side ; the driver 
 immediately jumped out, and seizing him by 
 the collar, with many a rude word and coarse 
 jest, tried to force him to enter it. For a 
 moment, surprise and indignation deprived me 
 of speech, for I had begun to regard the old 
 man with such a feeling of reverent love, that 
 it almost seemed to me like a profanation of 
 holy ground. When, however, he turned his 
 eyes towards me, with an imploring look, I re- 
 covered myself sufficiently to demand by what 
 authority he dared thus molest an inoffensive 
 traveller on his journey. In my inmost heart 
 I dreaded the answer I should probably 
 receive ; neither was my foreboding wrong ; 
 the man laughed rudely as he replied, " He 
 has been mad, quite mad, for more than fifty 
 years; he escaped this morning from the 
 
 213 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 Asylum, and one of the keepers has been with 
 me all day long scouring the country in search 
 of him." 
 
 It was in vain that I sought a pretext for 
 disbelieving the truth of the story. I could 
 not help feeling that it did but confirm a 
 suspicion which, in spite of myself, had kept 
 crossing my own mind : for the bright colour- 
 ing which was shed by faith on the thoughts 
 and words of the old man was not alone a 
 sufficient evidence that they were under the 
 guidance of reason. Yet, of one thing, at 
 least, I felt sure, that, whatever were the 
 state of his intellect, it could be no imaginary 
 cause that now so strongly moved him. My 
 heart bled for him, as I listened to the pathetic 
 earnestness with which he implored the pro- 
 tection that I was unable to afford. He even 
 forgot to use the language of metaphor in 
 the agony of his grief. " Indeed, indeed, 
 sir," he said, "they call me mad, but do not 
 believe them, for I am not mad now. There, 
 there," he added, pointing towards the church, 
 "my wife and children are waiting for me. 
 
 214 
 
THE OLD HAN'S HOME. 
 
 It was on this very day that they went away, 
 and we have now been parted sixty years. 
 I have travelled very far to join them once 
 again before I die. Oh, have pity upon me ! 
 I only ask for one little half hour, that I may 
 go on in peace to the end of my journey." 
 
 Large drops of moisture trembled on his 
 forehead as he uttered these words ; his whole 
 face became convulsed with emotion, and he 
 clung with such intensity to my garment, 
 that his rude assailant tried in vain to unloose 
 his grasp. The man himself was evidently 
 frightened by the agitation which his own 
 violence had caused, and appeared doubtful how 
 to proceed, when the scene was fortunately 
 interrupted by the arrival of his companion. 
 
 He was the keeper who had been sent from 
 the Asylum with the cart, but had left it in 
 order to search the pathway which led through 
 the landslip. His look and manner afforded 
 a striking contrast to those of the first comer, 
 who proved to be merely the owner of the 
 vehicle, which had been hired for the occasion. 
 Immediately on his arrival, he reprimanded 
 
 215 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 him for his rude treatment of the old man, 
 and insisted on his returning to the cart, and 
 desisting from all further interference. My 
 hopes were greatly raised by this, and I 
 flattered myself I should now have little diffi- 
 culty in obtaining for the poor wanderer the 
 indulgence which he sought. But I soon 
 found my mistake, and, under the irritated 
 feelings of the moment, almost preferred the 
 rude conduct of the first comer to the quiet 
 determination with which his companion 
 listened to my request. 
 
 He merely smiled at the account I gave 
 of my own interview with the old man ; and 
 when I suggested that it contained no evidence 
 of insanity, shook his head and replied, "You 
 do not know poor Robin. His notions about 
 home are the peculiar feature of his madness ; 
 but you are not the first person that has 
 been deceived by them." 
 
 He spoke in a low tone, as though he was 
 anxious not to be overheard. But the pre- 
 caution seemed unnecessary; for, though the 
 old man had mechanically retained his grasp 
 
 216 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 on my garments, he was now looking eagerly 
 towards the village church, and I could see, 
 from the expression of his countenance, that 
 his thoughts had passed away from the scene 
 around him. 
 
 When I found my arguments of no avail, 
 I changed my ground, and besought as a favour 
 that he would make the trial of letting the 
 old man proceed to the end of his journey, 
 and trust to his promise to return quietly from 
 thence. "Sir," he replied, in a louder voice, 
 " I should have no more hesitation in trusting 
 the word of poor Robin than your own. He 
 never deceived me; and, under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances, I would at once grant his request; 
 but the hour is late, and, as it is, the night 
 will close in upon us before we can get back 
 
 to the town of N . The responsibility will 
 
 rest upon me, if mischief should arise from 
 any additional delay. I am sure E-obin himself 
 would not desire it." As he said this, he 
 turned towards the old man; but his counte- 
 nance was unchanged, his eye still fixed upon 
 the church, and he either had not heard the 
 
 217 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 words at all, or they had failed to convey any 
 distinct impression to his mind. 
 
 After a pause, I again renewed my in- 
 treaties, urging that it would at least be a 
 better plan than having recourse to violence, 
 which must eventually produce a far more 
 serious delay. " Of course," said the attendant, 
 "anything is better than having recourse to 
 violence." "Then," said I, "you accede to 
 my request?" "Only," replied he, with a 
 provoking smile, " in case all other methods 
 fail ; but ag the delay would be a real incon- 
 venience to us, you must permit me first to 
 try my powers of persuasion. Let me now beg 
 of you, whatever surprise you may feel, to be 
 careful to express none." He again lowered 
 his voice as he said these words, and, in spite 
 of the dislike inspired by the self-confidence of 
 his manner, and of other stronger emotions, my 
 curiosity was excited to know how he would 
 proceed. He placed himself opposite to the 
 old man, so as to intercept his view of the 
 village, and then, having fixed his eye calmly 
 and stedfastly upon him, with an appearance 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 of real interest, thus soothingly addressed 
 him: "I would gladly go on with you, 
 Robin; but am sure you are under some 
 mistake. Your wife and children cannot be 
 in yonder village, they are not there, they 
 are at home. Come quietly with me now, 
 and perhaps this evening you may go home 
 
 These simple words touched some hidden 
 chord in the old man's heart, and their effect 
 was almost magical. All other feelings passed 
 away, and I forgot the presence of his com- 
 panions, as I watched the change which they 
 produced. His features became composed, his 
 band relaxed its hold, and his voice resumed 
 its former tranquil tone, as he slowly repeated : 
 " They are not there, they are at home ; they 
 are not there, they are at home. True, very 
 true, they are not there, they are at home." 
 
 Presently he raised his eyes to Heaven, and 
 the attendants, no less than myself, were over- 
 awed by the solemnity of his manner. There 
 was a silence of a few seconds, during which 
 he seemed to listen intently; and then, as 
 
 219 L 2 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 though he had heard some echo from above, 
 which confirmed the hope that had been held 
 out to him, he confidently added: "And I 
 also shall go home, and this very evening I 
 shall be there." 
 
 While I was still pondering on these words, 
 the old man had of his own accord quietly placed 
 himself in the cart, and his companions had 
 seated themselves by his side. They were on 
 the point of driving off before the thought 
 occurred to me of offering him money. I drew 
 out my purse, half expecting him to refuse the 
 proffered gift ; and it was with a strong feeling 
 of disappointment that I observed the look 
 of satisfaction, almost amounting to eagerness, 
 with which he took the silver from my hand. 
 I said within myself, " Can it be, then, that 
 the taint of covetousness is to be found in a 
 mind from which every earthly affection seems 
 so entirely to have been withdrawn?" But 
 I wronged him -by the thought. The money 
 was immediately taken from him, and he 
 resigned it to another no less gladly than he 
 had received it from me. " It will not do," 
 
 220 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 said the keeper, " to let him have it himself : 
 he will merely give it away to the first beggar 
 that he meets. He has not the slightest 
 notion of the real value of money. It shall 
 be laid out for his benefit ; and till then it will 
 be safe in my keeping." 
 
 My countenance may have expressed dis- 
 satisfaction at the change, though, in truth, I 
 had no objection to make to it. But the old 
 man himself interrupted me before I could 
 reply, and said, (f Do not be afraid, kind sir, 
 whether it remain with me or him ; your 
 treasure will be safe, quite safe ; it matters not 
 now whether it remain with me or him ; " and 
 then added, in a more solemn tone, " safe 
 * where neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, 
 and where thieves do not break through and 
 steal.' I will take it home with me ; and 
 when you also go home, you will find it there." 
 And I now understood how it was for my sake 
 that he had so gladly welcomed the gift ; 
 and I thought, too, that if in truth money 
 had a real value at all, it must be the one 
 which was assigned to it by him. 
 
 221 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 The men were in a hurry to depart, and I was 
 now forced to bid adieu to the old man. He 
 appeared so sorry to leave me, that I promised 
 on the morrow to come and see him. I did not 
 like to use the word Asylum, so I said at his 
 dwelling-place. The expression at once caught 
 his ear, and re-awakened the train of thought 
 which my gift had interrupted for a time. 
 
 " Not in my dwelling-place," he said, " for 
 to-morrow I shall not be there. If you see 
 me again, kind stranger, it must be at home. 
 May God bless you, and guide you on your 
 way." The cart was already in motion, but 
 he looked back once more, and waved his hand 
 as he said, " Good bye, sir. E-emember that 
 we all are going home ! " 
 
 They were the last words I heard him 
 speak, and it is perhaps from that cause that 
 they made so strong an impression on my 
 mind ; for often since then, when I have been 
 tempted to wander from the right path, or to 
 murmur as I walked along it, I have thought 
 upon the old man's parting warning, and asked 
 myself the question, " Am I not going home ?" 
 
to Jtflan's 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Two worlds are ours : 'tis only Sin 
 
 Forbids us to descry 
 The mystic heaven and earth within, 
 
 Plain as the sea and sky. 
 
 CHRISTIAN TEAR. 
 
 VERY early on the following morning I pro- 
 ceeded on foot to the town of N . The 
 
 scenery through which I passed was rich and 
 beautiful, but it was lost upon me at the 
 time ; for there were busy thoughts within 
 which would not suffer my eye to rest on any 
 external object. I was on my way to visit 
 the old man, and had a presentiment, almost 
 amounting to conviction, that I should not 
 find him alive. The words, " I also shall go 
 home, and this very evening I shall be there," 
 in spite of myself, kept recurring to my mind. 
 
 223 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 It was to no purpose that I endeavoured to 
 set them aside, as part of the wanderings of a 
 disordered intellect : there was a solemnity in 
 the look and manner of the poor wanderer, 
 which gave a reality to their meaning; and 
 I believed the shadow of the future to have 
 been resting on his spirit at the time he spoke 
 them. 
 
 These fears gradually increased as I ap- 
 proached the Asylum. At the entrance, there 
 stood a little girl, weeping as though her 
 heart would break. A woman, who appeared 
 to be her mother, was trying in vain to 
 comfort her. Her only reply to every caress, 
 was a fresh burst of sobs and tears. The 
 scene was so in harmony with my own 
 thoughts, that the very instant I saw her, I 
 guessed the cause of her sorrow. Nor was 
 my conjecture wrong: the child had dearly 
 loved the old man, and wept because he was 
 no more. 
 
 The father of this girl was the superintend- 
 ent of the Asylum. He also was standing 
 by, and offered to accompany me through the 
 
 ' 224 
 
building. On the way, he proved very willing 
 to gratify my curiosity concerning the stranger 
 who had excited in me so singular an interest. 
 I soon found him to be an intelligent, kind- 
 hearted man, who had entered instinctively 
 into the thoughts and wishes of poor Robin, 
 and yet had failed to appreciate what I may 
 call the religion of his character. His daily 
 familiarity with the varied forms of insanity, 
 may in part have been the cause. He had at 
 once regarded him as a patient labouring under 
 a peculiar kind of mental delusion, without 
 looking beyond. In consequence of this, 
 there was much in our conversation which 
 grated harshly on my own feelings. I loved 
 better to think of the old man, as I had first 
 seen him, sitting in the midst of the pic- 
 turesque scenery of the landslip, than confined 
 within the gloomy walls of a pauper asylum. 
 The close rooms through which we passed, the 
 dull tones of the superintendent's voice, his con- 
 viction of poor Robin's insanity, and even the 
 compassionate interest with which he spoke 
 of him, all interfered with the brightness of the 
 
 225 L 3 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 image which my own mind had previously 
 formed. It would have been more in harmony 
 with my thoughts, to have heard from the 
 child who was weeping for him, the simple 
 narrative of the old man's life : but, perhaps, 
 the contrast in the colouring of the picture 
 only brings out the more strongly its intrinsic 
 beauty; and, for this reason, I will still 
 endeavour to trace it as it was first presented 
 to my own view. 
 
 The outline is soon drawn. Poor Robin 
 had, for more than half a century, been ail 
 inmate of the Asylum. No one could tell 
 from whence he had been brought there, or 
 say anything with certainty of his previous 
 history. It was, however, generally believed 
 that he had known better days, but that some 
 very heavy affliction had brought on mental 
 derangement ; and that, in consequence of this, 
 his property had gradually gone to ruin, until 
 at length he was consigned to a pauper asylum. 
 He had been placed there under a very dif- 
 ferent system of treatment from that which 
 now prevails. It had even been thought 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 necessary in the first instance to confine him 
 with handcuffs and chains : and he would often 
 struggle, in a paroxysm of passion, to set 
 himself free. But after a few years, all the 
 more violent symptoms of his disorder had 
 entirely disappeared, and he became so quiet 
 and resigned, that the physician had con- 
 sidered it safe to release him from his bonds, 
 and suffer him to wander at large within the 
 precincts of the Asylum. 
 
 " There can be no doubt of the facts, sir," 
 continued my guide, "for the marks on poor 
 Robin's wrists prove him to have, at one time, 
 undergone a very rigorous confinement; and 
 yet, when I came here, I found that he had 
 been long in the enjoyment of comparative 
 freedom. But it is a case that always per- 
 plexes me, when I think of it ; for the general 
 effect of harsh treatment is to render the 
 patient more violent and intractable than be- 
 fore ; and I cannot understand from what 
 cause the change in poor Robin's conduct 
 could in the first instance have arisen." 
 
 " Do you not think," I asked, " that it may 
 
 227 
 
THE OLD HAN'S HOME. 
 
 have been a sign of returning reason ? " He 
 smiled at the question, as he replied, "So far 
 from it, sir, that it was accompanied by a new 
 and extraordinary delusion, which never after- 
 wards entirely left him. He fancied that the 
 bonds which he felt and saw, were merely 
 imaginary, and that there were other invisible 
 chains which were the real cause of his con- 
 finement. They say, that from the time this 
 idea once gained possession of his mind, he 
 made no farther effort to recover his freedom, 
 but even thanked the attendants for the care 
 they were taking of him, and became as gentle 
 and submissive as a child." Then I remem- 
 bered the metaphor, which the old man had 
 employed when the marks on his wrists had 
 attracted my attention; and I said within 
 myself that it was not indeed the return of 
 reason, but a brighter and a far holier light, 
 which had thus shone on the poor captive, 
 and brought peace and resignation to his 
 soul. 
 
 After his partial release, the manners and 
 language of Robin had soon excited observa- 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 tion, and strengthened the belief that he must 
 at one time have known better days. It was 
 not, however, till the milder system of treat- 
 ment was introduced generally into the Asy- 
 lum, that the full beauty of his character had 
 developed itself. Since that time, he had 
 gradually won the affection of many of the 
 patients, and had become an object of deep 
 interest to all visitors. They had often come 
 for the express purpose of talking with him. 
 " And," continued my conductor, " I often 
 listened with wonder to the various interpreta- 
 tions they put upon his answers. Some would 
 discover in them poetry ; some, philosophy ; 
 some, religion ; some, I know not what, ac- 
 cording to the previous bias of their own 
 minds." I inquired in what light he himself 
 was disposed to view them ? " As the wander- 
 ings of insanity," he replied ; " for poor Robin 
 was, undoubtedly, mad : " but presently added, 
 more thoughtfully, " yet there was something 
 in his peculiar kind of madness which I could 
 never exactly fathom." 
 
 I asked, whether no friend or relative had 
 
 229 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 come to inquire after the old man, during the 
 long period of his confinement ? " No one," 
 answered my conductor ; " and so far, it was a 
 mercy that he had been deprived of his reason, 
 since his madness prevented his being aware of 
 his own solitary condition." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " I said ; " surely he 
 could not help feeling that he was alone ? " 
 
 " On the contrary," he replied, " he fully 
 believed that he had a wife and children and 
 home, and would speak, from day to day, of 
 going to join them. Poor fellow ! at one time, 
 those who had the care of him would argue 
 with him, and endeavour to explain to him that 
 he was under a delusion. And the old man 
 would soon get confused in his reasoning, and 
 end by wringing his hands, in an agony of 
 grief. But, since I have come here, I have 
 thought it best to humour him in the belief; 
 and not only forbidden all contradiction on this 
 subject, but encouraged the attendants to talk 
 to him about his home, and promise, that if 
 he behaved well, he should go there very soon. 
 You will hardly believe that I have seen tears 
 
 230 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 of joy run down his cheeks at these simple 
 words. Yet some have said, that it was almost 
 cruel to encourage a hope which must end in 
 disappointment at last." 
 
 " But did it end in disappointment ? " I 
 said, following my own thoughts, rather than 
 addressing my companion. He seemed struck 
 by the remark, and, after a pause, replied, 
 " Why, sir, one can hardly say that it did ; 
 for the hope seemed to grow stronger, instead 
 of weaker, as year after year passed by ; and 
 he continued in the same happy delusion to the 
 very hour of his death. I have often thought 
 that this imaginary home was a source of 
 greater joy and comfort to him than the pos- 
 session of any actual home could have been. 
 When anything vexed or disturbed him, he 
 would say, that when at home, he should feel 
 it no more. When he felt dull and depressed, 
 he would rouse himself by the thought that he 
 was going home. I myself have, at times, felt 
 disposed to envy him his belief: and there was 
 something very wonderful in the influence it 
 gave him over his companions." 
 
 231 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 I inquired, how this belief could influence 
 others ? " Because," said he, " Kobin was un- 
 able to separate the present from the future ; 
 and so it was part of his confusion of ideas to 
 believe that those with whom he lived here, 
 would live with him in his home also. It is 
 the only instance I have known of a person 
 under the influence of insanity being able to 
 impart his own views to his companions. But 
 there seemed to be a kind of infection in the 
 old man's madness ; and more than one patient, 
 who had previously been plunged in hopeless 
 despondency, was gradually led to take interest 
 in Robin's home. The effect has been so 
 salutary with us, that I have often wished the 
 same happy delusion could be introduced gene- 
 rally into other asylums." 
 
 I was following the deep train of reflection 
 awakened by this remark, and wondering how 
 far it might indeed be possible to graft reli- 
 gion on the imagination, and so to soothe and 
 cheer the dreams of insanity with the hope of 
 Heaven; when my conductor again resumed 
 the conversation. " There was, sir," he said, 
 
 232 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " another delusion of the old man, scarcely 
 less happy in its consequences than his belief 
 about his home. You might have fancied that, 
 from having once known better days, he would 
 have felt bitterly the degradation of his new 
 condition; but the whole time that he was 
 in the Asylum he seemed utterly unconscious 
 that he was dependent on the parish for 
 support." 
 
 " Do you mean," I asked, " that he imagined 
 something had been preserved from the wreck 
 of his own property ? " 
 
 " Not in the least," he replied ; " he was 
 fully aware that his own property was gone ; 
 but he believed his daily wants to be supplied 
 by a kind of miracle ; and would often observe 
 that he had gone on for more than fifty years 
 without making provision for the morrow, and 
 yet had never known what it was to be without 
 clothing or food. Of course, sir, I did every- 
 thing in my power to encourage him in the 
 belief: but, one day, I was greatly annoyed to 
 find a visitor, who was not aware of the old 
 jnan's peculiarities, endeavouring to explain to 
 
 233 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 him that the parish was bound to find him 
 support." 
 
 " And did he," I asked, '* appear much hurt 
 at the discovery ? " 
 
 " Fortunately not, sir," he replied ; " and 
 this I own quite took me by surprise, for I 
 greatly feared, lest the consciousness of his 
 dependence might destroy that feeling of self- 
 respect, which, in all cases of insanity, it is so 
 important to preserve. But Robin was rather 
 pleased than vexed at the idea of the parish 
 providing for him. Presently, however, he 
 grew bewildered, and shook his head, and said, 
 that, after all, the parish could not provide for 
 him beyond a single day, and that,^perhaps, to- 
 morrow he might be at home. The visitor was 
 beginning to say something in reply ; but 
 Robin's home was with me sacred ground, and 
 I would not suffer the argument to proceed 
 further." 
 
 Anpther pause of some minutes followed, 
 until I broke it by inquiring whether the child 
 that I had observed at the entrance were re- 
 lated to the old man ? 
 
 234 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir," he replied ; " little Annie is 
 my own daughter, and many persons have 
 wondered that I suffered her to be so con- 
 stantly with him. But I consider the society 
 of children to be very beneficial to the insane ; 
 there is something in their ways and language 
 which they can understand far better than our 
 own; and this was peculiarly the case with 
 poor Robin." 
 
 " And do you suppose," I said, " that the 
 child liked to be with him ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly," he replied ; " for the choice 
 was her own. I merely encouraged it. But 
 Robin had an inexhaustible stock of fairy tales, 
 which made him a great favourite with chil- 
 dren ; and Annie would sit and listen to them 
 for hours together." 
 
 " Do you really mean," I asked, in some 
 surprise, "that they were fairy tales?" 
 
 ft Why, sir, for that matter," he answered, 
 " poor Robin himself believed them to be 
 true, and it was that which gave a peculiar 
 interest to his manner of telling them. Some 
 visitors have fancied them to be a kind of 
 
 235 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 allegory ; and I have often traced in the words 
 a double meaning, of which the old man himself 
 could hardly have been conscious. But, how- 
 ever this may have been, it is clear that they 
 were connected with his particular mental delu- 
 sion, from the way in which his imaginary home 
 formed the prominent feature of every story." 
 
 I expressed a wish to hear one of them, 
 and yet was hardly sorry when he confessed 
 himself to be unable to comply with my 
 request. He told me that he had only heard 
 them in detached portions, for the patients 
 in the Asylum were too numerous to allow 
 him to devote as much time to poor Robin 
 as he might otherwise have done. " But, sir," 
 he continued, " little Annie knows them all 
 by heart, though I am afraid to-day she is 
 feeling too deeply the loss of her companion 
 to be able to . repeat one. There certainly 
 was something very singular in her fondness 
 for the old man, and I have often been per- 
 plexed at the kind of influence he had over 
 her. She herself was sometimes a sufferer 
 from his delusions, and yet always fancied poor 
 
 236 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 Robin must be in the right, and would submit 
 to his wishes without a murmur or complaint. 
 On one occasion, I myself felt called upon to 
 interfere." 
 
 I begged him to relate the circumstance to 
 which he referred. 
 
 " It was, sir," he said, " on Annie's ninth 
 birth-day, in November last. I had given 
 her in the morning a new Victoria half-crown, 
 and she went immediately to exhibit her 
 treasure to her friend. She looked grave 
 and thoughtful on her return; and, when 
 I asked what purchases she had made with 
 her present, she confessed that the old man 
 had begged it of her, and she had given it 
 him. The next day I told Robin how wrong 
 he had been to take the poor child's money. 
 But he answered, with his usual strangeness, 
 that he did not in the least want it, and had 
 asked for it because he loved little Annie, 
 and wished to do her a kindness. Now, most 
 people would have thought that this was 
 rather a reason for giving her a present than 
 for taking one away. And yet the old man 
 
 237 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 spoke the truth, for he knew no better. It was 
 one of his peculiarities to imagine that he was 
 conferring a favour when he received one." 
 
 There was a passage from Holy Scripture 
 which this answer suggested to my mind. 
 I remembered " the words of the Lord Jesus, 
 how He said, It is more blessed to give than 
 to receive,"* and I repeated it rather to myself 
 than to my companion. The words, however, 
 caught his ear, and he observed that it was 
 very likely I had hit upon the truth ; for the 
 understanding texts of Scripture in their literal 
 meaning, was one feature of poor Robin's 
 insanity. 
 
 With a view to pursuing the subject farther, 
 I inquired whether the old man had restored 
 the money. 
 
 " No, sir," replied my guide ; " and this 
 is the most provoking part of the story. I 
 should not so much have minded if he had 
 wished for it as a keepsake from the child; 
 but he said he had lent it to some companion 
 who had more need of it than himself. He 
 
 * Acts xx. 35. 
 
 238 
 
THE OL1> MAN'S HOME. 
 
 did not even so much as remember his name. 
 I told him he had much better have given 
 it at once, as he had no chance of seeing it 
 again. His own mind, however, was perfectly 
 at rest about it, and he assured me that it 
 was only lent, and would undoubtedly be 
 restored, if not sooner, at least when he went 
 home. Of course, sir, when he touched upon 
 his home, I did not venture to press him 
 farther. But this was another of his delusions, 
 which, though comparatively harmless while he 
 was staying here, must of itself have entirely 
 unfitted him for the management of his own 
 affairs. He would lend all that he had to his 
 brother paupers, and, though no one ever 
 thought of repaying him, was just as happy as 
 if the things remained in his own possession." 
 
 And another passage of Holy Scripture 
 rose to my remembrance, " He that hath 
 pity on the poor, lendeth unto the Lord ; and 
 look, what he layeth out, it shall be paid him 
 again." And I did not wonder that, with so 
 sure a promise, the mind of poor Robin should 
 have been at rest. 
 
 239 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Ever the richest, tenderest glow 
 
 Sets round th' autumnal sun : 
 But there sight fails ; no heart may know 
 
 The bliss when life is done. 
 
 CHRISTAN YEAR. 
 
 I HAVE reserved for a separate chapter that 
 part of my conversation within the walls of 
 the Asylum, which led to a description of 
 the closing scene of the old man's life. I was 
 still reluctant to admit his insanity, for it 
 seemed to me that he had only so fully realized 
 the presence of the unseen world, as to have 
 forgotten altogether the things of sight in 
 the things of faith. I inquired, therefore, of 
 my companion, whether any more decided 
 symptoms of madness had ever exhibited 
 themselves than those which he had already 
 
 240 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 mentioned. He appeared surprised at the 
 question, but replied, that, though the old man 
 was always more or less under the influence 
 of the disorder, there undoubtedly were certain 
 periodic returns of it, and that these uniformly 
 occurred at the commencement of spring. 
 
 " And did these," I asked, " render him for 
 the time violent and intractable ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir," he answered ; " ever since 
 I have known him he has been the same quiet 
 and inoffensive creature, and his madness used 
 rather to assume a melancholy form. He 
 became sad and dejected, and refused to eat, 
 and would pass whole days together in his 
 own solitary cell. On one occasion, my wife 
 sent little Annie, in the hope that she might 
 cheer him; but he would not even admit the 
 child; he told her that his father was then 
 with him, and that he would not talk to her. 
 I went myself when I heard this; but, upon 
 opening the door, I found, as I expected, that 
 he was alone." 
 
 " Perhaps," said I, "he may have meant 
 that he was praying to his Father in Heaven." 
 
 241 M 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " It is not unlikely," he replied ; " for 
 prayer was one way in which at these seasons 
 his madness most frequently exhibited itself. 
 I mean," he added, observing my look of 
 surprise, " that he did not then pray like other 
 people, but would often remain whole hours 
 together upon his knees." 
 
 And I remembered how the prophetess 
 Anna was said to have served God with 
 fastings and prayers night and day, and how 
 our blessed Lord Himself had continued a 
 whole night in prayer to God ; but I made no 
 farther reply. 
 
 " The doctor," resumed my conductor, 
 " considered the long solitude to be so bad 
 for him, that for the last few days he had 
 not suffered him to remain in his cell. It 
 was, perhaps, this circumstance which turned 
 the current of his thoughts into another 
 channel, and led to his wandering from the 
 Asylum." 
 
 I was not sorry to change the conversation, 
 by inquiring how he had contrived his escape. 
 
 " Nay," he replied, " it is hardly fair to 
 
 242 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 speak of it as an escape. We were never 
 very strict with the old man, and often suffered 
 him to go beyond the boundaries. On the 
 present occasion, he had made no secret of 
 his intention, and told one of the attendants 
 that he was anxious to pay his wife and 
 children a visit, and should soon be back. 
 I have no doubt myself that he intended to 
 keep his word; but he probably started, in 
 the first instance, in a wrong direction, and 
 so lost his way." 
 
 " What do you mean," I asked, " by his 
 starting in a wrong direction? I thought 
 you were ignorant from what part of the island 
 he had been brought here." 
 
 " True, sir," he replied ; " but Robin him- 
 self always fancied that his home lay towards 
 the East: the little window of the cell he 
 occupied looked in that direction ; and, though 
 it was too cold for him in the winter months, 
 we never could persuade him to change it for 
 one with a southern aspect. He always said 
 that he did not feel the cold, as long as he 
 could see his home. Now, there is nothing 
 
 243 M 2 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 but a small hamlet visible from the window, 
 and, of course, when the old man did not 
 return, I sent to it to inquire after him." 
 
 " And had he been there ? " I said. 
 
 " No, sir," he replied ; " and, after wasting 
 many hours in the search, we at length heard 
 that he had been seen walking along the road 
 which led direct to the Undercliff. It was 
 this circumstance which enabled him to get 
 so many miles from the Asylum before he was 
 overtaken. But, as I said, I do not think that 
 he intentionally misled us, but only missed 
 his way." 
 
 Now I knew full well that the village of 
 
 B was not the home of which the old 
 
 man had spoken; but, when I remembered 
 the agony with which he had implored to be 
 allowed to proceed thither, I could not believe 
 that mere accident was the cause of his jour- 
 ney. I resolved to return thither to prosecute 
 my inquiries; but before I left the Asylum, 
 asked to see the room which poor Robin had 
 occupied. 
 
 " This is it, sir," said my conductor, as he 
 
 244 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 threw open the door of a low narrow cell. 
 " You will find it smaller and more comfortless 
 than many others, but it is the one in which 
 he was placed when he was first brought here ; 
 and he had become so fond of his little window, 
 and the view towards the East, that it would 
 have been a mistaken kindness to force him 
 to change it." 
 
 I scarcely heard the words of apology, for 
 I felt a sudden thrill as I found myself ushered 
 thus unexpectedly into the chamber of death. 
 The old man was lying upon his narrow bed, 
 and a stream of light through the open window 
 fell upon his tranquil countenance. A single 
 glance was sufficient to tell me not only that 
 he was indeed dead, but that his end had 
 been full of peace. There was no convulsion 
 of the features, and the first symptoms of 
 decay had not yet appeared. His eyes had 
 been left unclosed, but the wandering light 
 was no longer there, and the smile which from 
 time to time had been wont to play across his 
 lips, rested quietly upon them now. The 
 one idea that his -look and posture alike con- 
 
 245 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 veyed to the mind was that of perfect tran- 
 quillity and repose. I felt that his long 
 journey had at length been finished, and that 
 the old man was at rest in his home. 
 
 My companion also seemed for awhile 
 absorbed in thought. He advanced softly to 
 the bedside, and it was not until, with a gentle 
 hand, he had closed the old man's eyes, that 
 he broke the silence by observing, " Ah, sir, 
 morning after morning I have found him lying 
 thus, and gazing through the open window. 
 His sight was gradually becoming very weak 
 from the glare of light, but he was unconscious 
 of it himself. And it was but yesterday he told 
 me that in a little while he should be no longer 
 dazzled by the brightness of his home. Poor 
 fellow ! when I came into the room a few 
 hours since, and saw his eyes so calm and 
 motionless, though the full rays of the sun 
 were falling upon them, I knew that he must 
 be dead, and could not help thinking how 
 singularly his words had come true." 
 
 There was something in the tone of voice 
 in which this description was given, that 
 
 246 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 proved the speaker to have some secret feeling 
 of its allegorical meaning, though he himself 
 would probably have been unable to define it. 
 
 A Bible and Prayer-Book were lying on 
 the table by the bedside. I turned to the 
 fly-leaf of the former, in the hope that I might 
 at least gather from it the poor wanderer's 
 name. There was written in it, " Susan 
 Wakeling; the first gift of her husband, 
 April 18th, 1776." And when I remembered 
 the old man's great age, I conjectured that 
 the sacred volume must formerly have been 
 his own wedding present to his bride. I re- 
 placed it on the table, and it opened of its 
 own accord at the eleventh chapter of the 
 Epistle to the Hebrews. The page was much 
 worn, as though it had not only been often 
 read, but many tears had fallen upon it. My 
 eye quickly rested on the passage, " These 
 all died in faith .... and confessed that they 
 were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. 
 For they that say such things declare plainly 
 that they seek a country. And, truly, if they 
 had been mindful of that country from whence 
 
 247 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 they came out, they might have had oppor- 
 tunity to have returned. But now they desire 
 a better country, that is, an Heavenly."* 
 And while I read, it seemed as though I had 
 found the text to the old man's history. 
 
 Another smaller volume was near them, 
 which proved to be the Christian Year. My 
 conductor told me that it was the gift of the 
 chaplain. For a moment I wondered at his 
 choice, for I knew that it contained much 
 which poor Robin must have been unable to 
 understand. But the hymn for Septuagesima 
 Sunday, and many others, were marked with 
 pencil. And as my eye glanced over them, 
 my wonder ceased. They were all in such 
 perfect unison with the old man's own 
 thoughts, that, however faint may have been 
 the image which they conveyed, they could 
 not have failed to exercise a soothing influence 
 on his mind. 
 
 I inquired whether the chaplain used to 
 come often to see him. "Very frequently," 
 was the reply. <e He took great interest in 
 * Heb. xi. 1315. 
 
 248 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 poor Robin, and the old man was grateful 
 for it." " It certainly was singular," he added, 
 thoughtfully, "that on his return yesterday 
 evening, he should have expressed so earnest 
 a wish that the chaplain should be sent for.'' 
 
 " And did you refuse ? " I asked. 
 
 " Fortunately not, sir," he replied. " I 
 hesitated at first, for it was very late, and 
 poor Robin was evidently much exhausted with 
 the fatigue and excitement of the day. But 
 he became so anxious about it, that my wife 
 interceded for him, and told me she thought 
 he would go to sleep more quietly after he 
 had been here. I well remember now the 
 peculiar emphasis with which the old man 
 repeated her words, and said, 'Yes, yes, I 
 shall doubtless go to sleep more quietly after 
 he has been here.' It almost seemed as 
 though he felt his end to be near at hand." 
 
 I begged to know what passed at his 
 interview with the chaplain. My companion, 
 however, could give me no information as 
 to the first part of it, for the old man 
 had desired to be left alone with him, and 
 
 249 M 3 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 his wish had been at once indulged. " But," 
 he continued, " on our return to the room, 
 we found him looking more light and cheerful 
 than we had ever before seen him ; and when 
 I congratulated him, he said that it was no 
 wonder, for a very heavy burthen had been 
 taken away. The chaplain then told us that 
 he proposed to administer to him the Holy 
 Communion, and invited rny wife and myself 
 to partake of it with him. It is a point on 
 which I have always felt doubtful, for persons 
 in the state of poor Robin must have very 
 indistinct views of the real nature of a 
 sacrament. In this case the old man's own 
 expression proved it ; for, as he joined in the 
 chaplain's request, he told us that he was 
 going on a long journey, and might require 
 the food to support him on the way." 
 
 " Nay," I could not help observing, " surely 
 his journey lay through the valley of the 
 shadow of death, and he meant that his soul 
 would be refreshed on its passage by the body 
 and blood of Christ, even as the body is by 
 bread and wine." 
 
 250 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 My companion shook his head as he replied, 
 " I believe, sir, Robin used the words literally, 
 but the chaplain took the same view of them 
 with yourself, and it was a point for him and 
 not me to decide. Certainly nothing could 
 be more grave or attentive than the old man's 
 manner during the whole ceremony. And it 
 may be that some glimmering of returning 
 reason was sent to prepare him for the ap- 
 proach of death. Such cases are not of 
 uncommon occurrence." 
 
 I could not help thinking that, in spiritual 
 things, poor Robin had not needed its light; 
 but I made no further reply ; and my com- 
 panion resumed his narrative. 
 
 (t When the service was over, the old man 
 merely squeezed the chaplain's hand in parting, 
 but did not speak to him. I also soon after- 
 wards went away, but my wife stayed for 
 some time longer watching by his bedside. 
 He remained perfectly still and silent, though 
 his eyes were open. At length she asked 
 him whether he did not feel tired, and 
 wish to go to sleep? And she tells me, 
 
 251 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 that he smiled like a little infant, as he 
 replied, ' Oh no, not at all tired ; for all that 
 wearied me has been taken away.' And then, 
 after a pause, he added, 'But you may wish 
 me good night now, for I shall be asleep 
 very soon ; and tell dear Annie I am going 
 home.' He spoke in so cheerful a tone, that 
 my wife little thought they were his last 
 words, and she left him, as she fancied, to 
 repose. But it was a sleep from which he 
 never woke again. Ah, sir/' he continued, 
 " it seems a sad thing to die thus forsaken 
 and alone; and yet, after all, many who have 
 kind friends and relatives round their sick 
 beds might envy poor Robin his peaceful 
 end. He went off so quietly at last, that 
 those who slept in the room adjoining were 
 not disturbed during the night by the slightest 
 sound. But early this "morning, when I came 
 to inquire after him, he was lying just as 
 you now see him, quite dead ! " 
 
 The deep feeling with which these words 
 were pronounced, convinced me that he was 
 no less touched than myself by the con- 
 
 252 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 templation of the outward tranquillity of the 
 old man's death. But who can realize the 
 inward peace that must have been there, 
 when the body fell asleep, and the soul was 
 released from its long imprisonment, and car- 
 ried by angels on its Homeward journey ! 
 
 As we left the old man's room, I inquired 
 whether there were many besides little Annie 
 who mourned his loss. A smile again crossed 
 the features of my companion, as he replied, 
 " There were many of the patients who 
 loved him almost as dearly as the child herself? 
 but I can scarcely speak of them as mourners 
 now. A report spread among them this 
 morning that Robin was going home ; I cannot 
 tell from what quarter it arose, but when 
 I came to them, they crowded round me to 
 know if it were true." 
 
 " And did you," I asked, " then tell them 
 that he was dead ? " 
 
 " Not in so many words," he replied. 
 " I merely said that he was already gone 
 home, and that they must not expect to see 
 him here again. And more than one voice 
 
 253 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 exclaimed in reply, e Happy, happy Robin, 
 to be taken home ! ' ' 
 
 Still I observed that I had remarked on 
 the countenance of many of the patients an 
 expression of sadness. 
 
 " True," he answered, " for with them the 
 transition of feeling from joy to grief is very 
 rapid. They are not, however, sorrowing for 
 poor Robin, but for themselves, because they 
 have not been allowed to accompany him. 
 There were some, in the first instance, who 
 were very loud in their complaints ; but I 
 soothed them by saying that it was right the 
 old man should go first, because he had been 
 here so long." After a pause, he continued: 
 " It is my own wish, as well as the chaplain's, 
 that many of them should attend the funeral, 
 for I would gladly pay this tribute of respect 
 to Robin's memory. And yet I am half 
 reluctant to give way to it : the remembrance 
 of the scene might afterwards throw some 
 gloom over the bright and happy notions 
 which they have now formed of his home." 
 
 I replied, that it might be so ; " and yet," 
 
 254 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 I added, " they would find in the thanks- 
 givings and prayers of the Burial Service 
 only the exact echo of their own joy and 
 sorrow. And as I said this, I could not 
 help feeling that the scene after the old man's 
 death had been in perfect harmony with his 
 life, and that poor Robin was rightly rejoiced 
 over and rightly mourned. 
 
 My account of my visit to the Asylum 
 has already far exceeded the limits which 
 I had assigned it. And yet, at the risk of 
 being wearisome, I cannot refrain from adding 
 one more fragment from my conversation 
 within its walls, before I proceed to the more 
 pleasant task that lies beyond. With a view 
 to prosecuting my inquiries in the village of 
 
 B , I asked my companion whether Robin 
 
 had ever dropped a hint of his former calling. 
 
 " Oh yes, sir," was the reply ; " he used 
 to say that he had enlisted as a soldier very 
 early in life, and had at one time been made 
 a prisoner. I have seen the tears run down 
 little Annie's cheeks at the piteous tale he 
 would tell of the way in which his enemies 
 
 255 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 had bound him hand and foot, and cast him 
 into a dark and terrible dungeon, from which 
 he had hardly escaped with his life. But 
 I believe the whole story to have been 
 imaginary, and it is one that I have little 
 difficulty in accounting for. He doubtless 
 referred to the hardships he had endured at 
 the period of his first imprisonment in the 
 Asylum. No one can wonder that they should 
 have taken so strong a hold on his imagina- 
 tion." 
 
 " Did he, then," I asked, " believe that 
 his warfare had long been at an end?" 
 
 " No, sir," he replied. " And perhaps it 
 would be more correct to say that the 
 treatment to which he had been exposed 
 was the origin of his delusion, than that it 
 accounted for it. The idea that he was liable 
 to the attacks of some secret enemy, seems 
 from that time to have taken a fixed posses- 
 sion of his brain; and if any one assured 
 him that he never could be subjected to the 
 same ill usage again, his invariable answer 
 was, that there was no safety for him except 
 
 256 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 at home. And then he would maintain that 
 having once enlisted, he could never cease 
 to be a soldier, and talk of treacherous foes 
 and long watchings and doubtful conflicts. 
 You would have imagined him, from his con- 
 versation, to have been one who was fighting 
 and struggling all day long, instead of the 
 quiet, inoffensive character that he really was. 
 But this, sir, was not all; he would fancy 
 that every one else was a soldier also. He 
 almost persuaded little Annie that she had 
 enlisted in the same army with himself; and 
 often made her sad by talking of the enemies 
 who surrounded her, and the service she was 
 required to perform." 
 
 I here interrupted him by asking whether 
 the child had not been baptized. He at once 
 perceived the drift of the question, and replied, 
 <c I know what you mean, sir, she was then 
 made the soldier and servant of Christ. " 
 
 " Yes," I added, " and entered into a 
 solemn engagement to fight manfully under 
 His banner, against sin, the world, and the 
 Devil." 
 
 257 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " True," he answered ; " and it is very 
 curious that it was the old man himself who 
 first pointed out that passage in the Prayer- 
 Book to me. I remember it struck me at 
 the time that his peculiar notions about soldiers 
 might, in some way, be connected with it. 
 And I think it far from improbable ; for 
 Robin's madness seemed principally to consist 
 in his regarding metaphors as realities, and 
 realities as metaphors. The difference between 
 him and ourselves would be, that he believed 
 little Annie to be really a soldier, and not 
 merely to be called one in the Prayer-Book." 
 
 I made no further reply, for my own 
 thoughts grew perplexed, as I tried to deter- 
 mine with myself what were truths and 
 realities, and what merely shadows and meta- 
 phors, of the things pertaining to our present 
 existence. 
 
 258 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Oh, bliss of child-like innocence, and love 
 Tried to old age ! creative power to win, 
 
 And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove, 
 Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin. 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 THE rooms of the Asylum were hot and close, 
 and as the outer door opened, it was very 
 pleasant to escape from them into the fresh, 
 open air. While we did so, my mind expe- 
 rienced a similar kind of relief, as the plaintive 
 accents of childhood broke in on my prolonged 
 conversation with the superintendent. 
 
 In spite of the interest I took in his narra- 
 tive itself, it was with a feeling of oppression 
 that I had listened to it; and there was 
 something very refreshing in the sudden 
 change. The sounds which I now heard 
 
 259 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 proceeded from little Annie. She was stand- 
 ing on the threshold, just as I had seen her 
 when I entered, except that her grief was 
 of a less quiet character than before, and 
 something of impatience seemed to be mingled 
 with it. 
 
 " It is no use," said her mother, as we 
 approached ; " the poor child will fret herself 
 into a fever, and I cannot persuade her to 
 come away. She does nothing but beg and 
 entreat to be allowed to see poor Robin again. 
 I really believe it will be the best way to take 
 her to his cell." 
 
 "It must not be," replied her husband; 
 " she has no idea of what death really is ; 
 and the sight of the body would fill her mind 
 with strange fancies, and perhaps do her 
 serious harm; for she herself is but a poor 
 weakly thing. You know I never refused her 
 permission to visit him while he was alive, 
 but I cannot suffer it now. It is singular," 
 he added, turning to me with a look of vexa- 
 tion, " that I should have found less difficulty 
 in quieting the complaints of all the mourners 
 
 260 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 for poor Robin within the Asylum, than in 
 soothing the grief of my own little girl. 
 I do not like to treat her with severity, and 
 yet without it I see no hope of getting her 
 away." 
 
 All that I had heard of the child inspired 
 me with a lively compassion for her; and 
 I asked to be allowed to try my powers of 
 persuasion. Permission was readily granted; 
 and I instinctively had recourse to the old 
 man's last message, as the easiest way of 
 gaining access to her heart. " Annie," I said, 
 gently, " do you know where your friend is 
 gone ? " The simple question checked her 
 sobs, and she looked timidly in my face, but 
 made no reply. " Poor Annie !" I continued ; 
 " and did he indeed leave you without telling 
 you whither he was going?" 
 
 " Home, sir, home," she replied ; and the 
 accent, no less than the words, recalled to my 
 mind the childlike old man : " he often told 
 me that he was going home." 
 
 " True," I replied ; " and he is gone home 
 now. Do you really wish to see him again?" 
 
 261 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 She was silent; but the look of affection 
 that beamed on every feature was a sufficient 
 answer ; so I continued : " And if you do see 
 him again, Annie, where will it be?" Her 
 voice faltered, as she repeated the words, 
 " At home;" and she again burst into tears. 
 
 " Yes, Annie," I said, after a short pause, 
 " you cannot see him here, because he is 
 gone away. He is now happy in the enjoy- 
 ment of his home, and you must wait till you 
 can go to him there. But, perhaps, your 
 home is different from his. Is it so, Annie?" 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered, with unexpected 
 earnestness ; " we are all children of the same 
 Father, and all travel to the same Home 
 that is," she added, looking down, and colour- 
 ing deeply, " if we are careful to keep in 
 the path that leads to it." 
 
 " And what path is that, Annie?" 
 
 " The path of trustful obedience, and quiet 
 faith, and holy love," was her immediate 
 reply. 
 
 I knew at once that the words were not 
 her own, but that she spoke from memory, 
 
 262 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 and that I had accidentally led her to one 
 of the old man's allegories. I was anxious 
 for my own sake to hear more of it, and it 
 seemed to me that it might be good for her 
 own sorrow to turn her thoughts for a little 
 while into this channel; so I continued: 
 " And is it a pleasant path, Annie, that 
 leads us home?" 
 
 " It is an up-hill path," she said ; " but, 
 as we walk along it, we can, if we will, 
 awake soft notes of music beneath our feet, 
 and there are whispering winds to cheer us 
 on our way." 
 
 " And what, Annie," I asked, " do you 
 mean by the soft music and the whispering 
 wind?" 
 
 " The soft music is prayer," she replied, 
 " and the whispering wind, the Holy Spirit 
 of God." 
 
 " And can we," I said, " have the soft 
 music without the whispering wind? I mean, 
 can we pray without the assistance of God's 
 Holy Spirit ? " But there was no need for me 
 to have explained the question; the language 
 
of allegory was most familiar to the mind of 
 the child, and she had recourse to it in her 
 reply. " No, sir," she said, " for the spirit 
 of harmony dwells in the breeze; and it is 
 the wind alone that gives life to the music, 
 and bears it upward from earth to Heaven." 
 
 I cannot tell how far she realized the deep 
 meaning of these words, for I did not venture 
 to examine her upon them. I was afraid 
 lest I should only render indistinct the image 
 which they conveyed to her mind, by touching 
 the colours with an unskilful hand. 
 
 Presently I resumed: " It must, Annie, 
 I think, be a pleasant path along which the 
 wind thus murmurs, and the music plays !" 
 
 " It is a pleasant path," she replied, " and 
 yet it is very thickly covered with thorns." 
 " But," she added, and from the smile which 
 for a moment lit up her countenance, it seemed 
 as though this were the metaphor which 
 pleased her best, " they are all magic thorns ; 
 and if we look upward to the clear, blue 
 sky, and tread firmly upon them, they keep 
 changing into flowers." 
 
 264 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " And is there not another path," I said, 
 venturing to guess at the conclusion of the 
 allegory, f< which leads away from home, and 
 along which the flowers, as you tread upon 
 them, keep changing into thorns?" 
 
 But I was wrong in my conjecture, for 
 she looked perplexed, and replied, " I do not 
 know, sir, about the other paths; the old 
 man never used to talk to me but of one." 
 And I felt ashamed of my question, as I said 
 within myself, " Oh, happy child, to know 
 as yet but of one path; and happy teacher, 
 to have so shared the innocency of childhood 
 as to have spoken to her but of one ! " 
 
 Presently, however, she continued, as 
 though she observed my confusion : " But, 
 sir, he said there were flowers which grow 
 by the way-side. When the wind blows 
 softly upon them they perfume the air; and 
 their fragrance is very sweet and pleasant to 
 those who pass them by; but if we stop to 
 gather them, then they become magic flowers, 
 and keep changing into thorns. And do you 
 know, sir, why it is so?" 
 
 265 N 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " Not exactly," I replied ; " I should like 
 you to explain it to me." 
 
 " Because, sir," she said, " when we gather 
 them, we stoop down, and turn our eyes 
 towards the earth, instead of gazing upward 
 on the clear, blue sky." 
 
 " But, Annie," I observed, " you have not 
 yet told me what are the flowers which we 
 gather, or the thorns on which we tread." 
 
 " The thorns," she replied, " are the trials 
 and afflictions which God sends us ; the flowers 
 are the pleasures and amusements which we 
 make choice of for ourselves." 
 
 " Then, Annie," I said, " the children who 
 gather the magic flowers are those who follow 
 their own will; while those who tread upon 
 the magic thorns are such as submit themselves 
 quietly to the will of God." 
 
 Her countenance became grave, and I saw 
 that she already guessed my meaning. I 
 thought her mind was now sufficiently pre- 
 pared to allow me to apply directly to her 
 own case the old man's allegory; and it 
 seemed as though his spirit were resting upon 
 
 266 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 me while I did so, and I used almost uncon- 
 sciously the language of metaphor. 
 
 ee Annie," I continued, " a very sharp and 
 piercing thorn was but yesterday placed in 
 your path. Your foot is young and tender, 
 and I do not wonder that you should shrink 
 from treading upon it." She trembled vio- 
 lently at this direct allusion to her grief, and 
 yet looked anxiously in my face, as though 
 she wished me to say more. My own voice 
 began to falter, and I could only add, " But, 
 believe me, your kind friend did not deceive 
 you; the thorn of affliction lies on the path 
 homewards; and if you have but courage to 
 walk quietly on, there is none that with 
 greater certainty will change into a flower. 
 Go, Annie, and awaken the soft music, and 
 you will be cheered by the whispering wind." 
 
 One by one the tears trickled down her 
 cheeks, as she turned to her mother, and 
 said, " Forgive me for my impatience ; I am 
 ready now, dearest mother, to accompany you 
 home; or I will go home directly myself, 
 and you shall follow me." She did not trust 
 
 267 N 2 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 herself to pause an instant, or make any 
 further reply, but expressed her gratitude 
 to me by a look, and at once hastened away : 
 and while she went, so vivid was the impres- 
 sion which the allegory had made on my own 
 mind, that the wind which played with her 
 garments seemed to possess some holy charm, 
 and I could fancy that I was listening to 
 strains of music, in the soft echo of her 
 receding steps. 
 
 The mother also was silent; but there 
 was no mistaking the expression of her coun- 
 tenance. The subdued smile on her lips, 
 and the bright tears that trembled in her 
 eyes, as she raised them to Heaven, told me 
 that she was following the same solemn train 
 of thought with myself, and treasuring yet 
 more deeply in her heart the sayings of her 
 child. 
 
 There was a pause of some seconds, and 
 the sound of little Annie's footsteps had just 
 died away, when the stillness was again broken 
 by her father's voice. " You were fortunate, 
 sir," he said, " in leading her to the story of 
 
 268 
 
THE OLD MAN*S HOME. 
 
 the homeward path; many visitors have con 
 sidered it the most beautiful of all that the 
 old man told. It was a great favourite with 
 the child. I have often heard her repeating 
 detached portions of it to herself, though 
 I was not aware that she had found in them 
 so deep a meaning. It is strange, very 
 strange," he added, thoughtfully, " for I cannot 
 even now tell who could have explained them 
 to her." I also have often looked back with 
 wonder on the answers of the child. But 
 there is a passage from Holy Scripture, which 
 seems to be their best interpreter, and they 
 never fail to recall it to my mind : " I thank 
 thee, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, 
 that thou hast hid these things from the wise 
 and prudent, and hast revealed them unto 
 babes."* 
 
 Poor Annie! My conversation with her 
 gave a ray of brightness to a visit which 
 otherwise had in it enough of gloom. Nor 
 has this feeling been in any way changed 
 by the early death of the child. There is 
 
 * Luke x. 21. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 still peace and joy in every thought connected 
 with her, though within a few months of my 
 first visit to the Asylum little Annie was 
 laid in her quiet grave. She laboured but 
 one short hour in the vineyard, and then 
 was taken to the same home with the old 
 man who had borne so long and so patiently 
 all the burthen and heat of the day. Yet 
 my own heart was a witness that even her 
 little hour of labour had not been without 
 its fruit. 
 
 A romantic story was told concerning the 
 cause of her death. It was said that she had 
 never recovered the loss of her friend, but 
 gradually pined away in consequence of it, 
 and at length died of a broken heart. But 
 I believed not the tale; for little Annie did 
 not sorrow as those without hope ; and though, 
 perhaps, the cord of affection, that united 
 her so closely to the old man, may have 
 hastened her progress to the home to which 
 he was gone, I do not think that her bereave- 
 ment was the cause of her death. I had 
 left her with the impression that she was not 
 
 270 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 long for this world. I cannot exactly describe 
 from whence this feeling arose. It was not 
 merely because her cheek was wan, and her 
 complexion delicate, and her little heart seemed 
 to beat with too eager emotion for the frail 
 prison in which it was confined; but there 
 was something in her voice, look, and manner, 
 which kept reminding me of the world of 
 spirits ; as though, in all her youth and 
 innocence, she were walking on its very 
 borders, and her gentle form might at any 
 moment fade into the mist, and vanish from 
 my view. 
 
 The more I reflected on this, the more sure 
 I became that little Annie had lived her time, 
 and that no sudden shock had broken pre- 
 maturely the thread of life. I thought that 
 this assurance might afford some comfort to 
 her parents in their heavy affliction ; for Annie 
 was an only daughter. But when I called 
 upon them, the mother alone was at home ; 
 and I soon found that she needed no consola- 
 tion which I could afford her. She had her 
 own secret store of treasure in every word 
 
 271 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 that had fallen from her darling child. I 
 shall never forget the look with which 
 she said to me, " Ah, sir, I understood very 
 little of her words while she was alive; but 
 the moment she was gone, it seemed as 
 though a light were shining upon them 
 from another world, and I can read them 
 plainly now." And then, after a pause, she 
 added, "Do you remember, sir, on the very 
 day you were with us, how she said, ' I will 
 go home directly myself, and you shall follow 
 me?'" I remembered it well; and she saw 
 from my countenance that I guessed her 
 meaning. " Yes," she continued, as, in spite 
 of every effort to suppress it, the big tear 
 rolled down her cheek, " it was in order that 
 her father and myself might learn to follow her, 
 that little Annie was taken Home. He too, 
 sir, has become since then an altered man." 
 
 A silent pressure of the hand was my only 
 reply, for I felt that the afflicted mother had 
 learnt more truly than I could teach her the 
 lesson which was to be gathered from the 
 death of her child. 
 
 272 
 
.Plan's 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Gently along the vale of tears 
 
 Lead me from Tabor's sunbright steep; 
 Let me not grudge a few short years 
 
 With thee toward Heaven to walk and weep. 
 
 But, oh ! most happy, should thy call, 
 Thy welcome call, at last be given 
 
 " Come, where thoulonq hast stored thy all ! 
 * 
 
 Come, see thy place prepared in Heaven ! " 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 THE recollection of little Annie has made 
 me wander from my story, and I must now 
 hasten to bring it to a conclusion. I left 
 the Asylum, pondering deeply on the things 
 I had heard and seen. My heart was sad 
 within me; for I could not help giving way 
 to a feeling of compassionate sorrow as I 
 thought of the old man's solitary lot. 
 
 His past history seemed, indeed, to be lost 
 in almost hopeless oblivion. But I knew that 
 
 273 N 3 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 he must have been crushed and broken down 
 by some terrible calamity in early youth ; 
 that he had been awakened from the stupor 
 which it produced to the stern reality of bonds 
 and chains, and then been doomed to a dull 
 unvaried captivity, not for days, weeks, or 
 months, but for a long period of more than 
 fifty years. Thus Reason kept drawing a 
 melancholy picture of one without home, 
 without friends, dependent on charity for his 
 daily bread, whose whole existence was a 
 dreary void, with no employment to beguile 
 his thoughts, no hope to cheer him on his way. 
 It needed only the recollection of that peculiar 
 solitude of mind, which is almost the certain 
 offspring of insanity, to complete its gloom. 
 
 And yet, after all, it was my own infirmity 
 which made me sad ; for, when I had strength 
 to gaze on the same picture with the eye of 
 faith, bright and beautiful were the images 
 that I saw. I then perceived that he was not 
 without home, for his home was in the land of 
 spirits beyond the grave ; he was not without 
 friends, for his wife and children were waiting 
 
 274 
 
for him there ; while he remained upon earth, 
 he was not dependent, for he felt his daily 
 wants to be supplied by a Father's care ; he 
 never, for a single instant, was without occu- 
 pation, for he had a long warfare to accomplish, 
 a distant journey to perform; and still less was 
 he uncheered by the blessing of hope, for he 
 was able to rest in humble trust on his 
 Saviour's promise, and go on, day after day, 
 laying up treasures for himself, which neither 
 moth nor rust could corrupt, nor thieves break 
 through and steal. Out of the loneliness 
 caused by his affliction he had created a new 
 world for himself, or rather, he had been drawn 
 by it to live in that world which, though 
 unseen, God has really created for us all. And 
 surely to him life could never have been dull 
 and unvaried, while he was able to trace the 
 types and emblems of spiritual things alike in 
 the passing gleams of sunshine, and in the 
 dark shadows that rested upon his path ! 
 
 Mingled with these conflicting emotions, the 
 question from time to time arose in my mind, 
 'And was poor Robin really mad?' And 
 
 275 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 again it was only my own infirmity which 
 caused me to shrink from the reply. It is hard 
 indeed to define madness ; and the state of his 
 intellect probably varied from time to time. 
 Thus it may have been almost without a cloud 
 when little Annie was his companion. So, also, 
 during my own brief interview with him, the 
 stillness of the evening, and the unison of his 
 own thoughts with the surrounding scene, may 
 have breathed a soothing influence upon his 
 mind. And yet, when I reflected calmly on 
 that very interview, I felt that they were 
 right in not suffering the old man to travel 
 alone along the journey of life. 
 
 His was the second childhood ; simple, pure, 
 and holy as the first, and yet, in his case, no 
 less than the first, requiring a protector's care, 
 He spoke and thought as a child, and children 
 could understand him ; but the calm mirror of 
 his mind quickly grew troubled in his inter- 
 course with men, and he then lost the power of 
 explaining his thoughts, or perhaps of himself 
 distinguishing between the shadow and the 
 substance, the things of sight and the things of 
 
 276 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 faith. Reason had resigned her sway during 
 the mental conflict which had been caused by 
 his calamities ; and though peace and quietness 
 had been restored, she never had attained 
 sufficient vigour to resume it again. Nay 
 more ; it may be that her lamp was the more 
 dim and uncertain, on account of the brighter 
 and clearer light which from that time burned 
 unceasingly in his soul. It is possible that 
 he was slow in observing the different shades 
 of colour that passed across earthly objects, 
 because to his eye one unfading colour was 
 resting upon them all ; and that his mere intel- 
 lectual faculties remained weak and palsied, 
 because out of this very weakness he had been 
 made strong, and he was at all times conscious 
 of the presence of a surer support and safer 
 guide. 
 
 And what matters it, if it were so ? Why 
 may we not revere poor Robin, and love him, 
 and learn from him, and yet not shrink from 
 acknowledging that his reason had gone astray? 
 Surely, there is no one who would not gladly 
 leave the hard dull road of life, if only they 
 
 277 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 could wander with him along the same bright 
 and happy paths ! There is no one who would 
 not give the choicest gifts of reason twice told, 
 if only they could purchase for them the child- 
 like faith of that simple-hearted man ! 
 
 I was half sorry when my arrival at the 
 
 village of B made me change these silent 
 
 meditations for the attempt to investigate the 
 old man's connexions and history. It was not, 
 however, mere curiosity that prompted me to 
 do so. I was anxious, if it were possible, to 
 save him from a pauper's grave. For a long 
 time my inquiries were in vain. Some few, 
 indeed, had heard of poor Robin ; for his fame, 
 as I have said, had spread beyond the walls of 
 the Asylum ; but the name of Wakeling was 
 unknown to them ; and they did not believe 
 he had ever been connected with the parish 
 
 of B . They referred rne, however, to the 
 
 cottage of the oldest inhabitant of the village. 
 She was a widow, of very great age, having 
 lived to see four generations around her. A 
 few years since, they said, she was able to 
 speak distinctly of events that had happened 
 
 278 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 more than half a century ago, but latterly her 
 memory had become impaired. 
 
 When I mentioned to her the name of 
 Wakeling, the word at once awakened some 
 recollection of the past. She twice repeated 
 it, and added, almost mechanically, "Good 
 and excellent people, sir, and very kind to 
 the poor." But when I questioned her as to 
 their occupation and history, and asked what 
 had become of them, she shook her head, as 
 though the thread of memory had been broken 
 off, and she was unable to unite it again. 
 
 As a last hope, I referred directly to the 
 spring of 1783, and inquired whether it had 
 been marked by any particular occurrence. 
 " Ah, sir," she replied, " much of the past is 
 now like a dream to me, but that is a period 
 which I never can forget." The tone of 
 sadness in which these words were uttered, 
 proved some deep sorrow to be connected 
 with the remembrance of it ; and on further 
 questioning, I learnt that it was a season in 
 which an infectious fever had raged in the 
 village, and that whole families had been 
 
 279 
 
carried off by its ravages : she herself had been 
 left an orphan. But though her recollection of 
 the illness itself seemed as vivid as though it 
 had occurred but yesterday, of the Wakelings 
 she could say nothing with distinctness. It 
 may be that her mind was too absorbed with 
 the remembrance of her own grief to allow her 
 to recur to that of others; or it may be that, 
 even at the time, in the general affliction the 
 loss of an individual, however grievous, had 
 been scarcely noticed, and soon forgotten. At 
 length she seemed to grow weary of my impor- 
 tunity, and said, " I cannot tell who may have 
 lived and who may have died: you must go, 
 sir, to the churchyard, and there you will find 
 the only certain history of that fatal spring." 
 
 A new thought was suggested by these 
 words, and I repaired thither in the hope that 
 I might find that information, which I had 
 sought in vain from the living, among the 
 silent records of the dead. 
 
 The evening was now drawing on, and it 
 was in truth the very hour at which but 
 yesterday I had parted from the old man. 
 
 280 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 I was alone ; and as I trod, with a cautious 
 reverence, upon the green sod, there was no 
 sound to break the tranquillity of the scene, 
 save the ripple of the waters at the edge 
 of the cliff on which the churchyard stood. 
 Their restless motion only made me feel the 
 more deeply the stillness of the hallowed 
 ground itself; and I thought, that if the old 
 man had been with me, he might have found 
 in it an apt emblem of the quiet resting-place 
 of the dead, lying on the very borders of the 
 sea of life, and yet untroubled by its mur- 
 muring, and sheltered from its storms. 
 
 I was not long in discovering the object 
 which I sought. The rays of the setting sun 
 at once directed me to a stone at the eastern 
 extremity of the churchyard. It was distin- 
 guished from those around by a simple cross ; 
 but in spite of the soft light that was now 
 shed upon it, it was with difficulty that I 
 deciphered the inscription which it bore. For 
 not only was the tomb itself thickly covered 
 with moss and weeds, but my own eye grew dim 
 with tears, as one by one the few sad words 
 
 281 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 revealed to me the secret of the old man's 
 history. His restlessness during the spring, 
 the object of his last solitary journey, and 
 parts of his conversation with myself, which 
 before had seemed obscure, were now fully 
 explained. The inscription was as follows: 
 
 SACRED 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 SUSAN, WIPE OF ROBERT WAE.ELING, 
 
 WHO DIED 
 APRIL 18TH, 1783, AGED 28 YEARS. 
 
 ALSO OF THEIR CHILDREN, 
 ALICE, AGED 6 YEARS, HENRY, AGED 5 YEARS, 
 
 AND EDWARD, AN INFANT, 
 WHO SURVIVED HER ONLY A FEW DAYS. 
 
 "I SHALL GO TO THEM, 
 BUT THEY SHALL NOT RETURN TO ME." 
 
 2 SAM. xn. 23. 
 
 There was room beneath the text from 
 Holy Scripture for one name more, and it was 
 there that I added the words : 
 
 ALSO OF ROBERT WAKELING, 
 
 WHO DIED 
 APRIL 18TH, 1843, AGED 93 YEARS. 
 
 They remain as a simple record that the 
 old man was indeed united at last, in body as 
 well as spirit, to those whom he had so dearly 
 loved, and mourned so long. 
 
 282 
 
THE 
 
 KING'S MESSENGEES. 
 
 Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven. Matt. vi. 20. 
 
TO 
 
 CONSTANCE KNOLLYS 
 
 AND 
 
 HER BROTHERS 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 THEIR GODFATHER 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
Sltertismnt. 
 
 THE following tale differs, in some respects, 
 both in design and character, from the pre- 
 ceding allegories by the same author. It is 
 not intended to give a general view of our 
 state as Christians, but merely to bring forward, 
 prominently and distinctly, a single Christian 
 duty. In consequence of this, it involves 
 very little of doctrinal teaching, while the 
 allegorical meaning lies so completely on the 
 surface, that the youngest child cannot fail 
 to apprehend it. For both these reasons, any 
 explanatory conversations have been considered 
 unnecessary. But a conversation of a different 
 character has been annexed, in order to obviate 
 the misconstruction to which the dwelling 
 
 287 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 on any one duty to the exclusion of others 
 is always liable, and, at the same time, to 
 apply and illustrate the truths conveyed in 
 the story. 
 
 BONCHURCH, 
 
 Dec. 16, 1847. 
 
 288 
 
" HAS any one called during my absence ? " 
 inquired Mr. Mertoun of his nephew, Leonard, 
 on returning home after his usual round of 
 parochial visits. 
 
 " No one," replied the boy ; " I have been 
 with Mary in the garden, and if they had, 
 I could not have helped seeing them." 
 
 " It is strange," said Mr. Mertoun ; " are 
 you quite sure there has been no one ? " 
 
 " Quite sure," he answered, but presently 
 added, correcting himself, "at least, no one 
 of any consequence only some poor man." 
 
 The tone in which the last words were 
 uttered, no less than the answer itself, grated 
 harshly on Mr. Mertoun's ear. " Only some 
 poor man ! " he repeated ; " why, Leonard, do 
 
 289 O 
 
you say only? Might not his visit be of 
 consequence ? " 
 
 The boy looked confused, but endeavoured 
 to justify his former reply by saying, "Of 
 consequence to himself, uncle, but I meant 
 of no consequence to you." 
 
 " Nay, my dear boy," replied Mr. Mertoun, 
 " you now speak even more thoughtlessly 
 than before. It could not have been the 
 one without being the other also. Remember, 
 that it can never be of more importance for 
 the poor man to declare his wants than it is 
 for those who have the means to relieve them. 
 Do you think you understand me ? " 
 
 " I believe, uncle, I do," he replied, thought- 
 fully. " You mean, as you told us on Sunday, 
 that 'it is more blessed to give than to 
 
 receive.' " 
 
 Mr. Mertoun perceived from the reply, that 
 he had awakened the train of reflection which 
 he wished, and did not, at the time, pursue 
 the conversation. But the words, "only some 
 poor man? kept recurring painfully to his 
 own mind. His nephew and niece had been 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 with him but a few days, yet it was not the 
 first time he had observed in them a want of 
 sympathy for the poor. This was, perhaps, an 
 almost necessary result of their having been 
 brought up in London. No opportunities had 
 been there afforded them of visiting the poor in 
 their own homes. They had learned to look 
 upon all beggars as impostors, and drew no dis- 
 tinction between real and pretended cases of 
 distress. Thus, though in other respects they 
 were loving and obedient children, and well 
 grounded in the principles of the Christian 
 faith, the numerous warnings in the Gospel 
 concerning the danger of wealth, and its only 
 safeguard, remained to them almost a dead 
 letter. 
 
 It was with a view of remedying this defect, 
 and bringing distinctly before them the im- 
 portant office assigned to the poor by our 
 Blessed Lord, that on the evening of the 
 above conversation their uncle told them the 
 following story. 
 
 291 O 2 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord, 
 Largely Thy gifts should be restored : 
 Freely Thou givest, and thy word 
 
 Is "freely give." 
 He only who forgets to hoard, 
 
 Has learn'd to live. 
 
 CHRISTIAN TEAR. 
 
 THE city of Metoecia lay to the west of the 
 dominions of a Great King. It was an ancient 
 city, and had gradually become very large and 
 populous. But the original settlers had been 
 placed there in consequence of a rebellion 
 against the King's authority ; and a remarkable 
 law continued to prevail among their descend- 
 ants as a memorial of their crime. No one was 
 allowed to remain in it above a certain number 
 
 293 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 of years, and no one, when he left it, was 
 permitted to take any portion of his property 
 with him. This was called the law of Exile. 
 The Great King had himself enacted it, and 
 the citizens had no resource but submission. 
 There was not even a fixed and definite period 
 allotted for their stay. They were liable at 
 any moment to receive the Royal Mandate. 
 It came to them also one by one. As each 
 was summoned to depart, his dearest friends 
 could only accompany him as far as the gates 
 of the city. And he was then stripped of all 
 his possessions, and sent forth as an exile on 
 his solitary journey. 
 
 Now, as the inhabitants of Metoecia were 
 principally merchants, one would have ima- 
 gined that such a law must have proved a 
 source of perpetual disquietude and alarm. 
 Yet this was not the case. Occasionally, 
 indeed, when it was enforced against a very 
 rich man, it would awaken sad thoughts in his 
 companions, and cause them to mourn over the 
 uncertainty of their wealth. But, for the most 
 part, they all lived on in a false security. 
 
 294 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 Every one fancied his possessions to be as 
 really his own as though he had been able to 
 retain them at will. Such a delusion may 
 appear unaccountable; but, we must remem- 
 ber, that they had gradually become accus- 
 tomed to the law, and for that reason it was 
 lightly regarded by them or altogether for- 
 gotten. 
 
 The Great King, however, was full of com- 
 passion, and took much thought for the poor 
 exiles, who were thus careless of themselves. 
 He knew how dark and dreary was the wilder- 
 ness that surrounded the city, and was un- 
 willing that any should be left there to perish. 
 He did not, indeed, reverse his original decree, 
 but he did far more than this. He changed it 
 from a punishment into a blessing. He offered 
 to receive the exiles into a better and more 
 glorious City than that from which he took 
 them. If they rejected this offer the fault was 
 their own. All the conditions on which it was 
 made were very easy, and the King himself 
 had promised to enable the citizens to perform 
 them. But we need not dwell upon them all, 
 
 295 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 for one alone, which applied more especially to 
 the wealthier merchants, is brought before us 
 by the present story. 
 
 In the city of Meto3cia dwelt four brothers, 
 Philargyr, Megacles, Euprepes, and Sophron. 
 At the period at which I commence their 
 history, the sentence of exile had lately been 
 pronounced against their father. He had been 
 a merchant of enormous wealth, and as, in 
 accordance with the law, he was allowed to 
 take nothing for his own wants, the whole of 
 his vast possessions had fallen into the hands of 
 his children. They had met in order to divide 
 them. The room in which they assembled for 
 this purpose was filled with the most costly 
 furniture. The floor was covered with cloth 
 of gold, which was now partially concealed by 
 bales of yet more valuable merchandise, and 
 heaps of precious stones which had been placed 
 there, to await the choice of the brothers. 
 Two sides of the apartment were hung with 
 the most gorgeous tapestry, on the third was a 
 window commanding an extensive view towards 
 the west, while the wall opposite to the window 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 was entirely covered by a spacious mirror, 
 which reflected the various objects in the room 
 itself and the street beyond. 
 
 But, in the midst of all this external splen- 
 dour, a cloud sate on the countenance of each 
 of the brothers. The departure of their father 
 was too recent to allow them to forget the 
 transitory character of the treasures which 
 they were about to share. Let a few years 
 pass, and each in his turn would be compelled 
 to leave them, and go forth without money, 
 without home, and without friends, into the 
 dreary desert that lay around the city. 
 
 It was these thoughts which rendered them 
 sad. They had never before felt the full 
 burthen of the law of exile ; they had been 
 aware of its existence, for no citizen could be 
 ignorant of it ; but hitherto they had seen it, 
 as it were, in the distance. It now seemed to 
 meet them directly in their own path, and to 
 force itself on their attention ; so that the 
 eldest brother did but echo the feelings of the 
 rest when he said, "Of what profit is this 
 enormous wealth? In the day of our banish- 
 
 297 O 3 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 ment it will not purchase for us the delay of a 
 single hour. How gladly would I barter the 
 whole of it for some quiet dwelling-place, 
 where we might remain in security for ever!" 
 
 He had not yet finished speaking, when his 
 eyes were attracted by the mirror, which I 
 have described as covering one side of the 
 room. Some image appeared to be moving 
 across it, which was not visible in the apart- 
 ment itself. He pointed it out to his brothers, 
 and it was clear from their anxious looks that 
 they beheld . it also. It was as the form of an 
 old man. There was nothing in his appearance 
 to excite terror, but every object as seen in 
 the mirror was changed by his presence. His 
 foot trod on the cloth of gold, and it became 
 mouldering and worm-eaten : the hem of his 
 garment swept against a table of solid ivory, 
 and it fell crumbling into dust : while the bales 
 of merchandise and precious stones lost their 
 richness and splendour, as his cold eye rested 
 upon them. 
 
 The brothers watched these signs with a 
 sensation of chilling fear, and the eldest already 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 repented his hasty words. For, in truth, in 
 his inmost heart, he deeply loved the glittering 
 wealth, and he was afraid, lest the mysterious 
 stranger might take it away, and give him in 
 its stead the quiet dwelling for which he had 
 asked. 
 
 At length it seemed to them that the image 
 of the old man thus addressed them : 
 " Children, your wish is vain. You must not 
 speak of bartering these treasures for a lasting 
 home. They are not really yours ; they belong 
 to the Great King, whose subjects you are. 
 Restore them to him now, and he will keep 
 them for you, and in the day of your exile give 
 them to you again. In this city they are 
 worthless. See how even my slightest touch 
 here causes them to decay. But in the King's 
 palace they become incorruptible. I have no 
 power over them there." 
 
 The brothers were yet more troubled at his 
 words. They knew well that all the riches 
 of Metoscia belonged to the Great King ; but 
 they were disquieted, at the thought of restor- 
 ing them to him again. A vague fear arose 
 
that the sentence of exile was about to be 
 passed against themselves; and all, in some 
 degree, shared the apprehensions of Philargyr. 
 The old man appeared to read their thoughts, 
 and thus replied to them : 
 
 " Fear not ; I am not now come to deprive 
 you of your wealth. Hereafter, indeed, I shall 
 return with the Eoyal Mandate, but in that 
 hour you will both see and feel that I am near. 
 To-day my voice comes to you from a distance, 
 and it is but my reflected image that you 
 behold. Yet I bear you a message from the 
 Great King. You have wished to purchase 
 for yourselves a lasting home ; I have said that 
 you cannot purchase it, because your riches are 
 not your own ; they belong to the Great King. 
 You must trust them freely to his Messengers, 
 without asking for a return ; and he will store 
 them up for you in his own palace, and, when 
 you are driven from hence, will suffer you to 
 dwell with his children in a Glorious City 
 where the law of exile is unknown. But 
 beware lest you neglect this warning, and 
 defraud the Great King of the riches com- 
 
 300 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 mitted to your trust ; for if you refuse to give 
 them to his Messengers, and either hoard them 
 up or spend them on yourselves, you will have 
 no treasure laid up for you in the Royal 
 Palace, and the gates of the Glorious City will 
 be closed against you for ever." 
 
 Now, there was nothing really new to the 
 merchants in the old man's warning. The 
 royal offers of pardon, and the dangers of the 
 neglect of them, were well known in the city. 
 But the inhabitants seldom spoke of them to 
 one another, because they loved their riches, 
 and were unwilling to render obedience to the 
 King's commands. The brothers had hitherto 
 shared in the general feeling; and it was, 
 perhaps, only because the remembrance of their 
 father's departure was weighing heavily upon 
 them that they had so long listened to the voice 
 which now addressed them. It did not, 
 indeed, seem to pass through their ears at all, 
 but to fall at once inwardly on their hearts, 
 and for the present they could not help re- 
 garding it. Yet all shrank from asking in 
 what way they were to send their treasures to 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 the Royal Palace. They were not, however, 
 left in doubt. The reflection of the street in 
 which their house stood was, as I have said, 
 visible in the mirror. The figure of the old 
 man now pointed towards it; and as he did 
 so the young merchants heard distinctly the 
 words : tf Behold the Messengers of the Great 
 King!" 
 
 They followed the direction of his finger, 
 and it seemed to them that the approach to 
 their luxurious dwelling was now crowded with 
 every form of disease and want. The poor, 
 the maimed, and the blind, were there. Men 
 who seemed stimulated to madness by famine, 
 and little infants who could scarce crawl upon 
 the ground, formed part of the same vast con- 
 course. Still, as the old man pointed, their 
 numbers went on increasing in every direction, 
 until, as far as the eye could reach, every sign 
 of wealth and luxury had disappeared, and in 
 their stead was one universal scene of misery. 
 Presently the shrieks of the dying, the cries of 
 orphans, and the wailing of widows, rose in the 
 air ; and then, out of the tumult, the low 
 
 302 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 solemn voice of the old man fell once more on 
 the hearts of the brothers. 
 
 " These," he said, " and such as these, are 
 the Messengers of the Great King. Nume- 
 rous as they are, they will come to you in 
 secret, and one by one. Trust them with your 
 treasure, and it will be safe; they will bear 
 it for you to the Royal Palace. The journey 
 thither is long and dangerous; but if you 
 are sincere in your wish to send it, the Great 
 King will not suffer it to be lost. Only do 
 not cause them to linger needlessly within 
 the city walls; and let their departure be 
 secret, lest the King's enemies should impede 
 them on their way." 
 
 The form of the old man gradually dis- 
 appeared as he ceased speaking, and the signs 
 of his presence passed away ; the ivory table, 
 the cloth of gold, and the heaps of precious 
 stones, resumed the beauty and splendour 
 which they had lost. The brothers once more 
 breathed freely. Hitherto their eyes had been 
 riveted by a kind of fascination on the mirror. 
 They now looked anxiously around the apart- 
 
 303 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 ment itself; but it had undergone no change. 
 If the old man had trodden upon it, not one 
 trace of his footsteps had been left. They 
 then turned their eyes towards the window. 
 The street presented its usual appearance; 
 there was the busy throng hurrying hither and 
 thither, and splendid equipages, and waggons 
 laden with merchandise. But they saw 
 nothing to remind them of the view presented 
 by the mirror, save some few beggars who 
 chanced to linger at their door. As Philargyr 
 threw open the sash to inhale the fresh air, 
 they eagerly asked the young merchants for 
 alms; and there was not one who at that 
 moment could refuse to give them; for the 
 words of the stranger were fresh in their 
 memory, and they felt every poor man to be 
 a Messenger from the Great King. 
 
 304 
 
Sfag'a 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Christ before thy door is waiting 
 Rouse thee, slave of earthly gold. 
 
 Lo, He comes, thy pomp abating, 
 Hungry, thirsty, homeless, cold. 
 
 LYRA INNOCENTIUM. 
 
 THE brothers were too deeply affected by the 
 warning of the old man to proceed to the 
 immediate division of their wealth. At one 
 time, they even contemplated holding it in 
 common, and consulted together on the best 
 means of restoring it to the Great King. 
 But from the first, their views differed so 
 greatly, that they could agree on no settled 
 plan. And, during the interval consumed in 
 their discussions, their feelings underwent a 
 partial change. The words of the stranger 
 seemed to lose their distinctness. Their riches 
 
 305 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 recovered, in some degree, the value they had 
 lost ; and at length they reverted to their 
 original plan of dividing them into four parts, 
 so that each might take his own share, and 
 do with it as he pleased. 
 
 Philargyr was entrusted with the division. 
 Many months elapsed while he was absorbed 
 in his calculations, and settling how large 
 a portion he might appropriate to himself. 
 During this time he was more than once 
 interrupted by Messengers from the Great 
 King. But their applications were in vain. 
 He always returned the same answer, that, 
 until the property was divided, no portion of 
 it -could be transmitted to the Royal Palace. 
 
 At length the division was made. The 
 younger brothers were satisfied, though none 
 were able to follow the calculations of Phil- 
 ar gy r ' Each had a share assigned to him, 
 which, considering the shortness of their pro- 
 bable sojourn in the city, seemed inexhaustible, 
 and each was left to follow his own course. 
 
 I proceed to give a brief sketch of their 
 history. 
 
 306 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 The remarkable point in that of Philargyr, 
 the eldest, was his utter forgetfulness, not 
 only of the old man's warning, but of the 
 law of the city in which he dwelt. Every 
 act of his life appeared to set them at defiance. 
 His one great object was to accumulate wealth. 
 He neither trusted it to the King's Mes- 
 sengers, nor spent it in procuring the good- 
 will of his fellow-citizens, but hoarded it up 
 within the walls of his own house. There 
 was no present gratification that he would 
 not sacrifice, in the hope of adding to his 
 possessions for future years. And this he 
 did with the sentence of exile hanging over 
 his head, and the positive certainty, that, 
 when he left the city, he would not be 
 allowed to take the smallest portion of them 
 away. 
 
 I have already said, that the inhabitants 
 of Metoecia lived, for the most part, in forget- 
 fulness of the law of Exile. But the conduct 
 of Philargyr appeared unaccountable even to 
 the most thoughtless among them. He was 
 supposed to be under the influence of a spell ; 
 
 307 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 and the following legend was commonly re- 
 ported through the city : 
 
 There had been, it was rumoured, a mine 
 of gold communicating with the house of the 
 departed merchant. Philargyr had taken pos- 
 session of it, unknown to his brothers. This 
 mine was haunted by an evil spirit, who had 
 beguiled him by specious offers of assistance. 
 For a time they had laboured together; but 
 the evil spirit, while pretending to work out 
 the precious ore, had changed the mine into 
 a dungeon, and bound Philargyr hand and 
 foot with chains of gold. After he had thus 
 made him captive, he refused to allow him to 
 return to the upper air, unless he would 
 become his slave, and labour incessantly in 
 bringing new treasures to the mine. It was 
 farther said, that the golden bonds had never 
 from that hour been removed ; and that though 
 they were invisible to the naked eye, the signs 
 of their presence might be detected in every 
 look and gesture of the unhappy merchant. 
 Thus his head was continually bent down- 
 wards, and his very walk constrained and 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 embarrassed, because the chains and fetters 
 that he wore weighed heavily upon him and 
 impeded his steps. 
 
 Strange as this legend seems, it was, in the 
 main, true. One part alone was incorrect. 
 The spirit of the gold mine had not used 
 threats or violence; he had, throughout, 
 accomplished his purpose by treachery; and 
 Philargyr had sunk, imperceptibly, into a state 
 of servitude. His chains had been light and 
 flexible when they were first twined around 
 his limbs. It was while he wore them that, 
 by little and little, they had increased in size 
 and strength. For such was the nature of 
 those bonds, that, when newly wrought, they 
 were most easily broken. For this reason, 
 he was not suffered to feel their pressure until 
 they had been hardened by time; and even 
 then, the change was so gradual, that Philargyr 
 was not aware of it. The signs of his bondage, 
 which seemed so clear to others, passed un- 
 noticed by himself. 
 
 Still, however, he was a slave, and by little 
 and little incurred the full misery of servitude, 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 though to the last unconscious of its cause. 
 Morning, noon, and evening, he laboured for 
 an insatiable master, who allowed him no share 
 in the profits of his toil. Every day was 
 passed in drudgery and weariness ; every night 
 in anxiety and care. Not an hour was given 
 him to share the amusements of his fellow- 
 citizens; not an hour for the duties of hospi- 
 tality; not an hour for the quiet enjoyment 
 of home. His whole time was claimed by 
 the spirit of the gold mine ; and very heavy 
 and monotonous was the task imposed upon 
 him. If a child were forced to go on hour 
 after hour casting up a sum, the figures of 
 which were innumerable, he might form some 
 idea of the employment of Philargyr. His 
 wealth was to him but as an endless sum, and 
 his most successful enterprises did but add 
 some new figure to the account. 
 
 Yet even this would give no just notion 
 of his misery. He could not help believing 
 the old man's warning, though his whole life 
 was at variance with his belief. He knew 
 that his buried treasure would be worse than 
 
 310 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 useless when the day of his exile arrived. 
 The gates of the Glorious City would be closed 
 against him, and endless wanderings in the 
 dreary wilderness were certain to succeed the 
 present season of anxiety and toil. His heart 
 often shrank within him, as he witnessed the 
 averted looks of the Messengers of the Great 
 King. They did not even offer to carry his 
 treasures to the Royal Palace, for long expe- 
 rience had taught them that it was a waste 
 of words to seek employment from Philargyr. 
 Again and again had he resolved to intrust 
 them with some portion of his wealth, but the 
 subtle chains of gold withheld his hand, and, 
 while he was struggling against them, the 
 opportunity passed by, and he deferred till 
 the morrow his intended gift. 
 
 While the eldest of the four brothers thus 
 laboured incessantly for the spirit of the mine, 
 the second was following a very different path. 
 He was unfettered by any chain of gold, and 
 his bearing was high and noble ; his step firm 
 ' and free. He looked down on his very riches 
 with disdain, and they won him the envy and 
 
 311 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 admiration of his fellow-citizens instead of 
 their pity and contempt. But while in every 
 other respect his conduct afforded a marked 
 contrast to that of Philargyr, there was 
 one important point in which he resembled 
 him. He neglected altogether the old man's 
 warning. 
 
 There was a district in Metrecia, far removed 
 from the stir and traffic of the crowded streets, 
 and farther still from the dwellings of the 
 King's Messengers. It was remarkable for 
 the beauty and costliness of its buildings. 
 The erection of these formed a favourite occu- 
 pation of the more wealthy merchants. Their 
 appearance was very irregular, for the size 
 and form of each varied with the taste and 
 resources of the individual who raised it. But 
 all might be comprehended under two great 
 classes. Some were frail and unsubstantial, 
 and intended to please the eye for one short 
 summer, and then make way for others not less 
 perishable than themselves; while some were 
 built of firm and durable materials, in the 
 hope that they might stand for centuries as 
 
 312 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 memorials of their architects. The one class 
 were for the most part called villas of Pleasure 
 the other, towers of Fame. 
 
 It was to the erection of one of these latter 
 that Megacles devoted his vast wealth. The 
 whole energy of his mind was given to this 
 single object, and its gradual accomplishment 
 was watched by his fellow-citizens with the 
 most eager interest. The raising of the tower 
 formed quite an epoch in the history of 
 Metcecia. Wonderful stories were told of the 
 depth of its foundations and the thickness of 
 its walls. Each of the vast stones seemed to 
 have its own legend annexed to it, while the 
 quarry from which they came, and the names 
 of the workmen, and every detail connected 
 with the building, were carefully preserved in 
 the annals of the city. But all this I must 
 pass over very briefly, for the King's Messen- 
 gers had no share in the work ; and from this 
 cause the whole narrative of the tower, which 
 appeared so eventful to Megacles and his bro- 
 ther merchants, has but little interest in the 
 present story. 
 
 313 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 The whole soul of Megacles was absorbed 
 in the erection of the building ; and these few 
 words comprise his history. He did not keep 
 aloof from his fellow-citizens, but he made his 
 intercourse with them subservient to this one 
 object. If he visited the crowded streets, it 
 was in order to select workmen of skill and 
 strength. If he went into the market-place, 
 it was to change his gold and jewels for blocks 
 of marble and granite. His perseverance was 
 rewarded, and his work prospered. Day after 
 day the tower increased in size and beauty. 
 It was to no purpose that the wind and storm 
 beat against it; the firm foundations defied their 
 power. The wreck of the surrounding buildings 
 was made to assist its growth. Some of these 
 had been left as fragments, in consequence of 
 the sudden exile of the architects. Some were 
 mouldering away with the lapse of time ; and 
 some were purposely undermined by the work- 
 men of Megacles. He selected from the ruins 
 of each such stones as seemed suited for the 
 accomplishment of his design ; until at length 
 his tower arose so far above every other in the 
 
 314 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 city, that it appeared to stand by itself in 
 solitary grandeur. 
 
 The more it grew, the more was the mind 
 of Megacles absorbed in its growth. It seemed 
 to exercise a fascination over him, and from 
 the day in which it became visible from every 
 part of the city, his eye was seldom withdrawn 
 from it. This may in part account for his 
 neglect of the King's Messengers. His look 
 was raised above them while he watched his 
 tower. Even if they ventured to speak to 
 him, their voices failed to arrest his attention ; 
 for his ear had been so long filled with the 
 din and tumult of building, that it had been 
 rendered deaf to any gentler sound. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding his success, Megacles 
 was not happy. He was perpetually changing 
 or adding to his tower. It never seemed to 
 have attained the perfection that he designed. 
 He remembered also how the city of Metoecia 
 was liable to the shock of earthquakes, so that 
 at any moment the vast fabric might be shaken 
 from its foundation, and reduced to a heap of 
 ruins. Neither was this all. Even at those 
 
 315 P 2 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 times in which he was able to view with 
 unmingled satisfaction the tower itself, there 
 was still a cloud upon his vision of glory. It 
 had arisen, in the first instance, from the simple 
 question of a poor wayfaring man. Megacles 
 had observed him gaze earnestly at the building, 
 and then turn aside, as though to conceal his 
 tears. He could not help inquiring what 
 train of thoughts it had called forth to lead 
 to such an expression of sorrow. There was 
 a strange sadness in the wayfarer's reply. 
 "I was thinking," he said, "how long this vast 
 tower was calculated to last." " How long ! " 
 exclaimed Megacles, with indignant pride; 
 " centuries on centuries will elapse, and there 
 shall be no symptoms of decay." ee And I 
 was also thinking/' he continued, in the same 
 melancholy tone, " how long its possessor will 
 remain within its walls ! " 
 
 The wayfarer had disappeared before Me- 
 gacles could reply, but the unwelcome words 
 kept recurring to his mind in spite of every 
 effort to suppress them. It was true that 
 only half the period usually allotted to the 
 
 316 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 merchants for their sojourn in Metoecia had 
 as yet passed by; but he knew that, at any 
 moment, his sentence of exile might be pro- 
 nounced, and that the strength of his tower 
 would not delay its enforcement for a single 
 hour. The warning of the old man now came 
 back to his remembrance, and brought with 
 it new feelings of disquietude and alarm. 
 Where were the immense riches that had been 
 entrusted to his care? Had any portion of 
 them been laid up in the Royal Palace? Alas ! 
 he shrank from the reply. He had not, indeed, 
 buried them in the earth like Philargyr. On 
 the contrary, he had often lavished them with 
 an unsparing hand. But, while he had seldom 
 failed to examine those who came for them 
 on their health, their strength, and their skill 
 in building, he had forgotten the one only 
 important question, he had never asked, 
 whether they were Messengers of the Great 
 King. 
 
 There was a time when, as these thoughts 
 passed through the mind of Megacles, he half 
 formed the resolution of pulling down, stone 
 
 317 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 by stone, the tower which he had raised, and 
 giving the materials to the King's Messengers. 
 But the dread of ridicule and pride of heart 
 prevailed. He felt that he should incur the 
 mockery of his brother merchants, if, after 
 years of incessant labour, his own hand were 
 to destroy the sole produce of his toil. He 
 once more fixed his gaze stedfastly on the 
 lofty building, and resolved to suppress every 
 doubt and alarm. His efforts were at length 
 successful. Not only did his former triumphant 
 feeling return, but a yet more fatal delusion 
 seized him. He fancied the story of the 
 King's Messengers, and the Royal Palace, 
 and the Glorious City, to be a mere invention ; 
 and maintained that, notwithstanding the law 
 of Exile, the only sure and lasting resting-place 
 was to be found in the tower of Fame. 
 
 Alas ! even while he was giving vent to 
 these boastful words, his own sentence of exile 
 had gone forth, and the bearer of the Royal 
 Mandate was at hand. But we must leave 
 him awhile, to follow the history of the two 
 remaining brothers. 
 
 318 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 'Tis not the eye of keenest blaze, 
 
 Nor the quick swelling breast, 
 That soonest thrills at touch of praise : 
 
 These do not please him best. 
 But voices low and gentle, 
 
 And timid glances shy, 
 That seem for aid parental 
 
 To me all wistfully. 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 THE story of Euprepes, the third brother, 
 differs greatly from the two that have preceded 
 it. The warning of the old man did not 
 merely leave a transient impression upon his 
 mind, but gave a colouring to his whole course 
 of action. He talked of it loudly and fre- 
 quently to his fellow-citizens, and described, in 
 affecting language, the wonderful vision which 
 the mirror had disclosed. As soon as he 
 
 319 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 received his share of his Father's wealth, he 
 resolved to spend no portion on the pleasures of 
 the city, but to transmit the whole to the 
 King's Palace. 
 
 He did not fail to make public his intention; 
 and there was no lack of Messengers. First 
 one, then another came, each with his own 
 tale of poverty or distress, and each promising 
 to carry safely the treasure committed to his 
 trust. Euprepes gave to all alike with an 
 unsparing hand ; but he soon grew weary of 
 the monotony of the employment. All went 
 on quietly day after day. There was no interest 
 or excitement. His proceedings were either 
 unobserved or disregarded by the greater part 
 of the inhabitants of the city. He fancied that 
 this was, in part, the fault of his Messengers. 
 As soon as they received his gifts, they used 
 studiously to conceal them and shrink from 
 the observation of those who met them in the 
 streets. In order to prevent this, he directed 
 that they should carry the bags of money openly 
 in their hands, and from time to time give 
 public notice of the object of their journey. 
 
 320 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 Some few refused compliance, and were imme- 
 diately dismissed his service. 
 
 This expedient, in part, succeeded. The 
 Messengers were often seen and questioned, and 
 more than one friend congratulated Euprepes 
 on the store he was laying up in the Royal 
 Palace. Still, however, he was dissatisfied. 
 He required something more than this. The 
 way of sending the money seemed to him out 
 of keeping, both with the vastness of his 
 wealth and with the important object for which 
 it was sent. Bright visions would cross his 
 mind of long triumphal processions through 
 the streets of the city, and of shouts and 
 acclamations attending their progress. 
 
 Now, while he was indulging these thoughts, 
 a man in the garb of a herald stood before 
 him. His form, at first, was dim and uncertain ; 
 but as the young merchant gazed upon it, it 
 gradually increased in distinctness. He wore 
 a gorgeous livery, and had a golden trumpet 
 in his hand. He thus addressed himself to 
 Euprepes : " Your noble purpose has been 
 long known to me ; neither have you been 
 
 321 P 3 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 remiss in carrying it into effect. But there is 
 one thing which you have forgotten. Such 
 wealth as yours should not be trusted to a few 
 scattered Messengers, who wander some here 
 and some there, and hide themselves in the 
 obscure corners of the city. You require the 
 assistance of a herald to summon them all at 
 a stated period, and then to marshal them in 
 their ranks, and arrange the order of their pro- 
 cession. Let, then, that office be mine." 
 
 The whole complexion of the life of Eu- 
 prepes was changed by this proposal. He at 
 once adopted the herald's suggestion, and the 
 monotony of which he had complained passed 
 away. From henceforth his embassies to the 
 Royal Palace excited no less interest in the 
 city than the tower of Megacles, while they 
 proved to himself a source of perpetual tri- 
 umph. It will be sufficient to describe one of 
 them ; for, though they seemed to his brother 
 merchants to present an endless variety of 
 appearance, the principal features in all are in 
 reality alike, and the first embassy that he sent 
 will give a true view of his history. 
 
 322 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGEBS. 
 
 When the day for the grand procession had 
 been fixed, the herald sounded his trumpet, and 
 proclaimed it far and wide through the streets 
 of the city. In the meanwhile the young 
 merchant collected many costly bales of mer- 
 chandise, and exchanged a large quantity of 
 jewels for silver and gold. As all this was 
 done publicly in the market-place, it tended 
 greatly to increase the general interest. The 
 doors of his own mansion were closed, and the 
 few solitary Messengers, who came to them 
 from time to time, were dismissed, with orders 
 to return together on the day announced by 
 the herald. 
 
 On the appointed morning the windows of 
 the neighbouring houses were thronged with 
 spectators. Presently the crowd thickened in 
 the street, until the whole of it was blocked up 
 by persons professing to be King's Messengers. 
 So vast was the concourse that many a poor 
 widow and orphan struggled in vain to pass 
 through it, and returned sadly to their own 
 homes, without once obtaining a sight of the 
 dwelling of Euprepes. At midday the young 
 
 323 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 merchant appeared. He was attended by a 
 splendid retinue of friends ; near him were the 
 bales of goods and the gold and silver which he 
 was about to distribute, but nearer still was the 
 herald, who never failed to keep closely to his 
 side. The sun shone fully upon them ; and as 
 its rays were reflected back by their bright 
 apparel and the golden trumpet and the pre- 
 cious metals that lay scattered upon the 
 ground, the air was rent with the acclamations 
 of the assembled multitudes. 
 
 After the . shouts had continued some mi- 
 nutes, the herald proclaimed silence; and 
 Euprepes, taking coins of various sizes from 
 the heaps at his side, scattered them indiscri- 
 minately among the people. A scene of fearful 
 confusion followed, while each Messenger 
 struggled for his share. Many of the most 
 weak and sickly were crushed and trodden 
 under foot. The young merchant could see 
 but a small portion of their sufferings, yet even 
 that gave rise to painful thoughts ; but the 
 whisperings from within were quickly sup- 
 pressed by the loud voice of the herald, as he 
 
 324 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 proclaimed, " Hasten, hasten, ye Messengers ; 
 gather up the treasures of Euprepes the mer- 
 chant, which he bids you bear to the distant 
 Palace of the Great King." 
 
 It was not until the vast stores which Eu- 
 prepes had provided for the occasion were 
 exhausted that the tumult ceased. And then 
 the herald arranged the Messengers in a long 
 procession, that they might march publicly 
 through the city. It was a strange sight to 
 see that troop of miserable objects, moving 
 along to the sound of a trumpet, with all the 
 external signs of triumph and joy. The misery 
 of their general appearance formed, for the 
 most part, a singular contrast to the costly 
 burthens which they bore. Many of them 
 seemed conscious of this, and shrank instinct- 
 ively from the observation of their fellows ; but 
 none were permitted to desert the order of 
 march ; and ever as they advanced onward, the 
 voice of the herald proclaimed louder and 
 louder, " Behold, ye citizens, behold the riches 
 of Euprepes, which he sends before him to the 
 distant Palace of the Great King." 
 
 325 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 The procession was so arranged as to be kept 
 continually within view of the young merchant. 
 He watched its course through the market- 
 place, and up and down the principal streets of 
 the city. From the point at which he stood he 
 could hear distinctly the shouts of the populace 
 and the proclamation of the herald ; and there 
 he remained, watching and listening, until the 
 shades of evening closed in, and the reality was 
 lost in a bright and beautiful dream. For in 
 the visions of the night procession after proces- 
 sion continued to pass before him ; they were 
 all laden with costly offerings for the Royal 
 Palace, some of silver and gold, some of bales 
 of merchandise, some of glorious apparel, but 
 they kept moving round and round the city, 
 and with the inconsistency of a dream it did 
 not seem strange to Euprepes that, though 
 bound on a distant journey, they never passed 
 beyond its walls. 
 
 Such was the general aspect of the proces- 
 sions of Euprepes. Some exceeded others in 
 pomp and magnificence ; but each was pro- 
 claimed by the same trumpet, and set in order 
 
 326 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 by the same herald; so that, as I before said, 
 one description will suffice for them all. 
 
 Meanwhile, his resources seemed inexhaust- 
 ible. It was as though his treasure kept 
 returning to himself, and the more he gave the 
 more he had to bestow. Of all the brothers he 
 was by far the most popular; his sojourn in 
 the city was cheered alike by the praises of the 
 rich and the blessings of the poor. There 
 were, indeed, some who murmured and re- 
 pined, but their complaints were drowned by 
 the trumpet of the herald, and never reached 
 the ears of Euprepes. He believed himself to 
 be idolized by all within the city, at the same 
 time that he was laying up for himself an inex- 
 haustible store of wealth beyond its walls. 
 Sometimes his feelings were those of quiet self- 
 complacency, sometimes of joyous triumph; 
 but they were rarely overclouded by the 
 slightest shadow of doubtfulness or alarm. 
 The pursuits of his elder brothers were re- 
 garded by him with a kind of contemptuous 
 compassion. He would often stand in the 
 bright sunshine on the rising ground where his 
 
 327 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 house was built, and point in derision to the 
 tower of Megacles, or describe with bitterness 
 the yet sadder slavery of Philargyr ; and then 
 following with his eye the long train of his 
 own Messengers, he would conclude by saying, 
 "I, too, have my tower, but it is built on a 
 surer foundation; I, too, have my treasures, 
 but I have sent them to a safer home ! " 
 
 The story of the fourth brother I cannot tell, 
 for but little is known of his history. He did 
 not resemble either Philargyr or Megacles, for 
 he neither toiled and laboured for the spirit of 
 the gold-mine, nor built for himself a tower of 
 Fame; and yet he was also unlike Euprepes, 
 for no herald attended him on his walks, and 
 there was no array of Messengers to be seen 
 continually at his door. Much of his time was 
 passed in seclusion. His occupations were 
 unknown; and he sojourned in the city of 
 Meto3cia as one who scarcely belonged to it. 
 Those who watched with the greatest interest 
 the different pursuits of the three elder 
 brothers, were gradually led to forget the very 
 
 328 
 
existence of Sophron. There was no great 
 event to mark it or force it upon their atten- 
 tion. At one time, indeed, he did excite a 
 momentary sensation. He left the quarter of 
 the city inhabited by the wealthy merchants, 
 and made choice of a more lowly mansion, 
 surrounded by the dwellings of the poor. His 
 motives even for this change were never disco- 
 vered. Some ascribed it to avarice, some to 
 want. But it soon ceased to be a topic of 
 conversation ; and he was consigned to greater 
 obscurity than before. 
 
 To the few friends who continued to visit 
 him in his retirement he was always kind and 
 hospitable ; but there was a mystery about his 
 way of life which they were unable to pene- 
 trate. As time went on, he still seemed to 
 grow poorer and poorer. Some secret drain 
 appeared to exhaust his wealth. No sign of 
 luxury was seen in his abode; his dress was 
 changed for one of less costly materials; and 
 his diet was of the simplest kind. All this was 
 of itself strange, but there was something yet 
 more unaccountable in the effect that it had 
 
 329 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 upon Sophron himself. Every day his step 
 grew lighter, and his countenance more full of 
 joy. The look of depression and anxiety which 
 during the days of his abundance he had at 
 times worn, was now never seen upon his brow. 
 One would have imagined, that it was not his 
 wealth, but some heavy burthen that had been 
 taken away from him ; he became so light and 
 cheerful under its removal. When questioned 
 as to the cause of this, he would sometimes 
 answer by a smile, sometimes by a tear; and 
 there were those who said that, though the 
 smile of Sophron never failed to make the heart 
 rejoice, his tear was yet more full of gladness 
 than his smile. 
 
 The young merchant was really poor. The 
 cause of his poverty, like the rest of his history, 
 was buried in obscurity ; but, whatever became 
 of his money, it did not, like that of Euprepes, 
 keep returning to him again. The praise of 
 men never gilded his deeds of self-sacrifice, 
 neither did earthly glory shed its brightness 
 upon his path. And yet, after all, his lowly 
 dwelling was not without its beautiful legend. 
 
 330 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 There were some who could tell how, in the 
 dim twilight, or in the still hour of night, they 
 had seen the train of Royal Messengers moving 
 stealthily from his door. They were not 
 arranged in ranks, like those sent by Euprepes. 
 Every individual walked alone. And yet it 
 was clear that all formed part of the same long 
 procession, for each had his left hand muffled 
 closely in his garments, while with the right 
 he pointed to the East to mark the direction 
 of his journey. Slowly and silently, one by 
 one, they moved onward through the least fre- 
 quented streets of the city. Not a footfall was 
 heard as they passed along. At length they 
 reached the Eastern gate. It was closed 
 against them, but, like a long line of shadows, 
 the procession still continued its unswerving 
 course, and, passing straight through the 
 opposing barrier, were lost in the darkness 
 beyond. 
 
 These things were not, indeed, reported 
 publicly in the city. Few of the wealthy mer- 
 chants had heard them at all, and fewer still 
 believed them. Those who witnessed them felt 
 
 331 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 their voices hushed by the solemnity of the 
 scene. Its silence seemed, as it were, to rest 
 upon them ; and they could only whisper of it 
 from ear to ear, or meditate upon it quietly in 
 their own homes. And when they asked 
 themselves, with a thrill of eager interest, 
 whither that long procession had gone, a voice 
 within them would reply, " It is gone far, far 
 beyond the boundaries of the city, the 
 barriers were unable to arrest its progress, 
 and it now bears the treasures of Sophron to 
 the distant Palace of the Great King." 
 
 Such was the legend ; but there is one part 
 of it which yet remains to be told. It was 
 said that when the few, who had witnessed 
 the secret procession, returned to the street 
 in which the merchant lived, they perceived 
 his doorway to be strewed with pearls, while 
 an amber light shone around his dwelling, and 
 strains of gentle music were heard from within 
 its walls. So soft was that light, that it 
 seemed but to shed its colouring on the sur- 
 rounding darkness so quiet that music, that 
 the stillness of the night was unbroken by 
 
 332 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 the sound. They stood gazing at a distance. 
 They were afraid to venture near, lest, like 
 a scene of enchantment, it should vanish from 
 their view; and there was a fascination in it, 
 which would not suffer them to depart. The 
 eye never grew weary of watching that lovely 
 radiance, nor the ear of listening to that 
 celestial melody. At length the sun arose, 
 and then the vision passed away ; or rather, 
 though the soft light and quiet music never 
 ceased to bless the house of Sophron, they 
 could not be seen and heard in the glare and 
 turmoil of the day. The pearls also were no 
 longer visible. There were some, indeed, who 
 fancied they could still perceive them; but, 
 when they stooped to gather them, they found 
 only the drops of morning dew which lay upon 
 the ground. 
 
 333 
 
Sting's 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 We barter life for pottage ; sell true bliss 
 For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown ; 
 
 Thus, Esau-like, our Father's blessing miss, 
 
 Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown. 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 DAYS, months, and years rolled on in the 
 same unvaried course. Philargyr continued 
 to toil and labour, and every hour gathered 
 in fresh riches for his insatiable master. 
 Megacles received early the sentence of Exile, 
 but his tower remained as his memorial in 
 the city. Euprepes still dazzled the eyes of 
 the multitude by his costly gifts and gorgeous 
 processions. Sophron alone lived a life of 
 obscurity. The wealth, the fame, and the 
 liberality of the three elder brothers, had 
 severally passed into a proverb. Many were 
 
 334 
 
the discussions concerning their conduct and 
 character; for in spite of the contempt in 
 which Philargyr was generally held, even he 
 had his tribe of flatterers and partisans, and 
 it was remarked that their number increased 
 as the time of his banishment drew near. But 
 no allusion was made to the law of Exile 
 in any of the conversations concerning the 
 brothers. I have already accounted for this 
 silence. Notwithstanding the King's warnings, 
 the citizens for the most part were accustomed 
 to regard Metoecia as their lasting dwelling- 
 place. It seemed as though some heavy mist 
 were resting upon them ; and their low range 
 of thought was bounded by the narrow circuit 
 of their own walls. 
 
 A protracted sojourn in the city fell to the 
 portion of Philargyr, though the progress of 
 time served only to increase the burthen of 
 his servitude. He was carrying a heavy load 
 of gold to the secret mine, and toiling and 
 groaning beneath its weight, when the old 
 man met him on his way. For a moment, 
 he gazed stedfastly on the weary merchant, 
 
 335 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 and then with a smile of bitter irony offered 
 to relieve him. Philargyr trembled. He 
 endeavoured at first to persuade himself that 
 it was but a reappearance of the same image 
 which he had seen in the mirror; but his 
 limbs tottered, and his cheek grew pale, and 
 there was a numbness at his heart, which 
 convinced him that the actual form of the 
 old man now stood before him, and he could 
 not doubt the nature of the message which 
 he bore. 
 
 At length, in much terror and perplexity, 
 and scarcely conscious of the meaning of 
 his own words, he thus addressed him: 
 " Stranger," he cried, " if, indeed, thou art 
 charged with the sentence of Exile, leave me 
 yet a little while. I have great treasure in 
 this city. Wait till my camels and asses are 
 laden, and my slaves with their bags of gold 
 are ready to accompany us, and then we will 
 hasten on our journey." 
 
 But the stranger replied, and the cold, stern 
 accents fell as ice on the heart of Philargyr, 
 " Oh, merchant, what vain words are these ! 
 
 336 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 You know well that whoever travels with me 
 travels alone. Your camels and asses, your 
 slaves, your silver, and your gold cannot 
 accompany us. The wealth that you have 
 sent beforehand to the Royal Palace is now 
 your own; but all that remains in the city 
 is lost to you for ever." 
 
 Then did the vision in the mirror rise in 
 distinct and fearful remembrance to the mind 
 of Philargyr. It was but mockery to speak 
 to him of treasure sent beforehand to the 
 Royal Palace. The accumulated gains of his 
 many years of labour were all stored up in 
 the fatal mine. He had counted them over but 
 yesterday; not a single coin was missing all 
 were there. Now as he thought of this, he 
 turned his eyes imploringly to the old man; but 
 in a moment he again averted his gaze, for he 
 perceived him to be no longer alone. A dark 
 and terrible crowd of attendants were ranged 
 around. They were armed with scourges of 
 iron, which they raised on high, as though 
 ready at any moment to drive him forth into 
 the dreary wilderness that lay beyond the city. 
 
 337 Q 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 At length, he cried out in accents of mingled 
 fear and remorse, " Alas ! O stranger, hitherto 
 I have neglected your warning. The whole 
 of my wealth is still within the city. But, 
 surely, you yourself are a King's Messenger ! 
 Have compassion, then, upon me, and even 
 now bear it quickly to the Royal Palace." 
 
 But the old man replied, " You ask what 
 cannot be. I am indeed a King's Messenger, 
 but I bear no treasure with me to the Royal 
 Palace; for all things change at my touch, 
 and crumble into decay. Those charged with 
 that office have been with you long ago, the 
 poor, the afflicted, and the infirm ; they would 
 have conveyed your riches thither, if you had 
 not driven them empty-handed from your 
 door." Darker and more terrible grew the 
 train of the old man's followers, as Philargyr 
 listened to these fearful words. Once more 
 the iron scourges were raised on high ; but the 
 unhappy merchant, in a voice of the deepest 
 misery, implored the respite of a single day. 
 
 " To-morrow," he said, " to-morrow all shall 
 be in readiness. I will even now summon the 
 
 338 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 King's Messengers, and send the whole of my 
 wealth beyond the walls of the city. Spare 
 me, if it be but for a few hours. Your 
 coming was unlocked for, and therefore it has 
 found me unprepared." 
 
 " It is false," replied the old man, sternly. 
 " My coming has been very slow and gradual. 
 During the still hours of the night, you heard, 
 one by one, the sound of my footsteps, while 
 I was yet at a distance from the city. Your 
 limbs grew feeble, and your hair grey, and 
 your heart dull and cold ; and you knew well 
 that these signs preceded the approach of the 
 last Messenger of the Great King. Each 
 warning made you struggle for a little while, 
 to separate yourself from your gold. But it 
 held you in bonds; and you could not set 
 yourself free. If I were to leave you now, 
 the result would be the same. You would 
 go on clinging to your riches, or rather they 
 would go on clinging to you, even if you were 
 suffered to remain whole centuries in the city." 
 
 Philargyr felt that the old man's words 
 were but too fearfully true. He had for many 
 
 339 Q 2 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 years been expecting the bearer of the Royal 
 Mandate. So slow had been his approach, 
 that days, weeks, and months, seemed to mark 
 the interval of each succeeding step. Time 
 had been thus allowed for the gradual removal 
 of all his wealth. The appointed Messengers 
 had repeatedly called for it ; but after a faint 
 effort to give it them, he had sent them away 
 till the morrow. And the cause of this was, 
 as I have said, the chain of gold which had 
 been twined round his hands by the spirit of 
 the mine. It had been light and fragile once, 
 but it was a magic chain, which grew more 
 firm and massive with the lapse of years. 
 The time had been, when the captive, by one 
 vigorous struggle, might have set himself free. 
 But each weak and unsuccessful effort served 
 only to increase its strength ; and the links 
 had become so firmly riveted, that his own 
 hand was all too feeble to dissolve them now. 
 
 The unhappy merchant had, as we have 
 seen, long bent beneath the weight of this 
 chain; but he now perceived it for the first 
 time, as it was wrenched asunder by the iron 
 
 340 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 grasp of the stranger's hand ; and in a moment, 
 he was parted for ever from his vast wealth, 
 and, while the scourges fell heavily upon him, 
 driven forth as an exile beyond the walls of 
 the city. 
 
 We will now leave Philargyr, and bring to 
 a close the story of Megacles. A no less sad 
 and fearful picture awaits us there. He was, 
 as I have said, summoned early, and the day 
 of his exile followed close on the warning of 
 the wayfaring man. But I have thought it 
 better to make no change in the order of 
 his history. 
 
 The old man found him in all the fulness 
 of his strength. He was arrayed in purple 
 and costly apparel, and stood gazing with an 
 eye of pride on the tower which he had raised. 
 A crowd of eager partizans were gathered 
 around. The bearer of the Royal Mandate 
 passed through the midst of them, with a 
 slow and silent step ; and his finger had long 
 pointed to Megacles, before he himself became 
 aware of his approach. It was the looks of 
 
 341 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 those which stood around which first warned 
 him that the day of his exile had arrived. 
 
 No sooner, however, did he become con- 
 scious of the old man's presence, than he en- 
 deavoured to face him with an undaunted air. 
 " Stranger," he said boldly, " your summons 
 to me is vain. I ask no dwelling-place in 
 the Glorious City. Here, in Metrecia, have I 
 built myself a tower ; and here, in Metoacia, 
 shall be my lasting home." There was a 
 shout of applause from the surrounding mul- 
 titude; but the old man neither spoke nor 
 moved. Coldly and stedfastly he gazed upon 
 the merchant, until the proud spirit of Me- 
 gacles quailed beneath his look, and the 
 boastful words seemed to wither on his lips, 
 while every limb was shaken with convulsive 
 terror. He turned away his face from the 
 unwelcome Messenger, and endeavoured to 
 gather new courage from the contemplation 
 of his tower of Fame. But there was a haze 
 which now encircled it; it appeared to be 
 already fading in the distance ; and he could 
 hardly distinguish the building itself from 
 
 342 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 its long dark shadow which rested upon the 
 ground. 
 
 At length the old man broke the silence : 
 " It is ever thus, O merchant ! the objects 
 in this city become, for the most part, the 
 same with their shadows, when I approach 
 them. But take my glass, and you will once 
 more behold distinctly the building that you 
 have raised." As he said this, he held out a 
 glass to Megacles. The merchant took it, 
 almost unconsciously. For a moment he looked 
 through it, and then, with a cold shudder, suf- 
 fered it to fall from his hand. His lofty tower 
 had dwindled into a sepulchre, when seen 
 through the glass which the stranger had given 
 him. But diminutive as it now appeared, there 
 was an inscription engraved distinctly upon 
 it; and he had read only too plainly these 
 fatal words : " Here lie the garments which 
 Megacles once wore." 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, with a smile of 
 scorn, "it is not for yourself that you have 
 raised this lofty tower, but for the garments 
 which you wear ! They shall remain in the 
 
 343 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 city, and rest beneath it, until the moth and 
 worm have eaten them away. But for your- 
 self you have prepared no dwelling-place, and 
 you will be driven forth a homeless wanderer 
 in the wilderness." 
 
 The last feeling of self-confidence now died 
 away from the heart of Megacles. Instead of 
 the crowd of eager partizans, he saw only the 
 same gloomy attendants, which afterwards ap- 
 peared to Philargyr. He felt that his tower 
 would avail him nothing; and that, if the 
 gates of the Royal City were closed against 
 him, no hope of safety could remain. The 
 past rose in bitter remembrance before him; 
 and, as he thought over the numerous workmen 
 that he had employed on his building, he tried 
 to recollect some one among the number who 
 might prove to have been a Messenger of the 
 Great King. 
 
 The effort, however, was vain ; and the 
 secret feeling of his heart belied his words, as 
 he advanced a claim to treasure in the Royal 
 Palace. " Stranger," he said, " I have not 
 altogether neglected the warning which you 
 
 344 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 gave. My riches are not buried in a mine ; 
 I have dispersed them far and near, and know 
 not whither they are gone. Some perhaps 
 may have remained within the city, but surely 
 some portion must have escaped beyond its 
 walls. If the King's Messengers came to 
 me they received their share with the rest : 
 I never wilfully drove them away. Oh tell 
 me, then, that there is some treasure prepared 
 for me in the Royal Palace, and that the 
 gates of the Glorious City will not be closed 
 against me for ever." 
 
 But the old man pointed to the tower as 
 he replied, "Behold, Megacles, the one only 
 monument of your wealth; it is there, and 
 there alone, that all who received your wages 
 or your gifts deposited their burthens. You 
 yourself never failed to point it out to them 
 as the object of their journey. But neither 
 is this all ; the King's Messengers, though you 
 knew them not, did indeed come to you among 
 the rest. They were weak and helpless, and 
 you loaded them with vast blocks of marble 
 and granite, which they were unable to bear. 
 
 345 Q 3 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 Many sank beneath their burthens; others 
 were crushed and maimed by stones falling 
 from the building. It is true that their groans 
 and lamentations never reached you. They 
 were drowned by the noise and tumult which 
 accompanied the erection of your tower. But 
 the cries of the King's Messengers are carried 
 by each passing wind to the Royal Palace, 
 and are heard and remembered there." 
 
 Megacles would fain have replied, but no 
 time was allowed him for further words. The 
 stranger touched him with his icy hand, and 
 in an instant the dark attendants had stripped 
 him of his raiment, and driven him with their 
 scourges from the city. There were few who 
 wept for his sudden departure, for Megacles 
 was not loved ; but his admirers and partizans 
 gathered up his purple garments, and deposited 
 them carefully beneath the tower. In a little 
 while the moth and the worm had consumed 
 them there ; while the tower itself continued 
 to stand for many ages, a vain memorial of 
 the spot where they had been laid. 
 
 346 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 There are in this loud stunning tide 
 
 Of human care and crime, 
 With whom the melodies abide 
 
 Of th' everlasting chime; 
 Who carry music in their heart 
 
 Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, 
 Plying their daily task with busier feet, 
 Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat" 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 EUPREPES saw the sentence of exile passed 
 on both his elder brothers, and spoke with 
 much eloquence of the misery of their fate. 
 For himself, he said that he had long since 
 been fully prepared to depart ; all his treasures 
 had been sent before him to the Royal Palace ; 
 and he was only anxious for the time when 
 they would be restored to him again. Some- 
 times he would complain to his friends of 
 
 347 
 
THE KING'S 1VIESSENGERS. 
 
 the long delay of the bearer of the Royal 
 Mandate, and declare that he was even then 
 listening for his footstep, and would advance 
 to welcome him at the first warning of his 
 approach. 
 
 The stranger tarried long; but when he 
 did come, the reality proved very different 
 from the anticipations of Euprepes. In spite 
 of himself, he was conscious of a sensation 
 of fear. First a strange darkness seemed 
 to fall on the objects around him. Then 
 doubts and . misgivings flitted like shadows 
 across his mind ; and the vision of the future 
 as well as of the past and present was arrayed 
 in less bright colouring than before. He 
 advanced to meet the old man, but it was 
 with the unsteady step of one walking in a 
 mist; he addressed him in bold words of 
 welcome, but it was with a faltering voice, as 
 though he felt doubtful of the reply. 
 
 " At length," he said, " thou hast arrived ! 
 But wherefore didst thou tarry so long ? Was 
 it that thy journey was delayed by the frequent 
 train of Messengers that met thee on thy 
 
 348 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 way ? They were bearing my silver and my 
 gold, my jewels and my merchandise, to the 
 Great Monarch whom thou servest. I have 
 much wealth laid up for me in his Palace. 
 Come, then, let us hasten thither." 
 
 But the old man offered no reply ; he 
 merely fixed his cold, searching gaze upon 
 the merchant ; and while he did so, it seemed 
 as though some terrible object rose up between 
 them ; and the shadow fell yet more darkly on 
 the mind of Euprepes. He tried in vain 
 to suppress his feelings of anxiety and alarm ; 
 they kept following one another like the waves 
 of a troubled sea. At length he was forced 
 to give way to them, and once more spoke to 
 the old man, but with words of less confidence 
 than before. " Stranger," he said, " from 
 whence is this sensation of secret terror ? I 
 had looked to your coming as a time of 
 sunshine and joy. Where are the good tidings 
 that you have in store for me? Do not 
 imagine that, like Megacles and Philargyr, I 
 have neglected your warning. My wealth 
 has been distributed among the King's Mes- 
 
 349 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 sengers. Week after week, in long procession, 
 they left my door. Surely, surely, you must 
 have seen many bags of gold and bales of 
 merchandise in the Royal Palace, witli the 
 name of Euprepes written upon them ! " 
 
 The old man replied, or rather, perhaps, 
 though the words seemed to come from him, 
 it was the thoughts of Euprepes which made 
 answer to themselves : 
 
 " Oh merchant ! from the city in which 
 you dwell to the land inhabited by the Great 
 King is a long and dangerous journey. It is 
 true that many a Messenger has of late trodden 
 it in safety, and rich and precious were the 
 burthens which they bore. But a simple cross 
 was the only mark either on the bags of gold 
 or the bales of merchandise. If, therefore, 
 the name of Euprepes was written upon yours, 
 the whole of them must have been lost." 
 
 "Lost ! lost !" exclaimed the unhappy man, 
 in a voice of agony ; " nay, it cannot be. 
 The embassies were so frequent and numerous 
 that some, at least, must have arrived: and 
 even if it be otherwise, the whole city is a 
 
 350 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 witness that I sent them. The air was rent 
 with acclamations as they passed along ; and 
 far and near you could hear the voices of 
 those who cried, ' This is the wealth of 
 Euprepes, which he sends before him to the 
 distant Palace of the Great King.' " 
 
 " It is not such sounds as those," replied the 
 old man, " which ever reach the Royal Palace ; 
 they are lost in the din and tumult of the city, 
 or heard only by the enemies of the King. 
 But tell me, Euprepes; are you a merchant, 
 and do you not know that those riches are 
 moved most securely which are sent in secrecy 
 and silence? If you had wished merely to 
 transfer your possessions to a house in a 
 neighbouring street, should you, in the first 
 instance, have paraded them before your door, 
 and told the bearers to display them openly to 
 all who met them on their way? Surely, if 
 you had done this, and they had been inter- 
 cepted by thieves and robbers, the fault would 
 have been your own." 
 
 Euprepes could make no reply; and yet 
 he murmured something of a hope that the 
 
 351 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 soldiers of the Great King would not have 
 suffered the Messengers to be plundered on 
 their journey. But the old man, in a sterner 
 voice, thus continued to address him : 
 
 " I will tell you, Euprepes, what has become 
 of your wealth. There is an enchanter that 
 dwells in this city ; his name is Pride, and he 
 is an enemy of the Great King. He it was 
 who sent the herald to summon the Messengers 
 to your door. The sound of his trumpet never 
 fails to change the purest gold and silver into 
 brass and glittering tinsel. These were the 
 offerings that you really sent ; but even these 
 did not reach the destination for which you 
 intended them. The enchanter wove his magic 
 circles round the feet of your Messengers, so 
 that they followed one another in the same 
 endless track, without ever advancing one step 
 upon their journey." 
 
 A new and fearful light now burst upon the 
 mind of Euprepes. He remembered how, in 
 the visions of the night, he had continually seen 
 the long processions moving round and round. 
 Never for a moment had he lost sight of them 
 
 352 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 in the distance, or formed a wish to trace their 
 course beyond the city. Alas ! in these 
 dreams he had seen but the image of his actual 
 Messengers, though it was the enchanter who 
 placed before his eyes the glass in which they 
 appeared. His head grew dizzy, and his heart 
 sick, as they rose to his remembrance ; but he 
 still made one last effort to lay claim to a 
 recompense from the Great King. 
 
 " It was gold," he said, " it was pure gold 
 that I gave ; and, though it may have been 
 changed and rendered worthless, to me at least 
 it was of real value. If it failed to purchase 
 for me an inheritance in the Royal Palace, 
 it surely ought to have been restored to me 
 again. Philargyr hoarded his vast wealth; 
 Megacles built with his a tower of Fame ; 
 mine alone has been unprofitably spent, and 
 brought me no recompense within the city, and 
 yet none beyond its walls." 
 
 "Merchant," replied the old man, "you 
 know well that you have long since had your 
 reward. The applause of your fellow-citizens 
 fell like a golden shower upon your path ; and 
 
 353 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 their good- will and gratitude have been to you 
 as bales of costly merchandise. It was thus 
 that the wealth which you professed to give 
 never ceased to come back to you again. Like 
 Philargyr, you did but traffic with your posses- 
 sions, and they brought you in a full and 
 abundant return. Your tower, also, like that 
 of Megacles, is built within the city. It is 
 true that your own hands have not laboured in 
 its erection, but day by day you have stood 
 watching it in secret, and listened to the shouts 
 and acclamations which marked its growth. It 
 may, perhaps, have seemed to you to be rising 
 afar off in the territory of the Great King ; but 
 this delusion was caused by the same enchanter 
 who sent you the herald. He spread a mist 
 before your eyes, which made an object appear 
 to be in the distance which was really near at 
 hand. Your range of sight has never passed 
 beyond the boundaries of the city ; every hope 
 and wish of your heart has been confined within 
 it, and there also was your treasure and your 
 home." 
 
 Then did the attendants with the iron 
 
 354 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGEES. 
 
 scourges seize upon Euprepes, and strip him 
 of his garments ; and he, too, was driven 
 forth into the dreary wilderness. But the 
 scourges were unseen by those who witnessed 
 his departure, neither could they hear the 
 fearful words in which the sentence of exile 
 was conveyed. And so it was, that, after he 
 was gone, the long train of his Messengers 
 continued to parade the streets; while the 
 false herald with the golden trumpet pro- 
 claimed far and near that the happy exile had 
 been received within the gates of the Glorious 
 City, and that all his treasures had been 
 restored to him there. 
 
 Such was the fearful history of the three 
 elder brothers. It is a relief to turn aside from 
 it, and seek a resting-place in Sophron's lowly 
 dwelling. He had wept bitterly for their exile, 
 but he did not, like Euprepes, make a display 
 of his compassion, or boast of his own readiness 
 to depart. His tears had flowed in secret, and 
 his hopes also were cherished in the solitude of 
 his own bosom. Every day he put his little 
 
 355 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 room in readiness for the stranger's coming, and 
 was so constantly preparing for it that he may 
 be almost said to have lived in his immediate 
 presence. Yet he, like the rest, was conscious 
 of some change of feeling when his actual 
 summons arrived. 
 
 He was at that time enjoying the quiet 
 beauty of the evening hour. It mattered not 
 that a vase with a few autumnal flowers was 
 the only ornament of his humble abode; and 
 that the flame burnt faint and feebly in the 
 solitary lamp which was standing at their side. 
 Sophron could not really be in darkness, 
 poverty, or alone ; for, as the shades of night 
 closed in, the pearls appeared upon his 
 threshold, the soft music spoke to him as a 
 companion, and the amber light shed its 
 radiance around. His heart was full of gra- 
 titude for these blessings, when a mingled 
 feeling of awe and sadness stole upon him, 
 and it seemed as though some shadow were 
 moving along the wall. Every object changed 
 as the dark outline fell upon it ; the flame of 
 the solitary lamp burned even more dimly than 
 
 356 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 before, and the autumnal flowers began to 
 wither and decay. It needed not these signs 
 to warn Sophron that it was the same figure 
 that had appeared in the mirror. For a while 
 he watched it with a calm and stedfast gaze; 
 presently a sensation of weariness stole upon 
 him, his thoughts grew confused and indistinct, 
 and at length he sank in a state of partial 
 unconsciousness upon the ground. 
 
 When he again opened his eyes, the old man 
 was standing at his side. No gloomy atten- 
 dants were near, but he held a mirror in his 
 hand. Beneath it were the words "This is 
 the image of the Past." The scene which it 
 reflected was one that had been long familiar to 
 Sophron, and he did not shrink from beholding 
 it no.w. From time to time soft shadowy 
 forms moved across the glass; they were, 
 doubtless, the images of the King's Messengers; 
 but the eye of Sophron did not for a moment 
 rest upon them, for ever as they appeared, his 
 thoughts wandered to the Royal Palace and 
 Glorious City. 
 
 At length the old man addressed him. 
 
 357 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 " Oh ! merchant," he said, " how is this ? All 
 signs of wealth and luxury are wont to vanish 
 at my presence, but it is not so with thy abode. 
 Even as I crossed the threshold of thy door, 
 pearls of inestimable value were scattered upon 
 the ground. They can be no part of the 
 treasure of this city ; for, when I trod silently 
 upon them, they were not sullied by my step, 
 but only shone with a purer brightness than 
 before!" 
 
 " Stranger," replied Sophron, " I cannot tell. 
 You say truly that they are no part of the 
 treasure of the city. The whole of my father's 
 vast wealth could not have purchased one of 
 them. They are as the pearls of the far East, 
 and I have looked upon them as gifts from 
 the Great King; but I know not what hand 
 has scattered them thus plenteously at the 
 threshold of my door." 
 
 He had hardly finished speaking, when a 
 shadowy form moved across the mirror, and 
 there was a voice from thence which said, 
 " I was a widow, poor and destitute, but a Mes- 
 senger of the Great King. I went to Philargyr 
 
 358 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 for relief, and he told me that his money was 
 his own. I came to Sophron, and he spoke soft 
 words of comfort, and ministered to my wants, 
 and bade me take freely of his treasures, for it 
 was for my sake that the Great King had 
 placed them in his hands. I wept with joy 
 and gratitude when I left him ; and each tear 
 has- been changed by the Great King into a 
 pearl, and remained to this hour on the 
 threshold of his abode." 
 
 And the old man said, " Oh ! merchant, from 
 whence is this wonderful melody that I hear ? 
 Sure I am that none of the musicians in this 
 city could produce such strains. Their harps 
 lose their tunefulness, and their sweetest notes 
 become harsh and discordant, when I am stand- 
 ing near. But this music has some magic 
 power. My presence only renders it more 
 distinct and perfect than before, and even my 
 own voice is moved into harmony by the 
 sound." 
 
 " Stranger," replied Sophron, " I cannot tell. 
 You say truly that the music has a magic 
 power, for it lends its own tunefulness to all 
 
 359 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 around. To me it has long since breathed a 
 spirit of harmony over the din and discord of 
 this crowded city ; every care and anxiety has 
 been changed and modulated by its soothing 
 influence; and the events of day after day have 
 seemed to flow on in perpetual melody. But 
 though the music has thus dwelt in my own 
 home, and I have loved it, and listened to it 
 with gladness, I believe it to be but the echo of 
 a yet sweeter strain which is played afar off in 
 some distant land." 
 
 Again there was a voice from the mirror; 
 its accents were low and tremulous, like those 
 of a little child, and it said, " I was an orphan, 
 weak and friendless, but a Messenger of the 
 Great King. I went to Megacles for succour, 
 and he pointed to a block of marble, and bade 
 me raise it on high: but my hands were too 
 feeble for the task; and then his attendants 
 drove me away, and said there was no place 
 for little children in the tower of Fame. I 
 came to Sophron; and he fed me and clothed 
 me, and told me that the house in which he 
 lived had been lent to him as a shelter for the 
 
 360 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 orphan child. Every morning and evening I 
 went in secret to the Great King, and carried 
 with me each precious gift that I received from 
 Sophron ; and he bade me take back to him in 
 return the offering of a simple heart overflow- 
 ing with gratitude and love. So it was that 
 my looks and words became to his home as a 
 perpetual song; and this is the soft music 
 which you hear within its walls." 
 
 And the old man said, "Tell me, Sophron, 
 from whence is this light that -sheds its radiance 
 on all around? Sure I am that it belongs 
 not to this city; for night has thrown her 
 dark mantle over its streets, and, even if it 
 were otherwise, mists and chilling darkness are 
 the signs of my approach. The flame of your 
 own lamp grew more faint and feeble when 
 my shadow first fell upon it, and is fast ex- 
 piring now. Whence, then, is it that in thy 
 dwelling there seems to be perpetual day ? " 
 
 A soft slumber was stealing upon Sophron ; 
 his eyes were already closed; his voice was 
 indistinct, and yet it sounded like happy music 
 as for the last time he replied, " Stranger, I 
 
 361 R 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 cannot tell. The light has indeed shone upon 
 me ; nay, is shining upon me now. My eyes 
 are closed, and I see it not; but it is as the 
 sunshine of the heart, and I feel it to be here. 
 Whether it be a reality or a beautiful dream, 
 I am conscious of its presence, though I know 
 not from whence it comes." 
 
 Then, for the third time, a voice proceeded 
 from the mirror, as a shadowy form moved 
 across it, and it said, " I had been rich and 
 prosperous, but a long sickness brought me 
 into poverty and distress. I heard the pro- 
 clamation of Euprepes, and made a feeble 
 effort to reach his door; but the crowd, and 
 the glare, and the noise of the trumpet over- 
 whelmed me with fear and shame. I shrank 
 back in silence, and hid myself in the obscurity 
 of my own solitary dwelling. Sophron sought 
 me out and found me there. He tended me 
 in my sickness and ministered to my wants, 
 and bade me be of good cheer, for I had a 
 secret store of wealth, even the prayers and 
 blessings of a poor man ; and, when I spoke 
 to him of gratitude, he asked me to give him 
 
 362 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 some portion of my treasure. Then did I 
 remember that poverty and distress had made 
 me a Messenger of the Great King, and I 
 hastened to the Royal Palace, and took with 
 me thither my blessings and my prayers. The 
 Great King received them from me, and 
 shed them as rays of unchanging sunshine 
 on the abode of Sophron, and from thence 
 comes the amber light that yet lives within its 
 walls." 
 
 There was a pause of a few seconds ; while 
 Sophron appeared to be yielding more and 
 more to the soothing influence of sleep. And 
 then the old man breathed softly upon him, 
 and said, " Thrice happy merchant ! Well, 
 indeed, hast thou traded with thy wealth ! 
 Thou hast bartered thy perishable silver and 
 gold for the widow's gratitude, the orphan's 
 love, and the poor man's prayer. Now that 
 thou art going hence, these riches will follow 
 thee. The costly pearls, the gentle music, 
 and the amber light shall attend thee on thy 
 journey even to the gates of the Glorious 
 City. But a more abundant treasure, a more 
 
 363 R 2 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 perfect harmony, and a light of brilliance un- 
 utterable, await thee there." 
 
 As he thus spoke, he placed a second mirror 
 before the eyes of Sophron ; and though they 
 now seemed to be sealed in slumber, a smile 
 of joy and gladness played across his coun- 
 tenance. I cannot tell how bright and glorious 
 was the vision that he saw. This alone I 
 know, that the image of the Future was re- 
 flected in that glass, and that, as the old man 
 held it, his own form faded away. For a 
 moment there was a sound as of the rustling 
 of many wings in the air, and then all was 
 stillness in the dwelling of Sophron. 
 
 On the morrow, the sun shone brightly upon 
 the city ; there was the usual hum of traffic 
 and moving to and fro of the busy multitude 
 in the streets, though the lamp had been 
 extinguished in Sophron's abode, and the aged 
 merchant was gone. Very few of the passers- 
 by noticed the deserted dwelling ; but the 
 King's Messengers wept as they beheld it from 
 a distance, and there was a strain of sadness 
 
 364 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 in the gentle music of the orphan child. They 
 mourned, because their own office was at an 
 end ; but when they thought of Sophron, their 
 sorrow was turned into joy. They knew that 
 his treasures had been marked with the Cross, 
 and were stored up for him in the Royal 
 Palace, and that he himself was dwelling in 
 the happy city where the law of Exile was 
 unknown. 
 
A SILENCE of some minutes succeeded the 
 story. Both the children were grave and 
 thoughtful. Leonard looked anxious to say 
 something, but seemed to want courage to 
 begin the conversation. To relieve him from 
 his embarrassment, Mr. Mertoun addressed 
 himself in the first instance to Mary. 
 
 " Tell me, Mary," he said, " do you suppose 
 there ever was a city with the same singular 
 law as that of Metcecia ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, uncle," she replied readily ; " I 
 guessed at once what you intended by it ; 
 the story is an allegory, and the law of Exile 
 is the law of Death." 
 
 " It is so," said Mr. Mertoun. " The whole 
 world is but our city of Metoecia. We are 
 
 366 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 liable, at any moment, to be called upon to 
 depart from it ; and, when our summons comes, 
 we go forth alone, and no part of our posses- 
 sions follow us. If we live in forgetfulness 
 of this law, our conduct is, to say the least, 
 as unaccountable as that of the merchants in 
 the story. But what do you understand by 
 the vision in the mirror ? " 
 
 Mary hesitated, and Leonard answered for 
 her, ff I suppose, uncle, the thoughts awakened 
 by the death of friends." 
 
 " You are right," said Mr. Mertoun ; u our 
 seasons of bereavement are those in which we 
 feel most distinctly the nothingness of worldly 
 treasures, and are led to take a true view of 
 our position as pilgrims and sojourners upon 
 the earth. The warnings of Holy Scripture, 
 which we may have often heard and dis- 
 regarded, are then so forced upon our minds, 
 that we cannot set them aside. But tell me, 
 Leonard, what particular duty connected with 
 the instability of riches is the story designed 
 to illustrate?" 
 
 The boy coloured as he replied, " The duty 
 
 367 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 of giving to the poor; and I know why you 
 told it us. But," he added, with some slight 
 hesitation, " I hope you do not think that I am 
 like Philargyr?" 
 
 " I have seen but little of either you or 
 Mary," answered Mr. Mertoun, " and cannot 
 even tell to which of the three dangerous 
 paths pointed out in the allegory your natural 
 dispositions may incline. But my design in 
 telling it was to bring distinctly before you 
 the important office assigned to the poor in the 
 Oospel. I was afraid that you were unmindful 
 of it when a few days since you used the words, 
 ' Only some poor man.'" 
 
 "I was, indeed," he answered; "and for 
 the future, I will try to look upon the poor as 
 Messengers of the Great King. But, uncle," 
 he continued, after a pause, "do you mean 
 that all who neglect almsgiving are like some 
 one or other of the merchants in the story ? " 
 
 " I think," replied Mr. Mertoun, " that all, 
 who abuse their riches, may be comprehended 
 under the three great classes that I have de- 
 scribed. First, we have those like Philargyr, 
 
 3fi8 
 
who do not spend them at all : next, those like 
 Megacles, who spend them, but not on proper 
 objects : and, lastly, those like Euprepes, who 
 spend them, and on proper objects, but not 
 with a proper motive." 
 
 " It was not quite that which I intended to 
 ask," said Leonard. " Is it not possible to be 
 partly like one and partly like another ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly," replied Mr. Mertoun ; " I 
 have, in the story, purposely kept the lines 
 clear and distinct, in order to trace the course 
 of each separately. But in actual life they 
 often seem to cross one another, and without 
 careful self-examination we cannot tell to 
 which path even we ourselves may be inclining. 
 There is, however, a yet more important dif- 
 ference between actual life and the allegory. 
 The merchants are represented only as the 
 possessors of great wealth, and with the single 
 duty of almsgiving. Is that a complete view 
 of our position as Christians ? " 
 
 "Oh no," replied Mary; "you said, when 
 you explained to us the Parable of the Talents, 
 that our health, our time, our affections, and 
 
 369 R 3 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 the events of our daily life, all form part of the 
 Talents for which we shall have to account." 
 
 " They do," said Mr. Mertoun ; " and the 
 Talent of Wealth, though distinct from the 
 rest, never in actual life stands apart from 
 them. The exercise of it must be kept in 
 harmony with the discharge of our other duties. 
 The amount and manner of our alms should 
 depend, not merely on our means, but on the 
 circumstances in which we are placed. It 
 may be laid down as a general rule, that the 
 wish to give, and to give without ostentation, 
 should be a moving principle with all alike ; 
 but in each particular instance it will be con- 
 trolled and limited by a variety of events that 
 it is impossible to define. There is yet another 
 omission in the allegory." 
 
 " Do you mean," asked Leonard, " that the 
 merchants only received a single warning, and 
 went on in the same course to the end of their 
 career ? " 
 
 " It was not that to which I referred," 
 answered Mr. Mertoun, " though certainly, in 
 that respect" also, their supposed case is but 
 
 370 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 an imperfect representation of our own. Each 
 line in the story is brought almost uninter- 
 ruptedly to an end. In actual life, they may 
 be broken off by God's mercy, and Philargyr, 
 or Megacles, become as Sophron. Still, how- 
 ever, the allegory is a true representation of 
 the course of unrepented sin. The omission of 
 which I speak occurs rather in the history of 
 the youngest brother." 
 
 " You mean," said Mary, " that we cannot 
 really lay up for ourselves riches in heaven, 
 and that all we do is accepted for the sake of 
 our Saviour. But was not that intended by 
 the mark of the cross which was seen on the 
 merchandise ? " 
 
 " It is implied in it," replied Mr. Mertoun, 
 " but it does not form, so to speak, any dis- 
 tinct feature in the allegory." 
 
 " But ought there to be so many omissions 
 in the story?" asked Mary. 
 
 Mr. Mertoun replied, by taking up a drawing 
 which happened to be lying on the table: 
 " Tell me," he said, " do you know of what 
 this is a picture ? " 
 
 371 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 " Of the church," she replied, in some sur- 
 prise at the question. 
 
 " Indeed," said her uncle. " But I do not 
 see the east window, or the north transept, 
 and but very little of the west end of the 
 building. It seems to me that three sides 
 of the church are wanting." 
 
 " Of course," answered Mary, as she partly 
 guessed his meaning, (C it must be so, for the 
 view is taken from the south." 
 
 " So, Mary," said Mr. Mertoun, " the view 
 of life in the story is necessarily taken from 
 one particular point. It looks upon it, as it 
 were, towards the side of wealth. There are 
 other sides no less important to the symmetry 
 of the building, but they cannot all be intro- 
 duced into the same picture. I have yet 
 another question to ask: Do you suppose 
 that the person who sketched this drawing, 
 drew a plan of the foundation of the church 
 before he began it?" 
 
 " Nay," replied Mary, " you cannot be 
 serious in asking." 
 
 " Well, then," continued Mr. Mertoun, " in 
 
 372 
 
THE KING S MESSENGERS. 
 
 this respect also it is an imperfect picture. 
 The real walls undoubtedly have a foundation, 
 and the building could not stand an instant 
 if it were not there. Do you see my meaning, 
 Leonard?" 
 
 " I do," he answered ; " you mean, that 
 the death of our Saviour is the foundation on 
 which the walls of our actual life rest ; and 
 that, though it be not represented in the story, 
 it is, of course, assumed to be there." 
 
 " Exactly so," said Mr. Mertoun ; " and 
 I wish you to mark clearly the distinction 
 between this illustration and the former. The 
 several duties of life are like the different 
 walls of the building, which may be brought 
 out in greater or less distinctness, according 
 to the point from which we view it. The 
 doctrine of the atonement is to the Christian 
 as the one foundation on which they rest, 
 and without it the picture could not be really 
 faithful, for the building itself would cease 
 to exist. But to return to the duty of alms- 
 giving. Can you tell me any passage in Holy 
 Scripture in which it is insisted upon to the 
 
 373 
 
apparent exclusion of others ? You were men- 
 tioning, Mary, the Parable of the Talents. 
 Do you remember the description of the Day 
 of Judgment, which follows it ? " * 
 
 Mary reflected a moment, and then answered, 
 " Those on the King's right hand were re- 
 warded, because they .had fed the hungry, 
 given drink to the thirsty, and received the 
 stranger." 
 
 " They were so," said Mr. Mertoun ; " and 
 our Blessed Lord assured them, that inasmuch 
 as they had done this unto one of the least of 
 His brethren, they had done it unto Himself. 
 In like manner, those on the King's left hand 
 are represented as being punished simply for 
 neglect of the poor. There are also two 
 parables concerning rich men, in which the 
 same view is brought no less distinctly before 
 us." 
 
 " One of them," said Leonard, " is that of 
 the Rich Man and Lazarus." f 
 
 " It is so," answered his uncle ; " no other 
 sin of the rich man is there pointed out to us 
 * St. Matt. xxv. 34, 35. t St. Luke xvi. 1931. 
 
 374 
 
THE KING J S MESSENGERS. 
 
 but that of neglecting the poor beggar who lay 
 at his door. The other parable to which I 
 referred is that of the Rich Man, who, when 
 his ground brought forth plentifully, determined 
 to hoard the produce.* God punished him 
 with the immediate sentence of death. And 
 our Saviour Himself has annexed to it the 
 warning, ' So is he that layeth up treasure for 
 himself, and is not rich towards God.' " 
 
 ss Children," observed Leonard, " are never 
 very rich." 
 
 The words were spoken in a low tone, as 
 though in answer to his own thoughts. His 
 uncle, however, did not let them pass unnoticed. 
 " They are not," he replied, " according to the 
 ordinary meaning of the word wealth. But 
 recollect how the mite of the poor widow was 
 pronounced by our Blessed Lord to be more 
 than all the costly gifts which were cast into 
 the treasury by the rich. Now the youngest 
 child may either give a like offering to that of 
 the widow, or he may hoard it up, or spend it 
 on himself." 
 
 * St. Luke xii. 1621. 
 
 375 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 " And if he does hoard it up," asked Leonard, 
 " will he be like Philargyr? " 
 
 " Not, I trust," answered Mr. Mertoun, 
 " such as he was in the end of his career. But 
 his bonds were, at first, light and flexible ; it 
 was time that added to them their weight and 
 strength ; and such bonds are often worn in 
 secret by children. They are by no means free 
 from the temptation to avarice. The appa- 
 rently slight opportunities they have for its 
 indulgence render it less perceptible, but not 
 less dangerous. There is no need of a gold 
 mine to foster it. The first trifling coin a child 
 receives is often formed into the first link of 
 the chain that binds him in after years. If it 
 be followed by the love of money for its own 
 sake, and the wish for more, he is already 
 beginning to share the servitude of Philargyr." 
 
 The children were silent. The words 
 awakened no painful thoughts in Mary, for 
 avarice was not one of her failings. But 
 Leonard felt the full force of this application 
 of the story. The gift which he had received 
 from his uncle the preceding Christmas had 
 
 376 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 been hoarded up in secret, and was loved be- 
 cause it was gold. At length he asked in what 
 way the fault of avarice might be cured. 
 
 Mr. Mertoun guessed the motive of the 
 question, and replied, " The best remedy for 
 all our faults, my dear boy, is to make them 
 the subject of continual prayer. But this, 
 perhaps, more than any other, requires the 
 resistance of an immediate effort. The con- 
 quering it is really like the breaking of a chain. 
 Once summon resolution to give, and it seems 
 as though some spell were dissolved, and the 
 disposition to give more abundantly will follow. 
 I do not mean that the temptation to save 
 will not again come back ; but it will return 
 after each defeat with less violence than before, 
 until at length it will be subdued altogether, 
 by the habit of giving. You must not, how- 
 ever, forget that the hoarding up our money is 
 not the only abuse of the talent of wealth ; the 
 spending it on improper objects is one no less 
 dangerous ; and I believe that children, in 
 general, are more frequently tempted to follow 
 the path of Megacles, than that of Philargyr." 
 
 377 
 
66 Of Megacles, uncle I " said Mary, in some 
 surprise ; " I had fancied that his sin was 
 ambition, and not extravagance." 
 
 " It was so," said Mr. Mertoun ; " but he 
 may be taken as representing a yet larger class. 
 His history brings especially before us the 
 folly of wasting on some mere earthly object 
 those riches which might be laid up in the 
 treasury of Heaven. To do this is, in reality, 
 extravagance. It matters not, to use the 
 language of the story, whether we build with 
 them mere .villas of Pleasure or towers of 
 Fame. Children, who spend what they have 
 on self-gratification to the neglect of the poor, 
 are beginning to follow the course of Megacles." 
 
 " But can they be also like him in his 
 ambition ? " asked Mary. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," answered her uncle ; "but 
 the ways in which they can purchase this 
 species of self-gratification are so apparently 
 trivial, that you may have some difficulty in 
 tracing the resemblance. Perhaps the spending 
 money on finery or anything else intended to 
 excite the admiration of their companions, is 
 
 378 
 
their nearest approach to the particular sin of 
 Megacles. But is it not said at the conclusion 
 of the story, that Euprepes, also, had in secret 
 been raising a tower ? " 
 
 " It is," answered Mary ; " and it means, 
 that while professing to relieve the poor, he 
 was, like Megacles, merely seeking the applause 
 of his fellow-citizens." 
 
 " This, then," continued Mr. Mertoun, " is a 
 kind of ambition to which children are pecu- 
 liarly exposed. There is no way in which they 
 can purchase applause so readily as by giving 
 to the poor. Each act of benevolence is sure 
 to be accompanied by a certain amount of 
 praise. And yet if they make that the prevail- 
 ing motive for their gift, they have their 
 recompense upon earth, and will forfeit it in 
 Heaven. Do you remember the warning 
 which our Saviour gave His disciples on this 
 subject?" 
 
 " He told them," answered Mary, " that if 
 they did their alms before men, to be seen of 
 them, they would have no reward of their 
 Father in Heaven." 
 
 379 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 " Yes," continued Mr. Mertoun, " and he 
 added the precept 'When thou doest alms, 
 let not thy left-hand know what thy right-hand 
 doeth : that thine alms may be in secret : and 
 thy Father Which seeth in secret, Himself 
 shall reward thee openly.'* Is there any diffi- 
 culty suggested to you by these words ? " 
 
 " I was wishing to ask," said Leonard, 
 " whether they mean that we are to make a 
 secret of everything that we give." 
 
 " They cannot mean that," answered Mr. 
 Mertoun, " for our Lord has also told us to let 
 our light so shine before men, that they may 
 see our good works, and glorify our Father 
 Which is in Heaven. f By the command, ' not 
 to let our left-hand know what our right-hand 
 doeth,' we must understand, that we ought to 
 shrink even from any feeling of self-satisfac- 
 tion at our own good deeds, and, of course, 
 yet more to avoid the applause of the world. 
 But we cannot help actually knowing what we 
 ourselves give, and at times it is our duty to 
 let others know it also." 
 
 * St. Matt. vi. 3, 4. f Ibid. v. 16. 
 
 380 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 fc And yet," observed Mary, " if we do this 
 are we not really giving our alms before 
 men ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Mertoun, "but not 
 necessarily in order to be seen of them. It is 
 the giving with this object that is forbidden by 
 our Blessed Lord. Almsgiving is no easy duty, 
 and Children especially require the advice of 
 others in the^ manner of its performance. They 
 cannot even find out for themselves proper 
 objects of benevolence. They may, therefore, 
 ask to be taught how to give, and place 
 their offerings in the hands of their friends, 
 and yet look for no other recompense than 
 that which is promised to them in Heaven. 
 Do you remember, Mary, how, when you 
 were a little child, your mother would come 
 to hear you say your prayers, and yet you 
 did not say them in order to be heard of 
 her : she taught you to pray, but the words 
 were addressed to God. Do you understand 
 me?" 
 
 " I think so," she replied ; " but will there 
 be no difference at all between children who 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 give merely that their friends may praise them 
 and those who give from right motives ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, at times, there may be no visible 
 difference," answered Mr. Mertoun, " but there 
 must always be a real one. Recollect, that 
 when it is said, 6 Which seeth in secret,' it does 
 not mean only that God sees into the secret 
 chamber, but into the secret thoughts of the 
 heart. He can read clearly and distinctly 
 the exact motive of every gift; and as those 
 which profess to be studiously concealed, may 
 in their very concealment proceed from osten- 
 tation, so also those which are openly given, 
 may, in His sight, be as the silent offerings 
 of Sophron." 
 
 But Mary was not yet quite satisfied. " I 
 know, uncle," she said, " that we must try to be 
 like Sophron in the motive of our alms ; but 
 cannot children be in any way like him in the 
 manner of giving them ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Mertoun, " they may 
 be like him in this also, though the resemblance 
 is an imperfect one. They may avoid all un- 
 necessary display ; or again, they may conceal 
 
 382 
 
what they have already given, or the inward 
 struggle by which the gift is accompanied, or 
 the self-denial which it costs them. All this is 
 as a secret store, which adds to the value of 
 our offerings in the sight of God, if we look for 
 our recompense to Him alone. But it is diffi- 
 cult to lay down any exact rule. The line 
 which, as I have said, is purposely kept distinct 
 and separate in the story, often seems perplexed 
 and difficult, when we try to trace it through 
 the conflicting circumstances of life. I think, 
 however, that you will seldom find any prac- 
 tical difficulty. While we walk along our 
 appointed path, though we cannot see far into 
 the distance, each separate step is for the most 
 part sufficiently clear. Only keep distinctly in 
 your remembrance that the poor are sent to you 
 by God that it cannot be right to hoard up 
 your money, or spend it on your own gratifica- 
 tions, while you do nothing to relieve their 
 wants and that your offerings must be made 
 for Christ's sake, and without the hope of any 
 earthly recompense and the story of the King's 
 Messengers will not have been told you in vain. 
 
 383 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 The events of your own daily life will best 
 enable you to apply it to yourselves." 
 
 With the exception of a single question, 
 Leonard had been a silent listener to the close 
 of the conversation. He did not seem to par- 
 ticipate in the difficulties of his sister. When, 
 however, the usual time came for the children 
 to retire to rest, he appeared anxious to remain 
 behind ; but Mary called him, and he accompa- 
 nied her. Mr. Mertoun was left alone. He 
 had seen that the child was impressed by the 
 story, but his joy at this circumstance was 
 checked by the remembrance that in a little 
 while the feelings awakened by it would pass 
 away. His thoughts were interrupted by a 
 light footstep at the door ; the handle was softly 
 turned, and Leonard entered, alone. There 
 was something in his hand which glittered, and 
 this he gave his uncle, with a few whispered 
 words. The tear rose to Mr. Mertoun's eyes, 
 as he replied, " God bless you, my dear nephew; 
 you have indeed found out the true moral to 
 my story. Go on as you have begun, and 
 
 384 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 your path will be clear." The offering which 
 the boy gave was the long-hoarded gold; and 
 the whispered words were, "For the Messenger 
 of the Great King, who came this morning to 
 your door." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 385 
 
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