AMUMLtf
SACRED ALLEGORIES.
nf tjp
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
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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."
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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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