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"L I E) R A FLY 
 OF THE 
 
 U N I VERS ITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 2.44 
 
 AJis 
 
 1873 
 
Return this book on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
SACRED ALLEGORIES 
 
RIVINGTONS 
 
 ILcntion 
 
 0xto 
 
 ^ambriUge 
 
 Waterloo Place 
 High Sh'eet 
 Trinity Street 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/sacredallegories00adam_1 
 
SACRED ALLEGORIES 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Rev. william ADAMS, M.A. 
 
 LATE FELLOW OF MERTON COLLEGE, OXFORD 
 
 0,tia ®Bition, Suttfj Illustrations 
 
 RIVINGTONS 
 ILontJon, ©ifortf, anli Camliritisc 
 1873 
 
\ 
 
Ad 1^ 
 
 y C '■> '5 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. Sltitboto of the Croo 
 
 II. ^hc MBhnt 3|iUs 
 r' 
 
 III. I^ke ®lb iftan’o i^omc 
 jy IV. ^he l-ing’o iflcssettgero 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS 
 
 And He said nnto them all, 1/ any man will come after Me, let hhn deny 
 himself, and take 7iJ> his Cross daily, and follow Me. 
 
 St. Luke ix. 23 
 
CHAPTEE 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. 
 
 THICK darkness was spread over the earth, as 
 
 I stood on the top of a lofty mountain, and 
 the only object that I could see was dhe sun, which 
 had risen in the far east with a wonderful 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 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 
 well might 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 
 
®l)e ^l)abotx) of tl)e 
 
 were, too, the most luxuriant orchards and cool groves 
 of orange-trees and myrtles, and the breeze of the morn- 
 ing 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. Everywhere, 
 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 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, 1 saw 
 nothing. 
 
 Young and lovely children v/ere 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 
 
5n)e ^l)a:iioto of tl)e 
 
 the water, and sparkled with a dazzling brightness as 
 the sun first shone upon them ; I observed, too, that each 
 child, as Ije 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. 
 
 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 miglity 
 King, and the garden is called the Garden of 
 Sh^i)0lXI ot t\xz f but no one can tell whither 
 
5H)e ^l)atioro of tl)e ffirojSjs 
 
 each child will go when he is taken away — it will depend 
 on how far he escapes the dangers of the garden. If 
 they carelessly lose their crosses, or so stain their beauti- 
 ful garments, that they can be made white no more, they 
 will be thought unworthy of the presence of the great 
 King, and 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 sure, that no sun surpasseth in glory that wdiich 
 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 
 
®l)e ^l^aboto of tl)e (Uxo^^ 
 
 time every thing, not only here, but in the country 
 around, was 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 ser- 
 pents 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 hither, 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 
 v/hich 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 prevented from 
 entering that better country which your Father has pre- 
 pared for you.” And the Voice said, “ There is not one 
 of the King’s children who may not dwell in peace and 
 
Kl)e ^I)a:i)oto of tl)e 
 
 happiness in the garden. Not only is their Father Him- 
 self 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 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, 
 
^!)alioro of tl)e 
 
 by which they themselves may seek the renewal of these 
 gifts day after day, and hour after hour.” 
 
 AVlien 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 T 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. 
 
 Kow, I had expected that, as there was no difference 
 in the crosses themselves, so, too, would ithere 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 flxed 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 
 
^l)aborD of U)t 
 
 twisting tliem 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 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 fiowers, but 
 only those on which the image of her cross was seen, 
 l^ay, 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 
 
Sl3e ^Ijaiioro of tl)e 
 
 gazed, the more soft and beautiful 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 \vhen 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 I 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 K^till 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 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 
 
Sl)c ^l)ai)ora of tl)e 
 
 that fell upon them, and images from other crosses kept 
 clustering around them, and I thought, if the beautifid 
 child were indeed still looking on the garden, how happy 
 she must be that the crosses of those who went for her 
 were thus blended with her own. 
 
OiJDnliersati0n on Clhapttr I 
 
 What is signified by the bright and glorious sun 
 that appeared in the east ? 
 
 Jesus Christ our Lord. 
 
 @ . Yes ; he is spoken of as the Sun of Eighteousness” 
 by the prophet Malachi. And the beautiful garden on 
 which its rays fell, is the Kingdom that our Lord estab- 
 lished upon earth ; now, why is that Idngdom represented 
 as surrounded by a silver stream ? 
 
 A* Because it is through the water of baptism that 
 we enter it. 
 
 Do you remember how this was typified in the his- 
 tory of the children of Israel ? 
 
 A- Yes ; you explained to me in the Baptismal Service, 
 that it was by the passage through the lied Sea. The 
 words there, I think, are, ‘‘ Who didst safely lead the 
 children of Israel through the lied Sea, figuring thereby 
 thy holy baptism.” 
 
 You can, then, tell me on which side of the stream 
 you were born. 
 
Slje ^Ijaboro of tl)e (SLxo^^ 
 
 In the land of darkness; for I was born in sin, 
 and a child of wrath. 
 
 % 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 ? 
 
 A- 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. 
 
 Why are we told that neither the sight nor the 
 strength of the children was their own ? 
 
 A- Because we can do nothing except through the 
 influence of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 Why is it said that the children received these 
 precious gifts as they crossed the stream ? 
 
 A- Because it is at our Baptism that we receive the 
 gift of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 AVhat, then, is signified by the constant renewal of 
 their sight and strength ? 
 
 A- The being daily renewed by the Holy Spirit of God. 
 
 And how must we seek for such renewal ? 
 
 A. By prayer. 
 
®l)e ^l)aiiotD of tl)e 
 
 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. AVhat 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 Ih^e in the 
 present world that hereafter he may be thought worthy 
 to be with God for ever. 
 
 How were the children to prepare themselves ? 
 
 They were to keep their garments white, and hold 
 fast their crosses. 
 
 (g. In the same way, then, each one of us must pre- 
 pare 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 crucified, 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. 
 
 How are sin, the world, and the devil represented 
 in the allegory ? 
 
 A- They are the poisons, the snares, the serpents, and 
 the other dangers of the garden. 
 
<jn)e ^l)aliora of tl)e (!Lxo^^ 
 
 You are rigiit. 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Such in another world will be the punishment of 
 the faithless followers of Christ. But now tell me how 
 it was that, while the children 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 ? 
 
 It is so. God has ordained that Christianity should 
 shed, as it were, a different complexion on different 
 minds, and that the course, which is easy and natural to 
 one disposition, 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 
 
S;i)e ^l)aiioro of tl^e 
 
 that 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 And by the shadow that still seemed to fall from 
 her cross ? 
 
 A- The remembrance that she left upon the earth. 
 
 (g. Yes. There is an almost sacred feeling with which 
 we regard everything connected with those little ones 
 who have Kved and died in the Lord. The shadow of 
 their cross may indeed be said to rest on each innocent 
 amusement and occupation that they have loved ; and 
 the images from other crosses wiU cluster around it, for 
 no soil is more kindly to good and holy resolutions than 
 the remembrance of departed friends : to be with them 
 
 is to be with Christ.’' There are affections and sym- 
 pathies which are fixed upon them during their lives, 
 which by their deaths it often pleases God to draw 
 towards Himself 
 
CIIAPTEE 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. 
 
 HEN 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 companion, for he continued to play in the same 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. 
 
 AVhile he remained there, I knew that the boy was 
 safe from danger; but afterwards, when he began to 
 
5Tl)e ^l)aboto of tl)e 
 
 wander to other parts of the garden, I grew alarmed lest 
 some evil might befall him ; for, though he grasped his 
 own cross firmly in his hand, so quick and lively was 
 his step, that 1 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 hiU, at the foot of 
 which he was walking ; I saw him hold his cross for a 
 moment between them and the sun, 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 nosegay, began in haste to scramble up the hill. 
 Xow, 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 
 
SI)e ^l)aboto of tl}e 
 
 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 
 
5n)e ^Ijaboto of tl)e 
 
 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 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 fleld, 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 
 together. But I was grieved that the friend of Inno- 
 cence 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 
 vuitten 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 
 
^l)alioto of tl)e 
 
 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, 
 v/hen 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 com- 
 panion. But I soon observed that Mirth was growing- 
 weary of the narrow way, and tired of placing his foot- 
 steps 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 its edge, 
 and so he walked nearer to his companion. 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, 
 
Sl)e ^l)ai)otD of i\)t 
 
 leaped back upon tlie road, for it was at no great dis- 
 tance ; but before lie could reacli 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 plad in raiment 
 of white, to walk with one whose garments were so 
 defiled. 
 
 It seemed, however, that Mirth thought not of that, 
 for he still allowed Wayward to accompany him ; nay, 
 in a little while I almost fancied he began to look dis- 
 contented 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 heed- 
 lessly through the mud. Alas ! 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 
 
 c 
 
Sl)e ^l)alioto of tl)e 
 
 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 merrily through 
 the green fields ; but afterwards, 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 
 
5tl()e ^l)aiioto of i\}t 
 
 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 up- 
 wards towards the butterfly, his 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 com- 
 panion’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 accom- 
 panied Mirth. So the two boys walked on, sadly and 
 silently, together ; but Mirth limped a little as he went, 
 
5n}e of tl}e (^ro^^JE; 
 
 from the pain of his fall. Very glad I was 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 butter- 
 fly 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 everything 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 iliany 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 his companion : but, when 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 
 
2Il)e ^l)a:tiotxi of tlie (Sro;^^ 
 
 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 dis- 
 consolate way, v/ith 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 Way- 
 ward, 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 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 wliite, and how beauti- 
 
3;i)e of i\}t 
 
 ful 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. 
 
 Such thoughts, also, seemed to force themselves on the 
 mind of Mirth ; for he knelt down 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 saA7 him 
 bend low and gaze earnestly on tlie faded flower ; and 
 while the big tear fell upon it, methought that his eye 
 became less dim, and their was a gleam of hope and 
 
5n)e ^l)aiioto of tlie QLxo^^ 
 
 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, he was chasing the 
 painted butterfly on the green. Moreover, as I watched 
 him, T 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. 
 
(ffnnbersatwtt on Chairtcr II 
 
 % Why was it that Mirth was safe while he remained 
 where he had been playing with Innocence ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 A- 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 
 carefully, we shall not always be able to distinguish 
 between them. How is this shown in the allegory ? 
 
 A- By the beautifulbed of fiowers,from which Mirth, in 
 his haste, gathered a rose on which the shadow did not fall. 
 
 What is the sting of the wasp ? 
 
 A- The pain caused by sin. 
 
01)0 of t\}z (Jrojs^ 
 
 What is the mark of the rose leaf ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 He was not trying to hold fast his Christian pro- 
 fession. 
 
 Had he, then, altogether renounced the service of 
 Christ ? 
 
 "No; for he still said he kept the cross, though he 
 did not use it. 
 
 ©. 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 consequence of this neg- 
 ligence ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 His clothes also soon lost their whiteness, for the 
 two boys fell into a swamp together. 
 
 What do we learn from this ? 
 
SHje ^l)aiioto of t!)e (JrojSjs 
 
 |l. The danger of joining the pursuits of those who 
 talk lightly of religion, and do not profess in all things to 
 be guided by the cross. 
 
 What is afterwards signified by the discontent of 
 Mirth, when he was not able to do as Wayward did ? 
 
 |l. Envy at the pleasures that the wicked seem to 
 enjoy. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 A- By the chase after the beautiful butterfiy, in which 
 Mirth united with Wayward without consulting his cross. 
 
 How was it that this chase led the boys so much 
 farther than they expected ? 
 
 A- 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. 
 
 Did the children get possession of the butterfiy 
 at last ? 
 
 A- Ho, they gave it up inconsequence of the stumble 
 of Mirth. 
 
 Why did that cause them to give it up ? 
 
 A. It led Mirth to consult his cross, and then he saw 
 that its shadow fell in an opposite direction. 
 
5t!)e ^l)aiJoto of i\)t 
 
 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 ? 
 
 A. Satan was lying in wait to take advantage of their 
 sin. 
 
 (g. What was the hard dull path by which the children 
 began to return ? 
 
 A. The path of repentance. 
 
 And the withered leaves and faded flowers are the 
 recollection of opportunities neglected and blessings for- 
 feited, which are always strewed along it. What is 
 signified by the return to the field of Innocence ? 
 
 A. Mirth was led to think of the happy days that in 
 their childhood they had passed together, and of the 
 quiet life, and above aU, of the tranquil and holy death 
 of his former friend. 
 
 How did these thoughts at first affect him ? 
 
 A. He wept more bitterly than before. 
 
 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 ? 
 
5n}e ^l)at)oto of tl)e Crojs^ 
 
 No ; for his sorrow led him to pray very earnestly to 
 his Father. 
 
 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 monrn, for they shall he comforted.” To 
 what did Mirth ascribe his present comfort, and his 
 escape from danger ? 
 
 He ascribed everything to the little cross he had 
 been enabled to hold in his hand. 
 
 And that is intended to remind us that we can 
 do nothing of ourselves to help ourselves. 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 
 peaca 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 CUT IF, INDEED, WITH RECKLESS FAITH 
 WE TRUST THE FLATTERINC VOICE, 
 
 WHICH WHISPERS, “TAKE THY FILL 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. 
 
 T he tears were fast rising in my eyes as I turned 
 them away from the kneeling child, so affecting 
 was the scene ; hut for the present I watched him no 
 more, for about him my mind was now at rest ; but 1 
 felt fearfully anxious to trace the course of his com- 
 panion 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 he played with 
 Innocence, and he would perhaps have wept together 
 with his companion. He had advanced some distance 
 before he observed that Mirth had ceased to accompany 
 
Sl)e of i\)z dro^js 
 
 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, each time that he started 
 again, he made some fresh error in the way, and as I 
 watched him 1 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 tliey observed that he had no cross, 
 
Slje ^l)aliora of tl)e (!Lxo^^ 
 
 0.nd 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 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 
 
 I) 
 
5n)e ^!)a:boto of tl)e fflrojsjjs 
 
 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. Sometimes 
 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. 
 
 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 Self deceit” 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 
 
(Jl)e of tl)e 
 
 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, in ’order to tempt the children to taste the 
 poisonous fruits ; but I shuddered exceedingly 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, trembled, and felt there 
 was something unnatural in the shado\Vs 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 T had seen 
 before. Wayward threw down the remainder of the 
 nectarine and was hastening away, but Selfdeceit called 
 to him to stop, and said that she could very easily 
 remove the stain. So Wayward stopped, and Selfdeceit 
 
5H)e of tl)e CTrojSjs 
 
 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 Way- 
 ward 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 Self deceit as he ought to 
 have done, but still continued in her company, 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 
 emaciated by disease, the feverish and uncertain step, 
 the hectic flush on his sallow cheek, and the wildness 
 in his blood-shot 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 
 cliange in his appearance owing to the poison on which 
 
5H)e ^I)ai)oro of tl^e 
 
 he lived, the change that had taken place in his dress 
 was greater still ; for his garments were more disguised 
 by the strange whiteness caused by the chalk, than they 
 could have been by the darkest stain. He was, how- 
 ever, fast becoming accustomed 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 
 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 companion 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 fright- 
 ened by a deep and angry sound, even as the roaring of 
 a lion, which issued from the wood, and yet his ears liad. 
 
Slje Si);ai)otx) of tl)e (!Lxo^^ 
 
 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 tliat caused my heart 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 sha- 
 dows fell at the feet of the bewildered boy. He had suf- 
 fered 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 foresl;. Then 
 Wayward ventured to move forward; but scarce had he 
 made the first step, when there was a laugh as of fiends 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
SHje ^l)al)ora of tl)e 
 
 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 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 pulled 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. 
 
C0nbcrsation on Chapter HI 
 
 How was it that Wayward did not continue in the 
 same field with Mirth ? 
 
 Because he no longer watched the shadow of the 
 
 cross. 
 
 That is to say, though he appeared to he following 
 the same 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 Chris- 
 tian 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. 
 
 Yes; and so he afterwards wished to play with 
 those children whose garments were still white. Now, 
 what does this signify ? 
 
 % That sinners who are not yet hardened feel a sort 
 of security in seeming to follow the same occupations 
 with good men. 
 
 Did Wayward succeed in this wish ? 
 
Sl)e ^l)aiioro of tl)e Crojsjs 
 
 No. On the contrary, he began to play with the 
 boys who had no crosses, and garments more filthy than 
 his own. 
 
 (^. And what does that signify ? 
 
 A. Careless Christians are often forced into the com- 
 pany of those who have advanced farther along the paths 
 of destruction than themselves. 
 
 AVhat were the fruits and flow'ers which afterwards 
 so discoloured the garments of Wayward, and rendered 
 him sickly and pale ? 
 
 A- They were the idle pursuits and pleasures in which 
 in mere thoughtlessness he indulged. 
 
 What is signified by his longing for the nectarine 
 on the western wall ? 
 
 A desire which he could not help knowing was 
 sinful, but which he still sought some excuse to gratify. 
 
 ®, And did he find any such excuse ? 
 
 Yes; it was afforded him by the false lights that 
 were in the garden, and the cross that was held by 
 Selfdeceit. 
 
 Who was it that placed the false lights in the 
 garden ? 
 
 A. Satan, the enemy of the King, who is able to 
 transform himself into an angel of light. 
 
 What was the state of Selfdeceit ? 
 
(?n)e ^l)ai)otD of tl)e ®ro<)}5 
 
 |l. She had become so very bad, that she could no 
 longer distinguish between good and evil. 
 
 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 Avill 
 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 in crucifying 
 their Saviour. Hid Wayward fall into that miserable 
 state ? 
 
 A- Hot entirely; for, though he yielded to the per- 
 suasion of Selfdeceit, his heart was always full of sorrow 
 and fear. 
 
 What was that crimson stain which the juice of 
 the nectarine left upon his clothes ? 
 
 A. That deep and fearful mark which is produced by 
 a wilful and deliberate act of sin. 
 
 What is signified by the chalk that Selfdeceit 
 persuaded him to employ ? 
 
5tl)e ^l);aiiora of t\)z (flrojsjs 
 
 He endeavoured to hide from himself and from 
 others the consequence of his sin. 
 
 % Yes. He assumed that Vv^hite covering, which 
 makes all outwardly appear well, while there is nothing 
 hut 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 Avere but 
 whited sepulchres/’ 
 
 What do we learn from the numerous spots and 
 stains that afterwards broke out on Wayward and 
 Selfdeceit ? 
 
 That our sins AviU increase upon us in proportion 
 as we endeavour to keep them out of sight. 
 
 What is signified by the edge of the forest at 
 Avhich Wayward again consulted his cross ? 
 
 It was one of those important occasions on which 
 lie did endeavour to act rightly. 
 
 How then was it that he consulted it in vain ? 
 
 Because he had so long neglected it, and been con- 
 tented with watching the false shadoAvs. 
 
 He experienced that doubt and perplexity which 
 is the consequence of sin unrepented of. And was the 
 dimness of his sight in any way to be attributed to 
 himself ? 
 
5Cl)e ^I)aboto of tlj)e ©ro^js; 
 
 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 appointed for preserving it. 
 
 What is signified by Selfdeceit holding a false light 
 behind ]iim v 
 
 She endeavoured by wicked and lying 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 ? 
 
 A- He ran hastily away, but as he did so he dropped 
 his cross, and was seized by the lion out of the forest. 
 
 Who is signified by the lion ? 
 
 A- “ Our adversary the devil, who goeth about as a 
 roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.’' 
 
 And what is meant by droj^ping the cross ? 
 
 Abandoning the faith of Christ. 
 
 The sudden consciousness of his danger will often 
 cause the sinner to fall away altogether 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 
 
®l}e ^I);aborD of t!)e Cro^;^ 
 
 Judas Iscariot, when he went out and hanged himself, 
 after he had betrayed his Lord : instead of that repent- 
 ance which would have led him onward to hope, he felt 
 only the agony of that remorse which brought him into 
 the depth of despair. Eemember, then, that it is possible 
 to be aroused too late to a sense of tlie fearful conse- 
 quences of sin. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 KEFRESn 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 wlio was lost ; for even had he been in health 
 and vigour, his strength v^ould 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 becoming 
 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 Charity” was written on her brow. 
 And I wondered at first how she could have wandered 
 through that gloomy forest alone, and I was alarmed 
 lest the lion that was tearing Wayward might turn his 
 
0f}e ^I}atiot53 of tl)e 
 
 fury upon her ; but I soon found there was cause neither 
 for wonder 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. 
 
 Wayward had had a very narrow escape from destruc- 
 tion, and it was a long time before he so far came to 
 liimself 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 
 
®l)e ^l)aliotD of tl()e (!Lxo^^ 
 
 He threw himself 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. Hay, 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 out- 
 line fell on a thick bush of furze close 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, 
 
5ri)e ^l)aiioto of tl)e (!Lxo^^ 
 
 regardless of the pain, and seizing on his lost treasure 
 hurried hack to the side of Charity. 
 
 Now I rejoiced greatly that Wayward had recovered 
 his cross ; I was glad, too, that the chalk with which Self- 
 deceit had bedaubed his clothes was gone, for the red 
 streams of 'blood had washed it away. Yet still was I 
 very sorrowful when I saw how fearfully they were now 
 defiled ; 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 w^eighing him down, 
 for he groaned deeply and was very sorrowful ; and then 
 I heard Charity speaking to him of th^ 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 
 
5n)c ^lj)abora of tl)c (Uxo^^ 
 
 gaze ; he felt in truth that his hand was too feeble to 
 hold it steadfastly for the time to come, and his eye 
 too dim to discern its shadow. But Charity again ad- 
 dressed 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 gradu- 
 ally 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 earnestly 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 verdant meadow, that of 
 Wayward falling on a rough uneven ground, close to the 
 Ijorder of the wood. So, with many a parting warning, 
 and ever, as she went, holding on high the sacred sign. 
 Charity bade adieu to AVayward, and I cannot tell that 
 she ever beheld him again. For a moment I watched 
 
©1)0 ^[)ai)oto of tlie 
 
 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 sang more tunefully as its shadow fell upon 
 them. 
 
 But I turned from this pleasing picture, for I was 
 anxious to Imow 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 wliich might have been sweet and easy once had 
 become a task of much labour and difficulty now ; for 
 though his Bather 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 
 
5TI)e ^l)aiioro of tl)e 
 
 scarce retain it in tlieir 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 v/alked along, and that, from his very 
 anxiety to place his footsteps right, he often stumbled 
 and well-nigh fell, and, by the continued 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 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 
 
SI)e ot tf)e 
 
 that had tom 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 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 miglit 
 rest upon Mirth. I soon discovered him not far from 
 
2Cl)e ^l)aliotD of t!)e (!Lxo%^ 
 
 the field in which AVayward had left him; he had 
 altered very little since then, except that the cheerful- 
 ness of his countenance and the buoyancy of his step 
 had returned. 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 feU. 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 with them so long!” Mirth was happy now, 
 
Sije ^l)ai)oto of tl)e (!Lxo^^ 
 
 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 wanderings. 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 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 withereth, and the flower fadeth, 
 but there will be nothing there that can either wither 
 
5tl)e ^l)aiiotD of tlje 
 
 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 w'ondered 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. 
 
d0ttbcrj5<ttimt on Chapter EB 
 
 Q. How was Wayward released from his perilous 
 condition ? 
 
 Charity came with her white garments from the 
 wood, and drove away the beast that was devouring him. 
 
 % Did she do so by her own strength ? 
 
 No ; but by the shadow which fell from the cross 
 which she was enabled to hold in her hand. 
 
 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 hope 
 of pardon by the comforting promises of the gospel. 
 
 What effect upon the garments of Charity had 
 the purple stream that flowed from the wounds of 
 AVayward ? 
 
 It only rendered them brighter than before. 
 
2tl)c ^l)aiioro of i\)t 
 
 Yes ; for if we seek the company of sinners, with 
 a sincere desire to lead them into the ways of life, 
 our minds will not he 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 ? 
 
 |l. '' He which converteth the sinner from the error 
 of his way, shall save a soul from death, and shall hide 
 a multitude of sins.’’ 
 
 And it is probably with a similar allusion that 
 St. Peter tells us, “ that Charity shall cover the multi- 
 tude of sins.” What is signified by Wayward seeking 
 in vain for the cross he had dropped ? 
 
 A. He knew not how to turn himself towards God, 
 until Charity pointed out to him the way. 
 
 But why is it said that no hand but his own 
 could take up the cross ? 
 
 A- Because other men cannot repent for us. They 
 can only show us what we are to do, but we must act 
 for ourselves. 
 
 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 inserts 
 that caused him twice to draw back his hand ? 
 
^l)alioto of tl)e (!Lxo%^ 
 
 They are the bitter pains of remorse, the doubt- 
 fulness and the other thoughts of anguish, which attend 
 our first struggle to set ourselves free from long-con- 
 tinued sin. 
 
 What is meant by his recovery of the cross ? 
 
 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. 
 
 And did this at once remove all his fearfulness 
 and alarm? 
 
 A- Ho ; for we are told that he groaned very deeply 
 when he saw how his white garments had been defiled. 
 
 How did Charity afford him comfort ? 
 
 A- She reminded him that there was One who was 
 both able and willing to cleanse them for him. 
 
 To whom does this refer ? 
 
 A- To the Lord Jesus Christ, who will wash away the 
 stain of sin from those wLo believe in Him, by the 
 precious blood that He shed upon the cross. 
 
 But was the fearfulness of Wayward caused by 
 the past alone ? 
 
 A- He feared for the future also ; for he became more 
 and more conscious of the infirmity and blindness that 
 had been caused by his long neglect. 
 
 ©. How did Charity again afford him comfort ? 
 
0^I)e ^l)atiotn of tl)e 
 
 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. 
 
 Yes; and we may consider Wayward as employing 
 those means, when he sorrowed for the past, and be- 
 sought his Father to restore to him a portion of his 
 former strength. Why is he represented as not con- 
 tinuing long with Charity ? 
 
 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 mindful of their God. 
 
 What is signified by the grass and the flowers 
 bending at the approach of Charity ? 
 
 Wherever she went she was attended by purity 
 and peace. 
 
 Yes. It again reminds us that her occupation was 
 the conversion of sinners. It was this that rendered her 
 garments bright, for it is written, “ They that turn many 
 to righteousness, 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 ? 
 
 |l. That, even after the sinner has begun a course of 
 repentance he will find great difficulty in conf, inning 
 therein. 
 
SJ)e of tl)e 
 
 Where have we this difficulty most fully des- 
 cribed? 
 
 In the penitential Psalms of David, who says of 
 himself, that “ he was brought into so great trouble and 
 misery, that he went mourning all the day long.” 
 
 What do you understand by the burning heat and 
 the icy coldness of the cross that Wayward held ? 
 
 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. 
 
 (g. What were the false lights ? 
 
 The delusions that in some sort still continued, as 
 a consequence of his former sin. 
 
 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. 
 
 (g. What was the roar of the lion that he always con- 
 tinued to hear ? 
 
 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 
 
S:i)e ^j^aboto of tl)e ©rojs^jj 
 
 that the evil spirit, when it is gone ont of a man, will 
 return again with seven other spirits more wicked than 
 itself, and endeavour to gain possession of its former 
 home. Did Wayward finally escape his snares ? 
 
 It is left in uncertainty. 
 
 It is so. ^Tien we lose sight of him he is doing 
 well ; and we trust that God may be pleased to accom- 
 plish the good work that He has begun in him : but our 
 hope can never be unmingled with alarm. Hew trials 
 and new dangers ever keep spinging 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 condition affords ? 
 
 The comparatively peaceful end of those, 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 endeavour 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? 
 
 Yes ; for the stain even of the rose-leaf might be 
 seen on the white garments of Mirth, and there was a 
 
 F 
 
^l)aboto of tl)e 
 
 sadness on his countenance when a butterfly with its 
 golden wings flew across his path. 
 
 How then is that stain and how is that sorrow to 
 he 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 hereafter. 
 
 % Why is it, that in the garden, the cross is always 
 spoken of as casting a shadow ? 
 
 Because religion seems to take away their bright- 
 ness from the various objects that we desire in this world. 
 
 Yes. Our Christian profession may truly be re- 
 presented 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 colouring 
 will no longer exist, the cross itself will be aU in all, and 
 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 
 
Sl)e ^l)a:boto of tlje Ctrojejjgj 
 
 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 
 have been gloomy and dull, or soft and beautiful, will all 
 once more be united together, and enjoy perpetual rest 
 and felicity in the presence of their Saviour. 
 
licxts fr0m 3§0 Ib Scripture 
 
 [The following and similar passages of Scripture may he impressed 
 on the minds of children, by pointing out their connexion udth 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 he horn of water and of the 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 
 
Slje of tlje 
 
 desh, but tbe answer of a good conscience towards God) 
 by tbe resurrection of Jesus Christ.” 1 Pet. iii. 21. 
 
 “God is faithful, who wiU 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 aU my 
 fathers were.” Psalm xxxix. 12. 
 
 “ For they that say such things declare plainly that 
 they seek a country.” Heb. xi 14. 
 
 “ But now they desire a better country, that is, an hea- 
 venly : 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. 
 
^l)aboto of tl)e 
 
 “ Trust in the Lord with all thine heart ; and lean not 
 unto thine own understanding. In all thy w^ays ac- 
 knowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” Prov. 
 hi. 5, 6. 
 
 Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths 
 are peace.” Prov. hi. 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 xxih. 4. 
 
 “ I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, ‘ Write, 
 Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from hence- 
 forth.’” Eev. xiv. 13. 
 
 “ But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, 
 concerning them with 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 mourning, 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 counten- 
 ance the heart is made better.” Eccl. vii. 2, 3. 
 
 “ Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgetli 
 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. 
 
Sl^e ^l)aiioto of tl)e (Iro^^Jg^ 
 
 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 
 r saw the prosperity of the wicked.” Psalm Ixxiii. 2, 3. 
 
 The way of the wicked is as darkness ; 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 established. 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. Por godly sorrow worketh repentance to salva- 
 tion, 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 com- 
 forted.” Matt. V. 4. 
 
 ‘‘ A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.” 
 James i. 8. 
 
<^I)atiotD of tl)e (Iroisjf 
 
 " So they did eat, and were well filled : for 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.” Psa. Ixxviii. 29, 31. 
 
 “ Take heed, brethren, lest there he 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 he hardened through the deceitfulness of 
 sin.” Heh. 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. 
 
 “Por such are false apostles, deceitful workers, trans- 
 forming themselves into the apostles of Christ. And no 
 marvel ; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel 
 ofHght.” 2 Cor. xi 13, 14. 
 
 “ Hypocrites ! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, 
 which indeed appear beautiful outward, hut are within 
 full of dead men’s bones, and of aU uncleanness. Even 
 so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, hut 
 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 
 
2tl)e ot tl()e 
 
 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 de- 
 struction 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. 
 
 “To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgive- 
 nesses, 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 
 a sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from 
 death, and shall hide a multitude of sins." Jam. v. 19, 20. 
 
5tl)e ^l)aboto of tl)e (IrojJjs; 
 
 “ 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 wiU come after me, let him deny him- 
 self, and take up his cross, and follow me. Lor 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 of thine 
 anger ; neither is there any rest in my bones because of 
 my sin. Lor 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 mourn- 
 ing all the day long.” Psalm xxxviii. 3, 4, 6, 6. 
 
 ‘‘Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse 
 me from my sin ; for I acknowledge 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, 0 God, thou wilt not despise.” 
 Psalm li. 17. 
 
 “Lor the Lord will not cast off for ever; but though 
 he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to 
 the multitude of his mercies.” Lam. iii. 31, 32. 
 
Sl)e ^J)atioto of tl)e (!Lxo&^ 
 
 “ Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright : for 
 the end of that man is peace.” Psalm xxxvii. 37. 
 
 “If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, 0 Lord, 
 who shall stand? but there is forgiveness 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 showed 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 precious, even like unto a jasper stone clear as 
 crystal.” Eev. 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.” Eev. xxi. 3, 4. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS 
 
 I will lift up mine eyes zmto the hills ^ from whence cojneth my help, 
 help cometh from the Lord., which made heaven and earth. 
 
 1 Psalm cxxi. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME FKOM MOBN TILL EVE, 
 
 FOE, WITHOUT THEE I CANNOT LIVE : 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME WHEN NIGHT IS NIGH, 
 
 FOE WITHOUT THEE I DAEE NOT DIE. 
 
 I T 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, hut 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 with- 
 out some friendly hand to guide their steps ; yet they 
 were afraid to call out for assistance, lest the wild beasts 
 that howled around might be attracted 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 
 
®f)e pi^Jtant 
 
 were startled by hearing the footsteps 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 understood the mean- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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. How, 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 
 
SI}e pi^Jtant 
 
 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 children, 
 and that their names Avere Ehoda and Minna; he 
 promised also that if they Avould 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 Avhat 
 they saw. Ehoda 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 
 fiowers 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 moun- 
 tains my Father has his dwelling-place, and you, from 
 this hour, must learn to look upon them as your home. 
 
PijsJtant HilU 
 
 Thousands and thousands of happy children are living 
 there ; they already regard you as members of the same 
 family as themselves, and at this 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. 
 
 Ehoda 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 ctiildrei;i; I can- 
 not 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 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, 
 
^\)t pijstant ‘gilljSp 
 
 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 require 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, 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 
 aflbrd 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 
 

Sl}e 
 
 yolir love : if any trouble or affliction befall 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 latter, a long night will succeed it. You will 
 then feel your eyes grow heavy, and a deep sleep, that 
 you cannot 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 no evil shall befall 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 brightness of an 
 everlasting day.” 
 
 The stranger paused a little while, that the hearts of 
 the sisters might indulge in those glad and grateful feel- 
 ings 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 beautiful 
 mountains in the east, and with sadder ac(‘-ents again 
 
®l)e pi^tant HilU 
 
 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 wiU. 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 opportunity 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 your 
 
5n)e pijJtant 
 
 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, liiy 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 wandered from the spot 
 where he had placed them, to think of him, and witli 
 sorrowful hearts to play upon these flutes, that so they 
 might be brought back to it again ; for that though they 
 were afar off, and there 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. 
 
 How, as Ehoda and Minna raised their eyes to thank 
 him for his gift and promise, they found they were alone. 
 
SU)e pijsJtant ||Uljs» 
 
 He liad already left them, and was gone to the distant 
 hills. 
 
 The sisters stood for a little while, holding each othei 
 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 fqr 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. 
 
 Ehoda was the first to endeavour to set this feeling 
 aside. Look, sister,” she said, '' at that dark moulder- 
 ing 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. Eemember 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 
 
5II)e pi^tant ^ill^ 
 
 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 dis- 
 tant 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 upon the mountains was stirred by 
 a gentle breeze, and a strain of far sweeter melody was 
 wafted back to the children. Then Ehoda 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 tlieir song. 
 
 For the few finst 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 
 
a:i)e pi^tant lill^ 
 
 already grew there ; many of the most beautiful withered 
 at their touch, and there were thorns concealed in others 
 which tore their hands ; but so light and joyous were 
 the hearts of the children, that each little pain and dis- 
 appointment was no sooner felt than it was forgotten. 
 Sometimes, they would weave sweet garlands, and play- 
 fully 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 permitted to dwell; and, while she medi- 
 tated 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 Ehoda, 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 who already dwelt upon the distant hills. Ehoda 
 never refused to accompany her sister ; but she seemed 
 to raise her eyes more languidly towards the east, and to 
 listen less gladly than Minna to the answering melody 
 
a:f)e lUU 
 
 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 differ- 
 ence 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 dangerous, and was very careful lest her 
 affections might be carried away by the pleasures which 
 she was allowed to enjoy. Thus she would often stop in 
 tlie midst of her play, and raise her eyes, to be quite sure 
 she was still in sight of the distant hills ; when the flow- 
 ers 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 cap- 
 tivated with the gladness of their song. Eut it was not 
 tlms with PJioda : during the time passed in amusement 
 
%\)t pi^tant lill^ 
 
 the distant hills were forgotten, and she would probably, 
 in her eagerness, have more than once lost sight of them 
 altogether, 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 ; but the sun continued quietly on its course till 
 the fresh breeze of the morning had given Avay 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 disap- 
 pointment. The spot on v/hich 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 in- 
 terest, nay, the air itself was too hot and oppressive to 
 suffer them to play. Their very listlessness prevented 
 
5n)e 
 
 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 favourite tree, while each gave way to her own 
 sad and discontented thoughts. 
 
 Minna looked from time to time, not on the hills 
 themselves, hut 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 some- 
 thing more ; she was half disposed to murmur that the 
 glories of the summit of the mountain should still be 
 concealed from her view ; and as she watched the cloud 
 with this feeling, it seemed to fall lower, and to grow 
 darker than before. 
 
 Ehoda, 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 by time, few who looked at it from a dis- 
 
5TI)e pijsitant HilljsJ 
 
 tance would Lave 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 ad- 
 miration of Ehoda, 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 momen- 
 tary 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 half-concealed beneath the leaves of the ivy. Ehoda 
 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 Ehoda ; 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 Ehoda. Be- 
 fore, 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, “ indeed we must go no farther, we cannot do so 
 without losing sight of our happy home.” Now, Ehoda 
 was one step in advance of her sister, ajid 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 ]\Iinna replied, '' Supposi-g 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.” 
 
 H 
 
5tl)e pi^tant 
 
 Still Elioda was not satisfied. Sister,” she said, 
 ''from the spot where the stranger left ns we have 
 writclied 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 alto- 
 gether disappear during the little while we are away.” 
 " But why,” answered Minna, " why should we needlessly 
 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, 
 remember what he told us of 'the difficulties of a return. 
 We do not, indeed, know v/hat they are ; hut 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 por- 
 tion 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 deadening 
 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. Ehoda heard it, and her 
 
3:i)e piistant ftlU 
 
 heart was moved. The heavenly music had more effect 
 upon her than even the affectionate 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 
 liaste they had made, but the mountain 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 rejoicing at their 
 return. 
 
djw£0timts on Chapter i 
 
 AVhat 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. 
 
 Who was the stranger that delivered them from 
 the dangers to which they were exposed ? 
 
 Jesus Christ our Saviour. 
 
 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. 
 
 AVhat is meant by the river, at the boundary of 
 the wood ? 
 
 The waters of Holy Baptism, through which Jesus 
 Christ vouchsafes, as it were, to carry us in his arms 
 from the state of nature to the state of grace. 
 
 What other effect had the waters upon the 
 children, besides washing away the stains from their 
 i^arments ? 
 
 o 
 

 It removed tlieir* weariness, and gave them new 
 vigour and strength. 
 
 In the same way, also. Holy Baptism not only 
 purifies us from past sins, but endues us Avith the 
 strength of the Holy Spirit, to enable us to Avalk in 
 newmess of life. Why did the stranger tell them that 
 they were now the adopted children of his Father ? 
 
 Because by Baptism we are made members of 
 Christ and children of God. 
 
 And what were those distant hills in the east, that 
 He then pointed out to them ? 
 
 A- Their inheritance in heaven. 
 
 Who Avere the happy family that already dwelt 
 there ? 
 
 A- The holy angels. 
 
 Why is it said that a cloud coA^ered the top of tlie 
 mountains ? 
 
 |l. Because we cannot understand the joys of heaven. 
 
 Yes; though much has been revealed to us by our 
 Saviour, there is stiU very much that we cannot yet 
 realize in that blessed state for Avhich Ave are pre- 
 paring. We must still be content to see in part, and 
 know in part, and exercise the Aurtues of faith and hope. 
 What is signified by the place in Avliich the stranger left 
 the children ? 
 
5n)e J0ij5ta:nt Hill^ 
 
 Thx6 churcli upon eartli. 
 
 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 that were to elapse before his return? 
 
 |l. The day is the period of life — the night, the period 
 that will elapse between death and judgment. 
 
 Why are they said to be of uncertain 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, represent the 
 several periods of childhood, youth, and age. The sun- 
 shine 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. 
 
 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. 
 
Sl)e px^tant filljs 
 
 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. 
 
 Q. What is meant by the ground the children were to 
 cultivate, and the flowers they were allowed to gather ? 
 
 The occupations and pleasures which it has pleased 
 God to give us in this life, and which only become dan- 
 gerous when we so dwell upon them that they draw 
 away our minds from thoughts of our Saviour. 
 
 What is signified by the ruined wall ? 
 
 The world. 
 
 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 re- 
 member 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 v/ere 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. 
 
5H)e pii^tant HilU 
 
 yet, by seeking that world, and by a neglect of the 
 Gospel promises, they may forfeit all those jjrivileges 
 that their baptism was intended to bestow. Now, why 
 were the children forbidden 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 pros- 
 pect of the distant hills. 
 
 <^. Eemember, 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 What do you understand by this ? 
 
 That those whom death finds with their affections 
 set upon the world, will perish everlastingly in the day 
 of judgment, when the world and the lust thereof shall 
 pass away. 
 
 What is signified by the flutes that were left 
 with the children ? 
 
 The gift of prayer, and other means of holding 
 communion with God. 
 
SI)e pijstant 
 
 Q. 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 employ- 
 ment 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 ? 
 
 Is it because during our infancy and childhood 
 we cannot clearly see the dangers of the world ? 
 
 AVe not only cannot see its dangers, but we can- 
 not even understand the nature of many of its tempta- 
 tions. God hides, as it were, from little cliildren 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 Bhoda and Minna passed the morning ? 
 
 They were alloAved to enjoy quietly the pleasures 
 of childhood, and neither of them neglected the outward 
 exercises of religion. 
 
a:i)e luu 
 
 So far they were both alike. What was the real 
 difference between them ? 
 
 The heart of Minna was with Christ, that of Ehoda 
 inclined to the unknown vanities of the world. 
 
 Yes ; and in this way, sisters who are brought up 
 together, receive the same instructicns, say the same 
 prayers, attend the same church, and whose daily occu- 
 pations seem to be exactly alike, may already have 
 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 ? 
 
 That in our youth the world offers many allure- 
 ments 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 Ehoda became exposed. 
 
 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? 
 
5H)e pijsJtant HUU 
 
 Because, although she was not, like her sister, 
 coveting the forbidden pleasures of this life, she was 
 dissatisfied with her indistinct 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Yes ; and she observed this in consequence 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 dis- 
 cover at once when they are about to lose sight of 
 their promised home. How do you understand the 
 arguments by which Minna tried to pursuade Ehoda to 
 hasten back to the spot where they had been left ? 
 
 She reminded her that the day might close sud- 
 
5tf)e pijstant 
 
 denly, meaning that though they were young and 
 healthy, death might at any moment take them by sur- 
 prise, and that after death it would be impossible for 
 them to recover the bright prospect which they had lost. 
 
 Why did she say that the hill was increasing in 
 steepness behind them ? 
 
 Because the return to virtue becomes more and 
 more laborious the longer we defer it. 
 
 You know what is meant by her playing upon her 
 
 flute ? 
 
 That she offered a sincere and earnest prayer for 
 herself and her sister, which God in his mercy heard 
 and answered. 
 
 AVhat do you understand by the tears of Ehoda 
 preventing her seeing any longer the dangerous wall ? 
 
 Sorrow for her past transgressions removed for a 
 time the temptation to further sin. 
 
 AVhy is it said that, when the children had re- 
 turned from their Avandering, there Avere strains of 
 unusual gladness in the music of the distant hills ? 
 
 Because we are told that there is joy in heaven in 
 the presence of the angels of God over the penitent 
 
 sinner. 
 
CHAPTEE II 
 
 STSTEES IN BLOOD AND NUBTURE TOO 
 ALIENS IN HEART WILL OFTEN PROVE ; 
 
 ONE LOSE, THE OTHER KEEP HEAVEN’s CLUE ; 
 
 ONE DWELL IN WRATH, AND ONE IN LOVE. 
 
 4 
 
 TT was only for a little while that the two sisters 
 shared the same feelings of thankfulness and joy : 
 no sooner had the first excitement passed away, than 
 Ehoda 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 Avhich she was unable to distinguish from the 
 spot where the stranger had left her. The more she 
 pictured them to herself, the more beautiful she fancied 
 they must be ; and she half regretted that she liad not 
 gone on to examine them when slie 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 !' 
 These thoughts would, doubtless, 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 uninterrupted 
 a sunshine, that they had almost forgotten to be thank- 
 ful 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, sister,’’ she said, “ how gloomy 
 and threatening 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 sun- 
 shine 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 ; and 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 
 
5n)c ||Ul)s; 
 
 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 Ehoda exclaimed, '‘The rain is slanting 
 
5H)e pi^tant 
 
 from the east, we shall escape it under the shadow of 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. Ehoda 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 Ehoda 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 clung to them, offered 
 an effectual protection from the rain. Minna crept be- 
 neath 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 
 
5ri)e pijjtant 
 
 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 slie 
 loved her very dearly, and she now feared that she never 
 might behold her again. Alas ! ’’ she said, these showers 
 
 may perhaps continue until sleep steals upon Ehoda 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 affection for her kind protector, and in gazing 
 steadfastly on her future home. The sky did indeed look 
 black and lowering, but one shining cloud there was, which 
 was only rendered the more bright and beautiful by the 
 surrounding 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 
 
 I 
 
Sl)e pi^tant 
 
 no difficulty in finding the shelter she sought. The 
 wall was sufficiently high to afford a complete protec- 
 tion 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 moulder- 
 ing ruin. She forgot all the beautiful objects that she 
 had so lately longed to see; her head turned giddy 
 with the strong scent of flowers, and the buzzing of 
 insects, and other strange murmurings that 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 lihoda 
 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 
 
5II)e l^ilU 
 
 crimson mosses very near, and they were so unlike any- 
 thing 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 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 alto- 
 gether 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 Ehoda 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 refnge, 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 Aveeds, 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 into a chaplet, and entwined it in 
 
5n}e HUU 
 
 her hair. Alas ! she knew not tliat 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 Ehoda 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, Ehoda 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 confused 
 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 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 
 
©1)0 pi^;tant |T)ilU 
 
 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 themselves during the storm, now crept forth 
 from their lurking places, to bask in the sunshine. 
 Ehoda 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 an easy prize, and advanced 
 gently to take it in her hand; but, as she was approach- 
 ing, 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. Ehoda foUowed 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 Ehoda. She crept onward to the 
 spot, and looking cautiously among the branches, was 
 
5H)e piiE^tant liilU 
 
 just able to distinguish the object of her search. ^‘Ah, 
 silly creature,” thouglit she, ‘‘you Hatter 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. 
 
 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 Ehoda 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 project- 
 ing stone beyond her reach. Without a moment’s hesi- 
 tation, 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 tlie 
 lizard. This time it made no effort to escape, and the 
 
S:i)e IBijstant UtlU 
 
 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 unhappy 
 child was crushed and bruised beneath its weight, and, 
 as she attempted to rise, she found that her ankle had 
 been sprained violently by her fall. She had just suffi- 
 cient 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, Khoda 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 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 found- 
 ations were giving way. The child awoke in an agony 
 
©1)0 piistant HilU 
 
 of alarm. She imagined the night must have alread} 
 passed, and that the new morning had arrived, and she 
 expected 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 en- 
 tered the tower. She took it with fear and trembling, 
 and raised it to her lips, with an anxious wish that her 
 kind j)rotector 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 Ehoda. She paused, 
 however, after she had advanced a few steps ; for much 
 as she loved her sister, she was afraid to venture in the 
 neighbourliood of the wall ; but as she raised her eyes 
 towards the east, a new and glorious vision was open 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 steadfastly on her future 
 home, she proceeded downward on her task of love. 
 
 When she reached her sister, after tenderly embracing 
 
pijstant 
 
 her, she tore a^^'ay from her garments all the strange 
 shrubs and flowers that had been gatliered from the 
 wall. To Minna their smell was like that of the dead- 
 liest poisons, and such in truth they were. Ehoda 
 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 indeed 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 sprain in her 
 ankle. More than once she was tempted to stand still, 
 or to throw herself despairingly upon the ground. But 
 the ascent was so steep and slipperly, that she felt, if 
 she once ceased moving forward, she must slide back 
 again to the ruin; and, while she recollected its dan- 
 gerous 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 lie found them both 
 perishing in the wood ; but her own strength was fai* 
 too feeble for so great an effort ; she was only able now 
 and then to assist and guide her steps, and ever to 
 
<ri}e pi^taut HilU 
 
 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 Ehoda 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 as- 
 cent, until the outline of the hills themselves appeared 
 above the summit of the wall. Here her apprehensions 
 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 ankle should cease. It was 
 in vain that Minna entreated her to go bn a few steps 
 farther, that so they might rest on the very spot where 
 the stranger had left 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 in her eyes, as she now had time to 
 
SCIje pi^tant Hilb 
 
 observe the change in Ehoda’s appearance that her wan- 
 derings had produced. Not 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 remembered, with a sigh, that there was no re- 
 turning 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 Ehoda, and so soothe her suffer- 
 ings 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 sistei carried that in her 
 bosom which would cause those freshening winds to 
 blow upon her in vain. 
 
Questions on Cliaptci* II 
 
 What is meant by the morning sunshine which 
 the children expected to continue throughout the day ? 
 
 The peace and happiness of their early years, 
 which caused them to forget that trials might await 
 them in after life. 
 
 What is the approach of the storm ? 
 
 The coming of a time of trouble. 
 
 Why are we told that the spot on which Ehoda 
 and Minna stood was more than any other exposed to 
 the wind and rain ? 
 
 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 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 faitliful 
 disciples, we must be content to endure many trials and 
 
5fl)e pi^tant Hillj5 
 
 afflictions which we- might avoid at once by forsaking 
 Him, and conforming ourselves to the world. Now, 
 what effect had the storm on Ehoda ? 
 
 She took shelter beneath the dangerous wall. 
 
 What effect had it upon Minna ? 
 
 She remained on the spot where she had been 
 left, and played upon her flute. 
 
 Observe, then, that the very same trial caused one 
 sister to seek refuge in the world, the other to have re- 
 course to prayer ; and the reason was, that the one in 
 her heart loved the things of the world, while the other 
 loved God. AVhat 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 assistance, and patiently 
 wait for it. 
 
 Yes, and will often, in the most unexpected 
 manner, raise up a defence and protection to those who 
 in quietness and confidence put their trust in Him. 
 WTiat is signified by the uneasiness and fears of Ehoda, 
 when first she found refuge beneath the ruin ? 
 
 The consciousness of having done wrong, and the 
 dread of punishment. 
 
 AVhy did she not at once hasten back ? 
 

 Because slie had not resolution to face the storm, 
 from which the wall afforded her protection. 
 
 That is to say, she was anxious for that peace of 
 mind which religion alone could afford her, hut 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. 
 
 What is signified by the moss which Ehoda 
 plucked from the ruin ? 
 
 Some sinful pleasure in which she deliberately 
 indulged. 
 
 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 pro- 
 gress 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 
 
5Cl)e 
 
 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 Ehoda the more 
 unwilling to quit the wall ? 
 
 It means that prosperity only afforded her fresh 
 temptations to continue in sin ? 
 
 What do you understand by her pursuit after the 
 lizard ? 
 
 That some evil passion, which she was resolved to 
 gratify, led her on through a long course of wickedness. 
 
 What is meant by her throwing down her flute ? 
 
 That she gave up the outward form of praying to 
 
 God. 
 
 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 posses- 
 sion of the lizard ? 
 
 That no sooner had she gratified her evil passion, 
 than it pleased God to visit her sin with an immediate 
 punishment. 
 
Slje pi^tant Hill^ 
 
 What effect had this upon Ehoda ? 
 
 |l. She hurried away from the ruined tower, and then 
 sank upon the ground. 
 
 From this we are to understand that the judgment 
 which God sent in mercy, while 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 ? 
 
 The Avorking of God’s Holy Spirit in her heart. 
 
 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 Ehoda Avithout 
 losing sight of the distant hills ? 
 
 She saw them reflected in the sky. 
 
 From this, then, we are to learn, that if Ave seek 
 the company of sinners, with the sincere desire of bring- 
 ing them back to the way of life, God will not suffer the 
 evil we are forced to behold to hinder our contempla- 
 tion of the joys of heaven. What do you understand by 
 Minna tearing away the shrubs and flowers from the 
 garments of her sister ? 
 
 She persuaded her to renounce her Avorldly plea- 
 sures. 
 
 Q. What is signified by the bruises and the sprain, 
 
5tl)e pijs;tattt 
 
 which caused the ascent from the wall to be so painful 
 to Ehoda ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Yes, it will not do to halt in the path of repent- 
 ance ; 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. 
 
 What is signified by Ehoda sitting down to rest 
 as soon as the distant hills appeared 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 
 
5Cl)e JBijEJtant liilU 
 
 grow in grace, and devote tier whole heart to the service 
 of Christ. 
 
 What was the consequence of this 1 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued her struggle against sin, she saw heaven; but 
 labour and painful watchfulness were the only means 
 by which God as yet permitted her to behold it; no 
 sooner did she venture to rest, than, though she re- 
 mained 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 punish- 
 ment removed. We are then, like Ehoda, tempted to 
 give way to the presumptuous thought, that we have 
 done enough, and may rest a little while before we en- 
 deavour 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 ? 
 
 A. Yes. He tells us that, when the evil spirit has 
 
®l)e pi^tant 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 ONCE GAIN THE MOUNTAIN TOP AND THOU ART FREE, 
 
 TILL THEN WHO REST PRESUME, WHO TURN TO LOOK ARE LOST. 
 
 T he pain in Ehoda’s ankle began to subside after 
 sbe bad remained a few minutes under tbe tree ; 
 still sbe made no effort to resume tbe ascent; sbe 
 seemed to be sitting in a kind of dreamy state ; her eyes 
 were turned vacantly towards tbe dangerous wall, while 
 every now and then her hands moved to and fro over 
 her garments, as though sbe 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 Ehoda once had loved to wear, but her 
 sight 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 fra- 
 grance or beauty. 
 
5C!)e px^tant 
 
 Still Minna would not forsake her sister; and at 
 length, by her earnest entreaties, she persuaded her to 
 rise. Khoda even then appeared to hesitate whether to 
 recede or advance, hut 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 
 
®I)e pijJtant HUU 
 
 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 flxed them steadfastly on the wall. 
 
 Minna could hardly suppress her tears of disappoint- 
 ment, but she made one more attempt to move the heart 
 of Ehoda; 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. Ehoda raised her flute to her lips, 
 but the notes that proceeded from it were very harsh 
 and full of discord, when compared with tlie 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 baclcward towards the 
 forbidden wall; from this spot you may behold the 
 beautiful mountains ; see how noble is their outline, and 
 
5tl)e pijJtant HilU 
 
 how lovely the tints that are now shed upon them by 
 the western sun ! Only gaze on them steadfastly, and 
 our kind protector 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 Ehoda replied, “ Sister, in the 
 morning I loved v/ith 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 shadov^^ of 
 the wall.” 
 
 As she said this she pressed her garment more closely 
 to her bosom, and immediately the lizard, that she had 
 concealed there, came forth from its lurking-place and 
 looked wistfully around. Minna uttered a scream of 
 
5tl)e pijstant |5ill^ 
 
 surprise and terror. Oh, Ehoda!” she exclaimed, 
 '‘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 softness, 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. 
 Ehoda 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 pluck it out, and throw it from you, 
 and open your bosom to the mountain breeze.” 
 
 Ehoda 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 the 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 
 
5tl)e pi)s;tattt HilU 
 
 by her sister’s voice, and seemed as though it longed to 
 return to her, but was afraid to venture. All Ehoda’s 
 better thoughts passed away in a moment, she struggled 
 to withdraw her hand, and impatiently exclaimed, Ton 
 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, and reminded 
 her how much of the day was already gone. Ehoda 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 Ehoda, in her struggles to escape, began to drag 
 her also down the slope, that she Avas forced to release 
 her hold. She raised her eyes, and saw that the image 
 
S:i)c pijJtant Hill 
 
 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. 
 
 Ehoda’s path downward proved very smooth 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 hurry- 
 ing along its side until Ehoda again entered the ruined 
 tower and was hidden from her view. 
 
 She then turned away and felt very sorrowful; 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 dangerous state. 
 

 Ehoda was resolved to follow it ; her path, indeed, was 
 no longer smooth and 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 sensation of alarm. She had come she 
 knew not whither, and it seemed hopeless to think of 
 retracing her steps. Her flute was gone ; 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 
 
5Tl}e pijstant 
 
 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 Ehoda 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 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 
 Ehoda, for she could not weep for it. Her delight in 
 
5Cl)e pijsitattt |^xlU 
 
 its former beauty was now succeeded by a feeling of 
 horror ; she turned away her face, and said within her- 
 self, “Is it, then, for this perishable object that I have 
 gone through so many dangers, and abandoned the hope 
 of my promised home V 
 
 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 
 intermediate space between them; the stones slipped 
 under the feet of Ehoda every step that she took ; fear 
 inspired her with a momentary 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. 
 
^ttcstioits on €ho|jtfr III 
 
 Why is it said, that as Ehoda 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 con- 
 tinued gratification of evil passions, that she could no 
 longer take delight in simple and innocent amusements. 
 
 Q. Yes. This is one punishment which is sure to 
 foUow the long indulgence of sin. 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 remain so as to unfit them for many pleasures 
 which they might otherwise have enjoyed. How did 
 Minna try to comfort her sister ? 
 
Sl)e HilU 
 
 She persuaded her to play upon her flute, and to 
 v/atch the distant hills, and welcome the eastern breeze. 
 
 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 occupations 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 Ehoda 
 did play upon her flute, it produced no echo among the 
 distant hills ? 
 
 Because, when she prayed to God with her lips, 
 her heart was far from Him, and, therefore, her prayer 
 was unanswered. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 A- 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. 
 
 How is the secret sin that she cherished represented 
 in the allegory ? 
 
ei)c HUU 
 
 By the moss and the lizard that she had concealed, 
 in her bosom. 
 
 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 necessity of self-examination 
 and earnest prayer to 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 Ehoda, 
 we wilfully cherish some one sinful affection, however 
 trifling it may seem. What is signified by the lizard 
 coming forth from its lurking-place ? 
 
 A- That a new temptation brought to light the evil 
 passion that lurked in the bosom of Ehoda. 
 
 What is meant by her resolution to caress the 
 lizard once more before she parted with it for ever ? 
 
 A- She determined that she would once again taste 
 the pleasure of sin before she finally renounced it. 
 
 Q. Thus Satan often makes men believe that thev 
 
 L 
 
©1)0 HUU 
 
 are about to indulge in some favourite sin for tlie last 
 time, and does not allow them to see liow far in the 
 ways of wickedness that one indulgence may lead them 
 Why is it said that Ehoda 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 difficult 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 Ehoda 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 ? 
 
 It does so. Many have found, with Ehoda, 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 followed out those crooked and dangerous 
 ways for which they were persuaded to leave it. What 
 
Sl}e 53i^tant gilU 
 
 do you understand by the increasing darkness which 
 Ehoda observed as soon as she had caught the lizard ? 
 
 'No sooner had she gratified her evil passion, than 
 the fear of death began to steal upon her. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 shprt 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 Ehoda 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 ? 
 
 A* Because Ave have no certainty that we shaE not did 
 in childhood. 
 
pijsJtant HUU 
 
 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 Ehoda. What do you 
 understand by the death of the lizard ? 
 
 That sin lost its pleasure. 
 
 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 will 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 Ehoda, we shall look back upon them with disgust 
 and horror, and think bitterly of the fearful price at 
 which they were obtained. What is meant by her 
 sudden attempt to climb the hill from the point where 
 she was standing? 
 
 An effort to escape from the terrible judgments 
 denounced against sin. 
 
 Why, then, did she not succeed ? 
 
 A. Because she did not first of all try to have recourse 
 to prayer, and to fix her thoughts upon her Saviour. 
 
CHAPTEE lY 
 
 EVER THE RICHEST, TENDEREST GLOW, 
 
 SETS ROUND THE AUTUMNAL SUN — 
 
 BUT THERE SIGHT FAILS ; NO HEART MAY KNOW 
 THE BLISS WHEN LIFE IS DONE. 
 
 HILE Ehoda 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 pf 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 lier 
 had she persevered in the search ; but she met with 
 so many unexpected difficulties that she relinquished it 
 in despair. 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 Ehoda 
 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 resolution 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 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 
 
5n)e pijs^tant HUU 
 
 terrible thing to sit helplessly down and await so 
 miserable a fate. Ehoda 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 Ehoda felt that she was breathing poison. Mean- 
 while the flowers had lost their 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, Avhich 
 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 
 
©1)0 pijJtant |T)UU 
 
 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 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 thougli 
 to thank her for her care, until the ground assumed the 
 appearance of a garden, and the child felt more and 
 more grateful to the kind protector who had placed 
 lier 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 distant hills, and longed for those 
 brighter flowers which blossomed there but could not 
 fade. 
 
 Minna had left these peaceful occupations for a little 
 while in order to assist Ehoda 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 Ehoda, she wept bitterly 
 and was very sorrowful. It was in vain that she 
 returned to the garden which she had cultivated ; lier 
 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 sympathize 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. 
 
 Sucli thoughts afforded joy and peace to Minna, even 
 
5tl)c pijstant liUljsJ 
 
 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 play- 
 ing glad songs upon her flute, and watching the beauties 
 of the surrounding view. The very same hours that 
 Ehoda 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 pro- 
 mised to watch 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 
 
5ri)t pbtant SilU 
 
 tliem, as it caught the last rays of tlie 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 cliild gradually yielded to the soothing influence 
 
5TI)e pijstant Utll^ 
 
 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 
 befall her; there were to be no more changes of joy and 
 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 
 moonbeams 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 mountains 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 enjoyed the 
 tranquillity of the night, but was dreaming all the while 
 of the life and gladness of the morning. 
 
 And Ehoda also slept, but her slumbers were very 
 different from those of Minna. There was no peaceful 
 
^\)z pijsJtant Util?; 
 
 security, no refreshing quietness in her repose. As the 
 night advanced, her features only became more wan 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 Avould see them no more ; she had 
 refused to listen to the heavenly music, and she would 
 never be allow^ed 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, and she was now forced to sleep be- 
 neath it until it should give way and crush her by its fall. 
 
 Minna and PJioda 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. 
 
^ucj5tt0ns 0ti Chapter 113 
 
 AVhat do you understand by Rlioda 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 By these, then, we are to understand those tempt- 
 ations 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 evening 
 of life to turn themselves unro 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 himseK will stir up in 
 
lUl^ 
 
 their hearts. What is meant by Ehoda taking shelter 
 in the crevice of the wall ? 
 
 She gave herself over to despair. 
 
 (g. 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. 
 
 Eemember, then, that wilful and unrepented 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 themselves, 
 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 Ehoda 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 over- 
 powered her, and she sank beneath the ruin. 
 
 M 
 
gtl|}e pijstant 
 
 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 Ehoda 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 hardened, 
 so that she found no place for repentance, 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 ? 
 
 That she learned from adversity to seek pleasure 
 in doing good to others. 
 
 And why are we told that the flowers she loved 
 best still withered and died ? 
 
 It is because in this life not even charity itself 
 can secure us from disappointment. 
 
5tl)e pijEJtant 
 
 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 
 understand by the period when she gave up her employ- 
 ment in the garden ? 
 
 A. The time when sickness interrupted her earthly 
 occupations, and she was able to devote herself entirely 
 to prayer and holy meditation. 
 
 What is meant by the beauty and quietness of the 
 evening ? 
 
 A- The peaceful end of the righteous. 
 
 It is not, however, any outward peace that is here 
 referred to ; ibr 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 understand- 
 ing. 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 ? 
 
 A- 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 description of his death ; 
 it is merely written that “ he fell asleep.” Can you re- 
 
K\}Z Pbtant lill^ 
 
 collect any parable of our Saviour in wliich death is 
 spoken of as a period of sleep ? 
 
 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 gene- 
 rally said of each of them, that he slept with his 
 fathers.” Thus, then, we may regard the good and bad 
 ahke 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 con- 
 sciousness in that sleep ? 
 
 That of the rich man and Lazarus. 
 
 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 narra- 
 tive that he is in a state of consciousness. But there is 
 a passage in the book of Eevelation, which, so far as we 
 can enter into the depth of its meaning, expressly speaks 
 
SHie JBijstant HilU 
 
 of the Holy Martyrs as disturbed in their rest, by their 
 anxious longing for the day of judgment. 
 
 “ They cried with a loud voice, saying. How long, 
 0 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” 
 (Eev. vi. 10, 11.) 
 
 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, will alike have 
 their visions ; the one of hope, the other of anguish and 
 terror. How is this represented in the allegory ? 
 
 A- By the smile that rested on the features of Minna, 
 and the troubled sleep of Ehoda. 
 
 Why is it said that Ehoda could then make only 
 the imaginary efforts of a dream ? 
 
 A- Because nothing that we can do after death will 
 enable us to escape the punishment due to our sins. 
 
 Yes. It will be then impossible for us either to 
 
Slje pijitant 
 
 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, oi God gives them grace to 
 repent. That deep gulf 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 lie 
 was found. 
 
THE OLD MAN’S HOME 
 
 For they that say such things declare j^lamly that they seek a 
 country. — Heb. xi. 14. 
 

CHAPTEE 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’D FROM THE HEART. 
 
 HEEE 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 i 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 tlie convul- 
 sion to take place, in order that afterwards she might 
 bestow her gifts upon this favoured spot with a more 
 unsparing hand. The wild and picturesque 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 
 
 Christian Year 
 
5H)e ©li> llome 
 
 radiance of tlie 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 under- 
 wood, 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. 
 
 I have said that a visit to this favoured spot never 
 fails with me to have a soothing influence. 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 incident that occurred the first time 
 I visited it. 
 
Ki)t @lb lEan'js ||ome 
 
 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 cluster- 
 ing. His hair was white as silver ; his face deeply fur- 
 rowed, and yet prevaded by a general expression of 
 childish simplicity, which formed a strong contrast to the 
 lines which 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 observation which I ad- 
 dressed to him : but it related to the lateness and inclem- 
 ency of the season, and I was at once struck by the sin- 
 gularity 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 
 
®l)e ©lb Home 
 
 tone as before; 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?” 
 
 “ 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 feel- 
 ing. In order to ascertain this, I asked: “Have you 
 been long a traveller ?” 
 
 “ Fourscore and thirteen years,” he replied ; and ob- 
 serving my look of assumed wonder, he repeated a second 
 time, more slowly and sadly than before, “ Fourscore 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 
 beneath my feet; and once I laid me down and fell 
 asleep upon the way. And so more than fourscore and 
 
5Tl)e ©lb Home 
 
 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, T 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 unchanged; 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 imagination which loved to 
 wander amid the treasures of the unseen world. I pur- 
 posely, 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 
 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 ever- 
 lasting.’ They are words that I scarcely regarded at the 
 
Home 
 
 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.” 
 
 “ And are you sure, then,” I said, “ that they are all 
 gone home ?” It was a thoughtless question, and I re- 
 pented 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 
 travelling 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 pro- 
 
5n)e @lti |Eatt'js{ |^ome 
 
 longed, 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 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 ‘Blessed,’ also, ‘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 
 
 N 
 
5Tl)e @lb |Eau"s; Home 
 
 shines down from the heaven above, and gilds with its 
 radiance the dreary sea of life/’ 
 
 ‘‘ True,” I replied ; “ and the sea of life 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 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 
 
5tl)c ©lb p:an"j5 Home 
 
 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, however, 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 wais 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 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 assis- 
 tance. “ Thank you, kind sir,” he said, in his quiet way ; 
 “ but do not fear for me ; my own frail limbs could not 
 
5n)c ©lb "pome 
 
 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. 
 
CHAriEE II 
 
 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 
 
 T 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 upoh it, and robbed 
 it of its brightness, but did not really alter it. My in- 
 tercourse 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 
 more beaten track. He had yielded with apparent re- 
 luctance to my request. His unwillingness 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 
 
5n)e ©lb |Ean’^ Home 
 
 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 protection lie 
 required. We had advanced but a few hundred yards, 
 and had just reached the summit of the hill which com- 
 manded 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 sud- 
 denly broken by the creaking of a cart-wheel, which 
 grated harshly on my ear ; and almost before 1 could look 
 round, I heard a voice of rude 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 hur- 
 ried 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, 
 
©lb "gome 
 
 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 recovered myself suf- 
 ficiently 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 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 colouring 
 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 in- 
 tellect, 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 
 protection 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, 
 
Slje ©lb Home 
 
 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. 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. Imme- 
 diately on his arrival, he reprimanded him for his rude 
 treatment of the old man, and insisted on his returning 
 to the cart, and desisting from all further interference. 
 
Sl)e Home 
 
 My hopes were greatly raised by this, and I flattered 
 myself I should now have little difficulty in obtaining 
 for tlie 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 con- 
 duct 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 Eobin. 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 precaution seemed unneces- 
 sary ; for, though the old man had mechanically retained 
 his grasp 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 
 
®l^e ©lb JEatt’ji 
 
 thence. “ Sir,” he replied, in a louder voice, ‘‘ I should 
 have no more hesitation in trusting the word of poor 
 Eobin than your own. He never deceived me; and, 
 under ordinary circumstances, 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 Eobin 
 himself would not desire it.” As he said this he turned 
 towards the old man; but his countenance was un- 
 changed, his eye still fixed upon the church, and he 
 either had not heard the words at all, or they had failed 
 to convey any distinct impression to his mind. 
 
 After a pause, I again renewed my entreaties, urging 
 that it would a least be a better plan than having re- 
 course to violence, whicli must eventually produce a 
 far more serious delay. Of course,” said the attendant, 
 “ anytliing is better than having recourse to \dolence.” 
 ''Then,” said I, "you accede to my request?” "Only,” 
 replied he, with a provoking smile, " in case all other 
 methods fail ; but as 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, 
 
5n)e @lb Home 
 
 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 of real in- 
 terest, thus soothingly addressed him : — I would gladly 
 go on with you Eobin ; 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 also.’’ 
 
 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 companions, as I watched the change which they 
 produced. His features became composed, his hand 
 relaxed its hold, and his voice resumed its former tran- 
 quil 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 atten- 
 dants, no less than myself, were overawed by the solem- 
 nity of his manner. There was a silence of a few seconds, 
 during which he seemed to listen intently ; and then, as 
 
©1)0 @lb JEatt'je; |^ome 
 
 though he had heard some echo from above, which con- 
 firmed the hope that had been held out to him, he confi- 
 dently 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 re- 
 signed it to another no less gladly than he had received 
 it from me. It will not do,” said the keeper, to let 
 him have it himself : he will merely give it away to the 
 first beggar 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 dissatisfaction 
 
5H)e ©lb Home 
 
 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, 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 wuth 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 “ Hot 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 
 
SHje @lt) JEan^js Home 
 
 looked back once more, and waved his hand as he said, 
 ‘‘ Good-bye, sir. Eemember that we all are going home !” 
 They were the last words I heard him speak, and it is 
 peihaps from that cause that tliey 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 ques- 
 tion, “Am I not going home ?” 
 
 
 t 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 TWO WORLDS ARE OtTRS : TIS ONLY SIN 
 FORBIDS US TO DESCRY 
 
 THE MYSTIC HEAVEN AND EARTH WITHIN, 
 PLAIN AS THE SEA AND SKY. 
 
 Christian Year 
 
 EEY early on the following morning I proceeded 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,'’ 
 ill spite of myself, kept recurring to my mind. 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 
 
5n)e ©lb |5ome 
 
 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 approached the 
 Asylum. At the entrance, there stood a little girl, weep- 
 ing as though her heart would break. A woman, who 
 appeared to be her mother, was trying in vain to comfort 
 hei^ 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 tlie very instant I saw her, I 
 guessed the cause of her sorrow. Nor was my conjecture 
 wong: the child had dearly loved the old man, and 
 wept because he was no more. 
 
 The father of this girl was the superintendent of the 
 Asylum. He also was standing by, and offered to accom- 
 pany me througli the building. On the w^ay, 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 Eobin, 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 
 
 o" 
 
0I)e ©lb JEan'sJ Home 
 
 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 picturesque 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 conviction of poor Eobin’s 
 insanity, and even the compassionate interest with which 
 he spoke of him, all interfered with the brightness of the 
 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 Eobin had, for more 
 than half a century, been an 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 conse- 
 quence of tliis, liis property liad gradually gone to ruin, 
 
®l)e ©lb |T)otne 
 
 until at length he was consigned to a pauper asylum. 
 He had been placed there under a very different system 
 of treatment from that which now prevails. It had even 
 been thought 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 considered 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 Eobin’s wrists prove 
 him to have, at one time, undergone a very rigorous con- 
 finement ; and yet, when I came here, I found that he 
 had been long in tlie enjoyment of comparative freedom. 
 But it is a case that always perplexes me, when I think 
 of it; for the general effect of harsh treatment is to 
 render the patient more violent and intractable than 
 before; and I cannot understand from what cause the 
 change in poor Eobin's conduct could in the first instance 
 have arisen.” 
 
 Do you not think,” I asked, “ that it may have been 
 a sign of returning reason ?” He smiled at the question, 
 as he replied, So far from it, sir, that it was accom- 
 
Sl)e ©lb Home 
 
 paniecl by a new and extraordinary delusion, which never 
 afterwards entirely left him. lie 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 confinement. They say, that from the time 
 this idea once gained possession of his mind, he made no 
 further 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 
 remembered the metaphor which the old man had em- 
 ployed when the marks on his wrists had attracted my 
 attention ; and I said within myself, that it was not in- 
 deed 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 
 Piobin had soon excited observation, and strengthened 
 the belief that he must at one time have known better 
 days. It was not, however, till the milder system of 
 treatment was introduced generally into the Asylum, 
 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 
 
(TI)e ©lb Home 
 
 my conductor, often listened with wonder to the 
 various interpretations they put upon his answers. Some 
 would discover in them poetry ; some, philosophy ; some, 
 religion ; some, I know not what, according to the previ- 
 ous 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 un- 
 doubtedly mad but presently added more thoughtfully, 
 yet there was something in his peculiar kind of mad- 
 ness which I could never exactly fathom.” 
 
 I asked, whether no friend or relative had 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 feelii:g 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 
 
2H)e ©lb “lome 
 
 in an agony of grief. l>iit, 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 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 w^al^er, 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 possession 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.” 
 
SHje ©III |Han’s{ Home 
 
 I inquired, how this belief could influence others ? 
 
 Because,’’ said he, Eobin was unable to separate the 
 present from the future; and so it was part of his con- 
 fusion 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 in- 
 fluence 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 Eobin’s 
 home. The effect has been so salutary with us, that I 
 have often wished the same happy delusion could be 
 introduced generally 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 religion on the imagination, and so 
 to soothe and cheer the dreams of insanity with the hope 
 of Heaven, when my conductor again resumed the con- 
 versation. “ There was, sir,” he said, 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 
 
5n)e @lb lEan'jsJ Home 
 
 utterly unconscious that he was dependent on the parish 
 for support.” 
 
 “ Do you mean,” I asked, that he imagined some- 
 thing 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; hut 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 everything 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 
 man’s peculiarities, endeavouring to explain to 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 feel- 
 ing of self-respect, which, in all cases of insanity, it is so 
 important to preserve. But Eobin was ratlier pleased 
 than vexed at the idea of the parish providing for him. 
 Ih’esently, however, he grew bewildered, and shook his 
 
Sljc ©It) plan'?; Home 
 
 head, and said, that, after all, the parish could not pro- 
 vide 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 Kobin’s home was with 
 me sacred ground, and I would not suffer the argument 
 to proceed further.” 
 
 Another pause of some minutes followed, until I broke 
 it by inquiring whether the child that I had observed at 
 the entrance were related to the old man ? 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, no, sir,” he replied ; little Annie is my own 
 daughter, and many persons have wondered that I suf- 
 fered her to be so constantly with him. But I consider 
 the society of children to be very beneficial to the in- 
 sane ; 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 Eobin.” 
 
 “ 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 Eobin had an inex- 
 haustible stock of fairy tales, which made him a great 
 favourite with children ; and Annie would sit and listen 
 to them for hours together.” 
 
 Do yo you really mean,” I asked, in some surprise, 
 “ that they were fairy tales ?” 
 
Sriie @lb JEan’j; ^ome 
 
 Why, sir, for that matter,” he answered, “ poor Eohin 
 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 allegory: 
 and I have often traced in tlie words a double meaning, 
 of which the old man himself could hardly have been 
 conscious. But, however this may have been, is it clear 
 that they were connected with his particular mental de- 
 lusion, 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 Eobin 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 feel- 
 ing too deeply the loss of her companion to be able to 
 repeat one. There certainly was something very singu- 
 lar in her fondness for the old man, and I have often 
 been perplexed at the kind of influence he had over her. 
 She herself was sometimes a sufferer from his delusions, 
 and yet always fancied poor Eobin must be in the right, 
 and would submit to his wishes without a murmur or 
 
©I)e ©lb Home 
 
 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 
 ISTovember 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 pur- 
 chases 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 Eobin 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 Avished 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 spoke the truth, for he 
 knew no better. It was one of his peculiarities to ima- 
 gine 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 
 
Sl}e ©lb Utau’jgp ^ome 
 
 to give than to receive/'* and I repeated it rather to my- 
 self than to my companion. The words, however, caught 
 his ear, and he observed that it was very likely I had hit 
 u]3on tlie 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 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 
 
 Acts XX. 35. 
 
®l)e ©lb JHan’js Home 
 
 brother paupers, and, though no one ever thought of 
 repaying him, was just as happy as if the things re- 
 mained 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 Eobin should have been 
 at rest. 
 
CHAPTEK 
 
 THE KICHEST, TENDEREST GLOW 
 SETS ROUND Til’ AUTUMNAL SUN : 
 
 BUT THERE SIGHT FAILS ; NO HEART MAY KNOW 
 THE BLISS WHEN LIFE IS DONE. 
 
 Christian Year, 
 
 I HAVE reserved for a separate chapter that part of 
 my conversation within the walls of the As}dum, 
 winch 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 alto- 
 gether the things of sight in the things of faith. I in- 
 quired, therefore, of my companion, whether any more 
 decided symptoms of madness had ever exhibited them- 
 selves than those which he had already 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. 
 
5tl)e ©lb JEan’jJ l^onte 
 
 “ 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 w^as 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.” 
 
 It is not unlikely,” he replied ; for prayer was one 
 way in which at these seasons his madness most fre- 
 quently exhibited itself. I mean,” he added, observing 
 my look of surprise, ‘'that he did not pray like other 
 people, but w^ould 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. 
 
S^l)c @lb |?latt’^ Home 
 
 The doctor/’ resumed my conductor, considered the 
 long solitude to he so had 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, hy inquir- 
 ing how he had contrived his escape. 
 
 “ Nay,” he replied, “ it is hardly fair to 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 inten- 
 tion, 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 thouglit you were ignorant from 
 what part of the island he had been brought here.” 
 “True, sir,” he replied; “but Eobin himself 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 
 
 p 
 
5tl)e ©lb |Ea:n’j3 *§01110 
 
 southern aspect. He always said that he did not feel 
 the cold, as long as he could see his home. Now, there 
 is nothing hut 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 Under- 
 cliff. It was this circumstance which enabled him to 
 get so many miles from the Asylum before he was over- 
 taken. 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 im- 
 plored to be allowed to proceed thither, I could not 
 believe that mere accident was the cause of his journey. 
 I resolved to return thither to prosecute my inquiries ; 
 but before I left the Asylum, asked to see the room 
 which poor Eobin had occupied. 
 
 " This is it, sir,” said my conductor, as he 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 ; 
 

®I)e ©lb ||ome 
 
 and he had become so fond of his little window, and the 
 view towards th3 East, that it would have been a mis- 
 taken 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 unexpec- 
 tedly 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 
 conveyed to the mind was that of perfect tranquillity 
 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 a while 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, 
 
01)0 @lii 
 
 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, thougli 
 the full rays of the sun Avere 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, tliat 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 
 
5Tl)e @lb Home 
 
 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. Tor they that say such 
 tnings declare plainly that they seek a country. And, 
 truly, if they had been mindful of that country from 
 whence they came out, they might have had opportunity 
 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 Eobin 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. "He 
 
 Heb. xi. 13-15. 
 
S!)e @li> |^ome 
 
 took great interest in poor Eobin, and the old man 
 was grateful for it.” ''It certainly was singular,” he 
 added, thoughtfully, "that on liis 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 Eobin 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 his wish had 
 been at once indulged. " But,” he continued, " on our 
 return to the room, we found him looking more Eght 
 and cheerful than we had ever before seen him; and 
 when I congratulated him, he said that it was no wonder, 
 
2'l}e lEan’js Home 
 
 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 my 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 Eobin 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 chaplains 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.” 
 
 My companion shook his head as he replied, “I believe, 
 sir, Eobin 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 no- 
 thing 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 approach of death. JSuch 
 cases are not of uncommon occurrence.” 
 
5T!)e ©III Home 
 
 I could not help thinking that, in spiritual things, 
 poor Eobin had not needed its light; but I made no 
 further reply ; and my companion resumed his narrative. 
 
 “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 afterwards 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, 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 con- 
 tinued, “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 Eobin 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. 
 
5n)e ©lb ^ome 
 
 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 wdiich these words were pro- 
 nounced, convinced me that he was no less touched 
 than myself by the contemplation of the outward tran- 
 quillity 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 carried 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 com- 
 panion, 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 nov/. A report spread among 
 them this morning that Eobin 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?” 
 
 Hot 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 
 
01)0 ©lb lEan'js Home 
 
 voice exclaimed in reply, ‘ Happy, happy Eobin, to be 
 taken home!’” 
 
 Still I observed that I had remarked on the coun- 
 tenance of many of the patients an expression of sad- 
 ness. 
 
 ‘‘ True,” he answered, for with them the transition of 
 feeling from joy to grief is very rapid. They are not, 
 however, sorrowing for poor Eobin, 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 Eobin 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,” I added, 
 ''they would find in the thanksgivings 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 mans death 
 
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 liad been in perfect harmony with his life, and that 
 poor Eobin was rightly rejoiced over and rightly 
 mourned. 
 
 j\Iy account of my visit to the Asylum has already 
 far exceeded the limits which 1 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 Eobin 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 teU of the way in which his enemies 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 imagination.” 
 
©lb p:an*jEJ Home 
 
 ‘'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 possession 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 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 conversation, 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 enhsted 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 
 
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 of the question, and replied, “ I know what you mean, 
 sir, — she was then made the soldier and servant of 
 Christ." 
 
 ‘‘ Yes," I added, and entered into a solemn engage- 
 ment to fight manfully under His banner, against sin, 
 the world, and the Devil." 
 
 ‘"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 Eobins madness seemed 
 principally to consist in his regarding metaphors as 
 realities, and realities as metaphors. The difference be- 
 tween 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 farther reply, for my own thoughts grew 
 perplexed, as I tried to determine with myself what 
 were truths and realities, and what merely shadows and 
 metaphors, of the things pertaining to our present 
 existence. 
 
CHAPTEE V 
 
 OH, BLISS OF CHTLD-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 
 
 HE rooms of the Asylum were hot and close, and 
 
 as the outer door opened, it was verj^ pleasant 
 to escape from them into the fresh, open air. While 
 we did so, my mind experienced 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 narrative 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 pro- 
 ceeded from little Annie. She was standing 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. 
 
Q 
 
©1)0 ©lb JEan’i^ Home 
 
 It is of no use/’ said her mother, as we approached ; 
 the poor child will fret herself into a fever, and I can- 
 not persuade her to come away. She does nothing hut 
 beg and entreat to be allowed to see poor Eobin again. 
 I really believe it will be the best way to take her to his 
 cell." 
 
 It must not be," rejjlied 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 caimot suffer it now. It 
 is singular," he added, turning to me with a look of 
 vexation, ‘‘ that I sliould have found less difficulty in 
 quieting the complaints of all the mourners for poor 
 Eobin 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 
 
©lb lEan'jS ‘^ome 
 
 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 child-like 
 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?” 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 enjoyment 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 colouring deeply, “ if we are careful to keep in the 
 path that leads to it.” 
 
 “ And what path is that, Annie ?” 
 
®l)e ©lb |ttan'jE{ ?5ome 
 
 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, 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 con- 
 tinued : “ 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 wiU, 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. 
 
 “ Ho, sir,” she said, “ for the spirit of harmony dwells 
 
©lb |Ean’}9 ||ome 
 
 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.” 
 ‘‘And is there not another path,” I said, venturing 
 to guess at the conclusion of the allegory, “ 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 
 
5Tl)e ©lb |Ean’^ Home 
 
 within myself, Oh, happy child, to know as yet but 
 one path; and happy teacher, to have so shared the 
 innocency of childhood as to have spoken to her but cf 
 one ! ” 
 
 Presently, however, she continued, as though she 
 observed my confusion: ‘‘But, sir, he said there v/ere 
 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 ? ’’ 
 
 “ 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 ourselves.” 
 
 “Then, Annie,” I said, “the children who gather the 
 magic flowers are those who follow their own will ; while 
 
Sl)e ©lb |T)ome 
 
 those who tread upon the magic thorns are such as sub- 
 mit themselves quietly to the wiU of God/' 
 
 Her countenance became grave, and I saw that she 
 already guessed my meaning. I thought her mind was 
 now sufficiently prepared 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 me while I did 
 so, and I used almost unconsciously the language of 
 metaphor. 
 
 ‘"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 
 violently 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 cheek, as she 
 turned to her mother, and said, “Forgive me for my 
 impatience ; I am ready now, dearest mother, to accom- 
 
SI}e ©lb JEan’js l^ome 
 
 pany you home ; or I will go home directly myself, and 
 you shall follow me.” She did not trust herself to pause 
 an instant, or make any further reply, hut expressed her 
 gratitude to me by a look, and at once hastened away : 
 and while she went, so vivid was the impression 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 mis- 
 taking the expression of her countenance. 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. Yon 
 were fortunate, sir,” he said, '' in leading her to the story 
 of the homeward path; many visitors have considered 
 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 
 
2H)e @Ui Home 
 
 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, 0 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 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 vine-yard, 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 
 
 Luke X. 21. 
 
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 the loss of her friend, hut gradually pined away in con- 
 sequence 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 bereavement was 
 the cause of her death. I had left her with the impres- 
 sion that she was not 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 prematurely 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 
 
©l)e JEan’jei ||ome 
 
 mother alone was at home ; and I soon found that she 
 needed no consolation which I could afford her. She 
 had her own secret store of treasure in every word that 
 had fallen from her darling child. I shall never forget 
 the look with which she said to me, “ Ah, sir, I under- 
 stood 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. 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 GENTLY ALONG THE YALE 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 THOU LONG HAST STORED THY ALL ! 
 COME, SEE THY PLACE PREPARED IN HEAVEN ! ” 
 
 HE recollection of little Annie lias 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 1 knew that 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 
 
 Christian Year 
 
S;i)e ©lb lEatt'ji Home 
 
 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 Season 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 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 occupation, 
 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 
 
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 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, thougli 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 passiug 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 
 Eobin really mad And again it was only my own 
 infirmity Avhich 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 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, 
 
SI}e @li) Home 
 
 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 explain- 
 ing his thoughts, or perhaps of himself distinguishing 
 between the shadow and the substance, the things of 
 sight and the things of faith. Eeason 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 
 intellectual 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 x>oor Eobin, and love him, and learn from 
 him, and yet not shrink from acknowledging that his 
 reason had gone astray ? Surely, there is no one v/ho 
 
®l)e ©lb Home 
 
 would not gladly leave the hard dull road of life, if only 
 they 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 connections 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 Eobin; 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 me, 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 more 
 than half a century ago, but latterly her memory had 
 become impaired. 
 
 When I mentioned to her the name of Wakeling, the 
 
5n)e ©lb ^ome 
 
 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 
 w’hich 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 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 
 
@lb JEan'jsj ^ome 
 
 noticed, and soon forgotten. At length she seemed to 
 grow weary of my importunity, 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. 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 murmuring, 
 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 
 
S;i}e @lb lEan'js l^ome 
 
 was distinguished 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 
 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 : — 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 SUSA^T, WIFE OF ROBERT WAKELIHG, 
 
 WHO DIED 
 
 APRIL 18, 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. 
 
 “l SHALL GO TO THEM, 
 
 BUT THEY SHALL NOT RETURN TO ME.” 
 
 2 Sam. xii. 23 
 
5H)e ©lb JEan’^p Home 
 
 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 18, 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. 
 
THE KING’S MESSENGERS 
 
 Lay ttp for yourselves treasures in heaven. — Matt. vi. 20 
 
ADVEETISEMENT 
 
 HE following tale differs, in some respects, both 
 
 in design and character, from the preceding Alle- 
 gories 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. Eor both 
 these reasons, any explanatory conversations have been 
 considered unnecessary. But a conversation of a differ- 
 ent character has been annexed, in order to obviate 
 the misconstruction 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. 
 
 BoNcnunoiT, 
 
 Dec. It), 1847. 
 

INTEODUCTION 
 
 ‘‘ TTAS any one called during my absence V inquired 
 J—L Mr. Mertoun of his nephew, Leonard, on return- 
 ing 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 ?” i 
 
 “ Quite sure,” he answered, but presently added, cor- 
 recting 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. Mer- 
 toun’s ear. “ Only some poor man .^” he repeated; “why, 
 Leonard, do 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.” 
 
(£1/1)0 l&ittg’ji |Ee;Sj5engerjES 
 
 “ Nay, my dear boy,'' replied Mr. Mertoun, “ you now 
 speak even more tbougbtle >sly than before. It could 
 not have been the one without being the other also. 
 Eemember, 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, thoughtfully. 
 
 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 
 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 oppor- 
 tunities 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 distinction 
 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 
 
5n)e |lle?;^iettgerjs 
 
 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 important office 
 assigned to the poor by our Blessed I.ord, that on the 
 evening of the above conversation their uncle told them 
 the following story. 
 
CHAPTEE 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, 
 
 HE 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 re- 
 markable law continued to prevail among their des- 
 cendants as a memorial of their crime. Ko one was 
 allowed to remain in it above a certain number 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 submis- 
 sion. There was not even a fixed and definite period 
 
 Christian Year 
 
®!)e JEe^jscngcrs^ 
 
 allotted for their stay. They were liable at any moment 
 to receive the Eoyal IVIandate. 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 imagined 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. 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 unaccount- 
 able ; but, we must remember, that they had gradually 
 become accustomed to the law, and for that reason it 
 was lightly regarded by them or altogether forgotten. 
 
 The Great King, however, was full of compassion, 
 and took much thought for the poor exiles, who were 
 thus careless of themselves. He knew how dark and 
 dreary was the wilderness that surrounded the city, and 
 

 was unwilling 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 punish- 
 ment 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, for one alone, which 
 applied more especially to the wealthier merchants, is 
 brought before us by the present story. 
 
 In the city of Metcecia dwelt four brothers, Phil- 
 argyr, Megacles, Euprepes, and Sophron. At the period 
 at which I commence their history, tlie 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 assem- 
 bled 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 
 
SI)e l&ing'jEJ |tte?i^engerj5^ 
 
 wliicli 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 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 splendour, 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 ignoi ant 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 
 banishment it will not purchase for us the delay of a 
 
JEe^J^engerjs; 
 
 single hour. How gladly would I barter the whole of 
 it for some quiet dwelling-place where we might re- 
 main 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 
 apartment 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 pre- 
 sence. 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 crum- 
 bling 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 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 
 
®l)e JEejsjicttgersi 
 
 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. 
 Eestore 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 Metoecia belonged 
 to the Great King; but they were disquieted at the 
 thought of restoring 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 
 
(Tl)c |Ecj^jsengcr?5 
 
 lasting home ; I have said that you cannot purchase it, 
 because youi 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, aiid, 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 committed 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 Eoyal Palace, and the gates of the Glorious 
 City will be closed against you for ever.’' 
 
 Kow, 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 
 01 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. 
 
(Hl)t lEejSjsengcrjj 
 
 indeed, seem to pass through their ears at all, hut to 
 fall at once inwardly on their hearts, and for the pre- 
 sent they could not help regarding it. Yet all shrank 
 from asking in what way they were to send their trea- 
 sures to the Ptoyal 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 tlie 
 mirror. Tlie figure of the old man now pointed towards 
 it; and as he did so the young merchants heard dis- 
 tinctly the words: “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 concourse. 
 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 dis- 
 appeared, 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 solemn voice 
 
®;i)c liittg’?; |Eej5j2iengcrj5 
 
 of the old man fell once more on the hearts of the 
 brothers. 
 
 “ These,” he said, and such as these, are the Messen- 
 gers of the Great King. Numerous as they are, they 
 will come to you in secret and one by one. Trust them 
 witli your treasure, and it will be safe ; they will bear 
 it for you to the Eoyal 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 disappeared 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 apartment 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 hurry- 
 
®I)e IttejJjsengcrji 
 
 ing 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 he a Messenger from the Great 
 King. 
 
CHAPTEE 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. 
 
 T he brothers were too deeply affected by the warn- 
 ing of the old man to proceed to the immediate 
 division of their wealth. At one time, they even con- 
 templated 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 re- 
 covered, 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. 
 

®l)e p:eisJ0ett3cr^ 
 
 riiilargyr was entrusted with the division. Many 
 months elapsed while he was absorbed in his calcula- 
 tions, and settling how large a portion he might appro- 
 priate 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 Eoyal 
 Palace. 
 
 At length the division was made. The younger 
 brothers were satisfied, though none were able to follow 
 the calculations of Philargyr. 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. 
 
 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 Messengers, 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 
 
3;i)e 
 
 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 
 tiie smallest portion of them away. 
 
 I have already said, that the inhabitants of Metoecia 
 lived, for the most part, in forgetfulness of the law of 
 Exile. But the conduct of Philargyr appeared unac- 
 countable even to the most thoughtless among them. 
 He was supposed to be under the influence of a spell ; 
 and the following legend was commonly reported through 
 the city : — 
 
 There had been, it was rumoured, a mine of gold 
 communicating with the house of the departed mer- 
 chant. Philargyr had taken possession of it, unknown 
 to his brothers. This mine was haunted by an evil 
 spirit, who had beguiled him by specious offers of assis- 
 tance. 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 Avith 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 downwards, and his very walk con- 
 strained and embarrassed, because the chains and fetters 
 that he wore weighed heavily upon him and impeded 
 his steps. 
 
 Strange as this legend seem‘d, 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, through- 
 out, accomplished his purpose by treachery ; and Phil- 
 argyr 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 unnoticed by himself. 
 
 Still, however, he was a slave, and by little and little 
 incurred the full misery of servitude, though to the last 
 
01)0 JEe^Jj^engerji 
 
 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; hot an 
 hour for the duties of hospitality ; 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 useless when the day of his exile arrived. 
 The gates of the Glorious City would be closed against 
 liim, 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 
 
Sl)e JEejJj^enger^ 
 
 witnessed the averted looks of the Messengers of the 
 Great King. They did not even offer to carry his trea- 
 sures to the Eoyal Palace, for long experience 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 doym on his very 
 riches with disdain, and they won him the envy and 
 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 Metoecia, far removed from 
 the stir and traflic of the crowded streets, and farther 
 still from the dwellings of the King’s ]\Iessengers. It 
 was remarkable for the beauty and costliness of its 
 
 buildings. The erection of these formed a favourite 
 
 T 
 
5TI)e |Eejijs{ettger?{ 
 
 occupation of the more wealthy merchants. Their ap- 
 pearance was very irregular, for the size and form of 
 each varied with the taste and resources of the indi- 
 vidual who raised it. But all might be comprehended 
 under two great classes. Some were frail and unsub- 
 stantial, and intended to please the eye for one short 
 summer, and then make way for others not less perish- 
 able than themselves, while some were built of firm and 
 durable materials, in the hope that they might stand for 
 centuries as 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 
 Metoecia. 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 
 
Sl}e giing’js lEejsjJengcc^ 
 
 the King’s Messengers had no share in the work; and 
 from this cause the whole narrative of the tower, 
 which appeared so eventful to Megacles and his brother 
 merchants, has but little interest in the present 
 story. 
 
 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 subser- 
 vient 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 
 workmen of Megacles. He selected from the ruins of 
 each such stones as seemed suited for the accomplish- 
 ment of his design ; until at length his tower arose so far 
 
Slje |iing’?3 |E e0^{cngcr^^ 
 
 above every other in the city, that it appeared to stand 
 by itself in solitary grandeur. 
 
 The more it grew, the more was the mind of Megacles 
 absoihed in its growth. It seemed to exercise a fascina- 
 tion 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 
 Ids 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 adreap of ruins. Neither was 
 this all. Even at those times in which lie was able to 
 view with unmingled satisfaction tlie 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 j)oor 
 wayfaring man. Megacles had observed liim 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 ; “ cen- 
 turies on centuries will elapse, and there shall be no 
 symptoms of decay.” “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 Megacles 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 
 merchants for their sojourn in Metoecia had as yet passed 
 by ; but he knew that, at any moment, liis sentence of 
 exile might be pronounced, 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 re- 
 membrance, and brought with it new feelings of disquie- 
 tude and alarm. Where were the immense riches that 
 had been entrusted to his care ? Had any portion of 
 them been laid up in the Eoyal Palace ? Alas ! he 
 shrank from the reply. He had not, indeed, buried them 
 
§i;i)e |Ee^^eitger^ 
 
 in the earth like Pliilarg)0‘. 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 ques- 
 tion, — he had never asked, whether they were Messen- 
 gers of the Great King. 
 
 There was a time w^hen, as these thoughts passed 
 through the mind of Megacles, he half formed the reso- 
 lution of pulling down, stone 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 inces- 
 sant labour, his own hand were to destroy the sole pro- 
 duce of his toil. He once more fixed his gaze steadfastly 
 on the lofty building, and resolved to suppress every 
 doubt and alarm. His efforts were at length successful. 
 Kot only did his former triumphant feeling return, but a 
 yet more fatal delusion seized him. He fanc'ed the story 
 of the King’s Messengers, and the Boyal 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. 
 
Sl)e |?lej5j5{engcr«J 
 
 Alas ! even while he was giving vent to these boastful 
 words, his own sentence of exile had gone forth, and the 
 bearer of the Eoyal Mandate was at hand. But we must 
 leave him awhile, to follow the history of the two remain- 
 ing brothers. 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 *TTS NOT THE EYE OF KEENEST ELAZE, 
 
 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 SUE ALL WISTFULLY. 
 
 HE story of Euprepes, the third bij'other, differs 
 
 greo.tly 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 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 
 
 He did not fail to make public his intention; and 
 
 Christian Year 
 
 1 'alace. 
 
SI)e 3S.ittg’js; Jllejs^^sicngerjsJ 
 
 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 un- 
 sparing hand ; hut 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 
 tliey 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. Some few refused compliance, 
 and were immediately 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 Eoyal 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 
 
SHjc |Ee?;j2{en9er!5 
 
 his mind of long triumphal processions through the 
 streets of the city, and of shouts and acclamations at- 
 tending their progress. 
 
 Now, while he was indulging these thoughts, a man in 
 tlie 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 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 Messcm- 
 gers, who wander some here and some there, and hide 
 themselves in the obscure corners of the bity. You re- 
 quire 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 procession. Let, then, 
 that office be mine.’’ 
 
 The whole complexion of the life of Euprepes 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 Eoyal Palace excited no less interest in the city 
 than the tower of Megacles, Avhile they proved to himself 
 
Slje |5tc^i?{engersi 
 
 a source of i^erpetual triumph. It wiU be sufficient to 
 describe one of them ; for, though they seemed to his 
 brother merchants to present an endless variety of ap- 
 pearance, the principal features in all are in reality alike, 
 and the first embassy that he sent will give a true view 
 ofhis history. 
 
 \Vhen 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 mean- 
 while the young merchant collected many costly bales 
 of merchandise, 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 gene- 
 ral 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 neigh- 
 bouring 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 Mes- 
 sengers. 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 mid- 
 
®I)e lEejS^citger^ 
 
 day the young merchant appeared. He was attended hy 
 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 precious 
 metals that lay scattered upon the ground, the air was 
 rent with the acclamations of the assembled multitudes. 
 
 After the shouts had continued some minutes, the 
 herald proclaimed silence ; and Euprepes, taking coins of 
 various sizes from the heaps at his side, scattered them 
 indiscriminately 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 suppressed by the loud voice 
 of the herald, as he proclaimed, '‘Hasten, hasten, ye 
 Messengers; gather up the treasures of Euprepes the 
 merchant, which he bids you bear to the distant Palace 
 of the Great King ” 
 
 It was not until the vast stores which Euprepes had 
 provided for the occasion were exhausted that the tumult 
 

 
dt\)z JttejSjsenger^ 
 
 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 instinctively 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, “ Be- 
 hold, ye citizens, behold the riches of Euprepes, which 
 he sends before him to the distant Palace , of the Great 
 King.” 
 
 The procession was so arranged as to be kept continu- 
 ally 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 popu- 
 lace and the proclamation of the herald ; and there he re- 
 mained, watching and listening, until the shades of even- 
 ing closed in, and the reality was lost in a briglit and 
 beautiful dream. Eor in the visions of the night proces- 
 sion after procession continued to pass before him ; they 
 
Sn)e |Ee^^{eitger?; 
 
 were all laden with costly offerings for the Eoyal 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 processions of 
 Euprepes. Some exceeded others in pomp and magnifi- 
 cence ; but each was proclaimed by the same trumpet, 
 and set in order by the same herald ; so that, as I before 
 said, one description will suffice for them all. 
 
 Meanwhile, his resources seemed inexhaustible. 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 repined, but their complaints ^vere 
 drowned by the trumpet of the herald, and never reached 
 the ears of Euprepes. He believed himself to be idohzed 
 by all within the city, at the same time that he was lay- 
 ing up for himself an inexhaustible store of wealtli 
 beyond its walls. Sometimes his feelings were those of 
 quiet self-complacency, sometimes of joyous triumph ; 
 
SHje |Ee^j;5enigers» 
 
 but they were rarely overclouded by the slightest shadow 
 of doubtfulness or alarm. The pursuits of his elder 
 brothers were regarded by him with a kind of contemp- 
 tuous compassion. He would often stand in the bright 
 sunshine on the rising ground where his 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 
 ]\Iessengers, 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 r’ 
 
 The story of the fourth brother I cannot tell, for but 
 little is known of his history. He did mot 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 Metoecia as one who scarcely belonged to it. 
 Those who watched with the greatest interest the difie- 
 rent pursuits of the three elder brothers, were gradually 
 
 led to forget the very existence of Sophron. Tliere was 
 
 u 
 
®l)e |5,ing’js{ |Eejs^;ettgerj{ 
 
 no great event to mark it or force it upon tlieir attention. 
 At one time, indeed, he did excite a momentary sensation. 
 He left the quarter of the city inhabited by the wealthy 
 merchants and made a choice of a more lowly mansion, 
 surrounded by tlie dwellings of the poor. His motives 
 even for this change were never discovered. 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 penetrate. As time went on, he still seemed 
 to grow poorer and poorer. Some secret drain appeared 
 to exhaust his wealth. Ho 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 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; 
 
5n)e JEejs^^iettgerjs; 
 
 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. There were some who 
 could teU how, in the dim twilight, or in the still hour 
 of night, they had seen the train of Eoyal 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 frequented streets of the city. Not a 
 footfall was heard as they passed along. At length they 
 
5 Il)e ^ittg’55 JEe^;s;enger^ 
 
 reached the Eastern gate. It was closed against them, 
 but, like a long line of shadows, the procession still con- 
 tinued 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 merchants had heard them at 
 all, and fewer still believed them. Those who witnessed 
 them felt 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 boun- 
 daries 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, 
 
SClje loins’?; |Ee^^J9enlger^ 
 
 that it seemed but to shed its colouring on the surround- 
 ing darkness — so quiet that music, that the stillness of 
 the night was unbroken by 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 
 
 D ays, months, and years rolled on in the same un- 
 varied course. Philargyr continued to toil and 
 labour, and every hour gathered in fresh riches for his 
 insatiable master. Megacles received qarly the sentence 
 of Exile, but his tower remained as his memorial in the 
 city. Eiiprepes still dazzled the eyes of the multitude 
 by his costly gifts and gorgeous processions. Soj)hron 
 alone lived a life of obscurity. The wealth, the fame, 
 .ind the liberality of the three elder brothers had sever- 
 ally passed into a proverb. Many were 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 con- 
 cerning 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 last 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 in- 
 crease 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 steadfastly on the 
 weary merchant, and then with a smile of bitter irony 
 offered to relieve him. Philargyr trembled. He endea- 
 voured at first to persuade himself that it was but a re- 
 appearance 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 ad- 
 
l&ittg'sJ lEe^^engerjS 
 
 dressed 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 ! You Ivuow 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 
 Eoyal 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 Eoyal 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. How 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 
 
] 
 
 I 
 
SI)e p:ej2{j2;ettger<> 
 
 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. 
 
 At length, he cried out in accents of mingled fear and 
 remorse, “Alas ! 0 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 Mes- 
 senger ! Have compassion, then, upon me, and even 
 now bear it quickly to the Eoyal 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 Eoyal Palace ; for all things change at 
 my touch, and crumble into decay. Those cliarged 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 King’s Messen- 
 gers, and send the whole of my wealth beyond the walls 
 
Sl)e lEe^^engerjs; 
 
 of the city. Spare me, if it be but for a few hours. Your 
 coming was unlooked 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, w^hile 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 years been expecting 
 the bearer of the Eoyal Mandate. So slow had been his 
 approach, that day, 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 unsuc- 
 cessful 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 per- 
 ceived it for the first time as it was wrenched asunder 
 by the iron grasp of the stranger’s hand, and in a moment 
 lie 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, 
 
a:i)e |ttej{jsenger^ 
 
 and stood gazing with an eye of pride on the tower which 
 he had raised. A crowd of eager partisans were gathered 
 around. The hearer of the Eoyal 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 those which stood around which first warned him 
 that the day of his exile had arrived. 
 
 No sooner, however, did he become conscious of the 
 old man’s presence, than he endeavoured 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 Metcecia, have I built 
 myself a tower; and here, in Metcecia, shall be my lasting 
 home.” There was a shout of applause from the sur- 
 rounding multitude ; but the old man neither spoke nor 
 moved. Coldly and steadfastly he gazed upon the mer- 
 chant, until the proud spirit of Megacles quailed beneath 
 his look, and the boastful words seemed to wither on his 
 lips, while every limb was shaken with convulsive terror- 
 lie turned away his face from the unwelcome Messenger, 
 and endeavoured to gather new courage from the con- 
 templation 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 
 
5n)e 3^tng')si Jttejsjsengerjs 
 
 building itself from its long dark shadow which rested 
 upon the ground. 
 
 At length the old man broke the silence : — It is ever 
 tlius, 0 merchant ! — the objects in this city become, for 
 the most part, the same with their shadows, when I ap- 
 proach 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 dis- 
 tinctly 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 city, and rest beneath it, until the moth and worm 
 have eaten them away. But for yourself you have pre- 
 pared 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 
 
5H)e lEcjsJ^engerjs; 
 
 the heart of Megacles. Instead of the crowd of eager 
 partisans, he saw only the same gloomy attendants which 
 afterwards appeared to Philargyr. He felt that his tower 
 would avail him nothing ; and that, if the gates of the 
 Itoyal City were closed against him, no hope of safety 
 could remain. The past rose in bitter remembrance be- 
 fore him ; and, as he thought over the numerous workmen 
 that he had employed on his building, he tried to recol- 
 lect 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 lioyal Palace, Stranger,’’ he said, “ 1 
 have not altogether neglected the warning which you 
 gave. My riches are not buried in a mine ; I have dis- 
 persed 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 Eoyal 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, 
 
Sn)e 
 
 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 aU; 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 
 gTanite which they were unable to bear. 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 wliich 
 accompanied the erection of your toWer. But the 
 cries of the King’s Messengers are carried by each 
 passing wind to the Eoyal 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 atten- 
 dants 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 partisans gathered up his 
 
 purple garments, and deposited them carefully beneath 
 
 X 
 
Sl)e JEejsJisiettgerjs; 
 
 the tower. In a httle while the moth and the worm 
 had consumed them there ; while the tower itself con- 
 tinued to stand for many ages, — a vain memorial of the 
 spot where they had been laid. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 llEPEAT. 
 
 Christian Year 
 
 T^UPEEPES 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 Eoyal 
 Palace ; and he was only anxious for the time when they 
 would be restored to him again. Sometimes he would 
 complain to his friends of the long delay of the bearer of 
 the Eoyal Mandate, and declare that he was even then 
 listening for his footstep, and would advance to welcome 
 him at the tirst warning of his approach. 
 
 The stranger tarried long ; but when he did come, the 
 i‘eality proved very different from the anticipations of 
 
Slj)e 
 
 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 mis- 
 givings 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 un- 
 steady 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 where- 
 fore didst thou tarry so long ? Was it that thy journey 
 was* delayed by the frequent train of Messengers that 
 met thee on thy 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 flxed 
 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 darldy 
 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 sen- 
 sation 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 Messengers. 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 
 Eoyal Palace, with 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 tlioughts 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.” 
 
SHje |Ee^^engerjs 
 
 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 
 witness that I sent them. The air was rent with accla- 
 mations 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 Eoyal 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, shordd 
 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 intercepted 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 soldiers of the Great King 
 would not have suffered the Messengers to be plundered 
 
5H)e lEe^^engerjsJ 
 
 on their journey. But the old man, in a sterner voice, 
 thus continued to address him : — 
 
 '' I will teU 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 en- 
 chanter 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 in the distance, or formed a Avish to 
 trace their course beyond the city. Alas ! in these 
 dreams he had seen but the image of his actual Messen- 
 gers, 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 remem- 
 
Sl)e |Ee^j3eitserj5 
 
 brance ; but he still made one last effort to lay claim to 
 a recompence 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 Eoyal 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 recompence 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 their goodwill 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 possessions, 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 
 
®l)e JEe^^engerjsi 
 
 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 scourges seize 
 upon Euprepes^ and strip him of his garments ; and he, 
 too, was driven forth into the dreary wilderness. But 
 the scourgers 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 Mes- 
 sengers continued to parade the streets ; while the false 
 herald with the golden trumpet proclaimed far and near 
 that the happy exile had been received within the gates 
 of the Glorious City, and that all his treasui*es 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 
 
5H)e p:e?;?;enger0 
 
 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 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 im- 
 mediate 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 gratitude 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 before, and the autumnal flowers began to wither 
 and decay. It needed not these signs to warn Sophron 
 
Slje |S.in3’j5 |Eeje{^enger^ 
 
 that it was the same figure that had appeared in the 
 mirror. For a while he watched it with a calm and 
 steadfast 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 attendants were near, 
 hut he held a mirror in his hand. Beneath it were the 
 words — “This is the image of the Past.’’ The scene 
 which it refiected was one that had been long familiar 
 to Sophron, and he did not shrink from beholding it 
 now. 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 Eoyal Palace and Glorious 
 City. 
 
 At length the old man addressed him. “Oh! mer- 
 chant,” 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 
 
5n)e JEejSisengerji 
 
 sullied by my step, but only 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 Messenger of the Great King. I went to Philargyr 
 for relief, and he told me that his mon^y 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 
 
5tl)e lEejSj^engerjs 
 
 sweetest notes become harsh and discordant, when I am 
 standing 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 har- 
 mony by the sound.” 
 
 “ Stranger,” replied Sophron, I cannot teU. You 
 say truly that the music has a magic power, for it lends 
 its own tunefulness to all around. To me it has long 
 since breathed a spirit of harmony over the din and dis- 
 cord 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 mine own home and I have loved it, and 
 listened to it with gladness, T 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 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 
 overflowing 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 dark- 
 ness 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 expiring now. Whence, 
 then, is it that in thy dwelling there seems to be per- 
 petual day 
 
 A soft slumber was stealing upon Sophron ; liis eyes 
 were already closed ; his voice was indistinct, and yet it 
 sounded like happy music as for the last time he re- 
 plied, “Stranger, I cannot tell. The light has indeed 
 
l^ing’jsJ lEejsJjseitger^ 
 
 shone upon me; nay, is shining upon me now. My 
 eyes are closed, and I see it not ; but it is as the sun- 
 shine 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 overwhelmed 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 some portion of my 
 treasure. Then did I remember that poverty and dis- 
 tress had made me a Messenger of the Great King, and 
 I hastened to the Eoyal Palace, and took with me 
 thither my blessings and my prayers. The Great King 
 received them from me, and shed them as rays of un- 
 changing sunshine on the abode of Sophron, and from 
 
Sl)e |Ee^jseuger^{ 
 
 llience 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 
 liast 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 perfect harmony, 
 and a light of brilliance unutterable, 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 countenance. I cannot tell how bright and 
 glorious was the vision that he saw. This alone I 
 know, that the image of the Future was reflected in 
 that glass, and that, as the old man held it, his own 
 form faded away. For a moment tliere was a sound as 
 of the rustling of many wings in the air, and tlien all 
 was stillness in the dwelling of Sophron. 
 
 V 
 
S:i)e JEe^^Jenger^ 
 
 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 Mes- 
 sengers wept as they beheld it at a distance, and there 
 was a strain of sadness in the gentle music of the 
 orphan child. They mourned, because their own ofi&ce 
 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 Eoyal Palace, apd that he him- 
 self was dwelling in the happy city where the law of 
 Exile was unknown. 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
 SILENCE of some minutes succeeded the story. 
 
 -L-i- 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 
 Metoecia ? ” 
 
 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 liable, at any moment, 
 to be called upon to depart from it: and, when our sum- 
 mons comes, we go forth alone, and no part of our pos- 
 sessions follow us. If we live in forgetfulness of this 
 law, our conduct is, to say the least, as unaccountable 
 
5CI)e ftte^?;engerjg{ 
 
 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, I 
 suppose, uncle, the thoughts awakened by the death of 
 friends.” 
 
 You are right,” said Mr. Mertoun ; “ our seasons oi 
 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 so- 
 journers upon the earth. The warnings of Holy Scrip- 
 ture, which we may have often heard and disregarded, 
 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 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 im- 
 portant office assigned to the poor in the Gospel. I 
 
5tl)e |Ee^i^cnger?J 
 
 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 described. First, we have 
 those like Pliilargyr, who do not spend them at all: 
 next, those like Megacles, who spend them, but not on 
 proper objects : and, lastly, those like Euprepes, wEo 
 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 difference between 
 
5Tl)e |Eejs{^;enger^ 
 
 actual life and the allegory. The merchants are re- 
 presented 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 ex- 
 plained to us the Parable of the Talents, that our health, 
 our time, our affections, and 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 controlled 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. 
 
®l}e |^leJS^^ettgerJ^ 
 
 Mertoun, though certainly, in that respect also, their 
 supposed case is but 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, however, the allegory is a true repre- 
 sentation 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, tliat 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 ? " 
 
 ‘Mt is implied in it," replied Mr. Mertoun, “but it 
 does not form, so to speak, any distinct feature in the 
 allegory." 
 
 “But ought there to be so many omissions in the 
 story ? " asked Mary. 
 
 ]\Ir. 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 ? " 
 
 “ Of the church," she replied, in some surprise at the 
 question. 
 
 “ Indeed," said her uncle. “ But I do not see the east 
 
®I)e Icing’s; lEe^ijsJenger^ 
 
 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, “ 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 introduced 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 cliurch 
 before he began it ? ” 
 
 ‘'jSTay,” replied IMary, ''you cannot be serious in asking.” 
 
 “Well, then,” continued Mr. Mertoun, “in this re- 
 spect 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.” 
 
0I)e JEejs^Jenger^ 
 
 “ 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 almsgiving. Can you tell 
 me any passage in Holy Scripture in which it is insisted 
 upon to the apparent exclusion of others ? You were 
 mentioning, 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 rewarded, because they 
 had fed the hungry, given drink to the thirsty, and re- 
 ceived 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 BUmself. In like manner, those on the King’s left 
 hand are represented as being punished simply for ne- 
 
 * St. Matt. XXV. 34, 35. 
 
®I)e |ttejs^»ettgerj2{ 
 
 gleet of the poor. There are also two parables concern- 
 ing rich men, in which the same view is brought no less 
 distinctly before us.’’ 
 
 “ One of them,” said Leonard, “ is that of the Eich 
 ]\Ian and Lazarus.” 
 
 ‘‘ It is so,” answered his uncle ; no other sin of the 
 rich man is there pointed out to us but that of neglect- 
 ing the poor beggar who lay at his door. The other 
 parable to which I referred is that of the Eich Man, 
 who, when his ground brought forth plentifully, deter- 
 mined to hoard the produce, “f* 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.’” 
 
 ‘‘ Children,” observed Leonard, “ are never very rich.” 
 
 The words were spoken in a low tone, as thougli in 
 answer to his own thoughts. His uncle, however, did 
 not let them pass unnoticed. ^^They are not,” he re- 
 plied, according to the ordinary meaning of the word 
 wealth. But recollect how the mite of the poor Avidow 
 Avas pronounced by our Blessed Lord to be more than 
 all the costly gifts which Avere cast into the treasury by 
 the rich. Noav the youngest child may either give a 
 * St. Luke xvi. 19 — 31. + St. T.uke xii. IG — 21. 
 
®I)e |lte;s;jsenger^ 
 
 like offering to that of the widow, or he may hoard it 
 up, or spend it on himself.” 
 
 '' 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 apparently 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 ap- 
 plication of the story. The gift which he had received 
 from his uncle the preceding Christmas had been 
 hoarded up in secret, and was loved because it was 
 gold. At length he asked in what way the fault of 
 avarice might be cured. 
 
0l)e 
 
 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 re- 
 sistance of an immediate effort. The conquering it is 
 really like the breaking of a chain. Once summon re- 
 solution 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 
 \vill be subdued altogether by the habit of giving. You 
 must not, however, 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 dan- 
 gerous ; and I believe that children in general are more 
 frequently tempted to follow the path of Megacles than 
 that of Philargyr.” 
 
 '' Of Megacles, uncle said Mary, in some surprise ; 
 
 I had fancied that his sin was ambition, and not ex- 
 travagance.” 
 
 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 
 
5tl)e 
 
 the treasury of Heaven. To do this is, in reality, extra- 
 vagance. 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-gratifica- 
 tion 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 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 peculiarly exposed. 
 There is no way in which they can purchase ap- 
 plause so readily as by giving to the poor. Each act 
 of benevolence is sure to be accompanied by a certain 
 
Sl)e fling’?; pie^isenger^ 
 
 amount of praise. And yet if they make that the pre- 
 vailing motive for their gift, they have their recompence 
 upon earth, and will forfeit it in Heaven. Do you re- 
 member the warning which our Saviour gave His dis- 
 ciples 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.” 
 
 ‘‘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. i* By the com- 
 mand, ‘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-satisfaction at our 
 * St. Matt. vi. 3. 4. t Ibid. v. 16. 
 
5ri)e lEejsijsenjerji 
 
 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.” 
 
 ‘‘ 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. Alms- 
 giving 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 ob- 
 jects 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 recom- 
 pence 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 differ- 
 ence at all between children who give merely that their 
 friends may praise them and those who give from right 
 motives ?” 
 
Slje |Ee^{j5engcr^ 
 
 Perhaps, at times, there may be no visible difference,” 
 answered Mr. Mertoun, ‘"but there must always be a 
 real one. EecoUect, that when it is said, ' 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 pro- 
 ceed from ostentation, 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 imper- 
 fect one. They may avoid all unnecessary display ; or 
 again, they may conceal what they have already given, 
 or the inward struggle by which the gift is accom- 
 panied, or the self-denial which it costs them. All this 
 is as a secret store, which adds to the value of our offer- 
 ings in the sight of God, if we look for our recompence 
 to Him alone. But it is difficult to lay down any exact 
 rule. The line wliich, 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 con- 
 flicting circumstances of life. I think, however, that 
 you will seldom find any practical 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 re- 
 membrance that the poor are sent to you by God — that 
 it cannot be right to hoard up your money, or spend it 
 on your ov/n gratifications, while you do nothing to re- 
 lieve their wants — and that your offerings must be made 
 for Christ’s sake, and without the hope of any earthly 
 recompence — and the story of the King s Messengers 
 will not have been told you in vain. 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 
 b"".en a silent listener to the close of the conversation. 
 He did not seem to participate 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 accompanied her. 
 ]\Ir. Mertoun was left alone. He had seen that the 
 child was impressed by the story, but his joy at this 
 
2H)e |Eejs^Jenger^i 
 
 circumstance was checked by the remembrance that iu 
 a little while the feelings awakened by it would pass 
 away. His thoughts were interrupted by a light foot- 
 step 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 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.” 
 


 
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