SACRED ALLEGORIES. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED liV 14 I CHARD CLAY, 
 BREAD STREET HILL. 
 
SACRED ALLEGORIES. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. WILLIAM ADAMS, M.A. 
 
 LATE FELLOW OF MEBTON COLLEGE, 
 OXFORD. 
 
 NEW EDITION, 
 WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS 
 BY CHARLES W. COPE, R.A. JOHN C. HORSLEY, A.R.A. SAMUEL FALMLK. 
 BIRKET FOSTER, AND GEORGE E. HICKS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RIVINGTONS, WATERLOO 
 1850. 
 
 PLACE. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2014 
 
 https://archive.org/details/sacredallegoriesOOadam_0 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 1 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS 17 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS 81 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME 155 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS 221 
 
 6 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Drawn by Engraved by Page 
 
 
 Birket Foster. . . 
 
 E Fran <t 
 
 17 
 
 " Innocence" was written on her forehead 
 
 G. E. Hicks .... 
 
 . W. T. Green 
 
 23 
 
 
 
 . T. Bolton . 
 
 ' 31 
 
 
 Birket Foster . . 
 
 j-i. j-jians , 
 
 37 
 ol 
 
 They were frightened when they observed he had no cross 
 
 G. E. Hicks .... 
 
 . T. Bolton . 
 
 45 
 
 He drew the long-neglected cross from his bosom .... 
 
 Birket Foster . . 
 
 W. Measom 
 
 51 
 
 Then did Charity draw nigh to the faint and bleeding boy 
 
 Birket Foster . . 
 
 . E. Evans . 
 
 58 
 
 
 G E Hicks .... 
 
 . IT. Harral . 
 
 61 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 
 
 They could only look tip to the stranger with tearful eyes 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . TV. T. Green 
 
 83 
 
 And bathed the children in the refreshing water 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . W. T. Green 
 
 85 
 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . W. T. Green 
 
 91 
 
 
 Samuel Palmer . ■ . 
 
 . W. T. Green 
 
 108 
 
 
 
 . W. Measom 
 
 116 
 
 Her sister gathered for her a nosegay of the sweetest flowers 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . Jr. T. Green 
 
 126 
 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . W. Measom 
 
 131 
 
 Ever the richest, tender est gloiv, \ 
 Sets round the Autumnal sun ) 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . JV. T. Green 
 
 140 
 
 
 Samuel Palmer . . 
 
 . H. Harral . 
 
 145 
 
vi 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S 
 
 HOME. 
 
 
 
 
 Drawn by 
 
 Engraved by 
 
 Page 
 
 T turned, and saw ct venerable old man 
 
 J C Horsley A R A 
 
 W. T. Green 
 
 159 
 
 A stile which separated the wild scenery from the public road 
 
 Birret Foster . . . 
 
 W. T. Green 
 
 .167 
 
 He has been Quite mad for more than liftii years .... 
 
 J. C. Horsley, A .R. A. 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 1G8 
 
 Scene in the Isle of Wight . 
 
 Birket Foster . . . 
 
 H. Harral • 
 
 176 
 
 A little girl weeping as if her heart woidd break .... 
 
 J. C. Horsley, A.R.A. 
 
 Dalziel . . 
 
 177 
 
 He proposed to administer to him the Holy Communion . . 
 
 J. C. Horsley, A.R.A. 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 189 
 
 The old man was lying upon his narrow bed 
 
 J. C. Horsley, A.R.A. 
 
 H. Harral . 
 
 193 
 
 " Annie, do you know where your friend is gone ?" . . . 
 
 J. C. Horsley, A.R.A. 
 
 H. Harral . 
 
 202 
 
 
 Birket Foster . . . 
 
 W. T. Green 
 
 211 
 
 1 was not long in discovering the object which I sought . 
 
 J. C. Horsley, A.R.A. 
 
 rJ TTfl'TTftl. 
 J..L 4 J i Mi / it v • 
 
 212 
 
 • 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 229 
 
 
 C W Cope,R.A. , . 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 233 
 
 His whole time was claimed by the spirit of the gold-mine 
 
 C. W. Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 W. Measom . 
 
 238 
 
 Hay after day the tower increased in size and beauty . . 
 
 C, W. Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 Dalziel . . 
 
 244 
 
 
 C W Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 252 
 
 
 C W Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 T. Bolton . 
 
 257 
 
 Oh, merchant, what vain words are these ! 
 
 C. W. Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 Halziel . , 
 
 259 
 
 
 C W. Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 272 
 
 A sound as of the rustling of many wings 
 
 C W. Cope, R.A. . . 
 
 Halziel . . 
 
 280 
 
 * The Illustrations to the Poem "In Memoriam," and the ornamental head and 
 tail-pieces are drawn hy T. Macquoid. 
 
MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 J I ^HE Life of an individual called so early from this state 
 of probation and trial, and who passed so many of his 
 later years in privacy, can present no features of striking 
 interest; and yet it is so impossible to become familiar 
 with the contents of this volume, without acquiring a strong- 
 feeling of personal attachment to its Author, that a short 
 memorial of him may not prove unacceptable to its readers. 
 
 He was the second son of Mr. Serjeant Adams, and grand- 
 son of the late Simon Adams, Esq. of Ansty Hall, Warwick- 
 shire, in which county his family have been long settled. His 
 mother, who survived his birth but a few days, was the only 
 daughter of the late William Nation, Esq. of Exeter. He 
 was remarkable in his childhood for the vivacity and playful- 
 ness of his disposition, but until his twelfth year he exhibited 
 
2 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 no marks of those superior powers which he subsequently 
 displayed. We believe, indeed, there is a letter still extant 
 of that period, in which his father speaks of their develop- 
 ment, and of his future hopes. In his thirteenth year he 
 was sent to Eton, whence he passed with the greatest 
 expectations to Oxford, and there closed a brilliant career 
 with the highest honours the University can bestow, having, 
 independently of other distinctions, obtained a double first- 
 class degree in the year 1836, therein having followed the 
 steps of his beloved elder brother, who had obtained the 
 same honours eighteen months before, and who survived him 
 only a few months. In the following year he was elected 
 Fellow and Tutor of Merton College, and was shortly after- 
 wards presented to the vicarage of St. Peter's-in-the-East, at 
 Oxford, a small living belonging to that College. 
 
 He continued actively and sedulously to discharge both his 
 college and parochial duties until the spring of 1842, when 
 he was appointed one of the Examiners for the Newcastle 
 Scholarship at Eton ; and whilst attending that Examination 
 caught a violent cold, from bathing after a day of much 
 excitement and exertion, which falling upon the lungs, ulti- 
 mately terminated fatally. 
 
 To one so devoted to the service of his Divine Master, the 
 blow that thus forced him to give up his residence in the 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 3 
 
 University, and the care of his parish, was peculiarly hard to 
 bear, and for a short period he clung to the hope that he 
 might be again enabled to resume his charge; but when 
 experience had shown him, that although his life might be 
 prolonged a few years by care and repose, he could not 
 hope again to resume the active duties of his profession, 
 he resigned the living, but without ceasing to feel the deepest 
 interest in his late parishioners ; and he evinced his remem- 
 brance of, and affection for them, by re-writing and dedicating 
 to them, a few months before his death, a series of Lectures 
 he had in the early part of his ministry preached in his parish 
 church, called " The Warnings of the Holy Week/' 
 
 In this work he narrates, in clear and simple language, 
 the incidents of the last days of our Saviour's ministry, 
 and brings out the warnings in a touching and affec- 
 tionate manner peculiar to himself. This work, although of 
 a different character from his other publications, has attained 
 great celebrity, and bears upon it decisive proofs of his deep 
 thought and knowledge, and of his fitness for the duties of 
 a Christian Pastor. 
 
 The Allegories, which form the subject of this volume, 
 are the works by which he first attracted the attention of the 
 public, and won the sympathy of a large class of readers. 
 This style of writing, uniting the assumption of a state of 
 
4 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 things altogether imaginary with the inculcation of the most 
 serious truths, the ingenuity of the man of fancy with the 
 earnest piety of the Christian teacher, was excellently adapted 
 to his powers ; and the rapidity with which his volumes followed 
 each other, bore evidence to his facility, and also to the favour 
 with which they were received. They have we find been 
 translated into several European, languages, and Bengalee 
 versions of " The Distant Hills " and of <c The King s Mes- 
 sengers " have also been published in India. 
 
 The " Shadow of the Cross " was the first in order, and 
 was the only one that was written before his attack of illness, 
 which came on shortly after the manuscript was complete. 
 It was published in the autumn of 1842, on the eve of his 
 departure for the island of Madeira. " The Distant Hills " 
 appeared in 1844. The next in order was "The Tall of 
 Croesus," which was followed, at no long interval, by the 
 most universally admired of all his writings, " The Old Man's 
 Home." His last work, " The King's Messengers," was pub- 
 lished only a few days before his death. 
 
 The design of the first two of these publications was 
 in many respects the same ; the endeavour in both of them 
 being to impress upon the minds of the children of 
 the Church, first, the blessedness of the position in which 
 they are placed by holy baptism; secondly, the danger 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 5 
 
 they incur, from their earliest years, of forfeiting that 
 blessedness by giving way to temptation ; and, thirdly, the 
 fearful extent to which that danger may be increased by 
 unrepented sin. 
 
 The Author has thus explained his views in his Preface to 
 the joint edition of these two works : " Two distinct views 
 may be taken of our position in the Church upon earth. 
 We may either regard it as enabling us, by the light that 
 shines upon it from above, to pass in safety through the 
 trials of life; or as affording us a field of contemplation alto- 
 gether removed from the present world. The former view 
 has been principally adopted in the Shadow of the Cross, 
 the latter in the Distant Hills ; and it is hoped that the 
 two combined may, by God's grace, be a means of leading 
 those who read them to endeavour to exercise and retain all 
 their baptismal privileges, both by seeking the mark of the 
 cross on the earthly objects around them, and also by 
 setting their affections on things above, and having their 
 conversation in Heaven." 
 
 The idea of the "Old Man's Home " originated in the 
 deep interest which the Author took in the happily successful 
 changes in the treatment of insane persons, which at that period 
 strongly excited the public attention, and in which his father, 
 as one of the Visiting Justices of the Hanwell Asylum, took 
 
6 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 a very prominent part. The tale was written solely with a 
 view of bringing out strongly and distinctly the realities of 
 the unseen world ; yet such is the skill with which its acces- 
 sories are introduced, that we are led to forget that its incidents 
 are not real, and that the perpetual longing of the Old Man 
 for his Home is but an allegory to remind us of the trans- 
 itoriness of life, and the true home on which the Christian's 
 thoughts must be fixed. 
 
 It is not, indeed, unmixed with a feeling of regret that 
 we imitate the Author's example, who, in the singleness of his 
 heart, was unprepared for the effect on the public mind of his 
 own truthful pictures, and pained at the impression which 
 universally prevailed, that the story was a true one; and 
 declare (as he did in a subsequent edition of the work) that 
 the events recorded are entirely fictitious, and that nothing 
 is true in the story of " The Old Man's Home " but the graphic 
 description of the scenes where it is placed, and the moral 
 which it inculcates. 
 
 The Preface is as follows: — "These pages were written 
 solely with the object of bringing out strongly and distinctly 
 the realities of the unseen world ; and the incidents they contain 
 were never designed to be regarded otherwise than as a medium 
 for allegorical teaching. The Author is induced to annex this 
 statement to the present edition, in consequence of an erroneous 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 7 
 
 impression which has prevailed, that the ' Old Man's Home ' 
 is a true story. He trusts that he may look upon it as a sign 
 that the picture of poor Robin has not been overdrawn. He 
 enjoyed very peculiar advantages in the delineation of its out- 
 line, from having been long in the habit of hearing his father 
 speak of the softened form which mental disorders assume 
 under a gentle system of treatment, and at times accompanied 
 him in his visits to the Han well Asylum. With respect 
 to the local allusions which the narrative contains, he was 
 led to introduce them from his affection for the scenes in 
 the midst of which he wrote ; and indeed the broken, yet 
 rich and luxuriant, scenery of the Undercliffe seemed to have 
 a kind of natural harmony with the Old Man's character." 
 
 His last work — " The King's Messengers " — is of a higher 
 and more dramatic cast than any of his other publications. 
 There is a stronger development of incident, and a more 
 varied interest given to the story ; there are reverses of 
 fortune, and opposition of character, and perhaps more skill 
 exhibited in conducting all the threads of the narrative to 
 the one designed conclusion, than has been shown in any 
 recent work of the kind. The tale differs also in some 
 respects, both in design and character, from "The Shadow 
 of the Cross," and " The Distant Hills." Their intention is 
 to give a general view of our state as Christians ; " The King's 
 
8 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Messengers " merely to bring forward, prominently and dis- 
 tinctively, a single Christian duty. " In consequence of this," 
 says the Author, " it involves very little of doctrinal teaching ; 
 while the allegorical meaning lies so completely on the sur- 
 face, that the youngest child cannot fail to apprehend it. Tor 
 both these reasons, any explanatory conversations have been 
 considered unnecessary. But a conversation of a different 
 character has been annexed, in order to obviate the miscon- 
 struction to which the dwelling on any one duty to the 
 exclusion of others is always liable, and at the same time 
 to apply and illustrate the truths conveyed in the story." 
 
 The object of "The Pall of Croesus," which, as well as 
 "The Warnings of the Holy Week," is not included in 
 this volume, is to connect the study of history with a belief 
 in the doctrine of a superintending Providence ; and to point 
 out, that whilst on the surface of history man forms his 
 own schemes and carries them into effect, an under-current 
 pervades it, which, by a hidden influence, controls his course, 
 and forces him, whether in the success or failure of his 
 plans, to accomplish the unchangeable decrees of God. 
 
 It is difficult to convey to the readers of this memorial, 
 by those general features to which we are limited, a just 
 conception of the true character of this amiable and excellent 
 man. Whilst the higher virtues of the Christian shone 
 
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 0 
 
 conspicuously around him, and his varied knowledge and 
 literary success acted on his well-regulated mind only as 
 a farther inducement to meekness and humility, his 
 manners were gentle and attractive, and there was a 
 charming playfulness, a vein of mirth running through 
 his lively conversation, peculiarly winning. Knowing the 
 perfect simplicity of his mind, his self-denying spirit, and 
 the unrepining, almost triumphant submission with which 
 he bore his long and irremediable illness, the listener 
 was reminded of the poet's beautiful explanation of the 
 union that frequently exists between the deepest piety and 
 the most sparkling wit : — 
 
 " For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly, 
 As to justify the foliage and spreading flowers above." 
 
 He passed the last five years of his valuable life in 
 strict privacy, at the beautiful village of Bonclmrch, in 
 the Isle of Wight, the scene of the "Old Man's Home," 
 devoting the proceeds of his valuable works to public and 
 private charities, and solaced in his intervals of rest by the 
 companionship of the valued and attached friends by whom 
 he was surrounded, and affording to them an example of 
 Christian fortitude under suffering, and of resignation to 
 the Divine will. 
 
10 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 He was released from his state of trial on January 17, 
 1848. A simple cross marks the spot where his remains 
 repose in the Churchyard he has described so well. 
 
 The soundness of his views upon the great doctrines of 
 the Christian revelation will be best estimated by a perusal 
 of his works ; and if, in addition to those views, the 
 humblest submission to the will of God — a Catholic faith, 
 which hopeth all things, endureth all things, and a Catholic 
 love, which embraced all, however opposed to his views of 
 Church polity — can give an erring mortal a right to be 
 considered as a faithful member of the Church of Christ, this 
 character will not be denied to the author of these pages, 
 which breathe in every line " Glory to God in the highest, 
 on earth peace, good- will towards men." 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 I. 
 
 Upon the shores of that sweet Isle 
 Where summer wears her softest smile — 
 That Southern Isle where, long delayed, 
 The Roman's parting steps were staved — 
 'Mid hills with heather crowned, that rise 
 Far upwards thro' the peaceful skies ; 
 Whose guardian care would fain exclude 
 Each footstep that might else intrude 
 Prom out the common world of men. — 
 There lies a deep sequestered glen. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 II. 
 
 Beside the path that downward strays 
 Thro' many a wild and tangled maze,— 
 fiinbowered in trees, whose shadow falls 
 So gently on those hoary walls — 
 Grey with its load of countless years, 
 The ancient Church its front uprears. 
 Within is stillness, hushed, profound, 
 Solemn as theirs that slumber round ; 
 Save that there rises from below 
 The voice of ocean, deep and low, 
 
 TTI. 
 
 Along that steep and winding way 
 They bore thee on a winter's day ; 
 Where oft in life thy steps had passed, 
 Each Sabbath feebler than the last. 
 The sadness of the earth and air 
 That hour of mourning seem'd to share ; 
 As underneath the peaceful shade 
 Of those time -hallowed walls, we laid 
 Thy mortal part in solemn trust, 
 To wait the rising of the just. 
 
 IY. 
 
 "We sought not o'er thy tomb to mi*'* 
 The pomp of monumental praise. 
 For the true honours of the dead, 
 Are the warm tears we freely shed. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 13 
 
 And such parade of earthly pride 
 Had memory, meek as thine, belied. 
 One record there — the first, the last, 
 The only record of the past, 
 Thy humble heart might not disown, — 
 We laid — a simple Cross of stone. 
 
 V. 
 
 When steals across the twilight grey 
 The first faint tinge of early day ; 
 As, far o'er distant Culver borne, 
 The freshening breeze salutes the morn ; 
 And earth awakens bright and young, 
 As into life when first she sprung — 
 At that glad hour the watchful eye 
 May by the gathering light descry 
 The sacred Emblem faintly throw 
 Its shadow on the tomb below. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Most meet that emblem — thus with thee — 
 
 Yea 'mid thy very childhood's glee, 
 
 Who watched that childhood's horn's, might trace 
 
 The Spirit's growth of early grace. 
 
 In meek obedience promptly shown — 
 
 In reverent look, and thoughtful tone — 
 
 In loving smiles, and gentle tears, 
 
 And thoughts that seemed of graver years, — 
 
 Might well divine that tender shoot 
 
 Would one day bear immortal fruit ! 
 
1 i 
 
 IN MEMOKIAM. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When noon, in dazzling strength arrayed, 
 Weaves her rich web of light and shade — 
 When skies their gaudiest tints endue, 
 And the blue wave its deepest blue — 
 When noisy mart and crowded street 
 Echo the tramp of busy feet, 
 And every sound of earth and air 
 Speaks but of worldly toil and care, — 
 Then clear and sharp upon the stone 
 The outline of the Cross is thrown. 
 
 VT1L 
 
 So when thy noon of life was Jiigh ; 
 When not a cloud obscured the sky ; 
 The Preacher famed — the Scholar proved — 
 Honoured, and courted, and beloved — 
 Thine every thought and act obeyed 
 The holy law, thy steps that swayed : 
 In will subdued, and self denied, 
 And purest pleasures cast aside; 
 That thou His portion might partake, 
 Who suffered all things for our sake. 
 
 IX. 
 
 When from the wave the chiller blast 
 Declares the hours of sunshine past ; 
 And the gay tints that decked the day, 
 In sullen twilight melt away ; 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 When evening's shadows, cold and drear, 
 Tell of decay and darkness near — 
 Then 'mid the ever deep'ning gloom 
 Still rests the Shadow on the tomb ; 
 Till the last gleam of lingering light 
 Fades from the sky, and all is night. 
 
 X. 
 
 True emblem still ! — when trial came 
 Upon thy mid career of fame ; 
 When wasting sickness tried thee sore, 
 And life's bright skies were clouded o'er 
 Unwavering faith could yet sustain 
 Long years of loneliness and pain ; 
 Could cheer the drooping soul, and shed 
 Its brightness round the suffering bed, 
 And bid the weary struggle cease, 
 With the sweet words " Depart in peace 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then rest thee here, so fitly laid 
 Beneath the Cross's sheltering shade. 
 True soldier, who didst bear the brunt 
 So nobly in the battle's front ! 
 Rest ! tho' above thy quiet grave, 
 The battle-storms more fiercely rave — 
 Where, tho' sore-wearied and beset, 
 The Church maintains the combat yet. 
 Rest, till the Judgment -trumpet's tone 
 Proclaim at last her victory won. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 XII. 
 
 When at that signal, on the midnight skies, 
 Sudden and bright th' Eternal morn shall rise — 
 When Sin shall cease, and Sorrow's fount is stayed, 
 And Hope herself in certainty shall fade — 
 Then shall the Cross — that in this weary war 
 Had been the sign each faithful warrior bore — 
 The Cross, that aye its shade of sadness flings 
 On this world's purest love and holiest things — 
 Shine in the glories of the perfect day, 
 And the dark Shadow pass in light away. 
 
 H. C. A. 
 
THE 
 
 SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 
 
 AND HE SAID UNTO THEM ALL, IF ANY MAN WILL COME AFTER ME, LET HIM 
 DENY HIMSELF, AND TAKE UP HIS CROSS DAILY. AND FOLLOW ME. 
 
 St. I.ukr, tx. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS, OLD SCENES, WILL LOVELIER BE 
 AS MORE OF HEAVEN IN EACH WE SEE: 
 SOME SOFTENING GLEAM OF LOVE AND PRAYER 
 SHALL DAWN ON EVERY CROSS AND CARE. 
 
 THICK darkness was spread over the earth, and as I stood 
 the top of a lofty mountain, the only object that I could see 
 
18 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CKOSS. 
 
 was the 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. Pre- 
 sently, 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 might well 
 be called a garden ; — the sweetest flowers were growing wild in the 
 fields, and the very pathways appeared to sparkle with rubies and 
 emeralds; there were, too, the most luxuriant orchards and cool 
 groves of orange-trees and myrtles, and the breeze of the morning 
 was playing among their branches. Now, as I watched the butter- 
 flies 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, I saw nothing. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 19 
 
 Young and lovely children were continually crossing the narrow 
 stream ; there was no other way of escaping from the land of 
 darkness to the land of light. Their garments became white as 
 snow by their passage through the water, and sparkled with a 
 dazzling brightness as the sun first shone upon them ; I observed, 
 too, that each child, as he entered the garden, held a little cross 
 in his hand. Now, when I reflected how many millions might 
 still be wandering in the dark and gloomy region beyond, on 
 whom the glorious sun would never shed its cheering warmth, I 
 could not help thinking how happy the children were to have found 
 thus early the narrow stream, and I said in my heart, Surely this 
 lovely garden was made for them, and they will live in it for ever. 
 
 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 ot 
 the garden? and when they are taken from it, whither will they 
 go?" And the Voice said, "The children are sons of a mighty 
 King, and the garden is called the Garden of %\t SljaMtf JOf % 
 tos; but no one can tell whither each child will go when he 
 is taken away — it will depend on how far he escapes the dangers 
 of the garden. If they carelessly lose their crosses, or so stain 
 
•20 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 their beautiful 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 which is shining on the 
 land encircled by the silver stream; but were it not for the light 
 so resting upon it, there is nothing to be desired in the garden 
 itself. At one time every thing, not only here, but in the country 
 around, was very good — there was no mist or darkness then ; but 
 now an enemy of the King has corrupted all. The very air the 
 children breathe is wont to sully their white garments, and each 
 delight of the garden is full of hidden danger and deceit. While 
 every thing appears to the eye so beautiful and innocent, there is, 
 in truth, a poison lurking in each fruit and flower ; cunning serpents 
 are hiding in the grass ; snares and stumbling-blocks innumerable 
 are placed in the broad ways that look so bright and smooth ; and 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 21 
 
 even in the groves of myrtle roaring lions are wandering about, 
 anxious to tear the children that come thither, and to stain their 
 white garments with blood." 
 
 And when I heard this, I wept bitterly for the poor children, 
 whom I had thought so happy before, and I said, " Oh, wretched 
 children, thus to be placed in a garden so full of dangers, and to 
 be tempted by fruits and flowers which you dare not gather ! 
 Surely there is not one of you who will not at last imbibe some 
 secret poison, or fall into some dreadful snare, or be stung by a 
 serpent, or torn by a lion; and so you will be prevented from 
 entering that better country which your Father has prepared for 
 you." And the Voice said, " There is not one of the King's 
 children who may not dwell in peace and happiness in the garden. 
 Not only is their Father Himself ever present with them, though 
 they cannot see Him, but He has given to each a talisman, which 
 will enable them to live here in security, and even to enjoy the 
 fruits and flowers, until it is His good pleasure to call them to 
 Himself. You see that the sun is shining brightly and gloriously 
 in the east ; you see, too, that each little one has been provided 
 with a cross: — so long then as the cross is so held that the rays 
 of the sun fall upon it, and cast a shadow on the surrounding 
 objects, they will remain safe and happy in their garden ; for every 
 fruit on which the mark of the cross is seen, may be tasted of 
 without fear, and each path may be trodden in safety on which 
 its shadow rests." 
 
 " But will not," I asked, " the hands of the children become 
 wearied by holding the cross, and their eyes groAv dim while they 
 
22 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 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, by which they themselves may seek the 
 renewal of these gifts day after day, and hour after hour." 
 
 When I heard this I wept no more, but I thought how good 
 and kind that Father must be, who took such care of each little 
 child. From this time I ceased to watch the trees and the flowers, 
 or even the bright ring of water that kept flowing round the garden ; 
 for I felt deeply interested about the King's children, and I fancied 
 it would be very beautiful to see them throwing shadows from their 
 little crosses, and so living unhurt in the garden of the Shadow 
 of the Cross. 
 
 Now, I had expected that, as there was no difference in the 
 crosses themselves, so, too, would there be none in the shadows, 
 and that every child who held the cross would make the same use 
 of it. But I soon found that, though the crosses were indeed all 
 alike, there was very great variety in the images which they cast. 
 There were some which were very dark and gloomy, and some, on 
 the contrary, were so fair and soft, that they were more beautiful 
 to look upon than the surrounding light ; some fell fixed and steadfast, 
 some faint and wavering; some fell in clusters, and some alone. 
 There was also a very great difference in the way in which the 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 23 
 
 children held their crosses : some merely raised them on high, and 
 then walked quietly wherever the shadow fell ; some kept twisting 
 
 them backwards and forwards, as though it were a work of much 
 difficulty to form the shadow ; and some, methought, even when the 
 
24 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CKOSS. 
 
 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 con- 
 fusion 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 " Inno- 
 cence" was written on her forehead; and, from the whiteness of 
 her garments, I thought that she must have entered very lately into 
 the garden. I watched her as she played with her companions in 
 the fields, and I loved to see her stop with them to taste the fruits 
 or gather the flowers by the way ; for I observed that she chose 
 not the greenest paths, nor the ripest fruits, nor the fairest flowers, 
 but only those on which the image of her cross was seen. Nay, 
 neither fruit nor flower seemed to have any charms for her, unless 
 the cross had thrown its shadow there; and I wondered not that 
 it was so, for the more I gazed, the more soft and beautiful seemed 
 the outline that it traced. The child was always happy ; her sole 
 pleasure was in her little cross and the shadows it formed ; fall 
 where they would, she was sure to follow them. I saw, too, that 
 she taught her friends to seek the shadows also, and when the 
 mark of her cross and theirs might be discerned on the same object, 
 then was she happiest of all. 
 
 And as I gazed, behold! a snow-white dove was resting on the 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 •25 
 
 cross, and the form of the little one began already to fade from my 
 view; her features became less bright, though not less pure, than 
 they were before, and I knew that young Innocence, with her 
 garments still white, was passing away from the garden. In a 
 little while her companions were weeping, and the child was gone. 
 I did not weep, for I felt she had been taken away to that brighter 
 and happier land of which the Voice had spoken ; yet long after 
 we had ceased to see her, I fancied she was still present in the 
 garden, and, as she had been wont to do, was holding her little 
 cross in the light of the sun; for its shadow continued to play 
 around all the objects she had loved ; I could trace it not only on 
 the faces of her friends, but on the flowers she had gathered, and 
 the very pathways she had trod. I observed, too, that these images 
 became brighter and more distinct from the tears that fell upon 
 them, and images from other crosses kept clustering around them, 
 and I thought, if the beautiful child were indeed still looking on 
 the garden, how happy she must be that the crosses of those who 
 wept for her were thus blended with her own. 
 
CONVEESATION ON CHAPTER I. 
 
 What is signified by the bright and glorious sun that 
 appeared in the east? 
 
 Jesus Christ our Lord, 
 dii. Yes; he is spoken of as the "Sun of Righteousness" by 
 the prophet Malachi. And the beautiful garden on which its 
 rays fell, is the kingdom that our Lord established upon earth ; 
 now, why is that kingdom represented as surrounded by a silver 
 stream ? 
 
 gt. Because it is through the water of baptism that we enter it. 
 (!lt. Do you remember how this was typified in the history of 
 the children of Israel? 
 
 Yes ; you explained to me in the Baptismal Service, that it 
 was by the passage through the Eed Sea. The words there, I 
 think, are, " Who didst safely lead the children of Israel through 
 the Red Sea, figuring thereby thy holy baptism." 
 
 You can, then, tell me on which side of the stream you 
 were born. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 
 
 i'7 
 
 gt. 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 pro- 
 mised you? 
 
 @L. 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? 
 
 @L. 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? 
 
 gt. Because it is at our Baptism that wc receive the gift of the 
 Holy Ghost. 
 
 O. What, then, is signified by the constant renewal of their 
 sight and strength ? 
 
 gt. The being daily renewed by the Holy Spirit of God. 
 And how must we seek for such renewal ? 
 By prayer. 
 
 0. Yes and by Holy Communion, and all the other means of 
 grace which God has appointed to refresh and supporl the Christian 
 
28 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 in his daily walk. What is meant by the children being placed in 
 the garden, in order to prepare them for their Father's presence? 
 
 That the Christian is to endeavour so to live in the present 
 world, that hereafter he may be thought worthy to be with God 
 for ever. 
 
 How were the children to prepare themselves? 
 gt. They were to keep their garments white, and hold fast their 
 crosses. 
 
 (Hi. In the same way, then, each one of us must prepare himself 
 for heaven, by abstaining from sin and impurity, and holding fast 
 the profession of Christ. Can you tell me how the sign of the 
 cross is spoken of in the Baptismal Service? 
 
 jSK. 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. 
 
 (Jit. How are sin, the world, and the devil represented in the 
 allegory ? 
 
 gt. They are the poisons, the snares, the serpents, and the other 
 dangers of the garden. 
 
 You are right. But, instead of fighting against them, we are 
 here, under a different image, represented as passing safely through 
 them by means of the shadow of the cross. What will be the 
 fate of those unhappy children who neglect that safeguard ? 
 
 ^t. 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. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 29 
 
 ®. 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? 
 
 gt. Is it because religion seems a bright and cheerful thing to 
 some, while it is sad and gloomy to others? 
 
 ^R. 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 that the ways of wisdom arc, 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. 
 
 (Q. She did so for the short time she remained in the garden. 
 You know what is meant by her fading away? 
 
 gt. She was taken to heaven. 
 
 difc. And by the shadow that still seemed to fall from her cross ? 
 
 i£t. The remembrance that she left upon the earth. 
 
 <©. Yes. There is an almost sacred feeling with which we regard 
 everything connected with those little ones who have lived and died 
 in the Lord. The shadow of their cross may indeed be said to rest 
 on each innocent amusement and occupation that they have loved ; 
 
30 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 and the images from other crosses will cluster around it, for no soil 
 is more kindly to good and holy resolutions than the remembrance 
 of departed friends: "to be with them is to be with Christ." There 
 are affections and sympathies which are fixed upon them during 
 their lives, which by their deaths it often pleases God to draw to 
 Himself. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHEN WITH BEAR FRIENDS SWEET TALK I HOLD, 
 AND ALL THE FLOWERS OF LIFE UNFOLD; 
 LET NOT MY HEART WITHIN ME BURN, 
 EXCEPT IN ALL I THEE BISCERN. 
 
 When Innocence had thus early been called away from the 
 garden, I selected one of the little group of mourners, whom 
 I next resolved to watch. He was a very beautiful boy, and 
 had been one of the favourite friends of Innocence, and when I 
 first observed him, was crying bitterly for his loss. But he soon 
 
32 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 dried his tears, and as I looked on his clear and open forehead, the 
 name of " Mirth. 99 was written there. Long after he had ceased 
 weeping, I conld 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 linger- 
 ing still. 
 
 While he remained there, I knew that the boy was safe from 
 danger; but afterwards, when he began to wander to other parts 
 of the garden, I grew alarmed lest some evil might befal him ; for, 
 though he grasped his own cross firmly in his hand, so quick and 
 lively was his step, that I feared he might soon be tempted to 
 move beyond its shadow. However, I was beginning to hope 
 there was no good reason for my alarm ; for, though he gathered 
 more abundantly than Innocence had done of the flowers that 
 were by the way, I observed that he never touched them until 
 the shadow of his cross had rested upon them ; and if there were 
 any on which it did not fall, he passed them by. But before long, 
 it seemed that his eye was attracted by a beautiful bed of roses 
 and violets that grew on a little hill, at the foot of which he was 
 walking: I saw him hold his cross for a moment between them 
 and the sun, 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. 
 Now, this I perceived with sorrow, for I was afraid the little fellow 
 had not observed that there were many roses there on which no 
 part of the shadow fell ; and I feared lest in his eagerness he 
 
THE SHADOW, .OP THE CROSS. 
 
 should seize one of them, and, by doing so, I knew not what risk 
 he might incur. There was good cause for my fear. The child, 
 breathless with his scramble up the hill, stretched out his hand and 
 plucked the finest rose that he saw; it was one of those on which 
 no shadow had fallen, and he had scarce held it a moment, when a 
 wasp, that had concealed itself among the leaves, crawled out and 
 stung him on the finger : the poor boy screamed with pain, for the 
 sting of the wasp was unlike anything he had felt before. He 
 hastily dashed the flower to the ground; but one leaf, I observed, 
 was blown back by the wind, and rested on his clothes: Mirth saw 
 it also, and brushed it away; but, when it was gone, there was 
 a stain on those garments which had been so white before. Ii 
 was but a very little spot, and, as the- tears trickled down upon it, 
 grew so faint that it could hardly be discerned at all; but still the 
 spot was there. The smart, however, that the sting caused was 
 of no long continuance, and in a short time little Mirth was going 
 merrily on his way, as though no accident had happened. 
 
 By and by, as he was walking by a bright path across a field, 
 one of his former companions perceived him, and ran over the green 
 to meet him; I could see that he shook Mirth warmly by the hand, 
 and persuaded him that for a little while they should amuse 
 themselves 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 written on his brow. I thought, 
 too, that Mirth looked shocked when first he met him, and I heard 
 him ask after his cross ; but Wayward laughed, and told him it 
 
 F 
 
34 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 
 
 was so troublesome to keep it always in his hand, that he now 
 carried it in his clothes. He said, however, that he never forgot 
 to take it out when there were any difficulties in the way ; but 
 in the green fields and smooth paths he needed not its shadow. 
 
 Now, methought, the stains on his clothes proved that, without 
 the cross, neither the greenest fields nor the smoothest paths were 
 safe ; but it would seem that Mirth did not observe them, for his 
 mind appeared at ease, when he found Wayward had not thrown 
 away the cross, and the two boys walked on together. Little Mirth 
 still, however, kept his own cross in his hand, and its shadow ever 
 fell clear and distinct on the bright path he trod ; while Wayward 
 walked heedlessly along the soft turf by his side, and laughed at 
 the caution of his companion. But I soon observed that Mirth 
 was growing weary of the narrow way, and tired of placing his 
 footsteps exactly in the print of the cross, and that by little and little 
 he deviated from it ; he ventured first close by the side of the 
 grass, and then just to tread on 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, leaped back upon the road, 
 for it was at no great distance ; but before he could reach it his 
 garments were already splashed, and there was a sad shade of green 
 all around their border. Wayward fell deeper into the marsh than 
 Mirth, because he had been walking farther from the path ; but, when 
 he had forced his way out, he treated his misfortune lightly, and 
 scarce stopped a moment to wipe the dirt from his clothes ; nor did 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 35 
 
 I wonder at this, for they were so stained before, that the splashes 
 of the green mud could hardly be seen on them at all ; but it made 
 me feel the more pity for Mirth, as he looked sadly at his own stains ; 
 and I thought how foolish a thing it was, for a child, still clad in 
 raiment of white, to walk with one whose garments were so defiled. 
 
 It seemed, however, that Mirth thought not of that, for he still 
 allowed Wayward to accompany him ; nay, in a little while I almost 
 fancied he began to look discontented at the whiteness of his clothes, 
 for the fear of spoiling them often forced him to pick his way over 
 stones with care, while his companion could walk heedlessly through 
 the mud. Alas ! if it were so, the silly child had not much longer 
 such cause for discontent ; for a beautiful butterfly in a neighbouring 
 field caught the attention of Wayward, and in a moment away he 
 ran, calling to his companion to follow; and I saw that, for the firsl 
 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 throng] 1 
 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 
 
36 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 I said, " Oh that Mirth had tried whether the shadow of his cross 
 would rest on its glittering wings, before he began thus hastily to 
 follow it! " for many a splash of mud had fallen upon him in the 
 eagerness of the pursuit, and his little hands were so scratched 
 with thorns, that in some parts they had sprinkled his clothes with 
 blood. 
 
 At length they came to a smooth grassy plain, at the border of 
 which was a lovely grove of myrtles. The butterfly flew high in 
 the air towards the distant trees, for there was neither plant nor 
 flower in the plain itself. Now, I observed that Mirth had out- 
 stripped Wayward in the chase ; and as he ran heedlessly on, gazing 
 upwards 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 companion's fall, 
 for he also took out his cross ; and when its dim shadow fell on the 
 same hard, dull path, he too relinquished the pursuit of the butterfly, 
 and accompanied Mirth. So the two boys walked on, sadly and 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 '67 
 
 silently, together; but Mirth limped a little as he went, from the 
 pain of his fall. Very glad I was that they had not ventured to 
 
 i 
 
 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 
 
33 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 the butterfly was resting. He seemed to be waiting anxiously for 
 the approach of the children, and I doubt not there was poison in 
 his fang. 
 
 Now, I have said that the road by which Mirth and Wayward 
 left the grove of myrtles was dull and^ hard ; for I had by this 
 time discovered that, soft and beautiful as every thing looked in the 
 distance, there were not only some paths in the garden deceitful and 
 dangerous, but others hard and dull. It led them by many a 
 withered leaf and faded flower ; and each leaf and flower was watered 
 by the tears of Mirth, for his eyes were ever fixed downward upon 
 the ground : he was as one who was unconscious whither he was 
 walking, and whose only care was so to measure each step that it 
 might fall exactly in the shadow before him. Wayward, too, for 
 a little while, looked downward also, and step by step trod in the 
 same path with 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 turn 
 aside to some of the pleasant paths on the right hand or on the left. 
 He appeared to me, however, to be half afraid of wandering alone ; 
 for I heard him coaxing Mirth to leave off watching those gloomy 
 images, and to come and join with him in some merry game, saying 
 that, by doing so, he would the sooner forget the effects of his fall. 
 But Mirth still walked on in the same disconsolate way, with his eyes 
 fixed upon the ground. His heart was then indeed too full of heaviness 
 to suffer him to think of play at all; yet, perhaps, he might not 
 have been able to resist very long the entreaties of Wayward, had it 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 39 
 
 not so happened that the boys did not much farther 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 white, and how beautiful were 
 the first holy images which fell on the objects around them ; and, 
 above all, I recollected the hour when the dove had settled so 
 peacefully on the cross of her who was taken, while she was fading 
 from my view : and then, as I gazed upon the one who had been left, 
 and saw how his garments since then had been stained by many 
 a dark and filthy spot, the bitter thought came upon me whether, if 
 his friend still looked upon the garden, she would recognise him now, 
 and whether, if Mirth were called away, he would be received in that 
 better country to ivhich 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 clucks, 
 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 
 
10 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 kind Father, who was ever present among His children in the 
 garden ; and I remembered how the Voice had told me that 
 there were means by which the sight and strength of the children 
 might be renewed. Presently I saw him bend low and gaze 
 earnestly on the faded flower; and while the big tear fell upon 
 it, methonght that his eye became less dim, and there was a 
 gleam of hope and gladness on his face, as though he could again 
 trace upon the leaves the light and lovely outline of the cross of 
 Innocence. Then I also, in the midst of my sorrow, was glad ; 
 and I felt that Mirth was really happier as he wept over the lily 
 of his friend, than he had been while, in the thoughtlessness of 
 his heart, he was chasing the painted butterfly on the green. 
 Moreover, as I watched him, I saw him kiss his little cross and 
 press it to his heart ; and I wondered not that he did so, for 
 I knew it was that little cross, and that alone, which had freed 
 him from all his perils ; for, without it, he must have been 
 bitten by the serpent in the myrtle grove ; and had he not trod 
 in its shadow along the hard dull road, he would not have been 
 guided to the flower of Innocence at last. 
 
CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER II. 
 
 Why was it that Mirth was safe while lie remained where 
 lie had been playing with Innocence ? 
 
 Because, as you have already said, when we think oi 
 companions and friends that are gone, our own hearts arc drawn 
 more closely to our Saviour. 
 
 (JR. As soon as he left that field, what was the particulai 
 danger of Mirth? 
 
 9. He was too fond of pleasure. 
 
 <&i. Yes; however anxious wc may be to follow the cross, n 
 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? 
 
 fH. By the beautiful bed of flowers, from which Mirth, in his 
 haste, gathered a rose on which the shadow did not fall. 
 O. What is the sting of the wasp? 
 The pain caused by sin. 
 
4 2 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 ®. What the mark of the rose leaf? 
 2$. The stain left by sin. 
 
 O. When Mirth met Wayward, we are told that the cross of 
 the latter was not in his hand : what is meant by this ? 
 
 @L. He was not trying to hold fast his christian profession. 
 
 <&.. Had he, then, altogether renounced the service of Christ? 
 
 21 . No ; for he still said he kept the cross, though he did not 
 use it. 
 
 O. 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 negligence ? 
 
 ivt. 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? 
 
 gl. His clothes also soon lost their whiteness, for the two 
 boys fell into a swamp together. 
 
 (Q. What do we learn from this? 
 
 The danger of joining in the pursuits of those who talk 
 lightly of religion, and do not profess in all things to be guided 
 by the cross. 
 
 (IB. What is afterwards signified by the discontent of Mirth, 
 when he was not able to do as Wayward did? 
 
 gt. Envy at the pleasures that the wicked seem to enjoy. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 44 
 
 (SL 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? 
 
 £1. By the chase after the beautiful butterfly, 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 ? 
 
 g(. 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. 
 
 <!EL Did the children get possession of the butterfly at last ? 
 
 ^t. No, they gave it up in consequence of the stumble of Mirth. 
 
 (OL Why did that cause them to give it up? 
 
 It led Mirth to consult his cross, and then he saw that its 
 shadow fell in an opposite direction. 
 
 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 clanger. What is signified by the serpent 
 concealed under the myrtle? 
 
 iK. Satan was lying in wait to take advantage of their sin. 
 <Q. What was the hard dull path by which the children began 
 to return ? 
 
 The path of repentance. 
 
 And the withered leaves and faded flowers are the recol- 
 lection of opportunities neglected and blessings forfeited, which 
 are always strewed along it. What is signified by the return 
 to the field of Innocence? 
 
44 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Mirth was led to think of the happy days that in their 
 childhood they had passed together, and of the quiet life, and 
 above all, of the tranquil and holy death of his former frienc 1 . 
 
 (!Et. How did these thoughts at first affect him? 
 
 @L. 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 ? 
 
 ^t. No ; for his sorrow led him to pray very earnestly to hi* 
 Father. 
 
 (S=t. And the consequence of this was, that he soon felt happy, 
 while he traced the mark of the cross on the faded flower of 
 Innocence. And so it is written, " Blessed are they that mourn, 
 for they shall be comforted." To what did Mirth ascribe his present 
 comfort, and his escape from danger? 
 
 ^. He ascribed 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 peace. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 BUT IF, INDEED, WITH RECKLESS FAITH 
 
 WE TRUST THE FLATTERING- 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. 
 
 TlIE tears were fast rising in my eyes as I turned them away 
 from the kneeling child, so affecting was the scene ; but for 
 the present I watched him no more, for about him my mind was 
 
46 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 now at rest; but I felt fearfully anxious to trace the course of his 
 companion who neglected the cross. Wayward had not seen the 
 shadow resting on the flower, but had walked carelessly 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 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 I knew 
 that it would be so, for his cross was not in his hand. 
 
 In a little time he had got quite to a different part of the garden 
 from that in which he had parted Avith Mirth. He saw there 
 a pretty group of children, whom he was very anxious to join ; 
 but they were frightened when they observed that he had no cross, 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 47 
 
 and one of them cried out that his dirty hands would soil the 
 whiteness of their garments ; so they refused to let him take part 
 in their play. He tried one or two other groups, but some hurried 
 away as he approached, and others shrunk back from his touch, 
 until at last he found a party of boys who had no crosses, and 
 whose clothes were more filthy than his own. These boys welcomed 
 him gladly, and he began to leap and run with them. They all 
 laughed loudly, and tried to be merry ; but no shadow fell on the 
 ground which they trod, and they soon grew weary of laughter 
 itself. So their game terminated in a quarrel, and that brought on 
 blows, which added fresh stains' to the clothes of these unhappy 
 children. Even Wayward grew shocked at the scene which he now 
 witnessed, and, hastening away from his companions, again began 
 to ramble through the garden alone. 
 
 He now seemed to be wandering to and fro without any object, 
 as a child that was blind ; but I saw that he plenteously gathered 
 of the flowers, and ate of the fruits that he found ; and as he did so 
 his garments became more and more discoloured, and his countenance 
 pale and sickly, and his manner full of restlessness and languor, so 
 that I was very greatly alarmed, for I could not but remember how 
 the Voice had said that there was poison in the garden. I saw, too, 
 that Wayward had become not only sickly, but wretched also ; he 
 no longer could derive enjoyment from anything he tasted or touched, 
 but was suspicious of them all. 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, T cannot tell, but the cross itself he did not hold. 
 
48 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 At length in his wanderings he came to a long high wall, on the 
 Western side of which there was a tree loaded with nectarines, riper 
 and more beautiful than any he had before seen. Now, at first he 
 seemed as though he were going to turn away, for, though he held 
 not his cross, he knew at once that the bright sun shining in the 
 East could shed no image there ; and yet he lingered and looked 
 wistfully at the fruit; and as he looked, he perceived one gathering 
 from the tree, whose garments were yet white, and whose cross was 
 in her hand. I also looked at her that gathered the fruit, and I 
 could read the name of " Selfdeceit 1 ' imprinted upon her brow ; 
 and I saw there was something foul and horrible even in the very 
 whiteness of her garments, and that wan and ghastly were the 
 images that fell from her cross. Now, I began to wonder how those 
 images were formed, and behold! there gleamed in the air behind 
 her a dark blue flame ; then I discovered that there were false 
 meteor lights in the Garden of the Shadow of the Cross : doubtless 
 they were placed there by the enemy of the King, in order to tempt 
 the children to taste the poisonous fruits; but I shuddered exceed- 
 ingly when I saw that the cross might thus be converted into an 
 instrument of destruction; yet so unlike were the false images to 
 those formed by the clear and brilliant sun in the East, that they 
 could deceive none but the eye that had been long a stranger to 
 the real image, and the heart that was anxious to believe them 
 true. Even Wayward, as he drew nigh, trembled, and felt there 
 was something unnatural in the shadows that fell on the Western 
 wall; but when Selfdeceit offered him one of the ripest nectarines, 
 and pointed triumphantly to the pale outline that might be traced 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 40 
 
 upon it, he was tempted, and he took it and did eat. While he 
 was eating, some of the jnice oozed ont from the fruit (for it was 
 very ripe) and fell upon his clothes : it marked them with a stain 
 which, though they were already much discoloured, was of a deeper 
 crimson than any I had seen before. Wayward threw down the 
 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 took a substance 
 which seemed to me like chalk, and rubbed it over the spot on 
 which the juice had fallen, and not that spot only, but over the 
 whole of the garments of her companion, until she had produced 
 upon them the same foul and horrible whiteness that I had remarked 
 upon her own. When it was done, I thought that Wayward tried 
 to smile, as though he again were clean ; but the smile passed 
 away in a sigh, for in his inmost heart he knew that the stains 
 were hidden but not removed, and that the all-seeing eye of his 
 Father could perceive them still. 
 
 Yet he did not fly from Selfdeceit as he ought to have done, 
 but still continued in her 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 
 bloodshot eye, had left but little of the gay, though careless, child 
 who had run so lightly after the butterfly on the green. Yet, great 
 
 H 
 
50 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CEOSS. 
 
 as was the change in his appearance owing to the poison on which 
 he lived, the change that had taken place in his dress was greater 
 still ; for his garments were more disguised by the strange whiteness 
 caused by the chalk, than they could have been by the darkest 
 stain. He was, however, fast becoming accustomed to its use, for 
 it was astonishing how many accidents befel Wayward and Self deceit 
 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, 
 Self deceit 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 frightened by 
 a deep and angry sound, even as the roaring of a lion, which 
 issued from the wood, and yet his ears had now grown so dull, 
 that I cannot tell whether he heard it at all; and I think it most 
 likely that he only delayed, because the scene brought back to his 
 memory the hour in which he had stood with Mirth, at the entrance 
 of the myrtle-grove, when the holy image had warned them both 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 51 
 
 to turn, aside, But be the cause what it may, he stood still, and 
 drew his long-neglected cross from his bosom. 
 
 It was, indeed, a scene that caused my heart to beat high with 
 interest. Wayward was standing a little in advance of Selfdeceit, 
 
52 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 and one step more would have brought him within the borders of 
 the wood; and, as he raised his cross with a trembling hand, I 
 could see a smile of mockery pass over the countenance of his 
 companion. In a moment the meteor lights were flickering in the 
 air around them, and a crowd of confused and ghastly shadows fell 
 at the feet of the bewildered boy. He had suffered his eyes to 
 become so very dim, that it was in vain he now endeavoured to 
 distinguish the true image from the false : but I observed that 
 from that very uncertainty he hesitated whether to advance ; and 
 I believe at last he would have turned aside, had not Selfdeceit 
 with her own hand lighted a torch behind him, which threw one 
 long deep shadow in the direction of the forest. Then Wayward 
 ventured to move forward; but scarce had he made the first step, 
 when there was a laugh as of fiends in the air, and behold ! the 
 earth opened beneath the feet of Selfdeceit, and she and her flaming 
 torch and her whited garments were swallowed up, and 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. 
 
CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER III. 
 
 How was it that Wayward did not continue in the same 
 field with Mirth? 
 
 a. Because he no longer watched the shadow of the cross. 
 
 That is to say, though he appeared to be following the 
 same course with his companion, he did not in truth resemble 
 him; for he made no real effort to regulate each thought, word, 
 and deed, by the rule of his Christian profession. But when he 
 first missed him, did he endeavour to join him again? 
 
 He was very anxious to do so, and yet could not resolve 
 to consult his cross. 
 
 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. 
 (fit. Did Wayward succeed in this wish? 
 
54 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 St. 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? 
 
 St. Careless Christians are often forced into the company of 
 those who have advanced farther along the paths of destruction 
 than themselves. 
 
 (Gt. What were the fruits and flowers which afterwards so dis- 
 coloured the garments of Wayward, and rendered him sickly and pale ? 
 
 jS, They were the idle pursuits and pleasures in which in 
 mere thoughtlessness he indulged. 
 
 (0=1. What is signified by his longing for the nectarine on the 
 western wall ? 
 
 fH. 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? 
 Satan, the enemy of the King, who is able to transform 
 himself into an angel of light. 
 
 What was the state of Selfdeceit? 
 St. 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, 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 56 
 
 and then Satan will half convince us that it is so, and our under- 
 standing will be gradually darkened, and we shall become hardened 
 and impenitent ; then the cross of Christ will become to us of no 
 effect. Such you may remember was the condition of the Jewish 
 people, when the day of their visitation was passed, and they thought 
 they were doing an action well-pleasing to God in crucifying their 
 Saviour. Did Wayward fall into that miserable state? 
 
 g{. Not entirely ; for, though he yielded to the persuasion 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 ? 
 
 St. That deep and fearful mark which is produced by a wilful 
 and deliberate act of sin. 
 
 <&L. What is signified by the chalk that Selfdeceit persuaded 
 him to employ ? 
 
 St. He endeavoured to hide from himself and from others the 
 consequence of his sin. 
 
 ©. Yes. He assumed that white covering, which makes all 
 outwardly appear well, while there is nothing but rottenness 
 within. Such we know to have been the state of the Scribes 
 and Pharisees in the time of our Saviour. 
 
 St. I remember that he himself declares they were but " whited 
 sepulchres." 
 
 What do we learn from the numerous spots and stains 
 that afterwards broke out on Wayward and Selfdeceit? 
 
 St. That our sins will increase upon us in proportion as we 
 endeavour to keep them out of sight, 
 
56 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 O. What is signified by the edge of the forest at which 
 Wayward again consulted his cross? 
 
 It was one of those important occasions on which he did 
 endeavour to act rightly. 
 
 (Ht. How then was it that he consulted it in vain? 
 
 Because he had so long neglected it, and been contented 
 with watching the false shadows. 
 
 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? 
 
 M. Yes ; it must have been entirely owing to his own neglect ; 
 for we are told that the sight of those children would never 
 grow dim who used the means that their Father had appointed 
 for preserving it. 
 
 dD. What is signified by Selfdeceit holding a false light 
 behind him? 
 
 ^t. She endeavoured by wicked and lying arguments to over- 
 come 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 some- 
 times overtakes the sinner. What effect had this judgment upon 
 her companion? 
 
 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 ? 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 57 
 
 u Our adversary the devil, who goeth about as a roaring 
 lion, seeking whom he may devour." 
 
 . And what is meant by dropping 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 Judas Iscariot, when he went 
 out and hanged himself, after he had betrayed his Lord : instead 
 of that repentance which would have led him onward to hope, 
 he felt only the agony of that remorse which brought him into 
 the depth of despair. Remember, then, that it is possible to be 
 aroused too late to a sense of the fearful consequences of sin. 
 
 i 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 REFRESH US, LOKD, 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 
 
 JL HAD already begun to mourn for Wayward, as for one who 
 was lost ; for even had he been in health and vigour, his strength 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 50 
 
 would have been but weakness against the ferocious animal that 
 was devouring him now ; but sickly and powerless as he had been 
 rendered by disease, save by his fearful shrieks he could offer no 
 resistance at all. His cries for help were 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 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 w r ould 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 destruction, and 
 it was a long time before he so far came to himself as to be able to 
 stand up. I cannot tell what fearful dreams he may have had while 
 
60 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 lie was lying prostrate on the ground ; but the moment that he 
 arose, his first thought was of his cross: he felt for it in his bosom, 
 but he found that it was not there; and I shall not easily forget 
 the look of anguish and despair that was on his face when he 
 remembered he had let it fall. He threw 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. Nay, it had fallen so near the forest, and the grass 
 was so long, and the bushes so numerous, that there was little hope 
 of his recovering it again ; and yet he now felt that, if he found 
 it not, he himself was lost. He told Charity of his sad loss, and 
 with tears and groans besought her earnestly to assist him in the 
 search. So Charity raised her own cross on high, and the dark 
 outline fell on a thick bush of furze close by the outskirts of the 
 wood ; it was there that the cross of Wayward had fallen, and 
 she bade the boy call earnestly on his gracious Father, and advance 
 with a good courage, telling him that, though others might point 
 out where it was, no hand but his own could take it up. Wayward 
 did advance, but it was with fear and trembling; he often raised 
 his eyes timidly towards the forest, as though he was afraid lest 
 the lion might seize upon him again : when, too, he stood by the 
 bush, and stretched out his hand, it was sad to see how the noxious 
 insects stung him, and the thorns entered into the new-made wounds ; 
 twice in anguish did he draw it back ; the second time that he did 
 so, a low growl was heard issuing from the wood, and then in 
 haste he thrust his hand down again, regardless of the pain, and 
 seizing on his lost treasure hurried back to the side of Charity. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 61 
 
 Now I rejoiced greatly that Wayward had recovered his cross ; 
 I was glad, too, that the chalk with which Selfdeceit had bedaubed 
 his clothes was gone, for the red streams of blood had washed it 
 away. Yet still was I very 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 
 
62 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 weighing him down, for he groaned deeply and was very sorrowful ; 
 and then I heard Charity speaking to him of the tender mercies 
 of their King and Father, and telling him that, if only he was 
 able to hold steadfastly for the time to come by the cross, and 
 walk carefully in its shadow, he need in no wise despair, for, 
 though his own tears could not cleanse his garments, there was 
 One who might wash them for him with the water of life ; so that, 
 though they were now as scarlet, they would become as white as 
 snow ; though they were red like crimson, they should be as wool. 
 
 When he heard this, Wayward looked down upon his cross, 
 but there still was very much of sadness in his gaze; he felt in 
 truth that his hand was too feeble to hold it steadfastly for the 
 time to come, and his eye too dim to discern its shadow. But 
 Charity again addressed him with words of comfort; she reminded 
 him that they were not alone in the garden, and that there were 
 means by which, if only he would be diligent in employing them, 
 his strength and his sight would gradually be renewed ; " The 
 same kind Father," she said, " Who has given you the will and 
 the power to recover your cross, can render it once more the guardian 
 of your steps." 
 
 Then did he take comfort, and while he feebly raised his cross, 
 methought that he 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, 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 63 
 
 that of Charity leading her through a smooth verdant meadow, 
 that of Wayward falling on a rough uneven ground, close to the 
 border of the wood. So, with many a parting warning, and ever, 
 as she went, holding on high the sacred sign, Charity bade adieu 
 to Wayward, and I cannot tell that she ever beheld him again. 
 For a moment I watched her light graceful form as she passed 
 through the pleasant fields : it was, indeed, a lovely sight ; the 
 long grass and the flowers appeared ' to bend as she approached, lest 
 they might stain the hem of her white garments; the little lambs 
 Avould 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 
 know what would become of Wayward now he was once more 
 alone ; he too had been watching the retreating form of Charity, 
 and the tear rose in his eye as he felt it was not for him to accompany 
 her along the ways of pleasantness and peace. He began his solitary 
 journey, and I could see that he was struggling hard to hold firmly 
 by the cross, and was inwardly resolving to follow the advice of 
 Charity. But, alas ! that which might have been sweet and easy 
 once had become a task of much labour and difficulty now ; for 
 though his Father did not suffer his strength or sight altogether 
 to fail, he was allowed continually to feel the ill effects of his 
 former wanderings. His arm grew faint and weary when he lifted 
 it on high ; and his cross itself would at one time glow with a 
 burning heat, and raise blisters on his hand ; and at another, 
 would become cold as a mass of ice, until his numbed fingers 
 could scarce retain it in their grasp. Its shadow, too, no longer 
 
04 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 fell on fruits or on flowers, nor on any thing desirable to the eye, 
 but on husks and withered leaves, and all the refuse of the earth. 
 I saw, also, that he staggered to and fro as he walked along, and 
 that, from his very anxiety to place his footsteps right, he often 
 stumbled and well-nigh fell, and, by the 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 Selfdeceit still continued to hover around him, 
 and kept throwing their deceitful shadows on secret poisons and 
 hidden snares : many a time did he pause long and anxiously, 
 before he could distinguish between the true image and the false, 
 and often had he reason to rejoice that the real shadow was dark 
 and gloomy, because he could the more easily discern it. He 
 knew also that he had good reason to be alarmed, for the roar of 
 the lion that had torn him once was ever sounding in his ears ; 
 and each time that he hesitated, he fancied he could perceive his 
 fierce eyes glaring upon him from the wood : it seemed as though 
 the beast, having once marked him for his own, was watching 
 every step that he took, and ready in a moment to pounce upon 
 his prey. At length the shadow fell upon a pathway leading 
 directly into the wood ; Wayward gazed doubtfully upon it a little 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 05 
 
 while, but, when he saw that it was the true image, with slow 
 and trembling steps he continued to follow it. I soon lost sight of 
 him among the trees, so that I cannot tell what may have befallen 
 him there ; but I have a good hope that he walked in safety through 
 all its dangers, for, though his garments were stained with blood, 
 and his limbs were faint, and his eyes dim, and though the beasts 
 •of the forests were howling around him, his cross was in his hand. 
 
 Still I was not sorry that I could no longer watch him, for it 
 had become very painful to me to trace his steps ; not only was 
 there trouble in each path that he trod, but there was even much 
 to render me sad in the gloomy shadows that fell from his cross ; 
 so I suffered my eye to wander towards the more lovely parts 
 of the garden, in hopes that once again it might rest upon Mirth. 
 I soon discovered him not far from the field in which Wayward 
 had left him; he had altered very little since then, except that the 
 cheerfulness of his countenance and the buoyancy of his step had 
 returned. He was holding his cross towards the sun, and his face 
 beamed bright with gratitude as he traced its outline on the flowers 
 strewed in his path. The shadows were not, indeed, so light and 
 lovely as those which had fallen from the cross of Innocence, yet 
 still they were very beautiful, — more beautiful than the fairest 
 flowers on which they fell. The garments of Mirth had almost 
 recovered their whiteness, yet they, too, were not so bright and 
 shining as those of Innocence had been ; nay, I fancied I could 
 yet trace upon them the dim outline of each former stain, not only 
 the deeper marks that had been caused by his careless chase with 
 Wayward, but even the first little spot that the falling rose-leaf 
 
 K 
 
66 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 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, 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 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 07 
 
 that can either wither or fade. In that better land the cross will 
 indeed be the delight of the children, and the bright sun will be 
 reflected on their garments of dazzling whiteness ; but, when raised 
 on high, the cross will cast no shadow there; it will itself shine 
 with exceeding lustre, the rajs of immortality will be shed from 
 it, and all things will be filled with light and gladness by its pure 
 and living fire." 
 
 Now, while I wondered at this, and tried to picture to myself a 
 land lovely without fields or flowers, and in which the cross might 
 be raised towards the sun and yet no shadow be discerned, behold ! 
 the vision of the fair garden passed away, and I saw no more. 
 
CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER IV. 
 
 (*£t. How was Wayward released from his perilous condition? 
 @L. Charity came with her white garments from the wood, and 
 drove away the beast that was devouring him. 
 (JR. 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. 
 
 (!Et. What effect upon the garments of Charity had the purple 
 stream that flowed from the wounds of Wayward? 
 It only rendered them brighter than before. 
 (JR. 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 be 
 polluted by their wickedness, but our very efforts to save them 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 69 
 
 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 ? 
 
 " 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 multitude of sins." What 
 is signified by Wayward seeking in vain for the cross he had 
 dropped ? 
 
 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? 
 
 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 insects that caused him twice 
 to draw back his hand? 
 
 ?H. They are the bitter pains of remorse, the doubtfulness and 
 the other thoughts of anguish, which attend our first struggle to 
 set ourselves free from long-continued sin. 
 
 (lit. 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? 
 
70 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 St. No ; 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? 
 
 St. She reminded him that there was One who was both able 
 and willing to cleanse them for him. 
 dR. To whom does this refer? 
 
 St. To the Lord Jesus Christ, who will wash away the stain 
 of sin from those who believe in Him, by the precious blood that 
 He shed upon the cross. 
 
 (lit. But was the fearfulness of Wayward caused by the past 
 alone ? 
 
 St. 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. 
 
 (!Bt. How did Charity again afford him comfort? 
 
 St. 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 besought his Father 
 to restore to him a portion of his former strength. Why is he 
 represented as not continuing long with Charity? 
 
 St. 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. 
 
 O. What is signified by the grass and the flowers bending at 
 the approach of Charity? 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 71 
 
 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? 
 
 M* That, even after the sinner has begun a course of repentance, 
 he will find great difficulty in continuing therein. 
 
 (Ht. Where have we this difficulty most fully described? 
 
 j£t. 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? 
 
 ^t. Even while he tries to hold fast his faith in Christ, the 
 mind of the penitent is sometimes too much elated by presumptuous 
 hopes, and sometimes too much cast down by despair. 
 What were the false lights? 
 
 HI. The delusions that in some sort still continued, as a consequence 
 of his former sin. 
 
 (Sst. 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. 
 
 O. What was the roar of the lion that he always continued 
 to hear? 
 
72 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 He felt that Satan, into whose power he had once fallen, 
 would ever be upon the watch to seize upon him again. 
 
 <&,. Yes. And in the same way our Saviour warns us that 
 the evil spirit, when it is gone out of a man, will return again 
 with seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and endeavour 
 to gain possession of its former home. Did Wayward finally 
 escape his snares? 
 
 g(. It is left in uncertainty. 
 
 It is so. When we lose sight of him he is doing well ; 
 and we trust that God may be pleased to accomplish the good 
 work that He has begun in him : but our hope can never be 
 unmingled with alarm. New trials and new dangers ever keep, 
 springing up under his feet, as a consequence of his former 
 wanderings ; and each step that he advances, we are fearful lest 
 he may fall. Let us now return to Mirth : what do we learn 
 from the contrast his 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? 
 
 gfc. Yes ; for the stain even of the rose-leaf might be seen on 
 the white garments of Mirth, and there was sadness on his coun- 
 tenance when a butterfly with its golden wings flew across his path. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 73 
 
 (Si. How then is that stain and how is that sorrow to be removed ? 
 
 @L. 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. 
 
 (JEl. Why is it, that in the garden, the cross is always spoken 
 of as casting a shadow? 
 
 Because religion seems to take away their brightness from 
 the various objects that we desire in this world. 
 
 (JR. Yes. Our christian profession may truly be represented as 
 throwing a continual shadow on our present existence. The cross 
 of Christ has not greatly changed the pleasures and occupations 
 of mankind, but it gives them all a complexion of its own ; and 
 thus, while in truth it renders them better and more lovely than 
 before, it robs them of the false colouring with which Satan is wont 
 to invest them : for they have no longer that glare and brilliancy 
 which proves so attractive to the eye of man. In another and 
 happier world, the false colouring will no longer exist, the cross itself 
 will be all 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 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. 
 
 L 
 
TEXTS FROM HOLY SCRIPTURE. 
 
 [The following and similar passages of Scripture may be impressed on the 
 minds of children, by pointing out their connexion with the different parts of 
 the Allegory.] 
 
 " The Sun of righteousness (shall) arise with healing in his wings." 
 Mai. iv. 2. 
 
 " The darkness is past, and the true light now shineth. " 
 1 John ii. 8. 
 
 " That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh 
 into the world." John i. 9. 
 
 " Ye are all the children of light, and the children of the day : 
 we are not of the night, nor of darkness." 1 Thess. v. 5. 
 
 " That ye should show forth the praises of him who hath called 
 you out of darkness into his marvellous light." 1 Pet. ii. 9. 
 
 " Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot 
 enter into the kingdom of God." John iii. 5. 
 
 " The like figure whereunto even baptism doth also now save 
 us (not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, but the answer 
 of a good conscience towards God) by the resurrection of Jesus 
 Christ." 1 Pet. iii. 21. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 " God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above 
 that ye are able ; but will, with the temptation, also make a way 
 to escape, that ye may be able to bear it." 1 Cor. x. 13. 
 
 " The Lord is their strength, and he is the saving strength of 
 his anointed." Psalm xxviii. 8. 
 
 " My grace is sufficient for thee : for my strength is made perfect 
 in weakness." 2 Cor. xii. 9. 
 
 " When that which is perfect is come, then that which is in 
 part shall be done away." 1 Cor. xiii. 10. 
 
 " I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers 
 were." Psalm xxxix. 12. 
 
 " For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek 
 a country." Heb. xi. 14. 
 
 " But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly : 
 wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God : for he hath 
 prepared for them a city." Heb. xi. 16. 
 
 • " Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared 
 for you from the foundation of the world." Matt. xxv. 34. 
 
 " The children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer 
 darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth." Matt, 
 viii. 12. 
 
 "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto 
 thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and 
 he shall direct thy . paths." Prov. iii. 5, 6. 
 
 " Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths arc 
 peace." Prov. iii. 17. 
 
 "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadoAV of death, 
 
76 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; thy rod and thy staff, 
 they comfort me." Psalm xxiii. 4. 
 
 " I heard a voice from heaven saying nnto mc, ' Write, Blessed are 
 the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth.' " Rev. xiv. 13. 
 
 " But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning 
 them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which 
 have no hope." 1 Thess. iv. 13. 
 
 " It is better to go to the house of 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 countenance the heart is made better." Eccl. 
 vii. 2, 3. 
 
 " Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every 
 son whom he receiveth." Heb. xii. 6. 
 
 " Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way 
 of evil men." Prov. iv. 14. 
 
 " There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end 
 thereof are the ways of death." Prov. xvi. 25. 
 
 " As for me, my feet were almost gone, my steps had well nigh 
 slipped ; for I was envious at the foolish, when I saw the prosperity 
 of the wicked." Psalm lxxiii. 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. 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS. 
 
 77 
 
 " 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. For godly sorrow 
 worketh repentance to salvation, not to be repented of : but the 
 sorrow of the world worketh death." 2 Cor. vii. 9, 10. 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." 
 Matt. v. 4. 
 
 " A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." James i. 8. 
 
 " So they did eat, and were well filled : for he gave them their 
 own desire ; they were not estranged from their lust. But while 
 their meat was yet in their mouths, the wrath of God came upon 
 them." Psalm lxxviii. 29, 31. 
 
 " Take heed, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart 
 of unbelief, in departing from the living God. But exhort one 
 another daily, while it is called To-day ; lest any of you be hardened 
 through the deceitfulness of sin." Heb. iii. 12, 13. 
 
 " In whom the god of this world hath blinded the minds of 
 them which believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel of 
 Christ, who is the image of God, should shine unto them." 
 2 Cor. iv. 4. 
 
80 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE CKOSS. 
 
 "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." Kev. xxi. 3, 4. 
 
THE 
 
 DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 I WILL LIFT UP MINE EYES UNTO THE HILLS, FROM WHENCE 
 COMETH MY HELP. 
 
 MY HELP COMETH FROM THE LORD, WHICH MADE HEAVES 
 AND EARTH. — Psulm cxxi. 1, 2. 
 
 M 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME FROM MORN TILL EVE, 
 FOR WITHOUT THEE I CANNOT LIVE : 
 ABIDE WITH ME WHEN NIGHT IS N1GII, 
 FOR WITHOUT THEE I DARE NOT DIE. 
 
 It was a dreary night, and the wind moaned among the trees 
 of a vast and gloomy forest ; dark wintry clouds were flitting 
 across the sky; the moon and the stars gleamed forth at intervals, 
 
84 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 but their partial light was intercepted by the thick branches of 
 the wood. Two poor orphans had been benighted there, and could 
 find no track to lead them through its gloom. They felt that 
 it was in vain for them to wander to and fro without some friendly 
 hand to guide their steps ; yet they 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 them- 
 selves over for lost. 
 
 Now, while they were in this miserable condition, they were 
 startled by hearing the footstep of one who trod softly among 
 the leaves of the forest; the roar of the lion, the hissing of the 
 serpent, and all other evil sounds, were hushed as it drew near; 
 and presently the silence was broken by a gentle voice, which 
 asked the children whether they would be glad to leave that 
 dangerous wood, and to be taken to a bright, cheerful, and happy 
 home. The poor orphans scarcely understood the meaning of the 
 words ; they made an effort to arise ; but their limbs were too 
 feeble to support them; they tried to speak, but their voices also 
 failed ; so they could only look up to the stranger with tearful 
 eyes, as though they fain would have besought him to have pity 
 upon them, and carry them away from that terrible place. 
 
 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 85 
 
 them to rest on the soft grass. Now, such was the virtue of that 
 river in which the two sisters had been bathed, that it not only 
 had washed away from their garments the stains that had clung 
 to them in the wood, but it had also removed the stiffness and 
 
 weariness of their limbs, and given them, as it were, new life. 
 The night, too, had passed away, and a fresh morning now dawned 
 upon them ; and as the early sun shone brightly, they felt cheerful 
 and happy, and began, with grateful hearts, to thank the kind 
 
86 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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 were Rhoda and Minna ; he promised 
 also that if they would be content to love and obey him, he 
 had yet greater kindness in store for them than that which they 
 had received. 
 
 While the children wondered at these words, he raised his finger, 
 and, pointing to the east, asked them what they saw. 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 
 flowers and greenest verdure, but the top of them they were unable 
 to see, for a bright and fleecy cloud was resting upon it. 
 
 And the stranger said, " Among those glorious mountains my 
 Father has his dwelling-place, and you, from this hour, must 
 learn to look upon them as your home. Thousands and thousands 
 of happy children are living there; they already regard you as 
 members of the same family as themselves, and at this moment, 
 in their morning song, are rejoicing at your deliverance from the 
 dangers of the forest. Listen, and you will hear their voices." 
 Then there arose a soft and gentle breeze ; it was fragrant with 
 the flowers that grew upon the mountains, and strains of heavenly 
 music came floating upon it. 
 
 Rhoda and Minna listened in rapture to the sound, and they 
 wondered whether their kind deliverer would bear them at once 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 87 
 
 to those distant hills, and allow them to unite their voices in the 
 song of joy. But he answered their thoughts, and said, "Not 
 yet, my children ; I cannot yet suffer you to dwell with the rest 
 of my family in their happy home ; you must be content for a 
 little while to think of it, to watch it, to wish for it, and to love it. 
 For one day and one night I shall leave you on the spot where 
 you now are. Here you will have a period of light, and a period 
 of darkness ; during the former you must be watchful, during the 
 latter you must rest ; but the length of each of them is uncertain. 
 I shall not tell you how many the hours of light, and how many 
 those of darkness will be. It may be that you will be allowed 
 the gradual succession of morning, noon, and evening ; and will 
 experience also the changes of sunshine and of storm ; or it may 
 be that the sun which now shines upon you will sink in a moment, 
 while yet it seems to be in the east, and the night will suddenly 
 arrive. But whatever be the length of the day, the service that 
 I 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 
 
88 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 you; but do not suffer your affections to be fixed upon them, or 
 regard them as your own : they cannot afford you lasting pleasure ; 
 for they will soon themselves wither and die : the garden in which 
 they grow is only for a little while your resting-place ; the distant 
 hills are your home. Of all the objects that you now see, those 
 hills alone are eternal, and will never disappoint your love : if any 
 trouble or affliction befal you, it is to them that you must lift up 
 your eyes, for upon them are herbs that can assuage every care 
 and sorrow, and trees and flowers that never fade. This, then, 
 is the easy service that I require of you during the present day. 
 Do not forget that at any moment it may close, and that, sooner 
 or later, a long night will succeed it. You will then feel your 
 eyes grow heavy, and a deep sleep, that you 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 befal you during the long hours of the night. On the morrow 
 the shrill blast of a trumpet will arouse you from your repose, 
 and I will then return with the children to whose voices you 
 have been listening, and carry you away to the beautiful hills. 
 There you will live with me for ever; for to that happy land 
 there is no morning, noon, or evening, but the joy and unchanging 
 brightness of an everlasting day." 
 
 The stranger paused a little while, that the hearts of the sisters 
 might indulge in those glad and grateful feelings which his promise 
 had called forth ; he then directed their attention to a long ruinous 
 wall, situated between the eminence on which they stood and the 
 beautiful mountains in the east, and with sadder accents again 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 89 
 
 addressed them. " Whatever, my children, be the events of the 
 day, let neither sunshine nor storm tempt yon to take shelter beneath 
 that mined 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 will see much that is hidden from you 
 now. I warn you, therefore, beforehand, that the flowers that 
 grow there are poisonous, the huge stones ready at any instant 
 to fall, and that everything about it is full of danger; and above 
 all, remember that though from this point it appear low and 
 insignificant, when compared with the height immeasurable of the 
 distant hills, yet, if you stand close under it, they will be shut 
 out altogether from your view. Do not imagine that when you 
 once lose sight of them you can come back as soon as you wish 
 it, and raise your eyes to them again ; difficulties that you know 
 not of will meet you on your way ; nay, it may be that the day 
 will close so suddenly that you will have no 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 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 
 
 N 
 
90 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 lie under it will be crushed beneath its ruins. Do not, then, my 
 dear children, allow for one instant the frail and perishable wall 
 to intercept your prospect of the distant and eternal hills." 
 
 After this grave warning, the kind stranger gave to each child 
 a flute, telling them that his Father loved to hear the voices of all 
 his children, and that they must endeavour to take part in the 
 music of the happy family that dwelt around his throne. He 
 bade them also, if at any time they had carelessly wandered 
 from the spot where he placed them, to think of him, and with 
 sorrowful hearts to play upon these flutes, that so they might 
 be brought back to it again ; for that though they were afar off, 
 and their voices very faint and feeble, still each note would find 
 its echo among the mountains, and that he himself would never 
 fail to send an answer to their song. 
 
 Now, as Rhoda and Minna raised their eyes to thank him for 
 his gift and promise, they found they were alone. He had already 
 left them, and was gone to the distant hills. 
 
 The sisters stood for a little while, holding each other by the 
 hand, and meditated in silence on the words they had heard. They 
 had thought first of all that it would be a very pleasant and 
 easy task to watch continually the glorious view that opened upon 
 them from the east, and to hope for their kind benefactor's return ; 
 and yet now they could not help trembling with an instinctive 
 alarm at the warning he had given them about the dangerous 
 wall. How very sad would be their fate, if on the morrow, when 
 he came back to take them to their promised home, they should be 
 found crushed to pieces by the ruin. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 91 
 
 Rhoda was the first to endeavour to set this feeling aside. " Look, 
 sister," she said, " at that dark mouldering pile of bricks and 
 stones ; surely there is little there to tempt us from the green 
 
 * 
 
 grass and pleasant flowers of the spot on which we are. Nay, 
 had it not been pointed out to us, we should scarcely have observed 
 it at all." But Minna raised her eyes very timidly, and replied, 
 
92 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 " Some clanger there must be, or our kind protector would not 
 have cautioned us against it. Remember that this is but the 
 first beginning of our day ; and he warned us, that while the 
 sun was in the east, we should not be able to see clearly the 
 things that grew upon the wall. Doubtless, under a clearer light, 
 or if haply we approach nearer, it will seem brighter and more 
 attractive than it does now. Let us, then, my dear sister, resolve 
 to look at it no more, but at once to fix our gaze upon the distant 
 hills." 
 
 As she thus spoke, she breathed lightly upon her flute, and a 
 soft note of music proceeded from it: in an instant, the cloud that 
 rested 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 their song. 
 
 For the few first hours of their day of trial the two sisters 
 lived happily together on the spot where they had been left : they 
 had, indeed, but little temptation to wander from it : all was new 
 to them ; everything near seemed bright and cheerful, and they 
 gladly availed themselves of the permission they had received to 
 enjoy their beauties. They did not begin by cultivating the ground, 
 but gathered plenteously of the flowers that already grew there ; 
 many of the most beautiful withered at their touch, and there 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 93 
 
 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 disappointment was no sooner felt than it was forgotten. 
 Sometimes, they would weave sweet garlands, and playfully entwine 
 them in their hair; sometimes, in the buoyancy of their spirits, 
 they would chase one another along the green turf; and, when 
 they were weary, they would sit side by side under a myrtle, 
 and listen to the warbling of the birds that fluttered among the 
 branches. 
 
 During these periods, Minna would often contrast the sad and 
 gloomy forest with the pleasant spot on which she was now 
 permitted to dwell ; and, while she meditated with gratitude on 
 the stranger's kind promises, she would wonder how many hours 
 might elapse before he came back for her again. Then she would 
 softly whisper her thoughts to Rhoda, and remind her that their 
 day might be short, and that they must practise continually on 
 their flutes, in order that, on the morrow, their ears and voices 
 might be in harmony with those of the happy family who already 
 dwelt upon the distant hills. Rhoda 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 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. 
 
04 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 There was, in truth, at this time, a very great difference between 
 the two sisters, though their pleasures and occupations seemed 
 to be the same. The mind of Minna was evidently fixed on her 
 future home ; she could not, indeed, pass her whole time in playing 
 upon her flute, but she felt that the minutes given to amusement 
 were in some sort 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 the midst of her play, 
 and raise her eyes, to be quite sure she was still in sight of the 
 distant hills; when the flowers were sweetest, she would hold 
 them up on high, and try to increase their fragrance by the perfumes 
 wafted from the mountain breeze ; and when the birds were singing 
 most merrily around her, she would breathe gently on her flute, 
 lest her ear might be too long captivated with the gladness of 
 their song. But it was not thus with Rhoda: during the time 
 passed in amusement the distant hills were forgotten, and she 
 would probably, in her eagerness, have more than once lost sight 
 of them 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 way to a bright and burning heat. 
 The children knew not why, but they felt that they themselves 
 were affected by the progress of the day. Their former joy 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 95 
 
 and excitement were succeeded by feelings of restlessness and 
 disappointment. The spot on which they stood seemed to them 
 to have lost much of its cheerfulness and beauty, and they could 
 no longer take delight in the same simple pleasures as before. 
 Hitherto they had gone on in happy thoughtlessness, twining 
 garland after garland; but they now observed that the fairest 
 and sweetest flowers were always the first to fade, and so they 
 gathered them no more. Their former games had lost their interest, 
 nay, the air itself was too hot and oppressive to suffer them to 
 play. Their very listlessness prevented either sister from having 
 recourse to her flute, the music of which would at once have 
 soothed her mind ; and they were far too dispirited to seek 
 employment in the cultivation of their garden : they sat idly together 
 under their favourite tree, while each gave way to her own sad 
 and discontented thoughts. 
 
 Minna looked from time to time, not on the hills themselves, 
 but on the cloud that rested upon them : there it remained, 
 quiet and beautiful as before. The prospect towards the east had 
 in no respect altered since it had first excited the admiration of 
 the children. But Minna now gazed with a longing desire to 
 behold something more ; she was half 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. 
 
 Rhoda, with yet more unquiet thoughts, was looking wistfully 
 at the wall. Unlike the distant hills, it had greatly changed in 
 appearance since the morning; for the whole outline had been 
 
96 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 now rendered clear and distinct 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 distance 
 would have discovered the dangerous state in which it was. Here 
 and there were broken towers and buttresses, but the ruined parts 
 of them were concealed by the dark leaf of the ivy ; the mouldering 
 stones w^ere covered with soft and delicate mosses, while, from 
 the chinks and crevices of the wall itself, grew a variety of red 
 and yellow flowers, which dazzled the eye by the gaudiness of 
 their colours. All this attracted the admiration of Khoda, and 
 while she thus gazed, she forgot that the whole building was a 
 ruin, which could stand only a single day, and that on the morrow, 
 those who were found near it would be crushed by its fall. She 
 had indeed no immediate intention of approaching it, but her 
 affections were already there, and some momentary impulse alone 
 was required to cause her to follow them. 
 
 While her mind was in this state, a bright green lizard darted 
 suddenly from a chink in the wall, and ran along its surface ; 
 for an instant it glittered in the sun, and then lay half-concealed 
 beneath the leaves of the ivy. Rhoda sprang up, and seizing- 
 Minna by the hand, exclaimed — " Look, sister, look at that bright 
 glittering creature ! Nay, but it is hiding itself from us now ; 
 let us go a little nearer." As she said this she began to draw 
 her sister down the hill. Minna had been too occupied by her 
 own thoughts to observe Bhoda; she was now taken by surprise, 
 and allowed herself to be hurried a little way towards the wall. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 <»7 
 
 She had not, indeed, seen the lizard, but she was anxious for 
 something new, and her curiosity was excited by the admiration 
 of Rhoda. Before, however, she had advanced many steps, she 
 raised her eyes, as in walking she was wont to do, towards the 
 distant hills. Great was her alarm when she found that the cloud 
 on their summit was all that was now visible ; the sides of the 
 mountains were already hidden from her, by her approach to 
 the wall. " Stay, sister, stay," she said, " indeed we must go 
 no farther, we cannot do so without losing sight of our happy 
 home." Now, Rhoda was one step in advance of her sister, and 
 as she raised her eyes, she found that not even the cloud itself 
 was visible from the point on which she stood ; yet this only seemed 
 to increase her eagerness to get close to the wall. "A few steps 
 farther," she urged, "will bring us to the very spot, at which 
 the lizard is concealed; we need only look at it for a single 
 instant, and then we can return." But Minna replied, " Supposing 
 in that single instant our day were to close, and the hour of 
 darkness to arrive, how very terrible it would be to have to pass 
 the long night under the wall, and on the morrow to be buried 
 beneath its ruins." 
 
 Still Rhoda was not satisfied. "Sister," she said, "from the 
 spot where the stranger left us we have watched the sun rise 
 gradually from the east; it has not yet reached the centre of 
 the heavens ; no mist or vapour is near it, and we can see nothing 
 to impede its course; surely then it is most unlikely that its light 
 should altogether disappear during the little while we are away." 
 " But why," answered Minna, "why should we needlessly incur 
 
 o 
 
98 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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 what 
 they are ; but in part I can already understand them. Look 
 behind us, and you will see that it will be no easy task to climb 
 up that portion of the hill down which we have so thoughtlessly 
 come. Every moment it appears to grow more steep and slippery 
 than it was ; besides, there is something oppressive in the air 
 we now breathe, that will unlit 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. 
 Rhoda heard it, and her 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 haste 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 99 
 
 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. 
 
QUESTIONS ON CHAPTER I. 
 
 (&L. What is signified by the condition of the children who 
 were benighted in the forest? 
 
 S. The natural state of man, which is rendered dark and 
 miserable by original sin. 
 
 (0£. Who was the stranger that delivered them from the dangers 
 to which they were exposed? 
 
 9. 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. 
 
 dlt. What 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 garments? 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 101 
 
 gt. It removed their weariness, and gave them new vigour and 
 strength. 
 
 (Ost. In the same way, also, Holy Baptism not only purifies 
 us from past sins, but endues us with the strength of the Holy 
 Spirit, to enable us to walk in newness of life. Why did the 
 stranger tell them that they were now the adopted children of his 
 Father? 
 
 ^t. Because by Baptism we are made members of Christ and 
 children of God. 
 
 (Hi. And what were those distant hills in the east, that He then 
 pointed out to them? 
 
 Their inheritance in heaven. 
 (0=1. Who were the happy family that already dwelt there ? 
 jH. The holy angels. 
 
 O. Why is it said that a cloud covered the top of the 
 mountains ? 
 
 Because we cannot understand the joys of heaven. 
 
 (Hi. Yes ; though much has been revealed to us by our Saviour, 
 there is still very much that we cannot yet realize in that blessed 
 state for which we are preparing. We must still be content to 
 see in part, and know in part, and exercise the virtues of faith 
 and hope. What is signified by the place in which the stranger 
 left the children? 
 
 gt. The church upon earth. 
 
 dR. 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, 
 
102 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 The day is the period of life — the night, the period that 
 will elapse between death and judgment. 
 
 O. 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? 
 
 M. The morning, noon, and evening, represent the several periods 
 of childhood, youth, and age. The sunshine is prosperity ; the 
 storm, adversity ; the day is of uncertain length, because we may 
 die in childhood; the night, because we cannot tell how long we 
 may rest in our graves before we are aroused from our sleep by 
 the second advent of our Saviour. 
 
 (*Et. What was to be the employment of the children while 
 the day continued? 
 
 jH. 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 What is meant by the ground the children were to cultivate, 
 and the flowers they were allowed to gather? 
 
 ?X. The occupations and pleasures which it has pleased God 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 103 
 
 to give us in this life, and which only become dangerous when 
 we so dwell upon them, that they draw away our minds from 
 thoughts of our Saviour. 
 
 (0=1 . What is signified by the ruined wall? 
 
 a. 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 notwithstanding as children of the world ; 
 for we must remember that the Church upon earth does not secure 
 us against temptations to evil; otherwise our Lord would not 
 have compared it to a field in which the tares and wheat were 
 growing together; and a net, in which good and bad fish were 
 found. There is a world within it, and though Christians having 
 been once baptized cannot again cross the stream, and return to 
 the forest beyond, yet, by seeking that world, and by a neglect 
 of the Gospel promises, they may forfeit all those privileges that 
 their baptism was intended to bestow. Now, why were the children 
 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 prospect 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 dis- 
 obedience ? 
 
104 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 @L. 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. 
 
 (!Bt. What do you understand by this? 
 
 ^t. 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. 
 
 (5=i. Yes, and for these great blessings we are indebted to our 
 Saviour. It is He who thus enables Christians upon earth to 
 share the high privilege of the holy angels in heaven; and to 
 prepare themselves for that employment which will hereafter be 
 their chief delight, when they are admitted to the presence of God. 
 By the answering echo among the distant mountains, we are to 
 understand that spiritual joy and comfort which sincere and earnest 
 prayer never fails to afford us. Why is it said that the outline 
 of the wall was indistinct during the morning? 
 
 fH. Is it because during our infancy and childhood we cannot 
 clearly see the dangers of the world? 
 
 (S. We not only cannot see its dangers, but we cannot even 
 understand the nature of many of its temptations. God hides, 
 as it were, from little children much that is impure and evil, 
 while He opens to them at once the prospect of heaven. He 
 gives them their early years to devote themselves to his service, 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 105 
 
 and to prepare for trials to which they will afterwards be exposed. 
 What do you understand by the description of the way in which 
 Rhocla and Minna passed the morning? 
 
 ^C. They were allowed to enjoy quietly the pleasures of childhood, 
 and neither of them neglected the outward exercises of religion. 
 
 (Hi. So far they were both alike. What was the real difference 
 between them? 
 
 The heart of Minna was with Christ, that of Rhoda inclined 
 to the unknown vanities of the world. 
 
 ©. Yes; and in this way, sisters who are brought up together, 
 receive the same instructions, say the same prayers, attend the 
 same church, and whose daily occupations seem to be exactly 
 alike, may already have 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 allurements to sin, 
 and we cannot see the mischief that lurks beneath them. 
 (S. What is meant by the appearance of the lizard? 
 ^t. A sudden temptation to a worldly pleasure, to which in her 
 youth Hhoda became exposed. 
 
 (!Et. 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? 
 
106 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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. 
 
 (5=1. Yes. When we murmur because we cannot see more than 
 G-od 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. 
 
 dii. 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 heaven- 
 ward, that they discover at once when they are about to lose sight of 
 their promised home. How do you understand the arguments by 
 which Minna tried to persuade Rhoda to hasten back to the spot 
 where they had been left? 
 
 She reminded her that the day might close suddenly, meaning 
 that though they were young and healthy, death might at any 
 moment take them by surprise, and that after death it would be 
 .impossible for them to recover the bright prospect which they 
 had lost. 
 
 (HI. Why did she say that the hill was increasing in steepness 
 behind them ? 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 107 
 
 Because the return to virtue becomes more and more laborious 
 the longer we defer it. 
 
 (!Bt. 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. 
 
 (0=1. What do you understand by the tears of Rhoda preventing 
 her seeing any longer the dangerous wall ? 
 
 jH. Sorrow for her past transgressions removed for a time the 
 temptation to further sin. 
 
 Why is it said that, when the children had returned from 
 their wandering, there were strains of unusual gladness in the music 
 of the distant hills? 
 
 ^t. Because we are told that there is joy in heaven in the presence 
 of the angels of God over the penitent sinner. 
 
CHAPTER IL 
 
 SISTERS IN BLOOD AND N VRTVRE TOO 
 
 ALIENS IN HEART WILL OFTEN PROVE ; 
 ONE LOSE, THE OTHER KEEP HEAVEN'S CLUE ; 
 
 ONE DWELL IN WRATH, AND ONE IN LOVE. 
 
 It 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 Rhoda grew weary of watching the distant hills, 
 and suffered her eyes to wander back in the direction of the wall. 
 Her having once approached it, only increased the temptation to 
 return ; for there were many other objects besides the bright lizard 
 which she had now half seen, but which she was unable to 
 distinguish from the spot where the stranger had left her. The 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 109 
 
 more she pictured them to herself, the more beautiful she fancied 
 they must be ; and she half regretted that she had not gone on 
 to examine them when she was already so far on her way. She 
 said within herself, " Oh, that I had satisfied my curiosity once 
 for all, and then I could have left the building without a wish to 
 return to it again!" 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 thankful for so great a blessing : 
 they looked upon it as their own, and it did not occur to them 
 that in a few minutes it might pass away. But towards the 
 afternoon a great change took place in the appearance of the day. 
 A cold wind arose from the east, and » there were dark watery 
 clouds sweeping across the sky. Minna was the first to observe 
 them. "Look, sister, 1 ' 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 sunshine might be followed by a storm. Let 
 us then prepare ourselves to endure it. Already I can feel the 
 first heavy drops of rain, the sign of its approach." She had 
 scarcely finished speaking when a vivid flash of lightning shot 
 through the air. It was followed by a loud and angry peal of 
 thunder ; 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 exposed to its violence. Some trees were torn up by the roots. 
 
110 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 while large branches from others were broken off and carried away 
 by the storm. 
 
 The two sisters stood for a moment in silent terror, and then 
 Minna looked timidly around for a place of shelter; but Rhoda 
 exclaimed, " The rain is slanting from the east, we shall escape 
 it under the shadow of the wall; follow me and you will be safe." 
 Without waiting for a reply, she rushed hastily down the hill, 
 and took refuge under the ruin. Minna's first impulse was to 
 follow her ; but in an instant she recollected the danger, and called 
 out earnestly and loudly on her sister to return. Rhoda did not 
 hear her, for the voice was lost in the noise of the wind. Minna 
 then began to play upon her flute; but though each gentle note, 
 even in the midst of the tempest, was echoed back from the 
 distant hills, still the sound did not reach Rhoda as she stood 
 under the shadow of the wall. 
 
 At length Minna was obliged to abandon the attempt to recall 
 her sister, and began once more to look for some spot in which 
 she might safely rest until the storm was over. She did not look 
 for it in vain. While she had been playing on her flute, a large 
 cypress had been blown down by the wind. The trunk of the 
 tree was now supported at one end by the upper boughs, and at 
 the other by the roots which had been torn out of the ground. 
 These, with the earth that still clung to them, offered an effectual 
 protection from the rain. Minna crept beneath the thick branches, 
 and sat down under the fallen tree ; and as she sat there her heart 
 was very full of heaviness and sorrow. She grieved because the 
 bright sunshine of the day had passed and given place to cold 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 piercing winds and a clouded sky ; she grieved to see the trees 
 that she loved stripped of their branches, and the green leaves 
 scattered hither and thither, and her favourite flowers drooping 
 under the violence of the storm ; but most bitterly did she grieve 
 for her sister, for she loved her very dearly, and she now feared 
 that she never might behold her again. "Alas!" she said, "these 
 showers may perhaps continue until sleep steals upon Rhoda in 
 her dangerous lurking place, and then when the new morning- 
 arrives she will perish under the ruin." Yet, in the midst of her 
 sorrow, Minna could find comfort in her grateful affection for her 
 kind protector, and in gazing stedfastly 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 no difficulty in finding 
 the shelter she sought. The wall was sufficiently high to afford 
 a complete protection from the rain ; but, alas ! at the same time, 
 it shut out from her the whole of the eastern view. It was with 
 a feeling of solitude, and almost of terror, that she crouched for 
 the first time beneath the mouldering ruin. She forgot all the 
 beautiful objects that she had so lately longed to see ; her head 
 
112 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 turned giddy with the strong scent of the 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 Rhoda had not courage to face the storm. 
 
 She still, therefore, lingered on, until her ear became accustomed 
 to the humming sounds, and her fears and anxieties began to subside. 
 She soon learned to forget the innocent joys of the morning, and 
 the distant hills, and the heavenly music : her thoughts were confined 
 to the narrow spot on which she stood, while, at the same time, 
 all that the stranger had told her of its danger was scarce remembered 
 at all. She now looked stealthily around, and began to examine 
 the different plants and shrubs that grew upon the wall. There 
 were some rich crimson mosses very near, and they were so unlike 
 anything she had before seen, that they immediately attracted her 
 attention. She raised her hand and touched one of them, and 
 when it felt soft and delicate, she could not resist the temptation to 
 gather it ; yet she trembled exceedingly as she tried to separate 
 it from the mouldering stone, for this was her first attempt to 
 take anything from the ruin, and she half feared that it might 
 altogether give way and crush her by its fall. There seemed, 
 however, to be no immediate danger ; the moss yielded at once to 
 her slightest effort, and Rhoda pressed it gently to her cheek, and 
 then concealed it in her bosom. 
 
 After this she gradually became bolder, and, leaving the place 
 in which she had first taken refuge, crept along the side of the wall. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 113 
 
 She entered into every nook and corner, and gathered abundantly 
 of the strange flowers that she found. It seemed wonderful that 
 she should think them beautiful; for neither the rose, nor the lily, 
 nor the gentle harebell, nor the humble violet, were there ; but 
 rank weeds, and poisonous herbs, and shrubs that loved the darkness, 
 and shrank from the cheerful light of day. All these, by some 
 strange infatuation, now proved attractive to the unhappy child ; 
 but one purple floweret there was, which she admired more than 
 all the rest. She wove it into a chaplet, and entwined it in her 
 hair. Alas ! she knew not that it was the deadly nightshade ! 
 
 Meanwhile the hours glided on ; and when the noon had some 
 time passed, the wind was lulled and the storm ceased. Minna 
 left her place of shelter, and looked anxiously for her sister. It 
 was some little while before she was able to distinguish her ; at 
 length, however, she caught a glimpse of her figure, half hidden 
 among the leaves of the ivy ; but Rhoda did not see Minna, for 
 her eyes were too intently fixed upon the wall. Then Minna played 
 upon her flute, in the hope that the well-known sound might induce 
 the wanderer to return ; but though there was stillness in the air 
 around, Rhoda heard neither the music itself, nor its echo among the 
 mountains ; her ear was no longer awake to the distant melody — 
 it had been too much deadened by the low and 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 
 
 Q 
 
114 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 that she had determined to continue where she was during the rest 
 of the day ; for there were times at which she thought, with fear 
 and trembling, of the danger of falling asleep beneath the wall. 
 But she fancied the hour of slumber was still very far off, and 
 that she might safely remain until the dim twilight warned her of 
 its approach. Then, she said within herself, she would hasten quickly 
 away, and gaze once more upon the distant hills. 
 
 Even the reappearance of the sun, which her sister fondly fancied 
 might remind her to come back, only brought with it a fresh 
 temptation to linger near the building. Many thousand insects and 
 reptiles, that had concealed 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 approaching, the subtle 
 creature glided along the surface of the wall, and again paused, 
 and stood glittering in the light, at a little distance from her. Bhoda 
 followed it, and springing suddenly forward, imagined this time that 
 the lizard could not possibly escape her; but in an instant it had 
 darted away, and was concealed behind the ivy. A slight rustling 
 in the neighbouring leaves betrayed the hiding-place to Ehoda. 
 She crept onward to the spot, and looking cautiously among the 
 branches, was just able to distinguish the object of her search. 
 "Ah, silly creature," thought she, "you flatter yourself you have a 
 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 115 
 
 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 Rhoda was too eager in her pursuit to observe 
 its state of decay ; nay, at the entrance she threw away the flute, 
 which hitherto she had retained in her hand, because she fancied it 
 had more than once prevented her seizing the lizard. She went into 
 the tower, and saw the bright eyes again looking at her, from a 
 projecting stone beyond her reach. Without a moment's hesitation, 
 she began to climb the wall. When she had reached a sufficient 
 height, she clung with one hand to the ruin, while she stretched out 
 the other to take the lizard. This time it made no effort to escape, 
 and the delighted child took it, and placed it on the soft moss in her 
 bosom ; but no sooner had she done this than part of the building 
 gave way ; her feet and hands slipped, and she fell down, and 
 the stone on which the lizard had been came rolling upon her. 
 The 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 sufficient strength 
 to crawl a few paces from the tower, and then, faint and dizzy 
 with the intensity of the pain, she again sank upon the ground. 
 
 She remained there senseless for a little while. Alas ! she was 
 still under the shadow of the wall ; and as the evening was stealing 
 
116 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 on, it seemed all hope of her escape from it was at an end. But 
 suddenly she was aroused from her stupor by the noise of distant 
 music. It came from the mountains in the far east, yet was unlike 
 
 those gentle notes to which, in her bright and happy morning, Rhoda 
 had loved to listen ; there was now the shrill blast of the trumpet, 
 and the beat of the drum, and other sounds of war; they seemed 
 to approach nearer and nearer, and to grow more terribly loud, 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 117 
 
 while they rolled like thunder through the hollow places of the wall, 
 until the large stones tottered as though its foundations were giving 
 way. The child awoke in an agony of alarm. She imagined the 
 night must have already 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 entered the tower. She took 
 it with fear and trembling, and raised it to her lips, with an anxious 
 wish that her kind protector might now listen to her song; and 
 though her own ear was all too dull to catch the feeble sound 
 that proceeded from it, it was heard and welcomed among the 
 distant hills. 
 
 It seemed as though Minna must have heard it also, for she played 
 one joyous strain upon her flute, and then began to hasten to the 
 assistance of Rhoda. She paused, however, after she had advanced 
 a few steps ; for much as she loved her sister, she was afraid to 
 venture in the neighbourhood of the wall ; but as she raised her eyes 
 towards the east, a new and glorious vision was open to her view. 
 The beautiful mountains, and the cloud that rested on their summit, 
 were reflected from above in the clear blue sky, so that the ruin could 
 no longer conceal them, and, still gazing stedfastly on her future 
 home, she proceeded downward on her task of love. 
 
 When she reached her sister, after tenderly embracing her, she tore 
 away from her garments all the strange shrubs and flowers that 
 had been gathered from the wall. To Minna their smell was like 
 that of the deadliest poisons, and such in truth they "were. Tthoda 
 
118 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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 slippery, that she felt, if she once ceased 
 moving forward, she must slide back again to the ruin ; and, while 
 she recollected its dangerous state, the very pain she endured 
 caused her to struggle the more earnestly to escape from it. 
 
 Minna would fain have carried her in her arms, as the kind stranger 
 had done when he found them both perishing in the wood ; but her 
 own strength was far too feeble for so great an effort ; she was 
 only able now and then to assist and guide her steps, and ever 
 to soothe and cheer her by the soft music of her flute. She tried, 
 too, to point out to her the glorious vision in the eastern sky ; but 
 Rhoda sought for it in vain. To her eyes all above looked dark 
 and gloomy — there was no reflection either of the beautiful hills, 
 or the bright cloud ; still, however, she persevered in the painful 
 ascent, until the outline of the hills themselves appeared above 
 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 119 
 
 while until the pain in her ankle should cease. It was in vain 
 that Minna entreated her to go on a few steps farther, that so they 
 might rest on the very spot where the stranger had placed them. 
 She replied that she was faint and weary, and that there could be no 
 danger while they saw any part of the eastern mountains. So she 
 sat down under the shade of a tree ; and as she sat down, the wall 
 again became a sufficient barrier to hide the mountains from her view. 
 
 Minna, when she found her entreaties of no avail, stood affection- 
 ately by the side of her sister, waiting till she had recovered strength 
 to resume her journey. The tears rose quickly to her eyes, as 
 she now had time to observe the change in Ehoda's appearance that 
 her wanderings 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 altogether 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 returning to those 
 clear waters again ; still, however, she did not despair that the 
 health and strength of her sister might be restored, for there were 
 herbs upon the distant hills which were a remedy for every disease 
 and sorrow, and Minna fondly hoped that the evening breeze would 
 waft their fragrance to Rhoda, and so soothe her sufferings and 
 assuage her pain, that when the night closed upon her, she might 
 lie down in peace to rest. Alas ! she did not know that her sister 
 carried that in her bosom which would cause those freshening winds 
 to blow upon her in vain. 
 
QUESTIONS ON CHAPTER II. 
 
 dB. What is meant by the morning sunshine which the children 
 expected to continue throughout the day? 
 
 Si, The peace and happiness of their early years, which caused 
 them to forget that trials might await them in after life. 
 
 dB. What is the approach of the storm? 
 
 fK. The coming of a time of trouble. 
 
 <®. Why are we told that the spot on which Rhoda and Minna 
 stood was more than any other exposed to the wind and rain? 
 
 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 faithful 
 disciples, we must be content to endure many trials and afflictions 
 which we might avoid at once by forsaking Him, and conforming 
 ourselves to the world. Now, what effect had the storm on 
 fthoda? 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 121 
 
 St. She took shelter beneath the dangerous wall. 
 O. "What effect had it upon Minna? 
 
 S^. She remained on the spot where she had been left, and played 
 upon her flute. 
 
 O. Observe, then, that the very same trial caused one sister 
 to seek refuge in the world, the other to have recourse to prayer ; 
 and the reason was, that the one in her heart loved the things of the 
 world, while the other loved God. What is signified by the cypress- 
 tree being blown down by the storm, and affording shelter to Minna? 
 
 St. That God, even out of affliction itself, can bring us comfort, 
 if we pray for His assistance, and patiently wait for it. 
 
 (JR. 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. What is signified by the uneasiness and fears 
 of Rhoda, when first she found refuge beneath the ruin? 
 
 St. The consciousness of having done wrong, and the dread of 
 punishment. 
 
 Why did she not at once hasten back? 
 
 Because she had not resolution to face the storm, from which 
 the wall afforded her protection. 
 
 That is to say, she was anxious for that peace of mind which 
 religion alone could afford her, but would not make the sacrifice 
 by which it was to be obtained. What do you understand by her 
 head growing giddy with the smell of the flowers, and the buzzing 
 of the insects? 
 
 St. The cares and pleasures of the world gradually overcame her 
 better feelings, and made her forgetful of her danger. 
 
 R 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 What is signified by the moss which Ehoda plucked from 
 the ruin? 
 
 21. 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. 
 
 (Q. Yes, and the consequence was, that she afterwards gathered 
 abundantly of all the poisonous herbs that grew upon the wall. 
 Such is too often the gradual progress of the sinnei\ He begins by 
 refusing to make some sacrifice which religion requires of him, 
 and thus for a time loses sight of his heavenly inheritance ; he then 
 becomes more and more worldly-minded, until the voice of the Spirit 
 dies away in his breast ; next he commits some deliberate act of sin, 
 and so is led on to an habitually sinful life. When we once allow 
 ourselves to neglect our duty to God, we cannot tell how very 
 wicked we in a little while may become. Why are we told that 
 the return of sunshine made Hhoda the more unwilling to quit the 
 wall? 
 
 gt. It means that prosperity only afforded her fresh temptations 
 to continue in sin. 
 
 (0=1 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. 
 
 (fit. What is meant by her throwing down her flute? 
 
 gl. 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 123 
 
 is signified by her falling from the tower directly she had obtained 
 possession of the lizard? 
 
 jU. That no sooner had she gratified her evil passion, than, it 
 pleased God to visit her sin with an immediate punishment. 
 
 <©. What effect had this upon Rhoda? 
 
 ^. 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 working of God's Holy Spirit in her heart. 
 
 (SI. Yes, and the sounds are described as loud and terrible, because 
 it pleased God to awaken her by the pangs of remorse, and the dread 
 of His anger. How was Minna enabled to come to assist Rhoda 
 without losing sight of the distant hills? 
 She saw them reflected in the sky. 
 
 ®. From this, then, we are to learn, that if we seek the company 
 of sinners, with the sincere desire of bringing them back to the way 
 of life, God will not suffer the evil we are forced to behold to hinder 
 our contemplation 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 worldly pleasures. 
 
 What is signified by the bruises and the sprain, which caused 
 the ascent from the Avail to be so painful to Rhoda? 
 
124 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 St. 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? 
 
 St. Because, when we resolve to amend our lives, we must 
 struggle continually against our evil habits, or we shall fall into 
 them again. 
 
 <?H. Yes, it will not do to halt in the path of repentance; to 
 hesitate to return to God, is, in truth, to suffer ourselves to be 
 drawn back to the world. Why is it said that Minna was unable 
 to carry her sister in her arms as the kind stranger had done in the 
 morning ? 
 
 St. 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 Rhoda sitting down to rest as soon as the 
 distant hills appeared in view? 
 
 St. She was content with an imperfect repentance, and did not 
 persevere unto the end. As soon as the immediate dread of God's 
 wrath subsided, and her hopes of heaven were partially restored, she 
 made no effort to grow in grace, and devote her whole heart to the 
 service of Christ. 
 
 (5=t. What was the consequence of this? 
 
 St. That as she sat down her hope of heaven passed away, for she 
 again lost sight of the distant hills. 
 
 (S. Observe, then, that while she stood up and continued her 
 struggle against sin, she saw heaven; but labour and painful 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 125 
 
 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 remained on the very same spot, she saw it no more. The 
 whole path of repentance is beset with snares ; but no point is more 
 dangerous than that at which we first feel the burthen of our sins 
 lessened, and the fear of punishment removed. We are then, like 
 Rhoda, tempted to give way to the presumptuous thought, that we 
 have done enough, and may rest a little while before we endeavour 
 to increase in holiness. Alas ! if we yield to this temptation, not 
 only will the hope of heaven pass away from our hearts, but the 
 evil spirit that has been driven from thence, finding them thus empty, 
 will return again, and we shall soon fall into a worse state than 
 before. Do you recollect the words of our Saviour, to which I am 
 now alluding? 
 
 Yes. He tells us that, when the evil spirit has been driven 
 out of a man, he will after a time return, and if he find the house, 
 that he has left, empty, swept, and garnished, he will enter in with 
 seven other spirits, more wicked than himself, and take possession of 
 it again. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 OXCE GAIN THE MOUNTAIN TOP AND THOU AET FREE, 
 
 TILL THEN WHO REST PRESUME, WHO TURN TO LOOK ARE LOST. 
 
 T^HE pain in Rhoda's ankle began to subside after she had remained 
 a few minutes under the tree ; still she made no effort to resume 
 the ascent ; she seemed to be sitting in a kind of dreamy state ; 
 her eyes were turned vacantly towards the dangerous wall, while 
 every now and then her hands moved to and fro over her garments, 
 as though she were feeling for her weeds and poisonous herbs, 
 and wondering that they were gone. It was in vain that her sister 
 gathered for her a nosegay of the sweetest flowers that grew 
 around ; they were such as Hhoda once had loved to wear, but 
 her sight and smell had been so affected by the noxious plants 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 127 
 
 that grew upon the ruin, that they were lost upon her now. She 
 thrust them fretfully aside, and said, with truth, that she could not 
 discover in them either fragrance or beauty. 
 
 Still Minna would not forsake her sister; and at length, by her 
 earnest entreaties, she persuaded her to rise. Rhoda even then 
 appeared to hesitate whether to recede or advance, but Minna led 
 her gently a few steps further up the slope, until they stood on 
 a spot where the wall no longer deadened the force of the eastern 
 wind, and the whole outline of the beautiful mountains could clearly 
 be discerned. Here the children again paused : Minna's heart beat 
 high with a mingled feeling of anxiety and joy ; she could not 
 help herself rejoicing once more in the glory of the view, but when 
 she turned for sympathy to her sister, she found no flush of pleasure 
 on her face ; she had merely raised her eyes for a single instant 
 towards the east, and had then looked down and fixed them stedfastly 
 on the wall. 
 
 Minna could hardly suppress her tears of disappointment, but 
 she made one more attempt to move the heart of Rhoda ; she breathed 
 upon her flute, and proposed that they should unite in one of those 
 thankful songs, which they had often played together during their 
 bright and happy morning. Rhoda raised her flute to her lips, 
 but the notes that proceeded from it were very harsh and full 
 of discord, when compared with the sweet music of her sister, 
 and they found no echo among the distant hills ; for at the very 
 moment that she sent them forth, her eyes were still fixed downward 
 upon the ruin. She soon, therefore, grew weary of playing, and 
 began to retire slowly towards the tree she had left. But Minna 
 
128 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 once more seized her hand, and pressing it fondly to her lips 
 entreated her to remain. " Stay, dearest sister," she said, " do 
 not venture one step backward towards the forbidden wall ; from 
 this spot you may behold the beautiful mountains ; see how noble 
 is their outline, and how lovely the tints that are now shed upon them 
 by the western sun ! Only gaze on them stedfastly, and our kind 
 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 Rhoda replied, " Sister, in the morning I loved 
 with you to gaze on the distant hills, but I can now perceive no 
 beautiful variety in their colouring: one dark shadow is resting 
 upon them all, and their loveliness is gone. In the morning the 
 music sounded to me, as to you, like the soft voices of children ; 
 but now, when I hear it at all, it rings terribly in my ears, as the 
 war-cry of some mighty host, and I tremble while I listen to it. 
 In the morning I rejoiced with you in the freshness of the eastern 
 breeze, but now, alas ! it blows so cold and cheerless on my breast, 
 that I fain would shelter myself from it, even under the shadow 
 of the wall." 
 
 As she said this she pressed her garment more closely to her 
 bosom, and immediately the lizard, that she had concealed there, 
 came forth from its lurking-place and looked wistfully around. 
 Minna uttered a scream of surprise and terror. "Oh, Rhoda!" 
 she exclaimed, " cast that reptile from you, remember that it is 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 129 
 
 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. 
 Rhoda coloured very deeply as she replied, " Nay, Minna, I did 
 not feel the touch of the lizard, and had in truth forgotten that 
 it was in my bosom. It must have been lying between my garment 
 and some beautiful moss that I gathered from the wall." " But 
 why," answered Minna, " should you thus cherish a moss that 
 once grew upon the ruin? we cannot tell what subtle poison it 
 may contain. Oh, sister! even if it cling to you so closely that 
 you must rend your garment in order to take it away, still pluck 
 it out, and throw it from you, and open your bosom to the mountain 
 breeze." 
 
 Rhoda hesitated ; she still loved Minna, and could scarcely help 
 yielding to her affectionate request ; alas ! in the moment of doubt, 
 she did not raise her eyes or play upon her flute, but looked listlessly 
 on the ground. There, once more, the bright lizard met her view ; 
 it had remained on the spot to which it had run when startled 
 by her sister's voice, and seemed as though it longed to return to her, 
 but was afraid to venture. All Rhoda' s better thoughts passed 
 away in a moment, she struggled to withdraw her hand, and 
 impatiently exclaimed, u You know, Minna, that even now I can 
 scarcely bear the keen blasts of the wind ; why, then, should I part 
 with my warm and beautiful moss? It is so soft and pleasant that 
 I am sure it must be innocent — but let us speak of this another 
 
 s 
 
130 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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 Rhoda, 
 in her struggles to escape, began to drag her also down the slope, 
 that she was forced to release her hold. She raised her eyes, 
 and saw that the image of the bright cloud and distant hills had 
 now faded from the sky : she knew, therefore, that she must not 
 again approach the ruin, for she could not do so without losing- 
 sight of her promised home ; but, with a heart full of anguish, 
 and the tears streaming down her cheeks, she watched her sister's 
 receding steps. 
 
 Rhoda's path downward proved very smooth 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 
 
side until Rhoda again entered the mined tower and was hidden 
 from her view. 
 
132 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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. Khoda 
 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 buzzing around 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 133 
 
 her, and the shrubs that clung to the side of the building yielded 
 a more noxious odour even than those which she had gathered 
 in the morning. Yet it was none of these things that first gave 
 rise to her alarm ; but it was the terrible darkness that began to 
 steal upon her. When she had left her sister, the sun had far 
 to travel before it sank to rest ; and, though the pursuit had occupied 
 her longer than she was aware of, the hour of twilight had not yet 
 really arrived. But the eminence that rose behind the wall excluded 
 it altogether from the western light, no ray of the setting sun was 
 ever reflected upon it, and the early evening was so dim and cheerless, 
 that Rhoda imagined the night had already closed in. Still not 
 even now could she resolve to make one vigorous effort to escape ; 
 she struggled against her own sad fears, and thought she would 
 yet play for a few minutes with her favourite lizard before she 
 began to return. 
 
 She tried to be calm ; but her limbs shook and her heart sunk 
 within her, as she gradually unclosed her hand ; the lizard did 
 not move : she looked at it, but the green skin no longer glittered, 
 and the brightness of its eye was gone ; she touched it, and it felt 
 clammy and cold — the lizard was dead. No tears fell from Rhoda, 
 for she could not weep for it. Her delight in its former beauty 
 was now succeeded by a feeling of horror; she turned away her 
 face, and said within herself, " Is it, then, for this perishable object 
 that I have gone through so many dangers, and abandoned the hope 
 of my promised home?" 
 
 She now in haste began to climb the hill ; but the ascent, at 
 the point to which she had come, was very steep, and covered 
 
134 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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. 
 
QUESTIONS ON CHAPTER III. 
 
 Why is it said, that as Rhoda sate under the tree she began 
 to search again for the poisonous herbs which she had gathered from 
 the wall? 
 
 ^C. 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? 
 
 fH. Because her mind had been so tainted by the continued 
 gratification of evil passions, that she could no longer take delight 
 in simple and innocent amusements. 
 
 Yes. This is one punishment which is sure to follow 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 still remain so as to unfit them for many 
 pleasures which they might otherwise have enjoyed. How did Minna 
 try to comfort her sister? 
 
136 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 She persuaded her to play upon her flute, and to watch 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 Khoda did play upon her flute, it produced 
 no echo among the distant hills? 
 
 gl. Because, when she prayed to God with her lips, her heart was 
 far from Him, and, therefore, her prayer was unanswered. 
 
 (St. And why are we told that she saw a dark shadow resting 
 on the eastern mountains, and that the wind that blew from thence 
 seemed cheerless and cold? 
 
 She was cherishing, in secret, sin that she had professed 
 to renounce, and, therefore, she could find no comfort in religion, 
 but it only awoke in her mind gloomy thoughts and a fear of 
 the judgments of God. 
 
 ^R. How is the secret sin that she cherished represented in 
 the allegory? 
 
 21. 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 137 
 
 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 Rhoda, we 
 wilfully cherish some one sinful affection, however trifling it may 
 seem. What is signified by the lizard coming forth from its 
 lurking-place ? 
 
 ft* That a new temptation brought to light the evil passion that 
 lurked in the bosom of Rhoda. 
 
 What is meant by her resolution to caress the lizard once 
 more before she parted with it for ever? 
 
 gt. She determined that she would once again taste the pleasure 
 of sin before she finally renounced it. 
 
 ®. Thus Satan often makes men believe that they are about 
 to indulge in some favourite sin for the last time, and does not 
 allow them to see how far in the ways of wickedness that one 
 indulgence may lead them. Why is it said that Rhoda's path 
 downward was smooth and easy? 
 
 iX. Because it is easy to return to the sins we have left. 
 
 (2=1. 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 
 
 T 
 
138 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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 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. 
 
 (J£t. Did this cause her at once to hasten from the wall? 
 
 ^t. 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 short season they 
 are to remain upon earth. Many who are young and healthy imagine 
 that if sickness or old age were to come upon them, they would 
 have no difficulty in forsaking the world and fixing their affections 
 upon God. So Ehoda had once believed. And yet when the 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 139 
 
 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? 
 
 Because we have no certainty that we shall not die in 
 childhood. 
 
 (JR. 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 Blioda. 
 What do you understand by the death of the lizard? , 
 
 @L. That sin lost its pleasure. 
 
 (JR. Yes ; though the stains of sin, unless we repent, will remain 
 with us for ever, the pleasures of it endure but for a season. We 
 may go on refusing to forsake them until they, in a manner, forsake 
 us, their beauty passes away, and we can enjoy them no more. Then, 
 like Rhoda, we shall look back upon them with disgust and horror, 
 and think bitterly of the fearful price at which they were obtained. 
 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. 
 
 (JR. Why, then, did she not succeed? 
 
 ^l. Because she did not first of all try to have recourse to prayer, 
 and to fix her thoughts upon her Saviour. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EVER THE RICHEST, TENDEREST GLOW, 
 
 SETS ROUND THE AUTUMNAL SUN- 
 BUT THERE SIGHT FAILS ; NO HEART MAY KNOW 
 
 THE BLISS WHEN LIFE IS DONE. 
 
 While Rhoda was struggling in vain to ascend the hill, the 
 darkness gradually increased, and she grew more and more alarmed. 
 She cast a fearful glance around, and feeling the full misery of her 
 loneliness, "began to think, with bitter regret, of the flute that she, 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 141 
 
 had lost. For a few minutes she groped her way over the fallen 
 stones, and sought anxiously for it among the crevices of the wall : 
 happy would it have been for her had she persevered in the search ; 
 but she met with so many unexpected difficulties that she relinquished 
 it in despair. Not only was there so thick a darkness that she could 
 hardly see her path ; but every time that she stooped down to 
 feel for her flute, the swarm of insects that had hitherto only buzzed 
 around her, began to worry her with their stings ; her eyes were 
 so 'swollen that she was almost blinded with pain, while the sharp 
 flint stones pierced her hands, and more than one serpent crawled 
 from its lurking-place and bit her with its poisoned fang. We 
 cannot think it strange that Rhoda should soon have abandoned 
 so painful a search, when we remember that in the afternoon, while 
 the sun yet shone brightly upon her and she was cheered by her 
 sister's voice, she wanted 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 
 
H2 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 were found beneath them, she would be crushed to pieces by their fall. 
 It was a terrible thing to sit helplessly down and await so miserable 
 a fate. Rhoda felt that it was so, and her heart was full of bitterness ; 
 neither could she find any joy or comfort in the present hour 
 to relieve the dreary prospect of the future. I have already said 
 that the cheerful light of evening was never shed upon the wall. 
 A thick heavy fog now rested on it, and noxious vapours were 
 fast rising from the ground. All was cold and wretched. The 
 rank herbs, at the approach of night, sent forth the most strong 
 and deadly odours, and Rhoda felt that she was breathing poison. 
 Meanwhile the flowers had lost their gaudy colouring, and the beauty 
 of everything that had once attracted the love and admiration of the 
 child, like that of the green lizard, had passed away. 
 
 Even while she was indulging these sad thoughts, she felt something 
 move upon her bosom; she hastily thrust in her hand, and found 
 that the soft bright moss, which she had placed there in the morning, 
 and refused to part with at the request of Minna, had become 
 a mass of rottenness and decay, and that slimy worms were crawling 
 out of it. She now threw it from her with loathing and disgust, 
 and, springing from her seat, made one more effort to escape from 
 the fatal ruin. But the noxious vapours had already taken their 
 effect ; she staggered to and fro, and knew not whither she was 
 going; for a few moments she leaned for support against the wall, 
 and then a thick mist obscured her sight, and she sank down in 
 a heavy slumber close beneath the ruin. 
 
 It is a pleasing task to turn our eyes from this sad picture, and 
 gaze upon the soft sunset of the day of Minna, During the afternoon 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 143 
 
 her employment had been to sweep away the withered leaves from 
 the ground, and to prop the broken boughs and nurse the plants 
 that had been injured by the storm. She found more real pleasure 
 in this quiet occupation, than she had done in the joyous sports of the 
 morning. It was, too, one of which she did not grow weary; 
 no listlessness followed it ; the flowers gradually increased in beauty, 
 as though to thank her for her care, until the ground assumed 
 the appearance of a garden, and the child felt more and more 
 grateful to the kind protector who had placed her in so fair a spot, 
 to wait for his return. She did not now make nosegays of the 
 flowers, or weave them into perishable garlands, but she learned 
 to watch their silent growth, and inhale their fragrance without 
 a wish to gather them. Still there were times when some favourite 
 plant, even while she looked at it, began to wither and die; and 
 then she would raise her wistful eyes towards the 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 Rhoda to escape from the wall. It had been the one wish 
 of her heart that the sister who had been her playfellow in the 
 morning, should come back and pass the quiet hours of the evening 
 with herself. When all her hopes were disappointed and she a 
 second time lost sight of Ehoda, she wept bitterly and was very 
 sorrowful. It was in vain that she returned to the garden which 
 she had cultivated ; her favourite flowers failed to afford her the same 
 pleasure as before ; beautiful as they were, there was now a void in 
 her heart that their loveliness could not satisfy. But Minna knew 
 
144 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 where to turn for comfort ; she breathed upon her flute, and the 
 soft and solemn music that floated "back from the east seemed to 
 sympathise with her own sad thoughts. She felt that she was 
 not really alone ; the unseen choir of children who dwelt afar off 
 were sharers in her sorrow ; one chord of affection had been snapped 
 asunder, but she knew that those which united her to her kind 
 protector and his happy family would remain unbroken for ever. 
 
 Such thoughts afforded joy and peace to Minna, even in the midst 
 of her tears, and as the evening closed in, she dwelt upon them 
 more and more. A soft languor began to steal upon her, and now 
 she gave up her employment in the garden, and passed her time 
 in playing glad songs upon her flute, and watching the beauties 
 of the surrounding view. The very same hours that Rhoda found 
 so dark and terrible, breathed upon her a pure and holy calm. 
 There were no damp fogs, no unhealthy vapours rising from the 
 ground, no noxious smells, no swarm of insects buzzing in the 
 air. Bright as had been the morning of the day, the evening far 
 surpassed it in its quiet loveliness. Minna could see by the western 
 light the clear stream that she had crossed in the morning, while 
 in the distance was the dim outline of the forest from which she 
 had escaped. Her heart was very full of gratitude ; one short day 
 had passed since the wild beasts were howling around her, and now 
 that a new night was approaching, she could lie down without fear, 
 for her kind protector had promised to watch 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 145 
 
 to be brought nearer than before, and there was a fringe of gold 
 on the cloud that rested upon them, as it caught the last rays of 
 the setting sun. The song of the birds was hushed, and no sound 
 broke the stillness of the evening but the gentle notes of Minna's 
 flute, and the clear soft music that was wafted back to her from 
 the distant hills. 
 
 The child gradually yielded to the soothing influence of the scene ; 
 her languor increased ; she sank down upon a bed of violets, and 
 having raised herself for a moment to gaze earnestly upon the east, 
 she closed her eyes in a soft untroubled sleep. 
 
 The hours of night passed slowly on, the pale moon and the 
 stars appeared, and Minna still continued in the same quiet repose. 
 
 o 
 
146 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 No new trials or temptations could befal 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 moon-beams played 
 upon her face, it shone with a bright and holy loveliness. She slept 
 quietly on, but it was not the heavy sleep of unconsciousness and 
 oblivion ; a warm breeze from the 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 Rhoda also slept, but her slumbers were very different from 
 those of Minna. There was no peaceful security, no refreshing 
 quietness, in her repose. As the night advanced, her features only 
 became more wan 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 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 147 
 
 left : the hours of darkness had arrived, and it was now impossible 
 for her to return. She had abandoned the prospect of the distant 
 hills, and from this time forth she would see them no more; she 
 had refused to listen to the heavenly music, and she would never 
 be allowed to hear it again. During the day-time she had taken 
 up her portion with the fatal ruin ; it was there she had spent 
 the evening, it was there that slumber had overtaken her, and she 
 was now forced to sleep beneath it until it should give way and 
 crush her by its fall. 
 
 Minna and Ehoda 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. 
 
QUESTIONS ON CHAPTER IV. 
 
 <!it. What do you understand by Khoda groping her way in 
 search of her flute? 
 
 £1. 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? 
 
 iH. 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 temptations 
 of the world, the flesh, and the devil, against which they will have 
 to contend who, after having long taken up their portion with the 
 world, endeavour in the evening of life to turn themselves unto 
 God. There will be the mockery of their former companions, 
 and their own evil habits, and, in addition to these, the thoughts 
 of terror and despondency which Satan himself will stir up in 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 149 
 
 their hearts. What is meant by Khoda taking shelter in the 
 crevice of the wall? 
 
 gl. She gave herself over to despair. 
 
 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. 
 <!H. Did she succeed in doing so? 
 
 No, for the crumbling stones continually warned her that 
 the building, sooner or later, would crush her by its fall. 
 
 Remember, then, that wilful and 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 Rhoda 
 after this make one last effort to escape from the wall? 
 
 Yes ; when she found that her favourite moss had become 
 putrid and corrupt; but this time sleep overpowered her, and she 
 sank beneath the ruin. 
 
 (St. That is to say, she died in her sins. We must not, however, 
 imagine from this that any period of time is too short for the 
 really penitent to obtain the forgiveness of God; we know that 
 with Him a thousand years are as one day, and one day as a 
 thousand years. Had Rhoda been able to repent, her last staggering 
 
150 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 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. 
 
 (JR. And why are we told that the flowers she loved best still 
 withered and died? 
 
 ^. Is it because in this life not even charity itself can secure 
 us from disappointment ? 
 
 (Ost. 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 employment in the garden? 
 
 ^C. 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? 
 
 The peaceful end of the righteous. 
 (!EL It is not, however, any outward peace that is here referred 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 151 
 
 to ; for good men may, like the holy martyrs, die in the midst 
 of much apparent pain and suffering. But, whatever be their 
 bodily anguish, they will have within the peace of God that passeth 
 man's understanding. The distant hills will seem to approach near 
 them, and the fringe of gold will rest upon the cloud. Do you 
 remember the vision that cheered the last moments of St. Stephen ? 
 
 gt. It is said that he saw the heavens opened, and the Son 
 of Man standing on the right hand of God. 
 
 (5=1. 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 recollect any parable of our 
 Saviour in which death is spoken of as a period of sleep? 
 
 ^t. That of the wise and foolish virgins. We are told that 
 while the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept. 
 
 dR. And so also in the Old Testament, in speaking of the deaths 
 of the Kings of Israel and Judah, it is generally said of each of 
 them, that "he slept with his fathers." Thus, then, we may 
 regard the good and bad alike as sleeping from the hour of death 
 to the day of judgment. They have to wait till the night is over, 
 before they are either received into their happy home or crushed 
 by the fall of the ruin. This will be the case with all except 
 those who will still be found upon earth at the second advent 
 of Christ. But is there any other parable which appears to imply 
 that there will be a consciousness in that sleep? 
 
 gt. That of the rich man and Lazarus? 
 
 (0=1. Yes, the rich man is certainly spoken of as sensible of 
 pain ; and though Lazarus was conveyed to the bosom of Abraham — 
 
152 
 
 THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 a place that gives ns the idea of the most perfect rest — it would 
 seem to be implied in the narrative that he is in a state of conscious- 
 ness. But there is a passage in the "book of Revelation, which, so 
 far as we can enter into the depth of its meaning, expressly speaks 
 of the Holy Martyrs as disturbed in their rest, by their anxious 
 longing for the day of judgment. 
 
 21. " They cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, 
 holy and true, dost thou not return and avenge our blood on them 
 that dwell on the earth? And white robes were given unto every 
 one of them : and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet 
 for a little season, until their fellow-servants also and their brethren, 
 that should be killed as they were, should be fulfilled."* 
 
 (B=t. 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? 
 
 By the smile that rested on the features of Minna, and the 
 troubled sleep of Rhoda. 
 
 (fit. Why is it said that Rhoda could then make only the 
 imaginary efforts of a dream? 
 
 gt. Because nothing that we can do after death, will enable us 
 to escape the punishment due to our sins. 
 
 * Rev. vi. 10, 11. 
 
THE DISTANT HILLS. 
 
 153 
 
 dii. Yes. It will be then impossible for us either to change 
 from the service of God to the service of Satan, or from the service 
 of Satan to the service of God. During this life some are walking 
 within view of the distant hills, while others afar off are dwelling 
 under the shadow of the wall. And, though to us they may appear 
 to be treading the same paths, there is doubtless a gulf, which 
 separates them, that is seen by the Searcher of hearts. But while 
 they continue upon earth, we believe that many move to and fro 
 across it, according as Satan leads them into sin, or God gives 
 them grace to repent. That deep gulf will became impassable 
 in another world, and each will remain for all eternity on the same 
 side of it on which in the hour of death he was found. 
 
THE 
 
 OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 tOK THEY THAT BAY SUCH THINGS DECLAKE PLAINLY, THAT THEY 
 SEEK A COUNTEY. — Heb. xi. 14. 
 
TO' 
 
 JOHN ADAMS 
 
 SERJEANT AT LAW 
 
 AS A MARK OF FILIAL GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR.. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 EACH IN HIS HIDDEN SPHERE OF JOY OR WOE, 
 OUR HERMIT SPIRITS DWELL AND RANGE APART; 
 
 OUR EYES SEE ALL AROUND IN GLOOM OR GLOW- 
 HUES OF THEIR OWN, FRESH BORROW'D FROM THE HEART. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 JlHERE 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 
 
160 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 a soothing influence on my mind. It is at the eastern extremity 
 of the landslip. Large portions of the cliff have fallen away, 
 and formed a dell so broken and irregular, that the ground has 
 the appearance of having at one time been agitated by an earth- 
 quake. But Nature has only suffered the convulsion 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 radiance of 
 the sun. In consequence of this, the landslip has, as it were, 
 a climate of its own ; and often, when the more exposed parts 
 of the country still look dreary and desolate, is in the enjoyment 
 of the blessings of an early spring. Such was the season at which 
 I first visited it. The grey fragments of rock which lay scattered 
 on the ground were almost hid by the luxuriance of the underwood, 
 and countless wild flowers were growing beneath their shade. Below, 
 the eye rested upon a little bay, formed by the gradual advance 
 of the sea; and all was so calm and peaceful, that as I watched 
 the gentle undulation 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 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 l(il 
 
 hopes and plans may but lay open our hearts to tlie 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. 
 
 It was on the evening of the 18th of April, 1843. I had been 
 long gazing upon it, and had imagined that I was alone, when 
 my attention was arrested by a sigh from some one near me. 
 I turned round, and saw a venerable old man seated upon a fragment 
 of the fallen cliff, beneath which the violets were very thickly 
 clustering. His hair was white as silver; his face deeply farrowed, 
 and yet pervaded 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 addressed to him : but it related to the lateness and inclemency 
 of the season, and I was at once struck by the singularity of his 
 reply. " Yes, yes," he said musingly, "the winter has indeed been 
 very long and dreary ; and yet it has been gladdened, from time 
 to time, by glimpses of the coming spring." 
 
 I now observed him more closely. There was a strangeness 
 in his dress which first excited my suspicion, and I fancied that 
 1 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," lie replied, in the same melancholy tone as 
 before; "I have indeed travelled a long and solitary journey ; and 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 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 feeling. In order to ascertain this, 
 I asked: "Have you been long a traveller?" 
 
 "Four score and thirteen years," he replied; and observing my 
 look of assumed wonder, he repeated a second time, more slowly 
 and sadly than before, " Four score and thirteen years." 
 
 " The home," I said, " must be very far off that requires so long 
 a journey." 
 
 "Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he answered: "our 
 home is never far off; and I might perhaps have arrived at it 
 years and years ago. But often during the early spring I stopped 
 to gather the flowers that grew beneath my feet; and once I laid 
 me down and fell asleep upon the way. And so more than four 
 score and thirteen years have been wanted to bring me to the home 
 which many reach in a few days. Alas ! all whom I love most 
 dearly have long since passed me on the road, and I am now left 
 to finish my journey alone." 
 
 During this reply, I had become altogether ashamed of my former 
 suspicion, and I now looked into the old man's face with a feeling 
 of reverence and love. The features were unchanged; but instead 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 163 
 
 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 purposely, however, continued the conversation 
 under the same metaphor as before. "You have not then," I said, 
 "been always a solitary traveller?" 
 
 "Ah, no," he replied: "for a few years a dear wife was walking 
 step by step at my side ; and there were little children, too, who 
 were just beginning to follow us. And I was so happy then, that 
 I sometimes forgot we were but travellers, and fancied that I had 
 found a home. But my wife, sir, never forgot it. She would again 
 and again remind me that 'we must so live together in this life, 
 that in the world to come we might have life everlasting.' They 
 are words that I scarcely regarded at the time, but I love to repeat 
 them now. They speak to me of meeting her again at the end 
 of our journey." 
 
 "And have all your children left you?" I asked. 
 
 "All, all," he replied. "My wife took them with her when 
 she went away. She stayed with me, sir, but seven years, and 
 left me on the very day on which she came. It seems strange 
 now that I could have lived with them day after day without 
 a thought that they were so near their journey's end, while I should 
 travel onward so many winters alone. It is now sixty years since 
 they all went home, and have been waiting for me there. But, 
 sir, I often think that the time, which has seemed so long and dreary 
 to me, has passed away like a few short hours to them." 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 11 And are you sure, then," I said, " that they are all gone home? " 
 It was a thoughtless question, and I repented the words almost 
 before they were spoken. The tears rose quickly in the old man's 
 eyes, and his voice trembled with emotion, as he replied : " Oh ! 
 sir, do not bid me doubt it. Surely, every one of them is gone 
 home; one, at least, of the number is undoubtedly there; and 
 they all went away together, as though they were 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 prolonged, if their home had not been ready for 
 them? And when I think of them I always think of home; am 
 I not, then, right in believing that all of them are there?" 
 
 There were allusions in this answer which I did not at ,the time 
 understand; but the old man's grief was too sacred for me to 
 intrude further upon it. I felt ; also, that any words of my own 
 would be too feeble to calm the agitation which my thoughtless 
 observation had 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, 1 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 j suddenly shone forth, and its rays were reflected by a path 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 165 
 
 of gold in the silent waters. The old man pointed to it with a 
 quiet smile : the change was in such harmony with his own thoughts, 
 that I do not wonder at the metaphor it suggested to him. " There," 
 said he, "is the blessing of the mourner! See! how it shines 
 down from the heaven above, and gilds with its radiance the dreary 
 sea of life." 
 
 "True," I replied; "and the sea of life 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 
 
166 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 were marked with deep blue lines, which could only have "been 
 caused by the galling of a chain in former years. 
 
 The poor wanderer observed the look I gave them. A sudden flush 
 of shame overspread his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down 
 his garment to conceal them. It was, 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 was turned meekly towards Heaven, and it was only from 
 the movement of his lips that I fancied I could trace the words 
 of the prayer, " Though we be tied and bound with the chain 
 of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of thy great mercy loose us." 
 
 He now began to move slowly forward. The ground was rough 
 and uneven, and his step so very feeble, that I expected every 
 instant to see him fall. He struck his foot against a stone, and 
 I sprang forward to his assistance. " Thank you, kind sir," he 
 said, in his quiet way; "but do not fear for me; my own frail 
 limbs could not support me for an instant : but I have a staff 
 on which I lean ; and though I may stumble at times, I cannot 
 fall." 
 
 Again I was in doubt whether to interpret his words literally 
 or not ; but my belief now was that the old man almost unconsciously 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 167 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 SO WANDERERS, EVER FOND AND TRUE, 
 
 LOOK HOMEWARD THROUGH THE EVENING SKY, 
 
 WITHOUT A STREAK OF HEAVEN'S SOFT BLUE, 
 TO ATD AFFECTION'S DREAMING EYE. 
 
 Chritlian Year, 
 
 J\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 
 upon it, and robbed it of its brightness, but did not really alter 
 it. My intercourse with him was broughi to a sudden and 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 169 
 
 painful conclusion. It was at my persuasion that lie 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 reluctance 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 an unconscious dread of the danger to which lie 
 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 he required. 
 We had advanced but a few hundred yards, and had just 
 reached the summit of the hill which commanded the first 
 view of the village church. The old man had paused for a 
 little while, and appeared to gaze upon it with a feeling of 
 the most intense interest ; I was afraid, even by a passing- 
 question, to interrupt the quiet current of his thoughts ; when 
 the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking of a cart- 
 wheel, which grated harshly on my ear; and almost before 
 I could look round, I heard a voice of rude triumph behind 
 me, crying out, " There he is — there he is — there goes the old 
 boy! Stop him, stop him, sir! he is mad." 
 
 I have no heart to describe the scene that followed : the poor 
 wanderer shuffled forward, with a nervous hurried step ; but in 
 a few seconds the cart was at his side ; the driver immediately 
 
170 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 jumped out, and seizing him by the collar, with many a rude word 
 and coarse jest, tried to force him to enter it. For a moment, 
 surprise and indignation deprived me of speech, for I had begun 
 to regard the old man with such a feeling of reverent love, that 
 it almost seemed to me like a profanation of holy ground. When, 
 however, he turned his eyes towards me, with an imploring look, 
 I recovered myself sufficiently to demand by what authority he 
 dared thus molest an inoffensive traveller on his journey. In my 
 inmost heart I dreaded the answer I should probably receive ; 
 neither was my foreboding wrong; the man laughed rudely as 
 he replied, " He has been mad, quite mad, for more than fifty 
 years; he escaped this morning from the 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 intellect, it could be no imaginary cause that now so strongly 
 moved him. My heart bled for him as I listened to the pathetic 
 earnestness with which he implored the 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, but do not believe them, for I am not mad now. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 171 
 
 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. My hopes were greatly 
 raised by this, and I flattered myself I should now have little 
 difficulty in obtaining for the poor wanderer the indulgence which 
 he sought. But I soon found my mistake, and, under the irritated 
 feelings of the moment, almost preferred the rude conduct of the 
 first comer to the quiet determination with which his companion 
 listened to my request. 
 
172 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 He merely smiled at the account I gave of my own interview 
 with the old man ; and when I suggested that it contained no 
 evidence of insanity, shook his head and replied, "You do not 
 know poor Robin. His notions about home are the peculiar feature 
 of his madness ; but you are not the first person that has been 
 deceived by them." 
 
 He spoke in a low tone, as though he was anxious not to be 
 overheard. But the precaution seemed unnecessary ; for, though 
 the old man had mechanically retained his grasp on my garments, 
 he was now looking eagerly towards the village church, and T 
 could see, from the expression of his countenance, that his thoughts 
 had passed away from the scene around him. 
 
 When I found my arguments of no avail, I changed my ground, 
 and besought as a favour that he would make the trial of letting 
 the old man proceed to the end of his journey, and trust to his 
 promise to return quietly from thence. " Sir," he replied, in a 
 louder voice, " I should have no more hesitation in trusting the 
 word of poor Robin than your own. He never deceived me; and, 
 under ordinary 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 Robin himself would not desire it." As he said this, 
 he turned towards the old man ; but his countenance was unchanged, 
 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. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 173 
 
 After a pause, I again renewed my intreaties, urging that it 
 would at least be a better plan than having recourse to violence, 
 which must eventually produce a far more serious delay. " Of 
 course," said the attendant, " anything is better than having recourse 
 to violence." "Then," said I, "you accede to my request?" 
 " Only," replied he, with a provoking smile, " in case all other 
 methods fail; but as the delay would be a real inconvenience to 
 us, you must permit me first to try my poAvers of persuasion. Let 
 me now beg of you, whatever surprise you may feel, to be careful 
 to express none." He again lowered his voice as he said these 
 words, and, in spite of the dislike inspired by the self-confidence 
 of his manner, and of other stronger emotions, my curiosity was 
 excited to know how he would proceed. He placed himself opposite 
 to the old man, so as to intercept his view of the village, and 
 then, having fixed his eye calmly and stedfastly upon him, with 
 an appearance of real interest, thus soothingly addressed him : — 
 " I would gladly go on with you, Robin ; but am sure you 
 are under some mistake. Your wife and children cannot be in 
 yonder village, — they are not there, they are at home. Come 
 quietly with me now, and perhaps this evening you may go 
 home 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 tranquil 
 lour, as he slowly repeated: "They are not there, they are at home; 
 
174 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 they are not there, they are at home. True, very true, they are 
 not there, they are at home." 
 
 Presently he raised his eyes to Heaven, and the attendants, no 
 less than myself, were overawed by the solemnity of his manner. 
 There was a silence of a few seconds, during which he seemed 
 to listen intently ; and then, as though he had heard some echo 
 from above, which confirmed the hope that had been held out to 
 him, he confidently added : " And I also shall go home, — and this 
 very evening I shall be there." 
 
 While I was still pondering on these words, the old man had of 
 his own accord quietly placed himself in the cart, and his companions 
 had seated themselves by his side. They were on the point of 
 driving off before the thought occurred to me of offering him money. 
 I drew out my purse, half expecting him to refuse the proffered 
 gift; and it was with a strong feeling of disappointment that I 
 observed the look of satisfaction, almost amounting to eagerness, 
 with which he took the silver from my hand. I said within myself, 
 " Can it be, then, that the taint of covetousness is to be found 
 in a mind from which every earthly affection seems so entirely 
 to have been withdrawn ? " But I wronged him by the thought. 
 The money was immediately taken from him, and he resigned it 
 to another no less gladly than he had received it from me. " It 
 will not do," said the keeper, "to let him have it himself: he 
 will merely give it away to the first beggar that he meets. He 
 has not the slightest notion of the real value of money. It shall 
 be laid out for his benefit; and till then it will be safe in my 
 keeping." 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 175 
 
 My countenance may have expressed dissatisfaction 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 1 where neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, and where 
 thieves do not break through and steal.' I will take it home 
 with me; and when you also go home, you will £nd 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. 
 
 "Not in my dwelling-place,' 1 he said, "for to-morrow I shall 
 not be there. If you see me again, kind stranger, it must be at 
 home. May God bless you, and guide you on your way." The 
 cart was already in motion, but he looked back once more, and 
 waved his hand as he said, " Good bye, sir. Remember that 
 we all are going home!" 
 
 They were the last words I heard him speak, and it is perhaps 
 
176 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 from that cause that they made so strong an impression on my 
 mind ; for often since then, when I have been tempted to wander 
 from the right path, or to murmur as I walked along it, I have 
 thought upon the old man's parting warning, and asked myself 
 the question, "Am I not going home?" 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 TWO WORLDS ARE OURS: 'TIS ONLY SIN 
 
 FORBIDS US TO DESCRY 
 THE MYSTIC HEAVEN AND EARTH WITHIN, 
 
 PLAIN AS THE SEA AND SKY. 
 
 Chnsliin Year. 
 
 Very early on the following morning I proceeded on foot to the 
 town of N . The scenery through which I passed was rich 
 
 A A 
 
178 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 and beautiful, but it was lost upon me at the time: for there were 
 busy thoughts within, which would not suffer my eye to rest on 
 any external object. I was on my way to visit the old man, and 
 had a presentiment, almost amounting to conviction, that I should 
 not find him alive. The words, "I also shall go home, and this 
 very evening I shall be there," in spite of myself, kept recurring 
 to my mind. It was to no purpose that I endeavoured to set 
 them aside, as part of the wanderings of a disordered intellect : there 
 was a solemnity in the look and manner of the poor wanderer, 
 which gave a reality to their meaning ; and I believed the shadow 
 of the future to have been resting on his spirit at the time he 
 spoke them. 
 
 These fears gradually increased as I approached the Asylum. At 
 the entrance, there stood a little girl, weeping as though her heart 
 would break. A woman, who appeared to be her mother, was 
 trying in vain to comfort her. Her only reply to every caress, 
 was a fresh burst of sobs and tears. The scene was so in harmony 
 with my own thoughts, that the very instant I saw her, I guessed 
 the cause of her sorrow. Nor was my conjecture wrong: the 
 child had dearly loved the old man, and wept because he was 
 no more. 
 
 The father of this girl was the superintendent of the Asylum. 
 He also was standing by, and offered to accompany me through the 
 building. On the way, he proved very willing to gratify my 
 curiosity concerning the stranger who had excited in me so singular 
 an interest. I soon found him to be an intelligent, kind-hearted 
 man, who had entered instinctively into the thoughts and wishes 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 179 
 
 of poor Robin, and yet had failed to appreciate what I may call 
 the religion of his character. His daily familiarity with the varied 
 forms of insanity, may in part have been the cause. He had at 
 once regarded him as a patient labouring under a peculiar kind 
 of mental delusion, without looking beyond. In consequence of 
 this, there was much in our conversation which grated harshly 
 on my own feelings. I loved better to think of the old man, as 
 I had first seen him, sitting in the midst of the 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 Robin'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 con- 
 sequence of this, his property had gradually gone to ruin, until 
 at length he was consigned to a pauper asylum. He had been 
 
180 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 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 Robin's wrists prove him to have, at one 
 time, undergone a very rigorous confinement ; and yet, when I came 
 here, I found that he had been long in the enjoyment of comparative 
 freedom. But it is a case that always 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 under- 
 stand from what cause the change in poor Robin's conduct could in 
 the first instance have arisen." 
 
 " Do you not think," I asked, " that it may have been a sign 
 of returning reason?" He smiled at the question, as he replied, 
 " So far from it, sir, that it was accompanied by a new and extra- 
 ordinary delusion, which never afterwards entirely left him. He 
 fancied that the bonds which he felt and saw, were merely imaginary, 
 and that there were other invisible chains which were the real 
 cause of his 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 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 181 
 
 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 employed when the marks on his wrists had attracted my 
 attention; and I said within myself that it was not indeed the 
 return of reason, but a brighter and a far holier light, which had 
 thus shone on the poor captive, and brought peace and resignation 
 to his soul. 
 
 After his partial release, the manners and language of Eobin 
 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 my conductor, " I often 
 listened with wonder to the various interpretations they put upon 
 his answers. Some would discover in them poetry; some, phi- 
 losophy; some, religion; some, I know not what, according to 
 the previous bias of their own minds." I inquired in what light 
 he himself was disposed to view them ? "As the wanderings 
 of insanity," he replied ; "for poor Eobin was, undoubtedly, mad:" 
 but presently added, more thoughtfully, . " yet there was something 
 in his peculiar kind of madness which I could never exactly 
 fathom." 
 
 I asked, whether no friend or relative had come to inquire after 
 the old man, during the long period of his confinement ? " No 
 
182* 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 one," answered my conductor; "and so far, it was a mercy that 
 he had been deprived of his reason, since his madness prevented 
 his being aware of his own solitary condition." 
 
 " How do you mean?" I said; "surely he could not help 
 feeling that he was alone?" 
 
 " On the contrary," he replied, " he fully believed that he had 
 a wife and children and home, and would speak, from day to 
 day, of going to join them. Poor fellow! at one time, those who 
 had the care of him would argue with him, and endeavour to explain 
 to him that he was under a delusion. And the old man would 
 soon get confused in his reasoning, and end by wringing his hands 
 in an agony of grief. But, since I have come here, I have thought 
 it best to humour him in the belief ; and not only forbidden all 
 contradiction on this subject, but encouraged the attendants to 
 talk to him about his home, and promise, that if he behaved 
 well, he should go there very soon. You will hardly believe that 
 I have seen tears of joy run down his cheeks at these simple 
 words. Yet some have said, that it was almost cruel to encourage 
 a hope which must end in disappointment at last." 
 
 "But did it end in disappointment?" I said, following my own 
 thoughts, rather than addressing my companion. He seemed struck 
 by the remark, and, after a pause, replied, "Why, sir, one can 
 hardly say that it did; for the hope seemed to grow stronger, 
 instead of weaker, as year after year passed by; and he continued 
 in the same happy delusion to the very hour of his death. I 
 have often thought that this imaginary home was a source of 
 greater joy and comfort to him than the possession of any actual 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 183 
 
 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." 
 
 I inquired, how this belief could influence others? "Because," 
 said he, "Kobin was unable to separate the present from the 
 future; and so it was part of his confusion of ideas to believe 
 that those with whom he lived here, would live with him in his 
 home also. It is the only instance I have known of a person 
 under the influence of insanity being able to impart his own views 
 to his companions. But there seemed to be a kind of infection 
 in the old man's madness ; and more than one patient, who had 
 previously been plunged in hopeless despondency, was gradually 
 led to take interest in Kobin' 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 conversation. " 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 
 
184 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 he was in the Asylum he seemed utterly unconscious that he was 
 dependent on the parish for support." 
 
 " Do you mean," I asked, u that he imagined something had 
 been preserved from the wreck of his own property?" 
 
 "Not in the least," he replied; "he was fully aware that his 
 own property was gone; but he believed his daily wants to be 
 supplied by a kind of miracle; and would often observe that he 
 had gone on for more than fifty years without making provision 
 for the morrow, and yet had never known what it was to be 
 without clothing or food. Of course, sir, I did 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 feeling of self-respect, which, in 
 all cases of insanity, it is so imjDortant to preserve. But Robin 
 was rather pleased than vexed at the idea of the parish providing 
 for him. Presently, however, he grew bewildered, and shook 
 his head, and said, that, after all, the parish could not provide 
 for him beyond a single day, and that, perhaps, to-morrow he 
 might be at home. The visitor was beginning to say something 
 in reply: but Robin's home was with me sacred ground, and 
 I would not suffer the argument to proceed further." 
 
 Another pause of some minutes followed, until I broke it by 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 185 
 
 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 suffered her to be so 
 constantly with him. But I consider the society of children to 
 be very beneficial to the insane ; there is something in their ways 
 and language which they can understand far better than our own ; 
 and this was peculiarly the case with poor Robin." 
 
 " And do you suppose," I said, " that the child liked to be 
 with him?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly," he replied; "for the choice was her own. 
 I merely encouraged it. But Robin had an inexhaustible stock 
 of fairy tales, which made him a great favourite with children ; 
 and Annie would sit and listen to them for hours together." 
 
 " Do you really mean," I asked, in some surprise, " that they 
 were fairy tales?" 
 
 " Why, sir, for that matter," he answered, " poor Robin himself 
 believed them to be true, and it was that which gave a peculiar 
 interest to his manner of telling them. Some visitors have fancied 
 them to be a kind of allegory : and I have often traced in the 
 words a double meaning, of which the old man himself could hardly 
 have been conscious. But, however this may have been, it is clear 
 that they were connected with* his particular mental delusion, 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 
 
 B B 
 
186 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 request. He told me that lie had only heard them in detached 
 portions, for the patients in the Asylum were too numerous to 
 allow him to devote as much time to poor Robin as he might 
 otherwise have done. " But, sir," he continued, " little Annie 
 knows them all by heart, though I am afraid to-day she is feeling 
 too deeply the loss of her companion to be able to repeat one. 
 There certainly was something very singular in her fondness for 
 the old man, and I have often been perplexed at the kind of 
 influence he had over her. She herself was sometimes a sufferer 
 from his delusions, and yet always fancied poor Robin must be 
 in the right, and would submit to his wishes without a murmur 
 or complaint. On one occasion, I myself felt called upon to 
 interfere." 
 
 , I begged him to relate the circumstance to which he referred. 
 " It was, sir," he said, " on Annie's ninth birth-day, in November 
 last. I had given her in the morning a new Victoria half-crown, 
 and she went immediately to exhibit her treasure to her friend. 
 She looked grave and thoughtful on her return ; and, when I asked 
 what purchases she had made with her present, she confessed that 
 the old man had begged it of her, and she had given it him. The 
 next day I told Robin how wrong he had been to take the poor 
 child's money. But he answered, with his usual strangeness, that 
 he did not in the least want it, and had asked for it because 
 he loved little Annie, and wished to do her a kindness. Now, 
 most people would have thought that this was rather a reason for 
 giving her a present than for taking one away. And yet the old 
 man spoke the truth, for he knew no better. Tt was one of his 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 1ST 
 
 peculiarities to imagine that he was conferring a favour when he 
 received one." 
 
 There was a passage from Holy Scripture which this answer 
 suggested to my mind. I remembered " the words of the Lord 
 Jesus, how He said, It is more blessed to give than to receive,"* 
 and I repeated it rather to myself than to my companion. The 
 words, however, caught his ear, and he observed that it was very 
 likely I had hit upon the truth ; for the understanding texts of 
 Scripture in their literal meaning, was one feature of poor Robin's 
 insanity. 
 
 With a view to pursuing the subject farther, I inquired whether 
 the old man had restored the money. 
 
 "No, sir," replied my guide; "and this is the most provoking- 
 part of the story. I should not so much have minded if he had 
 wished for it as a keepsake from the child; but he said he had 
 lent it to some companion who had more need of it than himself. 
 He 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. 
 
 * Acts xx. 35. 
 
188 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 He would lend all that he had to his brother paupers, and, though 
 no one ever thought of repaying him, was just as happy as if the 
 things remained in his own possession." 
 
 And another passage of Holy Scripture rose to my remembrance, 
 " He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth unto the Lord: and 
 look, what he layeth out it shall be paid him again." And I did 
 not wonder that, with so sure a promise, the mind of poor Robin 
 should have been at rest. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EVER THE RICHEST, TENDEREST GLOW 
 
 SETS ROUND TH' AUTUMNAL SUN : 
 BUT THERE SIGHT FALLS ; NO HEART MAY KNOW 
 
 THE BLISS WHEN LIFE IS BONE. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 I HAVE reserved for a separate chapter that part of my conver- 
 sation within the walls of the Asylum, which led to a description 
 of the closing scene of the old man's life. I was still reluctant 
 to admit his insanity, for it seemed to me that he had only so fully 
 realized the presence of the unseen world, as to have forgotten 
 altogether the things of sight in the things of faith. I inquired, 
 therefore, of my companion, whether any more decided symptoms 
 
190 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 of madness had ever exhibited themselves than those which he 
 had already mentioned. He appeared surprised at the question, 
 hut replied, that, though the old man was always more or less 
 under the influence of the disorder, there undoubtedly were certain 
 periodic returns of it, and that these uniformly occurred at the 
 commencement of spring. 
 
 " And did these," I asked, "render him for the time violent and 
 intractable? " 
 
 u Oh, no, sir," he answered; "ever since I have known him he 
 has been the same quiet and inoffensive creature, and his madness 
 used rather to assume a melancholy form. He became sad and 
 dejected, and refused to eat, and would pass whole days together 
 in his own solitary cell. On one occasion, my wife sent little Annie, 
 in the hope that she might cheer him ; but he would not even 
 admit the child ; he told her that his father was then with him, 
 and that he would not talk to her. I went myself when I heard 
 this ; but, upon opening the door, I found, as I expected, that he 
 was alone." 
 
 " Perhaps," said I, "he may have meant that he was praying 
 to his Father in Heaven." 
 
 "It is not unlikely," he replied; "for prayer was one way 
 in which at these seasons his madness most frequently exhibited 
 itself. I mean," he added, observing my look of surprise, " that he 
 did not then pray like other people, but would often remain whole 
 hours together upon his knees." 
 
 And I remembered how the prophetess Anna was said to have 
 served God with fastings and prayers night and day, and how 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME.. 
 
 191 
 
 our blessed Lord Himself had continued a whole night in prayer 
 to God; but I made no farther reply. 
 
 " The doctor," resumed my conductor, " considered the long- 
 solitude to be so bad for him, that for the last few days he had 
 not suffered him to remain in his cell. It was, perhaps, this circum- 
 stance which turned the current of his thoughts into another channel, 
 and led to his wandering from the Asylum." 
 
 I was not sorry to change the conversation, by inquiring how 
 he had contrived his escape. 
 
 "Nay," he replied, "it is hardly fair to speak of it as an escape. 
 We were never very strict with the old man, and often suffered 
 him to go beyond the boundaries. On the present occasion, he had 
 made no secret of his intention, and told one of the attendants 
 that he was anxious to pay his wife and children a visit, and should 
 soon be back. I have no doubt myself that he intended to keep 
 his word ; but he probably started, in the first instance, in a wrong 
 direction, and so lost his way." 
 
 " What do you mean," I asked, " by his starting in a wrong- 
 direction? I thought you were ignorant from what part of the 
 island he had been brought here." 
 
 "True, sir," he replied; "but Robin 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 southern aspect. He always said that 
 he did not feel the cold, as long as he could see his home. Now, 
 there is nothing but a small hamlet visible from the window, and. 
 
192 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 of course, when the old man did not return, I sent to it to inquire 
 after him." 
 
 "And had he been there?" I said. 
 
 "No, sir," he replied; "and, after wasting many hours in the 
 search, we at length heard that he had been seen walking along 
 the road which led direct to the Undercliff. It was this circumstance 
 which enabled him to get so many miles from the Asylum before 
 he was overtaken. But, as I said, I do not think that he intentionally 
 misled us, but only missed his way." 
 
 Now I knew full well that the village of B was not the home 
 
 of which the old man had spoken ; but, when I remembered the 
 agony with which he had implored to be allowed to proceed thither, 
 I could not believe that mere accident was the cause of his journey. 
 I resolved to return thither to prosecute my inquiries ; but before 
 I left the Asylum, asked to see the room which poor Robin had 
 occupied. 
 
 "This is it, sir," said my conductor, as he threw open the door 
 of a low narrow cell. " You will find it smaller and more comfortless 
 than many others, but it is the one in which he was placed when 
 he was first brought here ; and he had become so fond of his little 
 window, and the view towards the East, that it would have been 
 a mistaken kindness to force him to change it." 
 
 I scarcely heard the words of apology, for I felt a sudden thrill 
 as I found myself ushered thus unexpectedly into the chamber 
 of death. The old man was lying upon his narrow bed, and a 
 stream of light through the open window fell upon his tranquil 
 countenance. A single glance was sufficient to tell me not only 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 193 
 
 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 bad 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 
 
 o c 
 
194 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 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 awhile absorbed in thought. He 
 advanced softly to the bedside, and it was not until, witli a gentle 
 hand, he had closed the old man's eyes, that he broke the silence 
 by observing, " Ah, sir, morning after morning I have found him 
 lying thus, and gazing through the open window. His sight was 
 gradually becoming very weak from the glare of light, but he 
 was unconscious of it himself. And it was but yesterday he told 
 me that in a little while he should be no longer dazzled by the 
 brightness of his home. Poor fellow! when I came into the room 
 a few hours since, and saw his eyes so calm and motionless, though 
 the full rays of the sun were falling upon them, I knew that he 
 must be dead, and could not help thinking how singularly his 
 words had come true." 
 
 There was something in the tone of voice in which this description 
 was given, that 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 con- 
 jectured that the sacred volume must formerly have been his own 
 wedding present to his bride. I replaced it on the table, and it 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 195 
 
 opened of its own accord at the eleventh chapter of the Epistle 
 to the Hebrews. The page was much worn, as though it had 
 not only been often read, but many tears had fallen upon it. My 
 eye quickly rested on the passage, " These all died in faith .... 
 and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. 
 For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a 
 country. And, truly, if they had been mindful of that country 
 from whence 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 Robin must have been unable 
 to understand. But the hymn for Septuagesima Sunday, and many 
 others, were marked with pencil. And as my eye glanced over 
 them, my wonder ceased. They were all in such perfect unison 
 with the old man's own thoughts, that, however faint may have 
 been the image which they conveyed, they could not have failed 
 to exercise a soothing influence on his mind. 
 
 I inquired whether the chaplain used to come often to see him. 
 " Very ' frequently," was the reply. " He took great interest in 
 poor Robin, and the old man was grateful for it." " It certainly 
 was singular," he added, thoughtfully, "that on his return yesterday 
 
 * Heb. xi. 13—15. 
 
196 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 evening, he should have expressed so earnest a wish that the chaplain 
 should be sent for." 
 
 "And did you refuse?" I asked. 
 
 " Fortunately not, sir," he replied. " I hesitated at first, for it 
 was very late, and poor Robin was evidently much exhausted 
 with the fatigue and excitement of the day. But he became so 
 anxious about it, that my wife interceded for him, and told me 
 she thought he would go to sleep more quietly after he had been 
 here. I well remember now the peculiar emphasis with which 
 the old man repeated her words, and said, ' Yes, yes, I shall doubtless 
 go to sleep more quietly after he has been here.' It almost seemed 
 as though he felt his end to be near at hand." 
 
 I begged to know what passed at his interview with the chaplain. 
 My companion, however, could give me no information as to the 
 first part of it, for the old man had desired to be left alone with him, 
 and his wish had been at once indulged. " But," he continued, " on 
 our return to the room, we found him looking more light and cheerful 
 than we had ever before seen him ; and when I congratulated 
 him, he said that it was no wonder, for a very heavy burthen had 
 been taken away. The chaplain then told us that he proposed 
 to administer to him the Holy Communion, and invited 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 Bobin 
 must have very indistinct views of the real nature of a sacrament. 
 In this case the old man's own expression proved it ; for, as he joined 
 in the chaplain's request, he told us that he was going on a long 
 journey, and might require the food to support him on the way." 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 197 
 
 "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, 
 Robin used the words literally, but the chaplain took the same view 
 of them with yourself, and it was a point for him and not me to 
 decide. Certainly nothing could be more grave or attentive than the 
 old man's manner during the whole ceremony. And it may be that 
 some glimmering of returning reason was sent to prepare him for the 
 approach of death. Such cases are not of uncommon occurrence." 
 
 I could not help thinking that, in spiritual things, poor Robin 
 had not needed its light; but I made no further reply; and my 
 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. 
 
198 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 Ah, sir," he continued, " it seems a sad thing to die thus forsaken 
 and alone; and yet, after all, many who have kind friends and 
 relatives round their sick beds might envy poor Robin his peaceful 
 end. He went off so quietly at last, that those who slept in the 
 room adjoining were not disturbed during the night by the slightest 
 sound. But early this morning, when I came to inquire after him, 
 he was lying just as you now see him, quite dead!" 
 
 The deep feeling with which these words were pronounced, con- 
 vinced me that he was no less touched than myself by the contem- 
 plation of the outward tranquillity of the old man's death. But 
 who can realize the inward peace that must have been there, 
 when the body fell asleep, and the soul was released from its long 
 imprisonment, and 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 companion, as he replied, 
 
 " There were many of the patients who loved him almost as 
 dearly as the child herself, but I can scarcely speak of them as 
 mourners now. A report spread among them this morning that 
 Robin was going home ; I cannot tell from what quarter it arose, 
 but when I came to them, they crowded round me to know if it 
 were true." 
 
 "And did you," I asked, "then tell them that he was dead?" 
 
 "Not in so many words," he replied. "I merely said that he was 
 already gone home, and that they must not expect to see him 
 here again. And more than one voice exclaimed in reply, ' Happy, 
 happy Robin, to be taken home!"' 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 199 
 
 Still I observed that I had remarked on the countenance of many 
 of the patients an expression of sadness. 
 
 "True," he answered, "for with them the transition of feeling 
 from joy to grief is very rapid. They are not, however, sorrowing 
 for poor Robin, but for themselves, because they have not been 
 allowed to accompany him. There were some, in the first instance, 
 who were very loud in their complaints ; but I soothed them by 
 saying that it was right the old man should go first, because he had 
 been here so long." After a pause, he continued : "It is my own 
 wish, as well as the chaplain's, that many of them should attend the 
 funeral, for I would gladly pay this tribute of respect to Robin's 
 memory. And yet I am half reluctant to give way to it : the remem- 
 brance 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 man's death 
 had been in perfect harmony with his life, and that poor Robin 
 was rightly rejoiced over and rightly mourned. 
 
 My account of my visit to the Asylum has already far exceeded 
 the limits which I had assigned it. And yet, at the risk of 
 being wearisome, I cannot refrain from adding one more fragment 
 from my conversation within its walls, before I proceed to the 
 more pleasant task that lies beyond. With a view to prosecuting 
 
 my inquiries in the village of B , I asked my companion whether 
 
 Robin had ever dropped a hint of his former calling. 
 
200 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 " Oh yes, sir," was the reply ; "he used to say that he had 
 enlisted as a soldier very early in life, and had at one time been 
 made a prisoner. I have seen the tears run down little Annie's 
 cheeks at the piteous tale he would tell of the way in which 
 his enemies 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." 
 
 "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 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 2ol 
 
 this, sir, was not all ; lie would fancy that every one else was 
 a soldier also. He almost persuaded little Annie that she had 
 enlisted in the same army with himself ; and often made her sad 
 by talking of the enemies who surrounded her, and the service 
 she was required to perform." 
 
 I here interrupted him by asking whether the child had not 
 been baptized. He at once perceived the drift of the question, 
 and replied, " I know what you mean, sir, — she was then made 
 the soldier and servant of Christ." 
 
 "Yes," I added, "and entered into a solemn engagement to fight 
 manfully under His banner, against sin, the world, and the Devil." 
 
 "True," he answered; "and it is very curious that it was the 
 old man himself who first pointed out that passage in the Prayer- 
 Book to me. I remember it struck me at the time that his peculiar 
 notions about soldiers might, in some way, be connected with it. 
 And I think it far from improbable ; for Robin's madness seemed 
 principally to consist in his regarding metaphors as realities, and 
 realities as metaphors. The difference between him and ourselves 
 would be, that he believed little Annie to be really a soldier, 
 and not merely to be called one in the Prayer-Book." 
 
 I made no further reply, for my own thoughts grew perplexed, 
 as I tried to determine with myself what were truths and realities, 
 and what merely shadows and metaphors, of the things pertaining 
 to our present existence. 
 
 Tj D 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 OH, BLISS OF CHILD-LIKE INNOCENCE, AND LOVE 
 
 TRIED TO OLD AGE ! CREATIVE POWER TO WIN 
 AND RAISE NEW WORLDS, WHERE HAPPY FANCIES ROVE, 
 
 FORGETTING QUITE THIS GROSSER WORLD OF SIN. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 XhE rooms of the Asylum were hot and close, and as the outer 
 door opened, it was very pleasant to escape from them into the 
 fresh, open air. While we did so, my mind experienced a similar 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 203 
 
 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 proceeded 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. 
 
 "It is no use," said her mother, as we approached; "the poor 
 child will fret herself into a fever, and I cannot persuade her to 
 come away. She does nothing but beg and entreat to be allowed 
 to see poor Robin again. I really believe it will be the best 
 way to take her to his cell." 
 
 "It must not be," replied her husband; "she has no idea of 
 what death really is ; and the sight of the body would fill her 
 mind with strange fancies, and perhaps do her serious harm; for 
 she herself is but a poor weakly thing. You know I never refused 
 her permission to visit him while he was alive, but I cannot suffer 
 it now. It is singular," lie added, turning to me with a look of 
 vexation, " that I should have found less difficulty in quieting the com- 
 plaints of all the mourners for poor Robin within the Asylum than in 
 soothing the grief of my own little girl. I do not like to treat her with 
 severity, and yet without it I see no hope of getting her away." 
 
 All that I had heard of the child inspired me with a lively 
 compassion for her; and I asked to be allowed to try my powers 
 of persuasion. Permission was readily granted ; and I instinctively 
 
204 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME, 
 
 had recourse to the old man's last message, as the easiest way of 
 gaining access to her heart. " Annie," I said gently, " do yon 
 know where your friend is gone?" The simple question checked 
 her sobs, and she looked timidly in my face, but made no reply. 
 "Poor Annie!" I continued; "and did he indeed leave you 
 without telling you whither he was going." 
 
 " Home, sir, home ! " she replied ; and the accent, no less than 
 the words, recalled to my mind the 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 ? " 
 
 " The patli of trustful obedience, and quiet faith, and holy 
 love," was her immediate reply. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 205 
 
 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 continued : " And is it a pleasant path, Annie, that 
 leads us home? " 
 
 "It is an up-hill path," she said; "but as we walk along it, 
 we can, if we will, awake soft notes of music beneath our feet, 
 and there are whispering winds to cheer us on our way." 
 
 " And what, Annie," I asked, " do you mean by the soft music 
 and the whispering wind?" 
 
 " The soft music is prayer," she replied, " and the whispering 
 wind, the' Holy Spirit of God." 
 
 " And can we," I said, " have the soft music without the 
 whispering wind? I mean, can we pray without the assistance 
 of God's Holy Spirit?" But there was no need for me to have 
 explained the question ; the language of allegory was most familiar 
 to the mind of the child, and she had recourse to it in her reply. 
 " No, sir," she said, " for the spirit of harmony dwells in the 
 breeze ; and it is the wind alone that gives life to the music, 
 and bears it upward from earth to Heaven." 
 
 I cannot tell how far she realized the deep meaning of these 
 words, for I did not venture to examine her upon them. I was 
 afraid lest I should only render indistinct the image which they 
 conveyed to her mind, by touching the colours with an unskilful 
 hand. 
 
206 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 Presently I resumed : — " It must, Annie, I think, be a pleasant 
 patli 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 within myself, " Oh, happy child, to 
 know as yet but of one path ; and happy teacher, to have so shared 
 the innocency of childhood as to have spoken to her but of one ! " 
 
 Presently, however, she continued, as though she observed my 
 confusion : " But, sir, he said there were flowers which grow by 
 the way-side. When the wind blows softly upon them they perfume 
 the air; and their fragrance is very sweet and pleasant to those 
 who pass them by ; but if we stop to gather them, then they become 
 magic flowers, and keep changing into thorns. And do you know, 
 sir, why it is so? " 
 
 "Not exactly," I replied; "I should like you to explain it 
 to me." 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 207 
 
 "Because, sir," she said, "when we gather them, we stoop down, 
 and turn our eyes towards the earth, instead of gazing upward 
 on the clear, blue sky." 
 
 "But, Annie," I observed, "you have not yet told me what 
 are the flowers which we gather, or the thorns on which we 
 tread." 
 
 " The thorns," she replied, " are the trials and afflictions which 
 God sends us ; the flowers are the pleasures and amusements which 
 we make choice of for ourselves." 
 
 "Then, Annie," I said, "the children who gather the magic 
 flowers are those who follow their own will ; while those who tread 
 upon the magic thorns are such as submit themselves quietly to 
 the will of God." 
 
 Her countenance became grave, and I saw that she already guessed 
 my meaning. I thought her mind was now sufficiently 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 
 
208 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 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 accompany 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, but 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 mistaking 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. "You 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 so deep a meaning. — It is strange. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 209 
 
 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 recal it to my mind; "I thank 
 thee, O 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 vineyard, and then was taken to the same 
 home with the old man who had borne so long and so patiently 
 all the burthen and heat of the day. Yet my own heart was a 
 witness that even her little hour of labour had not been without 
 its fruit. 
 
 A romantic story was told concerning the cause of her death. 
 It was said that she had never recovered the loss of her friend, 
 but gradually pined away in consequence of it, and at length died 
 of a broken heart. But I believed not .the tale; for little Annie 
 did not sorrow as those without hope ; and though, perhaps, the 
 cord of affection, that united her so closely to the old man, may 
 
 * Luke x. 21. 
 
 E E 
 
210 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 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 impression 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 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 understood 
 very little of her words while she was alive ; but the moment she was 
 gone, it seemed as though a light were shining upon them from 
 another world, and I can read them plainly now." And then, after a 
 pause, she added, " Do you remember, sir, on the very day you were 
 with us, how she said, ' I will go home directly myself, and you 
 shall follow me?'" I remembered it well; and she saw from my 
 countenance that I guessed her meaning. "Yes," she continued, 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 211 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GENTLY ALONG THE VALE OF TEARS 
 
 LEAD ME FROM TABOR'S SUNBRIGHT STEEP ; 
 LET ME NOT GRUDGE A FEW SHORT YEARS 
 
 WITH THEE TOWARD HEAVEN TO WALK AND WEEP. 
 
 BUT, OH! MOST HAPPY, SHOULD THY CALL, 
 
 THY WELCOME CALL, AT LAST BE GIVEN — 
 "COME, WHERE THOU LONG HAST STORED THY ALL! 
 
 COME, SEE THY PLACE PREPARED IN HEAVEN!" 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 E recollection of little Annie lias made me wander from 
 , and I must now hasten to bring it to a conclusion. I 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 213 
 
 the Asylum, pondering deeply on the things I had heard and seen. 
 My heart was sad within me; for I could not help giving way 
 to a feeling of compassionate sorrow as I thought of the old 
 man's solitary lot. 
 
 His past history seemed, indeed, to be lost in almost hopeless 
 oblivion. But I knew that he must have been crushed and broken 
 down by some terrible calamity in early youth ; that he had been 
 awakened from the stupor which it produced to the stern reality 
 of bonds and chains, and then been doomed to a dull unvaried 
 captivity, not for days, weeks, or months, but for a long period 
 of more than fifty years. Thus Reason kept drawing a melancholy 
 picture of one without home, without friends, dependent on charity 
 for his daily bread, whose whole existence was a dreary void, 
 with no employment to beguile his thoughts, no hope to cheer 
 him on his way. It needed only the recollection of that peculiar 
 solitude of mind, which is almost the certain offspring of insanity, 
 to complete its gloom. 
 
 And yet, after all, it was my own infirmity which made me sad ; 
 for, when I had strength to gazs 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 
 
214 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 uncheered by the blessing of hope, for he was able to rest in hnmble 
 trust on his Saviour's promise, and go on, day after day, laying 
 up treasures for himself, which neither moth nor rust could corrupt, 
 nor thieves break through and steal. Out of the loneliness caused 
 by his affliction he had created a new world for himself, or rather, 
 he had been drawn by it to live in that world which, though unseen, 
 God has really created for us all. And surely to him life could 
 never have been dull and unvaried, while he was able to trace 
 the types and emblems of spiritual things alike in the passing- 
 gleams of sunshine, and in the dark shadows that rested upon 
 his path ! 
 
 Mingled with these conflicting emotions, the question from time 
 to time arose in my mind, "And was poor Eobin really mad?" 
 And again it was only my own infirmity which caused me to shrink 
 from the reply. It is hard indeed to define madness; and the state 
 of his intellect probably varied from time to time. Thus it may 
 have been almost without a cloud when little Annie was his 
 companion. So, also, during my brief interview with him, the 
 stillness of the evening, and the unison of his own thoughts with 
 the surrounding scene, may have breathed a soothing influence upon 
 his mind. And yet, when I reflected calmly on that very interview, 
 I felt that they were right in not suffering the old man to travel 
 alone along the journey of life. 
 
 His was the second childhood; simple, pure, and holy as the 
 first, and yet, in his case, no less than the first, requiring a pro- 
 tector's care. He spoke and thought as a child, and children 
 could understand him : but the calm mirror of his mind quickly 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 215 
 
 grew troubled in his intercourse with men, and he then lost the 
 power of explaining his thoughts, or perhaps of himself distin- 
 guishing between the shadow and the substance, the things of 
 sight and the, things of faith. Reason had resigned her sway 
 during the mental conflict which had been caused by his calamities ; 
 and though peace and quietness had been restored, she never had 
 attained sufficient vigour to resume it again. Nay more; it may 
 be that her lamp was the more dim and uncertain, on account 
 of the brighter and clearer light which from that time burned 
 unceasingly in his soul. It is possible that he was slow in observing 
 the different shades of colour that passed across earthly objects, 
 because to his eye one unfading colour was resting upon them 
 all; and that his mere 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 
 poor Robin, and love him, and learn from him, and yet not shrink 
 from acknowledging that his reason had gone astray? Surely, 
 there is no one who would not gladly leave the hard dull road 
 of life, if only they 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 inves- 
 tigate the old man's connexions and history. It was not, however, 
 
216 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 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 Bobin; 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 word 
 at once awakened some recollection of the past. She twice repeated 
 it, and added, almost mechanically, " Good and excellent people, 
 sir, and very kind to the poor." But when I questioned her 
 as to their occupation and history, and asked what had become 
 of them, she shook her head, as though the thread of memory 
 had been broken off, and she was unable to unite it again. 
 
 As a last hope, I. referred directly to the spring of 1783, and 
 inquired whether it had been marked by any particular occurrence. 
 "Ah, sir," she replied, "much of the past is now like a dream 
 to me, but that is a period which I never can forget." The tone 
 of sadness in which these words were uttered, proved some deep 
 sorrow to be connected with the remembrance of it ; and on further 
 questioning, I learnt that it was a season in which an infectious 
 fever had raged in the village, and that whole families had been 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 217 
 
 carried off by its ravages : she herself had been left an orphan. 
 But though her recollection of the illness itself seemed as vivid 
 as though it had occurred but yesterday, of the Wakelings she 
 could say nothing with distinctness. It may be that her mind 
 was too absorbed with the remembrance of her own grief to allow 
 her to recur to that of others ; or it may be that, even at the 
 time, in the general affliction the loss of an individual, however 
 grievous, had been scarcely noticed, and soon forgotten. At length 
 she seemed to grow weary of my 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. 
 
 F F 
 
218 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 1 was not long in discovering the object which I sought. The 
 rays of the setting sun at once directed me to a stone at the 
 eastern extremity of the churchyard. It was 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 01' 
 SUSAN, W1EE OE ROBERT WAKELLV., 
 WHO DIED 
 APRIL 18, 1783, AGED 28 YEARS. 
 ALSO OE THEIR CHILDREN, 
 ALICE, AGED 6 YEARS, HENRY, AGED 5 YEARS, 
 AND EDWARD, AN INFANT, 
 WHO SURVIVED HER ONLY A EEW DAYS. 
 
 " i shall go to them, 
 but they shall not retukn to me." 
 
 ■2 Sam. xji. '2o. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S HOME. 
 
 219 
 
 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. 
 
 TiA Y UP FOR YOURSELVES TREASURES IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Matt, vi 20. 
 
TO- 
 
 CONSTANCE KNOLL Y 8 
 
 AND HER BROTHERS 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED 
 BY 
 
 THEIR GODFATHER 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 J.HE following tale differs, in some respects, both in design and 
 character, from the preceding Allegories by the same author. It 
 is not intended to give a general view of our state as Christians, 
 but merely to bring forward, prominently and distinctly, a single 
 Christian duty. In consequence of this, it involves very little of 
 doctrinal teaching, while the allegorical meaning lies so completely 
 on the surface, that the youngest child cannot fail to apprehend 
 it. For both these reasons, any explanatory conversations have 
 been considered unnecessary. But a conversation of a different cha- 
 racter 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. 
 
 1 '.UNCHURCH, 
 
 Dec. lti, 1847. 
 
 G G 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Has any one called during my absence?" inquired Mr. Mertoun 
 of his nephew, Leonard, on returning home after his usual round 
 of parochial visits. 
 
 " No one," replied the boy ; " I have been with Mary in the garden, 
 and if they had, I could not have helped seeing them." 
 
 "It is strange," said Mr. Mertoun ; " are you quite sure there 
 has been no one? " 
 
 "Quite sure," he answered, but presently added, correcting himself. 
 " at least, no one of any consequence — only some poor man." 
 
 The tone in which the last words were uttered, no less than 
 the answer itself, grated harshly on Mr. Mertoun's ear. " Only 
 some poor man!" he repeated; "why, Leonard, do you say only? 
 Might not Ms visit be of consequence?" 
 
 The boy looked confused, but endeavoured to justify his former 
 reply by saying, "Of consequence to himself, uncle, but T meanl 
 of no consequence to you." 
 
 "Nay, my dear boy," replied Mr. Mertoun, "you now speak 
 even more thoughtlessly than before. It could not have been the 
 one without being the other also. Remember, that it can never be 
 of more importance for the poor man to declare his wants than 
 
228 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 opportunities had been there afforded them 
 of visiting the poor in their own homes. They had learned to 
 look upon all beggars as impostors, and drew no 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 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 dis- 
 tinctly before them the important office assigned to the poor by our 
 Blessed Lord, that on the evening of the above conversation their 
 uncle told them the following story. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 LARGELY THOU GIVEST, GRACIOUS LORD, 
 LARGELY THY GIFTS SHOULD BE RESTORED : 
 FREELY THOU GIVEST, AND THY WORD 
 
 IS " FREELY GIVE." 
 HE ONLY WHO FORGETS TO HOARD, 
 HAS LEARN'D TO LIVE. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 XhE 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 
 
230 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 there in consequence of a rebellion against the King's authority ; 
 and a remarkable law continued to prevail among their descendants 
 as a memorial of their crime. No 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 submission. There was 
 not even a fixed and definite period allotted for their stay. They 
 were liable at any moment to receive the Royal Mandate. It 
 came to them also one by one. As each was summoned to depart, 
 his dearest friends could only accompany him as far as the gates 
 of the city. And he was then stripped of all his possessions, 
 and sent forth as an exile on his solitary journey. 
 
 Now, as the inhabitants of Metoecia were principally merchants, 
 one would have 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 
 unaccountable ; 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 them- 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 231 
 
 selves. 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 punishment 
 into a blessing. He offered to receive the exiles into a better 
 and more glorious City than that from which he took them. 
 If they rejected this offer the fault was their own. All the 
 conditions on which it was made were very easy, and the King 
 himself had promised to enable the citizens to perform them. 
 But we need not dwell upon them all, for one alone, which 
 applied more especially to the wealthier merchants, is brought 
 before us by the present story. 
 
 In the city of Metoecia dwelt four brothers, Philargyr, Megacles, 
 Euprepes, and Sophron. At the period at which I commence their 
 history, the sentence of exile had lately been pronounced against 
 their father. He had been a merchant of enormous wealth, and 
 as, in accordance with the law, he was allowed to take nothing 
 for his own wants, the whole of his vast possessions had fallen 
 into the hands of his children. They had met in order to divide 
 them. The room in which they assembled for this purpose was 
 filled with the most costly furniture. The floor was covered with 
 cloth of gold, which was now partially concealed by bales of yet 
 more valuable merchandise, and heaps of precious stones which 
 had been placed there, to await the choice of the brothers. Two 
 sides of the apartment were hung with the most gorgeous tapestry, 
 on the third was a window commanding an extensive view towards 
 the west, while the wall opposite to the window was entirely covered 
 
232 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 ignorant of it; but 
 hitherto they had seen it, as it were, in the distance. It now 
 seemed to meet them directly in their own path, and to force itself 
 on their attention ; so that the eldest brother did but echo the feelings 
 of the rest when he said, "Of what profit is this enormous wealth ? 
 In the day of our banishment it will not purchase for us the 
 delay of a single hour. How gladly would I barter the whole 
 of it for some quiet dwelling-place where we might remain in 
 security for ever ! " 
 
 He had not yet finished speaking, when his eyes were attracted 
 by the mirror, which I have described as covering one side of the 
 room. Some image appeared to be moving across it, which was 
 not visible in the 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 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 233 
 
 was changed by his presence. His foot trod on the cloth of gold, 
 and it became mouldering and worm-eaten : the hem of his garment 
 
 ii 
 
 swept against a table of solid ivory, and it fell crumbling into 
 dust: while the bales of merchandise and precious stones lost their 
 richness and splendour, as his cold eye rested upon them. 
 
 H H 
 
234 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 old man 
 thus addressed them : — " Children, your wish is vain. You must 
 not speak of bartering these treasures for a lasting home. They 
 are not really yours ; they belong to the Great King, whose subjects 
 you are. Restore them to him now, and he will keep them for 
 you, and in the day of your exile give them to you again. In 
 this city they are worthless. See how even my slightest touch 
 here causes them to decay. But in the King's palace they become 
 incorruptible. I have no power over them there." 
 
 The brothers were yet more troubled at his words. They knew 
 well that all the riches of 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 Royal 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 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 235 
 
 King. You have wished to purchase for yourselves a lasting home ; 
 I have said that you cannot purchase it, because your riches are 
 not your own; they belong to the Great King. You must trust 
 them freely to his Messengers, without asking for a return; and 
 he will store them up for you in his own palace, and, when you 
 are driven from hence, will suffer you to dwell with his children 
 in a Glorious City where the law of exile is unknown. But beware 
 lest you neglect this warning, and defraud the Great King of the 
 riches 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 Koyal 
 Palace, and the gates of the Glorious City will be closed against 
 you for ever." 
 
 Now, there was nothing really new to the merchants in the 
 old man's warning. The royal offers of pardon, and the dangers 
 of the neglect of them, were well known in the city. But the 
 inhabitants seldom spoke of them to one another, because they 
 loved their riches, and were unwilling to render obedience to the 
 King's commands. The brothers had hitherto shared in the general 
 feeling; and it was, perhaps, only because the remembrance of 
 their father's departure was weighing heavily upon them that they 
 had so long listened to the voice which now addressed them. It 
 did not, indeed, seem to pass through their ears at all, but to 
 fall at once inwardly on their hearts, and for the present they 
 could not help regarding it. Yet all shrank from asking in what 
 way they were to send their treasures to the Royal Palace. They 
 were not, however, left in doubt. The reflection of the street 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 iii which their house stood was, as I have said, visible in the 
 mirror.' The figure of the old man now pointed towards it; and 
 as he did so the young merchants heard distinctly the words : 
 "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 direc- 
 tion, until, as far as the eye could reach, every sign of wealth 
 and luxury had disappeared, and in their stead was one universal 
 scene of misery. Presently the shrieks of the dying, the cries 
 of orphans, and the wailing of widows, rose in the air ; and then, 
 out of the tumult, the low solemn voice of the old man fell once 
 more on the hearts of the brothers. 
 
 " These," he said, " and such as these, are the Messengers of 
 the Great King. Numerous as they are, they will come to you 
 in secret and one by one. Trust them with your treasure, and 
 it will be safe ; they will bear it for you to the 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.' 1 
 
 The form of the old man gradually disappeared as lie ceased 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 237 
 
 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 hurrying hither and thither, and' splendid equipages and 
 waggons laden with merchandise. But they saw nothing to remind 
 them of the view presented by the mirror, save some few beggars 
 who chanced to linger at their door. As Philargyr threw open 
 the sash to inhale the fresh air, they eagerly asked the young 
 merchants for alms ; and there was not one who at that moment 
 could refuse to give them ; for the words of the stranger were 
 fresh in their memory, and they felt every poor man to be a 
 Messenger from the Great King. 
 
.CHAPTER II. 
 
 CHRIST BEFORE THY DOOR IS WAITING- — 
 ROUSE THEE, SLAVE OF EARTHLY GOLD ; 
 
 LO, HE COMES, THY POMP ABATING, 
 HUNGRY, THIRSTY, HOMELESS, COLD. 
 
 Lyra Innocentium- 
 
 ThE brothers were too deeply affected by the warning of the 
 old man to proceed to the immediate division of their wealth. 
 At one time, they even contemplated holding it in common, and 
 consulted together on the best means of restoring it to the Great 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 239 
 
 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 recovered, in some degree, the value they had lost ; 
 and at length they reverted to their original plan of dividing 
 them into four parts, so that each might take his own share, and 
 do with it as he pleased. 
 
 Philargyr was entrusted with the division. Many months elapsed 
 while he was absorbed in his calculations, and settling how large 
 a portion he might appropriate to himself. During this time he 
 was more than once interrupted by Messengers from the Great 
 King. But their applications were in vain. He always returned 
 the same answer, that, until the property was divided, no portion 
 of it could be transmitted to the Royal Palace. 
 
 At length the division was made. The younger brothers were 
 satisfied, though none were able to follow the calculations of 
 Philargyr. Each had a share assigned to him, which, considering 
 the shortness of their probable sojourn in the city, seemed inex- 
 haustible, 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 
 
240 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 hoarded it up within the walls of his own house. There was 
 no present gratification that he would not sacrifice, in the hope 
 of adding to his possessions for future years. And this he did 
 with the sentence of exile hanging over his head, and the positive 
 certainty, that, when he left the city, he would not be allowed 
 to take the smallest portion of them away. 
 
 I have already said, that the inhabitants of Metoecia lived, 
 for the most part, in forgetfulness of the law of Exile. But the 
 conduct of Philargyr appeared unaccountable even to the most 
 thoughtless among them. He was supposed to be under the influence 
 of a spell ; 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 merchant. 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 
 assistance. For a time they had laboured together ; but the evil 
 spirit, while pretending to work out the precious ore, had changed 
 the mine into a dungeon, and bound Philargyr hand and foot 
 with chains of gold. After he had thus made him captive, he 
 refused to allow him to return to the upper air, unless he would 
 become his slave, and labour incessantly in bringing new treasures 
 to the mine. It was farther said that the golden bonds had never 
 from that hour been removed : and that though they were invisible 
 to the naked eye, the signs of their presence might be detected 
 in every look and gesture of the unhappy merchant. Thus his 
 head was continually bent downwards, and his very walk constrained 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 241 
 
 and embarrassed, because the chains and fetters that he wore weighed 
 heavily upon him and impeded his steps. 
 
 Strange as this legend seems, it was, in the main, true. One 
 part alone was incorrect. The spirit of the gold mine had not 
 used threats or violence; he had, throughout, accomplished his 
 purpose by treachery; and Philargyr had sunk, imperceptibly, into 
 a state of servitude. His chains had been light and flexible when 
 they were first twined around his limbs. It was while he wore 
 them that, by little and little, they had increased in size and strength. 
 For such was the nature of those bonds, that, when newly wrought, 
 they were most easily broken. For this reason, he was not suffered 
 to feel their pressure until they had been hardened by time ; and 
 even then, the change was so gradual, that Philargyr was not aware 
 of it. The signs of his bondage, which seemed so clear to others, 
 passed unnoticed by himself. 
 
 Still, however, he was a slave, and by little and little incurred 
 the full misery of servitude, though to the last unconscious of its 
 cause. Morning, noon, and evening, he laboured for an insatiable 
 master, who allowed him no share in the profits of his toil. Every 
 day was passed in drudgery and weariness ; every night in anxiety 
 and care. Not an hour was given him to share the amusements 
 of his fellow-citizens; not an hour for .the duties of 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 mono- 
 tonous 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. 
 
242 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS, 
 
 His wealth was to him but as an endless sum, and his most success- 
 ful 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 him, and 
 endless wanderings in the dreary wilderness were certain to succeed 
 the present season of anxiety and toil. His heart often shrank 
 within him, as he witnessed the averted looks of the Messengers 
 of the Great King. They did not even offer to carry his treasures 
 to the Royal Palace, for long 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 down 
 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 Metcecia, far removed from the stir and 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 243 
 
 traffic of the crowded streets, and farther still from the dwellings of the 
 King's Messengers. It was remarkable for the beauty and costliness 
 of its buildings. The erection of these formed a favourite occupation 
 of the more wealthy merchants. Their appearance was very irregular, 
 for the size and form of each varied with the taste and resources of the 
 individual who raised it. But all might be comprehended under 
 two great classes. Some were frail and unsubstantial, and intended 
 to please the eye for one short summer, and then make way for 
 others not less perishable than themselves ; while some were built of 
 firm and durable materials, in the hope that they might 'stand for 
 centuries as 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 thick- 
 ness 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 an- 
 nals of the city. But all this I must pass over very briefly, for 
 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. 
 
244 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 The whole soul of Megacles was absorbed in the erection of the 
 building; and these few words comprise his history. He did not 
 
 keep aloof from his fellow-citizens, but he made his intercourse 
 with them subservient to this one object. If he visited the crowded 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 245 
 
 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 accomplishment of his design ; 
 until at length his tower arose so far 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 absorbed 
 in its growth. It seemed to exercise a fascination over him, and 
 from the day in which it became visible from every part of the 
 city, his eye was seldom withdrawn from it. This may in part 
 account for his neglect of the King's Messengers. His look was 
 raised above them while he watched his tower. Even if they 
 ventured to speak to him, their voices failed to arrest his attention ; 
 for his ear had been so long filled with the din and tumult of 
 building, that it had been rendered deaf to any gentler sound. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding his success, Megacles was not happy. He 
 was perpetually changing or adding to his tower. It never seemed 
 to have attained the perfection that he designed. He remembered 
 also how the city of Metcecia was liable to the shock of earthquakes, 
 
246 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 so that at any moment the vast fabric might be shaken from its 
 foundation, and reduced to a heap of ruins. Neither was this all. 
 Even at those times in which he was able to view with unmingled 
 satisfaction the tower itself, there was still a cloud upon his vision 
 of glory. It had arisen, in the first instance, from the simple 
 question of a poor wayfaring man. Megacles had observed him 
 gaze earnestly at the building, and then turn aside, as though to 
 conceal his tears. He could not help inquiring what train of thoughts 
 it had called forth to lead to such an expression of sorrow. There 
 was a strange sadness in the wayfarer's reply. " I was thinking," 
 he said, " how long this vast tower was calculated to last." " How 
 long!" exclaimed Megacles, with indignant pride; "centuries on 
 centuries will elapse, and there shall be no symptoms of decay." 
 " 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, his 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 remembrance, and brought 
 with it new feelings of disquietude and alarm. Where were the 
 immense riches that had been entrusted to his care? Had any 
 portion of them been laid up in the Royal Palace ? Alas ! he 
 shrank from the reply. He had not, indeed, buried them in the 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 247 
 
 earth like Philargyr. On the contrary, he had often lavished them 
 with an unsparing hand. But, while he had seldom failed to 
 examine those who came for them on their health, their strength, 
 and their skill in building, he had forgotten the one only important 
 question, — he had never asked, whether they were Messengers of 
 the Great King. 
 
 There was a time when, as these thoughts passed through the 
 mind of Megacles, he half formed the resolution of pulling down, 
 stone by stone, the tower which he had raised, and giving the 
 materials to the King's Messengers. But the dread of ridicule and 
 pride of heart prevailed. He felt that he should incur the mockery 
 of his brother merchants, if, after years of incessant labour, his 
 own hand were to destroy the sole produce of his toil. He once 
 more fixed his gaze stedfastly on the lofty building, and resolved 
 to suppress every doubt and alarm. His efforts were at length 
 successful. Not only did his former triumphant feeling return, but 
 a yet more fatal delusion seized him. He fancied the story of the 
 King's Messengers, and the Royal Palace, and the Glorious City, 
 to be a mere invention; and maintained that, notwithstanding the 
 law of Exile, the only sure and lasting resting-place was to be 
 found in the tower of Fame. 
 
 Alas! even while he was giving vent to these boastful words, 
 his own sentence of exile had gone forth, and the bearer of the 
 Royal Mandate was at hand. But we must leave him awhile, to 
 follow the history of the two remaining brothers. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 'TIS NOT THE EYE OF KEENEST BLAZE, 
 
 NOR THE QUICK SWELLING BREAST, 
 THAT SOONEST THRILLS AT TOUCH OF PRATSF 
 
 THESE DO NOT PLEASE HIM BEST. 
 BUT VOICES LOW AND GENTLE, 
 
 AND TIMID GLANCES SHY, 
 THAT SEEM FOR AID PARENTAL 
 
 TO SUE ALL WISTFULLY. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 XhE story of Euprepes, the third brother, differs greatly from 
 the two that have preceded it. The warning of the old man 
 did not merely leave a transient impression upon his mind, hut 
 gave a colouring to his whole course of action. He talked of it 
 loudly and frequently 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 Palace. 
 
 He did not fail to make public his intention; and there was 
 no lack of Messengers. First one, then another came, each with his 
 own tale of poverty or distress, and each promising to carry 
 safely the treasure committed to his trust. Euprepes gave to all 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 249 
 
 alike with an unsparing hand; but he soon grew weary of the 
 monotony of the employment. All went on quietly day after 
 day. There was no interest or excitement. His proceedings were 
 either unobserved or disregarded by the greater part of the inhabi- 
 tants of the city. He fancied that this was, in part, the fault 
 of his Messengers. As soon as they received his gifts, they 
 used studiously to conceal them and shrink from the observation 
 of those who met them in the streets. In order to prevent this, 
 he directed that they should carry the bags of money openly in 
 their hands, and from time to time give public notice of the object 
 of their journey. Some few refused compliance, and were imme- 
 diately dismissed his service. 
 
 This expedient, in part, succeeded. The Messengers were often 
 seen and questioned, and more than one friend congratulated 
 Euprepes on the store he was laying up in the Royal Palace. Still, 
 however, he was dissatisfied. He required something more than 
 this. The way of sending the money seemed to him out of keeping, 
 both with the vastness of his wealth and with the important object 
 for which it was sent. Bright visions would cross his mind of 
 long triumphal processions through the streets of the city, and 
 of shouts and acclamations attending their progress. 
 
 Now, while he was indulging these thoughts, a man in the garb 
 of a herald stood before him. His form, at first, was dim and 
 uncertain; but as the young merchant gazed upon it, it gradually 
 increased in distinctness. He wore a gorgeous livery, and had 
 a golden trumpet in his hand. He thus addressed himself to 
 Euprepes : — " Your noble purpose has been long known to me ; 
 
 K K 
 
250 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 Messengers, who wander 
 some here and some there, and hide themselves in the obscure 
 corners of the city. You require the assistance of a herald to 
 summon them all at a stated period, and then to marshall 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 Royal Palace excited no less interest 
 in the city than the tower of Megacles, while they proved to 
 himself a source of perpetual triumph. It will be sufficient to 
 describe one of them; for, though they seemed to his brother 
 merchants to present an endless variety of appearance, the principal 
 features in all are in reality alike, and the first embassy that he 
 sent will give a true view of his history. 
 
 When the day for the grand procession had been fixed, the herald 
 sounded his trumpet, and proclaimed it far and wide through the streets 
 of the city. In the meanwhile the young merchant collected many 
 costly bales of 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 general interest. 
 The doors of his own mansion were closed, and the few solitary 
 Messengers, who came to them from time to time were dismissed 
 with orders to return together on the day announced by the herald. 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 On the appointed morning the windows of the neighbouring- 
 houses were thronged with spectators. Presently the crowd thickened 
 in the street, until the whole of it was blocked up by persons 
 professing to be King's Messengers. So vast was the concourse 
 that many a poor widow and orphan struggled in vain to pass 
 through it, and returned sadly to their own homes, without once 
 obtaining a sight of the dwelling of Euprepes. At midday the 
 young merchant appeared. He was attended by a splendid retinue 
 of friends ; near him were the bales of goods, and the gold and 
 silver which he was about to distribute, but nearer still was the 
 herald, who never failed to keep closely to his side. The sun 
 shone fully upon them ; and as its rays were reflected back by 
 their bright apparel and the golden trumpet and the 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." 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 258 
 
 It was not until the vast stores which Euprepes had provided 
 for the occasion were exhausted that the tumult ceased. And then 
 the herald arranged the messengers in a long procession, that they 
 might march publicly through the city. It was a strange sight 
 to see that troop of miserable objects, moving along to the sound 
 of a trumpet, with all the external signs of triumph and joy. The 
 misery of their general appearance formed, for the most part, a 
 singular contrast to the costly burthens which they bore. Many 
 of them seemed conscious of this, and shrank 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, " Behold, 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 continually within 
 view of the young merchant. He watched its course through the 
 market-place, and up and down the principal streets of the city. 
 From the point at which he stood he could hear distinctly the shouts 
 of the populace and the proclamation of the herald ; and there he re- 
 mained, watching and listening, until the shades of evening closed in, 
 and the reality was lost in a bright and beautiful dream. For in the 
 visions of the night procession after procession continued to pass before 
 him ; they were all laden with costly offerings for the Royal Palace, — 
 some of silver and gold, some of bales of merchandise, some of glorious 
 apparel, — but they kept moving round and round the city, and with 
 the inconsistency of a dream it did not seem strange to Euprepes that, 
 though bound on a distant journey, they never passed beyond its walls. 
 
254 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 Such was the general aspect of the processions of Euprepes. 
 Some exceeded others in pomp and magnificence; 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 were 
 drowned by the trumpet of the herald, and never reached the ears 
 of Euprepes. He believed himself to be idolized by all within 
 the city, at the same time that he was laying up for himself an 
 inexhaustible store of wealth beyond its walls. Sometimes his 
 feelings were those of quiet self-complacency, sometimes of joyous 
 triumph ; but they were rarely overclouded by the slightest shadow 
 of doubtfulness or alarm. The pursuits of his elder brothers were 
 regarded by him with a kind of contemptuous 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 Messengers, he would conclude by saying, " I, too, have my 
 tower, but it is built on a surer foundation ; I, too, have my 
 treasures, but I have sent them to a safer home ! " 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 255 
 
 The story of the fourth brother I cannot tell, for but little is 
 known of his history. He did not resemble either Philargyr or 
 Megacles, for he neither toiled and laboured for the spirit of the 
 gold-mine, nor built for himself a tower of Fame ; and yet he was 
 also unlike Euprepes, for no herald attended him on his walks, 
 and there was no array of Messengers to be seen continually at 
 his door. Much of his time was passed in seclusion. His occu- 
 pations 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 different pursuits of the three elder brothers, 
 were gradually led to forget the very existence of Sophron. There 
 was no great event to mark it or force it upon their attention. At one 
 time, indeed, he did excite a momentary sensation. He left the quar- 
 ter of the city inhabited by the wealthy merchants, and made choice 
 of a more lowly mansion, surrounded by the dwellings of the poor. 
 His motives even for this change were never discovered. Some ascribed 
 it to avarice, some to want. But it soon ceased to be a topic of con- 
 versation ; 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. No sign of luxury was seen in his 
 abode ; his dress was changed for one of less costly materials ; and his 
 diet was of the simplest kind. All this was of itself strange; but 
 there was something yet more unaccountable in the effect that it had 
 upon Sophron himself. Every day his step grew lighter, and his 
 
256 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 countenance more full of joy. The look of depression and anxiety 
 which during the days of his abundance he had at times worn, 
 was now never seen upon his brow. One would have imagined, that 
 it was not his wealth, but some heavy burthen that had been taken 
 away from him ; he became so light and cheerful under its removal. 
 When questioned as to the cause of this, he would sometimes answer 
 by a smile, sometimes by a tear; and there were those who said 
 that, though the smile of Sophron never failed to make the heart 
 rejoice, his tear was yet more full of gladness than his smile. 
 
 The young merchant was really poor. The cause of his poverty, 
 like the rest of his history, was buried in obscurity ; but, whatever 
 became of his money, it did not, like that of Euprepes, keep 
 returning to him again. The praise of men never gilded his deeds 
 of self-sacrifice, neither did earthly glory shed its brightness upon 
 his path. And yet, after all, his lowly dwelling was not without 
 its beautiful legend. There were some who could tell how, in the 
 dim twilight, or in the still hour of night, they had seen the train 
 of Royal Messengers moving stealthily from his door. They were 
 not arranged in ranks, like those sent by Euprepes. Every indi- 
 vidual 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 
 reached the Eastern gate. It was closed against them, but, like 
 a long line of shadows, the procession still continued its unswerving 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 237 
 
 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 
 
 L h 
 
258 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS, 
 
 were, to rest upon them ; and they could only whisper of it from 
 ear to ear, or meditate upon it quietly in their own homes. And 
 when they asked themselves with a thrill of eager interest, whither 
 that long procession had gone, a voice within them would reply, 
 "It is gone far, far beyond the boundaries of the city, — the barriers 
 were unable to arrest its progress, — and it now bears the treasures 
 of Sophron to the distant Palace of the Great King." 
 
 Such was the legend: but there is one part of it which yet 
 remains to be told. It was said that when the few, who had 
 witnessed the secret procession, returned to the street in which the 
 merchant lived, they perceived his doorway to be strewed with 
 pearls, while an amber light shone around his dwelling, and strains 
 of gentle music were heard from within its walls. So soft was 
 that light, that it seemed but to shed its colouring on the surrounding 
 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. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WE BARTER LIFE FOR POTTAGE; SELL TRUE BLISS 
 
 FOR WEALTH OR POWER, FOR PLEASURE OR RENOWN ; 
 
 THUS, ESAU-LIKE, OUR FATHER'S BLESSING MISS, 
 
 THEN WASH WITH FRUITLESS TEARS OUR FADED CROWN. 
 
 Crist i'tn Year. 
 
 Days, months, and years rolled on in the same unvaried course. 
 Philargyr continued to toil and labour, and every hour gathered 
 in fresh riches for his insatiable master. Megacles received early 
 the sentence of Exile, but his tower remained as his memorial in 
 
260 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 « 
 
 the city. Euprepes still dazzled the eyes of the multitude by his 
 costly gifts and gorgeous processions. Sophron alone lived a life of 
 obscurity. The wealth; the fame, and the liberality of the three 
 elder brothers, had severally passed into a proverb. Many were the 
 discussions concerning their conduct and character; for in spite of 
 the contempt in which Philargyr was generally held, even he had 
 his tribe of flatterers and partisans, and it was remarked that their 
 number increased as the time of his banishment drew near. But 
 no allusion was made to the law of Exile in any of the conversations 
 concerning the brothers. I have already accounted for this silence. 
 Notwithstanding the King's warnings, the citizens for the most part 
 were accustomed to regard Metoecia as their 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 increase the burthen of 
 his servitude. He was carrying a heavy load of gold to the secret 
 mine, and toiling and groaning beneath its weight, when the old 
 man met him on his way. For a moment, he gazed stedfastly on 
 the weary merchant, and then with a smile of bitter irony offered to 
 relieve him. Philargyr trembled. He endeavoured at first to persuade 
 himself that it was but a reappearance of the same image which lie 
 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 lie bore. 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 261 
 
 At length, in much terror and perplexity, and scarcely conscious 
 of the meaning of his own words, he thus addressed him : — 
 " Stranger," he cried, " if, indeed, thou art charged with the sentence 
 of Exile, leave me yet a little while. I have great treasure in this 
 city. Wait till my camels and asses are laden, and my slaves with 
 their bags of gold are ready to accompany us, and then we will 
 hasten on our journey." 
 
 But the stranger replied, and the cold, stern accents fell as ice 
 on the heart of Philargyr, — "Oh, merchant, what vain words are 
 these ! You know well that whoever travels with me travels alone. 
 Your camels and asses, your slaves, your silver, and your gold cannot 
 accompany us. The wealth that you have sent beforehand to the 
 Royal Palace is now your own ; but all that remains in the city is 
 lost to you for ever." 
 
 Then did the vision in the mirror rise in distinct and fearful 
 remembrance to the mind of Philargyr. It was but mockery to 
 speak to him of treasure sent beforehand to the Royal Palace. The 
 accumulated gains of his many years of labour were all stored up 
 in the fatal mine. He had counted them over but yesterday; not 
 a single coin was missing — all were there. Now as he thought of 
 this, he turned his eyes imploringly to the old man ; but in a moment 
 he again averted his gaze, for he perceived him to be no longer alone. 
 A dark and terrible crowd of attendants were ranged around. They 
 were armed with scourges of iron, which they raised on high, as 
 though ready at any moment to drive him forth into the dreary 
 wilderness that lay beyond the city. 
 
 At length, lie cried out in accents of mingled fear and remorse, 
 
262 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 "Alas! O stranger, hitherto I have neglected your warning. The 
 whole of my wealth is still within the city. But, surely, you 
 yourself are a King's Messenger ! Have compassion, then, upon me, 
 and even now bear it quickly to the Royal Palace." 
 
 But the old man replied, " You ask what cannot be. I am indeed 
 a King's Messenger, but I bear no treasure with me to the Royal 
 Palace ; for all things change at my touch, and crumble into decay. 
 Those charged with that office have been with you long ago, — the 
 poor, the afflicted, and the infirm ; — they would have conveyed your 
 riches thither, if you had not driven them empty-handed from your 
 door." Darker and more terrible grew the train of the old man's 
 followers, as Philargyr listened to these fearful words. Once more 
 the iron scourges were raised on high ; but the unhappy merchant, 
 in a voice of the deepest misery, implored the respite of a single day. 
 
 " To-morrow," he said, " to-morrow all shall be in readiness. I 
 will even now summon the King's Messengers, and send the whole 
 of my wealth beyond the walls of the city. Spare me, if it be but 
 for a few hours. Your coming was 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, while I was 
 yet at a distance from the city. Your limbs grew feeble, and your 
 hair grey, and your heart dull and cold; and you knew well that 
 these signs preceded the approach of the last Messenger of the 
 Great King. Each warning made you struggle for a little while, 
 to separate yourself from your gold, But it held you in bonds : 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 
 Royal Mandate. So slow had been his approach, that days, weeks, 
 and months, seemed to mark the interval of each succeeding step. 
 Time had been thus allowed for the gradual removal of all his wealth. 
 The appointed Messengers had repeatedly called for it; but after 
 a faint effort to give it them 7 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, ll 
 had been light and fragile once, but it was a magic chain, which 
 grew more firm and massive with the lapse of years. The time 
 had been, when the captive, by one vigorous struggle, might have 
 set himself free. But each weak and unsuccessful effort served only 
 to increase its strength ; and the links had become so firmly riveted, 
 that his own hand was all too feeble to dissolve them now. 
 
 The unhappy merchant had, as we have seen, long bent "beneath 
 the weight of this chain ; but he now perceived it for the first time, 
 as it was wrenched asunder by the iron grasp of the stranger's hand ; 
 and in a moment, he was parted for ever from his vast wealth, and, 
 while the scourges fell heavily upon him, driven forth as an exile 
 beyond the walls of the city. 
 
264 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 exilo 
 followed close on the warning of the wayfaring man. But J 
 have thought it better to make no change in the order of his 
 history. 
 
 The old man found him in all the fulness of his strength. He 
 was arrayed in purple and costly apparel, and stood gazing with 
 an eye of pride on the tower which he had raised. A crowd 
 of eager partisans were gathered around. The bearer of the Koyal 
 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 Metoecia, 
 have I built myself a tower; and here, in Metoecia, shall be my 
 lasting home." There was a shout of applause from the surrounding 
 multitude ; but the old man neither spoke nor moved. Coldly 
 and stedfastly he gazed upon the merchant, 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. He turned away his face from the unwelcome Messenger, 
 and endeavoured to gather new courage from the contemplation of 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 265 
 
 his tower of Fame. But there was a haze which now encircled it ; 
 it appeared to be already fading in the distance; and he could 
 hardly distinguish the building itself from its long dark shadow 
 which rested upon the ground. 
 
 At length the old man broke the silence : — " It is ever thus, 
 0 merchant ! — the objects in this city become, for the most part, 
 the same with their shadows, when I approach them. But take 
 my glass, and you will once more behold distinctly the building 
 that you have raised." As he said this, he held out a glass to 
 Megacles. The merchant took it, almost unconsciously. ' For a 
 moment he looked through it, and then, with a cold shudder, suffered 
 it to fall from his hand. His lofty tower had dwindled into a 
 sepulchre, when seen through the glass which the stranger had 
 given him. But diminutive as it now appeared, there was an 
 inscription engraved distinctly upon it ; and he had read only too 
 plainly these fatal words : — " Here lie the garments which Megacles 
 once wore." 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, with a smile of scorn, "it is not for 
 yourself that you have raised this lofty tower, but for the garments 
 which you wear! They shall remain in the city, and rest beneath 
 it, until the moth and worm have eaten them away. But for 
 yourself you have prepared no dwelling-place, and you will be 
 driven forth a homeless wanderer in the wilderness." 
 
 The last feeling of self-confidence now died away from the heart 
 of Megacles. Instead of the crowd of eager partisans, he saw 
 only the same gloomy attendants, which afterwards appeared to 
 Philargyr. He felt that his tower would avail him nothing; and 
 
 M M 
 
266 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 that, if the gates of the Royal City were closed against him, no 
 hope of safety could remain. The past rose in bitter remembrance 
 before him; and, as he thought over the numerous workmen that 
 he had employed on his building, he tried to recollect some one 
 among the number who might prove to have been a Messenger 
 of the Great King. 
 
 The effort, however, was vain ; and the secret feeling of his 
 heart belied his words, as he advanced a claim to treasure in the 
 Royal Palace. " Stranger," he said, " I have not altogether neglected 
 the warning which you gave. My riches are not buried in a mine ; 
 I have dispersed them far and near, and know not whither they 
 are gone. Some perhaps may have remained within the city, but 
 surely some portion must have escaped beyond its walls. If the 
 King's Messengers came to me they received their share with the 
 rest : I never wilfully drove them away. Oh tell me, then, that 
 there is some treasure prepared for me in the Royal Palace, and 
 that the gates of the Glorious City will not be closed against 
 me for ever ! " 
 
 But the old man pointed to the tower as he replied, " Behold, 
 Megacles, the one only monument of your wealth; it is there, 
 and there alone, that all who received your wages or your gifts 
 deposited their burthens. You yourself never failed to point it 
 out to them as the object of their journey. But neither is this 
 all ; the King's Messengers, though you knew them not, did indeed 
 come to you among the rest. They were weak and helpless . and 
 you loaded them with vast blocks of marble and granite which 
 they were unable to bear. Many sank beneath their burthens ; 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 267 
 
 others were crushed and maimed by stones falling from the building. 
 It is true that their groans and lamentations never reached you. 
 They were drowned by the noise and tumult which accompanied 
 the erection of your tower. But the cries of the King's Messengers 
 are carried by each passing wind to the Royal Palace, and are 
 heard and remembered there." 
 
 Megacles would fain have replied, but no time was allowed him 
 for further words. The stranger touched him with his icy hand, 
 and in an instant the dark attendants had stripped him of his 
 raiment, and* driven him with their scourges from the city. There 
 were few who wept for his sudden departure, for Megacles was 
 not loved; but his admirers and partisans gathered up his purple 
 garments, and deposited them carefully beneath the tower. In a 
 little while the moth and the worm had consumed them there ; 
 while the tower itself continued to stand for many ages, — a vain 
 memorial of the spot where they had been laid. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THERE ARE IN THIS LOUD STUNNING TIl>K 
 
 OF HUMAN CARK AND CRIME, 
 WITH WHOM THE MELODIES ABIDE 
 
 OF TH' EVERLASTING CHIME ; 
 WHO CARRY MUSIC IN THEIR HEART 
 
 THROUGH DUSKY LANE AND WRANGLING MART, 
 PLYING THEIR DAILY TASK WITH BUSIER FEET, 
 BECAUSE THEIR SECRET SOULS A HOLY STRAIN REPEAT. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 Euprepes saw the sentence of exile passed on both his elder 
 brothers, and spoke with much eloquence of the misery of their 
 fate. For himself, he said that he had long since been fully pre- 
 pared to depart; all his treasures had been sent before him to 
 the Royal Palace; and he was only anxious for the time when 
 they would be restored to him again. Sometimes he would com- 
 plain to his friends of the long delay of the bearer of the Royal 
 Mandate, and declare that he was even then listening for his foot- 
 step, and would advance to welcome him at the first warning 
 of his approach. 
 
 The stranger tarried long; but when he did come, the reality 
 proved very different from the anticipations of Euprepes. In spite 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 269 
 
 of himself, he was conscious of a sensation of fear. First a 
 strange darkness seemed to fall on the objects around him. Then 
 doubts and misgivings flitted like shadows across his mind; and 
 the vision of the future as well as of the past and present was 
 arrayed in less bright colouring than before. He advanced to 
 meet the old man, but it was with the unsteady step of one walking 
 in a mist ; he addressed him in bold words of welcome, but ii 
 was with a faltering voice, as though he felt doubtful of the 
 reply. 
 
 " At length," he said, -'thou hast arrived! But wherefore didst 
 thou tarry so long? Was it that thy journey was delayed by 
 the frequent train of Messengers that met thee on thy way ? They 
 were bearing my silver and my gold, my jewels and my merchandise, 
 to the Great Monarch whom thou servest. I have much wealth 
 laid up for me in his Palace. Come, then, let us hasten thither." 
 
 But the old man offered no reply ; he merely fixed his cold, 
 searching gaze upon the merchant ; and while he did so, it seemed 
 as though some terrible object rose up between them; and the 
 shadow fell yet more darkly on the mind of Euprepes. He tried 
 in vain to suppress his feelings of anxiety and alarm ; they kept 
 following one another like the waves of a troubled sea. At length 
 he was forced to give way to them, and once more spoke to the 
 old man, but with words of less confidence than before. " Stranger," 
 he said, "from whence is this sensation of secret terror? I had 
 looked to your coming as a time of sunshine and joy. Where 
 are the good tidings that you have in store for me ? Do not imagine 
 that, like Megacles and Philargyr, I have neglected your warning. 
 
270 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 mer- 
 chandise in the Royal 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 thoughts of Euprepes which 
 made answer to themselves : — 
 
 " Oh merchant ! from the city in which you dwell to the land 
 inhabited by the Great King is a long and dangerous journey. 
 It is true that many a Messenger has of late trodden it in safety, 
 and rich and precious were the burthens which they bore. But 
 a simple cross was the only mark either on the bags of gold or 
 the bales of merchandise. If, therefore, the name of Euprepes was 
 written upon yours, the whole of them must have been lost." 
 
 "Lost! lost!" exclaimed the unhappy man, in a voice of agony; 
 " nay, it cannot be. The embassies were so frequent and numerous 
 that some, at least, must have arrived : and even if it be otherwise, 
 the whole city is a witness that I sent them. The air was rent 
 with acclamations as they passed along; and far and near you 
 could hear the voices of those who cried, ' This is the wealth 
 of Euprepes, which he sends before him to the distant Palace of 
 the Great King.' " 
 
 " It is not such sounds as those," replied the old man, " which 
 ever reach the Royal Palace ; they are lost in the din and tumult 
 of the city, or heard only by the enemies of the King. But tell 
 me, Euprepes ; are you a merchant, and do you not know that 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 271 
 
 those riches are moved most securely which are sent in secrecy 
 and silence ? If you had wished merely to transfer your possessions 
 to a house in a neighbouring street, should you, in the first instance, 
 have paraded them before your door, and told the bearers to display 
 them openly to all who met them on their way? Surely, if you 
 had done this, and they had been 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 on their journey. But the 
 old man, in a sterner voice, thus continued to address him : — 
 
 " I will tell you, Euprepes, what has become of your wealth. 
 There is an enchanter that dwells in this city; his name is Pride, 
 and he is an enemy of the Great King. He it was who sent the 
 herald to summon the Messengers to your door. The sound of 
 his trumpet never fails to change the purest gold and silver into 
 brass and glittering tinsel. These were the offerings that you 
 really sent ; but even these did not reach the destination for which 
 you intended them. The enchanter wove his magic circles round 
 the feet of your Messengers, so that they followed one another 
 in the same endless track, without ever advancing one step upon 
 their journey." 
 
 A new and fearful light now burst upon the mind of Euprepes. 
 He remembered how, in the visions of the night, he had continually 
 seen the long processions moving round and round. Never for 
 a moment had he lost sight of them in the distance, or formed a 
 wish to trace their course beyond the city. Alas ! in these dreams 
 
272 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 lie had seen but the image of his actual Messengers, though it 
 
 was the enchanter who placed before his eyes the glass in which 
 they appeared. His head grew dizzy, and his heart sick, as they 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 273 
 
 rose to his remembrance; but he still made one last effort to lay 
 claim to a recompense from the Great King. 
 
 " It was gold," he said, — " it was pure gold that I gave ; and, 
 though it may have been changed and rendered worthless, to me 
 at least it was of real value. If it failed to purchase for me an 
 inheritance in the 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 unprofltably 
 spent, and brought me no recompense within the city, and yet 
 none beyond its walls." 
 
 "Merchant," replied the old man, "you know well that you 
 have long since had your reward. The applause of your fellow- 
 citizens fell like a golden shower upon your path; and their good- 
 will and gratitude have been to you as bales of costly merchandise. 
 It was thus that the wealth which you professed to give never 
 ceased to come back to you again. Like Philargyr, you did but 
 traffic with your 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 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 
 
 N N 
 
274 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 Messengers 
 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 treasures had been restored to him there. 
 
 Such was the fearful history of the three elder brothers. It 
 is a relief to turn aside from it, and seek a resting-place in Sophron's 
 lowly dwelling. He had wept bitterly for their exile, but he 
 did not, like Euprepes, make a display of his compassion, or boast 
 of his own readiness to depart. His tears had flowed in secret, 
 and his hopes also were cherished in the solitude of his own bosom. 
 Every day he put his little room in readiness for the stranger's 
 coming, and was so constantly preparing for it that he may be 
 almost said to have lived in his immediate presence. Yet he, 
 like the rest, was conscious of some change of feeling when his 
 actual summons arrived. 
 
 He was at that time enjoying the quiet beauty of the evening 
 hour. It mattered not that a vase with a few autumnal flowers 
 was the only ornament of his humble abode; and that the flame 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 275 
 
 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 that it was the same 
 figure that had appeared in the mirror. For a while he watched it 
 with a calm and stedfast gaze; presently a sensation of weariness 
 stole upon him, his thoughts grew confused and indistinct, and at 
 length he sank in a state of partial unconsciousness upon the ground. 
 
 When he again opened his eyes, the old man was standing at 
 his side. No gloomy attendants were near, but he held a mirror 
 in his hand. Beneath it were the words — " This is the image of 
 the Past." The scene which it reflected was one that had been 
 long familiar to Sophron, and he did not shrink from beholding 
 it 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 npon them, for 
 ever as they appeared, his thoughts wandered to the Royal Palace 
 and Glorious City. 
 
 At length the old man addressed him. "Oh! merchant," he 
 said, "how is this? All signs of wealth and luxury are wont 
 
270 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 to vanish at my presence, but it is not so with thy abode. Even 
 as I crossed the threshold of thy door, pearls of inestimable value 
 were scattered upon the ground. They can be no part of - the 
 treasure of this city; for, when I trod silently upon them, they 
 were not sullied by my step, but only shone with a purer brightness 
 than before ! " - 
 
 " Stranger," replied Sophron, " I cannot tell. You say truly 
 that they are no part of the treasure of the city. The whole 
 of my father's vast wealth could not have purchased one of them. 
 They are as the pearls of the far East, and I have looked upon 
 them as gifts from the Great King; but I know not what hand 
 has scattered them thus plenteously at the threshold of my door." 
 
 He had hardly finished speaking, when a shadowy form moved 
 across the mirror, and there was a voice from thence which said, 
 " I was a widow, poor and destitute, but a Messenger of the Great 
 King. I went to Philargyr for relief, and he told me that his 
 money was his own. I came to Sophron, and he spoke soft words 
 of comfort, and ministered to my wants, and bade me take freely 
 of his treasures, for it was for my sake that the Great King had 
 placed them in his hands. I wept with joy and gratitude when 
 1 left him ; and each tear has been changed by the Great King 
 into a pearl, and remained to this hour on the threshold of his 
 abode." 
 
 And the old man said, " Oh ! merchant, from whence is this 
 wonderful melody that I hear ? Sure I am that none of the musicians 
 in this city could produce such strains. Their harps lose their 
 tunefulness, and their sweetest notes become harsh and discordant, 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 277 
 
 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 harmony by the sound." 
 
 "Stranger," replied Sophron, "I cannot tell. You say truly 
 that the music has a magic power, for it lends its own tunefulness 
 to all around. To me it has long since breathed a spirit of harmony 
 over the din and discord of this crowded city ; every care and anxiety 
 has been changed and modulated by its soothing influence: and 
 the events of day after day have seemed to flow on in perpetual 
 melody. But though the music has thus dwelt in my own home, 
 and I have loved it, and listened to it with gladness, I believe it 
 to be but the echo of a yet sweeter strain which is played afar off 
 in some distant land." 
 
 Again there was a voice from the mirror; its accents were low 
 and tremulous, like those of a little child, and it said, " I was an 
 orphan, weak and friendless, but a Messenger of the Great King. 
 I went to Megacles for succour, and he pointed to a block of marble, 
 and bade me raise it on high : but my hands were too feeble for 
 the task ; and then his attendants drove me away, and said there 
 was no place for little children in the tower of Fame. I came 
 to Sophron; and he fed me and clothed me, and told me that 
 the house in which he lived had been lent to him as a shelter for 
 the orphan child. Every morning and evening I went in secret 
 to the Great King, and carried with me each precious gift that 
 [ 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 
 
278 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 home as a perpetual song ; and this is the soft music which you 
 bear within its walls." 
 
 And the old man said, " Tell me, Sophron, from whence is this 
 light that sheds its radiance on all around? Sure I am that it 
 belongs not to this city; for night has thrown her dark mantle 
 over its streets, and, even if it were otherwise, mists and chilling 
 darkness are the signs of my approach. The flame of your own 
 lamp grew more faint and feeble when my shadow first fell upoi? 
 it, and is fast expiring now. Whence, then, is it that in thy 
 dwelling there seems to be perpetual day?" 
 
 A soft slumber was stealing upon Sophron ; his eyes were already 
 closed ; his voice was indistinct, and yet it sounded like happy music 
 as for the last time he replied, " Stranger, I cannot tell. The 
 light has indeed shone upon me ; nay, is shining upon me now. 
 My eyes are closed, and I see it not; but it is as the sunshine 
 of the heart, and I feel it to be here. Whether it be a reality or 
 a beautiful dream, I am conscious of its presence, though I know 
 not from whence it comes." 
 
 Then, for the third time, a voice proceeded from the mirror, as 
 a shadowy form moved across it, and it said, " I had been rich 
 and prosperous, but a long sickness brought me into poverty and 
 distress. I heard the proclamation 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 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 279 
 
 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 distress had 
 made me a Messenger of the Great King, and I hastened to the 
 Royal Palace, and took with me thither my blessings and my 
 prayers. The Great King received them from me, and shed them 
 as rays of unchanging sunshine on the abode of Sophron, and 
 from thence comes the amber light that yet lives within its 
 walls." 
 
 There was a pause of a few seconds ; while Sophron appeared 
 to be yielding more and more to the soothing influence of sleep. 
 And then the old man breathed softly upon him, and said, " Thrice 
 happy merchant ! Well, indeed, hast thou traded with thy wealth ! 
 Thou hast bartered thy perishable silver and gold for the widow's 
 gratitude, the orphan's love, and the poor man's prayer. Now 
 that thou art going hence, these riches will follow thee. The 
 costly pearls, the gentle music, and the amber light shall attend 
 thee on thy journey even to the gates of the Glorious City. But 
 a more abundant treasure, a more 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. 
 
280 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 For a moment there was a sound as of the rustling of many wings 
 in the air, and then all was stillness in the dwelling of Sophron. 
 
 On the morrow, the sun shone brightly upon the city ; — there 
 was the usual hum of traffic and moving to and fro of the busy 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 281 
 
 multitude in the streets, though the lamp had been extinguished 
 in Sophron's abode, and the aged merchant was gone. Very few 
 of the passers-by noticed the deserted dwelling; but the King's 
 Messengers wept as they beheld it from a distance, and there was 
 a strain of sadness in the gentle music of the orphan child. They 
 mourned, because their own office was at an end; but when they 
 thought of Sophron, their sorrow was turned into joy. They knew 
 that his treasures had been marked with the Cross, and were stored 
 up for him in the Royal Palace, and that he himself was dwelling 
 in the happy city where the law of Exile was unknown. 
 
 o o 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 A SILENCE of some minutes succeeded the story. Both the 
 children were grave and thoughtful. Leonard lookecl anxious 
 to say something, but seemed to want courage to begin the con- 
 versation. To relieve him from his embarrassment, Mr. Mertoun 
 addressed himself in the first instance to Mary. 
 
 " Tell me, Mary," he said, " do you suppose there ever was 
 a city with the same singular law as that of Metcecia?" 
 
 " Oh yes, uncle," she replied readily ; "I guessed at once what 
 you intended by it ; the story is an allegory, and the law of Exile 
 is the law of Death." 
 
 » 
 
 " It is so," said Mr. Mertoun. " The whole world is but our 
 city of Metcecia. We are liable, at any moment, to be callea 
 upon to depart from it; and, when our summons comes, we go 
 forth alone, and no part of our possessions follow us. If we live 
 in forgetfulness of this law, our conduct is, to say the least, as 
 unaccountable as that of the merchants in the story. But what 
 do you understand by the vision in the mirror?" 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 283 
 
 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 of bereavement 
 are those in which we feel most distinctly the nothingness of worldly 
 treasures, and are led to take a true view of our position as pilgrims 
 and sojourners upon the earth. The warnings of Holy Scripture, 
 which we may have often heard and 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 Avhich of the three dangerous paths 
 pointed out in the allegory your natural dispositions may incline. 
 But my design in telling it was to bring distinctly before you 
 the important office assigned to the poor in the Gospel. I was 
 afraid that you were unmindful of it when a few days since you 
 used the words, ' Only some poor man.' " 
 
 "I was, indeed," he answered; "and for the future, I will try 
 to look upon the poor as Messengers of the Great King. But, 
 uncle," he continued, after a pause, "do you mean that all who 
 neglect almsgiving are like some one or other of the merchants in 
 the story?" 
 
 " I think," replied Mr. Mertoun, " that all, who abuse their 
 
284 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 riches, may be comprehended under the three great classes that 
 I have described. First, we have those like Philargyr, who do 
 not spend them at all : next, those like Megacles, who spend them, 
 but not on proper objects : and, lastly, those like Euprepes, who 
 spend them, and on proper objects, but not with a proper motive/'" 
 
 "It was not quite that which I intended to ask," said Leonard, 
 4 ' 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 actual life and 
 the allegory. The merchants are represented only as the possessors 
 of great wealth, and with the single duty of almsgiving. Is that 
 a complete view of our position as Christians?" 
 
 " Oh no," replied Mary ; " you said, when you explained to us the 
 Parable of the Talents, that our health, our time, our affections, and 
 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 circum- 
 stances 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 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGEKS, 
 
 285 
 
 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. 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 uninterruptedly 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 representation of 
 the course of unrepented sin. The omission of which I speak occurs 
 rather in the history of the youngest brother." 
 
 " You mean," said Mary, " that we cannot really lay up for 
 ourselves riches in heaven, and that all we do is accepted for the 
 sake of our Saviour. But was not that intended by the mark of the 
 cross which was seen on the merchandise?" 
 
 "It is implied in it," replied Mr. Mertoun, " but it does not form, 
 so to speak, any distinct feature in the allegory." 
 
 "But ought there to be so many omissions in the story?" 
 asked Mary. 
 
 Mr. Mertoun replied, by taking up a drawing which happened 
 to be lying on the table : " Tell me," he said, " do you know of 
 what this is a picture?" 
 
 " Of the church," she replied, in some surprise at the question. 
 
 u Indeed," said her uncle. " But I do not see the east window 
 
286 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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 church before he began it? " 
 
 ■'Nay," replied Mary, "you cannot be serious in asking." 
 
 "Well, then," continued Mr. Mertoun, "in this respect also it is 
 an imperfect picture. The real walls undoubtedly have a foundation, 
 and the building could not stand an instant if it were not there. 
 Do you see my meaning, Leonard?" 
 
 "I do," he answered; "you mean, that the death of our Saviour 
 is the foundation on which the walls of our actual life rest; and 
 that, though it be not represented in the story, it is, of course, 
 assumed to be there." 
 
 " Exactly so," said Mr. Mertoun ; " and I wish you to mark clearly 
 the distinction between this illustration and the former. The several 
 duties of life are like the different walls of the building, which may 
 be brought out in greater or less distinctness, according to the point 
 from which we view it. The doctrine of the atonement is to the 
 Christian as, the one foundation on which they rest, and without it 
 the picture could not be really faithful, for the building itself would 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 287 
 
 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 received the stranger." 
 
 " They were so," said Mr. Mertoun ; " and our Blessed Lord 
 assured them, that inasmuch as they had done this unto one of the 
 least of His brethren, they had done it unto Himself. In like 
 manner, those on the King's left hand are represented as being 
 punished simply for neglect of the poor. There are also two parables 
 concerning rich men, in which the same view is brought no less 
 distinctly before us." 
 
 " One of them," said Leonard, " is that of the Rich Man and 
 Lazarus." f 
 
 " It is so," answered his uncle ; " no other sin of the rich man 
 is there pointed out to us but that of neglecting 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, 
 determined to hoard the produce. J God punished him with the 
 immediate sentence of death. And our Saviour Himself has annexed 
 to it the warning, 1 So is he that layeth up treasure for himself, 
 and is not rich towards God.' " 
 
 * St. Matt. xxv. 34, 35. f St. Luke xvi. 19—31. 
 
 + St. Luke xii. 16—21. 
 
288 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 " Children," observed Leonard, " are never very rich." 
 
 The words were spoken in a low tone, as though in answer 
 to his own thoughts. His uncle, however, did not let them pass 
 unnoticed. " They are not," he replied, " according to the ordinary 
 meaning of the word wealth. But recollect how the mite of the 
 poor widow was pronounced by our Blessed Lord to be more than 
 all the costly gifts which were cast into the treasury by the rich. 
 Now the youngest child may either give a like offering to that 
 of the widow, or he may hoard it up, or spend it on himself." 
 
 " 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 percep- 
 tible, but not less dangerous. There is no need of a gold mine 
 to foster it. The first trifling coin a child receives is often formed 
 into the first link of the chain that binds him in after years. If 
 it be followed by the love of money for its own sake, and the 
 wish for more, he is already beginning to share the servitude 
 of Philargyr." 
 
 The children were silent. The words awakened no painful 
 thoughts in Mary, for avarice was not one of her failings. But 
 Leonard felt the full force of this application of the story. The 
 gift which he had received from his uncle the preceding Christmas 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 289 
 
 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. 
 
 Mr. Mertoun guessed the motive of the question, and replied, 
 " The best remedy for all our faults, my dear boy, is to make 
 them the subject of continual prayer. But this, perhaps, more 
 than any other, requires the resistance of an immediate effort. 
 The conquering it is really like the breaking of a chain. Once 
 summon resolution to give, and it seems as though some spell 
 were dissolved, and the disposition to give more abundantly will 
 follow. I do not mean that the temptation to save will not again 
 come back ; but it will return after each defeat with less violence 
 than before, until at length it will be subdued altogether, by the 
 habit of giving. You must not, 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 dangerous; 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 extravagance." 
 
 " It was so," said Mr. Mertoun ; " but he may be taken as 
 representing a yet larger class. His history brings especially before 
 us the folly of wasting on some mere earthly object those riches 
 which might be laid up in the treasury of Heaven. To do this 
 is, in reality, extravagance. It matters not, to use the language 
 of the story, whether we build with them mere villas of Pleasure 
 or towers of Fame. Children, who spend what they have on 
 
 p p 
 
290 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 self-gratification to the neglect of the poor, are beginning to follow 
 the course of Megacles." 
 
 "But can they be also like him in his ambition?" asked Mary. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," answered her uncle ; " but the ways in which 
 they can purchase this species of self-gratification are so apparently 
 trivial, that you may have some difficulty in tracing the resemblance. 
 Perhaps the spending money on finery or anything else intended 
 to excite the admiration of their companions, is their nearest approach 
 to the particular sin of Megacles. But is it not said at the con- 
 clusion ■ 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 applause so readily as by giving to the 
 poor. Each act of benevolence is sure to be accompanied by a 
 certain amount of praise. And yet if they make that the prevailing 
 motive for their gift, they have their recompense upon earth, and 
 will forfeit it in Heaven. Do you remember the warning which 
 our Saviour gave His disciples on this subject?" 
 
 "He told them," answered Mary, "that if they did their alms 
 before men, to be seen of them, they would have no reward of their 
 Father in Heaven." 
 
 " Yes," continued Mr. Mertoun, " and he added the precept — 
 \ When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 291 
 
 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 difficulty suggested to you by these words?" 
 
 " I was wishing to ask," said Leonard, " whether they mean 
 that we are to make a secret of everything that we give." 
 
 " They cannot mean that," answered Mr. Mertoun, " for our Lord 
 has also told us to let our light so shine before men, that they 
 may see our good works, and glorify our Father Which is in 
 Heaven.f By the command, ' not to let our left hand know what 
 our right hand doeth,' we must understand, that we ought to shrink 
 even from any feeling of self-satisfaction at our own good deeds, 
 and, of course, yet more to avoid the applause of the world. But 
 we cannot help actually knowing what we ourselves give, and at 
 times it is our duty to let others know it also." 
 
 " And yet," observed Mary, " if we do this are we not really 
 giving our alms before men? ,, 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Mertoun, " but not necessarily in order to be 
 seen of them. It is the giving with this object that is forbidden 
 by our Blessed Lord. Almsgiving is no easy duty, and children 
 especially require the advice of others in the manner of its per- 
 formance. They cannot even find out for themselves proper objects 
 of benevolence. They may, therefore, ask to be taught how to 
 give, and place their offerings in the hands of their friends, and 
 yet look for no other recompense than that which is promised to 
 them in Heaven. Do you remember, Mary, how, when you were 
 
 * St. Matt. vi. 3, -I. 
 
 ! Ibid. v. 10. 
 
292 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 a little child, your mother would come to hear you say your prayers, 
 and yet you did not say them in order to be heard of her: she 
 taught you to pray, but the words were addressed to God. Do 
 you understand me?" 
 
 " I think so," she replied ; " but will there be no difference 
 at all between children who give merely that their friends may 
 praise them and those who give from right motives?" 
 
 " Perhaps, at times, there may be no visible difference," answered 
 Mr. Mertoun, "but there must always be a real one. Recollect, 
 that when it is said, 'Which seeth in secret,' it does not mean 
 only that God sees into the secret chamber, but into the secret 
 thoughts of the heart. He can read clearly and distinctly the 
 exact motive of every gift ; and as those which profess to be 
 studiously concealed, may in their very concealment proceed from 
 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 imperfect 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 offerings in the sight of God, 
 if we look for our recompense to Him alone. But it is difficult to 
 
THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 293 
 
 lay down any exact rule. The line which, as I have said, is 
 purposely kept distinct and separate in the story, often seems 
 perplexed and difficult, when we try to trace it through the conflicting 
 circumstances of life. I think, however, that you will seldom find 
 any 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 remem- 
 brance that the poor are sent to you by God — that it cannot be 
 right to hoard up your money, or spend it on your own gratifications, 
 while you do nothing to relieve their wants — and that your offerings 
 must be made for Christ's sake, and without the hope of any earthly 
 recompense — and the story of the King's Messengers will not have 
 been told you in vain. The events of your own daily life will best 
 enable you to apply it to yourselves." 
 
 With the exception of a single question, Leonard had been a silent 
 listener to the close of the conversation. He did not seem to 
 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. 
 Mr. Mertoun was left alone. He had seen that the child was 
 impressed by the story, but his joy at this circumstance was checked 
 by the remembrance that in a little while the feelings awakened by 
 it would pass away. His thoughts were interrupted by a light 
 footstep at the door; the handle was softly turned, and Leonard 
 entered, alone. There was something in his hand which glittered, 
 and this he gave his uncle, with a few whispered words. The tear 
 
294 
 
 THE KING'S MESSENGERS. 
 
 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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