Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_Child_. Man in Paradise before the fall.

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

C. Their fall into sin and misery.

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

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

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

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

F. What does our Catechism say about this?

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

F. What are the gifts bestowed upon them?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Little Wanderers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{The Little Wanderers: p98.jpg}

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_Child_. All the children of fallen parents.

F. Who are such?

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

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

C. Jesus Christ our Lord.

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

C. His receiving us when children into His Church.

F. When was this done?

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

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

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

F. Why is it called your Christian name?

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

F. Why was it given you at that time?

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

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

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

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

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

F. What were the bright flowers and the bird?

C. The baits and temptations of sin.

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

C. Because one sin makes another easier.

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

C. Because bold sinners lead weaker sinners after them.

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