Now I wondered why these pilgrims, who were naturally made erect

with an eye formed to look up to _the things above_, yet had their

eyes almost constantly bent in the other direction, riveted to the

earth, and fastened _on things below_, just like those animals who

walk on all fours. I was told they had not always been subject to

this weakness of sight, and proneness to earth; that they had

originally been upright and beautiful, having been created after the

image of the lord, who was himself the perfection of beauty; that he

had, at first, placed them in a far superior situation, which he had

given them in perpetuity; but that their first ancestors fell from

it through pride and carelessness; that upon this the freehold was

taken away, they lost their original strength, brightness, and

beauty, and were driven out into this strange country, where,

however, they had every opportunity given them of recovering their

original health, and the lord's favor and likeness; for they were

become so disfigured, and were grown so unlike him, that you would

hardly believe they were his own children, though, in some, the

resemblance was become again visible.

The lord, however, was so merciful, that, instead of giving them up

to the dreadful consequences of their own folly, as he might have

done without any impeachment of his justice, he gave them immediate

comfort, and promised them that, in due time, his own son should

come down and restore them to the future inheritance which he should

purchase for them. And now it was, that in order to keep up their

spirits, after they had lost their estate through the folly of their

ancestors, that he began to give them a part of their former

title-deed. He continued to send them portions of it from time to

time by different faithful servants, whom, however, these ungrateful

people generally used ill, and some of whom they murdered. But for

all this, the lord was so very forgiving, that he at length sent

these mutineers a proclamation of full and free pardon by his son.

This son, though they used him in a more cruel manner than they had

done any of his servants, yet after having _finished the work his

father gave him to do_, went back into the _far country_ to prepare

a place for all them who believe in him; and there he still lives;

begging and pleading for those unkind people, whom he still loves

and forgives, and will restore to the purchased inheritance on the

easy terms of their being heartily sorry for what they have done,

thoroughly desirous of pardon, and convinced that _he is able and

willing to save to the uttermost all them that come unto him_.

I saw, indeed, that many old offenders appeared to be sorry for what

they had done; that is, they did not like to be punished for it.

They were willing enough to be delivered from the penalty of their

guilt, but they did not heartily wish to be delivered from the power

of it. Many declared, in the most public manner, once every week,

that they were sorry they had done amiss; _that they had erred and

strayed like lost sheep_, but it was not enough to _declare_ their

sorrow, ever so often, if they gave no other sign of their

penitence. For there was so little truth in them, that the lord

required other proofs of their sincerity beside their own word, for

they often lied with their lips and dissembled with their tongue.

But those who professed to be penitent must give some outward proof

of it. They were neither allowed to raise heaps of clay, by

circumventing their neighbors, or to keep great piles lying by them

useless; nor must they barter them for any of those idle vanities

which reduced the heaps on a sudden; for I found that among the

grand articles of future reckoning, the use they had made of the

heaps would be a principal one.

I was sorry to observe many of the fairer part of these pilgrims

spend too much of their heaps in adorning and beautifying their

tenements of clay, in painting, whitewashing, and enameling them.

All those tricks, however, did not preserve them from decay; and

when they grew old, they even looked worse for all this cost and

varnish. Some, however, acted a more sensible part, and spent no

more upon their moldering tenements than just to keep them whole and

clean, and in good repair, which is what every tenant ought to do;

and I observed, that those who were most moderate in the care of

their own tenements, were most attentive to repair and warm the

ragged tenements of others. But none did this with much zeal or

acceptance, but those who had acquired a habit of overlooking _the

things below_, and who also, by the constant use of the telescope

had got their natural weak and dim sight so strengthened, as to be

able to discern pretty distinctly the nature of the _things above_.

The habit of fixing their eyes on these glories made all the shining

trifles, which compose the mass of _things below_, at last appear in

their own diminutive littleness. For it was in this case

particularly true, that things are only big or little by comparison;

and there was no other way of making the _things below_, appear as

small as they really were, but by comparing them, by means of the

telescope, with the _things above_. But I observed that the false

judgment of the pilgrims ever kept pace with their wrong practices;

for those who kept their eyes fastened on the _things below_, were

reckoned wise in their generation, while the few who looked forward

to the future glories, were accounted by the bustlers, or heapers,

to be either fools or mad.

Most of these pilgrims went on in adorning their tenements, adding

to their heaps, grasping the _things below_ as if they would never

let them go, shutting their eyes, instead of using their telescope,

and neglecting their title-deed, as if it was the parchment of

another man's estate, and not of their own; till one after another

each felt his tenement tumbling about his ears. Oh! then what a

busy, bustling, anxious, terrifying, distracting moment was that!

What a deal of business was to be done, and what a strange time was

this to do it in! Now, to see the confusion and dismay occasioned by

having left every thing to the last minute. First, some one was sent

for to make over the yellow heaps, to another, which the heaper now

found would be of no use to himself in shooting the gulf; a transfer

which ought to have been made while the tenement was sound. Then

there was a consultation between two or three masons at once

perhaps, to try to patch up the walls, and strengthen the props, and

stop the decays of the tumbling tenement; but not till the masons

were forced to declare it was past repairing (a truth they were

rather too apt to keep back) did the tenant seriously think it was

time to pack up, prepare and begone. Then what sending for the wise

men who professed to explain the title-deed! And oh! what remorse

that they had neglected to examine it till their senses were too

confused for so weighty a business! What reproaches, or what

exhortations to others, to look better after their own affairs than

they had done. Even to the wisest of the inhabitants the falling of

their tenements was a solemn thing; solemn, but not surprising; they

had long been packing up and preparing; they praised their lord's

goodness that they had been suffered to stay so long; many

acknowledged the mercy of their frequent warnings, and confessed

that those very dilapidations which had made the house uncomfortable

had been a blessing, as it had set them on diligent preparation for

their future inheritance; had made them more earnest in examining

their title to it, and had set them on such a frequent application

to the telescope, that the _things above_ had seemed every day to

approach nearer and nearer, and the _things below_ to recede and

vanish in proportion. These desired not to be _unclothed but to be

clothed upon, for they knew that if their tabernacle was dissolved,

they had an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens_.

THE VALLEY OF TEARS.

A VISION;

OR, BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS.

Once upon a time methought I set out upon a long journey, and the

place through which I traveled appeared to be a dark valley, which

was called the Valley of Tears. It had obtained this name, not only

on account of the many sorrowful adventures which poor passengers

commonly meet with in their journey through it; but also because

most of these travelers entered it weeping and crying, and left it

in very great pain and anguish. This vast valley was full of people

of all colors, ages, sizes and descriptions. But whether white or

black, or tawny, all were traveling the same road; or rather they

were taking different little paths which all led to the same common

end.

Now it was remarkable, that notwithstanding the different

complexions, ages, and tempers of this vast variety of people, yet

all resembled each other in this one respect, that each had a burden

on his back which he was destined to carry through the toil and heat

of the day, until he should arrive, by a longer or shorter course,

at his journey's end. These burdens would in general have made the

pilgrimage quite intolerable, had not the lord of the valley, out of

his great compassion for these poor pilgrims, provided, among other

things, the following means for their relief.

In their full view over the entrance of the valley, there were

written, in great letters of gold, the following words:

BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS.

Now I saw in my vision that many of the travelers hurried on without

stopping to read this inscription, and others, though they had once

read it, yet paid little or no attention to it. A third sort thought

it very good advice for other people, but very seldom applied it to

themselves. They uniformly desired to avail themselves of the

assistance which by this injunction others were bound to offer them,

but seldom considered that the obligation was mutual, and that

reciprocal wants and reciprocal services formed the strong cord in

the bond of charity. In short, I saw that too many of these people

were of opinion that they had burdens enough of their own, and that

there was therefore no occasion to take upon them those of others;

so each tried to make his own load as light, and his own journey as

pleasant as he could, without so much as once casting a thought on a

poor overloaded neighbor. Here, however, I have to make a rather

singular remark, by which I shall plainly show the folly of these

selfish people. It was so ordered and contrived by the lord of this

valley, that if any one stretched out his hand to lighten a

neighbor's burden, in fact he never failed to find that he at that

moment also lightened his own. Besides the benefit of helping each

other, was as mutual as the obligation. If a man helped his

neighbor, it commonly happened that some other neighbor came

by-and-by and helped him in his turn; for there was no such thing as

what we called _independence_ in the whole valley. Not one of all

these travelers, however stout and strong, could move on comfortably

without assistance, for so the lord of the valley, whose laws were

all of them kind and good, had expressly ordained.

I stood still to watch the progress of these poor wayfaring people,

who moved slowly on, like so many ticket-porters, with burdens of

various kinds on their backs; of which some were heavier and some

were lighter, but from a burden of one kind or other, not one

traveler was entirely free. There might be some difference in the

degree, and some distinction in the nature, but exemption there was

none.

THE WIDOW.

A sorrowful widow, oppressed with the burden of grief for the loss

of an affectionate husband, moved heavily on, and would have been

bowed down by her heavy load, had not the surviving children, with

great alacrity, stepped forward and supported her. Their kindness,

after a while, so much lightened the load which threatened at first

to be intolerable, that she even went on her way with cheerfulness,

and more than repaid their help, by applying the strength she

derived from it to their future assistance.

THE HUSBAND.

I next saw a poor old man tottering under a burden so heavy, that I

expected him every moment to sink under it. I peeped into his pack,

and saw it was made up of many sad articles: there were poverty,

oppression, sickness, debt, and, what made by far the heaviest part,

undutiful children. I was wondering how it was that he got on even

so well as he did, till I spied his wife, a kind, meek, Christian

woman, who was doing her utmost to assist him. She quietly got

behind, gently laid her shoulder to the burden, and carried a much

larger portion of it than appeared to me when I was at a distance.

It was not the smallest part of the benefit that she was anxious to

conceal it. She not only sustained him by her strength, but cheered

him by her counsels. She told him, that "through much tribulation

we must enter into rest;" that "he that overcometh shall inherit

all things." In short, she so supported his fainting spirit, that he

was enabled to "run with patience the race which was set before

him."

THE KIND NEIGHBOR.

An infirm, blind woman was creeping forward, with a very heavy

burden, in which were packed sickness and want, with numberless

other of those raw materials out of which human misery is worked up.

She was so weak that she could not have got on at all, had it not

been for the kind assistance of another woman almost as poor as

herself, who, though she had no light burden of her own, cheerfully

lent a helping hand to a fellow-traveler who was still more heavily

laden. This friend had indeed little or nothing to give, but the

very voice of kindness is soothing to the weary. And I remarked in

many other cases, that it was not so much the degree of the help

afforded, as the manner of helping that lightened the burdens. Some

had a coarse, rough, clumsy way of assisting a neighbor, which,

though in fact it might be of real use, yet seemed, by galling the

traveler, to add to the load it was intended to lighten; while I

observed in others that so cheap a kindness as a mild word, or even

an affectionate look made a poor burdened wretch move on cheerily.

The bare feeling that some human being cared for him, seemed to

lighten the load. But to return to this kind neighbor. She had a

little old book in her hand, the covers of which were worn out by

much use. When she saw the blind woman ready to faint, she would

read her a few words out of this book, such as the following:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of

heaven." "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

"I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." "For our light

affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh out for us a far

more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." These quickened the

pace, and sustained the spirits of the blind traveler; and the kind

neighbor, by thus directing the attention of the poor sufferer to

the blessings of a better world, helped to enable her to sustain the

affliction of this, more effectually than if she had had gold and

silver to bestow on her.

THE CLERGYMAN.

A pious minister, sinking under the weight of a distressed parish,

whose worldly wants he was totally unable to bear, was suddenly

relieved by a charitable widow, who came up and took all the sick

and hungry on her own shoulders as her part of the load. The burden

of the parish, thus divided, became tolerable. The minister being no

longer bowed down by the temporal distresses of his people, applied

himself cheerfully to his own part of the weight. And it was

pleasant to see how those two persons, neither of them very strong,

or rich, or healthy, by thus kindly uniting together, were enabled

to bear the weight of a whole parish; though singly, either of them

must have sunk under the attempt. And I remember one great grief I

felt during my whole journey was, that I did not see more of this

union and concurring kindness--more of this acting in concert, by

which all the burdens might have been so easily divided. It troubled

me to observe, that of all the laws of the valley there was not one

more frequently broken than _the law of kindness_.

THE NEGROES.

I now spied a swarm of poor black men, women, and children, a

multitude which no man could number; these groaned, and toiled, and

sweated, and bled under far heavier loads than I have yet seen. But

for a while no man helped them; at length a few white travelers

were touched with the sorrowful sighing of those millions, and very

heartily did they put their hands to the burdens; but their number

was not quite equal to the work they had undertaken. I perceived,

however, that they never lost sight of these poor heavily-laden

wretches; though often repulsed, they returned again to the charge;

though discomfited, they renewed the effort, and some even pledged

themselves to an annual attempt till the project was accomplished;

and as the number of these generous helpers increased every year, I

felt a comfortable hope, that before all the blacks got out of the

valley, the whites would fairly divide the burden, and the loads

would be effectually lightened.

Among the travelers, I had occasion to remark, that those who most

kicked and struggled under their burdens, only made them so much the

heavier, for their shoulders became extremely galled by these vain

and ineffectual struggles. The load, if borne patiently, would in

the end have turned even to the advantage of the bearers, for so the

lord of the valley had kindly decreed; but as to these grumblers,

they had all the smart, and none of the benefit; they had the

present suffering without the future reward. But the thing which

made all these burdens seem so very heavy was, that in every one

without exception, there was a certain _inner packet_, which most of

the travelers took pains to conceal, and kept carefully wrapped up;

and while they were forward enough to complain of the other part of

their burdens, few said a word about this, though in truth it was

the pressing weight of this _secret packet_ which served to render

the general burden so intolerable. In spite of all their caution, I

contrived to get a peep at it. I found in each that this packet had

the same label--the word SIN was written on all as a general title,

and in ink so black that they could not wash it out. I observed that

most of them took no small pains to hide the writing; but I was

surprised to see that they did not try to get rid of the load but

the label. If any kind friend who assisted these people in bearing

their burdens, did but so much as hint at the _secret packet_, or

advise them to get rid of it, they took fire at once, and commonly

denied they had any such article in their portmanteau; and it was

those whose _secret packet_ swelled to the most enormous size, who

most stoutly denied they had any.

I saw with pleasure, however, that some who had long labored

heartily to get rid of this inward packet, at length found it much

diminished, and the more this packet shrunk in size, the lighter was

the other part of their burden also. I observed, moreover, that

though the label always remained in some degree indelible, yet that

those who were in earnest to get rid of the load, found that the

original traces of the label grew fainter also; it was never quite

obliterated in any, though in some cases it seemed nearly effaced.

Then methought, all at once, I heard a voice, as it had been the

voice of an angel, crying out and saying, "Ye unhappy pilgrims, why

are ye troubled about the burden which ye are doomed to bear through

this valley of tears? Know ye not, that as soon as ye shall have

escaped out of this valley the whole burden shall drop off, provided

ye neglect not to remove that inward weight, that secret load of SIN

which principally oppresses you? Study, then, the whole will of the

lord of this valley. Learn from him how this heavy part of your

burdens may now be lessened, and how at last it may be removed

forever. Be comforted. Faith and hope may cheer you even in this

valley. The passage, though it seems long to weary travelers, is

comparatively short, for beyond there is a land of everlasting rest,

where ye shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; where ye

shall be led by living fountains of waters, and all tears shall be

wiped away from your eyes."

THE STRAIT GATE AND THE BROAD WAY.

Now, I had a second vision of what was passing in the Valley of

Tears. Methought I saw again the same kind of travelers whom I had

seen in the former part, and they were wandering at large through

the same vast wilderness. At first setting out on his journey, each

traveler had a small lamp so fixed in his bosom that it seemed to

make a part of himself; but as this natural light did not prove to

be sufficient to direct them in the right way, the king of the

country, in pity to their wanderings and blindness, out of his

gracious condescension, promised to give these poor wayfaring people

an additional supply of light from his own royal treasury. But as he

did not choose to lavish his favors where there seemed no

disposition to receive them, he would not bestow any of his oil on

such as did not think it worth asking for. "Ask and ye shall have,"

was the universal rule he laid down for them. But though they knew

the condition of the obligation, many were prevented from asking

through pride and vanity, for they thought they had light enough

already, preferring the feeble glimmering of their own lamp to all

the offered light from the king's treasury. Yet it was observed of

those who had rejected it, as thinking they had enough, that hardly

any acted up to what even their own natural light showed them.

Others were deterred from asking, because they were told that this

light not only pointed out the dangers and difficulties of the

road, but by a certain reflecting power, it turned inward on

themselves, and revealed to them ugly sights in their own hearts, to

which they rather chose to be blind; for those travelers were of

that preposterous number who "chose darkness rather than light," and

for the old obvious reason--"because their deeds were evil." Now, it

was remarkable that these two properties were inseparable, and that

the lamp would be of little outward use, except to those who used it

as an internal reflector. A threat and a promise also never failed

to accompany the offer of this light from the king: a promise that

to those who improved what they had, more should be given; and a

threat, that from those who did not use it wisely, should be taken

away even what they had.

I observed that when the road was very dangerous; when terrors, and

difficulties, and death beset the fervent traveler; then, on their

faithful importunity, the king voluntarily gave large and bountiful

supplies of light, such as in common seasons never could have been

expected: always proportioning the quantity to the necessity of the

case; "as their day was, such was their light and strength."

Though many chose to depend entirely on their own original lamp, yet

it was observed that this light was apt to go out if left to itself.

It was easily blown out by those violent gusts which were

perpetually howling through the wilderness; and indeed it was the

natural tendency of that unwholesome atmosphere to extinguish it,

just as you have seen a candle go out when exposed to the vapors and

foul air of a damp room. It was a melancholy sight to see multitudes

of travelers heedlessly pacing on boasting they had light enough of

their own, and despising the offer of more.

But what astonished me most of all was, to see many, and some of

them too accounted men of first rate wit, actually busy in blowing

out their own light, because while any spark of it remained, it

only served to torment them, and point out things which they did not

wish to see. And having once blown out their own light, they were

not easy till they had blown out that of their neighbors also; so

that a good part of this wilderness seemed to exhibit a sort of

universal _blindman's buff_, each endeavoring to catch his neighbor,

while his own voluntary blindness exposed him to be caught himself;

so that each was actually falling into the snare he was laying for

another till at length, as selfishness is the natural consequence of

blindness, "catch he that catch can," became the general motto of

the wilderness.

Now I saw in my vision, that there were some others who were busy in

strewing the most gaudy flowers over the numerous bogs, and

precipices, and pitfalls with which the wilderness abounded; and

thus making danger and death look so gay, that poor thoughtless

creatures seemed to delight in their own destruction. Those pitfalls

did not appear deep or dangerous to the eye, because over them were

raised gay edifices with alluring names. These were filled with

singing men and singing women, and with dancing, and feasting, and

gaming, and drinking, and jollity, and madness. But though the

scenery was gay, the footing was unsound. The floors were full of

holes, through which the unthinking merry-makers were continually

sinking. Some tumbled through in the middle of a song; more at the

end of a feast; and though there was many a cup of intoxication

wreathed round with flowers, yet there was always poison at the

bottom. But what most surprised me was that though no day passed

over their heads in which some of the most merry-makers did not drop

through, yet their loss made little impression on those who were

left. Nay, instead of being awakened to more circumspection and

self-denial by the continual dropping off of those about them,

several of them seemed to borrow from thence an argument of a direct

contrary tendency, and the very shortness of time was only urged as

a reason to use it more sedulously for the indulgence in sensual

delights. "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." "Let us

crown ourselves with rose-buds before they are withered." With these

and a thousand other such like inscriptions, the gay garlands of the

wilderness were decorated. Some admired poets were set to work to

set the most corrupt sentiments to the most harmonious tunes; these

were sung without scruple, chiefly indeed by the looser sons of

riot, but not seldom also by the more orderly daughters of sobriety,

who were not ashamed to sing to the sound of instruments, sentiments

so corrupt and immoral, that they would have blushed to speak or

read them; but the music seemed to sanctify the corruption,

especially such as was connected with love or drinking.

Now I observed that all the travelers who had so much as a spark of

life left, seemed every now and then, as they moved onward, to cast

an eye, though with very different degrees of attention, toward the

_Happy Land_, which they were told lay at the end of their journey:

but as they could not see very far forward, and as they knew there

was a _dark and shadowy valley_ which must needs be crossed before

they could attain to the _Happy Land_, they tried to turn their

attention from it as much as they could. The truth is, they were not

sufficiently apt to consult a map and a road-book which the King had

given them, and which pointed out the path to the _Happy Land_ so

clearly that the "wayfaring men, though simple, could not err." This

map also defined very correctly the boundaries of the _Happy Land_

from the _Land of Misery_, both of which lay on the other side of

the dark and shadowy valley; but so many beacons and lighthouses

were erected, so many clear and explicit directions furnished for

avoiding the one country and attaining the other, that it was not

the King's fault, if even one single traveler got wrong. But I am

inclined to think that, in spite of the map and road-book, and the

King's word, and his offers of assistance to get them thither, that

the travelers in general did not heartily and truly believe, after

all, that there was any such country as the _Happy Land_; or at

least the paltry and transient pleasures of the wilderness so

besotted them, the thoughts of the dark and shadowy valley so

frightened them, that they thought they should be more comfortable

by banishing all thought and forecast, and driving the subject quite

out of their heads.

Now, I also saw in my dream, that there were two roads through the

wilderness, one of which every traveler must needs take. The first

was narrow, and difficult, and rough, but it was infallibly safe. It

did not admit the traveler to stray either to the right hand or the

left, yet it was far from being destitute of real comforts or sober

pleasures. The other was a _broad_ and _tempting way_, abounding

with luxurious fruits and gaudy flowers, to tempt the eye and please

the appetite. To forget this _dark valley_, through which every

traveler was well assured he must one day pass, seemed the object of

general desire. To this grand end, all that human ingenuity could

invent was industriously set to work. The travelers read, and they

wrote, and they painted, and they sung, and they danced, and they

drank as they went along, not so much because they all cared for

these things, or had any real joy in them, as because this restless

activity served to divert their attention from ever being fixed on

the _dark and shadowy valley_.

The King, who knew the thoughtless tempers of the travelers, and

how apt they were to forget their journey's end, had thought of a

thousand kind little attentions to warn them of their dangers: and

as we sometimes see in our gardens written on a board in great

letters, BEWARE OF SPRING GUNS--MAN TRAPS ARE SET HERE; So had this

king caused to be written and stuck up before the eyes of the

travelers, several little notices and cautions; such as, "Broad is

the way that leadeth to destruction."--"Take heed, lest you also

perish." "Woe to them that rise up early to drink wine." "The

pleasures of sin are but for a season," etc. Such were the notices

directed to the _broad-way_ travelers; but they were so busily

engaged in plucking the flowers sometimes before they were blown,

and in devouring the fruits often before they were ripe, and in

loading themselves with _yellow clay_, under the weight of which

millions perished, that they had no time so much as to look at the

king's directions. Many went wrong because they preferred a merry

journey to a safe one, and because they were terrified by certain

notices chiefly intended for the _narrow-way_ travelers; such as,

"ye shall weep and lament, but the world shall rejoice;" but had

these foolish people allowed themselves time or patience to read to

the end, which they seldom would do, they would have seen these

comfortable words added, "But your sorrow shall be turned into joy;"

also "your joy no man taketh from you;" and, "they that sow in tears

shall reap in joy."

Now, I also saw in my dream, that many travelers who had a strong

dread of ending at the _Land of Misery_ walked up to the _Strait

Gate_, hoping that though the entrance was narrow, yet if they could

once get in, the road would widen; but what was their grief, when on

looking more closely they saw written on the inside, "Narrow is the

way;" this made them take fright; they compared the inscriptions

with which the whole way was lined, such as, "Be ye not conformed to

this world; deny yourselves, take up your cross," with all the

tempting pleasures of the wilderness. Some indeed recollected the

fine descriptions they had read of the _Happy Land_, the _Golden

City_, and the _River of Pleasure_, and they sighed; but then those

joys were distant, and from the faintness of their light, they soon

got to think that what was remote might be uncertain, and while the

present good increased in bulk the distant good receded, diminished,

disappeared. Their faith failed; they would trust no further than

they could see; they drew back and got into the _Broad Way_, taking

a common but sad refuge in the number, the fashion, and the gayety

of their companions. When these faint-hearted people, who yet had

set out well, turned back, their light was quite put out, and then

they became worse than those who had made no attempt to get in. "For

it is impossible, that is, it is next to impossible, for those who

were once enlightened, and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and the

good word of God, and the powers of the world to come, if they fall

away to renew them again to repentance."

A few honest, humble travelers not naturally stronger than the rest,

but strengthened by their trust in the king's word, came up, by the

light of their lamps, and meekly entered in at the _Strait Gate_; as

they advanced further they felt less heavy, and though the way did

not in reality grow wider, yet they grew reconciled to the

narrowness of it, especially when they saw the walls here and there

studded with certain jewels called _promises_, such as: "He that

endureth to the end shall be saved;" and "my grace is sufficient for

you." Some, when they were almost ready to faint, were encouraged by

seeing that many niches in the _Narrow Way_ were filled with statues

and pictures of saints and martyrs, who had borne their testimony at

the stake, that the _Narrow Way_ was the safe way; and these

travelers, instead of sinking at the sight of the painted wheel and

gibbet, the sword and furnace, were animated with these words

written under them, "Those that wear white robes, came out of great

tribulation," and "be ye followers of those who through faith and

patience inherit the promises."

In the mean time there came a great multitude of travelers all from

Laodicea; this was the largest party I had yet seen; these were

_neither hot nor cold_, they would not give up future hope, and they

could not endure present pain. So they contrived to deceive

themselves, by fancying that though they resolved to keep the _Happy

Land_ in view, yet there must needs be many different ways which

lead to it, no doubt all equally sure, without all being equally

rough; so they set on foot certain little contrivances to attain the

end without using the means, and softened down the spirit of the

king's directions to fit them to their own practice. Sometimes they

would split a direction in two, and only use that half which suited

them. For instance when they met with the following rule on the

way-post: "Trust in the Lord and be doing good," they would take the

first half, and make themselves easy with a general sort of trust,

that through the mercy of the king all would go well with them,

though they themselves did nothing. And on the other hand, many made

sure that a few good works of their own would do their business, and

carry them safely to the _Happy Land_, though they did _not_ trust

in the Lord, nor place any faith in his word. So they took the

second half of the spliced direction. Thus some perished by a lazy

faith, and others by a working pride.

A large party of Pharisees now appeared, who had so neglected their

lamp that they did not see their way at all, though they fancied

themselves to be full of light; they kept up appearances so well as

to delude others, and most effectually to delude themselves with a

notion that they might be found in the right way at last. In this

dreadful delusion they went on to the end, and till they were

finally plunged in the dark valley, never discovered the horrors

which awaited them on the dismal shore. It was remarkable that while

these Pharisees were often boasting how bright their light burned,

in order to get the praise of men, the humble travelers, whose

steady light showed their good works to others, refused all

commendation, and the brighter their light shined before men, so

much the more they insisted that they ought to glorify not

themselves, but their Father which is in heaven.

I now set myself to observe what was the particular lot, molestation

and hinderance which obstructed particular travelers in their

endeavors to enter in at the _Strait Gate_. I remarked a huge portly

man who seemed desirous of getting in, but he carried about him such

a vast provision of bags full of gold, and had on so many rich

garments, which stuffed him out so wide, that though he pushed and

squeezed, like one who had really a mind to get in, yet he could not

possibly do so. Then I heard a voice crying, "Woe to him who loadeth

himself with thick clay." The poor man felt something was wrong, and

even went so far as to change some of his more cumbersome vanities

into others which seemed less bulky, but still he and his pack were

much too wide for the gate. He would not, however, give up the

matter so easily, but began to throw away a little of the coarser

part of his baggage, but still I remarked that he threw away none of

the vanities which lay near his heart. He tried again, but it would

not do; still his dimensions were too large. He now looked up and

read these words, "How hardly shall those who have riches enter into

the kingdom of God." The poor man sighed to find that it was

impossible to enjoy his fill of both worlds, and "went away

sorrowing." If he ever afterward cast a thought toward the _Happy

Land_, it was only to regret that the road which led to it was too

narrow to admit any but the meager children of want, who were not so

incumbered by wealth as to be too big for the passage. Had he read

on, he would have seen that "with God all things are possible."

Another advanced with much confidence of success, for having little

worldly riches or honor, the gate did not seem so strait to him. He

got to the threshold triumphantly, and seemed to look back with

disdain on all that he was quitting. He soon found, however, that he

was so bloated with pride, and stuffed out with self-sufficiency,

that he could not get in. Nay, he was in a worse way than the rich

man just named; for _he_ had been willing to throw away some of his

outward luggage, whereas this man refused to part with a grain of

that vanity and self-applause which made him too large for the way.

The sense of his own worth so swelled him out that he stuck fast in

the gateway, and could neither get in nor out. Finding now that he

must cut off all these big thoughts of himself, if he wished to be

reduced to such a size as to pass the gate, he gave up all thoughts

of it. He scorned that humility and self-denial which might have

shrunk him down to the proper dimensions; the more he insisted on

his own qualifications for entrance, the more impossible it became

to enter, for the bigger he grew. Finding that he must become quite

another manner of man before he could hope to get in, he gave up the

desire; and I now saw that though when he set his face toward the

_Happy Land_ he could not get an inch forward, yet the instant he

made a motion to turn back into the world, his speed became rapid

enough, and he got back into the _Broad Way_ much sooner than he got

out of it.

Many, who for a time were brought down from their usual bulk by some

affliction, seemed to get in with ease. They now thought all their

difficulties over, for having been surfeited with the world during

their late disappointment, they turned their backs upon it

willingly enough, and fancied they were tired of it. A fit of

sickness, perhaps, which is very apt to _reduce_, had for a time

brought their bodies into subjection, so that they were enabled just

to get in at the gateway; but as soon as health and spirit returned,

the way grew narrower and narrower to them; and they could not get

on, but turned short, and got back into the world. I saw many

attempt to enter who were stopped short by a large burden of

_worldly cares_; others by a load of _idolatrous attachments_; but I

observed that nothing proved a more complete bar than that vast

_bundle of prejudices_ with which multitudes were loaded. Others

were fatally obstructed by loads of _bad habits_, which they would

not lay down, though they knew it prevented their entrance.

Some few, however, of most descriptions, who had kept their _light_

alive by craving constant supplies from the king's treasury, got

through at last by a strength which they felt not to be their own.

One poor man, who carried the largest bundle of bad habits I had

seen, could not get on a step; he never ceased, however, to implore

for light enough to see where his misery lay; he threw down one of

his bundles, then another, but all to little purpose; still he could

not stir. At last _striving as if in agony_ (which is the true way

of entering) he threw down the heaviest article in his pack; this

was _selfishness_; the poor fellow felt relieved at once, his light

burned brightly, and the rest of his pack was as nothing.

Then I heard a great noise as of carpenters at work. I looked what

this might be, and saw many sturdy travelers, who, finding they were

too bulky to get through, took it into their heads not to reduce

themselves, but to widen the gate; they hacked on this side, and

hewed on that; but all their hacking, and hewing, and hammering was

to no purpose, they got their labor for their pains. It would have

been possible for them to have reduced themselves, had they

attempted it, but to widen the narrow way was impossible.

What grieved me most was to observe that many who had got on

successfully a good way, now stopped to rest and to admire their own

progress. While they were thus valuing themselves on their

attainments, their light diminished. While these were boasting how

far they had left others behind who had set out much earlier, some

slower travelers, whose beginning had not been so promising, but who

had walked meekly and circumspectly, now outstripped them. These

last walked not as though they had already attained; but this one

thing they did, forgetting the things which were behind, they pushed

forward to the mark, for the prize of their high calling. These,

though naturally weak, yet _by laying aside every weight, finished

the race that was before them_. Those who had kept their "light

burning," who were not "wise in their own conceit," who "laid their

help on one that is mighty," who had "chosen to suffer affliction

rather than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season," came at

length to the _Happy Land_. They had indeed the _Dark and Shadowy

Valley_ to cross, but even there they found a _rod and a staff_ to

comfort them. Their light instead of being put out by the damps of

the Valley and of the Shadow of Death, often burned with added

brightness. Some indeed suffered the terrors of a short eclipse; but

even then their light, like that of a dark lantern, was not put out;

it was only turned for a while from him who carried it, and even

these often finished their course with joy. But be that as it might,

the instant they reached the _Happy Land_, all tears were wiped from

their eyes, and the king himself came forth and welcomed them into

his presence, and put a crown upon their heads, with these words,

"Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of

thy Lord."

PARLEY, THE PORTER:

SHOWING HOW ROBBERS WITHOUT CAN NEVER GET INTO A HOUSE, UNLESS THERE

ARE TRAITORS WITHIN.

There was once a certain nobleman who had a house or castle situated

in the midst of a great wilderness, but inclosed in a garden. Now

there was a band of robbers in the wilderness who had a great mind

to plunder and destroy the castle, but they had not succeeded in

their endeavors, because the master had given strict orders to

"_watch without ceasing_." To quicken their vigilance he used to

tell them that their care would soon have an end: that though the

nights to watch were dark and stormy, yet they were but few; the

period of resistance was short, that of rest would be eternal.

The robbers, however, attacked the castle in various ways. They

tried at every avenue, watched to take advantage of every careless

moment; looked for an open door or a neglected window. But though

they often made the bolts shake and the windows rattle, they could

never greatly hurt the house, much less get into it. Do you know the

reason? It was because the servants were never off their guard. They

heard the noises plain enough, and used to be not a little

frightened, for they were aware both of the strength and

perseverance of their enemies. But what seemed rather odd to some of

these servants, the lord used to tell them, that while they

continued to be afraid they would be safe; and it passed into a sort

of proverb in that family, "Happy is he that feareth always." Some

of the servants, however, thought this a contradiction.

One day, when the master was going from home, he called his

servants all together, and spoke to them as follows: "I will not

repeat to you the directions I have so often given you; they are all

written down in THE BOOK OF LAWS, of which every one of you has a

copy. Remember, it is a very short time that you are to remain in

this castle; you will soon remove to my more settled habitation, to

a more durable house, not made with hands. As that house is never

exposed to any attack, so it never stands in need of any repair; for

that country is never infested by any sons of violence. Here you are

servants; there you will be princes. But mark my words, and you will

find the same in THE BOOK OF MY LAWS, whether you will ever attain

to _that_ house, will depend on the manner in which you defend

yourselves in _this_. A stout vigilance for a short time will secure

your certain happiness forever. But every thing depends on your

present exertions. Don't complain and take advantage of my absence,

and call me a hard master, and grumble that you are placed in the

midst of a howling wilderness without peace or security. Say not,

that you are exposed to temptations without any power to resist

them. You have some difficulties, it is true, but you have many

helps and many comforts to make this house tolerable, even before

you get to the other. Yours is not a hard service; and if it were,

'the time is short.' You have arms if you will use them, and doors

if you will bar them, and strength if you will use it. I would defy

all the attacks of the robbers without, if I could depend on the

fidelity of the people within. If the thieves ever get in and

destroy the house, it must be by the connivance of one of the

family. _For it is a standing law of this castle, that mere outward

attack can never destroy it, if there be no consenting traitor

within._ You will stand or fall as you will observe this rule. If

you are finally happy, it will be by my grace and favor; if you are

ruined, it will be your own fault."

When the nobleman had done speaking, every servant repeated his

assurance of attachment and firm allegiance to his master. But among

them all, not one was so vehement and loud in his professions as old

Parley, the porter. Parley, indeed, it was well known, was always

talking, which exposed him to no small danger; for as he was the

foremost to promise, so he was the slackest to perform: and, to

speak the truth, though he was a civil-spoken fellow, his lord was

more afraid of him, with all his professions, than he was of the

rest who protested less. He knew that Parley was vain, credulous,

and self-sufficient; and he always apprehended more danger from

Parley's impertinence, curiosity, and love of novelty, than even

from the stronger vices of some of his other servants. The rest

indeed, seldom got into any scrape of which Parley was not the cause

in some shape or other.

I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that though Parley was allowed

every refreshment, and all the needful rest which the nature of his

place permitted, yet he thought it very hard to be forced to be so

constantly on duty. "Nothing but watching," said Parley. "I have, to

be sure, many pleasures, and meat sufficient; and plenty of chat, in

virtue of my office, and I pick up a good deal of news of the comers

and goers by day, but it is hard that at night I must watch as

narrowly as a house-dog, and yet let in no company without orders;

only because there is said to be a few straggling _robbers_ here in

the wilderness, with whom my master does not care to let us be

acquainted. He pretends to make us vigilant through fear of the

robbers, but I suspect it is only to make us mope alone. A merry

companion and a mug of beer would make the night pass cheerily."

Parley, however, kept all these thoughts to himself, or uttered them

only when no one heard, for talk he must. He began to listen to the

nightly whistling of the robbers under the windows with rather less

alarm than formerly, and was sometimes so tired of watching, that he

thought it was even better to run the risk of being robbed once,

than to live always in the fear of robbers.

There were certain bounds in which the lord allowed his servants to

walk and divert themselves at all proper seasons. A pleasant garden

surrounded the castle, and a thick hedge separated this garden from

the wilderness which was infested by the robbers; in this garden

they were permitted to amuse themselves. The master advised them

always to keep within these bounds. "While you observe this rule,"

said he, "you will be safe and well; and you will consult your own

safety and happiness, as well as show your love to me, by not

venturing over to the extremity of your bounds; he who goes as far

as he dares, always shows a wish to go further than he ought, and

commonly does so."

It was remarkable, that the nearer these servants kept to the

castle, and the further from the _hedge_, the more ugly the

wilderness appeared. And the nearer they approached the forbidden

bounds, their own home appeared more dull, and the wilderness more

delightful. And this the master knew when he gave his orders; for he

never either did or said any thing without a good reason. And when

his servants sometimes desired an explanation of the reason, he used

to tell them they would understand it when they came _to the other

house_; for it was one of the pleasures of that house, that it would

explain all the mysteries of this, and any little obscurities in the

master's conduct would be then made quite plain.

Parley was the first who promised to keep clear of the _hedge_, and

yet was often seen looking as near as he durst. One day he ventured

close up to the hedge, put two or three stones one on another, and

tried to peep over. He saw one of the robbers strolling as near as

he could be on the forbidden side. This man's name was Mr.

Flatterwell, a smooth, civil man, "whose words were softer than

butter, having war in his heart." He made several low bows to

Parley.

Now, Parley knew so little of the world, that he actually concluded

all robbers must have an ugly look which should frighten you at

once, and coarse brutal manners which would at first sight show they

were enemies. He thought, like a poor ignorant fellow as he was,

that this mild, specious person could never be one of the band.

Flatterwell accosted Parley with the utmost civility, which put him

quite off his guard; for Parley had no notion that he could be an

enemy who was so soft and civil. For an open foe he would have been

prepared. Parley, however, after a little discourse drew this

conclusion, that either Mr. Flatterwell could not be one of the

gang, or that if he was, the robbers themselves could not be such

monsters as his master had described, and therefore it was a folly

to be afraid of them.

Flatterwell began, like a true adept in his art, by lulling all

Parley's suspicions asleep; and instead of openly abusing his

master, which would have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended

rather to commend him in a general way, as a person who meant well

himself, but was too apt to suspect others. To this Parley assented.

The other then ventured to hint by degrees, that though the nobleman

might be a good master in the main, yet he must say he was a little

strict, and a little stingy, and not a little censorious. That he

was blamed by the _gentlemen of the wilderness_ for shutting his

house against good company, and his servants were laughed at by

people of spirit for submitting to the gloomy life of the castle,

and the insipid pleasures of the garden, instead of ranging in the

wilderness at large.

"It is true enough," said Parley, who was generally of the opinion

of the person he was talking with, "my master is rather harsh and

close. But to own the truth, all the barring, and locking, and

bolting, is to keep out a set of gentlemen, who he assures us are

_robbers_, and who are waiting for an opportunity to destroy us. I

hope no offense, sir, but by your livery I suspect you, sir, are one

of the gang he is so much afraid of."

_Flatterwell._ Afraid of me? Impossible, dear Mr. Parley. You see, I

do not look like an enemy. I am unarmed; what harm can a plain man

like me do?

_Parley._ Why, that is true enough. Yet my master says, if we were

to let you into the house, we should be ruined soul and body.

_Flatterwell._ I am sorry, Mr. Parley, to hear so sensible a man as

you are, so deceived. This is mere prejudice. He knows we are

cheerful entertaining people, foes to gloom and superstition, and

therefore he is so morose he will not let you get acquainted with

us.

_Parley._ Well; he says you are a band of thieves, gamblers,

murderers, drunkards, and atheists.

_Flatterwell._ Don't believe him; the worst we should do, perhaps

is, we might drink a friendly glass with you to your master's

health, or play an innocent game of cards just to keep you awake, or

sing a cheerful song with the maids; now is there any harm in all

this?

_Parley._ Not the least in the world. And I begin to think there is

not a word of truth in all my master says.

_Flatterwell._ The more you know us, the more you will like us. But

I wish there was not this ugly hedge between us. I have a great deal

to say, and I am afraid of being overheard.

Parley was now just going to give a spring over the hedge, but

checked himself, saying, "I dare not come on your side, there are

people about, and every thing is carried to the master." Flatterwell

saw by this that his new friend was kept on his own side of the

hedge by fear rather than by principle, and from that moment he made

sure of him. "Dear Mr. Parley," said he, "if you will allow me the

honor of a little conversation with you, I will call under the

window of your lodge this evening. I have something to tell you

greatly to your advantage. I admire you exceedingly. I long for your

friendship; our whole brotherhood is ambitious of being known to so

amiable a person." "O dear," said Parley, "I shall be afraid of

talking to you at night. It is so against my master's orders. But

did you say you had something to tell me to my advantage?"

_Flatterwell._ Yes, I can point out to you how you may be a richer,

a merrier, and a happier man. If you will admit me to-night under

the window, I will convince you that it is prejudice and not wisdom,

which makes your master bar his door against us; I will convince you

that the mischief of a _robber_, as your master scurrilously calls

us, is only in the name; that we are your true friends, and only

mean to promote your happiness.

"Don't say _we_," said Parley, "pray come alone; I would not see the

rest of the gang for the world; but I think there can be no great

harm in talking to _you_ through the bars, if you come alone; but I

am determined not to let you in. Yet I can't say but I wish to know

what you can tell me so much to my advantage; indeed, if it is for

my good I ought to know it."

_Flatterwell. (going out, turns back.)_ Dear Mr. Parley, there is

one thing I had forgotten. I can not get over the hedge at night

without assistance. You know there is a secret in the nature of that

hedge; you in the house may get over it, into the wilderness of

your own accord, but we can not get to your side by our own

strength. You must look about to see where the hedge is thinnest,

and then set to work to clear away here and there a little bough for

me, it won't be missed; and if there is but the smallest hole made

on your side, those on ours can get through, otherwise we do but

labor in vain. To this Parley made some objection, through the fear

of being seen. Flatterwell replied, that the smallest hole from

within would be sufficient, for he could then work his own way.

"Well," said Parley, "I will consider of it. To be sure I shall even

then be equally safe in the castle, as I shall have all the bolts,

bars, and locks between us, so it will make but little difference."

"Certainly not," said Flatterwell, who knew it would make all the

difference in the world. So they parted with mutual protestations of

regard. Parley went home charmed with his new friend. His eyes were

now clearly opened as to his master's prejudices against the

_robbers_, and he was convinced there was more in the name than in

the thing. "But," said he, "though Mr. Flatterwell is certainly an

agreeable companion, he may not be so safe an inmate. There can,

however, be no harm in talking at a distance, and I certainly won't

let him in."

Parley, in the course of the day, did not forget his promise to thin

the hedge of separation a little. At first he only tore off a

handful of leaves, then a little sprig, then he broke away a bough

or two. It was observable, the larger the branch became, the worse

he began to think of his master, and the better of himself. Every

peep he took through the broken hedge increased his desire to get

out into the wilderness, and made the thoughts of the castle more

irksome to him. He was continually repeating to himself, "I wonder

what Mr. Flatterwell can have to say so much to my advantage? I see

he does not wish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve me." As

the hour of meeting, however, drew near, the master's orders now and

then came across Parley's thoughts. So to divert them, he took up

THE BOOK. He happened to open it at these words: "My son, if sinners

entice thee, consent thou not." For a moment his heart failed him.

"If this admonition should be sent on purpose?" said he; but no,

'tis a bugbear. My master told me that if I went to the bounds I

should get over the hedge. Now I went to the utmost limits, and did

_not_ get over. Here conscience put in: "Yes, but it was because you

were watched." "I am sure," continued Parley, "one may always stop

where one will, and this is only a trick of my master's to spoil

sport. So I will even hear what Mr. Flatterwell has to say so much

to my advantage. I am not obliged to follow his counsels, but there

can be no harm in hearing them."

Flatterwell prevailed on the rest of the robbers to make no public

attack on the castle that night. "My brethren," said he, "you now

and then fail in your schemes, because you are for violent

beginnings, while my smooth, insinuating measures hardly ever miss.

You come blustering and roaring, and frighten people, and set them

on their guard. You inspire them with terror of _you_, while my

whole scheme is to make them think well of _themselves_, and ill of

their master. If I once get them to entertain hard thoughts of him,

and high thoughts of themselves, my business is done, and they fall

plump into my snares. So let this delicate affair alone to me:

Parley is a softly fellow, he must not be frightened, but cajoled.

He is the very sort of a man to succeed with; and worth a hundred of

your sturdy, sensible fellows. With them we want strong arguments

and strong temptations; but with such fellows as Parley, in whom

vanity and sensuality are the leading qualities (as, let me tell

you, is the case with far the greater part) flattery and a promise

of ease and pleasure, will do more than your whole battle array. If

you will let me manage, I will get you all into the castle before

midnight."

At night the castle was barricaded as usual, and no one had observed

the hole which Parley had made in the hedge. This oversight arose

that night from the servants' neglecting one of the master's

standing orders--to make a nightly examination of the state of

things. The neglect did not proceed so much from willful

disobedience, as from having passed the evening in sloth and

diversion, which often amounts to nearly the same in its

consequences.

As all was very cheerful within, so all was very quiet without. And

before they went to bed, some of the servants observed to the rest,

that as they heard no robbers that night, they thought they might

now begin to remit something of their diligence in bolting and

barring: that all this fastening and locking was very troublesome,

and they hoped the danger was now pretty well over. It was rather

remarkable, that they never made these sort of observations, but

after an evening of some excess, and when they had neglected their

_private business with their master_. All, however, except Parley,

went quietly to bed, and seemed to feel uncommon security.

Parley crept down to his lodge. He had half a mind to go to bed too.

Yet he was not willing to disappoint Mr. Flatterwell. So civil a

gentleman! To be sure he might have had bad designs. Yet what right

had he to suspect any body who made such professions, and who was so

very civil? "Besides, it is something for my advantage," added

Parley. "I will not open the door, that is certain; but as he is to

come alone, he can do me no harm through the bars of the windows:

and he will think I am a coward if I don't keep my word. No, I will

let him see that I am not afraid of my own strength; I will show him

I can go what length I please, and stop short _when_ I please." Had

Flatterwell heard this boastful speech, he would have been quite

sure of his man.

About eleven, Parley heard the signal agreed upon. It was so gentle

as to cause little alarm. So much the worse. Flatterwell never

frightened any one, and therefore seldom failed of any one. Parley

stole softly down, planted himself at his little window, opened the

casement, and spied his new friend. It was pale starlight. Parley

was a little frightened; for he thought he perceived one or two

persons behind Flatterwell; but the other assured him it was only

his own shadow, which his fears had magnified into a company.

"Though I assure you," said he, "I have not a friend but what is as

harmless as myself."

They now entered into serious discourse, in which Flatterwell showed

himself a deep politician. He skillfully mixed up in his

conversation a proper proportion of praise on the pleasures of the

wilderness, of compliments to Parley, of ridicule on his master, and

of abusive sneers on the BOOK in which the master's laws were

written. Against this last he had always a particular spite, for he

considered it as the grand instrument by which the lord maintained

his servants in their allegiance; and when they could once be

brought to sneer at the BOOK there was an end of submission to the

lord. Parley had not penetration enough to see his drift. "As to the

BOOK, Mr. Flatterwell," said he, "I do not know whether it be true

or false. I rather neglect than disbelieve it. I am forced, indeed,

to hear it read once a week, but I never look into it myself, if I

can help it." "Excellent," said Flatterwell to himself, "that is

just the same thing. This is safe ground for me. For whether a man

does not believe in the BOOK, or does not attend to it, it comes

pretty much to the same, and I generally get him at last."

"Why can not we be a little nearer, Mr. Parley," said Flatterwell;

"I am afraid of being overheard by some of your master's spies. The

window from which you speak is so high; I wish you would come down

to the door." "Well," said Parley, "I see no great harm in that.

There is a little wicket in the door through which we may converse

with more ease and equal safety. The same fastenings will be still

between us." So down he went, but not without a degree of fear and

trembling. The little wicket being now opened, and Flatterwell

standing close on the outside of the door, they conversed with great

ease. "Mr. Parley," said Flatterwell, "I should not have pressed you

so much to admit me into the castle, but out of pure disinterested

regard to your own happiness. I shall get nothing by it, but I can

not bear to think that a person so wise and amiable should be shut

up in this gloomy dungeon, under a hard master, and a slave to the

unreasonable tyranny of his BOOK OF LAWS. If you admit me, you need

have no more waking, no more watching." Here Parley involuntarily

slipped back the bolt of the door. "To convince you of my true

love," continued Flatterwell, "I have brought a bottle of the most

delicious wine that grows in the wilderness. You shall taste it, but

you must put a glass through the wicket to receive it, for it is a

singular property of this wine, that we of the wilderness can not

succeed in conveying it to you of the castle, without you hold out a

vessel to receive it." "O here is a glass," said Parley, holding out

a large goblet, which he always kept ready to be filled by any

chance-comer. The other immediately poured into the capacious goblet

a large draught of that delicious intoxicating liquor, with which

the family of the Flatterwells have for near six thousand years

gained the hearts, and destroyed the souls of all the inhabitants of

the castle, whenever they have been able to prevail on them to hold

out a hand to receive it. This the wise, master of the castle well

knew would be the case, for he knew what was in men; he knew their

propensity to receive the delicious poison of the Flatterwells; and

it was for this reason that he gave them THE BOOK of his laws, and

planted the hedge and invented the bolts, and doubled the lock.

As soon as poor Parley had swallowed the fatal draught, it acted

like enchantment. He at once lost all power of resistance. He had no

sense of fear left. He despised his own safety, forgot his master,

lost all sight of the home in the other country, and reached out for

another draught as eagerly as Flatterwell held out the bottle to

administer it. "What a fool have I been," said Parley, "to deny

myself so long!" "Will you now let me in?" said Flatterwell. "Ay,

that I will," said the deluded Parley. Though the train was now

increased to near a hundred robbers, yet so intoxicated was Parley,

that he did not see one of them except his new friend. Parley

eagerly pulled down the bars, drew back the bolts and forced open

the locks; thinking he could never let in his friend soon enough. He

had, however, just presence of mind to say, "My dear friend I hope

you are alone." Flatterwell swore he was--Parley opened the door--in

rushed, not Flatterwell only, but the whole banditti, who always

lurked behind in his train. The moment they had got sure possession,

Flatterwell changed his soft tone, and cried in a voice of thunder,

"Down with the castle; kill, burn, and destroy."

Rapine, murder, and conflagration, by turns took place. Parley was

the very first whom they attacked. He was overpowered with wounds.

As he fell he cried out, "O my master, I die a victim to my unbelief

in thee, and to my own vanity and imprudence. O that the guardians

of all other castles would hear me with my dying breath repeat my

master's admonition, that _all attacks from without will not

destroy unless there is some confederate within_. O that the keepers

of all other castles would learn from my ruin, that he who parleys

with temptation is already undone. That he who allows himself to go

to the very bounds will soon jump over the hedge; that he who talks

out of the window with the enemy, will soon open the door to him:

that he who holds out his hand for the cup of sinful flattery, loses

all power of resisting; that when he opens the door to one sin, all

the rest fly in upon him, and the man perishes as I now do."

THE GRAND ASSIZES, ETC.;

OR, GENERAL JAIL DELIVERY.

There was in a certain country a great king, who was also a judge.

He was very merciful, but he was also very just; for he used to say,

that justice was the foundation of all goodness, and that

indiscriminate and misapplied mercy was in fact injustice. His

subjects were apt enough, in a general way, to extol his merciful

temper, and especially those subjects who were always committing

crimes which made them particularly liable to be punished by his

justice. This last quality they constantly kept out of sight, till

they had cheated themselves into a notion that he was too good to

punish at all.

Now it had happened a long time before, that this whole people had

broken their allegiance, and had forfeited the king's favor, and had

also fallen from a very prosperous state in which he had originally

placed them, having one and all become bankrupts. But when they were

over head and ears in debt, and had nothing to pay, the king's son

most generously took the whole burden of their debts on himself;

and, in short, it was proposed that all their affairs should be

settled, and their very crimes forgiven (for they were criminals as

well as debtors), provided only they would show themselves sincerely

sorry for what they had done themselves, and be thankful for what

had been done for them. I should, however, remark, that a book was

also given them, in which a true and faithful account of their own

rebellion was written; and of the manner of obtaining the king's

pardon, together with a variety of directions for their conduct in

time to come; and in this book it was particularly mentioned, that

after having lived a certain number of years in a remote part of the

same king's country, yet still under his eye and jurisdiction, there

should be a _grand assizes_, when every one was to be publicly tried

for his past behavior; and after this trial was over, certain heavy

punishments were to be inflicted on those who should have still

persisted in their rebellion, and certain high premiums were to be

bestowed as a gracious reward upon the penitent and obedient.

It may be proper here to notice, that this king's court differed in

some respect from our courts of justice, being indeed a sort of

court of appeal, to which questions were carried after they had been

imperfectly decided in the common courts! And although with us all

criminals are tried (and a most excellent mode of trial it is) by a

jury of their peers, yet in this king's country the mode was very

different; for since every one of the people had been in a certain

sense criminals, the king did not think it fair to make them judges

also. It would, indeed, have been impossible to follow in all

respects the customs which prevail with us, for the crimes with

which men are charged in our courts are mere _overt acts_, as the

lawyers call them, that is, acts which regard the outward behavior;

such as the acts of striking, maiming, stealing, and so forth. But

in this king's court it was not merely outward sins, but sins of the

heart also which were to be punished. Many a crime, therefore, which

was never heard of in the court of King's Bench, or at the Old

Bailey, and which indeed could not be cognizable by these courts,

was here to be brought to light, and was reserved for this great

day. Among these were pride, and oppression, and envy, and malice,

and revenge, and covetousness, and secret vanity of mind, and evil

thoughts of all sorts, and all sinful wishes and desires. When

covetousness, indeed, put men on committing robbery, or when malice

drove them to acts of murder, then the common courts immediately

judged the criminal, without waiting for these great assizes;

nevertheless, since even a thief and murderer would now and then

escape in the common courts, for want of evidence, or through some

fault or other of the judge or jury, the escape was of little moment

to the poor criminal, for he was sure to be tried again by this

great king; and even though the man should have been punished in

some sense before, yet he had now a further and more lasting

punishment to fear, unless, indeed, he was one of those who had

obtained (by the means I before spoke of) this great king's pardon.

The _sins of the heart_, however, were by far the most numerous sort

of sins, which were to come before this great tribunal; and these

were to be judged by this great king in person, and by none but

himself; because he alone possessed a certain power of getting at

all secrets.

I once heard of a certain king of Sicily, who built a whispering

gallery in the form of an ear, through which he could hear every

word his rebellious subjects uttered, though spoken ever so low. But

this secret of the king of Sicily was nothing to what this great

king possessed; for he had the power of knowing every thought which

was conceived in the mind, though it never broke out into words, or

proceeded to actions.

Now you may be ready to think, perhaps, that these people were worse

off than any others, because they were to be examined so closely,

and judged so strictly. Far from it; the king was too just to expect

bricks without giving them straw; he gave them, therefore, every

help that they needed. He gave them a book of directions, as I

before observed; and because they were naturally short-sighted, he

supplied them with a glass for reading it, and thus the most

dim-sighted might see, if they did not willfully shut their eyes:

but though the king _invited_ them to open their eyes, he did not

_compel_ them; and many remain stone blind all their lives with the

book in their hand, because they would not use the glass, nor take

the proper means for reading and understanding all that was written

for them. The humble and sincere learned in time to see even that

part of the book which was least plainly written; and it was

observed that the ability to understand it depended more on the

heart than the head; an evil disposition blinded the sight, while

humility operated like an eye-salve.

Now it happened that those who had been so lucky as to escape the

punishment of the lower courts, took it into their heads that they

were all very good sort of people, and of course very safe from any

danger at this _great assize_. This grand intended trial, indeed,

had been talked of so much, and put off so long (for it had seemed

long at least to these short-sighted people) that many persuaded

themselves it would never take place at all; and far the greater

part were living away therefore, without ever thinking about it;

they went on just as if nothing at all had been done for their

benefit; and as if they had no king to please, no king's son to be

thankful to, no book to guide themselves by, and as if the assizes

were never to come about.

But with this king _a thousand years were as a day, for he was not

slack concerning his promises, as some men count slackness_. So at

length the solemn period approached. Still, however, the people did

not prepare for the solemnity, or rather, they prepared for it much

as some of the people of our provincial towns are apt to prepare

for the annual assize times; I mean by balls and feastings, and they

saw their own trial come on with as little concern as is felt by the

people in our streets when they see the judge's procession enter the

town; they indeed comfort themselves that it is only those in the

prisons who are guilty.

But when at last the day came, and every man found that he was to be

judged for himself; and that somehow or other, all his secrets were

brought out, and that there was now no escape, not even a short

reprieve, things began to take a more serious turn. Some of the

worst of the criminals were got together debating in an outer court

of the grand hall; and there they passed their time, not in

compunction and tears, not in comparing their lives with what was

required in that book which had been given them, but they derived a

fallacious hope by comparing themselves with such as had been still

more notorious offenders.

One who had grown wealthy by rapine and oppression, but had

contrived to keep within the letter of the law, insulted a poor

fellow as a thief, because he had stolen a loaf of bread. "You are

far wickeder than I was," said a citizen to his apprentice, "for you

drank and swore at the ale-house every Sunday night." "Yes," said

the poor fellow, "but it was your fault that I did so, for you took

no care of my soul, but spent all your Sabbaths in jaunting abroad

or in rioting at home; I might have learned, but there was no one to

teach me; I might have followed a good example, but I saw only bad

ones. I sinned against less light than you did." A drunken

journeyman who had spent all his wages on gin, rejoiced that he had

not spent a great estate in bribery at elections, as the lord of his

manor had done, while a perjured elector boasted that he was no

drunkard like the journeyman; and the member himself took comfort

that he had never _received_ the bribes which he had not been

ashamed to _offer_.

I have not room to describe the awful pomp of the court, nor the

terrible sounding of the trumpet which attended the judge's

entrance, nor the sitting of the judge, nor the opening of the

books, nor the crowding of the millions, who stood before him. I

shall pass over the multitudes who were tried and condemned to

dungeons and chains, and eternal fire, and to perpetual banishment

from the presence of the king, which always seemed to be the saddest

part of the sentence. I shall only notice further, a few who brought

some plea of merit, and claimed a right to be rewarded by the king,

and even deceived themselves so far as to think that his own book of

laws would be their justification.

A thoughtless spendthrift advanced without any contrition, and said,

"that he had lived handsomely, and had hated the covetous whom God

abhorreth; that he trusted in the passage of the book which said,

that _covetousness was idolatry_; and that he therefore hoped for a

favorable sentence." Now it proved that this man had not only

avoided covetousness, but that he had even left his wife and

children in want through his excessive prodigality. The judge

therefore immediately pointed to that place in the book where it is

written, _he that provideth not for his household is worse than an

infidel. He that liveth in pleasure is dead while he liveth_;

"thou," said he, "_in thy lifetime, receivedst thy good things, and

now thou must be tormented_." Then a miser, whom hunger and hoarding

had worn to skin and bone, crept forward, and praised the sentence

passed on the extravagant youth, "and surely," said he, "since he is

condemned, I am a man that may make some plea to favor--I was never

idle or drunk, I kept my body in subjection, I have been so

self-denying that I am certainly a saint: I have loved neither

father nor mother, nor wife nor children, to excess, in all this I

have obeyed the book of the law." Then the judge said, "But where

are thy works of mercy and thy labors of love? see that family which

perished in thy sight last hard winter while thy barns were

overflowing; that poor family were my representatives; yet they were

hungry, and thou gavest them no meat. _Go to, now, thou rich man,

weep and howl for the miseries that are come upon you. Your gold and

silver is cankered, and the rust of them shall be a witness against

you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire._"

Then came up one with a most self-sufficient air. He walked up

boldly, having in one hand the plan of a hospital which he had

built, and in the other the drawing of the statue which was erecting

for him in the country that he had just left, and on his forehead

appeared, in gold letters, the list of all the public charities to

which he had subscribed. He seemed to take great pleasure in the

condemnation of the miser, and said, "Lord when saw I thee hungry

and fed thee not, or in prison and visited thee not? I have visited

the fatherless and widow in their affliction." Here the judge cut

him short, by saying, "True, thou didst visit the fatherless, but

didst thou fulfill equally that other part of my command, 'to keep

thyself unspotted from the world.' No, thou wast conformed to the

world in many of its sinful customs, thou didst follow a multitude

to do evil; thou didst love the world and the things of the world;

and the motive to all thy charities was not a regard to me but to

thy own credit with thy fellow-men. Thou hast done every thing for

the sake of reputation, and now thou art vainly trusting in thy

deceitful works, instead of putting all thy trust in my son, who has

offered himself to be a surety for thee. Where has been that

humility and gratitude to him which was required of thee? No, thou

wouldest be thine own surety: thou hast trusted in thyself: thou

hast made thy boast of thine own goodness; thou hast sought after

and thou hast enjoyed the praise of men, and verily I say unto thee,

'thou hast had thy reward.'"

A poor, diseased, blind cripple, who came from the very hospital

which this great man had built, then fell prostrate on his face,

crying out, "Lord be merciful to me a sinner!" on which the judge,

to the surprise of all, said, "Well done, good and faithful

servant." The poor man replied, "Lord, I have done nothing!" "But

thou hast 'suffered well:'" said the judge; "thou hast been an

example of patience and meekness, and though thou hadst but few

talents, yet thou hast well improved those few; thou hadst time,

this thou didst spend in the humble duties of thy station, and also

in earnest prayer; thou didst pray even for that proud founder of

the hospital, who never prayed for himself; thou wast indeed blind

and lame, but it is no where said, My son give me thy feet, or thine

eyes, but Give me thy heart; and even the few faculties I did grant

thee, were employed to my glory; with thine ears thou didst listen

to my word, with thy tongue thou didst show forth my praise: 'enter

thou into the joy of thy Lord.'"

There were several who came forward, and boasted of some single and

particular virtue, in which they had been supposed to excel. One

talked of his generosity, another of his courage, and a third of his

fortitude; but it proved on a close examination, that some of those

supposed virtues were merely the effect of a particular constitution

of body; the others proceeded from a false motive, and that not a

few of them were actual vices, since they were carried to excess;

and under the pretense of fulfilling one duty, some other duty was

lost sight of; in short, these partial virtues were none of them

practiced in obedience to the will of the King, but merely to please

the person's own humor, or to gain praise, and they would not,

therefore, stand this day's trial, for "he that had kept the whole

law, and yet had willfully and habitually offended in any one point,

was declared guilty of breaking the whole."

At this moment a sort of thick scales fell from the eyes of the

multitude. They could now no longer take comfort, as they had done

for so many years, by measuring their neighbors' conduct against

their own. Each at once saw himself in his true light, and found,

alas! when it was too late, that he should have made the book which

had been given him his rule of practice before, since it now proved

to be the rule by which he was to be judged. Nay, every one now

thought himself even worse than his neighbor, because, while he only

_saw_ and _heard_ of the guilt of others, he _felt_ his own in all

its aggravated horror.

To complete their confusion they were compelled to acknowledge the

justice of the judge who condemned them: and also to approve the

favorable sentence by which thousands of other criminals had not

only their lives saved, but were made happy and glorious beyond all

imagination; not for any great merits which they had to produce, but

in consequence of their sincere repentance, and their humble

acceptance of the pardon offered to them by the King's son. One

thing was remarkable, that whilst most of those who were condemned,

never expected condemnation, but even claimed a reward for their

supposed innocence or goodness, all who were really rewarded and

forgiven were sensible that they owed their pardon to a mere act of

grace, and they cried out with one voice, "Not unto us, not unto us,

but unto thy name be the praise!"

THE SERVANT MAN TURNED SOLDIER;

OR, THE FAIR-WEATHER CHRISTIAN.

William was a lively young servant, who lived in a _great, but very

irregular family_. His place was on the whole agreeable to him, and

suited to his gay and thoughtless temper. He found a plentiful table

and a good cellar. There was, indeed, a great deal of work to be

done, though it was performed with much disorder and confusion. The

family in the main were not unkind to him, though they often

contradicted and crossed him, especially when things went ill with

themselves. This, William never much liked, for he was always fond

of having his own way. There was a merry, or rather a noisy and

riotous servants' hall; for disorder and quarrels are indeed the

usual effects of plenty and unrestrained indulgence. The men were

smart, but idle; the maids were showy but licentious, and all did

pretty much as they liked for a time, but the time was commonly

short. The wages were reckoned high, but they were seldom paid, and

it was even said by sober people, that the family was insolvent, and

never fulfilled any of their flattering engagements, or their most

positive promises; but still, notwithstanding their real poverty,

things went on with just the same thoughtlessness and splendor, and

neither master nor servants looked beyond the jollity of the present

hour.

In this unruly family there was little church-going, and still less

praying at home. They pretended, indeed, in a general way, to

believe in the Bible, but it was only an outward profession; few of

them read it at all, and even of those who did read still fewer were

governed by it. There was indeed a Bible lying on the table in the

great hall, which was kept for the purpose of administering an oath,

but was seldom used on any other occasion, and some of the heads of

the family were of opinion that this was its only real use, as it

might serve to keep the lower parts of it in order.

William, who was fond of novelty and pleasure, was apt to be

negligent of the duties of the house. He used to stay out on his

errands, and one of his favorite amusements was going to the parade

to see the soldiers exercise. He saw with envy how smartly they were

dressed, listened with rapture to the music, and fancied that a

soldier had nothing to do but to walk to and fro in a certain

regular order, to go through a little easy exercise, in short, to

live without fighting, fatigue, or danger.

O, said he, whenever he was affronted at home, what a fine thing it

must be to be a soldier! to be so well dressed, to have nothing to

do but to move to the pleasant sound of fife and drum, and to have

so many people come to look at one, and admire one. O it must be a

fine thing to be a soldier!

Yet when the vexation of the moment was over, he found so much ease

and diversion in the great family, it was so suited to his low taste

and sensual appetites, that he thought no more of the matter. He

forgot the glories of a soldier, and eagerly returned to all the

mean gratifications of the kitchen. His evil habits were but little

attended to by those with whom he lived; his faults, among which

were lying and swearing, were not often corrected by the family, who

had little objections to those sins, which only offended God and

did not much affect their own interest or property. And except that

William was obliged to work rather more than he liked, he found

little, while he was young and healthy, that was very disagreeable

in this service. So he went on, still thinking, however, when things

went a little cross, what a fine thing it was to be a soldier! At

last one day as he was waiting at dinner, he had the misfortune to

let fall a china dish, and broke it all to pieces. It was a curious

dish, much valued by the family, as they pretended; this family were

indeed apt to set a false fantastic value on things, and not to

estimate them by their real worth. The heads of the family, who had

generally been rather patient and good-humored with William, as I

said before, for those vices, which though offensive to God did not

touch their own pocket, now flew out into a violent passion with

him, called him a thousand hard names, and even threatened to

horsewhip him for his shameful negligence.

William in a great fright, for he was a sad coward at bottom, ran

directly out of the house to avoid the threatened punishment; and

happening just at that very time to pass by the parade where the

soldiers chanced to be then exercising, his resolution was taken in

a moment. He instantly determined to be no more a slave, as he

called it; he would return no more to be subject to the humors of a

tyrannical family: no, he was resolved to be free; or at least, if

he must serve, he would serve no master but the king.

William, who had now and then happened to hear from the accidental

talk of the soldiers that those who served the great family he had

lived with, were slaves to their tyranny and vices, had also heard

in the same casual manner, that the service of the king was _perfect

freedom_. Now he had taken it into his head to hope that this might

be a freedom to do evil, or at least to do nothing, so he thought it

was the only place in the world to suit him.

A fine likely young man as William was, had no great difficulty to

get enlisted. The few forms were soon settled, he received the

bounty money as eagerly as it was offered, took the oaths of

allegiance, was joined to the regiment and heartily welcomed by his

new comrades. He was the happiest fellow alive. All was smooth and

calm. The day happened to be very fine, and therefore William always

reckoned upon a fine day. The scene was gay and lively, the music

cheerful, he found the exercise very easy, and he thought there was

little more expected from him.

He soon began to flourish away in his talk; and when he met with any

of his old servants, he fell a prating about marches and

counter-marches, and blockades, and battles, and sieges, and blood,

and death, and triumphs, and victories, all at random, for these

were words and phrases he had picked up without at all understanding

what he said. He had no knowledge, and therefore he had no modesty;

he had no experience, and therefore he had no fears.

All seemed to go on swimmingly, for he had as yet no trial. He began

to think with triumph what a mean life he had escaped from in the

old quarrelsome family, and what a happy, honorable life he should

have in the army. O there was no life like the life of a soldier!

In a short time, however, war broke out; his regiment was one of the

first which was called out to actual and hard service. As William

was the most raw of all the recruits, he was the first to murmur at

the difficulties and hardships, the cold, the hunger, the fatigue

and danger of being a soldier. O what watchings, and perils, and

trials, and hardships, and difficulties, he now thought attended a

military life! Surely, said he, I could never have suspected all

this misery when I used to see the men on the parade in our town.

He now found, when it was too late, that all the field-days he used

to attend, all the evolutions and exercises which he had observed

the soldiers to go through in the calm times of peace and safety,

were only meant to fit, train and qualify them for the actual

service which they were now sent out to perform by the command of

the king.

The truth is, William often complained when there was no real

hardship to complain of; for the common troubles of life fell out

pretty much alike to the great family which William had left, and to

the soldiers in the king's army. But the spirit of obedience,

discipline, and self-denial of the latter seemed hardships to one of

William's loose turn of mind. When he began to murmur, some good old

soldier clapped him on the back, saying, Cheer up lad, it is a

kingdom you are to strive for, if we faint not, henceforth there is

laid up for us a great reward; we have the king's word for it, man.

William observed, that to those who truly believed this, their

labors were as nothing, but he himself did not at the bottom believe

it; and it was observed, of all the soldiers who failed, the true

cause was that they did not really believe the king's promise. He

was surprised to see that those soldiers, who used to bluster and

boast, and deride the assaults of the enemy, now began to fall away;

while such as had faithfully obeyed the king's orders, and believed

in his word, were sustained in the hour of trial. Those who had

trusted in their own strength all fainted on the slightest attack,

while those who had put on the armor of the king's providing, the

sword, and the shield, and the helmet, and the breast-plate, and

whose feet were shod according to order, now endured hardship as

good soldiers, and were enabled to fight the good fight.

An engagement was expected immediately. The men were ordered to

prepare for battle. While the rest of the corps were so preparing,

William's whole thoughts were bent on contriving how he might

desert. But alas! he was watched on all sides, he could not possibly

devise any means to escape. The danger increased every moment, the

battle came on. William, who had been so sure and confident before

he entered, flinched in the moment of trial, while his more quiet

and less boastful comrades prepared boldly to do their duty. William

looked about on all sides, and saw that there was no eye upon him,

for he did not know that the king's eye was everywhere at once. He

at last thought he spied a chance of escaping, not from the enemy,

but from his own army. While he was endeavoring to escape, a ball

from the opposite camp took off his leg. As he fell, the first words

which broke from him were, While I was in my duty I was preserved;

in the very act of deserting I am wounded. He lay expecting every

moment to be trampled to death, but as the confusion was a little

over, he was taken off the field by some of his own party, laid in a

place of safety, and left to himself after his wound was dressed.

The skirmish, for it proved nothing more, was soon over. The greater

part of the regiment escaped in safety. William in the mean time

suffered cruelly both in mind and body. To the pains of a wounded

soldier, he added the disgrace of a coward, and the infamy of a

deserter. O, cried he, why was I such a fool as to leave the _great

family_ I lived in, where there was meat and drink enough and to

spare, only on account of a little quarrel? I might have made up

that with them as we had done our former quarrels. Why did I leave a

life of ease and pleasure, where I had only a little rub now and

then, for a life of daily discipline and constant danger? Why did I

turn soldier? O what a miserable animal is a soldier!

As he was sitting in this weak and disabled condition, uttering the

above complaints, he observed a venerable old officer, with thin

gray locks on his head, and on his face, deep wrinkles engraved by

time, and many an honest scar inflicted by war. William had heard

this old officer highly commended for his extraordinary courage and

conduct in battle, and in peace he used to see him cool and

collected, devoutly employed in reading and praying in the interval

of more active duties. He could not help comparing this officer with

himself. I, said he, flinched and drew back, and would even have

deserted in the moment of peril, and now in return, I have no

consolation in the hour of repose and safety. I would not fight

then, I can not pray now. O why would I ever think of being a

soldier? He then began afresh to weep and lament, and he groaned so

loud that he drew the notice of the officer, who came up to him,

kindly sat down by him, took him by the hand, and inquired with as

much affection as if he had been his brother, what was the matter

with him, and what particular distress, more than the common fortune

of war it was which drew from him such bitter groans? "I know

something of surgery," added he, "let me examine your wound, and

assist you with such little comfort as I can."

William at once saw the difference between the soldiers in the

king's army, and the people in the great family; the latter commonly

withdrew their kindness in sickness and trouble, when most wanted,

which was just the very time when the others came forward to assist.

He told the officer his little history, the manner of his living in

the great family, the trifling cause of his quarreling with it, the

slight ground of his entering into the king's service. "Sir," said

he, "I quarreled with the family and I thought I was at once fit for

the army: I did not know the qualifications it required. I had not

reckoned on discipline, and hardships, and self-denial. I liked well

enough to sing a loyal song, or drink the king's health, but I find

I do not relish working and fighting for him, though I rashly

promised even to lay down my life for his service if called upon,

when I took the bounty money and the oath of allegiance. In short,

sir, I find that I long for the ease and sloth, the merriment and

the feasting of my old service; I find I can not be a soldier, and,

to speak truth, I was in the very act of deserting when I was

stopped short by the cannon-ball. So that I feel the guilt of

desertion, and the misery of having lost my leg into the bargain."

The officer thus replied: "Your state is that of every worldly

irreligious man. The great family you served is a just picture of

the world. The wages the world promises to those who are willing to

do its work are high, but the payment is attended with much

disappointment; nay, the world, like your great family, is in itself

insolvent, and in its very nature incapable of making good the

promises and of paying the high rewards which it holds out to tempt

its credulous followers. The ungodly world, like your family, cares

little for church, and still less for prayer; and considers the

Bible rather as an instrument to make an oath binding, in order to

keep the vulgar in obedience, than as containing in itself a perfect

rule of faith and practice, and as a title-deed to heaven. The

generality of men love the world as you did your service, while it

smiles upon them, and gives them easy work and plenty of meat and

drink; but as soon as it begins to cross and contradict them, they

get out of humor with it, just as you did with your service. They

then think its drudgery hard, its rewards low. They find out that it

is high in its expectations from them, and slack in its payments to

them. And they begin to fancy (because they do not hear religious

people murmur as they do) that there must be some happiness in

religion. The world, which takes no account of their deeper sins, at

length brings them into discredit for some act of imprudence, just

as your family overlooked your lying and swearing, but threatened to

drub you for breaking a china dish. Such is the judgment of the

world! it patiently bears with those who only break the laws of

God, but severely punishes the smallest negligence by which they

themselves are injured. The world sooner pardons the breaking ten

commandments of God, than even a china dish of its own.

"After some cross or opposition, worldly men, as I said before,

begin to think how much content and cheerfulness they remember to

have seen in religious people. They therefore begin to fancy that

religion must be an easy and delightful, as well as a good thing.

They have heard that, _her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all

her paths are peace_; and they persuade themselves, that by this is

meant worldly pleasantness and sensual peace. They resolve at length

to try it, to turn their back upon the world, to engage in the

service of God and turn Christians; just as you resolved to leave

your old service, to enter into the service of the king and turn

soldier. But as you quitted your place in a passion, so they leave

the world in a huff. They do not count the cost. They do not

calculate upon the darling sin, the habitual pleasures, the ease,

and vanities, which they undertake by their new engagements to

renounce, no more than you counted what indulgences you were going

to give up when you quitted the luxuries and idleness of your place

to enlist in the soldier's warfare. They have, as I said, seen

Christians cheerful, and they mistook the ground of their

cheerfulness; they fancied it arose, not because through grace they

had conquered difficulties, but because they had no difficulties in

their passage. They fancied that religion found the road smooth,

whereas it only helps to bear with a rough road without complaint.

They do not know that these Christians are of good cheer, not

because the world is free from tribulation, but because Christ,

their captain, has _overcome the world_. But the irreligious man,

who has only seen the outside of a Christian in his worldly

intercourse, knows little of his secret conflicts, his trials, his

self-denials, his warfare with the world without; and with his own

corrupt desires within.

"The irreligious man quarrels with the world on some such occasion

as you did with your place. He now puts on the outward forms and

ceremonies of religion, and assumes the badge of Christianity, just

as you were struck with the show of a field-day; just as you were

pleased with the music and the marching, and put on the cockade and

red coat. All seems smooth for a little while. He goes through the

outward exercise of a Christian, a degree of credit attends his new

profession, but he never suspects there is either difficulty or

discipline attending it; he fancies religion is a thing for talking

about, and not a thing of the heart and the life. He never suspects

that all the psalm-singing he joins in, and the sermons he hears,

and the other means he is using, are only as the exercise and the

evolutions of the soldiers, to fit and prepare him for actual

service; and that these means are no more religion itself, than the

exercises and evolutions of your parade were real warfare.

"At length some trial arises: this nominal Christian is called to

differ from the world in some great point; something happens which

may strike at his comfort, or his credit, or security. This cools

his zeal for religion, just as the view of an engagement cooled your

courage as a soldier. He finds he was only _angry_ with the world,

he was not _tired_ of it. He was out of humor with the world, not

because he had seen through its vanity and emptiness, but because

the world was out of humor with him. He finds that it is an easy

thing to be a fair-weather Christian, bold where there is nothing to

be done, and confident where there is nothing to be feared.

Difficulties unmask him to others; temptations unmask him to

himself; he discovers, that though he is a high professor, he is no

Christian; just as you found out that your red coat and your

cockade, your shoulder-knot and your musket, did not prevent you

from being a coward.

"Your misery in the military life, like that of the nominal

Christian, arose from your love of ease, your cowardice, and your

self-ignorance. You rushed into a new way of life without trying

after one qualification for it. A total change of heart and temper

were necessary for your new calling. With new views and principles

the soldier's life would have been not only easy, but delightful to

you. But while with a new profession you retained your old nature it

is no wonder if all discipline seemed intolerable to you.

"The true Christian, like the brave soldier, is supported under

dangers by a strong faith that the fruits of that victory for which

he fights will be safety and peace. But, alas! the pleasures of this

world are present and visible; the rewards for which he strives are

remote. He therefore fails, because nothing short of a lively faith

can ever outweigh a strong present temptation, and lead a man to

prefer the joys of conquest to the pleasures of indulgence."

THE END.