HON. Pray, sir, now that we are upon the road, tell us some profitable

things of some that have gone on pilgrimage before us.

[Sidenote: REVIEWS OTHER PILGRIMAGES]

GREAT. With a good will. I suppose you have heard how Christian of old

did meet with Apollyon in the Valley of Humiliation, and also what hard

work he had to go through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Also I

think you cannot but have heard how Faithful was put to it by Madam

Wanton, with Adam the first, with one Discontent, and Shame; four as

deceitful villains as a man can meet with upon the road.

HON. Yes, I believe I have heard of all this; but, indeed, good Faithful

was hardest put to it with Shame: he was an unwearied one.

GREAT. Ay; for, as the pilgrim well said, he of all men had the wrong

name.

HON. But pray, sir, where was it that Christian and Faithful met

Talkative? That same was also a notable one.

GREAT. He was a confident fool; yet many follow his ways.

HON. He had liked to have deceived Faithful.

GREAT. Ay, but Christian put him into a way quickly to find him out.

Thus they went on till they came to the place where Evangelist met with

Christian and Faithful, and foretold them what should befall them at

Vanity Fair. Then said their guide, "Hereabouts did Christian and

Faithful meet with Evangelist, who foretold them of their troubles which

they should meet with at Vanity Fair."

HON. Say you so? I dare say it was a hard chapter, then, that he did

read unto them!

GREAT. It was; but he gave them encouragement withal. But what do we

talk of them? they were a couple of lion-like men: they had set their

faces like flint. Do not you remember how undaunted they were when they

stood before the judge?

HON. Well. Faithful bravely suffered.

GREAT. So he did, and as brave things came on't; for Hopeful and some

others, as the story relates it, were converted by his death.

HON. Well, but pray go on, for you are well acquainted with things.

GREAT. Above all that Christian met with after he had passed through

Vanity Fair, one By-ends was the arch one.

HON. By-ends! what was he?

GREAT. A very arch fellow--a downright deceiver; one that would be

religious, which way soever the world went; but so cunning that he would

be sure never to lose or suffer for it. He had his mode of religion for

every fresh occasion, and his wife was as good at it as he. And he would

turn and change from opinion to opinion; yea, and plead for so doing,

too. But, as far as I could learn, he came to an ill end with his

by-ends; nor did I ever hear that any of his children were ever of any

esteem with any that truly feared God.

[Sidenote: THEY ARRIVE AT VANITY FAIR]

Now, by this time they were come within sight of the town of Vanity,

where Vanity Fair is kept. So, when they saw that they were so near the

town, they consulted with one another how they should pass through the

town; and some said one thing, and some another. At last Mr. Great-heart

said, "I have, as you may understand, often been a conductor of pilgrims

through this town. Now, I am acquainted with one Mr. Mnason, a Cyprusian

by nature, an old disciple, at whose house we may lodge. If you think

good," said he, "we will turn in there."

[Sidenote: MNASON ENTERTAINS PILGRIMS]

"Content," said old Honest; "Content," said Christiana; "Content," said

Mr. Feeble-mind; and so they said all. Now, you must think it was

eventide by that they got to the outside of the town; but Mr.

Great-heart knew the way to the old man's house. So thither they came,

and he called at the door; and the old man within knew his tongue so

soon as ever he heard it; so he opened the door, and they all came in.

Then said Mnason, their host, "How far have ye come to-day?"

So they said, "From the house of Gaius, our friend."

"I promise you," said he, "you have come a good stitch: you may well be

weary. Sit down." So they sat down.

GREAT. Then said their guide, "Come, what cheer, sirs? I dare say you

are welcome to my friend."

MNAS. "I also," said Mr. Mnason, "do bid you welcome; and whatever you

want, do but say, and we will do what we can to get it for you."

HON. Our great want a while since was a resting-place and good company,

and now I hope we have both.

MNAS. For resting-place, you see what it is; but for good company, that

will appear in the trial.

GREAT. "Well," said Great-heart, "will you have the pilgrims up into

their lodging?"

MNAS. "I will," said Mr. Mnason. So he had them up to their several

places, and also showed them a very fair dining-room, where they might

be, and sup together, until time should come to go to rest.

Now, when they were set in their places, and were a little cheery after

their journey, Mr. Honest asked his landlord if there were any store of

good people in the town.

MNAS. We have a few; for, indeed, they are but a few when compared with

them on the other side.

HON. But how shall we do to see some of them? for the sight of good men

to them that are going on pilgrimage is like the appearing of the moon

and stars to them that are sailing upon the seas.

[Sidenote: FRIENDS CALL ON THE PILGRIMS]

MNAS. Then Mr. Mnason stamped with his foot, and his daughter Grace came

up. So he said unto her, "Grace, go you, tell my friends, Mr. Contrite,

Mr. Holy-man, Mr. Love-saint, Mr. Dare-not-lie, and Mr. Penitent, that I

have a friend or two at my house who have a mind this evening to see

them." So Grace went to call them, and they came; and, after salutation

made, they sat down together at the table.

Then said Mr. Mnason, their landlord, "My neighbors, I have, as you see,

a company of strangers come to my house: they are pilgrims; they come

from afar, and are going to Mount Zion. But who," quoth he, "do you

think this is?" pointing with his finger to Christiana. "It is

Christiana, the wife of Christian, that famous pilgrim who, with

Faithful his brother, was so shamefully handled in our town."

At that they stood amazed, saying, "We little thought to see Christiana

when Grace came to call us; wherefore this is a very comfortable

surprise." They then asked her of her welfare, and if these young men

were her husband's sons. And when she told them they were, they said,

"The King whom you love and serve, make you as your father, and bring

you where he is in peace!"

HON. Then Mr. Honest (when they had all sat down) asked Mr. Contrite and

the rest, in what posture their town was at present.

CONTRITE. You may be sure we are full of hurry in fair-time. 'Tis hard

keeping our hearts and spirits in good order when we are in a cumbered

condition. He that lives in such a place as this, and has to do with

such as we have, has need of a hint to caution him to take heed, every

moment of the day.

HON. But how are your neighbors for quietness?

CONTR. They are much more moderate now than formerly. You know how

Christian and Faithful were used at our town; but of late, I say, they

have been far more moderate. I think the blood of Faithful lieth as a

load upon them till now; for since they burned him they have been

ashamed to burn any more. In those days we were afraid to walk the

street; but now we can show our heads. Then the name of a Christian was

hated; now, specially in some parts of our town (for you know our town

is large), religion is counted honorable.

Then said Mr. Contrite to them, "Pray, how fareth it with you in your

pilgrimage? how stands the country towards you?"

HON. It happens to us as it happeneth to wayfaring men: sometimes our

way is clean, sometimes up-hill, sometimes down-hill: we are seldom at a

certainty. The wind is not always on our back, nor is every one a friend

that we meet with in the way. We have met with some notable rubs

already, and what are yet behind we know not; but, for the most part we

find it true that has been talked of, of old, "A good man must suffer

trouble."

CONTR. You talk of rubs; what rubs have you met withal?

HON. Nay, ask Mr. Great-heart, our guide; for he can give the best

account of that.

GREAT. We have been beset three or four times already. First, Christiana

and her children were beset by two ruffians, who, they feared, would

take away their lives. We were beset by Giant Bloody-man, Giant Maul,

and Giant Slay-good. Indeed, we did rather beset the last, than were

beset of him. And thus it was: After we had been some time at the house

of Gaius mine host, and of the whole Church, we were minded upon a time

to take our weapons with us, and go and see if we could light upon any

of those that were enemies to pilgrims; for we heard that there was a

notable one thereabouts. Now Gaius knew his haunt better than I, because

he dwelt thereabout. So we looked, and looked, till at last we saw the

mouth of his cave; then we were glad and plucked up our spirits. So we

approached up to his den; and, lo! when we came there, he had dragged,

by mere force, into his net, this poor man, Mr. Feeble-mind, and was

about to bring him to his end. But, when he saw us, supposing, as he

thought, he had had another prey, he left the poor man in his house, and

came out. So we fell to it full sore, and he lustily laid about him;

but, in conclusion, he was brought down to the ground, and his head cut

off, and set up by the wayside, for terror to such as should after

practice such ungodliness. That I tell you the truth, here is the man

himself to affirm it, who was as a lamb taken out of the mouth of the

lion.

FEEBLE. Then said Mr. Feeble-mind, "I found this true, to my cost and

comfort: to my cost, when he threatened to pick my bones every moment;

and to my comfort, when I saw Mr. Great-heart and his friends with their

weapons approach so near for my deliverance."

HOLY. Then said Mr. Holy-man, "There are two things that they have need

to possess who go on pilgrimage--courage and an unspotted life. If they

have not courage, they can never hold on their way; and if their lives

be loose, they will make the very name of the pilgrim stink."

LOVE. Then said Mr. Love-saint, "I hope this caution is not needful

among you. But truly there are many that go upon the road, who rather

declare themselves strangers to pilgrimage than strangers and pilgrims

in the earth."

DARE. Then said Mr. Dare-not-lie, "'Tis true. They have neither the

pilgrim's weed nor the pilgrim's courage: they go not uprightly, but all

awry with their feet; one shoe goeth inward, another outward, and their

hosen out behind; there is here a rag, and there a rent, to the

disparagement of their Lord."

PEN. "These things," said Mr. Penitent, "they ought to be troubled for;

nor are the pilgrims like to have that grace upon them and their

pilgrim's progress as they desire, until the way is cleared of such

spots and blemishes."

Thus they sat talking and spending the time until supper was set upon

the table, unto which they went, and refreshed their weary bodies; so

they went to rest.

[Sidenote: GRACE AND SAMUEL]

Now, they stayed in this fair a great while, at the house of Mnason,

who, in process of time, gave his daughter Grace unto Samuel,

Christiana's son, to wife; and his daughter Martha to Joseph.

The time, as I said, that they stayed here was long; for it was not now

as in former times. Wherefore the pilgrims grew acquainted with many of

the good people of the town, and did them what service they could.

Mercy, as she was wont, labored much for the poor; wherefore their

bodies and backs blessed her, and she was there an ornament to her

profession. And to say the truth for Grace, Phoebe, and Martha, they

were all of a very good nature, and did much good in their places. They

were also all of them very fruitful; so that Christian's name, as was

said before, was like to live in the world.

While they lay here, there came a monster out of the woods, and slew

many of the people of the town. It would also carry away their children,

and teach them to suck its whelps. Now, no man in the town durst so much

as face this monster, but all fled when they heard the noise of his

coming.

The monster was like unto no one beast on the earth. Its body was like a

dragon, and it had seven heads and ten horns. It made great havoc of

children, and yet it was governed by a woman. This monster gave

conditions to men, and such men as loved their lives more than their

souls accepted of those conditions; so they came under.

Now, this Mr. Great-heart, together with those that came to visit the

pilgrims at Mr. Mnason's house, entered into a covenant to go and engage

this beast, if perhaps they might deliver the people of this town from

the paws and mouth of this so devouring a serpent.

Then did Mr. Great-heart, Mr. Contrite, Mr. Holy-man, Mr. Dare-not-lie,

and Mr. Penitent, with their weapons, go forth to meet him. Now, the

monster was at first very rampant, and looked upon these enemies with

great disdain; but they so belabored him, being sturdy men-at-arms, that

they made him make a retreat. So they came home to Mr. Mnason's house

again.

[Sidenote: MARTHA AND JOSEPH]

The monster, you must know, had his certain seasons to come out in, and

to make his attempts upon the children of the people of the town. Also,

these seasons did these valiant worthies watch him in, and did still

continually assault him; insomuch that in process of time he became not

only wounded, but lame. Also he has not made that havoc of the

townsmen's children as formerly he had done; and it is verily believed

by some that this beast will die of his wounds.

This, therefore, made Mr. Great-heart and his fellows of great fame in

this town; so that many of the people that wanted their taste of things,

yet had a reverent esteem and respect for them. Upon this account,

therefore, it was that these pilgrims got not much hurt here. True,

there were some of the baser sort, that could see no more than a mole,

nor understand any more than a beast; these had no reverence for these

men, and took no notice of their valor or adventures.

Well, the time grew on that the pilgrims must go on their way; wherefore

they prepared for their journey. They sent for their friends; they

talked with them; they had some time set apart, therein to commit each

other to the protection of their Prince. There were again that brought

them of such things as they had, that were fit for the weak and the

strong, for the women and the men, and so laded them with such things as

were necessary. Then they set forward on their way; and, their friends

accompanying them so far as was convenient, they again committed each

other to the protection of their King, and parted.

They, therefore, that were of the pilgrims' company, went on, and Mr.

Great-heart went before them. Now, the women and children being weakly,

they were forced to go as they could bear; by which means, Mr.

Ready-to-halt and Mr. Feeble-mind had more to sympathize with their

condition.

When they were gone from the townsmen, and when their friends had bid

them farewell, they quickly came to the place where Faithful was put to

death. There, therefore, they made a stand, and thanked Him that had

enabled him to bear his cross so well; and the rather, because they now

found that they had a benefit by such manly suffering as his was.

They went on, therefore, after this a good way farther, talking of

Christian and Faithful, and how Helpful joined himself to Christian

after that Faithful was dead.

Now they were come up with the Hill Lucre, where the silver mine was

which took Demas off from his pilgrimage, and into which, as some think,

By-ends fell and perished; wherefore they considered that. But, when

they were come to the old monument that stood over against the Hill

Lucre, to wit, the pillar of salt, that stood also within view of Sodom

and its stinking lake, they marvelled, as did Christian before, that men

of that knowledge and ripeness of wit as they were, should be so blind

as to turn aside here.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS AND THE SHEPHERDS.

I saw now that they went on till they came at the river that was on this

side of the Delectable Mountains; to the river where the fine trees grow

on both sides, and whose leaves, if taken inwardly, are good against

sickness; where the meadows are green all the year long, and where they

might lie down safely.

By this river-side, in the meadow, there were cotes and folds for sheep,

a house built for the nourishing and bringing up of those lambs, the

babes of those women that go on pilgrimage. Also there was here One that

was entrusted with them, who could have pity, and that could gather

these lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom, and that could

gently lead those that were with young.

Now, to the care of this Man Christiana admonished her four daughters to

commit their little ones, that by these waters they might be housed,

cared for, helped and nourished, and that none of them might be lacking

in time to come. This Man, if any of them go astray or be lost, He will

bring them again; He will also bind up that which was broken, and will

strengthen them that are sick. Here they will never want food and drink

and clothing; here they will be kept from thieves and robbers; for this

Man will die before one of those committed to His trust shall be lost.

Besides, here they shall be sure to have good nurture and training, and

shall be taught to walk in right paths; and that, you know, is a favor

of no small account. Also here, as you see, are delicate waters,

pleasant meadows, dainty flowers, variety of trees, and such as bear

wholesome fruit--fruit not like that that Matthew ate of, that fell over

the wall out of Beelzebub's garden; but fruit that giveth health where

there is none, and that continueth and increaseth it where it is. So

they were content to commit their little ones to Him; and that which was

also an encouragement to them so to do, was, for that all this was to be

at the charge of the King, and so was as an hospital for young children

and orphans.

[Sidenote: DOUBTING CASTLE]

Now they went on. And, when they were come to By-path Meadow, to the

stile over which Christian went with his fellow Hopeful, when they were

taken by Giant Despair and put into Doubting Castle, they sat down, and

consulted what was best to be done; to wit, now they were so strong, and

had got such a man as Mr. Great-heart for their conductor, whether they

had not best make an attempt upon the giant, demolish his castle, and if

there were any pilgrims in it, to set them at liberty, before they went

any farther. So one said one thing, and another said the contrary. One

questioned if it were lawful to go upon ground that was not the King's;

another said they might providing their end was good; but Mr.

Great-heart said, "Though that reason given last cannot be always true,

yet I have a commandment to resist sin, to overcome evil, to fight the

good fight of faith; and, I pray, with whom should I fight this good

fight, if not with Giant Despair? I will therefore attempt the taking

away of his life and the demolishing of Doubting Castle." Then said he,

"Who will go with me?" Then said old Honest, "I will." "And so will we,

too," said Christiana's four sons, Matthew, Samuel, Joseph, and James;

for they were young men and strong. So they left the women in the road,

and with them Mr. Feeble-mind and Mr. Ready-to-halt, with his crutches,

to be their guard until they came back; for, in that place, though Giant

Despair dwelt so near, they keeping in the road, "a little child might

lead them."

So Mr. Great-heart, old Honest, and the four young men went to go up to

Doubting Castle, to look for Giant Despair. When they came at the castle

gate, they knocked for entrance with an unusual noise. At that, the old

giant comes to the gate, and Diffidence his wife follows. Then said he,

"Who and what is he that is so hardy as after this manner to disturb the

Giant Despair?"

Mr. Great-heart replied, "It is I, Great-heart, one of the King of the

Celestial Country's conductors of pilgrims to their place; and I demand

of thee that thou open thy gates for my entrance; prepare thyself also

to fight, for I am come to take away thy head, and to demolish Doubting

Castle."

[Sidenote: GIANT DESPAIR IS BEHEADED]

Now, Giant Despair, because he was a giant, thought no man could

overcome him; and again thought he, "Since heretofore I have made a

conquest of angels, shall Great-heart make me afraid?" So he harnessed

himself with his armor, and went out. He had a cap of steel upon his

head, a breast-plate of fire girded to him, and he came out in iron

shoes, with a great club in his hand. Then these six men made up to him,

and beset him behind and before; also when Diffidence, the giantess,

came up to help him, old Mr. Honest cut her down at one blow. Then they

fought for their lives, and Giant Despair was brought down to the

ground, but was very loath to die. He struggled hard, and had, as they

say, as many lives as a cat; but Great-heart was his death, for he left

him not till he had severed his head from his shoulders.

Then they fell to demolishing Doubting Castle, and that, you know, might

with ease be done, since Giant Despair was dead. They were seven days in

destroying of that; and in it of pilgrims, they found one Mr.

Despondency, almost starved to death, and one Much-afraid, his daughter:

these two they saved alive. But it would have made you wonder to have

seen the dead bodies that lay here and there in the castle-yard, and how

full of dead men's bones the dungeon was.

When Mr. Great-heart and his companions had performed this great work

they took Mr. Despondency and his daughter Much-afraid into their care;

for they were honest people, though they were prisoners in Doubting

Castle to that tyrant Giant Despair.

They therefore, I say, took with them the head of the giant (for his

body they had buried under a heap of stones), and down to the road and

to their companions they came, and showed them what they had done. Now,

when Feeble-mind and Ready-to-halt saw that it was the head of Giant

Despair indeed, they were very jocund and merry. Now, Christiana, if

need was, could play upon the viol, and her daughter Mercy upon the

lute; so, since they were so merry disposed, she played them a lesson,

and Ready-to-halt would dance. So he took Despondency's daughter

Much-afraid by the hand, and to dancing they went in the road. True, he

could not dance without one crutch in his hand; but I promise you he

footed it well; also the girl was to be commended, for she answered the

music handsomely.

As for Mr. Despondency, the music was not so much to him; he was for

feeding rather than dancing, for that he was almost starved. So

Christiana gave him some of her bottle of spirits for present relief,

and then prepared him something to eat; and in a little time the old

gentleman came to himself, and began to be finely revived.

Now, I saw in my dream, when all these things were finished, Mr.

Great-heart took the head of Giant Despair, and set it upon a pole by

the highway-side, right over against the pillar that Christian erected

for a caution to pilgrims that came after to take heed of entering into

his grounds. Then he writ under it, upon a marble stone, these verses

following:

"This is the head of him whose name only

In former times did pilgrims terrify;

His castle's down, and Diffidence his wife

Brave Mr. Great-heart has bereft of life.

Despondency, his daughter Much-afraid,

Great-heart for them also the man has played.

Who hereof doubts, if he'll but cast his eye

Up hither, may his scruples satisfy.

This head also, when doubting cripples dance,

Doth show from fears they have deliverance."

[Sidenote: THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS]

When these men had thus bravely showed themselves against Doubting

Castle, and had slain Giant Despair, they went forward, and went on till

they came to the Delectable Mountains, where Christian and Hopeful

refreshed themselves with the varieties of the place. They also

acquainted themselves with the shepherds there, who welcomed them, as

they had done Christian before, unto the Delectable Mountains.

Now, the shepherds seeing so great a train follow Mr. Great-heart (for

with him they were well acquainted), they said unto him, "Good sir, you

have got a goodly company here; pray, where did you find all these?"

Then Mr. Great-heart replied:

"First, here is Christiana and her train,

Her sons, and her sons' wives, who, like the wain,

Keep by the pole, and do by compass steer

From sin to grace; else they had not been here.

Next, here's old Honest come on pilgrimage,

Ready-to-halt too, who I dare engage

True-hearted is, and so is Feeble-mind,

Who willing was not to be left behind.

Despondency, good man, is coming after

And so also is Much-afraid his daughter.

May we have entertainment here, or must

We farther go? Let's know whereon to trust."

[Sidenote: THE SHEPHERDS ENTERTAIN]

Then said the shepherds, "This is a comfortable company. You are welcome

to us, for we have care for the feeble, as well as for the strong. Our

Prince has an eye to what is done, to the least of these; therefore

weakness must not be a block to our entertainment." So they had them to

the palace door, and then said unto them, "Come in, Mr. Feeble-mind;

come in, Mr. Ready-to-halt; come in, Mr. Despondency and Mrs.

Much-afraid, his daughter. These, Mr. Great-heart," said the shepherds

to the guide, "we call in by name, for that they are most subject to

draw back; but as for you and the rest that are strong, we leave you to

your wonted liberty."

Then said Mr. Great-heart, "This day I see that grace doth shine in your

faces, and that you are my Lord's shepherds indeed; for that you have

not pushed these helpless ones neither with side nor shoulder, but have

rather strewed their way into the palace with flowers, as you should."

So the feeble and weak went in, and Mr. Great-heart and the rest did

follow. When they were also sat down, the shepherds said to those of the

weaker sort, "What is it that you would have? for," said they, "all

things must be managed here for the supporting of the weak, as well as

the warning of the unruly." So they made them a feast of things easy of

digestion, and that were pleasant to the palate, and nourishing; the

which when they had received, they went to their rest, each one

separately unto his proper place.

When morning was come, because the mountains were nigh and the day

clear, and because it was the custom of the shepherds to show the

pilgrims before their departure some rarities; therefore, after they

were ready and had refreshed themselves, the shepherds took them out

into the fields, and showed them first what they had showed to Christian

before.

Then they had them to some new places. The first was to Mount Marvel,

where they looked, and beheld a man at a distance that tumbled the hills

about with words. Then they asked the shepherds what that should mean.

So they told them that that man was the son of Mr. Great-grace of whom

you read in the first part of the records of the Pilgrim's Progress; and

he is set down there to teach the pilgrims how to believe, or to tumble

out of their ways what difficulties they should meet with, by faith.

Then said Mr. Great-heart, "I know him; he is a man above many."

Then they had them to another place, called Mount Innocent; and there

they saw a man clothed all in white, and two men, Prejudice and

Ill-will, continually casting dirt upon them. Now, behold, the dirt,

whatsoever they cast at him, would in a little time fall off again, and

his garment would look as clear as if no dirt had been cast thereat.

Then said the pilgrims, "What means this?"

The shepherds answered, "This man is named Godly-man, and this garment

is to show the innocency of his life. Now, those that throw dirt at him

are such as hate his well-doing; but, as you see, the dirt will not

stick upon his clothes: so it shall be with him that liveth truly

innocently in the world. Whoever they be that would make such men dirty,

they labor all in vain; for God, by that a little time is spent, will

cause that their innocence shall break forth as the light, and their

righteousness as the noon-day."

Then they took them, and had them to Mount Charity, where they showed

them a man that had a bundle of cloth lying before him, out of which he

cut coats and garments for the poor that stood about him; yet his bundle

or roll of cloth was never the less.

Then said they, "What should this be?"

"This is," said the shepherds, "to show you that he who has a heart to

give of his labor to the poor, shall never want wherewithal. He that

watereth shall be watered himself. And the cake that the widow gave to

the prophet did not cause that she had ever the less in her barrel."

They had them also to a place where they saw one Fool, and one Want-wit,

washing of an Ethiopian, with intention to make him white; but the more

they washed him the blacker he was. Then they asked the shepherds what

that should mean. So they told them, saying, "Thus shall it be with the

vile person: all means used to get such an one a good name, shall, in

the end tend but to make him more abominable. Thus it was with the

Pharisees, and so shall it be with all pretenders to religion."

Then said Mercy, the wife of Matthew, to Christiana her mother, "Mother,

I would, if it might be, see the hole in the hill, or that commonly

called the By-way to Hell." So her mother brake her mind to the

shepherds. Then they went to the door: it was in the side of a hill; and

they opened it, and bid Mercy hearken awhile. So she hearkened, and

heard one saying, "Cursed be my father for holding of my feet back from

the way of peace and life." And another said, "Oh that I had been torn

in pieces before I had, to save my life, lost my soul!" And another

said, "If I were to live again, how would I deny myself rather than come

to this place!" Then there was as if the very earth groaned and quaked

under the feet of this young woman for fear; so she looked white, and

came trembling away, saying, "Blessed be he and she that are delivered

from this place."

[Sidenote: THE GREAT GLASS]

Now, when the shepherds had shown them all these things, then they had

them back to the palace, and entertained them with what the house would

afford. But Mercy longed for something that she saw there, but was

ashamed to ask. Her mother-in-law then asked her what she ailed, for she

looked as one not well. Then said Mercy, "There is a looking-glass hangs

up in the dining-room, off of which I cannot take my mind; if,

therefore, I have it not, I think I shall be unhappy." Then said her

mother, "I will mention thy wants to the shepherds, and they will not

deny it thee." But she said, "I am ashamed that these men should know

that I longed." "Nay, my daughter," said she, "it is no shame, but a

virtue, to long for such a thing as that." So Mercy said, "Then, mother,

if you please, ask the shepherds if they are willing to sell it."

Now, the glass was one of a thousand. It would present a man, one way,

with his own features exactly; and, turn it but another way, and it

would show one the very face and likeness of the Prince of pilgrims

Himself. Yea, I have talked with them that can tell, and they have said

that they have seen the very crown of thorns upon His head, by looking

in that glass; they have therein also seen the holes in His hands, in

His feet, and in His side. Yea, such an excellency is there in this

glass, that it will show Him to one where they have a mind to see Him,

whether living or dead, whether in earth or in heaven, whether in a

state of lowliness or in His kingliness, whether coming to suffer or

coming to reign.

Christiana, therefore went to the shepherds apart--(now, the names of

the shepherds were Knowledge, Experience, Watchful, and Sincere),--and

said unto them, "There is one of my daughters, that I think doth long

for something that she hath seen in this house, and she thinks that she

shall be unhappy if she should by you be denied."

EXPERIENCE. Call her, call her; she shall assuredly have what we can

help her to. So they called her, and said to her, "Mercy, what is that

thing thou wouldst have?" Then she blushed, and said, "The great glass

that hangs up in the dining-room." So Sincere ran and fetched it; and

with a joyful consent it was given her. Then she bowed her head, and

gave thanks, and said, "By this I know that I have obtained favor in

your eyes."

They also gave to the other young women such things as they desired, and

to their husbands great praise for that they joined with Great-heart to

the slaying of Giant Despair and the destroying of Doubting Castle.

About Christiana's neck the shepherds put a necklace, and so they did

about the necks of her four daughters; also they put ear-rings in their

ears, and jewels on their foreheads.

[Illustration: Turn-away Resisting Evangelist.

Page 357]

[Sidenote: THEY LEAVE THE SHEPHERDS]

When they were minded to go hence, they let them go in peace, but gave

not to them those certain cautions which before were given to Christian

and his companion. The reason was, for that these had Great-heart to be

their guide, who was one that was well acquainted with things, and so

could give them their cautions more seasonably; that is, even then when

the danger was nigh the approaching. What cautions Christian and his

companion had received of the shepherds, they had also lost by that the

time was come that they had need to put them in practice. Wherefore,

here was the advantage that this company had over the other.

From hence they went on singing, and they said:

"Behold, how fitly are the stages set,

For their relief that pilgrims are become,

And how they us receive without one let[11]

That make the other life our mark and home!

"What novelties they have, to us they give,

That we, though pilgrims, joyful lives may live;

They do upon us, too, such things bestow,

That show we pilgrims are, where'er we go."

[11] The word "let" here means "hindrance."

When they were gone from the shepherds, they quickly came to the place

where Christian met with one Turn-away, that dwelt in the town of

Apostasy. Wherefore of him Mr. Great-heart, their guide, did now put

them in mind, saying, "This is the place where Christian met with one

Turn-away, who carried with him the character of his rebellion at his

back. And this I have to say concerning this man: he would hearken to no

counsel, but, once falling, persuasion could not stop him. When he came

to the place where the Cross and the sepulchre were, he did meet with

one that bid him look there; but he gnashed with his teeth, and stamped,

and said he was resolved to go back to his own town. Before he came to

the gate, he met with Evangelist, who offered to lay hands on him, to

turn him into the way again. But this Turn-away resisted him; and having

done much harm unto him, he got away over the wall, and so escaped his

hand."

[Sidenote: MEET VALIANT FOR TRUTH]

Then they went on; and just at the place where Little-Faith formerly was

robbed, there stood a man with his sword drawn, and his face all bloody.

Then said Mr. Great-heart, "Who art thou?" The man made answer, saying,

"I am one whose name is Valiant-for-truth. I am a pilgrim, and am going

to the Celestial City. Now, as I was in my way, there were three men did

beset me, and propounded unto me these three things: 1. Whether I would

become one of them? 2. Or go back to the place from whence I came? 3. Or

die upon the place? To the first I answered, I had been a true man a

long season, and therefore it could not be expected that I should now

cast in my lot with thieves. Then they demanded what I should say to the

second. So I told them that the place from whence I came, had I not

found it unsatisfactory I had not forsaken at all; but, finding it

altogether unsuitable to me, and very unprofitable for me, I forsook it

for this way. Then they asked me what I said to the third. And I told

them my life cost more dear far than that I should lightly give it away.

Besides you have nothing to do thus to put things to my choice,

wherefore at your peril be it if you meddle. Then these three, to wit,

Wild-head, Inconsiderate, and Pragmatic, drew their weapons upon me, and

I also drew upon them. So we fell to it, one against three, for the

space of above three hours. They have left upon me, as you see, some of

the marks of their valor, and have also carried away with them some of

mine. They are but just now gone: I suppose they might, as the saying

is, hear your horse dash, and so they betook them to flight."

GREAT. But here was great odds, three against one.

[Sidenote: HOW VALIANT BORE HIMSELF]

VALIANT. 'Tis true; but little or more are nothing to him that has the

truth on his side. "Though an host should encamp against me," said one,

"my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this

will I be confident. Besides," said he, "I have read in some records

that one man has fought an army; and how many did Samson slay with the

jaw-bone of an ass?"

GREAT. Then said the guide, "Why did you not cry out, that some might

have come in for your succor?"

VALIANT. So I did, to my King, who, I knew, could hear me, and afford

invisible help; and that was sufficient for me.

GREAT. Then said Great-heart to Mr. Valiant-for-truth, "Thou hast

worthily behaved thyself. Let me see thy sword." So he showed it him.

When he had taken it in his hand, and looked thereon a while, he said,

"Ha! it is a right Jerusalem blade."

VALIANT. It is so. Let a man have one of these blades, with a hand to

wield it and skill to use it, and he may venture upon an angel with it.

He need not fear its holding, if he can but tell how to lay on. Its

edges will never blunt. It will cut flesh and bones, and soul and

spirit, and all.

GREAT. But you fought a great while. I wonder you were not weary.

VALIANT. I fought till my sword did cleave to my hand; and when they

were joined together, as if a sword grew out of my arm, and when the

blood ran through my fingers, then I fought with most courage.

GREAT. Thou hast done well; thou hast resisted unto blood, striving

against sin. Thou shalt abide by us, come in and go out with us, for we

are thy companions.

Then they took him, washed his wounds, and gave him of what they had, to

refresh him; and so they went on together.

Now, as they went on, because Mr. Great-heart was delighted in him (for

he loved one greatly that he found to be a man of his own sort), and

because there were in company them that were feeble and weak, therefore

he questioned with him about many things; as, first, what countryman he

was.

VALIANT. I am of Dark-land; for there I was born, and there my father

and mother are still.

GREAT. "Dark-land!" said the guide; "doth not that lie upon the same

coast with the City of Destruction?"

VALIANT. Yes, it doth. Now, that which caused me to come on pilgrimage

was this. We had one Mr. Tell-true come into our parts, and he told it

about what Christian had done, that went from the City of Destruction;

namely, how he had forsaken his wife and children, and had betaken

himself to a pilgrim's life. It was also reported, and believed, how he

had killed a serpent that did come out to resist him in his journey; and

how he got through to whither he intended. It was also told what welcome

he had at all his Lord's lodgings, specially when he came to the gates

of the Celestial City; "For there," said the man, "he was received with

sound of trumpet by a company of Shining Ones." He told also how all the

bells in the City did ring for joy at his entering in, and what golden

garments he was clothed with; with many other things that now I shall

forbear to relate. In a word, that man so told the story of Christian

and his travels, that my heart fell into a burning haste to be gone

after him; nor could father or mother stay me. So I got from them, and

am come thus far on my way.

GREAT. You came in at the gate, did you not?

VALIANT. Yes, yes; for the same man also told us, that all would be

nothing if we did not begin to enter this way at the gate.

GREAT. "Look you," said the guide to Christiana, "the pilgrimage of your

husband, with what he has gotten thereby, is spread abroad far and

near."

VALIANT. Why, is this Christian's wife?

GREAT. Yes, that it is, and these also are his four sons.

VALIANT. What! and going on pilgrimage too?

GREAT. Yes, verily, they are following after.

VALIANT. It glads me at heart. Good man, how joyful will he be when he

shall see them that would not go with him, yet to enter after him in at

the gates into the City!

GREAT. Without doubt it will be a comfort to him; for, next to the joy

of seeing himself there, it will be a joy to meet there his wife and

children.

VALIANT. But, now you are upon that, pray let me hear your opinion about

it. Some make a question whether we shall know one another when we are

there.

[Sidenote: VALIANT'S OBSTACLES]

GREAT. Do they think they shall know themselves, then? or that they

shall rejoice to see themselves in that happiness? And if they think

they shall know and do this, why not know others, and rejoice in their

welfare also? Again, since relations are our second self, though that

state will cease there, yet why may it not be wisely concluded that we

shall be more glad to see them there than to see they are wanting?

VALIANT. Well, I perceive whereabouts you are as to this. Have you any

more things to ask me about my beginning to come on pilgrimage?

GREAT. Yes. Were your father and mother willing that you should become a

pilgrim?

VALIANT. Oh, no; they used all means imaginable to persuade me to stay

at home.

GREAT. Why, what could they say against it?

VALIANT. They said it was an idle life; and, if I myself were not

inclined to sloth and laziness, I would never favor a pilgrim's

condition.

GREAT. And what did they say else?

VALIANT. Why, they told me that it was a dangerous way: "Yea, the most

dangerous way in the world," said they, "is that which the pilgrims go."

GREAT. Did they show you wherein this way is so dangerous?

VALIANT. Yes; and that in many particulars.

GREAT. Name some of them.

[Sidenote: VALIANT'S DISCOURAGEMENTS]

VALIANT. They told me of the Slough of Despond, where Christian was

well-nigh smothered. They told me that there were archers standing ready

in Beelzebub's castle to shoot them who should knock at the wicket-gate

for entrance. They told me also of the wood and dark mountains of the

Hill Difficulty; of the lions; and also of the three giants, Bloody-man,

Maul, and Slay-good. They said moreover that there was a foul fiend

haunted the Valley of Humiliation, and that Christian was by him almost

bereft of life. "Besides," said they, "you must go over the Valley of

the Shadow of Death, where the hobgoblins are, where the light is

darkness, where the way is full of snares, pits, traps, and gins." They

told me also of Giant Despair, of Doubting Castle, and of the ruin that

the pilgrims met with there. Further, they said I must go over the

Enchanted Ground, which was dangerous; and that, after all this, I

should find a river, over which I should find no bridge, and that that

river did lie betwixt me and the Celestial Country.

GREAT. And was this all?

VALIANT. No. They also told me that this way was full of deceivers, and

of persons that laid wait there to turn good men out of the path.

GREAT. But how did they make that out?

VALIANT. They told me that Mr. Worldly Wiseman did there lie in wait to

deceive. They also said that there were Formality and Hypocrisy

continually on the road. They said also that By-ends, Talkative, or

Demas would go near to gather me up; that the Flatterer would catch me

in his net; or that, with green-headed Ignorance, I would presume to go

on to the gate, from whence he was sent back to the hole that was in the

side of the hill, and made to go the by-way to hell.

GREAT. I promise you, this was enough to discourage you; but did they

make an end here?

VALIANT. No stay. They told me also of many that had tried that way of

old, and that had gone a great way therein, to see if they could find

something of the glory there that so many had so much talked of from

time to time; and how they came back again, and befooled themselves for

setting a foot out of doors in that path, to the satisfaction of all the

country. And they named several that did so, as Obstinate and Pliable,

Mistrust and Timorous, Turn-away and old Atheist; with several more,

who, they said, had some of them gone far to see what they could find,

but not one of them found so much advantage by going as amounted to the

weight of a feather.

GREAT. Said they anything more to discourage you?

VALIANT. Yes; they told me of one Mr. Fearing, who was a pilgrim, and

how he found this way so solitary, that he never had a comfortable hour

therein; also that Mr. Despondency had like to have been starved

therein; yea, and also (which I had almost forgot) that Christian

himself, about whom there had been such a noise, after all his ventures

for a celestial crown, was certainly drowned in the Black River, and

never went a foot farther, however it was smothered up.

GREAT. And did none of these things discourage you?

VALIANT. No; they seemed but as so many nothings to me.

GREAT. How came that about?

VALIANT. Why, I still believed what Mr. Tell-true had said; and that

carried me beyond them all.

GREAT. Then this was your victory, even your faith.

VALIANT. It was so. I believed, and therefore came out, got into the

way, fought all that set themselves against me, and, by believing, am

come to this place.

"Who would true valor see,

Let him come hither;

One here will constant be,

Come wind, come weather;

There's no discouragement

Shall make him once relent

His first avowed intent

To be a pilgrim.

"Whoso beset him round

With dismal stories,

Do but themselves confound--

His strength the more is.

No lion can him fright;

He'll with a giant fight,

But he will have a right

To be a pilgrim.

"Hobgoblin nor foul fiend

Can daunt his spirit;

He knows he at the end

Shall life inherit.

Then, fancies fly away,

He'll fear not what men say;

He'll labor night and day

To be a pilgrim."

CHAPTER IX.

THE ENCHANTED GROUND.

By this time they were got to the Enchanted Ground, where the air

naturally tended to make one drowsy. And that place was all grown over

with briers and thorns, excepting here and there, where was an enchanted

arbor, upon which if a man sits, or in which if a man sleeps, it is a

question, say some, whether ever he shall rise or wake again in this

world. Over this forest, therefore, they went, both one and another; and

Mr. Great-heart went before, for that he was the guide, and Mr.

Valiant-for-truth came behind, being rear-guard, for fear lest

peradventure some fiend, or dragon, or giant, or thief, should fall upon

their rear, and so do mischief. They went on here, each man with his

sword drawn in his hand, for they knew it was a dangerous place. Also

they cheered up one another as well as they could. Feeble-mind, Mr.

Great-heart commanded, should come up after him; and Mr. Despondency was

under the eye of Mr. Valiant.

Now, they had not gone far, but a great mist and darkness fell upon them

all, so that they could scarce, for a great while, see the one the

other; wherefore they were forced, for some time, to feel for one

another by words; for they walked not by sight. But any one must think

that here was but sorry going for the best of them all; but how much

worse for the women and children, who both of feet and heart were but

tender! Yet so it was, that through the encouraging words of him that

led in the front, they made a pretty good shift to wag along.

The way also was here very wearisome through dirt and slabbiness. Nor

was there on all this ground so much as one inn or victualling-house,

therein to refresh the feebler sort. Here, therefore, was grunting, and

puffing and sighing. While one tumbleth over a brush, another sticks

fast in the dirt; and the children, some of them, lost their shoes in

the mire. While one cries out, "I am down!" and another, "Ho! where are

you?" and a third, "The bushes have got such fast hold on me, I think I

cannot get away from them."

Then they came at an arbor, warm, and promising much refreshing to the

pilgrims; for it was finely wrought above head, beautified with greens,

furnished with benches and settles. It also had in it a soft couch,

whereon the weary might lean. This, you must think, all things

considered, was tempting; for the pilgrims already began to be foiled

with the badness of the way; but there was not one of them that made so

much as a motion to stop there. Yea, for aught I could perceive, they

continually gave so good heed to the advice of their guide, and he did

so faithfully tell them of dangers, and of the nature of dangers when

they were at them, that usually, when they were nearest to them, they

did most pluck up their spirits, and hearten one another to deny the

flesh. This arbor was called "The Slothful's Friend," on purpose to

allure, if it might be, some of the pilgrims there to take up their rest

when weary.

I saw then in my dream, that they went on in this their solitary ground,

till they came to a place at which a man is apt to lose his way. Now,

though when it was light their guide could well enough tell how to miss

those ways that led wrong, yet, in the dark, he was put to a stand. But

he had in his pocket a map of all ways leading to or from the Celestial

City; wherefore he struck a light (for he also never goes without his

tinder-box), and takes a view of his book or map, which bids him be

careful in that place to turn to the right-hand way. And had he not here

been careful to look in his map, they had, in all probability been

smothered in the mud; for, just a little before them, and that at the

end of the cleanest way too, was a pit, none knows how deep, full of

nothing but mud, there made on purpose to destroy the pilgrims in.

Then thought I with myself, "Who that goeth on pilgrimage but would have

one of those maps about him, that he may look, when he is at a stand,

which is the way he must take?"

They went on then in this Enchanted Ground till they came to where was

another arbor, and it was built by the highway-side. And in that arbor

there lay two men, whose names were Heedless and Too-bold. These two

went thus far on pilgrimage; but here, being wearied with their journey,

they sat down to rest themselves, and so fell fast asleep. When the

pilgrims saw them, they stood still, and shook their heads; for they

knew that the sleepers were in a pitiful case. Then they consulted what

to do,--whether to go on, and leave them in their sleep, or to step to

them, and try to awake them. So they concluded to go to them and wake

them; that is, if they could; but with this caution, namely, to take

heed that themselves did not sit down nor embrace the offered benefit of

that arbor.

So they went in and spake to the men, and called each one by his name

(for the guide, it seems, did know them); but there was no voice or

answer. Then the guide did shake them, and do what he could to disturb

them. Then said one of them, "I will pay you when I take my money." At

which the guide shook his head. "I will fight so long as I can hold my

sword in my hand," said the other. At that, one of the children laughed.

[Sidenote: THE LAND OF BEULAH]

Then said Christiana, "What is the meaning of this?" The guide said,

"They talk in their sleep. If you strike them, beat them, or whatever

else you do to them, they will answer you after this fashion; or, as one

of them said in old time, when the waves of the sea did beat upon him,

and he slept as one upon the mast of a ship, 'When shall I awake? I will

seek it yet again.' You know, when men talk in their sleep, they say

anything, but their words are not governed either by faith or reason.

There is an unsuitableness in their words now, as there was before

betwixt their going on pilgrimage and sitting down there. This, then, is

the mischief of it: when heedless ones go on pilgrimage, 'tis twenty to

one but they are served thus. For this Enchanted Ground is one of the

last refuges that the enemy to pilgrims has; wherefore, it is, as you

see, placed almost at the end of the way, and so it standeth against us

with the more advantage. For when, thinks the enemy, will these fools be

so desirous to sit down as when they are weary? and when so like to be

weary as when almost at their journey's end? Therefore it is, I say,

that the Enchanted Ground is placed so near to the Land of Beulah, and

so near the end of their race. Wherefore, let pilgrims look to

themselves, lest it happen to them as it has done to these, that, as you

see, are fallen asleep, and none can wake them."

Then the pilgrims desired, with trembling, to go forward; only they

prayed their guide to strike a light, that they might go the rest of

their way by the help of the light of a lantern. So he struck a light,

and they went by the help of that through the rest of this way, though

the darkness was very great. But the children began to be sorely weary;

and they cried out to Him that loveth pilgrims to make their way more

comfortable. So, by that they had gone a little farther, a wind arose

that drove away the fog; so the air became more clear. Yet they were

not off, by much, of the Enchanted Ground; only now they could see one

another better, and the way wherein they should walk.

Now, when they were almost at the end of this ground, they perceived

that a little before them was a solemn noise, as of one that was much

concerned. So they went on, and looked before them; and behold, they

saw, as they thought, a man upon his knees, with hands and eyes lift up,

and speaking, as they thought, earnestly to One that was above. They

drew nigh, but could not tell what he said; so they went softly till he

had done. When he had done, he got up, and began to run towards the

Celestial City.

Then Mr. Great-heart called after him, saying, "So-ho, friend! let us

have your company, if you go, as I suppose you do, to the Celestial

City."

So the man stopped, and they came up to him. But, as soon as Mr. Honest

saw him, he said, "I know this man."

Then said Mr. Valiant-for-truth, "Prithee, who is it?"

"It is one," said he, "that comes from whereabout I dwelt. His name is

Stand-fast; he is certainly a right good pilgrim."

So they came up one to another. And presently Stand-fast said to old

Honest, "Ho, father Honest, are you there?"

"Ay," said he, "that I am, as sure as you are there."

[Sidenote: HEEDLESS AND TOO-BOLD]

"Right glad am I," said Mr. Stand-fast, "that I have found you on this

road."

"And as glad am I," said the other, "that I espied you upon your knees."

Then Mr. Stand-fast blushed, and said, "But why? did you see me?"

"Yes, that I did," quoth the other, "and with my heart was glad at the

sight."

"Why, what did you think?" said Stand-fast.

"Think!" said old Honest; "what should I think? I thought we had an

honest man upon the road, and therefore should have his company

by-and-by."

"If you thought not amiss," said Stand-fast, "how happy am I! But, if I

be not as I should, I alone must bear it."

"That is true," said the other; "but your fear doth further show me that

things are right betwixt the Prince of pilgrims and your soul; for He

saith, 'Blessed is the man that feareth always.'"

VALIANT. Well, but, brother, I pray thee, tell us what was it that was

the cause of thy being upon thy knees even now: was it for that some

special mercy laid upon thee, the need of prayer, or how?

STAND. Why, we are, as you see, upon the Enchanted Ground; and as I was

coming along, I was musing with myself of what a dangerous road the road

in this place was, and how many that had come even thus far on

pilgrimage, had here been stopped and been destroyed. I thought also of

the manner of the death with which this place destroyeth men. Those that

die here die of no violent, painful disease: the death which such die is

not grievous to them. For he that goeth away in such a sleep, begins

that journey with desire and pleasure. Yea, such sink into the will of

that disease.

HON. Then Mr. Honest, interrupting of him, said, "Did you see the two

men asleep in the arbor?"

[Sidenote: STAND-FAST REPULSES MADAM]

STAND. Ay, ay, I saw Heedless and Too-bold there; and, for aught I know,

there they will lie till they rot. But let me go on in my tale. As I was

thus musing, as I said, there was one in very pleasant attire, but old,

who presented herself to me, and offered me three things; to wit, her

body, her purse, and her bed. Now, the truth is, I was both aweary and

sleepy; I am also as poor as an owlet, and that, perhaps, the witch

knew. Well, I repulsed her once or twice; but she put by my repulses,

and smiled. Then I began to be angry; but she mattered that nothing at

all. Then she made offers again, and said, if I would be ruled by her,

she would make me great and happy. "For," said she, "I am the mistress

of the world, and men are made happy by me." Then I asked her name, and

she told me it was Madam Bubble. This set me farther from her; but she

still followed me with enticements. Then I betook me, as you saw, to my

knees; and, with hands lift up, and cries, I prayed to Him that had said

He would help. So, just as you came up, the gentlewoman went her way.

Then I continued to give thanks for this my great deliverance; for I

verily believe she intended no good, but rather sought to make stop of

me in my journey.

HON. Without doubt her designs were bad. But stay: now you talk of her,

methinks I either have seen her, or have read some story of her.

STAND. Perhaps you have done both.

HON. Madam Bubble? Is she not a tall, comely dame, somewhat of a swarthy

complexion?

STAND. Right, you hit it: she is just such a one.

HON. Does she not speak very smoothly, and give you a smile at the end

of a sentence?

STAND. You fall right upon it again, for these are her very actions.

HON. Doth she not wear a great purse by her side, and is not her hand

often in it, fingering her money, as if that was her heart's delight?

STAND. 'Tis just so. Had she stood by all this while, you could not more

amply have set her forth before me, nor have better described her

features.

HON. Then he that drew her picture was a good artist, and he that wrote

of her said true.

[Sidenote: MADAM BUBBLE'S INFLUENCE]

GREAT. This woman is a witch, and it is by virtue of her witchcraft that

this ground is enchanted. Whoever doth lay his head down in her lap, had

as good lay it down upon that block over which the axe doth hang; and

whoever lay their eyes upon her beauty, are accounted the enemies of

God. This is she that maintaineth in their splendor all those that are

the enemies of pilgrims. Yea, this is she that hath bought off many a

man from a pilgrim's life. She is a great gossiper: she is always, both

she and her daughters, at one pilgrim's heels or other; now commanding,

and then preferring the excellences of this life. She is a bold and

impudent creature; she will talk with any man. She always laugheth poor

pilgrims to scorn, but highly commends the rich. If there be one cunning

to get money in a place, she will speak well of him from house to house.

She loveth banqueting and feasting mainly well; she is always at one

full table or another. She has given it out in some places that she is a

goddess, and therefore some do worship her. She has her times and open

places of cheating; and she will say and avow it, that none can show a

good comparable to hers. She promiseth to dwell with children's

children, if they will but love her and make much of her. She will cast

out of her purse gold like dust, in some places and to some persons. She

loves to be sought after, spoken well of, and to lie in the bosoms of

men. She is never weary of praising her gifts and she loves them most

that think best of her. She will promise, to some, crowns and kingdoms,

if they will but take her advice; yet many hath she brought to the

halter, and ten thousand times more to hell.

STAND. "Oh," said Mr. Stand-fast, "what a mercy it is that I did resist

her! for whither might she have drawn me?"

GREAT. Whither! nay, none but God knows whither; but in general, to be

sure, she would have drawn thee into many foolish and hurtful lusts,

which drown men in destruction and ruin. 'Twas she that set Absalom

against his father, and Jeroboam against his master. 'Twas she that

persuaded Judas to sell his Lord, and that prevailed with Demas to

forsake the godly pilgrim's life. None can tell of the mischief that she

doth. She makes variance betwixt rulers and subjects, betwixt parents

and children, betwixt neighbor and neighbor, betwixt a man and his wife,

betwixt a man and himself, betwixt the flesh and the heart. Wherefore,

good Master Stand-fast, be as your name is, and when you have done all,

stand.

At this course there was among the pilgrims a mixture of joy and

trembling; but at length they brake out, and sang:

"What danger is the pilgrim in!

How many are his foes!

How many ways there are to sin

No living mortal knows.

"Some of the ditch shy are, yet can

Lie tumbling in the mire;

Some, though they shun the frying-pan,

Do leap into the fire."

CHAPTER X.

THE PILGRIMS AT HOME.

After this, I beheld until they were come unto the Land of Beulah, where

the sun shineth night and day. Here, because they were weary, they

betook themselves awhile to rest. And because this country was common

for pilgrims, and because the orchards and vineyards that were here

belong to the King of the Celestial Country, therefore they were

permitted to make bold with any of His things. But a little while soon

refreshed them here; for the bells did so ring, and the trumpets

continually sound so melodiously, that they could not sleep and yet they

received as much refreshing as if they had slept their sleep never so

soundly. Here also the noise of them that walked in the streets was,

"More pilgrims are come to town!" And another would answer, saying, "And

so many went over the water, and were let in at the golden gates,

to-day!" They would cry again, "There is now a legion of Shining Ones

just come to town, by which we know that there are more pilgrims upon

the road; for here they come to wait for them, and comfort them after

all their sorrow!" Then the pilgrims got up, and walked to and fro. But

how were their ears now filled with heavenly voices, and their eyes

delighted with celestial visions! In this land they heard nothing, saw

nothing, felt nothing, smelt nothing, tasted nothing, that was offensive

to their stomach or mind; only when they tasted of the water of the

river over which they were to go, they thought that it tasted a little

bitterish to the palate, but it proved sweeter when it was down.

In this place there was a record kept of the names of them that had been

pilgrims of old, and a history of all the famous acts that they had

done. It was here also much spoken of, how the river to some had had its

flowings, and what ebbings it had had while others have gone over. It

has been in a manner dry for some, while it has overflowed its banks for

others.

In this place, the children of the town would go into the King's

gardens, and gather nosegays for the pilgrims, and bring them to them

with much affection. Here also grew camphire, with spikenard, and

saffron, calamus, and cinnamon, with all the trees of frankincense,

myrrh, and aloes, with all chief spices. With these the pilgrims'

chambers were perfumed while they stayed here; and with these were their

bodies anointed, to prepare them to go over the river, when the time

appointed was come.

[Sidenote: CHRISTIANA RECEIVES MESSAGE]

Now, while they lay here, and waited for the good hour, there was a

noise in the town that there was a messenger come from the Celestial

City with matter of great importance to one Christiana, the wife of

Christian the pilgrim. So inquiry was made for her, and the house was

found out where she was. So the messenger presented her with a letter;

the contents whereof were, "Hail, good woman! I bring thee tidings that

the Master calleth for thee, and expecteth that thou shouldest stand in

His presence, in clothes of everlasting life, within these ten days."

When he had read this letter to her, he gave her therewith a sure token

that he was a true messenger, and was come to bid her make haste to be

gone. The token was an arrow, with a point sharpened with love, let

easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with her,

that at the time appointed she must be gone.

When Christiana saw that her time was come, and that she was the first

of this company that was to go over, she called for Mr. Great-heart, her

guide, and told him how matters were. So he told her he was heartily

glad of the news, and could have been glad had the post come for him.

Then she bid that he should give advice how all things should be

prepared for her journey. So he told her, saying, "Thus and thus it must

be; and we that are left will accompany you to the river-side."

Then she called for her children, and gave them her blessing, and told

them that she yet read with comfort the mark that was set in their

foreheads, and was glad to see them with her there, and that they had

kept their garments so white. Lastly, she gave to the poor that little

she had, and commanded her sons and her daughters to be ready against

the messenger should come for them.

When she had spoken these words to her guide and to her children, she

called for Mr. Valiant-for-truth, and said unto him, "Sir, you have in

all places shown yourself true-hearted. Be faithful unto death, and my

King will give you a crown of life. I would also entreat you to have an

eye to my children; and if at any time you see them faint, speak

comfortably to them. For my daughters, my sons' wives, they have been

faithful; and a fulfilling of the promise upon them will be their end."

But she gave Mr. Stand-fast a ring.

Then she called for old Mr. Honest, and said of him, "Behold an

Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile."

Then said he, "I wish you a fair day when you set out for Mount Zion,

and shall be glad to see that you go over the river dry shod."

But she answered, "Come wet, come dry, I long to be gone; for, however

the weather is in my journey, I shall have time enough when I come there

to sit down and rest me and dry me."

Then came in that good man, Mr. Ready-to-halt, to see her. So she said

to him, "Thy travel hitherto has been with difficulty; but that will

make thy rest the sweeter. But watch and be ready; for, at an hour when

you think not, the messenger may come."

After him came in Mr. Despondency and his daughter Much-afraid; to whom

she said, "You ought with thankfulness for ever to remember your

deliverance from the hands of Giant Despair and out of Doubting Castle.

The effect of that mercy is that you are brought with safety hither. Be

ye watchful, and cast away fear; be sober, and hope to the end."

Then she said to Mr. Feeble-mind, "Thou wast delivered from the mouth of

Giant Slay-good, that thou mightest live in the light of the living for

ever, and see thy King with comfort. Only I advise thee to turn thee of

thy aptness to fear and doubt of His goodness, before He sends for thee;

lest thou shouldest, when He comes, be forced to stand before Him for

that fault with blushing."

[Sidenote: CHRISTIANA CROSSES THE RIVER]

Now, the day drew on that Christiana must be gone. So the road was full

of people to see her take her journey. But, behold, all the banks beyond

the river were full of horses and chariots, which were come down from

above to accompany her to the City gate. So she came forth and entered

the river, with a beckon of farewell to those that followed her to the

river-side. The last words that she was heard to say were, "I come,

Lord, to be with Thee, and bless Thee!"

So her children and friends returned to their place, for that those that

waited for Christiana had carried her out of their sight. So she went

and called, and entered in at the gate with all the tokens of joy that

her husband Christian had done before her. At her departure her

children wept. But Mr. Great-heart and Mr. Valiant played upon the

well-tuned cymbal and harp for joy. So all departed to their respective

places.

[Sidenote: PILGRIMS RECEIVE MESSAGES]

In process of time, there came a messenger to the town again, and his

business was with Mr. Ready-to-halt. So he inquired him out, and said to

him, "I am come to thee from Him whom thou hast loved and followed,

though upon crutches; and my message is to tell thee, that He expects

thee at His table, to sup with Him in His kingdom, the next day after

Easter; wherefore prepare thyself for this journey." Then he also gave

him a token that he was a true messenger, saying, "I have broken thy

golden bowl and loosed thy silver cord."

After this Mr. Ready-to-halt called for his fellow-pilgrims, and told

them, saying, "I am sent for, and God shall surely visit you also." So

he desired Mr. Valiant to make his will. And because he had nothing to

bequeath to them that should survive him but his crutches and his good

wishes, therefore thus he said: "These crutches I bequeath to my son

that shall tread in my steps, with a hundred warm wishes that he may

prove better than I have done." Then he thanked Mr. Great-heart for his

conduct and kindness, and so addressed himself to his journey. When he

came to the brink of the river, he said, "Now I shall have no more need

of these crutches, since yonder are chariots and horses for me to ride

on." The last words he was heard to say were, "Welcome life!" So he

went his way.

After this, Mr. Feeble-mind had tidings brought him, that the messenger

sounded his horn at his chamber-door. Then he came in, and told him,

saying, "I am come to tell thee that thy Master has need of thee, and

that in a very little time thou must behold His face in brightness. And

take this as a token of the truth of my message: 'Those that look out at

the windows shall be darkened.'" Then Mr. Feeble-mind called for his

friends, and told them what errand had been brought unto him, and what

token he had received of the truth of the message. Then he said, "Since

I have nothing to bequeath to any, to what purpose should I make a will?

As for my feeble mind, that I will leave behind me, for that I shall

have no need of in the place whither I go, nor is it worth bestowing

upon the poorest pilgrim: wherefore, when I am gone, I desire that you,

Mr. Valiant, would bury it in a dunghill." This done, and the day being

come on which he was to depart, he entered the river as the rest. His

last words were, "Hold out, faith and patience!" So he went over to the

other side.

When days had many of them passed away, Mr. Despondency was sent for;

for a messenger was come, and brought this message to him: "Trembling

man, these are to summon thee to be ready with thy King by the next

Lord's day, to shout for joy for thy deliverance from all thy

doubtings. And," said the messenger, "that my message is true, take

this for a proof." So he gave him the grasshopper to be a burden unto

him.

Now, Mr. Despondency's daughter, whose name was Much-afraid, said when

she heard what was done, that she would go with her father. Then Mr.

Despondency said to his friends, "Myself and my daughter, you know what

we have been, and how troublesomely we have behaved ourselves in every

company. My will and my daughter's is, that our discouraged feelings and

slavish fears be by no man received, from the day of our departure for

ever; for I know that after my death they will offer themselves to

others. For, to be plain with you, they are ghosts the which we

entertained when we first began to be pilgrims, and could never shake

them off after; and they will walk about and seek entertainment of the

pilgrims; but, for our sakes, shut ye the doors upon them." When the

time was come for them to depart, they went to the brink of the river.

The last words of Mr. Despondency were, "Farewell, night! welcome, day!"

His daughter went through the river singing, but none could understand

what she said.

Then it came to pass a while after, that there was a messenger in the

town that inquired for Mr. Honest. So he came to his house where he was,

and delivered to his hand these lines: "Thou art commanded to be ready

against this day seven-night, to present thyself before thy Lord at His

Father's house. And for a token that my message is true, 'All thy

daughters of music shall be brought low.'" Then Mr. Honest called for

his friends, and said unto them, "I die, but shall make no will. As for

my honesty, it shall go with me: let them that come after me be told

this." When the day that he was to be gone was come, he prepared himself

to go over the river. Now, the river at that time overflowed its banks

in some places; but Mr. Honest in his lifetime had spoken to one

Good-conscience to meet him there; the which also he did, and lent him

his hand, and so helped him over. The last words of Mr. Honest were,

"Grace reigns!" So he left the world.

[Sidenote: THE FINAL SUMMONS]

After this, it was noised abroad that Mr. Valiant-for-truth was taken

with a summons by the same messenger as the other, and had this for a

token that the summons was true, that his pitcher was broken at the

fountain. When he understood it, he called for his friends, and told

them of it. Then said he, "I am going to my Father's; and though with

great difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the

trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him that

shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that

can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me

that I have fought His battles who now will be my rewarder." When the

day that he must go hence was come, many accompanied him to the

river-side, into which as he went he said, "Death, where is thy sting?"

And, as he went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy victory?" So

he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.

Then there came forth a summons for Mr. Stand-fast (this Mr. Stand-fast

was he whom the pilgrims found upon his knees in the Enchanted Ground),

for the messenger brought it him open in his hands; the contents thereof

were, that he must prepare for a change of life, for his Master was not

willing that he should be so far from Him any longer. At this Mr.

Stand-fast was put into a muse.

"Nay," said the messenger, "you need not doubt the truth of my message,

for here is a token of the truth thereof: 'Thy wheel is broken at the

cistern.'"

Then he called to him Mr. Great-heart, who was their guide, and said

unto him, "Sir, although it was not my hap to be much in your good

company in the days of my pilgrimage, yet, since the time I knew you,

you have been profitable to me. When I came from home, I left behind me

a wife and five small children: let me entreat you at your return (for I

know that you will go and return to your master's house, in hopes that

you may yet be a conductor to more of the holy pilgrims), that you send

to my family, and let them be acquainted with all that hath or shall

happen unto me. Tell them moreover of my happy arrival to this place,

and of the present and late blessed condition that I am in. Tell them

also of Christian and Christiana his wife, and how she and her children

came after her husband. Tell them also what a happy end she made, and

whither she is gone. I have little or nothing to send to my family,

unless it be my prayers and tears for them; of which it will suffice

that you acquaint them, if peradventure they may prevail."

[Sidenote: END OF THE PILGRIMAGE]

When Mr. Stand-fast had thus set things in order, and the time being

come for him to haste him away, he also went down to the river. Now,

there was a great calm at that time in the river; wherefore Mr.

Stand-fast, when he was about half-way in, stood a while, and talked to

his companions that had waited upon him thither. And he said, "This

river has been a terror to many; yea, the thoughts of it have also

frighted me; but now methinks I stand easy; my foot is fixed upon that

on which the feet of the priests that bare the ark of the covenant stood

while Israel went over Jordan. The waters, indeed, are to the palate

bitter, and to the stomach cold; yet the thought of what I am going to,

and of the conduct that waits for me on the other side, doth lie as a

glowing coal at my heart. I see myself now at the end of my journey; my

toilsome days are ended. I am going to see that head which was crowned

with thorns, and that face which was spit upon for me. I have formerly

lived by hearsay and faith; but now I go where I shall live by sight,

and shall be with Him in whose company I delight myself. I have loved to

hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of His shoe

in the earth, there I have coveted to set my foot too. His name has been

to me as a perfume box; yea, sweeter than all sweet smells. His voice to

me has been most sweet, and His countenance I have more desired than

they that have most desired the light of the sun. His Word I did use to

gather for my food, and for medicine against my faintings. He has held

me, and hath kept me from my sins; yea, my steps hath He strengthened in

His way."

Now, while he was thus speaking, his countenance changed, his strong man

bowed under him; and, after he had said, "Take me, for I come unto

Thee!" he ceased to be seen of them.

But glorious it was to see how the open region was filled with horses

and chariots, with trumpeters and pipers, with singers and players on

stringed instruments to welcome the pilgrims as they went up, and

followed one another in at the beautiful gate of the City.

As for Christian's children, the four boys that Christiana brought with

her, with their wives and children, I did not stay where I was till they

were gone over. Also, since I came away, I heard one say that they were

yet alive, and so would be for the help of the Church in that place

where they were for a time.

Shall it be my lot to go that way again, I may give those that desire it

an account of what I here am silent about: meantime I bid my reader

ADIEU.

THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

THE STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL WHO TRIED TO GO ON PILGRIMAGE.

In a large old house, with two kind aunts,

The little Marian dwelt;

And a happy child she was, I ween,

For though at times she felt

That playmates would be better far

Than either birds or flowers,

Yet her kind old aunts, and story books,

Soothed many lonely hours.

Her favorite haunt, in the summer-time,

Was a large old apple-tree;

And oft amid the boughs she sat,

With her pet book on her knee.

The "Pilgrim's Progress" was its name,

And Marian loved it much;

It is, indeed, a glorious book,

There are not many such!

She read it in her little bed,

Beside the winter fire,

And in summer-time, in the apple-tree,

As though she would never tire.

But, unexplained, 'tis just the book

To puzzle the young brain;

And the poor child had no kind friend,

Its meaning to explain.

For though her aunts were very kind,

They were not overwise,

And only said, "Don't read so, child,

I'm sure you'll spoil your eyes."

But Marian still went reading on,

And visions strange and wild

Began to fill the little head

Of the lonely, dreaming child;

For she thought that Christian and his wife,

And all their children too,

Had left behind their pleasant home,

And done what she must do.

"I'll take my Bible," said the child,

"And seek the road to heaven;

I'll try to find the Wicket Gate,

And hope to be forgiven.

I wish my aunts would go with me,

But 'tis in vain to ask;

They are so deaf and rather lame,

They'd think it quite a task.

"No! I must go alone, I see,

So I'll not let them know;

Or, like poor Christian's friends, they'll say,

'My dear, you must not go.'

"But I must wait till some grand scheme

Can all their thoughts engage;

And then I'll leave my pleasant home,

And go on pilgrimage."

She had not waited long, before,

One fine autumnal day,

She saw the large old coach arrive,

To take her aunts away.

"We're going out to spend the day,"

The two old ladies said;

"We mean to visit Mrs. Blair--

Poor soul!--she's ill in bed.

"But, Marian, you must stay at home,

For the lady's ill, you see;

You can have your dinner, if you like,

In the large old apple-tree,

And play in the garden all the day,

Quite happy and content."

A few more parting words were said,

And off the ladies went.

The servants, too, were all engaged;

"The day is come at last,"

Said Marian, "but oh, I wish,

My pilgrimage was past."

She knelt beside the apple-tree,

And for God's assistance prayed;

Then, with her basket in her hand,

Forth tripped the little maid.

Behind the house where Marian dwelt,

Far off in the distance, lay

A high steep hill, which the sun at morn

Tinged with its earliest ray.

"Difficulty" was its rightful name,

The child had often thought;

Towards this hill she turned her steps,

With hopeful visions fraught.

The flowers seemed to welcome her,

'Twas a lovely autumn morn,

The little lark sang merrily,

Above the waving corn.

"Ah, little lark, you sing," said she,

"On your early pilgrimage;

I, too, will sing, for pleasant thoughts

Should now my mind engage."

In clear, sweet strains she sang a hymn,

And tripped lightly on her way;

Until a pool of soft, thick mud

Across her pathway lay.

"This is the Slough of Despond," she cried,

But she bravely ventured through;

And safely reached the other side,

But she lost one little shoe.

On an old gray stone she sat her down,

To eat some fruit and bread;

Then took her little Bible out,

And a cheering psalm she read.

Then with fresh hope she journeyed on,

For many miles away;

And she reached the bottom of the hill,

Before the close of day.

She clambered up the steep ascent,

Though faint and weary, too;

But firmly did our Marian keep

Her purpose still in view.

"I'm glad, at least, the arbor's past,"

Said the little tired soul;

"I'm sure I should have sat me down

And lost my little roll!"

On the high hill-top she stands at last,

And our weary Pilgrim sees

A porter's lodge, of ample size,

Half hid by sheltering trees.

She clapped her hands with joy, and cried,

"Oh, there's the Wicket Gate,

And I must seek admittance there,

Before it is too late."

Gently she knocks--'tis answered soon,

And at the open door

Stands a tall, stout man--poor Marian felt

As she ne'er had felt before.

With tearful eyes, and trembling hand,

Flushed cheek, and anxious brow,

She said, "I hope you're Watchful, Sir,

I want Discretion now."

"Oh yes, I'm watchful," said the man,

"As a porter ought to be;

I s'pose you've lost your way, young Miss,

You've lost your shoe, I see.

"Missus," he cried to his wife within,

"Here's a child here, at the door,

You'll never see such a one again,

If you live to be fourscore.

She wants discretion, so she says,

Indeed I think 'tis true;

But I know some who want it more,

Who will not own they do."

"Go to the Hall," his wife replies,

"And take the child with you,

The ladies there are all so wise,

They'll soon know what to do."

The man complied, and led the child

Through many a flowery glade;

"Is that the Palace Beautiful?"

The little Pilgrim said.

"There, to the left, among the trees?

Why, Miss, 'tis mighty grand;

Call it a palace, if you please,

'Tis the finest in the land.

Now we be come to the fine old porch,

And this is the Marble Hall;

Here, little lady, you must stay,

While I the servants call."

Tired and sad he left the child,

But he quickly re-appeared,

And with him the lady of the house--

Poor Marian's heart was cheered.

"Sweet little girl," the lady said,

In accents soft and kind,

"I'm sure you sadly want some rest,

And rest you soon shall find."

To a room where three young ladies sat,

The child was quickly led;

"Piety, Prudence, and Charity,"

To herself she softly said.

"What is your name, my little dear?"

Said the eldest of the three,

Whom Marian, in her secret thought,

Had christened Piety.

"We'll send a servant to your friends,

How uneasy they must be!"

Admiringly she watched the child,

Who, indeed, was fair to see;

Around her bright and lovely face

Fell waves of auburn hair,

As modestly she told her name,

With whom she lived and where.

"How did you lose your way, my love?"

She gently raised her head;

"I do not think I've lost my way,"

The little Pilgrim said.

"This is the Palace Beautiful,

May I stay here to-night?"

They smiled and said, "We're glad our house

Finds favor in your sight:--

"Yes, gladly will we keep you here,

For many nights to come."

"Thank you," said Marian, "but I soon

Must seek my heavenly home.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Is near this house, I know"--

She stopped, for she saw, with great surprise,

Their tears began to flow.

She little thought the mourning dress,

Which all the ladies wore,

Was for one whom they had dearly loved,

And should see on earth no more.

Their brother had been called away,

Their brightest and their best;

No wonder, then, that Marian's words

Roused grief in every breast.

Sobs only for awhile were heard;

At length the ladies said,

"My, love, you have reminded us

Of our loved and early dead;

But this you could not know, my dear,

And it indeed is true;

We are all near to Death's dark door,

Even little girls like you."

"Yes," said the timid, trembling child,

"I know it must be so;

But, ma'am, I hope that Piety

May be with me when I go.

And will you show me your armory,

When you have time to spare?

I hope you have some small enough

For a little girl to wear."

No more she said, for Piety,

As Marian called her, cast

Her arms around the Pilgrim's neck,

The secret's out at last.

"You puzzled all," said Piety;

"But now, I see, you've read

A glorious book, which, unexplained,

Has turned your little head.

"Oh, dearly, when I was a child,

I loved that Pilgrim Tale;

But then mamma explained it well--

And if we can prevail

On your kind aunts to let you stay

Some time with us, my dear,

You shall read that book with my mamma,

And she will make it clear."

Now we'll return to Marian's home,

And see what's passing there.

The servants all had company,

And a merry group they were.

They had not missed our Pilgrim long,

For they knew she oft would play

In that old garden, with a book,

The whole of the livelong day.

"Betty," at last, said the housekeeper,

"Where can Miss Marian be?

Her dinner was in the basket packed,

But sure, she'll come in to tea!"

They sought her here, they sought her there,

But they could not find the child;

And her poor old aunts, when they came home,

With grief were almost wild.

The coachman and the footman too,

In different ways were sent;

But none thought of the narrow way

In which the Pilgrim went.

"Perhaps she followed us to town,"

Poor Aunt Rebecca said,

"I wish we had not left our home;

I fear the child is dead."

And to the town the coachman went,

For they knew not what to do;

And night drew on, when a country boy

Brought Marian's little shoe.

With the shoe in her hand, the housekeeper

Into the parlor ran,

"Oh, Mistress, here is all that's left

Of poor Miss Marian.

"It was found sticking in the mud,

Just above Harlem Chase;

I fear the poor child's perished there,

For 'tis a frightful place."

Then louder grew the ladies' grief;

But soon their hearts were cheered,

When a footman grand, with a note in his hand,

From the distant Hall appeared.

Aunt Ruth now read the note, and cried,

"Oh, sister, all is well!

The child is safe at Brookland Hall,

With Lady Arundel,

Who wants to keep her for a month;

Why, yes; I think she may--

Such friends as Lady Arundel

Are not met with every day.

"Our compliments, and thanks to her,

When you return, young man;

We'll call to-morrow at the Hall,

And see Miss Marian."

Then came a burst of grateful joy,

That could not be suppressed,

And, with thankful hearts and many tears,

The ladies went to rest.

We'll take a peep at our Marian now,

There in her bed lies she;

How blissful were her dreams that night,

In the arms of Piety.

Oh, that happy month at Brookland Hall,

How soon it passed away!

Cheerful and good were Marian's friends,

And who so kind as they?

And, more than all, while there she stayed

They did their best to bring

The little lamb to that blest fold

Where reigns the Shepherd King.

For many a lesson ne'er forgot,

The little Marian learned;

And a thoughtful and a happier child

She to her home returned.

Years rolled away, the scene has changed,

A wife and mother now,

Marian has found the Wicket Gate,

She and her children too.

And oh! how sweet it is to see

This little Pilgrim band,

As on towards their heavenly home,

They travel hand in hand.

When cloudy days fall to their lot,

They see a light afar,

The light that shone on Bethlehem's plain,

The Pilgrim's guiding star.

And now, dear children, whosoe'er,

Or whereso'er you be,

Who ponder o'er this strange, true tale

Of Marian's history,--

If to the Flowers of your young hearts,

Instructions dews are given,

Oh! be earnest as our Marian was,

To find the road to Heaven.

* * * * *

Transriber's note:

Minor typographical errors, punctuation and inconsistencies have been

silently normalized. Archaic spelling has been retained.

Page 365: 'Tell-truth' has been changed to 'Tell-true'.