for he drank oftener of the bowl, but appeared each time to find it less
refreshing. Sometimes it seemed almost bitter, and yet he could not but
take it the very moment he had thrust it from him. The shadowy form,
also, before him seemed altogether altering; he looked again, and her
beautiful features and pleasant countenance had changed into a sharp,
stern, and reproachful frown. His own voice, which had been heretofore
almost like one singing, grew sad and angry. The very figure of his
guide seemed vanishing from his eyes; the light which floated round her
grew wilder and more uncertain, and his own lamp was almost out. He felt
puzzled and bewildered, and hardly knew which way to go: he had got into
a broad beaten path, and he found that many besides himself were going
here and there along it. Sometimes they sang; and, in very bitterness of
heart, he tried to sing too, that he might not think: but every now and
then, when a flashing light came, and he saw the look of the travellers
amongst whom he was, it made his very heart shiver--they looked so sad
and so wretched. Now, none went straight on: some turned into this path,
some into that; and then he soon lost sight of them altogether. Sometimes
he heard fearful cries, as if wild beasts had seized them; sometimes a
dreadful burst of flame from the horrid pits which I had seen, made him
fear that they had fallen over into them: for poor Irrgeist had got now
into the midst of the deep pits and the ravenous beasts. And soon he
found how terrible was his danger. He had been following one who had
made him believe that he had light to guide his steps; he had gone with
him out of the beaten path; and they were pressing on together, when
Irrgeist suddenly lost sight of him in the darkness; and whether it was
that he had fallen into a pit, or become the prey of some evil beast,
Irrgeist knew not; only, he found that he was more alone than ever, and
near to some great peril. Poor Irrgeist sprang aside with all his force,
thinking only of the danger which he feared; but, feeling his feet
slipping under him, he turned, and saw that he had got upon the
treacherous brink of a fearful pit; down which, at the very moment,
another pilgrim fell. The fierce red flames rose out of it with a roar
like thunder, and a blaze like the mouth of a furnace; and the wind blew
the flames into the face of Irrgeist, so that he was singed and almost
blinded. Then the poor boy called in the bitterness of his heart upon
Pleasure, who had led him out of the way, and now had forsaken him; but
she came no more--only terrible thoughts troubled him; and he heard the
hissing of serpents as they slid along in the bushes near him, and all
evil noises sounded in his ears, till he scarcely knew where he was
standing. Then he thought of his staff, which he had dropped when
Pleasure had first tempted him, and he grieved that it was gone; and he
felt in the folds of his mantle, hoping that he might still have the book
of light within it; for he had too often thrust it there at the beginning
of his journey; but he could not find it. Then he strove to get some
light from his little lamp; for, hurt as it was, he had it still in his
hand, and he thought there was just a little blue light playing most
faintly within it; but this was not enough to direct him on his way,
rather did it make his way more dark. Then at last he bethought him of
the golden vial. Few were there of those near him but had lost theirs
altogether, and his hung only by a single thread. But it was not gone;
and when he had striven long, he just drew from it a single drop of oil,
and he trimmed his lamp, and it yielded forth a little trembling light,
just enough to shew that it was not altogether dead. With the help of
this light he saw that when he had dropped his book of fire, one single
leaf had been torn from it, and stuck to his mantle; so he seized it
eagerly, and strove to draw light from it; but all that it would yield
was red and angry-looking light, and all that he could read was, "the way
of transgressors is hard."
Poor Irrgeist! he sat down almost in despair, and wept as if his heart
would break. "O, that I had never trusted Pleasure;" "O, that I had
never left the path;" "O, that I had my book of light, and my lamp's
former brightness, and my goodly stick;" "O, that one would lighten my
darkness."
Then did it seem to me as if in the murmur of the air around him two
voices were speaking to the boy. One was like the gentle voice of the
man whom I had seen at the porch of the valley; and it seemed to whisper,
"return," "return;" "mercy," and "forgiveness." And as he listened,
something like hope mixed with the bitter tears which ran down the face
of the wanderer. But then would sound the other voice, harsh, and loud,
and threatening; and it said, "too late," "too late," "despair,"
"despair."
So the poor boy was sadly torn and scattered in his thoughts by these two
different voices; but methought, as he guarded his golden vial, and
strove to trim his dying lamp, that the gentle voice became more
constant, and the voice of terror more dull and distant.
Then, as I was watching him, all at once the boy sprang up, and he seemed
to see a light before him, so straight on did he walk: many crossed his
path and jostled against him, but he cared not; he heard the sweet voice
plainer and plainer, like the soft murmuring of the cushat dove in the
early summer, and he would follow where it led. Hitherto his pathway had
been smooth, and he had hastened along it; but this did not last, for now
it narrowed almost to a line, and ran straight between two horrible
pitfalls; so he paused for a moment; but the roaring of a lion was behind
him, and forward he pressed. It was a sore passage for Irrgeist, for the
whole ground was strewed with thorns, which pierced his feet at every
step, and the sparks from the fire-pits flew ever round him, and now and
then fell in showers over him. Neither did he hear now the pleasant
sound of the voice of kindness; whether it were that it had died away, he
knew not, or whether it were that the crackling and roaring of the fierce
flames, and the voice of the beasts behind, and his own groans and
crying, drowned its soft music, so that he heard it not.
I had looked at him until I could bear it no more; for the path seemed to
grow narrower and narrower; the flames from the two pits already almost
touched; and I could not endure to see, as I feared I should, the little
one, whom I had watched, become the prey of their devouring fierceness.
So, with a bitter groan for Irrgeist, I turned me back to the road to see
how it fared with Furchtsam and Gehulfe.
They had fallen far behind the others from the first. Poor little
Furchtsam had a trembling tottering gait; and as he walked, he looked on
this side and on that, as if every step was dangerous. This led him
often to look off his book of light, and then it would shut up its
leaves, and then his little lamp grew dimmer and dimmer, and his feet
stumbled, and he trembled so, that he almost dropped his staff out of his
hands. Yet still he kept the right path, only he got along it very
slowly and with pain.
Whether it was that Gehulfe was too tender spirited to leave him, or why
else, I know not, but he kept close by the little trembler, and seemed
ever waiting to help him. Many a time did he catch him by the hand when
he was ready to fall, and speak to him a word of comfort, when without it
he would have sunk down through fear. So they got on together, and now
they came to the part of the pathway which the evil enchantress haunted.
She used all her skill upon them, and brought up before their eyes all
the visions she could raise; sunshine, and singing-birds, and waving
boughs, and green grass, and sparkling water, they all passed before
their eyes,--but they heeded them not: once, indeed, poor Furchtsam for a
moment looked with a longing eye at the painted sunshine, as if its warm
light would have driven off some of his fears; but it was but for a
moment. And as for Gehulfe, whether it was that he was reading his book
of light too closely, or trimming too carefully his lamp, or helping too
constantly his trembling friend, for some cause or other he scarcely
seemed to see the visions which the sorceress had spread around him. So
when she had tried all her skill for a season, and found it in vain, she
vanished altogether from them, and they saw her no more. But their
dangers were not over yet. When Gottlieb passed along this road, he had
gone on so boldly, that I had not noticed how fearful it was in parts to
any giddy head or fainting heart. But now I saw well how it terrified
Furchtsam. For here it seemed to rise straight up to a dangerous height,
and to become so narrow at the same time, and to be so bare of any side-
wall or parapet, that it was indeed a giddy thing to pass along it. Yet
when one walked over it, as Gottlieb did, leaning on his staff of Church-
truth, reading diligently in his book, and trimming ever and anon his
lamp, such a light fell upon the narrow path, and the darkness so veiled
the precipice, that the pilgrim did not know that there was any thing to
fear. But not so when you stopped to look--then it became terrible
indeed; you soon lost all sight of the path before you; for the brightest
lamp only lighted the road just by your feet, and that seemed rising
almost to an edge, whilst the flash of distant lights here and there
shewed that a fearful precipice was on each side.
Furchtsam trembled exceedingly when he looked at it; and even Gehulfe,
when, instead of marching on, he stopped to talk about it, began to be
troubled with fears. Now, as they looked here and there, Furchtsam saw
an easy safe-looking path, which promised to lead them in the same
direction, but along the bottom of the cliffs. Right glad was he to see
it; and so taking the lead for once, he let fall his staff, that by
catching hold of the bushes on the bank, he might drop down more easily
upon the lower path; and there he got with very little trouble.
It was all done in a moment; and when he was out of the path, Gehulfe
turned round and saw where he was gone. Then he tried to follow after
him; but he could not draw his staff with him through the gap, or climb
down the bank without letting it go. And, happily for him, he held it so
firmly, that after one or two trials he stopped. Then, indeed, was he
glad, as soon as he had time to think; and he held his good stick firmer
in his hand than ever, for now he saw plainly that Furchtsam was quite
out of the road, and that he had himself well-nigh followed him. So
leaning over the side, he began to call to his poor timid companion, and
encourage him to mount up again, by the bank which he had slipped down,
and venture along the right way with him. At first Furchtsam shook his
head mournfully, and would not hear of it. But when Gehulfe reminded him
that they had a true promise from the King, that nothing should harm them
whilst they kept to the high way of holiness, and that the way upon which
he had now entered was full of pitfalls, and wild beasts, and every sort
of danger, and that in it he must be alone,--then his reason began to
come back to him, and Furchtsam saw into what an evil state he had
brought himself; and with all his heart he wished himself back again by
the side of Gehulfe. But it was no such easy matter to get back. His
lamp was so bruised and shaken as he slid down, that it threw scarcely
any light at all; while it had never seemed, he thought, so dark as it
did now: he could not see the bushes to which he had clung just before,
or the half path which had brought him down. Gehulfe's voice from above
was some guide to him, and shewed him in which direction to turn; but
when he tried to mount the bank, it was so steep and so slippery, he
could scarcely cling to it; and he had no staff to lean upon, and no
friendly hand to help him. Surely if it had not been for the kind
encouraging voice of Gehulfe, the weak and trembling heart of Furchtsam
would have failed utterly, and he would have given up altogether.
Now, just at this time, whilst he was reaching out to Furchtsam, and
urging him to strive more earnestly, he heard a noise as of one running
upon the path behind him; and he looked round and saw one of the King's
own messengers coming fast upon it: so when he came up to Gehulfe, he
stopped and asked him what made him tarry thus upon the King's path. Then
Gehulfe answered very humbly, that he was striving to help back poor
Furchtsam into the right way, from which he had been driven by his fears.
Then the messenger of the King looked upon him kindly, and bid him "fear
not." "Rightly," he said, "art thou named Gehulfe, for thou hast been
ready to help the weak; and the Lord, who has bidden his children 'to
bear one another's burdens,' has watched thee all alone thy way, and
looked upon thee with an eye of love; and forasmuch as thou seemest to
have been hindered in thy own course by helping thy brother, the King has
sent me to carry thee on up this steep place, and over this dangerous
road." With that, I saw that he lifted up the boy, and was about to fly
with him through the air. Then, seeing that he cast a longing look
towards the steep bank, down which Furchtsam had slipped, and that the
sound of his sad voice was still ringing in his ear; the King's messenger
said to him, "'Cast thy burden upon the Lord.' 'The Lord careth for
thee.' 'For the very hairs of your head are numbered,' and 'the Lord is
full of compassion, pitiful, and of great mercy.'" So the heart of
Gehulfe was soothed, and with a happy mind he gave himself to the
messenger, and he bore him speedily along the dangerous path, as if his
feet never touched the ground, but refreshing airs breathed upon his
forehead as he swept along, and silver voices chanted holy words to his
glad heart. "He shall gather the lambs in his arms," said one; and
another and a sweeter took up the strain and sang, "and he shall carry
them in his bosom." And so he passed along the way swiftly and most
happily.
Then I saw that he bore him to the mouth of the arbour into which
Gottlieb had turned to rest. And now as he came up to it, Gottlieb was
just coming forth again to renew his journey. Right glad was Gottlieb of
the company of such a comrade; so they joined their hands together, and
walked along the road speaking to one another of the kindness of the
King, and telling one to the other all that had befallen them hitherto. A
pleasant thing it was to see them marching along that road, their good
staffs in their hands, their lamps burning brightly, and their books
sending forth streams of light, to shew them the way that they should go.
But now I saw they got into a part of the road which was rough and full
of stones; and unless they kept the lights they bore with them ever
turned towards the road, and looked, too, most carefully to their
footing, they were in constant danger of falling. The air, also, seemed
to have some power here of sending them to sleep, for I saw that
Gottlieb's steps were not as steady and active as they had been; and he
looked often from this side to that, to see if there were any other
resting-place provided for him; but none could he see: and then
methought, as he walked on, his eyes would close as he bent them down
over his book, like one falling asleep from exceeding weariness.
Gehulfe saw the danger of his friend; and though he felt the air heavy,
his fear for Gottlieb kept him wide awake. "What are those words," he
asked his drowsy friend, "which burn so brightly in your book?" When he
heard the voice, Gottlieb roused himself, and read; and it was written,
"Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation; the spirit truly is
willing, but the flesh is weak." Then, for a little while, Gottlieb was
warned, and he walked like one awake; but, after a time, such power had
this sleepy air, he was again almost as drowsy as ever, and his eyes were
nearly closed. Then, before Gehulfe could give him a second warning, he
placed his foot in a hole, which he would have easily passed by, if he
had been watching; and, falling suddenly down, he would have rolled quite
out of the road (for it was raised here with a steep bank on either
side), if Gehulfe had not been nigh to catch him again by the hand, and
keep him in the path. He was sorely bruised and shaken by the fall, and
his lamp, too, was dusted and hurt; so that he could not, at first, press
on the way as he wished to do. But now his drowsiness was gone; and,
with many bitter tears, he lamented that he had given way to it before.
One strange thing I noted, too: he had dropped his staff in his fall, and
he could not rise till he had taken it again in his hand; but now, when
he tried to take it, it pricked and hurt his hand, as if it had been
rough and sharp with thorns. Then I looked at it, and saw that one of
the stems which were twined together, and which bore the name of
"discipline," was very rough and thorny; and this, which had turned
inwardly before, was now, by his fall, forced to the outside of the
staff, so that he must hold that or none. Now I heard the boy groan as
he laid hold of it; but lay hold of it he did, and that boldly, for he
could not rise or travel without it, and to rise and travel he was
determined. Then he looked into his book of light, and he read out of it
these words, "Make the bones which Thou hast broken to rejoice." And as
he read them, he gathered courage, and made a great effort, and stood
upon his feet, and pressed on beside Gehulfe.
Then I saw that the road changed again, and became smoother than they had
ever known it. Gottlieb's staff, too, was now smooth and easy in his
hand, as it had been at first. Soon also a pleasant air sprung up, and
blew softly and yet cool upon their foreheads. And now they heard the
song of birds, as if the sunshine was very near them, though they saw it
not yet. There were, too, every now and then, sounds sweeter than the
songs of birds, as if blessed angels were near them, and they were let to
hear their heavenly voices. A little further, and the day began to dawn
upon them--bright light shone out some way before them, and its glad
reflection was already cast upon their path. But still there was one
more trial before them; for when they had enjoyed this light for a
season, and I thought they must be close upon the sunshine, I saw that
they had got into greater darkness than ever. Here, also, they lost
sight of one another; for it was a part of the King's appointment, that
each one must pass that dark part alone--it was called "the shadow of
death." Gehulfe, I saw, walked through it easily; his feet were nimble
and active, his lamp was bright, his golden vial ever in his hand, his
staff firm to lean upon, and the book of light close before his eyes: he
was still reading it aloud, and I heard him speak of his King as giving
"songs in the night,"--and so, with a glad heart, he passed through the
darkness. The brightest sunshine lay close upon the other side of it;
and there he was waited for by messengers in robes of light, and they
clad him in the same, and carried him with songs and music into the
presence of the King.
But Gottlieb did not pass through so easily. It seemed as if that
darkness had power to bring out any weakness with which past accidents
had at the time affected the pilgrim: for so it was, that when Gottlieb
was in it, he felt all the stunning of his fall come back again upon him,
and, for a moment, he seemed well-nigh lost. But his heart was sound,
and there was One who was faithful holding him up: so he grasped his good
staff tighter than ever, though its roughness had come out again and
sorely pricked his hand; but this seemed only to quicken his steps; and
when he had gone on a little while thus firmly, as he looked into his
book he saw written on its open page, "I will make darkness light before
thee." {76} And as he read them, the words seemed to be fulfilled, for
he stepped joyfully out of the darkness into the clear sunlight. And for
him too the messengers were waiting; for him too were garments ready
woven of the light; around him were songs, and music, and rejoicing; and
so they bare him into the presence of the King.
Now, when I had seen these two pass so happily through their journey into
rest, I thought again of the poor trembling Furchtsam, and longed to know
that he had got again into the road. But upon looking back to where I
had lost sight of him, I saw that he was still lying at the foot of the
steep bank, down whose side he had stepped so easily. He had toiled and
laboured, and striven to climb up, but it had been all in vain. Still he
would not cease his labour; and now he was but waiting to recover his
breath to begin to strive again. He was, too, continually calling on the
King for aid. Then I saw a figure approaching him in the midst of his
cries. And poor Furchtsam trembled exceedingly, for he was of a very
timorous heart, and he scarcely dared to look up to him who stood by him.
After a while I heard the man speak to him, and he asked him in a grave,
pitying voice, "What doest thou here?" Then the poor boy sobbed out in
broken words the confession of his folly, and told how he had feared and
left the road, and how he had laboured to get back into it, and how he
almost thought that he should never reach it. Then I saw the man look
down upon him with a face of tenderness and love; and he stretched forth
his hand towards him; and Furchtsam saw that it was the hand which had
been pierced for him: so he raised the boy up, and set him on his feet;
and he led him straight up the steepest bank. And now it seemed easy to
his steps; and he put him back again in the road, and gave the staff into
his hand, and bid him "redeem the time, because the days are evil;" and
then he added, "Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble
knees." "Say to them that are of a fearful heart, 'be strong:' 'fear
not.'" {79a} Such strength had his touch, his words, and his kind look,
given to the heart of the timid boy, that he seized the staff, though its
most prickly "discipline" sorely hurt his tender flesh; and leaning on
it, he set bravely out without a moment's delay. And I heard him reading
in his book of light as he climbed up the steep path which had affrighted
him; and what he read was this: "Before I was afflicted, I went astray;
but now have I kept Thy word." {79b}
When he had almost reached the arbour, another danger awaited him; for in
the dim light round him he saw, as he thought, the form of an evil beast
lying in the pathway before him. Then did some of his old terrors begin
to trouble him; and he had turned aside, perhaps, out of the way, but
that the wholesome roughness of his staff still pricked his hand and
forced him to recall his former fall. Instead, therefore, of turning
aside, he looked into his book of light, and there he read in fiery
letters, "Thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and
the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet:" and this gave him comfort.
So, on he went, determining still to read in his book, and not to look at
all at that which affrighted him: and so it was, that when he came to the
place, he saw that it was only a bush, which his fears had turned into
the figure of a beast of prey; and at the same moment he found where it
was written in his book, "No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast
shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall
walk there." {80}
And now he stood beside the arbour, where he rested a while, and then
pursued his journey. Now I noticed, that as he got further on the road,
and read more in his book, and leant upon his staff, that he grew bolder
and firmer in his gait: and I thought that I could see why Gehulfe, who
had been needful to him in his first weakness, had afterwards been
carried away from him: for surely he had leant more upon him, and less
upon his book and his good staff, unless he had walked there alone.
However this might be, he grew continually bolder. As he drew near the
last sad darkness, I began again to tremble for him; but I need not have
done so; for he walked on so straight through it, that it seemed scarcely
to make any difference to him at all. In the best part of the road his
feebleness had taught him to lean altogether upon Him who had so
mercifully helped him on the bank, and who had held up his fainting steps
hitherto; and this strength could hold him up as well even in this
extreme darkness. I heard him, as he parsed along, say, "When I am weak,
then am I strong;" and with that he broke out into singing:
"Through death's dark valley without fear
My feeble steps have trod,
Because I know my God is near;
I feel His staff and rod."
With that he too passed out of the shade and darkness into the joyful
sunshine. And oh, it was indeed a happy time! It made my heart bound
when I saw his face, which had so often turned pale and drooped with
terror, now lighted up with the glow of the heavenly light; when, instead
of the evil things which his fears had summoned up, I saw around him the
bands of holy ones, and the children of the day: and so they passed
along. And soon, I thought, he would see again the hand which had been
stretched out to save him on the bank, and hear the kind and merciful
voice which had soothed his terror and despair, and live in the present
sunshine of that gracious countenance.