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   [Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] [Illustration: At last there came a grave man to the gate, whose name was Goodwill. (_Page 15_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. IN WORDS OF ONE SYLLABLE. BY SAMUEL PHILLIPS DAY, AUTHOR OF "THE RARE ROMANCE OF REYNARD THE FOX," IN WORDS OF ONE SYLLABLE. _ILLUSTRATED._ A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. _All rights reserved._ Contents I. THE DEN AND THE DREAM 5 II. THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 8 III. WORLDLY-WISEMAN 10 IV. THE WICKET-GATE 15 V. THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 18 VI. THE CROSS AND THE CONTRAST 19 VII. THE HILL DIFFICULTY 28 VIII. THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL 30 IX. APOLLYON 39 X. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH 42 XI. CHRISTIAN AND FAITHFUL 44 XII. TALKATIVE 50 XIII. VANITY FAIR 56 XIV. CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL 64 XV. DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR 69 XVI. THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS 77 XVII. THE ENCHANTED GROUND AND THE WAY DOWN TO IT 81 XVIII. THE LAND OF BEULAH--THE FORDS OF THE RIVER--AT HOME 87 THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. CHAPTER I. THE DEN AND THE DREAM. AS I went through the wilds of this world, I came to a place where was a den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and as I slept I dreamt a dream; and lo, I saw a man clad in rags, with a book in his hand, and a great load on his back! I saw him read in the book, and as he read, he wept and shook. In this plight, then, he went home, and kept calm as long as he could, that his wife and bairns should not see his grief; but he could not long hold his speech, for that his woe grew more hard to bear. "Oh, my dear wife," said he, "and you, the bairns of my heart, I am quite lost, for a load lies hard on me. More than this, I am told that this our town will be burnt with fire from the skies, and you, my sweet babes, shall come to grief, save some way can be found to get clear of harm." At this his kin were in sore fear; for that they had just cause to dread some dire ill had got hold of his head. So, when morn was come, they would know how he did: and he told them, "Worse and worse." He spoke to them once more, but they gave no heed to his words. Hence he went to his room to pray for them, and to ease his grief. He would, too, take long walks in the fields, and read and pray at times: and thus for some days he spent his time. Now I saw on a time, when he took a stray walk in the fields, that he was bent on his book and in deep grief of mind; and as he read he burst out, "What shall I do?" I saw, too, that his eyes went this way and that way, as if he would run: yet he could not tell which way to go. I then saw a man whose name was Evangelist come to him and ask, "Why dost thou cry?" Quoth he, "Sir, I see by the book in my hand that death is my doom, and that I am then to meet my Judge: and I find that I do not will to do the first, while I dread the last." Then said Evangelist, "Why not will to die, since this life is full of ills?" The man said, "The cause is I fear that this load that is on my back will sink me more low than the grave, and I shall go down to hell." Then said Evangelist, "If this be thy state, why dost thou stand still?" Said he, "It is for that I know not where to go." Then he gave him a roll of smooth skin, on which were writ the plain words, "Flee from the wrath to come." The man read it, and said, "To what place must I flee?" Then said Evangelist, "Do you see yon small gate?" The man said, "I think I do." Then said his guide, "Go up at once to it; at which, when thou dost knock, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do." So I saw in my dream that the man did run. Now he had not run far from his own door, but his wife and bairns saw it, and in a loud voice they strove to get him to come back; but the man put the tips of his thumbs in his ears and ran on. His friends also came out, and some bade him haste back. Of those who did so, there were two that sought to fetch him back by force. The name of the one was Obstinate; and the name of the next, Pliable. Now by this time the man was a good way off; but they went in quest of him, and in a short time came up with him. Then said he, "Friends, for what are ye come?" Quoth they, "To urge you to go back with us": but he said, "That can by no means be. You dwell in the City of Destruction: and when you die there, you will sink down to a place that burns with fire. Take heed, good friends, and go with me." [Illustration: OBSTINATE GOES BACK TO THE CITY OF DESTRUCTION.] "What!" said Obstinate, "and leave our friends and all that brings us joy and ease?" "Yes," said Christian (for that was his name); "I seek a life that fades not. Read it so, if you will, in my book." "Tush!" said Obstinate, "I heed not your book: will you go back with us or no?" "No, not I," said Christian. _Obs._--"Come then, friend Pliable, let us go home." Then said Pliable, "The things he looks for are of more worth than ours. My heart urges me to go with him." _Obs._--"What! Be led by me and go back." _Chr._--"Come with me, friend Pliable; there are such things to be had which I spoke of, and much more bliss. If you heed not what I say, read here in this book." "Well, friend Obstinate," said Pliable, "I mean to go with this good man, and to cast in my lot with him. But, my good mate, do you know the way to this place?" _Chr._--"I am told by a man, whose name is Evangelist, to speed me to a small gate that is in front of us, where we shall be put in the right way." "And I will go back to my place," said Obstinate. "I will not make one of such flat fools." CHAPTER II. THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND. NOW Christian and Pliable spoke as they did walk on the plain; and this was what they said: _Chr._--"Come, friend Pliable. I am glad you have been led to go with me. Had but Obstinate felt what I have felt, he would not have set his back on us." _Pli._--"And do you think that your book is true?" _Chr._--"Yes: there is a realm where we shall not taste of death, that we may dwell in it for aye." _Pli._--"This is right good; and what else?" _Chr._--"There we shall not weep or grieve more; for he that owns the place will wipe all tears from our eyes." _Pli._--"To hear this doth fill one's heart with joy. But are these things to form our bliss? How shall we get to share in them?" _Chr._--"The Lord hath set down _that_ in this book, the pith of which is, if we in truth seek to have it, he will, of his free grace, grant it to us." _Pli._--"Well, my good friend, glad am I to hear of these things. Come on, let us mend our pace." Now I saw in my dream that just as they had put an end to this talk they drew up nigh to a deep slough that was in the midst of the plain; and as they did not heed it, both fell swap in the bog. The name of the slough was Despond. Then said Pliable, "Ah, friend Christian, where are you now?" "In sooth," said Christian, "I do not know." At this Pliable said in sharp tones, "Is this the bliss you have told me all this while of? If we have such ill speed as we first set out, what may we not look for ere the time we get to the end of our road? May I once get out with my life, you shall hold the brave land for me." And with that he gave a bold stride or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the slough which was next his own house. So off he went, and Christian saw him no more. Hence Christian was left to sprawl in the Slough of Despond. But I saw in my dream that a man came to him whose name was Help, and did ask him what he did there. "Sir," said Christian, "I was bade go this way by a man known as Evangelist, who sent me in like way to yon gate, that I might scape the wrath to come." So he gave him his hand, and drew him out, and set him on sound ground, and let him go on his way. Then I went to him that did pluck him out, and said, "Sir, whence is it that this plat is not made whole, that those who pass this way may run no risk?" And he said to me, "This slough is such a place that none can mend it. It goes by the name of the Slough of Despond; for still, as he who sins is wrought up to a sense of his lost state, there spring forth in his soul fears, and doubts, and dark thoughts that scare, which all of them form in a heap and fix in this place; and this is the cause why the road is so bad. True, there are, by the help of him who frames the laws, some stout and firm steps found through the midst of this slough; these steps are all but hid, or if they be seen, men step on one side, and then they get all grime with mire, though the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate." CHAPTER III. WORLDLY-WISEMAN. AS Christian took his lone walk he saw one cross the field to meet him, and their hap was to meet just as they did cross the same way. The man's name was Mr. Worldly-wiseman. Hence Mr. Worldly-wiseman thus held some talk with Christian. _Wor._--"How now, good friend; where dost thou go bent down with such a weight?" [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AND WORLDLY-WISEMAN] _Chr._--"As big a load, in sooth, as I think a poor wight had in his life! I am bound for yon small gate in front of me; for there, as I am told, I shall be put in a way to be rid of my huge load." _Wor._--"Wilt thou give heed to me, if I tell thee what course to take?" _Chr._--"If what you say be good, I will; for I stand in need of a wise guide." _Wor._--"Who bid thee go this way to be rid of thy load?" _Chr._--"A man that I thought was high and great; his name, as my mind serves me, is Evangelist." _Wor._--"There is not a more rough way to be found in the world than is that he hath bade thee take; and that thou shalt find if thou wilt be led by him. Hear me: I have seen more years than thou. Thou art like to meet with, on the way which thou dost go, great griefs, pain, lack of food and clothes, sword, fierce beasts, gloom, and, in a word, death, and what not! And why should a man run such risks, just on the word of a strange guide?" _Chr._--"Why, sir, I think I care not what things I meet with in the way, if so be I can get ease from my pack." _Wor._--"But why wilt thou seek for ease this way, as such dire ills go with it? the more so, hadst thou but borne with me, I could aid thee to get what thou dost wish, free from the risks that thou in this way wilt run." _Chr._--"Pray, sir, make known this boon to me." _Wor._--"Why, in yon town (the town is known as Morality) there dwells a squire whose name is Legality, a man of good name, that has skill to help men off with such loads as thine from their backs. To him, as I said, thou canst go and get help in a trice; and if he should not be at home, he hath a fair young son, whose name is Civility, that can do it as well as his sage sire." Now was Christian at a stand what to do; but soon he thought, "If this be true which this squire hath said, my best course is to be led by him"; and with that he thus spake more. _Chr._--"Sir, which is the way to this good man's house?" _Wor._--"By that hill you must go, and the first house you come at is his." So Christian went out of his way to go to Mr. Legality's house for help. But lo, when he was got now hard by the hill, that side of it that was next the path did hang so much, that Christian durst not move on, lest the hill should fall on his head: for which cause there he stood still, and he wot not what to do. But soon there came fierce flames of fire out of the hill, each flash of which made Christian dread he should be burnt. And now he was wroth for the heed he gave to Mr. Worldly-wiseman's words. And with that he saw Evangelist come forth to meet him; and thus did he speak with Christian: "What dost thou here?" said he. At which words Christian knew not what to say. Then said Evangelist to him, "Art not thou the man that I found in tears back of the walls of the City of Destruction?" _Chr._--"Yes, dear sir, I am the man. I met with a squire, so soon as I had got clear of the Slough of Despond, who made me think that I might, in the town which did face me, find a man that could take off my load." _Evan._--"What said that squire to you?" _Chr._--"He bid me with speed get rid of my load; and said I, 'I am hence bound for yon gate to gain more news how I may get to the place where my load may be cast off.' So he said that he would show me the best way: 'which way,' said he, 'will take you to a squire's house that hath skill to take off these loads.' So I put faith in him, and set out of that way till I came to this, if so be I might soon get ease from my load." Then said Evangelist, "Stand still a short time, that I may show thee the words of God." Then Christian fell down at his feet as dead, and did cry, "Woe is me, for I am lost!" At the sight of which Evangelist caught him by the right hand, and said, "Be not frail, but have faith." Then Evangelist went on, and said, "Give heed to the things that I shall tell thee of. The man that met thee is one Worldly-wiseman, and he bears a fit name; in part, for that his creed is what the world holds; and in part, for that he loves such faith best, for it saves him from the cross. Now, there are three things in this man's words that thou must be sure and shun--his scheme to turn thee out of the way; his wish to make the cross a shame to thee; and his guile, which did tempt thee to set thy feet in that way that leads to death. "And for this thou must bear in mind to whom he sent thee, no less than his lack of skill to rid thee of thy load. He to whom thou wast sent for ease, by name Legality, has not the gift to set thee free from thy load. No man, as yet, got rid of his load by him: no, nor till the end of time is like to be. 'By the works of the law none can be made just,' for by the deeds of the law no man that lives can be rid of his load; and as for his son, Civility, though he wears soft looks, he is but a knave, and must fail to help thee. Trust me, there is naught else in all this noise that thou hast heard of this spot but a scheme to lure thee of thy soul's bliss." Now Christian felt sure fear of death, and burst out in a shrill cry, full of woe, as he did curse the time in which he met with Mr. Worldly-wiseman. Still did he say he was the chief of fools for the heed he gave to him. This done, he spoke to Evangelist in words and sense thus: _Chr._--"Sir, what think you? Is there hope? May I now go back and go up to the small gate? Shall I not be sent back from thence in shame?" Then said Evangelist to him, "Thy sin is most great, for by it thou hast done two bad deeds: thou hast left the way that is good to tread in wrong paths, yet will the man at the gate let thee pass, for he has _good-will_ for men." Then did Christian make up his mind to go back, and Evangelist, when he did kiss his cheek, gave him a smile, and bid him God speed. CHAPTER IV. THE WICKET-GATE. SO Christian went on with haste, nor spake he to a man by the way; nor if a man spoke to him, would he deign him a word; so in course of time Christian got up to the gate. Now at the top of the gate there were writ these words: ="Knock, and it shall ope to you."= Hence he did knock more than once or twice. At last there came a grave man to the gate, whose name was Goodwill, who sought to know who was there? and whence he came? and what he would have? _Chr._--"Here is a poor vile wight; I come from the City of Destruction, but am bound for Mount Zion, that I may get safe from the wrath to come. I would, for this cause, sir, know if you will let me in." "I will, with all my heart," said he; and with that he drew back the gate. So when he was got in, the man of the gate said to him, "Who told him to come to that place?" _Chr._--"Evangelist bid me come here and knock, as I did; and he said that you, sir, would tell me what I must do." _Good._--"But how is it that no one came with you?" _Chr._--"For that none of those who dwelt near me saw their plight as I saw mine." _Good._--"Did one or more of them know that you meant to come here?" _Chr._--"Yes; my wife and bairns saw me at the first, and did call to me to turn round." _Good._--"But did none of them go in quest of you, to urge you to go back?" _Chr._--"Yes, both Obstinate and Pliable; but when they saw that they could not gain their end, Obstinate went back, and did rail the while, but Pliable came with me a short way." _Good._--"But why did he not come through?" _Chr._--"We, in truth, came on side by side till we came to the Slough of Despond, in the which he fell souse. But as he got out on that side next to his own house, he told me I should hold the brave land for him. So he went his way, and I came mine." Then said Goodwill, "Ah, poor man!" "In sooth," said Christian, "I have said the truth of Pliable; but I, too, did turn on one side to go in the way of death, and I was led to this by the base arts of one Mr. Worldly-wiseman." [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AT THE WICKET-GATE.] _Good._--"Oh, did he light on you? What! he would have had you seek for ease at the hands of Mr. Legality: they are both of them true cheats. But were you led by him?" _Chr._--"Yes, as far as I durst. I went to find out Mr. Legality, till I thought the mount that stands by his house would have come down on my head." _Good._--"That mount has been the death of a host, and will be the death of still more." _Chr._--"Why, in truth, I do not know what hap had come to me there, had not Evangelist by good luck met me once more, while I did muse in the midst of my dumps: but it was God's grace that he came to me twice, for else I could not have got to this place." _Good._--"We shut out none, and take no note of what they have done up to the time they come here: 'they in no wise are cast out': and hence, good Christian, come a wee way with me, and I will teach thee in what way thou must go. Look right in front of thee; dost thou see this strait way? That is the way thou must go." "But," said Christian, "are there no turns or bends by which one who has not trod it may lose his way?" _Good._--"Yes, there are some ways butt down on this; and they are bent and wide: but thus thou canst judge the right from the wrong, that the first is straight and not broad." Then Christian strove to gird up his loins, and to set out on his way. So he with whom he had held speech told him, "That by that he had gone some way from the gate he would come at the house of the Interpreter, at whose door he should knock, and he would show him good things." CHAPTER V. THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE. THEN he went on till he came to the house of the Interpreter, at which he gave some smart knocks. At last one came to the door, and did ask who was there? "Sir," said Christian, "I am a man that am come from the City of Destruction, and am bound for the Mount Zion; and I was told by the man that stands at the gate at the head of this way, that if I came here you would show me good things, such as would be a help to one on the road." Then said the Interpreter, "Come in; I will show thee that which will be of use to thee." So he told his man to light the lamp, and bid Christian go in his track. Then he had him in a room where none else could come, and bid his man fold back the door, the which when he had done Christian saw the print of one, most grave of look, hung up on the wall, and this was the style of it: It had eyes that did stare at the sky, the best of books in its hand, and the law of truth was writ on its lips; the world was at its back, it stood as if it did plead with men, and a crown of gold did hang nigh its head. Then said Christian, "What means this?" _Inter._--"I have shown thee this print first for this cause, that the man whose print this is, is the sole man whom the Lord of the place where thou dost go hath sent as thy guide through all the twists and turns thou wilt meet with in the way; hence take good heed to what I have shown thee, and bear well in thy mind what thou hast seen, lest, in thy route, thou meet with some that say they can lead thee right; but their way goes down to death." Then he took him by the hand, and led him to a large room on the ground floor that was full of dust; the which the Interpreter did call for a man to sweep. Then said the Interpreter to a girl that stood by, "Bring hence from yon brook the means to lay this dust." Then said Christian, "What means this?" The Interpreter thus spoke: "This room on the ground floor is the heart of man that has not been made pure by the sweet grace of Christ's Word. The _dust_ is the sin that cleaves to him through the Fall, and the lust that hath made foul the whole man. He who at first swept is the Law; but she that brought the means to lay the dust is the Gospel." I saw too, in my dream, that the Interpreter took him by the hand, and had him in a small room, where sat two youths, each one in his chair. The name of the most grown was Passion, and of the next, Patience: Passion did not seem at rest, but Patience was quite still. Then I saw that one came to Passion and brought him a bag of rich gifts, and did pour it down at his feet; the which he took up and felt joy in it, while at Patience he gave a laugh of scorn. But I saw but a time, and he had got rid of all, and had naught left but rags. Then said Christian to the Interpreter, "I would have you make this thing more clear to me." So he said, "These two lads are signs: Passion of the men of this world, and Patience of the men of that which is to come; for, as here thou dost see, Passion will have all now, this year, that is to say in this world, so are the men of this world; they must have all their good things now; they durst not stay till next year, that is till the next world, for their share of good." Then said Christian, "Now I see that Patience has the best sense, and that on more grounds than one; for that he stays for the best things, and in like way for that he will have the gain of his when Passion has naught but rags." [Illustration: INTERPRETER SHOWS CHRISTIAN THE ROOM FULL OF DUST] _Inter._--"Nay, you may add one more, to wit, the joys of the next world will not wear out, but these are soon gone." I saw, in like way, that the Interpreter took him once more by the hand, and led him to a choice place, where was built a great house, fine to look at; at the sight of which Christian felt much joy; he saw, too, on the top of it some folk that did walk to and fro, who were clad all in gold. Then the Interpreter took him, and led him up nigh to the door of the great house; and lo, at the door stood a host of men as did wish to go in, but durst not. There, too, sat a man a short way from the door, at the side of a board, with a book and his desk in front of him, to take the name of him that should come in. More than this, he saw that in the porch stood groups of men, clad in coats of mail, to keep it, who meant to do all the hurt and harm they could to the man that would go in. Now was Christian in a sore maze. At last, when all the men did start back for fear of the men who bore arms, Christian saw a man of a bold face come up to the man that sat there to write, and say, "Set down my name, sir"; the which when he had done, he saw the man draw his sword, and put a casque on his head, and rush to the door on the men who had arms, who laid on him with fierce force; but the man, not at all put out of the way, fell to, and did cut and hack with all his might: so, when he had got and dealt scores of wounds to those that strove to keep him out, he cut his way through them all, and made straight for the great house. "Now," said Christian, "let me go hence." "Nay, stay," said the Interpreter, "till I have shown thee some more; and then thou shalt go on thy way." [Illustration: Just as Christian came up with the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back. (_Page 25_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] So he took him by the hand once more, and led him to a room dark as pitch, where there sat a man in a steel cage. Now the man to look on was most sad; and he gave sighs as if he would break his heart. The man said, "I once did seem to be what I was not fair in mine own eyes, and in the eyes of those that knew me. I was once, as I thought, fair for the Celestial City, and went so far as to have joy at the thoughts that I should get there." _Chr._--"Well, but what art thou now?" _Man._--"I am now a man lost to hope." _Chr._--"But how didst thou get in this state?" _Man._--"I did sin in face of the light of the World, and the grace of God. I made the Spirit grieve, and he is gone." Then said Christian, "Is there no hope, but you must be kept in the steel cage of gloom?" _Man._--"None at all." _Chr._--"But canst thou not now grieve and turn?" _Man._--"God hath not let me; his Word gives me no aid to faith; yea, he hath shut me up in this steel cage; nor can all the men in the world let me out." Then said the Interpreter to Christian, "Let this man's wails be dwelt on by thee, and cease not to teach thee how to act." So he took Christian and led him to a room where one did rise out of bed; and as he put on his clothes he did shake and quake. Then said Christian, "Why doth this man thus shake?" So he spoke and said, "This night as I was in my sleep I dreamt, and lo, the sky grew black as ink, when flame flit from the clouds; on which I heard a dread noise, that put me in throes of pain. So I did lift up my eyes in my dream, and saw a man sit on a cloud, with a huge host near to him. I heard, then, a voice that said, 'Come forth, ye dead, and meet your Judge!' And with that the rocks rent, the graves did gape, and the dead that were in them came forth. Then I saw the man that sat on the cloud fold back the book and bid the world draw near. I heard it, in like way, told to them that were near the man that sat on the cloud, 'Bind up the tares, and the chaff, and the stalks, and cast them in the lake that burns with fire.' Then said the voice to the same men, 'Put up my wheat in the barn!' and with that I saw a host caught up in the clouds, but I was left stay." _Chr._--"But what was it that made you so quake at this sight?" _Man._--"Why, I thought that the day of doom had come, and that I was not fit to meet it. But this made me fear most, that some were caught up while I was left." Then said the Interpreter to Christian, "Hast thou thought well on all these things?" _Chr._--"Yes; and they put me in hope and fear." _Inter._--"Well, keep all things so in thy mind that they may be as a goad in thy sides, to prick thee on in the way thou must go." Then Christian girt up his loins, and thought but of the long road he had to tread. [Illustration: So I saw that just as Christian came up to the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back.--Page 25. _Pilgrim's Progress._] CHAPTER VI. THE CROSS AND THE CONTRAST. NOW I saw in my dream that the high road had on each side a wall for a fence, and that wall went by the name of Salvation. Up this way, then, did Christian run with his load, till he came to a place where was a high slope, and on that place stood a cross, and a short way from it in the vale, a tomb. So I saw in my dream that just as Christian came up with the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back, and did roll till it came to the mouth of the grave, where it fell in, and I saw it no more. Then was Christian full glad, and said, with a gay heart, "He hath brought me rest by his grief, and life by his death." Then he stood still for a short time to look with awe, for it was a strange thing to him that the sight of the cross should thus ease him of his load. I saw then in my dream that he went on thus till he came to a vale, where he saw three men in deep sleep, with gyves on their heels. The name of the one was Simple; the next, Sloth; and the third, Presumption. Christian went to them, if so be he might rouse them; so he said in a loud voice, "You are like them that sleep on the top of a mast, for the Dead Sea is low down at your feet, a gulf that no plumb line can sound; get up, hence and come on." With this they gave a glum look at him, and spoke in this sort: Simple said, "I see no cause for fear"; Sloth said, "Yet some more sleep"; and Presumption said, "Each tub must stand on its own end." And so they lay down to sleep once more, and Christian went on his way. [Illustration: FORMALIST AND HYPOCRISY COMING INTO THE WAY OVER THE WALL.] Yet felt he grief to think that men in that sad plight should so spurn the kind act of him that of his own free will sought to help them. And as he did grieve from this cause, he saw two men roll off a wall, on the left hand of the strait way. The name of the one was Formalist, and the name of the next Hypocrisy. So they drew up nigh him, who thus held speech with them: _Chr._--"Sirs, whence came you, and where do you go?" _Form. and Hyp._--"We were born in the land of Vainglory, and are bent for praise to Mount Zion." _Chr._--"Why came you not in at the gate which stands at the head of the way?" They said, "That to go to the gate to get in was by all their horde thought too far round." _Chr._--"But will it not be thought a wrong done to the Lord of the town where we are bound, thus to break his law which he hath made known to us?" They told him, "That this act of theirs, as it stood for so long a time, would no doubt be thought good in law by a just judge; and more than this," said they, "if we get in the way, what boots it which way we get in? If we are in, we are in. Thou art but in the way, who, as we see, came in at the gate; and we too are in the way, that fell from the top of the wall. In what, now, is thy state a whit more good than ours?" _Chr._--"I walk by the rule of my Lord; you walk by the rude quirks of your vague whims. At this time you count but as thieves in the sight of the Lord of the way hence I doubt you will not be found true men at the end of the way. By laws and rules you will not get safe, since you came not in by the door. I have, too, a mark on my brow, which you may not have seen, which one of my Lord's most stanch friends put there, in the day that my load fell from off my back. More than this, I will tell you that I then got a roll with a seal on it, to cheer me while I read it, as I go on the way: I was told to give it in at the Celestial Gate, as a sure sign that I, too, should go in at the right time: all which things I doubt you want, and want them for that you came not in at the gate." CHAPTER VII. THE HILL DIFFICULTY. I SAW then that they all went on till they came to the foot of the Hill Difficulty, at the end of which was a spring. There were in the same place two ways more than that which came straight from the gate: one bent to the left hand, and the next to the right, at the base of the hill; but the strait way lay right up the hill; and the name of that path up the side of the hill is known as Difficulty. Christian now went to the spring and drank of it to cool his blood and quench his thirst, and then he set forth to go up the hill. The two with whom he had held speech in like way came to the foot of the hill; but when they saw that the hill was steep and high, and that there were two more ways to go, and as they thought that these two ways might meet in the long run with that up which Christian went, on the rear side of the hill,--hence they made up their minds to go in those ways. Now the name of one of those ways was Danger, and the name of the next Destruction. So the one took the way which is known as Danger, which led him to a great wood; and he who was with him took straight up the way to Destruction, which led to a wide field full of dark cliffs, where he made a slip, and fell, and rose no more. I then cast my eyes on Christian, and I saw that from a run he came to a walk, and at last had to climb on his hands and his knees, so steep was the place. [Illustration: Timorous was afraid of wild beasts and ran down the hill.--Page 29. _Pilgrim's Progress._] Now half the way to the top of the hill was a nook made of trees, fair to look on, made by the Lord of the hill for the good of such as trod that place. There, then, Christian got; there, too, he sat down to rest him. Thus sought he cheer a while, when he fell to doze, and then went off in a fast sleep. Now as he slept there came one to him, who woke him and said, "Go to the ant, thou man of sloth; think of her ways, and be wise." And with that Christian did start up, and went on till he came to the top of the hill. Now when he was got up to the top of the hill, there came two men who ran right up to him so as to push him. The name of the one was Timorous, and of the next Mistrust; to whom Christian said, "Sirs, what doth ail you? You run the wrong way." Timorous said that they were bound to the City of Zion, and had got up to that hard place; "but," said he, "the more we go on the more risks we meet with; hence did we turn, and mean not to go back." "Yes," said Mistrust, "for just in front of us lie a brace of wild beasts in the way--that they sleep or wake we know not--and we could not think if we came in their reach but they would at once pull us in bits." Then Mistrust and Timorous ran down the hill, and Christian went on his way. But as he dwelt on what he heard from the men, the sun went down; and this made him once more think how vain it was for him to have sunk to sleep. Now, he brought to mind the tale that Mistrust and Timorous had told him of how they took fright at the sight of the wild beasts. Then did Christian muse thus: "These beasts range in the night for their prey; and if they should meet with me in the dark, how should I shift them? how should I get free from their fangs? they would tear me to bits." Thus he went on his way. But, while he did mourn his dire hap, he lift up his eyes, and lo, there was a grand house in front of him, the name of which was Beautiful, and it stood just on the side of the high road. CHAPTER VIII. THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL. SO I saw in my dream that he made haste and went forth, that, if so be, he might get a place to lodge there. Now ere he had gone far, he saw two wild beasts in the way. (The beasts were made fast, but he saw not the chains.) Then he took fright, and thought to go back; for he thought death of a truth did face him. But when the man at the lodge, whose name is Watchful, saw that Christian made a halt, he did cry to him and say, "Is thy strength so small? Fear not the wild beasts, for they are in chains, and are put there for test of faith where it is, and to make known those that have none: keep in the midst of the path, and no hurt shall come to thee." Then did he clap his hands, and went on till he came and stood in front of the gate where the Porter was. Then said Christian to the Porter, "Sir, what house is this? and may I lodge here this night?" The Porter said, "This house was built by the Lord of the hill, and he built it to aid and guard such as speed this way." The Porter, in like way, sought to know whence he was; and to what place he was bound? [Illustration: This is Mistrust, whom Christian met going the wrong way.--Page 29. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"I am come from the City of Destruction; and am on my way to Mount Zion; but as the sun is now set, I wish, if I may, to lodge here this night." _Por._--"But how doth it hap that you come so late? The sun is set." _Chr._--"I had been here ere this, but that, mean man that I am, I slept in the nook that stands on the side of the hill." _Por._--"Well, I will call out one of the maids of this place, who will, if she likes your talk, bring you in to the rest of the folk, as such are the rules of the house." So Watchful rang a bell, at the sound of which came out at the door of the house a grave and fair maid, whose name was Discretion, who would know why she had got a call. The Porter said, "This man is in the way from the City of Destruction to Mount Zion, but as he doth tire, and as night came on, he sought to know if he might lodge here for the night: so I told him I would call for thee, who, when thou dost speak with him, may do as seems to thee good, and act up to the law of the house." Then she would know whence he was, and to what place he was bound, and his name. So he said, "It is Christian." So a smile sat on her lips, but the tears stood in her eyes; and, when she gave a short pause, she said, "I will call forth two or three more of those who dwell here." So she ran to the door, and did call out Prudence, Piety, and Charity; and when she had held more speech with him, he was brought in, and made known to all who dwelt in the house, some of whom met him at the porch, and said, "Come in, thou whom the Lord doth bless; this house was built by the Lord of the hill, to give good cheer to such who, like you, grow faint by the way." Then he bent his head, and went in with them to the house. So when he was come in and set down, they gave him to drink, and then they thought that till the last meal was brought up, some of them should have some wise talk with Christian, so as to make good use of time. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN IS QUESTIONED BY DISCRETION.] _Pi._--"Come, good Christian, since we have shown such love for you as to make you our guest this night, let us, if so be we may each get good by it, talk with you of all things that you have met with on your way." [Illustration: This is Formalist, whom Christian saw roll from the top of a wall, as if to go to Zion.--Page 33. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"With a right good will; and I am glad your mind is so well bent." _Pi._--"How was it that you came out of your land in this way?" _Chr._--"It was as God would have it; for when I was full of the fears of doom, I did not know where to go; but by chance there came a man then to me, whilst I shook and wept, whose name is Evangelist, and he told me how to reach the small gate, which else I should not have found, and so set me in the way that hath led me straight to this house." _Pi._--"But did you not come by the house of the Interpreter?" _Chr._--"Yes, and did see such things there, the thoughts of which will stick by me as long as I live; in chief, three things; to wit, how Christ, in spite of the Foe of Man, keeps up his work of grace in the heart; how the man, through sin, had got quite out of hopes of God's ruth; and, in like way, the dream of him that thought in his sleep the day of doom was come." _Pi._--"And what saw you else in the way?" _Chr._--"Saw! Why, I went but a wee way and I saw One, as I thought in my mind, hang and bleed on a tree; and the sheer sight of him made my load fall off my back; for I did groan through the great weight, but then it fell down from off me." _Pi._--"But you saw more than this, did you not?" _Chr._--"The things that I have told you were the best; yet some more things I saw, as, first of all, I saw three men, Simple, Sloth, and Presumption, lie in sleep, not far out of the way as I came, with gyves on their heels; but do you think I could rouse them? I saw, in like way, Formalist and Hypocrisy come and roll from the top of a wall, to go, as they fain would have me think, to Zion; but they were lost in a trice, just as I did tell them; but they would not heed my words." _Pr._--"Do you think at times of the land from whence you came?" _Chr._--"Yes, but with much shame and hate." _Pr._--"Do you not yet bear hence with you some of the things that you well knew there?" _Chr._--"Yes, but much in strife with my will; the more so the crass thoughts of my heart, with which all the folk of my land, as well as I, would find joy; but now all those things are my grief, and might I but choose mine own things, I would choose not to think of those things more; but when I would do that which is best, that which is worst is with me." _Pr._--"And what is it that makes you so long to go to Mount Zion?" _Chr._--"Why, there I hope to see Him live that did hang dead on the cross; and there I hope to be rid of all those things that to this day are in me and do vex me: there they say there is no death; and there I shall dwell with such folk as I like best." Then said Charity to Christian, "Have you bairns, and have you a wife?" _Chr._--"I have a wife and four small bairns." _Char._--"And why did you not bring them on with you?" Then Christian wept and said, "Oh, fain would I have done it! but they were all of them loath to let me leave them." _Char._--"But you should have sought to show them the risks they ran when they held back." [Illustration: Hypocrisy would fain have Christian think he was on the way to Zion.--Page 34. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"So I did; and told them, too, that God had shown to me how that our town would come to wrack; but they thought I did but mock, and they put no faith in what I said." _Char._--"But what could they say to show cause why they came not?" [Illustration: CHRISTIAN TELLS CHARITY AND HER SISTERS ABOUT HIS FAMILY.] _Chr._--"Why, my wife was loath to lose this world; and my bairns were bent on the rash joys of youth; so, what by this thing, and what by that thing, they left me to roam in this lone way." _Char._--"But did you not with your vain life damp all that you by words made use of as force to bring them off with you?" _Chr._--"In sooth, I must not say aught for my life, as I know full well what blurs there are in it. I know, too, that a man by his deeds may soon set at naught what by sound speech and wit of words he doth strive to fix on some for their good. Yet this I can say, I took heed not to give them cause, by a false act, to shirk the step I took, and not set out with me. Yea, for this sole thing they would tell me I was too nice; and that I would not touch of things in which they saw no guile." _Char._--"In truth, Cain did hate him who came of the same blood, for that his works were bad, and Abel's not so; and if thy wife and bairns have thought ill of thee for this, they show by it that they are foes to good; and thou hast set free thy soul from their blood." Now I saw in my dream that thus they sat and spoke each to each till the meal was laid on the board; and all their talk while they ate was of the Lord of the hill; as, in sooth, of what he had done, and why it was he did what he did, and why he had built that house. They, in like way, gave prompt proof of what they said, and that was, he had stript him of his rich robes, that he might do this for the poor; and that they heard him say, with stern stress, that he would not dwell in the Mount of Zion in a lone way. They said, too, that he made a host of poor ones kings, though by the law of their birth they were born to live on bare alms, and their first state had been low and bad. Thus they spoke, this one to that one, till late at night; and when they had put them in the Lord's care they went to rest. [Illustration: Then he set forth: but Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence would go with him down to the foot of the hill. (_Page 38_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] The next day they took him and had him in the place in which arms were kept, where he was shown all sorts of things which their Lord had put there for such as he, as sword, shield, casque, plate for breast, _All-prayer_, and shoes that would not wear out. And there was here as much of this as would fit out a host of men to serve the Lord. In like way did they show him some of the means with which some of his friends had done things that strike one with awe. He was shown the jaw-bone of the ass with which Samson did such great feats. More than this, he was shown the sling and stone with which David slew Goliath of Gath. But more things still were shown to him, in all of which Christian felt much joy. This done, they went to their rest once more. Then I saw in my dream that on the morn he got up to go forth, but they fain would have him stay till the next day; "and then," said they, "we will, if the day be clear, show you the Delectable Mountains, which," they said, "would yet the more add to his bliss, for that they were yet more nigh the port than the place where at that time he was." So he thought it well to stay. When the morn was up, they had him to the top of the house, and bid him look south; so he did, and lo, a long way off, he saw a fair land, full of high hills, clad with woods, vine grounds, fruits of all sorts, plants as well, with springs and founts, most bright to look on. They said it was Immanuel's Land; "and it is as free," said they, "as this hill is to and for all that are in the way. And when thou dost come there from thence," said they, "thou canst see to the gate of the Celestial City, as those who watch their flocks and live there will show thee." Now he thought it was due time to set forth, and they were glad that he should. "But first," said they, "let us go once more to where the arms are kept." So they did. And when he came there they clad him in coat of mail, which was of proof, from head to foot, lest he should chance meet with foes in the way. He then, in this gear, came out with his friends to the gate, and there he would know of the Porter "if he saw one pass by?" Then the Porter said "Yes." _Chr._--"Pray did you know him?" _Por._--"I did ask his name, and he told me it was Faithful." "Oh," said Christian, "I know him: he is from the same town, and lives nigh to where I dwell: he comes from the place where I was born. How far do you think he may be on the road?" _Por._--"He has got by this time more than to the foot of the hill." Then he set forth: but Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence would go with him down to the foot of the hill. Then said Christian, "As it was _hard_ to come up, so, so far as I can see, it is a _risk_ to go down." "Yes," said Prudence, "so it is; for it is a hard thing for a man to go down in the Vale of Humiliation, as thou art now, and to catch no slip by the way; hence," said they, "we are come out to see thee safe down the hill." So he strove to go down, but with great heed; yet he caught a slip or two. Then I saw in my dream that these good friends, when Christian was gone down to the foot of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, a flask of wine, and a bunch of dry grapes; and then he went on his way. CHAPTER IX. APOLLYON. BUT now, in this Vale of Humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a short way, when he saw a foul fiend come through the field to meet him: his name is Apollyon. So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the ghoul did shock one's eyes to look on: he was clad with scales like a fish; he had wings like a huge bat, feet like a bear, and out of his throat came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of the king of beasts. When he came up to Christian he gave him a look of scorn, and thus sought to sift him. _Apol._--"Whence came you? and to what place are you bound?" _Chr._--"I am come from the City of Destruction, which is the place of all ill, and am on my way to Mount Zion." _Apol._--"By this I know thou art one of my serfs; for all that land is mine; and I am the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that thou hast run off from thy king? Were it not that I hope thou wilt serve me yet more, I would strike thee now at one blow to the ground." _Chr._--"I was born, in sooth, in your realm, but to serve thee was hard, and your pay such as a man could not live on; 'for the meed of sin is death': for this cause, when I was come to years, I did, as some who think do, look out if so be I might mend my state. I have let my help to some one else; and to no less than the King of Kings." _Apol._--"Think yet, while thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou dost go. Thou art not blind that for the most part those who serve him come to an ill end, for that they spurn my laws and walk not in my paths. What a host of them have been put to deaths of shame! And still thou dost count that to serve him is best; when, in sooth, he has not yet come from the place where he is, to save one that stood by his cause, out of my hands." _Chr._--"He does not seek so soon to save them, so as to try their love, and find if they will cleave to him to the end; and as for the ill end thou dost say they come to, that tells for their good: for to be set free now they do not much look for it; for they stay for their meed; and they shall have it when their Prince comes in the might of the bright hosts that wait on him." _Apol._--"Thou hast erst been false in thy turns to serve him; and how dost thou think to get pay of him?" _Chr._--"All this is true; but the Prince whom I serve and love is sure to show ruth. But, let me say, these faults held hold of me in thy land; for there I did suck them in, and they have made me groan and grieve for them; whence I have got the grace of my Prince." Then Apollyon broke out in a sore rage, and said, "I am a foe to this Prince: I hate him, his laws, and they who serve him. I am come out with the view to make thee yield." _Chr._--"Apollyon, take heed what you do; for I am on the King's high road, the way of grace; for which cause mind how you act." Then did Christian draw; for he saw it was time for him to stir; and Apollyon as fast made at him, and threw darts as thick as hail, by the which, in spite of all that Christian could do to shift it, Apollyon hit him in his head, his hand, and foot. This made Christian give some back: Apollyon then went to his work with heart, and Christian once more took heart, and met his foe as well as he could. Then Apollyon, as he saw his time had come, made up close to Christian, and as he strove to throw him gave him a dread fall; and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, "I am sure of thee now!" and with that he did nigh press him to death; so that Christian had slight hope of life. But, as God would have it, while Apollyon dealt his last blow, by that means to make a full end of this good man, Christian at once put out his hand for his sword, caught it, and said, "When I fall, I shall then rise"; and with that gave him a fierce thrust, which made him give back as one that had got his death wound. Christian saw that, and made at him once more, while he said, "Nay, in all these things we more than gain the prize through him that loves us"; and with that Apollyon spread forth his foul wings and sped him off, that Christian saw no more of him. So when the fight came to a close, Christian said, "I will here give thanks to him that hath kept me out of the mouth of the chief of beasts, to him that did help me in the strife with Apollyon." Then there came to him a hand with some of the leaves of the "tree of life," the which Christian took and laid them on the wounds that he had got in the strife, and was made whole at once. CHAPTER X. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. NOW at the end of this vale was one more, known as the Vale of the Shade of Death, and Christian must needs go through it, for this cause, that the way to the Celestial City lay through the midst of it. I saw then in my dream, so far as the bounds of the vale, there was on the right hand a most deep ditch; that ditch is it to which the blind have led the blind in each age, and have both there lost their lives. Once more, lo, on the left hand there was a fell quag, in the which, strange to say, if a good man falls he finds no ground for his foot to stand on. The path was here quite strait, and hence good Christian was the more put to it; for when he sought in the dark to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was prone to tip on one side souse in the mire on the next. Nigh the midst of the vale I saw the mouth of hell to be, and it stood, too, hard by the side of the way. And at times the flame and smoke would come out so thick and with such force, that he had to put up his sword and seize more fit arms, known as _All-prayer_; so I heard him cry, "O Lord, I pray thee save my soul!" Thus he went on a great while; and as he came to a place where he thought he heard a band of fiends come forth to meet him, he stopt, and did muse what he had best to do. He brought to mind how he had of late held his foes at bay, and that the risk to go back might be much more than to go on. So he made up his mind to go on: yet the fiends did seem to come near and more near. But when they were come just at him he did cry with a loud voice, "I will walk in the strength of the Lord God": so they gave back, and came on no more. When Christian had trod on in this lorn state some length of time, he thought he heard the voice of a man, as if in front of him, say thus: "Though I walk through the vale of the shade of death I will fear no ill: for Thou art with me." Then was he glad for that he learnt from thence that some who fear God were in this vale as well as he; that God was with them, though in that dark and dire state. So he went on. And by and by the day broke. Then said Christian, "He doth turn the shade of death to morn." Now as morn had come, he gave a look back to see by the light of the day what risks he had gone through in the dark. So he had a more clear view of the ditch that was on the one hand, and the quag that was on the next; in like way he saw how strait the way was which lay twixt them both. And just at this time the sun rose; and this was one more boon to Christian: for, from the place where he now stood as far as to the end of the vale, the way was all through set so full of snares, traps, gins, and nets, here; and so full of pits, falls, deep holes, and slopes, down there; that had it now been dark, as it was when he came the first part of the way, had he had five times ten score souls, they had for this cause been cast off. But, as I said just now, the sun did rise. In this light hence he came to the end of the vale. CHAPTER XI. CHRISTIAN AND FAITHFUL. NOW as Christian went on his way he came to a small height, which was cast up so that those who came that way might see in front of them. Up there, then, Christian went: and, with a glance, saw Faithful some way on the road. At this Christian set out with all his strength, and soon got up with Faithful, and did, in sooth, leave him lag, so that the last was first. Then did Christian wear a proud smile, for that he had got the start of his friend: but as he did not take good heed to his feet, he soon struck some tuft and fell, and could not rise till Faithful came up to help him. Then I saw in my dream, they went on with good will side by side, and had sweet talk of all things that they had met with on their way: and thus Christian first spoke: "My most dear friend Faithful, I am glad I have come up with you; and that God hath so made us of one mind that we can walk as friends in this so fair a path. Tell me now what you have met with in the way as you came: for I know you have met with some things, or else it may be writ for a strange pass." [Illustration: FAITHFUL COMES TO THE HELP OF CHRISTIAN] _Fai._--"I got clear of the slough that I see you fell in, and came up to the gate free from that risk. When I came to the foot of the hill known as Difficulty, I met with an old man, who would know what I was, and to what place I was bound? Then said the old man, 'Thou dost look like a frank soul: wilt thou stay and dwell with me for the pay that I shall give thee?' Then I did ask his name, and where he dwelt? He said, 'His name was Adam the First, and he dwelt in the Town of Deceit.' He told me, 'That his work was fraught with joys, and his pay, that I should be his heir at last.' I then would know what kin he had? He said, 'He had but three maids, "the Lust of the flesh, the Lust of the eyes, and the Pride of life," and that I should wive with one of them, if I would.'" _Chr._--"Well, and what close came the old man and you to at last?" _Fai._--"Why, at first I would lief go with the man, for I thought he spake full fair; but when I gave a look in his brow, as I spoke with him, I saw there writ, 'Put off the old man with his deeds.' Then it came red hot to my mind, that spite of all he said, and his smooth ways, when he got me home to his house he would sell me for a slave. So I went off from him: but just as I set round to go thence, I felt him take hold of my flesh, and give me such a dread twitch back, that I thought he did pull part of me with him. So I went on my way up the hill. "Now, when I had got nigh half way up, I gave a look back, and saw one move on in my steps, swift as the wind; so he came up with me just by the place where the bench stands. So soon as the man came up with me, it was but a word and a blow, for down he flung me, and laid me for dead. But, when I got free from the shock, I would know why it was he dealt with me so? He said, 'For that I did in my heart cleave to Adam the First': and with that he struck me one more fierce blow on the breast, and beat me down on the back. He had, no doubt, made an end of me, but that one came by and bid him stay his hand." [Illustration: This is Discontent, who would fain have Christian go back with him once more.--Page 47. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"Who was that that bid him stay his hand?" _Fai._--"I did not know him at first, but as he went by I saw the holes in his hands and in his side: then I felt sure that he was our Lord. So I went up the hill." _Chr._--"That man that came up with you was Moses. He spares not, nor knows he how to show grace to those that break his law. But did you not see the house that stood there on the top of the hill, on the side of which Moses met you?" _Fai._--"Yes, and the wild beasts, too, ere I came at it: but, as I had so much of the day to spend, I came by the man at the lodge, and then down the hill." _Chr._--"But, pray tell me, did you meet with no one in the Vale of Humility?" _Fai._--"Yes, I met with one Discontent, who would fain have me to go back once more with him: his cause was, for that the vale did not bear a good name." _Chr._--"Met you with naught else in that vale?" _Fai._--"Yes, I met with Shame: but of all men that I met with in my way, he, I think, bears the wrong name." _Chr._--"Why, what did he say to you?" _Fai._--"What! Why, he did flout at faith. He said it was a poor, low, mean thing for a man to mind faith; he said that a soul that shrinks from sin is not fit for a man. He said, too, that but few of the great, rich, or wise held my views; nor did those till they were led to be fools, and to be of a free mind to run the loss of all for none else knows what. More than this, he said such were of a base and low caste, and knew naught of those things which are the boast of the wise. Yea, he did hold me to it that it was a shame to ask grace of folk for slight faults, or to give back that which I did take. He said, too, that faith made a man grow strange to the great, and made him own and prize the base: 'and is not this,' said he, 'a shame?'" _Chr._--"And what did you say to him?" [Illustration: FAITHFUL RESISTS SHAME.] _Fai._--"Say! I could not tell what to say at first. Yea, he put me so to it that my blood came up in my face; aye, this Shame did fetch it up, and had, too, beat me quite off. But at last I thought that that which men prize was base in the sight of God. Hence, thought I, what God says is best, _is_ best, though all the men in the world are foes to it. As, then, God likes his faith; as God likes a soul that shrinks from sin; and as they are most wise who wear the guise of fools to gain a crown: and that the poor man that loves Christ more rich than the man that sways a world, that hates him; Shame, go thy way, thou art a foe to my soul's weal. But, in sooth, this Shame was a bold knave; I could scarce shake him out of my way: but at last I told him it was but in vain to strive with me from that time forth. And when I shook him off, then I sang-- "The tests that those men meet, with all men else That bow their wills to the high call of God, Are great; and well, I wist, do suit the flesh, And come, and come, and come e'en yet once more; That now, or some time else, we by them may Be held in thrall, flung down, and cast sheer off: O, let those in the way, let all such, then, Be sharp, and quick, and quit them like true men." _Chr._--"I am glad, my friend, that thou didst strive with this knave in so brave a way; for he is so bold as to trace our steps in the streets, and to try to put us to shame in the sight of all men; that is, to make us feel shame in that which is good." _Fai._--"I think we must cry to Him for help in our frays with Shame, that would have us 'Stand up for truth on the earth.'" _Chr._--"You say true: but did you meet none else in that vale?" _Fai._--"No, not I; for I had the sun with me all the rest of the way through that, as well as through the Vale of the Shade of Death." _Chr._--"It was well for you; I am sure it did fare far worse with me. I thought I should have lost my life there more than once: but at last day broke, and the sun rose, and I went through that which was to the front of me with far more ease and peace." CHAPTER XII. TALKATIVE. MORE than this, I saw in my dream, that as they went on, Faithful saw a man whose name is Talkative, walk some way off by the side of them: for in this place there was full room for them all to walk. To this man Faithful spoke in such wise: "Friend, to what place dost thou go? dost thou go to the blest land?" _Talk._--"I am bound to that same place." _Fai._--"Come on then, and let us go side by side, and let us spend our time well, by wise speech that tends to use." _Talk._--"To talk of things that are good, I like much, with you or with some one else. For, to speak the truth, there are but few that care thus to spend their time, as they are on their way." _Fai._--"That is, in sooth, a thing to mourn; for what thing so meet for the use of the tongue and mouth of men on earth, as are the things of the great God on high?" _Talk._--"I like you right well, for what you say is full of force; and, I will add, what thing doth so please or what brings such a boon as to talk of the things of God?" _Fai._--"That is true; but to gain good by such things in our talk, should be that which we seek." [Illustration: Faithful saw a man whose name is Talkative, who said, "Friend, to what place dost thou go? dost thou go to the blest land?"--Page 50. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Talk._--"That is it that I said; for to talk of such things is of great use: for by this means a man may get to know a fair share of things; as how vain are the things of earth; and how good are the things that fail not. Then, by this, a man may learn by talk what it is to mourn for sin, to have faith, to pray, to bear grief, or the like. By this, too, a man may learn what it is that soothes, and what are the high hopes set forth in the Word of the Grace of God; to his own peace." "Well, then," said Faithful, "what is that one thing that we shall at this time found our speech on?" _Talk._--"What you will: I will talk of things not of earth, or of things of earth; things of life, or things of grace; things pure, or things of the world; so that we but gain good by it." Now did Faithful think this strange; so he came up to Christian, and said to him in a soft voice, "What a brave friend have we got! Of a truth, this man will do well in the way." At this Christian gave a meek smile, and said, "This man, whom you so take to, will cheat with this tongue of his a score of them that know him not." _Fai._--"Do you know him then?" _Chr._--"Know him! Yes; his name is Talkative; he dwells in our town. I wist not how you should be strange to him." _Fai._--"Well, he seems to be a man of good looks." _Chr._--"That is, to them that know him not through and through: for he is best out of doors; near home his looks are as bad as you could find." _Fai._--"But I fain think you do but jest, as I saw you smile." _Chr._--"God grant not that I should jest in this case, or that I should speak false of one. I will let you see him in a clear light. This man cares not with whom he picks up, or how he talks: as he talks now with you, so will he talk when he is on the bench, with ale by his side; and the more drink he has in his crown, the more of these things he hath in his mouth." _Fai._--"Say you so? then am I wrong in my thoughts of this man." _Chr._--"Wrong! You may be sure of it. He talks of what it is to pray; to mourn for sin; of faith, and of the new birth; but he knows but how to talk of them. I have been in his home, and have seen him both in and out of doors, and I know what I say of him is the truth. His house is as void of the fear of God as the white of an egg is of taste. They pray not there, nor is there a sign of grief for sin: yea, the brute, in his kind, serves God more than he." _Fai._--"Well, my friend, I am bound to trust you; not for that you say you know him, but in like way, for that, like one who has the mind of Christ, you judge of men." _Chr._--"Had I known him no more than you I might, it may be, have thought of him as at the first you did; but all these things, yea, and much more as bad, which I do bring to mind, I can prove him to have the guilt of." _Fai._--"Well, I see that _to say_ and _to do_ are two things; and by and by I shall take more note of this." _Chr._--"They are two things, in sooth, and are no more like than are the soul and flesh; for, as the flesh void of the soul is but a dead lump: so to _say_, if it stand loose, is but a dead lump too. This Talkative does not know. He thinks that to _hear_ and to _say_ will make a good man, and thus he cheats his own soul. To hear is but to sow the seed; to talk is not full proof that fruit is deep in the heart and life; and let us feel sure that at the day of doom men shall reap just as they have sown. It will not be said then, 'Did you have faith?' but 'Did you _do_ or _talk_?' when they shall have their due meed." _Fai._--"Well, I was not so fond to be with him at first, but am as sick of him now. What shall we do to be rid of him?" _Chr._--"Be led by me, and do as I bid you, and you shall find that he will soon be sick of you, too, save God shall touch his heart and turn it." _Fai._--"What would you have me to do?" _Chr._--"Why, go to him, and take up some grave theme on the _might_ of faith." Then Faithful gave a step forth once more, and said to Talkative, "Come, what cheer? how is it now?" _Talk._--"Thank you, well; I thought we should have had a great deal of talk by this time." _Fai._--"Well, if you will, we will fall to it now; and since you left it with me to state the theme, let it be this: How doth the grace of God that saves, show forth signs when it is in the heart of man?" _Talk._--"I see, then, that our talk must be of the _might_ of things. Well, it is a right good theme, and I shall try to speak on it; and take what I say in brief, thus: First, where the grace of God is in the heart it makes one cry out on sin. In the next place----" _Fai._--"Nay, hold; let us dwell on one at once: I think you should say in lieu of this, it shows by the way in which the soul loathes its sin. A man may cry out on sin to aid his own ends, but he fails to loathe it, save God makes him do so. Some cry out on sin, just as the dame doth cry out on her child in her lap, when she calls it bad girl, and then falls to hug and kiss it." _Talk._--"You lie at the catch, I see." _Fai._--"No, not I; I but try to set things right. But what is the next thing by which you would prove to make known the work of grace in the heart?" _Talk._--"To know much of the deep things of God." _Fai._--"This sign should have been first; but, first or last, it too is false: for to know, and know well, the deep things in God's Word, may still be, and yet no work of grace in the soul. Yea, if a man know all things he may yet be naught; and so, for this cause, be no child of God. When Christ said, 'Do you know all these things?' and those who heard him said, 'Yes'; he did add, 'Blest are ye if ye do them.' He doth not lay the grace in that one _knows_, but in that one _does_ them." _Talk._--"You lie at the catch, once more: this is not for good." _Fai._--"Well, if you please, give one more sign how this work of grace doth show where it is." _Talk._--"Not I, for I see we shall not be of one mind." _Fai._--"Well, if you will not, will you give me leave to do it?" _Talk._--"You may do just as you like." _Fai._--"A work of grace in the soul doth show quite clear to him that hath it or to those that stand by. To him that hath it, thus: it gives him a deep sense of sin, of the ill that dwells in him. This sight and sense of things work in him grief and shame for sin; he finds, too, brought to view the Saviour of the world, and he feels he must close with him for life; at the which he finds he craves and thirsts for a pure life, pure at heart, pure with his kin, and pure in speech in the world: which in the broad sense doth teach him in his heart to hate his sin, to spurn it from his home, and to shed his light in the world; not by mere talk, as a false knave, or one with a glib tongue, may do, but by the force of faith and love to the might of the Word. And now, sir, as to these brief thoughts on the work of grace, if you have aught to say, say on; if not, then give me leave to ask one thing more of you." _Talk._--"Nay, my part is not now to say aught, but to hear; let me hence hear what you have got to speak." _Fai._--"It is this: do you in your heart feel this first part of what I said of it? and doth your life and walk bear proof of the same?" Then Talkative at first did blush, but when he got through this phase, thus he said: "You come now to what one feels in his heart, to the soul, and God. But I pray, will you tell me why you ask me such things?" _Fai._--"For that I saw you prone to talk, and for that I knew not that you had aught else but vague views. More than this, to tell you all the truth, I have heard of you that you are a man whose faith lies in talk, and that what you do gives the lie to what you say." _Talk._--"Since you are so quick to take up tales, and to judge in so rash a way as you do, I would lief think that you are some cross or dull mope of a man, not fit to hold talk with; and so, I take my leave." Then came up Christian, and said to his friend, "I told you how it would hap; your words and his lusts could not suit. He thought it best to leave you, than change his life." _Fai._--"But I am glad we had this brief talk; it may hap that he will think of it some time." _Chr._--"You did well to talk so plain to him as you did; there is not much of this straight course with men in these days. I wish that all men would deal with such as you have done: then should they have to change their ways, or the guild of saints would be too hot for them." Thus they went on and told of what they had seen by the way, and so made that way light which would, were not this the case, no doubt have been slow to them; for now they went through a wild. CHAPTER XIII. VANITY FAIR. NOW when they were got all but quite out of this wild, Faithful by chance cast his eye back, and saw one come in his wake, and he knew him. "Oh!" said Faithful to his friend, "who comes yon?" Then Christian did look, and said, "It is my good friend Evangelist." "Ay, and my good friend, too," said Faithful, "for it was he that set me the way to the gate." Then said Evangelist, "How did it fare with you, my friends, since the time we last did part? what have you met with, and what has been your life?" Then Christian and Faithful told him of all things that did hap to them in the way; and how, and with what toil, they had got to that place. "Right glad am I," said Evangelist, "not that you met with straits, but that you have come safe through them, and for that you have, in spite of some faults, kept in the way to this day. The crown is in sight of you, and it is one that will not rust; 'so run that you may gain it.' You are not yet out of the range of the foul fiend: let the joy of the Lord be not lost sight of, and have a firm faith in things not seen." [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AND FAITHFUL ENTER THE TOWN OF VANITY] Then did Christian thank him for his sage words, but told him at the same time, that they would have him speak more to them for their help the rest of the way. So Evangelist spoke thus: "My sons, you have heard in the truth of God's Word, that you must pass through sharp straits to reach the realm of bliss; for now as you see you are just out of this wild, and hence you will ere long come to a town that you will by and by see in front of you; and in that town you will be set round with foes, who will strain hard but they will kill you: and be you sure that one or both of you must seal the faith, which you hold, with blood. But when you are come to the town, and shall find what I have said come to pass, then think of your friend, and quit you both like men." Then I saw in my dream that, when they were got out of the wild, they soon saw a town in front of them; the name of that town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, known as Vanity Fair; at this fair are all such goods sold as lands, trades, realms, lusts, and gay things of all sorts, as lives, blood, souls, gold, pearls, stones of great worth, and what not. Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City lies just through this town where this huge fair is kept: and he that will go there, and yet not go through this town, "must needs go out of the world." The Lord of Lords, when here, went through this town to his own realm, and that, too, on a day when a fair was held: yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, that sought of him to buy of his vain wares. But he had no mind to the goods, and hence left the town, nor did he lay out so much as a mite on these wares. Now these folk, as I said, must needs go through this fair. Well, so they did; but lo, just as they got to the fair, all the crowd in the fair rose up, and the town, too, as it were, and made much noise and stir for that they came there; they, of course, spoke the tongue of Canaan; but they that kept the fair were the men of this world; so that, from end to end of the fair, they did seem strange each to each. But that which made the crowd most laugh was, that these men set quite light by all their wares: they did not care so much as to look on them; and, if they sought for them to buy, they would stop their ears, and cry, "Turn off mine eyes, lest they see vain things," and look up, to show that their trade and wares were in the skies. At last things came to a sad pass, which led to great stir in the fair, so that all was noise and din, and law was set at naught. Now was word soon brought to the great one of the fair, who at once came down, and sent some of his best friends to sift those men by whom the fair was put in such a state. So the men were brought in their sight. But they that were sent to sift them did not think them to be aught than fools and mad, or else such as came to put all things out of gear in the fair. Hence they took them and beat them, and made them grime with dirt, and then put them in the cage, that they might be made a foul sight to all the men of the fair. But as the men bore up well, and gave good words for bad, some men in the fair, that were more just than the rest, sought to check and chide the base sort for the vile acts done by them to the men. One said, "That for aught they could see, the men were mild, and of sound mind, and sought to do harm to no one: and that there were some, that did trade in their fair, that ought far more to be put in the cage, than the men to whom they had done such ill." Thus, as soon as hot words did pass on both sides, they fell to some blows, and did harm each to each. Then were these two poor men brought up once more, when a charge was made that it was they who had got up the row that had been made at the fair. But Christian and Faithful bore the shame and the slur that was cast on them in so calm and meek a way that it won to their side some of the men of the fair. This put one part of the crowd in a still more fierce rage, so that they were bent on the death of these two men. Then were they sent back to the cage once more, till it was told what should be done with them. So they put them in, and made their feet fast in the stocks. Here, then, they once more brought to mind what they had heard from their true friend Evangelist, and were the more strong in their way and woes by what he told them would fall out to them. They, too, now sought to cheer the heart of each, that whose lot it was to die that he should have the best of it: hence each man did wish in the depth of his soul that he might have the crown. Then in due time they brought them forth to court, so that they might meet their doom. The name of the judge was Lord Hate-good; their plaint was "that they had made broils and feuds in the town, and had won some to their own most vile views, in scorn of the law of their prince." Then Faithful said "that he did but spurn that which had set up in face of Him that is the Most High. And," said he, "as for broils, I make none, as I am a man of peace; those that were won to us were won by their view of our truth and pure lives and they are but gone from the worst to the best." [Illustration: Then Superstition said: "My lord, I know not much of this man; but he is a most vile knave."--Page 61. _Pilgrim's Progress._] Then was it made known that they that had aught to say for their lord the king, to prove the guilt of him at the bar, should at once come forth and give in their proof. So there came in three men, to wit, Envy, Superstition, and Pickthank. Then stood forth Envy and said in this strain: "My lord, this man, in spite of his fair name, is one of the most vile men in our land. He does all that he can to fill all men with some of his wild views, which tend to the bane of our realm, and which he for the most part calls 'grounds of faith and a pure life.' And in chief I heard him once say that the faith of Christ and the laws of our town of Vanity could not be at one, as they were foes each to each." Then did they call Superstition, and sware him: so he said: "My lord, I know not much of this man, nor do I care to know more of him; but he is a most vile knave; I heard him say that our faith was naught, and such by which no man could please God. Which words of his, my lord, you quite well know what they mean, to wit, that we still work in vain, are yet in our sins, and at last shall be lost. And this is that which I have to say." Then was Pickthank sworn, and bid say what he knew in the cause of their lord the king to the hurt of the rogue at the bar. _Pick._--"My lord, and you great folk all, this wight I have known of a long time, and have heard him speak things that ought not to be said; for he did rail on our great prince, Beelzebub, and spoke ill of his firm friends; and he hath said, too, that if all men were of his mind, if so be there is not one of these great men should from that time forth stay in this town. More than this, he hath not felt dread to rail on you, my lord, who are now sent to be his judge." When this Pickthank had told his tale, the judge spoke to the man at the bar, and said, "Thou vile, base wretch, hast thou heard what those just and true men have sworn to thy bane?" _Fai._--"I say then, as a set off to what Mr. Envy hath said, I spoke not a word but this, 'That what rule, or laws, or rights, or men, are flat down on the Word of God, are foes to the faith of Christ.' "As to the next, to wit, Mr. Superstition, and his charge to my hurt, I said but this, 'That to serve God one needs a faith from on high; but there can be no faith from on high void of the will of God made known from the same source. Hence, all that is thrust on us that does not square with this will of God, is but of man's faith; which faith will not serve the life that is to come.' "As to what Mr. Pickthank hath said, 'That the prince of this town, with all the roughs, his slaves, are more fit for one in hell than in this town and land'; and so the Lord be good to me." Then the judge said to those who were to bind or loose him from the charge: "Ye who serve here to weigh this case, you see this man of whom so great a din hath been made in this town. It doth lie now on your souls to hang him, or save his life; but yet I think meet to teach you a few points of our law. [Illustration: Then stood forth Envy and said: "My lord, this man in spite of his fair name, is one of the most vile men in our land."--Page 61. _Pilgrim's Progress._] "There was an act made in the days of Pharaoh the great, friend to our prince, that, lest those of a wrong faith should spread and grow too strong for him, their males should be thrown in the stream. There was, in like way, an act made in the days of Nebuchadnezzar the great, who, too, did serve him, that such as would not fall down and laud the form he had set up, should be flung in a pit of fire. Now the pith of these laws this rogue has set at naught, not in mere thought but in word and deed as well. Twice, nay thrice, he speaks of our creed as a thing of naught; and for this, on his own words, he needs must die the death." Then went out those who had to weigh the case, whose names were Mr. Blind-man, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, and Mr. Implacable; who each one gave in his voice to Faithful's hurt, in his own mind; and then meant to make known his doom in face of the judge. And Mr. Blind-man, the chief, said, "I see, most plain, that this man is a foe; let us at once doom him to death." And so they did. The judge then put on the black cap, and said, "That he should be led from the place where he was to the place from whence he came, and there to be put to the worst death that could be thought off." They then brought him out to do with him as the law set forth: and first they whipt him; then they did pelt him with stones; and, last of all, they burnt him to dust at the stake. Thus came Faithful to his end. Now I saw that there stood in the rear of the crowd a state car, with two steeds, that did wait for Faithful; who, as soon as his foes had got rid of him, was caught up in it and straight sent off through the clouds, with sound of trump, the most near way to the Celestial Gate. But as for Christian, he was put back to jail; so there he lay for a space: but He that rules all things, in whose hand was the might of their rage, so wrought it that Christian, for that time got free from them and went his way. CHAPTER XIV. CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL. NOW I saw in my dream that Christian went not forth with none to cheer him; for there was one whose name was Hopeful, who set out with him, and made a grave pact that he would be his friend. So I saw that when they were just got out of the fair they came up with one that had gone on in front of them, whose name was By-ends. He told them that he came from the town of Fair-speech, and was bound for the Celestial City; but he told them not his name. _Chr._--"Pray, sir, what may I call you?" _By._--"I know not you, nor you me: if you mean to go this way, I shall be glad to go with you: if not, I must take things as they come." Then Christian stept on one side to his friend Hopeful, and said, "It runs in my mind that this is one By-ends, of Fair-speech, and if it be he, we have as keen a knave in our midst as dwells in all these parts." Then said Hopeful, "Ask him; I think he should not blush at his name." So Christian came up with him once more, and said, "Sir, is not your name Mr. By-ends, of Fair-speech?" _By._--"This is not my name; but, in sooth, it is a name I got in scorn from some that do not like me." _Chr._--"I thought, in sooth, that you were the man that I had heard of; and, to tell you what I think, I fear this name suits you more than you would wish we should think it doth." [Illustration: HOPEFUL joins company with CHRISTIAN] _By._--"Well, if you will thus think, I durst not help it: you shall find me a fair man, if you will make me one of you." _Chr._--"If you will go with us, you must go in the teeth of wind and tide; you must, in like wise, own Faith in his rags, as well as when in his sheen shoes; and stand by him, too, when bound in chains, as well as when he walks the streets with praise." _By._--"You must not curb my faith, nor lord it in this way: leave me free to think, and let me go with you." _Chr._--"Not a step more, save you will do in what I shall speak as we." Then said By-ends, "I shall not cast off my old views, since they bring no harm, and are of use. If I may not go with you, I must do as I did ere you came up with me, that is, go on with no one, till some will come on who will be glad to meet me." Now I saw in my dream that Christian and Hopeful left him, and went on in front of him: but one of them did chance to look back, and saw three men in the wake of Mr. By-ends, and lo, as they came up with him, he made them quite a low bow. The men's names were Mr. Hold-the-world, Mr. Money-love, and Mr. Save-all; men that Mr. By-ends had erst known; for when boys they were mates at school, and were taught by one Mr. Gripeman, who keeps a school in Love-gain, which is a large town in the shire of Coveting, in the north. Well, when they, as I said, did greet in turn, Mr. Money-love said to Mr. By-ends, "Who are they on the road right in front of us?" _By._--"They are a pair from a land far off, that, in their mode, are bent on a long route." [Illustration: Then Christian saw three men in the wake of Mr. By-ends, and lo, as they came up with him he made them a very low bow.--Page 66. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Money._--"Ah! why did they not stay; that we might have gone on with them? for they, and we, and you, sir, I hope, are all bent on the same road." _By._--"Why, they, in their fierce mood, think that they are bound to rush on their way at all times; while I wait for wind and tide. They like to risk all for God at a clap; while I like to seize all means to make safe my life and lands. They are for Faith when in rags and scorn; but I am for him when he walks in his sheen shoes in the sun, and with praise." _Hold._--"Ay, and hold you there still, good Mr. By-ends: for my part I can count him but a fool, that with the means to keep what he has, he shall be so lack of sense as to lose it. For my part, I like that faith best that will stand with the pledge of God's good gifts to us. Abraham and Solomon grew rich in faith: and Job says that a good man 'shall lay up gold as dust.' But he must not be such as the men in front of us, if they be as you have said of them." _Save._--"I think that we are all of one mind in this thing; and hence there need no more words be said of it." Mr. By-ends and his friends did lag and keep back, that Christian and Hopeful might go on in front of them. Then Christian and Hopeful went till they came to a nice plain known as Ease; which did please them much: but that plain was but strait, so they were soon got through it. Now at the far side of that plain was a small hill, which went by the name of Lucre, and in that hill a gold mine, which some of them that had been that way had gone on one side to see; but, as they got too near the brink of the pit, the ground, as it was not sound, broke when they trod on it, and they were slain. Then I saw in my dream that a short way off the road, nigh to the gold mine, stood Demas, a man of fair looks, to call to such as went that way to come and see; who said to Christian and his friend, "Ho! turn hence on this side, and I will show you a thing. Here is a gold mine, and some that dig in it for wealth: if you will come, with slight pains you may gain a rich store for your use." [Illustration: DEMAS TEMPTS CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL.] Then Christian did call to Demas, and said, "Is not the way rife with risks? Hath it not let some in their way?" _Dem._--"Not so much so, save to those that take no care." But a blush came on his face as he spake. Then said Christian to Hopeful, "Let us not stir a step, but still keep on our way." By this time By-ends and those who were with him came once more in sight, and they, at the first beck, went straight to Demas. Now, that they fell in the pit, as they stood on the brink of it, or that they went down to dig, or that they lost their breath at the base by the damps that, as a rule, rise from it, of these things I am not sure; but this I saw, that from that time forth they were not seen once more in the way. Which strange sight gave them cause for grave talk. CHAPTER XV. DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR. I SAW then, that they went on their way to a fair stream. Here then Christian and his friend did walk with great joy. They drank, too, of the stream, which was sweet to taste, and like balm to their faint hearts. More than this, on the banks of this stream, on each side, were green trees with all kinds of fruit: and the leaves they ate to ward off ills that come of too much food and heat of blood, while on the way. On each side of the stream was a mead, bright with white plants; and it was green all the year long. In this mead they lay down and slept. When they did wake they felt a wish to go on, and set out. Now the way from the stream was rough, and their feet soft, for that they came a long road so the souls of the men were sad, from the state of the way. Now, not far in front of them, there was on the left hand of the road a mead, and a stile to get right to it: and that mead is known as By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his friend, "If this mead doth lie close by the side of our way, let us go straight to it." Then said Christian to his friends, "If this mead doth lie close by the side of our way, let us go straight to it." Then he went to the stile to see, and lo, a path lay close by the way on the far off side of the fence. "It is just as I wish," said Christian; "come, good Hopeful, and let us cross to it." _Hope._--"But how if this path should lead us out of the way?" "That is not like to be," said the next. "Look, doth it not go straight on by the side of the way?" So Hopeful, when he thought on what his friend said, went in his steps, and did cross the stile; and at the same time, while they cast their eyes in front of them, they saw a man that did walk as they did, and his name was Vain-Confidence: so they did call to him, and ask him to what place that way led. He said, "To the Celestial Gate." "Look," said Christian, "did not I tell you so? by this you may see we are right." So they went in his wake, and he went in front of them. But, lo, the night came on, and it grew quite dark; so that they that were in the rear lost the sight of him that went in front. He then that went in front, as he did not see the way clear, fell in a deep pit, which was there made by the prince of those grounds to catch such vain fools with the rest, and was torn in bits by his fall. Now Christian and his friend heard him fall: so they did call to know the cause: but there was none to speak. Then Hopeful gave a deep groan, and said, "Oh, that I had kept on my way!" [Illustration: This is Vain-Confidence whom Christian and Hopeful saw in the way as they did walk.--Page 70. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"Good friend, do not feel hurt. I grieve I have brought thee out of the way, and that I have put thee in no slight strait; pray, my friend, let this pass; I did not do it of a bad will." _Hope._--"Be of good cheer, my friend, for I give thee shrift; and trust, too, this shall be for our good." Then, so as to cheer them, they heard the voice of one that said, "Let thine heart be set on the high road; and the way that thou didst go turn once more." But by this time the way that they should go back was rife with risk. Then I thought that we get more quick out of the way when we are in it, than in it when we are out. Nor could they, with all the skill they had, get once more to the stile that night. For which cause, as they at last did light neath a slight shed, they sat down there till day broke: but as they did tire they fell to sleep. Now there was not far from the place where they lay a fort, known as Doubting Castle, and he who kept it was Giant Despair: and it was on his grounds that they now slept. Hence, as he got up at dawn, and did walk up and down in his fields, he caught Christian and Hopeful in sound sleep on his grounds. They told him they were poor wights, and that they had lost their way. Then said the Giant, "You have this night come where you should not; you did tramp in, and lie on, my grounds, and so you must go hence with me." So they were made to go, for that he had more strength than they. They, too, had but few words to say, for they knew they were in a fault. The Giant hence drove them in front of him, and put them in his fort, in a dank, dark cell, that was foul and stunk to the souls of these two men. Here then they lay for full four days, and had not one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or one to ask how they did: they were, hence, here in bad case, and were far from friends and all who knew them. Now in this place Christian had more than his own share of grief, for it was through his bad words that they were brought to such dire bale. Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence: so when he was gone to bed he told his wife what he had done. Then he did ask her, too, what he had best do more to them. Then she said to him that when he got up in the morn he should beat them, and show no ruth. So when he rose he gets him a huge stick of crab, and goes down to the cell to them, and falls on them and beats them in such sort that they could do naught to ward off his blows, or to turn them on the floor. This done, he goes off and leaves them there to soothe each one his friend, and to mourn their grief. The next night, she spoke with her lord more as to their case, and when she found that they were not dead, did urge him to tell them to take their own lives. So when morn was come he told them that since they were not like to come out of that place, their best way would be at once to put an end to their lives, with knife, rope, or drug. But they did pray him to let them go; with that he gave a frown on them, ran at them, and had no doubt made an end of them with his own hand, but that he fell in one of his fits. From which cause he went off, and left them to think what to do. Then did the men talk of the best course to take; and thus they spoke: "Friend," said Christian, "what shall we do? The life that we now live is fraught with ill: for my part, I know not if it be best to live thus, or die out of hand: the grave has more ease for me than this cell." _Hope._--"Of a truth, our state is most dread, and death would be more of a boon to me than thus hence to stay: but let us not take our own lives." With these words Hopeful then did soothe the mind of his friend: so they did stay each with each in the dark that day, in their sad and drear plight. Well, as dusk came on the Giant goes down to the cell once more, to see if those he held bound there had done as he had bid them: but when he came there he found they still did live, at which he fell in a great rage, and told them that, as he saw they had lent a deaf ear to what he said, it should be worse for them than if they had not been born. At this they shook with dread, and I think that Christian fell in a swoon; but as he came round once more, they took up the same strain of speech as to the Giant's words, and if it were best give heed to them or no. Now Christian once more did seem to wish to yield, but Hopeful made his next speech in this wise: "My friend," said he, "dost thou not know how brave thou hast been in times past? The foul fiend could not crush thee; nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel in the Vale of the Shade of Death; what wear and tear, grief and fright, hast thou erst gone through, and art thou naught but fears? Thou dost see that I am in the cell with thee, and I am a far more weak man to look at than thou art: in like way, this Giant did wound me as well as thee, and hath, too, cut off the bread and drink from my mouth, and with thee I mourn void of the light. But let us try and grow more strong: call to mind how thou didst play the man at Vanity Fair, and wast not made blench at the chain or cage, nor yet at fierce death; for which cause let us, at least to shun the shame that looks not well for a child of God to be found in, bear up with calm strength as well as we can." Now night had come once more, and his wife spoke to him of the men, and sought to know if they had done as he had told them. To which he said, "They are stout rogues; they choose the more to bear all hard things than to put an end to their lives." Then said she, "Take them to the garth next day, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast put to death, and make them think thou wilt tear them in shreds, as thou hast done to folk like to them." So when the morn was come the Giant takes them to the garth, and shows them as his wife had bade him: "These," said he, "were wights, as you are, once, and they trod on my ground, as you have done; and when I thought fit I tore them in bits, and so in the space of ten days I will do you: go, get you down to your den once more." And with that he beat them all the way to the place. They lay for this cause all day in a sad state, just as they had done. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her spouse the Giant were got to bed, they once more spoke of the men; and, with this, the Giant thought it strange that he could not by his blows or words bring them to an end. And with that his wife said, "I fear that they live in hopes that some will come to set them free, or that they have things to pick locks with them, by the means of which they hope to scape." "And dost thou say so, my dear?" said the Giant; "I will hence search them in the morn." Well, in the depth of night they strove hard to pray, and held it up till just break of day. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN & HOPEFUL escape from DOUBTING CASTLE] Now, not long ere it was day, good Christian, as one half wild, brake out in this hot speech: "What a fool," quoth he, "am I, thus to lie in a foul den when I may as well walk in the free air: I have a key in my breast known as Promise, that will, I feel sure, pick each lock in Doubting Castle." Then said Hopeful, "That is good news, my friend; pluck it out of thy breast and try." Then Christian took it out of his breast, and did try at the cell door, whose bolt as he did turn the key gave back, and the door flew back with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the front door that leads to the yard of the fort, and with this key did ope that door in like way. Then he went to the brass gate (for that he must ope too), but that lock he had hard work to move; yet did the key pick it. Then they thrust wide the gate to make their scape with speed. But that gate as it went back did creak so, that it woke Giant Despair, who, as he rose in haste to go in search of the men, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him once more, so that he could by no means go in their track. Then they went on, and came to the King's high road once more, and so were safe, for that they were out of his grounds. Now, when they had got clear of the stile, they thought in their minds what they should do at that stile, to keep those that should come in their wake from the fell hands of Giant Despair. So they built there a pile and wrote on the side of it these words: "To cross this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who spurns the King of the good land, and seeks to kill such as serve him." CHAPTER XVI. THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS. THEY went then till they came to the Delectable Mountains, which mounts the Lord of that hill doth own of whom we erst did speak: so they went up to the mounts, to see the plants, trees rife with fruit, the vines and founts; where, too, they drank, did wash, and eat of the grapes till no gust was left for more. Now there were on the top of these mounts, Shepherds that fed their flocks, and they stood by the side of the high road. Christian and Hopeful then went to them, and while they leant on their staves (as is the case with wights who tire when they stand to talk with folk by the way), they said, "Whose Delectable Mountains are these? and whose be the sheep that fed on them?" _Shep._--"These mounts are Immanuel's Land, and they can be seen from this town: and the sheep in like way are his, and he laid down his life for them." _Chr._--"Is this the way to the Celestial City?" _Shep._--"You are just in your way." I saw, too, in my dream that when the Shepherds saw that they were men on the road, they in like way did ask them things, to which they spoke, as was their wont: as, "Whence came you? and how got you in the way? and by what means have you so held on in it? for but few of them that set out to come hence do show their face on these mounts." But when the Shepherds heard their speech, which did please them, they gave them looks of love, and said, "Good come with thee to the Mounts of Joy." The Shepherds, I say, whose names were Knowledge, Experience, Watchful, and Sincere, took them by the hand and had them to their tents, and made them eat and drink of that which was there at the time. They said, too, "We would that you should stay here a short time, to get known to us, and yet more to cheer your heart with the good of these Mounts of Joy." They told them that they would much like to stay; and so they went to their rest that night, for that it was so late. Then I saw in my dream, that in the morn the Shepherds did call on Christian and Hopeful to walk with them on the mounts. Then said the Shepherds, each to his friend, "Shall we show these wights with staves some strange sights?" So they had them first to the top of a hill, known as Error, and bid them look down to the base. So Christian and Hopeful did look down, and saw at the foot a lot of men rent all to bits, by a fall that they had from the top. Then said Christian, "What doth this mean?" The Shepherds said, "Have you not heard of them that were made to err, in that they gave heed to Hymeneus and Philetus, who held not the faith that the dead shall rise from the grave? Those that you see lie rent in bits at the base of this mount are they; and they have lain to this day on the ground as you see, so that those who come this way may take heed how they climb too high, or how they come too near the brink of this mount." Then I saw that they had them to the top of the next mount, and the name of that is Caution, and bid them look as far off as they could; which when they did they saw, as they thought, a group of men that did walk up and down through the tombs that were there: and they saw that the men were blind, for that they fell at times on the tombs, and for that they could not get out from the midst of them. Then said Christian, "What means this?" [Illustration: THE HILL ERROR.] The Shepherds then said, "Did you not see, a short way down these mounts, a stile that leads to a mead on the left hand of this way?" They said, "Yes." Then said the Shepherds, "From that stile there goes a path that leads straight to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, and these men (as he did point to them in the midst of the tombs) came once on the way, as you do now--ay, till they came to that same stile! And as they found the right way was rough in that place, they chose to go out of it to that mead, and there were caught by Giant Despair and shut up in Doubting Castle; where, when they had a while been kept in a cell, he at last did put out their eyes, and led them in the thick of those tombs, where he has left them to stray till this day: that the words of the Wise Man might be brought to pass, 'He that strays out of the way of truth shall dwell in the homes of the dead.'" Then did Christian and Hopeful look each on each, while tears came from their eyes; but yet said they not a word to the Shepherds. Then I saw in my dream, that the Shepherds had them to one more place, in a steep, where was a door in the side of a hill; and they flung wide the door and bid them look in. They did look in, hence, and saw that it was dark and full of smoke; they thought, too, that they heard a hoarse noise, as of fire, and a cry of some in pain. Then said Christian, "What means this?" The Shepherds told them, "This is a nigh way to Hell; a way that such as seem to be what they are not go in at: to wit, such as sell the right they had at birth, with Esau; such as sell their Lord, with Judas; such as speak ill of God's Word, with Alexander; and that lie and shift, with Ananias, and Sapphira his wife." Then said Hopeful to the Shepherds, "I see that these had on them, each one, a show of the road, as we have now, had they not?" _Shep._--"Yes, and held it a long time too." _Hope._--"How far might they go on in the way, in their days, since they, in spite of this, were thus cast off?" _Shep._--"Some yon, and some not so far as these mounts." By this time Christian and Hopeful had a wish to go forth, and the Shepherds meant that they should: so they sped side by side till they got nigh the end of the mounts. Then said the Shepherds, each to his friend, "Let us here show these wights the gates of the Celestial City, if they have skill to look through our kind of glass." The men then did like the hint: so they had them to the top of a high hill, the name of which was Clear, and gave them the glass to look. Then did they try to look, but the thought of that last thing that the Shepherds had shown them made their hands shake; by means of which let they could not look well through the glass; yet they thought they saw a thing like the gate, and, in like way, some of the sheen of the place. Just ere they set out, one of the Shepherds gave them _a note of the way_; the next bid them _take heed of such as fawn_; the third bid them _take heed that they slept not on ground that had a spell_; and the fourth bid them God speed. So I did wake from my dream. CHAPTER XVII. THE ENCHANTED GROUND AND THE WAY DOWN TO IT. AND I slept and dreamt once more, and saw the same two wights go down the mounts, by the high road that led to the town. Now nigh the base of these mounts, on the left hand, lies the land of Conceit, from which land there comes, right in the way in which the men trod, a small lane with twists and turns. Here, then, they met with a brisk lad that came out of that land, and his name was Ignorance. So Christian would know from what parts he came, and whence he was bound. _Ignor._--"Sir, I was born in the land that lies off there a short way on the left hand, and I am bound to the Celestial City." _Chr._--"But how do you think to get in at the gate? for you may find some let there." "As some good folk do," said he. _Chr._--"But what have you to show at that gate, that the gate should be flung wide to you?" _Ignor._--"I know my Lord's will, and have led a good life; I pay each man his own; I pray, fast, pay tithes, and give alms; and have left my land for the place to which I go." _Chr._--"But thou didst not come in at the Wicket-gate that is at the head of this way; thou didst come in here through that same lane with the twists and turns; and hence, I fear, in spite of what thou dost think of thy right, when the last day shall come, thou wilt have laid to thy charge that thou art a thief, in lieu of a free pass to the town." _Ignor._--"Sirs, ye be not known to me in the least; I know you not; you be led by the faith of your land, and I will be led by the faith of mine. I hope all will be well. And as for the gate that you talk of, all the world knows that that is a great way off our land. I do not think that one man in all our parts doth so much as know the way to it; nor need they care if they do or no; since we have, as you see, a fine, gay, green lane, that comes down from our land, the next road that leads to the way." [Illustration: Then Christian met with a brisk lad who said his name was Ignorance.--Page 82. _Pilgrim's Progress._] When Christian saw that the man was wise in his own eyes, he said to Hopeful in a soft voice, "'There is more hope of a fool than of him'"; and said, in like way, "'When he that is a fool walks by the way, his sense fails him, and he saith to each one that he is a fool.' What! shall we talk more with him, or move on now, and so leave him to think of what he hath erst heard, and then stop once more for him in a while, and see if by slow steps we can do aught of good to him?" Then said Hopeful, "It is not good, I think, to say so to him all at once; let us pass him by, if you will, and talk to him by and by, just as he has 'strength to bear it.'" So they both went on, and Ignorance came in their track. Now, when they had left him a short way, they came to a dark lane, where they met a man whom some fiends had bound with strong cords, and took back to the door that they saw on the side of the hill. Now good Christian could not help but shake, and so did Hopeful, who was with him; yet, as the fiends led off the man, Christian did look to see if he knew him; and he thought it might be one Turnaway, that dwelt in the town of Apostacy. But he did not well see his face, for he did hang his head like a thief that is found. But when he had gone past, Hopeful gave a look at him, and saw on his back a card, with these words, "Vile cheat, that has left his faith." So they went on, and Ignorance went in their track. They went till they came at a place where they saw a way put right in their way, and did seem, at the same time, to lie as straight as the way which they should go. And here they knew not which of the two to take, for both did seem straight in front of them: hence they stood to think. And as they thought of the way, lo, a man black of flesh, but clad with a light robe, came to them, and did ask them why they stood there. They said they were bound to the Celestial City, but knew not which of these ways to take. "Go with me," said the man; "it is to that place I am bent." So they went with him in the way that but now came to the road, which each step they took did turn and turn them so far from the town that they sought to go to, that in a short time their heads did turn off from it; yet they went with him. But by and by, ere they well knew of it, he led them both in the bounds of a net, in which they were both so caught that they knew not what to do; and with that the white robe fell off the black man's back: then they saw where they were. For which cause there they lay in tears some time, for they could not get their limbs out. Then said Christian to his friend, "Now do I see that I am wrong. Did not the Shepherds bid us take heed of the Flatterer? As are the words of the Wise Man, so we have found it this day, 'A man that fawns on his friend spreads a net for his feet.'" _Hope._--"They, too, gave us some notes as to the way, so that we may be the more sure to find it; but in that we have not thought to read." [Illustration: Then did Hopeful tell Christian his experience, and Christian said: "Let us not sleep, as some do; but let us watch and pray."--Page 86. _Pilgrim's Progress._] Thus they lay in sad plight in the net. At last they saw a Bright One come nigh to where they were, with a whip of small cords in his hand. When he was come to the place where they were, he did ask them whence they came, and what they did there? They told him they were poor wights bound to Zion, but were led out of their way by a black man clad in white, "who bid us," said they, "go with him, for he was bound to that place too." Then said he with the whip, "It is one who fawns, a false guide who wore the garb of a sprite of light." So he rent the net, and let the men out. Then said he to them, "Come with me, that I may set you in your way once more": so he led them back to the way they had left to go with the Flatterer. Then he did ask them and said, "Where did you lie the last night?" They said, "With the Shepherds on the Mounts of Joy." He did ask, then, if they had not of those men a note as a guide for the way. They said, "Yes." "But did you not," said he, "when you were at a stand, pluck out and read your note?" Quoth they, "No." He did ask them, "Why?" They said, "They did not think of it." He would know, too, "If the Shepherds did not bid them take heed of the Flatterer?" They said, "Yes; but we thought not," said they, "that this man of fine speech had been he." Then I saw in my dream that he told them to lie down; which when they did, he gave them sore stripes, to teach them the good way in which they should walk. This done, he bids them go on their way, and take good heed to the next hints of the Shepherds. I then saw in my dream, that they went on till they came to a land whose air did tend to make one sleep. And here Hopeful grew quite dull and nigh fell to sleep: for which cause he said to Christian: "I do now grow so dull that I can scarce hold ope mine eyes; let us lie down here and take one nap." "By no means," said Christian, "lest if we sleep we wake not more." _Hope._--"Why, my friend? Sleep is sweet to the man that toils: it may give us strength if we take a nap." _Chr._--"Do you not know that one of the Shepherds bid us take heed of the Enchanted Ground? He meant by that, that we should take care and not go to sleep. 'Let us not sleep, as do some; but let us watch and be of sound mind.'" _Hope._--"I know I am in fault; and, had not you been with me here, I had gone to sleep and run the risk of death. I see it is true that the wise man saith, 'Two are more good than one.' Up to this time thou hast been my ruth and thou shalt 'have a good meed for thy pains.'" [Illustration: HOPEFUL TELLS CHRISTIAN HIS EXPERIENCE.] I saw then in my dream, that Hopeful gave a look back, and saw Ignorance, whom they had left in their wake, come in their track. "Look," said he to Christian, "how far yon youth doth lag in the rear." [Illustration: "Come on, man, why do you stay back so?" said Christian. "I like to walk alone," said Ignorance.--Page 87. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"Ay, ay, I see him: he cares not to be with us." _Hope._--"But I trow it would not have hurt him had he kept pace with us to this time." _Chr._--"That is true: but I wot he doth not think so." _Hope._--"That I think he doth: but, be it so or no, let us wait for him." So they did. Then Christian did call to him, "Come you on, man: why do you stay back so?" _Ignor._--"I like to walk in this lone way; ay, more a great deal than with folk: that is, save I like them much." Then said Christian to Hopeful (but in a soft voice), "Did I not tell you he sought to shirk us? But, be this as it may, come up, and let us talk off the time in this lone place." Then, when he had a long speech with Ignorance, Christian spoke thus to his friend, "Well, come, my good Hopeful, I see that thou and I must walk side by side once more." So I saw in my dream, that they went on fast in front, and Ignorance, he came with lame gait in their track. Then said Christian to his friend, "I feel much for this poor man: it will of a truth go hard with him at last." CHAPTER XVIII. THE LAND OF BEULAH--THE FORDS OF THE RIVER--AT HOME. NOW I saw in my dream that by this time the wights had got clear of the Enchanted Ground, and had come to the land of Beulah, whose air was most sweet: as the way did lie straight through it, they took rest there for a while. Yea, here they heard at all times "the songs of birds," and saw each day the plants bud forth in the earth, and heard "the voice of the dove" in the land. In this realm the sun shines night and day: for this was far from the Vale of the Shade of Death, and, in like way, out of the reach of Giant Despair; nor could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle. Here they were in sight of the City to which they were bound: here, too, met them some of the folk who dwelt there, for in this land the Bright Ones did walk, for that it was on the verge of bliss. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL ENTER THE LAND OF BEULAH.] Now as they did walk in this land they had more joy than in parts not so nigh the realm to which they were bound: and as they drew near the City they had yet a more clear view of it. It was built of pearls and rare gems: its streets, too, were of gold: so that, from the sheen of the place, and the glow of the sun on it, Christian did long so much that he fell sick. Hopeful, in like way, had a fit or two of the same kind. But when they got some strength, and could bear their sick state, they went on their way, and came near and yet more near where were grounds that bore fruits, vines, and plants; and their gates did ope on the high road. Now, as they came up to these parts, lo, the Gardener stood in the way; to whom the men said, "Whose fine vine and fruit grounds are these?" He said, "They are the King's, and are put there for his own joy, as well as to cheer such as come this way." So he took them to where the vines grew, and bid them wet their mouths with the fruit: he, too, did show them there the King's walks, and the shades that he sought: and here they staid and slept. Now I saw in my dream that they spoke more in their sleep at this time than erst they did in all their way: and as I did muse on it, the Gardener said to me, "Why dost thou muse at this? It is a charm in the fruit of the grapes of these grounds 'to go down in so sweet a way as to cause the lips of them that sleep to speak.'" So I saw that when they did wake they girt up their loins to go up to the City. So as they went on, there met them two men in robes that shone like gold, while the face of each was bright as the light. These men did ask them whence they came; and they told them. They would know, too, where they did lodge, and what straits and risks and joys they had met with in the way; and they told them. Then said the men that met them, "You have but two straits more to meet with, and then you are in the City." Christian then, and his friend, did ask the men to go with them: so they told them that they would; but said they, "You must gain it by your own faith." So I saw in my dream that they went on each with each, till they came in sight of the gate. Now I saw still more, that a stream ran in front of them and the gate; but there was no bridge to cross, and the stream was deep. At the sight of this stream, the wights with staves took fright; but the men that went with them said, "Thou must go through, or thou canst not come at the gate." The wights then sought to know if there was no way but that to the gate. To which they said, "Yes; but none, save two--to wit, Enoch and Elijah--hath been let to tread that path since the world was made, nor shall till the last trump shall sound." The wights then (and Christian in chief) grew as if they would give up hope, and did look this way and that, but no way could be found by which they might get clear of the stream. Then they did ask the men if it was all the same depth. They said, "No"; yet they could not help them in that case: "for," said they, "you shall find it more or less deep as you trust in the King of the place." Then they did wade in the stream, and as Christian sank he did cry to his good friend Hopeful, and said, "I sink." [Illustration] Then said Hopeful, "Be of good cheer, my friend: I feel the ground, and it is good." Then said Christian, "Ah! my friend, I shall not see the land I seek." And with that all grew dark, and fear fell on Christian, so that he could not see in front of him. All the words that he spoke still did tend to show that he had dread of mind and fears of heart that he should die in that stream, and fail to go in at the gate. Hopeful, from this cause, had here hard work to hold up the head of his friend; yea, at times he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up once more half dead. Hopeful would try to cheer him, and said, "Friend, I see the gate, and men stand by to greet us": but Christian would say, "'Tis you, 'tis you they wait for; you have had hope since the time I knew you." Then said Hopeful, "These fears and griefs that you go through are no sign that God has left you, but are sent to try you; if you will call to mind that which of yore you have had from him, and live on him in your griefs." Then I saw in my dream that Christian was in a muse for a while. To whom, too, Hopeful did add these words, "Be of good cheer, Christ doth make thee whole." And with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, "Oh, I see Him once more! and he tells me, 'When thou dost pass through the stream, I will be with thee.'" Then they both took heart, and the foe then grew as still as a stone, till they were gone through. Christian then straight found ground to stand on, and so it came to pass that the rest of the stream was but of slight depth: thus they did ford it. Now on the bank of the stream, on the far off side, they saw the two Bright Men once more, who there did wait for them. When they came out of the stream these did greet them, and said: "We are sprites sent forth to aid them who shall be heirs of Christ." Thus they went on to the gate. Now you must note that the City stood on a high hill: but the wights went up that hill with ease, for that they had these two men to lead them up by the arms: more than this, they had left the garb they wore in the stream; for though they went in with them they came out freed from them. They hence went up here with much speed, though the rise on which the City was built was more high than the clouds. They then went up through the realms of air, and held sweet talk as they went, as they felt joy for that they had got safe through the stream, and had such Bright Ones to wait them. The talk that they had with the Bright Ones was of the place; who told them that no words could paint it. "You go now," said they, "to the sphere where God dwells, in which you shall see the Tree of Life, and eat of the fruits of it that fade not: and when you come there you shall have white robes to wear, and your walk and talk shall be each day with the King, while time shall be known no more. There you shall not see such things as you saw when low on earth, to wit, grief, pain, and death; for these things are gone. You now go to Abraham, to Isaac, and Jacob, and to men that God 'took from the woe to come.'" These men then did ask, "What must we do in this pure place?" To whom it was said, "You must there get the meed of all your toil, and have joy for all your grief; you must reap what you have sown, ay, the fruit of all your tears and toils for the King by the way. In that place you must wear crowns of gold, and bask for aye in the sight of the Lord of Hosts, for there you 'shall see Him as he is.' There, too, you shall serve Him with praise, with shouts, with joy, whom you sought to serve in the world, though with much pain, for that your flesh was weak. There you shall join with your friends once more that are gone there ere you; and there you shall with joy greet each one that comes in your wake. When the King shall come with sound of trump in the clouds, as on the wings of the wind, you shall come with Him; and, when He shall sit on the Throne to judge all the realms of the earth, you shall sit by Him: yea, and when He shall pass doom on all that did work ill, let them be sprites or men, you shall too have a voice in that doom, for that they are His and your foes. More than this, when He shall go back to the City, you shall go too, with sound of trump, and be for aye with Him." Now while they thus drew nigh to the gate, lo a troop of the Bright Host came to meet them; to whom it was said by the first two Bright Ones, "These are the men that did love our Lord, when they were in the world, and that have left all for His name, and He hath sent us to fetch them, and we have brought them thus far on their way, that they may go in and look their Lord in the face with joy." There came, too, at this time to meet them a group of the King's men with trumps, clad in white and sheen robes, who, with sweet and loud notes, made the whole arch of the sky full of the sound. These men did greet Christian and his friend with much warmth; and this they did with shouts and sound of trump. [Illustration: "'Tis you, 'tis you they wait for; you have had hope since the time I knew you." (_Page 92_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] This done, they went round them on each side; some went in front, some in the rear, and some on the right hand, some on the left (as it were to guard them through the vast realms), and did sound as they went, with sweet noise, in notes on high; so that the bare sight was to them that could look on it as if all the blest were come down to meet them. Thus then did they walk on side by side. And now were these two men, as it were, in bliss ere they came at it. Here, too, they had the City in view; and they thought they heard all the bells in it to ring, so as to greet them. But, more than all, the warm and rare thoughts that they had of the place to which they went, and of those that dwelt there, and that for aye; oh! by what tongue or pen can such vast joy be told? Thus they came up to the gate. Then I saw in my dream that the Bright Men bid them call at the gate: the which when they did, some from on high did look down, to wit, Enoch, Moses, and Elijah, and so forth, to whom it was said, "These wights are come from the City of Destruction, for the love that they bear to the King of this place"; and then the wights gave in to them each man his roll, which they had got at first: those, then, were brought in to the King, who, when he had read them, said, "Where are the men?" To whom it was told, "They are at the porch of the gate." Then spoke the King, "Ope the gate, that the just land that keeps truth may come in." Now I saw in my dream, that these two men went in at the gate: and lo! as they did so, a change came on them; and they had robes put on that shone like gold. There were, too, that met them with harps and crowns, and gave them to them; the harps to praise with, the crowns in sign of rank. Then I heard in my dream that all the bells of the place rang for joy, and that it was said to them, "Come ye to the joy of our Lord." Now, just as the gates did ope to let in the men, did I peer at them, and lo, the place shone like the sun: the streets, too, were of gold; and in them did walk men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and gold harps to aid in songs of praise. There were some of them that had wings, and they sang, with not a pause, songs to the "Lamb that was slain!" Then they shut up the gates; which when I had seen I did wish to be with them. Now, while I did gaze on all these things, I saw Ignorance come up to the side of the stream: but he soon got through, and that void of half the toil which the two men that I of late saw met with. So he did climb the hill to come up to the gate; but none came with him, nor did one man meet or greet him. When he was come up to the gate, he gave a look up at what was writ in front of it, and then gave a knock. So they told the King, but he would not come down to see him; but told the two Bright Ones, that led Christian and Hopeful to the City, to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, and have him off. Then they took him up, and bore him through the air to the door that I saw in the side of the hill, and put him in there. Then I saw that there was a way to Hell, ay, from the gates of bliss, as well as from the City of Destruction! So I did wake, and lo, it was a dream! THE END. BURT'S SERIES of ONE SYLLABLE BOOKS 14 Titles. Handsome Illuminated Cloth Binding. 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BURT COMPANY. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original text did not contain a table of contents. One was created by the transcriber to aid the reader. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 14, "Heto" changed to "He to" (He to whom thou) Page 52, "Cha." changed to "Chr." (_Chr._--"They are two) Page 76, "their" changed to "they" (So they built there) Page 89, "bonnd" changed to "bound" (bound: and as they drew near) 


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   THE PILGRIMS' WAY FROM WINCHESTER TO CANTERBURY [Illustration] THE PILGRIMS' WAY FROM WINCHESTER TO CANTERBURY BY JULIA CARTWRIGHT [Illustration] ILLUSTRATED BY A. H. HALLAM MURRAY NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 1911 "From every shire's ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The holy blissful martyr for to seeke, That them hath holpen when that they were sicke." ALL RIGHTS RESERVED [Illustration: THE APPROACH TO WINCHESTER FROM THE SOUTH] PREFACE This account of the Way trodden by the pilgrims of the Middle Ages through the South of England to the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury originally appeared in the _Art Journal_ for 1892, with illustrations by Mr. A. Quinton. It was published in the following year as a separate volume, and reprinted in 1895 and 1901. Now by the courtesy of Messrs. Virtue's representatives, and in response to a continued demand, it appears again in a new and revised form, with the additional attraction of illustrations from original drawings by Mr. Hallam Murray. During the twenty years which have elapsed since these pages were first written, a whole literature has grown up round the Pilgrims' Way. Not only have scholarly papers on separate sections of the road appeared in the Journals of Archæological Societies, but several valuable works on the subject have been issued by writers of authority. Mr. H. Snowden-Ward has written a book on "The Canterbury Pilgrimages," in Messrs. A. & C. Black's Pilgrimage Series, in which he deals at length with the life and death, the cult and miracles of St. Thomas, and the different routes taken by pilgrims to his shrine. Mr. Palmer has described a considerable portion of the Way in his treatise on "Three Surrey Churches," and only last autumn Mr. Elliston-Erwood published an excellent little guide-book called "The Pilgrims' Road," for the use of cyclists and pedestrians, in Messrs. Warne's Homeland Pocket-book Series. But the most thorough and systematic attempt to reconstruct the route taken by pilgrims from Winchester to Canterbury has been made by Mr. Belloc in his admirable work, "The Old Road." The author himself walked along the ancient track, and succeeded in filling up many gaps where the road had been lost, and in recovering almost the whole of the Way, "yard by yard from the capital of Hampshire to the capital of Kent." This intimate knowledge of the road and its characteristics have led him to make several alterations in the line of the Way marked on the Ordnance Map, which had hitherto served as the basis of most descriptions. But as Mr. Belloc himself recognises, it is clear that pilgrims often left the original road to visit churches and shrines in the neighbourhood. Thus, in several places, new tracks sprang up along the downs to which local tradition has given the name of the Pilgrims' Way, and which it is not always easy to distinguish from the main road. Like Bunyan's pilgrims, when they came to the foot of the hill Difficulty, "one turned to the left hand, and the other to the right, but the narrow way lay right up the hill." In this edition of my book some obvious errors have been corrected, and certain doubtful points have been cleared up with the help of experience gained by other workers in the same field. But, as a rule, my object has been not so much to draw attention to the actual road as to describe the antiquities and objects of interest which arrest the traveller's notice on his journey. From whatever side we approach it, the subject is a fascinating one. All of these different studies, varied in aims and scope as they may be, bear witness to the perennial interest which the Pilgrims' Way inspires. The beauty of the country through which the old road runs, its historic associations and famous memories, the ancient churches and houses which lie on its course, will always attract those who love and reverence the past, and will lead many to follow in the footsteps of the mediæval pilgrims along the Way to Canterbury. JULIA CARTWRIGHT. OCKHAM, _Nov. 1, 1911_. [Illustration: THE RIVER ITCHEN WHERE IT LEAVES THE TOWN.] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE PILGRIMS' WAY 1 II. WINCHESTER TO ALTON 20 III. ALTON TO COMPTON 44 IV. COMPTON TO SHALFORD 63 V. SHALFORD TO ALBURY 75 VI. SHERE TO REIGATE 87 VII. REIGATE TO CHEVENING 103 VIII. OTFORD TO WROTHAM 125 IX. WROTHAM TO HOLLINGBOURNE 137 X. HOLLINGBOURNE TO LENHAM 153 XI. CHARING TO GODMERSHAM 167 XII. CHILHAM TO HARBLEDOWN 182 XIII. HARBLEDOWN TO CANTERBURY 193 XIV. THE MARTYR'S SHRINE 203 INDEX 217 NOTE ON THE BINDING The "Canterbury Bell" and the Badges, represented on the cover of the book, were worn by the Pilgrims on their return from the Shrine of St. Thomas. The Badges were made of lead. [Illustration: NEAR WROTHAM WATER.] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS COLOURED PLATES THE NORMAN TOWER AND SOUTH TRANSEPT, WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL FROM THE NORTH 32 CHAWTON HOUSE 50 THE MOTE, IGHTHAM 136 AYLESFORD BRIDGE 146 COTTAGE AT BOARLEY, NEAR BOXLEY 152 CHARING 170 CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL FROM THE SOUTH-WEST 192 HALF-TONES FACING PAGE WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL, SOUTH AISLE OF CHOIR 25 KING'S GATE, WINCHESTER, FROM THE CLOSE 28 LOSELEY 67 THE HOSPITAL, GUILDFORD 72 OLD YEWS AND OAK IN EASTWELL PARK 176 THE WEST GATE, CANTERBURY 194 MERCERY LANE, CANTERBURY 199 THE MARTYRDOM, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL 205 LINE BLOCKS ON "THE WAY" BETWEEN KEMSING AND OTFORD _Title-page_ THE APPROACH TO WINCHESTER FROM THE SOUTH v THE RIVER ITCHEN WHERE IT LEAVES THE TOWN ix NEAR WROTHAM WATER xi ST. CROSS AND ST. KATHERINE'S HILL 1 DOORWAY IN CANTERBURY CLOISTERS THROUGH WHICH BECKET PASSED ON HIS WAY TO VESPERS 8 ST. CROSS FROM THE MEADOWS 13 THE ENTRANCE TO ST. CROSS HOSPITAL 15 BOX HILL 18 THE CATHEDRAL FROM THE SOUTH 20 ROOF OF STRANGERS' HALL, WINCHESTER 21 THE WEST GATE, WINCHESTER 23 ON THE RIVER ITCHEN, WINCHESTER 27 THATCHED COTTAGE, MARTYR WORTHY 34 CHILLAND FARM, NEAR ITCHEN ABBAS 36 NEW ALRESFORD 40 THE HOG'S BACK 44 JANE AUSTEN'S HOUSE, CHAWTON 47 FARNHAM CASTLE 53 CROOKSBURY FROM NEWLANDS CORNER 55 COMPTON VILLAGE 63 COMPTON CHURCH 65 ST. KATHERINE'S, GUILDFORD 70 ST. MARTHA'S CHAPEL 71 THE HOG'S BACK 73 ST. MARTHA'S FROM THE HOG'S BACK 75 ST. MARTHA'S FROM CHILWORTH 81 ALBURY OLD CHURCH 85 THE MILL, GOMSHALL 87 SHERE 89 CROSSWAYS FARM, NEAR WOTTON 91 WOTTON 93 BOX HILL AND DORKING CHURCH SPIRE 95 THE WHITE HORSE, DORKING 96 BETWEEN DORKING AND BETCHWORTH LOOKING WEST 97 ON "THE WAY" ABOVE BETCHWORTH 100 WINDMILL ON REIGATE COMMON 103 REIGATE COMMON 105 LOOKING EAST FROM GATTON PARK 108 GATTON TOWN HALL 110 MERSTHAM CHURCH 113 THE WHITE HART, GODSTONE 115 OLD HOUSE IN OXTED 116 OXTED CHURCH 117 BRASTED 120 CHEVENING CHURCH 123 OTFORD CHURCH 125 THE PORCH, KEMSING CHURCH 133 WROTHAM CHURCH 135 WROTHAM, LOOKING SOUTH 137 THE BULL, WROTHAM 139 TROTTESCLIFFE 140 FORD PLACE, NEAR WROTHAM 141 THE FRIARY, AYLESFORD 144 KITS COTY HOUSE 147 LOOKING WEST FROM ABOVE BOXLEY ABBEY 149 HOLLINGBOURNE HOUSE 155 MARKET-PLACE, LENHAM 163 IN CHARING VILLAGE 167 THE PALACE, WROTHAM 181 CHILHAM 182 ON THE VILLAGE GREEN, CHARTHAM 187 ST. NICHOLAS', HARBLEDOWN 193 SITE OF THE SHRINE OF ST. THOMAS, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL 209 [Illustration: ST. CROSS AND ST. KATHERINE'S HILL.] CHAPTER I THE PILGRIMS' WAY Three hundred and seventy years have passed since the shrine of St. Thomas at Canterbury was swept away, and the martyr's ashes were scattered to the winds. The age of pilgrimages has gone by, the conditions of life have changed, and the influences which drew such vast multitudes of men and women to worship at the murdered Archbishop's tomb have long ago ceased to work on the popular mind. No longer does the merry cavalcade of Chaucer's lay ride forth in the freshness of the spring morning, knight and merchant, scholar and lawyer, Prioress and Wife of Bath, yeoman and priest and friars, a motley company from all parts of the realm, "ready to wenden on their pilgrimage with full devout courage" to Canterbury. The days of pilgrimages are over, their fashion has passed away, but still some part of the route which the travellers took can be traced, and the road they trod still bears the name of the Pilgrims' Way. Over the Surrey hills and through her stately parks the dark yews which lined the path may yet be seen. By many a quiet Kentish homestead the grassy track still winds its way along the lonely hill-side overlooking the blue Weald, and, if you ask its name, the labourer who guides the plough, or the waggoner driving his team, will tell you that it is the Pilgrims' Road to Canterbury. So the old name lives, and the memory of that famous pilgrimage which Chaucer sang has not yet died out of the people's heart. And although strangers journey no longer from afar to the martyrs shrine, it is still a pleasant thing to ride out on a spring or summer morning and follow the Pilgrims' Way. For the scenes through which it leads are fair, and the memories that it wakes belong to the noblest pages of England's story. In those old days the pilgrims who came to Canterbury approached the holy city by one of the three following routes. There was first of all the road taken by Chaucer's pilgrims from London, through Deptford, Greenwich, Rochester, and Sittingbourne; the way trodden by all who came from the North, the Midlands, and the Eastern Counties, and by those foreigners who, like Erasmus, had first visited London. But the greater number of the foreign pilgrims from France, Germany, and Italy landed at Sandwich Haven or Dover, and approached Canterbury from the south; while others, especially those who came from Normandy and Brittany, landed at Southampton and travelled through the southern counties of Hampshire, Surrey, and Kent. Many of these doubtless stopped at Winchester, attracted by the fame of St. Swithun, the great healing Bishop; and either here or else at Guildford, they would be joined by the pilgrims from the West of England on their way to the Shrine of Canterbury. This was the route taken by Henry II. when, landing at Southampton on his return from France, he made his first memorable pilgrimage to the tomb of the murdered Archbishop, in the month of July, 1174. And this route it is, which, trodden by thousands of pilgrims during the next three centuries, may still be clearly defined through the greater part of its course, and which in Surrey and Kent bears the historic name of the Pilgrims' Way. A very ancient path it is, older far than the days of Plantagenets and Normans, of shrines and pilgrimages. For antiquarian researches have abundantly proved this road to be an old British track, which was in use even before the coming of the Romans. It may even have been, as some writers suppose, the road along which caravans of merchants brought their ingots of tin from Cornwall to be shipped at what was then the great harbour of Britain, the Rutupine Port, afterwards Sandwich Haven, and then borne overland to Massilia and the Mediterranean shores. Ingots of tin, buried it may be in haste by merchants attacked on their journey by robbers, have, it is said, been dug up at various places along this route, and British earthworks have been found in its immediate neighbourhood. The road was, there can be no doubt, used by the Romans; and all along its course remains of Roman villas, baths, and pavements have been brought to light, together with large quantities of Roman coins, cinerary urns, and pottery of the most varied description. In mediæval days this "tin road," as Mr. Grant Allen calls it, still remained the principal thoroughfare from the West to the East of England. It followed the long line of hills which runs through the north of Hampshire, and across Surrey and Kent, that famous chalk ridge which has for us so many different associations, with whose scenery William Cobbett, for instance, has made us all familiar in the story of his rides to and from the Wen. And it lay outside the great trackless and impassable forest of Anderida, which in those days still covered a great part of the south-east counties of England. Dean Stanley, in his eloquent account of the Canterbury pilgrimage, describes this road as a byway, and remarks that the pilgrims avoided the regular roads, "probably for the same reason as in the days of Shamgar, the son of Anath, the highways were unoccupied, and the traveller walked through byways." But the statement is misleading, and there can be little doubt that in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries this road was, if not the only means of communication between West and East, at least the principal thoroughfare across this part of England, and was as such the route naturally chosen by pilgrims to Canterbury. Certain peculiarities, it is interesting to notice, mark its course from beginning to end. It clings to the hills, and, wherever it is possible, avoids the marshy ground of the valleys. It runs, not on the summit of the downs, but about half-way down the hill-side, where there is shelter from the wind, as well as sunshine to be had under the crest of the ridge. And its course is marked by rows of yew trees, often remarkable for their size and antiquity. Some of these are at least seven or eight hundred years old, and must have reared their ancient boughs on the hill-side before the feet of pilgrims ever trod these paths. So striking is this feature of the road, and so fixed is the idea that some connection exists between these yew trees and the Pilgrims' Way, that they are often said to have been planted with the express object of guiding travellers along the road to Canterbury. This, however, we need hardly say, is a fallacy. Yews are by no means peculiar to the Pilgrims' Way, but are to be found along every road in chalk districts. They spring up in every old hedgerow on this soil, and are for the most part sown by the birds. But the presence of these venerable and picturesque forms does lend an undeniable charm to the ancient track. And in some places where the line of cultivation gradually spreading upwards has blotted out every other trace of the road, where the ploughshare has upturned the sod, and the hedgerows have disappeared, three or four of these grand old trees may still be seen standing by themselves in the midst of a ploughed field, the last relics of a bygone age. [Illustration: DOORWAY IN CANTERBURY CLOISTERS THROUGH WHICH BECKET PASSED ON HIS WAY TO VESPERS.] The murder of Becket took place on the 29th of December, 1170. At five o'clock on that winter evening, as the Archbishop was on his way to vespers, the King's men, Reginald Fitz Urse and three knights who had accompanied him from Saltwood Castle, rushed upon him with their swords and murdered him in the north transept of his own Cathedral. The tragic circumstance of Becket's end made a profound impression on the people of England, and universal horror was excited by this act of sacrilege. Whatever his faults may have been, the murdered Archbishop had dared to stand up against the Crown for the rights of the Church, and had died rather than yield to the Kings demands. "For the name of Jesus and the defence of the Church I am ready to die," were his last words, as he fell under the assassins' blows. When he landed at Sandwich, on his return from France, the country folk crowded to meet him and hailed him as the father of orphans and deliverer of the oppressed, crying, "Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord." His journey to Canterbury was one long triumphal procession.[1] The poor looked to him as their champion and defender, who had laid down his life in the cause of freedom and righteousness. Henceforth Thomas became a national hero, and was everywhere honoured as the Martyr of the English. The popular belief in his holiness was confirmed by the miracles that were wrought in his name from the moment of his death. A violent storm broke over the Cathedral when the fatal deed was done, and was followed by a red glow, which illuminated the choir where the dead man's body was laid before the altar. The next day the monks buried the corpse in a marble tomb behind Our Lady's altar in the under-croft. For nearly a year no mass was said in the Cathedral, no music was heard, no bells were rung; the altars were stripped of their ornaments, and the crucifixes and images were covered over. Meanwhile, reports reached Canterbury of the wonderful cures performed by the martyred Archbishop. On the third day after the murder, the wife of a Sussex knight, who suffered from blindness, invoked the blessed martyr's help, and was restored to sight. And on the very night of the burial the paralytic wife of a citizen of Canterbury was cured by a garment which her husband had dipped in the murdered saint's blood. These marvels were followed by a stream of devout pilgrims who came to seek healing at the martyr's tomb or to pay their vows for the mercies which they had received. A monk was stationed at the grave to receive offerings and report the miracles that were wrought to the Chapter. At first these wonders were kept secret, for fear of the King, and of Becket's enemies, the De Brocs, whose men guarded the roads to Canterbury. The doors of the crypt were kept bolted and barred, and only the poor in the town and the neighbouring villages crept to the tomb.[2] But on Easter Day, 1171, the crowds rushed in to see a dumb man who was said to have recovered his speech; and on the following Friday the crypt was thrown open to the public. From that time, writes Benedict, the monk of Canterbury, "the scene of the Pool of Bethesda was daily renewed in the Cathedral, and numbers of sick and helpless persons were to be seen lying on the pavement of the great church."[3] "These great miracles are wrought," wrote John of Salisbury, an intimate friend of Becket, who became Bishop of Chartres in 1176, and was an able statesman and scholar, "in the place of his passion and in the place where he lay before the great altar before his burial, and in the tomb where he was laid at last, the blind see, the deaf hear, the dumb speak, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and, a thing unheard of since the days of our fathers, the dead are raised to life."[4] From all parts of England the sick and suffering now crowded to Canterbury, telling the same marvellous tale, how Thomas had appeared to them robed in white, with the thin red streak of blood across his face, bringing healing and peace. "In towns and villages, in castles and cottages, throughout the kingdom," writes another contemporary chronicler, "every one from the highest to the lowest wishes to visit and honour his tomb. Clerks and laymen, rich and poor, nobles and common people, fathers and mothers with their children, masters with their servants, all come hither, moved by the same spirit of devotion. They travel by day and night in winter and summer, however cold the weather may be, and the inns and hostelries on the road to Canterbury are as crowded with people as great cities are on market days."[5] [Illustration: ST. CROSS FROM THE MEADOWS.] On the 21st of February, 1173, Pope Alexander III. pronounced the decree of canonisation, and fixed the Feast of St. Thomas of Canterbury on the day of the Archbishop's martyrdom. In July, 1174, King Henry II., moved by the reports which reached him in Normandy of the popular enthusiasm for Becket, and fearing the effects of the divine wrath, came himself to do penance at the martyr's tomb. Three months after the King of the English had given this public proof of his penitence and obtained release from the Church's censures, "the glorious choir of Conrad" was destroyed by fire, on the night of September 5, 1174. The rebuilding of the church, which was largely assisted by offerings at Becket's tomb, was not finished until 1220, when the Saint's body was removed to its final resting-place in the new apse at the East end of the Chapel of the Blessed Trinity, where the Archbishop had said his first mass. [Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TO ST. CROSS HOSPITAL.] On Tuesday, July 7, an immense concourse of people of all ranks and ages assembled at Canterbury. "The city and villages round," writes an eye-witness, "were so filled with folk that many had to abide in tents or under the open sky."[6] Free hospitality was given to all, and the streets of Canterbury literally flowed with wine. A stately procession, led by the young King Henry III. and the patriot Archbishop Stephen Langton, entered the crypt, and bore the Saint's remains with solemn ceremonial to their new resting-place. Here a sumptuous shrine, adorned with gold plates and precious gems, wrought "by the greatest master of the craft" that could be found in England, received the martyr's relics, and the new apse became known as "Becket's Crown." The fame of St. Thomas now spread into all parts of the world during the next two centuries, and the Canterbury pilgrimage was the most popular in Christendom. The 7th of July was solemnly set apart as the Feast of the Translation of St. Thomas, and henceforth the splendour of this festival threw the anniversary of the actual martyrdom into the shade. The very fact that it took place in summer and not in winter naturally attracted greater numbers of pilgrims from a distance. And on the jubilees or fiftieth anniversaries of the Translation, the concourse of people assembled at Canterbury was enormous. Besides the crowds attracted by these two chief festivals, pilgrims came to Canterbury in smaller parties at all seasons of the year, but more especially in the spring and summer months. Each year, as Chaucer sings, when the spring-time comes round, "When that Aprille with his showers sweete The drought of Marche had pierced to the roote.... When Zephyrus eke with his sweete breathe Inspired hath in every holt and heathe The tender croppes ... And small fowlës maken melodie, That sleepen all the night with open eye, Then longen folk to go on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seeken strange 'strandës' ... And specially, from every shire's ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The holy blissful martyr for to seeke That them hath holpen when that they were sicke." [Illustration: BOX HILL.] The passage of these caravans of pilgrims could not fail to leave its mark on the places and the people along their path. The sight of these strange faces, the news they brought, and the tales they told must have impressed the dwellers in these quiet woodlands and lonely hills. And traces of their presence remain to this day on the Surrey downs and in the lanes of Kent. They may, or may not, have been responsible for the edible variety of large white snails, _Helix pomatia_, commonly called Roman snails, which are found in such abundance at Albury in Surrey, and at Charing in Kent, as well as at other places along the road, and which the Norman French pilgrims are traditionally said to have brought over with them. But the memory of their pilgrimage survives in the wayside chapels and shrines which sprung up along the track, in the churches which were built for their benefit, or restored and decorated by their devotion, above all in the local names still in common use along the countryside. Pilgrims' Lodge and Pilgrims' Ferry, Palmers' Wood, Paternoster Lane--these, and similar terms, still speak of the custom which had taken such fast hold of the popular mind during the three hundred and fifty years after the death of Becket, and recall the long processions of pilgrims which once wound over these lonely hills and through these green lanes on their way to the martyr's shrine. [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL FROM THE SOUTH.] CHAPTER II WINCHESTER TO ALTON [Illustration: ROOF OF STRANGERS' HALL, WINCHESTER.] Few traces of the Pilgrims' Way are now to be found in Hampshire. But early writers speak of an old road which led to Canterbury from Winchester, and the travellers' course would in all probability take them through this ancient city. Here the foreign pilgrims who landed at Southampton, and those who came from the West of England, would find friendly shelter in one or other of the religious houses, and enjoy a brief resting-time before they faced the perils of the road. The old capital of Wessex, the home of Alfred, and favourite residence of Saxon and Norman kings, had many attractions to offer to the devout pilgrim. Here was the splendid golden shrine of St. Swithun, the gentle Bishop who had watched over the boyhood of Alfred. In A.D. 971, a hundred years after the Saint's death, his bones had been solemnly removed from their resting-place on the north side of the Minster, where he had humbly begged to be buried" so that the sun might not shine upon him," and laid by Edgar and Dunstan behind the altar of the new Cathedral which Bishop Ethelwold had raised on the site of the ancient church of Birinus. This was done, says the chronicler Wulfstan, although the Saint himself "protested weeping that his body ought not to be set in God's holy church amidst the splendid memorials of the ancient fathers," a legend which may have given rise to the popular tradition of the forty days' rain, and the supposed delay in the Saint's funeral. From that time countless miracles were wrought at the shrine of St. Swithun, and multitudes from all parts of England flocked to seek blessing and healing at the great church which henceforth bore his name. [Illustration: THE WEST GATE, WINCHESTER.] Under the rule of Norman and Angevin kings, the venerable city had attained the height of wealth and prosperity. In those days the population numbered some 20,000, and there are said to have been as many as 173 churches and chapels within its wall. In spite of the horrors of civil war, which twice desolated the streets, in the time of Stephen and Henry III., the frequent presence of the court and the energy of her prince-bishops had made Winchester a centre of religious and literary activity. And, although after the death of Henry III., who throughout his long life remained faithful to his native city, royal visits became few and far between, and the old capital lost something of its brilliancy, there was still much to attract strangers and strike the imagination of the wayfarer who entered her gates in the fifteenth century. Few mediæval cities could boast foundations of equal size and splendour. There was the strong castle of Wolvesey, where the bishops reigned in state, and the royal palace by the West gate, built by King Henry III., with the fair Gothic hall which he had decorated so lavishly. There was the Hospital of St. Cross, founded by the warrior-bishop, Henry de Blois, and the new College of St. Mary, which William of Wykeham, the great master-builder, had reared in the meadows known as the Greenery, or promenade of the monks of St. Swithun. Another venerable hospital, that of St. John's, claimed to have been founded by Birinus, and on Morne Hill, just outside the East gate, stood a hospital for lepers, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene. There, conspicuous among a crowd of religious houses by their wealth and antiquity, were the two great Benedictine communities of St. Swithun and Hyde. And there, too, was the grand Norman church which the Conqueror's kinsman, Bishop Walkelin, had raised on the ruins of Ethelwold's Minster, with its low massive tower and noble transepts, and the long nave roofed in with solid trees of oak cut down in Hempage Wood. Three centuries later, William of Wykeham transformed the nave after the latest fashion of architecture, cut through the old Norman work, carried up the piers to a lofty height, and replaced the flat wooden roof by fine stone groining. But the Norman tower and transepts of Bishop Walkelin's church still remain to-day almost unchanged. [Illustration: WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL, SOUTH AISLE OF CHOIR.] So great was the concourse of pilgrims to St. Swithun's shrine in the early part of the fourteenth century, that Bishop Godfrey Lucy enlarged the eastward portion of the church, and built, as it were, another church, with nave, aisles, and Lady Chapel of its own, under the same roof. The monks had no great love for the lower class of pilgrims who thronged their doors, and took good care to keep them out of the conventual precincts. They were only allowed to enter the Minster by a doorway in the north transept, and, once they had visited the shrine and duly made their offerings, they were jealously excluded from the rest of the church by those fine ironwork gates still preserved in the Cathedral, and said to be the oldest specimen of the kind in England. [Illustration: ON THE RIVER ITCHEN, WINCHESTER.] Towards the close of the century, in the reign of Edward I., the fine old building still known as the Strangers' Hall was built by the monks of St. Swithun at their convent gate, for the reception of the poorer pilgrims. Here they found food and shelter for the night. They slept, ate their meals, and drank their ale, and made merry round one big central fire. The hall is now divided, and is partly used as the Dean's stable, partly enclosed in a Canon's house, but traces of rudely carved heads, a bearded king, and a nun's face are still visible on the massive timbers of the vaulted roof, blackened with the smoke of bygone ages. In the morning the same pilgrims would wend their way to the doors of the Prior's lodging, and standing under the three beautiful pointed arches which form the entrance to the present Deanery, would there receive alms in money and fragments of bread and meat to help them on their journey. [Illustration: KING'S GATE, WINCHESTER, FROM THE CLOSE.] The route which they took on leaving Winchester is uncertain. It is not till we approach Alton that we find the first traces of the Pilgrims' Way, but in all probability they followed the Roman road which still leads to Silchester and London along the valley of the river Itchen. Immediately outside the city gates they would find themselves before another stately pile of conventual buildings, the great Abbey of Hyde. This famous Benedictine house, founded by Alfred, and long known as the New Minster, was first removed from its original site near the Cathedral in the twelfth century. Finding their house damp and unhealthy, and feeling themselves cramped in the narrow space close to the rival monastery of St. Swithun, the monks obtained a charter from Henry I. giving them leave to settle outside the North gate. In the year 1110, they moved to their new home, bearing with them the wonder-working shrine of St. Josse, the great silver cross given to the New Minster by Cnut, and a yet more precious relic, the bones of Alfred the Great. Here in the green meadows on the banks of the Itchen they reared the walls of their new convent and the magnificent church which, after being in the next reign burnt to the ground by fire-balls from Henry of Blois' Castle at Wolvesey, rose again from the flames fairer and richer than before. Here it stood till the Dissolution, when Thomas Wriothesley, Cromwell's Commissioner, stripped the shrine of its treasures, carried off the gold and jewels, and pulled down the abbey walls to use the stone in the building of his own great house at Stratton. "We intend," he wrote to his master, after describing the riches of gold and silver plate, the crosses studded with pearls, chalices, and emeralds on which he had lain sacrilegious hands, "both at Hyde and St. Mary to sweep away all the rotten bones that be called relics; which we may not omit, lest it be thought we came more for the treasure than for the avoiding of the abomination of idolatry." Considerable fragments of the building still remained. In Milner's time the ruins covered the whole meadow, but towards the end of the last century the city authorities fixed on the spot as the site of a new bridewell, and all that was left of the once famous Abbey was then destroyed. The tombs of the dead were rifled. At every stroke of the spade some ancient sepulchre was violated, stone coffins containing chalices, croziers, rings, were broken open and bones scattered abroad. Then the ashes of the noblest of our kings were blown to the winds, and the resting-place of Ælfred remains to this day unknown. A stone marked with the words, Ælfred Rex, DCCCLXXXI., was carried off by a passing stranger, and is now to be seen at Corby Castle, in Cumberland. To-day an old gateway near the church of St. Bartholomew and some fragments of the monastery wall are the only remains of Alfred's new Minster. From this spot an ancient causeway, now commonly known as the Nuns' Walk, but which in the last century bore the more correct title of the Monks' Walk, leads alongside of a stream which supplied Hyde Abbey with water, for a mile and a half up the valley to Headbourne[7] Worthy. The path is cool and shady, planted with a double row of tall elms, and as we look back we have beautiful views of the venerable city and the great Cathedral sleeping in the quiet hollow, dreaming of all its mighty past. Above, scarred with the marks of a deep railway cutting, and built over with new houses, is St. Giles' Hill, where during many centuries the famous fair was held each September. Foreign pilgrims would gaze with interest on the scene of that yearly event, which had attained a world-wide fame, and attracted merchants from all parts of France, Flanders, and Italy. The green hill-side from which we look down on the streets and towers of Winchester presented a lively spectacle during that fortnight. The stalls were arranged in long rows and called after the nationality of the vendors of the goods they sold. There was the Street of Caen, of Limoges, of the Flemings, of the Genoese, the Drapery, the Goldsmiths' Stall, the Spicery, held by the monks of St. Swithun, who drove a brisk trade in furs and groceries on these occasions. All shops in the city and for seven leagues round were closed during the fair, and local trade was entirely suspended. The mayor handed over the keys of the city for the time being to the bishop, who had large profits from the tolls and had stalls at the fair himself, while smaller portions went to the abbeys, and thirty marks a year were paid to St. Swithun's for the repair of the great church. The Red King first granted his kinsman, Bishop Walkelin, the tolls of this three days' fair at St. Giles' feast, which privilege was afterwards extended to a period of sixteen days by Henry III. The great fair lasted until modern times, but in due course was removed from St. Giles' Hill into the city itself. "As the city grew stronger and the fair weaker," writes Dean Kitchin, "it slid down St. Giles' Hill and entered the town, where its noisy ghost still holds revel once a year." [Illustration: WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL FROM THE NORTH] Leaving these historic memories behind us we follow the Monks' Walk until we reach Headbourne Worthy, the first of a group of villages granted by Egbert, in 825, to St. Swithun's Priory, and bearing this quaint name, derived from the Saxon _woerth_--a homestead. The church here dates from Saxon times, and claims to have been founded by St. Wilfred. The rude west doorway and chancel arch are said to belong to Edward the Confessor's time. Over the west archway, which now leads into a fifteenth-century chapel, is a fine sculptured bas-relief larger than life, representing the Crucifixion and the Maries, which probably originally adorned the exterior of the church. But the most interesting thing in the church is the brass to John Kent, a Winchester scholar, who died in 1434. The boy wears his college gown and his hair is closely cut, while a scroll comes out of his lips bearing the words: "Misericordiam Dni inetum cantabo." Next we reach Kingsworthy, so called because it was once Crown property, a pretty little village with low square ivy-grown church-tower and lych-gate, and a charming old-fashioned inn standing a little back from the road. [Illustration: THATCHED COTTAGE, MARTYR WORTHY.] The third of the Worthys, Abbotsworthy, is now united to Kingsworthy. Passing through its little street of houses, a mile farther on we reach Martyrsworthy, a still smaller village with another old Norman church and low thatched cottages, picturesquely placed near the banks of the river, which is here crossed by a wooden foot-bridge. But all this part of the Itchen valley has the same charm. Everywhere we find the same old farmhouses with mullioned windows and sundials and yew trees, the same straggling roofs brilliant with yellow lichen, and the same cottages and gardens gay with lilies and phloxes, the same green lanes shaded with tall elms and poplars, the same low chalk hills and wooded distances closing in the valley, and below the bright river winding its way through the cool meadows. "The Itchen--the beautiful Itchen valley," exclaims Cobbett, as he rides along this vale of meadows. "There are few spots in England more fertile, or more pleasant, none, I believe, more healthy. The fertility of this vale and of the surrounding country is best proved by the fact that, besides the town of Alresford and that of Southampton, there are seventeen villages, each having its parish church, upon its borders. When we consider these things, we are not surprised that a spot situated about half-way down this vale should have been chosen for the building of a city, or that that city should have been for a great number of years the place of residence for the kings of England." [Illustration: CHILLAND FARM, NEAR ITCHEN ABBAS.] Towards Itchen Abbas--of the Abbot--the valley opens, and we see the noble avenues and spreading beeches of Avington Park, long the property of the Dukes of Chandos, and often visited by Charles II. while Wren was building his red-brick palace at Winchester. Here the Merry Monarch feasted his friends in a banqueting-hall that is now a greenhouse, and a room in the old house bore the name of Nell Gwynne's closet. In those days it was the residence of the notorious Lady Shrewsbury, afterwards the wife of George Brydges, a member of the Chandos family, the lady whose first husband, Francis, Earl of Shrewsbury, was slain fighting in a duel with George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, while the Countess herself, disguised as a page, held her lover's horse. The river winds through the park, and between the over-arching boughs of the forest trees we catch lovely glimpses of wood and water. In the opposite direction, but also close to Itchen Abbas, is another well-known seat, Lord Ashburton's famous Grange, often visited by Carlyle. Here the dark tints of yew and fir mingle with the bright hues of lime and beech and silver birch on the banks of a clear lake, and long grassy glades lead up to wild gorse-grown slopes of open down. Still following the river banks we reach Itchen Stoke, another picturesque village with timbered cottages and mossy roofs. A little modern church, with high-pitched roof and lancet windows having a curiously foreign air, stands among the tall pines on a steep bank above the stream. But here our pleasant journey along the fair Itchen valley comes to an end, and, leaving the river-side, we climb the hilly road which leads us into Alresford. New Alresford, a clean, bright little town, with broad street, planted with rows of trees, boasts an antiquity which belies its name, and has been a market-town and borough from time immemorial. Like its yet more venerable neighbour, Old Alresford, it was given by a king of the West Saxons to the prior and monks of St. Swithun at Winchester, and formed part of the vast possessions of the monastery at the Conquest. Both places took their name from their situation on a ford of the Arle or Alre river, a considerable stream which joins the Itchen below Avington, and is called by Leland the Alresford river. In the eleventh century New Alresford had fallen into decay, and probably owes its present existence to Bishop Godfrey Lucy, who rebuilt the town, and obtained a charter from King John restoring the market, which had fallen into disuse. At the same time he gave the town the name of New Market, but the older one survived, and the Bishop's new title was never generally adopted. The same energetic prelate bestowed a great deal of care and considerable attention on the water supply of Winchester, and made the Itchen navigable all the way from Southampton to Alresford. In recognition of this important service, Bishop Lucy received from King John the right of levying toll on all leather, hides, and other goods which entered Winchester by the river Itchen through this canal, a right which descended to his successors in the see. South-west of the town is the large pond or reservoir which he made to supply the waters of the Itchen. This lake, which still covers about sixty acres, is a well-known haunt of moor-hens and other waterfowl, and the flags and bulrushes which fringe its banks make it a favourable resort of artists. Old Alresford itself, with its gay flower-gardens, tall elms, pretty old thatched cottages grouped round the village green, may well supply them with more than one subject for pen and pencil. [Illustration: NEW ALRESFORD.] New Alresford was at one time a flourishing centre of the cloth trade, in which the Winchester merchants drove so brisk a trade at St. Giles' Fair. The manufacture of woollen cloth was carried on till quite recent times, and Dean Kitchin tells us that there are old men still living who remember driving with their fathers to the fair at Winchester on St. Giles' day, to buy a roll of blue cloth to provide the family suits for the year. But New Alresford shared the decline as it had shared the prosperity of its more important neighbour, and suffered even more severely than Winchester in the Civil Wars, when the town was almost entirely burnt down by Lord Hopton's troops after their defeat in Cheriton fight. The scene of that hard-fought battle, which gave Winchester into Waller's hands and ruined the King's cause in the West of England, lies a few miles to the south of Alresford. Half-way between the two is Tichborne Park, the seat of a family which has owned this estate from the days of Harold, and which took its name from the stream flowing through the parish, and called the Ticceborne in Anglo-Saxon records. In modern times a well-known case has given the name of Tichborne an unenviable notoriety, but members of this ancient house have been illustrious at all periods of our history, and the legend of the Tichborne Dole so long associated with the spot deserves to be remembered. In the reign of Henry I., Isabella, the wife of Sir Roger Tichborne, a lady whose long life had been spent in deeds of mercy, prayed her husband as she lay dying to grant her as much land as would enable her to leave a dole of bread for all who asked alms at the gates of Tichborne on each succeeding Lady Day. Sir Roger was a knight of sterner stuff, and seizing a flaming brand from the hearth he told his wife jestingly that she might have as much land as she could herself walk over before the burning torch went out. Upon which the sick lady caused herself to be borne from her bed to a piece of ground within the manor, and crawled on her knees and hands until she had encircled twenty-three acres. The actual plot of ground still bears the name of Lady Tichborne's Crawles, and there was an old prophecy which said that the house of Tichborne would only last as long as the dying bequest of Isabella was carried out. During the next six centuries, nineteen hundred small loaves were regularly distributed to the poor at the gates on Lady Day, and a miraculous virtue was supposed to belong to bread thus bestowed. The custom was only abandoned a hundred years ago, owing to the number of idlers and bad characters which it brought into the neighbourhood, and a sum of money equal in amount to the Dole is given to the poor of the parish in its stead. Whether any of our Canterbury pilgrims stopped in their course to avail themselves of the Tichborne Dole we cannot say, but there was a manor-house of the Bishops of Winchester at Bishop Sutton, near Alresford, where they would no doubt find food and shelter. Nothing now remains of the episcopal palace, and no trace of its precincts is preserved but the site of the bishop's kennels. After crossing the river at Alresford the pilgrims turned north-east, and according to an old tradition their road led them through the parish of Ropley, a neighbouring village where Roman remains have been discovered. A little further on the same track, close to Rotherfield Park, where the modern mansion of Pelham now stands, was an ancient house which bore the name of Pilgrims' Place, and is indicated as such in old maps. [Illustration: THE HOG'S BACK.] CHAPTER III ALTON TO COMPTON A few miles to the right of the road is a place which no pilgrim of modern times can leave unvisited--Selborne, White's Selborne, the home of the gentle naturalist whose memory haunts these rural scenes. Here he lived in the picturesque house overgrown with creepers, with the sunny garden and dial at the back, and the great spreading oak where he loved to study the ways of the owls, and the juniper tree, which, to his joy, survived the Siberian winter of 1776. And here he died, and lies buried in the quiet churchyard in the shade of the old yew tree where he so often stood to watch his favourite birds. Not a stone but what speaks of him, not a turn in the village street but has its tale to tell. The play-stow, or village green, which Adam de Gurdon granted to the Augustinian Canons of Selborne in the thirteenth century, where the prior held his market of old, and where young and old met on summer evenings under the big oak, and "sat in quiet debate" or "frolicked and danced" before him; the farmhouse which now marks the site of the ancient Priory itself, founded by Peter de Rupibus, Bishop of Winchester, in 1232--he has described them all. How the good Canons grew lazy and secular in their ways after a time, how William of Wykeham found certain of them professed hunters and sportsmen, and tried in vain to reform them, and how the estates were finally handed over to the new college of St. Mary Magdalene at Oxford, by its founder, William of Waynflete--Gilbert White has already told us. The Hanger, with its wooded slopes, rising from the back of his garden, and that "noble chalk promontory" of Nore Hill, planted with the beeches which he called the most lovely of all forest trees, how familiar they seem to us! Still the swifts wheel to and fro round the low church-tower, and the crickets chirp in the long grass, and the white owl is heard at night, just as when he used to linger under the old walls and watch their manners with infinite care and love. [Illustration: JANE AUSTEN'S HOUSE, CHAWTON.] One of the "rocky hollow lanes" which lead towards Alton will take us back into the road, and bring us to Chawton, a village about a mile from that town. The fine Elizabethan manor-house at the foot of the green knoll, and the grey church peeping out of the trees close by, have been for centuries the home and burial-place of the Knights. On the south side of the chancel a black and white marble monument records the memory of that gallant cavalier, Sir Richard Knight, who risked life and fortune in the Royal cause, and was invested with the Order of the Royal Oak by Charles II. after the Restoration. But it is as the place where Jane Austen, in George Eliot's opinion, "the greatest artist that has ever written," composed her novels, that Chawton is memorable. The cottage where she lived is still standing a few hundred yards from the "great house," which was the home of the brother and nieces to whom she was so fondly attached. She and her sister, Cassandra, settled there in 1809, and remained there until May, 1817, when they moved to the corner house of College Street, Winchester, where three months afterwards she died. During the eight years spent in this quiet home, Jane Austen attained the height of her powers and wrote her most famous novels, those works which she herself said cost her so little, and which in Tennyson's words have given her a place in English literature "next to Shakespeare." "Sense and Sensibility," her first novel, was published two years after the move to Chawton. "Persuasion," the last and most finished of the immortal series, was only written in 1816, a year before her death. Seldom, indeed, has so great a novelist led so retired an existence. The life at Chawton, so smooth in its even flow, with the daily round of small excitements and quiet pleasures, the visits to the "great house," and walks with her nieces in the woods, the shopping expeditions to Alton, the talk about new bonnets and gowns, and the latest news as to the births, deaths, and marriages of the numerous relatives in Kent and Hampshire, are faithfully reflected in those pleasant letters of Jane Austen, which her great-nephew, Lord Brabourne, gave to the world. There is a good deal about her flowers, her chickens, her niece's love affairs, the fancy work on which she is engaged, the improvements in the house and garden--"You cannot imagine," she writes on one occasion, "it is not in human nature to imagine, what a nice walk we have round the orchard!"--but very little indeed about her books. Almost the only allusion we find to one of her characters is in 1816, when she writes to Fanny Knight of Anne Elliot in "Persuasion." "_You_ may perhaps like the heroine, as she is almost too good for me!" Anything like fame or publicity was positively distasteful to her. She owns to feeling absolutely terrified when a lady in town asked to be introduced to her, and then adds laughingly, "If I am a wild beast I cannot help it, it is not my fault!" Curiously enough, the Pilgrims' Way, in the later course of its path, brings us to Godmersham, that other and finer home of the Knights on the Kentish Downs, a place also associated with Jane Austen's life and letters, where she spent many pleasant hours in the midst of her family, enjoying the beauty of the spot and its cheerful surroundings. But Chawton retains the supremacy as her own home, and as the scene of those literary labours that were cut short, alas! too soon. "What a pity," Sir Walter Scott exclaimed, after reading a book of hers, "what a pity such a gifted creature died so early!" [Illustration: CHAWTON HOUSE] From Chawton it is a short mile to Alton, famous for its breweries and hop gardens, and its church door, riddled with the bullets of the Roundheads. Our way now leads us through the woods of Alice Holt--Aisholt--the Ash wood; like Woolmer, a royal forest from Saxon times. Alice Holt was renowned for the abundance of its fallow deer, which made it a favourite hunting ground with the Plantagenet kings, and on one occasion Edward II., it is said, gave one of his scullions, Morris Ken, the sum of twenty shillings because he fell from his horse so often out hunting, "which made the king laugh exceedingly." Here, too, after the battle of Evesham, Edward, Prince of Wales, defeated Adam de Gurdon, one of Simon de Montfort's chief followers. He is said to have challenged the rebel baron to a single combat, in which Gurdon was wounded and made prisoner, but the victor spared his life and afterwards obtained a royal pardon for his vanquished foe. A wild rugged tract of country, Alice Holt was a chosen haunt of robbers and outlaws, the terror of the wealthy London merchants who journeyed to St. Giles' Fair at Winchester, and in the fourteenth century the wardens of the fair kept five mounted serjeants-at-arms in the forest near Alton, for their protection at that season. Soon after leaving Alton the pilgrims would catch their first sight of the river Wey, which rises close to the town. Along the banks of this stream, flowing as it does through some of the loveliest Surrey scenery, their road was now to lie, and not until they crossed St. Katherine's ferry, at Guildford, were they finally to lose sight of its waters. The river itself, more than one writer has suggested, may owe its name to this circumstance, and have been originally called the Way river from the ancient road which followed the early part of its course. [Illustration: FARNHAM CASTLE.] Leaving Froyle Park, Sir Hubert Miller's fine Jacobean house, on our left, we pass Bentley Station, and, still following the river, join the Portsmouth road just before entering Farnham. This town, which takes its name from the commons overgrown with fern and heather still to be seen in the neighbourhood on the Surrey side, is now surrounded with hop gardens. It was among the earliest possessions of the Bishops of Winchester, and formed part of the land granted to St. Swithun, in 860, by Alfred's elder brother, Ethelbald, King of Wessex. The Castle-palace, which still looks proudly down on the streets of the little town, was first built by that magnificent prelate, Henry of Blois, but little of the original building now remains except the offices, where some round Norman pillars may still be seen. Farnham Castle was partly destroyed by Henry III. during his wars with the barons, and suffered greatly at the hands of the rebels in the time of Charles I., but was afterwards rebuilt by Bishop Morley. Queen Elizabeth paid frequent visits here, and on one occasion, while dining in the great hall with the Duke of Norfolk, who was suspected of planning a marriage with Mary Queen of Scots, pleasantly advised the Duke to be careful on what pillow he laid his head. The lawn, with its stately cedars and grass-grown moat, deserves a visit, but the most interesting part of the building is the fine old keep with its massive buttresses and thirteenth-century arches, commanding a wide view over the elm avenues of the park, and the commons which stretch eastward on the Surrey side. Prominent in the foreground are the picturesque heights of Crooksbury, crowned with those tall pines which Cobbett climbed when he was a boy, to take the nests of crows and magpies. Farnham, it must be remembered, was the birthplace of this remarkable man, and it was at Ash, a small town at the foot of the Hog's Back, that he died in 1835. All his life long he retained the fondest affection for these scenes of his youth. In 1825 he brought his son Richard, then a boy of eleven, to see the little old house in the street where he had lived with his grandmother, and showed him the garden at Waverley where he worked as a lad, the tree near the Abbey from which he fell into the river in a perilous attempt to take a crow's nest, and the strawberry beds where he gathered strawberries for Sir Robert Rich's table, taking care to eat the finest! Among these hills and commons, where he followed the hounds on foot at ten years old, and rode across country at seventy, we forget the political aspect of his life, his bitter invectives against the Poor-laws and Paper-money, the National Debt and the System, and think rather of his keen love of nature and delight in the heaths, the sandy coppices, and forests of Surrey and Hampshire. And now he sleeps in the church of Farnham, where he desired to be buried, in the heart of the wild scenery which he loved so well. [Illustration: CROOKSBURY FROM NEWLANDS CORNER.] Just under Crooksbury, that "grand scene" of Cobbett's "exploits," lies Moor Park, the retreat of Sir William Temple in his old age, which seemed to him, to quote his own words, "the sweetest place, I think, that I have ever seen in my life, either before or since, at home or abroad." There we may still see the gardens which the statesman of the Triple Alliance laid out after the fashion of those which he remembered in Holland, where he enjoyed the companionship of his beloved sister, Lady Giffard, and where his heart lies buried under the sundial. Here Swift lived as his secretary, and learnt from King William III. how to cut asparagus; here he wrote the "Tale of a Tub," and made love to Mrs. Hester Johnson, Lady Giffard's pretty black-eyed waiting-maid. The memory of that immortal love-story has not yet perished, and the house where she lived is still known as Stella's Cottage. Here, too, just beyond Moor Park, on the banks of the Wey, are the ruins of Waverley Abbey, the first Cistercian house ever founded in England, often described as "le petit Cîteaux," and the mother of many other abbeys. The more distinguished pilgrims who stopped at Farnham would taste the hospitality of the monks of Waverley, and Henry III. was on one occasion their guest. The Abbot of Waverley, too, was a great personage in these parts, and his influence extended over several parishes through which the pilgrims had to pass, although the privileges which he claimed were often disputed by the Prior of Newark, the other ecclesiastical magnate who reigned in this part of Surrey. Pilgrims of humbler rank would find ample accommodation in the ancient hostelries of Farnham, which was at that time a place of considerable importance, and returned two members to Edward II.'s Parliament. Their onward course now lay along the banks of the Wey until they reached the foot of the narrow, curiously shaped chalk ridge known as the Hog's Back. Here, at a place called Whiteway End, the end of the white chalk road, two roads divide. Both lead to Guildford, the one keeping on the crest of the ridge, the other along its southern slope. The upper road has become an important thoroughfare in modern times, and is now the main road from Farnham to Guildford; the lower is a grassy lane, not always easy to follow, and little used in places, which leads through the parishes of Seale, Puttenham, and Compton, the bright little villages which stud the sides of the Hog's Back. This green woodland path under the downs was the ancient British and Roman track along which the Canterbury pilgrims journeyed, and which is still in some places spoken of by the inhabitants as the Way. Other names in local use bear the same witness. Beggar's Corner and Robber's or Roamer's Moor are supposed to owe their appellations to the pilgrims: while the ivy-grown manor-house of Shoelands, bearing the date of 1616 on its porch, is said to take its name from the word "to shool," which in some dialects has the same meaning as "to beg." Another trace of the Pilgrimage is to be found in the local fairs which are still held in the towns and villages along the road, and which were fixed at those periods of the year when the pilgrims would be either going to Canterbury or returning from there. Thus we find that at Guildford the chief fair took place at Christmas, when the pilgrims would be on their way to the winter festival of St. Thomas, and was only altered to September in 1312, by which time the original day of the Saint's martyrdom had ceased to be as popular as the summer feast. Again the great fair at Shalford was fixed for the Feast of the Assumption, the 15th of August, so as to catch the stream of pilgrims which flowed back from Canterbury after the Feast of the Translation in July, and the seven days' fair there, that went by the name of Becket's fair. Fairs soon came to be held not only at towns such as Farnham, Guildford, and Shalford, but at the small villages along the Pilgrims' Road. There was one in the churchyard at Puttenham, and another at Wanborough, a church on the northern side of the hill, which belonged to Waverley Abbey, where the offerings made by the pilgrims formed part of the payments yearly received by the Abbot, while a third was held on St. Katharine's Hill during five days in September. Even the churches along the road often owed their existence to the Pilgrimage. The church of Seale was built early in the thirteenth century by the Abbots of Waverley, and that of Wanborough was rebuilt by the same Abbots, and was again allowed to fall into decay when the days of pilgrimages were over. Both the sister chapels of St. Katharine and St. Martha, we shall see, owed their restoration to the pilgrims' passage, and many more along the Way were either raised in honour of St. Thomas, or else adorned with frescoes and altar-pieces of the Martyrdom. Along this pleasant Surrey hill-side the old Canterbury pilgrims journeyed, going from church to church, from shrine to shrine, and more especially if their pilgrimage took place in summer, enjoying the sweet country air and leafy shades of this quiet woodland region. They lingered, we may well believe, at the village fairs, and stopped at every town to see the sights and hear the news; for the pilgrim of mediæval days was, as Dean Stanley reminds us, a traveller with the same adventures, stories, pleasures, pains, as the traveller of our own times, and men of every type and class set out on pilgrimages much as tourists to-day start on a foreign trip. Some, no doubt, undertook the journey from devotion, and more in a vague hope of reaping some profit, both material and spiritual, from a visit to the shrine of the all-powerful Saint, while a thousand other motives--curiosity, love of change and adventure, the pleasure of a journey--prompted the crowds who thronged the road at certain seasons of the year. Chaucer's company of pilgrims we know was a motley crew, and included men and women whose characters were as varied as their rank and trade. With them came a throng of jugglers and story-tellers and minstrels, who beguiled the way with music and laughter as they rode or walked along, so that "every town they came through, what with the noise of their singing, and with the sound of their piping, and with the jangling of their Canterbury bells, and with the barking of the dogs after them, they made more noise than if the king came there with all his clarions." In their train, too, a crowd of idle folk, of roving pedlars and begging friars and lazy tramps, who were glad of any excuse to beg a crust or coin. The presence of these last was by no means always welcome at the inns and religious houses on the road, where doubtful characters often craved admittance, knowing that if the hand of justice overtook them they could always find refuge in one of those churches where the rights of sanctuary were so resolutely claimed and so jealously defended by the Abbot of Waverley or the Prior of Newark. [Illustration: COMPTON VILLAGE.] CHAPTER IV COMPTON TO SHALFORD Following the Pilgrims' Way along the southern slopes of the Hog's Back, we cross Puttenham Heath, and reach the pretty little village of Compton. Here, nestling under the downs, a few hundred yards from the track, is a beautiful old twelfth-century church, which was there before the days of St. Thomas. This ancient structure, dedicated to St. Nicholas, still retains some good stained glass and boasts a unique feature in the shape of a double-storied chancel. The east end of the church is crossed by a low semicircular arch enriched with Norman zigzag moulding, and surmounted by a rude screen, which is said to be the oldest piece of wood-work in England. Both the upper and the lower sanctuaries have piscinas, and there is an Early English one in the south aisle. The massive bases of the chalk pillars, the altar-tomb north of the chancel--probably an Eastern sepulchre--and a hagioscope now blocked up, all deserve attention, as well as the fine Jacobean pulpit and chancel screen, which is now placed under the tower arch. [Illustration: COMPTON CHURCH.] [Illustration: LOSELEY.] A mile to the west of this singularly interesting church is Loseley, the historic mansion of the More and Molyneux family. This manor was Crown property in the reign of Edward the Confessor, and is described in Domesday Book as the property of the Norman Roger de Montgomery, Earl of Shrewsbury, on whom it was bestowed by the Conqueror. After passing through many hands it was finally bought from the Earl of Gloucester, early in the sixteenth century, by Sir Christopher More, whose son, Sir William, built the present mansion. The grand old house with its grey-stone gables and mullioned windows is a perfect specimen of Elizabethan architecture. The broad grass terrace along the edge of the moat, the yew hedges with their glossy hues of green and purple, the old-fashioned borders full of bright flowers, and the low pigeon-houses standing at each angle, all remain as they were in the reign of James I., and agree well with Lord Bacon's idea of what a pleasance ought to be. Within, the walls are wainscoted with oak panelling throughout, and the ceilings and mantelpieces are richly decorated. The cross and mulberry tree of the Mores, with their mottoes, may still be seen in the stained-glass oriel of the great hall, and on the cornices of the drawing-room. Here too is a fine mantelpiece, carved in white chalk, which is said to have been designed by Hans Holbein. Many are the royal visitors who have left memorials of their presence at Loseley. Queen Elizabeth had an especial affection for the place, and was here three times. The cushioned seats of two gilt chairs were worked by her needle, and there is a painted panel bearing the quaint device of a flower-pot with the red and white roses of York and Lancaster, and the fleur-de-lis, with the words _Rosa Electa_ and _Felicior Phoenice_, a pretty conceit which would not fail to find favour in the eyes of the Virgin Queen. The hall contains portraits of James I. and his wife Anne of Denmark, painted by Mytens in honour of a visit which they paid to Loseley in the first year of this monarch's reign; and the ceiling of his Majesty's bedroom is elaborately patterned over with stucco reliefs of Tudor roses and lilies and thistles. A likeness of Anne Boleyn, and several fine portraits of members of the More family, also adorn the walls, and there is a beautiful little picture of the boy-king, Edward VI., wearing an embroidered crimson doublet and jewelled cap and feather, painted by some clever pupil of Holbein in 1547. This portrait was sent in 1890 to the Tudor Exhibition, which also contained many historical documents relating to different personages of this royal line, preserved among the Loseley manuscripts. There are warrants signed by Edward VI., the Lord Protector, by Queen Elizabeth and the Lord of her Council, including Hatton the Lord Chancellor, Cecil, Lord Burghley, Lord Effingham, and Lord Derby. There is one of 1540, signed by Henry VIII., commanding Christopher More, Sheriff of the County of Sussex, to deliver certain goods forfeited to the crown to "Katheryn Howarde, one of our quene's maidens," and another, signed by Elizabeth in the first year of her reign, commanding William More to raise and equip one hundred able men, for the defence of England against foreign invasion. There is also a curious sumptuary proclamation by Queen Elizabeth respecting the dress and ornaments of women, and, what is still more rare and interesting, a warrant from Lady Jane Grey, dated July 19, I. Jane, and signed "Jane the Quene." Among the more private and personal papers is an amusing letter from Robert Horne, Bishop of Winchester, giving Mr. More, of Loseley, advice as to stocking the new pond with the best kind of carp, "thes be of a little heade, broade side and not long; soche as be great headed and longe, made after the fashion of an herring, are not good, neither will ever be." Another from Bishop Day informs Sir William More, in 1596, that he intends to fish the little pond at Frensham; while one to the same gentleman from Alexander Nowell, Dean of St. Paul's, thanks him for his exertions to recover a stolen nag on his behalf. The treasures of Loseley, in fact, are as inexhaustible as its beauty. A pleasant walk through the forest trees and grassy glades of the park leads us back to Compton village and the green lanes through which the Pilgrims' Way now wanders. Skirting the grounds of Monk's Hatch, with their pine-groves and rose-gardens lying under the chalk hanger, the old road passes close to Limnerslease, the Surrey home of George Frederic Watts. To-day thousands of pilgrims from all parts of the world seek out this sylvan retreat where the great master spent his last years, and visit the treasures of art which adorn its galleries, and the fair chapel and cloister that mark the painter's grave. [Illustration: ST. KATHERINE'S, GUILDFORD.] [Illustration: ST. MARTHA'S CHAPEL.] From Compton a path known as "Sandy Lane" leads over the hill past Braboeuf Manor, and the site of the old roadside shrine of Littleton Cross, and comes out on the open down, close to the chapel of St. Katherine. This now ruined shrine, which stands on a steep bank near the road, was rebuilt on the site of a still older one in 1317, by Richard de Wauncey, Rector of St. Nicholas, Guildford, and was much frequented by pilgrims to Canterbury. So valuable were the revenues derived by the parson from their offerings that the original grant made to Richard de Wauncey was disputed, and for some years the Rector of St. Mary stepped into his rights. But in 1329 the Rector of St. Nicholas succeeded in ousting his rival, and the chapel was re-consecrated and attached to the parish of St. Nicholas. An old legend ascribes the building of this shrine and of the chapel on St. Martha's Hill to two giant sisters of primæval days, who raised the walls with their own hands and flung their enormous hammer backwards and forwards from one hill to the other. Unlike its more fortunate sister-shrine, St. Katherine's chapel has long been roofless and dismantled, but it still forms a very picturesque object in the landscape, and the pointed arches of its broken windows frame in lovely views of the green meadows of the winding Wey, with the castle and churches of Guildford at our feet, and the hills and commons stretching far away, to the blue ridge of Hindhead. [Illustration: THE HOSPITAL, GUILDFORD. p. 72] The ancient city of Guildford owes its name and much of its historic renown to its situation on the chief ford of the river Wey, which here makes a break in the ridge of chalk downs running across Surrey. Guildford is mentioned in his will by King Alfred, who left it to his nephew Ethelwold, and became memorable as the spot where another Alfred, the son of Knut and Emma, was treacherously seized and murdered by Earl Godwin, who, standing on the eastern slope of the Hog's Back above the city, bade the young prince look back and see how large a kingdom would be his. For seven centuries, from the days of the Saxon kings to those of the Stuarts, Guildford remained Crown property, and the Norman keep which still towers grandly above the city was long a royal palace. The strength of the castle and importance of the position made it famous in the wars of the barons, and the Waverley annalist records its surrender to Louis VIII. of France, when he marched against King John from Sandwich Haven to Winchester. To-day the picturesqueness of the streets, the gabled roofs and panelled houses, and even more the situation of the town in the heart of this fair district, attract many artists, and make it a favourite centre for tourists. [Illustration: THE HOG'S BACK.] In mediæval times Guildford was a convenient halting-place for pilgrims on their way from the south and west of England to the shrine of St. Thomas. Many of these, however, as the shrewd parson of St. Nicholas saw, when he thought it worth his while to buy the freehold of the site on which St. Katherine's chapel stood, would push on and cross the river by the ferry at the foot of the hill, which still bears the name of the Pilgrims' Ferry. On landing they found themselves in the parish of Shalford, in the meadows where the great fair was held each year in August. When the original charter was granted by King John, the fair took place in the churchyard, but soon the concourse of people became so great that it spread into the fields along the river, and covered as much as one hundred and forty acres of ground. Shalford Fair seems, in fact, to have been the most important one in this part of Surrey, and no doubt owed its existence to the passage of the Canterbury pilgrims. [Illustration: ST. MARTHA'S FROM THE HOG'S BACK.] CHAPTER V SHALFORD TO ALBURY The line of the Pilgrims' Way may be clearly followed from the banks of the Wey up the hill. It goes through Shalford Park, up Ciderhouse Lane, where the ancient Pesthouse or refuge for sick pilgrims and travellers, now called Ciderhouse Cottage, is still standing, and leads through the Chantrey Woods straight to St. Martha's Chapel. The district through which it takes us is one of the wildest and loveliest parts of Surrey. "Very few prettier rides in England," remarks Cobbett, who repeatedly travelled along this track, and the beauty of the views all along its course will more than repay the traveller who makes his way on foot over the hills from Guildford to Dorking. One of the most extensive is to be had from St. Martha's Hill, where the prospect ranges in one direction over South Leith Hill and the South Downs far away to the Weald of Sussex and the well-known clump of Chanctonbury Ring; and on the other over the commons and moors to the crests of Hindhead and the Hog's Back; while looking northward we have a wide view over the Surrey plains and the valley of the Thames, and Windsor Castle and the dome of St. Paul's may be distinguished on clear days. The ancient chapel on the summit, which gives its name to St. Martha's Hill, was originally built in memory of certain Christians who suffered martyrdom on the spot, and was formerly dedicated to all holy martyrs, while the hill itself was known as the Martyrs' Hill, of which, as Grose remarks,[8] "the present name is supposed to be a corruption." In the twelfth century it became peculiarly associated with the Canterbury pilgrims, and a new chancel was built for their use, and consecrated to St. Thomas à Becket in the year 1186. In 1262 this chapel was attached to the Priory of Newark, an Augustinian convent near Ripley, dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury by Ruald de Calva in the reign of Richard Coeur de Lion. The Prior already owned most of the hill-side, and the names of Farthing Copse and Halfpenny Lane, through which the pilgrims passed on their way to St. Martha's Chapel, remind us of the tolls which he levied from all who travelled along the road. We have already seen how in the earlier portions of the Way the Prior of Newark disputed the rights of the Abbot of Waverley. Here he reigned supreme. A priest from Newark Priory served St. Martha's Chapel, and is said to have lived at Tyting's Farm, an old gabled house with the remains of a small oratory close to the Pilgrims' Way. In latter days a colony of monks from Newark settled at Chilworth, where the present manor-house contains fragments of monastic building, and the fishponds of the friars may still be seen near the terraced gardens. During the troubled times of the Wars of the Roses the Chapel of St. Martha fell into ruins, and owed its restoration to Bishop William of Waynflete, who in 1463 granted forty days' indulgence to all pilgrims who should visit the shrine and there repeat a Pater Noster, an Ave, and a Credo, or contribute to its repair. After the dissolution of the monasteries both Newark Priory and St. Martha's shrine fell into ruins, and the chapel was only restored of late years. At Chilworth, south of St. Martha's Hill, lies the once fair valley which has been defaced by the powder-mills, first established there three centuries ago by an ancestor of John Evelyn, and now worked by steam. This is the place which Cobbett denounces in his "Rural Rides" with a vigour and eloquence worthy of Mr. Ruskin himself: "This valley, which seems to have been created by a bountiful Providence as one of the choicest retreats of man, which seems formed for a scene of innocence and happiness, has been by ungrateful man so perverted as to make it instrumental in effecting two of the most damnable of purposes, in carrying into execution two of the most damnable inventions that ever sprang from the mind of man under the influence of the devil! namely, the making of gunpowder and of bank-notes! Here, in this tranquil spot, where the nightingales are to be heard earlier and later in the year than in any other part of England; where the first budding of the buds is seen in spring; where no rigour of season can ever be felt; where everything seems formed for precluding the very thought of wickedness; here has the devil fixed on as one of the seats of this grand manufactory; and perverse and ungrateful man not only lends his aid, but lends it cheerfully. To think that the springs which God has commanded to flow from the sides of these happy hills for the comfort and delight of man--to think that these springs should be perverted into means of spreading misery over a whole nation!" One of these "inventions of the devil" has been removed. The paper-mills which made the bank-notes in Cobbett's time are silent now, but the powder-mills are in full activity, and Chilworth, with its coal-stores and railway-crossing, has a blackened and desolate look which not all the natural beauties of its surroundings can dispel. [Illustration: ST. MARTHA'S FROM CHILWORTH.] Once more upon the hills, we can follow the line of yews which are seen at intervals along the ridge from St. Martha's Chapel by Weston Wood and the back of Albury Park, turning a few steps out of our path to visit Newland's Corner, the highest point of Albury Downs, and one of the most beautiful spots in the whole of Surrey. The view is as extensive as that from St. Martha's Hill, and is even more varied and picturesque. Over broken ridges of heathery down and gently swelling slopes, clad with beech and oak woods, we look across to Ewhurst Mill, a conspicuous landmark in all this country, and farther westward to the towers of Charterhouse and the distant heights of Hindhead and Blackdown; while immediately in front, across the wooded valley, rises St. Martha's Hill, crowned by its ancient chapel. Here we can watch the changes of sun and shower over the wide expanse of level country, and see the long range of far hills veiled in the thin blue mists of morning, or turning purple under the gold of the evening sky. Some of the oldest and finest yew trees in all Surrey are close to Newland's Corner--the ancient yew grove there is mentioned in Domesday--and their dark foliage offers a fine contrast to the bright tints of the neighbouring woods and to the snowy masses of blossom which in early summer clothe the gnarled old hawthorn trees that are studded over the hill-side. We can follow the track over the springy turf of the open downs and up glades thick with bracken, till it becomes choked with bushes and brambles, and finally loses itself in the woods of Albury. Here, in the middle of the Duke of Northumberland's park, is the deep glen, surrounded by wooded heights, known as the Silent Pool. A dark tale, which Martin Tupper has made the subject of his "Stephen Langton," belongs to this lonely spot. King John, tradition says, loved a fair woodman's daughter who lived here, and surprised her in the act of bathing in the pool. The frightened girl let loose the branch by which she held, and was drowned in the water; and her brother, a goat-herd, who at the sound of her scream had rushed in after her, shared the same fate. And still, the legend goes, at midnight you may see a black-haired maiden clasping her arms round her brother in his cowhide tunic under the clear rippling surface of the Silent Pool. A little farther on is the old church of Albury--Eldeburie, mentioned in Domesday, and supposed to be the most ancient in Surrey. The low tower, with its narrow two-light windows, probably dates back to very early Norman times, but the rest of the church is considerably later. The south chapel was richly decorated by Mr. Drummond, who bought the place in 1819, and is now used as a mortuary chapel for his family. Albury formerly belonged to the Dukes of Norfolk. The gardens were originally laid out by Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, the accomplished collector of the Arundel marbles, and whose fine portrait by Vandyck was exhibited at Burlington House in the winter of 1891. His friend and neighbour, Mr. Evelyn, helped him with his advice and taste, and designed the grotto under the hill, which still remains. "Such a Pausilippe," remarks the author of "The Sylva," "is nowhere in England besides." But the great ornament of Albury is the famous yew hedge, about ten feet high and a quarter of a mile long, probably the finest of its kind in England. So thick are the upper branches of the yew trees that, as William Cobbett writes, when he visited Albury in Mr. Drummond's time, they kept out both the rain and sun, and alike in summer and winter afford "a most delightful walk." The grand terrace under the hill, "thirty or forty feet wide, and a quarter of a mile long, of the finest green-sward, and as level as a die," particularly delighted him; and the careful way in which the fruit trees were protected from the wind, and the springs along the hill-side collected to water the garden, gratified his practical mind. "Take it altogether," he goes on, "this certainly is the prettiest garden that I ever beheld. There was taste and sound judgment at every step in the laying out of this place. Everywhere utility and convenience is combined with beauty. The terrace is by far the finest thing of the sort that I ever saw, and the whole thing altogether is a great compliment to the taste of the times in which it was formed." The honest old reformer's satisfaction in these gardens was increased by the reflection that the owner was worthy of his estate, seeing that he was famed for his justice and kindness towards the labouring classes--"who, God knows, have very few friends amongst the rich;" and adds, that he for one has no sympathy with "the fools" who want a revolution for the purpose of getting hold of other people's property. "There are others who like pretty gardens as well as I, and if the question were to be decided according to the laws of the strongest, or, as the French call it, _droit du plus fort_, my chance would be but a very poor one." [Illustration: ALBURY OLD CHURCH.] [Illustration: THE MILL, GOMSHALL.] CHAPTER VI SHERE TO REIGATE The Pilgrims' Way ran through Albury Park, passing close to the old church and under the famous yew hedge, and crossed the clear trout stream of the Tillingbourne by a ford still known as "Chantry Ford." Here a noble avenue of lime trees brings us to Shere church, a building as remarkable for the beauty of its situation as for its architectural interest. The lovely Early English doorway, the heavy transitional arches of the nave and the fourteenth-century chancel are still unhurt, and among the fragments of old glass we recognise the flax-breaker, which was the crest of the Brays, one of the oldest families in the county, who are, we rejoice to think, still represented here. Shere itself is one of the most charming villages in all this lovely neighbourhood. For many years now it has been a favourite resort of artistic and literary men, who find endless delight in the quiet beauty of the surrounding country. Subjects for pen and pencil abound in all directions; quaint old timbered houses, picturesque water-mills and barns, deep ferny lanes shaded by overhanging trees, and exquisite glimpses of heather-clad downs meet us at every turn. Fair as the scene is, travellers are seldom seen in these hilly regions; and so complete is the stillness, so pure the mountain air, that we might almost fancy ourselves in the heart of the Highlands, instead of thirty miles from town. Here it was, in the midst of the wild scenery of these Surrey Hills, that a sudden end closed the life of a great prelate of our own days, Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Winchester. A granite cross at Evershed's Rough, just below Lord Farrer's house at Abinger Hall, now marks the spot where his horse stumbled and fell as he rode down the hill towards Holmbury on that summer afternoon. [Illustration: SHERE.] [Illustration: CROSSWAYS FARM, NEAR WOTTON.[9]] About a mile beyond Abinger we reach the home of John Evelyn, and see the grey tower of the church where he is buried. This is Wotton--the town of the woods, as he loved to call it--"sweetly environed" with "venerable woods and delicious streams;" Wotton where, after all his wanderings and all the turmoil of those troublous times, Evelyn found a peaceful haven wherein to end his days. There are the terraces, the "fountains and groves," in which he took delight; there, too, are the pine-woods which he planted, not only for ornament, and because they "create a perpetual spring," but because he held the air to be improved by their "odoriferous and balsamical emissions." Not only these trees, but the oak and ash, and all the different species which he studied so closely and has written about so well, were dear to him as his own children, and he speaks in pathetic language of the violent storm which blew down two thousand of his finest trees in a single night, and almost within sight of his dwelling, and left Wotton, "now no more Woodtonn, stripped and naked, and almost ashamed to own its name. Methinks that I still hear, and I am sure that I feel, the dismal groans of our forests, when that late dreadful hurricane, happening on the 26th of November, 1703, subverted so many thousands of goodly oaks, prostrating the trees, laying them in ghastly postures, like whole regiments fallen in battle by the sword of the conqueror, and crushing all that grew beneath them." Evelyn's descendants have bestowed the same care on the woods and plantations, and in spite of the havoc wrought by wind and tempest, Wotton is still remarkable for the beauty of its forest-trees and masses of flowering rhododendrons. [Illustration: WOTTON.] The red-brick house has been a good deal altered during the present century, but is still full of memorials of Evelyn. His portrait, and that of his wife and father-in-law, Sir Richard Browne, are there, and that of his "angelic friend," Mistress Blagge, the wife of Godolphin, whose beautiful memory he has enshrined in the pages of the little volume that bears her name. The drawings which he made on his foreign travels are there too; and better still, the books in which he took such pride and pleasure, carefully bound, bearing on their backs a device and motto which he chose, a spray of oak, palm, and olive entwined together, with the words, "Omnia explorate; meliora retinete." But the most precious relic of all is the Prayer Book used by Charles I. on the morning of his execution. It was saved from destruction by a devoted loyalist, Isaac Herault, brother of a Walloon minister in London, and afterwards given by him to Evelyn's father-in-law, Sir Richard Browne. The fly-leaf bears a Latin inscription with this note:--This is the Booke which Charles the First, _Martyr beatus_, did use upon the Scaffold, XXX Jan., 1649, being the Day of his glorious martyrdom." The exact course of the Pilgrims' Way here is uncertain. After leaving Shere church it disappears, and we must climb a steep lane past Gomshall station, to find the track again on Hackhurst Downs. The line of yews is to be seen at intervals all along these downs, and as we descend into the valley of the Mole, opposite the heights of Box Hill, we pass four venerable yew trees standing in a field by themselves. One of the group was struck by lightning many years ago, but still stretches its gaunt, withered arms against the sky, like some weather-beaten sign-post marking the way to Canterbury. [Illustration: BOX HILL AND DORKING CHURCH SPIRE.] The town of Dorking lies in the break here made in the chalk hills by the passage of the river Mole; Milton's "sullen Mole that windeth underground," or, as Spenser sings in his "Faërie Queen,"-- "Mole, that like a mousling mole doth make His way still underground, till Thames he overtake." [Illustration: THE WHITE HORSE, DORKING.] The Mole owes its fame to the fact that it is so seldom seen, and several of the swallows or gullies into which it disappears at intervals along its chalky bed are at Burford, close to Dorking. The ponds which supplied the perch for that _water-sousie_ which Dutch merchants came to eat at Dorking, are still to be seen in the fields under Redhill, and near them many an old timbered house and mill-wheel well worth painting. [Illustration: BETWEEN DORKING AND BETCHWORTH LOOKING WEST.] To-day Dorking is a quiet, sleepy little place, but its situation on the Stane Street, the great Roman road from Chichester to London, formerly made it a centre of considerable importance, and the size and excellence of the old-fashioned inns still bear witness to its departed grandeur. Whether, as seems most probable, the old road ran under the wall of Denbies Park, and across the gap now made by the Dorking lime works, or whether, as the Ordnance map indicates, it crossed the breezy heights of Ranmore Common, pilgrims to Canterbury certainly crossed the Mole at Burford Bridge about half a mile from the town. The remains of an ancient shrine known as the Pilgrims' Chapel are still shown in Westhumble Lane. The path itself bears the name of Paternoster Lane, and the fields on either side are called the Pray Meadows. From this point the path runs along under Boxhill, the steep down that rises abruptly on the eastern side of Dorking, and takes its name from the box-trees which here spring up so plentifully in the smooth green turf above the chalk. Boxhill is, we all know, one of the chief attractions which Dorking offers to Londoners. The other is to be found in the fine parks of Deepdene and Betchworth, immediately adjoining the town. The famous gardens and art collections of Deepdene, and the noble lime avenue of Betchworth, which now forms part of the same estate, have often been visited and described. The house at Deepdene is now closed to the public, but the traveller can still stroll under the grand old trees on the river bank, and enjoy a wealthy variety of forest scenery almost unrivalled in England. A picturesque bridge over the Mole leads back to the downs on the opposite side of the valley, where the old track pursues its way along the lower slope of the hills, often wending its course through ploughed fields and tangled thickets and disappearing altogether in places where chalk quarries and lime works have cut away the face of the down. But on the whole the line of yews which mark the road is more regular between Dorking and Reigate than in its earlier course, and at Buckland, a village two miles west of Reigate, a whole procession of these trees descends into the valley. [Illustration: ON "THE WAY" ABOVE BETCHWORTH.] All this part of the road is rich in Roman remains. Of these one of the most interesting was the building discovered in 1875, at Colley Farm, in the parish of Reigate, just south of the Way. Not only were several cinerary urns and fragments of Roman pottery dug up, but the walls of a Roman building were found under those of the present farmhouse. Some twenty years ago a similar building was discovered at Abinger, also in the immediate vicinity of the track, but unfortunately it was completely destroyed in the absence of the owner, Sir Thomas Farrer. Another Roman house came to light in 1813, at Bletchingley, and one chamber, which appeared to be a hypocaust, was excavated at the time. Lastly, considerable Roman remains have been discovered and carefully excavated by Mr. Leveson-Gower in the park at Titsey. Of these the most important are a Roman villa, which was thoroughly excavated in 1864, together with a group of larger buildings, apparently the farm belonging to the ancient house. These are only a few of the principal links in the chain of Roman buildings which lie along the course of this ancient trackway, and which all help to prove its importance as a thoroughfare at the time of the Roman occupation. Another point of interest regarding this part of the Pilgrims' Way is its connection with John Bunyan. When his peculiar opinions and open-air preachings had brought him into trouble with the authorities, he came to hide in these Surrey hills, and earned his living for some time as a travelling tinker. Two houses, one at Horn Hatch, on Shalford Common, the other at Quarry Hill, in Guildford, are still pointed out as having been inhabited by him at this time; and a recent writer[10] has suggested that in all probability the recollections of Pilgrimage days, then fresh in the minds of the people, first gave him the idea of his "Pilgrim's Progress." Certainly more than one incident in the history of the road bears a close resemblance to the tale of Christian's adventures. Thus, for instance, the swampy marshes at Shalford may have been the Slough of Despond, the blue Surrey hills seen from the distance may well have seemed to him the Delectable Mountains, and the name of Doubting Castle actually exists at a point of the road near Box Hill. Lastly, the great fair at Shalford corresponds exactly with Bunyan's description of Vanity Fair, no newly erected business, but "a thing of ancient standing," where "the ware of Rome and her merchandise is greatly promoted ... only our English nation have taken a dislike thereat." In the days when Bunyan wrote, the annual fair had degenerated into a lawless and noisy assembly, where little trade was done, and much drinking and fighting and rude horseplay went on, as he may have found to his cost. The wares of Rome, in fact, were commodities no longer in fashion, and soon the fair itself came to an end and passed away, like so many other things that had been called into being by the Canterbury Pilgrimage. [Illustration: WINDMILL ON REIGATE COMMON.] CHAPTER VII REIGATE TO CHEVENING Although the town of Reigate lies in the valley, it certainly takes its name from the Pilgrims' Road to Canterbury. In Domesday it is called Cherchfelle, and it is not till the latter part of the twelfth century that the comparatively modern name of Rigegate, the Ridge Road, was applied, first of all to the upper part of the parish, and eventually to the whole town. In those days a chapel dedicated to the memory of the blessed martyr, St. Thomas, stood at the east end of the long street, on a site now occupied by a market-house, built early in the last century, and part of the ancient foundations of this pilgrimage shrine were brought to light when the adjoining prison was enlarged some eighty or ninety years back. Another chapel, dedicated to St. Laurence the Martyr, stood farther down the street; and a third, the Chapel of Holy Cross, belonged to the Augustine Canons of the Priory founded by William of Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, in the thirteenth century. In Saxon days Reigate, or Holm Castle, as it was then termed, from its situation at the head of the valley of Holmesdale, was an important stronghold, and the vigour and persistence with which the incursions of the Danes were repelled by the inhabitants of this district gave rise to the rhyme quoted by Camden-- "The Vale of Holmesdale Never wonne, ne never shall." [Illustration: REIGATE COMMON.] At the Conquest the manor was granted to William of Warrenne, and from that time the castle became the most powerful fortress of the mighty Earls of Surrey. In the days of John it shared the fate of Guildford Castle, and was one of the strongholds which opened its gates to Louis VIII., King of France, on his march from the Kentish Coast to Winchester. The Fitzalans succeeded the Warrennes in the possession of Reigate, and in the reign of Edward VI., both the castle and the Priory were granted to the Howards of Effingham. Queen Elizabeth's Lord High Admiral, the victor of the Invincible Armada, lies buried in the vault under the chancel of Reigate Church. In Stuart times the castle gradually fell into decay, until it was finally destroyed by order of Parliament, during the Civil War, lest it should fall into the King's hands. Now only the mound of the ancient keep remains, and some spacious subterranean chambers which may have served as cellars or dungeons in Norman times. The Priory has also been replaced by a modern house, and is the property of Lady Henry Somerset, the representative of the Earl Somers, to whom William III. granted Reigate in 1697. Reigate is frequently mentioned in Cobbett's "Rural Rides," and it was the sight of the Priory that set him moralising over monasteries and asking himself if, instead of being, as we take it for granted, _bad things_, they were not, after all, better than _poor-rates_, and if the monks and nuns, who _fed the poor_, were not more to be commended than the rich pensioners of the State, who _feed upon the poor_. Close to this ancient foundation is the hilly common known as Reigate Park, a favourite haunt with artists, who find endless subjects in the fern-grown dells and romantic hollows, the clumps of thorn-trees with their gnarled stems and spreading boughs, their wealth of wild flowers and berries. The views over Reigate itself and the Priory grounds on one side, and over the Sussex Weald on the other, are very charming; but a still finer prospect awaits us on the North Downs on the opposite side of the valley, where the Pilgrims' Road goes on its course. The best way is to climb Reigate Hill as far as the suspension bridge, and follow a path cut in the chalk to the summit of the ridge. It leads through a beechwood on to the open downs, where, if the day is clear, one of the finest views in the whole of England--in the whole world, says Cobbett--breaks upon us. The Weald of Surrey and of Sussex, from the borders of Hampshire to the ridge of East Grinstead, and Crowborough Beacon, near Tunbridge Wells, lies spread out at our feet. Eastward, the eye ranges over the Weald of Kent and the heights above Sevenoaks; westward the purple ridge of Leith Hill and the familiar crest of Hindhead meet us; and far away to the south are the Brighton downs and Chanctonbury Ring. [Illustration: LOOKING EAST FROM GATTON PARK.] The line of yew trees appears again here, and after keeping along the top of the ridge for about a mile, the Pilgrims' Way enters Gatton Park, and passing through the woods near Lord Oxenbridge's house, joins the avenue that leads to Merstham. Gatton itself, which, like Reigate, takes its name from the Pilgrims' Road--Saxon, Gatetun, the town of the road--was chiefly famous for the electoral privileges which it so long enjoyed. From the time of Henry VI. until the Reform Bill of 1832, this very small borough returned two members to Parliament. In the reign of Henry VIII. Sir Roger Copley is described as the burgess and sole inhabitant of the borough and town of Gatton, and for many years the constituency consisted of one person, the lord of the manor. At the beginning of the present century there were only eight houses in the whole parish, a fact which naturally roused the ire of William Cobbett. "Before you descend the hill to go into Reigate," he writes in one of his Rural Rides, "you pass Gatton, which is a very rascally spot of earth." And when rainy weather detained him a whole day at Reigate, he moralises in this vein--"_In_ one rotten borough, one the most rotten too, and with another still more rotten _up upon the hill_, in Reigate and close by Gatton, how can I help reflecting, how can my mind be otherwise than filled with reflections on the marvellous deeds of the collective wisdom of the nation?" These privileges doubled the value of the property, and when Lord Monson bought Gatton Park in 1830, he paid a hundred thousand pounds for the place; but the days of close boroughs were already numbered, and less than two years afterwards the Reform Bill deprived Gatton of both its members. The little town hall of Gatton, where the important ceremony of electing two representatives to serve in Parliament was performed, is still standing, an interesting relic of bygone days, on a mound in the park, almost hidden by large chestnut trees. [Illustration: GATTON TOWN HALL.] Gatton House is chiefly remarkable for the marble hall built by the same Lord Monson in imitation of the Orsini Chapel at Rome, and adorned with rich marbles which he had brought from Italy. The collection of pictures, formed by the same nobleman, contains several good Dutch and Italian pictures, including the "Vierge au bas-relief," a graceful Holy Family, which takes its name from a small carved tablet in the background. It was long held to be an early work by the great Leonardo da Vinci, and was purchased by Lord Monson of Mr. Woodburn for £4,000, but is now generally attributed to his pupil, Cesare da Sesto. Like so many of the churches we have already mentioned, like Seale and Wanborough, and the chapels of St. Katherine and St. Martha, like the old church at Titsey and the present one at Chevening, Gatton was originally a Pilgrims' church. Now it has little that is old to show, for it was restored by Lord Monson in 1831, and adorned with a variety of treasures from all parts of the Continent. The stained glass comes from the monastery of Aerschot, near Louvain, the altar-rails from Tongres, the finely carved choir-stalls and canopies from Ghent, and the altar and pulpit from Nuremberg. Like most of the mediæval wood-work and glass which has come to England from that "Quaint old town of toil and traffic, Quaint old town of art and song," these last are said to have been designed by the great master of the Franconian city, Albert Dürer. [Illustration: MERSTHAM CHURCH.] The Pilgrims' Way, as has been already said, runs through Gatton Park, and brings us out close to Merstham, and through lanes shaded with fine oaks and beeches we reach the pretty little village, with its old timbered cottages and still older church buried in the woods. Local writers of the last century frequently allude to the Pilgrims' Road as passing through this parish, although its exact course is not easy to trace. It seems, however, certain that the track passed near Lord Hylton's house, and south of the church, which stands close by. In mediæval times, Merstham formed part of the vast estates held by the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury, and was bestowed upon them by Athelstan, a son of Ethelred the Unready, in the tenth century. There was a church here at the time of the Norman Conquest, but the only portion of the present building dating from that period is a fine old square Norman font which, like several others in the neighbourhood, is of Sussex marble. Of later date, there is much that is extremely interesting. The tower and the west door are Early English, and the chancel arch is adorned with curious acanthus-leaf mouldings, while the porch and chancel are Late Perpendicular. After passing Merstham Church the track is lost in a medley of roads and railway cuttings, but soon the line of yews appears again, climbing the crest of the hill, and can be followed for some distance along White Hill, or Quarry Hangers, as these downs are commonly called. The next object of interest which it passes is the War Camp, or Cardinal's Cap, as it is sometimes termed, an old British earthwork on the face of the chalk escarpment. Then the path turns into a wood, and we leave it to descend on Godstone. This is a fascinating spot for artists. The low irregular houses are grouped round a spacious green and goose-pond, shaded by fine horse-chestnuts, and there is a charming inn, the White Hart or Clayton Arms, with gabled front and large bay-windows of the good old-fashioned type. "A beautiful village," wrote Cobbett, ninety years ago, "chiefly of one street, with a fine large green before it, and with a pond in the green;" and he goes on to speak of the neatness of the gardens and of the double violets, "as large as small pinks," which grew in the garden of this same inn, and of which the landlady was good enough to give some roots. Happily for his peace of mind, he adds, "The vile rotten borough of Bletchingley, which lies under the downs close by, is out of sight." [Illustration: THE WHITE HART, GODSTONE.] [Illustration: OLD HOUSE IN OXTED.] From Godstone it is a pleasant walk over the open commons, along the top of the ridge, looking over the Weald of Sussex and across the valleys of Sevenoaks and Tunbridge to the Kentish hills. Once more we track the line of the Pilgrims' Way as it emerges from the woods above the Godstone quarries and, passing under Winder's Hill and by Marden Park, reaches a wood called Palmers Wood. The name is significant, more especially since there is no record of any owner who bore that name. Here its course is very clearly defined, and when, in the autumn of 1890, pipes for carrying water out of the hill were laid down, a section of the old paved road was cut across. A little farther on, at Limpsfield Lodge Farm, just on the edge of Titsey park, it formed the farm road till 1875. At this point the path was ten feet wide, and the original hedges remained. Before entering the park of Titsey, the way runs through part of Oxted parish, where a spring still bears the name of St. Thomas's Well, and then reaches Titsey Place. [Illustration: OXTED CHURCH.] Few places in this part of Surrey are more attractive than this old home of the Greshams. The purity of the air, praised by Aubrey long ago for its sweet, delicate, and wholesome virtues, the health-giving breezes of the surrounding downs and commons, the natural loveliness of the place, and the taste with which the park and gardens have been laid out, all help to make Titsey a most delightful spot. Its beautiful woods stretch along the grassy slopes of Botley Hill, and the clump of trees on the heights known as Cold-harbour Green is 881 feet above the sea, and marks the loftiest point in the whole range of the North Downs. Wherever the eye rests, one ridge of wooded hill after the other seems to rise and melt away into the soft blue haze. Nor is there any lack of other attractions to invite the attention of scholar and antiquary. The place is full of historic associations. A whole wealth of antiquities, coins, urns, and pottery, have been dug up in the park, and some remains of Roman buildings were discovered there a few years ago, close to the Pilgrims' Way. After the conquest Titsey was given to the great Earls of Clare, who owned the property at the time of the Domesday Survey. In the fourteenth century it belonged to the Uvedale family, and two hundred years later was sold to Sir John Gresham, an uncle of Sir Thomas Gresham, the illustrious merchant of Queen Elizabeth's court, and the founder of the Royal Exchange. A fine portrait of Sir Thomas himself, by Antonio More, now hangs in the library of Titsey Place. Unfortunately the Greshams suffered for their loyalty to Charles I., and after the death of the second Sir Marmaduke Gresham in 1742, a large part of the property was sold. His son, Sir John, succeeded in partly retrieving the fortunes of the family, and rebuilt and enlarged the old manor-house, which had been allowed to fall into a ruinous state. But the Tudor arches of the east wing still remain, as well as much of the fine oak panelling which adorned its walls; and the crest of the Greshams, a grasshopper, may still be seen in the hall chimney-piece. The present owner, Mr. Leveson-Gower, is a lineal descendant of the last baronet, and inherited Titsey from his great-grandmother Katherine, the heiress of the Greshams. The fourteenth-century church was unluckily pulled down a hundred years ago, because Sir John Gresham thought it stood too near his own house, but an old yew in the garden and some tombstones of early Norman date still mark its site. The course of the Pilgrims' Way through the Park is clearly marked by a double row of fine ash trees, and the flint stones with which the road itself is paved may still be seen under the turf. Further along the road is a very old farmhouse, which was formerly a hostelry, and still bears the name of the Pilgrims' Lodge. From Titsey the Way runs along the side of the hills, under Tatsfield Church, which stands on the summit of the ridge, and about a mile above the pretty little towns of Westerham and Brasted. Here the boundary of the counties is crossed, and the traveller enters Kent. Soon we reach the gates of Chevening Park, where, as at Titsey, the Pilgrims' Way formerly passed very near the house, until it was closed by Act of Parliament in 1780. [Illustration: BRASTED.] The manor of Chevening, originally the property of the See of Canterbury, was held in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries by the family of Chevening, from whence it passed to the Lennards, who became Barons Dacre and Earls of Sussex. In the last century it was bought by General Stanhope, the distinguished soldier and statesman, who, after reducing the island of Minorca, served King George I. successively as Secretary of State and First Lord of the Treasury. Inigo Jones built the house for Richard Lennard, Lord Dacre, early in the seventeenth century, but since then it has undergone such extensive alterations that little of the original structure remains, and the chief interest lies in a valuable collection of historical portraits, including those of the Chesterfields, Stanhopes, and the great Lord Chatham. The last-named statesman, whose daughter Hester married Charles, Lord Stanhope, in 1774, was a frequent visitor at Chevening, and is said to have planned the beautiful drive which leads through the woods north of the house to the top of the downs. The little village of Chevening lies on the other side of the park, just outside Lord Stanhope's gates and close to the old church of St. Botolph, which was one of the shrines frequented by the pilgrims on their way to Canterbury. There are some good Early English arches in the nave and chancel, and a western tower of Perpendicular date. The south chapel contains many imposing sepulchral monuments to the different lords of the manor. Amongst them are those of John Lennard, who was sheriff of the county and held several offices under the crown in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, and of his son Sampson, who with his wife Margaret, Lady Dacre in her own right, reposes under a sumptuous canopy of alabaster surrounded by kneeling effigies of their children. There is also a fine black marble monument to the memory of James, Earl of Stanhope, the prime minister of George I., who was buried here with great pomp in 1721. He was actually in office at the time of his death, and was taken ill in the House of Lords, and breathed his last the next day. But the most beautiful tomb here is Chantrey's effigy of Lady Frederica Stanhope sleeping with her babe in her arms, and an expression of deep content and peace upon her quiet face. [Illustration: CHEVENING CHURCH.] "Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes Deform the quiet bower; They may not mar the deep repose Of that immortal flower." [Illustration: OTFORD CHURCH.] CHAPTER VIII OTFORD TO WROTHAM We have followed the Pilgrims' Way over Hampshire Downs and Surrey hills and commons, through the woods which Evelyn planted, and along the ridge where Cobbett rode. We have seen the track become overgrown with tangled shrubs and underwood, and disappear altogether in places. We have lost the road at one point in the fields, to find it again half a mile further; we have noted the regular lines of yews climbing up the hill-side, and the lonely survivors which are left standing bare and desolate in the middle of the corn-fields. The part of the ancient road on which we are now entering differs in several important respects from its earlier course. From the time the Pilgrims' Way enters Kent its track is clearly marked. Already we have followed its line through Titsey and along the downs as far as Chevening, where the path, now closed, may be traced through Lord Stanhope's Park. A group of magnificent old yew trees arrests our attention just beyond Chevening, before the road from Sevenoaks to Bromley is crossed. Then the Way descends into the valley of the Darent, an excellent trout-stream which flows north through this chalk district to join the Thames near Dartford, and after crossing the ford over that river, regains the hills at Otford. From this place it runs along under the hill in one unbroken line all the way to Eastwell Park, between Ashford and Canterbury. It is a good bridle-way, somewhat grass-grown in places, in others enclosed by hedges, and still used by farmers for their carts. Before toll-bars were abolished there was a good deal of traffic along this part of the Pilgrims' Road, which, running as it does parallel with the turnpike road along the valley to Ashford, was much used as a means of evading the payment of toll. This cause is now removed, and excepting for an occasional hunting-man who makes use of the soft track along the hill-side, or a camp of gipsies sitting round their fire, waggoners and ploughmen are the only wayfarers to be met with along the Pilgrims' Road. But the old name still clings to the track, and as long as the squires of Kent have any respect for the traditions of the past, any particle of historic sense remaining, they will not allow the Pilgrims' Way to be wiped out. In actual beauty of scenery this portion of the Way may not equal the former part. We miss the wild loveliness of Surrey commons, the rare picturesqueness of the rolling downs round Guildford and Dorking, but this Kentish land has a charm of its own, which grows upon you the longer you know it. These steep slopes and wooded hollows, these grand old church towers and quaint village streets, these homesteads with their vast barns of massive timber and tall chimney-stacks overshadowed with oaks and beeches, cannot fail to delight the eyes of all who find pleasure in rural scenes. And all along our way we have that noble prospect over the wide plains of the dim blue Weald, which is seldom absent from our eyes, as we follow this narrow track up and down the rugged hill-side. In historic interest and precious memorials of the past, this part of the Pilgrims' Way, we need hardly say, is surpassingly rich. Endless are the great names and stirring events which these scenes recall: battlefields where memorable fights were fought in days long ago, churches and lands that were granted to the Archbishops or Abbots of Canterbury before the Conquest, manor-houses which our kings and queens have honoured with their presence in the days of yore. All these things, and many more of equal interest and renown, will the traveller find as he follows the Pilgrims' Way along the chalk hills which form the backbone of Kent. The first resting-place which the pilgrims would find on this part of their route would be the Archbishop's manor-house at Otford. There were no less than fifteen of these episcopal residences in different parts of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, and of these, three lay along the Kentish portion of the Pilgrims' Way. The palace at Otford possessed an especial sanctity in the eyes of wayfarers journeying to the shrine of St. Thomas, as having been a favourite residence of the martyred Archbishop himself. The manor was originally granted to the See of Canterbury in 791, by Offa, king of Mercia, who defeated Aldric, king of Kent, at Otford in 773, and conquered almost the whole province. More than two hundred years later, Otford was the scene of another battle, in which Edmund Ironside defeated the Danes under Knut, and to this day bones are dug up in the meadow which bears the name of Danefield. From the tenth century the Archbishops had a house here, and Otford is described in the Domesday Survey as _Terra Archiepi Cantuariensis_. So it remained until Cranmer surrendered the palace, with many other of his possessions, to Henry VIII. The mediæval Archbishops seem to have had an especial affection for Otford, and spent much of their time at this pleasant country seat. Archbishop Winchelsea entertained Edward I. in 1300, and was living here at the time of his death thirteen years later, when his remains were borne by the King's command to Canterbury, and buried there with great state. Simon Islip enclosed the park, and Archbishop Deane repaired the walls; but the whole was rebuilt on a grander scale by Warham, who spent upwards of thirty thousand pounds upon the house, and received Henry VIII. here several times in the first years of his reign. After Otford had become Crown property, the Archbishop's manor-house passed into the hands of the Sydneys and Smyths, who dismantled the castle, as it was then commonly called, and allowed the walls to fall into ruin. Two massive octagonal towers of three stories, with double square-headed windows, and a fragment of a cloister, now used as farm stables, are the only portions remaining. These evidently formed part of the outer court, and are good specimens of fifteenth-century brickwork. The tower was considerably higher a hundred years ago, and Hasted describes the ruins as covering nearly an acre of ground. The stones of the structure were largely used in the neighbouring buildings, and the Bull Inn contains a good deal of fine oak wainscoting, and several handsome carved mantelpieces, which originally belonged to the castle. Two heads in profile, carved in oak over one of the fireplaces, are said to represent Henry VIII. and Katherine of Aragon. A bath, or chamber, paved and lined with stone, about thirty feet long, and ten or twelve feet deep, not far from the ruins, still bears the name of Becket's Well. Tradition ascribes the birth of the spring which supplies it to St. Thomas, who, finding no water at Otford, struck the hill-side with his staff, and at once brought forth a clear stream, which since then has never been known to fail. Another legend tells how the Saint one day, being "busie at his prayers in the garden at Otford, was much disturbed by the sweete note and melodie of a nightingale that sang in a bush beside him, and in the might of his holinesse commanded all birds of this kind to be henceforth silent," after which the nightingale was never heard at Otford. But with the decay of the palace and the departure of the Archbishops, the spell was broken; and the Protestant Lambarde, when he was at Otford, takes pleasure in recording how many nightingales he heard singing thereabouts. [Illustration: THE PORCH, KEMSING CHURCH.] From Otford the Pilgrims' Way runs along the edge of the hills about half a mile above the villages of Kemsing and Wrotham, and passes close to St. Clere, a mansion built by Inigo Jones, where Mrs. Boscawen, the witty correspondent of Mrs. Delany and the friend of Johnson and Boswell, was born. Kemsing still retains its old church and well, both consecrated to the memory of the Saxon Princess, St. Edith, whose image in the churchyard was, during centuries, the object of the peasants' devout veneration. "Some seelie bodie," writes Lambarde, who visited these shrines in Queen Elizabeth's reign, and delights in pouring contempt on the old traditions of these country shrines, "brought a peche or two, or a bushelle of corne, to the churche after praiers made, offered it to the image of the saint. Of this offering the priest used to toll the greatest portion, and then to take one handful or little more of the residue (for you must consider he woulde bee sure to gaine by the bargaine), the which, after aspersion of holy water and the mumbling of a fewe words of conjuration, he first dedicated to the image of Saint Edith, and then delivered it backe to the partie that brought it; who departed with full persuasion that if he mingled that hallowed handfull with his seede corne, it would preserve from harme and prosper in growthe the whole heape that he should sowe, were it never so great a stacke." [Illustration: WROTHAM CHURCH.] Wrotham was the site of another of the Archbishops' manor-houses, and rivalled Otford in antiquity, having been granted to the See of Canterbury by Athelstan in 964. Wrotham was never as favourite a residence with the Archbishops as Otford, but they stopped here frequently on their progresses through Kent, until, in the fourteenth century, Simon Islip pulled down the house to supply materials for the building of his new palace at Maidstone. A terrace and some scanty remains of the offices are the only fragments now to be seen at Wrotham, but the charming situation of the village in the midst of luxuriant woods, and the beauty of the view over the Weald from Wrotham Hill, attract many visitors. The church has several features of architectural interest, including a handsome rood-screen of the fourteenth century, and a watching-chamber over the chancel, as well as a curious archway under the tower, which was probably used as a passage for processions from the Palace. It contains many tombs and brasses, chiefly of the Peckham family, who held the manor of Yaldham in this parish for upwards of five hundred years. Below the church is Wrotham Place, a fine old Tudor house with a corridor and rooms of the fifteenth century, and a charming garden front bearing the date 1560. Fairlawn, the ancestral home of the Vanes, also lies in a corner of Wrotham parish, and a terrace, bordered with close-clipped yew hedges, and surrounded by sunny lawns, where peacocks spread their tails over the grass, is still pointed out as a favourite walk of that stout old regicide, Sir Harry Vane. Ightham, with its famous Mote, so perfect a picture of an old English house, is close by, within a walk of Wrotham station, but lies, unluckily, on the opposite side from the line of hills along which our path takes us. [Illustration: THE MOTE, IGHTHAM] [Illustration: WROTHAM, LOOKING SOUTH.] CHAPTER IX WROTHAM TO HOLLINGBOURNE The Pilgrims' Way continues its course over Wrotham Hill and along the side of the chalk downs. This part of the track is a good bridle road, with low grass banks or else hedges on either side, and commands fine views over the rich Kentish plains, the broad valley of the Medway, and the hills on the opposite shore. The river itself glitters in the sun, but as we draw nearer the beauty of the prospect is sorely marred by the ugly chimneys and dense smoke of the Snodland limestone works. At one point on the downs, close to the Vigo Inn, a few hundred yards above our road, there is a very extensive view over the valley of the Thames, ranging from Shooters' Hill to Gravesend, and far away out to sea. In the daytime the masts of the shipping in the river are clearly seen. At night the Nore lights twinkle like stars in the distance. The height of these downs is close on 700 feet, that of Knockholt is 783 feet. On the other side of the Medway the chalk range is considerably lower, and the highest points are above Detling, 657 feet, Hollingbourne, 606 feet, and Charing, 640 feet. [Illustration: THE BULL, WROTHAM.] The Way now runs past Pilgrims' house, formerly the Kentish Drovers' Inn, above the old church and village of Trottescliffe (Trosley) and the megalithic stones known as Coldrum circle, one of the best preserved cromlechs along the road. Further on a short lane leads south to Birling Place, the ancient home of the Nevills, who have owned the estate since the middle of the fifteenth century, while in a group of old farm buildings at Paddlesworth (formerly Paulsford) we find the remains of a Norman Pilgrims' Chapel, with a fine Early English arch. The track now crosses a large field and enters Snodland, an old town containing many Roman remains, and an interesting church, but sadly disfigured by cement works and paper factories. [Illustration: TROTTESCLIFFE.] Here the pilgrims left the hills to descend into the valley below. Twice before, at Shalford and Dorking, they had crossed the rivers which make their way through the chalk range; now they had reached the third great break in the downs, and the broad stream of the Medway lay at their feet. They might, if they pleased, go on to Rochester, three miles higher up, and join the road taken by the London pilgrims along the Watling Street to Canterbury--the route of Chaucer's pilgrimage. But most of them, it appears, preferred to follow the hills to which they had clung so long. [Illustration: FORD PLACE, NEAR WROTHAM.] The exact point where they crossed the river has been often disputed. According to the old maps it was by the ford at Cuxton, where the river was shallow enough to allow of their passage. From Bunker's Farm, immediately above Birling, a road diverges northwards to Cuxton and Rochester, and was certainly used by many of the pilgrims. At Upper Halling, on this track, we may still see the lancet windows of a pilgrims' shrine formerly dedicated to St. Laurence, which have been built into some cottages known as Chapel houses. The Bishops of Rochester, who held this manor from Egbert's days, had "a right fair house" at Lower Halling, on the banks of the Medway, with a vineyard which produced grapes for King Henry III.'s table. This pleasant manor-house on the river was the favourite summer residence of Bishop Hamo de Hethe, who built a new hall and chapel in the reign of Edward I., and placed his own statue on a gateway which was still standing in the eighteenth century. Another interesting house, Whorne Place, lies a little higher up, on the banks of the Medway, where the grass-grown track leading from Bunker's Farm joins the main road to Cuxton and Rochester. This fine brick mansion formerly belonged to the Levesons, and the quarterings of Sir John Leveson and his two wives are to be seen above the central porch. [Illustration: THE FRIARY, AYLESFORD.] In the thirteenth century a great number of pilgrims seem to have stopped at Maidstone, where, in 1261, Archbishop Boniface built a hospital for their reception on the banks of the Medway. The funds which supported this hospital, the Newark--New-work, Novi operis, as it was called--were diverted by Archbishop Courtenay, a hundred and forty years later, to the maintenance of his new college of All Saints, on the opposite side of the river, but a remnant of the older foundation is still preserved in the beautiful Early English Chancel of St. Peter's Church, which was originally attached to Boniface's hospital, and is still known as the Pilgrims' Chapel. By the time that Archbishop Courtenay founded his college, the stream of pilgrims had greatly diminished, and the hostel which had been intended for their resting-place was rapidly sinking into a common almshouse. Maidstone, too, no doubt, lay considerably out of the pilgrims' course, and the great majority naturally preferred to cross the Medway by the ferry at Snodland. Others again might choose Aylesford, which lay a mile or two below. At this ancient town, the Eglesford of the Saxon Chronicle, there was a stone bridge across the river, and a Carmelite Priory founded in 1240 by Richard de Grey, on his return from the Crusades, where the pilgrims would be sure to find shelter. But even if they did not cross the Medway at this place, where the old church stands so picturesquely on its high bank overhanging river and red roofs, the pilgrims certainly passed through the parish of Aylesford. For on the opposite banks of the ferry at Snodland the familiar line of yew trees appears again, ascending the hill by Burham church, and runs through the upper part of Aylesford parish, close to the famous dolmen of Kits Coty House. This most interesting sepulchral monument, Kêd-coit--Celtic for the Tomb in the Wood--consists of three upright blocks of sandstone about eight feet high and eight feet broad, with a covering stone of eleven feet which forms the roof, and is one of a group of similar remains which lie scattered over the hill-side and are locally known as the Countless Stones. We have here, in fact, a great cemetery of the Druids which once extended for many miles on both sides of the river. Deep pits dug out in the chalk, filled with flints and covered with slabs of stone, have been discovered on Aylesford Common, and a whole avenue of stones formerly connected this burial place with the cromlechs at Addington, six miles off. Here, if the old legend be true, was fought the great battle which decided the fate of Britain, and gave England into the hands of the English. For at this place, the old chroniclers say, about the year 455, the Saxon invaders stopped on their march to the Castle of Rochester, and turning southwards met the Britons in that deadly fray, when both Kentigern and Horsa were left dead on the field of battle. Ancient military entrenchments are still visible on the hill-side near Kits Coty House, and a boulder on the top was long pointed out as the stone on which Hengist was proclaimed the first king of Kent. About a mile from this memorable spot, in the plains at the foot of the downs, was a shrine which no pilgrim of mediæval days would leave unvisited, the Cistercian Abbey of Boxley, then generally known as the Abbatia S. Crucis de Gracias, the Abbey of the Holy Rood of Grace. [Illustration: AYLESFORD BRIDGE] [Illustration: KITS COTY HOUSE.] Not only was Boxley, next to Waverley Abbey, the oldest Cistercian house founded on this side of the Channel, the _filia propria_ of the great house of Clairvaux, but the convent church rejoiced in the possession of two of the most celebrated wonder-working relics in all England. There was the image of St. Rumbold, that infant child of a Saxon prince who proclaimed himself a Christian the moment of his birth, and after three days spent in edifying his pagan hearers, departed this life. This image could only be lifted by the pure and good, and having a hidden spring, which could be worked by the hands or feet of the monks, was chiefly influenced by the amount of the coin that was paid into their hands. And there was that still greater marvel, the miraculous Rood, or winking image, a wooden crucifix which rolled its eyes and moved its lips in response to the devotees who crowded from all parts of England to see the wondrous sight. The clever mechanism of this image, said to have been invented by an English prisoner during his captivity in France, was exposed by Henry VIII.'s commissioners in 1538, who discovered "certayn ingyns of old wyer with olde roten stykkes in the back of the same," and showed them to the people of Maidstone on market-day, after which the Rood of Grace was taken to London and solemnly broken in pieces at Paul's Cross. The Abbey of Boxley owned vast lands, and the Abbots were frequently summoned to Parliament, and lived in great state. Among the royal guests whom they entertained was King Edward II., whose visit was made memorable by the letter which he addressed from Boxley Abbey to the Aldermen of the City of London, granting them the right of electing a Lord Mayor. At one time their extravagance brought them to the verge of ruin, as we learn from a letter which Archbishop Warham addressed to Cardinal Wolsey; but at the dissolution the Commissioners could find no cause of complaint against the monks, excepting the profusion of flowers in the convent garden, which made them comment on the waste of turning "the rents of the monastery into gillyflowers and roses." The foundations of the church where the Cistercians showed off their "sotelties" may still be traced in the gardens of the house built by Sir Thomas Wyatt on the site of the abbey. Here some precious fragments of the ruins are still preserved. The chapel of St. Andrew, which stood near the great gateway, has been turned into cottages, and the noble "guesten-house," where strangers were lodged, is now a barn. The old wall remains to show the once vast extent of the Abbey precincts. Now these grey stones are mantled with thick bushes of ivy, and a fine clump of elm trees overshadows the red-tiled roof of the ancient guest-house in the meadows, but we look in vain for poor Abbot John's gillyflowers and roses. [Illustration: LOOKING WEST FROM ABOVE BOXLEY ABBEY.] Between Boxley Abbey and Maidstone stretches the wide common of Penenden Heath, famous from time immemorial as the place where all great county meetings were held. Here the Saxons held their "gemotes," and here in 1076, was that memorable assembly before which Lanfranc pleaded the cause of the Church of Canterbury against Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, Earl of Kent, the Conqueror's half-brother, who had defrauded Christ Church of her rights, and laid violent hands on many of her manors and lands. Not only were the Kentish nobles and bishops summoned to try the cause, but barons and distinguished ecclesiastics, and many men "of great and good account," from all parts of England and Normandy, were present that day. Godfrey, Bishop of Coutances, represented the King, and Agelric, the aged Bishop of Chester, "an ancient man well versed in the laws and customs of the realm," was brought there in a chariot by the King's express command. Three days the trial lasted, during which Lanfranc pleaded his cause so well against the rapacious Norman that the see of Canterbury recovered its former possessions, and saw its liberties firmly established. The village and church of Boxley (Bose-leu in Domesday), so called from the box trees that grow freely along the downs, as at Box Hill, are about a mile and a half beyond the Abbey, and lie on the sloping ground at the foot of the hills, close to the Pilgrims' Way. Old houses and timbered barns, with lofty gables and irregular roofs, are grouped round the church, which is itself as picturesque an object as any, with its massive towers and curious old red-tiled Galilee porch. Next we reach Detling, a small village, prettily situated on the slope of the hills, with a church containing a rare specimen of mediæval wood-work in the shape of a carved oak reading-desk, enriched with pierced tracery of the Decorated period. We pass Thurnham, with the foundations of its Saxon castle high up on the downs, and then enter Hollingbourne. As Boxley reminds us of the box trees on the hill-side, and Thurnham of the thorn trees in the wood, so Hollingbourne owes its name to the hollies on the burn or stream which runs through the parish. William Cobbett, whose memory has followed us all the way from the Itchen valley, describes how he rode over Hollingbourne Hill on his return from Dover to the Wen, and from the summit of that down, one of the highest in this neighbourhood, looked down over the fair Kentish land, which in its richness and beauty seemed to him another Garden of Eden. [Illustration: COTTAGE AT BOARLEY, NEAR BOXLEY] CHAPTER X HOLLINGBOURNE TO LENHAM The village of Hollingbourne lies at the foot of the hill, and an old inn at the corner of the Pilgrims' Road, now called the King's Head, was formerly known by the name of the Pilgrims' Rest. The history of Hollingbourne is full of interest. The manor was granted to the church at Canterbury, "for the support of the monks," by young Athelstan, the son of Æthelred II., in the year 980, and was retained by the monastery when Lanfranc divided the lands belonging to Christ Church between the priory and the see. It is described in Domesday as _Terra Monachorum Archiepi_, the land of the monk and the Archbishop; in later records as _Manorium Monachorum et de cibo eorum_, a manor of the monks and for their food. The Priors of Christ Church held their courts here, and the convent records tell us that Prior William Sellyng greatly improved the Priory rooms at Hollingbourne. Their residence probably occupied the site of the present manor-house. This handsome red-brick building, rich in gables and mullions, in oak panelling and secret hiding-places, was built in Queen Elizabeth's reign by the great Kentish family of the Culpepers, who at that time owned most of the parish. More than one fragment of the earlier house, encased in the Elizabethan building, has been brought to light, and a pointed stone archway of the thirteenth century, and an old fireplace with herring-bone brickwork, have lately been discovered. Many are the interesting traditions which belong to this delightful old manor-house. The yews in the garden are said to have been planted by Queen Elizabeth on one of her royal progresses through Kent, when she stayed at Leeds Castle, and was the guest of Sir Henry Wotton at Boughton Malherbe. According to another very old local tradition, Katherine Howard, whose mother was a Culpeper, spent some years here as a girl, and the ghost of that unhappy queen is said to haunt one of the upper chambers of the house. Another room, called the Needle-Room, was occupied during the Commonwealth by the daughters of that faithful loyalist, John Lord Culpeper, Frances, Judith, and Philippa, who employed the weary years of their father's exile in embroidering a gorgeous altar-cloth and hangings, which they presented to the parish church on the happy day when the king came back to enjoy his own again. The tapestries, worked by the same deft fingers, which once adorned the chambers of the manor-house, are gone, and the hangings of the reading-desk in the church have been cut up into a frontal, but the altar-cloth remains absolutely intact, and is one of the finest pieces of embroidery of the kind in England. Both design and colouring are of the highest beauty. On a ground of violet velvet, bordered with a frieze of cherub heads, we see the twelve mystic fruits of the Tree of Life--the grape, orange, cherry, apple, plum, pear, mulberry, acorn, peach, medlar, quince, and pomegranate. The richest hues of rose and green are delicately blended together, and their effect is heightened by the gold thread in which the shading is worked. The lapse of two centuries and a half has not dimmed the brightness of their colours, which are as fresh as if the work had been finished yesterday. A needle which had been left in a corner of the altar-cloth all those long years ago was still to be seen sticking in the velvet early in the last century, but has now disappeared. [Illustration: HOLLINGBOURNE HOUSE.] This goodly manor-house was only one of several seats belonging to the Culpepers in this neighbourhood. They had a mansion at Greenway Court, which was burnt down in the last century, and another of imposing dimensions where Grove Court now stands. In the seventeenth century the Lords Culpeper also owned Leeds Castle, that noble moated house, a mile to the south, which was once a royal park, and is still one of the finest places in Kent. But the second Lord Culpeper died without a male heir in 1688, and this famous house passed by marriage into the Fairfax family. The Hollingbourne branch of the Culpepers died out in the course of the last century, and at the present time no member of this illustrious family is known to exist in England, although persons bearing this ancient name are still to be found in America. The church at Hollingbourne contains a whole series of Culpeper monuments. The most remarkable is the white marble altar-tomb, which bears the recumbent effigy of Elizabeth Lady Culpeper, who died in 1638, and is described in the inscription on her monument as _Optima Foemina, Optima Conjux, et Optima Mater_. This lady was the heiress of the Cheney family, whose arms, the ox's hide and horns, appear on the shield at the foot of the tomb, and are repeated in the stained glass of the chapel window. Tradition says that Sir John Cheney had his helmet struck off, when he fought by the victor's side on Bosworth Field, and fixed a bull's horns on his head in its place. Afterwards Henry VII. gave him this crest, when he made him a Baron and a Knight of the Garter, in reward for his valour on that hard-fought field. A monument on the north wall of the chancel records the memory of John Lord Culpeper, who was successively Chancellor of the Exchequer, Master of the Rolls, and Privy Councillor to Charles I. and Charles II. "For equal fidelity to the king and kingdome," says the epitaph on his tomb, "he was most exemplary." He followed the last-named king into exile and remained there until the Restoration, when "with him he returned tryumphant into England on the 29th of May, 1660," only to die six weeks afterwards, "to the irreparable losse of his family." Another descendant of the Culpepers is buried under the altar in this church, Dame Grace Gethin, a great grand-daughter of Sir Thomas Culpeper, and wife of Sir Richard Gethin, of Gethinge Grott, in Ireland, whose learning and virtues were so renowned that monuments were erected in her honour both at Bath and in Westminster Abbey. This youthful prodigy, who died at the age of twenty-one, is here represented kneeling between two angels, and holding in her hand the commonplace book which she filled with extracts from her favourite authors, and which was afterwards published under the title of "Reliquiæ Gethinianæ." Her piety was as great as her personal charms, and the inscription on her monument records how, "being adorned with all the Graces and Perfections of mind and body, crowned them all with exemplary Patience and Humility, and having the day before her death most devoutly received the Holy Communion, which she said she would not have omitted for Ten Thousand Worlds, she was vouchsafed in a miraculous manner an immediate prospect of her future Blisse, for the space of two hours, to the astonishment of all about her, and being, like St. Paul, in an unexpressible Transport of joy, thereby fully evincing her foresight of the Heavenly Glory, in unconceivable Raptures triumphing over Death, and continuing sensible to the last, she resigned her pious soul to God, and victoriously entered into rest, Oct. 11th, anno ætatis 21, D'ni: 1697. Her dear and affectionate Mother, whom God in mercy supported by seeing her glorious end, erected this monument, she being her last surviving issue." Soon after leaving Hollingbourne, the Pilgrims' Way enters the grounds of Stede Hill, and passes through the beech-woods that spread down the grassy slopes to the village and church of Harrietsham--Heriard's Home in Domesday--in the valley below. An altar-tomb, to the memory of Sir William Stede, who died in 1574, and several other monuments to members of the same family, may be seen in the south chapel of the church, a fine building of Early English and Perpendicular work, with a good rood-screen, standing in an open space at the foot of the Stede Hill grounds. The rectory of Harrietsham was formerly attached to the neighbouring Priory of Leeds, but was granted by Henry VI. to Archbishop Chichele's newly founded College of All Souls, Oxford, which still retains the patronage of this living. The manor was one of many in this neighbourhood given to Odo of Bayeux after the battle of Hastings, and afterwards formed part of the vast estates owned by Juliana de Leyborne, called the Infanta of Kent, who was married three times, but died without children, leaving her lands to become crown property. A mile farther the Pilgrims' Way enters the town of Lenham. This parish contains both the sources of the river Len--the _Aqua lena_ of the Romans--which flows through Harrietsham and by Leeds Castle into the Medway, and that of the Stour, which runs in the opposite direction towards Canterbury. Lenham has held a charter, and enjoyed the privileges of a town from mediæval times. The bright little market-square, full of old houses with massive oak beams, and quaint corners jutting out in all directions, hardly agrees with Hasted's description of Lenham as a dull, unfrequented place, where nothing thrives in the barren soil, and the inhabitants, when asked by travellers if this is Lenham, invariably reply, "Ah, sir, poor Lenham!" The picturesqueness of its buildings is undeniable, and its traditions are of the highest antiquity. The manor of Lenham was granted to the Abbey of St. Augustine at Canterbury by Cenulf, king of Mercia, more than a thousand years ago, and in the twelfth century the church was appropriated to the Refectory of St. Augustine; that is to say, the rectorial tithes were made to supply the monks' dinners. Some fragments of the original Norman church still exist, but the greater part of the present structure, the arcade of bays, the fine traceried windows of the aisle, and most of the chancel, belong to the Decorated period, and were rebuilt after the great fire in 1297, when not only the church, but the Abbot's barns and farm buildings were burnt to the ground by an incendiary. So great was the sensation produced by this act of wanton mischief, that Archbishop Winchelsea himself came to Lenham to see the ravages wrought by the fire, and fulminated a severe excommunication against the perpetrators of the wicked deed. The sixteen oak stalls for the monks, and an arched stone sedilia, of the fourteenth century, which served the Abbot for his throne when he visited his Lenham estates, are still to be seen in the chancel. Here, too, is a sepulchral effigy let into the north wall in a curious sideways position, representing a priest in his robes, supposed to be that of Thomas de Apulderfelde, who lived at Lenham in the reign of Edward II., and died in 1327. Both the western tower and the north chancel, dedicated to St. Edmund, and containing tombs of successive lords of East Lenham manor, are Perpendicular in style, and belong to the fourteenth or early part of the fifteenth century. Fragments of the fourteenth-century paintings, with which the walls of the whole church were once adorned, may still be distinguished in places. Among them are the figures of a bishop, probably St. Augustine, and of St. Michael weighing souls, with devils trying to turn the balance in their favour, on one side, and on the other the crowned Virgin throwing her rosary into the scale which holds the souls of the just. The church was dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin, and her image formerly occupied the niche in the timbered porch which, with the old lych-gate, are such fine specimens of fifteenth-century wood-work. The beautiful Jacobean pulpit was given by Anthony Honywood in 1622, and is charmingly carved with festoons of grapes and vine-leaves. The Honywoods also built the almshouses, with carved bargeboards and door-posts, in the street at Lenham, and an inscription in the chancel floor records the memory of that long-lived Dame, Mary Honywood, who before her death in 1620 saw no less than three hundred and sixty-seven of her descendants! [Illustration: MARKET-PLACE, LENHAM.] Close to the church are the great tithe barns, built after the fire in the fourteenth century by the Abbots of St. Augustine. The largest measures 157 feet long by 40 feet wide, and, saving the low stone walls, is built entirely of oak from the forests of the Weald. The enormous timbers are as sound and strong to-day as they were six hundred years ago, and for solidity of material and beauty of construction, this Kentish barn deserves to rank among the grandest architectural works of the age. The monks are gone, and the proud Abbey itself has long been laid in ruins, but these buildings give us some idea of the wealth and resources of the great community who were the lords of Lenham during so many centuries. They could afford to lend a kindly ear to the prayer of the poor vicar when he humbly showed the poverty with which he had to contend, and the load of the burden that he had to bear. The Abbot, we are glad to learn, granted his request, and agreed to give him a roof over his head and to allow his two cows to feed with the monks' own herds in the pastures at Lenham, during the months between the feast of St. Philip and St. James and Michaelmas. [Illustration: IN CHARING VILLAGE.] CHAPTER XI CHARING TO GODMERSHAM From Lenham the Pilgrims' Road threads its lonely way along the hill-side, past one or two decayed farmhouses still bearing the name of the great families who once owned these manors--the Selves and the Cobhams; and the view over the level country grows wider, and extends farther to the south and east, until we reach Charing Hill, one of the highest points along this range of downs. The windmill, a few hundred yards above the track, commands a far-spreading view over the valley, stretching from the foot of the ridge to the Quarry Hills, where the towers of Egerton Church stand out on its steep mound above the hazy plains of the Weald. We look down upon Calehill, the home of the Darells for the last five centuries, and across the woods and park of Surrenden Dering, which has been held by the Dering family ever since the days of Earl Godwin, to the churches and villages of the Weald. Beyond a foreground of swelling hill and dale we see the flat expanse of Romney Marsh and Dungeness; and then for the first time we catch a glimpse of a pale blue line of sea--that sea across which Roman and Saxon and Norman all sailed in turn to land upon the Kentish shore. On clear days you can see the Sussex downs in the far horizon beyond the Weald, and near Hastings, the hill of Fairlight rising sharply from the sea. Down in the valley below, the tall tower of Charing Church lifts its head out of a confused mass of red roofs and green trees, with the ivy-grown ruins of the old palace at its feet. Many are the venerable traditions attached to the churches and villages which we have seen along our road through this pleasant land of Kent, but here is one older and more illustrious than them all. Here we have a record which goes back far beyond the days of Lanfranc and of Athelstan, and even that king of Mercia who gave Lenham to the Abbey of St. Augustine. For Charing, if not actually given, as the old legend says, by Vortigern to the ancient British Church, was at all events among the first lands bestowed on Augustine and his companions by Ethelbert, king of Kent. Saxon historians tell us how that this most ancient possession of the church of Canterbury was seized by Offa, king of Mercia, in 757, but restored again by his successor, Cenulph, in the year 788. [Illustration: CHARING] Long before the Conqueror's time, the Archbishops had a house here. In Domesday Book, Charing is styled "proprium manorium archiepiscopi," being reserved by those prelates for their private use, and from those days until the manor was surrendered by Cranmer to Henry VIII. it remained a favourite residence of the Archbishops. In the thirteenth century the Franciscan Archbishop John Peckham dates many letters from his house at Charing, and Stratford, as Dean Hook tells us, was often there, and found consolation in this quiet retreat for the troubles of those stormy days. Chichele, Kemp, and Bourchier were also frequently here. Stratford first obtained the grant of a three days' fair to be held at Charing twice a year, on the festivals of St. George and St. Luke. Leland tells us that Cardinal Morton made great buildings at Charing, and the red and black brickwork still to be seen under the ivy of the farmhouse walls may be ascribed to him, but the great gateway with the chamber and hooded fireplace above, belongs to an earlier period, and was probably the work of Stratford in the fourteenth century. Some of the older stonework is to be found in the stables and cottages now occupying the site of the offices on the west of the court. The chapel, with its pointed arches and large windows, which in Hasted's time stood behind the modern dwelling-house, was taken down eighty years ago, but the great dining-hall, with its massive walls and fine decorated window, still remains standing. This hall, where archbishops sat in state, and kingly guests were feasted; where Henry VII. was royally entertained by Archbishop Warham, on the 24th of March, 1507, and where Henry VIII. stayed with all his train on his way to the Field of Cloth of Gold, is now used as a barn. But in its decay, it must be owned, the old palace is singularly picturesque. The wallflowers grow in golden clusters high up the roofless gables and along the arches of the central gateway; masses of apple-blossom hang over the grey stone walls, and ring-necked doves bask in the sunshine on the richly coloured tiles of the old banqueting-hall. Close by is the church of Charing, famous in the eyes of mediæval pilgrims for the possession of one hallowed relic, the block on which St. John the Baptist was beheaded, brought back, an old tradition says, by Richard Coeur de Lion from the Holy Land, and given by him to Archbishop Baldwin, when the King paid his devotions at the shrine of St. Thomas. This precious relic went the way of all relics in the sixteenth century, and is not mentioned in the long list of costly vestments and frontals recorded in an inventory of Church property taken at Charing in 1552. But Charing Church is still, in the words of the old chronicler, "a goodly pile." It is cruciform in shape, and contains some traces of Early English work, but it is mostly of later date. The windows are interesting on account of their great variety. There are three narrow lancets, several of Transitional and Perpendicular style, and one large and very remarkable square-headed Decorated window. The chapel of Our Lady, on the south side of the chancel, was built, towards the close of the fifteenth century, by Amy Brent, whose family owned the charming old manor-house of Wickens in this parish. The porch and fine tower, which forms so marked a feature in the landscape, was also chiefly built by the Brents, whose crest, a wyvern, is carved on the doorway, together with a rose encircled with sun-rays, the badge of Edward IV., in whose reign the work was completed. Through this handsome doorway the Archbishop, attended by his cross-bearers and chaplains, would enter from the palace-gate hard by, and many must have been the stately processions which passed under the western arch and wound up the long nave in the days of Morton and of Warham. A hundred years later Charing Church narrowly escaped entire destruction. On the 4th of August, 1590, a farmer, one Mr. Dios, discharged a birding-piece at a pigeon roosting, as the pigeons do to this day, in the church tower, and "the day being extreme hot and the shingle very dry," a fire broke out in the night, and by morning nothing was left but the bare walls of the church, even the bells being melted by the heat of the fire. Happily the parishioners applied themselves with patriotic zeal to the restoration, and within two years the fine timber roof of the nave was completed. The date 1592, E.R. 34, is inscribed on the rafter above the chancel arch, while that of the chancel roof Ann. Dom. 1622, Anno Regni Jacobi xviii., appears on the beam immediately over the altar. The Pilgrims' Way winds on through Charing past the noble church tower and the ancient palace wall, with its thick clusters of ivy and trailing wreaths of travellers' joy, through the lovely woods of Pett Place, the home of Honywoods and Sayers for some hundreds of years. The track crosses the long avenue of stately limes which leads up to its gates, and through the meeting boughs we see the red gables and tall chimneys of the old Tudor house. In the fourteenth century the owners of Pett had a chapel of their own, served by a priest whose name appears in the Lambeth Register and other records as holding the living of Pette-juxta-Charing; and Geoffery de Newcourt, who owned this manor, together with the adjoining one of Newcourt, paid the king an aid on his lands of Pett, when the Black Prince was knighted. A pleasant part of the track this is dear to botanists for the wealth of ferns, flowers, and rare orchises which grow along the shady path; pleasant alike in May, when cowslips and violets grow thick in the grass and the nightingales are in full song, and in June, when the ripe red fruit of the wild strawberries peep out from under the moss and the hawthorns are in bloom, but perhaps best of all in autumn, when the beeches are crimson and the maples in the hedges are one fire of gold. For the next three miles, the way lies through the lower part of the great woods of Long Beech, which stretch all over these hills, and which from very early times belonged to the see of Canterbury. It brings us out at Westwell, close to another extremely interesting church, dating from the middle of the thirteenth century, and almost entirely of one period. The graceful steeple, nave, chancel, and aisles, are all Early English, but the most striking feature is the high open colonnade which forms the rood-screen. The effect of the chancel, with its side arcade, its groined roof, and beautiful lancet window filled with richly-coloured old glass, seen through these three lofty arches, is very imposing. There is another curious fragment of stained glass, bearing the arms of Queen Anne of Bohemia and of Edward the Confessor and his wife, in the north aisle, and the chancel contains six stone walls and a stone seat with a pointed arch, which were formerly used by the monks and prior of Christ Church, Canterbury. For the manor of Westwell, like so many others in this neighbourhood, belonged to the see of Canterbury before the Conquest, and at the division of property effected by Lanfranc was retained by the Priory. Its revenues were allotted to the supply of the monks' refectory, _ad cibum eorum_, just as the tithes of Lenham were used to provide meals for St. Augustine's Abbey. [Illustration: OLD YEWS AND OAK IN EASTWELL PARK.] Half a mile above Westwell Church the Pilgrims' Way reaches the gates of Eastwell. Here the track disappears for a time, but old maps show the line which it took across the southern slopes of the park, which extends for many miles, and is famous for the wild beauty of its scenery. The hills we have followed so long run through the upper part of the park, and magnificent are the views of the sea and Sussex downs which meet us in these forest glades, where stately avenues of beech and oak and chestnut throw long shadows over the grass, and antlered deer start up from the bracken at our feet. But the lower slopes are pleasant too, with the venerable yews and thorns and hornbeams dotted over the hill-side, and the heights above clad with a wealth of mingled foliage which is reflected in the bright waters of the still, clear lake. The old ivy-grown church stands close to the water's edge, and contains some fine tombs of the Earls of Winchelsea, and of their ancestors, the Finches. But the traveller will look with more interest on the sepulchral arch which is said to cover the ashes of the last of the Plantagenets. The burial registers indeed record that Richard Plantagenet, the illegitimate son of Richard III., died at Eastwell on the 22nd of December, 1550, and a well, which goes by the name of Plantagenet's Well, marks the site of the cottage where he lived in confinement after the defeat of his father on Bosworth Field. Eastwell House, for some years the residence of H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, was originally built by Sir Thomas Moyle, Speaker of the House of Commons in the reign of Henry VIII., but has been completely altered and modernised since it passed into the Winchelsea family. Leaving it on our left, we come out of the Park at Boughton Lees, a group of houses on a three-cornered green, and follow in the steps of the old track to Boughton Aluph church, a large cruciform building with a spacious north aisle and massive central tower, standing in a very lonely situation. Boughton, called Bocton or Boltune in former times, belonged to Earl Godwin and his son Harold, before the Conquest, after which it was given to Eustace, Earl of Boulogne, and formed part of Juliana de Leybourne's vast inheritance. It took the name of Aluph from a Norman knight, Aluphus de Bocton, who held the manor in the reign of King John, and became thus distinguished from the other parishes of Boughton in the neighbourhood. From the church a grassy lane, shaded by trees, ascends the hill to Challock on the borders of Eastwell Park, and is probably the old track of the Pilgrims' Way which passed between these woods and the park of Godmersham. This was formerly the property of Jane Austen's brother, who took the name of Knight on succeeding to the estate, but it has now passed into the hands of another family. Until the Dissolution the manor and church of Godmersham belonged to Christ Church, and here, in mediæval days, the priors of the convent had a fine manor-house, where they frequently resided during the summer months. The hall was pulled down in 1810, and nothing of the old house is now left except a gable and doorway, adorned with a figure of a Prior wearing his mitre and holding his crozier in his hand, probably intended for Henry de Estria, the Prior who rebuilt the manor-house in 1290. The church of Godmersham is remarkable for its early tower and curious semicircular apse with small Norman lights, which are evidently remains of an older building, and in the churchyard are some very ancient yews, one of which is said to have been planted before the Conquest. Under the shadow of these venerable trees there sleeps a remarkable woman, Mary Sybilla Holland, whose father was at one time Vicar of Godmersham, and afterwards moved to Harbledown, a larger parish near Canterbury, a few miles further along the Pilgrims' Way. Both Mrs. Holland and her distinguished brother, the lamented Sir Alfred Lyall, retained a lifelong affection for this corner of East Kent. When Lyall was far away in India, ruling over millions of British subjects, in the north-west provinces, his verses tell us how passionately he yearned for his old Kentish home. "Ah! that hamlet in Saxon Kent, Shall I find it when I come home? With toil and travelling well-nigh spent, Tired with life in jungle and tent, Eastward never again to roam. Pleasantest corner the world can show In a vale which slopes to the English sea-- Where strawberries wild in the woodland grow, And the cherry-tree branches are bending low, No such fruit in the South countree." Sir Alfred died on the 10th of April, 1911, at Lord Tennyson's house at Farringford, in the Isle of Wight, and was buried in the churchyard of St. Michael's, Harbledown. Now brother and sister are both sleeping under the grassy sod of the Kentish land which they loved so well, "where the nightingales sing heart-piercing notes in the silence of the early summer night." "Shelter for me and for you, my friend, There let us settle when both are old, And whenever I come to my journey's end, There you shall see me laid, and blend Just one tear with the falling mould." [Illustration: THE PLACE, WROTHAM.] [Illustration: CHILHAM.] CHAPTER XII CHILHAM TO HARBLEDOWN The Pilgrims' Way skirted the wooded slopes of Godmersham Park for about a mile, and then entered Chilham Park. The park is now closed, but the old track lay right across the park, and in front of Chilham Castle. The position of this fortress, overlooking the valley of the Stour, has made it memorable in English history. Chilham has been in turn a Roman camp, a Saxon castle, and a Norman keep, and has played an eventful part in some of the fiercest struggles of those days. According to a generally received tradition recorded by Camden, Chilham was the scene of the battle on the river in Cæsar's second expedition; and the British barrow near the Stour, popularly known as Julaber's Grave, was believed to be the tomb of the Roman tribune, Julius Laberius, although, as a matter of fact, it contains no sepulchral remains. In the second century Chilham is said to have been the home of that traditional personage, the Christian King Lucius, and in Saxon days of the chief Cilla. The castle was strongly fortified to resist the invasion of the Danes, by whom it was repeatedly attacked. After the Norman Conquest it belonged to Fulbert de Dover, whose last descendant, Isabel, Countess of Atholl, died here in 1292, and is buried in the under-croft at Canterbury. Then it passed into the hands of the great Lord Badlesmere, of Leeds, who on one occasion gave Queen Isabel, the wife of Edward II., a splendid reception here, and afterwards astonished the peaceful citizens and monks of Canterbury by appearing at their gates, followed by nineteen armed knights, each with a drawn sword in his hand, to pay his devotions at the shrine of St. Thomas. As late as the sixteenth century Leland describes Chilham Castle as beautiful for pleasure, commodious for use, and strong for defence; but soon after he wrote these words, the greater part of the old house was pulled down by its owner, Sir Thomas Cheney, Warden of the Cinque Ports under Edward VI., to complete his new mansion in the Isle of Sheppey. The Norman keep, an octagonal fortress three stories high, is the only part of the mediæval structure that now remains, and can still be seen in the gardens of the new house built in 1616 by Sir Dudley Digges, Master of the Rolls in the reign of James I. This fine Jacobean manor-house stands well on the rising ground above the river, and both the garden terrace and the top of the old keep afford beautiful views of the vale of Ashford and the downs beyond the Wye. Still more picturesque is the market-place of Chilham itself. On one side we have the red brick walls and white stone doorway of the castle, seen at the end of its short avenue of tall lime trees on the other the quaint red roofs and timbered houses of the charming old square, with the grey church tower surrounded by the brilliant green of sycamores and beeches. On a bright spring morning, when the leaves are young and the meadows along the river-side are golden with buttercups, there can be no prettier picture than this of the old market square of Cilla's home. From the heights of Chilham the Pilgrims' Way descends into the valley of the Stour, and after following the course of the river for a short time, climbs the opposite hill and strikes into Bigberry Wood. Here we come suddenly upon the most ancient earthwork along the whole line of the road, an entrenchment which Professor Boyd Dawkins, who explored it thoroughly some years ago, has ascribed to the prehistoric Iron Age. For most of us, perhaps, Bigberry Camp has a still greater interest as the fort which the Britons held against the assault of the Roman invaders, and which was stormed and carried by Cæsar's legions. The memory of that desperate fight, which sealed the fate of Britain and her conquest by the great Proconsul, still lingers in the popular mind, and the shepherd who follows his flock and the waggoner who drives his team along the road, still talk of the famous battle that was fought here two thousand years ago. After this the path crosses the valley and runs through the hop-gardens to join Watling Street--the road by which Chaucer's pilgrims came to Canterbury--at Harbledown. This is the little village on the edge of the forest of Blean, which has been immortalised by Chaucer's lines-- "Wist ye not where standeth a little toun Which that ycleped is Bob-up-and-down, Under the Blee in Canterbury way." [Illustration: ON THE VILLAGE GREEN, CHARTHAM] And Bob-up-and-down is to this day a true and characteristic description of the rolling ground by which we approach Harbledown. Here the Pilgrims' Road, along which we have journeyed over hill and dale, fails to rise again. We climb the last hill, and on the summit of the rising ground we find ourselves close to the lazar-house founded at Harbledown by Lanfranc in 1084. The wooden houses built by the Norman Archbishop for the reception of ten brothers and seven sisters have been replaced by a row of modern almshouses; but the chapel still preserves its old Norman doorway, and the round arches and pillars of an arcade to the north of the nave, which formed part of the hospital church dedicated by Lanfranc to St. Nicholas. The devout pilgrim to St. Thomas's shrine never failed to visit this ancient leper-house. Not only did the antiquity of the charitable foundation and its nearness to the road attract him, but in the common hall of the hospital a precious relic was preserved in the shape of a crystal which had once adorned the leather of St. Thomas's shoe. Many were the royal personages and distinguished strangers who paused before these old walls and dropped their alms into the poor leper's outstretched hand. Here, we read in contemporary records, Henry II. came on his first memorable pilgrimage to the tomb of the martyred Archbishop, and Richard Coeur de Lion after his release from his long captivity. Edward I. stopped at Harbledown with his brave Queen, Eleanor of Castille, on their return from the Holy Land, and the Black Prince, accompanied by his royal captive, King John of France, and that monarch's young son Philip, also visited the leper-house. And when the French king visited Canterbury for the second time, on his return to his own kingdom, he did not forget to stop at Lanfranc's old lazar-house and leave ten gold crowns "pour les nonnains de Harbledoun." But it is a later and more sceptical traveller, Erasmus, who has left us the most vivid description of Harbledown and of the feelings which the sight of the relic aroused in the heart of his companion, Dean Colet. "Not far from Canterbury, at the left-hand side of the road," he writes, in the record of his pilgrimage, "there is a small almshouse for old people, one of whom ran out, seeming to hear the steps of the horses. He first sprinkled us with holy water, and then offered us the upper leather of a shoe bound in a brass rim, with a crystal set in its centre like a jewel. Gration (Dean Colet) rode on my left hand, nearer to the beggar man, and was duly sprinkled, bearing it with a tolerable amount of equanimity. But when the shoe was handed up, he asked the old man what he wanted. 'It is the shoe of St. Thomas,' was the answer. Upon this he fired up, and turning to me, exclaimed indignantly, 'What! do these cattle mean we should kiss the shoes of every good man?'" Erasmus, sorry for the old man's feelings, dropped a small coin into his hand, which made him quite happy, and the two pilgrims rode on to London, discussing the question of the worship of relics as they went. To this day a maple bowl, bound with a brass rim, containing a piece of crystal, is preserved in the hospital at Harbledown, the self-same relic, it may be, which was shown to Erasmus and Colet, and which Lambarde, writing half a century later, describes as "faire set in copper and chrystall"; while an old wooden box, with a slit in the lid for money, and a chain attached to it, is said to be the one into which Erasmus dropped his coin. Behind the ivy-mantled tower of Lanfranc's chapel is a clear spring which was supposed to possess healing virtues, and is still believed by the country folks to be of great benefit to the eyes. This spring still goes by the name of the Black Prince's Well, from an old tradition that the warrior of Crecy and Poitiers drank of its waters when he visited the hospital at Harbledown in 1357. Many, we know, are the memorials of this popular hero at Canterbury. Only three days after he landed at Sandwich he came, accompanied by his royal captive, to return thanks at St. Thomas's shrine for his victories, and six years afterwards he founded and decorated the beautiful chantry in the Cathedral crypt, which still bears his name, on the occasion of his marriage with his cousin Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent. The old legend of the Black Prince's Well goes on to tell how, when he lay dying of the wasting disease which carried him off in the flower of his life, he thought of the wonder-working spring near Canterbury, and sent to Harbledown for a draught of its pure waters. But even that could not save him, and on the 29th of September, 1376, a stately funeral procession wound its way down the hill-side at Harbledown, bearing the Black Prince to the grave which he had chosen for himself in the Chapel of Our Lady of the Undercroft at Canterbury. At Harbledown the pilgrims caught their first sight of the Cathedral; here they fell on their knees when they saw the golden angel on the top of the central tower, and knew that the goal of their pilgrimage was almost reached. Here Chaucer's goodly company made their last halt, and for the moment the noise of singing and piping and jingling of bells gave place to a graver and more solemn mood as the motley crowd of pilgrims pressed around, to hear this time not a Canterbury tale, but a sermon. Deep was the impression which that first sight of Canterbury made upon Erasmus. The cold, critical scholar becomes eloquent as he describes the great church of St. Thomas rearing itself up into the sky with a majesty that strikes awe into every heart, and the clanging of bells which, thrilling through the air, salute the pilgrims from afar. To-day the great cross is gone from the Westgate, the shining archangel no longer blesses the kneeling pilgrim from the topmost steeple, but the same glorious vision of the great Cathedral rising with all its towers into the sky meets the eyes of the traveller who looks down on Canterbury from the hill of Harbledown. [Illustration: CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL FROM THE SOUTH-WEST] [Illustration: ST. NICHOLAS', HARBLEDOWN.] CHAPTER XIII HARBLEDOWN TO CANTERBURY From Harbledown it is all downhill to Canterbury, and a short mile brings us to the massive round tower of Simon of Sudbury's noble Westgate, the only one remaining of the seven fortified gateways which once guarded the ancient city. Many are the pilgrims who have entered Canterbury by this gate: kings and queens of all ages, foreign emperors and princes, armed knights and humble scholars, good Queen Philippa and Edward Plantagenet, Henry of Agincourt, Margaret of Anjou, Chaucer and Erasmus. Many, too, are the long processions which have wound down this hill-side: newly created archbishops followed by a brilliant train of bishops and courtiers on their way to be enthroned in the chair of St. Augustine; solemn funerals, attended with all the pomp and circumstance, the funeral plumes and sable trappings, with which men honour the mighty dead. Through the Westgate went forth that gay company of monks and friars, of merchants and citizens crowned with garlands of flowers, and making joyous minstrelsy, as they rode out to welcome Archbishop Winchelsea, who, once a poor student in the school at Canterbury, now came to be enthroned in state in the presence of King Edward I. and all his court. And this way, too, they bore him with much state and pomp, eighteen years later, from the manor-house at Otford, where he died, to sleep in his own Cathedral after all the labours and struggles, the storms and changes of his troublous reign. [Illustration: THE WEST GATE, CANTERBURY.] Since these mediæval days Canterbury has seen many changes. The splendours of which Camden and Leland wrote have passed away, the countless number of its churches has been reduced, and their magnificence no longer strikes the eye of the stranger. The lofty walls and their twenty-one watch-towers, which encircled the city in a complete ring when Chaucer's knight, after paying his devotion at the shrine of St. Thomas, went out to see their strength, and "pointed to his son both the perill and the doubt," are all gone, and the Conqueror's mighty castle is turned into a coal-pit. But the old city is still full of quaint corners and picturesque buildings, timbered houses with carved corbels and oriel windows, hostelries with overhanging eaves and fantastic sign-boards of wrought-iron work, hospitals whose charters date from Norman times, and whose records give us many a curious peep into the byways of mediæval life. As we draw near the Martyr's shrine, memories of St. Thomas crowd upon us. The hill outside the Westgate, now occupied by the Clergy Orphan School, is still called St. Thomas's Hill, and was formerly the site of a chapel founded by Becket himself. A little way up the High Street we reach a bridge over the Stour, which winds its way through the heart of the city, and a low pointed doorway on our right leads into St. Thomas's Hospital. This ancient Spittle of East Bridge was founded, as a fourteenth-century charter records, by the "glorious St. Thomas the Martyr, to receive poor wayfaring men." Archbishop Hubert Walter increased its endowments in the twelfth century, and Stratford repaired the walls in the fourteenth, and drew up statutes for its government. From that time it was especially devoted to the use of poor pilgrims, for whom twelve beds were provided, and whose wants were supplied at the rate of fourpence a day. During those days, when the enthusiasm for St. Thomas was at its height, alms and legacies were lavished upon Eastbridge Hospital, and Edward III. bequeathed money to support a chaplain, whose duty it was to say daily masses for the founders of the hospital. After the days of pilgrimages were over, this hospital was applied to various uses until Archbishop Whitgift recovered the property and drew up fresh statutes for its management. Ten poor brothers and sisters still enjoy the fruit of St. Thomas's benevolence, and dwell in the old house built on arches across the bed of the river. The low level of the floor, which has sunk far below that of the street, and the vaulted roof and time-worn pillars, bear witness to its great antiquity. There can be little doubt that the round arches of the Norman crypt belong to St. Thomas's original foundation, while the pointed windows of the chapel and Early English arches of the refectory form part of Archbishop Stratford's improvements. In this hall some portions of frescoes, representing on the one hand the Last Supper, on the other the Martyrdom of the Saint, the penance of Henry II. at his tomb, with the central figure of Christ in Glory, have been lately recovered from under the coat of whitewash which had concealed them for more than two centuries. Twice a year, we know, at the summer festival of the Translation of St. Thomas, on the 7th of July, and at the winter festival of the Martyrdom, on the 29th of December, Canterbury was crowded with pilgrims, and a notice was placed in the High Street ordering the due provision of beds and entertainment for strangers. The concourse was still greater on the jubilees of the Translation, when indulgences were showered freely on all who visited the shrine, and the festival lasted for a whole fortnight. At the jubilee of the year 1420, just after the victory of Agincourt, no less than a hundred thousand pilgrims are said to have been present. On such occasions every available corner was occupied; the inns, which were exceedingly numerous, the hospitals, and, above all, the religious houses, were thronged with strangers. The most favourite, the most renowned, of all the hostelries was the Chequers of the Hope, the inn where Chaucer's twenty-nine pilgrims took up their quarters. "At Chekers of the Hope that every man doth know." This ancient inn, which Prior Chillenden rebuilt about 1400, stood at the corner of High Street and Mercery Lane, the old Merceria, which was formerly lined with rows of booths and stalls for the sale of pilgrimage tokens, such as are to be found in the neighbourhood of all famous shrines. Both ampullas, small leaden bottles containing a drop of the martyr's blood, which flowed perennially from a well in the precincts, and Caput Thomæ, or brooches bearing the saint's mitred head, were eagerly sought after by all Canterbury pilgrims. So too were the small metal bells which are said to have given their name to the favourite Kentish flower, the Canterbury bell. And we read that the French king, John, stopped at the Mercery stalls to buy a knife for the Count of Auxerre. The position of the inn close to the great gate of Christ Church naturally attracted many visitors, and the spacious cellars with vaulted roofs, which once belonged to the inn, may still be seen, although the inner courtyard and the great chamber upstairs occupied by the pilgrims, and known as the Dormitory of Hundred Beds, were burnt down forty years ago. But the old street front, with its broad eaves overhanging the narrow lane leading up to the great gateway at the other end, still remains, and renders Mercery Lane the most picturesque and interesting corner of the Cathedral city. The religious houses were open to all comers, and while royal visitors were lodged in St. Augustine's Abbey, the convents of the Mendicant orders were largely frequented by the poorer classes. There was also the house of the Whitefriars or Augustinians in the eastern part of the town, close to St. George's Gate, and the hospital of St. John in the populous Northgate, "that faire and large house of stone," built and endowed by Lanfranc in the eleventh century, besides that of Eastbridge, which has been already mentioned, and many other smaller foundations. But it was in the great Priory of Christ Church that by far the largest number of pilgrims found hospitable welcome. A considerable part of the convent buildings was set aside for their reception. The Prior himself entertained distinguished strangers, and lodged them in the splendid suite of rooms overlooking the convent garden, known as the Omers or Homers--Les Ormeaux--from a neighbouring grove of elms. This range of buildings, including the banqueting-hall, generally known as "Meister Omers," was broken up into prebendal houses after the Dissolution, and supplied three separate residences for members of the new Chapter, which gives us some idea of the size of these lodgings. For ordinary strangers there was the Guest Hall, near the kitchen, on the west side of the Prior's Court, which was under the especial charge of a cellarer appointed to provide for the needs of the guests. Prior Chillenden, whom Leland describes as "the greatest builder of a Prior that ever was in Christ Church," repaired and enlarged this Strangers' Hall early in the fifteenth century, and added a new chamber for hospitality, which bore the name of Chillenden's Guest Chamber, and now forms part of the Bishop of Dover's house. Finally, without the convent precincts, close to the court gateway, where the beautiful Norman stairway leads up to the Great Hall, or Aula Nova, was the Almonry. Here the statutes of Archbishop Winchelsea--he who had known what it was to hunger and thirst in his boyhood, and who remained all through his greatness the friend of the poor--provided that poor pilgrims and beggars should be fed daily with the fragments of bread and meat, "which were many and great," left on the monks' tables, and brought here by the wooden pentise or covered passage leading from the kitchen. This Almonry became richly endowed by wealthy pilgrims in course of years, and early in the fourteenth century Prior Henry of Estria built a chapel close by, which was dedicated to St. Thomas the Martyr, and much frequented by pilgrims. The Almony was turned into a mint-yard at the Dissolution, and the chapel and priests' lodgings attached to it, now belong to the King's School. Another privilege freely conceded by the prior and monks of this great community to pilgrims of all ranks and nationality who might die at Canterbury, was that of burial within the precincts of Christ Church, close to the blessed martyr's shrine, and under the shadow of the Cathedral walls. [Illustration: MERCERY LANE, CANTERBURY.] CHAPTER XIV THE MARTYR'S SHRINE Erasmus has described the imposing effect of the great Cathedral church on the stranger who entered its doors for the first time, and saw the nave "in all its spacious majesty." The vision which broke upon the eyes of those pilgrims who, like himself and Dean Colet, visited Canterbury in the early years of the sixteenth century, may well have filled all hearts with wonder. For then the work was well-nigh perfected. The long roll of master-builders, from Prior Wibert and De Estria to Chillenden and Sellyng, had faithfully accomplished their task. Prior Goldstone, the last but one who reigned before the Dissolution, had just completed the central tower, the great labour of his predecessor Prior Sellyng's life, and was in the act of building the noble Perpendicular gateway which forms a fitting entrance to the precincts. And now the great church stood complete. Without, "a very goodly, strong, and beautiful structure": the traceries and mouldings of the windows, the stone canopies and sculptured images of the portal, all perfect; the glorious towers in their might; Bell Harry Steeple, as we see it to-day, matchless in its strength and beauty; and beside it, rivalling its grace and majesty, the ancient Norman tower, which bore the name of Ethelbert, crowned with the Arundel spire. Within, a richness and splendour to which our eyes are wholly unaccustomed: chapels and chantries lining the great nave, fresh from Prior Chillenden's work; altars glittering with lighted tapers and gold and silver ornaments; roof and walls bright with painting and gilding, or decked with silken tapestry hangings; carved images covered with pearls and gems; stained windows throwing their hues of ruby and sapphire across the floor, and lighting up the clouds of incense as they rose heavenward. All this, and much more, met the pilgrims' wondering eyes. No wonder they stood "half amazed," as the Supplementary Tale to Chaucer's Pilgrimage describes "the gardener and the miller and the other lewd sets," gazing up at the painted windows, and forgetting to move on with the crowd. [Illustration: THE MARTYRDOM, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.] Then the show began. First of all the pilgrims were led up a vaulted passage and "many steps" to the Transept of the Martyrdom, where the wooden altar, at the foot of which the saint fell, remained to show the actual place of the murder, and its guardian priest--the _Custos Martyrum_--displayed the rusty sword of Richard le Breton. Next, descending the flight of steps on the right, they were led into the dark crypt, where more priests received them, and presented the saint's skull, encased in silver, to be kissed, and other relics, including the famous girdle and hair-shirt. This _Caput Thomæ_ was one of the chief stations at which offerings were made, and the altar on which it lay, mentioned in the Black Prince's will as "the altar where the head is," marked the site of the original grave where the saint was buried by the frightened monks on the day after the murder. The tomb stood in the eastern chapel of Ernulf's crypt, under the beautiful Pointed arches afterwards raised by that great architect, William the Englishman, whom Gervase describes as "small in body, but in workmanship skilled and honest." Soon it acquired a miraculous virtue, and the fame of the cures and wonders wrought there rang throughout the world. It was the scene of Henry II.'s penance, and during the next fifty years it remained the central object of interest to the crowds of pilgrims who came from all parts of Christendom. Coeur de Lion, accompanied by William, King of Scotland, knelt here on his way to the Crusades, to implore the martyr's blessing on his arms. Many were the Crusaders from all parts of France and England who came thither on the same errand. King John and his wife Isabella, who were crowned at Canterbury Cathedral by Archbishop Hubert Walter, at Easter, 1201, offered their coronation canopies at this tomb and vast sums of money were yearly offered here until 1220, when the body of St. Thomas was translated, in the presence of the young King Henry III., to the new Shrine in Trinity Chapel, immediately above the tomb in the crypt. In that year the offerings at the tomb, at the Altar of the Sword's Point, and at the new Shrine, reached the enormous amount of £1,071, a sum equal to more than £20,000 of money at the present time. After this, the offerings at the original tomb in the crypt diminished in number and value, but the altar and relics of the _Caput Thomæ_ remained an object of deep reverence until the Reformation. From the dark vaults of the subterranean church the pilgrims were led up the steps to the north aisle of the choir. Here the great mass of relics, including St. George's arm and no less than four hundred skulls, jaws, teeth, hands, and other bones, were displayed in gold, silver, or ivory caskets, and pilgrims were allowed a glimpse of the magnificent vessels and ornaments stored up under the high altar. "All the gold of Midas and Croesus," exclaims Erasmus, "would have been nothing by the side of these treasures!" and he confesses that he sighed to think he kept no such relics at home, and had to beg the saint's pardon for this very unholy emotion. The golden candlesticks and silken vestments of the sacristy in St. Andrew's tower, and the saint's pallium, which no ordinary pilgrims might see, were also shown to Erasmus and Colet, who brought with them a letter of introduction from Archbishop Warham. After duly inspecting these precious objects, they mounted the long flight of steps behind the high altar leading into Trinity Chapel; a continual ascent, "church, as it were, piled upon church," which seems to have greatly heightened the impression produced upon the awe-struck pilgrims. Now at last they stood within the holiest of holies. There, before their eyes, was the goal of all their journeyings, the object of their deepest devotion, the Shrine which held the body of the blessed martyr. [Illustration: SITE OF THE SHRINE OF ST. THOMAS, CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.] The Shrine itself, covered by a painted canopy of wood, rested on stone arches in the centre of the floor, exactly under the gilded crescent which is still to be seen in the Cathedral roof. On the right was the richly carved and canopied monument of Henry IV. and his Queen, Joan of Navarre, with its elaborate effigies of the royal pair wearing their crowns and robes of state; on the left the tomb of Edward the Black Prince. He had willed to sleep before the altar of Our Lady of the Under-croft, in the chapel adorned by his own gifts, but the people who had loved him so well would not allow their hero to remain buried out of sight in the dark crypt. So they brought him to rest by the great saint's Shrine, where all men could see his effigy of gilded bronze as he lay there, clad in armour, his sword by his side, his hands clasped in prayer, and read the pathetic lines which tell of his departed glories, and bid the passing stranger pray for his soul: "Pur Dieu, priez au Celestien Roy, Que mercy ait de l'âme de moy." His was the first tomb that was ever raised in the sacred precincts devoted to the martyr's Shrine, and to this day it remains there, unhurt by the hand of time or the more cruel violence of man. Up the worn stone steps which still bear the marks left by thousands of feet and knees, the pilgrims climbed, murmuring words of prayer or chanting the popular Latin hymns to St. Thomas: "Tu, per Thomæ sanguinem, Quem pro te impendit, Fac nos, Christe, scandere Quo Thomas ascendit." Here the Prior himself received them, and showed them first the corona or crown of Becket's head, preserved in a golden likeness of St. Thomas's face, ornamented with pearls and precious gems, which had been presented by Henry V. Then, at a given sign, the wooden canopy was drawn up by ropes, and the Shrine itself, embossed with gold and glittering with countless jewels that flashed and sparkled with light, was revealed to the eyes of the pilgrims. They all fell upon their knees and worshipped, while the Prior with his white wand pointed out the balass-rubies and diamonds, the sapphires and emeralds, which adorned the Shrine, and told the names of the royal persons by whom these gifts had been presented. There were rings and brooches and chains without end, golden and silver statues offered by kings and queens, the crown of Scotland brought back by Edward I. after his victory over John Baliol, and the _regale_ of France, that superb ruby presented at the tomb in the crypt by Louis VII., which shone like fire, and was as costly as a king's ransom. Full of awe and wonder the spectators gazed with admiring eyes on these treasures, which for beauty and splendour were beyond all they had ever dreamt, until the canopy slowly descended, and the Shrine was once more hidden from their sight. Then they went their way, some to visit the convent buildings, the noble chapter-house with its gabled roof and stained windows, and the glazed walk of the cloisters, glowing with bright colours and decorated with heraldic devices of benefactors to Christ Church painted on the bosses of the vaulting. Others made themselves fresh and gay, and went out to see the city, the Knight and his son to look at the walls, the Prioress and the Wife of Bath to walk in the herbary of the inn. But for Erasmus and his rather inconvenient companion there was still a sight in store, only reserved for very exalted personages, or such as had friends at court. Prior Goldstone, a gentle and well-bred man, not altogether ignorant, as Erasmus found, of the Scotian theology, himself took them back into the crypt, and lanterns were brought to illumine the dark vaults. By their light the Prior led the way into the church of Our Lady of the Undercroft, which was divided from the rest of the crypt by strong iron railings. Here the two friends saw what Erasmus might well call "a display of more than royal splendour." For here, surrounded by exquisitely carved stonework screens and a beautiful reredos with delicate traceries and mouldings, richly coloured and gilt, was the altar of Our Lady, adorned with precious ornaments and twinkling with hundreds of silver lamps. There in the central niche, under a crocketed and pinnacled canopy, stood the famous silver image of the Blessed Virgin herself. And there was the jewelled tabernacle and frontal, with its picture of the Assumption worked in gold, and the chalice and cruets in the form of angels, and the great silver candelabra with which the Black Prince had enriched his favourite shrine. There too were the costly gifts and jewels presented by his son, Richard II., the gold brooches offered yearly by Edward I., the white silk vestments, diapered with a vine pattern of blue, bequeathed by the Black Prince, and countless other rare and precious things, which filled Erasmus with envy and wonder. But then, as ill luck would have it, the Prior conducted his guests into the sacristy, where on bended knees he opened a black leathern chest, out of which he produced a parcel of ragged handkerchiefs with which St. Thomas used to wipe his face. This was too much for Dean Colet's patience, already sorely tried as it had been by what he had seen and heard. When the gentle Prior offered him one of the filthy rags as a present, he shrank back in evident disgust, and turned up his nose with an expression of contempt which filled Erasmus with shame and terror. Fortunately the Prior was a man of sense and courtesy, so he appeared to take no notice, and after giving his guests a cup of wine, politely bade them farewell. Before this Colet had alarmed his more timid friend by the bold way in which he had dared to question the priest who guarded the gilded head. He had even gone so far as to remark aloud that the saint who was so charitable in his lifetime, would surely be better pleased if some trifling part of these riches were spent in relieving the poor and destitute. Upon which the monk had glared at him with Gorgon eyes, and, Erasmus felt sure, would have turned them out of the church forthwith, had it not been for Archbishop Warham's letter. But in these words of the honest Dean we see a foreboding of the new and critical spirit that was fast undermining the old beliefs. Already the days of pilgrimages were numbered, and the glories of St. Thomas were on the wane. A few more years and the monks who guarded his treasures were rudely disturbed. The glorious Shrine was stripped of its priceless gems. The wrought gold and precious jewels were borne away in two enormous chests, such as six or seven men could barely lift. The wonderful ruby which flashed fire in the darkness was set in a ring and worn by King Harry himself on his thumb. Finally, to complete the sacrilege, the relics of the Saint were publicly burnt and his ashes scattered to the winds. Only the broken pavement and the marks of the pilgrims' knees in the stone floor were left to show future generations this spot, hallowed by the prayers and the worship of past ages. INDEX Abbotsworthy, 34 Abbott, E., "St. Thomas of Canterbury," 11 _note_ Abinger, 90; discovery of Roman remains at, 99 Addington, cromlechs at, 146 Æthelred II., 153 Agincourt, battle of, 198 Albury, 18, 82; yew hedge, 84; church, 83; Downs, 80; view from, 80; Park, 80, 87 Alexander III., Pope, 14 Alfred, King, 21, 72; founds the Abbey of Hyde, 28 Alice Holt forest, 50 Allen, Mr. Grant, 5 Alresford, 35, 38; New, cloth trade at, 39; result of the Civil Wars, 40; Old, 38 Alton, 28, 50 Anderida, forest of, 5 Apulderfelde, Thomas de, effigy of, 164 Aragon, Katherine of, portrait of, 131 Arle, ford of the, 38 Arundel, Thomas Howard, Earl of, 83; collector of the Arundel marbles, 83; portrait of, 83 Ash, 54 Ashburton, Lord, his famous Grange, 37 Ashford, 127; vale of, 184 Athelstan, 112, 134, 153, 169 Atholl, Isabel, Countess of, 183 Austen, Cassandra, 48 Austen, Jane, 46; her cottage at Chawton, 48; novels, 48; mode of life, 48; letters, 49 Avington Park, 36 Aylesford, 144; Common, 146 Badlesmere, Lord, of Leeds, 183 Baldwin, Archbishop, 172 Baliol, John, 212 Becket, St. Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, his murder, 7-9; championship for the rights of the Church, 9; journey to Canterbury, 9; miracles and cures wrought by, 10-12, 206; canonisation, 14; removal of his body, 15, 206; shrine, 16, 208-212; fame, 16; his house at Otford, 129; legends, 131; relics, 205, 207 Beggars' Corner, 58 Belloc, Hilaire, "The Old Road," vii Bentley Station, 52 Betchworth Park, 98 Bigberry Camp, 185; wood, 185 Birinus, church of, 22 Birling, 142; Place, 138 Bishop Sutton, 43 Black Prince, at Harbledown, 188; memorials of, 190; death, 191; tomb, 210 Black Prince's Well, 190 Blackdown, 80 Blagge, Mistress, portrait of, 92 Blean, forest of, 186 Bletchingley, discovery of Roman remains at, 100 Blois, Henry of, 24, 52 Bocton, Aluphus de, 178 Bohemia, Queen Anne of, the arms of, 175 Boleyn, Anne, portrait of, 67 Boniface, Archbishop, 143 Boscawen, Mrs., her birthplace, 132 Botley Hill, 118 Botolph, St., church of, 122; monuments, 122 Boughton Aluph church, 178 Boughton, Bocton or Boltune, 178 Boughton Lees, 178 Boughton Malherbe, 154 Boulogne, Eustace, Count of, 178 Box Hill, 94, 98 Boxley, the Cistercian Abbey of, 146; relics, 147 Boxley, 151; church, 152 Braboeuf Manor, 69 Brabourne, Lord, 49 Brent, Amy, 172 Brighton Downs, 107 Browne, Sir Richard, portrait of, 92 Brydges, George, 36 Buckingham, George Villiers, Duke of, 37 Buckland, 99 Bunker's Farm, 142 Bunyan, John, 101 Burford, 96 Burham church, 145 Calehill, 168 Calva, Ruald de, 77 Camden, W., 104, 195 Canterbury, routes taken by pilgrims, 3-6, 20, 28; number of, 16-18, 193, 198; characteristics, 195; the Chequers of the Hope Inn, 198; religious houses, 200; Priory of Christ Church, 200; the Omers or Homers, 200; Guest Hall, 201; the Almonry, 201 Canterbury Cathedral, the murder of Becket in, 9; "the choir of Conrad" destroyed by fire, 14; rebuilt, 14; number of pilgrims, 16-18, 193, 198; master-builders, 203; completion, 204; Transept of the Martyrdom, 205; relics, 205, 207; miracles and cures, 206; number of crusaders, 206; amount of offerings, 207; the Shrine, 208-212; the Church of Our Lady of the Undercroft, 213 Challock, 178 Chanctonbury Ring, 76, 107 Chantrey, Sir F. L., his effigy of Lady Frederica Stanhope, 124 Chantry Woods, 75 Chantry Ford, 87 Charing, 18; height of, 138; chapel, 170; church, 168, 171-173; traditions, 169; relic in, 171; destroyed by fire, 173; rebuilt, 173; fair at, 170; Hill, 168; manor, the residence of Archbishops, 170 Charles I., King, 53; Prayer Book used by, 94 Charles II., King, 36 Charterhouse 80 Chatham, Lord, his visits to Chevening, 122 Chaucer, G., lines from, 17, 186; his pilgrims, 61, 191 Chawton, 46 Cheney, Sir John, 158 Cheney, Sir Thomas, 184 Chequers of the Hope Inn, 198 Cheriton battle, 41 Chevening church, 122; monuments in, 122; manor, 121; Park, 121; village, 122 Chilham Castle, 182-184; manor-house, 184; Park, 182 Chillenden Prior, 198, 201 Chilworth, 78; powder-mills, 78-80 Ciderhouse Cottage, 75; Lane, 75 Clere, St., mansion, 132 Cobbett, Richard, 54 Cobbett, William, his "Rural Rides," 5, 35, 76, 78, 106, 109, 152; his birthplace, 54; at Albury, 84; Godstone, 114 Cold-harbour Green, 118 Colet, Dean, at Harbledown, 188-190; his visit to Canterbury Cathedral, 208; in the Church of Our Lady of the Undercroft, 213-215; treatment of the relics, 214 Colley Farm, 99; discovery of Roman remains at, 99 Compton, 58, 63, 69; church, 63 Copley, Sir Roger, 109 Corby Castle, 30 Courtenay, Archbishop, 143 Crooksbury, heights of, 54 St. Cross, Hospital of, 24 Crowborough Beacon, 107 Culpeper, Elizabeth, Lady, monument to, 158 Culpeper, John, Lord, the tapestries and altar-cloth worked by his daughters, 156; monument to, 158 Culpeper, Sir Thomas, 159 Cuxton ford, 141 Dacre, Lord, 121. _See_ Lennard Danefield, 129 Darent valley, 126 Dartford, 126 Dawkins, Prof. Boyd, 185 Day, Bishop, letter from, 68 Deane, Archbishop, 130 Deepdene Park, 98 Denbies Park, 97 Denmark, Anne of, 66; portrait of, 66 Deptford, 3 Detling, 152; height of, 138 Digges, Sir Dudley, 184 Dios, Mr., 173 Dorking, 95, 97 Dover, 3 Dover, Fulbert de, 183 Drummond, Mr., 83 Dungeness, 168 Dürer, Albert, 112 East Grinstead, 107 Eastbridge Hospital, 196 Eastwell, 176; church, 177; House, 177; Park, 126 Edinburgh, H.R.H. the Duke of, his residence Eastwell House, 177 Edward I., King, 26, 130, 142, 212; at Harbledown, 188 Edward II., King, 50; his visit to Boxley Abbey, 148 Edward III., King, 196 Edward IV., King, 173 Edward VI., King, 105; portrait of, 67 Edward, the Black Prince, at Harbledown, 188; memorials of, 190; death, 191; tomb, 210 Effingham, Lady Howard of, 105 Egbert, King, 33 Egerton Church, 168 Eleanor of Castille, Queen, 188 Elizabeth, Queen, 53; her visits to Loseley, 66; to Leeds Castle, 154 Elliston-Erwood, Mr., "The Pilgrims' Road," vi Erasmus, at Harbledown, 188-190; his impressions of Canterbury Cathedral, 192, 203; on the relics, 207; in the Church of Our Lady of the Undercroft, 213-215 Estria, Prior Henry of, 179, 202 Ethelbald, King of Wessex, 52 Ethelred the Unready, 113 Ethelwold, Bishop, 22 Evelyn, John, 78, 84; his home at Wotton, 90; portrait, 92 Evershed's Rough, 90 Ewhurst Mill, 80 Fairlawn House, 136 Fairlight hill, 168 Farnham, 52; Castle, 52 Farrer, Sir Thomas, 100 Farringford, 180 Farthing copse, 77 Fitz Urse, Reginald, 9 Froyle Park, 52 Gatton church, 111; House, 111; park, 108, 112; town hall, 110 George I., King, 121 Gethin, Dame Grace, inscription on her monument, 159 Gethin, Sir Richard, 159 Giffard, Lady, 56 St. Giles' Hill, fair at, 31 Godmersham, 50; church, 179; manor, 179; park, 178, 182 Godstone, 114; The White Hart or Clayton Arms, 114 Godwin, Earl, 168, 178 Goldstone, Prior, 203, 213 Gomshall station, 94 Gravesend, 138 Greenway Court, 157 Greenwich, 3 Gresham, Sir John, 119 Gresham, Sir Marmaduke, 119 Gresham, Sir Thomas, 119; founder of the Royal Exchange, 119; portrait, 119 Grey, Richard de, founds a Carmelite Priory, 145 Grose, F., "Antiquities of England and Wales," 77 _note_ Grove Court, 157 Guildford, 3, 51, 57, 72; fair at, 58 Gurdon, Adam de, 45, 51 Hackhurst Downs, 94 Halfpenny Lane, 77 Halling, Lower, 142; Upper, 142 Hampshire, 20 Harbledown, 179, 186; leper-house, 186; relic in, 187; royal visitors, 198; first sight of Canterbury Cathedral from, 191 Harrietsham, 160; church, monuments in, 161 Hastings, 168; Battle of, 161 Headbourne Worthy, 31; derivation of the name, 33; church, 33 _Helix pomatia_, 18 Hengist, proclaimed the first king of Kent, 146 Henry I., King, 29, 41 Henry II., King, his penance at Becket's tomb, 4, 14, 206; visit to the leper-house at Harbledown, 188 Henry III., King, 16, 24, 52, 57, 206 Henry IV., King, monument of, 208 Henry V., King, 211 Henry VI., King, 109, 161 Henry VII., King, 158; his visit to Charing, 171 Henry VIII., King, 109, 129, 130; portrait of, 131; visit to Charing, 171 Herault, Isaac, 94 Hethe, Bishop Hamo de, 142 Hindhead, 72, 76, 80, 107 Hog's Back, 54, 57, 63, 76 Holbein, Hans, 66 Holland, Mary Sybilla, 179 Hollingbourne, 152, 153; height of, 138; history, 153; church, monuments in the, 158; manor-house, 154; traditions, 154 Holm Castle, 104. _See_ Reigate Holmbury, 90 Holmesdale, valley of, 104 Honywood, Anthony, 165 Honywood, Dame Mary, 165 Horn Hatch, 101 Horne, Robert, Bishop of Winchester, letter from, 68 Hutton, W. H., "Thomas Becket," 9 _note_ Hyde, Abbey of, 28; history, 29; ruins, 30; desecration of tombs, 30 Ightham House, 136 Isabel, Queen, her reception at Chilham, 183 Islip, Simon, 130, 134 Itchen Abbas, 35, 37 Itchen river, 28, 29, 39; valley, 35 Itchen Stoke, 37 James I., King, 65; his visit to Loseley, 66; portrait, 66 James, Capt. E. Renouard, "Notes on the Pilgrims' Way in West Surrey," 101 _note_ John, King, 38, 73, 178; legend of, 82; coronation, 206 John, King of France, 188 Johnson, Mrs. Hester, 56 Jones, Sir Inigo, 121, 132 Josse, St., shrine of, 29 Julaber's grave, 183 Katherine's, St., Chapel, 69, 71; Hill, fair at, 59 Kemsing, 132; church and well, 132 Ken, Morris, 50 Kent, Aldric, king of, 129 Kent, John, brass to, 33 Kent, Pilgrims' Way through, 126 Kingsworthy, 33 Kitchin, Dean, on the fair at St. Giles' Hill, 32, 40 Kits Coty House, 145 Knight, Sir Richard, his monument in Chawton Church, 46 Knockholt down, height of, 138 Laberius, Julius, 183 Lambarde, W., 190; at Otford, 132 Lanfranc, Archbishop, 153, 169, 176; founds a lazar-house at Harbledown, 186 Langton, Stephen, Archbishop, 16 Leeds Castle, 154, 157 Leith Hill, 107 Leland, J., 170, 184, 195, 201 Len river, 161 Lenham, 161; church, 162-165; tithe barns, 165 Lennard, John, his monument, 122 Lennard, Richard, Lord Dacre, 121 Leveson, Sir John, quarterings of, 143 Leveson-Gower, Mr., 100, 119 Leyborne, Juliana de, 161, 178 Limnerslease, 69 Limpsfield Lodge Farm, 117 Littleton Cross, shrine of, 69 Long Beech Woods, 175 Loseley manor, 64; royal visitors, 66; portraits, 67; royal warrants, 67; letters, 68 Louis VII., King of France, 212 Louis VIII., King of France, 72, 105 Lucy, Bishop Godfrey, 25; rebuilds the town of Alresford, 38 Lyall, Sir Alfred, 180; his verses, 180; death, 180 Maidstone, 143 Marden Park, 116 Martha's, St., Hill, 80; chapel, 70, 76; view from, 76 Martyr's Hill, 76 Martyrsworthy, 34 Massilia, 4 Medway river, 140, 142; valley, 137, 138 Mercia, Cenulph, King of, 169 Mercia, Offa, King of, 129, 169 Meredith, G., "Diana of the Crossways," 91 _note_ Merstham, 108, 112; church, 113 Miller, Sir Hubert, 52 Milton, John, his line on the River Mole, 95 Mole river, 95, 99; valley, 94 Monks' Hatch, 69 Monks' Walk, Winchester, 31, 33 Monson, Lord, 109, 111 Moor Park, 55 More, Antonio, 119 More, Sir Christopher, 64 More, Sir William, 64 Morley, Bishop, 53 Morne Hill, 25 Morton, Cardinal, his buildings at Charing, 170 Moyle, Sir Thomas, Speaker of the House of Commons, 177 Mytens, D., his portraits, 66 Newark Hospital, 143; Priory, 77 Newcourt, Geoffery de, 174 Newcourt manor, 174 Newlands Corner, 80, 82 Nore, the, 138 Nore Hill, 46 Norfolk, Duke of, 53 North Downs, 107, 118 Nowell, Alexander, Dean of St. Paul's, letter from, 68 Nuns' Walk, Winchester, 31 Odo of Bayeux, 161 Otford, 126; manor-house, 129; battles at, 129; the Bull Inn, 131; legends, 131 Oxted, 117 Paddlesworth or Paulsford, 138 Palmer, Mr., his treatise on "Three Surrey Churches," vi Palmers Wood, 19, 116 Paternoster Lane, 19, 98 St. Paul's Cathedral, 76 Peckham, John, the Franciscan Archbishop, 170 Penenden Heath, 150; memorable assembly held at, 150 Pett Place, 174 Pette-juxta-Charing, 174 Pilgrims to Canterbury, routes taken by, 3-6, 20, 28; number of, 12, 16-18, 193, 198; traces of, 18, 58; characteristics, 60 Pilgrims' Chapel, 98 Pilgrims' Ferry, 19, 74 Pilgrims' House, 138 Pilgrims' Lodge, 19, 120 Pilgrims' Place, 43 Plantagenet, Richard, his death at Eastwell, 177 Plantagenet's Well, 177 Pray Meadows, 98 Puttenham, 58; fair at, 59; Heath, 63 Quarry Hangers, 114 Quarry Hills, 101, 168 Ranmore Common, 98 Redhill, 96 Reigate, 99, 103; chapels, 104; hill, 107; park, 106 Richard Coeur de Lion, his return from the Holy Land, 171; at Harbledown, 188; Canterbury, 206 Richard III., King, 177 Ripley, 77 Robbers' or Roamers Moor, 58 Robertson, T. C., "Materials for the History of Archbishop Becket," 12 _note_ Rochester, 3, 141 Romney Marsh, 168 Rood, the miraculous, or winking image, 148 Ropley, 43 Rotherfield Park, 43 Rumbold, St., the image of, 147 Rupibus, Peter de, 45 Rutupine, Port, 4 Salisbury, John of, Bishop of Chartres, 12 Saltwood Castle, 9 Sandwich Haven, 3, 4, 73 Sandy Lane, 69 Scott, Sir Walter, on the death of Jane Austen, 50 Seale, 58; church, 59 Selborne, 44 Sellyng, Prior William, 154, 203 Sesto, Cesare da, 111 Sevenoaks, 107 Shalford, 74; fair at, 59, 74; park, 75 Shere, 88; church, 87 Shoelands, manor-house of, 58 Shooters' Hill, 138 Shrewsbury, Francis, Earl of, 37 Shrewsbury, Lady, 36 Shrewsbury, Roger de Montgomery, Earl of, 64 Silchester, 28 Silent Pool, 82; legend of, 82 Sittingbourne, 3 Snails, or _Helix pomatia_, 18 Snodland, limestone works, 137, 140 Snowden-Ward, Mr. H., "The Canterbury Pilgrimages," vi Somers, Earl, 106 Somerset, Lady Henry, 106 South Downs, 76 South Leith Hill, 76 Southampton, 3, 20, 35 Spenser, Edmund, his lines on the Mole, 95 Stane Street, 97 Stanhope, Charles, Earl, 122 Stanhope, General, 121 Stanhope, Lady Frederica, effigy of, 124 Stanhope, Lady Hester, 122 Stanhope, James, Earl, monument to, 124 Stanley, Dean, 5; extract from his account of the Canterbury pilgrimage, 6; on the characteristics of pilgrims, 60 Stede, Sir William, monument to, 161 Stede Hill, 160 Stour river, 162, 196; valley, 182, 185 Strangers' Hall, Winchester, 26 Stratford, Archbishop, 196, 197; at Charing, 170 Sudbury, Simon of, 193 Surrenden Dering, 168 Sussex Downs, 168 Swift, J., 56 Swithun, St., Bishop of Winchester, 3; his shrine, 21; removal of his bones, 22; miracles wrought, 22; number of pilgrims to his shrine, 25 Tatsfield church, 120 Temple, Sir William, 56 Thames river, 126; valley, 76, 138 Thomas', St., Hill, 195; Hospital, 196; Well, 117 Thurnham, 152 Tichborne, Isabella, 41 Tichborne, Sir Roger, 41 Tichborne Park, 41; legend of the Dole, 41-43 Tillingbourne stream, 87 Titsey Park, 117; discovery of Roman remains at, 100; Place, 117 Trottescliffe (Trosley), 138 Tunbridge Wells, 107 Tupper, Martin, 82 Tyting's Farm, 77 Vandyck, A., portrait by, 83 Vane, Sir Harry, 136 Vigo Inn, 138 Vinci, Leonardo da, iii Walkelin, Bishop, his church, 25 Walter, Archbishop Hubert, 196, 206 Wanborough, 59; church, 60 War Camp or Cardinal's Cap, 114 Warham, Archbishop, 149, 171, 208 Warrenne, William of, 104 Watling Street, 141, 186 Watts, George Frederic, 69 Wauncey, Richard de, 69 Waverley Abbey, 56, 59 Waynflete, Bishop William of, 45, 78 Wen, the, 5 Wessex, 21 Westerham, 121 Westhumble Lane, 98 Weston Wood, 80 Westwell, 175; church, 175; manor, 176 Wey, river, 51, 57, 72, 75 White, Gilbert, his house at Selborne, 44 White Hill Downs, 114 Whiteway End, 57 Whitgift, Archbishop, 196 Whorne Place, 142 Wibert, Prior, 203 Wickens, manor-house, 172 Wilberforce, Samuel, Bishop of Winchester, place of his death, 90 William III., King, 56, 106 William, King of Scotland, at Canterbury, 206 Winchelsea, Archbishop, 130, 164; his enthronement, 194; death, 194; statutes, 201 Winchester, 3, 20; the shrine of St. Swithun, 21; number of churches and chapels, 22; buildings, 24; number of pilgrims, 25; Nuns' Walk, 31; St. Giles' Hill, fair at, 31 Winders' Hill, 116 Windsor Castle, 76 Wolsey, Cardinal, 149 Wolvesey, castle of, 24, 29 Wotton, 90 Wotton, Sir Henry, 154 Wren, Christopher, 36 Wriothesley, Thomas, his treatment of the Abbey of Hyde, 29 Wrotham, 132; church, 135; hill, 135; manor-house, 134; palace, 136 Wulfstan, on the removal of St. Swithun's bones, 22 Wykeham, William of, 24, 25, 45 Wye, the, 184 Yaldham, manor of, 136 Yew trees, 6, 82, 84, 94, 99, 108, 126 PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY, ENGLAND. FOOTNOTES: [1] W. H. Hutton, "Thomas Becket," p. 249. [2] E. Abbott, "St. Thomas of Canterbury," i. 223. [3] T. C. Robertson, "Materials for the History of Archbishop Becket," ii. 47, iv. 145. [4] _Op. cit._ p. 322. [5] "Anonymus Lambethiensis. Materials," ii. 140. [6] "Thomas Saga," ii. 202. [7] Hyde Bourne. [8] Grose, "Antiquities of England and Wales," v. 110. [9] Meredith's novel, "Diana of the Crossways," takes its name from this farm. [10] Captain E. Renouard James, whose "Notes on the Pilgrims' Way in West Surrey" will be found to supply much valuable local information. (London, Edward Stanford, 1871.) * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: ten gold growns=> ten gold crowns {pg 188} Alresford, 35, 38; New, cloth frade at, 39;=> Alresford, 35, 38; New, cloth trade at, 39; {pg 217} 


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   THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS IN WORDS OF ONE SYLLABLE by Mary Godolphin AUTHOR'S PREFACE In offering to the public another volume on my plan of reducing popular tales into words of One Syllable exclusively, I wish it to be clearly understood that it is intended for Adult Beginners, no less than for Children. There is a large class of persons who do not begin to acquire the art of reading till somewhat late in life, and it is for such that I think a book of this Character is peculiarly applicable. It may be objected that my system involves the use of words which, though short, are difficult to understand and might be made more intelligible in polysyllabic language. But I have endeavored as far as possible to avoid hard and technical expressions, and I cannot but think that the mere fact of the brevity of the words must be a great attraction to beginners of all ages. By this method the labor of dividing and accentuating words is avoided: a difficulty which pupils who have only attained to the knowledge of monosyllables cannot conquer by independent effort. I take this opportunity of acknowledging the great favor with which my previous books of the same character have been received, and I am glad to hear that they have been found useful as Prizes in Schools. I have thought it necessary to retain all the names of Persons and Places in their original form, but this is the only exception to my general rule. PILGRIM'S PROGRESS PART I. As I went through the wild waste of this world, I came to a place where there was a den, and I lay down in it to sleep. While I slept I had a dream, and lo! I saw a man whose clothes were in rags and he stood with his face from his own house, with a book in his hand, and a great load on his back. I saw him read from the leaves of a book, and as he read, he wept and shook with fear; and at length he broke out with a loud cry, and said, What shall I do to save my soul? So in this plight he went home, and as long as he could he held his peace, that his wife and babes should not see his grief. But at length he told them his mind, and thus he spoke, O my dear wife, and you my babes, I, your dear friend, am full of woe, for a load lies hard on me; and more than this, I have been told that our town will be burnt with fire, in which I, you my wife, and you my sweet babes, shall be lost, if means be not found to save us. This sad tale struck all who heard him with awe, not that they thought what he said to them was true, but that they had fears that some weight must be on his mind; so, as night now drew near, they were in hopes that sleep might soothe his brain, and with all haste they got him to bed. When the morn broke, they sought to know how he did? He told them, Worse and worse; and he set to talk once more in the same strain as he had done; but they took no heed of it. By and by, to drive off his fit, they spoke harsh words to him; at times they would laugh, at times they would chide, and then set him at nought. So he went to his room to pray for them, as well as to nurse his own grief. He would go, too, into the woods to read and muse, and thus for some weeks he spent his time. Now I saw, in my dream, that one day as he took his walk in the fields with his book in his hand, he gave a groan,--for he felt as if a cloud were on his soul,--and he burst out as he was wont to do, and said, Who will save me? I saw, too, that he gave wild looks this way and that, as if he would rush off; yet he stood still, for he could not tell which way to go. At last, a man, whose name was Evangelist, came up to him and said, Why dost thou weep? He said, Sir, I see by this book in my hand that I am to die, and that then God will judge me. Now I dread to die. Evangelist.--Why do you fear to die, since this life is fraught with woe? The man said, I fear lest a hard doom should wait me, and that this load on my back will make me sink down, till at last, I shall find I am in Tophet. If this be your case, said Evangelist, why do you stand still? But the man said, I know not where to go. Then he gave him a scroll with these words on it, Fly from the wrath to come. When the man read it he said, Which way must I fly? Evangelist held out his hand to point to a gate in the wide field, and said, Do you see the Wicket Gate? The man said, No. Do you see that light? He then said, I think I do. Keep that light in your eye, quoth Evangelist, and go straight up to it; so shall you see the gate, at which, when you knock, it shall be told you what you are to do. Then I saw in my dream that Christian--for that was his name--set off to run. Now he had not gone far from his own door, when his wife and young ones, who saw him, gave a loud wail to beg of him to come back; but the man put his hands to his ears, and ran on with a cry of Life! Life! The friends of his wife, too, came out to see him run, and as he went, some were heard to mock him, some to use threats, and there were two who set off to fetch him back by force, the names of whom were Obstinate and Pliable. Now, by this time, the man had gone a good way off, but at last they came up to him. Then said Christian, Friends, why are you come? To bid you go back with us, said they. But, quoth he, that can by no means be; you dwell in the City of Destruction, the place where I, too, was born. I know it to be so, and there you will die and sink down to a place which burns with fire; be wise, good friends, and come with me. What! and leave our good, and all out kith and kin? Yes, said Christian, for that all which you might leave is but a grain to that which I seek, and if you will go with me and hold it firm, you shall fare as well as I; for there, where I go, you will find all you want and to spare. Come with me, and prove my words. Obstinate.--What are the things you seek, since you leave all the world to find them? Christian.--I seek those joys that fade not, which are laid up in a place of bliss--safe there for those who go in search of them. Read it so, if you will, in my book. Obstinate.--Tush! Off with your book. Will you go back with us or no? Christian.--No, not I, for I have laid my hand to the plough. Obstinate.--Come, friend Pliable, let us turn back and leave him; there is a troop of such fools who, when they take up with a whim by the end, are more wise in their own eyes than ten men who know how to think. Pliable.--Nay, do not scorn him; if what the good Christian says is true, the things he looks to are of more worth than ours: my heart leans to what he says. Obstinate.--What! more fools still! Go back, go back, and be wise. Christian.--Nay, but do you come with your friend Pliable; there are such things to be had as those I just spoke of, and more too. If you give no heed to me, read here in this book which comes to us from God, who could not lie. Pliable.--Well, friend Obstinate, I think now I have come to a point; and I mean to go with this good man, and to cast my lot in with his. Then said he to Christian, Do you know the way to the place you speak of? Christian.--I am told by a man whose name is Evangelist, to do my best to reach a gate that is in front of us, where I shall be told how to find the way. So they went on side by side. Obstinate.--And I will go back to my place; I will not be one of such vain folk. Now I saw in my dream, that when Obstinate was gone back, Christian and Pliable set off to cross the plain, and they spoke thus as they went:-- Christian.--Well, Pliable, how do you do now? I am glad you have a mind to go with me. Pliable.--Come, friend Christian, since there are none but we two here, tell me more of the things of which we go in search. Christian.--I can find them in my heart, though I know not how to speak of them with my tongue; but yet, since you wish to know, this book tells us of a world that hast no bounds, and a life that has no end. Pliable.--Well said, and what else? Christian.--That there are crowns of light in store for us, and robes that will make us shine like the sun. Pliable.--This, too, is good; and what else? Christian.--That there shall be no more care nor grief for he that owns the place will wipe all tears from our eyes. Pliable.--And what friends shall we find there? Christian.--There we shall be with all the saints, in robes so bright that our eyes will grow dim to look on them. There shall we meet those who in this world have stood out for the faith, and have been burnt on the stake, and thrown to wild beasts, for the love they bore to the Lord. They will not harm us, but will greet us with love, for they all walk in the sight of God. Pliable.--But how shall we get to share all this? Christian.--The Lord of that land saith, if we wish to gain that world we shall be free to have it. Pliable.--Well, my good friend, glad am I to hear of these thing: come on, let us mend our pace. Christian.--I can not go so fast as I would, for this load on my back. Then I saw in my dream that just as they had come to an end of this talk, they drew near to a slough that was in the midst of the plain, and as they took no heed, they both fell in. The name of the slough was Despond. Here they lay for a time in the mud; and the load that Christian had on his back made him sink all the more in the mire. Pliable.--Ah! friend Christian, where are you now? Christian.--In truth, I do no know. Then Pliable said to his friend, Is this the bliss of which you have told me all this while? If we have such ill speed when we first set out, what may we look for twixt this and the end of our way? And with that he got out of the mire on that side of the slough which was next to his own house; then off he went, and Christian saw him no more. So Christian was left to strive in the Slough of Despond as well as he could; yet his aim was to reach that side of the slough that was next The Wicket Gate, which at last he did, but he could not get out for the load that was on his back; till I saw in my dream that a man came to him whose name was Help. What do you do here? said Help. Christian.--I was bid to go this way by Evangelist, who told me to pass up to yon gate, that I might flee from the wrath to come, and on my way to it I fell in here. Help.--But why did you not look for the steps? Christian.--Fear came so hard on me that I fled the next way and fell in. Help.--Give me your hand. So he gave him his hand, and he drew him out, and set him on firm ground, and bade him go on his way. Then in my dream I went up to Help and said to him, Sir, since this place is on the way from The City of Destruction to The Wicket Gate, how is it that no one mends this patch of ground, so that those who come by may not fall in the slough? Help.--This slough is such a place as no one can mend. It is the spot to which doth run the scum and filth that wait on sin, and that is why men call it the Slough of Despond. When the man of sin wakes up to a sense of his own lost state, doubts and fears rise up in his soul, and all of them drain down and sink in this place: and it is this that makes the ground so bad. True there are good and sound steps in the midst of the slough, but at times it is hard to see them; or if they be seen, men's heads are so dull that they step on one side, and fall in the mire. But the ground is good when they have once got in at the gate. Now I saw in my dream that by this time Pliable had gone back to his house once more, and that his friends came to see him: some said how wise it was to come home, and some that he was a fool to have gone. Some, too, were found to mock him, who said--Well, had I set out, I would not have been so base as to come back for a slough in the road. So Pliable was left to sneak off; but at last he got more heart, and then all were heard to turn their taunts, and laugh at poor Christian. Thus much for Pliable. Now as Christian went on his way he saw a man come through the field to meet him, whose name was Mr. Worldly Wiseman, and he dwelt in the town of Carnal Policy, which was near that whence Christian came. He had heard some news of Christian; for his flight from The City of Destruction had made much noise, and was now the talk far and near. So he said, How now, good Sir, where do you go with such a load on your back? Christian.--In truth, it is a load; and if you ask me where I go, I must tell you, Sir, I must go the The Wicket Gate in front of me, for there I shall be put in a way to get quit of my load. Worldly Wiseman.--Have you not a wife and babes? Christian.--Yes, but with this load I do not seem to care for them as I did; and, in truth, I feel as if I had none. Worldly Wiseman.--Will you hear me if I speak my mind to you? Christian.--If what you say be good, I will, for I stand much in need of help. Worldly Wiseman.--I would urge you then, with all speed, to get rid of your load; for you will not be at rest till then. Christian.--That is just what I seek to do. But there is no man in our land who can take if off me. Worldly Wiseman.--Who bade you go this way to be rid of it? Christian.--One that I took to be a great and true man; his name is Evangelist. Worldly Wiseman.--Hark at what I say: there is no worse way in the world than that which he has sent you, and that you will find if you take him for your guide. In this short time you have met with bad luck, for I see the mud of the Slough of Despond is on your coat. Hear me, for I have seen more of the world than you; in the way you go, you will meet with pain, woe, thirst, the sword too,--in a word, death! Take no heed of what Evangelist tells you. Christian.--Why, Sir, this load on my back is worse to me than all those things which you speak of; nay, I care not what I meet with in the way, if I can but get rid of my load. Worldly Wiseman.--How did you come by it at first? Christian.--Why, I read this book. Worldly Wiseman.--Like more weak men I know, who aim at things too high for them you have lost heart, and run in the dark at great risk, to gain you know not what. Christian.--I know what I would gain, it is ease for my load. Worldly Wiseman.--But why will you seek for ease thus, when I could put you in the way to aid it where there would be no risk; and the cure is at hand. Christian.--Pray, Sir, tell me what that way is. Worldly Wiseman.--Well, in yon town, which you can see from hence--the name of which is Morality--there dwells a man whose name is Legality, a wise man, and a man of some rank, who has skill to help men off with such loads as yours from their backs; I know he has done a great deal for good in that way; aye, and he has the skill to cure those who, from the loads they bear, are not quite sound in their wits. To him as I said, you may go and get help. His house in but a mile from this place, and should he not be at home, he has a son whose name is Civility, who can do it just as well as his sire. There, I say, you may go to get rid of your load. I would not have you go back to your old home, but you can send for your wife and babes, and you will find that food there is cheap and good. Now was Christian brought to a stand; but by and by he said, Sir, which is my way to this good man's house? Worldly Wiseman.--Do you see that hill? Christian.--Yes, I do. Worldly Wiseman.--By that hill you must go, and the first house you come to is his. So Christian went out of his way to find Mr. Legality's house to seek for help. But, lo, when he had got close up to the hill, it was so steep and high that he had fear lest it should fall on his head; so he stood still, for he knew not what to do. His load, too, was of more weight to him than when he was on the right road. Then came flames of fire out of the hill, that made him quake for fear lest he should be burnt. And now it was a great grief to him that he had lent his ear to Worldly Wiseman; and it was well that he just then saw Evangelist come to meet him; though at the sight of him he felt a deep blush on his face for shame. So Evangelist drew near, and when he came up to him, he said, with a sad look; What dost thou here, Christian? To these words Christian knew not what to say, so he stood quite mute. Then Evangelist went on thus: Art not thou the man that I heard cry in The City of Destruction? Christian.--Yes, dear Sir, I am the man. Evangelist.--Did not I point out to thee the way to the Wicket Gate? Christian.--Yes, you did, Sir. Evangelist.--How is it, then, that thou hast so soon gone out of the way? Christian.--When I had got out of the Slough of Despond I met a man who told me that in a town near, I might find one who could take off my load. Evangelist.--What was he? Christian.--He had fair looks, and said much to me, and got me at last to yield; so I came here. But when I saw this hill, and how steep it was, I made a stand, lest it should fall on my head. Evangelist.--What said the man to thee? When Evangelist had heard from Christian all that took place, he said: Stand still a while, that I may show thee the words of God. So Evangelist went on to read, 'Now the just shall live by faith, but if a man draw back, my soul shall have no joy in him.' Is not this the case with thee? said he: Hast not thou drawn back thy feet from the way of peace, to thine own cost; and dost thou not spurn the most high God? Then Christian fell down at his feet as dead, and said: Woe is me! Woe is me! At the sight of which, Evangelist caught him by the right hand, and said: Faith hopes all things. Then did Christian find some peace, and stood up. Evangelist.--I pray thee give more heed to the things that I shall tell thee of. The Lord says, 'Strive to go in at the strait gate, the gate to which I send thee, for strait is the gate that leads to life, and few there be that find it.' Why didst thou set at nought the words of God, for the sake of Mr. Worldly Wiseman? That is, in truth, the right name for such as he. The Lord hath told thee that he who will save his life shall lose it.' He to whom thou wast sent for ease, Legality by name, could not set thee free; no man yet has got rid of his load through him; he could but show thee the way to woe, for by the deeds of the law no man can be rid of his load. So that Mr. Worldly Wiseman and his friend Mr. Legality are false guides; and as for his son Civility, he could not help thee. Now Christian, in great dread, could think of nought but death, and sent forth a sad cry in grief that he had gone from the right way. Then he spoke once more to Evangelist in these words:--Sir, what think you? Is there hope? May I now go back, and strive to reach The Wicket Gate? I grieve that I gave ear to this man's voice; but may my sin find grace? Evangelist.--Thy sin is great, for thou hast gone from the way that is good, to tread in false paths, yet will the man at the gate let thee through, for he has love and good will for all men; but take heed that thou turn not to the right hand or to the left. Then did Christian make a move to go back, and Evangelist gave him a kiss and one smile, and bade him God speed. So he went on with haste, nor did he speak on the road; and could by no means feel safe till he was in the path which he had left. In time, he got up to the gate. And as he saw by the words which he read on it, that those who would knock could go in, he gave two or three knocks, and said: May I go in here? At last there came a great man to the gate, whose name was Good-will, and he said: Who is there; whence come you, and what would you have? Christian.--I come from The City of Destruction with a load of Sins on my back; but I am on my way to Mount Zion, that I may be free from the wrath to come; and as I have been told that my way is through this gate, I would know, Sir, if you will let me in? Good-will.--With all my heart. So he flung back the gate. But just as Christian went in, he gave him a pull. Then said Christian: What means that? Good-will told him that a short way from this gate there was a strong fort, of which Beelzebub was the chief, and that from thence he and the rest that dwelt there shot darts at those that came up to the gate to try if they could kill them ere they got in. Then said Christian: I come in with joy and with fear. So when he had gone in, the man at the gate said: Who sent you here? Christian.--Evangelist bade me come and knock (as I did); and he said that you, Sir, would tell me what I must do. Good-will.--The door is thrown back wide for you to come in, and no man can shut it. Christian.--Now I seem to reap the good of all the risks I have met with on the way. Good-will.--But how is it that no one comes with you? Christian.--None of my friends saw that there was cause of fear, as I did. Good-will.--Did they know of your flight? Christian.--Yes, my wife and young ones saw me go, and I heard their cries as they ran out to try and stop me. Some of my friends, too, would have had me come home, but I put my hands to my ears, and so came on my way. Good-will.--But did none of them come out to beg of you to go back? Christian.--Yes, both Obstinate and Pliable came, but when they found that I would not yield, Obstinate went home, but Pliable came with me as far as the Slough of Despond. Good-will.--Why did he not come through it? When Christian told him the rest, he said: Ah, poor man! Is a world of bliss such a small thing to him, that he did not think it worth while to run a few risks to gain it? Sir, said Christian, there is not much to choose twixt him and me. Then he told Good-will how he had been led from the straight path by Mr. Worldly Wiseman. Good-will.--Oh, did he light on you? What! He would have had you seek for ease at the hands of Mr. Legality. They are, in truth, both of them cheats. And did you take heed of what he said? Christian then told him all. But now that I am come, said he, I am more fit for death, than to stand and talk to my Lord. But oh, the joy it is to me to be here! Good-will.--We keep none out that knock at this gate, let them have done what they may ere they came here; for they are 'in no wise cast out.' So, good Christian, come with me, and I will teach you the way you must go. Look in front. That is the way which was laid down by Christ and the wise men of old, and it is as straight as a rule can make it. Christian.--But is there no turn or bend by which one who knows not the road might lose his way? Good-will.--My friend, there are not a few that lead down to it, and these paths are wide: yet by this you may judge the right from the wrong--the right are straight and are by no means wide. Then I saw in my dream that Christian said: Could you not help me off with this load on my back?--for as yet he had not got rid of it. He was told: As to your load, you must bear it till you come to the place of Deliverance, for there it will fall from your back. Then Christian would have set off on the road; but Good-will said: Stop a while and let me tell you that when you have gone through the gate you will see the house of Mr. Interpreter, at whose door you must knock, and he will show you good things. Then Christian took leave of his friend, who bade him God speed. He now went on till he came to the house at the door of which he was to knock; this he did two or three times. At last one came to the door and said: Who is there? Christian.--I have come to see the good man of the house. So in a short time Mr. Interpreter came to him and said: What would you have? Christian.--Sir, I am come from The City of Destruction, and am on my way to Mount Zion. I was told by the man that stands at the gate, that if I came here you would show me good things that would help me. Then Interpreter took Christian to a room, and bade his man bring a light, and there he saw on the wall the print of one who had a grave face, whose eyes were cast up to the sky, and the best of books was in His hand, the law of truth was on His lips, and the world was at His back. He stood as if He would plead for men, and a crown of gold hung near his head. Christian.--What does this mean? Interpreter.--I have shown you this print first, for this is He who is to be your sole guide when you can not find your way to the land to which you go; so take good heed to what I have shown you, lest you meet with some who would feign to lead you right; but their way goes down to death. Then he took him to a large room that was full of dust, for it had not been swept; and Interpreter told his man to sweep it. Now when he did so, such clouds of dust flew up, that it made Christian choke. Then said Interpreter to a maid that stood by; Make the floor moist that the dust may not rise; and when she had done this, it was swept with ease. Christian.--What means this? Interpreter.--This room is the heart of that man who knows not the grace of God. The dust is his first sin and the vice that is in him. He that swept first is the Law, but she who made the floor moist is The Book which tells Good News to Man. Now as soon as you saw the first of these sweep, the dust did so fly that the room could not be made clean by him; this is to show you that the law as it works does not cleanse the heart from sin, but gives strength to sin, so as to rouse it up in the soul. Then you next saw the maid come in to lay the dust; so is sin made clean and laid low by faith in The Book. Now, said Christian, let me go hence. Well, said Interpreter, keep all things so in thy mind that they may be a goad in thy sides; and may faith guide thee! Then I saw in my dream that the high way which Christian was to tread, had a wall on each side, and the name of that wall was Salvation. Up this high way did Christian run, but with great toil for the load on his back. He ran thus till he drew near to a place on which stood a cross, and at the foot of it a tomb. Just as Christian came up to the cross, his load slid from his back, close to the mouth of the tomb, where it fell in, and I saw it no more. Then was Christian glad, and said with a gay heart: He gives me rest by his grief, and life by his death. Yet he stood still for a while, for he was struck with awe to think that the sight of the cross should thus ease him of his load. Three or four times did he look on the cross and the tomb, and the tears rose to his eyes. As he stood thus and wept, lo, three Bright Ones came to him, and one of them said: Peace be to thee! thou hast grace from thy sins. And one came up to him to strip him of his rags and put a new robe on him, while the third set a mark on his face, and gave him a roll with a seal on it, which he bade him look on as he went, and give it at The Celestial Gate; and then they left him. Christian gave three leaps for joy, and sang as he went: Ah, what a place is this! Blest cross! Blest tomb! Nay, blest is the Lord that was put to shame for me! He went on thus till he came to a vale where he saw three men who were in a sound sleep, with chains on their feet. The name of one was Simple, one Sloth, and the third Presumption. As Christian saw them lie in this case, he went to wake them, and said: You are like those that sleep on the top of a mast, for the Dead Sea is at your feet. Wake, rise, and come with me. Trust me, and I will help you off with your chains. With that they cast their eyes up to look at him, and Simple said: I would fain take more sleep. Presumption said: Let each man look to his own. And so they lay down to sleep once more. Then I saw in my dream that two men leapt from the top of the wall and made great haste to come up to him. Their names were Formalist and Hypocrisy. Christian.--Sirs, whence come you, and where do you go? Formalist and Hypocrisy.--We were born in the land of Vain-glory, and are on our way to Mount Zion for praise. Christian.--Why came you not in at the Gate? Know you not that he that comes not in at the door, but climbs up to get in, the same is a thief? They told him that to go through the gate was too far round; that the best way was to make a short cut of it, and climb the wall, as they had done. Christian.--But what will the Lord of the town to which we are bound think of it, if we go not in the way of his will? They told Christian that he had no need for care on that score, for long use had made it law, and they could prove that it had been so for years. Christian.--But are you quite sure that your mode will stand a suit at law? Yes, said they, no doubt of it. And if we get in the road at all, pray what are the odds? If we are in, we are in; you are but in the way, who come in at the gate, and we too are in the way that choose to climb the wall. Is not our case as good as yours? Christian.--I walk by the rule of my Lord, but you walk by the rule of your own lusts. The Lord of the way will count you as thieves, and you will not be found true men in the end. I saw then that they all went on till they came to the foot of the Hill of Difficulty, where there was a spring. There were in the same place two more ways, one on the left hand and one on the right; but the path that Christian was told to take went straight up the hill, and its name is Difficulty, and he saw that the way of life lay there. Now when Christian got as far as the Spring of Life he drank of it, and then went up the hill. But when the two men saw that it was steep and high, and that there were three ways to choose from, one of them took the path the name of which is Danger, and lost his way in a great wood, and one of them went by the road of Destruction, which led him to a wide field full of dark rocks, where he fell, and rose no more. I then saw Christian go up the hill, where at first I could see him run, then walk, and then go on his hands and knees, so steep was it. Now half way up was a cave made by the Lord of that hill, that those who came by might rest there. So here Christian sat down, and took out the scroll and read it, till at last he fell off in a deep sleep which kept him there till it was dusk; and while he slept his scroll fell from his hand. At length a man came up to him and woke him, and said: Go to the ant, thou man of sloth, and learn of her to be wise. At this Christian gave a start, and sped on his way, and went at a quick pace. When he had got near to the top of the hill, two men ran up to meet him, whose names were Timorous and Mistrust, to whom Christian said, Sirs, what ails you? You run the wrong way. Timorous said that Zion was the hill they meant to climb, but that when they had got half way they found that they met with more and more risk, so that great fear came on them, and all they could do was to turn back. Yes, said Mistrust, for just in front of us there lay two beasts of prey in our path; we knew not if they slept or not, but we thought that they would fall on us and tear our limbs. Christian.--You rouse my fears. Where must I fly to be safe? If I go back to my on town (Destruction) I am sure to lose my life, but if I can get to The Celestial City, there shall I be safe. To turn back is death; to go on is fear of death, but when I come there, a life of bliss that knows no end. I will go on yet. So Mistrust and Timorous ran down the hill and Christian went on his way. Yet he thought once more of what he had heard from the men, and then he felt in his cloak for his scroll, that he might read it and find some peace. He felt for it but found it not. Then was Christian in great grief, and knew not what to do for the want of that which was to be his pass to The Celestial City. At last, thought he: I slept in the cave by the side of the hill. So he fell down on his knees to pray that God would give him grace for this act; and then went back to look for his scroll. But as he went, what tongue can tell the grief of Christian's heart? Oh, fool that I am! said he, to sleep in the day time; so to give way to the flesh as to use for ease that rest which the Lord of the hill had made but for the help of the soul! Thus, then, with tears and sighs, he went back, and with much care did he look on this side and on that for his scroll. At length he came near to the cave where he had sat and slept. How far, thought Christian, have I gone in vain! Such was the lot of the Jews for their sin; they were sent back by the way of the Red Sea; and I am made to tread those steps with grief which I might have trod with joy, had it not been for this sleep. How far might I have been on my way by this time! I am made to tread those steps thrice which I need not to have trod but once; yea, now too I am like to be lost in the night, for the day is well nigh spent. O that I had not slept! Now by this time he had come to the vale once more, where for a spell he sat down and wept; but at last, as he cast a sad glance at the foot of the bench, he saw his scroll, which he caught up with haste, and put in his cloak. Words are too weak to tell the joy of Christian when he had got back his scroll. He laid it up in the breast of his coat and gave thanks to God. With what a light step did he now climb the hill! But, ere he got to the top, the sun went down on Christian, and he soon saw that two wild beast stood in his way. Ah, thought he, these beasts range in the night for their prey; and if they should meet with me in the dark, how should I fly from them? I see now the cause of all those fears that drove Mistrust and Timorous back. Still Christian went on, and while he thought thus on this sad lot he cast up his eyes and saw a great house in front of him, the name of which was Beautiful, and it stood just by the side of the high road. So he made haste and went on in the hope that he could rest there a while. The name of the man who kept the lodge of that house was Watchful, and when he saw that Christian made a halt as if he would go back, he came out to him and said: Is thy strength so small? Fear not the two wild beasts, for they are bound by chains, and are put here to try the faith of those that have it, and to find out those that have none. Keep in the midst of the path and no harm shall come to thee. Then I saw, in my dream, that still he went on in great dread of the wild beasts; he heard them roar, yet they did him no harm; but when he had gone by them he went on with joy, till he came and stood in front of the lodge where Watchful dwelt. Christian.--Sir, what house is this? May I rest here to night? Watchful.--This house was built by the Lord of the Hill to give aid to those who climb up it for the good cause. Tell me, whence come you? Christian.--I am come from the Town of Destruction, and am on my way to Mount Zion; but the day is far spent, and I would, with your leave, pass the night here. Watchful.--What is your name? Christian.--My name is now Christian, but at first it was Graceless. Watchful.--How is it you came so late? The sun is set. Christian then told him why it was. Watchful.--Well, I will call one that lives here, who, if she like your talk, will let you come in, for these are the rules of the house. So he rang a bell, at the sound of which there came out at the door a grave and fair maid, whose name was Discretion. When Watchful told her why Christian had come there, she said: What is your name? It is Christian, said he, and I much wish to rest here to night, and the more so for I see this place was build by the Lord of the Hill, to screen those from harm who come to it. So she gave a smile, but the tears stood in her eyes; and in a short time she said: I will call forth two or three more of our house, and then she ran to the door and brought in Prudence, Piety, and Charity, who met him and said: Come in, thou blest of the Lord; this house was built by the King of the Hill for such as you. Then Christian bent down his head, and went with them to the house. Piety.--Come, good Christian, since our love prompts us to take you in to rest, let us talk with you of all that you have seen on your way. Christian.--With a right good will, and I am glad that you should ask it of me. Prudence.--And, first, say what is it that makes you wish so much to go to Mount Zion? Christian.--Why there I hope to see Him that did die on the Cross; and there I hope to be rid of all those thing that to this day grieve and vex me. There, they say, is no death; and there I shall dwell with such as love the Lord. Charity.--Have you a wife and babes? Christian.--Yes, I have. Charity.--And why did you not bring them with you? Christian then wept, and said: Oh, how glad should I have been to do so! but they would not come with me, nor have me leave them. Charity.--And did you pray to God to put it in their hearts to go with you? Christian.--Yes, and that with much warmth, for you may think how dear they were to me. Thus did Christian talk with these friends till it grew dark, and then he took his rest in a large room, the name of which was Peace; there he slept till break of day, and then he sang a hymn. They told him that he should not leave till they had shown him all the rare things that were in that place. There were to be seen the rod of Moses, the nail with which Jail slew Sisera, the lamps with which Gideon put to flight the host of Midian, and the ox goad with which Shamgar slew his foes. And they brought out the jaw bone of an ass with which Samson did such great feats, and the sling and stone with which David slew Goliath of Gath. Then I saw in my dream that Christian rose to take his leave of Discretion, and of Prudence, Piety, and Charity, but they said that he must stay till the next day, that they might show him The Delectable Mountains; so they took him to the top of the house, and bade him look to the South, which he did, and lo, a great way off, he saw a rich land, full of hills, woods, vines, shrubs, and streams. What is the name of this land? said Christian. Then they told him it was Immanuel's Land. And, said they, It is as much meant for you, and the like of you, as this hill is; and when you reach the place, there you may see the gate of The Celestial City. Then they gave him a sword, and put on him a coat of mail, which was proof from head to foot, lest he should meet some foe in the way; and they went with him down the hill. Of a truth, said Christian, it is as great a toil to come down the hill as it was to go up. Prudence.--So it is, for it is a hard thing for a man to go down to The Vale of Humiliation, as thou dost now, and for this cause have we come with you to the foot of the hill. So, though he went with great care, yet he caught a slip or two. Then in my dream I saw that when they had got to the foot of the hill, these good friends of Christian's gave him a loaf of bread, a flask of wine, and a bunch of dry grapes; and then they left him to go on his way. But now in this Vale of Humiliation poor Christian was hard put to it, for he had not gone far, ere he saw a foe come in the field to meet him, whose name was Apollyon. Then did Christian fear, and he cast in his mind if he would go back or stand his ground. But Christian thought that as he had no coat of mail on his back, to turn round might give Apollyon a chance to pierce it with his darts. So he stood his ground, For, thought he, if but to save my life were all I had in view, still the best way would be to stand. So he went on, and Apollyon met him with looks of scorn. Apollyon.--Whence come you, and to what place are you bound? Christian.--I am come from The City of Destruction, which is a place of all sin, and I am on my way to Zion. Apollyon.--By this I see you are mine, for of all that land I am the Prince. How is it, then, that you have left your king? Were it not that I have a hope that you may do me more good, I would strike you to the ground with one blow. Christian.--I was born in your realm, it is true, but you drove us too hard, and your wage was such as no man could live on. Apollyon.--No prince likes to lose his men, nor will I as yet lose you; so if you will come back, what my realm yields I will give you. Christian.--But I am bound by vows to the King of Kings; and how can I, to be true, go back with you? Apollyon.--You have made a change, it seems, from bad to worse; but why not give Him the slip, and come back with me? Christian.--I gave Him my faith, and swore to be true to Him: how can I go back from this? Apollyon.--You did the same to me, and yet I will pass by all, if you will but turn and go back. Then, when Apollyon saw that Christian was stanch to his Prince, he broke out in a great rage, and said, I hate that Prince, and I hate his laws, and I am come out to stop you. Christian.--Take heed what you do. I am on the King's high way to Zion. Apollyon.--I am void of fear, and to prove that I mean what I say, here on this spot I will put thee to death. With that he threw a dart of fire at his breast, but Christian had a shield on his arm, with which he caught it. Then did Christian draw his sword, for he saw it was time to stir; and Apollyon as fast made at him, and threw darts as thick as hail; with which, in spite of all that Christian could do, Apollyon gave him wounds in his head, hand, and foot. This made Christian pause in the fight for a time, but Apollyon still came on, and Christian once more took heart. They fought for half a day, till Christian, weak from his wounds, was well nigh spent in strength. When Apollyon saw this, he threw him down with a great force; on which Christian's sword fell out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee now. But while he strove to make an end of Christian, that good man put out his hand in haste to feel for his sword, and caught it. Boast not, oh Apollyon! said he, and with that he struck him a blow which made his foe reel back as one that had had his last wound. Then he spread out his wings and fled, so that Christian for a time saw him no more. Then there came to him a hand which held some of the leaves of the tree of life; some of them Christian took, and as soon as he had put them to his wounds, he saw them heal up. Now near this place was the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and Christian must needs go through it to get to The Celestial City. It was a land of drought and full of pits, a land that none but such as Christian could pass through, and where no man dwelt. So that here he was worst put to it than in his fight with Apollyon, which by and by we shall see. As he drew near the Shadow of Death he met with two men, to whom Christian thus spoke: To what place do you go? Men.--Back! Back! and we would have you do the same if you prize life and peace. Christian.--But why? Men.--We went on as far as we durst. Christian.--What then have you seen? Men.--Seen! Why the Valley of the Shadow of Death; but by dint of good luck we caught sight of what lay in front of it, ere we came up. Death doth spread out his wings there. In a word it is a place full of bad men, where no law dwells. Christian.--I see not yet, by what you have told me, but that this is my way to Zion. Men.--Be it thy way then; we will not choose it for ours. So they took their leave, and Christian went on, but still with his drawn sword in his hand, for fear lest he should meet once more with a foe. I saw then in my dream that so far as this vale went, there was on the right hand a deep ditch; that ditch to which the blind have led the blind as long as the world has been made. And, lo, on the left hand there was a quag. in which if a man fall, he will find no firm ground for his foot to stand on. The path way was not broad, and so good Christian was the more put to it. This went on for miles, and in the midst of that vale was a deep pit. One thing which I saw in my dream I must not leave out; it was this:--Just as Christian had come to the mouth of the pit, one of those who dwelt in it swept up to him, and in a soft tone spoke bad things to him, and took God's name in vain, which Christian thought must have come from his own mind. This put him out more than all the rest had done; to think that he should take that name in vain for which he felt so deep a love, was a great grief to him. Yet there was no help for it. Then he thought he heard a voice which said: Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no harm for thou art with me. Now as Christian went on, he found there was a rise in the road, which had been thrown up that that path might be clear to those who were bound for Zion. Up this road Christian went, and saw his old friend Faithful a short way off. Then said Christian: Ha, my friend, are you here? Stay, and I will join you. This ere long he did, and they spoke of all that had come to pass since they had last met. In course of time the road they took brought them to a town, the name of which is Vanity, where there is a fair kept through the whole year, and all that is bought or sold there is vain and void of worth. There, too, are to be seen at all times games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues. Yet he that will go to The Celestial City must needs pass through this fair. As soon as Christian and Faithful came to the town, a crowd drew round them, and some said they had lost their wits, to dress and speak as they did, and to set no store by the choice goods for sale in Vanity Fair. When Christian spoke, his words brought from these folks fierce taunts and jeers, and soon the noise and stir grew to such a height that the chief man of the fair sent his friends to take up these two strange men, and he bade them tell him whence they came, and what they did there in such a garb. Christian and Faithful told them all; but those who sat to judge the case thought that they must be mad, or else that they had come to stir up strife at the fair; so they beat them with sticks, and put them in a cage, that they might be a sight for all the men at the fair. Then the worse sort of folks set to pelt them with mud out of spite, and some threw stones at them for mere sport; but Christian and Faithful gave good words for bad, and bore all in such a meek way, that not a few took their part. This led to blows and fights, and the blame was laid on Christian and Faithful, who were then made to toil up and down the fair in chains, till, faint with stripes, they were at length set with their feet in the stocks. But they bore their griefs and woes with joy, for they saw in them a pledge that all should be well in the end. By and by a court sat to try them: the name of the judge was Lord Hate-good; and the crime laid to their charge was that they had come to Vanity Fair to spoil its trade, and stir up strife in the town; and had won not a few men to their side, in spite of the prince of the place. Faithful said to the Judge: I am a man of peace, and did but wage war on Sin. As for the prince they speak of, since he is Beelzebub, I hold him in scorn. Those who took Faithful's part were won by the force of plain truth and right in his words; but the judge said, Let those speak who know aught of this man. So three men, whose names were Envy, Superstition, and Pick-thank, stood forth and swore to speak the truth, and tell what they knew of Faithful. Envy said: My lord, this man cares nought for kings or laws, but seeks to spread his own views, and to teach men what he calls faith. I heard him say but just now that the ways of our town of Vanity are vile. And does he not in that speak ill of us? Then Superstition said: My lord, I know not much of this man, and have no wish to know more, but of this I am sure, that he is a bad man, for he says that our creeds are vain. Pick-thank was then bid to say what he knew, and his speech ran thus: My lord, I have known this man for a long time, and have heard him say things that ought not to be said. He rails at our great Prince Beelzebub, and says that if all men were of his mind, that prince should no more hold sway here. More than this, he hath been heard to rail on you, my lord, who are now his judge. Then said the Judge to Faithful: Thou base man! Hast though heard what these folk have said of thee? Faithful.--May I speak a few words in my own cause? Judge.--Thy just doom would be to die on the spot; still, let us hear what thou hast to say. Faithful.--I say, then, to Mr. Envy, that all laws and modes of life in which men heed not the Word of God are full of sin. As to the charge of Mr. Superstition, I would urge that nought can save us if we do not the will of God. To Mr. Pick-thank, I say that men should flee from the Prince of this town and his friends, as from the wrath to come and so, I pray the Lord to help me. Then the Judge, to sum up the case, spoke thus: You see this man who has made such a stir in our town. You have heard what these good men have said of him, which he owns to be true. It rests now to you to save his life or hang him. The twelve men who had Faithful's life in their hands spoke in a low tone thus: This man is full of schisms, said Mr. Blind-man. Out of the world with him, said Mr. No-good. I hate the mere look of him, said Mr. Malice. From the first I could not bear him, said Mr. Love-ease. Nor I, for he would be sure to blame my ways, said Mr. Live-loose. Hang him, hang him! said Mr. Heady. A low wretch! said Mr. High-mind. I long to crush him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Death is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us kill him, that he may be out of the way, said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable: Not to gain all the world would I make peace with him, so let us doom him to death. And so they did, and in a short time he was led back to the place from whence he came, there to be put to the worst death that could be thought of; for the scourge, the sword, and the stake brought Faithful to his end. Now I saw that there stood near the crowd a strange car with two bright steeds, which, as soon as his foes had slain him, took Faithful up through the clouds straight to The Celestial City, with the sound of the harp and lute. As for Christian, for this time he got free; and there came to him one Hopeful, who did so from what he had heard and seen of Christian and Faithful. Thus, while one lost his life for the truth, a new man rose from his death, to tread the same way with Christian. And Hopeful said there were more men of the fair who would take their time, and then come too. By and by their way lay just on the bank of a pure stream, from which they drank. On each side of it were green trees that bore fruit, and in a field through which it ran they lay down to sleep. When they woke up they sat for a while in the shade of the boughs; thus they went on for three or four days, and to pass the time they sang: He that can tell What sweet fresh fruit, yea leaves these trees do yield, Will soon sell all, that he may buy this field. Now on the left hand of the road was By-path Meadow, a fair green field with a path through it, and a stile. Come, good Hopeful, said Christian, let us walk on the grass. Hopeful.--But what if this path should lead us wrong? Christian.--How can it? Look, doth it not go by the way side? So they set off through the field. But they had not gone far when they saw in front of them a man, Vain-confidence by name, who told them that the path led to The Celestial Gate. So the man went first; but lo, the night came on, and it grew so dark that they lost sight of their guide, who, as he did not see the path in front of him, fell in a deep pit, and was heard of no more. Where are we now? said Hopeful. Then was Christian mute, as he thought he had led his friend out of the way. And now light was seen to flash from the sky, and rain came down in streams. Hopeful (with a groan) Oh, that I had kept on my way! Christian.--Who could have thought that this path should lead us wrong? Hopeful.--I had my fears from the first, and so gave you a hint. Christian.--Good friend, I grieve that I have brought you out of the right path. Hopeful.--Say no more, no doubt it is for our good. Christian.--We must not stand thus; let us try to go back. Hopeful.--But, good Christian, let me go first. Then they heard a voice say: Set thine heart to the high way, the way thou hast been: turn once more. But by this time the stream was deep from the rain that fell, and to go back did not seem safe; yet they went back, though it was so dark and the stream ran so high that once or twice it was like to drown them. Nor could they, with all their skill, get back that night. So they found a screen from the rain, and there they slept till break of day. Now, not far from the place where they lay was Doubting Castle, the lord of which was Giant Despair; and it was on his ground that they now slept. There Giant Despair found them, and with a gruff voice he bade them wake. Whence are you? said he; and what brought you here? They told him that they had lost the path. Then said Giant Despair: You have no right to force your way in here; the ground on which you lie is mine. They had not much to say, as they knew that they were in fault. So Giant Despair drove them on, and put them in a dark and foul cell in a strong hold. Here they were kept for three days, and they had no light nor food nor a drop to drink all that time, and no one to ask them how they did. Now Giant Despair had a wife, whose name was Diffidence, and he told her what he had done. Then said he, What will be the best way to treat them? Beat them well, said Diffidence. So when he rose he took a stout stick from a crab tree, and went down to the cell where poor Christian and Hopeful lay, and beat them as if they had been dogs, so that they could not turn on the floor; and they spent all that day in sighs and tears. The next day he came once more, and found them sore from the stripes, and said that since there was no chance for them to be let out of the cell, their best way would be to put an end to their own lives: For why should you wish to live, said he, with all this woe? But they told him they did hope he would let them go. With that he sprang up with a fierce look, and no doubt would have made an end of them, but that he fell in a fit for a time, and lost the use of his hand; so he drew back, and left them to think of what he had said. Christian.--Friend, what shall we do? The life that we now lead is worse than death. For my part I know not which is best, to live thus, or to die at our own hand, as I feel that the grave would be less sad to me than this cell. Shall we let Giant Despair rule us? Hopeful.--In good truth our case is a sad one, and to die would be more sweet to me than to live here; yet let us bear in mind that the Lord of that land to which we go hath said: 'Thou shalt not kill.' And by this act we kill our souls as well. My friend Christian, you talk of ease in the grave, but can a man go to bliss who takes his own life? All the law is not in the hands of Giant Despair. Who knows but that God, who made the world, may cause him to die, or lose the use of his limbs as he did at first. I have made up my mind to pluck up the heart of a man, and to try to get out of this strait. Fool that I was not to do so when first he came to the cell. But let us not put an end to our own lives, for a good time may come yet. By these words did Hopeful change the tone of Christian's mind. Well, at night the Giant went down to the cell to see if life was still in them, and in good truth that life was in them was all that could be said, for from their wounds and want of food they did no more than just breathe. When Giant Despair found they were not dead, he fell in a great rage, and said that it should be worse with them if they had not been born. At this they shook with fear, and Christian fell down in a swoon; but when he came to, Hopeful said: My friend, call to mind how strong in faith you have been till now. Say, could Apollyon hurt you, or all that you heard, or saw, or felt in the Valley of the Shadow of Death? Look at the fears, the griefs, the woes that you have gone through. And now to be cast down! I, too, am in this cell, far more weak a man than you, and Giant Despair dealt his blows at me as well as you, and keeps me from food and light. Let us both (if but to shun the shame) bear up as well as we can. When night came on, the wife of Giant Despair said to him: Well, will the two men yield? To which he said: No; they choose to stand firm, and will not put an end to their lives. Then said Mrs. Diffidence: At dawn of day take them to the yard, and show them the graves where all those whom you have put to death have been thrown, and make use of threats this time. So Giant Despair took them to this place, and said: In ten days time you shall be thrown in here if you do not yield. Go; get you down to your den once more. With that he beat them all the way back, and there they lay the whole day in a sad plight. Now, when night was come, Mrs. Diffidence said to Giant Despair: I fear much that these men live on in hopes to pick the lock of the cell and get free. Dost thou say so, my dear? quoth Giant Despair to his wife; then at sun rise I will search them. Now, on that night, as Christian and Hopeful lay in the den, they fell on their knees to pray, and knelt till the day broke; when Christian gave a start, and said: Fool that I am thus to lie in this dark den when I might walk at large! I have a key in my pouch, the name of which is Promise, that, I feel sure, will turn the lock of all the doors in Doubting Castle. Then said Hopeful: That is good news; pluck it from thy breast, and let us try it. So Christian put it in the lock, when the bolt sprang back, the door flew wide, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. When they got to the yard door the key did just as well; but the lock of the last strong gate of Doubting Castle went hard, yet it did turn at last, though the hinge gave so loud a creak that it woke up Giant Despair, who rose to seek for the two men. But just then he felt his limbs fail, for a fit came on him, so that he could by no means reach their cell. Christian and Hopeful now fled back to the high way, and were safe out of his grounds. When they sat down to rest on a stile, they said they would warn those who might chance to come on this road. So they cut these words on a post: This is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who loves not the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to kill all who would go there. Then they came to The Delectable Mountains, which the Lord of the Hill owns. Here they saw fruit trees, vines, shrubs, woods, and streams, and drank and ate of the grapes. Now there were men at the tops of these hills who kept watch on their flocks, and as they stood by the high way, Christian and Hopeful leant on their staves to rest, while thus they spoke to the men: Who owns these Delectable Mountains, and whose are the sheep that feed on them? Men.--These hills are Immanuel's, and the sheep are His too, and He laid down his life for them. Christian.--Is this the way to The Celestial City? Men.--You are in the right road. Christian.--How far is it? Men.--Too far for all but those that shall get there, in good truth. Christian.--Is the way safe? Men.--Safe for those for whom it is to be safe; but the men of sin shall fall there. Christian.--Is there a place of rest here for those that faint on the road? Men.--The Lord of these Hills gave us a charge to help those that came here, should they be known to us or not; so all the good things of the place are yours. I then saw in my dream that the men said: Whence come you, and by what means have you got so far? For but few of those that set out come here to show their face on these hills. So when Christian and Hopeful told their tale, the men cast a kind glance at them, and said: With joy we greet you on The Delectable Mountains! Their names were Knowledge, Experience, Watchful, and Sincere, and they led Christian and Hopeful by the hand to their tents, and bade them eat of that which was there, and they soon went to their rest for the night. When the morn broke, the men woke up Christian and Hopeful, and took them to a spot whence they saw a bright view on all sides. Then they went with them to the top of a high hill, the name of which was Error; it was steep on the far off side, and they bade them look down to the foot of it. So Christian and Hopeful cast their eyes down, and saw there some men who had lost their lives by a fall from the top; men who had been made to err, for they had put their trust in false guides. Have you not heard of them? said the men. Christian.--Yes, I have. Men.--These are they, and to this day they have not been put in a tomb, but are left here to warn men to take good heed how they come too near the brink of this hill. Then I saw that they had led them to the top of Mount Caution, and bade them look far off. From that stile, said they, there goes a path to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, and the men whom you see there came as you do now, till they got up to that stile; and, as the right way was rough to walk in, they chose to go through a field, and there Giant Despair took them, and shut them up in Doubting Castle, where they were kept in a den for a while, till he at last sent them out quite blind, and there they are still. At this Christian gave a look at Hopeful, and they both burst out with sobs and tears, but yet said not a word. Then the four men took them up a high hill, the name of which was Clear, that they might see the gates of The Celestial City, with the aid of a glass to look through, but their hands shook, so they could not see well. When Christian and Hopeful thought they would move on, one of the men gave them a note of the way, and the next (Experience by name) bade them take heed that they slept not on The Enchanted Ground, and the fourth bade them God Speed. Now it was that I woke from my dream. Then I slept, and dreamt once more, and saw Christian and Hopeful go down near the foot of these hills, where lies the land of Conceit, which joins the way to Mount Zion, by a small lane. Here they met a brisk lad, whose name was Ignorance, to whom Christian said: Whence come you, and to what place do you go? Ignorance.--Sir, I was born in the land that lies off there on the left, and I wish to go to The Celestial City. Christian.--How do you think to get in at the gate? Ignorance.--Just as the rest of the world do. Christian.--But what have you to show at that gate to pass you through it? Ignorance.--I know my Lord's will, and I have led a good life; I pay for all that I have, I give tithes, and give alms, and have left my own land for that to which I now go. Christian.--But you came not in at the gate that is at the head of this way, you came in through a small lane; so that I fear, though you may think well of all you have done, that when the time shall come, you will have this laid to your charge, that you are a thief and so you will not get in. Ignorance.--Well, since I know you not; you keep to your own creed, and I will keep to mine, and I hope all will be well. And as for the gate that you talk of, all the world knows that it is far from our land, and I do not think that there is a man in all our parts who does so much as know the way to it, and I see not what need there is that he should, since we have, as you see, a fine green lane at the next turn that comes down from our part of the world. Christian said in a low tone of voice to Hopeful: There is more hope of a fool than of him. Hopeful.--Let us pass on if you will, and talk to him by and by, when, may be, he can bear it. So they went on, and Ignorance trod in their steps a short way from them, till they saw a road branch off from the one they were in, and they knew not which of the two to take. As they stood to think of it, a man whose skin was black, but who was clad in a white robe, came to them and said: Why do you stand here? They told him that they were on their way to The Celestial City, but knew not which of the two roads to take. Come with me, then, said the man, for it is there that I mean to go. So they went with him, though it was clear that the road must have made a bend, for they found they would soon turn their backs on The Celestial City. Ere long, Christian and Hopeful were both caught in a net, and knew not what to do; and with that the white robe fell off the black man's back. Then they saw where they were. So there they sat down and wept. Christian.--Did not one of the four men who kept guard on their sheep tell us to take heed lest Flatterer should spread a net for out feet? Hopeful.--Those men, too, gave us a note of the way, but we have not read it, and so have not kept in the right path. Thus they lay in the net to weep and wail. At last they saw a Bright One come up to them with a whip of fine cord in his hand, who said: What do you here? Whence come you? They told him that their wish was to go to Zion, but that they had been led out of the way by a black man with a white cloak on, who, as he was bound for the same place, said he would show them the road. Then said he: It is Flatterer, a false man, who has put on the garb of a Bright One for a time. So he rent the net and let the men out. Then he bade them come with him, that he might set them on the right way once more. He said: Where were you last night? Quoth they: With the men who kept watch of their sheep on The Delectable Mountains. Then he said: But when you were at a stand why did you not read your note? They told him they had not thought of it. Now I saw in my dream that he bade them lie down, and whipt them sore, to teach them the good way in which they should walk; and he said: Those whom I love I serve thus. So they gave him thanks for what he had taught them, and went on the right way up the hill with a song of joy. At length they came to a land the air of which made men sleep, and here the lids of Hopeful's eyes dropped, and he said: Let us lie down here and take a nap. Christian.--By no means, lest if we sleep we wake no more. Hopeful.--Nay, friend Christian, sleep is sweet to the man who has spent the day in toil. Christian.--Do you not call to mind that one of the men who kept watch of the sheep bade us take care of The Enchanted Ground? He meant by that that we should take heed not to sleep; so let us not sleep, but watch. Hopeful.--I see I am in fault. Christian.--Now then, to keep sleep from our eyes I will ask you, as we go, to tell me how you came at first to do as you do now? Hopeful.--Do you mean how came I first to look to the good of my soul? Christian.--Yes. Hopeful.--For a long time the things that were seen and sold at Vanity Fair were a great joy to me. Christian.--What things do you speak of? Hopeful.--All the good of this life; such as lies, oaths, drink; in a word, love of self and all that tend to kill the soul. But I heard from you and Faithful that the end of these things is death. Thus did they talk as they went on their way. But I saw in my dream that by this time Christian and Hopeful had got through The Enchanted Ground and had come to the land of Beulah, where the air is sweet; and as their way lay through this land, they made no haste to quit it, for here they heard the birds sing all day long, and the sun shone day and night; the Valley of Death was on the left, and it was out of the reach of Giant Despair; nor could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle. Now were they in sight of Zion, and here some of the Bright Ones came to meet them. Here, too, they heard the voice of those who dwelt in Zion, and had a good view of this land of bliss, which was built of rare gems of all hues, and the streets were laid with gold. So that the rays of light which shone on Christian were too bright for him to bear, and he fell sick, and Hopeful had a fit of the same kind. So they lay by for a time, and wept, for their joy was too much for them. At length, step by step, they drew near to Zion, and saw that the gates were flung back. A man stood in the way, to whom Christian and Hopeful said: Whose vines and crops are these? He told them they were the king's and were put there to give joy to those who should go on the road. So he bade them eat what fruit they chose, and took them to see the king's walks; where they slept. Now I saw in my dream that they spoke more in their sleep than they had done all the rest of the way, and I could but muse at this, but the man said: Why do you muse at it? The juice from the grapes of this vine is so sweet as to cause the lips of them that sleep to speak. I then saw that when they woke, they would fain go up to Zion; but as I said, the sun threw off such bright rays from The Celestial City, which was built of pure gold, that they could not, as yet, look on it, save through a glass made for that end. Now as they went, they met with two men in white robes, and the face of each shone bright as the light. These men said: Whence come you? And when they had been told they said: You have but one thing more to do, which is a hard one, and then you are in Zion. Christian and Hopeful did then beg of the two men to go with them; which they did. But, said they, It is by your own faith that you must gain it. Now 'twixt them and the gate was a fierce stream which was broad and deep; it had no bridge, and the mere sight of it did so stun Christian and Hopeful that they could not move. But the men who went with them said: You can not come to the gate but through this stream. Is there no way but this one to the gate? said poor Christian. Yes, quoth they, but there have been but two men, to wit, Enoch and Elijah who have trod that path since the world was made. When Christian and Hopeful cast their eyes on the stream once more, they felt their hearts sink with fear, and gave a look this way and that in much dread of the waves. Yet through it lay the way to Zion. Is the stream all of one depth? said Christian. He was told that it was not, yet that in that there was no help, for he would find the stream more or less deep, as he had faith in the King of the place. So they set foot on the stream, but Christian gave a loud cry to his good friend Hopeful, and said: The waves close round my head, and I sink. Then said Hopeful: Be of good cheer; my feet feel the bed of the stream, and it is good. But Christian said: Ah, Hopeful, the pains of death have got hold of me; I shall not reach the land that I long for. And with that a cloud came on his sight, so that he could not see. Hopeful had much to do to keep Christian's head out of the stream; nay, at times he had quite sunk, and then in a while he would rise up half dead. Then said Hopeful: My friend, all this is sent to try if you will call to mind all that God has done for you, and live on Him in your heart. At these words Hopeful saw that Christian was in deep thought; so he said to him: Be of good cheer, Christ will make thee whole. Then Christian broke out with a loud voice: Oh, I see Him, and He speaks to me and says, When you pass through the deep streams, I will be with you. And now they both got strength, and the stream was as still as a stone, so that Christian felt the bed of it with his feet, and he could walk through it. Thus they got to the right bank, where the two men in bright robes stood to wait for them, and their clothes were left in the stream. Now you must bear in mind that Zion was on a steep hill, yet did Christian and Hopeful go up with ease and great speed, for they had these two men to lead them by the arms. The hill stood in the sky, for the base of it was there. So in sweet talk they went up through the air. The Bright Ones told them of the bliss of the place, which they said was such as no tongues could tell, and that there they would see the Tree of Life, and eat of the fruit of it. When you come there, said they, white robes will be put on you, and your talk from day to day shall be with the King for all time. There you shall not see such things as you saw on earth, to wit, care and want, and woe and death. You now go to be with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Christian and Hopeful.--What must we do there? They said: You will have rest for all your toil, and joy for all your grief. You will reap what you have sown--the fruit of all the tears you shed for the King by the way. In that place you will wear crowns of gold, and have at all times a sight of Him who sits on the throne. There you shall serve Him with love, with shouts of joy and with songs of praise. Now, while they thus drew up to the gate, lo, a host of saints came to meet them, to whom the two Bright Ones said: These are men who felt love for our Lord when they were in the world, and left all for His name; and He sent us to bring them far on their way, that they might go in and look on their Lord with joy. Then the whole host with great shouts came round on all sides (as it were to guard them); so that is would seem to Christian and Hopeful as if all Zion had come down to meet them. Now, when Christian and Hopeful went in at the gate a great change took place in them, and they were clad in robes that shone like gold. There were bright hosts that came with harps and crowns, and they said to them: Come, ye, in the joy of the Lord. And then I heard all the bells in Zion ring. Now, just as the gates were flung back for the men to pass in, I had a sight of Zion, which shone like the sun; the ground was of gold, and those who dwelt there had love in their looks, crowns on their heads, and palms in their hands, and with one voice they sent forth shouts of praise. But the gates were now once more shut, and I could but wish that I, too, had gone in to share this bliss. Then I woke, and, lo, it was a dream. END OF FIRST PART. PART II. Once more I had a dream, and it was this:--Christiana, the wife of Christian, had been on her knees to pray, and as she rose, she heard a loud knock at the door. If you come in God's name, said she, come in. Then I thought in my dream that a form, clad in robes as white as snow, threw back the door, and said, Peace be to this house. At a sight so new to her, Christiana at first grew pale with fear, but in a short time took heart and told him she would fain know whence he came, and why. So he said his name was Secret, and that he dwelt with those that are on high. Then said her guest: Christiana, here is a note for thee, which I have brought from Christian. So she took it, broke the seal, and read these words, which were in gold:--"To her who was my dear wife. The King would have you do as I have done, for that was the way to come to this land, and to dwell with Him in joy." When Christiana read this, she shed tears, and said to him who brought the note, Sir, will you take me and my sons with you, that we, too, may bow down to this king? But he said, Christiana, joy is born of grief: care must come first, then bliss. To reach the land where I dwell, thou must go through toils, as well as scorn and taunts. But take the road that leads up to the field gate which stands in the head of the way; and I wish you all good speed. I would have thee wear this note in thy breast, that it may be read by thee till thou must give it up at the last gate that leads to The Celestial City. Then Christiana spoke to her boys, and said: My sons, I have of late been sad at the death of Christian, your dear sire. But I feel sure now that it is well with him, and that he dwells in the land of life and peace. I have, too, felt deep grief at the thoughts of my own state and yours; for we were wrong to let our hearts grow cold, and turn a deaf ear to him in the time of his woe, and hold back from him when he fled from this City of Destruction. The thought of these things would kill me, were it not for a dream which I had last night, and for what a guest who came here at dawn has told me. So come, my dear ones, let us make our way at once to the gate that leads to The Celestial City, that we may see your sire and be there with him and his friends. Then her first two sons burst out in tears of joy that Christiana's heart was set that way. Now while they put all things right to go, two friends of Christiana's came up to her house, and gave a knock at the door. To them she said, If you come in God's name, come in. This mode of speech from the lips of Christiana struck them as strange. Yet they came in, and said, Pray what do you mean by this? I mean to leave my home, said she to Mrs. Timorous--for that was the name of one of these friends. Timorous:--To what end, pray tell me? Christiana:--To go to my dear Christian. And with that she wept. Timorous:--Nay, can it be so? Who or what has brought you to this state of mind? Christiana:--Oh, my friend, if you did but know as much as I do, I doubt not that you would be glad to go with me. Timorous:--Pray what new lore have you got hold of that draws your mind from your friends, and tempts you to go no one knows where? Christiana:--I dreamt last night that I saw Christian. Oh, that my soul were with him now! The Prince of the place has sent for me, through one who came to me at sun rise, and brought this note to bid me go there; read it, I pray you. Timorous:--Ah, how mad to run such risks! You have heard, I am sure, from our friend Obstinate, what Christian met with on the way, for he went with him; yea, and Pliable, too, till they, like wise men, came back through fear. You heard how he met with the beasts of prey and Apollyon, what he saw in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and more still that makes my hair stand on end to hear of; think, too, of these four sweet boys who are your own flesh and bone; and, though you should be so rash as to wish to go, yet for their sale, I pray you keep at home. But Christiana said: Tempt me not. I have now a chance put in my hand to get gain, and in truth I should be a fool if I had not the heart to grasp it. And these toils and snares that you tell me of shall not keep me back; no, they serve but to show me that I am in the right. Care must first be felt, then joy. So since you came not to my house in God's name, as I said, I pray you to be gone, and tempt me no more. Then Timorous said to Mercy (who had come with her): Let us leave her in her own hands, since she scorns all that I say. But Mercy thought that if her friend Christiana must be gone, she would go part of the way with her to help her. She took some thought, too, of her own soul, for what Christiana had said had laid hold on her mind, and she felt she must have some talk with this friend; and if she found that truth and life were in her words, she would join her with all her heart. So Mercy said to Timorous: I came with you to see Christiana, and since on this day she takes leave of the town, I think the least I can do would be to walk a short way with her to help her on. But the rest she kept from Timorous. Timorous:--Well, I see you have a mind to play the fool, too; but take heed in good time, and be wise. So Mrs. Timorous went to her own house; and Christiana, with her four boys and Mercy, went on their way. Mercy, said Christiana, I take this as a great boon that you should set foot out of doors to start me on my way. Then said young Mercy (for she was quite young): If I thought it would be good to join you, I would not go back at all to the town. Christiana:--Well, Mercy, cast your lot in with mine; I know what will be the end of our toils. Christian is where he would not fail to be for all the gold in the mines of Spain. Nor shall you be sent back, though there be no one but I to ask it for you; for the King who has sent for me and my boys is One who turns not from those who seek Him. If you like I will hire you, and you shall go as my maid, and yet shall share all things with me, so that you do but go. Mercy:--But how do I know that I shall be let in? If I thought I should have help from Him from whom all help comes, I would make no pause, but would go at once, let the way be as rough as it might. Christiana:--Well, Mercy, I will tell you what I would have you do. Go with me as far as to the field gate, and there I will ask; and if no hopes should be held out to you by Him who keeps the gate, you can but go back to your home. Mercy: Well, I will go with you, and the Lord grant that my lot may be cast to dwell in the land for which my heart yearns. Christiana then felt glad that she had a friend to join her, and that her friend should have so great a care for her soul. So they went on their way; but the face of Mercy wore so sad a mien that Christiana said to her, What ails you? Why do you weep? Mercy:--Oh, who could but weep to think of the state of my poor friends near and dear to me, in our had town? Christiana:--You feel for your friends as my good Christian did for me when he left me, for it went to his heart to find that I would not see these things in the same light as he did. And now, you, I, and these dear boys, reap the fruits of all his woes. I hope, Mercy, these tears of yours will not be shed in vain, for He who could not lie, has said that they who sow in tears shall reap in joy. Now when Christiana came up to the Slough Of Despond, she and her sons made a stand, and Christiana told them that this was the place in which her dear Christian fell. But Mercy said, Come, let us try; all we have to do is to keep the steps well in view. Yet Christiana made a slip or two in the mud; but at last they got through the slough, and then they heard a voice say to them: Blest is she who hath faith, for those things which were told her of the Lord shall come to pass. So now they went on once more, and Mercy said, Had I as good grounds to hope to get in at the gate as you have, I think no Slough Of Despond would keep me back. Well, said Christiana, you know your sore, and I know mine, and hard toil will it be for both of us to get to the end of the way; for how can we think that they who set out on a scheme of so much bliss, should steer clear of frights and fears on their way to that bright bourn which it is their aim to reach? When they came to the gate, it took them some time to make out a plan of what they should say to Him who stood there; and as Mercy was not so old as her friend, she said that it must rest with Christiana to speak for all of them. So, she gave a knock, and then (like Christian) two more; but no one came. Now they heard the fierce bark of a dog, which made them shake with fear, nor did they dare for a while to knock a third time, lest the dog should fly at them. So they were put to their wits' end to know what to do: to knock they did not dare, for fear of the dog; to go back they did not dare, lest He who kept the gate should see them as they went, and might not like it. At last they gave a knock four times as loud as the first. Then He who stood at the gate said, Who is there? The dog was heard to bark no more, and the gate swung wide for them to come in. Christiana sank on her knees, and said, Let not our Lord be wroth that we have made this loud noise at His gate. At this He said: Whence come you, and what is it that you would have? Quoth Christiana: We are come from the town whence Christian came, to beg to be let in at this gate, that we may go on our way to The Celestial City. I was once the wife of Christian, who now is in the land of bliss. With that, He who kept the gate threw up His arms and said, What! is she on her road to The Celestial City who, but a short time since, did hate the life of that place? Then Christiana bent her head, and said, Yes, and so are these, my dear sons. So He took her by the hand and led her in; and when her four sons had gone through, He shut the gate. This done, He said to a man hard by, Sound the horn for joy. But now that Christiana was safe through the gate with her boys, she thought it time to speak a word for Mercy, so she said, My Lord, I have a friend who stands at the gate, who has come here with the same trust that I did; one whose heart is sad to think that she comes, it may be, when she is not sent for; while I had word from Christian's King to come. The time did so lag with poor Mercy while she stood to be let in, that though it was but a short space, yet through fear and doubt did it seem to her like an hour at least; and Christiana could not say more for Mercy to Him who kept the gate for the knocks, which came so fast, and were at last so loud that they made Christiana start. Then He said, Who is there? Quoth Christiana: It is my friend. So He threw back the gate to look out, but Mercy was in a swoon, from the fear that she should not be let in. Then He took her by the hand and said, Fear not; stand firm on thy feet, and tell me whence thou art come, and for what end? Mercy:--I do not come as my friend Christiana does, for I was not sent for by the King, and I fear I am too bold. Yet if there is grace to share, I pray Thee let me share it. Then He took her once more by the hand and led her in, and said, All may come in who put their trust in me, let the means be what they may that brought them here. Then He told those that stood by to bring her some myrrh, and in a while she got well. Now I saw in my dream that he spoke good words to Mercy, Christiana, and her boys, so as to make glad their hearts. And He took them up to the top of the gate, where He left them for a while, and Christiana said: Oh my dear friend, how glad am I that we have all got in! Mercy:--So you may well be; but most of all have I cause for joy. Christiana:--I thought at one time as I stood at the gate, and none came to me, that all our pains had been lost. Mercy:--But my worst fears came when I saw Him who kept the gate grant you your wish, and take no heed of me. And this brought to my mind the two who ground at the same mill, and how I was the one who was left; and I found it hard not to cry out, I am lost! I am lost! Christiana:--I thought you would have come in by rude force. Mercy:--Ah me! You saw that the door was shut on me, and that a fierce hound was not far off. Who, with so faint a heart as mine, would not give loud knocks with all her might? But, pray, what said my Lord at this rude noise? Was He not wroth with me? Christiana:--When He heard your loud thumps at the door He gave a smile; and to my mind, what you did would seem to please Him well. But it is hard to guess why He keeps such a dog. Had I known of it, I fear I should not have had the wish to come. But now we are in, we are safe; and I am glad with all my heart. One of Christiana's boys said: Pray ask to have a chain put on the dog, for it will bite us when we go hence. Then He who kept the gate came down to them once more, and Mercy fell with her face to the ground, and said, Oh, let me bless and praise the Lord with my lips! So He said to her, Peace be to thee; stand up. But she would not rise till she had heard from Him why He kept so fierce a dog in the yard. He told her He did not own the dog, but that it was shut up in the grounds of one who dwelt near. In truth, said He, it is kept from no good will to me or mine, but to cause those who come here to turn back from my gate by the sound of its voice. But hadst thou known more of me thou wouldst not have felt fear of a dog. The poor man who goes from door to door will, for the sake of alms, run the risk of a bite from a cur; and shall a dog keep thee from me? Mercy:--I spoke of what I knew not; but, Lord, I know that Thou dost all things well. Then Christiana rose as if she would go on her way. So He fed them, and set them in the right path, as He had done to Christian. And as they went, Christiana sang a hymn: "We turn our tears to joy, and our fears to faith." They had not gone far when they saw some fruit trees, the boughs of which hung from the top of a wall that was built around the grounds of him who kept the fierce hound, and at times those that came that way would eat them to their cost. So as they were ripe, Christiana's boys threw them down and ate some of them; though Christiana chid them for it, and said, That fruit is not ours. But she knew not then whose it was. Still the boys would eat of it. Now when they had gone but a bow shot from the place, they saw two men, who with bold looks came fast down the hill to meet them. With that, Christiana and her friend Mercy, drew down their veils, and so kept on their way, and the boys went on first. Then the men came up to them, but Christiana said: Stand back, or go by in peace, as you should. Yet they took no more heed of her words than if they had been deaf. Christiana, who did not like their looks, said, We are in haste, and can not stay; our work is a work of life and death. With that she and the rest made a fresh move to pass, but the men would not let them. So with one voice they all set up a loud cry. Now, as they were not far from the held gate, they were heard from that place, and some of those in the lodge came out in haste to catch these bad men; when they soon leapt the wall, and got safe to the grounds where the dog was kept. Reliever:--How was it that when you were at the gate you did not ask Him who stood there to take you on your way, and guard you from harm? Had you done so you would not have gone through these frights, for He would have been sure to grant you your wish. Christiana:--Ah, Sir, the joy we felt when we were let in, drove from our thoughts all fears to come. And how could we think that such had men could lurk in such a place as that? True, it would have been well for us if we had thought to ask Him; but since our Lord knew it would be for our good, how came it to pass that He did not send some one with us? Reliever:--You did not ask. When the want of a thing is felt, that which we wish for is worth all the more. Christiana:--Shall we go back to my Lord and tell Him we wish we had been more wise, and ask for a guard? Reliever:--Go back you need not, for in no place where you go will you find a want at all. When he had said this he took his leave, and the rest went on their way. Mercy:--What a blank is here! I made sure we had been past all risk, and that we should see no more care. Christiana:--Your youth may plead for you, my friend, and screen you from blame; but as for me, my fault is so much the worse in so far as I knew what would take place ere I came out of my door. Mercy:--But how could you know this ere you set out? Christiana:--Why, I will tell you. One night as I lay in bed, I had a dream, in which I saw the whole scene as it took place just now. By this time Christiana, Mercy and the four boys had come to the house of Interpreter. Now when they drew near to the door they heard the sound of Christiana's name; for the news of her flight had made a great stir; but they knew not that she stood at the door. At last she gave a knock, as she had done at the gate, when there came to the door a young maid, Innocent by name. Innocent:--With whom would you speak in this place? Christiana:--As we heard that this is a place of rest for those that go by the way, we pray that we may be let in, for the day, as you see, is far spent, and we are loth to go on by night. Innocent:--Pray what is your name, that I may tell it to my Lord? Christiana:--My name is Christiana; I was the wife of Christian, who some time since came by this way, and these are his four sons. Innocent then ran in and said to those there, Can you guess who is at the door? There are Christiana, her boys and her friend! So they leapt for joy, and went to tell it to their Lord, who came to the door and said, Art thou that Christiana whom Christian left in the town of Destruction, when he set out for The Celestial City? Christiana:--I am she, and my heart was so hard as to slight his woes, and leave him to make his way as he could; and these are his four sons. But I, too, am come, for I feel sure that no way is right but this. Interpreter:--But why do you stand at the door? Come in; it was but just now that we spoke of you, for we heard that you were on your way. Come, my dear boys, come in; come, my sweet maid, come in. So he took them to the house, and bade them sit down and rest. All in the house wore a smile of joy to think that Christiana was on her way to The Celestial City, and they were glad to see the young ones walk in God's ways, and gave them a kind of clasp of the hand to show their good will. They said soft words, too, to Mercy, and bade them all be at their ease. To fill up the time till they could sup, Interpreter took them to see all those things that had been shown to Christian. This done, they were led to a room in which stood a man with a prong in his hand, who could look no way but down on the ground; and there stood one with a crown in his hand, which he said he would give him for his prong; yet the first man did not look up, but went on to rake the straws, dust, and stocks which lay on the floor. Then said Christiana: I think I know what this means. It is a sketch of a man of this world, is it not, good Sir? Interpreter:--Thou art right, and his prong shows that his mind is of the earth, and that he thinks life in the next world is a mere song; take note that he does not so much as look up; and straws, sticks, and dust, with most, are the great things to live for. At that Christiana and Mercy wept, and said, Ah, yes, it is too true! Interpreter then took them to a room where were a hen and her chicks, and bade them look well at them for a while. So one of the chicks went to the trough to drink, and each time she drank would she lift up her head and her eyes to the sky. See, said he, what this bird does, and learn of her to know whence all good comes, and to give to the Lord who dwells on high, the praise and thanks for it. Look once more, and see all the ways that the hen has with her young brood. There is her call that goes on all day long; and there is her call that comes but now and then; she has a third call to shield them with her wings; and her fourth is a loud cry, which she gives when she spies a foe. Now, said he, set her ways by the side of your King's, and the ways of these chicks by the side of those who love to do His will, and then you will see what I mean. For He has a way to walk in with His saints. By the call that comes all day He gives nought; by a call that is rare He is sure to have some good to give; then there is a call, too, for those that would come to His wings, which He spreads out to shield them; and He has a cry to warn men from those who might hurt their souls. I choose scenes from real life, as they are not too hard for you to grasp, when I fit them to your own case; and it is the love I have for your souls that prompts me to show you these things. Christiana:--Pray let us see some more. Interpreter then took them to his field, which was sown with wheat and corn; but when they came to look, the ears were cut off, and there was nought but the straw left. Interpreter:--What shall we do with the crop? Christiana:--Burn some, and use the rest to dress the ground with. Interpreter:--Fruit, you see, is the thing you look for, and for want of that you cast off the whole crop. Take heed that in this you do not seal your own doom; for by fruit I mean works. Now when they came back to the house the meal was not yet spread, so did Christiana beg of Interpreter to show or tell them some more things. Interpreter:--So much the more strong a man's health is, so much the more prone is he to sin. The more fat the sow is, the more she loves the mire. It is not so hard to sit up a night or two, as to watch for a whole year; just as it is not so hard to start well as it is to hold out to the end. One leak will sink a ship, and one sin will kill a man's soul. If a man would live well, let him keep his last day in mind. Now when Christiana, Mercy and the boys bad all had a good night's rest, they rose with the sun, and made a move to leave; but Interpreter told them to wait a while. For, said he, you must go hence in due form, such is the rule of the house. Then he told Innocent to take them to the bath, and there wash the dust from them. This done, they came forth fresh and strong, and as Interpreter said, Fair as the moon. Next he told those near him to bring the seal, and when it was brought he set his mark on them that they might be known in each place where they went. Then said Interpreter: Bring vests for them. And they were clad in robes as white as snow, so that it made each start to see the rest shine with so bright a light. Interpreter then sent for one of his men whose name was Great-heart, and bade that he should be clad in a coat of mail, with sword and shield, and that he should take them to a house, the name of which was Beautiful, where they would rest. Then Interpreter took his leave of them, with a good wish for each. So they went on their way, and thus they sang:-- "O move me, Lord, to watch and pray, From sin my heart to clear; To take my cross up day by day, And serve the Lord with fear." They next came to the place where Christian's load had been lost in the tomb. Here they made a pause, and gave thanks to Him who laid down His life to save theirs. So now they went up the hill, which was so steep that the toil made Christiana pant for breath. How can we doubt, said she, that they who love rest more than their souls would choose some way on which they could go with more ease than this? Then Mercy said, Come what may, I must rest for a while. And James, who was the least of the boys, gave way to tears. Come, Come! said Great-heart, sit not down here; for there is a seat near us put there by the Prince. With this he took the young child by the hand, and led him to it; and they were all glad to sit down, and to be out of the heat of the sun's rays. Then said Mercy: How sweet is rest to them that work! And how good is the Prince to place this seat here that such as we may rest! Of this spot I have heard much, but let us take heed that we sleep not, for that once cost poor Christian dear. Then said Mr. Great-heart: Well, my brave boys, how do you do? What think you of this hill? Sir, said James, this hill beats me out of heart! And I see now that what I have been told is true; the land of bliss is up steps; but still, Sir, it is worse to go down hill to death than up hill to life. You are a good boy, said Great-heart. At this Mercy could but smile, and it made James blush. Christiana:--Come, will you not drink of this flask, and eat some fruit, while we sit here to rest? For Mr. Interpreter put these in my hand as I came out of his door. Now when they had sat there a while, their guide said to them: The day runs on, and if you think well of it, let us now go on our way. So they all set out, the boys first, then the rest; but they had not gone far when Christiana found she had left the flask, so she sent James back to fetch it. Mercy:--I think this is the place where Christian lost his scroll. How was this, Sir? Great-heart:--We may trace it to two things; one is sleep, and one is that you cease to think of that which you cease to want; and when you lose sight of a boon you lose sight of Him who grants it, and the joy of it will end in tears. By and by they came to a small mound with a post on it, where these words were cut, Let him who sees this post take heed of his heart and his tongue that they be not false. Then they went on till they came up to two large beasts of prey. Now Great-heart was a strong man, so he had no fear; but their fierce looks made the boys start, and they all clung round Great-heart. How now, my boys! You march on first, as brave as can be, when there is no cause for fear; but when a test of your strength comes, you shrink. Now when Great-heart drew his sword to force a way, there came up one Giant Grim, who said in a gruff voice, What right have you to come here? Great-heart:--These folk are on their way to The Celestial City, and this is the road they shall go, in spite of thee and the wild beasts. Grim:--This is not their way, nor shall they go on it. I am come forth to stop them, and to that end will back the wild beasts. Now, to say the truth, so fierce were these beasts, and so grim the looks of them that the road was grown with weeds and grass from want of use. And still Grim bade them turn, For, said he, you shall not pass. But their guide came up, and struck so hard at him with his sword as to force him to fall back. Giant Grim:--Will you slay me on my own ground? Great-heart:--It is the King's high way on which we stand, and in His way it is that you have put these beasts. But these, who are in my charge, though weak, shall hold on in spite of all. And with that he dealt him a blow that brought him to the ground; so Giant Grim was slain. Then Great-heart said, Come now with me, and you shall take no harm from the two beasts. So they went by, but shook from head to foot at the mere sight of their teeth and claws. At length they came in sight of the lodge, to which they soon went up, but made the more haste to get there as it grew dusk. So when they were come to the gate the guide gave a knock, and the man at the lodge said in a loud voice, Who is there? Great-heart:--It is I Mr. Watchful:--How now, Mr. Great-heart? What has brought you here at so late an hour? Then Great-heart told him that he had come with some friends on their way to Zion. Mr. Watchful:--Will you go in and stay till the day dawns? Great-heart:--No, I will go back to my Lord to night. Christiana:--Ah, Sir, I know not how we can part with you, for it is to your stout heart that we owe our lives. You have fought for us, you have taught us what is right, and your faith and your love have known no bounds. Mercy:--O that we could have you for our guide all the rest of the way! For how can such weak folk as we are hold out in a path fraught with toils and snares, if we have no friends to take us? James:--Pray, Sir, keep with us and help us, when the way we go is so hard to find. Great-heart:--As my Lord wills, so must I do; if He send me to join you once more, I shall be glad to wait on you. But it was here that you were in fault at first, for when He bade me come thus far with you, if you had said, We beg of you to let him go quite through with us, He would have let me do so. But now I must go back; and so good Christiana, Mercy and my dear boys, fare ye all well. Then did Watchful, who kept the lodge, ask Christiana whence she had come and who her friends were. Christiana:--I come from The City of Destruction, and I was the wife of one Christian, who is dead. Then Watchful rang the hell, as at such times he is wont, and there came to the door a maid, to whom he said: Go, make it known that Christiana, the wife of Christian, and her four boys are come on their way to The Celestial City.. So she went in and told all this. And, oh, what shouts of joy were sent forth when those words fell from her mouth! So all came with haste to Watchful; for Christiana still stood at the door. Some of the most grave said to her, Christiana, come in, thou wife of that good man, come in, thou blest one, come in, with all that are with thee. So she went in, and the rest with her. They then bade them sit down in a large room, where the chief of the house came to see them and to cheer his guests. Then he gave each of them a kiss. But as it was late, and Christiana and the rest were faint with the great fright they had had, they would fain have gone to rest. Nay, said those of the house, take first some meat; for as Watchful had heard that they were on their way, a lamb had been slain for them When the meal had come to an end, and they had sung a psalm, Christiana said, If we may be so bold as to choose, let us be in that room which was Christian's when he was here. So they took them there, but ere she went to sleep, Christiana said, I did not think when my poor Christian set off with his load on his back that I should do the same thing. Mercy:--No, nor did you think then that you should rest in the same room as he had done. Christiana:--And less still to see his dear face once more who was dead and gone, and to praise the Lord the King with him; and yet now I think I shall. Mercy:--Do you not hear a noise? Christiana:--Hark! as far as I can make out, the sounds we hear come from the lute, the pipe, and the horn. Mercy:--Sweet sounds in the house, sweet sounds in the air, sweet sounds in the heart, for joy that we are here. Thus did Christiana and Mercy chat, and they, then slept. Now at dawn when they woke up, Christiana said to Mercy: What was it that made you laugh in your sleep last night? Were you in a dream? Mercy:--Yes, and a sweet dream it was. But are you sure that I did laugh? Christiana:--Yes, you gave a laugh as if from your heart of hearts. Do pray, Mercy, tell it to me. Mercy:--I dreamt that I lay in some lone wood to weep and wail, for that my heart should be so hard a one. Now I had not been there long when I thought there were some who had come to hear me speak in my sleep; but I went on with my moans. At this they said with a laugh that I was a fool. Then I saw a Bright One with wings come up to me, who said, Mercy, what ails you? And when he heard the cause Of my grief, he said, Peace be to thee. He then came up to wipe off my tears and had me clad in robes of gold, and put a chain on my neck, and a crown on my head. Then he took me by the hand and said, Mercy, come this way. So he went up with me till we came to a gate, at which he gave a knock and then he took me to a throne on which one sat. The place was as bright as the stars, nay more like the sun. And I thought that I saw Christian there. So I woke from my dream. But did I laugh? Christiana:--Laugh! Yes, and so you might, to see how well off you were! For you must give me leave to tell you, that as you find the first part true, so you will find true the last. Mercy:--Well, I am glad of my dream, for I hope ere long to see it come to pass, so as to make me laugh once more. Christiana:--I think it is now high time to rise, and to know what we must do. Mercy:--Pray, if they should ask us to stay, let us by all means do so; for I should much like to know more of these maids. I think Prudence, Piety, and Charity have, each of them, a most choice mien. Christiana:--We shall see what they will do. So they came down. Then Prudence and Piety: If you will stay, here you shall have what the house will yield. Charity:--Yes, and that with a good will. So they were there some time, much to their good. Prudence:--Christiana, I give you all praise, for you have brought your boys up well. With James I have had a long chat; he is a good boy, and has learnt much that will bring peace to his mind, while he lives on this earth, and in the world to come it will cause him to see the face of Him who sits on the throne. For my own part, I will teach all your sons. At the same time, said she to them: You must still give heed to all that Christiana can teach you, but more than all, you must read the Book of God's Word, which sent your dear sire on his way to the land of bliss. By the time that Christiana and the rest had been in this place a week, a man, Mr. Brisk by name, came to woo Mercy, with the wish to wed her. Now Mercy was fair to look on and her mind was at all times set on work and the care of those round her. She would knit hose for the poor, and give to all those things of which they stood in need. She will make me a good house wife, thought Brisk. Mercy one day said to those of the house: Will you tell me what you think of Mr. Brisk? They then told her that the young man would seem to have a great sense of the love of God, but that they had fears it did not reach his soul, which they thought did cleave too much to this world. Nay then, said Mercy, I will look no more on him, for I will not have a clog to my soul. Prudence:--If you go on as you have set out, and work so hard for the poor, he will soon cool. So the next time he came, he found her at her work. What, still at it? said he. Mercy:--Yes. Mr. Brisk:--How much can you earn in the day. Mercy:--I work at these things for the good of those for whom I do them; and more than this, to do the will of Him who was slain on the cross for me. With that his face fell, and he came no more to see her. Prudence:--Did I not tell you that Mr. Brisk would soon flee from you? Yea, he may seem to love Mercy, but Mercy and he should not tread the same road of life side by side. Now Matthew, the son of Christiana, fell sick, so they sent to Mr. Skill to cure him. Then said he: Tell me what he eats. Christiana:--Well, there is no food here but what is good. Mr. Skill:--This boy has in him a crude mass of food, which if I do not use the means to get rid of, he will die. Samuel said to Christiana, What was it that you saw Matthew pick up and eat when we came from the gate which is at the head of this way? Christiana:--It was some of the fruit that grows there; I chid him for it. Skill:--I felt sure that it was some bad food; now that fruit hurts more than all, for it is the fruit from Beelzebub's grounds. Did no one warn you of it? Some fall down dead when they eat it. Then Christiana wept and said, What shall I do for my son? Pray, Sir, try your best to cure him, let it cost what it may. Then Skill gave strange drugs to him, which he would not take. So Christiana put one of them to the tip of her tongue. Oh, Matthew, said she, it is sweet, sweet as balm; if you love me, if you love Mercy, if you love your life, do take it! So in time he did, and felt grief for his sin. He quite lost the pain, so that with a staff he could walk, and went from room to room to talk with Mercy, Prudence, Piety and Charity. Christiana:--Pray, Sir, what else are these Pills good for? Skill:--They are good for all those that go on their way to The Celestial City. Christiana:--I pray of you to make me up a large box full of them, for if I can get these, I will take none else. Skill:--I make no doubt that if a man will but use them as he should, he could not die. But good Christiana, these pills will be of no use if you do not give them as I have done, and that is, in a glass of grief for the sins of those who take them. So he gave some to Christiana and the rest of her boys, and to Mercy; he bade Matthew, too, keep a good look out that he ate no more green plums; then he gave them a kiss, and went his way. Now, as they had spent some time here, they made a move to go. Then Joseph, who was Christiana's third, son, said to her: You were to send to the house of Mr. Interpreter to beg him to grant that Mr. Great-heart should go with us as our guide. Good boy! said Christiana, I had not thought of it. So she wrote a note, and Interpreter said to the man who brought it: Go, tell them that I will send him. Great-heart soon came, and he said to Christiana and Mercy, My Lord has sent you some wine and burnt corn, and to the boys figs and dry grapes. They then set off, and Prudence and Piety went with them. But first Christiana took leave of Watchful, who kept the gate, and put a small coin in his hand while she gave him her thanks for all that he had done for her and her dear boys. She then said to him, Have you seen men go by since we have been here? Watchful:--Yes, I have, and there has been a great theft on this high way; but the thieves were caught. Then Christiana and Mercy said they felt great fear to go on that road. Matthew:--Fear not, as long as we have Mr. Great-heart with us to guide us. I now saw in my dream that they went on till they came to the brow of the hill, when Piety said: O, I must go back to fetch that which I meant to give to Christiana and Mercy, and it was a list of all those things which they had seen at the house where we live. On these, said she, I beg of you to look from time to time, and call them to mind for your good. They now went down the hill to the Vale of Humiliation. It was a steep hill, and their feet slid as they went on; but they took great care, and when they had got to the foot of it, Piety said to Christiana: This is the vale where Christian met with Apollyon and where they had that fierce fight which I know you must have heard of. But be of good cheer, as long as we have Mr. Great-heart to guide us, there is nought here that will hurt us, save those sights that spring from our own fears. And as to Apollyon, the good folk of the town, who tell us that such a thing fell out in such a place, to the hurt of such a one, think that some foul fiend haunts that place, when lo! it is from the fruit of their own ill deeds that such things do fall on them. For they that make slips must look for frights. And hence it is that this vale has so bad a name. James:--See, there is a post with words on it, I will go and read them. So he went, and found that these words were cut on it: Let the slips which Christian met with ere he came here, and the fights he had in this place, warn all those who come to the Vale of Humiliation. Mr. Great-heart:--It is not so hard to go up as down this hill, and that can be said of but few hills in this part of the world. But we will leave the good man, he is at rest, and he had a brave fight with the foe; let Him who dwells on high grant that we fare no worse when our strength comes to be put to the test. This vale brings forth much fruit. Now, as they went on, they met a boy who was clad in mean clothes and kept watch on some sheep. He had a fine fresh face, and as he sat on the bank he sang a song. Hark, said Great-heart, to the words of that boy's song. So they gave ear to it. "He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low, no pride, He that is meek at all times shall Have God to be his guide." Then said Great-heart: Do you hear him? I dare say this boy leads as gay a life as he that is clad in silk, and that he wears more of that plant which they call heart's ease. Samuel:--Ask Great-heart in what part of this vale it was that Apollyon came to fight Christian? Great-heart:--The fight took place at that part of the plain which has the name of Forgetful Green. And if those who go on their way, meet with a shock, it is when they lose sight of the good which they have at the hand of Him who dwells on high. Mercy:--I think I feel as well in this place as I have done in all the rest of our way. This vale has a sweet grace, and just suits my mind; for I love to be in such a spot as this, where there are no coach wheels to make a din. Here one may think a while what he is, whence he came, and for what the King has made him; here one may muse and pray. Just then they thought that the ground they trod on shook. But the guide bade them be of good cheer, and look well to their feet, lest by chance they should meet with some snare. Then James felt sick, but I think the cause of it was fear, and Christiana gave him some of the wine which Mr. Interpreter had put in her hands, and three of the pills which Mr. Skill had made up, and the boy soon got well. They then went on a while, and Christiana said, What is that thing on the road? A thing of such a shape I have not seen in all my life! Joseph said, What is it? A vile thing, child, a vile thing! said she. Joseph:--But what is it like? Christiana:--It is like--I can't tell what. Just then it was far off, now it is nigh. Great-heart:--Well, let them that have the most fear keep close to me. Then it went out of sight of all of them. But they had not gone far when Mercy cast a look back, and saw a great beast come fast up to them with a loud roar. This noise made them all quail with fright save their guide, who fell back and put the rest in front of him. But when the brute saw that Great-heart meant to fight him, he drew back and was seen no more. Now they had not left the spot long when a great mist fell on them, so that they could not see. What shall we do? said they. Their guide told them not to fear, but to stand still, and see what an end he would put to this too. Then said Christiana to Mercy: Now I see what my poor dear Christian went through; I have heard much of this place. Poor man, he went here in the dead of the night, and no one with him; but who can tell what the Valley of the Shadow of Death should mean, till they come to see it? To be here fills my breast with awe! Great-heart: It seems now as if the earth and its bars were round us. I would not boast, but I trust we shall still make our way. Come, let us pray for light to Him that can give it. So did they weep and pray. And as the path was now more smooth, they went straight on. Mercy:--To be here is not so sweet as it was at The Gate, or at Mr. Interpreter's, or at the good house where we were last. Oh, said one of the boys, it is not so bad to go through this place as it is to dwell here for all time; for aught I know we have to go this way that our last home may seem to us the more blest. Great-heart:--Well said, Samuel; thou dost now speak like a man. Samuel:--Why, if I do in truth get out of this place, I think I shall prize that which is light and good more than I have done all my life. Great-heart:--We shall be out by and by. So on they went. Joseph:--Can we not see to the end of this vale yet? Great-heart:--Look to your feet, for you will soon be where the snares are. So they took good heed. Great-heart:--Men come here and bring no guide with them; hence it is they die from the snares they meet with in the way. Poor Christian! it is strange he should have got out of this place, and been safe. But God dwelt in his soul, and he had a stout heart, of his own, or else he could not have done it. Christiana:--I wish that there were some inn here where we could all take rest. I Well, said Mr. Honest--one whom they had just met--there is such a place not far off. So there they went, and the host, whose name was Gaius, said: Come in, for my house was built for none but such as you. Great-heart:--Good Gaius, let us sup. What have you for us to eat? We have gone through great toils, and stand much in want of food. Gaius:--It is too late for us to go out and seek food; but of such as we have you shall eat. The meal was then spread, and near the end of the feast all sat round the board to crack nuts, when old Honest said to Gaius, Tell me what this verse means: A man there was, and some did count him mad; The more that this man gave the more he had. Then all the youths gave a guess as to what Gaius would say to it; so he sat still a while, and then said: He that gives his goods to the poor, Shall have as much and ten times more. Joseph:--I did not think, Sir, that you would have found it out. Gaius:--Ah! I have learnt of my Lord to be kind, and I find I gain by it. Then Samuel said in a low tone to Christiana, This is a good man's house; let us make a long stay, and why should not Matthew wed Mercy here? When Gaius heard him say this, quoth he: With all my heart. And he gave Mercy to Matthew to wife. By this time Christiana's son James had come of age, and Gaius gave Phebe (who was his child) to be his wife. They spent ten days at the house of Gaius, and then took their leave. But on the last day he made them a feast, of which they all ate and drank. Great-heart:--Now, Gaius, the hour has come that we must be gone; so tell me what I owe you for this long stay at your inn, for we have been here some years. Gaius:--At my house no one pays; for the good Samaritan told me that I was to look to him for all the cost I was put to. They now took leave of him and went on their way, when they met with all kinds of frights and fears, till they came to a place which bore the name of Vanity Fair. There they went to the house of Mr. Mnason, who said to his guests: If there be a thing that you stand in need of, do but say so, and we will do what we can to get it for you. Well, then, said they, we should like much to see some of the good folk in this town. So Mnason gave a stamp with his foot, at which Grace came up, and he sent her to fetch some of his friends who were in the house, and they all sat down to a meal. Then said Mr. Mnason, as he held out his hand to point to Christiana: My friends, I have guests here who are on their way to Zion. But who do you think this is? This is the wife of Christian whom (with his friend Faithful) the men of this town did treat so ill. Well, said they, go who would have thought to meet Christiana at this place! May The King whom you love and serve bring you where He is, in peace! They then told her that the blood of Faithful had lain like a load on their hearts; and that since, they had burnt him no more men had been sent to the Stake at Vanity Fair. In those days, said they, good men could not walk the streets, but now they can show their heads. Christiana and her sons and Mercy made this place their home for some years, and in course of time Mr. Mnason, who had a wife and two girls, gave his first born, whose name was Grace, to Samuel to wife, and Martha to Joseph. Now, one day, a huge snake came out of the woods and slew some of the folk of the town. None of these were so bold as to dare to face him, but all fled when they heard that he came near, for he took off the babes by scores. But Great-heart and the rest of the men who were at Mr. Mnason's house, made up their minds to kill this snake, and so rid the town of him. So they went forth to meet him, and at first the snake did not seem to heed them; but as they were strong men at arms, they drove him back. Then they lay in wait for him, and fell on him, till at last they knew he must die of his wounds. By this deed Mr. Great-heart and the rest won the good will of the whole town. The time now drew near for them to go on their way. Mr. Great-heart went first as their guide; and I saw in my dream that they came to the stream on this side of The Delectable Mountains, where fine trees grew on each bank, the leaves of which were good for the health, and the fields were green all the year round; and here they might lie down and be safe. Here, too, there were folds for sheep, and a house was built in which to rear the lambs, and there was One who kept watch on them, who would take them in His arms and lay them in His breast. Now Christiana bade the four young wives place their babes by the side of this stream, so that they might lack nought in time to come. For, said she, if they should stray or be lost, He will bring them back; He will give strength, to the sick, and here they shall not want meat, drink, or clothes. So they left their young ones to Him. When they went to By-Path Meadow they sat on the stile to which Christian had gone with Hopeful, when Giant Despair shut the two up in Doubting Castle. They sat down to think what would be the best thing to do, now that they were so strong a force, and had such a man as Mr. Great-heart to guide them; to wit, if it would not be well to pull down Doubting Castle, and should there be poor souls shut up there who were on their way to The Celestial City, to set them free. One said this thing and one said that; at last quoth Mr. Great-heart: We are told in the book of God's Word, that we are to fight the good fight. And, I pray, with whom should we fight if not with Giant Despair? So who will go with me? Christiana's four sons said: We will; for they were young and strong; so they left their wives and went. When they gave their knock at the gate, Giant Despair and his wife Diffidence, came to them. Giant Despair:--Who and what is he that is so bold as to come to the gate of Giant Despair? Great-heart:--It is I, a guide to those who are on their way to Zion. And I charge thee to throw wide thy gates and stand forth, for I am come to slay thee and pull down thy house. Giant Despair:--What, shall such as Great-heart make me fear? No! So he put a cap of steel on his head, and with a breast plate of fire, and a club in his hand, he came out to fight his foes. Then these six men made up to him, and they fought for their lives, till Despair was brought to the ground and put to death by Great-heart. Next they fell on his house, but it took six days to pull it down. They found there Mr. Despondency and one Much-afraid, his child, and set them free. Then they all went onto The Delectable Mountains. They made friends with the men that kept watch on their flocks, who were as kind to them as they had been to Christian and Hopeful. You have brought a good train with you, said they. Pray, where did you find them? So their guide told them how it had come to pass. By and by they got to The Enchanted Ground, where the air makes men sleep. Now they had not gone far, when a thick mist fell on them, so that for a while they could not see; and as they could not walk by sight, they kept near their guide by the help of words. But one fell in a bush, while one stuck fast in the mud, and some of the young ones lost their shoes in the mire. Oh, I am down! said one. Where are you? cried the next; while a third said, I am held fast in the bush! Then they came to a bench, Slothful's Friend by name, which had shrubs and plants round it, to screen those who sat there from the sun. But Christiana and the rest gave such good heed to what their guide told them, that though they were worn out with toil, yet there was not one of them that had so much as a wish to stop there; for they knew that it would be death to sleep but for a short time on The Enchanted Ground. Now as it was still dark, their guide struck a light that he might look at his map (the book of God's Word); and had he not done so, they would all have been lost, for just at the end of the road was a pit, full of mud, and no one can tell how deep. Then thought I: Who is there but would have one of these maps or books in which he may look when he is in doubt, and knows not which way he should take? They soon came to a bench, on which sat two men, Heedless and Too-bold; and Christiana and the rest shook their heads for they saw that these men were in a bad case. They knew not what they ought to do: to go on and leave them in their sleep, or to try to wake them. Now the guide spoke to them by name; but not a sound could he hear from their lips. So Great-heart at last shook them, and did all he could to wake them. One of the two, whose name was Heedless, said, Nay: I will pay you when I get in my debts. At this the guide shook his head. Then Too-bold spoke out: I will fight as long as I can hold my sword. When he had said this all who stood round gave a laugh. Christiana:--'What does this mean? Great-heart:--They talk in their sleep. If you strike or shake them, they will still talk in the same way, for their sleep is like that of the man on the mast of a ship, when the waves of the sea beat on him. Then did Christiana, Mercy and their train go on with fear, and they sought from their guide a light for the rest of the way. But as the poor babes' cries were loud for want of rest, all fell on their knees to pray for help. And, by the time that they had gone but a short way, a wind sprang up which drove off the fog; so, now that the air was clear, they made their way. Then they came to the land of Beulah, where the sun shines night and day. Here they took some rest, and ate of the fruit that hung from the boughs round them. But all the sleep that they could wish for in such a land as this was but for a short space of time; for the bells rang to such sweet tunes, and such a blaze of lights burst on their eyes, that they soon rose to walk to and fro on this bright way, where no base feet dare to tread. And now they heard shouts rise up, for there was a noise in the town that a post was come from The Celestial City with words of great joy for Christiana, the wife of Christian. So search was made for her, and the house was found in which she was. Then the post put a note in her hands, the words of which were: Hail, good Christiana! I bring thee word that the Lord calls for thee, to stand near His throne in robes of white, in ten days' time. When he who brought the note had read it to her, he gave her a sign that they were words of truth and love, and said he had come to bid her make haste to be gone. The sign was a shaft with a sharp point, which was to tell her, that at the time the note spoke of, she must die. Christiana heard with joy that her toils would so soon he at an end, and that she should once more live with her dear Christian. She then sent for her sons and their wives to come to her. To these she gave words of good cheer. She told them how glad she was to have them near her at such a time. She sought, too, to make her own death, now close at hand, of use to them, from this time up to the hour when they should each of them have to quit this world. Her hope was that it might help guide them on their path; that the Faith which she had taught them to cling to, would have sunk deep in their hearts; and that all their works should spring from love to God. She could but pray that they would bear these words in mind, and put their whole trust in Him who had borne their sins on the Cross, and had been slain to save them. When the day came that she must go forth to the world of love and truth, the road was full of those who would fain see her start on her way; and the last words that she was heard to say were: I come, Lord, to be with Thee. THE END. 


