project intern (mormontextsproject.org) transcriber's note: this edition is meant to reproduce the original 1921 edition. any changes that vary from the original were minor and essential for readability. [illustration: book cover] no. 435 iv. series. the broken bough. revised by the committee of publication of the american sunday-school union. american sunday-school union. philadelphia: 146 chestnut street. the broken bough. revised by the committee of publication, of the american sunday school union. _philadelphia_: american sunday-school union, no. 146 chestnut street. the broken bough. [illustration] "what a beautiful afternoon it is!" said little charles to his brother on a fine sunday in the month of may, as they both rose from their seat in the class to return home. "it is, indeed," replied john, as he peeped through the old casement window of the school, and saw the pretty lambs feeding in the broad green meadow in the distance; "it is, indeed, and a fine walk we shall have in the orchard, too." now, little charles loved his school and his teacher also; but the thought of going home had its own peculiar charms, for he loved his dear father and mother, and his little sister jane: and now he thought, "i shall soon be home, and tell them all that my teacher has told me." indeed, the children in the class had spent a very happy day; for mr. fulton, their teacher, was so kind, and took such pains to make the lessons plain, that all his scholars loved his company; some of them even said that they had never seen the beauties that were in the bible until he taught them. they had been repeating that afternoon those verses in the 15th chapter of john's gospel, in which the saviour compares himself to a vine, and his disciples to the branches. as the orchards were all in full blossom, mr. fulton reminded his scholars of the beautiful change which had taken place in the appearance of the trees within the last few weeks. he said, that though their growth and beauty arose partly from the vegetable life which god had given them, and partly from the sun's warm rays, and gentle dews and showers, yet that both their life and growth must be attributed to god. when they had done reading mr. fulton said, "you see, my dear children, that the vine is intended to represent the redeemer, the lord jesus christ; through whom spiritual life is conveyed to his people, who are as the branches in the vine. let me impress this truth upon your minds, that they who are made partakers of this life, are as much dependent on christ to maintain its existence, as the branch is dependent on the vine for continued nourishment and support." it is delightful to a teacher to find that his scholars are attentive; and mr. fulton was much pleased by a remark from john, who said, "i think, sir, the trees seem to explain the observation which you made this afternoon, that all the followers of christ love to follow his example, and may be known by their fruit or conduct; for, sir, i see that all the branches of a tree bear the same kind of blossoms, and those of each sort of tree differ from all others." "that is quite true," said mr. fulton: "i am glad you notice these things; for they are both pleasing and instructive. but there is another lesson which may be gathered from the trees, and it is this, that although the branches differ much in size and strength, and therefore very much in the number of the blossoms seen upon them, yet the smallest will go on increasing until it may, in time, become very large. thus you, though now so young, and like the tender twigs upon the trees, with here and there a blossom, will, i trust, as years roll on, grow up both strong and fruitful in the ways of god." their teacher was about to say something more on the same subject, but the school-bell rang to prepare for an address: the children then put by their bibles, and stood up to sing that pretty hymn: "how sweet the precious saviour's words. what solid joy this truth affords to those who early pray; they shall the heavenly boon obtain, and jesus and his favour gain, who walk in wisdom's way." after the address, they sang another hymn, and then the school was closed with prayer. it was at this time that little charles and john began the conversation i have mentioned, about their walk in the orchard on their way home; and as mr. fulton overheard them, and had been interrupted in his remarks by the ringing of the school-bell, he thus addressed them: "my dear boys, as i am going up the green lane towards your father's house, we will all walk through the orchard together; and perhaps i may there find something to supply a better explanation of this day's lesson, than i have yet given you." the little boys were both much pleased with mr. fulton's offer, and wishing their school-fellows good-by, set off with him towards their home. as they walked through the meadows, and saw the young lambs feeding with their flocks, and noticed their shepherd who watched them, mr. fulton called their attention to the language of king david in ps. xxiii., where he speaks with such confidence in the divine protection and care, and says, "the lord is my shepherd; i shall not want." now, as both john and charles seemed to be much pleased when their teacher referred them to this very beautiful psalm, he proceeded to say, "you see, my dear boys, that every one of the sheep in the flock is equally the object of the shepherd's care; and there is not a lamb, however young or weakly, but he is anxious for its safety. just so, the lord is the shepherd and keeper of his people; for it is said of him, 'he shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom,' (isa. xl. 11;) and if you are his disciples, he will protect you as the lambs of his flock." here charles, who had seen some of the lambs pass through an opening in the hedge, and wander from the fold unseen by the shepherd, said to his teacher, "but the lambs of christ's flock must be more secure than these, sir; for this shepherd cannot see all his flock at once, although he may wish to do so: but you told us, last sunday, that those who love the saviour, however young or poor, are each as much the object of his care, as if there were no others in the world." "i am very glad to find you remember that remark," said his teacher; "for, as you grow up in life, you may find it a comfort to think, with jacob,'he knoweth the way that i take;' and to adopt the language of david as your own,'i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek thy servant: for i do not forget thy commandments.'" ps. cxix. 176. by this time they had again entered the green lane, from which they had departed to pursue the path across the meadow; and having gone over the stile by the village church, they entered the orchard through which charles and john had expected such a pleasant walk. i do not wonder at their wishing to go home that way, for the trees were all so full of beautiful pink and white blossoms, and the birds sang so sweetly as they hopped from twig to twig, or fluttered on the branches, that you could not have been there without rejoicing with them. it was not long before mr. fulton invited the attention of his scholars to a little apple tree, on every twig of which were buds and blossoms. the two little boys, on seeing it, cried out together, "o, what a beautiful tree!" to which their teacher replied by saying, "and i hope you will be like it." this remark surprised them both, especially little charles, who looked at his teacher as if he would inquire, "how can i be like this tree?" he was not kept long waiting, however, for mr. fulton, observing his astonishment, explained himself by saying, "i wish that, as this little tree has so early put forth blossoms, so you both, my dear boys, may begin, while young, to show that you are his, who said, 'i love them that love me, and those who seek me early shall find me.'" prov. viii. 17. as they walked onward, the grass beneath the trees was strewed in some places with blossoms, which the recent thunder-storm had broken off; and whilst the little boys stooped to pick up some of them, exclaiming, "what a pity! what a pity!" their teacher availed himself of that opportunity, also, to teach them a lesson. "it is a pity," said he; "for each of them might have become a fine rosy apple; but they will not have fallen off in vain, if we learn this truth from the circumstance, that death sometimes calls away those who have scarcely yet begun to live to god. but it is cheering to see a young tree promising to be fruitful; and it is much more pleasing to see young persons likely to bear the fruits of wisdom and goodness." "i remember, sir," said john, "that last year our pear tree was full of blossoms; but father said the blight had killed them." "yes, my dear boy," said mr. fulton, "storms, and tempests, and blights also frequently disappoint our fondest expectations: so also there are moral blights, as i have sometimes told you in the class at school. you both remember poor george king, the orphan boy; how well he said his lessons, and how serious and attentive he was; but when his pious mother died, he fell into bad company, and is now a sad evidence that those who associate with the wicked have turned their backs upon the ways of god. o, then, flee from bad people, bad books, and bad scenes, as from that which will blight the best interests of your souls." their teacher had never had such a happy opportunity of conversing with them until now, and as they both seemed to look upon the trees around them as so many objects from which instruction might be gathered, he proceeded to point out a circumstance which had before escaped their notice; it was this, that where the branches had been sheltered from the passing tempest, there all the blossoms were unhurt. "now," said mr. fulton to his young companions, "while thinking of our saviour's language in this day's lesson, 'i am the vine, ye are the branches,' we may learn not only that the life of our souls must be drawn from him, but that if we bring any fruit to perfection, it is the result of his most gracious and protecting care." [illustration] at this moment, mr. fulton's attention was drawn to one of the largest trees in the orchard, which seemed to surpass all the others in the beauty and abundance of its blossoms; but the boisterous winds had broken off a fine bough, one end of which lay spread upon the grass, whilst the other continued hanging by a long strip of bark which it had torn away in falling. it must have been some time in this situation; for the tree was not only full of blossoms, but was putting forth its green leaves in every direction, whilst, on this poor branch, there was not a trace of either bud or blossom; but it hung upon the ground both dry and dead. this was too striking an object to be passed by without an observation; therefore their teacher immediately availed himself of it, to explain that part of the chapter which his scholars had been learning, in which the saviour says "if a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered." he felt very anxious also to impress upon their minds that true religion does not consist in being called a christian, or in any outward distinction; but that it is a living principle in the heart. "without the fruit the lord expects, knowledge will make our state the worse; the barren trees he still rejects, and soon will blast them with his curse." "now," said mr. fulton, "you see, my dear boys, that the broken bough has no life, because it is severed from the tree, and therefore gets no sap or moisture from the root. and as our lord remarks, 'the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine;' so the broken bough has not a bud or blossom, whilst the tree is full of both. you see then that there must be life and union, or there can be no fruitfulness; and as the root supplies the living sap to all the branches, so jesus is the source of life to all his people. it is your blessing, my dear boys, to have godly parents; but do not think that this will prove a substitute for true religion in your own souls. see how the bough hangs to its parent tree by the strip of bark; it is true, they are not altogether parted; but, whilst the tree is living, the broken bough is dead. learn, then, that without an interest in christ and union to him, you must perish. no christian relatives can save you; their life is drawn from him, but they cannot give that life to you. it is possible you may have thought yourselves almost disciples, because you have kept company with those who are such; but this fellowship, so long as you keep your hearts from christ, is only like the strip of bark which holds the broken bough; no life flows from it. let us then, on parting, each go home, and pray to him who 'quickeneth whom he will,' (john v. 21,) to make us indeed living branches of the true vine." [illustration] a hymn. another fleeting year has fled and passed away, since we were taught to worship here, on this most holy day. years hurry quickly by, and we are fading too; and soon the year when we shall die, will come upon our view. if we are ready then, for us it will be well; removed from this low earth of pain, with god in heaven to dwell. transcriber's note * obvious punctuation errors repaired. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) transcriber's note: "[_sic._]" has been inserted wherever there was an apparent typo or non-standard grammatical construction in the original. a sermon preached at the quaker's meeting house, in gracechurch-street, london, eighth month 12th, 1694. by william penn. salvation from sin by christ alone. london: r. h. moore, 162, fleet-street; and bancks and co., exchange-street, manchester. 1836. bancks and co., printers, manchester. the perusal of the first numbers of a series of tracts, containing extracts from the writings of "early friends," and published for the avowed purpose of lowering the estimation in which those writings are held by the society, and even of proving "that many of them would reflect discredit upon a private library, and ought truly to be accounted dangerous books," has given rise to the present re-publication. as an humble, but sincere admirer of those principles of gospel truth, which the early friends sought to promulgate, as well by their writings as by eminently devoted lives, and a constant and oft proved willingness to suffer for christ's sake, i must protest (whether to any purpose or not) against the illiberal, and unjust mode of conduct resorted to by the publishers of the "extracts," in selecting short and partial sentences, and thus, as i conceive, grossly misrepresenting some of the views of those worthies long since removed from the world on which they walked as strangers and as pilgrims, and long since, i doubt not, permitted, through the mercy of their god and saviour, to enter into that "better country," where they are no more exposed to the trials of time, no more exposed to the scoffs and persecutions of men, and no more affected by the calumnies of "false brethren." whilst, however, expressing a sincere and affectionate regard for the memories of those who have preceded me in religious professions, i would add that i consider them worthy to be followed only as they followed christ, and that if i go forth by the footsteps of this flock of my saviour's companions, it is that i may feed beside that good shepherd's tents, where, i believe, they found plentiful pasture. i would most explicitly state, the present publication is no party act, or an act originating in party feeling, for though i must take a heartfelt interest in the present proceedings in our society, yet i deeply feel that, even if i see, or think i see, the ark of the covenant of our god unsteadily placed as upon a new cart, there is a danger of putting forth, like uzza of old, uncalled and unprepared hands for its support. to the serious attention of all honest hearted enquirers after truth do i commend this little pamphlet, believing that the principles set forth in the annexed sermon, are the principles uniformly avowed and supported by the "early friends," and that (however their views and writings may be distorted and belied) the whole gospel of a crucified and risen saviour, in all its freeness, and in all its fullness, was what they sought to publish, and by their lives to adorn. c. gilpin. _manchester, 4th month, 1836._ sermon. the great and blessed god that made heaven and earth, the seas and the great fountains of the deep, and rivers of water, the almighty jehovah, who is from everlasting to everlasting. he also made man and woman; and his design was to make them eternally happy and blessed. and therefore he made man in his own image; "in the image of god created he him, male and female created he them:" he made them after his own likeness holy, wise, merciful, just, patient, and humble, endued them with knowledge, righteousness, and true holiness. but man and woman through their transgressions lost this image of god, and with it lost their happiness and true blessedness, that god made them in a capacity to enjoy. now in this state of misery into which we are fallen, we are come short of the glory of god; and it is out of this wretched woful state we must be brought, else we shall never see the face of god with comfort. this is an eternal truth of god, and recorded in the holy scriptures. john iii. 16. that "god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life." god so loved the world, he gave his son to be a light unto the world, that all might see their way back to god again: for sin hath darkened the understanding, and clouded the mind of man and woman, and alienated them from the life of god, and their hearts are hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. but now is the acceptable time, now is the day of salvation, the day of god's grace and favourable visitation, wherein he visits men and women, illuminates their minds and spirits with a light from heaven, that they might see the deplorable state and condition wherein they are, and what they are doing: it is in this light, that they have a day of grace vouchsafed to them, that it may be well with them, both here and for ever. they that receive this light, and come out of that which they are called from, which is sin, they may come to enjoy peace with god. it was sin that first separated between god and man; and it is sin now that hinders man from acquaintance with the lord, who brings peace unto him: it is by this light, that we are to acquaint ourselves with god, that we may be at peace. thus saith the lord by the prophet, "it is sin has separated between me and you:" sin hath made a partition wall between god and us, and god hath sent his son into the world to break down this partition wall that sin hath made; that so fallen man might return to god, and come into paradise again, out of which sin hath cast him. now, none can bring us back to god, and into favour and communion with him, but our lord jesus christ: he is the light and leader of his people. there is no name under heaven by which we can be saved, but the name of jesus: it is he that saves his people from their sins; and it is in him alone that we are blessed: "blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, and whose sin is covered:" and for the sake of christ alone it is, that the lord imputeth not iniquity to us. now pray "examine yourselves, whether you be in the faith," 2 cor. xiii. 5. "prove your own selves, how that jesus christ is in you, except you be reprobates." examine yourselves, whether you have chosen the lord for your god, and christ for your redeemer? and whether you have forsaken your sins, and returned from your evil ways, and answered the visitation of the love of god in your souls? do you believe in the lord jesus christ, who came to seek and to save them that were lost? he is the physician of value, that was wounded to heal our wounds: "he was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities, and had the chastisement of our peace upon him; that by his stripes we might be healed:" it is he alone that could do this. who is sufficient for these things? the lord found out one that is sufficient; he hath "laid help upon one that is mighty," that is "able to save to the uttermost all that come unto god by him." god hath given him the spirit without measure, and filled him with grace and truth, that of his fullness we might all receive, and grace for grace: he is mighty to save the sons and daughters of men, and to give them power to become the children of god. this was testified of old, john i. 12. "but as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of god, even to them who believe on his name." men want power over their sins: when sin appears to be exceeding sinful, they would overcome it, and be rid of it, when it is troublesome: and when they are under a deep conviction of the evil of it, and see the woful and miserable state that sin hath brought mankind into how they have lost the image of god and the favour of god; they then desire to be restored, and brought back again into their primitive state. you that know the truth of god, see how the work goes on in your hearts, see how the image of god is carrying on upon you. consider, that the lord is a holy god, of purer eyes than to behold iniquity with approbation: "there is no peace to the wicked," that walk in the broad way, and grieve the holy spirit, and do not answer his divine call. there is a two-fold call concerning man, a call to repentance, and a call to judgment. the call to repentance is in this day of god's visitation; they that receive it now, that are so wise, as to answer god's call, and believe in the son of god, and in his inward appearance, that obey his voice, when they hear his call, saying, come away, come out of thy sins, come out of the wickedness, filthiness, and pollution of the world; come into the divine nature of the son of god; come into his life: into what life? into the spiritual life, the divine life? thou hast been dead to god and alive to the world: now that thou mayst [_sic._] be dead to sin, and alive to god, come unto him that hath all power in heaven and in earth committed to him. o come unto christ, the dear and blessed son of god, in this day of grace and salvation, and receive power to overcome thy sins! then thou wilt be a conqueror, and overcome the devil. we are of ourselves altogether insufficient for these things, we are weak and impotent; and our saviour hath told us, "without me ye can do nothing:" we are justified freely by god's grace, through the redemption that is in jesus christ; not justified by our own works. how great a contradiction is it to charge them with the contrary, that say, they cannot preach nor pray, but as the spirit of god moveth them. blessed be god that hath made us sensible of our own weakness, emptiness, and poverty. our help hath been in the name of the lord, who made heaven and earth, who hath given his son to be an helper, and an all-sufficient saviour to us; with him he hath given sufficient power and strength, whereby we are enabled to overcome the devil, the enemy of our souls: so that we may be enabled to stand against principalities and powers, against spiritual wickedness, and conquer all the powers, of darkness, and fight the good fight of faith, and finish our course with joy, and keep the faith: seeing there is laid up for us a crown of righteousness, which the lord, the righteous judge, shall give us at that day; "and not only to us, (saith the apostle,) but unto all them that love his appearing." we have not an high-priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin: christ, our redeemer, was tempted, that he might succour those that are tempted. when the devil tempted our saviour in the wilderness, and could not prevail, he went away and left him: the prince of this world found nothing in him, upon which he could fasten his temptation. christ will enable those that believe in him to overcome the devil, and to be more than conquerors, through him that loved them: he came into the world to purge and purify his people, and to be the author of eternal salvation to all them that believe in him, and obey him. but it is said, "he did not many mighty works" among some to whom he preached the everlasting gospel, because of their unbelief: many will not believe in the inward and spiritual appearance of jesus christ the son of god, who is the light of the world; they will neither believe in the light, nor walk in the light, which will enable them to conquer the evil one, who is the prince of darkness: it is only through christ jesus, the great captain of our salvation, that we are victorious. therefore, my friends, open your hearts to the lord jesus christ, receive this blessed gift of god which he offers to you: and can god give you a greater gift than the son of his love? and will not you gladly receive him, and that great salvation which he hath purchased for you with his own blood! but, say some people, we have received christ, and believe in him, and believe the divine authority of the holy scriptures. but let me ask you, who keeps house all this while? what have you done for christ? christ hath died for you; but hast thou lived to him? and hast thou died to the world, and died to thy sins and lusts? consider with yourselves, it is both your great duty and interest to die to sin, and live to christ that died for you. and we must stand at christ's tribunal, and give an account to him, of whatsoever we have done, whether good or bad; and he will judge us at the great day of his appearing. blessed are you, that receive the blessed son of god, that now stands in spirit at the door, and knocks: open your heart, and make room for him, and let not the world keep him out, and he will come in, and sup with you, and you with him: and he will do that for you, which you cannot do for yourselves. "the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak:" he will give thee power over sin, and over the world, and over the devil: whenever he shall assault thee with his temptations, say, "get thee behind me satan, thou savourest not the things that be of god." when people come to be spiritually minded they will taste and savour the things that are spiritual and heavenly: if they be not things of god, do not touch with them, have nothing to do with them; but walk in the spirit, and savour the things of the spirit. and hearken to the counsel of christ, who speaks to you in the name of wisdom; "o ye simple ones understand wisdom, and ye fools be of an understanding heart; hear, for i will speak of excellent things, and the opening of my lips shall be right things: blessed is the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors: for whoso findeth me findeth life." hearken to the blessed counsel of christ, hear his voice and obey it: they that do his will, shall know his doctrine: "the secret of the lord is with them that fear him, and he will shew them his covenant." they that have the saving knowledge of god, and christ jesus, which is life eternal, they will walk in a correspondent and suitable manner to that knowledge, and be holy in all manner of conversation: they will not be only nominal christians, but true christians, israelites indeed in whom there is no guile; they will receive christ jesus who is god's gift, and knows [_sic._] the operation of his power in their souls. these persons are fit to live and prepared to die; when christ, who is their life, shall appear, they shall appear with him in glory. when the sound of the last trumpet shall be heard at the end of the world, time shall be no more; come away! that day shall not be terrible to them that have put off the old man, and put on the new man; and have begun to live a new life, and to have new affections, new thoughts and resolutions, and have laid up their treasure in heaven, where their hearts are also: they have that peace, which the world cannot give, and which death cannot take away. blessed are they that take sanctuary in the name of jesus, as in a strong tower; they shall get power over their sins, and over the vanity of their minds, that die to sin and live to god, and feel the constraining power and efficacy of the love of christ, "who hath loved them, and washed them from their sins, in his own blood, and made them kings and priests to god." my friends, hear the voice of wisdom, who hath said, "whoso findeth me, findeth life, and shall obtain favour of the lord: but he that sinneth against me, wrongeth his own soul." be you early seekers: seek the kingdom of god in the first place. the lord calls from heaven; "my son, give me thine heart:" let thy answer be, lord, take my heart, purify and cleanse it; break it, and make it new, make it fit for thy acceptance, that i may find favour in thy sight. "without me (saith our saviour) ye can do nothing:" therefore desire him to do it for thee, and to work in thee both to will and to do of his own good pleasure. how dreadful is it to appear at the bar of god's justice as miserable sinners! those that have not christ, the great mediator, to plead for them, are miserable indeed: therefore lay hold on christ now; believe in him, lay hold on his power and spirit in this day of your visitation. if thou art under the power of sin and satan, thou mayst [_sic._] receive power from christ, to overcome all the power of darkness: if the strong man armed hath got possession of thy heart, christ will lay siege to it; and if thou be willing to open the door, christ will come in and cast out the strong man, and spoil him of all his goods. he will cast out the grand enemy of thy soul, and take possession for himself; that thou mayest be delivered from the power of satan, and from the bondage of corruption, and brought into the glorious liberty of the sons of god: and if the son of god make thee free, thou shalt be free indeed. for this end christ came into the world, "for this purpose was the son of god manifested, that he might destroy the works of the devil:" and he will not lose the design of his coming, but will "finish transgression, and make an end of sin, and bring in everlasting righteousness." let us all come to christ, and let none deceive themselves, and live in their sins, and yet think to come to heaven: "be not deceived, (saith the apostle,) god is not mocked; for whatsoever a man sows, that shall he also reap: he that soweth to the flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the spirit reap everlasting life." labour for a sure grounded hope, a just hope in the mercy of god for pardon and salvation; then you must know a work of christ upon you, and the power of the spirit of christ within you, subduing your will to a holy subjection to the divine will; that you may say with the apostle; "i am crucified with christ; nevertheless i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me; and the life which i now live in the flesh, i live by the faith of the son of god, who loved me, and gave himself for me." then the call to judgment will be joyful to you; for you shall then be justified and acquitted before the whole world, at that great and general judgment, and have an abundant entrance into the everlasting kingdom of our lord and saviour jesus christ, and it shall be well with you for ever. now, "say to the righteous, it shall be well with him;" not that it doth so appear at present; for through many tribulations we must expect to enter into the kingdom of heaven; and many are the troubles of the righteous, but the lord will deliver them out of them all. so that "if in this life only (saith the apostle) we have hope, we are of all men most miserable". yet "say to the righteous, it shall be well with him;" whatsoever their trials, troubles, and tribulations are, the lord will deliver them in the best time; they have heaven in their eye and they look to the recompense of reward. now what hast thou in thine eye? is it the high calling in christ? is this the mark thou aimest at, and which thou hast in view? is this the port and haven, that thou art sailing to, "looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of our faith who for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame?" heb. xii 2. the apostle, after he had been speaking of the suffering and martyrdom of those great saints, of whom the world was not worthy; heb. xi. how that "through faith they subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopt the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, and turned to flight the armies of the aliens; of women, that received their dead to life again, and others were tortured, not accepting of deliverance, that they might obtain a better resurrection." then he comes to speak of the sufferings of our lord jesus christ, and bids us "look unto him." heb. xii. 1, 2, 3. wherefore, "seeing we are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin that doth so easily beset us; and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of our faith: who for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross and despised the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of god: for consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against himself, lest ye be wearied and faint in your minds." blessed are they that can endure all these things, shame, reproach, contumely, and disdain, persecutions and afflictions that attend the testimony of jesus! blessed are they that can endure the cross, and despise the shame! it is an internal cross, which thou must endure for christ, or thy own heart will reprove thee, check thee and condemn thee for it: but if thou comest to know a being crucified with christ, thou shalt reign with him, and be raised up to eternal glory with him. unless thou knowest a dying to the world, and a being crucified with christ, thou canst not have a well grounded hope of everlasting happiness. therefore now, friends, examine yourselves about your title to heaven. it is the wisdom and practice of the world, to examine their titles and settlements, and to see, they be sure, and firm, and stable beforehand: so we should make sure for heaven and eternal glory, and of "an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens," before this earthly tabernacle be dissolved; then for us to live will be christ, and to die will be eternal gain. blessed are they that bear record of the word of god, and of the testimony of jesus, that bear his name, and testify and join with him against the spirit of the world, and the prince of the power of the air. it is within that thou must join with christ's appearance, that so thou mayest be christianized, and thy mind made truly christian: thou must be purified in thy spirit, and baptized with the holy ghost, and with fire, and know the powerful operation of the lord: they that have not experience of the new birth, they cannot enter into the kingdom of god. o my friends, set before you the example of christ, who was holy, harmless, and undefiled; his life was glorious in holiness: and as it becomes you, so it highly concerns you, to be holy in all manner of conversation. for if you imitate not the life of christ, you cannot be saved by his death: he came into the world, to redeem you from all iniquity, and to save you from sin and hell; labour to answer the dignity of your high and holy calling, with a conversation becoming the gospel of christ: for you are called to glory and virtue. whatsoever troubles, temptations and tribulations may attend you in your pilgrimage here below, if you be faithful and sincere, you will have peace with god through our lord jesus christ. in all your labours and travels on this earth, you may look up with joy for you have a serene heaven over your heads; let christ be precious to you; open the door of your hearts to him, who is the king of glory: he is oppressed in the hearts of the unclean, but he is exalted and lifted up in the hearts of the faithful: blessed are they that set him upon his throne in their hearts! o learn of christ to be meek and lowly: your humility will exalt him, and will also exalt you at the last: "be faithful to the death and you shall receive a crown of life:" those that have eternal life in their eye, and depend upon christ alone for salvation, they have laid a sure foundation. all other foundations will come to nothing; they are founded in time, and in time they will come to moulder away: but that city that god is the builder and maker of, that abraham had in his eye, will never decay, nor moulder away: let us have this always in our eye, that nothing may intercept our view. "we have here (saith the apostle) no continuing city; we seek one that is to come." in this world we are as sheep among wolves: "fear not, little flock, (saith our saviour,) it is your father's good pleasure to give you a kingdom." if we be the sheep of christ, we shall follow him: "for his sheep follow him, and know his voice, and a stranger they will not follow, but they will flee from him, for they know not the voice of a stranger." "my sheep (saith christ) hear my voice, and i know them, and they follow me, and i give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hands." here is encouragement for us to labour abundantly in the work of the lord; "for our labour shall not be in vain in the lord." let us, with moses, "choose rather to suffer affliction with the people of god, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season;" and "esteem the reproach of christ greater riches than the treasures of egypt; and have respect to the recompense of reward." friends, i beseech you, in the fear of god, "look up unto jesus, the great mediator of the new covenant, the author and finisher of your faith; that by patient continuance in well doing, you may seek for glory, honour, immortality, and eternal life:" which you shall obtain, if you persevere to the end: "for he that endureth unto the end shall be saved." "be not weary of well doing; for in due time you shall reap if you faint not." he that hath appeared, as a god of salvation, and a mighty preserver of his people in all ages of the world, and hath been so both to the primitive christians, and to all our christian friends, that are gone before us to an eternal rest, if you faint not, but follow them, who through faith and patience do inherit the promises, you shall lay down your heads in peace in him, when you come to die; and when time shall be no more, you shall be for ever with the lord. to god be praise, honour, and glory, who hath stretched forth his mighty arm to save: who is the arm of the lord but christ jesus, the redeemer of souls? when we had undone ourselves, and lost ourselves, in wandering and departing from the lord, the true and living god, into darkness and the shadow of death, he stretched forth his almighty arm, to gather us, and to bring us into the paradise of god again, when we were driven out by our own sin, from the face and presence of the lord. christ jesus, the great and good shepherd of his sheep, came to seek and to save them that were lost: the lost sheep that have wandered from him, he will take them on his shoulder, and bring them to his fold: and he will make them lie down in green pastures, and lead them by the still waters, and satisfy them with the rivers of pleasure that are at god's right hand for evermore. he hath promised, "that he will feed his flock like a shepherd, and gather his lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom:" i hope christ jesus, the great shepherd, will find some here this day, that have gone astray, and gather them with his divine arm, and keep them by his mighty power, through faith unto salvation. to him be all praise, honour, glory, dominion, and thanksgiving: for he alone is worthy, who is god over all, blessed for ever and ever.--_amen._ bancks and co., printers, manchester. parables of the cross by i. lilias trotter to a.c. & b.a.b. in memory of lessons learnt together marshall brothers, ltd. london & edinburgh. death is the gate of life there was deep insight in those old words. for man's natural thought of death is that of a dreary ending in decay and dissolution. and from his standpoint he is right: death as the punishment of sin is an ending. but far other is god's thought in the redemption of the world. he takes the very thing that came in with the curse, and makes it the path of glory. death becomes a beginning instead of an ending, for it becomes the means of liberating a fresh life. and so the hope that lies in these parable lessons of death and life is meant for those only who are turning to him for redemption. to those who have not turned, death stands in all its old awful doom, inevitable, irrevocable. there is no gleam of light through it for them. * * * * * * * * "the death of the cross"--death's triumph hour--that was the point where god's gate opened; and to that gate we come again and again, as our lives unfold, and through it pass even on earth to our joyful resurrection, to a life each time more abundant, for each time the dying is a deeper dying. the christian life is a process of deliverance out of one world into another, and "death," as has been truly said, "is the only way out of any world in which we are." "death is the gate of life." does it look so to us? have we learnt to go down, once and again, into its gathering shadows in quietness and confidence, knowing that there is always "a better resurrection" beyond? it is in the stages of a plant's growth, its budding and blossoming and seed-bearing, that this lesson has come to me: the lesson of death in its delivering power. it has come as no mere far-fetched imagery, but as one of the many voices in which god speaks, bringing strength and gladness from his holy place. can we not trace the sign of the cross in the first hint of the new spring's dawning? in many cases, as in the chestnut, before a single old leaf has faded, next year's buds may be seen, at the summit of branch and twig, formed into its very likeness: in others the leaf-buds seem to bear its mark by breaking through the stem blood-red. back in the plant's first stages, the crimson touch is to be found in seed-leaves and fresh shoots, and even in the hidden sprouts. look at the acorn, for instance, as it breaks its shell, and see how the baby tree bears its birthmark: it is the blood-red in which the prism ray dawns out of the darkness, and the sunrise out of the night. the very stars, science now tells us, glow with this same colour as they are born into the universe out of the dying of former stars.[footnote*:prof. huggins. brit. asso. 1891.] be it as it may in nature, it is true, at any rate in the world of grace, that each soul that would enter into real life must bear at the outset this crimson seal; there must be the individual "sprinkling of the blood of jesus christ." it must go out through the gate of the cross. and here is the needs-be. death is the only way out of the world of condemnation wherein we lie. shut into that world, it is vain to try by any self-effort to battle out; nothing can revoke the decree "the soul that sinneth it shall die." the only choice left is this. shall it be, under the old headship of adam, our own death, in all that god means by the word, or shall it be, under the headship of christ, the death of another in our place? it is when we come to self-despair, when we feel ourselves locked in, waiting our doom, that the glory and the beauty of god's way of escape dawns upon us, and we submit ourselves to him in it. all resistance breaks down as faith closes on the fact: "he loved me and gave himself for me." we receive the atonement so hardly won, and we go out into life not only pardoned, but cleared and justified. death to sin's penalty is the way out into a life of justification. and as we go out free, we find that on the other side of the cross a new existence has really begun: that the love of the crucified has touched the springs of our being--we are in another world, under an open heaven. "christ hath suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to god." does anyone read these words who is trying to struggle from the natural life into the spiritual, by "some other way" than this way of the cross? it is as impossible as it would be to pass from to-day into to-morrow except through the night. your battling is a battling against god. yield and come to his terms. yield now. * * * * * * * * but blessed as it is, this passage into a life of peace with him, woe to the soul that stops there, thinking that the goal is reached, and dwindles, so to speak, into a stunted bud. holiness, not safety, is the end of our calling. and so it comes to pass that a fresh need for deliverance is soon pressed upon him who is true to god's voice in his heart. the two lives are there together, one new-born and feeble, the other strong with an earlier growth. "the flesh lusteth against the spirit and the spirit against the flesh," and the will power is distracted between the two, like the sap that flows partly into the old condemned leaves, partly into the fresh buds. consequently there is the strife of a kingdom divided against itself: sometimes the one life grows and flourishes, sometimes the other; sometimes they struggle on side by side, till the cry is forced out--"oh, wretched man that i am; who shall deliver me?" and here again, when the point of self-despair is reached, and we come to see that our efforts after holiness are as vain as our efforts after acceptance with god, the door of escape opens afresh. for there is glory be to god, a definite way out from the prison life of sruggling and failure, sinning and repenting, wherein many a soul beats its wings for years after the question of pardon has been settled. and that way is again the way of death. a stage of dying must come over the plant before the new leaves can grow and thrive. there must be a deliberate choice between the former growth and the new; one must give way to the other; the acorn has to come to the point where it ceases to keep its rag of former existence, and lets everything go to the fresh shoot: the twig must withdraw its sap from last year's leaf, and let it flow into this year's bud. and before the soul can really enter upon a life of holiness, with all its blessed endless possibilities, a like choice must be made: all known sin must be deliberately given up, that the rising current may have its full play. "but," you say, "i have tried again and again to give up sin: i have prayed, and i have resolved, but the will finds its way back into the old channels, and is keeping alive the past before i know it." look at our parable. if you picked off one of the dead leaves and examined the leaf-stalk through a microscope, you would find that the old channel is silted up by a barrier invisible to the naked eye. the plant has shut the door on the last year's leaf, condemning it to decay, and soon without further effort the stalk loosens, the winds of god play around it, and it falls away. but where is the barrier that we can place between ourselves and the old nature? where is the sentence of death that we can pass upon it? back to the cross again! it is there, within our reach. "our old man is crucified with him, that the body of sin might be destroyed, that henceforth we should not serve sin; for he that is dead is freed from sin." death to sin is the way out into a life of holiness. the cross of our lord jesus christ shuts off the life of sin; like the silted-up channel, it stands a blessed invisible barrier between us and sinning, as we "reckon" it there: that is, hold it there by faith and will. and his open grave is the open way into a life, wherein our rising powers can develop into all their spring vigour. the sap--the will--the "ego"--is withdrawn from the former existence, its aims and desires, and is sent into the new. it is given over to the other side: we hold to it that this is now our life, the only one that has the right to be. we reckon ourselves dead to the old; we reckon ourselves alive to the new; "putting off" the former, "putting on" the latter. take a practical instance. an old habit of doubting and fearing asserts itself in your soul, alive and strong. you have two things to do. close the door upon the doubt: shut your eyes to it: reckon yourself dead to it. and then reckon into life the new-born growth of faith in your soul, and put all your force into believing: lift up your eyes to the god in whom you believe: believe in the teeth of everything, as if the cause for doubt were not there. then the sap, ceasing from feeding the old shoot, will flow into the new. but is it an act, or a gradual process, this "putting off the old man?" it is both. it is a resolve taken once for all, but carried out in detail day by day. the first hour that the sap begins to withdraw, and the leaf-stalk begins to silt up, the leaf's fate is sealed: there is never a moment's reversal of the decision. each day that follows is a steady carrying out of the plant's purpose: "this old leaf shall die, and the new leaf shall live." so with your soul. come to the decision once for all: "every known sin shall go--if there is a deliverance to be had, i will have it." put the cross of christ, in its mysterious delivering power, irrevocably between you and sinning, and hold on there. that is your part, and you must do it. there is no further progress possible to you, till you make up your mind to part company with every sin in which you know you are indulging--every sin of thought, word, or deed, every link with the world, the flesh, or the devil, everything on which the shadow of a question falls, as god's light shines in: to part company, not by a series of gradual struggles, but by an honest act of renouncing, maintained by faith and obedience. and as you make the decision up to your present knowledge, you must determine that this is henceforth your attitude towards all that is "not of the father," as his growing light shall reveal it. from his side god will come in with a breath of his resurrection power; for the cross and the empty tomb cannot be long divided. the law of the spirit of life can work now, as you deliberately loose hold of all clinging to sin; the expulsive power of his working within, and the play of his winds around, will make you "free indeed," like these young shoots when last year's leaves have fallen. * * * * * * * * this brings us to the positive side; for when the sentence of death on the old nature is realised, the new nature can be manifested. separation from all known sin is the starting-point for santification, not the goal: it is only the negative side of holiness; it is only reaching the place where god can develop his ideal in us unhindered. it is when the death of winter has done its work that the sun can draw out in each plant its own individuality, and make its existence full and fragrant. holiness means something more than the sweeping away of the old leaves of sin: it means the life of jesus developed in us. no matter if we feel utterly helpless before that lovely life of his. given the conditions--the hidden power within, and the old outlets of growth shut off--the sun will do the rest; out of the midst of apparent lifelessness, of barrenness, of difficulty, the blossoms will be drawn forth. do not let us "limit the holy one of israel" by putting off his power to work this miracle into a distant future. how hopeless the naked wood of a fruit tree would look to us in february if we had never seen the marvel of springtime! yet the heavenly bloom bursts straight out, with hardly an intermediate step of new growth. look again at a flowering rush. the crest breaks forth from nothingness--out of the lifeless-seeming pith come crowding the golden brown blossoms, till there is hardly "room to receive" them. what more do we need for our souls than to have this god for our god? once allow the manifestation of his grace in these poor hearts of ours to be a miracle, and there is no need to defer it vaguely. how many of the wonders wrought by christ on earth lay in concentrating the long processes of nature into a sudden act of power. the sick would, many of them, have been healed by degrees in the ordinary course of things; the lapse of years would have brought about the withering of the fig-tree; the storm would have spent itself in few hours. the miracle in each case consisted in the slow process being quickened by the divine breath, and condensed into a moment. cannot we trust him for like marvels in our souls? there, too, "a day is with the lord as a thousand years." there is no needs be on his part that he should prolong this first act of makings us holy over the rest of our lives. a miracle--a wonder--is all that we need, and "he is the god, that doeth wonders." satan is quite content that we should have faith for future sanctification, just as he was content that we should have faith for future salvation. it is when the soul rises to "here and now" that he trembles. whatever is the next grace for your soul, can you believe for its supply at once, straight out from the dry, bare need? christ's process is very simple and very swift: "whatsoever things ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them." and not only with the barrenness of our souls can god deal with his quickening breath, but with our difficulties as well: with those things in our surroundings that seem the most unfavourable. see this bit of gorse-bush. the whole year round the thorn has been hardening and sharpening. spring comes: the thorn does not drop off, and it does not soften; there it is, as uncompromising as ever; but half-way up appear two brown furry balls, mere specks at first, that break at last--straight out of last year's thorn--into a blaze of fragrant golden glory. see this bit of gorse-bush. the whole year round the thorn has been hardening and sharpening. spring comes: the thorn does not drop off, and it does not soften; there it is, as uncompromising as ever; but half-way up appear two brown furry balls, mere specks at first, that break at last--straight out of last year's thorn--into a blaze of fragrant golden glory. "now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them that are exercised thereby." never mind if the trouble shews no sign of giving way: it is just when it seems most hopelessly unyielding, holding on through the spring days, alive and strong, it is then that the tiny buds appear that soon will clothe it with glory. take the very hardest thing in your life--the place of difficulty, outward or inward, and expect god to triumph gloriously in that very spot. just there he can bring your soul into blossom! * * * * * * * * and so the spring-time expands, till it passes once more into the shadow of calvary. for the blessedness of receiving is not all that god has for us: a new world lies beyond--a world of giving: a giving first to god in surrender, then to man in sacrifice. a flower that stops short at its flowering misses its purpose. we were created for more than our own spiritual development; reproduction, not mere development, is the goal of matured being--reproduction in other lives. there is a tendency in some characters, running parallel to the high cultivation that spends its whole energy on the production of bloom at the expense of seed. the flowers that are bent on perfecting themselves, by becoming double, end in barrenness, and a like barrenness comes to the soul whose interests are all concentrated upon its own spiritual well-being, heedless of the needs around. the true, ideal flower is the one that uses its gifts as means to an end; the brightness and sweetness are not for its own glory; they are but to attract the bees and butterflies that will fertilise and make it fruitful. all may go when the work is done--"it is more blessed to give than to receive." and we ourselves are "saved to save"--we are made to give--to let everything go if only we may have more to give. the pebble takes in all the rays of light that fall on it, but the diamond flashes them out again: every little facet is a means, not simply of drinking more in, but of giving more out. the unearthly loveliness of the opal arises from the same process, carried on within the stone: the microscope shows it to be shattered through and through with numberless fissures that catch and refract and radiate every ray that they can seize. yes, there lies before us a beautiful possible life--one that shall have a passion for giving: that shall be poured forth to god--spent out for man: that shall be consecrated "for the hardest work and the darkest sinners." but how are we to enter in? how are we to escape from the self-life that holds us, even after the sin-life has loosed its grasp? back to the cross: not only from the world of condemnation and from the world of sinning does it free us as we accept it, but from the power of outward things and from the thraldom of self: not only does it open the door into the world of acquittal, and again into that of holiness, but yet again into the new realm of surrender, and thence into that of sacrifice. for the essential idea of the cross is a life lost to be found again in those around. let us look at god's picturing. as the plant develops there comes a fresh stage of yielding. at first it was only the dead, disfiguring leaves that had to go--now it is the fair new petals: they must fall, and for no visible reason--no one seems enriched by the stripping. and the first step into the realm of giving is a like surrender--not manward, but godward: an utter yielding of our best. so long as our idea of surrender is limited to the renouncing of unlawful things, we have never grasped its true meaning: that is not worthy of the name for "no polluted thing" can be offered. the life lost on the cross was not a sinful one--the treasure poured forth there was god-given, god-blessed treasure, lawful and right to be kept: only that there was the life of the world at stake! death to lawful things is the way out into a life of surrender. look at this buttercup as it begins to learn its new lesson. the little hands of the calyx clasp tightly in the bud, round the beautiful petals; in the young flower their grasp grows more elastic--loosening somewhat in the daytime, but keeping the power of contracting, able to close in again during a rainstorm, or when night comes on. but see the central flower, which has reached its maturity. the calyx hands have unclasped utterly now--they have folded themselves back, past all power of closing again upon the petals, leaving the golden crown free to float away when god's time comes. have we learned the buttercup's lesson yet? are our hands off the very blossom of our life? are all things--even the treasures that he has sanctified--held loosely, ready to be parted with, without a struggle, when he asks for them? it is not in the partial relaxing of grasp, with power to take back again, that this fresh victory of death is won: it is won when that very power of taking back is yielded; when our hands, like the little calyx hands of god's buttercups, are not only taken off, but folded behind our back in utter abandonment. death means a loosened grasp--loosened beyond all power of grasping again. and it is no strange thing that happens to us, if god takes us at our word, and strips us for a while of all that made life beautiful. it may be outward things--bodily comfort, leisure, culture, reputation, friendships--that have to drift away as our hands refuse to clasp on anything but god's will for us. or it may be on our inner life that the stripping falls, and we have to leave the sunny lands of spiritual enjoyment for one after another of temptation's battlefields, where every inch of our foothold has to be tested, where even, it may seem to give way--till no experience, no resting-place remains to us in heaven or earth but god himself--till we are "wrecked upon god." have faith, like the flowers, to let the old things go. earn his beatitude, his "blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me"--"the beatitude of the trusting," as it has well been called--even if you have to earn it like john the baptist in an hour of desolation. you have told him that you want him only. are you ready to ratify the words when his emptying begins to come? is god enough? is it still "my god" that you cry, even as jesus cried when nothing else was left him? yes, practical death with him to lawful things is just letting go, even as he on the cross let go all but god. it is not to be reached by struggling for it, but simply by yielding as the body yields at last to the physical death that lays hold on it--as the dying calyx yields its flower. only to no iron law with its merciless grasp do we let ourselves go, but into the hands of the father: it is there that our spirit falls, as we are made conformable unto the death of jesus. does all this seem hard? does any soul, young in this life and in that to come, shrink back and say "i would rather keep in the springtime--i do not want to reach unto the things that are before if it must mean all this of pain." to such comes the master's voice: "fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer": you are right to be glad in his april days while he gives them. every stage of the heavenly growth in us is lovely to him; he is the god of the daisies and the lambs and the merry child hearts! it may be that no such path of loss lies before you; there are people like the lands where spring and summer weave the year between them, and the autumn processes are hardly noticed as they come and go. the one thing is to keep obedient in spirit, then you will be ready to let the flower-time pass if he bids you, when the sun of his love has worked some more ripening. you will feel by then that to try to keep the withering blossoms would be to cramp and ruin your soul. it is loss to keep when god says 'give'. for here again death is the gate of life: it is an entering in, not a going forth only; it means a liberating of new powers as the former treasures float away like the dying petals. we cannot feel a consciousness of death: the words are a contradiction in terms. if we had literally passed out of this world into the next we should not feel dead, we should only be conscious of a new wonderful life beating within us. our consciousness of death would be an entirely negative matter--the old pains would be unable to touch us, the old bonds would be unable to fetter us. our actual consciousness would have passed into the new existence: we should be independent of the old. and a like independence is the characteristic of the new flood of resurrection life that comes to our souls as we learn this fresh lesson of dying--a grand independence of any earthly thing to satisfy our soul, the liberty of those who have nothing to lose, because they have nothing to keep. we can do without anything while we have god. hallelujah! nor is this all. look at the expression of abandonment about this wild-rose calyx as time goes on, and it begins to grow towards the end for which it has had to count all things but loss: the look of dumb emptiness has gone--it is flung back joyously now, for simultaneously with the new dying a richer life has begun to work at its heart--so much death, so much life--for "ever with death it weaveth the warp and woof of the world." the lovely wild-rose petals that have drifted away are almost forgotten in the "reaching forth unto the things that are before:" the seed-vessel has begun to form: it is "yielded . . . to bring forth fruit." yes, there is another stage to be developed in us after the lesson of absolute unquestioning surrender to god has been learnt. a life that has been poured forth to him must find its crown, its completion, in being poured forth for man: it must grow out of surrender into sacrifice. "they first gave their own selves to the lord, and unto us by the will of god." back to the cross once more: if there is any place where this fresh lesson can be learnt, it is there! "hereby perceive we the love of god, because he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren." it is the very love of calvary that must come down into our souls, "yea, if i be poured forth upon the service of your faith i joy and rejoice with you all:" so spoke the apostle who drank most deeply into the master's spirit: and again--"death worketh in us, but life in you." "neither count i my life dear unto myself, that i may finish . . . the ministry." deeper and deeper must be the dying, for wider and fuller is the lifetide that it is to liberate--no longer limited by the narrow range of our own being, but with endless powers of multiplying in other souls. death must reach the very springs of our nature to set it free: it is not this thing or that thing that must go now: it is blindly, helplessly, recklessly, our very selves. a dying must come upon all that would hinder god's working through us--all interests, all impulses, all energies that are "born of the flesh"--all that is merely human and apart from his spirit. only thus can the life of jesus, in its intensity of love for sinners, have its way in our souls. death to self is the way out into a life of sacrifice. this dandelion has long ago surrendered its golden petals, and has reached its crowning stage of dying--the delicate seed-globe must break up now--it gives and gives till it has nothing left. what a revolution would come over the world--the world of starving bodies at home--the world of starving souls abroad, if something like this were the standard of giving; if god's people ventured on "making themselves poor" as jesus did, for the sake of the need around; if the "i"--"me"--"mine" were practically delivered up, no longer to be recognised when they clash with those needs. the hour of this new dying is clearly defined to the dandelion globe: it is marked by detachment. there is no sense of wrenching: it stands ready, holding up its little life, not knowing when or where or how the wind that bloweth where it listeth may carry it away. it holds itself no longer for its own keeping, only as something to be given: a breath does the rest, turning the "readiness to will" into the "performance." (2 cor. 8. 11.) and to a soul that through "deaths oft" has been brought to this point, even acts that look as if they must involve an effort, become something natural, spontaneous, full of a "heavenly involuntariness," so simply are they the outcome of the indwelling love of christ. shall we not ask god to convict us, as to where lies the hindrance to this self-emptying? it is not alone mere selfishness, in its ordinary sense, that prevents it; long after this has been cleansed away by the precious blood there may remain, unrecognised, the self-life in more subtle forms. it may co-exist with much that looks like sacrifice; there may be much of usefulness and of outward self-denial, and yet below the surface may remain a clinging to our own judgment, a confidence in our own resources, an unconscious taking of our own way, even in god's service. and these things hold down, hold in our souls, and frustrate the spirit in his working. the latent self-life needs to be brought down into the place of death before his breath can carry us hither and thither as the wind wafts the seeds. are we ready for this last surrender? do you ask "does god really mean the emptying to reach so far as this?" study the inner life of jesus. "i speak not of myself" he says. "i can of mine own self do nothing." "i seek not mine own will, but the will of him that sent me." his human self-life, sinless though it was, was laid down that he might live by the father, and our self-life, defiled and worthless, shall we not lay it down that we may live by him? but how? again not by struggling and wrestling, but by dying to it in jesus. "i am crucified with christ"--i myself in the very essence of my being, i let myself go to that death, and by the mysterious power with which god meets faith, i find that he has made it true: the bonds are loosed and he can have his way with me. see in these wild iris-pods how the last tiny threads must be broken, and with that loosing, all that they have is free for god's use in his world around. all reluctance, all calculating, all holding in is gone; the husks are opened wide, the seeds can shed themselves unhindered. again and again has a breaking come:--the seed broke to let go the shoot--the leaf-bud broke to let go the leaf, and the flower-bud to let go the flower--but all to no practical avail, if there is a holding back now. "love is the fulfilling of the law," and sacrifice is the very life-breath of love. may god shew us every witholding thread of self that needs breaking still, and may his own touch shrivel it into death. see how this bit of oat-grass is emptying itself out. look at the wide-openness with which the seed-sheaths loose all that they have to yield, and then the patient content with which they fold their hands--the content of finished work. "she hath done what she could." oh, the depth of rest that falls on the soul when the voice of the beloved speaks those words! will they be said to us? the seed-vessel hopes for nothing again: it seeks only the chance of shedding itself: its purpose is fulfilled when the wind shakes forth the last seed, and the flower-stalk is beaten low by the autumn storms. it not only spends, but is "spent out" (r. v.) at last. it is through christ's poverty that we are rich--"as poor" in their turn "yet making many rich" is the mark of those who follow his steps. are we following his steps; are we? how the dark places of the earth are crying out for all the powers of giving and living and loving that are locked up in hearts at home! how the waste places are pleading dumbly for the treasure that lies there in abundance, stored as it were in the seedvessels of god's garden that have not been broken, not emptied for his world, not freed for his use. shall we not free it all gladly.--it is not grudgingly or of necessity that the little caskets break up and scatter the seed, but with the cheerful giving that god loves. have you ever noticed how often the emptied calyx grows into a diadem, and they stand crowned for their ministry as if they gloried in their power to give as the time draws near? even here in measure the faithfulness unto death and the crown of life go together: even here, if we suffer, we shall also reign with him. it is when the sun goes out from our horizon to light up the dayspring in far-away lands, that the glory of the day comes on: it is in the autumn, when the harvest is gathered and the fruit is stored for the use of man, that the glow of red and gold touches and transfigures bush and tree with a beauty that the summer days never knew. so with us--the clear pure dawn of cleansing through the blood--the sunrise gladness of resurrection life; the mid-day light and warmth of growth and service, all are good in their own order: but he who stops short there misses the crown of glory, before which the brightness of former days grows poor and cold. it is when the glow and radiance of a life delivered up to death begins to gather: a life poured forth to jesus and for his sake to others--it is then that even the commonest things put on a new beauty, as in the sunset, for his life becomes "manifest in our mortal flesh;" a bloom comes on the soul like the bloom on the fruit as its hour of sacrifice arrives. oh, that we may learn to die to all that is of self with this royal joyfulness that swallows up death in victory in god's world around! he can make every step of the path full of the triumph of gladness that glows in the golden leaves. glory be to his name! and the outcome, like the outcome of the autumn, is this: there is, a new power set free; a power of multiplying life around. the promise to christ was that because he poured forth his soul unto death, he should see his seed: and he leads his children in their little measure by the same road. over and over the promise of seed is linked with sacrifice, as with abraham and rebekah and ruth; those who at his bidding have forsaken all receive an hundred-fold more now in this time, for sacrifice is god's factor in his work of multiplying. "except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." it is the poured-out life that god blesses--the life that heeds not itself, if only other souls may be won. "ask and it shall be given unto you" is one of god's nursery lessons to his children. "give, and it shall be given unto you" comes further on. the reason is this:--that into the being that is ready to let the self-life go, god the holy ghost can come and dwell and work unfettered; and by that indwelling he will manifest within us his wonderful divine power of communicating vitality--of reproducing the image of jesus in souls around. it is true that it is a rule that sometimes has exceptions: there are those to whom a blessed life of fruitfulness to god comes in a simple way, with seemingly no hard process of dying involved, just as there are plants that reproduce themselves by bulb and tuber, sucker and shoot, without going through the stripping and scattering that we have been watching. but the law of creation is "the herb yielding seed and the fruit-tree yielding fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself." and let us count it all joy if this law is carried out in us. "if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." whether it is laid down in toil among the lost, or in travail of soul among his children that christ be formed in them, either way there will be life brought forth. it does not follow that every seed will spring up: it is not so in the natural world. the plant's business is to scatter it, not withholding, not knowing which shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good; once scattered, the responsibility is transferred to the ground that receives it. but the aim of the plant--the goal of all the budding and blossoming and ripening--is that every seed should carry potential life. thus are we responsible, not for the tangible results of our ministry to others, but for its being a ministry in demonstration of the spirit and of power, such a ministry as will make those around us definitely responsible to god for accepting or rejecting the fulness of his salvation. if so, the "signs following" will not be wanting. it will be to the one the savour of death unto death, and to the other the savour of life unto life, but "whether they will hear, or whether they will forbear, they shall know that there hath been a prophet among them." * * * * * * * * but even when the plant's goal is reached, it is not a finality. "there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning. every ultimate fact is only the beginning of a new series."[footnote*:emerson] "while the earth remaineth seed-time and harvest . . . shall not cease." life leads on to new death, and new death back to life again. over and over when we think we know our lesson, we find ourselves beginning another round of god's divine spiral: "in deaths oft" is the measure of our growth, "always delivered unto death for jesus' sake, that the life also of jesus might be made manifest in our mortal flesh." this bit of sphagnum shows the process in miniature: stage after stage of dying has been gone through, and each has been all the while crowned with life. each time that the crown has sunk down again into death, that death has again been crowned in the act of dying: and the life all the time is the apparent thing: the daily dying that underlies it is out of sight to the passing glance. yes, life is the uppermost, resurrection life, radiant and joyful and strong, for we represent down here him who liveth and was dead and is alive for evermore. stress had to be laid in these pages on the death gateway, but a gateway is never a dwelling-place; the death-stage is never meant for our souls to stay and brood over, but to pass through with a will into the light beyond. we may and must, like the plants, bear its marks, but they should be visible to god rather than to man, for above all and through all is the inflowing, overflowing life of jesus: oh let us not dim it by a shadow of morbidness or of gloom: he is not a god of the dead, but a god of the living, and he would have us let the glory of his gladness shine out. think of the wonder of it--the fountain of life himself wells up within us, taking the place of all that we have delivered, bit by bit, into his grave. "i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me." little have we proved, any of us, the resources that lie in that mighty indwelling, little have we learnt what it is to have all our soul-fibres penetrated by its power. may god lead us, no matter what the cost, into all that can be known of it, here on earth. and the results need not end with our earthly days. should jesus tarry our works will follow us. the closing in of the signs around us make it seem as if we should not taste of death, and as if the time left us to work and suffer for him were growing very short; but if that last gate has to be passed before our spirits are sent free into the land of perfect life, god may use, by reason of the wonderful solidarity of his church, the things that he has wrought in us, for the blessing of souls unknown to us: as these twigs and leaves of bygone years, whose individuality is forgotten, pass on vitality still to the new-born wood-sorrel. god only knows the endless possibilities that lie folded in each one of us! shall we not let him have his way? shall we not go all lengths with him in his plans for us--not, as these "green things upon the earth" in their unconsciousness, but with the glory of free choice? shall we not translate the story of their little lives into our own? for all their teaching of surrender and sacrifice is no fanciful mysticism; it is a simple reality that can be tested at every turn--nay, that must be so tested. if we are apprehending christ's death in its delivering power, our homes will not be slow to find it out. * * * * * * * * o jesus the crucied i will follow thee in thy path. inspire me for the next step, whether it leads down into the shadow of death or up into the light. surely in what place my lord the king shall be, whether in death or life, even there also will thy servant be. amen. book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google books project.) the scriptures able to make us wise unto salvation the scriptures able to make us wise unto salvation; or the bible a sufficient creed. by f. h. berrick, lowell, mass. hartford: calhoun brothers steam press. 1853. there is no work, of human production, that contains such a variety of principles, which, when viewed as a whole, make such a complete system as the bible. it is the great fund of knowledge. it reveals to us the mystery of creation. there we learn the character of god:--his attributes and perfection--his justice and mercy. there we learn the history of man--created as he was in the image of him who rules the universe; endowed with intellectual powers, and moral capacity, perfect and upright--a candidate for immortality. restrained by one command, yet acting with a free, unbiased will, we see him transcend the law of god, we hear the sentence fall from the lips of his "maker,"--"dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." but will he leave him to his own inevitable fate? will it be an eternal sleep? shall that dust never be reorganized? will satan triumph over the "eternal jehovah?" we look! we listen!! we hear the announcement, _i have found a ransom_. there we see the "plan of god" developed, counteracting the influence of his rival, satan. there we see men of the meanest condition, the smallest capacity in the eye of the world, inspired by the spirit of him who fills immensity with his presence; revealing the fact of man's salvation, through a crucified saviour. there we behold the most sublime truths--the most comprehensive sentiments; principles more philosophical than those of "pythagoras"--of more moral worth, than those of "socrates." there we see shepherds, announcing the birth of the son of god, and listening to that enraptured strain, "glory to god in the highest, peace on earth, good will to men." there we see the "fisherman" called to leave his net, commissioned to cure all manner of diseases, and to preach the "gospel, which is the power of god unto salvation, to every one that believeth." "there we admire the purest morality in the world." the "bible" accounts for the evils entailed upon the posterity of adam; it presents a plan, which, if believed, will ultimately free us from all the maladies consequent on the fall. there we read of the wonderful conception of the son of god--his birth--his miracles. the fulfillment of the many predictions, connected with his first advent; the circumstances attending his death, when "he made his soul an offering for sin;" his resurrection, his ascension, his intercession, his second coming, the judgment of the world, the resurrection of the dead, the translation of the saints, the destruction of the wicked, the establishment of the everlasting kingdom, "the restitution of all things, which god hath spoken by the mouth of all his holy prophets, since the world began." the above are some of the items contained in this _wonderful_ book--the "bible." and who can wonder at the remark of paul to timothy, they (the "scriptures") are able to make thee wise unto salvation? "all scripture," says the apostle, "given by inspiration of god, is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness; that the man of god may be perfect,--thoroughly furnished unto all good works." instead of looking to commentaries, or depending on what the _fathers_ of the church have said for doctrine, or making creeds for our own use; we are to _search the scriptures_--relying on what has been spoken by the saviour and the "prophets," and the apostles of the lord jesus christ, as the only doctrine able to make us "wise unto salvation." but the apostle goes further, and declares, that the scriptures are profitable for reproof; they are able to convince men of the truth, and to confound those who would deny it. says charles beecher,--"this specification," viz: _for reproof_, "fairly covers the whole ground of the prevention or extirpation of error." in familiar language, the keeping the church pure from heresy. that this is the force of the term "_elenychon_," will be perceived by any one who will compare the "new testament" usage on this word, and its parent verb. the bible will not only teach truth; it will kill error. it may not kill every thing that you and i may consider error. it certainly will, when used rightly, extirpate what god regards as such; and, be it remembered, that he alone is to pass that sentence. that the bible will have this effect, follows of course from the first specification, viz: for doctrine; for truth and error cannot exist together: they are as fire and water. the more truth is taught, the more error dies. this also follows, because the word of god is constructed with direct reference to the cardinal errors of the human mind, by a divine reasoner, with such tremendous ability, that those errors cannot live under a conscientious study of that word. this also follows, because the scriptures are self-interpreting, self-rectifying, self-vindicating. and the sure way of testing an error claiming scriptural support, is, call it to the spot where it claims parentage, and call in the rest of the scripture to testify. in this way, erroneous interpretations must die, and do die. and if there be any interpretation that will not die so, then "in god's name let it live!" how foolish it is for a class of persons to get together in conference capacity, and resolve what is and what is not truth! it is assuming that which does not belong to any man, or body of men; it is a relic of the "roman church,"--an usurpation of the "mother of harlots, and abominations of the earth." and notwithstanding this power has been crippled, at least in a political sense, yet, some of her relatives ("harlots") are "following in the footsteps of their illustrious predecessor," as the following will show: _resolved_, that the peculiarities of that theory denominated _millerism_, together with all of its modifications, are contrary to the standards of the church, and as such, we are pledged to banish them away." there is nothing said about its being contrary to the bible, but, contrary to the _standards of the church_. this, as one writer remarks, "savors a little of the little horn." _for correction._--this relates to church discipline, and church government. "there is not," says charles beecher, "an offence against christ, nor against the cause of christ, whether in the church simple, or aggregate, which cannot be brought to conviction just as far, by the use of the bible alone, as god ever intended to have it convicted; and if there be an offence which cannot be thus convicted, it is not an offence against christ, but against a human figment, and such an offence--let it be committed." if the bible is a sufficient rule of faith and practice, every thing used as a substitute is an innovation. we have no right to make any _tests_; all that are necessary to salvation, may be found in the bible. all creeds, from the thirty-nine articles down to the most simple, as used by adventists, are wrong. not that they contain no truth; but the principle is wrong. it is the same in every instance. a person, to join the church of england, must approve of its creed;--and it is the same with some adventists, as the following from one of our model churches will show: "any person or persons wishing to become members of this church, approving its declaration of faith as recorded in the church-book, will make such wish known to the committee or deacon." now, this is an iron bedstead, sure enough. mark! there is nothing said about the bible, but approving the declaration of faith, as recorded in the church-book. where in the bible is there any thing of this kind? luke tells us, in acts, that the lord added to the church anciently; and those added by any other than the lord, must be tares. and again, if this idea of connecting persons with this human machinery, is a part of the gospel, why then is there not something in the bible to support it? the example of philip is against it. look for a moment to this circumstance. the angel says to philip, "arise, and go toward the south, unto the way that goeth down from jerusalem, unto gaza, which is desert." he obeys the command, and as he moves toward gaza, he overtakes or meets with the "egyptian eunuch." the spirit says, "join thyself to the chariot." he did so, and after listening a few moments, he inquires, "understandest thou what thou readest?" "how can i, except some man should guide me?" was the reply. then philip began to preach to him jesus. and as they went on their way, the ethiopian inquires, "what doth hinder me to be baptized?" and philip said, "if thou believest with all thy heart, thou mayest." he replies, "i believe that jesus christ is the son of god." this was the test. the chariot is commanded to stand still; they went down both into the water, and philip baptized him. and when they were come out of the water, before, as we may conclude, he had time to enter his name on a church-book, "the spirit of the lord caught away philip, and the eunuch saw him no more." there is nothing said about his joining the church after he believed; from the fact that, _by obedience to god_, he already belonged to it. he had entered in by the door (christ), and all who climb up some other way "are thieves and robbers." but it may be said that we must have something of this kind, because circumstances demand it. but this can be no argument in favor of it; for, if it had been necessary, the apostles would have informed us of it. the apostle, in his charge to the elders of the church at ephesus, scans the entire dispensation. it is as follows: "take heed unto yourselves, and to all the flock over the which the holy ghost has made you overseers, to feed the church of god, which he hath purchased with his own blood. for i know this, that after my departing, shall grievous wolves come in among you, not sparing the flock. also of your own selves shall men arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away disciples after them. therefore, watch, and remember, that by the space of three years, i ceased not to warn every one night and day with tears. and now, brethren, i commend you to god, and to the word of his grace, which is able to build you up, and to give you an inheritance among them which are sanctified." one part of this charge is addressed to the ministry. take heed unto thyself--or yourselves; "see that the life of god remains, and the work of god prospers in thine own soul." take heed that thy words be seasoned with grace. let thy conversation be upright, godly, sincere, as becometh the gospel. it should be without covetousness: "desire nothing more than what god has given you, and especially, covet nothing which the divine providence has given to another man; for this is the _spirit of robbery_." subdue that insatiable desire for secular gain; bring it into subjection to the will of christ; be content with such things as ye have; for he (the lord) hath said, i will never leave thee nor forsake thee. the man of god must not be a "brawler," but quiet and peaceable. he must be no "striker," not quarrelsome; not a persecutor of those who may differ from him; for, to indulge in such a spirit, is to give our profession the lie. he must be apt to teach. "study," says the apostle, "to show thyself approved unto god, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth." he must be careful to teach the _whole_ word of god, regardless of the commandments, doctrine and traditions of men. in a word, he must be an example of believers in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, and in purity. and thus, in keeping himself by the assistance of god's grace, he is prepared, in the second place, to take heed unto the flock, over the which the holy ghost hath made him an overseer; to feed the church of god. mark! the man of god is to feed the church--not to legislate. he is to give them (the church) "their portion of meat in due season." the apostle anticipated the fact, that a class would arise, which he denominates wolves, not sparing the flock. one characteristic feature of this class would be, a disposition to lord it over god's heritage. the seed had already been sown. some had become carnal. there was a "diatrephes," who loved to have the preëminence, viz.: "lord it over god's heritage." and there has been many of these "diatrepheses," clear down to the present time. look at the bishops of jerusalem, antioch, rome, constantinople, &c., striving for the mastery; till finally the bishop of rome succeeded, trampling under foot all others, and then rearing a mighty fabric, and taking his seat in the temple of god, showing himself that he was god. but we must remember that this was not done in one year, or one century. it was like the leaven in the measure of meal--a gradual work. the deviation was so small at the first, as not to be noticed. the professed church were imperceptibly assimilated into the same spirit; like priest, like people. like the car loosed from the train on a downward grade:--at first it moves so gently, no fears are entertained--how little will it take to stop it, is the feeling that pervades the mind of the passengers; each one feels secure. it gathers strength--its velocity increases--the brakes are applied; but it is too late! in turning a curve, the track spreads, and both car and passengers are precipitated into the gulf below. how completely this illustration covers the ground! the professed church, becoming cold in her affections, indulging a self-confident spirit, disconnecting herself by her legislative acts from the great head of the church; went back, step by step, till finally she fell into the yawning gulf of apostacy, "the making of an authoritative creed, to which the clergy were compelled to subscribe, was the first step; the absolute prohibition of the bible to the people, was the last step. the difference between, was only the growth of the principle. for the right to dictate what a man shall find in the scripture, and the right to dictate that he shall find nothing, are one." making creeds is the first step in apostacy; yea, more, it is evidence that the person or persons are already backsliden. it may be remarked, that those who make creeds are honest. true: but no more so than those bishops who met at the "council of nice," a.d. 325, "and fully settled the doctrine taught in the word of god, banished arius into illyria, and compelled his followers to subscribe." honesty is no evidence that the thing is right. the "inquisition" was honest in delivering over her victims to the civil arm; yet, who but a catholic would approve of such god-hating work? it may be remarked that, there is a difference between the synods of nice, chalcedon, &c., and those of the present time. true; but what is the difference? _ans._ the same as between the anaconda of ceylon, and the smallest serpent that crawls the earth. the former has power to destroy a person in a moment; the latter, not having the power, yet possessing the disposition, shows, by running out his little _forked tongue_, what he would do if he could. "the apostolic churches, during the whole of the first century, had no creed but the bible." and to urge creed-making as necessary because of a change of circumstances, is to insult god, and it is an imposition on jesus christ. the lord knew all about the adverse circumstances, the fiery trials through which the church must pass. he told the disciples, "that in the world they should have tribulation." "verily, verily, i say unto you that ye shall weep and lament." in this language, he scans the history of the church, clear to the end. but nothing like authority or lenity is given for creeds, or any of this human machinery. the apostle paul informs the church, that men "would arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away disciples after them." and if ever an opportunity offered itself to instruct the church in relation to this matter, it was at this time. but not a single word is said from which we can gather any thing of this kind. it is as follows: "and now, brethren, i commend you to god, and to the word of his grace, which is able to build you up." no intimation here of creeds or compacts. and if men will not stand without this miserable man-made stuff, the quicker they fall, the better. but it is not only so with creeds, but every organization and compact, separate from the word of god, is of the flesh. but as there are many reasons urged in favor of creeds and compacts, we may perhaps now, as well as any time, call them upon the stand in this connection. and-1st, it is said they had churches in the apostles' day. true; but the term church, as adam clark says, simply means an assembly or congregation, the nature of which is to be understood from connecting circumstances. wherever the believers assembled, there was a church. hence we read of a church at ephesus, corinth, &c. sometimes the term _church_ includes the entire company of believers in every age of the world, as may be seen by looking at the following passages: eph. i. 22; v. 24, 25, 27; col. i. 18, 24; acts xii. 28. hence the remark, that they had churches in the apostles' days, is no argument in favor of the present existing compacts. there is no intimation that they had articles drawn up on paper, to which they subscribed. we go further:--there is no evidence that they had a record of names; and, however innocent this may seem to be, we regard it an innovation. but, 2d, it may be remarked that, by being banded together, we can watch over each other. but we can watch over each other without these bands; and if we are living and acting in the fear of god, we shall love each other sufficiently well to reprove, rebuke, and exhort with all long-suffering and doctrine. and in _this_ way, we shall "lift up the hands that hang down, and the feeble knees; and, making straight paths for our feet, that which is lame will not be turned out of the way." this is a duty we owe to all the church; and were it not for these sectarian pens, we could _speak_ the truth to all the church. we could watch over each other in love--the only _true_ bond of union. and thus, in loving god with all our hearts, and speaking the truth in love, "we shall grow up into christ, from whom the whole body fitly joined together, and compact by that which every joint supplieth, according to the effectual working in the measure of every part, maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of itself in love." 3d, _it keeps out wicked men_.--this is a most palpable falsehood. the history of all the past is against it. the church, in every age since the apostles' time, hath been troubled with wicked men. the saviour taught his disciples that, "the wheat and the tares should grow together until the harvest." "and he whose penetrating glance could trace its progress through the succession of ages, by this significant parable, in which he represented its condition, (matt. 13,) and proclaimed, that it would consist, according to its earthly composition, of a mixture of true and false members;" "he reserved the public sifting and separation of this mass of men, so different in their dispositions from each other, to his final judgment alone." "he" has blamed that hasty and intemperate zeal of man, which, while it would separate the tares and the good seed before the proper season comes, is apt to pull up the hidden seed of the wheat with the tares. a great majority of the professed church, at the present time, notwithstanding their organizations, are as corrupt as was the church in the dark ages. but, 4th, _it keeps out heresies_.--if this be so, why did not the apostles keep out heresy? for we are told by some, at the present time, that they had creeds and compacts? there were some in the apostles' time who believed in circumcision. he, the apostle, inquires of the galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not obey the truth? in writing his fifteenth chapter to the corinthians, he inquires, "now, if christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how say some among you there is no resurrection of the dead?" these were fatal errors. again, we inquire, if, by being organized, the church can keep out heresy, why has not the church kept it out? there never was a time when there was so much heresy, corruption, and wickedness as at present. hundreds of professed christians deny the personal coming of christ: they teach that persons, when they die, go immediately to heaven; that people have immortal souls; that the spirits of men, after they are dead, return to this world; and that they are peeping, rapping, and muttering, which, by the way, is a _legitimate fruit of the immortal soul theory;--a counterpart of that lie of satan_--"thou shalt not surely die." these, together with the idea that heresy may be kept out by human machinery, are some of the leading errors of the age. but, 5th, _the ministry is supported_.--i am thinking this is about the main thing, after all. the loaves and fishes, with the great mass, are the thing. did not the apostle peter anticipate the fact that such a class of persons would arise, when he exhorted the elders to take the oversight, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind? the question with the great mass is not, where can i do the most good?--but, where can i get the best pay? the loudest call, is where there is the most money. these facts are so well known, as not to require any thing but common observation to demonstrate their truthfulness. but, 6th, _to know who_ we _are_.--satan's course, from the commencement, has been a most artful and cunning one: it has been the very business of his existence, when he could not get people to renounce the truth altogether, to make them believe it possible to improve a plan which god, in his infinite wisdom, has devised for the welfare of mankind. the "jews" (as their history assures us) at first were willing to be directed by the almighty; but by and by, they thought themselves capable of legislating: and being puffed up in their minds, and having their foolish hearts darkened, they rejected the lord; and then coming to samuel,--their plea--o how specious, how reasonable!--"behold thou art old, and thy sons walk not in thy ways; now make us a king, to judge us like other nations." they entertained fears, undoubtedly, that after samuel's death, which was approaching, they should be puzzled to know who we are. this very idea led david to number the people, contrary to the command of jehovah. and how often it has been done since that time, to gratify a foolish heart, and a vain ambition! would it not have sounded curious enough to have heard paul say to timothy, "timothy, we must ascertain, _who_ we _are_?" and would not the young disciple, if it was possible for him to fathom it, (for it is a vague term) replied by saying, "you told the phillippians that we were the circumcision, who wanted our names in the church book? no; that we were the circumcision, who want to legislate? no: we are the circumcision, who worship god in the spirit, and rejoice in christ jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh." ye, says christ, "are my friends, if ye do whatsoever i command you." in order to answer this question fully, we must, in the first place, answer one that comes before it--one that is primary, viz: do we love god with all our hearts, and our neighbour as ourselves? do we live up to all the commands of god? are we conformed to his moral image? is it the business of our lives to do all that god has commanded? are we believing all the truth, and living up to all the light we have? if so, we are christ's; and being christ's, we are "abraham's seed, and heirs according to the promise." it is not strange that the nominal church should lose her identity. but when we hear adventists inquire, _who we are_, it comes with an ill grace. it sounds so silly. what! have we been engaged in this glorious cause fourteen or fifteen years, and never learnt, _who we are_? what does all this mean? why this effort on the part of some to organize, and bring in all the advent bands, and unite them in a compact? does this look like a confident, unwavering faith in the speedy coming of christ? did we not deny, years ago, this miserable work of forming ourselves into a sect? hear the _advent shield and review_, for jan., 1845, vol. i. number 2, page 198. it speaks the language, i will venture to say, of the great majority of adventists. here it is: "but adventists have no wish, no intention, no need of constituting themselves into a distinct body." how is the foregoing to be reconciled with the efforts of some at the present time, unless there has been a mighty change? it may be remarked, that circumstances have driven us to adopt this course. but what are the circumstances? is it because of impostors, or heresy? and do we expect to be free from these by associating ourselves together in this way? we did not feel the need of any thing of this kind in forty-two and three: our hearts were united in the bonds of love; and if this bond has been severed, instead of fixing up something as a substitute--something that is contrary to the word of god--we should, by preaching the simple truth, remove the cause, and "nature" (grace) "would work its own cure." but no; we must have our creeds, our organizations, our conferences, and our delegates to those conferences. and then, having ascertained, who we are, we are prepared to act. but act how? why, we can "shear off the troublesome thinkers." but it will be remarked that this is not the design, and that it is wrong to judge our brethren in this way. but we may remark that it is so already--the mystery of iniquity doth already work. the very design of organizations, in the common acceptation of that term, and also of creeds, is to proscribe individual liberty; they are opposed to free action. it will not do for a man to act in accordance with the commission, "go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature." no, he must preach to our party--to our people. to illustrate this principle, we quote the following from the life of lorenzo dow: "a preacher from america, whose name is lorenzo dow, travelled lately in ireland, without any official recommendation from the american conferences, or any of the rulers in that connection, and yet professing himself a friend of the methodists. what judgment is it expedient for this conference to pass concerning the conduct of that man?" "_ans._ we are most sincere friends to religious liberty; but we consider ourselves called upon to inform the public, that mr. dow has no connexion with us, nor did he receive the least permission or encouragement from the conference to travel through ireland as one of our body, or as one of our friends; and we are determined, that if he returns to this country, none of our preaching-houses shall be opened to him on any account." again, "letters of falsehood and lies, to set the government to sacrifice an individual on the altar of tyranny, because he goes so independent of the bishop's power; and others will" (do) "hatch from the same nest, &c. &c."... "better one suffer than many. if he is innocent, we must use power, and make an example of him. what for? as a warning to others not to dispute our power, which, if right, _we_ have by divine delegation, to enforce, 'moral discipline!'" the question is not, what does christ require?--but, what says the bishop? now, we would say nothing, but for the fact, that the same principle is developing itself in our own ranks. this _miserable_ creed system is now exerting upon adventists an unsuspected, but tremendous power against the liberty of the gospel. it is stealthily creeping upon us. may god unscale our eyes, before we get entangled in the meshes of the net of the devil! "it is true, each denomination says, we inflict no penalty; we only decline to receive into our ranks one who does not agree with us. and this is so specious, it sounds so reasonable, that it might deceive the very elect. but it is the most consummate stroke of infernal craft, and doubly distilled jesuitism. it is like rome handing over the victims of the inquisition to the civil arm, charging it to do them no harm, and then piously lauding her own lamb-like disposition. it is true, the denominations do not do the candidate any harm; they only leave him to his inevitable fate." but it may be remarked, that it is of no use to say any thing about it; and should the individual lift his warning voice against it, he is accused of having a hard spirit--of opposing somebody. but we wish it distinctly understood, that we are not at war with persons, but principles; not with men, but measures. we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against _spiritual wickedness in high places_. we are opposed to these religious combinations, because we believe they are opposed to god and his cause. to give this idea more perfectly, we submit the following extract from the pen of br. j. v. h. (_advent herald_, september 18, 1844,) headed, "apostolic example for our course." "and he went into the synagogue, and spake boldly for the space of three months, disputing and persuading the things concerning the kingdom of god. but when _divers_ were _hardened_ and believed not, but spake evil of that way before the multitude, he departed from them, and separated the disciples, disputing daily in the school of one tyrannus.--_acts_ xix. 8, 9. "it was not until _divers were hardened_, and spake evil of _that way_ (the lord's coming) _before the multitude_, that the brethren were moved to come out, and separate from the churches. they could not endure this "evil speaking" of the "evil servant." "_and the churches that could pursue this course of oppression_" and "evil speaking" "towards those who were looking for the blessed hope, were to them none other than the daughters of mystic babylon. they so proclaimed them, and came into the liberty of the gospel. and though we may not be all agreed as to what constitutes babylon, _we are agreed in the_ instant _and_ final separation _from all who oppose the doctrine of the coming and kingdom of god at hand. we believe it to be a case of_ life and death. it is death _to remain connected with those bodies_ that speak lightly of, or oppose, the coming of the lord. _it is_ life _to come out from_ all human tradition, _and stand upon the word of god, and look daily for the appearance of the lord. we therefore now say to_ all _who are in_ any way _entangled in the yoke of bondage_," "come out from among them, and be ye _separate_, saith the lord, and touch not the unclean thing, and i will receive you, and will be a father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the lord almighty."--2 cor. vi. 17, 18. amen and amen. 2d, these "creeds" and compacts are opposed to free speech. one great object of creeds is a union of sentiment. hence, when a man joins any one of the various denominations, the creed is presented, or the question asked, do you believe so and so? should he dissent in some particulars, yet being an influential or wealthy person, he may join by promising he will not agitate the points of difference. but let us look at another case. here is a minister--and, by the way, there has been many of them--who embraces the truth of the lord's speedy coming; it is as fire shut up in his bones; he comes with the joyful intelligence before his congregation, and in the fulness of his soul he preaches that truth, which is the power of god unto salvation to every one that believeth; and in less than one week he is waited upon by the bishop, or the committee, or peradventure, he receives a line through the office, informing him he must desist, for it is contrary to the _standards_ of the church, and as such, we ("elders," "bishops" and "deacons") are pledged to banish it away. if he persists, he must be admonished. if he continues to act the part of a man and a christian, turn him out--"yes, shear off the troublesome thinkers, and sing stagnant hallelujahs." but we may come nearer home. how often we hear it remarked, "don't say any thing about the sonship of christ--the sleep of the dead--the destruction of the wicked; for, if you do, you will hurt somebody's feelings!" yes; we have men among us who have declared, that these questions shall not be preached in their pulpits. but the question may be asked, "have we not a right to say what shall, and what shall not, be preached in our pulpits? and shall we not use our utmost endeavors to keep the church pure?" well, now, this looks very reasonable, and were it not for the history of the past, we might regard it as being very innocent. but we look to the "council of bishops," who met a.d. 325: they acted from a conviction, that it was their prerogative to say what should be preached: and by this act, though honest and sincere, they were the unconscious tools, in the hands of the devil, of begetting a child, which ultimately proved itself to be, the "mother of harlots and abomination of the earth." may the lord help us to be free, and preach our sentiments! "for he's a freeman whom the truth makes free, and all are slaves beside." but, 3d, _the few act for the whole_.--look to the history of the christian church--the council of nice, chalcedon, &c. who acted in these conferences? _ans._ a few bishops. they got together; resolved that they were the church, or its representatives; made creeds, and then imposed them on the flock. this has been the policy of rome; for hundreds of years her popes and cardinals, bishops and priests, have been humbugging the people, hurling their anathemas at a luther and a cranmer. why is this? _ans._ because they dared to dissent from the decrees of those councils. but we do not stop here; that spirit, or desire to lord it over god's heritage, which characterized the councils of rome, has been transferred to the various synods of our time. it is often the case, that a few persons get together, take into consideration the _wants of the cause_, as they call it, reduce them to one or more propositions, and then bring them before the meeting. perhaps one of this number makes a motion, and another of them seconds it; it is accepted, then adopted by the votes of ten or a dozen, more or less; half of whom are the very persons who concocted it. it is then blazoned abroad, and o! what a bluster! when the merits of the case are known, it reminds one of the fable, "the mountain laboured, and brought forth a mouse." 4th, _it evinces a want of faith and confidence in god_.--creeds are never talked of, until persons begin to grow cold in their minds. "the church, during the whole of the first century, had no creed but the bible;" but when she departed from the simplicity of the bible, and lost her faith in god, then she began to legislate.--they (the church) felt, as many express themselves at the present time, that we must keep the church together. yes, and here was, and still is, the very trouble: we must do it. this is not our work; it belongs to the great head of the church; and if we had faith and confidence in god, and in his word, we should be willing to let christ do his own work. every effort to keep the church together by making creeds, is an innovation.--there were divisions in the apostles' day, and there have been divisions in every age since that time. every effort on our part to steady the ark, when such effort has not been put forth in accordance with the plan of god, has been frowned upon by the almighty. it is often the case that those who seem to have so much anxiety, and manifest so much zeal to hold and to "build up the cause," as they are pleased to term it, are, when the truth is known, trying to build up themselves. while it is our duty to do all we can, under the blessing of heaven, to promote the welfare of the cause with which we are associated, we must be careful not to indulge a thought that its prosperity depends upon our feeble efforts: for _it_ will live, whether we do or not. christ stands at the helm, and, if we abide in the ship, we shall be safe. but the creed-power, or "organizations," in the common acceptation of the term, are not only opposed to free action--free speech--but, lastly, _it is the most effective means to destroy souls of any thing that was ever brought into existence_. the professed church to-day stands just where the jews did eighteen hundred years ago; and the language of christ, as addressed to the pharisees, is applicable to the various denominations: "but woe unto you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in _yourselves_, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in." fine meeting-houses, costly pulpits, and a ministry that will please itching ears, are the things with the great mass. they are guilty of turning the lord out of doors, for they have rejected his truth. "ichabod" is written on these pleasant palaces. the great majority of the ministry are dumb dogs, lying down, loving to slumber; yea, _they are_ greedy dogs, _which_ can never have enough, and they are shepherds that cannot understand: "they all look to their own way, every one for his gain from his quarter." they are turned unto fables. "they love the praise of man more than the praise of god." the great mass have corrupted their way; but yet there are a few who are honest, and would believe if they could hear, and they could hear, if it were not for these sectarian pens. they (the few) are famishing; they die for lack of knowledge. well, now, to take one step towards adopting a system, the perfection of which leads to such _damnable results_, must be a _departure_ from the simplicity of the truth--a recreancy to the cause which, in the end, will be more _baneful_ than beneficial. some of those who want a record of names would shudder at the idea of being connected with such a system as that referred to above; and yet, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, this is the result where the first step is taken. we say, therefore, to all, "beware of the first step! do not give your influence in favor of such a wicked system, lest you be taken in a snare! if you are in any of these sectarian pens, leave them at once; for they, like korah, dathan, and abiram, are soon to sink into the pit. those that are being formed by adventists, are no better than other denominations. in some respects they are worse." there are men among us, preaching brethren, whose moral and religious characters are unimpeachable--men of sterling worth, and of marked ability; yet, because they view matters somewhat different from some others, or because they will not be restricted to preach wholly to our party, they are disfellowshipped; they are whispered to be _unsafe_, _unsound_, _heretical_! but some may say, that it is of no use to expose our brethren;--ah, to hold our peace would be to follow in the same track--to adopt the same policy of an apostate church. we wish our brethren to know, both far and near, that this is the policy of some at the present time. we have nothing to say against men, but against their courses and their measures. let every adventist, who wants to be free, beware of this _human machinery--these sectarian pens_--this last effort of satan to destroy souls. we cannot help but exclaim, in the language of a "celebrated writer:" "oh, woful day! oh, unhappy church of christ! fast rushing round the fatal circle of absorbing ruin! thou sayest, 'i am rich, and increased in goods, and have need of nothing;' and _knowest_ not that thou art poor, and miserable, and _blind_, and naked!" we have said, and we repeat it again, there is no need of any creed but the bible: we have learned that it is a sufficient rule of faith and practice: it is the best discipline we can have: and i will venture to say that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, all difficulties can be settled, if we follow out the rules given by christ and his apostles. let us hear the saviour speak: "therefore, if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift."--matt. v. 23, 24. again, we read, "and when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have aught against any: that your father also which is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses."--mark xi. 24. "moreover, if thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone: if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother. but if he will not hear _thee_, _then_ take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established. and if he shall neglect to hear them, tell _it_ unto the church; but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican."--matt. xviii. 15-17. the apostle says, "and if any obey not our word by this epistle, note that man, and have no company with him, that he may be ashamed; yet count him not as an enemy, but admonish him as a brother.--2 thes. iii. 14, 15. the above, together with many more scriptures that might be quoted, involves the principle on which brethren are to settle their difficulties. and when the professed church of god, instead of urging the necessity of abiding by the above principle, departs from the lord, by appointing committees to settle the differences between brethren, they are guilty of the most audacious folly. if difficulties cannot be settled by this rule, nothing will settle them but the final judgment. we say, then, in the language of beecher, "away with false policy! rally around this central principle, look to the lord, and you are impregnable." the waves of the coming conflict, which is to convulse christendom to her centre, are beginning to be felt. the deep roarings begin to swell beneath us. all the old signs fail. god answers no more by urim and thummim, nor by dream, nor by prophet. men's hearts are failing them for fear, and for looking after those things that are coming on the earth. thunders mutter in the distance; winds moan across the raging bosom of the deep; all things betide the rising of that final storm of divine indignation, which shall sweep away the vain refuges of lies. when the lord shall cause his glorious voice to be heard, and shall show the lightning down his arm, with the indignation of his anger, and with the flame of devouring fire; with scattering, and tempest, and hail-stones; in that day, what shall save us? for judgment will begin at the house of god. what shall be our defence? put your trust in him whose eyes are as a flame of fire--on whose head are many crowns--who is clothed with a vesture dipped in blood--whose name is called "the word of god!" he who is to come down, and tread upon the high places of the earth, trampling his enemies in the dust, destroying the works of satan, breaking up all these compacts which are opposed to his truth, establishing his everlasting kingdom, which is not to be left to another people, but which is to break in pieces all other kingdoms, and it shall stand for ever. even so, lord jesus! come quickly!--amen. f. h. b. "the pure testimony put forth in the spirit, cuts like a sharp two-edged sword, and hypocrites now are most sorely tormented, because they're condemned by the word. the pure testimony discovers the dross, while wicked professors make light of the cross, and babylon trembles for fear of her loss. "a battle is coming between the two kingdoms, the armies are gathering round; the kings of the earth and the lamb that was slain, will come to close contest ere long; then gird on your armor ye saints of the lord, and he will direct you by his living word, the pure testimony will cut like a sword." transcriber's notes: missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. typographical errors were silently corrected. spelling and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant form was found in this book; otherwise it was not changed. text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). (http://mormontextsproject.org), with thanks to renah holmes and jake hadley for proofreading salvation universal by joseph fielding smith published by the genealogical society of utah 1920 _the genealogical society of utah._ organized november 13, 1894. anthon h. lund, president; charles w. penrose, vice president; joseph fielding smith, secy. and treas.; joseph christenson, librarian; lillian cameron and nephi anderson, assistant librarians. directors: anthon h. lund, charles w. penrose, joseph christenson, joseph fielding smith, anthony w. ivins, hyrum g. smith. life membership, $10, with two years in which to pay. annual membership, $2 the first year, $1 yearly thereafter. _the utah genealogical and historical magazine._ published by the genealogical society of utah. quarterly, $1.50 per annum anthon h. lund, editor; nephi anderson, associate editor subscription price to life and paid-up annual members of the genealogical society, $1.00 a year. address all communications to genealogical society of utah 47 east south temple street, salt lake city, utah. salvation universal. by elder joseph fielding smith the greatest of all the gifts of god unto his children, is the gift of salvation.[a] [footnote a: doc. & cov. 6:13.] the greatest of all his works, to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man, which constitutes his glory.[b] [footnote b: book of moses 1:39.] for this grand and glorious purpose, worlds are created by him and peopled with his children. he gives to them his commandments, granting the power to choose for themselves whether or not they will obey. those who obey him in all things he has promised great blessings, they shall be added upon in his celestial kingdom for ever and ever, and shall be crowned with the fullness of his glory. but to those who reject laws, and become a law unto themselves in unrighteousness, shall punishment be meted out according to their evil deeds. the plan of salvation, or code of laws, which is known as the gospel of jesus christ, was adopted in the heavens, before the foundation of the world was laid. it was appointed there that adam our father should come to this earth and stand at the head of the whole human family. it was a part of this great plan, that he should partake of the forbidden fruit and fall, thus bringing suffering and death into the world, even for the ultimate good of his children. by many he has been severely criticized because of his fall, but latter-day saints, through modern revelation, have learned that such was necessary in order that man should have his agency and, through the various vicissitudes he has to pass, receive a knowledge of both good and evil, without which it would be impossible for him to gain the exaltation prepared for him. it was also necessary because of adam's transgression for the only begotten son of the father to come to redeem the world from adam's fall. this also was a part of the plan chosen before the earth was made, for jesus is called the lamb that was slain from the foundation of the world. he came and redeemed us from the fall--even all the inhabitants of the earth. not only did he redeem us from adam's transgression, but he also redeemed us from our own sins, on condition that we obey the laws and ordinances of the gospel.[d] [footnote d: heb. 5:9; matt. 7:21; john 1:3-6.] "and now, behold," said the prophet lehi to his son jacob, "if adam had not transgressed, he would not have fallen; but he would have remained in the garden of eden. and all things which were created must have remained in the same state in which they were, after they were created; and they must have remained for ever, and had no end. and they would have had no children; wherefore, they would have remained in a state of innocence, having no joy, for they knew no misery; doing no good, for they knew no sin. but behold, all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things. adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy. "and the messiah cometh in the fullness of time, that he may redeem the children of men from the fall. and because they are redeemed from the fall, they have become free for ever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves, and not to be acted upon, save it be by the punishment of the law at the great and last day, according to the commandments which god hath given. "wherefore, men are free according to the flesh; and all things are given them which are expedient unto man. and they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great mediation of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself."[c] [footnote c: ii nephi 2:22-27.] the primary and fundamental principles of this plan of salvation are: first: faith in god the father, in his son jesus christ and in the holy ghost. we must accept them as the presiding authority in the heavens, who govern and control all things, who are omnipotent, just and true. second: we must accept the infinite atonement of christ, believing that he is the redeemer of the world, both from adam's transgression and from our individual sins on condition of our repentance. third: we must repent of all our sins, giving our hearts to god, with the full intent of serving him. fourth: we must be baptized in water for the remission of our sins, by one who is called of god and clothed with divine authority to administer in the ordinances of the gospel. fifth: we must have the hands of those holding authority placed upon our heads, and through their ministrations receive the baptism of the holy ghost,--the spirit of truth and prophecy that guides us in all truth. sixth: we must be willing to serve the lord with all our heart, mind and strength, keeping his commandments even unto the end. upon these laws, salvation is based, and the promised blessings are unto all men. these conditions are not severe, nor grievous, and are within the power of the weakest of the weak, if they will only place their trust in their redeemer. all who repent and obey these laws, will be redeemed and saved from the sins of the world; but they who refuse and repent not, will have to suffer for their own sins. the lord says: "he created man, male and female, after his own image and in his own likeness created he them, and gave unto them commandments that they should love and serve him, the only living and true god, and that he should be the only being whom they should worship. but by the transgression of these holy laws, man became sensual and devilish, and became fallen man. wherefore the almighty god gave his only begotten son, as it is written in those scriptures which have been given of him. he suffered temptations, but gave no heed unto them; he was crucified, died and rose again the third day; and ascended into heaven, to sit down on the right hand of the father, to reign with almighty power according to the will of the father, that as many as would believe and be baptized in his holy name, and endure in faith to the end, should be saved: not only those who believed after he came in the meridian of time, in the flesh, but all those from the beginning, even as many as were before he came, who believed in the words of the holy prophets, who spake as [transcriber's note: sentence leaves off here in the original.] moreover, he further says: "and surely every man must repent or suffer, for i god am endless: * * * therefore i command you to repent--repent, lest i smite you by the rod of my mouth, and by my wrath, and by my anger, and your sufferings be sore--how sore you know not! for behold, i, god, have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer if they would repent, but if they would not repent, they must suffer even as i, which suffering caused myself, even god, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both in body and spirit: and would that i might not drink the bitter cup and shrink--nevertheless, glory be to the father, and i partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men."[g] [footnote g: doc. & cov. 19:4, 15-19.] these principles were taught to adam after he was driven from the garden of eden, who repented and was baptized in water for the remission of his sins, and received the holy ghost. and eve, when she heard the gospel plan, rejoiced, saying: "were it not for our transgression, we never should have had seed, and never should have known good and evil, and the joy of our redemption, and the eternal life which god giveth unto all the obedient. and adam and eve blessed the name of god, and they made all things known to their sons and daughters."[h] [footnote h: book of moses 5:11-12.] thus the principles of the gospel were taught from the beginning among the children of adam. some believed and accepted them, many others rejected them, bringing down upon their heads the wrath of god, for his anger was kindled against them because of their rebellion. in course of time, when the inhabitants of the earth were sufficiently corrupt, he caused the floods to come upon them, sweeping them off the earth. noah, who was a preacher of righteousness, continued to preach these saving principles. the gospel was also taught to abraham, and has always been among men when they were prepared to receive it. latter-day saints have been severely criticised by many professing christians for believing it necessary to comply with these first principles of the gospel. we are told that such views make us narrow and illiberal, for we reject and damn all who do not accept "mormonism" and the ministration of our elders, while they on the other hand, give a broader interpretation of the scriptures, holding it but necessary to believe in christ--to confess him with the mouth and to believe in the heart that christ was raised from the dead. or, as it is expressed, nothing, either great or small, remains for me to do; nothing--jesus paid it all, all the debt i owe. nevertheless, there is but one plan of salvation, and one door into the sheepfold, "he that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber."[i] [footnote i: john 10:1.] we have not made the way narrow nor the gate strait, that few there be that find it! nor was ours the edict, "not every one that saith lord, lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of the father."[j] [footnote j: matt. 7th chapter.] the fact that certain laws must be observed, and ordinances complied with, is not the ruling of the latter-day saints, but the divine mandate of the author of our salvation, who has said he will judge all men according to their works and opportunities. we are merely complying with the teachings of the master which we have received, and which are requisite to salvation. if belief alone were sufficient, then even the devils, who fear and tremble, would be saved. they recognized the savior and declared on several occasions that he was the son of god.[k] and the devils in the days of the sons of sceva declared that they knew jesus and paul, yet they were far from the road to salvation.[l] [footnote k: mark 5:2-9; luke 4:33-34.] [footnote l: acts 19:15.] notwithstanding the apparently narrow construction of the latter-day saints pertaining to the scriptures--and we most emphatically declare that all men must obey these laws if they would be saved, excepting those who die without law, and therefore are not judged by law[m]--we are broader and more liberal in our teachings than the believers in the faith-only theory of salvation, who would save all who profess a belief in the name of the redeemer, but reject all others, consigning them to everlasting destruction without one ray of hope, simply because they did not confess that jesus was the christ. this view condemns all who lived at a time or place that the knowledge of the redeemer of the world could not reach them. they would reject this vast majority of the human family, men women and children, to eternal damnation, without the fault being their own! [footnote m: moroni 8:22.] with the latter-day saints this is not so. while it is true we teach that a man must comply with these principles of the gospel in order to receive salvation and exaltation in the kingdom of heaven--which is proved by many passages of scripture--nevertheless, we hold out the hope that all may be saved, excepting the sons of perdition--a class that willfully rejects the atonement of the savior: for the lord intends to save all the workmanship of his hands, save these few who will not receive salvation. our doctrine consigns none others to perdition, but holds forth the hope that all will eventually be saved in the kingdom of god at some time and in some degree of glory. little children are redeemed from the foundation of the world through the atonement, "wherefore, they cannot sin," the lord has said, "for power is not given unto satan to tempt little children, until they begin to become accountable before me; for it is given unto them even as i will, according to mine own pleasure, that great things may be required at the hand of their fathers. and again, i say unto you, that whoso having knowledge, have i not commanded to repent?"[n] [footnote n: doc. & cov. 29:46-49.] he that declares that little children are born in sin, and therefore require baptism, denies the mercy of the father and does not understand the nature and significance of the atonement. the savior said: "suffer little children and forbid them not to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." the prophet mormon sums the whole matter up in the following words: little children cannot repent; wherefore it is awful wickedness to deny the pure mercies of god unto them, for they are all alive in him because of his mercy. and he that saith, that little children need baptism, denieth the mercies of christ, and setteth at naught the atonement of him and the power of his redemption. wo unto such, for they are in danger of death, hell, and endless torment. i speak it boldly, god hath commanded me. listen unto them and give heed, or they stand against you at the judgment seat of christ. for behold that all little children are alive in christ, and also all they that are without the law. for the power of redemption cometh on all they that have no law; wherefore, he that is not condemned, or he that is under no condemnation, cannot repent; and unto such baptism availeth nothing. but it is mockery before god, denying the mercies of christ, and the power of his holy spirit, and putting trust in dead works. behold, my son, this thing ought not to be; for repentance is unto them that are under condemnation and under the curse of a broken law. and the first fruits of repentance is baptism, and baptism cometh by faith, unto the fulfilling of the commandments; and the fulfilling of commandments bringeth remission of sins.[o] [footnote o: moroni 8:19-25.] the question naturally arises, if all must accept the principles of the gospel and be baptized for the remission of their sins, what of the dead who died without receiving the remission of their sins, or accepting christ while they were in the flesh? they cannot be baptized in water now and have hands laid on their heads for the gift of the holy ghost, for these things of necessity pertain to this mortal probation. therefore, it would be impossible for them to be baptized now or even after the resurrection, for they would no longer be mortal, but subject to the laws and regulations of that life which is to come. these ordinances must be performed in this life, or, if for the dead, vicariously by some one who is in mortality, the living acting as proxy for the dead. again we hear the objection raised, that this is impossible; that one man cannot stand, or answer for another's sins; but that every man must stand for himself. this is true so far as it is possible to be done. but occasions have arisen where the man guilty of transgressing the law was unable to redeem himself. and punishment for sin, is for the propitiation of sin, and in such cases there is nothing in the scriptures forbidding one to stand vicariously for another when circumstances render it impossible for the first to comply with the law. in ancient israel they had the scapegoat. on the head of this goat, aaron placed both his hands and confessed over him all the iniquity of the children of israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat, and then sent him away "by the hand of a fit man into the wilderness." and the goat bore upon him all their iniquities into the wilderness "unto a land not inhabited:"[p] this was but one instance. in various ways of vicarious offerings have been made and accepted. then why should it be considered a strange thing for the latter-day saints to believe that the children have the privilege to stand vicariously for their dead fathers, and by proxy perform these ordinances, that belong to this life, in their behalf? [footnote p: leviticus 16:20-22. see also leviticus chapters 4 and 5.] the fact is, the whole plan of redemption is based on vicarious salvation, one without sin standing for the whole human family, all of whom were under the curse. it is most natural and just that he who commits the wrong should pay the penalty--atone for his wrong doing. therefore, when adam was the transgressor of the law, justice demanded that he, and none else, should answer for the sin and pay the penalty with his life. but adam, in breaking and law, himself became subject to the curse, and being under the curse could not atone, or undo what he had done. neither could his children, for they also were under the curse, and it required one who was not subject to the curse to atone for that original sin. moreover, since we were all under the curse, we were also powerless to atone for our individual sins. it therefore became necessary for the father to send his only begotten son, who was free from sin, to atone for our sins as well as for adam's transgression, which justice demanded should be done. he accordingly offered himself a sacrifice for sins, and through his death upon the cross took upon himself both adam's transgression and our individual sins, thereby redeeming us from the fall, and from our sins, on condition of repentance. let us illustrate: a man walking along the road happens to fall into a pit so deep and dark that he cannot climb to the surface and regain his freedom. how can he save himself from his predicament? not by any exertions on his own part, for there is no means of escape in the pit. he calls for help and some kindly disposed soul, hearing his cries for relief, hastens to his assistance and by lowering a ladder, gives to him the means by which he may climb again to the surface of the earth. this was precisely the condition that adam placed himself and his posterity in, when he partook of the forbidden fruit. all being together in the pit, none could gain the surface and relieve the others. the pit was banishment from the presence of the lord and temporal death, the dissolution of the body. and all being subject to death, none could provide the means of escape. therefore, in his infinite mercy, the father heard the cries of his children and sent his only begotten son, who was not subject to death nor to sin, to provide the means of escape. this he did through his infinite atonement and the everlasting gospel. the savior voluntarily laid down his life and took it up again to satisfy the demands of justice, which required this infinite atonement. his father accepted this offering in the stead of the blood of all those who were under the curse, and consequently helpless. the savior said, "i lay down my life for the sheep. * * * therefore, doth my father love me, because i lay down my life that i might take it up again. no man taketh it from me, but i lay it down of myself. i have power to lay it down, and i have power to take it again. this commandment have i received of my father."[q] [footnote q: john 10:15-18.] from this we see that he had life in himself, which he received from the father, being his only begotten son in the flesh. and it was this principle that gave him power to atone for the sins of the world, both for adam's transgression and for our individual sins, from which we could not of ourselves get free. therefore, christ died in our stead, because to punish us would not relieve the situation, for we would still be subject to the curse even if our blood had been shed, and through his death we receive life and "have it more abundantly." the vicarious atonement was for all, both living and dead, for as extensive as was the fall, of necessity must be the atonement. there shall, therefore, be a resurrection of the dead, both of the just and the unjust.[r] this is general salvation. our individual salvation, which determines our standing, or glory, in the kingdom of god, besides depending on the atonement of christ, also is on condition that the laws and ordinances of the gospel are accepted and lived by us, both by the living and the dead. [footnote r: acts 24:15.] this vicarious salvation for the dead is not a new doctrine. it is new and strange for this generation, it is true, but only because of a lack of comprehension of the revelations of the lord. the prophet joseph smith said it is the burden of the scriptures. it has been taught among the lord's people from the earliest times. enoch saw in vision the kingdoms of the world and all their inhabitants down even to the end of time. the lord told him of noah and the flood, and how he would destroy the people of the earth for their iniquity. of these rebellious one who rejected the truth and paid no heed to the preachings of noah and the ancient prophets, the lord said: "i can stretch forth mine hands and hold all the creations which i have made; and mine eyes can pierce them also, and among all the workmanship of mine hands there has not been so much wickedness as among thy brethren. but, behold, their sins shall be upon the heads of their fathers. satan shall be their father, and misery shall be their doom; and the whole heavens shall weep over them, even all the workmanship of mine hands; wherefore should not the heavens weep, seeing these shall suffer? but behold, these which thine eyes are upon shall perish in the floods; and, behold, i will shut them up; a prison have i prepared for them. and that which i have chosen hath plead before my face. wherefore, he suffereth for their sins; inasmuch as they will repent _in the day that my chosen shall return unto me,_ and until that day they shall be in torment."[s] [footnote s: book of moses 7:36-39.] from this we learn that the lord has prepared a prison for the souls of all those who rejected the testimony of the antediluvian prophets, where they were to remain in torment until the time when jesus should atone for their sins and return to the father. isaiah also says: "and it shall come to pass in that day, that the lord shall punish the host of the high ones that are on high, and the kings of the earth upon the earth. and they shall be gathered together, as prisoners are gathered in the pit, and shall be shut up in the prison, and after many days shall they be visited."[t] this is spoken of those who keep not the law who live in latter-days. again, he says: "the spirit of the lord god is upon me, because the lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek, he hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound."[u] this was spoken of as the mission of the redeemer, both his work for the living and the dead who were prisoners that were bound. when the savior commenced his ministry, he entered into the synagogue in the city of nazareth--his home town--on the sabbath day, the book of isaiah was handed him, he turned to this passage and read, closed the book, handed it back to the minister, and while the eyes of all the congregation were riveted upon him, he said: "this day is this scripture fulfilled in your ears."[v] but the jews rejected him and his testimony, and with violence drove him from the city. nevertheless, he continued to proclaim liberty to the captives, declaring that he came not alone to save the living but also to save the dead. [footnote t: isaiah 24:21, 22.] [footnote u: isaiah 61:1 and 42:7.] [footnote v: luke 4:16-21.] we hear the objection made from time to time, that jesus did not come to save the dead, for he most emphatically declared himself that there was an impassable gulf that separated the righteous spirits from the wicked. in defense of their position they quote the words in luke, 16th chapter and 26th verse, which are: "and besides all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed, so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot: neither can they pass to us that would come from thence." these words, according to the story, were spoken by abraham's spirit to the rich man who raised his eyes and asked that lazarus might go touch his lips and relieve his torment. abraham replied that it could not be for there was a gulf fixed between them that the spirit of no man could pass. therefore, say the objectors to the doctrine of universal salvation, "it is quite evident that the righteous and the wicked who are dead, cannot visit each other, hence there is no salvation for the dead." this was true before the days that jesus atoned for sin, which is plainly shown in the passage from the book of moses previously quoted. and it was at this period this event occurred. however, christ came, and through his death bridged that gulf, proclaimed liberty to the captives, and the opening of this prison door to those who sat in darkness and captivity. from that time forth this gulf is bridged so that the captives, after they have paid the full penalty of their misdeeds, satisfied justice, and have accepted the gospel of christ, having the ordinances attended to in their behalf by their living relatives or friends, receive the passport that entitles them to cross the gulf. the lord speaks of this himself in the fifth chapter of john, beginning with the twenty-fourth verse: "verily, verily, i say unto you, he that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life. "verily, verily, i say unto you, the hour is coming and now is, when the dead shall hear the voice of the son of god; and they that hear shall live." and the jews marveled. perhaps they thought he meant those who were "dead in trespasses and sins" should hear his voice. at any rate they marveled. he perceived it and said: "marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in their graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth: they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of damnation." peter tells us that christ did this very thing: for christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might brings us to god, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the spirit: by which also he went and preached unto the spirits in prison: which sometime were disobedient, when once the long-suffering of god waited in the days of noah, while the ark was a preparing, wherein few, that is, eight souls were saved.[w] [footnote w: i peter 3:18-20.] why did he preach to these disobedient spirits? surely not to increase their torments, to taunt them for not accepting of his truth in the days of the prophets! was it to tantalize them, and make them more miserable because of the blessings they had lost! jesus was a merciful redeemer, who suffered as no other man suffered that he might save the children of his father. he would take no pleasure in the suffering of the wicked. it was his nature to plead for them, to entreat his father for mercy in their behalf. therefore, whatever his mission was, it was one of mercy and comfort to those prisoners. peter tells us that the object of his visit was that the gospel might be preached also to the dead, "that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to god in the spirit."[x] [footnote x: i peter 4:6.] what good reason can be given why the lord should not forgive sins in the world to come? why should man suffer throughout the countless ages of eternity for his sins committed here, if those sins are not unto death? there are many good, honorable men who have wilfully wronged no man, have lived to the best of their opportunities, righteously; yet have not received the gospel, for one reason or another. where would be the justice in condemning them forever in hell, "where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched?" we learn from the doctrine and covenants, that eternal punishment, or everlasting punishment, does not mean that a man condemned will endure this punishment forever, but it is everlasting and eternal, because it is god's punishment, and he is everlasting and eternal. therefore, when a man pays the penalty of his misdeeds and humbly repents, receiving the gospel, he comes out of the prison-house and is assigned to some degree of glory in the kingdom of god, according to his worth and merit. there are three degrees of glory in this kingdom, the celestial, into which those who keep the whole law shall enter; the terrestrial, in which are found the honorable men of the world, and those who were blinded by the craftiness of men, and were overcome by the things of the world, and also those who have accepted christ but were not valiant in his cause, and those who died without law among the heathen: the third, or telestial, is that glory which contains the great majority of mankind who differ in their glory as the countless stars of heaven. these are the inhabitants of the earth who have been unworthy, unclean, unfit for an exaltation in the other kingdoms. and still there will be some who, because of their filthiness and abominations in the flesh, will be unworthy of a kingdom of glory at all. the sons of perdition, those who are lost, having rejected the atonement of christ and crucified him afresh to themselves, these will be cast out of the kingdom into outer darkness. all the rest shall be saved in some degree of glory in one of the three grand divisions of the kingdom of god. a full discussion of this is found in doctrine and covenants, section 76. that sins are forgiven in the world to come, we need only refer to the words of the savior: all manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the holy ghost shall not be forgiven unto men. and whosoever speaketh a word against the son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the holy ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come.[y] [footnote y: matt. 12:32.] this shows that some sins will be forgiven in the world to come. we are also informed in first corinthians, fifteenth chapter, that "if in this life only we have hope in christ, we are of all men most miserable." but we have hope in christ both in this life and in the life to come. salvation does not come all at once; we are commanded to be perfect even as our father in heaven is perfect. it will take us ages to accomplish this end, for there will be greater progress beyond the grave, and it will be there that the faithful will overcome all things, and receive all things, even the fullness of the father's glory.[z] [footnote z: doc. & cov. 84:38.] salvation for the dead was understood in the days of the primitive christian church, and to some extent baptisms for the dead continued to be performed until a. d. 379, when the council of carthage forbade any longer the administration of this ordinance and "holy communion" for the dead. paul uses baptism for the dead as an argument against the corinthian saints, who, even in that day, were falling away from the true gospel. these saints understood the doctrine of baptism for the dead, yet they doubted the general resurrection. paul argues with them thus: now if christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead? but if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is christ not risen. and if christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, and your faith is also vain. yea, and we are found false witnesses of god; because we have testified of god that he raised up christ: whom he raised not up, if so be that the dead rise not. for if the dead rise not, then is not christ raised: and if christ be not raised, your faith is vain; ye are yet in your sins. then they also which are fallen asleep in christ are perished. if in this life only we have hope in christ, we are of all men most miserable. but now is christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them that slept. for since by man came death by man came also the resurrection of the dead. for as in adam all die; even so in christ shall all be made alive. * * * * else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? why are they then baptized for the dead? and why stand we in jeopardy every hour?[a] [footnote a: i cor. 15:20-30.] joseph smith, the prophet, informs us that salvation for the dead was introduced in the days of christ who had reference to this subject when, in addressing the jews, he said: that upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, from the blood of the righteous abel unto the blood of zacharias, son of barachias, who ye slew between the temple and the altar. verily i say unto you, all these things shall come upon this generation.[b] [footnote b: matt. 23:35-36.] commenting on this, the prophet said the reason that generation would have to answer for the blood of the righteous from abel to zacharias, was that in their day the privilege of performing the ordinances in behalf of the dead, was within their power, while it had been denied anciently. hence, as they possessed greater privileges than any other generation, not only pertaining to themselves, but to their dead, their sin was greater, as they not only neglected their own salvation, but that of their progenitors, and hence their blood was required at their hands.[c] [footnote c: times and seasons 3:761.] in this same article the prophet declared that obediah was speaking of salvation for the dead when he said, "and saviors shall come upon mount zion, to judge the mount of esau, and the kingdom shall be the lord's."[d] [footnote d: obediah 21.] the work of saving the dead has practically been reserved for the dispensation of the fullness of times, when the lord shall restore all things. it is, therefore, the duty of the latter-day saints to see that it is accomplished. we cannot do it all at once, but will have the thousand years of the millennium to do it in. in that time the work must be done in behalf of the dead of the previous six thousand years for all who need it. temples will be built for this purpose, and the labor in them will occupy most of the time of the saints. one of the most important prophecies, pertaining to the dead, is that of malachi. he prophesied that the lord would send elijah, the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the lord, for the purpose of turning the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the hearts of the children to the fathers, lest the earth be smitten with a curse, when the lord should come. this prophecy, which is not understood by the world, has come to pass. when the angel moroni appeared to the prophet joseph smith, september 21, 1823, among the passages of scripture he quoted that were about to be fulfilled, was this prophecy of malachi's; but he quoted it with this variation: "behold, i will reveal unto you the priesthood by the hand of elijah, the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the lord, and he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promise made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers. if it were not so, the whole earth would be utterly wasted at his coming."[e] [footnote e: history of the church, vol. 1:12.] from this, we see that elijah's mission was to restore that priesthood which would turn the hearts of the children to their fathers, according to a promise that had been made to the fathers. that it was extremely important and necessary, is shown in the fact that the whole earth would be utterly wasted at the coming of the great and dreadful day of the lord, if this priesthood were not restored. this quotation deeply impressed the prophet at that time, although he could not understand it. three times that night it was repeated, and again on the following day. gradually, as link after link of the gospel chain was revealed, and the keys and powers were bestowed, the prophet increased in wisdom and knowledge. in time, a temple was built in kirtland, but in it there was no baptismal font, or any other provision made for ordinance work for the dead. the reason is that the doctrine had not been fully revealed. this temple, however, served the purpose for which it was erected, a house of the lord, where he could come, and send his angels to bestow keys and authority necessary in this dispensation. in this temple, april 3, 1836, the savior and many of the ancient prophets appeared to joseph smith and oliver cowdery and bestowed upon their heads the keys of the several dispensations. among these heavenly visitors came elijah, who placed his hands on the heads of joseph smith and oliver cowdery, and gave them the priesthood spoken of by malachi. "therefore," said he, "the keys of this dispensation are committed into your hands, and by this ye may know that the great and dreadful day of the lord is near, even at the doors."[f] [footnote f: doc. & cov. 110:16.] what was the promise made to the fathers that was to be fulfilled in the latter-days by the turning of the hearts of the children to their fathers? it was the promise of the lord made through enoch, isaiah, and the prophets, to the nations of the earth, that the time should come when the dead should be redeemed. and the turning of the hearts of the children is fulfilled in the performing of the vicarious temple work and in the preparation of their genealogies. up to the time of elijah's visit, there had been nothing done for the dead. the doctrine was not understood by the saints, and there was no temple built where the ordinances could be performed. but as soon as this priesthood was restored, the hearts of the children commenced turning toward their fathers. the knowledge of temple building and temple work was made known to the prophet from time to time subsequently to the 3rd of april, 1836, and he commenced to reveal these things to the saints. in nauvoo they were commanded to build a temple to the lord, for only in temples can these ordinances be performed, excepting in times of extreme poverty, when they cannot build temples for that purpose. "for this ordinance belongeth to my house," says the lord, "and cannot be acceptable to me (i.e., outside of the house) only in the days of your poverty, wherein ye are not able to build a house unto me."[g] as the latter-day saints were in this poverty-stricken condition when they settled at nauvoo, the lord granted them the privilege of baptizing for the dead in the mississippi river, until a place could be prepared for the ordinance in the temple. just as soon as a font could be prepared in the temple, the lord, by revelation, discontinued baptisms for the dead in any other place. it was october 3, 1841, when this revelation was given, and on the 8th of the following month, the font in the temple at nauvoo was dedicated, and from that day, until the saints were driven from illinois, that ordinance continued to be performed by them in that house in behalf of their dead.[h] after arriving in salt lake valley, the first commandment president young received from the lord was to commence to build a temple where this work could be continued. the members of the church responded, and temples have been built, where the living now go to officiate for the dead. [footnote g: doc. & cov. 124:30.] [footnote h: some of those who would destroy the work of god, have declared that the church was rejected, with its dead, because the temple at nauvoo was not finished; and, say they, the lord, in this revelation, declared that he would give the saints sufficient time to build a house (temple) unto him, and if they failed to build it in the sufficient time, they would be rejected with their dead. the fact is, that the nauvoo temple was built, and many of the saints received their endowments in it, and labored for their dead before they were finally driven from nauvoo by their enemies. but the meaning of this revelation is perverted; the lord did not say he would reject the church, with its dead, if they failed to build the temple, but that they would be rejected _if they did not perform the ordinances for their dead in the temple when it was prepared for that purpose._ here is the commandment in question (sec. 124:31-35): "but i command you, all ye my saints, to build a house unto me; and i grant unto you a sufficient time to build a house unto me, and during this time your baptisms [i.e. outside of a temple] shall be acceptable unto me. "but, behold, at the end of this appointment [i.e. the sufficient time] your baptisms for your dead shall not be acceptable unto me [i. e. outside of a temple] _and if ye do not these things_ [i. e. temple ordinances] _at the end of the appointment,_ ye shall be rejected as a church, with your dead, saith the lord your god. "for verily i say unto you, that after you have had sufficient time to build a house to me, _wherein the ordinances of baptizing for the dead belongeth,_ and for which the same was instituted from before the foundation of the world, your baptisms for your dead [i.e. in any other place than in a temple] cannot be acceptable unto me, for therein are the keys of the holy priesthood ordained that you may receive honor and glory. "and after this time [when a house is prepared] your baptism for the dead, by those who art scattered abroad, are not acceptable unto me, saith the lord." [bold face and brackets are mine. j.f.s.] _and if ye do not these things at the end of the appointment,_ obviously does not mean "if ye do not build a temple at the _end_ of the appointment," as our critics infer it does, but it refers to the _ordinances_ that were to be performed in the temple, and the failure on the part of the saints to perform these ordinances for their dead was the thing that would cause their rejection with their dead, and not the failure to build the temple, which was merely the edifice in which the saving principles were to be performed. this is in harmony with the teachings of the prophet joseph smith, who said that if we neglect the salvation of our dead "_we do it at the peril of our own salvation!_ why? because we without them cannot be made perfect." (doc. & cov. sec. 28:15.) the virtue of salvation for the dead is not in the structure of the temple, but in the _ordinances_ which are performed in the temple. the temple is to the ordinances just what the vessel is to the life-giving nourishment it contains. those who would reject us on a technicality, because, as they say, "we did not finish the temple," neither build temples nor perform the ordinances for the dead, wherein they prove their rejection by the lord, according to the revelations of joseph smith, the prophet.] the restoration of elijah's priesthood accomplished more than the turning of the hearts of the members of the church to their fathers, for the spirit of his mission spread forth and took hold of the hearts of the honorable men and women in the world who have been directed, they know not why, to spend their time and means in preparing genealogies, vital records and various other genealogical data, which they are publishing at great labor and expense. it is a curious and interesting fact that the year following the coming of elijah, the british government passed laws requiring the proper recording of records, and the filing of them in one central place. in the year 1844, the new england historical and genealogical society was organized in boston; in 1869 the new york genealogical and biographical society was incorporated in new york. other societies have been organized from time to time in america, principally in the new england states, and they are publishing quarterly genealogical magazines and registers, family records, etc.; and are continually disseminating information regarding our ancestors, that is useful to the latter-day saints. the new england society is publishing, as they express it in their magazine, "by a fund set apart from the bequest of robert henry eddy," to the society, the vital records (births, marriages and deaths) of towns in massachusetts, whose records are not already printed from the beginning to the year 1850. this is a tremendous work, many volumes of these records have been published, and others are in course of preparation.[i] eventually they will be printed by this and other similar societies in massachusetts, a state that has set the pace for her sister states to follow. there, and in other parts, these societies are protected and encouraged by legislative enactment. besides these numerous societies engaged in this noble work, there are multitudes of individual laborers who are publishing at their own expense family genealogies and vital records that extend back for hundreds of years. [footnote i: other societies in massachusetts are also preparing vital records, among them are the topsfield historical society, the essex antiquarian society, the "systematic history fund," franklin p. rice, trustee. of this work mr. rice, who is a pioneer in genealogical research, says: "i hope sometime to give in detail an account of the various undertakings in the line of record preservation with which i have been connected since i began, in the early seventies, with the idea, crude and imperfect, of subjecting to classification, for easy reference, manuscript materials in public depositories, many of which were then hidden or unknown, and in many places practically inaccessible. * * * * thirty-five years ago the interest in such matters was mainly antiquarian, and the few examples in print in this line had been inspired from that standpoint. genealogical research was not the powerful factor it is today. as the idea expanded and developed, i came to regard the work chiefly in its practical and scientific aspects, and i applied the term "systematic history" as the best explaining its purpose, to meet the necessities of all enquirers and investigators. * * * i formulated a plan sometime before 1890 to require the towns in massachusetts to print their records, but this met with little favor. its substantial features are embodied in the act of 1902. * * * pursuing the work since 1898 under the operation of the systematic history fund, i have been able to secure copies and to print the vital records of more than thirty towns in central massachusetts."] in great britain the work is carried on by the harleian society, the genealogist society, phillimore & company, the lancashire parish register society, the yorkshire parish register society, and similar societies in nearly all of the counties of great britain. these societies publish the parish registers of the several parishes in england, and to an extent in scotland, ireland and wales. there is also in great britain lodge's, debrett's and burkes' _peerages and visitations_ which are invaluable to the searcher of genealogical information in those lands. these numerous societies and individuals in the world, upon whom the spirit of elijah has fallen to this extent at least, are compiling, printing and distributing these records of the dead, faster than the saints can, with their present facilities and understanding of the work, obtain them. in fact, they have far outstripped us in the race, and while we sometimes are given to boasting of the great work we are doing for the dead, it is as nothing, a mere drop in the bucket. these people and societies are helping us, should we not take every advantage of their labors and stand in the forefront, magnifying our calling and proving our birthright as the children of ephraim? thus the hearts of the children are gradually, but surely turning towards their fathers. the spirit of this work is now taking hold of the hearts of the people of germany, scandinavia and the continent of europe. and why are they doing this? because their hearts have been drawn out to their fathers, through the restoration of the keys of salvation for the dead, and they are energetically and faithfully laboring, but all the while unconscious of the full significance and worth of their labors, simply because the work appeals to them and they are fascinated by it. surely they shall receive their reward. while many honorable men and women in the world are accomplishing a great work in searching out and compiling genealogical data, their labors serve only as the means to the end. the greatest work, after all, devolves on the members of the church who have the priesthood, power and privilege, to go into the temples, taking the names from these compiled records and from all other authentic sources and performing the ordinances in behalf of their dead. we live in the greatest dispensation of the world's history, that of the fulness of times, when all things are to be gathered and restored to their proper order, ushering in the millennial reign of the redeemer and the righteous. do we latter-day saints fully realize the importance of the mighty responsibility placed upon us in relation to the salvation of the world? we are doing a great deal in the attempt to convert and save a perverse and wicked generation; we are sending hundreds of missionaries into all parts of the earth, and are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars annually in this very necessary labor, with results that are not so very startling. we are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in the building of meetinghouses, church schools and other buildings, and in the education of the youth of israel, in developing and improving our lands, building cities and increasing our communities, publishing periodicals and magazines, and in every way diligently striving to improve our own people, and disseminate knowledge that will convert the world to the gospel; but what are we doing for the salvation of our dead? many there are, it is true, who comprehend this greater work, and are faithfully discharging their duties in the temples of the lord, but of others this cannot be said. the temple in salt lake city has for many months been so crowded with anxious, earnest workers, that it has been necessary many times to turn large numbers away because there was not sufficient room. this is a good sign, showing the willingness and activity of the saints. but this condition does not relieve from responsibility the inactive, dilatory members, who are doing nothing for their dead. these persons cannot expect to receive credit for what others may be doing. the responsibility rests with equal force on all according to our individual ability and opportunities. it matters not what else we have been called to do, or what position we may occupy, or how faithfully in other ways we have labored in the church, none are exempt from this great obligation. it is required of the apostle as well as the humblest elder. place or distinction, or long service in the church, in the mission field, the stakes of zion, or where or how else it may have been, will not entitle one to disregard the salvation of one's dead. some may feel that if they pay their tithing, attend their regular meetings and other duties, give of their substance to the poor, perchance spend one, two or more years preaching in the world, that they are absolved from further duty. but the greatest and grandest duty of all is to labor for the dead. we may and should derail these other things, for which reward will be given, but if we neglect the weightier privilege and commandment, notwithstanding all other good works, we shall find ourselves under severe condemnation. and why such condemnation? because "the greatest responsibility in this world that god has laid upon us, is to seek after our dead;"[j] because we cannot be saved without them, "it is necessary that those who have gone before and those who come after us should have salvation in common with us, and thus hath god made it obligatory to man,"[k] says the prophet joseph smith. from this, then, we see that while it is necessary to preach the gospel in the nations of the earth, and to do all other good works in the church, yet the greatest commandment given us, and made obligatory, is the temple work in our own behalf and in behalf of our dead. [footnote j: joseph smith in times and seasons 6:616.] [footnote k: ibid.] again the prophet says: baptism for the dead is the only way that men can appear as saviors upon mount zion. the proclamation of the first principles of the gospel was a means of salvation to man individually, but men, by actively engaging in rites of salvation substitutionally, become instrumental in bringing multitudes of their kin into the kingdom of god. * * * this doctrine appears glorious inasmuch as it exhibits the greatness of divine compassion and benevolence in the extent of the plan of human salvation. this glorious truth is well calculated to enlarge the understanding, and to sustain the soul under troubles, difficulties, and distresses. * * * this doctrine presents in a clear light the wisdom and mercy of god, in preparing and ordinance for the salvation of the dead, being baptized by proxy, their names recorded in heaven, and they judged according to the deeds done in the body. this doctrine was the burden of the scriptures. those saints who neglected it, in behalf of their deceased relatives, do it at the peril of their own salvation.[l] [footnote l: times and seasons 2:545-6.] the reason our own salvation stands in jeopardy is because it is necessary that the parents and children not only receive the ordinance of baptism, but they must be joined together from generation to generation. it is necessary for us to go into the temples, be baptized, confirmed, and receive all the ordinances for our dead, just as we receive them for ourselves.[m] [footnote m: history of the church, may 12, 1844.] it is sufficient to know that the earth will be smitten with a curse, unless there is a welding link of some kind or other, between the fathers and the children upon some subject or other, and behold what is that subject? it is the baptism for the dead. for we without them cannot be made perfect; neither can they without us be made perfect. neither can they nor we be made perfect without those who have died in the gospel also; for it is necessary in the ushering in of the dispensation of the fulness of times, which dispensation is now beginning to usher in, that a whole and complete and perfect union and welding together of dispensations, and keys, and powers, and glories should take place, and be revealed, from the days of adam even to the present time and not only this but those things which never have been revealed from the foundation of the world, but have been kept hid from the wise and prudent shall be revealed unto babes and sucklings in this dispensation of the fulness of times.[n] [footnote n: doc. & cov. 128:18.] again, quoting from the prophet: the bible says, i will send you elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the lord; and he shall turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers, lest i come and smite the earth with a curse. now, the word turn here should be translated bind or seal. but what is the object of this important mission? or how is it to be fulfilled? the keys are to be delivered, the spirit of elijah is to come, the gospel to be established, the saints of god to be gathered, zion built up, and the saints to come up as saviors on mount zion. but how are they to become saviors on mount zion? by building their temples, erecting their baptismal fonts, and going forth and receiving all the ordinances, baptisms, confirmations, washings, anointings, ordinations and sealing powers upon their heads, in behalf of all their progenitors who are dead, and redeem them that they may come forth in the first resurrection and be exalted to thrones of glory with them, and herein is the chain that binds the hearts of the fathers to the children, and children to the fathers, which fulfills the mission of elijah. and i would that this temple were now done, that we might go into it, and go to work and improve our time, and make use of the seals while they are on earth. the saints have not too much time to save and redeem their dead, and gather together their living relatives, that they may be saved also, before the earth wil be smitten, and the consummation decreed falls upon the world.[o] [footnote o: history of the church, jan. 20, 1844.] these passages emphasize the importance of the work for the dead, for we cannot be saved without them, nor can they be saved without us. our salvation cannot be accomplished unless the fathers and the children are joined together, bound, sealed in perfect family order. husbands must be united by authority to their wives; children to their parents, until there is one grand family composed of all the faithful from the beginning to the end of time, with adam, our progenitor standing in his calling as the father of us all. how great is the responsibility of the latter-day saints! no wonder the theme occupied the prophet's mind so constantly, just before his death, for upon the saints devolves the labor of this universal redemption! is not this the greatest, most glorious duty in the world? how terrible would be the consequences should we fail! the earth would be smitten with a curse, and utterly wasted. the work of all the dispensations would be lost, the dead as well as the living would be denied salvation. anarchy, confusion, even chaos, would reign supreme: for this salvation must come by our endeavors, and we cannot fail. individuals may fail to do their part, and be rejected for their failure, but the work of the lord shall go on and increase from day to day, until redemption of the dead shall be accomplished. if all the righteous blood from the days of abel to the days of zacharias, was required of the jews in the days of christ, because they neglected to do their duty in this regard, is it unreasonable to suppose that the blood of all the righteous from the beginning to the present day will be required of this generation? for our privileges are greater than those of the jews in the meridian of time. therefore it behooves each one of us to rid our garments of the blood of this generation by performing all our duties required in the gospel. if this work must be performed for the dead from the beginning to the end of time, how is it to be done? it is an exceptional case when a family record can be traced beyond the fifteenth century with any degree of accuracy, and most all of those that can, merely give the name of the father and first-born son, or the name of the one inheriting the estate. in extent of time three or four hundred years is but a moment. what, then, are we to do for the great multitudes of our kindred who antedate the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries, whose records were never kept, and consequently we cannot obtain? will the lord hold us accountable for these dead, and punish us for not doing their work, when we are powerless to act? not in the least. the lord requires of us that we do all we can, no more than that. he will assist us if we will try, and the way will be opened before us, as has been the case in innumerable instances, so that we can accomplish a great deal more than we at first think we can. there is enough that we can do for the dead, from the records which can be obtained today, to fill a hundred temples daily, and then we would not be through, at the rate we are working, before christ will come to reign. we are expected to save as many as we possibly can with the knowledge we possess, and when the redeemer comes to reign on earth, there will be a closer communication between the mortal and the resurrected saints who will work hand in hand in the redemption of the dead. those who have passed beyond will then be in a position to furnish to their mortal kin all necessary names for temple work; and thus the labor for their salvation will be facilitated and more accurately done than it possibly can be done today. even now hundreds of thousands of records have been prepared, the names of many millions of souls have been published and are accessible to the members of the church. each year new genealogical records are being prepared in vast numbers more rapidly than we can do the work. and the saints with all their diligence, are not doing all that could be done. comparatively, we are few in numbers, and the capacity of our temples, limited; but we should increase the work by increasing the number of workers. when the present temples will not accommodate all who desire to attend, the lord will require that other temples be erected. there are in the church today (1910) over forty-one thousand seven hundred men holding the melchizedek priesthood, and every faithful elder has access to the temples. suppose that each of the forty-one thousand seven hundred elders should go to one of the temples one day each month--and where they cannot go, they might send and have the work done for them--what would be the result? the work would be done for five hundred thousand each year. if an equal number of sisters would do the same, there would be one million souls endowed every year. if we spent one day each month in the temples saving our dead, just twelve days out of the three hundred and sixty-five of the year, brethren and sisters, would any of us be doing more than our share? could we even feel that we were doing our full duty, when the responsibility given us is so great, and the saints have not too much time to save and redeem their dead and gather together their living relatives, that they may be saved also before the earth will be smitten, and the consummation decreed falls upon the world? suppose we did all this each year, in the course of a century we would have endowed one hundred million souls, which is about the present population of the united states, and a very small part of the work for those whose records we may now obtain. in the library of the genealogical society of utah--which society was organized in 1894 as an aid to the saints who desire to do temple work--situated in the church office building, salt lake city, we have on file thousands of records, containing millions of names that have been collected from the parish registers and other records both in the united states and europe. these are accessible, and many are obtaining from them the names of their dead and performing in the temples the work that will merit them a place in the kingdom of god. again, suppose each one of us should fill out one baptismal blank of twenty names, and send it to the temple every month, it would mean that over twenty million, sixteen thousand baptisms would be performed each twelve months. suppose we sent such a list but twice a year, we would then baptize three million, three hundred and thirty-six thousand souls each year. is this more than we ought to do? is it more than we are capable of doing? it certainly is a great deal more than we are doing; and, too, there are many individuals who are baptizing more than twenty every month. if a few can do it, why can not more? the fact is, this question has not appealed to many of us, we have been so busy in other pursuits, principally in the accumulation of worldly goods that we cannot carry with us, that we have had no time or inclination to do the work for our dead. if one hundredth part of the energy expended by the members of the church in other ways were directed in the channels of temple work where it properly belongs, we could accomplish a great deal more work than we are now doing for the salvation of the dead. but one will say: "i have done the work for all my ancestors of whom i have any knowledge. my genealogy can only be traced to my great grandfather, beyond that all is dark. how can i be baptized each year for twenty, forty, sixty, or more of my dead when we haven't their records?" to such a person i reply: if you have done the work for all your known dead, and your record cannot be traced but one or two generations, you still have the privilege of assisting your neighbor who lacks sufficient help and therefore cannot do the work for all his dead. assist him and assist the temples with your financial as well as your moral support, and the way may be opened before you that you can obtain more knowledge of your own dead. there is one thing of importance, however, we must keep in mind. no person has a right to select names promiscuously of any family, and go to the temple to perform the work for them. this cannot be tolerated, for it would lead to confusion and duplication of work. let each family do the work for their own dead kindred, as they may have the right, and if they do work for others, it must be at the instance and with the consent of the living relatives who are immediately concerned. a few individuals have desired to do the work for men of renown, generals, presidents, magistrates, and others who have risen to prominent stations in the world. one object they apparently have in view is that they may say they have done the work for such and such persons. but there is an order in this work, as in all things pertaining to the gospel, and in no case should work be done in this manner, unless the circumstances are such that proper sanction of the temple authorities can be given. we are also troubled at times by what are known as "link-men," individuals in the world who manufacture names so that they can complete unbroken a family line. this is done for the purpose of making money, and is, of course, knavery of the worst kind. those who are guilty of this trickery do not understand salvation for the dead, and may not fully realize the wickedness of such a course. latter-day saints should be accurate in their recording, and not depend entirely on the temple records for a history of their work. temple record books are prepared for the use of the saints so that each family may keep their own record of their dead. this should be done that the record may be handed down from generation to generation. remember it is out of the records that the dead are to be judged. we should be orderly in all things, and strive to get the spirit of the work, live our religion and work out our own salvation by assisting in the salvation of our dead, for we without them cannot be made perfect. in the words of the prophet, i shall conclude, brethren, shall we not go on in so great a cause? go forward and not backward. courage, brethren; and on, on to the victory! let your hearts rejoice, and be exceeding glad. let the earth break forth into singing. let the dead speak forth anthems of eternal praise to the king immanuel, who hath ordained before the world was, that which would enable us to redeem them out of their prison; for the prisoners shall go free.[p] [footnote p: doc. & cov. 128:22.] (this book was produced from images made available by the hathitrust digital library.) transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase. blank pages have been eliminated. variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. around the wicket gate; or, a friendly talk with seekers concerning faith in the lord jesus christ. by c. h. spurgeon. "enter ye in at the strait gate."--_matt._ vii. 13. american tract society, 10 east 23d street, new york. this book is published by special arrangement with the author and his publisher. copyright, 1890, by a. c. armstrong & sons. transferred to the american tract society. preface. millions of men are in the outlying regions, far off from god and peace; for these we pray, and to these we give warning. but just now we have to do with a smaller company, who are not far from the kingdom, but have come right up to the wicket gate which stands at the head of the way of life. one would think that they would hasten to enter, for a free and open invitation is placed over the entrance, the porter waits to welcome them, and there is but this one way to eternal life. he that is most loaded seems the most likely to pass in and begin the heavenward journey; but what ails the other men? this is what i want to find out. poor fellows! they have come a long way already to get where they are; and the king's highway, which they seek, is right before them: why do they not take to the pilgrim road at once? alas! they have a great many reasons; and foolish as those reasons are, it needs a very wise man to answer them all. i cannot pretend to do so. only the lord himself can remove the folly which is bound up in their hearts, and lead them to take the great decisive step. yet the lord works by means; and i have prepared this little book in the earnest hope that he may work by it to the blessed end of leading seekers to an immediate, simple trust in the lord jesus. he who does not take the step of faith, and so enter upon the road to heaven, will perish. it will be an awful thing to die just outside the gate of life. almost saved, but altogether lost! a man just outside noah's ark would be drowned; a manslayer just outside the wall of the city of refuge would be slain; and the man who is within a yard of christ, and yet has not trusted him, will be lost. therefore am i in terrible earnest to get my hesitating friends over the threshold. _come in! come in!_ is my pressing entreaty. may the holy spirit render it effectual with many who shall glance at these pages! may he cause his own almighty voice to be heard creating faith at once! my reader, if god blesses this book to you, do the writer this favour--either lend your own copy to one who is lingering at the gate, or buy another and give it away; for his great desire is that this little volume should be of service to many thousands of souls. to god this book is commended; for without his grace nothing will come of all that is written. [illustration] preface to the american edition. the host of american christians who have had the privilege of listening to the prince of modern preachers of the gospel in his own london tabernacle, and the countless thousands who have read his printed sermons, have long desired to see and hear him on this side of the ocean. the state of his health, however, which requires frequent respites from his incessant and exhausting labors, precludes the hope of an american tour, with its inevitable demands upon his already overburdened strength. all the more on this account they will welcome a new volume from his pen, designed for the benefit of a class found in every christian community, the object of the deepest concern to the church of christ: a volume written by a master in israel who has shown such a profound knowledge both of the human heart with all its needs, and of the wisdom and power of god in the gospel, and who has been to so many souls the blessed means of leading them to christ. this new volume, like the author's many previous books and tracts, his well-organized colporter society, etc., testifies to his high appreciation of the power of the press, and to his desire thus to win for christ myriads of those whom his voice cannot reach. to all who are hovering around the "wicket gate," or who even from time to time come within sight of it and wish they were safe within it, this little book is commended, with the hope that even while they are reading they will knock and it shall be opened to them. contents. page awakening 9 jesus only 16 faith in the person of the lord jesus 24 faith very simple 35 fearing to believe 48 difficulty in the way of believing 57 a helpful survey of christ's work 65 a real hindrance to faith 73 on raising questions 80 without faith no salvation 88 to those who have believed 93 [illustration] [illustration] around the wicket gate. awakening. great numbers of persons have no concern about eternal things. they care more about their cats and dogs than about their souls. it is a great mercy to be made to think about ourselves, and how we stand towards god and the eternal world. this is full often a sign that salvation is coming to us. by nature we do not like the anxiety which spiritual concern causes us, and we try, like sluggards, to sleep again. this is great foolishness; for it is at our peril that we trifle when death is so near, and judgment is so sure. if the lord has chosen us to eternal life, he will not let us return to our slumber. if we are sensible, we shall pray that our anxiety about our souls may never come to an end till we are really and truly saved. let us say from our hearts:- "he that suffered in my stead, shall my physician be; i will not be comforted, till jesus comfort me." it would be an awful thing to go dreaming down to hell, and there to lift up our eyes with a great gulf fixed between us and heaven. it will be equally terrible to be aroused to escape from the wrath to come, and then to shake off the warning influence, and go back to our insensibility. i notice that those who overcome their convictions and continue in their sins are not so easily moved the next time: every awakening which is thrown away leaves the soul more drowsy than before, and less likely to be again stirred to holy feeling. therefore our heart should be greatly troubled at the thought of getting rid of its trouble in any other than the right way. one who had the gout was cured of it by a quack medicine, which drove the disease within, and the patient died. to be cured of distress of mind by a false hope, would be a terrible business: the remedy would be worse than the disease. better far that our tenderness of conscience should cause us long years of anguish, than that we should lose it, and perish in the hardness of our hearts. yet awakening is not a thing to rest in, or to desire to have lengthened out month after month. if i start up in a fright, and find my house on fire, i do not sit down at the edge of the bed, and say to myself, "i hope i am truly awakened! indeed, i am deeply grateful that i am not left to sleep on!" no, i want to escape from threatened death, and so i hasten to the door or to the window, that i may get out, and may not perish where i am. it would be a questionable boon to be aroused, and yet not to escape from the danger. remember, awakening is not salvation. a man may know that he is lost, and yet he may never be saved. he may be made thoughtful, and yet he may die in his sins. if you find out that you are a bankrupt, the consideration of your debts will not pay them. a man may examine his wounds all the year around, and they will be none the nearer being healed because he feels their smart, and notes their number. it is one trick of the devil to tempt a man to be satisfied with a sense of sin; and another trick of the same deceiver to insinuate that the sinner may not be content to trust christ, unless he can bring a certain measure of despair to add to the saviour's finished work. our awakenings are not to help the saviour, but to help us to the saviour. to imagine that my feeling of sin is to assist in the removal of the sin is absurd. it is as though i said that water could not cleanse my face unless i had looked longer in the glass, and had counted the smuts upon my forehead. a sense of need of salvation by grace is a very healthful sign; but one needs wisdom to use it aright, and not to make an idol of it. some seem as if they had fallen in love with their doubts, and fears, and distresses. you cannot get them away from their terrors--they seem wedded to them. it is said that the worst trouble with horses when their stables are on fire, is that you cannot get them to come out of their stalls. if they would but follow your lead, they might escape the flames; but they seem to be paralyzed with fear. so the fear of the fire prevents their escaping the fire. reader, will your very fear of the wrath to come prevent your escaping from it? we hope not. one who had been long in prison was not willing to come out. the door was open; but he pleaded even with tears to be allowed to stay where he had been so long. fond of prison! wedded to the iron bolts and the prison fare! surely the prisoner must have been a little touched in the head! are you willing to remain an awakened one, and nothing more? are you not eager to be at once forgiven? if you would tarry in anguish and dread, surely you, too, must be a little out of your mind! if peace is to be had, _have it at once_! why tarry in the darkness of the pit, wherein your feet sink in the miry clay? there is light to be had; light marvellous and heavenly; why lie in the gloom and die in anguish? you do not know how near salvation is to you. if you did, you would surely stretch out your hand and take it, for there it is; and _it is to be had for the taking_. do not think that feelings of despair would fit you for mercy. when the pilgrim, on his way to the wicket gate, tumbled into the slough of despond, do you think that, when the foul mire of that slough stuck to his garments, it was a recommendation to him, to get him easier admission at the head of the way? it is not so. the pilgrim did not think so by any means; neither may you. it is not what _you_ feel that will save you, but what _jesus_ felt. even if there were some healing value in feelings, they would have to be good ones; and the feeling which makes us doubt the power of christ to save, and prevents our finding salvation in him, is by no means a good one, but a cruel wrong to the love of jesus. our friend has come to see us, and has travelled through our crowded london by rail, or tram, or omnibus. on a sudden he turns pale. we ask him what is the matter, and he answers, "i have lost my pocket-book, and it contained all the money i have in the world." he goes over the amount to a penny, and describes the cheques, bills, notes, and coins. we tell him that it must be a great consolation to him to be so accurately acquainted with the extent of his loss. he does not seem to see the worth of our consolation. we assure him that he ought to be grateful that he has so clear a sense of his loss; for many persons might have lost their pocket-books and have been quite unable to compute their losses. our friend is not, however, cheered in the least. "no," says he, "to know my loss does not help me to recover it. tell me where i can find my property, and you have done me real service; but merely to know my loss is no comfort whatever." even so, to believe that you have sinned, and that your soul is forfeited to the justice of god, is a very proper thing; but it will not save. salvation is not by our knowing our own ruin, but by fully grasping the deliverance provided in christ jesus. a person who refuses to look to the lord jesus, but persists in dwelling upon his sin and ruin, reminds us of a boy who dropped a shilling down an open grating of a london sewer, and lingered there for hours, finding comfort in saying, "it rolled in just there! just between those two iron bars i saw it go right down." poor soul! long might he remember the details of his loss before he would in this way get back a single penny into his pocket, wherewith to buy himself a piece of bread. you see the drift of the parable; profit by it. [illustration] [illustration] jesus only. we cannot, too often or too plainly tell the seeking soul that his only hope for salvation lies in the lord jesus christ. it lies in him completely, only, and alone. to save both from the guilt and the power of sin, jesus is all-sufficient. his name is called jesus, because "he shall save his people from their sins." "the son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins." he is exalted on high "to give repentance and remission of sins." it pleased god from of old to devise a method of salvation which should be all contained in his only-begotten son. the lord jesus, for the working out of this salvation, became man, and being found in fashion as a man, became obedient to death, even the death of the cross. if another way of deliverance had been possible, the cup of bitterness would have passed from him. it stands to reason that the darling of heaven would not have died to save us if we could have been rescued at less expense. infinite grace provided the great sacrifice; infinite love submitted to death for our sakes. how can we dream that there can be another way than the way which god has provided at such cost, and set forth in holy scripture so simply and so pressingly? surely it is true that "neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved." to suppose that the lord jesus has only half saved men, and that there is needed some work or feeling of their own to finish his work, is wicked. what is there of ours that could be added to his blood and righteousness? "all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags." can these be patched on to the costly fabric of his divine righteousness? rags and fine white linen! our dross and his pure gold! it is an insult to the saviour to dream of such a thing. we have sinned enough, without adding this to all our other offences. even if we had any righteousness in which we could boast; if our fig leaves were broader than usual, and were not so utterly fading, it would be wisdom to put them away, and accept that righteousness which must be far more pleasing to god than anything of our own. the lord must see more that is acceptable in his son than in the best of us. _the best of us!_ the words seem satirical, though they were not so intended. what best is there about any of us? "there is none that doeth good; no, not one." i who write these lines, would most freely confess that i have not a thread of goodness of my own. i could not make up so much as a rag, or a piece of a rag. i am utterly destitute. but if i had the fairest suit of good works which even pride can imagine, i would tear it up that i might put on nothing but the garments of salvation, which are freely given by the lord jesus, out of the heavenly wardrobe of his own merits. it is most glorifying to our lord jesus christ that we should hope for every good thing from him alone. this is to treat him as he deserves to be treated; for as he is god, and beside him there is none else, we are bound to look unto him and be saved. this is to treat him as he loves to be treated, for he bids all those who labour and are heavy laden to come to him, and he will give them rest. to imagine that he cannot save to the uttermost is to limit the holy one of israel, and put a slur upon his power; or else to slander the loving heart of the friend of sinners, and cast a doubt upon his love. in either case; we should commit a cruel and wanton sin against the tenderest points of his honour, which are his ability and willingness to save all that come unto god by him. [illustration] the child, in danger of the fire, just clings to the fireman, and trusts to him alone. she raises no question about the strength of his limbs to carry her, or the zeal of his heart to rescue her; but she clings. the heat is terrible, the smoke is blinding, but she clings; and her deliverer quickly bears her to safety. in the same childlike confidence cling to jesus, who can and will bear you out of danger from the flames of sin. the nature of the lord jesus should inspire us with the fullest confidence. as he is god, he is almighty to save; as he is man, he is filled with all fulness to bless; as he is god and man in one majestic person, he meets man in his creatureship and god in his holiness. the ladder is long enough to reach from jacob prostrate on the earth, to jehovah reigning in heaven. to bring another ladder would be to suppose that he failed to bridge the distance; and this would be grievously to dishonour him. if even to add to his words is to draw a curse upon ourselves, what must it be to pretend to add to himself? remember that he, himself, is the way; and to suppose that we must, in some manner, add to the divine road, is to be arrogant enough to think of adding to him. away with such a notion! loathe it as you would blasphemy; for in essence it is the worst of blasphemy against the lord of love. to come to jesus with a price in our hand, would be insufferable pride, even if we had any price that we could bring. what does he need of us? what could we bring if he did need it? would he sell the priceless blessings of his redemption? that which he wrought out in his heart's blood, would he barter it with us for our tears, and vows, or for ceremonial observances, and feelings, and works? he is not reduced to make a market of himself: he will give freely, as beseems his royal love; but he that offereth a price to him knows not with whom he is dealing, nor how grievously he vexes his free spirit. empty-handed sinners may have what they will. all that they can possibly need is in jesus, and he gives it for the asking; but we must believe that he is all in all, and we must not dare to breathe a word about completing what he has finished, or fitting ourselves for what he gives to us as undeserving sinners. the reason why we may hope for forgiveness of sin, and life eternal, by faith in the lord jesus, is that god has so appointed. he has pledged himself in the gospel to save all who truly trust in the lord jesus, and he will never run back from his promise. he is so well pleased with his only-begotten son, that he takes pleasure in all who lay hold upon him as their one and only hope. the great god himself has taken hold on him who has taken hold on his son. he works salvation for all who look for that salvation to the once-slain redeemer. for the honour of his son, he will not suffer the man who trusts in him to be ashamed. "he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life;" for the ever-living god has taken him unto himself, and has given to him to be a partaker of his life. if jesus only be your trust, you need not fear but what you shall effectually be saved, both now and in the day of his appearing. when a man confides, there is a point of union between him and god, and that union guarantees blessing. faith saves us because it makes us cling to christ jesus, and he is one with god, and thus brings us into connection with god. i am told that, years ago, above the falls of niagara, a boat was upset, and two men were being carried down by the current, when persons on the shore managed to float a rope out to them, which rope was seized by them both. one of them held fast to it, and was safely drawn to the bank; but the other, seeing a great log come floating by, unwisely let go the rope, and clung to the great piece of timber, for it was the bigger thing of the two, and apparently better to cling to. alas! the timber, with the man on it, went right over the vast abyss, because there was no union between the wood and the shore. the size of the log was no benefit to him who grasped it; it needed a connection with the shore to produce safety. so, when a man trusts to his works, or to his prayers, or almsgivings, or to sacraments, or to anything of that sort, he will not be saved, because there is no junction between him and god through christ jesus; but faith, though it may seem to be like a slender cord, is in the hand of the great god on the shore side; infinite power pulls in the connecting line, and thus draws the man from destruction. oh, the blessedness of faith, because it unites us to god by the saviour, whom he has appointed, even jesus christ! o reader, is there not common-sense in this matter? think it over, and may there soon be a band of union between you and god, through your faith in christ jesus! [illustration] faith in the person of the lord jesus. there is a wretched tendency among men to leave christ himself out of the gospel. they might as well leave flour out of bread. men hear the way of salvation explained, and consent to it as being scriptural, and in every way such as suits their case; but they forget that a plan is of no service unless it is carried out; and that in the matter of salvation their own personal faith in the lord jesus is essential. a road to york will not take me there, i must travel along it for myself. all the sound doctrine that ever was believed will never save a man unless he puts his trust in the lord jesus for himself. mr. macdonald asked the inhabitants of the island of st. kilda how a man must be saved. an old man replied, "we shall be saved if we repent, and forsake our sins, and turn to god." "yes," said a middle-aged female, "and with a true heart too." "ay," rejoined a third, "and with prayer"; and, added a fourth, "it must be the prayer of the heart." "and we must be diligent too," said a fifth, "in keeping the commandments." thus, each having contributed his mite, feeling that a very decent creed had been made up, they all looked and listened for the preacher's approbation; but they had aroused his deepest pity: he had to begin at the beginning, and preach christ to them. the carnal mind always maps out for itself a way in which self can work and become great; but the lord's way is quite the reverse. the lord jesus puts it very compactly in mark xvi. 16: "he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved." believing and being baptized are no matters of merit to be gloried in; they are so simple that boasting is excluded, and free grace bears the palm. this way of salvation is chosen that it might be seen to be of grace alone. it may be that the reader is unsaved: what is the reason? do you think the way of salvation, as laid down in the text we have quoted, to be dubious? do you fear that you would not be saved if you followed it? how can that be, when god has pledged his own word for its certainty? how can that fail which god prescribes, and concerning which he gives a promise? do you think it very easy? why, then, do you not attend to it? its ease leaves those without excuse who neglect it. if you would have done some great thing, be not so foolish as to neglect the little thing. to believe is to trust, or lean upon christ jesus; in other words, to give up self-reliance, and to rely upon the lord jesus. to be baptized is to submit to the ordinance which our lord fulfilled at jordan, to which the converted ones submitted at pentecost, to which the jailer yielded obedience on the very night of his conversion. it is the outward confession which should always go with inward faith. the outward sign saves not; but it sets forth to us our death, burial, and resurrection with jesus, and, like the lord's supper, it is not to be neglected. the great point is to believe in jesus, and confess your faith. do you believe in jesus? then, dear friend, dismiss your fears; you shall be saved. are you still an unbeliever? then remember, there is but one door, and if you will not enter by it, you must perish in your sins. the door is there; but unless you enter by it, what is the use of it to you? it is of necessity that you obey the command of the gospel. nothing can save you if you do not hear the voice of jesus, and do his bidding indeed and of a truth. thinking and resolving will not answer the purpose; you must come to real business; for only as you actually believe will you truly live unto god. i heard of a friend who deeply desired to be the means of the conversion of a young man, and one said to him, "you may go to him, and talk to him, but you will get him no further; for he is exceedingly well acquainted with the plan of salvation." it was eminently so; and therefore, when our friend began to speak with the young man, he received for an answer, "i am much obliged to you, but i do not know that you can tell me much, for i have long known and admired the plan of salvation by the substitutionary sacrifice of christ." alas! he was resting in _the plan_, but he had not believed in _the person_. the plan of salvation is most blessed, but it can avail us nothing unless we personally believe in the lord jesus christ himself. what is the comfort of a plan of a house if you do not enter the house itself? the man in our cut, who is sitting out in the rain, is not deriving much comfort from the plans which are spread out before him. what is the good of a plan of clothing if you have not a rag to cover you? have you never heard of the arab chief at cairo, who was very ill, and went to the missionary, and the missionary said he could give him a prescription? he did so; and a week after he found the arab none the better. did you take my prescription?" he asked. "yes, i ate every morsel of the paper." he dreamed that he was going to be cured by devouring the physician's writing, which i may call the plan of the medicine. he should have had the prescription made up, and then it might have wrought him good, if he had taken the draught: it could do him no good to swallow the recipe. so is it with salvation: it is not the plan of salvation which can save, it is the carrying out of that plan by the lord jesus in his death on our behalf, and our acceptance of the same. under the jewish law, the offerer brought a bullock, and laid his hands upon it: it was no dream, or theory, or plan. in the victim for sacrifice he found something substantial, which he could handle and touch: even so do we lean upon the real and true work of jesus, the most substantial thing under heaven. we come to the lord jesus by faith, and say, "god has provided an atonement here, and i accept it. i believe in the fact accomplished on the cross; i am confident that sin was put away by christ, and i rest on him." if you would be saved, you must get beyond the acceptance of plans and doctrines to a resting in the divine person and finished work of the lord jesus christ. dear reader, will you have christ now? [illustration] jesus invites all those who labour and are heavy laden to come to him, and he will give them rest. he does not promise this to their merely dreaming about him. they must come; and they must come to him, and not merely to the church, to baptism, or to the orthodox faith, or to anything short of his divine person. when the brazen serpent was lifted up in the wilderness, the people were not to look to moses, nor to the tabernacle, nor to the pillar of cloud, but to the brazen serpent itself. looking was not enough unless they looked to the right object: and the right object was not enough unless they looked. it was not enough for them to know about the serpent of brass; they must each one look to it for himself. when a man is ill, he may have a good knowledge of medicine, and yet he may die if he does not actually take the healing draught. we must receive jesus; for "to as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of god." lay the emphasis on two words: _we must receive_ him, and _we must_ receive _him_. we must open wide the door, and take christ jesus in; for "christ in you" is "the hope of glory." christ must be no myth, no dream, no phantom to us, but a real man, and truly god; and our reception of him must be no forced and feigned acceptance, but the hearty and happy assent and consent of the soul that he shall be the all in all of our salvation. will we not at once come to him, and make him our sole trust? [illustration] the dove is hunted by the hawk, and finds no security from its restless enemy. it has learned that there is shelter for it in the cleft of the rock, and it hastens there with gladsome wing. once wholly sheltered within its refuge, it fears no bird of prey. but if it did not hide itself in the rock, it would be seized upon by its adversary. the rock would be of no use to the dove, if the dove did not enter its cleft. the whole body must be hidden in the rock. what if ten thousand other birds found a fortress there, yet that fact would not save the one dove which is now pursued by the hawk! it must put its whole self into the shelter, and bury itself within its refuge, or its life will be forfeited to the destroyer. what a picture of faith is this! it is entering into jesus, hiding in his wounds. "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee." the dove is out of sight: the rock alone is seen. so does the guilty soul dart into the riven side of jesus by faith, and is buried in him out of sight of avenging justice. but there must be this personal application to jesus for shelter; and this it is that so many put off from day to day, till it is to be feared that they will "die in their sins." what an awful word is that! it is what our lord said to the unbelieving jews; and he says the same to us at this hour: "if ye believe not that i am he, ye shall die in your sins." it makes one's heart quiver to think that even one who shall read these lines may yet be of the miserable company who will thus perish. the lord prevent it of his great grace! i saw, the other day, a remarkable picture, which i shall use as an illustration of the way of salvation by faith in jesus. an offender had committed a crime for which he must die, but it was in the olden time, when churches were considered to be sanctuaries in which criminals might hide themselves, and so escape from death. see the transgressor! he rushes towards the church, the guards pursue him with their drawn swords, athirst for his blood! they follow him even to the church door. he rushes up the steps, and just as they are about to overtake him, and hew him in pieces on the threshold of the church, out comes the bishop, and holding up the cross, he cries, "back, back! stain not the precincts of god's house with blood! stand back!" the fierce soldiers at once respect the emblem, and retire, while the poor fugitive hides himself behind the robes of the bishop. it is even so with christ. the guilty sinner flies straight away to jesus; and though justice pursues him, christ lifts up his wounded hands, and cries to justice, "stand back! i shelter this sinner; in the secret place of my tabernacle do i hide him; i will not suffer him to perish, for he puts his trust in me." sinner, fly to christ! but you answer, "i am too vile." the viler you are, the more will you honour him by believing that he is able to protect even you. "but i am so great a sinner." then the more honour shall be given to him if you have faith to confide in him, great sinner though you are. if you have a little sickness, and you tell your physician--"sir, i am quite confident in your skill to heal," there is no great compliment in your declaration. anybody can cure a finger-ache, or a trifling sickness. but if you are sore sick with a complication of diseases which grievously torment you, and you say--"sir, i seek no better physician; i will ask no other advice but yours; i trust myself joyfully with you;" what an honour have you conferred on him, that you can trust your life in his hands while it is in extreme and immediate danger! do the like with christ; put your soul into his care: do it deliberately, and without a doubt. dare to quit all other hopes: venture all on jesus; i say "venture" though there is nothing really venturesome in it, for he is abundantly able to save. cast yourself simply on jesus; let nothing but faith be in your soul towards jesus; believe him, and trust in him, and you shall never be made ashamed of your confidence. "he that believeth on him shall not be confounded" (1 peter ii. 6). [illustration] faith very simple. to many, faith seems a hard thing. the truth is, _it is only hard because it is easy_. naaman thought it hard that he should have to wash in jordan; but if it had been some great thing, he would have done it right cheerfully. people think that salvation must be the result of some act or feeling, very mysterious, and very difficult; but god's thoughts are not our thoughts, neither are his ways our ways. in order that the feeblest and the most ignorant may be saved, he has made the way of salvation as easy as the a, b, c. there is nothing about it to puzzle anyone; only, as everybody expects to be puzzled by it, many are quite bewildered when they find it to be so exceedingly simple. the fact is, we do not believe that god means what he is saying; we act as if it could not be true. [illustration] i have heard of a sunday-school teacher who performed an experiment which i do not think i shall ever try with children, for it might turn out to be a very expensive one. indeed, i feel sure that the result in my case would be very different from what i now describe. this teacher had been trying to illustrate what faith was, and, as he could not get it into the minds of his boys, he took his watch, and he said, "now, i will give you this watch, john. will you have it?" john fell thinking what the teacher could mean, and did not seize the treasure, but made no answer. the teacher said to the next boy, "henry, here is the watch. will you have it?" the boy, with a very proper modesty, replied, "no, thank you, sir." the teacher tried several of the boys with the same result; till at last a youngster, who was not so wise or so thoughtful as the others, but rather more believing, said in the most natural way, "thank you, sir," and put the watch into his pocket. then the other boys woke up to a startling fact: their companion had received a watch which they had refused. one of the boys quickly asked of the teacher, "is he to keep it?" "of course he is," said the teacher, "i offered it to him, and he accepted it. i would not give a thing and take a thing: that would be very foolish. i put the watch before you, and said that i gave it to you, but none of you would have it." "oh!" said the boy, "if i had known you meant it, i would have had it." of course he would. he thought it was a piece of acting, and nothing more. all the other boys were in a dreadful state of mind to think that they had lost the watch. each one cried, "teacher, i did not know you meant it, _but i thought_--" no one took the gift; but every one _thought_. each one had his theory, except the simple-minded boy who believed what he was told, and got the watch. now i wish that i could always be such a simple child as literally to believe what the lord says, and take what he puts before me, resting quite content that he is not playing with me, and that i cannot be wrong in accepting what he sets before me in the gospel. happy should we be if we would trust, and raise no questions of any sort. but, alas! we will get thinking and doubting. when the lord uplifts his dear son before a sinner, that sinner should take him without hesitation. if you take him, you have him; and none can take him from you. out with your hand, man, and take him at once! when enquirers accept the bible as literally true, and see that jesus is really given to all who trust him, all the difficulty about understanding the way of salvation vanishes like the morning's frost at the rising of the sun. two enquiring ones came to me in my vestry. they had been hearing the gospel from me for only a short season, but they had been deeply impressed by it. they expressed their regret that they were about to remove far away, but they added their gratitude that they had heard me at all. i was cheered by their kind thanks, but felt anxious that a more effectual work should be wrought in them, and therefore i asked them, "have you in very deed believed in the lord jesus christ? are you saved?" one of them replied, "i have been trying hard to believe." this statement i have often heard, but i will never let it go by me unchallenged. "no," i said, "that will not do. did you ever tell your father that you tried to believe him?" after i had dwelt a while upon the matter, they admitted that such language would have been an insult to their father. i then set the gospel very plainly before them in as simple language as i could, and i begged them to believe jesus, who is more worthy of faith than the best of fathers. one of them replied, "i cannot realize it: i cannot realize that i am saved." then i went on to say, "god bears testimony to his son, that whosoever trusts in his son is saved. will you make him a liar now, or will you believe his word?" while i thus spoke, one of them started as if astonished, and she startled us all as she cried, "o sir, i see it all; i am saved! oh, do bless jesus for me; he has shown me the way, and he has saved me! i see it all." the esteemed sister who had brought these young friends to me knelt down with them while, with all our hearts, we blessed and magnified the lord for a soul brought into light. one of the two sisters, however, could not see the gospel as the other had done, though i feel sure she will do so before long. did it not seem strange that, both hearing the same words, one should come out into clear light, and the other should remain in the gloom? the change which comes over the heart when the understanding grasps the gospel is often reflected in the face, and shines there like the light of heaven. such newly-enlightened souls often exclaim, "why, sir, it is so plain; how is it i have not seen it before this? i understand all i have read in the bible now, though i could not make it out before. it has all come in a minute, and now i see what i could never understand before." the fact is, the truth was always plain, but they were looking for signs and wonders, and therefore did not see what was nigh them. old men often look for their spectacles when they are on their foreheads; and it is commonly observed that we fail to see that which is straight before us. christ jesus is before our faces, and we have only to look to him, and live; but we make all manner of bewilderment of it, and so manufacture a maze out of that which is plain as a pikestaff. the little incident about the two sisters reminds me of another. a much-esteemed friend came to me one sabbath morning after service, to shake hands with me, "for," said she, "i was fifty years old on the same day as yourself. i am like you in that one thing, sir; but i am the very reverse of you in better things." i remarked, "then you must be a very good woman; for in many things i wish i also could be the reverse of what i am." "no, no," she said, "i did not mean anything of that sort: i am not right at all." "what!" i cried, "are you not a believer in the lord jesus?" "well," she said, with much emotion, "i, i will try to be." i laid hold of her hand, and said, "my dear soul, you are not going to tell me that you will try to believe my lord jesus! i cannot have such talk from you. it means blank unbelief. what has he done that you should talk of him in that way? would you tell _me_ that you would try to believe _me_? i know you would not treat me so rudely. you think me a true man, and so you believe me at once; and surely you cannot do less with my lord jesus." then with tears she exclaimed, "oh, sir, do pray for me!" to this i replied, "i do not feel that i can do anything of the kind. what can i ask the lord jesus to do for one who will not trust him? i see nothing to pray about. if you will believe him, you shall be saved; and if you will not believe him, i cannot ask him to invent a new way to gratify your unbelief." then she said again, "i will try to believe"; but i told her solemnly i would have none of her trying; for the message from the lord did not mention "trying," but said, "believe in the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved." i pressed upon her the great truth, that "he that believeth on him hath everlasting life"; and its terrible reverse-"he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only-begotten son of god." i urged her to full faith in the once crucified but now ascended lord, and the holy spirit there and then enabled her to trust. she most tenderly said, "oh, sir, i have been looking to my feelings, and this has been my mistake! now i trust my soul with jesus, and i am saved." she found immediate peace through believing. there is no other way. [illustration] god has been pleased to make the necessities of life very simple matters. we must eat; and even a blind man can find the way to his mouth. we must drink; and even the tiniest babe knows how to do this without instruction. we have a fountain in the grounds of the stockwell orphanage, and when it is running in the hot weather, the boys go to it naturally. we have no class for fountain-drill. many poor boys have come to the orphanage, but never one who was so ignorant that he did not know how to drink. now faith is, in spiritual things, what eating and drinking are in temporal things. by the mouth of faith we take the blessings of grace into our spiritual nature, and they are ours. o you who would believe, but think you cannot, do you not see that, as one can drink without strength, and as one can eat without strength, and gets strength by eating, so we may receive jesus without effort, and by accepting him we receive power for all such further effort as we may be called to put forth? faith is so simple a matter that, whenever i try to explain it, i am very fearful lest i should becloud its simplicity. when thomas scott had printed his notes upon "the pilgrim's progress," he asked one of his parishioners whether she understood the book. "oh yes, sir," said she, "i understand mr. bunyan well enough, and i am hoping that one day, by divine grace, i may understand your explanations." should i not feel mortified if my reader should know what faith is, and then get confused by my explanation? i will, however, make one trial, and pray the lord to make it clear. [illustration] i am told that on a certain highland road there was a disputed right of way. the owner wished to preserve his supremacy, and at the same time he did not wish to inconvenience the public: hence an arrangement which occasioned the following incident. seeing a sweet country girl standing at the gate, a tourist went up to her, and offered her a shilling to permit him to pass. "no, no," said the child, "i must not take anything from you; but you are to say, '_please allow me to pass_,' and then you may come through and welcome." the permission was to be asked for; but it could be had for the asking. just so, eternal life is free; and it can be had, yea, it shall be at once had, by trusting in the word of him who cannot lie. trust christ, and by that trust you grasp salvation and eternal life. do not philosophize. do not sit down, and bother your poor brain. just believe jesus as you would believe your father. trust him as you trust your money with a banker, or your health with a doctor. faith will not long seem a difficulty to you; nor ought it to be so, for it is simple. faith is trusting, trusting wholly upon the person, work, merit, and power of the son of god. some think this trusting is a romantic business, but indeed it is the simplest thing that can possibly be. to some of us, truths which were once hard to believe are now matters of fact which we should find it hard to doubt. if one of our great grand-fathers were to rise from the dead, and come into the present state of things, what a deal of trusting he would have to do! he would say to-morrow morning, "where are the flint and steel? i want a light;" and we should give him a little box with tiny pieces of wood in it, and tell him to strike one of them on the box. he would have to trust a good deal before he would believe that fire would thus be produced. we should next say to him, "now that you have a light, turn that tap, and light the gas." he sees nothing. how can light come through an invisible vapour? and yet it does. "come with us, grandfather. sit in that chair. look at that box in front of you. you shall have your likeness directly." "no, child," he would say, "it is ridiculous. the sun take my portrait? i cannot believe it." "yes, and you shall ride fifty miles in an hour without horses." he will not believe it till we get him into the train. "my dear sir, you shall speak to your son in new york, and he shall answer you in a few minutes." should we not astonish the old gentleman? would he not want all his faith? yet these things are believed by us without effort, because experience has made us familiar with them. faith is greatly needed by you who are strangers to spiritual things; you seem lost while we are talking about them. but oh, how simple it is to us who have the new life, and have communion with spiritual realities! we have a father to whom we speak, and he hears us, and a blessed saviour who hears our heart's longings, and helps us in our struggles against sin. it is all plain to him that understandeth. may it now be plain to you! [illustration] fearing to believe. it is an odd product of our unhealthy nature--_the fear to believe_. yet have i met with it often: so often that i wish i may never see it again. it looks like humility, and tries to pass itself off as the very soul of modesty, and yet it is an infamously proud thing: in fact, it is presumption playing the hypocrite. if men were afraid to _dis_believe, there would be good sense in the fear; but to be afraid to trust their god is at best an absurdity, and in very deed it is a deceitful way of refusing to the lord the honour that is due to his faithfulness and truth. how unprofitable is the diligence which busies itself in finding out reasons why faith in our case should not be saving! we have god's word for it, that _whosoever_ believeth in jesus shall not perish, and we search for arguments why _we_ should perish if we did believe. if any one gave me an estate, i certainly should not commence raising questions as to the title. what can be the use of inventing reasons why i should not hold my own house, or possess any other piece of property which is enjoyed by me? if the lord is satisfied to save me through the merits of his dear son, assuredly i may be satisfied to be so saved. if i take god at his word, the responsibility of fulfilling his promise does not lie with me, but with god, who made the promise. but you fear that you may not be one of those for whom the promise is intended. do not be alarmed by that idle suspicion. no soul ever came to jesus wrongly. no one can come at all unless the father draw him; and jesus has said, "him that cometh to me i will in no wise cast out." no soul ever lays hold on christ in a way of robbery; he that hath him hath him of right divine; for the lord's giving of himself _for_ us, and _to_ us, is so free, that every soul that takes him has a grace-given right to do so. if you lay hold on jesus by the hem of his garment, without leave, and behind him, yet virtue will flow from him to you as surely as if he had called you out by name, and bidden you trust him. dismiss all fear when you trust the saviour. take him and welcome. he that believeth in jesus is one of god's elect. did you suggest that it would be a horrible thing if you were to trust in jesus and yet perish? it would be so. but as you must perish if you do not trust, the risk at the worst is not very great. "i can but perish if i go; i am resolved to try; for if i stay away, i know i must for ever die." suppose you stand in the slough of despond for ever; what will be the good of that? surely it would be better to die struggling along the king's highway towards the celestial city, than sinking deeper and deeper in the mire and filth of dark distrustful thoughts! you have nothing to lose, for you have lost everything already; therefore make a dash for it, and dare to believe in the mercy of god to you, even to you. [illustration] but one moans, "what if i come to christ, and he refuses me?" my answer is, "try him." cast yourself on the lord jesus, and see if he refuses you. you will be the first against whom he has shut the door of hope. friend, don't cross that bridge till you come to it! when jesus casts you out, it will be time enough to despair; but that time will never come. "this man receiveth sinners": he has not so much as begun to cast them out. have you never heard of the man who lost his way one night, and came to the edge of a precipice, as he thought, and in his own apprehension fell over the cliff? he clutched at an old tree, and there hung, clinging to his frail support with all his might. he felt persuaded that, should he quit his hold, he would be dashed in pieces on some awful rocks that waited for him down below. there he hung, with the sweat upon his brow, and anguish in every limb. he passed into a desperate state of fever and faintness, and at last his hands could hold up his body no longer. he relaxed his grasp! he dropped from his support! he fell--about a foot or so, and was received upon a soft mossy bank, whereon he lay, altogether unhurt, and perfectly safe till morning. thus, in the darkness of their ignorance, many think that sure destruction awaits them, if they confess their sin, quit all hope in self, and resign themselves into the hands of god. they are afraid to quit the hope to which they ignorantly cling. it is an idle fear. give up your hold upon everything but christ, and drop. drop from all trust in your works, or prayers, or feelings. drop at once! drop now! soft and safe shall be the bank that receives you. jesus christ, in his love, in the efficacy of his precious blood, in his perfect righteousness, will give you immediate rest and peace. cease from self-confidence. fall into the arms of jesus. this is the major part of faith--giving up every other hold, and simply falling upon christ. there is no reason for fear: only ignorance causes your dread of that which will be your eternal safety. the death of carnal hope is the life of faith, and the life of faith is life everlasting. let self die, that christ may live in you. but the mischief is that, to the one act of faith in jesus, we cannot bring men. they will adopt any expedient sooner than have done with self. they fight shy of believing, and fear faith as if it were a monster. o foolish tremblers, who has bewitched you? you fear that which would be the death of all your fear, and the beginning of your joy. why will you perish through perversely preferring other ways to god's own appointed plan of salvation? alas! there are many, many souls that say, "we are bidden to trust in jesus, but instead of that we will attend the means of grace regularly." attend public worship by all means, but not as a substitute for faith, or it will become a vain confidence. the command is, "believe and live;" attend to that, whatever else you do. "well, i shall take to reading good books; perhaps i shall get good that way." read the good books by all means, but that is not the gospel: the gospel is, "believe in the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved." suppose a physician has a patient under his care, and he says to him, "you are to take a bath in the morning; it will be of very great service to your disease." but the man takes a cup of tea in the morning instead of the bath, and he says, "that will do as well, i have no doubt." what does his physician say when he enquires--"did you follow my rule?" "no, i did not." "then you do not expect, of course, that there will be any good result from my visits, since you take no notice of my directions." so we, practically, say to jesus christ, when we are under searching of soul, "lord, thou badest me trust thee, but i would sooner do something else! lord, i want to have horrible convictions; i want to be shaken over hell's mouth; i want to be alarmed and distressed!" yes, you want anything but what christ prescribes for you, which is that you should _simply trust him_. whether you feel or do not feel, cast yourself on him, that _he_ may save you, and he alone. "but you do not mean to say that you speak against praying, and reading good books, and so on?" not one single word do i speak against any of those things, any more than, if i were the physician i quoted, i should speak against the man's drinking a cup of tea. let him drink his tea; but not if he drinks it instead of taking the bath which is prescribed for him. so let the man pray: the more the better. let the man search the scriptures; but, remember, that if these things are put in the place of simple faith in christ, the soul will be ruined. beware lest it be said of any of you by our lord, "ye search the scriptures, for in them ye think ye have eternal life; but ye will not come unto me that ye might have life." [illustration] come by faith to jesus, for without him you perish for ever. did you ever notice how a fir-tree will get a hold among rocks which seem to afford it no soil? it sends a rootlet into any little crack which opens; it clutches even the bare rock as with a huge bird's claw; it holds fast, and binds itself to earth with a hundred anchorages. our little drawing is very accurate. we have often seen trees thus firmly rooted upon detached masses of bare rock. now, dear heart, let this be a picture of yourself. grip the rock of ages. with the rootlet of little-faith hold to him. let that tiny feeler grow; and, meanwhile, send out another to take a new grasp of the same rock. lay hold on jesus, and keep hold on jesus. grow up into him. twist the roots of your nature, the fibres of your heart, about him. he is as free to you as the rocks are to the fir-tree: be you as firmly lashed to him as the pine is to the mountain's side. [illustration] difficulty in the way of believing. it may be that the reader feels a difficulty in believing. let him consider. we cannot believe by an immediate act. the state of mind which we describe as believing is a result, following upon certain former states of mind. we come to faith by degrees. there may be such a thing as faith at first sight; but usually we reach faith by stages: we become interested, we consider, we hear evidence, we are convinced, and so led to believe. if, then, i wish to believe, but for some reason or other find that i cannot attain to faith, what shall i do? shall i stand like a cow staring at a new gate; or shall i, like an intelligent being, use the proper means? if i wish to believe anything, what shall i do? we will answer according to the rules of common-sense. if i were told that the sultan of zanzibar was a good man, and it happened to be a matter of interest to me, i do not suppose i should feel any difficulty in believing it. but if for some reason i had a doubt about it, and yet wished to believe the news, how should i act? should i not hunt up all the information within my reach about his majesty, and try, by study of the newspapers and other documents, to arrive at the truth? better still, if he happened to be in this country, and would see me, and i could also converse with members of his court, and citizens of his country, i should be greatly helped to arrive at a decision by using these sources of information. evidence weighed and knowledge obtained lead up to faith. it is true that faith in jesus is the gift of god; but yet he usually bestows it in accordance with the laws of mind, and hence we are told that "faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of god." if you want to believe in jesus, hear about him, read about him, think about him, know about him, and so you will find faith springing up in your heart, like the wheat which comes up through the moisture and the heat operating upon the seed which has been sown. if i wished to have faith in a certain physician, i should ask for testimonials of his cures, i should wish to see the diplomas which certified to his professional knowledge, and i should also like to hear what he has to say upon certain complicated cases. in fact, i should take means to know, in order that i might believe. [illustration] be much in _hearing_ concerning jesus. souls by hundreds come to faith in jesus under a ministry which sets him forth clearly and constantly. few remain unbelieving under a preacher whose great subject is christ crucified. hear no minister of any other sort. there are such. i have heard of one who found in his pulpit bible a paper bearing this text, "_sir, we would see jesus_." go to the place of worship to see jesus; and if you cannot even hear the mention of his name, take yourself off to another place where he is more thought of, and is therefore more likely to be present. be much in _reading_ about the lord jesus. the books of scripture are the lilies among which he feedeth. the bible is the window through which we may look and see our lord. read over the story of his sufferings and death with devout attention, and before long the lord will cause faith secretly to enter your soul. the cross of christ not only rewards faith, but begets faith. many a believer can say- "when i view thee, wounded, grieving, breathless, on the cursed tree, soon i feel my heart believing thou hast suffered thus for me." if hearing and reading suffice not, then deliberately _set your mind to work to overhaul the matter_, and have it out. either believe, or know the reason why you do not believe. see the matter through to the utmost of your ability, and pray god to help you to make a thorough investigation, and to come to an honest decision one way or the other. consider who jesus was, and whether the constitution of his person does not entitle him to confidence. consider what he did, and whether this also must not be good ground for trust. consider him as dying, rising from the dead, ascending, and ever living to intercede for transgressors; and see whether this does not entitle him to be relied on by you. then cry to him, and see if he does not hear you. when usher wished to know whether rutherford was indeed as holy a man as he was said to be, he went to his house as a beggar, and gained a lodging, and heard the man of god pouring out his heart before the lord in the night. if you would know jesus, get as near to him as you can by studying his character, and appealing to his love. at one time i might have needed evidence to make me believe in the lord jesus; but now i know him so well, by proving him, that i should need a very great deal of evidence to make me doubt him. it is now more natural to me to trust than to disbelieve: this is the new nature triumphing; it was not so at the first. the novelty of faith is, in the beginning, a source of weakness; but act after act of trusting turns faith into a habit. experience brings to faith strong confirmation. [illustration] i am not perplexed with doubt, because the truth which i believe has wrought a miracle on me. by its means i have received and still retain a new life, to which i was once a stranger: and this is confirmation of the strongest sort. i am like the good man and his wife who had kept a lighthouse for years. a visitor, who came to see the lighthouse, looking out from the window over the waste of waters, asked the good woman, "are you not afraid at night, when the storm is out, and the big waves dash right over the lantern? do you not fear that the lighthouse, and all that is in it, will be carried away? i am sure i should be afraid to trust myself in a slender tower in the midst of the great billows." the woman remarked that the idea never occurred to her now. she had lived there so long that she felt as safe on the lone rock as ever she did when she lived on the mainland. as for her husband, when asked if he did not feel anxious when the wind blew a hurricane, he answered, "yes, i feel anxious to keep the lamps well trimmed, and the light burning, lest any vessel should be wrecked." as to anxiety about the safety of the lighthouse, or his own personal security in it, he had outlived all that. even so it is with the full-grown believer. he can humbly say, "i know whom i have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which i have committed unto him against that day." from henceforth let no man trouble me with doubts and questionings; i bear in my soul the proofs of the spirit's truth and power, and i will have none of your artful reasonings. the gospel to me is truth: i am content to perish if it be not true. i risk my soul's eternal fate upon the truth of the gospel, and i know that there is no risk in it. my one concern is to keep the lights burning, that i may thereby benefit others. only let the lord give me oil enough to feed my lamp, so that i may cast a ray across the dark and treacherous sea of life, and i am well content. now, troubled seeker, if it be so, that your minister, and many others in whom you confide, have found perfect peace and rest in the gospel, why should not you? is the spirit of the lord straitened? do not his words do good to them that walk uprightly? will not you also try their saving virtue? most true is the gospel, for god is its author. believe it. most able is the saviour, for he is the son of god. trust him. most powerful is his precious blood. look to it for pardon. most loving is his gracious heart. run to it at once. thus would i urge the reader to seek faith; but if he be unwilling, what more can i do? i have brought the horse to the water, but i cannot make him drink. this, however, be it remembered--_unbelief is wilful when evidence is put in a man's way, and he refuses carefully to examine it_. he that does not desire to know, and accept the truth, has himself to thank if he dies with a lie in his right hand. it is true that "he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved": it is equally true that "he that believeth not shall be damned." [illustration] a helpful survey. to help the seeker to a true faith in jesus, i would remind him of the work of the lord jesus in the room and place and stead of sinners. "when we were yet without strength, in due time christ died for the ungodly" (rom. v. 6). "who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree" (1 pet. ii. 24). "the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all" (is. liii. 6). "for christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to god" (1 pet. iii. 18). upon one declaration of scripture let the reader fix his eye. "with his stripes we are healed" (is. liii. 5). god here treats sin as a disease, and he sets before us the costly remedy which he has provided. i ask you very solemnly to accompany me in your meditations, for a few minutes, while i bring before you the stripes of the lord jesus. the lord resolved to restore us, and therefore he sent his only-begotten son, "very god of very god," that he might descend into this world to take upon himself our nature, in order to our redemption. he lived as a man among men; and, in due time, after thirty years or more of obedience, the time came when he should do us the greatest service of all, namely, stand in our stead, and bear "the chastisement of our peace." he went to gethsemane, and there, at the first taste of our bitter cup, he sweat great drops of blood. he went to pilate's hall, and herod's judgment-seat, and there drank draughts of pain and scorn in our room and place. last of all, they took him to the cross, and nailed him there to die--to die in our stead. the word "stripes" is used to set forth his sufferings, both of body and of soul. the whole of christ was made a sacrifice for us: his whole manhood suffered. as to his body, it shared with his mind in a grief that never can be described. in the beginning of his passion, when he emphatically suffered instead of us, he was in an agony, and from his bodily frame a bloody sweat distilled so copiously as to fall to the ground. it is very rarely that a man sweats blood. there have been one or two instances of it, and they have been followed by almost immediate death; but our saviour lived--lived after an agony which, to anyone else, would have proved fatal. ere he could cleanse his face from this dreadful crimson, they hurried him to the high priest's hall. in the dead of night they bound him, and led him away. anon they took him to pilate and to herod. these scourged him, and their soldiers spat in his face, and buffeted him, and put on his head a crown of thorns. scourging is one of the most awful tortures that can be inflicted by malice. it was formerly the disgrace of the british army that the "cat" was used upon the soldier: a brutal infliction of torture. but to the roman, cruelty was so natural that he made his common punishments worse than brutal. the roman scourge is said to have been made of the sinews of oxen, twisted into knots, and into these knots were inserted slivers of bone, and huckle-bones of sheep; so that every time the scourge fell upon the bare back, "the plowers made deep furrows." our saviour was called upon to endure the fierce pain of the roman scourge, and this not as the _finis_ of his punishment, but as a preface to crucifixion. to this his persecutors added buffeting, and plucking of the hair: they spared him no form of pain. in all his faintness, through bleeding and fasting, they made him carry his cross until another was forced, by the forethought of their cruelty, to bear it, lest their victim should die on the road. they stripped him, and threw him down, and nailed him to the wood. they pierced his hands and his feet. they lifted up the tree, with him upon it, and then dashed it down into its place in the ground, so that all his limbs were dislocated, according to the lament of the twenty-second psalm, "i am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint." he hung in the burning sun till the fever dissolved his strength, and he said, "my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. my strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death." there he hung, a spectacle to god and men. the weight of his body was first sustained by his feet, till the nails tore through the tender nerves: and then the painful load began to drag upon his hands, and rend those sensitive parts of his frame. how small a wound in the hand has brought on lockjaw! how awful must have been the torment caused by that dragging iron tearing through the delicate parts of the hands and feet! now were all manner of bodily pains centred in his tortured frame. all the while his enemies stood around, pointing at him in scorn, thrusting out their tongues in mockery, jesting at his prayers, and gloating over his sufferings. he cried, "i thirst," and then they gave him vinegar mingled with gall. after a while he said, "it is finished." he had endured the utmost of appointed grief, and had made full vindication to divine justice: then, and not till then, he gave up the ghost. holy men of old have enlarged most lovingly upon the bodily sufferings of our lord, and i have no hesitation in doing the same, trusting that trembling sinners may see salvation in these painful "stripes" of the redeemer. to describe the outward sufferings of our lord is not easy: i acknowledge that i have failed. but his soul-sufferings, which were the soul of his sufferings, who can even conceive, much less express, what they were? at the very first i told you that he sweat great drops of blood. that was his heart driving out its life-floods to the surface through the terrible depression of spirit which was upon him. he said, "my soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death." the betrayal by judas, and the desertion of the twelve, grieved our lord; but the weight of our sin was the real pressure on his heart. our guilt was the olive-press which forced from him the moisture of his life. no language can ever tell his agony in prospect of his passion; how little then can we conceive the passion itself? when nailed to the cross, he endured what no martyr ever suffered; for martyrs, when they have died, have been so sustained of god that they have rejoiced amid their pain; but our redeemer was forsaken of his father, until he cried, "my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?" that was the bitterest cry of all, the utmost depth of his unfathomable grief. yet was it needful that he should be deserted, because god must turn his back on sin, and consequently upon him who was made sin for us. the soul of the great substitute suffered a horror of misery instead of that horror of hell into which sinners would have been plunged had he not taken their sin upon himself, and been made a curse for them. it is written, "cursed is every one that hangeth on a tree;" but who knows what that curse means? the remedy for your sins and mine is found in the substitutionary sufferings of the lord jesus, and in these only. these "stripes" of the lord jesus christ were on our behalf. do you enquire, "is there anything for us to do, to remove the guilt of sin?" i answer: there is nothing whatever for you to do. by the stripes of jesus we are healed. all those stripes he has endured, and left not one of them for us to bear. "but must we not believe on him?" ay, certainly. if i say of a certain ointment that it heals, i do not deny that you need a bandage with which to apply it to the wound. faith is the linen which binds the plaster of christ's reconciliation to the sore of our sin. the linen does not heal; that is the work of the ointment. so faith does not heal; that is the work of the atonement of christ. "but we must repent," cries another. assuredly we must, and shall, for repentance is the first sign of healing; but the stripes of jesus heal us, and not our repentance. these stripes, when applied to the heart, work repentance in us: we hate sin because it made jesus suffer. when you intelligently trust in jesus as having suffered for you, then you discover the fact that god will never punish you for the same offence for which jesus died. his justice will not permit him to see the debt paid, first, by the surety, and then again by the debtor. justice cannot twice demand a recompense: if my bleeding surety has borne my guilt, then i cannot bear it. accepting christ jesus as suffering for me, i have accepted a complete discharge from judicial liability. i have been condemned in christ, and there is, therefore, now no condemnation to me any more. this is the ground-work of the security of the sinner who believes in jesus: he lives because jesus died in his room, and place, and stead; and he is acceptable before god because jesus is accepted. the person for whom jesus is an accepted substitute must go free; none can touch him; he is clear. o my hearer, wilt thou have jesus christ to be thy substitute? if so, thou art free. "he that believeth on him is not condemned." thus "with his stripes we are healed." [illustration] a real hindrance. although it is by no means a difficult thing in itself to believe him who cannot lie, and to trust in one whom we know to be able to save, yet something may intervene which may render even this a hard thing to my reader. that hindrance may be a secret, and yet it may be none the less real. a door may be closed, not by a great stone which all can see, but by an invisible bolt which shoots into a holdfast quite out of sight. a man may have good eyes, and yet may not be able to see an object, because another substance comes in the way. you could not even see the sun if a handkerchief, or a mere piece of rag, were tied over your face. oh, the bandages which men persist in binding over their own eyes! a sweet sin, harboured in the heart, will prevent a soul from laying hold upon christ by faith. the lord jesus has come to save us from sinning; and if we are resolved to go on sinning, christ and our souls will never agree. if a man takes poison, and a doctor is called in to save his life, he may have a sure antidote ready; but if the patient persists in keeping the poison-bottle at his lips, and will continue to swallow the deadly drops, how can the doctor save him? salvation consists largely in parting the sinner from his sin, and the very nature of salvation would have to be changed before we could speak of a man's being saved when he is loving sin, and wilfully living in it. a man cannot be made white, and yet continue black; he cannot be healed, and yet remain sick; neither can anyone be saved, and be still a lover of evil. a drunkard will be saved by believing in christ--that is to say, he will be saved from being a drunkard; but if he determines still to make himself intoxicated, he is not saved from it, and he has not truly believed in jesus. a liar can by faith be saved from falsehood, but then he leaves off lying, and is careful to speak the truth. anyone can see with half an eye that he cannot be saved from being a liar, and yet go on in his old style of deceit and untruthfulness. a person who is at enmity with another will be saved from that feeling of enmity by believing in the lord jesus; but if he vows that he will still cherish the feeling of hate, it is clear that he is not saved from it, and equally clear that he has not believed in the lord jesus unto salvation. the great matter is to be delivered from the love of sin: this is the sure effect of trust in the saviour; but if this effect is so far from being desired that it is even refused, all talk of trusting in the saviour for salvation is an idle tale. a man goes to the shipping-office, and asks if he can be taken to america. he is assured that a ship is just ready, and that he has only to go on board, and he will soon reach new york. "but," says he, "i want to stop at home in england, and mind my shop all the time i am crossing the atlantic." the agent thinks he is talking to a madman, and tells him to go about his business, and not waste his time by playing the fool. to pretend to trust christ to save you from sin while you are still determined to continue in it, is making a mock of christ. i pray my reader not to be guilty of such profanity. let him not dream that the holy jesus will be the patron of iniquity. [illustration] do you see the tree in my picture? the ivy has grown all over it, and is strangling it, sucking out its life, and killing it. can that tree be saved? the gardener thinks it can be. he is willing to do his best. but before he begins to use his axe and his knife, he is told that he must not cut away the ivy. "ah! then," he says, "it is impossible. it is the ivy which is killing the tree, and if you want the tree saved, you cannot save the ivy. if you trust me to preserve the tree, you must let me get the deadly climber away from it." is not that common sense? certainly it is. you do not trust the tree to the gardener unless you trust him to cut away that which is deadly to it. if the sinner will keep his sin, he must die in it; if he is willing to be rescued from his sin, the lord jesus is able to do it, and will do it if he commits his case to his care. what, then, is your darling sin? is it any gross wrong-doing? then very shame should make you cease from it. is it love of the world, or fear of men, or longing for evil gains? surely, none of these things should reconcile you to living in enmity with god, and beneath his frown. is it a human love, which is eating like a canker into the heart? can any creature rival the lord jesus? is it not idolatry to allow any earthly thing to compare for one instant with the lord god? "well," saith one, "for me to give up the particular sin by which i am held captive, would be to my serious injury in business, would ruin my prospects, and lessen my usefulness in many ways." if it be so, you have your case met by the words of the lord jesus, who bids you to pluck out your eye, and cut off your hand or foot, and cast it from you, rather than be cast into hell. it is better to enter into life with one eye, with the poorest prospects, than to keep all your hopes, and be out of christ. better be a lame believer than a leaping sinner. better be in the rear rank for life in the army of christ than lead the van and be a chief officer under the command of satan. if you win christ, it will little matter what you lose. no doubt many have had to suffer that which has maimed and lamed them for this life; but if they have entered thereby into eternal life, they have been great gainers. it comes to this, my friend, as it did with john bunyan; a voice now speaks to you, and says- wilt thou keep thy sin and go to hell? or leave thy sin and go to heaven? the point should be decided before you quit the spot. in the name of god, i ask you, which shall it be--christ and salvation, or the favourite sin and damnation? there is no middle course. waiting or refusing to decide will practically be a sure decision for the evil one. he that stands questioning whether he will be honest or not, is already out of the straight line: he that does not know whether he wishes to be cleansed from sin gives evidence of a foul heart. if you are anxious to give up every evil way, our lord jesus will enable you to do so at once. his grace has already changed the direction of your desires: in fact, your heart is renewed. therefore, rest on him to strengthen you to battle with temptations as they arise, and to fulfil the lord's commands from day to day. the lord jesus is great at making the lame man to leap like a hart, and in enabling those who are sick of the palsy to take up their bed and walk. he will make you able to conquer the evil habit. he will even cast the devil out of you. yes, if you had seven devils, he could drive them out at once; there is no limit to his power to cleanse and sanctify. now that you are willing to be made whole, the great difficulty is removed. he that has set the will right can arrange all your other powers, and make them move to his praise. you would not have earnestly desired to quit all sin if he had not secretly inclined you in that direction. if you now trust him, it will be clear that he has begun a good work in you, and we feel assured that he will carry it on. [illustration] on raising questions. in these days, a simple, childlike faith is very rare; but the usual thing is to believe nothing, and question everything. doubts are as plentiful as blackberries, and all hands and lips are stained with them. to me it seems very strange that men should hunt up difficulties as to their own salvation. if i were doomed to die, and i had a hint of mercy, i am sure i should not set my wits to work to find out reasons why i should not be pardoned. i could leave my enemies to do that: i should be on the look-out in a very different direction. if i were drowning, i should sooner catch at a straw than push a life-belt away from me. to reason against one's own life is a sort of constructive suicide of which only a drunken man would be guilty. to argue against your only hope is like a foolish man sitting on a bough, and chopping it away so as to let himself down. who but an idiot would do that? yet many appear to be special pleaders for their own ruin. they hunt the bible through for threatening texts; and when they have done with that, they turn to reason, and philosophy, and scepticism, in order to shut the door in their own faces. surely this is poor employment for a sensible man. [illustration] many nowadays who cannot quite get away from religious thought, are able to stave off the inconvenient pressure of conscience by quibbling over the great truths of revelation. great mysteries are in the book of god of necessity; for how can the infinite god so speak that all his thoughts can be grasped by finite man? but it is the height of folly to get discussing these deep things, and to leave plain, soul-saving truths in abeyance. it reminds one of the two philosophers who debated about food, and went away empty from the table, while the common countryman in the corner asked no question, but used his knife and fork with great diligence, and went on his way rejoicing. thousands are now happy in the lord through receiving the gospel like little children; while others, who can always see difficulties, or invent them, are as far off as ever from any comfortable hope of salvation. i know many very decent people who seem to have resolved never to come to christ till they can understand how the doctrine of election is consistent with the free invitations of the gospel. i might just as well determine never to eat a morsel of bread till it has been explained to me how it is that god keeps me alive, and yet i must eat to live. the fact is, that we most of us _know_ quite enough already, and the real want with us is not light in the head, but truth in the heart; not help over difficulties, but grace to make us hate sin and seek reconciliation. [illustration] here let me add a warning against tampering with the word of god. no habit can be more ruinous to the soul. it is cool, contemptuous impertinence to sit down and correct your maker, and it tends to make the heart harder than the nether millstone. we remember one who used a penknife on his bible, and it was not long before he had given up all his former beliefs. the spirit of reverence is healthy, but the impertinence of criticizing the inspired word is destructive of all proper feeling towards god. if ever a man does feel his need of a saviour after treating scripture with a proud, critical spirit, he is very apt to find his conscience standing in the way, and hindering him from comfort by reminding him of ill-treatment of the sacred word. it comes hard to him to draw consolation out of passages of the bible which he has treated cavalierly, or even set aside altogether, as unworthy of consideration. in his distress the sacred texts seem to laugh at his calamity. when the time of need comes, the wells which he stopped with stones yield no water for his thirst. beware, when you despise a scripture, lest you cast away the only friend that can help you in the hour of agony. [illustration] a certain german duke was accustomed to call upon his servant to read a chapter of the bible to him every morning. when anything did not square with his judgment he would sternly cry, "hans, strike that out." at length hans was a long time before he began to read. he fumbled over the book, till his master called out, "hans, why do you not read?" then hans answered, "sir, there is hardly anything left. it is all struck out!" one day his master's objections had run one way, and another day they had taken another turn, and another set of passages had been blotted, till nothing was left to instruct or comfort him. let us not, by carping criticism, destroy our own mercies. we may yet need those promises which appear needless; and those portions of holy writ which have been most assailed by sceptics may yet prove essential to our very life: wherefore let us guard the priceless treasure of the bible, and determine never to resign a single line of it. what have we to do with recondite questions while our souls are in peril? the way to escape from sin is plain enough. the wayfaring man, though a fool, shall not err therein. god has not mocked us with a salvation which we cannot understand. believe and live is a command which a babe may comprehend and obey. doubt no more, but now believe; question not, but just receive. artful doubts and reasonings be nailed with jesus to the tree. instead of cavilling at scripture, the man who is led of the spirit of god will close in with the lord jesus at once. seeing that thousands of decent, common-sense people--people, too, of the best character--are trusting their all with jesus, he will do the same, and have done with further delays. then has he begun a life worth living, and he may have done with further fear. he may at once advance to that higher and better way of living, which grows out of love to jesus, the saviour. why should not the reader do so at once? oh that he would! [illustration] a newark, new jersey, butcher received a letter from his old home in germany, notifying that he had, by the death of a relative, fallen heir to a considerable amount of money. he was cutting up a pig at the time. after reading the letter, he hastily tore off his dirty apron, and did not stop to see the pork cut up into sausages, but left the shop to make preparations for going home to germany. do you blame him, or would you have had him stop in newark with his block and his cleaver? see here the operation of faith. the butcher believed what was told him, and acted on it at once. sensible fellow, too! god has sent his messages to man, telling him the good news of salvation. when a man believes the good news to be true, he accepts the blessing announced to him, and hastens to lay hold upon it. if he truly believes, he will at once take christ, with all he has to bestow, turn from his present evil ways, and set out for the heavenly city, where the full blessing is to be enjoyed. he cannot be holy too soon, or too early quit the ways of sin. if a man could really see what sin is, he would flee from it as from a deadly serpent, and rejoice to be freed from it by christ jesus. [illustration] without faith no salvation. some think it hard that there should be nothing for them but ruin if they will not believe in jesus christ; but if you will think for a minute you will see that it is just and reasonable. i suppose there is no way for a man to keep his strength up except by eating. if you were to say, "i will not eat again, i despise such animalism," you might go to madeira, or travel in all lands (supposing you lived long enough!), but you would most certainly find that no climate and no exercise would avail to keep you alive if you refused food. would you then complain, "it is a hard thing that i should die because i do not believe in eating"? it is not an unjust thing that if you are so foolish as not to eat, you must die. it is precisely so with believing. "believe, and thou art saved." if thou wilt not believe, it is no hard thing that thou shouldst be lost. it would be strange indeed if it were not to be the case. a man who is thirsty stands before a fountain. "no," he says, "i will never touch a drop of moisture as long as i live. cannot i get my thirst quenched in my own way?" we tell him, no; he must drink or die. he says, "i will never drink; but it is a hard thing that i must therefore die. it is a bigoted, cruel thing to tell me so." he is wrong. his thirst is the inevitable result of neglecting a law of nature. you, too, must believe or die; why refuse to obey the command? drink, man, drink! take christ and live. there is the way of salvation, and to enter you must trust christ; but there is nothing hard in the fact that you must perish if you will not trust the saviour. here is a man out at sea; he has a chart, and that chart, if well studied, will, with the help of the compass, guide him to his journey's end. the pole-star gleams out amidst the cloud-rifts, and that, too, will help him. "no," says he, "i will have nothing to do with your stars; i do not believe in the north pole. i shall not attend to that little thing inside the box; one needle is as good as another needle. i have no faith in your chart, and i will have nothing to do with it. the art of navigation is only a lot of nonsense, got up by people on purpose to make money, and i will not be gulled by it." the man never reaches port, and he says it is a very hard thing--a very hard thing. i do not think so. some of you say, "i am not going to read the scriptures; i am not going to listen to your talk about jesus christ: i do not believe in such things." then jesus says, "he that believeth not shall be damned." "that's very hard," say you. but it is not so. it is not more hard than the fact that if you reject the compass and the pole-star you will not reach your port. there is no help for it; it must be so. you say you will have nothing to do with jesus and his blood, and you pooh-pooh all religion. you will find it hard to laugh these matters down when you come to die, when the clammy sweat must be wiped from your brow, and your heart beats against your ribs as if it wanted to leap out and fly away from god. o soul! you will find then, that those sundays, and those services, and this old book, are something more and better than you thought they were, and you will wonder that you were so simple as to neglect any true help to salvation. above all, what woe it will be to have neglected christ, that pole-star which alone can guide the mariner to the haven of rest! where do you live? you live, perhaps, on the other side of the river, and you have to cross a bridge before you can get home. you have been so silly as to nurse the notion that you do not believe in bridges, nor in boats, nor in the existence of such a thing as water. you say, "i am not going over any of your bridges, and i shall not get into any of your boats. i do not believe that there is a river, or that there is any such stuff as water." you are going home, and soon you come to the old bridge; but you will not cross it. yonder is a boat; but you are determined that you will not get into it. there is the river, and you resolve that you will not cross it in the usual way; and yet you think it is very hard that you cannot get home. surely something has destroyed your reasoning powers, for you would not think it so hard if you were in your senses. if a man will not do the thing that is necessary to a certain end, how can he expect to gain that end? you have taken poison, and the physician brings an antidote, and says, "take it quickly, or you will die; but if you take it quickly, i will guarantee that the poison will be neutralized." but you say, "no, doctor, i do not believe in antidotes. let everything take its course; let every tub stand on its own bottom; i will have nothing to do with your remedy. besides, i do not believe that there is any remedy for the poison i have taken; and, what is more, i don't care whether there is or not." well, sir, you will die; and when the coroner's inquest is held on your body, the verdict will be, 'served him right!' so will it be with you if, having heard the gospel of jesus christ, you say, "i am too much of an advanced man to have anything to do with that old-fashioned notion of substitution. i shall not attend to the preacher's talk about sacrifice and blood-shedding." then, when you perish, the verdict given by your conscience, which will sit upon the king's quest at last, will run thus, "_suicide: he destroyed his own soul_." so says the old book--"o israel, thou hast destroyed thyself!" reader, i implore thee, do not so. [illustration] to those who have believed. friends, if now you have begun to trust the lord, trust him out and out. let your faith be the most real and practical thing in your whole life. don't trust the lord in mere sentiment about a few great spiritual things; but trust him for everything, for ever, both for time and eternity, for body and for soul. see how the lord hangeth the world upon nothing but his own word! it has neither prop nor pillar. yon great arch of heaven stands without a buttress or a wooden centre. the lord can and will bear all the strain that faith can ever put upon him. the greatest troubles are easy to his power, and the darkest mysteries are clear to his wisdom. trust god up to the hilt. lean, and lean hard; yes, lean all your weight, and every other weight upon the mighty god of jacob. [illustration] the future you can safely leave with the lord, who ever liveth and never changeth. the past is now in your saviour's hand, and you shall never be condemned for it, whatever it may have been, for the lord has cast your iniquities into the midst of the sea. believe at this moment in your present privileges. you are saved. if you are a believer in the lord jesus, you have passed from death unto life, and you are saved. in the old slave days a lady brought her black servant on board an english ship, and she laughingly said to the captain, "i suppose if i and aunt chloe were to go to england she would be free?" "madam," said the captain, "she is _now_ free. the moment she came on board a british vessel she was free." when the negro woman knew this, she did not leave the ship--not she. it was not _the hope of liberty_ that made her bold, but _the fact of liberty_. so you are not now merely hoping for eternal life, but "_he that believeth in him hath everlasting life_." accept this as a fact revealed in the sacred word, and begin to rejoice accordingly. do not reason about it, or call it in question; believe it, and leap for joy. i want my reader, upon believing in the lord jesus, to believe for _eternal_ salvation. do not be content with the notion that you can receive a new birth which will die out, a heavenly life which will expire, a pardon which will be recalled. the lord jesus gives to his sheep _eternal_ life, and do not be at rest until you have it. now, if it be eternal, how can it die out? be saved out and out, for eternity. there is "a living and incorruptible seed, which liveth and abideth for ever"; do not be put off with a temporary change, a sort of grace which will only bloom to fade. you are now starting on the railway of grace--_take a ticket all the way through_. i have no commission to preach to you salvation for a time: the gospel i am bidden to set before you is, "he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved." he shall be saved from sin, from going back to sin, from turning aside to the broad road. may the holy spirit lead you to believe for nothing less than that. "do you mean," says one, "that i am to believe if i once trust christ i shall be saved whatever sin i may choose to commit?" i have never said anything of the kind. i have described true salvation as a thorough change of heart of so radical a kind that it will alter your tastes and desires; and i say that if you have such a change wrought in you by the holy spirit, it will be permanent; for the lord's work is not like the cheap work of the present day, which soon goes to pieces. trust the lord to keep you, however long you may live, and however much you may be tempted; and "according to your faith, so be it unto you." believe in jesus for _everlasting_ life. oh, that you may also trust the lord for all the sufferings of this present time! in the world you will have tribulation; learn by faith to know that all things work together for good, and then submit yourself to the lord's will. look at the sheep when it is being shorn. if it lies quite still, the shears will not hurt it; if it struggles, or even shrinks, it may be pricked. submit yourselves under the hand of god, and affliction will lose its sharpness. self-will and repining cause us a hundred times more grief than our afflictions themselves. so believe your lord as to be certain that his will must be far better than yours, and therefore you not only submit to it, but even rejoice in it. [illustration] trust the lord jesus in the matter of _sanctification_. certain friends appear to think that the lord jesus cannot sanctify them wholly, spirit, soul, and body. hence they willingly give way to such and such sins under the notion that there is no help for it, but that they must pay tribute to the devil as long as they live in that particular form. do not basely bow your neck in bondage to any sin, but strike hard for liberty. be it anger, or unbelief, or sloth, or any other form of iniquity, we are able, by divine grace, to drive out the canaanite, and, what is more, we must drive him out. no virtue is impossible to him that believeth in jesus, and no sin need have victory over him. indeed, it is written, "sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace." believe for high degrees of joy in the lord, and likeness to jesus, and advance to take full possession of these precious things; for as thou believest, so shall it be unto thee. "all things are possible to him that believeth"; and he who is the chief of sinners may yet be not a whit behind the greatest of saints. often realize the joy of heaven. this is grand faith; and yet it is no more than we ought to have. within a very short time the man who believes in the lord jesus shall be with him where he is. this head will wear a crown; these eyes shall see the king in his beauty; these ears shall hear his own dear voice; this soul shall be in glory; and this poor body shall be raised from the dead and joined in incorruption to the perfected soul! glory, glory, glory! and so near, so sure. let us at once rehearse the music and anticipate the bliss! but cries one, "we are not there yet." no: but faith fills us with delight in the blessed prospect, and meanwhile it sustains us on the road. reader, i long that you may be a firm believer in the lord alone. i want you to get wholly upon the rock, and not keep a foot on the sand. in this mortal life _trust god for all things_; and trust him alone. this is the way to live. i know it by experience. god's bare arm is quite enough to lean upon. i will give you a bit of the experience of an old labouring man i once knew. he feared god above many, and was very deeply taught of the spirit. my picture will show you what kind of a man he was--great at hedging and ditching; but greater at simple trust. here is how he described faith:--"it was a bitter winter, and i had no work, and no bread in the house. the children were crying. the snow was deep, and my way was dark. my old master told me i might have a bit of wood when i wanted it; so i thought a bit of fire would warm the poor children, and i went out with my chopper to get some fuel. i was standing near a deep ditch full of snow, which had drifted into it many feet deep--in fact, i did not know how deep. while aiming a blow at a bit of wood my bill-hook slipped out of my hand, and went right down into the snow, where i could not hope to find it. standing there with no food, no fire, and the chopper gone, something seemed to say to me, 'will richardson, can you trust god now?' and my very soul said, 'that i can.'" this is true faith--the faith which trusts the lord when the bill-hook is gone: the faith which believes god when all outward appearances give him the lie; the faith which is happy with god alone when all friends turn their backs upon you. dear reader, may you and i have this precious faith, this real faith, this god-honouring faith! the lord's truth deserves it; his love claims it, his faithfulness constrains it. happy is he who has it! he is the man whom the lord loves, and the world shall be made to know it before all is finished. [illustration: old will, the labourer.] after all, the very best faith is an everyday faith: the faith which deals with bread and water, coats and stockings, children and cattle, house-rent and weather. the super-fine confectionery religion which is only available on sundays, and in drawing-room meetings and bible readings, will never take a soul to heaven till life becomes one long conference, and there are seven sabbaths in a week. faith is doing her very best when for many years she plods on, month by month, trusting the lord about the sick husband, the failing daughter, the declining business, the unconverted friend, and such-like things. faith also helps us to use the world as not abusing it. it is good at hard work, and at daily duty. it is not an angelic thing for skies and stars, but a human grace, at home in kitchens and workshops. it is a sort of maid-of-all-work, and is at home at every kind of labour, and in every rank of life. it is a grace for every day, all the year round. holy confidence in god is never out of work. faith's ware is so valued at the heavenly court that she always has one fine piece of work or another on the wheel or in the furnace. men dream that heroes are only to be made on special occasions, once or twice in a century; but in truth the finest heroes are home-spun, and are more often hidden in obscurity than platformed by public observation. trust in the living god is the bullion out of which heroism is coined. perseverance in well-doing is one of the fields in which faith grows not flowers, but the wheat of her harvest. plodding on in hard work, bringing up a family on a few shillings a week, bearing constant pain with patience, and so forth--these are the feats of valour through which god is glorified by the rank and file of his believing people. reader, you and i will be of one mind in this: we will not pine to be great, but we will be eager to be good. for this we will rely upon the lord our god, whose we are, and whom we serve. we will ask to be made holy throughout every day of the week. we will pray to our god as much about our daily business as about our soul's salvation. we will trust him concerning our farm, and our turnips and our cows as well as concerning our spiritual privileges and our hope of heaven. the lord jehovah is our household god; jesus is our brother born for adversity; and the holy spirit is our comforter in every hour of trial. we have not an unapproachable god: he hears, he pities, he helps. let us trust him without a break, without a doubt, without a hesitation. the life of faith is life within god's wicket-gate. if we have hitherto stood trembling outside in the wide world of unbelief, may the holy spirit enable us now to take the great decisive step, and say, once for all, "lord, i believe: help thou mine unbelief!" _any book in this catalogue sent postage prepaid on receipt of the price._ religious and devotional books published by the american tract society, 10 east 23d street, new york. boston, 54 bromfield st. philadelphia, 1512 chestnut st. rochester, 93 state st. chicago, 211-213 wabash avenue. cincinnati, 176 elm st. san francisco, 735 market st. assyrian echoes of the word. by thomas laurie, d. d. with illustrations. from the preface: "this volume does not claim to march in the front ranks of assyrian scholars. the writer has not excavated mounds hitherto unknown and interpreted the tablets he found there, as our own 'wolfe expedition' has done so well. his has been the humbler aim of making a larger number acquainted with the work that has been done, and with some at least of the results obtained. he has sought to gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost; so that humble believers who have been startled by the noise of the battle now raging round the word may have their hearts reassured by the corroborations of the truth that lie stored up in every ancient mound, and are brought to light by the pick of the explorer. "many facts of history in the royal inscriptions, many incidents of the daily life recorded on the tablets, illustrate and confirm the scripture record. "one object of these pages has been to give a general idea of the progress that has been made in this interesting department of archã¦ology." amusements in the light of reason and the scriptures. by h. c. haydn, d. d. 16mo. 162 pp. 75 cts. companion to the bible. by rev. e. p. barrows, d. d. large 12mo. 639 pp. cloth, $1 75. designed to assist in the study of god's word, containing a concise view of the evidences of revealed religion as to the genuineness, integrity, authenticity, and inspiration of the books of the bible. it has also a notice of each particular book, to prepare the reader to study it intelligently, and fills a place not occupied by either bible dictionary or commentary. sacred geography and antiquities. by rev. e. p. barrows, d. d. five maps and numerous engravings. 685 pp. large 12mo. cloth, $2 25. in this faithfully prepared volume the scholar will find the most important information on all the topics included under the title furnished by the large and costly works of the best and latest scholars. palestine and all bible lands are minutely described: the domestic institutions and customs of the jews, their dress, agriculture, sciences and arts; their forms of government, justice and military affairs; their temple services, priesthood, sacrifices, and religious customs. the saint's everlasting rest. by richard baxter. large type, fine edition. 12mo. 540 pp. $1 25. 18mo edition, smaller type. 453 pp. 50 cts. the progress of doctrine in the new testament. by t. d. bernard, m. a. 12mo. 250 pp. $1. 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[illustration: _from the "bible dictionary"_] dictionary of the holy bible. by rev. w. w. rand, d. d. 8vo. 720 pp. $2; morocco gilt, $3 50. revised in the light of recent researches in bible lands and enlarged from the popular edition, of which over 200,000 copies have been sold. it is printed from new type in the best manner upon fine paper, with new wood cuts, 16 of the whole number of 360 being elegant full-page pictures, and strongly bound. is an invaluable help to clergymen, sabbath-school teachers, and all other bible students. its 18 maps are from the latest authorities, and are printed in colors. "all the more important information needed by the sunday-school teacher or pastor, in connection with the study of the bible, will be found in concise shape in this beautiful and well-nigh perfect volume." christian at work. biblical history and geography. by h. s. osborn, ll. d. 12mo. 312 pp. $1 25. 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"it was dr. merle's good fortune to be a disciple of the modern school of history, which is wholly opposed to any mere re-handling, however skilful, of old materials, and demands a thorough and constant resort to the sources. nothing is to be taken at second hand, much less by guess-work, but original authorities must be consulted throughout. the evidences of this conscientious diligence are to be seen on every page." christian intelligencer. team the personal touch by j. wilbur chapman, d.d. contents foreword i. a testimony ii. a general principle iii. a polished shaft iv. starting right v. no man cared for my soul vi. winning the young vii. winning and holding viii. a practical illustration ix. whosoever will x. conversion is a miracle xi. a final word _foreword_ if if to be a christian is worth while, then the most ordinary interest in those with whom we come in contact should prompt us to speak to them of christ. * * * * * if the new testament be true--and we know that it is--who has given us the right to place the responsibility for soul-winning on other shoulders than our own? * * * * * if they who reject christ are in danger, is it not strange that we, who are so sympathetic when the difficulties are physical or temporal, should apparently be so devoid of interest as to allow our friends and neighbours and kindred to come into our lives and pass out again without a word of invitation to accept christ, to say nothing of sounding a note of warning because of their peril? * * * * * if to-day is the day of salvation, if to-morrow may never come, and if life is equally uncertain, how can we eat, drink, and be merry when those who live with us, work with us, walk with us, and love us are unprepared for eternity because they are unprepared for time? * * * * * if jesus called his disciples to be fishers of men, who gave us the right to be satisfied with making fishing tackle or pointing the way to the fishing banks instead of going ourselves to cast out the net until it be filled? * * * * * if jesus himself went seeking the lost, if paul the apostle was in agony because his kinsmen, according to the flesh, knew not christ, why should we not consider it worth while to go out after the lost until they are found? * * * * * if i am to stand at the judgment seat of christ to render an account for the deeds done in the body, what shall i say to him if my children are missing, my friends not saved, or if my employer or employee should miss the way because i have been faithless? * * * * * if i wish to be approved at the last, then let me remember that no intellectual superiority, no eloquence in preaching, no absorption in business, no shrinking temperament, no spirit of timidity can take the place of or be an excuse for my not making an honest, sincere, prayerful effort to win others to christ by means of the _personal touch_. chapter i _a testimony_ i have the very best of reasons for believing in the power of the personal touch in christian work, especially as it may be used in the winning of others to christ. my boyhood's home was in the city of richmond, in the state of indiana, my mother was a devout member of the methodist episcopal church, and in the first years of my life in company with my father and the other children of the household, i attended the church of my mother. when she was just a little more than thirty-five years of age she was called home. my father in his youth had been trained as a presbyterian; many of his ancestors having belonged to that denomination; therefore it was quite natural that he should return to the church of his fathers when my mother had gone home. it was thus i became a member of the presbyterian church, and my church training as a boy after fifteen years of age was in that denomination. because of this special interest in both the church of my father and my mother, i attended two sunday schools. in the morning i was in a class in the presbyterian school and in the afternoon was a member of a class in the grace methodist sunday school, my teacher in the afternoon school being mrs c.c. binckley, a godly woman, the wife of senator binckley of indiana, through all her life from girlhood, a devout follower of christ and a faithful teacher in the sunday school. not so very long ago i heard that she was still teaching in the same school, and i am sure, as in the olden days, winning boys to christ. i fear that i was a thoughtless boy, and yet the impressions made upon my life in those days by the death of my mother, the teaching of my father, and the influence of my sunday school teacher, were such that i have never been able to get away from them. one sunday afternoon a stranger came to address our school--his name i have never learned; i would give much to find it out. at the close of his address he made an appeal to the scholars to stand and confess christ. i think every boy in my class rose to his feet with the exception of myself. i found myself reasoning thus: why should i rise, my mother was a saint; my father is one of the truest men i know; my home teaching has been all that a boy could have; i know about christ and think i realise his power to save. while i was thus reasoning, my sunday school teacher, with tears in her eyes, leaned around back of the other boys and looking straight at me, as i turned towards her she said, "would it not be best for you to rise?" and when she saw that i still hesitated, she put her hand under my elbow and lifted me just a little bit, and i stood upon my feet. i can never describe my emotions. i do not know that that was the time of my conversion, but i do know that it was the day when one of the most profound impressions of my life was made upon me. through all these years i have never forgotten it, and it was my sunday school teacher who influenced me thus to take the stand--it was her personal touch that gave me courage to rise before the school and confess my saviour. in the good providence of god, during my student days, as well as during the first years of my ministry, i was thrown in contact with men who knew god, who were being marvellously used by him, and who seemed ready and willing to give assistance to one who was just beginning the journey of life with all its struggles and conflicts ahead of him. when i was a student attending lake forest university, not far from chicago, i was very greatly troubled about the matter of assurance. i heard that mr moody was to be in chicago, and in company with a friend i went in from lake forest to hear him. five times in a single day i sat at his feet and drank in the words which fell from his lips. he thrilled me through and through. i heard him preach his great sermon on "sowing and reaping," when old farwell hall was crowded with young men many of whom were students like myself. the impression that mr moody made upon me as a christian young man, was that i myself was not absolutely sure i was saved. i analysed my experience and found that sometimes i was more than sure and at other times dwelt in doubting castle. when the great evangelist called for an after-meeting, i was one of the first to enter the room where he had indicated he would meet those who were interested, and to my great joy he came and sat down beside me. he asked me my difficulty and i told him i was not quite sure that i was saved. he asked me to read john v. 24, and trembling with emotion i read: "verily, verily, i say unto you, he that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life." he said to me, "do you believe this?" i said, "certainly." he said, "are you a christian?" and i replied, "sometimes i think i am, and again i am fearful." then he said, "read it again." and i read it once more. his question was again repeated, and i answered it in the same manner as before. then he seemed to lose his patience, and the only time i can remember mr moody being sharp with me was when he turned upon me and said, "whom are you doubting?" and suddenly it dawned upon me that i was doubting him who said i was possessed of everlasting life because i believed on the son and on the father who had sent him, and in spite of this possession and his sure word of promise concerning it, i was sceptical. but as i sat there beside him i saw it all. then he said, "read it again." and i read it the third time, and talking to me as gently as a mother would to her child he said, "do you believe this?" i said, "yes, indeed i do." then he said, "are you a christian?" and i answered, "yes, mr moody, i am." from that day to this i have never questioned my acceptance with god. for some reason mr moody always seemed to keep me in mind. he came into my church in the early days of my ministry, told me where he thought i was wrong and suggested how i might be more greatly used of god. he advised me to give my time wholly to evangelistic work, and when i said to him one day that i was going to take up the pastorate after three years of experience in general evangelism, he seemed disturbed. to him more than to any other man, i owe the greatest blessing that ever came into my life. through mr moody i met the rev f.b. meyer, and one sentence which he used at northfield changed my ministry. he said, "if you are not willing to give up everything for christ, are you willing to be made willing?" that seemed like a new star in the sky of my life, and one day acting upon his suggestion, after having carefully studied the passages in the new testament which relate to surrender and to consecration, i gave myself anew to christ and i shall never be able to express in words my appreciation of what this man of god to whom i have referred, did for me by personal influence. all along the way i have been brought in contact with men whom god has signally blessed, and i am persuaded that there are many to-day whose hearts are hungering for a blessing, who are waiting as i was myself, for someone to speak to them personally, and help them out of darkness into light; out of a certain kind of bondage into a glorious freedom. the personal touch in christian work, to me, means everything. chapter ii _a general principle_ i have been amazed in my study of the biographies of men and women who have been specially used of god, to see how almost universal is the rule that they have come to christ, or to an experience of power, through the personal influence of a friend or acquaintance. preaching is not enough, it is sometimes too general; the impressions of a song may soon be effaced, but the personal touch, the tear in the eye, the pathos in the voice, the concern which is manifested in the very expression of one's countenance; these are used with great effect, and thousands of people are to-day in the kingdom of god, or in special service, because of such influences being brought to bear upon their lives. john wesley is a notable illustration of the influence of the personal touch. peter bohler of the moravian church, came into his life when he was in sore need of just such assistance as he seemed able to give. dr w. h. fitchett of australia, writes:-"the moravians of savannah taught him exactly what peter bohler taught him afterwards in london, but the teaching at the moment left his life unaffected. wesley's own explanation is, 'i understood it not; i was too learned and too wise, so that it seemed foolishness unto me; and i continued preaching, and following after, and trusting in that righteousness whereby no flesh can be justified.' "the truth is that peter bohler himself, had he met wesley in savannah, would have taught him in vain. the stubborn sacramentarian and high churchman had to be scourged, by the sharp discipline of failure, out of that subtlest and deadliest form of pride, the pride that imagines that the secret of salvation lies, or can lie, within the circle of purely human effort. wesley later describes peter bohler as 'one whom god prepared for me.' but god in the toilsome and humiliating experiences of georgia, was preparing wesley for peter bohler." bohler described wesley as "a man of good principles, who did not properly believe on the saviour, and was willing to be taught." later on, in the city of london, where wesley had been intimately associated with peter bohler and had come directly under his influence, he one night attended a religious service in aldersgate street, where the one conducting the service was reading luther's preface to the epistle to the romans. the effect of that service upon wesley is best told in his own words. "about a quarter before nine, while he was describing the change which god works in the heart through faith in christ, i felt my heart strangely warmed. i felt i did trust in christ, christ alone, for my salvation; and an assurance was given me that he had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death. i began to pray with all my might for those who had in a more special manner despitefully used me and persecuted me. i then testified openly to all there what i now first felt in my heart. but it was not long before the enemy suggested, 'this cannot be faith; for where is thy joy?' then was i taught that peace and victory over sin are essential to faith in the captain of our salvation; but that, as to the transports of joy that usually attend the beginning of it, especially in those who have mourned deeply, god sometimes giveth, sometimes withholdeth, them according to the counsels of his own will." charles haddon spurgeon, in speaking of his own early experiences, writes thus: "when i was a young child staying with my grandfather, there came to preach in the village mr knill, who had been a missionary at st petersburgh, and a mighty preacher of the gospel. he came to preach for the london missionary society, and arrived on the saturday at the manse. he was a great soul winner, and he soon spied out the boy. he said to me, 'where do you sleep? for i want to call you up in the morning.' i showed him my little room. at six o'clock he called me up, and we went into the arbour. there, in the sweetest way, he told me of the love of jesus and of the blessedness of trusting in him and loving him in our childhood. with many a story he preached christ to me, and told me how good god had been to him, and then he prayed that i might know the lord and serve him. "he knelt down in the arbour and prayed for me with his arms about my neck. he did not seem content unless i kept with him in the interval between the services, and he heard my childish talk with patient love. on monday morning he did as on the sabbath, and again on tuesday. three times he taught me and prayed with me, and before he had to leave, my grandfather had come back from the place where he had gone to preach, and all the family were gathered to morning prayer. then, in the presence of them all, mr knill took me on his knee and said, 'this child will one day preach the gospel, and he will preach it to great multitudes. i am persuaded that he will preach in the chapel of rowland hill, where (i think he said) i am now the minister.' he spoke very solemnly, and called upon all present to witness what he said." d.l. moody was thus won to christ. his sunday school teacher in boston was mr e.d. kimball. he was not one of the ordinary type of sunday school teachers. mere literal instruction on sunday did not satisfy his ideal of the teacher's duty. he knew his boys, and if he knew them, it was because he studied them, because he became acquainted with their occupations and aims, visiting them during the week. it was his custom, moreover, to find opportunity to give to his boys an opportunity to use his experience in seeking the better things of the spirit. the day came when he resolved to speak to young moody about christ, and about his soul. "i started down to holton's shoe store," says mr kimball. "when i was nearly there, i began to wonder whether i ought to go just then, during business hours. and i thought maybe my mission might embarrass the boy, that when i went away the other clerks might ask who i was, and when they learned might taunt moody and ask if i was trying to make a good boy out of him. while i was pondering over it all, i passed the store without noticing it. then when i found i had gone by the door, i determined to make a dash for it and have it over at once. i found moody in the back part of the store wrapping up shoes in paper and putting them on shelves. i went up to him and put my hand on his shoulder, and as i leaned over i placed my foot upon a shoe box. then i made my plea, and i feel that it was really a very weak one. i don't know just what words i used, nor could mr moody tell. i simply told him of christ's love for him and the love christ wanted in return. that was all there was of it. i think mr moody said afterwards that there were tears in my eyes. it seemed that the young man was just ready for the light that then broke upon him, for there at once in the back of that shoe store in boston the future great evangelist gave himself and his life to christ." many years afterward mr moody himself told the story of that day. "when i was in boston," he said, "i used to attend a sunday school class, and one day, i recollect, my teacher came around behind the counter of the shop i was at work in, and put his hand upon my shoulder, and talked to me about christ and my soul. i had not felt that i had a soul till then. i said to myself. this is a very strange thing. here is a man who never saw me till lately, and he is weeping over my sins, and i never shed a tear about them. but, i understand it now, and know what it is to have a passion for men's souls and weep over their sins. i don't remember what he said, but i can feel the power of that man's hand on my shoulder to-night. it was not long after that i was brought into the kingdom of god." the personal touch is necessary. it is not so much what we say, as the way we say it, and indeed, it is not so much what we say and the way we say it, as what we are, that counts in personal work. we cannot delegate this work to others. god has called the evangelist to a certain mission in soul winning. he has given ministers the privilege of winning many to christ. mission workers, generally, are charged with the responsibility for this special work. but this fact cannot relieve the parents, the children, the husband, the wife, the friends, the business man, the toiler in the shop, from personal responsibility in the matter of attempting to win others to the saviour. chapter iii _a polished shaft_ "he hath made me a polished shaft; in his quiver hath he hid me," isaiah xlix. 2.[1] personal preparation is essential to the best success in personal work. no familiarity with the methods of other workers; no distinction among men because of past favours of either god or men; no past success in the line of special effort; no amount of intellectual equipment and no reputation for cleverness in the estimation of your fellowmen will take the place of individual soul culture, if you are to be used of god. [footnote 1: suggested by dr charles cuthbert hall.] thou must be true thyself, if thou the truth would teach; it takes the overflow of heart to give the lips full speech. the words of isaiah the prophet literally refer to him who was the servant of jehovah. he was god's prepared blessing to a waiting and needy people. he came from the bosom of the father that he might lift a lost and ruined race to god. and swifter than an arrow speeds from the hand of the archer when the string of the bow is drawn back, he came to do the will of god. in the epistle to the hebrews we find him saying, "lo i come, in the volume of the book it is written of me i delight to do thy will." this was the spirit of all his earthly life. when he was hungry and sent his disciples to buy meat, he found it unnecessary to partake of the food they brought to him, saying, "my meat is to do the will of him that sent me." and when he came to the garden of gethsemane, well on to the climax of his sacrificial life, we hear him saying again, "not my will, but thine be done." in such a completely surrendered life we have a perfect representation of the prepared christian worker. in the expression of isaiah we have also the thought of his anguish. "he was made a polished shaft." in these days when there is a disposition to place jesus upon the level with others who have wrought for the good of humanity, it is well to remember that he is the lamb slain from the foundation of the world. there is also the thought of the beauty of his character, for he is a "polished shaft," "chiefest among ten thousand," and "the one altogether lovely." he is "the lily of the valley" for fragrance, and "the rose of sharon" for beauty, and thus prepared he stands before us beckoning us on to a work which is indescribable in its fascination. calling his disciples he said, "i will make you fishers of men." the same promise is made to us. working his miracles he said to those about him, "greater works than these shall ye do." we have only to follow in his footsteps and walk sufficiently near to hear his faintest whisper when he directs us to be, in the truest sense of the word, successful personal workers. it is a great encouragement to hear him say, "as the father hath sent me, even so send i you." the shaft mentioned by isaiah is an arrow prepared with all care. the quiver in which this arrow is placed is carried on the left side of the archer, placed upon the string of the bow, the archer drawing back the string adds to the elasticity of bow and string his own strength, and the shaft is off to do the archer's will. there is in this story an illustration for all christian workers. fitness for service lies first of all in divine endowment. god has given to each one of us special and peculiar qualifications. if we live as we ought to live, exercising the gift that is in us; the painter may paint for his glory; the poet may sing and speak of him; the preacher may preach and declare his righteousness, and should we live in less conspicuous spheres than these, we have only to do our best with that with which he has endowed us and our lives will be pleasing to him. it lies also in the divine call. the shaft was made for a special purpose. we have been created to do his will. the possession of power is not enough; talents unused will rise at the judgment seat to rebuke us. god gives us ability and then calls us forth into the field that we may exercise it. fitness for service also lies in the response to god's will. the possession of power and the call of god may both be realised and we may still fail. it is when we say "i will," to god that human weakness is linked to divine strength and then a great service is possible. life is not drudgery, it is an inspiration. "let me but do my work from day to day, in field or forest, at desk or loom; when vagrant wishes beckon me away, let me but find it in my heart to say, this is my work, my blessing not my doom; of all who live i am the only one by whom this work can best be done." the word of the prophet isaiah is a picture of the child of god, as well as of him who is our inspiration for service. there is the thought of definiteness of use in the shaft. other articles may be created for a variety of purposes. this shaft is made to go at the owner's will. there is only one way to live in this world and that is according to the will of god and for his glory. it matters little where i was born, or if my parents were rich or poor; whether they shrank from the cold world's scorn, or walked in the pride of wealth secure; but whether i live a surrendered man, and hold my integrity firm in my clutch, i tell you, my brother, as plain as i can, it matters much! it matters little where be my grave, or on the land or on the sea. by purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave, it matters little or nought to me; but whether the angel of death comes down and marks my brow with his loving touch, and one that shall wear the victor's crown, it matters much! there is also in this picture of the shaft the thought of directed motion. the aim is everything. the arrow cannot aim itself. there is no such thing as an aimless life. our energies are either being directed for christ or against him; in the interests of humanity or contrary to them. every child of god must reach the place where he will say, not my will, but thine, o god, be done; not my path but thine, o christ, be travelled; not my ambitions realized but thine own purposes in me fulfilled, my heavenly father. the progress of such a life is peace, the consummation of it the most perfect victory. when i am dying how glad i shall be that the lamp of my life has been blazed out for thee. i shall be glad in whatever i gave, labour, or money, one sinner to save; i shall not mind that the path has been rough, that thy dear feet led the way is enough. when i am dying how glad i shall be, that the lamp of my life has been blazed out for thee. in the picture of the archer and his arrow, there is an illustration of derived energy. the arrow placed upon the string and drawn back by the archer speeds away to do the master's will. it has no power in itself; it flies forward in the master's strength. god is always seeking an outlet for his power along the line of service. it is when our lives are surrendered to him that victory is possible. a friend of mine took for his year text the expression "i believe, and i belong." we might well add, "i live and i love," and because i do both i will obey. ole bull once played his violin in the presence of a company of university students. he charmed them, they knew at once that they were in the presence of a master. when he was finished playing, one who was present said to him, "what is the secret of your power, have you a special bow, or is it in the instrument you use?" ole bull responded, "i think it is in neither, but it has always seemed to me that i had power in playing because i waited to play until i had an inspiration, when my soul was overflowing with music and i could not stay the torrent that was back of me; it is then that i take my violin and the music flows forth." if we were always passive in the hands of the master he would show forth in and through us his marvellous grace and power. the polishing of the shaft is always necessary. god uses all our experiences to equip us for life. parental influence; the power of prayer as offered in our behalf by others; the education given us in the schools; the disappointments of life which seem almost to crush us; the sorrows which are indescribable; all these are like the touch of a master's hand, and forth from such a school and such a training we ought to come prepared to do the will of god. the arrow was carried in the quiver and the quiver was near to the master's side. nearness to god is essential if we are to be used of god. he chooses the vessel nearest his hand. this has always been true. the apostles, martyrs, missionaries, and saints who have finished their work and have gone on before, as well as those who live to-day, prove the statement that we must be in closest relationship with christ if we are to be entrusted with the gift of power. it is when we are in the secret place of the most high that we learn god's will concerning us. many people do not know god's will because they live too much in the bustle and confusion of life. god speaks his best messages to us in whispers, not in thunder tones, and we must be still to know that he is god and study to be quiet that we may go forth from quietness to conquer. the practice of the quiet hour is the secret of many a soul's victorious service. shut in with god alone, i spend the quiet hour; his mercy and his love i own, and seek his saving power shut in with god alone; in meditation sweet, my spirit waits before the throne, bowed low at jesus' feet. shut in with god alone; i praise his holy name, who gave the saviour to atone for all my sin and shame. shut in with god alone; and yet i have no fear, i rest beneath the cleansing blood, and perfect love is here. chapter iv _starting right_ "every one over against his house," nehemiah iii. 28. the first part of the book of nehemiah gives us a striking picture of destruction, and as we look about us we see a city in ruins: the walls are down; the homes have been destroyed; the people are in despair, so great is the desolation that even the temple has been defaced. when the tidings concerning the havoc which has been wrought in the city of jerusalem reached nehemiah he was well nigh heart-broken. speaking about the story that had been brought to him he said, "and they said unto me, the remnant that are left of the captivity there in the province are in great affliction and reproach; the wall of jerusalem also is broken down, and the gates thereof are burned with fire," nehemiah i. 3. when he reaches the city of jerusalem he goes about to view the ruins, and he thus describes his journey: "so i came to jerusalem and was there three days. then i told them of the hand of my god which was good upon me; as also the king's words that he had spoken unto me. and they said, let us rise up and build. so they strengthened their hands for this good work," nehemiah ii. 11 and 18. this picture of despair as seen in the olden days in jerusalem is almost if not altogether being repeated to-day. the case is really desperate. the need of divine help in the re-construction of human lives has never been greater. hosts of men find the following testimony a description of their own experience. it is a young university man who is speaking, and before a great crowd of people he says:-"probably nine out of every ten of you men standing in front of me know who i am and know my family well. you will no doubt be surprised to hear of the awful experiences through which i have gone during the past six months. just six months ago, as most of you know, i was an active christian worker, and there are many of you in front of me who as recently as last july sat and heard me preach. during the last six months trouble came upon me, and in a weak moment, losing faith in god, i took to drink, and sank as low as it is possible for any man to sink. not even the prodigal in the parable could have fallen lower than i did. disowned by my mother; cast aside by my brother and sisters; despised by the members and officers of the church to which i belonged and in which i preached, i was in every respect an outcast. just before christmas, whilst tramping on the road, i actually took the shirt off my back to sell it for drink, so miserable was i. my nights i spent in the open fields, waking in the morning covered with frost. something seemed to compel me to attend the meetings in this city. i attended night after night, and although the singing and the address had a wonderful effect upon me, i kept struggling against the working of the spirit, until the singing of the chorus "i am included," brought home to me as never before, the fact that even i, wretched outcast that i was, had not gone too far. i then and there made up my mind to accept the promise of john iii. 16. from that time i have realized, as never before, that christ went to calvary not so much for the world, as he did for me. and i intend to devote the rest of my life to winning souls for him." there is surely cause for great alarm because of the present condition of affairs, and for the following reasons: home life is not what it used to be. in the olden times the home was a harbour into which tempest-tossed souls came day after day, and thus protected, had time to regain lost strength and go forth again to battle with the storm. it was once true that fathers were priests in their own households and mothers were saints. the best memory that some of us have is that which centres in a home where love ruled and reigned; where christ was honoured; where the bible was read, explained and loved, and where the very atmosphere was like heaven. in many instances to-day this is missing and he is to be pitied who has not such a memory as this, and such an influence for good in his life. the family altar in too many households has been broken down or given up. "what led you to christ?" was the question asked of a distinguished christian worker. and the answer quickly given was, "my father's prayers at the family altar. they followed me through my manhood and compelled me eventually to accept christ." when the family altar is gone from a home, it is like the taking away of a strong foundation from a building or depriving the arch of its keystone. better sacrifice everything than this spirit and practice of prayer in the home. it is barely possible that because of conditions family prayers may not be conducted to-day as in other days, but there is at least time for a verse of scripture and a prayer out of a full heart, and the influence of even so brief a service will keep the members of the household from many a failure. church attendance is not what it once was. the old-fashioned family pew is a thing of the past in too many cases. in other days the father, the mother, and the children attended divine worship in the house of god. they sang the hymns of the church together; they worshipped god with the same spirit of devotion; they listened to the minister's preaching and they came forth from such a service clothed with a power that made them able to stand against the mightiest influences for evil. because the family pew is out of date many boys are wandering, and many girls have gone astray. with the beginning of the fourth chapter of nehemiah there is a change in the story as told by the prophet. there is a ring of triumph when he announces: "so built we the wall; and all the wall was joined together unto the half thereof; for the people had a mind to work," nehemiah iv. 6. and the completeness of his work is described when he says: "now it came to pass when the wall was built, and i had set up the doors, and the porters and the singers and the levites were appointed ..." nehemiah vii. 1. i am sure it is quite true that out from all the despair which sometimes appals us, we shall come into the same complete victory. but if we are to win others to christ and if our work is to be a work of prevention, so that our children shall not go astray and our friends may not wander, then it will be essential that we should, like nehemiah of old, begin to build everyone over against his own house. it is a sad thing to find so many people in the world who are a public success and a private failure. great superintendents of sunday schools, and poor fathers; experienced sunday school teachers, and inconsistent in their own homes; eloquent preachers and poor illustrations of the spirit of jesus; famed for piety as revealed to the public eye and quite as famed for lack of piety, when living out of the lime light, in the common round of daily duties with those who know us best and ought to speak of us most highly. if our work is to be as god would have it where shall it begin? by all means let it begin with ourselves. there is a text of scripture which every christian must say over and over. he might begin the day with it and it might not be amiss for him to say it over before he closes his eyes in sleep. "search me, o god, and know my heart; try me and know my thoughts; and see if there be any wicked way in me," psalm cxxxix. 23, 24. it is quite unnecessary to study the methods of men if we cannot bear the test of god's searching eye. we must be right in our own homes. in a meeting conducted recently in wales a gentleman rose to say: "i came to the meeting on friday afternoon and made a covenant with god that i would speak to someone about christ. it laid so hold of my heart that i went home and spoke to my little girl. i asked her if she loved the lord jesus christ, and she said, 'yes, i do.' i said, 'will you accept jesus as your personal saviour?' 'yes, i am willing to' she said. i went to the steel works, and had been praying that god would use me. i asked the young man with whom i was working if he were a christian. he looked black at me, but i asked him to be honest before god. in a moment his face changed as he said without hesitation, 'i will accept jesus as my saviour now.' "i was working during the night, and it came to food time, so i asked several of the men if they would come into the smith shop and have a word of prayer. there was a young man there whose little boy i had spoken to. this young man came to me at three o'clock in the morning to tell me that he would accept jesus as his personal saviour. i asked some of the men if they would come up to my house and have a little prayer meeting after work, at six o'clock in the morning. they came up and i spoke to them, quoting the texts john iii. 16 and john v. 24. some of the men present were not saved. i asked them if they really understood the scriptures, and they told me they did. 'now,' i said, 'will you not accept jesus as your personal saviour?' and one who was in the smith shop told me that he had definitely given himself to god at three o'clock that morning. then i asked a boy of fifteen if he understood the words. 'yes,' he said, so i asked him if he would not accept christ. 'yes' he replied, 'i will.' the following night i spoke to another in the works, concerning his soul, and asked him if he had fully surrendered, because i knew he was in trouble. about one o'clock i spoke to him and said, 'will you give yourself to the lord now?' 'no,' he said, 'not now.' 'well,' i said, 'come to the smith shop at food time and have a word of prayer.' after food time he came out, and started again at his work. presently he came across to me. 'well,' i said, 'have you fully surrendered?' 'yes, tom,' he said, 'i have given myself to christ, now.'" beginning in the home it is quite easy to go out into a wider circle and serve. the tendency, however, is to begin in some public place, and oftentimes because of this we fail to win those who work by our side, who sit with us at our own table and who live with us day after day and for whom we are specially responsible. it will also be necessary for us to enlarge the circle and reach the people in our own places of business. two business men journeyed into a new england city together for twenty years. one of them was a christian, the other was not. they were both dying the same day, and the man who was not a christian when he heard that his friend was dying, had a right to say to his wife, as he did, "it is a strange thing that my friend and i have known each other so well, and love each other so dearly, that he has allowed me to come to this day without a warning." a business man rose in a meeting to say, "i have been greatly concerned about one young man who works in my office. i asked him if he would not come to the office a little earlier this morning. when he came and we were alone i asked him if he knew why i had got him to come a little earlier. when he told me that he did not, i said to him 'i am a christian, i have never spoken to you about christ and i have asked you to come this morning that i might explain the way to you and urge you to take your stand for him.' that morning i had the great joy of leading my employee to christ. i gave him a little pocket testament in which i wrote his name, and under his name i wrote this scripture, 'thou art my son, this day have i begotten thee,' and after that i signed my name. three days later," said the business man, "the young man of whom i speak, led three others to christ, one of them was the head book-keeper in my office." if we are to be successful soul winners it is essential not only that we should get right with god but that we should keep right with him. there must be a quick confession of sin and a quick turning away from all that would work against christ. our friends with whom we live and labour are keen critics, and as a rule, just ones. they know when we are wrong and nothing so hinders a testimony as to allow a wrong to go unrighted. when before our own households and with those who know us best, and by whose side we toil, in shop, or store, or office, or with those whom we employ, we keep ourselves unspotted from the world, we have an unanswerable argument for christ and a testimony as regards the value of following him which cannot be gainsayed. chapter v _no man cared for my soul_ "no man cared for my soul," psalm cxlii. 4. all about us people are saying these words, and they really think we do not care. i believe there has never been a story of a man in which was found more contrast than in this account of the man who sobs out the words, "no man cared for my soul." he is a shepherd boy, then a king, a saint, writing the twenty-third psalm, then suddenly turned into a sinner blackening the pages of the old testament with the story of his transgressions. the world has not had better poetry than that which came from the heart and brain of this marvellous man. in addition to all this, he is a musician, and all through the psalms he is keeping time to heaven's music until, when he comes to the close of the psalter, he stands like the leader of a mighty chorus, and calls upon every living breathing being to praise the lord. he is a pursuer of men, and the hosts of the enemy run and cry and flee before him. suddenly the scene is changed. he is himself pursued. he is in the cave of engedi. the cave is dark, and it is in the gloom that we hear him crying out, "i looked upon my right hand and beheld, but there was no man that would know me: refuge failed me." and as he said this i think he must have said, with a sob, "no man cared for my soul." but it is not my intention so much to tell the story of this man whose life was so filled with contrasts, but rather to speak of those who live to-day, and who think they have a right to use the same words as the psalmist, "no man cared for my soul." they walk on the streets of our cities; they live in our homes; they meet us in our places of business; they are members of our circle of friends; they know that we are christians, and they are often thinking or saying, "no man cared for my soul." it is strange that we should permit this, because we read in the bible, "he that believeth not is condemned already." "he that hath not the son of god hath not life, but the wrath of god abideth on him." it seems strange that one could say he believes the bible to be true; that he accepts these statements concerning the one who is not a christian, and yet lives and works and associates with him and never speaks to him about the salvation of his soul. it would seem as if they at least had a right to say, "no man _seems_ to care." but some may say, "they have the church, and the doors are wide open; they have the minister, and his message is faithful." yet, the average man who sits in church and listens to the most impassioned appeal of the preacher, rarely considers the sermon personal. he finds himself saying, sometimes against his will, that the preacher is professional, that his plea is perfunctory, and so he goes out of church and says again, "no man _seems_ to care for my soul." there came into my church in an eastern city a man who worshipped with us for a time. his family were in the mountains. i made it a rule never to allow one to attend the church that i did not speak to him personally. one day i called on this business man. he took me into his private office. when i took him by the hand i said, "i have come to ask you to be a christian." he looked at me in amazement; and i said, "i am not asking you to join my church, that may not be the church of your choice, but i am asking you to be a christian." he drew his hand out of mine, walked away to the window, and stood looking down upon the busy street for fully five minutes. i thought i had offended him. then he came back, and, brushing the tears out of his eyes, he took my hand again and said, "it is the first invitation to be a christian i have ever had in all my life. nobody ever asked me before. my mother never asked me; my wife has never asked me; no minister has ever asked me." then, sinking back into the chair by his table, he used the words which are almost identical with the words of david, "i thought no one cared." such men are all around us; men in deepest need; men with sore aching hearts. there was a man in an american city who occupied a high position among men. he took his own life. under the stress of political excitement he misappropriated the funds of the bank, thinking he could repay them, and in his beautiful home he put the revolver to his temple and shot himself. the saddest letter i have ever seen was written by that man. he wrote to his wife asking her forgiveness. he told her to pray for the children whom he had dishonoured. then he concluded his farewell letter with this statement: "through all the months i have been wishing somebody would speak to me about becoming a christian." in the light of such facts i believe that what we need in these days is not so much, more men to preach--although that would be a great blessing--as people in the church who will be absolutely consistent. if they say they believe god's word to be true, they must speak to those over whom they have an influence, about the personal acceptance of christ. i was waiting one day outside the office of the governor of one the western states, and while i waited, the lieutenant-governor spoke to me. he said, "i was in your service last night, and i want to take issue with you on what you said. you told your hearers to go up and down the streets asking the people to become christians. i think if anyone should come into my office and ask me to become a christian i should tell him to go about his business." "you surely misunderstood me," i said; "what i told them was this, that if a business man was not a christian, his friend who is a christian ought to speak to him kindly about his soul." i had been introduced to the lieutenant-governor by one of the great politicians of the state, who was a sincere christian, and i said, "suppose our mutual friend here should come to you and say, 'i am a christian. i think it is the best thing for a man to be a christian. i am not always what i would like to be myself, but i should like to invite you to become a christian.' then suppose he should tell you what a strength and help it had been to him, what would you say to him?" he looked at me for a moment, and said, "i think i should say 'thank you.'" i am sure thousands could be won to jesus christ if the members of the church were consistent in the matter of living in christ and giving an invitation to people to become acquainted with him. it is not fair to charge the minister with being professional, nor to say that in his appeal he is perfunctory. nor is it always just to criticize those who are in the church, for not speaking to the unsaved, for there may be an explanation. sometimes we feel a sense of our own unworthiness. there are business men who know that if they should speak to their employees, the first speech would have to be a confession of failure. there are women who know that if they should go to their husbands or children, and ask them to come to christ, they would have first of all to say, "you must forgive my inconsistency." there are fathers who know that they could not go to their homes and call their children around them, and bid them come to christ without first saying, "you must forgive your father." but if a confession is necessary, then make it. it is sometimes a sense of unworthiness that seals one's lips, but remember if you have a friend who is not a christian, and to whom you have never spoken of christ, your friend counts you inconsistent because of your failure. i said to the officers in my church one evening, "how many of you have ever led a soul to christ?" about half of them said they never had. one officer said, "that is a sharp question for me. if you will excuse me i will go home and speak to my children, to-night." he did so, and i received two of his sons into the church shortly after. again, we seem to have failed to warn our friends because we have such a slight conception of the meaning of the word "lost." a mother in chicago one day carried her little baby over to the doctor, and said, "doctor, look into this baby's eyes, something has gone wrong with them." the doctor took the little child and held it in his arms so that the light would strike its face, he gazed at it only for a moment, then, putting it back into its mother's arms, he shook his head, and the mother said quickly, "doctor, what is it?" and he said, "madam, your baby is going blind. there is no power in this world that can make him see." she held the baby in her arms close up against her heart. then with a cry she fell to the floor in a swoon, saying as she fell, "my god--blind!" i think any parent must know how she felt. but jesus said, "better to be maimed, and halt, and blind than to be lost." if you believe the bible you cannot be indifferent. but you say, some would not like to have you speak to them. i have been twenty-seven years a minister, and have spoken to all classes and conditions of men and women, and only in one single instance have i ever been rebuked. i was once asked to speak to the president of a bank. i went into his office, and was introduced to him by the pastor with whom i was staying. i said, "my friend is very interested in you, and i wish i could lead you to christ." he looked at me in perfect amazement. then, rising from the chair, he took me by the hand, and said, "thank you, sir." i saw him that night, make his way down the crowded aisle of the church, give the minister his hand, and say, "i will." but i had a sad experience at college. i roomed with a man when i was a student for the ministry, and never spoke to him about his soul. when the day of my graduation came, and i was bidding him good-bye, he said, "by the way, why have you never spoken to me about becoming a christian?" i would rather he had struck me. i said, "because i thought you did not care." "care!" he said. "there has never been a day that i did not want you to speak; there has never been a night that i did not hope you would speak." i lost an opportunity. i fear some day, i must answer for it. you had an idea that you had no influence, but you must remember that when you speak in the name of jesus christ, god stands back of you; that when you plead for the salvation of a person, all the power of heaven is working through you. some may ask, what is the best time to speak to my friends about christ? i should say, speak to them when they are in trouble, seek them out when others are being saved, but, best of all, go to them when the spirit of god says go, that is the best time. whenever god says "go," he is always making ready the heart for our coming. i was one day walking down the streets of an american city with a methodist minister, when he said to me, "what would you do if you were impressed that you should speak to a man?" i said, "speak to him." he said, "but this man has not been in church for thirteen years." "nevertheless," i said, "speak to him." he turned and made his way to the great house where this business man lived. he rang the bell, and the door was opened by the gentleman himself, who said, "doctor, i am glad to see you. i have been in all day thinking you might come." and in a very few minutes he was kneeling in the library with this gentleman whom he quickly led to christ. a year later i was passing through the city of chicago, when, picking up a newspaper, i noticed that this man whom the minister had won to christ, had died suddenly. i got a letter from the minister not long afterwards, and he said, "i was with him when he died. he sent a messenger for me to come and see him, and when i arrived he turned his face towards mine and said, "dr ----, thank you for coming that day, for if you had missed that day, i might have missed this. then he began to sing as best he could. he raised himself on his pillow, with his arms outreaching, and said, "jesus lover of my soul," and passed away. the minister's letter was marked with tears, and down at the foot of it was written this sentence; "god helping me, i will never hesitate again." they are all about us, men with aching hearts, men caught by the power of sin, young people and older people as well. they are waiting. preaching may not win them; singing may not touch them. but personal effort will. i might change the text and make it read: "the world does not care for your soul," you may win it, and it will mock you. satan does not care for your soul. he will fascinate you and snare you, and when you say, "oh, wretched man that i am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" there will be no deliverance. but god cares. christ cares. the minister cares, and thousands of others care. some are saying, "what must i do to be a christian?" a gentleman once said to me, "i do not love god." another person once said, "you talk about love for christ; is it like love for my mother, because if it is i have not got it." no, it is not like that. that is not the first step in the way. tell them god does not say, "love me, and i will save you." god says, "trust me. accept my conditions, believe on my son and follow him." there was a great man in a western city who had a little girl who was deaf and dumb. he loved his child so much that he would not allow anybody to teach her. she had a kind of sign language which they both understood, but nobody else was allowed to teach her. this gentleman at one time had occasion to leave home and go abroad. he could not take his daughter with him, so his minister persuaded him to send her over to an institution where she could be taught to use the sign language of the deaf and dumb. he took her over himself, never for a moment imagining that she would learn to speak with her lips, as she did. the months passed by, and when the father returned, the minister went with him to see his child in the institution. the little girl had been told that he was coming, and looking out of the window she saw her father coming through the gate. she sprang to the door, and ran down the steps, and along the walk until she reached her father. then she climbed up into his arms, and, putting her lips up against his ear, she said, "father, i love you, i love you." the great man held her out at arm's length, looked into her face, then pressed her more closely to his heart and fell in a faint--when he recovered consciousness he was sobbing. all the day he kept saying, "i have heard her speak, and she loves me, she loves me." so tell the people very plainly that god does not say, "love me." he says, "believe on me; trust me; follow me." then ask them, will you do it? and if they will follow him, having accepted his son as their saviour, and with his help having turned from sin, then if they will obey him, they will come to love him with all their hearts. chapter vi _winning the young_ "there is a lad here," john vi. 9. jesus had just crossed over the sea of galilee and, attracted by the miracles which he had wrought, great multitudes had followed after him. in order that he might escape the throng, he went up into a mountain and there he sat with his disciples. when the master saw the great company stretching out on every side of him he said unto philip, "whence shall we buy bread that these may eat." philip was so amazed at the crowd that he answered him, "two hundred pennyworth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one of them may take a little." then one of his disciples, andrew, simon peter's brother, said unto him, "_there is a lad here_ which hath five barley loaves and two small fishes." then jesus made the multitude sit down, and took the loaves and gave to the disciples, and the disciples to them that were seated, and likewise of the fishes as much as they would, and when they were filled, the fragments that remained filled twelve baskets. the presence of this lad and the service which he rendered to jesus, as well as the use which the master made of him, all help us to teach our lesson. youth is the time to turn to christ. the wise man knew this when he said, "remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth; while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh; when thou shalt say, i have no pleasure in them." sin has not so strong a hold upon a life in the time of youth, therefore it is the easiest time to turn to christ. i once heard a man tell the story of his special work among outcast men and women, and when i asked him he told me how he himself was converted. he said that as a boy in london, he was left one day in charge of the private office. he said "i wanted to write a letter and i took the firm's note-paper; i used one of their envelopes, and when i wanted postage i opened the private drawer of the safe, the door of which was swinging open, and took out one postage stamp, and when i put this stamp upon my letter and dropped it into the post-box i felt as if i had dropped my character with it. that was the beginning, and the end was a prison cell, for i went from one form of thieving to another until i was obliged to pay the penalty. i found christ while i was in prison, but i feel as if the mark of my early sin would never leave me. i would urge every boy to accept christ," he said, "before the cords of sin bind him too securely." when one reaches the age of eighteen he finds it extremely difficult to turn away from the sins that are mastering him, and when he passes beyond twenty years of age, the tide against him is extremely heavy. the critical time in the life of boys and girls is from twelve to twenty. if they do not accept christ during these years, it is wellnigh impossible to win them. if this is true then we must make the most of the opportunities of influencing the youth whom god is ever bringing before us. the scripture used in connection with this feeding of the multitude is a good illustration. it is a lad who confronts us, and this is, as has been said, the favourable time for bringing christian influence to bear upon him. there is a time in the life of every boy when it is comparatively easy to win him to christ. parents surely know this, and sunday school teachers may easily discover it. "how did you come to christ?" said a new york minister to a little boy. his reply was, "my sunday school teacher took me last sunday out into the park. she drew me away from the crowd and took her seat beside me. she asked me if i would become a christian. i felt that i ought to do so, and because her invitation was so definite, and she seemed so interested, i told her i would do so, and because i am a christian i went to join the church." too much cannot be said in favour of reaching the young while they are in the days of their youth. recently in an audience of 4500 people i found that at least 400 of the audience came to christ under 10 years of age; between 10 and 12, 600; between 12 and 14, 600; between 14 and 16, about 1000; between 16 and 20, fully one half, and in the entire audience not more than 25 people came to christ after they were 30 years of age. five hundred ministers were in the same audience. the majority of them were converted before they were 16 years of age; 40 of them between 16 and 20; and only 15 out of the 500 ministers were converted after they were 20. this in itself is an unanswerable argument in favour of personal work for the young. the lad is here now before us, but he will soon be gone. boys quickly grow into manhood. as a rule religious influence weakens as they pass on, while the power of sin increases. many young men would turn to christ if they thought they could, but it seems to them that the attraction towards evil is almost, if not quite irresistible. i recently heard a christian gentleman speaking before a great audience in london. he was telling of his going over the alps in the care of a trusted guide. as they came to one of the most dangerous places in the journey his guide stopped him, and said, "do you see those footprints off here to the right?" the gentleman said he did, plainly. "do you notice," said the guide, "how they get farther and farther apart?" and when asked to give an explanation he said that a week before a young telegraph operator had attempted to cross the mountains without a guide, that just at the place where they were standing his hat blew off, and, without thinking, he reached out after it, lost his balance and started to fall. in trying to recover himself he started down the mountain to the right. the way was all covered with snow; when once he started he could not stop; farther and farther apart were his footprints until at last they were lost on the edge of a great abyss. he had gone over to his death. it is thus that young men go to destruction. because they do, we ought to be instant in season and out of season in seeking to arrest their downward progress. when jesus took the loaves and fishes in the possession of the lad and brought to bear upon them his own marvellous power, the results were great. no one realises what is being accomplished when he assists or influences a boy. i am wondering what that minister, who led spurgeon to christ, thinks of his work now that he sees it from the heavenly standpoint, and i have many times thought i should like to ask the business man who spoke to d.l. moody about his soul, what estimate he puts upon the importance of the work he did that day. to win a boy to christ may be to turn towards the master one who may one day move the world for christ. a great number of chinese young men have come from their native land to study in the educational institutions of the united states. some of them have found christ in these institutions, others have passed through their course of study and returned to their native land without a hope in the saviour. what a marvellous work might have been accomplished if the christian students in these educational institutions had set themselves to win these chinese boys. the students in china are to have an increasing influence in the government, and if the majority of them had been led to christ, the whole chinese government might have been powerfully affected. some years ago there came to the united states a little chinese boy. he was sent to a new england educational institution, and made his home in the house of a very humble woman. she knew christ and loved him, and she recognised the presence of this little boy as presenting an opportunity for service. she treated him as if he were her own child. she mothered him and grew to love him. she taught him how to read the bible and she told him the story of jesus and his love. that little boy came to christ. he passed through the educational institution, went back to china to exercise his strongest influence for righteousness, and has recently been entrusted with the commission of bringing to the united states a number of other chinese boys, all of whom, it is said, he will place in institutions that are christian. the poor woman in new england did not realise that when she led one boy to christ that she was touching forty others. this is the fascination of christian work. some of the noblest men and women the church has ever known came to christ in youth. polycarp, matthew henry, jonathan edwards, the immortal watts, john hall, and a countless host of others who have served conspicuously in the advancement of the kingdom of god, came to christ before they were fifteen years of age, some of them coming as early as seven. the lad is here, it will be a pity if we allow him to grow to manhood without a hope in christ all because we do not seek to win him. chapter vii _winning and holding_ "from a child thou hast known the holy scriptures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation through faith which is in christ jesus," 2 timothy iii. 15. timothy's inheritance was invaluable. his equipment was superb, and his experience from the day of his birth until the end of his life upon earth, ideal. he had a good grandmother. evidently she influenced him profoundly. i am quite sure that his parents too must have fulfilled their obligations to their child, and in addition to his own immediate ancestry, he had paul, the apostle, who looked upon him as a son in the gospel, and honoured him by sending him his last message when he said, "i have fought a good fight, i have finished my course, i have kept the faith; henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day, and not to me only, but to all them also that love his appearing. do thy diligence to come shortly unto me" 2 timothy iv. 7-9. it is a great loss to any child to be deprived of what timothy had. we may not all be rich, and we certainly cannot all be great, but we may all be true and faithful as parents, and when a child has such an inheritance he is well started in life. it is because children do not have this that many of them drift. given a good ancestry it is comparatively easy to draw children to christ, and even to draw them back when once they have wandered. it is the testimony of rescue mission workers that when they have the privilege of appealing to lost and ruined men in the name of a mother who was saintly and a father who was true to christ, they have a hold upon an almost irresistible force, to bring the wanderer back to the faith of his father and the teaching of his mother. there is the sorest need to-day of a special and continued interest in behalf of our young people. david starr jordan is authority for the statement that "one-third of the young men of america are wasting themselves through intemperate habits and accompanying vices," the conditions in other lands are also very serious. the secretary of the college association of north america has been quoted as saying that there are twelve thousand college men in new york city alone who are down and out through vice. "talk of the ravages of war. the ravages of war, pestilence and disease combined are as nothing compared with the awful moral ravages wrought in the teen period. the shores are strewn thick with the wasted lives of those who have been wrecked in youth." "we have been seeking results too far afield and overlooking great opportunities near at hand. if you take a census of a christian congregation and ask those who were converted before their eighteenth birthday to rise, five-sixths of your congregation will stand. this means that five-sixths of all the people who give themselves to christ do it on the under side of the eighteenth year. put beside this the fact that we have more than 12,000,000 children and youth in the protestant sunday schools of america under eighteen years of age and you will see that our great evangelistic opportunity does not lie outside of the church, but inside, in the sunday school department. here we have a vast army, ready and waiting for the christian call."[1] [footnote 1: rev edgar blake.] it is one thing to lead souls to christ, it is quite another thing to hold them when once they have been won. the serious time for drifting is between the ages of twelve and twenty. if we could but safeguard these years we would hold for the church many who drift out upon the sea of life, make shipwreck of their hopes and break the hearts of those who are interested in them. "an investigation in the wesleyan church of england showed that only ten per cent of the sunday school were held in active membership in the church. ten per cent. were held in a merely nominal relationship. eighty per cent. were lost entirely. this is a fair statement of the situation in many churches. we have lost multitudes of our youth who might have been saved if they had been properly cared for. "at the very time the church loses its grip upon the boys and girls the public school loses its grip also. the exodus begins about the fifth grade, and at the eighth grade fifty per cent. of the scholars have departed. at the twelfth grade, near the middle teens, ninety per cent. of the scholars have gone out from the public schools. thus these two most powerful forces in the creation of character, the church and the school, lose their hold upon youth at the same time. "the home also loses its hold at this period. up to his middle teens your youth accepts everything on the authority of others, but midway of the critical teen period there comes an awakening. the consciousness of his own personality, his right to make decisions for himself comes to him for the first time. sometimes spontaneously, sometimes gradually, but always he breaks with authority. he insists upon deciding matters for himself. parents may counsel, but they cannot determine[1]." [footnote 1: rev edgar blake.] "a gentleman came to a friend of mine at the close of an address which he had delivered and said to him, 'i was much interested in what you said about the boys we lose. i teach a class of the finished product.' 'where do you teach?' said i. 'in the state prison' he said. a few years ago seventy-five per cent. of the inmates of the minnesota state prison were boys who had once been in sunday school and had been permitted to drift away. the later teen age, sixteen to twenty, is the criminal period. it is an appalling thing that 12,000 children were brought before the courts of new york in 1909, and in the same year more than 15,000 boys and girls suffered arrest in chicago. our criminal ranks are added to, at the rate of 300,000 a year, and in the vast majority of cases the criminal course is begun in the teen age. is it necessary? is this awful waste--this moral havoc--unavoidable? i believe not. recently a young man in his teens was convicted of theft in the court of milwaukee. when the judge asked him if he had anything to say before sentence was pronounced upon him, the young man arose, pale with excitement and said, 'your honour, my father and mother died when i was three years old. i never had anyone who loved or cared for me. i have been kicked about all my life. judge, i never would have been a thief if i had had a chance.' this is the pitiful plea of thousands who have been wrecked around us. they were not shepherded and they went astray." there is a way to hold the majority of those whom we may win to the saviour. a friend of mine led to christ a young man who had gone to the very depths of sin and shame. he was a drunkard; he had disgraced his father's name; had broken his wife's heart, and when his little boy died he did not have enough money to bury the child decently; when the mother put the child in the grave the father was wild with drink, and he was buried without his father being present. but my friend won this man to christ. after he was saved, every day for three weeks he went to sit by his side and talk with him; he guarded him at the critical time; he kept him from growing discouraged; he hindered him from drinking. to-day this man is himself one of the most noted rescue mission workers in the world, and is being used of god to save multitudes of men who like himself had gone down through drink. it is what we are ourselves that largely counts in the holding of our friends for christ. paul wrote to titus saying, "in all things showing thyself a pattern of good works ... that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you," which is only another way of saying that a christian life is an unanswerable argument in favour of christ. when our lives are right with god; when we keep ourselves unspotted from the world; when we quickly confess our own failure or wrongdoing; when we have a concern not only that others should be saved, but that they might do something for christ after their salvation, it is comparatively easy to hold them, and to keep from drifting those who have just started along the way. when my friend s.h. hadley, the great rescue missionary, was lying in his coffin, a timid knock was heard at the door of the room where the body was resting. when the one who had knocked entered the room it was found that he was a drunkard, he had fallen from a high position to the very depths of despair, and as he stood timidly in the presence of the sorrowing friends of the great man, he said, "i thought i would like to come and look into his face and if i might be permitted to do so i would like to touch his hand. he did his best to win me while he was living and now that he is dead i cannot let his body be placed in the grave without coming here by the side of his casket to yield myself to christ. all that he has said has followed me and i cannot get away from it." timothy knew the scriptures, and a familiarity with god's word is one of the best preventives in the case of drifting. one verse of scripture committed to memory each day would help us to overcome the tempter; would keep us in loving touch with jesus christ; would inspire us to higher and holier living; and these suggestions made to those whom we win to christ would keep them from wandering. it is the man who does not know his bible who finds himself an easy prey to the wicked one. the ability to pray is also a god-given force which keeps us from drifting. when we read the bible god talks to us; when we pray we talk to him. we cannot always speak plainly of our condition to those about us, but we may tell him what we are and what we wish we might have been. and while it is true that he knows before we speak, it is also true that in the telling we draw nearer to him, and drawing nearer we absorb a little bit more of his spirit, and in that spirit we stand. service is also one of the surest preventives from wandering. it is when the brain is idle that evil thoughts master it; when the heart is given up to impure imaginations that we find it easy to fall. and it is when we are busy lifting others' burdens; making the way easier for others to travel; comforting those who are in distress; speaking a word of cheer to the cheerless, and above all, when we are seeking to lead others to christ, that we ourselves grow in grace and in the knowledge of our lord and saviour jesus christ. if these things are true, and we know they are, then it is the duty of every christian not only to seek to win another to christ, but by all means to seek to hold him when once he is won, and that which we know holds us will keep others from stumbling. the suggestions made above are for the young as well as the more mature. young people will be interested in spiritual things if we have sufficient interest in them ourselves to make them attractive. if we would show as great interest in helping to keep those whom we may have won for christ, as we revealed when we were seeking them, fewer of them would drift. chapter viii _a practical illustration_ it will be a great day when the church is aroused to the responsibility and privilege of personal work. in swansea, wales, with mr charles m. alexander, i had the satisfaction of conducting a mission in which i preached for an entire week on soul winning. i then urged the people to go forth and labour, and asked them to come back with their reports. these reports were thrilling. often ten or twelve people would be standing at the one time waiting to speak. the following are only a few testimonies taken from the many:-a minister said: "i spoke to a bright young fellow, under the influence of drink, as i was going home in the car last night. he got off the car when i did, so i stood at the street corner and talked with him for a few minutes. he told me that he had been a follower of the lord jesus many years ago, but had fallen away through bad company. i asked him to pray for himself. he said he could not, but asked me to pray for him. and there on that street corner i put my arm around his shoulder and we prayed together, and he has promised to come to the meeting to-night." "about three years ago," said another, "i came in touch with a man who has been the biggest and most hardened scoffer i have had to contend with. he had such a sarcastic way of ridiculing the lord jesus christ. but this last fortnight i have seen a distinct change in that young man's life. last week, as we were working near to one another, i spoke to him and his eyes filled with tears. he said, 'i have decided to come out and accept christ.' i could hardly credit it, but it has proved to be real, and when i see god moving in such a hard case as this, i have hope for every sinner in this city." another said, "i came to the lord three years ago, one of the worst drunkards in swansea. since the saviour found me, i have spoken to men on their death-beds. i have spoken to drunkards all over swansea, but i neglected my own charge that god had given to me. dr chapman woke me up to approach my own household and children. it was the greatest struggle in all my life. i went to my two boys and put my hands on their shoulders saying, 'i want you to do something for jesus and for your father.' they said, 'father, we will do it.' two of my boys came to the albert hall yesterday and gave their hearts to jesus. this has been one of the most blessed weeks i have had since i was saved three years ago." "on thursday night i had been asking the lord to lead me to the right one to speak to. he led me to a young man of sixteen years of age who was under tremendous conviction. he said, 'i think i will make a clean breast of it. i have done something,' and he told me his story. this young lad, in his employer's service for four years, last week, for the first time, began to steal. he turned out his pocket and showed me what he had. he said, 'what shall i do? i go to bed at night and i cannot sleep, it is haunting me.' i said, 'look here, laddie, do this. go to your master to-morrow morning, and make a clean breast of it and get the victory.' 'what about my situation?' said the boy. 'i will pray for you,' i said. 'if your master is so unkind as to dismiss you, come to me and i will see what i can do.' it was a long time before he gave in, but eventually he said, 'i will.' i prayed for him, and last night i got this letter: 'victorious! devil conquered; overjoyed. i cannot very well explain what i experienced so will be pleased to meet you on thursday next in the mission at albert hall.'" a week later this gentleman said: "i have a lot to thank god for these last ten days. i have had a glorious blessing. i can say with all humility, i have been on fire for jesus. i had a letter yesterday from the young man whom i was talking about last sunday. he says, 'dear friend, my only regret now is that i did not accept jesus as my saviour years ago. it would have saved me so much trouble. i explained everything to my master and handed him the article back. then he gave me two-thirds of this particular article and burned the letter. so that is what i got for owning up.'" another said: "i do thank and praise god this morning for the great things he has done in my home. he has brought my children to trust in the saviour. i have great pleasure in reporting that a brother at the works, to whom i spoke a week ago, has decided for christ. one of the workers presented me with a testament to give to that brother, who was in very poor circumstances, and he received it with joy. the following day he came to tell me that he had read a chapter to his wife. his wife is travelling the wrong way. they have five little children, and on thursday i took them to the meeting. on friday morning he came to thank me for taking them there, and told me that during his absence from the house, his eldest boy, of about ten years of age, had got into a bible reading circle, led by a christian boy, and he asked his father if he could spare sixpence for him to buy a testament. what joy filled my heart and soul from the fact that i could present that little lad with a testament, and i sent my own lad back a mile, yesterday, with it. "i spoke to a dear christian brother last night at the works. i asked him if his household were saved. 'i have one boy of sixteen not saved,' he said 'brother, will you promise me to speak to him when you go home?' he went home and put his hand on the shoulder of the lad and gave him the invitation. the boy gladly promised to accept jesus." continuing with the reports, one said: "last night, in one of our public houses i spoke to a woman about jesus. years ago she had lost her husband and instead of going to god for comfort she had turned to drink. she became a drunkard and had separated from her children. when i spoke to her she said, 'i know i am a sinner. i am the worst woman in swansea, but i want to be good.' 'will you decide now?' we asked her. 'yes,' she said. she came out into the cold biting wind and knelt in the open air, and there she sent up this simple prayer: 'oh, god, although i am a bad woman, please make me good, for jesus' sake.' later she arose in a crowded meeting and told her story, concluding with this remark, 'by god's help i am going to be a child of god.'" another said: "on the second night of the mission i was led to speak to a dear brother who was a back-slider. i plead with him that evening to turn to christ, but he did not come to a decision. the next night i went in and talked with him. i asked him again at the close of the meeting would he come back to the lord jesus christ. he told me he could not come back that night. on the following night i went up and spoke to him again. when we got outside the building i said, 'i may not ever have the privilege of speaking to you again. will you kindly give me your name? i will give you a guarantee that no one but god shall know about it. i want your name that i may pray for you.' on tuesday night in the minor hall at the after meeting i searched for him. i had been praying continually every night and morning, and sometimes during the day. when i found him that night i said, 'you have withstood the spirit of god long enough. make a definite decision to-night to return to the lord. if you do not care about coming to the front, fill out this card, but make up your mind to give yourself to christ.' he took the card and filled it out. then i said, 'you know the way of salvation because you have been that way before. when you get home tonight, will you kindly make a definite decision at your bedside?' and he told me he would." another gentleman rose to give his testimony and said: "i belong, as you know, to another city, but i want to speak a word to the glory of god, and for the encouragement of those who have taken up personal work for him. some two years ago in our city i spoke to one who was an inspector in the police force, but who is to-day the chief inspector of our police, about the claims of christ. he told me that i was the first one who had ever spoken to him as to how he stood in relation to these matters for a period of fifteen years. having once broken the ice and spoken to him, i never gave him up. "about two months ago i had occasion to go to the police court to ask his assistance on behalf of a woman who wanted an ejectment notice against another woman who was living in the same house. when he heard the name of the woman who wished to obtain the notice he refused to have anything to do with the matter. she had been a bad character. he said, 'i tell you candidly, she ought to be drowned for her cruelty to her children.' i said, 'you knew her once, but you do not know her now. how long is it since you saw her?' 'about nine weeks' he replied. 'well,' i said, 'nine weeks ago she and her husband both came to christ in our mission hall. for the first time in thirteen years they entered a place of worship. she had a black eye that covered over half her face, but both her husband and she are now christians, and are faithfully following christ to-day. and yet you call her a lost soul.' he said, 'certainly i do. if there is a lost soul she is one.' 'then sir,' i said, striking him on the shoulder, 'jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost. jesus has saved that woman. when she comes on monday night, inspector, just look at her and see what christ has wrought. i ask you to grant her request.' he shook himself free. 'wait a moment, inspector,' i said, 'i have never given up praying for you. you have risen to the position of chief inspector, but i want you not to forget christ.' "on the thursday of the following week he came to my home. when i saw him there i was glad, for he had kept away from me for a long time. i said, 'i am glad to see you in my home.' he said, 'you will be more glad when you know why i have come. in my room the other night i knelt down and gave myself to jesus christ, and asked the lord to save me.' i would ask those of you who are working for souls not to get disheartened and discouraged. when the mission ceases do not give up taking a personal interest in those for whom you are concerned. "some months ago i was sitting in the assize court in your city. i sat next to our chief inspector. the case that was being tried was one of attempted murder. as i sat there following the case this chief inspector turned to me and said, 'why didn't they know him on the road to emmaus?' i said, 'i suppose because their eyes were holden.' he said, 'how did they know him when they got to the home?' i said, 'probably in the breaking of the bread.' 'don't you think,' said he, 'that in the breaking of the bread they saw for the first time the marks of the wounds in his hands and knew him by them?' what a difference christ had made in the life of that chief inspector." a man employed in the steel works rose in one of our meetings to say: "i made my covenant with god last saturday. the burden was laid heavy on my heart on behalf of two souls. one of them was my own little girl. i spoke to her about jesus, and she told me she would accept him as her saviour. i have been working this week on a shift that ran from ten o'clock at night to six o'clock in the morning. on tuesday night i asked the lord to pour out his blessing on our workmen. about one o'clock in the morning i had an opportunity of speaking to a young man. i asked him if he had accepted jesus as his saviour, and he said he had not. then i asked him to be honest before god, and i said, 'will you accept him now?' with a smile he looked up at me and said, 'tom, i will accept jesus as my saviour now.' i have brought some of my mates with me here to-day and i thank god for what he has done. "down at the works the other day there was a young man who came on duty at three o'clock in the morning. i knew he was troubled about his soul, and i spoke to him. i said, 'are you in trouble about your soul?' he said, 'yes, i am.' 'well,' i said, 'jesus has died to save you. will you accept him now?' he said to me, 'but, tom, i have done this and that,' 'well,' i said, 'jesus has died for you, will you accept him?' as he looked me straight in the face he said, 'yes, i will.' "i asked these men who had accepted jesus and one or two others, to come up to my home at six o'clock when we finished work. as we went through the yard there was a boy about fifteen years of age standing there and we got him to come along with us. in my home we had a small meeting. i asked god to pour down his blessing upon us. i asked one friend who was drifting, if he had ever accepted christ, and he said at one time during a revival. i said, 'praise god for that. he is willing to receive you back. will you come?' and he said, 'at three o'clock this very morning, i came back to the lord jesus.' and then i turned to the boy of fifteen and said, 'are you willing to accept the saviour?' and he said he didn't think he was ready. i said, 'well, my boy, if you don't, what will become of you?' he said, 'i will go to hell, i suppose.' not long afterwards he accepted the saviour.[1] [footnote 1: this man worked at night and slept during the day.] "yesterday i could not sleep. i went home from my work. i was up in the morning with a burden on my heart because of the poor souls who were going to eternity without a saviour. a young woman came to our house and started to sing 'lord save swansea,' and the words kept ringing in my ears. i went back to bed but could not sleep. i had no peace. i said, 'well, lord, i believe thou hast surely started the work.' i went to the works last night. i did not feel very well as i had been up all day. i asked some of the men if they would come to a prayer meeting for the mission. we did not have much time before work commenced, but we went in and i asked one of the young fellows if he would accept jesus. he replied, 'i must have time to think of it.' the next night i said to him, 'johnnie, have you thought of what we spoke on last night?' and he said, 'i have been in trouble about my soul.' before we had tea i asked him if he would accept christ now. he said, 'i cannot do it now.' i said, 'god will give you strength.' we went into a little shop and i prayed for him. at three o'clock this morning i spoke to him again. 'johnnie,' i said, 'can you see the way clear?' 'yes,' he said, 'i can see the way clear now. i will accept jesus as my personal saviour.'" chapter ix _whosoever will_ all classes of persons may do personal work if they will. a prominent business man in a welsh city began to do this work and one morning spoke to eighteen people before breakfast. several, to whom he spoke, accepted christ. making a further report of his work, he said. "an old man, about seventy years of age, whose face was white and who appeared to be very ill, was leaning against the wall of a building near where i have my office. i said to him, 'have you been to the mission?' 'no,' he said, 'i have not.' i then asked him if he had accepted christ. 'well,' he said, 'i have been a believer all my life.' i said, 'are you saved?' 'i cannot say that,' he replied. 'why?' i asked; 'god says, "he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life. do you believe that?' he stood staring me in the face for a few minutes, when he said, 'i never saw it in that light before.' i said, 'will you take him at his word now?' and he replied, 'yes, i will.' "an old woman, an office cleaner, was making her way up the steps of a building. as i came up i recognised her, and said, 'mrs bell, i have been constrained to ask you if you have accepted jesus christ as your personal saviour.' she looked at me, then setting down her broom she said, 'i want to, but no one has ever asked me,' 'well,' i said, 'i ask you now. will you accept him just here? will you say, lord jesus i accept thee as my personal saviour?' but she could not see the way. after some conversation i asked her if she would come to the hall and hear dr chapman and mr alexander, and she said she would go that evening. i was unable to go to the service myself that night and did not see her until the following saturday morning. she came to my office and said, 'since you spoke to me a few days ago i have had no peace. i am in an awful state, and unless i take jesus i shall die. i am sure i shall because i cannot live like this.' and right there in the office she knelt down and accepted christ as her saviour and had the joy that always comes with this acceptance. "this morning, the very first man i met, i was constrained to speak to about jesus. i introduced myself by asking him if he had been to the mission. he said, 'yes, i was at the grand theatre last sunday afternoon.' 'well,' i said, 'did you give your heart to the lord?' 'no,' he replied, 'i did not.' i said 'why?' 'because i missed my opportunity,' was his answer. i said to him, 'will you do it now?' 'do it now!' he exclaimed. 'listen,' i said, 'god says in his word. as many as received him to them gave he power to become the sons of god. will you receive him? it is either one thing or the other--receive or reject. your sins have been atoned for by his precious blood. will you take jesus now?' and suddenly, taking me by the hand, he said, 'i will.' "from time to time i have been speaking to a young man belonging to a respectable family. at one time he was being brought up for the ministry, but he got into sin and sank very low. i persuaded him to attend one of the mission meetings. when dr chapman requested all those who wished prayer offered for themselves or for their loved ones, this poor fellow got up in the balcony and said, 'pray for me.' prayer was offered for him, and there, that night, he experienced the joy of salvation. he came to me the other day and said that he had definitely taken jesus christ as his saviour." one would not expect a police officer to be a personal worker, but many of them are, and notably so in great britain. ex-sergeant wheeler of oldham came to attend one of our meetings, and being asked to speak, he said: "though an ex-sergeant, i am not an ex-christian. there are a large number of people who look upon a policeman from many standpoints, but it is very seldom that they see him in the position in which i am placed to-night. they have an idea that a policeman does not exist to preach the gospel or to tell them about jesus christ, and it is christian people who get that idea sometimes." "i know a police sergeant in london who is a particular friend of mine and a great christian worker. a lady went to one of our provincial police conferences in connection with the police association and saw this big man who was so enthusiastic in connection with the work that the lady doubted his genuineness, and to satisfy her curiosity she ascertained his private address, travelled by rail from london, visited his home during his absence, and asked his wife what sort of a man he was. that is the way to find a man out. but she found that he was even a better man in the home than he was out of it. if you want to find what a man's character is, you do not ask about it on special occasions when he is on his guard, you ask what it is when he is at home, it is there that he unconsciously reveals it, and this revelation just because of its unconsciousness, proves invariably correct. "when the lord jesus brought me out of darkness into the light, when he broke the fetters and snapped the chains eleven years ago, i went home and said to my wife, 'i am going to live for jesus, and we will start here, at home. we will have family prayers--we were not a large family, only nine of us, and for the first time in their lives, my children heard their father pray; and there on my knees in all humility i pledged myself before god that i would do anything, make any sacrifice, if by so doing i could help a weaker brother and lift him out of the gutter. that is the way i started. i am not what i ought to be, i am not what i hope to be, but, thank god, by his grace and love, i am what i am and not what i once was. the lord changed my desires when he put a new heart within me. when i see a drunken man in the streets i do not pass him like i used to. my heart goes out to him and i look beyond the man in the streets to the life in the home he comes from, and see the misery there; but i thank god that he put the desire in my heart to try to help that brother. and how often opportunities present themselves. "on one occasion at five o'clock on a sunday morning in the month of august, a policeman and i were going along the street. there was a man standing at a gate near the corner. as we approached he said to me, 'sergeant, can you get me a drink of whisky?' i said, 'that is rather a strange thing to ask a sergeant of police,' 'well,' he said, 'i have plenty of bottled ale in my home, but it sticks in my throat.' i said, 'do you take whisky when you are thirsty?' 'yes,' he replied. i got into conversation with him and after a while i said to him, 'do you ever go to a place of worship?' 'no,' he said, 'i don't, i pay a sovereign for a sitting.' 'that won't get you to heaven,' i said, and after a little further talk with him he remarked, 'sergeant, i am all right financially, but wrong here, in my heart.' and then he said, 'will you come to my home and pray for me?' 'yes,' i replied, und we went. it was not far away, a fine home, a palace to mine, i thought, as i walked across the velvet carpet into the drawing-room. he brought a bible and said, 'read me something out of that.' and he sat down like a little child, to listen. i turned to isaiah liii. 6, and read, 'all we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned everyone to his own way; and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.' 'now,' i said, 'it starts with all and finishes with all, so we are both included.' then i took him to john iii. 16, and then to the last chapter in the book of revelation, verse 17: 'and the spirit and the bride say, come. and let him that heareth say, come. and let him that is athirst--i stopped at that--and whosoever ...' 'now,' i said, 'we will read it again. and after we had read it again we knelt down, and there in that large home i poured out my soul to god over that man. i plead for him, and while i prayed he said, 'lord, if i am not too bad, save me.' i said, 'amen.' and the lord heard his prayer, and before i left the house he was a changed man. when i was leaving he came to the door and said, 'i never bargained for this, this morning, sergeant.' the man who wanted whisky got christ. he drank of something different, he drank of the living water which christ spoke about at the well of samaria when he said, 'whosoever drinketh of the water that i shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that i shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.'" "i left him and went back the following day. i rang the bell and he answered the door himself. i asked him how he was, and he said, 'grand, i have had no whisky.' i went back a month later and he told me he was never so happy in all his life. he said, 'do you remember me telling you i paid a sovereign for my sitting in church? well, i occupy that pew myself now.' and that day he gave me a donation for the christian police association and told me to call again at any time. that is what the lord does when he changes a man's heart. there are many men to-day who may be all right financially; they may have a seat in god's house; they may be members of a church and yet not be right at heart. i urge upon you, get right with god and you will have, not the peace of this world, but the peace that passeth all understanding. "something like seven years ago i went to some services in manchester that were being conducted by dr torrey and mr alexander. at the close of these services i went to the front and took some gospel literature that was there for distribution. when i got home and commenced my duties i began to give this literature to the policemen. i thought the policemen stood as much in need of it as anybody else. if he is a peacemaker, sometimes he is a peacebreaker, and with all due respect to him he is not always a law-abiding man. "there were two booklets in which i was specially interested. one which was called 'god's sure promise,' asked several questions at the close, and then requested the reader to sign his name. the other was, 'get right with god.' i gave the latter to policemen on their beats, and asked them to read them carefully. i went on with my praying. one man received the book with great scorn. about a week after i visited this particular man, and with a smile upon his face he said, 'you remember those two booklets you gave me?' 'yes,' i said. 'well,' he said, 'the one called "god's sure promise" i tore up and put into the fire, the other i tore up and threw over the wall, but not before i read them both. now, i have never got away from that, and about half an hour ago i came to the climax. i got down on my knees in the street, and now i can honestly say that god for christ's sake has pardoned all my sins.' i felt overjoyed with his testimony, for he was the most scornful and bitter man in the division. i was so overjoyed that i walked round his beat with him, talking with him, and giving him words of encouragement. i can never forget that night. from ten o'clock until six in the morning it was one continual downpour of rain. we were soaked through. as we walked round i said, 'we will have a word of prayer.' we took off our helmets, knelt down on the pavement and there we had a little prayer meeting just about two o'clock in the morning. the showers of rain were nothing compared to the showers of blessing we had. i was so delighted when we went off duty that morning that i could not sleep. "i came to manchester when dr torrey was holding a meeting, and during the meeting i sent a note up to dr torrey saying that a policeman wanted to say something. however, the opportunity did not present itself that night. a week after that another policeman came to me and said, 'sergeant, do you remember that booklet you gave me, "god's sure promise?"' i said, 'yes.' 'well,' he said, 'here it is signed.' seven years have passed away since that time, and those two policeman and i have stood together on the platform many and many a time telling the story of jesus and his love. we have had some meetings together and i have seen them speaking to hundreds of men and the lord has blessed them both. if the lord jesus christ can save a policeman, he can save anybody. "i found that we existed for something more than locking up people. i wanted to arrest people in their sin, and going along the street one night in company with another constable we were called into a little house. the kind people there had taken in a woman off the street. she was lying on the floor in a very drunken condition, unconscious of everything around her. i knew this woman, she was about twenty-seven years of age. i made her acquaintance when i used to be on night duty. every saturday night or in the early hours of sunday morning i used to find her door open--her home was in a little side street, that kind of people generally live in a side street. it was about three o'clock on sunday morning when i walked in and saw the man lying on the floor and the wife who was also drunk, lying on a sofa. the next time i was on night duty i found the same door open, and this time the wife was lying on the floor and the man on the sofa, and both were drunk. "these kind people that i spoke of, consented to keep the woman there while i went to see the husband. i got to the house but found that he had removed to a little room in a little back street. there he was lying on a bit of a shake-down. i roused him up and told him where he would find his wife. he said, 'what time is it?' i said, 'three o'clock in the afternoon.' he had one shilling left and he took a cab and went and brought his wife home. "a few days afterwards i got them both to sign the pledge. the man was about the same age as his wife. he told me he did not know the taste of tea and coffee, he drank nothing but beer. he only had the clothes he stood up in. four months passed after he signed the pledge. i met him one night and he had on a black suit of clothes and a watch and guard in his pocket. i was delighted to see him. some time after that i went to address a very large temperance meeting. the hall was packed, and when i went on to the platform who should be there but this young fellow occupying the chair. what a sight it was to me! he pointed out to me his wife in the audience. there she sat, all smiling and well dressed. time went on and i was the means not only of keeping them to the pledge but of bringing them to christ; the christ of the gospel; the christ that has bridged the gulf between god and the gutter; between the saint and the sot; between the pew and the slum. "oh, what a pleasure it has been to see how that man works for jesus. i went to his house some time after that. it was not in the back streets, although he worked there and got some people to sign the pledge. but he came out into the front street, and there was a knocker on his door. when i knocked, his wife admitted me into the sitting room. she told me that sunday morning that her husband was out visiting the sick. i know that he brought many men to the sunday morning bible class. he told me this story. 'do you know,' he said, 'when i used to spend all my money in the public house, oftentimes on the holidays i would take the landlord's luggage to the station for the price of a pint of beer. not long ago we had our holiday, and instead of taking the landlord's luggage to the station i had a man to carry mine, and as we were going up the street with this man walking in front of us we passed one of the public houses where i had often spent my wages. the landlord was standing at the door. when he saw me passing he said, 'what does this mean?' i said, 'it means that i am going to ireland instead of thee.' that man is being used to-day in god's service. the blood of jesus christ cannot only save but it can keep." chapter x _conversion is a miracle_ when one turns from sin to christ and thus becomes a new creature, it is entirely the work of god. he must feel a sense of his need and appreciate the power of the saviour, but it is the power of the holy spirit of god that transforms him. the stories of men and women who have been brought to christ are always thrilling. every christian ought to be a soul winner, and however many other obligations may rest upon him, the obligation of introducing others to jesus christ is of the first importance. if our lives are right; if we are wholly submitted to him; if we are quick to do his bidding; if we have a familiarity with the scriptures; if we have a confidence in the willingness of god to save; then we are emboldened to seek the lost and turn to those who are furthest away from christ. to know that others have been won to him is always an inspiration. recently in one of our meetings in new york, the salvation army forces came to assist us, and they brought with them some men and women whose stories of conversion were truly remarkable. in quick succession they appeared before an audience of several thousand. the first speaker modestly began by saying: "what i am this afternoon, i am by the grace of god. for years and years i had been nothing but an every-day drunkard. not far from where the salvation army held their open air meetings was an old lamp post. one sunday afternoon i heard their music and their singing, and i made my way to this lamp post. if it had not been there i believe i would never have been saved, for i was so intoxicated i could not stand. "after the meeting was over one of the sisters came to me and said, 'my brother, wont you come along to the meeting? you need salvation.' 'yes,' i said, 'i need something better than what i have got.' at the same time i did not go--i finished up the day in the saloon. i came out into the open air again and the devil said, 'you cannot mix with these people they are too far above you.' by and by there came a man who said he had been every bit as bad as i was, and he told me how his life had been changed. and my eyes were opened then and there, and i kept going to the meetings and i got some decent clothes, and a home of my own--though i had been working every day i had not a home to go to--but when i was converted all became changed. and now i am perfectly happy. my life is completely made over. i never think of drink and have no desire for it. i have a happy home and a "little lump of glory" for a wife. "when i first became a christian the devil said to me, 'you cannot stay there with those people, there is a whisky bill you have not yet paid. suppose you are out in one of those open air meetings and the saloon keeper should see you and say, 'why, he owes me six dollars,' what could you say then?' i went to that saloon keeper and said to him, 'how much do i owe you?' and he said, 'six dollars.' 'well,' i said, 'i want to pay it.' i did pay it then and there, and glory to god he has kept me from then to this day." the next testimony was that of a former anarchist. before he was converted he did not have a shirt to his back. he is now a business man in new york city, and prosperous. "it was about eighteen years ago that i was with a group of men in a back street attending a meeting of anarchists, when the police came along and broke up the meeting. i made off as fast as i could, but i did not get away fast enough, for the police officer caught me by the arm and took me away to prison. while i was there the salvation army came to preach to us. thank god for that night! it was the first time i had heard salvation preached, for i come from the stock of abraham, isaac, and jacob. when i got out of goal i went to the salvation army. there stood on the platform that night two girls. they told me about jesus. they spoke of salvation for the drunkard, but that did not appeal to me; they spoke of salvation for the unbeliever, but that did not appeal to me; and when they spoke of salvation for the thief, neither did that appeal to me. then one night they said salvation is for the jew. i said to myself, 'that means me.' i came forward that night and got rid of my wretchedness and my misery; i came for salvation, and the jew got salvation.' "i moved away from the bowery, for that was where i spent most of my time. i have walked down the bowery many a night with not a place to lie down in, with not fifteen cents to pay for a bed, and not a shirt to my back. thank god, i moved away from the bowery. i started in business myself. to-day i have a splendid business connected with twenty houses on broadway. hallelujah! godlessness, sin, vice, takes a man off broadway and puts him on the bowery; salvation takes a man from the bowery and puts him on broadway." in the year 1880, the second convert in the salvation army in the united states was made, and after years of testing he came before us to speak as follows: "i started to drink when about thirteen years of age, and i kept drinking till the salvation army came to new york in 1880. i read in the papers about seven sisters coming over to open up the forces in the united states. there used to be an old lady who came to our house to see my mother. she was a methodist, and my mother was also a methodist. she used to come there like an old grandmother and darn stockings. one day she said she would like to go to the salvation army, and asked me to take her. i was leading such a dissipated and drunken life, that i had no money to pay the car fare, but she slipped ten cents into my hand and we went to the salvation army that night. she was very deaf and got me away up to the front. the spirit of god took hold of me, and the salvation army people, in the way they have, got after me. one of the officers came up and said, 'are you saved?' i said, 'no, i could not be saved.' i managed to get out of the meeting that night without giving my heart to god. but all the time there was something taking hold of me. i tried to drown it in drink. on sunday night with the old lady i was back at the army again. on monday night i was drunk again. on tuesday night i knelt down and gave my heart to jesus, and a salvationist said, 'now brother, if you want the lord to do anything, you just tell him.' "before that time i had served two terms in the penitentiary. sometimes twice a week i would be brought into the police court for drunkenness. every time i went out and got drunk i would get arrested. i tried to get away from this life and went out west. i thought if i got out there and got into new surroundings things would be different. i got as far as hornsville, new york, and got arrested there. i got a little further west and was arrested again. but i never got rid of the kind of life i used to live until i came to the lord jesus christ. that was thirty years ago. the lord is not only able to save a man but, thank god, he is able to keep him." this is the story of an english baronet. he went wrong in england, came to america as a cow boy, was wild and reckless, but was soundly converted. he said: "i will not say much about myself. perhaps you already know something about me. you may have seen my picture in the papers, telling of my past life, but i want to try to tell you, to the glory of god, how i was born again. "when i succeeded my father to one of the oldest titles in england, in the year 1907, i was wild and reckless. i came over to america. to escape from a wild scrape i beat the sheriff in colorado into utah. then i went home to england in 1908 and took over the title of the estate, and i made the occasion simply one drunken spree. i was out for all the devilment i could get into. i hated the church. i hated religion. i hated anything good. when i went down to the old church which is in the grounds of the estate, they said to me, 'what will you do about the minister?' i said, 'i would kick the fool out, but the law would make me put in another.' if anybody mentioned the salvation army to me, i would refer to them as thieves and liars. "i came back to america and immediately got involved in some more sprees, such as driving horses into saloons, and other devilment. then i crossed again to london and started a wild-west show of my own in the london hippodrome. i came back to america deeper in sin than ever. one day i was sitting in a saloon planning a fresh escapade when a salvation army sister came in with her tambourine and some 'war cries.' she looked at me and said, 'are you a christian?' i said, 'no.' she gave me the address of the headquarters and asked me to come up. the bar-tender turned round and said, 'go up and rope somebody.' i said, 'i will go up.' there was something different about me. i did not know what was wrong with myself i went up to the open-air meeting and was as quiet as a mouse. for five or six days i could not keep away from the headquarters. i did not know what was wrong. i went out to see some moving pictures to see if i could see myself amongst them; then i went and had another drink; but back to the salvation army headquarters i had to go. i was getting almost crazy. i reached the point when i had either to give in or kill myself. "i locked the door of my room and then got down on my knees and asked god to forgive me. do you know, it seemed as if hell was turned loose around me. everything said, 'you have gone too far; you are too big a sinner,' i said, 'but jesus died for me.' i prayed and prayed, and i heard that voice come and say, 'go and sin no more,' it was just as if a finger had touched my soul. my prayer turned from one of supplication to one of thankfulness for what god had done for me. i was born again. i rose up with the old life gone, and my two greatest blessings are that all that old life is blotted out for ever, and that i have the knowledge that the spirit of jesus my saviour is in me, and i dwell in him. the union between us is perfect. i thank god for that." the following story was told by a man who had been a successful lawyer. he had gone down into the depths of sin and by the power of god's grace had been redeemed. he began by saying:- must jesus bear the cross alone, and all the world go free? no, there's a cross for you to bear, and there's a cross for me. "it is a cross for me to come here and relate my experience, but i am glad to be here inasmuch as something i say may gladden someone who is discouraged. i was brought up in a christian home. my mother was a good woman and my father was a clergyman. i went through college and the lower school before i took a single drop of strong drink. but when i took my first drink--i remember it well--it seemed to be something i had been looking for all my life and had never found before. from that time on i drank periodically. i had a lovely family and an honoured name, but i dragged it and my family into the dust. i struggled through my own strength to redeem myself, but i could not, nor can any man. i took cures, but they availed me not. i was in the hospital fourteen times, struggling up all the time, but falling down again. i seemed too hopeless. the light seemed to be fading for ever from the horizon, and darkness was coming over me. i was without hope. i would rather have fallen asleep in death, away from my companions, away from my loved ones, and never have been seen again, than to have lived the way i was. but through the providence of god, and through a kind wife and sister, i am able to stand here to-day. god bless the wives of the drunkards and drinking men, for if any will have a crown in heaven, it will be the wife of the drunkard who stands by him through thick and thin and who never gives him up. "i went away to a certain town and while there i noticed the title of a book called 'twice born men.' it aroused my curiosity, and i picked it up and commenced to read it. i came to the story of the puncher, a man who was formerly a prize fighter, and who had descended to the lowest scale of humanity. he had become a drunkard of the worst type and had gone one night into a saloon with murder in his heart. he was going home to kill his wife, when there flashed in upon him some strange influence, some mighty influence, some compelling influence--the power of the almighty--and drove him into the salvation army barracks, and there he knelt at the penitent form and god took the load from his back. when he rose up there was a new light in his eyes, a new heart in his breast, and he arose a new born man. he began to work for christ. "as i read that story i said, 'if there is hope for the puncher, there is hope for me.' i had been brought up a christian, and during my drinking days i had attended church, and i had fought as every poor drunkard fights to redeem himself. but through my own strength i failed, and i want to say to you here, there is no man who suffers pangs of bitter conscience or from a broken heart more than a poor drunkard who cannot tear the chains from himself. have pity on him. and i read about this man going out to save those who were lost, and then i read on further about danny, a drunkard, who while in prison was visited by the puncher, who sought him out, and said, 'there is a better life for you.' he took him to his home, and it was a new and happy home he took him to, with a happy wife and children, and he laboured with them. danny the thief; danny the drunkard; danny the murderer. when the day had passed danny went back to prison. but the power of god came over danny in prison, and he said to himself, 'if god can save the puncher, god can save me.' and then there came into his heart a light; and i said, 'if god can save the puncher; if god can save danny--he can save me.' and he did save me, and he has kept me, and from that day to this i have never desired a drop of alcohol. "i have gone through physical sufferings that are attendant upon it, but thanks be unto god through the lord jesus christ, he gave me the victory, and i stand here to-day an example of the keeping power of god. oh, my friends, what a new life it opened up for me. i thought i was a christian once; but until i was thrown down, until i was crucified twice over, not until then could i be convinced that god could save me from this terrible curse. and i want to say that no christian man ever came to me and told me that god could save me from wrong. oh, what a duty rests upon christians to speak to the drinking men! when god took me by the hand i had a new life and i wanted to go out and save drunkards, and i have been trying to save them since. i went to the salvation army barracks in jersey city, and if it was not for the salvation army, i do not know whether i could have held out or not, but when i felt distressed those brothers prayed and stood round me, and if there is anyone here who is discouraged, and who is away from god, and who goes round the corner to see his little children going to school because he cannot go home, if there is anyone who has left a broken-hearted mother or wife at home; get up and go home to them and give your heart to the lord." the last story told at the meeting has to do with the complete transformation of a woman's life. it is a modern miracle. the one who tells the story is growing old and feeble, but all are thrilled as they listen to her. this woman was educated in a young ladies' seminary, and had a fairly good start in life among some of the leading people in western new york. she married a man who became an habitual drunkard. she was sorely disappointed in him, and, little by little, she started to drink, till there came the time when she and her husband were possibly two of the worst drunkards the state had ever known. she had been in prison two hundred or more times. but now, up in the little town of canandaigua where she lives, she is treasurer of the salvation army, and has been for fifteen years. she is respected by all who know her. not only the people in the army, but the well-to-do people of the town all love and respect mary law. her husband was not converted until recently. she had been praying fifteen years for him, and one night she prayed specially for him, the last half hour of the meeting passed, the last twenty minutes, and then charlie came. "i thank god for what he did for me," she said. "before the salvation army got hold of me, i was one of the worst drunkards in the state of new york. the first night they came i wanted to know what the salvation army was like. just like any other old drunken sot, i wanted to know what the salvation army was going to be. so i walked out as far as the police station, and i said, 'where is the salvation army going to be to-night?' 'well,' said the police officer, 'it is going to be up at the presbyterian church, but i want to tell you one thing. if you go up there you will get run in,' i thought to myself for a moment, if i stay out i will get run in, so i might just as well go up there and get run in. i went up, and i suppose i was a terrible-looking object. i got into a corner near the door, so that if anything turned up i could get out. i had just one quarter in my purse when they came to take up the collection, and i put that quarter in. i believe if i had been outside i would have been run in. when i got outside i wanted that quarter for a bottle of whisky. i then went up to the police station. when the police justice saw me coming in he said, 'where have you been to-night?' i said, 'up to the salvation army meeting.' 'well,' he said, 'let me give you a little bit of advice. keep right on going.' "the first night they had their meeting in the hall i went to the penitent form, and the next night i got saved. that was over fifteen years ago. i have neither tasted nor handled one drop of intoxicating liquor from that day to this. i did not have a home fit for a dog to live in. i hardly ever knew what it was to be without a black eye. i have been pounded until i did not know where i was; until i was dazed. and when i came to, and saw where i was, i was lying on the floor and charlie was lying on the bed with his dirty old clothes on, and if anybody has gone through hell, it is i. but i thank god to-day i have got just as good a husband as there is in the state of new york. i have just as comfortable a home as anybody could wish, and every dollar of it is paid for. before that the saloons got the money, but i thank god to-day the saloons don't get any of my money. "charlie would get arrested, and when i saw him locked up, i would do something that would get me locked up too. we went in together and we came out together, we would not be out for long when back we would go again. if one went to the lock-up, the other went, and that is the way we carried on through life. "an election campaign was being held many years ago, and charlie went up the street to vote. he came home drunk. i suppose it was election whisky, but he brought some home, and we had a drink together. we went to bed on tuesday night, and woke up intending to go to work the next day. i asked one of the neighbours what time it was, and she said it is almost night now, but where have you been for the last two or three days? we had gone to sleep on tuesday night and did not wake up till thursday night. i went back, and we took another drink that night, and did not wake up till saturday night. if my life, sixteen years ago, was not hell upon earth, i do not know what you call hell. "just about the time when i first started out to serve god in canandaigua, i was an outcast. nobody cared for me. nobody would notice me. when they saw me they would go out of their way to avoid me. nobody wanted to come near me. but when i was drunk i thought i was about as good as they were, and sometimes i gave them a little of my mind, and that was the way i often got arrested. but to-day those very folks, who were my very worst enemies, who tried to hurt me and who did everything they could to injure me, are my very best friends. i have friends among the rich, and friends among the poor. they do not shun my home, they come and see me, and if i am sick some of the wealthy people come to see how i am getting along, and if i have everything i want. for all this i have to thank god and the salvation army. "i have been kicked and knocked and pounded until i have been almost dead. charlie did the kicking and the pounding, but i was as much to blame as he was. i was drunk and so was he, but i was never the one to go to the police officer and get a warrant out for my husband. if he pounded me until i could hardly breathe, and he happened to get arrested for it, i managed to get arrested too. i cannot tell you how many times we have been in jail in the little village of elgin, and in the penitentiary too. but i would rather go back to the penitentiary to-day and spend my days there than to live again the life that i lived before i was converted. i thank god and the salvation army to-night that i do not have to carry black eyes, and that i can go home in peace. "i have a nice comfortable home, and it is all paid for, and if it had not been for the salvation army coming to canandaigua, i would have been in a drunkard's hell to-day. when the army first came there, i was like a great many others. i wanted to see what the salvation army was like, and out of curiosity i went to a meeting. but i was too drunk to understand anything about it. the next night i went there quite sober, and i gave my heart to the lord. that was seventeen years ago, and i thank god that since then i have tried to do my utmost to serve him to the best of my ability. and it is my determination, as long as he gives me breath, to do for him all i can, to spread his kingdom on earth." chapter xi _a final word_ as has been suggested, it is necessary, if one is to be a successful personal worker, to know well the scriptures. the incorruptible seed, which is the word of god, when it is received into the human heart as good and honest ground, will, without question, produce a satisfactory harvest. if you should attempt to win one to christ, who insists that he is out of the kingdom because of his doubts, tell him to come with his doubts, and christ will set him free. "my doubts are round about me like a chain," said one in the audience, with whom one of our personal workers was labouring, and the worker said quickly, "come, chains and all." the doubter hesitated a second, then said, "i will," and as he rose to move forward, he testified that the chains were snapped, and he was free. if the one you are seeking to introduce to christ says that he is such a great sinner, and because of this he cannot come, then tell him to come with his sins. he wants him just as he is, and stands ready to set him free from the sins that have enslaved him and blinded his eyes so that he could not see christ as he stood waiting to save him. it is a good thing to start by giving the assurance to the unsaved that god is love, and that his love is boundless. this may be easily proved by the scriptures. tell him also that christ is not only able, but ready and willing to save. there are abundant evidences of this in the new testament. tell him that no one is too sinful; none too far from god; none too depraved by sin to be saved. there are evidences on every side of us of many such seeking and finding pardon. it is well to start with such a declaration as is found in john i. 12, "but as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of god, even to them that believe on his name." insist upon it that christ has laid down the conditions, and that if we are to be saved, we must honestly and sincerely, with all our doubts and sins, receive him as a personal saviour. make it very plain to the one with whom you are dealing that when one comes into the kingdom he is born into it. there is no other way than this, for jesus said, john iii. 3, "except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of god." if the joy of regeneration is to be experienced, it is necessary that the acceptance of jesus as a saviour should be definite, and that there should be sufficient confidence in god's word to lead us to believe that when we have fulfilled our part of the contract the saviour will keep his. if we are born into the kingdom then we start as babes in christ. we are expected to grow. if we are to grow, we must have proper food; this is found in the word of god. we must be faithful in prayer. we must have proper light and air; this is found by walking in fellowship with christ, and learning his will as we study the scripture, we seek with joy to do it. we may stumble as little children do, but he will help us, and if at times we seem to fail, he will hold us fast. as little babes in christ it will not be strange that at times we grow discouraged and faint-hearted, but if we press on to know the lord we shall find our strength increasing and our temptations decreasing until at last we may enter into a continuous and joyous christian experience. tell the one with whom you are dealing that the assurance of salvation is possible. jesus said, "he that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life" (john v. 24). and the apostle john wrote, "these things have i written unto you that believe on the name of the son of god; that ye may know that ye have eternal life and that ye may believe on the name of the son of god" (1 john v. 13). state very plainly the fact that we are saved by faith and not by feeling, and being thus saved we are kept by divine power. when we have passed through the darkness of doubt into the light of our conscious acceptance of christ, and when on the authority of god's word we have the assurance of salvation, then let it ever be remembered that we must seek to bring others to him. and as we labour day by day our own faith will grow stronger, our hope will be brighter, and our consciousness of the presence of christ will be more marked. day by day we may walk with him and talk with him until at last we shall see him as he is and then we may hear him say, "well done, good and faithful servant ... enter thou into the joy of thy lord." [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. a series of classics, selected specially for young people's reading, and told in simple language for youngest readers. printed from large type, with many illustrations. price 65 cents per volume. aesop's fables. retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mary godolphin. with 41 illustrations. illuminated cloth. alice's adventures in wonderland. retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mrs. j. c. gorham. with many illustrations. illuminated cloth. andersen's fairy tales. 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(_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) introduction. i have been asked by the publishers to write a few lines introducing this book to american christians. i count it a privilege to be allowed to do so. _the one thing needful_ for the church of christ in our day, and for every member of it, is to be filled with the spirit of christ. christianity is nothing except as it is a ministration of the spirit. preaching is nothing, except as it is a demonstration of the spirit. holiness is nothing except as it is the fruit of the spirit. these truths are so little taught or emphasized as they should be, and the blessings they speak of are so little experienced that one gladly welcomes every voice that draws attention to them. it is known that all do not perfectly agree as to the best answer to the question: how to be filled with the spirit? some press that aspect of truth which reminds us that the holy spirit _has been given_ to the church and that he dwells in every believer, a fountain of living water. as there have been fountains clogged by stones and earth, and only needing to be cleared and opened up, so we have only to remove the hindrances, to yield ourselves in perfect surrender to the spirit in us, and the filling will come. we must not ask god for more of the spirit. god asks for more of us that the spirit may have us wholly. others, while admitting fully that the spirit is in the believer, and that he asks for a more entire surrender, yet urge that it is from god direct that the filling of the spirit must ever still be asked and received. god cannot give his spiritual gifts apart from himself, once for all. as the divine and everlasting one, he gives unceasingly. the spirit has not been given as if he had left heaven. he is in god and in the church. it is from god himself that larger measures of the spirit must ever be sought and received. among those who hold this latter view, there is again somewhat of a diversity in the representation of truth. on the one hand we are reminded that it is "_by faith_" we receive the holy spirit, and that faith often has to rest and to act without any conscious experience--has to walk in the dark. souls that are _fully surrendered_ to god are invited to claim the promise and then to go and work in the full assurance that the spirit is in them, and will in his fullness work through them. on the other hand stress is laid on the words "_we receive_ the spirit" by faith. the difference between believing and receiving is pointed out, and we are urged to wait until we receive what we claim, and know that god has anew filled us with his spirit. "to be filled with the spirit" is offered us as a definite, conscious experience. with still other christians there is to be found what may be regarded as a combination of these different views. they believe that a very definite, conscious filling of the spirit been received by some, and may be had by all. though from their own experience they cannot testify of it, they still look for god to do for them above what they have asked or thought. meantime they know that god's spirit is in them, and seek grace to know him better, and to yield themselves to him more undividedly. they believe that the spirit within them is himself leading them on to the lord above them, whose it is to fill with the spirit. they have claimed in faith the fullness; they have placed themselves to be filled; they look to their lord to fulfill his promise. whether it comes in one swift moment or more gradually, they know it is theirs. i have written this with an eye to those who may not entirely agree with the way in which the truth is presented in this little book. i wish to urge all, especially ministers of the gospel, to give it a prayerful reading. i feel confident it will bring them help and blessing. it will deepen the conviction of the great need and absolute duty of being filled with the spirit. it will point out the hindrances and open up the way. it will stir up faith and hope. and it will, i trust, bring many a one to feel that it is at the footstool of the throne, in the absolute surrender of a new consecration, that the blessing is to be received from god himself. and may this book stir up all its readers, not only to seek this blessing for themselves, but to cry earnestly, "praying exceedingly day and night," "_for all saints_," that god may throughout his whole church give the holy spirit in power. it is when the tide comes in, that every pool is filled, and all the separate little pools are lost in the great ocean. it is as all believers who know or seek this blessing begin to pray as intensely for each other and all their brethren, as for themselves, that the power of the spirit will be fully known. with the prayer that this spirit-filled book may be greatly blessed of god, i commend it to the study of his children. andrew murray. _london, dec. 1, 1895._ contents. page introduction--andrew murray 3 author's preface 9 introduction to first australian edition 13 chapter i. the starting point 17 chapter ii. every believer's birthright 19 chapter iii. a command to be obeyed 21 chapter iv. something different from the new birth--proved from the case of (1) the apostles--(2) the samaritans--(3) saul of tarsus--(4) the ephesians--unclaimed deposits 23 chapter v. everybody's need 29 chapter vi. preventive against backsliding 31 chapter vii. how long between the new birth and the filling? 34 chapter viii. other new testament names for "being filled with the spirit"--(1) baptized with the holy ghost--"baptized into one body," what it means--(2) rivers of living waters--(3) the promise of the father--(4) pouring forth--(5) the gift--(6) receiving--(7) falling--(8) coming--(9) sealed 36 chapter ix. how obtained?--(1) cleanse--(2) consecrate--(3) claim 47 chapter x. wrong motives 48 chapter xi. cleansing--a "new heart" not necessarily a "clean heart"--what is a clean heart?--not sinlessness--blameless, not faultless--"i was alone in the twilight"--cleansing a crisis, not a process 49 chapter xii. consecration: what is it?--(1) sanctification--(2) surrender--(3) transference of ownership--(4) enthroning christ 72 chapter xiii. claiming--(1) prayer--(2) laying on of hands--claiming and asking--through faith the blessing made ours--objections against this 87 chapter xiv. how does it come?--aorist tense: "were filled," refilled, a crisis--imperfect tense: "were being filled," a process--present tense: "full," the normal condition--deacons "full of the holy ghost"--illustration of water trough--illustration of service pipe 91 chapter xv. its effects--(1) courage--(2) fruit of the spirit--(3) reach the masses--(4) persecution 104 chapter xvi. may one know that he is filled?--(1) from the testimony of the word--(2) the witness of the spirit--(3) signs following 117 chapter xvii. may one say that he is filled?--testifying to forgiveness--testifying to full salvation 120 chapter xviii. may one lose the blessing?--by disobedience--by neglect of the word--it will be found where it was lost 122 the spirit-filled life by the late rev. john macneil, b. a. introduction by the rev. andrew murray _be filled with the spirit_--eph. v. 18 chicago the bible institute colportage association 250 la salle avenue _copyright 1896 by fleming h. revell company._ preface. i have written only for the "babes." the "full-grown," the "perfect," who may read will kindly bear this in mind. a wide and more or less intimate acquaintance with the churches of australasia has shown me the need for a simple, homely talk, such as this little book professes to be. many, oh! so many of god's dear children are living on the wrong side of pentecost, living on the same plane as that on which the disciples were living before they "were filled with the holy ghost;" and thus by their lives practically making the sad confession, "we did not so much as hear whether the holy ghost was given," or "whether there be any holy ghost." the object of this little work is to call their attention to their birthright, to the fact that the fullness of the spirit is the birthright of every believer. god wants us to be living _this_ side pentecost, not the _other_ side. the substance of the following pages has been occasionally delivered as a series of afternoon bible readings in connection with my mission services. the frequent request that those who heard them might have them in a more permanent form, coupled with the hope that the great blessing that has most graciously been vouchsafed to them when spoken, might not be withheld from them when being read, has induced me to commit them to writing. i gratefully acknowledge help received from many sources, both in preparing the bible readings, and in preparing them for publication; especially do i owe a debt of gratitude to my beloved "fellow-worker in christ jesus," who has now for many years been "a succorer of many, and of myself also," the rev. h. b. macartney, m. a., incumbent of st. mary's, caulfield. he has most kindly revised my ms., penned an introduction, and encouraged me to publish. in "much fear and trembling," because of its inadequateness, but with earnest and unceasing prayer to him who has been pleased before to-day to "choose the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty"--with the prayer that he would graciously do so again, i send this little messenger forth on its mission, trusting that the reading of it may be as great a blessing to every reader as the writing of it has been to the writer. john macneil. the bible institute colportage association (d. l. moody, president.) was founded for the purpose of issuing good sound christian literature at low prices. the work is purely undenominational in its character, and the sympathy and co-operation of all christians is invited to help along the work of counteracting the influence of the vicious literature now being so widely circulated. send stamp for pamphlets regarding the work of the association, and for complete catalogues, which include books on many topics,--all helpful and all at specially reduced prices. special terms to colporters and for free distribution. colporters and canvassers wanted in every community. liberal terms. supplies of the moody colportage library books can be obtained at the following depots: general eastern depot: east northfield, mass. new york city: 112 fifth avenue. boston: 7 tremont place, and room 6, tremont temple. philadelphia: 2131 bainbridge street. nashville, tenn.: barbee & smith, agents. halifaz, nova scotia: the british-american book and tract society. toronto: 142 yonge street. and direct from headquarters by addressing a. p. fitt, supt., the bible institute colportage association, 250 la salle avenue, chicago. introduction _to first australian edition._ christian reader, i pray that before you finish this little book you may become so eager, so intense in your longings after god, that you will not be satisfied until you are really and actually "full" of him, "filled" with the holy ghost. when the lord asked job, in chap. xxxviii. 34, "canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters may cover thee?" he would undoubtedly have answered, no. we, on the other hand, with all humility, but without the slightest hesitation, can answer, yes. "abundance" is the father's will; "abundant" are the stores of life in jesus; "abounding" for ever and ever is the stream of the spirit's energies. we have only _to reflect a little_ till the truth flashes, and _then_ the victory is all but won. we have only to consider, who was it that first loved us, and called us to be his own children, when we were wandering in sin's desert? who was it that first crossed the wild with a cup of living water to slake our dying thirst? who now crosses that desert a second time on our behalf with great camel loads of wine and milk? what did it cost him to draw that water from salvation's well, or to buy those luxuries for growth and power? what will one healing, stimulating draught accomplish in us and others? how will he grieve if we decline to "buy," or hesitate to "drink"? what, above all, will be the consequences to his glory? oh, let us arise! let us "shake ourselves from the dust!" let us drink abundantly, beloved! there is just now an unutterable need for "something more." single souls are drooping, though divinely planted. churches are full of bones, "very many and very dry." the world is a jungle, a forest ready for the fire. men, women and children form one vast continent of feeling, of ever-increasing sensibility, with an ever-deepening, an ever-aching void. even the teachers of high truth themselves are not "abundantly satisfied" with the fatness of god's house; they do not drink deep enough from the "river of god's pleasures." yes, there is a thirst not quenched; and i am persuaded that we can only quench immanuel's thirst when _in him_ we quench our own. then let us make haste to god; let us hurry to the stream that is "full of water." we cannot know what the "infilling of the spirit" means until we are infilled. it is a new experience. god is not thereby better seen than before by nature's eye, but he is better understood, better loved, better leaned on; that is what he wants, and that is enough. perhaps, dear reader, the pathway between you and blessing is somewhat hidden, or your eyes are dim, or your heart is only beating with a faint desire. if so, then carefully read this little book; read it beside an open bible; read it in prayer. it may be, through infinite compassion, that it may prove a key into the "wealthy place;" it may rend the veil, scatter the darkness, lead you to joy unspeakable, and--to power! i have known the author long, and love him much. he is thoroughly trained in theology; he is a first-rate preacher; his gospel for sinners is as "clear as crystal;" and when you have read a little further, you will say the same of his gospel for saints! he has penetrated far into the "secret of the most high," and so can speak from a rich experience of his own, to which, however, he never refers. i cannot but express the hope that this little treatise on the "spirit-filled life," may not only be widely circulated in australia, but also in england and america. it is fresh, it is homely, it is temperate, it is timely, it is scriptural, it is splendid. it sets forth a promise to be claimed, a gift to be received, a command to be obeyed; and it portrays the sequel--more liberty, more peace, more devotion, more fellowship with the son of god in his rejection by man, in his fellowship with the father. h. b. macartney, jr. _st. mary's, caulfield, victoria, july 12, 1894._ the spirit-filled life. chapter i. _the starting point._ reader, are you a b. a.? this little book is only for those who possess that degree from the king's college. if you are not "born again," please put it aside, for this is our starting point in considering the fullness of the spirit as the birthright of every believer. if you have not been born again you have no right by birth to this, the chiefest of new testament blessings. your first concern is to become one of the children of god, and then you may enquire as to your inheritance. if you _are_ born again, ask that you may read with the anointed eye and with an unprejudiced mind, for the amount of prejudice that exists against this subject is saddening in the extreme. in nothing that he ever wrote does john bunyan's masterful genius flash forth more clearly than when, in "the holy war," he places that old churl, mr. prejudice, with sixty deaf men under him, as warder of eargate. nothing that even emmanuel may say can reach mansoul while prejudice and his deaf men keep that gate. "there is nothing about this in the standards of our church." "i have not met with this truth in my favorite authors." "it is quite new to me, and i never will believe it," etc., etc. these and such like, are illustrations one meets with of how well prejudice keeps his ward! in the name of the lord let us displace him, and determine to give what of god's truth may be set forth in the following pages a fair field, no favor being asked for. deep-rooted prejudice is one of the causes of the appalling spiritual poverty that abounds--yes, appalling when we consider the treasures within our reach! chapter ii. _every believer's birthright._ on every hand a lack of _something_ is being felt and expressed by god's people. their christian experience is not what they expected it would be. instead of expected victory, it is oft-recurring, dreaded defeat; instead of soul satisfaction, it is soul hunger; instead of deep, abiding heart rest, it is disquiet and discontent; instead of advancing, it is losing ground. is this all christ meant when he said, "come unto me"? is this life of constant disappointment the normal life of the bible christian? to these sad questionings the divine word answers with an emphatic "no," and the testimony of an ever-increasing number of god's children answers "no." for this widely felt, though sometimes inarticulate demand, the divine supply is _the fullness of the spirit_; and this fullness is the birthright of _every_ believer, his birthright by virtue of his new birth. sometimes we hear it said that to be filled with the spirit is the christian _privilege_; but _birthright_ is a stronger word. reader, it is your birthright to be filled with the spirit, as peter was filled, as stephen was filled, as the one hundred and twenty men and women in the upper room were filled (acts ii. 4, and i. 14, 15), as the men and women in cornelius' house were filled (acts x. 44-47). "and ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost, for to you is the promise, and to your children, and to all that are afar off" (acts ii. 38, 39). what have you done with your birthright? have you claimed it? _are you living at this moment in the possession and enjoyment of it?_ or, are you, esau-like, "despising your birthright"? (gen. xxv. 34). or, if not despising, are you neglecting it? esau's eyes were ultimately opened to his folly in parting with his birthright for "one mess of meat," and he then desired to inherit the blessing, seeking it "diligently with tears;" but alas! his awaking came too late (heb. xii. 16, 17). may every reader of these lines have the desire graciously awakened (if it has not yet been awakened and satisfied), to inherit their birthright blessing, while place of repentance is to be found. may the prediction be fulfilled in our glad experience: "the house of jacob shall _possess their possessions_" (obad. 17). chapter iii. _a command to be obeyed._ but lest some one should think, "it is optional with me whether i claim my birthright or not; no doubt it would be a very fitting thing for some people to be filled with the spirit, but _i_ need not trouble about it"--in case any one should be tempted to speak and act like this, let us learn that "be filled with the spirit" (eph. v. 18) is a command to be obeyed, a duty to be done. many of god's people are acknowledging that they did not know that "be filled with the spirit" was a command; _but it is_, and there is no excuse for not knowing. you will notice that in eph. v. 18 there is a double command, a negative, "be not drunk," and a positive, "be ye filled." the positive command is as authoritative as the negative, and was binding on _just as many_ of those ephesian christians as was the negative command. now what was true for those believers there in ephesus in the long-ago is equally true for all believers on god's footstool to-day. is it a sin for a believer to-day to disobey the command, "be not drunk"? and is it then a virtue to disobey the equally authoritative command, "be ye filled"? if it is a sin for a christian to be drunk, it is just as surely, truly, really, _a sin_ not to be filled. we are commanded and expected to live a spirit-filled life, to be filled, not with wine, the fruit of the vines of earth, but with the new wine of the kingdom, the fruit of the "true vine." reader, if you are asked, do you obey the command, "be not drunk with wine," what is your answer? if it is, "yes," that is obedience. now, if you are asked, do you obey the command, "be filled with the spirit," what is your answer? if it is, "no," that is disobedience; you are guilty of breaking one of god's plainest commandments. you have no more license to break _this_ command than you have to break any command in the decalogue. before you read further, had you not better confess your sin, and tell the master that you purpose in your heart new obedience? chapter iv. _something different from the new birth._ this being "filled with the spirit" is a definite blessing, quite distinct from being "born of the spirit." it is objected by some that every christian has the spirit; quite true, for "if any man have not the spirit of christ, he is none of his" (rom. viii. 9); and "no man can say jesus is lord, but in the holy spirit" (1 cor. xii. 3); but to "have the spirit" and to be "filled with the spirit" are two different things. "egypt always has the nile," as some one has said, "but egypt waits every year for its overflow;" having the nile is one thing, but having the nile overflowing is quite another. now it is the nile's overflow that is egypt's salvation, and to overflow it must first be filled. so it is the christian's overflow that is the world's salvation, and in order to the overflow there must first be the filling. as far as god is concerned, there is no reason why this filling should not take place at the hour of conversion, of the new birth. see the case of cornelius and his friends, in acts x. 44-48. they believed, were saved, "received the holy ghost," and were baptized with water the same day. but it were a fatal blunder to assert that _all_ men on believing received the holy ghost in a similar manner, or were thus filled with the spirit. most certainly in bible times it was not so. _1. take the case of the apostles themselves._ in acts ii. 4 we read, "they were all filled with the holy spirit," all in the upper room, men and women, including the twelve apostles. now these men had the spirit before. when christ called them to follow him, when they were converted, they received the spirit. after his resurrection, but before his ascension, christ breathed on them and said, "receive ye the holy ghost" (john xx. 22), and of course they did "receive" the spirit then; but it is never said of them that they were "filled with the holy spirit" till that morning in the upper room, for the simple reason that it _could_ not be said of them, or "the spirit was not yet given" (john vii. 39). yet these men were christians before that morning. _2. take the case of the samaritans._ in acts viii. 5-13 we find that under the preaching of philip the evangelist there was a work of grace in the city of samaria, the people believed and were baptized. these people, then, were christians, but they were not "filled with the spirit" till peter and john came down and prayed for them, thus perfecting the work philip had been doing (acts viii. 15-17). _3. take the case of paul himself._ saul was converted when the omnipotent, omnipresent christ, standing as picket-guard for that little church at damascus, unhorsed him, and took him prisoner on the damascus road. "lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" that question sounds like conversion, surely. for three days he lay in darkness in damascus, a surrendered, believing man, and therefore a christian man; but it was not till ananias came to him that he was "filled with the holy ghost" (acts ix. 17). and who was this ananias through whom this man saul, destined to prove himself the truest, bravest, grandest servant the lord jesus ever had--through whom even saul received the greatest of the new testament blessings? he was an obscure obedient believer, of whom we know nothing else than that he did this service for saul. here is the ministry of the saints. so it may be to-day, some big paul may be blessed through the ministry of some little ananias. _4. take the case of the ephesians in acts xix. 1-6._ here were twelve men who were disciples, they had been believers for some time when paul found them; in other words, they were saved, they were christians. but paul's first question to them was, "have ye received the holy ghost since ye believed?" plainly showing that paul thought it possible for them to have been believers and yet _not_ to have received the holy ghost. indeed, in this case, what paul deemed a possibility turned out to be a fact; they had _not yet_ "received" the spirit. of course, in a _certain_ sense, they had the spirit; it was by the spirit they had believed, and if they had not the spirit of christ, they were none of his; but for all that, they had not yet "received" the spirit in the pentecostal sense of the word, in the sense in which paul meant it. they had not yet come to _their_ pentecost. in the r. v., paul's question is rendered, "did ye receive the holy ghost when ye believed?" proving (1) that it is possible to "receive" the holy ghost at the moment of believing, and (2) that it is possible to believe without "receiving," as has already been pointed out from the rendering of the a.v. after paul had instructed them more fully in the word and way of the lord, we read that "the holy ghost came on them." from this we gather that these men of ephesus obtained a blessing subsequent to their conversion, spoken of here as "receiving" the holy ghost, as the holy ghost "coming" on them. this is in strict accord with what paul himself says of this event when writing to the ephesians in eph. i. 13, "after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that holy spirit of promise." first they "believed," and then, some time after "believing," they were "sealed," they "received," they were "filled." from these four cases--(1) apostles, (2) samaritans, (3) saul, (4) ephesians--we conclude that in new testament times men actually lived as christians, were saved, converted men, and yet knew nothing of the "filling" with the spirit--this knowledge, this blessing coming to them some time after their being born again. yet this is the very thing some to-day deny! whom are we to believe? these objectors or the sacred record? the divine word declares it, and there is then no room or need for argument. so we affirm that it is equally possible for believers, for saved, converted men, to live in our own time, as well as in bible times, without the "fullness;" nay more, it is possible for them to live for years, then die and go home to heaven to be there for ever with the lord, and to have known nothing on earth of what it was to be "filled with the spirit." but what a loss they have suffered! eternal, irreparable loss! so we conclude it is abundantly plain from scripture, that for the regenerate soul there is in christ another blessing over and above the being born of the spirit, spoken of as "the fullness of the spirit." "i am amazed at a man like you going to these conventions," said a man to his minister once. "what new thing can these convention speakers tell you? it is all in the new testament." "yes," he replied, "that's the trouble; and we have left these things in the new testament; whereas we want to get them out of the new testament; and into our hearts and lives." in jesus christ, god's treasury, our share of pentecost's blessing has been deposited for each of us by our father god. have we claimed and received our share? not likely, if we are not aware that there _is_ such a blessing for us; but once we recognize the fact that it is there, we surely will not rest till we have made it our own. the scottish bankers have published the fact that they have lying in their vaults a sum of â£40,000,000 in unclaimed deposits. some of those who owned a share of this money may have died in the workhouse; some of them may be living to this moment in direst need, and they might have their money for the claiming; but they do not know that it is theirs. what vast unclaimed deposits are lying in god's treasury, christ! some of his people have died spiritually poor; some are living to-day in spiritual penury, a hand-to-mouth existence, with such "untrackable riches" lying "at call," at deposit in their name. what have we done with _our_ deposit? we are responsible for its use and disuse. remember! the reckoning day is coming (matt. xxv. 19). chapter v. _everybody's need._ some have the idea that this blessing of the fullness is only for a favored few, for such as have some special work to do for god, but not for ordinary folk, "for auld wives and wabsters" in their homespun. surely this is one of the devil's champion lies! alas! alas! that it has found such credence! the infilling is what makes this promise true, "he that is feeble among them at that day shall be as david; and the house of david shall be as god" (zech. xii. 8), so that "one man of you shall chase a thousand" (josh. xxiii. 10). this means defeat for the devil, so no wonder that he strives to keep us back from the "fullness"! we are here on earth that through us christ may be glorified; but there is only one person that can glorify christ, and that is the holy ghost. "he shall glorify me" (john xvi. 14). to the glorifying of christ as he ought to be and might be glorified, the filling with the spirit is necessary. mothers in the home, "with thronging duties pressed," need the "fullness" to enable them to glorify christ as surely as the apostles needed it; the washerwoman needs it as well as the pastor; the tradesman as well as the evangelist. to live the christ-glorifying life in the station in which god has placed us, we individually need to be filled with the spirit. "they were _all_ filled" (acts ii. 4), men and women, the one hundred and twenty in the upper room, the rank and file as well as the apostles. "ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost, for the promise is unto you, and to your children, and to _all_ that are afar off" (acts ii. 38, 39). from acts viii. 17 we gather that _all_ the converts in samaria, without any favor or distinction, "received the holy ghost." from acts x. 47 we gather that _all_ in the house of cornelius "received the holy ghost" while peter was speaking. from acts xix. 6 we gather that "the holy ghost came on" _all_ the disciples to whom paul was speaking. they _all_ received because they _all_ needed. do not we _all_ need? why then should we not _all_ receive? and if we do not receive we will suffer loss, the church will suffer loss, the world will suffer loss, and, above and beyond all, christ will suffer loss. chapter vi. _preventive against backsliding._ it is most instructive to note how exceedingly anxious the early christians were, that, as soon as a man was converted, he should be "filled with the holy ghost." they knew no reason why weary wastes of disappointing years should stretch between bethel and peniel, between the cross and pentecost. they knew it was not god's will that forty years of wilderness wanderings should lie between egypt and the promised land (deut. i. 2). when peter and john came to the samaritans, and found that they were really turned to god, their _first_ concern was to get them filled with the holy ghost (acts viii. 15). when ananias came to the newly-converted saul of tarsus, his _first_ word was, "jesus ... hath sent me, that thou mayest ... be filled with the holy ghost" (acts ix. 17). when paul found certain disciples at ephesus, his first business with them was to find out if they had "received the holy ghost" (acts xix. 2). these early teachers did not wait for a few months or years till the young converts had become thoroughly disheartened because of the disappointments of the way, thoroughly demoralized by encountering defeats where they had been led to expect that they would come off "more than conquerors;" neither did they wait until the novices had become more established or more fully instructed in the things of god; but straightway, at once, they introduced them to fullness of blessing, taught them the open secret of the overcoming, ever-victorious life, and they did not leave them until the secret was their very own. has modern practice been in accord with apostolic practice in this respect? the only possible answer is in the negative. have we improved then on the apostolic method? scarcely. but our modern method is very largely responsible for the large percentage of backsliding that one meets with in the church to-day. many of these backsliders were soundly converted to god, but unfortunately for them, no peter or john, no ananias or paul, met them in the beginning of their pilgrimage to compel their attention to the "one thing needful" for the people of the pilgrimage; so they started out but ill provided, and after a longer or shorter time they became thoroughly dispirited; and then asking, "is this all that is in it?" they threw their profession overboard; and one can scarcely wonder at it. prevention is better than cure. let our young converts be fully instructed and fully equipped with the glorious fullness provided for them by the gracious father, and we will hear less about backsliding. do you know why peter and john, ananias and paul, spake of the fullness of the spirit? because _they_ possessed and enjoyed the blessing themselves, and they could not _but_ speak of the blessing that had done so much for them. do you know why we have not spoken of it to our converts and young christians? because _we_ did not know of it ourselves! if we "receive" the spirit we will "minister" the spirit; and if we do not "minister," why is it?--but because we have not "received." chapter vii. _how long between?_ it is often asked what time must elapse between the regenerating by the spirit and the filling with the spirit? for be it remembered the filling is as real and distinct and definite a blessing as the regenerating. many people know the moment of their new birth; they were conscious of the change; so also many know when they were "filled with the holy ghost;" it was a blessed, bright, conscious experience, and it is as impossible to argue them out of the one experience as out of the other. on the other hand, some people do not know the time when they were born "again;" they simply have come to know by many infallible signs that the great change has taken place; so in like manner some do not know when the fullness came to them, but they have been gently awaked to the fact that "jesus came, he filled my soul;" and such people may be as truly "filled with the spirit" as those who can tell when and where and how the blessing came to them. now as to the period intervening between the two blessings, we know that in the case of the apostles in acts ii. 4, three or three and a half years elapsed between the day when they heard the "follow me," and the day when they were "filled;" in the cases of the samaritans in acts viii. 17, and of the ephesians in acts xix. 1-7, some weeks; in the case of saul in acts ix. 17, three days. but as we have already noticed in the case of cornelius and his household in acts x. 44, they were regenerated and filled the same day. from this we gather that, as far as god is concerned, there is no needs-be for any intervening period, but that the believer _may_ be "filled" as soon as he is "born again;" the "life" almost as soon as we get it may blossom into "life abundantly." if we did not "receive the holy ghost _when_" we believed, and if we have not "received" him _since_ we believed, and are not living _now_ the spirit-filled life, at whose door then does the blame lie? chapter viii. _other new testament names for "being filled with the spirit."_ that we may see how full the new testament is of this blessing, and that we may the better understand what it is and how it is obtained, let us just glance at some other terms used by the holy ghost when speaking of it. _1. "baptized with the holy ghost."_ "ye shall be baptized with the holy ghost not many days hence" (acts i. 5). see also acts xi. 16, matt. iii. 11, mark i. 8, luke iii. 16, john i. 33. now, though "baptized" and "filled" are sometimes convertible terms, it is instructive to note that they are not always so. the promise in acts i. 5, "ye shall be baptized," was fulfilled in acts ii. 4, "and they were all filled," where "filled" is used for "baptized." in acts iv. 8 we read, "peter filled with the holy ghost," and in ver. 31, "they were all filled with the holy ghost;" where the word "baptized" could _not_ be used instead of the word "filled." the difference is this: the "baptism" is received but once; it is, so to speak, the initiatory rite to the life of pentecostal service, and fullness, and victory. life begins at the cross, but service begins at pentecost. if there has been no baptism, there has been no pentecost; and if no pentecost, no service worth the name. "tarry until ye be clothed with power," said the master (luke xxiv. 49); "wait for the promise" (acts i. 4); "ye shall be baptized with the holy ghost not many days hence" (acts i. 5); "ye shall receive power when the holy ghost is come upon you" (acts i. 8). and we see that, in compliance with the commands of their master, no service of any kind did these men attempt till "the day of pentecost was fully come" (acts ii. 1). "theirs not to make reply! theirs not to reason why!" their business was simply to _obey_. with the promised "baptism" they entered upon a new phase of life, experience, and service, and this "baptism" need not be repeated; but not so the "filling." peter was "filled" in acts ii. 4, again in acts iv. 31. the "filling" may be, and ought to be, repeated over and over and over again; the "baptism" need be but once. in support of this, note how frequently the word "filled" is used in the acts and epistles compared with the word "baptized." the baptism which we are considering here must not be confounded with the baptism in 1 cor. xii. 13, the "being baptized into one body." paul is speaking there of every believer having been quickened from the dead by the agency of the holy spirit, and thus made a member of christ's mystical body. this is a pauline way of stating the being "born again" of john iii. 7. it was to those who already had been "baptized into one body" that christ gave the promise, "ye shall be baptized with the holy ghost" (acts i. 5). in view then of this word of christ, "ye shall be baptized," and of the word of john the baptist, recorded in john i. 29-33, "behold the lamb of god, which taketh away the sin of the world ... the same is he that baptizeth with the holy spirit" (the same promise is also recorded by matthew, mark, and luke), it surely cannot be unscriptural for a believer--painfully conscious that as yet this word has not been fulfilled in his experience, that for him as yet the day of pentecost has not fully come--to pray "lord jesus, baptize me with the holy ghost!" why should this be regarded as unscriptural, when in view of the word, "be filled with the spirit," the prayer, "lord, fill me with the spirit," is considered to be in accord with scripture? surely the one prayer in its proper place is as scriptural as the other! to know christ as the sin-bearer is but _half_ salvation; to know him also as the great baptist is _full_ salvation. how many there are who know christ as their sin-bearer who have no experimental acquaintance with him as the baptizer with the holy ghost! one cannot think that it would be grieving to the holy one that such people should cry for the promised baptism; but then, when it has been received, let us bear in mind the difference, already pointed out, between "baptized" and "filled;" that now that "the day of pentecost has fully come," and that he has been baptized with the spirit, he must not continue praying for the baptism, for that cannot be repeated; whereas he may ask and obtain a fresh filling, a refilling with the holy ghost every day of his life. _2. "rivers of living water."_ "he that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water. but this spake he of the spirit, which they that believed on him were to receive: for the spirit was not yet given; because jesus was not yet glorified" (john vii. 38, 39). one may ask, what is it to be "filled with the spirit"? the teacher himself makes answer: it is to have "rivers of living water flowing" from one's soul. see the universality of the promise, "he that believeth on me;" _no_ believer, even the weakest, obscurest, is outside its magnificent sweep, unless by his unbelief he puts himself there. this is not a promise for the spiritual aristocracy of the church, as some, with more heat than sense, maintain. let us have done with whittling away the vast godlike promises of the divine word, till they come within the cramped limits of our poverty-stricken experience, and let us set to work in earnest to bring our experience abreast of god's promises. this promise is for _you_. has it then been verified in your life and experience? if not, why not? is there not a cause? but note more closely its hugeness, its godlike vastness, "rivers!" not a tricklet, or a babbling brook--by its babbling proclaiming its shallowness--or a stream, or a river, but rivers! what divine prodigality! it is the brisbane, the clarence, the hawkesbury, the murray, the murrumbidgee, the tamar and the derwent all rolled into one--_rivers_! by the widest, wildest stretch of imagination could it be said of you that "rivers of living water" are flowing from you--"flowing," mind you, "flowing"? see the freshness, the freedom, and the spontaneity of the service; no force-pump work about the flowing of the rivers; none of the hard labor of the "soul in prison" (ps. cxlii. 7). when the "rivers" begin to flow the worker may sell his force-pump; his prayer has been answered, "bring my soul out of prison." it is worth noting the gradation in john iii., iv., vii. in john iii. 7 we have "life" in its beginnings--the new birth. in john iv. 14 we have "life abundantly"--"a well of water springing up." the secret of the perennial upspringing is in the word "drink-e-t-h;" "he that drinketh"--not takes a drink, but drinks and drinks and keeps on drinking, is in the habit of drinking--that man never thirsts; for how can a man's soul be dry and thirsty with a well of water in it? many people are living in the third of john,--they have "life," but it is not strong and vigorous; they are suffering from deficient vitality,--when jesus wants them to be in the fourth, enjoying "life abundantly." the difference between the two experiences is well illustrated in the case of hagar. in gen. xxi. 14 we read that abraham gave hagar "a bottle of water" and sent her away. as she wandered in the wilderness "the water was spent in the bottle" (ver. 15). but in ver. 19 "god opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water." there are "bottle" christians, and there are "well" christians. 'tis a painful experience wandering in the wilderness with an empty bottle and a dying child! alas! that there should be so many acquainted with the pain, when all the time god wants us to be independent of any bottle, to be abundantly satisfied with a well of water within us, fed from the hills of god. he wants us to be independent of all but himself. the "well" is in every christian, though it is not "springing up" in every one that has it. the very well, on the side of which jesus, weary with his long journey from eternity, once sat, has to-day no thirsty men or women coming to it with their empty pitchers, for the well is dry. how? why? because so much rubbish has fallen in that the well is choked. clear out the well, and the water will spring up again as in christ's day. so with many a child of god. the water is within them, the well is there, but it is choked; the water is not springing up, and so they are reduced to dependence on a bottle! oh! for an anointed eye in our head to see the rubbish, and for grace in our hearts to deal with it, to judge it and to cast it out; and then we would soon have an eye to "see the well of water." may he break every "bottle," and open every eye to see "the well." now let us contrast the "well" of the fourth chapter with the "rivers" of the seventh. the "well" is for the supply of all possible _local_ needs; but since the christianity of jesus is essentially an unselfish thing, he has made ample provision for the supply of _surrounding_ needs; "out of him" in whom is the "well"--"out of him" who is abundantly satisfied with christ--"shall flow rivers of living water," bearing life and satisfaction and gladness into the abounding death and destitution and dreariness that exist on every hand; for "everything shall live whithersoever the river cometh" (ezek. xlvii. 9). does your church, your neighborhood feel the vivifying, fructifying, refreshing influences of your presence? most certainly, if john vii. 38 is your experience; in other words, if you have been "filled with the spirit." but remember we must go through the fourth of john to get into the seventh! in john iii. we have the indwelling, in john iv. the infilling, and in john vii. the overflowing. _3. "the promise of the father."_ "wait for the promise of the father" (acts i. 4). see also ii. 33, ii. 39, gal. iii. 14, luke xxiv. 49. there are many promises in the divine word given us by the father; but there is only one promise spoken of as "_the_ promise," giving it a pre-eminence among all the other "exceeding great and precious promises." what that "promise" was is ascertained by comparing acts i. 4, "wait for the promise," with acts i. 5, "ye shall be baptized," and acts ii. 4, "they were all filled." to whom does "the promise" of the father belong? surely to all the father's children without favor or distinction. since then "the promise is unto _you_," the question for "you" to settle is, have you "_received_" the promise? a promise never made use of is like a check never cashed, and is of little use to the one who gets it. have you cashed the check? if not, why not? the fault is with the child and not with the father. _4. "pouring forth."_ "i will pour forth of my spirit upon all flesh" (acts ii. 17). see also acts ii. 18, joel ii. 28, 29, isaiah xliv. 3, acts ii. 33, acts x. 45. from this expression we may learn still more clearly the copiousness of the blessing. _5. "the gift."_ "and ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost" (acts ii. 38). see also acts viii. 20, acts x. 45, acts xi. 17. from this expression may we not learn the freeness of the blessing? in this connection ponder carefully the "how much more" of luke xi. 13. _6. "receiving."_ "and they received the holy ghost" (acts viii. 17). see also, "ye shall receive power" (acts i. 8); "have ye received the holy ghost since ye believed?" (acts xix. 2); acts viii. 15, john xx. 22, gal. iii. 14. floods of light will be thrown upon the whole subject if we grasp clearly the full force of this expression, "receive." "receiving" is the correlative of "the gift." a gift will not profit one until it is received. it is just here, at the _appropriating_, that we have come short. god has not failed in his "giving," but we have failed in our taking, in "receiving." "receiving" is a distinct, definite act on our part. have we "received"? if not, why not? god is "giving." _7. "falling."_ "for as yet he was fallen upon none of them" (acts viii. 16). see also acts x. 44, acts xi. 15. from this expression may we not learn the "_suddenness_" with which the blessing sometimes comes, and comes consciously, too? compare acts ii. 2, "and suddenly there came from heaven a sound." _8. "coming."_ "the holy ghost came on them" (acts xix. 6). see also acts i. 8, john xv. 26. john xvi. 7, 8, 13. from this expression may we not learn the _personality_ of the holy ghost? "christ jesus _came_ into the world," and "the holy ghost _came_ on them," are two parallel expressions. if christ is here a person, why should the holy ghost be a mere influence? _9. "sealed."_ "ye were sealed with that holy spirit of promise" (eph. i. 13). see also 2 cor. i. 22. this "sealing" in eph. i. 13, is the "receiving" of acts xix. 2; the "coming on them" of acts xix. 6; for here, in this epistle, paul is evidently referring to the incident related in acts xix. 1-7. in eph. i. 13, "in whom ye also trusted, after that ye heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation: in whom also after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that holy spirit of promise," we see the successive stages through which the ephesians passed in their spiritual history. (1) there was a time when they had not heard the gospel; they were living in the darkness of heathenism. (2) then came the day when they "heard the word." (3) then they "believed." (4) succeeding this they were "sealed," "_after_ that ye believed ye were sealed;" a very distinct and definite blessing this for the ephesians, as definite as their salvation when they believed. and yet, in face of this, some will affirm that there is no such thing as a christian receiving a new distinct blessing after his conversion! if these ephesians had this experience, why may not believers still? when a christian is "sealed" by the holy ghost, "sealed" as the property of his master, there will be no need to ask, "whose image and superscription is this" upon the "sealed" one? the king's, of course. any one can see the image. of what use is a "seal" if it cannot be seen? is the king's image visibly, permanently stamped upon us? it is on every spirit-filled "sealed" believer. chapter ix. _how obtained?_ we come now to the practical side of our subject. surely the unprejudiced reader, if he has not already "received the holy ghost," has at least come to the conclusion that there _is_ such a blessing mentioned in the new testament, and lying in god's treasury, jesus christ, for all new testament believers, and therefore for him--_for me_. until it dawns on one's consciousness that there _is_ such a blessing as "being filled with the spirit," it is not likely that he will trouble about seeking it, and therefore will never obtain it. in all fairness these terms which we have just been considering--"filled," "baptized," "rivers," etc.--mean _something_. there is _some_ blessing represented by the terms, some substance at the back of the shadows. god the holy ghost knows what that blessing is. "have i got _that_?" is there anything in my life and experience to correspond with _that_? now comes the question, "how am i to get it?" the bible answer may be summarily comprehended in three words--cleanse, consecrate, claim. chapter x. _wrong motives._ but before proceeding to consider these words, it is absolutely necessary that we be on our guard against desiring this so needful a blessing from wrong motives. we must seek it for one supreme reason--for the glory of god. if self is at the root of our motives at all, god will most surely block our way to fullness of blessing. if we are thinking in our heart of hearts that it would be a good thing for us to get this blessing for our own happiness or satisfaction, or even that we might be more useful, or that in any way we might have the pre-eminence, our eye is not single, our whole body is not full of light (matt. vi. 22). there is therefore need for the refining fire to go through our heart. god _must_ be alpha and omega in the matter. "for god's glory, and for god's glory alone" must be our watchword as we proceed with our search after the fullness of the spirit. chapter xi. _cleansing._ as there are conditions requiring to be complied with in order to the obtaining of salvation, before one can be justified, _e. g._, conviction of sin, repentance, faith; so there are conditions for full salvation, for being "filled with the holy ghost." conviction of our need is one, conviction of the existence of the blessing is another; but these have been already dealt with. "cleansing" is another; before one can be filled with the holy ghost, one's heart must be "cleansed." "giving them the holy ghost, even as he did unto us; and he made no distinction between us and them, _cleansing_ their hearts by faith" (acts xv. 8, 9). god first cleansed their hearts, and then he gave them the holy ghost. how can we be filled with the holy ghost if we are filled with something else? the heart must _first_ be emptied and cleansed. the milkman has called on his morning round, and the housewife hears his call. there is a jug standing beside her on the table; it is her own, for she purchased it only last week. she picks it up, and looks into it to see if it is clean; she finds it is not. now she would never think of taking that dirty jug for the milk; but she empties it and rinses and cleanses it, and then, having wiped it dry to her satisfaction, she takes it out for the morning allowance. indeed, if she brought it out dirty to the milkman, he would positively refuse to put his sweet new milk into it. so a heart may belong to god, that is, it may be the heart of a christian man, and yet not a "clean" heart, but until it is cleansed god will refuse to put into it the precious deposit of the "water of life clear as crystal." _a "new heart" not necessarily a "clean heart."_ but some one objects, "i thought that when one became a christian, and was made a partaker of the divine nature, he had a clean heart?" not necessarily. many, many a one is born again, is pardoned and justified, and yet has not a "clean heart." "forgiveness" is one thing, "cleansing" is another, and one may possess the former without possessing the latter. for instance, take the case of david in ps. li. he was one of god's people, a restored backslider, when he wrote that psalm. "the lord also hath put away thy sin" (2 sam. xii. 13), said nathan to him. but forgiveness, great and sweet as that gift was, was not enough for israel's now so deeply-taught and penitent king. "create in me a _clean_ heart" (ps. li. 10), he cries. this is something over and above being "born again," over and above and beyond and deeper even than "forgiveness" (compare ps. li. 2 and jer. xxxiii. 8). see also the new testament teaching on this point in 1 john i. 7, "the blood of jesus christ his son _cleanseth_ us from all sin;" and 1 john i. 9, "he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to _cleanse_ us from all unrighteousness." is the "cleansing" of verse 7 the same as the "cleansing" of verse 9? most certainly not. the "cleansing" of verse 7 has to do with the _guilt_ of sin, with sin after it has been committed; this is the only sense in which the blood of jesus "cleanses," it washes white as snow from the guilt and stain of _actual_ transgression; that "cleansing" is retrospective. now, this "cleansing" of verse 7 is the "forgiving" of verse 9; both these words bear on a sinner's justification. but the "cleansing from all unrighteousness" of verse 9 is something different from, something over and above the "forgiving" of verse 9, or the "cleansing" of verse 7; else, if they mean one and the same thing, would not the author be guilty of tautology? the "cleansing" of verse 9 is prospective, and refers to holiness of life, to our being saved from sin, from sinning. and you will notice that it is not the blood of jesus that does this, but jesus _himself_ by the exercise of his almighty power. there is a great deal of confusion on this point in many minds, a confusion fostered, if not begotten, by some of our hymns. powers are sometimes attributed to the blood of jesus, to the death of christ, which belong to jesus himself, to the living christ. we are saved from sin's condemnation by the blood, cleansed from the guilt of all sin, forgiven on the ground of the blood; and in this connection we cannot possibly make too much of the blood, too much of the death of the son of god--but we are saved from sin's power by jesus himself. "himself (lit.) shall save his people from their sins" (matt. i. 21). "we shall be saved _by his life_" (rom. v. 10). "_he_ is faithful and just to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." the blood "cleanses" in the sense of washing the sin away after it has actually been committed; he "cleanses" in the sense of preventing, restraining from sin. he keeps us back from _sinning_. he "makes us more than conquerors" over sin; and in this so blessed sense "prevention is better than cure." how often does a mother say to her child when putting on a clean snow-white pinafore in the morning, "now, my darling, do keep it clean!" "yes, mother," and she intends to do so; but alas for her intentions! at dinner-time she comes home with her pinafore about as dirty as she can make it. now, the mother can wash it and make it clean again, as white as ever; but it is weary, wearing work, this everlasting washing. so the blood of jesus can cleanse from all sin the garments that are brought to it for cleansing, and what a deal of cleansing it has to do for some of us! but wouldn't it be just splendid for many a hardworking mother if she could put some power or other into her child--her own self, for instance--by which the child would be kept from making the pinafore dirty at all, so that it would not need washing? wouldn't this be a vast improvement, even on making it clean after it has been made dirty? this is just what jesus does. he puts a power within the child that trusts him--that power is himself, by which the believer is kept from defiling his garments by any known sin, so that they do not need washing. this is to be "cleansed from all unrighteousness." but there are whole battalions of god's saved, forgiven, and "cleansed" people ("cleansed" in the sense of verse 7), who are not "cleansed" in this sense ("cleansed" in the sense of verse 9), who are not yet saved from the power of some besetting (that is, upsetting) sin or other. have we not known some christian men who, as has been well said, are like well-supplied cruet-stands? take them which side you like, you will get something either hot or sour, peppery or vinegarish from them! and yet one can scarcely doubt their conversion to god! what are we to say of these cross-grained or fretful, or worldly-minded, or covetous, or pleasure-loving professors of religion? one would fear to judge some of them and say they were utter strangers to god's regenerating grace; no, but one will say that what they sorely need is the "clean" heart. _what is a clean heart_? the question then arises, what is it to have a "clean heart"? what is it to be "cleansed from all unrighteousness"? it is to be "saved from our sins," according to matt. i. 21. it is to translate 1 john iii. 9 into practice, "whosoever is begotten of god doeth no sin; ... and he cannot sin, because he is begotten of god." it is to have a "conscience void of offense" (acts xxiv. 16). it is to "know nothing against myself" (1 cor. iv. 4). it is--in the words of another--to be "saved from _all known_, _conscious_ sin." but, it is objected, "that is perfection!" (it is amazing how frightened some people are of being perfect! it were well if they were equally afraid of being imperfect; for it is imperfection that grieves god. this dread of perfection has been called by some one, "a scarecrow set up by the devil to frighten away god's people from the very finest of the wheat.") "that is perfection!" yes and no. it _is_ the perfection which is not only allowed, but commanded in the word of god. but it is not _absolute_ perfection; it is not sinlessness. let us look carefully at the expression, "from all known, conscious sin;" "from all;" yes, all, not some or nearly all, but from "all known sin"--known, that is, to us, though not from all known to god; from "all known, conscious sin," so that one might be able to say, in the language of the lowliest of the apostles, "herein do i also exercise myself to have a conscience void of offense toward god and men alway" (acts xxiv. 16); and "i know nothing against myself" (1 cor. iv. 4); or, in the language of the disciple whom jesus loved, "we keep his commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in his sight" (1 john iii. 22). to have a clean heart, then, is to be saved "from our sins," saved from sinning, saved by jesus; note it well! not saved by our own efforts, by our watching and praying, and wrestling and fighting and struggling, but by jesus. so it is not a question of what _we_ can do, but of what _he_ can do. "is anything too hard for the lord?" (gen. xviii. 14.) can he not "guard from stumbling?" (jude 24.) can he not save from sin, from sinning? is not this what is meant when it is said, "he is able to save to the uttermost"? (heb. vii. 25.) "able to save," as matthew poole puts it, "to perfection, to the full, to all ends, from sin, in its guilt, its stain, its power." yes, he is just as complete, as perfect a saviour from the _power_ of sin, as he is from its guilt and stain. he is equally powerful in each department of his saving work. but after all is said and done, and one is being saved from all known, conscious sin, saved from sinning, that is not to say there is no sin remaining. we are face to face with the inspired statement, "if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves" (1 john i. 8). how much sin may there be in us of which we are entirely unconscious, but which is naked and open to those "eyes like unto a flame of fire!" (rev. ii. 18). "i know nothing against myself," cries paul in 1 cor. iv. 4, "yet am i not hereby justified; but he that judgeth (examineth) me is the lord." god may, and does, know much against me when i know nothing against myself; and it is just here that our constant need of the cleansing blood comes in. if the bible doctrine of the clean heart meant the eradication of sin, a state of sinlessness, that is, absolute perfection, what need would we then have of the cleansing blood at all? though jesus christ may have "cleansed us from all unrighteousness," so that we "have a conscience void of offense," so that we "know nothing against ourselves," yet we need the blood to cleanse from the sins which our eyes fail to detect, and of which our conscience takes no cognizance. it is failure to see this that has led many astray at this point. having been cleansed and having "no more conscience of sins" (heb. x. 2), they imagine they _have_ no more sin. how superficial is some people's idea of sin! how little conception have they of the pauline doctrine of sin! he speaks of sin as "exceeding sinful." how subtle it is! how far-reaching! in their daring ignorance some have actually taken the penknife, like judah's foolish king, and cut a whole petition out of the prayer which the lord taught his disciples. he taught them to pray, "forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors;" but these modern lights in their darkness are correcting their teacher, and have cut out that petition, and thrown it away. "no need have we to confess our sin, for we have none to confess, and therefore we have no debts to be forgiven." poor mistaken people! never more need of confession and forgiveness than when they are speaking thus! the holiest of men are the men who lie the lowest before the holy one, confessing that which they know only too well (because the truth is in them), that they "have sin," offering the sacrifices with which god is ever well pleased, "a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart" (ps. li. 17). the nearer we get to him "whose head and whose hair are white as wool, white as snow" (rev. i. 14), to the ancient of days "whose garment is white as snow" (dan. vii. 9), the more conscious are we of the dullness of our whiteness, of the vast difference between our whitest and his whiteness; and this consciousness humbles one. "what is it to have sin? what is sin?" asked a great leader once, and he answered his own question thus: "it is to come short of the glory of god; and in this sense we sin every moment of our lives in thought, word, and deed." is there a man on earth who can stand before the infinitely holy one and say, "i do not come short of thy glory"? should we speak thus, "we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." we may be helped here by observing the difference between the two new testament words "blameless" and "faultless." "i pray god your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved _blameless_ (without blame, unblameworthy), unto the coming of our lord jesus christ" (1 thess. v. 23). "to present you _faultless_ (flawless, blemishless) before the presence of his glory" (jude 24). now a person or work may be "blameless" and yet not be "faultless." this is not verbal hair-splitting--by no means. suffer a personal illustration. i have lying on the table beside me a letter, which will illustrate the point at issue. i received it when i was away in new zealand on a mission tour, in 1891. it was from my eldest daughter, then a child of five years of age. it reads: "dear father, i wrote all this myself. i send you a kiss from elsie." the fact of the matter is, that it is not writing at all, but an attempt at printing in large capitals, and not one of the letters is properly formed; there is not as much as one straight stroke on the page. why is it that i prize this letter and keep it laid up among my treasures? fathers who are as much away from home as i am will understand when i say that it was my child's first attempt at letter-writing. now, this letter which i prize so dearly is certainly not a "faultless" production; it is as full of faults as it is full of letters, but most assuredly it is "blameless." i did not blame my child for her crooked strokes, and answer with a scold, for i judged her work by its motive. i knew it was the best she could do, and that she had put all the love of her little heart into it. she wanted to do something to please me, and she succeeded. by the grace of the indwelling christ (for you will perceive that it is his work, "faithful is he that calleth you, who also will do it"--1 thess. v. 24), this is what our daily life, our daily life-work may be, viz., "blameless;" and he can tell us that it is so, even as i told my child; we may have this testimony, that we are "pleasing god," as enoch had (heb. xi. 5). oh, the joy! oh, the inspiration of this god-given testimony! but what a sad mistake for any who may by grace have been made "blameless," to think that they are "faultless," a condition which is to be found only "before the throne." for it is to be noted that the greek word translated "without blemish," "without fault," (_amomos_) is never used of god's people on earth. it is used once of the lamb "without blemish and without spot" (1 pet. i. 19). elsewhere of the saints. in rev. xiv. 5, "without fault before the throne of god." in jude 24, "before the presence of his glory without blemish." in eph. v. 27, "that it should be holy and without blemish," when in the sweet by-and-by he will "present the church to himself." in eph. i. 4, "even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blemish before him in love;" chosen in the past eternity that we should be "holy and without blemish" in the coming eternity, not here, but there; not now, but then; for the word translated "before" is the same greek word (_katenopion_), translated in jude 24 "before the presence of." in col. i. 22, "to present you holy and without blemish, and unreprovable before him." here he is speaking again of our future standing, for the word translated "before" is the same as in eph. i. 4. "without blemish" then is sinlessness, having no sin. "and if we say (here on earth) we have no sin (are sinless--blemishless--faultless--flawless), we deceive ourselves (but no one else!), and the truth is not in us" (1 john i. 8). he that has the truth in him knows only too well that he has sin in him, though "cleansed from all sin" by the blood, and though "cleansed from all unrighteousness" by the might of the uttermost saviour. it is most instructive and humbling to notice how the spirit of truth has placed that "if we say we have (present tense) no sin, we deceive ourselves," in between his two statements about the "cleansing from all sin" and the "cleansing from all unrighteousness." but though we will never be able on earth to say with the truth in us that "we have no sin,"--that we are without blemish, yet the whole bible teaches us that we may, in this life, be saved "from our sins." (note the difference between "sin" and "sins.") we may be saved from sinning. "these things write we unto you, that ye sin not" (1 john ii. 1); and this is the condition described as "blameless," "unreprovable," "without reproach." see 1 cor. i. 8; 1 tim. iii. 10; tit. i. 6, 7; where the greek word _anegkletos_ (unreprovable) is used. also 1 tim. iii. 2; 1 tim. v. 7; where the greek word is _anepileptos_ (without reproach). also matt. xii. 5, where _anaitios_ (guiltless) is used. also 2 pet. iii. 14, where _amometos_ (blameless) is employed. also luke i. 6; phil. ii. 15, and iii. 6; 1 thess. ii. 10, iii. 13; and v. 23, where _amemptos_ (without blame) is the word used. these words describe a state or condition of heart and life which is not only attainable here, but imperative; and the passages we have just been reading prove that it _has_ been attained. this is what is meant by a clean heart, to be "blameless," not "faultless." "i was sitting alone in the twilight, with spirit troubled and vexed, with thoughts that were morbid and gloomy, and faith that was sadly perplexed. "some homely work i was doing for the child of my love and care; some stitches half wearily setting in the endless need of repair. "but my thoughts were about the building, the work some day to be tried, and that only the gold and the silver, and the precious stones should abide. "and remembering my own poor efforts, the wretched work i had done, and even when trying most truly, the meager success i had won: "'it is nothing but wood, hay and stubble,' i said; 'it will all be burned; this useless fruit of the talents one day to be returned; "'and i have _so_ longed to serve him, and sometimes i know i have tried; but i'm sure when he sees such building, he will never let it abide.' "just then as i turned the garment, that no rent should be left behind, mine eye caught an odd little bungle of mending and patchwork combined. "my heart grew suddenly tender, and something blinded mine eyes with one of those sweet inspirations, that sometimes make us so wise. "dear child! she wanted to help me, i knew 'twas the best she could do; but oh! what a botch she had made of it, the gray mismatching the blue! "and yet, can you understand it? with a tender smile and a tear, and a half compassionate yearning, i feel her grow more dear. "then a sweet voice broke the silence, and the dear lord said to me, 'art thou tenderer for thy little child than i am tender for thee?' "then straightway i knew his meaning, so full of compassion and love; and my faith came back to its refuge, like the glad returning dove. "so, i thought, when the master builder comes down this temple to view, to see what rents must be mended, and what must be builded anew; "perhaps as he looks o'er the building he will bring my work to the light; and seeing the marring and bungling, and how far it is all from right; "he will feel as i felt for my darling, and will say as i said for her, 'dear child! she wanted to help me, and love for me was the spur; "'and for the great love that is in it the work shall seem perfect as mine;' and, because it was willing service, will crown it with plaudit divine. "and there, in the deepening twilight, i seemed to be clasping a hand, and to feel a great love constraining, far stronger than any command. "then i knew by the thrill of sweetness, 'twas the hand of the blessed one which should tenderly guide and hold me, till all the labor is done. "so my thoughts are never more gloomy, my faith is no longer dim, but my heart is strong and restful, and mine eyes are unto him." a clean heart then does not mean sinlessness, the eradication of sin, that sin is taken out of us; for though sin is taken out of the _heart_ that is cleansed--for a clean heart must be clean!--yet "the flesh," the self-life, remains in the _man_, "latent if not patent," ready to manifest itself should the counteracting power of the indwelling christ the saviour even for a moment be withdrawn. this "flesh" is evil (rom. vii. 18) and, therefore, while "the flesh" is in us "sin" is in us, and hence our constant need of the cleansing blood. as we trust for continuous cleansing we get it. "the blood ... _cleanseth_"--resent progressive tense--goes on cleansing, therefore guilt is never allowed to gather, for as sin appears the blood cleanses it away and so keeps us clean. blessed present tense! thus it is possible for us _always_ to walk in the light. then as christ exercises his counteracting power over "the flesh" we are being "cleansed from all unrighteousness," delivered from doing the "not right," and, by continuous trust in our omnipotent saviour, we may know continuous deliverance, continuous victory over sin; we need never know defeat. a christian mother had just kissed good-night to her little daughter, and was busy in the dining-room arranging the table for dinner, when she heard little feet on the stair. wondering what was the matter, she slipped into the window recess and hid herself behind the curtains, and waited. presently the little one came into the room, and going straight up to some peaches that were on the table, she took one of them away with her! oh, the agony in that mother heart! she did not speak to her child, but standing where she was, she spoke to god her father, and asked _him_ so fervently to speak to her child. god heard that cry, and in a little while the sound of the pattering feet was heard on the stair again. the child came into the room, not knowing her mother was there, and going on tip-toe over to the table she put the peach in the place from which she had taken it. as she turned away with a radiant face, rubbing her hands with delight, her mother heard her say, "sold again, satan! sold again, satan!" that's victory! yes, the cleansing means that and more than that. "we are _more than_ conquerors," for when jesus cleanses the heart, he cleanses the springs of action and being, so that our very desires are purified; the desire to sin, the "want to," is taken clean away. this is coming off "more than conquerors through him that loved us" (rom. viii. 37). glory to his name! the man now "wants to" do the will of god. he "likes" what god likes. "i thought you could do what you liked," was the taunt hurled by a young man at a friend of his who enjoyed full salvation on his refusing to go to the theater. "i thought you told me you could do what you liked?" "so i can." "why, then, won't you come with me as i asked you?" "because i don't like," was the rejoinder. the only men on earth who enjoy perfect freedom are the men who have clean hearts, for they not only know that they _ought_ to do the will of god, but they _want_ to do it and they _like_ to do it and moreover they have a power that _enables_ them to do it. on the other hand, in our jails and hospitals you will find people who thought that they could do as they liked, but they have discovered that they were mistaken. _cleansing: a crisis_ but how am i to get this clean heart? peter answers, "cleansing their hearts _by faith_" (acts xv. 9). cleansing is god's work, and the condition on which god will do his work is "faith" on our part. there is only one way of getting anything from god, and that is by faith. one obtained forgiveness and the new birth by faith, and one obtains cleansing of the heart by faith too. you may, you will, get "cleansing" the moment you definitely _trust_ christ for it. "we aye get what we gang in for" was one of duncan mathieson's favorite expressions; and along the line of god's revealed will how true it is! if you will only venture _now_ on christ for "cleansing from all unrighteousness," he will do it for you _now_. "wilt thou not be made clean? when shall it once be?" (jer. xiii. 27.) why not _now_? for "cleansing" is a _crisis_ and not a _process_; but, as principal moule, of cambridge, has very tersely put it, "cleansing is a crisis with a view to a process." it is just here that multitudes of god's people miss the track. "sanctification is the _work_ of god's free grace."[1] of course it is; it is a "growth," a gradual process; but "cleansing" is not "sanctification." the latter, in the sense in which it is being used here, is a theological term embracing all the spirit's work in the believer between the cross and the crown; but "cleansing" is an _act_. while sanctification is a "growth," "cleansing" is one of the conditions of growth, and the very reason why some who hold most tenaciously by the gradual theory of sanctification are "growing in grace" so very slowly, is that they have not attended to one of the most essential conditions of growth, viz., this "cleansing." "but," some one objects, "this is not in the standards of our church?" that may be; but it is in the bible. to quote the words of the saintly dr. andrew bonar in another connection, "i believe all that is in our standards, for i find all that is in our standards in the bible; but i believe _more_ than is in our standards, for i find some things in my bible that are not in the standards;" for the simple and very obvious reason that you cannot get a quart into a pint measure. while every honest churchman believes that all that is in the standards of the church to which he belongs is in the bible, no one in his sane senses believes that _everything_ in the bible is to be found in the standards. the doctrine of a "clean heart" is one of these things. [1: shorter catechism, no. 35.] in support of the statement that "cleansing" is a crisis, an act, something done in a moment, just as conversion is, and not a "process" drawn out indefinitely before one can reach a state of "cleansing," let us ponder well david's prayer, in psalm li. 10, "create in (margin, for) me a clean heart." is _creation_ an "act" or a "work"? is it a "crisis" or a "process"? all the creator had to do was to speak the word and david's prayer was granted; he then could turn his prayer into thanksgiving; "i thank thee for having created in me a clean heart;" but he could not thank god for what he had not received. giving thanks for the clean heart would prove that it was in his possession. note also that heart "cleansing" is god's work alone. we are exhorted to "cleanse _ourselves_ from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit" (2 cor. vii. 1), which simply means "separation" from all the palpable, manifest evils paul had just been enumerating, such as "yoking with unbelievers," "unrighteousness," "darkness," "belial," "infidel," "idols," "unclean things" (_vide_ 2 cor. vi. 14-17). in reference to all such things god says "cleanse yourselves." the aorist tense is used in the original, denoting a definite, decisive act; "separate from these things at once and be done with them." and where are we to get the enabling power? in effect, god says, "draw a check on me; draw on my resources for all you need," for all god's commandings are god's enablings. but when it comes to be a question of cleansing the "heart," the inner being, the springs of action, that part of the man where the affections and the will are seated, god undertakes that himself; he says, "bring that to me." if this work were left to us it would indeed be a "process" slow and tedious, and progress might be made, as it so often is, alas! backward. but now the question is,--not what can the believer do by his efforts to overcome indwelling sin, but what can the almighty god do? it is not a question of our power, but of his. "'twas most impossible of all, that here sin's reign in me should cease; yet shall it be! i know it shall: jesus, look to thy faithfulness: if nothing is too hard for thee, all things are possible to me." he is able and willing to "cleanse." are we willing to be cleansed? another mistake to be carefully guarded against is this, making "cleansing" to be an _end_ instead of a _means_ to an end. "cleansing" is not the blessing that we are seeking; it is only a means. the end is the "filling of the holy ghost." "cleansing" is a negative blessing, the separating from sin; but we can only be satisfied with a positive blessing. when the housewife cleans the house, does she then go out and live in the yard? not so. she cleans the house that it may be the more fit for her to inhabit. god cleanses, "empties, sweeps, and garnishes" (matt. xii. 44), that he may come in to dwell; and if he, the holy one, does come in and take up his abode, he will _keep_ his dwelling place "clean." this "cleansing" of which we have been speaking is one of the steps into the blessed life; but there is not much likelihood of any one living the life unless they first take the necessary steps into the life. it is a life of purity, and it is lived, as it is entered upon, by faith in the son of god; hence the name by which the spirit-filled life is sometimes called--the life of faith. chapter xii. _consecration: what is it?_ the second step that must needs be taken by those of us who have been living without the fullness, before it can be obtained, is consecration, a word that is very common and popular; much more common and popular, it is feared, than the thing itself. in order to be filled with the holy ghost one must first be "cleansed," and then one must be "consecrated". consecration follows cleansing, and not _vice versa_. intelligent apprehension of what consecration is, and of what it involves, is necessary to an intelligent consecration of oneself. _1. sanctification._ consecration is another word for sanctification. many people have a confused idea as to what sanctification really is. it must be borne in mind that we are not considering the theological term sanctification, but the use of the new testament word "sanctify," "sanctification." no one would confound "consecration" with "cleansing," and yet many confound "sanctification" with "cleansing." to "sanctify" is to purify, to cleanse, to make holy, they tell us. but the idea of purification, of cleansing, of separating from sin, is not in the n. t. word "sanctify" at all. "the very god of peace _sanctify_ you wholly" (i thess. v. 23). that does not mean "purify" you, separate you from sin, as a glance at two other passages, in which the same word occurs, will show. "for their sakes i _sanctify_ myself" (john xvii. 19). "_sanctify_ in your hearts christ as lord" (i pet. iii. 15, r. v.), where it cannot mean purify, separate from sin. in these passages its true meaning is very apparent--to "set apart for a holy use," to "separate to god," to "consecrate." to "cleanse" is to separate _from_ sin, but to "sanctify" is to separate to god, to set apart for god that which has already been separated _from_ sin. we cannot set apart to a holy use (consecrate) that which is not cleansed. hence we see why it is that "cleansing" must precede sanctification or consecration, "that he might sanctify it, having cleansed it" (eph. v. 26, r. v.). "sanctification" is not identical with "cleansing," but it is its complement. "we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of jesus christ once for all" (heb. x. 10). "wherefore jesus also, that he might sanctify the people through his own blood, suffered without the gate" (heb. xiii. 12). from these passages we gather that it is by the blood of jesus we are sanctified, set apart to god. this is another function of the precious blood, in addition to the one we have already been considering, viz., cleansing from the guilt of sin. _2. surrender._ "in conversion," says dr. chalmers, "god gives to me, but in consecration i give to god." every one knows that conversion should have experimental acquaintance with consecration. "in full and glad surrender, i give myself to thee." consecration, then, involves surrender--total, absolute, unconditional, irreversible. this is paul's teaching in romans: "i beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of god, that ye present _your bodies_ a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto god, which is your reasonable service" (rom. xii. 1). these people had already given their souls to god, and now the apostle insists on their giving their "bodies" too. "yield (r. v., present) yourselves unto god as those that are alive from the dead" (rom. vi. 13). life first, then sacrifice. have we life in christ? then it is imperative that we "yield," "present" ourselves unto god. it is not a matter of individual choice or taste or convenience; but every one that has been quickened from the death in trespasses and sins is commanded, _yes, commanded_, to "present himself to god." have _you_ obeyed this command? if not, why not? god excuses no one. had it not better be attended to now? yes, before you read another line! it follows as a corollary that if we yield ourselves, we yield everything else to god; nothing is withheld. what loss we suffer because we will hold back some little thing! a little child was one day playing with a very valuable vase, when he put his hand into it and could not withdraw it. his father, too, tried his best to get it out, but all in vain. they were talking of breaking the vase, when the father said, "now, my son, make one more try; open your hand and hold your fingers out straight, as you see me doing, and then pull." to their astonishment the little fellow said, "oh no, pa; i couldn't put out my fingers like that, for if i did, i would drop my penny." he had been holding on to a penny all the time! no wonder he could not withdraw his hand. how many of us are like him! drop the copper, surrender, let go, and god will give you gold. now let us note that the verb translated "yield" (rom. vi. 13) and "present" (rom. xii. i) is not in the present tense in the original, as if paul said "be yielding," "keep presenting," but it is in the aorist tense, the general force of which is a definite act, something done and finished with. so that when the command, "present yourself to god," is complied with as far as one's light goes, the person is entitled to regard the transaction as a completed act, and to say, "yes, i have presented myself to god." then faith presses on the heels of that statement and says, "god has accepted what i have thus _presented_." it is absolutely necessary that faith be in lively exercise on this point, for what will be the practical outcome of all my presenting if i do not believe that god takes what i give? "him that cometh unto me i will in nowise cast out" is just as appropriate to the saint seeking full salvation as to the sinner seeking pardon. it is failure here, failure to apprehend by faith the fact that god receives what i present, that has blocked progress for so many of god's people who are truly desirous of living consecrated lives. from this it will be seen that consecration is a crisis in the life of the believer, just as cleansing is, and not a process; but it, too, "is a crisis in order to a process." _3. transference of ownership._ consecration implies and involves transference of ownership. many a christian is living to-day as if he were his own; but the consecrated heart endorses the statement of the divine word: "ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify god in your body and in your spirit, which are god's" (1 cor. vi. 19, 20). the consecrated man looks upon himself as the absolute property of the lord who bought him, and his whole life is lived in the light of this fact. _4. enthroning christ._ consecration involves the "glorifying" of christ, the "enthroning" him, the crowning of jesus "lord of all" in our own heart and life. "crown him, crown him, lord of all;" "and," says dr. hudson taylor, "if you do not crown him lord _of all_, you do not crown him lord _at all_." this view of consecration, with its accompanying results, is beautifully illustrated for us in john vii. 38, 39, "he that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water. but this spake he of the spirit, which they that believe on him were to receive: for the spirit was not yet given; because jesus was not yet glorified." the flowing forth of the rivers--just the outflow, the overflow of the infilling spirit--was dependent on jesus being "glorified." jesus had not yet reached the throne, and so the spirit had not yet been given. the reason why they had not come to pentecost was that as yet there was no ascension. ascension preceded pentecost. let us learn it by root of heart, that every pentecost since the first has, in like manner, been preceded by an ascension. do we know pentecost experimentally for ourselves? if not the reason is close at hand. jesus has not been "glorified" by us, not enthroned in _our_ hearts. he may be in the heart, he may even be in the throne room, but he has not been placed upon the throne! there has never been a coronation day in our lives, when "in full and glad surrender" we placed the crown on the many-crowned head, crying, "crown him, crown him, lord of all!" "and he showed me a river of water of life, bright as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of god and _of the lamb_" (rev. xxii. 1). when christ reached the throne at the father's right hand, from underneath his throne the river began to flow, the holy ghost was given, his church received her pentecost. "being by the right hand of god exalted ... he hath poured forth this" (acts ii. 33). so when christ is "exalted," "enthroned," "glorified" in the believer's heart, from underneath his throne will the rivers begin to flow according to promise; but, no ascension, no pentecost; and let us remember, as has been already stated, that though life begins at the cross, service does not begin till pentecost. no pentecost, no service worthy of the name! we need not be concerned as to how the rivers are flowing from us, or troubled as to what channels they are flowing in. they flowed from peter in one way, and from paul in quite another, and from barnabas in yet another; there are infinite "diversities" of ways. we need not trouble at all about the rivers, and the direction of their flow; our concern is to "glorify jesus," to see that he is on the throne; and it becomes _his_ business then to see that the rivers are flowing; and there is not the slightest danger that the blessed business with which he charges himself will be neglected! there are other aspects of consecration in the divine word which have not been touched upon, but enough has been said for our purpose to show what it is, and what its blessed results will be. our life and service will be enriched beyond telling by enthroning christ. this, of course, involves the breaking of all our idols, for he will not share his throne with any. when mahmoud, the conqueror of india, had taken the city of gujarat he proceeded, as was his custom, to destroy the idols. there was one, fifteen feet high, which its priests and devotees begged him to spare. he was deaf to their entreaties, and seizing a hammer he struck it one blow when, to his amazement, from the shattered image there rained down at his feet a shower of gems, pearls and diamonds--treasure of fabulous value, which had been hidden within it! had he spared the idol he would have lost all this wealth. let us not spare _our_ idols. it is to our interest to demolish them. if we shatter them there will rain about our hearts the very treasures of heaven, the gifts and graces of the holy spirit; but if we spare our idol we will miss riches unsearchable. the consecrated life is a christ-centered life, the only truly-centered life; every other life is eccentric: yet how often do we hear worldly people or worldly-minded christians (what a contradiction in terms!) criticising some devoted spirit-filled man or woman as "so eccentric," simply because of their loyalty to christ their king! when all the while it is the critics that are "eccentric,"--off the true center. indeed, so eccentric did the first spirit-filled band appear, that "others mocking said, they are filled with new wine;" _so they were_ "full of new wine," the "new wine" of the kingdom. and in god's sight these drunken, eccentric men were the only truly-centered spiritually-adjusted men in the throng. chapter xiii. _claiming._ having considered the two conditions necessary to being filled with the spirit, viz., the cleansing of the heart, and the consecration of the cleansed heart to god, we come now to the very practical question--how is this fullness to be obtained by the cleansed and consecrated believer? before proceeding to consider the answer, "claim it," let us notice what the divine word has to say about (1) prayer and (2) laying on of hands in connection with the obtaining. _1. prayer._ "how much more shall your heavenly father give the holy spirit to them that ask him?" (luke xi. 13.) this promise is given to god's children. it is the dearest wish of the great father-heart of god that his children should be filled with his spirit. who has a fathoming line long enough to sound the depths of that "how much more"? you "ask;" father "gives." what is the next step? why, of course, you "receive!" else all father's "giving" will be of no avail. "when they had prayed ... they were all filled with the holy ghost" (acts iv. 31). "prayed for them, that they might receive the holy ghost" (acts viii. 15). "tarry" (luke xxiv. 49). "wait" (acts i. 4)--not idling, but praying, pleading the promise. "these all with one accord continued steadfastly in prayer" (acts i. 14). "they were all with one accord in one place, and suddenly" the answer came! (acts ii. 1.) so in obtaining the blessing of the fullness, prayer has its place. _2. laying on of hands._ "then laid they their hands on them and they (samaritan converts) received the holy ghost" (acts viii. 17). "then when they had fasted and prayed, and laid their hands on them, they sent them away" (acts xiii. 3). barnabas and saul were men who were already full of the holy ghost, but by the laying on of hands (it is probable that hands had been laid on these men before this) they received a fresh anointing of the holy ghost, a fresh equipment for special service, and thus they were set apart for the work to which the holy ghost was calling them. "and when paul had laid his hands upon them (the men of ephesus), the holy ghost came on them" (acts xix. 6). "they laid their hands on them" (the deacons) (acts vi. 6). "neglect not the gift that is in thee, which was given thee by prophecy, with the laying on of the hands of the presbytery" (1 tim. iv. 14). "stir up the gift of god, which is in thee through the laying on of my hands" (2 tim. i. 6). it is quite evident that laying on of hands was no meaningless ceremonial in the primitive church. is there any reason why it should ever be an empty, barren form in our own day? we come now to examine the answer given to the question--how is the fullness of the spirit to be obtained?--viz., "claim it." it must be borne clearly in mind that we are dealing now with a cleansed and consecrated soul. if you are not "cleansed," attend first to the cleansing. if you are not consecrated, attend at once to the consecrating, and then (but not till then) will you be able to profit by what will be said about the claiming of the blessing. do we appreciate the immense difference between "claiming" and "asking"? i "claim" that which is mine own; i "ask" for a favor. for instance, if a man has a credit balance of $250 in his current banking account, and draws a check for $50, he does not require to go to the manager and "ask" for $50; he presents his check and "claims" it, for it is his own. but supposing that same man is in need of an advance of $500; he goes into the manager's room, and "asks" for the favor of a loan. no "claiming" now! so it is often with the christian and his god. when god gives him a definite promise for some definite blessing, it is the christian's privilege to "claim," to "receive" by faith the thing promised. if god tells him a certain blessing is his by virtue of his sonship, it is his to "claim," to "receive" what through grace has been made his own. there is no "asking" needed here, that is "asking" in the sense of saying--"lord, _if_ it be thine holy will, give me this." where is the room for an "if"? has not god told him it _is_ his will?--has he not promised it?--has he not given it to him? why, then, should he mock his lord by saying, "if it be thy will"? but supposing, on the other hand, that that man wants something which god has not expressly promised to give, something in reference to which he has _not_ revealed his will; all the christian can do in this case is to "ask"; he cannot "claim;" and god _may_ give him what he asks, or he may see that it will be for the best to refuse his child's request. a christian may want $250, and may "ask" his father to send it to him, and god may give or withhold. but if a christian man wants to be filled with the holy ghost, he need be in no doubt as to the issue here, he may "claim" the fullness, for has not god promised it? is not this blessing his very own? his birthright by virtue of his new birth? let us learn then clearly to distinguish between "claiming" as an act of faith based on an express promise in the word, and "asking" as a request in prayer. that the fullness of the holy ghost is one of the blessings which it is our privilege to "claim," to "receive" by a simple act of faith, is abundantly clear from the book of god. "christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us; for it is written, cursed is every one that hangeth on a tree: that the blessing of abraham might come on the gentiles through jesus christ; that we might receive the promise of the spirit _through faith_" (gal. iii. 13, 14). the double purpose of christ's redeeming work, of his being made a curse for us, is here plainly stated. he was "cursed" that we might be blessed with a double blessing--(1) with "the blessing of abraham," that is, righteousness, justification; and (2) with "the promise of the spirit." how many of god's children forget the second blessing!--they think that if they are saved from wrath and justified, that that is all!--but that is only half salvation; full salvation consists in receiving the promise of the spirit in _addition_ to being justified. have _we_ overlooked this fact? have we been stopping short at half salvation? those who are not living the "spirit-filled life" are making void to a most alarming extent, as far as they are concerned, the work christ accomplished on the tree. christ died that we might be made the righteousness of god, _and_ that we might be filled with god. as god holds the sinner guilty who neglects so great salvation, and rejects the offered righteousness, so he holds the justified believer guilty who neglects the second blessing which christ purchased with his blood, viz., the offered "promise of the spirit." but note well how paul tells us this latter blessing is to be made ours; it becomes ours "_by faith_." no one doubts how we receive the blessing of abraham (righteousness, justification); all are agreed that it is "by faith." "being justified by faith" (rom. v. 1). but how blind we are to see, how slow to take it in, in spite of the plain declarations of scripture, that "the promise of the spirit" is in like manner received "by faith!" the holy ghost is the "gift" of the father, and of the son (luke xi. 13). this "gift" is received "by faith." there is the whole matter in a nutshell. of all the sublime things in god's sublime book there is surely not a sublimer than this, that a cleansed and consecrated believer may by simple faith _here_ and _now_ claim and receive the fullness of the spirit--the greatest gift that even the exalted christ has in his power to bestow upon his people. "be filled with the spirit," saith the holy ghost. note that the command is in the passive voice, "be filled," that is, "let yourself be filled." the fullness is pressing in upon you, only let it in! receive it, and it is yours! _have you got it?_ if not, deal with the lord about it at once, somewhat after this manner, "lord jesus, thou dost command me to be filled with the spirit. i take thy command and make it my prayer, 'lord, fill me with thy spirit.' thou hast told me that 'all things whatsoever ye pray and ask for, believe that ye have received them, and ye shall have them' (mark xi. 24). it is thy desire to fill me; it is my desire to be filled. i have made, 'lord, fill me,' the prayer of my heart. i claim the fullness. i believe for it. i receive it now by faith. i _have_ received it. i have it. it is mine. lord, i thank thee for filling me, even me, with thine holy spirit." and the blessed business is done! it is yours to believe, to receive. it is _his_ to fill. go on your way now, reckoning that you are filled, and god will make the reckoning good. it is _yours_ to _keep believing_. it is god's to _keep you filled_. stagger not at the promise of god through unbelief, but be made strong in faith, giving glory to god. some object to this quick, almost instantaneous, and easy way of receiving this greatest of the new testament blessings. but every objection urged against receiving the fullness of the spirit in this way, applies with equal, if not greater force to a sinner receiving the pardon of his sins when he comes to god at the first. it is always in grace that god deals with the sinner, and justifies him the instant he believes in jesus. it is always in grace that god deals with the justified one, and fills him with the holy ghost the moment he receives the fullness by faith. eternal life is the gift of god, and all the sinner has to do is to take it. the holy ghost is a gift, and all god's child has to do is to take it. but some will still object, and say that it is necessary to spend some time "waiting" on god for the fullness before we can get it. a night of prayer, or a half night at least, a more or less protracted season must thus be spent before we can hope to receive the blessing we desire. of course not one word can be uttered against spending seasons of prayer by day or by night in waiting upon god. we have the example of the man of prayer himself before us in this. but this much must be said, that many a one has spent whole days and nights and weeks in earnest crying to god for the infilling of the holy ghost, and all in vain. all in vain? why? how? _because of unbelief._ if you want to fill a corked bottle with water, and take it to a running tap, but neglect to remove the cork, how long will you have to wait holding it under the tap before it is filled? remove the cork, and the bottle is running over in a few seconds! many a one has cried and waited, and waited and cried for the fullness of the spirit, but the stopper of unbelief has been in their empty hearts, and so no wonder that they did not get what they wanted! of what avail will all god's "giving" be if a man does not "receive"? god cannot _give_ and _receive_ too! but some one may still object, and, in proof of his contention that we must "wait" for the filling of the holy ghost, point to the case of the disciples, who continued in prayer for ten days, waiting for the promise of the father. quite true that they "waited;" but it must be remembered that that prayer meeting was ante-pentecostal; _we_ live in post-pentecostal days; _they_ were waiting for the spirit to come from heaven. "the spirit was not yet given." we have not so to wait. he _has_ come, he _has_ been given, and all we have to do is to receive him. we have read of christ's coming into the world and of his leaving it. we have read of the spirit's descent, but we do _not_ read of _his_ ascension. a christian man came to me once and said--expecting a word of encouragement and approval--"i have been seeking that blessing for over thirty years." "brother, it's nearly time you got it then!" was the swift rejoinder. for all these years during which the man was crying, "give, give, give!" god was saying, "take, take, take! receive, receive! for i _do_ give!" if i heard my little girl of three years old crying piteously for a piece of bread, knowing that she must be very hungry, and having the bread by me would i tell her to cry on for another hour and that then i might attend to her wants? "how much more," oh! "_how much more_ will your heavenly father give the holy spirit to them that ask him?" but what if, in spite of her crying and of my offering, she would not take the bread i offered, but still went on with her crying, "father! oh, father! do give me a piece of bread, i am so hungry!" you silly child! oh, how many silly children has the father in his family, crying year in and year out, "give, give!" and father all the while yearning over them and saying, "take, take, my child!" let some of us give over crying and set to work "receiving." take and thank! receive and thank! "that we might receive the promise of the spirit _through faith_." chapter xiv. _how does it come?_ how does the filling of the spirit come? "does it come once for all? or is it _always_ coming, as it were?" was a question addressed to me once by a young candidate for the baptism of the holy ghost. there are many asking the same question. we have considered how the fullness is obtained, but now we proceed to consider, how does the fullness come? in speaking of the blessing of being filled with the spirit, the new testament writers use three tenses in the greek--the aorist, the imperfect, and the present. each of these tenses has a different shade of meaning. the inspiring spirit has employed these different tenses for a purpose, and it will be to our profit to try and get at that purpose, to note the differences, and to learn his meaning. (1) the aorist tense--a tense to which the english language is a stranger--denotes generally "a sudden, definite act of the past," "something done and finished with"--"they were filled"--as in acts ii. 4. (2) the imperfect tense, denoting, as in english, just what its name implies--"they were being filled" (literally)--as in acts xiii. 52. (3) the present tense, also denoting, as in english, just what its name implies--"full," the normal condition--as in acts xi. 24. the following are the passages in the acts in which the various tenses are found:- (1) _aorist_:- acts ii. 2, "it filled all the house." acts ii. 4, "they were all filled." acts iv. 8, "peter filled with the holy ghost." peter was already "filled," in ch. ii. 4. acts iv. 31, "and they were all filled with the holy ghost." peter was again amongst them. peter received an "aorist" filling in ch. ii. 4, again in ch. iv. 8, and yet again in ch. iv. 31. so that an "aorist" filling may be repeated and repeated again and yet again. on both occasions--ch. iv. 8 and ch. iv. 31--there was special need, and to meet this special need, peter received a fresh and special and definite "filling" of the holy ghost. from this we learn that to equip us for every new important or difficult service to which we may be called, the lord jesus is prepared to grant us a fresh infilling, a "refilling" of the holy ghost; and that these "refillings" may be, and ought to be, repeated just as often as the need arises. we see it reported twice in one chapter that peter was "refilled." it will be noted that for the reasons already mentioned,[2] the expression "a fresh infilling of the holy ghost," or "refilling," is used instead of "received a fresh baptism of the holy ghost." [2: page 39.] acts ix. 17 (saul), "and be filled with the holy ghost." saul was not to begin his life work until "baptized"--"filled with the holy ghost." he must receive the very same blessing and equipment as the other apostles received at pentecost. this was saul's pentecost, and for him, as for others, service began at pentecost. acts xiii. 9, "paul filled with the holy ghost." the man who was filled in ch. ix. is "filled" anew in this passage, the "aorist" blessing is repeated, fitting him for the special work on hand, viz., administering that scathing rebuke to elymas the sorcerer. in all these passages the blessing is spoken of as a crisis, not as a process. (2) _imperfect_:- acts xiii. 52, "and the disciples (lit.) _were being filled_ with joy and with the holy ghost." this is the only passage in the acts where the imperfect tense is used. it is not the aorist "were filled," but the imperfect "were being filled," implying the inflow, not only to make up for, but to sustain, the outflow. the same idea of the "imperfect" is seen in eph. v. 18, "be filled with the spirit," where principal moule points out that the greek verb rendered "be filled," may with equal correctness be rendered "be ye _filling_ with the holy ghost." the preceptive verb "is in the present or continuing tense; it enjoins a course, a habit," so that in this sense "the fullness" is _always_ coming, it is spoken of as a process, not as a crisis. (3) _present_:- acts vi. 3, "look ye out therefore, brethren, from among you seven men of good report, full of the spirit and of wisdom, whom we may appoint over this business," men whose normal condition was "full" of the holy ghost. it is well worth noticing the business for which these "deacons" were wanted; they were to look after temporal affairs, to feed a few decent old greek widows; and yet even for this business the men must be "full of the holy ghost!" none other need apply. how far has the church of to-day strayed from apostolic practice! when an election of office-bearers is taking place nowadays, of men, say, to manage the temporal affairs of christ's church, who ever thinks of looking out for "men full of the holy ghost"? many a man is elected to office in the church of the living god who "has not the spirit of christ" at all--who is therefore not a child of god, much less "full of the holy ghost." "he is a man of social position, a man of means; if he is not full of the holy ghost, he is at least full of this world's goods, and you know he will be a pillar in our church." yes, as some one has well remarked, he will be a _cater_-pillar! the church of the new testament does not need pillars of that kind. the church of jesus christ and his apostles does not require to be propped up by children of the devil. what right have we to ask an "alien," a man who is "without christ," "having no hope and without god in the world," to assist in managing and controlling father's house? such was not apostolic practice. "be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers" (2 cor. vi. 14). what an amount of unequal yoking there is in many of our churches, although the church's lord expressly forbids it! "thou shalt not plough with an ox and an ass together" (deut. xxii. 10). who is responsible for this unequal yoking? is it not the church members that elect these men and put them into office in the church of god? church members, beware! next time offices are to be filled in your church, whether they have to do with the temporal affairs or with the spiritual, remember apostolic advice, "look ye out from among you men full of the spirit." when we get back in this matter to apostolic practice, we may hope to get back apostolic blessing, but not till then. acts vi. 5, "stephen, a man full of faith and of the holy spirit." in those brave days of old it was a case of demand and supply. wanted--seven men full of the holy ghost; and immediately they were forthcoming! is the trouble nowadays in the demand or in the supply? in both. the demand for spirit-filled men is very slack; but even if the demand revived to-morrow, how lamentably few in our churches could be found bearing the trade mark as "up to sample!" still there are not wanting signs of revival in both demand and supply. let us remember that stephen's companions were men full of the holy ghost, although stephen is the only one of whom it is expressly stated. he was the most remarkable man of the seven, a man in whom the graces of the spirit shone with conspicuous brightness. so mighty was his faith that special mention must needs be made of it. it is not sufficient to describe him as a man full of the holy ghost, but it must be stated that he was "a man full of faith _and_ of the holy ghost." faith was his outstanding grace. acts vii. 55, "he being full of the holy ghost." this was stephen's normal condition right up to the very end of his life; it was true of him when we get our first glimpse of him, true also as he passes within the vail into the unspeakable glory. acts xi. 24, barnabas "was a good man and full of the holy ghost." a good man indeed, and so full of the spirit of god that there was no room for self; for we read that he came into the midst of a great revival, in the bringing about of which he had no hand, and instead of being filled with envy at the divinely-chosen instruments, instead of picking holes in the work and depreciating the whole movement, he was filled with gladness; we read that he "was glad" (ver. 23). it goes without saying that _that_ man was "full of the holy ghost." how many there are nowadays who are not like barnabas! having now considered the passages in which the various tenses are used, we are able to answer the question--how does the blessing come? does it come once for all, or is it always coming? there are sudden definite "fillings," repeated with more or less frequency; times when the believer is conscious of being "filled," when he can say, "i was filled." between this experience--"filled" (which is an "aorist" blessing)--and that which should be the normal experience of every christian, viz., "full" (which is a "present" blessing), it is evident that there is a great gap; but god has graciously bridged the gap for us; the connecting link between the "aorist" _were filled_, and the "present" _full_, is the "imperfect" "_were being filled_," so that the blessing is always coming. does it come once for all? a thousand times no!--if by that is meant that we are reservoirs into which the fullness is poured, so that once we are filled, we are independent of fresh supplies from the lord jesus. that surely were a curse instead of a blessing! what reservoir is there that does not need replenishing? some christians say that at times after some piece of service has been finished, they feel as if they were empty, as if their souls had been quite drained, and now they are dry and thirsty. it need not be so. it is not so with the spirit-filled worker whose faith is in lively exercise, for he is "being filled" all the time. in driving between melbourne and my home i often stop at a wayside trough to give the horse a drink. i notice that the trough is quite full of water and that there is a box in one end of it. as the horse drinks the water is lowering, and presently i hear a sound as of a running tap. yes, the sound is coming from the box. that box is covering a piece of mechanism that needs explaining. within it there is a tap connected by pipes with the yan yean reservoir up in the plenty ranges. attached by a lever to the tap is a metal ball, which rests on the surface of the water. as the horse drinks, the water on which the ball is floating is lowered, and thus the ball is lowered; the lowering of the ball opens the tap and the yan yean begins to pour in; so that, although the water is being withdrawn by the thirsty animal, a fresh supply is being poured in, the trough is "being filled," so that it is always "full." thus may it be with the soul of the believer. no matter what the outflow into the surrounding emptiness may be, or the withdrawals by thirsty, needy souls, there is the continual inflow, so that there may be the constant "fullness." indeed the outflow depends directly on the inflow; one can only give as he gets. it is ours to see to the connection between us and the infinite reservoir away up among the hills of god being kept open, to see that the tap is kept in proper working order by faith and prayer and meditation, and then, one might almost say, automatically, the heart will be kept full, "filled with all the fullness of god," no matter what the spiritual drain upon us may be; for now it is not a question of our capacity to contain, but a question of god's infinite supply for all our needs. this too is the explanation of the "overflow," the flowing "rivers" of john vii. 38. it is the overflow, and only the overflow, that blesses. there is not a drop for thirsty souls till some one overflows. it is the overflow in the sabbath school class, and in the pulpit, and, for that matter, in every other sphere of christian service, that brings blessing; and this overflow is in direct proportion to the inflow. "rivers" cannot flow out unless "rivers" first flow in. an ordinary service pipe in our domestic water supply may serve to illustrate some of the points we have been considering. we take a bucket to the tap for water, and lo! there is none. something is wrong. either the authorities have cut off our supply because of some infraction of the law on our part, or there is an obstruction in our service pipe, or the pressure is insufficient to give us even a drop, or the supply is so deficient that it has been shut off for a time from us that it may be sent in another direction. sometimes, alas! the "flowing" of the "living waters" from the soul of the believer ceases; but the ordinary round of duty, either in the district visiting, or in the sabbath school class, or in the pulpit, has not ceased; a ceaseless stream of _talk_ may still be flowing on, but there is no "living water" in it all. why? it is not that the pressure aback of us, the pressure in the infinite reservoir away up among the hills of god, is insufficient, or that the supply is deficient, unable to meet our needs because it is supplying needy ones elsewhere. god's water supply never breaks down as we often find our city supply failing. if the "flowing" has ceased, it is from one of two reasons: either god has, in mercy and in judgment, cut off the supply, or there is an obstruction in us, and _sin_ is at the bottom of both reasons. "search me, o god ... and see if there be any way of wickedness in me" (ps. cxxxix. 23, 24). "confession, cleansing" is the divinely-appointed method for putting right what has gone wrong. sometimes on going to the tap we find that there is water, but such a miserable dribble! either from insufficient pressure or some partial obstruction in the pipe, or perhaps it is because we have not opened the tap fully. what a wretched parody of the flowing "rivers" of john vii. 38 are the life and service of many of the christians of to day! some of the "living water" is doubtless coming from them, but it is only percolating through, dribbling, trickling out of them. why? certainly not, as has been already remarked, from insufficient pressure; the fault, the failure is not on god's side, but there is some local obstruction--amounting in many a case to almost entire obstruction,--some little idol or other in our heart, if not a "sin," yet certainly a "weight" (heb. xii. 1), and this hinders the outflow. confession and cleansing are still god's remedy. or the hindrance may be our unbelief, "limiting the holy one of israel;" opening the tap but a little instead of opening it full; expecting little when we were divinely authorized to expect much; refusing to obey the command, "open thy mouth wide, and i will fill it" (ps. lxxxi. 10). "rivers" cannot flow through a heart full of unbelief. sometimes, again, on going to the tap we get a little water and a great deal of air. what a noise! now air is a very good thing in its own place, but that is not in a water pipe; that is meant to convey water and nothing else, and for the water pipe to do its work, it is necessary that it be emptied and cleansed of everything else, even of air. scripture hath said that some things "puff up," and there is a good deal of "puff" in some hearts through which the living water is supposed to be flowing. god be merciful unto us! such hearts, like our water pipe, need emptying and cleansing. yet once more, on going to the tap, we find a splendid supply; the pipe is clean, the pressure is good. now before we open the tap the pipe is full of water; when the tap is opened and the bucket filling, the pipe is still full, for although the water is pouring out at the tap, it is pouring in at the reservoir, so that the pipe is _kept full_, even though the tap is open and the water streaming from it. when the tap is shut, you cannot say any more about the pipe now than that it is still full of water. even so may it be with the believer who is spiritually adjusted. when resting at his master's feet he is full; when actively engaged in service he is still full; his normal condition is, "full of the holy ghost," because he has learnt how to obey the command, "be ye filling with the spirit." chapter xv. _its effects._ among the effects and benefits which in this life accompany and flow from being filled with the holy ghost, may be mentioned the following:-_1. courage._ "oh, i could not do so and so--i have not the courage," is a reply frequently made by christian people when asked to undertake some piece of service or other for the master. the first point to be settled is, "is that the master's will for me?" if so, lack of courage is a confession to the lack of the "fullness of the holy ghost." the spirit-filled man knows the fear of god and knows no other fear. acts ii. 14, "peter, standing up with the eleven, lifted up his voice and spake forth." no fear of servant maids now! but _can_ this be the man who quailed before the look of the waiting-maid who charged him with being "with the nazarene"? can this be the man that "began to curse and to swear, i know not this man of whom ye speak"? the very same, and yet not the same; for the baptism of the holy ghost has changed peter the craven-hearted into peter the lion-hearted, so that he can stand before that surging multitude, their hands dyed crimson in his master's blood, and without a tremor charge home upon them the awful crime, "him ye did crucify and slay." ch. iv. 13: "they beheld the _boldness_ of peter and john." ch. iv. 31: "they spake the word of god with _boldness_." ch. v. 20: "go ye and stand and speak in the temple." taken out of prison, and ordered to go and do again the very thing for which they had been imprisoned! but _they_ were spirit-filled men, and so we read in the next verse, "they entered into the temple." ch. v. 29: "we must obey god rather than men." ch. v. 40-42: "beaten ... departed rejoicing ... ceased not to teach." ch. xxi. 13: "i am ready not to be bound only, but also to die at jerusalem, for the name of the lord jesus." courage-filled because spirit-filled! _2. the fruit of the spirit._ _the fruit of the spirit will be manifest in the life_: love, joy, peace, etc. (gal. v. 22, 23). how can one's life be filled with the fruit of the spirit, unless one's heart is first filled with the spirit himself? in the primitive church the men and women were filled with the holy ghost; that was the rule; now, alas! it has come to be the exception--and as a consequence we see how their lives were enriched by the fruit of the spirit. _love_: acts iv. 32, "were of one heart and soul ... had all things common." this may be poor political economy, but it is good spiritual economy, a simple bible illustration of the bible precept, "lay up for yourselves treasure in heaven" (matt. vi. 20). if brotherly love were abroad to-day, how soon the present distress would disappear! as the best available commentary on this heavenly word "love," study on your knees the whole of 1 cor. xiii. _joy_: acts ii. 46, "they did take their food with gladness and singleness of heart, praising god." every meal was a sacrament. the same cause would produce the same result to-day. ch. v. 41: "rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer dishonor for the name," when some of us would have been bemoaning ourselves and complaining of the hardness of our lot! ch. xiii. 50-52: "stirred up a persecution ... and the disciples were (being) filled with joy." ch. xvi. 25: "paul and silas were praying and singing hymns unto god." the heavier the tribulation the more their joy seemed to "overflow" (2 cor. vii. 4), and of course the heavier the tribulation the more joy they needed to sustain them. "for the joy of the lord is your strength" (neh. viii. 10). _peace_: acts vi. 15, "saw his (stephen's) face as it had been the face of an angel." ch. vii. 59, 60: "they stoned stephen, calling upon the lord, and saying, lord jesus, receive my spirit, and he kneeled down, and ... fell asleep." 2 cor, iv. 8, 9: "troubled on every side, yet not distressed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed." thus we might go through the heavenly list--long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance--and see how richly in bible times the fruit flourished in the lives of those who were spirit-filled. before passing on let us notice where it is that joy grows. it grows between love and peace. it is, as some one has well called it, a sheltered fruit. if love withers, joy is exposed on that side, and it too will fade. if peace is interfered with, even though love is vigorous, joy is exposed on that side now, and it will fade away and die. the only way to preserve joy in vigorous growth is to see that its sheltering fruits, love and peace, are kept free from blight, and vigorous too. in his letter to the ephesian church, to whom he addressed the command, "be filled with the spirit," paul points out very clearly what the results of the fullness will be. (1) a singing heart (eph. v. 19). this is what would bring us and our lives up to concert pitch. we would no more go "flat." this would drive away the leaden dullness. (2) a thankful heart (ver. 20). such a heart would not be finding fault with christ's government; will "find none occasion of stumbling in" jesus (matt. xi. 6); will not be offended at him, no matter how he may test and try it. "blessed is he" that has such a heart in his bosom! (3) a submissive heart (eph. v. 21), "in lowliness of mind each counting other better than himself" (phil. ii. 3). "the thing (once) impossible shall be." (4) spirit-filled wives will be in subjection to their own husbands (eph. v. 22). (5) spirit-filled husbands will love their wives _as_ christ loved the church (ver. 25). (6) spirit-filled children will obey their parents (eph. vi. 1). (7) spirit-filled fathers will not provoke their children to wrath (ver. 4). (8) spirit-filled servants (bond-slaves) will be obedient to their masters (ver. 5). (9) spirit-filled masters will treat their servants as they (the masters) would wish to be treated by _their_ master (ver. 9). would not results (8) and (9) be the best possible solution of the constantly recurring labor and capital difficulty, and render a labor war impossible, because unnecessary? (10) spirit-filled men will be strong in the lord, spiritual giants, not sickly, hunchbacked dwarfs (ver. 10). (11) spirit-filled men will be warriors, clad in the whole armor of god; if not spirit-filled they could not carry it (ver. 11). (12) spirit-filled soldiers will not be warring against flesh and blood; internal foes having all been subdued, the civil war has ceased; their enemies are now external, and they are free to concentrate all their attention and god-inspired energies on them. their enemies are (1) in the world--principalities and world-rulers, and (2) in the heavenlies--powers and spiritual hosts of wickedness (ver. 12). (13) spirit-filled men will be praying always in the spirit (ver. 18). in order to this vigilance is necessary "watching thereunto." such are some of the results, on the positive side, of being filled with the spirit. the effects on the negative side are manifest in gal. v. 16, 17, "walk in (by) the spirit, and _ye shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh_. for the flesh lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh; for these are contrary the one to the other: that ye (walking by the spirit) may not do the things that ye would" (if ye were walking by the flesh). (see gal. v. 19-21.) _3. reaching the masses._ another effect of a spirit-baptized church would be that the _masses would be reached_. see how the early church--which was a spirit-baptized church, and persistently kept that truth in the foreground--reached the masses, and with what blessed results! they were not amused or entertained, but they were converted, saved, turned to the lord. "there were added unto them in that day about _three thousand_ souls." acts ii. 41. "the number of the men came to be about _five thousand_." acts iv. 4. "added to the lord _multitudes_ both of men and women." acts v. 14. "the number of the disciples _multiplied_ in jerusalem exceedingly, and a _great company_ of the priests were obedient to the faith." acts vi. 7. "the _multitudes_ (in samaria) gave heed with one accord unto the things that were spoken." acts viii. 6. "and _all_ that dwelt at lydda and in sharon saw him, and they turned to the lord." acts ix. 35. "it became known throughout all joppa; and many believed on the lord." acts ix. 42. "while peter yet spake these words, the holy ghost fell on _all_ them which heard the word." acts x. 44. "and the hand of the lord was with them: and a _great number_ that believed, turned unto the lord." acts xi. 21. "and the next sabbath almost the _whole city_ was gathered together to hear the word of god." acts xiii. 44. "and so spake that a _great multitude_ both of jews and of greeks believed." acts xiv. 1. "and when they had preached the gospel to that city, and had made _many_ disciples." acts xiv. 21. "the churches ... _increased_ in number daily." acts xvi. 5. "these that have turned _the world_ upside down are come hither also." acts xvii. 6. "crispus ... believed ... and _many_ of the corinthians hearing believed." acts xviii. 8. "so _mightily_ grew the word of the lord and prevailed." acts xix. 18-20. we often hear of discussions on the "lapsed masses." "why have the masses of the people lapsed from the churches?" perhaps the more correct way of putting it would be, why have the churches lapsed from the masses? the answer is not far to seek--because they have lost the driving power which alone could keep them abreast of the masses, even the baptism of the holy ghost. the conditions were just as unfavorable in the first century as in the nineteenth, and yet we read, "so mightily grew the word of the lord and prevailed." it is positively painful to see the substitutes that are being tried to-day for the power of the holy ghost. miserable substitutes are they all! one church is trying this plan, another that, and not one of them has found a new plan that is a permanent success. they are floundering, and some of them are foundering, and no wonder. it will be no loss to the kingdom of god if churches which ignore the holy ghost should founder. let us get back to pentecostal methods. the trouble is that the churches have lost their way to that "upper room." let a church only find her way back there and obtain her pentecost; let pulpit and pew be baptized with the holy ghost _and with fire_, and the people will come running in to see the burning. that church will not need to cater for amusements as a bait to catch the masses, but the people will come crowding into her pews, climbing into them as zacchã¦us climbed into the branches of that sycamore tree when he wanted to see the lord; for the people still want "to see jesus," and they have heard that he is "to pass that way." we cannot improve on pentecost's methods for reaching the masses. _4. persecution._ yet another effect of the fullness of the spirit must be mentioned, viz., _persecution_. "others _mocking_ said, they are filled with new wine." acts ii. 13. "they laid hands on them and put them in ward." acts iv. 3. "let us threaten them." acts iv. 17. "they laid hands on the apostles and put them in public ward." acts v. 18. "and were minded to slay them." acts v. 33. "they beat them and charged them not to speak." acts v. 40. "and seized him and brought him into the council." acts vi. 12. "and they stoned stephen." acts vii. 59. "and there arose on that day a great persecution." acts viii. 1. "haling men and women committed them to prison." acts viii. 3. "saul, yet breathing threatening and slaughter against the disciples of the lord." acts ix. 1. "took counsel together to kill him." acts ix. 23. "they went about to kill him." acts ix. 29. "killed james the brother of john with the sword." acts xii. 2. "he put him (peter) in prison." acts xii. 4. "stirred up a persecution against paul and barnabas." acts xiii. 50. "made them evil affected against the brethren." acts xiv. 2. "to treat them shamefully and to stone them." acts xiv. 5. "they stoned paul." acts xiv. 19. "commanded to beat them (paul and silas) with rods." acts xvi. 22. "cast them into prison, ... and made their feet fast in the stocks." acts xvi. 23, 24. "set the city on an uproar." acts xvii. 5. "stirring up and troubling the multitudes." acts xvii. 13. "opposed themselves and blasphemed." acts xviii. 6. "rose up against paul, and brought him before the judgment seat." acts xviii. 12. "speaking evil of the way." acts xix. 9. "filled with wrath." acts xix. 28. "no small stir concerning the way." acts xix. 23. "a plot was laid against him by the jews." acts xx. 3. "so shall the jews at jerusalem bind the man that owneth this girdle, and shall deliver him into the hands of the gentiles." acts xxi. 11. "and laid hands on him." (paul was never free after this.) acts xxi. 27. "as they were seeking to kill him." acts xxi. 31. "beating paul ... bound with two chains ... into the castle." acts xxi. 32, 33, 34. "it is not fit that he should live." acts, xxii. 22. "bound themselves under a curse, saying that they would neither eat nor drink till they had killed paul." acts xxiii. 12. "they delivered paul ... to a centurion." acts xxvii. 1. "from henceforth let no man trouble me: for i bear branded on my body the marks of jesus." gal. vi. 17. all this makes lively reading in this peaceful, easy-going day of ours; and yet the world has not changed in its attitude or feeling towards god and the things of god. but a most palpable change has taken place somewhere. the change, alas! is in us, in the people of god; a change that is not for the better. we have lost that which brought these men into direct collision with the world, and with its ways, even the fullness of the spirit. only let a man in our day seek and obtain the blessing that made these men mighty for god, and he will soon find that the world has not changed, and that the "pharisees" have not changed either; the fullness of the holy ghost makes a man the uncompromising friend of god, and that certainly involves the enmity of the world. "therefore the world hateth you" (john xv. 19). it behooves those who are seeking the "fullness of the spirit" to remember these facts, and to count the cost, for the persecution may come from the most unlikely, unlooked-for quarters. to be forewarned is to be forearmed. "in the world ye have tribulation: but be of good cheer; i have overcome the world" (john xvi. 33). chapter xvi. _may one know that he is filled?_ the question is often asked--how am i to know when i am filled with the holy ghost? _1. you may know it from the testimony of the written word._ "all things whatsoever ye pray and ask for, _believe that ye have received_ them, and ye shall have them" (mark xi. 24). from this you know, that if you have, up to your light, fulfilled the conditions necessary to the filling of the holy ghost, on praying and asking for the fullness, it is your privilege to believe that you have received what you have asked for; nay, it is your bounden duty, in compliance with christ's express command, so to believe. if god gives, and you really receive, you may then give thanks, and that proves that you possess, for you cannot truly give thanks for what you do not possess! it will be noted that this answer is precisely similar to the answer that would be given to the question--how am i to know that i am saved? by simple faith on the testimony of the word. as multitudes have accepted salvation without any emotion, without any feeling whatever, so many a one has accepted by faith the "fullness of the holy ghost," without any wave of emotion or feeling bearing witness to the fact of the filling. but this is not to say that there is never any feeling, that the emotions are never stirred; not so, for the feelings will come in due course, in god's own time. _2. witness of the spirit._ again, one may know that the fullness has come by the witness of the infilling spirit. just as in multitudes of cases the blessed spirit bears witness with the blood when it is applied at the moment of conversion, so many a one knows in his inner consciousness the moment when the fullness of the spirit was bestowed; they felt the incoming and can date their baptism, as others have felt the regenerating change and can date their conversion. it should also be repeated here, that as many are ignorant of the date of their conversion, though well assured of the fact, so many may be ignorant of the date of their baptism with the holy ghost, though well assured that they have entered on the blessed life. if we are assured of the fact, that we have received the fullness of the spirit, we need not worry as to dates. _3. signs following._ yet again, one may know whether the fullness has come to his heart and life by the signs following, by what "the men" of the north of scotland would call "the marks." christ's words used in another connection may surely be applied in this, "by their fruits ye shall know them" (matt. vii. 20). "the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance" (gal. v. 22, 23). the fullness of the fruit will surely be found where the fullness of the spirit is. quantity and quality will both be there. as this has already been touched upon when considering the effects of the blessing, no more need be added here. but this, however, must be clearly borne in mind, that, while the fullness of the spirit is a _gift_, the fruit of the spirit is a _growth_. fruit grows, and the fruit _will_ grow, if only we see to it that the conditions are present which are favorable to growth. that man does not manifest much wisdom who expects full growth without attending to the conditions of growth. chapter xvii. _may one say that he is filled?_ the question has been raised--is it right for one to _say_ that he is "filled with the holy ghost"? may this not savor of egotism? john said of jesus--"behold the lamb of god, who taketh away the sin of the world; ... the same is he that baptizeth with the holy spirit" (john i. 29, 33). christ's twofold office here is to "take away sin," and "to baptize with the holy spirit." each one who knows christ as the "sin-bearer" should have an experimental acquaintance with him as the "baptizer" too. indeed, this alone is _full salvation_. to have sin taken away is but half salvation; to be "baptized with the holy spirit" as well, is to possess full salvation. now, if christ has taken away a man's sin, may that man not know it? certainly. and if he knows it, may he not bear witness to the fact? nay, does christ not expect him to confess?--to tell what great things the lord hath done for him? no right-thinking person would regard it as wrong for a saved man to confess his saviour, or would regard his confession as egotism. by parity of reasoning, if christ has baptized a pardoned man with the holy ghost, may that man not know it? surely! and if he knows it, may he not bear witness to the fact? may he not tell what still greater things the lord hath done for him? would this be wrong? must _this_ necessarily be egotism? at the same time, while it is perfectly scriptural for a spirit-filled man to testify, for christ's glory, as to the infilling of the holy spirit when questioned upon it--for we must be careful not to libel the grace of god that is in us, and not to grieve the holy spirit by ignoring him or his work within us--one cannot be too careful lest he be found casting his "pearls before the swine" (matt. vii. 6), and as a rule it will be better in this matter to let the life speak rather than the tongue. indeed it will not often be necessary for the spirit-filled man to be questioned on the subject at all; his speech will betray him, his manner of life, his fruitful service. chapter xviii. _may one lose the blessing?_ the question trembles from many a lip--if i get the blessing, may i lose it? most certainly. but, glory be to god! he has made ample provision for failure. there is no reason why we _should_ fail; god has made ample provision _against_ failure; we must not expect to fail; _but_ in case we do fail, provision has been made. the most prolific cause of loss is disobedience--disobedience either to one of god's written commands, or to the inward promptings of his holy spirit. "the holy ghost whom god hath given to them that obey him" (acts v. 32). this all-glorious gift is not only obtained but retained in connection with obedience. it is absolutely necessary to maintain the attitude of complete self-surrender, for the slightest act of disobedience--that is, the asserting of our own will in opposition to his will--may cost us the loss of the blessing, such as, neglecting to speak to a man about the great salvation, or, refusing to give a tract to some one when we _knew_ god wanted us to do so. we must learn to be obedient to the promptings of the spirit. "mine eyes are ever toward the lord" (ps. xxv. 15) must be our constant attitude. if we possess the blessing, and desire to retain it, there is another matter of the last importance that must be attended to, viz., letting "the word of christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom" (col. iii. 16). the spirit-filled man will be a word-filled man. a neglected bible is responsible for much of the lost blessing from which many of god's children are suffering to-day. if we would retain the blessing in its fullness and freshness, we must feed _daily_ and feed _much_ upon christ as he is revealed to us in the holy scriptures. it is the function of the indwelling spirit to take of the things of christ, and to show them unto us (john xvi. 14). he does not speak from himself or of himself, but of jesus; and so he will be continually drawing us to the word, that he may have the opportunity of drawing our attention to fresh beauties in immanuel. there is much so-called reading of the bible that is not "searching the scriptures" (john v. 39), not "delighting in the law of the lord," not "meditating in it day and night" (ps. i. 2), not "letting the word of christ _dwell in you richly_." you cannot live a spirit-filled life, and be content with a shallow, meager acquaintance with the divine word. the spirit-filled man gives god's book its own proud place, the premier place, in all his reading. it is instructive to compare the effects of being filled with the spirit and of being filled with the word. "be filled with the spirit; speaking _one to another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing_ and making melody _with your heart to the lord_" (eph. v. 18). "let the word of christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing _one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing_ with grace _in your hearts unto god_" (col. iii. 16). have we then, unhappily, through disobedience or neglect, lost the blessing which once we possessed? is there one saying, "oh that i were as in the months of old!"? (job xxix. 2.) it may be "all joy" with you again, for if you have lost the blessing, just go back and search for it, and you will find it where you lost it! just there and nowhere else. have you found the spot where your obedience failed? yield and obey just there, pick up your obedience where you dropped it, and there you may obtain the blessing, again as you obtained it at the first; but _just there and nowhere else_. an illustration of this is found in 2 kings vi. the divinity students of those days were going down to build a new divinity hall on the banks of the jordan, and they asked elisha, the man of god, to go with them. the story tells us that as one of the students "was felling a beam, the axe-head fell into the water; and he cried and said, alas, my master! for it was borrowed. and the man of god said, where fell it? and he shewed him the place. and he cut down a stick, and cast it in thither; and the iron did swim. and he said, take it up to thee. so he put out his hand and took it," and having re-fixed the axe-head on the handle, he went on again with his felling (verses 5-7). where was it that the student got his lost axe-head? where he lost it! in the very spot where it fell into the jordan's waters--it was just _there_ that he found it. so if you lose the blessing, the only spot on earth where you need look for it, if you wish to take it up to thee again, is _the very spot where you lost it_. let us all learn by root of heart what the student did _not_ do. after the axe-head flew from the handle, he did not continue at work chopping with an axe-handle. no; but as soon as he lost his axe-head, he _stopped till he got it on again_. oh that many a christian worker would read, mark, learn; and inwardly digest! then some sabbaths there might be many a pulpit without a preacher, and many a sabbath school class without a teacher, and many a sphere of christian labor without its worker. why? where are they? away looking for their axe-heads! away to the banks of that river of disobedience, in whose sluggish waters they lost them! alas! that there should be so many to-day with an axe-handle, trying in this way to fell beams for the house of our god! working with the blessing lost! hard labor this, and very little to show for it--except earnestness! "and isn't it a fine thing to be in earnest?" yes, but it is a finer to have a little of that uncommon thing--homely common sense, at the back of the earnestness, and the man who is hewing with an axe-handle doesn't impress one as being overburdened that way! if we have enjoyed and have lost the fullness of the spirit, let us confess, betake us to the open fountain and obey, and he will put away our sin; and then, let us start afresh, let us come to him again for the fullness, as at the first, and we will find that "he abideth faithful: for he cannot deny himself" (2 tim. ii. 13). for the sake of the sacred heart, for his name's glory, for the sake of souls, and for our own sake, we must not, we will not try to live and labor without being "filled with the spirit." the end. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected without comment. the way of salvation in the lutheran church. by rev. g.h. gerberding, a.m., pastor of st. mark's evangelical lutheran church, fargo, dakota. ____________ written for the common people. ____________ with an introduction by rev. m. rhodes, d.d. ____________ published for the author. ____________ eleventh thousand. revised and improved lutheran publication society, philadelphia, pa. ____________ copyrighted, 1887, by g.h. gerberding. ____________ all rights reserved. ____________ to the united english lutheran church of the future; joined together in the bonds of one faith, actuated by one spirit, working hand in hand and heart with heart in one general body, this book is hopefully dedicated by the author ____________ contents. ____________ page introduction ................................................... 9 prefatory scripture passages ................................... 11 chapter i. all are sinners ................................................ 13 chapter ii. all that is born of the flesh must be born of the spirit ....... 19 chapter iii. the present, a dispensation of means ........................... 26 chapter iv. baptism, a divinely instituted means of grace .................. 33 chapter v. the baptismal covenant can be kept unbroken--aim and responsibility of parents .................................... 41 chapter vi. home influence and training in their relation to the keeping of the baptismal covenant ....................................... 48 chapter vii. the sunday school in its relation to the baptized children of christian parents ............................................ 55 chapter viii. the sunday school--its relation to those in covenant relationship with christ, and also to the unbaptized and wandering ................................................ 63 chapter ix. catechisation .................................................. 69 chapter x. contents, arrangement and excellence of luther's small catechism .............................................. 75 chapter xi. manner and object of teaching luther's catechism ............... 82 chapter xii. confirmation ................................................... 89 chapter xiii. the lord's supper--preliminary observations .................... 97 chapter xiv. the lord's supper, continued ................................... 103 chapter xv. the lord's supper, concluded ................................... 109 chapter xvi. the preparatory service, sometimes called the confessional service ......................................... 120 chapter xvii. the word as a means of grace ................................... 130 chapter xviii. conversion--its nature and necessity ........................... 138 chapter xix. conversion--varied phenomena or experiences .................... 145 chapter xx. conversion--human agency ....................................... 154 chapter xxi. justification .................................................. 163 chapter xxii. sanctification ................................................. 174 chapter xxiii. revivals ....................................................... 183 chapter xxiv. modern revivals ................................................ 191 chapter xxv. modern revivals, continued ..................................... 200 chapter xxvi. modern revivals, concluded ..................................... 209 chapter xxvii. true revivals .................................................. 220 chapter xxviii. conclusion ..................................................... 229 my church! my church! my dear old church! ...................... 238 introduction. i take pleasure in commending this unpretentious volume to the prayerful attention of all english-speaking ministers and members of the lutheran church. the aim of the author is to present a clear, concise, and yet comprehensive view as possible, of the way of salvation as taught in the scriptures, and held by the lutheran church. that he has accomplished his task so as to make it throughout an illustration of the truth as it is in jesus, and a correct testimony to the faith of the church of which he is an honored minister, i believe will appear to all who read with an unbiased mind, and a knowledge of the sources of information from which he has drawn. there is always need for such a candid and considerate statement of fundamental truth as this. the signs of the times clearly indicate that there is no security for the church save in maintaining the apostolic faith and spirit--not the one without the other, but the one with the other. the supremacy of the scriptures needs to be recognized with a mightier emphasis, not only of the intellect, but also of the heart. this vital conjunction is maintained in this book. i am certain that a clear view of the way of salvation as taught by the scriptures and held by the church will go far not only toward correcting wrong impressions, but will tend to the relief of much mental perplexity, and to the increase of that much-needed spirit of unity throughout our church, the want of which is not only the greatest reflection on her noble history and holy faith, but the greatest hindrance to her important mission. a kindly christ-like spirit pervades this book, which is no small testimony to its worth. those who stand up for the truth do not always illustrate its spirit. not all who might desire greater unity in the church are qualified to promote it. the author of this little treatise has not only manifested the proper spirit, but he has shown as well the faculty of using it for the increase of harmony, without the least disloyalty to the scriptures, or to the standards of the church. the appeal throughout is to the word of god. the faith of the church is subjected to this test, and it is maintained because it endures the test. these chapters present a continuity of thought which should not be lost sight of in the reading. in order to a correct verdict, they should not be read with such discrimination as would accept some and reject others, but from the first to the last in order. that this little book may be owned of god to the establishment of the faith of the lutheran church, and for the promotion of a more manifest unity among those who bear her name, is a prayer in which i am sure many will join the author of this work, and the writer of this introductory note. m. rhodes. st. louis, mo., _march, 1887_. prefatory scripture passages. ____________ _to the law and to the testimony; if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them._-isa. viii. 20. _thus saith the lord; stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls._--jer. vi. 16. _that we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive. but speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even christ._--eph. iv. 14. _be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines; for it is a good thing that the heart be established with grace._-heb. xiii. 9. _take heed unto thyself, and unto the doctrine; continue in them; for in doing this thou shalt both save thyself and them that hear thee._--1 tim. iv. 16. _hold fast the form of sound words, which thou hast heard of me, in faith and love which is in christ jesus._--2 tim. i. 13. _and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you, with meekness and fear._--1 pet. iii. 15. _beloved, when i gave all diligence to write unto you of the common salvation, it was needful for me to write unto you, and exhort you that ye should earnestly contend for the faith, which was once delivered unto the saints._--jude 3. _for the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts they shall heap to themselves teachers having itching ears; and they shall turn their ears away from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables._--2 tim. iv. 3, 4. _whosoever transgresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of christ, hath not god. he that abideth in the doctrine of christ, he hath both the father and the son. if there come any unto you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him god-speed. for he that biddeth him god-speed is partaker of his evil deeds._--2 john 9. 10, 11. _for i testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, if any man shall add unto these things, god shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book; and if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, god shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book._--rev. xxii. 18, 19. the way of salvation. ____________ chapter i. all are sinners. some time ago we overheard from a person who should have known better, remarks something like these: "i wonder how sinners are saved in the lutheran church?" "i do not hear of any being converted in the lutheran church," and such like. these words called to mind similar sentiments that we heard expressed long ago. more than once was the remark made in our hearing that in certain churches sinners were saved, because converted and sanctified, while it was at least doubtful whether any one could find such blessings in the lutheran church. the writer also freely confesses, that in those days, surrounded by such influences, "_his feet had well-nigh slipped--his steps were almost gone_." therefore, he can sympathize with those honest questioners, who have not had the privileges of instruction in the doctrines of sin and grace, and who are consequently in the dark. he has, therefore, concluded to write a series of plain, practical papers on the "way of salvation in the lutheran church." it will be his endeavor to set forth the manner or method through which the church of the reformation proposes to reach the sinner, and apply to him the redemption that is in christ jesus. the first question that presents itself is: who are the subjects of salvation? the answer clearly is: all sinners. but, again: whom does this embrace? the answer to this is not so unanimous. the views already begin to diverge. true, there is quite a substantial harmony on this point, among all the older protestant confessions of faith, but the harmony is not so manifest among the professed adherents of these confessions. in many of the denominations there is a widespread skepticism as to the reality of original sin, or native depravity. doubtless on this point the wish is father to the thought. the doctrine that, "after adam's fall, all men begotten after the common course of nature, are born with sin," is not palatable. it grates harshly on the human ear. it is so humbling to the pride of man's heart, and therefore he tries to persuade himself that it is not true. it has become fashionable to deny it. from the pulpit, from the press, from the pages of our most popular writers, we hear the old-fashioned doctrine denounced as unworthy of this enlightened age. thus the heresy has spread, and is spreading. on every hand we meet men who stand high in their churches, spurning the idea that their children are sinners, and need to be saved. their creed is: "i believe in the purity and innocence of childhood, and in its fitness for the kingdom of heaven, without any change or application of divine grace." ah! yes, we would all like to have this creed true. but is it true? if not, our believing it will not make it true. then let us go "_to the law and the testimony_;" to the source and fountain of all truth, the inspired word of god. listen to its sad but plain statements. job xv. 14: "_what is man that he should be clean? and he which is born of a woman that he should be righteous_?" ps. li. 5: "_behold i was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me._" john iii. 6: "_that which is born of the flesh is flesh._" ephesians ii. 3: "_among whom also we all ... were by nature_"--_i.e._ by birth--"_the children of wrath even as others_." these are a few of the many clear, plain statements of the divine word. nowhere does it teach that children are born pure, righteous and fit for heaven. the lutheran church, then, teaches and confesses nothing but the pure truth of god's word in the augsburg confession, article ii., where it says: "also they teach, that after adam's fall all men, begotten after the common course of nature, are born with sin," etc. also smalcald articles, part iii., article i: "here we must confess, that sin originated from one man adam, by whose disobedience all were made sinners and subject to death and the devil. this is called original or capital sin.... this hereditary sin is so deep a corruption of nature that no reason can understand it, but it must be believed from the revelation of scripture," etc. so also the formula of concord, chapter i., "of original sin," where see a full presentation of our faith and its foundation. also luther's explanation of the second article of the apostles' creed where he says: "who--christ--has redeemed me, a poor, lost and condemned creature, secured and delivered me from all sins, from death, and from the power of the devil." this, then is the teaching of our church, as founded on the word of god. that this doctrine is true, beyond the possibility of a doubt, we can learn even from reason. it will not be disputed that what is in the child will show itself as it develops. the germs that lie hidden there will unfold and bring forth their proper and natural fruit. by its fruits we can know even the child. and what are these fruits? how long will it be before that helpless and seemingly innocent babe, that slumbers on its mother's breast, will show symptoms of anger, jealousy, stubbornness and disobedience? let that child alone, and, without a teacher, it will learn to lie, deceive, steal, curse, give pain to others, etc. but, without a teacher, it will not learn to pray, confess wrong, and "fear, love and trust in god above all things." are these the symptoms and evidences of inward purity, or of inbred sin? again, that child is subject to sickness, suffering and death. as soon as it draws its first breath its life is a struggle. it must contend against the inroads of disease. its little body is attacked by dire maladies. it is weakened by suffering and often racked by pain. and how frequently the feeble life succumbs and the lately-born infant dies. how can we account for this on the ground of infant sinlessness? do we not all believe that suffering and death are the results of sin? is there, can there be suffering and death where there is no sin? no; "_the wages of sin is death_." but this wages is never exacted where the work of sin has not been done. the conclusion then is irresistible. the child is a sinner. it needs salvation. it must be reached by saving grace. it must be counted in. it is one of the subjects of salvation, and must be brought into the way of salvation. the church is the bride of christ, the institution through which christ brings and applies this grace to the children of men. she must begin with the child. she must reach down to the tender infant and carry the cleansing and life-giving grace of the redeemer even into its sin-sick soul. how is this to be done? how does the lutheran church propose to reach that child? this we shall try to answer as we advance. chapter ii. all that is born of the flesh must be born of the spirit. in the former chapter we have shown, from scripture and from reason, that our church teaches only the plain truth, when she confesses that: "after adam's fall, all men, begotten after the common course of nature, are born with sin." as a sinful being the new-born infant is not in the way of salvation. by its natural birth, from sinful parents, it is not in the kingdom of god, but in the realm and under the dominion of sin, death and the devil. if left to itself--to the undisturbed development of its own nature, it must miserably and hopelessly perish. true, there is a _relative_ innocence. the apostle exhorts: "_be ye followers of god, as dear children._" "_in malice be ye children._" our blessed saviour, on several occasions, rebuked the vain, ambitious spirit of the disciples by contrasting it with the spirit of a little child. he said: "_of such is the kingdom of heaven_," and "_except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven_." these passages are generally quoted by those who refuse to believe the doctrine of original sin, as though they taught sinlessness and entire fitness for the kingdom. but if we accept this interpretation, then the scriptures contradict themselves; for we have seen that, in many places, they clearly teach the opposite. these passages can only mean that children are _relatively_ innocent. compared with the forbidding, haughty, loveless disciples, little children are much _better subjects_ for the kingdom. while the roots of sin are there, that sin has not yet done its hardening work. they do not wilfully resist the good. they are much more tender, docile, trustful and loving. the grace of god has less to overcome in them. they are more easily reached, and thus are fit subjects to be brought into the kingdom of god. in this sense only can it be said, "_suffer the little children to come unto me_," that i may touch them, bless them, impart my grace to them, and thus make them partakers of my kingdom. "_of such is the kingdom_" because i desire and purpose to bring them into the kingdom. thus far we can safely go. this much in favor of the child, over against the adult, we freely admit. but this does not say that the child is innocent, pure and holy by nature. the undeveloped roots and germs of sin are still there. its nature is evil. it must be saved from that moral nature. how? here again we meet those who have a very easy solution of the difficulty. they say: "admitting that the child has sin, this will in no way endanger its salvation, because christ died to take away sin. they have no _conscious_ sin. therefore, the atonement of christ covers their case, and, without anything further, they pass into heaven, if they die in their infancy." this view seems to satisfy a great many well-meaning people. without giving the matter any further thought, they dismiss it with this easy solution. surely, did they stop to consider and examine this theory, they would see it has no foundation. christ's atonement alone, and in itself, never saved a soul. it removed the obstacles that were in the way of our salvation, opened the way back to our father's house, purchased forgiveness and salvation for us. but all this profits the sinner nothing, so long as he is not brought into that way; so long as the salvation is not applied to him personally. neither can we speak of salvation being applied to an unrenewed, sinful nature. we cannot even conceive of forgiveness for an unregenerate being. this would, indeed, be to take away the guilt of sin, while its power remained. it would be to save the sinner in and with his sin. the position is utterly groundless. it is even contrary to reason. it assumes that a being who has in his heart, as a very part of his nature, the roots and germs of sin, can, with that heart unchanged, enter into the kingdom of god. it makes god look upon sin with allowance. it does violence to the holiness of his nature. it makes heaven the abode of the unclean. no, no. it will not do. when men try to avoid what seem to them difficult and unwelcome doctrines of god's word, they run into far greater difficulties and contradictions. that child is conceived and born in sin. it is a child of wrath, _dead in trespasses and in sins_. its nature must be cleansed and renewed. otherwise, if it can be saved as it is, there are unregenerate souls in heaven! better abide by what is written, and believe that every one, infant or adult, who has been born of the flesh, must be born of the spirit. listen to the earnest words of jesus as he emphasizes them with that solemn double affirmation, "_verily, verily, i say unto you, except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of god_." he repeats this sweeping declaration a second time. in the greek it reads, except _any one_ be born again. the assertion is intended to embrace every human being. lest this should be disputed, jesus further says, "_that which is born of the flesh_"--i.e., naturally born--"_is flesh, and that which is born of the spirit is spirit._" wherever there is a birth of the flesh, there must be a birth of the spirit. the flesh-born cannot even _see_ the kingdom of god, much less enjoy it, still less possess it. there must be new life, divine life, spiritual life breathed into that fleshly, carnal nature. thus will there be a new heart; a new spirit, a new creature. then, and not till then, can there be comprehension, apprehension and appreciation of the things of the kingdom of god. this is the teaching of the whole word of god. gal. vi. 15: "_for in christ jesus neither circumcision availeth anything, nor uncircumcision, but a new creature_"--i.e., neither jewish birth nor gentile birth, without the new birth. here also then our church confesses the pure truth of god's word, when, in the second article of the augsburg confession, as quoted above, she goes on to say: "and this disease, or original fault, is truly sin, condemning and bringing eternal death upon all that are not born again." here then we take our stand. no child can be saved unless it be first reached by renewing grace. if ever an infant did die, or should die, in that state in which it was born, _unchanged_ by divine grace, that infant is lost. there are, there can be, no unregenerate souls in heaven. where there is no infant regeneration, there can be no infant salvation. here also we remark, in passing, that this doctrine, of the absolute necessity of infant regeneration, is not held by the lutheran church alone. even the romish and greek churches teach that it is impossible for any human creature, without a change from that condition in which he was born, to enter heaven. all the great historic confessions of the protestant churches confess the same truth. even the calvinistic baptists confess the necessity of infant regeneration. in short all churches that have paid much attention to theology, and have been careful to have consistent systems of doctrine, agree on this point. however much those who call themselves by their names may deny it, in their preaching and in their conversation, their own confessions of faith and their greatest and best theologians clearly teach it. yes, there must be infant regeneration. but is it possible? can the grace of god reach the helpless infant? will he reach down and make it a new creature in christ jesus? has he made provision for this end? yes, thanks be to his abounding grace, we believe he can and will save the child, and has committed to his spouse, the church, a means of grace for this purpose. he, of whom it was prophesied long before he came, that he would "_gather the lambs in his arms and carry them in his bosom_;" who made it the first duty of the reinstated apostle to _feed his lambs_, must have a special care for them. it is not his or his father's will "_that one of them should perish_." he has made provision for these sin-stricken ones, whereby his grace can reach down to renew and heal them. there is balm in gilead. the great physician is there. the church need only apply his divine, life-giving remedy. of this we will speak in the next chapter. chapter iii. the present, a dispensation of means. we have seen that the carnal, sinful nature of the child unfits it for the kingdom of heaven; that, therefore, there must be a change in that nature, even the birth of a new life, and the life of a new creature, before there can be either part or lot in the kingdom of god. we have also expressed our firm conviction that it is the good and gracious will of god in christ to bestow upon the poor sin-sick and unholy child the grace needed to so change it as to make it a partaker of his great salvation. we do not deem it necessary to stop to multiply scripture passages and arguments to prove this. from beginning to end, the divine word everywhere represents our god as a most loving, gracious, compassionate and tender being. the tenor of the whole record is, that he delights in showing mercy, forgiving iniquity, and bestowing the grace that bringeth salvation. he only punishes when justice absolutely demands it, and then reluctantly. it is not his will that any should perish. beyond controversy, god is _willing_ to save the little helpless sufferers from sin, by making them subjects of his kingdom of grace here, and thus of his kingdom of glory hereafter. but _can_ he? is he able to reach down to that unconscious little child, apply to it the benefits of the atonement, impart to it the grace of the new life, subdue the power of sin, and remove entirely its guilt? we are almost ashamed to ask such questions. and yet the humiliating fact is, that day by day, in every village and on every highway of our land, we can hear men and women, professing to be christians and calling themselves members of christ's church, gravely asserting that their redeemer cannot so bless a little child as to change its sinful nature! if hard pressed, these persons, so wise in their own conceits, may admit that he can change a child's nature if he so wills, but they still feel certain that he cannot do so through his own sacrament, instituted for that very purpose! thus would they limit the holy one of israel, and say to omnipotence: "hitherto canst thou come, but no farther." with such people, wise above what is written, knowing better than christ, practically, even if not intentionally, charging the son of god with folly, we desire no controversy. let them overthrow the very foundations of redemption if they will. let them argue that all things are not possible with god if they dare. we still prefer to believe that the spirit of god _can_ change, renew and regenerate the new-born child. in matt. iii. 9, we read; "_for i say unto you that god is able of these stones to raise up children unto abraham_," _i.e._, as the connection shows, spiritual children of abraham, true children of god. we may not be able to understand the process by which god could change the rough, hard stones of the field into true children of god, but we believe it, because the word says so. and believing that, it is not hard for us to believe that he can impart his own divine life to the heart of the child, and thus make it a new creature in christ jesus. he could, if it so pleased him, do it without any means. by a mere act of his will, god could recreate the human soul. he could do so by a word, as he created the universe. without the contact of any outward means, without the bringing of his word to them in any way, christ healed the ruler's son and the daughter of the syro-phenician woman. but if he can do this without means, who will say that he cannot do the same thing through means? since, then, he can accomplish his own purposes of grace either with or without means, it only remains for us to inquire, in what way has it pleased god to work? does he in the present dispensation work mediately or immediately? it will scarcely be disputed that the present is a dispensation of means--that even in the domain of nature, and much more in the realm of grace, he ordinarily carries out his purposes through means. he chooses his own means. they may sometimes seem foolishness to man, especially in the operations of his grace. our saviour, in working miracles, used some means that must have struck those interested as very unsuitable. when he healed the man blind from his birth, _he mixed spittle and clay_, and with this strange ointment, anointed and opened his eyes. well might the blind man have said: "what good can a little earth mixed with spittle do?" yet it pleased our lord to use it as a means, in working that stupendous miracle. when jesus asked for the _five barley loaves and two small fishes_, to feed the five thousand, even an apostle said: "_what are these among so many_?" yes, what are they? in the hands of a mere man, nothing--nay, worse than nothing; only enough to taunt the hungry thousands and become a cause of strife and riot. but in the hands of the son of god, with his blessing on them, taken from his hands, and distributed according to his word, they became a feast in the wilderness. a poor woman, a sufferer for twelve years, craves healing from our lord. with a woman's faith, timid though strong, she presses through the crowd close to jesus, and with her trembling bony fingers touches the hem of his garment. jesus perceives that virtue is gone out of him. the woman perceives that virtue, healing and life are come into her. there was a transfer from christ's blessed life-giving body, into the diseased suffering body of the woman. and what was the medium of the transfer? the fringe of his garment--a piece of cloth. yes, if it so pleases the mighty god, the everlasting saviour, he can use a piece of cloth as a means to transfer healing and life from himself to a suffering one. the same divine saviour now works through means. he has founded a church, ordained a ministry, and instituted the preaching of the word and the administration of his own sacraments. christ now works in and through his church. through her ministry, preaching the word, and administering the sacraments, the holy spirit is given. (augsburg confession, article 5.) when christ sent forth his apostles to make disciples of all nations, he instructed them how they were to do it. the commission correctly translated, as we have it in the revised new testament reads thus: "_go ye, therefore, and make disciples_ _of all the nations, baptising them into the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever i commanded you; and lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world._" here then is the saviour's explicit instruction. the apostles are to _make disciples_. this is the object of their mission. how are they to do it? by _baptizing_ them into the name of the triune god, _and teaching_ them to observe all christ's commands. this is christ's own appointed way of applying his grace to sinful men, and bringing them out of a state of sin into a state of grace. and this is the way of salvation in the lutheran church. we begin with the child, who needs grace. we begin by baptizing that child into christ. we, therefore, lay much stress on baptism. we teach our people that it is sinful, if not perilous, to neglect the baptism of their children. the lutheran church attaches more importance to this divine ordinance than any other protestant denomination. while all around us there has been a weakening and yielding on this point; while the spirit of our age and country scorns the idea of a child receiving divine grace through baptism; while it has become offensive to the popular ear to speak of baptismal grace, our church, wherever she has been and is true to herself, stands to-day where martin luther and his co-workers stood, where the confessors of augsburg stood, and where the framers of the book of concord stood. the world still asks: "what good can a little water do?" we answer, first of all: "baptism _is not simply water_, but it is the water comprehended in god's command, and connected with god's word." (luther's small catechism.) the lutheran church knows of no baptism that is only "a little water." we cannot speak of such a baptism. let it be clearly understood that when we speak of baptism, we speak of it as defined above, by luther. we cannot separate the water from the word. we would not dare to baptize with water without the word. in the words of luther, _that_ would be "simply water, and no baptism." let it be kept constantly in mind that whatever benefits and effects we ascribe to baptism, in the further forcible words of luther's catechism: "it is not the water, indeed, that produces these effects, but the word of god which accompanies and is connected with the water, and our faith which relies on the word of god connected with the water." if now the question is further asked: what good can baptism as thus defined do? we will try to answer, or, rather, we will let god's word answer. "what saith the scripture?" chapter iv. baptism, a divinely appointed means of grace. when we inquire into the benefits and blessings which the word of god connects with baptism, we must be careful to obtain the true sense and necessary meaning of its declarations. it is not enough to pick out an isolated passage or two, give them a sense of our own, and forthwith build on them a theory or doctrine. in this way the holy scriptures have been made to teach and support the gravest errors and most dangerous heresies. in this way, many persons "_wrest the scriptures to their own destruction_." on this important point our church has laid down certain plain, practical, safe and sound principles. by keeping in mind, and following these fundamental directions, in the interpretation of the divine word, the plainest searcher of the scriptures can save himself from great confusion, perplexity and doubt. one of the first and most important principle, insisted on by our theologians and the framers of our confessions, is that a passage of scripture is always to be taken in its natural, plain and literal sense, unless there is something in the text itself, or in the context, that clearly indicates that it is intended to convey a figurative sense. again: a passage is never to be torn from its connection, but is to be studied in connection with what goes before and follows after. again--and this is of the greatest importance--scripture is to be interpreted by scripture. as quenstedt says: "passages which need explanation can and should be explained by other passages that are more clear, and thus the scripture itself furnishes an interpretation of obscure expressions, when a comparison of these is made with those that are more clear. so that scripture is explained by scripture." according to these principles, we ought never to be fully certain that any doctrine is scriptural, until we have examined all that the divine word says on the subject. in this manner then we wish to answer the question with which we started this chapter: what is written as to the benefits and blessings conferred in baptism? we have already referred to the commission given to the apostles in matt, xxviii. 19. we have seen that in that commission our lord makes baptism one of the means through which the holy spirit operates in making men his disciples. in mark xvi. 16, he says: "_he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved._" in john iii. 5, he says: "_except a man_"--_i.e._, any one--"_be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of god_." in acts ii. 38, the apostle says: "_repent and be baptized every one of you for the remission of your sins._" acts xxii. 16: "_arise and be baptized, and wash away thy sins, calling on the name of the lord._" romans vi. 3: "_know ye not that so many of us as were baptized into christ, were baptized into his death._" gal. iii. 27: "_for as many of you as have been baptized into christ, have put on christ._" eph. v. 25-26: "_christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it, that he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word._" col. ii. 12: "_buried with him in baptism, wherein ye are also risen with him through the faith of the operation of god._" tit. iii. 5: "_according to his mercy he saved us by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the holy ghost._" 1 pet. iii. 21: "_the like figure whereunto even baptism doth also now save us; not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience toward god, by the resurrection of jesus christ._" these are the principal passages which treat of the subject of baptism. there are a few other passages in which baptism is merely mentioned, but not explained. there is not one passage that teaches any thing different from those quoted. all we now ask of the reader is to examine these passages carefully, to compare them one with the other and to ask himself: what do they teach? what is the meaning which a plain, unprejudiced reader, who has implicit confidence in the word and power of god, would derive from them? can he say, "there is nothing in baptism?" "it is of no consequence." "it is only a church ceremony, without any particular blessing in it." or do the words clearly teach it is nothing more than a _sign_--an outward sign--of an invisible grace? look again at the expressions of these passages. we desire to be clear here, because this is one of the points on which the lutheran church to-day differs from so many others. jesus mentions _water_ as well as spirit, when speaking of the new birth. "make disciples, (by) _baptizing_ them." "be baptized _for the remission of your sins_." "_be baptized and _wash away thy sin._" "_baptized _into christ._" by baptism "_put on christ_." christ designs to sanctify and cleanse the church with "the _washing of water_ by the word." "_washing of regeneration_ and renewing of the holy ghost." "baptism _doth also now save us_." the language is certainly strong and plain. any principle of interpretation, by which baptismal grace and regeneration can be explained out of these passages, will overthrow every doctrine of our holy christian faith. our catechism here also teaches nothing but the pure truth of the word, when it asserts that baptism "worketh forgiveness of sins, delivers from death and the devil, and confers everlasting life and salvation on all who believe, as the word and promise of god declare." our solid and impregnable augsburg confession, also, when in article ii. it confesses that the new birth by baptism and the holy spirit delivers from the power and penalty of original sin. also in article ix., "of baptism they teach that it is necessary to salvation, and that by baptism the grace of god is offered, and that children are to be baptized, who by baptism being offered to god, are received into god's favor." and so with all our other confessional writings. the question might here be asked: is baptism so absolutely essential to salvation, that unbaptized children are lost? to this we would briefly reply, that the very men who drew up our confessions deny emphatically that it is thus _absolutely_ necessary. luther, melanchthon, bugenhagen and others, repudiate the idea that an unbaptized infant is lost. no single acknowledged theologian of the lutheran church ever taught this repulsive doctrine. why then does our confession say baptism is necessary to salvation? it is necessary in the same sense in which it is necessary to use all christ's ordinances. the necessity is _ordinary_, not _absolute_. ordinarily christ bestows his grace on the child through baptism, as the means or channel through which the holy spirit is conferred. but when, through no fault of its own, this is not applied, he can reach it in some other way. as we have seen above, he is not so limited to certain means, that his grace cannot operate without them. the only thing on which our church insists in the case of a child as absolutely necessary, is the new birth. ordinarily this is effected, by the holy spirit, through baptism, as the means of grace. when the means, however, cannot be applied, the spirit of god can effect this new birth in some other way. he is not bound to means. and from what we have learned above of the will of god, toward these little ones, we have every reason to believe that he does so reach and change every infant that dies unbaptized. the position of our church, as held by all her great theologians, is tersely and clearly expressed in the words, "not the _absence_ but the _contempt_ of the sacrament condemns." while the lutheran church, therefore, has confidence enough in her dear heavenly father and loving saviour, to believe that her lord will never let a little one perish, but will always regenerate and fit it for his blessed kingdom ere he takes it hence, she still strenuously insists on having the children of all her households baptized into christ. others may come and say: you have no authority in the bible for baptizing infants. without entering fully on this point we will briefly say: it is enough for a lutheran to know that the divine commission is to "_baptize the nations_"--there never was a nation without infants. the children need grace: baptism confers grace. it is specially adapted to impart spiritual blessings to these little ones. we cannot take the preached word, but we can take the sacramental word and apply it to them. god established infant membership in his church. he alone has a right to revoke it. he has never done so. therefore it stands. if the old testament covenant of grace embraced infants, the new is not narrower, but wider. the pious baptist mother's heart is much more scripturally correct than her head. she presses her babe to her bosom, and prays earnestly to jesus to bless that babe. her heart knows and believes that that dear child _needs_ the blessing of jesus, and that he _can_ bestow the needed blessing. and yet she will deny that he can bless it through his own sacrament.--"_the washing of water by the word_." the devout lutheran mother presses her baptized child to her bosom, looks into its eyes, and thanks her saviour from the depth of her heart, that he has blessed her child; that he has breathed into it his divine life, washed it, sealed it, and adopted it as his son or daughter. how sweet the consolation to know that her precious little one is a lamb of christ's flock, "_bearing on its body the marks of the lord jesus_." but christian parents have not fulfilled their whole duty in having children baptized into christ. the children are indeed in covenant relationship with jesus christ. but it is their bounden duty and blessed privilege to keep their little ones in that covenant of grace. of this more in the next chapter. chapter v. the baptismal covenant can be kept unbroken. aim and responsibility of parents. we have gone "_to the law and to the testimony_" to find out what the nature and benefits of baptism are. we have gathered out of the word all the principal passages bearing on this subject. we have grouped them together, and studied them side by side. we have noticed that their sense is uniform, clear, and strong. unless we are willing to throw aside all sound principles of interpretation, we can extract from the words of inspiration only one meaning, and that is that the baptized child is, by virtue of that divine ordinance, a new creature in christ jesus. here let us be careful, however, to bear in mind and keep before us that we claim for the child only the _birth_ of a new life. it has been _born_ of water and the spirit. a birth we know is but a very feeble beginning of life. so faint are the flickerings of the natural life at birth, that it is often doubtful at first whether any life is present. the result of a birth is not a full-grown man, but a very weak and helpless babe. the little life needs the most tender, watchful and intelligent fostering and care. so it is also in the kingdom of grace. the divine life is there. but it is life in its first beginnings. as yet only the seeds and germs of the new life. and this young spiritual life also needs gentle fostering and careful nourishing. like the natural life of the child, so its spiritual life is beset with perils. while the germs of the new life are there, we must not forget that the roots of sin are also still there. our church does not teach with rome that "sin (original) is destroyed in baptism, so that it no longer exists." hollazius says: "the guilt and dominion of sin is taken away by baptism, but not the root or tinder of sin." luther also writes that "baptism takes away the guilt of sin, although the material, called concupiscence, remains." unfortunately for the child these roots of sin will grow of their own accord, like the weeds in our gardens. they need no fostering care. not so with the germs of the new life. they, like the most precious plants of the gardens, must be watched and guarded and tended continually. solomon says: prov. xxix. 15, "_a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame_." and this may be true even of a baptized child. the christian parent, therefore, has not fulfilled his whole duty to the child by having it baptized. it is now the parents' duty; or rather it should be considered the parents' most blessed privilege to _keep_ that child in covenant relationship with the blessed redeemer. this also belongs to the teaching of the church of the reformation. this point, however, many parents seem to forget. many who are sound on the question of baptismal grace, are very unsound as to a parent's duty to the baptized child. hunnius, a recognized standard theologian of our church, in speaking of the responsibility of those who present children for baptism says it is expected of them _first_, to answer, in behalf of the child, as to the faith in which it is baptized, and in which it is to be brought up. _second_, to instruct the child when it comes to years of discretion, that it has been truly baptized, as christ has commanded. _third_, to pray for the child, that god may keep it in that covenant of grace, bless it in body and spirit, and finally save it with all true believers, and _fourth_, to use all diligence that the child may grow up in that faith, which they have confessed in the child's name, and thus be preserved from dangerous error and false doctrine. that most delightful lutheran theologian, luthardt, says: "infant baptism is a comfort beyond any other, but it is also a responsibility beyond any other." again: "as christians we know that god has bestowed upon our children not only natural, but spiritual gifts. for our children have been baptized and received by baptism into the covenant of grace. to preserve them in this baptismal grace, to develop in them the life of god's spirit, this is one side of christian education. to contend against sin in the child is the other." dr. schmid, in his christian ethics, also teaches that it is possible to continue in the uninterrupted enjoyment of baptismal grace. dr. pontoppidan, in his explanation of luther's small catechism, asks the question: "is it possible to keep one's baptismal covenant?" he answers; "yes, by the grace of god it is possible." the teaching of our church, therefore, is that the baptized child can grow up, a child of grace from infancy, and that under god, it rests principally with the parents or guardians whether it shall be so. and this lutheran idea, like all others, is grounded in the word of god. we note a few examples: samuel was a child of prayer, given to his pious mother in answer to prayer. she called him samuel, _i.e._, asked of god. before his birth even, she dedicated him to god. as soon as he was weaned she carried him to the tabernacle and there publicly consecrated him to the service of the most high. from this time forth, according to the sacred record, he dwelt in god's tabernacle and "_ministered unto the lord before eli_". as a mere child god used him as a prophet. of the prophet jeremiah it is written: (jer. i. 5) "_before thou earnest forth out of the womb, i sanctified thee._" of john the baptist it is written: (luke i. 15) "_he shall be filled with the holy ghost, even from his mother's womb_". to timothy, paul says: "_from a child thou hast known the holy scriptures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation_," and in speaking of timothy's faith paul says, that faith "_dwelt first in thy grandmother lois, and thy mother eunice_." psalms lxxi. 5-6: "_thou art my trust from my youth. by thee have i been holden up from the womb._" it is therefore possible for god, not only to give his grace to a child, but to keep that child in his grace all its days. to dispute this is, simply, to dispute the record that god gave. lest some one should still say, however, that the examples above noted are isolated and exceptional, we note further, that the tenor of the whole word is in harmony with this idea. nowhere in the whole bible is it even intimated that it is god's desire or plan that children must remain outside of the covenant of grace, and have no part or lot in the benefits of christ's redeeming work until they come to years of discretion and can choose for themselves. this modern idea is utterly foreign and contradictory to all we know of god, of his scheme of redemption, and of his dealings with his people, either in the old or new dispensation. he ordained that infants at eight days old should be brought into his covenant. he recognized infant children as partakers of the blessings of his covenant. "_out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise_;" "_suffer them to come unto me_." everywhere it is taken for granted that the children who have received either the old or new testament sacrament of initiation are his. nowhere are parents exhorted to use their endeavors to have such children converted, as though they had never been touched by divine grace. but everywhere they are exhorted to keep them in that relation to their lord, into which his own ordinance has brought them. gen. xviii. 19, "_i know that he will command his household after him, and that they shall keep the way of the lord_." psalm lxxviii. 6, 7, "_that the generation to come might know them, even the children which should be born, which should arise and declare them to their children, that they might set their hope in god, and not forget the works of god, but keep his commandments_." prov. xxii. 6, "_train up a child in the way he should go; when he is old he will not depart from it_." eph. vi. 4, "_bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the lord_." let the baptized child then be looked upon as already belonging to christ. let the parents not worry as though it could not be his until it experiences a change of heart. that heart has been changed. the germs of faith and love are there. if the parent appreciates this fact and does his part, there will be developed, very early, the truest confidence and trust in christ, and the purest love to god. from the germs will grow the beautiful plant of child-trust and child-love. the graces of the new life may be thus early drawn out, so that the child, in after years, will never know of a time when it did not trust and love, and as a result of this love, hate sin. this is the ideal of god's word. it is the ideal which every christian parent should strive to realize in the children given by god, and given to god in his own ordinance. how can it be done? of this, more in the next chapter. chapter vi. home influence and training in their relation to the keeping of the baptismal covenant. according to the last chapter, it is indeed a high and holy ideal that every christian parent should set before him in regard to his children. every child that god gives to a christian parent is to be so treated that, from the hour of its baptism, it is to be a son or daughter of god. it is to be so fostered and nurtured and trained that, from its earliest self-consciousness, it is to grow day by day in knowledge and in grace. as it increases in stature, so it is to increase in wisdom and in favor with god and man. in order that this may be realized, it is first of all necessary that there be the proper surroundings. we cannot expect that parent to draw out these graces of the new life in the child, who is not himself imbued with a spirit of living faith and fervent love to christ. in the beautiful words of luthardt: "religion must first approach the child in the form of life, and afterward in the form of instruction. let religion be the atmosphere by which the child is surrounded, the air which it breathes. the whole spirit of the home, its order, its practice--that world in which the child finds himself so soon as he knows himself--this it is which must make religion appear to him a thing natural and self-evident." and this is especially important for the mother. it is while resting on the mother's bosom and playing at the mother's knee, that the child is receiving impressions that are stones for character building. the father, of course, is not released from responsibility. he too is to set a holy example, to make impressions for good and to use all his influence to direct the thoughts and inclinations of the child upward. the man who does not help in the religious training of his own children is not fit to be a father. but it is after all with the mother that the little child spends most of its time and receives most of its impressions. oh, that every mother were a hannah, an elizabeth, an eunice. then would there be more samuels, johns and timothys. let us have more of the spirit of christ in the heart of the mother and father, and in the home. let the child learn, with the first dawnings of self-consciousness, that jesus is known and loved and honored in the home, and there will be no trouble about the future. but the child must be instructed. begin early. let it learn to pray as soon as it can speak. let it use its first lispings and stammerings in speaking words of prayer. we quote again from luthardt: "let it not be objected that the child cannot understand the prayer. the way of education is by practice to understanding, not by understanding to practice. and the child will have a feeling and a presentiment of what it cannot understand. the world of heavenly things is not an incomprehensible region to the child, but the home of its spirit. the child will speak to his father in heaven without needing much instruction as to who that father is. it seems as though god were a well-known friend of his heart. the child will love to pray. if mother forgets it, the child will not." therefore, oh, ye parents! pray for your child. pray with your child. teach that child to pray. the writer knows of a little girl who came home from sunday-school and said: "mamma, why don't you ever pray?" what a rebuke! the child must be taught the truth of god's word. it also must be sanctified, _i.e._, made more and more holy "_through the truth_." as a child it needs first the "_milk of the word_." it is not desirable, neither is it necessary, to try to teach the very young child doctrines and abstract truths. neither ought the child to be required to learn by rote long passages from the scriptures. in this way some well-meaning, but mistaken parents make the word a burden to their children, and it becomes odious in their eyes. there are other and better ways. begin by showing the child bible pictures, even if it should soil the book a little. better a thousand times have its lessons of life and love graven on the heart of the child, than to have its fine engravings as a parlor ornament for strangers. in our day there is also an abundant supply of bible pictures and story books for children. those parents who have never tried it will be surprised to see the interest the little ones take. with the pictures connect the stories of the bible. and where are the stories better calculated to interest a child than these same old stories, that have edified a hundred generations? when will children ever weary of hearing of joseph, and moses, and david, and daniel, and especially of him who is the special friend of children? it will be easy to so connect the teachings of the word with these pictures and stories that very young children will be able to distinguish right from wrong, to know and hate sin, and to be drawn ever nearer to the blessed jesus. as they become able to study, to think and to comprehend it, the judicious parent will be glad to avail himself of the help of luther's catechism. here the more important teachings of the word are summarized and systemized. most parents indeed are glad to shirk this duty, and flatter themselves that if they send their children to catechetical class, when they grow old enough, they have performed their whole duty. such parents do not perhaps know, that martin luther wrote his small catechism especially for family use. let them take their church books and turn to the catechism, and they will find that luther heads the ten commandments with the words: "in the plain form in which they are to be taught by the head of the family." so also with the creed, the lord's prayer, and the sacraments. this is luther's idea. it is the true idea. it belongs to the way of salvation in the lutheran church. it is the custom, still practiced in our older lutheran churches. the pastor, as we shall see hereafter, is only to help the parents, and not to do it all for them. in teaching the catechism at home, it will give parents an opportunity to speak of and explain what sin is, what faith is, what prayer is, and what the sacraments are. we would impress also the importance of instructing the child concerning its own baptism. let it understand not only the fact of its baptism, but the nature, benefits and obligations of the same. it certainly has a most salutary effect to impress the thought on the child frequently that it was given to christ and belongs to him--that he has received it as his own, and adopted it into the family of the redeemed. here also there is a sad neglect on the part of parents. many never say a word to their children about their baptism. many children even grow up and know not whether they are baptized or not. this is certainly un-scriptural and un-lutheran. "_know ye not_," says paul, as if he said, have you forgotten it? "_that as many of us as have been baptized into christ have been baptized into his death_?" doubtless if we appreciated our own baptism as we should, it would be a constant source of comfort, a never-failing fountain of grace to us, and to our children. the apostles frequently speak of the "_church that is in the house_." by this they mean such a household as we have tried to portray--a home where the religion of our blessed saviour permeates the whole atmosphere; where the word of god dwells richly; where there are altars of prayer and closets for prayer--a home where jesus is a daily, a well-known guest; where the children, baptized into christ, are nourished with the milk of the word, so that they grow thereby, increasing more and more, growing up unto him who is the head, even christ. in such a home the church is in the house, and the household in the church. blessed home! blessed children, who have such parents! blessed parents, who have thus learned god's ways of grace! no anxious, restless parents there, hoping and praying that their children may be converted. no confused, repelled children there, crying because jesus will not love them till they "get religion." on the contrary, parents and children, kneeling at one altar, children of one father, with the same trust, the same hope, the same lord--hand in hand they go from the church in the house to the house of god's church. says dr. cuyler, an eminent presbyterian, "the children of christian parents ought never to need conversion." chapter vii. the sunday-school in its relation to the baptized children of christian parents. we have tried to set forth the lutheran idea of a christian home. in such a home, called, "_a church in the house_," all ought to be christians. the children having been given and consecrated to christ in holy baptism, and having had his renewing and life-giving grace imparted to them through that sacrament, are to be kept in that relationship with him. the popular idea that they must of necessity, during the most impressible and important period of their existence, belong to the world, the flesh and the devil, is utterly foreign to the lutheran, or scriptural view. that the child is fated, for a number of years, to be under the influence of evil, and to be permitted to "sow wild oats" before divine grace can reach it, is certainly a principle that is contradictory to the whole scheme of salvation. yet this seems to be the idea of those parents who will not believe that god can reach and change the nature of a child, and bring it out of the state of nature into the state of grace, and keep it in that grace. these people treat their children much as a farmer does his colts, letting them run wild for a while, and then violently breaking them in. this pernicious idea has also obtained sway to an alarming extent in the sunday-school system of our land. the children in the sunday-school, whether baptized or not, whether from christian or christless homes, are looked upon as outsiders, impenitent sinners, utter strangers to christ and his grace, until they experience such a marked change that they can tell exactly where and when and how they were converted. hence the popular idea that it is the object of the sunday-school to _convert_ the children. this seems to be the underlying principle of both the american sunday-school union and american tract society; institutions otherwise so excellent that we are loth to say aught against either. this idea pervades also the undenominational helps and comments of the international lesson system. this is the undertone of the great mass of undenominational sunday-school hymnology. it is the key-note of the county, state, national and international sunday-school conventions and institutes. so popular and wide-spread is this idea that many lutheran pastors, sunday-school teachers and workers have unconsciously imbibed it. even our church papers, professing to be strictly confessional, often publish articles setting forth the idea that it is the object of the sunday-school to _christianize_ the children. as though the baptized children of the church, the children of devout christian parents, had been heathen, until christianized by the sunday-school! many of our sunday-school constitutions also set it down as the object of the school to "lead the children to christ," or to "labor for their conversion." now we believe that this idea is un-scriptural and therefore un-lutheran. if what we have written in the preceding chapters on baptismal grace, the baptismal covenant, and the possibility of keeping that covenant, is true, then this popular idea, set forth above, is false. and _vice versa_, if this popular view is correct, then the whole lutheran system of baptism, baptismal grace, and the baptismal covenant, falls to the ground. but notwithstanding the immense array of opposition, we still believe that the lutheran doctrine is nothing else than the pure teaching of god's word. where we have the "_church in the house_," there we have lambs of christ's flock. ah, how many more we could have, how many more we would have, if the fathers and mothers in the church understood this precious article of our faith, and prayerfully built their home life thereon! then would there be a more regular and healthful growth of the church, and the necessity for fitful, spasmodic revival efforts would cease. but we digress. from our christian homes the baptized children of the church come to the sunday-school. how is the school to treat them?--we speak now of the baptized children from christian homes; we will speak of the unbaptized and untrained further on. these children, with all their childish waywardness and restlessness, do generally love jesus. they do trust in him, and are unhappy when they know they have committed a sin against him. they do, when taught, pray to him, believe that he hears their prayers and loves them. shall the teacher now begin to impress upon the minds and hearts of these little ones the idea that they are not yet christ's, and that christ has nothing to do with them, except to seek and call them, until they are converted? and shall they go home from sunday-school with the impression that all their prayers have been empty and useless, because their hearts have not been changed? dare the sunday-school thus confuse the child, raise doubts as to christ's forgiveness and love, and "_quench the spirit_?" oh how sad, that thus thousands of children have their first love, their first trust, quenched by those who have more zeal than knowledge! no, no, these are christ's lambs. they come with his marks upon them. let the sunday-school teacher work in harmony with the mother who gave these children to christ. let the whole atmosphere of the school impress on that child the precious truth that it is jesus' little lamb. _feed_ that lamb, feed it with _the sincere milk of the word_. lead that lamb gently; teach it to understand its relation to the great shepherd, to know him, to rejoice in his love, to love his voice, to follow his leadings more and more closely. instead of singing doubtfully and dolefully: "i am young, but i must die, in my grave i soon shall lie. am i ready now to go, if the will of god be so?" or, "child of sin and sorrow filled with dismay, wait not for to-morrow; yield thee to-day:" etc. or, "depth of mercy, can there be mercy still reserved for me?" etc. or, "hasten, sinner, to be wise, stay not for to-morrow's sun," etc or, "i can but perish if i go, i am resolved to try, for, if i stay away, i know i shall forever die." or, "when saints gather round thee, dear saviour above, and hasten to crown thee with jewels of love, amid those bright mansions of glory so fair- oh, tell me, dear saviour, if i shall be there!" some of these sentiments are unscriptural. some may do for penitent prodigals. but all are out of place on the lips of baptized children of the church. let such rather joyfully sing: "i am jesus' little lamb, therefore glad and gay i am; jesus loves me, jesus knows me, all that's good and fair he shows me, tends me every day the same, even calls me by my name," and such other cheerful and healthy hymns as breathe the spirit of the church of the reformation. this we believe to be the object of our sunday-schools, as far as the baptized children of christian parents are concerned. they are to be _helps_, to keep the children true to their baptismal covenant, and to enable them to grow strong and stronger against sin and in holiness. jesus did not tell peter to _convert_, but _feed_ his lambs. from these considerations we see how important it is for lutheran sunday-schools to have teachers who "_know of the doctrine, whether it be true_;" who are "_rooted and grounded in the faith_;" who are "_ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh them a reason of the hope that is in them_;" who are "_apt to teach_." a teacher who does not understand and appreciate the lutheran doctrine of baptism is out of place in a lutheran sunday-school. it is certainly not desirable to have the child instructed at home that it was given to christ in baptism, received and owned by him and belongs to him, and then have the sunday-school teacher teach it that until it experiences some remarkable change, which the teacher cannot at all explain, it belongs not to christ, but to the unconverted world. the teaching of the pulpit, the catechetical class, the home and the sunday-school, ought certainly to be in perfect harmony--especially so on the vital point of the personal relation of the child to the saviour and his salvation. to have clashing and contradictory instruction is a sure way to sow the seeds of doubt and skepticism. we must have sound instruction and influence in the sunday-school, and to this end we must have sound and clear helps and equipments for teacher and pupil. the worship of the school, the singing, the opening and closing exercises, must all be in harmony with this great fundamental idea of feeding those who are already christ's lambs. chapter viii. the sunday-school--its relation to those in covenant relationship with christ, and also to the unbaptized and wandering. we are still speaking of the dealing of the sunday-school with the baptized children of christian parents. we have seen how important it is that the sunday-school work in harmony with the pastor and the parent. we have seen that, to this end, it is especially important that the instruction of the teacher be in harmony with the doctrine of our church on baptismal grace, and the keeping of the baptismal covenant. here, however, we meet with a practical difficulty. too many of our teachers are not clear themselves on this subject. their own early instruction may have been imperfect. their whole environment has been unfavorable to rooting and grounding them in this faith, once delivered to the saints. this old-fashioned faith, as we have seen, has become unpopular with the masses even of professing christians. the whole current of the religionism of the day is against it. in many localities and circles, to profess this faith is to invite ridicule and opposition. the lutheran church in this matter, as in others, is behind the age, because the age is away ahead of christ and the apostles, the church fathers and reformers. what wonder then that in many places, our members, on whom we must depend for teachers, have unconsciously drifted away from the old landmarks, and are altogether at sea as to god's means and methods of grace, especially with the children? it is, therefore, a matter of the gravest importance that our church place in the hands of her willing but inexperienced teachers such plain, practical and full helps and equipments as will enable them to be safe and successful instructors in our sunday-schools. our good teachers are always willing to learn. they need to be and want to be first taught. they need clear, sound exposition, illustration and application of every lesson for themselves, before they can successfully teach others. they need to be shown in every lesson, how the divine word everywhere sets forth the precious doctrines of our church. they need to be shown over and over again, how these doctrines are to be impressed and applied to the heart, conscience, and life of the pupil; and how the truth is to be so instilled that it may, by means of every lesson, awaken and deepen a sense of sinfulness, and repentance therefor, and beget and increase faith and love for the dear saviour. every lesson that does not make sin more hateful and christ more precious, is in so far, a failure. from what we have learned in the last chapter, a lutheran sunday-school cannot safely use the literature, whether lesson leaves, lesson helps, or hymns, of others. and this simply because their sentiment is not only at variance with, but openly hostile to our faith. it is therefore even more important for our church than for any other, to furnish all the necessary equipments for good, sound, live sunday-schools. our equipments ought to aim to become more and more superior to all others. the church should strive to constantly improve them until they become so desirable and attractive that no lutheran school would think of exchanging them for any others. we hope to see the day when our church will lead in all these practical enterprises, even as she has led and still leads in the sphere of sound doctrine. but we digress. in these two chapters on sunday-school work, we have thus far spoken only of the relation of the school, to the baptized children of christian parents. a sunday-school has, however, by no means fulfilled its mission by looking only after those who are already lambs of the flock. a sunday-school, like a congregation, to be true to itself and its divine master, must be a missionary institution. in every community there are lambs who have never been in the flock of the good shepherd, or have already wandered astray. there are children who have never been either baptized, or instructed in heavenly things at home. or, if baptized, they have been permitted to grow up afterwards as wild as heathen children. yes, even in the homes of members of our church, there are children, whether baptized or not, who are thus growing up utterly neglected. if baptized, they don't even know it. much less do they know the significance of their baptism. it is the mission of the sunday-school to gather in these destitute ones, from the street, and from their christless homes. the sunday-school must become a spiritual home for them. the earnest teacher can and ought to find out who of his pupils belong to this class, and apply to such the needed instruction and exhortation. in _their_ case it is truly the object of the sunday-school to lead them to jesus, to labor for their conversion, to christianize them. this, as a matter of course, also applies to those, even from christian homes, who were baptized, and perhaps also, to some extent, instructed in divine things, but who have gone astray, and thus fallen from their baptismal covenant. all such, who are not at present in covenant relationship with christ, who are turned away from christ, must be turned back, _i.e._, converted. now this difficult work, this great change, can be accomplished only through the power of god's word. "_the law of the lord is perfect, converting the soul._" "_the gospel of christ is the power of god unto salvation._" the words of christ, "_they are spirit and they are life_." if sinners, whether young or old, are to be reclaimed for christ, it must be through that word which "_is quick_"--_i.e._, full of life--"_and powerful and sharper than any two-edged sword_." let the sunday-school teacher depend on nothing else than this word of god. it is always accompanied by the spirit of god. it is the living seed of the new life. let it be used prayerfully. let it be taught carefully. let it be taught clearly. let it be impressed and applied to heart, and conscience, and life. drive it home personally and individually to the impenitent pupil. see him by himself, visit him in his home, teach him in his class. cease not your prayers and your efforts till the word so lodge and fasten itself in the mind and conscience that it makes him realize his own sinfulness and need of a saviour, and also that saviour's readiness to save. this is god's way of salvation. this is the way of salvation in the lutheran church. the sunday-school teacher who follows this way will win souls. the impenitent sinners of his class will be brought to repentance toward god, and faith in our lord jesus christ: or in one word, they will be converted; whilst those who are already christ's will _grow in grace and in the knowledge of our lord and saviour jesus christ_. chapter ix. catechisation. we have spoken of the importance and benefits of home training and instruction. we endeavored to show that christian parents are under the most solemn obligation to instruct their children in the truth of god's word. we also endeavored to show that, in order to give their children a clear understanding of the saving truths of the bible, they could do no better than to diligently teach them luther's small catechism; that this was really luther's idea and purpose when he wrote that excellent little religious manual; that the first catechetical class ought indeed to be in the family, with father and mother as teachers;--that this home class ought to be carried on so long and so persistently, that in it the children would become perfectly familiar with the contents of the book; so familiar indeed, that they would know all the parts that luther wrote perfectly by heart. luther's small cathechism, _i.e._, the parts that luther wrote himself, is really quite a small book. by giving only a little time and attention to it each week, the parents could easily, in a few years, have all their children know it as perfectly as they know their multiplication table. and such ought to be the case. after these beginnings have thus been made, and while the home instruction is still going on, the work of the sunday-school teacher comes in as a help to the home class. in every sunday-school class there ought to be, with each lesson, some instruction in the catechism. to this end each teacher, in a lutheran sunday-school, ought to be familiarly at home in this most important text-book. the teacher should endeavor so to teach these lessons, that the pupil would learn to love and appreciate the catechism more and more. thus, the school ought to be a helper to the home. and thus, home and school together, working in harmony for the same end, would prepare the children for the pastor's catechetical class. if this good old-fashioned custom were kept up in all our households and schools, then would the pastor's catechetical class be more of a pleasure and a profit to himself and his catechumens. it would then be the pastor's part, as it should be, to review the contents with his class, and thus to find how well the preparatory work had been done. then could he devote his time and energy to what is really the pastor's part of the work, viz., to explain and set forth clearly the meaning of the catechism, and show how it all applies to the heart and life of every one. it is not at all the pastor's place, and it should never be expected of him, to act the school-master, to see to and oversee the memorizing of the answers. it is his office to expound and apply the truth, to make the doctrines clear to the minds of the learners, and to show how they are all related to the individual life. but, alas, how little is this understood or practiced! how many parents, who call themselves christians, and lutherans, seem to think that they have nothing to do in this whole matter! they seem to think that if they send their children once a week, for a few months, to the pastor's class, they have done their whole duty. they do not so much as help and encourage the children to learn the lessons that the pastor assigns. and thus does this part of the pastor's work, which ought to be among the most delightful of all his duties, become wearisome to the flesh and vexatious to the spirit. scarcely anywhere else in all his duties does a pastor feel so helpless and hopeless and discouraged, as when standing week after week before a class of young people who have such poor instructors at home. christian parents, if you desire your sons and your daughters to become steadfast and useful members of the church of christ, see to it that you do your part in their religious instruction. insist on it, and even use your parental authority, if necessary, that your children learn the catechism and regularly attend the pastor's instructions. we believe that the trouble in this matter lies largely in the fact that catechisation has become unpopular in our fast age. it is looked upon as a mark of old-fogyism, if not as an evidence of the absence of "spiritual religion!" the new measures and methods of modern revivals are more acceptable to the fickle multitude. they seem to point out a shorter route and quicker time to heaven. as a boy once said to the writer: "i don't want to belong to your church, because i would have to study the catechism all winter, and down at the other church i can 'get through' in one night." that boy expressed about as clearly and tersely as could well be done, the popular sentiment of the day. yielding to this popular sentiment, many churches, that once adhered strictly and firmly to the catechetical method, having either dropped it entirely or are gradually giving it up. and in order to clothe their spiritual cowardliness and laziness in a pious garb, they say: "the bible is enough for us." "we don't need any man-made catechisms." "it is all wrong anyhow to place a human book on a level with or above the bible." "we and our children want our religion from the spirit of god, and not from a church catechism," etc., etc. do such people know what they are talking about, or do they sometimes use these pious phrases to quiet a guilty conscience? do they know what a catechism is? look at it for a moment. what is the nature and object of luther's small catechism? is it in the nature of a substitute for the bible? does it purpose to set aside the bible? we can scarcely muster patience enough to write such questions. no! no! any child that can read this little book knows better. the plainest reader cannot fail to see that it is intended as a _help_ to understand the bible. its purpose clearly is to awaken and develop in the reader or learner a more intelligent appreciation and love for the bible. it contains nothing but bible truths. its design is simply this: to summarize and systematize the most important truths and doctrines of the divine word. to so arrange and group them that even a child may learn what the bible teaches as to creation, sin, salvation, and the means whereby it may be attained. we have the assurance, also--and we believe that history and observation will bear out the statement--that those who appreciate and have studied a sound scriptural catechism most thoroughly, appreciate, understand, love and live their bibles most. of the contents, arrangement and intrinsic value of luther's small catechism, we will speak in the next chapter. chapter x. contents, arrangement and excellence of luther's small catechism. we have spoken of luther's small catechism as a help with which to lay hold of and understand the most important truths of the bible. these fundamental truths are taken from the scriptures, and are so grouped, arranged and explained that the learner can easily grasp and understand them. that some of the truths contained in the bible are of greater importance than others will scarcely be denied. it is certainly more important that the child should know and understand the ten commandments, than that it should be familiar with all the details of the ceremonial law. certainly better to be familiar with the apostles' creed, than to know all about the building of the temple. better be able to repeat and understand the lord's prayer, than to have a clear knowledge of the elaborate ritual of the temple service. better understand the meaning of christ's two sacraments than to be able to tell all about the great feasts of the jews. if any one can know all these other matters also, so much the better. the catechism will certainly be a help instead of a hindrance to this end. but if all cannot be learned--at least not at once--let the most important be taught first. and for this we have a catechism. look at its contents. it is divided into five parts. each division treats of a separate subject. the first contains the ten commandments, with a brief yet full explanation of each commandment. the second part has the three articles of the apostles' creed, with a clear and most beautiful explanation of each one. the third is the lord's prayer, its introduction, the seven petitions, and the conclusion; with a terse, though comprehensive explanation of each sentence. the fourth and fifth parts treat similarly of the two sacraments, baptism and the lord's supper. here then we have, in a brief space, the most important teachings of the whole bible systematically arranged and clearly explained. of these contents and their arrangement, luther himself says: "this catechism is truly the bible of the laity (or common people), wherein is contained the entire doctrine necessary to be known by every christian for salvation. here we have first the ten commandments of god, the doctrine of doctrines, by which the will of god is known, what god would have us to do and what is wanting in us. "secondly: the apostles' creed, the history of histories, or the highest history, wherein are delivered to us the wonderful works of god from the beginning, how we and all creatures are created by god, how all are redeemed by the son of god, how we are also received and sanctified by the holy ghost, and collected together to a people of god, and have the remission of sins and everlasting salvation. "thirdly: the lord's prayer, the prayer of prayers, the highest prayer which the highest master taught, wherein are included all temporal and spiritual blessings, and the strongest comforts in all temptations and troubles, and in the hour of death. "fourthly: the blessed sacraments, the ceremonies of ceremonies, which god himself has instituted and ordained, and therein assured us of his grace." john arndt, in a sermon on the catechism, says: "the catechism is a brief instruction in the christian religion, and includes in itself the doctrine of the law of god, christian faith, the lord's prayer, the institutions of holy baptism and of the lord's supper, which five parts are an epitome and kernel of the entire holy scriptures, for which reason it is called a 'little bible.'" dr. seiss, in his ecclesia lutherana, says: "it is the completest summary of the contents of the bible ever given in the same number of words. it gave to the reviving church a text-book for the presentation of the truth as it is in jesus to the school, lecture-room and pulpit." the sainted dr. krauth says: "the catechism is a thread through the labyrinth of divine wonders. persons often get confused, but if they will hold on to this catechism it will lead them through without being lost. it is often called the 'little bible' and 'the bible of the laity' because it presents the plain and simple doctrines of the holy book in its own words. pearls strung are easily carried, unstrung they are easily lost. the catechism is a string of bible pearls. the order of arrangement is the historical--the law, faith, prayer, sacrament of baptism, and all crowned with the lord's supper--just as god worked them out and fixed them in history." thus we might go on quoting page after page of words of admiration and praise, from the greatest minds in our and other churches, of the contents and arrangement of this little book. neither can we charge these writers with extravagance in their utterances. for the more we examine and study the pages of this little book, the more we are convinced that it is unique and most admirable in its matter and plan. let each one look for a moment at himself, and then from himself into this little book. i come into this world ignorant, yet full of presentiments and questions. i learn my first vague lesson about myself and god. i naturally ask: for what purpose has god put me here? what does he wish me to do? the catechism answers: to do his will, to keep his commandments. here they are, and this is what they mean. i study them, and the more i study them, the more am i convinced that i never did and never can perfectly keep this law. i ask again: what shall i do? my catechism tells me i must have faith. i must believe. but what shall i believe? answer: this summary of truth called the apostles' creed. it tells me of my creator--his work and providence, and his gift of a redeemer. it tells me of that redeemer and his redemption; of the gift of the spirit, and his application of redemption. it not only tells me what to believe, but in the very telling it offers me help to believe. but i am still weak and more or less perplexed. whither shall i go for more strength and grace? my catechism furnishes the answer: go to the great triune god. ask him in prayer. here is a model. it will teach you how to pray. i learn what it is to pray. but again i ask: how do i know that god will hear my prayer? is he interested in me personally? has he any other means besides his written word to assure me of his love and to give me, in answer to my prayers, more strength to believe him and love him? my catechism points me to my baptism. it teaches me what it means, and how that in it i have god's own pledge that he is my father, and that i am his child. here then is a fountain to which i can return again and again when weak and perplexed. further, my catechism teaches me concerning my saviour's last legacy of love before his death for me, his holy supper. in it he holds out to me and gives to me, personally and individually, himself and all his heavenly grace. thus does this little catechism meet me in my perplexity, take me by the hand, and lead me through the labyrinth of the wonders of grace. thus does it tell me what i am, what i need, and where and how to get what i need. it takes me to the wells of salvation. it draws from them living water. it holds it to my parched lips. it gathers the precious manna of the word, and feeds me when i am faint and weary. such is luther's small catechism. is it any wonder that we love it? is it any wonder that we count the study of it a part of the way of salvation in the lutheran church? we have something yet to say on the manner of teaching it and the results of faithful teaching and learning. chapter xi. manner and object of teaching luther's catechism we have spoken of the importance of catechisation. we have seen that luther's small catechism is indeed a priceless bible manual. it sets before us, in matchless order, god's plan of salvation. it is so full and yet so brief, so doctrinal and yet so warm and hearty. "the only catechism," says dr. loehe, "that can be prayed." "it may be bought for sixpence," says dr. jonas, "but six thousand worlds could not pay for it." no wonder that no book outside of the bible has been translated into so many languages, or circulated so widely. thirty-seven years after its publication one hundred thousand copies were in circulation. the first book translated into any of the dialects of the american indian, it was from its pages that the red man read his first lessons concerning the true god, and his own relations to that god. at the present day it is taught in ten different languages in our own land. and yet how sadly neglected and abused, even by those who bear its author's name! it is neglected, if not entirely ignored, in countless lutheran homes and sunday-schools. it is even neglected by many so-called lutheran pastors. they set at naught the testimony of nearly four centuries. they set their own opinions above the testimony of the wisest, as well as the most deeply spiritual and consecrated witnesses of their own church. they prefer the baseless, shallow, short-cut methods of this superficial age. some of them have even joined in the cry of the fanatic, and called all catechisation in the church dead formalism! fortunately, their number is growing rapidly less, and many, who were for a while carried away with the tide of new measures, are asking for and returning to the good and tried old ways. not only is this catechism neglected, but it is and has been much abused. abused, not only by its enemies, who have said hard things against it, but it has been and still is abused, like all good things, by its professed friends. and doubtless it is the abuse by its friends that is largely responsible for the neglect and contempt into which it has sometimes fallen. thus in the family, it is still too often taught as a mere task. the home teacher often has no higher aim than that the children should learn it by rote--learn to rattle it off like the multiplication table, or the rules of grammar. worse than this, it has often been used as an instrument of punishment. a child has done something wrong. it is angrily told that for this it must learn a page or two of the catechism! the task is sullenly learned and sullenly recited; and the catechism is hated worse than the sin committed. then too, it is slurred over in the sunday-schools, without an earnest word of explanation or application. the learner does not realize that it is meant to change the heart and influence the life. this same sad mistake is also made by many pastors in the catechetical class. strange as it may seem, this mistake is most commonly made by those very pastors who profess to be the warmest friends of and the most zealous insisters on the catechisation of every lamb in the flock. thus we find not a few pastors who catechise their classes after the schoolmaster fashion. they go through the exercise in a perfunctory, formal manner. they insist on the letter of the text, and are satisfied if their pupils know the lessons well by rote! to urge on the dull and lazy pupil they will scold and rage, and even use the rod! the catechism becomes a sort of text-book. the pupils get out of it a certain amount of head knowledge. there are so many answers and so many proof-texts that must be committed to memory. and when all this is well gotten and recited by rote, the teacher is satisfied, the pupil is praised, imagines that he has gotten all the good out of that book, and is glad he is done with it! now we would not for a moment depreciate the memorizing of the catechism. it is of the most vital importance, and cannot be too strongly urged. what we object to--and we cannot object too strenuously--is the idea that head knowledge is enough! there must of course be head knowledge. the memory should store up all the precious pearls of god's truth that are found in the catechism. the mind must grasp these truths and understand their meaning and their relation to one another. but if it stops here, it is not yet a knowledge that maketh wise unto salvation. in spiritual matters the enlightening or instructing of the intellect is not the end aimed at, but only a means to an end. the end aimed at must always be the renewal of the heart. the heart must be reached through the understanding. to know _about_ christ is not life eternal. i must know about him before i can know him. but i might know all about him, be perfectly clear as to his person and his work, and stop there, without ever knowing him as heart only can know heart, as _my_ personal saviour and loving friend, _my_ lord and _my_ god. here, we fear, many ministers make a sad mistake. they are too easily satisfied with a mere outward knowledge of the truth. they forget that even if it were possible to "_understand all mystery and all knowledge_"--intellectually--and not have charity, _i.e._, deep, fervent, glowing _love_ to god in christ, springing from a truly penitent and believing heart, it would profit nothing. the true aim and end of all catechetical instruction in the sunday-school, in the family, and especially in the pastor's class, should ever be a penitent, believing and loving heart in each catechumen. we have, in a former chapter, shown the duty of the sunday-school teacher in this matter. the pastor should likewise use all diligence to find out in whom, among his catechumens, the germs of the divine life, implanted in baptism, have been kept alive, and in whom they are dormant. where the divine life, given in holy baptism has been fostered and cherished--where there has been an uninterrupted enjoyment of baptismal grace, more or less clear and conscious--there it is the pastor's privilege to give clearer views of truth and grace, to lead into a more intelligent and hearty fellowship with the redeemer, to deepen penitence and strengthen faith through the quickening truth of god's word. where, on the other hand, the seeds of baptismal grace have been neglected, where the germs of the new life lie dormant or asleep, or where there never has been any implanting of grace through word or sacrament--in short, where there are no pulsations, no manifestations of the new life, there the pastor has a different duty. he must endeavor to so bring the acquired truth to bear on the conscience and heart, as to awaken and bring about a sense of sin, a genuine sorrow therefor, a hatred thereof, a longing for deliverance, a turning to christ and a laying hold on him as the only help and hope. thus the one great aim and object of the conscientious pastor, with each impenitent catechumen, is to awaken and bring about genuine, heartfelt penitence and a true, trusting, clinging faith. in one word, he must labor for that catechumen's conversion. only those of whom there is evidence that they are in a converged state should be admitted to confirmation. by this we do not mean, as some do, that each one must be able to tell when, and where, and how he was converted. we mean simply this: that each one must have in his heart true penitence, _i.e._, sorrow for and hatred of sin, and true faith, _i.e._, a confiding, trustful embracing of christ as the only saviour. whether these elements of the new life have been constantly and uninterruptedly developed from baptism, or whether they have been awakened gradually by the word, is not material. the only important question is: are the elements of the new life now there--even though as yet feeble and very imperfect--or, is the person now turned away from sin to a saviour? if so, we consider that person in a converted state. and this much, we believe, should be demanded of each catechumen before he is admitted to the rite of confirmation. and it is largely because this has not been demanded as the only true and satisfactory result of catechisation, that this important branch of the church's activity has so largely fallen into disrepute. it is doubtless because of carelessness on this point that so many fall back after confirmation to the world, the flesh and the devil. they did not hold fast to their crown because they had no crown. where the catechism is properly learned, understood and applied, the intellect is used as the gateway to the heart. where the result of an enlightened mind is a changed heart, there are intelligent believers. they know what it means to be a christian. they have an earnest desire for closer fellowship with him who has loved them and washed them from their sins in his own blood. there is good hope that such will be faithful unto death. chapter xii. confirmation. in our studies concerning the methods of grace, or the application of the salvation purchased by christ, to the sinful race of adam's children, we necessarily had to begin with the new-born child. we noted the first known operations of grace at the baptismal font. we traced the infant through the holy influences received at a christian mother's knee, and in the nurture of a christian home. we followed up through the lessons and influences of the church's nursery, the sunday-school, and from thence into the pastor's catechetical class. we have learned that these are the different successive steps in the way of salvation. this is god's way in the sanctuary. it begins at the baptismal font, where the child is received as a member of the church of christ; it leads through the church in the house, and through it keeps up a living connection with the church in the sanctuary. it is making disciples in accordance with christ's plain directions, viz, "_baptizing_ them, and _teaching_ them." we have also admitted all along that there may be some who will go through with this whole process and yet not be disciples of christ at the end. they wilfully resist the operations of divine grace, and cast away the pearl. this class we leave, for the present. we will consider them further on. we speak now of those who have been made disciples; who have not resisted the gracious influences of the spirit of god, working through the sacramental and written word. their minds are enlightened; they know something of sin and grace and the bestowal and reception of grace; they have an intelligent understanding of the plan of salvation revealed in the word of god. but this is not all. their hearts also have been drawn ever nearer and closer to their dear saviour; they believe in and love the lord jesus christ; they are _ready to give an answer to every man that asks of them a reason of the hope that is in them_. in the ardor and fervor of their young hearts' devotion they can repeat these beautiful words of their catechism and say: "i believe that jesus christ, true god, begotten of the father from eternity, and also true man, born of the virgin mary, is _my_ lord; who has redeemed _me_, a lost and condemned creature, secured and delivered _me_ from all sin, from death, and from the power of the devil ... in order that i might be his, live under him in his kingdom and serve him in everlasting righteousness, innocence and blessedness." further, they can joyfully say: "i believe that i cannot by my own reason and strength believe in jesus christ my lord, or come to him. but the holy ghost has called _me_ through the gospel, enlightened _me_ by his gifts, sanctified and preserved _me_ in the true faith," etc. but this happy faith of their hearts has never been publicly professed before men. and yet the word of god demands not only faith in the heart, but also confession by the lips. rom. x. 9-10: "_if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the lord jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that god hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. for with the heart man believeth unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation._" jesus also says, matt. x. 32: "_whosoever, therefore, shall confess me before men, him will i confess also before my father which is in heaven._" and should any one be ashamed of this public profession and refuse to make it, jesus clearly tells such an one that of him he also will be ashamed in the judgment day. the bible nowhere recognizes a secret discipleship. there are no promises to him who does not confess. if our catechumens would therefore still follow god's way of salvation he must now also take this step, and publicly confess jesus as his lord and redeemer and himself as his disciple. and for this there is no time so appropriate as when he desires to be numbered among the communicants of the congregation and participate with them in the celebration of the lord's supper. for this also our church has made fitting arrangement. it is done at, or is rather a part of, the impressive ceremony of confirmation. who has not witnessed this beautiful and touching rite? and what could be more interesting or impressive than to see a company of young hearts encircling the altar of christ, confessing their faith, and bowing the knee to their saviour amid the prayers and benedictions of the church? this is confirmation. the catechumen has been examined by the pastor as to his fitness for this important step. the pastor has found that he possesses an intelligent understanding of the doctrines taught in the catechism, and that the experience of his heart bears witness to their truth and power. on this account he is adjudged as fit and well prepared to be admitted to the holy communion. he now comes of his own accord--not because he is old enough, or knows enough, or because father, mother, or pastor wants him to--before the altar of christ. there, in the presence of the assembled congregation and the all-seeing god, his lips confess the faith of his heart, the faith into which he was baptized as a child: he now voluntarily takes upon himself the vows and promises that parents or sponsors took for him at baptism. he receives an earnest admonition from his pastor to hold fast that which he has and be faithful unto death. the whole congregation, together with the pastor, lift their hearts in earnest intercessory prayer to god for his continuous blessing and protection on the young confessor; and, the catechumen kneeling at the altar, the pastor directs the intercessions of the church to each kneeling one in turn, by laying his hands on him and offering up for him a fervent petition in inspired words. this is the simple and appropriate ceremony we call confirmation. we claim for it no magical powers. it is not a sacrament. it adds nothing to the sacrament of baptism, for that is complete in itself. there is no conferring of grace by the pastor's hands, but simply a directing of the church's prayers to the individual. the confirming, strengthening and establishing of--the catechumen in grace, is effected primarily alone through christ's own means of grace, viz.: the word and the sacraments. the word has been applied to mind and heart all along from tenderest childhood. it is now brought home in the review and admonition of the pastor, amid specially solemn surroundings. the previous administering of baptism, and the perpetual efficacy of that sacrament, are now vividly recalled and impressed. and this unusually impressive application of the power of word and sacrament confirms and strengthens the divine life in the catechumen. thus the means of grace do the confirming, or rather the holy spirit through these means. instrumentally also the pastor may be said to confirm, since he, as christ's ambassador or agent, applies his means of grace. in still another, though inferior sense, the catechumen confirms. he receives the offered means of grace, assents to their truth and efficacy, obtains divine virtue and strength through them, and with this imparted strength lays hold on christ, draws nearer to him, is united to him as the branch to the vine, and thus confirms and establishes the covenant and bond that unites him to his saviour. we do not claim for the rite of confirmation a "_thus saith the lord_." we do not claim that it possesses sacramental efficacy, or that it is absolutely essential to salvation. we do claim, however, that there is nothing unevangelical or anti-scriptural in this ceremony. on the contrary, we believe it is in perfect harmony with the whole tenor and spirit of the gospel. if we cannot trace it to apostolic usage, we can find it in all its essential features in the pure age of the church immediately succeeding the apostles. in some form or other it has been practiced in the church ever since. true, it has often been and is still grossly abused. it has often been encumbered and entangled with error and superstition; and therefore there have not been wanting radical purists who have not only set it aside, but cried it down as romish and heathenish. the more sober and conservative churches have been content to purge it of its error and superstition. in its purified form they prize it highly, cherish its use, practice it, and find it attended by god's richest blessing. it is a significant fact also that some of those who were once its most bitter opponents are gradually returning to its practice. we find, for example, that certain presbyterian churches confirm large classes of catechumens every year. certain methodist book concerns and publishing houses also-publish confirmation certificates, from which we infer that some of their churches also must practice this rite. again, we find in certain "pastors' record books," gotten up to suit all denominations, columns for reporting the number of confirmations. all churches must indeed have some kind of a ceremony for the admission of the young among the communicants of the church. and there certainly is no more befitting, beautiful and touching ceremony than confirmation, as described above and practiced in the lutheran church. chapter xiii. the lord's supper--preliminary observations. our catechumen has now been confirmed. the pastor has given him, in the name of the congregation, the right hand of fellowship, and also publicly authorized him to join with the congregation in the celebration of the lord's supper. for the first time, then, the young christian is to partake of this holy sacrament, in order that thereby he may be still further strengthened and confirmed in the true faith. this sacred institution, also, is a part of god's way of salvation. it is one of the means of grace appointed and ordained by christ. it "hath been instituted for the special comfort and strengthening of those who humbly confess their sins and who hunger and thirst after righteousness." it is true that multitudes do not regard it as a means or channel of grace. to them it is only an ancient rite or ceremony, having no special significance or blessing connected with it. it is at most a symbol, a sign, or representation of something, entirely absent and in no way connected with it. if there is any blessing at all attached to it, it consists in the pious thoughts, the holy emotions and sacred memories, which the communicant tries to bring to it and which are in some way deepened by it. at best, it is a memorial of an absent saviour, and in some form a representation of his sufferings and death. now if this were all that we could see in the lord's supper, we would not regard it as a part of god's way of salvation. but our church sees much more in it. with her it is indeed an essential and integral part of that way. and since this is another of the few points on which the lutheran church differs materially from many others, it will be well for us to devote some space and time to its study. much has been written on this important subject. we may not have anything new to add, but it is well often to recall and re-study the old truths, so easily forgotten. before we consider the nature of this sacrament, we will make a few preliminary observations that will help us to guard against false views, and to arrive at correct conclusions. we observe first, the importance of bearing in mind the _source_ from which this institution has come. who is its author? what is the nature or character of its origin? our views of any institution are generally more or less influenced by thus considering its origin. whence then did the church get this ordinance which she has ever so conscientiously kept and devoutly celebrated? did it emanate from the wisdom of man? did some zealous mystic or hermit invent it, because forsooth he supposed it would be pleasant and profitable to have such an ordinance in the church? or did some early church council institute it, because those earnest fathers in their wisdom deemed it necessary that the church should have such a service? can it, in short, be traced to any _human_ origin? if so, then we can deal with it as with any other human institution. we are then at liberty to reason and speculate about it. we can apply to it the rules of human science and learning. we can test it, measure it, sound it by philosophy, logic, and the laws of the mind. each one then has a right to his own opinion about it. each one can apply to it the favorite test of common sense, and draw his own conclusions. but now, we know that this is not a human institution. the church has received it from the hands of the son of god. it was ordained by him who could say, "_all power is given unto me in heaven and in earth_," and, "_in whom dwelt all the fullness of the godhead bodily_;" who even before his birth in human form was called "_the mighty god, the everlasting father, the prince of peace_." when we come to deal with an institution of his, we dare never expect to fathom or test it by our poor, short-sighted and sin-blinded reason, philosophy, science, or common sense. "_for my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the lord. for as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts._" whenever, therefore, we come to deal with anything that comes from his hands, it is no longer of the earth, earthy, and is not subject to earthly laws and human rules. his acts, his deeds, his words, belong to the realm of faith, and not of reason. reason must ever be taken captive and made to bow before the heavenly things connected, with him. or shall we try to reason out his human birth, his growth, his nature, his deeds? shall we reason out the feeding of the multitudes with those few barley loaves and fishes? no; they came through his hands, and the power of those hands we cannot comprehend. we cannot comprehend how that afflicted woman could receive virtue, health and life, by touching the hem of his garment--a mere fabric of cloth--or how the clay and spittle from his hands could open the eyes of one born blind. whenever, therefore, we come to study this ordinance, let us ever bear in mind its divine origin. it is _the lord's_ supper. this precaution will be a safeguard against error, and a help to the truth. we notice secondly the _time_ of institution. it was "_in the night in which he was betrayed_." that awful night, when the clouds of divine wrath were gathered over him, and were ready to burst upon him; when the accumulated guilt of a sinful race was all to be laid on him, borne by him as though it were his own, and its punishment endured as though he had committed every sin. then, when the strokes of justice were about to fall, our blessed saviour, "_having loved his own, he loved them to the end_." he gathered his little band of chosen ones about him for the last time before his crucifixion. he spoke to them his farewell words, uttered his high-priestly prayer, instituted and administered to them this holy sacrament. all the surroundings conspired to throw round it a halo of heavenly mystery. everything was calculated to impress that little band that what he now ordained and made binding on the church, till he would come again, was something more than an empty sign or ceremony. thus the time, the circumstances, and all the surroundings of the institution of this holy sacrament, prepare us in advance to believe that there must be in it or connected with it some heavenly gift of grace that can be obtained nowhere else. we notice thirdly the significant _term_ by which jesus designates this institution. when he administered the cup he said: "this cup is the _new testament_ in my blood." he calls it a testament. a testament is a last _will_. jesus was about to go forth to die. before he departed, he made his will. he bequeathes to the church an inheritance. the legacy that he leaves is this sacrament. before we undertake to study the words of the institution, we wish to impress this thought. a will is the last place where one would use ambiguous or figurative language. every maker or writer of a will strives to use the clearest and plainest words possible. every precaution is taken that there may be no doubtful or difficult expression employed. the aim of the maker is to make it so plain that only one meaning can be taken from it. neither is any one permitted to read into it any sense different from the clear, plain, literal meaning of the words. fanciful, metaphorical, or far-fetched interpretations are never applied to the words of a will. much less is any one permitted to _change_ the words by inserting or substituting other words than those used by the maker. christ's words of institution are the words of his last will and testament. we will consider the _nature_ of the sacrament of the lord's supper in the next chapter. chapter xiv. the lord's supper--continued. in the former chapter we made some preliminary observations, intended to be helpful, as guards against false conclusions, and as guides to a correct understanding of the subject under consideration. it is important that we always keep these in mind in our study of the doctrine of the lord's supper; let us ever keep before us therefore the _author_ or _founder_ of this institution, the _time_ and _circumstances_ of the institution, and its _testamentary_ character. we are now ready to inquire further into the _nature_ and _meaning_ of this holy ordinance. and in order to determine this we desire to go directly to the law and to the testimony. we want to know, first of all: what does the word of god teach on the subject? before we proceed, however, to note and examine the passages of scripture bearing on the matter, let us recall what we said, as to the interpretation of scripture, in one of the chapters on the sacrament of baptism. we there stated that our church has certain plain and safe principles of interpretation that are always to guide the searcher after the truth of god's word, viz.: 1. "a passage of scripture is always to be taken in its plain, natural and literal sense, unless there is something in the text itself, or in the context, that clearly indicates that it is meant to be figurative." 2. "a passage is never to be torn from its connection, but it is to be studied in connection with what goes before and follows after." 3. "scripture is to be interpreted by scripture, the dark passages are to be compared with the more clear, bearing on the same subject." 4. "we can never be fully certain that a doctrine is scriptural until we have examined and compared all that the word says on the subject." on these principles we wish to examine what the word teaches as to the nature of the sacrament of the lord's supper. we note first the accounts of the institution as given by the three evangelists, matthew, mark, and luke. in matthew xxvi. 26-28, we read, _"jesus took bread and blessed it and brake it, and gave it to the disciples and said; 'take, eat, this is my body.' and he took the cup and gave thanks and gave it to, them saying: 'drink ye all of it. for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.'"_ with this the accounts in mark xix. 22-24, and in luke xxii. 19, 20, substantially agree. there is a slight variation of the words, but the substance is the same. we notice only this difference: luke adds the words, "_this do in remembrance of me_." on this point let us notice, in passing, that st. luke's was the last written of the three. the gospels of matthew and mark had been written and were read and used in the churches several years before st. luke's. and yet the two former do not contain the words, "_do this in remembrance of me_." now we submit right here, if to _remember_ christ were all that is in this sacrament, or even the chief thing, why did those who wrote the first gospels, and knew that there were no others, leave out these words? but we go on. almost thirty years after the time of the institution of this sacrament, the great apostle of the gentiles wrote a letter to the church at corinth. that church was made up of a mixed multitude--jews and gentiles, freemen and slaves. many of them were neither clear nor sound on points of christian doctrine and practice. in his fatherly and affectionate letters to the members of this church, paul, among other things, gives them instruction concerning this sacrament; and, lest some of them might perhaps suppose that he is giving them merely his own wisdom and speculation, he takes especial care to disavow this: "_for i have received of the lord that which also i delivered unto you, that the lord jesus the same night in which he was betrayed, took bread_," etc., giving in substance the same words of institution as given by the evangelists (1 cor. xi. 23, 24, 25). after thus giving them the words of institution, paul goes on to instruct them about worthy and unworthy communing. in these instructions we cannot help but notice how he takes the real presence of christ's body and blood for granted all the way through. notice his language. verse 27: _"whosoever shall eat of this bread and drink of this cup of the lord unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the lord."_ verse 29: _"for he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the lord's body."_ going back to chapter ten, verse sixteen, we find the apostle giving the doctrine of the lord's supper in a few words thus: _"the cup of blessing which we bless, is it not the communion of the blood of christ? the bread which we break, is it not the communion of the body of christ?"_ we have now noted all the passages that speak directly on this subject. there are other strong passages that are often quoted in defence of the doctrine of the real presence, and which we doubtless have a right to use in corroboration of those above quoted. we refer to john vi. 53-56: _"verily, verily, i say unto you, except ye eat the flesh of the son of man, and drink his blood, you have no life in you. whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath eternal life ... for my flesh is meat indeed and my blood is drink indeed. he that eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood dwelleth in me, and i in him."_ as it is a disputed point, however, whether this passage refers to the lord's supper or not, we are willing to waive it here. we are content to take those passages quoted above, which every one acknowledges as referring directly to our subject. these we would have the reader carefully examine. note particularly the language, the words employed. in the four accounts given of the institution, three by the evangelists and one by paul, we have the same clear, plain words concerning the bread and wine--words of the last will and testament of the son of god, our saviour--"_this is my body." "this is my blood of the new testament_;" or "_the new testament in my blood_." note the language of paul: _"guilty of the body and blood of the lord." "not discerning the lord's body."_ the cup is called _the communion of the blood_, and the bread, _the communion of the body_ of christ. the word communion is made up of two latin words, _con_ and _unio_, meaning union with, or connection with. the marginal reading in our family bibles, as well as in the revised version, is "participation in." the plain english of the verse then is, the bread is a participation in, or a connection with christ's body, and the wine with his blood. we are now ready to take all these passages together, to compare them one with another, and to ask, what do they teach? what is the bible doctrine of the lord's supper? is it transubstantiation? is it consubstantiation? is it that the bread and wine are mere representations or memorials of the absent body and blood of christ? or do these passages teach "that the body and blood of christ are truly present under the form of bread and wine and are communicated to those that eat in the lord's supper?" (augsburg confession, art. x.) chapter xv. the lord's supper--concluded. we have quoted, noted, collected and compared the words of scripture that speak of the sacrament of the lord's supper. we now wish to ask and examine the question: what do these passages taken together and compared with one another teach? or, in other words, what is the bible doctrine of the lord's supper? does the bible teach the doctrine of transubstantiation, as held and confessed by the roman catholic church? if our investigation of the teachings of the holy scriptures convinces us that they teach transubstantiation, we will be ready to believe and confess that doctrine, no matter who else may believe or disbelieve it. what we want to know, believe, teach and confess, is the _bible doctrine_. what is transubstantiation? the word means a change of substance. the doctrine of the romish church is that after the consecration by the priest, the bread in the sacrament is changed into the material body of christ, and the wine into his blood--so entirely changed in substance and matter, that after the consecration there is no more bread or wine there; what was bread has been converted into the flesh of christ, and what was wine has been converted into his blood. is this the doctrine of god's word? does the word anywhere tell us that the bread and wine are thus changed? does it call the bread flesh, either before or after the consecration? let us see. "jesus took _bread_." "i will not drink of the _fruit of the vine_." "the _bread_ which we break." "for as often as ye eat this _bread_ and drink this cup." such is the language of inspiration. now we ask, if the holy spirit desired that plain and unprejudiced readers should find the doctrine of transubstantiation in his words, why does he call the earthly elements _bread_ and _wine_ before, during and after the consecration why does he not say, "as often as ye eat this flesh and drink this blood?" evidently because the bread is, and remains plain, natural bread, and so with the wine. there is no change in the component elements, in the nature, matter, or substance of either. transubstantiation is not the doctrine of god's word; neither was it the doctrine of the early church. it is one of the human inventions and corruptions of the church of rome. do then these words of scripture teach the doctrine of consubstantiation? there are persons who talk a great deal about consubstantiation, and yet they know not what it means. what is it? it is a mingling or fusing together of two different elements or substances, so that the two combine into a third. a familiar example, often given, is the fusing or melting together of copper and zinc until they unite and form brass. applied to the sacrament of the altar, the doctrine of consubstantiation would teach that the flesh and blood of christ are physically or materially mingled and combined with the bread and wine; so that what the communicant receives is neither plain, real bread, nor real flesh, but a gross mixture of the two. again we ask, is this the teaching of the word? the very same proofs that convince us that the divine word does not teach transubstantiation, also convince us that it does not teach consubstantiation. the simple fact that the earthly elements are called _bread_ and _the fruit of the vine_, before, during and after consecration, satisfies us that they remain plain, simple bread and wine, without physical change or admixture. consubstantiation is not the teaching of the word; neither is it, nor has it ever been, the teaching of the lutheran church. it often has been, and is still called the lutheran doctrine of the lord's supper, but it is found in none of her confessions. it was never taught by a single recognized theologian of our church. one and all, they have repudiated it and repudiate it still. the question then is still unanswered what is the doctrine of the divine word? there are many who have a ready and easy answer as to this doctrine. they say it is only a church ceremony, one of the old, solemn rites by which church members are distinguished from outsiders. there is indeed no special significance or grace connected with it. there is really nothing in it but bread and wine. there is no presence of christ at all in this sacrament in any way different from his general presence. the bread represents or signifies, is a sign, or symbol, or emblem of christ's body, and the wine of his blood. the communicant receives nothing but bread and wine, and while he partakes of these he remembers christ's sufferings and death. whatever special benefit he is to derive from this sacrament he must first put into it, by bringing to it pious thoughts, good feelings, deep emotions, tender memories, and a faith that swings itself aloft and holds communion with christ far off in heaven. this is about the current, popular view of this subject as held and taught in nearly all the protestant churches of to-day, outside of the lutheran church. as a natural consequence of this superficial view, the whole matter is treated very lightly. there is little, if any, solemn, searching preparation. in many places there is no formal consecration of the elements. the table is thrown open to any one who desires to commune. there are no regulations, no guards, no disciplinary tests, connected with it. even unbaptized persons, and persons who have never made a public profession of faith, are often permitted to commune. but we digress. we return to the question: is the view just noticed in harmony with and based on the word? let us see. if there is nothing on the altar but bread and wine, why does christ say, "this is _my body ... my blood_?" why not say, this is bread, this is wine? if christ wanted us to understand that the bread and wine merely represent or are emblems of his body and blood, why did he not say so? did he not know how to use language? did he use dark or misleading words in his last will and testament? why does paul, in speaking of worthy and unworthy communing, speak of the body of christ as present, as a matter of course? was he inspired to misunderstand christ and lead plain readers astray? if there is nothing more in the sacrament than to remember christ, why--as already noticed--did not the writers of the first two gospels put in the words, "_do this in remembrance of me_?" or why did not christ plainly say, "take, eat this bread, which represents my body, in remembrance of me?" clearly, the doctrine in question is not based on the words of scripture. it cannot be supported by scripture. neither do its defenders attempt to support it by the passages that clearly speak of this sacrament. if they try to bring in any scripture proof, they quote passages that have nothing to do with the subject. they draw their proofs and supports principally from reason and philosophy. surely a doctrine that changes the words of the institution, wrests and twists them out of their natural sense, and does violence to all sound rules of interpretation that must bolster itself up by the very same methods of interpretation that are used to disprove the divinity of christ, the resurrection of the body, and the eternity of future punishment, is not the doctrine of christ. we have not found the bible doctrine in any of the views examined. can we find it? let us see. we are satisfied, from our examination of the passages that have to do with our subject, that there must be earthly elements present in this sacrament. they are bread and wine. they remain so, without physical change or admixture. we also find from these passages that there is a real presence of heavenly elements. these are the body and blood of christ. not indeed that body as it was in its state of humiliation, when it was subject to weakness, hunger, thirst, pain and death. but that glorified, spiritual, resurrection body, in its state of exaltation, inseparably joined with the godhead, and by it rendered everywhere present. and this body and divinity, we remark in passing, were already present, though veiled, when the god-man walked this earth. peter and james and john caught a glimpse of it on the mount of transfiguration. it is of this body, and blood, of which peter says, 1 peter i. 18, 19, that it is _not a corruptible thing_, and of which the apostle says, heb. ix. 12, "_by his own blood he entered in once into the holy place_" (that is, into heaven), and of which jesus spoke when he said, "_take eat, this is my body_ ... _this is my blood_." of this body and blood, the scriptures affirm that they are present in the sacrament. the passage which sets forth the _double_ presence, that of the earthly and heavenly elements, which indeed sums up and states the bible doctrine in a few words, is 1 cor. x. 16. there paul affirms that the bread is the communion of christ's _body_, not of his spirit or his influence. if the bread is the communion of, participation in, or connection with his body, then bread _and_ body must both be present. it takes two things to make a communion. they must both be present. it would be absurd to speak of bread as a communion of something in no way connected with it. as we have already said, the plain sense of the words of this passage is, that the bread is a connection with, or a participation in christ's body, and so with the wine; so much so that whoever partakes of the one must, in some manner, also become a partaker of the other. the bread, therefore, becomes the medium, the vehicle, the conveyance, that carries to the communicant the body of christ, and the wine likewise his blood. and this, we repeat, without any gross material transmutation or mixing together. the bread and wine are the earthen vessels that carry the heavenly treasures of christ's body and blood, even as the letters and words of the scriptures convey to the reader or hearer the holy spirit. this is the clear, plain, bible doctrine of the lord's supper. there is nothing gross, carnal, capernaitish or repulsive about it. and exactly this is the teaching and doctrine of the evangelical lutheran church. article x., augsburg confession, says, "of the lord's supper they teach that the true body and blood of christ are truly present, under the form of bread and wine, and are there communicated to those that eat in the lord's supper." and luther's catechism says, "the sacrament of the altar is the true body and blood of jesus christ, under the bread and wine, given unto us christians to eat and drink, as it was instituted by christ himself." we therefore find that on this point also our dear old church is built impregnably on the foundation of christ and his apostles. and though she may here differ from all others, she cannot yield one jot or tittle without proving false to her lord and his truth. it is not bigotry. it is not prejudice, that makes her cling so tenaciously to this doctrine. she knows, as the great reformer knew, that the very foundations are at stake; that if she gives up on this point, and changes the scriptures to suit human reason, she will soon have to give up other doctrines, and by and by the rock on which the church is built will be removed, and the gates of hell will prevail. and further, if there is any risk of being mistaken--which she, however, does not admit--she would rather run that risk, by taking her master at his word, than by changing his word. in childlike confidence and trust, she would rather believe too much than not enough. she would rather trust her dear master too far than not far enough. and therefore here she stands; she cannot do otherwise. may god help her! amen. others may still say, "this is a hard saying, who can bear it? the idea of eating and drinking the body and blood of our lord offends us." well, it also offended the late henry ward beecher, that his salvation should depend on the literal shedding of the literal blood of jesus. this idea was repulsive to the great brooklyn divine. but it does not offend us. on the contrary, this same doctrine is to us the very heart of the whole gospel, and is therefore more precious than life itself. neither does it offend us that the mother, whose pure and tender love to her infant child is an emblem of the divine love to us poor sinners, while she presses to her bosom that little one, soothes away its frettings and sings away its sobbings, at the same time feeds and nourishes that feeble life with her own physical life, giving it literally her body and blood. this is no offense to us. and why should it offend us that our dear loving saviour comes so close to us, leads us into his banqueting house, where his banner over us is love, speaks to us words that are the out-breathings of the yearning love of his divine heart, and, at the same time, feeds us with his own spiritual and glorified body and blood, and thus makes us partakers of the divine nature. instead of being offended, let us rather bow down, and worship, and adore, and sing: "lord, at thy table i behold the wonders of thy grace; but most of all admire that i should find a welcome place." "i that am all defiled by sin; a rebel to my god: i that have crucified his son and trampled on his blood!" "what strange surprising grace is this that such a soul has room; my saviour takes me by the hand. and kindly bids me come!" chapter xvi. the preparatory service; sometimes called the confessional service. in our examination of the nature and meaning of the lord's supper, we have found that it is indeed a most important and holy sacrament. it is in fact the most sacred of all the ordinances of the church on earth. there is nothing beyond it--nothing so heavenly, on this side heaven, as this feast. nowhere else does the believer approach so near to heaven as when he stands or kneels, as a communicant at this altar, the holy of holies in the church of christ. what a solemn act! to approach this altar, to participate in its heavenly mysteries, to become a partaker of the glorified body and blood of the son of god! surely no one who understands the import of this sacrament, will dare to approach hastily, thoughtlessly, or on the impulse of the moment. surely there must be forethought and preparation. our church has realized this from the very beginning. she has had, and still has, a special service for those who intend to commune. her preparatory service precedes her communion service. and we can safely affirm, that no church has so searching and suitable a preparatory service as the lutheran church. where this service is properly conducted and entered into by pastor and people, it is not an unimportant step in the way of salvation. our church, in this particular also, is purely scriptural. israel of old had seasons of special preparation, previous to special manifestations from god. there was a season of special preparation before the giving of the law; also before the receiving of the quails and the manna from heaven. there were days of preparation before and in connection with the great annual festivals, as well as in connection with other great national and religious events. our lord, himself, observed a most solemn preparatory service with his disciples before he instituted the last supper. he not only spoke very comforting words to them, but he also plainly pointed out to them their sins, _e.g._, their pride, their jealousy, their quarrels, their coming defection, the fall of peter and the treachery of judas. in harmony with all this, paul directs: _"but let a man examine himself, and so let him eat of that bread and drink of that cup."_ and it is to aid and assist the communicant in this self-examination that we have our preparatory service. its great object is to enable the communicant to realize his own sinfulness, to deepen in him true penitence and longing for forgiveness, and also to aid him in appropriating and rejoicing in the full and free forgiveness of christ. to this end we sing our penitential hymns, plead for grace to know ourselves, our sinfulness, and the fulness of christ's grace, and hear such searching appeals from the pastor as often pain and agonize the heart. then follows, on the part of the whole congregation, a united, audible and public confession of sin, of sorrow because of it, of earnest desire for forgiveness, of faith in christ as the divine saviour, and of an earnest purpose to hate and avoid all sin in the future. after this public confession in the presence of the pastor and of one another, the same confession is repeated, on bended knees, directly to god. this two-fold confession--first in the presence of the pastor and of one another, and then directly to god--is followed by the words of absolution from the pastor. in pronouncing the absolution the minister uses the following, or words to the same effect: "almighty god, our heavenly father, having of his great mercy promised the forgiveness of sins to all those who with hearty repentance and true faith turn unto him, and having authorized his ministers to declare the same, i pronounce, to all who do truly repent and believe on the lord jesus christ, and are sincerely determined to amend their ways and lead a godly and pious life, the entire forgiveness of all your sins, in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. amen." then follow a few words in which he assures the impenitent and hypocritical that their sins are not forgiven, but will certainly bring upon them the fearful wrath of almighty god, unless they speedily repent, turn from their sins, and fly to the lord jesus christ for refuge and salvation. this is the closing part of the preparatory service, which is called confession and absolution. some time ago we were asked, by a minister of another denomination, why lutherans retained and practiced romish confession, and forgiveness by the minister. we gave him our formula for confession and absolution, and asked him to examine it and point out to us wherein it was romish or unscriptural. after examination he handed it back, saying: "i cannot say that it is exactly unscriptural. in fact, i can easily see how you can quote scripture in its defense." and so we can. in matt. xvi. 19, jesus says to peter: _"i will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shalt be bound in heaven; and whatsoever thou shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."_ in matt. xviii. 18, the saviour gives the same power in the same words to all the disciples as representatives of the christian congregation. in john xx. 21-23, he says again to the disciples: _"as my father hath sent me, even so send i you, ... whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them, and whosesoever sins ye retain, they are retained."_ what do these words of christ mean? they must mean something. they must be of some use. our lord certainly does confer some kind of authority or power on his church, which is his bride. does he hereby give into her hand the keys of his kingdom, and authorize her to dispense its treasures? does she, through her ministry, employ these keys, bring forth heavenly treasures, and distribute and withhold them among the children of men? to the church's ministers christ says, luke x. 16; _"he that heareth you, heareth me: and he that despiseth you, despiseth me."_ one of these ministers, who certainly understood his office and its prerogatives, speaking in the name of all true ministers of christ, says, 2 cor. v. 20: _"now then we are ambassadors for christ, as though god did beseech you by us, we pray you in christ's stead, be ye reconciled to god."_ if we would see how this ambassador exercised his high authority in an individual case, he tells us in 2 cor. ii. 10: _"if i forgave anything, to whom i forgave it for your sakes forgave i it, in the person of christ."_ if now we take these passages together, we must admit that in their plain literal sense; they do teach that christ, the head of the church, has _in some sense_ committed to his church the power to remit and retain sins, and that this power is exercised in the church through its ministry. in what sense then has a minister power to remit sin? certainly not by any inherent virtue of his own, nor by any power originating in his own person. in this sense only god can forgive sin, as all sin is committed against him. but god can _delegate_ that power to another, and permit him to use it _in his name_. and this is all the power any human being can have in this matter. it would indeed be blasphemy for any man to claim that he had power in _himself_ to forgive sins. if he can have any power at all, it must be _christ's_ power. he can only use it as a deputy, as an ambassador, or as an agent. and this is exactly what the word teaches. the minister is christ's ambassador. he beseeches and speaks in christ's stead, as though god were speaking by him. paul forgave the penitent corinthian, not in his own name or by his own authority, but "_in the person of christ_." when part of our country was in rebellion, the government sent deputies to those who had renounced their allegiance, empowered to confer pardon, and reinstate as citizens, all who accepted the government's terms of pardon. these agents had no power in themselves, but they were authorized to carry the pardoning power of the government, and to those who accepted it from them, it was as valid as though each one had received a special proclamation of pardon from the government. just so does the pastor, as christ's ambassador, offer and bestow christ's forgiveness to the penitent and believing sinner. he offers this pardon only on the terms laid down by christ. the means through which he conveys this pardon is god's word. this word, _preaching repentance and remission of sins_, when spoken by the minister, is just as effective as when it fell from the lips of christ or his inspired apostles. whenever he preaches god's word he does nothing else than declare christ's absolution. it is the word of god, that still remits and retains, that binds and looses. the pastor can only _declare_ that word, but the word itself does effectually work forgiveness to him that rightly receives it. not only can the minister carry this word of god, this key of the kingdom, this power of god unto salvation, and apply it, but any disciple of christ can do so. dr. krauth beautifully says: "the whole pastoral work is indeed but an extension of the lutheran idea of confession and absolution." and dr. walther says: "the whole gospel is nothing but a proclamation of the forgiveness of sins, or a publication of the same word to all men on earth, which god himself confirms in heaven." dr. seiss somewhere says: "every time a believer in christ sits down beside a troubled and penitent one, and speaks to such an one christ's precious promises and assurances of forgiveness, he carries out the lutheran or scriptural idea of absolution." and even the minister of another denomination, above referred to, acknowledged to the writer, that when he found one of his parishioners of whom he was convinced that she was a true penitent, despondent on account of her sins, he unhesitatingly said to her, "your sins are forgiven by christ." we had intended to still say something about the _public_ confession of israel at mizpeh, 1 sam. v. 6, and of the multitudes who went out to john the baptist, matt. viii. 6; also of the _private_ confession and absolution of david and nathan, 2 sam. xii. 13. but each one can examine these cases for himself. enough has been said to assure us that our church, in this matter also, is grounded on the eternal word of god, and that she did wisely when, after repudiating the blasphemous practices of the romish confessional, she yet retained an evangelical confession and absolution. when we therefore hear the declaration of absolution from god's word, let us believe it, "even as if it were a voice sounding from heaven." and therefore the augsburg confession, art. xxv, says that "on account of the very great benefit of absolution, as well as for other uses to the conscience, confession is retained among us." such evangelical confession and absolution establishes and maintains the true relation that should exist between an evangelical pastor and the members of his flock. instead of a mere preacher, a platform orator, he becomes a true spiritual guide, a _curate_ for the _cure_ of souls. he encourages his members to reveal to him their weaknesses, their besetting sins, their doubts and spiritual conflicts, in order that he may instruct, direct, comfort and strengthen them with the all-sufficient and powerful word of god. and thus, wherever he finds true penitence and faith, however weak, he carries out the divine commission which directs him: "_comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith the lord, speak ye comfortably to_--i.e. speak ye to the heart of--_jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned; for she hath received of the lord's hand double for all her sins_" is. 40, i, 2. "how beauteous are their feet, who stand on zion's hill! who bring salvation on their tongues, and words of peace reveal. "how charming is their voice! how sweet the tidings are! 'zion behold thy saviour king; he reigns and triumphs here.'" chapter xvii. the word as a means of grace in the last chapter we learned that the word of god is the key of the kingdom, which key christ has given to his church, and that this word, declared by the pastor, does really convey and apply the forgiveness of sins to the penitent and believing. following out this idea, we wish now to show that god's word is the power and effective means through which the holy spirit operates on the minds and hearts of the children of men. the popular idea in regard to the use of the word, seems to be that it is intended merely as a book of instruction and a guide--that its purpose is merely to tell us about sin and salvation; that like a guide-post it points out the way of salvation, and shows the necessity of repentance, faith, and holiness. that it tells about the need of the holy spirit to effect a change of heart, and that further than this it affords no help for fallen man. a poor sinner goes to that word. he reads it, or hears it preached. he learns indeed that he is a sinner, but he has no deliverance from sin. he learns of christ's redemption, but its benefits are not applied to him. he sees that he must repent and believe, but by his own reason and strength he cannot. he learns further, that he needs the holy spirit to enable him to repent and believe, but, according to the current opinion, that spirit is not in the word, nor effective through it, but operates independently of it. the using of the divine word is at best an _occasion_ that the spirit may use for independent operation. he might go from his bible and from many a sermon and say: "i know i need religion--i need the spirit of god, and i hope at some time the spirit may come to me and bless me with pardon and peace, but i cannot tell when or how this may be." according to this popular conception, the holy spirit might be compared to a dove flying about, and alighting at hap-hazard on this one and on that one. the lutheran church does not so understand the teaching and claims of the word concerning itself. according to her faith the word of god is more than a book of information. it not only tells about sin and salvation, but _delivers_ from sin and _confers_ salvation. it not only points out the way of life, but it leads, nay more, we might say, it carries us into and along that way. it not only instructs concerning the need of the holy spirit, but it _conveys_ that spirit to the very mind and heart. it is indeed a precious truth, that this word not only tells me what i must do to be saved, but it also _enables me to do it_. it is indeed the principal of the means of grace. it is the vehicle and instrument of the holy spirit. through it the holy spirit works repentance and faith. through it he regenerates, converts, and sanctifies. this is the doctrine of the lutheran church, concerning the use and efficacy of the divine word. thus, luther's small catechism, apostles' creed, art. iii. explanation: "i believe that i cannot by my own reason or strength believe in jesus christ my lord, or come to him; but the holy spirit hath called me _through the gospel_, enlightened me by his gifts," etc. thus also augsburg confession, art. v.: "for by the word and sacraments, as by instruments, the holy spirit is given; who worketh faith, where and when it pleaseth god, _in those that hear the gospel_," etc. is this the teaching of the word itself? let us see. in john vi. 63, jesus says: _"the words that i speak unto you, they are spirit and they are life."_ in romans i. 16, paul says of the gospel: _"it is the power of god unto salvation to every one that believeth."_ heb. iv. 12: _"for the word of god is quick_ (living) _and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword."_ 1 peter i. 23: _"born again not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of god, which liveth and abideth forever."_ james i. 21: _"receive with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save your souls."_ it is clear, therefore, that the word does claim for itself virtue, life, power, and effectiveness. but does it claim to be the spirit's means and instrument, by and through which he operates? in 2 cor. iii. 8, it is called a "_ministration of the spirit_." in eph. vi. 17, paul calls it the "_sword of the spirit_." we learn the same truth from the fact that the same effects are ascribed indiscriminately to the spirit and the word, showing clearly that where one is, there the other is also, and that one acts through the other. thus the divine _call_ is ascribed in one place to the spirit, and in another to the word. rev. xxii. 17. _"the spirit ... says come."_ in the parables, christ's ministers, preaching the word, say: _"come, for all things are ready."_ in like manner, _enlightening_, or teaching, is ascribed to both. john xiv. 26, jesus says of the spirit: "_he shall teach you all things_;" chapter xvi. 13, "_he shall guide you into all truth_." he is called a "_spirit of wisdom_"--a "_spirit of light_." on the other hand, the word is called a "_word of wisdom_;" also, ps. cxix. 130: "_the entrance of thy words giveth light_;" 2 tim. iii. 15: the scriptures are said to be "_able to make wise unto salvation_;" 2 pet. i. 19: it is as "_a light that shineth in a dark place_." so, also, regeneration is ascribed to both. john iii. 5: "_born of water and of the spirit_:" verse 6: "_that which is born of the spirit is spirit_;" verse 8: "_so is every one that is born of the spirit_:" 1 john v. 4: "_for whatsoever is born of god_ (_i.e._, of god's spirit) _overcometh the world_." but of the divine word it is said, 1 pet. i. 23, "_born again ... by the word of god_;" james i. 18: "_of his own will begat he us, with the word of truth_." in like manner, _sanctification_ is ascribed to both. john xvii. 17: "_sanctify them through thy truth: thy word is truth_;" but 1 cor. vi. 11, "_ye are sanctified ... by the spirit of our god_." and thus we might go on, and show that what is ascribed in one place to the spirit, is ascribed in another place to the word--proving conclusively that the two always go together. where one is, there the other is also. the spirit operates through the word, whether it be the written, the preached, the sacramental, or the word in conversation or reflection. the ordinary operations of the holy spirit are through that word. those who are renewed and sanctified by the holy spirit are those who have been influenced by this regenerating and sanctifying word. this blessed word of god, _quick, powerful, able to save the soul_, because of the life-giving spirit connected with it, is not only to be read, but to be preached and heard. this is god's own arrangement. from the days of enoch, noah, the patriarchs and prophets, down to jesus and the apostles, and from them to the end of the gospel dispensation, he has had and will have his preachers of righteousness. our lord preached his own gospel, the words of spirit and life. he commissioned his apostles to preach the same gospel. they "_went everywhere preaching the word_." the church called and sent others, whose life-work it was to "_preach the word, to be instant in season and out of season, reproving, rebuking, exhorting_." and this divine arrangement is to continue. rom. x. 13-15: _"for whosoever shall call on the name of the lord, shall be saved; how then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach except they be sent?"_ 1 cor. i. 21: "_it pleased god by the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe_;" rom. x. 17: "_so then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of god_." therefore, according to rom. x. 6-8, let no one say, "_who shall ascend into heaven_ (_i.e._, to bring christ down from above), _or who shall descend into the deep_?" (_i.e._, to bring christ up again from the dead) for "_the word is nigh thee ... that is the word of faith which we preach_." this then is evidently god's order of the application of divine grace. and yet, notwithstanding these plain declarations, men try all sorts of measures and methods to bring christ near, because they cannot understand that when they have the word, they have the spirit, and when they have the spirit, they have christ. in luke xi. 27, we read how a woman called down a blessing on the mother of our lord because she was privileged to have borne him. but jesus answered, "_yea, rather blessed are they that hear the word of god and keep it_." because that word carries the spirit to the hearer, and through it converts the sinner and sanctifies the saint. in the acts of the apostles also we read how again and again the spirit was given through and in connection with the word. the apostles depended on nothing but word and sacrament. the lutheran doctrine, then, that the word of god is the great effectual means of grace; that it is the vehicle and instrument of the holy spirit; that through it, the spirit renews the soul, applies forgiveness, and sanctifies the hearer or reader more and more--is the pure truth of christ. hence, wherever the lutheran church is true to her name and faith, she preaches the whole counsel of god, and relies on that for ingathering and upbuilding. a true lutheran pulpit cannot be a sensational pulpit, for discoursing wordly wisdom, philosophy, poetry, or politics. it must expound the word, and never gets done preaching repentance towards god and faith in our lord jesus christ. what a beautiful and harmonious system of god's methods of saving men is thus brought into view! how helpful to the sinner desiring salvation! instead of waiting and hoping and dreaming of something wonderful to happen to bring him into the kingdom, he needs only to go to the divine word and let that word do its work in his heart. "though devils all the world should fill, all watching to devour us, we tremble not, we fear no ill, they cannot overpower us. this world's prince may still scowl fierce as he will, he can harm us none, he's judged, the deed is done, _one little word_ o'erthrows him. "the _word_ they still should let remain. and not a thank have for it, he's by our side upon the plain, with his good gifts and spirit; take they then our life, goods, fame, child and wife; when their worst is done, they yet have nothing won, the kingdom ours remaineth." chapter xviii. conversion, its nature and necessity. closely related to the doctrine of the power, or efficacy, of the divine word--as considered in the last chapter--is the doctrine of conversion. it is the subject of conversion, therefore, that we now purpose to examine. it is an important subject. it deserves a prominent place in treating of the way of salvation. it is also an intensely personal subject. each one who desires to be in the way of salvation is personally interested in it. the eternal destiny of every one who reads these pages is closely connected with the question whether or not he is converted. to be in an unconverted state, is to be in a state of great peril. the issues of eternity are involved in the final decision of the soul, in reference to this great subject. it is of the most vital importance, therefore, that each one examine and understand it. and yet, strange as it may seem, there are few subjects concerning which those interested are more in the dark. stranger still, often those who preach and talk most about it, who are loudest in proclaiming its necessity, know least about it. ask them as to its meaning, its nature, its elements. ask them who needs it, how it is brought about, and what are the evidences of its existence; and they give at best very confused and unscriptural answers. we therefore propose to examine it in the light of the word of god, and may he, the spirit of truth, enable us to know and believe its divine teachings! what then is conversion? the original and simple meaning of the word convert is _to turn_--to turn about. this is also the meaning of the latin word from which the english comes. the greek word, which in the new testament is translated "convert" or "conversion," also refers to the act of turning. it is so translated quite frequently. thus the same greek word that is in some places translated convert, is in other places translated _turned, e.g._, as in mark v. 30: "jesus ... _turned_ him about in the press." acts xvi. 18: "but paul ... _turned_ and said." matt. xii. 44: "i will _return_ into my house." acts xxvi. 18: "to _turn_ them from darkness to light." and so in many other places. it is plain, then, that the meaning of the word is a turning or facing about--a returning, or a changing of direction--as if a traveler, on finding himself going the wrong way, turns, returns, changes his course, comes back, he converts himself. applying this word now to a moral or religious use, it means a turning from sin to righteousness, from satan to god. the transgressor who had been walking in the way of disobedience and enmity against god, and towards eternal death, is turned about into the way of righteousness, towards eternal life. this is a change of _direction_, but it is also something more. it is a change of _state_--from a state of sin to a state of grace. it is still more. it is a change of _nature_--from a sinner unto a saint. it is finally a change of _relation_--from an outcast and stranger unto a child and heir. thus there is an outward and an inward turning, a complete change. that this is the scriptural meaning of conversion is very clear from acts xxvi. 18. the lord is about to send paul to the gentiles for the purpose of converting them. he describes the work of conversion thus: _"to open their eyes and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of satan unto god; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in me."_ as already remarked, the word here translated to "turn" is the same that is elsewhere translated to "convert." if we now inquire more particularly into the nature, or process of this change which is called "conversion," we find in it two constituent elements. the one is penitence or contrition, the other is faith. taken together, they make up conversion. in passing, we may briefly notice that sometimes the scriptures use the word "repentance" as embracing both penitence and faith, thus making it synonymous with conversion. penitence or contrition, as the first part of conversion, is sorrow for sin. it is a realizing sense of the nature and guilt of sin; of its heinousness and damnable character. true penitence is indeed a painful experience. a penitent heart is, therefore, called "_a broken and a contrite heart_." it takes from the sinner his self-satisfaction and false peace. it makes him restless, dissatisfied and troubled. instead of loving and delighting in sin, it makes him hate sin and turn from it with aversion. it brings the sinner low in the dust. he cries out, "_i am vile_;" "_i loathe myself_;" "_god be merciful to me a sinner_." this is the penitence insisted on by the prophets, breathed forth in the penitential psalms, preached by john the baptist, by christ and all his apostles. it is not necessary to quote passages in proof of this. every bible reader knows that the word is full of exhortations to such sorrow and repenting for sin. but penitence must not stop with hating and bemoaning sin, and longing for deliverance. the penitent sinner must resolutely turn from sin towards jesus christ the saviour. he must believe that he took upon himself the punishment due to his sins, and by his death atoned for them; that he satisfied a violated law, and an offended law-giver; that thus he has become his substitute and redeemer, and has taken away all his sins. this the penitent must believe. thus must he cast himself upon christ, and trust in him with a childlike confidence, knowing that there is now, therefore, no condemnation. having this faith, he is justified, and "_being justified by faith, he has peace with god_." true penitence always grows into faith, and true faith always presupposes penitence. where one is, there the other is, and where both are, there is conversion. penitence, therefore, is not something that goes before conversion, and faith something that follows after, and conversion an indefinable something sandwiched in between, as some seem to imagine; but penitence and faith are the constituent elements that make up conversion. in the next place we would inquire: who need this change? we answer, first, all who are not in a state of loving obedience to god; that is, all who are not turned away from and against sin and satan, and turned toward holiness and god. on the other hand, all who really hate sin, mourn over it, strive against it, trust in and cling to christ as their personal redeemer, need no conversion. no matter whether they can tell where and when and how they were converted or not. all who know by blessed experience that they now have in their hearts the elements of penitence and faith, are in a state of conversion, and if they earnestly ask god, may have the assurance that their sins are forgiven and they are accepted in the beloved. true, this assurance may sometimes be dimmed by doubt or under the strain of strong temptation, but as long as there is real hatred of sin and an earnest desire to rest in christ alone, there is grace and acceptance with christ. to the class of those who are in a converted state belong those baptized children of the church who have kept their baptismal covenant. given to christ in holy baptism, the seeds of the new life implanted through that divine ordinance, reared and trained by christian parents or guardians, they have belonged to christ from their childhood. from their earliest years they have hated sin, repented of it, trusted in christ, and loved him. they are "_turned from darkness to light and from the power of satan to god_." they need only that daily dying to sin, and daily turning to christ, which all christians need on account of the sins and infirmities of the flesh which still cleave to them. such were joseph, and samuel, and daniel, and jeremiah, and john the baptist, and timothy, and others of whom we read in the scriptures. they were children of the covenant, and therefore children of god. of this class we have written in former chapters. we need not enlarge on them here. they need no conversion, because they are in a converted state. yet there are well-meaning people, who have more zeal than knowledge, who would violently exhort even such to be converted, or they cannot be saved! thus would they confuse them, distract them, unsettle their faith in christ, quench the spirit, and, perhaps, drive them to unbelief and despair. from all such teachers, we pray: "good lord, deliver us." chapter xix. conversion--varied phenomena or experience. we have spoken of the meaning of this term, inquired into the nature of the change, and noted its essential elements. we have also learned that there are some who do not need it because they are in a converted state, and that all who are not in such a state of grace, do need conversion, regardless of anything that may or may not have taken place in the past. we inquire now as to the agencies or means by which this change is brought about. for it is a change which man can certainly not effect by his own efforts. of this change it can certainly be said that it is "_not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the lord_." to have this change brought about in the heart, all need to pray in the words of the psalmist, ps. lxxxv. 4, "_turn us, o god of our salvation;_" or as ephraim in jer. xxxi. 18, "_turn thou me and i shall be turned, for thou art the lord my god;_" or as judah in lamentations, v. 21, "_turn thou us unto thee, o lord, and we shall be turned_." it is god the holy ghost who must work this change in the soul. this he does through his own life-giving word. it is the office of that word, as the organ of the holy spirit, to bring about a knowledge of sin, to awaken sorrow and contrition, and to make the sinner hate and turn from his sin. that same word then directs the sinner to him who came to save him from sin. it takes him to the cross, it enables him to believe that his sins were all atoned for there, and that, therefore, he is not condemned. in other words, the word of god awakens and constantly deepens true penitence. it also begets and constantly increases true faith. or, in one word, it converts the sinner. of this wonderful power and efficacy in the word we have already fully written, so that we need not enlarge upon this again. to the word, then, let the unconverted sinner go. let him be careful to put no barrier in the way of its influence. let him permit it to have free course, and it will do its own blessed work. we desire now to notice and to call special attention to the diversified phenomena and experiences incident to this change. there are some, indeed, who will not admit that there are any variations. they would measure all by the same standard, and that standard often a very abnormal one. with some, the only standard is their own distorted experience. in their pharisaic self-righteousness they are ready to assert that every one whose experience does not in every respect conform to their own is not converted. the writer has frequently, in his pastoral work, met poor, downcast souls, who were groping in the dark, bemoaning themselves, and living a cheerless life, because they had been taught that, as they had not an experience just like somebody else, they were not converted, and had neither part nor lot in the kingdom of god. he has also met more than one who, by just such vagaries and delusions, had been almost driven to unbelief and despair. and what a relief it often is to such poor, benighted ones, if they are not too far gone, to be led out of their vain imaginings into the blessed light of god's truth. we notice, first, that not all conversions are alike clearly marked. some are more strongly marked than others. there are greater and less degrees of intensity in the change. the degree of intensity, or depth of experience, may depend on several things. it may depend, to, a certain extent, on the temperament of the individual. one person is of a phlegmatic temperament; his mind is sluggish; his feelings are not deep; he rarely becomes excited. of a cool, calculating disposition, he does everything deliberately and cautiously. he feels the ground before him ere he takes a step. when god's word comes to such an one, it does not generally revolutionize him at once. he hears it, carries it home, weighs it, ponders it, and wants to hear more. gradually, slowly, his mind is enlightened, his heart is interested, his will is changed. in him the word is likely to _grow as a seed_, or operate _like leaven in meal_. there is seldom much excitement, and little outward manifestation. another is of a sanguine temperament; he is impulsive, easily aroused, and ready to jump at conclusions. when god's word comes to him, and is not opposed, it is more likely to take strong hold of him. it may so alarm him, and take away his peace, that he may at once see the depth of his guilt. again, when christ, his atonement and love for guilty men, are presented, he may quickly lay hold of the hope set before him in the gospel, and rest on christ. god's word comes to him _like a hammer that breaks the stony heart_. both persons have been led by the same spirit, through the same word. both have repented and believed, but each in his own way. the degree of intensity may also depend on the former life of the person. one has wandered very far from his father's house. he has wasted his substance in riotous living. he has sunken very low in sin and guilt. when god's word comes to such an one, and shows him his wretched state, when he _comes to himself_, his penitence is likely to be deep and painful, and when he is enabled to believe, his faith will probably be quite joyful, because he realizes the depth from which he was drawn. god's word has acted on him _like a fire_, burning deep down into the conscience, consuming its dross. another has never wandered so far away. he has all along been more or less under divine influence. baptized in childhood, brought up amid christian restraints, he has at least observed the outward obligations of religion, though he may not in the past have yielded himself unreservedly unto christ. when such an one does give himself to god, his repentance may not be so marked, or his faith be so demonstrative, but on this account the conversion is none the less real. god's word, at length, _opened his heart_, as the heart of lydia, the seller of purple, was opened. we notice in the next place that there are differences in the duration of the process. with some the process lasts longer than with others. this fact is implied indeed in the variations noted above. on one person the word may make but a superficial impression at first. it may be only a slight dissatisfaction with self. but with more light and knowledge, the feeling of penitence is deepened. longings for something better are awakened. yearnings and outcryings after deliverance arise from the heart. there is then only a first timid trembling look to christ. gradually, slowly, the faith is drawn out, until the heart is enabled to cast itself on the saviour and rest trustingly there. it may be weeks, months, or even years, before that penitent comes out into the clear sunlight of assurance and peace. in all such cases it is "_first the blade, then the ear, and then the full corn in the ear_." on the other hand, we freely admit that there are sudden conversions. god's word comes _as a hammer or as a fire_ (jer. xxiii. 29). it smites and burns until the sinner is brought low in the dust. the heart is broken and becomes contrite, and ready to lay hold of the crucified one, as soon as he is presented. to this class, generally, belong some of those noted above as of sanguine temperament, and those who have fallen deeply into sin. going to the word of god for examples of the two latter classes, we might mention zaccheus, saul of tarsus, the philippian jailer, and the three thousand on the day of pentecost, as cases of sudden conversion--while we might instance the disciples of christ in general, as cases of slow and gradual conversion. 1 cor. xii. 6, "_there are diversities of operation, but it is the same god which worketh all in all_." from all this it follows that not every one can tell the exact time when, and the place where, he was converted. true, some can. zaccheus, and the jailer, and saul, and the three thousand, would doubtless always remember and be able to tell about the time and place and circumstances of their entrance into the kingdom. but could the apostles of jesus tell? do we not read how slowly they were enlightened; how, little by little, their errors had to be removed, and the truth applied? they did not, in fact, become established in the faith until after the resurrection. and so it is with many, probably, indeed, with most of the very best christians in the church to-day. they cannot tell when they were converted. neither is it necessary. on the day of judgment the question will not be asked: "where and when and how were you converted?" the question will be, "were you in a converted state, turned from darkness to light, and from the power of satan to god?" no matter whether you belonged to that favored class who kept their baptismal covenant unbroken; or whether, after you had been a stranger and a foreigner for a time, you were slowly, and through much doubt and, misgiving, brought to penitence and faith; or whether you were suddenly brought into the kingdom. can each one then tell whether he is at present in a converted state or not? we answer unhesitatingly, yes, to a certainty. the inquirer need only look into his heart and see _how his sins affect him_. do his sins grieve him? does he hate them? does he earnestly long and strive to be rid of them? does he daily turn to jesus christ for forgiveness and strength? if he can answer these questions in the affirmative, he has the elements and evidences of conversion and the new life. though faith be weak, it is accepted. though assurance at times be dim, the vision of faith clouded, and faith itself almost unconscious, it still saves; for it is not the assurance, but the faith, that justifies. but if, on the other hand, his sins do not trouble the sinner; if they are as trifles to him; if they do not daily drive him to the cross, the elements and evidences of the new life are certainly wanting. such a person is in an unconverted state. and let not such an one delude himself with the false idea that something, which he called a change, had taken place at some time in the past. he can know whether he is _now_ in the faith. it is poor theology, it is altogether anti-scriptural, for a christian to go through the world singing plaintively: "tis a point i long to know; oft it causes anxious thought, do i love the lord, or no? am i his, or am i not?" he whose faith, reaching up out of a heart that mourns over and hates sin, lays hold of christ, even tremblingly, can say, "_i know in whom i have believed_," "_i know that my redeemer liveth_." he can joyfully sing: "i know that my redeemer lives! what comfort this sweet sentence gives! he lives, he lives, who once was dead, he lives, my ever-living head. "he lives to bless me with his love, he lives to plead for me above, he lives my hungry soul to feed, he lives to help in time of need. "he lives to silence all my fears, he lives to wipe away my tears, he lives to calm my troubled heart, he lives all blessings to impart. "he lives, all glory to his name! he lives, my jesus, still the same; oh the sweet joy this sentence gives, i know that my redeemer lives!" chapter xx. conversion--human agency in what part and responsibility pertain to the human will in this matter? before we leave the subject of conversion, it is important that we consider and understand this question also. for on this point also grievous and dangerous views and practices prevail. human nature tends to extremes. here too, there is a tendency to go too far, either in the one direction or the other. there are those, on the one hand, who virtually and practically make this change of heart and of nature a _human_ work. they practically deny the agency of the holy spirit, or his means of grace. on the other hand, there are those whose ideas and teachings would rid man of all responsibility in the matter, and make of him a mere machine, that is _irresistibly_ moved and controlled from above. is either of the above views the correct and scriptural one? if not, what is the bible doctrine on this subject? what has the human will--_i.e._, the choosing and determining faculty of the mind--to do with conversion? what, if any part of the work, is to be ascribed to it? is it a factor in the process? if so, in what respect, and to what extent? where does its activity begin or end? in how far is the human will responsible for the accomplishment or non-accomplishment of this change? these questions we shall endeavor briefly and plainly to answer. we must necessarily return to man as he is before his conversion, while still in his natural, sinful, unrenewed state. in this state of sin, the will shares, in common with all the other parts of his being, the ruin and corruption resulting from the fall. the natural man has the "_understanding darkened;_" "_is alienated from the life of god, through the ignorance that is in him, because of the blindness of his heart_." he "_receiveth not the things of the spirit of god ... neither can he know them_." he is "_in darkness_," "_dead in trespasses and sins_." thus is the _whole man_ in darkness, blindness, ignorance, slavery to satan, and at enmity with god. he is in a state of spiritual death. the will is equally affected by this total depravity. if the natural man cannot even _see_, _discern_, or _know_ the things of the spirit, how much less can he _will to do_ them! before his conversion, man is utterly impotent "_to will or to do_" anything towards his renewal. the strong words of luther, as quoted in the form of concord, are strictly scriptural: "in spiritual and divine things which pertain to the salvation of the soul, man is like a pillar of salt, like lot's wife, yea, like a log and a stone, like a lifeless statue, which uses neither eyes nor mouth, neither senses nor heart." (matt. iii. 9.) but that same god who could, out of the very stones, raise up spiritual children to abraham, can also change the stony heart of man, and put life into those who were dead in trespasses and sins. the first movement, however, must always be from god to the sinner, and not from the sinner to god. god does, indeed, in his great mercy, come first to us. this he does through his own means of grace. in holy baptism he meets us even on the threshold of existence, takes us into his loving arms, places his hands in blessing upon our heads, breathes into us a new life, and adopts us into his own family. if the sinner afterwards fall from this baptismal grace, goes back into the ways of sin, and breaks his side of the covenant, god is still faithful and comes to him again by his holy spirit through his word; strives with him and endeavors to turn or convert him again _from darkness to light, and from the power of satan unto god_. we should notice here a distinction between those, who have at some time been under divine influence, as by virtue of the sacramental word in baptism, or the written or preached word, and those who have never been touched by a breath from above. when the spirit of god comes to the former, he finds something still to appeal to. there is more or less _receptivity_ to receive the grace of god, as there is more or less life still in the germ formerly implanted. when he comes to the latter class there is nothing to work on. the foundations must be laid. a receptivity must be brought about, a new life must be inbreathed. in other words, in the conversion of the latter the holy spirit must do what he has already done in the former. the one is the conversion of a once regenerate but now lapsed one. the other is the regeneration and conversion of one heretofore always dead in sin. but in every case, god comes first to the sinner; whether it be in the sacramental, or the written and preached word. it is always through that word, as we have already shown, that the spirit of god operates on the sinful heart, enkindling penitence and begetting faith in christ. now, what part does the will perform in this great work? is it entirely passive, merely wrought upon, as the stone by the sculptor? at first, the will is doubtless entirely passive. the first movements, the first desires, the first serious thoughts, are beyond question produced by the spirit, through the word. these are the advance signals and heralds of grace. they are the preparatory steps, and hence these first approaches of divine influence are called by theologians _prevenient grace_, that is the divine influence of grace which precedes or goes before all other movements in the return of the soul to god. this preparatory grace comes to the sinner unsought, and is so far unavoidable. it is purely and entirely the work of the holy spirit _upon_ the sinner. the human will has nothing whatever to do with the first beginnings of conversion. of this our confessions testify: "god must first come to us." "man's will hath no power to work the righteousness of god, or a spiritual righteousness, without the spirit of god." of this the prophet speaks when he says, zech. iv. 6, "_not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the lord_." also, 1 cor. xii. 3, "_no man can say that jesus is the lord, but by the holy ghost_." after prevenient grace, however, begins to make itself felt, then the will begins to take part. it must now assume an attitude, and meet the question: shall i yield to these holy influences or not? one or the other of two courses must be pursued. there must be a yielding to the heavenly strivings, or a resistance. to resist at this point requires a positive act of the will. this act man can put forth by his own strength. on the other hand, with the help of that grace, already at work in his heart, he can refuse to put forth that act, of his will, and thus remain non-resistant. if man, thus influenced from above, now deliberately uses his will power, and _resists_ the gracious influences of prevenient grace, he quenches the holy spirit of god, whereby he is sealed to the day of redemption. he has hardened his heart. his last state is worse than the first. he remains unconverted, and on himself alone is the responsibility. if, on the other hand, he even _with_ the assistance of prevenient grace, permits it to do its work, the process goes on. his will is being renewed. it experiences the pulsations of a new life. it realizes the possession of new powers. there is an infusion from god's will into his will, and now prevenient grace is changed into operating grace. the word has _free course_. _it runs and is glorified._ he "_works out his own salvation with fear and trembling_," while it is all the time "_god that worketh in him both to will and to do of his good pleasure_." such a person is a new creature in christ jesus. operative grace goes out into coã¶perating grace. he becomes a worker with god, and as he grows in grace and in knowledge, his will becomes more and more free as it comes more and more into harmony with god's will. again we ask, what has the human will to do with this great change? we answer, two things. first, man can and will to go to church where the means of grace are, or he can will to remain away. if he deliberately wills to absent himself from where their influence is exerted, he remains unconverted, and _on himself is the responsibility_. if, on the other hand, he wills to go where god speaks to man in his ordinary way, he does so much towards permitting god to convert him. secondly, when the means of grace do carry renewing power, and he is made to realize their efficacy--though it be at first only in an uneasiness, dissatisfaction with self, and an undefined longing after something better--he can, as we have seen, permit the work to go on. thus he may be said, negatively, to help towards his conversion. on the other hand, he can shake off the good impressions, tear away from the holy influences, resist the spirit, and remain unconverted. clearly, _on himself is all the responsibility_ if he perish. god desired to convert him. he "_rejected the counsel of god against himself_." luke vii. 30. and thus our lutheran doctrine of _grace through the means of grace_, clears away all difficulties and avoids all contradictions. it gives god all the glory, and throws on man all the responsibility. sailing thus under the colors of scriptural doctrine, we steer clear of the scylla of calvinism on the one hand, and also escape the charybdis of arminianism on the other. we give to sovereign grace all the glory of our salvation just as much as the calvinists do. and yet we make salvation as free as the boldest arminian does. whatever is excellent in both systems we retain. whatever is false in both we reject. we refuse to make of man a machine, who is _irresistibly_ brought into the kingdom of god, and forced indeed to accept of sovereign grace. on the other hand, we utterly repudiate the idea that man is _himself_ able to "get religion," to "get through," to "grasp the blessing," or to "save himself." to such self-exaltation we give no place--no, not for a moment! with luther we confess, "i believe that i cannot, by my own reason or strength, believe in jesus christ my lord, or come to him. but that the holy spirit hath called me by his gospel, enlightened me by his gifts, and sanctified and preserved me in the true faith; in like manner as he calls, gathers, enlightens, and sanctifies the whole christian church on earth, and preserves it in union with jesus christ in the true faith. in which christian church he daily forgives me abundantly all my sins and the sins of all believers, and will raise up me and all the dead at the last day, and will grant everlasting life to me and to all who believe in christ. this is most certainly true." "grace first contrived the way to save rebellious man; and all the steps that grace display which drew the wondrous plan. "grace taught my roving feet to tread the heavenly road; and new supplies each hour i meet, while pressing on to god. "grace all the work shall crown through everlasting days; it lays in heaven the topmost stone, and well deserves the praise." chapter xxi. justification. among all the doctrines of our holy christian faith, the doctrine of justification by faith alone, stands most prominent. luther calls it: "the doctrine of a standing or a falling church," _i.e._, as a church holds fast and appropriates this doctrine she remains pure and firm, and as she departs from it, she becomes corrupt and falls. this doctrine was the turning point of the reformation in the sixteenth century. it was the experience of its necessity and efficacy that made luther what he was, and equipped him for a reformer. naturally, therefore, it occupies the chief place in all our confessions, and is prominent in all the history of our church. in these chapters on the "way of salvation," it has been _implied_ throughout. there is indeed no doctrine of salvation that is not more or less connected with or dependent on this one. some time ago we noticed a statement of a certain bishop in a large protestant church, declaring that "not justification, but the divinity of christ, is the great fundamental doctrine that conditions the standing or falling of a church." at first sight this seems plausible. but when we come to reflect, we cannot but see that the true doctrine concerning the person of christ is not only implied, but embraced in the doctrine of justification by faith. a man might be sound on the divinity of christ, and yet not know aright the way of salvation. but a man cannot be sound on justification without being sound, not only on the person of christ, but also on his work and the way of salvation through him. so much has been written and preached in our church on this subject, that it is not necessary for us to enter upon a full discussion here. we will endeavor, therefore, merely in outline, to call attention to a few of its most prominent and practical features. we inquire briefly into its meaning and nature. justification is an act of god, by which he accounts or adjudges a person righteous in his sight. it is not a change in the person's nature, but it is a change in his _standing_ in the sight of god. before justification he stands in the sight of god, guilty and condemned. through justification, he stands before god free from guilt and condemnation; he is acquitted, released, regarded and treated as if he had never been guilty or condemned. the justified person stands in the sight of god, as if he really had never committed a sin and were perfectly innocent. thus it is clear that justification treats of and has regard to the sinner's _relation_ to god. it has nothing to do with his change of nature. it is of the utmost importance that this be kept constantly in mind. it is by applying justification to the change in the sinner's nature that so many become confused, and fall into grievous and dangerous errors. the original source, or moving cause of justification, is god's love. had god not "_loved the world_" there would have been no divine planning or counseling for man's justification. truly it required a divine mind to originate a scheme by which god "_could be just and yet justify the ungodly_." all the wisdom of the world could never have answered the question: "_how can mortal man be just with god_?" man stood, in the sight of god, as a rebel against his divine authority, a transgressor of divine law, guilty, condemned, and wholly unable to justify himself, or to answer for one in a thousand offences. god had given his word that, because of guilt, there must be punishment and suffering. this word was given before sin was committed, and was repeated a thousand times afterwards. there must then be obedience to an infinite law, or _infinite_ punishment for transgression. how could this gulf be bridged, and man saved? there was only one way. "_god so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten son._" that son, "_the brightness of the father's glory and the express image of his person_," "_in whom dwelt all the fullness of the godhead bodily_," came into our world. he came to take the sinner's place--to be his substitute. though lord and giver of the law, he put himself under the law. he fulfilled it in every jot and tittle. he did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth. thus he worked out a complete and perfect righteousness. he did not need this righteousness for himself, for he had a righteousness far above the righteousness of the law. he wrought it out not for himself, but for man, that he might make it over and impute it to the transgressor. thus then while man had no obedience of his own, he could have the obedience of another set down to his account, as though it were his own. but this was not enough. man had sinned and was still constantly sinning, his very nature being a sinful one. as already noted, the divine word was pledged that there must be punishment for sin. the son, who came to be a substitute, said: put me in the sinner's place; let me be the guilty one; let the blows fall upon me. and thus, he "_who knew no sin was made sin_ (or a sin-offering) _for us_." he "_was made a curse_," "_bore our sins_" and "_the iniquity of us all_." he, the god-man, was regarded as the guilty one, treated as the guilty one, suffered as the guilty one. he suffered as god, as well as man. for the divine and human were inseparably united in one person. divinity by itself cannot suffer and die. but thus mysteriously connected with the humanity it could and really did participate in the suffering and dying. and who will calculate what immanuel can suffer? what must it have been when it crushed him to earth, made him cry out so plaintively, and at last took his life! our old theologians loved to say, that what the sufferings of christ lacked in _extensiveness_ or duration, they made up in _intensiveness_. thus there was a perfect atonement. _all_ the punishment had been endured. a perfect righteousness had been wrought out, and the father set his seal to it in the resurrection and ascension of his dear son. here, then, was real substitution, and this is the _ground_ for our justification. it has been asked, on this point, if christ by his perfect life wrought out a complete righteousness, which he needed not for himself, but intended for the sinner, why was not this sufficient? why was his death necessary? on the other hand, if his death is a perfect atonement for all sin, why does the sinner, in addition to a full and free forgiveness, procured by the death of christ, need also the application of the righteousness of the life of christ? in a word, why are both the life and death necessary to justify the sinner? we answer: by his death or suffering obedience he wrought out a _negative_ righteousness, the forgiveness of sins. by his life, or active obedience, he wrought out a _positive_ righteousness. the former releases from punishment. the latter confers character, standing and honor in the kingdom of god. to illustrate. two persons have broken the laws of their land, are guilty, condemned, and suffer the penalty in prison. to one comes a message of pardon from the king. the prison doors are opened and he goes forth a free man. the law cannot again seize him and condemn him for the crimes of which he is pardoned. but as he goes forth among his fellow-men he realizes that though released from punishment, and _negatively_ righteous, he has no standing, no character, no positive righteousness, unless he earn and merit it for himself. to the other criminal also comes a message of pardon from his king. in addition to pardon, or release from punishment, he is assured that his king has adopted him as his son, will take him into his family and endow him with his name and all the privileges of his house. now this pardoned one has a double righteousness; negatively, pardon and release from punishment; positively, a name, standing, character, honor, and the richest endowments of the kingdom. even thus has the son of god wrought out for us a two-fold righteousness, viz.: negatively, by his sufferings and death, the forgiveness of sin and release from punishment; and positively, by his life of obedience, the appropriation of a perfect righteousness, a name and a place in his kingdom, with all its honors and blessings. in the procuring of this double righteousness, christ wrought out first the positive and then the negative. in the conferring of it he gives first the negative and then the positive. and therefore the two-fold message of consolation. is. xl. 1, 2: "_comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your god. speak ye comfortably to_--(i.e., speak ye _to the heart of_)--_jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned; for she hath received of the lord's hand double for all her sins._" this justification has been purchased and paid for. but it is not yet applied. the sinner has not yet appropriated it and made it his own. how is this to be done? we answer: by faith. faith is the eye that looks to christ. it sees his perfect atonement and his spotless righteousness. it is, at the same time, the hand that reaches out and lays hold of christ, and clings to him as the only help and the only hope. this faith, springing from a penitent heart, that realizes its own unworthiness and guiltiness, renouncing all claim to merit or self-righteousness, casts itself on the divine saviour, trusts implicitly in him, and rests there. this faith justifies. not because it is an act that merits or earns justification. no! in no sense. christ has earned it. faith only lays hold of and appropriates what is already purchased and paid for. there certainly can be no merit in our faith, because it is itself a "_gift of god_," as the scriptures declare. he that has the faith is justified, acquitted, forgiven. the appropriation or application, is when we believe with all the heart on the son of god. such, in brief, is the lutheran doctrine of "justification by faith." we have not thought it necessary to quote from the augsburg confession or the formula of concord for proof. neither is it necessary or desirable that we lengthen out this chapter with quotations from standard theologians. any one desiring further proof or amplification can find abundance of it in all our confessions, and in all recognized writers in the church. nor have we taken up the space with scripture quotations. to quote all that the bible says on the subject would be to transcribe a large proportion of its passages. it would necessitate especially a writing out of a large part of the writings of paul, who makes it the great theme of several of his epistles. every devout reader of paul's letters will find this great doctrine shining forth in every chapter, so much so that the romish bishop who was driven by luther to a study of the new testament threw down his book and said: "_paul also has become a lutheran_!" in conclusion, we desire to impress one thought. the doctrine of justification is so highly prized by the believer, not so much because of the grand and matchless scheme it brings to light, as because of the peace and comfort it has brought into his heart. he who truly embraces this doctrine, realizes its efficacy and power. it is precious to him, above all things, as a matter of personal experience. this experience is not the doctrine, but the result of receiving it. he has realized the blessedness of having his own sins forgiven, his transgressions covered. being _justified by faith, he has peace with god through our lord jesus christ_. this blessed experience was the root and spring of luther's courage and strength. without this heart-experience, all theorizing about the doctrine is vain. such a scriptural experience never develops a pharisee. it never runs into self-exaltation. it constantly exalts and magnifies christ. it habitually humbles self. it lays self low at the foot of the cross, and remains there. not that it is a gloomy or despondent spirit. for while it constantly mourns over the imperfections and sins of self, it, at the same time, constantly rejoices in the full and perfect salvation of christ. while it never ceases in this life to shed the tears of penitence, it also never ceases to sing the joyful song of deliverance. it develops a christian after the type of paul and luther, and gerhard and francke. blessed is he who understands and experiences justification by faith. doubly sad the state of him who has the doctrine, without its experience and peace and glory. "jesus, thy blood and righteousness my beauty are, my glorious dress; midst flaming worlds, in these arrayed, with joy shall i lift up my head. "bold shall i stand in that great day, for who aught to my charge shall lay? fully through these absolved i am from sin and fear, from guilt and shame. "this spotless robe the same appears, when ruined nature sinks in years: no age can change its constant hue; thy blood preserves it ever new. "oh let the dead now hear thy voice; now bid thy banished ones rejoice! their beauty this, their glorious dress, jesus, thy blood and righteousness." chapter xxii. sanctification. in the last chapter we showed that the doctrine of justification deals with the sinner's change of relation, or change of state. we also learned that faith is the instrumental or applying cause of justification. in another place we showed that true faith presupposes penitence, and this again presupposes a sense and knowledge of sin. again we showed that penitence and faith are the two essential elements of conversion; that where these elements are found there is a change of heart, and the beginning of a new life. this new life is, however, only in its germ. these are the _beginnings_ of new views, new affections, new actions, a new _life_. they are of a germinal or seed character. now it belongs to the very nature of life to develop, increase, and make progress. and it is this development or growth of the new life that we wish now to consider. it is called _sanctification_, or growth of the soul into the image of a holy god. it is closely related to justification, and yet clearly distinct from it. in justification, god _imputes_ or _counts over_ to the sinner the righteousness of christ. in sanctification, god _imparts_ the righteousness of the new life. justification is what god does _for_ the believer; sanctification is what his spirit does _in_ him. justification being purely an act of god, is _instantaneous_ and complete; sanctification being a work in which man has a share, is _progressive_. justification takes away the _guilt_ of sin; sanctification gradually takes away its _power_. sanctification begins with justification. so soon as the sinner believes he is justified; but just so soon as he believes, he also has the beginnings of a new life. in time, therefore, the two come together; but in thought they are distinct. and it is of the greatest importance that these distinctions be understood and kept in mind. it is by confounding justification with sanctification, and _vice versa_, that all the flagrant, soul-destroying errors concerning the so-called "higher life," "sinless perfection," etc., are promulgated and believed. it is by quoting scripture passages that speak of justification, and applying them to sanctification, that this delusion is strengthened. how often have we not heard that precious passage, 1 john i. 7, "_the blood of jesus christ his son cleanseth us from all sin_," quoted to prove entire sanctification. now, if we understand the scriptures at all, that passage speaks of the _forgiveness_ of sin through the efficacy of christ's blood, and not of overcoming sin in the believer, or eradicating its very fibres and impulses. but this, perhaps, is a digression. let us understand clearly what we mean by sanctification. the english word comes from a latin word that means sacred, consecrated, devoted to holy purposes. the greek word translated sanctify in our english bible also means to separate from common and set apart for holy purposes. the same word that is translated sanctify, is in many places translated consecrate, or make holy. the english word _saint_ comes from the same latin root, and is translated from the same greek root, as sanctify. it means a sanctified one, or one who is being sanctified. thus we find believers called saints, or sanctified ones. we find, indeed, that the apostles call all the members of their churches saints. thus they speak of "_the saints which are at jerusalem_," "_the saints which are at achaia_," "_to all that be in rome ... called to be saints_," "_as in all the churches of the saints_." so in many other passages. in harmony with the apostolic usage, we confess in the apostles' creed: "i believe in the holy christian church (which is) the communion--or community--of saints." if then saints means sanctified ones, or holy persons, do not the bible and the apostles' creed demand perfect sinlessness? by no means. christians are indeed to strive to constantly become more and more free from sin. they are "_called to be saints_," are constantly being sanctified or made holy. but their sanctity or holiness is only _relative_. they have indeed "_come out from the world_," to "_be separate_." they are "_a peculiar people_." they hate sin, repent of it, flee from it, strive against it, and overcome it more and more. they "_mortify the deeds of the body_," "_keep it under_," "_crucify the flesh with its affections and lusts_," "_present_--(or consecrate)--_their bodies, as living sacrifices to god_." they have pledged themselves at christ's altar to "renounce the devil and all his works and ways, the vanities of the world and the sinful desires of the flesh, and to live up to the doctrines and precepts of christ." in so far, they are separated from the world, set apart to become holy, consecrated to christ. not that their sanctification or saintship is complete. if that were the case, the apostles would not have written epistles to the saints. for perfect beings need no bibles, no churches, no means of grace. the angels need none of these things. there is indeed not one sinless person mentioned in the bible, except that divine one, "_who did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth_." if there were one scripture character who, if such a thing were possible, would have attained to sinless perfection, that one would certainly have been the greatest of all the apostles, paul. he labored more than they all; he suffered more than they all; he went deeper into the mysteries of redemption than they all. he was not only permitted to look into heaven, as the beloved john, but he "_was caught up into the third heaven, and heard words that it was not lawful for him to utter_" on this sinful earth. oh, what purifying through suffering! what visions and revelations! what experience of grace! and yet this burnished vessel never professed sinless perfection. indeed, he never ceased to mourn and lament the sinfulness and imperfection of his own heart, and called himself the chief of sinners. he does indeed speak of perfection. hear what he says, phil. iii. 12, 13, 14: "_not as though i had already attained, either were already perfect; but i follow after, if that i may apprehend that for which also i am apprehended of christ jesus. brethren, i count not myself to have apprehended; but this one thing i do, forgetting those things that are behind, and reaching forward unto those things which are before, i press toward the mark, for the prize of the high calling of god in christ jesus._" the saints on earth, then, are not sinless ones. the bible does indeed speak of those born of god sinning not, not committing sin, etc. but this can only mean that they do not _wilfully_ sin. they do not intentionally live in habits of sin. their sins are sins of weakness and not sins of malice. they repent of them, mourn over them, and strive against them. they constantly pray, "_forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us_." but their heart-purity and sanctification are only relative. sanctification is gradual and progressive. we have seen that paul thus expressed himself. he was constantly "_following after_," "_reaching forth_," "_pressing toward_" the mark. he exhorts the corinthians, 2 cor. vii. 1, to be "_perfecting holiness in the fear of the lord_," and again, 2 cor. iii. 18, to be "_changed into the same image from glory to glory_." he tells them in chapter iv. 16 that "_the inward man is renewed day by day_." he exhorts the saints or believers, again and again, "_to grow_," "_to increase_," "_to abound yet more and more_." growth is the law of the kingdom of nature. and the same god operates in the kingdom of grace, and, indeed, much after the same order. our saviour, therefore, so often compares the kingdom of god, or the kingdom of grace, to growth from a seed, where it is "_first the blade, then the ear, and then the full corn in the ear_," mark iv. 26-29. in harmony with all this paul calls those who have but lately become believers, "_babes in christ_." he tells them they must be "_fed with milk as babes_," etc. therefore, it is quite natural that we find so many exhortations to grow in grace and in knowledge. how directly contrary to all this is the unscriptural idea, not only of entire sanctification, but of instantaneous sanctification. surely, in this fast age, many have run far ahead of prophets, apostles, martyrs, reformers and the most eminent saints of all ages. as we read the lives and words of these heroes of faith, we find that the more christ-like and consecrated they were, the more did they deplore their slow progress and their remaining sin. while, therefore, we have no scripture warrant to expect sinlessness here, while we must "_die daily_," "mortify our members_," and "_fight the good fight of faith_," between the old adam, whose remnants cleave to us, and the new man in christ jesus, we can still do much to promote our sanctification, and make it more and more complete. we can use the powers that god has given us to carry on the warfare with sin. we can increase these powers, or rather permit divine grace to increase them, by a diligent use of the means of grace. in the chapter on the word of god as a means of grace, we showed that the holy spirit sanctifies through the word. in the chapters on baptism and the baptismal covenant, we showed how that holy sacrament is a means of grace, whose efficacy is not confined to the time of its administration, but that it is intended to be a perennial fountain of grace, from which we can drink and be refreshed while life lasts. in the chapters on the lord's supper, we learned that it also was ordained and instituted to sustain and strengthen our spiritual life. we have, therefore, all the means necessary for our sanctification. do we prayerfully use them? might we not be much further on in the work of holiness than we are? do we use the truth as we should, that we maybe "_sanctified through the truth_?" do we "_desire the sincere milk of the word, that we may grow thereby_?" does it "_dwell richly among us_?" know we not, or have we forgotten it, that "_as many of us as have been baptized into christ, were baptized into his death_?" do we say, with those early christians, "_henceforth let no man trouble me, for i bear in my body the marks of the lord jesus_?" and when we go to our lord's table do we realize that his "_flesh is meat indeed, and his blood is drink indeed_?" do we go in the strength of that heavenly nourishment many days? might we not, by making a more sincere, hearty and diligent use of all these means of grace, live nearer to christ, lean more confidingly on him and do more effectually all things through him who strengthened us? yes, doubtless, we must all confess that it is our own fault that we are not sanctified more fully than we are; that if, in the strength derived from a proper use of the means of grace, we would watch more over self, pray more, meditate more on divine things and thus surround ourselves more with a spiritual atmosphere, we would be more spiritual. "_this is the will of god, even your sanctification._" "_without holiness, no man shall see the lord._" "and what am i? my soul, awake, and an impartial survey take. does no dark sign, no ground of fear in practice or in heart appear? "what image does my spirit bear? is jesus formed and living there? ah, do his lineaments divine in thought and word and action shine? "searcher of hearts, o search me still; the secrets of my soul reveal; my fears remove; let me appear to god and my own conscience clear." chapter xxiii. revivals. we might have closed our studies of the way of salvation with sanctification, without giving any attention to the subject of revivals. we remember, however, that, in the estimation of many, revivals are the most essential part of the way; so much so that, in certain quarters, few, if any, souls are expected to be brought into the way of life, otherwise than through so-called "revivals of religion." according to this widespread idea, the ingathering of souls, the upbuilding of the church, her activity, power and very life, are dependent upon the revival system. in view of all this, we have concluded to bring our studies to a close with an examination of this system. before we enter upon the subject itself, however, we desire to have it distinctly understood that we intend to discuss the _system_, and not the _people_ who believe and practice it. there doubtless are very excellent christian people who favor a religion built up and dependent on such movements, and there may be very unchristian people who oppose it. with this we have nothing to do. we are not discussing _persons_, but _doctrines_ and _systems_. the advocates of modern revivalism claim the right to hold, defend and propagate their views. we only demand the same right. if we do not favor or practice their way, our people have not only a right to ask, but it is our duty to give grounds and reasons for our position. in discussing this subject, we intend, as usual, to speak with all candor and plainness. we desire to approach and view this subject, as every subject, from the fair, firm standpoint of the opening words of the formula of concord, viz.: "we believe, teach and confess that the only rule and standard, according to which all doctrines and teachings should be esteemed and judged, are nothing else than the prophetic and apostolic scriptures of the old and new testament." we wish to test it by the infallible word. by it, we are willing to be judged. according to it, our views and doctrines must stand or fall. what then is a revival? the word revive means to bring back to life. it presupposes the existence of life, which for a time had languished or died. life was present, it failed and was restored. strictly speaking, therefore, we can only use this word of the bringing back of a life that had been there formerly and was lost. applying it to spiritual life, strictly speaking, only a person who has once had the new life in him, but lost it for awhile and regained it, can be said to be revived. so, likewise, only a church or a community that was once spiritually alive, but had grown languid and lifeless, can be said to be revived. on the other hand, it is an improper use of terms to apply the word revival to the work of a foreign missionary, who for the first time preaches the life-giving word, and through it gathers converts and organizes churches. in his case it is a first bringing, and not a restoring, of life. all those old testament reformations and restorations to the true worship and service of the true god, after a time of decline and apostasy, were revivals according to the strict sense of the word. for these revivals patriarchs and prophets labored and prayed. on the other hand, the labors and successes of the apostles in the new testament were not strictly revivals. they preached the gospel instead of the law. they preached a redeemer who had come, instead of one who was to come. it was largely a new faith, a new life, a new way of life that they taught, and in so far a new church that they established. its types, shadows and roots, had all been in the old covenant and church. but so different were the fulfillments from the promises, that it was truly called a _new_ dispensation. and, therefore, the labors of the apostles to establish this dispensation were largely missionary labors. it was not so much the restoring of an old faith and life, as the bringing in of a new. we find their parallel in foreign mission work much more than in regular church work. it is by overlooking this distinction that many erroneous doctrines and practices have crept into the church, _e.g._, as to infant baptism, conversion and modern revivalism. as to revivals, popularly so-called, we maintain, first of all, that it ought to be the policy and aim of the church to preclude their necessity. it is generally admitted that they are only needed, longed for and obtained, after a period of spiritual decline and general worldliness. a church that is alive and active needs no revival. a lifeless church does. better then, far better, to use every right endeavor to keep the church alive and active, than permit it to grow cold and worldly, with a view and hope of a glorious awakening. prevention is better than cure. we would rather pay a family physician to prevent disease and keep us well, than to employ even the most distinguished doctor to cure a sick household; especially if the probability were that, in some cases, the healing would be only partial, and in others it would eventuate in an aggravation of the disease. in the chapters on the baptismal covenant and conversion, we showed that it is possible to keep that covenant and thus always grow in grace and in the knowledge of our lord jesus christ. while we sorrowfully admitted that the cases of such as do it are not as numerous as is possible and most desirable, we also learned that they might be far more numerous, if parents and teachers understood their responsibility and did their duty to the baptized children. we verily believe that thus it might become the rule, instead of the exception, that the children of christian parents would grow up as christ's lambs from baptism, would love him with their earliest love and never wander into the ways of sin. we also firmly believe that those thus early consecrated, trained, taught and nurtured in faith and love, make the healthiest, the strongest and most reliable members and workers in the church. neither can we for a moment doubt but that such is the good and gracious will of him who desires the little children to be baptized into him. it certainly seems repugnant to all that we have ever learned of our god and saviour, that it should be his will that our dear children, who have been _conceived and born in sin_, and are therefore _by nature_, or by birth, _the children of wrath_, should remain in this state of sin and condemnation until they are old enough to be converted at a revival. yet it must be either that, or a denial of the bible doctrine of original sin, if we accept the teachings and practices of modern revivalism. for either of these positions we are not prepared. therefore it is our great aim and object to recall the church to the old paths. therefore we are concerned to see the church firmly established on the old foundations of the doctrine of original sin, of baptism for the remission of sins, of training up in that baptismal covenant by the constant, diligent and persevering teaching of god's word, in the family, in the sunday-school, in the catechetical class and from the pulpit. in proportion as this is accomplished, in that proportion will we preclude the necessity of conversions and, consequently, of revivals. who will say, that a congregation made up of such as are "_sanctified from the womb_," "_lent to the lord_," from birth, having "_known the holy scripture_" from childhood, would not be a healthy, living church? such a church would need no revival. would it be possible to have such a church? is it possible for any _one_ member to grow up and remain a child of god? if possible for one, why not for a whole congregation? are the means of grace inadequate? no, no! the whole trouble lies in the neglect or abuse of the means. with their proper use, the whole aspect of religious life might be different from what it is. it is not a fatal necessity that one, or more, or all the members of a church must periodically grow cold, lose their first love, and backslide from their god. it is not god's will, but their fault, that it should be so. while the church at ephesus lost its first love, and that at pergamos permitted false doctrine to creep into it and be a stumbling block, and that at thyatira suffered jezebel to seduce christ's servants, and that at sardis did not have her works found perfect before god, and that of laodicea had become lukewarm; yet the church at smyrna, with all her tribulation and poverty and persecution, remained rich and faithful in the sight of god, and that at philadelphia had kept the word of god's patience, and her enemies were to know that god loved her. while the former five were censured, the latter two were approved. the former might have remained as faithful as the latter. it was their own fault and sin that the former needed a revival. the latter needed none. which were the better off? we believe that where there is a sound, faithful and earnest pastor, and a docile, sincere, earnest, united and active people, many will grow up in their baptismal covenant; and among those who wander more or less therefrom, there will be frequent conversions, under the faithful use of the ordinary services and ordinances of the church. such, we believe, were the pastorates of richard baxter, at kidderminster; of ludwig harms, at hermansburg; of oberlin, at steinthal; and of our late lamented dr. greenwald, at easton and lancaster. none of these churches, after their pastors were fairly established in them, needed revivals. and such, doubtless, have been thousands of quiet, faithful pastorates, some known to the world, and others known only to god. blessed are those churches in which the work of grace is constantly and effectively going on, according to god's way of salvation. chapter xxiv. modern revivals. we have shown that it ought to be the great aim and object of the church to preclude the necessity of occasional religious excitements. we also showed, by example from scripture and from church history, that it is possible to attain this end. if parents did but understand and do their duty in the family, teachers in the sunday-school and pastors in the catechetical class and pulpit, children would very generally grow up in their baptismal covenant; and a church made up of such members would not depend for its growth and life on periodic religious revivals. but--alas, that _but_!--parents, teachers and pastors too often come short of their duty. carelessness, worldliness and godlessness hold sway in too many of the congregations, homes and families. there is a spirit of love of pleasure, greed for gain and haste to be rich, that has taken hold of the heart and life of too many professedly christian parents. there is no time for god's word or earnest prayer with and for the children. there is often little if any religious instruction or christian example. the little ones breathe in a withering, poisonous, materialistic atmosphere. the germs of the divine life, implanted in baptism, either lie dormant, or are blighted after their first manifestations. they grow up with the idea that the great object of life is to gain the most, and make the best of this world. in the sunday-school the teachers are often careless and trifling. they do not live close to christ themselves, and how can they lead their pupils nearer to him? they scarcely pray for themselves, much less for their pupils, and how can they instil into them a spirit of prayer? many pastors, also, are not as earnest and consecrated as they should be. they are not burning with a desire for souls. they go through their ministerial duties in a formal, lifeless manner, and their labors are barren of results. these things should not be so, but unfortunately they are. as a result, children grow up ignorant of their covenant with god, or soon lapse therefrom, and are in an unconverted state. the communicants of the church lose their first love, and become lukewarm. an awakening is needed. if then we admit that, owing to man's imperfections and faults, _times of refreshing_ are needed, why not have them after the manner of those around us? why not adopt the modern system, have union meetings, evangelists, high-pressure methods, excitements, the anxious bench, and all the modern machinery for getting up revivals? we will briefly state our objections to this system. _first._ we object to the modern revival system, because it rests on an entire misconception of the coming and work of the holy spirit. the idea seems to be that the holy spirit is not effectively present in the regular and ordinary services of the sanctuary; that he came to the church as a transient guest on the day of pentecost, then departed again, and returned when there was another season of special interest. that he then left again, and ever since has come and worked with power during every revival, and then departed to be absent until the next. now we claim that this is directly contrary to the teaching of the divine word. when jesus was about to leave his disciples they were filled with deep sorrow. he gathered them around him, in that upper chamber at jerusalem, and comforted them in those tender, loving words, recorded in the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth chapters of john. in these chapters he promises and speaks much of a comforter, whom he would send. the whole discourse goes to show that this comforter was intended to be substituted for the visible presence of himself. his own visible presence was to be withdrawn. the comforter was to be sent to take his place, and thus, in a manner, make good the loss. jesus had been their comforter and their joy. they would no longer have him visibly among them, to walk with him, to talk with him, to hear the life-giving words that fell from his lips. the announcement made them feel as if they were to be left "comfortless" and forsaken. but he says, john xiv. 16: "_i will pray the father, and he will give you another comforter, that he may abide with you forever, even the spirit of truth_;" verse 18, "_i will not leave you comfortless_:" revised version, "i will not leave you _desolate_;" more literally still, as in the margin, "i will not leave you _orphans_." john xvi. 5, 6, 7: "_but now i go my way to him that sent me.... but because i have said these things unto you, sorrow hath filled your hearts. nevertheless i tell you the truth. it is expedient for you that i go away, for if i go not away the comforter will not come unto you, but if i depart i will send him unto you._" now, from these words, and others in the same chapters, two things are plain: first, that the comforter came as _christ's substitute_; secondly, that he came _to abide_. while jesus was to be absent, as far as his visible presence was concerned, the divine comforter, the holy spirit, was to take his place. his presence was to substitute christ's. but if he had come to be present only briefly, and occasionally, after long intervals of absence, it would be a poor filling of the painful void. evidently the impression designed to be made by the words of jesus was, that the holy spirit would come to abide. and this is made still more clear by the plain words of jesus quoted above "i will not leave you _orphans_;" "he shall _abide_ with you _forever_." he came, then, as a substitute; he came also to abide forever. the revival system is, however, built up on the idea that he comes and goes. he visits the church, and leaves it again. at so-called revival seasons the church has a comforter. during all the rest of the time she is left in a desolate or orphaned state. thus is the revival system built up on an entire misconception and misapprehension as to the coming and abiding of the holy spirit. it likewise misconceives entirely the _operations_ of the spirit. the idea seems to be that this blessed one operates without means, directly, arbitrarily and at haphazard. the word and sacraments are not duly recognized as the divinely ordained means and channels, through which he reaches the hearts of the children of men. that this is an unscriptural idea we have shown elsewhere. that the spirit uses the means of grace as channels and instruments, through which he comes and operates on the hearts of men and imparts to them renewing and sanctifying grace, is taught all through the new testament. we need not enlarge on these points again, but refer our readers to what has been written above on this subject. our _second_ objection to the modern revival system arises out of the first. because of the errors concerning the coming and the operations of the holy spirit, the system undervalues the divinely-ordained means of grace. little if any renewing grace is expected from the sacrament of christian baptism. few if any conversions are expected from the regular and ordinary preaching of the word. little if any spiritual nourishment is expected from the sacrament of the lord's supper. who that has attended such meetings has not heard the idea of grace bestowed through baptism ridiculed? who has not heard so-called revival preachers scout the idea of "getting religion"--which must mean receiving divine grace if it means anything--through catechising the young in the doctrines of the divine word? are not these divine means often entirely set aside by the most enthusiastic revivalists? who does not know that often at these revival services the reading and preaching of the word are entirely omitted? thus god's means, the means used by christ and his apostles, are undervalued. while they are used at the ordinary services, when there is no revival going on, not much is expected of them. our _third_ objection again arises from the second. because the regular church ordinances are undervalued, they are largely fruitless. because people have not much faith in their efficacy, they do not receive much benefit from them. few conversions are expected or reported during the ten or eleven months of regular or ordinary church services, while many, if not all, are expected and reported from the few weeks of special effort. even the work of sanctification is largely crowded into the few weeks. it is during these few weeks that saints expect to be quickened, refreshed, strengthened and purified, more than during all the rest of the year. it is doubtless both as a cause and a result of this undervaluing and general fruitlessness of the ordinary church ordinances, that we find so much levity and irreverence in many so-called revival churches. because the holy spirit is not supposed to be effectively present, is not in the word and sacraments, does not bring his saving and sanctifying grace through them; therefore there is nothing solemn, awe-inspiring, or uplifting in these things. therefore the young, even if they are members, and sometimes older ones, go to these churches as to places of amusement, to have a good time, to laugh, to whisper, to gaze about, write notes, get company, and what not. a careful observer cannot fail to notice that in churches which believe in and preach grace through the means of grace, there is an atmosphere of deeper solemnity and more earnest devotion than in such revival churches. the above objection to the revival system we believe will explain the difference. _fourth._ we object to the so-called revival system because, as a natural result of the above, it begets a dependence on something extraordinary and miraculous for bringing sinners into the kingdom. as we have seen, these churches expect nearly all their conversions from "revivals." it naturally follows that the unconverted will shake off and get rid of all serious thoughts and impressions, under the plea that they will give this matter their attention when the next revival comes round. we have more than once heard persons say, in effect, "oh well, i know i'm not what i ought to be, but perhaps i'll be converted at the next revival." thus the gracious influences of the blessed spirit, as they come through the word, whether from the pulpit, the sunday-school teacher, or christian friend, or even when that word is brought to a funeral or sick-bed, are all put aside with the hope that there may be a change at the next revival. and we verily believe that such ideas, fostered by a false system, have kept countless souls out of the kingdom of god. we object _fifthly_ that at these so-called revivals there is a dependence on methods not sanctioned or authorized by the word of god. as we have seen, god's means are generally slighted. on the other hand, human means and methods are exalted and magnified. the anxious or mourner's bench is regarded by many otherwise sensible people, as a veritable mercy-seat, where grace is supposed to abound--as though the spirit of god manifested his saving and sanctifying power there as nowhere else. but this is a purely human institution, and has no warrant in the word. on this point it is not necessary to enlarge. chapter xxv. modern revivals, continued. we continue our objections to the modern revival system. our _sixth_ objection is the utter indifference to doctrine that generally goes hand in hand with its methods and practices. to "_contend earnestly for the faith once delivered to the saints_," seems to be altogether out of place at a modern revival. there is no "_taking heed unto the doctrine_," or "_holding fast the form of sound words_," or "_becoming rooted and built up in christ, and established in the faith as ye have been taught_." there is no counselling to "_be no more children, tossed to and fro and carried about with every wind of doctrine_;" no warning against false teachers and false doctrines. instead of thus following christ and his apostles, in insisting on the truth, the faith, and the doctrine; instead of thus warning against error and false doctrine, and showing that it "_doth eat as a canker_," and endanger the very salvation of the soul, the modern revival system habitually inveighs against all such loyalty to the truth, and contending for the faith and pure doctrine, as bigotry, intolerance, lack of charity, if not lack of all "experimental religion." in many quarters indeed the idea is boldly advanced that the more a person stands up for pure doctrine, for word and sacrament as channels of grace, the less grace he has; and the more he makes light of doctrine, the less positive conviction he has; the less he thinks of creeds, catechism, and confessions of faith, the more religion he has! the popular sentiment is: it makes no difference what a person believes, or to what church he belongs, or indeed, whether he belongs to any, if only he is converted; if only he means well; if only the heart is right! now, it is not necessary to show here again that all such indifference to doctrine is directly contrary to the teaching of christ and his apostles. our _seventh_ objection is closely connected with the last. where there is so much indifference to the truth as it is in jesus, that it often amounts to open contempt, we cannot expect any provision for teaching his saving truths to men. hence we find but small provision, if any, for doctrinal instruction in the revival system. those who are expected to be gathered in, converted and brought to christ, are not first instructed. they do not learn what sin is, what grace is, and how it is communicated and applied. they are left in ignorance of the great doctrines of sin and salvation. they have the most imperfect conception of god's way of salvation. and yet they are expected to enter upon that way, and walk in it. they are exhorted to be converted, to get religion, and to believe, while it is seldom, if ever, made clear what all this means, and how it is brought about. surely it is not necessary that we should show that if ever a person needs to act intelligently--if ever he needs to know exactly what he is doing, why he is doing it, and what is involved in so doing--it is when he is acting in the interests of his eternal salvation. then, if ever, he should act understandingly and honestly. and for this he needs instruction. we have shown elsewhere that this is god's way, the bible way, the way of the early church, the way of the great protestant reformation, and the way of our church of the reformation to this day. we therefore object to this modern revival system, because it has largely supplanted the old time systematic and thorough indoctrination of the young. and, as we have elsewhere said, we are convinced that, just in proportion as the youth are uncatechised and uninstructed in the great doctrines of god's word regarding sin and grace, in that proportion will doubt, skepticism, unbelief and infidelity infect them, and lead them into the paths of the destroyer. our _eighth_ objection to this modern revival system, is that it is so largely built up on the excitement of the feelings. the first and great object of the revivalist seems to be to work directly on the emotional nature of his hearers. if he can stir the depths of the heart until it throbs and thrills with pent-up emotions, if he can play upon its chords until they vibrate and tremble under his touch, until its hidden chambers ring again with responsive longings, until at last the repressed intensity breaks forth in overpowering excitement, he is considered a successful revival preacher. to reach this end the preaching is made up of exhortations, anecdotes and appeals. there are touching stories, calculated to make the tender-hearted weep. there are thrilling and startling experiences, calculated to frighten the more hard-hearted. there are lively, emotional songs, with stirring music, calculated to affect the nervous system and bring about strange sensations. and when the feelings are aroused, when the excitement is up, the hearers are urged to come forward, to go to the inquiry-room, to stand up, or do something to show that they are ready to take the decisive step. now, as we have shown above, if ever a person needs to be calm and deliberate, it is when about to take the most important step of his whole life. but men don't generally take important steps, or enter upon decisive movements, when they are excited. when one is excited he is very apt to do the wrong thing, and regret it afterwards. not that we object to _all_ feeling in religion. we by no means believe in a religion without feeling. we know of no true piety without deep and heartfelt sorrow for sin, and earnest longings for ever closer union and fellowship with god, together with a childlike trust and a fervent love to him. we believe, however, that the heart, with its emotions, can only be effectively reached _through the understanding_. through the mind we work on the heart. through the judgment we change the feelings. we appeal first to the intellect, to instruct, to enlighten, to give clear and correct views and ideas, then through the intellect to the heart. when paul was sent to convert the gentiles, his direction was first of all "_to open their eyes_"--that is, to instruct them--and _then_ to "_turn them from darkness to light_." paul was not to begin on the feelings, but on the intellect. but the modern revival system reverses this method. it makes a short cut, and goes at once to the feelings, without first enlightening the mind. this is contrary, not only to the scriptures, but it is also directly contrary to the science and laws of the mind. it contradicts mental philosophy as well as the bible. we believe that where there is the proper instruction in the great saving doctrines of god's word, where the mind is properly enlightened to know what sin is, what salvation is, and how it is obtained, there, unless there is a positive and determined resistance to the power of truth, the proper feelings will come of their own accord. it will require no heart-rending stories, no frantic appeals, no violent exhortations to bring them about. but we object to the revival system, because it is almost entirely built up on feeling, and thus reaches only one department of man's complex nature. instead of changing the whole immaterial man--his intellect, his sensibilities, and his will--it spends its force on the sensibilities alone. our _ninth_ objection we can state briefly. because the revival system undervalues sound doctrine and instruction therein, and because it depends so largely on feeling, it not only permits but encourages the ignorant and inexperienced to assist in exhorting and helping those who are inquiring after life and salvation. those who have scarcely "got through" themselves, who have given little earnest study to god's way of salvation, who do not know the alphabet of grace, and the means and methods of grace,--these are often the pretended instructors at the anxious bench and in the meetings for inquirers. now, we object strongly to such procedures. "_can the blind lead the blind? will they not both fall in the ditch?_" better let these novices themselves sit at the feet of christ. let christ's teachers instruct them in god's way of salvation, before they undertake to lead other lost and groping ones. we object _finally_ that, at the experience meetings, held in connection with modern revivals, not only novices, as described above, but those who have been the veriest profligates, are encouraged to speak, and are at least permitted to recount and seemingly glory in their former sins. they do not speak as paul did, when compelled to refer to his former life, with deep sorrow and shame, but often jestingly, flippantly, and as if they imagined that they ought now to be looked upon and admired as great heroes. we believe that this is all wrong, and productive of great harm. the unconverted youth, listening to such talk, says to himself, "well, if such a person can so suddenly rise and be looked up to and made a teacher of others, a leader of the experience and prayer-meeting, certainly i need not be uneasy; for i have a long way to go before i get as far as he was." therefore, we object to all such conduct. it is not only unscriptural, but unbecoming. it is an offense against good breeding and common decency. it does great harm. but enough. we might still speak of the spirit of self-righteousness engendered and fostered by this system. we might speak of the sad results that follow with so many--how that persons become excited, have strange sensations and feelings, imagine that this is religion, afterwards find that they have the same old heart, no strength against sin, no peace of conscience, none of that bliss and joy they heard others speak of and expected for themselves, and how they gradually fall back into their old mode of life, become bolder than ever, and at last drift into hopeless unbelief, and say: "there is nothing in religion; i've tried it, and found it a delusion." thus is _their last state worse than their first_. we might show that in sections of country where this false system has held sway, worldliness and skepticism abound. these places have been aptly called "burnt districts." it seems next to impossible to make lasting impressions for good on such communities. we might speak of the proselyting spirit that so often accompanies this system. how with all its protestations for charity, brotherly love, and union, it often runs out into the meanest spirit of casting aspersions on others and stealing from their churches. we might speak of the divided churches that often result. as dr. krauth once forcibly said, "they are united to pieces, and revived to death." we might point to the divided households, to the destruction of family peace, to the many sad heart-burnings and alienations that result. but we forbear. the whole system is an invention of man. it is unscriptural from beginning to end. we cannot conceive of our blessed saviour or his apostles conducting a modern revival. the mind revolts at the idea. chapter xxvi. modern revivals, concluded. we have given a number of reasons for refusing to favor or adopt the modern revival system as a part of the way of salvation. we would now add the testimony of others, not only of our own communion, but also of other denominations. undoubtedly one of the greatest and most important of these religious movements was that one which swept over presbyterian and congregational churches of new england, new jersey, pennsylvania, and virginia, about the middle of the last century. it is generally known, and spoken of as "_the great awakening_." its leading spirits were such staunch and loyal calvinists as jonathan edwards, the tennents, blair, and others. in the matter of doctrinal preaching and instruction it was certainly very far in advance of the so-called revivals of the present day. and yet in many of its direct results it was anything but salutary. it was the principal cause of the division of the presbyterian church into old and new school. let us hear what some of the eminent theologians of these churches say of the results of "the great awakening:" dr. sereno e. dwight, the biographer of jonathan edwards, and one of his descendants, says: "it is deserving perhaps of inquiry, whether the subsequent slumbers of the american church for nearly seventy years may not be ascribed, in an important degree, to the fatal reaction of these unhappy measures." jonathan edwards, himself the most zealous and successful promoter of the whole movement, in 1750, when its fruits could be fairly tested, writes thus:--"multitudes of fair and high professors, in one place and another, have sadly backslidden; sinners are desperately hardened; experimental religion is more than ever out of credit with the far greater part, and the doctrines of grace and those principles in religion that do chiefly concern the power of godliness are far more than ever discarded. arminianism and pelagianism have made strange progress within a few years.... many professors are gone off to great lengths in enthusiasm and extravagance in their notions and practices. great contentions, separations, and confusions in our religious state prevail in many parts of the land." the above is from a letter to a friend in scotland. we give also a brief quotation from his farewell sermon to his church at nottingham: "another thing that vastly concerns your future prosperity is that you should watch against the encroachments of error, and particularly arminianism and doctrines of like tendency.... these doctrines at this day are much more prevalent than they were formerly. the progress they have made in the land within this seven years (_i.e._, since the revival), seems to have been vastly greater than at any time in the like space before. and they are still prevailing and creeping into almost all parts of the land, threatening the utter ruin of the credit of those doctrines which are the peculiar glory of the gospel and the interests of vital piety." dr. van rensselaer, in commenting on these and other serious words of the great jonathan edwards, says: "and what was the final result? arminianism led the way to socinianism, and near the beginning of the present century there was but a single orthodox congregational church in boston. harvard university had lapsed into heresy, and about a third of the churches of the puritans denied the faith held by their fathers." and all this he traces back to that "great awakening." he further says: "a work so great and extensive was accompanied by incidents which made many good men doubtful as to its effects on the church. special seasons of religious interest are seasons of danger and temptation even under the guidance of the most enlightened and prudent.... good men differ much in their estimate of the awakening, and the fruits of the work in many places afforded reason of much apprehension.... in its earlier stages the revival was unquestionably the occasion of the conversion of many souls. it was like one of those mighty rains of summer which refresh many a plant and tree, but which are accompanied, in many places, with hail and storm and overflowing desolation, and which are followed by a long, dreary drought. the presbyterian church welcomes fair revivals, sent by the holy spirit, but is averse to man-made schemes for getting up temporary excitements which have been so prevalent in our day." during the years between 1830-1850, another revival agitation swept over the american church. it was during this time, especially, that our english lutheran churches caught the contagion, introduced the "new measures," such as the "mourner's bench," protracted meetings, the admission of members without catechetical instruction, and many other novelties. in not a few places, so-called lutherans vied with the most fanatical sects in their wild extravagances. those who adhered to the time-honored method and spirit of conservative lutheranism, who preached the word in all its simplicity, catechised the young, taught that the spirit and grace of god can only be expected to operate through christ's own means, through word and sacrament, were denounced as formalists, who knew nothing of vital piety. among the leading advocates of the new way was the rev. reuben weiser. this now departed brother, with many other serious and thoughtful men, afterwards saw the error of his ways, and frankly and publicly confessed his change of conviction in the _lutheran observer_. he says: "in 1842 dr. j.w. nevin, of the german reformed church, published a pamphlet called 'the anxious bench.' it was, for that time, a bold and vigorous arraignment of the whole modern revival system. he warned the german churches against this style of religion, but his warning was not much heeded at the time. i felt it my duty to reply to dr. nevin in a pamphlet called "the mourners' bench." at that time i was in the midst of the most extensive revival of my whole ministry. i was honest and sincere in my views, for i had not seen many of the evils that were almost certain to follow in the wake of revivals as they were then conducted. personally, i respected and esteemed dr. nevin highly, but as he had opposed my cherished views, i felt it my duty to write against him. i said some things long since regretted, and now, after the lapse of nearly half a century, make this _amende honorable_. and it must be a source of pleasure to dr. nevin, who is still living, that the views which he so ably advocated in the face of much bitter opposition, have been generally adopted by nearly all the churches." dr. weiser proceeds: "many of our churches that fostered this system were in the end injured by it.... under the revival system it was very natural for the people to become dissatisfied with the ordinary means of grace. there was a constant longing for excitement, and when the ebullition of feeling abated, many thought they had 'lost their religion.' the next move was that as the preacher was so dead and lifeless they must get another who had more fire, and thus the old pastor was sent adrift." elsewhere dr. weiser has clearly expressed himself as having become firmly convinced that the old churchly method of careful and systematic instruction of the young, is the only sure and safe way of building up the church. he also quotes dr. morris as saying: "the mourners' bench was introduced into lutheran churches in imitation of the methodists, and disorders, such as shouting, clapping of hands, groaning, and singing of choruses of doggerel verses to the most frivolous tunes, whilst ministers or members, and sometimes women, were engaged in speaking to the mourners. feelings were aroused, as usual, by portraying the horrors of hell, reciting affecting stories, alluding to deaths in families, violent vociferation, and other means. at prayer often all would pray as loud as the leader. these exercises would continue night after night, until the physical energies were exhausted." dr. h.e. jacobs, in his preface to rev. g.h. trabert's tract on genuine versus spurious revivals, writes thus of the system: "this system, if system it may be called, is in many of its elements simply a reproduction of the romish errors against which our fathers bore testimony in the days of the reformation. wide as is the apparent difference, we find in both the same corruption of the doctrine of justification by faith alone without works, the same ignoring of the depths of natural depravity, the same exaltation of human strength and merit, the same figment of human preparation for god's grace, the same confounding of the fruits of faith with the conditions of faith, the same aversion to the careful study of god's word, the same indifference to sound doctrine, and the same substitution of subjective frames of mind and forms of experience for the great objective facts of christianity, as the grounds of god's favor. "in both cases, all spiritual strength, which is inseparable from complete dependence solely upon the word and promise of god, and not in any way upon human sensations and preparations, is either withheld, destroyed, or greatly hindered; and uncertainty and vacillation, despair, infidelity and ruin, often end the sad story of those who are thus left without any firm support amidst the trials of life, and under the strokes of god's judgments. "the same church which in the days of the reformation raised her voice against these errors, when she found the entire life of christianity endangered by them, can be silent in the present hour, when the same errors appear all around her, only by betraying her trust, and incurring the guilt of the faithless watchman who fails to give alarm." let us hear also the testimony of our late lamented dr. krauth. he says, as quoted by rev. trabert: "how often are the urging that we are all one, the holding of union meetings, the effusive rapture of all-forgiving, all-forgetting, all-embracing love, the preliminary to the meanest sectarian tricks, dividing congregations, tearing families to pieces, and luring away the unstable. the short millennium of such love is followed by the fresh loosing of the satan of malevolence out of his prison, and the clashing in battle of the gog and magog of sectarian rivalry. there is no surer preparation for bitter strife, heart-burnings, and hatred, than these pseudo unionistic combinations. one union revival has torn religious communities into hateful divisions which have never been healed.... and none have suffered so much, by these arts, as our lutheran people, who, free from guile themselves, did not suspect it in others. well might we ask with the 'apology:' 'are they not ashamed to talk in such terms of love, and preach love, and cry love, and do everything but practice love?'" in conclusion we wish to present the testimony of some of the most eminent divines of the methodist episcopal church. of all others they will certainly not be accused of being prejudiced against modern revivals. and of all modern revivals, those conducted by the evangelists, moody and sankey, are probably the least objectionable. at the close of the celebrated "hippodrome revival," in new york city, conducted by messrs moody and sankey, in the spring of 1876, the methodist episcopal ministers, at a stated meeting, reviewed the revival and its results. the new york _herald_ gave the following account of their meeting, which we copy from rev. trabert's tract: "the methodist ministers had under consideration the question of the value of special evangelistic efforts in regular church work, with particular reference to the number of hippodrome converts who may have united with their churches. for two weeks a member of the hippodrome committee had distributed cards to the preachers with the names of persons who declared themselves converts of mr. moody's meetings. four thousand had been reported as the fruits of the ten weeks special effort. ten thousand inquirers had been reported. "dr. robert crook took the ground that special evangelistic agencies are not necessary, and that the work is more permanent and successful when performed through the regular church channels. rev. j. selleck, of lexington avenue church, had sent about sixty of his members as singers and ushers, and had not only received not a single convert from that place into his church, but had been unable to gather in the members he gave them, who were still running here and there after sensations! rev. j.f. richmond had received a number of cards, and could report two or three converts who would unite with his church, but in connection with hope chapel he had not much success. he had gone to five places indicated on the cards as residences of converts, but could find none of them. this was his experience also with many others whom he had sought out. rev. john jones had received many cards, and had found out some direct frauds, and many others nearly so. he did discover eight persons converted at mr. moody's meetings, six of whom would unite with his church. rev. c.g. goss did not think any one effort or kind of effort was going to convert the world. we could not measure religious efforts by financial or numerical measurements. as to the general question, he had the history of ten city churches always known as revival churches. in 1869 they had reported one hundred probationers each. in 1870 they reported a net loss of five hundred, making, with the probationers reported, a _loss_ of fifteen hundred in one year, in ten churches. "bedford street church was an example of a revival church: st. paul's the opposite. the former reported, in twenty years, twenty-five hundred probationers. but the increase of her membership for that period was only one hundred and twenty-eight. he could not account for this. on the other hand, st. paul's reported four hundred and forty-eight probationers, for twenty-five years, and her increase in membership has been two hundred and eighty-six. this was to him an argument in favor of regular church work." chapter xxvii. true revivals. in the preceding pages we have seen that the church ought constantly to aim at keeping up such a state of spiritual life as to render revivals unnecessary. we have also admitted that, owing to human infirmity, carelessness, and neglect of a proper and prayerful use of the means of grace, the spiritual life will ofttimes languish in individuals, in families, in congregations and communities; and that, at such times, a spiritual awakening or refreshing is necessary. we have further shown, that the modern revival system is unscriptural and positively injurious in its consequences, and therefore cannot be regarded or adopted as a part of god's way of salvation. what then is to be done? a revival is really needed. what sort of a revival shall be longed for, prayed for, and labored for? in the first place, let there be a revival in each individual heart. let there be an earnest and prayerful return to the neglected word. let there be a devout reading and meditation of the law of god, an earnest, persevering searching of the heart and life in the light of that law, until there is a feeling of guilt and shame. then let there be a prayerful reading and re-reading of the penitential psalms, the seventh chapter of romans, the fifty-third of isaiah, the fifteenth of luke, the fifth and eighth of romans, and the epistles of john. along with this private use of the divine word, let there be a like prayerful public use. in case of perplexity and doubt, let there be an unburdening before the pastor, with a request for instruction and prayer. this process will bring about penitence for sin and faith in christ. let it continue to be a _daily dying unto sin, a daily living unto righteousness, a daily putting off the old man, a daily putting on the new man_--a daily repentance for sin, and a daily turning to and laying hold of christ. such a revival is scriptural and efficacious. it will not only put an end to the languor and deadness of the past, but it will preclude the necessity of future periodic excitements. along with this individual reviving, let there be an earnest praying and striving for a reviving of the whole congregation, a life that may abide. let every service in god's house be a revival service. let each worshiper be a mourner over his sins, each pew an anxious seat. to this end let the preaching of the word be plain and direct. let it be full of "_repentance towards god and faith in our lord jesus christ_." where hearts are not wilfully closed against such preaching of "_the truth as it is in jesus_," they will, through its power, become "_broken and contrite hearts_," from which will arise earnest pleadings for forgiveness and acceptance. faith will come and grow by hearing, and hearing by the word of god. where the word is truly preached and rightly heard, there will be a constant and scriptural revival. each service will be "_a time of refreshing from the presence of the lord_." in addition to the regular weekly service, the church also has her stated communion seasons. these, if rightly improved by pastor and people, can be made still richer seasons of grace. in our lutheran church, with her deep, significant and inspiring doctrine of this holy sacrament, with her solemn and searching preparatory service, every such season ought to be a time of refreshing. what an auspicious opportunity is here offered for special sermons to precede the holy communion, for recalling the wanderer, awaking the drowsy, stirring up the languid, instructing the inquiring, and establishing the doubting! what pastor, who has a christ-like interest in the spiritual welfare of his people, and who has used his communion seasons to this end, has not often realized that they are indeed _times of refreshing from the lord_? these communion seasons become still more effective and valuable when they come, as they generally do in our lutheran church, in connection with our great church festivals. our church has wisely held on to these great historic feasts. they have from the earliest times been the church's true revival seasons. church historians inform us that during the age immediately succeeding the time of the apostles, when the church was still comparatively pure and fervently devout, these festival seasons were the real high-days, the crowning days of the year. on these occasions the word was preached with more than ordinary power, and the sacraments were dispensed with unusual solemnity. then the churches were filled to overflowing. a solemn stillness reigned over city and country. worldly cares and pleasures were laid aside, and the great saving facts of the gospel then commemorated were the all-absorbing theme. at such times, even the worldly and careless felt an almost irresistible impulse to follow the happy christian to the house of god. multitudes of sinners were converted and gathered into the church of jesus christ, while saints were strengthened and built up in their holy faith. thus these festival communion seasons were true revival seasons. and why should it not be so still? what can be more inspiring and impressive than these great facts which our church festivals commemorate? if the solemn warnings of the advent season, the glad tidings of the christmas season, the touching and searching lessons of the lenten season, the holy, inspiring joyousness of the easter season, or the instructive admonitions of the pentecostal season, will not attract and move and edify the hearts of men, what will? what has the radical part of the church gained by setting aside these seasons, hallowed by the use of christ, his apostles and martyrs, the church fathers and reformers? is the modern revival system and the week of prayer arrangement an improvement? can any modern self-appointed committee get up a better and more effective program than our historic passion week services, crowned with its easter communion? assuredly no! there can be no new "program," however broad or spicy, that can be adapted to bless the saint and sinner, like our old order, following the dear saviour, step by step, on his weary way to the cross and tomb, and thus preaching christ crucified for, at least, one whole week in a year. though there may be progressive greeks to-day to whom this preaching of christ crucified is "_foolishness_," or materialistic jews to whom it is "_a stumbling-block_," we know it is still _the power of god and the wisdom of god to all who believe_. we know that there can be nothing so truly promotive of genuine piety, so well adapted for the conversion of sinners and the sanctifying of believers, as this preaching of the cross. we do not wonder, therefore, that, after a comparatively short experience in the new way, earnest voices are raised, in quarters, whence a few years ago came nothing but ridicule of lenten services, pleading for the old historic passion week, instead of the new week of prayer. not that we object to a week of prayer. we only object to the substitution of this modern week, with its diversified program, for the old week with its bible passion lessons. thus then we see that there is abundant provision and opportunity for special seasons of awakening and refreshing, by following the regular church year. we would not, however, claim that, in the present state of affairs, on account of a lack of proper understanding and churchliness and because of the unconscious influence of popular notions, there is no need, occasion, and opportunity for still more marked and general awakenings. the word of god speaks of "_times of visitation_," "_times of refreshing_," an "_accepted time_," a "_day of salvation_," "_thy day_," etc. there are times and seasons when the good lord draws especially near to sinners to convert and save them; times when his spirit manifests himself more fully in the church than at other times. in his own wise providence he brings about and prepares the church for such time. thus, when, from causes noted above, the church grows cold and languid, he sends afflictions of various kinds. people are made to realize the uncertainty and unsatisfactoriness of the affairs of this life. by losses, diseases, bereavements, or bitter disappointments, god seeks to wean them from their worldly idols. he brings them to reflection. they "_come to themselves_." they are ready to recall and hear the father's voice. they are willing to hear the long neglected word. they go to the house of god. they listen eagerly. the word finds free course. there is no wilful resistance. _it drops as the rain and distils as the dew. it does not return void._ if now the pastors and people _know_ this "time of visitation," if they realize that it is a "time of refreshing _from the lord_," not gotten up by human expedients, they will quickly respond to these gracious indications. whether such times come in connection with the communion and festival seasons or not, special provision ought to be made to gather the quickly ripening harvest. it is sometimes well to make provision for special services. there may be a series of special sermons. the preaching must be, above all things, _instructive_, a plain and direct setting forth of the way of salvation. the appeal must be first of all to the understanding, and through it to the heart. the exhortations and invitations must be based on and grow out of these instructions. the great themes of sin and grace, and the application and reception of grace, should be set forth with all possible simplicity and earnestness. this preaching of the gospel and instruction in the way of life should not be confined to the pulpit. the wise pastor will give opportunity for all inquirers to meet him privately, or will seek them out to tell them the way of god, as it relates to each individual case, still more plainly. this will be a true revival. only let the churches discern and use the times, when "_jesus of nazareth passeth by_." every faithful, earnest pastor, if he cannot always have living, earnest and consecrated churches, can have such seasons of refreshing from the presence of the lord. every such pastor in looking back over a reasonable period of service can point to such precious seasons in his ministry. such seasons result in a growth of true church life. the means of grace, after such revivals, are more diligently and more prayerfully used than before. the word of god and prayer take their proper place in the home. the church in the house is quickened into life and activity. there is increased liberality in the congregation. the pocket book is converted as well as the heart. there is a revival of strict honesty and truthfulness in all business affairs. all tricks of trade, deceptions, imposing on ignorance, short weights and measures, adulterations, making money by betting, taking or giving chances of any kind, everything in fact that is _questionable_, if not openly dishonest, is abolished. worldly companionship, questionable amusements, pleasures that draw the heart away from god, are avoided. religion is not only a sunday garment, but a living force that shows itself in every department of life. the world _takes knowledge_ of true converts that they _have been with jesus and learned of him_. such are the results of a true revival. in such we believe. chapter xxviii. conclusion. with this chapter we conclude our studies of the way of salvation. they have been extended much beyond our original purpose. as we remarked in the beginning, we have written for plain people; for those who, surrounded by all forms and varieties of belief and unbelief, are often attacked, questioned and perplexed as to their faith, and their reasons for holding it. our object has been to assist our unpretentious people always to be ready to give an answer to those who ask a reason for the hope that is in them. we also remarked in the beginning that there often come to our people arrogant and self-righteous persons, who say "the lutheran church has no religion," that it "does not bring its members into the light," and does not "believe in or insist on personal salvation." unfortunately there are only too many lutherans who do not know how to answer such bold and baseless assertions. sometimes they apologize for being lutherans, and timidly hope that they may find salvation in their own church! many also have been persuaded to abandon the church and faith of their fathers to find more light and religion elsewhere. after having been wrought upon and strangely affected by human and unscriptural methods, after they have experienced some new sensations, they proclaim to the world that now they have found the light which they could never find in the lutheran church! and thus not a few of our simple-minded and unreflecting people are led to depart from the faith and follow strange delusions. our people need to be better informed about their own church. when they come to understand what that church is, and what she teaches, they will be "_no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of man and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive_." it is to assist them to such an understanding and appreciation of the truth as it is in jesus, and is confessed by our church, that we have written these pages. if they have strengthened any who are weak in the faith, removed any doubts and perplexities, established any who wavered and made any love the church and her great head more, we are more than repaid. whatever may have been the effect of reading these chapters, the writing of them has made the church of the reformation, her faith and practices, more precious than ever to the writer. he has become more and more convinced that what rome stigmatized as "lutheranism" is nothing else than the pure and simple gospel of our lord and saviour jesus christ. let us take a rapid backward glance. we see that the lutheran church grasps fully and accepts unreservedly the whole sad and unwelcome doctrine of _sin_. she believes all that is written as to the deep-going and far-reaching consequences of sin--that every soul comes into this world infected with this fearful malady, and, therefore, unfit for the kingdom of god, and under condemnation. she believes therefore that every human being, down to the youngest infant, must have its nature changed before it can be saved. the necessity of this change is absolute and without exception. in the very beginning, therefore, we see that no church places the necessity of personal renewal and salvation on higher ground than does the lutheran church. she believes that our blessed saviour has appointed a means, a channel, a vehicle, by and through which his holy spirit conveys renewing grace to the heart of the tender infant, and makes it a lamb of his flock. she believes that where christ's sacrament of holy baptism--which is the means referred to--does not reach a child, his spirit can and will reach and renew it in some way not made known to us. she believes that the beginning of the new life in a child is a spiritual _birth_; that this young and feeble life needs nourishment and fostering care for its healthy development; that it is the duty of christian parents to see to this; that the sunday-school and catechetical class are helps offered to the parents by the church. she believes that by this nourishing of the divine life in the family and church, "_with the sincere milk of god's word_," the baptismal covenant can be kept unbroken, and the divine life developed and increased more and more. after careful instruction in the home and church, if there is due evidence that there is grace in the heart, that penitence and faith, which are the elements of the new life, are really present, she admits her children to the communion of the body and blood of christ, by the beautiful and significant rite of confirmation. the scriptural doctrine of christ's holy sacrament, which our church holds and sets forth, and the solemn, searching preparatory service which she connects with it, make it truly calculated to strengthen the child of god, and unite him closer to christ. our church insists that the whole life of the believer, in the fellowship of the saviour and his people, is to be a "growth in grace and in knowledge." in this, also the believer is wonderfully assisted by our teachings concerning the efficacy of the word of god as a means of grace, a vehicle and instrument of the holy spirit. he is further comforted and quickened by that precious doctrine of justification--alone by faith in jesus christ. he is encouraged to press forward to the mark, to purify himself more and more, to become more and more active, earnest and consecrated by what the church teaches of sanctification. nor does the church overlook or forget the sad fact that many--often through the fault of those who ought to be their spiritual guides in the home and church--lapse from their baptismal covenant, or forget their confirmation vows, and thus fall back into an unconverted state. she insists on the absolute necessity of conversion or turning back, for all such. she does not, however, expend all her energies in proclaiming its necessity, but also sets forth and makes plain the nature of conversion, and the means and methods of bringing it about. while the church would, first of all, use every endeavor to preclude the necessity of conversion, by bringing the children to jesus that he may receive and bless them through his own sacrament; and while she would use all diligence and watchfulness to keep them true to christ in their baptismal covenant, yet, when they do fall away, she solemnly assures them that except they repent and be converted, they will eternally perish. and if this lamentable backsliding should take place more or less with a large portion of a congregation, our church prays and labors for a revival. while she repudiates and abhors all that is unscriptural, and therefore dangerous, in the modern revival system, she yet appreciates and gives thanks for every "_time of refreshing from the lord_." yes, the lutheran church does believe in salvation, in the absolute necessity of its personal application, and in eternal perdition to every one who will not come to god in the only way of salvation--through jesus christ. and thus the lutheran system is a _complete_ system. it takes in _everything_ revealed in the word. it teaches to observe _all_ things that christ has commanded. it declares the _whole_ counsel of god. the lutheran church believes in a _way_ of being saved. she has a positive _system_ of faith. her system of the doctrines and methods of grace is a complete, a consistent, a simple, an attractive one. it avoids the contradictions and difficulties of other ways and systems. it is thoroughly loyal to god's word. where it differs from other systems and faiths, it is because it abides by and bows to what is written, while others depart from and change the record to suit their reasons. it gives all the glory of salvation to god. it throws all the responsibility of being saved on man. it is indeed the highway of the lord, where the redeemed can walk in safety and in joy. it is the old path, the good way wherein men can find rest unto their souls. it is the way trodden by patriarchs, prophets, and ancient servants of god. it is the way of the apostles, and martyrs, and confessors of the early church--the way that became obscured and almost hidden during the dark ages. it is the way for the bringing to light and re-opening of which god raised up martin luther. yes, the nominally christian church had largely lost that way. god wanted to put her right again. for this purpose he raised up the great reformer. is it not reasonable to believe that he would lead him and guide him and enlighten him to know and point out this way aright? if the lutheran reformation was a work of god, does it need constant improvements and repetitions? no! we believe that god led luther aright, that the way of salvation to which he recalled the church through him is the divine way. millions have walked in it since his day, and found it a good, safe, and happy way. no one who has ever left it for another way has gained thereby. to abandon the lutheran church for another is to exchange a system that is based on sound and well-established principles of interpretation, logical, consistent, thoroughly scriptural, and therefore changeless in the midst of changes, for one without fixed principles of interpretation, only partially loyal to the inspired record, more or less inconsistent, uncertain, shifting and changing with the whims or notions of a fickle age. it is to exchange a faith that satisfies, brings peace, and manifests itself in a child-like, cheerful, joyous trust in an ever-living and ever-present redeemer, for one that ofttimes perplexes, raises doubts, and is more or less moody and gloomy. a faith that is built either on uncertain and ever-varying experience or on an inexorable and loveless decree, cannot be as steadfast and joyous as one that rests implicitly in a redeemer, who _tasted death for every man_. we conclude with the eloquent words of dr. seiss: "we do not say that none but lutherans in name and profession can be saved. but we do assert that if salvation cannot be attained in the lutheran church, or the highway of eternal life cannot be found in her, there is no such thing as salvation. there is no god but the god she confesses. there is no sacred scripture which she does not receive and teach. there is no christ but the christ of her confession, hope and trust. there are no means of grace ordained of god, but those which she uses, and insists on having used. there are no promises and conditions of divine acceptance, but those which she puts before men for their comfort. and there is no other true ministry, church, or faith, than that which she acknowledges and holds." the lutheran church. my church! my church! my dear old church! my fathers' and my own! on prophets and apostles built, and christ the corner-stone! all else beside, by storm or tide may yet be overthrown; but not my church, my dear old church, my fathers' and my own! my church! my church! my dear old church! my glory and my pride! firm in the faith immanuel taught, she holds no faith beside. upon this rock, 'gainst every shock, though gates of hell assail, she stands secure, with promise sure, "they never shall prevail." my church! my church! my dear old church! i love her ancient name; and god forbid a child of hers should ever do her shame! her mother-care i'll ever share, her child i am alone, till he who gave me to her arms shall call me to his own. my church! my church! my dear old church! i've heard the tale of blood, of hearts that loved her to the death- the great, the wise, the good. our martyred sires defied the fires for christ the crucified; the once-delivered faith to keep they burned, they bled, they died. my church! my church! i love my church, for she exalts my lord; she speaks, she breathes, she teaches not but from his written word; and if her voice bids me rejoice, from all my sins released, 'tis through th' atoning sacrifice, and jesus is the priest. my church! my church! i love my church, for she doth lead me on to zion's palace beautiful, where christ my lord hath gone. from all below she bids me go to him, the life, the way, the truth to guide my erring feet from darkness into day. then here, my church! my dear old church! thy child would add a vow to that whose token once was signed upon his infant brow: assault who may, kiss and betray, dishonor and disown, my church shall yet be dear to me, my fathers' and my own! god's plan with men by t. t. martin, evangelist "for every sentence, clause and word, that's not inlaid with thee, my lord, forgive me, god! and blot each line out of my book that is not thine. but if, 'mongst all, thou find'st here one worthy thy benediction, that one of all the rest shall be the glory of my work and me." new york chicago toronto fleming h. revell company london and edinburgh copyright, 1912, by fleming h. revell company new york: 158 fifth avenue chicago: 17 n. wabash ave. toronto: 25 richmond st., w. london: 21 paternoster square edinburgh: 100 princes street preface not new truths, but old truths properly emphasized, is one of the great needs of our times and of all times. the object of this book is not to start something new, but to specially emphasize some old truths and their relations to each other. the aim of the book is to help two classes: those who are seeking to be saved, and those who are already saved; the one, by showing simply and plainly god's way of salvation; the other, by showing simply god's way of dealing with men after they are saved. the author hopes, moreover, that the book may be of some special help to honest sceptics. for this purpose, the introduction is addressed to them; and the hope is cherished that chapter i will aid in disarming prejudice against god and the bible; for while the bible's teaching of degrees of punishment in hell does not detract from the horrors of future punishment, but rather adds thereto, it effectually does away with the charge of the injustice of future punishment. the enquirer and young convert may omit the parts marked "for further study" at the close of each chapter and not lose connection. these are added for bible students who wish to go further into the subject treated. and now, the author lays the book at the master's feet and prays his blessings upon it, that it may be a blessing to those who read it. t. t. martin. blue mountain, miss. contents i. sin and its punishment--god's justice--degrees in hell 17 ii. sins not excused, nor the penalty ever remitted without redemption 32 iii. jesus the christ as sin-bearer--god's justice and love 38 iv. the new relation--the new motive 60 v. the sins of god's children--forgiveness--chastisements 86 vi. rewards--degrees in heaven 101 vii. how to be saved--repentance and faith 125 viii. the meaning of "believe on" or "believe in" christ 135 ix. eternal life the present possession of the believer 158 x. development of character in the redeemed 175 introduction "come now and let us _reason together_, saith the lord."--isaiah. "if any man willeth to do his will, _he shall know_ of the teaching, whether it is of god, or whether i speak from my self."--jesus. "and ye shall seek me and find me _when ye shall search for me with all your heart_."--jeremiah. "then _shall we know_ if we follow on to know the lord."--hosea. this work is not written for sceptics; yet while preparing to write for the benefit of others than sceptics, the author's heart has gone out toward that large class of his fellow-men who are sceptical; who, from different causes, have been led to doubt or deny the bible's being a revelation from god; and he has yearned to say something that would at least arouse the attention of this class sufficiently to cause them to give an earnest investigation, or re-investigation, to the question. the _bare possibilities_ that there is a hell and a heaven, that the soul can never cease to exist, and that jesus is the real saviour, are enough to cause every doubting one to give the most earnest consideration to any evidence bearing on these questions, and to undertake the most careful investigation of anything that promises to lead to certainty. it will be admitted by every honest disbeliever that no writer has ever made it _certain_ that there is no future existence; that there is no heaven; that there is no hell; that jesus was not the saviour. the most that such writers have been able to produce is doubts. if, now, there is _the possibility_ of reaching _certainty_ on the other side, surely the reader should be willing and anxious to undertake a calm, searching examination, or re-examination, of the question. if there is no heaven or hell, no future existence, no one will ever find it out, before or after death; and there would be but little, if anything, gained if one could find it out. but if there is a heaven and a hell, and jesus is the saviour, then there is everything to be gained by finding it out and everything to be lost by neglecting to find it out. so important are the issues at stake that you, reader, should be willing to take years, if need be, to make a thorough investigation of the matter; you should be willing to read and study many books, and there are many that would help you; but i wish to urge you to read _two books only_, before reading this book. surely your eternal destiny and the destinies of those over whom you have an influence (for "none of us liveth to himself") are enough to cause you to give earnest attention to the reading of three small books. the bare possibility that the reading of the three books may lead to your making sure of heaven as your eternal home, is enough to prompt you to read them and to read them most carefully and prayerfully. the first is "the wonders of prophecy," by john urquhart. the second is "the philosophy of the plan of salvation," by j. b. walker (american edition). having read these two books prayerfully and carefully, then give this book a careful reading. but let the reader consider god's plan for investigating. it is often said by a certain class of sceptics that the bible is against honest investigation, that it shuts off the use of one's reason. let the word of god speak for itself, "come now and let us _reason_ together, saith the lord."--is. 1:18. the trouble with many sceptics is that they are not willing to "reason _together_," to reason to get with god, but that they reason _against_ god and to _get away from god_. jesus said, "take heed _how_ ye hear." watch your heart's attitude when you hear. the attitude of being against god will warp your reasoning when you hear. god's promise is plain to the earnest, honest seeker after god. "and ye shall seek me and find me when ye shall search for me _with all your heart_."--jer. 29:13. one who is half-hearted, indifferent, prejudiced against god or against truth, has no right to expect to find god or to find truth. but the promise is positive that the one who seeks with all the heart shall find. let the reader put god to the test. how can an earnest, honest man refuse to make an earnest, honest investigation? it was against those who would not make such an investigation that jesus spoke, matt. 12:42, "the queen of the south shall rise up in the judgement with this generation and shall condemn it: for she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of solomon; and behold a greater than solomon is here." the heathen woman who went to so much trouble and expense, and took so much time to make a thorough, honest investigation for the truth, will condemn those who do not make an earnest persevering investigation; "and behold a greater than solomon is here," with his promise, "if any man willeth to do his will _he shall know_." reader, will you carelessly refuse to take the time and to go to the trouble and expense of getting and reading earnestly _two books_ that _may_ lead you to the truth? oh, reader, outstrip the heathen queen in search of light. give your life-time, if need be, to an earnest investigation of this matter. picture two men, one giving his life-time to earnest, honest, searching for the truth concerning sin and salvation through christ; the other, from indifference, or pride, or prejudice, or love of the world, or secret sin, never making an earnest, honest investigation; the one dying and going to heaven; the other dying and going to hell. which shall it be in your case, reader? there is absolutely no uncertainty as to the result _if only_ you will be honest, and earnest and persevering in your search for the truth. listen to jesus: john 7:17, "if any man _willeth_ to do his will, he _shall know_ of the teaching, whether it is of god, or whether i speak from myself." whether you, reader, are ignorant or learned cuts absolutely no figure in this case. jesus throws the assurance open to _any man_. the one condition is if he "_willeth to do his will_." no man wills to do god's will who will not go to the extreme of earnest, honest, prayerful investigation. if you do, then the veracity, the very character, of jesus is at stake. consider, then, reader, the awful responsibility that rests upon you, if you do not give attention to a thorough, earnest, honest, prayerful investigation for the truth. another promise of equal certainty comes from the old testament: hosea 6:3, "then shall we know if we follow on to know the lord." many make a slight search and cease. the promise is not to them, but to those who persevere. if we use the light as we receive it, and follow it up, _we shall know_. again certainty is promised. does not god, because he is god, deserve such earnest consideration from you, reader? have you any right to expect anything from him if you approach him in a half-hearted, indifferent way? the following cases in point may encourage the reader: two learned men decided to prove that the bible was not from god, and that jesus christ was not the saviour; but they were in earnest and they were honest. they had vast libraries at their service. they gave months to investigation. they were both convinced and accepted the saviour and wrote their books in defence of the bible, instead of against it. second, one of the greatest scholars of europe, probably the greatest, stated in a public lecture in america, that, of the thirty leading sceptics of the nineteenth century, men who had written brilliant books in their young manhood against the bible, he knew twenty-eight in their old age, and that every one of the twenty-eight, after mature investigation, had accepted the lord jesus as saviour. again, in one of the prominent smaller cities of america, a club of sceptics, leading business and professional men, had held weekly meetings for many years. they challenged any one to meet one of their widely known lecturers in a public debate on christianity and infidelity. a preacher accepted the challenge. during the debate some of the sceptics became christians. the president of the debate, a sceptic, is now an earnest follower of the lord jesus, having been convinced and having accepted him as saviour. the debate was held years ago. so convincing, so overwhelming, was the evidence produced by the defender of christianity, that the club of sceptics has never held a meeting since the debate. similar facts could be produced indefinitely, but these three are sufficient to show the most discouraged, the most hopeless sceptical reader, that there is at least a possibility of his yet finding the truth. is not a bare possibility, where there are so tremendously important eternal issues at stake, sufficient to cause him to at once begin a thorough, prayerful, honest investigation? a reflection before closing the introduction: one hundred years from now, and you, reader, will not be among the living. where will you be? god has given you a will and the power of choice. will you will, will you choose, to make an honest, persistent investigation? tremendous consequences turn on your decision,--your own future destiny, the destinies of others over whom you have an influence. do not dally with delay. begin now an honest, earnest, painstaking, prayerful investigation. get and read the two books suggested, and then finish reading this book. if this course does not settle your difficulties, read on, study on, pray on, and god's promise is sure, that you shall find, that you "shall know"! _for further study_: a brief list is here given of books that will be helpful to sceptical readers: "why is christianity true?" by e. y. mullins. (one of the most learned presbyterian theological professors in america, asked to give the names of six of the best books to convince sceptics, replied, "i shall not do it; i shall give one,--'why is christianity true?' by president mullins of the southern baptist theological seminary; that is sufficient"); "the fact of christ," by simpson; "the meaning and message of the cross," by h. c. mabie; "the resurrection of our lord," by w. milligan; "many infallible proofs," by a. t. pierson; "the cause and cure of infidelity," by nelson; "the word and works of god," by bailey; "the character of jesus," by bushnell; "hours with a sceptic," by faunce; "the miracles of unbelief," by ballard; "creation," by arnold guyot; "the collapse of evolution," by townsend; "the problem of the old testament," by james orr; "did jesus rise?" by j. h. brookes; "reasons for faith in christianity," by leavitt; "the gospel of john;" "the young professor," by e. b. hatcher; "the resurrection of jesus," by james orr. i sin and its punishment--god's justice--degrees in hell "all have _sinned_."--rom. 3:23. "every transgression and disobedience received a _just_ recompense of reward."--heb. 2:2. "a _just_ god."--is. 45:21. "it shall be _more tolerable_ for the land of sodom in the day of judgement, than for thee."--matt. 11:24. reader, what you and i need to know concerning god's plan with the sinner, the lost, is not what some people think, nor what some teach, nor what some desire; but what god teaches. god is _just_. fasten that in your mind; never lose sight of it. over and over again is this fact impressed in the scriptures. yet lurking in the minds of multitudes is a vague suspicion or dread that god will be unjust in sending some to hell, and that he will be unjust in the way he will punish. many who are thus disturbed lose sight of the fact that god is just; that whatever god does in regard to the lost, one thing is certain,--_he will do no injustice_. with my loved ones, with your loved ones, with the most obscure, worthless creature, with the most refined, delicate nature, with the most cruel, debased creature that ever lived, god will do no wrong. many have turned away to infidelity, not on account of the bible's complete teaching as to future punishment, but because they have taken some one passage of scripture and warped it or gotten from it a distorted idea of the bible's teachings as to hell; or they have taken some preacher's views as to the bible's teachings on the subject. for example, here is a boy fifteen years of age, whose mother died when he was an infant, whose father is a drunkard and gambler and infidel, who has given the boy but little moral training; and here is a man seventy years of age who had a noble father and mother, who gave their boy every advantage, the best of training, under the best of influences; yet he when a boy turned away from all these influences and spent his life in sin and debauchery, and in leading others into sin. these two, the unfortunate boy and the old hardened sinner, die. with many the idea is that god consigns them to a common punishment in hell. but, reader, remember that _god is just_; and if that is justice, what would injustice be? they were different in light and in opportunity and in sins, and yet punished alike? _the bible does not teach it._ but let us go back and consider this question of sin. "all have sinned." that includes you, reader. "to him that knoweth to do good and doeth it not, to him it is sin."--james 4:17. all have done this, have failed to live up to the light they have had; hence, "all have sinned." two questions arise: first, ought sin to be punished? second, ought all sin to be punished, or only the coarser, grosser, more offensive sins? as to the first, ought sin to be punished? there is a strong drift toward the teaching that sin ought to be punished only for the purpose of reforming the sinner. intelligent men endorse this teaching without realizing that it is spiritual anarchy and absolutely horrible and detestable. a woman and four little children are murdered in cold blood by three robbers for the purpose of robbing the home. when the three are arrested, the first is found to be thoroughly penitent, thoroughly reformed, broken-hearted, over his horrible crime. if sin should be punished only to reform the sinner, this man should not be punished at all, though he murdered five people in cold blood; for he is already reformed. the second is such a hardened criminal that he never can be reformed, and the more he is punished the more hardened he will become. then if sin is punished only to reform the sinner, he should not be punished at all, though guilty of the murder of five people in cold blood. the third is tender-hearted and easily influenced, and by sending him to prison for thirty days, he will be thoroughly reformed, though guilty of five cold-blooded murders. on this principle of punishing sin only to reform the sinner, all a sinner would have to do to make sure of heaven would be to become such a hardened sinner that he could never be reformed, and then he would go to heaven without any punishment at all. people need to call a halt and realize that sin ought to be punished because it is right to punish it, because it is just. but this means the punishment of all sins, the sins of the refined as surely as the sins of the debased, the smaller sins as surely as the greater sins. hence the teaching of god's word, rom. 1:18, "the wrath of god[1] is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men," but we need to keep in mind that it is discriminating wrath, and god's word makes this plain, heb. 2:2, "every transgression and disobedience received a _just recompense of reward_." "a just god."--is. 45:21. [1] many sneer at a "god of wrath" and say they believe in a "god of all love." god is love, but he is just as surely a god of wrath; and were he not a god of wrath, he would not be god, but a fiend. he who loves purity and chastity and has no wrath against impurity and unchastity, but loves them, too, is a moral leper. he who loves the defence of the poor and the helpless, but has no wrath against the cold-blooded murderer, the one crushing the defenceless, but loves him, too, is a fiend. character, from god to devil, can only be told by what one loves and what one hates. notice how clearly the saviour teaches this same great truth, matt. 11:20-24, "then began he to upbraid the cities wherein most of his mighty works were done, because they repented not. woe unto thee, chorazin! woe unto thee, bethsaida! for if the mighty works had been done in tyre and sidon which were done in you, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. but i say unto you, _it shall be more tolerable_ for tyre and sidon in the day of judgement than for you. and thou, capernaum, which art exalted to heaven, shalt be brought down to hell: for if the mighty works which have been done in thee had been done in sodom, it would have remained until this day. but i say unto you that _it shall be more tolerable_ for the land of sodom in the day of judgement, than for thee." notice, "more tolerable," difference in punishment. the same teaching jesus gives in mark 12:40. "these shall receive _greater condemnation_" jesus revealed to pilate god's judgment of a difference in sin, john 19:11, "he that delivered me unto thee hath the _greater sin_." and paul teaches the same, gal. 6:7, "whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap," the reaping according to the sowing. let the reader notice the clear teaching: the punishment of sin will be graded, first, according to light and opportunity. a writer, a great scientist, held that heredity and environment largely determine one's destiny. that is what jesus taught. the people of sodom were more wicked than those of capernaum; but heredity and environment were against them. the people of capernaum had not sinned so terribly as the people of sodom, but they had more light and opportunity; they had better heredity, better environment; jesus says that therefore the people of capernaum shall be punished more severely than the people of sodom. and that is right; that is just. those to whom jesus spoke were born under better conditions than those of sodom; they grew up under more favorable surroundings; hence, they were more responsible; hence, they are to receive greater punishment at the judgment. apply to your own case, reader: for every added ray of light, for every added opportunity, there will be that much added punishment for your sins. and that is just; that is right. the opportunities that wealth brings, the light that education and culture bring, will but add to the punishment at the judgment. the most highly educated, the most refined, the most wealthy, those who have lived under the most favorable influences, will suffer most at the judgment. but punishment will be further graded by the number of the sins,--"_every_ transgression received a just recompense." hence, the more one sins, the greater the punishment. if one knew that he was going to hell, corrupt human nature would say, "sin and enjoy while you live," but reason and scripture would say, "stop! add no more to the degree of hell." punishment for sin will be further graded by the character of the sin. "he that betrayed me to thee hath the greater sin." while a small sin is just as surely sin as a great sin, yet god recognizes degrees in sin, and as a consequence, there are degrees in the punishment of sin. following from degrees in the punishment of sin comes inevitably the fact that no wrong will be done any one at the judgment; that no one will be treated wrong in hell. _he who fears only injustice and wrong, has nothing to fear from the judgment or in hell._ two reflections for the reader:--if you have heretofore rebelled against the idea of future punishment, what can you say when now you see that god will make all just allowance for surroundings and conditions, and will take into consideration the number and kinds of sins? god has a right to have laws; his laws are right; a law without a penalty amounts to no law; the penalty, god assures us, will be absolutely just. _what can you say when you stand before such a judge and receive such a sentence?_ the other reflection for the reader: let not this teaching of the bible lead you into thinking that hell, then, will not be so terrible after all, and that you need not fear it. instead of letting it allay all dread of the future, it is enough to make the blood run cold through your veins; for those who will have the most terrible suffering will be the most enlightened, the most cultured. another thought: not some far distant, cold, harsh, unsympathetic god will be the judge at the judgment day, but the lord jesus, "touched with the feeling of our infirmities," will be the one who will judge you and condemn you and give you your just degree of punishment in hell. hear him: john 5:22, "neither doth the father judge any man, but he hath given all judgement to the son." peter reveals the same fact, acts 10:42, "he commanded us to preach unto the people, and to testify that this is he who hath been ordained of god to be the judge of living and dead." remember, that he whom the world praises as so good, so just, so discriminating, so loving, so tender, will be the judge at the great day, who will pronounce each sentence. oh, reader, the very fact that the lord jesus will be the judge is absolute proof that no one will be treated wrong, that no one will be punished unjustly in hell; and the bare possibility that he may pronounce your eternal doom is enough to cause you to turn to-day. "turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?" _for further study_: the fear of abraham is the fear of the human race, gen. 18:25, "shall not the judge of all the earth do right?" as soon as god revealed to abraham that he was going to deal with sodom and gomorrah because of their sin, abraham at once suspects that god may do wrong in punishing sin. it has been so down the ages, that we suspect that god will do wrong in punishing sin. great denominations have been formed to keep god from doing wrong in punishing sin. men have proven untrue to their denominations and turned traitors to god's word, because they have, abraham-like, suspected god of wrongdoing in the punishment of sin. it is not that the proof is not ample that the bible is god's word, _but the hatred of the human heart for the bible teaching about hell_, that has brought in so much of modern religious vagaries and new theology and higher criticism. as abraham presses his plea for god to do right, god by degrees reveals himself as a god who will do right. it must have been a marvellous revelation to abraham. and so god's plan for the punishment of sin will be to the honest seeker for truth when he perceives the real teaching of god's word. as god's doing right with sodom and gomorrah went far beyond where abraham's sense of right halted; so god's doing right with sinners in hell will go far beyond what we would ask. but there are other objectors to hell. they began by pressing the teaching of god's mercy without any reference to his justice; and in order to get rid of the teaching as to hell, which they thought unjust, they rejected the scriptures as god's word; and finally ended in rejecting the teaching that "christ died for our sins" (1 cor. 15:3); that he "his own self bare our sins in his own body upon the tree" (1 peter 2:24). as a result of their fighting against god's punishing sin, they have become so blinded as to right principle, and so morally corrupt, as to be supported in pulpits, college professorships and seminary professorships by the hard-earned money of earnest believers in god's word, while they are undermining the faith of the children of their supporters. the heaven that such men teach is the hell of the bible. rejecting complete redemption through christ dying for our sins as our substitute, they teach salvation by character, or that one's destiny beyond the grave will be according to the way he has lived here. that is their heaven, but that is the bible's hell, exactly, absolutely. infidelity, judaism, christian science, universalism, unitarianism, higher criticism, new theology and all who reject christ dying for our sins, as our substitute, as our complete redeemer, because of their hatred of god's punishing sinners in hell, have made their heaven to be the result of their life here on earth; and as a consequence, have made their heaven the bible's hell; for hell will be exactly the result of the life here on earth; and, as a result, they have in theory, and, alas! will have in fact, the bible's hell which they label heaven, without any real heaven at all. as an example, consider mr. r. g. ingersoll's words, "i believe in the gospel of justice, that we must reap what we sow (bible's hell without any heaven). i do not believe in forgiveness (bible's hell without any heaven). if i rob smith and god forgives me, how does that help smith? if i cover some poor girl with the leprosy of some imputed crime and she withers away like a blighted flower and afterward i get forgiveness, how does that help her? if there is another world, we have got to settle (admitting that we do not settle in this life), and for every crime you commit here (hence, the more the crimes, the more you must suffer, exactly the bible's teaching), you must answer to yourself and to the one you injure. and if you have ever clothed another as with a garment of pain, you will never be quite as happy as though you had not done that thing." "no forgiveness; eternal, inexorable, everlasting justice, that is what i believe in." any christian would be willing to take mr. ingersoll's place, or the place of any one else, in hell, if god varies one pang from what mr. ingersoll himself calls for. but it is the bible's hell, pure and simple, without any heaven. but the objector who rejects the teaching of hell, and also christ dying for our sins as our substitute, may say that he does not agree with mr. ingersoll, as to no forgiveness; that he believes in forgiveness. to reject christ's dying for our sins as our substitute, as our redeemer from all iniquity, and yet, in order to avoid believing in hell, to profess to believe in the forgiveness of sins, makes one far worse than mr. ingersoll, a spiritual anarchist. mr. ingersoll at least believed in law, but to believe in forgiveness, without substitution, without redemption through christ, means to down with law and to become an anarchist in principle. as to the justice of substitution, the reader is referred to chapter iii. concerning the objection to the bible's teaching of eternal punishment in hell, a mistranslation has misled many, and before the correct translation, as given by the revised version, all objections fall to the ground. the old version of rev. 22:11 reads, "he that is unjust let him be unjust still"; but the revised version gives what the greek says, "he that is unrighteous let him _do unrighteousness still_!" and that inevitably means eternal punishment. it is god's last sentence on the sinner. the objector may say that it is horrible to let men sin beyond the grave, in hell. not one particle more horrible is it than to let them sin in this life and continue in sin in this life. a reflection for the unsaved reader: what will your moral character be one thousand years after you die, with no holy spirit, no bible, no christians, no churches, to restrain you? again, this passage, rev. 22:11 (r. v.), can have no meaning if the wicked are to be blotted out, cease to exist. another objection that is pressed, is that the bible teaches a hell of literal fire, and is therefore wrong. the denominations that reject the bible's teachings as to hell, without exception, try to force on the bible language the meaning of literal fire. yet they do not try to force on the language of the bible concerning hell, that it means literal worm when it says "to be cast into hell where their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched." they do not try to force the literal meaning on language when jesus said, "i am the door"; "i am the vine"; or the scriptures state, "that rock was christ." one thing is true, that, the language being figurative, the reality must be terrible. men sneer at the thought of becoming christians from fear of hell. such men are not honest with god, and are simply trying to browbeat god on the subject of hell. proof: the same men will flee to safety from fear of smallpox, from fear of yellow fever, etc. shall men be looked upon as sensible when they flee to safety for their bodies, and be scorned for fleeing to safety for their souls? people are ever asking, "will the heathen be lost without the gospel?" let god's word answer, rom. 2:12, 14, "as many as have sinned without the law shall also perish without the law"; "for when gentiles that have not the law do by nature the things of the law, these not having the law are the law unto themselves, in that they show the work of the law written in their hearts, their conscience bearing witness therewith, and their thoughts one with another accusing or else excusing themselves." but the objector says, "will god condemn a man when he has no light?" there never lived such a man. listen to god: john 1:19, "that was the true light that lighteth every man coming into the world." again, rom. 1:20, "the invisible things of him since the creation of the world are clearly seen, being perceived through the things that are made, even his everlasting power and divinity; so that they are without excuse." but the objection is raised that they have never heard of christ, and that it is wrong for people to be lost, condemned, who never heard of christ. they are not condemned for not believing in christ when they have never heard of him; they are condemned for their sins, for doing what, from their light, they knew was wrong. it is not the lack of the remedy that kills, but the disease. they have not as much light as others, and their punishment will be accordingly. the man who dies in his sins in a christian land will be punished far, far more than the one who dies a heathen. their punishments will be almost as far apart as the east is from the west. the scripture, "there is no difference," rom. 3:22, has often been pressed to mean that all sinners are alike before god, or will suffer alike in hell. by close attention to the passage the reader will see that the expression "there is no difference" has reference to what goes before, for it is connected by the word "for," pointing back to what had just been said, that there is a "righteousness of god through faith in jesus christ unto all that have faith: _for_ there is no difference," that all that have faith are equally certain of salvation, "for there is no difference." to join the expression, "there is no difference," with what follows makes it clearly contradict our saviour, who said plainly that there is a difference,--"he that delivered me unto thee hath the greater sin,"--there is a difference in sin, says the saviour. the teaching of james 2:10, "for whosoever shall keep the whole law and yet offend in one point is guilty of all," must not be made to contradict the plain teaching of the saviour that there is a difference in sinners, and different degrees in their punishment. the meaning is that the law is a unit, and that he that offends in one point has broken the law as a whole. a chain of ten links is as surely broken when one link is broken as when all ten links are broken. in accord with this are the words of the great american scholar, theologian, teacher, preacher, jno. a. broadus: "especially notice luke 12:47 f. (r. v.), 'and that servant which knew his lord's will, and made not ready, nor did according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes; but he that knew not, and did things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few stripes.' this teaching has been in many cases grievously overlooked. taking images literally, men have found that the 'gehenna of fire' (matt. 5:22) will be the same place and the same degree of punishment for all. but the above passage and many others show that there will be differences. the degrees of punishment must be as remote as the east is from the west. all inherited proclivities, 'taints of blood,' all differences of environment, every privilege and every disadvantage, will be taken into account. it is the divine judge that will apportion punishment, with perfect knowledge and perfect justice and perfect goodness. this great fact, that there will be _degrees_ in future punishment--as well as future rewards--ought to be more prominent in religious instruction. it gives some relief in contemplating the awful fate of those who perish. it might save many from going away into universalism; and others from dreaming of a 'second probation' in eternity (comp. on 12:32); and yet others from unjustly assailing and rejecting, to their own ruin, the gospel of salvation." on the other hand, many a sermon on hell (and there are too few on the subject), it could possibly be said the average sermon on the subject, is a slander on a just and holy god. the sermon is drawn largely from dante's inferno or the distorted imagination of the preacher, with no reference to the fact that god will punish sinners differently according to their light and their sins, but only justly. the trouble is not with the bible teaching as to hell, but with modern inadequate conceptions of the evil and guilt of sin, and with many, the almost lost sense of justice, and of "stern moral indignation against wrong." (broadus.) ii sins not excused, nor the penalty ever remitted without redemption "till heaven and earth pass away, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass away from the law."--jesus. "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. "for the life of the flesh is in the blood; and i have given it to you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that maketh atonement."--lev. 17:11. "it is not possible that the blood of bulls and goats should take away sins."--heb. 10:4. "every transgression and disobedience received a just recompense of reward."--heb. 2:2. when one faces the question of his sins, and realizes that they deserve just punishment, one of the first impulses is to pray and beg of god to be let off, to be forgiven; and, alas! much of the religious instruction to the sinner is to the same effect. jesus to nicodemus gave no such instruction (john 3:14-16); philip to the eunuch gave no such instruction (acts 8:29-39); paul and silas to the jailer gave no such instruction (acts 16:30, 31); peter to the household of cornelius gave no such instruction (acts 10:42, 43); the gospel of john, the one book specially given to lead a sinner to be saved (john 20:30, 31), gives no such instruction. but the objection is at once brought up that in the lord's prayer we are taught to pray, "forgive us our sins." that prayer begins "our father," and god is not the father of sinners ("ye are all the children of god by faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26); and the prayer was given by the saviour to disciples (luke 11:1, 2), and not to sinners. but the objection is further raised that the bible says, "if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins." that is from the first epistle of john, and was not written to sinners, but to believers. john says (1 john 5:13), "these things have i written unto you, that ye may know that ye have eternal life, even _unto you that believe on the name of the son of god_." (r. v.) god can and does forgive the believer on confession, because the believer is a child of god. with the sinner it is a question of law, of justice, of right. hence, the lord jesus said, "till heaven and earth pass away, one jot or tittle shall in no wise pass away from the law" (matt. 5:18). "every transgression and disobedience received _a just recompense of reward_" (heb. 2:2); but there is no "_just recompense of reward_" at all, if god lets the sinner off from the just penalty of his sins because he prays and begs and cries to be let off, or because priests or preachers pray and beg for him to be let off. "it is impossible that the blood of bulls and goats should take away sin" (heb. 10:4), because there is no "just recompense of reward" in such cases. much less can the sins be taken away when there is no recompense of reward at all in the case, but simply the praying and begging of the sinner to be forgiven, to be let off, and the praying and begging of some priest or preacher that the sinner be forgiven, let off. god has given a plain warning, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. among what are called evangelical denominations it would be looked upon as worse than folly for a jew, a unitarian or a universalist, who had asked god to forgive his sins, or had confessed the sins, to claim that therefore he was forgiven and was sure to go to heaven. but it is just as fatal a delusion among others as among jews, unitarians and universalists. every transgression must have "_a just recompense of reward_," however sorry the sinner may be, however much he may pray and beg to be forgiven, let off; however much the priest or preacher or friends may pray for him to be forgiven, to be let off. a man who has violated the state law falls on his knees before the judge, confesses his sin and begs the judge to forgive him, to let him off; and he calls men from the audience to come and help him beg. the judge replies, "if i should yield to these petitions i would be a perjurer; i would trample on law. every transgression must receive a just recompense of reward." would that all could realize that every prayer from sinner, priest, or preacher, for a sinner to be forgiven, let off, is a prayer to god to become a perjurer. if sinners could realize that, after all their kneeling every night and confessing their sins, and praying to be forgiven, to be let off, every sin ever committed is still there, and that "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission," they would then realize their real need of a saviour, a redeemer. one question for the reader: if god forgives, lets a sinner off, simply because he is sorry and cries and prays and begs to be let off, or because the priest or preacher cries, prays and begs for him to be forgiven, to be let off, _why did jesus die_? _for further study_: the word translated forgiveness in the bible means simply to send away, without reference to how the sin is sent away; but god's word states plainly that sins are forgiven, sent away, by christ bearing them. "behold the lamb of god that taketh away the sin of the world."--john 1:29. "who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree."--1 peter 2:24; "christ died for our sins."--1 cor. 15:3. concerning the justice of christ dying for our sins, see the next chapter. the prayer of the publican in the old version, "god be merciful to me the sinner," luke 18:13, has misled many. if that was really the prayer of the publican, how _could_ the saviour have said, "this man went down to his house _justified_"? the margin of the revised version gives what the greek says, "be thou propitiated." it is the same greek word that in heb. 2:17 is translated, "to make reconciliation for the sins of the people." president strong of rochester theological seminary gives the exact meaning of it when he renders it, "be thou propitiated to me the sinner by the sacrifice whose smoke was then ascending in the presence of the publican while he prayed." and jesus shows what the publican said when he added, "this man went down to his house _justified_." it is said that a young man ran away from his widowed mother and was gone for years. one stormy night sitting near the window sewing, while the rain was beating against the window pane, she thought she heard a noise. looking up she saw the shaggy, bearded face of a ragged tramp pressed against the window pane, but it faded back into the storm as she looked up. faint lines in the face aroused memory. as the needle was plied the mind was busy. again a slight noise caused her to look up, and again the shaggy, bearded face of the tramp faded back into the storm. this time she knew that she was not mistaken. the shaggy beard could not hide the lines in the face of her long-lost boy. throwing up the window she cried, "come in, william, oh, come in." stepping to where the light fell full in his face, while the tears coursed down his cheeks, he said, "mother, i can't come in till my sin has been put out of the way." there was honor left in the tramp yet. there ought to be honor enough in every human being not to wish to go to heaven, not to try to go to heaven, at the expense of god's justice. jesus said, john 10:1, 7, "he that entereth not by the door into the fold of the sheep, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber." "verily, verily i say unto you, i am the door." jesus says, then, that those who confess their sins, and pray for forgiveness and claim it, and yet reject him as the door, are thieves and robbers. god does forgive the redeemed, for they are his children (gal. 4:4-7), on confession (1 john 1:9); but for those who are under the law, his word is plain, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. god's word states plainly how our sins are put away; not by, or because of, the praying and weeping and confession of the sinner, nor the praying and weeping and interceding of others for the sinner, for god to forgive him; "but now once in the end of the world hath he appeared to put away sin by the _sacrifice of himself_."--heb. 9:26. concerning the justice of putting away sin in this way, see next chapter. on this point walker well says, "if the holiness of the law was not maintained, that sense of guilt and danger could not be produced which is necessary in order that man may have a spiritual saviour."--_walker, in "the philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ again he says, "when he reveals his perfect law, that law cannot, from the nature of its author, allow the commission of a single sin."--_walker, in "the philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ further, he says, "god ought not to allow one sin; if he did, the law would not be holy, nor adapted to make men holy."--_walker, in "the philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ equally to the point are the words of james denny, "it is an immediate inference, then, from all that we have seen in the new testament, that where there is no atonement there is no gospel. to preach the love of god out of relation to the death of christ, or to preach the love of god in the death of christ, but without being able to relate it to sin, or to preach that forgiveness of sins as the free gift of god's love while the death of christ has no special significance assigned to it, is not, if the new testament is the rule and standard of christianity, to preach the gospel at all."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ iii jesus the christ as sin-bearer--god's justice and love "god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john 3:16. "that he might himself be just and the justifier of him that hath faith in jesus."--rom. 3:26. "he was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. all we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all."--is. 53:5, 6. "christ died for our sins."--1 cor. 15:3. "our lord jesus christ, who gave himself for our sins."--gal. 1:3, 4. "who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree."--1 peter 2:24. "christ also suffered for sins once, the righteous for the unrighteous."--1 peter 3:18. "even as the son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister and to give his life a ransom for many."--matt. 20:28. "there is one mediator between god and men, the man christ jesus; who gave himself a ransom for all."--1 tim. 2:5, 6. "christ redeemed us from the curse of the law, having become a curse for us."--gal. 3:13. "our saviour jesus christ; who gave himself for us, that he might redeem us from all iniquity."--titus 2:13, 14. "by which will we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of jesus christ once for all."--heb. 10:10. "for by one offering he hath perfected forever them that are sanctified."--heb. 10:14. "nor yet by the blood of goats and bulls, but through his own blood entered in once for all into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption."--heb. 9:12. "this is my blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many unto the remission of sins."--matt. 26:28. "and they sing a new song, saying, worthy art thou to take the book and to open the seals thereof; for thou wast slain, and didst purchase unto god with thy blood men of every tribe and tongue and people and nation."--rev. 5:9. "herein is love, not that we loved god, but that he loved us, and sent his son to be the propitiation for our sins."--1 john 4:10. "the son of god who loved me, and gave himself up for me."--gal. 2:20. reader, god's justice and love are both shown in the saviour dying for our sins. substitution is the _only way_ of salvation when justice and love are both considered. it was god's justice that made it necessary for christ to die for our sins. "even so _must_ the son of man be lifted up,"--john 3:14;--"that he might himself be _just_ and the _justifier_ of him that hath faith in jesus."--rom. 3:26. and it was god's love that let him die for our sins, "for god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son."--john 3:16. what you, reader, ought to desire to know, is simply god's way. the scriptures at the beginning of the chapter, if language can make anything plain, show clearly that the sinner's only escape from the just punishment of his sins lies in jesus dying in his place to set him free from the just penalty due his sins; and they make it plain that this settles the _full_ penalty for _all sins_. but the objection is raised and pressed with all the force of human ingenuity and scholarship, backed by the prestige of some occupying the highest positions in literary and theological institutions, that it is morally wrong for the innocent to suffer the penalty of the guilty. with a zeal deserving a better cause, many who stand high as professed christians and teachers join hands with the rankest, most blatant infidels, and press this, to them, unanswerable objection to christ dying for our sins as our substitute. this friendship between infidelity and professed christian teachers reminds one of another occasion when our saviour was set at naught and two became friends with each other that very day (luke 23:11, 12). let us face this objection honestly and earnestly, for our eternal destiny turns on this one point. _is it morally wrong for the innocent to bear the sins of the guilty?_ in the first place it is _not_ morally wrong, because god would not do morally wrong, and god _did_ let the innocent suffer the penalty of the guilty. the language of scripture teaching that jesus suffered the penalty of our sins for us is plain and simple, and all efforts to take from the scripture language its simple, plain, natural meaning are pitiable, and if contempt were ever justifiable, would deserve the contempt of all honest men. let the reader turn back and read the scriptures at the head of this chapter and decide for himself as to their obvious, intended meaning. now, because god's word tells us plainly that god gave his only begotten son, that he might be just, and thus the justifier of him who believes in jesus, that christ died for our sins, that he gave himself for our sins, the just for the unjust,--it is right for the innocent to suffer the penalty of the guilty. to any honest, candid man, which is the correct way to reason? this thing is wrong; god did this thing; therefore, god did wrong? or, god does right; god did let christ, the innocent, suffer and die for our sins, to _redeem_ from _all iniquity_; therefore it is right for the innocent to suffer the penalty of the guilty? nor is christ suffering as our substitute the great exception, as some timid ones have granted. it is in line with _god's plan with men_; it is in line with the best and noblest there is in man; and the opposite teaching, that it is wrong to let the innocent bear the penalty of the guilty, is not only wrong, but horrible and the extreme of heartlessness. two men passing along the street at night hear groaning in the gutter; striking a match, they see two men lying in the gutter with their faces all gashed and bleeding. in a drunken street fight they have almost killed each other. who did the sinning? those two men lying in the gutter; they deserve to suffer the penalty of their sinning. but these other two men join hands, pay for a physician, a nurse and the hospital bill. in principle that is the innocent paying the penalty of the guilty. to say that this is wrong would mean to condemn the community to pass by day after day and see those ghastly, festering wounds, those parched lips and bloodshot eyes, and to listen to those dying groans. and yet in principle that is exactly what those demand for this sinful, sin-injured human race, when they say that it is morally wrong for jesus the saviour to suffer the penalty of our sins. a son becomes a drunkard; his drunkenness and debauchery utterly wreck his health. some night the father finds his drunken son down in the street, a helpless invalid. the son did the sinning; he deserves to suffer the penalty of his sins; but the father takes him to his home and cares for him and supports him. in principle that is the innocent bearing the penalty of the guilty. to say that this is morally wrong would be to condemn that father to pass by day after day and see his son suffering the just consequences of his sin, to see him slowly starving to death, to see him gasping in death, and not be allowed to come to the rescue. yet when men object to christ bearing the penalty of the sinner's sins they are, in principle, taking that stand; for in principle jesus, dying for our sins, did what the father did with the son. a prominent woman in america was dying from lack of blood; back of it somewhere was violation of some law of god, some law of health. her noble husband had the surgeon join their arteries, and every beat of his noble heart drove his well blood into the body of his dying wife, and he saved her life. these objectors praise that act; they see nothing morally wrong in it. yet when jesus, in principle, did the same thing for sinners in order to save them, these same men, with a haughty, scornful tone, say that it is morally wrong for the innocent to suffer in place of the guilty. "nay but, o man, who art thou that repliest against god?"--rom. 9:20. had the objectors said that it was wrong to _force_ the innocent to suffer the penalty of the guilty, that would have been true, but jesus was not forced. listen to him, john 10:17, 18, "therefore doth the father love me, because i lay down my life that i may take it again. no one taketh it away from me, but i lay it down of myself. i have power to lay it down and i have power to take it again." nor is christ dying for our sins, as taught by the scriptures, a makeshift, but, rather, a real, full _redemption, ransom_. just as a captain can honorably, honestly be given as a ransom for a number of private soldiers in an exchange of prisoners; just as a diamond can redeem a debt of many dollars; just as one man is allowed to pay another's debt; just as one man is allowed to pay another's fine in a courtroom; so our lord and saviour "gave himself for us, that he might _redeem_ us from _all iniquity_." all illustrations of deity fall short, but just as a man could ransom all the ants that crawl upon the earth, were they under moral law and had violated it; just as a man could, on account of the vast difference in the scale of being, suffer in his own body all that all the ants upon earth could suffer; so jesus, immanuel, god with us, redeemed us from "all iniquity." it was not merely the nails driven through his quivering flesh, nor the physical pangs, but "the lord hath laid on him _the iniquity_ of us all." hence, that awful cry, "my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?" he was in the sinner's place, suffering the sinner's penalty for sin. "he hath made him to be sin for us."--2 cor. 6:21. instead of proudly cavilling and warping and trying to avoid the simple, plain meaning of god's word, should you not rather, reader, bow in reverence before such love, realize that it was for you, yes, _you_, and that through his suffering and in no other way, you may escape the just punishment of your sins and spend eternity in heaven? the world weeps over the story of the noble fireman who gave his life to rescue a little girl from a burning building, but it coldly scorns and proudly rejects salvation through the redemption of jesus the christ. oh, the pride and wickedness of the human heart! be not you, reader, of those who sit in the seat of the scornful, but the rather of those who at the last day will sing, rev. 5:9, "worthy art thou to take the book and to open the seals thereof; for thou wast slain, and didst purchase unto god with thy blood, men of every tribe and tongue and people and nation." let us consider carefully what it really means when we are told that "christ died _for our sins_,"--1 cor. 15:3, that he "gave himself _for our sins_,"--gal. 1:4; that "his own self bare our sins in his own body upon the tree,"--1 peter 2:24; that "christ also suffered for sins once, the righteous for the unrighteous."--1 peter 3:18. god's word explains it clearly: "that he might himself be _just_ and the _justifier_ of him that hath faith in jesus."--rom. 3:26. "_that he might be just._" notice it carefully, "_that he might be just._" take it in its full meaning, "that he might be just." a question: how _could_ god be _just_ and _justify_ any sinner apart from the fact that "christ died for our sins," that "the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all"? reader, no man, however learned, will ever answer that question. he may sneer; he may cavil; he may warp; he may try to confuse; but he will never come out in the open and answer that question. he may say that it is morally wrong for the innocent to bear the penalty of the guilty, but that objection is met and answered above in this chapter. let us face a trilemma; three, and only three plans, were possible for god with man:-first, to have been just with man, without any love or mercy; hence, for every sinner to have suffered the just penalty for his sins, without any redemption. that would have meant hell for every responsible human being, without any heaven at all. second, to have been all mercy and all love and no justice. that would have meant no moral laws; for why have moral laws, if there would be no penalty, no justice? that would have meant a premium on crime. that would have meant the debased, the debauched, the immoral, the drunken, the fiend, on a level with the chaste, the pure, the upright, the true. that would have meant unbridled rein to passion and lust and every other evil inclination, and no penalty following. that would have meant hell in trying to get rid of hell. third, there was left but one other possible plan, to be just and at the same time extend love to the sinners. in the nature of the case, real redemption, without any makeshift, was the only way this _could_ be done. "even so _must_ the son of man be lifted up,"--john 3:14; "that he himself might be _just_ and the _justifier_ of him that hath faith in jesus,"--rom. 3:26; "god so _loved_ the world that he gave his only begotten son,"--john 3:16; "herein is love, not that we loved god, but that he loved us, and sent his son to be _the propitiation for our sins_."--1 john 4:10. this leads to another question: how can god be _just_ and _not_ justify "him that hath faith in jesus"? again men may quibble and warp, and ridicule, but no one will ever answer the question. and the reason why this question will never be answered leads to another question: from how many of his sins is the one "that hath faith in jesus" _justified_? we have now gotten to the very centre of the whole problem of salvation. let us give it most careful consideration. in not one of the scriptures cited at the head of this chapter is there one word that limits the number of sins for which christ died, or from which the believer is justified. that of itself is sufficient warrant for us to conclude that christ died for _all_ of the sins of the believer, that when he "gave himself for our sins" (gal. 1:4), it included _all_ of our sins, and that the believer is justified from _all_ of his sins. one man promises another that he will pay his debts. that of itself means all of his debts, unless the one making the promise was simply juggling with words. while this of itself would be sufficient, god in his word has made it positive and absolute as to how many of the believer's sins were laid on christ ("the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all."--is. 53:6); for how many of our sins christ gave himself ("who gave himself for our sins."--gal. 1:4); for how many of our sins christ died (1 cor. 15:3); from how many of his sins the believer is _justified_, ("that he might himself be _just_ and the _justifier_ of him that hath faith in jesus."--rom. 3:26). in lev. 16:21, 22, god gives us a picture, foreshadowing the saviour, of laying the sins on the substitute: "and aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him _all_ the iniquity of the children of israel, and _all_ their transgressions, even _all_ their sins; and he shall put them upon the head of the goat and shall send him away by the hand of a man that is in readiness into the wilderness: and the goat shall bear upon him _all_ their iniquities." "behold the lamb of god that taketh [or beareth] away the sins of the world."--john 1:29. _but how many_ of our sins? let god's word answer: titus 2:13, 14, "our saviour jesus christ; who gave himself for us, that he might _redeem_ us from _all iniquity_." look at it again, reader; grasp its full meaning; let it be impressed indelibly upon your soul: "our saviour jesus christ; who gave himself for us, that he might _redeem_ us from _all_ iniquity." then as certainly as the believer is redeemed by him, he is redeemed from _all_ iniquity; and as certainly as he is redeemed from all iniquity, that certainly the believer is going to heaven, for there is nothing left that can cause him to be lost. hence god, through paul, has told us "by him every one that believeth is _justified_ from _all_ things."--acts 13:39. if our saviour jesus christ gave himself for us that he might _redeem_ us from _all_ iniquity (titus 2:13, 14), how can god be _just_ and _not_ justify every one that believes from _all_ things (acts 13:39)? and if the believer is _justified_ from _all_ things (acts 13:39), he is certain to go to heaven. this is _god's plan_; this is god's will; "by the which will we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of jesus christ _once for all_."--heb. 10:10. "_for by one_ offering he hath _perfected forever_ them that are sanctified."--heb. 10:14. "nor yet by the blood of goats and calves, but through his own blood entered in _once for all_ into the holy place, having obtained _eternal redemption_."--heb. 9:12. hence jesus said, "verily, verily i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me hath everlasting life and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death to life."--john 5:24. while thus is manifested god's justice, and the _only_ way that god _could_ be "just and the justifier of him that hath faith in jesus" (rom. 3:26), for jesus himself said it ("even so _must_ the son of man be lifted up."--john 3:14); let the reader not forget that it equally manifests god's love, and the saviour's love. "herein is love, not that we loved god, but that he loved us, and sent his son to be the propitiation for our sins."--1 john 4:10. "the son of god who loved me and gave himself for me."--gal. 2:20. if god's love is amazing in sending his son to be the propitiation for our sins (1 john 4:10), if the saviour's love is amazing in loving us and giving himself for us (gal. 2:20), how infinitely more amazing is this love when we see that it has obtained _eternal redemption_ for us (heb. 9:12); that it has redeemed us from _all_ iniquity (titus 2:14), and that every one that believes is _justified_ from _all_ things (acts 13:39)? reader, the greatest crime that is ever committed on this earth is to reject this "so great salvation" (heb. 2:3); this redemption from all iniquity (titus 2:14), and to trifle with the amazing love that provided a way by which he himself might be just and the justifier of him that hath faith in jesus (rom. 3:26). we shudder at the horrible crimes reported in the daily papers, at those recorded in history; but far greater, far blacker, more terrible, is the crime of a human being rejecting this great provision of god's love. only intellectual pride, religious prejudice, family or race ties, love of the world, or secret sin, can be the cause of the reader taking such a fatal step; and fearful will be the consequences of letting any one of these cause the rejection of the only salvation that god's love and justice could provide. the reader cannot plead that god has not given sufficient proof that he has given us a revelation in his word (let the reader go back and read again the introduction and the reference for further study); nor can he plead that god's word does not make the message plain (let the reader go back and study the scriptures at the beginning of this chapter). it is a solemn and awful step, reader, one never to be retraced, to decide to reject this salvation, and to go out into the dark, unending future beyond the grave, unredeemed from iniquity, with no certain hope, when god has warned you, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission,"--heb. 9:22. it is an awful, eternal crisis, when you see god's only provision for you, so complete, so perfect, so sure, and then face his warning, "i call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that i have set before thee life and death, the blessing and the curse: therefore choose _life_." _for further study._--there are those who deny god's justice in christ dying for our sins (1 cor. 15:3), in christ giving himself for our sins (gal. 1:4), in christ redeeming us from all iniquity (titus 2:14). expressions from the two most prominent rejecters will show the principal reasons given by all other rejecters of redemption through christ:-"moral justice cannot take the innocent for the guilty, even if the innocent would offer itself."--_the "age of reason" by thomas paine._ "the outrage offered to the moral justice of god, by supposing him to make the innocent suffer for the guilty."--_the "age of reason," by thomas paine._ "an execution is an object for gratitude; the preachers daub themselves with the blood, like a troop of assassins, and pretend to admire the brilliancy it gives them."--_the "age of reason," by thomas paine._ the other is mrs. mary baker g. eddy in her "science and health, with key to the scriptures": "one sacrifice, however great, is insufficient to pay the debt of sin. the atonement requires constant self-immolation on the sinner's part." again, "another's suffering cannot lessen our own liability." again, "the time is not distant when the ordinary theological views of atonement will undergo a great change,--a change as radical as that which has come over popular opinions in regard to predestination and future punishment. does erudite theology regard the crucifixion of jesus chiefly as providing a ready pardon for all sinners who ask for it and are willing to be forgiven? does spiritualism find jesus's death necessary only for the presentation, after death, of the material jesus, as a proof that spirits can return to earth? then we must differ from them both." it is not to be wondered at that she takes her stand with thomas paine in rejecting the teaching that christ died for our sins (1 cor. 15:3), and that he redeemed us from all iniquity (titus 2:14), when she says, "does divine love commit a fraud on humanity by making man inclined to sin and then punishing him for it?" again, "in common justice we must admit that god will not punish man for doing what he created man capable of doing, and knew from the outset that man would do." again, "the destruction of sin is the divine method of pardon. being destroyed, sin needs no other pardon." there is one vast difference between these two who reject jesus as our sin-bearer, our redeemer,--thomas paine does not masquerade under the name "christian." why should others who stand with him in rejecting complete redemption through christ? catholics by the sacrifice of the mass, the unbloody sacrifice, the elevation of the host, teach that the wafer is changed into the real "body, blood, soul and divinity" of jesus christ, and that it is then offered as a sacrifice. they thereby reject the complete redemption through christ dying for our sins (1 cor. 15:3), redeeming us from all iniquity (titus 2:14). they thereby deny that he "offered one sacrifice for sin forever,"--heb. 10:12, and that "by one offering he hath perfected forever them that are sanctified."--heb. 10:14. having rejected him as complete redeemer, they have no real saviour at all. but those who make salvation dependent on moral character, or baptism, or church membership, just as surely as the catholics reject the completeness of the redemption. there are some who sneer at this teaching as the "commercial view" of redemption, in the face of god's word that declares, "ye were _bought with a price,"_--1 cor. 6:20; "worthy art thou to take the book and to open the seals thereof; for thou wast slain, and didst _purchase_ unto god with thy blood men of every tribe and tongue and people and nation."--rev. 5:9. (r. v.) consider the testimony of three over against the two quoted against this teaching of god's word:-"i saw that if jesus suffered in my stead, i could not suffer, too; and that if he bore all my sin, i had no more sin to bear. my iniquity must be blotted out if jesus bore it in my stead and suffered all its penalty."--_c. h. spurgeon._ "if you believe on him, i tell you you cannot go to hell; for that were to make the sacrifice of christ of none effect. it cannot be that a sacrifice should be accepted and yet the soul should die for whom that sacrifice had been received. if the believing soul could be condemned, then why a sacrifice? every believer can claim that the sacrifice was actually made for him: by faith he has laid his hands on it, and made it his own, and therefore he may rest assured that he can never perish. the lord would not receive this offering on our behalf and then condemn us to die."--_c. h. spurgeon._ "the law of god was more vindicated by the death of christ than it would have been had all the transgressors been sent to hell. for the son of god to suffer for sin was a more glorious establishment of the government of god than for the whole race to suffer."--_c. h. spurgeon._ "it is the obvious implication of these words (the righteous one for the unrighteous ones) that the death on which such stress is laid was something to which the unrighteous were liable because of their sins, and that in their interest the righteous one took it on himself."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "this is his gospel, that a righteous one has once for all faced and taken up and in death exhausted the responsibilities of the unrighteous, so that they no more stand between them and god."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "if christ died the death in which sin had involved us, if in his death he took the responsibility of our sins upon himself, no word is equal to this which falls short of what is meant by calling him our substitute."_--denny, in "the death of christ."_ "i do not know any word that conveys the truth of this if 'vicarious' or 'substitutionary' does not; nor do i know any interpretation of christ's death which enables us to regard it as a demonstration of love to sinners, if this vicarious or substitutionary character is denied. there is much preaching _about_ christ's death which fails to be a preaching _of_ christ's death, and therefore to be in the full sense of the term gospel preaching, because it ignores this. the simplest hearer feels that there is something irrational in saying that the death of christ is a great proof of love to the sinful unless there is shown at the same time a rational connection between that death and the responsibilities which sin involves, and from which that death delivers. perhaps one should beg pardon for using so simple an illustration, but the point is a vital one, and it is necessary to be clear. if i were sitting on the end of a pier on a summer day, enjoying the sunshine and the air, and some one came along and jumped into the water and got drowned to prove his love to me, i should find it quite unintelligible. i might be much in need of love, but an act in no relation to any of my necessities could not prove it. but if i had fallen over the pier and were drowning and some one sprang into the water and at the cost of making my peril, or what but for him would be my fate, his own, saved me from death, then i should say, 'greater love hath no man than this.' i should say it intelligently, because there would be an intelligible relation between the sacrifice which love made and the necessity from which it redeemed."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "christ died for sins once for all, and the man who believes in christ and in his death has his relation to god _once for all determined not by sin but by the atonement_."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "one who knew no sin had, in obedience to the father, to take on him the responsibility, the doom, the curse, the death of the sinful. and if any one says that this was morally impossible, may we not ask again, what is the alternative? is it not that the sinful should be left alone with their responsibility, doom, curse, and death?"--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "redemption, it may be said, springs from love, yet love is only a word of which we do not know the meaning till it is interpreted for us by redemption."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "unless we can preach a finished work of christ in relation to sin, a reconciliation or peace which has been achieved independently of us at infinite cost, and to which we are called in a word of ministry of reconciliation, we have no real gospel for sinful men at all."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "if the evangelist has not something to preach of which he can say, 'if any man makes it his business to subvert this, let him be anathema,' he has no gospel at all."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "_as there is only one god, so there can be only one gospel. if god has really done something in christ on which the salvation of the world depends, and if he has made it known, then it is a christian duty to be intolerant of everything which ignores, denies, or explains it away. the man who perverts it is the worst enemy of god and men._"--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ "we should remember, also, that it is not always intellectual sensitiveness, nor care for the moral interests involved, which sets the mind to criticise statements of the atonement. there _is_ such a thing as pride, the last form of which is unwillingness to become debtors even to christ for forgiveness of sins."--_denny, in "the death of christ."_ but the saviour could not have been a _redeemer_, if he had not been god manifest in the flesh, for two reasons:-first, if he had not been deity, god manifest in the flesh, his dying for our sins (1 cor. 15:3) would not have been _redemption_, but a mere makeshift. "it is not possible that the blood of bulls and goats should take away sins."--heb. 10:4. why not? because in that case there would have been no real _redemption_, but only a makeshift. second, had the saviour been anything other than god manifest in the flesh, he would have _won_ men _from_ god and alienated them from god. on this point let the reader consider well the following from walker, in "the philosophy of the plan of salvation":--"as god was the author of the law, and as he is the only proper object both of supreme love and obedience; and as man could not be happy in obeying the law without loving its author, it follows that the thing now necessary, in order that man's affections might be fixed upon the proper object of love and obedience, was, that the supreme god should, by self-denying kindness, manifest spiritual mercy to those who felt their spiritual wants, and thus draw to himself the love and worship of mankind. _if any other being should supply the need, that being would receive the love_; it was therefore necessary that _god himself_ should do it, in order that the affections of believers might centre upon the proper object." "now, suppose jesus christ was not god, nor a true manifestation of the godhead in human nature, but a man, or angel, authorized by god to accomplish the redemption of the human race from sin and misery. in doing this, it appears, from the nature of the thing, and from the scriptures, that he did what was adapted to, and what does, draw the heart of every true believer, as in the case of the apostles and the early christians, to himself as the supreme or governing object of affection. their will is governed by the will of christ; and love to him moves their heart and hands. _now, if it be true that jesus christ is not god, then he has devised and executed a plan by which the supreme affections of the human heart are drawn to himself, and alienated from god_, the proper object of love and worship: and god, having authorized this plan, _he has devised means to make man love christ, the creature, more than the creator_, who is god over all, blessed for evermore. "but it is said that christ having taught and suffered by the will and authority of god, we are under obligation to love god for what christ has done for us. it is answered, that this is impossible. we cannot love one being for what another does or suffers on our behalf. we can love no being for labors and self-denials on our behalf, but that being who valiantly labors and denies himself. it is the kindness and mercy exhibited in the self-denial that move the affections; and the affections can move to no being but the one that makes the self-denial, because it is the self-denial that draws out the love of the heart. "it is said, that christ was sent by god to do his will and not his own; and therefore we ought to love god, as the being to whom gratitude and love are due for what christ said and suffered. "then it is answered: if god willed that christ, as a creature of his, should come, and by his suffering and death redeem sinners, we ought not to love christ for it, because he did it as a creature in obedience to the commands of god, and was not self-moved nor meritorious in the work; and we cannot love god for it, for the labor and self-denial were not borne by him. and further: if one being, by an act of his authority, should cause another innocent being to suffer, in order that he might be loved who had imposed the suffering, but not borne it, it would render him unworthy of love. if god had caused jesus christ, being his creature, to suffer, that he might be loved himself for christ's sufferings, while he had no connection with them, instead of such an exhibition, on the part of god, producing love to him, it would procure pity for christ and aversion towards god. so that, neither god, nor christ, nor any other being, can be loved for mercy extended by self-denials to the needy, unless those self-denials were produced by a voluntary act of mercy upon the part of the being who suffers them; and no being, but the one who made the sacrifice, could be meritorious in the case. it follows, therefore, incontrovertibly, that if christ was a creature--no matter of how exalted worth--and not god; and if god approved of his work in saving sinners, _he approved of treason against his own government_; because, in that case, the work of christ was adapted to draw, and did necessarily draw, the affections of the human soul to himself, as its spiritual saviour and thus alienated them from god, their rightful object. and jesus christ himself had the design of drawing men's affections to himself in view, by his crucifixion; says he, 'and i, if i be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.' this he said signifying what death he should die: thus distinctly stating that it was the self-denials and mercy exhibited in the crucifixion that would draw out the affections of the human soul, and that those affections would be drawn to himself as the suffering saviour. but that god would sanction a scheme which would involve treason against himself, and that christ should participate in it, is absurd and impossible, and therefore cannot be true. but if the divine nature was united with the human in the teaching and work of christ, if god was in christ (drawing the affections of men, or) 'reconciling the world unto himself'--if, when christ was lifted up, as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, he drew, as he said he would, the affections of all believers unto himself; and then, if he ascended, as the second person of the trinity, into the bosom of the eternal godhead--he thereby, after he had engaged, by his work on earth, the affections of the human soul, bore them up to the bosom of the father, from whence they had fallen. thus the ruins of the fall were rebuilt, and the affections of the human soul again restored to god, the creator, and proper object of supreme love." finally, let the reader give most earnest thought to the inevitable conclusion drawn by the same author: "how, then, could god manifest that mercy to sinners by which love to himself and to his law would be produced, while his infinite holiness and justice would be maintained? we answer, in no way possible, but by some expedient by which his justice and mercy would both be exalted. if, in the wisdom of the godhead, such a way could be devised by which god himself could save the soul from the consequences of its guilt,--by which he himself could, in some way, suffer and make self-denials for its good; and by his own interposition open a way for the soul to recover from its lost and condemned condition, then the result would follow inevitably, that every one of the human family who had been led to see and feel his guilty condition before god, and who believed in god thus manifesting himself to rescue his soul from spiritual death, every one thus believing would, from the necessities of his nature, be led to love god his saviour; and mark, the greater the self-denial and the suffering on the part of the saviour in ransoming the soul, the stronger would be the affection felt for him."--_walker, in "the philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ iv the new relation--the new motive "what things soever the law saith, it saith _to them who are under the law_; that every mouth may be stopped, and all the world may become guilty before god."--rom. 3:19. "ye are not under the law."--rom. 6:14. "the law was our schoolmaster to bring us unto christ, that we might be justified by faith, but _after that faith is come we are no longer under a schoolmaster_. for ye are all the children of god by faith in jesus christ."--gal. 3:24-26. "when the fulness of time was come, god sent forth his son born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem them that were under the law, _that we might receive the adoption of sons_. and because ye are sons, god hath sent forth the spirit of his son into your hearts, crying abba, father. wherefore thou art no more a servant, but a son; and if a son, then an heir of god through christ."--gal. 4:4-7. "having in love predestinated us for adoption as sons through jesus christ to himself."--eph. 1:5. "the love of christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then all died; and he died for all, that they who live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them and rose again."--2 cor. 5:14, 15. "there was a certain creditor who had two debtors; the one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. and when they had nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. tell me therefore which of them will love him most?"--luke 7:41, 42. "though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, i am become as sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. and though i have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though i have all faith, so that i could remove mountains, and have not love, i am nothing. and though i bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though i give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing."--1 cor. 13:1-3. _in god's plan with men_, his purpose in giving the law has been sadly misunderstood. to the jews the law was given on tablets of stone and copied in their sacred writings; to the gentiles the law was written in their hearts. the one class had more light than the other, and therefore will be judged differently. "as many as have sinned without law shall also perish without law; and as many as have sinned under the law shall be judged by the law."--rom. 2:12. "for when the gentiles, who have no law, do by nature the things of the law, these, having no law, are a law unto themselves; who show the works of the law written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing witness, and their reasonings mutually accusing or even excusing them."--rom. 2:14. whether jew or gentile, god had one purpose in giving the law, "now we know that what things soever the law saith, it saith to those who are under the law, that _every_ mouth may be stopped and _all the world_ be under judgement to god." god's plan with the law includes "every mouth," "all the world," whether the law was written in their hearts or in sacred writings; and his purpose is, not that they should be saved by keeping the law, for then no one would be saved, for "all have sinned and come short of the glory of god,"--rom. 3:23; but that they might be brought under judgment to god, every mouth stopped, guilty, and thus be brought to realize their need of a redeemer. on this point god's word makes his purpose very plain: "the scripture hath shut up all under sin, that the promise by faith in jesus christ might be given to them that believe. but before faith, we were confined under law, shut up unto the faith about to be revealed. wherefore the law was our tutor [or schoolmaster] unto christ, that we might be justified by faith. but after that faith is come we are no longer under a tutor [or schoolmaster]."--gal. 3:23-25. god's word is plain, that god put men under the law, not that they should be saved by keeping it, but that they might be led to see their need of a saviour, one to redeem them from the curse of the law: "christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us,"--gal 3:13; and then, having redeemed them from the curse of the law, and from all iniquity (titus 2:14), to adopt them as his own children, "heirs of god and joint heirs with christ."--rom. 8:17. so wonderful is the plan that it is hard for a human being to grasp it. _god's plan with men_ is not simply to save them, but to put them above all other created beings. "unto which of the angels said he at any time, thou art my son?"--heb. 1:5. yet, "having in love predestinated us for adoption as sons through jesus christ to himself,"--eph. 1:5 (1911 bible), "heirs of god and joint heirs with christ,"--rom. 8:17, he puts us far above angels; "for ye are all sons of god through faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26. but men can only come into this higher relation to god as sons by being redeemed from under the lower relation, under the law. hear god's word: "when the fulness of the time was come, god sent forth his son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem them that were under the law, _that we might receive the adoption of sons_."--gal. 4:4, 5. this higher relation as sons of god can be attained only by men coming out from under the law; and men can come out from under the law only by being redeemed from under the law. god's word teaches clearly, then, that when one is redeemed, he is no longer under the law. "ye are not under the law,"--rom. 6:14; "what things soever the law saith, it saith to _those who are under the law_."--rom. 3:19. then some are under the law and some are not under the law; "wherefore the law was our tutor unto christ that we might be justified by faith. but after the faith is come, _we are no longer under a tutor_."--gal. 3:24, 25. pause, reader, and try to grasp the meaning of this. if the believer is redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), and is not under the law, (rom. 6:14), then he is sure of heaven; for "sin is not reckoned when there is no law."--rom. 5:13. it is not reckoned or imputed because it has all been reckoned or imputed to christ (is. 53:6, titus 2:14). why, then, serve god? not from fear of the law; not from fear of hell; but from love to him who redeemed us from the curse of the law, having been made a curse for us (gal. 3:13). just as clearly god's word teaches that those who are redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), from all iniquity (titus 2:14), become the sons of god; for that purpose "god sent forth his son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem them that were under the law that we might receive the adoption of sons. and because ye are sons, god hath sent forth the spirit of his son into your hearts crying, abba, father."--gal. 4:4-6. "for ye are all the sons of god through faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26. but there is, in _god's plan with men_, beyond this a still more blessed, wonderful teaching: "wherefore, thou art no more a servant, but a son."--gal. 4:7. the one who is redeemed from under the law (gal. 3:13) never gets back under the law again,--"wherefore thou art no more a servant, but a son." that means, then, certainty of going to heaven, certainty of being a son of god forever. and this new relation, and this certainty of heaven are settled for men, not when they die, nor when they have united with some church, or have been baptised, but the moment men repent from their sins and accept the saviour as their redeemer from all iniquity; for god's word says, "he that believeth on the son _hath_ everlasting life."--john 3:36; and "ye _are_ all the sons of god through faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26. this new relation with god gives men a new motive. under the law, guilty, condemned by it, the motive was fear. but when men have been redeemed from under the law and adopted as sons of god, the motive of fear is no more the motive of life. "ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, abba, father." the motive of the son towards the father is not fear, but love. and this love is produced by the fact that god, in love, provided this great, wonderful plan for men, "having in love predestinated us for adoption as sons through jesus christ to himself,"--eph. 1:5, and the fact that the saviour loved us and gave himself for us (gal. 2:20). hence, paul tells us, "the love of christ [not the fear of the law, nor the fear of hell] constrains us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then all died; and he died for all, that they who live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them, and rose again." our saviour, the night before his crucifixion, made clear that this was to be the motive in the life of god's children. in instituting the lord's supper he said, "this is my blood of the new covenant which is shed for many for the remission of sins."--matt. 26:28; then, following this, before leaving the supper room, he said, "if ye love me, keep my commandments,"--john 14:15, not, "if ye are afraid of the law, keep my commandments"; not, "if ye are afraid of going to hell, keep my commandments"; not, "if ye wish to make sure of going to heaven, keep my commandments"; but, "if ye love me." but why love him? because "this is my blood of the new covenant which is shed for many for the remission of sins." that this love, and that _this kind of love_ is clearly the motive power of the real christian life, notice the teaching of the saviour in luke 7:41, 43, "there was a certain creditor who had two debtors; the one owed five hundred pence and the other fifty. and when they had nothing to pay he frankly forgave them both. tell me, therefore, which of them will love him most? simon answered and said, i suppose that he to whom he forgave most. and he said unto him, thou has rightly judged." this is no mere theory, that love _ought_ to be the controlling motive, but it _is_ the controlling motive. and it is not a mere theory that love _ought_ to constrain the real christian, the real believer, but the love of christ _does_ constrain us (2 cor. 5:14). one may be moral, of deep piety, and yet if the motive power of his life is not this love, he is lost, not a real christian. god's word makes this plain, "though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, i am become as sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. and though i have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though i have all faith, so that i could remove mountains, and have not love, i am nothing. and though i bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though i give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing."--1 cor. 13:1-3. two of the mightiest preachers of all times, men whose tongues were those nearest to angels in preaching, chalmers and wesley, after years of most powerful preaching, came out and stated that during all those years they were lost, not christians. why? they had not been really redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14); they had not been forgiven most; the motive had not been the motive of him who is forgiven most,--"though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, i am become as sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal." why? because eloquent, powerful preaching cannot redeem from iniquity, and god has said plainly, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. men may write great books explaining the mysteries of god's word, commentaries, sunday-school lesson helps, instructions to christians; yet if the motive power of their lives is not love based on the fact that they are forgiven most (luke 7:43), redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), they are lost, not real christians,--"though i have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though i have all faith, so that i could remove mountains, and have not love, i am nothing." why? because there is nothing in understanding all mysteries, and all knowledge, in writing commentaries and other helpful books, to redeem from all iniquity. and god has said plainly, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission." the great capitalist, the multi-millionaire, may turn philanthropist, and spend all his wealth in building schools, or libraries, or houses for the poor, or in feeding hundreds of thousands in times of widespread drouth; the catholic nun or protestant or baptist nurse may give her life in the epidemic in nursing the sick; and the heroic fireman give his life in rescuing others from the flames; yet they are all lost, unless the motive power of life is love, produced by the fact that they are forgiven most, redeemed from all iniquity,--"though i bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though i give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing." why? because there is nothing in giving away money to care for the poor, nor in giving up life for others, to redeem from iniquity. and god has said plainly, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. when god, "that he might be just and the justifier of him that hath faith in jesus,"--rom. 3:26, "so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life,"--john 3:16, men must not, they _must not_, from intellectual pride, religious prejudice, family or race ties, nor from any other motive, trifle with god and presume to dictate terms to the most high. were it one poor, obscure man who presumed to do this, men would say that he deserved to be left to answer for his own sins before god at last. but vast numbers, whole religious denominations and university titles cannot change the most high. god does not go by majorities. earth's respectability does not pass current in heaven. "the wisdom of this world is foolishness with god."--1 cor. 3:19. who is this being to whom puny men in their pride and prejudice presume to dictate terms as to how they may escape the just penalty for their sins, as to how their sins should be taken away? "who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance? who hath directed the spirit of the lord, or being his counsellor hath taught him? with whom took he counsel? and who instructed him, and taught him in the path of judgement, and taught him knowledge, and showed to him the way of understanding? behold, the nations are as a drop of a bucket, and are counted as the small dust of the balance; behold, he taketh up the hills as a little thing." "all nations before him are as nothing, and they are counted by him less than nothing, and vanity." "it is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers; that stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in; that bringeth the princes to nothing; that maketh the judges of the earth as vanity."--is. 40:12-15, 17, 22, 23. a professor in a great university has recently said that to the "modern mind," untrained, as the jews, to daily sacrifices, unused, as those of ancient times, to blood-atonement,--remission of sins by blood,--substitution does not commend itself. if he and those who think like him do not care enough as to their eternal destiny to strive to become acquainted with blood-atonement, to realize their need of it, and to see that god, in love, has provided it, complete and eternal, then there is nothing left but for them to go out into eternity to meet the just penalty of their sins; for even then god will be just to them. no one, barbarian or civilized, will ever be treated unjustly by the most high. but it is objected that, if men are taught and believe that they have been redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), that they are not after that under the law (rom. 6:14), that they have been adopted as god's sons (gal. 4:4, 5), and that they are no more servants, but sons (gal. 4:7), they will not serve god from love of christ for dying for them (2 cor. 5:14, 15), but that they will become careless and not try to live christian lives. that is true with hypocrites; they will profess to believe that they are thus redeemed, saved, and will live careless, worldly lives. but really redeemed men _will_ love most (luke 7:43), and live better lives from love. the saviour said, "if a man love me he _will_ keep my words,"--john 14:23; "if god were your father ye _would_ love me."--john 8:42. and john, writing to believers only (1 john 5:13), says: "behold what manner of love the father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called children of god; and such we are. therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew him not. beloved, now are we the children of god, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. and _every one_ that hath this hope on him purifieth himself, even as he is pure."--1 john 3:1-3. the one who is thus redeemed and adopted as a son of god not only purifies himself because prompted by love to the saviour for redeeming him from all iniquity, but because he is born again, and this new nature leads him to hate sin and to love holiness. "whosoever believeth that jesus is the christ is born of god."--1 john 5:1. "being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of god which liveth and abideth forever."--1 peter 1:23. this is no mere theory, no mere theological dogma. cases innumerable throughout the christian era could be cited, where the most wicked men and women in a moment have been completely changed by simply being led to accept jesus christ as their saviour, as their redeemer from all iniquity. in the author's work as an evangelist he has seen the most debased, hopeless men and women revolutionized morally, not by gradual processes, but in a moment, by leading them to repentance and faith in the saviour as their complete redeemer from all iniquity. and the moral revolution was not temporary, but permanent. science cannot account for these moral revolutions brought about in a moment. infidelity cannot account for them. god's word does account for them, that they have been born again, born of god, and have been taken from under the law and have been given a new relation to god and placed under a new motive power. in a city a great mass-meeting for infidels was widely advertised; a large audience assembled. the leader asked all the men in the audience who had once been down in the depths of sin, everything gone, hopeless, and had been led to accept the saviour as their redeemer from sin, please to arise. between three hundred and four hundred well-dressed business men and workingmen arose. the leader then asked all who had been down in the depths of sin, everything gone, hopeless, and they had then been led to believe in infidelity and it had made better men of them, please to arise. one lone man staggered to his feet and he was drunk! science and infidelity cannot explain this difference. god's word does explain it. there is no other explanation. it may be objected that many who profess to be thus redeemed from all iniquities, to be born again, do not continue to live better lives. god's word explains every one of these cases: "they went out from us, but they were _not of us_; for if they had been of us, they would have continued with us; but they went out that they might be made manifest; because not all are of us."--1 john 2:19. in closing this chapter, reader, pause and consider:--are you yet under the law? have you been redeemed from the curse of the law? have you been adopted as a child of god? it is one thing to _say_ "our father"; it is quite a different thing to be really a child of god, and heir of god and joint heir with christ. is the motive of your life love of christ because he has redeemed you from all iniquities? do not be deceived by calling the motive love when really it is not love. if you have been trying to serve god, thinking that if you continued to serve him, continued to try to do your christian duty, you would go to heaven after this life, but that if you failed to serve him and do your christian duty, you would not be saved, then your motive has not been love, and you are lost. if you have been trying to serve god and do your christian duty, fearing that if you failed you would be lost, then your motive has not been love, and you have never been redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), and adopted as the child of god (gal. 4:4, 5). let not pride nor prejudice prevent your coming out from under the law and becoming really a child of god. "my heart's desire and prayer to god for israel is that they might be saved. for i bear them record that they have a _zeal of god_, but not _according to knowledge_. for being _ignorant of god's righteousness_, and _going about to establish their own righteousness_, they have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of god. for christ is _the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth._"--rom. 10:1-4. "as many as _received him_, to them gave he power to become the children of god, even to them that believe on his name."--john 1:12. _for further study_: men are prone to mix the law and redemption through christ. they are separate and distinct. they are two separate roads to heaven. if a man keeps the law from birth to death he will go to heaven without any redemption; he needs no redemption. "moses describeth the righteousness which is of the law, that the man that doeth those things shall live _by them_,"--rom. 10:5; not by christ as the redeemer; he needs no redemption. "and the law is not of faith; but the man that doeth them shall live in them."--gal. 3:12. there is no christ in this; there is no need of christ if a man "doeth them," the law. such a man cannot trust christ to save him; for if he has never broken the law, there is nothing from which he needs to be redeemed. "the soul that sinneth, _it_ shall die"; but if one has kept the law, there is no penalty, no redemption is needed. "the doers of the law _shall be justified_."--rom. 2:13. but "all have sinned and come short of the glory of god,"--rom. 3:23; hence, there is need of redemption; for "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. the other road to heaven, therefore, is that "christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us."--gal. 3:13. the saviour, as well as the apostle paul, taught clearly the two roads; the first, when "one came and said unto him, good master, what good thing shall i do that i may have eternal life? and he said unto him, why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is god: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments."--matt. 19:16, 17. the question was what good thing the enquirer should do in order to have eternal life as the result of what he did. the answer was exactly what paul taught afterwards,--"the man that doeth them, shall live in them."--gal. 3:12. on the other hand, to the penitent woman in simon's house the saviour said, "thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace."--luke 7:50. the trouble is that many men try to make a third road to heaven, partly by obeying the law and partly by redemption through christ; or rather, they try to combine the two separate and distinct ways and make them one. but this is fatal. "if by grace, then it is no more of works; otherwise grace is no more grace. but if it is of works, then it is no more grace; otherwise work is no more work."--rom. 11:6. jesus said, "come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest."--matt. 11:28. and god's word declares plainly, "he that hath entered into his rest himself also hath rested from his own works, as god did from his."--heb. 4:10. no one has rested, ceased, from his own works who thinks that keeping the law or trying to keep the law is a part of the salvation through christ as redeemer. one _must_ cease from his own works, from looking to obeying the law to help in salvation, before he _can_ be saved through christ as redeemer. "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that _justifieth_ the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness."--rom. 4:5. hence, all who are trying to get to heaven by obedience, are under the law, are yet unredeemed, unsaved, not real christians. "as many as are of the works of the law [obeying the law to be saved] are under the curse,"--gal. 3:10; they have not been really redeemed. of this class are all those who believe and teach "salvation by character,"--they are yet under the law; they are yet under the curse.--gal. 3:10. further, they fly in the face of the lord jesus, who said to men who had character, "the publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of god before you."--matt. 21:31. they fail to see that the saviour takes men without character, justifies them from all things (acts 13:39), redeems them from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), redeems them from all iniquities (titus 2:14), and then develops in them a character that will stand the test of the ages; that he takes a jerry mcauley, an s. h. hadley, a harry monroe, and a melville trotter and makes of them four of the most useful men of modern times. they fail to see that character is formed by deeds; that the character of the deed can be determined _only_ by the motive prompting the deed; that the controlling motive for the deed must, in the sight of god, be love (1 cor. 13:1-3); that the motive of love is produced by being forgiven most (luke 7:42, 43); that the forgiveness comes from the saviour having given himself for our sins (gal. 1:4), to redeem us from all iniquity (titus 2:14). because of this failure to consider the motive back of the deed, many books on morals and ethics are absolutely pernicious. in comparing the morals and ethics of christianity with the morals and ethics of heathen religions, they fail to take into consideration the _motive back of the deed_. two young men are trying to win a young woman in marriage; their deeds, outwardly, are the same; the one is prompted by pure, manly love for the young woman; the other has his eye on her father's bank account. you drop your handkerchief as you are passing along the street; a man from pure kindness picks it up and hands it to you. again you drop it, and another picks it up and hands it to you, but his motive is that he may win your confidence and pick your pocket. four sons are equally dutiful, in outward deed, toward their fathers; one, that he may get all the money he wishes from his father; the second, from a cold sense of duty; the third, from fear that his father might kill him or disinherit him if he were not dutiful; the fourth, from tender love for the father. in these four, many authors see no difference, or make no distinction, and yet they profess to be teachers of morals and ethics! four men, outwardly, are living the same moral lives; one, hoping to get to heaven by it; the second, from a cold sense of duty; the third, from fear of hell; the fourth, from love because one died for him (2 cor. 5:14, 15), and redeemed him from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), from all iniquity (titus 2:14). only the last one will ever enter heaven; only the last one is really a christian, redeemed (heb. 9:12), saved (eph. 2:8). as men are prone to mix law and redemption through christ, so they are prone to mix law and sonship. they fail to see that redemption from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), redemption from all iniquity (titus 2:14), redemption from under the law (rom. 6:14), means to be placed in a higher, more sacred relationship to god. even in nature god has two grades of existence, a lower and a higher, for some insects, even; the mosquito, first in the water; then by a simple process it rises into the higher kingdom; the caterpillar, a creeping worm, then the butterfly. but were there no analogies in nature, god has clearly revealed a higher relation for those who are redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), "god sent forth his son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem them that were under the law, that we might receive the adoption of sons,"--gal. 4:4, 5; "having in love predestinated us for adoption as sons through jesus christ to himself."--eph. 1:5. where is man in the scale of being? "thou hast made him a little lower than the angels."--ps. 8:5. but even the angels, who are above man in the scale of being, are not the sons of god. "unto which of the angels said he at any time, thou art my son?"--heb. 1:5. but to _every man_ who has been redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), from under the law (gal. 4:5), god says, "ye are _all_ the sons of god through faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26. "and because ye are sons, god hath sent forth the spirit of his son into your hearts crying, abba, father."--gal. 4:6. "ye have received the spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, abba, father."--rom. 8:15. much of the confusion concerning the higher relationship of the redeemed with god has been caused by teaching the redeemed and the unredeemed to pray what is called the lord's prayer. the saviour did not teach the unredeemed to pray in this manner. they cannot pray it truthfully, honestly, for they are not the children of god. "they that are the children of the flesh, these are not the children of god."--rom. 9:5. if they are not, then they cannot truthfully say "our father," "whom the lord loveth he chasteneth and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. if ye endure chastening, god dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not? but if ye be without chastening, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards, and not sons."--heb. 12:6-8. the language, "bastards and not sons," has some meaning, but it can have no meaning if god is the father of all human beings, and all have a right to say "our father." it is true, that in the old testament god is referred to as a father, but it is only as father of israel, the redeemed. "have we not all one father? hath not one god created us?"--mal. 2:10. but who are the "we"? "the burden of the word of the lord to _israel_ by malachi,"--mal. 1:1;--israel, god's redeemed people. god's word makes it plain that what is called the lord's prayer was not taught by the saviour to the unsaved. "as he was praying in a certain place, when he ceased, _one of his disciples_ said unto him, lord, teach _us_ to pray as john also taught his disciples, and he said unto _them_ [his disciples], when ye [his disciples] pray, say, 'our father.'" how did they become disciples? "as many as received him, to them gave he power _to become_ the children of god, even to them that believe on his name."--john 1:12. "ye are all the sons of god by faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26. concerning this prayer the _southern baptist sunday school teacher_ says, "it is a special gift to believers only." "we cannot too earnestly insist that the lord's prayer is beyond the use of mere worldlings. they have no heart for it. it is the possession and badge of the disciples of christ. it belongs to those who can offer it in humble and hearty faith." the _sunday school teacher_, published by the american baptist publication society, says: "this is a prayer that befits only christian lips and was given to the disciples only, and so it is addressed to 'our father.'" d. l. moody, in "the way home," "but who may use this prayer, 'our father which art in heaven'? examine the context. the disciples when alone with jesus said, 'lord, teach us to pray,' and this was the answer they got; they were taught this precious prayer: 'in this manner pray ye: our father, which art in heaven.' it was taught by jesus to his chosen disciples; then it is only for christians. no man who is unconverted can or has a right to pray thus. christ taught _his disciples_, not all men, not the multitude, to pray like this. a man must be born again before he has any right to breathe this prayer. what right has any man living in sin and in open enmity with god, to lift up his voice and say, our or my father? it is a lie and nothing else for him to say this." the saviour was very explicit on this point: "ye do the deeds of your father. then said they to him, we are not born of fornication; we have one father, even god. jesus said unto them, if god were your father, ye would love me; for i proceeded forth and came from god; neither came i of myself, but he sent me. why do ye not understand my speech? even because ye cannot hear my word. ye are of your father the devil."--john 8:41-44. here are the unredeemed calling god their father. if he is their father, here was the time for the great teacher to make it plain. if he is their father, _in any sense_, here was the opportunity to make it plain. the saviour does not reply, "yes, he is your father in one sense, but i am speaking of another and a higher sense." his answer is plain and unequivocal. there are those who fly in the face of the saviour's plain teaching. hear two of them:--mrs. mary baker g. eddy, in "science and health," "god is the father of all." "man is the offspring of spirit." "spirit is his primitive and ultimate source of being; god is his father and life is the law of his being." "he recognized spirit, god, as the only creator, and therefore as the father of all"; "demonstrating god as the father of men." another makes his meaning just as plain: "he [jesus] was the son of god in like manner that every other person is; for _the creator is the father of all_."--_thomas paine, in "the age of reason."_ the issue is joined between these two on the one side and the lord jesus and paul on the other, and men are lining up on one side or the other, and many of them will spend eternity with the ones whose teaching they are following _now_, with whom they are lining up; and the reader may as well face the fact that many of them will not spend eternity in the same place with the saviour and paul. with many the question as to whether the saviour, when he said, "ye are of your father the devil," told the truth, or was a wilful liar and deceiver, or a deluded fanatic and ignoramus, is merely a matter of taste, or preference, or opinion. it may be claimed by some that "ye are of your father the devil," grates on refined ears and finer sensibilities. but it is more than a question whether it is pride, or religious prejudice, or refined sensibilities, when the sensibilities and feelings are so coarse and hardened that without indignation, often with complacency, they see him who "spake as never man spake," god's "only begotten son," branded as a liar and deceiver. such scholarship and finer sensibilities and such refinement will fill their possessors with horror and remorse in that day when the sun shall become black as sackcloth of hair, and the full moon shall become as blood, and the heavens shall depart as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island shall be moved out of their places, and the kings of the earth, and the great men and the rich men and the chief captains and the mighty men and every bondman and every freeman shall hide themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains and say to the mountains and rocks, "fall on us and hide us from the face of him who sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the lamb; for the great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?"--rev. 6:12-17; "for the father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgement unto the son, that all men should honor the son, even as they honor the father. he that honoreth not the son honoreth not the father who sent him."--john 5:22, 23. "and he commanded us to preach unto the people, and to testify that it is he who hath been ordained of god to be the judge of living and dead."--acts 10:42. if all men who are unredeemed would just stop and realize their real position in the scale of being, and that they really have no heavenly father, and that "as many as received him to them gave he power to become the children of god, even to them that believe on his name,"--john 1:12, there would fall upon this world such a feeling of orphanage as it has never known since the saviour hung on the cross. but in their pride or religious prejudice, or love of the world, or secret sin, blinded by "our father," they go on through life repeating it, and die, never having been redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), and adopted as god's sons (gal. 4:4-7). teaching the unredeemed that god is their father, and to say "our father" is the incubator of religious error and the hot-bed of infidelity. many religious denominations that are fundamentally in error, that really have no redeemer, and therefore no saviour, have as their foundation teaching that god is the father of the human race; and there is scarcely an infidel but that was taught "our father." teach a person that god is his father, that his heavenly father is far better than his earthly father, and then teach him that his heavenly father is going to send him to an eternal hell, and, if he thinks, he is far on the road to infidelity, or he is ready for some modern church that denies that there is any hell. it is said that a missionary to one of the heathen lands, after laboring for some time among the people, employed a learned heathen to help him translate the new testament into the heathen language. the missionary would read and the heathen would translate and write it down. they finally came to the first epistle of john. one morning as they began their work, having finished the second chapter, the missionary read, "behold what manner of love the father hath bestowed upon us." the heathen translated and wrote it down. the missionary read, "that we should be called the children of god." the heathen bowed his head upon the table and began weeping. gaining control of his feelings, he said, "teacher, don't make me put it that way; i know our people; that is too good for us; we don't deserve it. put it this way, 'that we may be allowed to kiss his feet,' that is good enough for our people." he had listened to the story of god giving his son for us; of his life, of his teachings, of his death for our sins; and the thought that, beyond this, god makes the redeemed his children, was too much for him. but in enlightened, so-called christian lands, many who have never even claimed to have been born of god ridicule the teaching that god is the father of the redeemed only, and they blatantly proclaim god to be the father of all human beings, of the drunkard, of the thief, the murderer, whereas, even the angels do not call him father. "unto which of the angels said he at any time, thou art my son?" but when men are redeemed (heb. 9:12), and born again of the spirit (john 3:8; 1 john 5:1), they are really god's children (gal. 3:26). then they are above angels in the scale of being, "heirs of god and joint heirs with christ" (rom. 8:17),--the highest, most exalted of all beings in the universe. oh, that men would put their heels upon their pride, be redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), and become god's real children (gal. 4:4-7). but just as many mix and confuse the teachings as to two roads to heaven, and as to law and sonship, so they mix and confuse the old motive of fear under the law (rom. 8:15), and of love as sons. _the new motive of love could be produced in no other way than by real redemption._ let the reader give close study to the following principles laid down in walker's "philosophy of the plan of salvation": "1, the affections of the soul move in view of certain objects or in view of certain qualities believed to exist in those objects. the affections never move, in familiar words, the heart never loves, unless love be produced by seeing, or by believing that we see, some lovely and excellent qualities in the object. when the soul believes those good qualities to be possessed by another, and especially when they are exercised towards us, the affections, like a magnetized needle, tremble with life, and turn towards their object. "2, the affections are not subject to the will; neither our own will nor any other will can directly control them.... an effect could as easily exist without a cause as affection in the bosom of any human being which was not produced by goodness or excellence seen, or believed to exist, in some other being. "3, the affections, although not governed by the will, do themselves greatly influence the will. all acts of will produced entirely by pure affection for another are disinterested.... so soon as the affections move towards an object, the will is proportionally influenced to please and benefit that object, or, if a superior being, to obey his will. "4, all happy obedience must arise from affection. affectionate obedience blesses the spirit which yields it, if the conscience approve the object loved and obeyed. "5. when the affections of two beings are reciprocally fixed upon each other they constitute a band of union and sympathy peculiarly strong and tender,--those things that affect the one affecting the other in proportion to the strength of affection existing between them. one conforms to the will of the other, not from a sense of obligation merely, but from choice; and the constitution of the soul is such that the sweetest enjoyment of which it is capable rises from the exercise of reciprocal affections. "6. when the circumstances of an individual are such that he is exposed to constant suffering and great danger, the more afflictive his situation the more grateful love will he feel for affection and benefits received under such circumstances. if his circumstances were such that he could not relieve himself, and such that he must suffer greatly or perish, and while in this condition, if another, moved by benevolent regard for him, should come to aid and save him, his affection for his deliverer would be increased by a sense of the danger from which he was rescued. "the greater the kindness and self-denial of a benefactor manifested in our behalf, the warmer and the stronger will be the affection which his goodness will produce in the human heart." and this further statement by walker will be at once accepted by all honest seekers after truth:-"here, then, are two facts growing out of the constitution of human nature. first, the soul must feel its evil and lost state, as the prerequisite condition upon which alone it can love a deliverer; secondly, the degree of kindness and self-denial in a benefactor, temporal or spiritual, graduates the degree of affection and gratitude that will be awakened for him."--_walker, in "the philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ v the sins of god's children--forgiveness--chastisements "our father who art in heaven ... forgive us our sins."--luke 11:1-4. "if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins."--1 john 1:9. "ye have forgotten the exhortation which speaketh unto you as unto sons. my son, despise not thou the chastening of the lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. if ye endure chastening, god dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not? but if ye be without chastening, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards, and not sons. furthermore, we have had fathers of our flesh who corrected us, and we gave them reverence; shall we not much rather be in subjection under the father of spirits and live? for they verily for a few days chastened us as seemed right to them; but he for our profit, that we might be partakers of his holiness."--heb. 12:5-10. "also i will make him my firstborn, higher than the kings of the earth. my mercy will i keep for him for evermore, and my covenant shall stand fast with him. his seed also will i make to endure forever, and his throne as the days of heaven. if his children forsake my law and walk not in my judgements; if they break my statutes and keep not my commandments, then will i visit their transgression with the rod and their iniquity with stripes. nevertheless, my loving-kindness will i not utterly take from him, nor suffer my faithfulness to fail. my covenant will i not break, nor alter the thing that is gone out of my lips. once have i sworn by my holiness that i will not lie unto david."--ps. 89:27-35. in coming to the question of god's plan concerning the lives of men redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), from under the law (rom. 6:14), and adopted as god's sons (gal. 4:4-7), let the reader keep in mind that it is not concerning the sins of unredeemed men, whether professing christians or not. god's plan with the sins of unredeemed men has been shown in chapter i. hence it is not a question of the sins of hypocrites, or other professing christians who are not really god's children. it has been shown in chapter iv that when men are redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), from all iniquity (titus 2:14), they are no longer under the law; "ye are not under the law."--rom. 6:14. god's word lays down a principle recognized and endorsed by all enlightened nations,--"sin is not reckoned [imputed] when there is no law."--rom. 5:13. those who have been redeemed from under the law are adopted as god's children,--"god sent forth his son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem them that were under the law, that we might receive the adoption of sons."--gal. 4:4, 5. god thenceforth deals with them as father with children, and not as judge with transgressors of law. earthly children commit two kinds of sins against their earthly fathers; they sin under temptation and are penitent, and confess their sins and are forgiven. second, they sin wilfully and are chastised. god's children sin in like manner; they sin under temptation, are penitent, confess their sins and are forgiven. second, they become backsliders, sin wilfully and are chastised. let us consider the two classes of sins of god's children and _god's plan with men_ for them. our saviour taught his disciples, god's children, to pray "our father ... forgive us our sins,"--luke 11:1-4; paul and silas taught the jailer, a man under the law, unredeemed, not a child of god, "believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:31. john taught the believers (1 john 5:13), those who were redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), and were god's children (1 john 3:1, 2), "if we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,"--1 john 1:9; paul taught the unredeemed, those who were not god's children, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that _justifieth the ungodly_, his faith is counted for righteousness."--rom. 4:5. many believe and teach that if any one, the unredeemed man as well as the son of god, confesses his sins, god will be faithful and just to forgive his sins. a mohammedan, a jew, a christian scientist, a unitarian, a universalist, confess their sins,--are they forgiven? to these and all others under the law, god has said, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission."--heb. 9:22. "till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled."--matt. 5:18. john is writing to believers only (1 john 5:13), to those who are god's children (1 john 3:1, 2), and to _them_ he says, "if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins."--1 john 1:9. men unredeemed, under the law, can never get rid of their sins by confession. to them god has one message,--"and as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so _must_ the son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have eternal life. for god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life."--john 3:14-16. the saviour taught the _disciples_ to pray, "our father, ... forgive us our sins"; but so widespread is the misconception that it applies to all, redeemed and unredeemed, that all over the world vast multitudes of the unredeemed kneel down every night and say, "our father, ... forgive us our sins," and lie down to sleep deluded with the thought that they are forgiven. if they are forgiven, why was there any need of christ dying for our sins (1 cor. 15:3)? but the real child of god can pray, "our father, ... forgive us our sins," and he is really forgiven. why the difference? with the unredeemed, those yet under the law (rom. 3:19), god is dealing as judge with violators of law, and law knows no forgiveness. with the redeemed, those who have been adopted as god's children (gal. 4:4-7), god is dealing as father with son. let those who are redeemed, who are really god's children, realize the blessed fact that "if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins."--1 john 1:9. but there is another class of sins committed by god's children, "if his children _forsake_ my law" (ps. 89:30), wilful sins. for these god chastises his children, just as an earthly father chastises his wilful and disobedient children. "ye have forgotten the exhortation which speaketh unto you as unto sons, my son, despise not thou the chastening of the lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. if ye endure chastening, god dealeth with you as with sons, for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not? but if ye be without chastening, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and not sons. furthermore, we have had fathers of our flesh who corrected us, and we gave them reverence; shall we not much rather be in subjection unto the father of spirits and live? for they verily for a few days chastened us as seemed right to them; but he for our profit, that we might be partakers of his holiness."--heb. 12:5-10. chastisement or punishment of god's children is for correction; "for our profit, that we might be partakers of his holiness" (heb. 12:10); punishment of the unredeemed is to carry out law, for justice: "that he might be _just_" (rom. 3:26); "every transgression received a _just_ recompense of reward."--heb. 2:2. the unredeemed, those under the law (rom. 3:19), are punished beyond this life, in the day of judgment,--"verily i say unto you, it shall be more tolerable for the land of sodom and gomorrah _in the day of judgment_, than for that city."--matt. 10:15; god's children receive their chastisements in this life,--"if ye endure chastening, god dealeth with you as with sons."--heb. 12:7. professing christians who are not redeemed, not really god's children, do not receive chastisements; hence, they are punished in the day of judgment with the other unredeemed. "but if ye be without chastening, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and not sons."--heb. 12:8. he has observed to little purpose who has not noticed that redeemed people, god's children, suffer more in this life than the unredeemed. god says that his children endure chastenings and others who are not his children do not. the difference can be easily seen by any one who will observe closely. the psalmist observed it and was greatly disturbed by it until he understood the cause of the difference. "truly god is good to israel, even to such as are of a clean heart. but as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh slipped. for i was envious at the foolish when i saw the prosperity of the wicked. for there are no bands in their death, but their strength is firm. _they are not in trouble as other men; neither are they plagued like other men._ therefore pride compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment. their eyes stand out with fatness, they have more than heart could wish. they are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning oppression; they speak loftily. they set their mouths against the heavens and their tongue walketh through the earth. therefore, his people return hither, and waters of a full cup are wrung out to them. and they say, how doth god know? and is there knowledge in the most high? behold, these are the ungodly, who prosper in the world; they increase in riches. verily i have cleansed my heart in vain and washed my hands in innocency. for _all the day long have i been plagued, and chastened every morning_. if i say, i will speak thus: behold, i should offend against the generation of thy children. when i thought to know this, it was too painful for me; _until i went into the sanctuary of god: then understood i their end_. surely, thou didst set them in slippery places; thou castedst them down into destruction. how are they brought into desolation, as in a moment? they are utterly consumed with terrors. as a dream when one awaketh; so, o lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. for my heart was grieved, and i was pricked in my reins. so foolish was i, and ignorant; i was as a beast before thee. nevertheless, i am continually with thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand. thou shalt guide me with thy counsel, and afterward receive me to glory."--ps. 73:1-24. that chastisement in this life for wilful sins is god's plan with redeemed men, his real children, is clearly revealed even in the old testament. god swore by his holiness to david that this would be his plan with redeemed men:--"also, i will make him my firstborn, higher than the kings of the earth. my mercy will i keep for him forevermore, and my covenant shall stand fast with him. his seed also will i make to endure forever and his throne as the days of heaven. if his children forsake my law, and walk not in my judgments; if they break my statutes, and keep not my commandments; then will i visit their transgressions with the rod, and their iniquity with stripes. nevertheless my loving-kindness will i not utterly take from him, nor suffer my faithfulness to fail. my covenant will i not break, nor alter the thing that is gone out of my lips. once have i sworn by my holiness that i will not lie unto david."--ps. 89:27-35. david himself was a case in point. after his terrible sin, god sent word to him by the prophet nathan, "wherefore hast thou despised the commandment of the lord, to do evil in his sight? thou hast killed uriah the hittite with the sword and hast taken his wife to be thy wife, and hast slain him with the sword of the children of ammon. now therefore the sword shall never depart from thine house."--2 sam. 12:9, 10. "and david said unto nathan, i have sinned against the lord. and nathan said unto david, the lord also hath put away thy sin; thou shalt not die."--2 sam. 12:13. god has but one way of putting away sin. "apart from shedding of blood is no remission."--heb. 9:22. "for the life of the flesh is in the blood; and i have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul."--lev. 17:11. but god does not stop there. "howbeit because by this deed thou hast given great occasion to the enemies of the lord to blaspheme, the child also that is born unto thee shall surely die."--1 sam. 12:14. (let the reader notice that god, foreseeing that people would ridicule the idea of god saving david, calls it blasphemy and calls those who do it "the enemies of the lord.") david fasted and prayed for the child. on the seventh day the child died, "but when david saw that his servants whispered, david perceived that the child was dead; therefore david said unto his servants, is the child dead? and they said, he is dead. then david arose from the earth and washed and anointed himself, and changed his apparel, and came into the house of the lord and worshipped: then he came to his own house; and when he required, they set bread before him and he did eat. then said his servants unto him, what thing is this that thou hast done? thou didst fast and weep for the child, while it was alive; but when the child was dead, thou didst rise and eat bread. and he said, while the child was yet alive, i fasted and wept: for i said, who can tell whether god will be gracious to me, that the child may live? but now he is dead, wherefore should i fast? can i bring him back again? _i shall go to him._"--2 sam. 12:19-23. how could david be thus sure? he had god's word on which to rest, "the life of the flesh is in the blood, and i have given it upon the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that maketh atonement for the soul."--lev. 17:11. but because of his sin god chastened him as long as he lived. "now therefore the sword shall never depart from thine house." solomon is another case in point. concerning solomon god said to david, "i will be his father and he shall be my son. if he commit iniquity, i will chastise him with the rod of men, and with the stripes of the children of men; but my mercy shall not depart away from him."--2 sam. 7:14, 15. in chastening, god uses as a rod loss of loved ones (2 sam. 12:14; amos 4:10), loss of property (amos 4:6-9), loss of health (1 cor. 11:30), death (1 cor. 11:30; amos 4:11; deut. 32:48-52). consider the case of moses and aaron: god told them to speak to the rock that it might bring forth water for the children of israel. but they wilfully disobeyed, and instead of speaking to the rock, struck it in anger. for this wilful sin, as a chastisement, god said to moses, "get thee up into this mountain abarim, unto mt. nebo, which is in the land of moab, that is over against jericho; and behold the land of canaan, which i give unto the children of israel for a possession: and die in the mount whither thou goest up, and be gathered unto thy people; as aaron thy brother died in mt. hor, and was gathered unto his people: _because ye trespassed against me_ among the children of israel at the waters of meribah kadesh, in the wilderness of zin."--deut. 32:49-52. though moses was thus severely chastened for his wilful sin, he was not lost, for he was with elijah on the mountain at the transfiguration of the saviour (matt. 17:1-3). the lesson needs to be learned by god's children that as certainly as a redeemed man sins wilfully, whether the sin be great or small, the chastening rod is sure to fall. "if his children _forsake my law ... then will_ i visit their transgressions with the rod and their iniquity with stripes."--ps. 89:30-32. but god does not send the chastening in wrath, nor in justice. "whom the lord _loveth_ he chasteneth and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth."--heb. 12:6. there are many who profess to be redeemed, to be god's children, professed christians, church members, who sin wilfully, and god never sends chastisements to them; but god explains about them, "but if ye be without chastening, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards, and not sons."--heb. 12:8. he does not chasten this class; in hell they will receive their punishment, but it will be just. god will treat no human being wrong. with some it may seem severe that god should chasten and scourge his children. that is not as severe as to send them to hell for their wilful disobedience after they become his children, and that is the belief of many. there are but three plans that god could have for those who have been redeemed from the curse of law (gal. 3:13) and adopted as his children (gal. 4:4-7), and afterward sin wilfully:-first, beyond this life punish them in the judgment (matt. 10:15) for their sins, send them to hell. that would mean, (1) if christ redeemed them from _all_ iniquity (titus 2:14), that god would force the same debt to be paid twice. "shall not the judge of all the earth do right?" (2) that would mean that god would punish, by law, those who have been redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), and who are not under the law (rom. 6:14), and would violate god's own principle, "sin is not reckoned [imputed] when there is no law" (rom. 5:13). (3) that would mean a child of god, redeemed and adopted (gal. 4:4-7), and born again (1 peter 1:23), born of the holy spirit (john 3:8), sent to hell. (4) that would mean to make the saviour unreliable and untruthful in his statements. "many will say unto me in that day, lord, lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out demons? and in thy name done many wonderful works? and then will i profess unto them, i _never_ knew you."--matt. 7:22, 23. these are the professing christians at the judgment who are lost, and jesus says, "i never knew you," that not one of them was ever really redeemed and adopted as a child of god. (5) it would mean for god to violate his own oath (ps. 89: 27-35). second, the second plan possible to god in dealing with those who sin wilfully after they have been redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), and adopted as god's children (gal. 4:4-7), would be to let them continue to sin wilfully, and neither punish them beyond this life, at the judgment, in hell, nor chastise them in this life. that would mean for some of them to eventually develop characters most fearfully warped by sin. third, there is but one other possible plan left for god with redeemed men, redeemed from the law and adopted as his children (gal. 4:7), who sin wilfully; and that is to chasten, chastise them in this life. that is god's plan with the redeemed, his own children; and however severe the chastening, he does it in love. in love he planned to adopt us as his children. "having _in love_ predestinated us for the adoption as sons through jesus christ to himself."--eph. 1:5 (1911 bible), and in love he chastises. "whom the lord _loveth_, he chasteneth and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth."--heb. 12:6. reader, the issue is before you: shall you remain under the law (rom. 3:19) to be punished justly in the judgment (matt. 11:22-24) and to continue to sin in hell (rev. 22:11, r. v.), or will you accept redemption through christ the saviour from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), be adopted as a child of god forever (gal. 4:4-7), to be forgiven when you sin against your father in heaven and confess your sin (1 john 1:9); to be chastened when you sin wilfully (ps. 89:27-34), and to spend eternity in heaven with him who loved you and gave himself for you (john 14:1-3; gal. 2:20), free forever from sin (rev. 21:24-27; rev. 22:3)? you do not intend, reader, to be wrapped in a christless shroud, to be laid away in a christless grave, to spend eternity in a christless hell. decide _now_. _for further study_:--the teaching that god interposes in human affairs to chastise his disobedient children (heb. 12:5-8; ps. 89:27-34), to chasten with the rod of the children of men (2 sam. 7:14, 15; 1 cor. 11:30), will frighten, or arouse the contempt of, "the modern mind" with its self-inflated wisdom, which _just knows_ that "the laws of nature are immutable laws." is there a being called "nature" who made these laws? who revealed to "the modern mind" that these laws were immutable? where did "the modern mind" get its authority (it takes for granted that it has the power) to drive god from his universe, or to make him powerless, or inactive? can "the modern mind" prove absolutely that because god's law of gravitation causes objects to fall toward the earth, he has no right and no power to make elijah's body go up instead of down (2 kings 2:11)? does "the modern mind" absolutely know that god is now inactive and must remain inactive? "dr. mason goode observes that worlds and systems of worlds are perpetually disappearing, that within the period of the last century no less than thirteen in different constellations seem to have perished and _ten new ones have been created_."--_"origin of the globe."_ if god is active out in space, who shall deny him the right or the power to be active on this planet? and if active on this planet at all, then in the individual lives of his children? and in his word, backed up by fulfilled prophecies, to prove that he _is_ dealing with us, he tells us that he is. is "the modern mind" too scholarly, too self-opinionated, to consider the following words from prof. james orr in his "the resurrection of jesus" ("the modern mind" is very careful not to attempt a thorough reply to professor orr's "problem of the old testament," nor his "resurrection of jesus"--for obvious reasons)? "the question is not, do natural causes operate uniformly? but _are natural causes the only causes that exist or operate_? for miracle, as has frequently been pointed out, is precisely the assertion of the interposition of a _new_ cause; one, besides, which the theist must admit to be a _vera causa_." if when we become god's children, we are no longer under the law (rom. 6:14), we are redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), we are no more servants but sons (gal. 4:7), the question arises, why pray to our father in heaven to be forgiven? the child does not ask his father's forgiveness in order to be his child, but to have the disturbed fellowship restored. the unforgiven child is still a child, but will be chastened. it is fellowship of the heavenly father with the child that is restored by forgiveness, and is sought in forgiveness, and not a destroyed relationship. on this point hear james denny in his "the death of christ": "christ died for sins once for all, and the man who believes in christ and in his death has his relations to god once for all determined not by sin but by the atonement. the sin for which a christian has daily to seek forgiveness is not sin which annuls his acceptance with god." there needs to be kept in mind, in considering that god chastens his children, the distinction that while chastenings are sufferings, all sufferings are not chastisements. the expression, "whom the lord loveth he chasteneth" (heb. 12:6), has been widely misused and sadly misapplied. because david's babe was taken from him as a chastisement (2 sam. 12:14), many thoughtlessly conclude that every babe's death is meant for a chastisement for the father and mother; and many apply "whom the lord loveth he chasteneth" to all of the sorrows and sufferings of god's children. but there is another purpose accomplished by some sufferings, in "that the trial of your faith being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of jesus christ."--1 peter 1:7. "and he shall sit as a purifier and refiner of silver."--matt. 3:3. the silver is not to blame for the dross; nevertheless, it needs to be burned out. a child stole a piece of bread; the father chastised the child for it. that chastening was suffering. but the same child was born a cripple. in straightening the foot, the father forced many weeks of fearful suffering on the child, but the suffering was not chastisement. chastisements are sufferings of god's children for wrongdoing to correct them; but there are sufferings that are not chastisements for wrongdoing, but are to take out of us defects, or to develop us. hence, to say to some one who is suffering from sorrow or affliction, "whom the lord loveth he chasteneth," is often cruel and untrue. vi rewards--degrees in heaven "i give unto them eternal life and they shall never perish."--john 10:28.--"lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven."--matt. 6:20. "by grace have ye been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of god; not of works, lest any one should boast."--eph. 2:8, 9.--"each man shall receive his own reward _according to his own labor_."--1 cor. 3:8. "other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is jesus christ. now if any man build upon this foundation gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay, stubble; every man's work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. if any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. if any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire."--1 cor. 3:11-15. "but god said unto him, thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee; then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided? so is he that layeth up treasure for himself and is not _rich_ toward god."--luke 12:20, 21. "whosoever would save his life shall lose _it_; and whosoever shall lose his life for my sake shall find _it_. for what shall a man be profited if he shall gain the whole world and forfeit his life, or what shall a man give in exchange for his life? for the son of man shall come in the glory of his father, with his angels, and then shall he render unto every man _according to his deeds_."--matt. 16:25-27 (r. v.) "behold, i come quickly; and my reward is with me, to give each one _according as his work shall be_."--rev. 22:12. the teaching of god's word of degrees in future punishment ("these shall receive greater condemnation,"--mark 12:40) according to heredity and environment ("it shall be more tolerable for tyre and sidon at the day of judgment than for you;" "it shall be more tolerable for the land of sodom in the day of judgment than for thee,"--matt. 11:22, 24), and according to sin ("every transgression and disobedience received a just recompense of reward,"--heb. 2:2), commends itself to the judgment, to the conscience, of every honest man. the companion teaching to this in god's word is that there will be different degrees, or rewards, in heaven. just as the degree of man's punishment in hell will be determined by his life here; so the degree of a man's reward in heaven will be determined by his life here. the dividing line is redemption. with many, salvation and rewards mean the same thing, but the saviour made a clear distinction. "i give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish."--john 10:28 ("he that believeth on me hath everlasting life."--john 6:47);--"lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven."--matt. 6:20. our salvation is a gift and depends upon the saviour; our treasures in heaven must be laid up by ourselves. paul makes the distinction equally clear. "by grace have ye been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of god; not of works, lest any man should boast."--eph. 2:8, 9 (r. v.).--"each man shall receive his own reward according to his own labor."--1 cor. 3:8. but by rewards for service god's word does not mean god's blessings on the faithful christians in this life. it means rewards beyond this life. jesus said, "when thou makest a dinner or a supper call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. but when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind; and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee, for thou shalt be recompensed _at the resurrection of the just_."--luke 14:12-14. if "each man shall receive his own reward according to his own labor" (1 cor. 3:8), there will, then, be different rewards or degrees in heaven; for doubtless no two redeemed people ever served god in exactly the same degree of faithfulness. paul makes this distinction clear, as well as the difference between salvation and rewards. he uses the illustration of building houses out of different material. he has been speaking of preachers and their work, and then seems to turn and apply his teaching to every one, for he says, "let every man take heed how he buildeth thereupon."--1 cor. 3:10. whether he is speaking only of preachers and their work, or applies it to every man; whether he is speaking of building in the lives of others by what we teach or do, or whether he makes a turn and applies it to every man and his building in his own life, he draws the clear distinction between the foundation on which the building rests and the building built thereupon, between salvation alone through christ, and rewards for service: "for other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is jesus christ. now, if any man build upon this foundation gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay, stubble; every man's work shall be made manifest; for the day shall declare it; because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. if any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. if any man's work shall be burned he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire."--1 cor. 3:11-15. why is he saved? because he has been redeemed from the curse of the law, christ having been made a curse for him (gal. 3:13); because he has been redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14); because he has been redeemed from under the law (rom. 6:14); and god means his promise, "believe on the lord jesus and thou shalt be saved" (acts 16:31), and he means the promise of the saviour, "verily, verily i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me hath everlasting life and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life." but when the redeemed man's works shall be burned, though he himself shall be saved (1 cor. 3:15), he shall suffer loss (1 cor. 3:15), and the loss shall be irreparable, eternal, and so great that no human being in this age can fully realize it. here the old translation, the king james' version, has misled us. the oft-quoted sentence, "what is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" is a mistranslation. the revised version translates it correctly: "what shall a man be profited, if he shall gain the whole world and forfeit his life, or what shall a man give in exchange for his life?"--matt. 16:26. by noticing verse 25, and verse 27 the reader can see what the saviour meant: "whosoever would save his life shall lose _it_," not his soul, but his life, "and whosoever shall lose his life for my sake shall find _it_," his life not his soul; "whosoever shall lose his life for my sake,"--men do lose their lives for his sake, but no one loses his soul for the saviour's sake. following immediately he says, verse 26, "for what shall a man be profited, if he shall gain the whole world and forfeit his life? or what shall a man give in exchange for his life?" in verse 27 the saviour makes plain how a man who would save his life, loses it, and how the one who shall lose his life for the saviour's sake shall find it,--in the rewards that he loses by trying to save his life, or gains by losing his life for the saviour's sake, "for the son of man shall come in the glory of his father with his angels; and then shall he render unto every man according to his deeds." what deeds? deeds of losing his life for the saviour's sake. for all eternity he will have no reward for the life he lived here--he has lost his life. now, the saviour says that if a man "shall gain the whole world," and in doing so shall "forfeit his life,"--shall have no reward in eternity as a result of his life (the principle laid down by paul, whether of preachers or of all, "if any man's work shall be burned he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved."--1 cor. 3:15), he has made a fearful mistake. but if the one who "shall gain the whole world" and in doing so "shall forfeit his life," shall have no reward for it, makes a fearful mistake, how much greater mistake does the one make who forfeits his life to have no reward throughout eternity, in order to gain a very small part of the world, as so many are doing? but if the one who "shall forfeit his life,"--have no reward in eternity,--in order to gain but a very small part of the world, makes such a fearful, such a great mistake, far worse is the bargain made by the unredeemed man who loses not only his life but also loses his soul in order to gain a very small part of "the whole world"; and yet this is what the vast majority of men are doing. we cannot grasp it, we cannot realize it, but jesus says that the rewards (not salvation--1 cor. 3:15) that men are losing are more than "the whole world." another teaching of the saviour along this line has been widely misapplied: "he spake a parable unto them, saying, the ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully; and he thought within himself, saying, what shall i do, because i have no room where to bestow my fruits? and he said, this will i do: i will pull down my barns, and build greater; and there will i bestow all my fruits and my goods, and i will say to my soul, soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry. but god said unto him, thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee; then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided?"--luke 12:16-20. at once many rush to the conclusion that he was lost, that he went to hell; and they proceed to warn men against laying up treasures in this life and losing their souls. but god said, "this night thy soul shall be required of thee," not "this night thy soul shall go to hell." let the saviour make his own application: "so is he that layeth up treasures for himself and _is not rich toward god_."--luke 12:21. "if any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon he shall receive a reward" (1 cor. 3:14), he is rich toward god; "if any man's work shall be burned he shall suffer loss" (1 cor. 3:15), he is a fool; he spent a life here on earth and has no reward in eternity as a result of it;--"but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire."--1 cor. 3:15. (if in the passage 1 cor. 3:11-15, paul is speaking only of preachers and their work in building on the foundation of christ in the lives of others by their teaching, he yet shows that some whose work abides will be rewarded, and that others whose work shall be burned shall suffer loss and yet shall be saved; so that the principle applies with all christians). two cases in point:-a great american statesman was told by his physician that in a few days he must die. that afternoon a minister called to see the dying statesman and asked as to his hope beyond the grave. the dying statesman replied, "mr. blank, i am going to heaven when i die." the minister asked the dying man on what he based his hope. he replied: "mr. blank, i am ashamed to say that i am a christian; but now that the time has come, i must not deny my saviour. when i am dead tell your people that days before i died, when my mind was calm and clear, i gave my dying testimony that i was going to heaven, redeemed by the blood of christ." the minister pressed the question, why he thought he was a christian. the statesman said to the negro man who was nursing him, "jack, go into my library and bring me my bible." turning to the minister he said, "mr. blank, as i said to you, i am ashamed to say that i am a christian, but now that the time has come, i must not deny my saviour. long years ago, back in the old red hills of georgia, when i was a young man, one sunday in an old country church i heard a baptist preacher preach, and i understood him. he showed that god honestly loves this world, that jesus christ, god's son, died for our sins, and that he died for all of our sins; and that every one who would repent and trust christ to save him was certain to go to heaven. out there in that old country church in the red hills of georgia i accepted jesus christ as my redeemer and saviour that sunday morning, and trusted him to save me. i came west and became overwhelmed in business and politics. i have wasted my life." just then the negro man returned and handed the bible to the dying statesman. he turned the leaves and finally stopped, and turning to the minister he said, "mr. blank, i am ashamed to say it, but i don't know much about this book; but i do know that this is god's word; and i do know that out in the old country church in the red hills of georgia that sunday morning, when i heard and understood the country preacher, i did, as a guilty, lost, justly condemned sinner, accept jesus christ as my saviour and redeemer and trust him to save me. listen, mr. blank: 'he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life.' mr. blank, god says i have everlasting life, and i am going to heaven when i die." and turning, the great statesman buried his face in his pillow and sobbed out his grief and remorse. he did go to heaven, "but god said unto him, thou fool ... so is he that layeth up treasures for himself and is not rich toward god."--luke 12:20, 21. the second case in point:-a rich banker in the west a few weeks before christmas sent a check for three hundred and fifty dollars to his brother in the east, a poor country preacher, telling him to come and bring all of his family and spend christmas with him. they had not seen each other since boyhood. the preacher and family arrived christmas eve morning. that afternoon in carriages the two families drove over the banker's beautiful farm of a thousand acres of rich land. coming in late in the afternoon, they came by the pasture and saw the beautiful herd of blooded cattle. after a sumptuous supper the banker's daughters gave them some splendid music and the two families went upstairs to sleep. the two white-haired brothers, the banker and the poor country preacher, remained downstairs, and for hours talked of boyhood days in the old country home in the east. at last the conversation, like the fire in the fireplace, had about died out. finally the banker turned and said, "brother john, may i say something to you and you not get angry?" said the preacher, "why, brother james, you can say anything you wish to me and i will not get angry." said the banker, "brother john, you and i were poor boys back in the old country home in the east and we agreed to be partners for life. one day you came to me and told me that you were called to preach. i told you then that you were a fool. what a fool you have been! do you remember that rich farm of a thousand acres you saw this afternoon? paid for with honest money, john. this comfortable home for my old age, paid for with honest money, john. the fifty thousand dollars i have in the bank in the city where i am president of the bank, every dollar of it honest money, john. john, you could have had as much as i have. what a fool you have been! why, i had to send you the three hundred and fifty dollars to bring you and your family that i might see them before i die. and look at your daughters; they are dressed in such a shabby way that i am ashamed for my neighbors to see my children's cousins. and look at you with your old seedy, worn suit and your patched shoes; i am ashamed to take you to town day after to-morrow and introduce you to my business associates. what a fool you have been! now, john, i am not saying this to wound your feelings; for i love you, john. but i don't want you to let any of your boys be such fools as you have been. you know you have been a fool, john." then there was silence for some time. the tears were trickling down the cheeks of the old country preacher. at last he broke the silence, "brother james, may i say something to you and you not get angry?" "why, certainly, john, i did not say what i did to make you angry, but to keep you from letting any of your boys be such fools as you have been, for you know you have been a fool, john." "i know," replied the old preacher, "that it looks like i have been a fool from this end of the line, brother james. but, brother james, we are both old men and we must soon go. don't be angry with me, brother james, but what have you got up yonder?" again there was silence, which was suddenly broken by the banker sobbing, "oh, john, i am a pauper at the judgment bar of god." "so is he that layeth up treasures for himself and is not rich toward god." they are dying all over the world, men who are redeemed, going to heaven, but paupers. "if any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire,"--1 cor. 3:15. but far better be a pauper, and saved without any reward, than be a rich man in hell (luke 16:22, 23): for they are dying all over the world who not only lived for this life, but from pride, or religious prejudice, or love of the world, or secret sin, would not repent and be redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13) and be saved (acts 16:31). with this teaching, that there are rewards in heaven, there is another most helpful teaching and blessed fact, that the poorest, most ignorant and obscure can have just as great rewards as the richest, most learned, most applauded. "each man shall receive his own reward _according to his own labor_,"--1 cor. 3:8, not according to what he accomplishes. "behold, i come quickly; and my reward is with me, to give each one _according as his work shall be_,"--rev. 22:12; not according as his success shall be. "and jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury; and many that were rich cast in much. and there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. and he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, verily i say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast in more than all they that have cast into the treasury."--mark 12:41-43. the wealthy, the mighty, the renowned who serve faithfully after they were redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), from all iniquity (titus 2:14), shall receive their reward. but the poor, the weak, the obscure who serve faithfully after they are redeemed shall receive equally as great rewards; and if they have been more faithful, however small their sphere, they shall receive even greater rewards. "two mites that make a farthing," but it was all she could do; "verily i say unto you that this poor widow hath cast in more than all they that have cast into the treasury."--mark 12:42, 43. in an american city, one morning a man apparently sixty or seventy years of age, dressed as a plain business man, walked into the dining-room of one of the leading hotels and sat down to breakfast. some men at the adjoining table were talking of a sad case of suffering, as reported in the morning paper; a poor widow with five children was very sick, who had, since her husband's death a few years before, struggled and made a living for herself and children; but now, having been down sick for some time, everything was gone and they were suffering. the stranger listened to the sad story; and, having finished breakfast, he called a newsboy and bought a paper. the account gave the street address of the poor widow. he went to the street address, a street of poor cottages, and, knocking at the door, was led into the sick room by a child. he saw the condition of affairs and heard the widow's story. sitting by the bedside, he talked in a fatherly, cheerful way and tried to encourage the poor widow; and quietly slipping something under the pillow, as he was talking, he told the widow to use that as she needed it. then taking out a little book from his pocket, he wrote something and tore the paper out of the little book and slipped the paper under a book and told the widow to use that when she needed it. then calling down god's blessings upon the widow and her fatherless children, he bade them good-bye. as the door closed, the widow slipped her hand under the pillow and drew out a roll of money, to her a large sum. then she reached for the piece of paper under the book on the table. there was a check for a goodly sum, signed by one of america's christian millionaires. the glow in his soul as he walked away from the widow's cottage was not the only reward--"thou shalt be _recompensed at the resurrection of the just_."--luke 14:14. but the following sunday a poor widow working in a sweatshop to make a living for her fatherless children, listened to an appeal for foreign missions, to get the gospel to those who have never heard, and she threw in ten cents, all she could give, "two mites that make a farthing."--"verily i say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast in more than all they that have cast into the treasury."--mark 12:42, 43. all over the world, by the multiplied millions, there are graves where lie sleeping the bodies of those who, down the ages, because they were redeemed, gave their lives in service. they went down to their graves, their praises unsung by the world. many of them went down to their graves, never realizing that there were rewards for them; simply rejoicing in their salvation through him who loved them and gave himself for them (gal. 2:20). "the desert rose, though never seen by man; is nurtured with a care divinely good; the ocean pearl, though 'neath the rolling main, is ever brilliant in the eyes of god. "think not thy worth and work are all unknown because no partial pensman paint thy praise; man may not see nor care, but god will own thy worth and work; thy thoughts and deeds and ways." riding along a lonely country road one sunday afternoon, many years ago, returning from a country church, a young preacher was talking to his companion, a young man eighteen years of age, telling him of god's love and of _god's plan with men_. the conversation had ended, and for some minutes they had been riding along in silence, when suddenly the young man spurred his horse up to the young preacher's horse, and seizing the reins, stopped both horses. dropping the reins, he threw both arms around the preacher's neck, and as he began sobbing said, "oh, r----, how good god is!" how little men consider god's goodness. how good god is to have ever brought us into being! how good god is, though we have all sinned against him (rom. 3:23), "that he might be just and the justifier of him that hath faith in jesus" (rom. 3:26), to have provided complete redemption for us from all iniquity (titus 2:14)! how good god is to have "in love predestinated us for adoption as sons through jesus christ to himself"!--eph. 1:5. how good god is to chastise us in love (heb. 12:5, 6) instead of punishing us in hell for our sins after we become his children (ps. 89:27-34)! how good god is to place us where we will serve him from love, and not from fear of punishment (2 cor. 5:14, 15)! how good god is, in addition to our salvation, to provide rewards in heaven for the services we render here (matt. 6:20)! how good god is to provide that the poor, the ignorant, the obscure, can have just as great rewards as the more fortunate ones (mark 1:41, 42)! how good god is to say, "if any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire"!--1 cor. 3:15. _for further study_:--the objection that the teaching of rewards in heaven makes christianity too matter-of-fact is not well taken. punishments or rewards last through all eternity; with the unredeemed, in added degrees to the punishment in hell; with the redeemed, in added rewards in heaven. and they need to realize that with both classes this applies to the smallest deeds: "but i say unto you, that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give an account thereof in the day of judgment."--matt. 12:36. "and whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily i say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward."--matt. 10:42. neither is the objection well taken that to teach men to aim to have rewards in heaven is appealing to an unworthy motive. jesus taught it (matt. 6:20), paul taught it (1 cor. 3:11-15), moses endorsed it (heb. 11:26), and the objector himself prays for god's blessings here in this life. nor is the objection well founded, that for people to aim to have rewards will destroy the motive of love. rather, it adds to the motive of love. a father gives his son, yet not of age, a fine farm. that arouses the boy's love. the father tells the boy that, though not of age, he may have the full reward of his labor on the farm, beginning at once. this does not destroy the motive of love. so, the saviour, having died for our sins (1 cor. 15:3), and given us eternal life (john 10:28, 29), arouses our love; to give us the privilege of having rewards in addition to salvation (matt. 6:20), does not destroy our love, but increases it. there is one limitation god's word makes to our deeds being rewarded: "take heed that ye do not your righteousness before men to be seen of them: else ye have no reward with your father who is in heaven. when therefore thou doest alms, sound not a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. verily i say unto you, they have received their reward. but when thou doest alms let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth; that thine alms may be in secret; and thy father who seeth in secret shall recompense thee."--matt. 6:1-4. if a redeemed man does his righteous deeds in order to get glory as reward here, he gets it, but none in heaven,--the wrong motive prevents his receiving rewards in heaven. _god rewards according to the motive._ there seems to be one other limitation to receiving rewards in heaven for the deeds of this life: "whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven; but whosoever shall do and teach them the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven."--matt. 5:19. the teaching seems to be that for one to deliberately break even the least commandment, while he will be saved ("the least _in the kingdom of heaven_") yet he will have no reward ("_the least_ in the kingdom of heaven"). there is one passage of scripture that some have thought contradicts the teaching of different rewards in heaven: "the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man, an householder, who went out early in the morning to hire laborers into his vineyard. and when he had agreed with the laborers for a penny a day, he sent them into his vineyard. and he went out about the third hour, and saw others standing idle in the market place, and said unto them, go ye also into the vineyard and whatsoever is right i will give you, and they went their way. again he went out about the sixth hour and the ninth hour, and did likewise. and about the eleventh hour he went out, and found others standing idle, and saith unto them, why stand ye here all the day idle? they say unto him, because no man hath hired us. he saith unto them, go ye also into the vineyard; and whatsoever is right, that shall ye receive. so when even was come, the lord of the vineyard saith unto his steward, call the laborers, and give them their hire, beginning from the last unto the first. and when they came that were hired about the eleventh hour, they received every man a penny. but when the first came, they supposed that they should have received more, and they likewise received every man a penny. and when they had received it, they murmured against the goodman of the house, saying, these last have wrought but one hour, and thou hast made them equal unto us, who have borne the burden and heat of the day. but he answered one of them and said, friend, i do thee no wrong; didst not thou agree with me for a penny? take that thine is and go thy way; _i will give unto this last even as unto thee_."--matt. 20:1-14. from this the conclusion is drawn that there are no different rewards in heaven; that all are rewarded alike. but not only does god's word elsewhere teach different rewards in heaven, but the saviour made his teaching on this point very plain. in the parable of the pounds, the servant who with one pound gained ten pounds is rewarded with authority over ten cities. but the one who with one pound gained only five pounds is rewarded with only five cities (luke 19:16-19). this shows clearly a difference in rewards. if, now, this passage in matthew teaches no difference in rewards, then we have a positive contradiction. but consider the two parables: the parable of the pounds is where men have the same opportunity, each one a pound; then they are rewarded according to what they accomplish. the parable of the vineyard is where the laborers work different lengths of time; in the morning, boys and girls, six, eight, ten, twelve years of age, becoming christians and going into the vineyard; the third hour, young people, fifteen, eighteen, twenty years of age, becoming christians and going into the vineyard; the sixth hour, young men and young women, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five years of age, becoming christians and going into the vineyard; the ninth hour, men and women past middle life, forty, forty-five, fifty years of age, becoming christians and going into the vineyard; the eleventh hour, old men and women, sixty, seventy, eighty years of age, becoming christians and going into the vineyard. but does the saviour mean all old men and women who become christians in old age and begin working in the vineyard? no, for he limits it to those in old age who can say, "_no man hath hired us_." then the saviour means by the eleventh hour laborers in the parable those who in old age had never before had the opportunity of going into the vineyard; who had never before heard or understood the way to be saved, and enter god's service. with these, the saviour reserves the sovereign right to give them just as great rewards as though they had entered the vineyard "early in the morning"; not that those who "have borne the burden and heat of the day" shall receive less, but that those who did not have the opportunity of entering the vineyard sooner, shall not lose because of it. some one may think that there are no old men and women who do not know the way to be saved and enter the vineyard. even in professedly christian lands there are many old men and women who, because of wrong religious teaching, have never seen the real way to be saved; and in china and africa there are vast numbers who can say, "no man hath hired us." to take a case: a mere child becomes a christian and serves in the vineyard for seventy years; an old chinaman eighty years of age hears the gospel for the first time, and becomes a christian and works in the vineyard only one year and dies. he will receive as great a reward as the one who served god seventy years. apply this principle to the redeemed who died in early life: if those who entered at the eleventh hour, "because no man hath hired us" receive for one hour as much as those who have labored throughout the day, then those who entered the third hour and the lord of the vineyard himself took them out the fourth hour, will receive as great rewards as though they had been left to bear the burden and heat of the day. blessed consolation to those who have lost loved ones who were taken early in life. three of the saviour's parables are closely connected in their teaching concerning rewards: the parable of the pounds, where each servant has a pound and one gains ten pounds and another five; one receives authority over ten cities, the other receives authority over five cities, just half the reward of the other, because he was just half as faithful (luke 19:16-19). this parable represents that class of men who have equal opportunity in life (each one a pound) and teaches that their reward will be in proportion to what they accomplish. the second is the parable of the vineyard, representing the length of time of service when the laborers were not to blame for not entering the vineyard earlier; showing that they shall not lose because they could not get into the vineyard to work earlier. the third is the parable of the talents, where the one with five talents gained five other talents and the one with two talents gained two other talents, and they both received the same commendation, the same reward, "i will make thee ruler over many things" (matt. 25:20-23); teaching that the one with small opportunity (two talents) if he uses it faithfully, will receive as great reward as the one with great opportunity (five talents) who uses it faithfully. a widely misunderstood passage of scripture bearing on the subject of rewards is 1 cor. 9:24-27: "know ye not that they that run in a race run all, but only one receiveth the prize? so run that ye may obtain. and every contestant in the games is temperate in all things. they, indeed, do it to obtain a corruptible crown; but we an incorruptible. i therefore so run, not as uncertainly; so fight i, not as one that beateth the air; but i buffet my body and bring it into subjection; lest that by any means, after having preached to others, i myself should be disapproved."--the 1911 bible. the authorized version reads "a castaway"; the revised version reads "rejected." many have thought that paul was striving that he might not be a castaway (or rejected) from salvation. but notice the passage; he was striving not to be a castaway (or rejected) from something that is secured as a result of one's own efforts, "so run that ye may obtain." salvation is not secured as a result of one's efforts; "to him that _worketh not_ but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness."--rom. 4:5. rewards are secured as a result of one's own efforts; "each man shall receive his own reward according to his own labor."--1 cor. 3:8. again, what paul was striving not to be a castaway (or rejected) from, is something that one receives after the race is finished; but salvation comes at the beginning of the race course, "he that believeth on the son _hath_ everlasting life,"--john 3:36; "by grace _have ye been_ saved."--eph. 2:8. rewards do come after the race is finished;--"thou shalt be recompensed _at the resurrection of the just_."--luke 14:14. again, in saying "i buffet my body," he has no reference to buffeting his body to keep it from sin, but from _comforts and privileges that are not sinful_. in the entire chapter he has referred only to his not eating and drinking; not leading about a wife as well as other apostles and the brethren of the lord and cephas; not being supported by those to whom he preached (1 cor. 9:4-14); and in each case he says that he has a right to these things. was paul buffeting his body against having a wife lest he should be a castaway (or rejected) from salvation? then only the roman catholic priests, among the preachers, will be saved. was paul buffeting his body against being supported by those to whom he preached, and working with his own hands for his living, lest he should be a castaway (or rejected) from salvation? then the roman catholic priests and almost all of the protestant and baptists preachers will be lost. will a man be a castaway (or rejected) from salvation for enjoying comforts and privileges that are not sinful and to which he has a right? but let paul state for himself what he means: "for if i do this thing willingly _i have a reward_."--1 cor. 9:17. he then urges the corinthian christians to run in the race that they may receive the prize. "i buffet my body and bring it into subjection (from enjoying these sinless comforts and privileges); lest that by any means, after having preached (r. v. margin "have been a herald") to others (preaching or heralding to run in the race and so run as to obtain the prize, the reward) i myself should be disapproved" (a castaway, rejected,--from the prize, the reward). "if any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. if any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss, but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire."--1 cor. 3:14, 15. but does paul teach that there are rewards for bodily sufferings and self-denials? let him explain: "though i am free from all men, yet have i made myself servant unto all, _that i might gain the more_."--1 cor. 9:19. that, by giving up these comforts and privileges he might win more people to be saved (1 cor. 9:20-22). there is the prize, there are rewards, for those who bring their bodies under from comforts and privileges that they may thereby win others to be saved. with the coppers in the foreign mission envelope from an orphan newsboy was found a note written in a child's awkward handwriting, "starved a meal to give a meal." he would not have been a castaway from salvation had he bought and eaten his lunch that day; but there will be, at the resurrection of the just (luke 14:14), the prize for having brought his body into subjection that he might gain the more. during a collection for foreign missions, a poor, ragged, one-legged negro hobbled down the aisle and laid three packages of money on the table: "dat's fur my wife; dat's fur my boy; dat's fur me." when the collector saw the amount, he protested, saying that it was too much for a poor crippled man to give. as a matter of fact, it meant weeks of sacrificing, sometimes with no meat on the table. as the tears trickled down the black cheeks, the negro said, "oh, boss, de lord's cause must go on, and i may soon be dead"; and turning he hobbled back to his seat. he was only a poor, ignorant, one-legged negro, but he ran in the race, and at the resurrection of the just he will receive the prize. a christian chinaman sold himself to some mine owners that he might go down in the mines and while working lead his fellow-chinamen to be saved. he had no support from those to whom he preached, but worked with his own hands. he ran in the race, and will receive the prize. if the young catholic priest was redeemed who turned from the comforts and privileges of a wife and home and gave himself for the lepers, there will be the prize at the resurrection of the just. the world says that a man is a fool to make such sacrifices; jesus said: "thou fool ... so is he that layeth up treasures for himself and is not rich toward god."--luke 12:20, 21. "if any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon he shall receive a reward. if any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss; but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire."--1 cor. 3:14, 15. vii how to be saved--repentance and faith "repent ye and believe the gospel."--mark 1:15. "repentance toward god, and faith toward our lord jesus christ."--acts 20:21. "and ye when ye had seen it, repented not afterward, that ye might believe him."--matt. 21:32. "except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish."--luke 13:3. "and as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the son of man be lifted up; that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john 3:14,15. "sirs, what must i do to be saved? and they said, believe on the lord jesus and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:30, 31. wherever repentance and faith are mentioned in god's word without one exception, repentance comes before faith. there is a faith that comes before repentance; but it is pure historical faith, and does not result in salvation. "he that cometh to god must believe that he is,"--heb. 11:26; the demons believe in god's existence, that he is; thomas paine believed in god's existence, that he is. but the faith that results in salvation invariably comes after repentance; "and ye when ye had seen it, repented not afterward, _that ye_ might believe him."--matt. 21:32. if, therefore, the faith that saves must come after repentance, then those who have no saving faith after repentance, have no salvation, are not really redeemed. not only so, but if saving faith must come after repentance, then those who place the only faith they claim, before repentance, do not understand what saving faith is. jesus preached, "repent ye and believe the gospel."--mark 1:15. paul preached "repentance toward god and faith toward our lord jesus christ."--acts 20:21. what does "repent" or "repentance" mean? god's word teaches that one must repent _in order to believe_. "and ye when ye had seen it, repented not afterward, _that ye might believe him_."--matt. 21:32. "except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish."--luke 13:3. then whatever "repentance" or "repent" means, it is something that must take place before one can be saved, before he can "believe the gospel" (mark 1:15); before he can have "faith toward our lord jesus christ."--acts 20:21. the saviour gives a complete, perfect picture of salvation, and in that picture we can find what repentance means: "as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the son of man be lifted up: that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john 3:14, 15. jesus says "as," "even so"; then in the case of the serpent in the wilderness we have a complete, perfect picture of the way of salvation. by seeing what came back there before the lifting up of the serpent, we can see what comes before believing in him, or "faith toward our lord jesus christ." notice the incident to which the saviour referred as showing the complete picture of the way of salvation: "and they journeyed from mount hor by the way of the red sea, to compass the land of edom: and the soul of the people was much discouraged because of the way. and the people spake against god, and against moses, wherefore have ye brought us up out of egypt to die in the wilderness? for there is no bread, neither is there any water; and our soul loatheth this light bread. and the lord sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people; and much people of israel died. therefore the people came to moses, and said, we have sinned, for we have spoken against the lord, and against thee; pray unto the lord that he take away the serpents from us. and moses prayed for the people. and the lord said unto moses, make thee a fiery serpent, and set it upon a pole, and it shall come to pass, that every one that is bitten, when he looketh upon it, shall live. and moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived."--num. 21:4-9. these people realized that they had sinned against god; that their sins deserved punishment; that they were justly condemned--"we have sinned";--that they were helpless, "pray unto the lord that _he_ take away the serpents from us"; and in their helpless condition they turned from their sins and turned to god. there had been, then, an entire change of mind and purpose, or they would never have turned from their sins to god. when they faced the fact that they had sinned and were justly condemned, there resulted sorrow, and their sorrow led to the change of mind and purpose to turn from their sins to god. had there been no conviction of sin, no realization that they had sinned and were justly condemned, there would have been no change of mind, or purpose to turn from sin to god. here, then, we have what repentance is,--a conviction of sin, such a realization of the fact that one has sinned and is justly condemned that it produces such sorrow as leads to an entire change of mind and purpose to turn from sin and turn to god. god then provided the easiest way for them, "every one that is bitten, when he looketh upon it [the brazen serpent] shall live."--num. 21:8. the saviour says, "even so must the son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john 3:15. notice the case of the jailor, acts 16:22-34. when the jailor fell down before paul and silas and brought them out and said, "sirs, what must i do to be saved?" (verse 30), they did not say, "repent"; they said, "believe on the lord jesus and thou shalt be saved."--verse 31. but god's word teaches plainly that we must repent in order to believe (matt. 21:32; luke 13:3). then repentance must have already taken place,--he must have already repented,--or they would have taught him "repentance toward god" as well as "faith toward our lord jesus christ."--acts 20:21. go back and notice the jailor's case: the night before, he had taken paul and silas with their backs bloody from the beating they had received, and had not washed their stripes (verse 33), had given them no supper (verse 34), and had thrust them into the inner prison and made their feet fast in the stocks. he was utterly hardened. the praying and singing hymns to god by paul and silas, the sudden earthquake, paul's crying out against his committing suicide, had convicted him of sin, such a conviction as had produced sorrow, for he came trembling and fell down before them; and the sorrow had led to an entire change of mind and purpose, and he said, "sirs, what must i do to be saved?"--"what," anything god would have me do i am ready to do,--he had turned from his sins and had turned to god. hence they did not say "repent," for he had repented; but they said, "believe on the lord jesus and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:31. having seen what the saviour meant by repentance, let us go to the meaning of the word translated "repent." "this word," says j. p. boyce, the great theologian, in his systematic theology, "means to reconsider, perceive afterwards and to change one's view, mind or purpose, or even judgment, implying disapproval and abandonment of past opinions and purposes, and the adoption of others which are different." b. h. carroll, president southwestern baptist theological seminary: "we may therefore give as the one invariable definition of new testament repentance that it is a change of mind." b. h. carroll, again, "repentance is a change of mind toward god concerning a course of sin leading rapidly down to death and eternal ruin." once more from b. h. carroll: "if in one moment the soul is contrite enough to turn in abhorrence of sin against god from all self-help to our lord jesus christ by faith, it is sufficient." john a. broadus, the great american scholar and teacher: "to repent, then, as a religious term of the new testament, is to change the mind, thought or purpose as regards sin and the service of god--a change naturally accompanied by deep sorrow for past sins, and naturally leading to a change of outward life." as the bible teaches that no man can be saved who has not repented ("except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish."--luke 13:3), and as no one has repented who has not been convicted of sin, who has not seen himself a guilty, justly condemned sinner, it follows that no one is saved, no one can be saved, who does not believe that god will and ought to punish sin. but to those who have repented, the way to be saved is simple, easy, sure: "believe on the lord jesus and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:31. _for further study_:--there has been much misunderstanding about repentance. some men, as moody, harry moorehouse, j. h. brookes, etc., have been charged with not preaching enough repentance, simply because they did not use the words "repent" and "repentance" as much as others; whereas, others who use the words often, and tell touching incidents, are said to preach "old-fashioned repentance." it is not the word repentance that god requires, but the thing repentance, and a sinner must repent or he cannot believe (matt. 21:32) and he will perish (luke 13:3). the gospel of john is the only book of the bible given specifically to sinners to lead them to be saved. the way of salvation can be found in many of the books of the bible, and is taught in them; but the gospel of john is the only book of the bible given for the special, specific purpose of leading a sinner to be saved. "many other signs truly did jesus in the presence of his disciples which are not written in this book: but these are written that ye might believe that jesus is the christ, the son of god, and that believing ye might have life through his name."--john 20:30, 31. in this book, given specifically to lead a sinner to be saved, the word "repentance" or "repent" does not occur, but the thing repentance does (john 3:14, 15). on the difference between the thing repentance and the word repentance, give attention to the words of john a. broadus, the great american scholar and teacher already quoted: "great difficulty has been found in translating this greek word 'metanoein' into languages. the syriac version, unable to give the precise meaning, falls back upon 'turn,' the same word as the hebrew. the latin version gives 'exercise penitence' (poenitentiam agere). but this latin penitence, apparently connected by etymology with _pain_, signifies grief or distress, and is rarely extended to a change of purpose, thus corresponding to the hebrew word which we render 'repent,' but _not_ corresponding to the terms employed in old testament and new testament exhortations. hence a subtle and pernicious error, pervading the whole sphere of latin christianity, by which the exhortation of the new testament is understood to be an exhortation to _grief_ over sin, as the primary and principal idea of the term. one step farther and penitence was contracted into _penance_, and associated with mediã¦val ideas unknown to the new testament, and the english version made by romanists now represents john and jesus and peter as saying (poenitentiam agere) do penance. from a late latin compound (repoenitere) comes our english word 'repent,' which inherits the fault of the latin; making grief the prominent element, and change of purpose secondary, if expressed at all. thus our english word corresponds exactly to the second greek word (metamelesthai), and to the hebrew word rendered repent, but sadly fails to translate the exhortation of the new testament." repentance is not a price that the sinner pays for salvation; neither is the sorrow that leads to repentance a price that he pays for salvation. and repentance does not make the sinner a fit subject for salvation; nor does the sorrow that leads to repentance make him a fit subject for salvation. no one can see that he has violated god's just and holy law and is guilty, justly condemned, helpless, without its producing sorrow and this sorrow will lead to repentance, to an entire change of mind and purpose, to turning from sin, and, as b. h. carroll expressed it, from all self-help ("repentance from dead works,"--heb. 6:1) to god. some are sometimes troubled as to how much sorrow there must be. there are different degrees of sorrow in different people, but there must be enough sorrow to lead to repentance, to an entire change of mind and purpose. "in both the old testament and the new testament exhortation the element of grief for sin is left in the background, neither word directly expressing grief at all, though it must in the nature of things be present."--_jno. a. broadus._ "to repent is to change your mind about sin and christ and all the good things of god. there is sorrow implied in this; but the main point is the turning of the heart from sin to christ. if there be this turning you have the essence of the repentance, even though no alarm and no despair should ever have cast their shadow upon your mind."--_c. h. spurgeon._ "conviction of sin is just the sinner seeing himself as he is and as god has all along seen him."--_h. bonar, in "god's way of peace."_ "the object of the holy spirit's work in convincing of sin is to alter the sinner's opinion of himself and so to reduce his estimate of his own character, that he shall think of himself as god does, and so cease to suppose it possible that he can be justified by any excellence of his own. having altered the sinner's good opinion of himself, the spirit then alters his evil opinion of god, so as to make him see that the god with whom he has to deal is really the god of all grace."--_bonar._ "it is impossible, therefore, in the nature of things, for a sinful being to appreciate god's mercy unless he first feels his justice as manifest in the holy law."--_walker, in "philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ "man cannot repent and turn from sin till he is convicted of sin in himself."--_walker, in "philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ "the more we feel the want of a benefactor, temporal or spiritual, and the more we feel our inability to rescue ourselves from existing difficulties and impending dangers, the more grateful love will the heart feel for the being who, moved by, and in despite of, personal sacrifices, interposes to assist and save us."--_walker, in "philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ "as a feeling of want was necessary in order that the soul might love the being that supplied that want, and as jesus came to bestow spiritual mercies upon mankind, _how could men be brought to feel the want of a spiritual benefactor and saviour?_"... "according to the constitution which god has given the soul, it must feel the want of the spiritual mercies before it can feel love for the giver of those mercies. and just in proportion as the soul feels its lost, guilty, and dangerous condition, in the same proportion will it exercise love to the being who grants spiritual favor and salvation. how then could the spiritual want be produced in the souls of men in order that they might love the spiritual benefactor?"... "the only possible way by which man could be made to hope for and appreciate spiritual mercies and to love a spiritual deliverer would be to produce a conviction in the soul itself of its evil condition, its danger as a spiritual being, and its inability, unaided, to satisfy the requirements of a _spiritual law_, or to escape its just and spiritual penalty. if man could be made to perceive that he was guilty and needy; that his soul was under the condemnation of the holy law of the holy god, he would then, necessarily, feel the need of a deliverance from sin and its consequences; and in this way only, could the soul of man be led to appreciate spiritual mercies, or love a spiritual benefactor."--_walker, in "philosophy of the plan of salvation."_ viii the meaning of "believe on" or "believe in" christ "god so loved the world he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john 3:16 (r. v.). "this is the work of god, that ye believe on him whom he hath sent."--john 6:27. "he that believeth on me shall never thirst."--john 6:35. "to him give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth on him shall receive remission of sins."--acts 10:43. "believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:31. "john verily baptized with the baptism of repentance, saying unto the people that they should believe on him that should come after him, that is, on jesus."--acts 19:4. "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is reckoned for righteousness."--rom. 4:5. "whosoever liveth and believeth in [into] me shall never die. believest thou this?"--john 11:26. "we have believed in [into] jesus christ, that we might be justified by the faith of christ, and not by the works of the law."--gal. 2:16 (r. v.). "i know him whom i have believed, and i am persuaded that he is able to guard that which i have committed unto him against that day."--2 tim. 1:12 (r. v.). if language can be made plain, if it can be used to express a fact clearly, then god's word teaches clearly, unmistakably, that the one who believes on christ is going to heaven. one may think it to be too good to be true, when he reads what god's word says along this line; he may be honestly tempted to suspect that there must be many hidden, suppressed conditions, which, if expressed, would make the meaning different; or from religious prejudice, he may warp the meaning or bring in other conditions;--but god's word is plain. "god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have eternal life."--john 3:16. it does not say, whosoever believeth on him and unites with the right church, or is baptized the right way, or lives the right kind of a life; it simply says, "whosoever believeth on him"; and then the promise is plain and absolute, "should not perish." jesus said, "he that believeth on me shall never thirst."--john 6:35. he did not say, he that believeth on me and unites with the right church, or is baptized the right way, or lives the right kind of a life; he said plainly, simply, "he that believeth on me," and then added "shall never thirst." peter to the household of cornelius said, "to him give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth on him shall receive remission of sins."--acts 10:43. he did not say, whosoever believeth on him and unites with the right church, or is baptized the right way, or lives the right kind of a life; but simply, "whosoever believeth on him," and then adds the plain promise, "shall receive remission of sins." when the jailor came trembling and fell down before paul and silas and brought them out and said, "sirs, what must i do to be saved?" they answered, simply, plainly, "believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:31. they did not say, believe on the lord jesus and unite with the right church, or be baptized the right way, or live the right kind of a life; they said simply, "believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved." when paul wrote to the romans, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is reckoned for righteousness,"--rom. 4:5, he did not say, believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly and unites with the right church, or is baptized the right way, or lives the right kind of a life; but simply, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is reckoned for righteousness." jesus to the grief-stricken sister of lazarus said, "whosoever liveth and believeth in [into] me shall never die."--john 11:26. he did not say, whosoever liveth and believeth in me and unites with the right church, or is baptized the right way, or lives the right kind of life; but simply and plainly, "whosoever liveth and believeth in me," and then he adds his plain promise, "shall never die." when paul said to the galatians, "we have believed in [into] jesus christ, that we might be justified by the faith of christ,"--gal. 2:16, he did not say, we have believed in jesus christ and united with the right church and been baptized the right way, that we might be justified by faith of christ and not by the works of the law. instead of this, he puts it in simple, plain language. in all of these cases, these conditions could have been expressed just as easily by the saviour and peter and paul as they are expressed by religious teachers to-day. why did not the saviour and peter and paul express these conditions? there can be but one answer,--because they are not conditions of salvation. how could the saviour and peter and paul have left out these conditions if they are conditions of salvation? but the question arises, if being baptized the right way and living the right kind of a life are not conditions of salvation, why do these things? not from fear of hell; god desires no service from that motive. let the saviour tell why. when he instituted the lord's supper, he said, "this is my blood of the new covenant which is shed for many, for the remission of sins,"--matt. 26:28; and then before leaving the upper room he said to his disciples: "if ye love me, keep my commandments."--john 14:15. why love him? love him because he shed his blood for the remission of their sins. let paul tell us why serve him: "the love of christ constraineth us; because we thus judge that if one died for all, then all died; and he died for all, that they who live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them, and rose again."--2 cor. 5:14, 15. now comes the all-important question, what do these parallel expressions, "believe on christ" or "believe in [into] christ" mean? many, when they see how simple and plain is the teaching, say, "why, almost every one believes on christ." no; they believe _about_ christ, but not _on_ christ. a wealthy man deposits a large sum of money in the bank and promises to pay the debts of all the poor people who will trust him to pay their debts. they all may believe him, may believe about him; but only those who believe on him, depend on him, rely on him to pay their debts, will have their debts paid. so christ died for all our sins (1 cor. 15:3); he gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity (titus 2:14); but only those who _believe on_ him, _depend on_ him, _rely on_ him to save them, will ever be saved. the man who is depending on christ and his baptism or christ and his church, or christ and his good life to save him, will be lost; for he is not believing on, depending on, relying on, christ to save him; but only partly on christ and partly on something else; and _there is no promise in god's word that those who partly believe on christ shall be saved_. the very fact that a man depends partly on christ and partly on something else to save him, shows that he has never believed that the saviour "gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity" (titus 2:13, 14); the saviour he is depending on is not the saviour god's word reveals; and hence he has no saviour at all. notice paul's instruction to the romans concerning believing on christ: "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is reckoned for righteousness."--rom. 4:5. consider the simple but vital teaching of this passage: he justifieth the ungodly. how? "whom god hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood ... to declare, i say, at this time his righteousness, that he might be _just_ and the _justifier_ of him that believeth in jesus" (rom. 3:25, 26); "being now justified by his blood."--rom. 5:9. and he justifies us from all sin, "our saviour jesus christ who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from _all_ iniquity" (titus 2:13, 14); redeems us from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), redeems us from under the law (rom. 6:14), and this makes us god's children (gal. 4:4-7). consider further: he justifies _the ungodly_. if he justifies the ungodly then all efforts to become godly _in order to be saved_, are worse than wasted and are in rebellion against _god's plan for men_. "when we were yet without strength in due time christ died for the _ungodly_."--rom. 5:6. "god commendeth his own love toward us, in that _while we were yet sinners_, christ died for us."--rom. 5:8. "_when we were enemies_ we were reconciled to god by the death of his son."--rom. 5:10. why? because christ justifies the ungodly. the saviour did not say to nicodemus, "whosoever becomes godly should not perish," but "whosoever believeth on him." why? because he justifies _the ungodly_. paul and silas did not say to the jailor, a hardened sinner, "become godly and thou shalt be saved"; but "believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved." why? because he justifies _the ungodly_. on what condition does he justify the ungodly? "to him that _worketh_ not, but _believeth_ on him." here is the work of the soul to be saved; paul says to cease working at the task, and believe on, depend on, him--he justifies the ungodly. god gave men ten commandments to keep. god's word says, "the man that doeth them shall live by them."--gal. 3:12. but all men have failed to keep them; "all have sinned and come short of the glory of god."--rom. 3:23. to illustrate: a father gives a little boy ten rows of corn to work out and says to him, "willie, if you will work out the ten rows of corn to-day, i will pay you five dollars; but it will take steady work all day." about nine o'clock some boys persuade willie to play, and he plays with them for two hours. now he cannot get the task done, and so is sure to lose the five dollars. his grown brother comes to him and says, "willie, i saw the trouble you were getting into, and had a talk with father. father says that the work must be done or you will lose the five dollars. but father agreed to let me do the work for you. now if you will quit working at the task and trust me, depend on me, i will see that the work is done, and that you get the five dollars." the little brother quits working at the task, and gets out of the field. he believes on, depends on, trusts, his big brother. if, now, there is any failure, it will be the big brother's failure, and not the little brother's. so, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is reckoned for righteousness." if, then, the sinner will quit working at the task of his salvation and believe on, depend on christ, trust the whole work of salvation to him, he will "justify the ungodly" from "all iniquity" (titus 2:14). if, then, there should be any failure of being saved, it would be christ's failure, for he said, "him that cometh unto me, i will in no wise cast out."--john 6:37. why, then, should the one who has thus trusted christ ever be baptized, or live a faithful, godly life? go back to the illustration: as the little brother quits working at the task in the field and believes on, depends on, trusts, the big brother to have the task done, a man meets him and says, "willie, your brother was good to you. but to do your work for you, that you might not lose the five dollars, he left his field, and it needs work badly. if i were in your place, from love to my big brother, i would go and work in his field for him." the little brother says, "i will do it, sir." he goes over into his big brother's field and works harder than ever, not from fear of losing the five dollars, but from love to his big brother. so the saviour, after we have believed on him, trusted him to save, justify us, says, "if ye love me, keep my commandments."--john 14:15. "go work to-day in _my_ vineyard,"--matt. 21:28; not "in _your own_." all the work that the redeemed, the saved, man does is not in his own field, to get the task done, that he may be saved; but in the big brother's field, from love to the big brother for having relieved him of the entire responsibility for the task. to follow up the illustration: the big brother sees the little brother working in the big brother's field and he goes to him and says, "willie, i appreciate this, for you are doing it from love to me. if you were doing it from fear lest i might not keep my promise, it would hurt me; for that would show that you did not trust me. but you cannot work for me for nothing. i will pay you fifty cents for every hour you work in my field. now, work hard and have a large reward for your labor." so the saviour says, "whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of water only in the name of a disciple, verily i say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward."--matt. 10:42. and he says, "lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven."--matt. 6:20. "he shall reward every man according to his works."--matt. 16:27. the reward of fifty cents for every hour's work does not destroy the motive of love that moves the little brother; it only increases the motive of love. but do not redeemed people, god's children, sometimes become backsliders? yes. go back to the illustration of the little brother and his task. as he is working from love to his big brother, in the big brother's field, the bad boys follow him and tempt him, and prevail on him to leave the big brother's field and to mistreat the big brother. the father sees it all; goes and takes the little brother out into the forest and reproves him for his wrong to his big brother, and then chastises him and sends him back to the big brother's field. so, when god's redeemed, saved children backslide, do wrong wilfully, he chastises them. "my son, despise not thou the chastening of the lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the lord loveth he chasteneth and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth."--heb. 12:5, 6. "also i will make him my firstborn, higher than the kings of the earth. my mercy will i keep for him for evermore, and my covenant shall stand fast with him. his seed also will i make to endure forever, and his throne as the days of heaven. if his children forsake my law and walk not in my judgments; if they break my statutes, and keep not my commandments; then will i visit their transgression with the rod and their iniquity with stripes. nevertheless, my loving kindness will i not utterly take from him nor suffer my faithfulness to fail."--ps. 89:27-33. reader, which field are you working in? are you working in your own field? trying to accomplish a task, now that you have sinned, you can never accomplish?--meet _all_ of god's just laws and requirements, and develop a character that will entitle you to a home in heaven? heed the message, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is reckoned for righteousness." believe on him, depend on him, to justify you from all iniquity (titus 2:14). the moment you do, your eternal destiny is settled, "verily, verily i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life."--john 5:24. then, from love to the big brother, go into his field and work till the day is done. in telling of his own salvation, paul again makes plain what "believe on the lord jesus" means: "i know him whom i have believed and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which i have committed to him against that day." notice this declaration as to the apostle's salvation: "i know him." a man must "know him" or he cannot "believe on" christ. he can _risk_ him without knowing him, but he cannot _believe on_ him, cannot _trust_ him for salvation. it does not mean, know him in every respect, as to how his divine and human nature could be united; as to how he could have had eternal existence; as to how his resurrected body could appear and disappear, etc., but to know him in his character as saviour. in trusting money to a bank one does not need to know how much german or french or english blood there is in the bank officials. in trusting one's case to a physician, one does not need to know the different nationalities from which he is descended, but he needs to know him in his character as physician. so men must know jesus in his character as saviour, or they cannot believe on, trust him to save them. they must, then, know him as the messiah, the promised saviour, the complete sin-bearer, or they cannot believe on him. but after one knows the bank, he must commit his money to the bank, else the bank is not responsible for it. after one knows the physician, he must commit his case to the physician, else the physician is not responsible. and so paul says, "i am persuaded that he is able to keep that which i _have committed unto him against that day_." no one, then, is redeemed, is saved, who has not committed his salvation to christ against that day. let the reader get clearly the meaning of "commit." no one has committed money to the bank who yet holds to the money; no one has committed a package to the express company who yet holds to the package; no one has committed a letter to the post-office for delivery who yet holds to the letter. so no one has committed his salvation to christ, no one is redeemed, is saved, who yet holds to the work of his salvation. he must _commit_ it to christ. further, no one has _committed_ his money to the bank who has not left the entire responsibility for the money's safety to the bank, leaving no further responsibility whatever upon himself for the safety of the money. no one has _committed_ a package to the express company, who has not left the whole responsibility for the delivery of the package entirely to the company, leaving no responsibility whatever upon himself for its safe delivery. no one has _committed_ a letter to the post-office who has not left the entire responsibility for its safe delivery to the government, leaving no responsibility whatever upon himself for its safe delivery. even so, no one has _committed_ his salvation to christ, no one is redeemed, is saved, who has not left the entire responsibility of his salvation to christ, leaving no responsibility whatever for his salvation upon himself. but one may have committed his money to the bank and yet not really have trusted the bank, but only _risked_ the bank; one may have committed a package to the express company and yet not really have trusted the express company, but only _risked_ it; one may have committed a letter to the post-office and yet not really have trusted the post-office, but only _risked_ it. so, one may have committed his salvation to christ, and yet be unredeemed, unsaved, because he only _risked_ christ and did not _trust_ him. hence paul says, "i know him whom i have _believed_," _trusted, taken at his word_. one other fact needs to be considered as to what believing on christ means in paul's case. he says, "i am persuaded that he is able to keep that which i have committed to him _against that day_." it is not a committal of one's salvation to christ a moment at a time, nor till one can see how he will afterwards feel; nor till one can see whether he is going to be able to live a christian life. it is to commit one's salvation to christ "_against that day_." and the moment one does what paul did, commits his salvation to christ against that day, god's word says he is saved, redeemed: "verily, verily i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life."--john 5:24. _for further study_:--when paul says, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth _the ungodly_, his faith is counted for righteousness,"--rom. 4:5, he is in line with the teaching of the saviour when he said, "the publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of god before you,"--matt. 21:31; and if the teaching of the saviour and paul on this point is true, then there is not left one square inch of ground on which the teachers of "salvation by character" may stand. they are not in agreement with the saviour and paul on this point, but there is one with whom they are here in strict agreement; "i hope for happiness beyond this life"; "i believe that religious duties consist in doing justice, loving mercy, and endeavoring to make our fellow-creatures happy"; "the only true religion is deism, by which i then meant and now mean the belief of one god, and an imitation of his moral character, or the practice of what are called moral virtues; and that _it was upon this only_ (so far as religion is concerned) _that i rested my hopes of happiness hereafter_. so say i now, and so help me god." these are exact quotations from "the age of reason," by thomas paine. and those who preach "salvation by character" thus line up with paine against the saviour and paul. they fail to see that there can be no proper character without proper motive, and that there can, in the sight of god, be no proper motive till one is redeemed, saved, and thus placed where the motive will be love, the purest motive possible to human beings. and they fail to see that _god's plan with men_ is to save irrespective of character, and then to develop in the redeemed man the real character for all eternity. god has not two ways of salvation; he has not two ways of believing on christ. what is essential to one man's salvation is essential to the salvation of every man. what is "believing on christ" for one man, is believing on christ for every man. when paul says "i know him whom i have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to guard that which i have committed to him against that day,"--2 tim. 1:12 (r. v.), he has given the pattern of saving faith. "i know him." man _must_ know him in his real character as saviour or he cannot commit to him against that day the matter of his eternal destiny, cannot believe on him. what are the essential things, then, that must be included in "i know him" in his character as saviour, in order that one can believe on him, be saved by him, be a real christian? first, one must know him as the promised messiah, in order to really believe on him, to be really a christian. the high priest asked, "art thou the christ, the son of the blessed? and jesus said, i am."--mark 14:61, 62. the woman at the well said, "i know that messiah cometh, who is called christ: when he is come, he will tell us all things. jesus saith unto her, i that speak unto thee, am he."--john 4:25, 26. as ballard, in "the miracles of unbelief," has clearly pointed out, either (1) he was the messiah; or (2) he was the illegitimate son of a fallen woman and the vilest deceiver the world has ever known, or (3) he was the illegitimate son of a fallen woman, and a poor, simple-minded ignoramus, who claimed to be the messiah and honestly thought he was, but was simply ignorant and deluded. men in their intellectual pride or religious prejudice may sneer and try to avoid this issue, but every honest thinking man will see and confess that only these three conclusions are possible, that one of the three is inevitable: and every honest man will take one of the three positions. voltaire said "curse the wretch." he is to be commended as compared with the man who tries to avoid the issue. second, one must know him as complete redeemer in order to believe on him, in order to commit one's salvation to him against that day. there is no middle ground. he was either no redeemer at all, or he "gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity."--titus 2:14. to try to avoid the issue here is as fatal as to try to avoid the issue as to his being the messiah. to believe on, to commit one's salvation to, a partial redeemer, is to have no redeemer at all, to be left unredeemed, unsaved. third, to know him in order to believe on him, to commit one's salvation to him against that day, one must know him as having been really raised from the dead. _belief in the real resurrection of the saviour is essential to salvation._ for one to be heralded abroad as a great preacher and theologian who yet denies the literal, real resurrection of the saviour, cannot change god's word that all such are yet unredeemed, lost, not real christians. god's word is plain on this point: "if thou shalt confess with thy mouth jesus as lord, and _shalt believe in thy heart that god hath raised him from the dead_, thou shalt be saved."--rom. 10:9. "if christ hath not been raised your faith is vain; _ye are yet in your sins_."--1 cor. 15:17. chalmers, the great scotch preacher, in a letter to a friend made plain what believing on christ means: "i must say that i never had so close and satisfactory a view of the gospel salvation, as when i have been led to contemplate it in the light of a simple offer on the one side, and a simple acceptance on the other. it is just saying to one and all of us, there is forgiveness through the blood of my son: take it, and whoever believes the reality of the offer takes it.... we are apt to stagger at the greatness of the unmerited offer and cannot attach faith to it till we have made up some title of our own. this leads to two mischievous consequences: it keeps alive the presumption of one class who will still be thinking that it is something in themselves and of themselves which confers upon them a right of salvation; and it confirms the melancholy of another class, who look into their own hearts and their own lives, and find that they cannot make out a shadow of a title to the divine favor. the error of both lies in their looking to themselves when they should be looking to the saviour. 'look unto me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.'--is. 45:22. the son of man was so lifted up that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life (john 3:14, 15). it is your part simply to lay hold of the proffered boon. you are invited to do so; and you are entreated to do so; nay, what is more, you are commanded to do so. it is true, you are unworthy, and without holiness no man can see god; but be not afraid, only believe. you cannot get holiness of yourself, but christ has undertaken to provide it for you. it is one of those spiritual blessings of which he has the dispensation, and which he has promised to all who believe in him. god has promised that with his son he will freely give you all things (rom. 8:32); that he will walk in you, and dwell in you (2 cor. 6:16); that he will purify your heart by faith (acts 15:9); that he will put his law in your mind and write it in your heart (heb. 8:10). these are the effects of your believing in christ, and not the services by which you become entitled to believe in him. make a clear outset in the business, and understand that your first step is simply confiding acceptance of an offer that is most free, most frank, most generous, and most unconditional. if i were to come as an accredited agent from the upper sanctuary with a letter of invitation to you, with your name and address on it, you would not doubt your warrant to accept it. well, here is the bible, your invitation to come to christ. it does not bear your name and address, but it says 'whosoever,' that takes you in; it says 'all,' that takes you in; it says 'if any,' that takes you in. what can be surer or freer than that?" equally helpful are the words of horatius bonar in "words for the inquiring":--"if you object that you cannot believe, then this indicates that you are proceeding quite in a wrong direction. you are still laboring under the idea that this believing is a work to be done by you, and not the acknowledgment of a work done by another. you would fain do something in order to get peace, and you think that if you could do this great thing 'believing,' if you could but perform this great act called faith, god would at once reward you by giving you peace. thus faith is reckoned by you to be the price, in the sinner's hand, by which he buys peace, and not the mere holding out of the hand to get a peace which has already been bought by another. so long as you are attaching any meritorious importance to faith, however unconsciously, you are moving in a wrong direction--a direction from which no peace can come. surely faith is not a work. on the contrary, it is a ceasing from work. it is not a climbing of the mountain, but a ceasing to attempt it, and allowing christ to carry you up in his own arms. you seem to think that it is your act of faith that is to save you, and not the object of your faith, without which your act, however well performed, is nothing. accordingly, you bethink yourself, and say, 'what a mighty work is this believing--what an effort does it require on my part--how am i to perform it?' herein you sadly err, and your mistake lies chiefly here, in supposing that your peace is to come from the proper performance on your part of an act of faith; whereas, it is to come entirely from the proper perception of him to whom the father is pointing your eyes, and in regard to whom he is saying, 'behold my servant whom i have chosen, look at him, forget everything else--everything about yourself, your own faith, your own repentance, your own feelings--and look at him! it is in him, not out of your poor act of faith, that salvation lies; and out of him, not out of your own act of faith, is peace to come.' thus mistaking the meaning of faith and the way which faith saves you, you get into confusion, and mistake everything else connected with your peace: you mistake the real nature of that very inability to believe of which you complain so sadly. for that inability does not lie, as you fancy it does, in the impossibility of your performing aright the great act of faith, but of ceasing from all such self-righteous attempts to perform any act, or do any work whatsoever in order to your being saved. so that the real truth is, that you have not yet seen such a sufficiency in the one great work of the son of god upon the cross, as to lead you utterly to discontinue your mistaken and aimless efforts to work out something of your own. "but perhaps you may object further, that you are not satisfied with your faith. no, truly, nor are you ever likely to be. if you wait for this before you take peace, you will wait till life is done. not satisfaction with your own faith, but satisfaction with jesus and his work, this is what god presses on you. you say, 'i am satisfied with christ.' are you? what more, then, do you wish? is not satisfaction with christ enough for you, or for every sinner? nay, and is not this the truest kind of faith? to be _satisfied with christ_, that is faith in christ. to be satisfied with his blood, that is faith. what more could you have? can your faith give you something which christ cannot? or will christ give you nothing till you can produce faith of a certain kind and quality, whose excellences will entitle you to blessing? do not bewilder yourself. do not suppose that your faith is a price, or a bribe, or a merit. is not the very essence of real faith just your being satisfied with christ? are you really satisfied with him and with what he has done? then do not puzzle yourself about your faith, but go on your way rejoicing, having thus been brought to be satisfied with him who to know is peace, and life, and salvation.... faith, however perfect, has of itself nothing to give you either of pardon or of life. its finger points you to jesus. its voice bids you look straight to him. its object is to turn away from itself and from yourself altogether, that you may behold him, and in beholding him be satisfied with him and in being satisfied with him have joy and peace." likewise james denny, in "the death of christ," teaches the same lesson: "it is this great gospel which is the gospel to win souls--this message of a sin-bearing, sin-expiating love which pleads for acceptance, which takes the whole responsibility of the sinner, unconditionally, with no preliminaries, if only he abandon himself to it." a young person who felt that his time in this world was short, wrote to an eminent english preacher to write and tell a sinner what he must do to prepare to die--what is the preparation required by god--and when he is fit to die. the preacher wrote: "i urge you to cast yourself at once, in the simplest faith, upon the lord jesus christ and you shall be saved. all your true preparation for death is entirely out of yourself and in the lord jesus. washed in his blood, and clothed upon with his righteousness, you may appear before god divinely, fully, freely and forever accepted. the salvation of the chief of sinners is all prepared, finished and complete in christ (eph. 1:6; col. 2:10). again i repeat, your eye of faith must now be directed entirely out of and from yourself, to jesus. beware of looking for any preparation to meet death _in yourself_. it is _all in christ_. god does not accept you on the ground of a broken heart, or a clean heart, or a praying heart, or a believing heart. he accepts you wholly and entirely on the ground of the atonement of his blessed son. cast yourself in child-like faith upon that atonement--'christ dying for the ungodly' (rom. 5:6)--and you are saved! justification is this, a poor law-condemned, self-condemned, self-destroyed sinner, wrapping himself by faith in the righteousness of the lord jesus christ, which is unto all them that believe (rom. 3:22). he, then, is justified and is prepared to die, and he only, who casts from him the garment of his own righteousness and runs unto this blessed city of refuge--the lord jesus--and hides himself there--exclaiming, 'there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in christ jesus' (rom. 8:1). god is prepared to accept you in his blessed son, and for his sake he will cast all your sins behind his back, and take you to glory when you die. never was jesus known to reject a poor sinner that came to him empty and with nothing to pay. god will glorify his free grace by your salvation, and will therefore save you just as you are, without money and without price (is. 55:1). i close with paul's reply to the anxious jailor, 'believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved' (acts 16:31). no matter what you have been, or what you are, plunged into the fountain opened for sin, and for uncleanness (zech. 13:1), and you shall be clean, 'washed whiter than snow' (ps. 51:7). heed no suggestion of satan, or of unbelief; cast yourself at the feet of jesus, and if you perish, perish there! oh, no! perish you never will, for he hath said, 'him that cometh to me, i will in no wise cast out' (john 6:37). 'come unto me' (matt. 11:28) is his blessed invitation; let your reply be, 'lord, i come! i come! i come! i entwine my feeble, trembling arms of faith around thy cross, around thyself, and if i die, i will die cleaving, clinging, looking unto thee!' so act and believe and you need not fear to die. looking at the saviour in the face, you can look at death in the face, exclaiming with good old simeon, 'lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation' (luke 2:29). may we through rich, free and sovereign grace, meet in heaven, and unite in exclaiming, 'worthy is the lamb, for he was slain for us' (rev. 5:12)." "until i saw the blood 'twas hell my soul was fearing; and dark and dreary in my eyes the future was appearing, while conscience told its tale of sin and caused a weight of woe within. "but when i saw the blood, and looked at him who shed it, my right to peace was seen at once, and i with transport read it, i found myself to god brought nigh and 'victory' became my cry. "my joy was in the blood, the news of which had told me, that spotless as the lamb of god, my father could behold me. and all my boast was in his name through whom this great salvation came." ix eternal life the present possession of the believer "ye are not under the law."--rom. 6:14. "ye are all the children of god by faith in christ jesus."--gal. 3:26. "whosoever believeth that jesus is the christ is born of god."--1 john 5:1. "by grace have ye been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of god: not of works, lest any one should boast."--eph. 2:8, 9 (1911 bible and r. v.) "he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life."--john 3:36. "verily, verily, i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life."--john 5:24. "god has given to us eternal life, and this life is in his son. he that hath the son hath the life."--1 john 5:11, 12. it is an awe-inspiring thought, a wonderful, blessed reality, that every real believer on the lord jesus has, here and now, _eternal life_, not simply the promise of it, but the eternal life itself. the human mind cannot fully take it in, that every man, the moment he is redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), redeemed from under the law (rom. 6:14), and adopted as a child of god (gal. 4:4-7), has then and there _everlasting life_ (john 5:24), a new life that is never, never to end; a life that will outlast the stars; a life that he will be consciously enjoying when all the stars shall have burnt out. and yet when such a life is offered as a gift ("i give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish,"--john 10:28) many men will not repent and accept the gift. religious prejudice, pride, secret sin, love of the world,--for what puny trifles do men turn from the greatest of all gifts, the greatest of all blessings, eternal life! reader, will you be among the number who make this foolish, this fatal mistake? but with some the greatness of this gift, and its blessed reality, are obscured by the teaching that the believer on christ has not everlasting life _now_, but only the _promise_ of it. when god's word tells us that the redeemed one, the believer on christ, is not under the law (rom. 6:14), is a child of god (gal. 3:26), _has been_ saved (eph. 2:8, 9, 1911 bible and r. v.), not _will be_ saved, it would be strange that, after all, the believer should have only a promise for the beyond and no reality here and now. but god's word goes further and says, "whosoever believeth that jesus is the christ _is born of god_."--1 john 5:1. _there cannot be birth without new life._ it is not the old life; that would mean no birth. if, then, the new life is not _eternal_ life, _what life is it_? if language can be made to mean anything, god's word makes it plain that every redeemed man, every believer on christ, has _here and now_, eternal life; for god's word tells us, not only that "by grace _have ye been saved_" (eph. 2:8, 9, 1911 bible and r. v.), but it states plainly, "he that believeth on the son _hath_ everlasting life" (john 3:36); "verily, verily, i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me, _hath_ everlasting life and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life."--john 5:24. that god's word does not mean that the believer on christ has simply the _promise_ of everlasting life, but that he really has the everlasting life, notice john 5:24, "_hath_ everlasting life and shall not come into condemnation, but _is passed_ [here and now] from death unto life." the revised version (the more exact translation) makes it much stronger,--"_hath passed_ out of death _into life_." what life, if not eternal life? before this plain, positive statement of god's word, the mere promise of eternal life theory cannot stand. but the fact that the believer on christ really has now eternal life, is made plain by other scriptures. "whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer; and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life _abiding in him_."--1 john 3:15. here we are shown that when one "hath eternal life" it is "eternal life _abiding in him_"; for there would be no meaning to the language if no one has eternal life abiding in him. again, "verily, verily, i say unto you, except ye eat the flesh of the son of man and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life."--john 6:53, 54. the saviour had just taught in verse 35 what eating his flesh and drinking his blood meant: "i am the bread of life; he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst." here in verses 53, 54, the saviour shows clearly that the eternal life that the believer on him "_hath_" is "_in_" you--here and now. let the unredeemed reader pause: in a moment, here and now, he can have _everlasting life_ with god's assurance that he "shall never perish" ("i give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish."--john 10:28). it is a tremendous decision, and it may prove to be a fatal one, to turn away and not believe on christ and have as a present possession eternal life. "verily, verily, i say unto you, he that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, _hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life_."--john 5:24. _for further study_:--some who believe that the redeemed have only the _promise_ of eternal life, but that they have not eternal life, as a real present possession, base this belief on such scriptures as, "in hope of eternal life, which god, who cannot lie, promised before the world began" (titus 1:2), in connection with, "hope that is seen is not hope; for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? but if we hope for what we see not, then do we with patience wait for it."--rom. 8:24, 25. their thought is, if we live "in hope of eternal life," then we have not really eternal life as a present possession; that we cannot hope for what we already have. but jesus said positively that the believer "_hath passed out_ of death _into_ life" (john 5:24, r. v.), and he contrasts the one who "_hath_ eternal life" with those to whom he says, "ye have no life _in you_." a man can have eternal life here, and at the same time hope for it beyond the grave. a man has his wife and children _now_, and _hopes_ to have them next year; a man away from wife and children has his life _now_; and yet he lives in hope of his life (the same life, that part of it not yet lived) with his wife and children a month from now; an exile from home has his life now; yet lives in hope of his life (the same life, that part of it not yet lived) in his native land a year from now. so, the child of god's, the redeemed man's, citizenship is in heaven (phil. 3:20); he lives in hope of eternal life there; yet it is the same eternal life (that part of it not lived) that he has here and now. another cause of stumbling at eternal life being now the actual possession of the redeemed man, is that many who claimed to have had eternal life, also claim to have lost it; and if it had been actually _eternal_ life it could not have stopped; for then eternal would not be really eternal; hence, it must have been simply the _promise_ of eternal life that they had, and they therefore only lost the _promise_ and not really eternal life itself. but jesus, foreseeing this class of professing christians, said that they were never really redeemed, never really had eternal life: "many will say to me in that day, lord, lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out demons? and in thy name done many wonderful works? and then will i profess unto them, i never knew you,"--matt. 7:22, 23, not "you were redeemed, you did have eternal life, but you lost it; it stopped"; but "i never knew you," and john teaches the same thing in 1 john 2:19, "they went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would have continued with us; but they went out that they might be made manifest that they all are not of us." (r. v.) "there is no such thing as partly saved and partly lost; partly justified and partly guilty; partly alive and partly dead; partly born of god and partly not. there are but two states, and we must be in either the one or the other."--_wm. reid, in "the blood of jesus."_ to many earnest men it seems dangerous to teach men that when they are redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), and adopted as god's children (gal. 4:3-7), they then really have as an actual possession _eternal_ life, and that they shall never perish, "_hath_ everlasting life, and shall not come unto condemnation,"--john 5:24; "i give unto them _eternal_ life, and they shall never perish,"--john 10:28; they think that such a belief will be a temptation to sin; that it is liable to lead to presumptuous, wilful sinning. they think it much safer for men to believe that they have not really the eternal life itself as an actual present possession, but only the promise of it; and that by their sinning hereafter they may forfeit that promise and be lost. they think that this fear of being lost will act as a check, a safeguard, a restraining power. to the extent that it does, it produces service from the motive of fear of hell, fear of losing heaven, and not from the motive of love to christ for having redeemed them from all iniquity (titus 2:14). but god's word on this point is clear: "the love of christ [_not_ the fear of hell, nor the fear of losing heaven] constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then all died; and he died for all that they who live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them, and rose again."--2 cor. 5:14, 15. the teaching that the redeemed, saved man has now eternal life and shall never perish, will lead to wilful, presumptuous sinning on the part of hypocrites, and may lead to indifference and sin on the part of those who honestly think they are redeemed, saved, but who really are not; for such are not born again (1 peter 1:23), and have not the motive power of love, because really redeemed, prompting their action. those who think it is dangerous to teach a redeemed (1 peter 1:18, 19), saved (eph. 2:8, r. v.) man, a child of god (gal. 4:4-7), that he has here and now, as an actual possession, eternal life, and shall never perish (john 10:28), shall not come into condemnation (john 5:24), lose sight of five facts in _god's plan with men_:-first, the redeemed man is born again, born of god, "whosoever believeth that jesus is the christ is born of god."--1 john 5:1. "therefore if any one is in christ he is a new creature."--2 cor. 5:17. this is not a mere theory. all down the centuries since the saviour came, there have been multitudes of notable cases where hardened men and women, deep down in sin, have actually become new creatures by being redeemed and being born again. many are now living, whose names could be given, who are widely known, who were once notorious in sin, and they are now willingly and gladly wearing out their lives in god's service, and are living godly lives: and this change came in their lives, not by a gradual process, but in a moment. god's word says it is a new birth. there is no other explanation. but every one who is redeemed is thus born of god (1 john 5:1), and this new nature will lead one to hate sin, and prompt to a godly life. second, the redeemed man is under the new motive of love to christ ("if ye love me, keep my commandments,"--john 14:15) to prompt him to a faithful christian life. on this point james denny in "the death of christ" says, "the love which is the motive of it acts immediately upon the sinful; gratitude exerts an irresistible constraint; his responsibility means our emancipation; his death, our life; his bleeding wound, our healing. whoever says, 'he bore our sins,' says substitution; and to say substitution is to say something which involves an immeasurable obligation to christ, and _has therefore in it an incalculable motive power_." let the reader note well, that the purpose of god in saving men through christ dying of their sins (1 cor. 15:3) is to _purify the motive power_ and _make it effective_. "he died for all, that they who live should not henceforth live _unto themselves_, but _unto him_."--2 cor. 5:15. when men live in order that they may retain the promise of eternal life, that they may attain eternal life hereafter, from fear lest they should forfeit the promise and not attain eternal life hereafter, they "live unto themselves." when men live because they already have as an actual possession, eternal life, and realize that it is eternal, they live from love, and not unto themselves but "_unto him_." and god's plan is effective. "the love of christ constraineth us" (2 cor. 5:14), _it does constrain_. hence, jesus says, "if a man love me, _he will_ keep my words."--john 14:23. again, "if god were your father _ye would_ love me."--john 8:42. so important is this fact of the new motive power and its effectiveness, that the reader's attention will now be directed to the words of james denny in "the death of christ" on this subject. that the reader may the better appreciate these words, his attention is first called to the estimates of denny's great work by two of the leading religious editors of the world. the _pittsburg christian advocate_: "to thoughtful students 'the death of christ' came as one of the most stirring books of the decade if not of the generation." the _new york examiner_: "the most important contribution to the all-important doctrine of the atonement since the appearance of dr. dale's epoch-making book.... exegetically considered, it is the most important book published within the memory of the younger generation of preachers." on the death of christ for our sins (1 cor. 15:3) being the motive power in the christian life, and its being effective, denny says: "the problem before us is to discover what it is in the death of christ which gives it its power to generate such experience, to exercise on human hearts the constraining influence of which the apostle speaks; and this is precisely what we discover, in the inferential clause; 'so then all died.' this clause puts as plainly as it can be put the idea that his death was equivalent to the death of all; in other words, it was the death of all men which was died by him."... "their relation to god is not determined now _in the very least by sin or law_: it is determined by christ, the propitiation, and by faith. the position of the believer is not that of one trembling at the judgment seat, or of one for whom everything remains somehow in a condition of suspense; it is that of one who has the assurance of a divine love which has gone deeper than all his sins, and has taken on itself the _responsibility of them_, and _the responsibility of delivering him from them_."... "take away the certainty of it and the new testament temper expires. joy in this certainty is not presumption; on the contrary, it is joy in the lord, and such joy is the christian's strength. it is the impulse and the hope of sanctification; and to deprecate it, and the assurance from which it springs, is no true evangelical humility, but a failure to believe in the infinite goodness of god who in christ removes our sins from us as far as the east is from the west, and plants our life in his eternal reconciling love."... "an absolute justification is needed to give the sinner a start. he must have the certainty of 'no condemnation' of being, without reserve or drawback, right with god through god's gracious act in christ, before he can begin to live the new life."... "_it is not by denying the gospel outright, from the very beginning, that we are to guard against the possible abuse of it._"... "to try to take some preliminary security from the sinner's future morality before you make the gospel available for him, is not only to strike at the root of assurance, it is to pay a very poor tribute to the power of the gospel. the truth is, morality is best guaranteed by christ, and not by any precautions we can take before christ gets a chance, or by any virtue that is in faith except as it unites the soul to him."... "if it is our death that christ died on the cross, there is in the cross the constraint of an infinite love; but if it is not our death at all--if it is not our burden and doom that he has taken on himself there, then what is it to us?"... "he who has done so tremendous a thing as to take our death to himself has established a claim upon our life. we are not in the sphere of mystical union, of dying with christ and living with him; but in that of love transcendently shown, and of gratitude profoundly felt."... "but this can only come on the foundation of the other; it is the discharge from the responsibilities of sin involved in christ's death and appropriated in faith, which is the motive power in the daily ethical dying to sin."... "the new life springs out of the sense of debt to christ."... "it is the knowledge that we have been bought with a price which makes us cease to be our own, and live for him who so dearly bought us."... "but when its certainty, completeness, and freeness are so qualified or disguised that assurance becomes suspect and joy is quenched, the christian religion has ceased to be."... "this is why st. paul is not afraid to trust the new life to its own resources, and why he objects equally to supplanting it by legal regulations afterwards, or by what are supposed to be ethical securities beforehand. it does not need them, and is bound to repel them as dishonoring to christ. to demand moral guarantees from a sinner before you give him the benefit of the atonement, or to impose legal restrictions on him after he has yielded to its appeal, and received it through faith, is to make the atonement itself of no effect."... "in any case, i do not hesitate to say that the sense of debt to christ is the most profound and pervasive of all emotions in the new testament, and that only a gospel which evokes this, as the gospel of atonement does, is true to primitive and normal christianity." let the reader consider two statements just here from another great work, concerning the effectiveness of love as the motive power in the redeemed man's life (in the writer's judgment no greater work, excepting the gospel of john [john 20:30, 31], has ever been written for honest sceptics, than walker's "philosophy of the plan of salvation"). "just in proportion as the soul feels its lost, guilty and dangerous condition, in the same proportion will it exercise love to the being who grants spiritual favor and salvation."... "it may be affirmed, without hesitancy, that it would be impossible for the human soul to exercise full faith in the testimony that it was a guilty and needy creature, condemned by the holy law of a holy god, and that from this condition of spiritual guilt and danger jesus christ suffered and died to accomplish its ransom,--we say, a human being could not exercise full faith in these truths and not love the saviour." third, those who fear that if redeemed men, god's children, are taught that they have, here and now, eternal life as an actual present possession, and that it is eternal, it will be liable to lead them into presumptuous, wilful sin, lose sight of a third fact. the redeemed man, the real child of god, can be tempted, can be led into sin, and some of them do become backsliders, but god's word teaches that they will be chastised in this life. let the reader turn back and read chapter v. two scriptures there quoted make plain the chastening of god's disobedient children: "also i will make him my firstborn, higher than the kings of the earth. my mercy will i keep for him forevermore, and my covenant shall stand fast with him. his seed also will i make to endure forever, and his throne as the days of heaven. if his children forsake my law, and walk not in my judgments, if they break my statutes and keep not my commandments, then will i visit their transgression with the rod and their iniquity with stripes. nevertheless, my loving-kindness will i not utterly take from him, nor suffer my faithfulness to fail. my covenant will i not break, nor alter the thing that is gone out of my lips."--ps. 89:27-34. equally explicit is the new testament: "ye have forgotten the exhortation which speaketh unto you as unto sons. my son, despise not thou the chastening of the lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. if ye endure chastening, god dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not? but if ye be without chastening, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and not sons. furthermore, we have had fathers of our flesh, who corrected us, and we gave them reverence; shall we not much rather be in subjection to the father of spirits and live? for they verily for a few days chastened us as seemed right to them; but he for our profit, _that we might be partakers of his holiness_. now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless afterwards it _yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness_ unto them that are exercised thereby."--heb. 12:5-11. so that, the disobedient child of god will suffer for his sins, not in hell, but in this life; and not as a just penalty for violated law, for he is not under the law ("ye are not under the law,"--rom. 6:14), but as chastening, for correction. it is not a theory merely, for god's word declares that god's plan works--"it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness." fourth, those who fear that teaching redeemed men, god's children, that they have, as a present possession, eternal life and not simply the promise of it, and who think that the safer course is to teach them that they have only the promise of eternal life and may forfeit it by unfaithfulness, lose sight of another fact, that the unfaithful redeemed one will lose his reward. let the reader turn back and read chapter vi. the scripture teaching is plain, "if any man's work abide which he has built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. if any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss; but he himself shall be saved, yet so as through fire."--1 cor. 3:14, 15. he loses his reward who is unfaithful, but not his eternal life, because it is eternal, and because he has been redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14). fifth, those who, knowing that the redeemed man could not lose his eternal life, if he has it as a present possession, because it is eternal, believe that the redeemed have not really eternal life but only the promise of it and may forfeit the promise by unfaithfulness, and that it is dangerous to teach the redeemed that they really have eternal life because it might lead to wilful, presumptuous sin, lose sight of a fifth fact, that the child of god is not only redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13), redeemed from under the law (rom. 6:14), adopted as a child of god because redeemed from the law (gal. 4:4-7), but that being redeemed, he is redeemed _from all iniquity_ ("our saviour jesus christ, who gave himself for us that he might _redeem us from all iniquity_."--titus 2:13, 14). how can god, because he is just, let the redeemed man, if he is redeemed _from all iniquity_, be lost? "a young minister was in the habit of visiting an aged scotch woman in his congregation who was familiarly called 'old nanny.' she was bed-ridden and rapidly approaching the end of her 'long and weary pilgrimage,' but she rested with undisturbed composure and full assurance of faith upon the finished work of christ. one day he said to her, 'now, nanny, what if, after all your confidence in the saviour and your watching and waiting, god should suffer your soul to be lost?' raising herself on her elbow, and turning to him with a look of grief and pain, she laid her hand on the open bible before her, and quietly replied, 'ah, dearie me, is that the length you hae got yet, mon? god,' she continued earnestly, 'would hae the greatest loss. poor nannie would lose her soul, and that would be a great loss indeed; but god would lose his _honor_ and his _character_. haven't i hung my soul upon his "exceeding great and precious promise"? and if he would break his word he would make himself a liar, _and a' the universe would rush into confusion_.' this anecdote reveals the true ground of the believer's safety. it is as high as the honor of god; it is as trustworthy as his character; it is as immutable as his promises; it is as broad as the infinite merit of his son's atoning blood."--_j. h. brookes, in "the way made plain."_ if god, "that he might be just and the justifier of him that believeth in jesus" (rom. 3:26), set forth jesus christ as a propitiation through faith in his blood (rom. 3:25), and then should let one be lost who had been redeemed from all iniquity (titus 2:14), would he not be as unjust in so doing as he would have been had he justified sinners without christ dying for their sins (1 cor. 15:3)? the blessed fact that the redeemed have as a present possession, here and now, eternal life, and that it is eternal, makes manifest another fact, that the redeemed are not unconscious, virtually out of existence, from death till the resurrection. the new life is eternal; it continues without cessation or intermission. their bodies fall asleep; but their souls are still in conscious existence; it is _eternal life_. paul makes this fact clear: "whilst present in the body, we are absent from the lord." "we are confident, i say, and well pleased rather to be absent from the body, and present with the lord."--2 cor. 5:6, 8. the same conscious life continues; it is eternal life. again he makes it clear: "i am in a strait betwixt the two, having a desire to depart and to be with christ, which is far better: nevertheless to abide in the flesh is more needful on your account."--phil. 1:23, 24. the same conscious life continues, the eternal life. to depart and to be with christ he says "_is far better_." but even this is not the perfect state. it is the soul without the body, enjoying eternal life with christ. but god's perfect being is a being of redeemed soul and redeemed body enjoying the reward of its labor. the body will not be redeemed until the resurrection (rom. 8:23; 1 cor. 15:42); and the soul, though enjoying eternal life and with christ (phil. 1:23) will receive no reward until the resurrection,--"thou shalt be _recompensed at the resurrection of the just_."--luke 14:14. paul further makes clear the distinction between the body sleeping and the soul not sleeping, because it has eternal life and is with christ: "if we believe that jesus died and rose again, even so them also that sleep in jesus _will god bring with him_."--1 thess. 4:14. their bodies are asleep; their souls are "absent from the body and present with the lord" (2 cor. 5:8); but at the resurrection of their bodies, these "will god bring with him." then, "at the resurrection of the just" (luke 14:14) will "each man receive his own reward according to his own labor."--1 cor. 3:8. let this blessed teaching be a comfort to some hearts: the redeemed loved ones who have died are "present with the lord" which "is far better." then it is cruel selfishness to wish them back. x development of character in the redeemed "_the god of jacob_ is our refuge."--ps. 46:7. "happy is he that hath _the god of jacob_ for his help."--ps. 146:5. "that the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise, and honor, and glory at the appearing of jesus christ."--1 peter 1:7. "let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing."--james 1:14. "and we know that _all things_ work together for good to them that love god, to those who are the called according to his purpose."--rom. 8:28. "the god of jacob!" not the god of israel. wonderful god! blessed assurance, that "_the god of jacob_ is our refuge,"--the god who saves the man without character, irrespective of character,--makes of him,--israel. jacob, the supplanter, the trickster, the weak character, the warped character, the sinner, god takes, and through trials, tests, develops him and makes of him israel,--a prince of god. that is _god's plan with men_. consider it. there are two theories, the poles apart. the one is, salvation by character; that by acquiring a suitable character, by developing the right kind of a character, man can be saved, can go to heaven; that one's character, if of the proper kind, entitles him to heaven; that if one has lived right, he will go to heaven. the other theory is, that god by grace, pure unmerited favor, saves irrespective of character. it is a tremendous issue. it is vital; one or the other is fatal. if those who hold one theory go to heaven, all who hold to the other will be lost, will go to hell. we would as well face the issue. they are two widely different ways of salvation, and god has but one. jesus said, "_i am the way_" (john 14:6), not one way, _the way_. and he leaves no possible ground for misunderstanding the meaning, "no man cometh unto the father, but by me."--john 14:6. either, then, he is _the only way_, or he was the vilest deceiver the world ever knew, or he was a simple-minded, ignorant fanatic, who honestly thought himself "the way" when he was not. against this theory of salvation by character there are four serious, fatal charges:-first, it is utterly cruel, heartless and selfish. it is cruel, because to the weakest, most needy, most helpless class, the vast body of men, born of vicious, debased parents, reared amidst vice and sin, weakened by appetite and tied by habit, it does not give one-millionth the chance to be saved, to go to heaven, that men have who were born of noble, godly parents, reared amidst moral, uplifting surroundings, and strengthened by noble aspirations and splendid training. stand before you two young men representing these two classes, and tell them of life beyond this life, and of heaven; and then tell them of salvation by character. to the one it would mean a bright, hopeful anticipation; to the other, it would mean but taunting him with his hopeless condition and prodding him with despair. the theory of salvation by character is heartless, because, wrapt in the robe of its own self-righteousness, it coolly condemns to hopeless despair a vast body of the human race. go stand by the helpless, hopeless drunkard, and the drunken, sinful woman, and tell them of salvation by character, and hear the sob of despair or see the jeering look on their faces at the thought of salvation by character for such as they! before a pastors' conference, the polished, brilliant, highly educated pastor of a wealthy, refined, intellectual congregation read a seemingly learned paper on "salvation by character." when he had finished reading the paper, some of his fellow-pastors endorsed the paper and gave it high praise. finally, the pastor of a people who had been unfortunate in life, many of whom had gone far down in sin, and were fettered by habit, arose and said, "brother moderator, the brother has given us his wonderful paper on salvation by character. i would like to ask him, what would he preach if he were the pastor of a people who have no character?" the author of the paper arose and made the heartless reply, "brother moderator, my brother and i have been raised in such different intellectual atmospheres, that i don't suppose i could make it plain to my brother." the other replied, "that is doubtless true, brother moderator; but the trouble is, that he can never make it plain to any one else." it is selfish, because those who teach this theory are generally men of intelligence, refinement, and are considered, and they consider themselves, men of moral character. they thus provide for themselves by their theory, but leave a vast body of the race with a very slight hope or with no hope whatever. the second charge against those who hold this theory is that by their own theory none will be saved. if salvation is by character, by what kind of character, a perfect character, or an imperfect character? if by a perfect character, no one has it; no one even claims it. if by an imperfect character, how imperfect may it be and the man yet be saved? where is the standard? if a man's character, in order to be saved by it, must be the best he can make it, no one has even that character,--no one's character is the best he could have made it. hence, salvation by character is a chimera. the third charge against salvation by character is, that even if a man's character were perfect from man's standpoint, in the sight of god his character would still be corrupt. "all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags."--is. 64:6. why? because motive is the measure of the character. "they that are in the flesh cannot please god."--rom. 8:8. why? because they have not, and cannot have, the right motive. "though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, i am become as sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. and though i have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though i have all faith, so that i could remove mountains, and have not love, i am nothing. and though i bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though i give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing."--1 cor. 13:1-3. and no man has this love, no man can have this love, until he is saved by christ dying for his sins (1 cor. 15:3). "the love of christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then all died; and he died for all, that they who live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them, and rose again."--2 cor. 5:14, 15. the fourth serious, fatal charge against the theory of salvation by character is that it is contrary to the teaching of the saviour. "jesus saith unto them, verily i say unto you, that the publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of god before you."--matt. 21:31. certain it is that the publicans and the harlots had worse characters than those to whom the saviour was speaking; the fact is therefore evident that jesus taught salvation without character, irrespective of character. let the reader consider two cases that will show conclusively that the teaching of salvation by character is absolutely contrary to the teaching of the saviour. "the chief priest, mocking him, with the scribes and elders, said: he saved others; himself he cannot save. if he is the king of israel, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him. he trusted in god; let him deliver him now, if he will have him; for he said, i am the son of god. the thieves also that were with him, cast the same in his teeth."--matt. 27:41-44. let the reader notice that both the thieves "that were with him, cast the same in his teeth." then "one of the malefactors that were hanged railed on him, saying, if thou be christ, save thyself and us. but the other answering rebuked him, saying, dost not thou fear god, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? and we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss. and he said unto jesus, lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. and jesus said unto him, verily i say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."--luke 23:39-43. from the time that both thieves "cast the same in his teeth," to the time the one made his earnest plea, "lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom," there had been no time in which this thief could have formed, developed a character that merited salvation. hence, when jesus said, "to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise," to this thief, he branded the teaching of salvation by character as not from heaven. the one who does not see from this case that the cruel, heartless, selfish teaching of salvation by character contradicts the lord jesus, will never see anything contrary to his own preferences and preconceived opinions. the second case is just as conclusive. as the saviour was reclining at meat in the house of simon the pharisee, a woman, noted as a sinner, came in and stood behind him weeping. "and he said to the woman, thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace."--luke 7:50. the saviour said the woman was saved, yet she was of notorious character,--she had no character. that the saviour saved irrespective of character is shown by two cases in the book of acts. we have the accounts of the salvation of two men of opposite characters. one was "a devout man, and one that feared god with all his house, who gave much alms to the people and prayed to god always,"--acts 10:2, a man of most excellent character. among all the unredeemed men of the earth, not one could show a better character. if any man could be saved by character, here is the man. god sends word to him, "send to joppa and call for simon, whose surname is peter, who shall tell the words whereby thou and all thy house shalt be saved."--acts 11:13. notwithstanding his noble, unusual character, god tells him that he is unsaved. if he, with his character unexcelled among unredeemed men, was yet unsaved, how can any other unredeemed man hope for salvation by character? peter's message to this man of irreproachable character was, "to him give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth on him shall receive remission of sins."--acts 10:43. why is it necessary for this man of character to believe on christ in order to be saved? because, though of unusual character, he had sinned, "for all have sinned" (rom. 3:23); and sin once committed can only be atoned for by blood, "apart from shedding of blood there is no remission" (heb. 9:22), and there is no blood of atonement in a noble character. over against this case is that of the philippian jailor, a man of hardened character; for he took two helpless, bleeding preachers who had been beaten by a mob, and "thrust them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks" (acts 16:24), and left them with their backs bloody and gave them no supper. when the earthquake came and the doors were opened, the hardened jailor started to commit suicide. paul having called to him and prevented the suicide, the jailor "came trembling and fell down before paul and silas and brought them out and said, sirs, what must i do to be saved?"--acts 16:30. if ever a man should be told of salvation by character, here was the opportunity, that he might at once begin the tremendous and all but hopeless task of changing, so late in life, a hardened character into one that would enable him to merit heaven. instead, they said, "believe on the lord jesus, and thou shalt be saved."--acts 16:31. how similar the answer to the instructions of peter to cornelius, and yet how widely different the characters of the two men! why this similarity? because god has but one way of salvation, and that is irrespective of character. "he gathereth together _the outcasts_ of israel" (ps. 147:2), the god of jacob. while the saviour saves without character, and irrespective of character, god the father does not leave them without character, but develops in them the right kind of a character. the man redeemed, saved, without character, does not remain without character. "and such _were_ some of you" (1 cor. 6:11), but they did not remain such characters,--but "sanctified, called to be saints."--1 cor. 1:2. _god's plan with men_, then, is to save irrespective of character, and then develop in the redeemed, saved man a character that shall "be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of jesus christ."--1 peter 1:7. three ways in which god develops character in the redeemed are: first, by purifying the _motive_ of the life. character is not formed by deeds, but by the motives prompting the deeds. two men flag the night express train on two railroads; the deeds are the same, but one flags the train that he may warn, and save the lives of the people, because a bridge has been destroyed; the other flags the train that he may rob it. while the deeds are the same, the character of the deeds is different, and that difference is in the motive prompting the deed, and that motive affects, moulds the character of the one who performs the deed. no deed is right in the sight of god that is not performed from the motive of love (1 cor. 13:1-3); hence, no character can be right in the sight of god if the deeds that formed that character were not prompted by the motive of love. all deeds performed from simply the motive of duty, or from the desire to be saved, to go to heaven after this life, or from fear of hell, are, in the sight of god, unworthy deeds, and the characters formed by such deeds are unworthy characters. and the saviour defines clearly what love is: "there was a certain creditor who had two debtors; the one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. and when they had nothing to pay he frankly forgave them both. tell me, therefore, which of them will love him most? simon answered and said, i suppose that he to whom he forgave most. and he said unto him, thou hast rightly judged."--luke 7:41-43. and john likewise defines love: "herein is love, not that we loved god, but that he loved us, and sent his son to be the propitiation for our sins."--1 john 4:10. this explains why god says: "they that are in the flesh cannot please god."--rom. 8:8. their motive is wrong and they cannot have the right motive, because they have not been "forgiven most." hence all characters are wrong in the sight of god that were formed by deeds whose prompting motive was a simple sense of duty, a desire to be saved, to go to heaven, or from fear of hell. and all who have such a character are lost, have never been redeemed, are not real christians. second, god develops character in the redeemed, his real children, by chastisements. our earthly fathers "verily for a few days chastened us as seemed right to them; but he for our profit, that we might be partakers of his holiness. now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless afterwards it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them that are exercised thereby."--heb. 12:10, 11. third, god moulds the character of the redeemed by afflictions, burdens, sorrows, etc. "our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."--2 cor. 4:17. "let patience have its perfect work, that ye may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing."--james 1:14. the shallow conception of _god's plan with men_ that makes it his ultimate purpose simply to save men, leaves the life of the redeemed man here on earth an unsolved riddle, often an inexplicable tragedy. the heartaches, the disasters, the burdens, the afflictions, the sorrows,--what of all these, when god assures us that "all things work together for good to those that love god, to those who are the called according to his purpose" (rom. 8:28), if the ultimate purpose is simply salvation? "he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." the silver has been mined, digged from the earth, but there is dross in it. the redeemed have been redeemed from the curse of the law (gal. 3:13); have had the spirit sent into their hearts ("because ye are sons, god hath sent forth the spirit of his son into your hearts, crying, abba, father,"--gal. 4:6); but there are defects from heredity, from environment. the purifying process, the development of character, comes, not in order to be saved, but after we are saved, because we are saved. with god as the father of the redeemed, many of the afflictions, and sorrows of real christians can be accounted for as chastisements; many of the severe, heavy afflictions in the lives of real christians can be accounted for in this way. "ye have forgotten the exhortation which speaketh unto you as unto sons, my son, despise not thou the chastening of the lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the lord loveth he chasteneth, and _scourgeth every son_ whom he receiveth."--heb. 12:5, 6. scourging is severe, yet god says it is for _every son_. but there are many, many trials, afflictions, burdens, sorrows, which cannot be explained by chastisements; for chastisements are for wilful sins of god's children: "if his children _forsake_ my law ... then will i visit their transgression with the rod and their iniquity with stripes."--ps. 89:30-32. in the lives of many of the redeemed who are living obedient lives there are some of the most severe trials and afflictions. if god is their father and loves them, what can these severe trials and afflictions mean? "one adequate support for the calamities of mortal life exists, one only,--an assured belief that the procession of our fate, however sad or disturbed, is ordered by a being of infinite benevolence and power, whose everlasting purposes embrace all accidents, converting them into good." wordsworth. god himself hath said it, "all things work together for good to those that love god, to those who are the called according to his purpose."--rom. 8:28. had god said, "some things," what confusion would have come to many of god's children! what enigmas would many things in the lives of many of the redeemed have been! but when god said "all things," he placed a key in the hands of every redeemed man, every real child of his, with which to unlock the door of every mystery; that every trial, every disaster, every accident, every burden, every humiliation, every disappointment, every affliction, every sorrow,--"all things work together for good to those that love god, to those who are the called according to his purpose";--"that the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise, and honor, and glory, at the appearing of jesus christ."--1 peter 1:7. muscles are developed by trials; minds are developed by trials; god's redeemed people are developed by trials. to murmur against one's trials after being redeemed, means to murmur against being developed for one's eternal destiny. to give the muscles no trials, means for the body never to be developed; to give the mind no trials, means for the mind never to be developed; to give the redeemed man no trials, means for his character never to be developed. two children are born into the world. the father and mother of one decide that he shall never be required to do any unpleasant things; that he shall never have any hardships. the father and mother of the other decide to give their child every unpleasant thing to do, every hardship and burden to bear, that will best develop him in body and mind. often the redeemed plead with their father in heaven to give them only pleasant things, and he, the all-wise, all-powerful, in love gives them--trials. the trials of life for the redeemed are so various. if the muscles have only one trial, the body will never be fully developed. the muscles need various trials. if the mind has only one trial, it will never be fully developed. if the mind studies only one thing, it will never be trained, developed, educated. if the soul has only one kind of trial, it will never be developed. "count it all joy, my brethren, when ye fall into manifold temptations."--james 1:2 (r. v. margin, trials). but the redeemed, the children of god, often complain that their trials are so hard. easy trials do not develop. the one who takes only light exercises for his muscles will never be fully developed physically. the boy who works the easy examples and skips the hard ones, will never be an educated man; he will be only a "hewer of wood and drawer of water." it takes hard trials to develop the body properly. it takes hard trials of the mind to develop it properly. it takes hard trials to develop the soul properly; "that the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, _though it be tried with fire_." he who asks for only easy trials of his muscles, asks to remain undeveloped physically; he who asks for easy trials of his mind, asks to remain undeveloped mentally; he who asks, yearns, to have no hard trials spiritually, yearns to remain undeveloped in real character, in his spiritual nature. the hard trials are the ones that develop. and the more one's muscles have been developed, the harder should be the trials for those muscles; the more one's mind is developed, the harder should be the trials for the mind; the more the redeemed man's spiritual nature is developed, the harder his trials will be. that would be an unwise educator who, after training the pupil's mind up through geometry, would then put him back to studying the simple branches of mathematics, instead of taking him on into higher mathematics. likewise the heavenly father does not, after partly developing the redeemed, his children, by hard trials, return them to lives of easy trials, but he leads them into yet harder trials. take elijah as an example (see f. b. meyer's "elijah"). he is sent to pronounce god's sentence against ahab (1 kings 17:1); he is then sent into obscurity (17:2, 3); he is left dependent on the ravens for food (17:4-6); he sees the brook dry up, his only hope for water, for life (17:7); he is submitted to the humiliation of being supported by a poor widow (17:8, 9); god delays answering his prayer (17:17-22); god requires him to expose himself to danger by showing himself to ahab (18:1); he is led to face popular religious error, and in doing so is left to stand alone (18:19-38); god delays answer to his prayer till he prays seven times (18:42-45); he suffers the further humiliation of elisha being anointed prophet in his room (19:15, 16); he is taken up by a whirlwind to heaven (2 kings 2:11). a study of these trials will show that they were all hard trials, and that they increased in severity. god tells us that elijah was a man subject to like passions as we are (james 5:17); but by trials, hardships, burdens, god developed him into one of the noblest characters of all ages. god's redeemed people may expect, then, trials through their lives, and that the trials shall be increasingly severe, as they advance in the christian life. often god's children are discouraged because they cannot see any purpose in their trials. but god assures us that there is a purpose. the child cannot understand the purpose of the lessons at school, but the father has the purpose. elijah, possibly filled with apprehension, sitting by the drying brook cherith, did not see any purpose, but god, who makes all things work together for good to his people, had the purpose and accomplished it in the development of elijah's character; and so, as f. b. meyer has so aptly put it, the redeemed, sitting by the drying brook of health, of property, of reputation, of family happiness, may not see the purpose, but the heavenly father will work, in his plan for each, every trial into the warp or woof of each life. the saviour said to peter, "what i do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter."--john 13:7. "behind our life the weaver stands and works his wondrous will; we leave it all in his wise hands and trust his perfect skill. should mystery enshroud his plan, and our short sight be dim, we will not try the whole to scan, but leave each thread to him." who knows the defects, the weaknesses, of each character? only god. who knows what each character ought to be? only god. who knows how to develop each character properly? only god. who is able to so shape the circumstances of each life as to properly develop each character? only god. and he has promised that he will. "we know that all things work together for good to those who love god, to those who are the called according to his purpose" (rom. 8:28); "that the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise, and honor, and glory at the appearing of jesus christ."--1 peter 1:7. this is _the only_ explanation of the many harassments of life. god has revealed that the standard by which character is measured is patience, endurance. "let patience have its perfect work, that ye may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing."--james 1:4. if there were no harassments, no afflictions, no burdens, no sorrows, no disappointments, no sufferings, there could be no patience, endurance; and if there were no patience, no endurance, there could be no maturity and completeness of character. as to what trials are needed, and are best in each case, only god can decide. in our dimsightedness we think that many things are mistakes in god's plans, and that he cannot bring good out of them; but he will. a boy was born with a badly deformed foot. when he was eight years of age his father had two surgeons to operate and try to straighten the foot, but they failed. after a second operation, the foot was placed in a brace which was worn for months. but the foot remained as badly deformed as ever. the surgeons then informed the father that the foot could never be straightened. the father studied the deformed foot for many days, and then had a strange-looking box made with screws, felt taps and iron rods in different parts of it. he had the surgeons to operate again on the boy's foot, cutting the muscles and tendons in different places. the foot was then placed in the strange box; a screw was turned till the felt tap pressed against the foot at one place, almost breaking the bones; then another screw and felt tap were brought to bear on another deformed part of the foot, straightening the foot and almost breaking the bones in that part of the foot; then the iron rod was used to straighten another part. for months the boy's foot was kept in that box. the suffering, day and night for months, was indescribable. the child would weep for hours, the pain being all but unbearable; and when the father would come home the child would beg piteously for the box to be taken off and to be left a cripple. the father, mingling his tears with the tears of the suffering child, would turn the screws tighter than before, and the child would shriek in fearful agony. during those weeks and months of suffering he looked upon his father as being harsh and cruel and without love for him. finally the father loosened all the screws and said, "son, stand up," and for the first time in his life the boy stood erect. often has that son, now a gray-haired man, stood over the grave of that father, long since dead, and bedewed the grave with his tears, and thanked god that he had a father who was true enough to continue the suffering until the terrible deformity was corrected. the father may have turned the screws one thread too much, but the father in heaven makes no mistakes, and far beyond the grave many of the redeemed will praise him, when they understand, for the sufferings and afflictions and burdens they were led to endure here. "choose for us, lord, nor let our weak preferring cheat us of good thou hast for us designed. choose for us, lord; thy wisdom is unerring, and we are fools and blind." with the reader this may seem mere theory; he may feel that it cannot explain all the seemingly unfathomable mystery of suffering in the lives of many of the redeemed, the real children of god. let the reader consider two things: first, that as a juror, he would not form a judgment till all the evidence had been placed before the jury. god's purpose in each case, and what god actually accomplishes in each case, in the development of character,--these have not yet been placed before the jury; but, backed up by many fulfilled prophecies, by the character of jesus christ, by his resurrection, by what he has accomplished in the world, we have god's solemn assurance that _he will yet place this evidence before the jury_. second, let the reader remember that with god character counts more than comfort. what father would prefer his son to be a brutal, ignorant pugilist, enjoying food and drink, physical life,--to a useful, noble, highly educated, refined, learned son who could "listen in the orange groves of verona to the sweet vows of juliet, or to the blind bard's harp as he strikes the chords but seldom struck harmonious with the morning stars, or to the music of the spheres as they hymn his praises around their creator's throne"? far more than the earthly father would choose the latter for his son, does the heavenly father value the soul and its development above that of the body. could god's redeemed people only learn that perfection of character comes only through suffering, that as certain as god is true, a blessing will come from every sorrow, every burden, every affliction, every pang, every heartache! "the ills we see- the mystery of sorrow deep and long, the dark enigmas of permitted wrong, have all one key- this strange, sad world is but our father's school; all chance and change his love shall grandly overrule." rarely has the author been stirred, thrilled, as he was while listening to an audience of a thousand colored people of the south sing the following hymn. some of them had been slaves; many were poor; many uneducated; some greek scholars; some were destitute; some were half-invalids; some were aged and infirm; but few had the comforts of life; all were heavy burden-bearers. white people from new york and texas, from mississippi and kansas, were moved to tears, as that audience sang with such rhythm, such cadence, such pathos, such sweetness, such soul-power, as only they can sing:- "we are tossed and driven on the restless sea of time, sombre skies and howling tempest oft succeed the bright sunshine. in that land of perfect day when the mists have rolled away, we will understand it better by and by. "by and by when the morning comes and all the saints of god are gathered home, we'll tell the story, how we've overcome, for we'll understand it better by and by. "we are often destitute of the things that life demands, want of shelter and of food thirsty hills and barren lands. we are trusting in the lord, and according to his word, we will understand it better by and by. "trials dark on every hand, and we cannot understand all the ways that god would lead us to the blessed promised land, but he guides us with his eye and we'll follow till we die, for we'll understand it better by and by. "temptations, hidden snares, often take us unawares, and our hearts are made to bleed for a thoughtless word or deed, and we wonder why the test when we try to do our best, but we'll understand it better by and by." but they are not the only ones who "wonder why the test when we try to do our best." they are not the only ones who can say, "trials dark on every hand and we cannot understand," but they and all the redeemed, god's real children, can say, "we will understand it better by and by." till then they can rest upon his word, that "the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of jesus christ,"--1 peter 1:7; for "we know that all things work together for good to those that love god, to those who are the called according to his purpose."--rom. 8:28. "thou art as much his care as if beside, nor man nor angel lived in heaven or earth." _for further study_:--some readers may conclude, because trials come to the lives of the unredeemed as well as the redeemed, to those who are not god's children, as well as to those who are god's children, that, therefore, their characters are likewise developed by trials. let such readers consider two facts:-first, it is a creature of god being developed in one case; in the other, it is one who has been redeemed and adopted as a child of god (gal. 4:4-7), and born of the spirit (john 3:8), that is being developed. second, the characters being developed in the two classes, while they may appear to men as similar, in the sight of god are as different as light and darkness are to men, as different as heaven and hell. let it be remembered that character is dependent, not on the deed, but _on the motive back of the deed_ (1 cor. 13:1-3). no unredeemed man can have that motive, because it springs from complete redemption through christ (2 cor. 5:14, 15). hence, "they that are in the flesh cannot please god."--rom. 8:8. their motive power is all wrong and cannot be otherwise; hence their characters, however they may be developed, are all wrong in the sight of god. jesus said, "cleanse first the inside of the cup and of the platter, that the outside may be clean also."--matt. 23:26. the child who, from love, bears trials and burdens placed upon him by the father, the slave who, from fear of the lash, bears trials and burdens placed upon him by the master, the hireling who, from desire for the wages, bears trials and burdens, and the stoic who, from sheer force of will, or from a cold sense of duty, bears trials and burdens, because he must,--are developing altogether different characters. even so, the child of god, redeemed and adopted, who, from love, bears the trials and burdens of life, the unredeemed one who, from fear of the law, from fear of hell, bears the trials and burdens of life; the unredeemed one who, from what he hopes to gain thereby, a home in heaven (as the hireling his wages), bears the trials and burdens of life, and the unredeemed one who, from a cold sense of duty, bears the trials and burdens of life, are developing widely different characters for eternity. which shall it be in your case, reader? printed in the united states of america * * * * * * religious education _homer s. bodley_ the fourth "r" the forgotten factor in education. $1.75. mr. bodley's book is a plea for the insertion in all educational textbooks of elements of instruction which give prominence to the goodness of god to the end that all should honor him, and to the furtherance of the spirit of genuine altruism among men, without regard to sect or creed. _william jennings bryan_ the menace of darwinism paper binding. net, 35c. a resumã© of, and an extract from, "in his image," mr. bryan's epoch-making book against darwinism. for use in study classes, for distribution, etc. _e. c. knapp_ _gen. secretary; inland empire sunday school association. author of "the community vacation bible school," etc._ side lights on the daily vacation bible school $1.00. "here is a new book for those seeking light on vacation school work which we can heartily recommend. mr. knapp has had much experience in such work and knows how to tell what should be done. a very helpful handbook for workers."--_herald of gospel liberty._ _j. a. cross_ _president, first national bank, bruin, pa._ the bible class and the community $1.25. mr. cross writes in terse, straightforward fashion, without waste of words, discussing the most practicable methods of helping the life of the community by fostering and developing character. _"h. p. s."_ the god of our fathers $1.25. "an able, clear and excellent statement of reasons for believing in the existence of god. in simple language and easily read by anyone. should have a wide reading."--_herald and presbyter._ "fundamentals" _rt. rev. william t. manning, d.d., d. c. l._ _bishop of new york._ personal religion what it is and what it means. $1.00. with fine force and frankness, yet in a spirit entirely free from controversial bitterness, bishop manning discusses some of these paramount questions and their vital relation to the life of our own time. _j. c. massee, d.d._ _pastor of tremont temple, boston, mass._ the gospel in the ten commandments a series of sermons delivered on sunday evenings by the pastor of tremont temple. $1.25. "as an evidence of the forcefullness of these sermons, approximately one hundred fifty people made public professions of faith in christ during the time of their delivery."--_baptist messenger._ _clarence e. macartney, d. d._ _pastor, arch street presbyterian church, philadelphia, pa._ twelve great questions about christ $1.50 or $1.75. dr. macartney stands foursquare for fundamental christian beliefs. he has also a good understanding of views and opinions contrary to his own, and demonstrates his ability to measure and mark the trend of modern criticism. _mark a. matthews, d.d., ll.d._ _pastor. first presbyterian church, seattle, wash._ gospel sword-thrusts $1.25. a book of addresses eminently characteristic of their author. dr. matthews is a national figure. pastor of the presbyterian church having the largest membership in the world, he is a fearless protagonist of fundamentalist doctrine and greatly in demand at conventions and other gatherings. _edwin c. sweetser, d.d._ _pastor-emeritus, church of the messiah, philadelphia._ the image of god and other sermons. $1.50. dr. sweetser is a veteran preacher, having spent more than fifty years in the active ministry. here are twenty-five sermons treating on great themes--of questions which are of importance to everybody, and of paramount interest to the christian believer. [transcriber's note: susan warner (1819-1885), _the old helmet_ (1864), tauchnitz edition 1864, volume 1] the old helmet. by the author of "wide, wide world." authorized edition. in two volumes vol. i. leipzig bernhard tauchnitz 1864. note to the reader. the incidents and testimonies given in this work as matters of fact, are not drawn from imagination, but reported from excellent authority--though i have used my own words. and in the cases of reported words of third parties, the words stand unchanged, without any meddling. the author. the old helmet. chapter i. the ruins. "she look'd and saw that all was ruinous, here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern; and here had fall'n a great part of a tower, whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, and like a crag was gay with wilding flowers, and high above a piece of turret stair, worn by the feet that now were silent, bare to the sun." the first thing noticeable is a gleam of white teeth. now that is a pleasant thing generally; yet its pleasantness depends, after all, upon the way the lips part over the ivory. there is a world of character discoverable in the curve of those soft lines. in the present case, that of a lady, as it is undoubtedly the very first thing you notice, the matter must be investigated. the mouth is rather large, with well cut lips however; and in the smile which comes not infrequently, the lips part freely and frankly, though not too far, over a wealth of white, beautiful teeth. so free is the curve of the upper lip, and so ready its revelation of the treasures beneath, that there is an instant suspicion of a certain frankness and daring, and perhaps of a little mischief, on the part of their possessor; so free, at the same time, as to forbid the least notion of consciousness or design in that beautiful revelation. but how fine and full and regular are those white treasures of hers! seeming to speak for a strong and perfect physical organisation; and if your eye goes further, for her flat hat is on the ground, you will see in the bountiful rich head of hair another token of the same thing. her figure is finely developed; her colour clear and healthy; not blonde; the full-brown hair and eyes agree with the notion of a nature more lively than we assign to the other extreme of complexion. the features are not those of a beauty, though better than that, perhaps; there is a world of life and sense and spirit in them. it speaks for her good nature and feeling, that her smile is as frank as ever just now, and as pleasant as ever; for she is with about the last one of her party on whom she would have chosen to bestow herself. the occasion is a visit to some celebrated ruins; a day of pleasure; and eleanor would a good deal rather be walking and talking with another much more interesting member of the company, in whose society indeed her day had begun; but mr. carlisle had been obliged suddenly to return home for an hour or two; and eleanor is sitting on a grassy bank, with a gentleman beside her whom she knows very little and does not care about at all. that is, she has no idea he can be very interesting; and he _is_ a grave-looking personage, but we are not going to describe him at present. a word must be given to the place where they are. it is a little paradise. if the view is not very extended, it is rich in its parts; and the eye and the mind are filled. the grass is shaven smooth on the bank where the two are sitting; so it is all around, under trees which stand with wilful wildness of luxuriance, grouped and scattered apparently as they would. they are very old, in several varieties of kind, and in the perfect development and thrift of each kind. among them are the ruins of an old priory. they peep forth here and there from the trees. one broken tower stands free, with ivy masking its sides and crumbling top, and stains of weather and the hues of lichen and moss enriching what was once its plain grey colour. other portions of the ruins are seen by glimpses further on among the trees. standing somewhat off by itself, yet encompassed by the congeners of those same trees, almost swallowed up among them, is a comfortable, picturesque little building, not in ruins; though it has been built up from the ruins. it is the parsonage, where the rector of the parish lives. beyond this wood and these buildings, old and new, the eye can catch only bits of hills and woods that promise beauty further on; but nearer than they, and making a boundary line between the present and the distant, the flash of a little river is seen, which curves about the old priory lands. a somewhat doubtful sunlight is struggling over it all; casting a stray beam on the grass, and a light on the ivy of the old tower. "what a queer old place it must have been," said eleanor. "how old is it?" "o i don't know--ages! do you mean really how old? i am sure i can't tell; i never can keep those things in my head. if dr. cairnes would come out, he could tell you all about it, and more." "dr. cairnes, the rector?" "yes. he keeps it all in _his_ head, i know. the ruins are instead of a family to him." "they must date back pretty far, judging by those norman arches." "norman arches?--what, those round ones? o, they do. the priory was founded by some old courtier or soldier in the time of henry the first, who got disgusted with the world. that is the beginning of all these places, isn't it?" "do you mean, that it is the beginning of all religious feeling?" "i really think it is. i wouldn't tell dr. cairnes so however. how sweet these violets are. dear little blue things!" "do you suppose,", said the young man, stooping to pick one or two, "that they are less sweet to me than to you?" "why should they be?" "because, religion is the most precious thing in the world to me; and by your rule, i must be disgusted with the world, and all sweet things have lost their savour." he spoke with quiet gravity, and eleanor's eye went to his face with a bright glance of inquiry. it came back with no change of opinion. "you don't convert me," she said. "i do not know what you have given up for religion, so i cannot judge. but all the other people i ever saw, grew religious only because they had lost all care about everything else." "i wonder how that discontented old soldier found himself, when he got into these solitudes?" said the young man, with a smile of his own then. it was sweet, and a little arch, and withal harmonised completely with the ordinary gravity of his face, not denying it at all. eleanor looked, once and again, with some curiosity, but the smile passed away as quietly as it had come. "the solitude was not _this_ solitude then." "o no, it was very wild." "these were augustine canons, were they not?" "who?" "the monks of this priory." "i am sure i don't know. i forget. what was the difference?" "you know there were many orders of religious houses. the augustines were less severe in their rule, and more genial in their allowed way of life, than most of the others?" "what was their rule?" "beginning with discontent of the world, you know, they went on with the principle that nothing worldly was good." "well, isn't that the principle of all religious people now?" "i like violets"--said the young man, smiling again. "but do tell me, what did those old monks do? what was their 'rule?' i don't know anything about it, nor about them." "another old discontented soldier, who founded an abbey in wales, is said by the historian to have dismissed all his former companions, and devoted himself to god. for his military belt, he tied a rope about his waist; instead of fine linen he put on haircloth. and it is recorded of him, that the massive suit of armour which he had been used to wear in battle, to protect him against the arrows and spears and axes of the enemy, he put on now and wore as a defence against the wiles and assaults of the devil--and wore it till it rusted away with age." "poor old soul!" said eleanor. "does that meet your ideas of a religious life?" eleanor laughed, but answered by another question. "was _that_ the rule of all the augustine monks?" "it gives the key to it. is that your notion of a religious life? you don't answer me." "well," said eleanor laughing again, "_it gives the key to it_, as you say. i do not suppose you wear a suit of armour to protect yourself." "i beg your pardon. i do." "_armour?_" said eleanor, looking incredulous. but her friend fairly burst into a little laugh at that. "are you rested?" said he. and eleanor got up, feeling a little indignant and a little curious. strolling towards the ruins, however, there was too much to start conversation and too much to give delight, to permit either silence or pique to last. "isn't it beautiful!" burst from both at once. "how exquisite that ivy is, climbing up that old tower!" "and what a pity it is crumbling away so!" said eleanor. "see that nearer angle--it is breaking down fast. i wish it would stay as it is." "nothing will do that for you. what is all that collection of rubbish yonder?" "that is where mr. carlisle is going to build a cottage for one of his people--somebody to take care of the ruins, i believe." "and he takes the ruins to build it with, and the old priory grounds too!" eleanor looked again at her companion. "i think it is better than to have the broken stones lying all over--don't you?" "i do not." "mr. carlisle thinks so. now here we are in the body of the church--there you see where the roof went, by the slanting lines on the tower wall; and we are standing where the congregation used to assemble." "not much of a congregation," said her companion. "the neighbouring country furnished few attendants, i fancy; the old monks and their retainers were about all. the choir would hold most of them; the nave, where we are standing, would have been of little use except for processions." "processions?" said eleanor. "on particular days there were processions of the brotherhood, with lighted candles--round and round in the church. in the church at york twelve rounds made a mile, and there were twelve holes at the great door, with a little peg, so that any one curious about the matter might reckon the miles." "and so they used to go up and down here, burning their fingers with melted tallow!" said eleanor. "poor creatures! what a melancholy existence! are you preparing to renounce the world yourself, mr. rhys?" he smiled, but it was a compound smile, light and earnest both at once, which eleanor did not comprehend. "why do you suspect me?" he asked. "you seem to be studying the thing. are you going to be a white or a black monk--or a grey friar?" "there is a prior question. it is coming on to rain, miss powle." "rain! it is beginning this minute! and all the umbrellas are nobody knows where--only that it is where we ought to be. i was glad just now that the old roof in gone--but i think i would like a piece of it back." "you can take shelter at the parsonage." "no, i cannot--they have got fever there." "then come with me. i believe i can find you a piece of roof somewhere." eleanor smiled to herself that he should think so, as all traces of beam and rafter had long since disappeared from the priory and its dependencies. however she followed her conductor, who strode along among the ruins at a pace which it taxed her powers to keep up with. presently he plunged down into a wilderness of bushes and wild thorn and piled up stones which the crumbling walls had left in confusion strewn over the ground. it was difficult walking. eleanor had never been there; for in that quarter the decay of the buildings was more entire, and the growth of shrubs and brambles had been allowed to mask the disorder. as they went on, the footing grew very rough; they were obliged to go over heaps and layers of the crumbling, moss-grown ruins. eleanor's conductor turned and gave her his hand to help; it was a strong hand and quickened her progress. presently turning a sharp corner, through a thicket of thorn and holly bushes, with young larches and beeches, a small space of clearance was gained, bounded on the other side by a thick wall, one angle of which was standing. on this clear spot the rain drops were falling fast. the hand that held eleanor's hurried her across it, to where an old window remained sunk in the wall. the arch over the window was still entire, and as the wall was one of the outer walls and very thick, the shelter of a "piece of roof" was literally afforded. eleanor's conductor seated her on the deep window sill, where she was perfectly screened from the rain; and apologising for the necessity of the occasion, took his place beside her. the window was narrow as well as deep; and the two, who hardly knew each other, were brought into very familiar neighbourhood. eleanor would have been privately amused, if the first passing consciousness of amusement had not been immediately chased away by one or two other thoughts. the first was the extreme beauty of her position as a point of view. the ruins were all behind them. as they looked out of the window, nothing was seen but the most exquisite order and the most dainty perfection of nature. the ground, shaven and smooth, sloped away down to a fringe of young wood, amidst which peeped out a pretty cottage and above which a curl of smoke floated. the cottage stood so low, and the trees were so open, that above and beyond appeared the receding slopes and hills of the river valley, in their various shades of colour, grass and foliage. there was no sun on all this now, but a beautiful light under the rain cloud from the distant horizon. and the dark old stone window was the frame for this picture. it was very perfect. it was very rare. eleanor exclaimed in delight. "but i never was here--i never saw this before! how did you know of it, mr. rhys?" "i have studied the ruins," he said lightly. "but you have been at wiglands only a few months." "i come here very often," he answered. "happily for you." he might add that well enough, for the clouds poured down their rain now in torrents, or in sheets; the light which had come from the horizon a few minutes before was hidden, and the grey gloom of a summer storm was over everything. the little window seemed dark, with the two people sitting there. then there came a blinding flash of lightning. eleanor started and cowered, and the thunder rolled its deep tones over them, and under them, for the earth shook. she raised her head again, but only to shrink back the second time, when the lightning and the thunder were repeated. this time her head was not raised again, and she kept her hand covered over her eyes. yet whenever the sound of the thunder came, eleanor's frame answered it by a start. she said nothing; it was merely the involuntary answer of the nerves. the storm was a severe one, and when the severity of it passed a little further off, the torrents of rain still fell. "you do not like thunder storms"--mr. rhys remarked, when the lightnings had ceased to be so vivid or so near. "does anybody like them?" "yes. i like everything." "you are happy"--said eleanor. "why are not you?" "i can't help it," said the girl, lifting up her head, though she did not let her eyes go out of the window. "i cannot bear to see the lightning. it is foolish, but i cannot help it." "are you sure it is foolish? is there not some reason at the bottom of it?" "i think there is a reason, though still it is foolish. there was a man killed by lightning just by our door, once--when i was a child. i saw him--i never can forget it, never!" and a sort of shudder ran over eleanor's shoulders as she spoke. "you want my armour," said her companion. the tone of voice was not only grave but sympathising. eleanor looked up at him. "your armour?" "you charged me with wearing armour--and i confessed it," he said with something of a smile. "it is a sort of armour that makes people safe in all circumstances." he looked so quiet, so grave, so cool, and his eye had such a light in it, that eleanor could not throw off his words. he _looked_ like a man in armour. but no mail of brass was to be seen. "what _do_ you mean?" she said. "did you never hear of the helmet of salvation?" "i don't know," said eleanor wonderingly. "i think i have heard the words. i do not think i ever attached any meaning to them." "did you never feel," he said, speaking with a peculiar deliberation of manner, "that you were exposed to danger--and to death--from which no effort of yours could free you; and that after death, there is a great white throne to meet, for which you are not ready?" while he spoke slowly, his eyes were fixed upon eleanor with a clear piercing glance which she felt read her through and through; but she was fascinated instead of angered, and submitted her own eyes to the reading without wishing to turn them away. carrying on two trains of thought at the same time, as the mind will, her inward reflection was, "i had no idea that you were so good-looking!"--the answer in words was a sober, "i have felt so." "was the feeling a happy one?" eleanor's lip suddenly trembled; then she put down that involuntary natural answer, and said evasively, looking out of the window, "i suppose everybody has such feelings sometimes." "not with that helmet on"--said her companion. with all the quietness of his speech, and it was very unimpassioned, his accent had a clear ring to it, which came from some unsounded spirit-depth of power; and eleanor's heart for a moment sunk before it in a secret convulsion of pain. she concealed this feeling, as she thought, successfully; but that single ray of light had shewed her the darkness; it was keen as an arrow, and the arrow rankled. and her neighbour's next words made her feel that her heart lay bare; so quietly they touched it. "you feel that you want something, miss powle." eleanor's head drooped, as well as her heart. she wondered at herself; but there was a spell of power upon her, and she could by no means lift up either. it was not only that his words were true, but that he knew them to be so. "do you know _what_ you want?" her friend went on, in tons that were tender, along with that deliberate utterance that carried so much force with it. "you know yourself an offender before the lord--and you want the sense of forgiveness in your heart. you know yourself inclined to be an offender again--and you want the renewing grace of god to make your heart clean, and set it free from the power of sin. then you want also something to make you happy; and the love of jesus alone can do that." "what is the use of telling over the things one has not got?"--said eleanor in somewhat smothered tones. the words of her companion came again clear as a bell-"because you may have them if you want them." eleanor struggled with herself, for her self-possession was endangered, and she was angry at herself for being such a fool; but she could not help it; yet she would not let her agitation come any more to the surface. she waited for clearness of voice, and then could not forbear the question, "how, mr. rhys?" "jesus said, 'if any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink.' there is all fulness in him. go to him for light--go to him for strength--go to him for forgiveness, for healing, for sanctification. 'whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely.'" "'go to him?'" repeated eleanor vaguely. "ask him." ask _him!_ it was such a far-off, strange idea to her a heart, there seemed such a universe of distance between, eleanor's face grew visibly shadowed with the thought. _she?_ she could not. she did not know how. she was silent a little while. the subject was getting unmanageable. "i never had anybody talk to me so before, mr. rhys," she said, thinking to let it pass. "perhaps you never will again," he said. "hear it now. the lord jesus is not far off--as you think--he is very near; he can hear the faintest whisper of a petition that you send to him. it is his message i bring you to-day--a message to _you_. i am his servant, and he has given me this charge for you to-day--to tell you that he loves you--that he has given his life for yours--and that he calls eleanor powle to give him her heart, and then to give him her life, in all the obedience his service may require." eleanor felt her heart strangely bowed, subdued, bent to his words. "i will"--was the secret language of her thoughts--"but i must not let this man see all i am feeling, if i can help it." she held herself still, looking out of the window, where the rain fell in torrents yet, though the thunder and the lightning were no longer near. so did he; he added no more to his last words, and a silence lasted in the old ruined window as if its chance occupants were gone again. as the silence lasted, eleanor felt it grow awkward. she was at a loss how to break it. it was broken for her then. "what will you do, miss powle?" "i will think about it"--she answered, startled and hesitating. "how long, before you decide?" "how can i tell?" she said. "you are shrinking from a decision already formed. the answer is given in your secret thoughts, and something is rising up in the midst of them to thwart it. shall i tell my master that his message is refused?" "mr. rhys!" said eleanor looking up, "i never heard any one talk so in all my life! you speak as if--" "as if, what?" "you speak as if--i never heard any one speak as you do." "i speak as if i were in the habit of telling my master how his message is received? i often do that." "but it seems superfluous to tell what is known already," said eleanor, wondering secretly much more than she dared to say at her companion's talk. "do you never, in speaking to those you love, tell them what is no information?" eleanor was now dumb. there was too great a gulf of difference between her companion and herself, to try to frame any words or thoughts that might bridge it over. she must remain on one side and he on the other; yet she went on wondering. "are you a clergyman, mr. rhys?" she said after a pause. "i am not what you would call such." "do you not think the rain is over?" "nearly, for the present; but the grass is as wet as possible." "o, i don't mind that. there is somebody now in the shrubbery yonder, looking for me." "he will not find you here," said mr. rhys. "i have this window all to myself. but we will find him." the rain-drops fell now but scatteringly, the last of the shower; the sun was breaking out, and the green world was all in a glitter of wet leaves. wet as they were, eleanor and mr. rhys pushed through the thick bramble and holly bushes, which with honeysuckles, eglantine, and broom, and bryony, made a sweet wild wilderness. they got plentifully besprinkled in their way, shook that off as well as they could, and with quick steps sought to rejoin their companions. the person eleanor had seen in the shrubbery was the first one found, as mr. rhys had said. it was mr. carlisle. he at once took charge of eleanor. "what has become of you?" "what has become of _you_, mr. carlisle?" eleanor's gleaming smile was as bright as ever. "despair, nearly," said he; "for i feared business would hold me all day; but i broke away. not time enough to protect you from this shower." "water will wet," said eleanor, laughing; for the politeness of this speech was more evident than its plausibility. she was on the point of speaking of the protection that had been actually found for her, but thought better of it. meantime they were joined by a little girl, bright and rather wild looking, who addressed eleanor as her sister. "o come!" she said,--"where have you been? we can't go on till you come. we are going to lunch at barton's tower--and mamma says she will make mr. carlisle build a fire, so that we may all dry ourselves." "julia!--how you speak!" "she did say so," repeated the child. "come--make haste." eleanor glanced at her companion, who met the glance with a smile. "i hope mrs. powle will always command me," he said, somewhat meaningly; and eleanor hurried on. she was destined to long _tãªte-ã -tãªtes_ that day; for as soon as her little party was seen in the distance, the larger company took up their line of march again. julia and mr. rhys had fallen behind; and the long walk to barton's tower was made with mr. carlisle alone, who was in no haste to abridge it, and seemed to enjoy himself very well. eleanor once or twice looked back, and saw her little sister, hand in hand with her companion of the old window, walking and talking in very eager and gay style; to judge by julia's lively movements. "who is that mr. rhys?" said eleanor. "i have hardly the honour to know him. may i ask, why you ask?" "he is peculiar," said eleanor. "he can hardly be worthy your study." and the question was dismissed with a coolness which reminded eleanor of mr. rhys's own words, that he was not what she would call a clergyman. she would have asked another question, but the slight disdain which spoke in mr. carlisle's eye and voice deterred her. she only noticed how well the object of it and her sister were getting along. however, eleanor's own walk was pleasant enough to drive mr. rhys out of her head. mr. carlisle was polished, educated, spirited, and had the great additional advantage of being a known and ascertained somebody; as he was in fact the heir of all the fine domain whose beauties they were admiring. and a beautiful heirdom it was. the way taken by the party led up the course of a valley which followed the windings of a small stream; its sides most romantic and woody in some places; in others taking the very mould of gentle beauty, and covered with rich grass, and sweet with broom; in others again, drawing near together, and assuming a picturesque wildness, rocky and broken. sweet flowers grew by the way in profusion, on the banks and along the sides of the stream; and the birds were very jocund in their solitudes. through all this it was very pleasant wandering with the heir of the land; and neither wet shoes nor wet shoulders were much remembered by eleanor till they reached barton's tower. this was a ruin of a different character; one of the old strongholds of the rough time when men lived by the might of hand. no delicate arches and graceful mouldings had ever been here; all was, or had been, grim, stern strength and massiveness. the strength was broken long ago; and grace, in the shape of clustering ivy, had mantled so much of the harsh outlines that their original impression was lost. it could be recalled only by a little abstraction. within the enclosure of the thick walls, which in some places gave a sort of crypt-like shelter, the whole rambling party was now collected. "shall we have a fire?" mr. carlisle had asked eleanor, just before they entered. and eleanor could not find in her heart to deny that it would be good, though not quite prepared to have it made to _her_ order. however, the word was given. wood was brought, and presently a roaring blaze went up within the old walls; not where the old chimney used to be, for there were no traces of such a thing. the sun had not shined bright enough to do away the mischief the shower had done; and now the ladies gathered about the blaze, and declared it was very comfortable. eleanor sat down on a stone by the side of the fire, willing to be less in the foreground for a little while; as well as to dry her wet shoes. from there she had a view of the scene that would have pleased a painter. the blazing fire threw a warm light and colour of its own upon the dark walls and on the various groups collected within them, and touched mosses and ferns and greensward with its gypsy glare. the groups were not all of one character. there was a light-hued gay company of muslins and scarfs around the burning pile; in a corner a medley of servants and baskets and hampers; and in another corner eleanor watched julia and mr. rhys; the latter of whom was executing some adventurous climbing, after a flower probably, or a fern, while julia stood below eagerly following his progress. mr. carlisle was all about. it was a singularly pretty scene, and to eleanor's eye it had the sharp painting which is given by a little secret interest at work. that interest gave particular relief to the figures of the two gentlemen whose names have been mentioned; the other figures, the dark walls and ivy, the servants and the preparing collation, were only a rich mosaic of background for those two. there was mr. powle, a sturdy, well-to-do, country gentleman; looking it, and looking besides good-natured, which he was if not crossed. there was eleanor's mother, good-natured under all circumstances; fair and handsome; every inch of her, from the close fair curls on each side of her temples, to the tips of her neat walking shoes, shewing the ample perfection of abundant means and indulgent living. there were some friends that formed part of their household just then, and the young people of a neighbouring family; with the miss broadus's; two elderly ladies from the village who were always in everything. there was dr. cairnes the rector, and his sister, a widow lady who spent part of every year with him. all these eleanor's eye passed over with slight heed, and busied itself furtively with the remaining two; the great man of the party, and the other, the one certainly of least consideration in it. why did she look at him, eleanor asked herself? mr. carlisle was a mark for everybody's eyes; a very handsome man, the future lord of the manor, knowing and using gracefully his advantages of many kinds. what had the other,--that tall, quiet man, gathering flowers with julia in the angle of the old tower? he could not be called handsome; a dark thick head of hair, and somewhat marked features alone distinguished him; except a pair of very clear keen eyes, the penetrating quality of which eleanor had felt that morning. "he has a good figure, though," she said to herself, "a very good figure--and he moves well and easily; but what is there about him to make me think of him? what is the difference between his face and that other face?" "that other face" made frequent appeals for her attention; yet eleanor could not forget the group in the corner, where her sister seemed to be having a time of more lively enjoyment than any one else of the company. no other person paid them any attention, even in thought; and when the collation was spread, eleanor half wondered that her morning's friend neither came forward nor was for some moments asked to do so. she thought indeed she heard julia ask him, but if so it was without effect. mr. rhys remained in the distant angle, studying the stones there; till mr. powle shouted to him and brought him into the company. having done this good action, the squire felt benevolently disposed towards the object of his care, and entered into conversation with him. it grew so satisfactory to mr. powle, that it absorbed his attention from all but the meats and wines which were offered him, the enjoyment of which it probably heightened; the talk was prolonged, and seemed to grow more interesting as it went on. eleanor could not hear what it was about, her own ear was so much engaged with business nearer at hand. the whole play had not escaped her, however; and between question and answer of the rattling gaiety going on about her ears, and indeed on her own tongue, she found time to wonder whether mr. rhys were shy, or kept back by a feeling of inferiority; so marked his conduct was by the absence of all voluntary self-assertion, she could not determine that he was either. no look or word favoured the one or the other supposition. and eleanor could not look at those keen eyes, without feeling that it was extremely unlikely they would quail before anybody or anything. very different from those fine hazel irids that were flashing fun and gallantry into hers with every glance. very different; but what was the difference? it was something deeper than colour and contour. eleanor had no chance to make further discoveries; for her father engrossed his new acquaintance all the way home, and only did not bring him to ivy lodge to tea because mr. rhys refused it; for the invitation was given. chapter ii. at the garden-door. "to die--to sleep. to sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come"-the family at ivy lodge gathered round the tea-table with spirits rather whetted, apparently for both talking and eating. certainly the one exercise had been intermitted for some hours; the other however had gone on without cessation. it went on still. the party was now reduced to the home party, with the addition of miss broadus; which lady, with her sister, was at home at ivy lodge, as she was everywhere else. elderly, respectable and respected old ladies they were; and though they dealt in gossip, would not willingly have hurt a fly. they dealt in receipts and in jellies too; in fashions, and in many kindnesses, both received and given by all the neighbourhood. they were daughters of a former rector of the parish, and poor, and asked nobody to help them; which indeed they had no need to ask. "you seemed to like your afternoon's acquaintance, papa?" said eleanor. "he is a fine fellow," said the squire. "he's a fine fellow. knows something. my dear, he teaches a small school at wiglands, i hear." "does he. i wonder who goes to it," said mrs. powle. "i don't know," said the squire; "but i mean to send alfred." "my dear mr. powle! to such a school as that? nobody can go to it but some of the farmers' children around--there is no one else." "it won't hurt him, for a little while," said the squire. "i like the master, and that's of more importance than the children. don't you worry." "my dear mr. powle! but i never heard of such a thing in my life. i do not believe dr. cairnes will like it at all. he will think it very strange, your sending your boy to a man that is not a churchman, and is not anything, that anybody knows of." "dr. cairnes be hanged!" said the squire,--"and mind his own affairs. he wouldn't want me to send alfred to _him_." "my dear mrs. powle," said miss broadus, "i can tell you this for your comfort--there are two sons of mr. churchill, the independent minister of eastcombe--that come over to him; besides one or two more that are quite respectable." "why does not mr. churchill send his boys to school it eastcombe?" "o well, it doesn't suit him, i suppose; and like goes to like, you know, my dear." "that is what i think," said mrs. powle, looking at her husband,--"and i wonder mr. powle does not think so too." "if you mean me," said the squire, "i am not 'like' anybody--that i can tell you. a good schoolmaster is a good schoolmaster--i don't care what else he calls himself." "and mr. rhys is a good schoolmaster, i have no doubt," said miss broadus. "i know what he is," said julia; "he is a nice man, i like him." "i saw he kept you quiet," said eleanor. "how did he manage it?" "he didn't manage it. he told me about things," said julia; "and he got flowers for me, and told me about ferns. you never saw such lovely ferns as we found; and you would not know where to look for them, either. i never saw such a nice man as mr. rhys in my life." "there, my dear," said her mother, "do not encourage julia in talking. she is always too ready." "i am going to walk with him again, to get flowers," said the child. "i shall invite him to the lodge," said the squire. "he is a very sensible man, and knows what he is about." "do you know anything more about him, mr. powle?" "he does more than teach three or four boys," said miss broadus. "he serves a little dissenting chapel of some sort, over at lily vale." "why does he not live there then?" said mrs. powle. "lily vale is two and a half miles off. not very convenient, i should think." "i don't know, my dear. perhaps he finds living cheap at wiglands, and i am sure he may. do you know, i get butter for less than one-half what i paid when i was in leicester?" "it is summer time now, miss broadus," said the squire. "yes, i know, but still--i am sure wiglands is the nicest, easiest place for poor people to live, that ever was." "why you are not poor, miss broadus," said the squire. miss broadus chuckled. the fact was, that the miss broadus's not being poor was a standing pleasant joke with them; it being well known that they were not largely supplied with means, but contrived to make a little do the apparent work of much more than they had. a way of achieving respectability upon which they prided themselves. "eleanor," said her mother as they left the table, "you look pale. did you get your feet wet?" "yes, mamma--there was no helping that." "then you'll be laid up!" "she must not, just now, my dear," said miss broadus smilingly. eleanor could not laugh off the prophecy, which an internal warning told her was well founded. she went to bed thinking of mr. rhys's helmet. she did not know why; she was not given to such thoughts; neither did she comprehend exactly what the helmet might be; yet now the thought came uneasily across her mind, that just such a cold as she had taken had been many a one's death; and with that came a strange feeling of unprotectedness--of want of defence. it was very uncomfortable to go to bed with that slight sensation of sore throat and feverishness, and to remember that the beginning of multitudes of last sicknesses had been no other and no greater; and it was most unlike eleanor to have such a cause make her uncomfortable. she charged it upon the conversation of the morning, and supposed herself nervous or feverish; but this, if an explanation, was no cure; and through the frequent wakings of a disturbed night, the thought of that piece of armour which made one of her fellow creatures so blessedly calm, came up again and again to her mind. "i am feverish--this is nightmare," said eleanor to herself. but it must be good to have no such nightmare. and when the broad daylight had come, and she was pronounced to be very ill, and the doctor was sent for, eleanor found her night's visions would not take their departure. she could not get up; she was a prisoner; would she ever be free? she was very ill; the fever gained head; and the old doctor, who was a friend of the family, looked very grave at her. eleanor saw it. she knew that a battle was to be fought between the powers of life and death; and the thought that no one could tell how the victory would be, came like an ice wind upon flowers. her spirit shrank and cowered before it. hopes and pleasures and plans, of which she was so full yesterday, were chilled to the ground; and across the cleared pathway of vision, what appeared? eleanor would not look. but the battle must be fought; and it had to be fought amid pain and fever and weariness and the anxious looks of friends; and it was not soon decided. and the wish for that helmet of shelter, whatever it might be, came at times bitterly strong over eleanor's heart. many a heavily drawn sigh, which her mother charged to the body's weariness, came from the mind's longing. and in the solitude of the night, when her breath was quick and her pulse was high and she knew everything was going wrong, the thought came with a sting of agony,--if there was such a helmet, and she could not have it. o to be well and strong, and need none!--or while lying before death's door to see if it would open, o to have that talisman that would make its opening peace! it was not at eleanor's hand, and she did not know where to find it. and when the daylight came again, and the doctor looked grave, and her mother turned away the anxious face she did not wish eleanor to read, the cold chill of fear crept over eleanor's heart. she hid it there. no creature in the house, she knew, could meet or quiet it; if indeed her explanation of it could have been understood. she banished it as often as it was possible; but during many days that eleanor lay on a sick bed, it was so frequent a visiter that her heart grew sore for its coming. there were june roses and summer sunshine outside; and sweet breaths came in at the open windows, telling the time of year. julia reported how fine the strawberries were, and went and came with words about walks and flowers and joyous doings; while eleanor's room was darkened, and phials of medicine and glasses stood on the table, and the doctor went and carne, and mrs. powle hardly left her by day, and at night tile nurse slept, and eleanor tossed and turned on her pillow and thought of another "night" that "cometh." the struggle with fever and pain was over at last. then came weakness; and though hope revived, fear would not die. besides, eleanor said to herself, though she should get entirely well of this sickness, who would guaranty her that another would not come? and must not one come--some time--that must be final? and how should that be met? nay, though getting well again and out of present danger, she would have liked to have that armour of shelter still! "what are you crying for?" said her little sister coming suddenly into her room one day. eleanor was so far recovered as to be up. "i am weak and nervous,--foolish." "i wouldn't be foolish," said julia. "i do not think i am foolish," said eleanor slowly. "then why do you say you are? but what is the matter with you?" "like all the rest of the world, child,--i want something i cannot get. what have you there?" "ferns," said julia. "do you know what ferns are?" "i suppose i do--when i see them." "no, but when you _don't_ see them; that's the thing." "do you, pray." "yes! a fern is a plant which has its seeds come on the back of the leaf, and no flower; and it comes up curled like a caterpillar. aren't those pretty?" "where did you learn all that?" "i know more than that. this leaf is called a _frond_." "who told you?" "mr. rhys." "did you learn it from mr. rhys?" "yes, to be sure i did, and a great deal more. he is going to teach me all about ferns." "where do you see mr. rhys?" "why! wherever i have a mind. alfred goes walking with him, and the other boys, and i go too; and he tells us things. i always go along with mr. rhys, and he takes care of me." "does mamma know?" "yes, but papa lets mr. rhys do just what he pleases. papa says mr. rhys is a wonderful man." "what is he wonderful for?" said eleanor languidly. "well, _i_ think, because he is making alfred a good boy." "i wonder how he has done it," said eleanor. "so do i. he knows how. what do you think--he punished alfred one day right before papa." "where?" said eleanor, in astonishment. "down at the school. papa was there. papa told about it. alfred thought he wouldn't dare, when papa was there; and alfred took the opportunity to be impudent; and mr. rhys just took him up by his waistband and laid him down on the floor at his feet; and alfred has behaved himself ever since." "was not papa angry?" "he said he was at first, and i think it is likely; but after that, he said mr. rhys was a great man, and he would not interfere with him." "and how does alfred like mr. rhys?" "he likes him--" said julia, turning over her ferns. "i like him. mr. rhys said he was sorry you were sick. now, _that_ is a frond. that is what it is called. do you see, those are the seeds." eleanor sighed. she would have liked to take lessons of mr. rhys on another subject. she half envied julia's liberty. there seemed a great wall built up between her and the knowledge she wanted. must it be so always? "julia, when are you going to take a walk with mr. rhys again?" "to-morrow," was the quick answer. "i will give you something to ask him about." "i don't want it. i always have enough to ask him. we are going after ferns; we always have enough to talk about." "but there is a question i would like you to ask." "what is it? why don't you ask him yourself?" eleanor was silent, watching julia's uncompromising business-like air as she turned over her bunch of ferns. the little one was full of her own affairs; her long locks of hair waving with every turn of her busy head. suddenly she looked up. "what is your question, eleanor?" "you must not ask it as if from me." "how then?" "just ask it--as if you wanted to know yourself; without saying anything." "as if i wanted to know what?" eleanor hesitated, and mrs. powle came into the room. "what, eleanor--what?" julia repeated. "nothing. study your ferns." "i _have_ studied them. this is the rachis--and down here below this, is the rhizoma; and the little seed places that come on the back of the frond, are thecae. i forget what mr. rhys called the seeds now. i'll ask him." "what nonsense is that you are talking, julia?" "sense, mamma. or rather, it is knowledge." "mamma, how do _you_ like mr. rhys? julia says he is often here." "he is a pleasant man," said mrs. powle. "i have nothing against him--except that your father and the children are crazy about him. i see nothing in him to be crazy about." "alfred is a good deal less crazy than he used to be," remarked julia; "and i think papa hasn't lost anything." "you are a saucy girl," said her mother. "mr. carlisle is very anxious to know when you will be down stairs again, eleanor." julia ran off with her ferns; eleanor went into a muse; and the conversation ceased. it happened a few days after this, that the event about which mr. carlisle was anxious came to pass. eleanor was able to leave her room. however, feeling yet very wanting in strength, and not quite ready to face a company of gay talkers, she shunned the drawing-room where such a company was gathered, and betook herself to a small summer-parlour in another part of the house. this room she had somewhat appropriated to her own use. it had once been a school-room. since the misbehaviour of one governess, years ago, mr. powle had vowed that he would never have another in the house, come what would. julia might run wild at home; he should be satisfied if she learned to read, to ride, and to walk; and when she was old enough, he would send her to boarding-school. what the squire considered old enough, did not appear. julia was a fine child of eleven, and still practising her accomplishments of riding and walking to her heart's content at home; with little progress made in the other branches to which reading is the door. the old schoolroom had long forgotten even its name, and had been fitted up simply and pleasantly for summer occupation. it opened on one side by a glass door upon a gay flower-garden; eleanor's special pet and concern; where she did a great deal of work herself. it was after an elaborate geometrical pattern; and beds of all sorts of angles were filled and bright with different coloured verbenas, phloxes, geraniums, heliotrope, and other flowers fit for such work; making a brilliant mosaic of scarlet, purple and gold, in eastern gorgeousness, as the whole was seen from the glass door. eleanor sat down there to look at it and realise the fact that she was getting well again; with the dreamy realization that goes along with present weakness and remembered past pain. on another side the room opened to a small lawn; it was quite shut off by its situation and by the plantations of shrubbery, from the other part of the house; and very rarely visited by the chance comers who were frequent there. so eleanor was a good deal surprised this evening to see a tall strange figure appear at the further side of her flower garden; then not at all surprised to see that it was mr. rhys accompanied by her sister, julia. julia flitted about through the garden, in very irregular fashion, followed by her friend; till their wanderings brought them near the open door within which eleanor sat. to the door julia immediately darted, drawing her companion with her; and as soon as she came up exclaimed, as if she had been armed with a search warrant and had brought her man,-"here's mr. rhys, eleanor. now you can ask him yourself whatever you like." eleanor felt startled. but it was with such a pleasant face that mr. rhys came up, such a cordial grasp of the hand greeted her, that the feeling vanished immediately. perhaps that hand-clasp was all the warmer for eleanor's changed appearance. she was very unlike the girl of superb health who had wandered over the old priory grounds a few weeks before. eleanor's colour was gone; the blue veins shewed distinctly on the temples; the full lips, instead of their brilliant gay smile, had a languid and much soberer line. she made quite a different impression now, of a fair delicate young creature, who had lost and felt she had lost the proud strength in which she had been so luxuriant a little while before. mr. rhys looked at her attentively. "you have been very ill, miss powle." "i suppose i have--some of the time." "i am rejoiced to see you well again." "thank you." "julia has been leading me over the garden and grounds. i did not know where she was bringing me." "how do you like my garden?" "for a garden of that sort--it seems to me well arranged." he was very cool, certainly, in giving his opinion, eleanor thought. her gardening pride was touched. this was a pet of her own. "then you do not fancy gardens of this sort." "i believe i think nature is the best artist of all." "but would you let nature have her own way entirely?" "no more in the vegetable than i would in the moral world. she would grow weeds." the quick clear sense and decision, in the eye and accent, were just what eleanor did not want to cope with. she was silent. so were her two companions; for julia was busy with a nosegay she was making up. then mr. rhys turned to eleanor, "julia said you had a question to ask of me, miss powle." "yes, i had,"--said eleanor, colouring slightly and hesitating. "but you cannot answer it standing--will you come in, mr. rhys?" "thank you--if you will allow me, i will take this instead," said he, sitting down on one of the steps before the glass door. "what was the question?" "that was the other day, when she brought in her ferns--it was a wish i had. but she ought not to have troubled you with it." "it will give me great pleasure to answer you--if i can." eleanor half fancied he knew what the question was; and she hesitated again, feeling a good deal confused. but when should she have another chance? she made a bold push. "i felt a curiosity to ask you--i did not know any one else who could tell me--what that 'helmet' was, you spoke of one day;--that day at the old priory?" eleanor could not look up. she felt as if the clear eyes opposite her were reading down in the depth of her heart. they were very unflinching about it. it was curiously disagreeable and agreeable both at once. "have you wanted it, these weeks past?" said he. the question was unexpected. it was put with a penetrating sympathy. eleanor felt if she opened her lips to speak she could not command their steadiness. she gave no answer but silence. "a helmet?" said julia looking up. "what is a helmet?" "the warriors of old time," said mr. rhys, "used to wear a helmet to protect their heads from danger. it was a covering of leather and steel. with this head-piece on, they felt safe; where their lives would not have been worth a penny without it." "but eleanor--what does eleanor want of a helmet?" said julia. and she went off into a shout of ringing laughter. "perhaps you want one," said mr. rhys composedly. "no, i don't. what should i want it for? what should i cover my head with leather and steel for, mr. rhys?" "you want something stronger than that." "something stronger? what do i want, mr. rhys?" "to know that, you must find out first what the danger is." "i am not in any danger." "how do you know that?" "am i, mr. rhys?" "let us see. do you know what the lord jesus christ has done for us all?" "no." "do you know whether god has given us any commandments?" "yes; i know the ten commandments. i have learned them once, but i don't remember them." "have you obeyed them?" "me?" "yes. you." "i never thought about it." "have you disobeyed them then?" eleanor breathed more freely, and listened. it was curious to her to see the wayward, giddy child stand and look into the eyes of her questioner as if fascinated. the ordinary answer from julia would have been a toss and a fling. now she stood and said sedately, "i don't know." "we can soon tell," said her friend. "one of the commandments is, to remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. have you always done that?" "no," said julia bluntly. "i don't think anybody else does." "never mind anybody else. have you always honoured the word and wish of your father and mother? that is another command." "i have done it more than alfred has." "let alfred alone. have _you_ always done it?" "no, sir." "have you loved the good god all your life, with all your heart?" "no." "you have loved to please yourself, rather than anything else?" the nod with which julia answered this, if not polite, was at least significant, accompanied with an emphatic "always!" mr. rhys could not help smiling at her, but he went on gravely enough. "what is to keep you then from being afraid?" "from being afraid?" "yes. you want a helmet." "afraid?" said julia. "yes. afraid of the justice of god. he never lets a sin go unpunished. he is _perfectly_ just." "but i can't help it," said julia. "then what is to become of you? you need a helmet." "a helmet?" said julia again. "what sort of a helmet?" "you want to know that god has forgiven you; that he is not angry with you; that he loves you, and has made you his child." "how can i?" said the child, pressing closer to the speaker where he sat on the step of the door. and no wonder, for the words were given with a sweet earnest utterance which drew the hearts of both bearers. he went on without looking at eleanor; or without seeming to look that way. "how can you what?" "how can i have that?" "that helmet? there is only one way." "what is it, mr. rhys?" they were silent a minute, looking at each other, the man and the child; the child with her eyes bent on his. "suppose somebody had taken your punishment for you? borne the displeasure of god for your sins?" "who would?" said julia. "nobody would." "one has." "who, mr. rhys?" "one that loved you, and that loved all of us, well enough to pay the price of saving us." "what price did he pay?" "his own life. he gave it up cruelly--that ours might be redeemed." "what for, mr. rhys? what made him?" "because he loved us. there was no other reason." "then people will be saved"--said julia. "every one who will take the conditions. it depends upon that. there are conditions." "what conditions, mr. rhys?" "do you know who did this for you?" "no." "it is the lord himself--the lord jesus christ--the lord of glory. he thought it not robbery to be equal with god; but he made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men; and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient unto death--even the death of the cross. so now he is exalted a prince and a saviour--able to save all who will accept his conditions." "what are the conditions, mr. rhys?" "you must be his servant. and you must trust all your little heart and life to him." "i must be his servant?" said julia. "yes, heart and soul, to obey him. and you must trust him to forgive you and save you for his blood's sake." doubtless there had been something in the speaker himself that had held the child's attention so fast all this while. her eyes had never wandered from his face; she had stood in docile wise looking at him and answering his questions and listening, won by the commentary she read in his face on what her friend was saying. a strange light kindled in it as he spoke; there were lines of affection and tenderness that came in the play of lips and eyes; and when he named his master, there had shined in his face as it were the reflection of the glory he alluded to. julia's eyes were not the only ones that had been held; though it was only julia's tongue that said anything in reply. standing now and looking still into the face she had been reading, her words were an unconscious rendering of what she found there. "mr. rhys, i think he was very good." the water filled those clear eyes at that, but he only returned the child's gaze and said nothing. "i will take the conditions, mr. rhys," julia went on. "the lord make it so!" he said gravely. "but what is the helmet, mr. rhys?" "when you have taken the conditions, little one, you will know." he rose up. "mr. rhys," said eleanor rising also, "i have listened to you, but i do not quite understand you." "i recommend you to ask better teaching, miss powle." "but i would like to know exactly what you mean, and what you meant, by that 'helmet' you speak of so often?" he looked steadily now at the fair young face beside him, which told so plainly of the danger lately passed through. eleanor could not return, though she suffered the examination. his answer was delayed while he made it. "do you ask from a sense of need?" he said. eleanor looked up then and answered, "yes." "to say, 'i know that my redeemer liveth'--that is it," he said. "then the head is covered--even from fear of evil." it was impossible that eleanor ever should forget the look that went with the words, and which had prevented her own gaze from seeking the ground again. the look of inward rejoicing and outward fearlessness; the fire and the softness that at once overspread his face. "he was looking at his master then"--was the secret conclusion of eleanor's mind. even while she thought it, he had turned and was gone again with julia. she stood still some minutes, weak as she was. she was not sure that she perfectly comprehended what that helmet might be, but of its reality there could be no questioning. she had seen its plumes wave over one brow! "i know that my redeemer liveth"--eleanor sat down and mused over the words. she had heard them before; they were an expression of somebody's faith, she was not sure whose; but what faith was it? faith that the redeemer lived? eleanor did not question that. she had repeated the apostle's creed many a time. yet a vague feeling from the words she could not analyze--or arising perhaps from the look that had interpreted them--floated over her mind, disturbing it with an exceeding sense of want. she felt desolate and forlorn. what was to be done? julia and mr. rhys were gone. the garden was empty. there was no more chance of counsel-taking to-night. eleanor felt in no mood for gay gossip, and slowly mounted the stairs to her own room, from whence she declined to come down again that night. she would like to find the settlement of this question, before she went back into the business of the world and was swallowed up by it, as she would soon be. eleanor locked the door, and took up a bible, and tried to find some good by reading in it. her eyes and head were tired before her mind received any light. she was weak yet. she found the bible very unsatisfactory; and gave it up. chapter iii. in the drawing-room. "why, all the souls that were were forfeit once; and he that might the vantage best have took, found out the remedy." "you can come down stairs to-night, eleanor," said mrs. powle the next morning. "i was down stairs last night--in the afternoon, i mean--mamma." "yes, but you did not stay. i want you in the drawing-room this evening. you can bear it now." "i am in no hurry, mamma." "other people are, however. if you wear a white dress, do put a rose or some pink ribbands somewhere, to give yourself a little colour." "have you invited any one for this evening?" "no, but people have promised themselves without being asked. dr. cairnes wants to see you; he said he would bring mrs. wycherly. miss broadus will be here of course; she declared she would; both of them. and mr. carlisle desired my permission to present himself." "mr. rhys is coming," said julia. "i dare say. mr. powle wants him here all the time. it is a mercy the man has a little consideration--or some business to keep him at home--or he would be the sauce to every dish. as it is, he really is not obtrusive." "are all these people coming with the hope and intent of seeing me, mamma?" "i can only guess at people's hopes, eleanor. i am guiltless of anything but confessing that you were to make your appearance." "mr. rhys is not coming to see you," said julia. "he wants to see the books--that is what he wants." there was some promise for eleanor in the company announced for the evening. if anybody could be useful to her in the matter of her late doubts and wishes, it ought to be dr. cairnes, the rector. he at least was the only one she knew whom she could talk to about them; the only friend. mr. rhys was a stranger and her brother's tutor; that was all; a chance of speaking to him again was possible, but not to be depended on. dr. cairnes was her pastor and old friend; it is true, she knew him best, out of the pulpit, as an antiquarian; then she had never tried him on religious questions. nor he her, she remembered; it was a doubtful hope altogether; nevertheless the evening offered what another evening might not in many a day. so eleanor dressed, and with her slow languid step made her way down stairs to the scene of the social gayeties which had been so long interrupted for her. ivy lodge was a respectable, comfortable, old house; pretty by the combination of those advantages; and pleasant by the fact of making no pretensions beyond what it was worth. it was not disturbed by the rage after new fashions, nor the race after distant greatness. quiet respectability was the characteristic of the family; mrs. powle alone being burdened with the consciousness of higher birth than belonged to the name of powle generally. she fell into her husband's ways, however, outwardly, well enough; did not dislodge the old furniture, nor introduce new extravagances; and the lodge was a pleasant place. "a most enjoyable house, my dear,"--as miss broadus expressed it. so the gentry of the neighbourhood found it universally. the drawing-room was a pretty, spacious apartment; light and bright; opening upon the lawn directly without intervention of piazza or terrace. windows, or rather glass doors, in deep recesses, stood open; the company seemed to be half in and half out. dr. cairnes was there, talking with the squire. in another place mrs. powle was engaged with mr. carlisle. further than those two groups, eleanor's eye had no chance to go; those who composed the latter greeted her instantly. mrs. powle's exclamation was of doubtful pleasure at eleanor's appearance; there was no question of her companion's gratification. he came forward to eleanor, gave her his chair; brought her a cup of tea, and then sat down to see her drink it; with a manner which bespoke pleasure in every step of the proceedings. a manner which had rather the effect of a barrier to eleanor's vision. it was gratifying certainly; eleanor felt it; only she felt it a little too gratifying. mr. carlisle was getting on somewhat too fast for her. she drank her tea and kept very quiet; while mrs. powle sat by and fanned herself, as contentedly as a mother duck swims that sees all her young ones taking to the water kindly. now and then eleanor's eyes went out of the window. on the lawn at a little distance was a group of people, sitting close together and seeming very busy. they were mr. rhys, miss broadus, alfred and julia. something interesting was going forward; they were talking and listening, and looking at something they seemed to be turning over. eleanor would have liked to join them; but here was mr. carlisle; and remembering the expression which had once crossed his face at the mention of mr. rhys's name, she would not draw attention to the group even by her eyes; though they wandered that way stealthily whenever they could. what a good time those people were having there on the grass; and she sitting fenced in by mr. carlisle. other members of the party who had not seen eleanor, came up one after another to congratulate and welcome her; but mr. carlisle kept his place. dr. cairnes came, and eleanor wanted a chance to talk to him. none was given her. mr. carlisle left his place for a moment to carry eleanor's cup away, and dr. cairnes thoughtlessly took the vacated chair; but mr. carlisle stationed himself on the other side in the window; and she was as far from her opportunity as ever. "well my dear," said the doctor, "you have had a hard time, eh? we are glad to have you amongst us again." "hardly," put in mrs. powle. "she looks like a ghost." "rather a substantial kind of a ghost," said the doctor, pinching eleanor's cheek; "some flesh and blood here yet--flesh at least;--and now the blood speaks for itself! that's right, my dear--you are better so." mr. carlisle's smile said so too, as the doctor glanced at him. but the momentary colour faded again. eleanor remembered how near she had come to being a ghost actually. just then mr. carlisle's attention was forcibly claimed, and mrs. powle moved away. eleanor seized her chance. "dr. cairnes, i want your instruction in something." "well, my dear," said the doctor, lowering his tone in imitation of eleanor's--"i shall be happy to be your instructor. i have been that, in some sort, ever since you were five years old--a little tot down in your mother's pew, sitting under my ministrations. what is it, miss eleanor?" "i am afraid i did not receive much in those days, sir." "probably not. hardly to be expected. i have no doubt you received as much as a child could, from the mysteries which were above its comprehension. what is it now, miss eleanor?" "something in your line, sir. dr. cairnes, you remember the helmet spoken of in the bible?" "helmet?" said the doctor. "goliath's? he had a helmet of brass upon his head. must have been heavy, but i suppose he could carry it. the same thing essentially as those worn by our ancestors--a little variation in form. what about it, my dear? i am glad to see you smiling again." "nothing about that. i am speaking of another sort of helmet--do you not remember?--it is called somewhere the helmet of salvation." "_that?_ o!--um! _that_ helmet! yes--it is in, let me see--it is in the description of christian armour, in a fine passage in ephesians, i think. what about that, miss eleanor?" "i want to know, sir, what shape that helmet takes." it was odd, with what difficulty eleanor brought out her questions. it was touching, the concealed earnestness which lingered behind her glance and smile. "shape?" said the doctor, descending into his cravat;--"um! a fair question; easier asked than answered. why my dear, you should read a commentary." "i like living commentaries, dr. cairnes." "do you? ha, ha!--well. living commentaries, eh? and shapes of helmets. well. what shape does it take? why, my dear, you know of course that those expressions are figurative. i think it takes the shape of a certain composure and peace of mind which the christian soul feels, and justly feels, in regarding the provision made for its welfare in the gospel. it is spoken of as the helmet of salvation; and there is the shield of faith; and so forth." eleanor felt utterly worried, and did not in the least know how to frame her next question. "what has put you upon thinking of helmets, miss eleanor?" "i was curious--" said eleanor. "you had some serious thoughts in your illness?" said the doctor. "well, my dear--i am glad of it. serious thoughts do not in the least interfere with all proper present enjoyments; and with improper ones you would not wish to have anything to do." "may we not say that serious thoughts are the _foundation_ of all true present enjoyment?" said another voice. it was mr. rhys who spoke. eleanor started to hear him, and to see him suddenly in the place where mr. carlisle had been, standing in the window. "eh? well--no,--not just that," said dr. cairnes coolly. "i have a good deal of enjoyment in various things--this fair day and this fair company, for example, and mrs. powle's excellent cup of tea--with which i apprehend, serious thoughts have nothing to do." "but we are commanded to do everything in the name of the lord jesus." "well--um! that is to be taken of course in its rational significance. a cup of tea is a cup of tea--and nothing more. there is nothing at the bottom of it--ha, ha!--but a little sugar. nothing more serious." mr. rhys's figure standing in the window certainly hindered a part of the light. to judge by the doctor's face, he was keeping out the whole. "what do you suppose the apostle means, sir, when he says, 'henceforward know i no man after the flesh?'" "hum!--ah,--well, he was an apostle. i am not. perhaps you are?" there was a degree of covert disdain in this speech, which eleanor wondered at in so well-bred a man as dr. cairnes. mr. rhys answered with perfect steadiness, with no change of tone or manner. "without being inspired--i think, in the sense of _messenger_, every minister of christ is his apostle." "ah! well!--i am not even apostolic," said the doctor, with one or two contented and discontented grunts. eleanor understood them; the content was his own, the discontent referred to the speaker whose words were so inopportune. the doctor rose and left the ground. mr. rhys had gone even before him; and eleanor wondered anew whether this man were indeed shy or not. he was so little seen and heard; yet spoke, when he spoke, with such clearness and self-possession. he was gone now, and mr. carlisle was still busy. up came miss broadus and took the vacant seat. it is impossible to describe miss broadus's face. it was in a certain sense fair, and fat, and fresh-coloured; but the "windows of her soul" shewed very little light from within; they let out nothing but a little gleam now and then. however, her tongue was fluent, and matter for speech never wanting. she was kindly too, in manner at least; and extremely sociable with all her neighbours, low as well as high; none of whose affairs wanted interest for her. it was in fact owing to miss broadus's good offices with mrs. powle, that mr. rhys had been invited to join the pleasure party with which the adventures of this book begin. the good lady was as neat as a pink in her dress; and very fond of being as shewy, in a modest way. "among us again, eleanor?" she said. "we are glad to see you. so is mr. carlisle, i should judge. we have missed you badly. you have been terribly ill, haven't you? yes, you shew it. but _that_ will soon pass away, my dear. i longed to get in to do something for you--but mrs. powle would not let me; and i knew you had the best of everything all the while. only i thought i would bring you a pot of my grape jelly; for mrs. powle don't make it; and it is so refreshing." "it was very nice, thank you." "o it was nothing, my dear; only we wanted to do something. i have been having such an interesting time out there; didn't you see us sitting on the grass? mr. rhys is quite a botanist--or a naturalist--or something; and he was quite the centre of our entertainment. he was shewing us ferns--fern leaves, my dear; and talking about them. do you know, as i told him, i never looked at a fern leaf before; but now really it's quite curious; and he has almost made me believe i could see a certain kind of beauty in them. you know there is a sort of beauty which some people think they find in a great many things; and when they are enthusiastic, they almost make you think as they do. i think there is great power in enthusiasm." "is mr. rhys enthusiastic?" "o i don't know, my dear,--i don't know what you would call it; i am not a philosopher; but he is very fond of ferns himself. he is a very fine man. he is a great deal too good to go and throw himself away." "is that what he is going to do?" "why yes, my dear; that is what i should call it. it is a great deal more than that. i never can remember the place; but it is the most dreadful place, i do suppose, that ever was heard of. i never heard of such a place. they do every horrible thing there--my dear, the accounts make your blood creep. i think mr. rhys is a great deal too valuable a man to be lost there, among such a set of creatures--they are more like devils than men. and eleanor," said miss broadus, looking round to see that nobody was within hearing of her communication,--"you have no idea what a pleasant man he is. i asked him to tea with juliana and me--you know one must be kind and neighbourly at any rate--and he has no friends here; i sometimes wonder if he has any anywhere; but he came to tea, and he was as agreeable as possible. he was really excellent company, and very well behaved. i think juliana quite fell in love with him; but i tell her it's no use; she never would go off to that dreadful place with him." and miss broadus laughed a laugh of simple amusement; miss juliana being, though younger than herself, still very near the age of an old lady. they kept the light-hearted simplicity of young years, however, in a remarkable degree; and so had contrived to dispense with wrinkles on their fresh old faces. "where is that place, miss broadus?" "my dear, i never can remember the name of it. they do say the country is beautiful, and the fruit, and all that; it is described to be a beautiful place, where, as heber's hymn says, 'only man is vile.' but he is as vile as he can be, there. and i am sure mr. rhys would be a great loss at wiglands. my dear, how pleasant it would be, i said to juliana this morning, how pleasant it would be, if mr. rhys were only in the church, and could help good dr. cairnes. 'tisn't likely they will let him live long out there, if he goes." "when is he going?" "o i don't know when, my dear; he is waiting for something. and i never can remember the name of the place; if a word has many syllables i cannot keep them together in my memory; only i know the vegetables there grow to an enormous size, and as if that wasn't enough, men devour each other. it seems like an abusing the gifts of providence, don't it? but there is nothing they do not abuse. i am afraid they will abuse poor mr. rhys. and his boys would miss him very much, and i am sure we all should. i have got quite acquainted with him, seeing him here; and now juliana has taken a fancy to ask him to our cottage--and i have come to quite like him. what a different looking man he is from mr. carlisle--now look at them talking together!--" "where did you learn all this, miss broadus? did mr. rhys tell you?" "no, my dear; he never will talk about it or about himself. he lent me a pamphlet or something.--mr. rhys is the tallest--but mr. carlisle is a splendid looking man,--don't you think so, eleanor?" miss broadus's energetic whisper eleanor thought fit to ignore, though she did not fail to note the contrast which a moment's colloquy between the two men presented. there was little in common between them; between the marked features and grave keen expression of the one face, and the cool, bright, somewhat supercilious eye and smile of the other. there was power in both faces, eleanor thought, of different kinds; and power is attractive. her eye was held till they parted from each other. two very different walks in life claimed the two men; so much eleanor could see. for some time after she was obliged to attend exclusively to that walk of life which mr. carlisle represented, and to look at the views he brought forward for her notice. they were not so engrossing, however, that eleanor entirely forgot the earlier conversation of the afternoon or the question which had troubled her. the evening had been baffling. she had not had a word with mr. rhys, and he had disappeared long since from the party. so had dr. cairnes. there was no more chance of talk upon that subject to-night; and eleanor feeling very feeble still, thought best to cut short mr. carlisle's enjoyment of other subjects for the evening. she left the company, and slowly passed through the house, from room to room, to get to her own. in the course of this progress she came to the library. there, seated at one of the tables and bending over a volume, was mr. rhys. he jumped up as she passed through, and came forward with extended hand and a word of kindly inquiry. his "good night" was so genial, his clasp of her hand so frank and friendly, that instead of going on, eleanor stood still. "are you studying?" "your father has kindly given me liberty to avail myself of his treasures here. my time is very scanty--i was tempted to seize the moment that offered itself. it is a very precious privilege to me, and one which i shall not abuse." "pray do not speak of abusing," said eleanor; "nobody minds the books here; i am glad they are good to anybody else.--i am interrupting you." "not at all!" said he, bringing up a great chair for her,--"or only agreeably. pray sit down--you are not fit to stand." eleanor however remained standing, and hesitating, for a moment. "i wish you would tell me a little more about what we were talking of," she said with some effort. "do you feel your want of the helmet?" he said gravely. "i feel that i haven't it," said eleanor. "what is it that you are conscious of wanting?" she hesitated; it was a home question; and very unaccustomed to speak of her secret thoughts and feelings to any one, especially on religious subjects, which however had never occupied her before, eleanor was hardly ready to answer. yet in the tones of the question there was a certain quiet assurance and simplicity before which she yielded. "i felt--a little while ago--when i was sick--that i was not exactly safe." eleanor spoke, hesitating between every few words, looking down, and falling her voice at the end. so she did not see the keen intentness of the look that was fixed upon her. "you felt that there was something wanting between you and god?" "i believe so." his accent was as deliberately clear as her's was hesitating. every word went into eleanor's soul. "then you can understand now, that when one can say, joyfully, 'i know that my redeemer liveth';--when he is no vague abstraction, but felt to be a _redeemer;_--when one can say assuredly, he is _my_ redeemer; i know he has bought back my soul from sin and from the punishment of sin, which is death; i feel i am forgiven; and i know he liveth--my redeemer--and according to his promise lives to deliver me from every evil and will preserve me unto his heavenly kingdom;--do you see, now, that one who can say this has on his head the covering of an infinite protection--an infinite shelter from both danger and fear?--a helmet, placed on his head by his lord's own hand, and of such heavenly temper that no blows can break through it." eleanor was a little time silent, with downcast eyes. "you do not mean to say, that this protection is against _all_ evil; do you? sickness and pain are evils are they not?" "not to him." "not to him?" "no. the evil of them is gone. they can do him no harm; if they come, they will do good. he that wears this helmet has absolutely no evil to fear. all things shall work good to him. there shall no evil happen to the just. blessed be the lord, who only doeth wondrous things!" eleanor stood silenced, humbled, convinced; till she recollected she must not stand there so, and she lifted her eyes to bid good-night. then the face she met gave a new turn to her thoughts. it was a changed face; such a light of pure joy and deep triumph shone over it, not hiding nor hindering the loving care with which those penetrating eyes were reading herself. it gave eleanor a strange compression of heart; it told her more than his words had done; it shewed her the very reality of which he spoke. eleanor went away overwhelmed. "mr. rhys is a happy man!" she said to herself;--"happy, happy! i wish,--i wish, i were as happy as he!" chapter iv. in the saddle. "she has two eyes, so soft and brown, take care! she gives a side-glance and looks down, beware! beware!" a few days more saw eleanor restored to all the strength and beauty of health which she had been accustomed to consider her natural possession. and then--it is likely to be so--she was so happy in what mind and body had, that she forgot her wish for what the spirit had not. or almost forgot it. eleanor lived a very full life. it was no dull languid existence that she dragged on from day to day; time counted out none but golden pennies into her hand. every minute was filled with business or play, both heartily entered into, and pursued with all the energy of a very energetic nature. study, when she touched it, was sweet to her; but eleanor did not study much. nature was an enchanted palace of light and perfume. bodily exertion, riding and walking, was as pleasant to her as it is to a bird to use its wings. family intercourse, and neighbourly society, were nothing but pleasure. benevolent kindness, if it came in her way, was a labour of love; and a hundred home occupations were greatly delighted in. they were not generally of an exalted character; eleanor's training and associations had not led her into any very dignified path of human action; she had led only a butterfly's life of content and pleasure, and her character was not at all matured; but the capabilities were there; and the energy and will that might have done greater things, wrought beautiful embroidery, made endless fancy work, ordered well such part of the household economy as was committed to her, carried her bright smile into every circle, and made eleanor's foot familiar with all the country where she could go alone, and her pony's trot well known in every lane and roadway where she could go with his company. all these enjoyments of her life were taken with new relish and zeal after her weeks of illness had laid her aside from them. eleanor's world was brighter than ever. and round about all of these various enjoyments now, circling them with a kind of halo of expectancy or possibility, was the consciousness of a prospect that eleanor knew was opening before her--a brilliant life-possession that she saw fortune offering to her with a gracious hand. would eleanor take it? that eleanor did not quite know. meanwhile her eyes could not help looking that way; and her feet, consciously or unconsciously, now and then made a step towards it. she and her mother were sitting at work one morning--that is to say, eleanor was drawing and mrs. powle cutting tissue paper in some very elaborate way, for some unknown use or purpose; when julia dashed in. she threw a bunch of bright blue flowers on the table before her sister. "there," she said--"do you know what that is?" "why certainly," said eleanor. "it is borage." "well, do you know what it means?" "what it _means?_ no. what does any flower mean?" "i'll tell you what _this_ means"--said julia. "i, borage bring courage." "that is what people used to think it meant." "how do you know that." "mr. rhys says so. this borage grew in mrs. williams's garden; and i dare say she believes it." "who is mrs. williams?" "why!--she's the old woman where mr. rhys lives; he lives in her cottage; that's where he has his school. he has a nice little room in her cottage, and there's nobody else in the cottage but mrs. williams." "do, julia, carry your flowers off, and do not be so hoydenish," said mrs. powle. "we have not seen mr. rhys here in a great while, mamma," said eleanor. "i wonder what has become of him." "i'll tell you," said julia--"he has become not well. i know mr. rhys is sick, because he is so pale and weak. and i know he is weak, because he cannot walk as he used to do. we used to walk all over the hills; and he says he can't go now." "mamma, it would be right to send down and see what is the matter with him. there must be something. it is a long time--mamma, i think it is weeks--since he was at the lodge." "your father will send, i dare say," said mrs. powle, cutting her tissue paper. "mamma, did you hear," said eleanor as julia ran off, "that mr. rhys was going to leave wiglands and bury himself in some dreadful place, somewhere?" "i heard so." "what place is it?" "i can't tell, i am sure. it is somewhere in the south seas, i believe--that region of horrors." "is it true he is going there, mamma?" "i am sure i can't tell. miss broadus says so; and she says, i believe, he told her so himself. if he did, i suppose it is true." "mamma, i think mr. rhys is a great deal too fine a man to go and lose his life in such a place. miss broadus says it is horrible. do you know anything about it?" "i have no taste for horrors," said mrs. powle. "i think it is a great pity," eleanor repeated. "i am sorry. there is enough in england for such a man to do, without going to the south seas. i wonder how anybody can leave england!" mrs. powle looked up at her daughter and laughed. eleanor had suspended her drawing and was sending a loving gaze out of the open window, where nature and summer were revelling in their conjoined riches. art shewed her hand too, stealthily, having drawn out of the way of the others whatever might encumber the revel. across a wide stretch of wooded and cultivated country, the eye caught the umbrageous heights on the further side of the valley of the ryth. eleanor's gaze was fixed. mrs. powle's glance was sly. "i should like to ask your opinion of another place," she said,--"which, being in england, is not horrible. you see that bit of brown mason-work, high away there, peeping out above the trees in the distance?--you know what house that is?" "certainly." "what is it?" "it is the priory. the new priory, it ought to be called; i am sure the old one is down there in the valley yet--beneath it." but eleanor's colour rose. "what do you think of that place?" "considering that the old priory and its grounds belong to it, i think it must be one of the loveliest places in england." "i should like to see it in your possession--" mrs. powle remarked, going on with her tissue paper. eleanor also went on assiduously with her drawing, and her colour remained a rich tint. but she went on frankly with her words too. "i am not sure, mamma, that i like the owner of it well enough to receive such a valuable gift from him." "he likes you, quite well enough to bestow it on you, without asking any questions," said mrs. powle. "he hardly thinks it is worth having, unless you have it too." "that is inconvenient," said eleanor. "it strikes me the other way," said her mother. "how do you know this, which you affirm so securely, mamma?" "how should i know it? the person in question told me himself." "told you in so many words?" "no, in a great many more," said mrs. powle laughing. "i have merely presented a statement. he had a great deal more to do than that." the tissue paper rustled quietly for some time after this, and eleanor's pencil could be heard making quick marks. neither lady interrupted the other. "well, eleanor,--how does it seem to you?" began the elder lady, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. "inconvenient, mamma,--as i said." "how?" but eleanor did not say how. "mr. carlisle will be here for his answer this evening." "i like him very well, mamma," said eleanor, after another pause,--"but i do not like him enough." "nonsense! you would like to be lady rythdale, wouldn't you?" the silence which followed this was longer than that which had been before. knife and pencil pursued their work, but mrs. powle glancing up furtively from her tissue paper saw that eleanor's brow was knitted and that her pencil was moving under the influence of something besides art. so she let her alone for a long time. and eleanor's fancy saw a vision of fairy beauty and baronial dignity before her. they lay in the wide domains and stately appendages of rythdale priory. how could she help seeing it? the vision floated before her with point after point of entrancing loveliness, old history, present luxury, hereditary rank and splendour, and modern power. it was like nothing in eleanor's own home. her father, though a comfortable country gentleman, boasted nothing and had nothing to boast in the way of ancestry, beyond a respectable descent of several generations. his means, though ample enough for comfort and reasonable indulgence, could make no pretensions to more. and ivy lodge was indeed a pleasant home, and every field and hedgerow belonging to it was lovely to eleanor; but the broad manors of rythdale priory for extent would swallow up many such, and for beauty and dignity were as a damask rose to a bit of eglantine. would eleanor be lady rythdale? "he will be here this evening for his answer, eleanor--" mrs. powle remarked in a quiet voice the second time. "then you must give it to him, mamma." "i shall do nothing of the kind. you must see him yourself. i will have no such shifting of your work upon my shoulders." "i do not wish to see him to-night, mamma." "i choose that you should. don't talk any nonsense to me, eleanor." "but, mamma, if i am to give the answer, i am not ready with any answer to give." "tell mr. carlisle so; and he will draw his own conclusions, and make you sign them." "i do not want to be made to sign anything." "do it of free-will then," said mrs. powle laughing. "it is coming, eleanor--one way or the other. if i were you, i would do it gracefully. is it a hard thing to be lady rythdale?" eleanor did not say, and nothing further passed on the subject; till as both parties were leaving the room together, mrs. powle said significantly, "you must give your own answer, eleanor, and to-night. i will have no skulking." it was beyond mrs. powle's power, however, to prevent skulking of a certain sort. eleanor did not hide herself in her room, but she left it late in the afternoon, when she knew the company consisted of more than one, and entered a tolerably well filled drawing-room. mrs. powle had not wished to have it so, but these things do not arrange themselves for our wishes. miss broadus was there, and dr. cairnes, and friends who had come to make him and his sister a visit; and one or two other neighbours. eleanor came in without making much use of her eyes, and sheltered herself immediately under the wing of miss broadus, who was the first person she fell in with. two pairs of eyes saw her entrance; with oddly enough the same thought and comment. "she will make a lovely lady rythdale." all the baronesses of that house had been famous for their beauty, and the heir of the house remarked to himself that _this_ would prove not the least lovely of the race. however, eleanor did not even feel sure that he was there, he kept at such a distance; and she engaged miss broadus in a conversation that seemed of interminable resources. the sole thing that eleanor was conscious of concerning it, was its lasting quality; and to maintain that was her only care. would eleanor be lady rythdale? she had made up her mind to nothing, except, that it would be very difficult for her to say either yes or no. naturally enough, she dreaded the being obliged to say anything; and was ready to seize every expedient to stave off the moment of emergency. as long as she was talking to miss broadus, she was safe; but conversations cannot last always, even when they flow in a stream so full and copious as that in which the words always poured from that lady's lips. eleanor saw signs at last that the fountain was getting exhausted; and as the next resort proposed a game of chess. now a game of chess was the special delight of miss broadus; and as it was the detestation of her sister, miss juliana, the delight was seldom realized. the two sisters were harmonious in everything except a few tastes, and perhaps their want of harmony in those points gave their life the variety it needed. at any rate, such an offer as eleanor's was rarely refused by the elder sister; and the two ladies were soon deep in their business. one really, the other seemingly. though indeed it is true that eleanor was heartily engaged to prevent the game coming to a termination, and therefore played in good earnest, not for conquest but for time. this had gone on a good while, before she was aware that a footstep was drawing near the chess table, and then that mr. carlisle, stood beside her chair. "now don't _you_ come to help!" said miss broadus, with a thoughtful face and a piece between her finger and thumb. "why not?" "i know!" said miss broadus, never taking her eyes from the board which held them as by a charm,--"i can play a sort of a game; but if you take part against me, i shall be vanquished directly." "why should i take part against you?" miss broadus at that laughed a good-humoured little simple laugh. "well"--she said, "it's the course of events, i suppose. i never find anybody taking my part now-a-days. there! i am afraid you have made me place that piece wrong, mr. carlisle. i wish you would be still. i cannot fight against two such clever people." "do you find miss powle clever?" "i didn't know she was, so much, before," said miss broadus, "but she has been playing like a witch this evening. there eleanor--you are in check." eleanor was equal to that emergency, and relieved her king from danger with a very skilful move. she could keep her wits, though her cheek was high-coloured and her hand had a secret desire to be nervous. eleanor would not let it; and mr. carlisle admired the very pretty fingers which paused quietly upon the chess-men. "do not forget a proper regard for the interests of the church, miss broadus," he remarked. "why, i never do!" said miss broadus. "what do you mean? oh, my bishop!--thank you, mr. carlisle." eleanor did not thank him, for the bishop's move shut up her play in a corner. she did her best, but her king's resources were cut off; and after a little shuffling she was obliged to surrender at discretion. miss broadus arose, pleased, and reiterating her thanks to mr. carlisle, and walked away; as conscious that her presence was no more needed in that quarter. "will you play with me?" said mr. carlisle, taking the chair miss broadus had quitted. "yes," said eleanor, glad of anything to stave off what she dreaded; "but i am not--" "i am no match for you," she was going to say. she stopped suddenly and coloured more deeply. "what are you not?" asked the gentleman, slowly setting his pawns. "i am not a very good player. i shall hardly give you amusement." "i am not sorry for that--supposing it true. i do not like to see women good chess-players." "pray why do you not like it?" "chess is a game of planning--scheming--contriving--calculating. women ought not to be adepts in those arts. i hate women that are." he glanced up as he spoke, at the fair, frank lines of the face opposite him. no art to scheme was shewn in them; there might be resolution; he liked that. he liked it too that the fringe of the eyes drooped over them, and that the tint of the cheek was so very rich. "but they say, no one can equal a woman in scheming and planning, if she takes to it," said eleanor. "try your skill," said he. "it is your move." the game began, and eleanor tried to make good play; but she could not bring to it the same coolness or the same acumen that had fought with miss broadus. the well-formed, well-knit hand with the coat sleeve belonging to it, which was all of her adversary that came under her observation, distracted eleanor's thoughts; she could not forget whose it was. very different from the weak flexile fingers of miss broadus, with their hesitating movement and doubtful pauses, these did their work and disappeared; with no doubt or hesitancy of action, and with agile firmness in every line of muscle and play. eleanor shewed very poor skill for her part, at planning and contriving on this occasion; and she had a feeling that her opponent might have ended the game many a time if he had chosen it. still the game did not end. it was a very silent one. "you are playing with me, mr. carlisle," she said at length. "what are you doing with me?" "making no fight at all; but that is because i cannot. why don't you conquer me and end the game?" "how can i?" "i am sure i don't know; but i believe you do. it is all a muddle to me; and not a very interesting piece of confusion to you, i should think." he did not answer that, but moved a piece; eleanor made the answering move; and the next step created a lock. the game could go no further. eleanor began to put up the pieces, feeling worsted in more ways than one. she had not dared to raise her eyes higher than that coat-sleeve; and she knew at the same time that she herself had been thoroughly overlooked. those same fingers came now helping her to lay the chess-men in the box, ordering them better than she did. "i want to shew you some cottages i have been building beyond rythdale tower," said the owner of the fingers. "will you ride with me to-morrow to look at them?" he waited for her answer, which eleanor hesitated to give. but she could not say no, and finally she gave a low yes. her yes was so low, it was significant; eleanor knew it; but mr. carlisle went on in the same tone. "at what hour? at eleven?" "that will do," said eleanor, after hesitating again. "thank you." he went on, taking the chess-men from her fingers as fast as she gathered them up, and bestowing them in the box after a leisurely manner; then rose and bowed and took his departure. eleanor saw that he did not hold any communication with her mother on his way out; and in dread of mrs. powle's visitation of curiosity upon herself, she too made as quick and as quiet an escape as possible to her own room. there locked the door and walked the floor to think. in effect she had given her answer, by agreeing to ride; she knew it. she knew that mr. carlisle had taken it so, even by the slight freedom with which his fingers touched hers in taking the chess-men from them. it was a very little thing; and yet eleanor could never recall the willing contact of those fingers, repeated and repeated, without a thrill of feeling that she had committed herself; that she had given the end of the clue into mr. carlisle's hand, which duly wound up would land her safe enough, mistress of rythdale priory. and was she unwilling to be that? no--not exactly. and did she dislike rythdale priory's master, or future master? no, not at all; nevertheless, eleanor did not feel quite willing to have him hers just yet; she was not ready for that; and she chafed at feeling that the end of that clue was in the hand of her chess-playing antagonist, and alternatives pretty well out of her power. an alternative eleanor would have liked. she would have liked the play to have gone on for some time longer, leaving her her liberty in all kinds; liberty to make up her mind at leisure, among other things. she was not just now eager to be mistress of anything but herself. eleanor watched for her mother's coming, but mrs. powle was wiser. she had marked the air of both parties on quitting the drawing-room; and though doubtless she would have liked a little word revelation of what she desired to know, she was content to leave things in train. she judged that mr. carlisle could manage his own affairs, and went to bed well satisfied; while eleanor, finding that her mother was not coming, at last laid herself also down to rest, with a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain in her heart, but vexation towering above all. it would have been vexation still better grown, if she had known the hint her mother had given mr. carlisle, when that evening he had applied to her for what news she had for him? mrs. powle referred him very smilingly to eleanor to learn it; at the same time telling him that eleanor had been allowed to run wild--like her sister julia--till now she was a little wilful and needed taming. she looked the character sufficiently well when she came down the next morning. the colour on her cheek was raised yet, and rich; and eleanor's beautiful lips did not unbend to their brilliant mischievous smile. she was somewhat quick and nervous too about her household arrangements and orders, which yet eleanor did not neglect. it was time then to dress for her ride; and eleanor dressed, not hurriedly but carefully, between pleasure and irritation. by what impulse she could not have told, she pulled the feather from her riding cap. it was a long, jaunty black feather, that somewhat shaded and softened her face in riding with its floating play. her cap now, and her whole dress, was simplicity itself; but if eleanor had meant to cheat mr. carlisle of some pleasure, she had misjudged and lost her aim; the close little unadorned cap but shewed the better her beautiful hair and a face and features which nobody that loved them could wish even shaded from view. mrs. powle had maintained a discreet silence all the morning; nevertheless eleanor was still afraid that she might come to ask questions, and not enduring to answer them, as soon as her toilet was finished she fled from her room into the garden. this garden, into which the old schoolroom opened, was eleanor's particular property. no other of the family were ever to be found in it. she had arranged its gay curves and angles, and worked in it and kept it in great part herself. the dew still hung on the leaves; the air of a glorious summer morning was sweet with the varied fragrance of the flowers. eleanor's heart sprung for the dear old liberty she and the garden had had together; she went lingeringly and thoughtfully among her petunias and carnations, remembering how joyous that liberty had been; and yet--she was not willing to say the word that would secure it to her. she roved about among the walks, picking carnations in one hand and gathering up her habit with the other. so her little sister found her. "why eleanor!--are you going to ride with mr. carlisle?" "yes." "well he has come--he is waiting for you. he has brought the most _splendid_ black horse for you that you ever saw; papa says she is magnificent." "i ordered my pony"--said eleanor. "well the pony is there, and so is the black horse. o such a beauty, eleanor! come." eleanor would not go through the house, to see her mother and father by the way. instinctively she sheered off by the shrubbery paths, which turning and winding at last brought her out upon the front lawn. on the whole a more marked entrance upon the scene the young lady could not have contrived. from the green setting of the shrubbery her excellent figure came out to view, in its dark riding drapery; and carnations in one hand, her habit in the other, she was a pleasant object to several pairs of eyes that were watching her; julia having done them the kind office to say which way she was coming. of them all, however, eleanor only saw mr. carlisle, who was on the ground to meet her. perhaps he had as great an objection to eyes as she had; for his removal of his cap in greeting was as cool as if she had been a stranger; and so were his words. "i have brought black maggie for you--will you do me the honour to try her?" eleanor did not say she would not, and did not say anything. hesitation and embarrassment were the two pleasant feelings which possessed her and forbade her to speak. she stood before the superb animal, which shewed blood in every line of its head and beautiful frame; and looked at it, and looked at the ground. mr. carlisle gently removed the carnations from her hand, taking them into his own, then gave her the reins of black maggie and put her into the saddle. in another minute they were off, and out of the reach of observation. but eleanor had felt again, even in that instant or giving into her fingers the reins which he had taken from the groom, the same thing that she had felt last night--the expression of something new between them. she was in a very divided state of mind. she had not told him he might take that tone with her. "there are two ways to the head of the valley," said the subject of her thoughts. "shall we take the circuit by the old priory, or go by the moor?" "by the moor," said eleanor. there, for miles, was a level plain road; they could ride any pace, and she could stave off talking. accordingly, as soon as they got quit of human habitations, eleanor gave black maggie secretly to understand that she might go as fast as she liked. black maggie apparently relished the intimation, for she sprang forward at a rate eleanor by experience knew nothing of. she had never been quite so well mounted before. as swiftly and as easily as if black maggie's feet had been wings, they flew over the common. the air was fresh, the motion was quite sufficient to make it breezy; eleanor felt exhilarated. all the more because she felt rebellious, and the stopping mr. carlisle's mouth was at least a gratification, though she could not leave him behind. he had not mounted her better than himself. fly as black maggie would, her brown companion was precisely at her side. eleanor had a constant sense of that; but however, the ride was so capital, the moor so wild, the summer air so delicious, that by degrees she began to grow soothed and come down from rebellion to good humour. by and by, black maggie got excited. it was with nothing but her own spirits and motion; quite enough though to make hoofs still more emulous of wings. now she flew indeed. eleanor's bridle rein was not sufficient to hold her in, or make any impression. she could hardly see how they went. "is not this too much for you?" the voice of mr. carlisle said quietly. "rather--but i can't check her," said eleanor; vexed to make the admission, and vexed again when a word or two from the rider at her side, who at the same moment leaned forward and touched maggie's bridle, brought the wild creature instantly not only from her mad gallop but back to a very demure and easy trot. so demure, that there was no longer any bar to conversation; but then eleanor reflected she could not gallop always, and they were almost off the plain road of the moor. how beautiful the moor had been to her that morning! now eleanor looked at black maggie's ears. "how do you like her?" said mr. carlisle. "charming! she is perfection. she is delightful." "she must learn to know her mistress," he rejoined, leaning forward again and drawing maggie's reins through his fingers. "take her up a little shorter--and speak to her the next time she does not obey you." the flush rose to eleanor's cheeks, and over her brow, and reddened her very temples. she made no sort of answer, yet she knew silence was answer, and that her blood was speaking for her. it was pretty speaking, but extremely inconvenient. and what business had mr. carlisle to take things for granted in that way? eleanor began to feel rebellious again. "do you always ride with so loose a rein?" began mr. carlisle again. "i don't know--i never think about it. my pony is perfectly safe." "so is maggie--as to her feet; but in general, it is well to let everything under you feel your hand." "that is what you do, i have no doubt," thought eleanor, and bit her lip. she would have started into another gallop; but they were entering upon a narrow and rough way where gallopping was inadmissible. it descended gradually and winding among rocks and broken ground, to a lower level, the upper part of the valley of the ryth; a beautiful clear little stream flowing brightly in a rich meadow ground, with gently shelving, softly broken sides; the initiation of the wilder scenery further down the valley. here were the cottages mr. carlisle had spoken of. they looked very picturesque and very inviting too; standing on either side the stream, across which a rude rustic bridge was thrown. each cottage had its paling enclosure, and built of grey rough stone, with deep sloping roofs and bright little casements, they looked the very ideal of humble homes. no smoke rose from the chimneys, and nobody was visible without or within. "i want some help of you here," said mr. carlisle. "do you like the situation?" "most beautiful!" said eleanor heartily. "and the houses are just the thing." "will you dismount and look a little closer? we will cross the bridge first." they drew bridle before one of the cottages. eleanor had all the mind in the world to have thrown herself from black maggie's back, as she was accustomed to do from her own pony; but she did not dare. yesterday she would have dared; to-day there was a slight indefinable change in the manner of mr. carlisle towards herself, which cast a spell over her. he stood beside black maggie, the carnations making a rosy spot in the buttonhole of his white jacket, while he gave some order to the groom--eleanor did not hear what, for her mind was on something else; then turned to her and took her down, that same indescribable quality of manner and handling saying to all her senses that he regarded the horse and the lady with the same ownership. eleanor felt proud, and vexed, and ashamed, and pleased; her mind divided between different feelings; but mr. carlisle directed her attention now to the cottages. it was impossible not to admire and be pleased with them. the exterior was exceedingly homelike and pretty; within, there was yet more to excite admiration. nicely arranged, neatly and thoroughly furnished, even to little details, they looked most desirable homes for any persons of humble means, even though the tastes had not been equally humble. from one to another mr. carlisle took eleanor; displaying his arrangements to a very silent observer; for though she thought all this admiration, she hardly said anything. between irritation, and pleasure, and a pretty well-grown shyness, she felt very tongue-tied. at last, after shewing her the view from the lattice of a nice little cottage kitchen, mr. carlisle asked for her judgment upon what had been done. "it is thoroughly excellent," said eleanor. "they leave nothing to wish. i have never seen such nice cottages. there is nobody in them yet?" "is there any improvement to be made?" "none to be desired, i think," said eleanor. "they are just perfect little homes. they only want the people now." "and that is where i want your help. do you think of any good families, or poor people you approve of, that you would like to put in some of these?" eleanor's thought flew instantly to two or three such families among her poor friends; for she was a good deal of a lady bountiful, as far as moderate means and large sympathy could go; and knew many of the lower classes in her neighbourhood; but again she struggled with two feelings, for the question had been put not in tone of compliment but with a manner of simple consultation. she flushed and hesitated, until it was put again. "i know several, i think, that you would not dislike to have here, and that would be very glad to come, mr. carlisle." "who are they?" "one is mrs. benson, who lives on nothing with her family of eight children, and brings them up well." mr. carlisle took out his note-book. "another is joe shepherd and his wife; but they are an old couple; perhaps you do not want old people here?" he looked up from his note-book with a little smile, which brought the blood tingling to eleanor's brow again, and effectually drove away all her ideas. she was very vexed with herself; she was never used to be so troubled with blushing. she turned away. "suppose you sit down," said he, taking her hands and placing her in a chair by the window. "you must have some refreshment, i think, before we go any further." he left the cottage, and eleanor looked out of the open casement, biting her lips. the air came in with such a sweet breath from the heathery moor, it seemed to blow vexation away. yet eleanor was vexed. here she was making admissions with every breath, when she would fain have not made any. she wanted her old liberty, and to dispose of it at her leisure if at all; and at least not to have it taken from her. but here was mr. carlisle at her elbow again, and one of his servants bringing dishes and glasses. the meats were spread on the little table before which eleanor sat, and mr. carlisle took another chair. "we will honour the house for once," he said smiling; "the future shall be as the occupants deserve. is this one to belong to some of your protã©gã©s?" "i have not the gift of foresight," said eleanor. "you have another sort of gift which will do quite as well. if you have any choice, choose the houses in which joe shepherd, and mrs. benson, and anybody else, shall thank you--and i will order the doors marked. which do you prefer?" eleanor was forced to speak. "i think this is one of the pleasantest situations," she said flushing deeply again; "but the house highest up the valley--" "what of it?" said mr. carlisle, smiling at her. "that would be best for joe shepherd, because of his business. it is nearer the common." "joe shepherd shall have it. now will you do me the favour to eat that," said he putting a piece of cold game on her plate. "do not look at it, but eat it. your day's labour is by no means over." it was easier to eat than to do nothing; and easier to look at her plate than where her carnations gleamed on that white breast-ground. so eleanor eat obediently. "the day is so uncommonly fine, how would you like to walk down the valley as far as the old priory, and let the horses meet us there?" "i am willing"--said eleanor. which she was, only because she was ashamed or afraid to say that she wanted to gallop back by the moor, the same way she had come. a long walk down the valley would give fine opportunity for all that she dreaded in the way of conversation. however, the order was given about the horses, and the walk began. the way was at first a continuation of the valley in which the cottages were situated; uncultivated, sweet, and wild. they were a good distance beyond barton's tower. the stream of the ryth, not so large as it became further down, sparkled along in a narrow meadow, beset with flowers. here and there a rude bridge crossed it; and the walkers passed as they listed from side to side, wandering down the valley at great leisure, remarking upon all sorts of things except what eleanor was dreading. the walk and talk went on without anything formidable. mr. carlisle seemed to have nothing on his mind; and eleanor, full of what was on hers, only felt through his quiet demeanour that he was taking things for granted in a very cool way. she was vexed and irritated, and at the same time subdued. and then an opposite feeling would stir, of pleasure and pride, at the place she was taking and the relations she was assuming to the beautiful domain through which they wandered. as they went down the valley it grew more and more lovely. luxuriant growths of ash and oak mingled with larches, crowned the rising borders of the valley and crept down their sides, hanging a most exquisite clothing of vegetation over the banks which had hitherto been mostly bare. as they went, from point to point and in one after another region of beauty, her companion's talk, quietly flowing on, called her attention to one and another observation suggested by what they were looking at; not as if it were a foreign matter, but with a tacit intimation that it concerned her or had a right to her interest. it was a long walk. they were some time before reaching the old tower; then a long stretch of beautiful scenes lay between them and the old priory ruins. this part of the valley was in the highest degree picturesque. the sides drew together, close and rocky and overshadowed with a thicket of trees. the path of the river became steep and encumbered; the way along its banks grew comparatively rough and difficult. the day was delicious, without even a threatening of rain; yet the sun in some places was completely shut out from the water by the overgrown, overhanging sides of rock and wood which shut in the dell. conversation was broken here, by the pleasant difficulty of pursuing the way. here too flowers were sweet and the birds busy. the way was enough to delight any lover of nature; and it was impossible not to be delighted. nevertheless eleanor hailed for a sake not its own, every bit of broken ground and rough walking that made connected conversation impossible; and then was glad to see the grey walls of the priory, where the horses were to meet them. once in the saddle again--she would be glad to be there! the horses were not in sight yet; they strolled into the ruin. it was lovely to-day; the sunlight adding its brightening touch to all that moss and ivy and lichen and fern had done. they sauntered up what had been an aisle of the church; carpeted now with soft shaven turf, close and smooth. "the priory was founded a great while ago," said mr. carlisle, "by one of the first lords of rythdale, on account of the fact that he had slain his own brother in mortal combat. it troubled his mind, i suppose, even in those rough times." "and he built the church to soothe it." "built the church and founded the establishment; gave it all the lands we have passed through to-day, and much more; and great rights on hill and dale and moor. we have them nearly all back again--by one happy chance and another." "what was this?" said eleanor, seating herself on a great block of stone, the surface of which was rough with decay. "this was a tombstone--tradition says, of that same slain lord of rythdale--but i think it very hypothetical. however, your fancy can conjure back his image, if you like, lying where you sit; covered with the armour he lived his life in, and probably with hands joined to make the prayers his life had rendered desirable." "he had not the helmet--" thought eleanor. she got up to look at the stone; but it was worn away; no trace of the knight in armour who had lain there was any longer to be seen. what long ago times those were! "and then the old monks did nothing else but pray," she remarked. "a few other things," said her companion; "if report is true. but they said a great many prayers, it is certain. it was what they were specially put here for--to do masses for that old stone figure that used to lie there. they were paid well for doing it. i hope they did it." the wind stirred gently through the ruin, bringing a sweet scent of herbs and flowers, and a fern or an ivy leaf here and there just moved lightly on its stalk. "they must have lived a pleasant sort of life," said eleanor musingly,--"in this beautiful place!" "are you thinking of entering a monastery?" said her companion smiling. it brought back eleanor's consciousness, which had been for a moment forgotten, and the deep colour flashed to her face. she stood confused. mr. carlisle did not let her go this time; he took both her hands. "do you think i am going to be satisfied with only negative answers from you?" said he changing his tone. "what have you got to say to me?" eleanor struggled with herself. "nothing, mr. carlisle." "your mother has conveyed to you my wishes?" "yes," said eleanor softly. "what are yours?" she hesitated, held at bay, but he waited; and at last with a little of her frank daring breaking out, she said, still in her former soft voice, "i would let things alone." "suppose that could not be,--would you send me away, or let me come near to you?" eleanor could not send him away; but he would not come near. he stood keeping her hands in a light firm grasp; she felt that he knew his hold of her; her head bowed in confusion. "speak, darling," he said. "are you mine?" eleanor shrank lower and lower from his observation; but she answered in a whisper,--"i suppose so." her hands were released then, only to have herself taken into more secure possession. she had given herself up; and mr. carlisle's manner said that to touch her cheek was his right as well as his pleasure. eleanor could not dispute it; she knew that mr. carlisle loved her, but the certainly thought the sense of power had great charms for him: so, she presently thought, had the exercise of it. "you are mine now," he said,--"you are mine. you are eleanor carlisle. but you have not said a word to me. what is my name?" "your name!" stammered eleanor,--"carlisle." "yes, but the rest?" "i know it," said eleanor. "speak it, darling?" now eleanor had no mind to speak that or anything else upon compulsion; it should be a grace from her lips, not the compliance with a requisition; her spirit of resistance sprung up. a frank refusal was on her tongue, and her head, which had been drooping, was thrown back with an infinitely pretty air of defiance, to give it. thus she met mr. carlisle's look; met the bright hazel eyes that were bent upon her, full of affection and smiling, but with something else in them as well; there was a calm power of exaction. eleanor read it, even in the half-glance which took in incongruously the graceful figure and easy attitude; she did not feel ready for contention with mr. carlisle; the man's nature was dominant over the woman's. eleanor's head stooped again; she spoke obediently the required words. "robert macintosh." the kisses which met her lips before the words were well out, seemed to seal the whole transaction. perhaps it was eleanor's fancy, but to her they spoke unqualified content both with her opposition and her yielding. she was chafed with the consciousness that she had been obliged to yield; vexed to feel that she was not her own mistress; even while the kisses that stopped her lips told her how much love mingled with her captor's power. there was no questioning that fact; it only half soothed eleanor. mr. carlisle bade her sit down and rest, while he went to see if the horses were there. eleanor sat down dreamily on the old tombstone, and in the space of three minutes went over whole fields of thought. her mind was in a perverse state. before her the old tower of the ruined priory rose in its time-worn beauty, with the young honours of the ivy clinging all about it; on either side of her stretched the grey, ivied and mossy, crumbling walls. it was a magnificent place; if not her own mistress, it was a pleasant thing to be mistress of such as that; and a vision of gay grandeur floated over her mind. still, in contrast with that vision, the quiet, ruined priory tower spoke of a different life--brought up a separate vision; of unworldly possessions, aims, hopes, and occupations; it was not familiar to eleanor's mind, yet now somehow it rose upon her, with the feeling of that once-wanted, still desired,--only she had forgotten it--armour of security. why did she think of it now? was it because eleanor's mind was in that disordered state which lets everything come to the surface by turns; or because she was still suffering, from vexation, and her spirit chose contraries with a natural readiness and relish? it was not more than three minutes, but eleanor travelled far in dream-land; so far that the sudden feeling of two hands upon her shoulders, brought her back with even a visible start. she was rallied and laughed at; then her hand was put upon mr. carlisle's arm and so eleanor was walked out to where black maggie stood waiting for her. of course she felt that her engagement was to be made known to all the world immediately. mr. carlisle's servant must know it now. it seemed to eleanor that fine bands of cobwebs had been cast round her, binding her hands and feet, which loved their liberty. the feeling made one little imprudent burst. as mr. carlisle put maggie's reins into her hand, he repeated what he had before said, that eleanor should use her voice if the bridle failed to win obedience. "she is not of a rebellious disposition," he added. "do you read dispositions?" said eleanor, gathering up the reins. he stood at her saddle-bow. "sometimes." "do you know mine?" "partially." "it is what you say black maggie's is not." "is it? take the reins a little shorter, eleanor." it is difficult to say how much there may be in two short words; but as mr. carlisle went round to the other side and mounted, he left his little lady in a state of fume. those two words said so plainly to eleanor's ear, that her announcement was neither denied nor disliked. nay, they expressed pleasure; the sort of pleasure that a man has in a spirited horse of which he is master. it threw eleanor's mind into a tumult, so great that for a minute or two she hardly knew what she was about. but for the sound, sweet good temper, which in spite of eleanor's self-characterising was part of her nature, she would have been in a rage. as it was, she only handled black maggie in a more stately style than she had cared about at the beginning of the ride; putting her upon her paces; and so rode through all the village, in a way that certainly pleased mr. carlisle, though he said nothing about it. he contrived however to aid in the soothing work done by black maggie's steps, so that long before ivy lodge was reached eleanor's smile came free and sweet again, and her lip lost its ominous curve. "you are a darling!" mr. carlisle whispered as he took her down from her horse. eleanor went on into the drawing-room. he followed her. nobody was there. "what have you to say to me, eleanor?" he said as he held her hand before parting. "nothing whatever, mr. carlisle." eleanor's frank brilliant smile gleamed mischievously upon him. "will you not give me a word of kindness before i go?" "no! mr. carlisle, if i had my own way," said eleanor switching her riding-whip nervously about her habit,--"i would be my own mistress for a good while longer." "shall i give you back your liberty?" said he, drawing her into his arms. eleanor was silent. their touch manifested no such intention. he bent his head lower and said softly, "kiss me, eleanor." there was, as before, just that mingling of affection and exaction which conquered her. she knew all she was giving, but she half dared not and half cared not to refuse. "you little witch--" said he as he took possession of the just permitted lips,--"i will punish you for your naughtiness, by taking you home very soon--into my own management." mrs. powle was in eleanor's room when she entered; waiting there for her. "well eleanor," she began,--"is it settled? are you to be lady rythdale?" "if mr. carlisle has his will, ma'am." "and what is _your_ will?" "i have none any longer. but if you and he try to hurry on the day, mamma, it shall never come,--never!" mrs. powle thought she would leave that matter in more skilful hands; and went away well satisfied. chapter v. at the cottage. "this floating life hath but this port of rest, a heart prepared, that fears no ill to come." the matter was in skilful hands; for the days rolled on, after that eventful excursion, with great smoothness. mr. carlisle kept eleanor busy, with some pleasant little excitement, every day varied. she was made to taste the sweets of her new position, and to depend more and more upon the hand that introduced her to them. mr. carlisle ministered carefully to her tastes. eleanor daily was well mounted, generally on maggie; and enjoyed her heart's delight of a gallop over the moor, or a more moderate pace through a more rewarding scenery. mr. carlisle entered into the spirit of her gardening pursuits; took her to his mother's conservatory; and found that he never pleased eleanor better than when he plunged her into the midst of flowers. he took good care to advance his own interests all the time; and advanced them fast and surely. he had eleanor's liking before; and her nature was too sweet and rich not to incline towards the person whom she had given such a position with herself, yielding to him more and more of faith and affection. and that in spite of what sometimes chafed her; the quiet sway she felt mr. carlisle had over her, beneath which she was powerless. or rather, perhaps she inclined towards him secretly the more on account of it; for to women of rich natures there is something attractive in being obliged to look up; and to women of all natures it is imposing. so mr. carlisle's threat, by eleanor so stoutly resisted and resented, was extremely likely to come to pass. mrs. powle was too wise to touch her finger to the game. several weeks went by, during which eleanor had no chance to think of anything but mr. carlisle and the matters he presented for her notice. at the end of that time he was obliged to go up to london on sudden business. it made a great lull in the house; and eleanor began to sit in her garden parlour again and dream. while dreaming one day, she heard the voice of her little sister sobbing at the door-step. she had not observed before that she was sitting there. "julia!" said eleanor--"what is the matter?" julia would not immediately say, but then faltered out, "mr. rhys." "mr. rhys! what of him?" "he's sick. he's going to die, i know." "how do you know he is sick? come, stop crying, julia, and speak. what makes you think he is sick?" "because he just lies on the sofa, and looks so white, and he can't keep school. he sent away the boys yesterday." "does he see the doctor?" "no. i don't know. no, i know he don't," said julia; "because the old woman said he ought to see him." "what old woman, child?" "his old woman--mrs. williams. and mamma said i might have some jelly and some sago for him--and there is nobody to take it. foster is out of the way, and jack is busy, and i can't get anybody." julia's tears were very sincere. "stop crying, child, and i will go with you myself. i have not had a walk to-day, or a ride, or anything. come, get ready, and you and i will take it." julia did not wait even for thanks; she was never given to be ceremonious; but sprang away to do as her sister had said. in a few minutes they were off, going through the garden, each with a little basket in her hand. julia's tears were exchanged for the most sunshiny gladness. it was a sunshiny day altogether, in the end of summer, and the heat was sultry. neither sister minded weather of any sort; nevertheless they chose the shady side of the road and went very leisurely, along by the hedgerows and under the elms and beeches with which all the way to the village was more or less shaded. it was a long walk, even to the village. the cottage where mr. rhys had his abode was yet further on. the village must be passed on the way to it. it was a long line of cottages, standing for the most part on one side the street only; the sweet hedgerow on the other side only here and there broken by a white wicket gate. the houses were humble enough; yet in universal neat order on the outside at least; in many instances grown over with climbing roses and ivy, and overhung with deep thatched roofs. they stood scatteringly; gardens and sometimes small crofts intervening; and noble growth of old oaks and young elms shading the way; the whole as neat, fresh, and picturesque in rural comfort and beauty, as could be seen almost anywhere in england. the lords of rythdale held sway here, and nothing under their rule, of late, was out of order. but there were poor people in the village, and very poor old houses, though skilfully turned to the account of beauty in the outward view. eleanor was well known in them; and now mrs. benson came out to the gate and told how she was to move to her new home in another fortnight; and begged the sisters would come in to rest themselves from the sun. and old mrs. shepherd curtsied in her doorway; and matthew grimson's wife, the blacksmith that was, came to stop eleanor with a roundabout representation how her husband's business would thrive so much better in another situation. eleanor was seldom on foot in the village now. she passed that as soon as she could and went on. from her window on the other side of the lane, miss broadus nodded, and beckoned too; but the sisters would not be delayed. "it is good mr. carlisle has gone to london," said julia. "he would not have let you come." eleanor felt stung. "why do you say so, julia?" "why, you always do what he tells you," said julia, who was not apt to soften her communications. "he says 'eleanor'--and you go that way; and he says 'eleanor'--and you go the other way." "and why do you suppose he would have any objection to my going this way?" "i know"--said julia. "i am glad he is in london. i hope he'll stay there." eleanor made no answer but to switch her dress and the bushes as they went by, with a little rod in her hand. there was more truth in the allegation than it pleased her to remember. she did not always feel her bonds at the time, they were so gently put on and the spell of another's will was so natural and so irresistible. but it chafed her to be reminded of it and to feel that it was so openly exerted and her own subjugation so complete. the switching went on vigorously, taking the bushes and her muslin dress impartially; and eleanor's mind was so engrossed that she did not perceive how suddenly the weather was changing. they had passed through the village and left it behind, when julia exclaimed, "there's a storm coming, eleanor! maybe we can get in before it rains." it was an undeniable fact; and without further parley both sisters set off to run, seeing that there were very few minutes to accomplish julia's hope. it began sprinkling already. "it's going to be a real storm," said julia gleefully. "over the moor it's as black as thunder. i saw it through the trees." "but where are you going?"--for julia had left the road, or rather lane, and dashed down a path through the trees leading off from it. "o this is the best--this leads round to the other side of the house," julia said. just as well, to go in at the kitchen, eleanor thought; and let julia find her way with her sago and jelly to mr. rhys's room, if she so inclined. so they ran on, reached a little strip of open ground at the back of the cottage, and rushed in at the door like a small tornado; for the rain was by this time coming down merrily. the first thing eleanor saw when she had pulled off her flat,--was that she was not in a kitchen. a table with writing implements met her eye; and turning, she discovered the person one of them at least had come to see, lying on a sort of settee or rude couch, with a pillow under his head. he looked pale enough, and changed, and lay wrapped in a dressing-gown. if eleanor was astonished, so certainly was he. but he rose to his feet, albeit scarce able to stand, and received his visitors with a simplicity and grace of nature which was in singular contrast with all the dignities of conventional life. "mr. rhys!" stammered eleanor, "i had no idea we were breaking into your room. i thought julia was taking me into mrs. williams's part of the house." "i am very glad to see you!" he said; and the words were endorsed by the pleasant grave face and the earnest grasp of the hand. but how ill and thin he looked! eleanor was shocked. "it was beginning to rain," she repeated, "and i followed where julia led me. i thought she was bringing me to mrs. williams's premises. i beg you will excuse me." "i have made mrs. williams give me this part of the house because i think it is the pleasantest. won't you do me the honour to sit down?" he was bringing a chair for her, but looked so little able for it that eleanor took it from his hand. "please put yourself on the sofa again, mr. rhys--we will not interrupt you a moment." "yes you will," said julia, "unless you want to walk in the rain. mr. rhys, are you better to-day?" "i am as well as usual, thank you, julia." "i am sorry to see that is not very well, mr. rhys," said eleanor. "not very strong--" he said with the smile that she remembered, as he sank back in the corner of the couch and rested his head on his hand. his look and manner altogether gave her a strange feeling. ill and pale and grave as he was, there was something else about him different from all that she had touched in her own life for weeks. it was a new atmosphere. "ladies, i hope you are not wet?" he said presently. "not at all," said eleanor; "nothing to signify. we shall dry ourselves in the sun walking back." "i think the sun is not going to be out immediately." he rose and with slow steps made his way to the inner door and spoke to some one within. eleanor took a view of her position. the rain was coming down furiously; no going home just yet was possible. that was the out-of-door prospect. within, she was a prisoner. the room was a plain little room, plain as a room could be; with no adornments or luxuries. some books were piled on deal shelves; others covered two tables. a large portfolio stood in one corner. on one of the tables were pens, ink and paper, not lying loose, but put up in order; as not used nor wanted at present. several boxes of various sorts and sizes made up the rest of the furniture, with a few chairs of very simple fashion. it was mr. rhys's own room they were in; and all that could be said of it was its nicety of order. two little windows with the door might give view of something in fair weather; at present they shewed little but grey rain and a dim vision of trees seen through the rain. eleanor wanted to get away; but it was impossible. she must talk. "you cannot judge of my prospect now," mr. rhys said as she turned to him. "not in this rain. but i should think you could not see much at any time, except trees." "'much' is comparative. no, i do not see much; but there is an opening from my window, through which the eye goes a long way--across a long distance of the moor. it is but a gleam; however it serves a good purpose for me." an old woman here came in with a bundle of sticks and began to lay them for a fire. she was an old crone-looking person. eleanor observed her, and thought what it must be to have no nurse or companion but that. "we have missed you at the lodge, mr. rhys." "thank you. i am missing from all my old haunts," he answered gravely. and the thought and the look went to something from which he was very sorry to be missing. "but you will be soon well again--will you not? and among us again." "i do not know," he said. "i am sometimes inclined to think my work is done." "what work, mr. rhys?" said julia. "ferns, do you mean?" "no." "what work, mr. rhys?" "i mean the lord's work, julia, which he has given me to do." "do you mean preaching?" "that is part of it." "what else is your work, mr. rhys?" said julia, hanging about the couch with an affectionate eye. so affectionate, that her sister's rebuke of her forwardness was checked. "doing all i can, julia, in every way, to tell people of the lord jesus." "was that the work you were going to that horrid place to do?" "yes." "then i am glad you are sick!" "that is very unkind of you," said he with a gravity which eleanor was not sure was real. "it is better for you to be sick than to go away from england," said julia decidedly. "but if i am not well enough to go there, i shall go somewhere else." "where?" "what have you got in that saucer?" "jelly for you. won't you eat it, mr. rhys? there is sago in the basket. it will do you good." "will you not offer your sister some?" "no. she gets plenty at home. eat it, mr. rhys, won't you?" he took a few spoonfuls, smiled at her, and told her it was very good. it was a smile worth having. but both sisters saw that he looked fearfully pale and worn. "i must see if mrs. williams has not some berries to offer you," he said. "where are you going, mr. rhys, if you do not go to that place?" julia persisted. "if i do not go there, i think i shall go home." "home?" "yes." "where is that?" said julia hanging about him. "i meant my everlasting home, julia." "o don't, mr. rhys!" cried the child in a half vexed tone. "eat some more jelly--do!" "i am very willing to stay, julia, if my master has work for me to do." "you had charge of a chapel at lily dale, mr. rhys, i am told?" eleanor said, feeling awkward. "no--at croydon, beyond." "at croydon! that is nine miles off. how did you get there?" the question escaped eleanor. he hesitated, and answered simply, "i had no way but to walk. i found that very pleasant in summer mornings." "walk to croydon and back, and preach there! i do not wonder you are sick, mr. rhys." "i did not walk back the same day." "but then where did you go in the evenings to preach?" said julia. "that was not so far off." "did you serve _two_ chapels on the same day, mr. rhys?" eleanor asked. "no. the evenings julia speaks of i preached nearer home." "and school all the week!" said eleanor. "it was no hardship," he said with a most pleasant smile at her. "the king's work required haste--there were many people at both places who had not heard the truth or had not learned to love it. there are still." his face grew very grave as he spoke; grave even to sadness as he added, "they are dying without the knowledge of the true life!" "where was the other chapel you went to?" "rythmoor." eleanor hurried on. "but mr. rhys, will you allow me to ask you a question that puzzles me?" "i beg you will do so!" "it is just this. if there are so many in england that want teaching--but i beg your pardon! i am afraid talking tires you." "i assure you it is very pleasant to me. will you go on." "if there are so many in england that want teaching, why should you go to such a place as that julia talks of?" "they are further yet from help." "but is not the work here as good as the work there?" "i am cut off from both," he said. "i long to go to them. but the lord has his own plans. 'why art thou cast down, o my soul; and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in god!'--" the grave, sweet, tender, strong intonation of these words, slowly uttered, moved eleanor much. not towards tears; the effect was rather a great shaking of heart. she saw a glimpse of a life she had never dreamed of; a power touched her that had never touched her before. this life was something quite unearthly in its spirit and aims; the power was the power of holiness. it is difficult or impossible to say in words how this influence made itself felt. in the writing of the lines of the face, in the motion of the lips, in the indefinable tones of voice, in the air and manner, there comes out constantly in all characters an atmosphere of the truth, which the words spoken, whether intended or not intended, do not convey. even unintentional feigning fails here, and even self-deception is belied. the truth of a character will make itself felt and influential, for good or evil, through all disguises. so it was, that though the words of mr. rhys might have been said by anybody, the impression they produced belonged to him alone, of all the people eleanor had ever seen in her life. the "helmet of salvation" was on this man's head, and gave it a dignity more than that of a kingly crown. she sat thinking so, and recalling her lost wishes of the early summer; forgetting to carry on the conversation. meanwhile the old woman of the cottage came in again with a fresh supply of sticks, and a blaze began to brighten in the chimney. julia exclaimed in delight. eleanor looked at the window. the rain still came down heavily. she remembered the thunderstorm in june, and her fears. then mr. rhys begged her to go to the fire and dry herself, and again spoke some unintelligible words to the old attendant. "what is that, mr. rhys?" said julia, who seldom refrained from asking anything she wished to know. "i was enquiring of mrs. williams whether she had not some fresh-gathered berries she could bring for your refreshment." "but i mean, what language did you speak to her?" "welsh." "are you welsh?" "no," said he smiling; "but i have welsh blood; and i had a welsh nurse, julia." "i do not want any refreshment, mr. rhys; but i would like some berries." "i hope you would like to ask pardon of mr. rhys for your freedom," said eleanor. "i am sure you need it." "why mrs. williams very often gives me berries," said julia; "and they always taste better than ours. i mean, mr. rhys gives me some." eleanor busied herself over the fire, in drying her muslin dress. that did very well instead of talking. mrs. williams presently came in again, bearing a little tray with berries and a pot of cream. julia eagerly played hostess and dealt them out. the service was most homely; nevertheless the wild berries deserved her commendation. the girls sat by the fire and eat, and their host from the corner of his couch watched them with his keen eyes. it was rather a romantic adventure altogether, eleanor thought, in the midst of much graver thoughts. but julia had quite got her spirits up. "aren't they good, eleanor? they are better berries than those that came from the priory. mr. rhys, do you know that after eleanor is mrs. carlisle, she will be lady rythdale?" this shot drove eleanor into desperation. she would have started aside, to hide her cheeks, but it was no use. mr. rhys had risen to add some more cream to her saucer--perhaps on purpose. "i understand," he said simply. "has she made arrangements to secure an everlasting crown, after the earthly coronet shall have faded away?" the question was fairly put to eleanor. it gave a turn to her confusion, yet hardly more manageable; for the gentle, winning tones in which it was made found their way down to some very deep and unguarded spot in her consciousness. no one had ever probed her as this man dared to do. eleanor could hardly sit still. the berries had no more any taste to her after that. yet the question demanded an answer; and after hesitating long she found none better than to say, as she set down her saucer, "no, mr. rhys." doubtless he read deeper than the words of her answer, but he made no remark. she would have been glad he had. the shower seemed to be slackening; and while julia entered into lively conversation over her berries, eleanor went to the window. she was doubtfully conscious of anything but discomfort; however she did perceive that the rain was falling less thickly and light beginning to break through the clouds. as she turned from the window she forced herself to speak. "what is there we can do for you at home, mr. rhys? mrs. williams' resources, i am sure, must be very insufficient." "i am very much obliged to you!" he said heartily. "there is nothing that i know of. i have all that i require." "you are better than you were? you are gaining strength?" "no, i think not. i am quite useless now." "but you will get better soon, and be useful again." "if it pleases my master;--but i think not." "do you consider yourself so seriously ill, mr. rhys?" said eleanor looking shocked. "do not take it so seriously," said he smiling at her. "no harm can come to me any way. it is far worse than death for me, to be cut off from doing my work; and a while ago the thought of this troubled me; it gave me some dark hours. but at last i rested myself on that word, 'why art thou cast down, o my soul? hope thou in god!' and now i am content about it. life or death--neither can bring but good to me; for my father sends it. you know," he said, again with a smile at her, but with a keen observant eye,--"they who are the lord's wear an invisible casque, which preserves them from all fear." he saw that eleanor's face was grave and troubled; he saw that at this last word there was a sort of avoidance of feature, as if it reached a spot of feeling somewhere that was sensitive. he added nothing more, except the friendly grasp of the hand, which drove the weapon home. the rain had ceased; the sun was out; and the two girls set forward on their return. they hurried at first, for the afternoon had worn away. the rain drops lay thick and sparkling on every blade of grass, and dripped upon them from the trees. "now you will get your feet wet again," said julia; "and then you will have another sickness; and mr. carlisle will be angry." "do let mr. carlisle's anger alone!" said eleanor. "i shall not sit down in wet shoes, so i shall not get hurt. did you ever see him angry?" "no," said julia; "and i am glad he won't be angry with me?" in spite of her words, the wet grass gave eleanor a disagreeable reminder of what wet grass had done for her some months before. the remembrance of her sickness came up with the immediate possibility of its returning again; the little feeling of danger and exposure gave power to the things she had just heard. she could not banish them; she recalled freshly the miserable fear and longing of those days when she lay ill and knew not how her illness would turn; the fearful want of a shelter; the comparative littleness of all things under the sun. rythdale priory had not been worth a feather in that day; all the gay pleasures and hopes of the summer could have found no entrance into her heart then. and as she was then, so eleanor knew herself now--defenceless, if danger came. and the wet grass into which every footstep plunged said that danger might be at any time very near. eleanor wished bitterly that she had not come this walk with julia. it was strange, how utterly shaken, miserable, forlorn, her innermost spirit felt, at this possible approach of evil to her shelterless head. and with double force, though they had been forcible at the time, mr. rhys's words recurred to her--the words that he had spoken half to himself as it were--"hope thou in god." eleanor had heard those words, read by different lips, at different times; they were not new; but the meaning of them had never struck her before. now for the first time, as she heard the low, sweet, confident utterance of a soul fleeing to its stronghold, of a spirit absolutely secure there, she had an idea of what "hope in god" meant; and every time she remembered the tones of those words, spoken by failing lips too, it gave a blow to her heart. there was something she wanted. what else could be precious like that? and with them belonged in this instance, eleanor felt, a purity of character till now unimagined. thoughts and footsteps hurrying along together, they were past the village and far on their way towards home, the two sisters, before much was said between them. "i wish mr. rhys would get well and stay here," said julia. "it is nice to go to see him, isn't it, eleanor? he is so good." "i don't know whether it is nice," said eleanor. "i wish almost i had not gone with you. i have not thought of disagreeable things before in a great while." "but isn't he good?" "good!" said eleanor. "he makes me feel as black as night." "well, you aren't black," said julia, pleased; "and i'll tell mr. carlisle what you say. he won't be angry that time." "julia!" said eleanor. "do if you dare! you shall repeat no words of mine to mr. carlisle." julia only laughed; and eleanor hoped that the gentleman would stay in london till her purpose, whatever it might be, was forgotten. he did stay some days; the lodge had a comparatively quiet time. perhaps eleanor missed the constant excitement of the weeks past. she was very restless, and her thoughts would not be diverted from the train into which the visit to mr. rhys had thrown them. obstinately the idea kept before her, that a defence was wanting to her which she had not, and might have. she wanted some security greater than dry shoes could afford. yea, she could not forget, that beyond that earthly coronet which of necessity must some time fade, she might want something that would endure in the air of eternity. her musings troubled eleanor. as black maggie did not wait upon her, these days, she ordered up her own little pony, and went off upon long rides by herself. it soothed her to be alone. she let no servant attend her; she took the comfort of good stirring gallops all over the moor; and then when she and the pony were both tired she let him walk and her thoughts take up their train. but it did not do her any good. eleanor grew only more uneasy from day to day. the more she thought, the deeper her thoughts went; and still the contrast of purity and high christian hope rose up to shame her own heart and life. eleanor felt her danger as a sinner; her exposure as guilty; and the insufficiency of all she had or hoped for, to meet future and coming contingencies. so far she got; there she stopped; except that her sense of these things grew more keen and deep day by day; it did not fade out. friends she had none to help her. she wanted to see dr. cairnes and attack him in private and bring him to a point on the subjects which agitated her; but she could not. dr. cairnes too was absent from wiglands at this time; and eleanor had to think and wait all by herself. she had her bible, it is true; but she did not know how to consult it. she took care not to go near mr. rhys again; though she was sorry to hear through julia that he was not mending. she wished herself a little girl, to have julia's liberty; but she must do without it. and what would mr. carlisle say to her thoughts? she must not ask him. he could do nothing with them. she half feared, half wished for his influence to overthrow them. he came; but eleanor did not find that he could remove the trouble, the existence of which he did not suspect. his presence did not remove it. in all her renewed engagements and gaieties, there remained a secret core of discomfort in her heart, whatever she might be about. they were taking tea one evening, half in and half out of the open window, when julia came up. "mr. carlisle," said she, "i am going to pay you my forfeit." he had caught her in some game of forfeits the day before. "i am going to give you something you will like very much." "what can it be, julia?" "you don't believe me. now you do not deserve to have it. i am going to give you something eleanor said." eleanor's hand was on her lips immediately, and her voice forbade the promised forfeit; but there were two words to that bargain. mr. carlisle captured the hand and gave a counter order. "now you don't believe me, but you believe eleanor," said the lawless child. "she said,--she said it when you went away,--that she had not thought of anything disagreeable in a long while!" mr. carlisle looked delighted, as well he might. eleanor's temples flushed a painful scarlet. "dear me, how interesting these goings away and comings home are, i suppose!" exclaimed miss broadus, coming up to the group. "i see! there is no need to say anything. mr. carlisle, we are all rejoiced to see you back at wiglands. or at the lodge--for you do not honour wiglands much, except when i see you riding through it on that beautiful brown horse of yours. the black and the brown; i never saw such a pair. and you do ride! i should think you would be afraid that creature would lose a more precious head than its own." "i take better care than that, miss broadus." "well, i suppose you do; though for my part i cannot see how a person on one horse can take care of a person on another horse; it is something i do not understand. i never did ride myself; i suppose that is the reason. mr. carlisle, what do you say to this lady riding all alone by herself--without any one to take care of her?" mr. carlisle's eyes rather opened at this question, as if he did not fully take in the idea. "she does it--you should see her going by as i did--as straight as a grenadier, and her pony on such a jump! i thought to myself, mr. carlisle is in london, sure enough. but it was a pretty sight to see. my dear, how sorry we are to miss some one else from our circle, and he did honour us at wiglands--my sister and me. how sorry i am poor mr. rhys is so ill. have you heard from him to-day, eleanor?" "you should ask julia, miss broadus. is he much more ill than he was? julia hears of him every day, i believe." "ah, the children all love him. i see julia and alfred going by very often; and the other boys come to see him constantly, i believe. and my dear eleanor, how kind it was of you to go yourself with something for him! i saw you and julia go past with your basket--don't you remember?--that day before the rain; and i said to myself--no, i said to juliana, some very complimentary things about you. benevolence has flourished in your absence, mr. carlisle. here was this lady, taking jelly with her own hands to a sick man. now i call that beautiful." mr. carlisle preferred to make his own compliments; for he did not echo those of the talkative lady. "but i am afraid he is very ill, my dear," miss broadus went on, turning to eleanor again. "he looked dreadfully when i saw him; and he is so feeble, i think there is very little hope of his life left. i think he has just worked himself to death. but i do not believe, eleanor, he is any more afraid of death, than i am of going to sleep. i don't believe he is so much." miss broadus was called off; mr. carlisle had left the window; eleanor sat sadly thinking. the last words had struck a deeper note than all the vexations of miss broadus's previous talk. "no more afraid of death than of going to sleep." ay! for his head was covered from danger. eleanor knew it--saw it--felt it; and felt it to be blessed. oh how should she make that same covering her own? there was an engagement to spend the next afternoon at the priory--the whole family. dr. cairnes would most probably be there to meet them. perhaps she might catch or make an opportunity of speaking to him in private and asking him what she wanted to know. not very likely, but she would try. dr. cairnes was her pastor; it ought to be in his power to resolve her difficulties; it must be. at any rate, eleanor would apply to him and see. she had no one else to apply to. unless mr. rhys would get well. eleanor wished that might be. _he_ could help her, she knew, without a peradventure. mr. carlisle appeared again, and the musings were banished. he took her hand and put it upon his arm, and drew her out into the lawn. the action was caressingly done; nevertheless eleanor felt that an inquiry into her behaviour would surely be the next thing. so half shrinking and half rebellious, she suffered herself to be led on into the winding walks of the shrubbery. the evening was delicious; nothing could be more natural or pleasant than sauntering there. "i am going to have julia at the priory to-morrow, as a reward for her good gift to me," was mr. carlisle's opening remark. "i am sure she does not deserve it," said eleanor very sincerely. "what do you deserve?" "nothing--in the way of rewards." mr. carlisle did not think so, or else regarded the matter in the light of a reward to himself. "have you been good since i have been away?" "no!" said eleanor bluntly. "do you always speak truth after this fashion?" "i speak it as you will find it, mr. carlisle." the questions were put between caresses; but in all his manner nevertheless, in kisses and questions alike, there was that indefinable air of calm possession and power, before which eleanor always felt unable to offer any resistance. he made her now change "mr. carlisle" for a more familiar name, before he would go on. eleanor felt as a colt may be supposed to feel, which is getting a skilful "breaking in;" yielding obedience at every step, and at every step secretly wishing to refuse obedience, to refuse which is becoming more and more impossible. "haven't you been a little too good to somebody else, while i have been away?" "no!" said eleanor. "i never am." "darling, i do not wish you to honour any one so far as that woman reports you to have done." "that!" said eleanor. "that was the merest act of common kindness--julia wanted some one to go with her to take some things to a sick man; and i wanted a walk, and i went." "you were too kind. i must unlearn you a little of your kindness. you are mine, now, darling; and i want all of you for myself." "but the better i am," said eleanor, "i am sure the more there is to have." "be good for _me_," said he kissing her,--"and in my way. i will dispense with other goodness. i am in no danger of not having enough in you." eleanor walked back to the house, feeling as if an additional barrier were somehow placed between her and the light her mind wanted and the relief her heart sought after. chapter vi. at the priory. "here he lives in state and bounty, lord of burleigh, fair and free; not a lord in all the county is so great a lord as he." lady rythdale abhorred dinner-parties, in general and in particular. she dined early herself, and begged that the family from ivy lodge would come to tea. it was the first occasion of the kind; and the first time they had ever been there otherwise than as strangers visiting the grounds. lady rythdale was infirm and unwell, and never saw her country neighbours or interchanged civilities with them. of course this was laid to something more than infirmity, by the surrounding gentry who were less in consequence than herself; but however it were, few of them ever saw the inside of the priory house for anything but a ceremonious morning visit. now the family at the lodge were to go on a different footing. it was a great time, of curiosity, pleasure, and pride. "what are you going to wear this evening, eleanor?" her mother asked. "i suppose, my habit, mamma." "your habit!" "i cannot very well ride in anything else." "are you going to _ride?_" "so it is arranged, ma'am. it will be infinitely less tiresome than going in any other way." "tiresome!" echoed mrs. powle. "but what will lady rythdale say to you in a riding-habit." "mamma, i have very little notion what she would say to me in anything." "i will tell you what you must do, eleanor. you must change your dress after you get there." "no, mamma--i cannot. mr. carlisle has arranged to have me go in a riding-habit. it is his responsibility. i will not have any fuss of changing, nor pay anybody so much of a compliment." "it will not be liked, eleanor." "it will follow my fate, mamma, whatever that is." "you are a wilful girl. you are fallen into just the right hands. you will be managed now, for once." "mamma," said eleanor colouring all over, "it is extremely unwise in you to say that; for it rouses all the fight there is in me; and some day--" "some day it will not break out," said mrs. powle. "well, i should not like to fight with mr. carlisle," said julia. "i am glad i am going, at any rate." eleanor bit her lip. nevertheless, when the afternoon came and mr. carlisle appeared to summon her, nothing was left of the morning's irritation but a little loftiness of head and brow. it was very becoming, no more; and mr. carlisle's evident pleasure and satisfaction soon soothed the feeling away. the party in the carriage had gone on before; the riders followed the same route, passing through the village of wiglands, then a couple of miles or more beyond through the village of rythdale. further on, crossing a bridge they entered upon the old priory grounds; the grey tower rose before them, and the horses' feet swept through the beautiful wilderness of ruined art and flourishing nature. as the cavalcade wound along--for the carriage was just before them now--through the dale and past the ruins, and as it had gone in state through the village, eleanor could not help a little throbbing of heart at the sense of the place she was holding and about to hold; at the feeling of the relation all these beauties and dignities now held to her. if she had been inclined to forget it, her companion's look would have reminded her. she had no leisure to analyze her thoughts, but these stirred her pulses. it was beautiful, as the horses wound through the dale and by the little river ryth, where all the ground was kept like a garden. it was beautiful, as they left the valley and went up a slow, gentle, ascending road, through thick trees, to the higher land where the new priory stood. it stood on the brow of the height, looking down over the valley and over the further plain where the village nestled among its trees. yes, and it was fine when the first sight of the house opened upon her, not coming now as a stranger, but as future mistress; for whom every window and gable and chimney had the mysterious interest of a future home. would old lady rythdale like to see her there? eleanor did not know; but felt easy in the assurance that mr. carlisle, who could manage everything, could manage that also. it was his affair. the house shewed well as they drew towards it, among fine old trees. it was a new house; that is, it did not date further back than three generations. like everything else about the whole domain, it gave the idea of perfect order and management. it was a spacious building, spreading out amply upon the ground, not rising to a great height; and built in a simple style of no particular name or pretensions; but massive, stately, and elegant. no unfinished or half realized idea; what had been attempted had been done, and done well. the house was built on three sides of a quadrangle. the side of approach by which the cavalcade had come, winding up from the valley, led them round past the front of the left wing. mr. carlisle made her draw bridle and fall a little behind the carriage. "do you like this view?" said he. "very much. i have never seen it before." he smiled at her, and again extending his hand drew black maggie's rein till he brought her to a slow walk. the carriage passed on out of sight. eleanor would have remonstrated, but the view before her was lovely. three gables, of unequal height, rose over that faã§ade; the only ornamental part was in their fanciful but not elaborate mouldings. the lower story, stretching along the spread of a smooth little lawn, was almost masked with ivy. it embedded the large but perfectly plain windows, which reached so near the ground that one might step out from them; their clear amplitude was set in a frame of massive green. one angle especially looked as if the room within must be a nest of verdurous beauty. the ivy encased all the doorways or entrances on that side of the house; and climbing higher threatened to do for the story above what it had accomplished below; but perhaps some order had been taken about that, for in the main its course had been stayed at a certain stone moulding that separated the stories, and only a branch here and there had been permitted to shew what more it would like to do. one of the upper windows was partly encased; while its lace curtains gave an assurance that all its garnishing had not been left to nature. eleanor could not help thinking it was a very lovely looking place for any woman to be placed in as her home; and her heart beat a little high. "do you not like it?" said mr. carlisle. "yes,--certainly!" "what are you considering so attentively in black maggie's ears?" eleanor caused maggie to prick up the said ears, by a smart touch of her whip. the horses started forward to overtake the carriage. perhaps however mr. carlisle was fascinated--he might well be--by the present view he had of his charge; there was a blushing shy grace observable about her which it was pretty to see and not common; and maybe he wanted the view to be prolonged. he certainly did not follow the nearest road, but turned off instead to a path which went winding up and down the hill and through plantations of wood, giving eleanor views also, of a different sort; and so did not come out upon the front of the house till long after the carriage party had been safely housed. eleanor found she was alone and was not to be sheltered under her mother's wing or any other; and her conductor's face was much too satisfied to invite comments. he swung her down from the saddle, allowed her to remove her cap, and putting her hand on his arm walked her into the drawing-room and the presence of his mother. eleanor had seen lady rythdale once before, in a stately visit which had been made at the lodge; never except that one time. the old baroness was a dignified looking person, and gave her a stately reception now; rather stiff and cold, eleanor thought; or careless and cold, rather. "my dear," said the old lady, "have you come in a riding-habit? that will be very uncomfortable. go to my dressing-room, and let arles change it for something else. she can fit you. macintosh, you shew her the way." no questions were asked. mr. carlisle obeyed, putting eleanor's hand on his arm again, and walked her off out of the room and through a gallery and up the stairs, and along another gallery. he walked fast. eleanor felt exceedingly abashed and displeased and discomfited at this extraordinary proceeding, but she did not know how to resist it. her compliance was taken for granted, and mr. carlisle was laughing at her discomfiture, which was easy enough to be seen. eleanor's cheeks were glowing magnificently. "i suppose he feels he has me in his own dominions now,"--she thought; and the thought made her very rebellious. lady rythdale too! "mr. carlisle," she began, "there is really no occasion for all this. i am perfectly comfortable. i do not wish to alter my dress." "what do you call me?" said he stopping short. "mr. carlisle." "call me something else." the steady bright hazel eyes which were looking at her asserted their power. in spite of her irritation and vexation she obeyed his wish, and asked him somewhat loftily, to take her back again to the company. "against my mother's commands? do you not think they are binding on you, eleanor?" "no, i do not!" "you will allow they are on me. my darling," said he, laughing and kissing her, "you must submit to be displeased for your good." and he walked on again. eleanor was conquered; she felt it, and chafed under it. mr. carlisle opened a door and walked her into an apartment, large and luxurious, the one evidently that his mother had designated. he rang the bell. "arles," said he, "find this lady something that will fit her. she wishes to change her dress. do your best." he went out and left eleanor in the hands of the tire-woman. eleanor felt utterly out of countenance, but powerless; though she longed to defy the maid and the mistress and say, "i will wear my own and nothing else." why could she not say it? she did not like to defy the master. so arles had her way, and after one or two rapid glances at the subject of her cares and a moment's reflection on her introduction there, she took her cue. "blushes like that are not for nothing," thought arles; "and when mr. macintosh says 'do your best'--why, it is easy to see!" she was quick and skilful and silent; but eleanor felt like a wild creature in harness. her riding-dress went off--her hair received a touch, all it wanted, as the waiting maid said; and after one or two journeys to wardrobes, mrs. arles brought out and proceeded to array eleanor in a robe of white lawn, very flowing and full of laces. yet it was simple in style, and eleanor thought it useless to ask for a change; although when the robing was completed she was dressed more elegantly than she had ever been in her life. she was sadly ashamed, greatly indignant, and mortified at herself; that she should be so facile to the will of a person who had no right to command her. but if she was dissatisfied, arles was not; the deep colour in eleanor's cheeks only relieved her white drapery to perfection; and her beautiful hair and faultless figure harmonized with flowing folds and soft laces which can do so much for outlines that are not soft. eleanor was not without a consciousness of this; nevertheless, vanity was not her foible; and her state of mind was anything but enviable when she left the dressing-room for the gallery. but mr. carlisle was there, to meet her and her mood too; and eleanor found herself taken in hand at once. he had a way of mixing affection with his power over her, in such a way as to soothe and overawe at the same time; and before they reached the drawing-room now eleanor was caressed and laughed into good order; leaving nevertheless a little root of opposition in her secret heart, which might grow fast upon occasion. she was taken into the drawing-room, set down and left, under lady rythdale's wing. eleanor felt her position much more conspicuous than agreeable. the old baroness turned and surveyed her; went on with the conversation pending, then turned and surveyed her again; looked her well over; finally gave eleanor some worsted to hold for her, which she wound; nor would she accept any substitute offered by the gentlemen for her promised daughter-in-law's pretty hands and arms. worse and worse. eleanor saw herself now not only a mark for people's eyes, but put in an attitude as it were to be looked at. she bore it bravely; with steady outward calmness and grace, though her cheeks remonstrated. no movement of eleanor's did that. she played worsted reel with admirable good sense and skill, wisely keeping her own eyes on the business in hand, till it was finished; and lady rythdale winding up the last end of the ball, bestowed a pat of her hand, half commendation and half raillery, upon eleanor's red cheek; as if it had been a child's. that was a little hard to bear; eleanor felt for a moment as if she could have burst into tears. she would have left her place if she had dared; but she was in a corner of a sofa by lady rythdale, and nobody else near; and she felt shy. she could use her eyes now upon the company. lady rythdale was busied in conversation with one or two elderly ladies, of stately presence like herself, who were, as eleanor gathered, friends of long date, staying at the priory. they did not invite curiosity. she saw her mother with mrs. wycherly, the rector's sister, in another group, conversing with dr. cairnes and a gentleman unknown. mr. powle had found congeniality in a second stranger. mr. carlisle, far off in a window, one of those beautiful deep large windows, was very much engaged with some ladies and gentlemen likewise strange to eleanor. nobody was occupied with her; and from her sofa corner she went to musing. the room and its treasures she had time to look at quietly; she had leisure to notice how fine it was in proportions and adornments, and what luxurious abundance of everything that wealth buys and cultivation takes pleasure in, had space to abound without the seeming of multiplicity. the house was as stately within as on the outside. the magnificence was new to eleanor, and drove her somehow to musings of a very opposite character. perhaps her unallayed spirit of opposition might have been with other causes at the bottom of this. however that were, her thoughts went off in a perverse train upon the former baronesses of rythdale; the ladies lovely and stately who had inhabited this noble abode. eleanor would soon be one of the line, moving in their place, where they had moved; lovely and admired in her turn; but their turn was over. what when hers should be?--could she keep this heritage for ever? it was a very impertinent thought; it had clearly no business with either place or time; but there it was, staring at eleanor out of the rich cornices, and looking in at her from the magnificent plantations seen through the window. eleanor did not welcome the thought; it was an intruder. the fact was that having once made entrance in her mind, the idea only seized opportunities to start up and assert its claims to notice. it was always lying in wait for her now; and on this occasion held its ground with great perverseness. eleanor glanced again at dr. cairnes; no hope of him at present; he was busily engaged with a clever gentleman, a friend of mr. carlisle's and an oxford man, and with mr. carlisle himself. eleanor grew impatient of her thoughts; she wondered if anybody else had such, in all that company. nobody seemed to notice her; and she meditated an escape both from her sofa corner and from herself to a portfolio near by, which promised a resource in the shape of engravings; but just as she was moving, lady rythdale laid a hand upon her lap. "sit still, my dear," she said turning partly towards her,--"i want you by me. i have a skein of silk here i want wound for my work--a skein of green silk--here it is; it has tangled itself, i fear; will you prepare it for me?" eleanor took the silk, which was in pretty thorough confusion, and began the task of unravelling and untieing, preparatory to its being wound. this time lady rythdale did not turn away; she sat considering eleanor, on whose white drapery and white fingers the green silk threads made a pretty contrast, while they left her helplessly exposed to that examining gaze. eleanor felt it going all over her; taking in all the details of her dress, figure and face. she could not help the blood mounting, though she angrily tried to prevent it. the green silk was in a great snarl. eleanor bent her head over her task. "my dear, are you near-sighted?" "no, madam!" said the girl, giving the old lady a moment's view of the orbs in question. "you have very good eyes--uncommon colour," said lady rythdale. "macintosh thinks he will have a good little wife in you;--is it true?" "i do not know, ma'am," said eleanor haughtily. "i think it is true. look up here and let me see." and putting her hand under eleanor's chin, she chucked up her face as if she were something to be examined for purchase. eleanor felt in no amiable mood certainly, and her cheeks were flaming; nevertheless the old lady coolly held her under consideration and even with a smile on her lips which seemed of satisfaction. eleanor did not see it, for her eyes could not look up; but she felt through all her nerves the kiss with which the examination was dismissed. "i think it is true," the old baroness repeated. "i hope it is true; for my son would not be an easy man to live with on any other terms, my dear." "i suppose its truth depends in a high degree upon himself, madam," said eleanor, very much incensed. "does your ladyship choose to wind this silk now?" "you may hold it. i see you have got it into order. that shews you possessed of the old qualification of patience.--your hands a little higher. my dear, i would not advise you to regulate your behaviour by anything in other people. macintosh will make you a kind husband if you do not displease him; but he is one of those men who must obeyed." eleanor had no escape; she must sit holding the silk, a mark for lady rythdale's eyes and tongue. she sat drooping a little with indignation and shame, when mr. carlisle came up. he had seen from a distance the tint of his lady's cheeks, and judged that she was going through some sort of an ordeal. but though he came to protect, he stood still to enjoy. the picture was so very pretty. the mother and son exchanged glances. "i think you can make her do," said the baroness contentedly. "not as a permanent winding reel!" exclaimed eleanor jumping up. "mr. carlisle, i am tired;--have the goodness to take this silk from my fingers." and slipping it over the gentleman's astonished hands, before he had time quite to know what she was about, eleanor left the pair to arrange the rest of the business between them, and herself walked off to one of the deep windows. she was engaged there immediately by lord rythdale, in civil conversation enough; then he introduced other gentlemen; and it was not till after a series of talks with one and another, that eleanor had a minute to herself. she was sitting in the window, where an encroaching branch of ivy at one side reminded her of the elegant work it was doing round the corner. eleanor would have liked to go through the house--or the grounds--if she might have got away alone and indulged herself in a good musing fit. how beautiful the shaven turf looked under the soft sun's light! how stately stood old oaks and beeches here and there! how rich the thicker border of vegetation beyond the lawn! what beauty of order and keeping everywhere. nothing had been attempted here but what the resources of the proprietors were fully equal to; the impression was of ample power to do more. while musing, eleanor's attention was attracted by mr. carlisle, who had stepped out upon the lawn with one or two of his guests, and she looked at the place and its master together. he suited it very well. he was an undeniably handsome man; his bearing graceful and good. eleanor liked mr. carlisle, not the less perhaps that she feared him a little. she only felt a little wilful rebellion against the way in which she had come to occupy her present position. if but she might have been permitted to take her own time, and say yea for herself, without having it said for her, she would have been content. as it was, eleanor was not very discontented. her heart swelled with a secret satisfaction and some pride, as without seeing her the group passed the window and she was left with the sunlit lawn and beautiful old trees again. close upon that feeling of pride came another thought. what when this earthly coronet should fade?-"dr. cairnes," said eleanor seizing an opportunity,--"come here and sit down by me. i have not seen you in a great while." "you have not missed me, my dear lady," said the doctor blandly. "yes i have," said eleanor. "i want to talk to you. i want you to tell me something." "how soon i am to make you happy? or help you to make somebody else happy? well i shall be at your service any time about christmas." "no, no!" said eleanor colouring, "i want something very different. i am talking seriously, dr. cairnes. i want you to tell me something. i want to know how i may be happy--for i am unhappy now." "you unhappy!" said the doctor. "i must talk to my friend mr. carlisle about that. we must call him in for counsel. what would he say, to your being unhappy? hey?" he was there to speak for himself; there with a slight cloud on his brow too, eleanor thought. he had come from within the room; she thought he was safe away in the grounds with his guests. "shall i break up this interesting conversation?" said he. "it was growing very interesting," said the doctor; "for this lady was just acknowledging to me that she is not happy. i give her over to you--this is a case beyond my knowledge and resources. only, when i can do anything, i shall be most gratified at being called upon." the doctor rose up, shook himself, and left the field to mr. carlisle. eleanor felt vexed beyond description, and very little inclined to call again upon dr. cairnes for anything whatever in any line of assistance. her face burned. mr. carlisle took no notice; only laid his hand upon hers and said "come!"--and walked her out of the room and on the lawn, and sauntered with her down to some of the thickly planted shrubbery beyond the house. there went round about upon the soft turf, calling eleanor's attention to this or that shrub or tree, and finding her very pleasant amusement; till the question in her mind, of what was coming now, had almost faded away. the lights and shadows stretched in long lines between the trees, and lay witchingly over the lawn. an opening in the plantations brought a fair view of it, and of the left wing of the house which eleanor had admired, dark and rich in its mantle of ivy, while the light gleamed on the edges of the ornamented gables above. it was a beautiful view. mr. carlisle paused. "how do you like the house?" said he. "i think i prefer the ruined old priory down yonder," said eleanor. "do you still feel your attraction for a monastic life?" "yes!" said eleanor, colouring,--"i think they must have had peaceable old lives there, with nothing to trouble them. and they could plant gardens as well as you can." "as the old ruins are rather uninhabitable, what do you think of entering a modern priory?" it pleased him to see the deep rich glow on eleanor's cheek, and the droop of her saucy eyelids. no wonder it pleased him; it was a pretty thing to see; and he enjoyed it. "you shall be lady abbess," he went on presently, "and make your own rules. i only stipulate that there shall be no father confessor except myself." "i doubt your qualifications for that office," said eleanor. "suppose you try me. what were you confessing to dr. cairnes just now in the window?" "nonsense, robert!" said eleanor. "i was talking of something you would not understand." "you underrate me," said he coolly. "my powers of understanding are equal to the old gentleman's, unless i am mistaken in myself. what are you unhappy about, darling?" "nothing that you could make anything of," said eleanor. "i was talking to dr. cairnes in a language that you do not understand. do let it alone!" "did he report you truly, to have used the english word 'unhappy'?" "yes," said eleanor; "but mr. carlisle, you do not know what you are talking about." "i am coming to it. darling, do you think you would be unhappy at the priory?" "i did not say that--" said eleanor, confused. "do you think i could make you happy there?--speak, eleanor--speak!" "yes--if i could be happy anywhere." "what makes you unhappy? my wife must not hide her heart from me." "yes, but i am not that yet," said eleanor with spirit, rousing up to assert herself. he laughed and kissed her. "how long first, eleanor?" "i am sure i don't know. very long." "what is very long?" "i do not know. a year or two at least." "do you suppose i will agree to that?" eleanor knew he would not; and further saw a quiet purpose in his face. she was sure he had fixed upon the time, if not the day. she felt those cobweb bands all around her. here she was, almost in bridal attire, at his side already. she made no answer. "divide by twelve, and get a quotient, eleanor." "what do you mean?" "i mean to have a merry christmas--by your leave." christmas! that was what the doctor had said. was it so far without her leave? eleanor felt angry. that did not hinder her feeling frightened. "you cannot have it in the way you propose, mr. carlisle. i am not ready for that." "you will be," he said coolly. "i shall be obliged to go up to london after christmas; then i mean to instal you in berkeley square; and in the summer you shall go to switzerland with me. now tell me, my darling, what you are unhappy about?" eleanor felt tongue-tied and powerless. the last words had been said very affectionately, and as she was silent they were repeated. "it is nothing you would understand." "try me." "it is nothing that would interest you at all." "not interest me!" said he; and if his manner had been self-willed, it was also now as tender and gentle as it was possible to be. he folded eleanor in his arms caressingly and waited for her words. "not interest me! do you know that from your riding-cap to the very gloves you pull on and off, there is nothing that touches you that does not interest me. and now i hear my wife--she is almost that, eleanor,--tell dr. cairnes that she is not happy. i must know why." "i wish you would not think about it, mr. carlisle! it is nothing to care about at all. i was speaking to dr. cairnes as a clergyman." "you shall not call me mr. carlisle. say that over again, eleanor." "it is nothing to think twice about, mr. macintosh." "you were speaking to dr. cairnes as a clergyman?" he said laughing. "how was that? i can think but of one way in which dr. cairnes' profession concerns you and me--was it on _that_ subject, eleanor?" "no, no. it was only--i was only going to ask him a religious question that interested me." "a _religious_ question! was it that which made you unhappy?" "yes, if you will have it. i knew you would not like it." "i don't like it; and i will not have it," said he. "_you_, my little eleanor, getting up a religious uneasiness! that will never do. you, who are as sound as a nut, and as sweet as a cape jessamine! i shall prove your best counsellor. you have not had rides enough over the moor lately. we will have an extra gallop to-morrow;--and after christmas i will take care of you. what were you uneasy about?" "don't robert!" said eleanor,--"do not ask me any more about it. i do not want you to laugh at me." "laugh at you!" he said. "i should like to see anybody else do that! but i will, as much as i like. do you know you are a darling? and just as lovely in mind as you are in person. do not you have any questions with the old priest; i do not like it; come to me with your difficulties, and i will manage them for you. was that all, eleanor?" "yes." "then we are all right--or we soon shall be." they strolled a little longer over the soft turf, in the soft light. "we are not quite all right," said eleanor; "for you think i will do--what i will not." "what is that?" "i have not agreed to your arrangements." "you will." "do not think it, macintosh. i will not." he looked down at her, smiling, not in the least disconcerted. she had spoken no otherwise than gently, and with more secret effort than she would have liked him to know. "you shall say that for half the time between now and christmas," he said; "and after that you will adopt another form of expression." "if i say it at all, i shall hold to it, macintosh." "then do not say it at all, my little eleanor," said he lightly; "i shall make you give it up. i think i will make you give it up now." "you are not generous, robert." "no--i suppose i am not," he said contentedly. "i am forced to go to london after christmas, and i cannot go without you. do you not love me well enough to give me that, eleanor?" eleanor was silent. she was not willing to say no; she could not with truth say yes. mr. carlisle bent down to look into her face. "what have you to say to me?" "nothing--" said eleanor avoiding his eye. "kiss me, nellie, and promise that you will be my good little wife at christmas." his mother's very phrase. eleanor rebelled secretly, but felt powerless under those commanding eyes. perhaps he was aware of her latent obstinacy; if he was, he also knew himself able to master it; for the eyes were sparkling with pleasure as well as with wilfulness. the occasion was not sufficient to justify a contest with mr. carlisle; eleanor was not ready to brave one; she hesitated long enough to shew her rebellion, and then yielded, ingloriously she felt, though on the whole wisely. she met her punishment. the offered permission was not only taken; she was laughed at and rejoiced over triumphantly, to mr. carlisle's content. eleanor bore it as well at she could; wishing that she had not tried to assert herself in such vain fashion, and feeling her discomfiture complete. it was more than time to return to the company. eleanor knew what a mark she was for people's eyes, and would gladly have screened herself behind somebody in a corner; but mr. carlisle kept full possession of her. he walked her into the room, and gently retained her hand in its place while he went from one to another, obliging her to stand and talk or to be talked to with him through the whole company. eleanor winced; nevertheless bore herself well and a little proudly until the evening was over. the weather had changed, and the ride home was begun under a cloudy sky. it grew very dark as they went on; impossible in many places to see the path. mr. carlisle was riding with her and the roads were well known to him and to the horses, and eleanor did not mind it. she went on gayly with him, rather delighting in the novelty and adventure; till she heard a muttering of thunder. it was the only thing eleanor's nerves dreaded. her spirits were checked; she became silent and quiet, and hardly heard enough to respond to her companion's talk. she was looking incessantly for that which came at last as they were nearing the old ruins in the valley; a flash of lightning. it lit up the beautiful tower with its clinging ivy, revealed for an instant some bits of wall and the thick clustering trees; then left a blank darkness. the same illumination had entered the hidden places of memory, and startled into vivid life the scenes and the thoughts of a few months ago. all eleanor's latent uneasiness was aroused. her attention was absorbed now, from this point until they got home, in watching for flashes of lightning. they came frequently, but the storm was after all a slight one. the lightning lit up the way beautifully for the other members of the party. to eleanor it revealed something more. mr. carlisle's leave-taking at the door bespoke him well satisfied with the results of the evening. eleanor shunned the questions and remarks of her family and went to her own room. there she sat down, in her riding habit and with her head in her hands. what use was it for her to be baroness of rythdale, to be mistress of the priory, to be mr. carlisle's petted and favoured wife, while there was no shield between her head and the stroke that any day and any moment might bring? and what after all availed an earthly coronet, ever so bright, which had nothing to replace it when its fading time should come? eleanor wanted something more. chapter vii. with the ferns. "it is the little rift within the lute, that by and by will make the music mute." it was impossible for eleanor to shake off the feeling. it rose fresh with her the next day, and neither her own nor mr. carlisle's efforts could dispose of it. to do eleanor justice, she did not herself wish to lose it, unless by the supply of her want; while she took special care to hide her trouble from mr. carlisle. they took great gallops on the moor, and long rides all about the country; the rides were delightful; the talks were gay; but in them all, or at the end of them certainly, eleanor's secret cry was for some shelter for her unprotected head. the thought would come up in every possible connexion, till it haunted her. not her approaching marriage, nor the preparations which were even beginning for it, nor her involuntary subjection to all mr. carlisle's pleasure, so much dwelt with eleanor now as the question,--how she should meet the storm which must break upon her some day; or rather the sense that she could not meet it. the fairest and sweetest scene, or condition of things, seemed but to bring up this thought more vividly by very force of contrast. eleanor hid the whole within her own heart, and the fire burned there all the more. not a sign of it must mr. carlisle see; and as for dr. cairnes, eleanor could never get a chance for a safe talk with him. somebody was always near, or might be near. the very effort to hide her thoughts grew sometimes irksome; and the whirl of engagements and occupations in which she lived gave her a stifled feeling. she could not even indulge herself in solitary consideration of that which there was nobody to help her consider. she hailed one day the announcement that mr. carlisle must let the next day go by without riding or seeing her. he would be kept away at a town some miles off, on county business. mr. carlisle had a good deal to do with county politics and county business generally; made himself both important and popular, and lost no thread of influence he had once gathered into his hand. so brompton would have him all the next day, and eleanor would have her time to herself. that she might secure full possession of it, she ordered her pony and went out alone after luncheon. she could not get free earlier. now she took no servant to follow her, and started off alone to the moors. it was a delicious autumn day, mild and still and mellow. eleanor got out of sight or hearing of human habitations; then let her pony please himself in his paces while she dropped the reins and thought. it was hardly in eleanor's nature to have bitter thoughts; they came as near it on this occasion as they were apt to do; they were very dissatisfied thoughts. she was on the whole dissatisfied with everybody; herself most of all, it is true; but her mother and mr. carlisle had a share. she did not want to be married at christmas; she did not even care about going to switzerland, unless by her own good leave asked and obtained; she was not willing to be managed as a child; yet eleanor was conscious that she was no better in mr. carlisle's hands. "i wonder what sort of a master he will make," she thought, "when he has me entirely in his power? i have no sort of liberty now." it humbled her; it was her own fault; yet eleanor liked mr. carlisle, and thought that she loved him. she was young yet and very inexperienced. she also liked all the splendour of the position he gave her. yet above the gratification of this, through the dazzle of wealth and pleasure and power, eleanor discerned now a want these could not fill. what should she do when they failed? there was no provision in them for the want of them. eleanor forgot her loss of independence, and pondered these thoughts till they grew bitter with pain. by turns she wished she had never seen mr. rhys, who she remembered first started them; or wished she could see him again. in the stillness and freedom and peace of the wide moor, eleanor had fearlessly given herself up to her musings, without thinking or caring which way she went. the pony, finding the choice left to him, had naturally enough turned off into a track leading over some wild hills where he had been bred; the locality had pleasant associations for him. but it had none of any kind for eleanor; and when she roused herself to think of it, she found she was in a distant part of the moor and drawing near to the hills aforesaid; a bleak and dreary looking region, and very far from home. neither was she very sure by which way she might soonest regain a neighbourhood that she knew. to follow the path she was on and turn off into the first track that branched in the right direction, seemed the best to do; and she roused up her pony to an energetic little gallop. it seemed little after the long bounds black maggie would take through the air; but it was brisk work for the pony. eleanor kept him at his speed. it was luxurious, to be alone; ride as she liked, slow or fast, and think as she liked, even forbidden thoughts. her own mistress once more. eleanor exulted, all the more because she was a rebel. the wild moor was delicious; the freedom was delicious; only she was far from home and the afternoon was on the wane. she kept the pony to his speed. by the base of the hills near to which the road led her, stood a miserable little house. it needed but a look at the place, to decide that the people who lived in it must be also miserable, and probably in more ways than one. eleanor who had intended asking there for some news of her whereabouts and the roads, changed her mind as she drew near and resolved to pass the house at a gallop. so much for wise resolves. the miserable children who dwelt in the house had been that day making a bonfire for their amusement right on her track. the hot ashes were still there; the pony set his feet in them, reared high, and threw his rider, who had never known the pony do such a thing before and had no reason to expect it of him. eleanor was thrown clean off on the ground, and fell stunned. she picked herself up after a few minutes, to find no bones broken, the miserable hut close by, and two children and an old crone looking at her. the pony had concluded it a dangerous neighbourhood and departed, shewing a clean pair of heels. eleanor gathered her dress in her hand and looked at the people who were staring at her. such faces! "what place is this?" she asked, forcing herself to be bold. the answer was utterly unintelligible. all eleanor could make out was the hoarsely or thickly put question, "be you hurted?" "no, thank you--not at all, i believe," she said breathlessly, for she had not got over the shock of her fall. "how far am i from the village of wiglands?" again the words that were spoken in reply gave no meaning to her ear. "boys, will one of you shew me the nearest way there? i will give you something as soon as i get home." the children stared, at her and at each other; but eleanor was more comprehensible to them than they to her. the old woman said some hoarse words to the children; and then one of them stepped forth and said strangely, "i 'ze go wiz ye." "i'll reward him for it," said eleanor, nodding to the old grandmother; and set off, very glad to be walking away. she did not breathe freely till a good many yards of distance were between her and the hut, where the crone and the other child still remained watching her. there might be others of the family coming home; and eleanor walked at a brave pace until she had well left the little hut behind, out of all fear of pursuit. then she began to feel that she was somewhat shattered by her fall, and getting tired, and she went more gently. but it was a long, long way; the reach of moor seemed endless; for it was a very different thing to go over it on black maggie's feet from going over it on her own. eleanor was exceedingly weary, and still the brown common stretched away on all sides of her; and the distant tuft of vegetation which announced the village of wiglands, stood afar off, and seemed to be scarcely nearer after miles of walking. before they reached it eleanor's feet were dragging after one another in weariest style. she could not possibly go on to the lodge without stopping to rest. how should she reward and send back her guide? as she was thinking of this, eleanor saw the smoke curling up from a stray cottage hid among the trees; it was mrs. williams's cottage. her heart sprang with a sudden temptation--doubted, balanced, and resolved. she had excuse enough; she would do a rebellious thing. she would go there and rest. it might give her a chance to see mr. rhys and hear him talk; it might not. if the chance came, why she would be very glad of it. eleanor had no money about her; she hastily detached a gold pencil case from her watch chain, and put it into the ragged creature's hand who had guided her; saw him turn his back, then went with a sort of stealthy joy to the front of mrs. williams's cottage, pushed the door open softly and went in. nobody was there; not a cat; it was all still. an inner door stood ajar; within there was a sound of voices, low and pleasant. eleanor supposed mrs. williams would make her appearance in a minute, and sank down on the first chair that offered; sank even her head in her hands, for very weariness and the very sense of rest and security gained. the chair was one standing by the fire and near the open inner door; the voices came quite plainly through; and the next minute let eleanor know that one of them was the voice of her little sister julia; she heard one of julia's joyous utterances. the other voice belonged to mr. rhys. no sound of mrs. williams. eleanor sat still, her head bowed in her hands, and listened. it seemed that julia was looking at something--or some collection of things. eleanor could hear the slight rustling of paper handled--then a pause and talk. julia had a great deal to say. eleanor presently made out that they were looking at a collection of plants. she felt so tired that she had no inclination to move a single muscle. mind and body sat still to listen. "and what is that?" she heard julia say. "mountain fern." "isn't it beautiful! o that's as pretty as a feather." "if you saw them growing, dozens of them springing from the same root, you would think them beautiful. then those brown edgings are black as jet and glossy." "are those the _thecoe_, mr. rhys?" "yes. the lastraeas, and all their family, have the fruit in those little round spots, each with its own covering; that is their mark." "it is so funny that plants should have families," said julia. "now is this one of the family, mr. rhys?" "certainly; that is a cystopteris." "it's a dear little thing! where did you get it, mr. rhys?" "i do not remember. they grow pretty nearly all over; you find them on rocks, and walls." "_i_ don't find them," said julia. "i wish i could. now what is that?" "another of the family, but not a cystopteris. that is the holly fern. do you see how stiff and prickly it is? that was a troublesome one to manage. i gathered it on a high mountain in wales, i think." "are high mountains good places?" "for the mountain ferns. that is another lastraea you have now; that is very elegant. that grows on mountains too, but also on many other places; shoots up in elegant tufts almost a yard high. i have seen it very beautiful. when the fruit is ripe, the indusium is something of a lilac colour, spotting the frond in double rows--as you see it there. i have seen these lastraeas and others, growing in great profusion on a wild place in devonshire, in the neighbourhood of the rushing torrent of a river. the spray flew up on the rocks and stones along its banks, keeping them moist, and sometimes overflowed them; and there in the vegetable matter that had by little and little collected, there was such a shew of ferns as i have not often seen. another lastraea grew, i should think, five feet high; and this one, and the lady fern. turn the next sheet--there it is. that is the lady fern." "how perfectly beautiful!" julia exclaimed. "is that a lastraea too?" mr. rhys laughed a little as he answered "no." until then his voice had kept the quiet even tone of feeble strength. "why is it called lady fern?" "i do not know. perhaps because it is so delicate in its structure--perhaps because it is so tender. it does not bear being broken from its root." "but i think eleanor is as strong as anybody," said julia. "don't you remember how ill she was, only from having wetted her feet, last summer?" said mr. rhys with perfect gravity. "well, what is that?" said julia, not liking the inference they were coming to. "that is a little fern that loves the wet. it grows by waterfalls--those are its homes. it grows close to the fall, where it will be constantly watered by the spray from it; sometimes this little half-brother it has, the oak fern, is found there along with it. they are elegant species." "it must be nice to go to the waterfalls and climb up to get them," said julia. "what do you call these little wet beauties, mr. rhys?" "polypodies." "polypodies! now, mr. rhys,--o what is this? this is prettiest of all." "yes, one of the very prettiest. i found that in a cave, a wet cave, by the sea. that is the sort of home it likes." "in wales?" "in wales i have found it, and elsewhere; in the south of england; but always by the sea; in places where i have seen a great many other beautiful things." "by the sea, mr. rhys? why i have been there, and i did not see anything but the waves and the sand and the rocks." "you did not know where to look." "where did you look?" "under the rocks;--and in them." "_in_ the rocks, sir?" "in their clefts and hollows and caves. in caves which i could only reach in a boat, or by going in at low tide; then i saw things more beautiful than a fairy palace, julia." "what sort of things?" "animals--and plants." "beautiful animals?" "very beautiful." "well i wish you would take me with you, mr. rhys. i would not mind wetting my feet. i will be a hard fern--not a lady fern. eleanor shall be the lady. o mr. rhys, won't you hate to leave england?" "there are plenty of beautiful things where i am going, julia--if i get well." "but the people are so bad!" "that is why i want to go to them." "but what can you do to them?" "i can tell them of the lord jesus, julia. they have never heard of him; that is why they are so evil." "maybe they won't believe you, mr. rhys." "maybe they will. but the lord has commanded me to go, all the same." "how, mr. rhys?" he answered in the beautiful words of paul--"how shall they believe on him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?" there was a sorrowful depth in his tones, speaking to himself rather than to his little listener. "mr. rhys, they are such dreadfully bad people, they might kill you, and eat you." "yes." "are you not afraid?" "no." there is strangely much sometimes expressed, one can hardly say how, in the tone of a single word. so it was with this word, even to the ears of eleanor in the next room. it was round and sweet, untrembling, with something like a vibration of joy in its low utterance. it was but a word, said in answer to a child's idle question; it pierced like a barbed arrow through all the involutions of another heart, down into the core. it was an accent of strength and quiet and fearless security, though spoken by lips that were very uncertain of their tenure of life. it gave the chord that eleanor wanted sounded in her own soul; where now there was no harmony at all, but sometimes a jarring clang, and sometimes an echo of fear. "but mr. rhys, aren't they very _dreadful_, over there where you want to go?" julia said. "very dreadful; more than you can possibly imagine, or than i can, perhaps." "well i hope you won't go. mr. rhys, i think mrs. williams stays a great while--it is time the kettle was on for your tea." eleanor had hardly time to be astonished at this most novel display of careful housewifery on her little sister's part, whom indeed she would have supposed to be ignorant that such a thing as a kettle existed; when julia came bounding into the outer room to look after the article, or after the old dame who should take charge of it. she stopped short, and eleanor raised her head. julia's exclamation was hearty. "hush!" whispered eleanor. "what should i hush for? there's nobody here but mr. rhys in the other room; and he was saying the other day that he wanted to see you." back she bounded. "mr. rhys, here's eleanor in the other room, and no mrs. williams." eleanor heard the quiet answer--"tell your sister, that as i cannot walk out to see her, perhaps she will do me the favour to come in here." there was nothing better, in the circumstances; indeed eleanor felt she must go in to explain herself; she only waited for julia's brisk summons--"eleanor, mr. rhys wants to see you!"--and gathering up her habit she walked into the other room as steadily as if she had all the right in the world to be there; bearing herself a little proudly, for a sudden thought of mr. carlisle came over her. mr. rhys was lying on the couch, as she had seen him before; but she was startled at the paleness of his face, made more startling by the very dark eyebrows and bushy hair. he raised himself on his elbow as she came in, and eleanor could not refuse to give him her hand. "i ought to apologise for not rising to receive you," he said,--"but you see i cannot help it." "i am very sorry, mr. rhys. are you less strong than you were a few weeks ago?" "i seem to have no strength at all now," he answered with a half laugh. "will you not sit down? julia, suppose you coax the fire to burn a little brighter, for your sister's welcome?" "she can do it herself," said julia. "i am going to see to the fire in the other room." "no, that would be inhospitable," mr. rhys said with a smile; "and i do not believe your sister knows how, julia. she has not learned as many things as you have." julia gave her friend a very loving look and went at the fire without more words. eleanor sat under a strange spell. she hardly knew her sister in that look; and there was about the pale pure face that lay on the couch, with its shining eyes, an atmosphere of influence that subdued and enthralled her. it was with an effort that she roused herself to give the intended explanation of her being in that place. mr. rhys heard her throughout. "i am very glad you were thrown," he said; "since it has procured me the pleasure of seeing you." "mr. carlisle will never let you ride alone again--that is one thing!" said julia. and having finished the fire and her exclamatory comments together, she ran off into the other room. her last words had called up a deep flush on eleanor's face. mr. rhys waited till it had passed quite away, then he asked very calmly, and putting the question also with his bright eyes, "how have you been, since i saw you last?" the eyes were bright, not with the specular brightness of many eyes, but with a sort of fulness of light and keenness of intelligent vision. eleanor knew perfectly well to what they referred. she shrank within herself, cowered, and hesitated. then made a brave effort and threw back the question. "how have _you_ been, mr. rhys?" "i have been well," he said. "you know it is the privilege of the children of god, to glory in tribulations. that is what i am doing." "have you been so very ill?" asked eleanor. "my illness gives me no pain," he answered; "it only incapacitates me for doing anything. and at first that was more grievous to me than you can understand. with so much to do, and with my heart in the work, it seemed as if my master had laid me aside and said, 'you shall do no more; you shall lie there and not speak my name to men any longer.' it gave me great pain at first--i was tempted to rebel; but now i know that patience worketh experience. i thank him for the lessons he has taught me. i am willing to go out and be useful, or to lie here and be comparatively useless,--just as my lord will!" the slow deliberate utterance, which testified at once of physical weakness and mental power; the absolute repose of the bright face, touched eleanor profoundly. she sat spell-bound, forgetting her overthrow and her fatigue and everything else; only conscious of her struggling thoughts and cares of the weeks past and of the presence and influence of the one person she knew who had the key to them. "having so few opportunities," he went on, "you will not be surprised that i hail every one that offers, of speaking in my mater's name. i know that he has summoned you to his service, miss powle--is he your master yet?" eleanor pushed her chair round, grating it on the floor, so as to turn her face a little away, and answered, "no." "you have heard his call to you?" eleanor felt her whole heart convulsed in the struggle to answer or not answer this question. with great difficulty she kept herself outwardly perfectly quiet; and at last said hoarsely, looking away from mr. rhys into the fire, "how do you know anything about it?" "have you yielded obedience to his commands?" he said, disregarding her words. "i do not know what they are--" eleanor answered. "have you sought to find them out?" she hesitated, and said "no." her face was completely turned away from him now; but the tender intonation of the next words thrilled through every nerve of her heart and brain. "then your head is uncovered yet by that helmet of security which you were anxious about a little time ago?" it was the speech of somebody who saw right into her heart and knew all that was going on there; what was the use of holding out and trying to maintain appearances? eleanor's head sank; her heart gave way; she burst into tears. now was her chance, she thought; the ice was broken; she would ask of mr. rhys all she wanted to know, for he could tell her. before another word was spoken, in rushed julia. "i've got that going," she said; "you shall have some tea directly, mr. rhys. i hope mrs. williams will stay away till i get through. now it will take a little while--come here, eleanor, and look at these beautiful ferns." eleanor was sitting upright again; she had driven the tears back. she hoped for another chance of speaking, when julia should go to get her tea ready. in the mean while she moved her seat, as her sister desired her, to look over the ferns. this brought her into the neighbourhood of the couch, where julia sat on a low bench, turning the great sheets of paper on the floor before her. it brought eleanor's face into full view, too, she knew; but now she did not care for that. julia went on rapturously with the ferns, asking information as before; and in mr. rhys's answers there was a grave tone of preoccupation which thrilled on eleanor's ear and kept her own mind to the point where it had been. "are there ferns out there where you are going if you get well, mr. rhys? new ones?" "i have no doubt of it." "then you will gather them and dry them, won't you?" "i think it is very possible i may." "i wish you wouldn't go! o mr. rhys, tell eleanor about that place; she don't know about it. tell her what you told me." he did; perhaps to fill up the time and take eleanor's attention from herself for the moment. he gave a short account of the people in question; a people of fine physical and even fine mental development, for savages; inhabiting a country of great beauty and rich natural resources; but at the same time sunk in the most abject depths of moral debasement. a country where the "works of the devil" had reached their utmost vigour; where men lived but for vile ends, and took the lives of their fellow-men and each other with the utmost ruthlessness and carelessness and horrible cruelty; and more than that, where they dishonoured human life by abusing, and even eating, the forms in which human life had residence. it was a terrible picture mr. rhys drew, in a few words; so terrible, that it did take eleanor's attention from all else for the time. "is other life safe there?" she asked. "do the white people who go there feel themselves secure?" "i presume they do not." "then why go to such a horrible place?" "why not?" he asked. "the darker they are, the more they want light." "but it is to jeopardize the very life you wish to use for them." mr. rhys was silent for a moment, and when he spoke it was only to make a remark about the fern which lay displayed on the floor before julia. "that hart's-tongue," said he, "i gathered from a cavern on the sea-coast--where it grew hanging down from the roof,--quantities of it." "in a dark cavern, mr. rhys?" said julia. "not in a dark part of the cavern. no, it grew only where it could have the light.--miss powle, i am of david's mind--'in god i have put my trust; i will not fear what flesh can do to me.'" he looked up at eleanor as he spoke. the slight smile, the look, in eleanor's mood of mind, were like a coal of fire dropped into her heart. it burned. she said nothing; sat still and looked at the fern on the floor. "but will you not feel _afraid_, mr. rhys?" said julia. "why no, julia. i shall have nothing to be afraid of. you forget who will be with me." julia with that jumped up and ran off to see about her fire and kettle in the other room. eleanor and mr. rhys were left alone. the latter did not speak. eleanor longed to hear more, and made a great effort. "i do not understand you," she said hoarsely, for in the stir of her feelings she could not command a clear voice. "you say, he will be with you. what do you mean? we cannot see him now. how will he be with you?" she had raised her eyes, and she saw a strange softness and light pass over the face she was looking at. indefinable, unaccountable, she yet saw it; a shining from the spiritual glory within, which eleanor recognized, though she had never seen it before. fire and water were in those bright eyes at once; and eleanor guessed the latter evidence of emotion was for his ignorant questioner. she had no heart left. by such a flash of revelation the light from one spirit shewed the other its darkness; dimly known to her before; but now, once and forever, she knew where _she_ stood and where _he_ stood, and what the want of her life must be, till she should stand there too. her face shewed but a little of the work going on with heavings and strugglings in her mind; yet doubtless it was as readable to her companion as his had been to her. she could only hear at the time--afterwards she pondered--the words of his reply. "i cannot shew him to you;--but he will shew himself to you, if you seek him." there was no chance for more words; julia came in again; and was thereafter bustling in and out, getting her cup of tea ready. eleanor could not meet her little sister's looks and probable words; she turned hastily from the ferns and the couch and put herself at the window with her back to everybody. there was a wild cry in her heart--"what shall i do! what shall i do!" one thing she must have, or be miserable; how was she to make it her own. as soon as she turned her face from that cottage room and what was in it, she must meet the full blast of opposing currents; unfavourable, adverse, overwhelming. her light was not strong enough to stand that blast, eleanor knew; it would be blown out directly;--and she left in darkness. in a desperate sense of this, a desperate resolve to overcome it somehow, a despairing powerlessness to contend, she sat at the window seeing nothing. she was brought to herself at last by julia's, "eleanor--mr. rhys wants you to take a cup of tea." eleanor turned round mechanically, took the cup, and changed her place for one near the fire. she never forgot that scene. julia's part in it gave it a most strange air to eleanor; so did her own. julia was moving about, quite at home, preparing cups of tea for everybody, herself included; and waiting upon mr. rhys with a steady care and affectionateness which evidently met with an affectionate return. the cottage room with its plain furniture--the little common blue cups in which the tea was served--the fire in the chimney on the coarse iron fire-dogs--the reclining figure on the couch, and her own riding-habit in the middle of the room; were all stereotyped on eleanor's memory for ever. the tea refreshed her very much. "how are you going to get home, miss powle?" asked her host. "have you sent for a carriage?" "no--i saw nobody to send--i can walk it quite well now," said eleanor. and feeling that the time was come, she set down her tea-cup and came to bid her host good-bye; though she shrank from doing it. she gave him her hand again, but she had no words to speak. "good-bye," said he. "i am sorry i am not well enough to come and see you; i would take that liberty." "and so i shall never see him again," thought eleanor as she went out of the cottage; "and nobody will ever speak any more words to me of what i want to hear; and what will become of me! what chance shall i have very soon--what chance have i now--to attend to these things? to get right? and what chance would all these things have with mr. carlisle? i could manage my mother. what will become of me!" eleanor walked and thought, both hard, till she got past the village; finding herself alone, thought got the better of haste, and she threw herself down under a tree to collect some order and steadiness in her mind if possible before other interests and distractions broke in. she sat with her face buried in her hands a good while. and one conclusion eleanor's thoughts came to; that there was a thing more needful than other things; and that she would hold that one thing first in her mind, and keep it first in her endeavours, and make all her arrangements accordingly. eleanor was young and untried, but her mind had a tolerable back-bone of stiffness when once aroused to take action; her conclusion meant something. she rose up, then; looked to see how far down the sun was; and turning to pursue her walk vigorously--found mr. carlisle at her side. he was as much surprised as she. "why eleanor! what are you doing here?" "trying to get home. i have been thrown from my pony." "thrown! where?" "away on the moor--i don't know where. i never was there before. i am not hurt." "then how come you here?" "walked here, sir." "and where are your servants?" "you forget. i am only eleanor powle--i do not go with a train after me." but she was obliged to give an account of the whole affair. "you must not go alone in that way again," said he decidedly. "sit down again." "look where the sun is. i am going home," said eleanor. "sit down. i am going to send for a carriage." eleanor protested, in vain. mr. carlisle sent his groom on to the lodge with the message, and the heels of the horses were presently clattering in the distance. eleanor stood still. "i do not want rest," she insisted. "i am ready to walk home, and able. i have been resting." "how long?" "a long while. i went into mrs. williams's cottage and rested there. i would rather go on." he put her hand upon his arm and turned towards the lodge, but permitted her after all to move only at the gentlest of rates. "you will not go out in this way again?" he said; and the words were more an expression of his own will than an enquiry as to hers. "there is no reason why i should not," eleanor answered. "i do not like that you should be walking over moors and taking shelter in cottages, without protection." "i can protect myself. i know what is due to me." "you must remember what is due to me," he said laughing, and stopping her lips when she would have replied. eleanor walked along, silenced, and for the moment subdued. the wish was in her heart, to have let mr. carlisle know in some degree what bent her spirit was taking; to have given him some hint of what he must expect in her when she became his wife; she could not find how to do it. she could not see the way to begin. so far was mr. carlisle from the whole world of religious interests and concerns, that to introduce it to him seemed like bringing opposite poles together. she walked by his side very silent and doubtful. he thought she was tired; put her into the carriage with great tenderness when it came; and at parting from her in the evening desired her to go early to rest. eleanor was very little likely to do it. the bodily adventures of the day had left little trace, or little that was regarded; the mental journey had been much more lasting in its effects. that night there was a young moon, and eleanor sat at her window, looking out into the shadowy indistinctness of the outer world, while she tried to resolve the confusion of her mind into something like visible order and definiteness. two points were clear, and seemed to loom up larger and clearer the longer she thought about them; her supreme need of that which she had not, the faith and deliverance of religion; and the adverse influence and opposition of mr. carlisle in all the efforts she might make to secure or maintain it. and under all this lurked a thought that was like a serpent for its unrecognized coming and going and for the sting it left,--a wish that she could put off her marriage. no new thing in one way; eleanor had never been willing it should be fixed for so early a day; nevertheless she had accepted and submitted to it, and become accustomed to the thought of it. now repugnance started up anew and with fresh energy. she could hardly understand herself; her thoughts were a great turmoil; they went over and over some of the experiences of the day, with an aimless dwelling upon them; yet eleanor was in general no dreamer. the words of mr. rhys, that had pierced her with a sense of duty and need--the looks, that even in the remembrance wrung her heart with their silent lesson-bearing--the sympathy testified for herself, which intensified all her own emotions,--and in contrast, the very tender and affectionate but supreme manner of mr. carlisle, in whose power she felt she was,--the alternation of these images and the thoughts they gave rise to, kept eleanor at her window, until the young moon went down behind the western horizon and the night was dark with only stars. so dark she felt, and miserable; and over and over and over again her cry of that afternoon was re-echoed,--"what shall i do! what will become of me!" upon one thing she fixed. that mr. carlisle should know that he was not going to find a gay wife in her, but one whose mind was set upon somewhat else and upon another way of life. this would be very distasteful to him; and he should know it. how she would manage to let him know, eleanor left to circumstances; but she went to bed with that point determined. chapter viii. in the barn. "it hath been the longest night that e'er i watched, and the most heaviest." good resolutions are sometimes excellent things, but they are susceptible of overturns. eleanor's met with one. she was sitting with mr. carlisle the very next day, in a disturbed mood of mind; for he and her mother had been laying plans and making dispositions with reference to her approaching marriage; plans and dispositions in which her voice was not asked, and in which matters were carried rapidly forward towards their consummation. eleanor felt that bands and chains were getting multiplied round her, fastening her more and more in the possession of her captor, while her own mind was preparing what would be considered resistance to the authority thus secured. the sooner she spoke the better; but how to begin? she bent over her embroidery frame with cheeks that gradually grew burning hot. the soft wind that blew in from the open window at her side would not cool them. mr. carlisle came and sat down beside her. "what does all this mean?" said he laughingly, drawing his finger softly over eleanor's rich cheek. "it's hot!" said eleanor. "is it? i have the advantage of you. it is the perfection of a day to me." "eleanor," cried julia, bounding in through the window, "mr. rhys is better to-day. he says so." "is he?" said eleanor. "yes; you know how weak he was yesterday; he is not quite so weak to-day." "who is mr. rhys?" said mr. carlisle. "o he is nice! eleanor says nice rhymes to rhys. wasn't my tea nice, eleanor? we had miss broadus to tea this afternoon. we had you yesterday and miss broadus to-day. i wonder who will come next." "is this a sick friend you have been visiting?" said mr. carlisle, as julia ran off, having accomplished the discomfiture of her sister. "no, not at all--only i stopped at mrs. williams' cottage to rest yesterday; and he lives there." "you saw him?" "yes; julia found me, and i could not help seeing him." "but you took _tea_ there, eleanor? with whom?" "i took tea with julia and her sick friend. why not? she was making a cup of tea for him and gave me one. i was very glad of it. there was no one else in the house." "how is your sister allowed to do such things?" "for a sick friend, mr. carlisle? i think it is well anybody's part to do such things." "i think i will forbid embroidery frames at the priory, if they are to keep me from seeing your eyes," said he, with one arm drawing her back from the frame and with the other hand taking her fingers from it, and looking into her face, but kissing her. "now tell me, who is this gentleman?" eleanor was irritated; yet the assumption of authority, calm and proud as it was, had a mixture of tenderness which partly soothed her. the demand however was imperious. eleanor answered. "he was alfred's tutor--you have seen him--he has been very ill all summer. he is a sick man, staying in the village." "and what have you to do with such a person?" "nothing in the world! i stopped there to rest myself, because i was too tired to walk home." he smiled at her kindling indignation, and gave her a kiss by way of forgiveness for it; then went on gravely. "you have been to that cottage before, eleanor?" "yes." "how was that?" "i went with julia when she was carrying some refreshments to her sick friend. i will do that for anybody, mr. carlisle." "say that over again," he said calmly, but with a manner that shewed he would have it. and eleanor could not resist. "i would do that for anybody, macintosh," she said gently, laying her hand upon his arm. "no, darling. you shall send nurses and supplies to all the folk in the kingdom--if you will--but you shall pay such honour as this to nobody but me." "mr. carlisle," said eleanor rousing again, "if i am not worthy your trust, i am not fit to do either you or anybody else honour." she had straightened herself up to face him as she said this, but it was mortifying to feel how little she could rouse him. he only drew her back into his arms, folding her close and kissing her again and again. "you are naughty," he said, "but you are good. you are as sweet as a rose, eleanor. my wife will obey me, in a few things, and she shall command me in all others. darling, i wish you not to be seen in the village again alone. let some one attend you, if i am not at hand." he suffered her to return to her embroidery; but though eleanor's heart beat and her cheek was flushed with contending feelings, she could not find a word to say. her heart rebelled against the authority held over her; nevertheless it subdued her; she dared not bring her rebellion into open light. she shrank from that; and hid now in her own thoughts all the new revelations she had meant to draw forth for mr. carlisle's entertainment. now was no time. in fact eleanor's consciousness made her afraid that if she mentioned her religious purposes and uneasiness, this man's acuteness would catch at the connecting link between the new dereliction of duty and the former which had been just rebuked. that would lay her open to imputations and suspicions too dishonouring to be risked, and impossible to disprove, however false. she must hold her tongue for the present; and eleanor worked on at her embroidery, her fingers pulling at it energetically, while feeling herself much more completely in another's power than it suited her nature to be. somehow at this time the vision of rythdale priory was not the indemnification it had seemed to her before. eleanor liked mr. carlisle, but she did not like to be governed by him; although with an odd inconsistency, it was that very power of government which formed part of his attraction. certainly women are strange creatures. meanwhile she tugged on at her work with a hot cheek and a divided mind, and a wisely silent tongue; and m. carlisle sat by and made himself very busy with her, finding out ways of being both pleasant and useful. finally he put a stop to the embroidery and engaged eleanor in a game of chess with him; began to teach her how to play it, and succeeded in getting her thoroughly interested and diverted from her troublesome thoughts. they returned as soon as he left her. "i can never speak to him about my religious feelings," mused eleanor as she walked slowly to her own room,--"never! i almost think, if i did, he would find means to cheat me out of them, in spite of all my determinations--until it would be too late. what is to become of me? what a double part i shall play now--my heart all one way, my outer life all another. it must be so. i can shew these thoughts to no one. will they live, shut up in the dark so?" mr. rhys's words about "seeking" recurred to her. eleanor did not know how, and felt strange. "i could follow his prayers, if i heard them," she said to herself;--"i do not know how to set about it. i suppose reading the bible is good--that and good books." and that eleanor tried. good books however were by and by given up; none that she had in the least suited her wants; only the bible proved both a light and a power to her. it had a great fascination for eleanor, and it sometimes made her hopeful; at any rate she persevered in reading it, through gloom and cheer; and her mind when she was alone knew much more of the former condition than of the latter. when not alone, she was in a whirl of other occupations and interests. the preparations for her marriage went on diligently; eleanor saw it and knew it, and would not help though she could not hinder. but she was very far from happy. the style and title of lady rythdale had faded in her imagination; other honour and glory, though dimly seen, seemed more desirable to eleanor now, and seemed endangered by this. she was very uneasy. she struggled between the remaining sense of pride, which sometimes arose to life, and this thought of something better; at other times she felt as if her marriage with mr. carlisle would doom her forever to go without any treasure but what an earthly coronet well lined with ermine might symbolize and ensure. meanwhile weeks flew by; while eleanor studied the bible and sought for light in her solitary hours at night, and joined in all mr. carlisle's plans of gayety by day. september and october were both gone. november's short days begun. and when the days should be at the shortest--"then," thought eleanor, "my fate will be settled. mr. carlisle will have me; and i can never disobey him. i cannot now." november reached the middle, and there wanted but little more than a month to the wedding-day. eleanor sat one morning in her garden parlour, which a mild day made pleasant; working by the glass door. the old thought, "what will become of me!" was in her heart. a shadow darkened the door. eleanor looked up, fearing to see mr. carlisle; it was her little sister julia. julia opened the door and came in. "it is nice in the garden, eleanor," she said. "the chrysanthemums are so beautiful as i never saw them--white and yellow and orange and rose-colour, and a hundred colours. they are beautiful, eleanor." "yes." "may i have a great bunch of them to take to mr. rhys?" "have what you like. i thought you used to take them without asking." julia looked serious. "i wish i could go down to the village to-night, i know"--she said. "_to-night!_ what do you wish that for?" "because, mr. rhys is going to preach; and i do want to go so much; but i can't." "going to preach!--why is he so well as that?" "he isn't well at all," said julia,--"not what you would call well. but he says he is well. he is white and weak enough yet; and i don't think that is being well. he can't go to lily dale nor to rythdale; so some of the people are coming to wiglands." "where is he going to preach?" "where do you think? in mr. brooks's barn. they won't let him preach at the inn, and he can't have the church; and i _do_ want to see how he can preach in the barn!" mr. brooks was a well-to-do farmer, a tenant of the rythdale estate, living near the road to the old priory and half a mile from the village of wiglands. a consuming desire seized eleanor to do as her little sister had said--hear mr. rhys preach. the desire was so violent that it half frightened her with the possibility of its fulfilment. she told julia that it was an absurd wish, and impracticable, and dismissed her; and then her whole mind focussed itself on mr. brooks's barn. eleanor saw nothing else through the morning, whatever she was doing. it was impossible! yet it was a first, last, and only chance, perhaps in her life, of hearing the words of truth so spoken as she knew they would be in that place that night. besides, she had a craving curiosity to know _how_ they would be spoken. one month more, eleanor once securely lodged in rythdale priory, and her chance of hearing any words whatever spoken in a barn, was over for ever; unless indeed she condescended to become an inspector of agricultural proceedings. yet she said to herself over and over that she had no chance now; that her being present was a matter of wild impossibility; she said it and re-said it, and with every time a growing consciousness that impossibility should not stop her. at last impossibility shaped itself into a plan. "i am going down to see jane lewis, mamma," was eleanor's announcement at luncheon. "to day, eleanor?" "yes, ma'am." "but mr. carlisle will be here, and he will not like it." "he will have enough of me by and by, ma'am. i shall may be never have another chance of taking care of jane. i know she wants to see me, and i am going to-day. and if she wants me very much, i shall stay all night; so you need not send." "what will mr. carlisle say to all that?" "he will say nothing to it, if you do not give him an opportunity, mamma. i am going, at all events." "eleanor, i am afraid you have almost too much independence, for one who is almost a married woman." "is independence a quality entirely given up, ma'am, when 'the ring is on'?" "certainly! i thought you knew that. you must make up your mind to it. you are a noble creature, eleanor; but my comfort is that mr. carlisle will know how to manage you. i never could, to my satisfaction. i observe he has brought you in pretty well." eleanor left the room; and if the tide of her independence could have run higher, her mother's words would have furnished the necessary provocative. jane lewis was a poor girl in the village; the daughter of one who had been eleanor's nurse, and who now old and infirm, and unable to do much for herself or others, watched the declining days of her child without the power to give them much relief. jane was dying with consumption. the other member of the family was the old father, still more helpless; past work and dependent on another child for all but the house they lived in. that, in earlier days, had been made their own. eleanor was their best friend, and many a day, and night too, had been a sunbeam of comfort in the poor house. she now, when the day was far enough on its wane, provided herself with a little basket of grapes, ordered her pony, and rode swiftly down to the village; not without attendance this time, though confessing bitterly to herself the truth of her mother's allegations. at the cottage door she took the basket; ordered the pony should come for her next morning at eight o'clock, and went into the cottage; feeling as if she had for a little space turned her back upon troublesome people and things and made herself free. she went in softly, and was garrulously welcomed by her old nurse and her husband. it was so long since they had seen her! and she was going to be such a great lady! and they knew she would not forget them nevertheless. it was not flattery. it was true speech. eleanor asked for jane, and with her basket went on into the upper little room where the sick girl lay. there felt, when she had got above the ground floor, as if she was tolerably safe. it was a little low room under the thatch, in which eleanor now hid herself. a mere large closet of a room, though it boasted of a fireplace, happily. a small lattice under the shelving roof let in what it could of the light of a dying november day. the bed with its sick occupant, two chairs, a little table, and a bit of carpet on the floor, were all the light revealed. eleanor's welcome here was also most sincere; less talkative, it was yet more glad than that given by the old couple down stairs; a light shone all over the pale face of the sick girl, and the weary eye kindled, at sight of her friend. extreme neatness was not the characteristic of this little low room, simply for want of able hands to ensure it. eleanor's first work was to set jane to eating grapes; her next, to put the place in tidy order. "lady rythdale shall be useful once more in her life," she thought. she brushed up the floor, swept the hearth, demolished cobwebs on the walls, and rubbed down the chairs. she had borrowed an apron and cap from old mrs. lewis. the sick girl watched her with eager eyes. "i can't bear to see you a doing of that, miss eleanor," she exclaimed. "hush, jane! eat your grapes." "you've a kind heart," said the girl sighing; "and it's good when them that has the power has the feelings." "how are your nights now, jane?" "they're tedious--i lie awake so; and then i get coughing. i am always so glad to see the light come in the mornings! but it's long a coming now. i can't get nobody to hear me at night if i want anything." "do you often want something?" "times, i do. times, i get out of wanting, because i can't have--and times i only want worse." "_what_ do you want, jane?" "well, miss eleanor,--i conceit i want to see somebody. the nights is very long--and in the dark and by myself--i gets feared." to eleanor's dismay she perceived jane was weeping. "what in the world are you afraid of, jane? i never saw you so before." "'tisn't of anything in _this_ world, miss eleanor," said jane. her face was still covered with her hands, and the grapes neglected. eleanor was utterly confounded. had jane caught her feeling? or was this something else? "are you afraid of spirits, jane?" "no, miss eleanor." "what is it, then? jane, this is something new. i never saw you feeling so before." "no, ma'am--and i didn't. but there come a gentleman to see me, ma'am." "a gentleman to see you? what gentleman?" "i don't know, miss eleanor; only he was tall, and pale-like, and black hair. he asked me if i was ready to die--and i said i didn't know what it was i wanted if i wasn't; and he told me---oh, i know i'll never have rest no more!" a burst of weeping followed these words. eleanor felt as if a thunderbolt had broken at her feet; so terrible to her, in her own mood, was this revelation of a kindred feeling. she stood by the bedside, dismayed, shocked, a little disposed to echo jane's despairing prophecy in her own case. "did he say no more to you, jane?" "yes, miss eleanor, he did; and every word he said made me feel worser. his two eyes was like two swords going through me; and they went through me so softly, ma'am, i couldn't abear it. they killed me." "but, jane, he did not mean to kill you. what did he say?" "i don't know, miss eleanor--he said a many things; but they only made me feel----how i ain't fit----" there was no more talking. the words were broken off by sobs. eleanor turned aside to the fire-place and began to make up the fire, in a blank confusion and distress; feeling, to use an arabic phrase, as if the sky had fallen. she could give no comfort; she wanted it herself. the best she could think of, was the suggestion that the gentleman would come again, and that then he would make all things plain. would he come while eleanor was there, that afternoon? what a chance! but she remembered it was very unlikely. he was to preach in the evening; he would want to keep all his strength for that. and now the question arose, how should she get to the barn. the first thing was to soothe jane. eleanor succeeded in doing that after a while. she made her a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and took some herself; and sat in the darkening light musing how she should do. one good thing was secure. she had not been followed up this afternoon, nor sent for home; both which disagreeables she had feared. jane dozed, and she thought; and the twilight fell deeper and deeper. there was after all only one way in which eleanor could accomplish her desire; though she turned the matter all round in her head before she would see it, or determine upon adopting it. no mortal that she knew could be trusted with the secret--if she meant to have it remain a secret: and that at all costs was eleanor's desire. julia might have been trusted, but julia could not have been brought along. eleanor was alone. she thought, and trembled, and made up her mind. the hour must be waited for when people from the village would be setting forth to go to brooks' farm. it was dark then, except some light from the stars. eleanor got out a bonnet of jane's, which the owner would never use again; a close little straw bonnet; and tied over it a veil she had taken the precaution to bring. her own hat and mantle she laid away out of sight, and wrapped round her instead a thick camlet cloak of the sick girl's, which enveloped her from head to feet. pretty good disguise--thought eleanor to herself. mr. carlisle would not find her out in this. but there was no danger of _his_ seeing her. she was all ready to steal out; when she suddenly recollected that she might be missed, and the old people in terror make a hue and cry after her. that would not do. she stripped off the bonnet again and awoke the sleeping girl. "jane," she said bending over her, "i have somebody else to see--i am going out for a little while. i will be back and spend the night with you. tell your mother to leave the door open for me, if she wishes to go to bed; and i will look after you. now go to sleep again." without waiting for jane to think about it, eleanor slipped out, bonnet in hand, and went softly down stairs. the old man was already gone to bed in a little inner chamber; the old mother sat dozing by the fire. standing behind her eleanor put on the bonnet, and then gently opening the house door, with one step was in the road. a moment stood still; but the next moment set off with quick, hasty steps. it was damp and dark; the stars were shining indeed, yet they shed but a glimmering and doubtful light upon eleanor's doubtful proceeding. she knew it was such; her feet trembled and stumbled in her way, though that was as much with the fever of determination as with the hinderings of doubt. there was little occasion for bodily fear. people, she knew, would be going to the preaching, all along the way; she would not be alone either going or coming. nevertheless it was dark, and she was where she had no business to be; and she hurried along rather nervously till she caught sight of one or two groups before her, evidently bent for the same place with herself. she slackened her footsteps then, so as to keep at a proper distance behind them, and felt that for the present she was secure. yet, it was a wild, strange walk to eleanor. secure from personal harm she might be, and was, no doubt; but who could say what moral consequences might follow her proceeding. what if her mother knew it? what if mr. carlisle? eleanor felt she was doing a very questionable thing; but the desire to do it on her part amounted to a necessity. she must hear these words that would be spoken in the barn to-night. they would be on the subject that of all others interested her, and spoken by the lips that of all others could alone speak to the purpose. so eleanor felt; so was in some measure for her the truth; and amid all her sense of doubt and danger and inward trembling, there was a wild thrill of delight at accomplishing her object. she would hear--yes, she would hear--what mr. rhys had to say to the people that night. nobody should ever know it; neither he nor others; but if they _did_, she would run all risks rather than be balked. it was a walk never to be forgotten. alone, though near people that knew not she was near; in the darkness of night; the stars shewing only the black forms of trees and hedgerows, and a line of what could not be called light, where the road ran; keeping in the shadow of the hedge and hurrying along over the undiscerned footway;--it was a novel experience for one who had been all her life so tended and sheltered as she. it was strange and disagreeable. waymarks did not seem familiar; distances seemed long. eleanor wished the walk would come to an end. it did at last. the people,--there was a stream of them now pouring along the road, indeed so many that eleanor was greatly surprised at them,--turned off into a field, within which at a few rods from the road stood the barn in question; at the door of which one or two lamps hung out shewed that something unusual was going on there. mr. brooks had several barns, the gables and roofs of which looked like a little settlement in the starlight, not far off; but this particular barn stood alone, and was probably known to the country people from former occasions; for they streamed towards it and filed in without any wavering or question. so eleanor followed, trembling and wondering at herself; passed the curtain that hung at the door, and went in with the others. the place that received them was a great threshing-floor, of noble proportions, for a threshing-floor. perhaps mr. brooks had an eye to contingencies when he built it. on two sides it was lined with grain, rising in walls of cereal sweetness to a great height; and certainly, if eleanor had been in many a statelier church, she had never been in one better ventilated or where the air was more fragrantly scented. but a new doubt struck her. could it be right to hold divine service in such a place? was this a fit or decorous temple, for uses of such high and awful dignity? the floor was a bare plank floor; footfalls echoed over it. the roof was high indeed; but no architect's groining of beams reminded one that the place was set apart to noble if not sacred purposes. nothing but common carpenter's joinery was over her head, in the roof of the barn. the heads of wheat ears instead of carved cornices and pendents; and if the lights were dim, which they certainly were, it did not seem at all a religious light. only at the further end, where a table and chair stood ready for the preacher, some tall wax candles threw a sufficient illumination for all present to see him well. was that his pulpit? what sort of preaching could possibly be had from it? eleanor looked round the place. there was no really lighted part of it except about that table and chair. it was impossible for people to see each other well from a little distance off, unless thoroughly well known. eleanor felt there was very little danger indeed that anybody should recognize her identity, in jane's bonnet and cloak. that was so much comfort. another comfort was, that the night was mild. it was not like november. a happy circumstance for everybody there; but most of all for the convalescent preacher, whose appearance eleanor looked for now with a kind of fearful anxiety. if he should have been hindered from coming, after all! her heart beat hard. she stood far back behind most of the people, near the door by which she had entered. a few benches and chairs were in the floor, given up to the use of the women and the aged people. eleanor marvelled much to see that there were some quite old people among the company. the barn was getting very full. "there is a seat yonder," said some one touching her on the elbow. "won't you have it?" eleanor shook her head. "you had better," he said kindly; "there's a seat with nobody in it; there's plenty of room up there. come this way." eleanor was unwilling to go further forward, yet did not like to trust her voice to speak, nor choose to draw attention to herself in any way. she was needlessly afraid. however, she yielded to the instance of her kind neighbour and followed him among the crowd to the spot he had picked out for her. she would have resisted further, if she had known where this spot was; for it was far forward in the barn, more than half way between the door and the candle-lighted table, and in the very midst of the assembly. there was no help for it now; she could not go back; and eleanor was thankful for the support the seat gave her. she was trembling all over. a vague queer feeling of her being about something wrong, not merely in the circumstances of her getting there, but in the occasion itself, haunted her with a sort of superstition. could such an assembly be rightfully gathered for such a purpose in such a place? could it be right, to speak publicly of sacred things with such an absence of any public recognition of their sacredness? in a bare barn? an unconsecrated building, with no beauty or dignity of observance to give homage to the work and the occasion? eleanor was a compound of strange feelings; till she suddenly became conscious of a stir in the gathered throng, and then heard on the plank floor a step that she intuitively knew. as the step and the tall figure that it bore passed close by her on the way to the table, an instant sense of quiet and security settled down on her. nervousness died away. there was one person there now that she knew; the question of his coming was settled, and her coming was not for nothing; and moreover, whatever business he was concerned in was right, in all its parts! she was sure of that. she watched him, with a great bound of exultation in her heart; watched him kneel down for prayer as he reached his place; and wondered, while awe mixed with her wonder, how he could do it, before and amongst all those people as he was; not shut off in a distant chancel alone by himself, but there with everybody crowding upon him. her wonder had but little space to exercise itself. after a few minutes mr. rhys rose and gave out a hymn; and every thought of eleanor's was concentrated on the business and on the speaker. she knew nothing about hymns except that they were sung in church; all such lyrics were unfamiliar to her, though the music of them was not. it was always stately music, with an organ, in the swell of which the words were lost. there could be no organ in a barn. instead of that, the whole assembly rose to their feet and struck out together into a sweet air which they sung with a vast deal of spirit. no difficulty about hearing the words now; the music was not at a distance; the words were coming from every lip near eleanor, and were sung as if they were a personal matter. perhaps she was in a mood to be easily touched; but the singing did reach her and move her profoundly. "when i can read my title clear to mansions in the skies, i'll bid farewell to every fear, and wipe my weeping eyes." the sense of this, eleanor did not thoroughly understand, yet the general spirit of it was not to be mistaken. and the soft repetition of the last line struck her heart sorrowfully. here was her want breathed out again. "and wipe my weeping eyes.--i'll bid farewell to every fear, and wipe my weeping eyes." eleanor was perhaps the only one who did not sing; nobody paid better attention. the hymn was followed by a prayer. if the one had touched eleanor, the other prostrated her in the dust. she heard a child of god speaking to his father; with a simplicity of utterance, a freedom of access, and a glow of happy affections, evident in every quietly spoken word, that testified to his possession of the heavenly treasures that were on his tongue; and made eleanor feel humbled and poor with an extreme and bitter sense of want. her heart felt as empty as a deep well that had gone dry. this man only had ever shewed her what a christian might be; she saw him standing in a glory of heavenly relationships and privileges and character, that were a sort of transfiguration. and although eleanor comprehended but very imperfectly wherein this glory might lie, she yet saw the light, and mourned her own darkness. eleanor's mind went a great way during the minutes of that prayer; according to the strange fashion in which the work of many days is sometimes done in one. she was sorry when it ended; however, every part of the services had a vivid new interest for her. another hymn, and reading, during which her head was bowed on her breast in still listening; it was curious, how she had forgot all about being in a barn; and then the sermon began. she had to raise up her head when that began; and after a while eleanor could not bear her veil, and threw it back, trusting that the dim light would secure her from being known. but she felt that she must see as well as hear, this one time. of all subjects in the world to fall in with eleanor's mood, the sermon to-night was on _peace_. the peace that the lord jesus left as his parting gift to his people; the peace that is not as the world giveth. how the world gives, mr. rhys briefly set forth; with one hand, to take away with the other--as a handful of gold, what proves but a clutch of ashes--as the will-o'-the-wisp gives, promise but never possession. eleanor would not have much regarded these words from any other lips; they accorded with her old theory of disgust with the world. from mr. rhys she did regard them, because no word of his fell unheeded by her. but when he went on from that to speak of christ's gift, and how that is bestowed--his speech was as bitter in her heart as it was sweet in his mouth. the peace he held up to her view,--the joy in which a child of god lives and walks--and dies; the security of every movement, the confidence in every action, the rest in all turmoil, the fearlessness in all danger; the riches in the midst of poverty, the rejoicing even in time of sorrow; the victory over sin and death, wrought in him as well as for him;--eleanor's heart seemed to die within her, and at the same time started in a struggle for life. had the words been said coldly, or as matter of speculative belief, or as privilege not actually entered into, it would have been a different thing. eleanor might have sat back in her chair and listened and sorrowed for herself in outward quiet. but there was unconscious testimony from every tone and look of the speaker that he told the people but of what he knew. the pale face was illumined by a high grave light, that looked like a halo from the unseen world; it was nothing less to eleanor; and the mouth in its general set so sober, broke occasionally into a smile so sweet, that it straitened eleanor's heart with its unconscious tale-telling. as the time went on, the speaker began to illustrate his words by instances; instances of the peace which christians have shewn to be theirs in all sorts of circumstances where the world would have given them none, or would have surely withdrawn the gift once made. in poverty--in pain--in loneliness--in the want of all things--in the close prospect of suffering, and in the presence of death. wonderful instances they were! glorious to the power of that redeemer, who had declared, "not as the world giveth, give i unto you. in the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer; i have overcome the world." how the speaker's eye flushed and fired; flushed with tears, and fired with triumph; what a tint rose on the pale cheek, testifying to the exultation he felt; with what tremulous distinctness the words were sometimes given--and heard in the breathless stillness to the furthest corner of the place. it was too much at last. feeling was wrought too high. eleanor could not bear it. she bowed her head on her hand to hide the tears that would come, and only struggled to keep her sobs quiet that she might not lose a word. there were other sobs in the assembly that were less well controlled; they were audible; eleanor could not endure to hear them, for she feared her excitement would become unmanageable. nevertheless by strong effort she succeeded in keeping perfectly still; though she dared not raise her head again till the last hymn and prayers were over, and the people made a general stir all round her. then she too rose up and turned her face in the direction whither they were all turning, towards the door. she made her way out with the crowd blindly, conscious that it was all over--that was the prominent thought--and yet that work was done which would never be "over" for her. so conscious of this, that she had no care either of her whereabouts or of her walk home, except in an incidental sort of way. she got out into the starlight, and stepped over the grassy sward of the field in a maze; she hardly felt the ground; it was not till she reached the fence and found herself in the road, that eleanor really roused up. then it was necessary to turn in one direction or the other; and eleanor could not tell which to take. she stood still and tried to collect herself. which side of the road was the barn? she could not remember; she was completely confused and turned about; and in the starlight she could be sure of no tree or fence or other landmark. she stood still, while the people poured past her and in groups or in pairs took the one direction or the opposite. part went one way and part went the other, to wiglands and to rythdale. eleanor longed to ask which way somebody was going, but she was afraid of betraying herself. she did not dare. yet if she took the wrong turning, she might find herself in the rythdale valley, a great distance from wiglands, and with a lone road to traverse all the way back again. her heart beat. what should she do? the people poured past her, dividing off right and left; they would be all scattered soon to their several homes, and she would be left alone. she must do something quickly. yet she shrank very much from speaking, and still stood by the fence trembling and hesitating. "are you alone?" said a voice at her shoulder that she knew very well. if a cannon had gone off at her feet, it would not have startled eleanor more. the tone of the question implied that _she_ was known. she was too startled to answer. the words were repeated. "are you alone?" eleanor's "yes" got out, with nothing distinguishable except the last letter. "i have a waggon here," said he. "come with me." the speaker waited for no answer to the words which were not a request; and acting as decidedly as he had spoken, took hold of eleanor's arm and led her forward to a little vehicle which had just drawn up. he helped her into it, took his place beside her, and drove away; but he said not another word. it was mr. rhys, and eleanor knew that he had recognized her. she sat in a stupor of confusion and shame. what would he think of her! and what could she make him think? must she be a bold, wild girl in his estimation for ever? why would he not speak? he drove on in perfect silence. eleanor must say something to break it. and it was extremely difficult, and she had to be bold to do that. "i see you recognize me, mr. rhys," she said. "i recognized you in the meeting," he answered in perfect gravity. eleanor felt it. she was checked. she was punished. "where are you taking me?" she asked after a little more time. "i will take you wherever you tell me you desire." grave and short. eleanor could not bear it. "you think very hardly of me, mr. rhys," she said; "but i was spending the night at a poor girl's house in the village--she is ill, and i was going to sit up with her--and i knew you were to preach at that place--and--" eleanor's voice choked and faltered. "and what could prompt you to go alone, miss powle?" "i wanted to go--" faltered eleanor. "i knew it would be my last chance. i felt i must go. and i could go no way but alone." "may i ask what you mean by 'your last chance?'" "my last chance of hearing what i wanted to hear--what i can't help thinking about lately. mr. rhys, i am not happy." "did you understand what you heard to-night?" "in part i did--i understood, mr. rhys, that you have something i have not,--and that i want." eleanor spoke with great emotion. "the lord bless you!" he said, with a tenderness of tone that broke her down at once. "trust jesus, miss powle. he can give it to you. he only can. go to him for what you want, and for understanding of what you do not understand. trust the lord! make your requests known to him, and believe that he will hear your prayers and answer them, and more than fulfil them. now where shall i set you down?" "anywhere--" eleanor said as well as she could. "here, if you please." "here is no house. we are just at the entrance of the village." "this is a good place then," said eleanor. "i do not want anybody to see me." "miss powle," said her guardian, and he spoke with such extreme gravity that eleanor was half frightened,--"did you come without the knowledge of your friends at home?" "yes, to the place we have come from. mamma knew i was going to spend the night with a sick girl in the village--she did not know any more." "it was very dangerous!" he said in the same tone. "i knew it. i risked that. i felt i must come." "you did very wrong," said her companion. it hurt her that he should say it, and have cause; but she was so miserable before, that it could be felt only in the dull way in which pain added to pain sometimes makes itself known. she was subdued, humbled, ashamed. she said nothing more, nor did he, until after passing two or three houses they arrived at a spot where the trees and the road were the only village representatives; a clear space, with no house very near, and no person in sight. mr. rhys drew up by the side of the road, and helped eleanor out of the waggon. he said only "good night," but it was said kindly and sympathizingly, and with the earnest grasp of the hand that eleanor remembered. he got into the waggon again, but did not drive away as she expected; she found he was walking his horse and keeping abreast of her as she walked. eleanor hurried on, reached mrs. lewis's cottage, paused a second at the door to let him see that she had reached her stopping place, and went in. all still; the embers dying on the hearth, a cricket chirrupping under it. mrs. lewis was gone to bed, but had not covered up the fire for fear her young lady might want it. eleanor did not dare sit down there. she drew the bolt of the house door; then softly went up the stairs to jane's room. jane was asleep. eleanor felt thankful, and moved about like a shadow. she put the brands together in a sort of mechanical way; for she knew she was chilly and needed fire bodily, though her spirit was in a fever. the night had turned raw, and the ride home had been not so cheering mentally as to do away with the physical influence of a cold fog. eleanor put off bonnet and cloak, softly piled the brands together and coaxed up a flame; and sat down on a low stool on the hearth to spread her hands over it, to catch all the comfort she could. comfort was not near, however. jane waked up in a violent fit of coughing; and when that was subdued or died away, as difficult a fit of restlessness was left behind. she was nervous and uneasy; eleanor had only too much sympathy with both moods, nevertheless she acted the part of a kind and delicate nurse; soothed jane and ministered to her, even spoke cheerful words; until the poor girl's exhausted mind and body sank away again into slumber, and eleanor was free to sit down on the hearth and fold her hands. then she began to think. not till then. indeed what she did then at first was not to think, but to recall in musing all the scenes and as far as possible all the words of that evening; with a consciousness behind this all the while that there was hard thinking coming. eleanor went dreamily over the last few hours, looking in turn at each image so stamped upon her memory; felt over again the sermon, the hymns, the prayers; then suddenly broke from her musings to face this consciousness that was menacing her. set herself to think in earnest. what was it all about? eleanor might well have shunned it, might well grasp it in desperation with a sudden inability to put it off any longer. down in her heart, as strong as the keep of an old castle, and as obstinate-looking, was the feeling--"i do not want to marry mr. carlisle." eleanor did not immediately discern its full outline and proportions, in the dim confusion which filled her heart; but a little steady looking revealed it, revealed it firm and clear and established there. "i do not want to marry him--i will not marry him"--she found the words surging up from this stronghold. pride and ambition cowering somewhere said, "not ever? do you mean, not at all? not ever?"--"not ever!"--was the uncompromising answer; and eleanor's head dropped in agony. "why?" was the next question. and the answer was clear and strong and ready. "i am bent upon another sort of life than his life--i am going another way--i _must_ live for aims and objects which he will hate and thwart and maybe hinder--i _will not_ walk with him in his way--i cannot walk with him in mine--i cannot, oh, i do not wish, to walk with him at all!" eleanor sat face to face with this blank consciousness, staring at it, and feeling as if the life was gradually ebbing out of her. what was she to do? the different life and temper and character, and even the face, of mr. rhys, came up to her as so much nobler, so much better, so much more what a man should be, so much more worthy of being liked. but eleanor strove to put that image away, as having very truly, she said to herself, nothing to do with the present question. however, she thought she could not marry mr. carlisle; and intrenched herself a little while in that position, until the next subject came up for consideration; how she could escape from it? what reason could be assigned? only this religious one could be given--and it might be, it might well be, that mr. carlisle would not on his part consider that reason enough. he would certainly hope to overcome the foundation on which it stood; and if he could not, eleanor was obliged to confess to herself that she believed he loved her to that degree that he would rather have her a religious wife than not his wife at all. what should eleanor do? was she not bound? had she not herself given him claims over her which she had no right to disallow? had he not a right to all her fulfilment of them? eleanor did not love him as he loved her; she saw that with singular and sudden distinctness; but there again, when she thought of that as a reason for not fulfilling her contract, she was obliged to own that it would be no reason to mr. carlisle. he never had had ground to suppose that eleanor gave him more than she had expressed; but he was entirely content with what he had and his own confidence that he could cultivate it into what he pleased. there was no shaking loose from him in that way. as eleanor sat on the hearth and looked at the ashes, in reality looking at mr. carlisle, her own face grew wan at what she saw there. she could give him no reason for changing their relations to each other, that would make him hold her a bit the less closely, no, nor the less fondly. what could eleanor do? to go on and be mr. carlisle's wife, if necessary; give him all the observance and regard that she could, that she owed him, for having put herself in a false position where she could not give him more;--eleanor saw nothing else before her. but one thing beside she would do. she would make mr. carlisle clearly and fully understand what sort of a woman he must expect in her. she would explain thoroughly what sort of a life she meant to lead. justly stated, what would that be? eleanor thought; and found herself determined, heart and soul, to follow the path of life laid before her that evening. whether "peace" could visit her, in the course that seemed to lie through her future prospects, eleanor much doubted; but at any rate she would have the rest of a satisfied conscience. she would take the bible for her rule. mr. rhys's god should be her god, and with all she had of power and ability she would serve him. dim as religious things still were to her vision, one thing was not dim, but shiningly clear; the duty of every creature to live the devoted servant of that lord to whom he belongs by creation and redemption both. here eleanor's heart fixed, if it had a fixed point that tumultuous night; but long before it settled anywhere her thoughts were bathed in bitter tears; in floods of weeping that seemed fit to wash her very heart away. it occurred to eleanor, if they could, how much trouble would be saved! she saw plenty before her. but there was the gripe of a fear and a wish upon her heart, that overmastered all others. the people had sung a hymn that evening, after the first one; a hymn of christian gladness and strength, to an air as spirited as the words. both words and air rang in her mind, through all the multifarious thoughts she was thinking; they floated through and sounded behind them like a strain of the blessed. eleanor had taken one glance at mr. rhys while it was singing; and the remembrance of his face stung her as the sight of an angel might have done. the counter recollection of her own misery in the summer at the time she was ill; the longing want of that security and hope and consequent rest of mind, was vividly with her too. pushed by fear and desire, eleanor's resolution was taken. she saw not the way clear, she did not know yet the "wicket-gate" towards which bunyan's pilgrim was directed; like him however she resolved to "keep the light in her eye, and run." the fire had died all out; the grey ashes were cold; she was very cold herself, but did not know it. the night had waned away, and a light had sprung in at the window which eleanor thought must be the dawn. it was not; it was the old moon just risen, and struggling through the fog. but the moon was the herald of dawn; and eleanor got up from the hearth, feeling old and stiff; as if she had suddenly put on twenty years of age more than she came to the village with. the room was quite too cold for jane, she remembered; and softly she went up and down for kindling and lighted up the fire again. till she had done that, she felt grey and stern, like the november morning; but when the fire crackled and sparkled before her, and gave its cheery look and comforting warmth to her chilled senses, some curious sympathy with times that were gone and that she dared not hope to see again, smote eleanor with a softer sorrow; and she wept a very rain of new tears. these did her good; they washed some of the bitterness out of her; and after that she sat thinking how she should manage; when mr. rhys's parting words suddenly recurred to her. a blanker ignorance how they should be followed, can scarcely be imagined, in a person of general sense and knowledge. nevertheless, she bowed herself on the hearth, surely not more in form than in feeling, and besought of that one whose aid she knew not how to ask, that he would yet give it to her and fulfil all her desires. eleanor was exhausted then. she sat in a stupor of resting, till the faint illumination of the moon was really replaced by a growing and broadening light of day. the night was gone. chapter ix. in perplexities. "look, a horse at the door, and little king charles is snarling; go back, my lord, across the moor, you are not her darling." eleanor set out early to go home. she would not wait to be sent for. the walk might set her pulses in motion again perhaps. the fog was breaking away under the sun's rays, but it had left everything wet; the morning was excessively chill. there was no grass in her way however, and eleanor's thick shoes did not fear the road, nor her feet the three miles of way. the walk was good. it could not be said to be pleasant; yet action of any kind was grateful and helpful. she saw not a creature till she got home. home struck her with new sorrow, in the sense of the disappointment she was going to bring to so many there. she made her own room without having to speak to anybody; bathed and dressed for breakfast. how grave her face was, this morning! she could not help that. and she felt that it grew graver, when entering the breakfast room she found mr. carlisle there. "what have you done to yourself?" said he after they were seated at the breakfast table. "taken a walk this morning." "judicious! in this air, which is like a suspended shower-bath! where did you go?" "on the wiglands road." "if i had come in time, i should have taken you up before me, and cut short such a proceeding. mrs. powle, you do not make use of your authority." "seems hardly worth while, when it is on the point of expiring," said mrs. powle blandly, with a smiling face. "why eleanor had to come home," said julia; "she spent the night in the village. she could not help walking--unless mamma had sent the carriage or something for her." "spent the night in the village!" said mr. carlisle. "eleanor took it into her head that she must go to take care of a sick girl there--the daughter of her nurse. it is great foolishness, i think, but eleanor will do it." "it don't agree with her very well," said julia. "how you do look, eleanor, this morning!" "she looks very well," said the squire--"for all i see. walking won't hurt her." what mr. carlisle thought he did not say. when breakfast was over he drew eleanor off into the library. "how do you do this morning?" said he stopping to look at her. "not very well." "i came early, to give you a great gallop to the other end of the moor--where you wished to go the other day. you are not fit for it now?" "hardly." "did you sit up with that girl last night? "i sat up. she did not want much done for her. my being there was a great comfort to her." "far too great a comfort. you are a naughty child. do you fancy, eleanor, your husband will allow you to do such things?" "i must try to do what is right, macintosh." "do you not think it will be right that you should pleasure me in what i ask of you?" he said very gently and with a caressing action which took away the edge of the words. "yes--in things that are right," said eleanor, who felt that she owed him all gentleness because of the wrong she had done. "i shall not ask you anything that is not right; but if i should,--the responsibility of your doing wrong will rest on me. now do you feel inclined to practise obedience a little to day?" "no, not at all," said eleanor honestly, her blood rousing. "it will be all the better practice. you must go and lie down and rest carefully, and get ready to ride with me this afternoon, if the weather will do. eh, eleanor?" "i do not think i shall want to ride to-day." "kiss me, and say you will do as i bid you." eleanor obeyed, and went to her room feeling wretched. she must find some way quickly to alter this state of things--if she could alter them. in the mean time she had promised to rest. it was a comfort to lock the door and feel that for hours at any rate she was alone from all the world. but eleanor's heart fainted. she lay down, and for a long time remained in motionless passive dismay; then nature asserted her rights and she slept. if sleep did not quite "knit up the ravelled sleeve of care" for her, eleanor yet felt much less ragged when she came out of her slumber. there was some physical force now to meet the mental demand. the first thing demanded was a letter to mr. carlisle. it was in vain to think to tell him in spoken words what she wanted him to know; he would cut them short or turn them aside as soon as he perceived their drift, before she could at all possess him with the facts of the case. eleanor sat down before dressing, to write her letter, so that no call might break her off until it was done. it was a weary, anxious, sorrowful writing; done with some tears and some mute prayers for help; with images constantly starting into her mind that she had to put aside together with the hot drops they called forth. the letter was finished, when eleanor was informed that mr. carlisle waited for her. "to ride, i suppose," she thought. "i will not go." she put on a house dress and went down to the library, where her mother and mr. carlisle were together; looking both of them so well pleased! "you are not dressed for riding!" he said, taking her into his arms. "as you see," returned eleanor. "i have brought a new horse for you. will you change your dress?" "i think not. i am not equal to anything new." "have you slept?" "yes, but i have not eaten; and it takes both to make muscle. i cannot even talk to you till after tea." "have you had no luncheon?" "i was asleep." "mrs. powle," said the gentleman, "you do not take care of my interests here. may i request you to have this want supplied--i am going to take eleanor a great gallop presently; she must have something first." he put eleanor in an easy chair as he spoke, and stood looking at her. probably he saw some unusual lines of thought or care about the face, but it was by no means less fine for that. mr. carlisle liked what he saw. refreshments came; and he poured out chocolate for her and served her with an affectionate supervision that watched every item. but when after a very moderate meal eleanor's hand was stretched out for another piece of bread, he stopped her. "no," he said; "no more now. now go and put on your habit." "but i am very hungry," said eleanor. "no matter--you will forget it in five minutes. go and put on your habit." eleanor hesitated; thought that perhaps after all the ride would be the easiest way of passing the afternoon; and went. "well you do understand the art of command," said mrs. powle admiringly. "she would never have done that for me." mr. carlisle did not look surprised, nor gratified, nor in fact shew anything whatever in his looks. unless it were, that the difference of effects produced by himself and his future mother-in-law, was very much a matter of course. he stood before the fire, with no change at all in his clear hazel eyes, until eleanor appeared. then they sparkled. eleanor was for some reason or other particularly lovely in his eyes to-day. the horse he had brought for her was a superb arabian, shewing nerve and fire in every line of his form and starting muscle, from the tips of the ears down to the long fetlock and beautiful hoof. shewing fire in the bright eye too. a brown creature, with luxuriant flowing mane and tail. "he is not quite so quiet as black maggie," mr. carlisle said as he put eleanor upon his back; "and you must not curb him, eleanor, or he will run." they went to the moor; and by degrees getting wonted to her fiery charger and letting him display his fine paces and increase his speed, eleanor found the sensation very inspiriting. even black maggie was not an animal like this; every motion was instinct with life and power, and not a little indication of headstrongness and irritability gave a great additional interest and excitement to the pleasure of managing him. mr. carlisle watched her carefully, eleanor knew; he praised her handling. he himself was mounted on a quiet, powerful creature that did not make much shew. "if this fellow--what is his name?" "tippoo sultan." "if he were by any chance to run--would that horse you are riding keep up with him?" "i hope you will not try." "i don't mean it--but i am curious. there, mr. carlisle, there is the place where i was thrown." "a villainous looking place. i wish it was mine. how do you like tippoo?" "oh, he is delightful!" mr. carlisle looked satisfied, as he might; for eleanor's colour had become brilliant, and her face had changed greatly since setting out. strength and courage and hope seemed to come to her on tippoo's back, facing the wind on the moor and gallopping over the wild, free way. they took in part the route eleanor had followed that day alone, coming back through the village by a still wider circuit. as they rode more moderately along the little street, if it could be called so--the houses were all on one side--eleanor saw mr. rhys standing at mrs. lewis's door; he saw her. involuntarily her bow in return to his salutation was very low. at the same instant tippoo started, on a run to which all his former gallopping had been a gentle amble. this was not ungentle; the motion had nothing rough; only eleanor was going in a straight line over the ground at a rate that took away her breath. she had presence of mind not to draw the curb rein, but she felt that she could hardly endure long the sort of progress she was making through the air. it did not seem to be on the ground. her curiosity was gratified on one point; for after the first instant she found mr. carlisle's powerful grey straining close beside her. nevertheless tippoo was so entirely in earnest that it was some little time--it seemed a very long one--before the grey could get so close to the brown and so far up with him that mr. carlisle could lay his hand upon the thick brown mane of tippoo and stoop forward to speak to him. as soon as that was done once or twice, tippoo's speed gradually relaxed; and a perseverance in his master's appeals to his reason and sense of duty, brought the wild creature back to a moderate pace and the air of a civilized horse. mr. carlisle transferred his grasp from the mane to eleanor's hand. "eleanor, what did you do that for?" "do what? i did nothing." "you curbed him. you drew the rein, and he considered himself insulted. i told you he would not bear it." "he has had nothing to bear from me. i have not drawn the curb at all, robert." "i must contradict you. i saw you do it. that started him." eleanor remained silent and a little pale. was mr. carlisle right? the ride had until then done her a great deal of good; roused up her energies and restored in some degree her spirit; the involuntary race together with the sudden sight of mr. rhys, had the effect to bring back all the soberness which for the moment the delight and stir of the exercise had dissipated. she went on pondering various things. eleanor's letter to mr. carlisle was in the pocket of her habit, ready for use; she determined to give it him when he left her that evening; that was one of her subjects of thought. accordingly he found her very abstracted and cold the rest of the way; grave and uninterested. he fancied she might have been startled by her run on tippoo's back, though it was not very like her; but he did not know what to fancy. and true it is, that a remembrance of fear had come up to eleanor after that gallop. _afraid_ she was not, at the time; but she felt that she had been in a condition of some peril from which her own forces could not have extricated her; that brought up other considerations, and sadly in eleanor's mind some words of the hymn they had sung last night in the barn floated over among her thoughts: "when i can read my title clear, to mansions in the skies, i'll bid farewell to every fear, and wipe my weeping eyes." very simple words; words that to some ears have become trite with repetition; but thoughts that went down into the depths of eleanor's heart and garrisoned themselves there, beyond the power of any attacks to dislodge. her gravity and indifference piqued mr. carlisle, curiosity and affection both. he spent the evening in trying to overcome them; with very partial success. when he was leaving her, eleanor drew the letter from her pocket. "what is this?" said he taking it. "only a letter for you." "from you! the consideration of that must not be postponed." he broke the seal. "come, sit down again. i will read it here." "not now! take it home, macintosh, and read it there. let it wait so long." "why?" "never mind why. do! because i ask you." "i don't believe i can understand it without you beside me," said he smiling, and drawing the letter from its envelope while he looked at her. "but there is everybody here," said eleanor glancing at another part of the room where the rest of the family were congregated. "i would rather you took it home with you." "it is something that requires serious treatment?" "yes." "you are a wise little thing," said he, "and i will take your advice." he put the letter in his pocket; then took eleanor's hand upon his arm and walked her off to the library. nobody was there; lamplight and firelight were warm and bright. mr. carlisle placed his charge in an easy chair by the library table, much to her disappointment; drew another close beside it, and sat down with his arm over the back of hers to read the letter. thus it ran: "it is right you should know a change which has taken place in me since the time when i first became known to you. i have changed very much, though it is a change perhaps which you will not believe in; yet i feel that it makes me very different from my old self, and alters entirely my views of almost everything. life and life's affairs--and aims--do not look to me as they looked a few months ago; if indeed i could be said to have taken any view at all of them then. they were little more than names to me, i believe. they are great realities now. "i do not know how to tell you in what this change in me consists, for i doubt you will neither like it nor believe in it. yet you _must_ believe in it; for i am not the woman i was a little while ago; not the woman you think me now. if i suffered you to go on as you are, in ignorance of it, i should be deceiving you. i have opened my eyes to the fact that this life is not the end of life. i see another beyond,--much more lasting, unknown, strange, perhaps not very distant. the thought of it presses upon me like a cloud. i want to be ready for it--i feel i am not ready--and that before i can be ready, not only my views but my character must be changed. i am determined it shall. for, mr. carlisle, there is a ruler whose government extends over this life and that, whose requisitions i have never met, whose commands i have never obeyed, whom consequently i fear; and until this fear is changed for another feeling i cannot be happy. i will not live the life i have been leading; careless and thoughtless; i will be the servant of this ruler whom hitherto i have disregarded. whatever his commands are, those i will follow; at all costs, at any sacrifice; whatever i have or possess shall be used for his service. one thing i desire; to be a true servant of god, and not fear his face in displeasure. to secure that, i will let everything else in the world go. "i wish you to understand this thoroughly. it will draw on consequences that you would not like. it will make me such a woman as you would not, i feel, wish your wife to be. i shall follow a course of life and action that in many things, i know, would be extremely distasteful to you. yet i must follow them--i can do no other--i dare do no other. i cannot live as i have lived. no, not for any reward or consideration that could be offered me. nor to avoid any human anger. "i think you would probably choose never to see me at the priory, rather than to see me there such a woman as i shall be. in that case i shall be very sorry for all the disagreeable consequences which would to you attend the annulling of the contract formed between us. my own part of them i am ready to bear. "eleanor powle." the letter was read through almost under eleanor's own eyes. she looked furtively, as she could, to see how mr. carlisle took it. he did not seem to take it at all; she could find no change in his face. if the brow slightly bent before her did slightly knit itself in sterner lines than common, she could not be sure of it, bent as it was; and when he looked up, there was no such expression there. he looked as pleasant as possible. "do you want me to laugh at you?" he said. "that was not the precise object i had in writing," said eleanor soberly. "i do not suppose it, and yet i feel very much like laughing at you a little. so you think you can make yourself a woman i would not like,--eh, my darling?" he had drawn eleanor's head down to his shoulder, within easy reach of his lips, but he did not kiss her. his right hand smoothed back the masses of her beautiful hair, and then rested on her cheek while he looked into the face thus held for near inspection; much as one handles a child. the touch was light and caressing, and calm as power too. eleanor breathed quick. she could not bear it. she forced herself back where she could look at him. "you are taking it lightly, but i mean it very seriously," she said. "i think i could--i think i shall. i did not write you such a letter without very deep reason." he still retained his hold of her, and in his right hand had captured one of hers. this hand he now brought to his lips, kissing and caressing it. "i do not think i understand it yet," he said. "what are you going to do with yourself? is it your old passion for a monastic life come up again? do you want the old priory built up, and me for a father confessor?" did he mean ever to loose his hold of the little hand he held so lightly and firmly? never! eleanor's head drooped. "what is it, eleanor?" "it is serious work, mr. carlisle; and you will not believe me." "make me serious too. tell me a little more definitely what dreadful thing i am to expect. what sort of a woman is my wife going to be?" "such a one as you would not have, if you knew it;--such a one as you never would have sought, if i had known it myself earlier; i feel sure." eleanor's colour glowed all over her face and brow; nevertheless she spoke steadily. "enigmatical!" said mr. carlisle. "the only thing i understand is this--and this--" and he kissed alternately her cheek and lips. "_here_ is my wife--_here_ is what i wish her to be. it will be all right the twenty-first of next month. what will you do after that, eleanor?" eleanor was silent, mortified, troubled, silenced. what was the use of trying to explain herself? "what do you want to do, eleanor? give all your money to the poor? i believe that is your pet fancy. is that what you mean to do?" eleanor's cheeks burnt again. "you know i have very little money to give, mr. carlisle. but i have determined to give _myself_." "to me?" "no, no. i mean, to duties and commands higher than any human obligation. and they may, and probably will, oblige me to live in a way that would not please you." "let us see. what is the novelty?" "i am going to live--it is right i should tell you, whether you will believe me or not,--i am going to live henceforth not for this world but the other." "how?" said he, looking at her with his clear brilliant eyes. "i do not know, in detail. but you know, in the church service, the pomps and vanities of the world are renounced; whatever that involves, it will find me obedient." "what has put this fancy in your head, eleanor?" "a sense of danger, first, i think." "a sense of danger! danger of what?" "yes. a feeling of being unready for that other life to which i might at any time go;--that other world, i mean. i cannot be happy so." she was agitated; her colour was high; her nerves trembled. "how came this 'sense of danger' into your head? what brought it, or suggested it?" "when i was ill last summer--i felt it then. i have felt it since. i feel my head uncovered to meet the storm that may at any time break upon it. i am going to live, if i can, as people live whom you would laugh at; you would call them fanatics and fools. it is the only way for me to be happy; but you would not like it in one near you." "go in a black dress, eleanor?" she was silent. she very nearly burst into tears, but prevented that. "you can't terrify me," said mr. carlisle, lazily throwing himself back in his chair. "i don't get up a 'sense of danger' as easily as you do, darling. one look in your face puts all that to flight at once. i am safe. you may do what you like." "you would not say that by and by," said eleanor. "would i not?" said he, rousing up and drawing her tenderly but irresistibly to his arms again. "but make proper amends to me for breaking rules to-night, and you shall have _carte blanche_ for this new fancy, eleanor. how are you going to ask my forgiveness?" "you ought to ask mine--for you will not attend to me." "contumacious?" said he lightly, touching her lips as if they were a goblet and he were taking sips of the wine;--"then i shall take my own amends. you shall live as you please, darling, only take me along with you." "you will not go." "how do you know?" "neither your feeling nor your taste agree with it." "what _are_ you going to do!" said he half laughing, holding her fast and looking down into her face. "my little eleanor! make yourself a grey nun, or a blue puritan? grey becomes you, darling; it makes a duchess of you; and blue is set off by this magnificent brown head of yours. i will answer for my taste in either event; and i think you could bear, and consequently i could, all the other colours in the rainbow. as for your idea, of making yourself a woman that i would not like, i do not think you can compass it. you may try. i will not let you go too far." "you cannot hinder it, macintosh," said eleanor in a low voice. "kiss me!" said he laughingly. eleanor slowly raised her head from his shoulder and obeyed, so far as a very dainty and shyly given permission went; feeling bitterly that she had brought herself into bonds from which only mr. carlisle's hand could release her. she could not break them herself. what possible reason could she assign? and so she was in his power. "cheeks hot, and hands cold," said mr. carlisle to himself as he walked away through the rooms. "i wish the twenty-first were to-morrow!" he stopped in the drawing-room to hold a consultation of some length with mrs. powle; in which however he confided to her no more than that the last night's attention to her nurse's daughter had been quite too much for eleanor, and he should think it extremely injudicious to allow it again. which mrs. powle had no idea of doing. neither had eleanor any idea of attempting it. but she spent half that night in heart-ache and in baffled searchings for a path out of her difficulties. what could she do? if mr. carlisle _would_ marry her, she saw no help for it; and to disgust him with her would be a difficult matter. for oh, eleanor knew, that though he would not like a religious wife, he had good reason to trust his own power of regulating any tendency of that sort which might offend him. once his wife, once let that strong arm have a right to be round her permanently; and eleanor knew it would be an effectual bar against whatever he wished to keep at a distance. eleanor was armed with no christian armour; no helmet or shield of protection had she; all she had was the strength of fear, and the resolute determination to seek until she should find that panoply in which she would be safe and strong. once married to mr. carlisle, and she felt that her determination would be in danger, and her resolution meet another resolution with which it might have hard fighting to do. ay, and who knew whether hers would overcome! she must not finish this marriage; yet how induce mr. carlisle to think of her as she wished? "i declare," said mrs. powle coming into her room the next day, "that one night's sitting up, has done the work of a week's illness upon you, eleanor! mr. carlisle is right." "in what?" "he said you must not go again." "i think he is somewhat premature in arranging my movements." "don't you like it?" said mrs. powle laughing a little. "you must learn to submit to that. i am glad there is somebody that can control you, eleanor, at last. it does me good. it was just a happiness that you never took anything desperate into your head, for your father and you together were more than a match for me; and it's just the same with julia. but julia really is growing tame and more reasonable, i think, lately." "good reason why," thought eleanor moodily. "but that is a better sort of control she is under." "i am charged with a commission to you, eleanor." "what is it, ma'am?" "to find out what particular kind of jewels you prefer. i really don't know, so am obliged to ask you--which was not in my commission." "jewels, mamma!" "jewels, my lady." "o mamma! don't talk to me of jewels!" "nor of weddings, i suppose; but really i do not see how things are to be done unless they are to be talked about. for instance, this matter of your liking in jewellery--i think rubies become you, eleanor; though to be sure there is nothing i like so well as diamonds. what is the matter?" for eleanor's brown head had gone down on the table before her and her face was hidden in her hands. she slowly raised it at her mother's question. "mamma, mr. carlisle does not know what he is doing!" "pray what do you mean?" "he thinks he is marrying a person who will be gay and live for and in the world, as he lives--and as he would wish me. mamma, i will not! i never will. i never shall be what he likes in that respect. i mean to live a religious life." "a religious life! what sort of a life is that?" "it is what you do not like--nor he." "a religious life! eleanor, you do not suppose mr. carlisle would wish his wife to lead an irreligious life?" "yes--i do." "i should not like you to tell _him_ that," said mrs. powle colouring with anger. "how dare you say it? what sort of a religious life do you want to live?" "such a one as the bible bids, mamma," eleanor said in a low voice and drooping her head. "such a one as the prayer book recommends, over and over." "and you think mr. carlisle would not like that? what insinuations you are making against us all, eleanor. for of course, i, your mother, have wished you also to live this irreligious life. we are a set of heathens together. dr. cairnes too. he was delighted with it." "it changes nothing, mamma," said eleanor. "i am resolved to live in a different way; and mr. carlisle would not like it; and if he only knew it, he would not wish to marry me; and i cannot make him believe it." "you have tried, have you?" "yes, i have tried. it was only honest." "well i did not think you were such a fool, eleanor! and i am sure he did not. believe you, you little fool? he knows better. he knows that he will not have had you a week at the priory before you will be too happy to live what life he pleases. he is just the man to bring you into order. i only wish the wedding-day was to-morrow." eleanor drew herself up, and her face changed from soft and sorrowful to stubborn. she kept silence. "in this present matter of jewels," said mrs. powle returning to the charge, "i suppose i am to tell him that a plain set of jet is as much as you can fancy; or that, as it would be rather uncommon to be married in black, you will take bugles. what he will say i am sure i don't know." "you had better not try, mamma," said eleanor. "if the words you last said are true, and i should be unable to follow my conscience at rythdale priory, then i shall never go there; and in that case the jewels will not be wanted, except for somebody else whose taste neither bugles nor jet would suit." "now you have got one of your obstinate fits on," said mrs. powle, "and i will go. i shall be a better friend to you than to tell mr. carlisle a word of all this, which i know will be vanished in another month or two; and if you value your good fortune, eleanor, i recommend you to keep a wise tongue between your teeth in talking to him. i know one thing--i wish dr. cairnes, or the government, or the church, or whoever has it in hand, would keep all dissenting fools from coming to wiglands to preach their pestiferous notions here! and that your father would not bring them to his house! that is what i wish. will you be reasonable, and give me an answer about the jewels, eleanor?" "i cannot think about jewels, mamma." mrs. powle departed. eleanor sat with her head bowed in her hands; her mind in dim confusion, through which loomed the one thought, that she must break this marriage. her mother's words had roused the evil as well as the good of eleanor's nature; and along with bitter self-reproaches and longings for good, she already by foretaste champed the bit of an authority that she did not love. so, while her mind was in a sea of turmoil, there came suddenly, like a sun-blink upon the confusion, a soft question from her little sister julia. neither mother nor daughter had taken notice of her being in the room. the question came strangely soft, for julia. "eleanor, do you love jesus?" eleanor raised her head in unspeakable astonishment, startled and even shocked, as one is at an unheard-of thing. julia's face was close beside her, looking wistful and anxious, and tender also. the look struck eleanor's heart. but she only stared. "do you?" said julia wistfully. it wrought the most unaccountable convulsion in eleanor's mind, this little dove's feather of a question, touching the sore and angry feelings that wrestled there. she flung herself off her chair, and on her knees by the table sobbed dreadfully. julia stood by, looking as sober as if she had been a ministering angel. eleanor knew what the question meant--that was all. she had heard mr. rhys speak of it; she had heard him speak of it with a quiver on his lip and a flush in his face, which shewed her that there was something in religion that she had never fathomed, nor ever before suspected; there was a hidden region of joy the entrance to which was veiled from her. to eleanor the thing would have been a mere mystery, but that she had seen it to be a reality; once seen, that was never to be forgotten. and now, in the midst of her struggles of passion and pain, julia's question came innocently asking whether she were a sharer in that unearthly wonderful joy which seemed to put its possessor beyond the reach of struggles. eleanor's sobs were the hard sobs of pain. as wisely as if she had really been a ministering angel, her little sister stood by silent; and said not another word until eleanor had risen and taken her seat again. nor then either. it was eleanor that spoke. "what do you know about it, julia?" "not much," said the child. "_i_ love the lord jesus--that is all,--and i thought, perhaps, from the way you spoke, that you did. mr. rhys would be so glad." "he? glad? what do you mean, julia?" "i know he would; because i have heard him pray for you a great many times." "no--no," said eleanor turning away,--"i know nothing but fear. i do not feel anything better. and they want me to think of everything else in the world but this one thing!" "but you will think of it, eleanor, won't you?" eleanor was silent and abstracted. her sister watched her with strange eyes for julia, anxiously observant. the silence lasted some time. "when does mr. rhys--is he going to preach again, julia, that you know of?" "i guess not. he was very tired after he preached the other night; he lay on the couch and did not move the whole next day. he is better to-day." "you have seen him this morning?" "o yes. i see him every day; and he teaches me a great many things. but he always prays for you." eleanor did not wish to keep up the conversation, and it dropped. and after that, things went on their train. it was a very fast train, too; and growing in importance and thickening in its urgency of speed. every day the preparations converged more nearly towards their great focus, the twenty-first of december. eleanor felt the whirl of circumstances, felt borne off her feet and carried away with them; and felt it hopelessly. she knew not what to urge that should be considered sufficient reason either by her mother or mr. carlisle for even delaying, much less breaking off the match. she was grave and proud, and unsatisfactory, as much as it was in her nature to be, partly on purpose; and mr. carlisle was not satisfied, and hurried on things all the more. he kept his temper perfectly, whatever thoughts he had; he rode and walked with eleanor, when she would go, with the same cool and faultless manner; when she would not, he sometimes let it pass and sometimes made her go; but once or twice he failed in doing this; and recognized the possibility of eleanor's ability to give him trouble. he knew his own power however; on the whole he liked her quite as well for it. "what is the matter with you, my darling?" he said one day. "you are not like yourself." "i am not happy," said eleanor. "i told you i had a doubt unsettled upon my mind; and till that doubt is put at rest i cannot be happy; i cannot have peace; you will take no pleasure in me." "why do you not settle it then?" said mr. carlisle, quietly. "because i have no chance. i have not a moment to think, in this whirl where i am living. if you would put off the twenty-first of next month to the twenty-first of some month in the spring--or summer--i might have a breathing place, and get myself in order. i cannot, now." "you will have time to think, love, when you get to the priory," mr. carlisle observed in the same tone--an absolute tone. "yes. i know how that would be!" eleanor answered bitterly. "but i can take no pleasure in anything,--i cannot have any rest or comfort,--as long as i know that if anything happened to me--if death came suddenly--i am utterly unready. i cannot be happy so." "i think i had better send dr. cairnes to see you," said mr. carlisle. "he is in duty bound to be the family physician in all things spiritual where they need him. but this is morbid, eleanor. i know how it is. these are only whims, my darling, that will never outlive that day you dread so much." he had drawn her into his arms as he spoke; but in his touch and his kiss eleanor felt or fancied something masterful, which irritated her. "if i thought that, mr. carlisle," she said,--"if i knew it was true,--that day would never come!" mr. carlisle's self-control was perfect; so was his tact. he made no answer at all to this speech; only gave eleanor two or three more of those quiet ownership kisses. no appearance of discomposure in his manner or in his voice when he spoke; still holding her in his arms. "i shall know how to punish you one of these days for this," he said. "you may expect to be laughed at a little, my darling, when you turn penitent. which will not hinder the moment from coming." and so, dismissing the matter and her with another light touch of her lips, he left her. "will it be so?" thought eleanor. "shall i be so within his control, that i shall even sue to him to forget and pardon this word of my true indignation? once his wife--once let the twenty-first of december come--and there will be no more help for me. what shall i do?" she was desperate, but she saw no opening. she saw however the next day that mr. carlisle was coldly displeased with her. she was afraid to have him remain so; and made conciliations. these were accepted immediately and frankly, but so at the same time as made her feel she had lost ground and given mr. carlisle an advantage; every inch of which he knew and took. nobody had seen the tokens of any part of all this passage of arms; in three days all was just as it had been, except eleanor's lost ground. and three days more were gone before the twenty-first of december. chapter x. at luncheon. "and, once wed, so just a man and gentle, could not choose but make my life as smooth as marriage-ring." "macintosh, do you ever condescend to do such a thing as walk?--take a walk, i mean?" "you may command me," he answered somewhat lazily. "may i? for the walk; but i want further to make a visit in the village." "you may make twenty, if you feel inclined. i will order the horses to meet us there--shall i? or do you not wish to do anything but walk to-day?" "o yes. after my visit is paid, i shall be ready." "but it will be very inconvenient to walk so far in your habit. can you manage that?" "i expect to enlighten you a good deal as to a woman's power of managing," said eleanor. "is that a warning?" said he, making her turn her face towards him. eleanor gratified him with one of her full mischievous smiles. "did anybody ever tell you," said he continuing the inspection, "that you were handsome?" "it never was worth anybody's while." "how was that?" "simply, that he would have gained nothing by it." "then i suppose i should not, or you think so?" "nothing in the world. mr. carlisle, if you please, i will go and put on my hat." the day was november in a mild mood; pleasant enough for a walk; and so one at least of the two found it. for eleanor, she was in a divided mood; yet even to her the exercise was grateful, and brought some glow and stir of spirits through the body to the mind. at times, too, now, she almost bent before what seemed her fate, in hopelessness of escaping from it; and at those times she strove to accommodate herself to it, and tried to propitiate her captor. she did this from a twofold motive. she did fear him, and feared to have him anything but pleased with her; half slumbering that feeling lay; another feeling she was keenly conscious of. the love that he had for her; a gift that no woman can receive and be wholly unmoved by it; the affection she herself had allowed him to bestow, in full faith that it would not be thrown away; that stung eleanor with grief and self-reproach; and made her at times question whether her duty did not lie where she had formally engaged it should. at such times she was very subdued in gentleness and in observance of mr. carlisle's pleasure; subdued to a meekness foreign to her natural mood, and which generally, to tell the truth, was accompanied by a very unwonted sedateness of spirits also; something very like the sedateness of despair. she walked now silently the first half of the way; managing her long habit in a way that she knew mr. carlisle knew, though he took no open notice of it. the day was quite still, the road footing good. a slight rime hung about the distance, veiled faintly the rythdale woods, enshrouded the far-off village, as they now and then caught glimpses of it, in its tuft of surrounding trees. yet near at hand, the air seemed clear and mellow; there was no november chill. it was a brown world, however, through which the two walked; life and freshness all gone from vegetation; the leaves in most cases fallen from the trees, and where they still hung looking as sear and withered as frost and decay could make them. "do you abhor _all_ compliments?" said mr. carlisle, breaking a silence that for some time had been broken only by the quick ring of their footsteps upon the ground. "no, sir." "that is frank; yet i am half afraid to present the one which is on my lips." "perhaps it is not worth while," said eleanor, with a gleam of a smile which was very alluring. "you are going to tell me, possibly, that i am a good walker." "i do not know why i should let you silence me. no, i was not going to tell you that you are a good walker; you know it already. the compliment of beauty, that you scorned, was also perhaps no news to you. what i admire in you now, is something you do not know you have--and i do not mean you shall, by my means." eleanor's glance of amused curiosity, rewarded him. "are you expecting now, that i shall ask for it?" "no; it would not be like you. you do not ask me for anything--that you can help, eleanor. i shall have to make myself cunning in inventing situations of need that will drive you to it. it is pleasanter to me than you can imagine, to have your eyes seek mine with a request in them." eleanor coloured. "there are the fieldfares!" she exclaimed presently. "what is there melancholy in that?" said mr. carlisle laughingly. "nothing. why?" "you made the announcement as if you found it so." "i was thinking of the time i saw the fieldfares last,--when they were gathering together preparing for their taking flight; and now here they are back again! it seems so little while--and yet it seems a long while too. the summer has gone." "i am glad it has!" said mr. carlisle. "and i am glad autumn has had the discretion to follow it. i make my bow to the fieldfares." "you will not expect me to echo that," said eleanor. "no. not now. i will make you do it by and by." he thought a good deal of his power, eleanor said to herself as she glanced at him; and sighed as she remembered that she did so too. she was afraid to say anything more. it had not been so pleasant a summer to her that she would have wished to live it over again; yet was she very sorry to know it gone, for more reasons than it would do to let mr. carlisle see. "you do not believe that?" he said, coming with his brilliant eyes to find her out where her thoughts had plunged her. eleanor came forth of them immediately and answered. "no more, than that one of those fieldfares, if you should catch it and fasten a leash round its neck, would say it was well done that its time of free flying was over." "my bird shall soar higher from the perch where i will place her, than ever she ventured before." "ay, and stoop to your lure, mr. carlisle!" he laughed at this flash, and took instant tribute of the lips whose sauciness tempted him. "do you wonder," he said softly, "that i want to have my tassel-gentle on my hand?" eleanor coloured again, and was wisely silent. "i am afraid you are not ambitious, eleanor." "is that such a favourite vice, that you wish i were?" "vice! it is a virtue, say rather; but not for a woman," he added in a different tone. "no, i do not wish you any more of it, nellie, than a little education will give." "you are mistaken, though, macintosh. i am very ambitious," eleanor said gravely. "pray in what line? of being able to govern tippoo without my help?" "is it tippoo that i am to ride to-day?" "yes. i will give you a lesson. what line does your ambition take, darling?" "i have a great ambition--higher and deeper than you can think--to be a great deal better than myself." she said it lowly and seriously, in a way that sufficiently spoke her earnestness. it was just as well to let mr. carlisle know now and then which way her thoughts travelled. she did not look up till the consciousness of his examining eyes upon her made her raise her own. his look was intent and silent, at first grave, and then changing into a very sunny smile with the words-"my little saint eleanor?"-they were inimitably spoken; it is difficult to say how. the graciousness, and affection, and only a very little tender raillery discernible with them, at once smote and won eleanor. what could she do to make amends to this man for letting him love her, but to be his wife and give him all the good she could? she answered his smile, and if hers was shy and slight it was also so gentle that mr. carlisle was more than content. "if you have no other ambition than that," he said, "then the wise man is proved wrong who said that moderation is the sloth of the soul, as ambition is its activity." "who said that?" "rochefoucauld, i believe." "like him--" said eleanor. "how is that? wise?" "no indeed; false." "he was a philosopher, and you are not even a student in that school." "he was not a true man; and that i know by the lights he never knew." "he told the time of day by the world's clock, eleanor. you go by a private sun-dial of your own." "the sun is right, mr. carlisle! he was a vile old maligner of human nature." "where did you learn to know him so well?" said mr. carlisle, amused. "you may well ask. i used to study french sentences out of him; because they were in nice little detached bits; and when i came to understand him i judged him accordingly." "by the sun. few men will stand that, eleanor. give an instance." "we are in the village." "i see it." "i told you i wanted to make a visit, macintosh." "may i go too?" "why certainly; but i am afraid you will not know what to do with yourself. it is at the house of mrs. lewis,--my old nurse." "do you think i never go into cottages?" said he smiling. eleanor did not know what to make of him; however, it was plain he would go with her into this one; so she took him in, and then had to tell who he was, and blushed for shame and vexation to see her old nurse's delighted and deep curtseys at the honour done her. she made her escape to see jane; and leaving mr. carlisle to his own devices, gladly shut herself into the little stairway which led up from the kitchen to jane's room. the door closed behind her, eleanor let fall the spirit-mask she wore before mr. carlisle,--wore consciously for him and half unconsciously for herself,--and her feet went slowly and heavily up the stair. a short stairway it was, and she had short time to linger; she did not linger; she went into jane's room. eleanor had not been there since the night of her watch. it was like coming out of the woods upon an open champaign, as she stood by the side of the sick girl. jane was lying bolstered up, as usual; disease shewed no stay of its ravages since eleanor had been there last; all that was as it had been. the thin cheek with its feverish hue; the unnaturally bright eyes; the attitude of feebleness. but the mouth was quiet and at rest to-day; and that mysterious region of expression around the eyes had lost all its seams and lines of care and anxiety; and the eyes themselves looked at eleanor with that calm full simplicity that one sees in an infant's eyes, before care or doubt has ever visited them. eleanor was silent with surprise, and jane spoke first. "i am glad to see you, miss eleanor." "you are better, jane, to-day." "i think--i am almost well," said jane, pausing for breath as she spoke, and smiling at the same time. "what has happened to you since i was here last? you do not look like the same." "ma'am, i am not the same. the lord's messenger has come--and i've heard the message--and o, miss eleanor, i'm happy!" "what do you mean, jane?" said eleanor; though it struck coldly through all her senses what it did mean. "dear miss eleanor," said jane, looking at her lovingly--"i wish you was as happy as i be!" "what makes you happy?" "o ma'am, because i love jesus. i love jesus!" "you must tell me more, jane. i do not understand you. the other night, when i was here, you were not happy." "miss eleanor, i didn't know him then. since then i've seen how good he is--and how beautiful--and what he has done for me;--and i'm happy!" "can't you tell me more, jane? i want to understand it." "miss eleanor, it's hard to tell. i'm thinking, one can't tell another--but the lord must just shew himself." "what has he shewn to you?" said eleanor gloomily. the girl lifted her eyes with a placid light in them, as she answered, "he has showed me how he loves me--and that he has forgiven me--o how good he is, miss eleanor!--and how he will take me home. and now i don't want for to stay--no more now." "you were afraid of dying, the other night, jane." "that's gone,"--said the girl expressively. "but how did it go?" "i can't say, ma'am. i just saw how jesus loves me--and i felt i loved him--and then how could i be feared, miss eleanor? when all's in his hand." eleanor stood still, looking at the transformed face before her, and feeling ready to sink on the floor and cry out for very sorrow of heart. had this poor creature put on the invisible panoply which made her dare to go among the angels, while eleanor's own hand was empty--could not reach it--could not grasp it? she stood still with a cold brow and dark face. "jane, i wish you could give me what you have got--so as not to lose it yourself." "jesus will give it to you, miss eleanor," said the girl with a brightening eye and smile. "i know he will." "i do not know of him, jane, as you do," eleanor said gravely. "what did you do to gain this knowledge?" "i? i did nought, ma'am--what could i do? i just laid and cried in my bitterness of heart--like the night you was here, ma'am; till the day that mr. rhys came again and talked--and prayed--o he prayed!--and my trouble went away and the light came. o miss eleanor, if you would hear mr. rhys speak! i don't know how;--but if you'd hear him, you'd know all that man can tell." eleanor stood silent. jane looked at her with eyes of wistful regard, but panting already from the exertion of talking. "but how are you different to-day, jane, from what you were the other night?--except in being happy." "ma'am," said the girl speaking with difficulty, for she was excited,--"then i was blind. now i see. i ain't different no ways--only i have seen what the lord has done for me--and i know he loves me--and he's forgiven me my sins. he's forgiven me!--and now i go singing to myself, like, all the day and the night too, 'i love the lord, and my lord loves me.'" the water had slowly gathered in jane's eyes, and the cheek flushed; but her sweet happy regard never varied except to brighten. "jane, you must talk no more," said eleanor. "what can i do for you? only tell me that." "would miss eleanor read a bit?" what would become of mr. carlisle's patience? eleanor desperately resolved to let it take care of itself, and sat down to read to jane at the open page where the girl's look and finger had indicated that she wished her to begin. and the very first words were, "let not your heart be troubled." eleanor felt her voice choke; then clearing it with a determined effort she read on to the end of the chapter. but if she had been reading the passage in its original greek, she herself would hardly have received less intelligence from it. she had a dim perception of the words of love and words of glory of which it is full; she saw that mr. rhys's "helmet" was at the beginning of it, and the "peace" he had preached of, at the end of it; yet those words which ever since the day they were spoken have been a bed of rest to every heart that has loved their author, only straitened eleanor's heart with a vision of rest afar off. "i must go now, dear jane," she said as soon as the reading was ended. "what else would you like, that i can do for you?" "i'm thinking i want nothing, miss eleanor," said the girl calmly, without moving the eyes which had looked at eleanor all through the reading. "but--" "but what? speak out." "mother says you can do anything, ma'am." "well, go on." "dolly's in trouble, ma'am." "dolly? why she was to have been married to that young earle?" "yes, ma'am, but--mother'll tell you, miss eleanor--it tires me. he has been disappointed of his money, has james; and dolly, she couldn't lay up none, 'cause of home;--and she's got to go back to service at tenby; and they don't know when they'll come together now." a fit of coughing punished jane for the exertion she had made, and put a stop to her communication. eleanor staid by her till it was over, would not let her say another word, kissed her, and ran down to the lower room in a divided state of spirits. there she learnt from mrs. lewis the details of jane's confused story. the young couple wanted means to furnish a house; the money hoarded for the purpose had been lent by james in some stress of his parents' affairs and could not now be got back again; and the secret hope of the family, eleanor found, was that james might be advanced to the gamekeeper's place at rythdale, which they took care to inform her was vacant; and which would put the young man in possession of better wages and enable him to marry at once. eleanor just heard all this, and hurried out to the gate where mr. carlisle was waiting for her. her interview with jane had left her with a desperate feeling of being cut off from the peace and light her heart longed for; and yet she was glad to see somebody else happy. she stood by mr. carlisle's side in a sort of subdued mood. there also stood miss broadus. "now eleanor! here you are. won't you help me? i want you two to come in and take luncheon with us. i shall never get over it if you do--i shall be so pleased. so will juliana. now do persuade this gentleman!--will you? we'll have luncheon in a little while--and then you can go on your ride. you'll never do it if you dc not to-day." "it is hardly time, miss broadus," said mr. carlisle "we must ride some miles before luncheon." "i think it must be very near time," said miss broadus "do, eleanor, look and tell us what it is. now you are here, it would be such a good chance. well, eleanor? and the horses can wait." "it is half past twelve by me, miss broadus. i do not know how it is by the world's clock." "you can not take her word," said mr. carlisle, preparing to mount eleanor. "she goes by an old-fashioned thing, that is always behind the time--or in advance of it." "well, i declare!" said miss broadus. "that beautiful little watch mr. powle gave her! then you will come in after your ride?" if they were near enough at luncheon time, mr. carlisle promised that should be done; and leaving miss broadus in startled admiration of their horses, the riders set forth. a new ride was promised eleanor; they struck forward beyond wiglands, leaving the road to rythdale on the left hand. eleanor was busily meditating on the question of making suit to mr. carlisle in james earle's favour; but not as a question to be decided; she had resolved she would not do it, and was thinking rather how very unwilling she should be to do it; sensible at the same time that much power was in her hands to do good and give relief, of many kinds; but fixed in the mind that so long as she had not the absolute right and duty of mr. carlisle's wife, she would not assume it. yet between pride and benevolence eleanor's ride was likely to be scarce a pleasant one. it was extremely silent, for which tippoo's behaviour on this occasion gave no excuse. he was as gentle as the day. "what did you find in that cottage to give your thoughts so profound a turn?" said mr. carlisle at last. "a sick girl." "cottages do not seem to agree with you, eleanor." "that would be unfortunate," said eleanor rousing up, "for the people in them seem to want me very much." "do not let that impose on you," said mr. carlisle smiling. "speaking of cottages--two of my cottages at rythmoor are empty still." "o are they!--" eleanor exclaimed with sudden life. "what then?" "is there anybody you mean to put in them, mr. carlisle?" "no. is there anybody you mean to put in them?" "i know just who would like to have one." "then i know just who shall have it--or i shall know, when you have told me." did he smile to himself that his bait had taken? he did not smile outwardly. riding close up to her, he listened with a bright face to the story which eleanor gave with a brighter. she had a private smile at herself. where were her scruples now? there was no help for it. "it is one of your--one of the under gardeners at rythdale; his name is james earle. i believe he is a good fellow." "we will suppose that. what has he done to enlist your sympathy?" "he wants to marry a sister of this girl i have been to see. they have been long betrothed; and james has been laying up money to set up housekeeping. they were to have been married this autumn,--now;--but james had lent all his earnings to get his old father out of some distress, and they are not forthcoming; and all dolly's earnings go to support hers." "and what would you like to do for them, eleanor?" eleanor coloured now, but she could not go back. "if you think well of earle, and would like to have him in one of the empty cottages at rythmoor, i should be glad." "they shall go in, the day we are married; and i wish you would find somebody for the other. now having made a pair of people happy and established a house, would you like a gallop?" eleanor's cheeks were hot, and she would very much; but she answered, "one of tippoo's gallops?"-"you do not know them yet. you have tried only a mad gallop. tippoo!" said mr. carlisle stooping and striking his riding glove against the horse's shoulder,--"i am going a race with you, do you hear?" his own charger at the same time sprang forward, and tippoo to match! but such a cradling flight through the air, eleanor never knew until now. there seemed no exertion; there was no jar; a smooth, swift, arrowy passage over the ground, like what birds take under the clouds. this was the gentlest of gallops, certainly, and yet it was at a rare speed that cleared the miles very fast and left striving grooms in the distance. eleanor paid no attention to anything but the delight of motion; she did not care where or how far she was carried on such magical hoofs; but indeed the ride was beyond her beat and she did not know the waymarks if she had observed them. a gradual slackening of this pace of delight brought her back to the earth and her senses again. "how was that?" said mr. carlisle. "it has done you no harm." "i do not know how it was," said eleanor, caressing the head and neck of the magnificent animal she rode--"but i think this creature has come out of the arabian nights. tippoo is certainly an enchanted prince." "i'll take care he is not disenchanted, then," said mr. carlisle. "that gallop did us some service. do you know where we are?" "not in the least." "you will know presently." and accordingly, a few minutes of fast riding brought them to a lodge and a gate. "is this rythdale?" said eleanor, who had noticed the manner of the gate-opener. "yes, and this entrance is near the house. you will see it in a moment or two." it appeared presently, stately and lovely, on the other side of an extensive lawn; a grove of spruce firs making a beautiful setting for it on one side. the riders passed round the lawn, through a part of the plantations, and came up to the house at the before-mentioned left wing. mr. carlisle threw himself off his horse and came to eleanor. "what now, macintosh?" "luncheon." "o, i do not want any luncheon." "i do. and so do you, love. come!" "macintosh," said eleanor, bending down with her hand resting on his shoulder to enforce her request, "i do not want to go in!" "i cannot take you any further without rest and refreshment; and we are too far from miss broadus's now. come, eleanor!" he took her down, and then observing the discomposed colour of eleanor's cheek, he went on affectionately, as he was leading her in,--"what is there formidable in it, nellie? nothing but my mother and luncheon; and she will be much pleased to see you." eleanor made no answer; she doubted it; at all events the pleasure would be all on one side. but the reception she got justified mr. carlisle. lady rythdale was pleased. she was even gracious. she sent eleanor to her dressing-room to refresh herself, not to change her dress this time; and received her when she came into her presence again with a look that was even benign. bound, bound,--eleanor felt it in everything her eye lit upon; she had thought it all over in the dressing-room, while she was putting in order the masses of hair which had been somewhat shaken down by the gallop. she was irritated, and proud, and afraid of displeasing mr. carlisle; and above all this and keeping it down, was the sense that she was bound to him. he did love her, if he also loved to command her; and he would do the latter, and it was better not to hinder his doing the other. but higher than this consideration rose the feeling of _right_. she had given him leave to love her; and now it seemed that his love demanded of her all she had, if it was not all he wanted; duty and observance and her own sweet self, if not her heart's absorbing affection. and this would satisfy mr. carlisle, eleanor knew; she could not ease her conscience with the thought that it would not. and here she was in his mother's dressing-room putting up her hair, and down stairs he and his mother were waiting for her; she was almost in the family already. eleanor put several feelings in bonds, along with the abundant tresses of brown hair which made her hands full, and went down. she looked lovely as she came in; for the pride and irritation and struggling rebellion which had all been at work, were smothered or at least kept under by her subdued feeling, and her brow wore an air of almost shy modesty. she did not see the two faces which were turned towards her as soon as she appeared, though she saw mr. carlisle rise. she came forward and stood before lady rythdale. the feeling of shyness and of being bound were both rather increased by all she saw and felt around her. the place was a winter parlour or sitting-room, luxuriously hung and furnished with red, which made a rich glow in the air. at one side a glass door revealed a glow of another sort from the hues of tropical flowers gorgeously blooming in a small conservatory; on another side of the room, where lady rythdale sat and her son stood, a fire of noble logs softly burned in an ample chimney. all around the evidences of wealth and a certain sort of power were multiplied; not newly there but native; in a style of things very different from eleanor's own simple household. she stood before the fire, feeling all this without looking up, her eye resting on the exquisite mat of berlin wool on which lady rythdale's foot rested. that lady surveyed her. "so you have come," she said. "macintosh said he would bring you." eleanor answered for the moment with tact and temper almost equal to her lover's, "madam--you know mr. carlisle." how satisfied they both looked, she did not see; but she felt it, through every nerve, as mr. carlisle took her hands and placed her in a great chair, that she had pleased him thoroughly. he remained standing beside her, leaning on her chair, watching her varying colour no doubt. a few commonplaces followed, and then the talk fell to the mother and son who had some affairs to speak about. eleanor's eye went to the glass door beyond which the flowers beckoned her; she longed to go to them; but though feeling that bands were all round her which were drawing her and would draw her to be at home in that house, she would not of her own will take one step that way; she would assume nothing, not even the right of a stranger. so she only looked at the distant flowers, and thought, and ceased to hear the conversation she did not understand. but all this while lady rythdale was taking note of her. a pause came, and eleanor became conscious that she was a subject of consideration. "you will have a very pretty wife, macintosh," said the baroness bluntly and benignly. the rush of colour to her face eleanor felt as if she could hardly bear. she had much ado not to put up her hands like a child. "you must have mercy on her, mamma," said mr. carlisle, walking off to a bookcase. "she has the uncommon grace of modesty." "it is no use," said lady rythdale. "she may as well get accustomed to it. others will tell her, if you do not." there was silence. eleanor felt displeased. "is she as good as she is pretty?" enquired lady rythdale. "no, ma'am," said eleanor in a low voice. the baroness laughed. her son smiled. eleanor was vexed at herself for speaking. "mamma, is not rochefoucauld here somewhere?" "rochefoucauld? what do you want of him?" "i want to call this lady to account for some of her opinions. here he is. now eleanor," said he tossing the book into her lap and sitting down beside her,--"justify yourself." eleanor guessed he wanted to draw her out. she was not very ready. she turned over slowly the leaves of the book. meanwhile lady rythdale again engaged her son in conversation which entirely overlooked her; and eleanor thought her own thoughts; till mr. carlisle said with a little tone of triumph, "well, eleanor?--" "what is it?" said lady rythdale. "human nature, ma'am; that is the question." "only rochefoucauld's exposition of it," said eleanor. "well, go on. prove him false." "but when i have done it by the sun-dial, you will make me wrong by the clock." "instance! instance!" said mr. carlisle laughing. "take this. 'la magnanimitã© est assez bien dã©finie par son nom mãªme; nã©anmoins on pourroit dire que c'est le bon sens de l'orgueil, et la voie la plus noble pour recevoir des louanges.' could anything be further from the truth than that?" "what is your idea of magnanimity? you do not think 'the good sense of pride' expresses it?" "it is not a matter of calculation at all; and i do not think it is beholden to anything so low as pride for its origin." "i am afraid we should not agree in our estimation of pride," said mr. carlisle, amused; "you had better go on to something else. the want of ambition may indicate a deficiency in that quality--or an excess of it. which, eleanor?" "rochefoucauld says, 'la modã©ration est comme la sobriã©tã©: on voudroit bien manger davantage, mais on craint de se faire mal.'" "what have you to say against that?" "nothing. it speaks for itself. and these two sayings alone prove that he had no knowledge of what is really noble in men." "very few have," said mr. carlisle dryly. "but you do not agree with him?" "not in these two instances. i have a living confutation at my side." "her accent is not perfect by any means," said lady rythdale. "you are right, madam," said eleanor, with a moment's hesitation and a little colour. "i had good advantages at school, but i did not avail myself of them fully." "i know whose temper is perfect," said mr. carlisle, drawing the book from her hand and whispering, "do you want to see the flowers?" he was not pleased, eleanor saw; he carried her off to the conservatory and walked about with her there, watching her pleasure. she wished she could have been alone. the flowers were quite a different society from lady rythdale's, and drew off her thoughts into a different channel. the roses looked sweetness at her; the dendrobium shone in purity; myrtles and ferns and some exquisite foreign plants that she knew not by name, were the very prime of elegant refinement and refreshing suggestion. eleanor plucked a geranium leaf and bruised it and thoughts together under her finger. mr. carlisle was called in and for a moment she was left to herself. when he came back his first action was to gather a very superb rose and fasten it in her hair. eleanor tried to arrest his hand, but he prevented her. "i do not like it, macintosh. lady rythdale does not know me. do not adorn me here!" "your appearance here is my affair," said he coolly. "eleanor, i have a request to make. my mother would like to hear you sing." "sing! i am afraid i should not please lady rythdale." "will you please me?" eleanor quitted his hand and went to the door of communication with the red parlour, which was by two or three steps, on which she sat down. her eyes were on the floor, where the object they encountered was mr. carlisle's spurs. that would not do; she buried them in the depths of a wonderful white lily, and so sang the old ballad of sir patrick spence. and so sweet and pure, so natural and wild, was her giving of the wild old song, as if it could have come out of the throat of the flower. the thrill of her voice was as a leaf trembles on its stem. no art there; it was unadulterated nature. a very delicious voice had been spoiled by no master; the soul of the singer rendered the soul of the song. the listeners did both of them, to do them justice, hold their breath till she had done. then mr. carlisle brought her in, to luncheon, in triumph; rose and all. "you have a very remarkable voice, my dear!" said lady rythdale. "do you always sing such melancholy things?" "you must take my mother's compliments, nellie, as you would olives--it takes a little while to get accustomed to them." eleanor thought so. "do not you spoil her with sweet things," said the baroness. "come here, child--let me look at you. you have certainly as pretty a head of hair as ever i saw. did you put in that rose?" "no, ma'am," said eleanor, blushing with somewhat besides pleasure. much to her amazement, the next thing was lady rythdale's taking her in her arms and kissing her. nor was eleanor immediately released; not until she had been held and looked over and caressed to the content of the old baroness, and eleanor's cheeks were in a state of furious protestation. she was dismissed at last with the assurance to mr. carlisle that she was "an innocent little thing." "but she is not one of those people who are good because they have not force to be anything else, macintosh." "i hope not." after this, however, eleanor was spared further discussion. luncheon came in; and during the whole discussion of that she was well petted, both by the mother and son. she felt that she could never break the nets that enclosed her; this day thoroughly achieved that conclusion to eleanor's mind. yet with a proud sort of mental reservation, she shunned the delicacies that belonged to rythdale house, and would have made her luncheon with the simplicity of an anchorite on honey and bread, as she might at home. she was very gently overruled, and made to do as she would not at home. eleanor was not insensible to this sort of petting and care; the charm of it stole over her, even while it made her hopeless. and hopelessness said, she had better make the most of all the good that fell to her lot. to be seated in the heart of rythdale house and in the heart of its master, involved a worldly lot as fair at least as imagination could picture. eleanor was made to taste it to-day, all luncheon time, and when after luncheon mr. carlisle pleased himself with making his mother and her quarrel over rochefoucauld; in a leisurely sort of enjoyment that spoke him in no haste to put an end to the day. at last, and not till the afternoon was waning, he ordered the horses. eleanor was put on black maggie and taken home at a gentle pace. "i do not understand," said eleanor as they passed through the ruins, "why the house is called 'the priory.' the priory buildings are here." "there too," said mr. carlisle. "the oldest foundations are really up there; and part of the superstructure is still hidden within the modern walls. after they had established themselves up there, the monks became possessed of the richer sheltered lands of the valley and moved themselves and their headquarters accordingly." the gloom of the afternoon was already gathering over the old tower of the priory church. the influence of the place and time went to swell the under current of eleanor's thoughts and bring it nearer to the surface. it would have driven her into silence, but that she did not choose that it should. she met mr. carlisle's conversation, all the way, with the sort of subdued gentleness that had been upon her and which the day's work had deepened. nevertheless, when eleanor went in at home, and the day's work lay behind her, and rythdale's master was gone, and all the fascinations the day had presented to her presented themselves anew to her imagination, eleanor thought with sinking of heart--that what jane lewis had was better than all. so she went to bed that night. chapter xi. at brompton. "why, and i trust, and i may go too. may i not? what, shall i be appointed hours: as though, belike, i know not what to take and what to leave? ha!" "eleanor, what is the matter?" said julia one day. for eleanor was found in her room in tears. "nothing--i am going to ruin only;--that is all." "going to _what?_ why eleanor--what is the matter?" "nothing--if not that." "why eleanor!" said the little one in growing astonishment, for eleanor's distress was evidently great, and jumping at conclusions with a child's recklessness,--"eleanor!--don't you want to be married?" "hush! hush!" exclaimed eleanor rousing herself up. "how dare you talk so, i did not say anything about being married." "no, but you don't seem glad," said julia. "glad! i don't know that i ever shall feel glad again--unless i get insensible--and that would be worse." "oh eleanor! what is it? do tell me!" "i have made a mistake, that is all, julia," her sister said with forced calmness. "i want time to think and to get right, and to be good--then i could be in peace, i think; but i am in such a confusion of everything, i only know i am drifting on like a ship to the rocks. i can't catch my breath." "don't you want to go to the priory?" said the little one, in a low, awe-struck voice. "i want something else first," said eleanor evasively. "i am not ready to go anywhere, or do anything, till i feel better." "i wish you could see mr. rhys," said julia. "he would help you to feel better, i know." eleanor was silent, shedding tears quietly. "couldn't you come down and see him, eleanor?" "child, how absurdly you talk! do not speak of mr. rhys to me or to any one else--unless you want him sent out of the village." "why, who would send him?" said julia. "but he is going without anybody's sending him. he is going as soon as he gets well, and he says that will be very soon." julia spoke very sorrowfully. "he is well enough to preach again. he is going to preach at brompton. i wish i could hear him." "when?" "next monday evening." "_monday_ evening?" "yes." "i shall want to purchase things at brompton monday," said eleanor to herself, her heart leaping up light. "i shall take the carriage and go." "where will he preach in brompton, julia? is it anything of an extraordinary occasion?" "no. i don't know. o, he will be in the--i don't know! you know what mr. rhys is. he is something--he isn't like what we are." "now if i go to the methodist chapel at brompton," thought eleanor, "it will raise a storm that will either break me on the rocks, or land me on shore. i will do it. this is my very last chance." she sat before the fire, pondering over her arrangements. julia nestled up beside her, affectionate but mute, and laid her head caressingly against her sister's arm. eleanor felt the action, though she took no notice of it. both remained still for some little time. "what would you like, julia?" her sister began slowly. "what shall i do to please you, before i leave home? what would you choose i should give you?" "give _me?_ are you going to give me anything?" "i would like to please you before i go away--if i knew how. do you know how i can?" "o eleanor! mr. rhys wants something very much--if i could give it to him!--" "what is it?" "he has nothing to write on--nothing but an old portfolio; and that don't keep his pens and ink; and for travelling, you know, when he goes away, if he had a writing case like yours--wouldn't it be nice? o eleanor, i thought of that the other day, but i had no money. what do you think?" "excellent," said eleanor. "keep your own counsel, julia; and you and i will go some day soon, and see what we can find." "where will you go? to brompton?" "of course. there is no other place to go to. but keep your own counsel, julia." if julia kept her own counsel, she did not so well know how to keep her sister's; for the very next day, when she was at mrs. williams's cottage, the sight of the old portfolio brought up her talk with eleanor and all that had led to it; and julia out and spoke. "mr. rhys, i don't believe that eleanor wants to be married and go to rythdale priory." mr. rhys's first movement was to rise and see that the door of communication with the next room was securely shut; then as he sat down to his writing again he said gravely, "you ought to be very careful how you make such remarks, julia. you might without knowing it, do great harm. you are probably very much mistaken." "i am careful, mr. rhys. i only said it to you." "you had better not say it to me. and i hope you will say it to nobody else." "but i want to speak to somebody," said julia; "and she was crying in her room yesterday as hard as she could. i do not believe, she wants to go to rythdale!" julia spoke the last words with slow enunciation, like an oracle. mr. rhys looked up from his writing and smiled at her a little, though he answered very seriously. "you ought to remember, julia, that there might be many things to trouble your sister on leaving home for the last time, without going to any such extravagant supposition as that she does not want to leave it. miss eleanor may have other cause for sorrow, quite unconnected with that." "i know she has, too," said julia. "i think eleanor wants to be a christian." he looked up again with one of his grave keen glances. "what makes you think it, julia?" "she said she wanted to be good, and that she was not ready for anything till she felt better; and i know _that_ was what she meant. do you think mr. carlisle is good, mr. rhys?" "i have hardly an acquaintance with mr. carlisle. pray for your sister, julia, but do not talk about her; and now let me write." the days rolled on quietly at ivy lodge, until monday came. eleanor had kept herself in order and given general satisfaction. when monday came she announced boldly that she was going to give the afternoon of that day to her little sister. it should be spent for julia's pleasure, and so they two would take the carriage and go to brompton and be alone. it was a purpose that could not very well be interfered with. mr. carlisle grumbled a little, not ill-humouredly, but withdrew opposition; and mrs. powle made none. however the day turned very disagreeable by afternoon, and she proposed a postponement. "it is my last chance," said eleanor. "julia shall have this afternoon, if i never do it again." so they went. the little one full of joy and anticipation; the elder grave, abstracted, unhappy. the day was gloomy and cloudy and windy. eleanor looked out upon the driving grey clouds, and wondered if she was driving to her fate, at brompton. she could not help wishing the sun would shine on her fate, whatever it was; but the chill gloom that enveloped the fields and the roads was all in keeping with the piece of her life she was traversing then. too much, too much. she could not rouse herself from extreme depression; and julia, felling it, could only remark over and over that it was "a nasty day." it was better when they got to the town. brompton was a quaint old town, where comparatively little modernising had come, except in the contents of the shops, and the exteriors of a few buildings. the tower of a very beautiful old church lifted its head above the mass of house-roofs as they drew near the place; in the town the streets were irregular and narrow and of ancient fashion in great part. here however the gloom of the day was much lost. what light there was, was broken and shadowed by many a jutting out stone in the old mason-work, many, many a recess and projecting house-front or roof or doorway; the broad grey uniformity of dulness that brooded over the open landscape, was not here to be felt. quaint interest, quaint beauty, the savour of things old and quiet and stable, had a stimulating and a soothing effect too. eleanor roused up to business, and business gave its usual meed of refreshment and strength. she and julia had a good shopping time. it was a burden of love with the little one to see that everything about the proposed purchase was precisely and entirely what it should be; and eleanor seconded her and gave her her heart's content of pleasure; going from shop to shop, patiently looking for all they wanted, till it was found. julia's joy was complete, and shone in her face. the face of the other grew dark and anxious. they had got into the carriage to go to another shop for some trifle eleanor wanted. "julia, would you like to stay and hear mr. rhys speak to-night?" "o wouldn't i! but we can't, you know." "i am going to stay." "and going to hear him?" "yes." "o eleanor! does mamma know?" "no." "but she will be frightened, if we are not come home." "then you can take the carriage home and tell her; and send the little waggon or my pony for me." "couldn't you send one of the men?" "yes, and then i should have mr. carlisle come after me. no, if i send, you must go." "wouldn't he like it?" "it is no matter whether he would like it or no. i am going to stay. you can do as you please." "i would like to stay!" said julia eagerly. "o eleanor, i want to stay! but mamma would be so frightened. eleanor, do you think it is right?" "it is right for me," said eleanor. "it is the only thing i can do. if it displeased all the world, i should stay. you may choose what you will do. if the horses go home, they cannot come back again; the waggon and old roger, or my pony, would have to come for me--with thomas." julia debated, sighed, shewed great anxiety for eleanor, great difficulty of deciding, but finally concluded even with tears that it would not be _right_ for her to stay. the carriage went home with her and her purchases; thomas, the old coachman, having answered with surprised alacrity to the question, whether he knew where the wesleyan chapel in brompton was. he was to come back for eleanor and be with the waggon there. eleanor herself went to spend the intermediate time before the hour of service, and take tea, at the house of a little lawyer in the town whom her father employed, and whose wife she knew would be overjoyed at the honour thus done her. it was not perhaps the best choice of a resting-place that eleanor could have made; for it was a sure and certain fountain head of gossip; but she was in no mood to care for that just now, and desired above all things, not to take shelter in any house where a message or an emissary from the lodge or the priory would be likely to find her; nor in one where her proceedings would be gravely looked into. at mrs. pinchbeck's hospitable tea-table she was very secure from both. there was nothing but sweetmeats there! mrs. pinchbeck was a lively lady, in a profusion of little fair curls all over her head and a piece of flannel round her throat. she was very voluble, though her voice was very hoarse. indeed she left nothing untold that there was time to tell. she gave eleanor an account of all brompton's doings; of her own; of mr. pinchbeck's; and of the doings of young master pinchbeck, who was happily in bed, and who she declared, when _not_ in bed was too much for her. meanwhile mr. pinchbeck, who was a black-haired, ordinarily somewhat grim looking man, now with his grimness all gilded in smiles, pressed the sweetmeats; and looked his beaming delight at the occasion. eleanor felt miserably out of place; even mrs. pinchbeck's flannel round her throat helped her to question whether she were not altogether wrong and mistaken in her present undertaking. but though she felt miserable, and even trembled with a sort of speculative doubt that came over her, she did not in the least hesitate in her course. eleanor was not made of that stuff. certainly she was where she had no business to be, at mrs. pinchbeck's tea-table, and mr. pinchbeck had no business to be offering her sweetmeats; but it was a miserable necessity of the straits to which she found herself driven. she must go to the wesleyan chapel that evening; she would, _coã»te que coã»te_. _there_ she dared public opinion; the opinion of the priory and the lodge. _here_, she confessed said opinion was right. one good effect of the vocal entertainment to which she was subjected, was that eleanor herself was not called upon for many words. she listened, and tasted sweetmeats; that was enough, and the pinchbecks were satisfied. when the time of durance was over, for she was nervously impatient, and the hour of the chapel service was come, eleanor had not a little difficulty to escape from the offers of attendance and of service which both her host and hostess pressed upon her. if her carriage was to meet her at a little distance, let mr. pinchbeck by all means see her into it; and if it was not yet come, at least let her wait where she was while mr. p. went to make inquiries. or stay all night! mrs. pinchbeck would be delighted. by steady determination eleanor at last succeeded in getting out of the house and into the street alone. her heart beat then, fast and hard; it had been giving premonitory starts all the evening. in a very sombre mood of mind, she made her way in the chill wind along the streets, feeling herself a wanderer, every way. the chapel she sought was not far off; lights were blazing there, though the streets were gloomy. eleanor made a quiet entrance into the warm house, and sat down; feeling as if the crisis of her fate had come. she did not care now about hiding herself; she went straight up the centre aisle and took a seat about half way in the building, at the end of a pew already filled all but that one place. the house was going to be crowded and a great many people were already there, though it was still very early. the warmth after the cold streets, and the silence, and the solitude, after being exposed to mrs. pinchbeck's tongue and to her observation, made a lull in eleanor's mind for a moment. then, with the waywardness of action which thought and feeling often take in unwonted situations, she began to wonder whether it could be right to be there--not only for her, but for anybody. that large, light, plain apartment, looking not half so stately as the saloon of a country house; could that be a proper place for people to meet for divine service? it was better than a barn, still was that a fit _church?_ the windows blank and staring with white glass; the woodwork unadorned and merely painted; a little stir of feet coming in and garments rustling, the only sound. she missed the full swell of the organ, which itself might have seemed to clothe even bare boards. nothing of all that; nothing of what she esteemed dignified, or noble, or sacred; a mere business-looking house, with that simple raised platform and little desk--was eleanor right to be there? was anybody else? poor child, she felt wrong every way, there or not there; but these thoughts tormented her. they tormented her only till mr. rhys came in. when she saw him, as it had been that evening in the barn, they quieted instantly. to her mind he was a guaranty for the righteousness of all in which he was concerned; different as it might be from all to which she had been accustomed. such a guaranty, that eleanor's mind was almost ready to leap to the other conclusion, and account wrong whatever the difference put on another side from him. she watched him now, as he went with a quick step to the pulpit, or platform as she called it, and mounting it, kneeled down beside one of the chairs that stood there. eleanor was accustomed to that action; she had seen clergymen a million of times come into the pulpit, and always kneel; but it was not like this. always an ample cushion lay ready for the knees that sank upon it; the step was measured; the movement slow; every line was of grace and propriety; the full-robed form bowed reverently, and the face was buried in a white cloud of cambric. here, a tall figure, attired only in his ordinary dress, went with quick, decided step up to the place; there dropped upon one knee, hiding his face with his hand; without seeming to care where, and certainly without remembering that there was nothing but an ingrain carpet between his knee and the floor. but eleanor knew what this man was about; and an instant sense of sacredness and awe stole over her, beyond what any organ-peals or richness of gothic work had ever brought. then she rejoiced that she was where she was. to be there, could not be wrong. the house was full and still. the beginning of the service again was the singing; here richer and fuller voiced than it had been in the barn. somebody else made the prayers; to her sorrow; but then mr. rhys rose, and her eye and ear were all for him. she threw back her veil now. she was quite willing that he should see her; quite willing that if he had any message of help or warning for her in the course of his sermon, he should deliver it. he saw her, she knew, immediately. she rather fancied that he saw everybody. it was to be a missionary sermon, eleanor had understood; but she thought it was a very strange one. the text was, "render to caesar the things that are caesar's; and to god the things that are god's." the question was, "what are the lord's things?" mr. rhys seemed to be only talking to the people, as his bright eye went round the house and he went on to answer this question. or rather to suggest answers. jacob's offering of devotion and gratitude was a tenth part of his possessions. "and jacob vowed a vow, saying, if god will be with me, and will keep me in this way that i go, and will give me bread to eat, and raiment to put on, so that i come again to my father's house in peace; then shall the lord be my god: and this stone, which i have set for a pillar, shall be god's house; and of all that thou shalt give me, i will surely give the tenth unto thee." mr. rhys announced this. he did not comment upon it at all. he went on to say, that the commandment given by moses appointed the same offering. "and all the tithe of the land, whether of the seed of the land, or of the fruit of the tree, is the lord's: it is holy unto the lord. and if a man will at all redeem ought of his tithes, he shall add thereto the fifth part thereof. and concerning the tithe of the herd, or of the flock, even of whatsoever passeth under the rod, the tenth shall be holy unto the lord. he shall not search whether it be good or bad, neither shall he change it; and if he change it at all, then both it and the change thereof shall be holy; it shall not be redeemed." so that it appeared, that the least the lord would receive as a due offering to him from his people, was a fair and full tenth part of all they possessed. this was required, from those that were only nominally his people. how about those that render to him heart-service? david's declaration, when laying up provision for the building of the temple, was that _all_ was the lord's. "who am i, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer so willingly after this sort? for all things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee... o lord our god, all this store that we have prepared to build thee an house for thy holy name cometh of thine hand, and is all thine own." and god himself, in the fiftieth psalm, claims to be the one sole owner and proprietor, when he says, "every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills." but some people may think, that is a sort of natural and providential right, which the creator exercises over the works of his hands. come a little closer. "the silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the lord of hosts."--so it was declared by his prophet haggai. and by another of his servants, the lord told the people that their own prospering in the various goods of this world, would be according to their faithfulness in serving him with them. "will a man rob god? yet ye have robbed me. but ye say, wherein have we robbed thee? in tithes and offerings. ye are cursed with a curse; for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation. "bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the lord of hosts, if i will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it." so that it is not grace nor bounty the lord receives at our hands in such offerings; it is simply _his own_. then it must be considered that those were the times of the old dispensation; of an expensive system of sacrifices and temple worship; with a great body of the priesthood to be maintained and supplied in all their services and private household wants. we live in changed times, under a different rule. what do the lord's servants owe him now? the speaker had gone on with the utmost quietness of manner from one of these instances to another; using hardly any gestures; uttering only with slow distinctness and deliberation his sentences one after the other; his face and eye meanwhile commanding the whole assembly. he went on now with the same quietness, perhaps with a little more deliberateness of accentuation, and an additional spark of fire now and then in his glance. there was a widow woman once, who threw into the lord's treasury two mites, which make a farthing; but it was _all her living_. again, we read that among the first christians, "all that believed were together, and had all things common; and sold their possessions and goods, and parted them to all men, as every man had need." "the multitude of them that believed were of one heart, and of one soul; neither said any of them that ought of the things which he possessed was his own; but they had all things common." were these people extravagant? they overwent the judgment of the present day. by what rule shall we try them? christ's rule is, "freely ye have received; freely give." what have we received? friends, "you know the grace of our lord jesus christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich." and the judgment of the old christian church accorded with this; for they said,--"the love of christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead; and that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them, and rose again." were they extravagant? but christ has given us a closer rule to try the question by. he told his disciples, "this is my commandment, that ye love one another, _as i have loved you_." does any one ask how that was? the lord tells us in the next breath. it was no theoretical feeling. "_greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends_." "a new commandment i give unto you, that ye love one another; as i have loved you, that ye also love one another." pausing there in his course, with fire and tenderness breaking out in his face and manner, that gave him a kind of seraphic look, the speaker burst forth into a description of the love of christ, that before long bowed the heads and hearts of his audience as one man. sobs and whispers and smothered cries, murmured from all parts of the church; the whole assembly was broken down, while the preacher stood like some heavenly messenger and spoke his master's name. when he ceased, the suppressed noise of sobs was alone to be heard all over the house. he paused a little, and began again very quietly, but with an added tenderness in his voice, "he that saith he abideth in him, ought himself also so to walk, even as he walked."--"hereby perceive we the love of god, because he laid down his life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren." he paused again; every one there knew that he was ready to act on the principle he enounced; that he was speaking only of what he had proved; and the heads of the assembly bent lower still. does any one ask, what shall we do now? there is no temple to be maintained, nor course of sacrifices to be kept up, nor ceremonial worship, nor levitical body of priests to be supported and fed. what shall we give our lives and our fortunes to now, if we give them? "whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." is the gospel dear to you? is salvation worth having? think of those who know nothing of it; and then think of christ's command, "feed my sheep." they are scattered upon all lands, the sheep that he died for; who shall gather them in? in china they worship a heap of ashes; in india they adore monsters; in fiji they live to kill and eat one another; in africa they sit in the darkness of centuries, till almost the spark of humanity is quenched out. "whosoever shall call upon the name of the lord shall be saved." but "how shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, how beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!" "o zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up into the high mountain: o jerusalem, that bringest good tidings, lift up thy voice with strength; lift it up, be not afraid; say unto the cities of judah, behold your god!" "the spirit and the bride say, come. and let him that heareth say, come. and let him that is athirst come. and whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."---it was in the midst of the deepest stillness, and in low kept-under tones, that the last words were spoken. and when they ceased, a great hush still remained upon the assembly. it was broken by prayer; sweet, solemn, rapt, such as some there had never heard before; such as some there knew well. when mr. rhys had stopped, another began. the whole house was still with tears. there was one bowed heart there, which had divided subjects of consideration; there was one hidden face which had a double motive for being hid. eleanor had been absorbed in the entrancing interest of the time, listening with moveless eyes, and borne away from all her own subjects of care and difficulty on the swelling tide of thought and emotion which heaved the whole assembly. till her own head was bent beneath its power, and her tears sought to be covered from view. she did not move from that attitude; until, lifting her head near the close of the sermon, as soon as she could get it up in fact, that she might see as much as possible of those wonderful looks she might never see again; a slight chance turn of her head brought another idea into her mind. a little behind her in the aisle, standing but a pace or two off, was a figure that for one instant made all eleanor's blood stand still. she could not see it distinctly; she did not see the face of the person at all; it was only the merest glimpse of some outlines, the least line of a coat and vision of an arm and hand resting on a pew door. but if that arm and hand did not belong to somebody she knew, in eleanor's belief it belonged to nobody living. it was not the colour of cloth nor the cut of a dress; it was the indefinable character of that arm and man's glove, seen with but half an eye. but it made her sure that mr. carlisle, in living flesh and blood, stood there, in the wesleyan chapel though it was. eleanor cared curiously little about it, after the first start. she felt set free, in the deep high engagement of her thoughts at the time, and the roused and determined state of feeling they had produced. she did not fear mr. carlisle. she was quite willing he should have seen her there. it was what she wished, that he should know of her doing. and his neighbourhood in that place did not hinder her full attention and enjoyment of every word that was spoken. it did not check her tears, nor stifle the swelling of her heart under the preaching and under the prayers. nevertheless eleanor was conscious of it all the time; and became conscious too that the service would before very long come to a close; and then without doubt that quiet glove would have something to do with her. eleanor did not reason nor stop to think about it. her heart was full, full, under the appeals made and the working of conscience with them; conscience and tenderer feelings, which strove together and yet found no rest; and this action the sight of mr. carlisle rather intensified. were her head but covered by that helmet of salvation, under which others lived and walked so royally secure,--and she could bid defiance to any disturbing force that could meet her, she thought, in this world. it was while eleanor's head was yet bowed, and her heart busy with these struggling feelings, that she heard an invitation given to all people who were not at peace in their hearts and who desired that christians should pray for them,--to come forward and so signify their wish. eleanor did not understand what this could mean; and hearing a stir in the church, she looked up, if perhaps her eyes might give her information. to her surprise she saw that numbers of people were leaving their seats, and going forward to what she would have called the chancel rails, where they all knelt down. all these persons, then, were in like condition with her; unhappy in the consciousness of their wants, and not knowing how to supply them. so many! and so many willing openly to confess it. eleanor's heart moved strangely towards them. and then darted into her head an impulse, quick as lightning and almost as startling, that she should join herself to them and go forward as they were doing. was not her heart mourning for the very same want that they felt? she had reason enough. no one in that room sought the forgiveness of god and peace with him more earnestly than she, nor with a sorer heart; nor felt more ignorant how to gain it. together with that another thought, both of them acting with the swiftness and power of a lightning flash, moved eleanor. would it not utterly disgust mr. carlisle, if she took this step? would he wish to have any more to do with her, after she should have gone forward publicly to ask for prayers in a wesleyan chapel? it would prove to him at least how far apart they were in all their views and feelings. it would clear her way for her; and the next moment, doing it cunningly that she might not be intercepted, eleanor powle slipped out of her seat with a quick movement, just before some one else who was coming up the aisle, and so put that person for that one second of danger between her and the waiting figure whom she knew without looking at. that second was gained, and she went trembling with agitation, yet exultingly, up the aisle and knelt on the low bench where the others were. mr. carlisle and escape from him, had been eleanor's one thought till she got there. but as her knees sank upon the cushion and her head bowed upon the rails, a flood of other feeling swept over her and mr. carlisle was forgotten. the sense of what she was committing herself to--of the open stand she was taking as a sinner, and one who desired to be a forgiven sinner,--overwhelmed her; and her heart's great cry for peace and purity broke forth to the exclusion of everything else. in the confusion of eleanor's mind, she did not know in the least what was going on around her in the church. she did not hear if they were praying or singing. she tried to pray for herself; she knew not what others were doing; till she heard some low whispered words near her. that sound startled her into attention; for she knew the accent of one voice that spoke. the other, if one answered, she could not discern; but she found with a start of mingled fear and pleasure that mr. rhys was speaking separately with the persons kneeling around the rails. she had only time to clear her voice from tears, before that same low whisper came beside her. "what is your difficulty?" "darkness--confusion--i do not see what way to go." "go _no_ way," said the whisper impressively, "until you see clearly. then do what is right. that is the first point. you know that christ is the fountain of light?" "but i see none." "seek him trustingly, and obediently; and then look for the light to come, as you would for the dawning after a dark night. it is sure, if you will trust the lord. his going forth is prepared as the morning. it is sure to come, to all that seek him, trust him, and obey him. seek him in prayer constantly, and in studying your bible; and what you find to be your duty, do; and the lord be with you!" he passed away from eleanor; and presently the whole assembly struck up a hymn. it sounded like a sweet shout of melody at the time; but eleanor could never recall a note of it afterwards. she knew the service was nearly ended, and that in a few minutes she must quit her kneeling, sheltered position, and go out into the world again. she bent her heart to catch all the sweetness of the place and the time; for strange and confused as she felt, there was nevertheless an atmosphere fragrant with peace about both. the hymn came to an end; the congregation were dismissed, and eleanor perforce turned her face to go down the aisle again. her veil was down and she did not look, but she knew without looking just when she reached the spot where mr. carlisle stood. he stood there yet; he had only stepped a little aside to let the stream of people go past him; and now as eleanor came up he assumed his place by her side and put her hand upon his arm as quietly as if he had been waiting there for her by appointment all along. so he led her out to the carriage in waiting for her, helped her into it, and took his place beside her; in silence, but with the utmost gentleness of demeanour. the carriage door was closed, they drove off; eleanor's evening was over, and she was alone with mr. carlisle. chapter xii. at supper. _mar_. "marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan." _sir and_. "o, if i thought that, i'd beat him like a dog." _sir tob_. "what, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?" _sir and_. "i have no exquisite reason for't, but i have reason good enough." what was to come now; as in darkness and silence the carriage rolled over the road towards wiglands? eleanor did not greatly care. she felt set free; outwardly, by her own daring act of separation; inwardly and more effectually perhaps, by the influence of the evening upon her own mind. in her own settled and matured conclusions, she felt that mr. carlisle's power over her was gone. it was a little of an annoyance to have him sitting there; nevertheless eleanor's mind did not trouble itself much with him. leaning back in the carriage, she gave herself up to the impressions of the scene she had been through. her companion was quiet and made no demands upon her attention. she recalled over and over the words, and looks, of the sermon;--the swell of the music--it had been like angel's melody; and the soft words which had been so energetic in their whispered strength as she knelt at the railing. she remembered with fresh wonder and admiration, with what effect the bible words in the first part of the sermon had come upon the audience through that extreme quietness of voice and delivery; and then with what sudden fire and life, as if he had become another man, the speaker had burst out to speak of his master; and how it had swayed and bent the assembly. it was an entirely new view of mr. rhys, and eleanor could not forget it. in general, as she had always seen him, though perfectly at ease in his manners he was very simple and undemonstrative. she had not guessed there was such might in him. it awed her; it delighted her. to live such a life and to do such work as that man lived for,--that was living indeed! that was noble, high, pure; unlike and o how far above all the manner of lives eleanor had ever seen before. and such, in so far as the little may resemble the great, such at least so far as in her sphere and abilities and sadly inferior moral qualities it might lie--such in aim and direction at least, her own life should be. what had she to do with mr. carlisle? eleanor never spoke to him during the long drive, forgetting as far as she could, though a little uneasiness grew upon her by degrees, that he was even present. and he did not speak to her, nor remind her of his presence otherwise than by pulling up the glass on her side when the wind blew in too chill. it was _his_ carriage they were in, eleanor then perceived; and she wanted to ask a question; but on the whole concluded it safe to be still; according to the proverb, _let sleeping dogs lie_. one other time he drew her shawl round her which she had let slip off. mr. carlisle was possessed of large self-control and had great perfection of tact; and he never shewed either more consummately than this night. what he underwent while standing in the aisle of the chapel, was known to himself; he made it known to nobody else. he was certainly silent during the drive; that shewed him displeased; but every movement was calm as ordinary; his care of eleanor was the same, in its mixture of gentle observance and authority. he had laid down neither. eleanor could have wished he had been unable to keep one or the other. would he keep her too, and everything else that he chose? nothing is more subduing in its effect upon others, than evident power of self-command. eleanor could not help feeling it, as she stepped out of the carriage at home, and was led into the house. "will you give me a few minutes, when you have changed your dress?" her conductor asked. it must come, thought eleanor, and as well now as ever; and she assented. mr. carlisle led her in. nobody was in waiting but mrs. powle; and she waited with devouring anxiety. the squire and julia she had carefully disposed of in good time. "eleanor is tired, mrs. powle, and so am i," said mr. carlisle. "will you let us have some supper here, by this fire--and i think eleanor had better have a cup of tea; as i cannot find out the wine that she likes." and as eleanor moved away, he added,--"and let me beg you not to keep yourself from your rest any longer--i will take care of my charge; at least i will try." devoutly hoping that he might succeed to his wishes, and not daring to shew the anxiety he did not move to gratify, mrs. powle took the hint of his gentle dismission; ordered the supper and withdrew. meanwhile eleanor went to her room, relieved at the quiet entrance that had been secured her, where she had looked for a storm; and a little puzzled what to make of mr. carlisle. a little afraid too, if the truth must be known; but she fell back upon mr. rhys's words of counsel--"go no way, till you see clearly; and then do what is right." she took off her bonnet and smoothed her hair; and was about to go down, when she was checked by the remembrance of mr. carlisle's words, "when you have changed your dress." she told herself it was absurd; why should she change her dress for that half hour that she would be up; why should she mind that word of intimation; she called herself a fool for it; nevertheless, while saying these things eleanor did the very thing she scouted at. she put off her riding dress, which the streets of brompton and the chapel aisles had seen that day, and changed it for a light grey drapery that fell about her in very graceful folds. she looked very lovely when she reã«ntered the drawing-room; the medium tint set off her own rich colours, and the laces at throat and wrist were just simple enough to aid the whole effect. mr. carlisle was a judge of dress; he was standing before the fire and surveyed her as she came in; and as eleanor's foot faltered half way in the room, he came forward, took both her hands and led her to the fire, where he set her in a great chair by the supper-table; and then before he let her go, did what he had not meant to do; gave a very frank kiss to the lips that were so rich and pure and so near him. eleanor's heart had sunk a little at perceiving that her mother was not in the room; and this action was far from reassuring. she would rather mr. carlisle had been angry. he was far more difficult to meet in this mood. meanwhile mr. carlisle brought her chair into more convenient neighbourhood to the table, and set a plate before her on which he went on to place whatever he thought fit. "i know what you are wanting," he said;--"but you shall not have a cup of tea unless i see you eat." and eleanor eat, feeling the need of it, and the necessity of doing something likewise. mr. carlisle poured himself out a glass of wine and slowly drank it, watching her. midway set it down; and himself made and poured out and sugared and creamed a cup of tea which he set beside eleanor. it was done in the nicest way possible, with a manner that any woman would like to have wait on her. eleanor tasted, and could not hold her tongue any more. "i did not know this was one of your accomplishments,"--she said without raising her eyes. "for you"--said mr. carlisle. "i believe it will never be exercised for anybody else." he slowly finished his wine while he watched her. he eat nothing himself, though eleanor asked him, till she turned from her plate, and did what she had not done till then but could no longer withhold; let her eyes meet his. "now," said he throwing himself into an opposite chair,--"i will take a cup of tea, if you will make it for me." eleanor blushed--what made her?--as she set about performing this office. the tea was cold; she had to make fresh, and wait till it was ready; and she stood by the table watching and preparing it, while mr. carlisle sat in his chair observing her. eleanor's cheeks flushed more and more. there was something about this little piece of domesticity, and her becoming the servitor in her turn, that brought up things she did not wish to think of. but her neighbour liked what she did not like, for he sat as quiet as a mouse until eleanor's trembling hand offered him the cup. she had to take a step or two for it, but he never stirred to abridge them. eleanor sat down again, and mr. carlisle sipped his tea with an appearance of gratification. "that is a young man of uncommon abilities"--he remarked composedly,--"whom we heard this evening. do you know who he is, eleanor?" eleanor felt as if the sky was falling. "it is mr. rhys--alfred's old tutor--" she answered, in a voice which she felt was dry and embarrassed to the quick ears that heard her. "you have seen him." "i thought i had, somewhere. but that man has power. it is a pity he could not be induced to come into the church--he would draw better houses than dr. cairnes. do you think we could win him over, eleanor?" "i believe--i have heard"--said eleanor, "that he is going away from england. he is going a missionary to some very far away region." she was quite willing mr. carlisle should understand this. "just as well," he answered. "if he would not come into his right place, such a man would only work to draw other persons out of theirs. there is a sort of popular power of speech which wins with the common and uneducated mind. i saw it won upon you, nellie; how was that?" the light tone, in which a smile seemed but half concealed, disconcerted eleanor. she was not ashamed, she thought she was not, but she did not know how to answer. "you are a little _tãªte-montã©e_," he said. "if i had been a little nearer to you to-night, i would have saved you from taking one step; but i did not fancy that you could be so suddenly wrought upon. pray how happened you to be in that place to-night?' "i told you," said eleanor after some hesitation, "that i had an unsatisfied wish of heart which made me uneasy--and you would not believe me." "if you knew how this man could speak, i do not wonder at your wanting to hear him. did you ever hear him before?" "yes," said eleanor, feeling that she was getting in a wrong position before her questioner. "i have heard him once--i wanted to hear him again." "why did you not tell me your wish, that you might gratify it safely, eleanor?" "i supposed--if i did--i should lose my chance of gratifying it at all." "you are a real _tãªte-montã©e_," he said, standing now before her and taking hold lightly and caressingly of eleanor's chin as he spoke. "it was well nobody saw you to-night but me. does my little wife think she can safely gratify many of her wishes without her husband's knowledge?" eleanor coloured brightly and drew herself back. "that is the very thing," she said; "now you are coming to the point. i told you i had wishes with which yours would not agree, and it was better for you to know it before it was too late." "too late for what?" "to remedy a great evil." "there is generally a remedy for everything," said mr. carlisle coolly; "and this sort of imaginative fervour which is upon you is sure to find a cold bath of its own in good time. my purpose is simply in future, whenever you wish to hear another specimen of the kind of oratory we have listened to this evening, to be with you that i may protect you." "protect me from what?" "from going too far, further than you know, in your present _exaltã©e_ state. the lady of rythdale must not do anything unworthy of herself, or of me." "what do you mean, mr. carlisle?" eleanor exclaimed with burning cheeks. but he stood before her quite cool, his arms folded, looking down at her. "do you wish me to speak?" "certainly! i do." "i will tell you then. it would not accord with my wishes to have my wife grant whispered consultations in public to any man; especially a young man and one of insinuating talents, which this one well may be. i could have shot that man, as he was talking to you to-night, eleanor." eleanor put up her hands to her face to hide its colour for a moment. shame and anger and confusion struggled together. _had_ she done anything unworthy of her? others did the same, but they belonged to a different class of persons; had she been where eleanor powle, or even eleanor carlisle, would be out of place? and then there was the contrasted consciousness, how very pleasant and precious that whispered "consultation" had been to her. mr. carlisle stooped and took away her hands from her face, holding them in his own. "eleanor--had that young man anything to do with those unmanageable wishes you expressed to me?" "so far as his words and example set me upon thinking," said eleanor. "but there was nothing in what was said to-night that all the world might not hear." she rose, for it was an uncomfortable position in which her hands were held. "all the world did not hear it, you will remember. eleanor, you are honest, and i am jealous--will you tell me that you have no regard for this young man more than my wife ought to have?" "mr. carlisle, i have never asked myself the question!" exclaimed eleanor with indignant eyes. "if you doubt me, you cannot wish to have anything more to do with me." "call me macintosh," said he drawing her within his arm. eleanor would not. she would have freed herself, but she could not without exerting too much force. she stood silent. "will you tell me," he said in a gentle changed tone, "what words did pass between you and that young man,--that you said all the world might hear?" eleanor hesitated. her head was almost on mr. carlisle's shoulder; his lips were almost at her downcast brow; the brilliant hazel eyes were looking with their powerful light into her face. and she was his affianced wife. was eleanor free? had this man, who loved her, no rights? along with all other feelings, a keen sense of self-reproach stole in again. "macintosh," she said droopingly, "it was entirely about religious matters--that you would laugh at, but would not understand." "indulge me--and try me--" he said pressing his lips first on eleanor's cheek and then on her mouth. she answered in the same tone as before, drooping in his arms as a weary child. "he asked me--as i suppose he asked others--what the difficulties in my mind were,--religious difficulties; and i told him my mind was in confusion and i did not see clearly before me. he advised me to do nothing in the dark, but when i saw duty clear, then to do it. that was what passed." "what did all these difficulties and rules of action refer to?" "everything, i suppose," said eleanor drooping more and more inwardly. "and you do not see, my love, what all this tended to?" "i do not see what you mean." "this is artful proselytism, eleanor. in your brave honesty, in your beautiful enthusiasm, you did not know that the purpose of all this has been, to make a methodist of eleanor powle, and as a necessary preliminary or condition, to break off her promised marriage with me. if that fellow had succeeded, he should have been made to feel my indignation--as it is, i shall let him go." "you are entirely mistaken,--" began eleanor. "am i? have you not been led to doubt whether you could live a right life, and live it with me?" "but would you be willing in everything to let me do as i think right?" "would i let you? you shall do what you will, my darling, except go to whispering conventicles. assuredly i will not let you do that. but when you tell me seriously that you think a thing is wrong, i will never put my will in the way of your conscience. did you think me a mahometan? hey?" "no--but--" "but what?" eleanor only sighed. "i think i have something to forgive to-night, eleanor,--but it is easy to forgive you." and wrapping both arms round her now, he pressed on brow and lip and cheek kisses that were abundantly reconciled. "my presence just saved you to night. eleanor--will you promise not to be naughty any more?--eleanor?--" "i will try," burst out eleanor,--"o i will try to do what is right! i will try to do what is right!" and in bitter uncertainty what that might be, she gave way under the strain of so many feelings, and the sense of being conquered which oppressed her, and burst into tears. still held fast, the only hiding-place for her eyes was mr. carlisle's breast, and they flowed there bitterly though restrained as much as possible. he hardly wished to restrain them; he would have been willing to stand all night with that soft brown head resting like a child's on him. nevertheless he called her to order with words and kisses. "do you know, it is late," he said,--"and you are tired. i must send you off. eleanor! look up. look up and kiss me." eleanor overcame the passion of tears as soon as possible, yet not till a few minutes had passed; and looked up; at least raised her head from its resting-place. mr. carlisle whispered, "kiss me!" how could eleanor refuse? what could she do? though it was sealing allegiance over again. she was utterly humbled and conquered. but there was a touch of pride to be satisfied first. laying one hand on mr. carlisle's shoulder, so as to push herself a little back where she could look him in the face, with eyes glittering yet, she confronted him; and asked, "do you doubt me now?" holding her in both arms, at just that distance, he looked down at her, a smile as calm as brilliant playing all over his face, which spoke perfect content as well as secure possession. but the trust in his eyes was as clear. "no more than i doubt myself," he answered. pride was laid asleep; and yielding to what seemed her fate, eleanor gave the required token of fealty--or subjugation--for so it seemed to her. standing quite still, with bent head and moveless attitude, the slightest smile in the world upon the lips, mr. carlisle's whole air said silently that it was not enough. eleanor yielded again, and once more touched her lips to those of her master. he let her go then; lit her candle and attended her to the foot of the staircase and dismissed her with all care. "i wonder if he is going to stay here himself to-night, and meet me in the morning," thought eleanor as she went up the stairs. "it does not matter--i will go to sleep and forget everything, for a while." would she? there was no sleep for eleanor that night, and she knew it as soon as she reached her room. she set down her candle and then herself in blank despair. what had she done? nothing at all, the stand she had meant to take at the beginning of the evening, she had been unable even to set foot upon. the bold step by which she had thought to set herself free from mr. carlisle, had only laid her more completely at his feet. eleanor got up and walked the room in agony. what had she done? she was this man's promised wife; she had made her own bonds; it was her own doing; he had a right to her, he had claims upon her, he had given his affection to her. had _she_ any rights now, inconsistent with his? must she not fulfil this marriage? and yet, could she do so, feeling as she did? would _that_ be right? for no sooner was eleanor alone than the subdued cry of her heart broke out again, that it could not be. and that cry grew desperate. yet this evening's opportunity had all come to nothing. worse than nothing, for it had laid an additional difficulty in her way. by her window, looking out into the dark night, eleanor stopped and looked at this difficulty. she drew from its lurking-place in the darkness of her heart the question mr. carlisle had suggested, and confronted it steadily. _had_ "that young man," the preacher of this evening, eleanor's really best friend, had he anything to do with her "unmanageable wishes?" _had_ she any regard for him that influenced her mind in this struggle--or that raised the struggle? with fiercely throbbing heart eleanor looked this question for the first time in the face. "no!" she said to herself,--"no! i have not. i have no such regard for him. how debasing to have such a doubt raised! but i _might_ have--i think that is true--if circumstances put me in the way of it. and i think, seeing him and knowing his superior beauty of character--how superior!--has wakened me up to the consciousness of what i do like, and what i like best; and made me conscious too that i do not love mr. carlisle as well as i ought, to be his wife--not as he loves me. _that_ i see now,--too late. oh, mother, mother! why were you in such a hurry to seal this marriage--when i told you, i told you, i was not ready. but then i did not know any more than that. and now i cannot marry him--and yet i shall--and i do not know but i ought. and yet i cannot." eleanor walked her floor or stood by her window that live-long night. it was a night of great agony and distracted searching for relief. where should relief come from? to tell mr. carlisle frankly that she did not bear the right kind of love towards him, she knew would be the vainest of expedients. "he can make me do anything--he would say he can make me love him; and so, perhaps, he could--i believe he would--if i had not seen this other man." and then eleanor drew the contrast between one person and the other; the high, pure, spiritual nobleness of the one, and the social and personal graces and intellectual power of the other, all used for selfish ends. it was a very unprofitable speculation for eleanor; it left her further than ever from the conclusion, and distressed her bitterly. from her mother she knew sadly there was no help to be had. no consideration, of duty or pleasure, would outweigh with her the loss of a splendid alliance and the scandal of breaking off the preparations for it. the sphynx would not look out more calmly over the desert waste of all things, than mrs. powle's fair face would overview a moral desolation more hopeless and more cheerless, if but the pyramid of her ambition were firmly planted there. and eleanor's worst trouble after all was her doubt about duty. if mr. carlisle had not loved her--but he did love her truly and tenderly, and she, however misled, had given him permission. could she now withdraw it? could she do anything but, at whatever risk, go on and meet the obligations she had brought upon herself? nature cried out strongly that it must not be; but conscience and remorse, aided by circumstances, withstood nature, and said it must be no other way. eleanor must marry mr. carlisle and be as good to him as she could. and eleanor's whole soul began to rise up stronger and stronger in protest against it, and cry that she never would marry him. the weary long night seemed but as one thought of pain; and when the morning broke, eleanor felt that she had grown old. chapter xiii. in doubt. "we will have rings, and things, and fine array; and kiss me, kate, we will be married o' sunday." eleanor was too sick to go down even to a late breakfast; and a raging headache kept off any inquiries or remonstrances that mrs. powle might have made to her if she had been well. later in the day her little sister julia came dancing in. "aren't you going to get up, eleanor? what's the matter? i am going to open your window. you are all shut up here." back went the curtain and up went the window; a breath of fresh mild air came sweetly in, and julia danced back to the bedside. there suddenly sobered herself. "eleanor, aren't you better? can't you get up? it is so nice to-day." julia's fresh, innocent, gay manner, the very light play of her waving hair, not lighter than the childlike heart, were almost too much for her sister. they made eleanor's heart ache. "where is everybody?" "nowhere," said julia. "i am all the house. mr. carlisle went home after breakfast; and mamma and alfred are gone in the carriage to brompton; and papa is out somewhere. are you better, nellie?" "i shall never be better!" said eleanor. she turned and hid her face. "oh why, eleanor? what makes you say that? what is the matter? i knew yesterday you were not happy." "i am never going to be happy. i hope you will." "i am happy," said julia. "and you will be. i told mr. rhys you were not happy,--and he said you would be by and by." "julia!" said eleanor raising herself on her elbow and with a colour spreading all over her face,--"don't talk to mr. rhys about me or my concerns! what makes you do such a thing?" "why i haven't anybody else to talk to," said julia. "give me your foot, and i'll put on your stocking. come! you are going to get up. and besides, he thinks a great deal of you, and we pray for you every day." "who?" "he does, and i. come!--give me your foot." "_he, and you!_" said eleanor. "yes," said julia looking up. "we pray for you every day. what's the matter, eleanor?" her hand was laid sorrowfully and tenderly on the shoulder of the sister whose face was again hid from her. but at the touch eleanor raised her head. "you seem a different child, julia, from what you used to be." "what's the matter, nellie?"--very tenderly. "i wish i was different too," said eleanor, springing out of bed; "and i want time to go away by myself and think it out and battle it out, until i know just what is right and am ready to do it; and instead of that, mamma and mr. carlisle have arranged--" "stop and sit down," said julia taking hold of her; "you look white and black and all colours. wait and rest, eleanor." but eleanor would not till she had tried the refreshment of cold water, and had put her beautiful hair in order; then she sat down in her dressing-gown. julia had watched and now stood anxiously beside her. "oh, what _is_ the matter, eleanor?" "i don't know, julia. i do not know what is right." "have you asked god to make you know?" "no," said eleanor, drooping. "that's what mr. rhys always does, so he is never troubled. i will tell you what he says--he says, 'what time i am afraid, i will trust in thee.' then he feels safe, you know." "it is a pity you cannot go to the south seas with mr. rhys. you talk of nothing but him." "i would like to go with him," said julia simply. "but i have learned how to feel safe too, for i trust in jesus too; and i know he will teach me right. so he will teach you, eleanor." eleanor bowed her head on her hands, and wept and wept; but while she wept, resolutions were taking form in her mind. mr. rhys's words came back to her--"go no way, till you see clear." the renewed thought of that helmet of salvation, and of that heavenly guidance, that she needed and longed for; so supremely, so much above everything else; gradually gained her strength to resolve that she would have them at all hazards. she must have time to seek them and to be sure of her duty; and then, she would do it. she determined she would not see mr. carlisle; he would conquer her; she would manage the matter with her mother. eleanor thought it all over, the opposition and the difficulties, and resolved with the strength of desperation. she had grown old during this night. she had a long interval of quiet before her mother came. "well, eleanor! in your dressing-gown yet, and only your hair done! when do you expect to be down stairs? somebody will be here presently and expect to see you." "somebody will be disappointed. my head is splitting, mamma." "i should think it would! after yesterday's gambade, what did mr. carlisle say to you, i should like to know? i thought you would have offended him past forgiveness. i was relieved beyond all expression this morning, at breakfast, when i saw all was right again. but he told me not to scold you, and i will not talk about it." "mamma, if you will take off your bonnet and sit down--i will talk to you about something else." mrs. powle sat down, took her bonnet in her lap, and pushed her fair curls into place. they were rarely out of place; it was more a form than anything else. yet mrs. powle looked anxious; and her anxiety found natural expression as she said, "i wish the twenty-first was to-morrow!" "that is the thing i wish to speak about. mamma, that day, the day for my marriage, has been appointed too early--i feel hurried, and not ready. i want to study my own mind and know exactly what i am doing. i am going to ask you to have it put off." "put it off!--" cried mrs. powle. language contained no other words of equal importance to be spoken in the same breath with those three. "yes. i want it put off." "till when, if you please. it might as well be doomsday at once." "till doomsday, if necessary; but i want it put off. i do not stipulate for so long a time as that," said eleanor putting her hand to her head. "what day would you name, in lieu of the twenty-first? i should like to know how far your arrangements extend." "i want time to collect my thoughts and be ready for so great a change. i want time to study, and think,--and pray. i shall ask for at least three months." "three months! till april! and pray, what has ailed your ladyship not to study and think and pray if you like, all these months that have passed?" "i have no chance. my time is all taken up. i can do nothing, but go round in a whirl--till my head is spinning." "and what will you do in these three months to come? i should like to know all you propose." "i propose to go away from home--somewhere that i can be quiet and alone. then, if there is no reason against it, i promise to come back and fulfil my engagement with mr. carlisle." "eleanor, you are a fool!" burst out her mother. "you are a fool, or worse. how dare you talk such stuff to me? i can hardly believe you serious, only for your face. do you suppose i will think for one moment of such a thing as putting off the day?--and if i would, have you any idea that mr. carlisle would give _his_ assent to it?!" "if you do not, both you and he, i shall break off the marriage altogether." "i dare you to do it!" said mrs. powle. "with the wedding-dresses made, and almost the wedding-cake--every preparation--the whole world to be scandalized and talking at any delay--your family disgraced, and yourself ruined for ever;--and mr. carlisle--eleanor, i think you are crazy! only you sit there with such a wicked face!--" "it is in danger of being wicked," said eleanor, drawing both her hands over it;--"for i warn you, mother, i am determined. i have been hurried on. i will be hurried no further. i will take poison, before i will be married on the twenty-first! as well lose my soul one way as another. you and mr. carlisle must give me time--or i will break the match altogether. i will bear the consequences." "have you spoken to him of this precious arrangement?" "no," said eleanor, her manner failing a little.--"you must do it." "i thought so!" said mrs. powle. "he knows how to manage you, my young lady! which i never did yet. i will just bring him up here to you--and you will be like a whipped child in three minutes. o you know it. i see it in your face. eleanor, i am ashamed of you!" "i will not see him up here, mamma." "you will, if you cannot help it. eleanor i wouldn't try him too far. he is very fond of you--but he will be your husband in a few days; and he is not the sort of man i should like to have displeased with me, if i were you." "he never will, mamma, unless he waits three months for it." "now i will tell you one thing," said mrs. powle rising in great anger--"i can put down my foot too. i am tired of this sort of thing, and i cannot manage you, and i will give you over to one who can. to-day is tuesday--the twenty-first is exactly one fortnight off. well my young lady, _i_ will change the day. next monday i will give you to mr. carlisle, and he will be your master; and i fancy he is not at all afraid to assume the responsibility. he may take you to as quiet a place as he likes; and you may think at your leisure, and more properly than in the way you propose. so, eleanor, you shall be married o' monday." mrs. powle flourished out with her bonnet in her hand. eleanor's first movement was to go after her and turn the key in the door securely; then she threw up the window and flung herself on her face on the bed. her mother was quite capable of doing as she had said, for her fair features covered a not very tender heart. mr. carlisle would second her, no doubt, all the more eagerly for the last night's adventures. could eleanor make head against those two? and between tuesday and monday was very little time to mature plans or organize resistance. her head felt like splitting now indeed, for very confusion. "eleanor," said julia's voice gravely and anxiously, "you will take cold--mayn't i shut the window?" "there's no danger. i am in a fever." "is your head no better?" "i hardly think i have a head. there is nothing there but pain and snapping." "poor eleanor!" said her little sister, standing by the bedside like a powerless guardian angel. "mr. carlisle isn't good, if he wouldn't do what you want him." "do not open the door, julia, if anybody knocks!" "no. but wouldn't he, eleanor, if you were to ask him?" eleanor made no answer. she knew, it needed but a glance at last night's experience to remind her, that she could not make head against mr. carlisle. if he came to talk to her about her proposed scheme, all was lost. suddenly eleanor threw herself off the bed, and began to dress with precipitation. "why, are you better, eleanor?" julia asked in surprise. "no--but i must go down stairs. bring me my blue dress, julia;--and go and get me some geranium leaves--some strong-scented ones. here--go down the back way." no matter for head-splitting. eleanor dressed in haste, but with delicate care; in a dress that mr. carlisle liked. its colour suited her, and its simple make shewed her beauty; better than a more furbelowed one. the aromatic geranium leaves were for her head--but with them julia had brought some of the brilliant red flowers; and fastened on her breast where eleanor could feel their sweetness, they at the same time made a bright touch of adornment to her figure. she was obliged to sit down then and rest; but as soon as she could she went to the drawing-room. there were as usual several people there besides the family; dr. cairnes and miss broadus and her sister making part. entering with a slow quiet movement, most unlike the real hurry of her spirits, eleanor had time to observe how different persons were placed and to choose her own plan of action. it was to slip silently into a large chair which stood empty at mr. carlisle's side, and which favoured her by presenting itself as the nearest attackable point of the circle. it was done with such graceful noiselessness that many did not at the moment notice her; but two persons were quick of vision where she was concerned. mr. carlisle bent over her with delight, and though mrs. powle's fair curls were not disturbed by any sudden motion of her head, her grey eyes dilated with wonder and curiosity as she listened to a story of miss broadus which was fitted to excite neither. eleanor was beyond her, but she concluded that mr. carlisle held the key of this extraordinary docility. eleanor sat very quiet in her chair, looking lovely, and by degrees using up her geranium leaves; with which she went through a variety of manipulations. they were picked to pieces and rubbed to pieces and their aromatic essence crushed out of them with every kind of formality. mr. carlisle finding that she had a headache did not trouble her to talk, and relieved her from attention; any further than his arm or hand mounting guard on her chair constantly gave. for it gathered the broken geranium leaves out of her way and picked them up from her feet. at last his hand came after hers and made it a prisoner. "you have a mood of destructiveness upon you," said he. "see there--you have done to death all the green of your bouquet." "the geranium leaves are good to my head," said eleanor. "i want some more. will you go with me to get them?" it gave her heart a shiver, the hold in which her hand lay. though taken in play, the hold was so very cool and firm. her hand lay there still, for mr. carlisle sat a moment after she spoke, looking at her. "i will go with you--wherever you please," he said; and putting eleanor's hand on his arm they walked off towards the conservatory. this was at some distance, and opened out of the breakfast room. it was no great matter of a conservatory, only pretty and sweet. eleanor began slowly to pull geranium leaves. "you are suffering, eleanor,"--said mr. carlisle. "i do not think of it--you need not. macintosh, i want to ask a favour of you." she turned to him, without raising her eyes, but made the appeal of her whole pretty presence. he drew his arm round her and suspended the business of geranium leaves. "what is it, my darling?" "you know," said eleanor, "that when the twenty-first of december was fixed upon--for what you wished--it was a more hurried day than i would have chosen, if the choice had been left to me. i wanted more time--but you and my mother said that day, and i agreed to it. now, my mother has taken a notion to make it still earlier--she wants to cut off a whole week from me--she wants to make it next monday. don't join with her! let me have all the time that was promised me!" eleanor could not raise her eyes; she enforced her appeal by laying her hand on mr. carlisle's arm. he drew her close up to him, held her fast, stooped his head to hers. "what for, eleanor? laces and plums can be ready as well monday as monday s'ennight." "for myself, macintosh." "don't you think of me?" "no!" said eleanor, "i do not. it is quite enough that you should have your wish after monday s'ennight--i ought to have it before." he laughed and kissed her. he always liked any shew of spirit in eleanor. "my darling, what difference does a week make?" "just the difference of a week; and more than that in my mind. i want it. grant me this favour, mackintosh! i ask it of you." mr. carlisle seemed to find it amazingly pleasant to have eleanor sueing to him for favours; for he answered her as much with caresses as with words; both very satisfied. "you try me beyond my strength, eleanor. your mother offers to give you to me monday--do you think i care so little about this possession that i will not take it a week earlier than i had hoped to have it?" "but the week is mine--it is due to me, macintosh. no one has a right to take it from me. you may have the power; and i ask you not to use it." "eleanor, you break my heart. my love, do you know that i have business calling for me in london?--it is calling for me now, urgently. i must carry you up to london at once; and this week that you plead for, i do not know how to give. if i can go the fifteenth instead of the twenty-second, i must. do you see, nellie?" he asked very tenderly. eleanor hardly saw anything; the world and all in it seemed to be in a swimming state before her eyes. only mr. carlisle's "can's" and "must's" obeyed him, she felt sure, as well as everything else. she felt stunned. holding her on one arm, mr. carlisle began to pluck flowers and myrtle sprays and to adorn her hair with them. it was a labour of love; he liked the business and played with it. the beautiful brown masses of hair invited and rewarded attention. "then my mother has spoken to you?" she said at length. "yes,"--he said, arranging a spray of heath with white blossoms. "do you blame me?" eleanor sought to withdraw herself from his arm, but he detained her. "where are you going?" "up stairs--to my room." "do you forgive me, eleanor?" he said, looking down at her. "no,--i think i do not." he laughed a little, kissing her downcast face. "i will make you my wife, monday, eleanor; and after that i will make you forgive me; and then--my wife shall ask me nothing that she shall not have." keeping her on his arm, he led her slowly from the conservatory, through the rooms, and up the staircase, to the door of her own apartment. eleanor tore out the flowers as soon as she was alone, locked her door, meaning at least not to see her mother that night; took off her dress and lay down. refuge failed her. she was in despair. what could she arrange between tuesday night and monday?--short of taking poison, or absconding privately from the house, and so disgracing both herself and her family. yet eleanor was in such desperation of feeling that both those expedients occurred to her in the course of the night, although only to be rejected. worn-out nature must have some rest however; and towards morning she slept. it was late when she opened her eyes. they fell first upon julia, standing at her bedside. "are you awake, eleanor?" "yes. i wish i could sleep on." "there's news." "news! what sort of news?" said eleanor, feeling that none concerned her. "it's bad news--and yet--for you--it is good news." "what is it, child? speak." "lady rythdale--she is dead." eleanor raised herself on her elbow and stared at julia. "how do you know? how do you know?" she said. "a messenger came to tell us--she died last night. the man came a good while ago, but--" she never finished her sentence; for eleanor threw herself out of bed, exclaiming, "i am saved! i am saved!"--and went down on her knees by the bedside. it was hardly to pray, for eleanor scarce knew how to pray; yet that position seemed an embodiment of thanks she could not speak. she kept it a good while, still as death. julia stood motionless, looking on. "don't think me wicked," said eleanor getting up at last. "i am not glad of anything but my own deliverance. oh, julia!" "poor eleanor!" said her little sister wonderingly. "then you don't want to be married and go to rythdale?" "not monday!" said eleanor. "and now i shall not. it is not possible that a wedding and a funeral should be in one house on the same day. i know which they would put off if they could, but they have got to put off the other. o julia, it is the saving of me!" she caught the little one in her arms and sat with her so, their two heads nestling together, eleanor's bowed upon her sister's neck. "but eleanor, will you not marry mr. carlisle after all?" "i cannot,--for a good while, child." "but then?" "i shall _never_ be married in a hurry. i have got breathing time--time to think. and i'll use it." "and, o eleanor! won't you do something else?" "what?" "won't you be a servant of the lord?" "i will--if i can find out how," eleanor answered low. it poured with rain. eleanor liked it that day, though generally she was no lover of weather that kept her within. a spell of soothing had descended upon her. life was no longer the rough thing it had seemed to her yesterday. a constant drop of thankfulness at her heart kept all her words and manner sweet with its secret perfume. eleanor's temper was always as sound as a nut; but there was now a peculiar grace of gentleness and softness in all she did. she was able to go faultlessly through all the scenes of that day and the following days; through her mother's open discomfiture and half expressed disappointment, and mr. carlisle's suppressed impatience. his manner was perfect too; his impatience was by no word or look made known; grave, quiet, self-contained, he only allowed his affectionateness towards eleanor to have full play, and the expression of that was changed. he did not appeal to her for sympathy which perhaps he had a secret knowledge she could not give; but with lofty good breeding and his invariable tact he took it for granted. eleanor's part was an easy one through those days which passed before mr. carlisle's going up to london. he went immediately after the funeral. it was understood, however, between him and mrs. powle, that the marriage should be delayed no longer than till some time in the spring. then, mr. carlisle declared, he should carry into effect his original plan of going abroad, and take eleanor with him. eleanor heard them talk, and kept silence; letting them arrange it their own way. "for a little while, eleanor!" were the parting words which mr. carlisle's lips left upon hers. and eleanor turned then to look at what was before her. chapter xiv. at the rectory. "the earth has lost its power to drag me downward; its spell is gone; my course is now right upward, and right onward, to yonder throne." she had three months of quiet time. not more; and they would quickly speed away. what she had to do, she could not do too soon. eleanor knew it. the soothed feeling of the first few days gave place to a restless mood almost as soon as mr. carlisle was gone. three years seemed more like what she wanted than three months. she felt ignorant, dark, and unhappy; how was she to clear up this moral mist and see how the plan of life lay, without any hand to lead her or help her? there was only one she knew in the world that could; and from any application to him, or even any chance contact with him, eleanor consciously shrank. _that_ would never do; that must never be heard of her. with all this, she began to dread the disturbing and confusing effects of mr. carlisle's visits to the country. he would come; he had said so; and mrs. powle kept reminding her of it upon every occasion. eleanor had been forbidden to ride alone. she did not dare; she took to long lonely walks. it was only out of doors that she felt quite free; in her own room at home, though never so private, her mother would at any time come with distracting subjects of conversation. eleanor fled to the moor and to the wilds; walked, and rested on the stones, and thought; till she found thinking degenerate into musing; then she started up and went on. she tired herself. she did not find rest. one day she took her course purposely to the ruined priory. it was a long walk; but eleanor courted long walks. and when she got there, musing, it must be confessed, had a good time. she stepped slowly down the grass-grown nave of the old church, recalling with much bitterness the day of her betrothal there; blaming herself, and blaming her mother more. yet at any rate that day she had set seal to her own fate; would she be able, and had she a right,--that was the worst question,--to break it now? she wandered on, out of the church, away from the beautiful old ivied tower, which seemed to look down on her with grave reproach from the staidness of years and wisdom; wound about over and among the piles of shapeless ruin and the bits of lichened and moss-grown walls, yet standing here and there; not saying to herself exactly where she was going, but trying if she could find out the way; till she saw a thicket of thorn and holly bushes that she remembered. yes, the latches too, and the young growth of beech trees. eleanor plunged through this thicket, as well as she could; it was not easy; and there before her was the clear spot of grass, the angle of the thick old wall, and the deep window that she wanted to see again. all still and lonely and wild. eleanor went across and took a seat in the window as she had done once before, to rest and think. and then what she thought of, was not the old monks, nor the exquisite fair view out of the window that had belonged to them; though it was a soft december day, and the light was as winning fair on house and hill and tree-top as if it had been a different season of the year. no cloud in the sky, and no dark shadows upon the earth. but eleanor's thoughts went back to the thunderstorm, and her need then first felt of an inward sunshine that would last in cloudy times. she recalled the talk about the christian's helmet; with a weary, sorrowful, keen renewal of regret at her own want of it. the words mr. rhys had spoken about it at that time she could not very well remember; but well she remembered the impression of them, and the noble, clear calmness of his face and manner. very unlike all other calmness and nobleness that she had seen. the nobleness of one whose head was covered by that royal basnet; the fearlessness of one whose brows were consciously shaded by it. the simplicity that had nothing to feign or conceal; the poise of manner that came from an established heart and conscience. eleanor presently caught herself up. what was she thinking about mr. rhys for? true, the thought of him was very near the thought of his teaching; nevertheless the one thing concerned her, the other did not. did it not? eleanor sighed, and wished she could have a little of his wise guidance; for notwithstanding all she had heard him say, she felt in the dark. in the midst of all this, eleanor heard somebody humming a scrap of a tune on the other side of the holly bushes. another instant told her it was a tune she had heard never but once before, and that once in mr. brooks's barn. there was besides a little rustling of the thorn bushes. eleanor could think of but one person coming to that spot of the ruins; and in sudden terror she sprang from the window and rushed round the other corner of the wall. the tune ceased; eleanor heard no more; but she dared not falter or look back. she was in a thicket on this side too, and in a mass of decayed ruins and rubbish which almost stopped her way. by determination and perseverance, with some knocks and scratches, she at last got free and stopped to breathe and think. why was she so frightened? mr. carlisle. but what should she do now? suppose she set off to walk home; she might be joined by the person she wished to shun; it was impossible to foresee that he would sit an hour meditating in the old window. over against eleanor, a little distance off, only plantations of shrubbery and soft turf between, was the rector's house. best go there and take refuge, and then be guided by circumstances. she went accordingly, feeling sorrowful that she should have to run away from the very person whose counsel of all others she most needed. the door was opened to eleanor by the rector himself. "ha! my dear miss powle," said the good doctor,--"this is an honour to me. i don't know what you will do now, for my sister is away at brompton--will you come in and see an old bachelor like myself?" "if you will let me, sir." "i shall be delighted, my dear miss eleanor! you were always welcome, ever since you were so high; and now that you are going to occupy so important a position here, i do not know a lady in the neighbourhood that deserves so much consideration as yourself. come in--come in! how did you get here?" "taking a long walk, sir. perhaps you will give me some refreshments." "i shall be delighted. come in here, and we will have luncheon together in my study--which was never so honoured before; but i think it is the pleasantest place in the house. the other rooms my sister fills with gimcracks, till i cannot turn round there without fear of breaking something, now my old folios and octavos have tried a fall many a time--and many a one has tried a fall with them--ha! ha!--and no harm to anybody. sit down there now, miss eleanor, and rest. that's what i call a pretty window. you see i am in no danger of forgetting my friend mr. carlisle here." eleanor looked out of the window very steadily; yet she was not refreshing her remembrance of mr. carlisle neither. there were glimpses of a tall, alert figure, passing leisurely in and out among the trees and the ruins; finally coming out into full view and walking with brisk step over the greensward till he was out of sight. eleanor knew it very well, the figure and the quick step; the energy and life in every movement. she heard no more of dr. cairnes for some time; though doubtless he was talking, for he had ordered luncheon and now it was served, and he was pressing her to partake of it. dr. cairnes' cheese was excellent; his hung beef was of prime quality; and the ale was of a superior brand, and the wine which he poured out for eleanor was, he assured her, as its sparkling drops fell into the glass, of a purity and flavour "that even his friend mr. carlisle would not refuse to close his lips upon." eleanor felt faint and weary, and she knew mr. carlisle's critical accuracy; but she recollected at the same time mr. rhys's cool abstinence, and she put the glass of wine away. "_not?_" said the doctor. "you would prefer a cup of chocolate. bad taste, miss eleanor--wine is better for you, too. ladies will sup chocolate, i believe; i wonder what they find in it. the thing is, my sister being away to-day, i don't know--" eleanor begged he would not mind that, nor her; however the chocolate was ordered and in due time brought. "now that will make you dull," said the doctor,--"sleepy. it does not have, even on you, the reviving, brilliant effect of _this_ beverage." and he put the bright glass of wine to his lips. it was not the first filled. "before i get dull, dear doctor, i want to talk to you." "aye?" said the doctor, looking at her over the wine. "you do? what about? say on, miss eleanor. i am yours doubly now, by the past and the future. you may command me." "it is about the present, i wish to talk," said eleanor. "what is it?" "my mind is not at rest," said eleanor, laying her hands in her lap, and looking off again towards the ruins with their green and grey silent reminders,--"about religious subjects." "ah?" said dr. cairnes. "how is that, miss eleanor? be a little more explicit with me, will you not." "i will. dr. cairnes, i am young now, but by and by decay must come to me, as it has come to that old pile yonder--as it comes to everything. i want security for my head and heart when earthly security fails." eleanor spoke slowly, looking out as she spoke all the while. "security!" said the doctor. "but my dear miss eleanor, you know the articles of our holy religion?" "yes,--" she said without stirring her position. "security is given by them, most amply and abundantly, to every sincere applicant. your life has been a sheltered one, miss eleanor, and a kind one; you can have no very grievous sins to charge yourself with." "i would like to get rid of such as i have," answered eleanor without moving. "you were baptized in infancy?" "yes, sir." "you have never been confirmed?" "no, sir." "every baptized child of the church, miss eleanor, owes it to god, to herself, and the church, upon arriving at a proper age, to come forward and openly take upon herself--or himself--but i am talking of you,--the vows made for her in her infancy, at her baptism, by her sponsors. upon doing this, she is received into full membership with the church and entitled to all its privileges; and undoubtedly security is one of them. that is what you want to do, miss eleanor; and i am truly rejoiced that your mind is setting itself to the contemplation of its duties--and responsibilities. in the station you are preparing to occupy, the head of all this neighbourhood--wiglands and rythdale both--it is most important, most important, that your example should be altogether blameless and your influence thrown altogether on the right side. that influence, my dear miss eleanor, is very great." "dr. cairnes, my one single present desire, is to do right and feel safe, myself." "precisely. and to do right, is the way to feel safe. i will give you a little work, preparatory to the ordinance of confirmation, miss eleanor, which i entreat you to study and prayerfully follow. that will relieve all your difficulties, i have no fear. there it is, miss eleanor." "will this rite--will this ordinance," said eleanor closing her fingers on the book and for the first time looking the doctor straight in the face,--"will it give me that helmet of salvation, of which i have heard?" "hey? what is that?" said the doctor. "i have heard--and read--of the christian 'helmet of salvation.' i have seen that a person whose brows are covered by it, goes along fearless, hopeful, and happy, dreading nothing in this life or the next.--will being confirmed, put this helmet upon my head?--make me fearless and happy too?" "my dear miss eleanor, i cannot express how you astonish me. i always have thought you were one of the strongest-hearted persons i knew; and in your circumstances i am sure it was natural--but to your question. the benefit of confirmation, my dear young lady, as well as of every other ordinance of the church, depends of course on the manner and spirit with which we engage in it. there is confirming and strengthening grace in it undoubtedly for all who come to the ordinance in humble obedience, with prayer and faith, and who truly take upon them their vows." "but, dr. cairnes, i might die before i could be confirmed; and i want rest and security now. i do not have it, day nor night. i have not, ever since the time when i was so ill last summer. i want it _now_." "my dear miss eleanor, the only way to obtain security and rest, is in doing one's duty. do your duty now, and it will come. your conscience has taken up the matter, and will have satisfaction. give it satisfaction, and rest will come." "how can i give it satisfaction?" said eleanor sitting up and looking at the doctor. "i feel myself guilty--i know myself exposed to ruin, to death that means death; what can i give to my conscience, to make it be still?" "the church offers absolution for their sins to all that are truly sorry for them," said the doctor. "are you penitent on account of your sins, miss eleanor?" "penitent?--i don't know," said eleanor drooping a little from her upright position. "i feel them, and know them, and wish them away; but if i were penitent, they would be gone, wouldn't they? and they are not gone." "i see how it is," said the doctor. "you have too much leisure to think, and your thoughts are turning in upon themselves and becoming morbid. i think this is undue sensitiveness, my dear miss eleanor. the sins we wish away, will never be made a subject of judgment against us. i shall tell my friend mr. carlisle that his presence is wanted here, for something more important than the interests of the county. i shall tell him he must not let you think too much. i think he and i together can put you right. in the mean while, you read my little book." "dr. cairnes, what i have said to you is said in strict confidence. i do not wish it spoken of, even to my mother." "of course, of course!" said the doctor. "_that_ is all understood. the church never reveals her children's secrets. but i shall only give him a little gentle hint, which will be quite sufficient, i have no doubt; and i shall have just the co-operation that i desire." "how excellent your cheese is, dr. cairnes." "ah! you like it," said the doctor. "i am proud. i always purchase my cheese myself--that is one thing i do not leave to my sister. but this one i think is particularly fine. you won't take a half glass of ale with it?--no,--i know mr. carlisle does not like ale. but it would be a good sequent of your ride, nevertheless." "i did not ride, sir. i walked." "walked from ivy lodge! all this way to see me, miss eleanor?" "no sir--only for a walk, and to see the ruins. then i was driven to take shelter here." "i am very glad of it! i am very glad of it!" said the doctor. "i have not enjoyed my luncheon so much in a year's time; and you delight me too, my dear miss eleanor, by your present dispositions. but walk all the way here! i shall certainly write to mr. carlisle." eleanor's cheeks flushed, and she rose. "not only all the way here, but all the way back again," said she; "so it is time i bade you good bye." the doctor was very anxious to carry her home in the chaise; eleanor was more determined that he should not; and determination as usual carried the day. the doctor shook his head as he watched her off. "are you going to shew this spirit to mr. carlisle?" he said. which remark gave eleanor an impetus that carried her a third of her way home. during the remaining two thirds she did a good deal of thinking; and arrived at the lodge with her mind made up. there was no chance of peace and a good time for her, without going away from home. dr. cairnes' officiousness would be sure to do something to arouse mr. carlisle's watchfulness; and then--"the game will be up," said eleanor to herself. "between his being here and the incessant expectation of him, there will be no rest for me. i must get away." she laid her plans. after dinner she slipped away and sought her father in his study. it was called his study, though very little of that character truly belonged to it. more truly it balanced between the two purposes of a smoking-room and an office; for county business was undoubtedly done there; and it was the nook of retirement where the squire indulged himself in his favoured luxury, the sweet weed. the squire took it pure, in a pipe; no cigars for him; and filling his pipe eleanor found him. she lit the pipe for him, and contrary to custom sat down. the squire puffed away. "i thought you didn't care for this sort of thing, eleanor," he remarked. "are you learning not to mind it already? it is just as well! perhaps your husband will want you to sit with him when he smokes." "i would not do that for any man in the world, papa, except you!" "ho! ho!" said the squire. "good wives, my dear, do not mind trifles. they had better not, at any rate." "papa," said eleanor, whose cheeks were flaming, "do you not think, since a girl must give up her liberty so completely in marrying, that she ought to be allowed a good little taste of it beforehand?" "st. george and the dragon! i do," said the squire. "your mother says it tends to lawlessness--and i say, i don't care. that is not my concern. if a man cannot rule his wife, he had better not have one--that is my opinion; and in your case, my dear, there is no fear. mr. carlisle is quite equal to his duties, or i am mistaken in him." eleanor felt nearly wild under her father's speeches; nevertheless she sat perfectly quiet, only fiery about her cheeks. "then, papa, to come to the point, don't you think in the little time that remains to me for my own, i might be allowed to do what i please with myself?" "i should say it was a plain case," said the squire. "take your pleasure, nellie; i won't tether you. what do you want to do, child? i take it, you belong to me till you belong to somebody else." "papa, i want to run away, and make a visit to my aunt caxton. i shall never have another chance in the world--and i want to go off and be by myself and feel free once more, and have a good time." "poor little duck!" said her father. "you are a sensible girl, nellie. go off; nobody shall hinder you." "papa, unless you back me, mamma and mr. carlisle will not hear of it." "i'd go before he comes down then," said the squire, knocking the ashes out of his pipe energetically. "st. george! i believe that man half thinks, sometimes, that i am one of his tenantry? the lords of rythdale always did lord it over everything that came in their way. now is your only chance, eleanor; run away, if you're a mind to; mr. carlisle is master in his own house, no doubt, but he is not master in mine; and i say, you may go. do him no harm to be kept on short commons for a little while." with a joyful heart eleanor went back to the drawing-room, and sat patiently still at some fancy work till mrs. powle waked up from a nap. "mamma, dr. cairnes wants me to be confirmed." "confirmed!"--mrs. powle echoed the word, sitting bolt upright in her chair and opening her sleepy eyes wide at her daughter. "yes. he says i ought to be confirmed. he has given me a book upon confirmation to study." "i wonder what you will do next!" said mrs. powle, sinking back. "well, go on, if you like. certainly, if you are to be confirmed, it ought to be done before your marriage. i wish anything _would_ confirm you in sober ways." "mamma, i want to give this subject serious study, if i enter into it; and i cannot do it properly at home. i want to go away for a visit." "well?" said mrs. powle, thinking of some cousins in london. "i want to be alone and quiet and have absolute peace for awhile; and this death of lady rythdale makes it possible. i want to go and make a visit to my aunt caxton." "caxton!"--mrs. powle almost screamed. "caxton! _there!_ in the mountains of wales! eleanor, you are perfectly absurd. it is no use to talk to you." "mamma, papa sees no objection." "_he_ does not! so you have been speaking to him! make your own fortunes, eleanor! i see you ruined already. with what favour do you suppose mr. carlisle will look upon such a project? pray have you asked yourself?" "yes, ma'am; and i am not going to consult him in the matter." the tea-equipage and the squire came in together and stopped the conversation. eleanor took care not to renew it, knowing that her point was gained. she took her father's hint, however, and made her preparations short and sudden. she sent that night a word, telling of her wish, to mrs. caxton; and waited but till the answer arrived, waited on thorns, to set off. the squire looked rather moody the next day after his promise to eleanor; but he would not withdraw it; and no other hindrance came. eleanor departed safely, under the protection of old thomas, the coachman, long a faithful servitor in the family. the journey was only part of the distance by railway; the rest was by posting; and a night had to be spent on the road. towards evening of the second day, eleanor began to find herself in what seemed an enchanted region. high mountains, with picturesque bold outlines, rose against the sky; and every step was bringing her deeper and deeper among them, in a rich green meadow valley. the scenery grew only wilder, richer, and lovelier, until the sun sank behind the high western line; and still its loveliness was not lost; while grey shades and duskiness gathered over the mountain sides and gradually melted the meadows and their scattered wood growth into one hue. then only the wild mountain outline cut against the sky, and sometimes the rushing of a little river, told eleanor of the varied beauty the evening hid. little else she could see when the chaise stopped and she got out. dimly a long, low building stretched before her at the side of the road; the rippling of water sounded softly at a little distance; the fresh mountain air blew in her face; then the house-door opened. chapter xv. in the hills. "face to face with the true mountains i stood silently and still, drawing strength from fancy's dauntings, from the air about the hill, and from nature's open mercies, and most debonair good will." the house-door opened first to shew a girl in short petticoats and blue jacket holding up a light. eleanor made towards it, across a narrow strip of courtyard. she saw only the girl, and did not feel certain whether she had come to the right house. for neither mrs. caxton nor her home had ever been seen by any of mr. powle's children; though she was his own sister. but mrs. caxton had married quite out of _mrs_. powle's world; and though now a widow, she lived still the mistress of a great cheese farm; quite out of mrs. powle's world still. the latter had therefore never encouraged intercourse. mrs. caxton was an excellent woman, no doubt, and extremely respectable; still, ivy lodge and the cheese farm were further apart in feeling than in geographical miles; and though mrs. caxton often invited her brother's children to come and pick butter-cups in her meadows, mrs. powle always proved that to gather primroses in rythdale was a higher employment, and much better for the children's manners, if not for their health. the squire at this late day had been unaffectedly glad of eleanor's proposal; avowing himself not ashamed of his sister or his children either. for eleanor herself, she had no great expectation, except of rural retirement in a place where mr. carlisle would not follow her. that was enough. she had heard besides that the country was beautiful, and her aunt well off. as she stepped up now doubtfully to the girl with the light, looking to see whether she were right or wrong, the girl moved a little aside so as to light the entrance, and eleanor passed on, discerning another figure behind. a good wholesome voice exclaimed, "you are welcome, my dear! it is eleanor?" and the next instant mr powle's daughter found herself taken into one of those warm, gentle, genial embraces, that tell unmistakeably what sort of a heart moves the enfolding arms. it was rest and strength at once; and the lips that kissed her--there is a great deal of character in a kiss--were at once sweet and firm. "you have been all day travelling, my dear. you must be in want of rest." there was that sort of clear strength in the voice, to which one gives, even in the dark, one's confidence. eleanor's foot fell more firmly on the tiled floor, as she followed her aunt along a passage or two; a little uncertainty in her heart was quieted; she was ready prepared to expect anything pleasant; and as they turned in at a low door, the expectation was met. the door admitted them to a low-ceiled room, also with a tiled floor, large and light. a good wood fire burned in the quaint chimney-piece; before it a table stood prepared for supper. a bit of carpet was laid down under the table and made a spot of extra comfort in the middle of the floor. dark plain wainscotting, heavy furniture of simplest fashion, little windows well curtained; all nothing to speak of; all joined inexplicably to produce the impression of order, stability and repose, which seized upon eleanor almost before she had time to observe details. but the mute things in a house have an odd way of telegraphing to a stranger what sort of a spirit dwells in the midst of them. it is always so; and mrs. caxton's room assured eleanor that her first notions of its mistress were not ill-founded. she had opportunity to test and strengthen them now, in the full blaze of lamp and firelight; as her aunt stood before her taking off her bonnet and wrappers and handing them over to another attendant with a candle and a blue jacket. in the low room mrs. caxton looked even taller than belonged to her; and she was tall, and of noble full proportions that set off her height. eleanor thought she had never seen a woman of more dignified presence; the head was set well back on the shoulders, the carriage straight, and the whole moral and physical bearing placid and quiet. of course the actual movement was easy and fine; for that is with every one a compound of the physical and moral. scarcely elizabeth fry had finer port or figure. the face was good, and strong; the eyes full of intelligence under the thick dark brows; all the lines of the face kind and commanding. a cap of very plain construction covered the abundant hair, which was only a little grey. nothing else about mrs. caxton shewed age. her dress was simple to quaintness; but, relieved by her magnificent figure, that effect was forgotten, or only remembered as enhancing the other. eleanor sat down in a great leather chair, where she had been put, and looked on in a sort of charmed state; while her aunt moved about the table, gave quiet orders, made quiet arrangements, and finally took eleanor's hand and seated her at the tea-table. "not poppies, nor mandragora" could have had such a power of soothing over eleanor's spirits. she sat at the table like a fairy princess under a friendly incantation; and the spell was not broken by any word or look on the part of her hostess. no questions of curiosity; no endeavours to find out more of eleanor than she chose to shew; no surprise expressed at her mid-winter coming; nor so much pleasure as would have the effect of surprise. so naturally and cordially and with as much simplicity her visit was taken, as if it had been a yearly accustomed thing, and one of mr. powle's children had not now seen her aunt for the first time. indeed so rare was the good sense and kindness of this reception, that eleanor caught herself wondering whether her aunt could already know more of her than she seemed to know; and not caring if she did! yet it was impossible, for her mother would not tell her story, and her father could not; and eleanor came round to admiring with fresh admiration this noble-looking, new-found relation, whose manner towards herself inspired her with such confidence and exercised already such a powerful attraction. and _this_ was the mistress of a cheese-farm! eleanor could not help being moved with a little curiosity on her part. this lady had no children; no near relations; for she was ignored by her brother's family. she lived alone; was she not lonely? would she not wear misanthropical or weary traces of such a life? none; none were to be seen. clear placidness dwelt on the brow, that looked as if nothing ever ruffled it; the eye was full of business and command; and the mouth,--its corners told of a fountain of sweetness somewhere in the region of the heart. eleanor looked, and went back to her cup of tea and her supper with a renewed sense of comfort. the supper was excellent too. it would have belied mrs. caxton's look of executive capacity if it had not been. no fault was to be discerned anywhere. the tea-service was extremely plain and inexpensive; such as mrs. powle could not have used; that was certain. but then the bread, and the mutton chops, and the butter, and even the tea, were such as mrs. powle's china was never privileged to bear. and though mrs. caxton left in the background every topic of doubtful agreeableness, the talk flowed steadily with abundance of material and animation, during the whole supper-time. mrs. caxton was the chief talker. she had plenty to tell eleanor of the country and people in the neighbourhood; of things to be seen and things to be done; so that supper moved slowly, and was a refreshment of mind as well as of body. "you are very weary, my dear," said mrs. caxton, after the table was cleared away, and the talk had continued through all that time. and eleanor confessed it. in the calm which was settling down upon her, the strain of hours and days gone by began to be felt. "you shall go to your room presently," said mrs. caxton; "and you shall not get up to breakfast with me. that would be too early for you." eleanor was going to enter a protest, when her aunt turned and gave an order in welsh to the blue jacket then in the room. and then eleanor had a surprise. mrs. caxton took a seat at a little distance, before a stand with a book; and the door opening again, in poured a stream of blue jackets, three or four, followed by three men and a boy. all ranged themselves on seats round the room, and mrs. caxton opened her book and read a chapter in the bible. eleanor listened, in mute wonder where this would end. it ended in all kneeling down and mrs. caxton offering a prayer. an extempore prayer, which for simplicity, strength, and feeling, answered all eleanor's sense of what a prayer ought to be; though how a woman could speak it before others and before _men_, filled her with astonishment. but it filled her with humility too, before it was done; and eleanor rose to her feet with an intense feeling of the difference between her aunt's character and her own; only equalled by her deep gladness at finding herself under the roof where she was. her aunt then took a candle and lighted her through the tiled passages, up some low wooden stairs, uncarpeted; along more passages; finally into a large low matted chamber, with a row of little lattice windows. comfort and simplicity were in all its arrangements; a little fire burning for her; eleanor's trunks in a closet. when mrs. caxton had shewed her all that was necessary, she set down her candle on the low mantelshelf, and took eleanor in her arms. again those peculiar, gentle firm kisses fell upon her lips. but instead of "good night," mrs. caxton's words were, "do you pray for yourself, eleanor?" eleanor dropped her head like a child on the breast before her. "aunt caxton, i do not know how!" "then the lord jesus has not a servant in eleanor powle?" eleanor was silent, thoughts struggling. "you have not learned to love him, eleanor?" "i have only learned to wish to do it, aunt caxton! i do wish that. it was partly that i might seek it, that i wanted to come here." then eleanor heard a deep-spoken, "praise the lord!" that seemed to come out from the very heart on which she was leaning. "if you have a mind to seek him, my dear, he is willing that you should find. 'the lord is good to the soul that seeketh him.'" she kissed eleanor on the two temples, released her and went down stairs. and eleanor sat down before her fire, feeling as if she were in a paradise. it was all the more so, from the unlikeness of everything that met her eye, to all she had known before. the chimney-piece at which she was looking as she sat there--it was odd and quaint as possible, to a person accustomed only to the modern fashions of the elegant world; the fire-tongs and shovel would have been surely consigned to the kitchen department at ivy lodge. yet the little blazing fire, framed in by its rows of coloured tiles, looked as cheerfully into eleanor's face as any blaze that had ever greeted it. all was of a piece with the fireplace. simple to quaintness, utterly plain and costless, yet with none of the essentials of comfort forgotten or neglected; from the odd little lattice windows to the tiled floor, everything said she was at a great distance from her former life, and mr. carlisle. the room looked as if it had been made for eleanor to settle her two life-questions in it. accordingly she took them up without delay; but eleanor's mind that night was like a kaleidoscope. images of different people and things started up, with wearying perversity of change and combination; and the question, whether she would be a servant of god like her aunt caxton, was inextricably twisted up with the other question; whether she could escape being the baroness of rythdale and the wife of mr. carlisle. and eleanor did nothing but tire herself with thinking that night; until the fire was burnt out and she went to bed. nevertheless she fell asleep with a sense of relief more blissful than she had known for months. she had put a little distance at least between her and her enemies. eleanor had meant to be early next day, but rest had taken too good hold of her; it was long past early when she opened her eyes. the rays of the morning sun were peeping in through the lattices. eleanor sprang up and threw open, or rather threw back, one of the windows, for the lattice slid in grooves instead of hanging on hinges. she would never have found out how to open them, but that one lattice stood slightly pushed back already. when it was quite out of her way, eleanor's breath almost stopped. a view so wild, so picturesque, so rare in its outlines of beauty, she thought she had never seen. before her, at some distance, beyond a piece of broken ground, rose a bare-looking height of considerable elevation, crowned by an old tower massively constructed, broken, and ivy-grown. the little track of a footpath was visible that wound round the hill; probably going up to the tower. further beyond, with evidently a deep valley or gorge between, a line of much higher hills swept off to the left; bare also, and moulded to suit a painter of weird scenes, yet most lovely, and all seen now in the fair morning beams which coloured and lighted them and the old tower together. nothing else. the road indeed by which she had come passed close before eleanor's window; but trees embowered it, though they had been kept down so as not to hinder this distant view. eleanor sat a long while spell-bound before the window. a noise disturbed her. it was one of the blue jackets bringing a tray with breakfast. eleanor eagerly asked if mrs. caxton had taken breakfast; but all she got in return was a series of unintelligible sounds; however as the girl pointed to the sun, she concluded that the family breakfast hour was past. everything strange again! at ivy lodge the breakfast hour lasted till the lagging members of the family had all come down; and here there was no family! how could happiness belong to anybody in such circumstances? the prospect within doors, eleanor suddenly remembered, was yet more interesting than the view without. she eat her breakfast and dressed and went down. but to find the room where she had been the evening before, was more than her powers were equal to. going from one passage to another, turning and turning back, afraid to open doors to ask somebody; eleanor was quite bewildered, when she happily was met by her aunt. the morning kiss and greeting renewed in her heart all the peace of last night. "i cannot find my way about in your house, aunt caxton. it seems a labyrinth." "it will not seem so long. let me shew you the way out of it." through one or two more turnings mrs. caxton led her niece, and opening a door took her out at the other side, the back of the house, where eleanor's eyes had not been. here there was a sort of covered gallery, extending to some length under what was either an upper piazza or the projection of the second story floor. the ground was paved with tiles as usual, and wooden settles stood along the wall, and plain stone pillars supported the roof. but as eleanor's eyes went out further she caught her aunt's hand in ecstasy. from almost the edge of the covered gallery, a little terraced garden sloped down to the edge of a small river. the house stood on a bank above the river, at a commanding height; and on the river's further shore a rich sweep of meadow and pasture land stretched to the right and left and filled the whole breadth of the valley; on the other side of which, right up from the green fields, rose another line of hills. these were soft, swelling, round-topped hills, very different in their outlines from those in another quarter which eleanor had been enjoying from her window. it was winter now, and the garden had lost its glory; yet eleanor could see, for her eye was trained in such matters, that good and excellent care was at home in it; and some delicate things were there for which a slight protection had been thought needful. the river was lost to view immediately at the right; it wound down from the other hand through the rich meadows under a thick embowering bosky growth of trees; and just below the house it was spanned by a rude stone bridge, from which a hedged lane led off on the other side. all along the fences or hedges which enclosed the fields grew also beautiful old trees; the whole landscape was decked with wood growth, though the hills had little or none. all the more the sweet contrast; the rare harmony; the beautiful mingling of soft cultivation with what was wild and picturesque and barren. and the river gurgled on, with a fresh sound that told of its activity; and a very large herd of cows spotted the green turf in some of the meadows on the other side of the stream. "i never saw any place so lovely," exclaimed eleanor; "never!" "this is my favourite walking place in winter," said mrs. caxton; "when i want to walk under shelter, or not to go far from home." "how charming that garden must be when the spring comes!" "are you fond of gardening?" said mrs. caxton. a talk upon the subject followed, in which eleanor perceived with some increase of respect that her aunt was no ignoramus; nay, that she was familiar with delicacies both in the practice and the subjects of horticulture that were not well known to eleanor, in spite of her advantages of the lodge and rythdale conservatories and gardens both together. in the course of this talk, eleanor noticed anew all the indications that had pleased her last night; the calm good sense and self-possession; the quiet dignity; the decision; the kindness. and perhaps mrs. caxton too made her observations. but this was the mistress of the cheese-farm! a pause fell in their talk at length; probably both had matter for reflection. "have you settled that question, eleanor?" said her aunt meaningly. "that question?--o no, aunt caxton! it is all confusion; and it is all confused with another question." there was more than talk in this evidently, for eleanor's face had all darkened. mrs. caxton answered calmly, "my dear, the first thing i would do, would be to separate them." "aunty, they are like two wrestlers; i cannot seem to separate them. if i think of the one, i get hold of he other; and if i take up the other, i am obliged to think of the one; and my mind is the fighting ground." "then the two questions are in reality one?" "no, aunt caxton--they are not. only they both press for attention at once." "which is the most important?" "this one--about which you asked me," eleanor said, drooping her head a little. "then decide that to-day, eleanor." "aunty, i have decided it--in one way. i am determined what i will be--if i can. only i do not see how. and before i do see how,--perhaps--the other question may have decided itself; and then--aunty, i cannot tell you about it to-day. let me wait a few days; till i know you better and you have time to know me." "then, as it is desirable you should lose no time, i shall keep you with me, eleanor. would you like to-morrow to go through the dairies and see the operation of cheese-making? did you ever see it?" "aunt caxton, i know no more about cheese than that i have eaten it sometimes. i would like to go to-morrow, or to-day; whenever you please." "the work is nearly over for to-day." "do they make cheese in your dairy every day, aunt caxton?" "two every day." "but you must have a great number of cows, ma'am?" "there they are," said her aunt, looking towards the opposite meadows. "we milk between forty and fifty at present; there are about thirty dry." "seventy or eighty cows!" exclaimed eleanor. "why aunt caxton, you must want the whole valley for their pasturing." "i want no more than i have," said mrs. caxton quietly. "you see, those meadows on the other side of the river look rich. it is a very good cheese farm." "how far does it extend, aunty?" "all along, the meadowland, as far as you see." "i do not believe there is a pleasanter or prettier home in all the kingdom!" eleanor exclaimed. "how charming, aunt caxton, all this must be in summer, when your garden is in bloom." "there is a way of carrying summer along with us through all the year, eleanor; do you know that?" "do you wear the 'helmet' too?" thought eleanor. "i have no doubt but you do, over that calm brow!" but she only looked wistfully at her aunt, and mrs. caxton changed the conversation. she sat down with eleanor on a settle, for the day was mild and the place sheltered; and talked with her of home and her family. she shewed an affectionate interest in all the details concerning her brother's household and life, but eleanor admired with still increasing and profound respect, the delicacy which stopped every inquiry at the point where delicacy might wish to withhold the answer. the uprightest self-respect went hand in hand with the gentlest regard and respect for others. to this reserve eleanor was more communicative than she could have been to another manner; and on some points her hesitancy told as much, perhaps, as her disclosures on other points; so that mrs. caxton was left with some general idea, if not more, of the home eleanor had lived her life in and the various people who had made it what it was. on all things that touched rythdale eleanor was silent; and so was mrs. caxton. the conversation flowed on to other topics; and the whole day was a gentle entertainment to eleanor. the perpetual good sense, information, and shrewdness of her hostess was matter of constant surprise and interest. eleanor had never talked with anybody who talked so well; and she felt obliged unconsciously all the time to produce the best of herself. that is not a disagreeable exercise; and on the whole the day reeled off on silver wheels. it concluded as the former day had done; and in the warm prayer uttered by her aunt, eleanor could not help feeling there was a pulse of the heart for _her;_ for her darkness and necessities. it sent her to her room touched, and humbled, and reminded; but eleanor's musings this night were no more fruitful of results than those of last night had been. they resolved themselves into a long waking dream. mr. carlisle exercised too much mastery over her imagination, for any other concern to have fair chance till his question was disposed of. would he come to look for her there? it was just like him; but she had a little hope that her mother's pride would prevent his being furnished with the necessary information. that eleanor should be sought and found by him on a cheese farm, the mistress of the farm her own near relation, would not probably meet mrs. powle's notions of what it was expedient to do or suffer. a slender thread of a hope; but that was all. supposing he came? eleanor felt she had no time to lose. she could only deal with mr. carlisle at a distance. in his presence, she knew now, she was helpless. but a vague sense of wrong combated all her thoughts of what she wished to do; with a confused and conflicting question of what was right. she wearied herself to tears with her dreaming, and went to bed to aggravate her troubles in actual dreams; in which the impossible came in to help the disagreeable. chapter xvi. at the farm. "what if she be fastened to this fool lord, dare i bid her abide by her word?" the next morning nevertheless was bright, and eleanor was early down stairs. and now she found that the day was begun at the farmhouse in the same way in which it was ended. a reverent, sweet, happy committing of all her affairs and her friends to god, in the presence and the company of her household, was mrs. caxton's entrance, for her and them, upon the work of the day. breakfast was short and very early, which it had to be if eleanor wanted to see the operations of the dairy; and then mrs. caxton and she went thither; and then first eleanor began to have a proper conception of the magnitude and complication of the business her aunt presided over. the dairies were of great extent, stretching along the ground floor of the house, behind and beyond the covered gallery where she and her aunt had held their first long conversation the day before. tiled floors, as neat as wax; oaken shelves, tubs, vats, baskets, cheese-hoops, presses; all as neat and sweet as it was possible for anything to be, looked like a confusion of affairs to eleanor's eye. however, the real business done that morning was sufficiently simple; and she found it interesting enough to follow patiently every part of the process through to the end. several blue jackets were in attendance; some welsh, some english; each as diligent at her work as if she only had the whole to do. and among them eleanor noticed how admirably her aunt played the mistress and acted the executive head. quietly, simply, as her words were spoken, they were nevertheless words that never failed to be instantly obeyed; and the service that was rendered her was given with what seemed the alacrity of affection, as well as the zeal of duty. eleanor stood by, watching, amused, intent; yet taking in a silent lesson of character all the while, that touched her heart and made her draw a deep breath now and then. the last thing visited was the cheese house, the room where the cheeses were stored for ripening, quite away from all the dairies. here there was a forest of cheeses; standing on end and lying on shelves, in various stages of maturity. "two a day!" said eleanor looking at them. "that makes a wonderful many in the course of the year." "except sundays," said mrs. caxton. "no cheese is made on sunday in my dairy, nor any dairywork done, except milking the cows and setting the milk." "i meant except sundays, of course." "it is not 'of course' here," said mrs. caxton. "the common practice in large dairy-farms is to do the same work on the seventh day that is done all the six." "but that is wrong, aunty, it seems to me." "wrong? of course it is wrong; but the defence is, that it is necessary. if sunday's milk is not made at once into cheese, it must wait till monday; and not only double work must be done then, for monday will have its own milk, but double sets of everything will be needed; tubs and presses and all. so people think they cannot afford it." "well, how can they, aunt caxton? there seems reason in that." "reason for what?" "why, i mean, it seems they have some reason for working on the sabbath--not to lose all that milk. it is one seventh of all they have." mrs. caxton replied in a very quiet manner,--"'thou shalt remember the lord thy god; for it is he that giveth thee power to get wealth.'" "but aunt caxton," said eleanor a little doubtfully,--"he gives it in the use of means?" "do you think he blesses the use of means he has forbidden?" eleanor was silent a moment. "aunt caxton, people do get rich so, do they not?" "'the blessing of the lord, it maketh rich,'" said mrs. caxton, contentedly,--"'and he addeth no sorrow with it.' that is the sort of riches i like best." eleanor did not answer; a kind of moisture came up in her eyes, for she felt poor in those riches. "it is mere want of faith, eleanor, that pleads such a reason," mrs. caxton went on. "it is taking the power to get wealth into our own hands. if it is in god's hands, it is just as easy certainly for him to give it to us in the obedient use of means as in the disobedient use of them; and much more likely that he will. many a man has become poor by his disobedience, for one that has been allowed to prosper awhile in spite of it. if the statistics were made up, men would see. meanwhile, never anybody trusted the lord and was confounded." "then what do you do with the seventh day's milk, aunt caxton?" "i make butter of it. but i would pour it away down the river, eleanor, before i would make it an excuse for disobeying god." this was said without any heat, but as the quietest of conclusions. eleanor stood silent, wondering at her aunt's cheeses and notions together. she was in a new world, surely. yet a secret feeling of respect was every moment mounting higher. "the principle is universally true, eleanor, that the safe way in everything is the way of obedience. consequences are not in our hands. it is only unbelief that would make consequences a reason for going out of the way. 'trust in the lord, and keep his way; so shall he exalt thee to inherit the land.' i have had nothing but prosperity, eleanor, ever since i began the course which my neighbours and servants thought would destroy me." "i wanted to ask you that, aunt caxton;--how it had been." "but my dear," said mrs. caxton, the smile with which she had turned to eleanor fading into placid gravity again,--"if it had been otherwise, it would have made no difference. i would rather be poor, with my lord's blessing, than have all the principality without it." eleanor went away thinking. all this applied to the decision of her own affairs; and perhaps mrs. caxton had intended it should. but yet, how should she decide? to do the thing that was right,--eleanor wished that,--and did not know what it was. her wishes said one thing, and prayed for freedom. a vague, trammelling sense of engagements entered into and expectations formed and pledges given, at times confused all her ideas; and made her think it might be her duty to go home and finish wittingly what she had begun in ignorance what she was doing. it would be now to sacrifice herself. was she called upon to do that? what was right? mrs. caxton never alluded any further to eleanor's private affairs; and eleanor never forgetting them, kept them in the darkness of her own thoughts and did not bring them up to the light and her aunt's eye. only for this drawback, the days would have passed delightfully. the next day was sunday. "we have a long drive to church, eleanor," said her aunt. "how will you go?" "with you, aunty." "i don't know about that; my car has no place for you. are you a horsewoman?" "o aunty, nothing would be so delightful! if you have anything i can ride. nothing would be so delightful. i half live in the saddle at home." "you do? then you shall go errands for me. i will furnish you with a welsh pony." and this very day eleanor mounted him to ride to church. her aunt was in a light car that held but herself and the driver. another vehicle, a sort of dog cart, followed with some of the servants. the day was mild and pleasant, though not brilliant with sunbeams. it made no matter. eleanor could not comprehend how more loveliness could have been crowded into the enjoyment of two hours. on her pony she had full freedom for the use of her eyes; the road was excellent, and winding in and out through all the crookedness of the valley they threaded, she took it at all points of view. nothing could be more varied. the valley itself, rich and wooded, with the little river running its course, marked by a thick embowering of trees; the hills that enclosed the valley taking every form of beauty, sometimes wild and sometimes tame, heathery and barren, rough and rocky, and again rounded and soft. along these hills came into view numberless dwellings, of various styles and sizes; with once in a while a bold castle breaking forth in proud beauty, or a dismantled ruin telling of pride and beauty that had been. eleanor had no one to talk to, and she did not want to talk. on horseback, and on a welsh pony, no black maggie or tippoo, and in these wonderful new strange scenes, she felt free; free from mr. carlisle and his image for the moment; and though knowing that her bondage would return, she enjoyed her freedom all the more. the little pony was satisfactory; and as there was no need of taking a gallop to-day, eleanor had nothing to desire. the ride ended at the loveliest of all picturesque villages; so eleanor thought; nestled in what seemed the termination of the valley. a little village, with the square tower of the church rising up above the trees; all the houses stood among trees; and the river was crossed by a bridge just above, and tore down a precipice just below; so near that its roar was the constant lullaby of the inhabitants. it was the only sound to-day, rising in sabbath stillness over the hills. after all this ride, the service in the little church did not disappoint expectation; it was sound, warm and good; and eleanor mounted her pony and rode home again, almost wishing she could take service with her aunt as a dairymaid forever. all the day was sweet to eleanor. but at the end of it a thought darted into her mind, with the keenness of an arrow. mr. carlisle in a few days more might have learned of her run-away freak and of her hiding-place and have time to come after her. there was a barb to the thought; for eleanor could not get rid of it. she begged the pony the next day, and the next, and went very long rambling rides; in the luxury of being alone. they would have been most delightful, but for the idea that haunted her, and which made her actually afraid to enter the house on her return home. this state of things was not to be borne much longer. "you have let the pony tire you, eleanor," mrs. caxton remarked. it was the evening of the second day, and the two ladies were sitting in the light of the wood fire. "ma'am, he could not do that. i live half my life on horseback at home." "then how am i to understand the long-drawn breaths which i hear from you every now and then?" mrs. caxton was twisting up paper lighters. she was rarely without something in her fingers. eleanor was doing nothing. at her aunt's question she half laughed, and seized one of the strips of paper to work upon. her laugh changed into a sigh. "aunt caxton, do you always find it easy to know what is the right thing to do--in all circumstances?" "i have always infallible counsel that i can take." "you mean the bible? but the bible does not tell one everything." "i mean prayer." "prayer!--but my dear aunt caxton!--" "what is it, my dear?" "i mean, that one wants an answer to one's perplexing questions." "mine never fail of an answer," said mrs. caxton. "if it is to be found in the bible, i find it; if not, i go to the lord, and get it from him." "how, my dear aunt caxton? how can you have an answer----in that way?" "i ask to be directed--and i always am, eleanor; always right. what do you think prayer is good for?" "but aunt caxton!--i never heard of such a thing in my life! please forgive me." "'if any man lack wisdom, let him ask of god, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; _and it shall be given him_.' did you never hear that, eleanor?" "aunty--excuse me,--it is something i know nothing about." "you never had an answer to your own prayers?" "no, ma'am," said eleanor drooping. "my dear, there may be two reasons for that. whoever wishes direction from the lord, must be absolutely willing to follow it, whatever it be--we may not ask counsel of him as we do of our fellow-creatures, bent upon following our own all the while. the lord knows our hearts, and withholds his answer when we ask so." "how do you know what the answer is, aunty?" "it may be given in various ways. sometimes circumstances point it out; sometimes attention is directed to a word in the bible; sometimes, 'thine ears shall hear a voice behind thee, saying, this is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.'" eleanor did not answer; she thought her aunt was slightly fanatical. "there is another reason for not getting an answer, eleanor. it is, not believing that an answer will be given." "aunty, how can one help that?" "by simply looking at what god has promised, and trusting it. 'but let a man ask in faith, nothing wavering. for he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. for let not that man think that he shall receive anything of the lord.'" "aunt caxton, i am exactly like such a wave of the sea. and in danger of being broken to pieces like one." "many a one has been," said mrs caxton. but it was tenderly said, not coldly; and the impulse to go on was irresistible. eleanor changed her seat for one nearer. "aunt caxton, i want somebody's help dreadfully." "i see you do." "do you see it, ma'am?" "i think i have seen it ever since you have been here." "but at the same time, aunty, i do not know how to ask it." "those are sometimes the neediest eases. but i hope you will find a way, my dear." eleanor sat silent nevertheless, for some minutes; and then she spoke in a lowered and changed tone. "aunt caxton, you know the engagements i am under?" "yes. i have heard." "what should a woman do--what is it her duty to do--who finds herself in every way bound to fulfil such engagements, except--" "except what?" "except her own heart, ma'am," eleanor said low and ashamed. "my dear, you do not mean that your heart was not in these engagements when you made them?" "i did not know where it was, aunty. it had nothing to do with them." "where is it now?" "it is not in them, ma'am." "eleanor, let us speak plainly. do you mean that you do not love this gentleman whom you have promised to marry?" eleanor hesitated, covered her face, and hesitated; at last spoke. "aunt caxton, i thought i did;--but i know now i do not; not as i think i ought;--i do not as he loves me." eleanor spoke with burning cheeks, which her aunt could see even in the firelight and though eleanor's hand endeavoured to shield them. "what made you enter into these engagements, my dear?" "the will and power of two other people, aunt caxton--and, i am afraid, now, a little ambition of my own was at work in it. and i liked him too. it was not a person that i did not like. but i did not know what i was doing. i liked him, aunt caxton." "and now it is a question with you whether you will fulfil these engagements?" "yes ma'am,--because i do not wish to fulfil them. i do not know whether i ought, or ought not." mrs. caxton was silent in her turn. "eleanor,--do you like some one else better?" "nobody else likes me better, aunt caxton--there is nothing of that kind--" "still my question is not answered, eleanor. have _you_ more liking for any other person?" "aunt caxton--i do not know--i have seen--i do not know how to answer you!" eleanor said in bitter confusion; then hiding her face she went on--"just so much as this is true, aunt caxton,--i have seen, what makes me know that i do not love mr. carlisle; not as he loves me." mrs. caxton stooped forward, took eleanor's hands down from her face and kissed her. it was a sad, drooping, pained face, hot with shame. "my child," she said, "your honesty has saved you. i could not have advised you, eleanor, if you had not been frank with me. poor child!" eleanor came down on the floor and hid her face in mrs. caxton's lap. her aunt kept one hand softly resting on her hair while she spoke. she was silent first, and then she spoke very tenderly. "you did not know, at the time you engaged yourself to this gentleman, that you were doing him wrong?" "no, ma'am--i thought rather of wrong to myself." "why?" "they were in such a hurry, ma'am." "since then, you have seen what you like better." "yes, ma'am,"--said eleanor doubtfully,--"or what i know i _could_ like better, if there was occasion. that is all." "now the question is, in these circumstances, what is your duty to mr. carlisle." eleanor lifted her head to look into her aunt's face for the decision to come. "the rule of judgment is not far off, eleanor; it is the golden rule. 'whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' my dear, take the case of the person you could like best in the world;--would you have such a person marry you if his heart belonged to somebody else?" "not for the whole world!" said eleanor raising her head which had fallen again. "but aunt caxton, that is not my case. my heart is not anybody's." "put it differently then. would you marry such a man, if you knew that his mere liking for another was stronger than his love for you?" "i think--i would rather die!" said eleanor slowly. "then i think your question is answered." "but aunt caxton, it is not answered. mr. carlisle would not feel so. i know, he would have me marry him, if he knew that my heart was a thousand times another person's--which it is not." "don't alter the case," said mrs. caxton, "except to make it stronger. if he were the right sort of man, he would not have you do so. there is no rule that we should make other people's wishes our standard of right." "but aunt caxton, i have done mr. carlisle grievous wrong. o, i feel that!--" "yes. what then?" "am i not bound to make him all the amends in my power?" "short of doing further wrong. keep right and wrong always clear, eleanor. they never mean the same thing." "aunty, what you must think of me!" "i think of you just now as saved from shipwreck. many a girl has drifted on in the course you were going, without courage to get out of the current, until she has destroyed herself; and perhaps somebody else." "i do not think i had much courage, aunt caxton," said eleanor blushing. "what had you, then?" "it was mainly my horror of marrying that man, after i found i did not love him. and yet, aunt caxton, i do like him; and i am very, very, very sorry! it has almost seemed to me sometimes that i ought to marry him and give him what i can; and yet, if i were ready, i would rather die." "is your doubt settled?" "yes, ma'am,"--said eleanor sadly. "my dear, you have done wrong,--i judge, somewhat ignorantly,--but mischief can never be mended by mischief. to marry one man, preferring another, is the height of disloyalty to both him and yourself; unless you can lay the whole truth before him; and then, as i think, in most cases it would be the height of folly." "i will write to mr. carlisle to-morrow." "and then, eleanor, what was the other question you came here to settle?" "it is quite a different question, aunty, and yet it was all twisted up with the other." "you can tell it me; it will hardly involve greater confidence," said mrs. caxton, bending over and kissing eleanor's brow which rested upon her knee. "eleanor, i am very thankful you came to plassy." the girl rose up and kneeling beside her hid her face in mrs. caxton's bosom. "aunt caxton, i am so glad! i have wanted just this help so long! and this refuge. put your arms both round me, and hold me tight." mrs. caxton said nothing for a little while. she waited for eleanor to take her own time and speak. very still the two were. there were some straining sobs that came from the one and went to the heart of the other; heavy and hard; but with no sound till they were quieted. "aunt caxton," said eleanor at last, "the other question was that one of a refuge." "a heavenly one?" "yes. i had heard of a 'helmet of salvation'--i wanted it;--but i do not know how to get it." "do you know what it is?" "not very clearly. but i have seen it, aunt caxton;--i know it makes people safe and happy. i want it for myself." "safe from what?" "from--all that i feared when i was dangerously ill last summer." "what did you fear, eleanor?" "all the future, aunt caxton. i was not ready, i knew, to go out of this world. i am no better now." they had not changed their relative positions. eleanor's face still lay on her aunt's bosom; mrs. caxton's arms still enfolded her. "bless the lord! there is such a helmet," she said; "but we cannot manufacture it, eleanor, nor even buy it. if you have it at all, you must take it as a free gift." "how do you mean?" "if you are willing to be a soldier of christ, he will give you his armour." "aunt caxton, i do not understand." "it is only to take the promises of god, my dear, if you will take them obediently. jesus has declared that 'whosoever believeth on him, hath everlasting life.'" "but i cannot exactly understand what believing in him means. i am very stupid." eleanor raised her head and looked now in her aunt's face. "do you understand his work for us?" "i do not know, ma'am." "my dear, it is the work of love that was not willing to let us be miserable. while we were yet sinners, christ died for us. he gave himself a ransom for all. he suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to god." "yes, i believe i understand that," said eleanor wearily. "the only question is, whether we will let him bring us. the question is, whether we are willing to accept this substitution of the innocent one for our guilty selves, and be his obedient children. if we are--if we rely on him and his blood only, and are willing to give up ourselves to him, then the blood of jesus christ cleanseth us from all sin. no matter though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. there is no condemnation to them which are in christ jesus, who walk not after the flesh but after the spirit." "but i do not walk so," said eleanor. "do you want to walk so?" "o yes, ma'am! yes!" said eleanor clasping her hands. "i desire it above all possible things. i want to be such a one." "if you truly desire it, my dear, it is certain that you may have what you want; for the lord's will is not different. he died for this very thing, that he might be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in jesus. there is an open door before you; all things are ready; you have only to plead the promises and enter in. the lord himself says, come." "aunt caxton, i understand, i think; but i do not feel; not anything but fear,--and desire." "this is the mere statement of truth, my dear; it is like the altar with the wood laid in readiness and the sacrifice--all cold; and till fire falls down from heaven, no incense will arise from earth. but if any man lack wisdom, let him ask of god, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him." "i am a poor creature, aunt caxton!" said eleanor, hiding her face again. and again mrs. caxton's arm came tenderly round her. and again eleanor's tears flowed, this time in a flood. "certainly you are a poor creature, eleanor. i am glad you are finding it out. but will you flee to the stronghold, you poor little prisoner of hope?" "i think i am rather the prisoner of fear, aunty." "hope is a better gaoler, my deal." "but that is the very thing that i want." "the lord give it you!" they sat a good while in stillness after that, each thinking her own thoughts; or perhaps those of the elder lady took the form of prayers. at last eleanor raised her head and kissed her aunt's lips earnestly. "how good of you to let me come to plassy!" she said. "i shall keep you here now. you will not wish to be at home again for some time." "no, ma'am. no indeed i shall not." "what are you going to do about mr. carlisle?" "i shall write to-morrow. or to-night." "and tell him?--" "the plain truth, aunt caxton. i mean, the truth of the fact, of course. it is very hard!"--said eleanor sorrowfully. "it is doubtless hard; but it is the least of all the choice of evils you have left yourself. write to-night,--and here, if you will. if you can without being disturbed by me." "the sight of you will only help me, aunt caxton. but i did not know the harm i was doing when i entered into all this." "i believe it. go and write your letter." eleanor brought her paper-case and sat down at the table. mrs. caxton ordered other lights and was mutely busy at her own table. not a word was spoken for a good while. it was with a strange mixture of pain and bursting gladness that eleanor wrote the letter which she hoped would set her free. but the gladness was enough to make her sure it ought to be written; and the pain enough to make it a bitter piece of work. the letter was finished, folded, sealed; and with a sigh eleanor closed her paper-case. "what sort of a clergyman have you at home?" mrs. caxton asked. she had not spoken till then. "he is a kind old man--he is a good man," eleanor said, picking for words; "i like him. he is not a very interesting preacher." "did you ever hold any talk with him on your thoughts of hope, and fear?" "i could not, ma'am. i have tried; but i could not bring him to the point. he referred me to confirmation and to doing my duty; he did not help me." "it is not a happy circumstance, that his public teaching should raise questions which his private teaching cannot answer." "o it did not!" said eleanor. "dr. cairnes never raised a question in anybody's mind, i am sure; never in mine." "the light that sprung up in your mind then, came you do not know whence?" "yes, ma'am, i do," said eleanor with a little difficulty. "it came from the words and teaching of a living example. but in me it seems to be only darkness." mrs. caxton said no more, and eleanor added no more. the servants came in to family prayer; and then they took their candies and bade each other an affectionate good night. and eleanor slept that night without dreaming. chapter xvii. at glanog. "for something that abode endued with temple-like repose, an air of life's kind purposes pursued with order'd freedom sweet and fair, a tent pitched in a world not right it seem'd, whose inmates, every one, on tranquil faces, bore the light of duties beautifully done." how did the days pass after that? in restless anxiety, with eleanor; in miserable uncertainty and remorse and sorrow. she counted the hours till her despatch could be in mr. carlisle's hands; then she figured to herself the pain it would cause him; then she doubted fearfully what the immediate effect would be. it might be, to bring him down to plassy with the utmost speed of post-horses; and again eleanor reckoned the stages and estimated the speed at which mr. carlisle's postillions could be made to travel, and the time when it would be possible for this storm to burst upon plassy. that day eleanor begged the pony and went out. she wandered for hours, among unnumbered, and almost unheeded, beauties of mountain and vale; came home at a late hour, and crept in by a back entrance. no stranger had come; the storm had not burst yet; and mrs. caxton was moved to pity all the supper time and hours of the evening, at the state of fear and constraint in which eleanor evidently dwelt. "my dear, did you like this man?" she said when they were bidding each other good night. "mr. carlisle?--yes, very well; if only he had not wanted me to marry him." "but you fear him, eleanor." "because, aunt caxton, he always had a way of making me do just what he wished." "are you so easily governed, eleanor, by one whom you do not love? i should not have thought it." "i do not know how it was, aunty. i had begun wrong, in the first place; i was in a false position;--and lately mr. carlisle has taken it into his head, very unnecessarily, to be jealous; and i could not move a step without subjecting myself to a false imputation." "good night, my dear," said her aunt. "if he comes, i will take all imputations on myself." but mr. carlisle did not come. day passed after day; and the intense fear eleanor had at first felt changed to a somewhat quieter anticipation; though she never came home from a ride without a good deal of circumspection about getting into the house. at last, one day when she was sitting with her aunt the messenger came from the post, and one of those letters was handed to eleanor that she knew so well; with the proud seal and its crest. particularly full and well made she thought this seal was; though that was not so very uncommon, and perhaps she was fanciful; but it was a magnificent seal, and the lines of the outer handwriting were very bold and firm. eleanor's cheeks lost some colour as she opened the envelope, which she did without breaking the bright black wax. her own letter was all the enclosure. the root of wrong even unconsciously planted, will bear its own proper and bitter fruits; and eleanor tasted them that day, and the next and the next. she was free; she was secure from even an attempt to draw her back into the bonds she had broken; when mr. carlisle's pride had taken up the question there was no danger of his ever relenting or faltering; and pride had thrown back her letter of withdrawal in her face. she was free; but she knew she had given pain, and that more feeling was stung in mr. carlisle's heart than his pride. "he will get over it, my dear," said her aunt coolly. but eleanor shed many tears for a day or two, over the wrong she had done. letters from ivy lodge did not help her. "home is very disagreeable now," wrote her little sister julia; "mamma is crying half the day, and the other half she does not feel comfortable--" (a gentle statement of the case.) "and papa is very much vexed, and keeps out of doors the whole time and alfred with him; and mr. rhys is gone away, and i have got nobody. i shouldn't know what to do, if mr. rhys had not taught me; but now i can pray. dear eleanor, do you pray? i wish you were coming home again, but mamma says you are not coming in a great while; and mr. rhys is never coming back. he said so." mrs. powle's letter was in strict accordance with julia's description of matters; desperately angry and mortified. the only comfort was, that in her mortification she desired eleanor to keep away from home and out of her sight; so eleanor with a certain rest of heart in spite of all, prepared herself for a long quiet sojourn with her aunt at the cheese-farm of plassy. mrs. caxton composedly assured her that all this vexation would blow over; and eleanor's own mind was soon fain to lay off its care and content itself in a nest of peace. mrs. caxton's house was that, to anybody worthy of enjoying it; and to eleanor it had all the joy not only of fitness but of novelty. but for a lingering care on the subject of the other question that had occupied her, eleanor would in a little while have been happier than at any former time in her life. how was it with that question, which had pressed so painfully hard during weeks and months past? now that leisure and opportunity were full and broad to take it up and attend to it. so they were; but with the removal of difficulty came in some degree the relaxing of effort; opportunity bred ease. it was so simple a thing to be good at plassy, that eleanor's cry for it became less bitter. mrs. caxton's presence, words, and prayers, kept the thought constant alive; yet with more of soothing and hopeful than of exciting influence; and while eleanor constantly wished she were happy like her, she nevertheless did not fail to be happy in her own way. the aunt and niece were excellently suited to each other, and took abundant delight in each other's company. eleanor found that what had been defective in her own education was in the way to be supplied and made up to her singularly; here, of all places, on a cheese-farm! so it was. to her accomplishments and materials of knowledge, she now found suddenly superadded, the necessity and the practice of thinking. in mrs. caxton's house it was impossible to help it. judgment, conscience, reason, and good sense, were constantly brought into play; upon things already known and things until then not familiar. in the reading of books, of which they did a good deal; in the daily discussion of the newspaper; in the business of every hour, in the intercourse with every neighbour, eleanor found herself always stimulated and obliged to look at things from a new point of view; to consider them with new lights; to try them by a new standard. as a living creature, made and put here to live for something, she felt herself now; as in a world where everybody had like trusts to fulfil and was living mindful or forgetful of his trust. how mindful mrs. caxton was of hers, eleanor began every day with increasing admiration to see more and more. to her servants, to her neighbours, with her money and her time and her sympathies, for little present interests and for world-wide and everlasting ones, mrs. caxton was ever ready, active, watchful; hands full and head full and heart full. that motive power of her one mind and will, eleanor gradually found, was the centre and spring of a vast machinery of good, working so quietly and so beneficently as proved it had been in operation a long, long time. it was a daily deep lesson to eleanor, going deeper and deeper every day. the roots were striking down that would shoot up and bear fruit by and by. eleanor was a sweet companion to her aunt all those months. in her fresh, young, rich nature, mrs. caxton had presently seen the signs of strength, without which no character would have suited her; while eleanor's temper was of the finest; and her mind went to work vigorously upon whatever was presented for its action. mrs. caxton wisely took care to give it an abundance of work; and furthermore employed eleanor in busy offices of kindness and help to others; as an assistant in some of her own plans and habits of good. many a ride eleanor took on the welsh pony, to see how some sick person was getting on, or to carry supplies to another, or to give instruction to another, or to oversee and direct the progress of matters on which yet another was engaged. this was not new work to her; yet now it was done in the presence at least, if not under the pressure, of a higher motive than she had been accustomed to bring to it. it took in some degree another character. eleanor was never able to forget now that these people to whom she was ministering had more of the immortal in them than of even the earthly; she was never able to forget it of herself. and busy and happy as the winter was, there often came over her those weary longings for something which she had not yet; the something which made her aunt's course daily so clear and calm and bright. what sort of happiness would be eleanor's when she got back to ivy lodge? she asked herself that question sometimes. her present happiness was superficial. the spring meanwhile drew near, and signs of it began to be seen and felt, and heard. and one evening mrs. caxton got out the plan of her garden, and began to consider in detail its arrangements, with a view to coming operations. it was pleasant to see mrs. caxton at this work, and to hear her; she was in her element. eleanor was much surprised to find not only that her aunt was her own head gardener, but that she had an exquisite knowledge of the business. "this _sulphurea_ i think is dead," remarked mrs. caxton. "i must have another. eleanor--what is the matter?" "ma'am?" "you are drawing a very long breath, my dear. where did it come from?" the reserve which eleanor had all her life practised before other people, had almost from the first given way before her aunt. "from a thought of home, aunt caxton. i shall not be so happy when i get back there." "the happiness that will not bear transportation, eleanor, is a very poor article. but they will not want you at home." "i am afraid of it." "without reason. you will not go home this spring, my dear; trust me. you are mine for a good long time yet." mrs. caxton was wiser than eleanor; as was soon proved. mrs. powle wrote, desiring her daughter, whatever she did, not to come home then; nor soon. people would think she was come home for her wedding; and questions innumerable would be asked, the mortification of which would be unbearable. whereas, if eleanor kept away, the dismal certainty would by degrees become public, that there was to be no match at all between rythdale and the lodge. "stay away till it all blown over, eleanor," wrote her mother; "it is the least you can do for your family." and the squire even sent a word of a letter, more kind, but to the same effect. he wanted his bright daughter at home, he said; he missed her; but in the circumstances, perhaps it would be best, if her aunt would be so good as to keep her. eleanor carried these letters to mrs. caxton, with a tear in her eye, and an humbled, pained face. "i told you so," said her aunt. "how could people expect that mr. carlisle's marriage would take place three months after the death of his mother? that is what i do not understand." "they arranged it so, and it was given out, i suppose. everything gets known. he was going abroad in the spring, or immediately after; and meant not to go without me." "now you are my child, my dear, and shall help me with my roses," said her aunt kissing her, and taking eleanor in her arms. "eleanor, is that second question settled yet?" "no, aunt caxton." "you have not chosen yet which master you will serve,--the world or the lord?" "o yes, ma'am--i have decided that. i know which i want to be." "but not which you will be." "i mean that, ma'am." "you are not a servant of the lord now, eleanor?" "no, aunt caxton--i don't see how. i am dark." "christ says, 'he that is not with me is against me.' a question that is undecided, decides itself. eleanor, decide this question to-night." "to-night, ma'am?" "yes. i am going to send you to church." "to church! there is no service to-night, aunt caxton." "not at the church where you have been--in the village. there is a little church in the valley beyond mrs. pynce's cottage. you are going there." "i do not remember any. why, aunt caxton, the valley is too narrow there for anything but the road and the brook; the mountains leave no room--hardly room for her house." "you have never been any further. do you not remember a sharp turn just beyond that place?" "yes, i do." "you will see the chapel when you get round the turn." the place mrs. caxton alluded to, was a wild, secluded, most beautiful valley, the bottom of which as eleanor said was almost filled up with the road, and the brook which rushed along its course to meet the river; itself almost as large as another river. where the people could be found to go to a church in such a region, she could not imagine. heather clothed the hills; fairy cascades leaped down the rocks at every turning, lovely as a dream; the whole scene was wild and lonely. hardly any human habitations or signs of human action broke the wild reign of nature all the valley through. eleanor was sure of a charming ride at least, whether there was to be a congregation in the church at the end of it or no; and she prepared herself accordingly. mrs. caxton was detained at home; the car did not go; three or four of the household, men and women, went on ponies as eleanor did. they set off very early, while the light was fair and beautiful yet, for the ride was of some length. it was not on the way to the village; it turned off from the fine high road to a less practised and more uneven track. it was good for horses; and riding in front, a little ahead of her companions, eleanor had the luxury of being alone. why had mrs. caxton bade her "settle that question" to-night? how could she; when her mind was in so much darkness and confusion on the subject? yet eleanor hardly knew specifically what the hindrance was; only it was certain that while she wished and intended to be a christian, she was no nearer the point, so far as she could see, than she had been months ago. nay, eleanor confessed to herself that in the sweet quiet and peace of her aunt's house, and in her own release from pressing trouble, she had rather let all troublesome thoughts slip away from her; so that, though not forgotten, the subject had been less painfully on her mind than through the weeks that went before her coming to plassy. she had wished for leisure and quiet to attend to it and put that pain to rest for ever; and in leisure and quiet she had suffered pain to go to sleep in a natural way and left all the business of dealing with it to be deferred till the time of its waking. how was all this? eleanor walked her pony slowly along, and thought. _then_ she had been freshly under the influence of mr. rhys and his preaching; the very remembrance of which, now and here, stirred her like an alarum bell. ay, and more than that; it wakened the keen longing for that beauty and strength of life which had so shewn her her own poverty. humbled and sad, eleanor walked her pony on and on, while each little crystal torrent that came with its sweet clear rush and sparkle down the rocks, tinkled its own little silver bell note in her ears; a note of purity and action. eleanor had never heard it from them before; now somehow each rushing streamlet, with its bright leap over obstacles and its joyous dash onward in its course, sounded the same note. nothing could be more lovely than these cascades; every one different from the others, as if to shew how many forms of beauty water could take. eleanor noticed and heard them every one and the call of every one, and rode on in a pensive mood till mrs. pynce's cottage was passed and the turn in the valley just beyond opened up a new scene for her. how lovely! how various! the straitened dell spread out gradually from this point into a comparatively broad valley, bordered with higher hills as it widened in the distance. the light still shewed its entrancing beauty; wooded, and spotted with houses and habitations of all kinds; from the very humble to the very lordly, and from the business factories of to-day, back to the ruined strongholds of the time when war was business. wide and delicious the view was, as much as it was unexpected; and spring's softened colouring was all over it. eleanor made a pause of a few seconds as soon as all this burst upon her; her next thought was to look for the church. and it was plain to see; a small dark edifice, in excellent keeping with its situation; because of its colour and its simple structure, which half merged it among the rocks and the hills. "that is the church, john?" eleanor said to mrs. caxton's factotum. "that is it, ma'am. there's been no minister there for a good piece of the year back." "and what place is this?" "there's no _place_, to call it, ma'am. it's the valley of glanog." eleanor jumped off her pony and went into the church. she had walked her pony too much; it was late; the service had begun; and eleanor was taken with a sudden tremor at hearing the voice that was reading the hymn. she had no need to look to see whose it was. she walked up the aisle, seeking a vacant place to sit down, and exceedingly desirous to find it, for she was conscious that she was right under the preacher's eye and observation; but as one never does well what one does in confusion, she overlooked one or two chances that offered, and did not get a seat till she was far forward, in the place of fullest view for both seeing and being seen. and there she sat down, asking herself what should make her tremble so. why had her aunt caxton sent her that evening, alone, to hear mr. rhys preach? and why not? what was there about it? she was very glad, she knew, to hear him; but there would be no more apathy or languor in her mind now on the subject of that question her aunt had desired her to settle. no more. the very sound of that speaker's voice woke her conscience to a sharp sense of what she had been about all these months since she had heard it last. she bent her head in her hand for a little while, in a rushing of thoughts--or ideas--that prevented her senses from acting; then the words the people were singing around her made their entrance into her ear; an entrance opened by the sweet melody. the words were given very plain. "no room for mirth or trifling here, for worldly hope, or worldly fear, if life so soon is gone; if now the judge is at the door, and all mankind must stand before th' inexorable throne! "no matter which my thoughts employ, a moment's misery or joy; but o! when both shall end, where shall i find my destined place? shall i my everlasting days with fiends or angels spend?" eleanor sat cowering before that thought. "now are we going to have a terrible sermon?" was her inward question. she would not look up. the preliminary services were all over, she found, and the preacher rose and gave out his text. "a glorious high throne from the beginning, is the place of our sanctuary." eleanor could not keep her eyes lowered another second. the well-known deliberate utterance, and a little unconscious indefinable ring of the tones in which the words were spoken, brought her eyes to the speaker's face; and they were never turned away again. "do we need a sanctuary?"--was the first question the preacher started; and very quietly he went on to discuss that. very quietly; his manner and his voice were neither in the slightest degree excited; how it was, eleanor did not know, that as he went on a tide of feeling swept over the assembly. she could see it in the evidences of tears, and she heard it in a deep sough of the breath that went all over the house. the preacher was reaching each one's secret consciousness, and stirring into life that deep hidden want of every heart which every heart knew differently. some from sorrow; some from sin; some from weariness; some from loneliness; some from the battle of life; some from the struggle with their own hearts; all, from the wrath to come. nay, eleanor's own heart was throbbing with the sense that he had reached it and touched it, and knew its condition. how was it, that with those quiet words he had bowed every spirit before him, her own among the number? it is true, that in the very containedness of his tones and words there was an evidence of suppressed power; it flashed out once in a while; and wrought possibly with the more effect from the feeling that it was contained and kept down. however it were, the minds of the assembly were already at a high state of tension, when he passed to the other part of his subject--the consideration of the sanctuary. it was no discourse of regular heads and divisions; it is impossible to report, except as to its effects. the preacher's head and heart were both full, and words had no stint. but in this latter part of his subject, the power which had been so contained was let loose, though still kept within bounds. the eye fired now, and the voice quivered with its charge, as he endeavoured to set before the minds of the people the glorious vision which filled his own; to make known to others the "riches of glory" in which his own soul rested and rejoiced. so evidently, that his hearers half caught at what he would shew them, by the catching of sympathy; and from different parts of the house now there went up a suppressed cry, of want, or of exultation, as the case might be, which it was very thrilling to hear. it was the sense of want and pain in eleanor's mind; not spoken indeed except by her countenance; but that toned strongly with the notes of feeling that were uttered around her. as from the bottom of a dark abyss into which he had fallen, a person might look up to the bright sky, of which he could see but a little, which yet would give him token of all the firmamental light and beauty up there which he had not. from her darkness eleanor saw it; saw it in the preacher's face and words; yes, and heard it in many a deep-breathed utterance of gladness or thanksgiving at her side. she had never felt so dark in her life as when she left the church. she rushed away as soon as the service was over, lest any one should speak to her; however she had to wait some time outside the door before john came out. the people all tarried strangely. "beg pardon, ma'am," said john, "but we was waiting a bit to see the minister." eleanor rode home fast, through fair moonlight without and great obscurity within her own spirit. she avoided her aunt; she did not want to speak of the meeting; she succeeded in having no talk about it that i night. chapter xviii. at mrs. powlis's. "i glanced within a rock's cleft breast, a lonely, safely-sheltered nest. there as successive seasons go, and tides alternate ebb and flow, full many a wing is trained for flight in heaven's blue field--in heaven's broad light." the next morning at breakfast eleanor and her aunt were alone as usual. there was no avoiding anything. "did you have a pleasant evening?" mrs. caxton asked. "i had a very pleasant ride, aunt caxton." "how was the sermon?" "it was--i suppose it was very good; but it was very peculiar." "in what way?" "i don't know, ma'am;--it excited the people very much. they could not keep still." "do you like preaching better that does not excite people?" eleanor hesitated. "no, ma'am; but i do not like them to make a noise." "what sort of a noise?" eleanor paused again, and to her astonishment found her own lip quivering and her eyes watering as she answered,--"it was a noise of weeping and of shouting--not loud shouting; but that is what it was." "i have often known such effects under faithful presenting of the truth," said mrs. caxton composedly. "when people's feelings are much moved, it is very natural to give them expression." "for uncultivated people, particularly." "i don't know about the cultivation," said mrs. caxton. "robert hall's sermons used to leave two thirds of his hearers on their feet. i have seen a man in middle life, a judge in the courts, one of the heads of the community in which he lived, so excited that he could not undo the fastenings of his pew door; and he put his foot on the seat and sprang over into the aisle." "do you like such things, aunt caxton?" "i prefer another mode of getting out of church, my dear." "but shouting, or crying out, is what people of refinement would not do, even if they could not open their pew doors." eleanor was a little sorry the moment she had uttered this speech; her spirits were in a whirl of disorder and uncomfortableness, and she had spoken hastily. mrs. caxton answered with great composure. "what do you call those words that you are accustomed to hear, the 'gloria in excelsis'?--'glory be to god on high, and on earth peace, good will towards men. we praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, we glorify thee, we give thanks to thee for thy great glory, o lord god, heavenly king.'" "what do you call it, aunt caxton?" "if it is not a shout of joy, i can make nothing of it. or the one hundred and fiftieth psalm--'o praise god in his holiness; praise him in the firmament of his power. praise him in his noble acts; praise him according to his excellent greatness. praise him in the sound of the trumpet; praise him upon the lute and harp. praise him in the cymbals and dances; praise him upon the strings and pipe. praise him upon the well tuned cymbals; praise him upon the loud cymbals. let everything that hath breath praise the lord.'--what is that but a shout of praise?" "it never sounded like a shout," said eleanor. "it did once, i think," said mrs. caxton. "when was that, ma'am?" "when ezra sang it, with the priests and the people to help him, after they were returned from captivity. then the people shouted with a loud shout, and the noise was heard afar off. all the people shouted with a great shout, when they praised the lord." "but aunt caxton," said eleanor, who felt herself taken down a little, as a secure talker is apt to be by a manner very composed in his opponent--"it is surely the habit of refined persons in these times not to get excited--or not to express their feelings very publicly?" "a very good habit," said mrs. caxton. "nevertheless i have seen a man--a gentleman--and a man in very high standing, in a public assembly, go white with anger and become absolutely speechless, with the strength of passion, at some offence he had taken." "o such passions, of course, will display themselves sometimes," said eleanor. "bad passions often will. they escape control." "i have seen a lady--a lovely and refined lady--faint away at the sudden tidings that a child's life was secure,--whom she had almost given up for lost." "but, dear aunt caxton! you do not call that a parallel case?" "a parallel case with what?" "anybody might be excited at such a thing. you would wonder if they were not." "i do not see the justness of your reasoning, eleanor. a man may turn white with passion, and it is natural; woman may faint with joy at receiving back her child from death; and you are not surprised. but the joy of suddenly seeing eternal life one's own--the joy of knowing that god has forgiven our sins--you think may be borne calmly. i have known people faint under that joy as well." "aunt caxton," said eleanor, her voice growing hoarse, "i do not see how anybody can have it. how can they know their sins are forgiven?" "you may find it in your bible, eleanor; did you never see it there? 'the spirit witnesseth with our spirit, that we are the children of god.'" "but paul was inspired?" "yes, thank god!--to declare that dividend of present joy to all shareholders in the stock of eternal life. but doubtless, only faith can take it out." eleanor sat silent, chewing bitter thoughts. "o this is what these people have!"--she said to herself;--"this is the helmet of salvation! and i am as far from it as ever!" the conversation ended there. eleanor was miserable all day. she did not explain herself; mrs. caxton only saw her preoccupied, moody, and silent. "there is preaching again at glanog to-night," she said a few days afterwards; "i am not yet quite well enough to go. do you choose to go, eleanor?" eleanor looked down and answered yes. she went; and again, and again, and again. sundays or week days, eleanor missed no chance of riding her pony to the little valley church. mrs. caxton generally went with her, after the first week; but going in her car she was no hindrance to the thoughtfulness and solitude of the rides on horseback; and eleanor sometimes wept all the way home, and oftener came with a confused pain in her heart, dull or acute as the case might be. she saw truth that seemed beautiful and glorious to her; she saw it in the faces and lives as well as in the words of others; she longed to share their immunity and the peace she perceived them possessed of; but how to lay hold of it she could not find. she seemed to herself too evil ever to become good; she tried, but her heart seemed as hard as a stone. she prayed, but no relief came. she did not see how she _could_ be saved, while evil had such a hold of her; and to dislodge it she was powerless. eleanor was in a constant state of uneasiness and distress now. her usually fine temper was more easily roughened than she had ever known it; the services she had long been accustomed to render to others who needed her, she felt it now very hard to give. she was dissatisfied with herself and very unhappy, and she said to herself that she was unfit to properly minister to anybody else. she became a comparatively silent and ungenial companion to her aunt. mrs. caxton perhaps understood her; for she made no remark on this change, seemed to take no notice; was as evenly and tenderly affectionate to her niece as ever before, with perhaps a little added expression of sympathy now and then. she did not even ask an explanation of eleanor's manner of getting out of church. eleanor and her aunt, as it happened, always occupied a seat very near the front and almost under the pulpit. it had been eleanor's custom ever since the first time she came there, to slip out of her seat and make her way down the aisle with eager though quiet haste; leaving her aunt to follow at her leisure; and she was generally mounted and off before mrs. caxton reached the front door. during the service always now, eleanor's eyes were fastened upon the preacher; his often looked at her; he recognized her of course; and eleanor had a vague fear that if she were not out of the way he would some time or other come down and accost her. it was an unreasoning fear; she gave no account of it to herself; except that her mind was in an unsettled, out-of-order state, that would not bear questioning; and if he came he would be certain to question her. so eleanor fled and let her aunt do the talking--if any there were. eleanor never asked and never knew. this went on for some weeks. spring had burst upon the hills, and the valleys were green in beauty and flushing with flowers; and eleanor's heart was barren and cold more than she had ever felt it to be. she began to have a most miserable opinion of herself. it happened one night, what rarely happened, that mr. rhys had some one in the pulpit with him. eleanor was sorry; she grudged to have even the closing prayer or hymn given by another voice. but it was so this evening; and when eleanor rose as usual to make her quick way out of the house, she found that somebody else had been quick. mr rhys stood beside her. it was impossible to help speaking. he had clearly come down for the very purpose. he shook hands with eleanor. "how do you do?" he said. "i am glad to see you here. is your mind at rest yet?" "no," said eleanor. however it was, this meeting which she had so shunned, was not entirely unwelcome to her when it came. if anything would make her feel better, or any counsel do her good, se was willing to stand even questioning that might lead to it. mr. rhys's questioning on this occasion was not very severe. he only asked her, "have you ever been to class?" "to what?" said eleanor. "to a class-meeting. you know what that is?" "yes,--i know a little. no, i have never been to one." "i should like to see you at mine. we meet at mrs. powlis's in the village of plassy, wednesday afternoon." "but i could not, mr. rhys. it would not be possible for me to say a word before other people; it would not be possible." "i will try not to trouble you with difficult questions. promise me that you will come. it will not hurt you to hear others speak." eleanor hesitated. "will you come and try?" "yes." "there!" said eleanor to herself as she rode away,--"now i have got my head in a net, and i am fast. i going to such a place! what business have i there?--" and yet there was a sweet gratification in the hope that somehow this new plan might bring her good. but on the whole eleanor disliked it excessively, with all the power of mature and cultivation. for though frank enough to those whom she loved, a proud reserve was eleanor's nature in regard to all others whom she did not love; and the habits of her life were as far as possible at variance with this proposed meeting, in its familiar and social religious character. she could not conceive how people should wish to speak of their intimate feelings before other people. her own shrank from exposure as morbid flesh shrinks from the touch. however, wednesday came. "can i have powis this afternoon, aunt caxton?" "certainly, my dear; no need to ask. powis is yours. are you going to mrs. pynce?" "no ma'am.--" eleanor struggled.--"mr. rhys has made me promise to go to his class. i do not like to go at all; but i have promised." "you will like to go next time," said mrs. caxton quietly. and she said no more than that. "will i?" thought eleanor as she rode away. but if there was anything harsh or troubled in her mood of mind, all nature breathed upon it to soften it. the trees were leafing out again; the meadows brilliant with fresh green; the soft spring airs wooing into full blush and beauty the numberless spring flowers; every breath fragrant with new sweetness. nothing could be lovelier than eleanor's ride to the village; nothing more soothing to a ruffled condition of thought; and she arrived at mrs. powlis's door with an odd kind of latent hopefulness that something good might be in store for her there. her strange and repugnant feelings returned when she got into the house. she was shewn into a room where several other persons were sitting, and where more kept momently coming in. greetings passed between these persons, very frank and cordial; they were all at home there and accustomed to each other and to the business; eleanor alone was strange, unwonted, not in her element. that feeling however changed as soon as mr. rhys came in. where he was, there was at least one person whom she had sympathy, and who had some little degree of sympathy with her. eleanor's feelings were destined to go through a course of discipline before the meeting was over. it began with some very sweet singing. there were no books; everybody knew the words that were sung, and they burst out like a glad little chorus. eleanor's lips only were mute. the prayer that followed stirred her very much. it was so simple, so pure, so heavenward in its aspirations, so human in its humbleness, so touching in its sympathies. for they reached _her_, eleanor knew by one word. and when the prayer was ended, whatever might follow, eleanor was glad she had come to that class-meeting. but what followed she found to be intensely interesting. in words, some few some many, one after another of the persons present gave an account of his progress or of his standing in the christian life. each spoke only when called upon by mr. rhys; and each was answered in his turn with a word of counsel or direction or encouragement, as the case seemed to need. sometimes the answer was in the words of the bible; but always, whatever it were, it was given, eleanor felt, with singular appositeness to the interests before him. with great skill too, and with infinite sympathy and tenderness if need called for it; with sympathy invariably. and eleanor admired the apt readiness and kindness and wisdom with which the answers were framed; so as to suggest without fail the lesson desired to be given, yet so suggest it should be felt by nobody as a imputation or a rebuke. and ever and again the little assembly broke out into a burst of song, a verse or two of some hymn, that started naturally from the last words that had been said. those bursts of song touched eleanor. they were so plainly heartfelt, so utterly glad in their utterances, that she had never head the like. no choir, the best trained in the world, could give such an effect with their voices, unless they were also trained and meet to be singers in heaven. one of the choruses pleased eleanor particularly. it was sung in a wild sweet tune, and with great energy. "there's balm in gilead, to make the wounded whole. there's power enough in jesus- to save a sin-sick soul." it was just after this was finished, that mr rhys in his moving about the room, came and stood before eleanor. he asked her "do you love jesus?" it is impossible to express the shame and sorrow which eleanor answered, "no." "do you wish to be a christian?" eleanor bowed her head. "do you intend to be one?" eleanor looked up, surprised at the wore, and answered, "if i can." "do you think," said he very tenderly, "that you have a right to that '_if_'--when jesus has said, 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _i will give you rest?_'" he turned from her, and again struck the notes they had been singing. "there's balm in gilead to make the wounded whole. there's power enough in jesus to save a sin-sick soul." the closing prayer followed, which almost broke eleanor's heart in two; it so dealt with her and for her. while some of those present were afterward exchanging low words and shakes of the hand, she slipped away and mounted her pony. she was in dreadful confusion during the first part of her ride. half resentful, half broken-hearted. it was the last time, she said to herself, that ever she would be found in a meeting like that. she would never go again; to make herself a mark for people's sympathy and a subject for people's prayers. and yet--surely the human mind seems an inconsistent thing at times,--the thought of that sympathy and those prayers had a touch of sweetness in it, which presently drew a flood of tears from eleanor's eyes. there was one old man in particular, of venerable appearance, who had given a most dignified testimony of faith and happiness, whose "amen!" recurred to her. it was uttered at the close of a petition mr. rhys had made in her favour; and eleanor recalled it now with a strange mixture of feelings. why was she so different from him and from the rest of those good people? she knew her duty; why was it not done? she seemed to herself more hard-hearted and evil than eleanor would formerly have supposed possible of her; she had never liked herself less than she did during this ride home. her mind was in a rare turmoil, of humiliation and darkness and sorrow; one thing only was clear; that she never would go to a class-meeting again! and yet it would be wrong to say that she was on the whole sorry she had gone once, or that she really regretted anything that had been done or said. but this once should suffice her. so she went along, dropping tears from her eyes and letting powis find his way as he pleased; which he was quite competent to do. by degrees her eyes cleared to see how lovely the evening was falling. the air sweet with exhalations from the hedge-rows and meadows, yes and from the more distant hills too; fragrant and balmy. the cattle were going home from the fields; smoke curled up from a hundred chimney tops along the hillsides and the valley bottom; the evening light spread here and there in a broad glow of colour; fair snatches of light were all that in many a place the hills and the bottom could catch. every turn in the winding valley brought a new combination of wonderful beauty into view; and shadows and light, and flower-fragrance, and lowing cattle along the ways, and wreaths of chimney smoke; all spoke of peace. could the spell help reaching anybody's heart? it reached eleanor's; or her mood in some inexplicable way soothed itself down; for when she reached the farmhouse, though she thought of herself in the same humbled forlorn way as ever, her thought of the class-meeting had changed. end of vol. i. printing office of the publisher. [transcriber's note: susan warner (1819-1885), _the old helmet_ (1864), tauchnitz edition 1864, volume 2] the old helmet. by the author of "wide, wide world." authorized edition. in two volumes vol. ii. leipzig bernhard tauchnitz 1864. the old helmet. chapter i. in the spring. "let no one ask me how it came to pass; it seems that i am happy, that to me a livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, a purer sapphire melts into the sea." eleanor could not stay away from the wednesday meetings at mrs. powlis's house. in vain she had thought she would; she determined she would; when the day came round she found herself drawn with a kind of fascination towards the place. she went; and after that second time never questioned at all about it. she went every week. it was with no relief to her mental troubles however. she was sometimes touched and moved; often. at other times she felt dull and hopeless. yet it soothed her to go; and she came away generally feeling inspirited with hope by something she had heard, or feeling at least the comfort that she had taken a step in the right direction. it did not seem to bring her much more comfort. eleanor did not see how she could be a christian while her heart was so hard and so full of its own will. she found it perverse, even now, when she was wishing so much to be different. what hope for her? it was a great help, that during all this time mrs. caxton left her unquestioned and uncounselled. she made no remarks about eleanor's going to class-meeting; she took it as a perfectly natural thing; never asked her anything about it or about her liking it. a contrary course would have greatly embarrassed eleanor's action; as it was she felt perfectly free; unwatched, and at ease. the spring was flushing into mature beauty and waking up all the flowers on the hills and in the dales, when eleanor one afternoon came out to her aunt in the garden. a notable change had come over the garden by this time; its comparatively barren-looking beds were all rejoicing in gay bloom and sending up a gush of sweetness to the house with every stir of the air that way. from the house to the river, terrace below terrace sloped down, brimfull already of blossoms and fragrance. the roses were making great preparations for their coming season of festival; the mats which had covered some tender plants were long gone. tulips and hyacinths and polyanthuses and primroses were in a flush of spring glory now; violets breathed everywhere; the snowy-flowered gooseberry and the red-flowered currant, and berberry with its luxuriant yellow bloom, and the almond, and a magnificent magnolia blossoming out in the arms of its evergreen sister, with many another flower less known to eleanor, made the garden terraces a little wilderness of loveliness and sweetness. near the house some very fine auriculas in pots were displaying themselves. in the midst of all this mrs. caxton was busy, with one or two people to help her and work under direction. planting and training and seed-sowing were going on; and the mistress of the place moved about among her floral subjects a very pleasant representation of a rural queen, her niece thought. few queens have a more queenly presence than mrs. caxton had; and with a trowel in hand just as much as if it were a sceptre. and few queens indeed carry such a calm mind under such a calm brow. eleanor sighed and smiled. "among your auriculas, aunty, as usual!" "among everything," said mrs. caxton. "there is a great deal to do. don't you want to help, eleanor? you may plant gladiolus bulbs--or you may make cuttings--or you may sow seeds. i can find you work." "aunty, i am going down to the village." "o it is wednesday afternoon!" said mrs. caxton. and she came close up to her niece and kissed her, while one hand was full of bulbs and the other held a trowel. "well go, my dear. not at peace yet, eleanor?"-there was so tender a tone in these last words that eleanor could not reply. she dashed away without making any answer; and all along the way to plassy she was every now and then repeating them to herself. "not at peace yet, eleanor?" she was in a tender mood this afternoon; the questions and remarks addressed to the other persons in the meeting frequently moved her to tears, so that she sat with her hand to her brow to hide the watering eyes. she did not dread the appeal to herself, for mr. rhys never asked her any troublesome questions; never anything to which she had to make a troublesome answer; though there might be perhaps matter for thought in it. he had avoided anything, whether in his asking or replying, that would give her any difficulty _there_, in the presence of others,--whatever it might do in her own mind and in secret. to-day he asked her, "have you found peace yet?" "no," said eleanor. "what is the state of your mind--if you could give it in one word?" "confusion." "what is it confused about? do you understand--clearly--the fact that you are a sinner? without excuse?" "fully!" "do you understand--clearly--that christ has suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to god?" "yes. i understand it." "is there any confusion in your mind as to the terms on which the lord will receive you?--forsaking your sins, and trusting in him to pardon and save you?" "no--i see that." "do you think there is any other condition besides those two?" "no." "why do you not accept them?" eleanor raised her eyes with a feeling almost of injustice. "i cannot!"--she said. "that makes no difference. god never gives a command that cannot with his help be fulfilled. there was a man once brought to jesus--carried by foul men; he was palsied, and lay on a litter or bed, unable to move himself at all. to this man the lord said, 'arise, take up thy bed, and walk.' suppose he had looked up and said, 'i cannot?'" eleanor struggled with herself. was this fair? was it a parallel case? she could not tell. she kept silence. mr. rhys went on, with tones subdued to great gentleness. "my friend, jesus invites to no empty board--to no cold reception. on his part all is ready; the unreadiness lies somewhere with you, or the invitation would be accepted. in your case it is not the bodily frame that is palsied; it is the heart; and the command comes to you, sweet as the invitation,--'_give it to me_.' if you are entirely willing, the thing is done. if it be not done, it is because, somewhere, you are not willing--or do not believe. if you can trust jesus, as that poor man did, you may rise up and stand upon your feet this very hour. 'believe ye that i am able to do this?' he asked of the blind man whom he cured." there was silence for an instant. and again, as he turned away from her, mr. rhys broke out with the song, that eleanor thought would break her heart in twain this time,- "how lost was my condition till jesus made me whole; there is but one physician can cure a sin-sick soul. there's balm in gilead- to make the wounded whole. there's power enough in jesus to save a sin-sick soul." eleanor had been the last one spoken to; the meeting soon was ended, and she was on her way home. but so broken-spirited and humiliated that she did not know what to do with herself. could it be possible that she was not _willing_--or that she wanted _faith_--or that there was some secret corner of rebellion in her heart? it humbled her wonderfully to think it. and yet she could not disprove the reasoning. god could not be unfaithful; and if there were not somewhere on her part a failure to meet the conditions, surely peace would have been made before now. and she had thought herself all this while a subject for pity, not for blame; nay, for blame indeed, but not in this regard. her mouth was stopped now. she rode home broken-hearted; would not see mrs. caxton at supper; and spent the evening and much of the night in weeping and self-searching. they were very downcast days that followed this day. mrs. caxton looked at her anxiously sometimes; never interfered with her. towards the end of the week there was preaching at glanog, and the family went as usual. eleanor rode by herself, going and coming, and held no communication with her aunt by the way. but late at night, some time after mrs. caxton had gone to bed, a white-robed figure came into her room and knelt down by the bedside. "is that you, eleanor?" "aunt caxton--it's all gone!" "what?" "my trouble. i came to tell you. it's all gone. i am so happy!" "how is it, my dear child?" "when mr. rhys was preaching to-night, it all came to me; i saw everything clearly. i saw how jesus loves sinners. i saw i had nothing to do but to give myself to him, and he would do everything. i see how sins are forgiven through his blood; and i trust in it, and i am sure mine are; and i feel as if i had begun a new life, aunt caxton!" eleanor's tears flowed like summer rain. mrs. caxton rose up and put her arms round her. "the lord be praised!" she said. "i was waiting for this, eleanor." "aunt caxton, i had been trying and thinking to make myself good first. i thought i was unworthy and unfit to be christ's servant; but now i see that i can be nothing but unworthy, and only he can make me fit for anything; so i give up all, and i feel that he will do all for me. i am so happy! i was so blind before!" mrs. caxton said little; she only rejoiced with eleanor so tenderly as if she had been her own mother. though that is speaking very coolly on the present occasion. mrs. powle had never shewed her daughter so much of that quality in her life, as eleanor's aunt shewed now. the breakfast next morning was unusually quiet. happiness does not always make people talkative. "how do you do, my love?" said mrs. caxton when they were left alone. "after being up half the night?" "more fresh than i have felt for a year, aunt caxton. did you hear that nightingale last night?" "i heard him. i listened to him and thought of you." "he sang--i cannot tell you what his song sounded like to me, aunt caxton. i could almost have fancied there was an angel out there." "there were a great many rejoicing somewhere else. what glory to think of it!" they were silent again till near the end of breakfast; then mrs. caxton said,--"eleanor, i shall be engaged the whole of this morning. this afternoon, if you will, i will go with you into the garden." "this afternoon--is wednesday, aunt caxton." "so it is. well, before or after you go to the village, i want you to dress some dishes of flowers for me--will you?" "with great pleasure, ma'am. and i can get some hawthorn blossoms, i know. i will do it before i go, ma'am." was it pleasant, that morning's work? eleanor went out early to get her sprays of may blossoms; and in the tender beauty of the day and season was lured on and on, and tempted to gather other wild bits of loveliness, till she at last found her hands full, and came home laden with tokens of where she had been. "o'er the muir, amang the heather," eleanor's walk had gone; and her basket was gay with gorse and broom just opening; but from grassy banks on her way she had brought the bright blue speedwell; and clematis and bryony from the hedges, and from under them wild hyacinth and white campion and crane's-bill and primroses; and a meadow she had passed over gave her one or two pretty kinds of orchis, with daisies and cowslips, and grasses of various kinds. eleanor was dressing these in flower baskets and dishes, in the open gallery that overlooked the meadows, when mrs. caxton passing through on her own business stopped a moment to look at her. "all those from your walk, my dear! do you not mean to apply to the garden?" "aunty, i could have got a great many more, if i could have gone into the woods--but my walk did not lie that way. yes, ma'am, i am going into the garden presently, when i have ordered these dishes well. where are they to go, aunt caxton?" "some in one place and some in another. you may leave them here, eleanor, when they are done, and i will take care of them. shall i have the garden flowers cut for you?" "o no, ma'am, if you please!" mrs. caxton stood a moment longer watching eleanor; the pretty work and the pretty worker; the confusion of fair and sweet things around her and under her fingers, with the very fine and fair human creature busy about them. eleanor's face was gravely happy; more bright than mrs. caxton had ever seen it; very much of kin to the flowers. she watched her a moment, and then went nearer to kiss eleanor's forehead. the flowers fell from the fingers, while the two exchanged a look of mute sympathy; then on one part and on the other, business went forward. eleanor's work held her all the morning. for after the wild beauties had been disposed to her mind, there was another turn with their more pretentious sisters of the garden. azaleas and honeysuckles, lilies of the valley, hyacinths and pomponium lilies, with scotch roses and white broom, and others, made superb floral assemblages, out of doors or in; and eleanor looked at her work lovingly when it was done. so went the morning of that day, and eleanor's ride in the afternoon was a fit continuation. may was abroad in the bursting leaves as well as in opening flowers; the breath of eden seemed to sweep down the valley of plassy. ay, there is a partial return to the lost paradise, for those whom christ leads thither, even before we get to the everlasting hills. eleanor this day was the first person addressed in the meeting. it had never happened so before. but now mr. rhys asked her first of all, "how do you do to-day?" eleanor looked up and answered, "well. and all changed." "will you tell us how you mean?" "it was when you were preaching last night. it all i came to me. i saw my mistake, when you told about i the love of christ to sinners. i saw i had been trying to make myself good." "and how is it now?" "now,"--said eleanor looking up again with full eyes,--"i will know nothing but christ." the murmur of thanksgiving heard from one or two voices brought her head down. it had nearly overcome her. but she controlled herself, and presently went on; though not daring to look again into mr. rhys's face, the expression of whose eyes of gladness was harder to meet than the spoken thanksgivings. "i see i have nothing, and am nothing," she said. "i see that christ is all, and will do all for me. i wish to be his servant. all is changed. the very hills are changed. i never saw such colours or such sunlight, as i have seen as i rode along this afternoon." "a true judgment," said mr. rhys. "it has been often said, that the eye sees what the eye brings the means of seeing; and the love of christ puts a glory upon all nature that far surpasses the glory of the sun. it is a changed world, for those who know that love for the first time! friends, most of us profess to have that knowledge. do we have it so that it puts a glory on all the outer world, in the midst of which we live and walk and attend to our business?" "it does to me, sir," said the venerable old man whom eleanor had noticed;--"it does to me. praise the lord!" instead of any other answer they broke out singing,- "o how happy are they who the saviour obey, and have laid up their treasure above. tongue can never express the sweet comfort and peace of a soul in its earliest love." "the way to keep that joy," said mr. rhys returning to eleanor, "and to know more of it, is to take every succeeding step in the christian life exactly as you took the first one;--in self-renunciation, in entire dependence. as ye have received christ jesus the lord, so walk ye in him. it is a simple and humble way, the way along which the heavenly light shines. do everything for christ--do everything in his strength;--and you will soon know that the secret of the lord is with them that fear him. blessed be his name! he giveth power to the faint, and to them that have no might he increaseth strength." it was easy to see that the speaker made a personal application here, with reference to himself; but after that there was no more said directly to eleanor. the subject went round the circle, receiving the various testimony of the persons there. eleanor's heart gave quick sympathy to many utterances, and took home with intent interest the answering counsels and remarks, which in some instances were framed to put a guard against self-deception or mistake. one or two of her neighbours when the exercises were over, came and took her hand, with a warm simple expression of feeling which made eleanor's heart hot; and then she rode home. "did you have a pleasant time?" said her aunt. "aunt caxton, i think that room where we meet is the pleasantest place in the world!" "what do you think of the chapel at glanog?" "i don't know. i believe that is as good or better." "are you too tired to go out again?" "not at all. who wants me?" "nanny croghan is very sick. i have been with her all the afternoon; and jane is going to sit up with her to-night; but jane cannot go yet." "she need not. i will stay there myself. i like it, aunt caxton." "then i will send for you early in the morning." nanny croghan lived a mile or two from the farmhouse. eleanor walked there, attended by john with a basket. the place was a narrow dell between two uprising hills covered with heather; as wild and secluded as it is possible to imagine. the poor woman who lived there alone was dying of lingering disease. john delivered the basket, and left eleanor alone with her charge and the mountains. it was not a night like that she had spent by the bedside of her old nurse's daughter. nanny was dying fast; and she needed something done for her constantly. through all the hours of the darkness eleanor was kept on the watch or actively employed, in administering medicine, or food, or comfort. for when nanny wanted nothing else, she wanted that. "tell me something i can fix my mind onto," she would say. "it seems slipping away from me, like. and then i gets cold with fear." eleanor was new at the business; she had forgotten to bring her bible with her, and she could find none in the house; "her sister had been there," nanny said, "and had carried it away." eleanor was obliged to draw on the slender stores of her memory; and to make the most of those, she was obliged to explain them to nanny, and go them over and over, and pick them to pieces, and make her rest upon each clause and almost each word of a verse. there were some words that surely eleanor became well acquainted with that night. for nanny could sleep very little, and when she could not sleep she wanted talking incessantly. eleanor urged her to accept the promises and she would have the peace. "the secret of the lord is with them that fear him." "ay, but i never did fear him, you see,--till a bit agone; and now it's all fear. i fear furder'n i can see." "nanny, nanny, the blood of christ will take all that fear away--if only you will trust in it. he shed it for you--to pay your debts to justice. there is no condemnation to them which are in him." nanny did not know exactly what so big a word as condemnation meant; eleanor was obliged to explain it; then what was meant by being "in christ." towards morning nanny seemed somewhat soothed and fell into a doze. eleanor went to the cottage door and softly opened it, to see how the night went. the dawn was breaking fair over the hills, the tops of which shewed the unearthly brightness of coming day. it took eleanor's eyes and thoughts right up. o for the night of darkness to pass away from this weary earth! down in the valley the shadows lay thicker; how thick they lay about the poor head just now resting in sleep. how thick they lay but a day or two ago upon eleanor herself! now she looked up. the light was flushing upon the mountain tops every moment stronger. the dewy scents of the may morning were filling the air with their nameless and numberless tokens of rich nature's bounty. the voice of a cataract, close at hand, made merry down the rocks along with the song of the blackbird, woodpecker and titmouse. and still, as eleanor stood there and looked and listened, the rush and the stir of sweet life grew more and more; the spring breeze wakened up and floated past her face bringing the breath of the flowers fresher and nearer; and the hill tops ever kindled into more and more glow. "it is spring! and it is day!" thought eleanor,--"and so it is in my heart. the darkness is gone; the light is like that light,--promising more; my life is full of sweetness i never knew. surely this month shall be the month of months to me for ever. o for this day--o for this morning--to waken over all the world!" she stood there, for nanny still slept, till the sunbeams struck the hills and crept down the sides of them; and till john and jane came in sight round the angle of the road. john had brought the pony to take eleanor home; and a few minutes' ride brought her there. morning prayers were however done, before eleanor could refresh herself with cold water and a change of dress. when she came down to the sitting-room mrs. caxton had stepped out on some business; and in her place, sitting alone with a book, eleanor was greatly surprised to see mr. rhys. he was not at all surprised to see her; rose up and gave her a very cordial grasp of the hand, and stirred up the wood fire; which, may morning though it was, the thick walls of the old stone house and the neighbourhood of the mountains made useful and agreeable. in silence and with a good deal of skill mr. rhys laid the logs together so that a fresh blaze sprang up; then after a remark upon the morning he went back to his book. eleanor sat down, also silent, feeling very much delighted to see him there, and to think that they would have his company at breakfast; but not at all inclined, nor indeed competent, to open a conversation. she looked into the fire and wondered at the turns that had brought about this meeting; wondered over the past year of her life; remembered her longing for the "helmet of salvation" which her acquaintance with mr. rhys had begun; and sang for joy in her heart that now she had it. yes, it was hers, she believed; a deep rest and peace had taken place of craving and anxiety, such as even now disturbed poor dying nanny. eleanor felt very happy, in the midst of all her care for her. the fire burned beautifully. "i was not aware," said mr. rhys looking up from his book, "i was not aware till last night that you lived with mrs. caxton." very odd, eleanor thought; most people would have found out; however she took it simply. "i am her niece." "so i find,--so i am glad to find. i can wish nothing better for any one, in that kind, than to be connected with mrs. caxton." he sat with his finger between the leaves of his book, and eleanor again wondered at the silence; till mrs. caxton came in. it was not very flattering; but eleanor was not troubled with vanity; she dismissed it with a thought compounded of good-humour and humility. at breakfast the talk went on pretty briskly; it was all between the other two and left her on one side; yet it was good enough to listen to it. eleanor was well satisfied. mr. rhys was the principal talker; he was telling mrs. caxton of different people and things in the course of his labours; which constantly gave a reflex gleam of light upon those labours themselves and upon the labourer. unconsciously of course, and merely from the necessity of the case; but it was very interesting to eleanor, and probably to mrs. caxton; she looked so. at last she turned to her niece. "how did you leave nanny?" "a little easier towards morning, i think; at least she went to sleep, which all the night she could not do." "nor you neither." "o that's nothing. i don't mind that at all. it was worth watching, to see the dawn." "was the woman in so much pain?" mr. rhys asked. "no; not bodily; she was uneasy in mind." "in what way." "afraid of what lies before her; seeing dimly, if at all." "was she comforted by what you told her?" "i had very little to tell her," said eleanor; "i had no bible; i had forgotten to take it; and hers was gone. i had to get what i could from memory, for i did not like to give her anything but the words of the bible itself to ground hope upon." "yes, but a good warm testimony of personal experience, coming from the heart, often goes to the heart. i hope you tried that." eleanor had not; she was silent. the testimony she had given in the class-meeting somehow she had been shy of uttering unasked in the ear of the dying woman. was that humility--or something else? again mr. rhys had done for her what he so often did for her and for others--probed her thoughts. "it is a good plan," said mrs. caxton, "to have a storehouse in one's memory of such things as may be needed upon occasion; passages of scripture and hymns; to be brought out when books are not at hand. i was made to learn a great deal out of the bible when i was a girl; and i have often made a practice of it since; and it always comes into play." "i never set myself lessons to get by heart," said mr. rhys. "i never could learn anything in that way. or perhaps i should say, i never _liked_ to do it. i never did it." "what is your art, then?" said mrs. caxton, looking curious. "no art. it is only that when anything impresses itself strongly on my feelings, the words seem to engrave themselves in my memory. it is an unconscious and purely natural operation." eleanor remembered the multitudinous quoting of the bible she had at different times heard from mr. rhys; and again wondered mentally. all that, all those parts of the bible, he had not set himself to study, but had _felt_ them into his memory! they had been put in like gold letters, with a hot iron. "where is this woman?" mr. rhys went on. "she lives alone, in the narrow dell that stretches behind bengarten castle--and nearly in a straight line with it, from here. do not go there this morning--you want rest, and it is too far for you to walk. i am going to take you into my garden, to see how my flowers go." "won't you take me into your dairy?" "if you like it," said mrs. caxton smiling. "i like it exceedingly. it is something like a musical box to me, miss powle, to see mrs. caxton's cheese-making. it soothes my nerves, the noiseless order of everything. do you know that wonderful cheese-house, where they stand in ranks like yellow millstones? i never can get over my surprise at going in there. certainly we, as a nation, are fond of cheese!" "you think so because you are not," said mrs. caxton. "it is too late for the dairy to-day. you shall give me help in my garden, where i want it." "i understand," says mr. rhys. "but it is my business to make flowers grow in the lord's garden--wherever i can. i wish i could do more of _that_ gardening work!" eleanor gave a quick glance up at the speaker. his brow rested on his hand for the moment; she noticed the sharply drawn lines of the face, the thin cheeks, the complexion, which all witnessed to _over_-work already attempted and done. the brow and eyes were marked with lines of watching and fatigue. it was but a glance, and eleanor's eyes went down again; with an additional lesson of unconscious testimony carried deep home. this man lived as he talked. the good of existence was not one thing in his lips and another in his practice. eleanor looked at her plate with her heart burning. in her old fancy for studying, or at least reading, hands, she had noticed too in her glance the hand on which the head rested; and with surprise. it was almost a feminine hand in make, with long slim fingers; white withal, and beautifully cared for. certain refinements were clearly necessary to this man, who was ready to plunge himself into a country of savages nevertheless, where all the refinement would be his own. to some natures it would be easier to part with a hand altogether, than to forego the necessity of having it clean. this was one. and he was going to give himself up to polynesia and its practices. eleanor eat with the rest of her breakfast and swallowed with her tea, the remembered words of the apostle--"but what things were gain to me, those i counted loss for christ."--"neither count i my life dear unto myself, so that i may finish my course with joy, and the ministry, which i have received of the lord jesus, to be faithful."--eleanor's heart swelled. tears were very near. after breakfast, a large part of the morning was spent by her aunt and mr. rhys in the garden; as mrs. caxton had said; and very busy they were. eleanor was not asked to join them, and she did not choose to volunteer; she watched them from the house. they were very honestly busy; planting and removing and consulting; in real garden work; yet it was manifest their minds had also much more in common, in matters of greater interest; they stood and talked for long intervals when the flowers were forgotten. they were very near each other, those two, evidently, in regard and mutual confidence and probably mutual admiration also. it was very strange eleanor should never have come to the knowledge of it till to-day. and yet, why should she? she had never mentioned the name of mr. rhys to her aunt in any of her stories of wiglands. he was away all the afternoon and the evening, and came back again late; a tired and exhausted man. he said nothing, except to officiate at family prayers; but eleanor was delighted that he was to spend the night at the farm and they would have him at breakfast. only to see him and hear him talk to others, only the tones of his voice, brought up to her everything that was good and strong and pure and happy. he did not seem inclined to advance at all upon their wiglands acquaintance. he made no allusion to it. as far as she was concerned, eleanor thought that there was more reserve in his manner towards her than he had shewed there. no matter. with mrs. caxton he was very much at home; and she could study him at her ease all the better for not talking to him. chapter ii. with the basket. "the flush of life may well be seen thrilling back over hills and valleys; the cowslip startles in meadows green, the buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, and there's never a leaf or a blade too mean to be some happy creature's palace." "mrs. caxton," said mr. rhys the next morning, when half the breakfast had been passed in silence, "have you such a thing as a microscope in the house?" "i am afraid not. why do you ask?" "only, that i have suddenly discovered myself to be very ignorant, in a department of knowledge where it would be very pleasant as well as proper to be otherwise. i have been reading a book on some of the forms of life which are only to be known through the help of glasses; and i find there is a world there i know nothing about. that book has made a boy of me." "how?" said mrs. caxton smiling. "you think i always retain more or less of that character! well--it has made me doubly a boy then; in my eagerness to put myself to school, on the one hand, and my desire to see something new on the other. miss powle, have you ever studied the invisible inhabitants of pools, and ponds, and sea-weeds?" "not at all," said eleanor. "you do not know much more than the names, then, of infusoria, rotifera, and pedunculata, and such things?" "not so much as the names--except infusoria. i hope they are better than they sound." "if the accounts are true--mrs. caxton, the world that we do not see, because of the imperfection of our organs, is even far more wonderful than the world that we do see. perhaps it seems so, because of the finiteness of our own powers. but i never had a single thing give me such a view of the infinite glory of god, as one of the things detailed in that book--one of the discoveries of the microscope." "his glory in creation," said mrs. caxton. "more than that--there is to be sure the infiniteness of wisdom and of power, that makes your brain dizzy when you think of it; but there is an infinite moral glory also." "what was the thing that struck you so much?" eleanor inquired. "it was a little fellow that lives in the water. he is not bigger than the diameter of the slenderest needle--and that is saying as much as i can for his size. this fellow builds himself a house of bricks, which he makes himself; and under his head he carries a little cup mould in which the bricks are made." "mr. rhys," said eleanor, "i am wondering what is the slenderest needle of your acquaintance!" "no," said he laughing, "you are mistaken. i have seen my mother hem thin ruffles of muslin; and you know with what sort of a needle that should be done." "aunt caxton," said eleanor, "it is inconceivable!" mrs. caxton did not make much answer, and the conversation turned. after breakfast, and after, as eleanor judged, they had been a good while in the dairy, the two went out together in the car. eleanor supposed it was to visit nanny; and so she found when her aunt came home. "i knew he would go," said mrs. caxton; "and then we made another call. nanny is hopeful, and comfortable; but the other---mr. rhys came away very much agitated. he is not fit for it. i wish i could keep him from work for a few weeks. it's the best economy. but i will keep him here as long as i can, at least." "is he going to stay here?" "yes; he was not comfortably situated in the village; and now i will have him at the farm, i hope, till he goes. i shall trust you to keep the flowers fresh in his room, eleanor.--no, my dear; jane will stay with nanny to-night." so mr. rhys stayed at the farm, and certainly wanted for no comfort that the mistress of it could secure to him. neither did eleanor neglect the flowers. mr. rhys made his home there, and went out to his preaching and visiting and teaching as vigorously as ever; and was often a tired man when he came home. nevertheless he gained ground, to mrs. caxton's great satisfaction. he grew stronger; and was less often a silent, prostrated, done-over member of their little circle. at first he was very often that. but when he felt well he was exceedingly social and conversational; and the plassy farmhouse had never been so pleasant, nor the evenings and mornings and meal times so full of interest. in all which however mrs. caxton thought eleanor took a very quiet part. "you do not do your share, eleanor," she said one day; "you are become nothing of a talker; and i can bear witness you had a tongue once. has religion made you silent, my dear?" "no, aunty," said eleanor laughing; "but you forget--you have somebody else to talk to now." "i am sure, and so have you." "no ma'am--mr. rhys does not talk to me generally." "i would return good for evil, then; and not silence for silence." "i can't, aunty. don't you know, there are some people that have a sort of quieting effect upon one?" "i don't think anybody ever did upon me," said mrs. caxton; "and i am sure mr. rhys would be shocked if he knew the effect of his presence." one morning mrs. caxton asked mr. rhys at breakfast if he had leisure to unpack a box for her. he said yes, with great alacrity; and mrs. caxton had the box brought in. "what is it?" said mr. rhys as he began his work. "am i to take care of china and glass--or to find gardener's plants nicely done up--or best of all, books?" "i hope, something better yet," said mrs. caxton. "there is a good deal of it, whatever it is," said mr. rhys, taking out one and another and another carefully wrapped up bit of something. "curiosity can go no further!" he stopped unpacking, and took the wrapping papers off one or two odd-looking little pieces of brass; paused,--then suddenly exclaimed, "mrs. caxton!--" "well?" said that lady smiling. "it is just like you! i might have known the other morning what all that talk would end in." mrs. caxton smiled in silence, and the gentleman went on with his unpacking; with added zeal and tenderness now, it was evident. it stood full in view at last, an exquisitely made and mounted microscope of one of the best london makers. now was mr. rhys in his element; and proved how justly he had declared himself a _boy_. he got the microscope all into place and arranged, and then set himself to find out its powers and method of management.. there were some prepared objects sent with the instrument, which gave him enough to work with; and over them he was in an absorbed state for hours; not selfishly, however, for he allowed eleanor to take her full share of the pleasure of looking, when once he had brought objects into view. at last he broke off and hurried away to an engagement. the next day at breakfast, eleanor was a good deal surprised to be asked if she would take a walk? "now?" said eleanor. "you mean immediately after breakfast?" "it is the only time i have to-day. all the time before dinner, i have; but i supposed we should want the whole of it. i am going after objects for the microscope--and i thought it would be selfish to go alone. besides, we may help one another." "i shall be very glad to go," said eleanor laughing; "but don't expect any _help_ of me; unless it be in the way of finding out such places as you want." "i fancy i know those better than you do. miss powle, a small basket would be desirable to hold phials of water." "and phials." "i will take care of those." much amused, and a little excited, eleanor made ready for the walk, and in the matter of the basket at least proved helpful. it was bright and early when they set out. among those mountains and valleys, the dew was not off the fields yet, while the air was freshly sweet from roses and wild thyme, and primroses lingering, and numberless other sweet things; for hedgerow and meadow and mountain side were gay and rich with a multitude of flowers. there was a mingling of shadow and sunshine too, at that early time in the morning; and as the two walkers passed along they were sometimes in one, sometimes in the other. there was little conversation at first. mr. rhys went not with a lingering step, but as if with some purpose to reach a definite locality. eleanor was musing to herself over the old walks taken with julia by her present companion; never but once eleanor's walking companion till now. how often julia had gone with him; what a new and strange pleasure it was for herself; and how oddly life changes about things; that the impossible thing at wiglands should be possible at plassy. "what sort of places are you looking for, mr. rhys?" eleanor inquired at last. "all sorts of places," he said smiling. "all sorts at least of wet places. but i know nothing about it, you know, except what i have read. they say, wherever water is found, some or other species of these minute wonders may be met with; standing pools, and rivers, and ditches all have them; and some particularly beautiful are to be found in bog water; so with, i am afraid you will think, a not very commendable impatience, i am pointing my steps towards a bog that i know--in the wish to get some of the best first." "that is being very impatient," said eleanor laughing. "i should be satisfied with almost anything, for the first." "so you will very probably have to be. i am by no means sure of accomplishing my design. am i walking too fast for you, in the meanwhile?" "not at all. i am thinking, mr. rhys, how we are to bring home the bog water when we have found it." in answer to which, he put his hand in his pocket and brought out thence and deposited in his basket one after another of half a dozen or more little phials, all duly corked. eleanor was very much amused. "and what is this stick to do, that you wanted me to bring?" "you will see." the bog was reached in due time, after a walk over a most delicious country, for the most part new to eleanor. water was found, though not exactly with the conditions mr. rhys desired; however a phial of it was dipped up, corked and marked. then they retraced their steps partially, diverging right and left. just the right sort of pool was found at last; covered with duck-weed. here mr. rhys stopped and tied one of the phials to the end of the stick. with this he dipped water from the surface, then he dipped from the bottom; he took from one side and from another side, where there was sunshine and where there was shade; pouring each dipping into a fresh phial, while eleanor in a great state of amusement corked and labelled each as it was filled. at last it was done. mr. rhys filled his last phial, looked at eleanor's face, and smiled. "you do not think much is going to come of all this?" he said. "yes i do," said eleanor. "at least i hope so." "i know it. look through that." he put a pocket lens into her hand and bade her survey one of the phials with it. eleanor's scepticism fled. that _something_ was there, in pretty active life, was evident. somethings. the kinds were plural. "it was like mrs. caxton, to order this lens with the microscope," mr. rhys went on. "i suppose she made her order general--to include everything that would be necessary for a naturalist in making his observations. i not being a naturalist. did you ever see the 'bundle' of helig?" "i do not know what it is." "'bundle' or 'bandel'--i do not know how it got the name, i am sure; but i suppose it is a corruption of something. would you like to go a little out of your way to see it?" "you can judge better than i, mr. rhys!" eleanor said with her full, rich smile, which that gentleman had not often seen before. he answered it with his own very peculiar one, sober and sweet. "i will take so much responsibility. you ought not to come so near and miss it." turning from the course of their return way, they followed a wild woody dell for a little distance; then making a sudden angle with that, a few steps brought them in sight of a waterfall. it poured over a rocky barrier of considerable height, the face of which was corrugated, as it were, with great projecting ridges of rock. separated of necessity by these, the waters left the top of the precipice in four or five distinct bands or ribbands of bright wave and foam, soon dashed into whiteness; and towards the bottom of the fall at last found their way all together; which they celebrated with a rush and a dance and a sparkle and a roar that filled all the rocky abyss into which they plunged. the life, the brightness, the peculiar form, the wild surroundings, of this cataract made it a noted beauty. in front of it the rocks closed in so nearly that spectators could only look at it through a wild narrow gap. above, beyond the top of the fall, the waving branches could be seen of the trees and bushes that stood on the borders of the water; to reach which was a mere impossibility, unless by taking a very long way round. at the foot, the waters turned off suddenly and sought their course where the eye could not follow them. it was out of the question to talk in the presence of the shout of those glad waters. mr. rhys leaned against the rock, and looked at them, so motionless that more than once the eye of eleanor went from them to him with a little note-taking. when at last he turned away and they got back into the stillness of the glen, he asked her, "how looking at such a thing made her feel?" "nothing but surprise and pleasure, i think," said eleanor; "but a great deal of both those." then as he still remained silent, she went on,--"to tell the truth, mr. rhys, i think my mental eye is only beginning to get educated. i used always to enjoy natural beauty, but i think it was in a superficial kind of way. since i have been at plassy--and especially since a few weeks back,--all nature is much more to me than it was." "it is sure to be so," he said. "nature without and nature within are made for each other; and till the two are set to the same key, you cannot have a good tune.--there is a fellow who is in pretty good order! do you hear that blackbird?" "sweet!" said eleanor. "and what is that other note--'chee chee, chee,' so many times?" "that is a green wren." "you are _something_ of a naturalist, mr. rhys," said eleanor. "not at all! no more than my acquaintance with you and mrs. caxton makes me a philosopher." eleanor wanted to ask what looking at the cataract made _him_ think of; but as she had told her aunt, mr. rhys exercised a sort of quieting influence over her. no natural audacity, of which she had an innocent share, remained to her in his company. she walked along in demure silence. and to say the truth, the sun was now growing warm, and the two had walked not a few good miles that morning; which also has a quieting influence. eleanor queried with herself whether all the bright part of the walk were over. "i think it is time we varied our attention," said mr. rhys breaking silence. "we have been upon one class of subjects a good while;--suppose we try another. don't you want to rest?" "i am not tired,--but i have no objection." "you are not easily tired?" "not about anything i like." "you have struck a great secret of power and usefulness," he said gravely. "what do you think of this bank?--it is dry, and it is pleasant." it would have been hardly possible to find a spot in all their way that would not have been pleasant; and from this bank they looked over a wide rich valley bordered with hills. it was not the valley where the farmhouse of plassy stood, with its meadows and river; this was different in its features, and moreover some miles distant. eleanor and mr. rhys sat down on the moss at the foot of the trees, which gave both shade and rest. it was the edge of a piece of woods, and a blackbird was again heard saluting them. "now if you want refreshment," said mr. rhys, "i can give it to you; but only of one kind." "i don't know--i should say of several kinds," said eleanor looking into the basket--"but the quality doubtful." "did you think i meant _that?_" eleanor laughed at the earnest gravity of this speech. "mr. rhys, i saw no other refreshment you had to offer me; but indeed i do not want any--more than i am taking." "i was going to offer it to you of another kind, but there is no kind like it. what is your way of reading the bible?" "i have no particular 'way,'" said eleanor in some surprise. "i read several chapters a day--or at least always a chapter at morning and another at evening. what 'way' do you mean?" "there are a great many ways; and it is good to use them all at different times. but what way would be good for a half hour's refreshment, at such a time as this?" "i am sure, i don't know," said eleanor. "i have no way but the one." "yes, but we should not have seen the 'bandel' of helig, if we had not turned aside to look at it; and you would not have heard the blackbird and the wren perhaps, unless you had stopped to listen to them. i suppose we have missed a million of other things, for want of looking." "yes, but we could not look at everything all along these miles of our way," said eleanor, her smile breaking forth again. "very true. on the other hand, if we go but a very little way, we can examine all around us. have you a bible with you?" "no. i never carry one." "i am better off than you. let us try a little of this--the first chapter of romans. will you read the first verse, and consider it." he handed her his bible and eleanor read. "'paul, a servant of jesus christ, called to be an apostle, separated unto the gospel of god'--" "what do you find there?" said her companion. "not much. this verse seems to be a sort of opening, or introduction to the rest. paul tells who he is, or what he is." "and what does he say he is?" "a servant of jesus christ." "you think that is 'not much?'" "certainly it is much, in itself; but here i took it for a mere statement of fact." "but what a fact. _a servant of jesus christ_. only that! do you know what a fact that is? what is it, to be a servant of jesus christ?" without waiting for the answer, which was not ready, mr. rhys rose up from his seat and began an abstracted exploration of the bit of woodland at the edge of which they had been sitting; wandering in and out among the trees, and stooping now and then to pluck a flower or a fern or to examine one; apparently too full of his thoughts to be quiet. eleanor heard him sometimes and watched him when she could; he was very busy; she wished he i would give some of his thoughts to her. "i thought you wanted rest, mr. rhys," she said boldly, when she got a chance. "please sit down here and take it, along with your other refreshment." he smiled and came immediately with a bunch of myosotis in his hand, which he threw into eleanor's lap; and turning to her he repeated very seriously his question. "what is it, to be a servant of jesus christ?" "i know very little," said eleanor timidly. "i am only just beginning to learn." "you know the words bring for our refreshment only the meaning that we attach to them--except so far as the holy spirit answering our prayers and endeavours shews us new meaning and depth that we had not known before." "of course--but i suppose i know very little. these words convey only the mere fact to me." "let us weight the words. a servant is a follower. christ said, 'if a man serve me, let him _follow me_.'" "yes,--i know." "a follower must know where his master goes. how did christ walk?" "he went about doing good." "he did; but mark, there are different ways of doing that. get to the root of the matter. the young man who kept all the commandments from his youth, was not following christ; and when it came to the pinch he turned his back upon him." "how then, mr. rhys? you mean heart-following?" "that is what the lord means. look here--paul says in the ninth verse,--'whom i serve _with my spirit_ in the gospel'--following cannot have a different end in view from that of the person followed. and what was christ's?--'my meat is to do the will of him that sent me, and to finish his work.' are we servants of christ after that rule, miss powle?" the question had a singular intonation, as if the questioner were charging it home upon himself. yet eleanor knew he could answer it in the affirmative and that she could not; she sat silent without looking up. the old contrast of character recurred to her, in spite of the fact that her own had changed so much. she hung over the book, while her companion half abstractedly repeated, "'my meat is to do the will of him that sent me.'--that makes a way of life of great simplicity." "is it always easy to find?" ventured eleanor. "very!--if his will is all that we desire." "but that is a very searching, deep question." "let it search, then. 'my meat is to do the will of him--' no matter what that may be, miss powle; our choice lies in this--that it is his will. and as soon as we set our hearts upon one or the other particular sort of work, or labour in any particular place, or even upon any given measure of success attending our efforts, so that we are not willing to have him reverse our arrangements,--we are getting to have too much will about it." eleanor looked up with some effort. "you are making it a great matter, to be a true servant of christ, mr. rhys." "would you have it a little matter?" he said with a smile of great sweetness and brightness. "let the lord have all! he was among us 'as one that serveth'--amid discouragements and disappointments, and abuse; and he has warned us that the servant is not greater than his lord. it is not a little thing, to be the minister of jesus christ!" "now you are getting out of the general into the particular." "no--i am not; a 'minister' is but a servant; what we call a minister, is but in a more emphatic degree the servant of all. the rules of service are the same for him and for others. let us look at another one. here it is--in john--" and the fingers that eleanor had watched the other morning, and with which she had a curious association, came turning over the leaves. "'ye call me master, and lord: and ye say well; for so i am. if i then, your lord and master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet. for i have given you an example, that ye should do as i have done to you.'--one thing is plain from that, miss eleanor--we are not to consider ourselves too good for anything." "no--" said eleanor;--"but i suppose that does not forbid a just judgment of ourselves or of others, in respect of their adaptations and qualifications." "yes it does," he said quickly. "the only question is, has the lord put that work in your hands? if he has, never ask whether your hands are the right ones. he knows. what our lord stooped to do, well may we!" eleanor dared not say any more; she knew of what he was thinking; whether he had a like intuition with respect to her thoughts she did not know, and would not risk them any nearer discovery. "there is another thing about being a servant of christ," he presently went on;--"it ensures some kind and degree of persecution." "do you think so?" said eleanor; "in these days? why, it is thought praiseworthy and honourable, is it not, through all the land, to be good? to be a member of the church, and to fulfil the requirements of religion? does anybody lose respect or liking from such a cause?" "no. but he suffers persecution. my dear friend, what are the 'requirements of religion?' we are just considering them. can you remember a servant of christ, such as we have seen the name means, in your knowledge, whom the world allowed to live in peace?" eleanor was silent. "'remember the word that i said unto you, the servant is not greater than his lord. if they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if they have kept my saying, they will keep yours also.'" "but in _these_ days, mr. rhys?" said eleanor doubtfully. "i can only say, that if you are of the world, the world will love his own. i know no other way of securing that result. 'because ye are not of the world,' jesus said, 'but i have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.' and it is declared, elsewhere, that all that will live godly in christ jesus shall suffer persecution. can you remember any instance to the contrary?" eleanor looked up and gave mr. rhys a good view of her honest eyes; they looked very intent now and somewhat sorrowful. "mr. rhys, except in plassy, i do not know such a person as you ask me about." "is it possible!" he said. "mr. rhys, i was thinking the servants of christ have good need of that 'helmet of salvation' i used to wish for." "well, they have it!" he said brightly. "'if any man serve me, let him follow me; _and where i am, there shall also my servant be_.' that is the end of all. but there is another point of service that occurs to me. we have seen that we must not lease ourselves; i recollect that in another place paul says that if he pleased men, he would not be the servant of christ. there is a point where he and the world would come in contact of opposition." "but i thought we ought to please everybody as much as we could?" he smiled, put his hand over and turned two or three leaves of the bible which she kept open at the first of romans, and pointed to a word in the fifteenth chapter. "let every one of us please his neighbour for his good, to edification." "there is your limit," said he. "so far thou mayest go, but no further. and to do that you will find requires quite sufficiently that you should not please yourself. and now how shall we do all this?--how shall we be all this?" "you are asking the very question!" said eleanor gravely. "we must come to the root and spring of all this service and following--it is our love of the lord himself. that will do it, and nothing else will. 'what things were gain to me, those i counted loss for christ.'" "but suppose," said eleanor, with some difficulty commanding her voice,--"suppose one is deficient in that very thing? suppose one wants that love?" "ay!" he said, looking into her face with his eyes of light,--"suppose one does; what then?" eleanor could not bear them; her own eyes fell. "what is one to do?"--mr. rhys had risen up before he answered, in his deliberate accents, "'seek him, that maketh the seven stars and orion, and turneth the shadow of night into morning.'" he paced slowly up and down before eleanor; then went off upon a rambling search through the wood again; seeming to be busy with little things in his way. eleanor sat still. after a little he came and stood before her with a bunch of ferns and melic grass and lilies of the valley, which he was ordering in his hands as he spoke. "the effect of our following christ in this way, miss powle, will be, that we shall bear testimony to the world that he is our king, and what sort of a king he is. we shall proclaim that jesus christ is lord, to the glory of god the father. we shall have the invisible army of angels for our fellow-servants and co-workers; and we shall be passing on with the whole redeemed world to the day of full triumph and final restoration; when christ will come to be glorified in his saints and to be admired in them that believe--because our testimony among you was believed. but now our business is to give the testimony." he walked up and down, up and down, before eleanor for some minutes, in a thoughtful, abstracted way. eleanor felt his manner as much as his words; the subject had clearly gone home to himself. she felt both so much that she did not like to interrupt the silence, nor to look up. at last he stopped again before her and said in quite a different tone, "what are the next words, miss powle?" "'called to be an apostle.'" "we shall not get home to dinner, if we go into that," he said smiling. "you have preached a sermon to me, mr. rhys." "i do that very often to myself," he answered. "to yourself?" said eleanor. "yes. nobody needs it more." "but when you have so much real preaching to do--i should think it would be the last thing you would wish to do in private,--at other times." "for that very reason. i need to have a sermon always ready, and to be always ready myself. now, let us get home and look at our 'rotifera'--if we have any." however, there was to be no microscopical examination that morning. "the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley." they had gone but half a mile further homeward when their course was again stopped. they came up with a man and a horse; the horse standing still, the man lying on the ground beside him. at first sight they thought it was a case of drunkenness, for the face of the man was very red and he was unable to give any account of himself; but they were soon convinced it was sudden illness, not intoxication, which was the matter. he had fallen from his horse evidently, and now was not unconscious but in great pain; the red in his face alternating with sudden changes of colour. apparently his condition was that of a small farmer or upper farm servant, who had been overtaken on some business errand by this attack of severe sickness. his horse stood quietly beside him. "this is no case for a lancet," said mr. rhys after making a slight examination. "it calls for greater skill than mine. how will you do? i must take the horse and ride for it. but the first thing is to find where i ought to go--if i can--" for this information he sought in the man's pockets; and found presently a pocket-book with one or two bills, which gave the name he wanted. it was a name not unknown to mr. rhys; and let him know also the direction in which he must ride; not towards the valley of plassy. "what will you do, miss powle?--will you be afraid to find your way home alone?" "i will stay here till you come back." "will you? but i may be gone some time--and i must tell you," he said gravely, "the man is very ill." "there is the more reason then, i am sure. i will stay and do anything for him i can, mr. rhys. you go--i will stay here." mr. rhys said nothing more, though eleanor felt sure from his face that he did not disapprove of her conclusion. he mounted the horse immediately. "i will send help from the way if i can, though i doubt it. the way is lonely, till i get almost there." he rode off at a sharp pace, and eleanor was left quite alone. her attention came back to the sick person at her feet. so near the light-hearted pleasure of ten minutes ago had been to pain and death! and mr. rhys's sermon was nearer still. the first thing to consider, was what she could do for the man. he had fallen and lay on the grass in the broad sunshine. the sun had mounted high now; its beams fell hot and full on the sufferer's face. at a little distance was a grove of oaks and beeches, and good shelter; but eleanor's strength could not move the man thither; he was a great, thickset, burly fellow. yet it was miserable to see the sun beating upon his face where the sweat of pain already stood. eleanor went to the wood, and with much trouble and searching managed to find or break off two or three sticks of a few feet in length. she planted these for a frame near the sick man's head and spread her light summer shawl over them to make a screen. it was a light screen; nevertheless much better than nothing. then eleanor kneeled down by the man to see what more she could do. red and pale changed fast and fearfully upon his face; big drops stood on the brow and cheeks. eleanor doubted whether he were conscious, he lay so still. she took her pocket-handkerchief to wipe the wet brow. a groan answered her at that. it startled her, for it was the first sound she had heard the sick person utter. putting down her face to receive if possible some intimation of a wish, she thought he said or tried to say something about "drink." eleanor rose up and sought to recollect where last and nearest she had seen water. it was some distance behind; a little spring that had crossed their foot-way with its own bright track. then what could she bring some in? the phials! quick the precious pond water and bog water was poured out, with one thought of the nameless treasures for mr. rhys's microscope that she was spilling upon the ground; and eleanor took the basket again and set off on the backward way. she was in a hurry, the sun was warm, the distance was a good quarter of a mile; by the time she had found the stream and filled her phial and retraced again her steps to where the sick man lay, she was heated and weary; for every step was hurried with the thought of that suffering which the water might alleviate. this was pure, sparkling, good water with which the phials were now filled. but when eleanor got back to him, the man could not open his lips to take it. she feared he would die, and suddenly. it was a wild uncultivated place they were in. no signs of human habitation were to be seen, except far up away on a hillside in the distance, where smoke went up from a farmhouse or some sort of a house; towards which eleanor looked with earnest longings that the human help which was there could be brought within available distance. it was greatly too far for that. how soon would mr. rhys be back? impossible to say; she could not tell what length of road he might have to travel. and the man seemed dying. eleanor knelt down again, and with the precious contents of one of the phial bathed the brow and the lips that she thought would never return to their natural colour again. she did it perseveringly; it was all she could do. perhaps it gave comfort. but eleanor grew tired, and felt increasingly lonely and desirous that some one should come. no one did come by that way, nor was likely to come, until the return of mr. rhys; the place was not near a highway; only on a wild mountain track. it struck eleanor then that the sufferer's head lay too low, upon the ground. she could not move him to a better position; and finally placing herself on the grass beside him, she contrived with great exertion to lift his head upon her lap. he could not thank her; she did not know if he were aware of what she did; but then eleanor had done all. she schooled herself to sit patiently and wipe the brow that lay upon her knee, and wait; knowing that death might come to take her charge before any other arrival relieved her of it. eleanor had a great many thoughts meanwhile; and as she sat there revolved mr. rhys's 'sermon' in her mind over and over, and from one end to the other and back again. so at last mr. rhys found her. he came as he had gone, full speed; jumped off his horse, and took a very grave survey of the group on the ground. it was not early. mr. rhys had been a long time away; it seemed half a day's length to eleanor. "have you been there all this time?" was his question. "o no." "i will take your place," said he kneeling down and lifting the unconscious head from eleanor's lap. "there is a waggon coming. it will be here directly." eleanor got up, trembling and stiff from her long constrained position. the waggon presently came in sight; a huge covered wain which had need to move slowly. mr. rhys had stayed by it to guide it, and only spurred forward when near enough to the place. into it they now lifted the sick man, and the horses' heads were turned again. mr. rhys had not been able to bring a doctor. "why here is powis!" exclaimed eleanor, as on the waggon coming round she discovered her pony hitched to the back of it. mr. rhys unhitched him. powis was saddled. "i thought you would have done enough for to-day," said he; "and i went round by the farm to bring him. now you will ride home as fast as you please." "but i thought the farm was out of your way?" "i had time to gallop over there and meet the waggon again; it went so slowly." "o thank you! but i do not need powis--i can walk perfectly well. i am sure you need him more than i do, mr. rhys. i do not need him at all." "come, mount!" said he. "i cannot ride on a side saddle, child." eleanor mounted in silence, a little surprised to find that mr. rhys helped her not awkwardly; and not knowing exactly whence came a curious warm glow that filled her heart like a golden reflection. but it kept her silent too; and it did not go away even when mr. rhys said in his usual manner, "i beg your pardon, miss powle--i live among the hills till i grow unceremonious." eleanor did not make any answer, and if she rode home as fast as she pleased, it was her pleasure to ride slowly; for mr. rhys walked beside her all the way. but she was too tired perhaps to talk much; and he was in one of his silent moods. "what have you done with the phials?" said he looking into the basket as they neared home. "i am very sorry, mr. rhys! i had to empty them to get water for that poor man. i wasn't quite sure, but i thought he asked for it." "oh!--and where did you go to find water?" "back--don't you remember?--some distance back of where we found him, we had passed a little brook of running clear water. i had to go there." "yes--i know. well, we shall have to make another expedition." chapter iii. at home. "i will have hopes that cannot fade, for flowers the valley yields! i will have humble thoughts instead of silent, dewy fields! my spirit and my god shall be my sea-ward hill, my boundless sea." the promised expedition came off; and a number of others; not too frequently however, for mr. rhys continued to be one of the world's busy people, and was often engaged and often weary. the walks after natural history came between times; when he was not under the immediate pressure of duty, and felt that he needed recreation to fit him for it. eleanor was his companion generally, and grew to be as much interested in his objects as he was himself. perhaps that is saying too much. in the house certainly mr. rhys bestowed an amount of patient time and investigation upon his microscopical studies which eleanor did not emulate; time and pains which made him presently a capital manipulator, and probably stowed away quantities of knowledge under that quiet brow of his. many an hour mr. rhys and his microscope were silent companions, during which he was rapt and absorbed in his contemplations or his efforts--whichever it might be; but then at other times, and before and after these times, eleanor and mrs. caxton were constantly invited to a share in some of the results at least of what was going on. perhaps three people rarely enjoy more comfort together in themselves and in each other, than these three did for some weeks following the date of the last chapter. mr. rhys was a wonderful pleasant addition to the family. he was entirely at home, and not a person be trammelled by any ordinary considerations. he was silent when he felt like it; he kept alone when he was busy; he put no unnatural force upon himself when he was fatigued; but silent, or weary, or busy, there was always and at all times where he was, the feeling of the presence of one who was never absent from god. it was in the atmosphere about him; it was in the look that he wore, free and simple as that always was, in its gravity; it was in the straightforward doing of duty, all little things as much as in great things; the little things never forgotten, the great things never waived. it was an unconscious testimony that mr. rhys carried about with him; and which his companions seeing, they moved about with softened steps and strengthened hearts all the while. but he was not always tired and silent; and when he was not, he was a most delightful companion, as free to talk as a child and as full of matter as a wise man; and entirely social and sympathetic too in his whole temper and behaviour. he would not enjoy his natural historical discoveries alone; mrs. caxton and eleanor were made to take their full share. the family circle was, quietly, a very lively one; there was no stagnating anywhere. he and mrs. caxton had many subjects and interests in common of which they talked freely, and eleanor was only too glad to listen. there were books and reviews read aloud sometimes, with very pithy discussion of the same; in fact, there was conversation, truly deserving the name; such as eleanor never listened to before she came to plassy, and which she enjoyed hugely. then the walks after natural objects were on the whole frequent; and mr. rhys was sure to ask her to go along; and they were full of delightful pleasure and of nice talk too, though it never happened that they sat down under a tree again to sermonize and mr. rhys never forgot himself again to speak to her by the undignified appellation he once had given her. but eleanor had got over her shyness of him pretty well, and was inclined to think it quite honour and pleasure enough to be allowed to share his walks; waited very contentedly when he was wrapped up in his own thoughts; wrapped herself up in hers; and was all ready for the talk when it came. with all this she observed that he never distinguished her by any more familiarity than mrs. caxton's niece and his daily neighbour at the table and in the family, might demand from a gentleman and mrs. caxton's friend and guest. the hills and the valleys around plassy were very beautiful that summer. so was mrs. caxton's garden. the roses flushed out into bloom, with all their contemporaries; the terraces down to the river were aglow with richness and profusion of blossoms, and sweet with many fragrances. the old farmhouse itself had become an object of admiration to eleanor. long and low, built of dark red stone and roofed with slate, it was now in different parts wreathed and draped in climbing roses and honeysuckle as well as in the ivy which did duty all winter. to stand under these roses at the back of the house, and look down over the gorgeous terraces, to the river and the bridge and the outspread meadows on the other side, stretching away down and up the valley and reaching to the foot of the hills which rose beyond them; to see all this, was to see a combination of natural features rare even in england, though words may not make it seem so. mrs. caxton and eleanor were there one evening. it was towards the end of the season of "june roses," though indeed it was later than the month of june. mr. rhys had been called away to some distance by business, and been detained a week; and this evening he might be expected home. they had missed him very much, mrs. caxton and eleanor. they had missed him exceedingly at prayer-time; they had missed him desolately at meals. to-night the tea-table was spread where he loved to have it; on the tiled floor under the projecting roof before mentioned. a dish was crowned with red and white strawberries in the middle of the table, and eleanor stood decorating it slowly with ivy leaves and blossoms of white heath. "it is not certain, my dear, he will come home to-night," mrs. caxton said as she watched her. "no, aunty,"--said eleanor with a slight start, but then going on with her occupation. "what about it?" "nothing. we will enjoy the flowers ourselves." "but he thought he would be at home to-night, aunt caxton?" "he could not be sure. he might easily be detained. you have got over your fear of mr. rhys, eleanor?" "aunt caxton, i don't think i ever feared him!" "he used to have a 'quieting influence' upon you," mrs. caxton said smiling. "well,--he does now, ma'am. at least i am sure mr. rhys is one of the persons i should never care to contradict." "i should think not," said mrs. caxton quietly. eleanor had coloured a little. "but that is not because, merely, i do not think myself wise; because there are other persons before whom i think myself no wiser, whom i _would_ contradict--i mean, in a polite way--if it came into my head." "we shall miss him when he goes," said mrs. caxton with a little bit of a sigh. eleanor wanted to ask a question, but the words did not come. the ornamenting of the strawberry dish was finished. she turned from it, and looked down where the long train of cows came winding through the meadows and over the bridge. pretty, peaceful, lovely, was this gentle rural scene; what was the connection that made but a step in eleanor's thoughts between the meadows of plassy and some far-off islands in distant polynesia? eleanor had changed since some time ago. she could understand now why mr. rhys wanted to go there; she could comprehend it; she could understand how it was that he was not afraid to go and did not shrink from leaving all this loveliness at her feet. all that was no mystery now; but her thoughts fastened on her aunt's words--how they would "miss him." she was very still, and so was mrs. caxton; till a step brought both heads round to the door. it was only a servant that came out, bringing letters; one for eleanor, one for mrs. caxton. standing where she was, eleanor broke hers open. it was from her mother, and it contained something both new and unexpected; an urgent injunction on her to return immediately home. the family were going at once to brighton, the letter said; mrs. powle wished eleanor to lose no time, in order that her wardrobe might be properly cared for. thomas was sent with the letter, and her mother desired that eleanor would immediately on the receipt of it, "without an hour's delay," set off to come home with him. reasons for this sudden proceeding there were none given; and it came with the suddenness of a hurricane upon eleanor. up to this time there had been no intimation of her mother's wish to have her at home again ever; an interval of several weeks had elapsed since any letters; now mrs. powle said "she had been gone long enough," and they all wanted her, and must have her at once to go to brighton. so suddenly affectionate? eleanor stood looking at her letter some time after she had ceased to read it, with a face that shewed turmoil. mrs. caxton came up to her. eleanor dropped the letter in her hand, but her eye avoided her aunt's. "what is all this haste, eleanor?" mrs. caxton said gravely. "i don't know, ma'am." "at any rate, my child, you cannot leave me to-night. it is too late." "yes, ma'am." "does your mother assign no reason for this sudden demand of you? she gives me none." "she gives me none, ma'am." "eleanor--" it brought eleanor's eye up, and that brought her head down on mrs. caxton's shoulder. her aunt clasped her tenderly for a moment, and then said, "had you not better see your mother's servant, my dear, and give your orders?--and then we will have tea." eleanor steadied herself immediately; went out and had an interview with old thomas, which however brought her no enlightenment; made her arrangements with him, and returned to her aunt. mrs. caxton ordered tea; they would not wait for mr. rhys any longer. the aunt and niece sat down to the table behind the honeysuckle drapery of the pillars; the sunlight had left the landscape; the breath of the flowers floated up cool and sweet from the terraced garden and waved about them with every stir of the long rose and honeysuckle sprays. eleanor sat by the table and looked out. mrs. caxton poured out the tea and looked at her. "aren't you going to take some strawberries, my love?" "shall i give you some, aunt caxton?" "and yourself, my dear." she watched while eleanor slowly broke up the heath and ivy adornment of the strawberry dish, and carefully afterwards replaced the sprays and leaves she had dislodged. it is no harm for a lady's hand to be white; but travelling from the hand to the face, mrs. caxton's eye found too little colour there. eleanor's cheeks were not generally wanting in a fine healthy tinge. the tinge was fainter than usual to-night. nevertheless she was eating strawberries with apparent regularity. "eleanor, i do not understand this sudden recall. have you any clue?" "no ma'am, not the least." "what arrangements have you made, my dear?" "for to-morrow morning, ma'am. i had no choice." "no, my dear, you had not; and i have not a word to say. i hope mr. rhys will come back before you go." absolute silence on eleanor's part. "you would like to bid him good bye before you leave plassy." there was a cessation of any attention to the strawberries, and eleanor's hand took a position which rather hindered observations of her face. you might have heard a slight little sigh come from behind mrs. caxton's tea-pot. "eleanor, have you learned that the steps of a good man are ordered by the lord? my love, they are not left to our own disposal, and we should not know how to manage it. you are going to do the lord's work, are you not, wherever you may be?" "i hope so." "then trust him to place you where he wants the work to be done. can you, eleanor?" eleanor left her seat, came round and knelt down by mrs. caxton's side, putting her face in her lap. "it is not like a good soldier, dear, to wish to play general. you have something now to do at home--perhaps not more for others than for yourself. are you willing to do it?" "don't ask me if i am willing, aunt caxton! i have been too happy--but i shall be willing." "that is all we live for, my dear--to do the lord's work; and i am sure that in service as in everything else, god loves a cheerful giver. let us give him that now, eleanor; and trust him for the rest. my child, you are not the only one who has to give up something." and though mrs. caxton said little more than that word on the subject of what eleanor's departure cost herself, she manifested it in a different way by the kind incessant solicitude and care with which she watched over eleanor and helped her and kept with her that night and the next morning. eleanor made her preparations and indulged in very few words. there was too much to think of, in the last evening's society, the last night in her happy room, the last morning hours. and yet eleanor did very little thinking. she was to go immediately after breakfast. the early prayers were over, and the aunt and niece were left by themselves a moment before the meal was served. "and what shall i say to mr. rhys?" enquired mrs. caxton, as they stood silent together. eleanor hesitated, and hesitated; and finally said, "i believe, nothing, ma'am." "you have given me messages for so many other people, you know," said mrs. caxton quietly. "yes, ma'am. i don't know how to make a message for him." "i think he will feel it," said mrs. caxton in the same manner. then she saw, for her eyes were good, the lightning flash of emotion which worked in eleanor's face. proud self-control kept it down, and she stood motionless, though it did not prevent the perceptible paling of her cheek which mrs. caxton had noticed last night. she stood silent, then she said slowly,-"if i thought _that_--you may give him any message for me that you think good, aunt caxton." the breakfast arrived, and few more words passed on any topic. another hour, and eleanor was on her journey. she felt in a confusion of spirits and would not let herself think, till they reached her stopping place for the night. and then, instead of thinking, eleanor to say the truth could do nothing but weep. it was her time for tears; to-morrow would end such an indulgence. at an early hour the next day she met her father's carriage which had been sent so far for her; and the remaining hours of her way eleanor did think. her thoughts are her own. but at the bottom of some that were sorrowful lay one deep subject of joy. that she was not going helmet-less into the fight which she felt might be before her. of that she had an inward presentiment, though what form it would take she was entirely uncertain. julia was the first person that met her, and that meeting was rapturous. "o nell! it has been so dreadful and dull since you have been gone! i'm so glad to have you home! i'm so glad to have you home!"--she repeated, with her arms round eleanor's neck. "but what are you going to brighton for?" said eleanor after the first salutations had satisfied the first eagerness of the sisters. "o i don't know. papa isn't just well, i believe; and mamma thought it would do him good. mamma's in here." it was to eleanor's relief that her reception in this quarter also was perfectly cordial. mrs. powle seemed to have forgotten, or to be disposed to forget, old causes of trouble; and to begin again as if nothing had happened. "you look well, eleanor. bless me, i never saw your complexion better! but how your hair is dressed! that isn't the way now; but you'll get to rights soon. i've got a purple muslin for you that will be beautiful. your whole wardrobe will want attention, but i have everything ready--dress-maker and all--only waiting for you. think of your being gone seven months and more! but never mind--we'll let bygones be bygones. i am not going to rake up anything. we'll go to brighton and have everything pleasant." "how soon, mamma?" "just as soon as i can get you dressed. and eleanor! i wish you would immediately take a review of all your wardrobe and all i have got for you, and see if i have omitted anything." "what has put you into the notion of brighton, mamma?" "everybody is there now--and we want a change. i think it will do your father good." to see her father was the next thing; and here there was some comfort. the squire was undoubtedly rejoiced to see his daughter and welcomed her back right heartily. made much of her in his way. he was the only one too who cared much to hear of mrs. caxton and her way of life and her farm. the squire did care. eleanor was kept a long time answering questions and giving details. it cost her some hard work. "she is a good woman, is my sister caxton," said the squire; "and she has pluck enough for half a dozen. the only thing i have against her is her being a methodist. she hasn't made a methodist of you, hey, eleanor?" "i don't think she has, papa," eleanor answered slowly. "that's the only fault _i_ have to find with her," the squire went on; "but i suppose women must have an empty corner of their heads, where they will stick fancies if they don't stick flowers. i think flowers are the most becoming of the two. wears a brown gown always, don't she?" "no, sir." "i thought they did," said the squire; "but she's a clever woman, for all that, or she wouldn't carry on that business of the farm as she does. your mother don't like the farm; but i think my sister is right. better be independent and ask leave of nobody. well, you must get dressed, must you. i am glad to have you home, child!" "why are we going to leave home, papa?" "st. george and the dragon! ask your mother." so eleanor did not get much wiser on the subject till dinner-time; nor then either, though it was nearly the only thing talked about, both directly and indirectly. a great weariness came over her, as the contrast rose up of mrs. caxton's dinner-table and the three faces round it; with the sweet play of talk, on things natural or philosophical, religious or civil, but always sensible, fresh, and original and strong. always that; the party might lapse into silence; if one of them was tired it often did; but when the words came again, they came with a ready life and purpose--with a sort of perfume of love and purity--that it made eleanor's heart ache now to think of. her mother was descanting on lodgings, on the people already at brighton, or coming there; on dresses ready and unready; and to vary this topic the squire complained that his wine was not cooled properly. eleanor sank into silence and then into extreme depression of spirits; which grew more and more, until she caught her little sister's eye looking at her wistfully. julia had hardly said a word all dinner-time. the look smote eleanor's conscience. "is this the way i am doing the work given me?" she thought; "this selfish forgetting of all others in myself? am i standing in my post like a good soldier? is _this_ 'pleasing all men for their good?'" conscience thumped like a hammer; and eleanor roused up, entered into what was going, talked and made herself pleasant to both father and mother, who grew sunshiny under the influence. mrs. powle eat the remainder of her dinner with more appetite; and the squire declared eleanor had grown handsome and plassy had done her no harm. but julia looked and listened and said never a word. it was very hard work to eleanor, though it brought its reward as she went along, not only in comments but in the sense of duty performed. she would not run away from her post; she kept at it; when her father had gone away to smoke she stayed by her mother; till mrs. powle dropped off into her usual after dinner nap in her chair. eleanor sat still a minute or two longer, then made an escape. she sought her old garden, by the way of her old summer parlour. things were not changed there, except that the garden was a little neglected. it brought painful things back, though the flowers were sweet and the summer sunset glow was over them all. so it used to be in old times. so it used to be in nearer times, last summer. and now was another change. eleanor paced slowly down one walk and up another, looking sorrowfully at her old friends, the roses, carnations and petunias, which looked at her as cheerfully as ever; when a hand touched hers and she found julia at her side. "eleanor," she said wistfully, "are you _sorry_ to be at home again?" "i am glad to see you, darling; and papa, and mamma." "but you don't look glad. was it so much pleasanter where you have been?" eleanor struggled with herself. "it was very different, julia--and there were things that you and i both love, that there are not here." "what?" "here all is for the world, julia; there, at plassy, nothing is for the world. i feel the difference just at first--i suppose i shall get a little used to it presently." "i have not thought so much about all that," said julia soberly, "since mr. rhys went away. but you must have loved aunt caxton very much, eleanor, to make you sorry to come home." julia spoke almost sadly. eleanor felt bitterly reproached. was there not work at home here for her to do! yet she could hardly speak at first. putting her arm round julia she drew her down beside her on a green bank and took her little sister in her arms. "you and i will help each other, julia, will we not?" "in what?" "to love christ, and please him." "why, do you love him?" said julia. "are you like mr. rhys?" "not much. but i do love the same master he loves, julia; and i have come home to serve him. you will help me?" "mamma don't like all that," remarked julia. eleanor sighed. the burden on her heart seemed growing heavy. julia half rose up and putting both arms round her neck covered her lips with kisses. "you don't seem like yourself!" she said; "and you look as grave as if you had found us all dead. eleanor--are you afraid?" she said with an earnest look. "afraid of what, dear?" "of that man--afraid of mr. carlisle?" "no, i am not afraid of him, or of anything. besides, he is hundreds of miles away, in switzerland or somewhere." "no he isn't; he is here." "what do you mean by 'here?'" "in england, i mean. he isn't at the priory; but he was here at the lodge the other day." eleanor's heart made two or three springs one way and another. "no dear, i am not afraid of him," she repeated, with a quietness that was convincing; and julia passed to other subjects. eleanor did not forget that one; and as julia ran on with her talk, she pondered it, and made a secret thanksgiving that she was so escaped both from danger and from fear. nevertheless she could not help thinking about the subject. it seemed that mr. carlisle's wound had healed very rapidly. and moreover she had not given him credit for finding any attraction in that house, beyond her own personal presence in it. however, she reflected that mr. carlisle was busy in politics, and perhaps cultivated her father. they went in again, to take up the subject of brighton. and what followed? muslins, flowers, laces, bonnets and ribbands. they were very irksome days to eleanor, that were spent in getting ready for brighton; and the thought of the calm purity of plassy with its different occupations sometimes came over her and for the moment unnerved her hands for the finery they had to handle. once eleanor took a long rambling ride alone on her old pony; she did not try it again. business and bustle was better, at least was less painful, than such a time for thinking and feeling. so the dresses were made, and they went to brighton. chapter iv. at a watering-place. "in the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of life, be not like dumb, driven cattle! be a hero in the strife!" eleanor was at once plunged into a whirl of engagements, with acquaintances new and old. and the former class multiplied very rapidly. mrs. powle's fair curls hung on either side of her face with almost their full measure of complacency, as she saw and beheld her daughter's successful attractions. it was true. eleanor was found to have something unique about her; some said it was her beauty, some said it was her manners; some insisted it was neither, but had a deeper origin; at any rate she was fresh. something out of the common line and that piqued curiosity, was delightful; and in despite of her very moderate worldly advantages, compared with many others who were there, eleanor powle seemed likely to become in a little while the belle of brighton. certain rumours which were afloat no doubt facilitated and expedited this progress of things. happily eleanor did not hear them. the rush of engagements and whirl of society at first was very wearying and painful to her. no heart had eleanor to give to it. only by putting a force upon herself, to please her father and mother, she managed to enter with some spirit into the amusements going forward, in which she was expected to take an active part. perhaps this very fact had something to do with the noble and sweet disengagedness of manner which marked her unlike those about her, in a world where self-interest of some sort is the ruling motive. it was not eleanor's world; it had nothing to do with the interests that were dear in her regard; and something of that carelessness which she brought to it conferred a grace that the world imitates in vain. eleanor found however after a little, that the rush and hurry of her life and of all the people about her had a contagion in it; her own thoughts were beginning to be absorbed in what absorbed everybody; her own cherished interests were getting pushed into a corner. eleanor resolved to make a stand then, and secure time enough to herself to let her own inner life have play and breathing room. but it was very difficult to make such a stand. mrs. powle ever stood like a watchman at the door to drive eleanor out when she wanted to be in. time! there seemed to be no time. eleanor had heard that mr. carlisle was expected at brighton; so she was not greatly surprised one evening to find herself in the same room with him. it was at a public assembly. the glances that her curiosity cast, found him moving about among people very like, and in very exactly the manner of his old self. no difference that she could see. she wondered whether he would have the audacity to come and speak to her. audacity was not a point in which mr. carlisle was failing. he came; and as he came others scattered away; melted off, and left her alone. he came with the best air in the world; a little conscious, a little apologetic, wholly respectful, not altogether devoid of the old familiarity. he offered his hand; did not to be sure detain hers, which would have been inconvenient in a public assembly; but he detained _her_, falling into talk with an ease or an effrontery which it was impossible not to admire. and eleanor admired him involuntarily. certainly this man had capacities. he did not detain her too long; passed away as easily as he had come up; but returned again in the course of the evening to offer her some civility; and it was mr. carlisle who put her mother and herself into their carriage. eleanor looked for a remark from her mother on the subject during their drive home; but mrs. powle made none. the next evening he was at mrs. powle's rooms, where a small company was gathered every tuesday. he might be excused if he watched, more than he wished to be seen watching, the sweet unconscious grace and ease with which eleanor moved and spoke. others noticed it, but mr. carlisle drew comparisons; and found to his mystification that her six months on a cheese-farm had returned eleanor with an added charm of eye and manner, for which he could not account; which he could not immediately define. she was not expecting to see him this time, for she started a little when he presented himself. he came with the same pleasant expression that he had worn last night. "will you excuse me for remarking, that your winter has done you good?" he said. "yes. i know it has," eleanor answered. "with your old frankness, you acknowledge it?" "willingly." her accent was so simple and sweet, the attraction was irresistible. he sat down by her. "i hope you are as willing as i am to acknowledge that all our last winter's work was not good. we exchanged letters." "hardly, mr. carlisle." "will you allow me to say, that i am ashamed of my part in that transaction. eleanor, i want you to forget it, and to receive me as if it had not happened." eleanor was in a mixture of astonishment and doubt, as to how far his words might be taken. in the doubt, she hesitated one instant. another person, a lady, drew near, and mr. carlisle yielded to her the place he had been occupying. the opportunity for an answer was gone. and though he was often near her during the evening, he did not recur again to the subject, and eleanor could not. but the little bit of dialogue left her something to think of. she had occasion often to think of it. mr. carlisle was everywhere, of course, in brighton; at least he was in eleanor's everywhere; she saw him a great deal and was a little struck and puzzled by his manner. he was very often in her immediate company; often attending upon her; it constantly happened, she could not tell how, that his arm was the one to which she was consigned, in walks and evening escorts. in a measure, he assumed his old place beside her; his attentions were constant, gracefully and freely paid; they just lacked the expression which would have obliged and enabled her to throw them off. it was rather the manner of a brother than of a lover; but it was familiar and confidential beyond what those assume that are not brothers. whatever it meant, it dissatisfied eleanor. the world, perhaps the gentleman himself, might justly think if she permitted this state of things that she allowed the conclusions naturally to be drawn from it. she determined to withdraw herself. it was curiously and inexplicably difficult. too easily, too gracefully, too much as a matter of course, things fell into train, for eleanor often to do anything to alter the train. but she was determined. "eleanor, do you know everybody is waiting?" mrs. powle exclaimed one morning bursting into eleanor's room. "there's the whole riding party--and you are not ready!" "no, mamma. i am not going." "not going! just put on your riding-habit as quick as you can--julia, get her hat!--you said you would go, and i have no notion of disappointing people like that. get yourself ready immediately--do you hear me?" "but, mamma--" "put on your habit!--then talk if you like. it's all nonsense. what are you doing? studying? nonsense! there's time enough for studying when you are at home. now be quick!" "but, mamma--" "well? put your hair lower, eleanor; that will not do." "mamma, isn't mr. carlisle there?" "mr. carlisle? what if he is? i hope he is. you are well in that hat, eleanor." "mamma, if mr. carlisle is there,--" "hold your tongue, eleanor!--take your whip and go. they are all waiting. you may talk to me when you come back, but now you must go. i should think mr. carlisle would like to be of the party, for there isn't such another figure on the ride. now kiss me and go. you are a good girl." mrs. powle said it with some feeling. she had never found eleanor so obediently tractable as since her return; she had never got from her such ready and willing cooperation, even in matters that her mother knew were not after eleanor's heart, as now when her heart was less in them than ever. and at this moment she was gratified by the quiet grave obedience rendered her, in doing what she saw plainly enough eleanor did not like to do. she followed her daughter down stairs with a proud heart. it happened again, as it was always happening, that mr. carlisle was eleanor's special attendant. eleanor meditated possible ways of hindering this in future; but for the present there was no remedy. mr. carlisle put her on her horse; it was not till she was taking the reins in her left hand that something struck her with a sense of familiarity. "what horse is this?" she asked. "no other than your old friend and servant--i hope you have not forgotten her. she has not forgotten you." eleanor perceived that. as surely as it was black maggie, maggie knew her; and displeased though eleanor was with the master, she could not forbear a little caress of recognition to the beautiful creature he had once given her. maggie was faultless; she and eleanor were accustomed to each other; it was an undeniable pleasure to be so mounted again, as eleanor could not but acknowledge to herself during the first few dainty dancing steps that maggie made with her wonted burden. nevertheless it was a great deal too much like old times that were destroyed; and glancing at mr. carlisle eleanor saw that he was on tippoo, and furthermore that there was a sparkle in his eye which meant hope, or triumph. something put eleanor on her mettle; she rode well that day. she rode with a careless grace and ease that even drew a compliment from mr. carlisle; but beyond that, his companion at first gave him little satisfaction. she was grave and cold to all his conversational efforts. however, there she was on his black mare; and mr. carlisle probably found an antidote to whatever discouragement she threw in his way. chance threw something else in his way. they had turned into one of the less frequented streets of the town, in their way to get out of it, when eleanor's eye was seized by a figure on the sidewalk. it startled her inexpressibly; and before she could be sure her eyes did not deceive her the figure had almost passed, or they had almost passed the person. but in passing he had raised his bat; she knew then he had recognized her, as she had known him; and he had recognized her in such company. and he was in brighton. without a moment for thought or delay, eleanor wheeled her horse's head sharply round and in one or two smart steps brought herself alongside of mr. rhys. he stopped, came up to her stirrup and shook hands. he looked grave, eleanor thought. she hastened to speak. "i could not pass you, mr. rhys. i had to leave plassy without bidding you good bye." "i am glad to meet you now," he said,--"before i go." "do you leave brighton very soon?" "to-morrow. i go up to london, and in a few days i expect to sail from there." "for--?" "yes,--for my post in the southern ocean. i have an unexpected opportunity." eleanor was silent. she could not find anything to say. she knew also that mr. carlisle had wheeled his horse after her, and that tippoo was taking steps somewhere in her close neighbourhood. but she sat motionless, unable to move as well as to speak. "i must not detain you," said mr. rhys. "do you find it as easy to live well at brighton as at plassy?" eleanor answered a low and grave "no;" bending down over her saddlebow. "keep that which is committed to thy charge," he said gently. "farewell--and the lord bless you!" eleanor had bared her gauntleted hand; he gave it the old earnest grasp, lifted his hat, and went on his way. eleanor turned her horse's head again and found herself alongside of mr. carlisle. she rode on briskly, pointing out to him how far ahead were the rest of the party. "was not your friend somebody that i know?" he enquired as soon as there was a convenient pause. "i am sure i do not know," said eleanor. "i do not know how good your memory may be. he is the gentleman that was my brother's tutor at home--some time ago." "i thought i remembered. is he tutoring some one else now?" "i should think not. he just tells me he is about to sail for the south seas. mr. carlisle, maggie has a very nice mouth." "her mistress has a very nice hand," he answered, bending forward to maggie's bridle so that he could look up in eleanor's face. "only you let her rein be too slack, as of old. you like her better than tippoo?" "tippoo is beyond my management." "i am not going to let you say that. you shall mount tippoo next time, and become acquainted with your own powers. you are not afraid of anything?" "yes, i am." "you did not use it." "well i have not grown cowardly," said eleanor; "but i am afraid of mounting tippoo; and what i am afraid of, mr. carlisle, i will not do." "just the reverse maxim from that which i should have expected from you. do you say your friend there is going to the south seas?" "mr. rhys?" said eleanor, turning her face full upon him. "if that is his name--yes. why does he not stick to tutoring?" "does anybody stick to tutoring that can help it?" "i should think not; but then as a tutor he would be in the way of better things; he could mount to something higher." "i believe he has some expectation of that sort in going to the pacific," said eleanor. she spoke it with a most commonplace coolness. "seems a very roundabout road to promotion," said mr. carlisle, watching eleanor's hand and stealthily her face; "but i suppose he knows best. your friend is not a churchman, is he?" "no." "i remember him as a popular orator of great powers. what is he leaving england for?" "you assume somewhat too much knowledge on my part of people's designs," said eleanor carelessly. "i must suppose that he likes work on the other side of the world better than to work here;--for some reason or other." "how the reason should be promotion, puzzles me," said her companion; "but that may be owing to prejudice on my part. i do not know how to conceive of promotion out of the regular line. in england and in the church. to be sent to india to take a bishopric seems to me a descent in the scale. have you this feeling?" "about bishoprics?" said eleanor smiling. "they are not in my line, you know." "don't be wicked! have you this feeling about england?" "if a bishopric in india were offered me?--" "well, yes! would you accept it?" "i really never had occasion to consider the subject before. it is such a very new thought, you see. but i will tell you, i should think the humblest curacy in england to be chosen rather,--unless for the sake of a wider sphere of doing good." "do you know," said mr. carlisle, looking very contented, and coming up closer, "your bridle hand has improved? it is very nearly faultless. what have you been riding this winter?" "a wiry little pony." "honour, eleanor!" said mr. carlisle laughing and bringing his hand again near enough to throw over a lock of maggie's mane which had fallen on the wrong side. "i am really curious." "well i tell you the truth. but mr. carlisle, i wonder you people in parliament do not stir yourselves up to right some wrongs. people ought to live, if they are curates; and there was one where i was last winter--an excellent one--living, or starving, i don't know which you would call it, on thirty pounds a year." mr. carlisle entered into the subject; and questions moral, legislative, and ecclesiastical, were discussed by him and eleanor with great earnestness and diligence; by him at least with singular delight. eleanor kept up the conversation with unflagging interest; it was broken by a proposal on mr. carlisle's part for a gallop, to which she willingly agreed; held her part in the ensuing scamper with perfect grace and steadiness, and as soon as it was over, plunged mr. carlisle deep again into reform. "nobody has had such honour, as i to-day," he assured her as he took her down from her horse. "i shall see you to-night, of course?" "of course. i suppose," said eleanor. it cannot be said that eleanor made any effort to change the "of course," though the rest of the day as usual was swallowed up in a round of engagements. there was no breathing time, and the evening occasion was a public one. mrs. powle was in a great state of satisfaction with her daughter to-day; eleanor had shunned no company nor exertion, had carried an unusual spirit into all; and a minute with mr. carlisle after the ride had shewed him in a sort of exultant mood. she looked over eleanor's dress critically when they were about leaving home for the evening's entertainment. it was very simple indeed; yet mrs. powle in the depth of her heart could not find that anything was wanting to the effect. nor could a yet more captious critic, mr. carlisle; who was on the ground before them and watched and observed a little while from a distance. admiration and passion were roused within him, as he watched anew what he had already seen in eleanor's manner since she came to brighton; that grace of absolute ease and unconsciousness, which only the very highest breeding can successfully imitate. no lady rythdale, he was obliged to confess, that ever lived, had better advanced the honours of her house, than would this one; could she be persuaded to accept the position. this manner did not use to be eleanor's; how had she got it on the borders of wales? neither was the sweetness of that smile to be seen on her lip in the times gone by; and a little gravity was wanting then, which gave a charm of dignity to the exquisite poise which whether of character or manner was so at home with her now. was she too grave? the question rose; but he answered it with a negative. her smile came readily, and it was the sweeter for not being always seen. his meditations were interrupted by a whisper at his elbow. "she will not dance!" "who will not?" said he, finding himself face to face with mrs. powle. "eleanor. she will not. i am afraid it is one of her new notions." mr. carlisle smiled a peculiar smile. "hardly a fault, i think, mrs. powle. i am not inclined to quarrel with it." "you do not see any faults at all, i believe," said the lady. "now i am more discerning." mr. carlisle did not speak his thoughts, which were complimentary only in one direction, to say truth. he went off to eleanor, and prevented any more propositions of dancing for the rest of the evening. he could not monopolize her, though. he was obliged to see her attention divided in part among other people, and to take a share which though perfectly free and sufficiently gracious, gave him no advantage in that respect over several others. the only advantage he could make sure of was that of attending eleanor home. the evening left him an excited man, not happy in his mind. eleanor, having quitted her escort, went slowly up the stairs; bade her mother good night; went into her own room and locked the door. then methodically she took off the several parts of her evening attire and laid them away; put on a dressing-gown, threw her window open, and knelt down by it. the stars kept watch over the night. a pleasant fresh breeze blew in from the sea. they were eleanor's only companions, and they never missed her from the window the whole night long. i am bound to say, that the morning found her there. but nights so spent make a heavy draft on the following day. in spite of all that cold water could do in the way of refreshment, in spite of all that the morning cup of tea could do, eleanor was obliged to confess to a headache. "why eleanor, child, you look dreadfully!" said mrs. powle, who came into her room and found her lying down. "you are as white!--and black rings under your eyes. you will never be able to go with the riding party this morning." "i am afraid not, mamma. i am sorry. i would go if i could; but i believe i must lie still. then i shall be fit for this evening, perhaps." she was not; but that one day of solitude and silence was all that eleanor took for herself. the next day she joined the riders again; and from that time held herself back from no engagement to which her mother or mr. carlisle urged her. mr. carlisle felt it with a little of his old feeling of pride. it was the only thing in which eleanor could be said to give the feeling much chance; for while she did not reject his attendance, which she could not easily do, nor do at all without first vanquishing her mother; and while she allowed a certain remains of the old wonted familiarity, she at the same never gave mr. carlisle any reason to think that he had regained the least power over her. she received him well, but as she received a hundred others. he was her continual attendant, but he never felt that it was by eleanor's choice; and he knew sometimes that it was by her choice that he was thrown out of his office. she bewildered him with her sweet dignity, which was more utterly unmanageable than any form of pride or passion. the pride and passion were left to be mr. carlisle's own. pride was roused, that he was stopped by so gentle a barrier in his advances; and passion was stimulated, by uncertainty not merely, but by the calm grace and indefinable sweetness which he did not remember in eleanor, well as he had loved her before. he loved her better now. that charm of manner was the very thing to captivate mr. carlisle; he valued it highly; and did not appreciate it the less because it baffled him. "he's ten times worse than ever," mrs. powle said exultingly to her husband. "i believe he'd go through fire and water to make sure of her." "and how's she?" growled the squire. "she's playing with him, girl-fashion," said mrs. powle chuckling. "she is using her power." "what is she using it for?" said the squire threateningly. "o to enjoy herself, and make him value her properly. she will come round by and by." how was eleanor? the world had opportunities of judging most of the time, as far as the outside went; yet there were still a few times of the day which the world did not intrude upon; and of those there was an hour before breakfast, when eleanor was pretty secure against interruption even from her mother. mrs. powle was a late riser. julia, who was very much cast away at brighton and went wandering about like a rudderless vessel, found out that eleanor was dressed and using the sunshine long before anybody else in the house knew the day was begun. it was a golden discovery. eleanor was alone, and julia could have her to herself a little while at least. even if eleanor was bent on reading or writing, still it was a joy to be near her, to watch her, to smooth her soft hair, and now and then break her off from other occupations to have a talk. "eleanor," said julia one day, a little while after these oases in time had been discovered by her, "what has become of mr. rhys? do you know?" "he has gone," said eleanor. she was sitting by her open window, a book open on her lap. she looked out of the window as she spoke. "gone? do you mean he has gone away from england? you don't mean that?" "yes." "to that dreadful place?" "what dreadful place?" "where he was going, you know,--somewhere. are you sure he has gone, eleanor?" "yes. i saw it in the paper--the mention of his going--he and two others." "and has he gone to that horrible place?" "yes, i suppose so. that is where he wished to go." "i don't see how he could!" said julia. "how could he! where the people are so bad!--and leave england?" "why julia, have you forgotten? don't you know whose servant mr. rhys is?" "yes," said julia mutteringly,--"but i should think he would be afraid. why the people there are as wicked as they can be." "that is no reason why he should be afraid. what harm could they do to him?" "why!--they could kill him, easily," said julia. "and would that be great harm to mr. rhys?" said eleanor looking round at her. "what if they did, and he were called quick home to the court of his king,--do you think his reception there would be a sorrowful thing?" "why nell," said julia, "do you mean heaven?" "do you not think that is mr. rhys's home?" "i haven't thought much about it at all," said julia laying her head down on eleanor's shoulder. "you see, nobody talked to me ever since he went away; and mamma talks everything else." "come here in the mornings, and we'll talk about it," said eleanor. her voice was a little husky. "shall we?" said julia rousing up again. "but eleanor, what are your eyes full for? did you love mr. rhys too?" it was an innocent question; but instead of answering, eleanor turned again to the window. she sat with her hand pressed upon her mouth, while the full eyes brimmed and ran over, and filled again; and drop after drop plashed upon the window-sill. it was impossible to help it, for that minute; and julia looked on wonderingly. "o nell," she repeated almost awe-struck, "what is it? what has made you sorry too?--" but she had to wait a little while for her answer. "he was a good friend to me," said eleanor at last, wiping her eyes; "and i suppose it is not very absurd to cry for a friend that is gone, that one will never see again." "maybe he will come back some time," said julia sorrowfully. "not while there is work there for him to do," said eleanor. she waited a little while. there was some difficulty in going on. when she did speak her tone was clear and firm. "julia, shall we follow the lord as mr. rhys does?" "how?" "by doing whatever jesus gives us to do." "what has he given us to do?" said julia. "if you come to my room in the mornings, we will read and find out. and we will pray, and ask to be taught." julia's countenance lightened and clouded with alternate changes. "will you, eleanor! but what have we got to do?" "love jesus." "well i--o i did use to, eleanor! and i think i do now; only i have forgotten to think about anything, this ever so long." "then if we love him, we shall find plenty of things to do for him." "what, eleanor? i would like to do something." "just whatever he gives us, julia. come, darling,--have you not duties?" "duties?" "have you not things that it is your duty to do?--or not to do?" "studies!" said julia. "but i don't like them." "for jesus' sake?" julia burst into tears. eleanor's tone was so loving and gentle, it reached the memories that had been slumbering. "how can i do them for him, eleanor?" she asked, half perversely still. "'whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the lord jesus.' so he has told us." "but my studies, eleanor? how can i?" "who gave you the opportunity, julia?" "well--i know." "well, if god has given you the opportunity, do you think he means it for nothing? he has work for you to do, julia, some time, for which you will want all these things that you have a chance of learning now; if you miss the chance, you will certainly not be ready for the work." "why, eleanor!--that's funny." "what is it?" "why i never thought of such a thing." "what did you think?" "i thought i had french and german to study, for instance, because everybody else learned french and german. i did not think there was any use in it." "you forgot who had given you them to learn." "no, mamma would have it. just her notion. papa didn't care." "but dear julia, you forget who has made it your duty to please mamma's notions. and you forget who it is that has given you your place in the world. you might have been born in poverty, with quite other lessons to learn, and quite other work in the world." "you talk just as queer as if you were mr. rhys himself," said julia. "i never heard of such things. do you suppose all the girls who are learning french and german at school--all the girls in england--have the same sort of work to do? that they will want it for?" "no, not all the same. but god never gives the preparation without the occasion." "then suppose they do not make the preparation?" "then when the occasion comes, they will not be ready for it. when their work is given them to do, they will be found wanting." "it's so queer!" said julia. "what?" "to think such things about lessons." "you may think such things about everything. whatever god gives you, he gives you to use in some way for him." "but how can i possibly know _how_, eleanor?" "come to me in the mornings, and you and i will try to find out." "did you say, i must please all mamma's notions?" "certainly--all you can." "but i like papa's notions a great deal better than mamma's." "you must try to meet both," said eleanor smiling. "i do not like a great many of mamma's notions. i don't think there is any sense in them." "but god likes obedience, julia. he has bid you honour mamma and papa. do it for him." "do you mean to please all mamma's notions?" said julia sharply. "all that i can, certainly." "well it is one of her notions that mr. carlisle should get you to the priory after all. are you going to let her? are you going to let him, i mean?" "no." "then if it is your duty to please mamma's notions, why mustn't you please this one?" "because here i have my duty to others to think of." "to whom?" said julia as quick as lightning. "to myself--and to mr. carlisle." "mr. carlisle!" said julia. "i'll be bound he thinks your duty to him would make you do whatever he likes." "it happens that i take a different view of the subject." "but eleanor, what work do you suppose i have to do in the world, that i shall want french and german for? real work, i mean?" "i can't tell. but i know _now_ you have a beautiful example to set?" "of what? learning my lessons well?" "of whatever is lovely and of good report. of whatever will please jesus." julia put her arms round her sister's neck and hid her face there. "i am going to give you a word to remember to-day; keep it with you, dear. 'whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the lord jesus.' just think of that, whether you are busy or not busy. and we will ask the lord to make us so full of his love, that we cannot help it." they knelt and prayed together; after which julia gave her sister a great many earnest caresses; and they went down to breakfast a much comforted pair. chapter v. in london. "london makes mirth! but i know god hears the sobs i' the dark, and the dropping of tears." the morning meetings were kept up. julia had always been very fond of her sister; now she almost worshipped her. she would get as close as possible, put her arm round eleanor's waist, and sometimes lay her head on her shoulder; and so listen to the reading and join in the talking. the talks were always finished with prayer; and at first it not seldom happened that eleanor's prayer became choked with tears. it happened so often that julia remarked upon it; and after that it never happened again. "eleanor, can you see much use in my learning to dance?" was a question which julia propounded one morning. "not much." "mamma says i shall go to dancing school next winter." "next winter! what, at brompton?" "o we are going to london after we go from here. so mamma says. why didn't you know it?" eleanor remained silent. "now what good is that going to do?" julia went on. "what work is that to fit me for, eleanor?--dancing parties?" "i hope it will not fit you for those," the elder sister replied gravely. "why not? don't you go to them?" "i am obliged to go sometimes--i never take part." "why not eleanor? why don't you? you can dance." "read," said eleanor, pointing to the words. julia read. "'whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the lord jesus; giving thanks to god and the father by him.'--well eleanor?" "i cannot find anything i can do in the lord's service at such places, except to stand by and say by my manner that i do not enjoy them nor approve of them." "that won't hinder other people enjoying them, though." "i do not think people enjoy them much. you and i have a hundred times as much fun in one good scamper over the moor. dear old moor! i wish we were back again. but other people's doing is not my business." "then what makes you go, eleanor?" "mamma would be so exceedingly vexed if i did not. i mean to get out of it soon--as soon as i can." "do you think you will, in london?" eleanor was silent, and thoughtful. "well, i know one thing," said julia,--"i am not going to dancing school. mamma says it will make me graceful; and i think i am as graceful as other people now--as most other people. i don't think i am as graceful as you are. don't you think so, eleanor?" eleanor smiled, soberly enough. "eleanor, must i go to dancing school?" "why do you wish not to go?" "because you think it is wrong." "darling, you cannot displease mamma for such a reason. you must always honour every wish of hers, except you thought that honouring her would be to dishonour or displease the lord." the words were spoken and listened to with intense feeling and earnestness on both sides; and the tears came back in eleanor's prayer that morning. with the world at large, things maintained a very unaltered position during the rest of the stay at brighton. mr. carlisle kept his position, advancing a little where it seemed possible. eleanor kept hers; neither advancing nor retreating. she was very good to mr. carlisle; she did not throw him off; she gave him no occasion to complain of an unready talker or an unwilling companion. a little particular kindness indeed she had for him, left from the old times. julia would have been much mystified by the brightness and life and spirit eleanor shewed in company, and in his company especially; which her little sister did not see in their private intercourse alone. nevertheless, mr. carlisle's passion was rather stimulated by difficulty than fed by hope; though hope lived high sometimes. all that eleanor gave him she gave shim readily, and as readily gave to others; she gave coolly too, as coolly as she gave to others. mr. carlisle took in many things the place of an accepted suitor; but never in eleanor's manner, he knew. it chafed him, it piqued him; it made him far more than ever bent on obtaining her hand; her heart he could manage then. just now it was beyond his management; and when mrs. powle smiled congratulation, mr. carlisle bit his lip. however, he had strong aids; he did not despair. he hoped something from london. so they all went to london. eleanor could gain no satisfactory explanation why. only her mother asserted that her father's health must have the advice of london physicians. the squire himself was not much more explicit. that his health was not good, however, was true; the squire was very unlike his hearty, boisterous, independent self. he moped, and he suffered too. eleanor could not help thinking he would have suffered less, as he certainly would have moped less, at home; and an unintelligible grunt and grumble now and then seemed to confirm her view of the case; but there they were, fixed in london, and eleanor was called upon to enter into all sorts of london gaieties, of which always mr. carlisle made part and parcel. eleanor made a stand, and declined to go to places where she could not enjoy nor sympathize with what was done. she could not think it duty to go to the opera, or the theatre, or to great routs, even to please her mother. mrs. powle made a stand too, and insisted, and was very angry; but eleanor stood firm; and the end was, she gained her point. mr. carlisle was disappointed, but counselled acquiescence; and mrs. powle with no very good grace acquiesced; for though a woman, she did not like to be foiled. eleanor gained one point only; she was not obliged to go where she could not go with a good conscience. she did not thereby get her time to herself. london has many ways of spending time; nice ways too; and in one and another of these eleanor found hers all gone. day by day it was so. nothing was left but those hours before breakfast. and what was worse, mr. carlisle was at her elbow in every place; and eleanor became conscious that she was in spite of herself appearing before the world as his particular property, and that the conclusion was endorsed by her mother. she walked as straight as she could; but the days grew to be heavy days. she devoted herself to her father as much as possible; and in that found a refuge. the squire was discontented and unwell; a good deal depressed in spirits as a consequence; he delighted to have eleanor come and sit with him and read to him after dinner. she escaped many an engagement by that means. in vain mrs. powle came in with her appeal, about eleanor's good requiring him to do without her; the squire listened, struggled, and selfishness got the better. "st. george and the dragon!" he exclaimed,--"she shall do as she likes, and as i like, for one hour in the twenty-four. you may haul her about the rest of the time--but from dinner for a while or so you may spare her. i choose she shall be with me." the "while" was often three hours. eleanor enjoyed repose then, and enjoyed ministering to her father; who speedily became exceedingly wedded to her services, and learned to delight in her presence after a new manner. he would have her read to him; she might read everything she pleased except what had a religious bearing. that he disposed of at once, and bade her seek another book. he loved to have her brush his hair, when his head ached, by the half hour together; at other times he engaged her in a game of chess and a talk about plassy. the poor squire was getting a good deal tamed down, to take satisfaction in such quiet pleasures; but the truth was that he found himself unable for what he liked better. strength and health were both failing; he was often suffering; drives in the park wearied him almost as much as sitting alone in his room; he swore at them for the stupidest entertainment man ever pleased himself with. what he did with the lonely hours he spent entirely by himself, nobody knew; eleanor knew that he was rejoiced every time to see her come in. his eye brightened when she opened the door, and he settled himself in his easy chair to have a good time; and then even the long columns of the newspaper, read from one end to the other, up and down, were pleasant to eleanor too. it was soothing repose, in contrast with the whirl of all the rest of her life. until the time came when mr. carlisle began to join the party. how he did it eleanor hardly knew; but he did it. he actually contrived to make one at those evening entertainments, which admitted but two others; and with his usual adroitness and skill he made his presence so acceptable that eleanor felt it would be quite in vain to attempt to hinder him. and so her rest was gone, and her opportunity; for she had cherished fond hopes of winning not only her own way into her father's heart, but with that, in time, a hearing for truths the squire had always pushed out of his path. mr. carlisle was very pleasant; there was no question. he did not at all usurp her office, nor interfere with it. but when he saw her getting weary of a parliamentary discussion, or a long discourse on politics or parties, his hand would gently draw away the paper from hers and his voice carry on the reading. and his voice was agreeable to her father; eleanor saw it; the squire would turn his head a little towards the new reader, and an expression of anything but dissatisfaction steal over his features. eleanor sat by, half mortified, half feeling real good-will towards mr. carlisle for his grace and kindness. or if a game of chess were on foot, mr. carlisle would sit by, he generally declined playing himself, and make the play very lively with his talk; teaching eleanor, whose part he invariably took, and keeping a very general's watch over her as if she had been a subordinate officer. mr. powle liked that too; it made his fighting better fun; he chuckled a good deal over mr. carlisle's play by proxy. eleanor could not help it, nor withdraw herself. she knew what brought mr. carlisle there, and she could not avoid him, nor the very easy familiar terms on which they all sat round the chess table. she was admirably quiet and cool; but then it is true she felt no unkindness towards mr. carlisle, and sometimes she feared she shewed kindness too frankly. it was very difficult to help that too. nevertheless it was plain the gentleman did not dare trust anything to his present power over her, for he never tried it. he evidently relied on somewhat else in his advances. and eleanor felt that the odds were rather hard against her. father and mother, and such a suitor! she was cut off from her evening refreshment; and the next step was, that her morning pleasure with julia was also denied her. mrs. powle had been in a state of gratulation with reference to julia's improvement; julia had become latterly so docile, so decorous, and so diligent. one unlucky day it came to mrs. powle's knowledge that julia objected to going to dancing school; objected to spending money on the accomplishment, and time on the acquisition; and furthermore, when pressed, avowed that she did not believe in the use of it when attained. it seemed to mrs. powle little less than a judgment upon her, to have the second of her daughters holding such language; it was traced to eleanor's influence of course; and further and diligent questioning brought out the fact of the sisters' daily studies in company. they should happen no more, mrs. powle immediately decided. julia was forbidden to go to her sister's room for such purposes; and to make matters sure she was provided with other and abundant occupation to keep her engaged at the dangerous hour. with eleanor herself mrs. powle held no communication on the subject; having for certain reasons an unwillingness to come into unnecessary collision with her; but eleanor found her little sister's society was no more to be had. mrs. powle would assuredly have sent julia quite out of the house to get her away from mischievous influences, but that she could not prevail on her husband. no daughter of his, he declared, should be made a fool of in a boarding-school, while he had a foot above ground to prevent it. "why mrs. powle," he said, "don't you know yourself that eleanor is the only sensible girl in london? that's growing up at home, just as you didn't want." "if she only had not some notions--" said mrs. powle dubiously. for between her husband and mr. carlisle she was very much _held in_ on eleanor's subject; both insisting that she should let her alone. it was difficult for eleanor to be displeased with mr. carlisle in these times; his whole behaviour was so kind and gentlemanly. the only fault to be found with him was his pursuit of her. that was steady and incessant; yet at the same time so brotherly and well-bred in manner that eleanor sometimes feared she gave him unconsciously too much encouragement. feeling really grateful to him, it was a little hard not to shew it. for although mr. carlisle was the cause of her trouble, he was also a shield between her and its more active manifestations. he favoured her not dancing; _that_ was like a jealous man, mrs. powle said. he smiled at eleanor's charities, and would have helped them if he could. he would not have her scolded on the score of religious duties; he preferred administering the antidote to them as quietly as possible. "eleanor!" said mrs. powle, putting her head out of the drawing-room door one sunday evening as she heard somebody come in--"eleanor! is that you? come here. where have you been? here is mr. carlisle waiting this hour to go with you to hear the bishop of london preach." eleanor came into the room. she was dressed with extreme plainness, and looking so calm and sweet that it was no wonder mr. carlisle's eyes rested on her as on a new object of admiration. few of his acquaintance looked so; and eleanor did not use it, in times past. "now here you are, child, almost too late. make haste and get yourself ready. where have you been?" "she cannot be more ready than she is," remarked the other member of the party. "i think, mamma, i will not go to-night. i am a little tired." "that's nonsense, eleanor! when were you ever too unwell to go to church, this winter? go and get ready. what mr. carlisle says is all very well, but he does not see you with my eyes." "i shall not take her if she is tired," said mr. carlisle gently. and eleanor sat still. "where have you been then, child, to tire yourself? you do try me, eleanor. what can you have found to do?" "all london, mamma," said eleanor pleasantly. "all london! i should like to know what that means. all wrong, i suppose, according to you. well, what part of london have you been attacking to-day? i should think the best thing for london would be to hear its bishop. what have you been about, eleanor?" "only to school, mamma--sunday school." "but you went there this morning?" "that was another." mrs. powle looked appealingly to mr. carlisle, as saying, how long would you let this go on? turned her dissatisfied face again to eleanor, "what school is this, mistress? and where?" "mamma, if i tell you where it is, i am afraid you will be frightened. it is a ragged school." "a ragged school! what does that mean, eleanor? what is a ragged school?" "a school to teach ragged children, mamma. or rather, for ragged people--they are not most of them children; and perhaps i should not say they are ragged; for though some of them are, others of them are not. they are some of the wretchedest of the ragged class, at any rate." "and eleanor powle can find nothing more suitable to do, than to go and teach such a set! why you ought to have a policeman there to take care of you." "we have several." "policemen!" "yes, ma'am." "and it is not safe without them!" "it is safe with them, mamma." "mr. carlisle, what do you think of such doings?" said mrs. powle, appealing in despair. "they move my curiosity," he said quietly. "i hope eleanor will go on to gratify it." "and can you really find nothing better than that to do, of a sunday?" her mother went on. "no, mamma, i do not think i can." "what do they learn?" mr. carlisle inquired. "a little reading, some of them; but the main thing to teach them is the truths of the bible. they never heard them before, anywhere,--nor can hear them anywhere else." "do you think they will hear them there?" "i am sure they do." "and remember?" the tears filled eleanor's eyes, as she answered, "i am sure some of them will." "and suppose you lose your life in this ragged teaching?" said mrs. powle. "you might catch your death of some horrid disease, eleanor. do you think that right?" "mamma, there was one who did lay down his life for you and for me. i am not going to offer mine needlessly. but i do not think it is in any danger here. many go besides me." "she is a confirmed methodist!" said mrs. powle, turning to mr. carlisle. he smiled. "where does your school meet, eleanor?" "i am afraid of terrifying mamma, if i tell you." "we will take care of her in case she faints. i am in no danger." "it is the field-lane school, mr. carlisle." "the field-lane? won't you enlighten me?" "carter's field-lane; but it is only called field-lane. did you never hear of it? it was in a wretched place in saffron hill at first--now it is removed to an excellent room in a better street." "where?" "you know where clerkenwell is?" this name gave no intelligence whatever to mrs. powle, but mr. carlisle looked enlightened. his face changed and grew dark with something very like horror and alarm. "do you know that is one of the worst parts of london?" he said. "pretty bad," said eleanor, "and the school used to be. it is wonderfully improved now." "there, you see, eleanor, mr. carlisle thinks it is a very improper place for you to be; and i hope you will go there no more. i do not mean you shall." eleanor was silent, looking a little anxious, though not cast down. mr. carlisle marked her. "it is not safe for you, eleanor," he said. "it is perfectly safe," she answered with a smile that had a curious brightness in it. "i run no risk whatever." "you are a bold creature," said her mother, "and always were; but that is no reason why you should be allowed to go your own crazy ways. i will have no more of this, eleanor." "mamma, i am perfectly safe. i have nothing at all to fear. i would not fail of going for anything in the world." she spoke with an earnest and shadowed face now. she felt it. "who goes with you? or do you go alone?" "no, ma'am--thomas is with me always." "how came you to get into such a strange place?" "i heard of it--and there is sure to be more to do in such a work than there are hands for. i know one or two of the gentlemen that teach there also." "methodists, i suppose?" said mrs. powle sneeringly. "one of them is, mamma; the other is a churchman." "and do you _teach_ there?" "yes, ma'am--a large class of boys." eleanor's smile came again--and went. "i'll have no more of it, eleanor. i will not. it is just absurdity and fanaticism, the whole thing. why shouldn't those boys go to the regular schools, instead of your giving your time and risking your life to teach them sundays? _you_ indeed!" "you do not know what sort of boys they are, mamma; or you would not ask that." "i suppose they have learned some things too well already?" said mr. carlisle. "well, i'll have no more of it!" said mrs. powle. "i am disgusted with the whole thing. if they are not good boys, the house of correction is the best place for them. mr. carlisle, do you not say so?" mr. carlisle's knowledge of the limits of houses of correction and the number of boys in london who were not good boys, forbade him to give an affirmative answer; his character as a reformer also came up before him. more than all, eleanor's face, which was somewhat sad. "mrs. powle, i am going to petition you to suspend judgment, and reconsider the case of the ragged schools. i confess to a selfish motive in my request--i have a desire to go there myself and see this lady with her scholars around her. the picturesque effect, i should say, must be striking." mrs. powle looked at him as a very unwise and obstinate man, who was bewitched into false action. "if you have a fancy for such effects," she said; "i suppose you must do as you please. to me the effect is striking and not picturesque. just look at her!" mr. carlisle did so, and the expression on his face was so unsatisfactory that mrs. powle gave up the matter; laughed, and went out of the room. "i will be less striking," said eleanor, "if you will excuse me." and she left the room to change her dress. but when she came back an hour after, mr. carlisle was still there. "eleanor," said he, coming and standing before her, "may i go with you the next time you go to field lane?" "no, i think not. you would not know what to do in such a place, mr. carlisle." "do you think so?" "they are a set of people whom you do not like; people who you think ought to be fined--and imprisoned--and transported; and all that sort of thing." "and what do you think ought to be done with them?" "i would try a different regimen." "pray what would it be?" "i would tell them of the love of one who died for them. and i would shew them that the servants of that one love them too." she spoke quietly, but there was a light in her eye. "how, for heaven's sake, eleanor?" "mr. carlisle, i would never condemn a man or boy very severely for stealing, when i had left him no other way to live." "so you would make the rest of the world responsible?" "are they not? these fellows never heard a word of right or of truth--never had a word of kindness--never were brought under a good influence,--until they found it in the ragged school. what could you expect? may i illustrate?" "pray do." "there is a boy in a class neighbouring to mine in the room, whose teacher i know. the boy is thirteen or fourteen years old now; he came to the school first some four or five years ago, when he was a little bit of a fellow. then he had already one brother transported for stealing, and another in prison for stealing--both only a little older than he. they had often no other way of getting food but stealing it. the father and mother were both of them drunkards and swallowed up everything in liquor. this little fellow used to come to the morning school, which was held every day, without any breakfast; many a time. barefooted, over the cold streets, and no breakfast to warm him. but after what he heard at the school he promised he would never do as his brothers had done; and he had some very hard times in keeping his promise. at last he came to his teacher and asked him for a loan of threepence; if he had a loan of threepence he thought he could make a living." mr. carlisle half turned on his heel, but instantly resumed his look and attitude of fixed attention. "mr. morrison lent him threepence. and jemmy has supported himself respectably ever since, and is now in honest employment as an errand boy." "i hope you can tell me how he managed it? i do not understand doing business on such a capital." "the threepence bought twelve boxes of matches. those were sold for a halfpenny each--doubling his capital at once. so he carried on that business for two years. all day he went to school. in the end of the day he went out with twelve boxes of matches and hawked them about until they were disposed of. that gave him threepence for the next day's trade, and threepence to live upon. he spent one penny for breakfast, he said; another for dinner, and another for supper. so he did for two years; now he does better." "he deserves it, if anybody in london does. is not this a strange instance, eleanor?--on honour?" "if you like--but not solitary." "what has been done for the mass of these boys in these schools? what has been accomplished, i mean?" "i have given you but one instance out of many, many individual instances." "then you can afford to be generous and give me another." perhaps he said this only because he wanted to have her go on talking; perhaps eleanor divined that; however she hesitated a moment and went on. "lord cushley, with some other friends, has just provided for the emigration to australia of near a dozen promising cases of these boys." "was eleanor powle another of the friends?" "no; i had not that honour. these are reclaimed boys, mind; reclaimed from the very lowest and most miserable condition; and they are going out with every prospect of respectability and every promise of doing well. do you want to know the antecedents of one among them?" "by all means!" "notice them. first, slavery under two drunken people, one of them his mother, who sent him out to steal for them; and refused him even the shelter of their wretched home if he came to it with empty hands. at such times, thrust out houseless and hungry, to wander where he could, he led a life of such utter wretchedness, that at length he determined to steal for himself, and to go home no more. then came years of struggling vagrancy--during which, mr. carlisle, the prison was his pleasantest home and only comfortable shelter; and whenever he was turned out of it he stood in london streets helpless and hopeless but to renew his old ways of thieving and starvation. nobody had told him better; no one had shewed the child kindness; was he to blame?" "somebody shewed him kindness at last," said mr. carlisle, looking into the lustrous eyes which were so full of their subject. "who, do you think?" "impossible for me to guess--since you were not here." "one of the most noted thieves in london went to one of the city missionaries and told him of the boy and recommended him to his kindness." "impelled by what earthly motive?" "the misery of the case." "why did he not teach him his own trade?" "the question the missionary put to him. the thief answered that he knew a thief's life too well." "i should like to see you before a committee of the house of commons," said mr. carlisle, taking two or three steps away and then returning. "well?" "well--the missionary put the child with some decent people, where he was washed and clothed. but it is impossible for met to tell, as it was too bad to be told to me, the state to which squalor, starvation, and all that goes with it, had brought the child. he went to school; and two years after was well, healthy, flourishing, intelligent, one of the best and most useful lads at the establishment where he was employed. now lord cushley has sent him to australia." "eleanor, i will never say anything against ragged schools again." "then i have not spoken in vain," said eleanor rising. he took her hand, held it, bowed his lips to it, held it still, too firmly for eleanor to disengage it without violence. "will you grant me one little favour?" "you take without asking, mr. carlisle!" he smiled and kissed her hand again, not releasing it, however. "let me go with you to field-lane in future." "what would you do there?" "take care of you." "as i do not need it, you would be exceedingly bored; finding yourself without either business or pleasure." "do you think that what interests you will not interest me?" a change came over her face--a high grave light, as she answered,--"not till you love the master i do. not till his service is your delight, as it is mine.--mr. carlisle, if you will allow me, i will ring the bell for tea." he rang the bell for her instantly, and then came to her side again, and waited till the servant was withdrawn. "eleanor, seriously, i am not satisfied to have you go to that place alone." "i do not. i am always attended." "by a servant. have you never been frightened?" "never." "do you not meet a very ugly sort of crowd sometimes, on your way?" "yes--sometimes." "and never feel afraid?" "no. mr. carlisle, would you like a cup of tea, if you could get it?" she had met his questions with a full clear look of her eyes, in which certainly there lay no lurking shadow. he read them, and drank his tea rather moodily. "so, eleanor," said mrs. powle the next day, "you have enlisted mr. carlisle on your side as usual, and he will have you go to your absurd school as you want to do. how did people get along before ragged schools were invented, i should like to know?" "you would not like to know, mamma. it was in misery and ignorance and crime, such as you would be made sick to hear of." "well, they live in it yet, i suppose; or are they all reclaimed already?" "they live in it yet--many a one." "and it is among such people you go! well, i wash my hands of it. mr. carlisle will not have you molested. he must have his own way." "what has he to do with it, mamma?" eleanor asked, a little indignantly. "a good deal, i should say. you are not such a fool as not to know what he is with you all the time for, eleanor." a hot colour came up in eleanor's cheeks. "it is not by my wish, mamma." "it is rather late to say so. don't you like him, eleanor?" "yes, ma'am--very much--if only he would be content with that." "answer me only one thing. do you like any one else better? he is as jealous as a bear, and afraid you do." "mamma," said eleanor, a burning colour again rising to her brow,--"you know yourself that i see no one that i favour more than i do mr. carlisle. i do not hold him just in the regard he wishes, nevertheless." "but do you like any one else better? tell me that. i just want that question answered." "mamma, why? answering it will not help the matter. in all england there is not a person out of my own family whom i like so well;--but that does not put mr. carlisle in the place where he wishes to be." "i just wanted that question answered," said mrs. powle. chapter vi. at field-lane. "still all the day the iron wheels go onward, grinding life down from its mark; and the children's souls, which god is calling sunward, spin on blindly in the dark." "she declares there is not anybody in the world she likes better than she does you--nor so well." mrs. powle's fair curls hung on either side of a perplexed face. mr. carlisle stood opposite to her. his eye brightened and fired, but he made no answer. "it is only her absurd fanaticism that makes all the trouble." "there will be no trouble to fear, my dear madam, if that is true." "well i asked her the question, and she told me in so many words; and you know eleanor. what she says she means." mr. carlisle was silent, and mrs. powle went on. he was seldom loquacious in his consultations with her. "for all that, she is just as fixed in her ways as a mountain; and i don't know how to manage her. eleanor always was a hard child to manage; and now she has got these fanatical notions in her head she is worse than ever." there was a slight perceptible closing in of the fingers of mr. carlisle's hand, but his words were quiet. "do not oppose them. fanaticism opposed grows rigid, and dies a martyr. let her alone; these things will all pass away by and by. i am not afraid of them." "then you would let her go on with her absurd ragged schools and such flummery? i am positively afraid she will bring something dreadful into the house, or be insulted herself some day. i do think charity begins at home. i wish lord cushley, or whoever it is, had been in better business. such an example of course sets other people wild." "i will be there myself, and see that no harm comes to eleanor. i think i can manage that." "eleanor of all girls!" said mrs. powle. "that she should be infected with religious fanaticism! she was just the girl most unlike it that could possibly be; none of these meek tame spirits, that seem to have nothing better to do." "no, you are wrong," said mr. carlisle. "it is the enthusiastic character, that takes everything strongly, that is strong in this as in all the rest. her fanaticism will give me no trouble--if it will once let her be mine!" "then you would let her alone?" said mrs. powle. "let her alone." "she is spoiling julia as fast as she can; but i stopped that. would you believe it? the minx objected to taking lessons in dancing, because her sister had taught her that dancing assemblies were not good places to go to! but i take care that they are not together now. julia is completely under her influence." "so am i," said mr. carlisle laughing; "so much that i believe i cannot bear to hear any more against her than is necessary. i will be with her at field-lane next sunday." he did not however this time insist on going with her. he went by himself. it is certain that the misery of london disclosed to him by this drive to field-lane, the course of which gave him a good sample of it, did almost shake him in his opinion that eleanor ought to be let alone. mr. carlisle had not seen such a view of london in his life before; he had not been in such a district of crime and wretchedness; or if by chance he had touched upon it, he had made a principle of not seeing what was before him. now he looked; for he was going where eleanor was accustomed to go, and what he saw she was obliged to meet also. he reached the building where the field-lane school was held, in a somewhat excited state of mind. he found at the door several policemen, who warned him to guard well and in a safe place anything of value he might have about his person. then he was ushered up stairs to the place where the school was held. he entered a very large room, looking like a factory room, with bare beams and rough sides, but spacious and convenient for the purpose it was used for. down the length of this room ran rows of square forms, with alleys left between the rows; and the forms were in good measure filled with the rough scholars. there must have been hundreds collected there; three-fourths of them perhaps were girls, the rest boys and young men, from seven years old and upwards. but the roughness of the scholars bore no proportion to the roughness of the room. _that_ had order, shape, and some decency of preparation. the poor young human creatures that clustered within it were in every stage of squalor, rags, and mental distortion. with a kind of wonder mr. carlisle's eye went from one to another to note the individual varieties of the general character; and as it took in the details, wandered horror-stricken, from the nameless dirt and shapeless rags which covered the person, to the wild or stupid or cunning or devilish expression of vice in the face. beyond description, both. there were many there who had never slept in a bed in their lives; many who never had their clothes off from one month's end to another; the very large proportion lived day and night by a course of wickedness. there they were gathered now, these wretches, eight or ten in a form, listening with more or less of interest to the instructions of their teachers who sat before them; and many, mr. carlisle saw, were shewing deep interest in face and manner. others were full of mischief, and shewed that too. and others, who were interested, were yet also restless; and would manifest it by the occasional irregularity of jumping up and turning a somerset in the midst of the lesson. that frequently happened. suddenly, without note or warning, in the midst of the most earnest deliverances of the teacher, a boy would leap up and throw himself over; come up all right; and sit down again and listen, as if he had only been making himself comfortable; which was very likely the real state of the case in some instances. when however a general prevalence of somersets throughout the room indicated that too large a proportion of the assemblage were growing uneasy in their minds, or their seats, the director of the school stood up and gave the signal for singing. instantly the whole were on their feet, and some verse or two of a hymn were shouted heartily by the united lungs of the company. that seemed to be a great safety valve; they were quite brought into order, and somersets not called for, till some time had passed again. in the midst of this great assemblage of strange figures, small and large, mr. carlisle's eye sought for eleanor. he could not immediately find her, standing at the back of the room as he was; and he did not choose the recognition to be first on her side, so would not go forward. no bonnet or cloak there recalled the image of eleanor; he had seen her once in her school trim, it is true, but that signified nothing. he had seen her only, not her dress. it was only by a careful scrutiny that he was able to satisfy himself which bonnet and which outline of a cloak was eleanor's. but once his attention had alighted on the right figure, and he was sure, by a kind of instinct. the turns of the head, the fine proportions of the shoulders, could be none but her's; and mr. carlisle moved somewhat nearer and took up a position a little in the rear of that form, so that he could watch all that went on there. he scanned with infinite disgust one after another of the miserable figures ranged upon it. they were well-grown boys, young thieves some of them, to judge by their looks; and dirty and ragged so as to be objects of abhorrence much more than of anything else to his eye. yet to these squalid, filthy, hardened looking little wretches, scarcely decent in their rags, eleanor was most earnestly talking; there was no avoidance in her air. her face he could not see; he could guess at its expression, from the turns of her head to one and another, and the motions of her hands, with which she was evidently helping out the meaning of her words; and also from the earnest gaze that her unpromising hearers bent upon her. he could hear the soft varying play of her voice as she addressed them. mr. carlisle grew restless. there was a more evident and tremendous gap between himself and her than he had counted upon. was she doing this like a catholic, for penance, or to work out good deeds to earn heaven like a philanthropist? while he pondered the matter, in increasing restlessness, mind and body helping each other; for the atmosphere of the room was heavy and stifling from the foul human beings congregated there, and it must require a very strong motive in anybody to be there at all; he could hardly bear it himself; an incident occurred which gave a little variety to his thoughts. as he stood in the alley, leaning on the end of a form where no one sat, a boy came in and passed him; brushing so near that mr. carlisle involuntarily shrank back. such a looking fellow-creature he had never seen until that day. mr. carlisle had lived in the other half of the world. this was a half-grown boy, inexpressibly forlorn in his rags and wretchedness. an old coat hung about him, much too large and long, that yet did not hide a great rent in his trowsers which shewed that there was no shirt beneath. but the face! the indescribable brutalized, stolid, dirty, dumb look of badness and hardness! mr. carlisle thought he had never seen such a face. one round portion of it had been washed, leaving the dark ring of dirt all circling it like a border, where the blessed touch of water had not come. the boy moved on, with a shambling kind of gait, and to mr. carlisle's horror, paused at the form of eleanor's class. yes,--he was going in there, he belonged there; for she looked up and spoke to him; mr. carlisle could hear her soft voice saying something about his being late. then came a transformation such as mr. carlisle would never have believed possible. a light broke upon that brutalized face; actually a light; a smile that was like a heavenly sunbeam in the midst of those rags and dirt irradiated; as a rough thick voice spoke out in answer to her--"yes--if i didn't come, i knowed you would be disappointed." evidently they were friends, eleanor and that boy; young thief, young rascal, though mr. carlisle's eye pronounced him. they were on good terms, even of affection; for only love begets love. the lesson went on, but the gentleman stood in a maze till it was finished. the notes of eleanor's voice in the closing hymn, which he was sure he could distinguish, brought him quite back to himself. now he might speak to her again. he had felt as if there were a barrier between them. now he would test it. he had to wait yet a little while, for eleanor was talking to one or two elderly gentlemen. nobody to move his jealousy however; so mr. carlisle bore the delay with what patience he could; which in that stifling atmosphere was not much. how could eleanor endure it? as at last she came down the room, he met her and offered his arm. eleanor took it, and they went out together. "i did not know you were in the school," she said. "i would not disturb you. thomas is not here--mrs. powle wanted him at home." which was mr. carlisle's apology for taking his place. or somewhat more than thomas's place; for he not only put eleanor in a carriage, but took a seat beside her. the drive began with a few moments of silence. "how do you do?" was his first question. "very well." "must i take it on trust? or do you not mean i shall see for myself?" said he. for there had been a hidden music in eleanor's voice, and she had not turned her face from the window of the carriage. at this request however she gave him a view of it. the hidden sweetness was there too; he could not conceive what made her look so happy. yet the look was at once too frank and too deep for his personal vanity to get any food from it; no surface work, but a lovely light on brow and lip that came from within. it had nothing to do with him. it was something though, that she was not displeased at his being there; his own face lightened. "what effect does field-lane generally have upon you?" said he. "it tires me a little--generally. not to-day." "no, i see it has not; and how you come out of that den, looking as you do, i confess is an incomprehensible thing to me. what has pleased you there?" a smile came upon eleanor's face, so bright as shewed it was but the outbreaking of the light he had seen there before. his question she met with another. "did nothing there please you?" "do you mean to evade my inquiry?" "i will tell you what pleased me," said eleanor. "perhaps you remarked--whereabouts were you?" "a few feet behind you and your scholars." "then perhaps you remarked a boy who came in when the lesson was partly done--midway in the time--a boy who came in and took his seat in my class." "i remarked him--and you will excuse me for saying, i do not understand how pleasure can be connected in anybody's mind with the sight of him." "of course you do not. that boy has been a most notorious pickpocket and thief." "exactly what i should have supposed." "did you observe that he had washed his face?" "i think i observed how imperfectly it was done." "ah, but it is the first time probably in years that it has touched water, except when his lips touched it to drink. do you know, that is a sign of reformation?" "water?" "washing. it is the hardest thing in the world to get them to forego the seal and the bond of dirt. it is a badge of the community of guilt. if they will be brought to wash, it is a sign that the bond is broken--that they are willing to be out of the community; which will i suppose regard them as suspected persons from that time. now you can understand why i was glad." hardly; for the fire and water sparkling together in eleanor's eyes expressed so much gladness that it quite went beyond mr. carlisle's power of sympathy. he remained silent a few moments. "eleanor, i wish you would answer one question, which puzzles me. why do you go to that place?" "you do not like it?" "no, nor do you. what takes you there?" "there are more to be taught than there are teachers for," said eleanor looking at her questioner. "they want help. you must have seen, there are none too many to take care of the crowds that come; and many of those teachers are fatigued with attendance in the week." "do you go in the week?" "no, not hitherto." "you must not think of it! it is as much as your life is worth to go sundays. i met several companies of most disorderly people on my way--do you not meet such?" "yes." "what takes you there, eleanor, through such horrors?" "i have no fear." "no, i suppose not; but will you answer my question?" "you will hardly be able to understand me," said eleanor hesitating. "i like to go to these poor wretches, because i love them. and if you ask me why i love them,--i know that the lord jesus loves them; and he is not willing they should be in this forlorn condition; and so i go to try to help get them out of it." "if the supreme ruler is not willing there should be this class of people, eleanor, how come they to exist?" "you are too good a philosopher, mr. carlisle, not to know that men are free agents, and that god leaves them the exercise of their free agency, even though others as well as themselves suffer by it. i suppose, if those a little above them in the social scale had lived according to the gospel rule, this class of people never would have existed." "what a reformer you would make, eleanor!" "i should not suit you? yes--i do not believe in any radical way of reform but one." "and that is, what?--counsellor." "do unto others as you would that others should do unto you." "radical enough! you must reform the reformers first, i suppose you know." "i know it." "then, hard as it is for me to believe it, you do not go to field-lane by way of penance?" "the penance would be, to make me stay away." "mrs. powle will do that, unless i contrive to disturb the action of her free agency; but i think i shall plunge into the question of reform, eleanor. speaking of that, how much reformation has been effected by these ragged institutions?" "very much; and they are only as it were beginning, you must remember." "room for amendment still," said mr. carlisle. "i never saw such a disorderly set of scholars in my life before. how do you find an occasional somersault helps a boy's understanding of his lesson?" "those things were constant at first; not occasional," said eleanor smiling; "somersaults, and leaping over the forms, and shouts and catcalls, and all manner of uproarious behaviour. that was before i ever knew them. but now, think of that boy's washed face!" "that was the most partial reformation i ever saw rejoiced in," said mr. carlisle. "it gives hope of everything else, though. you have no idea what a bond that community of dirt is. but there are plenty of statistics, if you want those, mr. carlisle. i can give you enough of them; shewing what has been done." "will you shew them to me to-night?" "to-night? it is sunday. no, but to-morrow night, mr. carlisle; or any other time." "eleanor, you are very strict!" "not at all. that is not strictness; but sunday is too good to waste upon statistics." she said it somewhat playfully, with a shilling of her old arch smile, which did not at all reassure her companion. "besides, mr. carlisle, you like strictness a great deal better than i do. there is not a law made in our queen's reign or administered under her sceptre, that you would not have fulfilled to the letter--even down to the regulations that keep little boys off the grass. it is only the laws of the great king which you do not think should be strictly kept." she was grave enough now, and mr. carlisle swallowed the reproof as best he might. "eleanor, you are going to turn preacher too, as well as reformer? well, i will come to you, dear, and put myself under your influences. you shall do what you please with me." too much of a promise, and more of a responsibility than eleanor chose to take. she went into the house with a sober sense that she had a difficult part to play; that between mr. carlisle and her mother, she must walk very warily or she would yet find herself entangled before she was aware. and mr. carlisle too had a sober sense that eleanor's religious character was not of a kind to exhale, like a volatile oil, under the sun of prosperity or the breezes of flattery. nevertheless, the more hard to reach the prize, the more of a treasure when reached. he never wanted her more than now; and mr. carlisle had always, by skill and power, obtained what he wanted. he made no doubt he would find this instance like the others. for the present, the thing was to bring a bill into parliament "for the reformation of juvenile offenders"--and upon its various provisions mr. carlisle came daily to consult eleanor, and take advice and receive information. doubtless there was a great deal to be considered about the bill, to make it just what it should be; to secure enough and not insist upon too much; its bearings would be very important, and every point merited well the deepest care and most circumspect management. it enlisted eleanor's heart and mind thoroughly; how should it not? she spent hours and hours with mr. carlisle over it; wrote for him, read for him, or rather for those the bill wrought for; talked and discussed and argued, for and against various points which she felt would make for or against its best success. capital for m. carlisle. all this brought him into constant close intercourse with her, and gave him opportunities of recommending himself. and not in vain. eleanor saw and appreciated the cool, clear business head; the calm executive talent, which seeing its ends in the distance, made no hurry but took the steps and the measures surest to attain them, with patient foresight. she admired it, and sometimes also could almost have trembled when she thought of its being turned towards herself. and was it not, all the while? was not eleanor tacitly, by little and little, yielding the ground she fought so hard to keep? was she not quietly giving her affirmative to the world's question,--and to mr. carlisle's too? to the former, yes; for the latter, she knew and mr. carlisle knew that she shewed him no more than the regard that would not satisfy him. but then, if this went on indefinitely, would not he, and the world, and her mother, all say that she had given him a sort of prescriptive right to her? ay, and eleanor must count her father too now as among her adversaries' ranks. she saw it and felt it somewhat bitterly. she had begun to gain his ear and his heart; by and by he might have listened to her on what subject she pleased, and she might have won him to the knowledge of the truth that she held dearest. now, she had gained his love certainly, in a measure, but so had mr. carlisle. gently, skilfully, almost unconsciously it seemed, he was as much domiciled in her father's room as she was; and even more acceptable. the squire had come to depend on him, to look for him, to delight in him; and with very evident admission that he was only anticipating by a little the rights and privileges of sonship. eleanor could not absent herself neither; she tried that; her father would have her there; and there was mr. carlisle, as much at home, and sharing with her in filial offices as a matter of rule, and associating with her as already one of the family. it is true, in his manner to eleanor herself he did not so step beyond bounds as to give her opportunity to check him; yet even over this there stole insensibly a change; and eleanor felt herself getting deeper and deeper in the toils. her own manner meanwhile was nearly perfect in its simple dignity. except in the interest of third party measures, which led her sometimes further than she wanted to go, eleanor kept a very steady way, as graceful as it was steady. so friendly and frank as to give no cause of umbrage; while it was so cool and self-poised as to make mr. carlisle very uneasy and very desperate. it was just the manner he admired in a woman; just what he would like to see in his wife, towards all the rest of the world. eleanor charmed him more by her high-bred distance, than ever she had done by the affection or submissiveness of former days. but he was pretty sure of his game. let this state of things go on long enough, and she would have no power to withdraw; and once his own, let him have once again the right to take her to his breast and whisper love or authority, and he knew he could win that fine sweet nature to give him back love as well as obedience,--in time. and so the bill went on in its progress towards maturity. it did not go very fast. all this while the sisters saw very little of each other. one morning eleanor waylaid julia as she was passing her door, drew her in, and turned the key in the lock. the first impulse of the two was to spring to each other's arms for a warm embrace. "i never have a chance to speak to you, darling," said the elder sister. "what has become of you?" "o i am so busy, you see--all the times except when you are gone out, or talking in the drawing-room to people, or in papa's room. then i am out, and you are out too; somewhere else." "out of what?" "out of my studies, and teachers, and governesses. i must go now in two minutes." "no you must not. sit down; i want to see you. are you remembering what we have learnt together?" "sometimes--and sometimes it is hard, you see. everything is so scratchy. o eleanor, are you going to marry mr. carlisle?" "no. i told you i was not." "everybody says you are, though. are you _sure_ you are not?" "quite sure." "i almost wish you were; and then things would go smooth again." "what do you mean by their being 'scratchy'? that is a new word." "well, everything goes cross. i am in ever so many dictionaries besides english--and shut up to learn 'em--and mamma don't care what becomes of me if she can only keep me from you; and i don't know what you are doing; and i wish we were all home again!" eleanor sighed. "i call it _scratchy_," said julia. "everybody is trying to do what somebody else don't like." "i hope you are not going on that principle,"--said her sister, with a smile which made julia spring to her neck again and load her lips with kisses over and over. "i'll try to do what you like, eleanor--only tell me what. tell me something, and i will remember it." "julia, are you going to be a servant of christ? have you forgotten that you said you loved him?" "no, and i do, eleanor! and i want to do right; but i am so busy, and then i get so vexed!" "that is not like a servant of jesus, darling." "no. if i could only see you, eleanor! tell me something to remember, and i will keep it in my head, in spite of all the dictionaries." "keep it in your life, julia. remember what jesus said his servants must be and how they must do--just in this one little word--'and ye yourselves like them that wait for their lord.'" "how, eleanor?" "that is what we are, dear. we are the lord's servants, put here to work for him, put just in the post where he wishes us to be, till he comes. now let us stand in our post and do our work, 'like them that wait for their lord.' you know how that would be." julia again kissed and caressed her, not without some tears. "i know," she said; "it is like mr. rhys, and it is like you; and i don't believe it is like anybody else." "shall it be like you, julia?" "yes, eleanor, yes! i will never forget it. o eleanor, are you sure you are not going to rythdale?" "what makes you ask me?" "why everybody thinks so, and everybody says so; and you--you are with mr. carlisle all the time, talking to him." "i have so many thoughts to put into his head," said eleanor gravely. "what are you so busy with him about?" "parliament business. it is for the poor of london, julia. mr. carlisle is preparing a bill to bring into the house of commons, and i know more about the matter than he does; and so he comes to me." "don't you think he is glad of his ignorance?" said julia shrewdly. eleanor leaned her head on her hand and looked thoughtfully down. "what do you give him thoughts about?" "my poor boys would say, 'lots of things.' i have to convince mr. carlisle that it would cost the country less to reform than to punish these poor children, and that reforming them is impossible unless we can give them enough to keep them from starvation; and that the common prison is no place for them; and then a great many questions besides these and that spring out of these have to be considered and talked over. and it is important beyond measure; and if i should let it alone,--the whole might fall to the ground. there are two objections now in mr. carlisle's mind--or in other people's minds--to one thing that ought to be done, and must be done; and i must shew mr. carlisle how false the objections are. i have begun; i must go through with it. the whole might fall to the ground if i took away my hand; and it would be such an incalculable blessing to thousands and thousands in this dreadful place--" "do you think london is a dreadful place?" said julia doubtfully. "there are very few here who stand 'like them that wait for their lord,'"--said eleanor, her face taking a yearning look of thoughtfulness. "there aren't anywhere, _i_ don't believe. eleanor--aren't you happy?" "yes!" "you don't always look--just--so." "perhaps not. but to live for jesus makes happy days--be sure of that, julia; however the face looks." "are you bothered about mr. carlisle?" "what words you use!" said eleanor smiling. "'bother,' and 'scratchy.' no, i am not bothered about him--i am a little troubled sometimes." "what's the difference?" "the difference between seeing one's way clear, and not seeing it; and the difference between having a hand to take care of one, and not having it." "well why do you talk to him so much, if he troubles you?" said julia, reassured by her sister's smile. "i must," said eleanor. "i must see through this business of the bill--at all hazards. i cannot let that go. mr. carlisle knows i do not compromise myself." "well, i'll tell you what," said julia getting up to go,--"mamma means you shall go to rythdale; and she thinks you are going." with a very earnest kiss to eleanor, repeated with an emphasis which set the seal upon all the advices and promises of the morning, julia went off. eleanor sat a little while thinking; not long; and met mr. carlisle the next time he came, with precisely the same sweet self-possession, the unchanged calm cool distance, which drove that gentleman to the last verge of passion and patience. but he was master of himself and bided his time, and talked over the bill as usual. it was not eleanor alone who had occasion for the exercise of admiration in these business consultations. somewhat to his surprise, mr. carlisle found that his quondam fair mistress was good for much more than a plaything. with the quick wit of a woman she joined a patience of investigation, an independent strength of judgment, a clearness of rational vision, that fairly met him and obliged him to be the best man he could in the business. he could not get her into a sophistical maze; she found her way through immediately; he could not puzzle her, for what she did not understand one day she had studied out by the next. it is possible that mr. carlisle would not have fallen in love with this clear intelligence, if he had known it in the front of eleanor's qualities; for he was one of those men who do not care for an equal in a wife; but his case was by this time beyond cure. nay, what might have alienated him once, bound him now; he found himself matched with eleanor in a game of human life. the more she proved herself his equal, the nobler the conquest, and the more the instinct of victory stirred within him; for pride, a poor sort of pride, began to be stirred as well as love. so the bill went on; and prisons and laws and reformatory measures and penal enactments and industrial schools, and the question of interfering with the course of labour, and the question of offering a premium upon crime, and a host of questions, were discussed and rediscussed. and partly no doubt from policy, partly from an intelligent view of the subject, but wholly moved thereto by eleanor, mr. carlisle gradually gave back the ground and took just the position (on paper) that she wished to see him take. chapter vii. in april. "why, how one weeps when one's too weary! were a witness by, he'd say some folly--" so the bill went on. and the season too. winter merged into spring; the change of temperature reminded eleanor of the changing face of the earth out of london; and even in london the parks gave testimony of it. she longed for wiglands and the lodge; but there was no token of the family's going home at present. parliament was in session; mr. carlisle was busy there every night almost; which did not in the least hinder his being busied with eleanor as well. where she and her mother went, for the most part he went; and at home he was very much at home indeed. eleanor began to feel that the motions of the family depended on him; for she could find no sufficient explanation in her father's health or her mother's pleasure for their continued remaining in town. the squire was much as he had been all winter; attended now and then by a physician, and out of health and spirits certainly; yet eleanor could not help thinking he would be better at home, and somewhat suspected her father thought so. mrs. powle enjoyed london, no doubt; still, she was not a woman to run mad after pleasure, or after anything else; not so much but that the pleasure of her husband would have outweighed hers. nevertheless, both the squire and she were as quietly fixed in london, to judge by all appearance, as if they had no other place to go to; and the rising of parliament was sometimes hinted at as giving the only clue to the probable time of their departure. did you ever lay brands together on a hearth, brands with little life in them too, seemingly; when with no breath blown or stirring of air to fan them, gradually, by mere action and reaction upon each other, the cold grey ends began to sparkle and glow, till by and by the fire burst forth and flame sprang up? circumstances may be laid together so, and with like effect. everything went on in a train at the house in cadogan square; nobody changed his attitude or behaviour with respect to the others, except as by that most insensible, unnoticeable, quiet action of elements at work; yet the time came when eleanor began to feel that things were drawing towards a crisis. her place was becoming uncomfortable. she could not tell how, she did not know when it began, but a change in the home atmosphere became sensible to her. it was growing to be oppressive. mother, father, and friends seemed by concert to say that she was mr. carlisle's; and the gentleman himself began to look it, eleanor thought, though he did not say it. a little tacit allowance of this mute language of assignment, and either her truth would be forfeited or her freedom. she must make a decided protest. yet also eleanor felt that quality in the moral atmosphere which threatened that if any clouds came up they would be stormy clouds; and she dreaded to make any move. julia's society would have been a great solace now; when she never could have it. julia comforted her, whenever they were together in company or met for a moment alone, by her energetic whisper--"i remember, eleanor!--" but that was all. eleanor could get no further speech of her. at the ragged school mr. carlisle was pretty sure to be, and generally attended her home. eleanor remonstrated with her mother, and got a sharp answer, that it was only thanks to mr. carlisle she went there at all; if it were not for him mrs. powle certainly would put a stop to it. eleanor pondered very earnestly the question of putting a stop to it herself; but it was at mr. carlisle's own risk; the poor boys in the school wanted her ministrations; and the "bill" was in process of preparation. eleanor's heart was set on that bill, and her help she knew was greatly needed in its construction; she could not bear to give it up. so she let matters take their course; and talked reform diligently to mr. carlisle all the time they were driving from west-smithfield home. at last to eleanor's joy, the important paper was drawn up according to her mind. it satisfied her. and it was brought to a reading in the house and ordered to be printed. so much was gained. the very next day mr. carlisle came to ask eleanor to drive out with him to richmond, which she had never seen. eleanor coolly declined. he pressed the charms of the place, and of the country at that season. eleanor with the same coolness of manner replied that she hoped soon to enjoy the country at home; and that she could not go to richmond. mr. carlisle withdrew his plea, sat and talked some time, making himself very agreeable, though eleanor could not quite enjoy his agreeableness that morning; and went away. he had given no sign of understanding her or of being rebuffed; and she was not satisfied. the next morning early her mother came to her. "eleanor, what do you say to a visit to hampton court to-day?" "who is going, mamma?" "half the world, i suppose--there or somewhere else--such a day; but with you, your friend in parliament." "i have several friends in parliament." "pshaw, eleanor! you know i mean mr. carlisle. you had better dress immediately, for he will be here for you early. he wants to have the whole day. put on that green silk which becomes you so well. how it does, i don't know; for you are not blonde; but you look as handsome as a fairy queen in it. come, eleanor!" "i do not care about going, mamma." "nonsense, child; you do care. you have no idea what bushy park is, eleanor. it is not like rythdale--though rythdale will do in its way. come, child, get ready. you will enjoy it delightfully." "i do not think i should, mamma. i do not think i ought to go with mr. carlisle." "why not?" "you know, mamma," eleanor said calmly, though her heart beat; "you know what conclusions people draw about me and mr. carlisle. if i went to hampton court or to richmond with him, i should give them, and him too, a right to those conclusions." "what have you been doing for months past, eleanor? i should like to know." "giving him no right to any conclusions whatever, mamma, that would be favourable to him. he knows that." "he knows no such thing. you are a fool, eleanor. have you not said to all the world all this winter, by your actions, that you belonged to him? all the world knows it was an engagement, and you have been telling all the world that it is. mr. carlisle knows what to expect." eleanor coloured. "i cannot fulfil his expectations, mamma. he has no right to them." "i tell you, you have given him a right to them, by your behaviour these months past. ever since we were at brighton. why how you encouraged him there!" a great flush rose to eleanor's cheeks. "mamma,--no more than i encouraged others. grace given to all is favour to none." "ay, but there was the particular favour in his case of a promise to marry him." "broken off, mamma." "the world did not know that, and you did not tell them. you rode, you walked, you talked, you went hither and thither with mr. carlisle, and suffered him to attend you." "not alone, mamma; rarely alone." "often alone, child; often of evenings. you are alone with a gentleman in the street, if there is a crowd before and behind you." "mamma, all those things that i did, and that i was sorry to do, i could hardly get out of or get rid of; they were mr. carlisle's doing and yours." "granted; and you made them yours by acceptance. now eleanor, you are a good girl; be a sensible girl. you have promised yourself to mr. carlisle in the eye of all the world; now be honest, and don't be shy, and fulfil your engagements." "i have made none," said eleanor getting up and beginning to walk backwards and forwards in the room. "mr. carlisle has been told distinctly that i do not love him. i will never marry any man whom i have not a right affection for." "you did love him once, eleanor." "never! not the least; not one bit of real--mamma, i _liked_ him, and i do that now; and then i did not know any better; but i will never, for i ought never, to marry any man upon mere liking." "how come you to know any better now?" eleanor's blush was beautiful again for a minute; then it faded. she did not immediately speak. "is mr. carlisle right after all, and has he a rival?" "mamma, you must say what you please. surely it does not follow that a woman must love all the world because she does not love one." "and you may say what you please; i know you like mr. carlisle quite well enough, for you as good as told me so. this is only girl's talk; but you have got to come to the point, eleanor. i shall not suffer you to make a fool of him in my house; not to speak of making a fool of yourself and me, and ruining--forever ruining--all your prospects. you can't do it, eleanor. you have said yea, and you can't draw back. put on your green gown and go to hampton court, and come back with the day fixed--for that i know is what mr. carlisle wants." "i cannot go, mamma." "eleanor, you would not forfeit your word?" "i have not given it." "do not contradict me! you have given it all these months. everybody has understood it so. your father looks upon mr. carlisle as his son already. you would be everlastingly disgraced if you play false." "i will play true, mamma. i will not say i give my heart where i do not give it." "give your hand then. all one," said mrs. powle laughing. "come! i order you to obey me, eleanor!" "i must not, mamma. i will not go to hampton court with mr. carlisle." "what is the reason?" "i have told you." "do you mean, absolutely, that you will not fulfil your engagement, nor obey me, nor save us all from dishonour, nor make your friend happy?" eleanor grew paler than she had been, but answered, "i mean not to marry mr. carlisle, mamma." "i understand it then," said mrs. powle rising. "it is not your heart but your head. it is your religious fanaticism i will put that out of the way!" and without another word she departed. eleanor was much at a loss what would be the next move. nevertheless she was greatly surprised when it came. the atmosphere of the house was heavy that day; they did not see mr. carlisle in the evening. the next day, when eleanor went to her father's room after dinner she found, not mr. carlisle, but her mother with him. "waiting for me"--thought eleanor. the air of mrs. powle said so. the squire was gathered up into a kind of hard knot, hanging his head over his knees. when he spoke, and was answered by his daughter, the contrast of the two voices was striking, and in character; one gruff, the other sweet but steady. "what's all this, eleanor? what's all this?" he said abruptly. "what, papa?" "have you refused mr. carlisle?" "long ago, sir." "yes, that's all past; and now this winter you have been accepting him again; are you going to throw him over now?" "papa--" "only one thing!" roared the squire,--"are you going to say no to him? tell me that." "i must, papa." "i command you to say yes to him! what do you say now?" "i must say the same, sir. if you command me, i must disobey you." "you will disobey me, hey?" "i must, papa." "why won't you marry him? what's the reason?" said the squire, looking angry and perplexed at her, but very glum. "papa--" "i have seen you here myself, all winter, in this very room; you have as good as said to him every day that you would be his wife, and he has as good as said to you that he expected it. has he not, now?" "yes, sir,--but--" "now why won't you have him, hey?" "papa, i do not like him well enough to marry him. that is reason enough." "why did you tell him all the winter that you _did?_" "sir, mr. carlisle knows i did not. he has never been deceived." "why don't you like him well enough, then? that's the question; what fool's nonsense! eleanor, i am going to have you at the priory and mistress of it before the world is three months older. tell me that you will be a good girl, and do as i say." "i cannot, papa. that is all past. i shall never be at the priory." "what's the reason?" roared her father. "i have told you, sir." "it's a lie! you do like him. i have seen it. it's some fool's nonsense." "let me ask one question," said mrs. powle, looking up and down from her work. "if it had not been for your religious notions, eleanor, would you not have married mr. carlisle more than a year ago? before you went to wales?" "i suppose i should, mamma." "and if you had no religious notions, would you have any difficulty about marrying him now? you will speak the truth, i know." "mamma--" "speak!" the squire burst out violently--"speak! truth or falsehood, whichever you like. speak out, and don't go round about. answer your mother's question." "will you please to repeat it, mamma?" eleanor said, a little faintheartedly. "if you had never been in a methodist chapel, or had anything to do with methodists,--would you have any difficulty now about being the wife of mr. carlisle, and lady of rythdale?" eleanor's colour rose gradually and grew deep before she ceased speaking. "if i had never had anything to do with methodists, mamma, i should be so very different from what i am now, that perhaps, it would be as you say." "that's enough!" said the squire, in a great state of rage and determination. "now, eleanor powle, take notice. i am as good as the methodists any day, and as well worth your minding. you'll mind me, or i'll have nothing to do with you. do you go to their chapels?" "sometimes." "you don't go any more! st. george and the dragon fly away with all the methodist chapels that ever were built! they shall hold no daughter of mine. and hark ye,--you shall give up this foolery altogether and tell me you will marry mr. carlisle, or i won't have you in my family. you may go where you like, but you shall not stay with me as long as i live. i give you a month to think of it, eleanor;--a month? what's to-day?--the tenth? then i give you till the first of next month. you can think of it and make up your mind to give yourself to mr. carlisle by that time; or you shall be no daughter of mine. st. george and the dragon! i have said it, and you will find i mean it. now go away." eleanor went, wondering whether her ears had served her right; so unnaturally strange seemed this turn of affairs. she had had no time to think of it yet, when passing the drawing-room door a certain impulse prompted her to go in. mr. carlisle was there, as something had told her he might be. eleanor came in, looking white, and advanced towards him with a free steady step eyeing him fully. she was in a mood to meet anything. "mr. carlisle," she said, "you are the cause of all the trouble that has come upon me." he did not ask her what trouble. he only gently and gravely disclaimed the truth of her assertion. "mr. carlisle," said eleanor facing him, "do you want the hand without the heart?" there was brave beauty in her face and air. "yes!" he said. "you do not know yourself, eleanor--you do not see yourself at this moment--or you would know better how impossible it is to give other than one answer to such a question." his look had faced hers as frankly; there was no evil expression in it. eleanor's head and her gaze sank a little. she hesitated, and then turned away. but mr. carlisle with a quick motion intercepted her. "eleanor, have you nothing kind to say to me?" he asked, taking her hand. and he said it well. "not just now," said eleanor slowly; "but i will try not to think unkindly of you, mr. carlisle." perhaps he understood that differently from her meaning; perhaps he chose to misinterpret it; at all events he stooped forward and kissed her. it brought a flash of colour into eleanor's face, and she went up stairs much more angry with her suitor than her last words had spoke her. the angry mood faded fast when she reached her own room and could be alone and be still. she sat down and thought how, while he stood there and held her hand, there had been a swift presentation to her mind, swift and clear, of all she would be giving up when she turned away from him. in one instant the whole view had come; the rank, the ease, the worldly luxury, the affection; and the question came too, waywardly, as impertinent questions will come, whether she was after all giving it up for sufficient cause? she was relinquishing if she quitted him, all that the world values. not quite that, perhaps; if turned out from her father's family even, she was in no danger of wanting food or shelter or protection; for she would be sure of those and more in mrs. caxton's house. but looking forward into the course of future years that might lie before her, the one alternative offered for her choice presented all that is pleasant in worldly estimation; and on the other side there was a lonely life, and duty, and the affection of one old woman. but though the two views came with startling clearness before eleanor just at this moment, the more attractive one brought no shadow of temptation with it. she saw it, that was all, and turned away from it to consider present circumstances. would her father keep to his word? it seemed impossible; yet coolly reflecting, eleanor thought from what she knew of him that he would; so far at least as to send her into immediate banishment. that such banishment would be more than temporary she did not believe. mr. carlisle would get over his disappointment, would marry somebody else; and in course of time her mother and father, the latter of whom certainly loved her, would find out that they wanted her at home again. but how long first? that no one could tell, nor what might happen in the interval; and when she had got so far in her thoughts, eleanor's tears began to flow. she let them flow; it relieved her; and somehow there was a good fountain head of them. and again those two pictures of future life rose up before her; not as matters of choice, to take one and leave the other--but as matters of contrast, in somewhat that entered the spring of tears and made them bitter. was something gone from her life, that could never be got back again? had she lost something that could never be found again? was there a "bloom and fragrance" waving before her on the one hand, though unattainable, which the other path of life with all its beauty did not offer? to judge by eleanor's tears she had some such thoughts. but after a time the tears cleared away, and her bowed face looked up as fair as a blue sky after a storm. and eleanor never had another time of weeping during the month. it was a dull month to other people. it would have been a dreary one to her, only that there is a private sunshine in some hearts that defies cloudy weather. there is an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast, by which one rides contentedly in rough water; there is a hope of glory, in the presence of which no darkness can abide; and there is a word with which eleanor dried her tears that day and upon which she steadied her heart all the days after. it was written by one who knew trouble. "the lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will i hope in him." it is hard to take that portion away from a man, or to make him poor while he has it. eleanor had little else the remaining twenty-one days of that month. what troubled her much, she could by no means see julia; and she found that her sister had been sent home, to the lodge at wiglands, under charge of a governess; mrs. powle averring that it was time she should be in the country. london was not good for julia. was it good for any of them, eleanor thought? but parliament was still sitting; mr. carlisle was in attendance; it was manifest they must be so too. everything went on much as usual. eleanor attended her father after his early dinner, for mr. powle would not come into london hours; and mr. carlisle as usual shared her office with her, except when he was obliged to be in the house. when he was, mrs. powle now took his place. the squire was surly and gloomy; only brought out of those moods by mr. carlisle himself. that gentleman held his ground, with excellent grace and self-control, and made eleanor more than ever feel his power. but she kept her ground too; not without an effort and a good deal of that old arm of defence which is called "all-prayer;" yet she kept it; was gentle and humble and kind to them all, to mr. carlisle himself, while he was sensible her grave gentleness had no yielding in it. how he admired her, those days! how he loved her; with a little fierce desire of triumph mingling, it must be confessed, with his love and admiration, and heightened by them; for now pride was touched, and some other feeling which he did not analyse. he had nobody to be jealous of, that he knew; unless it were eleanor herself; yet her indifference piqued him. he could not brook to be baffled. he shewed not a symptom of all this; but every line of her fine figure, every fold of her rich, beautiful hair, every self-possessed movement, at times was torment to him. her very dress was a subject of irritation. it was so plain, so evidently unworldly in its simplicity, that unreasonably enough, for eleanor looked well in it, it put mr. carlisle in a fume every day. she should not dress so when he had control of her; and to get the control seemed not easy; and the dress kept reminding him that he had it not. on the whole probably all parties were glad when the sweet month of may for that season came to an end. even eleanor was glad; for though she had made up her mind what june would bring her, it is easier to grasp a fear in one's hand, like a nettle, than to touch it constantly by anticipation. so the first of june came. chapter viii. in may. "come spur away! i have no patience for a longer stay, but must go down, and leave the changeable noise of this great town; i will the country see, where old simplicity, though hid in grey, doth look more gay than foppery in plush and scarlet clad." although eleanor's judgment had said what the issue would be of that day's conference, she had made no preparation to leave home. that she could not do. she could not make certain before it came the weary foreboding that pressed upon her. she went to her father's room after dinner as usual, leaning her heart on that word which had been her walking-staff for three weeks past. "the lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will i hope in him!" mrs. powle was there, quietly knitting. the squire had gathered himself up into a heap in his easy chair, denoting a contracted state of mind; after that curious fashion which bodily attitudes have, of repeating the mental. eleanor took the newspaper and sat down. "is there anything there particular?" growled the squire. "i do not see anything very particular, sir. here is the continuation of the debate on--" "how about that bill of yours and mr. carlisle's?" broke in mrs. powle. "it was ordered to be printed, mamma--it has not reached the second reading yet. it will not for some time." "what do you suppose will become of it then?" "what the lord pleases. i do not know," said eleanor with a pang at her heart. "i have done my part--all i could--so far." "i suppose you expect mr. carlisle will take it up as his own cause, after it has ceased to be yours?" eleanor understood this, and was silent. she took up the paper again to find where to read. "put that down, eleanor powle," said her father who was evidently in a very bad humour, as he had cause, poor old gentleman; there is nobody so bad to be out of humour with as yourself;--"put that down! until we know whether you are going to read to me any more or no. i should like to know your decision." eleanor hesitated, for it was difficult to speak. "come!--out with it. time's up. now for your answer. are you going to be an obedient child, and give mr. carlisle a good wife? hey? speak!" "an obedient child, sir, in everything but this. i can give mr. carlisle nothing, any more than he has." "any more than he has? what is that?" "a certain degree of esteem and regard, sir--and perhaps, forgiveness." "then you will not marry him, as i command you?" "no--i cannot." "and you won't give up being a methodist?" "i cannot help being what i am. i will not go to church, papa, anywhere that you forbid me." she spoke low, endeavouring to keep calm. the squire got up out of his chair. he had no calmness to keep, and he spoke loud. "have you taught your sister to think there is any harm in dancing?" "in dancing parties, i suppose i have." "and you think they are wicked, and won't go to them?" "i do not like them. i cannot go to them, papa; for i am a servant of christ; and i can do no work for my master there at all; but if i go, i bear witness that they are good." "now hear me, eleanor powle--" the squire spoke with suppressed rage--"no such foolery will i have in my house, and no such disrespect to people that are better than you. i told you what would come of all this if you did not give it up--and i stand to my word. you come here to-morrow morning, prepared to put your hand in mr. carlisle's and let him know that you will be his obedient servant--or, you quit my house. to-morrow morning you do one thing or the other. and when you go, you will stay. i will never have you back, except as mr. carlisle's wife. now go! i don't want your paper any more." eleanor went slowly away. she paused in the drawing-room; there was no one there this time; rang the bell and ordered thomas to be sent to her. thomas came, and received orders to be in readiness and have everything in readiness to attend her on a journey the next day. the orders were given clearly and distinctly as usual; but thomas shook his head as he went down from her presence at the white face his young mistress had worn. "she don't use to look that way," he said to himself, "for she is one of them ladies that carry a hearty brave colour in their cheeks; and now there wasn't a bit of it." but the old servant kept his own counsel and obeyed directions. eleanor went through the evening and much of the night without giving herself a moment to think. packing occupied all that time and the early hours of the next day; she was afraid to be idle, and even dreaded the times of prayer; because whenever she stopped to think, the tears would come. but she grew quiet; and was only pale still, when at an early hour in the morning she left the house. she could not bear to go through a parting scene with her father; she knew him better than to try it; and she shrank from one with her mother. she bid nobody good-bye, for she could not tell anybody that she was going. london streets looked very gloomy to eleanor that morning as she drove through them to the railway station. she had still another reason for slipping away, in the fear that else she would be detained to meet mr. carlisle again. the evening before she had had a note from him, promising her all freedom for all her religious predilections and opinions--leave to do what she would, if she would only be his wife. she guessed he would endeavour to see her, if she staid long enough in london after the receipt of that note. eleanor made her escape. thomas was sorry at heart to see her cheeks so white yet when they set off; and he noticed that his young mistress hid her face during the first part of the journey. he watched to see it raised up again; and then saw with content that eleanor's gaze was earnestly fixed on the things without the window. yes, there was something there. she felt she was out of london; and that whatever might be before her, one sorrowful and disagreeable page of life's book was turned over. london was gone, and she was in the midst of the country again, and the country was at the beginning of june. green fields and roses and flowery hedge-rows, and sweet air, all wooed her back to hopefulness. hopefulness for the moment stole in. eleanor thought things could hardly continue so bad as they seemed. it was not natural. it could not be. and yet--mr. carlisle was in the business, and mother and father were set on her making a splendid match and being a great lady. it might be indeed, that there would be no return for eleanor, that she must remain in banishment, until mr. carlisle should take a new fancy or forget her. how long would that be? a field for calculation over which eleanor's thoughts roamed for some time. one comfort she had promised herself, in seeing julia on the way; so she turned out of her direct course to go to wiglands. she was disappointed. julia and her governess had left the lodge only the day before to pay a visit of a week at some distance. by order, eleanor could not help suspecting it had been; of set purpose, to prevent the sisters meeting. this disappointment was bitter. it was hard to keep from angry thoughts. eleanor fought them resolutely, but she felt more desolate than she had ever known in her life before. the old place of her home, empty and still, had so many reminders of childish and happy times; careless times; days when nobody thought of great marriages or settlements, or when such thoughts lay all hidden in mrs. powle's mind. every tree and room and book was so full of good and homely associations of the past, that it half broke eleanor's heart. home associations now so broken up; the family divided, literally and otherwise; and worst of all, and over which eleanor's tears flowed bitterest, her own ministrations and influence were cut off from those who most needed them and whom she most wished to benefit. eleanor's day at home was a day of tears; it was impossible to help it. the roses with their sweet faces looked remonstrance at her; the roads and walks and fields where she had been so happy invited her back to them; the very grey tower of the priory rising above the trees held out worldly temptation and worldly reproof, with a mocking embodiment of her causes of trouble. eleanor could not bear it; she spent one night at home; wrote a letter to julia which she entrusted to a servant's hands for her; and the next morning set her face towards plassy. julia lay on her heart. that conversation they had held together the morning when eleanor waylaid her--it was the last that had been allowed. they had never had a good talk since then. was that the last chance indeed, for ever? it was impossible to know. in spite of june beauty, it was a dreary journey to her from home to her aunt's; and the beautiful hilly outlines beyond plassy rose upon her view with a new expression. sterner, and graver; they seemed to say, "it is life work, now, my child; you must be firm, and if necessary rugged, like us; but truth of action has its own beauty too, and the sunlight of divine favour rests there always." a shadowless sunlight lay on the crowns and shoulders of the mountains as eleanor drew near. she got out of the carriage to walk the last few steps and look at the place. plassy never was more lovely. an aromatic breath, pure and strong, came from the hills and gathered the sweetness of the valleys. roses and honeysuckles and jessamines and primroses, with a thousand others, loaded the air with their gifts to it, from mrs. caxton's garden and from all the fields and hedge-rows around. and one after another bit of hilly outline reminded eleanor that off _there_ went the narrow valley that led to the little church at glanog; _there_ went the road to the village, where she and powis had gone so often of wednesday afternoons; and in _that_ direction lay the little cot where she had watched all night by the dying woman. not much time for such remembrances was just now; for the farmhouse stood just before her. the dear old farmhouse! looking as pretty as everything else in its dark red stone walls and slate roof; stretching along the ground at that rambling, picturesque, and also opulent style. eleanor would not knock now, and the door was not fastened to make her need it. softly she opened it, went in, and stood upon the tiled floor. no sound of anything in particular; only certain tokens of life in the house. eleanor went on, opened the door of the sitting parlour and looked in. nobody there; the room in its summer state of neatness and coolness as she had left it. eleanor's heart began to grow warm. she would not yet summon a servant; she left that part of the house and wound about among the passages till she came to the back door that led out into the long tiled porch where supper was wont to be spread. and there was the table set this evening; and the wonted glow from the sunny west greeted her there, and a vision of the gorgeous flower-garden. but eleanor hardly saw the one thing or the other; for mrs. caxton was there also, standing by the tea-table, alone, putting something on it. eleanor moved forward without a word. her voice would not come out of her throat very well. "eleanor!" exclaimed mrs. caxton. "my dear love! what has given me this happiness?" very strong language for mrs. caxton to use. eleanor felt it, every word of it, as well as the embrace of those kind arms and her aunt's kisses upon her lips; but she was silent. "how come you here, my darling?" "they have sent me away from home." mrs. caxton saw that there was some difficulty of speech, and she would not press matters. she put eleanor into a seat, and looked at her, and took off her bonnet with her own hands; stooped down and kissed her brow. eleanor steadied herself and looked up. "it is true, aunt caxton. i come to you because i have nowhere else to be." "my love, it is a great happiness to have you, for any cause. wait, and tell me what the matter is by and by." she left eleanor for a moment, only a moment; gave some orders, and returned to her side. she sat down and took eleanor's hand. "what is it, my dear?" and then eleanor's composure, which she had thought sure, gave way all of a sudden; and she cried heartily for a minute, laying her head in its old resting-place. but that did her good; and then she kissed mrs. caxton over and over before she began to speak. "they want me to make a great match, aunty; and will not be satisfied with anything else." "what, mr. carlisle?" "yes." "and is that all broken off?" said mrs. caxton, a little tone of eagerness discernible under her calm manner. "it was broken off a year ago," said eleanor--"more than a year ago. it has always been broken since." "i heard that it was all going on again. i expected to hear of your marriage." "it was not true. but it is true, that the world had a great deal of reason to think so; and i could not help that." "how so, eleanor?" "mamma, and papa, and mr. carlisle. they managed it." "but in such a case, my dear, a woman owes it to herself and to her suitor and to her parents too, to be explicit." "i do not think i compromised the truth, aunt caxton," said eleanor, passing her hand somewhat after a troubled fashion over her brow. "mr. carlisle knew i never encouraged him with more favour than i gave others. i could not help being with him, for mamma and he had it so; and they were too much for me. i could not help it. so the report grew. i had a difficult part to play," said eleanor, repeating her troubled gesture and seeming ready to burst into tears. "in what way, my love?" eleanor did not immediately answer; sat looking off over the meadow as if some danger existed to self-control; then, still silent, turned and met with an eloquent soft eye the sympathizing yet questioning glance that was fixed on her. it was curious how eleanor's eye met it; how her eye roved over mrs. caxton's face and looked into her quiet grey eyes, with a kind of glinting of some spirit fire within, which could almost be seen to play and flicker as thought and feeling swayed to and fro. her eye said that much was to be said, looked into mrs. caxton's face with an intensity of half-speech,--and the lips remained silent. there was consciousness of sympathy, consciousness of something that required sympathy; and the seal of silence. perhaps mrs. caxton's response to this strange look came half unconsciously; it came wholly naturally. "poor child!"-the colour rose on eleanor's cheek at that; she turned her eyes away. "i think mr. carlisle's plan--and mamma's--was to make circumstances too strong for me; and to draw me by degrees. and they would, perhaps, but for all i learned here." "for what you learned here, my dear?" "yes, aunty; if they could have got me into a whirl society--if they could have made me love dancing parties and theatres and the opera, and i had got bewildered and forgotten that a great worldly establishment not the best thing--perhaps temptation would have been too much for me.--perhaps it would. i don't know." there was a little more colour in eleanor's cheeks than her words accounted for, as mrs. caxton noticed. "did you ever feel in danger from the temptation, eleanor?" "never, aunty. i think it never so much as touched me." "then mr. carlisle has been at his own risk," said mrs. caxton. "let us dismiss him, my love." "aunt caxton, i have a strange homeless, forlorn feeling." for answer to that, mrs. caxton put her arms round eleanor and gave her one or two good strong kisses. there was reproof as well as affection in them; eleanor felt both, even without her aunt's words. "trust the lord. you know who has been the dwelling-place of his people, from all generations. they cannot be homeless. and for the rest, remember that whatever brings you here brings a great boon to me. my love, do you wish to go to your room before you have tea?" eleanor was glad to get away and be alone for a moment. how homelike her old room seemed!--with the rose and honeysuckle breath of the air coming in at the casements. how peaceful and undisturbed the old furniture looked. the influence of the place began to settle down upon eleanor. she got rid of the dust of travel, and came down presently to the porch with a face as quiet as a lamb. tea went on with the same soothing influence. there was much to tell eleanor, of doings in and about plassy the year past; for the fact was, that letters had not been frequent. who was sick and who was well; who had married, and who was dead; who had set out on a christian walk, and who were keeping up such a walk to the happiness of themselves and of all about them. then how mrs. caxton's own household had prospered; how the dairy went on; and there were some favourite cows that eleanor desired to hear of. from the cows they got to the garden. and all the while the lovely meadow valley lay spread out in its greenness before eleanor; the beautiful old hills drew the same loved outline across the sunset sky; the lights and shadows were of june; and the garden at hand was a rich mass of beauty sloping its terraced sweetness down to the river. just as it was a year ago, when the summons came for eleanor to leave it; only the garden seemed even more gorgeously rich than then. just the same; even to the dish of strawberries on the table. but that was not wreathed with ivy and myrtle now. "aunt caxton, this is like the very same evening that i was here last." "it is almost a year," said mrs. caxton. neither added anything to these two very unremarkable remarks; and silence fell with the evening light, as the servants were clearing away the table. perhaps the mountains with the clear paling sky beyond them, were suggestive. both the ladies looked so. "my dear," said mrs. caxton then, "let me understand a little better about this affair that gives you to me. do you come, or are you sent?" "it is formal banishment, aunt caxton. i am sent from them at home; but sent to go whither i will. so i come, to you." "what is the term assigned to this banishment?" "none. it is absolute--unless or until i will grant mr. carlisle's wishes, or giving up being, as papa says, a methodist. but that makes it final--as far as i am concerned." "they will think better of it by and by." "i hope so," said eleanor faintly. "it seems a strange thing to me, aunt caxton, that this should have happened to me--just now when i am so needed at home. papa is unwell--and i was beginning to get his ear,--and i have great influence over julia, who only wants leading to go in the right way. and i am taken away from all that. i cannot help wondering why." "let it be to the glory of god, eleanor; that is all your concern. the rest you will understand by and by." "but that is the very thing. it is hard to see how it can be to his glory." "do not try," said mrs. caxton smiling. "the lord never puts his children anywhere where they cannot glorify him; and he never sends them where they have not work to do or a lesson to learn. perhaps this is your lesson, eleanor--to learn to have no home but in him." eleanor's eyes filled very full; she made no answer. but one thing is certain; peace settled down upon her heart. it would be difficult to help that at plassy. we all know the effect of going home to the place of our childhood after a time spent in other atmosphere; and there is a native air of the spirit, in which it feels the like renovating influence. eleanor breathed it while they sat at the table; she felt she had got back into her element. she felt it more and more when at family prayer the whole household were met together, and she heard her aunt's sweet and high petitions again. and the blessing of peace fully settled down upon eleanor when she was gone up to her room and had recalled and prayed over her aunt's words. she went to sleep with that glorious saying running through her thoughts--"lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations." chapter ix. in correspondence. "but there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sunbursts shine, and there be million hearts athirst for love's immortal wine; this world is full of beauty, as other worlds above, and if we did our duty, it might be full of love." peace had unbroken reign at plassy from that time. eleanor threw herself again eagerly into all her aunt's labours and schemes for the good and comfort of those around her. there was plenty to do; and she was mrs. caxton's excellent helper. powis came into requisition anew; and as before, eleanor traversed the dales and the hills on her various errands, swift and busy. that was not the only business going. her aunt and she returned to their old literary habits, and read books and talked; and it was hard if eleanor in her rides over the hills and over the meadows and along the streams did not bring back one hand full of wild flowers. she dressed the house with them, getting help from the garden when necessary; botanized a good deal; and began to grow as knowing in plants almost as mrs. caxton herself. she would come home loaded with wild thyme and gorse and black bryony and saxifrage and orchis flowers, having scoured hill and meadow and robbed the hedge-rows for them, which also gave her great tribute of wild roses. then later came crimson campion and eyebright, dog roses and honeysuckles, columbine and centaury, grasses of all kinds, and harebell, and a multitude impossible to name; though the very naming is pleasant. eleanor lived very much out of doors, and was likened by her aunt to a rural flora or proserpine that summer; though when in the house she was just the most sonsy, sensible, companionable little earthly maiden that could be fancied. eleanor was not under size indeed; but so much like her own wild flowers in pure simpleness and sweet natural good qualities that mrs. caxton was sometimes inclined to bestow the endearing diminutive upon her; so sound and sweet she was. "and what are all these?" said mrs. caxton one day stopping before an elegant basket. "don't you like them?" "very much. why you have got a good many kinds here." "that is hart's tongue, you know--that is wall spleenwort, and that is the other kind; handsome things are they not?" "and this?" "that is the forked spleenwort. you don't know it? i rode away, away up the mountain for it yesterday that is where i got those woodsia's too--aren't they beautiful? i was gay to find those; they are not common." "no. and this is not common, to me." "don't you know it, aunt caxton? it grows just it the spray of a waterfall--this and this; they are polypodies. that is another--that came from the old round tower." "and where did you get these?--these waterfall ferns?" "i got them at the bandel of helig." "there? my dear child! how could you, without risk?" "without much risk, aunty." "how did you ever know the bandel?" "i have been there before, aunt caxton." "i think i never shewed it to you?" "no ma'am;--but mr. rhys did." his name had scarcely been mentioned before since eleanor had come to the farm. it was mentioned now with a cognizance of that fact. mrs. caxton was silent a little. "why have you put these green things here without a rose or two? they are all alone in their greenness." "i like them better so, aunty. they are beautiful enough by themselves; but if you put a rose there, you cannot help looking at it." mrs. caxton smiled and turned away. one thing in the midst of all these natural explorations, remained unused; and that a thing most likely, one would have thought, to be applied to for help. the microscope stood on one side apparently forgotten. it always stood there, in the sitting parlour, in full view; but nobody seemed to be conscious of its existence. eleanor never touched it; mrs. caxton never spoke of it. from home meantime, eleanor heard little that was satisfactory. julia was the only one that wrote, and her letters gave painful subjects for thought. her father was very unlike himself, julia said, and growing more feeble and more ill every day; though by slow degrees. she wished eleanor would write her letters without any religion in them; for she supposed _that_ was what her mother would not let her read; so she never had the comfort of seeing eleanor's letters for herself, but mrs. powle read aloud bits from them. "very little bits, too," added julia, "i guess your letters have more religion in them than anything else. but you see it is no use." eleanor read this passage aloud to mrs. caxton. "is that true, eleanor?" "no, ma'am. i write to julia of everything that i do, all day long, and of everything and everybody that interests me. what mamma does not like comes in, of course, with it all; but i do very little preaching, aunt caxton." "i would go on just so, my dear. i would not alter the style of my letters." so the flowers of june were replaced by the flowers of july; and the beauties of july gave place to the purple "ling" of august, with gentian and centaury and st. john's wort; and then came the autumn changes, with the less delicate blossoms of that later time, amidst which the eclipsed meadow-sweet came quite into favour again. still eleanor brought wild things from the hills and the streams, though she applied more now to mrs. caxton's home store in the garden; wild mints and artemisias and the michaelmas daisy still came home with her from her rides and walks; the rides and walks in which eleanor was a ministering angel to many a poor house, many an ignorant soul and many a failing or ailing body. then came october; and with the first days of october the news that her father was dead. it added much bitterness to eleanor's grief, that mrs. powle entirely declined to have her come home, even for a brief stay. if she chose to submit to conditions, her mother wrote, she would be welcome; it was not too late; but if she held to her perversity, she must bear the consequences. she did not own her nor want her. she gave her up to her aunt caxton. her remaining daughter was in her hands, and she meant to keep her there. eleanor, she knew, if she came home would come to sow rebellion. she should not come to do that, either then or at all. mildly quiet and decided mrs. powle's letter was; very decided, and so cool as to give every assurance the decision would be persisted in. eleanor felt this very much. she kept on her usual way of life without any variation; but the radiant bright look of her face was permanently saddened. she was just as sweet and companionable an assistant to her aunt as ever; but from month to month mrs. caxton saw that a shadow lay deep upon her heart. no shadow could have less of anything like hard edges. they had been sitting at work one night late in the winter, those two, the aunt and the niece; and having at last put up her work eleanor sat gravely poring into the red coals on the hearth; those thought-provoking, life-stirring, strange things, glowing and sparkling between life and death like ourselves. eleanor's face was very sober. "aunt caxton," she said at length,--"my life seems such a confusion to me!" "so everything seems that we do not understand," mrs. caxton said. "but is it not, aunty? i seem taken from everything that i ought most naturally to do--papa, julia, mamma. i feel like a banished person, i suppose; only i have the strange feeling of being banished from my place in the world." "what do you think of such a life as mr. rhys is leading?" "i think it is straight, and beautiful,"--eleanor answered, looking still into the fire. "nothing can be further from confusion. he is in _his_ place." "he is in a sort of banishment, however." "not from that! and it is voluntary banishment--for his master's sake. _that_ is not sorrowful, aunt caxton." "not when the lord's banished ones make their home in him. and i do not doubt but mr. rhys does that." "have you ever heard from him, aunt caxton." "not yet. it is almost time, i think." "it is almost a year and a half since he went." "the communication is slow and uncertain," said mrs. caxton. "they do not get letters there, often, till they are a year old." "how impossible it used to be to me," said eleanor, "to comprehend such a life; how impossible to understand, that anybody should leave home and friends and comfort, and take his place voluntarily in distance and danger and heathendom. it was an utter enigma to me." "and you understand it now?" "o yes, aunty," eleanor went on in the same tone; and she had not ceased gazing into the coals;--"i see that christ is all; and with him one is never alone, and under his hand one can never be in danger. i know now how his love keeps one even from fear." "you are no coward naturally." "no, aunt caxton--not about ordinary things, except when conscience made me so, some time ago." "that is over now?" eleanor took her eyes from the fire, to give mrs. caxton a smile with the words--"thank the lord!" "mr. rhys is among scenes that might try any natural courage," said mrs. caxton. "they are a desperate set of savages to whom he is ministering." "what a glory, to carry the name of christ to them!" "they are hearing it, too," said mrs. caxton. "but there is enough of the devil's worst work going on there to try any tender heart; and horrors enough to shock stout nerves. so it has been. i hope mr. rhys finds it better." "i don't know much about them," said eleanor. "are they much worse than savages in general, aunt caxton?" "i think they are,--and better too, in being more intellectually developed. morally, i think i never read of a lower fallen set of human beings. human life is of no account; such a thing as respect to humanity is unknown, for the eating of human bodies has gone on to a most wonderful extent, and the destroying them for that purpose. with all that, there is a very careful respect paid to descent and rank; but it is the observance of fear. that one fact gives you the key to the whole. where a man is thought of no more worth than to be killed and eaten, a woman is not thought worth anything at all; and society becomes a lively representation of the infernal regions, without the knowledge and without the remorse." "poor creatures!" said eleanor. "you comprehend that there must be a great deal of trial to a person of fine sensibilities, in making a home amongst such a people, for an indefinite length of time." "yes, aunty,--but the lord will make it all up to him." "blessed be the name of the lord!" it was mrs. caxton's turn to answer; and she said it with deep feeling and emphasis. "it seems the most glorious thing to me, aunt caxton, to tell the love of christ to those that don't know it. i wish i could do it." "my love, you do." "i do very little, ma'am. i wish i could do a thousand times more!" the conversation stopped there. both ladies remained very gravely thoughtful a little while longer and then separated for the night. but the next evening when they were seated at tea alone, mrs. caxton recurred to the subject. "you said last night, eleanor, that you wished you could do a great deal more work of a certain kind than you do." "yes, ma'am." "did your words mean, my love, that you are discontented with your own sphere of duty, or find it too narrow?" eleanor's eyes opened a little at that. "aunt caxton, i never thought of such a thing. i do not remember that i was considering my own sphere of duty at all. i was thinking of the pleasure of preaching christ--yes, and the glory and honour--to such poor wretches as those we were talking of, who have never had a glimpse of the truth before." "then for your part you are satisfied with england?" "why yes, ma'am. i am satisfied, i think,--i mean to be,--with any place that is given me. i should be sorry to choose for myself." "but if you had a clear call, you would like it, to go to the cape of good hope and teach the hottentots?" "i do not mean that, aunty," said eleanor laughing a little. "surely you do not suspect me of any wandering romantic notion about doing the lord's work in one place rather than in another. i would rather teach english people than hottentots. but if i saw that my place was at the cape of good hope, i would go there. if my place were there, some way would be possible for me to get there, i suppose." "you would have no fear?" said mrs. caxton. "no aunty; i think not. ever since i can say 'the lord is my shepherd--' i have done with fear." "my love, i should be very sorry to have you go to the cape of good hope. i am glad there is no prospect of it. but you are right about not choosing. as soon as we go where we are not sent, we are at our own charges." the door here opened, and the party and the tea-table received an accession of one to their number. it was an elderly, homely gentleman, to whom mrs. caxton gave a very cordial reception and whom she introduced to eleanor as the rev. mr. morrison. he had a pleasant face, eleanor saw, and as soon as he spoke, a pleasant manner. "i ought to be welcome, ma'am," he said, rubbing his hands with the cold as he sat down. "i bring you letters from brother rhys." "you are welcome without that, brother, as you know," mrs. caxton answered. "but the letters are welcome. of how late date are they?" "some pretty old--some not more than nine or ten months ago; when he had been stationed a good while." "how is he?" "well, he says; never better." "and happy?" "i wish i was as happy!" said mr. morrison.--"he had got fast hold of his work already." "he would do that immediately." "he studied the language on shipboard, all the way out; and he was able to hold a service in it for the natives only a few weeks after he had landed. don't you call that energy?" "there is energy wherever he is," said mrs. caxton. "yes, you know him pretty well. i suppose they never have it so cold out there as we have it to-night," mr. morrison said rubbing his hands. "it's stinging! that fire is the pleasantest thing i have seen to-day." "where is mr. rhys stationed?" "i forget--one of the islands down there, with an unintelligible name. horrid places!" "is the place itself disagreeable?" eleanor asked. "the place itself, ma'am," said mr. morrison, his face stiffening from its genial unbent look into formality as he turned to her,--"the place itself i do not understand to be very disagreeable; it is the character of the population which must make it a hard place to live in. they are exceedingly debased. vile people!" "mr. rhys is not alone on his station?" said mrs caxton. "no, he is with mr. and mrs. lefferts. his letters will tell you." for the letters mrs. caxton was evidently impatient; but mr. morrison's refreshment had first to be attended to. only fair; for he had come out of his way on purpose to bring them to her; and being one of a certain committee he had it in his power to bring for her perusal and pleasure more than her own letters from mr. rhys, and more than mr. rhys's own letters to the committee. it was a relief to two of the party when mr. morrison's cups of tea were at last disposed of, and the far-come despatches were brought out on the green table-cloth under the light of the lamp. with her hand on her own particular packet of letters, as if so much communication with them could not be put off, mrs. caxton sat and listened to mr. morrison's reading. eleanor had got her work. as the particular interest which made the reading so absorbing to them may possibly be shared in a slight degree by others, it is fair to give a slight notion of the character of the news contained in those closely written pages. the letters mr. morrison read were voluminous; from different persons on different stations of the far-off mission field. they told of difficulties great, and encouragements greater; of their work and its results; and of their most pressing wants; especially the want of more men to help. the work they said was spreading faster than they could keep up with it. thousands of heathen had given up heathenism, who in miserable ignorance cried for christian instruction; children as wild as the wild birds, wanted teaching and were willing to have it; native teachers needed training, who had the will without the knowledge to aid in the service. thirty of them, mr. lefferts said, he had under his care. with all this, they told of the wonderful beauty of the regions where their field of labour was. mr. lefferts wrote of a little journey lately taken to another part of his island, which had led him through almost every variety of natural luxuriance. mountains and hills and valleys, rivers and little streams, rich woods and mangrove swamps. mr. lefferts' journey had been, like paul's of old, to establish the native churches formed at different small places by the way. there he married couples and baptized children and met classes and told the truth. at one place where he had preached, married several couples, baptized over thirty, young and old, and met as many in classes, mr. lefferts told of a walk he took. it led him to the top of a little hill, from which a rich view was to be had, while a multitude of exquisite shrubs in flower gave another refreshment in their delicious fragrance. a little stream running down the side of the hill was used by the natives to water their plantations of taro, for which the side hill was formed into terraced beds. paroquets and humming birds flew about, and the sun was sinking brilliantly in the western ocean line as he looked. so far, everything was fair, sweet, lovely; a contrast to what he met when he reached the lower grounds again. there the swarms of mosquitos compelled mr. lefferts to retreat for the night within a curtain canopy for protection; and thither he was followed by a fat savage who shared the protection with him all night long. another sort of experience! and another sort of neighbourhood from that of the starry white _gardenia_ flowers on the top of the hill. nevertheless, of a neighbouring station mr. rhys wrote that the people were at war, and the most horrible heathen practices were going on. at the principal town, he said, more people were eaten perhaps than anywhere else in the islands. the cruelties and the horrors were impossible to be told. a few days before he wrote, twenty-eight persons had been killed and eaten in one day. they had been caught fishing--taken prisoners and brought home--half killed, and in that state thrown into the ovens; still having life enough left to try to get away from the fire. "the first time i saw anything of this kind," wrote mr. rhys, "was one evening when we had just finished a class-meeting. the evening was most fair and peaceful as we came out of the house; a fresh air from the sea had relieved the heat of the day; the leaves of the trees were glittering in the sunlight; the ocean all sparkling under the breeze; when word came that some bodies of slain people were bringing from lauthala. i could hardly understand the report, or credit it; but presently the horrible procession came in sight, and eleven dead bodies were laid on the ground immediately before us. eleven only were brought to this village; but great numbers are said to have been killed. their crime was the killing of one man; and when they would have submitted themselves and made amends, all this recompense of death was demanded by the offended chief. the manner in which these wretched creatures were treated is not a thing to be described; they were not handled with the respect which we give to brute animals. the natives have looked dark upon us since that time, and give us reason to know that as far as they are concerned our lives are not safe. but we know in whose hands our lives are; they are the lord's; and he will do with them what he pleases--not what the heathen please. so we are under no concern about it." that storm appeared to have passed away; for in later letters mr. rhys and mr. lefferts spoke of acceptable services among the people and an evidently manifested feeling of trust and good will on their part towards the missionaries. indeed these were often able to turn the natives from their devilish purposes and save life. not always. the old king of that part of the country had died, and all the influence and all the offers of compensation made by the missionaries, could not prevent the slaughter of half a dozen women, his wives, to do him honour in his burial. the scene as mr. lefferts described it was heart-sickening. as he drew near the door of the king's house, with the intent to prevail for the right or to protest against the wrong, he saw the biers standing ready; and so knew that all the efforts previously made to hinder the barbarous rites had been unavailing. the house as he entered was in the hush of death. one woman lay strangled. another sitting on the floor, covered with a large veil, was in the hands of her murderers. a cord was passed twice round her neck, and the ends were held on each side of her by a group of eight or ten strong men, the two groups pulling opposite ways. she was dead, the poor victim underneath the veil, in a minute or two after the missionaries entered; and the veil being taken off they saw that it was a woman who had professed christianity. her sons were among those who had strangled her. another woman came forward with great shew of bravery when her name was called; offered her hand to the missionaries as she passed them; and with great pride of bearing submitted herself to the death which probably she knew she could not avoid. everybody was quiet and cheerful, and the whole thing went on with the undisturbed order of a recognized and accustomed necessity; only the old king's son, the reigning chief for a long time back, was very uneasy at the part he was playing before the missionaries; he was the only trembling or doubtful one there. yet he would not yield the point. pride before all; his father must not be buried without the due honours of his position. mr. rhys and mr. lefferts had staid to make their protest and offer their entreaties and warnings, to the very last; and then heart-sick and almost faint with the disgusting scene, had returned home. yet the influence of the truth was increasing and the good work was spreading and growing around them, steadily and in every direction. a great many had renounced heathenism; not a small number were earnest christians and shewed the truth of their religion in their changed lives. a great number of reports proved this. "it is work that tries what stuff men's hearts are of, however," remarked mr. morrison as he folded up one packet of letters. neither of his hearers made him any answer. mrs. caxton sat opposite to him, deeply attentive but silent, with her hand always lying upon her own particular packet. eleanor had turned a little away and sat with her side face towards mr. morrison, looking into the fire. her work was dropped; she sat motionless. "i have a letter to read you now of a later date," mr. morrison went on,--"from mr. rhys, which shews how well he has got hold of the people and how much he is regarded by them already. it shews the influence gained by the truth, too, which is working there fast." after giving some details of business and of his labours, mr. rhys wrote--"my last notable piece of work, has been in the character of an ambassador of peace--not heavenly but earthly. news was brought four or five days ago that the heathen inhabitants of two neighbouring districts had engaged in open hostilities. home business claimed me one day; the next morning i set out on my mission, with one or two christian natives. the desolations of war soon met our eyes, in destroyed crops and a deserted village. nobody was to be seen. i and those who were with me sat down in the shade of some trees, while a native went to find the inhabitants who had hid themselves in a thicket of mangroves. as soon as the chief heard that i was there, and what i had come for, he declared he would be a christian forthwith; and four or five of his principal men followed his example. they came to me, and entered fully into my object; and it was decided that we should go on immediately to the fortress where those who wished to carry on war had intrenched themselves. we got there just as the sun was setting; and from that time till midnight i was engaged in what i saw now for the first time; a savage council of war. grim black warriors covered with black powder sat or stood about, on a little clear spot of ground where the moon shone down; muskets and clubs and spears lay on the glass and were scattered about among the boles of the trees; a heathen-looking scene. till midnight we talked, and hard talking too; then it was ended as i had prayed it might. the party with whom i was had suffered already in battle and had not had their revenge; it was difficult to give that up; but at last the chief got up and put his hand in mine. 'i should like to be a heathen a little longer,' he said, 'but i will _lotu_ as you so earnestly entreat me.' _lotu_ is their name for embracing christianity. another young warrior joined him; and there under the midnight moon, we worshipped god; those two and those who were with me. in another part of the village a dozen women for the first time bowed the knee in the same worship. "so far was well; but it yet remained to induce the opposite hostile party to agree to peace; you understand only one side was yet persuaded. early the next morning i set about it. here a difficulty met me. the christian chiefs made no objection to going with me to parley with their enemies; but i wanted the company also of another, the chief of this district; knowing it very important. and he was afraid to go. he told me so plainly. 'if i do as you ask me,' said he, 'i am a dead man this day.' i did my best to make him think differently; a hundred men declared that they would die in defence of him; and at last i gained my point. tui mbua agreed to go to the neighbourhood of the hostile town, if i would bring its principal men to meet him at an appointed place. so we went. this chosen place was a fine plot of ground enclosed by magnificent chestnut trees. i went on to the town, with a few unarmed men. the people received us well; but it was difficult to make the old heathen, brought up on treachery and falsehood, believe that i was to be trusted. but in the end the chief and twenty of his men consented to go with us, and left their arms at home. they did it with forebodings, for i overheard an old man say, as we set out from the place,--'we shall see death to-day.' i lifted my voice and cried, 'to-day we live!' they took up the words, and heart at the same time, and repeated, 'to-day we live'--to encourage themselves, i suppose, as we went towards the chestnut-tree meeting ground. "i felt that the peace of the whole region depended on what was to be done there, and for my part went praying that all might go well. it was an anxious moment when we entered the open place; any ill-looks in either party would chase away trust front the other. as we went in i watched the chief who accompanied me. he gently bowed to tui mbua and approached him with due and evidently honest respect. my heart leaped at that moment. tui mbua looked at him keenly, sprang to his feet, and casting his arms about his enemy's neck gave him a warm embrace. the people around shouted for joy; i was still, i believe, for the very depth of mine. one of the christian chiefs spoke out and cried, 'we thank thee, o lord, for thus bringing thy creatures into the way of life;' and he wept aloud for very gladness. "after that we had speechifying; and i returned home very full of thankful joy." this was the last letter read. mr. morrison folded up his packet amid a great silence. mrs. caxton seemed thoughtful; eleanor was motionless. "he is doing good work," remarked mr. morrison; "but it is hard work. he is the right sort of man to go there--fears nothing, shirks nothing. so are they all, i believe; but almost all the rest of them have their wives with them. how came rhys to go alone?" "he does not write as if he felt lonely," said mrs. caxton. "it is better for a man to take a wife, though," said mr. morrison. "he wants so much of comfort and home as that. they get tired, and they get sick, and to have no woman's hand about is something to be missed at such times. o we are all dependent. mr. rhys is domesticated now with brother lefferts and his family. i suppose he feels it less, because he has not had a home of his own in a good while; that makes a difference." "he knows he has a home of his own too," said mrs. caxton; "though he has not reached it yet. i suppose the thought of that makes him content." "of course. but in a heathen land, with heathen desolation and dark faces all around one, you have no idea how at times one's soul longs for a taste of england. brother rhys too is a man to feel all such things. he has a good deal of taste, and what you might call sensitiveness to externals." "a good deal," said mrs. caxton quietly. "then he has some beautiful externals around him." "so they say. but the humanity is deplorable. well, they will get their reward when the master comes. a man leaves everything indeed when he goes to the south seas as rhys has done. he would have been very popular in england." "so he will in the islands." "well so it seems," said mr. morrison. "he has got the ear of those wild creatures evidently. that's the man." it was time for evening prayers; and afterwards the party separated; mrs. caxton carrying off with her her packet of letters unbroken. the morning brought its own business; the breakfast was somewhat hurried; mr. morrison took his departure; and nothing more was said on the subject of south sea missionaries till the evening. then the two ladies were again alone together. "are you well to-day, eleanor?" was mrs. caxton's first question at the tea-table. "some headache, aunt caxton." "how is that? and i have noticed that your eyes were heavy all day." "there is no harm, ma'am. i did not sleep very well." "why not?" "i think the reading of those letters excited me, aunt caxton." mrs. caxton looked at a line of faint crimson which was stealing up into eleanor's cheeks, and for a moment stayed her words. "my dear, there is as good work to be done here, as ever in polynesia." "i do not know, aunt caxton," said eleanor leaning her head on her hand in thoughtful wise. "england has had the light a great while; it must be grand to be the first torch-bearers into the darkness." "so mr. rhys feels. but then, my dear, i think we are to do the work given us--one here and one there;--and let the lord place his servants, and our service, as he will." "i do not think otherwise, aunt caxton." "would you like, to hear some of what mr. rhys has written to me? there is a little difference between what is sent to a committee and what is for the private eye of a friend." "yes ma'am, i would like it," eleanor said; but she did not say so at all eagerly; and mrs. caxton looked at her once or twice before she changed the subject and spoke of something else. she held to her offer, however; and when the green cloth and the lamp were again in readiness, she brought out the letters. eleanor took some work and bent her head over it. "this is one of the latest dates," mrs. caxton said as she opened the paper; "written after he had been there a good many months and had got fairly acquainted with the language and with the people. it seems to me he has been very quick about it." "yes, i think so," eleanor answered; "but that is his way." mrs. caxton read. "my dear friend, "in spite of the world of ocean rolling between us, i yet have a strange and sweet feeling of taking your hand, when i set myself to write to you. spirit and matter seem at odds; and far away as i am, with the vegetation and the air of the tropics around me, as soon as i begin upon this sheet of paper i seem to stand in plassy again. the dear old hills rear their wild outlines before me; the green wealth of vegetation is at my feet, but cool and fresh as nothing looks to me under the northerly wind which is blowing now; and your image is so distinct, that i almost can grasp your hand, and almost hear you speak; _see_ you speak, i do. blessed be the lord for imagination, as well as for memory! without it, how slowly we should mount to the conception of heavenly things and the understanding of himself; and the distance between friends would be a sundering of them indeed. but i must not waste time or paper in telling you what you know already. "by which you will conclude that i am busy. i am as busy as i can possibly be. that is as i wish it. it is what i am here for. i would not have a moment unused. on sunday i have four or five services, of different sorts. week days i have an english school, a writing school, one before and the other after mid-day; and later still, a school for regular native instruction. every moment of time that is free, or would be, is needed for visiting the sick, whose demands upon us are constant. but this gives great opportunity to preach the gospel and win the hearts of the people. "some account of a little preaching and teaching journey in which i took part some few months ago, i have a mind to give you. our object was specially an island between one and two hundred miles away, where many have become christians, and not in name only; but where up to this time no missionary has been stationed. we visit them when we can. this time we had the advantage of a brig to make the voyage in; the mission ship was here with the superintendent and he desired to visit the place. we arrived at evening in the neighbourhood; at a little island close by, where all the people are now christian. mr. lefferts went ashore in a canoe to make arrangements; and the next day we followed. it was a beautiful day and as beautiful a sight as eyes could see. we visited the houses of the native teachers, who were subjects of admiration in every respect; met candidates for baptism and examined them; married a couple; and bro. griffiths preached. there is a new chapel, of very neat native workmanship; with a pulpit carved out of a solid piece of wood, oiled to give it colour and gloss. in the chapel the whole population of the island was assembled, dressed in new dresses, attentive, and interested. so were we, you may believe, when we remembered that only two years ago all these people were heathens. o these islands are a glorious place now and then, in spots where the devil's reign is broken. i wish you could have seen us afterwards, my dear friend, at our native feast spread on the ground under the trees; you who never saw a table set but with exact and elegant propriety. we had no table; believe me, we were too happy and hungry to mind that. i do not think you would have quarrelled with our dishes; they were no other and no worse than the thick broad glossy leaves of the banana. no fault could be found with their elegance; and our napkins were of the green rind of the same tree. cocoanut shells were our substitute for flint glass, and i like it very well; especially when cocoanut milk is the refreshment to be served in them. knives and forks we had none! what would you have said to that? our meat was boiled fowls and baked yams and fish dressed in various ways; and the fingers of the natives, or our own, were our only dividers. but i have seen less pleasant entertainments; and i only could wish you had been there,--so you might have whisked back to england the next minute after it was over, on some convenient fairy carpet such as i used to read of in eastern tales when i was a boy. for us, we had to make our way in haste back to the ship, which lay in the offing, and could not come near on account of the reef barrier. we got on board safely, passing the reefs where once an american ship was wrecked and her crew killed and eaten by the people of these parts. "the next day we made the land we sought; and got ashore through a tremendous surf. here we found the island had lately been the seat of war--some of the heathen having resolved to put an end by violence to the christian religion there, or as they call it, the _lotu_. the christians had gained the victory, and then had treated their enemies with the utmost kindness; which had produced a great effect upon them. the rest of the day after our landing was spent in making thorough inquiry into this matter; and in a somewhat extended preaching service. at night we slept on a mat laid for us, or tried to sleep; but my thoughts were too busy; and the clear night sky was witness to a great many restless movements, i am afraid, before i lost them in forgetfulness. the occasion of which, i suppose, was the near prospect of sending letters home to england by the ship. at any rate, england and the south seas were very near together that night; and i was fain to remember that heaven is nearer yet. but the remembrance carne, and with it sleep. the next day was a day of business. marrying couples (over forty of them) baptizing converts, preaching; then meeting the teachers and class-leaders and examining them as to their christian experience, etc. from dawn till long past mid-day we were busy so; and then were ready for another feast in the open air like that one i described to you--for we had had no breakfast. we had done all the work we could do at that time at one, and sought our ship immediately after dinner; passing through a surf too heavy for the canoes to weather. "let me tell you some of the testimony given by these converts from heathenism; given simply and heartily, by men who have not learned their religion by book nor copied it out of other men's mouths. it was a very thrilling thing to hear them, these poor enterers into the light, who have but just passed the line of darkness. one said, 'i love the lord, and i know he loves me; not for anything in me, or for anything i have done; but for christ's sake alone. i trust in christ and am happy. i listen to god, that he may do with me as he pleases. i am thankful to have lived until the lord's work has begun. i feel it in my heart! i hold jesus! i am happy! my heart is full of love to god!' "another said, 'one good thing i know,--the sacred blood of jesus. i desire nothing else.' "another,--'i know that god has justified me through the sacred blood of jesus. i know assuredly that i am reconciled to god. i know of the work of god in my soul. the sacred spirit makes it clear to me. i wish to preach the gospel, that others also may know jesus.' "all these have been engaged the past year in teaching or proclaiming the truth in various ways. another of their number who was dying, one or two of us went to see. one of us asked him if he was afraid to die? 'no,' he said, 'i am sheltered. the great saviour died for me. the lord's wrath is removed. i am his.' and another time he remarked, 'death is a fearfully great thing, but i fear it not. there is a _saviour_ below the skies.' "so there is a helmet of salvation for the poor fijian as well as for the favoured people at home. praise be to the lord! did i tell you, my dear friend, i was restless at the thought of sending letters home? let me tell you now, i am happy; as happy as i could be in any place in the world; and i would not be in any other place, by my own choice, for all the things in the world. i need only to be made more holy. just in proportion as i am that, i am happy and i am useful. i want to be perfectly holy. but there is the same way of trusting for the poor fijian and for me; and i believe in that same precious blood i shall be made clean, even as they. i want to preach christ a thousand times more than i do. i long to make his love known to these poor people. i rejoice in being here, where every minute may tell actively for him. my dear friend, when we get home, do what we will, we shall not think we have done enough. "our life here is full of curious contrasts. within doors, what our old habits have stereotyped as propriety, is sadly trenched upon. before the ship came, mrs. lefferts' stock of comfort in one line was reduced to a single tea-cup; and in other stores, the demands of the natives had caused us to run very short. you know it is only by payment of various useful articles that we secure any service done or purchase any native produce. money is unknown. fruit and vegetables, figs, fish, crabs, fowls, we buy with iron tools, pieces of calico, and the like; and if our supply of these gives out, we have to draw upon the store of things needed by ourselves; and blankets and hardware come to be minus. then, forgetting this, which it is easy to do, all the world without is a world of glorious beauty. how i wish i could shew it to you! these islands are of very various character, and many of them like the garden of eden for natural loveliness; shewing almost every kind of scenery within a small area. most of them are girdled more or less entirely by what is called a _barrier reef_--an outside and independent coral formation, sometimes narrow, sometimes miles in width, on the outer edge of which the sea breaks in an endless line of white foam. within the reef the lagoon, as it is called, is perfectly still and clear; and such glories of the animal and vegetable world as lie beneath its surface i have no time to describe to you now. i have had little time to examine them; but once or twice i have taken a canoe and a piece of rest, gliding over this submarine garden, and rejoicing in the lord who has made everything so beautiful in its time. my writing hour is over for to-day. i am going five or six miles to see a man who is said to be very ill. "feb. 16. the man had very little the matter with him. i had my walk for nothing, so far as my character of doctor or nurse was concerned. "i will give you a little notion of the beauty of these islands, in the description of one that i visited a short time ago. it is one of our out-stations--too small to have a teacher given it; so it is visited from time to time by mr. lefferts and myself. with a fair wind the distance is hardly a day's journey; but sometimes as in this case it consumes two days. the voyage was made in a native canoe, manned by native sailors, some christian, some heathen. they are good navigators, for savages; and need to be, for the character of the seas here, threaded with a network of coral reefs, makes navigation a delicate matter. our voyage proceeded very well, until we got to the entrance of the island. that seems a strange sentence; but the island itself is a circle, nearly; a band of volcanic rock, not very wide, enclosing a lake or lagoon within its compass. there is only a rather narrow channel of entrance. here we were met by difficulty. the surf breaking shorewards was tremendously high; and meeting and struggling with it came a rush of the current from within. between the two opposing waters the canoe was tossed and swayed like a reed. it was, for a few moments, a scene to be remembered, and not a little terrific. the shoutings and exertions of the men, who felt the danger of their position, added to the roar and the power of the waters, which tossed us hither and thither as a thing of no consequence, made it a strange wild minute,--till we emerged from all that struggle and roar into the still beautiful quiet of the lagoon inside. imagine it, surrounded with its border of rocky land covered with noble trees, and spotted with islets covered in like manner. the whole island is of volcanic formation, and its rocks are of black scoria. the theory is, i believe, that a volcano once occupied the whole centre of such islands; which sinking afterwards away left its place to the occupancy of a lake instead. however produced, the effect is singular in its wild beauty. the soil of this island is poor for any purpose but growing timber; the inhabitants consequently are not many, and they live on roots and fish and what we should think still poorer food--a great wood maggot, which is found in plenty. there are but four villages, two of them christian. i staid there one night and the next day, giving them all i could; and it was a good time to me. the day after i returned home. o sweet gospel of christ! which is lighting up these dark places; and o my blessed master, who stands by his servants and gives them his own presence and love, when they are about his work and the world is far from them, and men would call them lonely. there is no loneliness where christ is. i must finish this long letter with giving you the dying testimony of a tongan preacher who has just gone to his home. he came here as a missionary from his own land, and has worked hard and successfully. he said to mr. calvert the day before his death, 'i have long _enjoyed_ religion and felt its _power_. in my former illness i was happy; but now i am greatly blessed. the lord has come down with mighty power into my soul, and i feel the blessedness of _full rest of soul_ in god. i feel religion to be peculiarly sweet, and my rejoicing is great. i see more fully and clearly the truth of the word and spirit of god, and the suitableness of the saviour. the whole of christianity i see as exceedingly excellent.' "with this testimony i close, my dear friend. it is mine; i can ask no better for you than that it may be yours." mrs. caxton ended her reading and looked at eleanor. she had done that several times in the course of the reading. eleanor was always bent over her work, and busily attentive to it; but on each cheek a spot of colour had been fixed and deepening, till now it had reached a broad flush. silence fell as the reading ceased; eleanor did not look up; mrs. caxton did not take her eyes from her niece's face. it was with a kind of subdued sigh that at last she turned from the table and put her papers away. "mr. morrison is not altogether in the wrong," she remarked at length. "it is better for a man in those far-off regions, and amidst so many labours and trials, to have the comfort of his own home." "do you think mr. rhys writes as if he felt the want?" "it is hard to tell what a man wants, by his writing. i am not quite at rest on that point." "how happened it that he did not marry, like everybody else, before going there?" "he is a fastidious man," said mrs. caxton; "one of those men that are rather difficult to please, i fancy; and that are apt enough to meet with hindrances because of the very nice points of their own nature." "i don't think you need wish any better for him, aunt caxton, than to judge by his letters he has and enjoys as he is. he seems to me, and always did, a very enviable person." "can you tell why?" "good--happy--and useful," said eleanor. but her voice was a little choked. "you know grace is free," said mrs. caxton. "he would tell you so. ring the bell, my dear. and a sinner saved in england is as precious as one saved in fiji. let us work where our place is, and thank the lord!" chapter x. in news. "speak, is't so? if it be so, you have wound a goodly clue; if it be not, forswear't: howe'er, i charge thee, as heaven shall work in me for thine avail, to tell me truly." mr. morrison's visit had drifted off into the distance of time; and the subject of south sea missions had passed out of sight, for all that appeared. mrs. caxton did not bring it up again after that evening, and eleanor did not. the household went on with its quiet ways. perhaps mrs. caxton was a trifle more silent and ruminative, and eleanor more persistently busy. she had been used to be busy; in these weeks she seemed to have forgotten how to rest. she looked tired accordingly sometimes; and mrs. caxton noticed it. "what became of your bill, eleanor?" she said suddenly one evening. they had both been sitting at work some time without a word. "my bill, ma'am? what do you mean, aunt caxton?" "your ragged school bill." "it reached its second reading, ma'am; and there it met with opposition." "and fell through?" "i suppose so--for the present. its time will come, i hope; the time for its essential provisions, i mean." "do you think mr. carlisle could have secured its passage?" "from what i know and have heard of him, i have no doubt he could." "his love is not very generous," remarked mrs. caxton. "it never was, aunt caxton. after i left london i had little hope of my bill. i am not disappointed." "my dear, are you weary to-night?" "no ma'am! not particularly." "i shall have to find some play-work for you to do. your voice speaks something like weariness." "i do not feel it, aunt caxton." "eleanor, have you any regret for any part of your decision and action with respect to mr. carlisle?" "never, aunt caxton. how can you ask me?" "i did not know but you might feel weariness now at your long stay in plassy and the prospect of a continued life here." eleanor put down her work, came to mrs. caxton, kneeled down and put her arms about her; kissing her with kisses that certainly carried conviction with them. "it is the most wicked word i ever heard you say, aunt caxton. i love plassy beyond all places in the world, that i have ever been in. no part of my life has been so pleasant as the part spent here. if i am weary, i sometimes feel as if my life were singularly cut off from its natural duties and stranded somehow, all alone; but that is an unbelieving thought, and i do not give it harbour at all. i am very content--very happy." mrs. caxton brought her hand tenderly down the side of the smooth cheek before her, and her eyes grew somewhat misty. but that was a rare occurrence, and the exhibition of it immediately dismissed. she kissed eleanor and returned to her ordinary manner. "talking about stranded lives," she said; "to take another subject, you must forgive me for that one, dear--i think of mr. rhys very often." "his life is not stranded," said eleanor; "it is under full sail." "he is alone, though." "i do not believe he feels alone, aunt caxton." "i do not know," said mrs. caxton. "a man of a sensitive nature must feel, i should think, in his circumstances, that he has put an immense distance between himself and all whom he loves." "but i thought he had almost no family relations left?" "did it never occur to you," said mrs. caxton, "when you used to see him here, that there was somebody, somewhere, who had a piece of his heart?" "no, ma'am,--never!" eleanor said with some energy. "i never thought he seemed like it." "i did not know anything about it," mrs. caxton went on slowly, "until a little while before he went away--some time after you were here. then i learned that it was the truth." eleanor worked away very diligently and made no answer. mrs. caxton furtively watched her; eleanor's head was bent down over her sewing; but when she raised it to change the position of her work, mrs. caxton saw a set of her lips that was not natural. "you never suspected anything of the kind?" she repeated. "no, ma'am--and it would take strong testimony to make me believe it." "why so, pray?" "i should have thought--but it is no matter what i thought about it!" "nay, if i ask you, it is matter. why should it be hard to believe, of mr. rhys especially?" "nothing; only--i should have thought, if he liked any one, a woman,--that she would have gone with him." "you forget where he was bound to go. do you think many women would have chosen to go with him to such a home--perhaps for the remainder of their lives? i think many would have hesitated." "but _you_ forget for what he was going; and any woman whom he would have liked, would have liked his object too." "you think so," said mrs. caxton; "but i cannot wonder at his having doubted. there are a great many questions about going such a journey, my dear." "and did the lady refuse to go?" said eleanor bending over her work and speaking huskily. "i do not think he ever asked her. i almost wish he had." "_almost_, aunt caxton? why he may have done her the greatest wrong. she might like him without his knowing it; it was not fair to go without giving her the chance of saying what she would do." "well, he is gone," said mrs. caxton; "and he went alone. i think men make mistakes sometimes." eleanor sewed on nervously, with a more desperate haste than she knew, or than was in the least called for by the work in hand. mrs. caxton watched her, and turned away to the contemplation of the fire. "did the thought ever occur to you, eleanor," she went on very gravely, "that he fancied _you?_" eleanor's glance up was even pitiful in its startled appeal. "no, ma'am, of course not!" she said hastily. "except--o aunt caxton, why do you ask me such a thing!" "_except_,--my dear?" "except a foolish fancy of an hour," said eleanor in overwhelmed confusion. "one day, for a little time--aunt caxton, how can you ask me such a thing?" "i had a little story to tell you, my dear; and i wanted to make sure that i should do no harm in telling it. what is there so dreadful in such a question?" but eleanor only brushed away a hot tear from her flushed face and went on with her sewing. or essayed to do it, for mrs. caxton thought her vision seemed to be not very clear. "what made you think so that time, eleanor? and what is the matter, my dear?" "it hurts me, aunt caxton, the question. you know we were friends, and i liked him very much, as i had reason; but i _never_ had cause to fancy that he thought anything of me--only once i fancied it without cause." "on what occasion, my love?" "it was only a little thing--a nothing--a chance word. i saw immediately that i was mistaken." "did the thought displease you?" "aunt caxton, why should you bring up such a thing now?" said eleanor in very great distress. "did it displease you, eleanor?" "no aunty"--said the girl; and her head dropped in her hands then. "my love," mrs. caxton said very tenderly, "i knew this before; i thought i did; but it was best to bring it out openly, for i could not else have executed my commission. i lave a message from mr. rhys to you, eleanor." "a message to me?" said eleanor without raising her head. "yes. you were not mistaken." "in what?" eleanor looked up; and amidst sorrow and shame and confusion, there was a light of fire, like the touch the summer sun gives to the mountain tops before he gets up. mrs. caxton looked at her flushed tearful face, and the hidden light in her eye; and her next words were as gentle as the very fall of the sunbeams themselves. "my love, it is true." "what, aunt caxton?" "you were not mistaken." "in what, ma'am?" "in thinking what you thought that day, when something--a mere nothing--made you think that mr. rhys liked you." "but, aunty," said eleanor, a scarlet flood refilling the cheeks which had partially faded,--"i had never the least reason to think so again." "that is mr. rhys's affair. but you may believe it now, for he told me; and i give it to you on his own testimony." it was curious to mrs. caxton to see eleanor's face. she did not hide it; she turned it a little away from her aunt's fill view and sat very still, while the intense flush passed away and left only a nameless rosy glow, that almost reminded mrs. caxton of the perfume as well as of the colour of the flower it was likened to. there was a certain unfolding sweetness in eleanor's face, that was most like the opening of a rosebud just getting into full blossom; but the lips, unbent into happy lines, were a little shame-faced, and would not open to speak a word or ask another question. so they both sat still; the younger and elder lady. "do you want me to tell you any more, eleanor?" "why do you tell me this at all now, aunt caxton?" eleanor said very slowly and without stirring. "mr. rhys desired i should." "why, aunt caxton?" "why do gentlemen generally desire such things to be made known to young ladies?" "but ma'am"--said eleanor, the crimson starting again. "well, my dear?" "there is the whole breadth of the earth between us." "ships traverse it," said mrs. caxton coolly. "do you mean that he is coming home?" said eleanor. her face was a study, for its changing lights; too quick, too mingled, too subtle in their expression, to be described. so it was at this instant. half eager, and half shame-faced; an unmistakeable glow of delight, and yet something that was very like shrinking. "no, my love," mrs. caxton made answer--"i do not mean that. he would not leave his place and his work, even for you." "but then, ma'am--" "what all this signifies? you would ask. are you sorry--do you feel any regret--that it should be made known to you?" "no, ma'am," said eleanor low, and hanging her head. "what it signifies, i do not know. that depends upon the answer to a very practical question which i must now put to you. if mr. rhys were stationed in england and could tell you all this himself, what would you say to him in answer?" "i could give him but one, aunt caxton," said eleanor in the same manner. "and that would be a grant of his demand?" "you know it would, ma'am, without asking me." "now we come to the question. he cannot leave his work to come to you. is your regard for him enough to make you go to fiji?" "not without asking, aunt caxton," eleanor said, turning away. "suppose he has asked you." "but dear aunt caxton," eleanor said in a troubled voice, "he never said one word to me of his liking for me, nor to draw out my feeling towards him." "suppose he has said it." "how, ma'am? by word, or in writing?" "in writing." eleanor was silent a little, with her head turned away; then she said in a subdued way, "may i have it, aunt caxton?" "my dear, i was not to give them to you except i found that you were favourably disposed towards the object of them. if you ask me for them again, it must be upon that understanding." "will you please to give them to me, aunt caxton," eleanor said in the same subdued tone. mrs. caxton rose and went to a secretary in the room for one or two papers, which she brought and put in eleanor's hand. then folding her arms round her, stooped down and kissed the turned-away face. eleanor rose up to meet the embrace, and they held each other fast for a little while, neither in any condition to speak. "the lord bless you, my child!" said mrs. caxton as she released her. "you must make these letters a matter of prayer. and take care that you do the lord's will in this business--not your own." "aunt caxton," said eleanor presently, "why was this not told me long ago--before mr. rhys went away?" she spoke the words with difficulty. "it is too long a story to tell to-night," mrs. caxton said after hesitating. "he was entirely ignorant of what your feeling might be towards him--ignorant too how far you might be willing to do and dare for christ's sake--and doubtful how far the world and mr. carlisle might be able to prevail with you if they had a fair chance. he could not risk taking a wife to fiji who had not fairly counted the cost." "he was so doubtful of me, and yet liked me?" said eleanor. "my love, there is no accounting for these things," mrs. caxton said with a smile. "and he left these with you to give to me?" "one was left--the other was sent. one comes from fiji. i will tell you about them to-morrow. it is too long a story for to-night; and you have quite enough to think about already. my dear eleanor!" they parted without more words, only with another speaking embrace, more expressive than words; and without looking at the other each went to her own room. eleanor's was cosy and bright in winter as well as in summer; a fire of the peculiar fuel used in the region of the neighbourhood, made of cakes of coal and sand, glowed in the grate, and the whole colouring of the drapery and the furniture was of that warm rich cast which comforts the eye and not a little disposes the mind to be comfortable in conformity. the only wood fire used in the house was the one in the sitting parlour. before her grate-full of glowing coals eleanor sat down; and looked at the two letters she held in her hand. looked at the handwriting too, with curious scrutiny, before she ventured to open and read either paper. wondered too, with an odd side thought, why her fingers should tremble so in handling these, when no letter of mr. carlisle's writing had ever reminded her that her fingers had nerves belonging to them. one was a little letter, which mrs. caxton had told her was the first to be read; it was addressed, "in the hand of mrs. caxton, for miss eleanor powle." that note eleanor's little fingers opened with as slight tearing of the paper as might be. it was in few words indeed. "although i know that these lines will never meet the eye of her for whom they are written, unless she be favourably inclined both to them and to me; yet in the extreme doubt which possesses me whether that condition will be ever fulfilled, and consequently whether i am not writing what no one will ever read, i find it very difficult to say anything. something charges me with foolhardiness, and something with presumption; but there is a something else, which is stronger, that overthrows the charges and bids me go on. "if you ever see these lines, dear eleanor, you will know already what they have to tell you; but it is fit you should have it in my own words; that--not the first place in my heart--but the second--is yours; and yours without any rivalry. there is one thing dearer to me than you--it is my king and his service; after that, you have all the rest. "what is it worth to you? anything? and what will you say to me in reply? "when you read this i shall be at a distance--before i can read your answer i shall be at the other side of the globe. i am not writing to gratify a vague sentiment, but with a definite purpose--and even, though it mocks me, a definite hope. it is much to ask--i hardly dare put it in words--it is hardly possible--that you should come to me. but if you are ready to do and venture anything in the service of christ--and if you are willing to share a life that is wholly given to god to be spent where and how he pleases, and that is to take up its portion for the present, and probably for long, in the depths of south sea barbarism--let your own heart tell you what welcome you will receive. "i can say no more. may my lord bless and keep you. may you know the fulness of joy that jesus can give his beloved. may you want nothing that is good for you. "r. rhys." the other letter was longer. it was dated "island vulanga, in the south seas, march, 18--, "my dear eleanor-"i do not know what presumption moves me to address you again, and from this far-away place. i say to myself that it is presumption; and yet i yield to the impulse. perhaps it is partly the wish to enjoy once at least even this fancied communion with you, before some news comes which may shut me off from it for ever. but i yield to the temptation. i feel very far from you to-day; the tops of the bread-fruit trees that i see from my window, the banana tree with its bunches of fruit and broad bright leaves just before my door--this very hot north wind that is blowing and making it so difficult to do anything and almost to breathe--all remind me that i am in another land, and by the very force of contrast, the fresh welsh mountains, the green meadows, the cool sweet air of plassy--and your face--come before me. your face, most of all. my mind can think of nothing it would be so refreshing to see. i will write what i please; for you will never read it if the reading would be impertinent; and something tells me you _will_ read it. "this is one of the hot months, when exertion is at times very difficult. the heat is oppressive and takes away strength and endurance. but it is for my master. that thought cures all. to be weary for christ, is not to be weary; it is better than any delights without him. so each day is a boon; and each day that i have been able to fill up well with work for god, i rejoice and give thanks. there is no limit here to the work to be done; it presses upon us at all points. we cannot teach all that ask for teaching; we can hardly attend to the calls of the sick; hundreds and hundreds stand stretching out their hands to us with the prayer that we would come and tell them about religion, and we cannot go! our hands are already full; our hearts break for the multitudes who want the truth, to whom we cannot give it. we wish that every talent we have were multiplied. we wish that we could work all night as well as all day. above all _i_ want to be more like my lord. when i am all christ's, _then_ i shall be to the praise of his glory, who called me out of darkness into his marvellous light. i want to be altogether holy; then i shall be quite happy and useful, and there is no other way. are you satisfied with less, eleanor? if you are, you are satisfied with less than satisfies christ. find out where you stand. remember, it is as true for you as it was for paul to say, 'through christ i can do all things.' "there are a few native christians here who are earnestly striving to be holy. but around them all is darkness--blacker than you can even conceive. where the sun of righteousness has shined, there the golden beams of fiji's morning lie; it is a bright spot here and there; but our eyes long for the day. we know and believe it is coming. but when? i understand out here the meaning of that recommendation--'pray ye therefore the lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into the harvest.' you can hardly understand it in england. do you pray that prayer, eleanor? "before i left england i wrote you a note. amid the exquisite pleasure and pain of which lurked a hope--without which it would not have been written, but which i now see to have been very visionary. it is possible that circumstances may be so that the note may have been read by you; in that case mrs. caxton will give you this; but at the distance of space and time that intervenes now, and with cooler thoughts and better knowledge, i feel it to be scarcely possible that you should comply with the request i was daring enough to make to you. i do not expect it. i have ceased to allow myself to hope for it. i think i was unreasonable to ask--and i will never think you unreasonable for refusing--so extravagant a demand. even if you were willing, your friends would not allow it. and i would not disguise from you that the difficulties and dangers to be met in coming here, are more and greater than can possibly have been represented to you. humanly speaking, that is; i have myself no fear, and never have felt any. but the evils that surround us--that come to our knowledge and under our very eyes--are real and tangible and dreadful. so much the more reason for our being here;--but so much the less likely that you, gently reared and delicately cared for, will be allowed to risk your delicate nurture in this land of savages. there is cannibalism here, and to the most dreadful extent; there is all the defilement of life and manners that must be where human beings have no respect for humanity; and all this must come more or less under the immediate knowledge and notice of those that live here. the lord god is a sun and shield; we dwell in him and not in the darkness; nevertheless our eyes see what our hearts grieve over. i could not shield you from it entirely were you here; you would have to endure what in england you could not endure. there are minor trials many and often to be encountered; some of which you will have learned from other letters of the mission. "the heathen around us are not to be trusted, and will occasionally lay their hands upon something we need very much, and carry it off. not long ago the house of mr. thomas, on a neighbouring station, was entered at night and robbed of almost all the wearing apparel it contained. the entrance was effected silently, by cutting into the thin reed and grass wall of the house; and nobody knew anything of the matter till next morning. then the signs shewed that the depredators had been prepared to commit violence if resisted. i do not know--but i am inclined to think such a thing would not happen in my house. i have been enabled to gain the good will of the people very generally, by kindness to the sick, &c.; and two or three of the most powerful chiefs in this vicinity have declared themselves each formally my 'friend'--a title of honour which i scrupulously give and take with them. nevertheless they are not to be relied upon. what of that? the eternal god is our refuge! after all i come back into feeling how safe we are, rather than how exposed. "yet all i have told you is true, and much more. let no one come here who does not love christ well enough to suffer the loss of all things for his sake, if necessary; for it may be demanded of him. he wants the helmet of salvation on his head; but with that, it does not matter where we are--glory to the captain of our salvation! fiji is very near heaven, eleanor; nearer than england; and if i dared, i would say, i wish you were here;--but i do not dare. i do not know what is best. i leave you to your own judgment of what you ought to do, and to that better direction which will tell you. for me, i know that i shall not want; not so but that i can find my supply; and soon i shall be where i shall not want at all. meanwhile every day is a glad day to me, for it is given to my lord; and jesus is with me. the people hear the word gladly, and with some fruit of it continually our hearts are cheered. i would not be anywhere else than i am. my choice would be, if i had my choice, to live and die in fiji. "i dare not trust myself to say the thoughts that come surging up for utterance; it is wiser not. if my first note to you was presumptuous, this at least is the writing of a calmer and wiser man. i have resigned the expectations of a moment. but it is no harm for me to say i love you as well as ever; _that_ i shall do, i think, till i die; although i shall never see you again, and dare not promise myself i shall ever again write to you. it may be it will be best not, even as a friend, to do that. perhaps as a friend i could not. it is not as a friend, that i sign myself now, "rowland rhys." poor eleanor! she was of all people in the world the least given to be sentimental or soft-hearted in a foolish way; but strong as she was, there was something in these letters--or some mixture of things--that entered her heart like an arrow through the joints of an armour, and found her as defenceless. tears came with that resistless, ceaseless, measureless flow, as when the secret nerve of tenderness has been reached, and every barrier of pride or self-consideration is broken down or passed over. so keen the touch was to eleanor, that weeping could not quiet it. after all it was only a heavy summer shower--not a winter storm. eleanor hushed her sobs at last to begin her prayers; and there the rest of the night left her. the morning was dawning grey in the east, when she threw herself upon her bed for an hour's sleep. sleep came then without waiting. perhaps mrs. caxton had not been much more reposeful than her niece; for she was not the first one down stairs. eleanor was there before her; mrs. caxton watched her as she came in; she was ceremoniously putting the fire in best burning condition, and brushing up the ashes from the hearth. as mrs. caxton came near, eleanor looked up and a silent greeting passed between them; very affectionate, but silent evidently of purpose. neither of them was ready to speak. the bell was rung, the servants were gathered; and immediately after prayers breakfast was brought in. it was a silent meal for the first half of it. mrs. caxton still watched eleanor, whose eyes did not readily meet hers. what about her? her manner was as usual, one would have said, yet it was not; nor was she. a little delicate undefined difference made itself felt; and that mrs. caxton was studying. a little added grace; a little added deftness and alacrity; mrs. caxton had seen it in that order taken of the fire before breakfast; she saw it and read it then. and in eleanor's face correspondingly there was the same difference; impossible to tell where it lay, it was equally impossible not to perceive it. though her face was grave enough, there was a beauty in the lines of it that yesterday had not seen; a nameless witness in the corners of her mouth, that told tales the tongue would not. mrs. caxton looked on and saw it and read it, for half the breakfast time, before she spoke. maybe she had a secret sigh or two to cover; but at any rate there was nothing like that in her look or her voice when she spoke. "so you will go, eleanor!" eleanor started, and coloured; then looked down at her plate, the blush growing universal. "have you decided, my love?" eleanor leaned her head upon her hand, as if with the question came the remembrance of last night's burden of thoughts; but her answer was a quiet low "yes." "may i know--for i feel myself responsible to a degree in this matter,--may i know, on what ground?" eleanor's look was worth five hundred pounds. the little glance of surprise and consciousness--the flash of hidden light, there was no need to ask from what magazine, answered so completely, so involuntarily. she cast down her eyes immediately and answered in words sedate enough-"because i am unable to come to any other decision, ma'am." "but eleanor, my dear," said mrs. caxton,--"do you know, mr. rhys himself would be unwilling you should come to him for his own sake alone--in fiji." eleanor turned away from the table at that and covered her face with her hands; a perfect rush of confusion bringing over face and neck and almost even over the little white fingers, a suffusing crimson glow. she spoke presently. "i cannot say anything to that, aunt caxton. i have tried myself as well as i can. i think i would go anywhere and do anything where i saw clearly my work and my place were put for me. i do not know anything more about it." "my love, that is enough. i believe you. i entirely approve your decision. i spoke, because i needed to ask the question _he_ would have asked if he had been here. mr. rhys has written to me very stringently on the subject." "so he has to me, ma'am." "if you have settled that question with your conscience, my dear, there is no more necessary to be said about it. conscience should be clear on that point, and the question settled securely. if it is not, you had better take time for thought and self-searching." "i do not need it, aunt caxton." mrs. caxton left her place and came round to eleanor, for the sole purpose of taking her in her arms and kissing her. grave, earnest kisses, on brow and cheek, speaking a heart full of sympathy, full of tenderness, full of appreciation of all that this decision of eleanor's involved, full of satisfaction with it too. a very unusual sort of demonstration from mrs. caxton, as was the occasion that called for it. eleanor received it as the seal of the whole business between them. her aunt's arms detained her lovingly while she pressed her lips to every part of eleanor's face; then mrs. caxton went back to her place and poured herself out another cup of coffee. sentiment she had plenty; she was not in the least bit sentimental. she creamed her coffee thoughtfully and broke bread and eat it, before she came out with another question. "when will you go, eleanor?" eleanor looked up doubtfully. "where, aunt caxton?" "to fiji." there seemed to be some irresolution or uncertainty in the girl's mind; for she hesitated. "aunt caxton, i doubt much--my mother will oppose my going." "i think she will. but i think also that her opposition can be overcome. when will you write to her?" "i will write to-day, ma'am." "we must have an answer before we send any other letters. supposing she does not oppose, or that her opposition is set aside, i come back to my question. when will you go?" eleanor looked up doubtfully again. "i don't know, ma'am--i suppose opportunities of going only occur now and then." "that is all--with long intervals sometimes. opportunities for _your_ going would come only rarely. you must think about it, eleanor; for we must know what we are to tell mr. rhys." eleanor was silent; her colour went and came. "you must think about it, my dear. if you write to mr. rhys to-day and send it, we may get an answer from him possibly in twenty months--possibly in twenty-four months. then if you wait four or five months for an opportunity to make the voyage, and have a reasonably good passage, you may see your friend in three years from now. but it might well happen that letters might be delayed, and that you might wait much longer than four or five months for a ship and company in which you could sail; so that the three years might be nearer four." "i have thought of all that, aunt caxton," eleanor said, while the colour which had been varying in her cheeks fixed itself in two deep crimson spots. mrs. caxton was now silent on her part, slowly finishing her coffee and putting the cups together on the tray. she left it for her niece to speak next. "i have thought of all that, aunt caxton," eleanor repeated after a little while,--"and--" "well my love?" "aunt caxton," said the girl, looking up now while her cheeks and brow were all one crimson flush--"is it unmaidenly in me--would it be--to go so, without being asked?" "has he not asked you?" "yes ma'am. but--" "what?" "not since he got there." "have you reason to think his mind is altered on the subject?" "no, ma'am," said eleanor, drooping her head. "what does your own feeling bid you do, my love?" "i have thought it all over, aunt caxton," said the girl slowly,--"i did that last night; i have thought of everything about it; and my feeling was--" "well, my love?" "my feeling, as far as i am concerned--was to take the first good opportunity that offered." "my love, that is just what i thought you would do. and what i would have you do, if you go at all. it is not unmaidenly. simple honest frankness, is the most maidenly thing in the world, when it is a woman's time to speak. the fact that your speaking must be action does not alter the matter. when it takes two years for people to hear from each other, life would very soon be spent in the asking of a few questions and getting the answers to them. i am a disinterested witness, eleanor; for when you are gone, all i care for in this world is gone. you are my own child to me now." eleanor's head bent lower. "but i am glad to have you go, nevertheless, my child. i think mr. rhys wants you even more than i do; and i have known for some time that you wanted something. and besides--i shall only be separated from you in body." eleanor made no response. "what are you going to do now?" was mrs. caxton's question in her usual calm tone. "write to mamma." "very well. do not send your letter to her without letting mine go with it." "but aunt caxton," said eleanor lifting up her head,--"my only fear is--i am quite satisfied in my own mind, and i do not care for people--my only fear is, lest mr. rhys himself should think i come too easily. you know, he is fastidious in his notions." she spoke with great difficulty and with her face a flame. "your fear will go away when you have heard my story," said mrs. caxton tranquilly. "i will give you that to-night. he is fastidious; but he is a sensible man." quieted with which suggestion, eleanor went off to her desk. chapter xi. in changes. "but never light and shade coursed one another more on open ground, beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale across the face of enid hearing her." various letters were written that day. in the evening the two ladies came together again cheerfully. the time between had not all been spent in letter-writing, for the world does not stand still for love matters. eleanor had been out the whole afternoon on visits of kindness and help to sick and poor people. mrs. caxton had been obliged to attend to the less interesting company of one or two cheese-factors. at the tea-table the subject of the morning came back. "you posted your letter and mine, eleanor?" "yes, ma'am. but i cannot think mamma's answer will be favourable. i cannot fancy it." "well, we shall see. the world is a curious world; and the wind does not always blow from the quarter whence we expect it. we must wait and pray." "i am puzzled to imagine, aunt caxton," eleanor said after some pause, "how you came to know all about this matter in the first place. how came you to know what i never knew?" "that is my story," said mrs. caxton. "we will let the table be cleared first, my dear." so it was done. but eleanor left her work by her side to-night, and looked into her aunt's face to listen. "i never should have known about it, child, till you had, if you had been here. you remember how you went away in a hurry. who knows? perhaps, but for that, none of us would have been any wiser to-day on the subject than we were then. it is very possible." "how, ma'am?" "you disappeared, you know, in one night, and were gone. when mr. rhys came home, the next day or the same day, i saw that he was very much disappointed. that roused my suspicions of him; they had been only doubtful before. he is not a person to shew what he thinks, unless he chooses." "so i knew; that made me surprised." "i saw that he was very much disappointed, and looked very sober; but he said hardly anything about it, and i was forced to be silent. then in a little while--a few weeks, i think--he received his appointment, with the news that he must sail very soon. he had to leave plassy then in a very few days; for he wanted some time in london and elsewhere. i saw there was something more than leaving plassy, upon his mind; he was graver than that could make him, i knew; and he was giving up something more than england, i knew by is prayers. "one night we were sitting here by the fire--it was a remarkably chill evening and we had kindled a blaze in he chimney and shut the windows. mr. rhys sat silent, watching the fire and keeping up the blaze; too busy with his own thoughts to talk to me. i was taken with a spirit of meddling which does not very often possess me; and asked him how much longer he had to stay. he said how long, in so many words; they were short, as pain makes words. "'how comes it,' i asked, plunging into the matter, 'that you do not take a wife with you? like everybody else.' "he answered, in dry phrases, 'that it would be presumption in him to suppose that anybody would go with him, if he were to ask.' "i said quietly, i thought he was mistaken; that anybody who was worthy of him would go; and it could not be _presumption_ to ask anybody else. "'you do not realize, mrs. caxton, how much it would be asking of any one,' he said; 'you do not know what sacrifices it would call for.' "'love does not care for sacrifices,' i reminded him. "'i have no right to suppose that anybody has such a degree of regard for me,' he said. "i can't tell what in his manner and words told me there was more behind. they were a little short and dry; and his ordinary way of speaking is short sometimes, but never with a sort of edge like this--a hard edge. you know it is as frank and simple when he speaks short as when his words come out in the gentlest way. it hurt me, for i saw that something hurt him. "i asked if there was not anybody in england good enough for him? he said there were a great many too good. "'mr. rhys,' said i,--i don't know what possessed me to be so bold,--'i hope you are not going to leave your heart behind with somebody, when you go to fiji?' "he got up and walked once or twice through the room, went out and presently came back again. i was afraid i had offended him, and i was a good deal troubled; but i did not know what to say. he sat down again and spoke first. "'mrs. caxton,' said he, 'since you have probed the truth, i may as well confess it. i am going to do the unwise thing you have mentioned.' "'who are you going to leave your heart with, mr. rhys?' i asked. "'with the lady who has just left you.' "'eleanor?' "'yes,' he said. "'have you told her, mr. rhys?' i asked. "he said no. "'you are not going to do her the injustice to go and _not_ speak to her?' "'why should i tell her?' he said. "'there might be several answers given to that,' i said; 'but the best one at present seems to be, why should you _not?_' "'for several reasons,' he said. 'in the first place i do not know at all whether miss powle has that degree of love to christ that she would be willing to forsake all her earthly prospects--home and friends--for hard work in his service. in the second place, even if she have that, i have not the slightest reason to believe that she--that she cares enough for me to go with me at my asking.' "'and do you mean to go in ignorance?' i said. "'yes--i must.' "i waited a little, and then i told him i thought he was wrong. "'why?' he asked quickly. "'people cannot see each other's hearts,' i said. 'suppose that she have the same secret feeling towards you that you have towards her. she cannot speak; you will not; and so both would be unhappy for nothing. "'i never saw the least thing like it,' he said. "'i suppose she might say the same of you--might she not?' "'yes and with truth; for knowing the uncertainties--or rather the certainties--of my position, i have not given her the least cause.' "'you could hardly expect demonstrations from her in that case,' i said. "'there is no chance, mrs. caxton, even if it were according to your supposition. her friends would never permit her to marry a man with my lot in life;--and i do not know that i ought to ask her, even if they would. she has a very fair prospect for this world's happiness.' "'what do you think of your own lot in life?' i asked him. "'i would not exchange it, you know,' he said, 'for any other the world could offer me. it is brighter and better.' "'it strikes me you are selfish,--' i told him. "he laughed a little, for the first time; but he grew as grave as possible immediately after. "'i have not meant to be selfish,' he said; 'but i could not take a woman to fiji, who had not thoroughly considered the matter and counted the cost. that could not be done in a little while. the world has a fair chance now to see if it can weaken miss powle's principles or overcome her faithfulness to them. it is better that she should try herself perhaps, before having such a question asked of her.' "'and suppose she comes clear out of the trial?' i said. "'then i shall be in fiji.' "we were both silent a while. he began then. "'mrs. caxton, without invading any confidences or seeking to know anything that should not be known,--may i ask you a question?' "'certainly,' i said. 'i reserve the discretion of answering.' "'of course. your words look like a rebuke of the attitude i have taken towards this subject. is it proper for me to ask, whether you have any foundation for them beyond your general knowledge of human nature and your good will towards me? i mean--whether you, as a friend, see any ground of hope for me?' "'if you were going to stay in england,' i said, 'i would answer no such question. every man must make his own observations and run his own risk. but these circumstances are different. and appealed to as a friend--and answering on my own observations simply--i should say, that i think your case not hopeless.' "i could see the colour rise in his cheek; but he sat quite still and did not speak, till it faded again. "'i have never heard a word on the subject,' i told him. 'i do not say i am certain of anything. i may mistake. only, seeing you are going to the other end of the world, without the chance of finding out anything for yourself, i think it fair to tell you what, as a woman, i should judge of the case.' "'why do you tell me?' he said quickly. "'i am but answering your question. you must judge whether the answer is worth anything.' "he half laughed again, at himself; at least i could see the beginning of a smile; but he was too terribly in earnest to be anything but serious. he sat silent; got up and fidgetted round the room; then came and stood by the chimney piece looking down at me. "'mrs. caxton,' he said, 'i am going to venture to ask something from you--to fulfil a contingent commission. when i am gone, if miss powle returns to you, or when you have otherwise opportunity,--will you, if you can, find out the truth of her feeling on these subjects, which i have failed to find out? you tempt me beyond my power of self-abnegation.' "'what shall i do with the truth, if i find it, mr. rhys?' "'in that case,' he said,--'if it is as you suppose it possible it may be, though i dare not and do not hope it;--if it be so, then you may tell her all i have confessed to you to-night.' "'why?' "'you are uncommonly practical to-night,' he said. 'i could have but one motive in discovering it to her.' "'to ask her to follow you to fiji?' "'i dare not put it in words. i do not believe the chance will ever come. but i am unable to go and leave the chance changed into an impossibility.' "'we are talking of what _may_ be,' i said. 'but you do not suppose that she could follow you on my report of your words alone?' "'i shall be too far off to speak them myself.' "'you can write then,' i said. "'do you remember what the distances are, and the intervals of time that must pass between letter and letter? when should i write?' "'now--this evening. i am not thinking of such courtship as took place in the antediluvian days.' "'i cannot write on such an utter uncertainty. i have not hope enough; although i cannot bear to leave the country without enlisting you to act for me.' "'i shall reconsider the question of acting,' i said, 'if i have no credentials to produce. i cannot undertake to tell anything to eleanor merely to give her pleasure--or merely to give her pain.' "'would you have me write to her here--now?' he asked. "'yes, i would,' i told him. "he sat pondering the matter a little while, making up the fire as you did this morning--only with a very different face; and then with a half laugh he said i was making a fool of him, and he went off. i sat still--and in a few minutes he came down and handed me that note for you." eleanor's cheeks would have rivalled the scarlet lobelia or indian mallow, or anything else that is brilliant. she kept profound silence. it was plain enough what mr. rhys expected her to do--that is, supposing he had any expectations. now her question was, what would her mother say? and eleanor in her secret heart looked at the probability of obstinate opposition in that quarter; and then of long, long waiting and delay; perhaps never to be ended but with the time and the power of doing what now her heart longed to do. the more she thought of it, the less she could imagine that her mother would yield her consent; or that her opposition would be anything but determined and unqualified. then what could she do? eleanor sighed. "no," said mrs. caxton. "have patience, my dear, and believe that all will go right--_however it goes_, eleanor. we will do our part; but we must be content with our part. there is another part, which is the lord's; let him do that, and let us say it is well, eleanor. till we have learnt that, we have not learnt our lesson." "i do say it, and will, aunt caxton," said the girl. but she said nothing more that night. to tell the truth, they were rather silent days that followed. mrs. powle's letters of answer did not come speedily; indeed no one knew at plassy just where she might be at this time, nor how far the plassy letters might have to travel in order to reach her; for communication was not frequent between the two families. and till her answer came, eleanor could not forget that the question of her life was undecided; nor mrs. caxton, that the decision might take away from her, probably for ever, the only living thing that was very dear to her. that was eleanor now. they were very affectionate to each other those days, very tender and thoughtful for each other; not given to much talking. eleanor was a good deal out of the house; partly busy with her errands of kindness, partly stilling her troublesome and impatient thoughts with long roamings on foot or on horseback over the mountains and moors. "the spring has come, aunt caxton," she said, coming in herself one day, fresh enough to be spring's impersonation. "i heard a blackbird and a wheat-ear; and i have found a violet for you." "you must have heard blackbirds before. and you have got more than violets there." "yes, ma'am--not much. i found the nepeta and the ivy-leaved veronica under the hedge; and whitlow grass near the old tower. that's the willow catkin you know of course--and sloe. that's all--but it's spring." a shade came over the faces of both. where might another spring find her. "i have got something more for you," said mrs. caxton. "my letter, ma'am!--had you one, aunt caxton?" "yes." eleanor could not tell from her aunt's answer what the letter might be. she went off with her own, having parted suddenly with all the colour she had brought in with her. it returned again however soon. mrs. powle declared that according to all _her_ experience and power of judging of the world, her daughter and her sister mrs. caxton were both entirely crazy. she had never, in her life, heard of anything so utterly absurd and ridiculous as the proposition upon which they had required her to give an opinion. her opinion found no words in the english language strong enough in which to give it. that eleanor should be willing to forego every earthly prospect of good or pleasure, was like eleanor; that is, it was like the present eleanor; an entirely infatuated, blind, fanatical, unreasonable thing. mrs. powle had given up the expectation of anything wiser or better from her, until years and the consequences of her folly should have taught her when it would be too late. why eleanor, if she wished to throw herself away, should pitch upon the south seas for the place of her retirement, was a piece of the same mysterious fatuity which marked the whole proceeding. why she could think of no pleasanter wedding journey than a voyage of twelve thousand miles in search of a husband, was but another incomprehensible point. mrs. powle had a curiosity to know what eleanor expected to live upon out there, where she presumed the natives practised no agriculture and wheaten flour was a luxury unknown? and what she expected to _do?_ however, having thus given her opinion, mrs. powle went on to say, that she must quite decline to give it. she regarded eleanor as entirely the child of her aunt caxton, as she understood was also mrs. caxton's own view; most justly, in mrs. powle's opinion, since conversion and adoption to mrs. caxton's own family and mind must be amply sufficient to supersede the accident of birth. at any rate, mrs. powle claimed no jurisdiction in the matter; did not choose to exercise any. she felt herself incompetent. one daughter she had still remaining, whom she hoped to keep her own, guarding her against the influences which had made so wide a separation between her eldest and the family and sphere to which she belonged. julia, she hoped, would one day do her honour. as for the islands of the south seas, or the peculiar views and habits of life entertained by those white people who chose them for their residence, mrs. powle declared she was incapable from very ignorance of understanding or giving judgment about them. she made the whole question, together with her daughter, over to her sister mrs. caxton, who she did not doubt would do wisely according to her notions. but as they were not the notions of the world generally, they were quite incomprehensible to the writer, and in a sphere entirely beyond and without her cognizance. she hoped eleanor would be happy--if it were not absurd to hope an impossibility. but on one point the letter was clear, if on no other. eleanor should not come home. she had ruined her own prospects; mrs. powle could not help that; she should not ruin julia's. whether she stayed in england or whether she went on her fool's voyage, _this_ was a certain thing. she should not see julia, to infect her. mrs. powle desired to be informed of eleanor's movements; that if she went she herself might meet her in london before she sailed. but she would not let her see julia either then or at any time. this cruel letter broke eleanor down completely. it settled the question of her life indeed; and settled it according to her wish and against her fears; but for all that, it was a letter of banishment and renunciation. with something of the feeling which makes a wounded creature run to shelter, eleanor gathered up her papers and went down to mrs. caxton; threw them into her lap, and kneeling beside her put herself in her arms. "what is it, my child?" said mrs. caxton. "what does your mother say to you?" "she gives her consent--but she gives me up to you, aunt caxton. she counts me your child and not hers." "my love, i asked her to do so. you have been mine, in my own mind, for a long time past. my eleanor!"--and mrs. caxton's kiss and her warm clasping arms spoke more than her words. "but she renounces me--and she will not let me see julia."--eleanor was in very great distress. "she will by and by. she will not hold to that." "she says she will not at all. o aunt caxton, i want to see julia again!"-"were you faithful to julia while you were with her?" "yes--i think so--while i could. i had hardly any chance the last winter i was at home; we were never together; but i seized what i could." "your mother kept you apart?" "i believe so." "my child, remember, as one day is with the lord as a thousand years, so one word is as a thousand words; he can make it do his work. all we have to do is to be faithful, and then trust. you recollect the words of that grand hymn on the will of god- "'i do the little i can do, and leave the rest to thee.' "i don't think i know it." mrs. caxton went on. "'when obstacles and trials seem like prison walls to be, i do the little i can do, and leave the rest to thee. "'i know not what it is to doubt; my heart is ever gay; i run no risk, for, come what will, thou always hast thy way. "'i have no cares, o blessed will! for all my cares are thine. i live in triumph, lord, for thou hast made thy triumphs mine.'" eleanor lifted up her face and pressed a long kiss on her aunt's lips. "but i want to see julia!" "my love, i think you will. it will be some time yet before you can possibly leave england. i think your mother will withdraw her prohibition before that time. meanwhile--" eleanor lay with her head on mrs. caxton's bosom, her brown eyes looking out with a sweet and sorrowful wistfulness towards the light. mrs. caxton read them. "this gift would be very precious to me, my child," she said, tightening the pressure of the arms which still were wrapped round eleanor,--"if i were not obliged so soon to make it over to somebody else. but i will not be selfish. it is unspeakably precious to me now. it gives me the right to take care of you. i asked your mother for it. i am greatly obliged to her. now what are you going to do to-day?" "write--to fiji," said eleanor slowly and without moving. "right; and so will i. and do not you be overmuch concerned about julia. there is another verse of that hymn, which i often think of- "'i love to see thee bring to nought, the plans of wily men; when simple hearts outwit the wise, o thou art loveliest then!'" chapter xii. in waiting. "if proteus like your journey, when you come, no matter who's displeas'd when you are gone; i fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal." the way was clear, and eleanor wrote to fiji as she had said. she could not however get rid of her surprise that her mother had permitted the tenor of these letters to be what it was. what had moved mrs. powle, so to act against all her likings and habits of action? how came she to allow her daughter to go to the south seas and be a missionary? several things which eleanor knew nothing of, and which so affected the drift of mrs. powle's current of life that she was only, according to custom, sailing with it and not struggling against it. when people seem to act unlike themselves, it is either that you do not know themselves, or do not know some other things which they know. so in this case. for one thing, to name the greatest first, mr. carlisle was unmistakeably turning his attention to another lady, a new star in the world of society; an earl's daughter and an heiress. whether heart-whole or not, which was best known to himself, mr. carlisle was prosecuting his addresses in this new quarter with undoubted zeal and determination. it was not the time for eleanor now to come home! let her do anything else,--was the dictate of pride. _now_ to come home, or even not to come home, remaining eleanor powle, was to confess in the world's eye a lamentably lost game; to take place as a rejected or vainly ambitious girl; the _would-have-been_ lady of rythdale. anything but that! eleanor might almost better die at once. she would not only have ruined her own prospects, but would greatly injure those of julia, on whom her mother's hopes and pride were now all staked. alfred was taken from her and put under guardians; mrs. powle did not build anything on him; he was a boy, and when he was a man he would be only alfred powle. julia promised to be a beauty; on her making a fine match rested all mrs. powle's expectations from this world; and she was determined to spare no pains, expense, nor precautions. therefore she resolved that the sisters should not be together, cost what it might. good bye to all her cares or hopes on julia's behalf, looking to a great establishment, if julia became a methodist! she might go on a farm like her aunt and sell cheeses. the thought of those cheeses froze the blood in mrs. powle's veins; that was a characteristic of good blood, she firmly believed. therefore on every account, for every reason, nothing better could happen than that eleanor should go to the south seas. she would escape the shame of coming home; julia would be out of danger of religious contamination; and she herself would be saved from the necessary odium of keeping one daughter in banishment and the other in seclusion; which odium she must incur if both of them remained in england and neither of them ever saw the other. all this would be cleverly saved. then also, if eleanor married a missionary and went to the other end of the world, her case could be very well dismissed as one of a religious enthusiasm--a visionary, fanatical excitement. nay, there could be made even a little _ã©clat_ about it. there would be no mortification, at any rate, comparable to that which must attend supposed overthrown schemes and disappointed ambition. eleanor had chosen her own course, backed by her wealthy relation, mrs. caxton, who had adopted her; and whose views were entirely not of this world. mrs. powle deplored it, of course, but was unable to help it. besides, mrs. caxton had answered, on her own knowledge, for the excellent character and superior qualities of the gentleman eleanor was to marry; there was no fault to be found with him at all, except that he was a fanatic; and as eleanor was a fanatic herself, that was only a one-sided objection. yes, mrs. caxton had answered for all that, on her own knowledge, of many years' standing; and she had said something more, which also weighed with mrs. powle and which mrs. powle could also mention among the good features of the case, without stating that it had had the force of an inducement with herself. mrs. caxton had asked indeed to be permitted to consider eleanor her own, and had promised in that case to make eleanor entirely her own care, both during mrs. caxton's life and afterwards; leaving mrs. powle free to devote all her fortune to julia that would have been shared with julia's sister. mrs. powle's means were not in her estimation large; she wanted every penny of them for the perfecting and carrying out of her plans which regarded her youngest daughter; she consented that the elder should own another mother and guardian. mrs. powle agreed to it all. but not satisfied with any step of the whole affair nevertheless, which all displeased her, from beginning to end, her own action included, she expressed her determination to eleanor in terms which half broke eleanor's heart; and left a long, lingering, sore spot there. to mrs. caxton mrs. powle's writing was much better worded; civil if not kind, and well mannered if not motherly. the thing was done, at all events; eleanor was formally made over to another mother and left free to do whatever her new guardian pleased. letters of a different sort of temper were sent off upon their long journey to the south seas; and there began a busy time at plassy, in anticipation of eleanor's following them. it was still very uncertain when that might be; opportunities must be waited for; such an opportunity as would satisfy mrs. caxton. in the mean while a great deal of business was on hand. mrs. caxton even made a journey up to london and took eleanor with her; for the sake of inquiries and arrangements which could not be attended to from a distance. for the sake of purchases too, which could be made nowhere but in london. for mrs. caxton was bent, not only on supplying eleanor with all that could be thought of in the way of outfit; but also on getting together to accompany or precede her everything that could be sent that might be useful or helpful to mr. rhys or comfortable in the household; in short, to transfer england as nearly as possible to fiji. as freights of course were expensive, all these matters must be found and compressed in the smallest compass they could possibly know as their limits; and mrs. caxton was very busy. london did not hold them but a fortnight; the rest of the time work was done at plassy. and the months rolled on. cheeses were turned off as usual, and mrs. caxton's business was as brisk as ever. eleanor's outfit gradually got ready; and before and after that was true, eleanor's visits among her neighbours and poor people were the same as ever. she had strength and spirit enough for all calls upon either; and her sweet diligence seemed to be even more than ever, now that work at plassy was drawing towards a close. still eleanor gathered the spoils of the moors and the hedge-rows, as she went and came on her errands; climbed the mountain on powis and explored the rocks and the waterfalls on her way. as usual her hands came home full. the house was gay with broom again in its season; before that the violets and wood anemone had made the tea-table and the breakfast table sweet with their presence. blue-bells and butter-cups and primroses had their time, and lovely they looked, helped out by the yellow furze blossoms which eleanor was very fond of. then the scorpion grass, of both kinds, proclaimed that it was summer; and borage was bright in the sitting-room. eleanor could hardly look at it without an inward smile and sigh, remembering the cheering little couplet which attached to it by old usage; and julia from whose lips she had first heard it; and the other lips that had given it to julia. corn-marigold was gay again in july, and the white blackberry blossoms came with crane's bill and flax, campion and willow-herb, speedwell and vetchling. any one well acquainted with the wild things that grow and blossom in the land, might have known any day what time of the year it was by going into mrs. caxton's sitting parlour and using his eyes. until the purple ling and loosestrife, gave place to mint and maiden pink and late meadow-sweet; and then the hop vine and meadow saffron proclaimed that summer was over. but ferns had their representatives at all times. summer was over; and no chance for eleanor's sailing had yet presented itself. preparations were all made; and the two ladies lived on in waiting and in the enjoyment of each other, and doubtless with a mixture of thoughts that were not enjoyment. but a very sweet even glow of love and peace and patience filled the house. letters were written; and once and again letters had arrived, even from mr. rhys. they told of everything going on at his station; of his work and pleasures; of the progress the truth was making; and the changes coming even while he looked, upon the population of the islands, their manners and character. there never were letters, i suppose, more thoroughly read and studied and searched out in every detail, than all those letters were by eleanor; for every fact was of importance to her; and the manner of every word told her something. they told her what made her eyes fill and her pulse beat quick. but among them there was not a word to herself. no, and not even a word about herself. in vain eleanor hoped for it and searched for it. there was not even an allusion that looked her way. "do you want to know what i am doing?" mr. rhys wrote in one of these letters. "you see by my date that i am not in the place i last wrote from. i am alone on this island, which has never had a resident missionary and which has people enough that need the care of one; so it has been decided that i should pitch my tent here for some months. there is not a large population--not quite five hundred people in the whole island; but almost all of them that are grown up are professing christian--members of the church, and not disgracing their profession. the history of the church in this place is wonderful and even of romantic interest. one of their chiefs, being in another part of fiji, fell in with a chief who was a christian. from him he learned something of the new religion, and carried back to ono thus much of truth--that jehovah is the only god and that all worship and praise is his due. further than this, and the understanding that the seventh day should be especially spent in his service, the ono chief knew nothing. was not that a little seed for a great tree to grow from? but his island had just been ravaged by disease and by war; in their distress the people had applied in vain to their old gods to save them; they were convinced now from what they heard that help is in the lord alone, and they resolved to seek him. but they knew not the lord, nor his ways, and there was no one to teach them. fancy that company of heathens renouncing heathenism--setting apart the seventh day for worship, preparing food beforehand so that the day might be hallowed, putting on their best dresses and fresh oil, and meeting to seek the unknown god! oh kingdom of christ, come, come!-"when they were met, they did not know how to begin their service. however, as old custom referred them to their priests for intercourse with heaven, they bethought them to apply to one now, and told him what i they wanted. i do not understand what influenced the man; but however, heathen priest of a heathen god as he was, he consented to officiate for this christian service. the priest came; the assembly sat down; and the priest made a prayer, after this fashion as it has been reported to me. _he_ did not then renounce heathenism, you understand. "'lord, jehovah! here are thy people; they worship thee. i turn my back on thee for the present, and am on another tack, worshipping another god. but do thou bless these thy people; keep them from harm, and do them good.' "that was the beginning; and doubtless the lord hearkened and heard it. for awhile they went on as they had begun; then wanting something more, they sent messengers to tonga to beg for teachers. now, as i said, the people are nearly all christians, and not in name only; and all the children are brought to be taught. here am i; don't you think i am in a good place? but i am here only for a little while; more cannot be spared to so small a population at this time. "to get here, one has to shoot something such a gulf as i described to you at vulanga. the barrier reef has a small opening. at particular times of tide a boat can go through; but with the rush of waves from without, meeting the tremendous current from within, it is an exciting business; somewhat dangerous as well as fearful. the ships cannot get inside the barrier. the night i came, canoes came out to meet me, bringing a present of yams as their contribution to our fund; they brought as many as the vessel could find room for. in the canoe with the ono people i felt myself with friends; i had visited the place before, and they knew me. the current made fearfully hard work for them; but it was love's labour; they felt about me, i suppose, something as the galatians did towards paul. the next day was sunday. i preached to an attentive congregation, and had a happy time. now i will give you a notion of my run of employments at the present time. "first. playing bookbinder. fact. one has to play all sorts of things here--and the more the better. my work was to stitch, fold, (fold first) and cover, so many copies of the new testament as i had brought with me--printed, but in sheets. i did them strong! more than that i will not answer for; but i wish i could send you a copy. it would be only a curiosity in art, though; you could not read it. it is an admirable translation in fijian. as i have had but very slight previous practice in bookbinding, my rate of progress was at first somewhat slow; and after a few days of solitary labour i was glad to accept the offer of help from four or five native apprentices--some of our local preachers. they took to the work kindly; and in five weeks we finished the edition--sixty copies. i could do the next sixty quicker. these are the first fijian testaments in ono, and you can understand--or you cannot--what a treasure. the natives who came to purchase them found no fault with the binding, i assure you. so you see i have been bookseller as well as the other thing; and i received pay for my testaments in _sinnet_--you know what that is. it is as good as money for the mission use here in fiji. during these bookbinding weeks i was making excursions hither and thither, to preach and baptize. twice a week i took a time to see the local preachers and teachers and examine them and hear them read and talk to them and be talked to by them. every tuesday and friday i did this. the whole course of the week's work is now something like the following: "sunday begins with a prayer-meeting. afterwards old and young have a catechism exercise together. morning and afternoon, preaching. "monday, the morning there is a children's school, and the afternoon a school for grown people. i question both classes on the sermons of the preceding day; and i hope english people have as good memories. the afternoon school is followed by a prayer-meeting. tuesdays and fridays i have the teachers' meeting in addition. "wednesday i preach, have leaders' meeting, and give out work for the week to come. "thursday, preaching at one of the neighbouring towns, and a sort of young class-meeting. "friday, i have said what i do. "saturday has a prayer-meeting. "so much for the regular work. then there are the sick to look after, and my own private studies; and there is not a minute to spare. a few that cannot be spared are claimed by the mosquitos, which hold their high court and revel here at ono; of all places on the earth that i know, their headquarters. when i was here before with brother lefferts and others, two of them could not sit still to read something that wanted to be read; they walked the floor, one holding the candle, the other the paper; both fighting mosquitos with both hands. i am of a less excitable temperament--for i contrive to live a little more quietly. "shall i tell you some of these native testimonies of christians who a little while ago worshipped idols? at our love-feast lately some thirty or forty spoke. they did my heart good. so may they yours. these people said but few words, full of feeling; my report cannot all give the effect. i wish it could. "one old chief, who could hardly speak for feeling, said, 'these are new things to me in these days;' (he meant the love-feasts) 'i did not know them formerly. my soul is humbled. i rejoice greatly in the lord. i rejoice greatly for sending his servants.' "a tongan teacher--'i desire that god may rule over me,' (i. e., direct me) 'i desire not to govern myself. i know that i am a child of god: i know that god is my father. my friends wrote for me to go to tonga; but i wondered at it. i wish to obey the father of my soul.' "a local preacher--'i know that god is near, and helps me sometimes in my work. i love all men. i do not fear death; one thing i fear, the lord." "leva soko, a female class-leader, a very holy woman, said,--this is but a part of what she said,--'my child died, but i loved god the more. my body has been much afflicted, but i love him the more. i know that death would only unite me to god.' "a teacher, a native of ono, who had gone to a much less pleasant place to preach the gospel, and was home on a visit, spoke exceedingly well. 'i did not leave ono that i might have more food. i desired to go that i might preach christ. i was struck with stones twice while in my own house; but i could bear it. when the canoes came, they pillaged my garden; but my mind was not pained at it: i bore it only.' "a local preacher--'i am a very bad man; there is no good thing in me; but i know the love of god there are not two great things in my mind; there is one only,--the love of god for the sake of christ. i know that i am a child of god. i wish to repent and believe every day till i die.' "these are but a specimen, my dear friend. the other day, in our teachers' meeting we were reading the nineteenth chapter of john. an old teacher read the eighteenth verse in his turn--the words, 'where they crucified him, and two other with him, on either side one, and jesus in the midst.' he could hardly get through it, and then burst into tears and wept aloud. this man was a cannibal once. and now his life speaks for the truth of his tears. "good night. the mosquitos are not favourable to epistle writing. i am well. remember me, as i remember you. "r. r." "aunt caxton," said eleanor after reading this letter for the second or third time,--"have we a supply of mosquito netting among my boxes? i could get the better of the mosquitos, i think." "how would you like to help bind books?" said mrs. caxton. "or translate? mr. rhys seems to be about that business, by what he says in the other letter." "he would not want help in that," said eleanor, musing and flushing. "aunt caxton--is it foolish in me to wish i could hear once more from mr. rhys before i go?" "only a little foolish, my love; and very natural." "then why is it foolish?" "because reason would tell you that it is simply impossible your letters could receive an answer by this time. they have perhaps but barely got to mr. rhys this minute. and reason would tell you further that there is no ground for supposing he is in any different mind from that expressed when he wrote to you." "but--you know--since then he does not say one word about it, nor about me," said eleanor flushing pretty deep. "there is reason for that, too. he would not allow himself to indulge hope; and therefore he would not act as if he had any. that sight of you at brighton threw him off a good deal, i judge." "he told you he saw me?" "he wrote to me about it." "did he tell you how he saw me?" "yes." "what more?" "he said he thought there was little chance i would have any use for his letters; he saw the world was closing its nets around you fast; how far they were already successful he could not know; but he was glad he had seen what forbade him in time to indulge vain anticipations." "oh aunt caxton!" said eleanor--"oh aunt caxton! what a strange world this is, for the way people's lives cross each other, and the work that is done without people's knowing it! if you knew--what that meeting cost me!--" "my dear child! i can well believe it." "and it aroused mr. carlisle's suspicions instantly, i knew. if i made any mistake--if i erred at all, in my behaviour with regard to him, it was then and in consequence of that. if i had faltered a bit then--looked grave or hung back from what was going on, i should have exposed myself to most cruel interpretation. i could not risk it. i threw myself right into whatever presented itself--went into the whirl--welcomed everybody and everything--only, i hoped, with so general and impartial a welcome as should prove i preferred none exclusively." eleanor stopped and the tears came into her eyes. "my child! if i had known what danger you were in, i should have spent even more time than i did in praying for you." "i suppose i was in danger," said eleanor thoughtfully. "it was a difficult winter. then do you think--mr. rhys gave me up?" "no," said mrs. caxton smiling. "you remember he wrote to you after that, from fiji; but i suppose he tried to make himself give you up, as far as hope went." "for all that appears, i may be here long enough yet to have letters before i go. we have heard of no opportunity that is likely to present itself soon. aunt caxton, if my feeling is foolish, why is it natural?" "because you are a woman, my dear." "and foolish?" "not at all; but feeling takes little counsel of reason in some cases. i am afraid you will find that out again before you get to mr. rhys--_after_ that, i do not think you will." the conversation made eleanor rather more anxious than she had been before to hear of a ship; but october and november passed, and the prospect of her voyage was as misty as ever. again and again, all summer, both she and mrs. caxton had written begging that mrs. powle would make a visit to plassy and bring or send julia. in vain. mrs. powle would not come. julia could not. chapter xiii. in meetings. "a wild dedication of yourselves to unpath'd waters, undream'd shores; most certain, to miseries enough." in a neat plain drawing-room in a plain part of london, sat mrs. caxton and eleanor. eleanor however soon left her seat and took post at the window; and silence reigned in the room unbroken for some length time except by the soft rustle of mrs. caxton's work. her fingers were rarely idle. nor were eleanor's hands often empty; but to-day she stood still as a statue before the window, while now and then a tear softly roll down and dropped on her folded hands. there were no signs of the tears however, when the girl turned round with the short announcement, "she's here." mrs. caxton looked up a little bit anxiously at her adopted child; but eleanor's face was only still and pale. the next moment the door opened, and for all the world as in old times the fair face and fair curls of mrs. powle appeared. just the same; unless just now she appeared a trifle frightened. the good lady felt so. two fanatics. she hardly knew how to encounter them. and then, her own action, though she could not certainly have called it fanatical, had been peculiar, and might be judged divers ways. moreover, mrs. powle was eleanor's mother. there was one in the company who remembered that, witness the still close embrace which eleanor threw around her, and the still hiding of the girl's face on her mother's bosom. mrs. powle returned the embrace heartily enough; but when eleanor's motionless clasp had lasted as long as she knew how to do anything with it and longer than she felt to be graceful, mrs. powle whispered, "won't you introduce me to your aunt, my dear,--if this is she." eleanor released her mother, but sobbed helplessly for a few minutes; then she raised her head and threw off her tears; and there was to one of the two ladies an exquisite grace in the way she performed the required office of making them known to each other. the gentleness of a chastened heart, the strength of a loving one, the dignity of an humble one, made her face and manner so lovely that mrs. caxton involuntarily wished mr. rhys could have seen it. "but he will have chance enough," she thought, somewhat incongruously, as she met and returned her sister-in-law's greetings. mrs. powle made them with ceremonious respect, not make believe, and with a certain eagerness which welcomed a diversion from eleanor's somewhat troublesome agitation. eleanor's agitation troubled no one any more, however; she sat down calm and quiet; and mrs. powle had leisure, glancing at her from time to time, to get into smooth sailing intercourse with mrs. caxton. she took off her bonnet, and talked about indifferent things, and sipped chocolate; for it was just luncheon time. ever and anon her eyes came back to eleanor; evidently as to something which troubled her and which puzzled her; and mrs. caxton saw, which had also the effect of irritation too. very likely, mrs. caxton thought! conscience on one hand not satisfied, and ambition on the other hand disappointed, and eleanor the point of meeting for both uneasy feelings to concentrate their forces. it would come out in words soon, mrs. caxton knew. but how lovely eleanor seemed to her. there was not even a cloud upon her brow now; fair as it was pure and strong. "and so you are going?" mrs. powle began at last, in a somewhat constrained voice. eleanor smiled. "and _when_ are you going?" "my letter said, next tuesday the ship sails." "and pray, eleanor, you are not going alone?" "no, mamma. a gentleman and his wife are going the whole voyage with me." "who are they?" "a mr. amos and his wife." "_what_ are they then? missionaries?" "yes, ma'am." "going to that same place?" "yes, ma'am--very nicely for me." "pray how long do you expect the voyage will take you?" "i am not certain--it is made, or can be made, in four or five months; but then we may have to stop awhile at sydney." "sydney? what sydney? where is that?" "australia, mamma," said eleanor smiling. "new south wales. don't you know?" "_australia!_ are you going there? to botany bay?" "no, mamma; not to botany bay. and i only take australia by the way. i go further." "_further_ than botany bay?" "yes, ma'am." "well certainly," said mrs. powle with an accent of restrained despair, "the present age is enterprising beyond what was ever known in my young days. what do you think, sister caxton, of a young lady taking voyage five months long after her husband, instead of her husband taking it for her? he ought to be a grateful man, i think!" "certainly; but not too grateful," mrs. caxton answered composedly; "for in this case necessity alters the rule." "i do not understand such necessities," said mrs. powle; "at least if a thing cannot be done properly, i should say it was better not to do it at all. however, i suppose it is too late to speak now. i would not have my daughter hold herself so lightly as to confer such an honour on any man; but i gave her to you to dispose of, so no doubt it is all right. i hope mr. what's-his-name is worthy of it." "mamma, let me give you another cup of chocolate," said eleanor. and she served her with the chocolate and the toast and the hung beef, in a way that gave mrs. caxton's heart a feast. there was the beautiful calm and high grace with which eleanor used to meet her social difficulties two years ago, and baffle both her trials and her tempters. mrs. caxton had never seen it called for. her face shewed not the slightest embarrassment at her mother's words; not a shade of rising colour did dishonour to mr. rhys by proving that she so much as even felt the slurs against him or the jealousy professed on her own behalf. eleanor's calm sweet face was an assertion both of his dignity and her own. perhaps mrs. powle felt herself in a hopeless case. "what do you expect to live on out there?" she said, changing her ground, as she dipped her toast into chocolate. "you won't have this sort of thing." "i have never thought much about it," said eleanor smiling. "where other people live and grow strong, i suppose i can." "no, it does not follow at all," replied her mother. "you are accustomed to certain things, and you would feel the want of them. for instance, will you have bread like this out there? wheat bread?" "i shall not want chocolate," said eleanor. "the climate is too hot." "but bread?" "wheat flour is shipped for the use of the mission families," said mrs. caxton. "it is known that many persons would suffer without it; and we do not wish unnecessary suffering should be undergone." "have they cows there?" "mamma!" said eleanor laughing. "well, have they? because miss broadus or somebody was saying the other day, that in new zealand they never had them till we sent them out. so i wondered directly whether they had in this place." "i fancy not, mamma. you will have to think of me as drinking my tea without cream." "so you will take tea there with you?" "why not?" "i have got the impression," said mrs. powle, "somehow, that you would do nothing as other people do. you will drink tea, will you? i'll give you a box." "thank you, mamma," said eleanor, but the colour flushed now to the roots of her hair,--"aunt caxton has given me a great stock already." "and coffee?" "yes, mamma--for great occasions--and concentrated milk for that." "do tell me what sort of a place it is, eleanor." "it is a great many places, mamma. it is a great many islands, large and small, scattered over some hundreds of miles of ocean; but they are so many and near each other often, and so surrounded with interlacing coral reefs, that navigation there is in a kind of network of channels. the islands are of many varieties, and of fairy-land beauty; rich in vegetation and in all sorts of natural stores." "not cows." "no, ma'am. i meant, the things that grow out of the ground," said eleanor smiling again. "cows and sheep and horses are not among them." "nor horses either? how do you go when you travel?" "in a canoe, i suppose." "with savages?" exclaimed mrs. powle. "not necessarily. many of them are christians." "the natives?" "yes, ma'am." "then i don't see what you are going for. those that are christians already might teach those that are not. but eleanor, who will marry you?" a bright rose-colour came upon the girl's cheeks. "mamma, there are clergymen enough there." "_clergymen?_ of the church?" "i beg your pardon, mamma; no. that is not essential?" "well, that is as you look at things. i know you and my sister caxton have wandered away,--but for me, i should feel lost out of the church. it would be very essential to me. are there no church people in the islands at all?" "i believe not, mamma." "and what on earth do you expect to do there, eleanor?" "i cannot tell you yet, mamma; but i understand everybody finds more than enough." "what, pray?" "the general great business, you know, is to carry light to those that sit in darkness." "yes, but you do not expect to preach, do you?" eleanor smiled, she could not help it, at the bewildered air with which this question was put. "i don't know, mamma. do not you think i could preach to a class of children?" "but eleanor! such horrid work. such work for _you!_" "why, mamma?" "why? with your advantages and talents and education. mr.--no matter who, but who used to be a good judge, said that your talents would give anybody else's talents enough to do;--and that you should throw them away upon a class of half-naked children at the antipodes!"---"there will be somebody else to take the benefit of them first," mrs. caxton said very composedly. "i rather think mr. rhys will see to it that they are not wasted." "mamma, i think you do not understand this matter," eleanor said gently. "whoever made that speech flattered me; but i wish my talents were ten times so much as they are, that i might give them to this work." "to this gentleman, you mean!" mrs. powle said tartly. a light came into eleanor's eyes; she was silent a minute and then with the colour rising all over her face she said, "he is abundantly worthy of all and much more than i am." "well i do not understand this matter, as you said," mrs. powle answered in some discomfiture. "tell me of something i do understand. what society will you have where you are going, eleanor?" "i shall be too busy to have much time for society, mamma," eleanor answered, good-humouredly. "no such thing--you will want it all the more. sister caxton, is it not so?" "people do not go out there without consenting to forego many things," mrs. caxton answered; "but there is one who has promised to be with his servants when they are about his work; and i never heard that any one who had that society, pined greatly for want of other." mrs. powle opened her eyes at mrs. caxton's quiet face; she set this speech down in her mind as uncontaminated fanaticism. she turned to eleanor. "do the people there wear clothes?" "the christians clothe themselves, mamma; the heathen portion of the people hardly do, i believe. the climate requires nothing. they have a fashion of dress of their own, but it is not much." "and can you help seeing these heathen?" "no, of course not." "well you _are_ changed!" said mrs. powle. "i would never have thought you would have consented to such degradation." "i go that i may help mend it, mamma." "yes, you must stoop yourself first." "think how jesus stooped--to what degradation--for us all." mrs. powle paused, at the view of eleanor's glistening eyes. it was not easy to answer, moreover. "i cannot help it," she said. "you and i take different views on the subject. do let us talk of something else; i am always getting on something where we cannot agree. tell me about the place, eleanor." "what, mamma? i have not been there." "no, but of course you know. what do you live in? houses or tents?" "i do not know which you would call them; they are not stone or wood. there is a skeleton frame of posts to uphold the building; but the walls are made of different thicknesses of reeds, laid different ways and laced together with sinnet." "what's _sinnet?_" "a strong braid made of the fibre of the cocoa-nut--of the husk of the cocoanut. it is made of more and less size and strength, and is used instead of iron to fasten a great many sorts of things; carpentry and boat building among them." "goodness! what a place. well go on with your house." "that is all," said eleanor smiling; "except that it is thatched with palm leaves, or grass, or cane leaves. sometimes the walls are covered with grass; and the braid work done in patterns, so as to have a very artistic effect." "and what is inside?" "not much beside the people." "well, tell me what, for instance. there is something, i suppose. the walls are not bare?" "not quite. there are apt to be mats, to sit and lie on;--and pots for cooking, and baskets and a chest perhaps, and a great mosquito curtain." "are you going to live in a house like that, eleanor?" mrs. powle's face expressed distress. eleanor laughed and declared she did not know. "it will have some chairs for her to sit upon," said mrs. caxton; "and i shall send some china cups, that she may not have to drink out of a cocoa-nut shell." "but i should like that very well," said eleanor; "and i certainly think a fijian wooden dish, spread with green leaves, is as nice a vessel for food as can be." mrs. powle rose up and began to arrange her shawl, with an air which said, "i do not understand it!" "mamma, what are you about?" "eleanor, you make me very uncomfortable." "do i? why should i, mamma?" "it is no use talking." then suddenly facing round on eleanor she said, "what are you going to do for servants in that dreadful place?" "mr. rhys says he has a most faithful servant--who is much attached to him, and does as well as he can desire." "one of those native savages?" "he was; he is a christian now, and a good one." mrs. powle looked as if she did not know how to believe her daughter. "aren't you afraid of what you are about, eleanor--to venture among those creatures? and to take all that voyage first, alone? are you not afraid?" there was that in the very simpleness and quietness of eleanor's answer that put her negative beyond a question. mrs. powle sat down again for very bewilderment. "why are you not afraid?" she said. "you never were afraid of little things, i know; but those houses--are there no thieves among those heathen?" "a good many." "what is to keep them out of your house? anybody could cut through a reed wall with a knife--and make no noise about it. where is your security?" alas, in the one face there was such ignorance, in the other such sorrowful consciousness of that ignorance, that the two faces at first looked mutely into each other across the gulf between them. "mamma," said eleanor, "why will you not understand me? do you not know,--the eternal god is our refuge!" the still, grand expression of faith mrs. powle could not receive; but the speaking of eleanor's eyes she did. she turned from them. "good morning, sister caxton," she said. "i will go. i cannot bear it any longer to-day." "you will come to-morrow, sister powle?" "yes. o yes. i'll be here to-morrow. i will get my feelings quieted by that time. good bye, eleanor." "mamma," said the girl trembling, "when will you bring julia?" "now eleanor, don't let us talk about anything more that is disagreeable. i do not want to say anything about julia. you have taken your way--and i do not mean to unsettle you in it; but julia is in another line, and i cannot have you interfere with her. i am very sorry it is so,--but it is not my doing. i cannot help it. i do not want to give you pain." mrs. powle departed. eleanor came back from attending her to the door, stopped in the middle of the room, and her cheeks grew white as she spoke. "i shall never see her again!" "my love," said mrs. caxton pityingly,--"i hardly know how to believe it possible." "i knew it all along," said eleanor. she sat down and covered her face. mrs. caxton sighed. "it is as true now as it was in the old time," she said,--"'he that will live godly in christ jesus, shall suffer persecution.' so surely as we walk like christ, so surely the world will call us odd and strange and fanatical, and treat us accordingly." eleanor's head was bent low. "and jesus is our only refuge--and our sufficient consolation." "o yes!--but--" "and he can make our silent witness-bearing bring fruits for his glory, and for our dear ones' good, as much as years of talking to them, eleanor." "you are good comfort, aunt caxton," said the girl putting her arms around her and straining her close;--"but--this is something i cannot help just now--" it was a natural sorrow not to be struggled with successfully; and eleanor took it to her own room. so did mrs. caxton take it to hers. but the struggle was ended then and there. no trace of it remained the next day. eleanor met her mother most cheerfully, and contrived admirably to keep her from the gulf of discussion into which she had been continually plunging at her first visit. with so much of grace and skill, and of that poise of her own mind which left her free to extend help to another's vacillations and uncertainties, eleanor guided the conversation and bore herself generally that day, that mrs. powle's sighing commentary as she went away, was, "ah, eleanor!--you might have been a duchess!" but the paleness of sorrow came over her duchess's face again so soon as she was gone. mrs. caxton saw that if the struggle was ended, the pain was not; and her heart bled for eleanor. these were days not to be prolonged. it was good for everybody that tuesday, the day of sailing, was so near. they were heavy, the hours that intervened. in spite of keeping herself close and making no needless advertisement of her proceedings, eleanor could not escape many an encounter with old friends or acquaintances. they heard of her from her mother; learned her address; and then curiosity was enough, without affection, to bring several; and affection mingled with curiosity to bring a few. among others, the two miss broadus's, eleanor's friends and associates at wiglands ever since she had been a child, could not keep away from her and could not be denied when they came; though they took precious time, and though they tried eleanor sorely. they wanted to know everything; if their wishes had sufficed, they would have learned the whole history of mr. rhys's courtship. failing that, their inquiries went to everything else, past and future, to which eleanor's own knowledge could be supposed to extend. what she had been doing through the year which was gone, and what she expected the coming year would find her to do; when she would get to her place of destination, and what sort of a life she would have of it when once there. houses, and horses, and cows and sheep, were as interesting to these good ladies as they were to mrs. powle; and feeling less concern in the matter they were free to take more amusement, and so no side feeling or hidden feeling disturbed their satisfaction in the flow of information they were receiving. for eleanor gratified them patiently, in all which did not touch immediately herself; but when they were gone she sighed. even mrs. powle was less trying; for her annoyances were at least of a more dignified kind. eleanor could meet them better. "and this is the end of you!" she exclaimed the evening before eleanor was to sail. "this is the end of your life and expectations! to look at you and think of it!" despondency could no further go. "not the end of either, mamma, i hope," eleanor responded cheerfully. "the expectation of the righteous shall be for ever, you forget," said mrs. caxton smiling. "there is no fall nor failure to that." "o yes, i know!" said mrs. powle impatiently; "but just look at that girl and see what she is. she might be presented at court now, and reigning like a princess in her own house; yes, she might; and to-morrow she is going off as if she were a convict, to botany bay!" "no, mamma," said eleanor smiling. "i never can persuade you of australian geography." "well it's new south wales, isn't it?" said mrs. powle. eleanor assented. "very well. the girl that brings you your luncheon when you get there, may be the very one that stole my spoons three years ago. it's all the same thing. and you, eleanor, you are so handsome, and you have the manners of a queen--sister caxton, you have no notion what admiration this girl excited, and what admiration she could command!" mrs. caxton looked from the calm face of the girl, certainly handsome enough, to the vexed countenance of the mother; whose fair curls failed to look complacent for once. "i suppose eleanor thinks of another day," she said; "when the lord will come to be admired in his saints and to be glorified in all them that believe. _that_ will be admiration worth having--if eleanor thinks so, i confess i think so too." "dear sister caxton," said mrs. powle restraining herself, "what has the one thing to do with the other?" "nothing," said mrs. caxton. "to seek both is impossible." "_do_ you think it is wicked to receive admiration? i did not think you went so far." "no," said mrs. caxton, with her genial smile. "we were talking of seeking it." mrs. powle was silent, and went away in a very ill humour. chapter xiv. in partings. "the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he! and he shone bright, and on the right went down into the sea." and the tuesday came, and was fair; and under a bright sky the steamer ran down to gravesend with eleanor and her friends on board. not julia; eleanor had given up all hopes of that; but mrs. caxton was beside her, and on the other side of her was mrs. powle. it was a terribly disagreeable journey to the latter; every feeling in her somewhat passionless nature was in a state of fretful rebellion. the other stronger and deeper characters were ready for the time and met it bravely. met it cheerfully too. the crisping breeze that curled the waters of the river, the blue sky and fair sunlight, the bright and beautiful of the scene around them, those two saw and tasted; with hopeful though very grave hearts. the other poor lady saw nothing but a dirty steamboat and a very unpropitious company. among these however were eleanor's fellow-voyagers, mr. amos and his wife; and she was introduced to them now for the first time. various circumstances had prevented their meeting in london. "a very common-looking man,"--whispered mrs. powle to eleanor. "i don't know, mamma,--but very good," eleanor returned. "you are mad on goodness!" said mrs. powle. "don't you see anything else in a man, or the want of anything else? i do; a thousand things; and if a man is ever so good, i want him to be a gentleman too." "so do i," said eleanor smiling. "but much more, mamma, if a man is ever so much a gentleman, i want him to be good. isn't that the more important of the two?" "no!" said mrs. powle. "i don't think it is; not for society." eleanor thought of paul's words--"henceforth know i no man after the flesh"--what was the use of talking? she and her mother must have the same vision before they could see the same things. and she presently forgot mr. amos and all about him; for in the distance she discerned signs that the steamer was approaching gravesend; and knew that the time of parting drew near. it came and was gone, and eleanor was alone on the deck of the "diana;" and in that last moment of trial mrs. powle had been the most overcome of the three. eleanor's sweet face bore itself strongly as well; and mrs. caxton was strong both by life-habit and nature; and the view of each of them was far above that little ship-deck. mrs. powle saw nothing else. her distress was very deep. "i wish i had taken julia to her!" was the outburst of her penitent relentings; and mrs. caxton was only thankful, since they had come too late, that they were uttered too late for eleanor to hear. _she_ went home like a person whose earthly treasure is all lodged away from her; not lost at all, indeed, but yet only to be enjoyed and watched over from a distance. even then she reckoned herself rich beyond what she had been before eleanor ever came to her. for eleanor, left on the ship's deck, at first it was hard to realize that she had any earthly treasure at all. one part of it quitted, perhaps for ever, with the home and the country of her childhood; the other, so far, so vague, so uncertainly grasped in this moment of distraction, that she felt utterly broken-hearted and alone. she had not counted upon this; she had not expected her self-command would so completely fail her; but it was so; and although without one shadow of a wish to turn back or in any wise alter her course, the first beginning of her journey was made amidst mental storms. julia was the particular bitter thought over which her tears poured; but they flooded every image that rose of home things, and childish things and things at plassy. mr. amos came to her help. "it is nothing," eleanor said as well as she could speak,--"it is nothing but the natural feeling which will have its way. thank you--don't be concerned. i don't want anything--if i only could have seen my sister!" "mrs. amos is about as bad," said her comforter with a sigh. "ah well! feeling must have its way, and better it should. you will both be better by and by, i hope." they were worse before they were better. for in a few hours sickness took its place among present grievances; and perhaps on the whole it acted as a relief by effecting a diversion from mental to bodily concerns. it seemed to eleanor that she felt them both together; nevertheless, when at the end of a few days the sea-sickness left her and she was able to get up again, it was with the sweet fresh quietness of convalescence in mind as well as in body. she was herself again. things took their place. england was behind indeed--but fiji was forward--and heaven was over all. as soon as she was able to be up she went upon deck. strength came immediately with the fresh breeze. it was a cool cloudy day; the ship speeding along under a good spread of canvas; the sea in a beautiful state of life, but not boisterous. nobody was on deck but some of the sailors. eleanor took a seat by the guards, and began to drink in refreshment. it stole in fast, on mind as well as body, she hardly knew how; only both were braced up together. she felt now a curious gladness that the parting was over, the journey begun, and england fairly out of sight. the going away had been like death; a new life was rising upon her now; and eleanor turned herself towards it with the same sweet readiness as the good ship whose head is laid upon a new course. there is a state of mind in which the soul may be aptly called the garden of the lord; when answering to his culture it brings forth flowers and fruits for his pleasure. in such a state, the paradise which adam lost is half re-entered again; the moral victory is won over "the works of the devil" which christ came to destroy. the body is dead, no doubt, because of sin; but the spirit is life, because of righteousness. the air of that garden is peace; no hurricanes blow there; the sunshine dwells therein; the odours of sweet things come forth, and make known all abroad whose garden it is. eleanor had sat awhile very still, very busy looking over into the sea, when she heard a step near her on the deck. she looked up, and saw a man whom she recognized as the master of the vessel. a rather hard-featured man, tall and strong set, with a pair of small eyes that did not give forth their expression readily. what there was struck her as not pleasant. "so you've got up!" said he, in a voice which was less harsh than his looks. "do you feel better?" "much better, thank you." "hearty, eh?" "pretty well," said eleanor smiling, "since i have got this salt air into my lungs." "ah! you'll have enough of that. 'tother lady is down yet, eh? she has not got up." "no." "are you all going to the same place?" "i believe so." "missionaries, eh?" "yes." "think you'll get those dark fellows to listen to you?" "why not?" said eleanor brightly. "it's all make-believe. they only want to get your axes and hatchets, and such things." "well, we want their yams and potatoes and fish and labour," said eleanor; "so it is a fair bargain; and no make-believe on either side." "why don't you stay in the colonies? there is work enough to be done; people enough that need it; and a fine country. everything in the world that you need; and not so far from home either." eleanor made no answer. "why don't you stay in the colonies?" "one can only be in one place," said eleanor lightly. "and that must always be the place where somebody else is," said the captain maliciously. "that's the way people will congregate together, instead of scattering where they are wanted." "do you know the colonies well?" said eleanor coolly, in answer to this rude speech. "i ought. i have spent about a third of my life in them. i have a brother at melbourne too, as rich in flocks and herds almost as job was. that's the place! that's a country! but you are going to sydney?" "yes." "friends there?" "i have one friend there who expects me." "who's he? maybe i know him." "egbert esthwaite is his name." "don't know him, though. and so you have left england to find yourself a new home in the wilderness?" "yes." "pretty tough change you'll find it. don't you find it already?" "no. don't you know," said eleanor giving him a good look, "when one's real home is in heaven, it does not make so much difference?" the captain would have answered the words fast enough; but in the strong sweet eye that had looked into his so full, there was something that silenced him. he turned off abruptly, with the internal conviction--"_that_ girl thinks what she says, anyhow!" eleanor's eyes left contemplating the waters, and were busy for some time with the book which had lain in her lap until her colloquy with the captain. somebody came and sat down beside her. "mr. amos! i am glad to see you," said eleanor. "i am glad to see you, sister," he replied; "and glad to see you able to be here. you look well again." "o i am." "mrs. amos cannot raise her head. what are you doing?--if i may ask so blunt a question upon so short an acquaintance." "this is the first time i have been on deck. i was studying the sea, in the first place;--and then something drove me to study the bible." "ah, we are driven to that on every hand," he answered. "now go on, and tell me the point of your studies, will you?" there was something in the utmost genial and kind in his look and way; he was not a person from whom one would keep back anything he wanted to know; as also evidently he was not one to ask anything he should not. the request did not even startle eleanor. she looked thoughtfully over the heaving sea while she answered. "i had been taking a great new view of the glory of creation--over the ship's side here. then i had the sorrow to find--or fear--that we have an unbeliever in our captain. from that, i suppose, i took hold of paul's reasoning--how without excuse people are in unbelief; how the invisible things of god from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made; even his eternal power and godhead. and those glorious last words were what my heart fixed upon." "'his eternal power and godhead.'" eleanor looked round without speaking; a look full of the human echo to those words; the joy of weakness, the strength of ignorance, the triumph of humility. "what a grand characterizing paul gives in those other words," said mr. amos--"'the king eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise god.' unto him be honour and glory forever!" "and then those other words," said eleanor low,--"'the eternal god is thy refuge.'" "that is a good text for us to keep," said mr. amos. "but really, with that refuge, i don't see what we should be afraid of." "not even of want of success," said eleanor. "no. if faith didn't fail. paul could give thanks that he was made always to triumph in christ,--and by the power that wrought with him, so may we." he spoke very gravely, as if looking into himself and pondering his own responsibilities and privileges and short-comings. eleanor kept silence. "how do you like this way of life?" mr. amos said presently. "the sea is beautiful. i have hardly tried the ship." "haven't you?" said mr. amos smiling. "that speaks a candid good traveller. another would have made the first few days the type of the whole." and he also took to his book, and the silence lasted this time. mrs. amos continued prostrated by sea-sickness; unable to raise her head from her pillow. eleanor could do little for her. the evil was remediless, and admitted of very small amelioration. but the weather was very fine and the ship's progress excellent; and eleanor spent great part of her time on deck. all day, except when she was at the side of mrs. amos, she was there. the sailors watched the figure in the dark neat sea-dress and cloak and the little close straw bonnet with chocolate ribbands; and every now and then made pretences to get near and see how the face looked that was hidden under it. the report of the first venturers was so favourable that eleanor had an unconscious sort of levee the next day or two; and then, the fresh sweet face that was so like a flower was found to have more attractions when known than it had before when unknown. there was not a hand on board but seized or made opportunities every day and as often as he could to get near her; if a chance offered and he could edge in a word and have a smile and word in answer, that man went away esteemed both by himself and his comrades a lucky fellow. eleanor awoke presently to the sense of her opportunities, though too genuinely humble to guess at the cause of them; and she began to make every one tell for her work. every sailor on board soon knew what eleanor valued more than all other things; every one knew, "sure as guns," as he would have expressed it, that if she had a chance of speaking to him, she would one way or another contrive before it was ended to make him think of his duty and to remember to whom it was owed; and yet--strange to say--there was not one of them that for any such reason was willing to lose or to shun one of those chances. "if all were like she"--was the comment of one jack tar; and the rest were precisely of his opinion. the captain himself was no exception. he could not help frequently coming to eleanor's side, to break off her studies or her musings with some information or some suggestion of his own and have a bit of a talk. his manners mended. he grew thoroughly civil to her. meanwhile the vessel was speeding southwards. fast, fast, every day they lowered their latitude. higher and higher rose the sun; the stars that had been eleanor's familiars ever since she had eyes to see them, sank one by one below the northern horizon; and the beauty of the new, strange, brilliant constellations of the southern sky began to tell her in curious language of her approach to her new home. they had a most magical charm for eleanor. she studied and watched them unweariedly; they had for her that curious interest which we give to any things that are to be our life-companions. here mr. amos could render her some help; but with or without help, eleanor nightly studied the southern stars, watched and pondered them till she knew them well; and then she watched them because she knew them, as well as because she was to know them all the rest of her life. by day she studied other things; and the days were not weary. the ocean was a storehouse of pleasure for her; and captain fox declared his ship had never carried such a clever passenger; "a girl who had plenty of stuff, and knew what to do with herself." certainly the last piece of praise was true; for eleanor had no weary moments. she had interests on board, as well as outside the ship. she picked up the sailors' legends and superstitions; ay, and many a little bit of life history came in too, by favour of the sympathy and friendliness they saw in those fine brown eyes. never a voyage went better; and the sailors if not the captain were very much of the mind that they had a good angel on board. "well how do you like _this?_" said mr. amos coming up one day. n.b. it was the seventh day of a calm in the tropics. "i would like a wind better," eleanor said smiling. "can you possess your soul in patience?" "yes," she said, but gently and with a slight intonation that spoke of several latent things. "we are well on our way now,--if a wind would come!" "it will come." "i have never asked you," said mr. amos. "how do you expect to find life in the islands?" "in what respect? in general, i should say, as unlike this as possible." "of course. i understand there is no stagnation there. but as to hardships--as to the people?" "the people are part christianized and part unchristianized; that gives every variety of experience among them, i suppose. the unchristianized are as bad as they can be, very nearly; the good, very good. as to hardships, i have no expectation." "you have not data to form one?" "i cannot say that; but things are so different according to circumstances; and there is so great a change going on continually in the character of the people." "how do you feel about leaving behind you all the arts and refinements and delights of taste in the old world?" "will you look over the side of the ship, mr. amos?--down below there--do you see anything?" "dolphin--," said mr. amos. "what do you think of them?" "beautiful!" said mr. amos. "beautiful, undoubtedly! as brilliant as if they had just come out of the jeweller's shop, polished silver. how clear the water is! i can see them perfectly--far below." "isn't the sea better than a jeweller's shop?" "i never thought of it before," said mr. amos laughing; "but it certainly is; though i think it is the first time the comparison has been made." "did you ever go to tenby?" "i never did." "nor i; but i have heard the sea-caves in its neighbourhood described as more splendid in their natural treasures of vegetable and animal growth, than any jeweller's shop could be--were he the richest in london." "_splendid?_" said mr. amos. "yes--for brilliance and variety of colour." "is it possible? these are things that i do not know." "you will be likely to know them. the lagoons around the polynesian islands--the still waters within the barrier-reefs, you understand--are lined with most gorgeous and wonderful displays of this kind. one seems to be sailing over a mine of gems--only not in the rough, but already cut and set as no workman of earth could do them." "ah," said mr. amos, "i fancy you have had advantages of hearing about these islands, that i have not enjoyed." eleanor was checked, and coloured a little; then rallied herself. "look now over yonder, mr. amos--at those clouds." "i have looked at them every evening," he said. their eyes were turned towards the western heavens, where the setting sun was gathering his mantle of purple and gold around him before saying good night to the world. every glory of light and colouring was there, among the thick folds of his vapourous drapery; and changing and blending and shifting softly from one hue of richness to another. "i suppose you will tell me now," said mr. amos with a smile of some humour, "that no upholsterer's hangings can rival that. i give up--as the schoolboys say. yet we do lose some things. what do you say to a land without churches?" "o it is not," said eleanor. "chapels are rising everywhere--in every village, on some islands; and very neat ones." "i am afraid," said mr. amos with his former look of quiet humour, "you would not be of the mind of a lady i heard rejoicing once over the celebration of the church service at oxford. she remarked, that it was a subject of joyful thought and remembrance, to know that praise so near perfection was offered somewhere on the earth. there was the music, you know, and the beautiful building in which we heard it, and all the accessories. you will have nothing like that in fiji." "she must have forgotten those words," said eleanor--"'where is the house that ye build unto me, and where is the place of my rest? ... _to this man_ will i look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word.' you will find _that_ in fiji." "ah," said mr. amos,--"i see. my friend will have a safe wife in you. do you know, when i first saw you i stood in doubt. i thought you looked like--well, never mind! it's all right." "right!" said captain fox coming up behind them. "i am glad somebody thinks so. right!--lying broiling here all day, and sleeping all night as if we were in port and had nothing to do--when we're a long way from that. drove you down to-day, didn't it?" said he turning to eleanor. "it was so hot; i could not get a bit of permanent shade anywhere. i went below for a little while." "and yet it's all right!" said the captain. "i am afraid you are not in a hurry to get to the end of the voyage." mr. amos smiled and eleanor blushed. the truth was, she never let herself think of the end of the voyage. the thought would come--the image standing there would start up--but she always put it aside and kept to the present; and that was one reason certainly why eleanor's mind was so quiet and free and why the enjoyable and useful things of the hour were not let slip and wasted. so her spirits maintained their healthy tone; no doubt spurred to livelier action by the abiding consciousness of that spot of brightness in the future towards which she would not allow herself to look in bewildering imaginations. meanwhile the calm came to an end, as all things will; the beneficent trade wind took charge of the vessel again, and they sped on, south, south; till the sky over eleanor's head was a new one from that all her life had known, and the bright stars at night looked at her as strangers. for study them as she would, she could not but feel theirs were new faces. the captain one day shewed her st. helena in the distance; then the cape of good hope was neared--and rounded--and in the indian ocean the travellers ploughed their way eastward. the island of st. paul was passed; and still the ship sailed on and on to the east. eleanor had observed for a day or two that there was an unusual degree of activity among the sailors. they seemed to be getting things into new trim; clearing up and cleaning; and the chain cable one day made its appearance on deck, where room had been made for it. eleanor looked on at the proceedings, with a half guess at their meaning that made her heart beat. "what is it?" she asked captain fox. "what's all this rigging up? why, we expect to see land soon. you like the sea so well, you'll be sorry." "how soon?" "i shouldn't wonder, in a day or two. you will stop in sydney till you get a chance to go on?" "yes." "i wish i could take you the whole way, i declare! but i would not take an angel into those awful islands. why if you get shipwrecked there, they will kill and eat you." "there would be little danger of that now, captain fox; none at all in most of the islands. instead of killing and eating, they relieve and comfort their shipwrecked countrymen." "believe that?" said the captain. "i know it. i know instances." "whereabouts are you going among them?" said he looking at her. "if i get driven out of my reckoning ever and find myself in those latitudes, i'd like to know which way to steer. where's your place?" he was not uncivil; but he liked to see, when he could manage to bring it, that beautiful tinge of rose in eleanor's cheeks which answered such an appeal as this. chapter xv. in port. "and the magic charm of foreign lands, with shadows of palm, and shining sands, where the tumbling surf o'er the coral reefs of madagascar, washes the feet of the swarthy 'lascar.'--" it was but the next day, and eleanor was sitting as usual on deck looking over the waters in a lovely bright morning, when a sound was heard which almost stopped her heart's beating for a moment. it was the cry, rung out from the mast-head, "land, ho!" "where is it?" she said to the captain, who was behind her. "i do not see it anywhere." "you will see it in a little while. wait a bit. if you could go aloft i could shew it you now." "what land? do you know?" "australia--the finest land the sun shines upon!" "i suppose you mean, besides england." "no, i don't, begging your pardon. england is very well for those who can take the ripe side of the cherry; poorer folks had better come here, if they want any chance at all." the lucky sailor was coming down from the mast-head, and the captain went off to join those who were giving him sundry rewarding tokens of their joy for his news. eleanor looked over the waste of waters eastward, feeling as if her breath had been taken away. so much of her journey done! the rest seemed, and was, but little. australia was almost--_home_. and what sort of a home? and could mr. rhys possibly be at sydney to meet her? eleanor knew he could not; yet the physical possibility would assert itself in spite of all the well-allowed moral impossibility. but at any rate at sydney she would find letters; at sydney she would find, perhaps very soon, the means of making the remainder of her voyage; at sydney she could no longer prevent herself from _thinking_. eleanor had staved off thought all the way by wisely saying and insisting to herself "time enough when i get to sydney." yes; she was nearing home now. so deep, so engrossing, were her meditations and sensations, that mr. amos who had come up to congratulate her on the approaching termination of the voyage, spoke to her once and again without being heard. he could not see her face, but the little straw bonnet was as motionless as if its wearer had been in a dream. he smiled and went away. then appeared on the distant horizon somewhat like a low blue cloud, which gathered distinctness and strength of outline by degrees. it was the land, beyond doubt; the coast of new holland itself, as the captain informed eleanor; and going on and passing through bass's strait the vessel soon directed her course northward. little remained then before reaching port. it was under a fair and beautiful sunlight morning that they were at last approaching sydney. mr. amos was on deck as well as eleanor, the captain standing with them; for a pilot had come on board; the captain had given up his charge, and was in command no longer. before the watching three stretched a low unpromising shore of sandstone cliffs and sand. "it is good to see it," said mr. amos; "but in this first view it don't shew for much." "don't shew for anything," said captain fox. "wait till we get inside the heads. it don't shew for anything; but it's the most glorious land the sun shines on!" "in what particular respects?" said mr. amos. "in every respect of making a living and enjoying it," said the captain. "that makes a good land, don't it?" mr. amos allowed that it did. "it's the most beautiful country, if you come to that," captain fox went on;--"that's what miss powle thinks of. i wish this was melbourne we were coming to, instead of sydney. i'd like to have her look at it." "better than this?" said mr. amos, for eleanor was silent. "a better colony, for beauty and riches," said the captain. "it's the most glorious country, sir, you ever saw! hundreds of square miles of it are as handsome as a duke's park; and good for something, which a duke's park ain't. there's a great tract of country up round mt. macedon--thirty or forty miles back into the land--its softly rolling ground without a stone on it, as nice as ever you saw; and spotted with the trees they call she-oaks--beautiful trees; and they don't grow in a wood, but just stand round in clumps and ones or twos here and there, like a picture; and then through the openings in the ground you can see miles off more of just the same, till it gets blue in the distance; and mountains beyond all. and when you put here and there a flock of thousands of sheep spotting the country with their white backs--i ain't poetical, sir, but i tell you! when i saw that country first, i thought maybe i was; but it's likely i was mistaken," said the captain laughing, "for the fit has never come back since. miss powle thinks there's as much poetry in the water as on the land." still eleanor did not move to answer; and mr. amos, perhaps for her sake, went on. "what is it that country is so good for? gold? or sheep?" "sheep, sir, sheep! the gold grows in another part. there's enough of that too; but i'd as lieve make my money some other way. victoria is the country for wool-growing, sir. i've a brother there--stephen fox--he went with little more than nothing; and now he has a flock of sheep--well, i'm afraid to say how many; but i know he needs and uses a tract of twelve thousand acres of land for them." "that is being a pretty large land-owner, as well as sheep-owner," mr. amos said with a smile. "o he don't own it. that wouldn't do, you know. the interest of the money would buy all the wool on his sheep's backs." "how then?" "he has the use of it,--that's all. don't you know how they work it? he pays a license fee to government for the privilege of using the land for a year--wherever he pitches upon a place; then he stocks it, and goes on occupying by an annual license fee, until he has got too many neighbours and the land is getting all taken up in his neighbourhood. then some one comes along who has money and don't want the plague of a new settlement; and he sells off his stock and claim to him, packs up his traps, pokes off through the bush with his compass till he has found a new location somewhere; then he comes back, pays a new license fee, and stocks the new place with flocks and shepherds and begins again. and i never saw in my life anything so fine as one of those victoria sheep or cattle farms." "why don't you go into it?" "well--it's best to divide the business just now. i can be of use to stephen and he can be of use to me. and i'm a little of this lady's opinion." "how is it in this colony we are coming to?" "well, they are very prosperous; it's a good place to get rich. they have contrived to get along with their gold mines without ruining every other interest, as the other colonies have done for a time. but i think victoria is the queen of them all; victoria sends home more wool than either of the others; and she has gold, and she has other mines; different. she has copper equal to burla-burra--and she has coal, within a few miles of melbourne, and other things; but the coal is a great matter here, you see." the ship all the while was rapidly approaching the heads, which mark, and make, the entrance to the harbour of port jackson. they assumed more dignity of elevation and feature as they were nearer seen; the rocks rising some two or three hundred feet high, with the sea foaming at their foot. passing swiftly onward, the vessel by and by doubled bradley's head, and the magnificent sheet of water that forms the harbour was suddenly revealed to the strangers' gaze. full of islands, full of sailing craft, bordered with varying shores of "promontory, creek, and bay," pleasantly wooded, and spotted along its woody shores with spots of white that marked where people had pretty country homes, the quiet water glittering in the light; the view to the sea-tossed travellers was nothing short of enchanting. mrs. amos had come on deck, though scarce able to stand; a quiet, gentle, sweet-looking person; her eyes were full of tears now. her husband's arm was round her, supporting her strength that she might keep up; his face was moved and grave. eleanor was afraid to shew anybody her face; yet it was outwardly in good order enough; she felt as if her heart would never get back to its accustomed beat. she sat still, breathlessly drinking in the scene, rejoicing and trembling at once. she heard mrs. amos's softly whispered, "praise the lord!--" and her husband's firm "amen!" it had like to have overset her. she pressed her hands tight together to keep her heart still. "they know we are coming," said the captain. "who?" said eleanor quickly. mr. amos pressed his wife's arm; the captain's eyes twinkled. "is there anybody there on the look-out for you?" he asked. "i suppose there may be," said eleanor calmly. "well, he bas got notice then, some hours ago," said the captain. "the pilot telegraphed to the south head, and from the south head the news has gone all over sydney and paramatta. pretty good-looking city, is sydney." it was far more than that. it had been the point of the travellers' attention for some time. from the water up, one height above another, the white buildings of the town rose and spread; a white city; with forts and windmills, and fair looking country seats in its neighbourhood. "where is paramatta?" said eleanor, "and what is it?" "it's a nice little pleasure place, up the paramatta river; fifteen miles above sydney. fine scenery; it's as good as going to richmond," added the captain. "what is that splendid large white building?" mrs. amos asked, "on the hill?" "no great things of a hill," said the captain. "that's the government-house. nice gardens and pleasure grounds there too." "how beautiful it is!" said mrs. amos almost with a sigh. "it is almost like a scottish lake!" said her husband. "i remember one that this scene reminds me of at this moment." "a little of this is worth all scotland," said the captain. "there's pretty much everything here that a man wants--and not hard to come by, either. o you'll stay in sydney! why shouldn't you? there's people enough here that want teaching, worse than the savages. i declare, i think they do." "somebody else will have to teach them," said mr. amos. "what an array of ships and sails of all sorts! this gives one an idea of the business of the place." "business, and growing business," said the captain. "sydney is getting ahead as fast as it can." "how sweet the air is!" said eleanor. "ay!" said the captain. "now you smell green things again. i'll wager you won't want to put to sea any more, after you once get a firm foot on land. why this is the very place for you. enough to do, and every luxury a man need want, at hand when your work is done." "when is one's work done?" said eleanor. "i should say, when one has worked enough and got what one is after," said the captain. "that's my idea. i never was for working till i couldn't enjoy." "what are we after? do you think--" said eleanor looking round at him. "what everybody else is!" the captain answered somewhat shortly. "luxury, namely?" "yes! it comes to that. everybody is seeking happiness in his own way; and when he has got it, then it is luxury." eleanor only looked at him; she did not say anything further, and turned again to the contemplation of the scene they had in view. the captain bustled off and was gone a few minutes. "i wish you'd sing, sister powle," said mr. amos in that interval. "do!" said his wife. "please do!" whether eleanor was precisely in a singing mood or no, she began as desired. mr. amos joined her, in somewhat subdued tones, and mrs. amos gave a still gentler seconding; while the rich notes of her own voice filled the air; so mellow that their full power was scarcely recognized; so powerful that the mellow sound seemed to fill the ship's rigging. the sailors moved softly. they were accustomed to that music. all the way out, on every sunday service or any other that was held, eleanor had served for choir to the whole company, joined by here and there a rough voice that broke in as it could, and just backed by mr. amos's steady support. there was more than one in that ship's company to whom memory would never cease to bring a reminder that 'there is balm in gilead;' for some reason or other that was one of eleanor's favourite songs. now she gave another--sweet, clear, and wild;--the furthest-off sailors stood still to hearken. they had heard it often enough to know what the words were. "o who's like jesus! from sins and fears he frees us. he died for you, he died for me, he died to set poor sinners free. o who's like jesus!" the chorus floated all over after each verse of the hymn was ended; it went clear to the ship's bows; but eleanor sat quite still in her old position, clasping her hands fast on the rail and not moving her head. during the singing the captain came back and stood behind them listening; while people on the vessels that they passed, suspended their work and looked up to hear. just as the singing was finished, a little boat was seen swiftly coming alongside; and in another minute they were boarded by the gentleman who had been its solitary passenger. the captain turned to meet him. he was a man rather under middle size, black hair curling all round his head, eyes quick and bright, and whole appearance handsome at once and business-like. he came forward briskly, and so he spoke. "have you got anybody here that belongs to me?" he said. "captain, is there a miss powle on board of your ship?" captain fox silently stepped on one side and made a motion of his hand towards eleanor. eleanor hearing herself called, slowly rose and faced the new-comer. there was a second's pause, as the two confronted each other; then the gentleman bowed very low and advanced to touch the lady's hand, which however when he touched he held. "is this miss powle? miss _eleanor_ powle?" "yes." "i am honoured in having such a cousin! i hope you have heard somebody speak of a mr. esthwaite in these parts?" "i have heard mrs. caxton speak of mr. esthwaite--very often." "all right!" said the gentleman letting go eleanor's hand. "identity proved. captain, i am going to take charge of this lady. will you see that her luggage, personal effects and so on, are brought on deck?"--then turning to eleanor with real deference and cordiality in his manner, he went on,--"mrs. esthwaite is longing to see you. it is such a pleasure to have a cousin come from england, as you can but feebly appreciate; she hopes to learn the new fashions from you, and all that sort of thing; and she has been dressing your room with flowers, i believe, for these three months past. if you please, we will not wait for the ship's slow motions, but i will carry you straight to land in my boat; and glad you will be! will you signify your assent to this arrangement?--as i perceive the captain is a servant of yours and will do nothing without you bid him." "thank you," said-eleanor,--"i will go with you;--but what will be done with all my boxes in the hold?" this enquiry was addressed to the captain. "don't you fear anything," said mr. esthwaite, "now you have overcome so many troubles and got to this haven of rest. we will take care of your boxes. i suppose you have brought enough to stock the whole navigator's group--or fiji, is it, you are going to? i would go to any other one rather--but never mind; the boxes shall be stored; and maybe you'll unpack them here after all. captain, what about that luggage?--" eleanor went down to give directions, and presently came on deck again, all ready to go ashore. there was a little delay on account of the baggage; and meanwhile mr. esthwaite was introduced to mr. and mrs. amos. "i am very much obliged to you for taking care of this cousin of mine," he said to them. "i am sure she is worth taking care of. and now i should like to take care of you in turn. will you go to my house, and make us happy?" they explained that they were going elsewhere. "well, come and see her then; for she will be wanting to see somebody. we will do the best for her we can; but still--you know--absent friends have the best claim. by the way! didn't i hear some sweet methodist singing as i came up? was it on this ship? you haven't got any methodists on board, captain; have you?" "i've been one myself, this voyage!" said the captain. "i wouldn't," said mr. esthwaite. "the church service is the only one to be used at sea. every other sounds--i don't know how--incompatible. there is something in the gentle swell of the rolling waves, and in the grandeur of the horizon, that calls for the finest form of words mortals could put together; and when you have got such a form, why not use it?" "you did not like the form of the singing then?" said mr. amos smiling. "no," said mr. esthwaite drily,--"it struck me that if there had been a cathedral roof over it, one of those voices would have lifted the rafters and gone on; and that would not have been reverential, you know. now, my young cousin!--" "mr. amos," said eleanor aside to him and colouring deeply, "if there are any letters for me at the house where you are going, or at the post-office, will you send them to me?" "i will certainly make it my care, and bring them to you myself." "i'll send for anything you want," said mr. esthwaite. "what's that? letters? we'll get all there is in sydney, and there is a good deal, waiting for this young lady. i've had one floor of my warehouse half full for some months back already. no use of it for myself." at last they got off; and it was not quickly, for eleanor had to give a good bye to everybody on board. mr. esthwaite looked on smiling, until he was permitted to hand her down the vessel's side, and lodged her in the wherry. "now you are out of the ship," said he looking keenly at her. "aren't you glad?" "i have some good friends in her," said eleanor. "friends! i should think so. those were salt tears that were shed for your coming away. positively, i don't think a man of them could see clear to take his last look at you." neither were eleanor's feelings quite unmixed at this moment. she expected to see mr. and mrs. amos again; with the rest her intercourse was finished; and it had been of that character which leaves longing and tender memories behind. she felt all that now. and she felt much more. with the end of her voyage in the "diana" came, at least for the present, an end to her inward tranquillity. now there were letters awaiting her; letters for which she had wished nervously so long; now she was near fiji and her new life; now she dared to realize, she could not help it, what all the voyage she had refused to think of, as still in a hazy distance of the future. here it was, nigh at hand, looming up through the haze, taking distinctness and proportions; and eleanor's heart was in a state of agitation to which that sound little member was very little accustomed. however, the outward effect of all this was to give her manner even an unwonted degree of cool quietness; and mr. esthwaite was in a state between daunted and admiring. both of them kept silence for a little while after leaving the ship, while the wherry pulled along in the beautiful bay, passing among a crowd of vessels of all sorts and descriptions, moving and still. the scene was lively, picturesque, pleasant, in the highest degree. "how does my cousin like us on a first view?" "it is a beautiful scene!" said eleanor. "what a great variety of vessels are here!" "and isn't this just the finest harbour in the world?" "i have heard a great deal of port philip," said eleanor smiling. "i understand there is a second bay of naples there." "i don't care for the bay of naples! we have sunk all that. we are in a new world. wait till you see what i will shew you to-morrow. now look at that wooded point, with the white houses spotting it; those are fine seats; beautiful view and all that; and at sydney you can have everything you want, almost at command." "you know," said eleanor, "that is not absolutely a new experience to me. in england, we have not far to seek." "o you say so! much you know about it. you have been in such a nest of a place as my cousin caxton spreads her wings over. i never was in a nest, till i made one for myself. how is my good cousin?" the talk ran upon home things now until they reached the town and landed at a fine stone quay. then to the custom house, where business was easily despatched; then mr. esthwaite put eleanor into a cab and they drove away through the streets for his house in the higher part of the city. eleanor's eyes were full of business. how strange it was! so far away from home, and so long living on the sea, now on landing to be greeted by such a multitude of familiar sounds and sights. the very cab she was driving in; the omnibuses and carts they passed; the english-cut faces; the same street cries; the same trades revealing themselves, as she had been accustomed to in london. but now and then there came a difference of australasia. there would be a dray drawn by three or four pair of bullocks; london streets never saw that turn-out; and then eleanor would start at seeing a little group of the natives of the country, dressed in english leavings of costume. those made her feel where she was; otherwise the streets and houses and shops had very much of a home air. except indeed when a curious old edifice built of logs peeped in among white stone fronts and handsome shop windows; the relics, mr. esthwaite told her, of that not so very far distant time when the town first began to grow up, and the "bush" covered almost all the ground now occupied by it. eleanor was well pleased to be so busied in looking out that she had little leisure for talking; and mr. esthwaite sat by and smiled in satisfaction. but this blessed immunity could not last. the cab stopped before a house in george street. "has she come?" exclaimed a voice as the door opened; and a head full of curls put itself out into the hall;--"have you brought her? oh how delightful! how glad i am!--" and the owner of the curls came near to be introduced, hardly waiting for the introduction, and to give eleanor the most gleeful sort of a welcome. "and she was on that ship, the 'diana,' egbert? how nice! just as you thought; and i was so afraid it was nothing but another disappointment. i was afraid to look out when the cab came. now come up stairs, cousin eleanor, and i will take you to your room. you must be tired to death, are you not?" "why should i?" said eleanor as she tripped up stairs after her hostess. "i have done nothing for four months." "look here!" shouted mr. esthwaite from the hall--"louisa, don't stop to talk over the fashions now--it is dinner-time. how soon will you be down?"-"don't mind him," said pretty mrs. esthwaite, leading the way into a light pleasant room overlooking the bay;--"sit down and rest yourself. would you like anything before you dress? now just think you are at home, will you? it's too delightful to have you here!" eleanor went to the window, which overlooked a magnificent view of the harbour. very oddly, the thought in her mind at that moment was, how soon an opportunity could be found for her to make the rest of her voyage. scarce landed, she wanted to see the means of getting away again. her way she saw, over the harbour; where was her conveyance? while she stood looking, her new-found cousin was considering her; the erect beautiful figure, in all the simplicity of its dress; the close little bonnet with chocolate ribbands, the fine grave face under it, lastly the little hand which rested on the back of the chair, for eleanor's sea-glove was off. and a certain awe grew up in mrs. esthwaite's mind. "cousin eleanor," said she, "shall i leave you to dress? dinner will be ready presently, and egbert will be impatient, i know, till you come down stairs again." "thank you. i will be but a few minutes. how beautiful this is! o how beautiful,--to my eyes that have seen no beauty but sea beauty for so long. and the air is so good." "i am glad you like it. is it prettier than england?" "prettier than england!" eleanor looked round smiling. "nothing could be that." "well i didn't know. mr. esthwaite is always running down england, you see, and i don't know how much of it he means. i came away when i was so little, i don't remember anything of course--" here came such a shout of "louisa!--louisa!"--from below, that mrs. esthwaite laughing was obliged to obey it and go, and eleanor was left. there was not much time then for anything; yet a minute eleanor was held at the window by the bay with its wooded shores and islands glittering in the evening light; then she turned from it to pray, for her heart needed strength, and a great sense of loneliness had suddenly come over her. fighting this feeling, and dressing, both eagerly, in a little time she was ready to descend and encounter mr. esthwaite and dinner. an encounter it was to mr. esthwaite. he had put himself in very careful order; though that, to do him justice, was an habitual weakness of his; and he met his guest when she appeared with a bow of profound recognition and appreciation. yet eleanor was only in the simplest of all white dresses; without lace or embroidery. no matter. the rich hair was in perfect arrangement; the fine figure and fine carriage in their unconscious ease were more imposing than anything pretentious can ever be, even to such persons as mr. esthwaite. he measured his young guest correctly and at once. his wife took the measure of eleanor's gown meanwhile, and privately studied what it was that made it so graceful; a problem she had not solved when they sat down to dinner. the dinner was sumptuous, and well served. mr. esthwaite took delight evidently in playing his part of host, and some pride both housekeeping and patriotic in shewing to eleanor all the means he had to play it with. the turtle soup he declared was good, though she might have seen better; the fish from botany bay, the wild fowl from the interior, the game of other kinds from the hunter river, he declared she could not have known surpassed anywhere. then the vegetables were excellent; the potatoes from van dieman's land, were just better than all others in the world; and the dessert certainly in its abundance of treasures justified his boasting that australia was a grand country for anybody that liked fruit. the growth of the tropics and of the cooler latitudes of england met together in confusion of beauty and sweetness on mr. esthwaite's table. there were oranges and pineapples on one hand, peaches, plums, melons, from the neighbouring country; with all sorts of english-grown fruits from van dieman's land; gooseberries, pears and grapes. native wines also he pressed on his guest, assuring her that some of them were as good as sauterne, and others very fair claret and champagne. eleanor took the wines on credit; for the rest, her eyes enabled her to give admiration where her taste fell short. and admiration was expected of her. mr. esthwaite was in a great state of satisfaction, having very much to do in the admiring way himself. "did louisa keep you up stairs to begin upon the fashions?" said he, as he pulled a pineapple to pieces. "i see you have very little appreciation of that subject," said eleanor. "yes!" said mrs. esthwaite,--"just ask him whether he thinks it important that _his_ clothes should be cut in the newest pattern, and how many good hats he has thrown away because he got hold of something new that he liked better. just ask him! he never will hear me." "i am going to ask her something," said mr. esthwaite. "see here;--you are not going to those savage and inhospitable islands, are you?" eleanor's smile and answer were as cool as if her whole nature had not been in a stir of excitement. "what in the world do _you_ expect to do there?" said her host with a strong tone of disapprobation. "'wasting sweetness on the desert air' is nothing to it; this is positive desecration!" eleanor let the opinion pass, and eat the pineapple which he gave her with an apparently unimpaired relish. "you don't know what sort of a place it is!" he insisted. "i cannot know, i suppose, without going." "suppose you stay here," said mr. esthwaite; "and we'll send for anybody in the world you please! to make you comfortable. seriously, we want good people in this colony; we have got a supply of all other sorts, but those are in a deficient minority." "in that case, i think everybody that stays here is bound to supply one." "see here--who is that gentleman that is so fortunate as to be expecting you? what is his name?" "mr. esthwaite! for shame!" said his wife. "i think you are a very presuming cousin." mr. esthwaite knew quite well that he was, but he smiled to himself with satisfaction to see the answer his question had called up into eleanor's cheeks. the rich dye of crimson was pretty to behold; her words were delayed long enough to mark either difficulty of speaking or displeasure at the necessity for it. mr. esthwaite did not care which it was. at last eleanor answered, with calm distinctness though without facing him. "do you not know the name?" "i--i believe mrs. caxton must have mentioned it in one of her letters. she ought, and i think she did." an impatient throb of displeasure passed through eleanor's veins. it did not appear. she said composedly, "the name is rhys--it is a welsh name--spelled r, h, y, s." "hm! i remember. what sort of a man is he?" eleanor looked up, fairly startled with the audacity of her host; and only replied gravely, "i am unable to say." mr. esthwaite at least had a sense of humour in him; for he smiled, and his lips kept pertinaciously unsteady for some time, even while he went on talking. "i mean--is he a man calculated for savage, or for civilized life?" "i hope so," said eleanor wilfully. "mr. esthwaite! you astonish me!" said his wife. mr. esthwaite seemed however highly amused. "do you know what savage life is?" he said to eleanor. "it is not what you think. it is not a garden of roses, with a pineapple tucked away behind every bush. now if you would come here--here is a grand opening. here is every sort of work wanting you--and mr. rhys--whatever the line of his talents may be. we'll build him a church, and we'll go and hear him, and we'll make much of you. seriously, if my good cousin had known what she was sending you to, she would have wished the 'diana' should sink with you on board, rather than get to the end of her voyage. it is quite self-denial enough to come here--when one does not expect to gain anything by it." "mr. esthwaite! egbert!" cried his wife. "now you are caught! self-denial to come here! that is what you mean by all your talk about the colonies and england!" "don't be--silly,--my dear," said her husband. "these people would think it so. i don't; but i am addressing myself to their prejudices. self-denial is what they are after." "it is not what i am after," said eleanor laughing. "i must break up your prejudices." "what are you after, then. seriously, what are you going to those barbarous islands for--putting friendship and all such regards out of the question? wheat takes you there,--without humbug? you must excuse me--but you are a very extraordinary person to look at,--as a missionary." eleanor could hardly help laughing. she doubted whether or no this was a question to be answered; discerning a look of seriousness, as she thought, beneath the gleam in her host's eyes, she chose to run the risk of answering. she faced him, and them, as she spoke. "i love jesus. and i love to do his work, wherever he gives it to me; or, as i am a woman and cannot do much, i am glad to help those who can." mr. esthwaite was put out a little. he had words on his lips that he did not speak; and piled eleanor's plate with various fruit dainties, and drank one or two glasses of his australian claret before he said anything more; an interval occupied by eleanor in cooling down after her last speech, which had flushed her cheeks prodigiously. "that's a sort of work to be done anywhere," he said finally, as if eleanor had but just spoken. "i am sure it can be done here, and much better for you. now see here--i like you. don't you suppose, if you were to try, you could persuade this mr. rhys to quit those regions of darkness and come and take the same sort of work at sydney that he is doing there?" "no." "seems decided!--" said mr. esthwaite humourously, looking towards his wife. "i am afraid this gentleman is a positive sort of character. well!--there is no use in struggling against fate. my dear, take your cousin off and give her some coffee. i will be there directly." the ladies left him accordingly; and in the pretty drawing-room mrs. esthwaite plied eleanor with questions relating to her voyage, her destination, and above all, the england of which she had heard so much and knew so little. her curiosity was huge, and extended to the smallest of imaginable details; and one thing followed another with very little of congruous nature between them. and eleanor answered, and related, and described, and the while thought--where her letters were? nevertheless she gave herself kindly to her hostess's gratification, and patiently put her own by; and the evening ended with mrs. esthwaite being in a state of ecstatic delight with her new-found relation. mr. esthwaite had kept silence and played the part of listener for the larger portion of the evening, using his eyes and probably his judgment freely during that time. as they were separating, he asked eleanor whether she could get up at six o'clock? eleanor asked what for? "do, for once; and i will take you a drive in the domain." "what domain? yours, do you mean?" "not exactly. i have not got so far as that. no; it's the government domain--everybody rides and drives there, and almost everybody goes at six o'clock. it's worth going; botanical gardens, and all that sort of thing." eleanor swiftly thought, that it was scarce likely mr. amos would have her letters for her, or at least bring them, so early as that; and she might as well indulge her host's fancy if not her own. she agreed to the proposal, and mrs. esthwaite went rejoicing with her to her room. "you'll like it," she said. "the botanical gardens are beautiful, and i dare say you will know a great deal more about them than i do. o it's delightful to have you here! i only cannot bear to think you must go away again." "you are very kind to me," said eleanor gratefully. "my dear aunt caxton will be made glad to know what friends i have found among strangers." "don't speak about it!" said mrs. esthwaite, her eyes fairly glistening with earnestness. "i am sure if egbert can do anything he will be too glad. now won't you do just as if you were at home? i want you to be completely at home with us--now and always. you must feel very much the want of your old home in england! being so far from it, too." "heaven is my home," said eleanor cheerfully; "i do not feel the loss of england so much as you think. that other home always seems near." "does it?" said mrs. esthwaite. "it seems such an immense way off, to me!" "i used to think so; but it is near to me now. so it does not so much matter whereabouts on the earth i am." "it must be nice to feel so!" said mrs. esthwaite with an unconscious sigh. "do you not feel so?" eleanor asked. "o no. i do not know anything about it. i am not good--like you." "it is not goodness--not my goodness--that makes heaven my home," said eleanor smiling at her and taking her hands. "but i am sure you are good?" said mrs. esthwaite earnestly. "just as you are,--except for the grace of god, which is free to all." "but," said mrs. esthwaite looking at her as if she were something hardly of earth like ordinary mortals,--"i have not given up the world as you have. i cannot. i like it too well." "i have not given it up either," said eleanor smiling again; "not in the sense you mean. i have not given up anything but sin. i enjoy everything else in the world as much as you do." "what do you mean?" said mrs. esthwaite, much bewildered. "only this," said eleanor, with very sweet gravity now. "i do not love anything that my king hates. all that i have given up, and all that leads to it; but i am all the more free to enjoy everything that is really worth enjoying, quite as well as you can, or any body else." "but--you do not go to parties and dances, and you do not drink wine, and the theatre, and all that sort of thing; do you?" "i do not love anything that my king hates," said eleanor shaking her head gently. "but dancing, and wine,--what harm is in them?" "think what they lead to!--" "well wine--excuse me, i know so little about these things! and i want to know what you think;--wine, i know, if people will drink too much,--but what harm is in dancing?" "none that i know of," said eleanor,--"if it were always suited to womanly delicacy, and if it took one into the society of those that love christ--or helped one to witness for him before those who do not." "well, i will tell you the truth," said mrs. esthwaite with a sort of penitent laugh,--"i love dancing." "ay, but i love christ," said eleanor; "and whatever is not for his honour i am glad to give up. it is no cross to me. i used to like some things too; but now i love him; and his will is my will." "ah, that is what i said! you are good, that is the reason. i can't help doing wrong things, even if i want to do it ever so much, and when i know they are wrong; and i shouldn't like to give up anything." "listen," said eleanor, holding her hands fast. "it is not that i am good. it is that i love jesus and he helps me. i cannot do anything of myself--i cannot give up anything--but i trust in my lord and he does it for me. it is he that does all in me that you would call good." "ah, but you love him." "should i not?" said eleanor, "when he loved me, and gave himself for me, that he might bring me from myself and sin to know him and be happy." "and you are happy, are you not?" said mrs. esthwaite, looking at her as if it were something that she had come to believe against evidence. there was good evidence for it now, in eleanor's smile; which would bear studying. "there is nothing but happiness where christ is." "but i couldn't understand it--those places where you are going are so dreadful;--and why you should go there at all--" "no, you do not understand, and cannot till you try it. i have such joy in the love of christ sometimes, that i wish for nothing so much in the world, as to bring others to know what i know!" there was power in the lighting face, which mrs. esthwaite gazed at and wondered. "i think i am willing to go anywhere and do anything, which my king may give me, in that service." "to be sure," said mrs. esthwaite, as if adding a convincing corollary from her own mind,--"you have some other reason to wish to get there--to the islands, i mean." that brought a flood of crimson over eleanor's face; she let go her hostess's hands and turned away. "but there was something else i wanted to ask," said mrs. esthwaite hastily. "egbert said--are you very tired, my dear?" "not at all, i assure you." "egbert said there was some most beautiful singing as he came up alongside the ship to-day--was it you?" "in part it was i." "he said it was hymns. won't you sing me one?" eleanor liked it very well; it suited her better than talking. they sat down together, and eleanor sang: "'there's balm in gilead, to make the wounded whole. there's power enough in jesus to save a sin-sick soul.'" and somewhat to her surprise, before the hymn had gone far, her companion was weeping; and kept her face hidden in her handkerchief till the last words were sung. "'come then to this physician; his help he'll freely give. he asks no hard condition,- 'tis only, look, and live. for there's balm in gilead, to make the wounded whole. there's power enough in jesus to save a sin-sick soul.'" "i never heard anything so sweet in all my life!" said mrs. esthwaite as she got up and wiped her eyes. "i've been keeping you up. but do tell me," said she looking at her innocently,--"are all methodists like you?" "no," said eleanor laughing; and then she was vexed at herself that the laugh changed to a sob and the tears came. was _she_ hysterical? it was very unlike her, but this seemed something like it. neither could she immediately conquer the strangling sensation, between laughter and crying, which threatened her. "my dear! i'm very sorry," said mrs. esthwaite. "you are too tired!--and it is my fault. egbert will be properly angry with me." but eleanor conquered the momentary oppression, threw off her tears, and gave her hostess a peaceful kiss for good night; with which the little lady went off comforted. then eleanor sat down by her window, and with tears wet on her eyelashes yet, looked off to the beautiful moonlit harbour in the distance--and thought. her thoughts were her own. only some of them had a reference to certain words that speak of "sowing beside all waters," and a tender earnest remembrance of the seed she had just been scattering. "beside all waters"--yes; and as eleanor looked over towards the fair, peace-speaking view of port jackson, in new south wales, she recollected the prayer that labourers might be sent forth into the vineyard. chapter xvi. in views. "know well, my soul, god's hand controls whate'er thou fearest; round him in calmest music rolls whate'er thou hearest." "that girl is the most lovely creature!" said mrs. esthwaite when she rejoined her husband. "what have you been talking to her about? now she will not be up in time to take a drive in the domain." "yes, she will. she has got plenty of spirit. but oh, egbert! to think of that girl going to put herself in those savage islands, where she won't see anybody!" "it is absurd?" said her husband, but somewhat faintly. "i couldn't but think to-night as i looked at her--you should have seen her.--something upset her and set her to crying; then she wouldn't cry; and the little white hand she brushed across her eyes and then rested on the chair-back to keep herself steady--i looked at it, and i couldn't bear to think of her going to teach those barbarians. and her eyes were all such a glitter with tears and her feelings--i've fallen in love with her, egbert." "she's a magnificent creature," said mr. esthwaite. "wouldn't she set sydney a fire, if she was to be here a little while! but somebody has been beforehand with sydney--so it's no use talking." eleanor was ready in good time for the drive, and with spirits entirely refreshed by the night's sleep and the morning's renewing power. things looked like new things, unlike those which yesterday saw. all feeling of strangeness and loneliness was gone; her spirits were primed for enjoyment. mr. and mrs. esthwaite both watched eagerly to see the effect of the drive and the scene upon her; one was satisfied, the other was not. the intent delight in eleanor's eyes escaped mrs. esthwaite; she looked for more expression in words; her husband was content that eleanor's mind was full of what he gave it to act upon. the domain was an exquisite place for a morning drive; and the more stylish inhabitants of sydney found it so; there was a good display of equipages, varying in shew and pretension. to mrs. esthwaite's disappointment neither these nor their owners drew eleanor's attention; she did not even seem to see them; while the flowers in the woods through which part of the drive was cut, the innumerable, gorgeous, novel and sweet flowers of a new land, were a very great delight to her. all of them were new, or nearly so; how eleanor contrasted them with the wild things of plassy which she knew so well. and instead of the blackbird and green wren, there were birds of brilliant hues, almost as gay as the flowers over which their bright wings went, and yet stranger than they. it was a sort of drive of enchantment to eleanor; the air was delightful, though warm; with no feeling of lassitude or oppression resulting from the heat. there were other pleasures. from point to point, as they drove through the "bush," views opened upon them of the harbour and its islands, glittering in the morning sun. changes of beauty; for every view was a little unlike the others and revealed the loveliness with a difference. eleanor felt herself in a new world. she was quite ready for the gardens, when they got through the "bush." the gardens were fine. here she had a feast which neither of her companions could enjoy with her in anything like fellowship. eleanor had not lived so long with mrs. caxton, entering into all her pursuits, without becoming somewhat well acquainted with plants; and now she was almost equally charmed at seeing her dear old home friends, and at making acquaintance with the glorious beauties that outshone them but could never look so kindly. slowly eleanor went through the gardens, followed by her host and hostess who took their enjoyment in observing her. in the botanical gardens mr. esthwaite came up alongside again, to tell her names and discuss specimens; he found eleanor knew more about them than he did. "all this was a wild 'bush'--nothing but rocks and trees, a few years ago," he remarked. "_this?_ this garden?" "yes, only so long ago as 1825." "somebody has deserved well of the community, then," said eleanor. "it is a delicious place." "general sir ralph darling had that good desert. it is a fine thing to be in high place and able to execute great plans; isn't it?" eleanor rose up from a flower and gave mr. esthwaite one of her thoughtful glances. "i don't know," she said. "his gardeners did the work, after all." "they don't get the thanks." "_that_ is not what one works for," said eleanor smiling. "so the thing is done--what matter?" "if it _isn't_ done,--what matter? no, no! i want to get the good of what i do,--in praise or in something else." "what is sir ralph darling the better of my thanks now?" "well, he's dead!" said mr. esthwaite. "so i was thinking." "well, what do you mean? do you mean that you would do nothing while you are alive, for fear you would not hear of it after you have left the world?" "not exactly." "what then? i don't know what you are after." "you say this was all a wilderness a few years ago--why should you despair of what you call the 'black islands?'" "o ho!" said mr. esthwaite,--"we are there, are we? by a hop, skip, and jump--leaving the argument. that's like a woman." "are you sure?" said eleanor. "like all the women i ever saw. not one of them can stick to the point." "then i will return to mine," said eleanor laughing--"or rather bring you up to it. i referred--and meant to refer you--to another sort of gardening, in which the labourer receives wages and gathers fruit; but the beauty of it is, that his wages go with him--he does not leave them behind--and the fruit is unto life eternal." "that's fair," said mr. esthwaite. "see here--you don't preach, do you?" "i will not, to you," said eleanor. "mr. esthwaite, i will look at no more flowers i believe, this morning, since you leave the time of our stay to me." mr. esthwaite behaved himself, and though a speech was on his tongue he was silent, and attended eleanor home in an unexceptionable manner. mrs. esthwaite was in a dissatisfied mood of mind. "i hope it will be a great while before you find a good chance to go to fiji!" she said. "do not wish that," said eleanor: "for in that case i may have to take a chance that is not good." "ah but, you are not the sort of person to go there." "i should be very sorry to think that," said eleanor smiling. "well it is clear you are not. just to look at you! i am sure you are exactly a person to look always as nice as you do now." "i hope never to look less nice than i do now," said eleanor, rather opening her eyes. "what, in that place?" "why yes, certainly. why not?" "but you will not wear that flat there?" eleanor and mr. esthwaite here both gave way in a fit of laughter. "why yes i will; if i find it, as i suppose i shall, the most comfortable thing." "but you cannot wear white dresses there?" "if i cannot, i will submit to it, but, my dear cousin, i have brought little else but white dresses with me. for such a climate, what else is so good?" "not like that you wore yesterday?" "they are all very much alike, i believe. what was the matter with that?" "why, it was so--" mrs. esthwaite paused. "but how can you get them washed? do you expect to have servants there?" "there are plenty of servants, i believe; not very well trained, indeed, or it would not be necessary to have so many. at any rate, they can wash, whatever else they can do." "i don't believe they would know how to wash your dresses." "then i can teach them," said eleanor merrily. "_you!_ to wash a cambrick dress!" "that, or any other." "eleanor, do not talk so!" "certainly not, if you do not wish it. i was only putting you to rest on the score of my laundry work." "with those hands!" said mrs. esthwaite expressively. eleanor looked down at her hands, for a moment a higher and graver expression flitted over her face, then she smiled again. "i should be ashamed of my hands if they were good for nothing." "capital!" said mr. esthwaite. "that's what i like. that is what i call having spirit. i like to see a woman have some character of her own; something besides hands, in fact." "but eleanor, i do not understand. i am serious. you never washed; how can you know how?" "that was precisely my reasoning; so i learned." "learned to _wash?_ _you?"_ "yes." "you did it with your own hands?" "the dress you were so good as to approve," said eleanor smiling, "it was washed and done up by myself." "do you expect to have to do it for yourself?" said mrs. esthwaite looking intensely horrified. "no, not generally; but to teach somebody, or upon occasion, you know. you see," she said smiling again her full rich smile, "i am bent upon having my white dresses." mrs. esthwaite was too full for speech, and her husband looked at his new cousin with an eye of more absolute admiration than he had yet bestowed on her. eleanor's thoughts were already on something else; springing forward to meet mr. amos and his letters. breakfast was over however before he arrived. much to her chagrin, she was obliged to receive him in the company of mr. and mrs. esthwaite; no private talk was possible. mr. esthwaite engaged him immediately in an earnest but desultory conversation, about sydney, eleanor, and the mission, and the prospect of their getting to their destination; which mr. esthwaite prophesied would not be within any moderate limits of time. mr. amos owned that he had heard of no opportunity, near or far. the talk lasted a good while and it was not till he was taking leave that eleanor contrived to follow him out and gain a word to herself. "there are no letters for you," said mr. amos, speaking under his breath, and turning a cheerful but concerned face towards eleanor. "i have made every enquiry--at the post-office, and of everybody likely to know about such things. there are none, and they know of none." eleanor said nothing; her face grew perceptibly white. "there is nothing the matter with brother rhys," said mr. amos hastily; "we have plenty of news from him--all right--he is quite well, and for a year past has been on another station; different from the one he was on when you last heard from him. there is nothing the matter--only there are no letters for you; and there must be some explanation of that." he paused, but eleanor was silent, only her colour returned a little. "we want to get away from here as soon as possible, i suppose," mr. amos went on half under breath; "but as yet i see no opening. it will come." "yes," said eleanor somewhat mechanically. "you will let me know--" "certainly--as soon as i know anything myself; and i will continue to make enquiry for those letters. mr. armitage is away in the country--he might know something about them, but nobody else does; and he ought to have left them with somebody else if he had them. but there can be nothing wrong about it; there is only some mistake, or mischance; the letters from vuliva where brother rhys is, are quite recent and everything is going on most prosperously; himself included. and we are to proceed to the same station. i am very glad for ourselves and for you." "thank you--" eleanor said; but she was not equal to saying much. she listened quietly, and with her usual air, and mr. amos never discovered the work his tidings wrought; he told his wife, sister powle looked a little blank, he thought, at missing her expected despatches, and no wonder. it was an awkward thing. eleanor slowly made her way up to her room and sat down, feeling as if the foundations of the earth, to _her_ standing, had given way. she was more overwhelmed with dismay than she would have herself anticipated in england, if she could have looked forward to such a catastrophe. reason said there was not sufficient cause; but poor eleanor was to feel the truth of mrs. caxton's prediction, that she would find out again that certain feelings might be natural that were not reasonable. nay, reason said on this occasion that the failure of letters proved too much to justify the distress she felt; it proved a combination of things, that no carelessness nor indifference nor unwillingness to write, on the part of mr. rhys, could possibly have produced. let him feel how he would, he would have written, he _must_ have written to meet her there; all his own delicacy and his knowledge of hers affirmed and reaffirmed that letters were in existence somewhere, though it might be at the bottom of the ocean. reason fought well; to what use, when nature trembled, and shivered, and shrank. poor eleanor! she felt alone now, without a mother and without shelter; and the fair shores of port jackson looked very strange and desolate to her; a very foreign land, far from home. what if mr. rhys, with his fastidious notions of delicacy, did not fancy so bold a proceeding as her coming out to him? what if he disapproved? what if, on further knowledge of the place and the work, he had judged both unfit for her; and did not, for his own sake only in a selfish point of view, choose to encourage her coming? in that case her being _come_ would make no difference; he would not shelter himself from a judgment displeasing to him, because the escape from its decisions was rendered easy. what if _for his own sake_ his feeling had changed, and he wanted her no longer? years had gone by since he had seen her; it must have been a wayward fancy that could ever have made him think of her at first; and now, about his grave work in a distant land, and with leisure to correct blunders of fancy, perhaps he had settled into the opinion that it was just as well that his coming away had separated them; and did not feel able to welcome her appearance in australia, and was too sincere to write what he did not feel; so wrote nothing? not very like mr. rhys, reason whispered; but reason's whisper, though heard, could not quiet the sensitive delicacy which trembled at doubt. so miserable, so chilled, so forlorn, eleanor had never felt in her life; not when the 'diana' first carried her away from the shores of her native land. what was she to do? that question throbbed at her heart; but it answered itself soon. stay in australia she could not; go home to england she could not; no, not upon this mere deficiency of testimony. there was only one alternative left; she must go on whenever mr. and mrs. amos should move. nature might tremble and quiver, and all eleanor's nerves did; but there was no other course to pursue. "i can tell," she thought,--"i shall know--the first word, the first look, will tell me the whole; i cannot be deceived. i must go on and meet that word and look, whatever it costs me--i must; and then, if it is--if it is not satisfying to me, then aunt caxton shall have me! i can go back, as well as i have come. shame and misery would not hinder me--they would not be so bad as my staying here then." so the question of action was settled; but the question of feeling not so soon. eleanor's enjoyment was gone, of all the things she had enjoyed those first twenty-four hours, and of all others which her entertainers brought forward for her pleasure. yet eleanor kept her own counsel, and as they did not know the cause she had for trouble, so neither did they discover any tokens of it. she did not withdraw herself from their kind efforts to please her, and they spared no pains. they took her in boat excursions round the beautiful harbour. they shewed her the pretty environs of the parramatta river. nay, though it was not very easy for him to leave his business, mr. esthwaite went with her and his wife to the beautiful illawarra district; put the whole party on horses, and shewed eleanor a land of tropical beauty under the clear, bracing, delicious warm weather of australia. fern trees springing up to the dimensions of trees indeed, with the very fern foliage she was accustomed to in low herbaceous growth at home; only magnified superbly. there were elegant palms, too, with other evergreens, and magnificent creepers; and floating out and in among them in great numbers were gay red-crested cockatoos and other tropical birds. the character of the scenery was exquisite. eleanor saw one or two of the fair lake-like lagoons of that district, eat of the fish from them; for they made a kind of gypsey expedition, camping out and providing for themselves fascinatingly; and finally returned in the steamer from wollongong to sydney. her friends would have taken her to see the gold diggings if it had been possible. but eleanor saw it all, all they could shew her, with half a heart. she had learned long ago to conceal what she felt. "i think she wants to get away," said mrs. esthwaite one night, half vexed, wholly sorry. "that's what it is to be in love!" said her husband. "you won't keep her in sydney. do you notice she has given up smiling?" "no!" said his wife indignantly; "i notice no such thing. she is as ready to smile as anybody i ever saw."--and i wish i had as good reason! was the mental conclusion; for eleanor and she had had many an evening talk by that time, and many a hymn had been listened to. "all very well," said mr. esthwaite; "but she don't smile as she did at first. don't you remember?--that full smile she used to give once in a while, with a little world of mischief in the corners? i would like to see it the next time!--" "i declare," said mrs. esthwaite, "i think you take quite an impertinent interest in people's concerns. she wouldn't let you see it, besides." at which mr. esthwaite laughed. so near people came to it; and eleanor covered up her troublesome thoughts within her own heart, and gave mr. esthwaite the benefit of that impenetrable coolness and sweetness of manner which a good while ago had used to bewitch london circles. in the effort to hide her real thoughts and feelings she did not quite accommodate it to the different latitude of new south wales; and mr. esthwaite was a good deal struck and somewhat bewildered. "you have mistaken your calling," he said one evening, standing before eleanor and considering her. "do you think so?" "there! yes, i do. i think you were born to govern." "i am sadly out of my line then," said eleanor laughing. "yes. you are. that is what i say. you ought to be this minute a duchess--or a governor's lady--or something else in the imperial line." "you mistake my tastes, if you think so." "i do not mistake something else," muttered mr. esthwaite; and then mr. amos entered the room. "here, amos," said he, "you have made an error in judging of this lady--she is no more fit to go a missionary than i am. she--she goes about with the air of a princess!" mrs. esthwaite exclaimed, and mr. amos took a look at the supposed princess's face, as if to reassure or inform his judgment. apparently he saw nothing to alarm him. "i am come to prove the question," he said composedly; then turning to eleanor,--"i have heard at last of a schooner that is going to fiji, or will go, if we desire it." this simple announcement shot through eleanor's head and heart with the force of a hundred pounder. an extreme and painful flush of colour answered it; nobody guessed at the pain. "what's that?" exclaimed mr. esthwaite getting up again and standing before mr. amos,--"you have found a vessel, you say?" "yes. a small schooner, to sail in a day or two." "what schooner? whom does she belong to? lawsons, or hildreth?" "to nobody, i think, but her master. i believe he sails the vessel for his own ends and profits." "what schooner is it? what name?" "the 'queen esther,' i think." "you cannot go in that!" said mr. esthwaite turning off. "the 'queen esther'!--i know her. she's not fit for you; she's a leaky old thing, that that man hawkins sails on all sorts of petty business; she'll go to pieces some day. she ain't sea-worthy, i don't believe." "it is not as good a chance as might be, but it is the first that has offered, and the first that is likely to offer for an unknown time," mr. amos said, looking again to eleanor. "when does she sail?" "in two days. she is small, and not in first-rate order; but the voyage is not for very long. i think we had better go in her." "certainly. how long is the voyage, regularly?" "a fortnight in a good ship, and a month in a bad one," struck in mr. esthwaite. "you'll never get there, if you depend on the 'queen esther' to bring you." "we go to tonga first," said mr. amos. "the 'queen esther' sails with stores for the stations at tonga and the neighbourhood; and will carry us further only by special agreement; but the master is willing, and i came to know your mind about it." "i will go," said eleanor. "tell mrs. amos i will meet her on board--when?" "day after to-morrow morning." "very well. i will be there. will she take the additional lading of my boxes?" "o yes; no difficulty about that. it's all right." "how can i do with the things you have stored for me?" eleanor said to mr. esthwaite. "can the schooner take them too?" "what things?" "excuse me--perhaps i misunderstood you. i thought you said you had half your warehouse, one loft of it, taken up with things for me?" "those things are gone, long ago," said mr. esthwaite, in a dogged kind of mood which did not approve of the proposed journey or conveyance. "gone?" "yes. according to order. mrs. caxton wrote, forward as soon as possible; so i did." again eleanor's brow and cheeks and her very throat were covered with a rush of crimson; but when mr. amos took her hand on going away its touch made him ask involuntarily if she were well? "perfectly well," eleanor answered, with something in her manner that reminded mr. amos, though he could not tell why, of the charge mr. esthwaite had brought. another look into eleanor's eyes quieted the thought. "your hand is very cold!" he said. "it's a sign of"--mr. esthwaite would have said "fever," but eleanor had composedly faced him and he was silent; only busied himself in shewing mr. amos out, without a word that he ought not to have spoken. mr. amos went home and told his wife. "i think she is all right," he said; "but she does not look to me just as she did before we landed. i dare say she has had a great deal of admiration here--" "i dare say she feels bad," said good mrs. amos. "why?" "if you were not a man, you would know," mrs. amos said laughing. "she is in a very trying situation." "is she? o, those letters! it is unfortunate, to be sure. but there must be some explanation." "the explanation will be good when she gets it," mrs. amos remarked. "i hope somebody who is expecting her is worthy of her. poor thing! i couldn't have done it, i believe, even for you." chapter xvii. in smooth water. "but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilot's cheer; my head was turned perforce away, and i saw a boat appear." the morning came for the "queen esther" to sail. mr. and mrs. amos were on board first, and watched with eyes both kind and anxious to see eleanor when she should come. the little bonnet with chocolate ribbands did not keep them waiting and the first smile and kiss to mrs. amos made _her_ sure that all was right. she had been able to see scarce anything of eleanor during the weeks on shore; it was a refreshment to have her near again. but eleanor had turned immediately to attend to mr. esthwaite. "this is the meanest, most abominable thing of a vessel," he said, "that ever christians travelled in! it is an absurd proceeding altogether. why if the boards don't part company and go to pieces before you get to tonga--which i think they will--they don't give room for all three of you to sit down in the cabin at once." "the deck is of better capacity," eleanor told him briskly. "such a deck! i wonder _you_, cousin eleanor, can make up your mind to endure it. there is not a man living who is worth such a sacrifice. horrid!" "we hope it won't last a great while," mr. amos told him. "it won't! that's what i say. you will all be deposited in the bottom of the ocean, to pay you for not having been contented on shore. i would not send a dog to sea in such a ship!" "cousin esthwaite, you had better not stay in a situation so disagreeable to you. you harass yourself for nothing. shake hands. you see the skipper is going to make sail directly." eleanor with a little play in the manner of this dismissal, was enough in earnest to secure her point. mr. esthwaite felt in a manner constrained to take his departure. he presumed however in the circumstances to make interest for a cousinly kiss for good bye; which was refused him with a cooler demonstration of dignity than he had yet met with. it nettled him. "there was the princess," whispered mr. amos to his wife. "good!" said mrs. amos. "good bye!" cried mr. esthwaite, disappearing over the schooner's side. "_you_ are not fit for a missionary! i told you so before." eleanor turned to mrs. amos, ignoring entirely this little transaction, and smiled at her. "i hope he has not made you nervous," she said. "no," said mrs. amos; "i am not nervous. if i did not get sick i should enjoy it; but i suppose i shall be sick as soon as we get out of the harbour." "let us take the good of it then, until we are out of the harbour," said eleanor. "if the real 'queen esther' was at all like her namesake, ahasuerus must have had a disorderly household." they sat down together on the little vessel's deck, and watched the beautiful shores from which they were gliding away. eleanor was glad to be off. the stay at sydney had become oppressive to her; she wanted to be at the end of her journey and know her fate; and hope and reason whispered that she had reason to be glad. for all that, the poor child had a great many shrinkings of heart. a vision of mr. rhys never came up in one of its aspects,--that of stern and fastidious delicacy,--without her heart seeming to die away within her. she could not talk now. she watched the sunny islands and promontories of the bay, changing and passing as the vessel slowly moved on; watched the white houses of sydney, grateful for the home she had found there, longing exceedingly for a home once again that should be hers by right; hope and tremulousness holding her heart together. this was a conflict that prayer and faith did not quell; she could only come to a state of humble submissiveness; and she never thought of reaching vuliva without a painful thrill that almost took away her breath. but she was glad to be on the way. the vessel was very small, not of so much as eighty tons burthen; its accommodations were of course a good deal as mr. esthwaite had said; and more than that, the condition of the vessel and of its appointments was such that mrs. amos felt as if she could hardly endure to shut herself up in the cabin. eleanor resolved immediately that _she_ would not; the deck was a better plate; and she prevailed to have a mattress brought there for mrs. amos, where the good lady, though miserably ill as soon as they were upon the ocean roll, yet could be spared the close air and other horrors of the place below deck. eleanor wrapped herself in her sea cloak, and lived as she could on deck with her; having a fine opportunity to read the stars at night, and using it. the weather was very fine; the wind favouring and steady; and in the southern ocean, under such conditions, there were some good things to be had, even on board the "queen esther." there were glorious hymn-singings in the early night-time; and eleanor had never sung with more power on the "diana." there were beautiful bible discussions between her and mr. amos--bible contemplations, rather; in which they brought scripture to scripture to illustrate their point; until mr. amos declared he thought it would be a grand way of holding a bible-class; and poor mrs. amos listened, delighted, though too sick to put in more than a word now and then. and eleanor's heart gave a throb every time she recollected that another day had gone,--so many more miles were travelled over,--they were so much nearer the journey's end. her companions found no fault in her. there was nothing of the princess now, but a gentle, thoughtful, excellent nurse, and capital cook. on board the "diana" there had been little need of her services for mrs. amos; little indeed that could be done. now, in the fresh air on the open deck of the little schooner, mrs. amos suffered less in one way; but all the party were sharers in the discomforts of close accommodations and utter want of nicety in anything done or furnished on board. the condition of everything was such that it was scarcely possible to eat at all for well people. poor mrs. amos would have had no chance except for eleanor's helpfulness and clever management. as on board the "diana," there was nobody in the schooner that would refuse her anything; and mr. amos smiled to himself to see where she would go and what she would do to secure some little comfort for her sick friend, and how placidly she herself munched sea biscuit and bad bread, after their little stock of fruit from sydney had given out. she would bring a cup of tea and a bit of toast to mrs. amos, and herself take a crust with the equanimity of a philosopher. eleanor did not care much what she eat, those days. her own good times were when everybody else was asleep except the man at the wheel; and she would kneel by the guards and watch the strange constellations, and pray, and sometimes weep a flood of tears. julia, her mother and alfred, mrs. caxton, her own intense loneliness and shrinking delicacy in the uncertainty of her position, they were all well watered in tears at some of those watching hours when nobody saw. the "queen esther" made the friendly islands in something less than a month, notwithstanding mr. esthwaite's unfavourable predictions. at tonga she was detained a week and more; unlading and taking in stores. the party improved the time in a survey of the island and mission premises and in pleasant intercourse with their friends stationed there. or what would have been pleasant intercourse; it was impossible for eleanor to enjoy it. so near her destination now, she was impatient to be off; and drew short breaths until the days of delay were ended, and the little schooner once more made sail and turned her head towards vuliva. she had seen tonga with but half an eye. two or three days would finish their journey now. the weather and wind continued fair; they dipped tonga in the salt wave, and stood on and on towards the unseen haven of their hopes and duties. a new change came over eleanor. it could not be reason, for reason had striven in vain. perhaps it was nature, which turning a corner took a new view of the subject. but from the time of their leaving tonga, she was unable to entertain such troublesome apprehensions of what the end of the voyage might have in store for her. something whispered it could be nothing very bad; and that point that she had so dreaded began to gather a glow of widely different promise. a little nervousness and trepidation remained about the thought of it; the determination abode fast to see the very first word and look and know what they portended; but in place of the rest of eleanor's downhearted fear, there came now an overwhelming sense of shamefacedness. this was something quite new and unexpected; she had never known in her life more than a slight touch of it before; and now it consumed her. even before mr. and mrs. amos she felt it; and her eyes shunned theirs the last day or two as if she had been a shy child. why was it? she could not help it. this seemed to be as natural and as unreasonable as the other; and in her lonely night watches, instead of trembling and sinking of heart, eleanor was conscious that her cheeks dyed themselves with that unconquerable feeling of shame. very inconsistent indeed with her former state of feeling; and that was according to mrs. caxton's words; not being reasonable, reason could not be expected from them in anything. her friends had not penetrated her former mood; this they saw and smiled at; and indeed it made eleanor very lovely. there was a shy, blushing grace about her the last day or two of the voyage which touched all she did; indeed mrs. amos declared she could see it through the little close straw bonnet, and it made her want to take eleanor in her arms and keep her there. mr. amos responded in his way of subdued fun, that it was lucky she could not; as it would be likely to be a disputed possession, and he did not want to get into a quarrel with his brethren the first minute of his getting to land. up came eleanor with some trifle for mrs. amos which she had been preparing. "we are almost in, sister eleanor!" said mr. amos. "the captain says he sees the land." eleanor's start was somewhat prompt, to look in the direction of 'queen esther's' figure-head. "the light is failing--i don't believe you can see it," said mr. amos; "not to know it from the clouds. the captain says he shall stand off and on through the night, so as to have daylight to go in. the entrance is narrow. i suppose, if all is well, we shall have a wedding to-morrow?" eleanor asked mrs. amos somewhat hastily, if what she had brought her was good? "delicious!" mrs. amos said; and pulling eleanor's face down to her she gave it a kiss which spoke more things than her mere thanks. she was rewarded with the sight of that crimson veil which spread itself over eleanor's cheeks, which most people thought it was a pleasure to see. eleanor thought she should get little sleep that night; but she was disappointed. she slept long and sweetly on her mattress; and awoke to find it quite day, with fair wind, and the schooner setting her head full on the land which rose up before her fresh and green, yes, and exceeding lovely. eleanor got up and shook herself out; her companions were still sleeping. she rolled her mattress together and sat down upon it, to watch the approaches to the land. fresher and fairer and greener every moment it lifted itself to her view; she could hardly bear to look steadily; her head went down for a minute often under the pressure of the thoughts that crowded together. and when she raised it up, the lovely hills of the island, with their novel outline and green luxuriance, were nearer and clearer and higher than they had been a minute before. now she could discern here and there, she thought, something that must be a dwelling-house; then trees began to detach themselves from the universal mass; she saw smoke rising; and she became aware too, that along the face of the island, fronting the approach of the schooner, was a wall of surf; and a line of breakers that seemed to stretch right and left and to be without an interval in their white continuity. eleanor did not see how the schooner was going to get in; for the surf did not break evidently on the shore of the island, but on a reef extending around the shore and at some little distance from it. yet the vessel stood straight on; and the sweet smell of the land began to come with the freshness of the morning air. "is this vuliva before us?" she asked of the skipper whom she found standing near. "ay, ay!" "where are you going to get in? i see no opening." "ay, ay! there _is_ an opening, though." and soon, looking keenly, eleanor thought she could discern it. not until they were almost upon it however; and then it was a place of rough water enough, though the regular fall of the surf was interrupted and there was only a general upheaving and commotion of the waves among themselves. it was nothing very terrific; the tide was in a good state; and presently eleanor saw that they had passed the barrier, they were in smooth water, and making for an opening in the land immediately opposite which might be either the mouth of a river or an inlet of the sea. they neared it fast, sailed up into it; and there to eleanor's mortification the skipper dropped anchor and swung to. she saw no settlement. some few scattered houses were plain enough now to be seen; but nothing even like a village. tufts of trees waved gracefully; rock and hill and rich-coloured lowland spread out a variety of beauty; where was vuliva, the station? this might be the island. where were the people? could they come no nearer than this? mr. amos made enquiry. the village, the skipper said, was "round the pint;" in other words, behind a woody headland which just before them bent the course of the river into a sharp angle. the schooner would go no further; passengers and effects were to be transported the rest of the way in boats. people they would see soon enough; so the master of the "queen esther" advised them. "i suppose the natives will carry the news of the schooner being here, and our friends will come and look after us," mr. amos said. eleanor changed colour, and sat with a beating heart looking at the fair fresh landscape which was to be--perhaps--the scene of her future home. the scene was peace itself. still water after the upheavings of the ocean; the smell and almost the fluttering sound of the green leaves in the delicious wind; the ripple on the surface of the little river; the soft stillness of land sounds, with the heavy beat of the surf left behind on the reef outside. eleanor drew a long breath. people would find them out soon, the skipper had said. she was exceedingly disposed to get rid of her sea dress and put on something that looked like the summer morning; for without recollecting what the seasons were in the southern ocean, that was what the time seemed like to her. she looked round at mrs. amos, who was sitting up and beginning to realize that she had done with the sea for the present. "how do you do?" said eleanor. "i should feel better if i could get on something clean." "come, then!" the two ladies disappeared down the companion way, into one of the most sorry tiring rooms, surely, that ever nicety used for that purpose. but it served two purposes with eleanor just now; and the second was a hiding place. she did not want to be taken unawares, nor to be seen before she could see. so under the circumstances she made both mrs. amos and herself comfortable, and was as helpful as usual in a new line. then she went to look out; but nobody was in sight yet, gentle or savage; all was safe; she went back to mrs. amos and fastened the door. "let us kneel down and pray together, will you?" she said. "i cannot get my breath freely till we have done that." mrs. amos's lips trembled as she knelt. and eleanor and she joined in many petitions there, while the very stillness of their little cabin floor reminded them they were come to their desired haven, and the long sea journey was over. they rose up and kissed each other. "i am so glad i have known you!" said mrs. amos. "what a blessing you have been to us! i wish we might be stationed somewhere together." "i suppose that would be too good to hope for," said eleanor. "i am going to reconnoitre again." mrs. amos half guessed why, and smiled to herself at eleanor's blushing shyness. "poor child, her hands were all trembling too," she said in her thoughts. they were broken off by a low summons to the cabin door, which eleanor held slightly ajar. through the crack of the door they had a vision. on the deck of the "queen esther" stood a specimen of the native inhabitants of the land. a man of tall stature, nobly developed in limbs and muscles, he looked in his native undress almost of giant proportions. his clothing was only a long piece of figured native cloth wound about his loins, one end falling like a train to the very sloop's deck. a thorough black skin was the only covering of the rest of his person, and shewed his breadth of shoulder and strength of muscle to good advantage; as if carved in black marble; only there was sufficient graceful mobility and dignified ease of carriage and attitude; no marble rigidity. black he was, this savage, but not negro. the features were well cut and good. what the hair might be naturally could only be guessed at; the work of a skilful hair-dresser had left it something for the uninitiated to marvel at. a band of three or four inches in breadth, completely white, bordered the face; the rest, a very luxuriant head, was jet black and dressed into a perfectly regular and smooth roundish form, projecting everywhere beyond the white inner border. he had an uncouth necklace, made of what it was impossible to say, except that part of it looked like shells and part like some animal's teeth; rings of one or two colours were on his fingers; he carried no weapon. but in his huge, powerful black frame, uncouth hair-dressing, and strange uncoveredness, he was a sufficiently terrible object to unused eyes. in tonga the ladies had seen no such sight. "do shut the door!" said mrs. amos. "he may come this way, and there is nobody that knows how to speak to him." eleanor shut the door, and looked round at her friend with a smile. "i am foolish!" said mrs. amos laughing; "but i don't want to see him just yet--till there is somebody to talk to him." the door being fast, eleanor applied herself to a somewhat large knot-hole she had long ago discovered in it; one which she strongly suspected the skipper had fostered, if not originated, for his own convenience of spying what was going on. through this knot-hole eleanor had a fair view of a good part of the deck, savage and all. he was gesticulating now and talking, evidently to the captain and mr. amos, the former of whom either did not understand or did not agree with him. mr. amos, of course, was in the former condition. eleanor watched them with absorbed interest; when suddenly this vision was crossed by another, that looked to her eyes much as a white angel might, coming across a cloud of both moral and physical blackness. mr. rhys himself; his very self, and looking very much like it; only in a white dress literally, which in england she had never seen him wear. but the white dress alone did not make the impression to her eyes; there was that air of freshness and purity which some people always carry about with them, and which has to do with the clear look of temperance as well as with great particularity of personal care, and in part also grows out of the moral condition. in three breathless seconds eleanor took note of it all, characteristics well known, but seen now with the novelty of long disuse and with the background of that huge black savage, to whom mr. rhys was addressing some words, of explanation or exhortation--eleanor could not tell which. she noticed the quiet pleasant manner of his speech, which certainly looked not as if mrs. amos had any reason for her fears; but he was speaking earnestly, and she observed too the unbending look of the savage in answer and a certain pleasant deference with which he appeared to be listening. mr. rhys had taken off his hat for a moment--it hung in his hand while the other brushed the hair from his forehead. eleanor's eye even in that moment fell to the hand which carried the hat; it was the same,--she recognized it with a curious sense of bringing great and little things together,--it was the same white and carefully looked-after hand that she remembered it in england. mr. rhys's own personal civilization went about with him. eleanor did not hear any of mrs. amos's words to her, which were several; and though mrs. amos, half alarmed by her deafness, did not know but she might be witnessing something dreadful on deck, and spoke with some importunity. eleanor was thinking she had not a minute to lose. beyond the time of mr. rhys's talking to the other visitor on the schooner's deck, there could be but small interval before he would learn all about her being on board; two words to the skipper or mr. amos would bring it out; and if she wished to gain that first minute's testimony of look and word, she must be beforehand with them. she thought of all that with a beating heart in one instant's flash of thought, hastily caught up her ship cloak without daring to stop to put it on, slipped back the bolt of the door, and noiselessly passed out upon the deck. she neither heard nor saw anybody else; she was conscious of an intense and pitiful shame at being there and at thus presenting herself; but everything else was second to that necessity, to know from mr. rhys's look, with an absolute certainty, where _he_ stood. she was not at that moment much afraid; yet the look she must see. she went forward while he was yet speaking to his black neighbour, she stood still a little behind him, and waited. she longed to hide her eyes, yet she looked steadfastly. _how_ she looked, neither she nor perhaps anybody else knew. there was short opportunity for observation. mr. rhys had no sooner finished his business with his sable friend, when he turned the other way; and of course the motionless figure standing so near his elbow, the woman's bonnet and drapery, caught his first glance. eleanor was watching, with eyes that were strained already with the effort; they got leave to go down now. the flash of joy in those she had been looking at, the deep tone of the low uttered, "oh, eleanor!" which burst from him, made her feel on the instant as if she were paid to the full, not only for all she had done, but for all that life might have of disagreeable in store for her. her eyes fell; she stood still in a sudden trance of contentment which made her as blind and deaf as another feeling had made her just before. those two words--there had been such a depth in them, of tenderness and gladness; and somehow she felt in them too an appreciation of all she had done and gone through. eleanor was satisfied. she felt it as well in the hold of her hand, which was taken and kept in a clasp as who should say, 'this is mine.' perhaps it was out of consideration for her state, that without any further reference to her he turned to mr. amos and claimed acquaintance and brotherhood with him; and for a little while talked, informing himself of various particulars of their journey and welfare; never all the while loosing his hold of that hand, though not bringing her into the conversation, and indeed standing so as somewhat to shield her. the question of landing came up and was discussed. the skipper objected to send the schooner's boat, on the score that it would leave too few men on board to take care of the vessel. mr. rhys had only a small canoe with him, manned by a single native. so he decided forthwith to return to the village and despatch boats large enough to bring the missionaries and their effects to land; but about that there might be some delay. then for the first time he bent down and spoke to eleanor; again that subdued, tender tone. "are you ready to go ashore?" "yes." "i will take you with me. do you want anything out of this big ship? the canoes may not be immediately obtained, for anything but the live freight." he took the grey ship cloak from eleanor's arm and put it round her shoulders. she felt that she was alone and forlorn no more; she had got home. she was a different creature that went into the cabin to kiss mrs. amos, from the eleanor that had come out. "i've seen him!" whispered mrs. amos. "eleanor! you will not be married till we come, will you?" "i hope not--i don't know," said eleanor hurriedly seizing her bag and passing out again. another minute, and it and she were taken down the side of the schooner and lodged in the canoe; and their dark oarsman paddled off. chapter xviii. at dinner. "nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it." eleanor's shamefacedness was upon her in full force when she found herself in the canoe pushing off from the schooner and her friends there. she felt exceeding shy and strange, and with that a feeling very like awe of her companion. a feeling not quite unknown to her in former days with the same person, and in tenfold force now. there was no doubt to be sure of the secret mind of them both towards each other; nevertheless, he had never spoken to her of his affection, nor given her the least sign of it, except on paper, up to that day; and now he sat for all she could see as cool and grave as ever by her side. the old and the new state of things it was hard to reconcile all at once. to do eleanor justice, she saw as one sees without looking; she was too shame-faced to look; she bent her outward attention upon their boatman. he was another native, of course, but attired in somewhat more civilized style, though in no costume of civilized lands. what he wore was more like a carman's frock at home than anything else it could be likened to. he was of pleasant countenance, and paddled along with great activity and skill. they had been silent for the first few minutes since leaving the schooner, till at length mr. rhys asked her, with a little of the sweet arch smile she remembered so well, "how she had liked the first sight of a fijian?" it brought such a rush upon eleanor of past things and present, old times and changes, that it was with the utmost difficulty she could make any answer at all. "i was too much interested to think of liking or disliking." "you were not startled?" "no." "that was a heathen chief, of the opposite village." "he wanted something, did he not?" "yes; that the captain of the schooner should accommodate him in something he thought would be for his advantage. it was impossible, and so i told him." eleanor looked again towards the oarsman. "this is one of our christian brethren." "are there many?" she asked, though feeling as if she had no breath to ask. "yes. and we have cause to be thankful every day at hearing of more. we want ten times as many hands as we, have got. how has the long voyage been to you?" eleanor answered briefly; but then she was obliged to go on and tell of mrs. caxton, and of mr. and mrs. amos, and of various other matters; to all which still she answered in as few words as possible. she could not be fluent, with that sense of strangeness upon her; conscious not only that one of her hands was again in mr. rhys's hold, but that his eyes were never off her face. he desisted at last from questions, and they both sat silent; until the headland was rounded, and "there is vuliva!" came from mr. rhys's lips. in a little bay curve of the river, behind the promontory, lay the village; looking pretty and foreign enough. but very pretty it was. the odd, or rather the strange-looking houses, sitting apart from each other, some large and some small, intermingled gracefully with trees whose shape and leafage were as new, made a sweet picture. one house in particular as they neared the shore struck eleanor; it had a neat colonnade of slender pillars in front, and a high roof, almost like a mansard in form, but thatched with native thatch. a very neat paling fence stretched along in front of this. very near it, a little further off, rose another building that made eleanor almost give a start of joy; so homelike and pleasant it looked, as well as surprising. this was an exceeding pretty chapel; again with a high thatched roof, and also with a neat slight bell-tower rising from one end. in front two doors at each side were separated by a large and not inelegant window; other windows and doors down the side of the building promised light and airiness; and the walls were wrought into a curious pattern; reminding eleanor of the fanciful brick work of a past style of architecture. near the shore and back behind the chapel and houses, reared themselves here and there the slender stems of palm and cocoa-nut trees, with their graceful tufts of feathery foliage waving at top; other trees of various kinds were mingled among them. figures were seen moving about, in the medium attire worn by their oarsman. it was a pretty scene; cheerful and home-like, though so unlike home. further back from the river, on the opposite shore, other houses could be seen; the houses of the heathen village; but eleanor's eyes were fastened on this one. mr. rhys said not one word; only he held her hand in a still closer grasp which was not meaningless. "how pretty it is!" eleanor forced herself to say. he only answered, "do you like it?" but it was in such a satisfied tone of preoccupation that eleanor blushed and thought she might as well leave his meditations alone. yet though full of content in her heart, mr. rhys and his affection seemed both at a distance. it was so exactly the mr. rhys of plassy, that eleanor could not in a moment realize their changed relations and find her own place. a little thing administered a slight corrective to this reckoning. the little canoe had come to land. eleanor was taken out of it safely, and then for a moment left to herself; for mr. rhys was engaged in a colloquy with his boatman and another native who had come up. not being able to understand a word of what was going on, though from the tones and gestures she guessed it had reference to the disembarkation of the schooner's party, and a little ready to turn her face from view, eleanor stood looking landward; in a maze of strangeness that was not at all unhappy. the cocoa-nut tops waved gently a welcome to her; she took it so; the houses looked neat and inviting; glimpses of other unknown foliage helped to assure her she had got home; the country outlines, so far as she could see them, looked fair and bright. eleanor was taking note of details in a dreamy way, when she was surprised by the sudden frank contact of lips with hers; lips that had no strangeness of their own to contend with. turning hastily, she saw that the natives with whom mr. rhys had been talking had run off different ways, and they two were alone. eleanor trembled as much as she had done when she first read mr. rhys's note at plassy. and his words when he spoke did not help her, they were spoken so exactly like the mr. rhys she had known there. not exactly, neither, though he only said, "do you want this cloak on any longer?" "yes, thank you," said eleanor stammering,--"i do not feel it." which was most literally true, for at that moment she did not feel anything external. he looked at her, and exercising his own judgment proceeded to unclasp the cloak from her shoulders and hang it on his arm, while he put her hand on the other. "there is no need for you to be troubled with this now," said he. "i only put it round you to protect your dress." and with her bag in his hand, they went up from the river-side and past the large house with the colonnade. "whither now?" thought eleanor, but she asked nothing. one or two more houses were passed; then a little space without houses; then came a paling enclosure, of considerable size, apparently, filled with trees and vines. a gate opened in this and let them through, and mr. rhys led eleanor up a walk in the garden-like plantation, to a house which stood encompassed by it. "not at home yet!" he remarked to her as they stood at the door; with a slight smile which again brought the blood to her cheeks. he opened the door and they went in. "the good news is true, sister balliol!" he said to somebody that met them. "i have brought you one of our friends, and there are more to come, that i must go and look after. is brother balliol at home?" "no, he is not; he has gone over the river." "then i will leave this lady in your care, and i will go and see if i can find canoes. i meant to have pressed him into my service. this is miss powle, sister balliol." the lady so called had come forward to meet them, and now took eleanor by the hand and kissed her cordially. mr. rhys took her hand then, when she was released, and explained. "i am going back to the schooner after our friends--if i can find a canoe." and without more words, off he went. eleanor and mrs. balliol were left to look at each other. this latter was a lady of middle height, and kindly if not fine features. a pair of good black eyes too. but what struck eleanor most about her was her air; the general style of her figure and dress, which to miss powle's eyes was peculiar. she wore her hair in a crop; and that seemed to eleanor a characteristic of the whole make up. her dress was not otherwise than neat, and yet that epithet would never have occurred to one in describing it; all graces of style or attire were so ignored. her gown sat without any; so did her collar; both were rather uncivilized, without partaking of the picturesqueness of savage costume. the face was by no means disagreeable; lacking neither in sense, nor in spirit nor in kindliness; but eleanor perceived at once that the mind must have a serious want somewhere, in refinement or discernment: the exterior was so ruthlessly abandoned to ungainliness. mrs. balliol took her to an inner room, where the cloak and the bonnet were left; and returned then to her occupations in the other apartment, while eleanor set herself down at the window to make observations. the room was large and high, cheerful and airy, with windows at two sides. the one where she sat commanded a view of little beside the garden, with its luxuriant growth of fruit trees and shrubs and flowers. a tropical looking garden; for the broad leaves of the banana waved there around its great bunches of fruit; the canopy of a cocoa-nut palm fluttered slightly overhead; and various fruits that eleanor did not know displayed themselves along with the pine-apples that she did know. this garden view seemed very interesting to eleanor, to judge by her intentness; and so it was for its own qualities, besides that a bit of the walk could be seen by which she had come and the wicket which had let her in and by which mr. rhys had gone out; but in good truth, as often as she turned her eyes to the scene within, she had such a sense of being herself an object of observation and perhaps of speculation, that she was fain to seek the garden again. and it was true, that while mrs. balliol plied her needle she used her eyes as well, and her thoughts with her needle flew in and out, as she surveyed eleanor's figure in her neat fresh print dress. and the lady's eyebrows grew prophetical, not to say ominous. "she's too handsome!"--that was the first conclusion. "she is quite too handsome; she cannot have those looks without knowing it. better have brought a plain face to fiji, than a spirit of vanity. hair done as if she was just come out of a hair-dresser's!--hum--ruffle all down the neck of her dress--flowing sleeves too, and ruffles round _them_. and a buckle in her belt--a gold buckle, i do believe. and shoes?" the shoes were unexceptionable, but they fitted well on a nice foot; and the hands--were too small and white and delicate ever to have done anything, or ever to be willing to do anything. that was the point. no harm in small hands, mrs. balliol allowed, if they did not betray their owner into daintiness of living. she pursued her lucubrations for some time without interrupting those of eleanor. "are you from england, sister?" "from england--yes; but we made some stay in australia by the way," said eleanor turning from the window to take a more sociable position nearer her hostess. "a long voyage?" "not remarkably long. i had good companions." "from what part of england?" "the borders of wales, last." "brother rhys is from wales--isn't he?" "i do not know," said eleanor, vexed to feel the flush of blood to her cheeks. "ah? you have known brother rhys before?" with a searching look. "yes." "and how do you think you shall like it in fiji?" "you can hardly expect me to tell under such short trial," said eleanor smiling. "there are trials enough. i suppose you expect those, do you not?" "i do not mean to expect them till they come," said eleanor, still smiling. "do you think that is wise?" said the other gravely. "they will come, i assure you, fast enough; do you not think it is well to prepare the mind for what it has to go through, by looking at it beforehand?" "you never know beforehand what is to be gone through," said eleanor. "but you know some things; and it is well, i think, to harden oneself against what is coming. i have found that sort of discipline very useful. sister, may i ask you a searching questions?" "certainly! if you please," said eleanor. "you know, we should be ready to give every one a reason of the hope that is in us. i want to ask you, sister, what moved you to go on a mission?" astonishment almost kept eleanor silent; then noticing the quick eyes of mrs. balliol repeating the enquiry at her face, the difficulty of answering met and joined with a small tide of indignation at its being demanded of her. she did not want to be angry, and she was very near being ready to cry. her mind was in that state of overwrought fulness when a little stir is more than the feelings can bear. among conflicting tides, the sense of the ludicrous at last got the uppermost; and she laughed, as one laughs whose nerves are not just under control; heartily and merrily. mrs. balliol was confounded. "i should not have thought it was a laughing matter,"--she remarked at length. but the gravity of that threw eleanor off again; and the little hands and ruffled sleeves were reviewed under new circumstances. and when eleanor got command of herself, she still kept her hand over her eyes, for she found that she was just trembling into tears. she held it close pressed upon them. "perhaps you are fatigued, sister?" said mrs. balliol, in utter incapacity to account for this demonstration. "not much. i beg your pardon!" said eleanor. "i believe i am a little unsettled at first getting here. if you please, i will try being quite quiet for awhile--if you will let me be so discourteous?" "do so!" said mrs. balliol. "anything to rest you." and eleanor went back to her window, and turning her face to the garden again rested her head on her hand; and there was a hush. mrs. balliol worked and mused, probably. eleanor did as she had said; kept quiet. the quiet lasted a long time, and the tropical day grew up into its meridian heats; yet it was not oppressive; a fine breeze relieved it and made it no other than pleasant. home at last! this great stillness and quiet, after the ocean tossings, and months of voyaging, and change, and heart-uncertainty. the peace of heart now was as profound; but so profound, and so thankfully recognized, that eleanor's mood was a little unsteady. she needed to be still and recollect herself, as she could looking out into the leaves of a great banana tree there in the garden, and forgetting the house and mrs. balliol. the quiet lasted a long time, and was broken then by the entrance of mr. balliol. his wife introduced him; and after learning that he could now render no aid to mr. rhys, he immediately entered into a brisk conversation with the new comer mr. rhys had brought. that went well, and was also strengthening. eleanor was greatly pleased with him. he was evidently a man of learning and sense and spirit; a man of excellent parts, in good cultivation, and filled with a most benign and gentle temper of goodness. it was a pleasure to talk to him; and while they were talking the party from the schooner arrived. eleanor felt her "shamefacedness" return upon her, while all the rest were making acquaintance, welcoming and receiving welcome. she stood aside. did they know her position? while she was thinking, mr. rhys came to her and put her again in her chair by the window. mrs. amos had been carried off by mrs. balliol. the two other gentlemen were in earnest converse. mr. rhys took a seat in front of eleanor and asked in a low voice if she wished for any delay? "in what?" said eleanor, though she knew the answer. "coming home." he was almost sorry for her, to see the quick blood flash into her face. but she caught her breath and said "no." "you know," he said; how exactly like the mr. rhys of plassy!--"i would not hurry you beyond your pleasure. if you would like to remain here a day or two, domiciled with mrs. balliol, and rest, and see the land--you have only to say what you wish." "i do not wish it," said eleanor, finding it very difficult to answer at all--"i wish it to be just as you please." "you must know what my pleasure is. does your heart not fail you, now you are here?" he asked still lower and in a very gentle way. "no." "eleanor, have you had any doubts or failings of heart at any time, since you left england?" "no. yes!--i did, once--at sydney." "at sydney?"--repeated mr. rhys in a perceptibly graver tone. "yes--at sydney--when i did not get any letters from you." "you got no letters from me?" "no." "at sydney?" "no," said eleanor venturing to look up. "did you not see mr. armitage?" "mr. armitage! o he was in the back country--i remember now mr. amos said that; and he never returned to sydney while we were there." an inarticulate sound came from mr. rhys's lips, between indignation and impatience; the strongest expression of either that eleanor had ever heard from him. "then mr. armitage had the letters?" "certainly! and i am in the utmost surprise at his carelessness. he ought to have left them in somebody else's charge, if he was quitting the place himself. when did you hear from me?" the flush rose again, not so vividly, to eleanor's face. "i heard in england--those letters--you know." "those letters i trusted to mrs. caxton?" "yes." "and not since! well, you are excused for your heart failing that once. who is to do it, eleanor?--mr. amos?" "if you please--i should like--" he left her for a moment to make his arrangements; and for that moment eleanor's thoughts leaped to those who should have been by her side at such a time, with a little of a woman's heart-longing. mrs. caxton, or her mother! if one of them might have stood by her then! eleanor's head bent with the moment's poor wish. but with the touch of mr. rhys's hand when he returned to her, with the sound of his voice, there came as it always did to eleanor, healing and strength. the one little word "come," from his lips, drove away all mental hobgoblins. he said nothing more, but there was a great tenderness in the manner of his taking her upon his arm. his look eleanor dared not meet. she felt very strange yet; she could not get accustomed to the reality of things. this man had never spoken one word of love to her, and now she was standing up to be married to him. the whole little party stood together, while the marriage service of the english church was read. it was preceded however by a prayer that was never read nor written. after the service was over, and after eleanor had been saluted by the two ladies who were all the representatives of mother and sister and friends for her on the occasion, mr. rhys whispered to her to get her bonnet. eleanor gladly obeyed. but as soon as it appeared, there was a general outcry and protest. what were they going to do?" "take her to see how her house looks," said mr. rhys. "you forget i have something to shew." "but you will bring her back to dinner? do, brother rhys. we shall have dinner presently. you'll be back?" "if the survey is over in time--but i do not think it will," he answered gravely. "then tea--you will come then? let us all be together at tea. will you?" "it is a happiness we have had no visitors before dinner! i will see about it, sister balliol, thank you; and take advice." and glad was eleanor when they got away; which was immediately, for mr. rhys's motions were prompt. he led her now not to the wicket by which she had come, but another way, through the garden wilderness still, till another slight paling with a wicket in it was passed and the wilderness took a somewhat different character. the same plants and trees were to be seen, but order and pleasantness of arrangement were in place of vegetable confusion; neat walks ran between the luxuriant growing bananas, and led gradually nearer to the river; till another house came in view; and passing round the gable end of it, eleanor could cast her eye along the building and take the effect. it was long and low, with a high picturesque thatched roof, and the walls fancifully wrought in a pattern, making a not unpretty appearance. the door was in the middle; she had no time to see more, for mr. rhys unlocked it and led her in. the interior was high, wide, and cool and pleasant after the hot sun without; but again she had no time to make observations. mr. rhys led her immediately on to an inner room. eleanor's eyes were dazed and her heart was beating; she could hardly see anything, except, as one takes impressions without seeing, that this answered to the inner room at mrs. balliol's, and had far more the air of being furnished and pleasantly habitable. what gave it the air she could not tell; for mr. rhys was unfastening her bonnet and throwing it off, and then taking her sea-cloak from his arm and casting that somewhat carelessly away; and then his arms enfolded her. it was the first time they had been really alone since her coming; and now he was silent, so silent that eleanor could scarcely bear it. she was aware his eyes were studying her fixedly, and she felt as if they could see nothing beside the conscious mounting of the blood from cheek to brow, which reached what to her was a painful flush. probably he saw it, for the answer came in a little closer pressure of the arms that were about her. she ventured to look up at last; she was unable to endure this silent inspection; and then she saw that his face was full of emotion that wrought too deep for words, too deep even for caresses, beyond the one or two grave kisses with which he had welcomed her. it overcame eleanor completely. she could not meet the look. it was much more than mere joy or affection; there was an expression of the sort of tenderness with which a mother would clasp a lost child; a full keen sympathy for all she had done and gone through and ventured for him, for all her loneliness and forlornness that had been, and that was still with respect to all the guardians of her childhood or womanhood up to that hour. eleanor's head sank down. she felt none of that now for which his looks expressed such keen regard; she had got to her resting-place, not the less for all the awe and strangeness of it, which were upon her yet. she could have cried for a very different feeling; but she would not; it did not suit her. mr. rhys let her be still for a few minutes. when he did speak, his voice was gravely tender indeed, as it had been to her all day, but there was no sentimentality about it. he spoke clear and abrupt, as he often did. "do you want to go back to the other house to dinner?" "do you wish it?" said eleanor looking up to find out. "i wish to see nothing earthly, this afternoon, but your face." "then do let it be so!" said eleanor. he laughed and kissed her, more gaily this time, without seeming able to let her out of his arms; and left her at last with the injunction to keep still a minute till he should return, and on no account to begin an examination of the house by herself. very little danger there was! eleanor had not the free use of her eyes yet for anything. presently he came back, put her hand on his arm, and led her out into the middle apartment. "do you know," he said as he passed through this, keeping her hand in his own, and looking down at her face,--"what is the first lesson you have to learn?" "no," said eleanor, most unaffectedly frightened; she did not know why. "the first thing we have to do, on taking possession here to-day is, to give our thanks and offer our prayers in company. do not you think so?" "yes--" said eleanor breathlessly. "but what then?" "i mean together,--not that it should be all on one side. you with me, as well as i with you." "oh no, mr. rhys!" "why not?--mrs. rhys?" "do not ask me! that would be dreadful!" "i do not think you will find it so." eleanor stopped short, near the other end of the great apartment. "i cannot do it!" she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, but spoke gravely. "one can always do what is right." "not to-day--" whispered eleanor. "one can always do right to-day," he answered smiling. "and it is best to begin as we are going on. come!" he took her hand and led her forward into the room at the other end of the house; his study, eleanor saw with half a glance by the books and papers and tables that were there. still keeping her hand fast in his, they knelt together; and certainly the prayer that followed was good for nervousness, and like the sunshine to dispel all manner of clouds. eleanor was quieted and subdued; she could not help it; all sorts of memories and associations of plassy and wiglands gathered in her mind, back of the thoughts that immediately filled it. hallowed, precious, soothing and joyful, those minutes of prayer were while mr. rhys spoke; in spite of the minutes to follow that eleanor dreaded. and though her own words were few, and stammering, they were different from what she would have thought possible a quarter of an hour before; and not unhappy to look back upon. detaining her when they arose, mr. rhys asked with something of his old comical look, whether she thought she could eat a dinner of his ordering? eleanor had no doubt of it. "you think you could eat anything by this time!" said he. "poor child! but my credit is at stake--suppose you wait here a few minutes, until i see whether all is right." he went off, and eleanor sat still, feeling too happy to want to look about her. he came again presently, to lead eleanor to the dining-room. in the lofty, spacious, and by no means inelegant middle apartment of the house, a little table stood spread, looking exceeding diminutive in contrast with the wide area and high ceiling of the room. here mr. rhys with a very bright look established eleanor, and proceeded to make amends for keeping her so long from mrs. balliol's table. much to her astonishment there was a piece of broiled chicken and a dish of eggs nicely cooked, and mr. rhys was pouring out for her some tea in delicate little cups of china. "you see aunt caxton, do you not?" he said. "o aunt caxton! in these cups. i thought so. but i had no idea you had such cooks in fiji?" "they will learn--in time," said he shortly. "you perceive this is an unorganized establishment. i have not indulged in tablecloths yet; but you will put things to rights." "tablecloths?" said eleanor. "yes--you have such things lying in wait for you. you have a great deal to do. and in the first place, you are to find out the good qualities of these fruits of the land," he said, giving her portions of several vegetable preparations with which and with fruits the table was filled. "what is this?" said eleanor. "taro; one of the valuable things with which nature has blessed fiji. the natives cultivate it well and carefully. that is yam; and came from a root five and a half feet long. eleanor--i do not at all comprehend how you come to be sitting there!" it was so strange and new to eleanor, and mr. rhys was such a compound of things new and things old to her, that a little chance word like this was enough to make her flutter and change colour. he perceived it, and bent his attention to amuse her with the matters of the table; and told her wonders of the natural productions of fiji. but in the midst of this mr. rhys's hand would come abstracting her tea-cup to fill it again; and then eleanor watched while he did it; and he made himself a little private amusement about getting it sugared right and finding how she liked it; and eleanor wondered at him and her tea-cup together, and stirred her tea in a subdued state of mind. "one hardly expects to see such a nice little teaspoon in fiji," she remarked. "aunt caxton, again," said mr. rhys. "but mr. rhys, your fijians must be remarkable cooks! or have you taught them?" "i have taught nobody in that line." "then are they not remarkable for their skill in cookery?" "as a nation, i think they are; and it is one evidence of their mental development. they have a great variety of native dishes, some of which, i believe, are not despicable." "but these are english dishes." "do justice to them, then, like a good englishwoman." eleanor's praise was not undeserved; for the chicken and yam were excellent, and the sweet potatoe which mr. rhys put upon her plate was roasted very like one that had been in some hot ashes at home. but everything except the dishes was strange, mr. rhys's hand included. through the whole length of the house, and of course through the middle apartment, ran a double row of columns, upholding the roof. if eleanor's eye followed them up, there was no ceiling, but the lofty roof of thatch over her head. under her foot was a mat, of native workmanship; substantial and neat, and very foreign looking. and here were aunt caxton's cups; and if she lifted her eyes--eleanor felt most strange then, although most at home. the taro and yam and sweet potatoe were only an introduction to the fruit, which was beautiful as a shew. a native servant came in and removed the dishes, and then set on the table a large basket, in which the whole dessert was very simply served. cocoanuts and bananas, oranges and wild plums, bread-fruit and malay apples, came piled together in beautiful mingling. mr. rhys went himself to a sort of beaufet in the room and brought plates. "servants cannot be said to be in complete training," he said with a humourous look as he seated himself. "it would be strange if they were, when there has been no one to train them. and in fiji." "i do not understand," said eleanor. "have you been keeping house he all by yourself? i thought not, from what mrs. balliol said." "you may trust sister balliol for being always correct. no, for the last few months, until lately, i have been building this house. since it was finished i have lived in it, partly; but i have taken my principal meals at the other house." "_you_ have been building it?" "or else you would not be in it at this moment. there is no carpenter to be depended on in fiji but yourself. you have got to go over the house presently and see how you like it. are you ready for a banana? or an orange? i think you must try one of these cocoanuts." "but you had people to help you?" "yes. at the rate of two boards a day." "but, mr. rhys, if you cannot get carpenters, where can you get cooks?--or do the people have _this_ by nature?" "when you ask me properly, i will tell you," he said, with a little pucker in the corners of his mouth that made eleanor take warning and draw off. she gave her attention to the cocoanut, which she found she must learn how to eat. mr. rhys played with an orange in the mean time, but she knew was really busy with nothing but her and her cocoanut. when she would be tempted by no more fruit, he went off and brought a little wooden bowl of water and a napkin, which he presented for her fingers, standing before her to hold it. eleanor dipped in her fingers, and then looked up. "you should not do this for me, mr. rhys!" she said half earnestly. but he stooped down and took his own payment; and on the whole eleanor did not feel that she had greatly the advantage of him. indeed mr. rhys had payment of more sorts than one; for cheeks were rosy as the fingers were white which she was drying, as she had risen and stood before him. she looked on then with great edification, to see his fingers deliberately dipped in the same bowl and dried on the same napkin; for very well eleanor knew they would have done it for no mortal beside her. and then she was carried off to look at the walls of her house. chapter xix. in the house. "thou hast found .... thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, and homestall thatched with leaves." the walls of the house were, to an englishwoman, a curiosity. they were made of reeds; three layers or thicknesses of them being placed different ways, and bound and laced together with sinnet; the strong braid made of the fibre of the cocoanut-husk. it was this braid, woven in and out, which produced the pretty mosaic effect eleanor had observed upon the outside. mr. rhys took her to a doorway, where she could examine from within and from without this novel construction; and explained minutely how it was managed. "this looks like a foreign land," said eleanor. "you had described it, and i thought i had imagined it; but sight and feeling are quite a different matter." "i did not describe it to you?" "no--o no; you described it to aunt caxton." he drew her back a step or two and laid her hand upon the post of the door. "what is this?" said eleanor. "that is a piece of the stem of the palm-fern." "and these are its natural mouldings and markings! it is like elegant carved work! it is natural, is it not?" she said suddenly. "certainly. the natives do execute very marvellous carving in wood, with tools that would drive a workman at home to despair; but i have not learned the art. come here--the pillars that hold up the roof of your house are of the same wood." a double row of pillars through the whole length of the house gave it stability; they were stems of the same palm fern, and as they had been chosen and placed with a careful eye to size and position, the effect of them was not at all inelegant. the building itself was of generous length and width; and with a room cut off at each end, as the fashion was, the centre apartment was left of really noble proportions; broad, roomy, and lofty; with its palm columns springing up to its high roof of thatch. standing beside one of them, eleanor looked up and declared it a beautiful room. "do not look at the doors and windows," said mr. rhys. "i did not make those--they were sent out framed. i had only the pleasure of putting them in." "and how did that agree with all your other work?" "well," he said decidedly. "that was my recreation." "there is the prettiest mixture of wild and tame in this house," said eleanor, speaking a little timidly; for she was conscious all the while how little mr. rhys was thinking of anything but herself. "are these mats made here?" "pure fijian!" the one at which eleanor was looking, her eyes having fallen to the floor, was both large and elegant. it was very substantially and neatly made, and had a border fancifully wrought all round it, a few inches in width. the pattern of the border was made with bits of worsted and little white feathers. this mat covered all the centre of the room; under it the whole floor was spread with other and coarser ones; and others of a still different manufacture lined the walls of the room. "one need not want a prettier carpet," said eleanor, keeping her eyes on the mat. mr. rhys put his arm round her and drew her off to one side of the room, where he made her pause before a large square space which was sunk a foot deep in the earth and bordered massively with a frame of logs of hard wood. "what do you think of that?" "mr. rhys, what is it?" "you would not take it for a fireplace?" he said with a comical look. "but is it a fireplace?" "that is what it is intended for. the fijians make their fireplaces in this manner." "and you are a fijian, i suppose." "so are you." "but mr. rhys, can a fireplace of this sort be useful in an english house?" "no. but in a fijian house it may--as i have proved. the natives would have a wooden frame here, at one side, to hold cooking vessels. you do not need that, for you have a kitchen." "with a fireplace like this?" "yes," he said, with a smile that had some raillery in it, which eleanor would not provoke. "suppose you come and look at something that is not fijian," he went on. "you must vary your attention." he drew her before a little unostentatious piece of furniture, that looked certainly as if it was made out of a good bit of english oak. what it was, did not appear; it was very plain and rather massively made. now mr. rhys produced keys, and opened first doors; then a drawer, which displayed all the characteristic contents and arrangements of a lady's work-box on an extended scale. love's work; eleanor could see her adopted mother in every carefully disposed supply of needles and silks and braids and glittering sheffield ware, and the thousand and one appliances and provisions for one who was to be at a very large distance from sheffield and every home source of needle furniture. love recognized love's work, as eleanor looked into the drawer. "now you are ready to say this is a small thread and needle shop," said mr. rhys; "but you will be mistaken if you do. look further." and that she might, he unlocked a pair of smaller inner doors; the little piece of furniture developed itself immediately into a capital secretary. as thoroughgoing as the work-box, but still more comprehensive, here were more than mere materials and conveniences for writing; it was a depository for several small but very precious treasures of a scientific and other kinds; and even a few books lay nestling among them, and there was room for more. "what is this!" eleanor exclaimed when she had got her breath. "this is--mrs. caxton! i do not know whether she expected you to turn sempstress immediately for the colony--or whether she intended you for another vocation, as i do." "she sent this from england!" "it was made by nobody worse than a london cabinet-maker. i did not know whether you would choose to have it stand in this place, or in the only room that can properly be called your own. come in here;--the other part of the house is, you will find, pretty much public." "even your study?" "that is no exception, sometimes. i am a public man, myself." the partition wall of this room was nicely lined with mats; the door was like a piece of the wall, swinging to noiselessly, but mr. rhys shewed eleanor how she could fasten it securely on the inside. eleanor had been taken into this room on her first arrival; but had then been unable to see anything. now her eyes were in requisition. here there was even more attention paid to comfort and appearances than in the dining-room. in the simplest possible manner; but somebody had been at work there who knew that elegance is attainable without the help of opulence; and that eye and hand can do what money cannot. eye and hand had been busy everywhere. very pretty and soft native mats were on the floor; the windows were shaded with east indian _jalousies;_ and not only personal convenience but tastes were regarded in the various articles of furniture and the arrangement of them. good sense was regarded too. camp chairs and tables were useful for packing and moving, as well as neat to the eye; white draperies relieved their simplicity; shelves were hung against the wall in one place for books, and filled; and in the floor stood an easy chair of excellent workmanship, into which mr. rhys immediately put eleanor. but she started up to look at it. "did aunt caxton send all these things?" she said with a tear in her eye. "she has sent almost too many. these are but the beginning, look here, eleanor." he opened a door at one end of the room, hidden under mat hangings like the other, which disclosed a large space lined with shelves; several articles reposing on them, and on the floor below sundry chests and boxes. "this is your storeroom. here you may revel in the riches you do not immediately wish to display. this is yours; i have a storeroom on my own part." "and what is in those chests and boxes, mr. rhys?" "i don't know! except that it is aunt caxton again. you will find tablecloths and napkins--i can certify that--for i stumbled upon them; but i thought they had best not see the light till their owner came. so i locked them up--and here are the keys." "and who put up all these nice shelves?" "your head carpenter." "and have you been doing all this for me?" said eleanor. he laughed and took her in his arms again, looking at her with that mixture of expressions. "i wish i could give you some of my content!" he said. "i do not want it!" said eleanor laughing. "is that declaration entirely generous?" eleanor had no mind, like a wise woman, to answer this question; but she was held under the inspection of an eye that she knew of old clear and keen beyond all others to untie the knot of anybody's meaning. she flushed up very much and tried to turn it off, for she saw he had a mind to have the answer. "you do not want me to give account of every idle word after that fashion?" she said lightly. "hush--hush," he said, with a gravity that had much sweetness in it. "i cannot have you speak in that way." "i will not--" said eleanor, suddenly much more sober than he was. "there are too many that have the habit of using their master's words to point their own sentences. do not let us use it. come to my study--you did not see it before dinner, i think." eleanor was glad he could smile again, for at that minute she could not. she felt whirled back to plassy, and to wiglands, to the time of their old and very different relations. she could not realize the new, nor quietly understand her own happiness; and a very fresh vivid sense of his character made her feel almost as much awe of him as affection. that was according to old habit too. but if she felt shy and strange, she was the only one; for mr. rhys was in a very gay mood. as they went through the dining-room he stopped to shew and display to her numerous odd little contrivances and arrangements; here a cupboard of rustic, and very pretty too, native work; or at least native materials. there a more sophisticated beaufet, which had come from sydney by mrs. caxton's order. "dear mrs. caxton!" said mr. rhys,--"she has forgotten nothing. i am only in astonishment what she can have found to fill your new invoice of boxes." "why there are not many," said eleanor. he looked at her and laughed. "you will be doing nothing but unpacking for days to come," he said. "i have done what i never thought i should do--married a rich wife." "why aunt caxton sends the things quite as much to you as to me." "does she?" "i am sure, if anybody is poor, i am." "if that speech means _me_," said mr. rhys with a little bit of provokingness in the corners of his mouth,--"i don't take it. i do not feel poor; and never did. not to-day certainly, with whole shiploads coming in." "i do not know of a single unnecessary thing but your microscope." "have you brought that?" he said with a change of tone. "it would be just like mrs. caxton to come out and make us a visit some day! i cannot think of anything else she could give us, that she has not given. look at my book-cases." eleanor did, thinking of their owner. they were of plainest construction, but so made that they would take to pieces in five minutes and become packing cases with the books packed, all ready for travel; or at pleasure, as now, stand up in their place in the study in the form of very neat bookcases. they were not large; a fijian missionary's library had need be not too extensive; but eleanor looked over their contents with hurried delight. the rest of the room also spoke of mrs. caxton; in light neat tables and chairs and other things. here too, though not a hand's turn had apparently been wasted, everything, simple as it was, had a sort of pleasantness of order and fitness which left the eye gratified. eleanor read that and the meaning of it. here were contrivances again that mr. rhys had done; shelves, and brackets, and pins to hang things; nothing out of use, but all so contrived as to give a certain elegant effect to this plain work-room. even the book and paper disorder was not that of a careless man. still it was not like the room at the other end of the house. the mats that floored and lined it were coarser; there were no _jalousies_ at the windows; and no easy chair anywhere. one thing it had like the other; a storeroom cut off from it. this was a large one, like eleanor's, and filled. his money-drawer, mr. rhys called it. all sorts of articles valued by the natives were there; mrs. caxton had taken care to send a large supply. these were to serve the purposes of barter. mr. rhys displayed to eleanor the stores of iron tools, cotton prints, blankets, and articles of clothing, that were stowed away there; stowed away with an absolute order and method which again she looked at as significant of one side at least of mr. rhys's character. he amused himself with displaying everything; shewed her the whole of the new and strangely appointed establishment over which she had come to preside, so far at least as the house contained it; and when he had brought her to something like an apparent share in his own gay mood, at last placed her in a camp chair in the dining-room, which he had set in the middle of the floor, and opened the door of the house. it gave eleanor a lovely view. the plantations had been left open, so that the eye had a fair range down to the river and to the opposite shore, where another village stood. it was seen under bright sunshine now. mr. rhys let her look a moment, then shut the door, and came and sat down before her, taking both her hands in his own; and eleanor knew from a glance at his face that the same thoughts were working within him that had wrought that moved look before dinner--when she first came. she felt her colour mounting; it tried her to be silent under his eye in that way. "mr. rhys, do you remember preaching to me one day at plassy--when we were out walking?" "yes," he said with a half laugh. "i wish you would do it again." "i will preach you a sermon every morning if you like." "no, but now. i wish you would, so as to make me realize that you are the same person." "i am not the same person at all!" he said. "why are you not?" said eleanor opening her eyes at him. "in those days i was your pastor and friend simply. the difference is, that i have acquired the right to love you--take care of you--and scold you." "it seems to me that last was a privilege you exercised occasionally in those times," said eleanor archly. "not at all! in those days i was a poor fellow that did not dare say a word to you." eleanor's recollections were of sundry exceptions to this rule, so marked and prominent in her memory that she could not help laughing. "o mr. rhys, don't you remember--" "what?" said he with the utmost gravity. but eleanor had stopped, and coloured now brilliantly. "it seems that your recollections are of a questionable character," he said. eleanor did not deny it. "what is it you wish me _not_ to remember?" "it was a time when you said i was very wrong," said eleanor meekly, "so do not call it back." he bent forward to kiss her, which did not steady eleanor's thoughts at all. "do you want preaching?" he said. "yes indeed! it will do me good." "i will give you some words to think of, that i lived in all yesterday. 'beloved of god.' they are wonderful words, that paul says belong to all the saints; and they were about me yesterday like a halo of glory, from morning to night." now eleanor was all right; now she recognized mr. rhys and herself, and listened to every word with her old delight in them. now she could use her eyes and look at him, though she well saw that he was considering her with that full, moved tenderness that she had felt in him all day; even when he was talking and thinking of other things he did not cease to remember _her_. "eleanor, what do you know about the meaning of those words?" "little!" she said. "and yet, a little." "you know that _we_ were gentiles, carried away unto these dumb idols--or after others in our own hearts--as helplessly as the poor heathen around us. but we have got the benefit of that word,--'i will call them my people, which were not my people; and her beloved, which was not beloved.'" "yes!" "then look at our privileges--'the beloved of the lord shall dwell in safety by him; and the lord shall cover him all the day long, and he shall dwell between is shoulders.'--heavenly security; unearthly joy; a hiding-place where the troubles of earth cannot reach us." mr. rhys left his position before eleanor at this, and with a brow all alight with its thoughts began to pace up and down in front of her; just as he had done at plassy, she remembered. she ventured not a word. her heart was very full. "then look how we are bidden to increase our rejoicing and to delight ourselves in the store laid up for us; we are not only safe and happy, but fed with dainties. all things are ready; christ says he will sup with us; and we are bidden--'eat, o friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, o beloved.' 'he that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.' "and then, eleanor, if we are the elect of god, holy and beloved, what bowels of mercies should be in us; how precious all other beloved of him should be to us; how we should be constrained by his love. are you? i am. i am willing to spend and be spent for these people among whom we are. i am sure there are many, many children of god among them, come and coming. i seek no better than to labour for them. it is the delight of my soul! eleanor, how is it with you?" he had stood still before her during these last words, and now sat down again, taking her hands and looking with his undeceivable gaze into her face. "i desire the same thing. i dare not say, i desire it as strongly as you do,--but it is my very wish." "is it for the love of christ--or for love of these poor creatures? or for any other reason?" "i can hardly separate the first two," said eleanor, looking a little wistfully. "the love of christ is at the bottom of it all." "there is no other motive," he said; "no other that will do the work; nothing else that will work true love to them. but when i think of my master--i am willing to do or be anything, i think, in his service!" he quitted her hands and began slowly walking up and down again. "mr. rhys," said eleanor, "what can i do?" "are you ready to encounter disagreeablenesses, and hardships, and privations, in the work?" "yes; and discouragements." "there are no such things. there ought to be no such things. i never feel nor have felt discouraged. that is want of faith. do you remember, eleanor, 'the clouds are the dust of his feet?' think--our eyes are blinded by the dust, we look at nothing else, and we do not see the glory of the steps that are taken." "that is true. o mr. rhys, that is glorious!" "then you are not afraid? i forewarn you, little annoyances are sometimes harder to bear than great ones. it is one of the most trying things that i have to meet," said mr. rhys standing still with a funny face,--"to have ra mbombo's beard sweep my plate when i am at dinner." "what does he do that for?" "he is so fond of me." "that is being too fond, certainly." "it is an excess of affectionate attention,--he gets so close to me that we have a community of things. and you will have, eleanor, some days, a perpetual levee of visitors. but what is all that, for christ?" "i am not afraid," said eleanor with a most unruffled smile. "i wrote to frighten you." "but i was not frightened. are things no better in the islands than when you wrote?" "changing--changing every day; from darkness to light, and from the power of satan to god. literally. there are heathen temples here, in which a few years ago if a woman or a child had dared cross the threshold they would have been done to death immediately. now those very temples are used as our schools. on our way to the chapel we shall pass almost over a place where there used to be one of the ovens for cooking human bodies; now the grass and wild tomatoes are growing over it. i can take you to house after house, where men and women used to be eaten, where now if you stand to listen you may hear hymns of praise to jesus and prayer going up in his name. praise the lord! it is grand to be permitted to live in fiji now!"-eleanor was hushed and silent a few minutes, while mr. rhys walked slowly up and down. then she spoke with her eyes full of sympathetic tears. "mr. rhys, what can i do?" "what you have to do at present," he said with a change of tone, "is to take care of me and learn the language,--both languages, i should say! and in the mean while you had better take care of your pins,"--he stooped as he spoke, to pick up one at her feet and presented it with comical gravity. "you must remember you are not in england. here you could not spend pin-money even if you had it." "if i were inclined to be extravagant," said eleanor laughing at him, "your admonition would be thrown away; i have brought such quantities with me." "of pins?" "yes." "i hope you will not ever use them!" "why not?" "i do not see what a properly made dress has to do with pins." but at this confession of masculine ignorance eleanor first looked and then laughed and covered her face, till he came and sat down again and by forcible possession took her hands away. "you have no particular present occasion to laugh at me," he said. "eleanor, what made you first willing to quit england and go anywhere?" the answer to this was first an innocent look, and then an extreme scarlet flush. she could not hide it, with her hands prisoners; she sat in a pretty state of abashment. a slight giving way of the mouth bore witness that he read and understood it, though his immediate words were reassuringly grave and unchanged in tone. "i remember, you did not comprehend such a thing as possible, at one time. when was that changed? you used to have a great fear." "i lost part of that at plassy." "where did you lose the rest of it, eleanor?" "it was in london." he saw by the light in eleanor's eyes, which looked at him now, that there was something behind. yet she hesitated. "sealed lips?" said he bending forward again to her face. "you must unseal them, eleanor." "do you want me to tell you all that?" she asked questioningly. "i want you to tell me everything." "it is only a long story." "do not make it short." an easy matter! to go on and tell it with her two hands prisoners, and those particularly clear eyes looking into her face. it served to shew the grace that belonged to eleanor, the way that in these circumstances she began what she had to say. where another woman would have been awkward, she spoke with the simple sweet poise of manner that had been the admiration of many a company, and that made mr. rhys now press the little hands closer in his own. a little evident shy reluctance only added to the grace. "it is a good while ago--i felt, mr. rhys, that i wanted,--just that which makes one willing to go anywhere and do anything; though not for that reason. i expected to live in england always. i wanted to know more of christ. i wanted it, not for work's sake but for happiness' sake. i was a christian, i suppose; but i knew--i had seen and felt--that there were things,--there was a height of christian life and attainment, that i had not reached; but where i had seen other people, with a light upon their brows that i knew never shined upon mine. i knew whence it came--i knew what i wanted--more knowledge of christ, more love of him." "when was this?" "it is a good while ago. it is--it was,--time seems so confused to me!--i know it was the winter after you went away. i think it was near the spring. we were in london." "yes." "i was cold at the heart of religion. i was not happy. i knew what i wanted--more love to christ." "you did love him." "yes; but you know what it is just to love him a little. i went as duty bade me; but the love of him did not make all duty happy. i had seen you live differently--i saw others--and i could not be content as i was. "we were in town then. one night i sat up all night, and gave the whole night to it." "to seeking jesus?" "i wanted to get out of my coldness and find him!" "and you found him?" "not soon. i spent the night in it. i prayed--and i walked the floor and prayed--and i shed a great many tears over the bible. i felt as if i must have what i wanted--but i could not seem to get any nearer to it. the whole night passed away--and i had wearied myself--and i had got nothing. "the dawn was just breaking, when i got up from my knees the last time. i was almost giving up in despair. i had done all i could--what could i do more? i went to the window and opened it. the light was just creeping up in the sky--there was a little streak of brightness along the horizon, or of light rather, but it was the herald of brightness. i felt desolate and tired, and like giving up hope and quest together. the dull grey canopy overhead seemed just like my heart. i cannot tell you how enviously i looked at the eastern dawn, wishing the light would break upon my own horizon. i shall never forget it. it was dusky yet down in the streets and over the housetops; the city had not waked up in our quarter; it was still yet, and the breath of the morning's freshness came to me and revived me and mocked me both at once. i could have cried for sadness, if i had not been too down-hearted and weary. "while i stood there, hearing the morning's promise, i suppose, without knowing it--there came up from the streets somewhere below me, and near, the song of a chimney-sweep. i can never tell you how it came! it came--but not yet; at first i only knew what he was singing by the notes of the air; but the next verse he began came up clear and strong to me at the window. he was singing those words- "'twas a heaven below my redeemer to know; and the angels could do nothing more, than to fall at his feet, and the story repeat, and the lover of sinners adore.' "i thought, it seemed that a band of angels came and carried those words up past my window! and the dawn came in my heart. i cannot tell you how,--i seemed to see everything at once. i saw what a heaven below it is, to know the love of christ. i think my heart was something like the ganges when the tide is coming in. i thought, if the angels could do nothing more than praise him, neither could i! i fell at his feet then--i do not think i have ever really left them since--not for long at a time; and since then my great wish has been to be allowed to glorify him. i have had no fears of anything in the way." eleanor had not been able to get through her "long story" without tears; but they came very much against her will. she could not see, yet somehow she felt the strong sympathetic emotion with which she was listened to. she could hear it, in the subdued intonation of mr. rhys's words. "'keep yourselves in the love of god.' how shall we do it, eleanor?" she answered without raising her eyes--"'the lord is good unto them that wait for him.'" "and, 'if ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love.'" there was silence a moment. "that commandment must take me away for a while, eleanor." she looked up. "i thought," he said, with his sweet arch smile, "i might take so much of a honeymoon as one broken day--but there is a poor sick man a mile off who wants me; and brother balliol has had the schooner affairs to attend to. i shall be gone an hour. will you stay here? or shall i take you to the other house?" "may i stay here?" "certainly. you can fasten the door, and then if any visiters come they will think i am not at home. i will give solomon directions." "who is solomon?" "solomon is--i will introduce him to you!" and with a very bright face mr. rhys went off into his study, coming back again in a moment and with his hat. he went to a door opposite that by which eleanor had entered the house, and blew a shrill whistle. "solomon is my fast friend and very faithful servant," he said returning to eleanor. "you saw him at dinner--but it is time he should know you." in came solomon; a very black specimen of the islanders, in a dress something like that which eleanor had noticed on the man in the canoe. solomon's features were undeniably good, if somewhat heavy; they had sense and manliness; and his eye was mildly quiet and genial in its expression. it brightened, eleanor saw, as he listened to mr. rhys's words; to which she also listened without being able to understand them, and wondering at the warm feeling of her cheeks. solomon's gratulations were mainly given with his face, for all the english words he could get out were, "glad--see--misi risi"--mr. rhys laughed and dismissed him, and went off himself. eleanor was half glad to be left alone for a time. she fastened the door, not for fear, but that her solitude might not be intruded upon; then walked up and down over the soft mats of the centre room and tried to bring her spirits to some quiet of realization. but she could not. the change had been so sudden, from her wandering state of uncertainty and expectation to absolute content and rest, of body and mind at once, that her mental like her actual footing seemed to sway and heave yet with the upheavings that were past. she could not settle down to anything like a composed state of mind. she could not get accustomed yet to mr. rhys in his new character. as the children say, it was "too good to be true." a little unready to be still, she went off again into the room specially prepared for her, where the green jalousies shaded the windows. one window here was at the end; a direction in which eleanor had not looked. she softly raised the jalousies a little, expecting to see just the waving bananas and other plants of the tropical garden that surrounded the house; or perhaps servants' offices, about which she had a good deal of curiosity. instead of that, the window revealed a landscape of such beauty that eleanor involuntarily pulled up the blind and sat entranced before it. no such thing as servants or servants' offices. a wide receding stretch of broken country, rising in the distance to the dignity of blue precipitous hills; a gorge of which opened far away, to delight and draw the eye into its misty depth; a middle distance of lordly forest, with patches of clearing; bits of tropical vegetation at hand, and over them and over it all a tropical sky. in one direction the view was very open. eleanor could discern a bit of a pathway winding through it, and once or twice a dark figure moving along its course. this was vuliva! this was her foreign home! the region where darkness and light were struggling foot by foot for the mastery; where heathen temples were falling and heathen misery giving place to the joy of the gospel, but where the gospel had to fight them yet. eleanor looked till her heart was too full to look any longer; and then turned aside to get the only possible relief in prayer. the hour was near gone when she went to her window again. the day was cooling towards the evening. well she guessed that this window had been specially arranged for her. in everything that had been done in the house she had seen that same watchful care for her pleasure and comfort. there never was a house that seemed to be so love's work; mr. rhys's own hand had most manifestly been everywhere; and the furniture that mrs. caxton had sent he had placed. but mrs. caxton had not sent all. eleanor's eye rested on a dressing-table that certainly never came from england. it was pretty enough; it was very pretty, even to her notions; yet it had cost nothing, and was as nearly as possible made of nothing. yes, for she looked; the frame was only some native reeds or canes and a bit of board; the rest was white muslin drapery, which would pack away in a very few square inches of room, but now hung in pretty folds around the glass and covered the frame. eleanor just looked and wondered; no more; for the hour was up, and she went to her window and raised the jalousies again. she was more quiet now, she thought; but her heart throbbed with the thought of mr. rhys and his return. she looked over the beautiful wild country, watching for him. the light was fair on the blue hills; the sea-breeze fluttered the leaves of the cocoanut trees and waved the long thick leaves of the banana. she heard no other sound near or far, till the quick swift tread she was listening for came to her ear. nobody was to be seen; but the step was not to be mistaken. eleanor got to the front door and had it open just in time to see him come. they stood then together in the doorway, for the view was fair on the river side too. the opposite shore was beautiful, and the houses of the heathen village had a great interest for eleanor, aside from their effect as part of the landscape; but her shyness was upon her again, and she had a thorough consciousness that mr. rhys did not see how the light fell on either shore. at last he put his arm round her and drew her up to his side, saying, "and so you did not get my letters in sydney.--poor little dove!" it struck eleanor with a curious pleasure, these words. they would have been true, she knew, in the lips of no other mortal, as also certainly to no other mortal would it have occurred to use them. she was not the sort of person by any means to whom such an appellation would generally be given. to be sure her temper was of the finest, but then also it had a body to it. yet here she knew it was true; and he knew; it was spoken not by any arrogance, but by a purely frank and natural understanding of their mutual natures and relations. she answered by a smile, exceeding sweet and sparkling, as well as conscious, to the face that was looking down at her with a little bit of provoking archness upon its gravity; and their lips met in a long sealing kiss. husband and wife understood each other. perhaps mr. rhys knew it, for it seemed as if his lips could hardly leave hers; and eleanor's face was all manner of lights. "what has become of alfred?" he asked, in an irrelevant kind of manner, by way of parenthesis. "i have not seen him--hardly--since you left england. he is not under mamma's care now." "and my friend julia? you have told me but a mite yet about everybody." "julia is your friend still. but julia--i have not seen her in a long, long time." "how is that?" "mamma would not let me. o mr. rhys!--we have been kept apart. i could not even see her when i came away." "why?" "mamma--she was afraid of my influence over her." "is it possible!" "julia was going on well--setting her face to do right. now--i do not know how it will be. even our letters are overlooked." "i need not ask how your mother is. i suppose she is trying to save one of her daughters for the world." eleanor's thoughts swept a wide course in a few minutes; remembered whose hand instrumentality had saved her from such a fate and had striven for julia. with a sigh that was part sorrow and part gratitude, eleanor laid her head softly on mr. rhys's shoulder. with such tenderness as one gives to a child, and yet rarer, because deeper and graver, she was made at home there. "don't you want to take a walk to the chapel?" "o yes!"--but she was held fast still. "and shall we give sister balliol the pleasure of our company to tea, as we come back?" "if you please--if you like." "i do not like it at all," said mr. rhys frankly--"but i suppose we must." "think of finding the restraints of society even in fiji!" said eleanor trying to laugh, as she brought her bonnet and they set out. "you must find them everywhere--unless you live to please yourself;" said mr. rhys, with his sweet grave look; and eleanor was consoled. the walk to the church was not very long, and she could have desired it longer. the river shore, and the view on the other side, and the village by which they passed, the trees and the vegetable gardens and the odd thatched roofs--everything was pretty and new to eleanor's eyes. they passed all they had seen in coming from the landing that morning, taking this time a path outside the mission premises. past the house with the row of pillars in front, which eleanor learned was a building for the use of the various schools. a little further on stood the chapel. it was neat and tasteful enough to please even an english eye; and indeed looked more english than foreign on a distant view; and standing there in the wilderness, with its little bell-tower rising like a witness for all that was good in the midst of a heathen land, the feelings of those who looked upon it had need be very tender and very deep. "this chapel is dear to our eyes," said mr. rhys. "everything is, that costs such pains. this poor people have made it; and it is one of the best pieces of work in fiji. it was all done by the labour of their hearts and hands." "that seems to be the style of carpentry in this country," said eleanor. "the chief made up his mind on a good principle--that for a house of the true god, neither time nor material could be too precious. on that principle they went to work. the timber used in the building is what we call green-heart--the best there is in fiji. to find it, they had to travel over many a mile of the country; and remember, there are no oxen here, no horses; they had no teams to help them. all must be done by the labour of the hands. i think there were about eighty beams of green-heart timber needed for the house--some of them twelve and some of them fifty feet long. in about three months these were collected; found and brought in from the woods and hills, sometimes from ten miles away. while the young men were doing this, the old men at home were all day beating cocoanut husk, to separate the fibre for making sinnet. all day long i used to hear their beaters going; it was good music; and when at the end of every few days the woodcutters came home with their timber--so soon as they were heard shouting the news of their coming--there was a general burst and cry and every creature in the village set off to meet them and help drag the logs home. women and children and all went; and you never saw people so happy. "then the building was done in the same spirit. many a time when i was busy with them, overlooking their work, i have heard them chanting to each other words from the bible--band against band. one side would sing--'but will god indeed dwell on the earth? behold, the heaven of heavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that i have builded.'--then the other side would answer, 'the lord hath chosen zion; he hath desired it for his habitation.' i cannot tell you how sweet it was. there was another chant they were very fond of. a few would begin with solomon's petition--'have thou respect unto the prayer of thy servant, and to his supplication, o lord my god, to hearken unto the cry and to the prayer, which thy servant prayeth before thee to-day: that thine eyes may be open toward this house night and day, even toward the place of which thou hast said, my name shall be there: that thou mayest hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall make toward this place,'--and here a number of the other builders would join in with their cry--'hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall make!' and so in the next verse, when it came near the end the others would join in--'and when thou hearest, forgive!'--" "i should think you would love it!" said eleanor, with her eyes full of tears. "and i should think the lord would love it." "come in, and see how it looks on the inside." the inside was both simple and elegant, after a quaint fashion; for it was fijian elegance and fijian simplicity. a double row of columns led down the centre of the building; they looked like mahogany, but it was only native wood; and the ornamental work at top which served for their capitals, was done in sinnet. over the doors and windows triangular pediments were elaborately wrought in black with the same sinnet. the roof was both quaint and elegant. it was done in alternate open and close reed-work, with broad black lines dividing it; and ornamental lashings and bandings of sinnet were used about the fastenings and groinings of spars and beams. then the wings of the communion rail were made of reed-work, ornamented; the rail was a beautiful piece of nut timber, and the balusters of sweet sandal wood. the whole effect exceeding pretty and graceful, though produced with such simple means. "mr. ruskin ought to have had this as an illustration of his 'lamp of sacrifice,'" said eleanor. "how beautiful!--" "the 'lamp of truth,' too," said mr. rhys. "it is all honest work. that side was done by our heathen neighbours. the heathen chief sent us his compliments, said he heard we were engaged in a great work, and if we pleased he would come and help us. so he did. they built that side of the wall and the roof." "did they do it well?" "heartily." "do they come to attend worship in it?" "the chapel is a great attraction. strangers come to see--if not to worship,--and then we get a chance to tell the truth to them." "and mr. rhys, how is the truth prospering generally?" "eleanor, we want men!--and that seems to be all we want. my heart feels ready to break sometimes, for the want of helpers. i am glad of brother amos coming--very glad!--but we want a hundred where we have one. it is but a few weeks since a young man came over from one of the islands, a large and important island, bringing tidings that a number of towns there had given up heathenism--all wanting teachers--and there were no teachers for them. in one place the people had built a chapel; they had gone so far as that; it was at koroivonu--and they gathered together the next sunday after it was finished, great numbers of the people, filled the chapel and stood under some bread-fruit trees in front of it, and stood there waiting to have some one come and tell them the truth--and there was no one. my heart is ready to weep blood when i think of these things! the tongan who came with the news came with his eyes full of tears. and this is no strange nor solitary case of koroivonu." mr. rhys walked the floor of the little chapel, his features working, his breast heaving. eleanor sat thinking how little she could do--how much she would! "you have native helpers--?" she said gently. "praise the lord for what they are! but we want missionaries. we want help from england. we cannot get it from the colonies--not fast enough. eleanor,"--and he stopped short and faced her--"a few months ago, to give you another instance, i was beholder of such a scene as this. i was to preach to a community that were for the first time publicly renouncing heathenism. it was sunday."--mr. rhys spoke slowly, evidently exercising some control over himself; how often eleanor had seen him do that in the pulpit!-"i stood on the shores of a bay, reefed in from the ocean. i wish i could put the scene before you! on the land side, one of the most magnificent landscapes stretched back into the country, with almost every sort of natural beauty. before me the bay, with ten large canoes moored in it. an island in the bay, i remember, caught the light beautifully; and beyond that there was the white fence of breakers on the reef barrier. the smallest of the canoes would hold a hundred men; they were the fleet of thakomban, one of fiji's fiercest kings formerly, with himself and his warriors on board. "my preaching place was on what had been the dancing grounds of a village. i had a mat stretched on three poles for an awning--such a mat as they make for sails;--and around me were nine others prepared in like manner. this was my chapel. just at my left hand was a spot of ground where were ten boiling springs; and until that sunday, one of them had been the due appointed place for cooking human bodies. that was the place and the preparation i looked at in the still sunday morning, before service time. "at that time, the time appointed for service, a drum was beat and the conch shell blown; the same shell which had been used to give the war call. directly all those canoes were covered with men, and they were plunging into the water and wading to shore. these were thakomban and his warriors. not blacked and stripped and armed for fighting, but washed and clothed. they were stopping in that place on their way somewhere else, and now coming and gathering to hear the preaching. on the other side came a procession from the village; and down every hillside and along every path, i could see scattering groups and lines of comers from the neighbouring country. _these_ were the heathen inhabitants, coming up now to hear the truth and profess by a public act of worship that they were heathens no longer. they all gathered round me there under the mat awnings, and sat on the grass looking up to hear, while i told them of jesus." mr. rhys's voice was choked and he broke off abruptly. eleanor guessed how he had talked to that audience; she could see it in his flushing face and quivering lip. she could not find a word to say, and let him lead her in silence and slowly away from the chapel and towards the mission house. before entering the plantation again, eleanor stopped and said in a low voice, "what can i do?" he gave her a look of that moved sweetness she had seen in him all day, and answered with his usual abruptness, "you can pray." "i do that." "pray as paul prayed--for your mother, and for julia, and for fiji, and for me. do you know how that was?" "i know what some of his prayers were." "yes, but i never thought how paul prayed, until the other day. you must put the scattered hints together. wait until we are at home--i will shew you." he pushed open the wicket and they went in; and the rest of the evening eleanor talked to mrs. amos or to mr. balliol; she sheered off a little from his wife. there was plenty of interesting conversation going on with one and another; but eleanor had a little the sense of being to that lady an object of observation, and drew into a corner or into the shade as much as she could. "your wife is very handsome, brother rhys," mrs. balliol remarked in an aside, towards the end of the evening. "that is hardly much praise from you, sister balliol," he answered gravely. "i know you do not set much store by appearances." "she is very young!" both looked over to the opposite corner where eleanor was talking to mrs. amos, sitting on a low seat and looking up; a little drawn back into the shade, yet not so shaded but that the womanly modest sweetness of her face could be seen well enough. mr. rhys made no answer. "i judge, brother rhys, that she has been brought up in the great world,"--mrs. balliol went on, looking across to the ruffled sleeve. "she is not in it now," mr. rhys observed quietly. "no;--she is in good hands. but, brother rhys, do you think our sister understands exactly what sort of work she has come to do here?" "she is teachable," he answered with great imperturbability. "well, you will be able to train her, if she wants it. i am glad to know she is in such good hands. i think she has hardly yet a just notion of what lies before her, brother rhys." "when did you make your observations?" "she was with me, you know--you left her with me this morning. we were alone, and we had a little conversation." "mrs. balliol, do you think a just notion of _anything_ call be formed in half an hour?" his question was rather grave, and the lady's eyes wavered from meeting his. she fidgeted a little. "o you know best, of course," she said; "i have had very little opportunity--i only judged from the want of seriousness; but that might have been from some other cause. you must excuse me, if i spoke too frankly." "you can never do that to me," he said. "thank you, sister balliol. i will take care of her." mrs. balliol was reassured. but neither during their walk home nor ever after, did mr. rhys tell eleanor of this little bit of talk that had concerned her. chapter xx. at work. "my lady comes; my lady goes; he can see her day by day, and bless his eyes with her beauty, and with blessings strew her way." the breakfast-table was as much of a mystery to eleanor as the dinner had been. not because it looked so homelike; though in the early morning the doors and windows were all open and the sunlight streaming through on mrs. caxton's china cups and silver spoons. it all looked foreign enough yet, among those palm-fern pillars, and on the fijian mat with its border made of red worsted ends and little white feathers. the basket of fruit, too, on the table, did not look like england. but the tea was unexceptionable, and there was a piece of fresh fish as perfectly broiled as if it had been brought over by some genius or fairy, smoking hot, from an english gridiron. and in the order and arrangements of the table, there had been something more than native skill and taste, eleanor was sure. "it seems to me, mr. rhys," she said, "that the fijians are remarkably good cooks!" "uncommon, for savages," said mr. rhys with perfect gravity. "this fish is excellent." "there is no better fish-market in the world, for variety and abundance, than we have here." "but i mean, it is broiled just like an english fish. isaac walton himself would be satisfied with it." "isaac walton never saw such fishing as is carried on here. the natives are at home in the water from their childhood--men and women both;--and the women do a good deal of the fishing. but the serious business is the turtle fishing. it is a hand to hand conflict. the men plunge into the water and grapple bodily with the turtle, after they have brought them into an enclosure with their nets. four or five men lay hold of one, if it is a large fellow, and they struggle together under water till the turtle thinks he has the worst of the bargain, and concludes to come to the surface." "does not the turtle sometimes get the better?" "sometimes." "mr. rhys, have you any particular duty to-day?" "i don't see how you can keep up that form of expression!" said he, with a comic gravity of dislike. "why not?" "it is not treating me with proper confidence." her look in reply was so very pretty, both blushing and winsome, that the corners of his mouth were obliged to give way. "you know what my first name is, do not you?" "yes," said eleanor. "the people about call me 'misi risi'--i am not going to have my wife a fijian to me." the lights on eleanor's face were very pretty. with the same contained smile he went on. "i gave you my name yesterday. it is yours to do what you like with; but the greatest dishonour you can shew to a gift, is not to use it at all." "that is the most comical putting of the case that ever i heard," said eleanor, quite unable to retain her own gravity. "very good sense," said mr. rhys, with a dry preservation of his. "but after all," said eleanor, "you gave me your second name, if you please--i do not know what i have to do with the first." "you do not? is it possible you think your name is henry or james, or something else? you are rowland rhys as truly as i am--only you are the mistress, and i am the master." eleanor's look went over the table with something besides laughter in the brown eyes, which made them a gentle thing to see. "mr. rhys, i am thinking, what you will do to this part of you to make it like the other?" he gave her a glance, at which her eyes went down instantly. "i do not know," he said with infinite gravity. "i will think about it. preaching does not seem to do you any good." eleanor bent her attention upon her bread and fruit. he spoke next with a change of tone, giving up his gravity. "do you know _your_ particular duty to-day?" "i thought," said eleanor,--"that as yesterday you shewed me the head-carpenter, perhaps this morning you would let me see the chief cook." "that is not the first thing. you must have a lesson in fijian; now that i hope you are instructed in english." he carried her off to his study to get it. the lesson was a matter of amusement to mr. rhys, but eleanor set herself earnestly to learn. then he said he supposed she might as well see her establishment at once, and took her out to the side of the house where she had not been. it was a plantation wilderness here too, though particularly devoted to all that in fiji could belong to a kitchen garden. english beans and peas had been sown, and were flourishing; most of the luxuriance that met the eye had a foreign character. beautiful order was noticeable everywhere. mr. rhys seemed to have forgotten all about the servants; he pleased himself with leading eleanor through the walks and shewing her which were the plants of the yam and the kumera and other native fruits and vegetables. bananas were here too, and the graceful stems of the sugar cane; and overhead the cocoa-nut trees waved their feathery plumes in the air. "who did all this?" eleanor asked admiringly. "solomon--with a head gardener over him." "solomon is--i saw him yesterday?" "yes. he came with me from vulanga. he is a nice fellow. he is a christian, as i told you; and a true labourer in the great vineyard. i believe he never misses an opportunity to speak to his countrymen in a quiet way and tell them the truth. he has brought a great many to know it. in my service he is very faithful." "no wonder this garden looks nice," said eleanor. "i asked solomon one day about his religious experience. he said he was very happy; he had enjoyed religion all the day. he said he rose early in the morning and prayed that the lord would greatly bless him and keep him; and that it had been so, and generally was so when he attended to religious duties early in the morning. 'but if i neglect and rush into the world,' he said, 'without properly attending to my religious duties, nothing goes right. i am wrong in my own heart, and no one round me is right.'" "good testimony," said eleanor. "is he your cook as well as your gardener?" "i had forgotten all about the cook," said mr. rhys. "come and see the kitchen." near the main dwelling house, in this planted enclosure, were several smaller houses. mr. rhys at last took eleanor that way, and permitted her to inspect them. the one nearest the main building was fitted for a laundry. the furthest was a sleeping house for the servants. the middle one was the kitchen. it was a fijian kitchen. here was a large fireplace, of the original fashion which had moved eleanor's wonder in the dining-room; with a fijian framework of wood at one side of it, holding native vessels of pottery, larger and smaller, and variously shaped, for cooking purposes. some more homelike iron utensils were to be seen also; with other kitchen appurtenances, water jars and so forth. a fire had been in the fireplace, and the signs of cookery were remaining; but in all the houses, nobody was anywhere visible. "solomon is gone to collect your servants," said mr. rhys. "that explains the present solitude." "did he cook that fish?" "i have not tried him in cooking," said mr. rhys with a gravity that was perfect. "i do not know what he could do if he was tried." "who did it then?" his smile was wonderfully pleasant--now that it could be no longer kept back--as he answered, "your servant." "_you_, rowland! and the dinner yesterday?" "do not praise me," he said with the same look, "lest i should spoil the dinner to-day. i do not expect there will be anybody here till afternoon." "then you shall see what i can do!" "i do not believe you know how. i have been long enough in the wilderness to learn all trades. you never learned how to cook at wiglands." "but at plassy i did." "did aunt caxton let you into her kitchen?" "yes." "i shall not let you into mine." "she went with me there. i have not come out here to be useless. i will take care of the dinner to-day." "no, you shall not," said mr. rhys, drawing her away from the kitchen. "you have got enough to do to-day in unpacking boxes. there will be servants this evening to attend to all you want; and for the present you are my care." "rowland, i should like it." which view of the case did not seem to be material. at least it was answered in a silencing kind of way, as with his arm about her he led her in through the bananas to the house. it silenced eleanor effectually, in spite of being very serious in her wish. she put it away to bide another opportunity. mr. rhys gave her something else to do, as he had said. the boxes had in part been brought from the schooner, and there was employment for both of them. he drew out nails, and took off covers, and did the rough unpacking; while the arranging and bestowing of the goods thus put under her disposal kept eleanor very busy. his part of the work was finished long before hers, and mr. rhys withdrew to his study for some other work. eleanor, happy and busy, with touched thoughts of mrs. caxton, put away blankets and clothes and linen and calicos, and unpacked glass, and stowed on her shelves a whole store of home comforts and necessaries; marvelling between whiles at mr. rhys's varieties of power in making himself useful and wishing she could do what she thought was better her work than his--the work to be done in the kitchen before the servants came home. by and by, mr. rhys came out of the study again, and found eleanor sitting on the mat before a huge round hamper, uncovered, filled with australian fruit. this was a late arrival, brought while he had been shut up at his work. grapes and peaches and pears and apricots were crowded side by side in rich and beautiful abundance and confusion. eleanor sat looking at it. she was in a working dress, of the brown stuff her aunt's maids wore at home; short sleeves left her arms bare to the elbow; and the full jacket and hoopless skirt did no wrong to a figure the soft outlines of which they only disclosed. mr. rhys stopped and stood still. eleanor looked up. "mr. esthwaite has sent these on in the schooner unknown to me! what shall i do with them all?" "i don't know," said mr. rhys. "it is the penalty that attaches to wealth." "but you said you never were poor?" said eleanor, laughing at his look. "i never was, in feeling. i never was in an embarrassment of riches, either. i can't help you!" "but these are yours, rowland. what are you talking of?" "are you going to make me a present of the whole?" said mr. rhys, stooping down for a grape. "no, mr. esthwaite has done that. the embarrassment is yours." "i am in no embarrassment; you are mistaken. by what right do you say that mr. esthwaite has sent these to me?" "because he sent them to me," said eleanor. "it is the same thing." "that is dutiful, and loyal, and all that sort of thing," said mr. rhys, helping himself to another grape, and looking with his keen eyes and imperturbable gravity at eleanor. perhaps _he_ liked to see the scarlet bloom he could so easily call up in her cheeks, which was now accompanied with a little impatient glance at him. "nevertheless, i do not consider myself to be within the scope of the gift. the disposition of it remains with you. i do not like the responsibilities of other people's wealth to rest on my shoulders." "but this fruit is different from what we have on the island; is there not something you would like to have done with it?" "i should like you to give me one bunch of grapes--to be chosen by yourself." he looked on, with a satisfied expression of face, while eleanor's fingers separated and overhauled the fruit till she had got a bunch to her mind; and stood still in his place to let her bring it to him. then took possession of her and the grapes at once, neglecting the latter however entirely, to consider her. "what would you like to have done with the rest, rowland?" said eleanor, while her face glowed under his caresses and examination. "this is a very becoming dress you have on!" "i did not know you noticed ladies' dresses." "i always notice my own." eleanor's head drooped a little, to hide the rush of pleasure and shame. "but, rowland," she said with gentle persistence, "what _would_ you like to have done with that basket? isn't there some meaning behind your words about it?" "what makes you think so?" said he, curling the corners of his mouth in an amused way. "i thought so. please tell it me! you have something to tell me." "the fruit is yours, eleanor." "and what am i?" the tears came into her eyes with a little vexed earnestness, for she fancied that mr. rhys would not speak _because_ the fruit was hers. his manner changed again, to the deep tenderness which he had shewn so frequently; holding her close and looking down into her face; not answering at once; half enjoying, half soothing, the feeling he had raised. "eleanor," he said, "i do not want that fruit." "tell me what to do with it." "if you like to send some of those grapes to sister balliol, at the other house, i think they would do a great deal of good." "i will just take out a few for you, and i will send the whole basket over there just as it is. is there anybody to take it?" "do not save any for me." "why not?" "because i do not want anything more than i have got." "i suppose i may do about that as i please?" said eleanor, laughing a little. "no--you may not. i only want this bunch that i have in my hand, for a poor sick fellow whom i think they will comfort. if you feel as i do, and like to send the rest over to the mission house, i think they will be well and gratefully used." "but rowland, why did you not tell me that just at first?" she said a little wistfully. "do you feel as i do? tell me that first." but as eleanor was not ready with her answer to this question, of course her own got the go-by. mr. rhys laughed at her a little, and then told her she might get the house ready for dinner. very much eleanor wished she could rather get the dinner ready for the house; yet somehow she had an instinctive knowledge that it would be no use to ask him; and she had a curious unwillingness to make the request. "do you know," she said, looking up in his face, "i do not know how it is, but you are the only person i ever was afraid of, where my natural courage had full play?" "does that sentiment possess you at present?" "yes--a little." he laughed again, and said it was wholesome; and went off without seeming in the least dismayed by the intelligence. if eleanor had ventured that remark as a feeler, she was utterly discomfited. she went about her pretty work of getting the little table ready and acquainting herself with the details of her cupboard arrangements, feeling a little amused at herself, and with many deeper thoughts about mr. rhys and the basket of fruit. they were sitting in the study after dinner, alternately talking and studying fijian, when mr. rhys suddenly asked, "of whom have you ever been afraid, eleanor, where your natural courage did not have full play?" "mr. carlisle." "how was that?" "i was in a false position." "i feared that, at one time," said mr. rhys thoughtfully. "i was a bond woman--under engagements that tied me--i did not dare do as i felt. i understand it all now." "do you like to tell me how it happened?" "i like it very much. i want that you should know just how it was. i was pressed into those engagements without my heart being in them, and indeed very much against my will; but i was dazzled by a vision of worldly glory that made me too weak to resist. then thoughts of another kind began to rise within me; i saw that worldly glory was not the sufficient thing i had thought it; and as my eyes got clear, i found i had given no love where i had given my promise. then that consciousness hampered me in every action." "but you did not break with him--with mr. carlisle?" "because i was such a bondwoman, as i told you. i did not know what i might do--what was right,--and i wanted to do right then; till i went to plassy. aunt caxton set me free." mr. rhys was silent a little. "do you remember coming to visit the old window in the ruins, just before you went to plassy that time?" he said, looking round at her with a smile. his wife though she was, eleanor could not help a warm flush of consciousness coming over her at the recollection. "i remember," she said demurely. "it was in december." "what were you afraid of at that time?" "mr. carlisle." "did you think it was _he_ whom you heard?' "no. i thought it was you." "then why were you afraid?" "i had reason enough," said eleanor, in a low voice. "mr. carlisle had taken it into his head to become jealous of you." she answered with a certain straightforward dignity, but mr. rhys had a view of dyed cheeks and a face which shrank from his eye. he beheld it, no doubt, for a little while; at least he was silent; and ended with one or two kisses which to eleanor's feeling, for she dared not look, spoke him very full of satisfaction. but he never brought up the subject again. the thoughts raised by the talk about the basket of fruit recurred again a few days later. eleanor had got into full train of her island life by this time. she was studying hard to learn the language, and beginning to speak words of it with her strange muster of servants. housekeeping duties were fairly in hand. she had begun to find out, too, what mr. rhys had foretold her respecting visitors. they came in groups and singly, at all hours nearly on some days, to see the new house and the new furniture and the new wife of "misi risi." eleanor could not talk to them; she could only be looked at, and answer through an interpreter their questions and requests, and watch with unspeakable interest these strange poor people, and admire with unceasing admiration mr. rhys's untiring kindness, patience, and skill, in receiving and entertaining them. they wanted to see and understand every new thing and every new custom. they were polite in their curiosity, but insatiable; and mr. rhys would shew and explain and talk, and never seem annoyed or weary; and then, whenever he got a chance, put in his own claim for attention, and tell them of the gospel. eleanor always knew from his face and manner, and from theirs, when this sort of talk was going on; and she listened strangely to the unknown words in which her heart went along so blindly. when he thought her not needed, or when he thought her tired, mr. rhys would dismiss her to her own room, which he would not have invaded; and eleanor's reverence for her husband grew with every day, although she would not at the beginning have thought that possible. at the end of these first few days, eleanor went one afternoon into mr. rhys's study. he was in full tide of work now. the softly swinging door let her in without much noise, and she stood still in the middle of the room, in doubt whether to disturb him or no. he was busy at his writing-table. but mr. rhys had good ears, even when he was busy. while she stood there, he looked up at her. she was a pretty vision for a man to see and call wife. she was in one of the white dresses that had stirred mrs. esthwaite's admiration; its spotless draperies were in as elegant order as ever they had been for mrs. powle's drawing room; the rich banded brown hair was in as graceful order. she stood there very bright, very still, looking at him. "you have been working a long time, rowland. you want to stop and rest." "come here, and rest me," he answered stretching out his hand. "rowland," said eleanor when she had been standing a minute beside him. "mrs. balliol wants me to cut off my hair." mr. rhys looked up at her, for with one arm round her he was still bending attention upon his work. he glanced up as if in doubt or wonder. "i have been over to see her," eleanor repeated, "and she counsels me to cut off my hair; cut it short." "see you don't!" he said sententiously. "why?" said eleanor. "it would be the cause of our first and last quarrel." "our first," said eleanor stifling some hidden amusement; "but how could you tell that it would be the last?" "it would be so very disagreeable!" mr. rhys said, with a gravity so dryly comic that eleanor's gravity was destroyed. "mrs. balliol says i shall find it, my hair, i mean, very much in my way." "it would be in _my way_, if it was cut off." "she says it will take a great deal of precious time. she thinks that your razor would be better applied to my head." "than to what other object?" "than to its legitimate use and application. she wants me to get you to let your beard grow, and to cut off my hair. 'it's unekal'--as sam weller says." eleanor was laughing; she could not see mr. rhys's face very well; it was somewhat bent over his papers; but the side view was of unprovokable gravity. a gravity however which she had learned to know covered a wealth of amusement or of mischief, as the case might be. she knelt down to bring herself within better speaking and seeing distance. "rowland, what sort of people are your coadjutors?" "they are the lord's people," he answered. eleanor felt somewhat checked; the gravity of this answer was of a different character; but she could not refrain from carrying the matter further; she could not let it rest there. "do you mean," she said a little timidly, but persistently, "that you are not willing to speak of them as they are, _to me?_" he was quite silent half a minute, and eleanor grew increasingly sober. he said then, gently but decidedly, "there are two persons in the field, of whose faults i am willing to talk to you; yours and my own." "and of others you think it is wrong, then, to speak even so privately and kindly as we are speaking?" eleanor was very much chagrined. mr. rhys waited a moment, and then said, in the same manner, "i cannot do it, eleanor." he got up a moment after and went out of the room. eleanor felt almost stunned with surprise and discomfort. this was the second time, in the few days that she had been with him, that he had found her wrong in something. it troubled her strangely; and the sense of how much he was better than she--how much higher his sphere of living than the one she moved in--pressed her heart down almost to the ground. she stood by the writing-table where she had risen to her feet, with her eyes brimful of tears, but so still even to her eyelids that the tears had not overflowed. she supposed mr. rhys had gone out. in another moment however she heard his step returning and he entered the study. eleanor moved instantly to leave it, but he met and stayed her with a look infinitely sweet; turned her about, and made her kneel down with him. and then he poured out a prayer for charity; not merely the kindness that throws a covering over the failings of others, or that holds back the report of what they have been; but the overabounding heavenly love that will send its brightness into the dark places of human society and with its own richness fill the barren spots; and above all, for that love of jesus the king, that makes all his servants dear, for that spirit of christ that looks with his own love and forbearance on all that need it. and so, as the speaker prayed, he shewed his own possession of that which he asked for; so revealed the tender and high walk of his own mind and its near familiarity with heavenly things, that eleanor thought her heart would break. the feeling, how far he stood above her in knowledge and in goodness, while it was a secret and deep joy, yet gave her acute pain such as she never had felt before. she would not weep; it was a dry aching pain, that took part of its strength from the thought of having done or shewn something that he did not like. but mr. rhys went on to pray for her alone; and eleanor was conquered then. tears came and she cried like a little child, and all the hard pain of pride or of fear was washed away; like the dust from the leaves in a summer shower. she was so far healed, but she would have run way when they rose from their knees if he had permitted her. he had no such intention. keeping fast hold of her hand he brought her to a seat by the window, opened it, for the day was now cooling off and the sea-breeze was fresh; and taking the book of their studies he put her into a lesson of fijian practice; till eleanor's spirits were thoroughly restored. then throwing away the book and taking her in his arms he almost kissed the tears back again. "eleanor----" he said, when he saw that her eyes were wet, and her colour and her voice were fluttering together. "what?" "you must bear the inconvenience of your hair for my sake. tell sister balliol you wear it by my express orders." eleanor's look was lovely. she saw that the gentleness of this speech was intended to give her back just that liberty she might think was forbidden. humbleness and affection danced in her face together. "and you do not object to white dresses, rowland?" "never--when they are white--" he said with one of his peculiar smiles. "rowland," said eleanor, now completely happy again, "you ought to have those jalousie blinds at these windows. you want them here much more than i do." "how will you prove that?" "by putting them here; and then you will confess it." "don't you do it!" said he smiling, seeing that eleanor's eye was in earnest. "please let me! do let me! you want them much more than i do, rowland." "then you will have to let them stand; for they are just where i want them." "but the shade of them is much more needed here." "i could have had it. you need not disturb yourself. there is a whole stack of them lying under the shelves in your store-room." "why are they lying there?" said eleanor in great surprise. "i did not want them. i left them for you to dispose of." "for me! then i shall dispose some of them here." "not with my leave." "may i not know why?" said eleanor putting her hand in his to plead for it. "i do not want to fare too much better than my brethren," he answered with a smile of infinite pleasantness at her. eleanor's face shewed a sudden accession of intelligence. "then, rowland, let us send the other jalousies to mr. balliol to shade his study--with all my heart; and you put up mine here. i did not think about that before. will you do it?" "there are plenty of them without taking yours, child." "then, o rowland, why did you not do it before?" "i have an objection to using other people's property--even for the benefit of my neighbours"--he said, with the provoking smile in the corners of his mouth. "but it is yours now." "well, i make it over to you, to be offered and presented as it seems good to you, to brother balliol, or to sister balliol, for his use and behoof." "do you mean that i must do it?" "if it is your pleasure." "then i will speak of it immediately." "you can have an opportunity to-night. but eleanor,--you must call her, sister balliol." "i can't, rowland!" silence fell between the parties. mr. rhys's face was impenetrable. eleanor glanced at it and again glanced at it; got no help. finally she laid her hand on his shoulder and spoke a little apprehensively. "rowland--are you serious?" "perfectly." so he was, outwardly. "do you think it matters really whether i call her one thing or another? if it were mrs. amos, i should not have the least difficulty. i could call her sister amos. what does it matter?" "why can't you use a christian form of address with her as well as with me?" "do you consider it a matter of _principle?_" "only as it regards the feelings of the individual, in either case." mr. rhys's mouth was looking very comical. "would she care, rowland?" "i should like to have you try," he said, getting up and arranging his papers to leave. and eleanor saw he was not going to tell her any more. "what is the opportunity you spoke of, rowland?" "this is our evening for being together--it has hardly been a class before this, we were so few; but we met to talk and think together, and usually considered some given subject. to-night it is, the 'glory to be revealed.'" "that is what mr. amos and i used to do on board the schooner; and we had that subject too, just after we left tonga. so we shall be ready." "we ought to go there to tea; but i have to go over first to nawaile; it will keep me till after tea-time. do not wait for me, unless you choose." eleanor chose, and told him so. while he was gone she sat at the door of the house watching and thinking; thinking of him especially, and of things that his talk that afternoon had brought up. it was a pleasant hour or two. the sea-breeze fresh from the sea; the waving broad banana leaves; the sweet perfume of flowers, which were rarely profuse and beautiful in their garden; the beautiful southern sky of night, with the stars which eleanor had learned to know as strangers coming over in the ship, and now loved as the companions of her new home. stillness, and flapping of leaves, and sweet thoughts; until it was time to be expecting mr. rhys back again, and eleanor made the tea, that he might at least not miss so much refreshment. she knew his step rods off, and long before she could see him; his cup was all ready for him when he stepped in. he drank it, looking at eleanor over it; would stop for nothing else, and carried her off. "i had a happy time," he said as they went through the plantations. "i have been to see an old man who lies there dying, or very near it. he has been a christian two years. he is very glad to see me when i come, and ready to talk; but he will not talk with his neighbours. he says he wants to keep his thoughts fixed on god; and if he listened to these people they would talk to him of village affairs, and turn his mind off." "then, if you had a happy time, i suppose _he_ is happy?" "he is happy. how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace! think of old caesar, going to glory from the darkness of fiji. he said to me to-night--'i am weak, and i am old; my time is come, but i am not afraid to die; through jesus i feel courageous for death. jesus is my chief, and i wish to obey him: if he says i am yet to lie here, i will praise him; and if he says i am to go above to him, i will praise him. i do not wish to eat; his word is my food; i think on it, and lean entirely on jesus.'--do you know how good it is to be a missionary, eleanor?" they exchanged looks; that was all; they were at the door, and went in. the party there were expecting and waiting for them, and it was more than a common welcome, eleanor saw, that was given to them. she did not wonder at it. after exchanging warm greetings all round, she sat down; but mr. rhys began walking the floor. the rest were silent. there was a somewhat dim light from a lamp in the room; the windows and doors were open; the air, sweet with flowers and fresh from the sea, came in gently; the soft sounds of leaves and insects could be heard through the fall of mr. rhys's steps upon the matted floor. the hour had a strange charm to eleanor. silence lasted, until mr. rhys interrupted it with kneeling down for prayer. then followed one of those prayers, in which it always seemed to eleanor as if somebody had taken her hand, who was leading her where she could almost look in at the gates of that city which bunyan called the celestial. somewhere above earth it took her, and rapt her up as milton's angel is said to have descended, upon a sunbeam. one came to earth again at the end of the prayer; but not without a remembrance of where one had been. "sister balliol," said mr. rhys, "will you put us in mind concerning our subject this evening?" "it is the glory to be revealed; and i find that it is a glory to be revealed in us," mrs. balliol made answer. "sufferings come first. it is a glory that goes along with sufferings in the present life; but it is so much greater than the sufferings, that no comparison can be made of them. for my part, i do not think the glory would be half so much glory, if it were not for the sufferings going before." "to suffer with christ, and for him, that is glory now," said mr. rhys; "to have been so honoured will always be part of our joy. if any man suffer as a christian, let him not be ashamed, but rather let him glorify god on this behalf. those be tears that christ's own hand will wipe off; and what glory will that be!" "the word of god fails to express it," said mr. amos, "and calls it 'riches of glory.' riches of glory, to be poured into vessels prepared to receive it. surely, being such heirs, none of us has a right to call himself poor? we are heirs of an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and not subject to decadence or failure. we may well be content with our penny earnest in this life, who have such an estate coming in." "i feel poor very often," said gentle mrs. amos; "and i suppose that must be my own fault; for the word says, 'riches and honour are with me; yea, durable riches, and righteousness.'" "those are riches that none but the poor come into possession of," said mr. rhys. "the poor in spirit inherit the kingdom, and nobody else. it is our very emptiness, that fits us for receiving those unsearchable riches. but having those, sister amos, it is no deprivation of this world's good things that would make you feel poor?" "o no, indeed!" said mrs. amos. "i did not mean that sort of poor." "the rich he will send empty away"--mr. rhys went on. "so in the matter of suffering," said mr. balliol taking up the word. "if we are partakers of christ's sufferings now, we are told to rejoice. for when his glory is revealed, the word is, that we shall be glad also, and with exceeding joy. when his glory is revealed here, a little, now, we are glad; our joy seems to be exceeding, now, brother rhys. i wonder what it will be when god calls it exceeding joy!" there was a pause; and then mrs. amos, for the sake simply of starting eleanor, whose voice she knew in it, began softly the song, "burst, ye emerald gates!" she had her success, for eleanor with the others took up the words, and carried it--mrs. amos thought--where mr. rhys's prayer had been. when the song ceased, there was silence; till mr. rhys said, "eleanor!"--it was her turn to speak. "i do not believe," she said speaking low and slowly,--"that either sufferings, or premises, or duties, will bring the hope of glory into the heart; until jesus himself brings it there. and if he brings it, it hardly seems to me that sufferings will enhance it--except in so far as they lead to greater knowledge of him or are the immediate fruit of love to him; and then, as mr. rhys says, they are honour themselves already. the riches of the glory of this mystery, is _christ in you, the hope of glory_." mr. rhys was standing at the back of eleanor's chair, leaning upon it. he bent his head and whispered to her to tell her story that she had told him. at that whisper, eleanor would have steadily gone through the fire if necessary; this was not quite as hard; and though not for her own sake caring to do it, she told the story and told it freely and well. she told it so that every head there was bowed. and then there was silence again; till mr. rhys began, or rather went on with what she had been saying; in a voice that seemed to come from every heart. "'whom having not seen, ye love; in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory.' "friends, we have the present honour, of being christ's ambassadors. do we know what honour that is? 'whosoever shall receive this child in my name, receiveth me; and whosoever shall receive me, receiveth him that sent me.' that is honour under which we may tremble!"--and standing there at the back of eleanor's chair, mr. rhys began to talk; on the joy of carrying christ's message, the honour of being his servants and co-workers, and the gladness of bringing the water of life to lips dry and failing in death. he told the instance of that evening which he had told to eleanor; and leaving his station behind her, he walked up and down again, speaking as she had sometimes heard him speak, till every head was raised and turned, and every eye followed him. with fire and tears, speaking of the work to be done and the joy of doing it, and the need of more to do it; and of the carelessness people have of that glory which will make men shine as the stars for ever and ever. "ay, we shall know then, brother balliol, when the great supper is served, and christ shall gird himself, and make his faithful servants sit down to meat, and he shall come forth and serve them--we shall know then, if we are there, what glory means! and we shall know what it means to have no want unsatisfied and no joy left out!--when the lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of waters." mr. balliol answered-"if any man serve me, let him follow me; and where i am, there shall also my servants be: if any man serve me, him will my father honour." mr. rhys went on--"feed the flock of god which is among you, taking the oversight thereof, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind; neither as being lords over god's heritage, but being ensamples to the flock. and when the chief shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away." they knelt together again, and then separated; and the tropical moon lighted home the two who did not belong to mrs. balliol's household. the end. printing office of the publisher. typographical errors silently corrected: volume 1 chapter 1: =is no information?= silently corrected as =is no information?"= chapter 1: the following sentence is lacking in the tauchnitz edition: "who is that mr. rhys?" said eleanor. chapter 2: =that is what i think,= silently corrected as =that is what i think,"= chapter 2: =colored verbenas= silently corrected as =coloured verbenas= chapter 5: =nothing to signify= silently corrected as ="nothing to signify= chapter 5: ="much' is comparative= silently corrected as ="'much' is comparative= chapter 7: =pushed her hair= silently corrected as =pushed her chair= chapter 10: =and i am glad autumn= silently corrected as ="and i am glad autumn= chapter 10: ='let not your heart be troubled.'"= silently corrected as ="let not your heart be troubled."= chapter 11: =he said gravely.= silently corrected as =he said gravely,= chapter 11: =couteque coute= silently corrected as =coã»te que coã»te= chapter 13: =you must do it= silently corrected as ="you must do it= chapter 17: =to keep her,--= silently corrected as =to keep her.= volume 2 chapter 2: ='drink.'= silently corrected as ="drink."= chapter 3: =cotemporaries= silently corrected as =contemporaries= chapter 4: =do you find it= silently corrected as ="do you find it= chapter 6: =said her sister:= silently corrected as =said her sister,= chapter 9: =they are a desperate= silently corrected as ="they are a desperate= chapter 10: =no doubt he could.= silently corrected as =no doubt he could."= chapter 10: =my dear eleanor: --= silently corrected as ="my dear eleanor --= chapter 10: =do all things.'"= silently corrected as =do all things.'= chapter 10: =prayer, eleanor?"= silently corrected as =prayer, eleanor?= chapter 11: =each other's hearts,"= silently corrected as =each other's hearts,'= chapter 11: ="suppose that she have= silently corrected as ='suppose that she have= chapter 11: =unhappy for nothing.= silently corrected as =unhappy for nothing.'= chapter 11: ="for any other= silently corrected as ='for any other= chapter 12: ="lord, jehovah= silently corrected as ="'lord, jehovah= chapter 12: =do them good."= silently corrected as =do them good.'= chapter 12: =that was the beginning= silently corrected as ="that was the beginning= chapter 12: =r. r.= silently corrected as ="r. r."= chapter 13: =letter said. next= silently corrected as =letter said, next= chapter 15: ='praise the lord! --'= silently corrected as ="praise the lord! --"= chapter 15: ='amen!'= silently corrected as ="amen!"= chapter 16: =should have seen her= silently corrected as =should have seen her.= chapter 16: =like a woman?= silently corrected as =like a woman.= chapter 19: =never thirst.'"= silently corrected as =never thirst.'= chapter 19: =quantities with me?= silently corrected as =quantities with me.= chapter 19: =sinners adore.'"= silently corrected as =sinners adore.'= chapter 19: =these, were the heathen= silently corrected as =these were the heathen= chapter 20: =in the same manner.= silently corrected as =in the same manner,= chapter 20: ="whom having= silently corrected as ="'whom having= chapter 20: =full of glory."= silently corrected as =full of glory.'= 