Within my house; yet would not kneel to pray
For my lost Israel, and would not weep
For Thy great Name denied.

And they returned to me, who had beheld
That morning's wonders. I, a man bereft
And God-forsaken, heard how God that day
Had spoken to the King, and done great things
In all the people's sight. I heard, and knew
Mine office taken by another. God,

Who saw me waiting, panting for His Word,
As for the water pants the thirsty hart,
Had called a man across the distant hills,
And giv'n to him my word, my message dread,
My courage to defy Death and the King,
And vindicate God's glorious Name from wrong.
And to my heart I said, I will arise

To seek the man who took my place this day:
For I must look into his face, and hear
His voice repeat the message,-dying then,
And leaving him mine office. Dark and cold,
And cruel too, my heart that day: I smiled
To think how terrible the legacy

Which I would leave to him who took my place;
An office which a man would scarcely hold
And live, a gift of burning coal, to hands
Which must not tremble, holding it for God,-
A robe of costly white, on which one stain
Meant shame and death.

I went to seek the man,
And found him sitting, weary, by the way,
With that deep weariness I knew so well
When I too bore the Burden of the Lord.
I did not spare the man who came to take
My holy office; I betrayed that day

The faithful soul to death. I brought him home, By that vain tale, that God, the God of Truth, Had changed the thing He spake.

Breathing on me from Heav'n. I knew not yet
What manner of Vision this should be, but full
My soul swept on between its banks, to meet
That Thunder of the Sea -till the meaning
burst

Articulate and awful from my mouth,
Searing the lips that spake it.

Thus I cried,

By sudden inspiration, to the man,
Who sat at mine own table, "Thou shalt die,
Dishonoured, and in exile: none shall sleep
Beside thee, whom thou lovest, for this day
Thou hast forgotten God, and disobeyed
The mandate of His mouth." And it was I,
I, who had tempted him with lying words,
Whom God appointed to pronounce His doom.
The Prophet whom I had betrayed, gazed full
Into my face (as one who meets with Death,
In some strange solitude, may look on him);
With eyes that slowly darkened, as they gazed,
Till all their light was quenched. A thick cloud
swept

Between God and his soul, and at noon-day
The sun went down.

And when I ceased to speak,-
Like a strong man awaking from a dream,
He sighed, and moved, then rose up in our

midst,

I brought him home, And gave him meat and drink, against the Word Which God had spoken. He was weak and faint, And worn with fasting; and he sat with me To eat and drink. And whilst we sat at meat, And converse held, I almost loved the man, Though he should take my place.

The Prophet's inspiration I had sought
So eagerly from God through weary nights
And thirsty days, rushed in upon my soul.
Ah! God is terrible! He gives to man
The gift too wildly sought, and gives it so

At length I found my Dead. The sun was sinking in a burning sea, And all the waiting hills around were swept By changing lights of purple and of gold,

And on the rich bright air the fragrance rose
Of evening flowers. And thus I came to him,
The wild rash Monarch of the forest stood
And gazed toward him spell-bound, with eyes
that wore

A glare of terror,—and I was aware

Of Angels keeping watch about the Dead,

With wings of terrible white, that took no glow
From all that glorious sunset in the West.
I wore no armour, like to his, who lay
Uplifted in the solemn arms of Death
Too high for fear or wrong; yet I,—undone,
Defenceless, weak in anguish and remorse,-
I braved them all! I faced the Messenger
Of Death, who waited, eager for his prey,
Until the Angel-guard should move or change;
And those white Angels, with their lightning
swords,

And eyes more terrible to sinful men

watch;

And worst of all to face-I strung myself—
To meet the look of him I had betrayed,
Awful in death, and dark with the wrath of God
Which had awakened on him. I knelt down
And saw his face. O God, my God, this night,
And every night, I bless thee for that look
He wore in sleep! The look of one, to whom
After a hopeless night had risen a Sun,
Too wonderful and sweet for waking eyes.
He lay asleep, forgiven and asleep.

Ah the closed eyes were not too darkly veiled
For me to read the secret of their light,
And the locked lips betrayed it, in a look
Which said the soul had smiled at its going forth.
With something like a tear upon his cheek,
And something like a child's surprise and joy
At unexpected sight of home and friends,
He lay asleep. Dear in the sight of God
The death of all His saints.

Was it this look,

Which angels saw on the great Prophet's face,
When, for one stain upon the whitest robe
Of meekness ever worn by saint on Earth,
He lay in Death, alone, upon the Mount ?
Rejected from his leadership, denied

And God was with us as we went; our God
Who had dealt wondrously with him who slept,
And would forgive me also: though my sins
Are countless as the sands. With that sweet
look

Of heavenly comfort on my Brother's face,
God gave me peace.

I long to sleep with him
And know the secrets of that speechless Rest.
It may be that, this very night, my God,
After so long a time, will think on me
And call me to Himself. And yet my soul
Is almost like a weaned child, and rests,
Content in Him, and cannot ask for Death.”

HE "Pilgrim's Progress"-from which we select our first portrait for study-is a well-filled album of the choicest spiritual photographs. One cannot easily spend a more delightful leisure hour than by taking the book in hand, and turning over the well-defined and artistically posited miniatures. There are few readers of the inimitable allegory who can have forgotten worthy Old Honest. There he sits in the house of Gaius mine host, the genial, hearty old man, in appearance not unlike the accepted portraits of John Bull, with a constant smile upon his kindly face, and his calm, clear eyes gazing down into your own when he speaks to you, --eyes from which none except the consciously deceitful shrink, though you feel that they are looking you through and through.

Old Honest is a man of well-tried genuine courage. And why shouldn't such as he be courageous? Let the wicked, with their uneasy consciences, flee when nobody pursues them; but let the righteous-and this is the Bible's synonym for Old Honest-let the righteous be bold as a lion. As Greatheart says, he is "a cock of the right kind,” for he is ready to fight all assailants on the king's highway "as long as breath is in him." But he is kindly, as well as courageous. So soon as he joins the group of pilgrims, he salutes them all with a holy kiss; and he asks their names, and how they have fared. Nay, there is something of the boyish in his genial kindliness; for when he is told that these are the wife and the children of Christian, he skips and smiles in the exuberance of his glee. As they sat around the table of good Gaius, "they were very merry;" and it is certain that a chief leader in this holy mirth-which is an excellent specific for many spiritual ailments-was our dear Old Honest. He it was who started the riddles, and who asked the host to crack one on a subject with which host and he had large acquaint

ance:

"A man there was, though most did count him mad,
The more he gave away the more he had."

There are some flowers which expand only in the full blaze of the sunshine, and which contract their petals when the day begins to decline; and like them, Old Honest unfolds his spiritual graces most fully among the saints, for nowhere else does he feel quite at home. In Mnason's house, when they had begun to be "a little cheery after their journey, Mr. Honest asked his landlord if there were any store of good people in the town?

"Mnason. We have a few; for indeed they are but a few, when compared with them on the other side.

"Honest. But how shall we do to see some of them? For the sight of good men to them that are going on pilgrimage is like to the appearing of the moon and stars to them that are sailing upon the seas."

Of course, old Honest is also a man of self-denial. Like all truly good characters, he reserves his graciousness for his neighbours, and spends his severity upon himself.

When Greatheart propounded his riddle,

"He that would kill must first be overcome; Who live abroad would, first must die at home." Honest had not far to seek the solution of a question with which practically he was so familiar. "Then said the old gentleman,—

66

He first by grace must conquered be,
That sin would mortify;

Who, that he lives, would convince me,
Unto himself must die."

And when we discover self-denial to be one of the elements of his character, we expect to find humility beside it; for humility and self-denial are inseparable. And so it is. When he first joined the pilgrims, and had told his birth-place, "Oh," said Mr. Greatheart, are you that countryman? Then I deem I have a half guess of you; your name is Old Honesty, is it not? So the old gentleman blushed and said, Not Honesty in the abstract, but Honest is my name; and I wish that my nature may agree to what I am called."

In this modesty of personal estimate, he has perfect sympathy with Standfast, whom they overtook on the enchanted ground, and who "blushed" when told that they had espied him on his knees. "Why, what did you think?" said Standfast. "Think!" said Old Honesty, "what should I think? I thought we had an honest man upon the road, and should have his company by-and-by." "If you thought not amiss," said Standfast, "how happy am I! But if I be not as I should, 'tis I alone must bear it." "That is true," said the other; "but your fear doth further confirm me that things are right between the Prince of Pilgrims and your soul; for he saith, 'Blessed is the man that feareth always.'”

And Honest has every reason to cherish this modest self-distrust. He knows very well that he is not a whit better than his neighbours, and he has witnessed in his neighbours quite enough to make him a very modest man. "I have seen," he remarked to Greatheart, "I

have seen some that have set out as if they would drive all the world afore them, who yet have, in few days, died as they in the wilderness, and so never got sight of the Promised Land. I have seen some who have run hastily forward, that again have, after a little time, run just as fast back again. I have heard some vaunt what they would do in case they should be opposed, that have, even at a false alarm, fled Faith, the pilgrim's way, and all."

So much for the admirable portrait in Bunyan's "Pilgrim;" but, as we do not design to dwell on it, however greatly we are tempted to do so, we shall go on to complete our own portraiture of the sainted father, though with a blunter pencil. Old Honest comes of an excellent stock, which might boast of a pretty lengthy pedigree; only Mr. Honest never thinks of glorying over his fellows, in a matter in which he has absolutely no personal merit whatever. The line of descent can be traced with considerable clearness back to Noah, of whom it is mentioned in the family registers that "Noah was an honest man, and upright in his generation, and Noah walked with God." Jacob, too, was in the line of descent, though there are certain grave inconsistencies recorded of him; still he was able to say, after twenty years' service to a dishonest master, "That which was torn of beasts I brought not unto thee; I bare the loss of it." Joseph, also, was of the family; and in the dungeon into which he was cast as an evildoer, he could say, "I have done nothing." Moses was the "Old Honest" of his day; and he could declare solemnly, in reply to his calumniators, "I have not taken one ass from them, neither have I hurt one of them." Samuel also was in the direct line; and so was David. The workmen of Joash and of Josiah, who executed the repairs of the Temple (2 Kings xii. 15; xxii. 7), were cadets of the family. Nehemiah was a genuine " Old Honest." So, too, was Daniel, of whom the family record states that his bitter enemies were compelled to say, "We shall not find any occasion against this Daniel except we find it against him concerning the law of his God." Paul was notably an "Old Honest." He could say-though of course only when there was occasion for the saying of it-"We have wronged no man, we have corrupted no man, we have defrauded no man." Not only was he careful to be really honest, but also to be seen to be so; " providing for honest things not only in the sight of God, but also in the sight of men." So far, however, was he from boasting of his integrity, that with the modest self-estimate of all the "Honest" family he says, "Pray for us, for we trust we have a good conscience, in all things willing to live honestly." And here we can scarcely deny ourselves the pleasure of noticing a little characteristic incident, illustrative of the apostle's courageous honesty, which is one of the traits of the family character. He had been brought up, a prisoner and perhaps in chains, to discourse to Felix and Drusilla, the more than regal procurator and his

beautiful companion. It would be hard to say what were the motives which induced Felix to send for the apostle. Perhaps his thievish palm was itching for the gold which he hoped should be given him of Paul; and he fancied that the interview might turn out to be a step towards the getting of the bribe. Perhaps, too, he had some curiosity to hear the apostle discoursing concerning the faith in Christ, and opening up questions which were being universally discussed. But stern "Old Honest" had other matters to speak of, before such an audience, than any one ism, versus any other. There sat, in regal state, an unscrupulous trafficker in justice, who cared nothing whether the coins which reached him had been got by honesty or fraud, if only the count were true. There sat beside him a jewelled and perfumed harlot—yes, a harlot; for her forsaken husband was still alive, and her conduct was no less vile that her person was most comely, and her rank above a queen's. And he-a prisoner at their mercy-what shall he say? Nay, what else could any genuine Old Honest say or do, except to discourse pungently of honesty, chastity, and a judgment to come? Let fancy paint the instructive scene in all its details. To the enthroned robber the prisoner-preacher speaks of honesty; to the bedizzened strumpet he discourses of chastity; while to both he presents the awful vision of an approaching judgment. No wonder that even a Felix trembled, and broke up the unprecedented interview with a "Go thy way for this time."

But we need not dwell any longer on the illustrious ancestry of our excellent friend. In his estimate all the names on the family register seem worthy to be forgotten beside One, of whom the record says, "He did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth." This incomparable One shall yet be known by His name of "Faithful and True." To Him, and to Him alone, belongs the appellation which our aged friend declined for himself, for He is "Honesty in the Abstract.”

As Old Honest mentioned to Greatheart, he was born in the town of Stupidity, which lies even farther off from the Celestial City than the City of Destruction does. From his natural disposition, and the training which he underwent in his native town, he came to be the honest man of this world; but a second birth and a further training by the Holy Spirit had been needed to make him the "Old Honest" that he is in things pertaining unto God. It is perfectly certain, however, that his character as a Christian owes very much of its form and complexion to the previous character which was impressed on him as a man. Perhaps it is the consciousness of this fact which makes him a little pungent in reproving Christian parents for any carelessness which he may witness in their training of their children. He assures them that the blemishes of the natural character shall be carried forward, with more or less modification, into the spiritual character; and, though a true conversion may yet save the soul which is now being badly trained, it will not preserve the subsequent

Christian life from being sadly marred by the evil habits which the neglected child is now acquiring.

In his family relations Old Honest is very happy. His wife, through the influence of admiration for her husband, and the power of holy habit, has become so assimilated to him in character, that her very features have become like his, and a stranger might take them to be brother and sister. She is, in fact, a sort of duplicate of himself, only with the lines a little less sharp; and she certainly comes up to the standard which the apostle demands in a deacon's wife, "grave, sober, faithful in all things."

As for his children, they are all consistent Christians. When they were young he trained them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord; and now, when they are older, they do not depart from the ways which grace and habit make so pleasant. Though it is only that peculiar form of honesty which is imparted by the second birth which can secure a welcome in the renewed heart for the divine seed of the Kingdom (see Luke viii. 15), still, even by their natural constitution, the whole family of the Honests are strongly disinclined to infidelity. What Haliburton says in his day is equally applicable in ours: "I found this sort of persons much more eager in searching after what might strengthen their doubts than what might satisfy them. This smelled rank of hatred of light." And though there are many unbelievers who are not actual infidels; yet, it is so dishonest to profess faith while one does not possess it, that the self-deception is possible only in the case of the degenerate and worldly relatives of our aged friend. Of the true and uncorrupted branch of the family, there is not a single Honest-no, not one-who neglects, much less who rejects, the claims of the Saviour. Indeed, so vital is the connection between true integrity and true godliness, that even such an observer as the pagan Cicero has said, "It is a question with me, whether, without piety towards the gods... that most excellent of all virtues, honesty, could subsist." And in our own day one is startled continually by the flagrant dishonesties of the heterodox. Not to speak at all of the finer phases of genuine uprightness, how striking is the fact that infidelity fails even in the low gross region of mere pocket-honesty. Witness a Strauss wishing to retain his chair of theology, with its emoluments, after he had ceased to believe in any theology whatever. Witness, too, a well-known bishop resisting the withdrawal of the income which had been given him for teaching Christian truth, while he is compassing sea and land to pull it down. Witness, too, the English Unitarians in the matter of Dr. William's legacy. And we can scarcely help thinking of a notorious case now pending before the ecclesiastical courts in England.

One of the most noticeable peculiarities of Old Honest is his perfect punctuality. You make an appointment with him at a certain hour, and somewhere between the first and the last stroke upon the bell of the adjoining steeple you are sure to hear his modest rat-tat upon

your knocker. Some say that time is money, and they speak of the want of punctuality as theft; but, though Old Honest does not use these strong expressions, he often says that time is life; and he seems to draw the inference in his own mind that unpunctuality is, therefore, virtual murder. At all events, he avoids the vice as much as he avoids the crime; and his friends would as soon expect him to rush on them with a lancet in hand in order to draw off a pint of blood, as to find him defrauding them of a portion of their life in the ordinary form of the fraud-stealing from them five or ten minutes of their time. Another shape in which his conscientious punctuality manifests itself is equally peculiar to him. When he receives, at any time, a borrowed book, he is impatient till he has read it, when it is immediately returned. Such a curiosity could not be found on Old Honest's shelves as a volume which had been lent to him years ago, and which now belongs to -to whom? Of course our friend takes a pleasure in attending to these little matters; for, as Scripture says, "It is a joy to the just to do judgment;" or, as we may vary the words without affecting the meaning, "It is a joy to an honest man to act honestly."

But there is another principle at work besides the mere pleasure of the thing; and that is the duty of it. His little vade mecum which he invariably uses, in order to settle all questions of relative duty, is a very portable one, and you never find him without it. It is really the smallest abridgment of human ethics in the world. You might write it with ease on your thumb-nail; while yet it comprehends as much as the entire library of the British Museum. It consists of these words, "All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them; for this is the law and the prophets." Another form which his scrupulous exactness takes, is his careful abstinence from all exaggerations in his speech. What he affirms he affirms as a man who speaks on oath, as a witness on a question of life and death.

We have named the word "duty," and duty is a favourite word with Old Honest. It seems to bulk very largely in his estimation. There is only one other name which he counts still more venerable; if, indeed, we do not wrong the old man by insinuating that he distinguishes between them,-for, to him, God and duty are not two, but one. He deems duty to be grand, only because he deems God to be so great; for duty owes its grandeur to the greatness of Him who wills it and commands it.

In regard to his methods of arranging for the discharge of these duties, we may apply to him, in a favourable sense, the poet's words,

"His duty in large measure, well pressed out,
But measured always."

In both respects this description is just. Old Honest gives as liberal measure as even his neighbour Mr. Generous; but, unlike Generous, he always gives by