Lavengro

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"Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about, I was burnt by
the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other
covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave; but nothing seemed
to affect my constitution; probably the fire which burned within me
counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three
years I scarcely knew what befel me; my life was a dream--a wild,
horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers,
and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people
least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless
clabber. Escaping from these beings, whose countenances and godless
discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran
wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some
degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors
of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the
idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus
anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me
seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I
could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was
running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which
beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I
strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a
venerable hale old man, who had hold of me. 'Let me go!' said I,
fiercely. 'I will not let thee go,' said the old man; and now, instead
of with one, he grappled me with both hands. 'In whose name dost thou
detain me?' said I, scarcely knowing what I said. 'In the name of my
Master, who made thee and yonder sea; and has said to the sea, so far
shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.'
'Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?' said I. 'He
has,' said the old man, 'but thy life is not thy own; thou art
accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go,' he
continued, as I again struggled; 'if thou struggle with me the whole day
I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says, in his 'Wrestlings of
Jacob;' and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of
my Master, stronger than thou;' and, indeed, all of a sudden I had become
very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation,
took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood
behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened
the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large
building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small
room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he
stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was,
indeed, haggard and forlorn. 'Who art thou?' he said at last. 'A
miserable man,' I replied. 'What makes thee miserable?' said the old
man. 'A hideous crime,' I replied. 'I can find no rest; like Cain, I
wander here and there.' The old man turned pale. 'Hast thou taken
another's life?' said he; 'if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to
the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best
proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this
world there may be much in the next.' 'No,' said I, 'I have never taken
another's life.' 'What then, another's goods? If so, restore them seven-
fold, if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience
accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only
satisfaction thou art able.' 'I have taken no one's goods,' said I. 'Of
what art thou guilty, then?' said he. 'Art thou a drunkard? a
profligate?' 'Alas, no,' said I; 'I am neither of these; would that I
were no worse!'

"Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then,
after appearing to reflect, he said, 'Young man, I have a great desire to
know your name.' 'What matters it to you what is my name?' said I; 'you
know nothing of me.' 'Perhaps you are mistaken,' said the old man,
looking kindly at me; 'but at all events tell me your name.' I hesitated
a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much
emotion, 'I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence! I have
heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago,
when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was
speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were
one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have
occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I
doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy
benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of
the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my
son.'

"He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for
some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was
saying, but when he concluded I said 'Amen.'

"And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short
time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females;
one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man,--the other was a
young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head,
Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man,--both
received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously
told them who I was.

"I staid several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater
portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed
on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered
my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day, my friend
said, 'I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me.' I
consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building
next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the
established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began
to preach. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,' etc.,
etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater
portion of it in my mind.

"The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon
himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to him with a humble and
contrite spirit, and begged his help. This doctrine was new to me; I had
often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so
distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I
expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious
sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite
spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of his cross, and
accept pardon through the merits of his blood-shedding alone. 'Therefore,
my friends,' said he, in conclusion, 'despair not--however guilty you may
be, despair not--however desperate your condition may seem,' said he,
fixing his eyes upon me, 'despair not. There is nothing more foolish and
more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than
despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.'

"This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read
in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be
forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the
next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of
necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me
that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in
Christ and in the merits of his blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ?
Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust
in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And
why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has
committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had
committed the sin against the Holy Ghost,--perhaps the only one who ever
had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and
yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who
bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah,
no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had
done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to
Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I
was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought
of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the
small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, 'O, yes, every one is to be
saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was
anything so horrible,--begone!' Once or twice the old man questioned me
on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he
looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to
him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was
delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions.
Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my
own church; there were many such in it, he said.

"I staid several days in the family, during which time I more than once
heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached, he exhorted his
hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife
frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have
already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar
interest in my fate.

"At last my friend said to me, 'It is now time thou shouldst return to
thy mother and thy brother.' So I arose, and departed to my mother and
my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and
his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when
my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and
my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first
emotions were subsided, my mother said, 'I trust thou art come in a lucky
hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died
and left thee his heir--left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I
trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my
old days.' And I answered, 'I will, if so please the Lord;' and I said
to myself, 'God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's favour.'

"And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about
twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but rather wild
district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied
myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however,
I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each
night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been
very heavy upon me, and I feared Him.

"There was one thing connected with my new abode, which gave me
considerable uneasiness--the want of spiritual instruction. There was a
church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally
performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little
benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a
valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering place,
entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who
gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now I wanted every
Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement,
similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and
venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one
day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious
man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind;
whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said, 'Master, the want
of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the
Methodists.' 'The Methodists,' said I; 'are there any in these parts?'
'There is a chapel,' said he, 'only half a mile distant, at which there
are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.' Now it
happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and
when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him, 'May I go
with you next Sunday?' 'Why not?' said he; so I went with the labourer
on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists.

"I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it
was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being
in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and
I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular
member of the body at that time.

"I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain
extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of
his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest plain men, not
exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of
people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them
were with me, one of them enquired whether I was fervent in prayer. 'Very
fervent,' said I. 'And do you read the Scriptures often?' said he. 'No,'
said I. 'Why not?' said he. 'Because I am afraid to see there my own
condemnation.' They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time.
On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with
fervency and prayer.

"As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the
Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in
my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated,
but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet
forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on,
my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity.
Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many
is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always
fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the
books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend,
hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an
ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to
Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The
latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its
wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world.

"But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is
not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of
husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise
books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion
with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my
pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long
winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I
had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly
before my mind's eye, decked with quiet graces--hang not down your head,
Winifred--and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish
her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible
to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both
selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost
creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the
Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as
to whether I should make the attempt or not--selfishness however
prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that
occurred at this period--suffice it to say that I made my suit and was
successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated,
and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid
that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was
pleased that I had adopted his profession--we are all weak creatures.
With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I
soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and
here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I
may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly
deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her,
friend; and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our
time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and
there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied
herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books
of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy
songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps
admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an
ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you
despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently,
and my wife admired my gift of prayer.

"One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn,
my wife said, 'This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and
pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books,
and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book
of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you
edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.' And
when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own
condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I
commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for
a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so
that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much
the while, so that I was almost happy,--taking pleasure in everything
around me,--in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the
Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling
particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I
would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a
neighbour--oh, God--God! I came to the fatal passage.

"Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me,
asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans--for
three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the
kindness and solicitude of my wife! 'What is the matter, husband, dear
husband?' she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My
wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is
hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I
told my wife the tale, as we sat one night--it was a mid-winter
night--over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired
to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now.

"I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not;
her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last
she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she
said--what do you think my wife said, young man?"

"It is impossible for me to guess," said I.

"'Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless.'"

CHAPTER LXXVII.

Getting Late--Seven Years Old--Chastening--Go Forth--London Bridge--Same
Eyes--Common Occurrence--Very Sleepy.

"And so I still say," said Winifred, sobbing. "Let us retire to rest,
dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that
your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it
eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it
is getting late."

"Rest!" said Peter; "there is no rest for the wicked!"

"We are all wicked," said Winifred; "but you are afraid of a shadow. How
often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against
the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you
are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to
be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never
committed."

"Then you will still maintain," said Peter, "that I never committed the
sin against the Holy Spirit?"

"I will," said Winifred; "you never committed it. How should a child
seven years old commit a sin like that?"

"Have I not read my own condemnation?" said Peter. "Did not the first
words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? 'He who committeth
the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of
God.'"

"You never committed it," said Winifred.

"But the words! the words! the words!" said Peter.

"The words are true words," said Winifred, sobbing; "but they were not
meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who,
having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master."

"And what sayst thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?"
said Peter. "Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years,
like Merddin Wyllt of yore? thinkest thou that I opened the book at that
particular passage by chance?"

"No," said Winifred, "not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you,
doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself.
The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and
therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage."

"Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?" said Peter,
with a groan. "Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me
that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred!
hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin."

"Thou hast not committed it," said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently.
"Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed
it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to
convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent
thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy
eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and
wisdom of His ways."

"I see thou wouldst comfort me," said Peter, "as thou hast often before
attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion."

"I have not yet heard the whole of your history," said I.

"My story is nearly told," said Peter; "a few words will complete it. My
wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which
you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor
comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of
despair; when one day Winifred said to me, 'I see thou wilt be lost if we
remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband,
into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.' 'And what
can I do in the wide world?' said I, despondingly. 'Much,' replied
Winifred, 'if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with
the blessing of God.' Many things of the same kind she said to me; and
at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed
of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did
all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick,
and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor
of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred
urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I--I--outcast
Peter, became the preacher, Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted
to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for
thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and
ministering to them, with Winifred by my side hearkening me on.
Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on
the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the
outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told;
you seem in thought!"

"I am thinking of London Bridge," said I.

"Of London Bridge!" said Peter and his wife.

"Yes," said I, "of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to
London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the
point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient
gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and
there I found written, 'Each one carries in his breast the recollection
of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O! if men could but look into
each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there!'"

"That's true," said Peter. "What is the name of the book?"

"'The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders.'"