The Young Pilgrim: A Tale Illustrative of "The Pilgrim's Progress"

by A. L. O. E.

The one represented a mossy ruin, gray with age, and near it a rustic gate, on which leaned a youthful pilgrim. A staff was in his hand, a burden on his back, and he was looking upwards, with an anxious eye, on the cloudy, lowering sky above him.

THE WELCOME BOX.

The other represented a clear broad river, glittering in the rays of the setting sun. Beyond it were banks clothed with verdure and beauty, with a rich, red glow over all, and the openings between the wreaths of golden clouds seemed to give glimpses of brighter glories beyond. The same pilgrim appeared, one foot still in the stream, the other on the beautiful shore; his face could not be seen, but the sunny beams shone like a halo round his head; the burden was gone, and instead of the staff his hand grasped the conqueror’s palm.

“How fondly he is remembered yet,” thought Clementina; “the brother’s love seems but to strengthen with time.” She was interrupted by the voice of her son Ernest.

“Mamma, see what a beautiful book Mr. Ewart has sent me! It looks like an old friend in a new dress, for I am sure that it is just the same as the one that you read to us on Sundays, only that mine is so prettily bound and illustrated, so I like it much better than yours.”

THE NEW BOOK.

“No binding could add to the value of mine,” replied the mother, with a gentle sigh; “it was given to me by a dear friend now in heaven, who was the first to teach me from its pages the way to the Celestial City. In the life and death of that young servant of God, early called to his endless rest, but not until his work was done, I find pictures of the scenes described in that book—they are to me Illustrations of the Pilgrim’s Progress!”

And now, dear Reader, you who have traced with me the steps of the Young Pilgrim, through the various stages of his mortal life, suffer one word from your friend ere we part. Do you know anything of the pilgrimage of which you have here read? I ask not, Have you walked soberly through Vanity Fair, keeping yourself unspotted from the world?—if you have struggled with Apollyon, and been conqueror in the fight, or passed with a firm and unflinching step through the Valley of the Shadow of Death? But have you stood beneath the cross of the Saviour, and found its power to remove the burden of sin? Have you ever even felt that sin is a burden, and knocked earnestly at the gate of Mercy? Or are you yet dwelling in the City of Destruction, thinking, caring nothing for the things belonging to your peace, laughing at the idea of a pilgrimage to Heaven, or putting it off for a more convenient season? Oh, for the sake of your own immortal soul, awake to your danger ere it be too late! The wicket-gate of Mercy is still opened to prayer; the blood which flowed from the cross still can wash away sin; the Holy Spirit is still willing to guide your steps on the narrow way, up the Hill of Difficulty, down the Valley of Humiliation, through sunshine and darkness, through life and through death—to the eternal mansions prepared for you in Heaven!