When on the weary way to Golgotha, Christ fainting, and overcome under the burden of the cross, asked Salathiel, as he was standing at his door, for a cup of water to cool His parched throat, he spurned the supplication, and bade Him on the faster.

“I go,” said the Saviour, “but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come.”

And ever since then, by day and night, through the long centuries he has been doomed to wander about the earth, ever craving for water, and ever expecting the day of judgment which shall end his toils: 

    “Mais toujours le soleil se leve,
        Toujours, toujours
    Tourne la terre ou moi je cours,
    Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours!”

Sometimes, during the cold winter nights, the lonely cottager will be awoke by a plaintive demand for “Water, good Christian! water for the love of God!” And if he looks out into the moonlight, he will see a venerable old man in antique raiment, with grey flowing beard, and a tall staff, who beseeches his charity with the most earnest gesture.  Woe to the churl who refuses him water or shelter.  My old nurse, who was a Warwickshire woman, and, as Sir Walter said of his grandmother, “a most awfu’ le’er,” knew a man who boldly cried out, “All very fine, Mr Ferguson, but you can’t lodge here.”  And it was decidedly the worst thing he ever did in his life, for his best mare fell dead lame, and corn went down, I am afraid to say how much per quarter.  If, on the contrary, you treat him well, and refrain from indelicate inquiries respecting his age—­on which point he is very touchy—­his visit is sure to bring good luck.  Perhaps years afterwards, when you are on your death-bed, he may happen to be passing; and if he should, you are safe; for three knocks with his staff will make you hale, and he never forgets any kindnesses.  Many stories are current of his wonderful cures; but there is one to be found in Peck’s History of Stamford which possesses the rare merit of being written by the patient himself.  Upon Whitsunday, in the year of our Lord 1658, “about six of the clock, just after evensong,” one Samuel Wallis, of Stamford, who had been long wasted with a lingering consumption, was sitting by the fire, reading in that delectable book called Abraham’s Suit for Sodom.  He heard a knock at the door; and, as his nurse was absent, he crawled to open it himself.  What he saw there, Samuel shall say in his own style:—­“I beheld a proper, tall, grave old man.  Thus he said:  ’Friend, I pray thee, give an old pilgrim a cup of small beere!’ And I said, ’Sir, I pray you, come in and welcome.’  And he said, ’I am no Sir, therefore call me not Sir; but come in I must, for I cannot pass by thy doore.’”