in my country, said Old Honest.  I was one of the biggest of those icebergs myself, he said.  No man was ever more cold and senseless to divine things than I was, and still sometimes am.  It takes the Sun of Righteousness all His might to melt the men of my country.  But that He can do it when He rises to do it, and when He puts out His full strength to do it—­Look at me! said the genial old soul.

We have to construct this pilgrim’s birth and boyhood and youth from his after-character and conversation; and we have no difficulty at all in doing that.  For, if the child is the father of the man, then the man must be the outcome of the child, and we can have no hesitation in picturing to ourselves what kind of child and boy and young man dear Old Honest must always have been.  He never was a bright child, bright and beaming old man as he is.  He was always slow and heavy at his lessons; indeed, I would not like to repeat to you all the bad names that his schoolmasters sometimes in their impatience called the stupid child.  Only, this was to be said of him, that dulness of uptake and disappointment of his teachers were the worst things about this poor boy; he was not so ill-behaved as many were who were made more of.  When his wits began to waken up after he had come some length he had no little leeway to make up in his learning; but that was the chief drawback to Old Honest’s pilgrimage.  For one thing, no young man had a cleaner record behind him than our Honest had; his youthful garments were as unspotted as ever any pilgrim’s garments were.  Even as a young man he had had the good sense to keep company with one Good-conscience; and that friend of his youth kept true to Old Honest all his days, and even lent him his hand and helped him over the river at last.  In his own manly, hearty, blunt, breezy, cheery, and genial way Old Honest is a pilgrim we could ill have spared.  Old Honest has a warm place all for himself in every good and honest heart.

“Now, a little before the pilgrims stood an oak, and under it when they came up to it they found an old pilgrim fast asleep; they knew that he was a pilgrim by his clothes and his staff and his girdle.  So the guide, Mr. Greatheart, awaked him, and the old gentleman, as he lifted up his eyes, cried out:  What’s the matter?  Who are you?  And what is your business here?  Come, man, said the guide, be not so hot; here is none but friends!  Yet the old man gets up and stands upon his guard, and will know of them what they are.”  That weather-beaten oak-tree under which we first meet with Old Honest is an excellent emblem of the man.  When he sat down to rest his old bones that day he did not look out for a bank of soft moss or for a bed of fragrant roses; that knotted oak-tree alone had power to draw down under its sturdy trunk this heart of human oak.  It was a sight to see those thin grey haffets making a soft pillow of that jutting knee of gnarled and knotty oak, and with his well-worn quarterstaff held close in a hand all wrinkled skin and scraggy bone.  And from that day till he waved his quarterstaff when half over the river and shouted, Grace reigns! there is no pilgrim of them all that affords us half the good humour, sagacity, continual entertainment, and brave encouragement we enjoy through this same old Christian gentleman.