“They drew nigh to a very miry slough1, that was in the midst of the plain; and they being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog2. The name of the slough was Despond.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
Evening had closed in with rain and storm, and all the children had returned to the cottage of their mother. A dirty, uncomfortable abode4 it looked, most unlike those beautiful little homes of the peasant which we see so often in dear old England, with the ivy-covered porch, and the clean-washed floor, the kettle singing merrily above the cheerful fire, the neat rows of plates ranged on the shelf, the prints upon the wall, and the large Bible in the corner.
No; this was a cheerless-looking place, quite as much from idleness and neglect as from poverty. The holes in the window were stuffed with rags, the little garden in front held nothing but weeds, the brick floor appeared as though it had never been clean, and everything lay about in confusion. An untidy-looking woman, with
[26]
her shoes down at heel, and her hair hanging loose about her ears, had placed the evening meal on the table; and round it now sat the four children, busy with their supper, but not so busy as to prevent a constant buzz of talking from going on all the time that they ate.
“I say, Mark,” cried Jack5, “what did the parson pay you for listening to him for an hour?”
“How much did you get out of him?” said Madge.
“Any money?” asked Ann Dowley, looking up eagerly.
Mark laid sixpence on the table.
“I daresay that you might have got more,” said Ben.
“I did get more—but not money.”
“What, food, or clothes, or—”
“Not food, nor clothes, but good words, which were better to me than gold.”
This announcement was received with a roar of laughter, which did not, however, disconcert Mark.
“Look you,” he said, as soon as they were sufficiently6 quiet to hear him, “look you if what I said be not true. You only care for things that belong to this life, but it is no more to be compared to the life that is to come than a candle to the sun, or a leaf to the forest! Why, where shall we all be a hundred years hence?”
“In our graves, to be sure,” said Ben.
[27]
“That is only our bodies—our poor, weak bodies; but our souls, that think, and hope, and fear, where will they be then?”
“We don’t want to look on so far,” observed Jack.
“But it may not be far,” exclaimed Mark. “Thousands of children die younger than we, there are many, many small graves in the churchyard; death may be near to us, it may be close at hand, and where will our souls be then?”
“I don’t know,” said Madge; “I don’t want to think,” subjoined her elder brother; their mother only heaved a deep sigh.
“Is it not something,” continued Mark, “to hear of the way to a place where our souls may be happy when our bodies are dust? Is it not something to look forward to a glorious heaven, where millions and millions of years may be spent amongst joys far greater than we can think, and yet never bring us nearer to the end of our happiness and glory?”
“Oh, these are all dreams,” laughed Jack, “that come from reading in that book.”
“They are not dreams!” exclaimed Mark, with earnestness, “they are more real than anything on earth. Everything is changing here, nothing is sure; flowers bloom one day and are withered7 the next; now there is sunshine, and now there is gloom; you see a man strong and healthy, and the next thing you hear of
[28]
him perhaps is his death! All things are changing and passing away, just like a dream when we awake; but heaven and its delights are sure, quite sure; the rocks may be moved—but it never can be changed; the sun may be darkened—it is all bright for ever!”
“Oh that we might reach it!” exclaimed Ann Dowley, the tears rising into her eyes. Her sons looked at her in wonder, for they had never known their mother utter such a sentence before. To them Mark’s enthusiasm seemed folly8 and madness, and they could not hide their surprise at the effect which it produced upon one so much older than themselves.
Ann Dowley had been brought up to better things, and had received an education very superior to the station in which she had been placed by her marriage. For many years she had been a servant in respectable families, and though all was now changed—how miserably9 changed!—she could not forget much that she had once seen and heard. She was not ignorant, though low and coarse-minded, and it was perhaps from this circumstance that her family were decidedly more intelligent than country children of their age usually are. Ann could read well, but her only stock of books consisted of some dirty novels, broken-backed and torn—she would have done well to have used them to light the fire. She was one who had never cared much for religion, who had not sought the Creator in the days of
[29]
her youth; but she was unhappy now, united to a husband whom she dreaded10, and could not respect—whose absence for a season was an actual relief; she was poor, and she doubly felt the sting of poverty from having once been accustomed to comfort—and Mark’s description of peace, happiness, and joy, touched a chord in her heart that had been silent for long.
MARK AND HIS MOTHER.
“You too desire to reach heaven!” cried Mark, with animation11 sparkling in his eyes; “oh, mother, we will be pilgrims together, struggle on together in the narrow way, and be happy for ever and ever!”
[30]
The three younger children, who had no taste for conversation such as this, having finished their meal slunk into the back room, to gamble away farthings as they had learned to do from their father. Ann sat down by the fire opposite to Mark, a more gentle expression than usual upon her face, and pushing back the hair from her brow, listened, leaning on her hand.
“I will tell you, mother, what the clergyman told me—I wish that I could remember every word. He said that God would guide us by his counsel here, and afterward12 receive us to glory. And he spoke13 of that glory, that dazzling, endless glory! Oh, mother, how wretched and dark seems this earth when we think of the blessedness to come!”
“But that blessedness may not be for us,” said Ann.
“He said that it was for those who had faith, who believed in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“I believe,” said the woman, “I never doubted the Bible; I used to read it when I was a child.”
“We will read mine together now, mother.”
“And what more did the clergyman tell you?”
“He told me that the faith which brings us to heaven will be sure to produce—” Mark paused to recall the exact words—“repentance, love, and a holy life.”
“A holy life!” repeated Ann, slowly. Painful thoughts crossed her mind of many things constantly
[31]
done that ought not to be done, habits hard to be parted with as a right hand or a right eye; holiness seemed something as far beyond her reach as the moon which was now rising in the cloudy sky; she folded her hands with a gloomy smile, and said, “If that be needful, we may as well leave all these fine hopes to those who have some chance of winning what they wish!”
“The way is not shut to us.”
“I tell you that it is,” said the woman, impatiently; for the little gleam of hope that had dawned on her soul had given place to sullen14 despair. “To be holy you must be truthful15 and honest—we are placed in a situation where we cannot be truthful, we cannot be honest, we cannot serve God! It is all very well for the rich and the happy; the narrow way to them may be all strewed16 with flowers, but to us it is closed—and for ever!” She clenched17 her hand with a gesture of despair.
“But, mother—”
“Talk no more,” she said, rising from her seat; “do you think that your father would stand having a saint for his wife, or his son! We have gone so far that we cannot turn back, we cannot begin life again like children—never speak to me again on these matters!” and, so saying, Ann quitted the room, further than ever from the strait gate that leadeth unto life, more determined18 to pursue her own unhappy career.
[32]
The heart of Mark sank within him. Here was disappointment to the young pilgrim at the very outset: fear, doubt, and difficulty enclosed him round, and hope was but as a dim, distant light before him. But help seemed given to the lonely boy, more lonely amid his unholy companions than if he had indeed stood by himself in the world. He looked out on the pure, pale moon in the heavens: the dark clouds were driving across her path, sometimes seeming to blot19 her from the sky; then a faint, hazy20 light would appear from behind them; then a slender, brilliant rim3 would be seen; and at last the full orb21 would shine out in glory, making even the clouds look bright!
“See how these clouds chase each other, and crowd round the moon, as if they would block up her way!” thought Mark. “They are like the trials before me now, but bravely she keeps on her path through all and I must not—I will not despair!”
No; this was a cheerless-looking place, quite as much from idleness and neglect as from poverty. The holes in the window were stuffed with rags, the little garden in front held nothing but weeds, the brick floor appeared as though it had never been clean, and everything lay about in confusion. An untidy-looking woman, with
[26]
her shoes down at heel, and her hair hanging loose about her ears, had placed the evening meal on the table; and round it now sat the four children, busy with their supper, but not so busy as to prevent a constant buzz of talking from going on all the time that they ate.
“I say, Mark,” cried Jack5, “what did the parson pay you for listening to him for an hour?”
“How much did you get out of him?” said Madge.
“Any money?” asked Ann Dowley, looking up eagerly.
Mark laid sixpence on the table.
“I daresay that you might have got more,” said Ben.
“I did get more—but not money.”
“What, food, or clothes, or—”
“Not food, nor clothes, but good words, which were better to me than gold.”
This announcement was received with a roar of laughter, which did not, however, disconcert Mark.
“Look you,” he said, as soon as they were sufficiently6 quiet to hear him, “look you if what I said be not true. You only care for things that belong to this life, but it is no more to be compared to the life that is to come than a candle to the sun, or a leaf to the forest! Why, where shall we all be a hundred years hence?”
“In our graves, to be sure,” said Ben.
[27]
“That is only our bodies—our poor, weak bodies; but our souls, that think, and hope, and fear, where will they be then?”
“We don’t want to look on so far,” observed Jack.
“But it may not be far,” exclaimed Mark. “Thousands of children die younger than we, there are many, many small graves in the churchyard; death may be near to us, it may be close at hand, and where will our souls be then?”
“I don’t know,” said Madge; “I don’t want to think,” subjoined her elder brother; their mother only heaved a deep sigh.
“Is it not something,” continued Mark, “to hear of the way to a place where our souls may be happy when our bodies are dust? Is it not something to look forward to a glorious heaven, where millions and millions of years may be spent amongst joys far greater than we can think, and yet never bring us nearer to the end of our happiness and glory?”
“Oh, these are all dreams,” laughed Jack, “that come from reading in that book.”
“They are not dreams!” exclaimed Mark, with earnestness, “they are more real than anything on earth. Everything is changing here, nothing is sure; flowers bloom one day and are withered7 the next; now there is sunshine, and now there is gloom; you see a man strong and healthy, and the next thing you hear of
[28]
him perhaps is his death! All things are changing and passing away, just like a dream when we awake; but heaven and its delights are sure, quite sure; the rocks may be moved—but it never can be changed; the sun may be darkened—it is all bright for ever!”
“Oh that we might reach it!” exclaimed Ann Dowley, the tears rising into her eyes. Her sons looked at her in wonder, for they had never known their mother utter such a sentence before. To them Mark’s enthusiasm seemed folly8 and madness, and they could not hide their surprise at the effect which it produced upon one so much older than themselves.
Ann Dowley had been brought up to better things, and had received an education very superior to the station in which she had been placed by her marriage. For many years she had been a servant in respectable families, and though all was now changed—how miserably9 changed!—she could not forget much that she had once seen and heard. She was not ignorant, though low and coarse-minded, and it was perhaps from this circumstance that her family were decidedly more intelligent than country children of their age usually are. Ann could read well, but her only stock of books consisted of some dirty novels, broken-backed and torn—she would have done well to have used them to light the fire. She was one who had never cared much for religion, who had not sought the Creator in the days of
[29]
her youth; but she was unhappy now, united to a husband whom she dreaded10, and could not respect—whose absence for a season was an actual relief; she was poor, and she doubly felt the sting of poverty from having once been accustomed to comfort—and Mark’s description of peace, happiness, and joy, touched a chord in her heart that had been silent for long.
MARK AND HIS MOTHER.
“You too desire to reach heaven!” cried Mark, with animation11 sparkling in his eyes; “oh, mother, we will be pilgrims together, struggle on together in the narrow way, and be happy for ever and ever!”
[30]
The three younger children, who had no taste for conversation such as this, having finished their meal slunk into the back room, to gamble away farthings as they had learned to do from their father. Ann sat down by the fire opposite to Mark, a more gentle expression than usual upon her face, and pushing back the hair from her brow, listened, leaning on her hand.
“I will tell you, mother, what the clergyman told me—I wish that I could remember every word. He said that God would guide us by his counsel here, and afterward12 receive us to glory. And he spoke13 of that glory, that dazzling, endless glory! Oh, mother, how wretched and dark seems this earth when we think of the blessedness to come!”
“But that blessedness may not be for us,” said Ann.
“He said that it was for those who had faith, who believed in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“I believe,” said the woman, “I never doubted the Bible; I used to read it when I was a child.”
“We will read mine together now, mother.”
“And what more did the clergyman tell you?”
“He told me that the faith which brings us to heaven will be sure to produce—” Mark paused to recall the exact words—“repentance, love, and a holy life.”
“A holy life!” repeated Ann, slowly. Painful thoughts crossed her mind of many things constantly
[31]
done that ought not to be done, habits hard to be parted with as a right hand or a right eye; holiness seemed something as far beyond her reach as the moon which was now rising in the cloudy sky; she folded her hands with a gloomy smile, and said, “If that be needful, we may as well leave all these fine hopes to those who have some chance of winning what they wish!”
“The way is not shut to us.”
“I tell you that it is,” said the woman, impatiently; for the little gleam of hope that had dawned on her soul had given place to sullen14 despair. “To be holy you must be truthful15 and honest—we are placed in a situation where we cannot be truthful, we cannot be honest, we cannot serve God! It is all very well for the rich and the happy; the narrow way to them may be all strewed16 with flowers, but to us it is closed—and for ever!” She clenched17 her hand with a gesture of despair.
“But, mother—”
“Talk no more,” she said, rising from her seat; “do you think that your father would stand having a saint for his wife, or his son! We have gone so far that we cannot turn back, we cannot begin life again like children—never speak to me again on these matters!” and, so saying, Ann quitted the room, further than ever from the strait gate that leadeth unto life, more determined18 to pursue her own unhappy career.
[32]
The heart of Mark sank within him. Here was disappointment to the young pilgrim at the very outset: fear, doubt, and difficulty enclosed him round, and hope was but as a dim, distant light before him. But help seemed given to the lonely boy, more lonely amid his unholy companions than if he had indeed stood by himself in the world. He looked out on the pure, pale moon in the heavens: the dark clouds were driving across her path, sometimes seeming to blot19 her from the sky; then a faint, hazy20 light would appear from behind them; then a slender, brilliant rim3 would be seen; and at last the full orb21 would shine out in glory, making even the clouds look bright!
“See how these clouds chase each other, and crowd round the moon, as if they would block up her way!” thought Mark. “They are like the trials before me now, but bravely she keeps on her path through all and I must not—I will not despair!”
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1
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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2
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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3
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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4
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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5
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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6
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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7
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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8
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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9
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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10
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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11
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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12
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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13
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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14
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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15
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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16
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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17
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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19
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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20
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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21
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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