The annoyance10 which it caused Ernest’s sensitive spirit to be the object of envy and ingratitude, and the
[168]
necessity of being ever on his guard to avoid expressing anger, or, which is much harder, feeling it, made him rather rejoice when the day arrived for the family’s removal to London. He was impatient to see that wonderful place of which he had heard so much. The winter, also, had come, and the coldness of the weather made the prospect11 of a journey southwards very agreeable. The boy’s only regret was leaving Mr. Ewart, whom they regarded more as a parent than a tutor.
“Good-bye, and Heaven watch over you!” said the clergyman, earnestly, as he stood at the door to witness their departure.
Charles pressed his tutor’s hand warmly between both his own; Ernest threw himself into his arms.
“You must not keep us, boys; we shall be late for the train,” called out Mr. Hope from the carriage.
“I can’t conceive what makes them so fond of that man,” observed Mrs. Hope in no amiable12 tone.
“You will see more of Vanity Fair,” said the clergyman, in a low voice; “I have but one word for you,—Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation!”
The next moment the carriage dashed across the court-yard; Mr. Ewart followed it through the arched gateway13, and stood on the drawbridge which crossed the moat, watching till he could no longer see his dear pupils standing14 up in the carriage and waving to him.
THE PARTING WITH MR. EWART.
A railway journey was a new thing to Ernest, and
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raised many thoughts in his mind as the train rushed rattling15 along the line, sometimes raised on a causeway, sometimes sunk in a cutting, sometimes lost in the darkness of a tunnel; yet, whether above the surrounding country or below it, whether in brightness or whether in gloom, rushing on—on—on, with wondrous16 speed, towards the goal to which each hour brought it nearer.
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“I, too, have had my dark portions of the journey, and now Heaven has been pleased to raise me,” thought Ernest, “and the sunshine is bright around me. But when I arrive at the end of my journey, how little I shall care whether it was long or short, through gloom or light, uncomfortable or pleasant, it will be enough if it has taken me to my home!”
And now let us see our young pilgrims settled in London—in that wonderful assemblage of all that is noblest and all that is basest in the world; the abode17 of the greatest wealth and the most abject18 poverty; the seat of learning, arts, science, crime, misery19, and ignorance; the city which contains at once perhaps more good and more evil than any other spot on the face of the globe. Ernest found his expectations more than realized as regards its size; there seemed no end to the wilderness20 of brick houses—street crossing street to form a mighty21 labyrinth22 which both astonishes and confuses the mind. The unceasing roll of carriages and stream of passers-by; the variety of vehicles of all kinds and shapes; the innumerable shops; the stately public buildings, churches, hospitals, schools, and places of amusement—all had the charm of novelty to the young noble, and fresh impressions were made upon his mind every hour.
Then came a round of all the diversions which London could offer at that period of the year. Days and nights,
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also, were crowded with amusements; and Ernest, at first in a whirl of pleasure, soon began to experience the weariness of a life devoted23 to gaiety. His mind felt clogged24 with the multitude of new ideas; his head ached from confinement25 in crowded rooms; his rest was broken in upon; he became almost knocked up by excitement, more tired than he had ever before been made by labour, without the satisfaction of gaining anything by his fatigue26. He began to long for the quiet of Fontonore again, and to exchange the bustle27 of gaiety into which he was plunged28, for calm study and the society of Mr. Ewart.
And how fared the spiritual health of the pilgrim?—was he making progress towards heaven, or falling back? Ernest had entered London forewarned and forearmed; circumstances, not choice, were leading him through the very midst of Vanity Fair, but he was walking as a pilgrim still. He had made a prayerful resolution from the very beginning, to devote the first hour of each morning to God. Sloth29, increased by weariness, often tempted30 him to break this resolution on the cold wintry mornings, and suggested many an excuse for self-indulgence. But Ernest knew that he stood upon dangerous ground, and kept resolute31 to his purpose; and that quiet hour for communion with his own heart, for self-examination, reading of the Scripture32, and prayer, was his great safeguard amidst the numerous temptations
[172]
which encompassed33 him in his new path of life. Things which, only seen in the torch-glare of worldly excitement, must always have appeared in false colours, reviewed in the pure light of morning lost much of their dangerous attractions. I cannot too earnestly recommend to all, whether young or old, in high or low estate, thus to give their first hours to God.
The family assembled so late for breakfast, that Ernest found that, by a little self-denial, he might not only have time for devotion, but also for study in the morning. He was exceedingly anxious to cultivate his mind; he felt his deficiencies very painful, and he was sometimes even tempted to encroach on his “holy hour,” as he called it, to have more time for improving his intellect. This is a temptation which probably some of my readers have known, and which is all the more dangerous because it does not shock the conscience so much as other ways of passing the time. But still Ernest kept as free as he could from any earthly occupation the precious little space where, apart from the world, he could collect his strength and renew his good resolutions.
The only member of the family who gave him the least assistance in treading the heavenward way was his brother; and often did Ernest think of the wisdom and mercy of the Saviour34 in sending His disciples35 by two and two into the world. The characters of the boys were in some points very unlike, but there was one
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hope, one guiding principle, in both, and perhaps the very difference in their dispositions36 made them more able to support one another. Ernest was more shy and diffident than his brother, but had a deeper knowledge of his own heart. Charles had learned more, but Ernest had reflected more; Charles was in more danger from love of the world, Ernest from shrinking too much from its ridicule37. Where Hope was impatient, Fontonore had learned to wait: their early life had been passed in different schools—one the child of luxury, the other of want; one tried by pleasure, the other by suffering; but both had passed through the strait wicket-gate; both were united in sincere love to the Saviour; both were anxious to struggle against their besetting38 sins, and to press onward39 to the prize set before them.
Would that we were ever as ready to help one another in the narrow path as these two young Christian40 pilgrims! If, instead of acting41, as we too often do, the part either of tempters or tormentors, we employed all the influence which friendship and relationship give us to draw our companions nearer to heaven, what a blessing42 would rest on our intercourse43 below! How much would it resemble that which we hope to enjoy above!
One thing which the inexperienced Ernest soon discovered was, that money disappeared very rapidly in London. That which at first had seemed to him an inexhaustible fortune, appeared almost as though it melted
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away in his hand. One of his first cares on entering the capital was to procure44 a most beautiful Bible, and send it, with a grateful letter, to Miss Searle. This was at once a pleasure and a relief to his heart, for it had been burdened—not with a sense of owing kindness, for that is painful only to the proud spirit, but the feeling that he might appear ungrateful, and that those who had been his friends in adversity might think that in his prosperity he had forgotten them.
Then there were so many necessary things to be purchased—so many tempting45 books to be desired, for Ernest delighted in reading—so many charities which he wished to aid—so many objects of pity that he yearned46 to relieve, that the youthful nobleman’s once heavy purse soon became very empty.
Ernest had been some time in London before he went to visit Madge, in the asylum47 in which he was supporting her. He reproached himself with the delay; but, in truth, the conduct of her brothers had so disheartened him, that it was as a duty, and no pleasure, that he went there at all. Charles, as usual, was his companion, and his only one; for visiting charities was little in the way either of his uncle or his proud wife, though Mrs. Hope had once held a stall at a grand Fancy fair, which was patronized by duchesses and countesses. As for Clementina, she would never have dreamed of going; she had a vague connection in her mind between poverty
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and dirt, and thought it dreadful if a child of the lower classes ventured to approach within two yards of her. Many a tear had the young lady shed over a novel: for heroes and heroines she had ready sympathy; she considered that sentiment and feeling give an added charm to beauty; but common every-day sufferings had in them nothing “interesting.” She could be touched by the sorrow of a princess, but the real wants of a ragged48 child were quite beneath her regard.
Ernest was agreeably surprised in the asylum. Everything so neat, so perfectly49 clean; such an appearance of respectability in the matron, of health and good discipline amongst the children. Poor little Madge, also, was so much delighted to see a face that she knew, after being only surrounded by strangers, that Ernest felt vexed50 with himself for not visiting her sooner, and emptied his purse of its last half-crown to place in the hand of the child. This still further opened the heart of Madge, and she talked to him almost as freely as if she had still regarded him as her brother, though without the insolent51 familiarity which was so repulsive52 in Jack.
She showed Ernest a letter which she had received from her unhappy mother, who had been sentenced to transportation, though for a shorter period than her husband, on account of being specially53 recommended to mercy. Ernest had, through Mr. Ewart, provided Ann with some little comforts; and to this, in her letter, she gratefully
[176]
alluded, though his kindness, she wrote, only made her feel more wretched, when she remembered how cruelly she had wronged him. She implored54 her daughter to shun55 the temptations which had led her astray, especially the love of dress, the beginning of all her errors and her misery—the vanity which had laid her open to flattery, and had made her take the first step in that downward course which had led her to prison and a convict-ship. There was deep remorse56 expressed in the letter, which gave Ernest hopes that the poor prodigal57 might yet repent58 and find mercy; but its tone of cheerless gloom showed but too well that the mire59 of the Slough60 of Despond was clinging to the unhappy one still.
Perfectly satisfied with Mr. Ewart’s choice of a home for the more than orphan61 girl, Ernest quitted the asylum with his brother, thankful that an opportunity had been granted him of repaying evil with good. He was enabled to provide for three children, whose parents had inflicted62 on him deep injuries, and from whom he had received, during the years of childhood, unkindness which had imbittered his life. It is easier to forgive one great wrong than a long course of petty provocations63; and when both are united to rouse the spirit of revenge, nothing but grace given to us from Heaven can make us forgive as we have been forgiven.
As the brothers passed a bookseller’s shop, on their way home, Charles paused to look at a volume in the window.
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“Oh, Ernest,” he exclaimed, “look what a beautiful copy is there of that work which Mr. Ewart so much wished to see! Do let us buy it for him, as a New-Year’s gift, to take back with us to Fontonore. My funds are rather low; but if we join purses, we shall easily make out the sum together.”
“I really cannot,” replied Ernest, looking wistfully at the beautiful book.
“Oh, but you must! You know,” said Charles, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that Mr. Ewart never procures64 these indulgences for himself. I believe, from what I heard my uncle say, that he entirely65 supports an aged66 mother. I never knew him spend an unnecessary shilling on himself.”
“Perhaps the book is in our library,” suggested Ernest.
“It is not; it was his hunting all over it for the work that made me know how much he wished to have it. I wonder, Ernest,” added Charles, with a little temper, “that one rolling in wealth like you should make such a fuss about a few shillings.”
“I am not rolling in wealth at present,” answered Ernest, rather vexed at his brother’s tone; “I have not a shilling left in my purse.”
“Then you must have been wondrously67 extravagant68. Why, even I, on my half-allowance, have managed to keep a little silver, and I was never famous for economy.”
Ernest made no reply.
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“We had better go on,” said Charles.
They walked on for some time in silence.
“I am afraid that I spoke69 rudely to you just now; will you forgive me?” said Hope, at last.
“Oh, do not talk about forgiveness,” replied Ernest, cheerfully. “I think that I could forgive you anything; and one should never take offence at a word.”
“I ought to have remembered,” observed Charles, “that the child whom we have just seen is a great expense to you; and yet you seem to spend so little, that I hardly fancied that you could have got through the allowance of a whole quarter. Do you not receive the same sum that I used to have when I imagined myself to be Lord Fontonore?”
“No,” replied his brother, and immediately changed the conversation.
They walked on for some distance, talking on other matters, when, as they were passing through one of the parks, Charles stopped, as if some thought had suddenly crossed his mind.
“Ernest,” said he, laying his hand on his brother’s arm, “just answer me one question: How is it that you do not receive the same allowance that I did?” Receiving no answer, he continued, “Is it possible that you are dividing yours with me?”
Ernest smiled. “I am not bound to answer questions,” said he.
[179]
THE CONVERSATION IN THE PARK.
“Oh, I see it all! generous, noble-hearted brother! And you suffered me to accuse you in my own mind of meanness—almost to reproach you to your face for it—while all the time it was your money that I have been spending, and you never even let me know my obligation!”
“Obligation is not a word for brothers,” replied Ernest; “what I have is yours; what you spend I enjoy; let us always have a common purse between us.”
“No, that must never be!” exclaimed Charles; “you
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have burdens enough upon your hands already. My uncle must supply me.”
“Do not deprive your brother of his privilege,” said Ernest, who had seen enough of Mr. Hope by this time to know that it would be galling70 to Charles to be in any way dependent upon him. “You will hurt me if you deny me this favour; I shall think that you do not care for me, Charley.”
It was the first time that Ernest had ever used this familiar and endearing name to his brother. There was something in his tone, as he pronounced it, and in his manner, as he threw his arm round Charles, that raised a glow of affection in the heart of the boy, warmer than he had ever known before. Both felt the strength of that holy beautiful tie by which the members of every family should be united. Children of the same parents on earth, children of the same Father in heaven; with one common home both below and above—one path to tread and one goal to reach—how is it that pride and envy can ever disunite the hearts which God himself would join together?
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1
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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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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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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32
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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mire
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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procures
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的第三人称单数 )；拉皮条 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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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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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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