“The foundation upon which the city was framed was higher than the clouds; they therefore went up through the regions of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being comforted because they safely got over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend them.”—Pilgrim’s Progress.
It would be unnecessary, as well as painful, to mark every step of the progress of the young Pilgrim through the last stage of his earthly journey. He had no mental doubts or gloom; his mind was calm and unclouded, sometimes so vividly1 realizing the joy set before him that bodily pain seemed almost forgotten. Often he appeared buried in thought, as though his spirit were already holding converse2 with things unseen, before quitting the frail3 suffering body.
“Charles,” said he one night to his brother, who sat bathing his temples with vinegar and water, “how gently and lovingly the picture of my mother seems to look on me now. Perhaps she is waiting to welcome me on the blissful shore, where there is no more parting and pain. You will lay me in the vault5 beside her.”
[272]
Charles breathed a heavy sigh.
“I have been thinking of that monument,” continued Ernest, “so strangely prepared for the living. But the lines upon it could never suit me now—‘the mists of earth’ have long since stained ‘the snow-flake.’”
“It is more spotless than ever,” whispered Charles: “is it not written, Though your sins be as scarlet6, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson7, they shall be as wool?”
“Yes,” murmured the sufferer; “Jesus can present sinners faultless before the presence of his Father. He has loved us, and washed us in His own precious blood. This is all my hope.” After a short silence, he continued—“My eyes are heavy with long waking, dear Charley. I wish that I could hear you sing to me once more; I feel as though it would soothe8 this dull pain.”
“I do not think that I could sing now.”
“Not one little hymn9—my favourite hymn? But if the effort pains you, do not try.”
But Charles did try, though with unsteady voice, whose tones sounded strange to himself. In the quiet night, with no listener near but one sufferer on earth, and the happy angels above, he sang this simple evening hymn:—
HYMN.
After labour, how sweet is rest!
Gently the weary eyelids10 close;
[273]
As the infant sleeps on its mother’s breast,
The child of God may in peace repose11.
Whether we sleep, or whether we wake,
We are His who gave His life for our sake.
He to whom darkness is as light,
Tenderly guards His slumbering13 sheep;
The Shepherd watches His flock by night,
The feeble lambs He will safely keep.
Whether we sleep, or whether we wake,
We are His who gave His life for our sake.
Death’s night comes; it may now be near:
Lord, if our hopes are fixed14 on Thee,
Oh, how calm will that sleep appear!
Oh, how sweet will the waking be!
Whether we sleep, or whether we wake,
We are His who gave His life for our sake.
The eyes of Ernest gradually closed ere the hymn was ended; he lay still in deep slumbers15; Charles almost trembled lest that slumber12 should be death.
“I have bidden farewell to Ben; I must see his brother also. Dying words have sometimes weight—he may listen to me now. Please raise me higher on my pillow, and call in Jack16 to see me.”
Such were the words of Ernest, on awaking one morning more free from pain than he had been since his fall.
“The interview will not be too much for you, Ernest?” said Mr. Ewart, anxiously.
[274]
“Oh, no; nothing can hurt me now. I feel as though nothing could agitate17 me again. Have you seen my cousin lately?” he added.
“Yes; only this morning. She feels this trial much.”
“Does she?” exclaimed Ernest, a look of animation18 and pleasure lighting19 up his deep sunken eye. “Oh, tell Clementina that she must come to me too. My heart is so full of thoughts—if I only could utter them! Would that I had the tongue of an angel, but for this one day—before I am silenced by death!”
“Lawless is at the door, as you wished,” said Charles.
“Pray, then, leave us alone together for a few minutes, and then return with Clementina, dear brother, if she is not afraid to come near a death-bed; it will be a new and a strange scene to her.”
Jack stood at the door, as if fearful to come in, like the sinner who dreads20 that he is beyond reach of hope. He could hardly believe himself to be an object of deep interest to one whom he had so cruelly wronged and insulted, for there was nothing in his own corrupted21 heart to lead him to understand free mercy and goodness.
There was something painfully oppressive to the boy in the aspect of that darkened room, coming out, as he did, from the bright sunshine. The noiseless manner in which Mr. Ewart and Charles quitted the apartment; the solemn stillness that pervaded22 the place; the look of the little table beside the bed, covered with things that reminded
[275]
of illness and pain; the appearance of the sufferer himself, almost as colourless as the pillow upon which he lay; the lines of death written on his calm, pale features, so that even a child could not mistake them—all struck a chill to the heart of Lawless. He almost felt as though he were Ernest’s murderer.
“Come nearer,” said Fontonore, faintly; “my time is short; I wish to speak to you a few words before I die.”
“You must not—shall not, die for me!” exclaimed the boy, in stifled23 tones of anguish24, as he knelt beside the bed.
“Think not of me now;—I would tell you—if God grant me strength—I would tell you of One who has died indeed for sinners—for you—for me. For those who have insulted Him, and despised His warnings—for those who have hardened their hearts against His mercy; even for such the Son of God stooped to die. Oh, can you resist a love such as this?” The once proud, insolent25 boy was sobbing26 aloud.
“See, here is my Bible, my precious Bible; I am going where even that will be needed no more. I give it to you—keep it as a remembrance of me. Will you promise me to read it, for my sake?”
“For your sake,” groaned27 Lawless, “I would do anything! I can never, never forget what you have done and suffered for me.”
[276]
JACK RECEIVING THE BIBLE.
“Oh, rather remember what the High and Holy One has done and suffered for us both. Your heart is touched with feeling for me; you are grateful towards a poor worm of earth, and can you remain hardened and rebellious28 towards the merciful Saviour29, who is now stretching out His arms to call you to Himself. Who is so ready to receive you, so ready to forgive, as He who has sacrificed His life, that you may live!”
[277]
The boy could make no reply; but the dying words then heard were branded on his soul, never to be forgotten while memory should endure.
“Come in, dear Clemmy; it is very kind in you to visit the sick-room,” murmured Ernest. Followed by Charles and Mr. Ewart, Clementina entered, mingled30 pity, fear, and awe31 on her face. Fontonore held out to his cousin his white, emaciated32 hand.
“You will be better soon, I trust,” faltered33 the young lady.
“Yes; I shall be with Christ, which is far better.”
“But it is terrible to leave all—so early—it seems so cruel! Ernest, you are too young for—for death!”
“Too young for happiness, my cousin? Do you remember our conversation in London; how I told you that none could be happy as the Christian34, that there is no pleasure equal to what religion can give? I thought it then,” he cried, his voice strengthening, his eye kindling35 as he spoke36; “I thought it then, Clementina, but I know it now! What is it to me that I bear the title of a peer, that this castle is mine, that men call me great—I must leave all, perhaps before the sun sets; I must leave all, and yet my whole soul is full of joy—joy beyond all that earth can ever bestow37. I am passing through the river, but it does not overflow38 me; beneath
[278]
are the everlasting39 arms—before me are the glories of the eternal city, where I shall see Him whom not seeing I have loved!”
There was a radiance upon the dying countenance40 that seemed not of earth but heaven. Clementina looked upon Ernest, wondering; and for the first time felt the littleness of the world, and the vanity of all that it can give.
“Where is my Pilgrim’s Progress?” continued Fontonore, more faintly. “Cousin, I have reserved it for you. When this frail body is laid in the grave, then read it, and think of one weak Pilgrim who trod the path to the Celestial41 City with feeble steps, too often, alas42! turning aside from the way; yet on whom the Lord of Pilgrims had great mercy, whom the Saviour guided by His counsel here—and afterward—received—into glory!”
Ernest sank back on his pillow exhausted43. A change came over his features; there was breathless silence in the room.
“He is going!” murmured Mr. Ewart, clasping his hands.
Ernest unclosed his eyes, fixed a long last look of inexpressible love on his brother; then, turning it towards the clergyman, faintly uttered the single word “Pray!”
At once all sank on their knees, every distinction forgotten in that solemn hour. The heir of a peerage—the
[279]
vain child of fashion, bent44 side by side with the convict’s son! Mr. Ewart’s voice was raised in prayer: he commended the parting spirit to his Saviour, while Fontonore’s upward gaze, and the motion of his silent lips, showed that he heard and joined in the prayer. Presently that motion ceased—the light faded from that eye, the silver cord was gently unloosed; but the smile which still lingered on the features of the dead seemed an earnest of the bliss4 of the freed, rejoicing spirit, safely landed on the shores of Eternity45.
“Charles,” said he one night to his brother, who sat bathing his temples with vinegar and water, “how gently and lovingly the picture of my mother seems to look on me now. Perhaps she is waiting to welcome me on the blissful shore, where there is no more parting and pain. You will lay me in the vault5 beside her.”
[272]
Charles breathed a heavy sigh.
“I have been thinking of that monument,” continued Ernest, “so strangely prepared for the living. But the lines upon it could never suit me now—‘the mists of earth’ have long since stained ‘the snow-flake.’”
“It is more spotless than ever,” whispered Charles: “is it not written, Though your sins be as scarlet6, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson7, they shall be as wool?”
“Yes,” murmured the sufferer; “Jesus can present sinners faultless before the presence of his Father. He has loved us, and washed us in His own precious blood. This is all my hope.” After a short silence, he continued—“My eyes are heavy with long waking, dear Charley. I wish that I could hear you sing to me once more; I feel as though it would soothe8 this dull pain.”
“I do not think that I could sing now.”
“Not one little hymn9—my favourite hymn? But if the effort pains you, do not try.”
But Charles did try, though with unsteady voice, whose tones sounded strange to himself. In the quiet night, with no listener near but one sufferer on earth, and the happy angels above, he sang this simple evening hymn:—
HYMN.
After labour, how sweet is rest!
Gently the weary eyelids10 close;
[273]
As the infant sleeps on its mother’s breast,
The child of God may in peace repose11.
Whether we sleep, or whether we wake,
We are His who gave His life for our sake.
He to whom darkness is as light,
Tenderly guards His slumbering13 sheep;
The Shepherd watches His flock by night,
The feeble lambs He will safely keep.
Whether we sleep, or whether we wake,
We are His who gave His life for our sake.
Death’s night comes; it may now be near:
Lord, if our hopes are fixed14 on Thee,
Oh, how calm will that sleep appear!
Oh, how sweet will the waking be!
Whether we sleep, or whether we wake,
We are His who gave His life for our sake.
The eyes of Ernest gradually closed ere the hymn was ended; he lay still in deep slumbers15; Charles almost trembled lest that slumber12 should be death.
“I have bidden farewell to Ben; I must see his brother also. Dying words have sometimes weight—he may listen to me now. Please raise me higher on my pillow, and call in Jack16 to see me.”
Such were the words of Ernest, on awaking one morning more free from pain than he had been since his fall.
“The interview will not be too much for you, Ernest?” said Mr. Ewart, anxiously.
[274]
“Oh, no; nothing can hurt me now. I feel as though nothing could agitate17 me again. Have you seen my cousin lately?” he added.
“Yes; only this morning. She feels this trial much.”
“Does she?” exclaimed Ernest, a look of animation18 and pleasure lighting19 up his deep sunken eye. “Oh, tell Clementina that she must come to me too. My heart is so full of thoughts—if I only could utter them! Would that I had the tongue of an angel, but for this one day—before I am silenced by death!”
“Lawless is at the door, as you wished,” said Charles.
“Pray, then, leave us alone together for a few minutes, and then return with Clementina, dear brother, if she is not afraid to come near a death-bed; it will be a new and a strange scene to her.”
Jack stood at the door, as if fearful to come in, like the sinner who dreads20 that he is beyond reach of hope. He could hardly believe himself to be an object of deep interest to one whom he had so cruelly wronged and insulted, for there was nothing in his own corrupted21 heart to lead him to understand free mercy and goodness.
There was something painfully oppressive to the boy in the aspect of that darkened room, coming out, as he did, from the bright sunshine. The noiseless manner in which Mr. Ewart and Charles quitted the apartment; the solemn stillness that pervaded22 the place; the look of the little table beside the bed, covered with things that reminded
[275]
of illness and pain; the appearance of the sufferer himself, almost as colourless as the pillow upon which he lay; the lines of death written on his calm, pale features, so that even a child could not mistake them—all struck a chill to the heart of Lawless. He almost felt as though he were Ernest’s murderer.
“Come nearer,” said Fontonore, faintly; “my time is short; I wish to speak to you a few words before I die.”
“You must not—shall not, die for me!” exclaimed the boy, in stifled23 tones of anguish24, as he knelt beside the bed.
“Think not of me now;—I would tell you—if God grant me strength—I would tell you of One who has died indeed for sinners—for you—for me. For those who have insulted Him, and despised His warnings—for those who have hardened their hearts against His mercy; even for such the Son of God stooped to die. Oh, can you resist a love such as this?” The once proud, insolent25 boy was sobbing26 aloud.
“See, here is my Bible, my precious Bible; I am going where even that will be needed no more. I give it to you—keep it as a remembrance of me. Will you promise me to read it, for my sake?”
“For your sake,” groaned27 Lawless, “I would do anything! I can never, never forget what you have done and suffered for me.”
[276]
JACK RECEIVING THE BIBLE.
“Oh, rather remember what the High and Holy One has done and suffered for us both. Your heart is touched with feeling for me; you are grateful towards a poor worm of earth, and can you remain hardened and rebellious28 towards the merciful Saviour29, who is now stretching out His arms to call you to Himself. Who is so ready to receive you, so ready to forgive, as He who has sacrificed His life, that you may live!”
[277]
The boy could make no reply; but the dying words then heard were branded on his soul, never to be forgotten while memory should endure.
“Come in, dear Clemmy; it is very kind in you to visit the sick-room,” murmured Ernest. Followed by Charles and Mr. Ewart, Clementina entered, mingled30 pity, fear, and awe31 on her face. Fontonore held out to his cousin his white, emaciated32 hand.
“You will be better soon, I trust,” faltered33 the young lady.
“Yes; I shall be with Christ, which is far better.”
“But it is terrible to leave all—so early—it seems so cruel! Ernest, you are too young for—for death!”
“Too young for happiness, my cousin? Do you remember our conversation in London; how I told you that none could be happy as the Christian34, that there is no pleasure equal to what religion can give? I thought it then,” he cried, his voice strengthening, his eye kindling35 as he spoke36; “I thought it then, Clementina, but I know it now! What is it to me that I bear the title of a peer, that this castle is mine, that men call me great—I must leave all, perhaps before the sun sets; I must leave all, and yet my whole soul is full of joy—joy beyond all that earth can ever bestow37. I am passing through the river, but it does not overflow38 me; beneath
[278]
are the everlasting39 arms—before me are the glories of the eternal city, where I shall see Him whom not seeing I have loved!”
There was a radiance upon the dying countenance40 that seemed not of earth but heaven. Clementina looked upon Ernest, wondering; and for the first time felt the littleness of the world, and the vanity of all that it can give.
“Where is my Pilgrim’s Progress?” continued Fontonore, more faintly. “Cousin, I have reserved it for you. When this frail body is laid in the grave, then read it, and think of one weak Pilgrim who trod the path to the Celestial41 City with feeble steps, too often, alas42! turning aside from the way; yet on whom the Lord of Pilgrims had great mercy, whom the Saviour guided by His counsel here—and afterward—received—into glory!”
Ernest sank back on his pillow exhausted43. A change came over his features; there was breathless silence in the room.
“He is going!” murmured Mr. Ewart, clasping his hands.
Ernest unclosed his eyes, fixed a long last look of inexpressible love on his brother; then, turning it towards the clergyman, faintly uttered the single word “Pray!”
At once all sank on their knees, every distinction forgotten in that solemn hour. The heir of a peerage—the
[279]
vain child of fashion, bent44 side by side with the convict’s son! Mr. Ewart’s voice was raised in prayer: he commended the parting spirit to his Saviour, while Fontonore’s upward gaze, and the motion of his silent lips, showed that he heard and joined in the prayer. Presently that motion ceased—the light faded from that eye, the silver cord was gently unloosed; but the smile which still lingered on the features of the dead seemed an earnest of the bliss4 of the freed, rejoicing spirit, safely landed on the shores of Eternity45.
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收听单词发音
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1
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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2
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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3
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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4
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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5
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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6
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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7
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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8
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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9
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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10
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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11
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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12
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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13
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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14
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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15
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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16
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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17
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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18
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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19
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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20
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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21
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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22
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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24
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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25
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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26
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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27
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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28
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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29
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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30
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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31
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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32
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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33
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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34
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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35
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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36
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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37
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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38
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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39
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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40
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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41
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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42
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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43
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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45
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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