it may not, perhaps, be uninteresting to the reader to trace a little of the future career of those whom ernest left behind him in the world.
charles, of course, inherited the title and estate of his brother, and, increasing in piety and virtue as he increased in years, became an ornament to the high station in which he was placed, and a blessing to the people amongst whom he dwelt. he carried out all ernest’s projects of charity with zeal; and when, on attaining the age of twenty-one, the management of his own estate came into his hands, he erected the church upon his grounds which he had designed so long before, and often listened within its walls to the words of truth from the lips of his early preceptor.
for madge and ben charles procured respectable situations, and would have done the same for their brother; but the wish of the boy was to be a soldier, and accordingly, when old enough, he enlisted. blunt
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and rough as he remained, the conduct of the youth showed the power of christianity even in a hard, rugged nature. the life of ernest had not been thrown away, nor had his prayers been unheard.
after many years of service in his own country, lawless embarked with his regiment for the crimea, and was present at the engagement of the alma. as he rushed on, one of the foremost in the action, he received a musket-ball on his chest, and fell, as his comrades believed, never to rise more. how was it that he sprang again from the ground, uninjured and undismayed? the russian ball had struck him, indeed, but had found a bloodless resting-place—it had lodged in the bible which he carried in his breast, the dying gift of ernest of fontonore!
mr. hope sank under an attack of apoplexy, a few years after the death of his nephew. the man of the world was called away in the midst of his business, his schemes of ambition, at the time that he had attained the object of his hopes, by being elected member for allborough. the expenses of his canvass, and residence in town, and the extravagance in which his wife had indulged, had ruined a fortune which had never been a large one; and mrs. hope had the misery, intolerable to her proud spirit, of passing the rest of her days a dependant on the generosity of her nephew. truly might she say, in reviewing her past life, “vanity of vanities, all is vanity!”
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and what was the fate of the pretty, affected clementina, the butterfly hovering over the blossoms of pleasure?
let us pass over the space of nearly twenty years, and behold the vain young beauty as she appears now that the first silver lines begin to streak her auburn hair, and all the gay visions of her youth have faded for ever.
let us enter unseen that low parsonage house, from which comes the merry sound of youthful voices. the snow on the ground, the chill in the air, the red firelight flickering so cheerfully through the diamond-paned window overhung with ivy, all tell that the season is winter. the room in which we find ourselves seems all too small for the party of happy, noisy children assembled within it. this is the first day of the new year, and a merry day it is to the family in oakdale parsonage. unfailing is the arrival of the welcome box, which at this season finds its way from fontonore, and every one is present to witness its opening, from the ruddy schoolboy, home for the holidays, to the little infant in arms. even the pale-faced pastor himself has laid aside his book and closed his desk, to join in the innocent mirth of his children: you might know him, by the likeness which he bears to her, to be the brother of ellen searle.
but who is the thin, careworn-looking mother, who appears in the centre of the merry group? is it possible
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to recognize in that quiet parson’s wife, in her simple cap, and her plain woollen dress, the once gay clementina? what a wondrous change has been wrought by change of circumstances—or rather, by religious principles and domestic affection! clementina’s home is now her world, and the wants of her large family, and the claims of the poor, leave little margin for show. yet there is a cheerfulness in her tone, and a sweetness in her smile, which in earlier days neither had possessed; the merry voices of her children, her husband’s kind words, and the blessings of the humble members of his flock, far more than make up to her for the now half-forgotten flatteries and follies of vanity fair.
to the eldest boy the post of honour is committed. he draws out parcel after parcel from the depths of the box, and calling out aloud the name labelled upon each, gives it to its eager proprietor.
“mamma, this is for you,” and a square, flat parcel, was placed in the hands of clementina searle. it contained two small framed paintings by charles, to adorn the bare walls of her humble little home. perhaps there was something in the subject of those drawings which recalled thoughts of former days, for the lady’s eyes grew moist as she looked upon them.
the one represented a mossy ruin, gray with age, and near it a rustic gate, on which leaned a youthful pilgrim. a staff was in his hand, a burden on his back,
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and he was looking upwards, with an anxious eye, on the cloudy, lowering sky above him.
the welcome box.
the other represented a clear broad river, glittering in the rays of the setting sun. beyond it were banks clothed with verdure and beauty, with a rich, red glow over all, and the openings between the wreaths of golden clouds seemed to give glimpses of brighter glories beyond. the same pilgrim appeared, one foot still in the stream, the other on the beautiful shore; his face could not be seen, but the sunny beams shone like a halo round his head; the burden was gone, and instead of the staff his hand grasped the conqueror’s palm.
“how fondly he is remembered yet,” thought
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clementina; “the brother’s love seems but to strengthen with time.” she was interrupted by the voice of her son ernest.
“mamma, see what a beautiful book mr. ewart has sent me! it looks like an old friend in a new dress, for i am sure that it is just the same as the one that you read to us on sundays, only that mine is so prettily bound and illustrated, so i like it much better than yours.”
the new book.
“no binding could add to the value of mine,” replied the mother, with a gentle sigh; “it was given to me by a dear friend now in heaven, who was the first to
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teach me from its pages the way to the celestial city. in the life and death of that young servant of god, early called to his endless rest, but not until his work was done, i find pictures of the scenes described in that book—they are to me illustrations of the pilgrim’s progress!”
and now, dear reader, you who have traced with me the steps of the young pilgrim, through the various stages of his mortal life, suffer one word from your friend ere we part. do you know anything of the pilgrimage of which you have here read? i ask not, have you walked soberly through vanity fair, keeping yourself unspotted from the world?—if you have struggled with apollyon, and been conqueror in the fight, or passed with a firm and unflinching step through the valley of the shadow of death? but have you stood beneath the cross of the saviour, and found its power to remove the burden of sin? have you ever even felt that sin is a burden, and knocked earnestly at the gate of mercy? or are you yet dwelling in the city of destruction, thinking, caring nothing for the things belonging to your peace, laughing at the idea of a pilgrimage to heaven, or putting it off for a more convenient season? oh, for the sake of your own immortal soul, awake to your danger ere it be too late! the wicket-gate of mercy is still opened to prayer; the blood which flowed from the cross still can wash away sin; the holy spirit is still willing to guide your
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steps on the narrow way, up the hill of difficulty, down the valley of humiliation, through sunshine and darkness, through life and through death—to the eternal mansions prepared for you in heaven!
