DIFFICULTIES ON SETTING OUT.
“They drew nigh to a very miry slough, that was in the midst
of the plain; and they being heedless, did both fall suddenly
into the bog. 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 abode 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 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 Jack, “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 sufficiently 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.
“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 withered 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 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 folly 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 miserably 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
her youth; but she was unhappy now, united to a husband whom she dreaded,
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.
[Illustration: MARK AND HIS MOTHER.]
“You too desire to reach heaven!” cried Mark, with animation 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!”
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 afterward receive us to glory. And he spoke 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 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 sullen
despair. “To be holy you must be truthful 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 strewed with flowers, but to us it is closed—and for
ever!” She clenched 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 determined to pursue her own unhappy career.
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 blot her from the sky; then a faint, hazy
light would appear from behind them; then a slender, brilliant rim would
be seen; and at last the full orb 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!”