LIFE IN THE GREAT CITY.
Days and weeks passed, but the instructions which he received seemed to
make little impression on the obdurate spirit of Jack, who had one idea
rooted in his mind, which neither example nor exhortation was able to
shake—that it was a sort of injustice to him for one who had once been
his equal to be so rich while he remained so poor. In vain both the folly
and ingratitude of his conduct were shown to him; a proud, levelling
spirit had taken possession of his heart, which would neither bend in
submission to Heaven, nor thankfulness to those who did him kindness.
Would that this feeling were more uncommon in the dwellings of the
humbler classes, and that they to whom little of this world’s goods have
been given would remember that, while the rich have duties towards the
poor, the poor have also duties towards the rich.
The annoyance which it caused Ernest’s sensitive spirit to be the object
of envy and ingratitude, and the 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 prospect 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 amiable 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 gateway, and stood on the drawbridge which
crossed the moat, watching till he could no longer see his dear pupils
standing up in the carriage and waving to him.
[Illustration: THE PARTING WITH MR. EWART.]
A railway journey was a new thing to Ernest, and raised many thoughts
in his mind as the train rushed rattling 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
wondrous speed, towards the goal to which each hour brought it nearer.
“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 abode of the greatest wealth and the most abject poverty; the seat
of learning, arts, science, crime, misery, 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 wilderness of brick
houses—street crossing street to form a mighty labyrinth 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, also, were crowded with amusements;
and Ernest, at first in a whirl of pleasure, soon began to experience the
weariness of a life devoted to gaiety. His mind felt clogged with the
multitude of new ideas; his head ached from confinement 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 fatigue. He began to long for the
quiet of Fontonore again, and to exchange the bustle of gaiety into which
he was plunged, 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. Sloth, increased by weariness, often tempted
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 resolute to his purpose; and that quiet hour
for communion with his own heart, for self-examination, reading of the
Scripture, and prayer, was his great safeguard amidst the numerous
temptations which encompassed 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 Saviour in sending His disciples by two
and two into the world. The characters of the boys were in some points
very unlike, but there was one hope, one guiding principle, in both,
and perhaps the very difference in their dispositions 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 ridicule. 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 besetting sins, and
to press onward 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 Christian pilgrims! If, instead of acting, 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 blessing would rest on our
intercourse 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 away
in his hand. One of his first cares on entering the capital was to
procure 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 tempting
books to be desired, for Ernest delighted in reading—so many charities
which he wished to aid—so many objects of pity that he yearned 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
asylum 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 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 ragged child were quite beneath her regard.
Ernest was agreeably surprised in the asylum. Everything so neat, so
perfectly 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 vexed 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 insolent familiarity
which was so repulsive 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 specially recommended to
mercy. Ernest had, through Mr. Ewart, provided Ann with some little
comforts; and to this, in her letter, she gratefully alluded, though
his kindness, she wrote, only made her feel more wretched, when she
remembered how cruelly she had wronged him. She implored her daughter to
shun 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 remorse expressed in the letter, which gave Ernest hopes
that the poor prodigal might yet repent and find mercy; but its tone
of cheerless gloom showed but too well that the mire of the Slough of
Despond was clinging to the unhappy one still.
Perfectly satisfied with Mr. Ewart’s choice of a home for the more than
orphan 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 inflicted 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 provocations; 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.
“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 procures these indulgences for himself.
I believe, from what I heard my uncle say, that he entirely supports an
aged 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 wondrously extravagant. 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.
“We had better go on,” said Charles.
They walked on for some time in silence.
“I am afraid that I spoke 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 galling 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?