GREEN PASTURES AND STILL WATERS.
“I saw then that they went on their way to a pleasant river,
which David the king called ‘the river of God,’ but John ‘the
river of the water of life.’”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
In various manners was the succeeding day passed by the different members
of Mr. Hope’s household. He himself was absent till dinner-time, busy
in holding consultations with parliamentary friends. Why should he
remember that on that day a Saviour was born into the world? He never
considered that he needed one! Lady Fitzwigram called in her carriage
for Mrs. Hope, to drive her to a distant church to hear some very famous
preacher. Arrayed in all the pomp of Vanity Fair, her mind full of the
world, its follies, its ambition, the lady departed to kneel in the
house of God, and call herself a miserable sinner! Clementina would have
accompanied her mother, but for the disfigurement of her face. Till the
bruise had disappeared, and the cut become healed, she could not endure
to let herself be seen. So she shut herself up in the drawing-room, with
her feet on the fender, listening sadly to the cheerful chime of “the
church-going bell,” which brought no thought of joy to her heart.
Ernest came into the room, Christmas sunshine on his face. He had not
seen his cousin that morning until now.
“A happy Christmas to you, Clemmy, and a joyful New-year.”
No look of pleasure on her part responded to the greeting; but she gave
the usual answer—“I wish the same to you.”
“Thank you. A happy Christmas! I have it. The new year!—ah! how strange
it is to think all that a new year may bring!”
“The new year can bring to you nothing so good as the old one has done,”
said Clementina.
“This year has brought much to me indeed,” replied Ernest, thoughtfully.
“The Bible—my first knowledge of Mr. Ewart—my brother.”
“Oh, your estate, your title!” exclaimed Clementina. “The new year can
raise you no higher.”
“Only in one way, perhaps.”
“And what is that way?”
Ernest did not hear the question of the young lady; his thoughts had
wandered to the white marble monument in the church near Fontonore.
When we stand on the verge of a new year, and look on the curtain which
hides from us the mysterious future, what reflecting mind but considers
the possibility that the opening year may to him be the last? To the
Christian Pilgrim alone that thought brings no feeling of gloom.
“Are you going to church with us, cousin?” said Ernest, rousing himself
from his meditations.
“You had only to look at me to answer your own question,” replied the
young lady, pettishly. “What could take me to church, with my forehead
plastered up and such a yellow mark under my eye?”
Ernest could not help thinking that if she went to church to worship God,
and not to be seen of man, there was nothing to keep her away now. But
to have expressed his thoughts aloud would have been only to irritate;
and the Christian who would lead another to the Lord must be cautious to
avoid giving unnecessary offence. There is a time when it is our duty to
speak, and a time when it is our wisdom to be silent.
Ernest left the room, and in a few minutes returned with his own copy of
the Pilgrim’s Progress in his hand. He made no observation, but he laid
it near his cousin, and then quitted the house with a secret prayer that
the poor girl, to whom religion was as yet but a name, might be led to
read, and be guided to understand it.
As the brothers returned from church arm in arm, Ernest felt more than
usual joy and peace shed over his spirit: while all was winter without,
all was summer within. It was one of those hours which Christians
sometimes meet with in their pilgrimage, perhaps as a foretaste of the
bliss that awaits them, when their path appears so bright, and heaven so
near, that they feel as though earth’s mists were already left behind,
and can scarcely believe that they can ever wander again from the way
which they find so delightful. They could then lay down their lives with
pleasure for their Lord. Life is happiness to them, for in it they may
serve Him; and death no object of terror or doubt, for they know that
it can but bring them to Him. _Bless the Lord, O my soul; while I live
will I praise Him_, is in the thoughts, and not unfrequently on the lips
also: for _out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh_, and the
heavenly joy which fills all the spirit will sometimes overflow in words.
“O Charley, how joyous the angels’ song sounded to-day! ‘_Glory to God
in the highest; on earth peace, good-will toward men._’ What wonder and
delight must have filled the hearts of the shepherds when first they
listened to that song!”
“And the angels, it must have made even angels happier to have carried
such a message to the world.”
“I have sometimes thought,” said Ernest, “that if an angel from heaven
were to live upon this earth, and to be permitted to choose what station
he would fill, he would ask,—not to be a conqueror, not to be a king, not
even to be one of the geniuses whose discoveries astonish the world, but
to be one who might constantly be proclaiming to all the good tidings of
a Saviour’s coming, repeating continually that song of heaven, ‘_Glory to
God, good-will toward men!_’”
“He would be a clergyman, or a missionary, then.”
“That is what I should most of all wish to be,” said Ernest, “if I only
could be worthy of such an honour.”
“Why, you are a lord.”
“Were I a prince, what nobler office could I have than to follow in the
steps of the apostles and the martyrs—nay, the steps of the Saviour
himself? To sow seeds that would blossom in eternity! to be a shepherd
over the Lord’s dear flock! Oh, Charles, can we ever realize the full
extent of that promise, _They that turn many to righteousness_, shall
shine _as the stars for ever and ever!_”
“I feel afraid to be a clergyman,” said Charles, gravely. “My uncle
spoke to me about it yesterday: he said that the church might be the
best opening for me in life, and that it was time for me to think of
a profession. But, Ernest, there was something that went against my
feelings in thinking of it in that light.”
“I am sure that you were right, my brother. How could one dare to become
the minister of God from any other motive than the desire to serve Him,
and proclaim His message to dying sinners around us?”
“I was afraid that you would blame me. I thought that you would urge me
to devote myself to the service of the ministry.”
“Not unless your service were that of the heart; then indeed I should
rejoice at your choice. But what are your own wishes for yourself?”
“I have always had rather a fancy for being a soldier. The danger and
excitement of the life attracts me. I should like to be just such a
warrior as Great-heart, who fought and conquered Giant Despair.”
“I thought,” observed Ernest, smiling, “that Great-heart was intended to
represent a minister, and not a soldier.”
“Do you really think so?” said Charles.
“Only consider his office, and the nature of his exploits. Was he not
sent to guide feeble pilgrims, and lead them to the heavenly city? Did
not his words cheer and help them on the way? Did he not show them the
spring at which they drank and were refreshed, and fight the giant Maul,
who led young pilgrims into error? Remember his own account of himself,
when he said, ‘I am a servant of the God of heaven: my business is to
persuade sinners to repentance.’ Surely this is a description of a
minister of the gospel.”
“It never struck me so before.”
“If you love difficulties,” continued Ernest, “who has greater to
overcome than a conscientious clergyman? He has the world to oppose him,
Satan to oppose him, his own sinful nature, like a traitor within the
gates. He is appointed a commander in the army of the Lord.”
“And a missionary is the leader of a forlorn hope,” interrupted Charles.
“Not _forlorn_,” exclaimed Ernest; “his hope is sure: if faithful, he is
certain of both victory and life.”
“I believe, after all,” said Charles, “that a clergyman’s is the noblest,
as well as the most anxious of professions. But even did I wish it to be
mine, the question remains—Could I ever be worthy of it?”
“Ah, that is my difficulty too,” cried Ernest; “and yet,” he added
hopefully, “I cannot but think that He who first gave us a love for the
work, would also give us strength to perform it.”
By this time the brothers had reached home. Ernest found the drawing-room
empty. A novel lay on the table near which Clementina had been sitting,
but the Pilgrim’s Progress had evidently been moved from the place where
her cousin had left it. He remained, like many others who try to do good,
in uncertainty as to whether his endeavours had been fruitless; but with
the sweet assurance that whether successful or not, the smallest attempt
to serve others, for the sake of the Lord, would never be forgotten by
Him.
In another week the family returned to Fontonore, whither Mr. Hope had
preceded them by a few days in order to carry on his canvass. If the
castle was beautiful at the end of autumn, when Ernest first saw his
birth-place, not less striking was its appearance now. The red globe of
the winter’s sun seemed to rest upon the battlements, gleaming faintly on
the arched windows crusted with hoar frost. Every twig on the creepers
that mantled the walls, every leaf on the evergreens that adorned the
entrance, was covered with white glistening crystals, like the work of a
fairy enchantress.
On the bridge on which Mr. Ewart had stood to see the boys depart, he
again appeared to welcome them back; and nothing gave so much pleasure to
their hearts as his warm, affectionate greeting.
Ernest found everything much as he had left it. Ben appeared, indeed,
to have somewhat improved under the careful instruction which he
had received; but Jack was the same forward, reckless boy, dead to
every feeling of gratitude or shame. He was noted in the castle for
mischief-making; his word was never to be depended upon; he seemed to
have inherited his father’s love for gambling; but perhaps the most
painful feature in his character was his undisguised dislike of his young
benefactor.
“I should almost recommend,” said Mr. Ewart, when speaking on the subject
to his pupil, “that some other situation should be found for this unhappy
boy, where he might be under severer control, and less in a position to
give annoyance.”
“It would certainly be a great relief to me,” replied Ernest.
“He might be apprenticed to some trade.”
“That would cause some expense,” observed Ernest.
“True, but your uncle—”
“Oh, I never would trouble my uncle upon the subject. My own quarter’s
allowance is now due, but I have spent it already in my mind. You know
my little project for a school here: both Jack and Ben would attend that
every day. Oh, we must give him a little longer trial; I cannot afford
any changes at present without sacrificing things more important.”
“But the irritation to yourself,” exclaimed Charles, who was present;
“the constant annoyance and worry caused by such a creature as that!”
“These are the little vexations that are sent to try our patience and
forbearance,” replied Ernest. “If we seek to bear them with a pilgrim’s
spirit, perhaps we may discover in another world that we have owed more
to our enemies than to our friends.”