“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 vividly 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 converse with things unseen, before quitting the frail 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 vault beside her.”
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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 scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, 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 soothe this dull pain.”
“I do not think that I could sing now.”
“Not one little hymn—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 eyelids close;
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As the infant sleeps on its mother’s breast,
The child of God may in peace repose.
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 slumbering 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 fixed 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 slumbers; Charles almost trembled lest that slumber 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 Jack 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.
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“Oh, no; nothing can hurt me now. I feel as though nothing could agitate 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 animation and pleasure lighting 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 dreads 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 corrupted 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 pervaded the ............