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
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 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.
 
THE PARTING WITH MR. EWART.
A railway journey was a new thing to Ernest, and
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 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.
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“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,
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 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
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 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
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 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
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 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 ............