CHAPTER III.
THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE.
The protracted meeting, which had continued fourteen days, was ended. Dr. Coyt, the Evangelist, took his leave in order to carry blessings to other places. No one could deny that a wonderful change had taken place in the moral aspect of the town. Some, who had been regarded as the worst characters in the community, astonished their neighbors by an immediate reformation. Saloon-keepers joined the church. Gamblers forsook their evil ways. Lukewarm church members were fired with renewed zeal. The whole town seemed to be animated by one impulse and one purpose. But such a great disturbance of public thought could not in the nature of things be maintained for any lengthy period. Public feeling, like water, seeks its level. A state of effervescence is not its normal condition. Consequently the foam-crested waves must soon subside into customary tranquillity. Men return to their vocations, and their thoughts revert to trade and traffic. The things of eternity which had so recently absorbed attention, must now be partly laid aside.
Ernest was not different from other men in the general aspect of human nature. He too had to resume his books and legal documents. Judging from his outward conduct, no one could have imagined the depth of the work of grace in his heart. But internally, he was leading a quite different life. His energies were put forth for the accomplishment of one object—his personal salvation. In the short space of a week he had lost that ambition whose only object is self-gratification. It is not meant that he had no desire to excel and to rise to a high position in his profession, for religion does not require the suppression of every impulse of this character, but Ernest had no disposition to gain victories merely to elicit the admiration and applause of his fellow men. After the meeting, he endeavored to apply himself to business with his former diligence. But there was one peculiarity in his efforts for which he could not account, and which he did not understand clearly till some years afterwards. He could not and did not feel the same interest in his profession, for which so lately he had a most enthusiastic love. Try never so hard to confine his attention to his law books, his mind would wander off to very unsecular affairs. Endeavoring to plunge into the profundities of Kent’s Commentaries, he would meet with a sentence or a word which would remind him of some theological commentary. Ernest, in a short time after his conversion, had become so much interested in the study of the Holy Scriptures that he had added to his library the commentaries of Henry, Clarke and Scott. He found himself more frequently pondering over the signification of passages of holy writ than paragraphs of law. He spent much time in reading and searching the Scriptures—like the Bereans—time, which the spirit of the world said should have been given to the duties of his calling. This internal conflict threw Ernest into a state of perplexity. He was becoming an enigma to himself. He could not imagine why his vocation should become distasteful. The finger of destiny was pointing in a new direction, but it was concealed by the mists of the future. For some wise reason the path of duty is not always clearly indicated. The divine economy is so inwrought with human affairs that no man can determine the extent of the supernatural guidance that may be furnished.
While in this state of mind, Ernest went to church one Sabbath. The minister, who was a stranger, read the fourteenth chapter of John as his lesson, and at the proper time announced as his text the first and second verses—“Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in me,” etc. Ernest assumed a comfortable physical posture in the expectation of hearing a soul-thrilling sermon—an expectation justified by the abundant consolation which can be legitimately drawn from the entire chapter. There was a large congregation and all seemed to be eager to catch every word that should be uttered. The preacher began in a rather low nasal “whine,” as the people called it—a not very classical term to be sure, but very expressive and generally understood, if nothing else could be said in its favor. His manner was cold and not at all en rapport with his environments, but Ernest thought and hoped that he would “warm up” with his subject as he proceeded. He was doomed to disappointment: for the preacher kept on with the same whine, with no more variation than there is in the ringing of a bell. The vocal part was utterly incongruous with the theme. The preacher stood stone still, nothing moving but his lips, and looking like a talking statue. His hands were gently folded on his breast and his eyes were fixed with immovable rigidity upon something on the floor immediately in front of the pulpit. His whole manner was the best imaginable remedy for insomnia, which was soon proved by the state of delightful unconsciousness into which many of the audience had fallen at the expiration of the first half-hour. Ernest made brave and persistent efforts to confine his attention to the minister’s monotonous sentences and to resist the feeling of somnolence which was quietly and gradually creeping over him. When the service finally ended, Ernest left the church with a feeling of spiritual lassitude—a consciousness that the hour had been unprofitable, not to say that he was a little vexed, too.
“Why does the Church send out such men to preach?” he asked himself as he walked slowly homeward. “This man’s intentions, no doubt, are good, but his education is wofully deficient, and he does not seem to understand the first rudiment of oratory. The ecclesiastical body that put him in this responsible position are more censurable than he is. What a grand text he had! If a man could preach at all, it does seem that he could get a splendid sermon out of that passage. I believe I could do it myself. Let me see. There is that old college speech of mine—Man was made to mourn,—it would apply admirably to the first head. Look abroad over the world. How many things there are which are calculated to trouble the heart. Of all this the preacher never said a word. I moved an audience to tears with the same subject when there was nothing but human sympathy to which I could appeal. But with the precious hopes and promises of the gospel in his hands, he put a portion of his congregation to sleep. Then there are the blessed mansions which the Savior promised to His true followers. ‘I go to prepare a place for you,’ said our Lord. Why there is a grand sermon in that one brief sentence. ‘I go,’ said Christ. Where did He go? Why did He go? Why did He not remain forever on earth? The answer is, that He might send the Comforter. Then, for what purpose did He go? To prepare mansions for all true believers. What a glorious thought! What does He prepare? A place. Then the conclusion is, that heaven is a tangible locality. For whom is He preparing a place? ‘For you.’ But the disciples stood there as the representatives of all true believers for all time. So I should have said, had I been in that preacher’s place to-day: ‘Brethren, Jesus says I am preparing a place for you.’ Then I would go on to describe this blessed place from intimations thrown out in the Bible itself. There are the shining city, the jasper walls, the golden streets, the crystal river, the Trees of Life, the Great White Throne, and the mighty multitude which no man can number. With these grand and sublime thoughts in easy reach, the preacher never said one word to brighten our hopes and strengthen our faith. But instead of producing such an effect, he threw us into a state of stupid, half-unconsciousness. What a failure!”
Presently, while Ernest was musing in this loose, random way, a voice—a “still, small voice,” as it were, seemed to come out of the atmosphere, and ask: “Why not then preach yourself?” It was the fiery finger of destiny flashing before him, and Ernest was startled. He answered, almost speaking in audible tones: “Because I am not qualified. I have no call to such work. I am a lawyer. I do not know how to preach.”
“But you have just preached a sermon,” quickly answered the voice. “I only thought what the preacher might have said,” replied Ernest.
“Then why not speak your thoughts to a congregation?” asked the mysterious voice.
We do not wish, by any means, to make the impression that this was an actual supernatural dialogue. It was probably subjective. We use the word “probably,” because we have no right to affirm that God, even in this age of skepticism, never addresses men in audible tones; or what amounts to the same thing. He, no doubt, so operates upon the human conscience as to make subjective mental processes appear objective. At any rate, Ernest was a little startled by this colloquy, which had the appearance of reality. He was so absorbed that he did not notice where he was. He was slowly walking with his head bowed down, and ran against some one soon after the voice appeared to utter the last words. It was Mr. Hillston, at whose house Ernest was still boarding. The collision occurred at the gate. Ernest sprang back, and looked in surprise.
“O, Mr. Hillston,” he cried, “I beg your pardon, sir. I was not looking up. I was thinking, yea, almost talking.”
“And to whom were you talking, my young friend?” asked the old gentleman.
“I scarcely know, sir, that is, I can hardly determine whether it was to myself, or some invisible being in the air?”
“That is a little strange; but what was the subject of your conversation?”
“I will tell you how it was.”
Ernest then related what had occurred. When he had finished, he could not fail to notice the serious expression of Mr. Hillston’s face.
“What do you think about it?” asked Ernest.
“Do you think the circumstance needs interpretation?” asked Mr. Hillston. “Do you not perceive the meaning?”
“I do not know that it has any particular meaning,” answered Ernest.
“My boy,” spoke the old man with deep solemnity, “does it not occur to you that it is God’s call to the ministry?”
“No sir,” quickly replied Ernest. “Do not tell me that. I cannot believe it. I will not think it upon such evidence?”
“Yes, you will think it, and believe it, too. You may decline, if you will; you may offer resistance, but that voice will follow you up, and haunt you like a ghost. If you will not go into the work willingly, God will drive you into it, as he did Paul.”
“What! smite me with blindness?”
“I do not say that,” answered Mr. Hillston slowly, “but He will so shape and direct circumstances as to force you to do His bidding. You may flee like Jonah, but events, possibly misfortunes, will be the ‘great fish’ to swallow you up, and cast you out where you will be glad to cry aloud to men to repent.”
“You almost frighten me,” exclaimed Ernest. “I cannot regard what I have told you as constituting a call from God to preach. I am not superstitious. I do not believe as you do, anyhow.”
“What do you mean, my boy?” asked the old man, looking at him in surprise.
“Do you not remember what you said the other day about election and free agency. I believe in free agency. I do not think that God forces men to do things. But you,” continued Ernest with a laugh, “are a regular old blue-stocking Presbyterian.”
“I cannot suffer you, my young friend, to give up to the Presbyterians exclusively the most precious doctrines of the Bible. You are very much mistaken if you think that Presbyterians are the only people who believe in election and the final perseverance of the saints.”
“Do you believe that other horrid doctrine of Predestination? No; surely not.”
“You have asked me a direct question,” said Mr. Hillston, “and have presumed to answer for me. But your answer is incorrect: for as much as you may be surprised, I tell you that I do believe the ‘horrid doctrine’ of Predestination.”
“Well, I am surprised to hear you say so. For I thought that even Presbyterians shrank from averring it openly.”
“You may be surprised now; but when you investigate more closely, you may be a Predestinarian yourself, if you will lay aside prejudice.”
“I do not see how I ever can be, with all deference to you, sir; for the doctrine is horrible to me.”
“What is so horrible, my boy?” asked the old man kindly. “But let us go into the house. Now,” continued Mr. Hillston, as they both seated themselves, “tell me what is so horrible?”
“Why, that God should condemn men to eternal torment even before they are born. What can be more cruel and unjust?”
“That would be ‘horrible’ if God were blind, as men are. But let us look at this ‘horrible doctrine’ from other standpoints. You probably know that some people, in order to avoid the difficulties of Divine sovereignty, strip God of one of His attributes by saying that the Lord does not choose to fore-know human destiny, that is, individual destiny. Now if that were true, man would be a perfect free moral agent, would he?”
“Undoubtedly, he would, sir.”
“That is what a great many people say,” answered Mr. Hillston, “in the very face of Scriptures to the contrary. But never mind: for the present, we will assume that God does not choose to exercise His foreknowledge. Well, men follow the bent of their owns wills, and shape their own destinies. At last the world comes to an end. God opens the Books—that is, He looks back over the past, and discovers what men have done, and settles their doom according to their deeds, do you think that would be right?”
“O, yes,” said Ernest, “that would certainly be just, according to my ideas.”
“Very well. In looking back, the mere knowledge which God acquires does not affect men’s conduct, does it?”
“What do you mean by ‘affect’?”
“I mean His knowledge would not change their deeds, one way or the other?”
“No: of course, His knowledge would have no effect upon their past conduct.”
“Then, if you please, tell me what is the difference between God’s looking back over the past and looking forward over the future. How would His knowledge affect human destinies in the one case more than in the other?”
Ernest thought for a moment, and then said:
“Why, there is this difference: whatever God foreknows must take place.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Hillston, “but does God’s after-knowledge affect the conduct of men?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how does God’s foreknowledge differ from his after-knowledge—that is the question. Is there any difference?”
“Just at this moment,” replied Ernest in some confusion, “I am not prepared to say; but it does seem to me unjust in God to sentence men to torment before they are born.”
“But if the condemnation is for the same sins, why not condemn before they are born as well as after?”
“You have taken a turn that I was not expecting,” answered Ernest. “I confess I had never thought of it in that way.”
“No, and that is what is the matter with the most of those who oppose the doctrine of predestination. They even deny fore-knowledge to God, not pausing to reflect that mere knowledge has no effect upon the destinies of men. They represent God as in the attitude of a human judge. But we must never forget that His ways are not as our ways, and His thoughts, not as our thoughts. Predestination is a mysterious doctrine, and there is something about it which no man can understand. And yet, when we investigate it in the light of the Holy Scriptures, and study the examples illustrating it, there is not as much difficulty as some people imagine. I do not think you have investigated in this way.”
“No, sir; but I intend to do so.”
“That is right. Study your Bible closely; honestly mark all the passages that teach this ‘horrid doctrine,’ and let us talk about it again. I have no doubt that you will study the Bible more closely than you have ever done, since you are going to be a minister of the gospel.”
“There, you are reckoning without your host,” said Ernest. “I have no idea of ever being a preacher. I am not qualified. Why, it would be presumption in me to think about it.”
“Mark my words, Ernest,” said Mr. Hillston solemnly, “you will be a preacher or a ruined man. The Holy Spirit, if I am not very greatly mistaken, is opening the way, and showing you the path. I beg you, do not neglect and disregard plain indications. I cannot help thinking that you are a chosen vessel for some great purpose, and if so, you will see no peace till you obey the voice of God. If you are in doubt, pray to the Lord for light, and it will be given. The Master will certainly make clear the path of duty.”
Ernest was silent, and Mr. Hillston concluded it would be prudent to say nothing more at that time. The young man went to his office soon after, and fell into deep thought. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he was destined to become a preacher? The thought became more intolerable as he reflected upon it. He wished that he had not tried his power of sermonizing, for it was this that had given origin to what Mr. Hillston had the boldness to pronounce a call to the ministry. Was it in this way that God chose his ministers? But suppose this was a divine call, how could he refuse to obey? Would he rebel against God’s expressed will? But surely this was no call, at least it was not sufficient. There certainly was no voice. He would wait, and pray for more light. Would he not lose Clara Vanclure? Would she ever consent to be a preacher’s wife?
This latter question, propounded to himself, had some influence, probably in causing him to come to the conclusion not to rush hastily into the ministry upon an invitation which existed, he thought, only in his imagination. Accordingly, he endeavored to dismiss the perplexing subject from his mind. To his great relief, he found no difficulty in losing himself in the pages of a volume which he took from one of the shelves of his library. It was Dr. Dick’s “Philosophy of a Future State.” For pleasant and profitable Sunday reading, no better books can be found than Dick’s several volumes on moral and religious subjects. Ernest was so absorbed in his book that he thought no more about the “call to preach” for the remainder of the Sabbath evening.
The next morning when he returned to his office as usual and began reading Blackstone, the words of the preacher’s text on the previous day suddenly flashed into his mind. He quickly dropped his book and began thinking. Presently he almost sprang from his seat, for on the opposite side of the table, on which his head had been resting, there sat a visitor, who was curiously gazing at him.
“Ah! been asleep, have you?” said Mr. Vanclure, for it was he.
“No, sir,” said Ernest confusedly, “I was in a sort of reverie.”
“Things of that sort don’t pay much—no, sir, don’t pay much. I have been too busy all my life for anything of that kind. People must keep wide awake in this world to succeed—yes, sir, to succeed.”
“My vocation is different from yours, Mr. Vanclure, you know. When we lawyers meet with a knotty problem sometimes, we stop to think, and occasionally we get to dreaming: it is not unnatural.”
“Well,” said the old merchant abruptly, “I have come to say something about a delicate matter—a delicate matter. If it was ordinary business, I’d know how to begin—how to begin. But it’s another sort of affair.”
“Just suppose it to be business of an ordinary character, Mr. Vanclure, and begin at once,” said Ernest with a feeling of dread.
“Well,” said the merchant in a fidgety manner, “I thought you and Clara were engaged to be married—engaged to be married pretty soon, and things were floating along smoothly, you know. Yes, sir, and I had given my consent, you remember, at your solicitation, and I was making my arrangements accordingly, for you see I had confidence in you, Ernest, since I have known you from a child—yes from a child. I told you, don’t you remember, that I had some business affairs which I could not manage—could not manage, because I’m no lawyer.”
“Well,” interrupted Ernest, “you can tell me what the business is, and I will do the best I can with it.”
“But you don’t understand, Ernest—you don’t understand. It wouldn’t be proper just yet to tell you. I said it was a delicate matter—a delicate matter, just as things now are. You see I thought everything was working well. I thought this contract between you and Clara would soon be executed—would soon be executed, and then I could with propriety put this business in your hands—in your hands, Ernest, because you would, you would sustain a closer relation to me than you do now, and then I could let you know all my plans—know all my plans, which wouldn’t be proper just yet—just yet, you know. You understand how I am situated.”
“I cannot say that I do,” replied Ernest with a smile, “for you have told me nothing in regard to your situation.”
“I have told you all I can, Ernest—all I can till that affair comes off—comes off.”
“What affair, Mr. Vanclure?”
“The engagement between you and Clara, of course, of course. I thought all would be over in a few weeks—yes, in a few weeks. But I fear there is a misunderstanding somewhere, and I thought there’d be no harm in finding out—in finding out, you see.”
“What is it you wish to find out, Mr. Vanclure?”
“Well, you see, I got a hint from Clara, a hint from Clara, and I thought I’d better find out,—better find out.”
“I am perfectly willing to give you any information in my possession,” said Ernest.
“I thought so, I thought so, and I’ll come to the point at once. You see it was a lawyer I wanted. A preacher and a lawyer are very different people. I could make no use of a preacher—no, sir, no use of a preacher, you understand?”
“I do not understand, Mr. Vanclure.”
“I got a hint from Clara—a hint from Clara, and I thought I’d better come, and find out about it, before it’s too late.”
“What is it you wish to find out, Mr. Vanclure?” interrupted Ernest.
“Why, I thought you’d see at once—yes, at once, after my explanation.”
Ernest smiled internally.
“I confess, Mr. Vanclure, that I am so obtuse mentally, that I have failed to understand your explanation.”
“What? can’t you see—can’t you see that a lawyer and a preacher are two different people—two different people?”
“Yes, sir; I see that clearly.”
“Well, I gave you to understand that a lawyer would suit me—would suit me, and I thought you were a lawyer.”
“So I am.”
“But are you going to give up law, and be a preacher—be a preacher?”
“Who said I was, Mr. Vanclure?”
“I told you I got a hint from Clara—a hint from Clara, you understand?”
“I believe I do,” said Ernest thoughtfully. “It seems that Miss Clara has thrown out a hint that I would be a preacher?”
“Precisely, precisely.”
“And suppose I should be, Mr. Vanclure, how could it affect present relations?”
“Why, you see, a preacher is not the sort of man, the sort of man, that would suit my purposes. A preacher is no business man, Ernest—no business man. This thing of going over the country, with your ward-robe in a pair of saddle-bags—yes, in a pair of saddle-bags, and living from hand to mouth—well, I can’t see the necessity of it in this case, in this case. Although Clara gave me a hint, I didn’t much believe it—I didn’t much believe it—because, Ernest, there is no necessity for it, no earthly necessity for it. You will not be forced to go into that poor business—that poor business; but don’t misunderstand; I’m not opposed to the Church—it’s a very good thing in its place—a very good thing, and I pay my part to keep it going. But, as I said, a preacher is not the sort of man I bargained for—it was a lawyer I wanted, and I had my heart set on this matter, and I expected to put the business in your hands—in your hands.”
“Why are you opposed to preachers, Mr. Vanclure?”
“You misunderstand, Ernest, you misunderstand. I haven’t said I was opposed to them. I have nothing against them, nothing against them. They are useful men, in some respects, in some respects; but they are not business men, not business men. How could a preacher attend to my business? I don’t see why you should want to quit your profession, quit your profession, and be a preacher; you understand, don’t you?”
“I gather from your remarks, Mr. Vanclure, that if it is my intention to be a preacher, you would oppose the marriage of Miss Clara and myself—is that your meaning?”
“Well, I didn’t say that I’d oppose it: I only said that a preacher wouldn’t suit me; no, wouldn’t suit me. A preacher wouldn’t have time to attend to business, even if he were a business man, and I never saw one that was—one that was.”
“I have no idea of ever being a preacher, Mr. Vanclure, and I cannot imagine why Miss Clara should have drawn such an inference from anything I said.”
“I told Clara that she must be mistaken, must be mistaken. Then I understand that you never will be a preacher?”
“I have no such intention, sir.”
“Well, that’s enough said; I’ll go now, and I’d advise you to see Clara about this affair, and give her the assurance you have given me.” Mr. Vanclure left hurriedly.
Ernest had an interview with Clara that evening, which terminated in the assurance, on her part, that if he ever became a preacher, she would at once file an application for a divorce.
