CHAPTER XIII.
A DESPERATE MAN.
The army to which Ernest belonged was encamped on the banks of the historical river ——. The year was drawing to a close. To Ernest the days dragged heavily by, as there are few amusements in military camps that are sufficient to divert one’s mind from introspectional processes. It was this prolonged subjectivity—this constant brooding over one’s own thoughts, inseparable from camp life, that produced ennui, or more frequently, that exquisite nostalgia, which often terminated in death. Ernest had kept up a regular correspondence with Mildred, which occupied much of his time, and made his own thoughts pleasant companions. She had not written a word in regard to her visits to Washington, and he, of course, supposed that she was at home.
One morning a letter was delivered to him, post-marked from Mildred’s office, but directed in a chirography which was not hers. This circumstance at once aroused, in his mind, the most fearful apprehensions. He thought of a hundred calamities, in a few moments, that might have overtaken her—probably she had suddenly died—she might be sick—she had married someone—the enemy had made a raid and carried off the whole family, and this thought made him clench his hand and grind his teeth. Why did he not open the epistle at once, and end his suspense? Because he was endeavoring to prepare his mind for the reception of distressing news, like a man who sees the avalanche coming, and braces himself against the nearest rock that promises to offer successful resistance against the coming shock. The first Lieutenant of his company was in the tent, to whom Ernest, holding up the letter, said:
“I fear this will put an end to all my fondly cherished hopes.”
“Is it from her?” inquired the Lieutenant.
“No, not from her,” said Ernest, “but it bears the post-mark of her office.”
“Well, why don’t you open it?”
“Because it appears to me like a Pandora’s box, and I dread the evils it contains.”
“Hope was left behind, you know.”
“Yes; but I fear that hope, in this instance, will be the first to wing her flight away from me,” said Ernest.
“Never climb the hill till you get to it,” said the Lieutenant. “Why allow yourself to suffer the pangs of imaginary evils?”
“It is foolish, Lieutenant.”
Ernest slowly opened the envelope, took out the folded sheet, and glanced at the subscriber’s signature. It was from Dr. Arrington. The Lieutenant noticed that a deathly pallor spread over his face, and his hands trembled violently, but he said nothing till Ernest had finished the letter. He was transformed into the very embodiment of despair.
“What is the matter?” kindly and anxiously asked the Lieutenant, his personal friend.
“I cannot tell,” Ernest almost groaned out. “There, read for yourself.”
The Lieutenant carefully read Dr. Arrington’s account of the arrest and imprisonment of his daughter.
“It is terrible news,” said the Lieutenant, “and there is no use disguising it. Yet as long as there is life, there is hope.”
“Oh! Great Heavens!” exclaimed Ernest, springing to his feet, “the villains may have already executed her! You know how hurriedly they do these things. If they have—,” shaking his head and grinding his teeth—“If they have, I will be avenged. Yes, they shall pay for her blood. I shall have only one object to live for—to avenge her death. In the next battle, Lieutenant, I desire you to command the company. I want a gun—I must have a gun. I cannot stand still while there will be such opportunities for spilling their blood. Yes, sir, I will make them pay dearly for such shameful, diabolical murder.”
“Now, come, my friend,” said the Lieutenant, “you will try to ascend the mountain before you reach it. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. You have no proof whatever that the execution has taken place, and your surmises may be without the shadow of foundation. Besides, you are a Christian—a follower of the meek and lowly Lamb, who when He was reviled, reviled not again. Does it become you to be talking of revenge? ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. You must not murmur at the dispensations of divine providence.”
“What!” interrupted Ernest, “do you call this a dispensation of providence? Do you believe that God would deliberately bring about such a dreadful event as that?”
“Why not that as well as any other event? Don’t you believe that God has something to do with this war?”
“Yes, I suppose He has, in a sort of general way.”
“General way?” exclaimed the Lieutenant. “Why, generalities are made up of particulars. How can there be a general providence, as some people call it, without special acts? Well, this misfortune of yours, as you regard it, is one of the events of the war. It is not a mere accident.”
“Do you pretend to say,” asked Ernest in an agitated manner, “that God selected my loved one especially for the purpose of being sacrificed? Do you say that?”
“Why not her as well as anybody else, granting your premises? But you are a little too fast, my friend. You have no reliable information that she has been sacrificed. You’re assuming too much.”
“She will be treated as a spy,” said Ernest, “and you know what that means. I can never forgive Gen. A. for inveigling her into such an affair. Why did he not get me, or some other man to go?”
“You do not know what Gen. A.’s reasons were,” said the Lieutenant. “Captain, you need to be taught a lesson of humility, if you will pardon me for saying it. God says, ‘love your enemies,’ and here you are, wishing to murder yours, and are manifesting an unforgiving spirit even toward your friends. I believe you are a Christian, but I fear you will have to be chastened by sorrow and suffering. You would better ask God to give you meekness of spirit and resignation to His will, before you are made to bow by calamities. Your rebellion will be punished. The Scripture says, ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.’ Submit, before a ‘worse thing happen unto thee.’”
“It is difficult for me to believe just as you do,” answered Ernest in a gentler tone. “You belong to the Presbyterian Church that holds to the doctrine that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass. I confess that I am disposed to believe the theory, but somehow I cannot bring it into the practical affairs of life.”
“You remember what Nebuchadnezzar was punished for?” asked the Lieutenant. “It was for denying the Divine Sovereignty. God punishes men for the same offence now. He tells us He is a jealous God; He demands that we shall recognize His hand in all our affairs.”
“I wish I could fully and firmly believe as you do,” said Ernest thoughtfully. “I can see that the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church are better adapted to the necessities of man’s nature than those of any other Church. I notice too, that Presbyterians seem to bear up under misfortunes better than other people. And this I must attribute to the comfort they find in their doctrines.”
“There is much truth in what you say,” replied the Lieutenant. “I was not reared a Presbyterian, but after I was grown, I was particularly struck with their quiet way of doing things—a way destitute of boisterous zeal and ostentatious fussiness. Then when I investigated their doctrines, I found them Scriptural. I confess I do not see how any man can fail to believe these doctrines, with the Bible in his hands. Do you not think that the doctrine of the Divine Sovereignty is taught in the Bible?”
“It does seem to be,” said Ernest; “but this doctrine of election does not, at times, appear to be consistent with justice.”
“Where is the inconsistency?”
“Why, that Jesus died for some men, and left the rest of mankind to perish in their sins, and then to hold these men responsible for what they could not help.”
“Who advocates such a view as that?” asked the Lieutenant, who was a pious and intelligent member of the Presbyterian Church.
“Why, do not you Presbyterians believe that?”
“No, sir; we believe that Christ tasted death for every man, as the Scriptures declare. He made an atonement sufficient to save every son and daughter of Adam. No man is lost on account of any limitation or defect in the atonement, nor on account of an eternal decree. All could be saved, if they only had the will. It is nothing but the perverse will in men that prevents their salvation. But I should like to ask what you believe in regard to the atonement? You may as well be thinking about this as brooding over your troubles.”
“Yes; let us have a discussion—anything to keep my mind off this misfortune till I am prepared to think calmly about it. In reply, then, to your inquiry, I say I scarcely know what to think. It would seem reasonable to me, though, that Christ died for all precisely alike—for one just as much as another. All were on the same level. By His death He removed the obstacles placed in the way by original sin or Adam’s transgression. He thus made salvation possible to all men. Christ provided the means, and left it to man’s choice whether he would use the means or not. That would seem just and right.”
“So it might at the first glance,” answered the Lieutenant, “and it is the way men would like to have it. Nothing could be more agreeable to the carnal heart. But let us calmly examine your position. You think then that Jesus died for no individual in particular, but for the whole race of men in general?”
“That seems to be reasonable,” replied Ernest, “and no one could complain.”
“Yes, reasonable according to man’s notions,” rejoined the Lieutenant, “and according to the principles of mere human philosophy. But the main objection to it, is that it is in diametrical opposition to the Scriptures. For they emphatically declare that Christ gave Himself for the Church. All through the New Testament we find such expressions as ‘died for His people.’ Jesus, Himself repeatedly spoke of ‘His people’ for whom He would give His life.”
“But does not the Bible say ‘He was made a propitiation not only for our sins, but for the sins of the whole world?’ What does that mean?”
“Well, suppose Christ had not died at all, how many would have been saved?”
“None at all,” said Ernest.
“Then the answer is that Jesus died sufficiently for all the world, but effectually for His own people. He made such an atonement that every one could be saved who wanted to be. And this is the meaning of every passage of Scripture which is similar to the one cited by you.”
“But,” asked Ernest, “what was the use of dying sufficiently for all, when it was known that all would not be saved?”
“Christ had to die for the elect,” replied the Lieutenant, “and in so doing He died sufficiently to save the entire world. If the atonement is sufficient to save all, that throws the responsibility of the damnation of those who are lost upon themselves. But how much broader do you want the atonement, if it takes in all who want to be saved? Why should you want Christ to make an effectual atonement for those who do not want to be saved?”
“I confess that is a puzzling question,” answered Ernest.
“Besides,” continued the Lieutenant, “your position is contrary to sound philosophy.”
“How is that?”
“You say it is left to men to choose their own destinies. Now suppose that not one of the human race had accepted Christ, would not the atonement have been a failure? Would not Jesus have died in vain?”
“It does seem so,” said Ernest.
“Do you suppose,” continued the Lieutenant, “that the Lord was trying experiments?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this,” answered the Lieutenant. “if God was experimenting, He virtually said: ‘Son, go into the world, and make an atonement for the sins of all mankind; perhaps, some may avail themselves of the provisions of this scheme which we have adopted, but we do not know that a single individual will be saved.’ Do you not suppose that God had some definite purpose to accomplish in the atonement? If not, He was less wise than men are. Even we, weak human beings, never go to work without some plan and some object.”
“Of course,” said Ernest, “I admit that God had a definite purpose in view.”
“Do you not believe that God’s purpose will be achieved?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Certainly, it will.”
“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “if the Lord intended to save all men, why are they not saved?”
“Because they will not be.”
“You are then driven to the conclusion,” replied the Lieutenant, “that men are more powerful than God. He wants to save them, and intends to save them, but they will not allow Him. They defeat God’s intentions.”
“No; I do not mean that exactly,” said Ernest.
“Well, what do you mean?”
“Why,” answered Ernest, “I mean that God made equal provisions for all, and determined to treat all alike.”
“Then all the plan you admit was, that Christ made a sort of general atonement, but determined nothing in regard to the salvation of any particular individual? It was not certain that any would be saved?”
“O, of course, He knew that some would be saved, and some lost.”
“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant, “He knew that some would be saved, and some lost—just put it on that ground; now, Christ died effectually for those who He knew would be saved, and yet sufficiently to save those who He knew would be lost; and this is the election which my Church advocates, that is, leaving out fore-knowledge as the ground upon which the scheme of redemption is based; for God’s choice of the elect does not depend upon anything in the creature. But I am showing that your own position leads to a kind of predestination. Do you not see that your position also runs into the broadest universalism?”
“How does it?” asked Ernest.
“Why, your idea is, that God, to be impartial, must treat all alike—give all the same opportunities, and bring the same influences to bear upon all. Now let us see how that will work. Mr. A. is convinced by the Holy Spirit, and is converted, as we may say: he is saved; Mr. B. his neighbor, must be treated in the same way, or God would be partial.”
“God gives both the same opportunities,” said Ernest, “but one resists and the other yields.”
“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “you have mankind divided into two classes—one resists, and is certain to be lost, and the other yields, and is certain to be saved. What is that but predestination?”
“I mean,” said Ernest, “that God gives each class sufficient grace to save them, if they would use it.”
“It is well,” replied the Lieutenant, “that you brought in that ‘if.’ Certainly, ‘if’ they would use it. The grace is sufficient, do you not see, to save one class, but not the other? So here is predestination again. The line is drawn between the two classes, and one class can never be saved, because the grace given is not sufficient to induce them to make an effort to secure salvation.”
“Well,” said Ernest, “do you not make God unjust in not giving them sufficient grace?”
“If He did give every man sufficient grace to save him,” said the Lieutenant, “then every man would be saved. What is that but the broadest universalism?”
Ernest made no reply.
“But you are not a universalist,” continued the Lieutenant. “If not, you must believe the doctrine of election; there is no other alternative. The difference between us is this: I affirm that God elects His people upon a principle with which He has not acquainted us; you say that the election depends upon men themselves; and you divide men into two classes, and the individuals of one class are so constituted that it is certain they will resist all sacred influences, and consequently will inevitably be lost. This is as rigid predestination as ever John Calvin advocated.”
“You have a way of making me say things I do not mean, Lieutenant.”
“No,” answered the Lieutenant, “I merely followed out the proposition you laid down to its legitimate consequences. I do not see how you can escape these consequences, and I would be glad if you would show me how to avoid them. For, I confess that there is something about it which sorely puzzles me, and troubles me.”
“I thought you professed to fully understand it,” said Ernest.
“On the contrary, I do not understand it. I merely take the Bible at what it says. But I never pretended to reconcile election with human free agency. We can go to a certain point, and there we must stop.”
“What is it that perplexes you so?”
“Well,” answered the Lieutenant, “some people assert that God desires and wills every human being to be saved. Now, if He does, why does He not save them? Why does He not accomplish His own will? He, undoubtedly, has the power.”
“We might answer,” replied Ernest, “that God will not destroy their free agency.”
“Is it so important and necessary to preserve free agency that men must suffer eternal torment for it?” asked the Lieutenant. “Would it not be better to destroy their free agency than to permit men to use it to their own destruction? We cannot deny that God could save every man if He really desired and willed to do so. He could speak to them with an audible voice or show them a great light, as He did Paul, and in this way bring the entire human race into the fold of the Lord Jesus Christ. But it is as clear as anything can be, that God never intended to save all men. If He did, what was there to defeat the divine intention? If you say that men will not let Him save them, then men have more power than God. In fact, any position you may take that is not in harmony with the Westminster Confession of Faith will end in confusion and darkness. Why not, then, take the plain Scriptures on the subject? All through God’s word the two classes, the lost and the saved, are spoken of. You may account for the damnation of sinners on any principle you please; you may say that God has nothing to do with it, if you will; you may say that men are perfectly free agents; that there is no such doctrine as election in the Scriptures; you may blot out predestination, but nevertheless the fact stares you in the face that there are the Saved and the Lost. We must judge of God’s purpose by what takes place. Men are saved every day. Men are lost every day. Now, all this is in accordance with the divine will or opposed to it; one or the other. If it is in accordance with God’s will, this is the election for which we contend. But if it is opposed to the divine will, we are forced to the conclusion that God has not sufficient power to accomplish what He wants.”
“As I told you, Lieutenant,” said Ernest, “I am inclined to the doctrine of the Presbyterian Church. I can see that there is more comfort in it than the opposite, and it is certainly more Scriptural.”
“The opposite is too vague and loose,” answered the Lieutenant. “The believer has too little security. According to the view of some people, the Christian may be in a state of grace to-day, and to-morrow in a state of condemnation. If I believed that, I should be miserable, for I should never know whether I was safe or not. I prefer to believe God’s own declaration, which is that He will complete the good work He has begun, and that His people shall never perish.”
“I believe that, myself,” said Ernest. “I have been talking on this subject more to keep my mind off my misfortune than for anything else, but it is in vain. How can I help thinking of it? My mind is now like a volcano in a state of activity. I cannot stand this. I cannot lie here in camp doing nothing, while she is languishing in prison. Good heavens! it is enough to drive me mad.”
“Let us pray to God for direction.”
“With all my heart,” answered Ernest. “Please pray for me.”
They both knelt down, and the Lieutenant in a low voice prayed earnestly for his friend, that God would sustain him and bring him in triumph out of all his troubles. When they arose, the Lieutenant said:
“Now let us have faith in God, but that does not mean that we are not to be active ourselves. What course do you intend to pursue?”
“I must go into Washington City,” said Ernest.
“How can you do that?” inquired the Lieutenant.
“I do not know, but I must go. Perhaps Gen. A. can assist me. He ought to do so, since he is the cause of the calamity. I shall go to him at once. The train will be here in two hours. I cannot stay here; I will desert first.”
And Ernest dashed out of the tent and rushed off like a mad man.
