CHAPTER XVII.
PEACE.
The frightful clouds of war have rolled away. The smoke of battle has dissolved into the darkness of the Past. The blood-spots have been washed out by the rains and dews of heaven. Blessed Peace spreads out her snow-white pinions, dripping balm for wounded hearts, from the granite hills of New England to the smiling prairies of the Lone Star State. The little hillocks of earth that rise up all over the South mark the gory fields where the enraged warriors met in the death-struggle. We can again re-visit the awful spots where once the earth groaned under the tread of men and horses rushing head-long to the fray, and we can call up the phantom forms, and make them re-enact the bloody tragedies of battle in solemn silence. The gloomy cedar-brakes of Murfreesboro, the plateau of Bull Run, the dark stream of Chickamauga, the rugged Mount that looks down upon Chattanooga, the black hills of Vicksburg, pock-marked by the shells of a fifty-days’ siege—are all there yet, dumb witnesses to the ferocity of human passions. To-day, at all these, and many other places, we can take the torch of history, and relight the terrible scenes enacted in the now silent past. We see long lines of soldiers start up in battle array, grasping the deadly musket, and solemnly preparing to die, in that ominous lull which always precedes the mighty shock of battle. There is a strange silence. The very forests seem to be holding their breath in expectation of a storm more awful than the cyclone of nature. What is it? The awful pause of Death.
Presently a single gun breaks the oppressive silence. The work of destruction begins. Heavy volumes of smoke rise up all over the forests. Men on horse-back are seen flying in every direction. One remarkable man, clad in a red flannel shirt, symbolical of the fierce spirit within, is seen galloping from one scene of carnage to another, under the inspiration of a courage that never failed. At last, he reels and falls, and the fiery form of A. P. Hill disappears from the scenes of history forever.
It is remarkable that Lee and Jackson in their last moments on earth, when they were unconscious of all temporal things, and their imaginations were roving lawlessly over the gory fields where they had been such prominent actors, both called for A. P. Hill. It is a high compliment to the hero’s military genius. But Jackson himself went down in the thundering cyclone of war, and was seen no more. Alas! such men as these had to be swept from the path of destiny before the divine purpose could be accomplished. We mourn for our fallen braves, and yet we thank God that such scenes as gave them undying fame have ceased, we hope, forever, in these States now cemented with intermingling fraternal blood!
One bright morning in April, 1865, the members of Dr. Arrington’s family were all seated around the breakfast table. Every face wore a sad, anxious expression. The news of Lee’s surrender, which some doubted, had been received, but not the particulars of his last battle. Who had fallen? Mildred looked at the smoking dishes, but could not eat. Where was Ernest? She had seen him but three or four times since their marriage, and he had been in all of Lee’s battles. O, could it be possible that he had been killed in the last fight? The thought made her shudder.
“Why do you not eat?” asked the Doctor kindly.
“How can I, father?” Mildred answered sadly. “I am heart-sick. This suspense is awful.”
“Have faith in God,” said the Doctor. “The last time we heard from Ernest he was well. What reason have you to suppose he is otherwise now?”
“There has been a battle or two since then, and some are killed in every fight.”
“Do not anticipate, my child. Never make trouble for yourself. What is the use of grieving over imaginary calamities?”
“I know, father, that you are right; but it is so hard to be perfectly resigned to God’s will.”
“You have not ascertained what God’s will is in this instance; but even should it be that which you dread, I do not deny that it will be hard to bear. It is natural for us to think that God should let us have our way in some things at least. But we should never forget that God knows what is best for us, and He always does the best for us, if we put ourselves unreservedly in His hands.”
“I know that is true,” replied Mildred. “But, sometimes I am rebellious. If Ernest does not come back,” she continued in quivering tones, “it seems to me I can never again be happy in this world.”
“Then be happy!” exclaimed a voice at the door. Mildred instantly looked up, gave a little scream of joy, sprang from her seat, and was locked in Ernest’s arms. What a transition! We shall not attempt to describe it. There are some emotions of the human heart that are beyond the reach of words. They are too sacred and deep to be expressed by human language. Every trace of sadness immediately vanished from Mildred’s face, which was lit up with a holy joy and peace that made her look radiant. Presently when there was comparative quiet, the Doctor said:
“Well, has Lee really surrendered?”
“I am sorry to say he has,” replied Ernest. “Here is my discharge from the service.”
“And you have not been wounded,” asked Mildred, “since you were home last?”
“I have not received a graze,” he replied.
“Well,” she said with tears springing into her eyes, “let me go to my room, and return thanks to God, and ask His forgiveness for my thoughts. I cannot eat till I do.”
As she went out Mrs. Arrington said:
“You have a treasure, Ernest, in that girl, if I do say it myself.”
“I am well aware of that, Madam, and I am indebted to the war for it. I have learned that God brings good out of evil. I never would have heard of Mildred, had it not been for the battle of Manassas. I am sorry, though, our cause is lost.”
“But it is God’s will,” quickly spoke up the Doctor, “and we should be thankful that it is no worse.”
“I am sure it is bad enough,” replied Ernest. “We have lost our independence.”
“It may appear to you to be a great calamity,” said the Doctor, “but I have no doubt it is a blessing in disguise. Two different governments could not exist in this glorious land of ours. I have never believed that we would succeed. I was fearful that we were in the wrong. But it is in vain to discuss such questions now. All is over, and we must submit. ‘Promotion cometh neither from the East nor the West, but God setteth up one, and pulleth down another.’”
Mildred now returned to the dining-room, and all partook of the meal with hearts glowing with gratitude. Do not the angels hover over, and smile upon, such a social scene?
The next day the family assembled in the parlor to hold a consultation, at the request of Ernest.
“Well,” said the Doctor, smiling upon the group, “‘the cruel war is over,’ and we must now all return to the blessed arts of peace. I suppose you will resume the practice of law,” he continued, turning to Ernest.
“No, I think not, Doctor,” answered Ernest. “I called this family meeting in order to lay my plans before you. After my marriage, when I returned to my command again, I solemnly promised God that if He would spare my life, I would devote my energies to His service in the ministry. I am here alive, without having received another wound. Now do you not think I ought to regard my vows?”
“O, my dear Ernest,” cried Mildred eagerly, “I have prayed God to put it in your heart to become a minister, and now, it seems, my prayer is answered.”
“I did not know,” said Ernest, “but that you might have an ambition for something higher.”
“Higher!” exclaimed Mildred in surprise. “What can be higher?”
“I did not mean ‘higher’ in the sense that you understand,” replied Ernest, “but the world, you know, regards some other professions as higher.”
“But the ministry is not a profession,” answered Mildred. “I cannot imagine what greater honor a human being can enjoy than to be called to do God’s work.”
“I have now no greater ambition myself than to be an humble minister of the gospel,” replied Ernest.
“It is well,” said the Doctor, “that you employ the word humble. I am sorry to say that there are ambitious men in the Church who desire to acquire great reputation as preachers, and who seek after high places in the Church. I hope you have no such disposition as that?”
“No, Doctor, if I know my own heart. I desire to be useful.”
“Let us be plain,” continued the Doctor, “that you may not, in the future, regret the step you have taken. Be sure that you are influenced by the proper motives. I hope you have not entered into a sort of contract with the Lord—that is, you do not propose to become a minister because God has brought you safe out of the war?”
“No, sir; I firmly believe I was called years ago, but I resisted. I think I would have been a preacher if there had been no war. But probably the war has caused me to enter it sooner than I might have done otherwise.”
“You feel, then, that it is your duty to preach?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then, there is no more to be said about it,” answered the Doctor. “The sooner you begin the better. I believe I have not asked you under what ecclesiastical auspices you propose to preach?”
“The Presbyterian, of course,” said Ernest with a smile. “I suppose my dear Mildred would hardly consent to anything else.”
“O, I am not so prejudiced as all that,” answered Mildred laughing. “If you felt it your duty to attach yourself to any other orthodox Church, I should not oppose you. But to tell you the truth, I love my Church to such an extent that I could never be happy in any other, and I never could feel the same zeal in another.”
“Mildred is a true blue,” said the Doctor with a laugh, “and I am glad to think you will find her a useful helpmeet in your work.”
“I expect she will make a better pastor than I,” said Ernest, “for I am not as social as she is. I fear that this thing of visiting will be the most troublesome duty I shall have to perform.”
“People will require a great deal of you in that respect,” said the Doctor. “You will find that most of them wish you to visit them not on account of their spiritual interests: but it is the social feature they regard. I have noticed that most Presbyterian ministers are more reserved in their manners than those of some other denominations. This is, no doubt, to be attributed to the long course of mental discipline to which they are subjected. They acquire the habit of solitary study till the social feature of their nature is considerably impaired. On this account I have known some ministers to be accused of stiffness, pride and formality, who were humble, godly men. They really did not understand the demands of social etiquette. You will have to cultivate this feature.”
“What is the use of social visiting, Doctor?”
“Whether there is use in it or not, people require it,” replied the Doctor. “You will find some of them very unreasonable. They will complain if you do not call every week.”
“How then, shall I ever find time to study?” asked Ernest.
“You must take it. You can not please everybody, try never so hard.”
And for a long time the Doctor gave the young man excellent advice, which we need not detail, as it would be of no great interest to the general reader. Besides, we are well aware, that people do not read a story for the sake of the moral, but for their own entertainment. So we shall proceed, at once, to relate the most interesting events of Ernest’s life.
The next month, the Presbytery of —— met, and received Ernest under its care. Instead of going to a Seminary, it was allowed him to take a course of Theological study under the tuition of Dr. Arrington. At the expiration of a year he stood his examination, and having received a call from the Presbyterian church in his own town, he was regularly ordained a minister of the gospel. His trial sermon aroused universal wonder and admiration. The people had rarely ever witnessed such oratorical power in the pulpit. Every one predicted for him a brilliant career of usefulness. No young minister ever entered upon his work with more flattering prospects.
Ernest was praised and complimented sufficiently to have turned an older head, but he now possessed too much of the grace of humility to be affected by human applause. The great object with him was the approval of the Master and his own conscience. With the settlement of Ernest in his charge it might seem that our story had reached a point at which it could properly and happily be brought to an end, but we have other interesting events yet to relate.
