Richard Frere listened to the somewhat grandiloquent remark with which the last chapter concluded, muttering to himself, “‘Compel destiny,’ indeed; it strikes me you’ll find ‘destiny,’ as you call it, will have the best of it at that game;” then turning to his companion, he observed more gravely, “Now, listen to me, Lewis. What you have just said is no doubt true enough; you are about as unfit in tastes and habits for the life that is before you as a man well can be, but for that reason it is exactly the very best thing for you. For what purpose do you suppose we are sent into this world? Most assuredly not only to please ourselves, and by following out our own desires and caprices, create a sphere for the exercise and increase of our natural faults. No; the only true view of life is as a school, wherein our characters are to be disciplined, and all the changes and chances, sorrows, trials, and temptations we meet with are the agents by which the education of the soul is carried on.”
“And a low, wretched view of life it is,” replied Lewis bitterly; “a seventy years’ pupilage under the rod of destiny. The heathen sage was right who said that those whom the gods love die early. If it were not for Rose and my mother, I would join some regiment bound for India, volunteer into every forlorn hope, and trust that some Sikh bullet would rid me of the burthen of life without my incurring the guilt of suicide.”
“In fact, you would die like an idiot, because you lack moral courage to face the evils of life like a man,” returned Frere. “But wait a bit: your argument, such as it is, is founded on a fallacy, or on that still more dangerous thing, a half-truth. Granting that life were one scene of bitter experiences,—which would be granting a very large lie,—for what is this discipline intended to fit us? That is the question. You are ambitious—how would you regard obstacles in your path to greatness? You would rejoice in them, would you not, as opportunities for bringing out the high qualities you fancy you possess? fortitude, courage, indomitable perseverance, ready wit, aptitude to lead and govern your fellow-men, and fifty other magnanimous attributes; and deem the greatness unworthy your notice could it be obtained without a struggle. But what is human greatness? A triumph for the hour, bringing its attendant cares and evils with it—mark that,—a bauble, which some other ambitious genius may possibly wrest from your grasp, which old age would unfit you to retain, of which death must deprive you in a few years more or less. Now take the true, the Christian’s view of life—obstacles to overcome, demanding all our strength of mind, and then proving too mighty for us without the assistance of a Power superior to that of man, but which will be given us if we seek it properly. And the victory won, what is the prize we shall obtain? A position, according to our advance in righteousness, among the spirits of just men made perfect intercourse (with reverence be it spoken) with the Source of all good, Omniscience our teacher, Omnipotence our only ruler, Perfect Justice our lawgiver, Perfect Wisdom our director, the Powers of Heaven for our associates, and our own souls, freed from the trammels of mortality, fitted to appreciate and enjoy these inestimable blessings; and all this, not for time, but for eternity. Lewis, you are a reasonable being, and to your own reason I will leave the question.”
There was silence for some minutes. At length Lewis raised his head, revealing features on which the traces of deep emotion were visible, and stretching out his hand to his friend, said in a voice which trembled from excess of feeling, “God bless you, Frere; you are indeed a true friend!” He paused; then added suddenly, “Frere, promise me one thing,—promise me that whatever I may do, whatever rash act or evil deed my feelings may hurry me into, you will not give me up; that while we both live you will act by me as you have done to-day—that you will preserve me from myself, stand between me and my fiery nature; then shall I feel that I am not utterly deserted—you will be the link that shall still bind me to virtue.”
“Well, if you fancy it will make you any happier, or better, or more reasonable, I will promise it,” returned Frere; “more particularly as I should most probably do it whether I promise it or not.”
“You promise, then?” asked Lewis eagerly.
“I do,” replied Frere.
Lewis once more wrung his friend’s hand with such eagerness as to elicit a grimace of pain from that excellent individual, and then continued—
“A conversation of this nature regularly upsets me; I must go out and walk off the excitement before I shall be fit for anything. Come, Faust, good dog! I spoke up for Faust to-day, Frere, and the General accorded a dignified assent: ‘A dog more or less will make little difference in such an establishment as Broadhurst.’”
“Did he say that?” inquired Frere.