It is sometimes the case that we have premonitions that vaguely forewarn us of approaching ill fortune. Not a cloud appears above the horizon of our life, and yet we instinctively shrink from an undefinable something that seems to reach far out in advance of the shadow of coming events. Probably there are powers in the human mind whose development has been prevented by the dread of superstition. The animal seeks shelter from the approaching storm before man has discovered the slightest indication of atmospheric disturbance, or whatever it may be that warns the unreasoning brute of impending danger. May there not be some similar delicate instinct in man that perceives the advancing peril while it is still below the horizon of reality? Who knows? Or discarding human philosophy as insufficient to furnish a solution, may we not regard this shadowy mene tekel upharsin as an emanation from a supernatural source? Men are so skeptical and incredulous and so afraid of “superstition” that they will attribute incomprehensible events to any cause rather than divine interposition. Some assume that miracles never have been performed; and others, that the days of miracles have passed away, and in consequence of this assumption, they ascribe nothing to the hand of Omnipotence. Evolution, correlated forces, natural selection, origin of species, and such terms have left no place in the nomenclature of science for the recognition of the hand of Deity. Unholy skepticism declares that divine direction in the affairs of men is but the unfounded fancy of religious fanaticism. But we do know that in ancient times the Lord sent warnings through the medium of dreams and visions. By what authority do we assume that such means of communication have been abolished? At any rate, such a feeling, a feeling of vague uneasiness, mingled with the thoughts of Ernest Edgefield. He was engaged to be married, and had the utmost confidence in the fidelity and stability of his affianced; and yet he was disturbed by a dim, indistinct sense of unrest, which defied all efforts of analysis. It was like trying to follow an obscure mist by the uncertain light of the moon. He endeavored to reason himself out of his foolish apprehensions. What had he to fear? The course of his own true love seemed to be running smooth. In a few weeks the engagement would be consummated. Then, why this dread? Was it not, after all, produced by Mr. Hillston’s ambiguous innuendoes? But what made the old preacher disbelieve, or at least doubt, that his marriage with Miss Vanclure would ever take place? There was no rival in the case to awaken his jealousy. Indeed, he felt a little vexed at his kind guardian for throwing out such insinuations. Then he would endeavor to banish the indefinable dread which had seized upon him. We who have passed through the scenes of youth, know something of the petty follies, the disquiet, the foolish ennui at times, which distinguish the young man whose heart has been lacerated by the golden arrow of the mischievous little son of Venus. Ernest rarely failed to call once a day at the enchanting domicile of his intended, and if he failed, he frequently made atonement for his negligence by two visits on the next day. While he was in this state of cardiac effervescence, the wheels of time rolled on, unfolding events which had slumbered so long in the bosom of the future. Who can tell what a day may bring forth? Amid the multitudinous events that are continually rushing into reality, like the soldiers of an army in the charge, who can make provision against those unforeseen contingencies which are forever arising? Who can control the chariot of destiny?
Perhaps no event was so little expected as that which seemed to change the current of Ernest’s destiny, a few weeks antecedent to his contemplated marriage. Not to delay with moralizing, an Evangelist by the name of Coyt made his advent into the quiet town where Ernest lived, on the invitation of the Presbyterian church. Great expectations had been formed by many of the more pious brethren, who had read accounts of Dr. Coyt’s wonderful success at other places. His services were eagerly desired and sought all over the country.
At last he entered the little town of —— and began a series of earnest, soul-searching sermons, which he had repeated so often that he could frequently predict what result would follow the delivery of each. Large, expectant congregations attended his meetings from the very outset, since his evangelistic fame had preceded him. For several days the preacher produced no great visible effects, and there were scarcely any signs of spiritual life, except such as were discernible in the numerous petitions sent in by anxious brethren, requesting prayer for sons, daughters, wives, or other relatives and friends. At length this request was read out to the congregation:
“Please pray for a young lawyer, who is moral and worthy in every respect, but is lacking the one thing needful.”
Ernest was present, and heard the reading of this petition. Who could it be but himself? At first, a flash of displeasure, to call it by the mildest name, passed over his handsome face. Who was the person that had the impudence to direct attention to him? But all harsh thoughts soon passed away, when he reflected that the petitioner, whoever it might be, desired only his good. The process of rigid introspection succeeded his first unpleasant thoughts, and he at once gave attention to the contest between conscience and passion that had mysteriously begun. He seemed to be only a spectator of the conflict of antagonistic forces in his soul. There are times, says one of the most profound and philosophical women of the nineteenth century, when our passions speak for us, and we stand by and look on in astonishment. There is something similar to this in the process of spiritual regeneration. Questions and answers suddenly arise in the mind, as of concealed beings in whispered consultation, and we appear to ourselves to be listening to the mysterious dialogue. So it was with Ernest Edgefield, as he sat in the church engaged in self-examination. It appeared to him that he had suddenly awakened out of an alarming dream. He had been in a moral sleep all his life, and had never reflected seriously upon the unknown eternity which was distant but a single step. A “still small voice” seemed to come on the very breeze, and whispered: “What folly this young man has displayed in thinking of nothing but the things of time and sense.” Ernest almost started. “What am I living for?” he asked himself. “In a few weeks I shall be married, and will give renewed attention to business. But time will flow on: and if I live, I will soon be an old man, and I must die, and then—and then—what?” Ernest was neither infidel nor skeptic: indeed, he only needed that his fears should be aroused as a precedent condition to becoming an active Christian. After prayer had been offered up for the “young lawyer,” and while thoughts, conclusions and convictions were all mingling together in the mind of Ernest, he looked at Clara, who was sitting where he could see her face. Their eyes met. She was gazing at him with an expression which he could easily interpret, and if she had spoken in an audible voice, he could not more clearly have understood her to say: “Isn’t it ridiculous?” The young man almost shuddered. Why did a great yawning abyss seem to open suddenly between them? The depression which had for some days weighed down his spirits, all at once appeared like a heavy rock upon his breast, causing something like a sickening sensation to creep through his troubled heart. However, in his present state of newly aroused emotions, to which he had been such an utter stranger all his life, he felt that a subject of more vital importance than even his marriage deserved his immediate attention. Accordingly he turned his gaze upon the preacher, who announced his text: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.” Dr. Coyt, in the progress of his discourse, drew a word-picture, upon which his audience gazed in profound, breathless silence. No one looked upon this picture more intently than Ernest. He saw himself alone with his Creator and the balances which were to determine his everlasting destiny. Never before had Ernest’s relations to time and eternity appeared in so vivid a light. The next morning after this, as the sun kissed the glowing horizon, darkness and doubt were dispelled from the soul of Ernest by the enlightening beams of the Sun of Righteousness. He had found that “peace which passeth all understanding,” and he was strangely happy.
That day, without saying a word to any one upon the subject, he went forward to indicate his purpose of joining the church.
“Which church do you desire to join?” asked Dr. Coyt.
“I have not yet determined,” replied Ernest. “I only wish now to let it be known that I have come out upon the Lord’s side. I intend to investigate the doctrines of the different denominations, and I shall join that one I like best.”
“That is right,” replied the Doctor. “Take time for reflection, so that you will have no trouble in the future. Select that church in which you think you can be the happiest.”