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?”