The Project Gutenberg eBook, Deep Waters, by R. H. (Robert Hoskins) Crozier

DEEP WATERS,

——OR A——

STRANGE STORY

——BY——

REV. R. H. CROZIER,

Author of “Fiery Trials,” “Araphel,” “Cave of Hegobar,”
“Confederate Spy,” “Bloody Junto,” &c., &c.

“When through the Deep Waters I call thee to go.”

ST. LOUIS:
PUBLISHING HOUSE OF FARRIS, SMITH & CO.
919 OLIVE STREET.

COPYRIGHT BY R. H. CROZIER.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

CONTENTS.

DEEP WATERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNG GRADUATE.

In the latter part of June 18— the little city of Oxford, Miss., was teeming with visitors, not only from various portions of the State, but from the adjoining States of Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas and Louisiana. This concourse of people was no unusual spectacle to the citizens of Oxford; for it was but the gathering that occurred regularly once a year. The center of attraction to this fashionable, well-dressed assemblage was the University of Mississippi, which has sent forth hundreds of young men intellectually equipped for the stern struggle for existence—a struggle, the contemplation and investigation of which gave birth to Mr. Darwin’s doctrine of “The survival of the fittest.” What was the meaning of this concourse? It was Commencement day. The University would again dismiss another class of her children to assume the grave responsibilities of citizenship, and to enter into the new and strange relations for which they had been preparing by years of diligent study. At last, they were to lay aside the toga virilis trita, and don the toga pexa of manhood. It was the last day, and the exercises of the graduating class were to close the week’s programme.

At an early hour the crowd of visitors and the citizens of Oxford began to fill up the chapel, and by the time the speaking was to begin, the large and commodious structure was packed with a dense mass of eager, intelligent humanity; for it was generally the elite of the country that gathered here on these interesting occasions. The class of this year was unusually large, and was distinguished for intellectual attainments. Sitting in the long row of chairs in front of the rostrum, they constituted as fine a body of young men as could be collected from the South. What a variety of destinies lay before them! How many would ever rise to eminence in any department of human activity! How many would go down to premature graves without any opportunity of justifying the fond anticipations of their friends! How many would disappoint the expectations of their affectionate parents, many of whom proudly gazed upon them as they performed their parts in the programme! There was much speculation that day as to what these young men would achieve upon the arena of active life. It would be, no doubt, very interesting if we could trace the subsequent history of each and all, but our present undertaking will compel us to confine our attention to only one of the class, whose career was sufficiently remarkable to be rescued from the darkness of that obscurity in which the large majority of his mates have disappeared.

At length the speaking began. The first speaker was listened to with attention which novelty secures. The next found a difficulty in making himself heard in the remoter parts of the building, the consequence of which was considerable whispering in the seats that were beyond the compass of his voice. The next four or five speakers labored under the disadvantage of trying to overcome that buzz and hum of conversation, sotto voce, which is generally a disturbing element when the orator cannot reach the whole of his audience. But a wonderful change was soon to come over this congregation, now becoming rapidly demoralized by forgetting or ignoring the demands of etiquette. For when the next speaker was called, a young man responded whose pale cast of countenance indicated the world’s ideal student. His splendid physique at once arrested the attention of the entire assembly, and there was a strange, sudden lull, for which no one could account. Those in the rear of the chapel straightened themselves, and leaned forward, as if fearful that they would lose the first words of the orator. The ladies ceased fanning, and fastened their eyes upon the elegant form now standing in graceful attitude on the crowded rostrum. It was evident that something unusual was expected. Would the assembly be disappointed and disgusted? Would the external marks of genius prove fallacious? The young man bowed gracefully, straightened himself, paused for an instant, and gazed modestly, but in perfect self-possession, at the sea of upturned, eager faces. Slowly came forth the first sentences flowing on a voice as clear as a silver trumpet, and yet as soft as the breeze which was at that moment soughing through the broad oaks of the surrounding forest. The tones, and, in fact, everything else about the young man appeared to be in consonance with his subject, which the audience saw, on glancing at the programme, was “Man was made to mourn.” It was a theme which, of course, admitted of no profound reasoning, and no startling argument. None was attempted, and none was expected. The auditors tacitly offered their emotions to be swayed as the orator willed. The people made no resistance, but seemed to yield at once to the strange, subtile influence which was stealing over them, and insinuating itself into their hearts like an invisible current of electricity. The smiles vanished from every face as the youthful speaker, in a slightly quivering voice, portrayed scenes of human sorrow and suffering, in order to establish his proposition. In a little while tears were seen rolling down grave cheeks. Young ladies endeavored to laugh at the “ridiculous scene,” as some called it, but the crystal drops glistened in their eyes. At last, when the young man sat down, nothing was heard but suppressed sobs and efforts to clear the nasal duct of its liquid obstructions. At first there was no applause: people seemed unwilling that the spell should be broken. But presently, seeming to realize that the effort deserved more than the silent attestation of the lachrymal gland, they suddenly burst forth into thunders of applause, such as had never before awoke echoes in the classic grove that sheltered the chapel. Those who had printed programmes again looked at the name of this young man. It was Ernest Edgefield.

Who was he? Whence did he come? Such were the questions which immediately followed this effort, the most remarkable that had ever been witnessed in the University of Mississippi. It was ascertained that day, that there was nothing very eventful or wonderful in his history. His parents had died when he was small, leaving, however, sufficient means to support him till he could obtain a collegiate education. Such was his brief history. But what would be his future? Everybody felt that his career would be brilliant; that the young man must achieve a degree of success commensurate with his wonderful oratory. We will at once follow up his footsteps.

Ernest determined to adopt the law as his profession. He now had barely funds to defray his expenses through the Law School, but as he did not wish to lose time, he resolved to exhaust his entire means in the completion of his legal education. At the expiration of two years he was graduated with distinction; but he was penniless, and had to begin the battle with nothing but his education and energy. His guardian, with whom our reader will soon become better acquainted, agreed to board him without pay till the young man’s efforts should be crowned with that material success, which the Reverend gentleman thought must attend the exercise of such talents as his young ward possessed. When the parents of Ernest died, he was left to the care of a minister of the Baptist denomination, in whom they had unbounded confidence. His name was Joseph Hillston. He at once took the boy to his house, and made no difference between him and his own children. By a judicious management of the small property left in his hands, Mr. Hillston kept the youth in college till his education was completed, at which time Ernest had attained his majority. Mr. Hillston then turned over to him the remainder of his property, which, as stated, was entirely absorbed by his two year’s course at the Law School. And now he had no money, but he was animated by a lofty purpose, and a determination to conquer, before which he felt that difficulties must vanish. No one seemed to doubt that the brilliant young lawyer, with his splendid accomplishments, would subordinate destiny to his will, and would soon stand at the head of the legal fraternity. Indeed, some predicted that he would, at last, reach the highest office that the people could bestow. And why should he not? Not a single element of success was lacking, so far as his friends could see. His attainments appeared to be equal to the demands of the most vaulting ambition. What, then, should he care for difficulties, except as a stimulus to arouse his energies?

But what little, insignificant trifles turn the barque of destiny into channels of which the pilot never dreamed! It is not violent storms that change the course of this allegorical barque; because the pilot is prepared for great disturbances and obstacles. It was a moment of sleep that caused Palinurus to fall over-board into the sea: a hurricane could not have produced the same disastrous result. It is the little things that change the current of human life. A spider’s web sometimes turns the vessel’s helm: the echo of a word destroys the equilibrium of circumstances. Late in life man finds himself driven into a port which had never entered into the programme of possibilities. All this will be illustrated in the progress of the present story.

A few days after Ernest returned from the Law School, there was seen on the door of an unpretending office, in his native town, a square piece of metal, exhibiting in gilded letters, “Ernest Edgefield, Attorney at Law.”

Our young lawyer had not the most remote idea of settling permanently in this little town, where he would have to fritter away his energies and cramp his mind in such narrow litigation as must arise in rural courts, but he fully intended, after a while, to seek a field of broader dimensions, which would call forth all his legal lore, and cause him to put forth all the strength of which he was capable. His present location was only the stepping-stone to his loftier aspirations, and which, he thought, would detain him only till he could acquire sufficient means to justify his removal to some city where his talents could find room for development.

It was not long before Ernest’s fond hopes and the justifiable expectations of his friends began to emerge from the shade of possibilities into the sunshine of realities. Legal business flowed in, and Ernest, at the very outset of his career, found himself entrusted with the management of as important cases as ever require judicial investigation in a provincial court.

But Ernest could not thus go on forever, thinking of nothing but the immediate object of his ambition, and dreaming only of deeds and legal parchments and bags of gold. At an early day in his career a path of destiny began to open in the misty future, different from that which he had at first marked out for himself. In the town there lived a young lady whom he had known from childhood. For several years, however, she had occupied scarcely a single thought of his, attributable to the fact that both had been absent at school. Both returned home the same month to enter upon their respective careers, which seemed to be as far apart as zenith and nadir, since the charming, gilded path of ease, leisure and idleness lay before the one, and the path of work, diligence, and activity lay before the other.

Clara Vanclure was the only child of a wealthy merchant. Her prospects were regarded as very brilliant, since the probability was, she would inherit all her father’s property, consisting of lands and plantations as well as stores, and estimated at not less than two millions of dollars. As might be expected, she was a “spoiled child,” yet, she was beautiful, and accomplished to the full extent of her capacities, which, strict truth compels us to say, were not, by any means, of the highest order. But the dazzling mantle of vast wealth hides a mighty multitude of faults. There is a confusing glamour about “great possessions,” which so fascinates and bewitches, that the judgment of men cannot be properly exercised. The sneering cynic, like growling Diogenes, may affect to despise wealth, but in his heart he respects the owner, who controls such a source of commercial power and social influence. We may have a contempt for the rich man’s character, but in spite of ourselves, we stand in awe of the Magician’s mysterious ring which he wears on his finger. It was wealth that gave an additional luster to Miss Vanclure’s accomplishments.

When Ernest again met the young lady, after a separation of several years, both were changed by the uncontrollable vicissitudes of time. She especially had developed from an awkward Miss of fifteen, into a symmetrically-proportioned woman. In the catalogue of her recommendations, her physical attractions were certainly well calculated to make an impression upon any susceptible heart. Ernest was not insensible to the charms of beauty, and he at once acknowledged Clara’s claims to the highest order of corporeal graces. He immediately renewed his acquaintance with his quondam school-fellow, (for both had attended the same school when they were children) to which she was, by no means averse. Our reader will be afflicted with no long story of love and courtship. It is always very entertaining to a certain class of young people to read the entire history of two lovers—their honeyed utterances, poetical effusions, delightful promenades by moonlight—their petty jealousies, sad misunderstandings, little quarrels, succeeded by reconciliation that only places mutual rehabilitation upon a firmer basis—all this might be highly interesting, but we must hasten on to the narration of more important events. It is sufficient to say that as soon as Ernest’s success became an assured fact, he proposed to the fair Clara, and was accepted. Old Mr. Vanclure was secretly delighted at the prospect of such an alliance, for he was not one of those simpletons who would have their children sacrifice their temporal happiness upon the altar of Mammon. Clara would have a large estate, and only needed a husband who had the ability to manage it. Mr. Vanclure, now advanced in years, had felt considerable anxiety in regard to his daughter’s future, but the perplexing problem seemed about to end in a felicitous solution, and a great burden was lifted from his mind, when one day Ernest called for the purpose of asking his consent to a closer relationship between Miss Vanclure and himself. He had been among the first to discover the excellency and solidity of the young man’s moral character, and he was not so blinded by parental love that he could not easily perceive the moral infirmities of his own child. He knew that she would need a protector and a guardian as long as she should live. Therefore, having been fearful that Clara would become the prey of some worthless adventurer, he could scarcely conceal his joy when Ernest approached him upon this delicate subject. However, the old gentleman seemed to think it advisable to mask his happy feelings under the guise of a little opposition, and he said:

“Ah? I was hardly expecting this—at least so soon—yes, so soon.”

“Why not, Mr. Vanclure?”

“Why not? Why because you ar’nt settled in life—yes, settled in life.”

“I have now a respectable income,” said Ernest, “if you are alluding to that, and it is increasing gradually, but surely.”

“I have no doubt, Ernest,” replied Mr. Vanclure, with more tenderness than he wished to manifest, “that you will succeed—yes, you will succeed. But still, both of you are rather young to marry.”

“We think differently,” answered Ernest, with a smile, “I am nearly twenty five.”

“Ah? are you that old? Well, bless me, I believe you are, since I come to think about it. Dear me! how time does fly—yes, how time does fly. You have got to be a man before I thought about it. Young people do grow up so fast—so fast—and Clara is a grown woman, too. Well; well.”

“Since you have discovered that we are both grown,” said Ernest with a smile, “may I hope that you will not oppose our wishes?”

“And if I did,” answered Mr. Vanclure, not knowing what he ought to say, “What would you do—yes, what would you do?”

“I should endeavor to overcome your opposition.”

“And I guess you think you’d succeed with your eloquence. You lawyers are cunning dogs,” said the old gentleman, breaking into a laugh, which, rather than otherwise, indicated approval of this feature of the legal character, “yes, cunning dogs. If I give you a chance to argue the case, I’m satisfied I’ll lose; for you’ll convince me that Clara will land in eternal perdition unless she marries you—yes marries you—and nobody else. I don’t want to get into an argument with you lawyers. So if the arrangement suits Clara, I’ll have nothing more to say. It will take a lawyer anyhow to manage the estate to which she will fall heir some of these days. The thing is now getting beyond my comprehension, and I will soon have to get a lawyer to untangle some of my affairs—yes, some of my affairs.”

In this way the old man gave his consent.

Here we must say that the reader would do Ernest the grossest injustice to suppose that the metallic virtue of the young lady was the chief consideration that influenced his affections. Clara appeared lovely in his eyes, and he would have been willing to enter into the matrimonial relation without any prospect of dower. Nearly every one in the community believed that Ernest was governed in this affaire du cœur by mercenary considerations. There is nothing more certain than that an impecunious man who pays his addresses to a wealthy woman, will incur the imputation of improper motives. It is a sad fact, that the world is envious. People, in their secret souls, dislike to see their neighbors lifted by sudden prosperity to an elevation above their own level. Why should not such good fortune have happened to themselves? is the galling, latent thought of their hearts, to which they would be ashamed to give audible expression. The thought lurks in the darkest recesses of the breast like a slimy viper, and well deserves a place in the horrid abode of that fearful envy, so graphically described by Ovid:

Pallor in ore sedet, macies in corpore toto,

Nusquam recta acies; livent rubigine dentes,

Pectora felle virent, lingua est suffusa veneno.[1]

But Ernest truly loved Clara, though he might not himself have been able to explain the source of attraction, as love is not a passion subject to the human will. Mr. Hillston at an early period of the courtship, perceived his infatuation, and as he took a deep interest in the welfare of his ward, he could not but feel some misgivings as to the propriety of the union. One day Ernest informed him of his engagement, and the old man shook his head unconsciously in an ominous manner, which did not escape Ernest’s observation.

“You do not seem to approve of my selection?” said Ernest inquiringly. Mr. Hillston had made no remark after this communication, but sat still with an ambiguous expression upon his face.

“It is not for me to approve or disapprove in matters of this kind,” was Mr. Hillston’s reply, which was not very satisfactory to his ward, who was looking at the old minister in surprise.

“I thought surely you would congratulate me,” said Ernest, with a faint, forced smile.

“The ides of March have come, but not gone,” answered Mr. Hillston, shaking his head.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Hillston.”

“How can I congratulate you, my dear boy, when I cannot foresee the end?”

“Can you do that in any case, sir?”

“True enough: but sometimes, and in some cases, we fear the termination.”

“Please do not speak in riddles, Mr. Hillston. Is not the prospect flattering?”

“In one sense, yes. So far as material prosperity is concerned, I can see no possible objection. But money, my dear Ernest, does not always bring happiness.”

“Do you suppose I am base enough to marry for money?” interrupted Ernest with an angry flush.

“No, no,” hastily answered Mr. Hillston. “I have a better opinion of you than that. But the world judges of marriages by outward circumstances. If both parties start out in life with great wealth, people generally think they are happy matches. But there are other things to be considered in a woman besides wealth, beauty and external accomplishments. A good, solid moral character is of far more value than a great fortune. A woman’s character is the first thing to be considered. Sometimes young people hurry into marriage without ever pausing to ascertain whether there may not be incompatibilities and incongruities that will forever exclude happiness from their abode. Now, my dear boy, have you thought of all this?”

“Certainly I have,” replied Ernest, impatiently. “Do you mean to insinuate that Miss Vanclure is destitute of moral worth?”

“I did not say that. I only asked if you had thought about, as I should have said, the dissimilarity of your characters.” But, noticing Ernest’s expression of dissatisfaction, “I have not intimated that Miss Clara is morally deficient. I would only advise you to be cautious. In such matters, young people should ‘make haste slowly.’ However, I do not presume to give you advice on this subject. Every man must choose to suit himself.”

“The choice I have made,” said Ernest quickly, “suits me.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said,” replied Mr. Hillston coolly.

“But you do not seem to like it.”

“That has nothing to do with it. It is your affair, and if you are pleased, no one else has the right to say a word.”

“Mr. Hillston,” said Ernest, suddenly lowering his voice from the high key of self-sufficiency and independence to a subdued tone, “you have been a father to me, and you know I have been guided by you. I have confidence in your judgment; and now if you see me about to commit an error, one that may wreck my happiness, ought not common charity, to say nothing of the relation you sustain to me, induce you to kindly point out my mistake? I can see clearly that you are not pleased at my prospective marriage. Now tell me plainly what is the matter?”

“My dear Ernest,” said the old man, with the tenderness of a parent, “you know that I have ever treated you as one of my own children, and have ever consulted your interest. I would not hesitate to give you advice in this important matter if I knew how. I will only say this, if you will take no offence—”

“No, no,” interrupted Ernest eagerly, “I will not. Go on, say what you please.”

“Well, then, I fear that the great dissimilarity between your characters may prove a source of annoyance, if not trouble. You are grave and serious in your disposition, while Miss Clara is the very opposite.”

“That may be true,” replied Ernest, “but might not this very dissimilarity be an advantage to both of us?”

“It might, and then it might not. At any rate, therein lies the danger I apprehend. You ought to pray to God to direct you in so serious a business as this.”

“But I am not a churchman, Mr. Hillston.”

“You cannot regard God then as your friend?”

“O yes, I suppose He is; but I do not know that God would concern Himself with so small an affair as my marriage.”

“What! if God takes note of the flight of the sparrow, and the flower of the field, think you He will totally overlook the welfare of His intelligent creatures? Do you not believe the Lord has something to do with everything that happens?”

“I do not know, sir. I am no Presbyterian. I understand they hold to some such doctrine as that. But I have never had any special liking for that denomination.”

“Neither am I a Presbyterian. I am a Baptist, as you know. But do you suppose that Presbyterians are the only people who advocate the doctrine of special providence?”

“I do not know that they are, but from all that I can learn, they push it to extremes.”

“I believe it,” said Mr. Hillston, emphatically, “as firmly as any Presbyterian I ever saw, and I believe it to its fullest extent, and in all its bearings. I am not willing that the Presbyterians shall claim as a distinctive dogma of theirs a doctrine to which the Baptist Church holds with as much tenacity as they do.”

“Do you believe, then, that God would concern Himself with so small a matter as the marriage of two human beings?”

“I certainty do.”

“Do you believe, then, that God is a matchmaker?” asked Ernest, with a laugh.

“I believe God will direct His people in all their affairs, when they ask Him in faith.”

“But suppose I am not one of His people?”

“If you are not,” said Mr. Hillston, with deep solemnity, “I am very sorry for you. It is your own fault, if you are not.”

“Would it be of any avail for me to ask God’s direction, when I am not one of His people, as you call them?”

“Not if you are determined to go on in your sins. If you make a full surrender of yourself to Him, I have no doubt He will assist and guide you. However, in that case you would be one of His people. But how could you expect God’s favor and friendship, if you stand to Him in the relation of an enemy?”

“I do not know,” answered Ernest thoughtfully, and then after a moment he added, “I suppose I will have to look out for myself.”

“I dislike to hear you talk that way, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hillston kindly, “for if you proclaim your independence of the Divine Being, you will lead a most wretched life.”

“I did not mean that in any spirit of irreverence,” quickly answered Ernest. “All I meant was that, if I was not one of God’s people, I would have to take care of myself. I have the utmost respect for the Christian religion. My conduct, as you know, has proved that I have.”

“Yes, I know you are a moralist, and you may be one of God’s children, notwithstanding the fact that you are living in sin.”

“I do not understand you,” said Ernest.

“I know you do not, but the time may come when you will. I will pray God to direct you, since you cannot do so for yourself. His will, no doubt, will be accomplished. You have not married Clara yet, and perhaps you may never do so.”

“But I rather think I will,” said Ernest with considerable energy.

“My boy, do not speak so positively. If God does not intend that it shall be so, you will never marry her.”

“I should like to know what is to prevent it?”

“I know not. But remember, ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’ You cannot overcome your Maker.”

“I do not propose to enter into any contest with God; because I do not think He cares whether I do this thing or that thing. Therefore I repeat that I will marry Clara.”

“When it happens,” said Mr. Hillston, smiling, “we will talk more about it. Do not be too confident, my boy.”

Ernest went to his office, wondering what in the world the old preacher could mean. Did he intend to predict that the “consummation to be devoutly wished,” at least by himself, would, at last, prove only an idle dream? What would be the use, he thought, of asking God to direct him in so simple an affair as a marriage? Besides, it was too late now. Like Cæsar, he had crossed the Rubicon, and he must go on. He loved Clara with all his heart—why, then, should he not fulfill his engagement? He would do it.

Alas! how short-sighted is man? How quickly are his deep-laid schemes, his skillfully-concocted plans, suddenly overthrown by some unforseen circumstance which had never entered as a factor into his calculations? Man is frequently standing on the very verge of a volcano, and knows it not till the soil crumbles beneath his feet.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] A paleness rests on her face, leanness in the whole body, Never looks direct; her teeth are black with rust: Her breast green with gall; her tongue is dripping with venom.

CHAPTER II.

A GREAT CHANGE.

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.”

Those who feel any interest in this story will, of course, desire to know what effect the meeting had upon Clara. Ernest had been so absorbed in his own spiritual troubles that he had had no conversation with her since the hour when he had become interested upon the subject of his personal salvation. But that evening, after he had signified his intention of attaching himself to the church, he paid her a visit. She was not present at the morning service, and knew nothing of the step he had taken. After the exchange of ordinary civilities, she said with a significant flippancy which was chilling to Ernest’s heart:

“How have you enjoyed the show?”

“Show!” exclaimed Ernest, bestowing upon her a solemn look of inquiry.

“Yes,” said Clara, not seeming to notice his serious air. “It is as good as any show. Wasn’t it funny to have them all praying for you?”

“I do not see where there was any fun,” said Ernest with an expression of disappointment upon his face, “and I am truly sorry to hear you talk so lightly about such solemn things. They are too sacred to admit of sport.”

“So, they have got you, too, have they?” asked Clara, breaking into a merry laugh. “Well, I confess I am astonished.”

“Why should you be? I cannot see that it is a matter of such profound amazement for a man to join the church.”

“Have you really joined the church?”

“I have, or at least gave notice this morning that I would do so, and I earnestly wish, my dear Clara, that you would make up your mind to the same thing. That is needed to complete our happiness.”

She made no reply, but laughed in a tone which it would have required no expert physiognomist to pronounce one of derision.

“What is it that is so amusing?” asked Ernest in vexation. “I had hoped that you would talk seriously about this matter of such vital importance.”

“The idea of my joining the church, and giving up my dancing and all other amusements, is simply preposterous. It is funny.”

“But suppose you were to die,” said Ernest, “what would become of you? Are you willing to sacrifice your soul for a few worldly pleasures which, after all, add nothing to your happiness?”

“Why, are you going to turn preacher, too?” said Clara with an amused expression. “That’s just the way Dr. Coyt has been preaching for the last five or six days.”

“I am no preacher, and never expect to be,” replied Ernest, “but that is no reason why I should not want my friends saved, especially such a friend as you will be.”

Clara bit her cherry nether lip, and laying aside her mood of levity, said:

“I should like to know what we are to do in this world, if we are forbidden to enjoy life. That is what I dislike about religious people. They are so gloomy, and can talk about nothing but death. I hate to be with them.”

This was spoken in such a way as to cause Ernest to see again the yawning chasm gaping between them.

“O, my dear Clara!” he exclaimed with trembling tenderness, “how you are mistaken!”

“Why, how do you know?” she asked in surprise. “You have not been one of them long enough to find out, I should think. How did you become so wise, all of a sudden?”

Ernest was not at all pleased with the manner in which she addressed him, but he durst not manifest the least vexation in the critical juncture of his amatory affairs. He felt that a quarrel might terminate in a final overthrow of the fond hopes upon which his heart had fed for months past. He, therefore, spoke as mildly and affectionately as possible:

“I have learned something about it even in the last few hours. I have never experienced such a sense of love, joy and peace in all my previous life. I am astonished at myself for never having turned my attention sooner to eternal things. All these years, since I reached the line of moral responsibility, have been almost wasted, or, at least, the spiritual enjoyments of all this time have been lost to me; and how I regret it!”

“How you do talk!” exclaimed Clara. “Do you expect to keep up such lecturing all our lives? If you do, we may as well—”

“May as well what?” asked Ernest with a sinking heart.

“May as well follow divergent paths,” she said with a timidity which implied that she, by no means, desired the proposition to be accepted.

“No, my dear Clara, I shall not mention it again if it is unpleasant to you. I shall leave you in the hands of God and continue to pray for you. I think you will take a different view of the matter after a while.”

“But I would as soon you would talk to me as to look at me as if I were a criminal.”

“I do not think,” said Ernest, “that religion will convert me into a long-faced monk. On the contrary, I expect to be more cheerful and happy than I could be otherwise. You are the one to look solemn and gloomy.”

“You expect,” said Clara, not appearing to notice the last remark, “you expect to give up dancing, as most church people do.”

“Certainly. I cannot do violence to my conscience by indulging in an amusement which I regard as of doubtful propriety, to say the least of it.”

“Where is the harm in dancing? Church people condemn it, but I never could see any sin in it—not the least.”

“But there would be sin in it to me with my present views,” said Ernest.

“You used to like it as well as I did.”

“Yes, that is true; but the time has come when I must and will renounce it.”

“You expect me to give it up, too?”

“That is a matter to be determined by your own conscience. I shall not interfere.”

“There is the theatre—you will give that up too?”

“I feel that I must do that, too.”

“Then,” said Clara with a slight frown, “what congeniality of taste and pursuits is there between us?”

“Why, my loved one,” said Ernest with a smile, “fortunately theatres and dances occupy but a small portion of our time.”

“Who will escort me when I want to go?”

Ernest loved his affianced with such an intensity that he dreaded to get into an unpleasant controversy that might culminate fatally to his hopes. If he were too puritanical and inflexible, he thought, she might sever all the ties between them—an event which made him shudder to contemplate; so he replied:

“All congeniality of taste between us need not be destroyed because you may fancy some amusements which I do not. It could scarcely be expected that two human beings should think exactly alike. With regard to your dancing, I leave it to your conscience and to time which usually destroys our relish for most of the sports and enjoyments of youth. I have strong hopes that you will sooner or later perceive the necessity of leaving the paths of moral ruin and renouncing the pleasures of sin for the more solid and substantial pleasures of religion.”

Clara said nothing, but sat still gazing into the forest which spread out in the distance—gazing with that vacant air which indicates the absence of attention to any object upon which her eyes might be fixed. Ernest could form no idea as to the character of her thoughts from the expression of her fair countenance, and he began to fear that he had said too much, and thought that perhaps he would better endeavor to remove every difficulty that might prove an obstacle to their union. He did not want to leave any grounds for one of those unfortunate misunderstandings between lovers which so frequently grow out of nothing. He therefore said with an air of cheerfulness and tenderness:

“You need not suppose, my loved one, that I will be forever preaching to you. That is not my calling. Have I given you offence by anything I have said? I mean by all I have said only that there is a time for all things—a time to dance and a time to give religion a prominent place in our thoughts.”

“O, no; I’m not offended, but you make me feel gloomy. It is bad enough to hear these things about death at church, where we expect it. I didn’t know that we had to make religion a topic of private conversation.”

“No, we are not forced to do so; but I thought it a suitable time to talk about it now when the subject is occupying the attention of the whole community.”

“I candidly confess I don’t like to talk about such things,” said Clara with a serious air. “I have always had a sort of horror of religion. In my mind it is associated with death and other disagreeable things.”

“But these disagreeable things,” said Ernest, “as you call them, are stubborn realities which we cannot avoid. Sooner or later, we must face them, whether we like or not. Would we not, then, better regulate our lives so that these very gloomy things shall become sources of pleasure?”

“O, I suppose so,” said Clara dryly, “if death could ever be a pleasant subject of conversation.”

“Not long since,” replied Ernest with the deepest solemnity, “I entertained the very same views which you do. I would not think about death when I could possibly banish it from my mind, and I contemplated it for an instant as some horrible monster which I must face after a while. I regarded it with as much dread as ever the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson did. But now,” and as he spoke an expression of deep joy flashed over his features, “I do not dread the event as such an awful calamity. I even love to think about it.”

“What! do you want to die?” cried Clara.

“No: I did not say that,” calmly replied Ernest.

“No man in the enjoyment of health really desires to die; for in some respects, it is a terrible ordeal from which poor, weak human nature shrinks. I have no disposition to court death: I want to live for your sake, for you know with what depth and intensity I love you, and loving you thus, I should like, above all things, to see you in a condition that would enable you to exclaim with rapture, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ What a happy thought to me that we should be one on earth, and then when we cross over the dark river, our purified souls should be knit together in the bonds of a higher, nobler affection than is possible here; and then that we should stroll hand-in-hand in the heavenly groves, along the banks of the crystal river, under the fruit trees whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, never more to be disturbed by any misapprehensions, nor even by a discordant word or thought. We shall be one in heart, soul and mind. This is what I call true marriage. It is a contract not to end with time, but it goes on through the numberless ages of eternity. O, what a glorious prospect!” he exclaimed with features lit up with pure, holy joy; and then he paused for an instant as if overwhelmed and lost in the contemplation of indescribable scenes which “eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man.” After a moment he continued: “On the other hand, what an awful thought! It makes me shudder. O, if you remain as you now are, we shall be separated forever, when we part at the grave. Then where will you go? If you miss the glory-land, there is only one more place—the lake that burns with fire and brimstone—a place where their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched. If there is no fire there, as some contend, then it is a place of black, thick darkness. The lost soul, cast out into the illimitable regions of uninhabited space, away beyond the last star that glitters on the outskirts of visible creation, will go wandering round and round, or if too weary to make an effort, it will begin falling, like a bird with folded wings, and keep on falling, falling, down and down, forever down—no company but your own thoughts—no sound heard but your own breathing—no sweet music—no voice of friend—no light—nothing but the horrors of eternal, impenetrable darkness. You may suppose you will have companions—but what will be their character? Not kind friends, to speak words of consolation, but malevolent fiends whose delight it will be to torment. All the horrors so graphically described by Dante may be awful realities. Can you blame me, then, for feeling the deepest anxiety on your account? I should be the happiest man in town if you could make up your mind to join the church.”

“O, I could not think of such a thing!” exclaimed Clara. “You have already given me the blues. I fear you will never be yourself again. You are so changed. But reading that awful old Dante is enough to frighten any one out of his senses. I tried to read it not long since, but it was so foolish and absurd, I dropped it in disgust. But haven’t you preached long enough? I do believe you will be a preacher yet.”

“No; I have no such idea as that. But I should be sorry to think that preachers are the only persons to whom it is allowable to talk about religion. However, I am a changed man, and I am glad you can perceive it. I hope I may never again be the wicked man I have been. But I shall not further press the subject upon your attention, and I promise not to mention it again till you are in the proper mood to talk about it.”

The foregoing conversation is no integral part of the present story, and might have been omitted entirely, but we have recorded it at length to show what different views young people entertain in regard to the highest destiny a human being can achieve. What makes such a vast difference, when there are precisely the same incentives to action in both? Some quickly cut the Gordian knot by attributing it to the difference in their wills, which, we may bring this chapter to an end by saying, is quite a convenient way of avoiding Deep Waters.

CHAPTER III.

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE.

The protracted meeting, which had continued fourteen days, was ended. Dr. Coyt, the Evangelist, took his leave in order to carry blessings to other places. No one could deny that a wonderful change had taken place in the moral aspect of the town. Some, who had been regarded as the worst characters in the community, astonished their neighbors by an immediate reformation. Saloon-keepers joined the church. Gamblers forsook their evil ways. Lukewarm church members were fired with renewed zeal. The whole town seemed to be animated by one impulse and one purpose. But such a great disturbance of public thought could not in the nature of things be maintained for any lengthy period. Public feeling, like water, seeks its level. A state of effervescence is not its normal condition. Consequently the foam-crested waves must soon subside into customary tranquillity. Men return to their vocations, and their thoughts revert to trade and traffic. The things of eternity which had so recently absorbed attention, must now be partly laid aside.

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?”

“That is a little strange; but what was the subject of your conversation?”

“I will tell you how it was.”

Ernest then related what had occurred. When he had finished, he could not fail to notice the serious expression of Mr. Hillston’s face.

“What do you think about it?” asked Ernest.

“Do you think the circumstance needs interpretation?” asked Mr. Hillston. “Do you not perceive the meaning?”

“I do not know that it has any particular meaning,” answered Ernest.

“My boy,” spoke the old man with deep solemnity, “does it not occur to you that it is God’s call to the ministry?”

“No sir,” quickly replied Ernest. “Do not tell me that. I cannot believe it. I will not think it upon such evidence?”

“Yes, you will think it, and believe it, too. You may decline, if you will; you may offer resistance, but that voice will follow you up, and haunt you like a ghost. If you will not go into the work willingly, God will drive you into it, as he did Paul.”

“What! smite me with blindness?”

“I do not say that,” answered Mr. Hillston slowly, “but He will so shape and direct circumstances as to force you to do His bidding. You may flee like Jonah, but events, possibly misfortunes, will be the ‘great fish’ to swallow you up, and cast you out where you will be glad to cry aloud to men to repent.”

“You almost frighten me,” exclaimed Ernest. “I cannot regard what I have told you as constituting a call from God to preach. I am not superstitious. I do not believe as you do, anyhow.”

“What do you mean, my boy?” asked the old man, looking at him in surprise.

“Do you not remember what you said the other day about election and free agency. I believe in free agency. I do not think that God forces men to do things. But you,” continued Ernest with a laugh, “are a regular old blue-stocking Presbyterian.”

“I cannot suffer you, my young friend, to give up to the Presbyterians exclusively the most precious doctrines of the Bible. You are very much mistaken if you think that Presbyterians are the only people who believe in election and the final perseverance of the saints.”

“Do you believe that other horrid doctrine of Predestination? No; surely not.”

“You have asked me a direct question,” said Mr. Hillston, “and have presumed to answer for me. But your answer is incorrect: for as much as you may be surprised, I tell you that I do believe the ‘horrid doctrine’ of Predestination.”

“Well, I am surprised to hear you say so. For I thought that even Presbyterians shrank from averring it openly.”

“You may be surprised now; but when you investigate more closely, you may be a Predestinarian yourself, if you will lay aside prejudice.”

“I do not see how I ever can be, with all deference to you, sir; for the doctrine is horrible to me.”

“What is so horrible, my boy?” asked the old man kindly. “But let us go into the house. Now,” continued Mr. Hillston, as they both seated themselves, “tell me what is so horrible?”

“Why, that God should condemn men to eternal torment even before they are born. What can be more cruel and unjust?”

“That would be ‘horrible’ if God were blind, as men are. But let us look at this ‘horrible doctrine’ from other standpoints. You probably know that some people, in order to avoid the difficulties of Divine sovereignty, strip God of one of His attributes by saying that the Lord does not choose to fore-know human destiny, that is, individual destiny. Now if that were true, man would be a perfect free moral agent, would he?”

“Undoubtedly, he would, sir.”

“That is what a great many people say,” answered Mr. Hillston, “in the very face of Scriptures to the contrary. But never mind: for the present, we will assume that God does not choose to exercise His foreknowledge. Well, men follow the bent of their owns wills, and shape their own destinies. At last the world comes to an end. God opens the Books—that is, He looks back over the past, and discovers what men have done, and settles their doom according to their deeds, do you think that would be right?”

“O, yes,” said Ernest, “that would certainly be just, according to my ideas.”

“Very well. In looking back, the mere knowledge which God acquires does not affect men’s conduct, does it?”

“What do you mean by ‘affect’?”

“I mean His knowledge would not change their deeds, one way or the other?”

“No: of course, His knowledge would have no effect upon their past conduct.”

“Then, if you please, tell me what is the difference between God’s looking back over the past and looking forward over the future. How would His knowledge affect human destinies in the one case more than in the other?”

Ernest thought for a moment, and then said:

“Why, there is this difference: whatever God foreknows must take place.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Hillston, “but does God’s after-knowledge affect the conduct of men?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how does God’s foreknowledge differ from his after-knowledge—that is the question. Is there any difference?”

“Just at this moment,” replied Ernest in some confusion, “I am not prepared to say; but it does seem to me unjust in God to sentence men to torment before they are born.”

“But if the condemnation is for the same sins, why not condemn before they are born as well as after?”

“You have taken a turn that I was not expecting,” answered Ernest. “I confess I had never thought of it in that way.”

“No, and that is what is the matter with the most of those who oppose the doctrine of predestination. They even deny fore-knowledge to God, not pausing to reflect that mere knowledge has no effect upon the destinies of men. They represent God as in the attitude of a human judge. But we must never forget that His ways are not as our ways, and His thoughts, not as our thoughts. Predestination is a mysterious doctrine, and there is something about it which no man can understand. And yet, when we investigate it in the light of the Holy Scriptures, and study the examples illustrating it, there is not as much difficulty as some people imagine. I do not think you have investigated in this way.”

“No, sir; but I intend to do so.”

“That is right. Study your Bible closely; honestly mark all the passages that teach this ‘horrid doctrine,’ and let us talk about it again. I have no doubt that you will study the Bible more closely than you have ever done, since you are going to be a minister of the gospel.”

“There, you are reckoning without your host,” said Ernest. “I have no idea of ever being a preacher. I am not qualified. Why, it would be presumption in me to think about it.”

“Mark my words, Ernest,” said Mr. Hillston solemnly, “you will be a preacher or a ruined man. The Holy Spirit, if I am not very greatly mistaken, is opening the way, and showing you the path. I beg you, do not neglect and disregard plain indications. I cannot help thinking that you are a chosen vessel for some great purpose, and if so, you will see no peace till you obey the voice of God. If you are in doubt, pray to the Lord for light, and it will be given. The Master will certainly make clear the path of duty.”

Ernest was silent, and Mr. Hillston concluded it would be prudent to say nothing more at that time. The young man went to his office soon after, and fell into deep thought. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he was destined to become a preacher? The thought became more intolerable as he reflected upon it. He wished that he had not tried his power of sermonizing, for it was this that had given origin to what Mr. Hillston had the boldness to pronounce a call to the ministry. Was it in this way that God chose his ministers? But suppose this was a divine call, how could he refuse to obey? Would he rebel against God’s expressed will? But surely this was no call, at least it was not sufficient. There certainly was no voice. He would wait, and pray for more light. Would he not lose Clara Vanclure? Would she ever consent to be a preacher’s wife?

This latter question, propounded to himself, had some influence, probably in causing him to come to the conclusion not to rush hastily into the ministry upon an invitation which existed, he thought, only in his imagination. Accordingly, he endeavored to dismiss the perplexing subject from his mind. To his great relief, he found no difficulty in losing himself in the pages of a volume which he took from one of the shelves of his library. It was Dr. Dick’s “Philosophy of a Future State.” For pleasant and profitable Sunday reading, no better books can be found than Dick’s several volumes on moral and religious subjects. Ernest was so absorbed in his book that he thought no more about the “call to preach” for the remainder of the Sabbath evening.

The next morning when he returned to his office as usual and began reading Blackstone, the words of the preacher’s text on the previous day suddenly flashed into his mind. He quickly dropped his book and began thinking. Presently he almost sprang from his seat, for on the opposite side of the table, on which his head had been resting, there sat a visitor, who was curiously gazing at him.

“Ah! been asleep, have you?” said Mr. Vanclure, for it was he.

“No, sir,” said Ernest confusedly, “I was in a sort of reverie.”

“Things of that sort don’t pay much—no, sir, don’t pay much. I have been too busy all my life for anything of that kind. People must keep wide awake in this world to succeed—yes, sir, to succeed.”

“My vocation is different from yours, Mr. Vanclure, you know. When we lawyers meet with a knotty problem sometimes, we stop to think, and occasionally we get to dreaming: it is not unnatural.”

“Well,” said the old merchant abruptly, “I have come to say something about a delicate matter—a delicate matter. If it was ordinary business, I’d know how to begin—how to begin. But it’s another sort of affair.”

“Just suppose it to be business of an ordinary character, Mr. Vanclure, and begin at once,” said Ernest with a feeling of dread.

“Well,” said the merchant in a fidgety manner, “I thought you and Clara were engaged to be married—engaged to be married pretty soon, and things were floating along smoothly, you know. Yes, sir, and I had given my consent, you remember, at your solicitation, and I was making my arrangements accordingly, for you see I had confidence in you, Ernest, since I have known you from a child—yes from a child. I told you, don’t you remember, that I had some business affairs which I could not manage—could not manage, because I’m no lawyer.”

“Well,” interrupted Ernest, “you can tell me what the business is, and I will do the best I can with it.”

“But you don’t understand, Ernest—you don’t understand. It wouldn’t be proper just yet to tell you. I said it was a delicate matter—a delicate matter, just as things now are. You see I thought everything was working well. I thought this contract between you and Clara would soon be executed—would soon be executed, and then I could with propriety put this business in your hands—in your hands, Ernest, because you would, you would sustain a closer relation to me than you do now, and then I could let you know all my plans—know all my plans, which wouldn’t be proper just yet—just yet, you know. You understand how I am situated.”

“I cannot say that I do,” replied Ernest with a smile, “for you have told me nothing in regard to your situation.”

“I have told you all I can, Ernest—all I can till that affair comes off—comes off.”

“What affair, Mr. Vanclure?”

“The engagement between you and Clara, of course, of course. I thought all would be over in a few weeks—yes, in a few weeks. But I fear there is a misunderstanding somewhere, and I thought there’d be no harm in finding out—in finding out, you see.”

“What is it you wish to find out, Mr. Vanclure?”

“Well, you see, I got a hint from Clara, a hint from Clara, and I thought I’d better find out,—better find out.”

“I am perfectly willing to give you any information in my possession,” said Ernest.

“I thought so, I thought so, and I’ll come to the point at once. You see it was a lawyer I wanted. A preacher and a lawyer are very different people. I could make no use of a preacher—no, sir, no use of a preacher, you understand?”

“I do not understand, Mr. Vanclure.”

“I got a hint from Clara—a hint from Clara, and I thought I’d better come, and find out about it, before it’s too late.”

“What is it you wish to find out, Mr. Vanclure?” interrupted Ernest.

“Why, I thought you’d see at once—yes, at once, after my explanation.”

Ernest smiled internally.

“I confess, Mr. Vanclure, that I am so obtuse mentally, that I have failed to understand your explanation.”

“What? can’t you see—can’t you see that a lawyer and a preacher are two different people—two different people?”

“Yes, sir; I see that clearly.”

“Well, I gave you to understand that a lawyer would suit me—would suit me, and I thought you were a lawyer.”

“So I am.”

“But are you going to give up law, and be a preacher—be a preacher?”