“You do not know that. I have lived a long time in this world, and

have, at least, tried to comfort a great many people under clouds of

sorrow. Probably I might be able to give you some advice which would be

useful.”

“Well, you know I was engaged to be married to Clara Vanclure?”

“Yes; you told me that.”

“She has broken the engagement.”

“For what reason?”

“I suspect that Comston has deceived her.”

“Did you have no quarrel with her? Frequently young people fall out

about trifles, and soon become reconciled.”

“No; we had no quarrel. She discarded me coolly and deliberately.”

“Well, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hillston, with tenderness, “it is no more

than I expected.”

“Why?” asked Ernest.

“Do you not remember some weeks ago, when you told me about the affair,

that you thought I did not approve your choice?”

“Yes, sir, distinctly.”

“I did not think you had made a wise selection, and as I did not

congratulate you then, I now congratulate you on the happy termination

of the affair.”

“You are cruel, Mr. Hillston,” said Ernest, in a tone of bitterness.

“Far from it, my boy. I know you must suffer for a while. But mark what

I say: you will, no doubt, see the day when you will regard it as the

best that could have happened to you. I was surprised at your choice,

but as the poet says:

‘Lovers are blind, and cannot see

The petty faults themselves commit.’

But I could see that Miss Clara would not suit you at all. She

has as few qualifications for a minister’s wife as any lady of my

acquaintance.”

“Minister’s wife!” exclaimed Ernest. “She would not have been a

minister’s wife.”

“I see you are still disposed to disobey the Divine call; but you would

better yield, or your present trouble will be only the beginning of

sorrows. I have no doubt that it is foreordained that you shall be a

preacher of the gospel.”

“Look here, Mr. Hillston,” cried Ernest suddenly, “I have been reading

my Bible to discover if that doctrine of predestination is taught.”

“Well, do you find it in God’s Word?” quietly asked Mr. Hillston.

“I think not, sir. On the contrary, I find all through it that man is a

free agent.”

“My dear boy, who denies that man is a free agent? I am sure that

I will endorse every passage which you can cite that teaches human

responsibility.”

“Why, I do not see, Mr. Hillston, how you can possibly reconcile

predestination with man’s free moral agency.”

“I do not pretend to do so, Ernest. You are like a good many people

I know, who think that predestination is not taught in God’s Word,

because they cannot make it harmonize with free agency. I have

frequently been amused at some ministers who undertook to show that

there is no such doctrine as fore-ordination in the Bible. They quoted

those passages which prove that man is a free agent, and then at once

jumped to the conclusion that God could not shape or control human

destiny. We must accept both doctrines, for both are clearly taught in

the Scriptures. You cannot understand the Trinity, but your failure to

comprehend it is no proof of its falsity, is it?”

“No, sir, of course not. But I did not think you could hold to

predestination and free agency at the same time. What do you do with

the passage of Scripture which says that ‘Christ tasted death for every

man?’”

“Do with it? I accept it without hesitation as a precious truth.”

“Well, well, well,” said Ernest, as though greatly perplexed, “and yet

you say that some men were condemned from all eternity. How in the

world can that be? ‘Whosoever will,’ says the Scripture, ‘let him take

the water of life freely.’”

“Certainly,” answered the preacher, gently. “I quote that in every

sermon I preach, and urge sinners to avail themselves of the

world-embracing invitation.”

“But if their destiny is already determined, what is the use of your

preaching to them and urging them?”

“Now, my boy, don’t begin at the roof to build your house, but commence

at the foundation, and work upward. Suppose I show that this ‘horrid

doctrine,’ as some people call it, is contained in God’s Word?”

“Well, I wish you would,” said Ernest. “I am open to conviction.”

“Then let us go into my study, and appeal to the Blessed Book itself;

for it should be final in every theological controversy.”

They were soon seated, and the old man arranged his spectacles, and

opened the Bible.

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Hillston, “that the eighth and ninth

chapters of the epistle to the Romans ought to remove every doubt on

this subject. You have surely noticed the celebrated passage, Romans

8:29. Now here it is: ‘Whom He did fore-know, He did _predestinate_.’

What does predestinate mean? It has only one meaning.”

“That is true,” said Ernest, “but might it not refer to the righteous

_character_? He did fore-know and predestinate the righteous character.

I can admit that.”

“How will you separate a man from his character?” asked Mr. Hillston.

“You might just as well talk of separating sugar from its sweetness.

What is the character of sugar? It is sweet. Can you deprive it of

this attribute without utterly destroying it? Certain qualities and

attributes constitute character, and make the man. If a man has no

character, he is a brute. Godliness, holiness, etc., are nothing

till they become concrete by entering into the moral constitution of

an individual. It is in vain, then, to talk about God’s saving the

‘righteous character,’ because that is nothing but an abstraction.

Besides, Paul says, ‘whom’ He did fore-know, not ‘what.’”

“I will take back the word ‘character,’ if you will allow me,” said

Ernest, “and say that God predestinates the righteous _man_.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Hillston. “We agree, then, it is the

_individual_ that is foreordained to salvation. All denominations are

agreed that there is an election of some sort. Let me ask upon what

principle you think God elects men to salvation?”

“Why, sir, God elects those to salvation who He fore-saw would repent

of their sins.”

“That view,” said Mr. Hillston, “is a flat contradiction of what Paul

says. The apostle describes the several steps or processes in the

believer’s salvation. He does not say that God predestinated those

who would repent, but those ‘whom He did predestinate He _called_,

and them that He called He _justified_.’ According to your view, the

passage ought to say: ‘Them whom He justified, on account of their

repentance, He predestinated.’ The plain meaning of the passage is,

that God predestinated some men to salvation, and in consequence of

that election, He _called_ them and _justified_ them. The apostle

reiterates this view in some of the other epistles. Here is Eph. 1:3,

4, 5: ‘Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ who hath

blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ.

According as He hath chosen us in Him before the foundation of the

world, that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love.

Having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ

to Himself according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Now,” continued

Mr. Hillston, “ought not this passage to put an end to all controversy?

The apostle declares there was an election. When? He says ‘before the

foundation of the world.’ Why did He choose us? Was it because we were

righteous? No. Was it because God fore-saw that we would repent? No. He

chose us that ‘we _should become holy and with out blame_.’ Now what do

you say?”

“I confess,” said Ernest, “that such passages puzzle me no little. Why

does God choose some men to salvation, and pass by others, when all are

guilty alike?”

“Ah! there’s the difficulty,” said Mr. Hillston. “The good Lord has not

informed us on what principle He makes the choice. If we knew that,

there would be an end of all discussion. All we know about it is, that

it is ‘according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Is not that a

sufficient reason?”

“Somehow, this doctrine of predestination appears to me to be unjust,”

said Ernest, looking confused. “You say that God passes by some men

without giving them an opportunity to be saved.”

“I did not say that, Ernest.”

“Well, it amounts to that.”

“On the contrary, they do have an opportunity to be saved. The

invitations of the gospel are extended to all alike, and all could be

saved, if they would. No man ever was lost simply on account of the

‘eternal decrees.’”

“Why, how can they be saved,” asked Ernest, “if it is predestinated

that they shall not accept the invitations offered to them?”

“But, my young friend, the Bible does not say that they _shall_ not

accept, but that they _will_ not. ‘Ye _will not_ come unto me that ye

might have life,’ said our Lord. The greatest obstacle in the way of

human salvation is found in the perversity of the _will_. If men only

_willed_ to be saved, they could be. How, then, is there injustice in

predestination?”

“Well,” said Ernest, “if some men are foreordained to eternal death, I

should like to know what is the use of your preaching to them?”

“When you get to be a minister, if you discard predestination and

election, I want to ask you a question or two,” said Mr. Hillston.

“Assuming that you are a preacher, I will ask you these questions now.”

“Very well; proceed.”

“You believe in God’s fore-knowledge?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you believe that all men will be saved?”

“No, sir; some will be lost,” answered Ernest.

“That is certain, is it?”

“Of course, it is.”

“Then,” said Mr. Hillston, “what is the use of your preaching to

certain men that God knows will be lost? Will not the same result

follow in both instances?”

“Yes, sir; but I throw the responsibility of refusing upon themselves.”

“Let us settle one thing at a time, if you please,” said Mr. Hillston.

“We are not talking about where the responsibility belongs; but, at

present, we want to get at the facts. I ask you, if God fore-knows that

some men will be lost, is not their destiny as much fixed as if it had

been decreed? Answer that.”

“I suppose it would be,” replied Ernest hesitatingly, as though he were

fearful of admitting too much, “but God’s fore-knowledge has no effect

upon human destiny.”

“It does not matter about that just now. People,” continued Mr.

Hillston, “frequently ask me the question which you have propounded.

What is the use of preaching to men that are certain to be lost? You

must not try to make me remove an objection which applies with as much

force to your system as to mine. God commands us to preach the gospel

to every creature, and that is reason enough. You remember that God

commanded Ezekiel to preach to the dry bones in the valley. The prophet

might have said, ‘What is the use? These bones have no life and no

sense. They cannot hear: it is foolish to talk to them.’ But God said,

‘Preach to them.’ Sinners are in the condition of those dry bones; but

God tells me to preach to them. I obey; I know not who are to be lost:

my duty is to preach, and God quickens whom He will.”

“I see the unfairness of my question,” said Ernest honestly. “But there

is an absurdity in the doctrine of predestination, if I only knew how

to point it out.”

“Look here, my boy,” said Mr. Hillston kindly, “how can you call that

an ‘absurdity’ which the Bible so clearly teaches?”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Hillston; I will recall the offensive word. I will

substitute the word injustice for absurdity.”

“Your apology does not mend the matter,” answered Mr. Hillston, “for

are you going to accuse God of injustice?”

“No, sir; but the question is whether it is a doctrine of the Bible.”

“Exactly. We agreed to let the Bible settle it,” said Mr. Hillston.

“I have already called your attention to several passages which

undoubtedly teach it. I can refer to instances and passages almost

without number in the Scriptures. The Bible certainly is not silent on

the subject, whether we can understand it or not.”

“I cannot understand,” said Ernest, “how a man can be a free agent, and

yet his destiny is already fixed.”

“And yet, the Bible is full of instances which prove clearly that

predestination and free agency operate in perfect harmony.”

“Name one,” said Ernest.

“Well, take the case of Judas Iscariot: it was predicted by Isaiah that

the Lord Jesus should be betrayed for thirty pieces of silver. Will you

not admit that God had Judas in His mind, when this prophecy was made?”

“Certainly,” replied Ernest, “for a betrayal necessarily implies a

betrayer.”

“Undoubtedly, because God could not foresee a betrayal disconnected

entirely from any individual. You will also admit that after the

prediction was made, it must be fulfilled, and Judas must betray

Christ?”

“I do not see that I must admit that.”

“But you must, though,” said Mr. Hillston.

“Why must I?” asked Ernest.

“Well, suppose Judas had not betrayed the Lord for thirty pieces of

silver, what would have become of Isaiah’s prophecy? Would it not have

been falsified?”

“I suppose so,” said Ernest a little doggedly.

“Suppose so!” cried Mr. Hillston. “How can there possibly be any doubt

about it? After a prophesy is uttered, and even written down, it must

be fulfilled, or God’s word is falsified.”

“Yes; I admit that, for the sake of argument.”

“Well, when the proper time arrived, Judas betrayed the Lord. He

evidently performed a part which was predestinated. Was he not a free

agent?”

“Not if he was compelled to do as he did,” answered Ernest.

“No, if he was compelled,” replied Mr. Hillston, “but where was the

compulsion? He was carrying out his own will and if he was, that makes

him a free agent. His conduct afterwards proves that he never felt

that he was constrained by any extraneous influence. The crucifixion

was foretold with all its attendant prominent circumstances, and to

prove that it was predestinated, let us turn to Acts 2:23. ‘_Him being

delivered by the determinate counsel and fore-knowledge of God, ye have

taken, and by wicked hands have crucified and slain._’

“Here it is emphatically declared that Jesus was delivered by the

determinate counsel of God. To show that the actors in the disgraceful

tragedy were free agents, it is said that they crucified Him with

_wicked_ hands. But to put it beyond all dispute, that it was all

predestinated, let us turn to Acts 4:27-28: ‘_For of a truth against

thy holy child Jesus, whom Thou hast anointed, both Herod and Pontius

Pilate, with the Gentiles, and the people of Israel, were gathered

together, for to do whatsoever thy hand and thy counsel determined

before to be done._’

“Here, the actors are all clearly specified. They met at a certain

place. For what? To do whatsoever God had determined before should be

done. You can get no other meaning out of it. Dr. Adam Clarke saw a

difficulty here, and he took the liberty to transpose the passage so

as to make it read thus: ‘_For a truth against thy holy child Jesus,

whom Thou hast anointed, for to do whatsoever thy hand and thy counsel

determined before to be done._’

“Dr. Clarke thus makes the predestination clause apply to Jesus,

instead of Herod, and the others. It seems the Doctor did not mind

stripping Jesus of free agency, just so he could preserve it to men.

But Mr. Benson, who had no leaning towards predestination, says that

such a transposition as Clarke makes is unauthorized and unnecessary.”

“Do you think,” asked Ernest, “that Dr. Clarke was insincere? I mean,

do you believe he discovered the doctrine of predestination in that

passage, and then deliberately tried to eliminate it?”

“O, no,” replied Mr. Hillston, “I think he honestly believed that

the doctrine of predestination, as taught by most Baptist ministers

and especially by the Presbyterian Church, has no foundation in

the Scriptures, and thus believing, he could not admit the plain

meaning of what seems to me a plain passage. He, no doubt, thought by

transposing a clause, he would make the Bible say what was intended.

But what does the Doctor gain by this transposition? If Jesus was not

a free agent, we are under no obligation to Him for fulfilling the law

in our stead and suffering for us. He was merely undergoing a penalty

which He could not avoid. Was it not necessary that Jesus should be a

free agent as well as that men should?”

“But according to your view,” said Ernest, “He could be a free agent,

and yet His career be fore-ordained.”

“Exactly, but according to Dr. Clarke’s view, if His career was

foreordained, He could not be a free agent; that is the difference.

These men, Herod, Pilate, and the others, carried out their own will

and the Divine will at the same time, and I see no difficulty in it.

That is the great advantage the predestinarian has. When he meets

with a passage that teaches predestination, he admits it; and when he

meets with another that teaches free agency, he admits it. He makes

no pause to try to reconcile them, because he sees no inconsistency.

But when Dr. Clarke, and those who believe like him, come to one of

these passages, ‘hard to be understood,’ as Peter says, they halt

and endeavor to harmonize it with their belief. When the Bible, in

speaking of Pharaoh, says, “For this purpose have I raised thee up,” we

predestinarians at once acknowledge God’s hand, and we read on without

stopping to explain. But Dr. Clarke comes to it and finds an obstacle.

He must pause and try to determine what is meant by ‘raising up,’ and

must explain it so as not to interfere with man’s free agency. We read

that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart and in the next passage we read that

Pharaoh hardened his own heart. We predestinarians find no difficulty

here, for we see the two doctrines working together in perfect

harmony, but Dr. Clarke becomes puzzled. ‘How is this?’ he says. ‘If

God hardened Pharaoh’s heart, how could Pharaoh have hardened his own

heart?’ So the good Doctor must enter into a long explanation of this

hardening process.”

“One of the passages you have quoted,” said Ernest, who appeared

to be confused by perplexing thoughts, “says, ‘according to the

fore-knowledge.’ Could it not have been that God merely fore-saw what

Judas and others would do and based the prophecy upon foreknowledge?”

“That only removes the difficulty one step,” replied Mr. Hillston.

“For whatever God fore-saw, must take place. But the passage says also

‘determinate counsels.’ What does that mean?”

“I know you think it means predestination.”

“I certainly do,” replied Mr. Hillston. “But I think we have found

predestination in at least two instances which prove that there

is no conflict between the two principles we are discussing. If

fore-ordination and free agency could work in harmony in the case of

Judas, why not in the case of every human being. I want to ask you a

question right here.”

“I will answer it, if I can,” said Ernest.

“You have already acknowledged that God fore-knows all things, ‘every

deed which men will perform and even every thought which will pass

through their minds’. Now suppose God should order some Jeremiah to

write out the history of every human being: we would have a tremendous

book of prophecy which would include every individual of the human

race. You will admit that all these prophecies would have to be

accomplished or God’s word would be falsified. You will admit, also,

that if no one knew anything about this great and enormous book except

the writer, men would be free agents? How could merely recording their

actions without their knowledge affect their conduct?”

“It could not,” said Ernest.

“Well, then, are men’s actions any the less uncertain because they are

not written out in a book? The history of every human being is written

out in the Divine Mind. Is that history any the less uncertain because

it is not published in a tangible volume? God’s not fore-telling

what He fore-knows, does not leave men at liberty to change their

conduct. If it did, the Lord could fore-know nothing with certainty.

If then God could write out the history of every human being without

doing the least violence to his free agency, how can you object to

predestination? My history is fixed, and so is yours and every other

man’s, and that is predestination.”

Ernest said nothing, and Mr. Hillston continued:

“But let us turn to the Scriptures again. Here is John 15:16: ‘_Ye

have not chosen me, but I have chosen you_.’ Again, 1 Cor. 1:26: ‘_For

ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the

flesh, not many mighty, not many noble are called_,’ etc. I could refer

to a great many passages of similar import. Is not election clearly

taught in such Scriptures? Then it is said that God did not choose His

people on account of their righteous character, but that He might make

them righteous. When they were chosen, they were children of wrath even

as others. This is proved in the 15th chapter of John, where Jesus,

speaking of His people under the similitude of sheep, says: “Other

sheep I have which are not of this fold”--that is they were in the

world out of the fold; they were sinners and yet were God’s people, to

be brought in, when it should please God.

“I do no see how anyone can read the eighth and ninth chapters of

Romans without believing in the doctrine of predestination and

election. Paul there answers the very objections which are to this

day urged against divine fore-ordination. Peter certainly understood

Paul to advocate this ‘horrid doctrine,’ for he says it is ‘hard to be

understood.’ If Paul was writing about free agency, there was no need

to say it was hard to be understood.”

“I have read these chapters,” said Ernest, “and I confess they are

mysterious.”

“What makes them mysterious?” asked Mr. Hillston. “Don’t you see if

you can eliminate predestination and election out of them, they would

not be mysterious? Why do so many people stumble over these chapters

especially? It is because their foot strikes against these two hard

doctrines.”

“You have used the word ‘election,’” said Ernest, “but do not some

people say that it applies only to the election of classes or nations

to temporal privileges, and not to the election of individuals to

eternal salvation?”

“Yes; but let us settle that point by the Scriptures. Turn to Acts

13:48: ‘_And when the Gentiles heard this they were glad, and glorified

the word of the Lord; and as many as were ordained to eternal life

believed_.’ Some people have wished that the last clause could be

transposed so as to read: ‘_As many as believed were ordained to

eternal life_.’ But it is too plain to be tampered with in this way.

Again, in second Thessalonians 2:13: ‘_But we are bound to give thanks

always to God for you, brethren, beloved of the Lord, because God

hath from the beginning chosen you to salvation through sanctification

of the Spirit and belief of the truth_.’ Again, Hebrews 12:23: ‘_To

the general assembly and Church of the first-born which are written

in heaven_.’ Again, Philippians 4:3: ‘_Whose names are in the book of

life_.’ I could go on, and cite I know not how many more passages,

all proving that there is an election of individuals unto eternal

salvation.”

“There is evidently an election of individuals,” said Ernest, “but why

could it not be based upon men’s foreseen repentance and faith. I could

accept that doctrine.”

“No doubt,” answered the preacher, “for that is more agreeable to

the carnal heart. Men like so much to deserve salvation by their own

works--their own faith and repentance. According to the Scriptures,

this election is based upon God’s will. But if you will modify your

position a little, I think we can agree. If you will say that this

election is based upon faith and repentance brought about by the Holy

Spirit, we need not have any further discussion.”

“But I do not mean that. I mean that men perceive the truth and act

upon it.”

“Of themselves, do you mean?”

“Well, with the assistance of the Holy Spirit.”

“But men,” said Mr. Hillston, “are represented in the Scriptures as

dead in trespasses and sins. Lazarus is a fit type of the sinner. Could

Lazarus have raised himself from the grave without the assistance

of the Lord? Is it not evident that he could do nothing till he

was actually restored to life? So it was with the man who had the

diseased arm. He could not make an effort till the limb was healed.

‘By grace are ye saved,’ says the Scripture, ‘through faith, and that

not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.’ Are not all these passages

sufficient to convince and satisfy you?”

“Of course, I must believe what the Bible says,” replied Ernest, “but

it does appear strange to me how a man can be a free agent, and yet his

destiny is fixed.”

“No one ever denied that it is strange. Indeed, it is incomprehensible;

but we are not to reject it on that account. All we have to do is to

ascertain whether it is contained in God’s Word or not. But after all,

what do we mean by predestination? Why just this, that God had a

purpose in view in the creation of the world. He surely was not trying

experiments. He did not put men in the world, and turn them loose, to

see what they would do. You will not deny that He fore-knew who would

be saved and who would be lost?”

“No, I do not deny that.”

“Well, there is no power in mere fore knowledge. Would not God, then,

have to exercise power in order to accomplish what He fore-knew?”

“It seems that He would, sir.”

“Well, that is predestination. It is the execution of the divine

purpose. So you see that, without predestination, God could not have

made the world--could not have created man. Notwithstanding that He

fore-saw some would be lost, He determined to create them, and that

determination on the part of God, is predestination. Then, eliminate

predestination, and you represent God in the attitude of a sort of

empiricist. He creates men without any particular purpose in view.

Besides, there is another difficulty. When there was nothing in

existence, how could God foresee anything except what He had determined

upon? Would not God have to determine that things should be, before

He could fore-see them? I cannot imagine how the Lord could have made

the world without predestination. Man, with his limited wisdom, never

undertakes enterprises without determining something in regard to them.

Do you suppose that God put men here without any purpose?”

“No, sir; of course, He had a purpose.”

“Really, when you admit that, there is no use of discussion, for that

purpose is predestination. We can ascertain what God’s purposes are,

only by what takes place. We see that some men are lost and some are

saved, and all this must be in accordance with God’s purpose, and that

is what we mean by predestination.”

“You can beat me in argument,” suddenly exclaimed Ernest. “I have not

studied the question sufficiently.”

“The more you study it,” said Mr. Hillston, “the more you will be

convinced that it is the doctrine of the Bible.”

“Whenever I am convinced,” replied Ernest, “you may rest assured that

I will accept it. But I am not satisfied. What you have said appears

reasonable; but I know there is something to be said on the other

side, if I knew how to get at it.”

“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Hillston; “you have mentioned the usual

objections that men urge against it. But when you find any good

argument on your side, let me know what it is. Let me caution you

on one point, though. Do not seek out those passages of Scripture

which teach free agency, and put them against the passages that favor

predestination. For that is only fighting Scripture with Scripture.

You must not make the Bible contradict itself, but you must try to

reconcile these seemingly antagonistic passages. In the meantime, try

to apply this doctrine to your own case. Your steps are ordered by the

Lord. Recognize God’s hand in your affairs, and thus predestination

becomes a practical, comforting doctrine, instead of that ‘horrid

thing’ which some people call it.”

Ernest took his leave. He was almost convinced by the arguments of Mr.

Hillston, but he was not yet prepared to acknowledge it.

Men pride themselves upon consistency, and some will even cling to an

error rather than appear fickle-minded. Away, we say, with such absurd

and false consistency! It is morally degrading.

CHAPTER VI.

MANASSAS.

While the never-ceasing march of time was unfolding the events which

have been narrated, others of a more startling and melancholy character

were evolving from the womb of the future. We have now reached the

historical year of 1861, which has already taken its place along with

other famous periods that have marked the turning points in humanity’s

progress. The reader, in order fully to understand the present story,

must again gaze in imagination at the gloomy clouds of war, and listen

to the awful earthquake of battle, the sharp rattle of musketry, varied

with the deep bass of cannon, the thundering tramp of cavalry, the

deafening shouts of the victor, and the piteous groans of the wounded

and dying.

On the morning of the 21st July 1861, at early dawn, the boom of a

single cannon broke the solemn stillness and sacred silence of the

Lord’s day. It was the signal gun of Manassas, fired by the Federal

troops opposite the stone bridge which spans the now celebrated rivulet

known as Bull Run. It was thirty minutes past six o’clock when this gun

awoke the first echoes of the initial battle of the so-called great

“Rebellion.”

General McDowell, as rapidly as possible, pushed forward his forces to

the main point of attack, which was the left wing of the Confederate

army, resting at the stone bridge. It appears that it was General

Beauregard’s intention to make an aggressive movement by attacking the

enemy’s left wing, but suddenly his plan was turned against himself,

and he was forced to act upon the defensive. General Hunter threw his

command forward, and crossed Bull Run some distance above the stone

bridge. The extreme Confederate left was held by Evans who had only

fifteen companies of infantry and Latham’s battery of six-pounders.

A demonstration was made in his front at stone bridge while Hunter

was crossing at Suddle ford. As soon as this movement of Hunter’s was

reported to Evans, he took eleven companies, leaving four to guard the

bridge, and with this small force rapidly went forward to sustain the

shock of 30,000 men. It seemed impossible that this little Spartan

band could stand before the impetuous onset of an enthusiastic army,

outnumbering them by twenty to one. But Beauregard and Johnson were

several miles off, and Evans must assume the responsibility of giving

shape to the battle. History hardly gives this man the praise which

is due, who, without any authority to order up reinforcements, had

to initiate a movement of his own in the very face of the defeated

plans of the commanding General. Had it not been for Evan’s prompt

action and his quick comprehension of the critical situation, the

whole Confederate army might soon have been thrown into inextricable

confusion. But Evans, at once, perceived the necessity of checking

McDowell’s army till Beauregard could form a new line of battle, and

send forward the necessary reinforcements. The struggle that took place

was bitter and determined, for both parties were in a state of military

effervescence. The Northern army especially was drunk with enthusiasm,

and anticipated an easy victory over the poorly-equipped “rebels.”

Many Congressmen and citizens, including elegant ladies, had come from

Washington to participate in the celebration of the grand victory

which they had no doubt would be achieved. They had sent to Centerville

all kinds of delicacies, fine wines and the like, with which they

expected to have a splendid collation as soon as the battle should be

ended. We may here mention a fact, to which Northern historians have

never given much prominence, if they have not deliberately suppressed

it: Several wagons were loaded with hand-cuffs, with which to manacle

the captured “rebels” and lead them along the streets of Washington in

triumph. The Federals were, therefore, much enraged when they found

their march checked by this handfull of “rebels”--a single regiment

from South Carolina and a company from Wheat’s battallion. It could not

be expected that Evans could hold his position for any great length of

time against such terrible odds. He was gradually driven back. But the

gallant Bee soon came up. His arrival was most timely, for the whole

Southern line was now giving way, reeling, staggering under the hot,

concentrated fire of McDowell’s army. Bee rapidly advanced with four

regiments, and the battle was, at once, renewed with additional fury.

For an hour, this brigade, with the few bleeding companies of Evans,

decimated by their heroic effort to check the advance of a whole army,

stood their ground, and fought with a desperation born of pride and

patriotism. It seems that Beauregard had made no preparations for an

attack at this point.

Twelve o’clock arrived, and found the little army of Bee and Evans in a

most critical condition. It was slowly falling back. There would soon

have been a panic, had not Bee discovered the famous brigade of the

immortal “Stonewall” Jackson, coming to his relief. “General,” groaned

Bee, as he galloped back, begrimed with the smoke and dust of battle,

“they are beating us back.” “Sir, we will give them the bayonet,”

calmly and curtly replied the Man of Iron. Bee immediately rushed back

to his disordered and disheartened soldiers, and pointing with his

sword, cried out: “Look at Jackson, men, standing like a _stone wall_.”

And thus on that bloody field, amid the roar of battle and the groans

of the dying, the hero was christened with a name which has superseded

that given by his parents.

Again the battle was renewed. Jackson held his position for an hour,

which enabled Beauregard to hurry forward troops from the lower

fords of Bull Run. When Beauregard and Johnson arrived on the field

about twelve o’clock, the day was going against the Confederates. But

fortunately, while the “rebels” were wavering, and would in a short

time have been utterly defeated, there was an inexplicable lull in the

fight. The Federals had halted. At that time they were novices in the

art of war, and did not appreciate the importance of those critical

junctures when the fortunes of both parties are trembling in the

balance, or when nothing is needed but a vigorous movement to secure a

decided victory. But in half an hour, Beauregard had reestablished his

lines, and the contest was again renewed. Fresh troops were arriving on

both sides.

From one till after three o’clock, the historian is unable to follow

the cloud of this battle. This period was what an elegant writer calls

the _quid obscurum_ of battle. The war-cloud was broken up, and floated

about in uncertainty. Victory, trembling in doubt, hovered over one

party and then the other. Nobody can tell what was done. Tactics had

become useless. Each individual soldier was his own commander. It was

a wild sozzle--an enormous street _melee_. Batteries were charged and

captured, and in a moment afterwards, re-captured. There was no base

anywhere; everything was shifting. Volumes of smoke rolled up; cannon

roared; muskets rattled; shouts and groans--all mingled together in

one horrid bedlam of confusion. For two hours there was this irregular

contest, in which men fought more as individuals than as companies.

Three o’clock came. The fortunes of the Confederates were extremely

dark. They had lost some of their best and bravest officers. Hampton

was shot while leading on his men in desperation. The noble Bee, who

had baptized Jackson with blood, fell mortally wounded at the head of

the Alabamians in the thickest of the fray, grasping his sword and

urging on his men with his dying breath. The magnanimous Barton, while

rallying the seventh Georgia, was shot through the head, and as he

fell, exclaimed: “They have killed me, but never give up the field,”

and his pure, brave spirit winged its flight away from this awful scene

of carnage, confusion and death. Fisher, of the “old North State,” was

killed; Colonels Gartrell and Falkner were _hors de combat_. Many

officers of lower grade, whose names will never be known, lay stretched

upon the ground, never to rise again.

But the supreme moment had come. Both parties now prepared for the

final blow. It was four o’clock, and the evening was hot and sultry.

The Federal army was drawn up in the form of a crescent. They begin

to advance. They expect, it seems, to flank the left wing of the

Confederate army. What was their amazement to find themselves suddenly

confronted and flanked on their right wing by 1700 fresh troops. It

was the army of Kirby Smith, for which Johnson had been so anxiously

looking for several hours. Indeed, he had gone back to hasten forward

these troops, who came on the railroad; but as there was not a moment

to lose, the cars were stopped, and the troops were hastily hurried

from the train in the forest. This arrival added another feature to

Bull Run that made up its similarity to the battle of Waterloo in 1815.

If the reader will take the trouble to compare these two battles, he

will discover that there was a striking resemblance between them, in

several respects. Hugo’s letter A, with some slight modifications,

will apply to Bull Run. The whole fight of Waterloo was for the plateau

of Mont St. Jean: the whole fight of Bull Run was for a plateau,

where the battle began and ended. In the afternoon, there was the

same irregular contest. Toward nightfall Blucher burst upon the field

like a terrible avalanche, before which the dismayed French fled in

terror. About four o’clock in the evening of that Sabbath day, just

as Beauregard gave the order to his entire line to advance, Kirby

Smith, like Blucher, suddenly emerged from the woods, and burst like a

thunder-clap upon the scene. This, at once, changed the whole aspect of

the fight. The disheartened Federals gave way on the right, and fled

before the intrepid soldiers of Kirby Smith. At the same time, the

entire “rebel” army charged with reviving hopes and renewed energy. The

Federals disappeared like phantoms from the gory scene, leaving clouds

of smoke, abandoned wagons, wounded and dead men, to mark the spot

where they had so lately fought with a courage and desperation worthy

of their blood. Kirby Smith had saved the day.

Soon the roar of battle ceased, and the “rebel yell” announced to

those in the distance that the first important battle of the war had

terminated in favor of the “Great Rebellion.” The “Grand Army,” which

had, that Sabbath morning, marched out with so firm a step, rolled back

upon Washington in broken fragments. It may appear a strange fact in

history, but that one battle terminated the whole campaign of the year

1861.

The enemy has gone, and the storm of battle has subsided. We can now

quietly walk over the terrible field, and examine its gory wake. In

the final charge, the second Mississippi, with the exception of one

regiment, was on the extreme left wing of the Confederate army. Just

at the time that Kirby Smith’s bayonet flashed like lightning into the

cloud of battle, a young officer was seen to wave his sword, and fall

to the earth with a groan. It was Ernest Edgefield.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER VII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Sometimes in battle a soldier suddenly finds himself prostrated to the

earth. He knows not what has happened. A dizziness comes over him.

Then he glances down at his limbs, and discovers that he is bleeding.

He knows he is wounded, but he cannot tell to what extent. It may be

a fearful shot which will end his mortal existence the next moment,

or it may be only a severe shock that has touched no vital part. When

Ernest fell, it was a moment before he could clearly comprehend what

had occurred. One of his company ran to him, and asked:

“Are you much hurt?”

“Yes; I fear I have received a long furlough.”

The soldier tore off some of his clothing, and, after a brief

examination, said:

“It is a severe wound, Captain, but I don’t think it is fatal. Shall I

stay with you?”

“No, no, go on with the boys. Never mind me. We have whipped them,

thank God, and I can die, if it is His will, with a clear conscience.

Go on with the boys.”

The soldier gathered up his military implements, and pushed on with his

comrades in pursuit of the flying foe, and Ernest was left alone with

the wounded, dead and dying. Presently he fell into a train of thought

as follows:

“Perhaps this is another warning. I have totally disregarded what Mr.

Hillston says is my call to the ministry. Shall I now promise God, as I

lie here, that I will yield to the call, if He will spare my life? No;

for I cannot believe that I am called of God. Why does not God give me

some reliable evidence, if He really wants me to be a minister? I shall

wait a while yet. But suppose I die?” He could not make up his mind to

preach.

At six o’clock, an elderly gentleman, with an honest, open, benevolent

countenance came to the spot where Ernest was lying. He was the first

wounded soldier the gentleman reached.

“What is your condition, my young friend?” he asked in a kindly voice.

“I am wounded here in the side,” said Ernest.

“Could you travel in a buggy a few miles?”

“I think I could, sir.”

“Then, if you can, I would be pleased to take you to my house, where

you can have proper attention and good nursing. Will you go? I will

assist you into the buggy.”

“Yes, sir; I will accept your kind offer. How far do you have to go?”

“About six miles; but it is a good road, and we can make the drive in

an hour. I could hear the fighting all day from my house. At noon,

during the lull, I supposed the battle might be over, and I started to

the scene of action. But when I had driven three miles, I discovered

that the fight was renewed with redoubled fury. When it ended, I

learned from a courier how the day had gone, and I came on to do what I

could for our wounded. It will afford me pleasure to take care of you

till you are again ready for duty?”

“I shall be under lasting obligations, sir,” replied Ernest.

At once, Ernest was assisted into the buggy, and driven along at a slow

pace till they reached the gentleman’s residence at eight o’clock

in the evening. This gentleman was a Presbyterian minister, by name

Dr. Arrington. His family consisted of a wife and three daughters,

the elder of whom was about twenty years of age--an intelligent, well

educated young lady. She had completed her education the previous year

at one of the best female colleges of Virginia. We cannot say that she

was perfectly beautiful, for, though her features seemed faultless when

contemplated singly, yet the grouping was somehow a little defective.

No one could tell what was lacking, but there was something. But the

perfection of her features enabled her to bear a most rigid inspection,

and she improved greatly on acquaintance. She had a decidedly classical

cast of countenance. In conversation her face beamed with intelligence

and sympathy, which made her appear handsome and lovely. She belonged,

in a word, to that class, who attract more by their moral excellencies

than their physical graces. Mildred Arrington, however, possessed

a symmetrical figure, and her every movement betrayed elegance of

manners and refinement of taste and intellectual culture. All who were

intimately acquainted with her, thought her beautiful.

With this kind family Ernest remained for many days, while his wound

was slowly healing. Dr. Arrington had an excellent library, in which

he and his family spent much of their time. They were an intellectual

family. Ernest here spent some of the happiest hours of his life, in

the company of the three girls, especially Mildred. The Doctor was also

a congenial companion, and loved to talk. He was an earnest Christian,

who believed, though, in getting as much legitimate happiness out of

this mortal life as possible. There was none of the Pharisee in his

composition. He received the gospel with the simple faith of a child,

and so preached it. He believed in providing innocent amusements for

his family. The consequence was, there was no nicer place to visit and

no happier home in all the country than Dr. Arrington’s. His residence

was full of sunshine, and no discordant sound was ever heard beneath

that roof.

It will not appear wonderful, then, that the days passed rapidly away

in the consciousness of Ernest, who felt loth to put an end to the

period of his convalescence. But at last he began to painfully realize

that he could not remain much longer, with propriety, beneath this

hospitable roof. When he thought of leaving Mildred he discovered that

it filled him with the keenest pain. But why should it? If he really

loved her, why not propose, at once, and bind her to him by a tie which

nothing but death could sever? He must go back to the army in a few

days, and the probability was, he could never see her again.

It was hardly reasonable to suppose that he could go through many such

scenes as those of Bull Run, and escape with his life. But he felt that

he could not bid farewell to this happy family without the prospect of

a closer relationship with them in the future. He believed that he had

endeared himself to them; but one thing was certain, they had so wound

themselves around his heart that the thought of never seeing them again

was intolerable.

One day about a week before his departure, he was walking in the lawn

in company with Mildred. Presently Ernest fell into a reverie that made

his face appear more solemn than usual. He was aroused by a soft voice

at his side:

“You appear to be in a profound study.”

“So I was,” replied Ernest, heaving a deep sigh.

“It was something unpleasant, was it not?”

“What makes you think so?”

“I noticed your countenance,” answered Mildred, “just now, which was

expressive of pain.”

“You are a good physiognomist,” replied Ernest. “I was just thinking

that in a few days more I must return to my command.”

“And is it so painful to fight for your country?” quickly asked Mildred.

“You misunderstand me,” said Ernest. “It is no reluctance to serve my

country: for God knows that I am willing to die for the independence of

the Confederate States, if necessary. But there are things to me more

bitter than death itself.”

“You talk in riddles, Captain.”

“Yes; because I was talking to myself partly. It is due to you that I

should explain myself.” After a pause, he continued: “I have had few

associates in my life. My father and mother left me a lonely orphan

when I was a small boy. From various causes, which I need not weary

you by relating, my life has not been very happy. I have found very

few congenial companions among either sex. I have now prepared your

mind for the reception of the fact, that the time spent beneath your

father’s roof, is the happiest portion of my existence. I was thinking

just now, that I must soon leave, and the probability is, I shall never

again see you and the family till we shall all meet in the eternal

world.”

“Why should you take such a gloomy view, Captain?” asked Mildred,

slightly coloring. “We destroy our happiness by anticipating

misfortunes that may never befall us. You may go through the war, and

come out with honors budding thick upon your brow. Why not look forward

to promotion? Who knows,” she continued, trying to smile, “but that you

may be a General?”

“No; I have no ambition in that way. I do not want any greater

responsibility than the command of a single company involves.”

There was a pause, which was broken by Mildred suddenly saying:

“What foolish thoughts will sometimes flash into our minds.”

“What mean you?” asked Ernest.

“I was just thinking what an astounding victory you could gain, if you

had control of that one force, from which all the forces of nature, I

think, are derived.”

This idea of Mildred’s was fully elaborated by Lord Lytton, some few

years afterwards, and the force was called _vrill_. But as we are not

writing a treatise on science, we will proceed with our story.

“O,” she continued gaily, “do you not wish you had something of that

sort?”

“I have had such foolish thoughts a thousand times,” replied Ernest,

breaking into a laugh, “but I did not know that anybody else had such

absurd fancies. I found myself wishing for miraculous powers on the

battle field of Bull Run a short time since. When our soldiers were

about to retreat in a wild panic in the evening, I almost cried aloud

for a cyclone to hurl upon those dark columns. How quickly I thought I

would annihilate them. Was it not preposterous?”

And they both laughed.

“I should be ashamed,” said Mildred, “to let any one know what wild

fancies pass through this dwarfish brain of mine. The truth is, I live

in an ideal world. I often find myself wishing that I could visit some

‘New Utopia.’”

“What a coincidence,” said Ernest, looking at the young lady in

surprise.

“What is?” she asked.

“That you and I should be dreaming about the same absurdities.”

“Well, I do not know,” replied Mildred. “I have never cared to mention

my silly reveries to any one. Indeed, it is the first time in my life

that I have alluded to them.”

“May you not be wrong to call them ‘silly’? Some of the happiest

moments of my life have been spent in this way. I frequently discover

myself traveling about in some of Munchausen’s wonderful vehicles, and

I become so absorbed that my imaginings appear as realities.”

“I, too, do the same thing,” said Mildred, turning her blue eyes upon

him in surprise.

“Miss Mildred,” spoke up Ernest after a brief pause, “our minds seem to

have been constructed in the same molds. Henceforth I shall be forever

meeting you in my psychological peregrinations. I have no doubt that I

shall often rove back to this beautiful yard and these grand oaks, when

I am sitting around the bivouac fire or meditating in my tent.”

Mildred began to look serious, and to turn her face in order to conceal

the treacherous blushes which, she felt, must be mantling her cheeks.

“I am glad to think,” she answered in a low, hesitating tone, “that

your imprisonment here has been rendered tolerable.”

“Tolerable!” cried Ernest. “I wish such imprisonment could last

forever!”

“What!” exclaimed Mildred, feigning not to understand, “would you be

willing to be cooped up while your comrades are fighting the battles of

liberty? Sometimes I wish I could go myself, and that I were an Amazon

stout enough to shoulder a cannon. The poor South needs every soldier

she can get. You must, therefore, dismiss your Utopian dreams and enter

into gory and awful realities.”

“If I know myself,” said Ernest, “I do not shrink from those realities.

But I need something to inflame my zeal.”

“What do you need?” she asked, wishing after the inquiry had been made,

that she had propounded some other question.

“I have told you,” he replied, “that I have no intimate friends. My

affections are roving around like the ‘wandering Jew,’ seeking some

object upon which to concentrate. The object that comes within their

focus will find no reason to complain of their lack of intensity. Do

you understand me?”

“I cannot say that I do,” answered Mildred, “but I should think that

the goddess of Liberty would be sufficient to elicit all the better

feelings and aspirations of your soul.”

“The goddess of Liberty may call forth a certain class of affections,

but there is another group which requires a more substantial being.”

Mildred said nothing, but looked thoughtful. She understood what

Ernest meant, yet he had spoken so vaguely that she was reminded of

the amiable Pickwick and the widow Bardell, which association of ideas

caused her to laugh out-right. Ernest gazed at her in amazement and

pain.

“What is it that amuses you so?” he asked in a tone indicative of

displeasure.

“Please excuse me, Captain,” she said deprecatingly. “I was not, I

assure you, laughing at anything you said. It was only a foolish and

ridiculous thought that suddenly came into my mind. I beg your pardon,”

she said earnestly.

“Granted,” he replied, “if you will only be serious for a moment.”

“Certainly, I will.”

“I will speak plainly so that you cannot misunderstand me. The truth

is, I love you.”

“O, Captain,” she exclaimed with solemn earnestness, “what a time for

such a declaration!”

“Why?” asked Ernest.

“Why, we are on the threshold of a terrible war which will end, we know

not when.”

“That is the very reason I want a love to sustain me under the trials

which await me. My nature demands love. I am gloomy and wretched

without it.”

“How have you managed this long, Captain?”

“I will tell you all about it.” And he gave her a full account of all

the circumstances of his past life, after which Mildred with a cunning

smile, said:

“It seems, then, I am second choice.”

“You are mistaken. I did not know my own heart then. I never had for

her the deep, ineffable affection I have for you. After this honest

explanation must I leave you without hope? If I do, it matters little

to me what shall become of me. I shall consider that ball from the

enemy’s gun a mercy that shall put an end to my misery. But with your

love, I shall be the happiest soldier in the army. I shall have an

object for which to live. Can you, will you give me any hope?”

Ernest perceived that Mildred was violently agitated, and he felt

encouraged.

“Tell me,” he urged, “that you will be mine, when this cruel war is

over, if I come out the fiery crucible alive.”

“I am glad you have given me time to reflect about the matter,” she

said at last. “I will candidly say this: if you are alive and I am,

when the war ends, and the feelings of neither undergo any change, it

shall be as you wish. Is that sufficient?”

So these two young people, with that pure affection, glowing in their

hearts, which is sanctioned by the Allwise God, standing under the

broad-spreading oaks, agreed to enter into the sacred relation which

constitutes the very foundation of human society. Why should older

persons, who have lost the ardor, aspirations and hopes of youth, sneer

at what they are pleased to call “sickly love stories?” God implanted

these sacred affections in the human heart to bind society together,

and it is these which make man a gregarious animal. Is that pure love

which leads to the marriage relation only evidence of a kind of folly

that deserves to be ridiculed? Why do prudish, righteous-over-much

people, calling themselves critics, cry out against stories which

illustrate social realities, and which seek to inspire the youth of

our country with proper respect and reverence for a heaven-sanctioned

institution? Why is it that extremely pious people profess such an

aversion to “love scenes”--scenes that are every day realities in the

ranks of the purest and most refined society? Such scenes as we have

described, call them “love-sick,” who will, actually transpired during

the war, and many a soldier found a God-sent wife in the hospitals.

These love affairs mingle with the gravest concerns of human life.

Why, then, omit them from the pages of a story which is intended to

be a true picture? There is nothing startling or sensational in them.

Indeed, they are so old, common and customary that they derive any

interest they may possess from new combinations of circumstances.

Eliminate these circumstances, and nothing is left but an occurrence

that transpires every hour of the day. We may here say that there is

nothing in this volume that should prevent it from occupying a place on

the shelves of any Sabbath-school library.

CHAPTER VIII.

HARD TRUTHS.

During the time that Ernest was confined in the house of Dr. Arrington,

he had had several discussions with that gentleman, of doctrines which

are regarded by the world as distinctive dogmas of the Presbyterian

Church. They were conducted on both sides with the utmost calmness,

politeness and good-will. It is a fact that generally men cannot engage

in discussions of religious questions with moderation. They are often

more acrimonious than politicians. But the Doctor was naturally calm

and tranquil, and Ernest found that his first belief was beginning to

totter on its foundation. Mildred, too, believed this “horrid doctrine

of predestination,” which, in the mind of Ernest, had a tendency to

strip it of its forbidding aspects. But still he was not perfectly

satisfied. The discussions which he had with Dr. Arrington, were, on

his part, designed more to elicit information and proof than sustain

his own assumed position; in different language, Ernest took the “wrong

side” in order that the Doctor might overturn it.

Two or three days before Ernest was to start to his command, he was

sitting in the Doctor’s study looking over the Westminster Confession

of Faith. The Doctor, glancing up presently, and seeing how the young

man was employed, said pleasantly:

“You have tackled what the world calls a ‘hard book,’ Captain.”

“The world, in my opinion,” answered Ernest, with a smile, “is not much

to blame for taking that view of it.”

“No doubt,” said the Doctor, “the doctrines which it proclaims are

‘hard to be understood,’ as Paul himself declared.”

“You will have it that Paul was speaking of predestination, will you,

Doctor?”

“He certainly must have been. Of what else could he have been speaking?

If he was discussing free agency, I am sure there is no difficulty in

that. What is there in free agency to make Paul say, ‘The Lord will

have mercy on whom He will have mercy’? What is there in free agency to

make Peter open his eyes and wonder, and declare that it was ‘hard to

be understood?’ What is there in free agency that people could ‘wrest

to their own destruction?’”

“What is there in predestination that people can wrest to their

destruction?” asked Ernest.

“Why just this,” replied the Doctor: “Men said, and say it to this day,

‘Well, if my destiny is fixed, I shall make no effort to be saved, for

I cannot change my destiny; I intend to take my fill of sin.’ That

is the way they wrest it to their destruction. Any one who really

believes the doctrine of predestination never talks in that way. On the

contrary, if he believes that he is one of the elect, he will be the

more earnest and diligent in making that election sure.”

“But,” said Ernest, “what is the use of his diligence, if he is one of

the elect? He will be saved anyhow.”

“That is the way people talked in Paul’s day,” replied the Doctor, “but

I will answer you. Do you not remember that the Lord promised Gideon he

should gain the victory with his three hundred men? Why did not Gideon

say, ‘if that is so, I shall do nothing; I shall employ no strategy,

but I shall wait for the Lord to conquer His enemies.’ When God told

Paul, as he was tossed in a frail vessel on the storm-lashed sea, that

he and all on board should certainly be saved, why did not the apostle

tell the sailors to sit down quietly, and they should all reach the

land in safety? Why, the knowledge that they should be saved inspired

the crew with hope, and courage to renewed efforts to work out their

salvation. This doctrine arouses the believer’s energies, instead of

begetting a spirit of indolence and rebellion.”

While the Doctor was speaking, Ernest was slowly turning the pages of

the Confession of Faith, as if looking for some particular passage,

and at the same time as if paying strict attention to what was said.

Just as the preacher closed his last remark, Ernest came to the third

chapter and said:

“What does this mean, Doctor?”

“What is it?”

“‘God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His

will freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass.’”

“Now,” continued Ernest quickly closing the book with his thumb

between the leaves, “there it is--‘God ordains whatsoever comes to

pass.’ It seems there is no exception, murder, sin, robberies and

all. Whatever I do, then, good or bad, God ordained it. How am I

responsible? If that clause does not destroy man’s free agency, I

cannot understand the meaning of words. Surely, Doctor, you do not

endorse this book? You do not believe that God is the author of sin?”

The Doctor looked at Ernest in astonishment, smiled, and said:

“Are you certain it says just exactly that?”

“If I can read, it says that.”

“You are like a great many other people,” said the Doctor, “who find

fault with the Confession, and jump to conclusions, without really

knowing what it does say. Now, if you please, open the book, and read

on--read it all--that is the whole paragraph; for you paused in the

middle of a sentence.”

Ernest read:

“God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His

own will, freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass;

yet so as thereby neither is God the author of sin; nor is violence

offered to the will of the creatures, nor is the liberty or contingency

of second causes taken away, but rather established.”

“Now, that makes a considerable difference, does it not?” asked the

Doctor.

“But it does say, Doctor, that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass.

The exceptional clause does not deny this, but simply affirms that

God is not the author of sin. But does it not say that God ordains

whatsoever comes to pass?”

“Certainly, it does.”

“Every event?”

“Undoubtedly. There is no exception.”

“Well,” said Ernest with a triumphant air, “last week Mr. Jones killed

Tom Smith in cold blood. It was deliberate assassination--murder in the

first degree. Now, did God ordain that or not?”

“God ordained it in this way: He did not decree that Jones should kill

Smith without any connection with other events. But He fore-saw that

certain causes would operate so as to culminate in the murder; yet

He permitted those causes to operate, for the accomplishment of some

wise purpose. The difficulty is, we cannot see things as God does. We

consider it as an awful calamity that Jones should kill Smith, when we

have no idea what the divine purpose is. The murder was not an isolated

circumstance, but it was the legitimate result of certain other causes

which the two men themselves might have controlled, so far as their own

free agency was concerned. But Jones had murder in his heart, and the

Lord permitted him to follow his own inclinations. Now, God fore-saw,

from all eternity, that this murder would grow out of other events, yet

He determined to permit those events to occur, and in that sense He

ordained it. But you, surely, cannot infer that God is the author of

the murder. God is not the author of men’s actions. He did not force

Jones to kill Smith. But let me ask you a question. Suppose lightning

had killed Mr. Smith, instead of Jones’ knife, would you say that God

had anything to do with it, or was it a pure accident?”

“It was not an accident,” said Ernest, “in the usual acceptation of the

word.”

“You are correct, because with God there is no accident. Well, if

the Lord chose to destroy Smith by a knife in the hands of a wicked

man, instead of lightning, what right have we to cry out, ‘horrible!

horrible!’ God sends diseases upon men, and innocent babes and women,

and good men are swept off by thousands; shall we accuse the Lord of

cruelty and injustice?”

“No; He has the right to do that.”

“And so He has the right to remove His creatures in whatever way He

may please,” said the Doctor. “I firmly believe that God ordained

the present war--not arbitrarily, though,--not as an isolated

circumstance; but it has legitimately grown out of causes that have

been working together for years. Men, goaded on to desperation by

their own evil passions, meet upon the field and destroy each other.

They are conscious that they are acting as free agents. We have no

more right then, to impeach divine goodness for permitting this

wholesale butchery, than we have for allowing Jones to kill Smith, or

some disease to destroy the innocent babe. We make a great mistake

by supposing that there ought not to be violent deaths; they are the

necessary concomitants of sin, and must ever result from the inexorable

law of cause and effect.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “if it was ordained that Jones should kill Smith,

Jones ought not to be punished for the deed.”

“My dear Captain,” said the Doctor good humoredly, “a lawyer like you,

ought not to quibble in that way. The mere fact that God permits crime

does not destroy human responsibility. You might just as well say

that Judas ought not to have been punished for betraying the Savior.

Undoubtedly it was ordained that he should perform that deed of shame;

because it was foretold centuries before our Lord’s advent.”

Ernest knew not what reply to make. The Doctor had answered his

objections. So he turned the leaves of the book, and said:

“Here is another passage which seems to me to need explanation.”

“What is it?”

Ernest read as follows:

“By the decree of God, for the manifestation of His glory, some

men and angels are predestinated unto everlasting life, and others

fore-ordained to everlasting death.

“These men and angels, thus predestinated and fore-ordained, are

particularly and unchangeably designed and their number is so certain

that it cannot be either increased or diminished.”

“That reads rather harsh, does it not?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes, sir; it does.”

“And yet it is what the Bible says.”

“Where will I find that?”

“Turn to Romans 9:22-25: ‘What if God, willing to show His wrath, and

to make His power known, endured with much long suffering, the vessels

of wrath fitted to destruction; and that He might make known the riches

of His glory on the vessels of mercy, which He had afore prepared unto

glory?’”

“That does seem to teach that there are two classes,” said Ernest.

“Undoubtedly, it does.”

“But it says,” continued Ernest, “that this number is so fixed and

certain that it can neither be increased nor diminished.”

“There is surely no difficulty in that,” said the Doctor. “It is a

mathematical fact, and would be true, if the Scriptures said nothing

about it. Leaving predestination entirely out of the question, that

would be true. For on the Day of Judgment, when the destiny of every

human being is settled, there will be a certain number saved, and a

certain number lost. Now, can the number be increased or diminished?

I never could see why anybody should object to that clause, when it is

true according to the doctrine of every religious denomination in the

world.”

“Well,” said Ernest laughing, “here is more of this hard doctrine.”

“Let us hear it,” said the Doctor.

Ernest read as follows:

“Those of mankind that are predestinated unto life, God, before

the foundation of the world was laid, according to His eternal and

immutable purpose, and the secret counsel and good pleasure of His

will, out of His mere free grace and love, without any foresight of

faith or good works--”

“Yes,” exclaimed Ernest, breaking off suddenly, “there it is--without

any foresight of faith or good works--saved arbitrarily.”

Again the Doctor gazed at Ernest in surprise. “My young friend,” said

the Doctor, with an amused expression, “you do not pause, for a moment,

to reflect what the paragraph does really mean, but you at once jump to

unauthorized conclusions.”

“I have read it _verbatim_,” replied Ernest.

“But you did not read it all. You have read just as our opposers do

who give garbled extracts from the Confession, and then draw the most

absurd inferences. You stopped in the middle of the sentence. Read it

all.”

Ernest read:

“Without any foresight of faith or good works, or perseverance in

either of them, or any other thing in the creature, as conditions, or

causes moving Him thereunto.”

“The meaning,” said the Doctor, “is that God did not choose His people

on account of their faith and good works. Faith itself is the gift of

God. All men are in a state of guilt by nature. How, then, could the

Lord fore-see faith and good works in any of them, growing out of their

evil natures? How could they possibly perform good works without a

regenerated heart?”

“For what did He choose them, then?”

“I can answer you only in the language of His own Word, which says,

it was ‘according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Certainly, the

Lord has some good reason for saving a portion of the human race and

rejecting, or rather passing by the rest, but He has nowhere acquainted

us with that reason. If election is such a ‘hard’ doctrine, what would

have been the result, if God had not made any choice at all, but left

men to follow the bent of their own wills, how many do you suppose

would have been saved? The carnal heart is enmity against God. Could

men, then have chosen God? Verily not. Christ Himself declares, ‘No

man can come unto me, except the Father, which sent me, draw him.’ Do

you not see clearly, then, that, without this much-abused doctrine of

election, no human being could possibly be saved? It is a doctrine

which the Church cannot afford to give up, and it is a doctrine to

which every denomination holds in some form. We differ only as to the

principle upon which the election is based. We Presbyterians, adhere

rigidly to the Bible, and say that God’s choice grows out of His own

will and pleasure, while our opposers affirm that it is founded upon

the good works of the creature, and thus make salvation a matter of

debt, and not of pure, free grace. That is the difference between us,

and I leave it to you, with the Bible as your guide, to determine which

view is the more Scriptural.”

“There is another thing I should like to ask you about,” said Ernest,

feeling that he could produce no further objections.

“What is it? I will answer to the best of my knowledge and ability.”

“I have heard it said that some Presbyterian preachers hold to the view

that there are infants in hell ‘not a span long.’”

“Did you ever hear one say such a thing?” asked the Doctor.

“No sir; I never did.”

“And did you ever see anybody that heard a Presbyterian minister preach

it?”

“No, sir.”

“No; and you never will,” said the Doctor with emphasis. “That is an

old slander without the slightest foundation. We would instantly depose

any Presbyterian minister who would dare to make such an assertion. The

truth is, we believe that all infants that die are saved.”

“Your Confession says something about infants, does it not, Doctor?”

“O, yes. Give me the book, and I will find it for you. Here it is.

Chapter X: ‘Elect infants, dying in infancy, are regenerated and saved

by Christ through the Spirit, who worketh when, and where, and how He

pleaseth.’”

“Elect infants, Doctor? Does not that imply that there are non-elect

infants?”

“You can put that construction upon it, if you wish,” said the Doctor;

“but the term is explained in several ways. I really do not know which

view the framers of the Confession intended we should take. So we are

at liberty to construe it in that way which appears most consistent to

us.”

“What is your construction?”

“It is this: all mankind are evidently divided into two classes--the

elect and the non-elect--the saved and the lost. You believe that, do

you not?”

“O, yes; that is true.”

“Well, of course, the non-elect are sinners in their infancy as well as

in after life. In that sense there are non-elect infants; but we do not

believe that any of them die in infancy.”

“But how do you know that they do not?”

“Because Christ says, that ‘of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”

“According to your view, then,” said Ernest, “there are non-elect

infants, but they do not die in infancy?”

“Exactly,” replied the Doctor. “But there is another explanation.

Some say the framers of the Confession put in the word ‘elect’ not

to divide infants into two classes, but to show upon what principle

they are saved; they are _elected_ to salvation. You know, John uses

the expression, ‘the elect lady’ and her sister. This certainly would

not mean that there was a non-elect lady. Again, in the form for the

baptism of infants in the Methodist Discipline, the minister prays

that ‘_this child may be numbered among the elect children of God_.’

We would not, of course, insist that the Methodists believe that there

are _non-elect_ children. Some say that the Confession means by ‘elect

infants,’ just what the Methodists do in their form of baptism. But

after all, the Presbyterian Church is the only one probably whose

doctrine does consistently save infants. We declare they are saved

by _election_. If not, tell me how they can be saved? They cannot

repent and believe as adults do. Then do you not see, if they are not

_elected_ by a merciful Father, they must be lost forever?”

“Upon my word,” quickly and honestly exclaimed Ernest, “I had never

looked at the subject in that light. You have taught me something I

never knew before.”

“I am glad,” replied the Doctor, “if I have helped you out of any

difficulty.”

“I candidly acknowledge, Doctor, that the more I study this deep

subject, the more reasonable and Scriptural it seems.”

And here the discussion ended for that day. Ernest, seeing Mildred

walking in the yard and clipping flowers, vacated his seat and joined

her. The Doctor looked at him, as he left, and a perceptible smile

stole over his benevolent face.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER IX.

“OFF TO THE WARS.”

The next day Ernest and the Doctor were alone in the study. The former

seemed to be a little restless, like a man who wishes to say something,

but knows not how to begin; the latter was tranquil as usual, poring

over his theological books. Ernest would try to read, and then glance

up uneasily at the calm old man upon whose open face God had put the

seal of honesty. Ernest became fidgety. But presently he spoke:

“Will you give me your attention just a moment, Doctor?”

“Certainly; I am at your service,” replied the Doctor, laying his open

book on the table.

“You believe the Confession of Faith?” asked Ernest with a merry

twinkle, which escaped the preacher’s notice.

“Undoubtedly, I do.”

“Yesterday you said you believed that God ordained whatsoever comes to

pass.”

“Yes, I believe that, too.”

“Without exception?”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, unsuspiciously.

“Well, then,” said Ernest, casting his eyes to the floor, “Miss Mildred

has agreed to become Mrs. Edgefield, when this ‘cruel war is over.’ If

the Lord has ordained that, you will, of course, offer no objection.”

The old minister broke out into a hearty laugh in which he was joined

by Ernest.

“That is a clever turning of the table, my young friend,” said the

Doctor pleasantly. “But all that is really ordained is that she has

agreed to the arrangement.”

“Yes sir, that is all.”

“I mean so far as we actually know. We know not what God has in store

for any of us. I believe that the Lord directs every Christian in his

affairs. If you have won Mildred’s heart, I shall offer no objection to

your union whenever it may please her to consummate it. These are very

uncertain times, and the good Lord only knows what may become of any of

us.”

“We can but hope, sir,” said Ernest.

“Hope and pray,” replied the Doctor.

Ernest was now happy and unhappy--a thrilling contradiction which all

will understand who have been in the same condition. He must leave in

a few hours. Would he ever return? There lay before him the prospect

of a long and bloody war. How many battles like that of Bull Run could

he go through, and escape with his life? He had already been severely

wounded in the first fight in which he had been engaged. The chances

seemed to be against him. Yet did not God control the events of battle?

Could He not save and protect whom He would? Something similar to this

the Doctor said to Ernest the morning he was to rejoin his command.

“The doctrine which we have several times discussed,” said the Doctor,

“has always proved to be a source of great comfort to me, and it will

be to you, if you can believe it. Just think that your destiny is in

God’s hands, and what need you fear? It is this that makes Jackson the

_Stonewall_ that the lamented Bee called him with his dying breath. I

am told that Jackson is almost a fatalist. But, whatever may be his

doctrinal errors, he is a firm believer in God’s sovereignty. The

consequence is, he is afraid of nothing.”

“But are there not men as brave as he is, who do not believe this

doctrine?” asked Ernest.

“Yes, in one sense. I do not mean to say that men are lacking in

courage who reject the doctrine which we have discussed. But there is

something in Jackson which is more than courage. It is his sublime,

inflexible faith. There are numbers of men who will go unflinchingly

into any of the dangers of battle, but they are animated by a spirit of

desperation, by human feelings, such as pride, ambition, and the like.

But Jackson puts himself unreservedly in the hands of God, and accepts

whatever comes without a murmur. He knows that he can never be killed

till God speaks the word, and it is this firm belief that gives such

adamantine solidity to his grand and exalted character.”

That morning when all knelt around the family altar, it was a most

solemn and affecting scene. Ernest was now regarded as one of the

family. The Doctor read a portion of Scripture suitable to the

occasion, and they sang with quivering voices three or four stanzas

of that familiar old hymn, which seems destined to go sounding down

through all the ages till the last of the redeemed are gathered home:

“How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,

Is laid for your faith in His excellent word.”

Then all knelt down to pray. Ernest had the feeling of Jacob when, alone

at Bethel, his head pillowed upon rock the patriarch said, “surely the

Lord is in this place.” A holy influence gently stole over his soul,

as the Doctor, in a husky voice, prayed for their guest. All arose in

tears. Ernest shed tears too, but they were strange tears. His faith

was firmer, and he felt that he could trust himself in the hands of God.

Alas! those were days that tried men’s souls! When the “soldier boy”

went from his home, it was like shaking hands over the grave. The

mother drew her darling son to her breast and imprinted burning kisses

upon his brow. He broke loose from her frantic embrace, and in a few

days afterwards, the news was brought that he was sleeping in the

soldier’s bloody grave. Young husbands and wives parted to meet no more

till the last trump shall call them up on the resurrection morn. No

pen can describe the awful scenes of those four years of fratricidal

strife. Sad! sad! sad!

Ernest was accompanied by Mildred to the depot. They rode in a buggy

while Dr. Arrington came on horse-back in the rear. The young man

endeavored to be lively and cheerful, and this humor was encouraged

by Mildred. Yet both could see through this disguised mutual gaiety.

It was not natural. Frequently there were long pauses in their

conversation. Such is generally the case with two friends, about to

part in a very short time, who feel that they ought to talk, but can

think of no topic suitable to the occasion. I have seen two brothers,

one of whom was condemned to be shot for a military offence, hold their

last interview; it was a _silent_ meeting. So when Ernest and Mildred

_tried_ to keep up a cheerful conversation, they would often relapse

into silence.

“O, my Mildred,” cried Ernest with deep emotion, as they neared the

depot, “I can keep up this false show no longer. I am not cheerful.

The thought of leaving you is as bitter as death, and I may as well

give vent to my real feelings. I could almost wish that I had never met

you. My thoughts will all run out to you. O, I fear we shall never meet

again.”

“Why should we look on the dark side of the picture?” asked Mildred,

in low, sweet tones. “There is a kind Father above who rules in the

affairs of men. Whatever may happen, be assured the Judge of all the

earth will do right. ‘Our times are in His hands.’ He will do that

which is best for us. He can throw His everlasting arms around you,

and shield you in the terrors of the hottest battle. The Mighty God

controls all things.”

“I see,” said Ernest, trying to smile, “that you too, endeavor to

comfort yourself with that ‘horrid’ Presbyterian doctrine. You rely on

that on all occasions.”

“Certainly I do,” replied Mildred. “I get as much comfort from it as

from any truth taught in God’s Holy Word.”

“I am almost convinced,” said Ernest, “that predestination is a

doctrine of the Bible, but I wish I could bring it into practical

affairs, as you do.”

“It is easy to do,” replied Mildred. “Just put yourself unreservedly

into the hands of God, and go out boldly in the discharge of duty. Of

what should you be afraid?”

“Sometimes,” said Ernest, “I think perhaps it is predestinated that I

shall be lost.”

“If you have that fear, it is an evidence that you are not so

predestinated. If you were a reprobate, you would have no such fear.

You would be indifferent.”

“If I am one of the elect,” asked Ernest, “how may I know it with

certainty?”

“God does not leave us to grope in doubt and darkness,” replied

Mildred. “If you love the people of God, love the Church and its

services, love religion, love to meditate upon heavenly things, and

love to read your Bible, you know that you love the Lord Jesus. That is

a certain indication that the heart has been renewed. God has said that

His people shall never perish. They were chosen before the foundation

of the world. If then, I was chosen from all eternity, how happy I

ought to feel; and I will add, how happy I do feel. This doctrine of

election and predestination, which is so horrible to some people, is

the greatest source of comfort to me.”

“You ought to be the wife of a minister,” said Ernest, thoughtfully.

“I would ask no higher destiny in this world,” modestly replied Mildred.

“There is a Baptist preacher in my town,” said Ernest, “who has tried

to make me believe that I am called to preach.”

“What made him think so?”

Ernest then briefly related the circumstances in regard to the matter,

with which the reader is acquainted. Mildred listened with the most

intense interest, and a flash of joy suddenly illuminated her face.

“I am glad you told me that,” she said, “for now I cannot but believe

that God is preparing you for His work just as He did Moses in the land

of Midian. Go on, then; do your duty, and have faith in God. I will try

to believe that you will be brought through all dangers in safety. God

has something for you to do. Are you willing to walk in the path which

providence points out?”

“I am.”

“Then have no fears.”

And from that moment she appeared so cheerful and confident, and seemed

to have such strong faith in the divine goodness, love and care, that

Ernest caught her spirit. By the time they arrived at the depot he was

in much better spirits.

“I am now satisfied,” he said, as they were about to part, “that there

is something more practical in the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church

than I had ever dreamed of. Henceforth I shall try to bring them into

my life as you do. But I am very skeptical by nature, and when I leave

you I may again fall into doubt. God bless you, my dear Mildred, for

helping to lift the clouds from my soul. I feel hopeful. But pray for

me, that my faith fail not.”

Mildred tried hard to restrain her tears, but it was in vain. They

were tears of joy mingled with tears of sadness. The train was heard

rumbling in the distance, and Mildred said: “I hope you will not regard

me as a Cassandra, if I prophesy that you will at last return to us in

safety?”

“You shall be as a Deborah to me,” replied Ernest. “You must write to

me every day.”

“Every day?”

“What I mean is, keep a sort of daily journal, and send it to me once

a week, if possible. I will do the same, and it will be a source of

pleasure to us.”

The foregoing is no fancy-sketch, but an actual occurrence, and shows

how the dearest friends separated during the terrible, uncertain days

of the Great Rebellion.

Presently the train came dashing in, and Ernest stepped on

the platform, waved his hand to Mildred, and entered the

coach. The conductor shouted “All aboard.” The bell rang:

sizz--sizz--click--click--and a moment after, a young lady with a

solemn face was seen in a buggy, driving slowly and thoughtfully from

the depot. Her thoughts followed the train whose roaring she could hear

in the distance. When she reached home, how sad all nature appeared!

She went to her room, locked the door, fell upon her knees, and prayed

God, with all the earnestness of her soul, to shield and protect him

upon whom her temporal happiness depended. Hers was a sacred love which

God sanctioned.

Ernest, as the train went dashing along through forest and fields, sank

down into a seat, and without effort directed his imagination to the

residence of the good Doctor Arrington. He thanked God in his heart

for sending him to that house. Suppose he had not been wounded, he

thought, or suppose he had fallen upon some other part of the field,

the probability was, Dr. Arrington would not have found him. How could

he fail to recognize the hand of God in all these little circumstances?

Then, he prayed the Lord still to be with him, and direct all his

footsteps.

In connection with such thoughts as these, his memory revived scenes

which had transpired the previous year. He recalled the agony of his

unrequited love for Clara Vanclure. He had thought that he never could

recover from the wound which she had so ruthlessly inflicted. Three

months, or less, after his rejection, she had married his rival,

contrary to the wishes of her father. He became enraged when she

informed him that she had discarded Ernest Edgefield.

“You have acted like a--a--simpleton,” he exclaimed, suppressing with

difficulty a much harsher appellation. “Whom do you expect to marry, I

should like to know?”

“Mr. Comston,” she answered hesitatingly.

“Well, well, that surpasses my comprehension--surpasses my

comprehension,” he cried. “I should like to know what you fancy

in him--yes, fancy in him. Ernest is worth a thousand such

cinnamon-scented popinjays--yes, cinnamon-scented popinjays.”

“Mr. Comston does not use cinnamon,” Clara ventured to say

apologetically.

“If he don’t,” exclaimed the irritated parent, “he uses musk which is

worse, and bear’s oil, and such other tomfoolery--other tomfoolery.”

Clara blushed, but said nothing more, wisely allowing her provoked

progenitor to give vent to his indignation till the storm of wrath

should subside. Resistance would only increase its fury.

But she married, and Ernest saw her become the bride of his rival; for

she had sent him a card to her wedding, and Ernest went, to show her

how little he cared.

All this now appeared like some dim dream that flitted through his mind

years ago. How thankful he now felt that Comston had removed to the

town of ---- in time to prevent a complicated involution of the threads

of destiny. If that young man had made his advent a few weeks later,

the conjugal infelicity of Ernest would have been an assured fact--at

least he felt so now. What an insignificant being Clara now appeared

when put in contrast with the intelligent, accomplished and pious

Mildred Arrington. He almost shuddered as he thought of the narrow

escape he had made. And the question came up in his mind, did God have

nothing to do with this? If the sparrow does not escape the beneficent

observation of the Supreme Being, surely His intelligent creatures will

receive a due share of the divine watchfulness and loving care.

Again, while the train was thundering along its iron track, sad and

gloomy thoughts and doubts, calculated to banish all cheerfulness,

would suddenly spring up in his mind, and the trembling light of hope

would almost disappear in the darkness. He recalled the old adage, “Man

proposes, God disposes.” Suppose his intended union, after all, with

Mildred should not be in accord with the Divine purpose? Could he give

her up? Would he not rebel, and murmur against God’s will? Alas! how

hard it is for a human being to tread the appointed path of destiny

with his will in complete subjection to that of the Heavenly Father!

At times, man cannot but think that his own chosen way is best. The

retrospective view convinces him of his folly and infirmity.

“While I mused, the fire burned,” said the Psalmist. While the train

rattled along, Ernest thought and mused. Presently a brakesman cried

out, “---- Station.” Ernest gathered up his baggage, and in a short

time was shaking hands with his comrades-in-arms.

CHAPTER X.

A DANGEROUS MISSION.

In the progress of the present story we have now come to some of those

strange, startling, and almost incredible events which prove the truth

of the old proverb, “Truth is stranger than Fiction,” and which could

occur only in those times when the foundations of society are shaken by

martial upheavals and commotions.

We stop at a small farm-house a few miles from Manassas, and not far

from the residence of Dr. Arrington. It is in the afternoon of a

beautiful day. We open the door of one room of the little farm-house,

and find ourselves in the presence of two Confederate officers, of high

rank, who are engaged in an earnest conversation. Both have long since

passed into history, and are inseparably connected with the “Great

Rebellion.” The whole history of any war is, in fact, comprised in the

biographies of a few individuals. The lives of Lee, Grant, Jackson,

Sherman, and a few others that could be readily named, cover the entire

field of the War of Secession.

It is not essential to our story that we should give the names of the

two Generals to whom reference has just been made. For reasons which

are clear to the author, it is deemed advisable to leave our reader

the pleasure of identifying them, if he can. Merely for the sake of

convenience we will designate one as General A. and the other as

General B. As we stand in one corner of the room, eaves-dropping, as is

the privilege of the Novelist, we hear the following colloquy:

“It will require a peculiar person for the business,” said Gen. A. in

a rather low tone. “It must be a woman--and a woman of intelligence,

discretion and courage.”

“I know just such a one,” replied Gen. B., “but I should dislike to ask

her to run the risk that must be incurred.”

“These are times,” answered Gen. A., “which demand sacrifices. Our

Southern men and women should be willing to incur danger for the sake

of their country. Cannot the South furnish an Iphigenia if one is

necessary to the success of our arms?”

“No doubt, many can be found,” replied Gen. B., “but I should dislike

to sacrifice any of our noble women, if it could possibly be avoided.”

“Would it not be better,” coolly asked Gen. A., “to sacrifice a woman

in the prosecution of this business than a good soldier? But who is the

lady you mentioned? We can discuss the ethics of the case at some other

time.”

“It is the daughter of Dr. Arrington,” answered Gen. B. “I dined with

his family last Sabbath, and I was impressed with the idea that the

young lady is just such a woman as you have described.”

“I am willing,” said Gen. A., “to take your judgment in this case. When

can we have an interview with her, do you suppose?”

“Any time we may call, I think.”

“Suppose we go at once, then,” said Gen. A. “The business is urgent.”

Accordingly the two officers mounted their horses. Half an hour later

they alighted at Dr. Arrington’s residence. They were met by the

Doctor, and shown into the parlor. After talking a short time upon

general topics, Gen. B. broached the particular subject that had caused

the visit.

“Dr. Arrington,” said he, “Gen. A. is in search of a person to perform

a delicate and hazardous duty. The service is of such a nature that no

one but a lady can perform it well, and it must be a lady of bravery,

discretion and intelligence.”

“I do not know where you can find one in this community who will

fulfill such requirements,” said the Doctor.

“I have taken the liberty,” said Gen. B., without seeming to have

noticed the Doctor’s remark, “to suggest your daughter, Miss Mildred.”

“I doubt,” replied the Doctor, “that she possesses the qualifications

you have named--at least, I do not know that she is brave.”

“Probably,” suggested Gen. A., “you have never seen her courage put to

the test.”

“No, I cannot say that I have.”

“However,” continued Gen. A., “the business I have in hand requires

more tact than courage.”

“Is it a perilous business, General?”

“Perilous in case of detection; yes, sir.”

“I profess to love my country,” said the Doctor, “and I am willing to

make sacrifices for it, but I cannot speak for my daughter. I will

call her, if you wish, and let her speak for herself.”

“If you please,” said Gen. A. “We mentioned the matter to you first in

order to get your consent to an interview with her.”

The Doctor went out of the room, and in a few moments returned with

Mildred, introducing her to Gen. A., who had never seen her before. An

explanation of how and why Gen. B. had formed the acquaintance of this

family would, no doubt, lead at once to his personal identification.

“Shall I remain in the room?” asked the Doctor, after Mildred was

seated.

“Certainly; we expected you to do so,” replied Gen. A.

The true, actual history of the war of 1861 will never be written. It

cannot be. It is only general events that the dignity of history will

condescend to record. Take the battle of Bull Run, which has been so

briefly described in previous pages of our story. Scarcely anything

more than the events which we have outlined will go down to future

generations. The thousand little incidents which constituted the very

_essence_ of the fight, and give to it a coloring which the historical

brush must ever miss, will never be known. The history of a battle is

nothing more than a picture of it: three-fourths of the scenes are left

out.

From one till three o’clock who can tell what occurred on the field

of Bull Run? The war-cloud floated in fragments: it was like a fog.

The contest seemed to dwindle almost into individual combats. The grim

warriors were mixed up in a dense cloud of smoke, through which the

historian cannot see clearly. It was not till after three o’clock that

the battle presented an aspect that comes within the scope of history.

To get the correct history of those two or three hours, each individual

like Ernest would have to tell what occurred within his sight. Little

incidents, though thrilling, such as we are about to relate, are

rejected from the domain of sober history. Individual deeds of daring

and heroism, necessity demands shall find their place in the province

of biography. Accordingly that which Mildred performed will be found

recorded nowhere except in the pages of this story.

“We have a mission,” said Gen. A. presently, “which only a lady can

accomplish, and Gen. B. has suggested you as a person who would be

likely to undertake it; and this is the object of our present visit.”

Mildred looked surprised.

“If it is anything I can do, General,” she said, “I think I have

sufficient patriotism to undertake it.”

“I have no doubt of that. But, to make a long story short, we want a

lady to go into the capital--Washington City, I mean.”

Gen. A. watched her face closely and critically as he said this.

Mildred did not appear to be amazed at this information, but she

quietly said:

“Will that be easy to do?”

“I do not know; it depends upon the tact of the person that tries it,”

answered Gen. A.

“I infer, then,” she said, “that I would have to avoid the pickets and

sentinels?”

“Not so much that as other things which I will explain to you. But I

shall not conceal the fact from you, that if you are detected, the

consequences will be enough to terrify not only a lady, but a desperate

man.”

“Death, would it be?” she asked in a firm, but gentle tone which

convinced Gen. A. that Gen. B. was not mistaken in his estimate of her

character.

“Death, and ‘death by hanging’,” answered Gen. A. with an emphasis

designed to test her nerves.

“O, General!” exclaimed the Doctor in some alarm, “that is asking too

much of my child. She is too delicate and timid to take such a risk.”

“I shall not insist upon anyone’s undertaking it,” replied Gen. A. with

a disappointed look. “Gen. B. here suggested that your daughter would

be the kind of person we need, but if you object we will say no more

about it.”

“My kind father has spoken hastily,” said Mildred with dignity. “I do

not know why the women of our country should not sometimes risk their

lives as well as the soldiers. Suppose I should lose my life, it is

no more than hundreds have already done. I am not afraid. I will go,

General, unless my father positively forbids it.”

“There will be no very great risk, though, after all,” said Gen. A.,

“especially after you are in the city. I have a paper to be delivered

to a certain person in Washington. If you were caught with that paper,

you would no doubt be treated as a spy, but a lady of intelligence and

tact can conceal it.”

“Could I not commit the contents to memory and write them out after I

get into the city?” asked Mildred.

“No; the person who is to receive it must have the original paper.”

Mildred reflected for a moment, and turning to the Doctor said:

“Father, I am willing to do this small service for the General.”

“It is no small service, I should think,” interrupted the Doctor.

“No,” replied the General, “it is a very great service, one which will

bring your country under obligations.”

“What do you say, father?” asked Mildred.

“My child,” said the doctor with some emotion, “I cannot encourage

you to do it. I will leave it to your own judgment. I, however, would

prefer to undertake the mission myself, if that would answer.”

“If the business,” answered Gen. A., “could be accomplished by a man,

we have any number of soldiers in camp who would cheerfully volunteer,

but no person will answer but an intelligent lady. You will see that

when I enter into fuller explanations.”

“If this be so, father, it seems to me that I ought to perform this

service for the country. The enemy can but destroy this body, if I

should be detected. Suppose, General,” turning to him, “you can find no

lady who will undertake the affair, what will be the consequence?”

“That will be difficult to foretell or foresee,” replied Gen. A. “It

might cause the loss of a great battle. On the other hand, her going

might result in achieving the independence of the Confederate States.

Very little affairs of this kind frequently result in great things.”

“Then, father,” said Mildred with firmness, “I can no longer hesitate.

We helpless women ought to serve our country in some way in the hour of

need. Will you give your consent, father.”

“I can not tell you either to go or to stay,” answered the Doctor. “Do

as you please.”

“Then, General, I will go and do the best I can for you. What is it you

wish me to do?”

“When can you start?” asked Gen. A.