“But still,” said Ernest, “does it not all appear natural? Your nephew

was in the city, and hearing of his cousin’s imprisonment, what is more

natural than that he should restore her to liberty?”

“I remember,” said Mrs. Arrington, “how we were all distressed when we

heard that Will had joined the Northern army. Little did we think that

Mildred’s life depended upon it. How short sighted we are!”

“And suppose,” said the Doctor, “that Will had not been in the

court-room when the officer made the remark about her trial. You told

us of this a while ago. This might have appeared accidental, but still

it happened exactly at the right time. Suppose Will had not gone into

that room at the moment he did, the trial would have ended the next

day, and Mildred in all probability, would have never been sent back

to the hotel, but to a dismal felon’s cell to await her execution, and

then Will would not have been able to release her.”

“You say, Doctor,” answered Ernest, “that these things happened at

the right time. Suppose this deliverance had occurred earlier, what

difference would it have made?”

“We do not understand all God’s ways and purposes,” replied the Doctor;

“but granting that this deliverance had occurred two or three days

earlier, you would not have been present to give your assistance. Then

suppose Mildred had tried to make her way alone, she might have been

re-captured by that vidette you told us about. I do not see how you can

fail to recognize divine providence in all this.”

“I do recognize it fully,” replied Ernest. “You must not think, Doctor,

that I am disposed to doubt a supernatural providence. One reason why I

asked the question which I did was to get your views. I wanted to hear

you point out the particulars as you have done. I am glad to say that

this severe trial has proved beneficial to me. I do not think I will

ever again be as skeptical as I have been. I have had a lesson.”

“Let it be a lesson to us all,” answered the Doctor, “ever to have

implicit faith in God.”

The next day Ernest requested a private interview with the Doctor. They

met in the study, and Ernest said:

“I must return soon to the army, and, to make a long story short,

I have come to ask you to perform the marriage ceremony for me and

Mildred to-day.”

“To-day!” exclaimed the Doctor in surprise.

“Yes, sir; why not?”

“I do not suppose she is ready,” said the Doctor.

“It will not take long to get ready,” remarked Ernest. “People do not

expect grand weddings such times as these.”

“No; but what put this sudden notion into your head?” asked the Doctor

a little bluntly.

“We have come to the conclusion that there is no use waiting any

longer.”

“Well, if it is Mildred’s wish,” replied the Doctor thoughtfully, “I

shall interpose no objection.”

Accordingly, that very evening a few friends assembled at the Doctor’s

residence, and at 8 o’clock Ernest and Mildred were pronounced “husband

and wife.”

During those times young people entered into the marriage relation

without much ceremony, and upon short notice. In many parts of the

country it was impossible to procure suitable “wedding garments,” and

the soldiers frequently married in their ordinary uniforms.

Ernest remained with his bride three or four days, and then started

“off to the wars” again. It was a great and severe trial to the two

young people to separate. They might never meet again in this world.

Many a young man left his young wife, and in a few days afterwards he

was slumbering in the soldier’s bloody grave.

“Mildred,” said Ernest in a husky tone, “pray for me. I have faith in

your prayers.”

“Do not doubt my praying for you,” she said, while tears glistened in

her eyes. “You will never be out of my mind a moment.”

“It does look hard,” said Ernest, “that we should be separated by the

yawning gulf of war just as we are upon the threshold of life. I never

knew the depth of my affection for you till now.”

“You will not suffer, after all, as I shall,” replied Mildred. “You

will have the exciting scenes of war to occupy your thoughts, and I

shall have nothing to think about but you. O, the long weary days that

must pass away! I shall think of you as constantly exposed to dangers.”

And so they separated, both saying in their hearts, as they went their

respective ways:

“O, shall we ever meet again?”

CHAPTER XVII.

PEACE.

The frightful clouds of war have rolled away. The smoke of battle has

dissolved into the darkness of the Past. The blood-spots have been

washed out by the rains and dews of heaven. Blessed Peace spreads

out her snow-white pinions, dripping balm for wounded hearts, from

the granite hills of New England to the smiling prairies of the Lone

Star State. The little hillocks of earth that rise up all over the

South mark the gory fields where the enraged warriors met in the

death-struggle. We can again re-visit the awful spots where once the

earth groaned under the tread of men and horses rushing head-long

to the fray, and we can call up the phantom forms, and make them

re-enact the bloody tragedies of battle in solemn silence. The gloomy

cedar-brakes of Murfreesboro, the plateau of Bull Run, the dark stream

of Chickamauga, the rugged Mount that looks down upon Chattanooga, the

black hills of Vicksburg, pock-marked by the shells of a fifty-days’

siege--are all there yet, dumb witnesses to the ferocity of human

passions. To-day, at all these, and many other places, we can take the

torch of history, and relight the terrible scenes enacted in the now

silent past. We see long lines of soldiers start up in battle array,

grasping the deadly musket, and solemnly preparing to die, in that

ominous lull which always precedes the mighty shock of battle. There is

a strange silence. The very forests seem to be holding their breath in

expectation of a storm more awful than the cyclone of nature. What is

it? The awful _pause of Death_.

Presently a single gun breaks the oppressive silence. The work of

destruction begins. Heavy volumes of smoke rise up all over the

forests. Men on horse-back are seen flying in every direction. One

remarkable man, clad in a red flannel shirt, symbolical of the fierce

spirit within, is seen galloping from one scene of carnage to another,

under the inspiration of a courage that never failed. At last, he reels

and falls, and the fiery form of A. P. Hill disappears from the scenes

of history forever.

It is remarkable that Lee and Jackson in their last moments on

earth, when they were unconscious of all temporal things, and their

imaginations were roving lawlessly over the gory fields where they had

been such prominent actors, both called for A. P. Hill. It is a high

compliment to the hero’s military genius. But Jackson himself went down

in the thundering cyclone of war, and was seen no more. Alas! such men

as these had to be swept from the path of destiny before the divine

purpose could be accomplished. We mourn for our fallen braves, and yet

we thank God that such scenes as gave them undying fame have ceased,

we hope, forever, in these States now cemented with intermingling

fraternal blood!

One bright morning in April, 1865, the members of Dr. Arrington’s

family were all seated around the breakfast table. Every face wore

a sad, anxious expression. The news of Lee’s surrender, which some

doubted, had been received, but not the particulars of his last battle.

Who had fallen? Mildred looked at the smoking dishes, but could not

eat. Where was Ernest? She had seen him but three or four times since

their marriage, and he had been in all of Lee’s battles. O, could it be

possible that he had been killed in the last fight? The thought made

her shudder.

“Why do you not eat?” asked the Doctor kindly.

“How can I, father?” Mildred answered sadly. “I am heart-sick. This

suspense is awful.”

“Have faith in God,” said the Doctor. “The last time we heard from

Ernest he was well. What reason have you to suppose he is otherwise

now?”

“There has been a battle or two since then, and some are killed in

every fight.”

“Do not anticipate, my child. Never make trouble for yourself. What is

the use of grieving over imaginary calamities?”

“I know, father, that you are right; but it is so hard to be perfectly

resigned to God’s will.”

“You have not ascertained what God’s will is in this instance; but even

should it be that which you dread, I do not deny that it will be hard

to bear. It is natural for us to think that God should let us have our

way in some things at least. But we should never forget that God knows

what is best for us, and He always does the best for us, if we put

ourselves unreservedly in His hands.”

“I know that is true,” replied Mildred. “But, sometimes I am

rebellious. If Ernest does not come back,” she continued in quivering

tones, “it seems to me I can never again be happy in this world.”

“Then be happy!” exclaimed a voice at the door. Mildred instantly

looked up, gave a little scream of joy, sprang from her seat, and

was locked in Ernest’s arms. What a transition! We shall not attempt

to describe it. There are some emotions of the human heart that are

beyond the reach of words. They are too sacred and deep to be expressed

by human language. Every trace of sadness immediately vanished from

Mildred’s face, which was lit up with a holy joy and peace that made

her look radiant. Presently when there was comparative quiet, the

Doctor said:

“Well, has Lee really surrendered?”

“I am sorry to say he has,” replied Ernest. “Here is my discharge from

the service.”

“And you have not been wounded,” asked Mildred, “since you were home

last?”

“I have not received a graze,” he replied.

“Well,” she said with tears springing into her eyes, “let me go to

my room, and return thanks to God, and ask His forgiveness for my

thoughts. I cannot eat till I do.”

As she went out Mrs. Arrington said:

“You have a treasure, Ernest, in that girl, if I do say it myself.”

“I am well aware of that, Madam, and I am indebted to the war for it. I

have learned that God brings good out of evil. I never would have heard

of Mildred, had it not been for the battle of Manassas. I am sorry,

though, our cause is lost.”

“But it is God’s will,” quickly spoke up the Doctor, “and we should be

thankful that it is no worse.”

“I am sure it is bad enough,” replied Ernest. “We have lost our

independence.”

“It may appear to you to be a great calamity,” said the Doctor, “but I

have no doubt it is a blessing in disguise. Two different governments

could not exist in this glorious land of ours. I have never believed

that we would succeed. I was fearful that we were in the wrong. But

it is in vain to discuss such questions now. All is over, and we must

submit. ‘Promotion cometh neither from the East nor the West, but God

setteth up one, and pulleth down another.’”

Mildred now returned to the dining-room, and all partook of the meal

with hearts glowing with gratitude. Do not the angels hover over, and

smile upon, such a social scene?

The next day the family assembled in the parlor to hold a consultation,

at the request of Ernest.

“Well,” said the Doctor, smiling upon the group, “‘the cruel war is

over,’ and we must now all return to the blessed arts of peace. I

suppose you will resume the practice of law,” he continued, turning to

Ernest.

“No, I think not, Doctor,” answered Ernest. “I called this family

meeting in order to lay my plans before you. After my marriage, when

I returned to my command again, I solemnly promised God that if He

would spare my life, I would devote my energies to His service in the

ministry. I am here alive, without having received another wound. Now

do you not think I ought to regard my vows?”

“O, my dear Ernest,” cried Mildred eagerly, “I have prayed God to put

it in your heart to become a minister, and now, it seems, my prayer is

answered.”

“I did not know,” said Ernest, “but that you might have an ambition for

something higher.”

“Higher!” exclaimed Mildred in surprise. “What can be higher?”

“I did not mean ‘higher’ in the sense that you understand,” replied

Ernest, “but the world, you know, regards some other professions as

higher.”

“But the ministry is not a profession,” answered Mildred. “I cannot

imagine what greater honor a human being can enjoy than to be called to

do God’s work.”

“I have now no greater ambition myself than to be an humble minister of

the gospel,” replied Ernest.

“It is well,” said the Doctor, “that you employ the word humble. I am

sorry to say that there are ambitious men in the Church who desire to

acquire great reputation as preachers, and who seek after high places

in the Church. I hope you have no such disposition as that?”

“No, Doctor, if I know my own heart. I desire to be useful.”

“Let us be plain,” continued the Doctor, “that you may not, in the

future, regret the step you have taken. Be sure that you are influenced

by the proper motives. I hope you have not entered into a sort of

contract with the Lord--that is, you do not propose to become a

minister because God has brought you safe out of the war?”

“No, sir; I firmly believe I was called years ago, but I resisted.

I think I would have been a preacher if there had been no war. But

probably the war has caused me to enter it sooner than I might have

done otherwise.”

“You feel, then, that it is your duty to preach?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Then, there is no more to be said about it,” answered the Doctor. “The

sooner you begin the better. I believe I have not asked you under what

ecclesiastical auspices you propose to preach?”

“The Presbyterian, of course,” said Ernest with a smile. “I suppose my

dear Mildred would hardly consent to anything else.”

“O, I am not so prejudiced as all that,” answered Mildred laughing. “If

you felt it your duty to attach yourself to any other orthodox Church,

I should not oppose you. But to tell you the truth, I love my Church to

such an extent that I could never be happy in any other, and I never

could feel the same zeal in another.”

“Mildred is a true blue,” said the Doctor with a laugh, “and I am glad

to think you will find her a useful helpmeet in your work.”

“I expect she will make a better pastor than I,” said Ernest, “for I am

not as social as she is. I fear that this thing of visiting will be the

most troublesome duty I shall have to perform.”

“People will require a great deal of you in that respect,” said the

Doctor. “You will find that most of them wish you to visit them not

on account of their spiritual interests: but it is the social feature

they regard. I have noticed that most Presbyterian ministers are more

reserved in their manners than those of some other denominations. This

is, no doubt, to be attributed to the long course of mental discipline

to which they are subjected. They acquire the habit of solitary study

till the social feature of their nature is considerably impaired. On

this account I have known some ministers to be accused of stiffness,

pride and formality, who were humble, godly men. They really did not

understand the demands of social etiquette. You will have to cultivate

this feature.”

“What is the use of social visiting, Doctor?”

“Whether there is use in it or not, people require it,” replied the

Doctor. “You will find some of them very unreasonable. They will

complain if you do not call every week.”

“How then, shall I ever find time to study?” asked Ernest.

“You must take it. You can not please everybody, try never so hard.”

And for a long time the Doctor gave the young man excellent advice,

which we need not detail, as it would be of no great interest to the

general reader. Besides, we are well aware, that people do not read a

story for the sake of the moral, but for their own entertainment. So

we shall proceed, at once, to relate the most interesting events of

Ernest’s life.

The next month, the Presbytery of ---- met, and received Ernest under

its care. Instead of going to a Seminary, it was allowed him to take

a course of Theological study under the tuition of Dr. Arrington. At

the expiration of a year he stood his examination, and having received

a call from the Presbyterian church in his own town, he was regularly

ordained a minister of the gospel. His trial sermon aroused universal

wonder and admiration. The people had rarely ever witnessed such

oratorical power in the pulpit. Every one predicted for him a brilliant

career of usefulness. No young minister ever entered upon his work with

more flattering prospects.

Ernest was praised and complimented sufficiently to have turned an

older head, but he now possessed too much of the grace of humility

to be affected by human applause. The great object with him was the

approval of the Master and his own conscience. With the settlement of

Ernest in his charge it might seem that our story had reached a point

at which it could properly and happily be brought to an end, but we

have other interesting events yet to relate.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DRUNKARD.

Ernest entered upon his work in two or three weeks after his

ordination. This was the first time he had seen his native town since

he left it in 1861. Things had undergone a great change during the four

years of war. The prosperity of the place was a thing of the past.

Many wealthy families had been reduced to abject beggary. Old Mr.

Vanclure had died in 1862, and his son-in-law had administered upon

his estate. If Comston had been a man of moral habits, he could have

saved a handsome property for his wife, but he was dissipated, and was

passionately addicted to gambling. He had pursued a course during the

war which had brought him into disgrace, having avoided conscription

by hiding in the cane-brakes. When the war came to an end, he found

himself in possession of only three thousand dollars. By judicious

management of even this amount, he might have gained an honorable

livelihood; but he soon lost it all at the gambling table. Finally, he

became a sot.

Poor Clara had to resort to her needle for bread, and she gained only

a precarious, scanty subsistence for herself and her unworthy husband,

who sometimes spent her hard earnings for drink.

Affairs were in this condition when Ernest returned to his native

town to take charge of the church. As soon as he had heard of Clara’s

misfortunes, he called to see her. He met with a cold reception, for

she had become hardened. But by kindness, he soon induced her to talk

freely. Presently she said:

“I know you think I made a great blunder.”

“How?” asked Ernest timidly, suspecting what she was going to say.

“In my marriage,” she answered with decided emphasis. “You know that I

rejected you. Are you not glad to see me humbled?”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Ernest energetically. “I sympathize with you.

The good Lord knows I am sorry for you.”

“They tell me you are a preacher now?”

“It is true, I am glad to say.”

“O,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I wish Xerxes were a preacher--yes,

anything than what he is. I reckon you’ve heard all about him.”

“I have heard some things,” replied Ernest.

“He has got to be a regular drunkard,” she said, “and I am tired of

him. He treats me cruelly. I think he once loved me, and I could have

lived happily with him, but he got to drinking, and that has proved his

ruin. He is not the same man.”

“I am truly sorry for you,” replied Ernest. “But you are not without

hope.”

“Where is there any hope for me?” she cried. “I never expect to be

happy again.”

“You can be, if you will,” said Ernest solemnly, as he looked pityingly

at the sad woman.

“How can I? I should like to know.”

“There is a happiness,” answered Ernest, “far superior to any this

world affords.”

“Where is it?” she cried.

“In Christ Jesus.”

“Yes, I expected you to say that, or something like it. But how could I

be a Christian, miserable and wretched as I am?”

“The Lord never turns away any who come to Him,” replied Ernest.

“But I’m not ready for that yet,” she said with candor. “I want to

enjoy the world for a while. I think I deserve it. If I had not

married, I might have been happy, but it is impossible now, with such a

husband as mine.”

At this moment, Comston came from town, and staggered into the room.

Clara blushed with shame and vexation, but recovering herself, looked

at him without uttering a word.

“Why, how d’ye do, Edgefield,” he exclaimed in a boisterous tone,

and with the drunkard’s slow stammering and stuttering. “It’s the

first--first time--I’ve met ye--since you--you--er got back from

the--er wars. How you make it--er now, ole feller, eh?”

“O, I am in good health,” said Ernest, dryly.

“Well, I’m--er truly glad to give you--er--er the right hand--er of--er

welcome. Would you--er ’a known this ’er--er little ’oman--er of mine,

at--er first sight, eh? She used ter--er--er be right down--er good

lookin’--but--er the last year--er she’s--er begun--ter break--er

little--yes--er you see, eh? Arn’t it so, Clarer, eh? You see--er the

cruel war--er broke us up, like it did--er everybody else--er.”

“Yes,” said Ernest, more to relieve Clara of embarrassment than to

keep up a conversation with a foolish inebriate, “the war proved

disastrous to most of our people.”

“Indeed--er did it. I lost heavily--er--by it--myself--ruined--dead

broke--er--brought down--er to--er abject pov--er--er--tee--er, as

the--saying is--er. Cruel--thing--it was. I--er didn’t have--er--much

to do--er--with it--you see--er,--eh? I was--er long-headed--I saw how

the--er--thing--was agoin’, an’--er--I tried ter--save my scalp--eh?

I told Clarer--there was’nt--any use--er--of my--goin’. She was a

great--er--patriarch--you know--er-wanted--er ter eat Yankees--up--er.

But--er I don’t--love that--er sort of--er flesh. It is--not--er--half

as good--er--as fish. I went--a--fishin’--most of the time, and--er--we

had a--jolly time--er--we did. It was--better--than shootin’

yer--feller--man in--er cold--blood. The Yankees--had--never done

me--any harm,--an’ I could’nt make--up my mind ter--murder ’em--’thout

provocation--you see, eh? But I hear--you’ve got to be--a preacher, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Ernest in a manner which convinced Clara that the

passing scene was painful to his feelings. She could easily perceive

that he was enduring her maudlin husband for her sake.

“Well--er,” continued Comston, “it’s a--nice--er profession--,

not--much--er money in it--though--eh? Like the ole Injun said--poor

preach--poor pay--er. I don’t--er mean that for you--though--er.

You--used ter be--er--a good law--yer, and--if--er you preach--as well

as you--talk--I don’t see--why--er you shouldn’t succeed--er. I’m

a-comin’ ’round to--er hear you preach--er--some Sunday--if you don’t

object--eh?”

“I should be glad to have you as one of my audience,” replied Ernest.

“We’ll make two--er--of iz audience, won’t we, Clarer, eh?”

She made no reply, but endeavored to appear as though she had not heard

him.

“Now, come, Clarer--don’t try to put on--airs--before the preacher--er.

I ain’t jealous--a--bit--er. No, for I know--you prefer me--ter all

the--er men on earth, don’t you--er, dear, eh? What--won’t you--speak

to me? Never mind, Parson, when you go--er she’ll be pleasant enough.

Some--times she gets--into one of her--er--contantnums before--er

company--and there’s no doin’ anything with her--have ter let ’er

alone till she--sobers up--er.”

“I must be going,” suddenly said Ernest, rising. “I have some other

calls to make.”

“Thank you for your visit,” said Clara. “Call again if you can.”

“Yes--er--come again, Parson,--if I arn’t at home--Clarer will--er

entertain you.”

Clara left the parlor, as Ernest did, and Comston fell asleep upon

a sofa. When he awoke, he had partly emerged from his state of

intoxication. Arising, and going into Clara’s room, he said:

“Had a nice time with the preacher, dear? I think, though, you might

have treated me with a little more respect. You wouldn’t speak to me.

What is the matter?”

“You have made a fool of yourself,” cried Clara, in anger and vexation.

“I have told you I wanted you to keep away from me when you are drunk.

You make a brute of yourself.”

“Why, I thought I was entertaining the minister very nicely. You

wouldn’t talk to him, and it wouldn’t do for all of us to sit still

like Quakers, would it?”

“You made a complete fool of yourself,” she said with face flashing

with anger. “I am getting so I hate you--yes, I hate you.”

“Now don’t provoke me, dear. You know I can’t control my savage temper

when I’m aroused. Don’t you remember how you provoked me the other day

till I was about to strike you?”

“Yes, sir, I remember your brutality, and I tell you now I am not going

to stand it much longer, either.”

“What will you do?” asked Comston.

“I am not going to live with a man who is such a coward as to strike

a defenceless woman. Here you are bragging about it, as if you had

performed some wonderful deed. If you ever attempt to strike me again,

I will leave you--yes, I will apply for a divorce.”

“O, no, you wouldn’t do that, dear? Who would provide for you?”

“Who provides for me now? I should like to know. If I did not support

myself, I should starve. You know that.”

“O, no, you wouldn’t starve, dear. You’ve never starved yet, have you?

Do you ’spose Xerxes Comston would let you starve? Nobody can say that

of my wife. But, come, Clara, let’s be friends. I haven’t drunk much

to-day, and I’m going to quit the business entirely--you hear that?”

“Yes; I have heard it five hundred times. I have lost all confidence in

you. I expect nothing but to see you go down to a drunkard’s grave.”

“You want me to die? O, ho! ho! that’s it, is it? Well I am not

going to fill any drunkard’s grave. From now on, I’m going to be a

better man. We’ll go to hear that preacher preach; it will do us both

good--make Christians out of us, I hope. Won’t you go?”

“I do not think,” said Clara with a sneer, “that you will ever be sober

enough to go.”

“Yes, I will, though. You see if I don’t.”

We have lengthened this domestic scene sufficiently to enable the

reader to understand the relations between this unhappy husband and

wife; and to prepare his mind for a better comprehension of events that

are soon to be related.

The next evening Ernest met Comston on the street. Comston was sober,

from the fact that he had no money to buy the fiery beverage for which

he was now thirsting.

“Mr. Edgefield,” said Comston, who had a dim consciousness that he had

used improper language on the previous evening, “I want to offer you

an apology for my conduct yesterday. I hope you are not offended.”

“No apology is necessary,” replied Ernest. “I am sorry that you have

formed such awful, ruinous habits.”

“You are not as sorry as I am,” said Comston, speaking with emphasis.

“Why do you not leave off your terrible habits, then?” said Ernest.

“I’ve tried again and again,” said Comston, bursting into tears, “but

it seems,” he continued, half sobbing, “that I cannot. O, you have no

idea what a consuming thirst torments me. I must have brandy, or I will

die.”

“No, you would not die,” answered Ernest, “if you had the will to

resist. But that, I doubt not, is gone. And now you can never quit so

long as you rely on yourself.”

“On whom must I rely?” asked Comston.

“Christ,” said Ernest solemnly. “Nothing, I fear, will ever enable you

to quit your evil ways, but the grace of God.”

“How am I to get the grace of God?”

“Only by faithful prayer.”

“Do you think I could quit in that way?”

“Yes,” answered Ernest.

“Well, I’d give worlds to be as I once was. I am ashamed of myself. But

if I am left to myself, I never can reform. Will you help me?”

“Will you put yourself in my hands?” asked Ernest. “Will you do as I

tell you? If you will, you can reform.”

“But I know what you’ll tell me,” cried Comston. “You’ll say, never

touch another drop. I can’t quit suddenly. You make no allowance for my

appetite.”

“Yes, I do,” replied Ernest. “I will give you a substitute for strong

drink.”

“All right,” said Comston. “I will do it.”

“Very well,” said Ernest. “Now you must promise me to keep away from

the saloons.”

“I’ll do it.”

“To prove your sincerity, turn around like a man, and go home.”

“When will you give me that substitute?” asked Comston, hesitating.

“Go home,” said Ernest, “and remain till I come with it.”

Comston, without another word, at once went home sober, to the surprise

of his wife. He remained till his burning appetite destroyed his

self-control. He could stand it no longer. Snatching up his hat he

rushed off toward town. Drink he must have. As he was turning a corner,

he stood face to face with Ernest.

“Do not go there, Comston,” he said. “Is this the way you obey me? You

promised to put yourself in my hands.”

“But you said,” exclaimed Comston, “that you would give me a

substitute, and you didn’t do it. I stayed as long as I could. Why

didn’t you come, and help me, as you promised?”

“I desired to measure your will-power,” replied Ernest. “I wanted to

test your manhood. I told you I would come. Why could you not believe

me?”

“I was afraid you would put it off too long,” replied Comston. “I am

dying.”

“Let us go back,” said Ernest.

“But where is the substitute?”

“I have it. Come on,” commanded Ernest.

“Let us hurry,” said Comston.

It was now dark, and they both hurried along to Comston’s residence.

As soon as they had entered the drunkard’s bed-room, Ernest drew from

his pocket a vial, and poured out some of the mixture into a glass of

water, which Comston eagerly drank. Ernest gave him two more glasses,

and then the inebriate seemed satisfied. In an hour Ernest left him in

a profound sleep, which he knew would last till morning.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XIX.

THE CRIME.

When a man acquires the habit of indulging in strong drink, it

requires a will of iron to break it. Few men have the physical and

moral fortitude to offer the necessary resistance. The intense,

consuming thirst paralyzes the mental energies. The wretched victim

will risk life itself to gratify his raging appetite. Poor Comston

had not descended to such a depth of moral degradation that he had no

disposition to free himself from the shackles of his terrible foe. In

his sober moments he most earnestly wished that he could free himself

from the vicious demon which clung to him with the tenacity of Sinbad’s

Old Man of the Sea. But the saloon was like a load-stone--a cynosure

which drew Comston with an attraction that he had not the moral nerve

to resist. When the appetite was upon him, it seemed impossible to pass

the open door. The fragrance of the wines, issuing from the interior

of the dram-shop, acted upon his senses with all the force of the law

of gravitation, and he went in almost in the same way that a stone

falls to the earth when it is thrown up into the air.

Comston woke up early the next morning from the stupor into which

Ernest’s substitute had thrown him. He felt that he was burning up.

His terrible appetite made him forget, or ignore his promises to the

preacher. What cared he for reformation, when he believed himself

dying--dying for the want of brandy. In spite of the entreaties of his

wife, he put on his hat, to go to town.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“O, just to town a little while--that’s all.”

“But you promised Mr. Edgefield that you would not go. Come back.”

“I’ll be back in a few moments.”

And off he rushed, determined to have a dram if he should have to sell

his very clothing. While he is walking along rapidly, let us secretly

and silently enter the saloon to which he is hastening. We see two men

in the room, and they are engaged in a bitter quarrel. Presently the

man, who is partially under the influence of ardent spirits, springs

toward the saloon-keeper, exclaiming:

“I’m not going to stand this any longer. You’ve got all my money, and I

must have another drink, and I’ll have it, or I’ll kill you.”

A brief scuffle ensues, which, however, lasts only half a minute. The

man falls, crying:

“You’ve killed me. I wish to God there was a witness--but it’s too

late. I’m a dead man, curse you.”

Then he fell heavily to the floor.

“You brought it on yourself,” said the saloon-keeper. “You forced me to

kill you.”

At this moment Comston hastily entered the saloon, and without looking

around, cried:

“For God’s sake give me a drink! I haven’t a cent. Take my

clothes--anything--I’ll die if I can’t get a dram.”

An idea seemed to strike the saloon-keeper, whose agitation Comston had

not observed, for he said:

“Well, here, drink.”

“Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Comston, clutching the glass, and

draining it to the very dregs.

In a few moments the saloon-keeper said:

“Comston, I’ll give you another drink if you’ll drag that drunken

feller out there under the trees. He fell down, and cut himself on the

corner of that bench, and is bleeding considerably.”

“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Comston, upon whom the brandy was beginning

to have some effect. He stooped down to lift up the fallen man, but

glancing at the ghastly face, he exclaimed:

“Why, Good Gracious! he’s dead, arn’t he?”

“O, no--dead drunk--that’s all.”

“Well, may be he is,” said Comston, who was more anxious about the

anticipated dram than the fate of a fellow-being. “I’ll take him out

anyhow.”

Seizing the dead man in his arms, he dragged him out of the door, and

while so doing, his own clothing was plentifully besmeared with blood.

As he reached the trees, two men passed by, one of whom said:

“Hello, Comston! what are you doin’? Been fightin’, have you?”

“Not much,” replied Comston, who wanted it thought that he was a man of

pugnacious tendencies. “He gave me some of his impudence, and I slapped

him over.”

This brief specimen of Comston’s braggadocio appeared to delight the

saloon keeper.

Comston left his human burden under a tree, and hurried back into the

saloon.

“Give me the drink you promised!” he said.

“Yes, here it is, and it is a good one,” said the cunning

saloon-keeper. “Take it, for you’ve earned it,” he continued, laughing.

“He was heavy, warn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.”

Comston took the glass brimful of strong brandy, tossed it off as

though it had been cool water, went out, and seated himself under one

of the shade trees only a few paces from the dead man.

It was no unusual thing to see men lying under the trees in front of

the saloon. Accordingly several hours passed away before the corpse

attracted any special attention. Comston, in half an hour was so much

intoxicated, that he fell from the bench, and lay upon the ground in a

state of utter unconsciousness. The crowd, accustomed to assemble there

every day, gathered in, and among them the two who had seen Comston

dragging the body out of the house. One of these, who had spoken first,

looking at the corpse closely, exclaimed to the saloon-keeper:

“Look here, Blicker, I do believe Jones is dead! I’ll feel his pulse.”

“I reckon not,” replied Blicker, with perfect _nonchalance_. “Him and

Comston got into a scuffle about three hours ago, and Comston snatched

up my knife which was on the counter, and made a slash at Jones, and I

took the knife away from him. Comston knocked him down, and I thought

Jones was too drunk to get up. I saw that Jones was bleeding, and I

ordered Comston to take him out, as I didn’t want blood on my floor.

Comston, as you saw, dragged him out, but I didn’t ’spose he was hurt

much.”

“As shore as shootin’”, cried the man, “he’s dead! He hasn’t a bit of

pulse.”

“Go for a Doctor,” said Blicker.

“I’ll step over to Dr. Warner’s office,” said the man. “I see him

riding up now.”

It was not more than five minutes before Dr. Warner was on the spot. A

very brief examination proved that Jones was dead. He had been stabbed

to the heart.

“Who did it?” asked the Doctor.

“That feller, I reckon,” pointing to the prostrate form of Comston,

spoke up the man who gave the version of the affair, which, in

connection with that of the saloon-keeper, made it evident that Comston

was the criminal.

It was several hours before Comston was sufficiently sober to

comprehend that he was accused of a most awful crime. When he awoke

from his drunken sleep, the constable was near by, who had a warrant

for his arrest.

“Come,” said he to Comston, “you’re my prisoner. Come on to jail.”

“To jail!” cried Comston. “You’re joking! What have I done to go to

jail for?”

“O, you pretend not to know, do you? Well, probably you was so drunk

that you didn’t know what you was a doin’. Don’t you know that you

killed Jones this morning?”

“No, I don’t,” exclaimed Comston in the utmost alarm, now looking at

his bloody clothes, and recalling the events of the morning. Soon his

mind was clear.

“I dragged Jones out under the tree for a drink of brandy,” said

Comston. “I can prove that by Blicker himself.”

“Didn’t you tell Bill Dodds, while you were dragging him, that you had

a fight with him, and slapped him over?” asked one.

“O, I said that in fun,” exclaimed Comston. “I only thought Jones was

drunk.”

“You’ll find it dear sort of fun,” said one.

“Say, Blicker,” cried Comston, now thoroughly aroused to the fearful

realities of his situation, “didn’t you give me a drink to drag Jones

out of your house this very morning--didn’t you?”

“Why, no, Comston,” answered Blicker coolly, “I don’t keep brandy to

give away. You’ve forgot all about the fight you had with Jones this

morning.”

“It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” frantically cried Comston. “I never even had

any quarrel with Jones. He was a good friend, and I never thought of

fighting with him.”

“Poor feller!” said Blicker, with affected pity, “you was so drunk you

can’t remember that you made a slash at Jones with my knife that was on

the counter.”

“O, Blicker, Blicker!” exclaimed Comston, “how can you stand there and

tell such an infamous lie? You know you gave me two drinks--one free,

and the other to drag Jones out.”

“Whether he did or not,” interposed the constable, “you’re in for it

now. I am compelled to take you to jail. When your trial comes off, you

can have a chance to prove your innocence.”

“I’m not going to jail!” cried Comston wildly. “I’ve done nothing to

go there for. What do you want to put an innocent man in prison for? I

should like to know.”

“Get up, and come along,” cried the constable sternly, “or I’ll

hand-cuff you.”

“O, my God!” exclaimed Comston, now completely sobered. “Turn me loose,

Dick Bonds. You know I didn’t do it.”

“Come along, I say!” cried the constable.

“Please let me speak to Blicker,” entreated the terror-stricken man,

turning to the saloon-keeper. “O, Blicker, you’re a gentleman. Wow

don’t let me go to jail.”

“How can I prevent it?” asked Blicker.

“Why, you know very well that I didn’t so much as strike Jones, if

you’d only say so. Now come, be honest, Blicker.”

“Will you go,” asked the constable, producing a pair of hand-cuffs,

“without these?”

“O, yes, I’ll go,” said Comston in anguish. “Surely Blicker will tell

the truth when he is put on his oath.”

And Comston was locked up in the jail.

CHAPTER XX.

THE PRISON.

Immediately after the arrest and imprisonment of Comston, Ernest

called to see Clara in order to give such comfort as the circumstances

would allow. He did not find her in tears, as he had expected. On

the contrary, her face, though sad, wore a hard, stony expression.

She acted as those unfortunate wives, who have lost their affection

for their husbands, and who are looking forward to be released by

the divorce of nature. The drunkard’s wife can be freed only by the

premature death of her husband. She may not desire such a termination

to her continual troubles, but she lives in constant expectation of

such an end, and when it does come, she is not greatly surprised, for

it is nothing more than she has anticipated. Clara was just in this

condition. She had once loved Xerxes Comston as much as it was in her

nature to love any one. But this affection had been eradicated by his

brutal conduct and disgusting habits.

“I do assure you,” said Ernest, “I sympathize with you in your trials.

Such misfortunes look dark to us, but God is good and kind, and we must

be resigned to His holy will. All is for the best.”

“You think, then,” cried Clara, “it is best that Mr. Comston should

kill Mr. Jones, and be hanged for it, do you?”

“We must not jump to conclusions,” mildly answered Ernest. “No trial

has taken place, and we surely ought not to judge of the divine

purposes before they are developed. Even after they are accomplished,

we may not understand them. I have no doubt, that in every instance,

God brings good out of evil.”

“Do you believe,” asked Clara, “that God has anything to do with this

horrible affair?” And she looked at him almost savagely.

“Certainly,” replied Ernest gently, “I believe that God has something

to do with every event.”

“Do you think,” exclaimed Clara, “that God made my husband a drunkard?”

“No, certainly not,” answered Ernest. “He made himself a an--inebriate.

He is a free-agent, and the Lord permitted him to exercise his powers.

God is not the author of men’s sins. He does not force them to sin. But

if Mr. Comston killed Mr. Jones, which I do not think has been proved

yet, you may rest assured that the Lord will bring good out of it in

some way, and make it redound to His glory.”

“I don’t see how that can be,” said Clara.

“You may never see it in this world,” replied Ernest, “and you may live

to see the day, when you will feel thankful for this very misfortune,

as you now regard it.”

“Look here,” suddenly exclaimed Clara, “if that day ever comes when I

shall feel that I ought to be thankful, I promise to join your church,

and try to be a Christian.”

“Why not try to be a Christian anyhow?” asked Ernest. “You must not try

to make a bargain and contract with God.”

“How is that?” said Clara.

“Why, you say in your heart, if God will give me certain things,

grant certain desires, I will be a Christian. The Lord will accept no

such service as that. You must make a full surrender of yourself to

Christ--unconditional and forever. Determine to serve Him whether your

wishes are granted or not. Trust Him, though He slay you.”

“O,” said Clara, “I cannot be a Christian. I have suffered too much.”

“So much the more reason why you should be a Christian,” answered

Ernest. “You have seen the folly of this world’s pursuits. Now seek

that happiness which the world can neither give nor take away.”

“I don’t know how to begin, even if I had the disposition,” replied

Clara sulkily. “I once was happy. I enjoyed myself, and never thought

of religion. If God is so good and so kind, as you say, why does He not

give me that sort of happiness--the sort that I really crave?”

“How long would it last?” asked Ernest. “Only a few years. The time

will come when you can no longer enjoy these pleasures of sense. You

will lose the ardor of youth. Age will steal upon you, and you will

lose all relish for temporal things. You will then feel the need of

something more substantial. Why not begin now to lay up treasures in

heaven?”

“Shall I feel more happy, if I do?” asked this spiritually ignorant,

thoroughly worldly-minded woman. “Will God care for me, and supply my

wants?”

“Undoubtedly, if you devote yourself to His service from the proper

motives?”

“What is the proper motive?”

“Why,” answered Ernest, “you must serve the Master, not with the object

of receiving earthly good, but with the view of making your calling and

election sure.”

“I don’t know what to do,” replied Clara, thoughtfully and seriously.

“Give yourself, at once, to Christ, pray for the enlightening

influences of the Holy Spirit, and God will bless you.”

“How can I do all this?” suddenly and impatiently cried Clara, “when

I am suffering for the----.” She paused, and appeared to be greatly

embarrassed.

“Nothing, though,” she added.

“Mrs. Comston,” said Ernest compassionately, “God knows I would be a

friend and brother to you. I want your soul saved. Confide in me. Are

you afraid to trust me, and acquaint me with your troubles, whatever

they maybe?”

“No, I’m not afraid to trust you,” she answered, with tears springing

into her eyes, “but I’m proud. I’m ashamed to tell anyone.” She could

say no more for several moments, and Ernest waited till she became

more tranquil.

“You seem to be the only friend I have in the world,” she continued

presently. “I once had plenty of friends, but when misfortunes overtook

me, they deserted me, and I have met with nothing but rebukes and

insults. I have got so I hate people. I didn’t know the world was so

full of mean wretches. People used to envy me, because I had money, but

they seemed to me to rejoice when I was brought down to poverty and

social degradation. If I wished to be good, I don’t see how I could.”

“Tell me your troubles,” urged Ernest kindly, “and, perhaps, I can be

of service.”

“It is humiliating to confess,” she said, turning her blushing face,

“but the truth is, I can get no work to do. I have had nothing to eat

since yesterday. It seems that I must starve, and that, too, when I am

willing to labor. But don’t misconstrue my motives. I’m no beggar. I’m

not appealing to you for relief, and I don’t want you to mention what I

have told you. I tell it to you to show you how difficult it would be

for me to be good, when I hate people for my misfortunes.”

Ernest expressed no surprise at this distressing information, but he

said no more on the subject of religion, well knowing that hunger is

not very compatible with spirituality.

“The world is not so bad as you think it,” he replied. “You do your

neighbors injustice by concealing your condition.”

“Don’t,” cried Clara, starting up, “don’t tell them for the world. I

despise to be regarded as an object of pity.”

“Trust me,” rising to leave. “I shall not betray your confidence.”

In a little while after his departure, a cart drove up to Clara’s door,

and the driver unloaded sufficient provisions to last for several

weeks. Poor Clara was overwhelmed by this expression of kindness, and

she went to her room, and “wept bitterly.” Several lady members of

Ernest’s church called the next evening with offers of employment. They

acted and talked in such a manner that she was satisfied they were not

acquainted with her true condition. In her heart she thanked Ernest for

the delicacy with which he had come to her relief. The ladies spoke

words of sympathy. All this had a tendency to open the woman’s darkened

heart to spiritual influences.

Ernest waited two days before he called at the prison to see Comston.

Not being able to procure strong drink, the prisoner was perfectly

sober. The poor fellow was humbled and subdued by the misfortunes which

darkened his pathway.

“How are you to-day?” asked Ernest kindly.

“I’ve been in torment,” he replied. “I want brandy, and it seems I’ll

die, if I can’t get it. Give me some.”

“Comston,” said Ernest gently, but firmly, “now is your time to break

off your evil habit. If you do not, you are ruined.”

“I’m already ruined,” groaned the wretched victim. “But I never thought

that I would be accused of murder. God in heaven knows that I never

killed poor Jones. I’m as innocent of that as you are. Blicker told

an infamous lie. I believe he did it himself, and is using me as a

scape-goat.”

“But circumstances,” remarked Ernest, “seem to be against you at

present. However, I have not come to talk about that. I want to save

your soul.”

“Why,” cried Comston, in visible alarm, “you can’t believe I’ll be put

to death, do you? It would be an everlasting disgrace to--to--hang an

innocent man.”

“But you will have to die sometime, Comston--sooner or later, and I do

not want your soul lost. I have come to pray with you, and for you.

Will you join me?”

“O, yes, if you think it will do any good.”

Ernest read suitable portions of Scripture, and prayed for the unhappy

man, whose feelings were at last deeply moved.

Comston, the next day, stood his trial in the Magistrate’s court,

and without entering into the details, which would be of no special

interest to the reader, it is sufficient to state that he was bound

over to the Circuit Court, which would convene at the expiration of

five months. As this was no bailable case, Comston had to be confined

in jail.

Frequently our greatest misfortunes are blessings in disguise, as the

Sacred Scriptures abundantly demonstrate. Comston’s incarceration,

was at least a spiritual blessing to him. He could not procure ardent

spirits, and the consequence was, that, in a few weeks, his physical

constitution began to recuperate, and he at last mastered his terrible

appetite. But this was not all. Ernest visited him nearly every day,

prayed with him, instructed him, till finally the poor fellow had

reason to rejoice in a brighter hope than had ever thrilled his heart

before. There could be no doubt about his complete reformation. This,

in connection with Comston’s emphatic assertion of his innocence, had a

tendency to arouse public sympathy in his favor. No one believed that

he was a murderer _at heart_, even if he had taken Jones’ life. The

theory was, that it was done in a drunken quarrel, without there being

any intention to kill.

But all this was not the full extent of the blessing. The husband and

wife were also reconciled. Clara, who, too, had found that “peace

which passeth all understanding,” visited him in the jail--indeed,

spent the most of her time there. Xerxes “was himself again,” and her

buried affection for him revived. So notwithstanding the unfavorable

circumstances which surrounded them, they were comparatively happy.

They were not without hope.

Ernest, in these hours of trial, proved a brother. He attended to

Comston’s outside affairs, and, among other things, secured the

services of a good lawyer.

The five months had nearly passed away, and only a few days remained

before the trial would occur. Now, let us visit the jail for the last

time. Only Clara, Comston and Ernest were present.

“O,” said Comston earnestly, “if I could only get out of this

difficulty, what a different man I’d be! what a different life I’d

lead! I’ve lost the taste for brandy, and now take a solemn oath that

not another drop of the vile stuff shall ever go down my throat. O, Mr.

Edgefield, pray God to get me out of this trouble, and I promise to be

a true Christian as long as I live.”

“Now, Mrs. Comston,” said Ernest pleasantly, “you have heard his vow,

do you think he would keep it?”

“If he wouldn’t,” she said emphatically, “he would be the meanest

ingrate that ever lived on earth.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “I believe he will perform his vows. I shall not

see you any more before the trial. Let us pray together once more for

God’s assistance.”

When they arose from their knees, Clara seemed more cheerful and said:

“Somehow I feel hopeful.”

“So do I,” said Ernest, so emphatically that both looked at him in

surprise.

“But upon what can you base a hope?” asked Clara, gazing searchingly

into his face.

“Have faith in God,” replied Ernest. “He can raise up friends for us.”

“But we want _witnesses_,” said Clara.

“God can raise up _unexpected_ witnesses,” replied Ernest mysteriously.

“But good-by.”

And he left in haste.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XXI.

THE TRIAL.

At last, the Circuit Court met. Three or four days were consumed with

other business, and the case of the State against Xerxes Comston was

called.

“Are you ready for trial?” asked the Judge.

“Ready,” replied the Prosecutor.

“Ready,” promptly answered the Counsel for the defence, to the surprise

of every one. For obvious reasons, it is generally the practice to

postpone murder cases as long as possible.

“Proceed then,” said His Honor.

The impanelling of the Jury was the first step to be taken. This was

quickly done, too, for, to general surprise, Mr. Greenlee, who had

undertaken to defend Comston, offered no objection to any juror, if

he only had a fair measure of common sense. He did not, evidently,

care for the character of the jury, and did not appear to manifest

the least uneasiness or anxiety. He was calm and collected, as

though he had no fears as to the final result. People looked at him

in astonishment, but the lawyer paid no attention to their amazement.

Blicker cast suspicious glances at him. Clara was sitting in the bar

near her husband, seemingly in deep distress. But when she occasionally

looked at Greenlee’s calm face, her hope revived. Ernest was also

present, and did not seem to be anxious. Greenlee, instead of trying

to retard the progress of the case, manifested a willingness to hasten

it forward. His whole manner was surprising to the District Attorney,

who was under the impression that a verdict of condemnation must be the

inevitable result.

At length, the indictment was read, and then followed the examination

of witnesses. The first was Blicker, who stated the circumstances that

were favorable to his own case, with which the reader is acquainted.

The two men were then introduced who had seen Comston dragging the dead

man under the trees. They also stated the language which the criminal

had employed. This united testimony appeared to be conclusive. The

spectators, who were generally in sympathy with the accused, looked

solemn. All had hoped that the trial itself would develop something

that would be favorable to Comston. No one wanted him punished. But how

could he escape in the face of such overwhelming evidence?

A long-drawn sigh was heard at Comston’s side. It came from Clara, who

seemed suddenly to give way to despair. Again, she turned her head, and

looked at Ernest. Could she be mistaken? Was there not a perceptible

smile upon his face? She then glanced at Greenlee. His countenance wore

the same serene, imperturbable expression. There was a short pause in

the proceedings when the Prosecutor said:

“We have no more witnesses. I do not know,” he continued with an air of

triumph, “why Mr. Greenlee foregoes his privilege of cross-examining

the witnesses for the State. He can do so yet, if he wishes. I would

prefer that he should do it.”

“Their testimony,” replied Greenlee, “can go to the jury for what it is

worth.”

“Do you mean to insinuate that it is worth nothing?” asked the District

Attorney.

“Has the counsel for the defense,” interrupted His Honor, “no

witnesses?”

Every one expected to hear a sorrowful “no.” But what was the universal

astonishment and joy, when Greenlee quietly replied:

“We have one.”

Then mouths and eyes were opened with curiosity. The spectators seemed

to hold their breath lest they should lose the name of the unexpected

witness, or as if the only chance for Comston had wings, and might be

frightened away by heavy respiration. Comston and Clara looked up,

leaned forward, and subjected Greenlee’s tranquil face to a quick,

close search.

“Call your witness,” said the Court.

“Let Rev. Mr. Edgefield be sworn,” said Greenlee mildly and quietly.

Ernest rose from his chair, and deliberately stepped to the Clerk’s

desk, where he was sworn, and then placed himself in the witness’ seat.

It was one of those strange, unexpected scenes, which sometimes occur

in gloomy court-rooms, and which change the entire aspect of the case.

Clara now understood that smile on the preacher’s face. Ernest knew

all about it, she thought. And who, but God, had sent him? She was

awe-struck by the thought, and felt as one who had just witnessed, or

rather was about to witness, a miracle. Comston had similar feelings.

Both could have cast themselves upon the floor, and kissed the witness’

feet. What a friend he was! How good, and kind, and merciful was God,

in raising up such a noble witness at the moment when it seemed that

hope was about to wing a returnless flight! How both their hearts

were melted to tenderness toward their Creator! for it was the firm

conviction of both that God had sent His own messenger to see justice

done. Ernest had not spoken a word, but they felt that his testimony,

whatever it was, would be conclusive.

“Tell what you know about this case,” said Mr. Greenlee.

Ernest spoke in a firm, emphatic tone, that carried conviction to every

heart:

“On the morning of the ---- day, of ----, I rose earlier than usual.

The day before I had remained with Comston, and kept him away from the

saloon. He had promised to reform. But, I confess, I had little hope of

any reformation, if he was left alone, and I determined to watch him

another day; and this accounts for my early rising on that particular

morning. I started toward the saloon, and when I had nearly reached

there, I saw Comston coming out of his gate. I then concealed myself

in the rear of the saloon, waiting for Comston to come, intending to

persuade him to return home. When I had hidden myself, I heard two

men quarreling inside, both of whose voices I instantly recognized.

Presently, I heard Jones exclaim:

“‘I won’t stand it any longer.’

“Then I heard a rush over the floor. There was a scuffle for only a few

seconds, and I heard Jones cry out:

“‘You have stabbed me--, you have killed me!’

“He employed some other words which I did not hear distinctly. Then I

heard a body fall heavily to the floor, and all was still. A moment

afterwards, I heard Comston enter the room, and beg for a drink,

stating that he had no money. I heard the rattling of glasses; then

there was silence. In a short time I heard Blicker say:

“‘I will give you another drink, if you will drag that drunken man

under the tree.’

“‘I will do it’, said Comston. He seemed to be lifting the man, and I

heard him exclaim:

“‘Jones is dead, ain’t he?’

“‘No,’ replied Blicker, ‘He is dead drunk; he fell on the bench, and

cut himself, and he is bleeding.’

“I then heard a sound as of one man dragging another over the floor. At

this moment I heard footsteps approaching and I left.”

“That is the God’s truth!” cried Comston in a voice trembling with

emotion.

“Silence!” cried the Sheriff.

Clara could scarcely restrain her deeply agitated feelings. How

she wanted to fall on her knees, and thank Ernest for this strange

interference. The District Attorney was astounded. Blicker, as pale as

death, had started out of the room at a rapid pace.

“Sheriff!” exclaimed the Judge, “arrest Mr. Blicker, if you please.”

“I am not running,” said Blicker, who suddenly seemed to recollect that

flight was an evidence of guilt. “I was only changing my seat. That

preacher has made up that lie.”

“How came you never to have said anything about this before?” said the

District Attorney angrily, turning to Ernest, “Why did you not give

in this testimony in the committing court, and save the expense and

trouble of this trial?”

“I had a very good reason for it,” said Ernest, “I was anxious for

the reformation of Mr. Comston, and I believed that nothing but

imprisonment for several months would ever cure him of his evil habits.

Surely, the salvation of a human soul is worth the few dollars that it

may cost the county.”

“You have pursued a very strange course, it seems to me,” said the

District Attorney. “Suppose you had taken sick and died before the

trial came off, you would have left your friend in a sad predicament.”

“Not at all, sir,” replied Ernest. “I made provision for contingencies

of that sort. You may ask Mr. Greenlee.”

“I will state,” said Mr. Greenlee, “that a few days after this killing,

Mr. Edgefield made his deposition to the facts he has just stated, and

signed it in the presence of two witnesses. However, that is perfectly

irrelevant. We have no use whatever for the deposition.”

“Will your Honor permit such a proceeding as this?” asked the District

Attorney.

“Certainly,” answered the Court, “Mr. Edgefield was never summoned as a

witness in the committing court.”

“But still,” said the District Attorney, “ought he not to have appeared

anyhow?”

“Mr. Edgefield,” said the Court, “has given his reason for not doing

so. The jury can take his testimony for what it is worth.”

The jury, at once, retired, but they returned in about ten minutes, and

moved slowly up to the Judge’s stand.

“Are you agreed, gentlemen?” said the Court.

“We are,” replied the foreman. The Clerk then took a paper from the

hands of the foreman, and read the following in substance:

“We, the jury in the case of the State against Xerxes Comston, find

that the defendant is not guilty.”

Immediately there was a great shout which shook the building.

“Silence! silence!” cried the Sheriff; but he might as well have spoken

to a cyclone. Nothing could be heard but shouts of gladness, thus

showing what a deep interest the public had felt in this trial. Comston

rose from his seat and tottered toward Ernest, around whose neck he

threw his arms, and wept like a child.

Clara exclaimed aloud:

“Praised be God! I shall serve Him the remainder of my days.”

There were few dry eyes in the room. It resembled some of the scenes

of an old-fashioned camp-meeting. The crowd looked at Ernest with a

species of awe. They could not have felt more reverence if Abraham

himself had come back from the dead and testified in the case.

Comston and his wife immediately left the court-room amid the plaudits

of the crowd that the terror of the law could not control.

Within two days, Comston had obtained a position as clerk in a store,

and soon began to prosper.

The next time that Ernest called, both gave him such a joyful and

grateful greeting that he felt compensated for all the trouble and

inconvenience to which he had been subjected. After conversing a while,

Ernest said:

“Surely, you now see the hand of God in your affairs?”

“Yes,” replied Comston, “and I am a different man, and, by God’s grace,

intend to lead a different life.”

“And what has Mrs. Comston to say?” asked Ernest with a smile.

“I am perfectly overwhelmed,” she answered. “I feel as one in a dream,

and you appear to me as our guardian angel. God must have sent you

here.”

“I hope so, my friends,” replied Ernest, “but give all the glory to

God. I am only an humble instrument in His hands. But,” he added after

a short pause, “you will now both join the church, will you not, and

lead Christian lives?”

“I will,” answered Comston emphatically. “I’ve not forgotten my vow.”

“And so will I,” replied Clara.

“What church will you join? I do not believe I have ever asked you.”

“The Presbyterian--your church,” answered Comston. “I like its

comforting doctrines. They are certainly the right thing when one is

in trouble. I’ve heard some people talk very hard about the eternal

decrees, but, as you told me, the doctrine of election is taught in the

Bible, and I find it there.”

“A few months ago,” said Clara, “I had an abhorrence of predestination,

but now I have no doubt that it is a doctrine of God’s Book. If it is

not taught in the 8th and 9th chapters of Romans, I cannot understand

language. So I can be nothing but a Presbyterian.”

Accordingly, the next Sabbath both were received into the church of

their choice. Ernest never had more faithful, zealous members, and

more staunch friends. If Comston heard any one complaining in regard

to Ernest, or any thing he did, it made him impatient, and he defended

his beloved pastor and friend, with unlimited warmth of feeling. God

prospered him in business, and in a few years Comston had a store of

his own. He became a liberal and cheerful supporter of the Church and

all its institutions. Clara contracted habits of economy and diligence,

and was foremost in all church work, such as ladies could perform. We

close the chapter with the remark that Blicker was tried for murder,

and condemned to the penitentiary for the period of his natural life.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XXII.

THE LAST SCENE.

The lives of a great many people are distinguished by a few romantic

events, but no man’s life is one continuous series of startling

incidents. Life flows in a regular channel, and its romantic portions

are mere episodes. The great bulk of mankind are doomed to toil for the

necessaries of existence. Hence, every day is alike. They go through

the same dull routine--the same tread-mill process of eat, drink,

sleep, work.

It could not, therefore, be reasonably expected that the career of a

minister, like Ernest, living in a quiet provincial town, should be

distinguished for thrilling experiences. The clerical life is generally

tranquil and unromantic. The preacher visits the sick, comforts the

distressed, resolves the doubts of the skeptical, preaches the gospel,

Sabbath after Sabbath, and in this way the days glide by till death

transfers him to a higher state of existence. After the remarkable

episode, involving Comston’s startling history, nothing occurred, for

years, in the life of Ernest which would be of interest to the mere

story reader. At present he is performing his ministerial duties,

assisted by Mildred, with unostentatious piety.

One Sabbath there was an unusually large congregation assembled in

Ernest’s church. It had been published that he would, by special

request, preach a doctrinal sermon.

On Monday morning there was considerable excitement throughout the

community. Many of those who had believed the opposite doctrine, were

caused to reflect, and made to examine the ground-work of their creed.

Little groups gathered on the streets and in the stores to discuss the

sermon of the day before.

“Well,” said good old father Grimshaw, “if I believed as Brother

Edgefield does, I would never go to church any more. In fact, I’d never

do anything, but I’d take my fill of sin--yes I would.”

“I am utterly astounded,” answered a Presbyterian elder, “to hear you

talk that way, father Grimshaw. If you were to take your fill of sin,

how could you be a Christian? Can a Christian love sin?”

“Why, what difference would it make whether I am a Christian or not?”

cried the old man. “If I’m to be saved, I’ll be saved anyhow, and if

I’m to be lost, I’ll be lost anyhow, no matter what I may do.”

“Look here, father Grimshaw,” said the elder, “did Brother Edgefield

say anything like that?”

“If he didn’t say it, that’s what his doctrine leads to.”

“I confess,” said the elder mildly, “that I cannot see that it leads

to any such conclusion. But that is the way with some of you people.

You draw your inferences, and take them as the doctrines of the

Presbyterian Church. You know that Brother Edgefield said that all

could be saved who wanted to be. I should like to know how much broader

you desire the plan of salvation. Do you want God to save people,

_nolens volens_?”

“No, sir,” replied father Grimshaw. “But if certain people are

fore-ordained to eternal death, how can any of them be saved?”

“Brother Edgefield made that as plain as anything could be,” replied

the Elder. “But I will answer your question. Of course, if they are

fore-ordained to eternal death, they cannot be saved, but whose fault

is it? God does not prevent their salvation. It is nothing but their

own wicked hearts--their own perverse will. No man ever was lost simply

on account of predestination.”

“But why don’t they have the will?” asked father Grimshaw.

“I do not know, but that is the truth,” replied the elder. “Their lack

of the will is not to be attributed to any eternal decree, and if

that be so, I am sure the sinner can charge the loss of his soul to

nobody but himself. We naturally hold every man responsible for his own

character. If a man is a thief, it is not natural for us to think that

God made him so. Neither do we hold the Lord responsible for any man’s

will. If, then, the sinner lacks the disposition to be saved, surely

he cannot charge God with injustice. Every man has the consciousness

that he could be a Christian, if he only desired to be. Then, I ask

you, in the name of common sense, how does predestination prevent his

salvation?”

“I don’t know how to argue the question,” cried father Grimshaw

testily, “but it does appear horrible to me that God should choose one

man to eternal life and condemn another to eternal death, when both

are alike by nature--both sinners.”

“Let me ask you,” said the elder, “if God was under any obligations to

save any one?”

“No, certainly not.”

“If He were to send all to eternal torment, would it be just?” asked

the Elder.

“Yes,” answered father Grimshaw.

“Well, then, if God, in mercy, choose to save a large portion of the

human race, and leave the rest to perish in their sins, _and on account

of their sins_, how is any injustice done them?”

“Because they have as much right to be chosen as the others,” said

father Grimshaw.

“Right!” said the elder, “What right do they have? I suppose if the

Governor were to pardon two or three convicts, he is bound to pardon

all, is he? Why, my dear, sir, your position runs squarely into

Universalism!”

“How does it?”

“Why, you say that one man has as much right to be saved as another. If

then, God saves one, He must save all. What is that but Universalism?”

asked the Elder.

“He’s got you there, father Grimshaw,” cried one of the by-standers

with a laugh.

“I repeat, father Grimshaw,” continued the elder, “no man is punished

on account of predestination, but on account of his sins. Show me a man

who feels that he must be lost by reason of the eternal decrees, and I

promise to give up the doctrine.”

“I can’t for my life,” said father Grimshaw, “understand why some are

chosen, and others are passed by.”

“No,” replied the elder, “if we understood that, Peter never would have

said that Paul ‘wrote things hard to be understood.’ If we only knew

what God’s reasons are, there would be no difficulty and no mystery in

the doctrine of predestination. But we are told that the secret things

belong unto the Lord, and those which are revealed are for us and our

children.”

“Well, you Presbyterians,” said father Grimshaw, “have a way of getting

around things so that it is hard to keep up with you. I cannot argue

the point, but the doctrine looks strange to me--don’t look right

somehow.”

“No,” replied the elder, “that is what people said in Paul’s day. It

did not look right to some of the disciples of Christ, and they went

back, and ‘walked with Him no more.’ People always have found fault

with this doctrine, and I suppose will do so till the end of the

world.”

“I must say,” spoke up a man by the name of Wallerton, “that Mr.

Edgefield made it plain to my mind. I never knew before what

Presbyterians do believe.”

“What!” exclaimed father Grimshaw, “are you going to turn Presbyterian?”

“Well,” answered Wallerton, “I fully endorse what Mr. Edgefield said

yesterday. If that makes me a Presbyterian, I am one.”

“All may believe that please,” cried father Grimshaw, “but I never

will. You may out-argue me, but you are not going to make me believe

that predestination is right, no sir--never.”

“But what will you do with the Scripture?” asked Wallerton. “It says,

‘Whom He did foreknow, He did predestinate.’ Now what does predestinate

mean?”

“I don’t know,” cried father Grimshaw, giving way to a feeling closely

related to anger, “but there ain’t no predestination in it--not a bit

of it.”

“If there is not,” replied Wallerton, “I should like to know where to

find it.”

“You’ll find it no where, but in the Presbyterian Confession of Faith,”

cried the old man.

“Well, I am convinced,” said Wallerton, “that it is the true doctrine.

I love to believe it too, because I can see that there is more comfort

in it than in the other.”

“What comfort is there in it?” cried the old man, raising his hand in

holy horror.

“Why just this,” replied Wallerton, “I am trying to serve God. It does

me good, then, to think that I have been elected from all eternity to

salvation, and, therefore I can never perish.”

“If you believe that,” exclaimed the old man, “then go on, and sin as

much as you please. You’ll be saved anyhow.”

“But I do not want to sin,” replied Wallerton, looking at him in

surprise. “That is the very thing I pray God to deliver me from.

Instead of desiring to sin, I pray to become more holy. I do not ask

God to save me in my sins, but from them. I should think I would make a

poor return of gratitude to God, if He should give me the evidence of

my election, and I should say to Him, I will, then, serve the devil.

What sort of religion is that?”

“You will make a Presbyterian out of me, Wallerton, if you talk much

longer,” said another by-stander.

“Father Grimshaw,” continued Wallerton, laughing, “you’ve got this

doctrine wrong; you are mixed up on it.”

“If I am, I guess I’ll stay mixed up,” replied the old man, shaking his

head. Rising, he limped off on his stick, leaving the group wondering

at his prejudice.

Father Grimshaw was a type of that class that will not be convinced by

anything. Many people reject the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church,

especially predestination, because such doctrines are repugnant to

their feelings, and are not in harmony with their preconceived opinions.

We may here state that all the parties who have been conspicuous in

these pages, are alive at the present writing, and our story must come

to an end.

There was so much discussion in regard to the doctrinal sermon which

Ernest had preached, that the elders of his church requested it for

publication. He thought it advisable to comply with their request, in

order that there might be no misconstruction of his views. We present

the outlines of the sermon to our readers, leaving it to them to draw

their own conclusions.

THE SERMON.

“For whom He did foreknow He also did predestinate to be conformed

to the image of His Son.”--_Romans viii: 29._

I have quoted only one clause of the verse, because I have not time

to elaborate the several doctrines to which the apostle calls our

attention. On this occasion, I desire to make some few remarks on the

divine purpose. In one sermon I can do little more than present only a

few of the reasons which Presbyterians have for believing the doctrine

of predestination. Without taking up the time in further preliminaries,

I proceed, at once, to discuss the doctrine that is announced in our

text. We can hardly misapprehend the text. But to remove all possible

ground of misconstruction and misunderstanding, let us notice in

what sense “foreknowledge” is employed. There can be no doubt as to

the meaning of predestination. No one will dispute that it means to

“appoint,” or “destine beforehand.” “To foreknow,” says Adam Clarke,

“here signifies to design beforehand, or at the first forming of the

scheme.” Without, therefore, doing the least violence to the text, I

am justifiable in translating, “whom He elected or designed before He

did predestinate.” The term predestinate embraces both the decrees of

election and reprobation. Some persons are disposed to limit the word

to election. But no good reason can be assigned for such restriction,

as God determined the final condition of both classes. Permit me to

say here, that we ought to enter into the discussion of this subject

with feelings of the deepest solemnity and reverence. I know it is

revolting to the carnal heart to think that the eternal destiny of men

is settled before they are born. It is repugnant to human pride; but

above all things let us avoid warping and perverting the truth of the

Scripture so as to bring it in harmony with our feelings and desires.

If we allow ourselves to do violence to God’s Word, in order to

support a theory, we shall run into serious error. Men, impelled more

by feeling than reason, have embraced the doctrine of universalism.

I am sure I could have no objection to the doctrine of universalism,

if it could be established from God’s written Word. I want no one to

go to hell, and I would be glad to think that all of Adam’s race will

be saved at last. I, for one, hold to the doctrine of predestination,

not only because it is agreeable to my feelings, but because I believe

it to be taught in God’s Word. If it were not taught there, I would

not have the least objection to renouncing it. Now let us, as briefly

as possible, see whether or not it is promulgated in the Bible. I

begin with _Election_. Is it to be found in the Scriptures? If so, it

is our duty to accept it, no matter if we cannot make it square with

our notions of the fitness of things. The definition of election is,

that it is the choice which God, in the exercise of sovereign grace,

made of certain individuals of mankind to enjoy salvation by Jesus

Christ. I do not think the position can be successfully combatted,

that God has elected some to salvation in preference to others. There

are many passages of Scripture that establish the position. But I have

time to call attention to only a few of them. Romans 16: 13: “Salute

Rufus chosen in the Lord.” “I have manifested thy name unto the men

which Thou gavest me out of the world.” “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.” “I have much people in this

city” * * * * “to them who are the called of the Lord according to his

purpose,” “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, that ye should

go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain.” “He said

to Moses, I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have

compassion on whom I will have compassion.” “So then, it is not to him

that willeth nor him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy.” “Who

hath saved us and _called_ us with a holy calling, not according to our

work, but according to His own purpose and grace which was given us in

Christ Jesus, before the world began.” “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.” These are but a few passages

that establish the doctrine of predestination and election. It would

require a volume to contain the passages of Scripture that teach the

doctrine both by precept and example. Some persons admit the doctrine

of election with certain modifications. They say it is an election of

_character_; they affirm that God elected the righteous character. I

cannot see what is gained by this attempt to separate an individual

from his character. It is character that makes the man. It would be

just as reasonable to talk of extracting the sweetness from sugar as

to make a distinction between an individual and his character. But

leaving out the passages which I have just quoted, our text settles

the point. It says plainly, _whom_, not _what_, he did foreknow.

All through the Scripture, election is spoken of as applicable to

individuals, and not characters. Some say, God elected to salvation

those who He foresaw would believe and repent. If Paul meant no more

than this in the epistle to the Romans, he used language for which

there was no necessity. Why should he exclaim with such solemnity, “Who

art thou, oh, man, that repliest against God”? If Paul did not hold to

the doctrine of predestination, it is strange that Peter should have

said that Paul “wrote things hard to be understood.” There is not the

least difficulty in understanding the proposition that God elected

those He foresaw would believe and repent. No Presbyterian would deny

that proposition in its literal sense, for it is certain that those

who are elected, do believe and repent. God never elected any one that

does not believe and repent. But those who oppose the doctrines of

the Presbyterian Church, assert that God elected some to salvation on

account of their foreseen faith, and their voluntary compliance with

God’s requirements. Well, if this position be correct, there was no

necessity of Peter’s saying that Paul wrote things hard to understand,

because no one could fail to understand such a proposition, and no one

could reply against God, not even the worst sinner on the face of the

earth, if Paul meant no more than that every man’s salvation is placed

in his own hands; because this is the very thing for which the natural

man has ever clamored. No one would object to the doctrine of salvation

on account of foreseen faith and righteousness, or righteous works,

if it were taught in the Scriptures; because it is in accordance with

human notions of things. It is a philosophical idea. I will cheerfully

concede the point that the main system that stands opposed to the

doctrines of the Presbyterian Church has the merit of philosophy. But

this is one great objection to it. The Bible is no book of philosophy.

It announces truths in disconnected order, some of which, owing to the

weakness of our finite minds, appear to be contradictory. But the chief

objection to this doctrine of foreseen faith and works as a ground of

salvation, is that it does not appear to be consonant to the divine

will. Paul tells us why we are chosen. He says “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.” We were not chosen because

we were already holy, but that we should become so. Then he goes on

to say: “He having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by

Jesus Christ to Himself according to the _good pleasure of His will_.”

That is the reason why we were chosen; it was the good pleasure of His

will. He does not say that we were chosen on account of our foreseen

faith and works. I hope no one will understand me as affirming that we

are saved without faith. We must have faith; but it is not the ground

of our salvation. Besides, faith itself is the gift of God. It is a

well-settled principle in all orthodox theology, that man is dead in

trespasses and sin. How God could foresee that a man in this condition

could, of himself, exercise faith, it is difficult to conceive. It

requires the Holy Spirit to awaken men to life. Without such an

operation, no man is capable of spiritual activity. If this be granted,

then, we can easily see in what sense faith is the gift of God. Now to

bring the discussion down to the narrowest possible limits, I will lay

down a proposition which cannot be disputed.

First, God made choice of some to be saved. On what principle was the

choice based? Why, to use plain language, God chose some on account of

some good in them; or some evil in them; or the choice was simply His

good will and pleasure. Well, there was no good in them, consequently

God could not have chosen them on that account. There was not a

naturally righteous character on the face of the earth. If men had been

left to themselves to believe, not a single individual of the human

race would have been saved. Again, God is too holy to have chosen men

on account of the evil in them. I presume no one will contend for any

such doctrine as this. Then, the conclusion of the whole matter is,

that God chose some men to salvation because it was His good will and

pleasure.

Some cry out that this would be unjust. They say that God should not

make distinctions, and that He should be impartial. I do not see where

the injustice is. To illustrate: Here are five criminals condemned

to death. If the Governor should pardon two of them, is there any

injustice to the remaining three? The objector says there would be,

unless the Governor has some good reason for showing clemency in the

case of the two. For the sake of argument, we will admit it. God also

has His reasons for His choice; but these reasons, so far as His secret

purposes are concerned, have never been revealed to us. All we now know

is that He will have mercy on whom He will have mercy. Men somehow,

seem to think that God has no right to make distinctions among the sons

of Adam; and that He is bound to put all on the same level, and if He

saves one, He is bound to give all the same opportunity to be saved.

But God is under no sort of obligation to save any one. If the Lord has

no right to make distinctions, then we are driven to the conclusion

that the universalist has the true doctrine. Because it would follow

that if God saves one, then He must employ such means in the case of

every individual as would result in His salvation. If it required a

miracle to convince Paul, and it would require a miracle to convince

me, God would be bound to perform it. So all must be saved. The only

safe position is to take God’s Word at what it says. It speaks of

the elect as individuals, and not mere characters, and it speaks of

them as chosen before the foundation of the world, because of God’s

good will and pleasure. Now let us notice the other class whom God

has not chosen--the class of reprobates. The idea of reprobation is

necessarily implied in the idea of election. So if we prove one, the

other is virtually established. They are correlative terms, and men

do violence to Scripture and logic when they admit election and deny

reprobation. When out of some objects a choice is made, those not

chosen are certainly rejected. When objects are presented to a person

for the selection of some, even if he speak not a word, he says by his

actions: “This I will take, and this I will not take.” It is in vain

to say that nothing has been done to them; but that they were left in

the precise condition in which they were found. There certainly has

been some sort of act of mind in refusing them, or passing them by.

But leaving out the question of logical consistency, we would have

no zeal in the advocacy of such a doctrine were it not taught in the

Scriptures. We could well afford to admit a logical inconsistency, if

by the admission we could get rid of this doctrine which has aroused

a spirit of rebellious wrath in the heart of the natural man. We may

lift up our hands in holy horror at the idea of reprobation, but the

Scriptures affirm it in language plain enough. There are so many

passages bearing on the subject, that I have not time to call attention

to them all. I refer to only a few as specimens. The Scriptures say

concerning Pharaoh, ‘For this same purpose have I raised thee up,’ etc.

“Therefore hath He mercy on whom He will have mercy, and whom He will

He hardeneth.” “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.” “Men of corrupt mind, _reprobate_ concerning

the faith.” “There are certain men crept in unawares who were before

of old _ordained_ to this condemnation,” etc. Again, we read of those

whose names are not written in the Book of Life. I could quote other

passages just as strong and conclusive as those referred to. Throughout

the whole Scriptures, from Genesis to Revelation, we are taught both

by precept and example, that there is a line running between the

people of God and those doomed to eternal destruction. Therefore, we

conclude that the framers of the Westminster Confession of Faith were

justifiable in inserting that much-abused article: “By the decree

of God, for the manifestation of His glory, some men and angels are

predestinated unto everlasting life, and others are fore-ordained to

everlasting death.” The idea is expressed in no ambiguous terms. These

men perceived the doctrine in God’s Word, and they did not shrink from

avowing it, without the least sugar-coating.

And now, if reasoning from logical premises would be of any avail;

if it be thought necessary to support scriptural truth by logical

processes, I would say that only three propositions can be made in

regard to the salvation of men:

First, All men will be saved.

Second, All men will be lost.

Third, A part of the human race will be saved, and a part lost.

We can easily prove by the holy Scriptures that the first two

propositions are not true. Then, we are bound to admit that the

_third_ is true. This is a fixed fact. The question is, when was it

fixed in the mind of God? The Scripture says the elect were chosen

before the foundation of the world. The point for which we contend is

that the fact was fixed by the Lord. It was not simply foreseen as

a fact that would arise independently of divine interposition, but

it was predetermined. It was God who determined it. This is the kind

of predestination to which the Presbyterian Church holds. Whatever

objections may be urged against it, we believe it to be taught in God’s

Word. There are questions in regard to it which no human being can

answer. We are confronted with the question, how fore-ordination and

man’s free agency can be reconciled. It is certainly no good reason

for the rejection of a doctrine that we cannot fully understand it.

Who can understand the Trinity? Who can comprehend the dual existence

of our Lord Jesus? Such truths we receive on faith, and not because

they are in harmony with reason. But it is not right to require that

Predestinarians shall remove objections which apply with equal force

to the theological system of those who so bitterly oppose us. For

instance, how can fore-knowledge be reconciled with man’s free agency?

Whatever God fore-knows must come to pass.

We, too, believe with others, that so far as free agency is concerned,

every man on the face of the earth could be saved, if he only had the

_will_ to come to Christ. But some will not accept; and that fact

was fixed in the Eternal Mind, away back before the foundation of

the world, as well as the other fact, that some would accept. It is

in vain to say that this result was merely fore-seen. When there was

nothing in existence, how could God fore-see anything except what He

had determined should be? Permit me to use a plain illustration: Here

stands a sculptor before a block of marble. There are millions of

possible images and forms in that marble. With his chisel the artist

can develop _one_ image. That must first exist as a conception in

his mind. After a while the beautiful statue is brought out as the

result of a predetermination. Or the sculptor might produce _two_

images--three--four--a hundred. There are millions of possible forms

in the marble, but the workman determines what forms he will develop.

Applying the illustration, there were millions of possible events or

circumstances before the divine Mind. The Lord could have made this

world larger or smaller; He could have made Adam a very different being

from what he was. But God chose, predetermined, to make this world just

the size it is. God selected the events that take place out of millions

that might have taken place, as the sculptor chose the images which he

would develop. If the Lord did not select, or predetermine, the precise

events that occur in time, who did make the selection? Was the All Wise

God merely trying experiments? What would we think of a sculptor who

should go to work on his block of marble without any conception or plan

in his mind? How, then, can we believe that God would place men in the

world, and devise the scheme of redemption without selecting the exact

results in His own Omniscient Mind? The Lord has His own purposes,

and these purposes will be accomplished; and this is predestination.

Therefore, I do not hesitate to endorse another article of our

Confession of Faith, which has been often assailed with un-christian

virulence: “God hath fore-ordained whatsoever comes to pass.”

Here I would observe that the objection is without foundation that, if

predestination be true, it is in vain for men to make any effort to be

saved. This is a gross perversion of the doctrine. God does not decree

that any one shall be doomed to eternal torment who desires to enjoy

heaven, and who is willing to accept the terms of salvation. Show me

the sinner who is thirsting for the waters of Life, and I will show you

one whose name is written in the Book of Heaven as an heir of God. Now,

how much broader do we want the plan of salvation, if it embraces all

that desire salvation on Scriptural terms? If the sinner is disposed to

repent, he has no reason to suppose that he belongs to the reprobate

class. But some men want an excuse for continuing in sin, and these are

the persons who, Peter said, would “wrest the Scriptures to their own

destruction.”

Another argument in support of this doctrine is the fact that Paul

mentions, and comments upon the very objections that are to this day

urged against the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church. It is evident

that the apostle taught precisely what the Confession of Faith does.

We have to meet the very same objections which he met, and refuted. We

know that this doctrine has ever been revolting to men of the world.

You remember, when Christ said, “No man can come unto me except the

Father which hath sent me, draw him,” some of His disciples “went back,

and walked with Him no more.”

I have no doubt the doctrine of predestination will be opposed to

the end of time. But it can never be destroyed. You may revise the

Confession of Faith till every vestige of it disappears, but that

does not blot it out from the pages of God’s Word. To get rid of that

doctrine, the whole Bible must be revised from Genesis to Revelation.

Strike out from the Scriptures every thing that is said in regard to

predestination; expunge every passage from which the doctrine may be

deduced by plain inference, and there is nothing left but Universalism.

Predestination and man’s free agency are both taught in the Holy

Scriptures. Recognize this fact, and you will find little difficulty

in harmonizing passages that may appear to some persons to be

antagonistic. Reject either doctrine, and you will run into serious

error. There is Fatalism, on the one side; and on the other, there is

a broad Liberality of sentiment among men which receives no support

from God’s Word. Hence we honestly believe that the position of the

Presbyterian Church is the only true way to steer in safety between

Scylla and Charybdis.

[Illustration: finis.]

Stories by Rev. R. H. Crozier.

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Any of the above books sent by mail, _post-paid_, on receipt of price.

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They are recommended by such men as Drs. B. M.

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Please address,

REV. R. H. CROZIER, Sardis, Miss.

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