AFTER THE BATTLE.
Sometimes in battle a soldier suddenly finds himself prostrated to the earth. He knows not what has happened. A dizziness comes over him. Then he glances down at his limbs, and discovers that he is bleeding. He knows he is wounded, but he cannot tell to what extent. It may be a fearful shot which will end his mortal existence the next moment, or it may be only a severe shock that has touched no vital part. When Ernest fell, it was a moment before he could clearly comprehend what had occurred. One of his company ran to him, and asked:
“Are you much hurt?”
“Yes; I fear I have received a long furlough.”
The soldier tore off some of his clothing, and, after a brief examination, said:
“It is a severe wound, Captain, but I don’t think it is fatal. Shall I stay with you?”
“No, no, go on with the boys. Never mind me. We have whipped them, thank God, and I can die, if it is His will, with a clear conscience. Go on with the boys.”
The soldier gathered up his military implements, and pushed on with his comrades in pursuit of the flying foe, and Ernest was left alone with the wounded, dead and dying. Presently he fell into a train of thought as follows:
“Perhaps this is another warning. I have totally disregarded what Mr. Hillston says is my call to the ministry. Shall I now promise God, as I lie here, that I will yield to the call, if He will spare my life? No; for I cannot believe that I am called of God. Why does not God give me some reliable evidence, if He really wants me to be a minister? I shall wait a while yet. But suppose I die?” He could not make up his mind to preach.
At six o’clock, an elderly gentleman, with an honest, open, benevolent countenance came to the spot where Ernest was lying. He was the first wounded soldier the gentleman reached.
“What is your condition, my young friend?” he asked in a kindly voice.
“I am wounded here in the side,” said Ernest.
“Could you travel in a buggy a few miles?”
“I think I could, sir.”
“Then, if you can, I would be pleased to take you to my house, where you can have proper attention and good nursing. Will you go? I will assist you into the buggy.”
“Yes, sir; I will accept your kind offer. How far do you have to go?”
“About six miles; but it is a good road, and we can make the drive in an hour. I could hear the fighting all day from my house. At noon, during the lull, I supposed the battle might be over, and I started to the scene of action. But when I had driven three miles, I discovered that the fight was renewed with redoubled fury. When it ended, I learned from a courier how the day had gone, and I came on to do what I could for our wounded. It will afford me pleasure to take care of you till you are again ready for duty?”
“I shall be under lasting obligations, sir,” replied Ernest.
At once, Ernest was assisted into the buggy, and driven along at a slow pace till they reached the gentleman’s residence at eighto’clock in the evening. This gentleman was a Presbyterian minister, by name Dr. Arrington. His family consisted of a wife and three daughters, the elder of whom was about twenty years of age—an intelligent, well educated young lady. She had completed her education the previous year at one of the best female colleges of Virginia. We cannot say that she was perfectly beautiful, for, though her features seemed faultless when contemplated singly, yet the grouping was somehow a little defective. No one could tell what was lacking, but there was something. But the perfection of her features enabled her to bear a most rigid inspection, and she improved greatly on acquaintance. She had a decidedly classical cast of countenance. In conversation her face beamed with intelligence and sympathy, which made her appear handsome and lovely. She belonged, in a word, to that class, who attract more by their moral excellencies than their physical graces. Mildred Arrington, however, possessed a symmetrical figure, and her every movement betrayed elegance of manners and refinement of taste and intellectual culture. All who were intimately acquainted with her, thought her beautiful.
With this kind family Ernest remained for many days, while his wound was slowly healing. Dr. Arrington had an excellent library, in which he and his family spent much of their time. They were an intellectual family. Ernest here spent some of the happiest hours of his life, in the company of the three girls, especially Mildred. The Doctor was also a congenial companion, and loved to talk. He was an earnest Christian, who believed, though, in getting as much legitimate happiness out of this mortal life as possible. There was none of the Pharisee in his composition. He received the gospel with the simple faith of a child, and so preached it. He believed in providing innocent amusements for his family. The consequence was, there was no nicer place to visit and no happier home in all the country than Dr. Arrington’s. His residence was full of sunshine, and no discordant sound was ever heard beneath that roof.
It will not appear wonderful, then, that the days passed rapidly away in the consciousness of Ernest, who felt loth to put an end to the period of his convalescence. But at last he began to painfully realize that he could not remain much longer, with propriety, beneaththis hospitable roof. When he thought of leaving Mildred he discovered that it filled him with the keenest pain. But why should it? If he really loved her, why not propose, at once, and bind her to him by a tie which nothing but death could sever? He must go back to the army in a few days, and the probability was, he could never see her again.
It was hardly reasonable to suppose that he could go through many such scenes as those of Bull Run, and escape with his life. But he felt that he could not bid farewell to this happy family without the prospect of a closer relationship with them in the future. He believed that he had endeared himself to them; but one thing was certain, they had so wound themselves around his heart that the thought of never seeing them again was intolerable.
One day about a week before his departure, he was walking in the lawn in company with Mildred. Presently Ernest fell into a reverie that made his face appear more solemn than usual. He was aroused by a soft voice at his side:
“You appear to be in a profound study.”
“So I was,” replied Ernest, heaving a deep sigh.
“It was something unpleasant, was it not?”
“What makes you think so?”
“I noticed your countenance,” answered Mildred, “just now, which was expressive of pain.”
“You are a good physiognomist,” replied Ernest. “I was just thinking that in a few days more I must return to my command.”
“And is it so painful to fight for your country?” quickly asked Mildred.
“You misunderstand me,” said Ernest. “It is no reluctance to serve my country: for God knows that I am willing to die for the independence of the Confederate States, if necessary. But there are things to me more bitter than death itself.”
“You talk in riddles, Captain.”
“Yes; because I was talking to myself partly. It is due to you that I should explain myself.” After a pause, he continued: “I have had few associates in my life. My father and mother left me a lonely orphan when I was a small boy. From various causes, which I need not weary you by relating, my life has not been very happy. I have found very few congenial companions among either sex. I have now prepared your mind for thereception of the fact, that the time spent beneath your father’s roof, is the happiest portion of my existence. I was thinking just now, that I must soon leave, and the probability is, I shall never again see you and the family till we shall all meet in the eternal world.”
“Why should you take such a gloomy view, Captain?” asked Mildred, slightly coloring. “We destroy our happiness by anticipating misfortunes that may never befall us. You may go through the war, and come out with honors budding thick upon your brow. Why not look forward to promotion? Who knows,” she continued, trying to smile, “but that you may be a General?”
“No; I have no ambition in that way. I do not want any greater responsibility than the command of a single company involves.”
There was a pause, which was broken by Mildred suddenly saying:
“What foolish thoughts will sometimes flash into our minds.”
“What mean you?” asked Ernest.
“I was just thinking what an astounding victory you could gain, if you had control of that one force, from which all the forces of nature, I think, are derived.”
This idea of Mildred’s was fully elaborated by Lord Lytton, some few years afterwards, and the force was calledvrill. But as we are not writing a treatise on science, we will proceed with our story.
“O,” she continued gaily, “do you not wish you had something of that sort?”
“I have had such foolish thoughts a thousand times,” replied Ernest, breaking into a laugh, “but I did not know that anybody else had such absurd fancies. I found myself wishing for miraculous powers on the battle field of Bull Run a short time since. When our soldiers were about to retreat in a wild panic in the evening, I almost cried aloud for a cyclone to hurl upon those dark columns. How quickly I thought I would annihilate them. Was it not preposterous?”
And they both laughed.
“I should be ashamed,” said Mildred, “to let any one know what wild fancies pass through this dwarfish brain of mine. The truth is, I live in an ideal world. I often find myself wishing that I could visit some ‘New Utopia.’”
“What a coincidence,” said Ernest, looking at the young lady in surprise.
“What is?” she asked.
“That you and I should be dreaming about the same absurdities.”
“Well, I do not know,” replied Mildred. “I have never cared to mention my silly reveries to any one. Indeed, it is the first time in my life that I have alluded to them.”
“May you not be wrong to call them ‘silly’? Some of the happiest moments of my life have been spent in this way. I frequently discover myself traveling about in some of Munchausen’s wonderful vehicles, and I become so absorbed that my imaginings appear as realities.”
“I, too, do the same thing,” said Mildred, turning her blue eyes upon him in surprise.
“Miss Mildred,” spoke up Ernest after a brief pause, “our minds seem to have been constructed in the same molds. Henceforth I shall be forever meeting you in my psychological peregrinations. I have no doubt that I shall often rove back to this beautiful yard and these grand oaks, when I am sitting around the bivouac fire or meditating in my tent.”
Mildred began to look serious, and to turn her face in order to conceal the treacherous blushes which, she felt, must be mantling her cheeks.
“I am glad to think,” she answered in a low, hesitating tone, “that your imprisonment here has been rendered tolerable.”
“Tolerable!” cried Ernest. “I wish such imprisonment could last forever!”
“What!” exclaimed Mildred, feigning not to understand, “would you be willing to be cooped up while your comrades are fighting the battles of liberty? Sometimes I wish I could go myself, and that I were an Amazon stout enough to shoulder a cannon. The poor South needs every soldier she can get. You must, therefore, dismiss your Utopian dreams and enter into gory and awful realities.”
“If I know myself,” said Ernest, “I do not shrink from those realities. But I need something to inflame my zeal.”
“What do you need?” she asked, wishing after the inquiry had been made, that she had propounded some other question.
“I have told you,” he replied, “that I have no intimate friends. My affections are roving around like the ‘wandering Jew,’ seeking some object upon which to concentrate. The object that comes within their focus will find no reason to complain of their lack of intensity. Do you understand me?”
“I cannot say that I do,” answered Mildred, “but I should think that the goddess of Liberty would be sufficient to elicit all the better feelings and aspirations of your soul.”
“The goddess of Liberty may call forth a certain class of affections, but there is another group which requires a more substantial being.” Mildred said nothing, but looked thoughtful. She understood what Ernest meant, yet he had spoken so vaguely that she was reminded of the amiable Pickwick and the widow Bardell, which association of ideas caused her to laugh out-right. Ernest gazed at her in amazement and pain.
“What is it that amuses you so?” he asked in a tone indicative of displeasure.
“Please excuse me, Captain,” she said deprecatingly. “I was not, I assure you, laughing at anything you said. It was only a foolish and ridiculous thought that suddenly came into my mind. I beg your pardon,” she said earnestly.
“Granted,” he replied, “if you will only be serious for a moment.”
“Certainly, I will.”
“I will speak plainly so that you cannot misunderstand me. The truth is, I love you.”
“O, Captain,” she exclaimed with solemn earnestness, “what a time for such a declaration!”
“Why?” asked Ernest.
“Why, we are on the threshold of a terrible war which will end, we know not when.”
“That is the very reason I want a love to sustain me under the trials which await me. My nature demands love. I am gloomy and wretched without it.”
“How have you managed this long, Captain?”
“I will tell you all about it.” And he gave her a full account of all the circumstances of his past life, after which Mildred with a cunning smile, said:
“It seems, then, I am second choice.”
“You are mistaken. I did not know my own heart then. I never had for her the deep, ineffable affection I have for you. After this honest explanation must I leave you without hope? If I do, it matters little to me what shall become of me. I shall consider that ball from the enemy’s gun a mercy that shall put an end to my misery. But with your love, I shall be the happiest soldier in the army. I shall have an object for which to live. Can you, will you give me any hope?”
Ernest perceived that Mildred was violently agitated, and he felt encouraged.
“Tell me,” he urged, “that you will be mine, when this cruel war is over, if I come out the fiery crucible alive.”
“I am glad you have given me time to reflect about the matter,” she said at last. “I will candidly say this: if you are alive and I am, when the war ends, and the feelings of neither undergo any change, it shall be as you wish. Is that sufficient?”
So these two young people, with that pure affection, glowing in their hearts, which is sanctioned by the Allwise God, standing under the broad-spreading oaks, agreed to enter into the sacred relation which constitutes the very foundation of human society. Why should older persons, who have lost the ardor, aspirations and hopes of youth, sneer at what they are pleased to call “sickly love stories?” God implanted these sacred affections in the human heart to bind society together, and it is these which make man a gregarious animal. Is that pure love which leads to the marriage relation only evidence of a kind of folly that deserves to be ridiculed? Why do prudish, righteous-over-much people, calling themselves critics,cry out against stories which illustrate social realities, and which seek to inspire the youth of our country with proper respect and reverence for a heaven-sanctioned institution? Why is it that extremely pious people profess such an aversion to “love scenes”—scenes that are every day realities in the ranks of the purest and most refined society? Such scenes as we have described, call them “love-sick,” who will, actually transpired during the war, and many a soldier found a God-sent wife in the hospitals. These love affairs mingle with the gravest concerns of human life. Why, then, omit them from the pages of a story which is intended to be a true picture? There is nothing startling or sensational in them. Indeed, they are so old, common and customary that they derive any interest they may possess from new combinations of circumstances. Eliminate these circumstances, and nothing is left but an occurrence that transpires every hour of the day. We may here say that there is nothing in this volume that should prevent it from occupying a place on the shelves of any Sabbath-school library.
HARD TRUTHS.
During the time that Ernest was confined in the house of Dr. Arrington, he had had several discussions with that gentleman, of doctrines which are regarded by the world as distinctive dogmas of the Presbyterian Church. They were conducted on both sides with the utmost calmness, politeness and good-will. It is a fact that generally men cannot engage in discussions of religious questions with moderation. They are often more acrimonious than politicians. But the Doctor was naturally calm and tranquil, and Ernest found that his first belief was beginning to totter on its foundation. Mildred, too, believed this “horrid doctrine of predestination,” which, in the mind of Ernest, had a tendency to strip it of its forbidding aspects. But still he was not perfectly satisfied. The discussions which he had with Dr. Arlington, were, on his part, designed more to elicit information and proofthan sustain his own assumed position; in different language, Ernest took the “wrong side” in order that the Doctor might overturn it.
Two or three days before Ernest was to start to his command, he was sitting in the Doctor’s study looking over the Westminster Confession of Faith. The Doctor, glancing up presently, and seeing how the young man was employed, said pleasantly:
“You have tackled what the world calls a ‘hard book,’ Captain.”
“The world, in my opinion,” answered Ernest, with a smile, “is not much to blame for taking that view of it.”
“No doubt,” said the Doctor, “the doctrines which it proclaims are ‘hard to be understood,’ as Paul himself declared.”
“You will have it that Paul was speaking of predestination, will you, Doctor?”
“He certainly must have been. Of what else could he have been speaking? If he was discussing free agency, I am sure there is no difficulty in that. What is there in free agency to make Paul say, ‘The Lord will have mercy on whom He will have mercy’? What is there in free agency to make Peter open hiseyes and wonder, and declare that it was ‘hard to be understood?’ What is there in free agency that people could ‘wrest to their own destruction?’”
“What is there in predestination that people can wrest to their destruction?” asked Ernest.
“Why just this,” replied the Doctor: “Men said, and say it to this day, ‘Well, if my destiny is fixed, I shall make no effort to be saved, for I cannot change my destiny; I intend to take my fill of sin.’ That is the way they wrest it to their destruction. Any one who really believes the doctrine of predestination never talks in that way. On the contrary, if he believes that he is one of the elect, he will be the more earnest and diligent in making that election sure.”
“But,” said Ernest, “what is the use of his diligence, if he is one of the elect? He will be saved anyhow.”
“That is the way people talked in Paul’s day,” replied the Doctor, “but I will answer you. Do you not remember that the Lord promised Gideon he should gain the victory with his three hundred men? Why did not Gideon say, ‘if that is so, I shall do nothing;I shall employ no strategy, but I shall wait for the Lord to conquer His enemies.’ When God told Paul, as he was tossed in a frail vessel on the storm-lashed sea, that he and all on board should certainly be saved, why did not the apostle tell the sailors to sit down quietly, and they should all reach the land in safety? Why, the knowledge that they should be saved inspired the crew with hope, and courage to renewed efforts to work out their salvation. This doctrine arouses the believer’s energies, instead of begetting a spirit of indolence and rebellion.”
While the Doctor was speaking, Ernest was slowly turning the pages of the Confession of Faith, as if looking for some particular passage, and at the same time as if paying strict attention to what was said. Just as the preacher closed his last remark, Ernest came to the third chapter and said:
“What does this mean, Doctor?”
“What is it?”
“‘God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His will freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass.’”
“Now,” continued Ernest quickly closingthe book with his thumb between the leaves, “there it is—’ God ordains whatsoever comes to pass.’ It seems there is no exception, murder, sin, robberies and all. Whatever I do, then, good or bad, God ordained it. How am I responsible? If that clause does not destroy man’s free agency, I cannot understand the meaning of words. Surely, Doctor, you do not endorse this book? You do not believe that God is the author of sin?”
The Doctor looked at Ernest in astonishment, smiled, and said:
“Are you certain it says just exactly that?”
“If I can read, it says that.”
“You are like a great many other people,” said the Doctor, “who find fault with the Confession, and jump to conclusions, without really knowing what it does say. Now, if you please, open the book, and read on—read it all—that is the whole paragraph; for you paused in the middle of a sentence.”
Ernest read:
“God from all eternity did, by the most wise and holy counsel of His own will, freely and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass; yet so as thereby neither is God theauthor of sin; nor is violence offered to the will of the creatures, nor is the liberty or contingency of second causes taken away, but rather established.”
“Now, that makes a considerable difference, does it not?” asked the Doctor.
“But it does say, Doctor, that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass. The exceptional clause does not deny this, but simply affirms that God is not the author of sin. But does it not say that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass?”
“Certainly, it does.”
“Every event?”
“Undoubtedly. There is no exception.”
“Well,” said Ernest with a triumphant air, “last week Mr. Jones killed Tom Smith in cold blood. It was deliberate assassination—murder in the first degree. Now, did God ordain that or not?”
“God ordained it in this way: He did not decree that Jones should kill Smith without any connection with other events. But He fore-saw that certain causes would operate so as to culminate in the murder; yet He permitted those causes to operate, for the accomplishment of some wise purpose. The difficultyis, we cannot see things as God does. We consider it as an awful calamity that Jones should kill Smith, when we have no idea what the divine purpose is. The murder was not an isolated circumstance, but it was the legitimate result of certain other causes which the two men themselves might have controlled, so far as their own free agency was concerned. But Jones had murder in his heart, and the Lord permitted him to follow his own inclinations. Now, God fore-saw, from all eternity, that this murder would grow out of other events, yet He determined to permit those events to occur, and in that sense He ordained it. But you, surely, cannot infer that God is the author of the murder. God is not the author of men’s actions. He did not force Jones to kill Smith. But let me ask you a question. Suppose lightning had killed Mr. Smith, instead of Jones’ knife, would you say that God had anything to do with it, or was it a pure accident?”
“It was not an accident,” said Ernest, “in the usual acceptation of the word.”
“You are correct, because with God there is no accident. Well, if the Lord chose to destroy Smith by a knife in the hands of awicked man, instead of lightning, what right have we to cry out, ‘horrible! horrible!’ God sends diseases upon men, and innocent babes and women, and good men are swept off by thousands; shall we accuse the Lord of cruelty and injustice?”
“No; He has the right to do that.”
“And so He has the right to remove His creatures in whatever way He may please,” said the Doctor. “I firmly believe that God ordained the present war—not arbitrarily, though,—not as an isolated circumstance; but it has legitimately grown out of causes that have been working together for years. Men, goaded on to desperation by their own evil passions, meet upon the field and destroy each other. They are conscious that they are acting as free agents. We have no more right then, to impeach divine goodness for permitting this wholesale butchery, than we have for allowing Jones to kill Smith, or some disease to destroy the innocent babe. We make a great mistake by supposing that there ought not to be violent deaths; they are the necessary concomitants of sin, and must ever result from the inexorable law of cause and effect.”
“Well,” said Ernest, “if it was ordainedthat Jones should kill Smith, Jones ought not to be punished for the deed.”
“My dear Captain,” said the Doctor good humoredly, “a lawyer like you, ought not to quibble in that way. The mere fact that God permits crime does not destroy human responsibility. You might just as well say that Judas ought not to have been punished for betraying the Savior. Undoubtedly it was ordained that he should perform that deed of shame; because it was foretold centuries before our Lord’s advent.”
Ernest knew not what reply to make. The Doctor had answered his objections. So he turned the leaves of the book, and said:
“Here is another passage which seems to me to need explanation.”
“What is it?”
Ernest read as follows:
“By the decree of God, for the manifestation of His glory, some men and angels are predestinated unto everlasting life, and others fore-ordained to everlasting death.
“These men and angels, thus predestinated and fore-ordained, are particularly and unchangeably designed and their number is so certain that it cannot be either increased or diminished.”
“That reads rather harsh, does it not?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, sir; it does.”
“And yet it is what the Bible says.”
“Where will I find that?”
“Turn to Romans 9:22-25: ‘What if God, willing to show His wrath, and to make His power known, endured with much long suffering, the vessels of wrath fitted to destruction; and that He might make known the riches of His glory on the vessels of mercy, which He had afore prepared unto glory?’”
“That does seem to teach that there are two classes,” said Ernest.
“Undoubtedly, it does.”
“But it says,” continued Ernest, “that this number is so fixed and certain that it can neither be increased nor diminished.”
“There is surely no difficulty in that,” said the Doctor. “It is a mathematical fact, and would be true, if the Scriptures said nothing about it. Leaving predestination entirely out of the question, that would be true. For on the Day of Judgment, when the destiny of every human being is settled, there will be a certain number saved, and a certain number lost. Now, can the number be increased ordiminished? I never could see why anybody should object to that clause, when it is true according to the doctrine of every religious denomination in the world.”
“Well,” said Ernest laughing, “here is more of this hard doctrine.”
“Let us hear it,” said the Doctor.
Ernest read as follows:
“Those of mankind that are predestinated unto life, God, before the foundation of the world was laid, according to His eternal and immutable purpose, and the secret counsel and good pleasure of His will, out of His mere free grace and love, without any foresight of faith or good works—”
“Yes,” exclaimed Ernest, breaking off suddenly, “there it is—without any foresight of faith or good works—saved arbitrarily.”
Again the Doctor gazed at Ernest in surprise. “My young friend,” said the Doctor, with an amused expression, “you do not pause, for a moment, to reflect what the paragraph does really mean, but you at once jump to unauthorized conclusions.”
“I have read itverbatim,” replied Ernest.
“But you did not read it all. You have read just as our opposers do who give garbledextracts from the Confession, and then draw the most absurd inferences. You stopped in the middle of the sentence. Read it all.”
Ernest read:
“Without any foresight of faith or good works, or perseverance in either of them, or any other thing in the creature, as conditions, or causes moving Him thereunto.”
“The meaning,” said the Doctor, “is that God did not choose His people on account of their faith and good works. Faith itself is the gift of God. All men are in a state of guilt by nature. How, then, could the Lord fore-see faith and good works in any of them, growing out of their evil natures? How could they possibly perform good works without a regenerated heart?”
“For what did He choose them, then?”
“I can answer you only in the language of His own Word, which says, it was ‘according to the good pleasure of His will.’ Certainly, the Lord has some good reason for saving a portion of the human race and rejecting, or rather passing by the rest, but He has nowhere acquainted us with that reason. If election is such a ‘hard’ doctrine, what would have been the result, if God had not madeany choice at all, but left men to follow the bent of their own wills, how many do you suppose would have been saved? The carnal heart is enmity against God. Could men, then have chosen God? Verily not. Christ Himself declares, ‘No man can come unto me, except the Father, which sent me, draw him.’ Do you not see clearly, then, that, without this much-abused doctrine of election, no human being could possibly be saved? It is a doctrine which the Church cannot afford to give up, and it is a doctrine to which every denomination holds in some form. We differ only as to the principle upon which the election is based. We Presbyterians, adhere rigidly to the Bible, and say that God’s choice grows out of His own will and pleasure, while our opposers affirm that it is founded upon the good works of the creature, and thus make salvation a matter of debt, and not of pure, free grace. That is the difference between us, and I leave it to you, with the Bible as your guide, to determine which view is the more Scriptural.”
“There is another thing I should like to ask you about,” said Ernest, feeling that he could produce no further objections.
“What is it? I will answer to the best of my knowledge and ability.”
“I have heard it said that some Presbyterian preachers hold to the view that there are infants in hell ‘not a span long.’”
“Did you ever hear one say such a thing?” asked the Doctor.
“No sir; I never did.”
“And did you ever see anybody that heard a Presbyterian minister preach it?”
“No, sir.”
“No; and you never will,” said the Doctor with emphasis. “That is an old slander without the slightest foundation. We would instantly depose any Presbyterian minister who would dare to make such an assertion. The truth is, we believe that all infants that die are saved.”
“Your Confession says something about infants, does it not, Doctor?”
“O, yes. Give me the book, and I will find it for you. Here it is. Chapter X: ‘Elect infants, dying in infancy, are regenerated and saved by Christ through the Spirit, who worketh when, and where, and how He pleaseth.”
“Elect infants, Doctor? Does not that imply that there are non-elect infants?”
“You can put that construction upon it, if you wish,” said the Doctor; “but the term is explained in several ways. I really do not know which view the framers of the Confession intended we should take. So we are at liberty to construe it in that way which appears most consistent to us.”
“What is your construction?”
“It is this: all mankind are evidently divided into two classes—the elect and the non-elect—the saved and the lost. You believe that, do you not?”
“O, yes; that is true.”
“Well, of course, the non-elect are sinners in their infancy as well as in after life. In that sense there are non-elect infants; but we do not believe that any of them die in infancy.”
“But how do you know that they do not?”
“Because Christ says, that ‘of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”
“According to your view, then,” said Ernest, “there are non-elect infants, but they do not die in infancy?”
“Exactly,” replied the Doctor. “But there is another explanation. Some say the framers of the Confession put in the word‘elect’ not to divide infants into two classes, but to show upon what principle they are saved; they areelectedto salvation. You know, John uses the expression, ‘the elect lady’ and her sister. This certainly would not mean that there was a non-elect lady. Again, in the form for the baptism of infants in the Methodist Discipline, the minister prays that ‘this child may be numbered among the elect children of God.’ We would not, of course, insist that the Methodists believe that there arenon-electchildren. Some say that the Confession means by ‘elect infants,’ just what the Methodists do in their form of baptism. But after all, the Presbyterian Church is the only one probably whose doctrine does consistently save infants. We declare they are saved byelection. If not, tell me how they can be saved? They cannot repent and believe as adults do. Then do you not see, if they are notelectedby a merciful Father, they must be lost forever?”
“Upon my word,” quickly and honestly exclaimed Ernest, “I had never looked at the subject in that light. You have taught me something I never knew before.”
“I am glad,” replied the Doctor, “if I have helped you out of any difficulty.”
“I candidly acknowledge, Doctor, that the more I study this deep subject, the more reasonable and Scriptural it seems.”
And here the discussion ended for that day. Ernest, seeing Mildred walking in the yard and clipping flowers, vacated his seat and joined her. The Doctor looked at him, as he left, and a perceptible smile stole over his benevolent face.
“OFF TO THE WARS.”
The next day Ernest and the Doctor were alone in the study. The former seemed to be a little restless, like a man who wishes to say something, but knows not how to begin; the latter was tranquil as usual, poring over his theological books. Ernest would try to read, and then glance up uneasily at the calm old man upon whose open face God had put the seal of honesty. Ernest became fidgety. But presently he spoke:
“Will you give me your attention just a moment, Doctor?”
“Certainly; I am at your service,” replied the Doctor, laying his open book on the table.
“You believe the Confession of Faith?” asked Ernest with a merry twinkle, which escaped the preacher’s notice.
“Undoubtedly, I do.”
“Yesterday you said you believed that God ordained whatsoever comes to pass.”
“Yes, I believe that, too.”
“Without exception?”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, unsuspiciously.
“Well, then,” said Ernest, casting his eyes to the floor, “Miss Mildred has agreed to become Mrs. Edgefield, when this ‘cruel war is over.’ If the Lord has ordained that, you will, of course, offer no objection.”
The old minister broke out into a hearty laugh in which he was joined by Ernest.
“That is a clever turning of the table, my young friend,” said the Doctor pleasantly. “But all that is really ordained is that she has agreed to the arrangement.”
“Yes sir, that is all.”
“I mean so far as we actually know. We know not what God has in store for any of us. I believe that the Lord directs every Christian in his affairs. If you have won Mildred’s heart, I shall offer no objection to your union whenever it may please her to consummate it. These are very uncertain times, and the good Lord only knows what may become of any of us.”
“We can but hope, sir,” said Ernest.
“Hope and pray,” replied the Doctor.
Ernest was now happy and unhappy—a thrilling contradiction which all will understandwho have been in the same condition. He must leave in a few hours. Would he ever return? There lay before him the prospect of a long and bloody war. How many battles like that of Bull Run could he go through, and escape with his life? He had already been severely wounded in the first fight in which he had been engaged. The chances seemed to be against him. Yet did not God control the events of battle? Could He not save and protect whom He would? Something similar to this the Doctor said to Ernest the morning he was to rejoin his command.
“The doctrine which we have several times discussed,” said the Doctor, “has always proved to be a source of great comfort to me, and it will be to you, if you can believe it. Just think that your destiny is in God’s hands, and what need you fear? It is this that makes Jackson theStonewallthat the lamented Bee called him with his dying breath. I am told that Jackson is almost a fatalist. But, whatever may be his doctrinal errors, he is a firm believer in God’s sovereignty. The consequence is, he is afraid of nothing.”
“But are there not men as brave as he is, who do not believe this doctrine?” asked Ernest.
“Yes, in one sense. I do not mean to say that men are lacking in courage who reject the doctrine which we have discussed. But there is something in Jackson which is more than courage. It is his sublime, inflexible faith. There are numbers of men who will go unflinchingly into any of the dangers of battle, but they are animated by a spirit of desperation, by human feelings, such as pride, ambition, and the like. But Jackson puts himself unreservedly in the hands of God, and accepts whatever comes without a murmur. He knows that he can never be killed till God speaks the word, and it is this firm belief that gives such adamantine solidity to his grand and exalted character.”
That morning when all knelt around the family altar, it was a most solemn and affecting scene. Ernest was now regarded as one of the family. The Doctor read a portion of Scripture suitable to the occasion, and they sang with quivering voices three or four stanzas of that familiar old hymn, which seems destined to go sounding down through all the ages till the last of the redeemed are gathered home: