"'Tis easier for the generous to forgiveThan for offence to ask it."—Thomson.
"'Tis easier for the generous to forgiveThan for offence to ask it."—Thomson.
"'Tis easier for the generous to forgiveThan for offence to ask it."—Thomson.
—Thomson.
Theonly noteworthy incident of the journey of our friends took place at New Orleans, where they halted for a few days of rest to all, and sight-seeing on the part of the young people.
Mr. Horace Dinsmore, who had some business matters to attend to in connection with Elsie's property in the city, was hurrying back to his hotel one afternoon, when a beggar accosted him, asking for a little help, holding out a very forlorn hat to receive it.
There seemed something familiar in the voice, and Mr. Dinsmore stopped and looked earnestly at its owner.
A seamed, scarred face, thin, cadaverous, framed in with unkempt hair and scraggy beard—an attenuated form clothed in rags—these were what met his view, surely for the first time, for there was nothing familiar about either.
No, not for the first time; for, with a start of recognition and a muttered curse, the mendicant dropped his hat, then stooped, hastilysnatched it from the ground, and rushed away down an alley.
"Ah, I know you now!" cried Mr. Dinsmore, giving instant pursuit.
He could not be mistaken in the peculiarly maimed hand stretched out to regain the hat.
Its owner fled as if for his life, but, weak from disease and famine, could not distance his pursuer.
At last, finding the latter close at his heels, he stopped and faced him, leaning, panting and trembling, against a wall.
"George Boyd, is it you? reduced to such a condition as this!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, eying him searchingly.
"You've mistaken your man, sir," panted the fugitive. "My name's Brown—Sam Brown at your service."
"Then why did you run away from me?" coolly inquired the gentleman. "No, I cannot mistake that hand," pointing to the maimed member.
"And you'd like to hang me, I suppose," returned the other bitterly. "But I don't believe you could do it here. Beside, what's the use? I'll not cumber the ground much longer, can't you see that? Travilla himself," he added, with a fierce oath, "can hardly wish me anything worse than I've come to. I'm literally starving—can hardly get enough food to keepsoul and body together from one day to another."
"Then come with me and I will feed you," Mr. Dinsmore said, his whole soul moved with pity for the miserable wretch. "Yonder is a restaurant; let us go there, and I will pay for all you can eat."
"You don't mean it?" cried Boyd in incredulous surprise.
"I do; every word of it. Will you come?"
"A strange question to ask a starving man. Of course I will; only too gladly."
They crossed the street, entered the eating-house, and Mr. Dinsmore ordered a substantial meal set before Boyd. He devoured it with wolfish voracity, his entertainer watching him for a moment, then turning away in pained disgust.
Time after time plate and cup were filled and emptied, but at last he declared his appetite fully satisfied. Mr. Dinsmore paid the reckoning, and they passed out into the street together.
"Well, sir," said Boyd, "I'm a thousand times obliged. Shall be more so if you will accommodate me with a small loan—or gift if you like, for I haven't a cent in the world."
"How much do you think you deserve at my hands?" asked Mr. Dinsmore somewhat severely, for the request seemed to him a bold one under the circumstances.
"I leave that to your generosity, sir," was the cool reply.
"Which you expect to be great enough to allow you to escape the justice that should have been meted out to you years ago?"
"I've never harmed a hair of your head nor of any one belonging to you; though I owe a heavy scare to both you and Travilla," was the insolent rejoinder.
"No, your imprisonment was the due reward of your lawless and cruel deeds."
"Whatever I may have done," retorted the wretch with savage ferocity, "it was nothing compared to the injury inflicted upon me. I suffered inconceivable torture. Look at me and judge if I do not speak the truth; look at these fearful scars, these almost blinded eyes." He finished with a torrent of oaths and curses directed at Travilla.
"Stop!" said Mr. Dinsmore authoritatively, "you are speaking against the sainted dead, and he entirely innocent of the cause of your sufferings."
"What! is he dead? When? where? how did he die?"
"At Ion, scarce two months ago, calmly, peacefully, trusting with undoubting faith in the atoning blood of Christ."
Boyd stood leaning against the outer wall of the restaurant; he was evidently very weak; heseemed awe-struck, and did not speak again for a moment; then, "I did not know it," he said in a subdued tone. "So he's gone! And his wife? She was very fond of him."
"She was indeed. She is in this city with her family, on her way to Viamede."
"I'm sorry for her; never had any grudge against her," said Boyd. "And my aunt?"
"Is still living and in good health, but beginning to feel the infirmities of age. She has long mourned for you as worse than dead. You look ill able to stand; let me help you to your home."
"Home? I have none." There was a mixture of scorn and despair in the tones.
"But you must have some lodging place?"
"Yes, sometimes it is a door-step, sometimes a pile of rotten straw in a filthy cellar. On second thoughts, Dinsmore, I rather wish you'd have me arrested and lodged in jail," he added with a bitter laugh. "I'd at least have a bed to lay my weary limbs upon, and something to eat. And before the trial was over I'd be beyond the reach of any heavier penalty."
"Of human law," added Mr. Dinsmore significantly, "but do not forget that after death comes the judgment. No, Boyd; I feel no resentment toward you, and since your future career in this world is evidently very short, I donot feel called upon to deliver you up to human justice. Also, for your aunt's sake especially, I am inclined to give you some assistance. I will therefore give you the means to pay for a decent lodging to-night, and to-morrow will see what further can be done, if you will let me know where to find you."
Time and place were fixed upon, money enough to pay for bed and breakfast was given to Boyd, and they parted company, Mr. Dinsmore hastening on his way to his hotel—the very best the city afforded—with a light, free step, while Boyd slowly dragged himself to a very humble lodging in a narrow, dirty street near at hand.
Mr. Dinsmore found his whole party gathered in their private parlor and anxiously awaiting his coming. As he entered there was a general exclamation of relief and pleasure on the part of the ladies and his father, and a joyous shout from Rosie and Walter as each hastened to claim a seat upon his knee.
"My dears, grandpa is tired," said their mother.
"Not too tired for this," he said, caressing them with all a father's fondness.
"Are you not late, my dear?" asked his wife; "we were beginning to feel a trifle anxious about you."
"Rather, I believe. I will explain the cause at another time," he said pleasantly.
Tea was brought in, family worship followed the meal, and shortly after that Elsie retired with her little ones to see them to bed; the others drew round the table, each with book or work, Harold pushing Molly's chair up near the light; and Mr. Dinsmore, seating himself beside his wife, on a distant sofa, gave her in subdued tones an account of his interview with Boyd.
"Poor wretch!" she sighed, "what can we do for him? It is too dreadful to think of his dying as he has lived."
"It is, indeed! We will consult with Elsie as to what can be done."
"The very mention of his name must be a pain to her; can she not be spared it?"
"I will consider that question. You know I would not willingly pain her," he said, with a tenderly affectionate glance at his daughter as she re-entered the room; then rising he paced the floor, as was his habit when engaged in deep or perplexing thought.
Elsie watched him a little anxiously, but without remark until all the others had retired, leaving her alone with him and Rose.
Then going to him where he sat, in a large easy chair beside the table, looking over the evening paper, "Papa," she said, laying her hand affectionately on his arm, "I fear you are finding my affairs troublesome."
"No, my dear child, not at all," he answered,throwing down the paper and drawing her to a seat upon his knee.
"It seems quite like old, old times," she said with a smile, gazing lovingly into his eyes, then stealing an arm about his neck and laying her cheek to his.
"Yes," he said, fondling her; "why should I not have you here as I used to twenty odd years ago? You are no larger or heavier nor I a whit less strong and vigorous than we were then."
"How thankful I am for that last," she returned, softly stroking his face, "and it is very pleasant occasionally to imagine myself your own little girl again. But something is giving you anxiety, my dear father. Is it anything in which I can assist you?"
"Yes; but I fear I can hardly explain without calling up painful memories."
He felt her start slightly, and a low-breathed sigh met his ear.
"Still say on, dear papa," she whispered tremulously.
"Can you bear it?" he asked; "not for me, but for another—an enemy."
"Yes, the Lord will give me strength. Of whom do you speak?"
"George Boyd."
"The would-be murderer of my husband!" she exclaimed, with a start and shiver, while thetears coursed freely down her cheeks. "I thought him long since dead."
"No, I met him this evening, but so worn and altered by disease and famine, so seamed and scarred by Aunt Dicey's scalding shower, that I recognized him only by the mutilated right hand. Elsie, the man is reduced to the lowest depths of poverty and shame, and evidently very near his end."
"Papa, what would you have me do?" she asked in quivering tones.
"Could you bear to have him removed to Viamede? could you endure his presence there for the few weeks he has yet to live?"
She seemed to have a short struggle with herself, then the answer came in low, agitated tones.
"Yes, if neither my children nor I need look upon him or hold any communication with him."
"That would not be at all necessary," her father answered, holding her close to his heart. "And indeed I could not consent to it myself. He is a loathsome creature both morally and physically; yet for his aunt's sake, and still more for His sake who bids us 'Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you,' I shall gladly do all in my power for the wretched prodigal. And who can tell but there may yet be mercy in store for him? God's mercy and power are infinite, and He has 'no pleasure in the death of him that dieth,' butwould rather that he turn from his evil way and live."
There was a little pause, then Elsie asked if her father had arranged any plans in regard to Boyd's removal.
"Yes," he said, "subject of course to your approval. I have thought it would be well to send him on at once and let him be settled in his quarters before the arrival of our own party. You must decide what room he is to occupy."
She named one situated in a wing of the mansion, and quite distant from the apartments which would be used by the family.
"What more, papa?" she asked.
"He must have an attendant—a nurse. And shall we not write to his aunt, inviting her to come and be with him while he lives? remain through the winter with us, if she can find it convenient and agreeable to do so?"
"Yes, oh yes! poor dear Mrs. Carrington; it will be but a melancholy pleasure to her. But I think if any one can do him good it will be she. I will write at once."
"Not to-night; it is too late; you are looking weary, and I want you to go at once to bed. To-morrow morning will be time enough for the letter."
"What, sending me to bed, papa!" she said with a slightly amused smile. "I must be indeed your little girl again. Well, I will obey as Iused to in the olden time, for I still believe you know what is best for me. So good-night, my dear, dear father!"
"Good-night, my darling," he responded, caressing her with all the old, fatherly tenderness. "May God bless and keep you and your dear children."
"She led me first to God;Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew."—Pierpont.
"She led me first to God;Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew."—Pierpont.
"She led me first to God;Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew."—Pierpont.
—Pierpont.
Elsie'sletter to Mrs. Carrington was despatched by the first morning mail, and directly after breakfast Mr. Dinsmore went in search of Boyd.
Hardened as the man was, he showed some sense of gratitude toward the new-made widow of his intended victim, when informed of her kind intentions toward himself; some remorse for his attempt to injure him whom she had so dearly loved.
"It is really a great deal more than I had the least right to expect even for my aunt's sake," he said. "Why, sir, it will be like getting out of hell into heaven!"
"It is not for Mrs. Carrington's sake alone, or principally—strong as is the tie of friendship between them," replied Mr. Dinsmore, "but rather for the sake of the Master she loves and serves, and who bids His followers return good for evil."
"Cant!" sneered Boyd to himself: then aloud, "Well, sir, I wish it were in my power to make some suitable return to Mrs. Travilla;but that can never be, and unfortunately I cannot even undo the past."
"No; and that is a thought which might well deter us from evil deeds. Now the next thing is to provide you with a bath, decent clothing, and suitable attendant, and get you and him aboard the boat, which leaves a few hours hence."
All this was done and Mr. Dinsmore returned to his daughter with a satisfactory report to that effect.
Their party remained a few days longer in the Crescent City, then embarked for Viamede, where they arrived in due season, having met with no accident or detention by the way.
As on former occasions, they were joyfully welcomed by the old servants; but many tears mingled with the rejoicings, for Mr. Travilla had been greatly beloved by all, and they wept for both their own loss and that of their "dear bressed Missus," as they were wont to call her whom his death had widowed.
She was much overcome at the first, memory vividly recalling former arrivals when he—her dearest earthly friend—was by her side, giving her the support of his loved presence and sharing her happiness.
Her thoughts dwelt particularly upon the glad days of their honeymoon; and she seemed to see herself again a loved, loving, cherishedbride, now wandering with him through the beautiful orange groves or over the velvety, flower-bespangled lawn, now seated by his side in the veranda, the parlor, the library, or on some rustic seat under the grand old trees, his arm encircling her waist, his eyes looking tenderly into hers; or it might be gliding over the waters of the lakelet or galloping or driving through the woods, everywhere and always the greatest delight of each the love and companionship of the other.
Ah, how often she now caught herself listening for the sound of his voice, his step, waiting, longing to feel the touch of his hand! Could she ever cease to do so?—ever lose that weary homesickness of heart that at times seemed almost more than mortal strength could endure?
But she had more than mortal strength to sustain her; the everlasting arms were underneath and around her, the love that can never die, never change, was her unfailing support and consolation.
She indulged in no spirit of repining, no nursing of her grief, but gave herself with cheerful earnestness to every good work: the careful, prayerful instruction and training of her children as her first duty; then kindly attentions to her old grandfather, to parents and guests; after that the care of house servants, field hands, and the outside poor of the vicinity,neglecting neither their bodies nor their souls; also helping the cause of Christ in both her own and foreign lands, with untiring efforts, earnest, believing prayer, and liberal gifts, striving to be a faithful steward of the ample means God had committed to her trust, and rejoicing in the ability to relieve the wants of His people, and to assist in spreading abroad the glad news of salvation through faith in Christ.
There was no gayety at Viamede that winter, but the atmosphere of the house was eminently cheerful, its walls often echoing to the blithe voices and merry laughter of the children; never checked or reproved by mamma; the days gliding peacefully by, in a varied round of useful and pleasant employment and delightful recreation that left no room forennui—riding, driving, walking, boating for all, and healthful play for the children.
Lester Leland had been heard from, was well, and wrote in so hopeful a strain that the heart of his affianced grew light and joyous. She was almost ashamed to find she could be so happy without the dear father so lately removed.
Her mother reassured her on that point: it was right for her to be as happy as she could; it was what her papa would have highly approved and wished; and then in being so and allowing it to be perceived by those around her, she would add to their enjoyment.
"We are told to 'rejoice in the Lord always,'" concluded the mother, "and a Christian's heart should never be the abode of gloom and sadness."
"Dear mamma, what an unfailing comfort and blessing you are to me and to all your children," cried the young girl. "Oh, I do thank God every day for my mother's dear love, my mother's wise counsels!"
It was very true, and to mamma each one of the six—or we might say seven, for Edward did the same by letter—carried every trouble, great or small, every doubt, fear, and perplexity.
No two of them were exactly alike in disposition—each required a little different management from the others—but attentively studying each character and asking wisdom from above, the mother succeeded wonderfully well in guiding and controlling them.
In this her father assisted her, and she was most careful and decided in upholding his authority, never in any emergency opposing hers to it.
"Mamma," said Harold, coming to her one day in her dressing-room, "Herbie is in trouble with grandpa."
"I am very sorry," she said with a look of concern, "but if so it must be by his own fault; your grandpa's commands are never unreasonable."
"No, I suppose not, mamma," Harold returneddoubtfully, "but Herbie is having a very hard time over his Latin lesson, and says he can't learn it: it is too difficult. Mamma," with some hesitation, "if you would speak to grandpa perhaps he would let him off this once."
"Do you think that would be a good plan?" she asked with a slight smile. "Herbert's great fault is lack of perseverance; he is too easily discouraged, too ready to give up and say 'I can't.' Do you think it would be really kind to indulge him in doing so?"
"Perhaps not, mamma; but I feel very sorry to see him in such distress. Grandpa has forbidden him to leave the school-room or to have anything to eat but bread and milk till he can recite his lesson quite perfectly. And we had planned to go fishing this afternoon, if you should give permission, mamma."
"My son," she said with an affectionate look into the earnest face of the pleader, "I am glad to see your sympathy and love for your brother, but I think your grandpa loves him quite as well and knows far better what is for his good, and I cannot interfere between them; my children must all be as obedient and submissive to my father as they are to me."
"Yes, mamma, I know, and indeed we never disobey him. How could we when papa bade us not? and made him our guardian, too?"
Mrs. Travilla sat thinking for a moment afterHarold had gone, then rose and went to the school-room.
Herbert sat there alone, idly drumming on his desk, the open book pushed aside. His face was flushed and wore a very disconsolate and slightly sullen expression.
He looked up as his mother came in, but dropped his eyes instantly, blushing and ashamed.
"Mamma," he stammered, "I—I can't learn this lesson, it's so very hard, and I'm so tired of being cooped up here. Mayn't I go out and have a good run before I try any more?"
"If your grandpa gives permission; not otherwise."
"But he won't; and it's a hateful old lesson! and Ican'tlearn it!" he cried with angry impatience.
"My boy, you are grieving your mother very much," she said, sitting down beside him and laying her cool hand on his heated brow.
"O mamma, I didn't mean to do that!" he cried, throwing his arms about her neck. "I do love you dearly, dearly."
"I believe it, my son," she said, returning his caress, "but I want you to prove it by being obedient to your kind grandpa as well as to me, and by trying to conquer your faults."
"Mamma, I haven't been naughty—only I can't learn such hard lessons as grandpa gives."
"My son, I know you do not mean to be untruthful, but to say that you cannot learn your lesson is really not the truth; the difficulty is not so much in the ability as in the will. And are you not indulging a naughty temper?"
"Mamma," he said, hanging his head, "you don't know how hard Latin is."
"Why, what do you mean, my son?" she asked in surprise; "you certainly know that I have studied Latin."
"Yes, mamma, but wasn't it easier for you to learn than it is for me?"
"I think not," she said with a smile, "though I believe I had more real love for study and was less easily conquered by difficulties; and yet—shall I tell you a little secret?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, please do!" he answered, turning a bright, interested face to hers.
"Well, I disliked Latin at first, and did not want to study it. I should have coaxed very hard to be excused from doing so, but that Idarednot, because my papa had strictly forbidden me to coax or tease after he had given his decision; and he had said Latin was to be one of my studies. There was one day, though, that I cried over my lesson and insisted that I could not learn it."
"And what did grandpa do to you?" he asked with great interest.
"Treated me just as he does you—told me Imustlearn it, and that I could not dine with him and mamma or leave my room until I knew it. And, my boy, I see now that he was wise and kind, and I have often been thankful since that he was so firm and decided with me."
"But did you learn it?"
"Yes; nor did it take me long when once I gave my mind to it with determination. That is exactly what you need to do. The great fault of your disposition is lack of energy and perseverance, a fault grandpa and I must help you to conquer, or you will never be of much use in the world."
"But, mamma, it seems to me I shall not need to do much when I'm a man," he remarked a little shamefacedly; "haven't you a great deal of money to give us all?"
"It may be all gone before you are grown up," she said gravely. "I shall be glad to lose it if its possession is to be the ruin of my sons. But I do not intend to let any of you live in idleness, for that would be a sin, because our talents must be improved to the utmost and used in God's service, whether we have much or little money or none at all. Therefore each of my boys must study a profession or learn some handicraft by which he can earn his own living or make money to use in doing good.
"Now I am going to leave you," she added, rising, "and if you do not want to give me a sadheart you will set to work at that lesson with a will, and soon have it ready to recite to your grandpa."
"Mamma, I will, to please you," he returned, drawing the book toward him.
"Do it to please God, your kind heavenly Father, even more than to make me happy," she answered, laying her hand caressingly on his head.
"Mamma, what is the text that says it will please Him?" he asked, looking up inquiringly, for it had always been a habit with her to enforce her teachings with a passage of Scripture.
"There are a great many that teach it more or less directly," she said; "we are to be diligent in business, to improve our talents and use them in God's service; children are to obey their parents; and both your grandpa and I have directed you to learn that lesson."
"Mamma, I will do my very best," he said cheerfully, and she saw as she left the room that he was really trying to redeem the promise.
An hour later he came to her with a very bright face, to say that grandpa had pronounced his recitation quite perfect and released him from confinement.
Her pleased look, her smile, her kiss were a sweet reward and a strong incentive to continuance in well-doing.
"To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them."—Isaiah8:20.
"To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them."
—Isaiah8:20.
Someyears before this Elsie had built a little church on the plantation, entirely at her own expense, for the use of her dependents and of her own family when sojourning at Viamede. The membership was composed principally of blacks.
A few miles distant was another small church of the same denomination, attended by the better class of whites; planters and their families.
To these two congregations conjointly Mr. Mason had ministered for a long while, preaching to the one in the morning, to the other in the afternoon of each Sabbath.
He had, however, been called to another field of labor, a few weeks previous to the arrival of our friends, leaving the two congregations pastorless, and the pretty cottage built for him at Viamede without a tenant.
Still they were not entirely without the preaching of the word, now one and now another coming to supply the pulpits for a Sunday or two.
At present they were filled by a young minister who came as a candidate, and whose services had been engaged for several weeks.
Elsie and her family were paying no visits now in this time of mourning, but nothing but sickness, or a very severe storm, ever kept them from church. They attended both services, and in the evening the older ones gathered about the table in the library with their Bibles, and, withCruden'sConcordance and other helps at hand, spent an hour or more in the study of the word.
"Mamma," said little Rosie, one Sunday as they were walking slowly homeward from the nearer church, "why don't we have a minister that believes the Bible?"
"My child, don't you think Mr. Jones believes it?"
"No, mamma," most emphatically, "because he contradicts it; he said there's only one devil, and my Bible says Jesus cast out devils—seven out of Mary Magdalen, and ever so many out of one man, besides other ones out of other folks."
"And last Sunday, when he was preaching about Jonah, he said it was a wicked and foolish practice to cast lots," remarked Harold, "while the Bible tells us that the Lord commanded the Israelites to divide their land by lot, and that the apostles cast lots to choose a successor to Judas."
"Yes," said Violet, "and when Achan had sinned, didn't they cast lots to find out who it was that troubled Israel?"
"And to choose a king in the days of theprophet Samuel," added their older sister. "How strange that any one should say it was a foolish and wicked practice!"
"I don't think his mother can have brought him up on the Bible as ours does us," remarked Herbert.
"Mamma, which are we to believe," asked Rosie, "the minister or the Bible?"
"Bring everything to the test of scripture," answered the mother's gentle voice. "'To the law and the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them.' I want you to have great respect for the ministry, yet never to receive any man's teachings when you find them opposed to those of God's holy word."
When the Bibles were brought out that evening, Isa proposed that they should take up the question of the correctness of that assertion of Mr. Jones which had led Rosie to doubt his belief in the inspiration of the Scriptures.
"Yes, let us do so," said her uncle. "It is an interesting subject."
"Yes, I think it is," said Molly; "but do you consider it a question of any importance, uncle?"
"I do; no Bible truth can be unimportant. 'All scripture is by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: that theman of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works.' And if we have spiritual foes we surely need to know it, that we may be on our guard against them."
"And we have not been left without warning against them," observed old Mr. Dinsmore. "'Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.' How absurd the idea that principalities and powers can mean but one creature!"
"David prays, 'Lead me in a plain path because of mine enemies'; and again, 'Lead me, O Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies, make thy way straight before my face,'" said Mrs. Travilla. "It seems evident to me that it was spiritual foes he meant; that he feared to be left a prey to their temptations, their deceit, the snares and traps they would set for his soul."
"Undoubtedly," returned her father. "On any other supposition some of the psalms would seem to be very bloodthirsty and unchristian."
"I rather took Mr. Jones to task about it as we came out of church," said old Mr. Dinsmore, "and he maintained that he was in the right on the ground that the name devil comes from theGreek Diabolos, which is applied only to the prince of the devils."
"And what of that?" said his son; "the Hebrew name, Satan, has the very same signification—an adversary, an accuser, calumniator or slanderer—and Christ called the devils he had just cast out, Satan: 'How can Satan cast out Satan? If Satan rise up against himself, and be divided, he cannot stand.' If they are so like him, so entirely one with him, as to be called himself—and that by Him who has all knowledge and who is the Truth—I cannot see that there is any occasion to deny them the name of devil, or anything to be gained by doing so; while on the other hand there is danger of positive harm, as it seems to throw doubt and discredit upon our English translation."
"A very serious responsibility to assume, since the vast majority of the people must depend upon it," remarked Mrs. Travilla. "I think any one who makes the assertion we are discussing should give a very full explanation and strong warning against the lesser evil spirits we call devils. 'If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?'"
"Yes," said her father, "and I have very strong faith in the learning, wisdom and piety of the translators."
"Is Satan a real person? and were the devils whom Christ and his disciples cast out, real persons?"asked Isadore. "I have heard people talk of Satan as if he were an imaginary creature, a myth; and of the others, with which persons were possessed in those days, as probably nothing more than bad tempers."
"'To the law and to the testimony,'" replied her uncle, opening his Bible. "We will consider your questions in the order in which they were asked. 'Is Satan a real person?' There can be no difficulty in proving it to any one who believes the Bible to be the inspired word of God; the difficulty is rather in selecting from the multitude of texts that teach it."
Some time was now spent in searching out, with the help of Bible Text Book and Concordance, a very long list of texts bearing on the question—giving the titles, the character and the doings of Satan; showing that he sinned against God, was cast out of heaven; down to hell; that he was the author of the fall; that he perverts scripture; opposes God's work; hinders the Gospel; works lying wonders; that he tempted Christ; is a liar and the father of lies; is a murderer; yet appears as an angel of light.
"Here," said Mr. Dinsmore, "is a summing-up of what he is, by Cruden, who was without question a thorough Bible scholar; and remember, as I read it, that the description applies not to Satan alone, but also to those wicked spirits under him. 'He is surprisingly subtile; hisstrength is superior to ours, his malice is deadly; his activity and diligence are equal to his malice; and he has a mighty number of principalities and powers under his command!'"
"Yes," said old Mr. Dinsmore, meditatively, "'the rulers of the darkness of this world,' the word is plural: it seems there must be several orders of them, composing a mighty host."
"I find both my queries already fully answered," said Isa.
"Nevertheless, let us look a little farther into that second question," her uncle answered. "I will give the references as before, while the rest of you turn to and read them."
When this had been done, "Now," said he, "let us sum up the evidence as to their personality, character, works, and right to the name of devil."
"As to the first they sinned: hell is prepared for them: they believe and tremble: they spoke: knew Christ and testified to his divinity, 'Jesus, thou son of God.' 'I know thee who thou art, the Holy One of God.' Wicked tempers could not do any of these things. As to the second, their character, they are called in the Bible 'unclean spirits,' foul spirits; and since Christ called them Satan himself, the description of his character, as I have before remarked, is a faithful description of theirs also. This last proves also their right to the title of devil. The scripture—Christhimself—calls them the devil's angels, his messengers; for that is the meaning of angel, they do Satan's behests, go on his errands and help him in the work of destroying souls and tempting and tormenting those whom they cannot destroy.—Well, Vi, what is it?" For she had given him a perplexed, troubled look.
"There is just one difficulty that I see, grandpa. Here in Jude we are told, 'And the Angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day.' The apostle Peter says the same thing. My difficulty is to reconcile this statement with the other teaching—that they are going about the world on their wicked, cruel errands."
"To the law and to the testimony," repeated Mr. Dinsmore. "Since the infallible word of God makes both statements, we must believe both, whether we can reconcile them or not; but I doubt not we shall be able to do so if we diligently search the word with prayer for the teachings of the Holy Spirit."
He then offered a short, fervent petition to that end; after which they resumed their investigation.
"Let us remember," he said, "that the same word often has many significations, and that hellmay be a state or condition rather than a place—I mean that the word may be sometimes used in that sense: so with chains and with darkness."
"We use the expression, 'the chains of habit,'" suggested his daughter; "a spirit could not be bound with a material chain; but in Proverbs we are told, 'His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.' Think of the awful wickedness and utter despair of those lost spirits—no space for repentance, no hope or possibility of salvation—and I think we have chains on them of fearful weight and strength."
"The cords of sin are the consequences of crimes and bad habits. Sin never goes unpunished, and the bad habits contracted are, as it were, indissoluble bands from which it is impossible to get free," read Mr. Dinsmore from the Concordance, adding, "and to those lost spirits it isutterlyimpossible; yes, here in their wicked tempers, malignant desires and utter despair, we have, I think, the chains that bind them."
"But the darkness, grandpa?" queried Harold.
"We are coming to that. Cruden tells us here that darkness sometimes signifies great distress, perplexity and calamity; as in Isa. 8:22, Joel 2:2. Sometimes sin or impurity, 1 John 1:5. The devil have all these; how great is their sin, how great must be their distress and anguish in the sure prospect of eternal destruction fromthe presence of God, eternal torment! dense and fearful must it be beyond the power of words to express! They are darkness, for our Saviour calls the exercise of Satan's power 'the power of darkness.' 'This is your hour and the power of darkness.' By the gates of hell, Matt. 16:18, is meant the power and policy of the devil and his instruments. It would seem that they carry their chains, their darkness, their hell with them wherever they go. And now for the application, the lesson we should learn from all this: what do you think it is, Harold?"
"That we should be constantly on our guard against the wiles of these adversaries, is it not, sir?"
"Yes, and ever looking to the captain of our salvation for strength and wisdom to do so effectually."
"Putting on the whole armor of God," added old Mr. Dinsmore; "the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the spirit which is the word of God. What else, Herbert?"
"The breast-plate of righteousness, sir; and the loins are to be girt about with truth, the feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace."
"There is yet another lesson," said Mrs. Travilla, her face all aglow with holy joy and love, "how it should quicken our zeal for the Master, our gratitude, our joy and love, when we thinkof his salvation offered to us as his free gift the purchase of his own blood, when he might justly have left us in the same awful state of horror and despair that is the portion of the angels that sinned. And how should we cling to him who alone is able to keep us from falling into the traps and snares they are constantly spreading for our unwary feet. Ah, my dear children, there is no safety but in keeping close to Christ!"
"But there we are safe," added her father: "'he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him.' He says of his sheep, 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' He saves his people from sin, from hell and destruction."
"Can't we find some texts about the good angels?" asked little Rosie, who had been permitted to sit up beyond her usual bedtime to share in the Bible lesson.
"Yes," said her grandpa, "we may be thankful for them, because they are kind and good and loving, taking delight in our salvation and in ministering to God's people, as they did to the Master when on earth. Which of you can name some instances given in the Bible?"
"One fed Elijah when he fled from wicked Jezebel," answered Rosie, promptly.
"They carried Lazarus to heaven," said Herbert.
"And stopped the lions' mouths when they would have eaten Daniel," added Harold.
The others went on, "One comforted Paul when he was in danger of shipwreck."
"One delivered Peter from prison."
"Now who can quote a promise or assurance that we, if the true children of God, shall have help or protection from them?"
"'He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone!'" repeated the younger Elsie, and her mother added in low, sweet tones, full of joy and thankfulness, "'The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.' Is it not a sweet assurance?" she exclaimed: "he is not a transient visitor, but encamps as intending to remain; and not upon one side alone, leaving the others exposed to the enemy, but round about. Blessed are they who have the Lord of hosts for their Keeper!"
They united in a song of praise, old Mr. Dinsmore led in prayer, then with an exchange of affectionate good-nights they separated.
"Mamma," said the younger Elsie, lingering for a little in her mother's boudoir, "to-night's study of the word has done me good. I want to live nearer to Jesus, to love him more, to serve him better."
"I too," said Violet. "I want to give himthe service of my whole heart and life, time, talents, money, everything!"
"It rejoices my heart to hear it, my darlings," the mother answered, folding them in her arms, while glad tears shone in her eyes; "it is what I desire above all things for you, for all my dear ones, and for myself."