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THE YOUNG GRADUATE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not, Mr. Vanclure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should endeavor to overcome your opposition.”

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

In this way the old man gave his consent.

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

Pallor in ore sedet, macies in corpore toto,

Nusquam recta acies; livent rubigine dentes,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you do that in any case, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you do not seem to like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You cannot regard God then as your friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I certainty do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not understand you,” said Ernest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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