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A GREAT CHANGE.

It is sometimes the case that we have premonitions that vaguely forewarn us of approaching ill fortune. Not a cloud appears above the horizon of our life, and yet we instinctively shrink from an undefinable something that seems to reach far out in advance of the shadow of coming events. Probably there are powers in the human mind whose development has been prevented by the dread of superstition. The animal seeks shelter from the approaching storm before man has discovered the slightest indication of atmospheric disturbance, or whatever it may be that warns the unreasoning brute of impending danger. May there not be some similar delicate instinct in man that perceives the advancing peril while it is still below the horizon of reality? Who knows? Or discarding human philosophy as insufficient to furnish a solution, may we not regard this shadowy mene tekel upharsin as an emanation from a supernatural source? Men are so skeptical and incredulous and so afraid of “superstition” that they will attribute incomprehensible events to any cause rather than divine interposition. Some assume that miracles never have been performed; and others, that the days of miracles have passed away, and in consequence of this assumption, they ascribe nothing to the hand of Omnipotence. Evolution, correlated forces, natural selection, origin of species, and such terms have left no place in the nomenclature of science for the recognition of the hand of Deity. Unholy skepticism declares that divine direction in the affairs of men is but the unfounded fancy of religious fanaticism. But we do know that in ancient times the Lord sent warnings through the medium of dreams and visions. By what authority do we assume that such means of communication have been abolished? At any rate, such a feeling, a feeling of vague uneasiness, mingled with the thoughts of Ernest Edgefield. He was engaged to be married, and had the utmost confidence in the fidelity and stability of his affianced; and yet he was disturbed by a dim, indistinct sense of unrest, which defied all efforts of analysis. It was like trying to follow an obscure mist by the uncertain light of the moon. He endeavored to reason himself out of his foolish apprehensions. What had he to fear? The course of his own true love seemed to be running smooth. In a few weeks the engagement would be consummated. Then, why this dread? Was it not, after all, produced by Mr. Hillston’s ambiguous innuendoes? But what made the old preacher disbelieve, or at least doubt, that his marriage with Miss Vanclure would ever take place? There was no rival in the case to awaken his jealousy. Indeed, he felt a little vexed at his kind guardian for throwing out such insinuations. Then he would endeavor to banish the indefinable dread which had seized upon him. We who have passed through the scenes of youth, know something of the petty follies, the disquiet, the foolish ennui at times, which distinguish the young man whose heart has been lacerated by the golden arrow of the mischievous little son of Venus. Ernest rarely failed to call once a day at the enchanting domicile of his intended, and if he failed, he frequently made atonement for his negligence by two visits on the next day. While he was in this state of cardiac effervescence, the wheels of time rolled on, unfolding events which had slumbered so long in the bosom of the future. Who can tell what a day may bring forth? Amid the multitudinous events that are continually rushing into reality, like the soldiers of an army in the charge, who can make provision against those unforeseen contingencies which are forever arising? Who can control the chariot of destiny?

Perhaps no event was so little expected as that which seemed to change the current of Ernest’s destiny, a few weeks antecedent to his contemplated marriage. Not to delay with moralizing, an Evangelist by the name of Coyt made his advent into the quiet town where Ernest lived, on the invitation of the Presbyterian church. Great expectations had been formed by many of the more pious brethren, who had read accounts of Dr. Coyt’s wonderful success at other places. His services were eagerly desired and sought all over the country.

At last he entered the little town of —— and began a series of earnest, soul-searching sermons, which he had repeated so often that he could frequently predict what result would follow the delivery of each. Large, expectant congregations attended his meetings from the very outset, since his evangelistic fame had preceded him. For several days the preacher produced no great visible effects, and there were scarcely any signs of spiritual life, except such as were discernible in the numerous petitions sent in by anxious brethren, requesting prayer for sons, daughters, wives, or other relatives and friends. At length this request was read out to the congregation:

“Please pray for a young lawyer, who is moral and worthy in every respect, but is lacking the one thing needful.”

Ernest was present, and heard the reading of this petition. Who could it be but himself? At first, a flash of displeasure, to call it by the mildest name, passed over his handsome face. Who was the person that had the impudence to direct attention to him? But all harsh thoughts soon passed away, when he reflected that the petitioner, whoever it might be, desired only his good. The process of rigid introspection succeeded his first unpleasant thoughts, and he at once gave attention to the contest between conscience and passion that had mysteriously begun. He seemed to be only a spectator of the conflict of antagonistic forces in his soul. There are times, says one of the most profound and philosophical women of the nineteenth century, when our passions speak for us, and we stand by and look on in astonishment. There is something similar to this in the process of spiritual regeneration. Questions and answers suddenly arise in the mind, as of concealed beings in whispered consultation, and we appear to ourselves to be listening to the mysterious dialogue. So it was with Ernest Edgefield, as he sat in the church engaged in self-examination. It appeared to him that he had suddenly awakened out of an alarming dream. He had been in a moral sleep all his life, and had never reflected seriously upon the unknown eternity which was distant but a single step. A “still small voice” seemed to come on the very breeze, and whispered: “What folly this young man has displayed in thinking of nothing but the things of time and sense.” Ernest almost started. “What am I living for?” he asked himself. “In a few weeks I shall be married, and will give renewed attention to business. But time will flow on: and if I live, I will soon be an old man, and I must die, and then—and then—what?” Ernest was neither infidel nor skeptic: indeed, he only needed that his fears should be aroused as a precedent condition to becoming an active Christian. After prayer had been offered up for the “young lawyer,” and while thoughts, conclusions and convictions were all mingling together in the mind of Ernest, he looked at Clara, who was sitting where he could see her face. Their eyes met. She was gazing at him with an expression which he could easily interpret, and if she had spoken in an audible voice, he could not more clearly have understood her to say: “Isn’t it ridiculous?” The young man almost shuddered. Why did a great yawning abyss seem to open suddenly between them? The depression which had for some days weighed down his spirits, all at once appeared like a heavy rock upon his breast, causing something like a sickening sensation to creep through his troubled heart. However, in his present state of newly aroused emotions, to which he had been such an utter stranger all his life, he felt that a subject of more vital importance than even his marriage deserved his immediate attention. Accordingly he turned his gaze upon the preacher, who announced his text: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.” Dr. Coyt, in the progress of his discourse, drew a word-picture, upon which his audience gazed in profound, breathless silence. No one looked upon this picture more intently than Ernest. He saw himself alone with his Creator and the balances which were to determine his everlasting destiny. Never before had Ernest’s relations to time and eternity appeared in so vivid a light. The next morning after this, as the sun kissed the glowing horizon, darkness and doubt were dispelled from the soul of Ernest by the enlightening beams of the Sun of Righteousness. He had found that “peace which passeth all understanding,” and he was strangely happy.

That day, without saying a word to any one upon the subject, he went forward to indicate his purpose of joining the church.

“Which church do you desire to join?” asked Dr. Coyt.

“I have not yet determined,” replied Ernest. “I only wish now to let it be known that I have come out upon the Lord’s side. I intend to investigate the doctrines of the different denominations, and I shall join that one I like best.”

“That is right,” replied the Doctor. “Take time for reflection, so that you will have no trouble in the future. Select that church in which you think you can be the happiest.”

Those who feel any interest in this story will, of course, desire to know what effect the meeting had upon Clara. Ernest had been so absorbed in his own spiritual troubles that he had had no conversation with her since the hour when he had become interested upon the subject of his personal salvation. But that evening, after he had signified his intention of attaching himself to the church, he paid her a visit. She was not present at the morning service, and knew nothing of the step he had taken. After the exchange of ordinary civilities, she said with a significant flippancy which was chilling to Ernest’s heart:

“How have you enjoyed the show?”

“Show!” exclaimed Ernest, bestowing upon her a solemn look of inquiry.

“Yes,” said Clara, not seeming to notice his serious air. “It is as good as any show. Wasn’t it funny to have them all praying for you?”

“I do not see where there was any fun,” said Ernest with an expression of disappointment upon his face, “and I am truly sorry to hear you talk so lightly about such solemn things. They are too sacred to admit of sport.”

“So, they have got you, too, have they?” asked Clara, breaking into a merry laugh. “Well, I confess I am astonished.”

“Why should you be? I cannot see that it is a matter of such profound amazement for a man to join the church.”

“Have you really joined the church?”

“I have, or at least gave notice this morning that I would do so, and I earnestly wish, my dear Clara, that you would make up your mind to the same thing. That is needed to complete our happiness.”

She made no reply, but laughed in a tone which it would have required no expert physiognomist to pronounce one of derision.

“What is it that is so amusing?” asked Ernest in vexation. “I had hoped that you would talk seriously about this matter of such vital importance.”

“The idea of my joining the church, and giving up my dancing and all other amusements, is simply preposterous. It is funny.”

“But suppose you were to die,” said Ernest, “what would become of you? Are you willing to sacrifice your soul for a few worldly pleasures which, after all, add nothing to your happiness?”

“Why, are you going to turn preacher, too?” said Clara with an amused expression. “That’s just the way Dr. Coyt has been preaching for the last five or six days.”

“I am no preacher, and never expect to be,” replied Ernest, “but that is no reason why I should not want my friends saved, especially such a friend as you will be.”

Clara bit her cherry nether lip, and laying aside her mood of levity, said:

“I should like to know what we are to do in this world, if we are forbidden to enjoy life. That is what I dislike about religious people. They are so gloomy, and can talk about nothing but death. I hate to be with them.”

This was spoken in such a way as to cause Ernest to see again the yawning chasm gaping between them.

“O, my dear Clara!” he exclaimed with trembling tenderness, “how you are mistaken!”

“Why, how do you know?” she asked in surprise. “You have not been one of them long enough to find out, I should think. How did you become so wise, all of a sudden?”

Ernest was not at all pleased with the manner in which she addressed him, but he durst not manifest the least vexation in the critical juncture of his amatory affairs. He felt that a quarrel might terminate in a final overthrow of the fond hopes upon which his heart had fed for months past. He, therefore, spoke as mildly and affectionately as possible:

“I have learned something about it even in the last few hours. I have never experienced such a sense of love, joy and peace in all my previous life. I am astonished at myself for never having turned my attention sooner to eternal things. All these years, since I reached the line of moral responsibility, have been almost wasted, or, at least, the spiritual enjoyments of all this time have been lost to me; and how I regret it!”

“How you do talk!” exclaimed Clara. “Do you expect to keep up such lecturing all our lives? If you do, we may as well—”

“May as well what?” asked Ernest with a sinking heart.

“May as well follow divergent paths,” she said with a timidity which implied that she, by no means, desired the proposition to be accepted.

“No, my dear Clara, I shall not mention it again if it is unpleasant to you. I shall leave you in the hands of God and continue to pray for you. I think you will take a different view of the matter after a while.”

“But I would as soon you would talk to me as to look at me as if I were a criminal.”

“I do not think,” said Ernest, “that religion will convert me into a long-faced monk. On the contrary, I expect to be more cheerful and happy than I could be otherwise. You are the one to look solemn and gloomy.”

“You expect,” said Clara, not appearing to notice the last remark, “you expect to give up dancing, as most church people do.”

“Certainly. I cannot do violence to my conscience by indulging in an amusement which I regard as of doubtful propriety, to say the least of it.”

“Where is the harm in dancing? Church people condemn it, but I never could see any sin in it—not the least.”

“But there would be sin in it to me with my present views,” said Ernest.

“You used to like it as well as I did.”

“Yes, that is true; but the time has come when I must and will renounce it.”

“You expect me to give it up, too?”

“That is a matter to be determined by your own conscience. I shall not interfere.”

“There is the theatre—you will give that up too?”

“I feel that I must do that, too.”

“Then,” said Clara with a slight frown, “what congeniality of taste and pursuits is there between us?”

“Why, my loved one,” said Ernest with a smile, “fortunately theatres and dances occupy but a small portion of our time.”

“Who will escort me when I want to go?”

Ernest loved his affianced with such an intensity that he dreaded to get into an unpleasant controversy that might culminate fatally to his hopes. If he were too puritanical and inflexible, he thought, she might sever all the ties between them—an event which made him shudder to contemplate; so he replied:

“All congeniality of taste between us need not be destroyed because you may fancy some amusements which I do not. It could scarcely be expected that two human beings should think exactly alike. With regard to your dancing, I leave it to your conscience and to time which usually destroys our relish for most of the sports and enjoyments of youth. I have strong hopes that you will sooner or later perceive the necessity of leaving the paths of moral ruin and renouncing the pleasures of sin for the more solid and substantial pleasures of religion.”

Clara said nothing, but sat still gazing into the forest which spread out in the distance—gazing with that vacant air which indicates the absence of attention to any object upon which her eyes might be fixed. Ernest could form no idea as to the character of her thoughts from the expression of her fair countenance, and he began to fear that he had said too much, and thought that perhaps he would better endeavor to remove every difficulty that might prove an obstacle to their union. He did not want to leave any grounds for one of those unfortunate misunderstandings between lovers which so frequently grow out of nothing. He therefore said with an air of cheerfulness and tenderness:

“You need not suppose, my loved one, that I will be forever preaching to you. That is not my calling. Have I given you offence by anything I have said? I mean by all I have said only that there is a time for all things—a time to dance and a time to give religion a prominent place in our thoughts.”

“O, no; I’m not offended, but you make me feel gloomy. It is bad enough to hear these things about death at church, where we expect it. I didn’t know that we had to make religion a topic of private conversation.”

“No, we are not forced to do so; but I thought it a suitable time to talk about it now when the subject is occupying the attention of the whole community.”

“I candidly confess I don’t like to talk about such things,” said Clara with a serious air. “I have always had a sort of horror of religion. In my mind it is associated with death and other disagreeable things.”

“But these disagreeable things,” said Ernest, “as you call them, are stubborn realities which we cannot avoid. Sooner or later, we must face them, whether we like or not. Would we not, then, better regulate our lives so that these very gloomy things shall become sources of pleasure?”

“O, I suppose so,” said Clara dryly, “if death could ever be a pleasant subject of conversation.”

“Not long since,” replied Ernest with the deepest solemnity, “I entertained the very same views which you do. I would not think about death when I could possibly banish it from my mind, and I contemplated it for an instant as some horrible monster which I must face after a while. I regarded it with as much dread as ever the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson did. But now,” and as he spoke an expression of deep joy flashed over his features, “I do not dread the event as such an awful calamity. I even love to think about it.”

“What! do you want to die?” cried Clara.

“No: I did not say that,” calmly replied Ernest.

“No man in the enjoyment of health really desires to die; for in some respects, it is a terrible ordeal from which poor, weak human nature shrinks. I have no disposition to court death: I want to live for your sake, for you know with what depth and intensity I love you, and loving you thus, I should like, above all things, to see you in a condition that would enable you to exclaim with rapture, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ What a happy thought to me that we should be one on earth, and then when we cross over the dark river, our purified souls should be knit together in the bonds of a higher, nobler affection than is possible here; and then that we should stroll hand-in-hand in the heavenly groves, along the banks of the crystal river, under the fruit trees whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, never more to be disturbed by any misapprehensions, nor even by a discordant word or thought. We shall be one in heart, soul and mind. This is what I call true marriage. It is a contract not to end with time, but it goes on through the numberless ages of eternity. O, what a glorious prospect!” he exclaimed with features lit up with pure, holy joy; and then he paused for an instant as if overwhelmed and lost in the contemplation of indescribable scenes which “eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man.” After a moment he continued: “On the other hand, what an awful thought! It makes me shudder. O, if you remain as you now are, we shall be separated forever, when we part at the grave. Then where will you go? If you miss the glory-land, there is only one more place—the lake that burns with fire and brimstone—a place where their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched. If there is no fire there, as some contend, then it is a place of black, thick darkness. The lost soul, cast out into the illimitable regions of uninhabited space, away beyond the last star that glitters on the outskirts of visible creation, will go wandering round and round, or if too weary to make an effort, it will begin falling, like a bird with folded wings, and keep on falling, falling, down and down, forever down—no company but your own thoughts—no sound heard but your own breathing—no sweet music—no voice of friend—no light—nothing but the horrors of eternal, impenetrable darkness. You may suppose you will have companions—but what will be their character? Not kind friends, to speak words of consolation, but malevolent fiends whose delight it will be to torment. All the horrors so graphically described by Dante may be awful realities. Can you blame me, then, for feeling the deepest anxiety on your account? I should be the happiest man in town if you could make up your mind to join the church.”

“O, I could not think of such a thing!” exclaimed Clara. “You have already given me the blues. I fear you will never be yourself again. You are so changed. But reading that awful old Dante is enough to frighten any one out of his senses. I tried to read it not long since, but it was so foolish and absurd, I dropped it in disgust. But haven’t you preached long enough? I do believe you will be a preacher yet.”

“No; I have no such idea as that. But I should be sorry to think that preachers are the only persons to whom it is allowable to talk about religion. However, I am a changed man, and I am glad you can perceive it. I hope I may never again be the wicked man I have been. But I shall not further press the subject upon your attention, and I promise not to mention it again till you are in the proper mood to talk about it.”

The foregoing conversation is no integral part of the present story, and might have been omitted entirely, but we have recorded it at length to show what different views young people entertain in regard to the highest destiny a human being can achieve. What makes such a vast difference, when there are precisely the same incentives to action in both? Some quickly cut the Gordian knot by attributing it to the difference in their wills, which, we may bring this chapter to an end by saying, is quite a convenient way of avoiding Deep Waters.