CHAPTER IX.

ERNEST'S STORY.

"That's

"HULLO!" said the blacksmith cheerily, waking from the doze into which he had fallen. right, Ernest, you're come to pay your old neighbour a visit."

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'I wanted to see how you were getting along. I was sorry to hear the missus is ill."

"Ay, but she's getting on famous now. She'll soon be all right, please God; Carry Croome takes fine care of her."

"Miss Croome is single still, I hear," observed Ernest.

"Yes, but not for want of chances. He'll be a lucky man as gets her, Ernest," said the clerk, significantly, as he lit up a fresh pipe. "You smoke, don't you? There's some good 'bacca in the jar on the dresser. Will you take a glass of ale?"

"No ale for me, thanks," said Ernest, fetching a chair, and placing it beside that of the elder man; "but I'll have a smoke by your leave."

"No ale!" repeated Joe. "Turned total abstainer? You're changed indeed."

Ernest nodded. ""Twas needed," he said gravely.

"In more ways than one," continued the clerk, "If old Master Brooks had lived to hear where you was this morning, it would have rejoiced his heart. He always took such an interest in his master's son."

"Ah! I've thought of his words and yours many a time. The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God'-and your words, that I should live to repent. I had hoped no minister would be at my death-bed. I was very near death once, and I remembered that."

"I should dearly love to hear you tell it all, Ern," said Joe, crossing his legs, and leaning back in his chair.

"'Tis a long story," replied the young man. "No matter, we've all the afternoon afore us." Ernest cleared his throat and began. "You know how I left Broadmeade-in shame and disgrace. It was pride drove me to go to America. I could not bear to stop where the neighbours could point the finger of scorn at me. I'd lost my place at Dorton, and my name had got into the police reports. She (Carry Croome) would have nothing to say to me, so I went off. I meant to make money over there in New York, and come back a rich man, and just let Broadmeade folk see that he whom they had despised could buy them all up yet."

"Have you come home a rich man?" asked Joe.

"No," replied Ernest. "I've paid my passagemoney, and come home with three or four pounds in my pocket, that's all; but you shall hear about it. I soon got work after I landed. In New York a good workman can always make a living. Of course, I wasn't fool enough to think I could go on drinking and make a fortune too, and I had quite made up my mind to be sober and respectable. But the temptation soon proved too strong. I fought against it, I honestly did, but it was too much for me. When I had money to pay for it drink I must have, and what I earned was speedily spent. Then there was the old story. I went from bad to worse, lost my place, then grew ashamed of myself and tried to pull up, and for a few weeks I did keep sober; and it seems curious that no sooner did I think I'd got the better of my dreadful enemy, drink, than the temptation would seize me again stronger than ever, and again I would give way and fall."

"It's just like any other sin, I suppose," observed Smithers, as Ernest stopped to knock the ashes out of his pipe. "The Bible says, 'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.""

"That's the truth, I think," said Ernest. "Well, to cut a long story short, this sort of life went on for nearly three years. If I kept sober for a few weeks, and got a little money together, the demon of drink was sure to overcome me, and I would begin again, and go on till I had spent. all. The end of it was, I had a serious illness, and was taken to the hospital."

"Was it then you began to see the error of your way?"

"Not so soon. I was well nursed and doctored, and after a bit I began to mend. There was a good man who used to come and read and pray in the ward, and he tried to speak to me of repentance and a better life. But I would not listen to him. I told him quite civilly that I did not believe in what he said, and begged he would not waste his time on me. He looked very sorry, and went away, saying he would pray for me, just as Carry said; and I believe he-theyboth have, or I should not be here now.' Here Ernest paused, and after a minute's silence, resumed his narrative. "The doctors told me that I should kill myself if I went on drinking; and one of them, who was a philanthropic sort of man, gave me a good talking to. He did not speak of religion, but he told me I must exert my better self, and not allow my lower nature to get

the better of me. He advised me to leave off drink altogether, and to take the pledge; also, he recommended me to try what pure country air and a change of work would do for me. Some friend of his had started timber felling in a large way in Canada, and he said he would advise me to go up to one of these logging camps and work there."

"What's a logging camp?" asked Joe.

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"Well, you see, there are vast forests in America, far away from towns, and if a man contracts to cut down a quantity of trees, he sends up a lot of men, who camp in the woods till the work is done. They put up a log hut, or shanty, of rough wood, engage a man to cook and do for them, and there they stop till the timber within a reasonable distance is felled. I went up to this camp. There were about twenty fellows of all sorts-Yankees, Scots, Irishmen, and Canadians, but only one Englishman, whom they called British Bill.' William was not his name, but it did not matter, for we were never called by our real appellations, but all had nicknames. Mine was Sandy,' because of my fair hair. Our boss (that is the man who overlooked the work, selected, and marked the trees, and so on) was a strong temperance man. They said he came from a State where you, couldn't get any liquor except it was smuggled. I don't know the truth of that, but, anyhow, he would have none in his camp. Uncle Abe, our old negro cook, made us plenty of tea and cocoa, and we had to make the best of that; but sometimes a fit of longing for drink overtook the men, and one or two of them would go to the bar in the nearest village, ten miles away. They seldom came back till they had spent all their money. Goodness! how the boss used to swear at them! but of course it was no use. He had to take them on again when they chose to come back, as labour was scarce. Of course the men were not all alike. British Bill, for instance, never touched a drop; said he didn't like it. The boss kept a sharp look-out on me, for my friend the doctor had written about me. For six or eight weeks I kept steady enough. Then all of a sudden the old craving came back; down I went to the bar. Of course, I said, I should only just have a glass or two; but the old villain of a bar-keeper took care I did not keep to that, and when I had drunk up all my money he turned me out of doors. I felt so ashamed of myself that I had a great mind not to go back to the logging camp, but I could not get work elsewhere. I called myself all the fools in the world, for I had just got together a nice little sum; and here I was, obliged to begin the world again. I vowed it should be the last time, and I kept my resolution for three or four weeks; then I broke out again, and after that I did not seem to care, but went on working for a month or so, then down to the bar

again, so spending all I earned. At last my health gave way. I was very ill again of the same complaint for which I was taken into the hospital. But now it was a very different thing. Then I had the best of nursing and doctoring; now there was no doctor near, and poor Uncle Abe and British Bill did the best they could for me in a rough way. I got worse and worse, and began to feel I could not recover. As a last chance, I begged Bill to try and get a doctor to come and see me. Old Uncle Abe said 'It warn't no good; dey doctors dey didn't come all de way up dere 'nless dey was paid.' I had no money, but my mates, who were kind-hearted chaps enough, many of whom had a fellow-feeling for me, subscribed enough to get a doctor. British Bill volunteered to lose a day's work and ride the fifteen miles to Wild Cat Creek to fetch him. By the time he came I was insensible, and did not come to myself till after his departure. I asked Bill what the doctor had said, but though he tried to make the best of it, I could guess that the report was not favourable. Waking the next evening from a feverish sleep, tormented by hideous dreams, I heard one of the men say to Bill, who stood at my bedside, Bet you a dollar poor Sandy hands in his checks in less than twenty-four hours.'" The sexton looked up with a puzzled expres

sion.

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"That's a slang term for dying, you know," explained Ernest. "I cannot tell you how I felt, Smithers, at these words, particularly as I heard Uncle Abe say, 'Dere aint no hope for 'im pore soul. De doctor he say as much.' 'Hush!' said Bill, 'he's waking; don't let the poor fellow hear us talk like this.' As I lay there, and understood I could not get well, I remembered your words at the forge; and how old Brooks had said I should find I could not do without God when trouble really came. I believed in God now, and Heaven, and Hell, too. I would have given worlds if I could have really thought I could die like a brute beast, with no hope of a life to come. No, I knew there was another life, and I knew for me it would be a life of eternal misery. How I longed now that I could find myself back in Broadmeade, where Mr. Wilson could come and pray by my bed, or even in the hospital, where I could see the man whose ministrations I had refused. I tried to pray, but no words would come to me. I tried to remember what I had learnt at Sunday-school, but all seemed gone from me. 'Bill,' I cried, 'can't you pray?' I startled him, as he sat by my bed, and he looked very much astonished. You must pray,' I cried, or I'm a lost soul!' Bill shook his head, sadly. I can't remember anything!' he said. Then seeing my distress, he added, I'll go and see if any one has got a Bible or prayerbook.'

"Why, where had he been brought up?'

inquired Smithers in surprise. "You said he was an Englishman."

"So he was, but he told me afterwards he'd never said his prayers since he went to school, so he'd pretty well forgot them.

"I felt like a man in despair when Bill came back to say no one in the camp had Bible or prayer-book. Uncle Abe indeed said in a very woe-begone voice, 'Dis chile 'ab one once. Had 'im gib me at camp meeting, but 'im got tore, and de rats dey got 'im, an knaw 'im; wish I kep de pieces now.'

"No, I can't,' replied Bill. Then, as a bright thought struck him. Perhaps if I was to go down to the Creek I could get a minister, or some one.'

"I caught at the idea eagerly, as a drowning man catches at a straw, Bill started at once, he knew there was no time to be lost. He told me afterwards, that on his way he thought more seriously than ever he had done in his life before; and when he was gone, I did what I suppose I had never done before-prayed, prayed I might live till Bill came back with a clergyman.

"On his arrival at Wild Cat Creek, Bill found the minister of the little church was ill in bed. While he was enquiring at the hotel bar how far he would have to go for another, a gentleman accosted him, saying, 'I hear you are a fellowcountryman by your accent. Is there anything I can do for you? I am a clergyman of the Church of England.'

"Bill explained the circumstances, and the gentleman who was waiting for a horse and trap to take him on his journey, said he would come with him at once. During their ride up to the camp, he told Bill his name was Taylor, and that he was on his way to his son-in-law's farm, about eighty miles off; that he had a living in England, and had come out to visit his daughter and her husband.

"While Bill was absent, I was in a wretched state of misery, fearing his errand would prove unsuccessful, or that I should not live till he returned. Old Uncle Abe racked his brain to remember scraps of camp meeting prayers and hymns, but he could not tell me of a Saviour, or give me any real comfort As time went on, the old negro would run to the door to see if any one was coming. At last, when I was getting almost exhausted, I heard him cry, Bress de Lord, dey is a-coming. Dere's Bill, an he's got a genelman wid 'im!'

"I fainted when I heard the words, and when I recovered there was a stranger by my bed. I can't tell you what followed, Smithers. You can

guess, for you know how a good man can speak of the Saviour's love, even for sinners, and His precious death upon the cross. I had heard it before, with the outward ear, but now it seemed to go down into my very heart. It was a revelation- a new life. Mr. Taylor knew something of doctoring. He had his medicine chest with him, and either his remedies, or my own strong constitution, I don't know which, began to get the better of my illness; or perhaps I had taken a turn for the better before, though no one knew it. Mr. Taylor had to go the next day, but he left both a Bible and prayer-book for me and Bill, and he marked places where my mate could read to me. Poor Bill was quite pleased at this; he had a talk to the parson too, and promised him never to get up or go to bed again without prayer.

"In ten days' time when Mr Taylor came to see me, I was mending, but very weak. He brought his son-in-law, Mr. Frank, with him, and as they saw I needed care and attention, such as I could not have in the camp, these kind fellowcountrymen of mine said they would take me back with them to Mr. Frank's farm, where his wife would nurse me till I was strong again.

"They could not have been kinder to me at Frank's Grove, if I had belonged to their family. Winter was coming on, and you know the cold is intense out there; snow often lies from November till April. I was too weak to venture out for a long time, and Mrs. Frank, who was a perfect lady, and a most sweet, good woman, tended me as if I had been her own brother. Mr. Taylor remained at Frank's Grove about six weeks after I went there. He was also very kind to me, he read and prayed with me every day, and nursed me too, when I had a relapse from a cold, and was again in some danger."

"And you kept sober there, I suppose?" asked Smithers, who had been listening with the greatest attention.

"I did," replied Ernest. "Gradually I left off the stimulants which I was forced to have while 1 was so very weak, and before Mr. Taylor left I took the pledge. I knew now that I could not overcome my terrible propensity without the help of God. I knew I must expect to be tempted to break my oath, and that prayer and watchfulness alone could enable me to resist. We were a very long way from a town at Frank's Grove, and it was many months before I ventured to go there, lest the temptation should prove too strong for me. I found the fact that I had taken the pledge a great safeguard. When it was known I was an abstainer I was not invited to drink. It seems to me the best thing for a man who is inclined to take more than he ought. The sober man who can be content with his glass at meals is a different thing. He does not, in my estimation, need to take the pledge."

PART II. DANTE'S chief works are the "Convito," "Vita Nuova," and his "Canzoni," but it is the "Divina Commedia" which has for ever immortalised his name. In this poem, which is allegorical to a high degree, though not a complete allegory after the fashion of the "Pilgrim's Progress" or the or the "Fairy Queen," the author feigns himself to have passed through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradisethe first two under the guidance of the poet Virgil, whom he calls his master; in the last, his beloved Beatrice herself, that type to him of Divine wisdom, is his companion.

There are no vague, shadowy descriptions in this journey of Dante's; everything is told in the most exact manner. Hell is figured as an immense pit, with ever narrowing, deepening circles, its gloomy, darkened air full of the sounds of eternal wailing. Here sinners, each in their class, meet with most terrible punishments. Dante and

Virgil talk with the lost souls amid their tortures; and there is a strange mixture of history, and romance, mythology, and Christianity, in the persons of the shades he greets.

Here Minos judges the lost, and Charon ferries them over the Styx. Here the poet recognises popes, and kings, sages, and warriors; men of his own day, and of bye-gone ages, all of whom are introduced in a few words.

This is another great characteristic of the author, his terseness. Although the Inferno is full of episodes, fuller indeed than any other part of the poem, they are very short. The two best known are that of Francesca, and Paolo da Rimini, and Ugolino della Gerardesca. The first occupies about 17 lines. The other about 65. Very short, too, is that sublime passage, perhaps suggested by the words of St. Peter, "He went and preached to the spirits in prison," where Virgil describes the descent of our Blessed Lord into Hades after the crucifixion.

I was a novice in this state,

When I saw hither come, a mighty one With sign of victory incoronate.-Inf., iv. 52. The pity of Dante for those he sees amid their torments is described in so true and simple a manner, that one instinctively feels what manner of man he was. Fire, and all its dread accompaniments, are freely portrayed in the upper circle of the pit, but for the greatest sinners is reserved what to southern ideas is more fearful torture, intense cold.

Not in a lake of fire, but of ice, is for ever fixed the arch-traitor Judas Iscariot, held in the very

jaws of Satan, from whose dread wings, in their slow wavings to and fro, proceed the icy blast which congeals the place of torment.

The relief felt by the reader in passing from the poem of the Inferno to that of the Purgatorio, is like the feeling one experiences when on a February day, after long weeks of frost-bound earth, and sky, the wind blows softly from the south. Spring is not yet come, the birds are still silent, and nature seems resting, and pausing, waiting for the touch of some unseen hand, but from the very silence, and the waiting, one gathers a hope of better things to come.

On the Mount of Purgatory there is still pain, torture hardly second to that of Hell, but through all there shines the golden gleam of hope, for the very atmosphere is full of prayer; and the suffering, if still enforced, and retributive, is willingly endured. We see those

Who, contented, are
Within the fire, because they hope to come,
Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people.
-Inf., i. 119.

To my mind the Purgatorio is by far the most beautiful part of the "Divina Commedia." Brightened by hope, it has none of the despair which makes the Inferno so awful; and it is more comprehensible, and less mystical than the Paradiso, where the mind is puzzled by the theories of the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, and the abstruse analogies of the schoolmen.

Dante figures himself to have entered Hell on the Good Friday of the year 1300, and Purgatory on the Easter Sunday morning following. He first passes through the anti-Purgatorio, where the souls of those who have wilfully delayed their repentance are detained for a certain time; and then he goes, with crowds of shades, through each of the seven ascents of the Mount, in each of which is purged away one of the seven deadly sins, viz., Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, and Sensuality. From the brow of the poet himself, as he passes the portal of each circle, is wiped away one of the seven P's (for Peccati, sins) inscribed on him in the antiPurgatorio by the sword of an angel.

It has been said that there is an analogy in the three parts of the Comedy to Sculpture, Painting, and Music; and the Purgatorio is described as being full of pictures. On the marble floor, and on the walls, are sculptured in each division illustrations of the opposite virtue to the sin which is being purged away, that the contemplation may at once incite the souls to sorrow