Edward Burton

Gentle reader, you shall have the benefit of a hint if you cannot patiently abide moralizing. By a whisper in your ear we warn you that if you are only interested in the simple narrative, and regard all serious themes as heavy, and are unwilling to exercise twenty minutes consecutive thought upon vital topics, you will find it advantageous to turn a few leaves and pass this chapter.

The mellow, golden days of October had come; the air was growing crisp, the sun’s rays were losing their intensity, and nature, in her outward expressions, was becoming less exuberant and aggressive. The forests, gorgeous in color and ardent in tone, were blazing out with that vehemence which seems to be a final and supreme effort before impending desolation. The stored-up sunshine of a whole summer comes to the surface, and gilds with rich hues the foliage, which before had absorbed it. The vitalizing and expanding life, which for months coursed through the veins and arteries of tree, flower, and grasses, was becoming sluggish, and sombreness and grayness were creeping over the face of nature.

The Bonbrights were again settled in their stately residence on Commonwealth Avenue. The engagement of Lord Percival and Rosamond had been formally announced, and had furnished the latest sensation in fashionable circles. In response to the solicitation of Rosamond, seconded by the earnest invitation of her parents, the noble lord remained as a guest of the family until he departed westward, where he wished to make a more extended exploration of the country.

Burton and Tapley left the mountains shortly before the departure of the Bonbrights, and on a bright Saturday afternoon they arrived at the home of the former, where they were received with a warm greeting. The air of quiet conservatism which prevailed in this out-of-the-way New Hampshire village was unchanged. Within the limits of Edward’s recollection, there had been scarcely a single house added or demolished, and the changing seasons alone were responsible for any variation in appearance.

In such a community the quiet current of human existence flows on, year by year, broken only by some insignificant eddy or ripple unnoticed by the great world outside. The arrival of the two-horse stage at the little post-office was the daily episode which most stirred the pulse of the place. Here came only a light sprinkling of the deluge of daily and weekly literature with which the centres of population were flooded.

Life with such a quiet environment often becomes a matter of petty routine. But when, as is rarely the case, its shoal waters are agitated, the commotion is relatively important. If it be a “tempest in a teapot,” the storm will be violent in proportion to the size of the pot.

It happened that such a rare local agitation was at its height when the two friends arrived. It was a “revival;” and its intensity was such that, in one form or another, every person in the community was touched by it. It was brought about through the labors of a professional “evangelist,” a young man by the name of Lamphier, who, for several evenings previous, had held services in the village meeting-house.

Mr. Johnson, the pastor, being discouraged at the “dry-rot” and spiritual stagnation which prevailed, had secured the assistance of Mr. Lamphier.

The meetings and their influence, for the time, became the one absorbing topic. Among the members of the little community some were struggling with great problems; others were torn with conflicting emotions; a few were in great distress; some were rejoicing; a number were self-satisfied, or perhaps merely curious; and still others were cavilling and ridiculing. It was a commentary upon the many-sidedness of human nature, that a single cause could produce such a variety of phenomena.

Mrs. Burton had kept a brief record in her diary of the topics which Mr. Lamphier had elaborated.

The outline recorded by her was as follows:—

Such was an outline of the topics which had been fully and graphically elaborated by Mr. Lamphier. The tenth and closing sermon of the series was to be delivered on the evening of the day upon which Edward and his friend arrived. Notice had been given that it would consist of a general summing-up of the series.

The sermons had been delivered with a positiveness, austerity, and solemnity which are almost unknown in larger communities.

Every evening, after the close of the service, a party of sceptics of various ages and conditions gathered at the village store and discussed the meetings. A few of them who had attended the service usually gave an outline of the sermon. Among the number were several who previously had been respectful, though rather indifferent towards religious influences. There was a mysterious reactionary influence in the air, for several suddenly avowed themselves as atheists and materialists. A few had become defiant, and full of ridicule toward the injudicious but well-meant efforts put forth in the stern presentation of their duty.

On the other hand, many of the more sensitive children and youth were suffering in various degrees from a kind of terrorism. Edward found that his young sisters had hardly slept soundly since the graphic delineations of Satan and hell, and learned of several other families whose experience was similar. Mrs. Burton would have kept her children at home during the later services, but for the fact that the statement had been made that it was a solemn duty to attend upon the “means of grace,” so that any apparent “neglect of duty” made them even more miserable at home than at the meeting-house. Any who were missing were also noted and inquired after. An indefinable fear seemed to pervade the very atmosphere of the village. Even among the young converts, there was a visible expression of constraint and sadness, which was abnormal in youthful nature. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Lamphier made a systematic round of visits; but their funereal faces and formal manner caused the children to hide from them when it was practicable. In general, the duty of “getting religion” came to them in the light of a disagreeable necessity. It appeared more like shadow than sunshine; more wintry than summer-like in its nature. To the young, it seemed to be well adapted to the aged and dying; but for them it was like a black pall.

As Edward Burton learned of the condition of affairs in his native village, a vision of his own youthful experience flashed before him. He took his young sisters, one upon each knee, and soon, under the spell of his loving influence, the morbidness faded from their minds. Mrs. Burton reproached herself for having forgotten lessons of the past, under the influence of recent conditions.

The closing sermon by Mr. Lamphier drew an audience which filled the house to repletion, and Burton and Tapley were present. They came in before the service began, and were recognized by Mr. Johnson, who came forward and greeted them.

Mr. Lamphier made a most sincere and earnest appeal. His manner was very grave, and he felt a profound responsibility resting upon him.

The text upon which his sermon was based was the last clause of Matthew iii. 7: “O generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come?”

After a brief review of the preceding sermons, in which he traced the peculiar relation of each to the “plan of salvation,” he made a strong appeal to his hearers to accept the terms offered that night. He enforced the thought that it might prove the last opportunity for some to escape from the wrath of God, which rests upon all sinners. In closing, he said,—

“As God’s ambassador, I have plainly set your duty before you. Christ has made expiation for your sins by His sufferings and death, and you have nothing to do but to believe on Him. Paul, in his epistle to the Hebrews, says that ‘God is a consuming fire.’ Think of that, my friends, and do not longer scorn His offers of pardon. The judgment day comes on apace, when those who reject the proffers of grace now held out will hear the final summons,—‘Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels.’ ‘And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever.’”

As these closing words fell from his lips, there were audible sighs and groans, and an intensity of feeling which was near the bursting-point. Some of the younger and more sensitive souls almost saw the judgment scene before them, and themselves upon the left hand. They were conscious that they did not and could not love God with their whole heart, which was their plain duty. God had been pictured to them in such a way that He seemed both unreasonable and cruel, and therefore, though intensely anxious to love Him, they found it impossible. They were told that that feeling was the “natural” mind, which must be stifled.

Modern fair Biblical interpretation and criticism had but a slight hold upon the thought of this little community. The literal meaning of proof-texts was quoted as a finality, which it was sinful to question. Mr. Lamphier, in interpreting the endless wealth of scriptural poetry, history, tradition, Oriental allegory, imagery and hyperbole, made everything bend to his hard rules, and left no choice between a literal acceptance on the one hand, and a sceptical rejection on the other. The letter of the text was worshipped, while the spirit, which could make men free and lead them into all truth, was largely unrecognized. The preaching in this little meeting-house was the strongest force in the village, and they who questioned its conclusions were rated as unbelieving and irreligious.

As Mr. Lamphier took his seat, the audience were spellbound, but their faces showed that the spell was one of awe and fear. Before the closing hymn, Mr. Johnson arose and said: “We have with us to-night Mr. Edward Burton, who is known to many of you, and we would be glad to hear from him.” Prompted by a mingled sense of magnanimity and politeness, Mr. Johnson made this call upon Edward, instinctively feeling the desirability of giving the closing meeting a more happy turn. The invitation was quite unexpected to Edward, but, after a momentary hesitation, he responded.

“My dear friends and neighbors,” he remarked in a quiet and pleasant manner, “it gives me much pleasure again to meet you, gathered as you are in this place, with which are connected so many of my childhood associations. I did not expect to address you, but will briefly improve the opportunity given me. Christian character is formed from the consideration of various motives. May I suggest a few thoughts bearing upon some other phases of truth than those which have been urged upon you this evening? Time will not permit a logical presentation, but a few fundamental principles may be outlined and left for you to fill out and apply.

“We need, first, to have right conceptions of God. God is love. Paul says that ‘our God is a consuming fire.’ ‘Our God’ means the Christian’s God. If ‘God is love,’ and also a ‘consuming fire,’ then Love is a ‘consuming fire.’ Love will consume, not souls, but evil, sin, malice, selfishness, and unrighteousness. God is not a vindictive judge, but our Spiritual Father, and we are His children and made in His image. He is good, and also omnipresent. He therefore is omnipresent good. Where, then, is there room for evil? There is no place for it, as a God-created power, or entity, so that it only can exist as a condition. Goodness and righteousness are positive entities, for they are of God. He made all that was made, and pronounced it ‘very good.’ If He did not create evil, the only vitality it has comes from what we give it. We are not creators in any real sense, therefore evil is a negation. It becomes real to us in proportion to our loss of spiritual consciousness as children of God. The lower self is alive to material things, therefore has lost its life to those verities which are spiritual. The ‘carnal’ or false self must be cast out, and man must regain his spiritual heritage. Religion is a life, not a creed, system, plan, or sacrament. It is not effeminate, austere, or disagreeable, but normal, manly, joyful, noble. It is a recognition of and compliance with spiritual law, as adapted to man’s nature, and all observed law is beneficent. Punishment is inherent in sin, and is self-inflicted. When sin is destroyed, punishment ceases. Punishment is not arbitrary or vindictive, but corrective and disciplinary. Christ came, not to placate an angry God, but to impart His life to us.

“The word ‘blood,’ as used in the Scriptures, signifies the life, and not the death. It has been literalized to express suffering, purchase, expiation. Blood is the symbol of what is inmost in the person, his essential and intrinsic quality. We speak of blood as referring to lineage, race, or family. To be saved by the blood of Christ is to be saved by possessing the same type of inward character and life. Salvation is the quality of Christ, living and incarnated in man. Christ’s triumph over death was an object-lesson, to show us the nothingness of material law as compared with supernal or spiritual law. He is not merely the historic Jesus of eighteen hundred years ago, but He is the ever-living One, waiting to come in and fill our life with His own. He is that light ‘which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.’ He is the ever-present spirit, and the ‘still small voice,’ which waits for our recognition. In the dust and fog of the material world, we hide ourselves from Him. Even sacraments, rituals, and creeds are often like veils which intercept our spiritual sight of Him, face to face. He is the Father of our spirits, and we are spirits and not bodies, even on the present plane. The everlasting love, which expressed itself externally through Jesus, is the spiritual ‘law of gravitation.’ The Bible makes no mention of expiation or substitution, but such terms are plentiful in scholastic systems. Through the blood or the life of Christ, the pulse of humanity feels the heart-throb of God.

“We act, think, and live upon the material plane, and then expect, through a supernatural process, to be artificially lifted, by a plan or purchase, into a localized heaven in the world to come.

‘Heaven is character, not reward.’

“In the sublime words of Channing,—‘Goodness cherished now is Eternal Life already entered on.’ ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ If he starve his soul in this world, he will go lean into the next, and no miracle will force a heavenly character upon him. He must already have, at least, its rudiments within.

“My dear friends, ‘the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, meekness, temperance.’ Christianity is not a system; it is not an outside thing to be obtained, but it is Christ in us. His life, or blood, which may become ours, is joyful, lovable, normal, wholesome. That soul is normal which is rounded out and symmetrical, and which lives the divine life, and not the life of the lower self. Let love flow out to God and man, for love is the fulfilling of the law. Do not misunderstand me, and fancy that I advocate merely a humanitarian religion. That which is Divine is the All-Embracing, and the humanizing element forms but the subordinate part of it.

“If we hunger and thirst after God, He will fill us. Demand brings supply. Open your hearts, and He will flow in, and the communion will be sweet. In the beautiful words of Whittier,—

During Burton’s address, there had been a breathless stillness, and the attention of the entire audience was fixed upon him. The closing hymn followed immediately after. Many drawn, anxious faces had relaxed, and every one breathed more freely. Mr. Johnson was nonplussed, and Mr. Lamphier distressed. As soon as the audience was dismissed, several persons gathered around Edward to grasp his hand and give him a welcome.

“That is pure gospel, and what I like,” said one; another exclaimed, “I never knew how beautiful religion was before! It always has seemed like a hard belief.”

An old man slowly made his way to Burton and said: “If that is Christianity it is reasonable and desirable, and I want it.”

A farmer’s wife, with an angular, anxious face, drew near, and feelingly said, “I thought I must be all tore up with conviction before I ever could find peace, but the conviction didn’t come, and I couldn’t find peace. As you describe it, the way seems plain and easy.”

A young girl modestly drew near and quietly observed, “I want to thank you, Mr. Burton, for the help you have given me. I have always dreaded to think of God, because, from what I have heard, He seemed cruel and hard. As you have described Him, He is really lovable, and I shall enjoy thinking of Him.”

The earnest expression of the senior deacon as he extended his hand deeply touched Burton. “You talk pretty well, Edward,” said the good man, “but I’m afraid you make religion a little too easy. The Bible says that we must ‘work out our salvation with fear and trembling.’”

Three or four of the infidels who belonged to the coterie that nightly gathered at the store to mimic and ridicule were present. They approached, and one of them said, “We have been sceptical in regard to the kind of religion we have heard here, but what you have said is common-sense, and a religion that agrees with common-sense we respect.”

At length Mr. Johnson came up.

“Edward, you said some very pleasant things, but I feel that your view of the Atonement is unsound. The human heart is naturally rebellious against God, and that fact must not be overlooked. I thank you for your well-meant remarks, even though I cannot indorse all you said.”

Mr. Johnson then introduced Mr. Lamphier, who remarked with an air of shocked seriousness,—

“Mr. Burton, I fear that you have made a mistake, for you have taken away the solemnity of the meeting. You no doubt have good intentions, but my wide experience as an evangelist proves to me that such lax doctrines as you express do not arouse people. If souls are to be saved they must be startled from their sense of satisfaction and security, and then, peradventure, they will flee from the wrath to come. We should be as ‘wise as serpents and harmless as doves,’ Mr. Burton.”

Thus the series of meetings closed, and Mr. Lamphier’s labors came to an end.

On the next day, which was the Sabbath, after the close of the morning service, there was a general and spontaneous desire expressed to hear more from Edward Burton. Could he not, with Mr. Johnson’s consent, be induced to deliver some evening addresses during the week? That sentiment was so strong that Mr. Johnson and the senior deacon reluctantly yielded their assent, though with some misgivings. Burton responded to the cordial invitation, only suggesting that his friend and guest should share in the work, to which all gladly agreed. It was settled that upon alternate evenings during the week they should lecture upon various aspects of advanced, practical Christianity.

The little meeting-house was packed with attentive listeners every evening. Mr. Johnson, catching the prevailing enthusiasm, rapidly grew into sympathy with the lectures, and before the close of the week warmly expressed his appreciation of what he called “new phases of old truths.”

Space will not permit even an outline of the topics which were discussed, but they may be barely enumerated as follows:—

The interest which grew out of the lectures, warmed and stirred every soul in the little community.

The great waves which sweep the ocean do not penetrate into circuitous inlets and land-locked ponds, and so the surges of modern progressive thought heretofore had hardly made a ripple in this out-of-the-way village. Here the theology of Mr. Johnson had been the only theology; his plan of salvation the only plan, and his yea and amen the finality. It was this, or nothing. The pulse-throbs and life-currents of God and humanity only reached them as modified by his idiosyncrasies and scholastic beliefs.

With all there is to admire in the soundness and stern righteousness of Puritanism, when it becomes isolated and unmodified, it savors distinctly of proscription and intolerance. There are small popes as well as a great Pope. Mr. Johnson had wielded the sceptre with undisputed authority, within his assumed jurisdiction.

He was a good man.

Like thousands of other kind, noble men, he was better than the system to which he was bound. He was not merely himself, but was the embodiment and logical result of man-made theological dogma. He illustrated the Calvinistic and Puritanic spirit of the seventeenth century as practically applied to the lives and characters of men. Individuals distinctively are the result and outgrowth of institutions.

While Puritanism produced many stalwart, noble men, when unmodified it rendered human life strained and abnormal. It was a tonic element, but at the same time it was a phase in Christian evolution which needed softening and refining.

Mr. Johnson’s character was dualistic. He was a kind father, good husband, and obliging neighbor, and a very lovable man; but when invested with the dignity, the sceptre, and the robes of the Westminster Confession, dogmatized with Puritanic positiveness, he ceased to be Mr. Johnson, and became an artificial character. Any one whose way of salvation had not passed through the gateway of the village meeting-house was in the “broad way.” Any one who could not entirely accept Calvinistic theology was, at least, inclined to be sceptical.

Mr. Johnson was a lovable soul, indeed none are ever otherwise. It is only qualities which call for criticism.

The week’s services discovered to Mr. Johnson the loose joints in his armor, and the contradictions of his system.

The religion radiated by the young men was so lovable that Mr. Johnson’s heart got the better of his creed, and, before he was aware of it, his duality was fading out. Everything around him had been newly gilded, and hard and sharp lines which had oppressed him became softened and easy.

The life of the little village was broadened and beautified. The sceptics’ club melted away when they discovered that they had been contending with a “man of straw.” People found out who were their neighbors. The poor and infirm were “ministered unto” in unexpected and mysterious ways. There was a thorough revival of the religion of character, which before had been but latent. The spiritual eyes of many were opened, so that they discovered not only their human brethren, but their Heavenly Father. They awoke to the fact that He was lovable, and now they pressed nearer to Him. A few slaves to the cup, also, were released, and rejoiced in freedom.

The senior deacon was heard to remark,—“That’s the most curious revival that I ever knew of, but it is mighty solid, and, after all, I believe I kinder like that sort.”