CHAPTER XVI.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
“These are important problems, Ned.”
Such was the remark of William Tapley to Burton about a month subsequent to the revival meetings, an account of which was narrated in a previous chapter.
Tapley had returned to the city after remaining for ten days the guest of his friend. Before they parted, it was understood that Burton would soon visit Boston, to find a wider field for usefulness than was afforded by his native village.
They were seated in Colonel Tapley’s library on the day following Burton’s arrival, discussing plans for the future. The problems referred to were such as every young man must solve in making choice of a profession. Such a selection for them had been made several years before, but recent changes rendered it necessary that long-cherished plans should be reconsidered.
They had received a classical and theological education, such as was required to prepare them for the gospel ministry. With talents of a high order, and oratorical gifts of unusual brilliancy, they were also filled with an ardent desire to do all in their power to benefit fallen humanity. They were overflowing with a warm spiritual enthusiasm, and longing to infuse some of its glow into needy souls around them. The question they were considering was, Through what channels could their service, love, and character-inspiration be sent forth most effectually to brighten, purify, and inspire mankind. The time had arrived when some decision must be made.
All clergymen are naturally expected to work in grooves—denominational grooves, which have already been carved out, and to which they must conform. They have been moulded in fixed conventional systems, which not only are unyielding, but artificial. No room is left for independent thought, research, or advance. The road has been completed, and no man is permitted to improve it. Every minister must teach what his particular branch of the church has marked out, and refrain from teaching all else. His creed, system, and church polity have been designated with mathematical exactness. If he grows, he is “disloyal.” He is fettered by the very system of which he becomes a part. If the Spirit give him new light and experience, or confer upon him wider knowledge, he must stifle such advancement, otherwise break with his environment.
It would be as reasonable to enforce seventeenth-century methods in science, invention, and transportation, as in theology. God and truth are unchangeable; but human apprehension and recognition of them are constantly improving. Nineteenth-century spiritual wine cannot be put into seventeenth-century theological bottles, any more than the steam and electricity of to-day could be applied by that measure of knowledge which was possessed by the Pilgrims.
If any man sacrifices his honesty and his spiritual discernment for the sake of denominational office or emolument, he is unfit for a spiritual teacher.
“If there were an organized church,” said Burton, “which was the exponent of the simple Christian principles which were enunciated by Jesus, our duty would be plain. His summing-up of the whole law as love to God and love to man, has been greatly overlaid and obscured by human accretions and assumptions. But there is a great, unorganized, spiritual church which ‘neither in this mountain nor yet in Jerusalem worship the Father;’ but ‘who worship Him in spirit and in truth.’ The world sorely needs a church, not bound together by the metes and bounds of scholastic dogma, but one pervaded by a divine spiritual life,—the Christ-life incarnated in men. Thousands who would like to enter such a spiritual fold are kept out of visible organizations by theological bars and bolts of human device.”
“It is evident,” said Tapley, “that neither of us can fit ourselves into existing systems until they are greatly spiritualized and simplified, and therefore, our work must be done outside of the regular ecclesiastical and denominational channels.”
“I think our message would be acceptable to many congregations,” observed Burton; “but as honest men we could not pass the doctrinal inquisitions which are imposed upon all who are to be regularly ordained to preach as denominational pastors.”
After a full consideration of the subject, and a consultation with Colonel Tapley and other friends, it was proposed to establish a magazine which should be an exponent of fundamental spiritual truth and advancement. It was found feasible, and such a plan was finally adopted, and arrangements were entered into by which the first number of the new monthly might be issued at the beginning of the new year. It was to be called The Spiritual Life, and be under the editorial management of Edward Burton. It was at the same time arranged that Tapley should contribute to its columns, and also occupy a part of his time in lecturing upon moral and religious reform.
Colonel Tapley gladly furnished the necessary means that were required to put the enterprise upon a sound financial basis, and it received such general encouragement as to become a pronounced success from the very inception.
To give briefly a fair conception of the purpose and field to be occupied by this magazine, a copy of its prospectus is here given:
“This magazine will be the organ of no sect, nor will it advocate any particular theological system; but it proposes to set forth the principles of an inner spiritual Christianity, and of that practical Truth which makes men free. It will indorse and bid Godspeed to all that is lovable, helpful, and spiritual in existing churches and theologies; but its aim will be to promulgate a deeper and more practical Christianity than that produced by creedal systems. It will recognize God as omnipresent, which signifies Good everywhere present, as an active Controlling Force and Eternal Entity. Evil will not be recognized as a veritable power, as is its opposite; but rather as a condition, a non-recognition of good by the lower self. The physical part of man is looked upon as the external expression of the aggregate of previous mental and spiritual conditions. All evils, including mental and physical diseases, are believed to have just that measure of power and dominion which has been conferred upon them by the race fears, theories, acceptances, and beliefs which pertain to the sensuous (or carnal) mind. A positive recognition of the real, spiritual self, and of its normal oneness with the All-Pervading Holy Spirit (the spirit of Wholeness), is able to lift men above prevailing sin and disease to which the race is now in bondage.
“Man was created in God’s image (Spirit), and his ‘fall’ consists not in partaking of literal fruit, but in losing his spiritual heritage, and dropping into bondage to his sensuous nature. His prevailing conception of himself is as body, rather than spirit. The ‘mind of the flesh,’ with its bondage of beliefs, evils, and disorders, must be denied, and men must learn to ‘walk in the spirit,’ and thus be set free. A practical recognition of our spiritual completeness in God transforms our low conception of life. This is the living Christ within. It makes God an ever-present, loving Father; Christ an ever-abiding strength and refuge; wholeness, physical and spiritual, an attainable condition; and human life a beautiful aspiration—a prayer ‘without ceasing.’ Indications are plentiful which presage a general emancipation from materialistic slavery, and the ushering-in of a new era of spiritual life and freedom. It will have a corresponding effect in the higher realm, to that which has been realized by electrical applications in the material world. It will be the New-Testament gospel made practical. The cloudiness of theological complication is passing away, and the sunlight of spiritual love brightens the clear azure of the horizon. ‘Gifts of healing,’ which on account of prevailing materialism dropped out of the church at the close of the Apostolic Age, are becoming common, and no longer regarded as miraculous. Man is gaining a consciousness of himself as a ‘living soul’ linked to God, and as able to come into at-one-ment with Him.
“The church has largely lost all distinct appreciation of the fact that the Spirit is a Teacher which will ‘guide you into all truth.’ Is not that ‘the sin against the Holy Ghost’? Instead of listening to the ‘still small voice,’ men have worshipped the external letter and text of ‘the Book.’
“All sin, evil, disease, and inharmony are located in the ‘mind of the flesh.’ St. Paul says, ‘The mind of the flesh is death.’ No theology can refine or gild it. It must be ‘put off.’
“No mere belief in a particular doctrine, or in the fact of a purchase or sacrifice accomplished by the historic material Jesus, can save men from the results of sin. Salvation is the Christ within—the Christ-quality and life incarnated in humanity. Unless sin be put off and destroyed, it becomes incorporated in character. The garnered crop will correspond with that which was sown.
“We need not importune for a visitation of the Spirit, for He dwells within, and only awaits our receptivity and recognition. In the din of material and even of ecclesiastical systems, our ears are deaf to the ‘still small voice.’ Practically dwelling ‘in the secret place of the Most High’ has brought many into comparative physical and spiritual wholeness, and it is able to do the same for all. Such are the conditions under which the apostle affirms, ‘All things are yours.’
“‘The Kingdom of Heaven is within you.’ Heaven is not place, but harmony.
“When to the human apprehension, Love as the universal law is the true definition of God, humanity will earnestly respond, and no longer shrink back or be repelled.
“To bring about a more general consciousness and recognition of these grand principles and realities, will be the object of this magazine.”
For a few weeks previous to the first issue, Burton was compelled to wait for the completion of certain mechanical arrangements, which formed a necessary part of the enterprise. He improved the opportunity to familiarize himself with some of the public institutions, and also visited occasionally the art museums and libraries.
One day he went to the Children’s Hospital, and was greatly interested in what he saw. He passed through the different wards, stopping here and there to say a few cheering, helpful words to the little sufferers, skilfully drawing their attention from their pain and weariness by a pleasant story or anecdote. Under the influence of the self-forgetfulness which he inspired, their faces would brighten, and, as he left them, their longing eyes regretfully follow him till he was out of their sight. Several other visitors were scattered here and there, who, like himself, had come to perform little ministries of love. Some had brought toys, pictures, books, or delicate edibles for general use, or for some little invalid to whom they had bound themselves by a tie of sympathy. One of the nurses, observing Burton’s peculiar interest in and affection for the children, said to him, “I think you would enjoy seeing our ‘little May’ before you go. She is a bright child of eight years, who was terribly injured in a railroad collision a few weeks ago. She is so patient and lovable that several visitors have formed a strong attachment for her.”
“Assuredly,” replied Burton. “I should be pleased to see her.”
The nurse conducted him along the corridor towards a little cot which was hid by a light, movable screen. As they came near she saw that another visitor was with the child, and, turning to Burton, said, “I beg your pardon, but she already has a visitor, so perhaps you will occupy yourself for a little time with some of the others.”
The visitor, a young lady, whose back was towards Burton, sat by the child, holding one of its tiny hands in her own, with her face bent down towards that of the little invalid. She was about to take her leave, and just then leaned over and sweetly kissed the diminutive pale face. Two small arms came up and clasped themselves around the young lady’s neck, and a winning smile played over the little face, lighting it up with almost heavenly tenderness and sweetness.
“I love you,” said little May, “and I thank you so much for that beautiful story. I shall think of you a great deal until you come again.”
While this was occurring, Burton stood at a little distance surveying the scene. He was about to turn and speak to one or two other children, but the pathos of the situation fastened him to the spot. Although neither visitor nor child was yet conscious of his presence, there was some intangible influence, or fascination, which appealed especially to him, in a manner beyond comprehension. The visitor turned away from the cot, and that instant their eyes met.
“Oh, Mr. Burton! Can it be possible that you are here?” said she, at the same time extending her hand. It was Helen Bonbright.
“I am happy to see you,” replied Burton. “It is an unexpected pleasure. Do you often visit hospitals, Miss Bonbright?”
“Oh, yes, I enjoy it, and often frequent this place. But how came you here, Mr. Burton? I was not aware that you were in the city.”
“I am here on business, but as I am obliged to wait a little for the completion of necessary arrangements, I am occupying a part of the time in visiting a few of the institutions.”
While this conversation was going on, a pair of large, dreamy blue eyes in a small face on the cot were casting inquiring glances upon her friend and upon the new-comer. Helen noticed her curiosity, and, beckoning Burton to draw near, observed, “May, dear, this is my friend, Mr. Burton.” He took a little transparent hand in his own, and, bending over, pressed it to his lips.
“I am very glad to see you,” said May, “and I know that you must be good, because you are Miss Bonbright’s friend.”
“You appear to be very fond of Miss Bonbright.”
“I should think that I am. She is so sweet, Mr. Burton. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, yes, she is very good to come and visit you,” he replied, as a warm flush suffused his cheeks and temples. Helen had stepped aside to put on her gloves and outside wraps.
“Will your business keep you long in the city?” inquired Helen, as she finished her preparations for departure.
“Oh, yes, I am here permanently. I may as well inform you regarding my occupation. It will be of a literary character. I am to assume the editorial charge of a new magazine.”
“Won’t that be fine? I am sure that I shall enjoy reading it. I hope when you become a ‘full-fledged’ editor, that you will not grow so dignified that we shall be afraid of you,” said Helen, laughing. “When will the first number make its appearance?”
“We begin with the new year. And please remember that I shall expect occasional contributions from your pen.”
“I will make no promises, and then can break none. I hope that you may soon find it convenient to call upon us.”
“I shall be pleased to do so, Miss Bonbright.”
She bade him adieu. After gazing for a few moments in an abstracted manner at the retreating form, he turned and took a seat by the little white cot. The puny, pale face turned towards him, and two deep blue eyes looked up into his face with a sweet expression of love and confidence.
“You seem quite comfortable and very happy,” said Burton.
“Oh, yes, I am very happy, even when I have pain,” she softly replied. “Miss Bonbright has taught me some wonderful things.”
“What have you learned from her which you enjoy so much?”
“Well, you see, one day the doctor told my nurse that I could not possibly live many days. They did not think I heard what was said, but I did hear every word. At first it made me feel afraid, but I did not tell them that I overheard it. The next day, Miss Bonbright came to see me, and what she told me was just beautiful.”
The pale countenance beamed with enthusiasm.
“Please give me an account of what it was.”
“She told me that my body is not me, and that I could not die. She said that the real ‘I’ is what loves, and that things that love cannot be destroyed nor even harmed. Since I have thought about it a good deal I just feel that it is true. She told me that when I had pain, not to think about that, but to think hard about love. I can now do it so much, that the first thing I know I have forgotten all about the pain. When my back begins to hurt, I just say to myself, You naughty back, you are not a part of the real I, and then I love God, oh, so hard, and forget all about the back, just as if it were not mine at all. When Miss Bonbright comes, I just say to myself over and over, ‘I love you,’ and now it is so easy to love everybody.”
“Do you love bad people, May?”
“Yes, I love bad people too, but not the bad things they do. Loving everybody is what makes me so happy, and I know that I can love just as hard without a body as with one. When I get through with this back that was hurt, I shall be so free that I can just skip around and be light-hearted, for all the love lives and is lively, and that is me, while my back is only a part of what I wear, just as I wear clothes.”
“Did Miss Bonbright tell you all these things, May?”
“Oh, yes, and a great deal more. She says that God is love, and that the great Apostle says, that nothing in the whole world can separate us from His love, and I believe it, because I feel inside that it is true, and that I know it already.”
“Here is wisdom which sages have longed for, and often missed,” said Burton to himself. “Surely, ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise.’”
“She told me,” continued the child, “that heaven is not a place away off ever so far, as I used to think, but that it, and Christ also, is in us. I know that she is right, for when I love everybody I can feel heaven now, right here in this cot. Sometimes when I am all by myself and begin to feel lonely, I just shut my eyes, and love God real hard, and then all the loneliness goes away, and I feel so happy that I really forget whether I have a body or not.”
Burton thought that the little pale form seemed almost transparent, from spiritualization.
“Miss Bonbright taught me a beautiful verse,” continued the child.
“Will you repeat it to me?”
“Oh, yes; it is this:”—
“What do you think it means, May?”
“Oh, that is very easy. Our bodies, and the things around us, are the things that give way; but we don’t care, because our souls are the wings. When our wings are strong enough to fly, we don’t need the boughs any more.”
“My dear little girl,” said Burton, “I must not remain longer now, for so much talking may tire you.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Burton. I am pretty weak, but talking about those things rests me and makes me lively; but sometimes the nurse thinks that I talk too much.”
“Perhaps I will come and see you again.”
“Oh, I hope you will. I am so glad you came to-day, and that you love Miss Bonbright just as I do.”
Burton bent over to say good-by, and again two little arms were raised to clasp him about the neck, and he felt a warm kiss upon his cheek.
As he turned away, the beautiful eyes looked regretfully towards his retreating form, but presently they closed, and the golden curly locks and the pale form were so still that an observer would hardly be able to tell whether or not she was still there, or had been set free.
Upon further inquiry of the attendant, Burton learned that the child’s injury was of such a character that recovery was hopeless, and that the fatal result could not be postponed for more than a few days.
“Excuse me, but I notice that you are acquainted with Miss Bonbright,” said the nurse as Burton was about to leave.
“Yes,” replied Burton; “we met a few months ago at a summer-resort.”
“She is a remarkable girl,” observed the nurse with some enthusiasm. “She comes every few days, and always brings sunshine with her. There is nothing which makes the children so happy as a visit from her. She actually makes them forget their pains. They think there is no one like her, and, judging from the effects produced, I quite agree with them.”
“My acquaintance with her quite confirms your estimate,” replied Burton with apparent composure as he passed out.
Visions of a little pale form on a neat white cot, with a ministering angel in human form bending over it, floated before the mind of Burton during the long wakeful hours of the night following his visit to the Children’s Hospital.
Two days later, Helen Bonbright was again by the side of little May. After a general conversation for a few moments, the little girl observed, “I love your friend Mr. Burton, very much, but that is nothing strange, for you have taught me to love everybody. But I think I love him specially hard. He is such a good friend for you to have, Miss Bonbright.”
There was a deeper tint than usual to the pink color in Helen Bonbright’s cheeks, as she replied, “Yes, dear, he is a very good friend. I am glad he came to see you.”
The large dreamy eyes gently closed for a few moments, and the lips remained silent, but at length May aroused herself and said, “I don’t s’pose I shall be here many days longer, but if I have something as good as wings to fly wherever I please, I shall just enjoy coming to see you. Don’t you think it is love that makes the wings, Miss Bonbright?”
“Love is the wings, my dear child. We are drawn always towards that which we love.”
“When I think that God is real Love itself,” said the child, “I can’t help loving Him, oh, ever so much.”
On the following morning as the early golden rays of the sun streamed in through the lattice and bathed the little white cot with its brightness, a beautiful marble-like form with a smile on the face was there, but the child had gone.