_THE SHORE-WALK._
Life is like a kaleidoscope: every turn brings new forms, colors,
and combinations. A slight movement of the rudder turns the vessel
into another course, and at length into a different port; so a paltry
choice or circumstance, in itself the merest trifle, alters, colors,
and determines the whole destiny. Several personal careers in which
we are interested were entirely changed by the experiences of the
summer under review. The choice of that particular vacation-plan was
the outcome of a whole chain of trivial occurrences, in which, if
even the weakest link had been severed, several lives would have been
turned into different channels. Each would then have appeared in a
different tableau, with other and different accessories, foreground
and perspective. That turn of the kaleidoscope which had defined the
present combination was a happy and eventful one. Under its influence,
days at Bar Harbor sped rapidly away. The length of time is more
relative than absolute. It is not merely so many days of twenty-four
hours each, but rather how those hours are filled, that makes them long
or short. The number of impressions, pleasant or otherwise, determine
the conscious length of time.
The month of August, in the early part of which the events of the
last few chapters took place, was drawing to a close. The intervening
time had been passed in excursions, drives, walks, sails, dinners,
and receptions, and mystic cords of attraction and affection had been
growing and strengthening, as they entangled and held this or that
one in their silken meshes. There were indefinable purposes and
cross-purposes, designs and counter-designs, in various stages of
development--some rapidly maturing, others hardly begun.
Bar Harbor has one never-failing resource in what is known as the
Shore-Walk. Rarely on the whole Atlantic coast can there be found a
mile of footpath which contains so many attractive and unique features.
In its windings, the lover of nature can find almost every desirable
feature, and the sloping velvety lawns and beautiful cottages furnish
enough of art for a pleasing combination. When longer excursions become
tiresome, this resort right at hand is always refreshing. Thither
repair scholars, with text-book in hand; business men, with daily
paper; maidens, with the latest novel; and there are found lovers, in
pairs for sweet converse; clergymen for inspiration; tired people for
rest; nurses and children for freedom and air; all for that substantial
help which comes from communion with nature.
When jaded and worn with the multitudinous details of life, which is
made artificial by our strained and highly organized civilization,
mankind turn face to face with nature for refreshment, as instinctively
as an infant seeks the maternal font. As may be inferred, the
Shore-Walk was a favorite resort for our coterie. Singly, in pairs,
in groups, they might be seen almost any pleasant day, occupying the
cosey nooks, the shady moss-covered seats and clean-washed rocks, which
abound along that delightful pathway.
So many chance meetings!
Perhaps Miss Jenness would start out for a “constitutional.” Van Roden
would happen to feel the need of exercise about the same hour. If she
sat down to read a book, or look out upon the “Porcupines,” he would
almost rise up out of the ground, and quietly put in an appearance.
Similar coincidences often happened with the others. Chance--poor
innocent thing--had all these happenings thrust upon her.
Helen Bonbright often frequented this pathway and its quiet nooks by
herself, to enjoy delightful reading or meditation, or for silent
communion with trees, rocks, and sea. Hers was a mystical nature.
When alone, she was not really alone. She had such a keen spiritual
consciousness, that nature to her was but an external symbol of the
operations of the loving, all-pervading Spirit whose presence thrilled
her soul. The world and its beauties were but the printed page upon
which she read the love and perfection of the All-Embracer, the
All-Sustainer, the Immanent God.
One day, while Helen was sitting on one of the great rocks at whose
base the waves were chanting a soft melody, Tapley chanced that way
and joined her. It was a beautiful morning, and the ripples of the bay
glistened in the golden sunlight, and the softened outline of the hills
on the opposite shore was aglow with a bright halo.
“Good-morning, Miss Bonbright,” said Tapley, as he approached. “You are
out in good time to make the most of this charming day. Pardon me if I
interrupt your meditations.”
She bade him welcome, and motioned him to a seat beside her. In her
manner, there was neither coquettishness on the one hand, nor false
delicacy on the other, but only transparency, naturalness. Her morning
walk had given a glow to her features, such as any artist would despair
of catching, and the charmed atmosphere of purity and grace which
surrounded her gave Tapley a sensation of being on hallowed ground.
He took no especial note of her external beauty, but how could he
help loving such a beautiful _soul_? Tapley was an idealist. Here was
“realism” of the most idealistic quality.
“You were much occupied as I approached,” he observed. “May I share in
the benefit of your deductions?”
“I am quite free from abstract logic this morning, Mr. Tapley. I was
only indulging in a little retrospection. Occasionally I think such an
exercise quite profitable. I have been contrasting some of the early
impressions and beliefs which I have left behind, with those of my
present consciousness.”
“In what department have you been making a review, Miss Bonbright?”
“My past and present theology, and their differences, was the topic
which occupied my mind. I have been reviewing my early impressions
of the nature of the Deity, and our relations to Him, and noting
the change in my views. My recent conversations with Mr. Burton and
yourself have given me additional light, although I had made much
progress before.”
“I had also a peculiar youthful experience,” responded Tapley. “I have
told you of my present status, but nothing of my early beliefs. Why may
we not compare notes? Please delineate some of your early impressions,
so that I may see how they correspond with my own.”
“Some of them were so grotesque,” replied Helen, “that it seems almost
irreverent to express them; but yet they were real to me. I used to
think of God as an immense person in human form, seated on a throne
located in some distant part of the universe. On the right of the
throne, and on a lower seat, sat the Christ, much smaller in size, and
with benignity and mercy in his look. Around the throne were troops
of angels, worshipping in long white robes. God wore a crown upon his
head, and, with solemn and awful majesty in his appearance, looked down
with stern and terrible severity upon the deeds of men. On account of
Adam’s sin, we were under His displeasure and curse. Christ pleaded
with Him in our behalf, and, by consenting to suffer, partially
placated His wrath towards us. I was a sensitive child, and such a view
cast a shadow upon my whole life. I feared God with a slavish fear.
I wanted to love Him, but how was it possible as He was presented? I
became morbid because I found it impossible to do that which I felt was
my solemn duty. My life was dwarfed, and I was deprived of all that
was normal, joyful, and harmonious, on account of the nightmare that
was upon me. Things were not much improved when I came into the church
and subscribed to its regular statements of doctrine, and was formally
enrolled among its members. I sought with prayers and bitter tears to
become reconciled to God, but my nature would but feebly respond to the
God that had been delineated to me. Religion was gloomy, austere, and
unattractive. I wanted to be religious, and had but little love for the
world, in its lower sense; but I was in impenetrable gloom. My health
suffered, and not until I came into a new and broader recognition of
truth, did I find that wholeness which fills every desire, and heals
and harmonizes soul and body.”
She paused and looked up to Tapley as if waiting for his narrative.
“My experience corresponds to a remarkable degree,” said he. “My early
impressions of God were somewhat as He is represented by the ‘old
masters.’ A form like that of a man, of vast size, with round cheeks
covered with beard, of stern and relentless mien, sitting in an armed
chair and surveying the world from afar. I gathered that there was an
irreconcilable difference of nature between God and Christ, and that
the former was the more powerful. My sense of justice was shocked by
what appeared to be a bargain, or a compromise, to the effect that
Christ should suffer, and that His agony should appease the demands
of the Superior Person of the Trinity. These conceptions now seem
almost too irreverent to express, but they were a terrible reality to
me then. They were childish impressions, but when somewhat refined
they have furnished the warp and woof of much of the world’s theology.
That childish conception roughly outlines what theologians have
discussed, poets have sung, and what has been formulated into creeds
and ‘standards.’
“But the saddest part of all is, that from such unlovable and
materialistic ideas men’s minds have reacted, and through their
influence infidels, sceptics, and materialists have been multiplied by
the thousand. When the soul revolts from such a picture of God as was
drawn by Jonathan Edwards, in his famous sermon ‘Sinners in the Hands
of an Angry God,’ it is inclined to plunge into the depths of atheism.
The spirit of dogmatism so long prevailed, that men outlined with great
positiveness the opinions, feelings, parts, and passions of the Deity.
The outline was so sharp, and the form so distinct, that it amounted to
an idolatrous concept. Young says,--
‘A God alone can comprehend a God.’
“The anthropomorphous God is the result of a presumptuous and
materialistic view of the Divine nature.
‘Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread.’
“How refreshing to turn from material assumptions, which shock a
sensitive youthful nature, to a few clear-cut definitions of God found
in Holy Writ: First, ‘God is Love;’ second, ‘God is Spirit’ (not a
spirit, as incorrectly translated); third, ‘In Him we live and move and
have our being.’
“Towards such a God the human heart warms and thrills. It is drawn
towards Him as naturally as a flower turns towards the sun. The law
that love begets love is deeply implanted in man’s nature. The whole
spirit of revelation teaches that ‘Our Father’ is not a person like
unto us, with parts and passions, localized, limited and changeable,
but He is One, filling immensity: All-Love, All-Life, All-Spirit, All
in All. With such a God, religion becomes divinely natural, not special
or supernatural. The Spirit is the living and universal Christ to guide
us into all truth. In the din of the world, the ‘still small voice’ is
unheard, and men are inclined to turn either to material ‘husks,’ or to
an external and creedal religion which has lost a consciousness of the
Spirit as an ever-present, practical, every-day force.
“‘But greatness which is infinite makes room
For all things in its lap to lie:
We should be crushed by a magnificence
Short of infinity.’
“It cannot be denied that ceremonial religion and the letter, though
not the spirit, of the Bible, to some extent, have come in between God
and the soul. Incidentals are magnified until they divert attention
from the goal to be sought.
“An eminent Christian lady has well observed,--
“‘Let the church make more of the spiritualities of its faith, less
of its history; more of its meaning, less of its doctrine; more of
its union with God, less of its rules; more of its life, less of its
scholasticism; and come back to a practical recognition of the Holy
Spirit, which will, if followed, guide us into all truth.’”
The conversation continued for an hour or two on account of the
interest felt by both in metaphysical and spiritual topics.
“I am glad to hear you express your views so fully,” said Helen, “and
thank you very much for the light you have given me. How an enlarged
view of God, as being our life and dwelling-place, smoothes out the
trial and inharmony of life, when compared with former impressions. How
sweet to dwell in the thought that ‘in Him we live, and move, and have
our being.’ I am glad that there is progress in the church, and that it
is slowly breaking away from the extreme dogmatism of the seventeenth
century.”
“Yes,” replied Tapley, “we are now in a transition state. When the
average human mind becomes imbued with a ruling consciousness that
God is Love, that He is our Life, that He is not a distant, but an
ever-present God, then sin, selfishness, and even bodily infirmity,
which hold the world in bondage, will be overcome. Fénelon observes
that,--
“‘The realization of God’s presence is the one sovereign remedy against
temptation.’”
“A beautiful and true sentiment,” said Helen.
“Yes,” replied Tapley, “and there is another consideration of great
importance. Man’s concept of God is his working model or ideal, hence
the importance of a correct appreciation of Him. Men become what they
mentally dwell upon. The vindictive man worships a vindictive God.
Such a worship is as truly idolatrous as homage paid to a graven
image. Every man, even if he be an avowed atheist, unconsciously has
some supreme ideal after which he is striving, and such an aspiration
amounts to worship. By a vast number, material advantage is regarded
as the supremest good, and therefore most to be sought. Idolatry is
the great and comprehensive sin. A material or distorted conception
of God is responsible for much of the world’s woe. If men recognized
their life as _in God_, instead of conceiving it to be self-centred and
dependent upon external conditions, how naturally they would turn to
Him for additional vitality and refreshment. As it is, for spiritual
nourishment, they depend upon systems, creeds, ordinances, sacraments,
rules, external morality, and sectarian loyalty. For physical
restoration and vitality, their reliance is upon rules, systems, drugs,
and dead matter in its multiform combinations.
“The link that binds us directly to God, while not really broken, has
been practically severed in human consciousness, and institutions and
material forces have been enthroned and set up between God and the
soul. God is everywhere, but we cannot see him face to face, because we
have involved ourselves in the dust of material externalism. The light
and warmth of the great Central Sun is obstructed by clouds of our own
raising.”
While this conversation was in progress, Burton started out for his
favorite stroll along the Shore-Walk. As he came near to the place
where Tapley and Helen Bonbright were seated, he was thunderstruck to
observe that they were in close proximity, with her hand apparently
in his, and engaged in earnest conversation. They were sitting upon
a large rock a few rods from the path, looking towards the sea, with
faces steadfastly inclined to each other. While he plainly observed
them, they had no knowledge of his presence. They were so absorbed
in each other, or in the subject they were discussing, that there
was little probability of their turning so as to become aware of his
approach. He quickly passed on until he reached a spot where there was
a friendly interposition of trees and bushes, and sat down upon a mossy
knoll to collect his wandering thoughts. Edward Burton was not more
than human. The sight which he had just witnessed at first gave him the
sensation of being stunned, and then he made an effort to calm himself
and seek a solution of the mystery. But little more than three weeks
had passed since he first met Helen Bonbright, and during that time he
had scarcely stopped to analyze his feelings. For the first time, he
now realized that her image had been constantly before him since their
first meeting. They had been interested in the same subjects, and had
thought the same thoughts. He had been having a beautiful dream, and
was now jostled and rudely awakened. For a few moments the pangs of
jealousy tortured and tore his soul, and a deadly hand-to-hand conflict
was waged within him. His heart throbbed, his lips and features became
bloodless, and beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead. For fully
fifteen minutes he sat with his face buried in his hands, utterly
oblivious of the world around. Then he arose and stamped his foot, as
if to crush something under it. The victory was won. He turned and,
with a quiet smile and placid features, folded his arms and looked out
upon the peaceful shining bay. He had become as calm as the unruffled,
mirror-like water before him.
“Tapley, my dear friend,” said he, talking to himself, in audible
tones, “I congratulate you! I love you, and you are almost my spiritual
father! I have a glimpse, even now, of an ideal condition, when an
all-embracing and spiritual love will submerge all lower forms of
affection, even as the ocean absorbs and envelopes its tributaries.”
He turned, and slowly retraced his steps. The pair remained, and were
as deeply engrossed as before.
As he made his way along the path, the shimmer of the waves was not
dimmed; the glow of the sunlight was warm and bright, and the face of
nature never seemed more smiling to him than when he came to the end of
the Shore-Walk.