_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:”--
“‘Be like the bird that halting in her flight
Awhile, on boughs too slight,
Feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings,
Knowing that she hath wings.’”
“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.