THE CHANCE WORD
"A man reforms his habits altogether or not at all."
--Bacon.
David was not mistaken in his vague impression that he had heard a sob
and footsteps outside the cabin door.
The little band of lumbermen abandoning their camp in the early light of
the morning for another clearing still farther in the wilderness, had
already covered several miles of their journey when their leader
suddenly discovered that he had forgotten his axe, and with a wild
volley of oaths turned back to get it.
Even in that region, where new types of men sprang up like new varieties
of plants after a fire has swept over a clearing, there was not to be
found a more unique and striking personality than Andy McFarlane. In
physique he was of gigantic proportions, his hair and beard as red as
fire, his voice loud and deep, his eyes blue and piercing. Clad in the
gay-colored woolen shirt, the rough fur cap, and the high-topped boots
of a lumberman, his appearance was bold and picturesque to the last
degree.
Nor were his mental powers inferior to his physical. Although unable to
read or write, he could both reason and command. His keen perceptions,
his ready wit, his forcible logic and his invincible will had made him
a leader among men and the idol of the rude people among whom he passed
his days.
Repelled and disgusted with those manifestations of the religious life
with which alone he was familiar, he was still an unconscious worshiper.
The woods, the hills, the rivers and the stars awoke within him a
response to the beautiful, the sublime and awe-inspiring in the natural
universe.
But because of ignorance, the mysteries of existence which ought to have
made him devout had only rendered him superstitious, though, all unknown
to himself, his bosom was full of inflammable materials of a deeply
religious life. A spark fell upon them that Sunday morning and kindled
them into a conflagration. Nothing else can so enrage a nature like his
as having to retrace its steps. He could have walked a hundred miles
straight forward without a feeling of fatigue or a sense of hardship;
but every backward step of his journey had put him more out of temper.
He reached the clearing in a towering passion and was bewildered at
hearing in what he supposed to be a deserted room, the sound of a human
voice in whose tones there was a peculiar quality which aroused his
interest and perhaps excited his superstition. He crept toward the rude
cabin on his tiptoes, paused and listened. What he heard was the voice
of the young mystic, pouring out his heart in prayer.
For the first time in his life McFarlane gave serious attention to a
petition addressed to the Supreme Being. Other prayers had disgusted him
because of their vulgar familiarity with the Deity, or repelled him by
their hypocrisy; but there was something so sincere and simple in the
childlike words which issued from the cabin as to quicken his soul and
turn his thoughts upon the mysteries of existence. He had received the
gift of life as do the eagles and the lions--without surprise. Had any
one asked him: "Andy McFarlane, what is life?" he would have answered:
"Life? Why it is just life."
But suddenly a voice, heard in the quiet of a wilderness, a voice full
of tenderness and pathos, issuing from unknown and invisible lips and
ascending into the vast and illimitable spaces of air, threw wide open
the gates of mystery. His heart was instantly emptied of its passions;
his soul grew calm and his whole nature became as impressionable as wax.
When at length the prayer had ended and the sermon began, every power of
his mind was strained to its utmost capacity, and he listened as if for
life. The buried germs of desires and aspirations of which he had never
dreamed were quickened into life with the rapidity of the outburst of
vegetation in a polar summer. Words and phrases which had hitherto
seemed to him the utterances of fools or madmen, became instinct with a
marvelous beauty and a wondrous meaning. They flashed like balls of
fire. They pierced like swords. They aroused like trumpets. Such was
the susceptibility of this great soul, and such was the power of that
simple eloquence.
Andy McFarlane, the child of poverty, the rude lumberman, the hardy
frontiersman, was by nature a poet and a seer, and this was his new
birth into his true inheritance. Those eyes which had never wept, swam
in tears. Those knees which had never trembled before the visible, shook
in the presence of the unseen.
The emotions have their limitations as well as the thoughts, and
McFarlane had endured all that he was capable of sustaining. With a
profound sob, in which he uttered the feelings he could not speak, he
turned and fled. It was this sob and these footsteps which David heard.
Plunging into the depths of the forest as a wounded animal would have
done, he cast himself upon the bosom of the earth at the foot of a great
tree, to find solitude and consolation.
There are wounds in the soul too deep to be healed by the balm which
exudes from the visible elements of Nature. There are longings and
aspirations which the palpable and audible cannot satisfy. Not what he
sees and touches, but what he hopes and trusts, can save man in these
dark moments from the final despair and terror of existence.
Upon such an hour as this the lumberman had fallen. God had thrust
Himself upon his attention. Instead of being compelled to seek a
religious experience, he found it impossible to escape it.
The religious experiences of men in any such epoch possess a certain
general similarity. Sometimes thought, sometimes action and sometimes
emotion furnish the all-pervasive element. Whatever this peculiar
characteristic may be, its manifestations are always most vivid and
violent in ignorant periods, and along the uncultivated frontiers of
advancing civilization. In those rude days and regions, the victims (if
one might say so) of religion experienced nervous excitations and
emotional transports which not infrequently terminated in convulsions.
Days and nights, weeks and even months, were often spent by them in
struggles which were always painful and often terrible.
Andy McFarlane had often enough witnessed and despised these
experiences; but through those almost inexorable laws of association and
imitation, they were more than likely to reproduce themselves in him.
And so indeed they did. Under the influence of these new thoughts that
had seized him with such power, he writhed in agony on the ground. A
profound "conviction of sin" took possession of his soul and he felt
himself to be hopelessly and forever lost. That hell at which he had so
often scoffed suddenly opened its jaws beneath his feet, and although he
shuddered at the thought of being engulfed in its horrors, he felt that
such a doom would be the just desert of a life like his.
Hours passed in which his calmest thoughts were those of complete
bewilderment and helplessness, and in which he seemed to himself to be
floating upon a wide and shoreless sea, or wandering in a pathless
wilderness or winging his way like a lost bird through the trackless
heavens. However large an element of unreality and absurdity there may
have been in such experiences, it is certain that changes of the most
startling and permanent character were often wrought in the natures of
those who passed through them, and when McFarlane at last emerged from
this spiritual excitement he was a strangely altered man. He seemed to
find himself in another and more beautiful world. Looking around him
with a childlike wonder, he rose and made his way back to the cabin. He
listened at the door, but heard no sound. He entered, found the room
empty, and gave himself up to rude and unscientific speculation as to
the nature of this mysterious adventure. Nothing helped to solve the
problem, until at last he discovered the Bible, which the Quaker had
hurled at the snake, lying upon the hearthstone. It did not explain
everything, but it served to connect the inexplicable with the real and
human, and he carried the book with him when he returned to his
companions with his recovered axe.
That Bible became a "lamp to his feet and a light to his path." By
patient labor he learned to read it, and soon grew to be so familiar
with its contents, that he was able not only to communicate its matter
to others, in the new and beautiful life which he began to live, but to
give it new power for those men in the plain and homely language of
which he had always been a master.
The lion had become a lamb, the eagle a dove. He moved among his men,
the incarnation of gentleness and truth. Under his powerful influence
the camp passed through a marvelous transformation. From this limited
sphere of influence, his fame began to extend into a larger region. He
was sent for from far and near to tell the story of his strange
conversion, and in time abandoned all other labor and gave himself
entirely to the preaching of the Gospel.
It was as if the spirit of love and faith which had departed from the
Quaker had entered into the lumberman.