city from a dear friend of both himself and Paul, their old friend
John Burlington, whose philanthropy took many practical forms for
the benefit of the public. He skirted the park on his way out, and
noticed a barber shop across the street in which a few days previous
he had been shaved. Why that particular shop? Because therein he had
been shaved by a young woman, of whom in justice it must be said she
did it remarkably well. “Woman’s sphere is rapidly increasing,” he
mused, “but in such matters, at what a terrible risk and sacrifice of
womanly reserve; a gain in wages and publicity, a loss of refinement
and the other feminine attributes. Is not woman’s head-gear
sufficiently complicated already to furnish employment to experts of
her own sex without attempting to scrape a man’s chin? Certainly the
latter was a risky business for a woman to attempt on short notice.”
There was a hotel on the corner. He stopped to purchase a cigar,
but it was too late. Too late for that, but not too late for others
passing in and out. A couple passed through an inconspicuous entrance
with a peculiar dim lantern in the vestibule near by, and soon
disappeared. They appeared to be sneaking in, yet perfectly familiar
with the premises.
A gay crowd of young people on bicycles passed by; it seemed
unusually late to see so many out. As they wheeled off, talking in
high spirits, there was naught, however, to distinguish them from a
party of industrious young workers who had been kept indoors during
the day, and whose youth demanded outdoor exercise, even if it had to
be taken after dark.
“Where are their parents? still snoozing?” queried the Doctor,--“a
ride after midnight may lead to a ‘skip by the light of the moon,’
but that’s none of my business,” and the bachelor doctor wended his
way back towards his own domicile.
He was just about to enter when he spied a slight, agile figure, an
elderly lady dressed in black, approaching and motioning to detain
him. He could not mistake that light airy step, the nervous activity,
the characteristic gestures. It must surely be she whose activity in
good works he had known so long and well, yet he little expected to
see her alone in the public street at that hour.
He ran down to meet her, took her arm under his and begged her to
come in.
“I can’t, my dear, positively I can’t,” in a voice sweet and
cheerful, as if she wished it but was too busy.
“Well, let me escort you home, then,” insisted the Doctor.
“No, my dear, not necessary at all, not a bit. I never have any
difficulty at night. I wouldn’t take you on any account. I’ve been to
the----” and she hesitated.
“Well, what can I do for you, Aunt Mary?”
She smiled as if the name was most welcome,--patted the Doctor on the
back, called him one of “her boys,” and stopped a minute to chat.
But who was Aunt Mary?
One of those excellent, self-sacrificing Christian women, loving and
lovable, whose whole life was devoted to helping and encouraging
those in distress. Her vocation especially among the worthy poor,
where her heart was ever willing, and her activity constant in their
behalf; striving to bring hope and efficient aid to those who were
struggling against adversity, kindness where it was most needed,
affection where it was seldom met. Among many friends she had a small
coterie of gentlemen whom she called her boys. To these she appealed
in emergencies, and was sure to receive without further inquiry,
simply because “Aunt Mary wanted it.” As sometimes the case with
Christian women of her active, sympathetic, sanguine type, she had
been led to join a few others in the work of redemption conducted
under the auspices of the Midnight Mission. Aunt Mary was returning
from the Mission when she caught sight of the Doctor, her heart
full to overflowing about some hopeful cases among the unfortunate
outcasts she had met. Like an Angel of Mercy she had been spending
her evening talking with purity of thought and action to some,
and waiting for others who might wander in from the streets. She
had been holding out her arms to welcome, to give shelter in the
Home--Christ-like--“Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy
laden, and I will give you rest.”
As the Doctor left Aunt Mary at the door of her own modest home, his
thoughts reverted irresistibly to his evening’s experience considered
as a whole.
The lights and shadows of city life, the contrasts, the changes that
a day may bring forth. Then of the countless fields of work for truth
as each one sees it in his own environment. Surely the Christ life
was the most beautiful and helpful of all.
He recalled how Adele Cultus had once experienced an ardent desire to
work in the slums and been prevented by circumstances, yet continued
to progress in her own sphere. He thought he detected a spiritual
similarity between her and Aunt Mary, yet to outward view there was
little to suggest such comparison; yet again there was, for the
elderly sympathy for others might have once in youth taken a youthful
form of expression,--and the present youthful girl who began by
sympathy for others might yet attain to her ideals.
Then his thoughts wandered off in quite another direction. The
fresh foliage in the park had forcibly reminded him of the coming
season for travel, the time had arrived to make final arrangements
for a contemplated trip abroad. Paul and he had so decided during
the winter, and already engaged state-rooms. They had often spent
summers in England and on the Continent, and this time looked forward
to a longer absence than usual,--a visit to Greece, and possibly to
the Far East. The Doctor had longed to stand upon a pinnacle of the
Himalayas, having then about as much idea of what a pinnacle in that
region might prove to be, as many possess of the veritable north pole.
His thoughts were certainly vague, yet again quite definite after
their kind. When he turned in to bed and began to enter the domain
of Travellers’ Hope, he thought he saw Aunt Mary attending meeting
in Exeter Hall, London, and Adele Cultus playing golf with the
divinities on Olympus. He was hoping Adele would win, when--he forgot
to notice whether she did or not.
VI
AN AVATAR IN THE OCCIDENT--THE THEOPHANY OF SPRING
The advent of spring brought with it the spirit of locomotion to many
others besides the Doctor and Paul,--it generally does to a sane
mind in a healthy body. With the resurrection of new life comes the
exuberant desire to live in the open, more freely, and have one’s
being in action, to exercise “thought, being and joy” to the fullest
extent.
To none was this more forcibly true than to Adele Cultus, whose whole
being responded when the sun shone forth and the birds sang. This
condition of things had been greatly strengthened in her limited
experience thus far, by a conversation she once had with her father,
when she sought his advice in connection with teaching a class in
Sunday-School. It was soon after she graduated, and although she was
by no means ignorant of academic phraseology in regard to certain
matters, she was not satisfied; she wanted a simpler, useful way
of expressing facts involving doctrine, and had asked her father a
direct question which might have proved a poser to some parents, but
certainly not to Professor Cultus, who earnestly desired that his
daughter should be spared the mental strife in his own experience
over moral and ethical questions involving discussion which really
did not help towards better living. The Professor detected that
she wished to talk with him seriously; so he drew her towards him,
made her sit upon his knee that she might feel near him in love and
affection,--comfortably at home while her spirit sought the truth.
“Well, my daughter, what can Father do to help you? Any college
conundrums? Life is full of conundrums, you know!”
Adele smiled. “Oh, yes, I suppose so. But what I want is a simple
answer--my class must understand, and think about it afterwards.”
“Perhaps you know the answer yourself, already,” said the Professor,
“and only wish to quiz me.”
Adele shifted her position on his knee, as if uneasy. “Why, of course
I know; I suppose everybody knows,--but I want to be helped. Knowing
is not enough. What is sin, anyhow? I know it’s detestable, but I
can’t help it. That’s about all I do know, really.”
The Professor drew a breath of relief. Adele saw her father’s eyes
brighten, and instantly felt that he would help her.
“Not such a poser as you think,” said the Professor, with marvelous
cheerfulness, considering the topic, “although an immense amount has
been written about it which certainly is confusing.” Adele, noticing
that to him it certainly was not so gloomy as she had expected, at
once felt at ease also.
“I don’t care what has been written about it to confuse,--what is it?
Some speak of a particular sin first committed by Adam and Eve, and
we have inherited it from them. Well, Father dear, I don’t believe I
inherited sin from you, even if I do have it myself. God in Heaven
is Love,--I can’t believe such a thing of Him. Every baby I look at
tells me it isn’t sinful. Why, they stretch out their little hands to
you to take ’em in your arms.”
Her father appeared rather more solemn in aspect than before;
experiencing a peculiar paternal sensation of mysterious
responsibility. He let Adele continue.
“Others,” said she, “speak as if it were a condition we each have to
experience for some reason or other. That seems reasonable, because
we do. But it’s very confusing to teach, or even to talk of to
any one else, even if we all do have the experience. What is it,
anyhow?” and she looked at her father straight in the eyes.
A strong, impressive, additional experience, which was inspiring for
both of them, resulted; and Adele afterwards looked back upon it as
one of life’s turning points, if not a veritable crisis.
Truth paternal, as if direct from “Our Father,” rose instantly
within the innermost consciousness of Professor Cultus, father of
his beloved daughter sitting on his knee, seeking the truth where
she believed it could be found. He knew intuitively what sort of
definition could alone satisfy Adele at that time in her life. He
must speak the pure helpful truth in sincerity, just as he saw it
himself, no more, no less:--and this being the case, the Holy Spirit
of Truth in Life gave him power of utterance. He answered promptly.
Adele never forgot his words, or to be more precise, the wonderful
concept as to facts in nature which his words instilled within her
own personality. The thoughts engendered became a part of her being,
and produced a purer atmosphere for body, mind and heart.
“Adele, my darling, think of life this way. Truth is like the
light, the light you see with your physical eyes;--and light is as
righteousness. Sin, as you know, your conscience tells you so, is
the absence of righteousness; and this precisely as darkness is the
absence of light. Christ, the historic Jesus of Nazareth, is well
known, to those who know Him personally, and therefore most competent
to judge, as the Light of the World in regard to spiritual life.
It was He, among all the founders of the great historic religions,
who really, truly, brought that spiritual life and immortality
into the brighter light we now enjoy. His personality, as the very
source of this light which enlightens, grows clearer and more
potent as the history of the world progresses; His personality the
most enlightening influence ever known in human experience and the
progress of civilizations. He was a thoroughly truthful, righteous
man, actuated by love for humanity; whose life, words, deeds and
sufferings for truth’s sake, embodied the truth, and nothing but the
truth. And now, Adele, with these thoughts about the Light of the
World one can understand better, and more light will shine upon your
inquiry.
“If one does not live in the good light of righteousness and seek the
very brightest and best he can get, then such a person will certainly
be more or less in the dark,--the darkness of sin. Of course this
condition of living away from the light given us will result in
violations of the divine laws in nature, a breaking of the divine
rule of duty which is to seek the light of truth, not darkness.
Adele, your conscience will tell you the truth, therefore always turn
from darkness towards light. Go out into the world somewhere when
you can’t see clearly in your mind, and look upwards, the spiritual
light will soon come to you, my darling; but be sure to look upwards,
always upwards, beyond yourself,--toward the Light of the World.”
“I never did like cloudy days,” mused Adele,--and then audibly, to
encourage her father to continue--“I think I know what you mean,
Father; please go on.”
“Let me tell you a great secret,” said her father, drawing her still
closer. He loved her as the apple of his eye, and was intensely
desirous that she should be spared those unnecessary troubles in
this life from which he himself had suffered. “Let me tell you a
great secret, Adele, one of the most practical mysteries in nature,
because able to banish many worries from your own heart-life. Don’t
bother, my dear, about overcoming sin, or sins, simply turn from them
when they seem near by, moving out into the light, any light you
can find,--and the darkness will flee away. Do you understand, my
daughter? All sin, but only when they deliberately choose to seek and
stay in the dark; all sin, just as we all walk in the dark sometimes,
but it is useless to fight in the dark except to get out of it;
therefore turn at once toward the light so that you may see what you
can see, the better the light the more clearly you will see;--this
is a fact in nature both as to physical and spiritual sight, a great
secret in nature, hid from many ‘who love darkness.’ Go out into the
sunlight whenever you can, so warm and beautiful, and the darkness
of sin will flee away,--you will see truth clearer and brighter than
ever before.”
“Father, I begin to see a little already,” and she kissed him.
Her natural tendencies were to look upwards and enjoy things. The
Professor’s little sermon on Light as Righteousness appealed to
her strongly as the truth; and what he had hoped for, namely, that
sin, as such, should be put in the dark background so that her mind
would not dwell upon it at all, was for once an actual experience in
her life. This practical experience was what she most needed then
and there. Her father had helped her to look upwards towards the
Light of the World, and when she did, she saw no sin nor darkness
whatsoever. This was indeed a secret worth knowing to live by. It not
only gave her a chance for practical application in her class which
she immediately decided to put in practice, but it generated a train
of thought which she applied many times in later experience. On the
very next Sunday she took her own way to bring the matter home to
her class, several members of which would have been much improved by
a judicious use of soap and water. She touched upon this somewhat
delicate subject by simply suggesting that if any one wished to
know what sin was, he could easily find out by looking at his dirty
hands in the bright sunshine,--the sin spots could then be easily
seen. “Your inside is just like your outside,” said she, “both want
watching and washing _in a good light_ to find those dirty sin spots,
and get rid of them.” The class understood her perfectly; the boys
especially, the girls, too, each after his own kind.
As to the train of thought generated within herself, that also took
form, and in a way to strengthen her ideals of what good thoughts
should be. She retired to bed that blessed night after her father
had told her about the Light of the World and of always looking
upwards, with no fear of sin whatever. It is something to be turned
from, like many other kinds of dirt in nature, only one had to look
upwards in order to avoid it because it soiled the mind as well as
the body. There was a lovely picture of the Christ Child in the arms
of His Mother, hanging over her writing-desk in her room. As she
looked upwards, it appeared bathed in sunlight, and the Baby was so
very fresh and clean.
And when the morning rays came into her bedroom, Adele whispered to
herself, “Oh, there’s the dawn! the light is coming! The roseate
first, and then the golden rays! How beautiful! The Angels of Light!
coming to drive away darkness--and sin.” She cherished this symbolism
her father had given her, throughout her whole life; and from that
day sunrise meant much more to Adele than to many who had none to
tell them how the beauties and mysteries of nature are really blended
together as one. All may see the facts and be helped, if they will
only look upwards towards the Light of the World.
It was not surprising, therefore, at the present period of her
career, when the advent of spring approached, that Adele enjoyed the
prospect exceedingly. Incidentally she had heard of several who were
going abroad that season, among them the Doctor and Paul. “Oh, how I
wish I were going! The very thought is exhilarating; what would the
realization be! If----”
She went to the window and looked upwards. “What a lovely day!--I
think I will take a stroll in the park,” and she picked up a little
book which the Doctor had loaned her. “I’ll take this with me and
read it; it’s something about Oriental theophanies, whatever that
may be. I’ll just read it and imagine I’m out in the Orient. If one
cannot go, the next best thing is to imagine one is there,--with a
book.”
She was dressing to go out when her thoughts took another flight.
“People talk about waiting for things to turn up, they always say
circumstances don’t suit just now, and then collapse. Of course they
collapse,--I should if always waiting--I am sure I should. I couldn’t
stand it. Why not hurry up the circumstances? Mother often makes the
circumstances, and then people fall in; I’ve seen her do it fifty
times. Oh, how I wish I could go abroad!”--then taking her book she
set out for a stroll.
Adele in the park, how different from the Doctor, the circumstances
altogether different. Not at night and alone, but when the sunlight
gave brilliancy and she was liable at any moment to meet some one she
knew.
There was, however, a quiet nook where she hoped to be able to
read undisturbed, an inconspicuous seat partially surrounded by a
cultivated thicket of shrubbery. This seemed to suit her present
mood, and she was soon engrossed in the little book so full of the
Oriental way of looking at things, figures of speech in which the
forces of nature were personified, and the most ordinary facts
described in language which might lead plain people to imagine
supernatural operations in nature. It was not so easy as she
imagined, however, to keep her mind in focus. Of course she had to
nod to several of the girls as they passed by, and with one eye
still following them she observed how the birds were ruining a newly
planted flower bed, nipping off the young shoots and gobbling up
the seed which should be left to sprout later. Of course that had
to be stopped,--she must frighten off the birds to save the plants.
Returning to her book, she noticed some manuscript leaves inserted.
They were in the Doctor’s handwriting and so palpably intended to
be read with the text in order to elucidate further the author’s
ideas, that Adele had no hesitation whatever in reading them, and
became absorbed at once. They seemed like what her father had told
her, only in another form. The Doctor had used Western phraseology
to convey Oriental imagery and ideas,--to show how Oriental imagery
may still be forcible to Western sense,--how the truth was in all, to
be perceived by each after his own fashion. Of course the Doctor’s
effort was crude, and well showed how such ideas may lose force when
separated from the civilization which had originally called them
forth; but of this Adele had no realizing sense. They spoke to her
so that she could understand. She did not criticise, but sought the
truth no matter how crude the effort,--thereby manifesting the prime
element essential in all true criticism, namely, sympathy with the
author. What she read was entitled:
THE THEOPHANY OF SPRING.
In the Domain of Nature, during early Spring, one sees the Spirit of
New Life as an avatar, a coming of the Deity, or manifestation of the
Mind in Nature, down to earth--to produce a resurrection of thought,
being, joy, from an apparent death and past.
To rescue mankind from destruction, the Spirit form is clothed with
Hope as with a garment, hope in tangible manifestation, an admirable
exhibition of an abstract idea, a law in nature, in concrete
fulfilment,--obedience.
Clothed in delicate, lace-like foliage and young blossoms, the
verdant coloring of many shades, the Presence of the Spirit is
manifest. As movement tells of the wind, so do the youthful forms
tell of refinement, modesty, purity. How exquisite the affinity, the
relationship to the azure blue, the heavens above from which new
life must come with light, warmth, and nourishment; and with the
fleecy clouds floating in the vast expanse, white, the blending of
all colors; marking the heavenly route by which the Spirit had passed
in coming down to Mother Earth. Sparkling gems, the gift from April
showers, decked her hopeful garments; not after man’s arrangement;
there was a method in the natural spirit-art which embodied both the
good and the true with the beautiful. Wherever the brilliant points
could accentuate a graceful fold, or enlighten the mind, or give
nourishment, produce good results in any way, as moisture gives life
and sustentation, there were the sparkling gems upon the Theophany of
New Life.
As one gazes with holy admiration at this theophany of truth in
renewed manifestation, and watches the changing effects, the action
of the Spirit of New Life becomes apparent; the adaptation of the
new growth to progress becomes a living experience, the facts become
vital in significance to help others to live beautifully and truly.
The pure white light from the azure sky, the composite of all colors,
differentiates itself when touching the new growth and youthful
forms. Topaz flowers, and garlands of ruby blossoms, rich golden
stamens set in sapphire corollas, the royal purple, bloomed upon the
garments of Hope, turquoise opaque tints and alexandrite changing
hues took proper place as life took time.
The New Life advances, treading the way all plants and men should
follow--must follow. The always true, always good, always beautiful,
in motion or effect. And at times the theophany is seen in effects
too dazzling for mortal eye to gaze upon with sight in nakedness--the
naked eye cannot see and live. From behind the cumuli of clouds such
radiant outbursts of effulgent splendor that a transfiguration of
the Presence itself seems imminent, a veritable foresight of what
the pure in heart above can see and live,--a glimpse of what is
implied by the immanence of the Creator of all life. It is then that
scintillations of brilliancy shine forth from every gem, from every
good thought, from every beautiful action, responsive to Him who
created them. It is then that the truth is visible to the naked eye
so that man can see upon the earth that for which he prays, “as it is
in heaven.” It is then that the Spirit of New Life becomes enveloped
as with a halo around her own presence, and vision is blinded by the
increasing effulgence of the truthful atmospheric effects.
Man closes his eyes, his vision is too weak, too limited in power
and scope, to behold that which is actually before his eyesight. And
while his sight is sealed by the very glory of the fact itself, and
his mental vision strives to retain permanently that which he has
been permitted to witness, then the Spirit speaks, speaks into the
heart-life of those who have sought by striving to learn how to hear
as well as to see. It is then when the eye is closed, yet all in
the presence of New Life, that the avatar, theophany, renaissance,
resurrection of truth in springtime, speaks the pure word of the Mind
of Nature, the Creator Father,--the still small voice is heard.
Softly as a murmur it comes from all directions. To him whose life
work is in one field it is a voice profound and comprehensive in
nature, and he calls it the music of the spheres. To another, it
seems as tender, loving and true as parental affection in its
holiest moments, and this one takes his children into the fields and
wood to see and hear. It pervades all life, this Voice of Thought,
Being, Joy, in the resurrection of New Life. It is heard in the
bird-notes from every bush as the little songsters sing to their
mates, rejoicing in renewed virility and hope of cozy nests amid
the youthful foliage; it is the voice of renewed youth speaking
unto itself, yet not itself, but through itself into those whom it
had created, preserved, saved,--a simple, child-like voice, asking
questions.