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Title: Edward Burton

Author: Henry Wood

Release date: December 9, 2025 [eBook #77430]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Lee and Shepard Publishers, 1890

Credits: Susan E., David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDWARD BURTON ***




Books by Henry Wood


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  GOD’S IMAGE IN MAN
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  _Any of the above sent by mail, postage paid, on receipt of price._


  LEE and SHEPARD Publishers
  BOSTON




  EDWARD BURTON

  BY
  HENRY WOOD

  AUTHOR OF “POLITICAL ECONOMY OF NATURAL LAW,” “IDEAL
  SUGGESTION,” “GOD’S IMAGE IN MAN,” ETC.

  “With an early introversion,
    Through the forms of outward things,
  Seeking for the subtle essence,
    And the hidden springs.”

  _NINTH EDITION_

  BOSTON MDCCCXCIX
  LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
  10 MILK STREET NEXT “THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE”




  COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY HENRY WOOD.

  _All Rights Reserved._




PREFATORY NOTE.


The author of this volume believes in the wholesomeness of idealism
and optimism. It is perhaps unnecessary to state that no attempt is
here made to construct a novel upon conventional “realistic” lines.
Systems and doctrines find their only expression in character, and
distinctive personality may be regarded as the outcome of institutions.
It is evident that the delicate pen-photography of the ignoble in
human nature is too often the _animus_ in current fiction. A subtle
tone of unwholesome pessimism and hopelessness is thereby diffused.
Idealization of character may not be regarded as “artistic,” but
whether or not this attempt be successful, the writer will still
believe that in that direction lies a promising field too little
cultivated. It may be well to add that in this narrative no individual
has served as a model for character outline.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                                    PAGE

      I. FRENCHMAN’S BAY                        7
     II. THE DINNER-PARTY                      15
    III. BURTON’S SCHOOL LIFE                  31
     IV. BURTON’S THEOLOGICAL EDUCATION        41
      V. BURTON’S ILLNESS AND ITS RESULTS      48
     VI. THE DOWN-EAST CRUISE                  67
    VII. A PLEASANT ENTERTAINMENT              91
   VIII. DR. FRUSTADT’S EXPERIENCES           108
     IX. THE ANEMONE-CAVE PICNIC              115
      X. THE SHORE-WALK                       131
     XI. VAN RODEN’S PROPOSAL                 141
    XII. EXCURSION TO CRYSTAL CASCADE         161
   XIII. A MUTUAL CONFESSION                  173
    XIV. THE REVIVAL                          183
     XV. THE TWO FRUSTADTS                    199
    XVI. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING                212
   XVII. THE FRUSTADTS IN CHICAGO             225
  XVIII. MR. BONBRIGHT’S FAILURE              235
    XIX. MR. BONBRIGHT’S ILLNESS              248
     XX. HELEN BONBRIGHT’S TRIALS             261
    XXI. BAR HARBOR AGAIN                     277




EDWARD BURTON.




CHAPTER I.

_FRENCHMAN’S BAY._


About three o’clock one sultry afternoon in August, 188-, a canoe
containing two young men might have been seen slowly making its
way southward upon that picturesque sheet of water on the coast of
Maine known as “Frenchman’s Bay.” The paddles moved lazily, and the
mirror-like surface of the water was disturbed only a short distance
in the track of the light craft, which, on account of the placid
transparency of its native element, seemed to be floating almost in
air. That wonderful combination of sea, mountain, rock and forest,
which has made this fairest gem of the coast famous, was at its best,
and the atmosphere seemed quivering with light, beauty and color. The
transparent azure of the sky was reflected in the crystal blue of the
unruffled water, and nature was in its most serene and dreamy mood. To
the southward, graceful cloud-forms were hanging over Green Mountain;
but with that exception, the afternoon sun was in full dominion, and
the clear-cut forms of the evergreen shores were duplicated in the
waters of the bay. In the hazy distance to the northward, the graceful
slopes of the Sullivan hills rose from a silvery foreground of water,
backed by emerald mountains in the dim vista beyond. On either hand,
down to the water’s edge, the shore was decked with dark forests,
relieved occasionally by masses of irregular brown rocks, whose long
encounter with the waves had fringed them with clefts, coves and
fissures. Here and there, among the sloping evergreen spires were
glimpses of summer cottages, the variegated colors of which formed a
pleasing contrast with their dark green surroundings. To the south was
the fashionable and flourishing town of Bar Harbor, with its lordly
villas, great hotels, busy wharves, palatial steamers, and graceful
yachts; but above all, its background of noble mountains, which
like giant sentinels keep guard over it, in sunshine and in storm.
Out towards the ocean, whose mighty pulsations send in a graceful
swell, loom up those unique islands known as the “Porcupines,” which
stand like huge forts to resist the rougher surges and assaults of
old Neptune. The delicious air was laden with a delicate aroma of
life-giving ozone, furnishing such an environment that bare existence
seemed a luxury and an inspiration. Amid such scenery, Ruskin might
have found new and graceful pictures of mountain grandeur, and
Wordsworth have gained inspiration for rare songs of lake beauty
and sublimity. In the direction of Bar Harbor lay a fleet of yachts
and various other craft, some at anchor, and some lazily sailing
with scarcely enough breeze to fill their sheets, or to give them
perceptible motion.

The two young men whose easy and almost mechanical strokes impelled
the canoe gracefully forward were so absorbed in the charming variety
of water, forest and sky, that for some time they were silent, each
apparently wrapped in his own meditations. The elder of the two was a
pale, intellectual-looking young man, of refined appearance, regular
features, and of an easy nonchalant air, which indicated familiarity
with society, and acquaintance with the gay world. His keen, dark
eye, high forehead, precise expression of feature, and all external
indications, pointed to a character distinguished for unusual vigor
and ability. He was, perhaps, twenty-two or twenty-three years of age;
had been graduated the year before at Harvard, and, at present, was
taking a course in the medical department of the same institution.
His companion was of more sturdy and athletic build, with jet black
hair and mustache, and showed a muscular development which would form
a good equipment for baseball, or for pulling a strong oar. He also
was a Harvard man, and the two, though not chums nor classmates, for
two years past had been warm friends, and had seen much of each other.
The medical student had just arrived at Bar Harbor as the guest of
his friend, whose earnest invitation, seconded by that of his father,
induced him to come for a part of his vacation. The elegant and
spacious cottage of the Bonbrights usually was well filled with invited
guests during “the season,” and a generous but informal hospitality was
a family characteristic.

Silence reigned in the canoe, interrupted only by the soft, regular
plash of the paddles; but at length the medical student arousing from
his reverie, and turning his thoughts from natural scenery to friendly
converse, observed, “Bert, who is that Miss Jenness whose arrival is
expected this afternoon?”

Adelbert Bonbright, who was in the forward part of the canoe, turned
partly around and with an interested expression replied: “She is a
particular friend of my sisters, and a mighty clever girl. Helen was
very intimate with her at Wellesley, and since that time they have
exchanged visits, and I think it is ‘on the bills,’ that she is to be
our guest for the next three or four weeks.”

“Where does she hail from?” asked Van Roden, his curiosity having been
aroused by one or two previous references to the young lady.

“From Philadelphia, Van, and she belongs to one of the best families.”

“A regular ‘blue blood’ then,” suggested Van Roden.

“Oh, yes,” replied Bonbright; “her ancestors came over with William
Penn, and two of her great-grandfathers were signers of the
Declaration. Her father’s mansion is located centrally within the
strictly correct patrician limits of the ‘Quaker City;’ but allow me to
suggest, my dear boy, that the young lady has personal merits enough
without drawing upon her ancestry.”

“Pray, what are her particularly fine points?” said the medical
student, who, though steadily plying his paddle, seemed suddenly to
have lost interest in the surrounding scenery.

“Well,” replied Bert, who now realized that he was arousing the
curiosity of his companion, “you will observe them quickly enough when
you meet her, but I warn you, old fellow, that she is very independent
and unimpressible. She can hold her own in almost any department, and
has decided views, whether in literature, philosophy, ethics or love.
She is a devoted member of a Browning Club; prominent in a Theosophical
Society; a good art critic, and dabbles in poetry.”

“What a paragon!” exclaimed Van Roden; “pray, is there any thing which
she cannot do?”

“A truce to the subject,” responded Bonbright; “‘the proof of the
pudding is in the eating.’”

“The topic is too interesting to be so summarily dismissed,” said Van
Roden. “May I inquire whether it is your well-known general admiration
for the sex, which kindles your enthusiasm in the case of this single
specimen; or is it an example of special selection?”

“I might as well own that it has a flavor of the latter, Van; perhaps,
to quote from your favorite author, it may be regarded as a case of
the ‘survival of the fittest,’ she being the fittest.”

“I suppose,” retorted Van Roden, “that we may regard her as a
‘survival,’ because she is the latest of the series.”

“Well,” replied Bonbright, “there is always an improved edition--a
climax to every series--and I might as well admit that Miss Jenness is
the climax.”

“Until a later climax--if that is what you call a young lady--is
reached, Bert.”

“Nonsense! Van; there is only one superlative among the comparatives;
one Mont Blanc among the Alps. When a fellow’s ideal is fully complied
with--in every detail--nothing more is possible.”

“One would conclude, my dear boy, that your neck was about ready for
the matrimonial noose,” said Van Roden. “I hope that you will not be
such a fool as to surrender your freedom to any woman. On the much
mooted question, ‘Is marriage a failure?’ I vote, yes; that is, so
far as its being a means whereby the aggregate of human happiness is
increased. The average young woman of the present time knows little or
nothing of love, _per se_; that impetuous unreasonable passion, which
has been the most potent factor in all the world’s movements, in the
past. She is on the lookout for jewelry, _bric-à-brac_, horses, an
establishment, social rank and position. She is early put in training
to play her cards for these things; and almost invariably carries out
the programme. Her fine points are cultivated and polished, and those
which are indifferent kept in the background; while she is trotted
out on the matrimonial course in order to win. Her figure, hair,
complexion, dress, manners, accent and dancing, are on exhibition at
their best--and the fastest possible time is made towards the goal,
which is a ‘good match.’ Marriage is regarded as the _entrée_, or
vestibule to luxury, position and social distinction. Matrimony in
modern society is a matter of money; indeed, a regular bargain and
sale.”

“You are a regular old croaker, cynic and materialist, Van; utterly
destitute of all sentiment, or romance. Love is as potent, and Cupid’s
arrows as sharp, as at any time since the world began. Though the age
of chivalry has passed, and brave knights no longer enter the lists
of the tournament and risk their lives to gain the favor of a ‘faire
ladie’; and although the love songs and serenades of gay troubadours
have well-nigh ceased; yet love is a sovereign which will never be
dethroned. The tinsel, the accompaniments, and the establishment, upon
which you wax so eloquent, are mere side-shows and surface indications.
Love is the motor, and thus will it ever be. Like the silent and unseen
forces of attraction and cohesion, it is imperious; and all external
motives must ‘pale their ineffectual fires’ before its sway.”

“O, that’s all hifalutin, Bert: I do not wish to dampen your ardor, or
spoil your enthusiasm; but my observation leads me to conclude that the
marriage tie--especially within the circle of that hollow aggregation
known as ‘society’--in a majority of cases, is a yoke, the galling
friction of which directly tends to infelicity and gilded misery.
Granted, there are many exceptions, but if the inside and suppressed
history of the marriage relation could be uncovered, I believe the
exhibit would be as sensational, and have as much drawing power, as any
drama upon the stage. Women are exacting, both by nature and education,
in the present condition of society. Marriage has become a partnership,
formed from motives of expediency, fashion and social ambition. In
the very nature of the case, when the ‘fair sex’ claim equal, if not
superior authority in all departments--whether within or outside of
their peculiar province--to the traditional head of the household, you
may look out for breakers. Were women content to fill the place that
nature plainly designed for them, things might be different; but as
a rule, they are ambitious to extend their domain, and thereby comes
friction. It is often admitted that marriage is a ‘lottery,’ and it
is quite as evident that lotteries should be suppressed. History is
filled with examples of marital infelicity. Lend your sympathy to
Socrates, Byron, Goldsmith, Carlyle, and to unnumbered other sufferers,
whose experiences, unlike the examples named, have been a sealed book.
Look at the rapid increase of business in the divorce courts; note
the marvellous growth of Chicago, where, as a specialty, the yoke is
severed with ‘neatness and despatch.’ My sentiments may be voiced
in the immortal words of Patrick Henry; ‘I know not what others may
choose, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death.’”

The paddles moved with automatic regularity, but in very slow time.

“A man who can utter such a carping and pessimistic piece of oratory
as you have evolved, Van, deserves--in a metaphoric sense, at the
least--a cuff from every woman whom he may meet. My revenge will be
complete, if in the not distant future some particular example should
present itself, in which to you, that yoke will seem easy, that
captivity sweet, and that matrimonial noose become an attractive way
of leaving the world. Your examples of marital misery are exceptions;
the counterfeit proves the existence of the genuine, and the exception,
that of the rule. If among a hundred marriages there be a divorce case,
it makes more noise in the world than the ninety and nine who need no
divorce. It has been wisely suggested, that man and woman are like two
halves of a sphere--never complete until they find their counterpart;
and it is, therefore, plain that you, being a hemisphere, will not roll
smoothly through the world, but will go with a wabble, unfinished; and
incomplete, as it were.”

“Please ‘give us a rest’ on the matrimonial business,” retorted Van
Roden; “I think that you are better qualified to judge correctly
of football, sparring or poker, than of the merits and demerits of
marriage.”

By this time the light craft was past the headquarters of the Bar
Harbor Canoe Club, and after skirting the shore of Bar Island,
soon rounded the point, where the town, fringed with its busy and
picturesque wharves, rose up in the immediate foreground.

“Do you not find this town stupid,” asked Van Roden, “after the lively
old times and sports of Harvard?”

“Not at all, Van; one can manage to exist very well here; what with the
hops, buckboard excursions, scenery, and fishing,--especially that kind
of angling in which about five young ladies have a line out for each
man,--it is interesting, and one would be a prig to vote it dull.”

“A prig in the clover, I suppose,”--quietly suggested Van Roden.

“An atrocious chestnut, Van; but look out for the swell of that
Rockland steamer, for we are very close to her wake.”

One or two quick, skilful strokes, however, brought the sharp bow to
receive the swell, and in a few moments the young men stepped upon
the floating dock, and their light craft was moored alongside of its
numerous companions, which constantly dance to the rhythm of the waves.




CHAPTER II.

_THE DINNER-PARTY._


By six o’clock, on the evening of the same day, a lively group, engaged
in animated conversation, were seated on the piazza of the handsome
cottage of Edmund Bonbright. This imposing summer residence occupied
one of those elevated, picturesque sites, which are so characteristic
of the outlying portions of Bar Harbor, and commanded a prospect, at
once rich, comprehensive, and varied. The cottage was of an irregular,
rambling style of architecture, and its numerous gables, porches, and
towers combined to give it a unique and romantic effect, even for this
resort, where handsome summer residences are so numerous. A broad
piazza extended around three sides of the house, but it was so broken
by angles, screens, and vines, that it appeared more like a series of
irregular vestibules and recesses. The gently sloping lawn was covered
with a velvety green turf, relieved here and there by bright masses
of color, which were made up of coleus, geraniums, and other bright
flowers; while around the whole, there was a low, massive, cemented
wall, covered with vining nasturtiums of plain and variegated colors. A
concreted driveway turned in from the street, and describing a graceful
curve through the lawn, passed under a spacious _porte-cochère_ at the
side of the house. A cosey covered lookout, upon the most elevated part
of the roof, commanded a view almost unequalled on the whole Atlantic
Coast. At one side, and a little to the rear of the cottage, was a
tennis court, surrounded by a high netting, and still further back,
was a commodious stable, stocked with a variety of sleek horse-flesh;
also a carriage house, containing vehicles, suitable for various
uses and occasions. A variety of hammocks, settees, and easy chairs
were carelessly scattered about upon the piazza, and every detail of
the establishment betokened taste, luxury, and wealth. From nearly
every window, as well as from the lookout, lay spread out before the
observer, a panorama of mountain, water, island, and forest scenery, of
magnificent proportions.

Several of the younger members of the party, a little apart from their
elders, were carelessly seated upon some rugs which had been thrown
down on the steps, in a partially sheltered location; for a breeze
had sprung up, and the temperature had become cool. Junius Van Roden
had been duly presented to Miss Jenness, and an animated conversation
between them, which indicated the discussion of interesting topics,
engaged the attention of the younger group.

As several members of this family party occupy prominent places in
this narrative, it may be well to present them to the reader, without
further delay or formality. The family of Edmund Bonbright consisted
of himself, wife and four children; Adelbert, a young Harvard man
already known to the reader, was the eldest; next the twin daughters,
Helen and Rosamond, and Tom, the youngest, who was much the junior of
the others. Mr. Bonbright, whose city residence was on Commonwealth
Avenue, Boston, was a banker by profession, stately and erect in
personal appearance; ostentatious and haughty in manner, but courteous
in bearing and address. His hair was of a silvery gray, and his closely
cropped mustache and scrupulousness in attire gave him the air of a
gentleman of the old school. His general deportment indicated a rich,
self-satisfied man of the world; a patrician, possessing not only a
family history, but also having personal energy and executive ability.

Mrs. Bonbright may be described as a person somewhat under medium size,
with a form rather thin and angular, and a sharpness of line about
the features, which indicated strength of purpose, and firmness in
any chosen line of duty. Her facial expression might be regarded as
somewhat austere, but quite conscientious, and while she was exacting
and rigid in judgment, she was neither unkind nor disagreeable. She was
punctilious in the performance of what she regarded as duty; a prudent
housewife, scrupulous in conduct, but not over-tolerant with those from
whom she differed.

The twin sisters were quite unlike in appearance, character, and
temperament. Helen Bonbright was ideally beautiful, though utterly
unconscious of her attractiveness. With a wealth of blond hair, large
limpid blue eyes, and a pink transparent complexion, was combined
a graceful and willowy figure of about the medium size. While
self-reliant, true in character, full of kindness, and graceful in
deportment, she was simple and unaffected. Her external loveliness was
only a natural and corresponding manifestation of her inner nature.
Rosamond also was exceptionally beautiful, but it was loveliness of a
different type. She was a brunette, with coal-black hair, and dark,
flashing eyes, arched by heavy drooping lashes. While intensely fond
of society and gayety, impulsive, coquettish, and devoted to dress and
display, she possessed much character and equipoise. The two sisters,
while so utterly unlike, were devotedly fond of, and loyal to each
other.

Tom, the youngest of the family, was a cripple and an invalid. Owing to
an accident which occurred in early childhood, he was obliged to use
a crutch, and at times was a great sufferer. He was now about twelve
years of age, simple-minded, and inclined to fun and mischief.

On that day, besides the family, Miss Jenness, Van Roden, and a
few other friends were to dine at the cottage. The guests included
Bishop Alban, who was a brother of Mrs. Bonbright; Senator Van Roden,
father of the medical student; and Miss Sophy Porter, a Boston lady
of uncertain age, who often visited the Bonbrights at their city
residence. Miss Porter was well known as a reformer, lecturer,
woman-suffragist, and general champion of woman’s rights. While
awaiting the summons to dinner, lively manifestations from the party on
the piazza gave evidence of the social enjoyment and hearty good-will
which prevailed. The sound of music floating out from the drawing-room,
caused a sudden toning down of the conversation. After several themes
from Beethoven, which followed each other in rapid succession, the
final selection was a weird Hungarian rhapsody, during the performance
of which, the utmost silence prevailed among the whole party. The
most ordinary amateur would have noted a perfection of rendering and
divination, which indicated not only artistic finish, but a wonderful
power of interpretation. Passionate and subtle voices telling the story
of their loves and trials, their discords and harmonies, and gradual
transitions from one to the other, could be perfectly understood,
though evolved from so material a medium as a piano.

“Whom have we among us that can play so exquisitely?” asked Van Roden
after a pause, for though but an indifferent musician, he recognized
the hand of an artist.

“Oh, that is Helen Bonbright,” replied Miss Jenness; “no one who has
ever listened to her playing can afterwards mistake it. It is very kind
of her to give us such a delicious prelude to dinner, although it
seems like a descent from drinking in such a flow of melody, to the act
of eating material food.”

“Yes, I think the feast of melody should come as the last course, to
be in accord with the general law of progress,--from lower to higher,”
replied Van Roden.

“I infer that you are a believer in the doctrine of evolution,” said
Miss Jenness.

“I am not only a believer, but I must own to being somewhat of an
enthusiast,--or at least, I may say that I am an interested student of
evolutionary science.”

“Who are your favorite authors?” she asked.

“Darwin and Spencer, especially the latter, whom I regard as the most
interesting and comprehensive of any of the later writers on scientific
development,” replied Van Roden, “though I much enjoy Descartes,
and some of the earlier investigators. There has been a process of
evolution in evolutionary science itself, so that the latest modern
thought is much in advance of earlier speculations.”

“Will you kindly state a few of the cardinal principles of the theory
of development, as you accept them?” asked Miss Jenness.

“It would be very difficult to do so in a few words,” he replied; “but
perhaps a mere outline might be given, as follows. We believe that all
organisms, whether plants or animals, including man, have come into
existence by the gradual growth and unfoldment of primordial germs;
and that the whole physical universe, including everything organic
and inorganic, is a mechanism, and as such, is to be accounted for on
physical principles.”

Van Roden warmed up as he proceeded in the exposition of his favorite
topic, for Miss Jenness appeared interested, and this was unlike his
usual experience. As a rule, his listeners had been bored whenever he
had trotted out his favorite hobby.

“All structures,” he continued, “have proceeded by regular gradations
from extreme simplicity to greater complexity, and each has relations
with the other. There is also a close analogy between the different
series of gradations presented by the various species which comprise
any great group of animals or plants, and, still farther, large groups
of species of widely different habits present the same fundamental plan
of structure.”

Adelbert, who had drawn near, and partially grasped the line of
argument, interposing, said,--

“We are ready to accept the doctrine of evolution, Van, without further
proof, for we have evidence in you, that the process is going on, and
that you are rapidly being unfolded into a crank.”

Van Roden, however, seeing that Miss Jenness continued interested,
disregarded the interruption, and continued: “There are various
structures and organs in a rudimentary and useless condition, which
in the more advanced species of the same group have definite utility
and perfection. It is observable, also, that the effects of varying
conditions, or environment, exercise a modifying influence upon living
organisms.”

“What is it that evolves itself, and how was the process brought
about?” inquired Miss Jenness.

“As I before suggested,” said he, “the operation must have begun with
primordial germs; and a mechanical, physical force, which is inherent
in matter, caused their gradual unfoldment.”

“You can do me a great favor,” suggested Miss Jenness, with a
mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“I shall be most happy,” replied the unsuspecting medical student.

“If you will be so kind as to procure for me a small basket of those
primordial germs; I would like to take them home, when I return to
Philadelphia.”

Van Roden joined in the general laugh which followed, regardless of
the fact that it was at his own expense. However, Miss Jenness seemed
disposed to continue the discussion, and, putting aside her jesting
mood, inquired: “What about mind and its origin?”

“Mind is but a property or manifestation of matter,” he replied, “and
mental evolution is simply a more advanced, attenuated and refined
phase of material unfoldment. From the earliest operation of inanimate
nature, up to human mentality, reason and ethics, as they now present
themselves, the process has been a purely physical and mechanical
development. All phenomena may be traced from matter, and the forces
which inhere in its operations.”

“What a dismal, cold, heartless machine we are a part of,” responded
Miss Jenness. “I suppose we may regard ourselves as cogs in some small
wheel of the vast mechanism; or as automatons, worked by springs and
valves.”

Van Roden winced a little, as he detected the tinge of sarcasm in her
tones, but, regardless of that, he thought her bright and entertaining.
He was intolerant of dulness, but a keen opponent, especially of the
weaker sex, interested him. She continued: “You appear to be not only a
materialist, but a matter-worshipper.”

Van Roden prided himself upon having the former term applied to him,
but the latter he thought a little severe, and replied, “As a matter
of fact, Miss Jenness, I really cannot plead guilty to any kind of
worship.”

“If you find all potency in matter,” she replied, “you must,
unconsciously, at least, pay homage to it. In a most realistic sense,
man must worship something. That faculty is inherent in his nature.
He will reverence whatever in his own conception is the highest or
supremest power. You are aware that man unconsciously will grow like
his ideal, and, with a material conception of all life and power, he
will become more and more material, and progress will be earthward.”

Miss Jenness was becoming quite in earnest. “Looking backward to the
utmost, to an imaginative starting-point,” she continued, “you begin
with primordial germs, and from them proceed to evolve, not only the
whole universe of matter, but of mind also. How could inanimate things
originate such a skilful and intelligent evolutionary system? Where
does the genesis of conscious mind and will make its appearance? Have
you the assurance to claim that ethical and religious truth originated
in primordial germs?”

Miss Jenness had piled these questions upon each other so rapidly,
that Van Roden found it difficult to reply to them in detail, and
became a little uneasy. He pulled himself together, however, and
observed: “Spencer thinks that we must limit feeling and consciousness
to those organic beings that are endowed with a nervous system. With
the evolution of nerves came, gradually, feeling, and, finally,
consciousness.”

“How could such marvellous tendencies and possibilities have been
implanted in matter without not only infinite wisdom, but infinite
forethought?” replied Miss Jenness. “As to the evolution of material
nerves, they are no more spirit, will, or intelligence than is muscle.
That science which places the limit of its domain at materiality
is one-sided, and therefore, notwithstanding its arrogant claims,
unscientific. Its boundaries embrace only that part of related truth
which is lowest and least important, while it is blind to all the
higher and more intrinsic domain of spirit and spiritual law. When
in the dissecting-room, have you ever been able, with the aid of
your scalpels and microscopes, to peer into the body deeply enough to
find the man himself? The mind is the man, while the material part,
which from your standpoint you regard as man, is only an external
manifestation of him. I believe that there are many signs already
visible which indicate that the materialistic trend of the times is
beginning to turn; and that true science, which is comprehensive, and
which embraces all spiritual and immaterial law and progress, as well
as that which is physical, will soon displace the prevailing coarse
and superficial speculations, which refuse to recognize anything
beyond the cognizance of the physical senses. A word more in regard to
evolution, as a process. We accept the fact that the creative process
may be progressive, or, if you please, evolutionary, within some yet
undefined limitations; but that that fact invalidates in the slightest
degree the reign of spiritual law, or the existence of an All-Wise
and Supreme Creator, we most emphatically deny. A superb mechanism,
whether produced suddenly or gradually, proves its _previous_ existence
in the conception of its author. Let me assure you that it is only
_pseudo_-science, which rakes over and over the mud of materialism,
while it closes its eyes and ears to spiritual verities on every hand.”

Van Roden had a sensation of being _hors du combat_, and this by an
opponent of the weaker sex. He had become so accustomed to asserting
himself, and could so easily throw up what seemed to him a strong
intrenchment of materialistic argument, on short notice, buttressed
with quotations and sentiments from Darwin, Spencer, and Huxley,
that to find a woman able to discomfit him was a new sensation. His
attention was diverted for the moment from the argument to his fair
opponent, and the thought flashed through his mind that in her,
Evolution was well advanced, and had accomplished some very fine work.

Just then the announcement of dinner ended the discussion.

At the table, Miss Porter and Miss Jenness occupied seats respectively
at the right and left of the host, and Bishop Alban and Senator Van
Roden were placed in corresponding positions on either side of Mrs.
Bonbright. Van Roden, who had escorted Miss Jenness to the dining-room,
found an assignment which placed him next on her left; with Helen
Bonbright on his left. After expressing to Miss Helen his high
appreciation of her musical prelude, he again turned his attention to
Miss Jenness, merely, as he persuaded himself, to indulge in a little
study of character. He had never before met such a woman, for no one
previously had taken sufficient interest in his theories to confute
them; but here was “an opponent worthy of his steel.”

Adelbert Bonbright had been an interested observer of the discussion,
not because of any special interest in the subject, but on account of
Miss Jenness’s participation in it; and of the neat manner in which she
had spiked Van Roden’s guns.

A license for indulgence in mind-reading is sometimes granted to
the chronicler of events, and its application at that moment to
Adelbert Bonbright, as he cast a bitter glance at Van Roden, would
have revealed, in a mild form, the presence of the “green-eyed
monster,”--but as the young man’s solid sense came to his rescue, the
unwelcome spectre was quickly cast out.

The table and dining-room had been tastefully decorated with flowers by
the cunning hand of Rosamond, and the pleasing odor of tempting viands,
enhanced by the rich and massive service of silver and cut glass,
together with the bright faces and charming costumes of the young
people, formed a tableau of social life, full of interest and color.

Mr. Bonbright had been spending a few days in the city, and as he
had only returned the night before, his mind was much occupied with
market values, stocks and bonds, but he was too well bred to introduce
business topics at dinner. In political economy, ethics, social
science, and the tariff, he had positive views, and while discussing
a good dinner, he always enjoyed a little intellectual sparring--by
way of seasoning. He was especially fond of a tilt with Miss Porter,
who always posed as the embodiment of all “reforms” and “advances.”
Her greatest pride consisted in the fact that she was a radical; his,
in his conservatism. She had recently attended a convention in which
woman-suffrage, prohibition, nationalism, socialism, and various other
“isms,” had been discussed, and their merits satisfactorily proved and
demonstrated.

“I suppose that the world is to be recreated, and society reconstructed
on a new and improved plan, when your machinery all gets into working
order,” said Mr. Bonbright, addressing her.

Miss Porter had been giving an outline of the doings of a recent
gathering, where the leading spirits of “reform” had met for mutual
inspiration and encouragement.

“Yes,” she replied; “a radical change and reconstruction are necessary
in all departments. When woman, who always possessed the abstract
right of suffrage, gets that right recognized and made operative, a
grand step will have been taken toward moral, social, and economic
reform. Among the objective points will be: a more equal distribution
of wealth; the regulation and control of corporations; constitutional
prohibition; and other needed amendments and improvements.”

“What a bore it will be, if we are obliged to study politics, attend
caucuses, and go to the polls,” said Rosamond. “If the rival
candidates for any office were men, I should vote for the best-looking
one. Whatever the office might be, I should fancy a fine-appearing
official.”

“Points of that kind would not have a feather’s weight with me,”
observed Miss Porter, “but other things being equal, in the interest
of reform, I should vote for women for all offices. I think they would
prove more efficient, and be less liable to be swayed by mercenary
motives.”

“I trust that you have no inclination to do our sex the slightest
injustice,” said Senator Van Roden. “I have uniformly voted for every
measure of a reformatory character, and also favored a continual
increase and enlargement of the functions of the State. As to
woman-suffrage, I am heartily in sympathy with your views on the
subject, and have uniformly labored and voted in its behalf.”

“You may rest assured, Senator, that in my general observations,
nothing could have been farther from my intention than to reflect upon
you. I assure you, that your efforts for the enfranchisement of woman,
and for reforms in general, are highly appreciated by me, and by all
true reformers.”

“I would like to know how many women exist who would be uninfluenced
in their voting, and their political principles, by purely sentimental
considerations,” interposed Mr. Bonbright. “It is natural and well for
women to be sentimental, but sentiment does not harmonize well with
politics. It would be like a mixture of oil and water, or a combination
of romance and mathematics. How would a jury composed of those women
who take bouquets to the cells of notorious criminals stand the
pressure, when a desperado was brought before them for trial, in case
he were defended by a lawyer that could evolve unlimited supplies of
sympathy and pathos? Where would women get that necessary experience,
and knowledge of finance, tariffs, treaties, and political economy, for
which they have no opportunity, owing to the duties and occupations of
their domestic life? Allow me to suggest, Miss Porter, that if your sex
know when they are well off, they will keep their normal place, and try
to fill it, rather than attempt to spread themselves over unlimited
territory.”

“I think women would do their duty more faithfully than men, so far as
they understood it,” suggested Mrs. Bonbright, “but I have no desire to
vote, and do not believe in it.”

Mrs. Bonbright was intensely loyal to her sex, but her ideas of woman’s
province did not coincide with Miss Porter’s.

Van Roden glanced at Miss Jenness as if to divine her sentiments; but
she remained provokingly silent.

“Woman has a vast field for usefulness,” said Helen, “but it appears
to me, that neither by nature nor education, is she fitted to take an
active part in politics and legislation. Her place in society is not
boundless in extent, but it is all-important. There is work enough
that she is suited for, and her ambition should be to do that peculiar
work well. The highest possible occupation consists in laying moral
foundations in individual character, for which service woman has
especial adaptability, and when that is well done, the particular forms
and methods by which that character expresses itself are of secondary
importance. If Miss Porter will pardon both the sentiment and the
incongruity, I will vote that women do not vote.”

“I quite agree with you, my dear niece, so far as woman-suffrage is
concerned,” observed Bishop Alban, “and may I suggest to Miss Porter
that all moral reform, to be genuine, must be developed through
divinely appointed channels. The Church is the arbiter of morals, for
all morality is the direct outgrowth of religion, and religion has
expression in organized and appointed institutions, doctrines, forms,
and sacraments. While with us the Church and State are distinct,
yet the State should receive from the Church a direct moulding and
regulative influence. All ethical legislation should find its first
principles from that source, and that alone.”

“With all respect,” replied Helen, “may I suggest, that while
institutions--especially the Church--as a means, are indispensable, for
the reason that they elevate and refine character, yet in their nature,
they appear to be auxiliary, rather than ultimate.”

“When all the reforms which can be brought about by improved
legislation are inaugurated,” suggested the Senator, “we will have a
much nearer approach to an ideal condition of society, than has been
realized. There will be a great improvement in the ways and means for
the distribution of wealth, and the State will not merely regulate,
but transact in its own name the business now monopolized by great
corporations, and the brotherhood of man will gradually become a
reality.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Bonbright, “but I am tired of this nonsense about
the brotherhood of man that is to be brought about by reducing all
sorts and conditions of men to one dead level, and a very low level
at that. Must we all lose our individuality, and require a paternal
government to watch over us, as would be necessary if we were all
infants or imbeciles? Give me a monarchy, where there is at least some
personal freedom, rather than a government which, while ostensibly
democratic, would become a great tyrannical machine--cast-iron in
every detail. There could be no oppression more severe than that
of a majority which is enforced merely for that reason. By means of
the machinery of legislation, natural and fundamental rights can be
trampled upon which are older than the Decalogue. As an instance take
those States where, under the forms of legislative law, natural and
moral law is violated by the establishment of unremunerative rates for
the sale of railway service. The buyers, being the majority, force the
sellers to accept a price dictated by purchasers, and this proves that
stealing can be done by a State, as easily as by an individual. If this
rapid progress towards paternal tyranny continues, I shall emigrate
to some quarter of the globe where individual energy, ambition, and
talent, have some value.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Miss Jenness, who up to this time had
taken no part in the general conversation. “Anything but a dead level.
Complete unity is formed of variety. Society, to be ideally perfect,
and in order to form harmonious completeness, must be composed of
dissimilar elements. Each member of a perfect organism must be in, and
fill its peculiar place, then all will go well. As Pope well puts it,--

  ‘Where order in variety we see,
   And where, though all things differ, all agree.’

A brotherly spirit should permeate all the members, but as to the
external ways of its manifestation, there must be individual freedom.
By a wonderful inherent process, each element will find the place
where it can do the most for itself, and for others, and thus the
law of moral and social specific gravity will make a thousandfold
finer adjustments than would be possible from the fruits of the best
legislation, piled ‘Ossa on Pelion.’ There is a strong inclination at
the present time, to push legislation beyond its normal limits, and
when so strained, it becomes artificial, impractical, and injurious.
It aggravates evils which have in them the elements of self-regulation,
or self-destruction.”

Van Roden cast an appreciative glance at Miss Jenness as she concluded
her argument, and was pleased that she had as clearly come off victor
in the contest with his senatorial parent, as she had done with him.
This young woman was an enigma to him. She appeared equally ready on
all subjects. Must he revise his opinions of the sex, or was this
specimen a “_rara avis_”?

Before either the Senator or Miss Porter found opportunity to re-open
their batteries, the last course had been served, and, at the motion of
the hostess, the whole party adjourned to the drawing-room. The evening
was occupied with social converse, music, whist, and the making of
plans for excursions on the following day.




CHAPTER III.

_BURTON’S SCHOOL LIFE._


It becomes necessary to transport the reader from Bar Harbor and the
events of the last chapter to a small inland town in New Hampshire, and
also to turn back “the whirligig of time” twelve years.

                  “Jumping o’er times,
  Turning the accomplishment of many years
  Into an hourglass.”

In a quiet village, situated but a few miles from some of the higher
of the White Mountain peaks, there stood a rather old-fashioned, but
substantial and commodious, country-house. Its location was in the
upper part of the village, fronting the green, and quite removed from
the few shops and stores which were at the lower end of the main
street. It was a square, brick structure, with a four-sided roof, and
on the front a small veranda, over which woodbine and rose vines had
crept, and were pendent over the front entrance. The windows in the
rear afforded a picturesque prospect, having a foreground of forest and
field, and, in the distance, a charming view of some of the loftiest
mountains of the Presidential range. For several years it had been
the home of the family of James Burton, and at the present time was
occupied by Mrs. Burton, and her four children--Mr. Burton having
died about two years previous. Just across, and on the opposite side
of the green, stood the little white village meeting-house, with its
spire pointing heavenward, and in its tower hung the bell, which with
clarion tones had called the fathers and children, for two or three
generations, to worship within its hallowed walls.

On a beautiful Sunday morning in June, 187-, the old bell’s melodious
invitation went out to the villagers and country folk, and the
reverberations of its music chased each other over the hills and
valleys through the clear morning air. No other sound was audible; and
as its tones died away in a graceful _diminuendo_, an atmosphere of
quiet rest prevailed, and even nature seemed silent and in repose.

  “How still the morning of the hallow’d day!
   Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush’d
   The ploughboy’s whistle and the milkmaid’s song.”

On such a Sabbath the sun seems brighter, the mountains grander, the
air softer, and the flowers sweeter, as if nature herself were in a
silent exercise of gratitude and praise.

  “Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
   The bridal of the earth and sky.”

The New-England rural Sabbath of those days was ideally perfect--so
far as rest from manual labor could make it so; but there was a tinge
of austerity and hardness perceptible, which hindered its perfect
adaptability to youthful life in view of the fact that “the Sabbath was
made for man.” The Puritan, in his reaction from the Sunday pleasure
and license of other countries and religions, lost in a measure that
intrinsic gladness and joyousness, which is an element needed to make
the day complete. That spiritual exaltation which would render the
Sabbath “a delight,” seems to have given place to a literal attempt, as
a duty, to pay strict regard for the sanctity of its hours. In times
past, a mistaken and almost morbid conscientiousness has sometimes
transformed the brightest day of the week into a burden, or even a
“fetish.” Such tendencies are disappearing, and the current is setting
in too strongly in the opposite direction, but in the time and place
with which we are dealing a hearty, youthful laugh on the first day of
the week met with stern reproval; and a walk in any other direction
than to or from the church, or “graveyard,” was of very doubtful
propriety.

For several years before his death, James Burton had been the
leading lawyer of the town, and his profession had yielded him a
liberal income, which, from the local standpoint, was large. As may
be inferred, Mrs. Burton found herself with ample means for her own
comfort and for the maintenance and education of her children. Of the
four Edward was the oldest, being at this time about twelve years
of age, with one brother and two sisters younger. He was unusually
intelligent, conscientious, and helpful for his age, and his mother
already had come to regard him as a companion, and almost an adviser.
In past years his father had expressed the desire that Edward, in due
time, should follow in his footsteps, by making the law his profession;
but his mother had other plans. It was her earnest intention that
Edward’s education and career should be shaped for the clerical
profession, rather than the bar. In her view, the clergyman’s “calling”
was by far the noblest of all human occupations, and her highest
ambition for her son was, that some day he might be placed upon such
a pedestal as every minister of the gospel was entitled to occupy.
At this time the country minister did not possess that unquestioned
authority as arbiter in all matters--religious, ethical, political,
and social--which was the rule a generation or two before; yet, in a
rural community like this, the village pastor occupied a plane above
and somewhat removed from that of any other citizen. His opinions on
all subjects were entitled to great respect because of his office,
and they could not lightly be called in question. The sacredness of
his vocation, rather than his superior judgment, made him a kind of
universal “oracle.” In the older time the New-England rural pastor
carried such a weight of responsibility, that a solemn awe and gravity
attached themselves to his very personality. Happily this old-time
rigidity and austerity are passing away, and the modern pastor is often
the most genial and lovable of men. Children no longer hide from his
presence, but make him their welcome and familiar friend. Such external
changes and manifestations are the visible register of a growing
internal warmth and progress. If written and theoretical creeds have
not changed, it is certain that “practical” ones have been greatly
modified. The former sternness and austerity, which gave religion the
air of its being a disagreeable necessity, is yielding to a naturalness
and loveliness which make it attractive in proportion as the change
makes progress. It is undeniable that much of the infidelity,
materialism, and atheism now prevailing are but the natural reaction
from former extreme and unwarranted statements of religious dogma. It
was well meant and sincere, but none the less mischievous. It savored
much of “the letter which killeth,” rather than of “the spirit which
giveth life.” Theological systems of the seventeenth century must be
expanded and modified, else the light of the present era will discover
their leanness, and put them aside as obsolete.

Mrs. Burton not only had a wholesome ambition for the success of her
son, but was thrilled with an intense and kindly sympathy for that
greater part of the human family, which she believed to be hopelessly
lost. She anticipated with gladness of heart the service which Edward
might render in repairing the world-wide ruin which resulted from “the
fall of man.” With the utmost conscientiousness and devotion, she
improved every opportunity to sow such seed, and arouse such motives
in his youthful mind, as would bring about her ideal result. All her
endeavors were ably seconded by Mr. Johnson, the village pastor, who
was a most kind, devoted friend, and who took great interest in her
plans.

On this lovely Sabbath morning, Mrs. Burton and her children occupied
their accustomed pew in the little white meeting-house. It was an
occasion of unusual interest for the church, for over twenty new
members were to be received to its fellowship. Mrs. Burton’s heart was
overflowing with gladness and thanksgiving as she saw the long line
of candidates ranged in front of the pulpit platform, and among them
her son, who was the most youthful of all. She felt that the prayers
of many years had been answered. This important accession to the
membership of the church was the fruit of a quiet but deep spiritual
movement which had taken place without any unusual instrumentality.
An important part of the ceremony observed in the reception of new
members, consisted of the reading of the lengthy creed, to which those
who would enter the church must give their assent section by section.
Its abstruse and positive statements about Decrees, Predestination,
Foreordination, and Retribution, as formulated by the scholastic
theologians of the seventeenth century, formed the only gateway into
the fold. How such simple-minded Christian youth, who needed only
spiritual nourishment, and a quiet moulding into Christ-likeness, could
digest and receive sustenance from the “strong meat” of the Westminster
divines, may well be questioned. The extreme sanctity with which this
“system” has been regarded, and the great reluctance of the church to
modify or revise it, to bring it more nearly into harmony with the best
thought of the present time, is unexplainable. It seems to have been
regarded as the “ark of the Lord,” to which no man dare put his hand.
Not until its oppressiveness as a bar to church membership is more
generally realized, will it be replaced by a plain, simple statement
of Christian truth. Edward Burton and his companions regarded it as
their solemn duty to believe it,--to the letter,--but they could not
understand it. After the impressive service was concluded, Edward
and his mother wended their way homeward, freely discussing measures
and plans for the future. Edward was in full accord with his mother
concerning the course which she had marked out for him, and entered
into the whole design with enthusiasm. The comprehensive plan to be
prosecuted, included three distinct courses of study, the completion
of which would require at least ten or eleven years. It comprised a
preparatory course at an academy in a neighboring town; followed by
a classical course at Dartmouth College, and, finally, a thorough
theological training at Andover Seminary.

We shall not linger to follow in detail the history of Edward Burton
during the progress of his education. With the exception of a few
brief resting-places, we shall glide forward through the coming years,
as rapidly as they were passed in the backward flight. Following the
events of the rare June sabbath, the summer days soon sped away,
bringing the time when Edward was to enter upon the first stage of the
career which awaited his youthful aspirations. As the time for him to
leave home drew near, he and his mother both began to realize how much
the separation meant for them.

      “’Tis the pang alone to part
  From those we love, that rends the heart.”

Edward never had spent more than a single night away before, and now,
to leave the quiet peaceful haven of home, launch his bark and put
forth into unknown waters, was a severe trial. When the coach arrived
that was to bear him away, as his light belongings were being hoisted
upon the rack, his mother clasped him in her arms, and gave him her
benediction. The struggle was severe, but brief. The pathos of the
scene caused even the sturdy driver to brush aside a tear, but as
Edward stepped into the stage, he uttered a few brave words of cheer,
threw a kiss to his mother, and then with a crack of the whip the coach
rolled away.

The first few weeks of school life seemed to him like so many months.
It did not require the full and tender letters which twice a week came
from his mother, to bring up visions of her and of his home-life,
which were now left behind. When severe attacks of home-sickness came
on, he realized that occupation was the best antidote, and vigorously
plunged into his studies. A slight insight into Edward’s school life
may be afforded by the quotation, verbatim, of two or three of the many
letters sent to his mother.

One received two months after he left home was as follows:

                                     CHESTER ACADEMY, November --, 187-.

  DEAR MOTHER,--Your good letter came yesterday. I was so glad to hear
  from you and I carry each of your letters in my pocket till the next
  one comes, so that I can read it over many times. It seems a year
  since I left you gazing at the old stage coach, which carried me
  away. I have kept count, and this is the sixteenth letter which I
  have sent you. I have got pretty well acquainted with most all the
  boys. The principal is very kind to me, but among the three teachers
  that hear my lessons I like Miss Bailey the best. I have not got a
  single mark yet for being late at prayers since I came. They come
  at nine o’clock in the morning, but perhaps I have told you of
  that before. Miss Bailey says she thinks that I am doing well in
  Latin, and splendidly in Arithmetic. My lessons are all through by
  three o’clock, and we have from that time to five, for baseball and
  croquet. There is only one fellow here that can beat me at croquet,
  Jim Brown. I like my boarding-place better than I did at first, but
  their pies can’t come up to yours nor their doughnuts either. Dear
  mother, I think over all your good advice every day, and try to keep
  it. I am learning to sing, with all the other things, and Prof.
  Meldrum says that my voice is very good. I do not forget to read my
  chapter every day, nor to say my prayers every morning and night.
  Flora, the boarding-house keeper’s little girl, that I have spoken of
  before, is very kind to me, and I think she is real nice. I think my
  room-mate, George Williams, is about as nice a fellow as I ever knew,
  only he is a little quick-tempered. Dear mother, I am counting the
  days to when my first vacation will come, and I shall see you again.
  But it is getting late, and I must study my history lesson to-night.
  Dear mother, good-night and give a good smack from me to Henry, Susy,
  and little Ella.
                                    From your loving son,
                                                                 EDWARD.

The following, taken at random from a large pile of letters, was
written three and a half years later:

                                          CHESTER ACADEMY, May --, 187-.

  MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have had so much extra work this week, in getting
  ready for my final examinations, that you will receive this letter
  a day or two later than usual. My last term here will soon be at
  an end, and while I am anticipating much pleasure in being at home
  during the summer vacation, I shall leave here with many regrets.
  Our graduating class numbers sixteen, and nine, besides myself, will
  enter old Dartmouth next fall. This will make it very pleasant for
  me, for, with one exception, they are all very nice fellows. I have
  a piece of news for you. The principal has just informed me that I
  have been appointed Salutatorian, for the closing exhibition. It
  makes me “shake in my boots” a little to think of it, for all the
  leading people of the town always attend our graduation exercises.
  Flora says that she hopes that I will not break down. I always was a
  little timid, you know, but it will be so long before I get into my
  own pulpit, that I think I will be bravely over it before that time.
  I must begin on my salutatory oration very soon, and I shall take
  much pains with it, especially since you are going to be present.
  William Tapley, our valedictorian, is a splendid orator, but in other
  departments my reports, on an average, are slightly better than his.
  He never has any trouble with his hands when he speaks. Some of our
  class had a little spree the other night, and among other antics,
  they unhung several of the villagers’ front gates. I did not join the
  party, though strongly urged to do so. I have every assurance from
  my teachers that I shall be well prepared for the regular college
  course, and I begin to think how it will seem to be a freshman within
  the “classic shades” of Dartmouth. In our croquet tournament of
  last week, I came out the champion; and in baseball and rowing I am
  well up in the list. Our religious society in the Academy is in a
  flourishing condition, and I have taken considerable interest in its
  meetings, and occasionally conducted them. In giving you these items
  regarding my success, I trust that my motive is not mere personal
  pride, but I have related them because I know they will gratify you.
  I often feel, that in a deep sense, I am your representative; and not
  only that, but that your encouragement and inspiration, more than all
  other things put together, have contributed to my advancement. I have
  made arrangements at our boarding-house for a good place for you,
  which will be all ready upon your arrival.

    With love to the dear brother and sisters,
                                     I am, ever your dutiful son,
                                                                 EDWARD.

A little more than four years later we pause long enough to glance at a
single letter.

                                       DARTMOUTH COLLEGE, June --, 188-.

  MY DEAR MOTHER,--I very much regret that you are unable to come
  and be with me during my last days at Dartmouth, as we both had
  anticipated. I am glad, however, to learn, by yours of the 24th,
  that you are much improved, and that in all probability your health
  will shortly be restored. As I expect so soon to be with you, I
  now will give only a few items regarding our graduating exercises;
  reserving details, until I see you. You will notice by a copy of
  the college periodical which I have just sent you, that I received
  the prize for General Progress (made during the college course)
  and also, Honorable Mention in Philosophy, Latin and Greek. I was
  appointed to make the “Campus address” on class day, and it was well
  received. Quite to my surprise, the judges of prize speaking awarded
  to me the second prize, William Tapley easily winning the first. The
  subject of my address was Compulsory Morality, its thesis being the
  proposition: that a small amount of voluntary well-doing is worth
  infinitely more than all the compulsory morality which legislation
  can effect. I shall take pleasure in reading it to you when I get
  home. I hope that my religious life has been gradually developed,
  during my college life, and I have had special help from two of the
  professors, who, knowing my interest in theology, and my future
  plans, have kindly aided me. The special lines of study which I have
  most enjoyed, are Paley’s Evidences; Butler’s Analogy; Latin and
  Greek; and Moral Philosophy. I have invited William Tapley to spend
  a week with us, some time in July. I did not think it necessary to
  write you in regard to it, for I know that you are always glad to see
  my friends, and he is one of my intimates. I have taken considerable
  interest in athletic sports recently, and have good solid muscle,
  and sound health. I know that it will please you to be assured that
  my temperance principles remain unimpaired, and also, that when the
  class “farewell pipe” was smoked, my whiffs were, from necessity,
  very few. A majority of our class are religious men, and two others
  besides Tapley and myself expect to prepare for the ministry, at
  Andover. Our baccalaureate sermon was excellent, and must have had
  an inspiring influence upon every one who heard it. The text was,
  “The field is the world.” In the light of its masterly exposition,
  I am considering whether it may not lie in the line of my duty, at
  the proper time, to offer my services as a missionary, in some part
  of the foreign field. We will talk it all over when I get home. I
  expect to get my matters all closed up here, so as to come to you on
  Tuesday. “Old Dartmouth,” my Alma Mater, will always be dear to me.
  Regards to Mr. Johnson, and love to Henry, Susy, and Ella.

                                                   Dutifully yours,
                                                                 EDWARD.




CHAPTER IV.

_BURTON’S THEOLOGICAL EDUCATION._


A few weeks subsequent to the receipt of Edward Burton’s last letter
from Dartmouth, a little group--consisting of Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Burton,
Edward Burton, and William Tapley--was gathered one summer evening
in Mrs. Burton’s commodious parlor. In response to Edward’s earnest
invitation, Tapley, for a week or two, was the guest of the Burtons.
After some conversation relating to local and unimportant matters, Mr.
Johnson introduced the subject which lay nearest his heart.

“My dear Edward,” he said, “there are some things concerning your
future plans, in which I, as well as your mother, have taken a deep
interest, and at her suggestion I would like to advise with you, and
offer a little counsel, which I trust may not be unacceptable. As your
father’s and mother’s pastor, and as your own early spiritual adviser,
who baptized you in infancy, and who, as an under-shepherd, received
you as a lamb into ‘the fold,’ I feel a deep interest in your welfare.
It has been your purpose soon to enter Andover Theological Seminary, to
prepare yourself, by a course of study, for the gospel ministry. Many
years ago I received my own theological education there, but at that
time sound doctrine and a pure scriptural religion characterized that
institution. While it grieves me to express my loss of confidence in
my _Alma Mater_, I feel that duty demands that I should acquaint you
with certain erroneous and heretical theories and tendencies which are
promulgated there under the present administration.”

Mr. Johnson noticed a disappointed expression stealing over Edward’s
face, and glanced at Mrs. Burton, as if waiting for her to indorse the
sentiments which he had expressed.

“Yes, Edward,” said Mrs. Burton, “I feel that we should listen to
our pastor in such an important decision; and as he is convinced
that dangerous doctrines are indirectly, if not positively, taught
by the Andover professors, I should not dare to subject you to their
influence. I am more than ever anxious to have you prepare yourself for
the Christian ministry, but we must give up the idea of Andover, and
choose some other institution. I feel sure that the time will come, if
not at the present, when you will see that such a change of plan is
of the utmost importance. I also hope that your friend William will
be guided by the same considerations, and that you can continue your
studies together, where no unsound or doubtful doctrine is inculcated.
It would shock me to feel that by going to Andover you might not only
imbibe dangerous theories, but also become instruments for spreading
them broadcast.”

Edward was both dutiful and conscientious, and seemed inclined to
acquiesce in his mother’s opinions, fortified as they were by the
infallible _ipse dixit_ of his old pastor. Notwithstanding years of
separation and subjection to other influences, the feeling was dominant
in Edward’s mind that Mr. Johnson was “an oracle” in “spiritual
things.” Tapley, unlike Edward, was independent and philosophical,
though, at the same time, deeply religious and spiritual. His logical
turn of mind always prompted him to question assumptions of truth,
unless quite sure that they were supported by reasonable deductions
from well-grounded premises. As Edward made no immediate response to
the advice which had been given by Mr. Johnson, Tapley, who had been
included in the argument, felt warranted in joining in the discussion.

“I infer,” said he, addressing Mr. Johnson, “that what is called the
‘Andover hypothesis’ of a possible future probation is what you allude
to as being a dangerous doctrine or theory. With all respect for your
age and experience, may I inquire wherein it is either dangerous or
unreasonable?”

“Because it is contrary to the Bible, and, also, because it removes
some of the strongest motives which cause men to renounce their wicked
ways and repent,” replied Mr. Johnson.

“While it may appear to conflict with the letter of a certain class of
texts,” observed Tapley, “do you think that the spirit of the Bible
limits the mercy of God to such a degree as to reasonably make it
appear that the ‘larger hope’ is a positive error?”

“God certainly is merciful,” observed Mr. Johnson, “but if every
man should interpret Scripture by his own reason, there would be no
standard. The Bible is God’s Word, and it declares that the wicked
shall ‘go away into everlasting punishment.’ Probation ends with this
life, and any theory of a future probation would directly tend to
embolden men in sin, and keep them in a state of impenitence.”

“You will pardon me,” said Tapley; “but is it not true that in the
interpretation of Scripture, God not only has given us our reason, but
has provided His Spirit ‘to guide us into all truth’? The revelation of
God was not completed in the Bible, but is continuous. As we shut out
our sensuous perceptions of the material world, with all its noise and
distraction, and reverently listen to the ‘still small voice,’ truth is
revealed to us. All truth is harmonious, and the truth of the Bible,
if rightly interpreted, will perfectly agree with truth revealed
by the Spirit, and with all other truth. Is it not a fact that the
various sects, in their distinctive features, have been built up by
giving undue emphasis to certain classes of texts, taken literally
and externally? Literalism makes the Bible an inharmonious book, but,
looking beneath the letter, the golden thread of spiritual harmony runs
from the beginning to the end. As to the punishment of the wicked,
it is real, and if sin continues forever, punishment will have a
corresponding duration. Wickedness contains within itself the seeds of
its own punishment; but after the material body is laid off, with all
its weaknesses and temptations, may not new light, fresh opportunities,
and nobler impulses work a gradual change of character? When the
‘consuming fire’ of God’s love burns away sin and impurity, may not the
human soul respond and be drawn out by a consciousness of the love of
God, as manifested in the essential and eternal Christ, even if here
it missed a knowledge of the historic and material Jesus? When God
shall be ‘All in All,’ is it not implied that harmony and happiness
shall take the place of inharmony and unhappiness? Is not the true test
character rather than belief, and Christ-likeness rather than dogma?”

Tapley’s trio of listeners were all quite surprised, not only at his
readiness and boldness, but at the strength of his positions; yet they
were not convinced.

“My dear young friend,” replied Mr. Johnson, “I think you stand on
dangerous ground. The gospel is sent to those who are lost. Mankind are
totally depraved, and in a condition of sin and misery. Conversion, and
an acceptance of ‘the terms of salvation’ in this life, are the only
means provided by which to escape from the everlasting displeasure of
an offended God. I grant you that character is important; but character
is shaped by belief, or what you call dogma. While I have no doubt
in regard to your own Christian character, I warn you that any lax or
latitudinarian doctrine, preached to the masses, would be disastrous in
its results. It would also ‘cut the nerve of missions,’ and put back
the great work of the salvation of the heathen world, where so much
progress is now being made.”

“With great respect for your opinions,” replied Tapley, “in view of
the fact that God is love, and that ‘His mercy endureth forever,’ it
seems to me not only unreasonable, but presumptuous, to insist that He
will vindictively punish any of His children forever; granting always,
that inherent punishment will last as long as sin continues. Reverently
speaking, the very character of God precludes anything vindictive
or revengeful, and such a conception dishonors Him. The nature of
punishment is corrective and disciplinary, working out its own cure.
The whole spirit of revelation seems to prove that nothing can be
eternal which is out of harmony with the character of God. If these
principles be true, the world cannot be harmed by preaching them, for
the very nature of truth is beneficent. It is plain that a gospel of
fear does not tend to produce the fruits of the Spirit.”

The discussion continued till nearly midnight, with the result that
Edward Burton’s plans were revised, while Tapley adhered to Andover,
and, in due time, subjected himself to the influence and teaching of
that institution. After due consideration of the subject, Mr. Johnson,
a week later, gave Mrs. Burton and Edward further advice, which was
afterwards followed to the letter.

“The Princeton Seminary,” he observed, “though a Presbyterian
institution, promulgates a purer theology than scarcely can be found
elsewhere. The influence of Jonathan Edwards and his opinions is
there paramount. He was the greatest of theologians, and his spiritual
discernment of ‘the plan of salvation’ and of Calvinistic principles
was most marvellous. Although the church polity of the Presbyterians is
different from ours, that is a matter of slight importance, compared
with the purity of Calvinistic theology.”

Mr. Johnson’s advice bore fruit, and in due time Edward Burton was
installed among the juniors of the Princeton Seminary. His progress
during the whole course of his theological education was most
satisfactory, and his attainments were a matter of just pride to the
faculty and to his friends. The months flew swiftly by, and at length
nearly three years had passed, and the time for his graduation drew
near. He was scrupulous in every detail of study, and during his
senior year labored with unusual assiduity that he might have no lack
of equipment for his life-work. The “foreign field” was the goal of
his aspirations. The thought that millions of the human family, in
heathendom, were yearly going down to a fearful doom, fired his soul
with such a great longing and anxiety to put forth his best efforts in
their behalf, that he was impatient for the time to come when he might
begin. His essays and sample sermons--on the nature of the Trinity,
Divine decrees, total depravity, the plenary inspiration of the Bible,
and other themes--called out the hearty encomiums of the faculty, the
admiration of his classmates and of the students in general. As the end
of his senior year drew near, his devotion to study was so intense that
he became quite negligent of physical exercise, and symptoms of mental
over-work began to manifest themselves. About two weeks before the time
for graduation, he became positively ill, being a victim of insomnia,
nervous prostration, depression of spirits, and the whole train of dire
maladies which are the penalty of an anxious and overtaxed mentality.
He kept about, however, and, by the utmost exertion of the will-power,
was able to perform his part in the closing exercises, until, in the
act of coming forward to receive his diploma, he fell to the floor in
a fainting fit, in which he remained fully an hour after his removal
to his quarters. The nearest physician had been summoned as soon as
he was stricken, and it required the doctor’s utmost efforts, aided
by two of Burton’s classmates, to restore him to consciousness. A
despatch was at once sent to his mother informing her of his condition,
and she faithfully responded by appearing upon the scene twenty-four
hours later. The physician advised the patient’s removal to his quiet
New Hampshire home at the earliest possible moment, and, with the aid
of tonics and excellent nursing, three days afterwards, his mother
started with him for the desired haven. With considerable difficulty
they reached New York, and, by the assistance of kind friends, he was
taken on board the Fall River boat, where he was made as comfortable as
possible in one of its commodious staterooms. After a wretched night,
during which he found no rest, he was carried on board the train for
Boston. Before arriving at that city, he had a severe and prolonged
chill, followed by intense fever and delirium. Upon their arrival in
Boston, it was evident to Mrs. Burton that it would be impossible for
them to proceed farther, which opinion was indorsed by a physician
who had been telegraphed to meet them at the station. It was deemed
impracticable to remove the patient to a hotel, and the result was that
an ambulance was ordered, and, with as little delay as possible, he was
taken to a hospital.




CHAPTER V.

_BURTON’S ILLNESS AND ITS RESULTS._


For a period of two weeks after Edward Burton’s admission to the
hospital, a most intense fever scorched his body and fired his brain.
By spells, his temperature became almost furnace-like, his pulse a
confused flutter, and his mind a chaos of disordered fancies and morbid
emotions. His nervous system was strained to its utmost tension,
and his incoherent mutterings, his abnormal fears and terrors, his
bloodshot eyes and piteous wails, were appalling even to the hardened
and experienced hospital attendants. His mother remained with him as
much as Dr. Podram, the physician in charge, would permit, but most
of the time he was either unconscious of her presence, or fancied her
some unfriendly stranger who was seeking to injure him. Mrs. Burton
was dazed by the situation, and, like one in a dream, flitted backward
and forward between the hospital and her own quarters. She wrestled
night and day with the problem as to why God should so afflict her son,
who had planned to give his life to His service? Why should one so
conscientious, and alive to every duty, be subjected to such intense
suffering? The question would constantly force itself upon her mind,
How can a just God--my God--send such a trial upon us? The problem
was a dark, impenetrable mystery. Has He not promised to comfort and
sustain His children? Why has He hid His face from us? At times she
was almost overcome by doubt and despair. Not only was her motherly
heart wrung with anguish, but the promises, the consolations and the
supports, which she so long had rested upon, appeared to have been
removed. Not that she would renounce her God or her religion, but why
had they failed her in this supreme emergency?

The hospital authorities, and the casual acquaintances which she had
made, were very kind, but she sorely felt the need of some near friend
who could counsel and aid her. She thought of Mr. Johnson, but, as he
was feeble in health, the distance made it impracticable to send for
him. One day during one of Edward’s brief lucid intervals, Mrs. Burton
happened to be present, and, among other requests, he greatly desired
that Tapley should be informed of his condition. There had been kept
up a most cordial and intimate correspondence between the young men
while taking their respective courses of study. Though different in
training and temperament, and unlike as representatives of dissimilar
religious schools, their interest in and affection for each other was
unusual. Upon being made acquainted with the situation, Tapley at once
responded, and was untiring in his efforts to cheer, console, and
relieve both his stricken friend and the agonized mother. Living in
an immediate suburb, Tapley came in nearly every day and visited the
hospital; and no son could be more kind or attentive to a mother than
was he to Mrs. Burton.

At length the acute stage of Burton’s fever appeared to have run its
course, but upon its subsidence he was left almost a wreck. His medical
treatment had been of the “heroic” order, and, between the effects of
the disease and the influence of powerful drugs and opiates which had
been administered, his nervous system was shattered. He was too weak
to move himself, and his brain and spinal column were in a condition
of chronic irritation and congestion. About a year previous, while
taking exercise in a gymnasium, he met with a spinal injury from which
he had never fully recovered; and this old hurt became a very serious
complication. He was unable to obtain sleep or rest except by the use
of powerful narcotics, and his distress of mind was even a greater
trial than his physical pain. At the end of a month from the time of
his admission to the hospital, it was deemed advisable to remove him to
private quarters in a favorable locality, which Tapley had selected for
him.

Although the acute stage of his illness was passed, the indications
were that in consequence of his old spinal injury, a severe and chronic
state of invalidism would continue, and that in future he could never
be more than a wreck of his former self. Dr. Podram held firmly to
this view, and, after a thorough and searching investigation by a
brother practitioner, who was called in for a consultation, it was
mutually decided that no encouragement could be given as to any future
restoration to health. His daily allowance of opiates had constantly
to be increased, in order that any rest might be obtained; and his
gloom and depression often were so intense as to entirely overcome him.
Morbid fears and visions possessed his mind, and if left alone, even
for a moment, it produced a condition of great nervous excitement.

A few days after his removal he was able to be propped up in bed each
day for an hour or two, and by turns Tapley and Mrs. Burton sat by and
strove to divert him with conversation or light reading. Tapley also
shared in the care of his friend with the regular attendant, often
remaining a part of the night, and cheerfully devoting much time and
strength to Burton’s welfare.

During the latter part of Tapley’s Andover life, he had become greatly
interested in a course of reading and investigation which was somewhat
outside of the regular curriculum. Although from the conservative
standpoint Andover had largely advanced from the old scholastic
literalism in its teaching, Tapley, as an individual, was in some
respects still in advance of Andover. He held to certain opinions which
not only were not taught there, but which, perhaps, might have been
interdicted, but for the prevailing large measure of individual liberty
and tolerance which characterized that institution.

Tapley’s nature was essentially deep, spiritual, and mystical. In his
late investigations, he had plunged deeply into metaphysics, spiritual
law, and the relation of spirit to matter. He had become interested in
delving among hidden and unseen forces, where, back of all external
manifestations, lies the realm of causation. He was gifted, not only
with a keen intellectual apprehension of truth, but his spiritual and
intuitive insight was even more remarkable. He looked upon all external
expressions as but the superficial register and manifestation of
preceding spiritual forces. To his idealistic vision, the materialism
and externalism of the present time were the great obstacles to moral
and religious progress. Spirit was intrinsic and realistic, and, in
contrast, matter was not only secondary, but, in the ultimate sense
of the term, unreal. His clear perception of spiritual verities
revealed to him the fact that logic, law, and sequence were as real
and unvarying in the immaterial as in the material realm. Science,
with him, did not abruptly stop at the boundary line of materiality.
Love was as much a mathematical and universal force as gravitation,
and no less well defined in its laws. His research and observation,
also, convinced him that physical disease and discord are but the
externalization of preceding inharmonious or false mental conditions.

One day, as soon as Burton had become able to collect his scattered
thoughts, and express himself in coherent terms, Tapley, in a simple
and kindly manner, tried to communicate some of the happiness and
brightness which he had gained from personal experience. Burton,
while appreciating the motive, rejected the proffered aid, and
received Tapley’s suggestions coldly. Although he held his friend
in great esteem and affection, he feared his opinions as dangerous
and heretical. “I love you,” he said to Tapley, “the best of any one
outside of my own family; yet my duty to God, to my mother, and myself
warns me not to listen to your liberal and, as I believe, unscriptural
ideas, even though they are attractive.”

During all Burton’s Princeton life, he had faithfully kept a diary;
recording in detail his experiences and observations. As soon as he
had gained sufficient strength to be propped up in bed, and hold a
pencil, he resumed the habit of keeping a daily journal. Perhaps no
truer impression of the experiences of this eventful period of Edward
Burton’s life can be conveyed than by giving a transcript of his
diary; beginning at the time when he was just able to make a legible
record--from day to day.

It ran as follows:

  _Boston, June 15, 188-._--I am not dead, and therefore must be
  alive! Can this trembling hand direct a pencil?--and have I
  will-power enough to coherently express myself? Oh! my God! why am
  I so afflicted? The doctor has just been in, and says no word of
  encouragement. I cannot think any more now, but must take a quieting
  potion and rest. I feel as if I never wanted to see myself again. Is
  this shrunken, trembling soul myself? or is it a falsity?


  _June 16._--What a terrible night I have passed! Oh, for a vale of
  oblivion, to which I might retire and hide from myself! My brain
  seems inverted, and terrible thoughts force themselves into my mind.
  Oh! where is my Heavenly Father, and where is my peace? Shall I
  entirely lose the helm? My volition seems to have slipped away.


  _June 17._--Where is my manhood? Where is my Christian character?
  I believe that God cannot fail me, yet His face is hid. Oh, that I
  could find Him! My distress is doubled, in the distress of my mother.
  Her prayers are importunate for me. Why are they not answered? Oh,
  that doctor! how his drugs disgust me! My brain is confused, so that
  I cannot think.


  _June 18._--Why should an immortal soul be pent in such a disordered
  body as mine? It makes the soul, also, seem disordered. How can a
  spirit be ill? or, is it the diseased physical medium that makes
  it seem so? I have tried to serve God, and live a righteous life.
  Why should his displeasure be upon me; or was it so ordained? I can
  almost say with Job: “Let the day perish in which I was born;” yet I
  will not complain, even if I am chastised of the Lord.


  _June 19._--The doctor still deals out his nauseating drugs. I wonder
  if I shall become a victim of the opium habit. Yet, I cannot get
  along without a narcotic. Will my brain ever get out of this tangle?
  It seems as if my soul were dried up within me! My poor mother looks
  pale and haggard. Her son will never be a missionary to the heathen!
  Tapley tried to cheer me to-day. His doctrines are captivating but
  dangerous. I am almost afraid that he may influence me to accept
  some of his loose theories. I must now take my “hypodermic,” so, if
  possible, to obtain a little rest.


  _June 20._--What a night of restless tossings and turnings! I
  dreamed of deaths and funerals. The whole world is draped in black.
  Am I losing my mind? I try in vain to bar out horrible images! Why
  should the soul be such a slave to the flesh? Is it ill because the
  body is disordered? Must I--a child of God--be a victim of bodily
  persecution?--a slave to my lower nature?

  Mother has just been in to talk with me, and she quoted some
  beautiful scriptural selections, but I cannot grasp them.

  Tapley told me to-day that a conscious reliance upon God for
  wholeness of body--as well as soul--actually has a healing influence.
  I cannot believe such a doctrine, for the age of miracles has passed,
  and, besides, illness and trouble are the common lot of man, and they
  are my lot, and I must suffer. How singular that “hypodermics” seem
  to affect the mind as well as the body. I wonder if God intended that
  they should be used.


  _June 21._--Another weary day! My strength seems slightly improved,
  but the doctor informs me that the spinal difficulty is assuming
  more and more a chronic character, and although he hopes to make me
  comfortable, he cannot permanently benefit me. How can I get any
  re-enforcement to my vitality from his drugs? Tapley observed to-day
  that in order to get more life we should consciously rely upon the
  Holy Spirit, or Divine Spirit of Wholeness, which is the fountain
  of all life. That is a new idea to me. I have always reverenced the
  Spirit as a very sacred influence, which visited us only on special
  occasions; Tapley makes it a real, practical, every-day force.

  Mother is quite fearful lest Tapley may impress me with some of his
  peculiar views, but she loves him for his beautiful character, as I
  cannot help doing. I know that mother and Mr. Johnson are constantly
  praying that if it be God’s will He will yet raise me up for the
  missionary work, but, if otherwise, that I may be resigned. Oh! this
  soul bondage to bodily ills and drug influences! In the language of
  Tapley, must the “image of God” be a slave to matter?


  _June 22._--I have experienced a sense of resignation to-day to
  an unusual degree. If it be God’s plan that I should be a chronic
  invalid, I will submit. If it be His purpose, I am willing to suffer
  physical pain, but why does He afflict me with such mental anguish? I
  suppose that it would not be, were it not for my soul’s good. Perhaps
  I have been self-righteous, and puffed up with spiritual pride, and
  therefore must be purified in the furnace of affliction.

  My spine is extremely painful, but I must have patience to bear it
  without complaint.


  _June 23._--A long, long weary day, after a dismal night! The world
  seems like a desert. I formerly thought nature to be beautiful and
  restful, but now it is sombre and funereal. A black cloud hangs
  over me, and covers the entire horizon. Why has God thwarted all my
  plans, which included a life-work in His service? I cannot dismiss my
  faith, although it is barren. My spine distresses me more than ever
  before, but that is nothing compared with this nightmare of morbid
  consciousness. A feeling that I have committed “the unpardonable sin”
  crowds itself unbidden into my mind, and sticks like the garment of
  Nemesis. Why can I not cast it off? I know it to be false, yet I
  quail before it. Even my prayers bring no relief.

  Tapley said some beautiful things to me, but he is so visionary and
  optimistic. It frightens me to see my poor mother look so helpless;
  the doctor pronounces her really ill.

  How slowly the weary days drag themselves along.


  _June 24._--Another night of agony, and such terrible dreams! I was
  brought before the judgment-seat of God and condemned. I found myself
  cast out with a great host on the left hand, and from every quarter
  the word lost! lost! lost! was echoed in my ears. It was repeated
  louder and louder, until its reverberations became like thunder,
  when I awoke in a cold perspiration. My mind is a chaos of horrible
  phantoms. Although so repulsive, I welcome the “hypodermic,” for it
  rewards me with oblivion, glorious oblivion.

  My poor, weak, trembling mother! who could be better than she? Yet
  her prayers in my behalf avail nothing.


  _June 25._--Tapley was here for a long time to-day, and his presence
  was a benediction. While he was present I forgot all my pains and
  distress. It seemed as if he were a channel through which soothing
  influences flowed into me. It is a mystery that Tapley, with all
  his loose and faulty theology, possesses such an influence. Mother
  is apprehensive, but with his kindness she cannot give him any hint
  which might hurt him or keep him away. Were it possible for him to
  stay by me, I believe that I could dispense with opiates. Since he
  departed, my bad feelings have again overwhelmed me, like a flood.

  I am compelled to forge another link in the chain which binds me to
  “the drug.”


  _June 26._--There is almost a rift in the black cloud which so long
  has covered my horizon; whatever there is of it came through Tapley.
  Much of the time while here to-day, he sat with his head bowed
  apparently in silent meditation, but there came from him a mysterious
  stimulating influence, which I felt plainly. This influence was such
  as might have resulted from the use of a powerful tonic. I cannot
  understand it. There was a full hour of silence. Perhaps he was
  engaged in prayer, but there was no movement of his lips. He advised
  me to dispense with the “hypodermics,” and I shall make an effort to
  break my chain to-night. Just after he left I felt much “stirred up,”
  as if a conflict were going on within me, but this evening I am more
  tranquil than at any time during my illness.


  _June 27._--I slept four or five hours last night without the drug.
  It was almost beyond belief, but some mysterious influence helped me.

  It may be foolish to make note of a dream, but the one of last night
  was so peculiar and real that I do not wish to forget it.

  I was engaged in a most desperate conflict with malignant and
  fiendish enemies. Mounted on a splendid white charger, I held in
  my grasp a keen, glittering sword, which I could wield with great
  ease and dexterity. My horse, though extremely fleet and agile,
  was obedient to my every wish and inclination. My foes, also, were
  well mounted and numerous, though when I first beheld them, they
  were a little distance away. When they discovered me they rushed
  impetuously forward to the attack. With leering, fiendish faces,
  fiery breaths, and spears well poised to slay me, on they came. My
  courage was unaccountable. I faced them with a calm disdain. As they
  furiously charged upon me in quick succession, I found that the
  lightest touch of my sword caused them to collapse, and, one by one,
  they fell in a heap at my feet. They, who had looked so fierce and
  formidable, turned out to be only--blown-up skins. After the last one
  had dropped, I looked down to see the heap, but found that it had
  dissolved to dust.

  What can be the significance?


  _June 28._--Tapley was here for two hours. His conversation soothes
  me, which seems reasonable; but the strange thing is, that during
  his periods of silent meditation, or prayer, or whatever it is, his
  influence is vastly greater. It is so real that I cannot be mistaken.
  After each visit I feel a distinct mental conflict. It is as if
  two antagonists were crossing swords, and while it continues I am
  very uncomfortable. It subsides in an hour or two, and tranquillity
  ensues. It is now possible that I can emancipate myself from all
  drugs and “hypodermics.” Mother looks a little brighter, but can
  hardly credit my apparent improvement. Dr. Podram is also at a loss
  to account for the change. I did not tell him that for three days
  past I had pitched all his drugs out of the window.


  _June 29._--The best day I have experienced since my illness began.
  My mind has been strangely exercised. Intervals of great depression
  and of happiness and exaltation have alternated.

  I told Tapley that he appeared to be like an incarnation of the
  spirit of Christ, but he denied all personal credit. In answer to my
  earnest queries he disclaimed any power, in his own personality, to
  help me. I suggested that perhaps he had learned to make a beneficial
  use of mesmeric influence. He seemed hurt at such a suggestion, and
  said that he regarded all hypnotic exercises as belonging only to the
  lower or animal nature; that in their very essence they are opposed
  to spirituality and to everything most divine in man. Tapley is so
  full of love that it overflows like water from a fountain. How can
  his theology bring forth such fruit if it be erroneous or dangerous?


  _June 30._--Sweet, refreshing rest was mine last night; free from
  troublesome fancies, except to a slight extent towards morning. How
  good to enjoy natural sleep as contrasted with the false rest which
  came from opiates! I do not blame the doctor; from his standpoint as
  well as my own belief, anodynes were indispensable. But I have become
  independent of such aid. I was up for two hours in an easy-chair. Dr.
  Podram was nonplussed, and mother was happy. Tapley sat with me, and,
  besides his long, silent, meditative spell, we had a most interesting
  conversation. He is my “good angel;” I thank God for him!

  He predicts that I shall be able to go out within a week or two. I,
  the chronic, nerveless invalid! Can it be possible? Have I grasped
  the helm? Am I no longer drifting?


  _July 1._--Last evening by following Tapley’s suggestions I had
  a peculiar experience. During the quiet of evening, while alone,
  I barred the material world and all its belongings out of my
  mentality, and, for the time being, tenaciously held the thought
  in my consciousness that “in Him we live, and move, and have our
  being.” I relaxed every nerve, and as far as possible made my whole
  being passive and receptive. I invited spiritual influences, and they
  flowed in and filled me as naturally as air inclines to a vacuum.
  What a glorious exercise! I intently listened for the “still small
  voice,” and it was audible to my spiritual hearing.

  Can we have the “Holy Spirit” upon such easy terms every day? I have
  always thought it necessary to beg for it, and expected its presence
  only upon rare and special occasions. A tranquil and happy night.


  _July 2._--Last evening my leading thought was “God is love.” By a
  quiet, reverent effort, I abstracted myself from material things,
  and unbarred the doors and windows of my spiritual nature; then the
  divine sunshine illuminated every apartment. I was linked to the
  living Christ--“He in me and I in Him,”--and such a tie was most
  natural. I was “in God;” he was not “afar off.” There was communion
  between us. I felt a Presence! The Divine touched the human!

  Both mind and body are daily gaining strength. If the spinal
  irritation continues, as Dr. Podram predicted, I am not conscious of
  it except at occasional intervals. To-day we dismiss the doctor, and
  to-morrow we shall dispense with the services of my attendant. Mother
  has lost her distrust of Tapley, and loves him as much as I do.


  _July 3._--“Ye are complete in Him.”

  This profound expression of St. Paul has occupied my thought. How
  concise and exact! Not “shall be,” but “are.” Completeness in God;
  incompleteness apart from Him. We are apart when we do not hold Him
  in our consciousness. When physically diseased man is not complete.
  The body, being but the outward expression of the mind, reflects its
  quality. To clarify the stream we must begin at the fountain. How
  natural, and even scientific, these principles; yet I was blind to
  them. I have almost had a sixth sense added: spiritual intuition.
  Those who have only a material consciousness are “color-blind” to it.
  I am inclined to give Tapley the credit for my cure, but he insists
  that he was nothing more than a “finger-board.”

  My spiritual perception was not sufficiently deep to recognize the
  oneness of life.


  _July 4._--The booming of guns signals the anniversary of our
  national independence.

  Have we freedom in reality? Political freedom exists, but spiritual
  bondage is the rule. The human family are slaves to material things.
  Why should the higher be in subjection to the lower? The reverse
  condition is denominated “supernatural.” That term is superfluous:
  for the spiritual to rule is normal, logical, and scientific.

  As long as our mental abiding-place is in the pleasures and pains of
  the body and its surroundings, we are prisoners.

  “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.”

  Whatever permanently occupies our subjectivity becomes the real and
  ruling to us. To emancipate ourselves from material bondage we must
  hold God in our consciousness, until materiality is dethroned and
  displaced. Even matter when subordinated grows beautiful, because it
  assumes its normal position as below and at the service of spirit.

  How puny and unreal “the seen,” when compared with “the unseen;” yet
  we fill ourselves with the former, and thus practically worship it.
  Is not that idolatry?

  The last must become first, and the material immaterial.

  “The Spirit shall lead you into all truth,” and “the truth shall make
  you free.”

  I have been up all day, and quite free from pain. Independence Day,
  indeed!


  _July 5._--Tapley came with a carriage and took mother and myself
  out for a drive. We went to one of the parks, and my sense of
  enjoyment was very keen. Since my spiritual vision has become more
  acute, added beauty manifests itself in all things. The change is
  in my consciousness, and not in the things. I behold God in nature:
  I see him in the unfolding of the leaves; in every tree and plant;
  in the clouds, the sunshine, the air, the sea. All are gilded and
  beautified. I am led to the One Great and Universal Life, which
  comprehends all other life. This is not the Pantheistic god, but the
  very opposite, the Spiritual God, of which material things are but a
  faint external manifestation. Matter is beautiful only as it becomes
  transparent, so that through it we may see the radiant effulgence of
  Spirit.

  Becoming centred in God, our standpoint is changed, and we no longer
  revolve on our own axis. This change adjusts and rectifies things
  which before were inverted.

  My appetite is excellent, and my ride has occasioned no fatigue.


  _July 6._--Mother will return home to-morrow, and I shall follow
  in a few days. Tapley has pressed me to pay him a visit, and to go
  with them on a cruise in his father’s yacht, and I shall do so after
  spending a little time at home. I am delighted at the prospect of
  again being with my dear brother and sisters, from whom I have so
  long been separated. The dears! Mother says they have changed and
  improved very much.

  Some important problems will soon present themselves for solution.
  How can I most benefit the world? How best aid in leading it out
  from the bondage of materialism which now prevails? I find myself
  somewhat out of harmony with the ruling “systems of truth,” and there
  is even doubt whether or not my own church would tolerate me as a
  religious teacher. I am conscious of a spiritual certitude that I
  have lost nothing which is good that formerly was mine, and also
  that I have gained much. I shall be obliged to choose my own ways and
  methods of labor, for the reason that existing “institutions” would
  misunderstand me. There will be abundant opportunity to confer with
  Tapley in regard to these questions while I am his guest, a few weeks
  later.


  _July 7._--I took a long walk with Tapley, and, as opportunity
  offered, I asked him to explain one or two points which were not
  plain. I said: “Why is it that when restoration from disease is
  possible by means of compliance with spiritual law, many most
  exemplary and pure Christians remain chronic invalids for years, in
  bondage to pain and discords of the flesh?” He replied: “Such persons
  have been theologically taught that pain and suffering are normal
  conditions; that they are directly sent by God, and therefore their
  duty is to accept them. Such a radical misunderstanding of the nature
  of God fastens those conditions upon them. Still farther: instead
  of cultivating a consciousness of their wholeness in God, they show
  their allegiance to matter by turning from the Source of all Life, to
  drugs and other material means, which can add no vitality.”

  I cited the cases of young children, and others who have no
  opportunity nor capacity to form erroneous opinions. He replied: “The
  aggregate race beliefs have given a terrible reality to disease,
  because it has been viewed only from a material standpoint, and they
  have bound us as in a strong net, which even few adults are able to
  break. As we are all ‘bound in one bundle,’ such an aggregation is
  doubly powerful in its effect upon the sensitive and impressionable
  natures of children, and thus they suffer and die as a sacrifice to
  surrounding and hereditary materiality.”

  When the spiritual blossoming-out, of which already there are
  indications, appears, deliverance from material bondage will come,
  and the consciousness of disease, sin, and sorrow will fade out in
  proportion as spiritual understanding brightens.


  _July 8._--To-morrow I shall leave here, and go to my dear old New
  Hampshire home. What an eventful experience during the last few
  weeks! My terrible illness turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
  I am thankful for the experience, and now realize that Pain, rightly
  considered, is an “Angel of Mercy,” to turn us back from our lower,
  false, sensuous selves, to our real heritage; from the “strange land”
  of external phantoms to the “Father’s house,” which is “the secret
  place of the Most High.” The mud of materiality is washed off, as
  from an excavated antique marble statue, and lineaments, white,
  sharp, and beautiful, are disclosed. Pain, rightly interpreted, is
  a beneficent teacher. Such a view does away with it _as_ pain, for
  it is transformed into blessing. A different standpoint changes
  everything. The tempest is no tempest to us unless we so view it. The
  beauty of the sunset is in our consciousness: not in the declining
  orb.


  _July 9._--After certain intervals, the merchant takes an account
  of stock. In view of recent events an inventory seems proper before
  leaving this place. What have I gained? Has anything been lost?

  Truth never changes, but our recognition of it may become fuller.

  My former theology was scholastic, dogmatic, historic; I reverently
  trust that it is now more definitely spiritual.

  God was an anthropomorphous God, infinite in power, but in some
  sense possessed of human characteristics; changeableness, passions,
  emotions, and having a local habitation: now, He is “All in All,”
  the only Real--the only Life; in the language of Scripture: “He is
  Love,” not merely lovely. “He is Spirit.”

  Christ: is more than the personal, historic Jesus: He is the
  ever-living Divine manifestation of love to man; “the Way, the Truth,
  and the Life.”

  Heaven: is not a place, but a condition. It is, harmony with God.
  It “cometh not with observation.” “Behold, the Kingdom of Heaven is
  within you.”

  The Church: is not an end, but a means; it is useful in just the
  degree that it awakens in man spiritual consciousness, which is “the
  mind of Christ.”

  Faith: is the practical exercise of the spiritual eyes.

  Spirit: is the only true substance. The spiritual body is the real
  man. The material man, except as an external expression, is false,
  and in a deep sense unreal.

  The Bible: is not a fetich, but a progressive revelation of God to
  man. Truth is eternal, but our understanding of it is progressive,
  which was also true of the Bible writers. Revelation was not closed
  with them, but is continuous: “Howbeit when He, the Spirit of Truth,
  is come, He shall guide you into all the truth.”

  Miracles: are real, that is, the occurrences so denominated are
  true; the miraculous quality, however, belongs to the material
  standpoint. They are in full accord with unvarying spiritual law,
  which is superior to material law. They are peculiar to no age, for
  God does not withdraw any blessing, once conferred. “He is without
  variableness or shadow of turning.”

  Inspiration: is spiritual, not verbal. “The letter killeth, but the
  Spirit giveth life.”

  Prayer: is more than verbal petition; it is communion, oneness of
  Spirit. “Pray without ceasing.”

  Scholastic Theology: is a burden to the church so far as it
  substitutes rituals, dogmas, systems, and their intellectual
  acceptance, for spiritual Christianity, which is, Christ incarnated.

  Religion: is normal, manly, attractive, joyful; not an unpleasant
  necessity, but a glorious possession. Its essence is spiritual
  harmony with God.

  The Fall: is the descent from spiritual consciousness, and the
  acceptance of material conditions as the real and ruling.

  Sin: consists in various forms of idolatry; a worship of material
  things as real forces, instead of God. Turning our faces towards Him,
  sin disappears, because its seat is in the carnal nature which is put
  off. “That which is born of God cannot sin.”

  Love: is the law of the spiritual, as gravitation is of the material
  universe. The opposite of this law, selfishness in its thousand
  forms, controls the material man.

  Physical Disease: is a deviation from spiritual harmony externalized.
  When the centre is brought back to God, the circumference adjusts
  itself. Knowledge is subjective. The mental quality and tone
  gradually find corresponding expression in the physical man.

  Supernaturalism: nothing is supernatural, for natural law pervades
  the spiritual as fully as it does the material realm.

  The New Birth: is the human incarnation of the Christ, a substitution
  of His mind for the mind of the flesh.

  Retribution: is inherent; what we make for ourselves, not vindictive.

  I close the inventory, for it is time to go to the train. My two
  months in Boston have been an epoch.




CHAPTER VI.

_THE DOWN-EAST CRUISE._


Two weeks after Burton’s arrival at home, he received the following
letter:

                                                  BOSTON, July 22, 188-.

  MY DEAR EDWARD,--I was pleased to learn by yours of the 16th, that
  you are having a delightful visit at home, and are “all so well and
  happy.” How I would like to join in some of your mountain rambles
  and fishing excursions. Natural scenery, such as you describe, is an
  inspiration. “Who can paint like nature?” However, _mon cher ami_, I
  want to ask that, if possible, you leave it all, and come to us a few
  days sooner than we planned. My father’s yacht will be in readiness
  for a cruise, by August 1, and we will be prepared to leave by that
  time, provided it suits your convenience. We shall run along the
  Maine coast, and stop awhile at Bar Harbor, which is delightful in
  August. Our party will be somewhat unique in its composition, which
  will, perhaps, make it more interesting. Besides our own family and
  yourself, we shall have Doctor Frustadt, a German scientist, and Lord
  Percival, an English nobleman. For certain reasons my father wished
  to show these gentlemen some attention, and invited them to be our
  guests during this cruise. I am glad they accepted his invitation.

  I thank your dear mother for her kind messages.

  With my best love to the whole household,

                                       I am, ever yours,
                                                         WILLIAM TAPLEY.

Burton’s three weeks at home passed very quickly, but he responded to
Tapley’s invitation in time, so that the cruise would not be delayed
on his account. His rustication among the mountains had produced a
marked improvement in his appearance, all paleness and feebleness
having been replaced by a nut-brown complexion and a robust, muscular
development. His friend received him most cordially, and the warm,
genial hospitality of the whole household soon made him feel like one
of the family.

Colonel Rufus Tapley was a gentleman of large fortune, and
distinguished for his cultivated tastes and philanthropic impulses. He
had retired from active business ten years previous, since which time
many charitable and educational institutions had received from him not
only important pecuniary aid, but also personal interest and valuable
service in their guidance and management. Most of his vacation each
summer was spent on his yacht, and no other recreation was so enjoyable
as a “down-East” cruise. The Sea-Foam was a craft, not only of fine
sailing qualities, but of comfortable and even luxurious appointments.
She was ninety feet in length, carried a large spread of canvas, and
the heavy brass mountings about her deck and stairways gave her a rich
and attractive appearance. Captain Brown, with six stalwart sailors in
becoming costumes, constituted the crew, and the commissary department
also was well organized and complete. Preparations were finished, and
promptly on the morning of the day appointed, the Sea-Foam set sail,
with bright skies and a favoring breeze.

Burton was duly presented to Lord Percival and to Dr. Frustadt, and
the whole party formed an interested group, as Tapley pointed out the
various objects of interest which were passed in sailing down the
harbor.

Lord Percival was a fine specimen of the typical Englishman of the
aristocratic class, and had but recently arrived in America on his
first visit. With a fine physique and personal presence he combined
agreeable manners and an easy, cosmopolitan air, such as characterizes
the best of his class.

Dr. Frustadt, who formerly had been a Heidelberg professor, was
short of stature, with black hair, long mustache, and rather florid
complexion. He had two long scars on his right cheek, the result of
class duels in early life, while a student in the University. His
devotion to pipe and beer was unremitting. He was somewhat accomplished
as a violinist, and possessed a powerful baritone voice. His long
hair, green glasses, and large meerschaum pipe, which was his constant
companion, gave him a marked appearance.

The graceful yacht cut her way through the green waves like “a thing of
life,” and the whole party sat in the shade of the mainsail, drinking
in the delicious, bracing air, and enjoying the passing panorama. The
shimmering waves reflected back in endless repetition the golden rays
of the morning sun, and the spirits and anticipations of the party were
correspondingly bright, as the cruise began so auspiciously.

  “The sea! the sea! the open sea!
   The blue, the fresh, the ever free.”

The beaches, towns, and headlands on the “North shore” presented a
varying and picturesque series of views, as the yacht gracefully glided
on, till at length dinner was announced, and with keen appetites the
party descended to the dining-saloon. Percival and the doctor, who were
seated respectively on the right and left of Colonel Tapley, resumed a
discussion regarding American institutions which had been begun on deck.

“I think,” remarked the doctor, “that State Socialism is the only
remedy for the present monopolies, oppressions, and wrongs which
prevail, and that the government should take the initiative by radical
measures of reform. The labor organizations of America are our schools
for the dissemination of socialistic principles, and in a few years,
when we become a majority, there will be important changes. Although I
am a German, we are international in our aims and principles.”

“May I suggest,” observed Colonel Tapley, “that I think you take an
unwarranted pessimistic view of our institutions and their needs.
As Americans, we are not conscious that any such severe remedies
are required as many of your writers seem to think necessary.
Evils certainly exist, but we have full confidence in the inherent
self-regulative power of moral and patriotic forces.”

“In my opinion,” said Lord Percival, addressing Colonel Tapley, “your
danger lies in the enormous extension of suffrage among the ignorant
and vicious. Your political leaders, in their anxiety to catch the vote
of these people, outbid each other in demagogic inducements, and you
quite lack any hereditary conservative element to act as a regulator.
Education and a property qualification should be requisites for
suffrage. Our hereditary sovereign and nobility constitute a framework
by the solidity of which governmental institutions are rendered strong
and permanent. Republicanism in America lacks such a framework, and
for that reason is structurally weak. Under a centralized system,
abuses can be reached much more quickly and efficiently. Even the
evils of despotism can be definitely measured and understood, and, in
any case, relief from them is not hopeless and not always difficult.
But in putting democracy on the throne, we have a possible monster,
but yet so intangible that it cannot be successfully attacked. Who
can curb such a giant when he fully realizes his strength? and where
will his resistless march be stayed? A successful republic can only
be permanently assured by a condition of universal intelligence and
morality, such as are found wanting even in America.”

Dr. Frustadt showed symptoms of being an impatient listener, and
replied rather positively, “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but there
are evidences of an irresistible drift which will sweep away kings,
dynasties, and even republics,--as at present organized,--and the
outcome will be a new social order. When all monopolies have been
absorbed by the State, all privileged classes levelled, all land
nationalized, and all private accumulations of wealth made impossible,
then poverty will be a thing of the past, and the ‘Golden Age’ will be
ushered in. The hours of labor will be reduced to three or even less
per day, and those who reach the age of forty-five will not labor at
all. People then will have leisure to cultivate their minds, enjoy
their recreations, and get the most out of life. How does that strike
you, Mr. Burton?”

“Some might regard it as an attractive picture, as you paint it,”
replied Burton, “but I fail to see any logical connection between
your premises and conclusions, and I think that your remedy would be
immeasurably worse than the disease. In the first place, labor, in
the sense of work or occupation, is a blessing; not a curse. Without
necessity for work, human genius, skill, talent, energy, and capacity
would wither and fail of development. With no work there would be no
recreation, and, finally, no amusement.

“The State, which you assume to be so perfect and omnipresent, would
be as corrupt as the elements of which it is composed. Its natural
functions only embrace that which is necessarily beyond the scope
of individual enterprise. I can imagine no worse slavery than would
result from the crushing out of individual ambition, energy, and
enterprise. Socialism, even on a small scale, and with choice and
selected voluntary elements, has never been successful; but the results
of a compulsory, universal communism would be most fitly illustrated
by turning loose a great menagerie. A practical object-lesson is
furnished by a review of the condition of Paris while ruled by the
Commune at the time of the French Revolution. As Byron expresses it,--

  “‘In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.’”

“I fancy you are quite right,” observed his lordship. “The devotees of
socialism utterly ignore the natural constitution of man; but, somehow,
they expect to find men to fit their abstractions. Making over an
institution does not make over human nature.”

It was evident to all that Dr. Frustadt was angry, but he strove to
remain outwardly calm. The long scars on his right cheek were of a deep
scarlet hue, but he pulled himself together and retorted with some show
of deliberation: “The world is filled with injustice and oppression.
Ill-gotten wealth rides rough-shod over suffering humanity, and class
distinctions and favoritism rob the masses of their just rights and
privileges. The ‘bitter cry’ of the outcast millions of East London
falls on the deaf ears of lordly aristocrats who own all the land and
nearly all the buildings of Old England. Such are the fruits of your
boasted system of Church and State, of your combination of aristocracy
and ecclesiasticism.”

Lord Percival looked bored, and Colonel Tapley, seeing that the
argument was getting warm, especially on the part of his German guest,
wisely planned a diversion. He gave Burton a slight nod, which the
young man understood, and to which he promptly responded.

“It may be well,” suggested Burton, “to make an effort to find some
common ground, so that, if possible, the truth may be evolved free
from bias or prejudice. I think,” he continued, “that we all have the
same aim, but we see different aspects of social and economic problems
because they are colored by the various mediums through which we view
them. Even error is truth distorted by a false standpoint. Let us take
a brief survey, which, superficially observed, will seem pessimistic.
Pessimism is unwholesome and abnormal, but it is inseparable from
a low point of observation. As we leave the valley and climb the
mountain-side, the fogs and mists which enveloped us, and covered our
whole horizon, are left behind, and the clear, sharp mountain-peaks of
truth stand out in bold relief. The peaks were always there, but our
plane of observation was too low. Taking the standpoint of the valley,
we see that although the developments of science, invention, and
improvement have been so marvellous, they have not lightened the load
of human woe. Science may add much to man’s physical accomplishments,
but nothing to his real happiness. The cravings of his spirit are no
better satisfied when he travels in the limited express than when ten
miles an hour was the maximum. The gigantic armies and navies of the
world, all in readiness to ‘let slip the dogs of war’ at a moment’s
notice, show that all the developments of science have not diminished
the animalism of the race. The daily press, with its thousandfold
multiplied issues, pours forth a flood of mental pabulum which, in
the main, is unwholesome and corrupting. We have a literature which,
under a plea of ‘realism’ and ‘devotion to art,’ panders and appeals
to all the baser passions of the lower nature. The love of country is
displaced by the greed for office; devotion to the general good, by
self-seeking and pecuniary advantage. Realism! low realism, everywhere!
Nothing idealistic in the whole horizon.

“A greatly broadened scale of material comforts only increases and
intensifies man’s sullen discontent with his lot. Remedial legislation
piled mountain high complicates the relations, and increases the
frictions of classes and ranks artificially held apart. Even education,
in the ordinary sense, is powerless to lift men from the sensuous
or animal plane. The intellect is cultivated and the tastes refined
to the utmost without, in the least, quickening the moral pulse, or
lifting man, as a spiritual being, into a higher and more harmonious
environment. Natural and ethical laws, older than the Decalogue, are
declared faulty or obsolete, and the prevailing current is towards a
chaos of Artificialism. Men close their eyes to dangers in front and
stop their ears to the noise of the breakers before them. The spectres
of Anarchism and Communism, with their barbaric hopelessness and
despair, loom up in the perspective. The mental horizon of the vast
majority is practically limited by the boundary of the sensuous, seen,
and the material. The rush for power, place, wealth, fashion, display,
position, is impetuous and almost universal. All these form but a
partial catalogue of the shadows which darken the horizon as seen from
the materialistic or valley standpoint. What can dispel the gloom and
roll away the heavy threatening clouds?

“No development of science, aërial navigation, perfected phonographs,
nor telephones, technical education, improved legislation, sanitation,
medication, nor all combined, can enhance human happiness or produce
harmony. No changes in external forms of government, from monarchy to
republic, or republic to monarchy, can cure the ills of society, which,
on the contrary, multiply with the successive developments of material,
scientific progress. The world is full of discords, its instruments are
out of tune.

“As Shakespeare observes,--

  “‘Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
    And then is heard no more. It is a tale
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    Signifying nothing.’

“All the forces so implicitly relied upon, and all the instrumentalities
that are visible to material sense, are utterly powerless to vitalize
and purify the tainted life-currents of human society.

“Now let us turn our backs upon that view, and climb the mountain-side
for a new standpoint. We have left the sweat, and grind, and rage for
material gains, and the horizon of fog and mist which seemed so solid,
and now, around and above, stand out the veritable bold headlands
of spiritual achievement, glistening in the sunlight of truth. The
things in the valley which were so permanent and valuable, and for
which we so earnestly strove, were but toys, or at most panoramic
views, already passed. The whole realm of truth, above and below, in
itself is unchanged; but to us, with a new point of view, it has been
transformed. Who shall teach mankind that the material is immaterial,
and the immaterial material? The individual must be lifted to the
recognition of the divine qualities of love, truth, life, purity,
harmony, and joy, as real, natural, logical, scientific, and attainable
verities. A corresponding cognition of sensuous and material things as
shadowy and unreal, causes them to fall into line where they normally
belong. As one writer well expresses it,--‘Matter is never in its right
place till it vanishes, leaving only the sweet odors of spirit.’

“All this because man is primarily a spiritual being; he is material
only in a secondary and external sense. A correction of this inverted,
this wrong-side-up life of humanity, would bring harmony out of
discord, order out of chaos, and would transform the chilly, diseased,
morgue-like atmosphere of the world into the warm aroma of a perennial
flower-garden.”

The attention of all had been fixed upon Burton during his argument.
Dr. Frustadt seemed to have been listening to a dialect which to him
was hardly intelligible. His crimson scars had lost their fiery glow,
and his defiant gaze, which before had been riveted upon Lord Percival,
was downcast and tame. His lordship seemed thoughtful, and all the rest
much interested. Tapley was delighted that his friend had so exactly
expressed his own views, even better than he himself could have done.

At length, Lord Percival resumed,--

“Perhaps I do not perfectly comprehend the drift of your argument, but
I infer that you turn to religion as the only remedy for the social,
economic, and moral wrongs of society. Have we not had the Church, with
all its services, ordinances, sacraments, and institutions, in full
operation for centuries? Its ecclesiastics are able and conscientious
men, its missionary, charitable, benevolent, and remedial institutions
were never so active and numerous as now, yet the tide of wretchedness,
crime, and discord appears stronger than ever before. If religion is
the antidote, why, with its full and long application, do disorders
increase?”

“Religion, if defined as a recognition of God, as the object of love
and worship, is the sovereign remedy,” said Burton; “but even the very
significance of the word has become modified. The Church is a good
institution; and it is practically useful in just the degree that it
spiritualizes mankind. Unfortunately, with some, religion means the
conscientious observance of a ritual; with others, the intellectual
acceptance of a particular creed or system, or the observance of
certain ordinances; in other cases, the external regard, as a duty,
of the moral code. All these, in various combinations, mainly make
up the religious ideal of mankind. Religion is usually presented as
something supernatural or unnatural, in the light of an abnormal
necessity or duty, and for these reasons it is unattractive to the
human family, who really are suffering for it. What is needed is more
emphasis upon its spirituality, less upon its history; more upon its
union with an immanent God, less of doctrine and scholasticism; more of
a consciousness of the Holy Spirit as a practical force and continuous
revelation, and less institutionalism, literalism, and dogmatism;
more naturalness and attractiveness, and less of the speculative and
supernatural. With such a religion, its enemies would be disarmed,
and the world would seek it as a thirsty traveller craves a cooling
draught. Systems of theology have placed God at a distance, and
have delineated Him in such a light that the affections of men have
not responded. It is just to admit that, in general, Church theory
regarding spiritual verities is correct; but, practically, to the vast
majority, religion means the things before enumerated. The clergy are
earnest, honest, and conscientious, but, by the very nature of their
education, they are moulded in fixed systems. Their standpoint has been
already provided, and they cannot erect an independent one without
making great sacrifices and breaking strong ties. Scholastic and
artificial accretions have overlaid and obscured the simple abounding
love, faith, and hope of the primitive Church, when men lived in the
Unseen, face to face with God.

“You will pardon me for drifting into what you may call theology, while
discussing social and political economy, but all Truth is one.

“Dryden well observes,--

  “‘For truth has such a face, and such a mien,
    As to be loved needs only to be seen.’

“Science, falsely so called, has shut out of view all but the lower
or material part of truth. Such a view has given it an incomplete and
distorted appearance. A materialistic theology has also partitioned
off a supposed supernatural realm, putting it beyond the reign of
orderly law and sequence. Truth, being a unit, cannot be divided by
any hard and sharp lines. Natural law, which is only another name for
divine method, pervades and unifies the entire cosmos, spiritual and
material. The general recognition of the spiritual nature of man,
and the growth of a spiritual consciousness in him, is the sovereign
and only remedy for human ills, whether moral, political, social, or
physical.”

Burton completed his argument just as dinner was finished, and all
arose from the table and went outside to enjoy the delicious air and
views. Colonel Tapley and Lord Percival lighted their cigars, and
Frustadt filled his meerschaum, and poured forth such clouds of smoke
that Tapley quietly suggested that the Sea-Foam might be mistaken for a
steamer.

“What city is that?” inquired Lord Percival, as he glanced along the
North shore, and pointed to a place of evident importance.

“That is Salem,” replied Tapley. “It is a quaint and interesting old
town.”

“Ah! I fancy that I have somewhere read that they burned witches
there,” observed his lordship. “Beastly, cruel business! If I am not
mistaken, it has not been practised during the present century. Am I
correct?”

“Quite so,” replied Tapley. “Whatever there was of Salem witchcraft
occurred long before the present century.”

“I am not well up in American history,” replied his lordship.
“Can you tell me what there was in it? How do you account for the
manifestations, and what was their nature?”

“Undoubtedly, they were the result of some form of animal magnetism,”
said Tapley. “The natural laws relating to hypnotic influences were
not then understood, and the peculiar phenomena were at once attributed
to demoniacal dictation and possession. In the past, when any unusual
or strange manifestations have appeared, instead of any search for
the laws which govern them, they were at once attributed to special,
supernatural agency. Any general idea of the universality of law is a
conception of recent times.”

“Do you think animal magnetism harmful if properly employed?” said
Percival.

“I think its name is significant,” replied Tapley; “its province is in
the lower nature, and its _animus_ is antagonistic to spirituality.
Its manifestations all belong to the sensuous realm. Its forces are
all contained in the ‘mind of the flesh,’ and therefore are ephemeral,
among the things that perish. It is not strange that in times when all
malign influences were directly attributed to a personal Devil, he was
credited with these demonstrations.”

“They were all linked in with religious superstitions,” said Frustadt.
“Wherever you find churches, there you find bigotry and superstition.
From the number of spires that I notice along your ‘North shore,’ I
am not surprised at a prevailing belief in witchcraft, or any other
delusion.”

“The Church, with all its deficiencies, is infinitely to be preferred
to a coarse, desolate materialism,” replied Tapley. “Your ideal man at
most would be but a highly refined animal.”

“Well, I should even then be satisfied with him, provided he had no
strain of ‘blue blood’ or ecclesiasticism in his veins,” replied
Frustadt in an undertone, glancing at Lord Percival.

Tapley wisely planned a diversion, and, turning to Captain Brown, said:
“Are we not on good fishing-ground, Captain? Let us have a little
sport! A prize for the first fish.”

Captain Brown said that the chances for “a catch” were fair, and the
tackle was put in order, and the sails adjusted so that the yacht would
slowly drift while they were fishing.

Lord Percival got the first line out, and before it had reached the
bottom the bait was seized by a good-sized fish. He gave a vigorous
pull, and hauled in, hand over hand, finally landing a fifteen-pound
cod on deck. “’Pon my word, that’s a beauty,” said Percival: “I fancy
the beast will weigh thirty or forty pounds.”

“Not an ounce over ten,” said Frustadt. “The fish looks rather
slippery, and evidently belongs to the higher class.”

Though there was a perceptible bit of sarcasm in the tones, Percival
smiled at the hit and retorted,--

“Well, Doctor, if my fish is slippery, your first catch will have,
pardon me, a very scaly character.”

“I will presently show you what fishing is,” confidently replied
Frustadt; whereupon he dropped in his line and awaited developments.
He did not wait long for a bite, and pulled away with all his might.
He landed his fish, which proved to be a sculpin, which perhaps would
weigh ten ounces. This caused some amusement, in which he joined with
a forced laugh, but a close observer would have noticed that the scars
in his face flamed out, as had been the case before. During the next
half-hour several cod and haddock of good size were caught by the
party, all of whom took a hand at the sport, except Colonel Tapley, who
remained below to finish some correspondence. At length, Burton felt
a tug on his line, so heavy that he fancied that his hook must have
caught upon the bottom. In a moment more, as the line began to slip
through his hands, he became aware that a big fish had been hooked.

“I’ve got a whale, or a sea-monster of some sort,” exclaimed Burton.

“Hang on to him,” cried Tapley, who hastily pulled in his own line, to
be free to render any assistance possible. In spite of a strong though
not unyielding resistance which Burton made, the line was taken out
with great rapidity.

“I think that same fish bit my hook a few moments ago, but did not hang
on,” said Frustadt.

“It must be the sea-serpent,” observed Tapley; “it’s just Burton’s
luck, his bait bears a charm.”

Burton kept a steady pressure on the fish, and at length resistance
ceased, and the line began to slacken; but steady pulling kept it taut,
so that the fish did not get the advantage; but soon again it went out
with a rush. After a series of struggles the captive was brought to the
surface.

“A halibut! A halibut!” cried Captain Brown. The great fish gave a
flop, and again shot away with lightning speed, having plenty of line
under a steady but yielding pressure. After several desperate attempts
to escape, it was evident that the contest was nearly over, and that
the halibut must succumb. A small dory was lowered, and Captain Brown
and Tapley, each with gaff in hand, jumped in, with Burton between
them, who kept an increasing pressure on the now tired and yielding
fish. At length he was brought alongside, and, by the aid of the gaffs,
was rolled into the dory. He doubled himself up and gave a vigorous
flop, which landed Tapley on the seat at the stern, and which came near
sending Burton overboard. By the quick turn of an oar, Captain Brown
gave the fish a sharp blow upon the head, which put a quietus to his
flopping.

“A two-hundred-pounder, and not an ounce less,” exclaimed Captain Brown.

The fish was hoisted on board the Sea-Foam, and Burton received the
congratulations of the whole party. Lord Percival suggested that
Burton’s skill in handling a big fish was only equalled by his ability
to discuss ethics and sociology. The whole party gathered around the
halibut, as it lay on deck, to make a thorough inspection. Frustadt
engaged in a critical examination of the mouth, when with a final gasp
the fish closed his jaws, and one finger received a severe nip.

“How very awkward,” exclaimed Percival. “An example of muscular
contraction, doctor.”

The scars were very red, but Frustadt made no reply.

The fishing was ended, the sails again were set, and, under the
influence of a free, southerly breeze, the Sea-Foam sped eastward.
While the gentlemen were engaged in reading and light games on the
deck, Miss Tapley sent up a succession of melodies from the piano in
the cabin below. Late in the afternoon the breeze slackened, and at
length became so light that they were nearly becalmed; but, as the
yacht was not far off Gloucester, they slowly came in to the harbor and
anchored for the night. After tea, as the evening was pleasant, the
whole party remained outside, and, by invitation, Dr. Frustadt sang
quite a number of solos, playing an accompaniment on the mandolin.
The air was balmy and tranquil, the moon full and clear, and the
scattered lights of the old fishing town lent their aid in making
the whole scene full of romance and beauty. Robust baritone melodies
reverberated over the waves, so that groups of skippers and fishermen
lingered on the wharves to catch the music which floated out from the
Sea-Foam. Percival suggested to Captain Brown that in case a fog should
be encountered, could he induce Frustadt to sing solos on deck, horns
would be quite unnecessary. At length the evening wore away, and
all retired except Colonel Tapley and the young men, who lingered,
reluctant to lose the inspiration of the moonlit waves.

“Father,” said Tapley, “what is your opinion of your German guest?”

“I confess I cannot quite make him out,” replied the colonel; “he is
somewhat of an enigma. My friend Radbourne, when in Switzerland, gave
him a very cordial letter of introduction, and I thought we could show
him pleasant attention by inviting him to join us on this cruise.”

“Have you carefully examined the letter, and are you quite sure of its
genuineness?” asked the young man.

“I have been perfectly familiar with my friend’s writing for years,
William, and do not think I can be deceived in that respect.”

“Well, father, if Frustadt is not a ‘black sheep,’ Burton and I are
greatly at fault. We can _feel_ him. We have a mutual and positive
conviction that there is a hidden mystery about him, and that he is
playing a part.”

“I will re-examine carefully Radbourne’s letter, William, and also will
write him for fuller particulars; but, meanwhile, we shall be obliged
to assume that Frustadt is Frustadt,” said the colonel.

“Certainly, we will treat him kindly,” replied the son. “There is no
difficulty about that, but how about introducing him to our friends and
to society? There is where we shall feel embarrassment.”

“I would send Radbourne a ‘cable’ for particulars,” observed the
colonel, “but unfortunately I do not know his present address.”

“Well, there is no way but for Dr. Mystery to remain our guest for
the present,” replied the young man; “but I believe some unpleasant
development is liable to come. Have you noticed his sullen manner
towards Percival?”

“To some extent,” replied the father, “but I attributed it to his
socialistic crankiness. In Percival he sees an embodiment of the
aristocratic idea, which is his _bête-noir_. While I have great
confidence in your judgment, especially when supplemented by Burton’s,
I am forced to believe that in this matter you may be mistaken.”

Thus ended the first day of the cruise.

Three days passed quickly. The winds generally were favorable, and the
weather continued fine, with the exception of a single foggy forenoon.
Stops were made at Portland and Rockland, for the foreign guests, as
they went along, wished to see something of the country and the native
population. Discussions of social and political economy were tabooed,
and, with reading, music, story-telling, fishing, and the enjoyment of
the scenery, the time was fully occupied.

On the fourth day of leisurely sailing, they approached the south end
of Mount Desert Island. As they came near, its beautiful mountains
gradually rose out of the water, and exclamations of surprise and
delight broke forth from every one. Beautiful! Grand! Delightful! were
among the exclamations which were heard on every hand. As the Sea-Foam
glided past the Cranberry Islands, and neared the shore, picturesque
details began to unfold themselves, and the mountain-range resolved
itself into distinct peaks of varying shapes and profiles. Though very
diminutive in bulk, when compared with the Alps, the Rockies, and
even many of the White Mountains, they have a unique and ravishing
beauty peculiar in its variety. Mere bigness is but one of the more
unimportant elements of beauty. Variety, color, pose, proximity to the
sea--these are among the qualities that are combined to a remarkable
degree in this famed locality.

  “To him who in the love of Nature holds
   Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
   A various language; for his gayer hours
   She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
   And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
   Into his darker musings with a mild
   And healing sympathy, that steals away
   Their sharpness ere he is aware.”

The great green waves in vain hurl themselves against the perpendicular
wall of Otter Cliff, but the caves, the crevices, the ragged
indentations, and the débris are evidences that, in the long combat,
the more solid element has gradually yielded, thus illustrating the
power of persistent energy in spite of unequal conditions. The warning
tones of the Otter Cliff bell-buoy, and the rumble and roar of Thunder
Cave soon are left behind, and the Sea-Foam glides successively by
Great Head, Anemone Cave, Schooner Head, and Spouting Horn, when those
unique and precipitous islands known as the “Porcupines” rise up as
sentinels to guard the approach to Frenchman’s Bay.

  “For here, when the night roars round, and under
     The white sea lightens and leaps like fire,
   Acclaimed of storm and applauded in thunder,
     Sits Death on the throne of his crowned desire.”

The wind freshened as the Sea-Foam sped on towards the bay, its course
lying near the “Thrumbcap” on the left, with Egg Rock to the right, and
presently some of the fair and stately cottages of Bar Harbor gradually
came into view. All were delighted with the shifting panorama, and in
a half-hour they would be at anchor in the harbor, the outward part of
the cruise at an end.

As they reached a point a little to the west of “Round” Porcupine,
Captain Brown noticed a neat little schooner-rigged yacht, apparently
about thirty feet long, and not far away, lying directly in his course.
As he drew nearer, it was evident from the actions of those on board
that something had occurred to produce the most intense excitement.
Screams of terror, cries of “Help! help!” female figures flitting to
and fro, a waving of arms, and general dire confusion were observable
from the deck of the Sea-Foam. Captain Brown steered directly for the
little yacht, anxious to render any assistance that might be possible.
Every one upon the Sea-Foam was straining eyes and ears to catch the
significance of the distress. The minutes seemed like hours to Burton
and Tapley until they might get near enough to unravel the mystery, and
render such aid as might be within their power.

“Oh, help! help! he’s drowned! he’s drowned!” were now among the
exclamations distinctly audible. Wild gestures were seen, and
incoherent wails and moans filled the air.

“Oh, my God! my God! he’s gone! he’s gone!” rang out distinctly in
feminine tones as they drew near.

“What’s the matter? who is drowned? and where did it happen?” asked
Captain Brown, all in the same breath.

“Our Tom! Oh, he’s gone down! he’s gone down! help! help!”

By this time the Sea-Foam was close alongside of the demoralized yacht.
Three young ladies, in gay yachting costumes, were visible. Two of
them were pacing the deck, wringing their hands and uttering almost
hysterical cries for help, while the third, much more self-possessed,
at once responded to Captain Brown’s inquiries. Two young men were
seen, one just climbing on board the yacht, and the other, perhaps
ten rods away, swimming towards it, both evidently much exhausted from
their unsuccessful search after the missing person. They were unable to
utter a word, and so could give no information.

“Oh! sir, my brother Tom was knocked overboard by the boom and has gone
down, and we have drifted away from him.”

“Quick, tell me where he went under,” said Captain Brown.

“About twenty rods just in that direction,” she replied, pointing to
the windward, to a place from which the yacht evidently had drifted.

While this conversation was taking place, Burton and Tapley had
instantly divined the situation, and, with the assistance of two
sailors, already had lowered the dory, into which they jumped, followed
by Captain Brown, in readiness to act the moment the information was
complete. By this time the second young man was climbing on board the
yacht, and as no one at hand seemed to need immediate assistance,
Captain Brown at once ordered two sailors to row to the windward,
keeping his eye as nearly as possible on the spot before pointed out.

“Are you young gentlemen accustomed to diving?” asked Captain Brown.
“The water cannot be very deep here, probably not more than fifteen
feet.”

“We are quite at home in the water,” replied Tapley, “and will do our
best to get hold of him.”

“This is about the spot,” said the captain.

Meanwhile, Burton and Tapley had hastily divested themselves of coats,
hats, vests, and shoes, and they instantly dived, one on each side of
the dory. After remaining on the bottom as long as possible, both came
up, but they had met with no success. The dory had slightly changed
position, and after a few moments of rest and recovery of breath,
they again plunged in, but with the same result as before. This was
continued with a little change of position each time, when, during the
seventh descent, Burton saw a dark object, and made a grasp to get it,
but failed. Again he went down, and, getting a slight hold, he slowly
rose to the surface bringing it with him. The dark object proved to be
the body of a lad, apparently ten or twelve years of age, whose jacket
Burton had grasped with his left hand. It was the work of but two or
three minutes to tenderly raise the body into the dory, and row back to
the Sea-Foam.

“We have found the darling boy and think he can be resuscitated, so
keep up good courage,” said Burton to the stricken party.

“How long since he went down?” asked Captain Brown.

“Oh, I don’t know! It must be as much as ten minutes, and, besides, he
received a blow in his back from the main boom,” replied the young lady
who before had given all the information.

“Oh, sir, can you save him? He is the darling and pet of our family.”

Without waiting a moment, Burton and Tapley carefully bore him below
and went to work vigorously to coax the spirit to remain in him if it
had not already taken its final departure. First they held him up, face
downwards, to drain the water from his lungs, and then, while Burton
tried to produce artificial respiration, Tapley chafed the limbs, and
made an effort to again start into action the suspended circulation.
Mrs. Tapley and her daughter, also, were untiring in their efforts,
bringing out stimulants, warm blankets, and every appliance which could
be of possible service. The lad’s short curly locks were but slightly
disarranged, his face was bright and handsome, and a winning smile
played around his mouth, and, from appearances, he might have been
taking a nap. His body, however, was puny, his spine seemed not quite
regular, and one leg a trifle shorter than its companion. While Burton
and Tapley were devoting their best energies to the restoration of the
boy, Colonel Tapley and Captain Brown were doing everything possible
for the rest of the party. They were all taken on board the Sea-Foam,
and Colonel Tapley directed Captain Brown to take the little yacht in
tow while they came up to the harbor. The stricken party at once went
below to see how it was with the dear boy. Was it possible to bring
him back? and what means should be used? When they saw what vigorous
and systematic efforts the young men were already putting forth, they
began to have some hope. Colonel Tapley furnished the strangers with
dry clothing, and was untiring in his efforts to promote their comfort.
Percival performed many kind offices, and even Frustadt seemed anxious
to make himself useful. Mrs. Tapley, in her sweet, motherly way, did
all that was possible to calm and relieve the young ladies, and to
inspire them with hope and courage.

Some fifteen minutes had elapsed since the recovery of the body, when
Burton, who had closely watched every indication, detected a slight
gasp.

In five minutes more signs of life became quite pronounced, and
natural though feeble respiration and heart-action had begun. Soon
consciousness returned. The lad opened his eyes, and seemed greatly
surprised at the surroundings. He said that he had had a beautiful
dream, but that they had rudely interrupted it.

The grief of stricken hearts, which had found expression in moans and
sighs, at once gave place to demonstrations of gladness. The young lady
who all along had been the medium of communication now noticed that
Burton and Tapley were still in their dripping clothing, though they
had forgotten the fact.

“Please let me watch my brother while you change your clothing,” said
she.

Neither, however, would leave the boy until he was fully restored,
beyond all question.

“God bless you both!” she exclaimed; “we can never reward you.”

“We are already many times rewarded,” said Burton. “The privilege of
being on this spot, and of serving you in this emergency, is in itself
happiness.”

The excitement was past, and the strange young lady desired to know her
benefactors. Addressing Colonel Tapley, she said,--

“May I inquire to whom we owe such thanks that we can never hope to
give them expression?”

“My name is Tapley,” replied the colonel, “and these young men are Mr.
Burton and my son; and to whom has it been our privilege to render this
service?”

“I am Miss Bonbright,” she replied, “and the saved boy is my young
brother Tom. This is my sister Miss Rosamond, and Miss Jenness, and Mr.
Van Roden, and my brother Adelbert,” said she, presenting each in turn.

“Is your father Edmund Bonbright of Boston?”

“He is.”

“I know him well,” observed the colonel, who then presented his wife,
daughter, and the foreign guests to each of the relieved party.

“I think we may well call this ‘a surprise party,’” said the colonel,
and while greetings and congratulations were going on, the Sea-Foam
sped on towards her anchorage in the harbor.




CHAPTER VII.

_A PLEASANT ENTERTAINMENT._


It is doubtless unnecessary to remind the reader that on a certain
evening a social after-dinner gathering took place in the drawing-room
of the Bonbright cottage at Bar Harbor. We deemed it advisable to take
our leave for a time of the people there assembled and revert to other
and distant scenes already passed, because of their vital connection
with the lives of these persons in whose history we are interested.

How our pathways touch and cross those of other pedestrians on the
highway of life; and how each contact colors, modifies, deflects, and
even transforms our careers and their outcome. How small the world
really is!

Mrs. Smith of San Francisco, and Mrs. Brown of Chicago, have opposite
apartments at a hotel on the summit of the Rigi, and both are called
up to witness the sunrise. Mrs. Smith, as she takes in the view,
soliloquizes, though unconsciously, in audible tones, “Not much finer
than our Sierras.”

Mrs. Brown, near by, has overheard the soliloquy and quietly observes,
“Beg pardon, but I infer that you may be from San Francisco.”

“You are quite right,” replies Mrs. Smith. “My husband, Mr. Smith, is
of the banking firm of Smith, Simpkins & Co. of that city.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Smith, but is Mr. Simpkins the Mr. William J. Simpkins
formerly of Albany?”

“The very same person. Were you acquainted with him?”

“I should rather think so,” replied Mrs. Brown. “But for a slight
accident, the loss of a letter, I should have become his wife.”

“Indeed! That fact reminds me that I often have heard him speak of you.
You, then, must be Mrs. Brown of Chicago, and your maiden name was
Perkins.”

“You are quite correct,” replied Mrs. Brown. “Isn’t the view glorious?”

“Perfectly gorgeous! My uncle, Dr. Hitchcock, who is here, says that it
is worth coming to Europe to see.”

“What Dr. Hitchcock is he, may I inquire? It can’t be possible that he
is Dr. G. W. Hitchcock, of Portland, Maine?”

“The very same,” replied Mrs. Smith.

“No other than my old physician and Sunday-school teacher,” said Mrs.
Brown.

“By the way, did you happen to know any of the Joneses, when you lived
in Albany?” said Mrs. Smith.

“Yes, indeed. Mr. Abram V. Jones was an intimate friend of mine.”

“You astound me,” said Mrs. Smith. “He is my twin brother.”

Just then the breakfast gong interrupted the evolutionary process.

People who “want the earth” should remember that it is a limited affair.

The younger members of the company on the evening of the dinner-party
had arranged for a sail on the following day, which took place with the
result narrated in the preceding chapter.

On the morning following the rescue, Mr. Bonbright called upon Colonel
Tapley to express his thanks, and also to invite the Sea-Foam party
to dine with him on the same evening. “My dear colonel,” said Mr.
Bonbright, “we can never discharge the debt of gratitude we owe to you
and your party, especially to your son and Mr. Burton. We hope that you
will do us the honor to dine with us to-night, and we wish to see you
all very often during your stay at Bar Harbor. We should be gratified
if the young gentlemen would become our guests. Our young people will
be delighted to entertain them, and will do all in their power to make
their stay agreeable.”

Colonel Tapley thanked Mr. Bonbright, and in behalf of himself and
party accepted the invitation to dinner, and also said he would make
known Mr. Bonbright’s wishes to the young gentlemen.

Colonel Tapley selected a convenient hotel for the headquarters of his
party during their stay at Bar Harbor. With the Sea-Foam at hand, they
could make short excursions in the bay, and along the near-by coast,
and thus enjoy the scenery to the best advantage.

The Tapley party were most warmly received upon their arrival at the
Bonbright cottage, in response to the invitation of the morning. Such
a welcome was theirs as usually would be accorded only to old and dear
friends. Before the events of the previous day, with the exception of a
casual business acquaintance between Colonel Tapley and Mr. Bonbright,
these families were strangers to each other. Now they were not only
friends, but there existed between them a tie the formation of which,
under ordinary circumstances, would have required a long process of
growth.

It is significant how any deep though often short experience, perhaps
a mutual danger safely passed, a common emergency survived, or an
episode like the rescue of the previous day, will draw hearts together.
Such experiences unseal the deepest fountains of human sympathy, so
that their waters mingle together; formalities become mere cobwebs,
and the intrinsic brotherhood of man is thereby revealed. How the
conventionalities of society and social intercourse chill human
affection, and build artificial walls and barriers between human souls!
We touch the merest surface of those around us, and know nothing of
their life-currents. A code of formal precedents, rules, and maxims
becomes the unwritten though inviolable law of society, which in the
main has its foundation in selfishness and self-seeking. People mingle
with each other, each wearing an invisible armor, perhaps polished with
external brilliancy and even attractiveness, but as impenetrable as
tempered steel. Any deep mutual experience melts away the armor, and
divine human qualities shine out, and heart responds to heart.

A carload of human freight plunges over a precipice. All may escape
injury; but what a shattering of armors and crumbling of partition
walls! A mutual kinship, embracing every soul in that car, has grown up
with marvellous quickness, and has made itself felt and real.

More than a score of years ago, the steamer Lady Elgin was sunk in
Lake Michigan as the result of a collision. The event was tragic, and
the experience of the survivors thrilling and pathetic. The resulting
kinship has since expressed itself in annual gatherings, which will
probably continue until the diminishing ranks have faded away.

Why should it require a great emergency to soften and melt human
frigidity? Mutual love should exist, not merely on account of the
intrinsic worth of each, but because it is the fulfilment of the
highest law of our being.

The dinner-party was much larger than the one of two nights previous.
In the commodious drawing-room little Tom was the central attraction,
and, notwithstanding his recent experience, appeared as “bright as a
dollar.” He still insisted that he had been rudely awakened from the
most beautiful dream imaginable; but yet he at once took a great fancy
to Burton, which was reciprocated with interest.

“Do you know any good ghost stories?” he asked, as Burton drew him upon
his knee.

“Perhaps I can think of one some time when we are by ourselves,” said
Burton. “Are you fond of them?”

“Oh, I just dote on ghost stories.”

“How do you like fairy tales?”

“Oh, I dote on fairy tales, too. I like anything that is strange and
misty, and a little bit mischievous.”

“I have known some larger boys, even some that had gray heads, just
like you, Tom.”

A more general conversation prevented a fuller discussion of Tom’s
favorite topic.

Dinner was soon announced. Mr. Bonbright escorted Mrs. Tapley to
the dining-room, followed by Colonel Tapley with Mrs. Bonbright,
Lord Percival with Miss Rosamond, Burton with Miss Helen, Van Roden
with Miss Jenness, Adelbert with Miss Tapley, and then the surplus
gentlemen, the ladies in this case--unlike most summer-resort
dinner-parties--being in the minority. Colonel Tapley and Lord Percival
were seated respectively on the right and left of Mrs. Bonbright,
and Mrs. and Miss Tapley occupied corresponding positions at Mr.
Bonbright’s end of the table. Burton was seated between Helen and Miss
Jenness, with Van Roden next, and Miss Tapley on his right. Tapley was
on the opposite side, between Bishop Alban and Miss Rosamond.

A great floral pyramid of rare beauty occupied the centre of the table.
The size of the company made general conversation rather difficult; the
sociability therefore was mainly confined to groups, embracing those
in immediate proximity.

Helen Bonbright appeared in a simple costume of white muslin, without
ornament of any kind; her wealth of blond hair gathered in a great knot
behind, which, with her exquisitely chiselled features and delicate
complexion, made a picture of feminine beauty which would fill the
ideal of an artist. Her unaffected manner and low, musical voice gave
a peculiar charm to her conversation, while as a listener she was no
less attractive. Miss Rosamond, with her lustrous black eyes, graceful,
volatile, and almost coquettish bearing, heightened by an elaborate
costume, could not fail to dazzle and captivate. Miss Jenness, tall,
queenly, and with pronounced independence, was an excellent example
of another type of beauty. Miss Tapley was quite _petite_, with
rather unattractive features, but very intellectual in character and
appearance.

The loud hum of conversation gave evidence that a “feast of reason and
flow of soul” was in progress.

“I hope,” said Helen to Burton, “that you and Mr. Tapley have felt no
serious ill effects from your diving, and from the enforced delay in
the change of your dripping clothing. I have been anxious all day to
hear of your welfare, and to learn that you have not suffered from your
self-sacrificing exposure.”

“I assure you, Miss Bonbright, that we are both in perfect health.
The opportunity to serve, when improved, is such a moral tonic that
I think it even penetrates through and invigorates the physical man.
Within any reasonable limits, nothing is more wholesome than the
privilege--improved--of doing one’s duty.”

“Do you think that hardship experienced in the performance of an act
of mercy would be less harmful than equal exposure incurred in the
ordinary course of events?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Burton; “though not because of any special
interposition of Providence in that particular case, but because such
an act is in accord with spiritual law, which is higher and ruling in
its bearing upon physical manifestations.”

“Would it not be in the nature of the ‘miraculous,’ if two equal cases
of physical exposure should have quite different results?” asked Miss
Bonbright, much interested.

“Quite so,” replied Burton; “the miraculous, in the true sense, is
normal. To the observer from a purely material standpoint, the unlike
results would be a wonder; in fact, miraculous. He would conclude that
physical laws had been either suspended or violated.”

“How would you otherwise explain it, Mr. Burton?”

“In the simplest way possible, Miss Bonbright. Nature, revelation,
and analogy teach that the higher should rule the lower; but it does
not suspend nor repeal it. No natural law, either in the material or
spiritual realm, is capricious or changeable. It is to be relied upon.
I lift a pebble from the ground. The quality of gravity in the pebble
has not been suspended nor lessened, but a higher and superior force
has come in and ruled and overcome it. The moral and spiritual forces
involved in the two supposed cases are unequal, and therefore the
visible, manifested results are unlike. The age of miracles has not
passed, but they are all in accordance with orderly law. Miraculous
works are real, but not abnormal. The beneficent result is veritable,
but the miraculous tinge, which colors the process, fades out when
viewed in the white light of spiritual force and causation.”

“That view hardly accords with the current estimate,” said Miss
Bonbright, “but certainly it appears logical, and I see no reason why
it is not reverent and scriptural.”

“Yes,” responded Burton, “to regard miracles as the orderly action of
ruling, unseen forces, bringing into subjection those tendencies which
are seen and material, does more honor to the Creator than to consider
them as special, irregular, or spasmodic. The realm of causation is
located within the confines of the Unseen. The seen is the external
sequence. Half the confusion in the world arises from mistaking visible
effects for primary causes.”

“You undoubtedly recognize necessary limitations in the present
application of higher or spiritual law,” suggested Helen.

“Most assuredly. In the present materialistic age, each one is curbed
and held back by inherited and prevailing race belief, or rather
unbelief. Even Jesus declared of certain places that in them he ‘could
not do many mighty works,’ because of prevailing unbelief. There must
be, not only willingness, but desire. Principles, though complete
in themselves, can have but partial application amidst crude and
imperfect conditions. In the not distant future, when there will be a
more general ‘living in spirit,’ and thorough appreciation of unseen
forces, their practical working sphere will be greatly enlarged, and
demonstrations will be common which now would be classed as miraculous.
As the race becomes familiar with divinely ordained spiritual forces, a
dexterous use will be made of them. Both physical and mental ills will
be eliminated to an extent now unimagined. It is our privilege to be
pioneers in this advance, and by steadily holding up these ideals to
hasten forward their realization.”

“I suppose that you recognize all spiritual aids as divinely bestowed,”
said Helen.

“Certainly. There is a Presence with each one of us, of which, in
the din of the world, we are unconscious; but, when recognized and
dwelt with, there follows an at-one-ment, which is most wholesome and
inspiring. The Divine Spirit, as a force and as a teacher, reveals
itself to our perception in proportion as we hold it steadily in our
consciousness.”

“I infer that you regard the degree of such consciousness to be a
matter of cultivation,” observed Helen.

“Upon that point there can be no doubt,” replied Burton. “But I
must beg your pardon for so much moralizing, in the midst of such
surroundings. I fear that you regard it as inopportune.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Burton, I am very fond of metaphysics, and
delight in the consideration of spiritual topics. I have been greatly
interested in your views, and they are in close accord with my own.”

Often it is not easy for one to find an appreciative listener, when
topics out of the common order are introduced.

The fashions, the latest gossip, the weather, the markets, current
amusements, the races, baseball, the last defalcation, are interesting
to the majority; but, if the conversation chances to shade into
subjects more vital, many listen with one ear, or by their manner say,
“Please excuse me.” Social usage places a quiet but effectual “taboo”
upon higher topics. People are ready to talk about the pleasures and
the pains of their bodies, or the experience of their physical senses,
but are reticent regarding their higher nature and deeper experiences.

Helen did not belong to “the majority.” She had been keenly impressed
with Burton’s spirit, because the chords of her own being intuitively
responded to the same ideals. Her words had been few, but mere words
are rubbish. The two souls were like two musical instruments attuned
to the same key, and responsive to the same melodies. Across the table,
and partly hid by the great floral pyramid, Tapley and Miss Rosamond
were chatting in a lively manner, but a close observer might have
detected in Tapley an absence of mental pose and concentration, which
usually were well marked in him. As Miss Rosamond made some bright
suggestion, or flashed out some witty repartee, his attention was
variable and some of his responses rather mechanical and not entirely
lucid. His gaze appeared to be directed towards the mass of floral
beauty before him. Had he taken a new interest in floriculture, or
was he deeply abstracted upon some metaphysical problem? A closer
inspection would have revealed the fact that his glances went beyond
the flowers, and rested for intermittent periods upon beauty of a
higher genus.

Tapley was not the man to be captivated by mere external loveliness,
but that personality beyond the pyramid, unconscious and unaffected,
who was drinking in Burton’s rounded sentences, was more than
beautiful. Even at their very first meeting on board the Sea-Foam,
Tapley had experienced a kind of mental shock, which he did not
understand. Her perfection of form and feature made no unusual
impression upon him, except as it was a mirror-like reflection of a
real figure behind. There seemed to be an indefinable mist or halo
surrounding her personality; intangible, yet perceptible.

Did he wish that chance had placed her at his side rather than by
Burton? No! emphatically no! Not a shade of envy entered his mind. His
devotion was only a worthily bestowed homage paid to a pure shrine
because of an intuitive recognition of its quality.

  “The soul’s calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy,
   Is virtue’s prize.”

Rosamond devoted herself mainly to Lord Percival, who occupied the
seat on her right, though she had tried to be agreeable to Tapley,
regardless of his abstraction. She thought Lord Percival charming.
True, he manifested an “indefinable air of condescension,” when
discussing American manners and institutions, but she reflected similar
sentiments by an attitude of apology regarding everything in her own
country.

“I fancy that you have often visited England and the Continent?” said
Lord Percival as soon as they were fairly seated.

“Oh, yes, my lord. I should be sorry to have always lived in America.
We have passed considerable time abroad, and hope soon to make another
European tour. I am perfectly delighted with English manners and
society, and also fancy your form of government, and institutions
generally. With us there is such a dearth of art, antiquity, and
romance, and even our best society has no well-defined limits. It
shades off beyond even the slightest artificial distinctions. In
observing our social conditions, Lord Percival, you will find it
necessary to make great allowances, for this is a democratic nation. I
dislike the very name.”

“Your discriminating sense of social distinctions does you honor, Miss
Rosamond. I fancy that your own family has a history, and that not so
very far back the roots of your ancestral tree may have been nourished
in the soil of good old England.”

“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “our genealogy has been traced back, and it is
found that our paternal ancestor, who came to this country in 1690, was
the youngest son of the Duke of Penzance.”

“By Jove! what a coincidence! The eldest son of that same Duke, who
lived from 1640 to 1694, was my ancestor. A paltry two hundred years
ago, and our ancestors were brothers. It is evident that we really
are cousins, a few times removed, to be sure, but the removals are of
small account. Blood will tell, Miss Rosamond. Please regard it, not
as flattery, but as sound discrimination, when your--cousin, shall I
say?--avers that in you the quality of the good old English stock has
been perfectly maintained.”

“You are rather free with your cousinly compliments,” she replied,
but by a rather fascinating toss of her head it was evident that her
reproof was not deeply serious.

“’Pon my word,” he resumed, “there are no visible signs to show
that you are a native of America. You have no nasal tone, no
American accent, and you make no use of such beastly terms as, guess
and calculate, don’t you know. Were I to see you in a West-End
drawing-room, I should--aw--aw--beg pardon, regard it as an honor to
gain an introduction, which here I have been so fortunate as to obtain
under less formal conditions.”

“You do me too much honor, Lord Percival,” she replied with a
bewitching smile. “The last time that we were in England I had the
honor of being presented to the Queen, and several of the best people
were very kind to me, and made me quite at home. The Queen’s reception
that I refer to was held June 18, 188-.”

“Another coincidence, by Jove! I happened to be present on that very
occasion. I remember the date for the reason that my only sister was
married the day before. I fancy that I must have seen you. I vividly
recall the fact that there were present some unusual specimens of
feminine beauty. You will pardon such a slight reminiscence for
relation’s sake.”

A merry laugh, and a blossoming rose on each cheek, gave evidence that
she was not deeply offended.

“With all our crudity, I am glad that your worst anticipations of
American life, so far, have not been realized, Lord Percival.”

“Really, Miss Rosamond, I must admit that the intolerable things which
I have observed since landing on this side are remarkably few. A
certain familiar vulgarity is noticeable, but so far I have been rather
agreeably disappointed.”

“How delightful it must be to live all one’s life in dear old England,”
said Rosamond. “Everything here is so commonplace and practical. I
hate practicality. I like to live for the poetry there is in life.
Our American gentlemen, as a rule, are completely enveloped in an
atmosphere redolent with business and profits. Such an everlasting
grind tends toward vulgarity, and renders life hardly worth the
trouble. We have a surplus of mere bigness when looked at on the
map, but that quality is coarse. Big things are always ordinary and
unrefined. A country without any old castles or ruins, with no dim
history, no mellow romance of a feudal period, no cathedrals, court,
kings, queens, nor lords, is perfectly insipid.”

“I fancy that I quite agree with you, my dear Miss Rosamond, though
I would hesitate to express my sentiments, except to you, don’t you
know,” said Lord Percival, while toying with his single eyeglass.
“Really, it would be quite awkward, you observe, to manifest a spirit
of criticism while one was a guest. But I do give Americans credit for
being more like English people than I had fancied. I imagine that when
I go farther west, where the natives are more removed from English
influences, I shall find the genuine American characteristics. I came
over, you know, to indulge in a little study of specimens.”

“Somewhat with the spirit of an enthusiastic entomologist, when he is
on the track of a rare spider or an uncommon bug, I suppose,” replied
Rosamond, laughing.

“Yes, aw--aw--quite fancy character study; but to make it interesting,
one must have unique specimens, you know, which so far are a little
rare,” said Lord Percival, while caressing his mutton-chop whiskers.

“As you cannot pin them up and dry them, how will you take them along
for exhibition?” inquired Rosamond, with a quizzing little smile.

“That is not in the least awkward,” replied his lordship. “I shall
take them in the shape of pen-photographs, and on my return put into
book-form my impressions of American institutions and people, don’t you
know.”

“I trust that you will honor me with a copy,” said Rosamond.

“My dear cousin--slightly removed--it will give me the greatest
pleasure.”

Lord Percival had seen America through the medium of current fiction,
of the realistic variety, and this view, supplemented by a few days of
visiting, made him feel quite competent to write the proposed treatise.

In Mr. Lowell’s sketch “Regarding a Certain Condescension in
Foreigners,” he intimates that in some degree it may be due to our
aping foreign manners, or, in other words, to our efforts to become
second-hand Englishmen. He says, “There are not wanting those who give
their whole genius to reproducing here the original Bull, whether by
gaiters, the cut of their whiskers, by factitious brutality in their
tone, or by an accent that is forever tripping and falling flat over
the tangled roots of our common tongue. The average Briton meets with
so many bad imitators as to conclude himself the only real thing in a
wilderness of shams.”

We may have a Great West, but we have no West End. When we have
occasion to make a business call upon an Englishman in his castle,
we must ring at the area-bell, and not disturb the slumbers of the
venerable knocker. Our manners are not of the aristocratic stamp, and
we are awkward in interpreting the delicate expressions of caste.
Let us, then, have our own standard, and not try to appropriate or
counterfeit that of the Briton, even if it be perfection.

Frustadt seemed uneasy in his seat, which was between Bishop Alban
and Mrs. Tapley. He exchanged a few commonplaces with the latter, and
talked a little of life in the Heidelberg University with the bishop.
He cast keen, fiery glances towards Lord Percival, who, to him, was an
ever-present embodiment of the genus aristocrat. His discomfiture was
further intensified by the fact that the Englishman monopolized the
attention of the pretty Miss Rosamond. To a close observer, the scars,
as plainly as an audible voice, exclaimed, “You robber! you want the
earth, and that pretty girl besides.”

Van Roden, who by chance--how much chance is responsible for--had
handed Miss Jenness into the dining-room, continued his “study of
character” during the several courses, and in the intervals between.
Like Lord Percival, he enjoyed a kind of professional dissection of
specimens. Perhaps his experience as a medical student had sharpened
this propensity. He only wanted to make a sort of scientific analysis
of this unique female personality, that he first had met only
forty-eight hours before. As a disciple of Huxley, he wanted to find
out by what process of evolution or natural selection this “subject”
had arrived at a point where she could successfully cope with him in
intellectual sparring. His only motive was scientific curiosity. Any
one, however, with both eyes open, might have noticed that when Burton,
from the other side, was attentive to Miss Jenness, Van Roden improved
the first pause to continue his monopoly of the “investigation.”

For the number and intensity of flirtations the average summer-resort
bears off the palm. Released from the ordinary duties and occupations
of life, and with nothing better to do, people flirt who never flirted
before, and who never expect to again. They make it a temporary
vocation, and then attend strictly to business. Not merely the young
and giddy, but the old, the staid, the sedate, all “go in” to make
conquests. By some mysterious power of natural selection, “affinities”
are discovered as surely and quickly as an underground spring is
located by the witch-hazel divining-rod in the hands of an expert.
Married and unmarried, widows and widowers, D.D.’s as well as M.D.’s,
in all their little games manage to throw doublets. Shake them up
as you may, and despite the law of general average, they drop out
together; they ride together, they walk together. Together they admire
mountains, adore waterfalls, enjoy autumnal tints, and glorify sunsets.

On an ocular test, the average summer visitor sees double. Three days
before, the affinities never had met, and three days later they will
part forever. No difference. During this short companionship they
become more intimately acquainted than would be possible if they
merely moved in the same circle of metropolitan society for ten years.
Friendships quickly become cemented, and congenial spirits rapidly
become more congenial. Uncongenialities also become pronounced. A
polarization of positive and negative influences produces groups and
cliques defined by mutual attraction and repulsion.

The dinner proved an exceedingly pleasant entertainment in every
respect. Lord Percival appreciatively remarked on the way to his hotel
that it almost took him back to England, and called upon Jove to
witness that there was not a single intolerable detail about the whole
affair. As the Tapley party took their leave, the Bonbrights pressed
them to waive all formality, and visit them very often while they
remained at Bar Harbor. “But for the timely arrival of your ‘Angels of
Mercy,’” said Mr. Bonbright, as he grasped Colonel Tapley’s hand when
they parted, “our household to-night would be plunged into the depths
of sorrow and mourning.”

As they filed out to their carriages, Lord Percival made a very
profound bow to Rosamond, and Tapley’s abstraction was not diminished
as he bade adieu to the mystic, lovable Helen Bonbright.




CHAPTER VIII.

_DR. FRUSTADT’S EXPERIENCES._


The next morning Dr. Frustadt remained in his own apartments for two or
three hours, excusing himself on account of important correspondence.
As those who chronicle events often are accorded the prerogative of
ubiquity, we will peep over his shoulder, and translate a German letter
which he indited to a friend in Geneva, Switzerland.

                                            BAR HARBOR, August --, 188-.

  DEAR COMRADE,--I find myself among capitalistic society at a
  fashionable summer-resort. The location is a beautiful one, on
  the Atlantic coast, and I must commend the taste of the American
  _bourgeois_ in the selection of this spot for an aristocratic
  resting-place.

  That letter of introduction “worked like a charm.” When we found it,
  I had no idea that it would prove an “open sesame” to such royal
  entertainment as I am enjoying. Here I am: no Max V. Stellmacher--but
  the veritable Dr. Frustadt, formerly of Heidelberg University. On the
  strength of that letter from George Radbourne to Colonel Tapley, I
  am--as Dr. Frustadt--much honored. The colonel invited me to be his
  guest on a cruise from Boston to this place, and I accepted in order
  to enjoy his hospitality, and, at the same time, to make a little
  study of our capitalistic enemies in America. I cannot but admire
  Colonel Tapley personally, but duty demands that I hate him, because
  he belongs to the detestable class--our enemies. Personal tastes
  must give way to principle. He is my adversary, because he stands in
  the way of the “Coming Order.” Whatever obstructs the progress of
  our propaganda must get out of the way, or fall. His son and another
  young man, who came on the cruise with us, are peculiar, and I
  instinctively feel their power of penetration. I think they mistrust
  that I am a bogus “Dr. Frustadt;” at any rate, their presence
  makes me uncomfortable. We also have with us a detestable English
  aristocrat. I hate the very ground that he treads upon. One evening,
  while on the cruise, I nearly decided to shove him overboard, but had
  a timely conviction that the theory that it was an accident possibly
  might not be accepted. I think, however, that but for a mysterious
  restraining influence from those young men, the English sprig would
  have been disposed of--_accidentally_, of course.

  I know that you are anxious to learn how our brothers of the “Red
  International” are progressing in this country. You can say to our
  comrades, who are refugees in Switzerland, that societies are being
  formed, from picked material, in all the large cities, and that
  scientific anarchism is making much progress. There are several
  “Black Hand” inner circles, the members of which have been initiated
  from the most advanced of the lower societies. They are bound by
  our most deadly secret oaths, and are being trained in the use and
  manufacture of explosives. When the hour arrives, they will give a
  good account of themselves. There is a prospect that some gigantic
  strikes may soon occur, in which case the time may be favorable for
  a beginning. Some of our ablest comrades manage to get inside of the
  labor organizations, and become their leaders. Weaker dilutions of
  our principles are numerous. There are several shades of socialists,
  who expect to usher in the “Coming Order” by peaceful means. Even the
  labor organizations are excellent as preparatory schools in arousing
  class hatred, which must be fanned into a flame as a means to the
  end. Our comrades here make good use of the numerous monopolies as
  object-lessons against the Existing Order. We also have some unique
  allies of the sentimental and philanthropic varieties, who condemn
  existing forms of government. They unconsciously, but effectually,
  fan the embers of discontent, and also form a kind of respectable
  screen, behind which we can lay the foundations of Anarchy. They
  have become weary of ordinary reforms, as applied to individual
  character, and now boldly advocate the wiping-out of the present
  political institutions. We are also aided by new departures in
  economic legislation, which tend to break down the old heresies about
  the “sacred rights of property.” Thus we have auxiliary influences
  of various sorts and shades. Many of them are yet mild, but they all
  tend towards our focal point. Henry George’s land theories, which
  have gained some currency through their philanthropic aspects, in
  their essence are anarchic, and only need “boiling down” to meet our
  views. From the theory that land-ownership is robbery, it will be but
  a _short step_ to the general application of the same principle.

  Our comrades of the “Black Hand” inner circle are on the alert,
  especially in Chicago, New York, and a few other cities, and the
  circulation of our literature is pushed vigorously. The number of
  anarchic tracts, papers, and pamphlets which are circulated in the
  Polish, Bohemian, and German languages is immense. A vast number
  of the population of these nationalities cannot read the English
  language, which fact of itself gives us a grand opportunity.

  Our greatest obstacle is a sort of sentimental patriotism and
  reverence for the flag, which, of course, symbolizes the present
  government. The Stars and Stripes (the American flag) is still rather
  popular, but it must go down, for the Red flag is coming--coming.
  There is already much progress in drilling, discipline, and the
  scientific use of explosives. Our leaders in Chicago are so well
  organized, that they say they can “_remove_” any “obstacle” with
  impunity.

  The price put upon my head on account of the little capers cut up in
  Vienna matters nothing to me. My appearance has changed so much since
  I left you in Geneva, that even a twin brother would hardly recognize
  me but for the detestable scars. I could tear them out.

  My missionary work in America will not permit me to remain much
  longer as the guest of Colonel Tapley; besides, it would be awkward
  if the genuine Frustadt should turn up with another copy of the
  letter which he lost. Before many months there probably will be a
  blow struck for Anarchy, and it now seems likely that Chicago will be
  the place where the ball will open.

  This information I have given to you for the benefit and
  encouragement of the inner circles that you may visit. From what I
  have seen, I am satisfied that our comrades in America will not be
  behind when things are ripe for the crisis. In my present environment
  I have posed as a mild socialist. When I am through with this farce
  of “Dr. Frustadt,” I will write you more fully of downright business.

  I need not remind you, comrade, to destroy this letter, as usual, as
  soon as you are familiar with its contents.

                           Yours, for the Revolution and Anarchy,
                                                     MAX V. STELLMACHER.

Of what vagaries is the human mind capable! This Stellmacher
has idealized himself to himself as a reformer, perhaps even a
philanthropist. As a means to bring about the end in view, he was ready
to commit any crime whatsoever. Even murder, to him, would become a
duty when in the interest of his imagined reform. The world is full of
pseudo-reformers, similar in kind but milder in degree.

Touching this subject, Frederic Harrison well says,--“Communists and
Socialists imagine that if they could get hold of the machinery of
the State, they could suppress poverty, annihilate misery, and reward
merit. Their error consists in ignorance of the infinitesimal power of
government to suppress the individual wills of the citizens, and the
nullity of any authority that runs counter to the opinion around it. It
is more and more true that political conditions ultimately spring from
anterior intellectual convictions, and the attempt to raise the former
without a base of the latter becomes more and more preposterous. The
despotic and the Communistic theory of society spring from exactly the
same sophism: that of attributing to government a function which, in
modern societies, it is utterly powerless to fulfil.”

Stellmacher, alias Frustadt, by a peculiar process of reasoning,
concluded that he had a “mission” to perform in rescuing society from
its present condition, and in promoting Anarchy, which he believed
would be “Utopia itself.” He held to this view subjectively, until it
became ruling to him, and no obstacles were too great, no crimes too
dark, to obstruct his path.

“As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” He becomes what he dwells
upon. By holding almost any theory persistently in consciousness, one
will make it realistic, especially if he surround himself with an
environment of the same quality.

When mankind learn to discipline and elevate their thinking, society
will be renovated. The regulation and government of external
manifestations deal only with effects.

Stellmacher and all his hosts of milder and more amiable imitators, who
have patent schemes for reforming society, as by governmental changes,
a new social system, new legislation upon land or labor, ignore
causation, and touch only effects.

All institutions and structures are but material duplicates of previous
mental plans and specifications. Reform must have its basis in improved
individual character, which results only from higher thinking.

When the mighty sweep of the law that men become what they dwell upon,
is more generally understood, mentality will be more carefully guarded
and disciplined. The casting will inevitably exhibit the features of
the mould.

The sensualist dwells in a sensual world, and to him everything has
a sensual hue. External law has no power to improve man’s moral or
mental quality, because it does not raise his thinking. If one’s
mental abiding-place be below a proper spiritual level, no matter what
his theories, creeds, or professions may be, he degrades himself and
society.

The human Ego should deny its animalism and materialism, and fit up its
living-room in a higher altitude. The man who does this for himself
does it in some measure for his neighbors and his race. Whenever such a
condition generally prevails, institutions, laws, and governments may
be left to shape themselves. All schemes, therefore, which aim merely
at the improvement of external manifestations are futile, because they
deal with results rather than causes.

Milton well says,--

  “He that has light within his own clear breast,
   May sit in the centre and enjoy bright day;
   But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts,
   Benighted walks under the mid-day sun;
   Himself is his own dungeon.”

On the day after the dinner-party, Mr. Bonbright returned to the city.
He was interested in many great financial schemes which required his
constant attention. Even in midsummer, he was in his office early and
late. As his town house was closed during the absence of the family, he
was domiciled at a leading hotel. He could hardly content himself to
prolong his visits to Bar Harbor beyond two or three days, on account
of his impatience to again plunge into the currents of business. During
his brief vacations, he was in constant receipt of advices, reports,
and telegrams. Files of letters, despatches and quotations were
piled upon his desk, until the library at his summer cottage had the
appearance of a counting-room.

Though naturally fond of society, affectionate to his family, and of
generous impulses, his absorption in business had increased until
vacations had become dull and recreation insipid. The enjoyment of
anything outside of finance had well-nigh become a “lost art.” The
world that he lived in was a world of stocks and bonds, and these were
with him by day and by night. When he scanned his daily paper, any item
bearing upon values and markets at once caught his eye.

A cyclone in Texas, a drought in Dakota, a short crop in Russia, an
international complication, a foreign war, prospective legislation,
were all viewed with special reference to their effect upon his
investments and securities.

Mr. Bonbright, however, was not mercenary, much less penurious. He
entertained hospitably and lavishly, both in Commonwealth Avenue and at
Bar Harbor. A devoted husband and kind father, he was also charitably
inclined towards the poor and needy. He was esteemed both in society
and in business circles. Although intensely devoted to finance, it
was not so much for mere accumulation as for power, standing, and
success. Business to him was a legitimate game, and his interest and
delight were more in winning victories than in securing stakes. As
the world counts honesty he was honest, but at the same time shrewd,
far-reaching, and ambitious.

He prided himself upon his sound judgment and expertness in forecasting
results. As a matter of preference he would rather lose a few thousands
than have his predictions unfulfilled. Mentally, he was like a busy
mill, filled with machinery, running at full speed day and night.

The “Divine Architect” is the only creator of realities; but, in a deep
sense, men also are creators. They form the particular world in which
they dwell.

                            “Bring
  A mind not to be changed by place or time.
  The mind is its own place, and, in itself,
  Can make a heaven of Hell, a hell of Heaven.”




CHAPTER IX.

_THE ANEMONE-CAVE PICNIC._


Bar Harbor in midsummer is a little social world in itself.

  “No hiding-place is this for mournful fate,
     No sorrow here is guest;
   These summer palaces are dedicate
     To pleasure and to rest.
   Here Fashion plumes her brilliant, airy wing,
     And brightens sea and shore,
   A rainbow-colored, transitory thing,
     Now here, now seen no more.”

Unlike some other fashionable resorts, dancing is not the chief
occupation. With all the manners of the gay world, and the
cosmopolitanism which distinguishes the _crême de la crême_, life
at Bar Harbor is unconventional. While perhaps as pretentious and
exclusive in its social characteristics as Newport or Lenox, there
is an _abandon_ which is lacking elsewhere. A sort of negligé or
“go-as-you-please” air is noticeable about the place, which is
refreshing. Young ladies noted elsewhere for elaborate dressing appear
in boating or lawn-tennis costumes almost everywhere, except perhaps at
dinner or for evening.

Young gentlemen are met in striped costumes, with jockey caps to match,
which display nearly all the colors of the rainbow. Outdoor exercises
and amusements being the chief occupation, costumes are made to
correspond.

There is no end to excursions: across the bay, up the mountain, to
caves, to “ovens;” by canoe, by rowing, by sailing, by buckboard.
The last named is an institution of the place. Varying in capacity
from two persons to fifteen, and often most luxuriously fitted up,
they are seen in “shoals” about the hotels and docks. A stranger, upon
landing at the wharf, might imagine that the town was mainly composed
of buckboards. Out-of-door activity has been mentioned as the chief
occupation; but flirting is so intermingled with it that it might
be difficult to say which is entitled to priority. Girls are in the
majority, and form the controlling element in society. The average
young man is highly appreciated, because there is “not enough of him to
go around.” He unquestionably has an opportunity to make the most of
himself. The chaperons of Bar Harbor have the reputation of being very
accommodating, and the suggestion has been made that the chaperons be
chaperoned.

There is one climatic peculiarity about the “Harbor,” in the shape of
its “dry fogs.” It is barely possible that the dryness is mainly in the
mind of the Bar-Harborite, as the phenomenon is not elsewhere observed
on the Atlantic Coast. These fogs, however, are useful as draperies, to
hide, at intervals, the unequalled scenery, which any _habitué_ would
assure you might be overwhelming, were it “turned on” all the time.

Although the Tapleys were guests at a leading hotel, the colonel’s
wide acquaintance, together with the intimacy of his party with the
Bonbrights, at once gave them an abundant _entrée_ to the choicest
circle of cottagers. The Bonbrights were devoted in their attention,
and among their especial friends a continuous round of dinners, teas,
and receptions were given in honor of the Sea-Foam party. Colonel
Tapley reciprocated by giving two entertainments on board his yacht,
and by several short excursions to near-by ports. Burton and Tapley
were considerably lionized, the particulars of the rescue of little
Tom having leaked out, notwithstanding they had especially requested
that it should not be mentioned.

For the first three or four days, Dr. Frustadt mingled somewhat in
the social round of festivities, although a part of the time he
excused himself, and seemed rather bored. His fine baritone voice,
conversational gifts, and rather distinguished foreign air would have
served him well, had he taken any interest in society. But, regardless
of the kind exertions of his host for his entertainment, he seemed
troubled with _ennui_, and ill at ease. On the fifth day after their
arrival, he announced to Colonel Tapley that he had received a despatch
from a German friend, who was quite ill in New-York City, requesting
his presence.

“I think it my duty to go at once,” said Frustadt, “though I hope to
pay my respects to you again, soon after your return to Boston.” With
hasty thanks and adieus, he took leave of his entertainer, and left by
the night boat that same evening. As he formally took the Englishman
by the hand, his “scars” flamed out, his jaws were firmly set and lips
compressed, indicating internal excitement. When he took leave of the
young men the “scars” were pale, the lips a bluish white and partly
open, and hands flabby and moist.

Was there a lower, malignant self that had possession of Frustadt, and
which instinctively felt and recognized something in the young men
which cowed and rebuked it?

On the other hand, was there some intuitive perception in them, which
penetrated his hollowness, of which they had no outward proof?

There are soul recognitions, attractions, and antipathies, which make
themselves felt without external cause, and which can be accounted
for only by the existence of an inner perception which has eyes,
immaterial though real. Intellectually, Frustadt posed to himself as
a “reformer,” but the base quality which controlled him quaked in the
presence of intrinsic spiritual force and fibre.

The next morning after Frustadt’s departure, the weather was like an
importation from the torrid zone.

“We never have any hot days here,” says the _habitué_, but that morning
proved that “hardly ever” would have been more exact.

“I think,” exclaimed Van Roden, “that such a morning as this is enough
to make one, in the language of Sydney Smith, wish that he could ‘take
off his flesh, and sit in his bones.’” Turning to Adelbert, as he wiped
the perspiration from his brow, he said, “Bert, is there a cool spot on
this island?”

“I fancy it would be comfortable in the dense shade of the spruces and
firs,” replied Adelbert. “Let’s go and have a picnic.”

“I have a scheme worth two of that,” observed Rosamond. “I know of a
spot which is positively cool. Let’s have a picnic in Anemone Cave.”

“Would it not be damp and disagreeable?” inquired Miss Jenness.

“Oh, no,” replied Rosamond. “We can take some thick rugs to sit upon,
and it will be delicious on a day like this. I will order the large
hamper filled with provisions, and we will take along the little
alcohol heater, and make some coffee. I will send an invitation to the
Tapleys, and at least the young people will join us.”

“Are you quite sure that the tide will be low enough?” said Helen. “It
must be well down for that excursion.”

“Oh, yes, I noticed how it was by the bar yesterday,” replied Rosamond.
“The tide will be on the ebb all the forenoon, and by half-past eleven
it will be all right. We can go into the cave and have as much time as
we wish. The very thought makes me cool. Bertie, please order a large
buckboard that will take us all, and be sure and have them put in,
extra, three or four thick carriage-rugs. Order it for eleven o’clock.”

A messenger was despatched to the hotel inviting the Tapleys to join
the proposed excursion, and all the arrangements were made for a
comfortable trip and entertainment. An elaborate luncheon was provided,
which, with the materials and appliances for coffee-making, was
carefully stowed away under the driver’s seat, and soon after eleven
they started for the hotel to take in the rest of the party. There
were four seats besides that of the driver, with a capacity of three
persons each. Miss Jenness was handed into the back seat by Van Roden,
who made himself at home beside her. Bert and his sisters distributed
themselves, one each on the remaining seats, so that their guests would
have an opportunity to most conveniently and agreeably mingle with
them. Arriving at the hotel, they found their friends in readiness and
gathered upon the piazza.

Nearly an acre of ground is required for the average buckboard to
turn upon, but the space was liberal, and the vehicle, drawn by four
spirited horses, gracefully curved up to the steps. Adelbert, from the
front seat, called out, “All aboard for the Cave!” and all came forward
to take their places. Colonel Tapley had a previous engagement, and
Mrs. Tapley at first declined to go, but Helen suggested the propriety
of a chaperon, and she consented.

Buckboard seats with a capacity of three are awkward, if the old adage
is true, that “two are a company and three a crowd.” Here the total
seating capacity, or as an economist might say, the supply, was twelve,
demand only ten. Mathematical problem: how should the two threes and
the two twos be composed? Van Roden visibly broadened himself, so that
upon a casual glance the rear seat seemed to be fairly well filled by
Miss Jenness and himself. He was still improving opportunities for
character study. Burton gave his hand to Mrs. Tapley, who stepped in
and occupied a part of the front seat with Adelbert, and motioned to
her daughter to follow her. By this time Lord Percival had slipped in
by the side of Rosamond, leaving Burton and Tapley still to be provided
for. Immediately upon taking his seat, the Englishman grew stout enough
to fill two seats, while his gaze momentarily seemed to be fixed upon
some distant object. Burton and Tapley visibly hesitated, but Helen
motioned them both to her seat, which they occupied, one on either
side. Van Roden chuckled to himself as he saw that the trios and duets,
as far as he was concerned, were in accord with the law of “natural
selection.”

“All ready,” was the word, and with a crack of the whip the four horses
dashed away to the music of two horns, provided by Rosamond, and which,
as they moved along, were tooted by Adelbert and Van Roden. The heat
of the sun was intense, but, with the exception of Lord Percival, they
did not mind it, being sheltered by sun-umbrellas of various sizes and
colors.

“Do you often have such beastly hot days as this?” inquired his
lordship of Rosamond.

“No, my lord; such days are really quite rare.”

“Beg pardon, but I should call them well done,” he observed, wiping the
perspiration from his rubicund features.

“We shall all be cool enough when we reach the cave,” said Rosamond. “I
can assure you of that.”

“I--I trust that you will not be cool towards me,” remarked his
lordship, “for you must not forget that we are cousins, even if
slightly removed.”

Rosamond uttered a quick, ringing laugh, and made some insinuation
regarding a chestnutty flavor. The noble lord, although very fond of
jokes,--for an Englishman,--was not conversant with American slang, and
an explanation was necessary.

“Here is the Indian encampment,” exclaimed Rosamond, as the buckboard
passed near some huts in the outskirts of the town.

“Do I understand that some of the real aborigines are encamped here?”
said he.

“Yes, indeed! We sometimes call them, in a poetic way, you know, ‘the
noble red men.’”

“I fancied they were black,” replied Lord Percival. “Noble red men! I
feel like a noble red man myself. My face must be crimson from this
beastly heat. But I really can’t be an aborigine, for am I not your
cousin--slightly--.” Again a ringing laugh, for Rosamond enjoyed jokes,
even of an ordinary quality, when perpetrated by an English lord.

“I will take you to the encampment some day,” said she. “It is within
easy walking distance.”

Before Anemone Cave was reached, a little thought had stolen into
Rosamond’s mind, to the effect that English cousins were very agreeable
company, especially when they belonged to the nobility.

On his part, the impression that the professional study of American
“specimens” was an agreeable pastime, was deepened by the excursion.

On the back seat, Van Roden made an effort to entertain Miss Jenness
with small talk, but she seemed in a rather reserved mood. Whenever
on previous occasions he had introduced science, or evolution, or
theosophy, she had responded with evident interest. Now he avoided
these topics, hoping to evolve the woman instead of the philosopher.
He met with little success. His theory regarding women could not be
mistaken, so here must be an unexpected exception. He believed that the
measure of the female sex did not extend beyond trivial topics. If this
were an exceptional case, it only merited a closer inspection. Before,
he had greatly enjoyed an intellectual combat with the scholar; now, he
would like more of a revelation of the woman. His increased interest
and curiosity were unaccountable even to himself, for nothing was
expected of feminine character but giddiness and superficiality.

The fact must not be overlooked that trios as well as duets were
included in the buckboard party, as it rolled southward along the
narrow road through the forest.

Helen Bonbright was happy at all times, and she could not be otherwise
under the present felicitous circumstances. Her enjoyment was not of so
demonstrative and explosive a quality as that of her sister, although
it was broader and deeper. Her love of nature was intense, and this
drive was through the most charming scenery. It was delightful for her
to be in communion with trees, flowers, rocks, and mountains, and she
practically realized their elevating and harmonizing influence upon
the human mind. She thought of them not merely as beautiful forms of
matter, but, looking through their external loveliness, she saw them
as manifestations. She loved them not only for what they were, but for
what they represented. To her they were transparent, and in them she
saw the infinite pulsations of loving, pervading, universal life. Could
such a young girl be regarded as visionary or impractical? It is rather
the materialistic and external mind which has become impractical; which
has gravitated from the normal towards the abnormal; from the real
towards the unreal and temporary.

With so much in common, Helen and her companions, one upon either
side, could hardly be otherwise than responsive to each other. They
were delighted with the exuberant vitality of the thick green forest
through which they were speeding; with the sublimity and grandeur of
Newport Mountain, by whose base they wound their way; with air, earth,
and sky. With the refreshment and occupation of the higher nature, the
oppressiveness of the temperature had been forgotten.

At length the road emerged into an open space, the driver reined up his
horses, and the party alighted to take the path to the cave. Adelbert
and Van Roden carried the hamper, and Burton and Tapley piled the heavy
rugs upon their shoulders, leaving Lord Percival free to render any
necessary assistance to the ladies. A walk of a few minutes brought
them to the shore in the vicinity of the cave. Here old Neptune, in
his assaults upon _terra firma_, is confronted by great, brown, rocky
barriers through whose jagged openings and crevices his waves surge
and foam. The endless titanic contest between these contending forces
gives a chaotic aspect to this shore, the rocks being cleft, scarred,
and overturned, as if they had been hurled one upon another. The party
picked their way to the entrance of the cave, and found the tide at
a level, which permitted them to go inside without difficulty. There
were some high steps among damp and slippery rocks, but, with a little
assistance rendered to the ladies, all soon made their way over them,
and disappeared within the recesses of Anemone Cave.

“Isn’t it delicious?” said Rosamond.

“Cool as a cucumber!” suggested Van Roden.

“By Jove, this _is_ refreshing!” responded the Englishman.

While the rocks about the entrance were slimy with seaweed, when they
had penetrated farther up into the cavern, there was but a slight
cool dampness, which was agreeable by contrast with the temperature
outside. The day being bright, and the mouth of the cave quite broad,
there was abundant light, but its quality was weird and peculiar.
The provisions and rugs were deposited in a suitable place, and all
proceeded to explore the rocky apartment. The walls were cleft and
crannied, far beyond where the height permitted the visitors to walk
upright, giving evidence of the tremendous power of the waves when
they surge in, during easterly gales and winter storms. In places, the
rocks were literally frosted with barnacles and other crustacea, which
abound in remarkable profusion along this shore. Upon the irregular
floor of the cavern were several shining pools, which were replenished
by each returning tide. The opalescent light which was shed upon the
brilliant-tinted forms of marine, animal, and vegetable life, which
thrive in these miniature ponds, made them like mirrors, whose depths
were formed of rainbows in liquid form. To an enthusiastic naturalist,
a place with such features would be like a diminutive garden of Eden.

“Please show me some specimens of the Anemone,” said Lord Percival,
with notebook in hand, addressing Rosamond.

“My sister is more familiar with them than I am,” replied Rosamond.
“Helen, will you be so kind as to ‘show up’ an Anemone to Lord
Percival?”

“In this pool are some very good specimens,” said Helen, upon which all
gathered around.

“Please tell us whether they are ‘fish, flesh, or fowl,’” exclaimed
Bert. “Let’s take one out.”

“I would like a good, well-developed specimen to dissect,” said Van
Roden; “but perhaps it is best to wait till after luncheon is served,
and then one can be secured in a dish.”

“There is a notice outside the cave, to the effect that the anemones
must not be disturbed,” suggested Miss Jenness.

“Oh, pshaw!” said Bert, “I am going to stir up the animals.” He,
however, desisted, upon a protest being made by the young ladies.

“But, Miss Bonbright, I thought that you were going to define the
animal, and I am waiting to take notes,” said his lordship.

“Oh, I have never given them much attention,” replied Helen. “I am
aware that they belong to a very low order of animal life, being almost
a vegetable. Perhaps they may be regarded as a blossoming animal. Miss
Jenness, probably, can give you more information, and--by the way--I
have heard that Miss Tapley is a devoted naturalist.”

Miss Tapley disclaimed any special knowledge of anemones, but recalled
the fact that they were a Polyp of the Zoöphyte order. “There are
several species of this graceful animal-flower,” continued she, “and
they vary widely in color and form. They anchor themselves securely
to the rocks by a flexible tube, which ends in a kind of sucker and
adheres to the rocks quite firmly. The anemone is a sort of natural
barometer, for it blossoms out or expands itself upon the advent of
fair weather.”

“I remember another fact about them,” said Miss Jenness. “If they are
cut in two, perpendicularly, or across, each cutting will give origin
to a new animal.”

“Very convenient arrangement, don’t you know,” said Lord Percival,
taking notes.

“That being so, I do not think they would mind being stirred up,” said
Adelbert, but, finding no stick, he did not stir them.

“What an infinite variety and profusion of life! vastly greater in
the sea than on the land,” said Burton. “The Divine Source of All Life
continually manifests the creative principle in an endless profusion of
forms. The different orders of crustacea alone are so numerous that a
lifetime might be given to their study, without exhausting them.”

“By ‘natural selection’ and the ‘survival of the fittest,’” said Van
Roden, “these low forms--almost on the boundary line of the vegetable
kingdom--in time will evolve themselves into more highly organized and
perfect conditions.”

“Please spare us a lecture on evolution,” responded Bert. “I think some
luncheon would now aid in the ‘survival of the fittest.’”

Rosamond, also, thought it time to spread the repast.

“Bert, please open the rugs,” said she, “so that we can comfortably sit
down, and I will put things in order for making the coffee.”

The rugs were spread upon the rocks in the upper part of the cavern,
and, with the assistance of Helen and Miss Jenness, the repast was
soon in readiness, and the delicious aroma of coffee filled the cave.
The luncheon was discussed in a leisurely way, and by the time it was
disposed of an hour and a half had passed since they entered the cool
retreat. One by one they arose to take a final survey, while Bert
and Rosamond packed up the utensils and dishes. Burton strolled down
towards the entrance, and, to his amazement, saw good-sized waves
rolling in over the place where they had entered on bare rocks.

“The tide! the tide is coming in!” he exclaimed, in tones that
attracted the attention of all. Rosamond had been mistaken in her
calculation, and, instead of an ebb-tide, the water had been rising
rapidly during their stay inside.

Between the “specimens,” the refreshments, and mutual attraction, their
attention had been so occupied that the change had been unnoticed.
Rosamond felt confident that she could not have been mistaken; but the
surging waters at that moment were giving testimony against her. All
relied upon her positive knowledge, and no one else had in any degree
investigated the subject.

“Isn’t it romantic?” she exclaimed, as all gathered at the water’s
edge, to take in the situation.

“I am unable to view it quite in that light,” replied Miss Jenness.

“’Pon my word we are in a dilemma,” observed Lord Percival.

“Oh, no, we are in Anemone Cave,” retorted Rosamond, not in the least
dismayed.

“I should say that we are in a box,” said Bert.

“Or, rather, a pickle,” chimed in Van Roden.

“Never mind, a sea-bath will not be disagreeable on a day like this,”
said Rosamond.

A wave higher than any which had preceded, and which broke at their
feet, warned them that the situation was not improving.

“There is no difficulty whatever,” said Tapley. “The water is not more
than two feet in depth, the day is warm, and I do not in the least mind
a little salt water. I will carry you all out one by one, the ladies
first, and then the gentlemen.”

Burton signified his willingness to do likewise. Bert followed his
example, as also did Van Roden. The Englishman, not to be outdone, made
the same proposal.

Time was passing, and Tapley thought it wise to make a beginning; so,
deftly taking his mother in his arms, he carried her out, while the
rest stood hesitating and watching the result. After landing her on a
dry rock outside, he returned and offered his services to Helen, who
at once replied,--

“Please take your sister next, Mr. Tapley.”

Tapley stood irresolute for an instant, then turned, and, dexterously
lifting his sister, carried her out without difficulty.

While the water was not more than two feet in depth, the waves rolled
in with considerable force, and the seaweed upon the rocks made the
footing exceedingly slippery. Just as Tapley was landing his sister, a
still larger wave surged in and broke with much force.

Burton turned to Helen, and, with a gesture of invitation, said, “Miss
Bonbright, shall I take you?”

She replied with a smile,--

“Thanks, Mr. Burton, my brother will take me.” Adelbert at once took
her up and followed by the same path which Tapley had taken. Just
before reaching the dry rock with his burden, his foot slipped on the
treacherous seaweed, and he fell forward with Helen underneath, both
for the moment nearly disappearing beneath the waves.

Burton plunged in, and quickly lifted Bert to his feet, and then raised
Helen from her prostrate position and lightly deposited her upon the
dry rock.

“I hope you are not bruised, Miss Bonbright.”

Upon regaining her breath, she assured him that she was uninjured, and,
after thanking him, suggested that he give his attention to the others.

While this was taking place, Tapley had returned, and by a coincidence
offered his services to Miss Jenness at the same moment that Van Roden
was tendering his aid, each, in the excitement of the occasion, being
unaware of the action of the other. Either by chance or intention, Miss
Jenness resigned herself to Tapley, who bore her safely through the
waves to the rock.

Rosamond cast an imploring glance at the Englishman, but, before he had
responded, Van Roden turned from where Miss Jenness had stood, and,
feeling that he was warranted in dispensing with formality, took her up
and went through the waves, landing her without difficulty. In the mean
time, Burton and Tapley had made their way back, where no one remained
but Lord Percival, who was about to plunge in.

“It is quite unnecessary for you to get wet,” said Tapley, and, suiting
the action to the word, he lifted the unresisting lord and took him to
the other side.

Burton hastily gathered up the rugs, and, flinging them upon his
shoulder, followed, thus completing the transfer. With the exception of
the wetting, none of the party were the worse for the adventure. The
weather was still very sultry, and the discomfort but slight. Helen
gathered up her long blond tresses, which had fallen down while she was
struggling in the water, and signified her readiness to return to the
buckboard. Tapley insisted that she should wrap herself in a rug, but
she protested that, with the prevailing temperature, the walk would not
be uncomfortable.

“This party can be traced by their drip,” said Bert, who before
starting poured the water from his boots. The buckboard was soon
regained, and, with exuberant hilarity, all took their seats for the
return. The episode of the peculiar exit from the cave added spice to
the excursion, which all voted a great success.

With peals of laughter echoing through the woods as the various
incidents of the transfer were reviewed, the vehicle made its way
rapidly homeward. “Sea-bathing,” “gallant rescue,” “graceful posing,”
“instantaneous photograph,” and various other expressions, might have
been overheard by any one in the vicinity as they passed along. The
duets and trios were composed as before. Helen was obliged to submit
to a wrapping of two large rugs, and if they were not well tucked in,
it was no fault of a kind friend on either side.

Rosamond declared that she believed there was something out of order
with the tide, although she had enjoyed the “adventure,” and was glad
it had happened.

“We needed a diversion,” said she.

“My dear cousin--slightly removed,” responded his lordship, “I believe
that all this entertainment was on your programme from the beginning.”

“I will neither say yes nor no,” declared Rosamond, with melodious
hilarity.

Van Roden regretted only the loss of the proposed subject for
dissection. Helen consoled herself with the theory that “wet packs”
were wholesome.

“See! we are again passing the camp of the noble red man,” observed
Rosamond.

“And don’t you forget the promised walk, cousin,” replied his lordship,
in an undertone.

The party were quickly distributed, and the “Anemone-Cave” picnic
belonged to the annals of the past.




CHAPTER X.

_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.




CHAPTER XI.

_VAN RODEN’S PROPOSAL._


The day upon which the incident at the Shore-Walk occurred closed in
an eventful manner at the Bonbright cottage. It was nearly midnight
when the noise of carriage wheels and loud voices aroused the family
from their peaceful slumbers. The commotion was so unusual that Mrs.
Bonbright, Helen, and Rosamond hastily robed themselves and hurried
from their apartments to make an investigation. By the dim light of
the hall lamp, they saw two young men standing over a prostrate form,
which was stretched at full length upon a sofa. A glance showed that
Van Roden--who had effected an entrance with his latch-key--was one
of the two, and that the other was a stranger; and, further, that the
robust figure upon the sofa was--Adelbert. Notwithstanding their utmost
efforts to quiet him, he was giving utterance to incoherent nonsense,
and his maudlin condition was at once apparent. Van Roden was deeply
embarrassed, but immediately proceeded to offer an explanation.

“This is a very unfortunate experience,” he observed. “We were invited
to spend the evening at a young men’s club, and, unexpectedly to me,
wines and liquors were profusely served, and urged upon us. I observed
that Adelbert was indulging freely, and suggested that he restrain
himself; but he continued, with this unfortunate result. I hoped that
we might convey him to his room without disturbing any one, but he
became boisterous, and we found it impossible to quiet him. I regret it
exceedingly. Please all retire, and I will take him to his room, and
care for him.”

Adelbert soon became utterly unconscious of his surroundings, ceased
his loud muttering, and sank into a torpid stupor. Van Roden thanked
the young man who had rendered assistance, and assured him that his
services were no longer necessary, upon which he returned to the
carriage and was driven away. While Van Roden was explaining matters,
Helen had kneeled beside the sofa, and was stroking her brother’s head,
and kissing his forehead.

“Dear Bertie,” said she, “how did it happen? By God’s aid you shall
yet crush the monster. Your false and lower self will be brought under
control, and you shall yet be free.”

Mrs. Bonbright paced the room, wringing her hands, and bewailing the
calamity.

“Why should he be ruined?” she exclaimed. “I was very careful in his
training, and gave him many warnings. Oh! you ungrateful boy! But I
cannot reprimand him until to-morrow.”

Rosamond was distressed for the reputation of the family.

“What a disgrace!” she exclaimed, “that Bert should forget that he is
a gentleman, and so lower himself. It will be the gossip of the whole
town.”

“Mother dear,” said Helen, “will you and Rosamond please retire, and
you also, Mr. Van Roden, and kindly leave Bert with me? I will stay by
him until he is able to go to his room.”

Van Roden urged the acceptance of further service, but Helen’s quiet
yet firm persistence prevailed, and she was left as the sole guardian
of her unconscious brother. She sat by him for two or three hours
before he was restored, and when she finally kissed him good-night at
the door of his chamber, the gray of early dawn was apparent.

Adelbert Bonbright belonged to that small and not well-defined class
known as the “fast set” at Harvard. He was intensely fond of athletic
sports, and was social, generous, and popular. At the club and
convivial gatherings he had occasionally been overcome by indulgence
in drinking, but had been quietly cared for by fellow-students, so
that the family was entirely unaware of the facts. His warm, social,
and exceedingly generous impulses were his source of weakness. In his
club he was distinguished for prodigality, and at champagne suppers
was at the front. At times he had serious misgivings; indeed, he had
repeatedly made some very definite resolutions, but under the spell
of his social circle they were as flimsy as cobwebs. He, however,
persuaded himself that the habit was not strong, and that he could
break it at any time by a serious effort. It was a trivial matter, and
there need be no haste. Men now gray and sedate, when young, had sown a
few wild oats; why not he? Otherwise life would be dull and insipid.

The last person who really suspects that he is a slave to the cup is
the man himself. So gradually, stealthily, and softly does the monster
coil itself around the human will, that, like a fish in a net, he is
a captive before he sees the snare. The poor dupe fancies himself
only a temperate and self-controlled drinker, until a crash comes,
which reveals his slavery. Each one regards himself as an exception to
inevitable tendencies, laws, and logical results. Resting in fancied
security, he suddenly awakes to find himself bound hand and foot, and
“cast into outer darkness.”

Adelbert Bonbright was young, and, notwithstanding a few falls, the
appetite was not confirmed. It was rather the social influence which
was too strong for him.

His chains were being forged by the tyrannous American fashion of
social importunity and “treating.” Possessed of unbounded physical
courage, its moral counterpart was lacking. If his own honor, or that
of his family, college, or country required vindication, there was none
braver, but he was a slave to social tyranny.

With all our boasted liberty, bondage of some kind is almost universal.
How rare that measure of truth which makes men free! Negro servitude
has been abolished, yet slaves abound everywhere. The clanking of
chains is heard in drawing-rooms, in churches, in places of amusement,
in societies, in colleges, at home and abroad. Though an unconscious
captivity, it is none the less real. There are slaves to appetite, to
passion, to business, to custom, to fashion, to creed, to the opinions
of “sets,” clubs, and societies, to politics, to religious externals,
and to the animal nature. These are intangible masters, but often they
are more cruel and exacting than those of flesh and blood. How little
freedom! What a boon would be involved in general emancipation! Perhaps
there is no more beautiful delineation of freedom than that given by
the gifted Channing.

“I call that mind free,” said this eminent man, “which masters the
senses, which protects itself against animal appetites, which contemns
pleasure and pain in comparison with its own energy, which penetrates
beneath the body and recognizes its own reality and greatness,
which passes life, not in asking what it shall eat or drink, but in
hungering, thirsting, and seeking after righteousness.

“I call that mind free which escapes the bondage of matter, which,
instead of stopping at the material universe and making it a prison
wall, passes beyond it to its Author, and finds in the radiant
signatures which it everywhere bears of the Infinite Spirit helps to
its own spiritual enlargement.

“I call that mind free which does not content itself with a passive
or hereditary faith, which opens itself to light whencesoever it may
come, which receives new truth as an angel from heaven, which, whilst
consulting others, inquires still more of the oracle within itself and
uses instructions from abroad not to supersede but to quicken and exalt
its own energies.

“I call that mind free which is not passively framed by outward
circumstances, which is not swept away by the torrent of events, which
is not the creature of accidental impulse, but which bends events to
its own improvement, and acts from an inward spring, from immutable
principles which it has deliberately espoused.”

Slavery is not the normal condition of man. God made him free, and
in His own image. The human Ego must vacate the damp, morgue-like,
sensuous basement of mental materialism, and domesticate itself in more
stately apartments, where the windows are open to receive spiritual
light, air, and liberty.

Early on the morning after Adelbert’s escapade, Mr. Bonbright arrived
for another short vacation. He was troubled and careworn. His cheek was
paler and his form less erect than was wont. Things had gone wrong.
A financial depression had caused some of his favorite schemes and
enterprises to miscarry. The Great Consolidated Eastern and Western
Railroad Company, in which he had a large interest, had passed its
dividend, and a crop failure had caused a great decline in its stock
and bonds. Two large manufacturing corporations, in one of which he
occupied the position of president, and in the other that of managing
director, had been compelled to stop production. Other misfortunes
super-added to these formed an apt illustration of the old adage that
“it never rains but it pours.” Mr. Bonbright found it necessary to
escape the pressure by a retreat almost precipitous. His losses were
severe, but his greatest humiliation was caused by the conviction
that his conspicuous foresight, keenness, and business judgment, upon
which he had always prided himself, had proved notably faulty. He was
depressed in mind, body, and estate.

Mrs. Bonbright lost no time in informing him of Adelbert’s disgrace.
The young man had not made his appearance when his father arrived, and
Helen, fatigued by the labors of the previous night, was still in her
room.

“The young scapegrace!” exclaimed Mr. Bonbright. “I’ll find out if he
is going to play such a rôle. Fine use of his advantages.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bonbright, “our strict early training for his
advantage is all forgotten the moment he is beyond home influences. All
efforts to reform him will doubtless prove unavailing, for I fear that
he has become confirmed in his habits.”

Under Helen’s sisterly love and influence, Adelbert had become very
penitent, and solemnly promised that he would abandon the “fast set,”
and in future avoid all social temptation. He was softened and melted
by her tender solicitude, and shed bitter tears of repentance.

After an interview with his father and mother, full of reproach and
threatenings, his condition of repentance and hope was changed into one
of defiance and anger. However, the whole matter was hushed up, and
nothing was heard of it outside the family. While the stormy interview
that morning cast a general gloom inside the cottage, outside, nature
was radiant and serene.

An excursion to the top of Green Mountain had been arranged by the
young people to take place on the first clear day. That morning the
sun rose with unwonted clearness, and a gentle northwesterly breeze
and warm temperature betokened perfect conditions for a good view.
Adelbert declined to join the party, on account of a “bad headache.”

The large buckboard was again called into requisition to convey the
party to Eagle Lake, across which a small steamer made trips to the
foot of the mountain railway. The winding, picturesque highway leading
to the lake followed gracefully around the flank of the mountains,
here and there affording unexpected vistas and surprises. Eagle Lake
is a gem of the first water fastened in a setting of horseshoe-shaped
mountain background. On its right are two bold, rocky protuberances
called the “Bubbles,” in front Pemetic Mountain, and ranged on the left
are Great Hill, White Cap, and, towering above all, Green Mountain.
The railroad was operated by a cog-wheel appliance modelled after the
Mount-Washington road, but on a diminished scale.

As the party neared the summit and more distant views were spread out
before them, their enthusiasm was quite beyond expression.

No other point on the eastern shore of America affords such a prospect.
In front was the limitless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, whose
glistening waves were unbroken until they mingled with the heavens in
the far-away, misty horizon. Eastward, long tongues of shining water
and variegated land alternated, as if each had made bold advances and
retreats in a mighty contest. Blue shimmering ribbons of water wound
themselves around islands, capes, promontories, rocks and villages,
in charming confusion, as if to melt them in their warm embrace.
Irregular masses of land seemed floating in a network of molten silver.
Northward, the notched outline between earth and sky was hazy and
mystical with a softened mellowness; and faintly, like a dim shadow,
in the most distant background, rose up Katahdin, the great northern
monarch of unbroken forests.

Almost at their feet lay the houses and streets of Bar Harbor, on
the scale of a toy village. Within its confines, black specks were
moving to and fro. The great hotels were like small boxes, around
which swarmed human midgets passing in and out. How tiny they were,
and yet how much of the world they filled, as estimated by their
self-consciousness.

There is something about high altitudes that rebukes everything that is
petty. They inspire great thoughts, lofty purposes, noble resolves. The
human soul responds to the influence of a grand environment.

For a little while the party were so lost in contemplation that silence
prevailed. At length, Van Roden, glancing at the ranges of peaks to the
westward, observed,--

“What a wrinkling and crowding-up of the earth’s crust happened here
during the final cooling-down.”

The remark seemed to be a sort of soliloquy, hardly addressed to any
one, but Miss Jenness replied,--

“The term _happened_, which you made use of, seems hardly appropriate
in that connection. To happen is defined to come by chance, or
accident; and as these mountains are the result of unvarying law, your
remark is perhaps inaccurate.”

“Oh, I admit that it all happened in accordance with law,” said Van
Roden, “but our definitions of law might not coincide. Law, to me,
defines and classifies tendencies which are inherent in matter. As
these tendencies unfold themselves, they operate in an orderly and
uniform manner, and the method of this operation we call law.”

“Do you regard material law as the only and ruling force?” inquired
Tapley.

“Most assuredly. Nothing else is scientific, and only this can be
measured and proved. Science takes nothing on trust. Like mathematics,
its conclusions must be capable of demonstration.”

“How about inherent spiritual laws, and laws of mind?” observed Burton.

“There is no proof or demonstration that mind lies beyond the realm of
highly refined and attenuated matter,” replied the medical student.
“Science has no relations with sentiment or imagination.”

“Allow me to observe that I regard your assumption that science is
purely material as fallacious, indeed as extreme dogmatism,” exclaimed
Burton.

“Permit me to demur,” replied Van Roden. “The province of science is
within solid, tangible premises, and deductions from them. Fancy, and
even what you call intuition, lie beyond its domain.”

“You remarked upon the uniformity of law,” said Burton, “but you
limit law, and also science, which is its application, to the seen
and material. Truth is like a complete and well-rounded globe, but
materialism recognizes only the lower and least important hemisphere.
In your estimation what is the most important discovery of modern
times?”

“As to that, opinions would probably differ,” replied Van Roden. “Some
might say the art of printing, others steam and its applications, and
still others applied electricity. Please answer your own question,
Burton.”

“Willingly. The greatest discovery of modern times is the universality
of law. That truth will revolutionize the world. Take an illustration.
Imagine an infinite number of parallel lines projected into space. Let
these represent laws--spiritual, moral, mental, and physical. They are
of relative importance, in primary causation, in the order enumerated.
They represent the direct working methods of the All-embracing Spirit,
the Immanent God. The term God originally meant good. There is a
beneficent purpose in every one of these millions of lines or laws,
and all progress, parallel and in unison with them, involves harmony,
happiness, naturalness, and wholeness. All crossing of these lines, or
deflection from the same direction, inevitably produces friction, evil,
abnormity, and pain. Even the suffering caused by such a deflection
is beneficent, if rightly understood; for it places obstacles in the
wrong pathway to induce us to turn our faces about, and regain harmony
by moving with the lines and not across them. Spiritual law is no less
scientific than that which is material. The higher lines of law are as
regular and unswerving in their course as the lower, and they have a
superior and ruling potency. That love responds to love; that virtue
leads to happiness; that spirit has eyes and ears as truly as body, are
propositions as exact and scientific in their nature as is a definite
presentation of the law of gravitation or cohesion. The spiritual
domain has been denominated as supernatural. If this term be used
merely to signify that which is higher than the material, it is well.
It, however, has often been understood to describe something special,
abnormal, exceptional, not always the same under like conditions, which
definitions are misleading and erroneous. Pseudo-science claims that
the physical senses are the only sources of knowledge, and refuses to
accept any other testimony. True and comprehensive science finds that
the physical senses are no part of the real man. He is spirit. His
material organs are only temporary and often misleading instruments for
external convenience. The mind hears, and the ear is only a natural
trumpet. The teacher tells the child that five and five make ten. The
child replies, ‘I see it,’ but the seeing is with the eye of the mind.
The outer eye testifies that the sun sets, and only when looked at by
the mind’s eye is the error corrected. The intrinsic man has spiritual
ears, eyes, tastes, and feelings, which if properly exercised, and
thereby rendered robust and vigorous, are infinitely more useful than
the organs of sense. Under the teachings of materialistic science we
have so long looked at these dust bodies as being ourselves, that the
spiritual eyesight is only rudimentary, or, at the best, incipient.”

“Your reasoning has a plausible appearance,” replied Van Roden, “but I
still insist that it is not scientific to magnify subjective certitude
at the expense of objective proof. I find no room for that quality
called faith when it submerges and drowns reason. We should rely upon
the logical faculty, and our conclusions must rest upon evidence. A
poem may have a kind of poetic truth, but that is quite different
from exact or scientific truth. To me, the existence of logic in
spirituality or religion is as visionary and baseless as the proof of
magic, or the science of witchcraft. They have a subjective and poetic
vitality, but are beyond the domain of evidence and demonstration.”

“You make much of logic,” observed Burton. “May I ask, is it logical
to deny the existence of that which others plainly see, but which you
persistently put beyond the range of your own vision, by adherence to
a material standpoint? A blind man might visit a picture-gallery, and
deny not only the beauty of art, but its very existence. The trend,
analogy, and inter-relation of all law point to God as the Universal
Spirit and Lawgiver, and to man as his thought and reflection. Such a
universal trend and analogy are proof of infinite wisdom and design.
The physical senses are no more a part of man than is the pot of earth
a part of the blooming rose. Spirit is substance; matter is shadow.
Matter is utterly incapable, and is nothingness, except as it is acted
upon by forces higher than itself. It is the external expression of
what is behind it. Spirit is self-existent and eternal, while its
external shadow gains its only reality from the unreliable testimony
of the sensuous nature. The higher and controlling of the parallel
lines before mentioned are life, love, truth, goodness, and purity.
Their application, laws, conditions, and consequences are orderly and
uniform; therefore, exact and scientific.”

While the discussion was in progress, Lord Percival and Rosamond
had strolled away, and by themselves were enjoying other views, and
conversing upon topics more mundane.

After a hearty luncheon at the Summit House, the party separated as
they felt inclined, and dispersed to different vantage-points of
observation. It was noticeable that the zigzag wanderings of Miss
Jenness did not hinder Van Roden from being as constant as her shadow.

Was this the same young man who less than four weeks before had
ridiculed women, and love, and everything pertaining thereto as silly
and frivolous, and matrimony as slavery? His curiosity of the first
few days had been succeeded successively by interest, friendship,
admiration, and finally love. The transition between these various
stages had been so easy and rapid that a review made him dizzy. It was
an example of “rapid evolution.”

It now had been a full week since he capitulated and passed a unanimous
resolution within himself to the effect that positive, unequivocal love
was on the throne, and he its willing vassal. Under these conditions,
to his logical mind, there was but one proper course of development,
which successively included a declaration, an offer, its acceptance, an
engagement, and, in due time, matrimony. Van Roden prided himself upon
being logical, but it gave him no uneasiness that the concrete logic
of recent events had upset the abstract logic of previous years.

True, Miss Jenness had never showed any marked partiality towards him,
but that circumstance gave him not the slightest disquietude. She had
been polite, friendly, ready to converse, and willing to listen, but
nothing more. No matter for that. All women wanted to marry, and, after
a little finessing, were ready to accept an offer from any respectable
source. Matrimony was the chief aim of woman, and upon any favorable
opportunity she would slide into it as gracefully as a vessel glides
down the well-oiled ways into her native element. To a man like
himself, of good prospects, attractive personality, fine education and
family, an offer naturally involved acceptance.

For the last week he had become assiduous in all those little special
attentions which admirers bestow so bountifully. She had accepted them
as a matter of course, but had not returned the slightest sign or
intimation that she regarded them as unusual. All this did not trouble
him, for he knew that women were instinctively shy. They were a kind of
game which expected pursuit. Like a wary trout, they enjoyed dallying
with the bait before swallowing it. “This,” said he to himself, without
doubting the final result, “makes the chase more interesting. I am more
fond of her than if, like an over-ripe apple, she dropped at the first
shake of the tree.”

The most propitious time and form for a declaration of his love, were
subjects upon which he had bestowed some thought during the past few
days and nights, without coming to any settled decision. The main
question, however, was decided.

Love’s flood-tide had left him stranded and helpless, and all his
former cynical philosophy had been swept away by its surging currents.
He had analyzed and dissected every phase of the subject, and the
declaration only awaited favorable conditions.

At length the air began to grow crisp, and the lengthening shadows
admonished the party that they must descend, and again become pygmies
of the plain. All were reluctant to turn their backs upon the broad
panorama, and again occupy themselves with the petty pleasures and
pursuits of life below, but “the inaudible and noiseless foot of time”
bade them hasten.

They had planned to walk down from the summit by the bridle-path to a
point on the main road where the buckboard was to meet them. This would
not be fatiguing, and would furnish additional diversion. The path
wound along the slope of White Cap, by the side of Great Hill, till
it joined the “Eagle Lake drive.” It was built as a wagon-road away
back in the “fifties,” but had become much overgrown, and in places
entirely washed away.[1] At this time it was only in occasional use by
pedestrians. About half-past five all were invited to “fall in” for the
descent.

  [1] It has recently been thoroughly rebuilt as a carriage-road.

Burton took the lead, and, in company with Miss Tapley, started in
advance upon the downward march.

Since the episode at the Shore-Walk, Burton had experienced some
embarrassment. He had been careful to afford Tapley and Helen every
opportunity for the enjoyment of each other’s society without
interruption on his part. While hallowing the very ground Helen walked
upon, he delicately avoided special intimacy on one hand, or coolness
on the other. He showed friendly cordiality--nothing more, nothing
less. Helen Bonbright belonged to his friend, and his love for him
would permit of no shade of disloyalty. Tapley was his “Jonathan,” and
their mutual affection and esteem were more than brotherly.

It must not, however, be assumed that Burton’s tranquillity of mind
remained perfect and unbroken, as was the case for a little time
immediately after his supreme effort at the Shore-Walk. At times his
affection for Helen would so sweep away his unselfish resolutions that
he was utterly desolate and humiliated. His soul would become thrilled
with her presence, while externally he preserved his usual calm and
cheerful bearing. A period would follow when his peace, resignation,
and serenity would become so perfect that they shone through his face
like a benediction. These extreme conditions alternated. No one outside
suspected his intense conflict of mind. Fierce charges and repulses,
victories and defeats, successively swept over his inmost being. But
there was no jealousy towards Tapley. She loved Tapley--Burton accepted
the situation.

Van Roden was exerting himself to entertain Miss Jenness when the start
was made, and they brought up the rear of the procession. All soon
made their way down from the bald, rocky summit of Green Mountain, and
struck into the dense forest which skirts the flanks of White Cap.

Of late Van Roden had avoided the discussion of his favorite topic when
in company with Miss Jenness, and exerted himself to be agreeable.
There was no surplus of poetry in his nature. To a great degree, he
was destitute of that indefinable charm and mystic sentimentality
which characterize the ideal lover. The influence of his pet theories
had made him heavy, apathetic, and cynical. With such a character,
love-making was business-like and ungraceful.

As the party left behind them the slopes of White Cap, and plunged
into the deeper forests of Great Hill, Van Roden and Miss Jenness had
fallen somewhat in the rear. The voices of their companions in front
had died away, but the pair kept steadily along, thinking soon to
overtake them. At length the path grew dimmer, and finally faded out.
Van Roden realized too late that he had become somewhat oblivious to
surroundings, and, now, what was to be done?

“As sure as fate we have lost the path,” he exclaimed. “We must have
left it where some wood-roads crossed about half a mile back. Confound
my carelessness! I hope you are not much fatigued,” he continued in
rather tender tones.

“Oh, not at all,” responded Miss Jenness; “but shall we not hasten
back, or can we strike across and find the path farther down?”

The sun was already low in the horizon, and in a dense forest, with but
a vague idea of the direction of the missing path, Van Roden suddenly
realized that the situation was awkward. After a little calculation, he
concluded that the distance across to the path could not be long, and,
while he carefully guarded Miss Jenness from collision with projecting
branches, they made their way as rapidly as circumstances would permit.
Crossing one or two overgrown wood-roads of indefinite destination,
they pressed on, but the desired path did not appear. It was now
becoming quite dark. At length Van Roden decided to abandon the search,
and to follow the descending ground, hoping to strike some point on
the carriage-road. The way seemed endless, and the darkness made it
necessary to proceed with great caution. At length the moon arose, and
about the same time they caught a glimpse of distant lights in the
valley below. Hurrying forward, they finally came upon the highway at
some undetermined point. It was about eight o’clock, and Miss Jenness
had become much fatigued, and also uneasy in contemplating the
probable anxiety of friends in Bar Harbor.

“Here is a great rock by the roadside,” said Van Roden. “Please be
seated and rest yourself. Our friends, after a long wait, have probably
returned to the ‘Harbor’ to leave the ladies, and then they will come
back with lanterns, provisions, and re-enforcements to look for us. I
think they must soon be here.”

This theory seemed reasonable, and as the air was soft and the moon
bright, the two sat down side by side, to await the return of friends,
or the advent of some other possible conveyance. Miss Jenness had much
force of character, was not easily discomposed, and did not regard the
situation as in any way serious. Now that all danger of a night in the
forest was past, she was inclined to view the adventure in a ludicrous
aspect.

“If you are going to play the part of conductor or pilot, it would be
profitable for you to study the chart,” she observed in a jocose manner.

“I _will_ study the chart, and _do_ want to play the part of conductor
on a much longer tour than this has been,” he responded in a serious
tone.

He had “broken the ice,” and was about to take a plunge. His heart gave
several intense thumps until it seemed as if it would choke him.

“Do you refer to the trip back to Harvard? and whom are you going to
conduct?” said she with assumed nonchalance, although a well-defined
suspicion for the first time flashed through her mind.

“A longer trip--a life trip--with you. I want to be your conductor, my
dear Miss Jenness.”

An ominous black cloud at that moment sped along, and obscured the
light of the moon.

He was “in for it” now, and continued: “May I not call you
my--my--dear Eva? I love you! I had rather tell you so at once than by
degrees.”

He tried to take her hand in his own, but found it gently withdrawn.
Realizing that he had precipitated matters with startling suddenness,
he continued,--

“You must pardon my abruptness, Miss Jenness. You are aware that I
am matter-of-fact in manner, but my heart is yours. I am your slave!
Love’s chains hold me captive. My affection for you has been growing
daily since the first time we met. True, we differ in regard to
some matters of theory, but they are of no importance. My dear Miss
Jen--Eva, will you not give me a ray of hope?”

The hooting of an owl from a tree-top across the road was the only
momentary response. The brief period of silence which followed was
construed by Van Roden as a sign of capitulation.

At length she replied: “Mr. Van Roden, you are my friend, but I think
the fatigue and excitement of the evening have thrown you off your
guard. When you have taken time to examine yourself more carefully,
you will doubtless find that the feeling you express is but a passing
sentiment. You are soon to go back to your profession; let us drop
the subject, and you will shortly remember me only as a friend, whose
pathway in life chanced to meet yours.”

“Miss Jenness, if you will not yet allow me to address you less
formally, I am _not_ mistaken. My affection is genuine, and will be
lasting. I admit that I have been cynical, and ridiculed love and
matrimony, and spoken of your sex as shallow and flippant; but all that
is past, and happened before my eyes ever rested upon your dear self.
I was mistaken. My recent experience has been a new revelation! I am a
suppliant at your feet. Will you not--can you not grant my affection
some consideration?”

“Mr. Van Roden, I must be honest with you. It is best that we should
understand each other perfectly. I will be your friend, but more is
impossible.”

“That last word is a hard one, and has a definite meaning, Miss
Jenness. Why decide so hastily, and leave no loop-hole for a possible
retreat? Take a little time. I will be devoted, and perhaps after a
while, if not at present, you may learn to respond to my affection.”

“It is not in the nature of things, Mr. Van Roden. There is one barrier
which is insurmountable, even if all others were removed. But let us
drop the subject, and make no allusion to it again. Our friends must
soon be here.”

“I _cannot_ drop the subject, Miss Jenness. I must know what that
‘insurmountable barrier’ is.”

“You must excuse me, Mr. Van Roden, from being more definite. You have
my answer; I implore you to dismiss the subject.”

“I cannot dismiss it, Miss Jenness. I am of respectable character,
family, and education, and have good professional prospects. I must
press you to define the ‘barrier.’”

As these words dropped from his lips, the thought flashed upon him that
his impetuous demand was quite foreign to the gentle cooing of an ideal
lover. But before he had time to soften his demand and sue for pardon,
she had begun her unwilling response.

“As you _insist_ upon it, I will make answer. I implored you to drop
the subject, but you refuse and demand my explanation. The absence of
response by the heart is enough in the case of any woman, but, aside
from that, you insist upon the definition of the ‘barrier’ of which I
inadvertently made mention. You are welcome to it.”

The heavy black cloud had spread itself over the face of the sky,
the darkness had become dense, and, after a flash, a peal of deep
thunder reverberated among the mountains. As its echoes died away,
she continued,--“You are a materialist. Materialism shrivels all the
activities of the spiritual and emotional nature, and develops only
those faculties which are shared by the brute. With you there is no
God, and nature is but an aggregation of blind forces moved by natural
selection. The dust belief takes no account of the great entities of
love, goodness, spirituality, harmony; and, including all, Divinity.
Assuming to be scientific, it delves only in the mud beneath our feet.
By its downward gaze, it becomes blind to the jewels hanging within
its reach, but above the range of its distorted vision. My explanation
shall be complete. You fancy that you love me, but it is impossible.
You are incapable of affection in any true sense. You can love only my
body. That is not me. No real love is possible except between soul and
soul. All else is its counterfeit, passion. You have driven me to speak
earnestly. You have my definition of the ‘barrier.’”

As the last sentence fell from her lips, she arose, and with a rapid
and majestic movement started down the road. Van Roden was dumb. At
that moment a blinding flash filled the horizon, and the thunder shook
the very foundation of the mountains, and heavy raindrops as advance
skirmishers of the great storm struck like bullets among the leaves.

Another flash!--that of lanterns!

Another rumble!--that of wheels, which, with the music of voices,
announced a friendly rescue.




CHAPTER XII.

_EXCURSION TO CRYSTAL CASCADE._


“Ho for Glen Ellis Falls and the Crystal Cascade!”

Amidst the confused din of other voices, these words rang out in the
clear morning air. This exuberant hilarity proceeded from a party
of excursionists who had seated themselves in a mountain wagon for
an all-day picnic. The scene was in front of a hotel at Jackson, in
the heart of the White Mountains; and the time about the middle of
September. Four spirited horses that were attached to the vehicle
champed their bits, as if impatient for a start. The voice which in
lively tones had announced their destination was that of Rosamond
Bonbright. A group of tourists were standing on the front piazza, and
as the driver drew up his reins the restless steeds started away at a
brisk pace.

The peculiar staccato cheer distinctive of that hotel burst forth from
the lips of the gathered throng, giving the departing guests a hearty
“send-off;” to which the excursionists responded, by nearly cracking
their throats to emphasize the special “sis--boom--bah” which was the
rallying cry of their favorite hostelry.

The Bonbrights had closed their Bar-Harbor cottage, and were visiting
the mountains on their way homeward. It would be a deprivation to miss
the latter half of September in the mountain regions, while the foliage
was taking on its autumnal tints.

The Sea-Foam had returned to Boston, but Lord Percival, Burton, and
Tapley joined in the mountain trip. Lord Percival wished to see
something of the White Mountains; and as for Burton, it was directly
on his homeward route. Tapley had promised another visit to Burton’s
village home, where he was to be the guest of his friend, after they
had passed a few days at Jackson.

Van Roden quite abruptly took his leave of the Bonbrights on the day
after the Green-Mountain excursion, and Miss Jenness had returned to
Philadelphia two days later.

The village of Jackson, which recently had become a favorite resort,
has a picturesque situation upon the Glen Ellis River, and is hemmed
in by mountains on every side. The narrow valleys of the Glen Ellis
and the Wildcat here unite, and crowd back the steep slopes for a
little space, forming a plateau upon which the village, consisting
mainly of summer hotels, is situated. Here in the heart of the “White
Hills” the towering peaks are crowded together so thickly that the
valleys are compressed, and at first the precipitous steeps seem so
close as to give one almost a feeling of oppression. But wait a little,
and the superb scenery will expand in its conscious realization, and
the sense of overpowering nearness become modified. Climb to the
higher, neighboring altitudes, and new vistas and ravishing views
reveal themselves. Mountains are piled upon mountains, until their
ever-changing glories fill the soul with an inexpressible awe and
inspiration.

“Wherever they rear their majestic summits to the clouds, there is an
indescribable commingling of heaven and earth. The mountain is the
religion of the landscape.”

The road followed by the merry picnickers wound up the narrow valley
of the Glen Ellis; often by a rude bridge crossing its rapid current;
its track so sinuous that it seemed to hide itself before and behind,
and here and there was crowded by the obtrusive hills almost into the
river’s bed. At intervals, a “Glen House” coach drawn by six horses,
with its towering, top-heavy load of tourists and Saratoga trunks,
bore down upon them, and dashed by where the road scarcely seemed wide
enough for a single vehicle. At certain points along the course the
close-drawn portière of trees and near-by hills was opened, and the
majestic, towering form of Mount Washington loomed up before them, the
one great Monarch, to which all the lesser potentates did homage.

“By Jove! this really is fine as a spectacle,” exclaimed Lord Percival.
“At the same time, you know, it lacks that romance and mellowness which
would be manifest were its location in England or on the Continent. If
its crude, sharp lines were softened by historic association, mediæval
conflict, and an occasional baronial castle invested with poetic charm
and tradition, it would be far more interesting, you know. As related
to human history, it is new, garish, utterly lacking in color and tone.
It is not the fault of the mountain, but suggests the rawness of the
country.”

“You are quite right, my lord,” replied Rosamond. “Mountain scenery,
like wine, can only be ripened by age. There is the great, sharp fact
of the rocky mass staring you in the face, but it wears a rustic garb,
and is unsophisticated and prosaic.”

“I am unable to sympathize with a sentiment which regards human
oppression, and the tyranny and disorder of feudal times, as
embellishments to God’s rocks and trees,” observed Burton. “Human
history has value only so far as we can profit by and improve upon it.
The surges and upheavals of human passion, expressed in conquests,
religious persecutions, and race conflicts, form a dark background
in a study of the past. Why should we wish to live them over through
the power of association with natural scenery? These mountains are
purer and more truly romantic as a simple expression of creative power
than if they had been desecrated by human greed and cruelty. They are
scarred and rent by the past energy of cosmic forces, but are free from
the stains of man’s inhumanity to man.”

“Pardon me,” replied his lordship. “From an abstract, moral standpoint
you may be technically correct, though I should modify your statement.
Human history, with all its incidental evils and oppressions, is
an interesting, and, I think, profitable study. The contests and
inhumanities of the past are so interwoven with its patriotism,
heroism, and virtue, that they cannot be eliminated. I fancy that a
kind of inspiration is kindled by visiting the sites of battles and
other great historic events, which stimulates an unselfish devotion to
the honor of one’s government, church, or race. A country destitute
of traditions and crumbling ruins may serve a practical purpose, but
can scarcely be called interesting when compared with one rich in
ancestral renown, whose story shades off into the dim, the misty, the
indefinable.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Rosamond. “This hard, matter-of-fact present is too
tame and stupid for anything.”

“I believe in looking forward rather than in living in the past,”
replied Burton. “I am optimistic, and think it more profitable to
idealize the future than to dwell in the brutal events of bygone
periods. A fair knowledge of the facts of history is well enough, but
I would mentally luxuriate in the grand hopes and aspirations of the
future. History, substantially, is an account of human friction in
detail.”

After a ride of an hour and a half they arrived at the rude little
house of a mountain-guide, near which the footpath leading to the
Crystal Cascade branches off from the carriage-road. The path follows
near the course of the stream, which some distance beyond forms the
cascade, and much farther up has its origin in the tremendous chasm
known as Tuckerman’s Ravine.

They plunged into the forest, following the winding path “Indian file,”
and in about half an hour arrived at the cascade.

A waterfall like this is a liquid poem.

Distilled from the snows and springs in the impenetrable gorge
above, the crystalline torrent plunges in successive falls, until
it is transformed into a vapory mist, shining with opalescent hues
and miniature rainbows. Who can paint it? What a mighty chasm has
been cut through the great mountain by this facile chisel, which has
industriously wrought for interminable ages before man’s advent upon
the earth! What fluid prepared by the unwholesome chemistry of human
art can compare with this nectar?

What a symbol of exuberant youthful life! Down it comes from the awful
chasm above, leaping, dancing, laughing, tripping, sliding, gushing,
sparkling, till it shatters itself into a glowing, opalescent mist,
soon to be gathered again into its original form, and glide onward in
its ceaseless round.

  “For men may come, and men may go,
     But I go on forever.”

On either side of the yawning chasm, the successive cliffs, or shelves,
are carpeted with a thick elastic pile of mosses, which have been
nourished by centuries of dampness and protected by the dense shade of
trees and shrubs, the roots of which penetrate deeply downward and hug
the rocks in their tenacious embrace.

As the party climbed up the steep incline to find the vantage-points
from which the finest prospects were possible, they scattered
somewhat, as people of different minds invariably do.

Lord Percival and Rosamond led the way, and discovered a most romantic
natural bower a few rods above the place where the others seated
themselves.

The gleam of the sunlight through the trees above, the dash and
abandon of the living torrent below, the quiet seclusion, the
aroma of the firs, and the luxurious softness of the mossy cushion
and carpet, together with the conscious remoteness of the prosy,
matter-of-fact world, were enough to inspire romance in the most stolid
nature. Lord Percival was not stolid. With Rosamond by his side,
amid such accessories, what more fitting time and place for all the
sentimentality and tenderness of his nature to come to the surface and
find expression?

The intimacy between them had rapidly broadened and deepened, week
by week, during the delightful and prolonged summer vacation. Each
possessed much in common with the other. Their tastes, views of life,
institutions, and society, were quite in unison, and their aims and
aspirations upon the same plane. Together they had explored the
environs of Bar Harbor, noted all its vantage-points, and enjoyed its
unequalled scenery. Together they had communed among the recesses of
the Shore-Walk, and at Sunset Hill had gloried in the gorgeous hues of
departing day. Together they had walked and driven along the devious
windings of the Cornice road; had rowed upon the bay; had moralized
over the aborigines; had danced at receptions, and partaken of dinners.
Together they had played tennis and shopped, and in company had wisely
criticised and discussed the merits of photographs and bric-à-brac.

By that mystical and intangible telegraphy which lovers have at
command, they understood each other, but yet not a word had been
spoken. What more natural and suitable than that the English nobleman,
rich in rank, but moderate in purse, should lay siege to the heart
of the American brunette, wealthy in prospect and attractive in
personality?

“My dear Rosamond,” lovingly observed his lordship, soon after they
were fairly seated, “I fancy that we quite understand each other. Your
English cousin, slightly removed, aspires to be your--knight--your
lover--your--nearer than cousin and _not_ removed.”

Kneeling at her feet, and pressing her unresisting hand to his lips,
he continued in a sweet, low tone: “I love you, Rosamond; my heart is
yours. Will you share my title and be mine?”

Rosamond turned rather pale, cast her dark eyes to the ground,
nervously toyed with her parasol, and remained silent.

“My sweet bird! give me a kind little note,” he continued with an
imploring look.

“This--is very--sudden; you must give me a little time,” she responded
rather softly, and with deliberation. “You do me great honor, my lord,
but--but my father’s permission must be had,--and--and”--

“I have it already,” exclaimed his lordship triumphantly, again
pressing her hand to his lips. “When he was last in Bar Harbor, I
opened the subject to him, and he assured me that no objection of his
should hinder his daughter’s happiness.”

A round, limpid tear trickled down each cheek, and a bright smile
played upon her features.

Percival bent over his head, and again pressed the yielded hands to his
lips, and smothered them with his kisses.

“Rosamond--my darling!--my wife!”

The birds twittered their carols in the tree-tops above.

Half an hour later a voice from below startled them. “Haven’t you
studied the cascade about long enough from that point of view?”

The peculiar, teasing, rollicking intonation was that of Adelbert.

The cascade was a living witness to another little “by-play,” going on
simultaneously below. Tapley and Helen, as they climbed the hillside,
were in advance of Burton, who, to avoid all appearance of intrusion,
kept a little distance in the rear. They were partially hid from his
view, but as he came over an obstructing knoll, he rather indistinctly
saw Tapley frantically grasp Helen’s hand and press it to his lips, and
then they sat down on a mossy bank side by side.

During the previous week Burton was triumphant in the feeling that he
had well-nigh conquered himself, and had been almost uniformly serene
and happy concerning the alliance of his two dearest friends, but
this scene momentarily overcame him, and, stepping behind a friendly
intervening tree, he sat down and buried his face in his hands.
Conflicting emotions again tore his soul. Could all this go on without
a single word or sign as to his interest, his love, his struggle?

A voice within distinctly whispered, “Make an effort yourself, it
is only fair. She might prefer you if she only knew--Tapley is your
friend, but you would do him no injustice to assert yourself, and take
your chances.”

“No,” he exclaimed aloud, as if to stifle the other voice. “It shall
not be! Crushed once for all be this unworthy conflict! She is yours,
Tapley! I am serene, peaceful, content. They have my benediction.”

At that moment the musical tones of Helen’s voice floated down, “Where
are you, Mr. Burton? Have you been hiding from us? Here is a lovely
prospect.”

Burton at once responded by joining them, and soon Adelbert and the
rest came to the same point of view.

“Is it not beautiful?” exclaimed Helen. “Such a picture as this will
not fade out of mind in a lifetime. Such beauty, grace, sparkle, such
a hurrying on to destiny. All is progress, not a backward step. How
typical of life!”

“Yes,” said Burton, “this procession of drops, so soft, so yielding in
themselves, is gradually rending the mountain. The stream represents
life; the mountain, decay and materiality. The scene brings to mind
Shelley’s lines, which I learned years ago, while in school,--

     ‘Arethusa arose
      From her couch of snows,
  In the Acroceraunian mountains;
      From cloud and from crag,
      With many a jag,
  Shepherding her bright fountains,
      She leapt down the rocks
      With her rainbow locks
  Streaming among the streams;--
      Her steps paved with green
      The downward ravine
  Which slopes to the western gleams:
      And gliding and springing,
      She went ever singing,
  In murmurs as soft as sleep;
      The Earth seemed to love her,
      And Heaven smiled above her,
  As she lingered towards the deep.’”

It was time to retrace their steps. They made their way down the
precipitous path and recrossed the torrent upon the rustic foot-bridge,
returning to the carriage-road by the same route they had passed over
before.

Lord Percival and Rosamond had entered the ravine as two, but they
emerged as one, or at least so engaged to be.

How momentous to the destiny of individual lives is the significance of
a few, quickly spoken words!

It was understood that no formal public announcement of their
engagement should be made until after their return to the city. The
enthusiasm and satisfaction of Lord Percival, and the exuberant gayety
and flushed cheek of Rosamond, told their own story to those who could
interpret that sign-language which is uniform the world over.

After a repast which was spread upon rustic tables, under some trees
near the guide’s house, they started on the homeward course. But a
short distance was passed before they arrived at the place where the
pathway branches off, which leads to the Glen Ellis Falls. A short walk
and then a steep descent of a hundred feet or more, down a series of
stairs, brought them to the foot of the fall. Here the torrent, which
at the Crystal Cascade was so graceful, so maidenly, so delicate,
has been enlarged and re-enforced by tributaries, and, with a strong
masculine spirit of adventure, tumbles in a single unbroken column
to the abyss below. The precipitous, ragged steeps, and the fierce
wildness which characterize this plunge, make the locality seem like a
relic of some planetary cataclysm, preserved as a specimen of titanic
disorder. “This is a place,” remarked Helen, “where in a material sense
one might feel the insignificance of man. As a physical force, his
power is petty. But, in the real and deeper sense, how powerless are
mere masses of matter, when compared with mind or spirit! The material
globe is but a blank background, upon which the tints and colors of
human character and destiny are being worked out, shaded and unified,
to form a perfect and lasting picture.”

“Yes,” replied Burton, “the mind that can measure the mountain; analyze
its materials; divine its laws; discover the truth it embodies; revel
in its form and draperies; enjoy its color, and be inspired by its
grandeur, infinitely outweighs mountains, because it is the image and
reflection of the Creator. A poet somewhere speaks of the earth as a
boat laden with passengers,--

          “‘This round sky-cleaving boat
    Which never strains its rocky beams;
    Whose timbers, as they silent float,
    Alps and Caucasus uprear,
    And the long Alleghanies here,
    And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
  Sailing through stars with all their history.’”

After photographing the sublimity expressed by this waterfall upon
their memories, they returned and were rapidly driven through the
Glen, homewards. As they wound along the narrow valley, the declining
sun bathed the autumnal foliage in mystic halo, which heightened its
gorgeous hues, and tipped every leaf with a golden brightness.

          “Earth’s crammed with heaven,
  And every common bush afire with God:
  But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.”

Ye dwellers in the murky atmosphere of town and city; ye toilers in
a wilderness of brick and mortar; go to the mountains in autumn. Go,
if but for a day, and study and enjoy the Great Picture, replete with
color, light and shade, which is painted by the Almighty Artist for the
delight of His children.

  “Farewell ye streets! Again I’ll sit
   On crags, to watch the shadows flit;
   And find a joy in every sound
   Of air, the water, or the ground.
   Farewell! and in the teeth of care,
   I’ll breathe the buxom mountain air,
   Feed vision upon dyes and hues
   That from the hilltop interfuse.
   White rocks, and lichens born of spray,
   Dark heather tufts, and mosses gray,
   Green grass, blue sky, and boulders brown,
   With amber waters glistening down.”

“This excursion has been a romantic poem,” exclaimed Helen, as with a
crack of the whip the horses dashed up in front of the hotel piazza.

“And a pastoral symphony,” added Burton.

In his inmost being, Burton felt that he had passed through his final
struggle, and he was filled with that sense of joy and triumph, of
which all moral heroes have a taste. “Henceforth, I am at peace with
myself and the world,” said he to himself, as he reviewed in detail the
events of the day within the seclusion of his own apartment. “I love
them both, and their happiness is my own.”

In the darkness of the “wee small hours,” Rosamond had wakeful dreams
of coronets, baronial halls, and queen’s receptions, which were
duplicated in sleeping visions as the darkness were away and the gray
dawn stole in through her lattice.




CHAPTER XIII.

_A MUTUAL CONFESSION._


On the morning following the excursion, Rosamond made known her
engagement to her mother and sister. Upon her return the night before,
she was delighted to have exclusive possession of the fact for a few
hours, before confiding it even to them. She wanted first to enjoy and
fondle the delightful vision while it was all her own.

“Perhaps by another summer I may have the pleasure of entertaining you
at Percival Hall, in the west of Old England,” was the opening which
she made of the subject while they were gathered in their apartments
soon after the breakfast hour.

“Which means that you are engaged to his lordship,” replied Helen.
“It was plain to me yesterday, but I would not be so inconsiderate as
to forestall your announcement. I congratulate you, and wish you all
happiness,” and, throwing her arms around Rosamond’s neck, she kissed
her with much warmth.

Mrs. Bonbright also felicitated and embraced her daughter, and warmly
expressed her great satisfaction and joy in the proposed alliance.

Helen had not been insensible to the drift of affairs, and Mrs.
Bonbright also had divined the situation, so that neither was
surprised. The two sisters loved each other devotedly, but lived upon
different planes of thought, and therefore that oneness was lacking
which would have resulted if they had perfectly understood each
other. Rosamond often found it difficult to comprehend her sister’s
motives. She felt that Helen had many strange and impracticable
ideas, which rendered her somewhat unique, and out of sympathy with
the conventionalities of society, which to her seemed of the highest
importance.

Any allusion to his lordship, except in a general way, had been quietly
tabooed between the sisters. Helen believed that any suggestions or
advice which she might have offered would be liable to misconstruction,
and had kept silent, and permitted matters to take their course. Lord
Percival was entitled to her respect, but, while she knew nothing
against him, she felt that Rosamond, as well as her friends, were in
reality quite uninformed concerning him.

“Father has given his consent,” said Rosamond, “and I felt certain of
your approval. We are to be married in the spring, and at once go to
Lord Percival’s estates in the west of England. I shall expect to have
you both with me next summer, and won’t we have delightful times!”

“I hope your pleasant anticipations may all be realized,”
affectionately observed her mother.

“Lady Percival of Percival Hall!” exclaimed Rosamond, with a merry
laugh and a lofty toss of the head as she swept with stately dignity
across the room, and then, wheeling about, she executed a kind of
minuet with much grace.

“That’s more of a conquest than I ever expected. But he is very kind
and good, and was so graceful and chivalric in his proposal.”

“Do you love him?” asked Helen.

“Why, how perfectly absurd, Helen. Of course I do.”

“If Lord Percival were plain Mr. Percival, without rank, title, or
aristocratic associations, would you still love him, Rosamond?”

“What a foolish question,” replied Rosamond. “Of course these things
have a bearing, but I really think him a very attractive gentleman. You
are aware that I do not live in the clouds as you do, Helen; in the
world one cannot afford to be insensible to worldly distinctions. How
many clever American girls would like to jump into my shoes! But I am
in them myself,” she added, as she clasped Helen and waltzed around the
room until the windows rattled.

“You called it a conquest, Rosamond. Does not that term seem
inappropriate in describing a love-match?”

“Well, I think he loves me,” replied Rosamond, “and I am sure that love
on my part will be all right enough. They say that love is something
which grows, and what a mellow and nourishing soil it will have in
romantic Old England!”

“I hope you will remain loyal to your church and country,” observed
Mrs. Bonbright.

“Oh, there will be time enough for all that, mother. I beg you both
not to borrow any more trouble. But it is nearly eleven o’clock, at
which hour Lord Percival is to call, and our engagement is to receive
your formal recognition. We have an understanding that no public
announcement is to be made until our return to Boston.”

Preparations were made quickly to receive Lord Percival, and at the
appointed hour he made his appearance. Half an hour later the symbolic
ring had been slipped upon Rosamond’s taper finger, congratulations
exchanged, and the proposed alliance approved.

On the same morning when this scene was taking place, Burton and Tapley
had gone for a long walk up the road which follows the narrow winding
valley of the Wildcat. Neither of them was in the least effeminate,
and they heartily enjoyed long strolls together, often climbing, with
alpenstock in hand, to the lofty summits around them.

That day they returned through “Rocky Pasture,” and also stopped for
a while to enjoy “the Falls.” Jackson Falls is located just above the
village, and is formed by a series of plunges made by the Wildcat
a short distance above where it unites with the Glen Ellis. This
picturesque and delightful resort is much frequented by the sojourners
at the village.

On some of the great rocks, the bases of which are washed by the
torrent, shut in by evergreen foliage on either side, one may sit,
entranced by the vista which is open toward the south, looking down the
valley and away to the glorious mountain background in the distance.
The stream which gurgles at your feet twists and turns, plunges and
eddies in its efforts to pass its rocky obstructions; now almost losing
itself under great boulders, and then, gayly shooting out triumphant,
it passes on down the valley.

The two friends seated themselves upon a great rock, which sloped
towards the valley, so that they might enjoy the prospect which was
spread out before them. At their feet was the foaming ribbon of water,
folded, twisted, and tied into knots by the crowded boulders; farther
down, the broken lines of gray ledges, draped by overhanging foliage;
still beyond was the white spire of the village church, in the midst of
a cluster of houses; and, in the far distance, the unique outlines of
Moat Mountain, softened by the purple haze with which Nature hides her
angular sharpness.

“My dear Ned,” said Tapley, after they had for a while enjoyed the
glorious vista, “I have an important matter to lay before you, which
has been upon my mind for several days. It is a delicate and almost
sacred subject, but one which makes it a pleasure, as well as a duty,
to bring to your notice. It cannot fail to interest you, and with us,
my dear Ned, the interest of each is the concern of both.”

The unusual formality, almost solemnity, with which Tapley uttered
these sentences, startled Burton. He looked up and waited for Tapley to
complete his announcement, but his friend seemed at loss for words to
continue his message.

“Pardon me,” said Burton, “for anticipating your message. I
congratulate you with all my heart. She is worthy of you, and you of
her. You will be very happy.” And, with a smile, he heartily grasped
Tapley’s hand, and gave it a cordial shake before the latter had time
to regain his senses.

Tapley soon recovered himself, and, throwing his arm around Burton’s
neck, said, “My dear Ned, you are beside yourself. You have entirely
mistaken the nature of the suggestion that I was about to make. I
am not engaged, and, so far as I know, am not a subject for special
congratulation.”

“Not engaged! not engaged! Will, you astound me. I ask your pardon,
but from any one but you I should question the correctness of the
assertion. What, not engaged! With all respect, Will, may I ask does a
man like you--the soul of honor, whom I love as I do myself, so forget
himself as to trifle with the feelings of one so good and pure as Helen
Bonbright?”

“My dear Ned, again I say, you must be beside yourself. You speak in
riddles. Helen Bonbright _is_ good, and pure, and beautiful, but I have
not trifled with her feelings, and am not engaged to her. I cannot
conceive what has given you such an impression.”

“I have taken it all for granted, Will. I had no doubt of it, and my
congratulations were most sincere.”

“This is most surprising,” exclaimed Tapley, “and now let us
understand each other. Upon what grounds were your conclusions based?”

“I will frankly tell you,” replied Burton. “While on the Shore-Walk at
Bar Harbor one day, I saw you and Helen for a long time sitting side by
side, and--am I mistaken?--with her yielded hand pressed in yours.”

“You were utterly mistaken as to the hand,” responded Tapley, “and the
subject under discussion was theology.”

“Again at the Crystal Cascade, Will. Did you not grasp her hand, and
press it to your lips?”

“My dear boy,” exclaimed Tapley, “what has rendered your imagination so
vivid? I remember that I did take her hand to help her over a log, but
the rest”--

“Was in my foolish fancy,” said Burton, finishing the sentence.
“Forgive me; the view was distant and indistinct in both cases. I
jumped at conclusions. It was so fitting, so suitable, and you are so
worthy of each other, that I could not doubt it. I was premature in my
inferences and have anticipated. If it is not yet settled, it soon will
be, and in my heart of hearts I give you my benediction.”

“My dear Ned,” exclaimed Tapley, “you have not yet stopped long enough
to listen to the communication I was about to make.”

“You shall not again be interrupted, Will.”

Tapley, whose pale face gave evidence of deep conflicting emotions,
continued,--

“Ned, you shall be my brother confessor. I will lay bare my heart to
you.

“From the first day that I saw Helen Bonbright I loved her. I could
not help loving such a beautiful soul. She seemed to me a charming
incarnation of all that was pure, bright, and lovable. And now let me
explain that I have made no avowal of my affection, and not a word nor
a sign has passed between us. I have however, by a subtle, intuitive
consciousness, become possessed of a fact, which should be of great
interest to you. This knowledge, though gained by intangible and
indefinable impressions, I am positive is correct. Will it startle you
if I assert that, while she respects me, she loves you? I will turn the
tables. I congratulate you.”

As these words dropped from his lips, he grasped Burton’s hand, and
shook it with as much earnestness, interest added, as he had received
half an hour previous.

Burton sat like one in a trance. Presently he aroused himself and
said,--

“My dear Will, I think you may be mistaken, and in any event you must
not make so great a sacrifice for such uncertain impressions. With
no avowal of love on your part, you may misjudge her feelings, and
be ‘jumping at conclusions’ as greatly as I did. Take a little time;
think more deeply over the whole matter, and show her your feelings
definitely, before forming a resolution which you may regret all your
life.”

“My conclusion is fixed; irrevocably fixed,” responded Tapley. “The
sacrifice is now complete. For a while, as the true condition of
affairs dawned upon me, I went down into the deeps; I struggled and was
scarred and rent by the hot conflict within. For a week past I have
been free. The strife is at an end! No shadow remains! I am happy and
at peace! I admire her character as much as ever. I love her with a
pure Platonic love, the character of which will never change. I include
her only in an all-embracing affection which flows out to every pure
aspiring soul.”

“Let us drop the subject, Will, and before you settle upon such a
positive conclusion, wait a week, a month, or even a year, and perhaps
you will receive new light.”

“Neither a month nor a year will make the slightest difference
with me,” replied Tapley, “but furthermore, I was about to make
a suggestion to you. It is this: if you can learn to love Helen
Bonbright, I feel sure that she will be yours. Perhaps as yet she does
not love you in the ordinary sense, for she is too unconscious and
transparent. She is doubtless unaware of her love for you, but _it is
there_, although yet latent. I have seen a sparkle in her eye, and
a flush upon her cheek, called out by you, of which she was utterly
unconscious. Her love is a hidden, dormant force. It is asleep, and
only waits for you to awaken it. She is like an Æolian harp; if your
soft influences blow upon the strings they will respond. Can you not
learn to love her, Ned?”

Learn to love her!--what should he say? His friend had bared his heart
to him. Should not he follow his example? The blood mounted to his
cheek, and his gaze was fixed upon the distant mountains.

“Will,” he exclaimed, “I will also be a penitent, and enter the
confessional. You ask if I cannot learn to ‘love Helen Bonbright.’
Love Helen Bonbright! It is not a difficult task, for I loved her
from the time of our first meeting. For a full week I was unconscious
that the sentiment that possessed me was love, but thought it to be
an involuntary tribute or homage. From the first time that I saw, as
I fancied, her hand in yours at the Shore-Walk, I regarded you as
engaged. Two contending factions fought within me, with alternate
victories and defeats. Should I yield her to you without a single
effort on my own behalf? or should I, in an honorable manner, try my
own chances? The forces of non-interference won the day decisively. She
was yours, and never by word or sign would I throw a straw in your way.
There was a parting and final struggle at the Crystal Cascade. Since
that time peace has reigned. In the seclusion of my room that night, I
sent to both of you a benediction of loving thought. All you have said
to me to-day has been a surprise and a revelation, except the fact of
your love.

“I find the sacrifice which I laid upon the altar for your sake, for
the consuming of which I toiled to bring the sticks, one by one, thrust
back upon me, not only unconsumed, but glorified. The sweet cup of
self-sacrifice which I held to my lips, you have snatched away, and you
yourself insist upon drinking it to the dregs. Do not understand that
I feel that you can give me the faintest shadow of a title to Helen
Bonbright. She is the freest of the free! This transaction begins and
ends with ourselves. So far as I have any knowledge, she cannot be
won by either of us; but that fact does not in the least lessen your
magnanimity, your self-sacrifice. You have found that ideal principle
which would bring heaven into the earth-life, and which can lift one
out of the lower self, and out of bondage to a material environment.”

Each had sacrificed himself to the other, but in the apparent result,
Tapley’s self-sacrifice, from force of circumstances, left Burton in
possession of the field. Their peculiar though early experience had led
them to practically understand a law which is not only immutable but
scientific. They realized that inherent wholesomeness which is involved
in the subjugation of the sensuous nature, and an enthronement of a
supreme or divine manhood.

This is the same secret which Count Tolstoï discovered, and which,
notwithstanding all its crude and grotesque expressions in him,
emphasized by his peculiar race and rank, has so transformed him that
his personality is looked upon as one of the most unique in the world.
From its ordinary standpoint the world regards him as an enigma. In
his early manhood, self and its gratification were everything to him.
In his effort to get the most that was possible out of life, his
abnormity, morbidness, and distress became so great that he meditated
self-destruction. He discovered, finally, that, in order to find the
happiness and harmony that he needed, the lower self must be cast
out. He learned that the law of self-abnegation constituted the broad
highway to wholeness, and became the most happy of men. His remarkable
eccentricities consist in unduly literalizing a principle which is
capable of indefinite expression.

To “realists,” the quality of character shown by the young men would be
regarded as impractical, abnormal, and untrue to nature. If by nature
the sensuous nature only is meant, they are correct. The term “natural”
has been perverted to define only that which is selfish and material.
The “philosopher’s stone” for man, who is a being “formed in the image
of his Creator,” is found in giving out, rather than in gathering
in. In concrete benevolence money is but the lower fulfilment, while
service, sympathy, and love form more important factors.

“He that loveth his life loseth it; and he that hateth his life in
this world shall keep it unto life eternal.” The profound but largely
unrecognized truth conveyed in this text from John’s Gospel attests its
divine origin.

The world is full of abnormity which is a non-recognition of divine
method, hence its wretchedness.




CHAPTER XIV.

_THE REVIVAL._


Gentle reader, you shall have the benefit of a hint if you cannot
patiently abide moralizing. By a whisper in your ear we warn you that
if you are only interested in the simple narrative, and regard all
serious themes as heavy, and are unwilling to exercise twenty minutes
consecutive thought upon vital topics, you will find it advantageous to
turn a few leaves and pass this chapter.

The mellow, golden days of October had come; the air was growing
crisp, the sun’s rays were losing their intensity, and nature, in her
outward expressions, was becoming less exuberant and aggressive. The
forests, gorgeous in color and ardent in tone, were blazing out with
that vehemence which seems to be a final and supreme effort before
impending desolation. The stored-up sunshine of a whole summer comes
to the surface, and gilds with rich hues the foliage, which before
had absorbed it. The vitalizing and expanding life, which for months
coursed through the veins and arteries of tree, flower, and grasses,
was becoming sluggish, and sombreness and grayness were creeping over
the face of nature.

The Bonbrights were again settled in their stately residence on
Commonwealth Avenue. The engagement of Lord Percival and Rosamond
had been formally announced, and had furnished the latest sensation
in fashionable circles. In response to the solicitation of Rosamond,
seconded by the earnest invitation of her parents, the noble lord
remained as a guest of the family until he departed westward, where he
wished to make a more extended exploration of the country.

Burton and Tapley left the mountains shortly before the departure of
the Bonbrights, and on a bright Saturday afternoon they arrived at the
home of the former, where they were received with a warm greeting.
The air of quiet conservatism which prevailed in this out-of-the-way
New Hampshire village was unchanged. Within the limits of Edward’s
recollection, there had been scarcely a single house added or
demolished, and the changing seasons alone were responsible for any
variation in appearance.

In such a community the quiet current of human existence flows on, year
by year, broken only by some insignificant eddy or ripple unnoticed
by the great world outside. The arrival of the two-horse stage at the
little post-office was the daily episode which most stirred the pulse
of the place. Here came only a light sprinkling of the deluge of daily
and weekly literature with which the centres of population were flooded.

Life with such a quiet environment often becomes a matter of petty
routine. But when, as is rarely the case, its shoal waters are
agitated, the commotion is relatively important. If it be a “tempest in
a teapot,” the storm will be violent in proportion to the size of the
pot.

It happened that such a rare local agitation was at its height when the
two friends arrived. It was a “revival;” and its intensity was such
that, in one form or another, every person in the community was touched
by it. It was brought about through the labors of a professional
“evangelist,” a young man by the name of Lamphier, who, for several
evenings previous, had held services in the village meeting-house.

Mr. Johnson, the pastor, being discouraged at the “dry-rot” and
spiritual stagnation which prevailed, had secured the assistance of Mr.
Lamphier.

The meetings and their influence, for the time, became the one
absorbing topic. Among the members of the little community some were
struggling with great problems; others were torn with conflicting
emotions; a few were in great distress; some were rejoicing; a number
were self-satisfied, or perhaps merely curious; and still others were
cavilling and ridiculing. It was a commentary upon the many-sidedness
of human nature, that a single cause could produce such a variety of
phenomena.

Mrs. Burton had kept a brief record in her diary of the topics which
Mr. Lamphier had elaborated.

The outline recorded by her was as follows:--

  _First Evening._--Man’s fall in Adam as the result of eating the
  forbidden fruit. The guilt of the whole race involved in that
  transaction. Inherited guilt, also supplemented by personal guilt.
  The total depravity of man. Evil a terrible reality. God’s righteous
  anger towards sinners.


  _Second Evening._--Utter inability for good a race condition. The
  “plan of salvation.” A scheme by which the elect will be rescued.
  The plan formulated in the councils of the Godhead. The Son offers
  to come and die in order that through His suffering the Father’s
  righteous anger and justice may be satisfied. The plan adopted and
  carried out in behalf of those who are “called.”


  _Third Evening._--The ransom paid by Christ, the means through which
  God becomes reconciled. Expiation as made through the shedding of
  Christ’s blood. His sufferings were infinite, in order to atone for
  the infinite amount of sin in the world. By a belief in Christ we may
  escape the consequences of sin.


  _Fourth Evening._--Heaven: It is a place of reward for those who, by
  substitution, receive the benefit of Christ’s purchase. Such have had
  the penalty for sin remitted. The pleasure of the heavenly condition
  will be so great, and the Divine justice will be so manifest, that we
  shall feel the punishment of those who are lost, even if our friends,
  to be for the glory of God. The occupation of heaven will consist in
  praising God. The location of heaven unrevealed, but may be in some
  distant star.


  _Fifth Evening._--Hell: The place of retribution. That locality,
  which is the final destination of the untold millions of heathendom,
  and of a large part of the population of Christendom. Although its
  punishment may not consist of material fire and brimstone, yet it
  is of such a nature that this figure is used as most fitting to
  convey an adequate idea of its character. It is a condition which is
  hopeless and endless.


  _Sixth Evening._--Satan: The omnipresent, malignant Evil One. A
  “roaring lion” going about “seeking whom he may devour.” An intensely
  malicious personality, inferior only to God in power, with whom he
  wages an unceasing warfare. The condition of the world indicates
  that, for the present, Satan is the victor.


  _Seventh Evening._--The Bible: The literal inspired revelation of
  God to man. Through the medium of saintly men, who were instruments
  in the hands of God, His will was communicated to mankind. It is the
  only rule of life, and the soundness of all moral and religious
  principles must be tested by its teachings. Human systems and creeds
  must be founded upon proof-texts.


  _Eighth Evening._--The Church: The representative of God on earth.
  The divinely organized body of believers. The organization which is
  authorized to interpret Scripture and to formulate doctrine. The
  visible body of Christ, into which it is the duty of all to come as
  soon as they have received forgiveness for sin, and are rooted in
  sound doctrine.


  _Ninth Evening._--The Supernaturalism of Religion: As men by nature
  are vile and sinful, only by a supernatural act on the part of God
  can they be redeemed and made meet for the Kingdom of Heaven. That
  which is supernatural belongs to a realm which is separate and
  distinct from that which is natural.

Such was an outline of the topics which had been fully and graphically
elaborated by Mr. Lamphier. The tenth and closing sermon of the series
was to be delivered on the evening of the day upon which Edward and
his friend arrived. Notice had been given that it would consist of a
general summing-up of the series.

The sermons had been delivered with a positiveness, austerity, and
solemnity which are almost unknown in larger communities.

Every evening, after the close of the service, a party of sceptics of
various ages and conditions gathered at the village store and discussed
the meetings. A few of them who had attended the service usually gave
an outline of the sermon. Among the number were several who previously
had been respectful, though rather indifferent towards religious
influences. There was a mysterious reactionary influence in the air,
for several suddenly avowed themselves as atheists and materialists. A
few had become defiant, and full of ridicule toward the injudicious but
well-meant efforts put forth in the stern presentation of their duty.

On the other hand, many of the more sensitive children and youth were
suffering in various degrees from a kind of terrorism. Edward found
that his young sisters had hardly slept soundly since the graphic
delineations of Satan and hell, and learned of several other families
whose experience was similar. Mrs. Burton would have kept her children
at home during the later services, but for the fact that the statement
had been made that it was a solemn duty to attend upon the “means of
grace,” so that any apparent “neglect of duty” made them even more
miserable at home than at the meeting-house. Any who were missing were
also noted and inquired after. An indefinable fear seemed to pervade
the very atmosphere of the village. Even among the young converts,
there was a visible expression of constraint and sadness, which was
abnormal in youthful nature. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Lamphier made a
systematic round of visits; but their funereal faces and formal manner
caused the children to hide from them when it was practicable. In
general, the duty of “getting religion” came to them in the light of
a disagreeable necessity. It appeared more like shadow than sunshine;
more wintry than summer-like in its nature. To the young, it seemed to
be well adapted to the aged and dying; but for _them_ it was like a
black pall.

As Edward Burton learned of the condition of affairs in his native
village, a vision of his own youthful experience flashed before him. He
took his young sisters, one upon each knee, and soon, under the spell
of his loving influence, the morbidness faded from their minds. Mrs.
Burton reproached herself for having forgotten lessons of the past,
under the influence of recent conditions.

The closing sermon by Mr. Lamphier drew an audience which filled the
house to repletion, and Burton and Tapley were present. They came in
before the service began, and were recognized by Mr. Johnson, who came
forward and greeted them.

Mr. Lamphier made a most sincere and earnest appeal. His manner was
very grave, and he felt a profound responsibility resting upon him.

The text upon which his sermon was based was the last clause of Matthew
iii. 7: “O generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the
wrath to come?”

After a brief review of the preceding sermons, in which he traced
the peculiar relation of each to the “plan of salvation,” he made a
strong appeal to his hearers to accept the terms offered that night.
He enforced the thought that it might prove the last opportunity for
some to escape from the wrath of God, which rests upon all sinners. In
closing, he said,--

“As God’s ambassador, I have plainly set your duty before you. Christ
has made expiation for your sins by His sufferings and death, and you
have nothing to do but to believe on Him. Paul, in his epistle to
the Hebrews, says that ‘God is a consuming fire.’ Think of that, my
friends, and do not longer scorn His offers of pardon. The judgment
day comes on apace, when those who reject the proffers of grace now
held out will hear the final summons,--‘Depart from me, ye cursed, into
everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels.’ ‘And the smoke
of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever.’”

As these closing words fell from his lips, there were audible
sighs and groans, and an intensity of feeling which was near the
bursting-point. Some of the younger and more sensitive souls almost
saw the judgment scene before them, and themselves upon the left hand.
They were conscious that they did not and could not love God with
their whole heart, which was their plain duty. God had been pictured
to them in such a way that He seemed both unreasonable and cruel,
and therefore, though intensely anxious to love Him, they found it
impossible. They were told that that feeling was the “natural” mind,
which must be stifled.

Modern fair Biblical interpretation and criticism had but a slight
hold upon the thought of this little community. The literal meaning of
proof-texts was quoted as a finality, which it was sinful to question.
Mr. Lamphier, in interpreting the endless wealth of scriptural poetry,
history, tradition, Oriental allegory, imagery and hyperbole, made
everything bend to his hard rules, and left no choice between a literal
acceptance on the one hand, and a sceptical rejection on the other.
The letter of the text was worshipped, while the spirit, which could
make men free and lead them into all truth, was largely unrecognized.
The preaching in this little meeting-house was the strongest force in
the village, and they who questioned its conclusions were rated as
unbelieving and irreligious.

As Mr. Lamphier took his seat, the audience were spellbound, but their
faces showed that the spell was one of awe and fear. Before the closing
hymn, Mr. Johnson arose and said: “We have with us to-night Mr. Edward
Burton, who is known to many of you, and we would be glad to hear
from him.” Prompted by a mingled sense of magnanimity and politeness,
Mr. Johnson made this call upon Edward, instinctively feeling the
desirability of giving the closing meeting a more happy turn. The
invitation was quite unexpected to Edward, but, after a momentary
hesitation, he responded.

“My dear friends and neighbors,” he remarked in a quiet and pleasant
manner, “it gives me much pleasure again to meet you, gathered as you
are in this place, with which are connected so many of my childhood
associations. I did not expect to address you, but will briefly improve
the opportunity given me. Christian character is formed from the
consideration of various motives. May I suggest a few thoughts bearing
upon some other phases of truth than those which have been urged upon
you this evening? Time will not permit a logical presentation, but a
few fundamental principles may be outlined and left for you to fill out
and apply.

“We need, first, to have right conceptions of God. God is love.
Paul says that ‘our God is a consuming fire.’ ‘Our God’ means the
Christian’s God. If ‘God is love,’ and also a ‘consuming fire,’
then Love is a ‘consuming fire.’ Love will consume, not souls, but
evil, sin, malice, selfishness, and unrighteousness. God is not a
vindictive judge, but our Spiritual Father, and we are His children
and made in His image. He is good, and also omnipresent. He therefore
is omnipresent good. Where, then, is there room for evil? There is no
place for it, as a God-created power, or entity, so that it only can
exist as a condition. Goodness and righteousness are positive entities,
for they are of God. He made all that _was_ made, and pronounced it
‘very good.’ If He did not create evil, the only vitality it has comes
from what we give it. We are not creators in any real sense, therefore
evil is a negation. It becomes real to us in proportion to our loss of
spiritual consciousness as children of God. The lower self is alive
to material things, therefore has lost its life to those verities
which are spiritual. The ‘carnal’ or false self must be cast out, and
man must regain his spiritual heritage. Religion is a life, not a
creed, system, plan, or sacrament. It is not effeminate, austere, or
disagreeable, but normal, manly, joyful, noble. It is a recognition
of and compliance with spiritual law, as adapted to man’s nature, and
all observed law is beneficent. Punishment is inherent in sin, and is
self-inflicted. When sin is destroyed, punishment ceases. Punishment is
not arbitrary or vindictive, but corrective and disciplinary. Christ
came, not to placate an angry God, but to impart His life to us.

“The word ‘blood,’ as used in the Scriptures, signifies the _life_,
and not the death. It has been literalized to express suffering,
purchase, expiation. Blood is the symbol of what is _inmost_ in the
person, his essential and intrinsic quality. We speak of blood as
referring to lineage, race, or family. To be saved by the blood of
Christ is to be saved by possessing the same type of inward character
and life. Salvation is the quality of Christ, living and incarnated
in man. Christ’s triumph over death was an object-lesson, to show us
the nothingness of material law as compared with supernal or spiritual
law. He is not merely the historic Jesus of eighteen hundred years ago,
but He is the ever-living One, waiting to come in and fill our life
with His own. He is that light ‘which lighteth every man that cometh
into the world.’ He is the ever-present spirit, and the ‘still small
voice,’ which waits for our recognition. In the dust and fog of the
material world, we hide ourselves from Him. Even sacraments, rituals,
and creeds are often like veils which intercept our spiritual sight of
Him, face to face. He is the Father of our spirits, and we are spirits
and not bodies, even on the present plane. The everlasting love, which
expressed itself externally through Jesus, is the spiritual ‘law of
gravitation.’ The Bible makes no mention of expiation or substitution,
but such terms are plentiful in scholastic systems. Through the blood
or the _life_ of Christ, the pulse of humanity feels the heart-throb of
God.

“We act, think, and live upon the material plane, and then expect,
through a supernatural process, to be artificially lifted, by a plan or
purchase, into a localized heaven in the world to come.


  ‘Heaven is character, not reward.’

“In the sublime words of Channing,--‘Goodness cherished now is Eternal
Life already entered on.’ ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also
reap.’ If he starve his soul in this world, he will go lean into the
next, and no miracle will force a heavenly character upon him. He must
already have, at least, its rudiments within.

“My dear friends, ‘the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace,
long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, meekness,
temperance.’ Christianity is not a system; it is not an outside thing
to be obtained, but it is Christ in us. His life, or blood, which may
become ours, is joyful, lovable, normal, wholesome. That soul is normal
which is rounded out and symmetrical, and which lives the divine life,
and not the life of the lower self. Let love flow out to God and man,
for love is the fulfilling of the law. Do not misunderstand me, and
fancy that I advocate merely a humanitarian religion. That which is
Divine is the All-Embracing, and the humanizing element forms but the
subordinate part of it.

          ‘But in Him we touch
  The ultimate symbol of Humanity,
  Humanity that touches the Divine
  By some fine link intangible to us.’

“If we hunger and thirst after God, He will fill us. Demand brings
supply. Open your hearts, and He will flow in, and the communion will
be sweet. In the beautiful words of Whittier,--

  ‘With smile of trust and folded hands,
   The passive soul in waiting stands
   To feel, as flowers the sun and dew,
   The One true life its own renew.’”

During Burton’s address, there had been a breathless stillness, and the
attention of the entire audience was fixed upon him. The closing hymn
followed immediately after. Many drawn, anxious faces had relaxed, and
every one breathed more freely. Mr. Johnson was nonplussed, and Mr.
Lamphier distressed. As soon as the audience was dismissed, several
persons gathered around Edward to grasp his hand and give him a welcome.

“That is pure gospel, and what I like,” said one; another exclaimed, “I
never knew how beautiful religion was before! It always has seemed like
a hard belief.”

An old man slowly made his way to Burton and said: “If that is
Christianity it is reasonable and desirable, and I want it.”

A farmer’s wife, with an angular, anxious face, drew near, and
feelingly said, “I thought I must be all tore up with conviction before
I ever could find peace, but the conviction didn’t come, and I couldn’t
find peace. As you describe it, the way seems plain and easy.”

A young girl modestly drew near and quietly observed, “I want to thank
you, Mr. Burton, for the help you have given me. I have always dreaded
to think of God, because, from what I have heard, He seemed cruel and
hard. As you have described Him, He is really lovable, and I shall
enjoy thinking of Him.”

The earnest expression of the senior deacon as he extended his hand
deeply touched Burton. “You talk pretty well, Edward,” said the good
man, “but I’m afraid you make religion a little too easy. The Bible
says that we must ‘work out our salvation with fear and trembling.’”

Three or four of the infidels who belonged to the coterie that nightly
gathered at the store to mimic and ridicule were present. They
approached, and one of them said, “We have been sceptical in regard
to the kind of religion we have heard here, but what you have said is
common-sense, and a religion that agrees with common-sense we respect.”

At length Mr. Johnson came up.

“Edward, you said some very pleasant things, but I feel that your view
of the Atonement is unsound. The human heart is naturally rebellious
against God, and that fact must not be overlooked. I thank you for your
well-meant remarks, even though I cannot indorse all you said.”

Mr. Johnson then introduced Mr. Lamphier, who remarked with an air of
shocked seriousness,--

“Mr. Burton, I fear that you have made a mistake, for you have taken
away the solemnity of the meeting. You no doubt have good intentions,
but my wide experience as an evangelist proves to me that such lax
doctrines as you express do not arouse people. If souls are to be saved
they must be startled from their sense of satisfaction and security,
and then, peradventure, they will flee from the wrath to come. We
should be as ‘wise as serpents and harmless as doves,’ Mr. Burton.”

Thus the series of meetings closed, and Mr. Lamphier’s labors came to
an end.

On the next day, which was the Sabbath, after the close of the morning
service, there was a general and spontaneous desire expressed to hear
more from Edward Burton. Could he not, with Mr. Johnson’s consent,
be induced to deliver some evening addresses during the week? That
sentiment was so strong that Mr. Johnson and the senior deacon
reluctantly yielded their assent, though with some misgivings. Burton
responded to the cordial invitation, only suggesting that his friend
and guest should share in the work, to which all gladly agreed. It
was settled that upon alternate evenings during the week they should
lecture upon various aspects of advanced, practical Christianity.

The little meeting-house was packed with attentive listeners every
evening. Mr. Johnson, catching the prevailing enthusiasm, rapidly grew
into sympathy with the lectures, and before the close of the week
warmly expressed his appreciation of what he called “new phases of old
truths.”

Space will not permit even an outline of the topics which were
discussed, but they may be barely enumerated as follows:--

  _First Evening._--The Immanent God--the Ever-Present, All-Pervading
  Spirit.


  _Second Evening._--Love, the universal law--or the spiritual “law of
  gravitation.”


  _Third Evening._--The divine or spiritual man _vs._ the sensuous and
  material or “carnal” man.


  _Fourth Evening._--Inspiration--a reasonable and wholesome view, and
  how it harmonizes difficulties.


  _Fifth Evening._--Atonement is At-one-ment.


  _Sixth Evening._--The unity and power of Truth, or the universality
  of Law.

The interest which grew out of the lectures, warmed and stirred every
soul in the little community.

The great waves which sweep the ocean do not penetrate into circuitous
inlets and land-locked ponds, and so the surges of modern progressive
thought heretofore had hardly made a ripple in this out-of-the-way
village. Here the theology of Mr. Johnson had been the only theology;
his plan of salvation the only plan, and his yea and amen the finality.
It was this, or nothing. The pulse-throbs and life-currents of God
and humanity only reached them as modified by his idiosyncrasies and
scholastic beliefs.

With all there is to admire in the soundness and stern righteousness
of Puritanism, when it becomes isolated and unmodified, it savors
distinctly of proscription and intolerance. There are small popes
as well as a great Pope. Mr. Johnson had wielded the sceptre with
undisputed authority, within his assumed jurisdiction.

He was a good man.

Like thousands of other kind, noble men, he was better than the
_system_ to which he was bound. He was not merely himself, but was
the embodiment and logical result of man-made theological dogma. He
illustrated the Calvinistic and Puritanic spirit of the seventeenth
century as practically applied to the lives and characters of men.
Individuals distinctively are the result and outgrowth of institutions.

While Puritanism produced many stalwart, noble men, when unmodified it
rendered human life strained and abnormal. It was a tonic element, but
at the same time it was a phase in Christian evolution which needed
softening and refining.

Mr. Johnson’s character was dualistic. He was a kind father, good
husband, and obliging neighbor, and a very lovable man; but when
invested with the dignity, the sceptre, and the robes of the
Westminster Confession, dogmatized with Puritanic positiveness, he
ceased to be Mr. Johnson, and became an artificial character. Any
one whose way of salvation had not passed through the gateway of the
village meeting-house was in the “broad way.” Any one who could not
entirely accept Calvinistic theology was, at least, inclined to be
sceptical.

Mr. Johnson was a lovable soul, indeed none are ever otherwise. It is
only qualities which call for criticism.

The week’s services discovered to Mr. Johnson the loose joints in his
armor, and the contradictions of his system.

The religion radiated by the young men was so lovable that Mr.
Johnson’s heart got the better of his creed, and, before he was aware
of it, his duality was fading out. Everything around him had been
newly gilded, and hard and sharp lines which had oppressed him became
softened and easy.

The life of the little village was broadened and beautified. The
sceptics’ club melted away when they discovered that they had been
contending with a “man of straw.” People found out who were their
neighbors. The poor and infirm were “ministered unto” in unexpected
and mysterious ways. There was a thorough revival of the religion of
character, which before had been but latent. The spiritual eyes of many
were opened, so that they discovered not only their human brethren, but
their Heavenly Father. They awoke to the fact that He was lovable, and
now they pressed nearer to Him. A few slaves to the cup, also, were
released, and rejoiced in freedom.

The senior deacon was heard to remark,--“That’s the most curious
revival that I ever knew of, but it is mighty solid, and, after all, I
believe I kinder like that sort.”




CHAPTER XV.

_THE TWO FRUSTADTS._


“How are you, doctor?” exclaimed a young man to an elderly one as
they met on the crowded walk in Washington Street late one pleasant
afternoon. The elderly gentleman wore green glasses, and his long hair
stood out from under a slouch hat, with a broad brim well drawn down
over his eyes. He turned his florid face towards the speaker, and,
recognizing him, replied, “Well, Van Roden, is this you? I supposed
that you were still in Bar Harbor.”

They stepped into a doorway to avoid the passing throng. The elderly
gentleman was Doctor Frustadt.

It will be remembered that Van Roden hastily left Bar Harbor on the day
following the Green-Mountain excursion. It was yet too early for the
beginning of the fall term in the “Medical Department,” but when the
coast of Maine lost its attractiveness he returned to the city.

“When did you leave Bar Harbor?” queried the doctor.

“I returned yesterday. It must be at least two or three weeks since you
left, doctor.”

“Three weeks to-day,” replied Frustadt. “By the way,” he continued,
“has Colonel Tapley entertained any other European guest since I left,
aside from Percival?”

“Not that I am aware of,” replied Van Roden. “I would have known it if
such had been the case, for I saw the family nearly every day.”

The doctor had been somewhat apprehensive lest the genuine Frustadt
might have turned up, but now he felt reassured.

After a short conversation, Van Roden invited the doctor to call upon
him the next day, after which they would dine at a leading restaurant.

Frustadt was prompt in keeping his engagement, and on the following
day they repaired to a luxurious place of refreshment, where in due
time the successive courses were lubricated by liberal supplies of
ale, which towards the close gave place to “lubrication” in more
concentrated form. When the repast was finished, they repaired to an
adjoining apartment, lighted their cigars, and sat down by a window
which afforded an excellent view of the crowded street below.

The doctor had become quite familiar and communicative.

“Well, Van Roden, how is all the capitalistic society of the
fashionable Maine resort? And, by the way, how is the Philadelphia girl
that I saw you with so much during my visit? Perhaps by this time you
are a subject for congratulation.”

“Yes, doctor, I think I may be congratulated upon the fact that I am
free from engagement to her, or any other woman. I will admit, _sub
rosa_, that I did have a little passing fancy in that direction, but,
thank Heaven, it did not last long. For a woman, she is clever, but her
cleverness is in her masculine qualities. I always have been opposed
to matrimony, which is a form of slavery; but now I am confirmed in my
opinion of it more than ever before. Miss Jenness could talk well upon
some topics which interest me, although she mixes so much sentiment
with her science that we could not agree. Bah! I am thankful that I
came to my senses before I found the handcuffs fastened on my wrists.”

“The institution of marriage,” observed the doctor, assuming a
philosophic air, “is founded upon a so-called moral system which gains
power only from the superstitious or religious sentimentality of
society. Take the institutions of property, commerce, and government;
they are all outgrowths, in various directions, of the same religious
sentiment. When Anarchy has dissolved these institutions, and the New
Order prevails, marriage will go with all the rest.

“Look upon that stream of humanity,” he continued with earnestness,
glancing upon the crowded thoroughfare. “Carlyle said that the
inhabitants of England were mostly fools, and I say that yonder throng
are all fools.”

“That is somewhat radical, doctor.”

“Perfectly plain,” rejoined Frustadt, “for they are all slaves to the
present system. Take marriage, which you have fortunately escaped. In
capitalistic society it has become purely a financial operation. The
so-called sacredness of the family is a farce. Marriage should never
be binding, but rest only upon the free inclination of man and woman.
Government, as at present organized, is also a sham and delusion. The
so-called sacred rights of property is another old superstition, which
must be exploded.”

“I am not quite prepared to go as far as you do,” replied Van Roden,
“although in the main I accept your premises. Marriage and property
rights, and other features of the present system, are founded upon
the theoretical economy of a moral code, or a standard of right and
wrong. As a materialist, I do not accept any moral or religious system.
To me, whatever is expedient is right, and if you can convince me
that the new movements which you propose are practical I am with you.
As one who believes the present plane of existence to be the only
one, I can easily see that there ought to be an equal distribution
of material advantages. As a matter of course, we both believe that
all other blessings except those which are material exist only in the
imagination.”

Frustadt was much pleased to find Van Roden so favorably inclined
towards Anarchism, and the next day sent him a choice selection of the
most rank anarchic literature.

During the next few days the doctor and Van Roden were often together,
and as their intimacy increased they found much in common. Frustadt was
feverish to begin war upon existing institutions, and was planning soon
to go to Chicago, where he would find numerous kindred spirits, and
where a peculiar mixture of nationalities had enabled the anarchists
to become well organized into groups and societies. Van Roden, though
not believing in the dynamite policy, was much embittered against
society, and especially against marriage and religion. He became more
cynical than ever before, and Frustadt’s views rapidly grew upon him.
He observed one day that, though all materialists were not anarchists,
he had noticed that all anarchists were materialists.

The two at length became so intimate that Frustadt divulged the fact
that his real name was not Frustadt, but Stellmacher, and that his
mission to Chicago was to teach the scientific use of explosives. He
also confided the story of “some capers” in the Old World, which made a
trip to America necessary as well as pleasurable.

Two weeks from the time that Van Roden returned, Frustadt, _alias_
Stellmacher, started for the Western metropolis. They arranged for an
intimate correspondence, to be kept up indefinitely.

As the doctor bade his friend good-by, he remarked, “If in future you
hear of lively doings in Chicago, you may conclude that I am concerned
in them.”

He significantly waved a scarlet handkerchief from the rear platform of
the last car, as the train moved out of the station.

During the time in which the doctor and Van Roden had become such fast
friends, other events were taking place close at hand.

The Sea-Foam had returned from Bar Harbor early in September.

A day or two later Colonel Tapley was sitting in his office, surrounded
by files of papers, busy in gathering up various details of business
which had accumulated during his absence. A distinguished-appearing
gentleman, tall and dignified, and with a foreign air, entered, and,
bowing low, inquired, in very good English, if he “had the honor of
addressing Colonel Tapley?” Upon receiving an affirmative reply, he
rejoined,--

“My name is Frustadt,” and then extended his hand, which the colonel
warmly grasped and motioned him to a seat.

“I bring a letter from a friend of yours who is now in Europe,” said
Frustadt, and, drawing the missive from an inside pocket, he passed it
to the colonel, who opened it and hastily scanned the contents, which
ran as follows:--

                                   GENEVA, SWITZERLAND, August --, 188-.

  MY DEAR COLONEL,--This will introduce to you the bearer, Dr.
  Frustadt, who is about to visit America. As he expects to remain a
  little time in Boston, any favors that you may be able to do him will
  be highly appreciated both by him and myself. Owing to unexpected
  detention, he did not leave here as soon as was first expected,
  and he lost or mislaid the first letter that I gave to him. This,
  however, will repair the mishap.

    With kindest regards to your family,
                                       I remain truly yours,
                                                     WILLIAM RADBOURNE.

“The young men were correct,” said the colonel to himself. “At last we
have the genuine Frustadt.”

After a pleasant interview, Colonel Tapley invited the doctor to dine
with him on the following day, when they would form some plans for the
future, which might render his stay in Boston agreeable.

It proved that the genuine Frustadt was a professor in the medical
department of the Heidelberg University. His specialty was pathology,
in which department he was celebrated as a lecturer and author. He was
also much interested in social problems, including the administration
of public charities, hospitals, and asylums, and one of his objects in
coming to America was the investigation of such institutions in this
country. For obvious reasons, Colonel Tapley preferred to address him
as “Professor,” which was suited to his position, and by which title he
was afterwards designated.

The next afternoon the colonel accompanied the professor to a few of
the public institutions by way of an introduction, so that in future he
could visit them as he felt inclined. They called both at the General
and City Hospitals, and at the office of the Associated Charities,
where some time was spent in an examination of the system, and its
relation to other charitable and benevolent organizations. After a few
other calls, they were driven to the colonel’s residence, which was
located a little outside of the city proper, where the professor was
welcomed by Mrs. Tapley and her daughter. They had been apprised of his
arrival, and it was understood that during the dinner hour no allusion
should be made to the bogus Frustadt.

The professor proved to be a genial and companionable guest, and at the
dinner-table expressed himself as pleased with his first impressions of
America.

“Your hospitals,” he observed, “seem to be as well administered in all
respects as ours, and I am especially pleased with the working plan of
your associated charities.”

“With you,” said Colonel Tapley, “many institutions are administered
by the government, which with us are conducted entirely by private
association and enterprise. I have noticed that the German Empire is
continually introducing new features of ‘paternalism.’ What do you
think is the cause of the present drift toward governmental supervision
and regulation?”

“One reason,” replied the professor, “may be the existence of an
aggressive socialistic party, to which the Imperial Government think it
policy to make concessions to retain popular favor; and another, that
possibly it may retard the stream of emigration which is depleting the
country of much of its best material.”

“At present there seems to be a popular craving,” said the colonel,
“both in the old world and the new, for a widening of the functions of
government. The masses have gained an impression that almost anything
can be done by legislation.”

“It must, however, be admitted,” observed the professor, “that progress
in modern invention and rapid communication have rendered civilization
much more complex and interdependent, which makes official supervision
more necessary than when conditions were simple.”

“That is true to some extent,” said the colonel, “and I think there
is an additional reason. Even political economy is not exempt from
the influence of fashion. It has come to be regarded as the correct
thing in the universities of both hemispheres, to teach a political
economy which is strongly tinged with socialism. There has been a
commendable growth of general, benevolent impulse, which blindly
seeks to bring about more ideal conditions, through the artificial
machinery of government, instead of by the instrumentality of natural
means, which are the elevation of individual and public character.
Under your centralized and business-like government, however, official
interference in industrial economy is much more promising than with
us. Your civil service has an administrative stability, and freedom
from political bias and changeableness, which with us are the rule.
With you, responsible official positions are permanent, so long as
their functions are well performed. Here, official position, as a
rule, is a reward for partisan activity, and conspicuous merit is no
guarantee of permanency. Every four years we have a political tornado,
which demoralizes the nation, and public offices are regarded as party
rewards and prizes.”

“But I have noticed,” said the professor, “that you have a Civil
Service Commission, and I inferred that positions of public trust were
rapidly being divorced from partisan considerations.”

“We have a commission,” replied Colonel Tapley, “and a slowly
increasing public moral sentiment, favorable to reform, but it has
not yet become sufficiently strong to overcome the opposition and
selfishness of scheming politicians, both in Congress and outside of
it. Partisan dishonesty and duplicity are the dark cloud upon our
national horizon.”

“On that account,” observed the professor, “I perceive why it is more
inexpedient and dangerous for your government, with its changeable and
partisan machinery, to regulate and interfere with industrial economy,
than it is with the Empire. A stream cannot rise higher than its
source. A republican form of government presupposes, not only general
intelligence, but morality. Frequent elections and rotations stimulate
the greed for office until it becomes demoralizing.”

“At the present time we have one unique element in our midst,” said
the colonel. “It is an earnest and well-meaning contingent of both
men and women, benevolent but impractical, who really are persuaded
that by an immense legislative ‘Tower of Babel,’ they can make all
mankind brothers indeed. They fancy that by means of legislation moral
character can be conferred upon men as easily as fluid can be poured
into a bottle. Under an improved system, each man is to give his best
work for the common good of all. The government will feed everybody,
and there will be no more poverty and no more riches; no more
intemperance, or idleness, or vice, or crime, but love will everywhere
prevail. These enthusiastic people forget that character cannot be
conferred by law. Such a system of theoretic and external perfection
would be like a ‘whited sepulchre,’ fair externally, but within filled
with all uncleanness. It is an important lesson to learn, that Nature
will not be cheated, and that natural law cannot be repealed.”

“Yes, colonel, the unvaried dominion of natural law is the most
colossal fact in the universe; yet a large part of the world think it
can be circumvented. All legislation which has not natural law[2] for
a basis is worse than useless. The ‘survival of the fittest,’ reward
for thrift, premium upon character, recompense for honest exertion, and
an inherent penalty for idleness and vice, are logical and inseparable
sequences which cannot be repealed nor set aside by the combined
legislation of the world. The ‘Reign of Law,’ by the Duke of Argyll, is
an interesting elaboration of this subject, which well repays perusal.”

  [2] The relation of natural law to political and business economy is
  considered in a work of wide circulation, entitled: The Political
  Economy of Natural Law, by the author of this book: published by Lee
  and Shepard, Boston, 1894.

“Yes, that is an instructive treatise, and should be widely read,”
observed Colonel Tapley. “Regarding political economy, while it is
desirable that increased popular attention should be given to its
underlying principles, with us, during the last few years, there has
sprung up a great army of pseudo-economists, who, while positive
in their convictions, do not penetrate beneath the surface of the
science. Each of them, by some scheme of improved legislation, or by
recasting the system of government, finds a patent remedy for all the
ills of society. To them the government is a great ideal, omnipresent
personality, instead of an organized body of politicians. They
believe that its capabilities are endless. They forget that rings,
combinations, and favoritism are almost inseparable from governmental
transactions. The fact is overlooked that official methods are
extravagant, and so hampered by ‘red tape’ that they lack directness
and efficiency. But a casual glance will show that almost any public
work, any city hall, court house, state house, or custom house, has
cost much more, usually with less practical utility, than would have
been the case had they been erected by private enterprise. With us,
when politics is divorced from any business or industrial enterprise,
a long step is taken in the direction of ‘business upon business
principles.’”

“Very true,” replied the professor. “Were I an American I should oppose
every enlargement of governmental functions, except where the public
nature of the service rendered it quite necessary.”

“You observe,” said the colonel, “that our danger is tenfold greater
in the direction of official usurpation and corruption than in that
of too little regulation. A machine can be no stronger than its
weakest part. Take the so-called labor legislation; nine-tenths of
it will prove harmful to the very interest it is designed to favor.
It has been mainly inspired by demagogism, which has also caused
much of the special railroad legislation. The popular mind is slow
to appreciate the fact that business prospers best when suffered to
run in unobstructed channels. Economic abuses generally have in them
inherent corrective penalties. Natural law, in itself, is beneficent,
and, therefore, compliance with it is wholesome, while its violation
invariably involves penalty in one form or another. Supply and
demand and competition are as constant and unrepealable as the law
of gravitation. It is an amusing fact that some of our enthusiasts
are studying to invent a system in which all competition shall be
eliminated. It would be as easy to divorce the moon from the earth,
and, were such a thing possible, it would put an end to all enterprise
and industry at a single blow. The key to all social and moral reform
is character improvement, and just in proportion as that is effected,
external institutions will give it expression as surely as effect
succeeds cause.”

“I have heard something of Henry George’s land theories,” said the
professor. “Have they gained adherence to any extent in America?”

“We have scarcely more than a coterie of impracticables, whose special
panacea for all social ills is the ownership in common of land. It is a
significant fact that our Congress, after trying many experiments for
civilizing the Indians, has at last reached the true conclusion that
the one indispensable necessity for such a result is the individual
ownership of land. The George scheme is a singular kind of ‘reform’
which turns so sharply in the direction of barbarism.”

Dinner was ended, and the colonel escorted his guest into the library.
When they had seated themselves and lighted their cigars, the host
observed in an embarrassed but confidential manner, “It is a necessity
as well as a duty that I should inform you of some recent occurrences.
I have been imposed upon, and it is preferable that I should frankly
state the fact, than that you should receive information of it from
others, as would be extremely probable. As I am not aware that any
serious results will follow, we may regard it only as a farce; a joke,
which, when understood by my friends, however, I shall not soon hear
the last of.”

Colonel Tapley then gave a full account of the reception,
entertainment, and introduction into society, of the bogus Frustadt,
upon the strength of the missing letter, which had been found and
utilized.

The professor was much chagrined, and reproached himself for the
carelessness which had led to such important complications.

“Have you any idea of the whereabouts of the man at present?” inquired
he.

“I have not,” replied the colonel. “When he left us, he ostensibly was
going to New York to see a friend, who, he informed us, was ill.”

“The dastardly impostor!” exclaimed the professor. “I will have him
hunted down regardless of expense or trouble. Can you give a definite
description of him so that he may be identified?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the colonel. “Besides a general accurate description
which can be given, he has two peculiar scars upon his cheek, which
ordinarily are not very observable, but which under the least
excitement flame out so that they become quite marked. He informed
us that they were the result of a duel at Heidelberg while he was a
student there.”

“I shall visit the German consul to-morrow,” remarked the professor,
“and make arrangements to place detectives upon the watch for him. May
I inquire how many of your friends already know him to be an impostor?”

“No one but my wife and my daughter, although my son, who is now
absent, and a young friend, strongly suspected him; but they said
nothing of their suspicion, as they had no proof.”

“I should deem it to be wise that you say nothing of the imposition for
the present,” said the professor. “If it were made known through the
press, it would put him upon his guard. Let it be supposed that there
are two Frustadts--not at all related, however.”

“All right,” replied Colonel Tapley. “A doctor and professor--both
Frustadts, but of different quality.”




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:”--

  “‘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.




CHAPTER XVII.

_THE FRUSTADTS IN CHICAGO._


Professor Frustadt passed two or three weeks very agreeably in Boston,
and then visited New-York City, Philadelphia, and Washington, going
from the latter place to Chicago. It is a common saying that no
European tourist ever thinks of returning home without having seen
Niagara Falls and Chicago--the one, a marvellous natural wonder; the
other, the greatest monument of rapid municipal growth, grandeur, and
enterprise, not only in America, but in the world. As well go to Europe
without seeing Paris, or play Hamlet with “Hamlet left out,” as to come
to America without going to the great Western metropolis. To begin with
an unpromising morass, upon which were located a few log shanties,
and in half a century transform it into one of the grandest cities of
modern times, with a site ten feet above the natural level,--embracing
the most stately architecture and finest system of parks and boulevards
upon the continent,--is an accomplishment which never fails to interest
a European tourist.

It is sometimes asserted by ungracious and disappointed rivals, that
Chicagoans are unduly forward in proclaiming the merits and advantages
of their city, but veritable, impartial facts are a sufficient
justification for high claims. Unfair critics, inspired by jealousy or
ignorance, often picture it as excelling other cities in depravity;
but, while the situation is complicated by the presence of a great
unassimilated alien element, in perhaps no other city are the moral
forces more active, enterprising, and aggressive.

Professor Frustadt arrived there one pleasant morning, and was
immediately driven to one of the great palatial hotels for which the
city is distinguished. Before sufficient time had elapsed for rest
and refreshment, a visitor’s card was sent up to his apartments,
which proved to be that of an old Heidelberg friend by the name of
Blumenbach. The latter had been apprised of the professor’s expected
arrival, and of the place where he would be found. After an hour’s chat
about old times in the ancient University city, Blumenbach proposed
an extended drive. The professor was anxious to visit some of the
educational and eleemosynary institutions, but his friend persuaded
him to defer that until another day. They went through one of the
tunnels which pass under the river, to the “North Side,” and made
their first stop at the water-works. The professor was much interested
in the absolute perfection of the ponderous machinery which pumps up
the water from the tunnel through which it is conveyed under the lake
from a “crib,” which is located some miles from the shore. Out there,
the water is deep and clear, and, being drawn into the “crib,” it is
brought into the city without coming in contact with the less pure
water nearer the shore.

“This water system,” said Blumenbach, “is superior to any other in the
world.”

They drove on to Lincoln Park, and, after greatly admiring its
beauties, continued for some distance further on the “Lake-Shore
Drive.” At length Blumenbach stopped the carriage, and, pointing out a
vacant piece of land, observed,--

“Here is some property which belongs to the Terra Firma Investment
Company, of which I am vice-president. We are now offering building
lots at prices which will yield immense profits in the near future.
Improvements which are proposed in the vicinity will doubtless enhance
values to two or three times the present standard within the next five
years. We are continually making profitable investments for Eastern and
European customers.”

“My visit is for pleasure and investigation, rather than with any
anticipation of business or investments,” replied the professor.

“Assuredly,” said Blumenbach, “but, being an old friend, I feel
it a duty to just call your attention, in passing, to such golden
opportunities.”

The next day they visited the Board of Trade.

“This seems like a veritable pandemonium,” observed the professor.

“Yes, it is a little noisy,” replied Blumenbach. “Do you see that old
fellow with a broad-brimmed slouch hat? He frequently buys and sells
millions of bushels of grain in a single morning. With such operators a
hundred-thousand-bushel transaction is a trivial affair. I can get you
some points, if you would like to take ‘a flyer’ for a few days.”

“I confess I do not quite comprehend what you refer to by ‘a flyer,’”
replied the professor. “I fancy that it must be something quite out of
my line.”

“Oh, it is only a sale or a purchase, which can be closed at a profit
within a few days.”

“I fear that it is too rapid for me,” replied the professor.

One day they made an excursion to the model town of Pullman, a few
miles south of the city limits. There were golden opportunities for
investment in land in that vicinity, and all along the way. Another
day they visited some of the great packing houses, where droves of
cattle, sheep, and hogs enter at one end of the establishment, and
emerge in the form of beef, mutton, and pork, in barrels, at the other
end. In that neighborhood, also, the most “tempting opportunities” for
profitable investment were observable on every side.

The professor was much interested in many institutions, and especially
in the rapid manner of transacting business, which was so unlike that
of his own country. Blumenbach’s peculiarity of combining business with
pleasure, and his enthusiasm in regard to the prospects of his adopted
city, quite surprised him. The evolution of his slow and easy-going
friend and countryman, into the keen, enterprising, enthusiastic
American citizen, was an interesting commentary upon the transforming
influence of environment.

On one occasion, after enumerating various points of superiority in
Chicago over any city elsewhere, Blumenbach jocosely observed: “We
excel even in anarchists. We have the most advanced and thorough-going
specimens to be found in America.”

Just at that time there was much activity among the various groups
of radical socialists and anarchists, who had made Chicago their
abiding-place. Meetings were held nightly in those quarters where
the population was composed of Poles, Bohemians, and the lower class
of Germans, at which violent and inflammatory addresses were made by
agitators and leaders.

“As a matter of curiosity, I would like to obtain some insight into the
plans and purposes of these people,” said the professor, “especially as
quite a proportion of them are natives of Germany. You are aware that
I am much interested in sociology. If it were possible I would like to
attend one of their meetings.”

“I think we can easily accomplish that,” replied Blumenbach. “I will
ascertain if it can conveniently be brought about, and inform you of
the result of my inquiries.”

Early in the evening of the second day following, Blumenbach made
his appearance at the hotel, dressed in a laboring-man’s garb, with a
slouch hat and very large pipe, and brought an extra suit of the same
kind for the professor.

“With these habiliments, our native tongue, and pretended sympathy for
the cause, I think we will have no difficulty in gaining admittance to
the meeting of a ‘group’ which takes place this evening on the West
Side,” said Blumenbach.

Dismissing their carriage before they reached the neighborhood of the
hall, they made their way to the entrance, and, after undergoing some
examination and cross-questioning, they succeeded in gaining admission,
though all native Americans were rigorously excluded.

The hall was located in the rear portion of the fourth story of a
cheap, plain building, and was seated with rough wooden benches. Every
window was closely curtained, and as the professor and his friend
entered, the dense smoke from bad tobacco, the stifling atmosphere, and
the general appearance of the motley crowd seemed rather forbidding.
They had been obliged to pass two sets of sentinels, but were excused
from giving signs and pass-words, under the plea of being recent
emigrants from Germany, and thorough friends of the “Revolution.” There
were present, perhaps, two hundred laborers of the lowest class, whose
brutal and debased faces revealed their quality at a glance. Small red
flags were festooned back of the platform, and on the sides of the
room. Piles of tracts and pamphlets of the most violent anarchic and
atheistic type, in the Polish, Bohemian, and German languages, were
ranged on shelves upon each side of the entrance, and also upon the
platform. Some of them were printed in red to give them a heightened
effect. The sentiments which they inculcated included the destruction
of all government, the laudation of Anarchy and Atheism, the hatred of
all who possessed property, and the advocacy of a general destructive
revolution which should bring all survivors to a level.

“This is a little more than we bargained for,” said the professor in a
whisper to his friend, as they quietly took the most obscure seats that
were unoccupied.

“That’s a fact, professor; if they should suspect that we are spies,
our position would be uncomfortable. They are bound by the most
terrible oaths to shield each other in any emergency in which they may
be placed.”

Three or four speakers occupied seats upon the platform. It was evident
from their appearance that they did not belong to the laboring class.
Their function was to agitate the stolid, passive material before them,
and mould it by inflaming passions of envy and hatred into such forms
and activities as they might choose. Incidentally they handled the
funds collected from the group, and also paved their way to political
preferment in those wards where they had “influence.”

The speaking began. One of the more enthusiastic orators emphasized his
harangue by waving a red flag, singing the Marseillaise, and also by
tearing into strips a small American flag, and trampling them under his
feet.

After three of the younger speakers, one each in the Polish, Bohemian,
and German tongues, had addressed the audience, the chairman announced
that the closing speech would be made by a German who had been one of
the leading anarchic spirits of Europe, and who had come to America to
help inaugurate the “Revolution” here.

“I present to the meeting ‘Comrade’ Stellmacher.”

As the speaker arose to begin his address, his face was rather pale,
his eyes fiery, and his long, bristling hair stood out so that it gave
him a wild and belligerent aspect. He surveyed his audience in silence
for a few moments, and then began an impassioned oration, of which but
a brief synopsis can be given. “My fellow-anarchists,” said he, “we
are met to consider the best means for the destruction of our combined
enemies, which are, the State, Religion, the Family, and Property.
We must let nothing in the world interfere with our single aim and
thought, the Revolution. We must break with the whole Civil Order and
all its laws, customs, and morals. For us there is, and must be, but
one pleasure, one duty, that of inexorable destruction. We must be
the enemy of all government and all its leadings and manifestations.
To destroy or take possession of the great stores and warehouses by
which we are surrounded, is our positive duty. _Our_ hands built them,
and they belong to _us_. We will take their accumulated products and
apply them to our own use and comfort. Firearms are too cumbersome and
expensive for our use, but explosives, scientific explosives, can be
brought within the reach of every one. Hurrah for science! Hurrah for
dynamite!”

These words were accompanied by violent gestures. His eyes shot forth
lurid gleams, and his pale face had become livid. Even through the
dense and murky atmosphere which filled the room, the professor saw two
bright scars flaming out upon the speaker’s cheek.

“Everything is sacred which will hasten the impending overturn,”
continued the speaker. “In such a service, robbery and murder become
only incidents in the war for progress.

“The ballot is a mockery! the courts are a lie! and this government,
as well as the monarchies of Europe, is a delusion and a sham! Your
servitude as wage-workers is worse than the slavery of the negro as it
existed years ago. We must strike a blow in order to be free. You must
learn to hate, and hate strongly, and let it be directed towards your
condition, and against all who, through the present system, keep you in
bondage.”

The audience soon dispersed, except a secret inside group of eight,
of whom the speakers formed a part, who remained behind for executive
business.

On the following day, as the professor took up an evening paper,
his eye fell on the displayed headlines of an article, of which the
following is a copy:--

  EXPLOSION ON THE WEST SIDE.

  A MAN FATALLY INJURED.

  The Fire Department was called out this morning to extinguish an
  incipient conflagration in Wallenstein Street, which was caused by
  a mysterious explosion. As accurately as can be ascertained, a man
  by the name of Stellmacher, or Frustadt, was handling some kind
  of explosive material, which accidentally became ignited, fatally
  injuring the man, wrecking the house, and setting it on fire. The
  flames were soon extinguished.

On the day succeeding the accident, the following telegram was received
by Van Roden, from the coroner of Chicago.

  TO JUNIUS VAN RODEN, CAMBRIDGE, MASS.

  A man by the name of Stellmacher, alias Frustadt, has died from the
  effects of an explosion. When he found that his injuries were fatal,
  he said that you were his nearest friend, and requested that his body
  be given to you. No one here claims his remains, and the authorities
  will forward them to you, if you will defray the necessary expense.

                                               V. P. VERMIGO, _Coroner_.

The following was the response:--

  V. P. VERMIGO, CORONER, CHICAGO.

  Please forward Stellmacher’s remains as proposed. I will defray all
  expenses.
                                                       JUNIUS VAN RODEN.

No medical college ever gained a more legitimate title to “a subject”
than Van Roden acquired by this transaction. The occupant and owner of
a fleshly tenement, finding that he no longer had use for it, turned it
over to his nearest friend. Having served its natural purpose, it might
as well be utilized artificially.

To Van Roden that lump of clay was all that remained of his friend. The
vital part had only been an attenuated material force or energy in a
high form of evolution, but was now disorganized and resolved into its
original elements.

Has a refined and intelligent animal in human form an inherent
immortality? This is a question which has puzzled theologians and
philosophers during all ages. St. Paul says, “The mind of the flesh
is _death_.” The sensuous mind comes to an end. The question recurs,
“Is there a spiritual residuum, which in any true sense can be called
personal, which continues?” Without attempting any distinct solution of
this problem, it is evident that the immaterial residuum of the human
animal is so lean, misshapen, and abnormal, that if it have continued
existence, it can only be through long processes of discipline,
corrective punishment, and education that, in _any degree_, approximate
spiritual harmony and perfection is possible.

There is a spark of Divinity in every human being; a “light which
lighteth every man that cometh into the world;” but it may fairly
be questioned whether or not, in the case of the individual who
leads merely a sensuous existence, the divine spark is in any degree
incorporated _into_ his personality. If it be, that is life; otherwise
all is death. Death cannot signify continued life. All that is evil
must die. If there be any future place, where life and evil conjointly
and eternally exist, then God can never become “_All in All_.” Evil,
not being a God-created power or entity, must be a mental condition of
man’s own creation. Its seat and throne are in “the mind of the flesh.”

In due time Stellmacher’s body was received by Van Roden. Its inanimate
features, as they were exposed, plainly expressed hatred and malignity.
The scars were still upon the cheek, but they had flamed out for the
last time.

We shall spare the reader any ghastly details of the dissection, which
was thoroughly and scientifically performed by Van Roden and some of
his fellow medical students.

Three days after it had taken place, Van Roden began to be conscious
of a soreness and inflammation upon one of his fingers. While engaged
in the operation, he accidentally had given it a slight incision with
the keen point of one of the instruments. It was so trivial at the time
that he hardly noticed it. Day by day the swelling increased, and the
inflammation extended through the arm, and finally it permeated his
entire system. The utmost efforts of the medical fraternity were futile
to arrest the progress of blood-poisoning which had set in.

In exactly two weeks subsequent to the evening when the dissection had
occurred, Van Roden followed Stellmacher.




CHAPTER XVIII.

_MR. BONBRIGHT’S FAILURE._


Mr. Bonbright, pale, weary, and anxious, was seated at his desk in his
busy counting-room. Every few moments a messenger entered hurriedly
with a report of the fluctuations in stock values as they were recorded
by the “ticker” in an adjoining room. He scanned each item of news with
an eager intensity, which indicated fear of impending disaster. Both
the stock and the bonds of the Great Consolidated Eastern and Western
Railroad Company had declined several “points” during the morning, and
should this continue in the afternoon it would mean positive ruin. Mr.
Bonbright and his partners had been leaders in the “syndicate” which
had projected and constructed this great thoroughfare, and they had
invested heavily in its securities.

Mr. Bonbright’s wide reputation for sagacity had also been instrumental
in leading many of his friends and acquaintances outside of the firm to
follow his example. His pride and ambition in bringing this enterprise
to successful completion had induced him to violate a lifelong rule and
an old adage: “Do not put too many eggs into one basket.”

The values of his manufacturing stocks had not recovered from the heavy
shrinkage of the previous summer, and for some time everything in which
he was interested had declined and collapsed, until the end seemed to
be drawing near. Any further downward movement would precipitate a call
from the banks for more “margin,” a demand to which he could not longer
make response.

As the day wore away, rumors of Mr. Bonbright’s condition reached
the ears of a few unscrupulous “bear operators,” who at once pounced
upon the stock of the “Great Consolidated,” and at two P.M. came the
fatal demand for additional collateral. His inability to provide for
the deficiency caused an immediate realization upon his securities,
which precipitated a panic in them; and when the clock struck the hour
of three, and the clicking of the ticker ceased, the failure of Mr.
Bonbright’s firm was announced on the Stock Exchange.

With feeble and tottering steps the great financier left his office,
and, with some assistance, was able barely to get into his carriage and
be driven to his palatial home on the Back Bay. Ever since the previous
summer his health had been precarious. The steady and persistent
decline for many months in securities, of the solidity of which he had
felt so confident, kept him “sick at heart.” Those things upon which,
for many years, he had maintained a firm hold, had been gradually
slipping from his grasp. He felt deeply his financial losses, but the
ruin of his prestige, the demonstration of his faulty judgment, and
utter failure of his supposed sagacity, cut him to the quick. For
months past, insomnia and nervous prostration had harassed him, but by
the vigorous exercise of a tenacious will-power, he had persistently
held the reins, until this crowning catastrophe snatched them from his
hand.

There is a law of correspondence which makes a man dependent upon, and
almost a part of, his environment. Let him abide in affluence, luxury,
and material prosperity, and by the working of this law they become
interwoven with his personality. Remove them suddenly, and he has lost
his life. This is plain, because his life consisted of these things.
Life is made up from environment, and takes its quality from it. If one
immerse himself in a correspondence which is precarious and temporary,
by this course he fastens these conditions about him.

The world in which Mr. Bonbright had “lived, moved, and had his being,”
was a sphere of pride, luxury, and intense ambition. His world had
come to an end, and nothing could release him from the wreck. He was
fastened to his environment by “hooks of steel.” It had been wrenched
from him, and he was left naked, wounded, and bleeding.

Mrs. Bonbright was utterly unable to offer any consolation to her
husband in their great misfortune, for she was in sore need of
consolation herself. She bewailed their hard lot. The prospect that
soon they would be compelled to give up their luxurious residence,
prominence in society, and even social position in her fashionable
church, was almost a death-blow. She groaned and writhed in agony at
the outlook. Instead of any words of comfort and cheer to sustain her
husband, she indulged in sharp and uncharitable criticism.

Mr. Bonbright never had professed to be more than a man of the world.
His wife had been punctilious in church observances, and was regarded
in her own religious circle as quite exemplary. The trial which she
now was undergoing uncovered qualities of character which had been hid
far below the surface. Strong undercurrents of pride and selfishness,
which long had been buried beneath accepted creeds, observed rituals,
and even under the active machinery of missionary and charitable
associations, now broke loose and asserted themselves.

Rosamond was mortified and reproachful. The brilliant wedding which she
had looked forward to in the near future, and in which she would be the
central and important figure, now seemed shadowy and retreating, when
viewed through the mist of present chaotic conditions. To her there
was no possible “silver lining” to the black clouds which overshadowed
them in this great storm of disaster. The things to which she had given
herself had suddenly dissolved into thin air.

Helen was the only one who maintained her calmness and self-possession,
and in the present emergency the whole family instinctively leaned upon
her. The props which sustained her had not been disturbed. Conscious
of her own influence upon those around her, she appeared even more
cheerful and light-hearted than usual.

Burton had been an occasional visitor since he had taken up his
residence in the city, but except on Helen’s part there had not been
any cordiality shown him. The rest of the family displayed a polite
coolness and formality, quite in contrast with the familiarity of Bar
Harbor. Mr. Bonbright had regarded Burton’s literary venture as utterly
chimerical, though in reality he comprehended nothing of its object
or merits. Mrs. Bonbright had an impression that he had renounced a
brilliant prospect in the clerical profession in consequence of having
accepted some visionary and heretical opinions, the nature of which did
not interest her.

Rosamond had been intensely absorbed with the gayety and whirl of
society, in which Burton took no interest, so that, aside from the warm
greeting which he uniformly received from Helen, his visits at the
Bonbright mansion previous to the failure had been of a ceremonious
character. Mr. and Mrs. Bonbright had all along suspected the possible
development of an attachment between Helen and Burton, but, without
any mention of the subject, they plainly disapproved of any increase
of familiarity. They believed that Burton’s social and financial
status was below the proper standard for their family aspiration.
Burton, though an educated and refined gentleman, was to them a
“plebeian.” Rosamond had often intimated to her sister that Burton was
too visionary and unsophisticated to render his company in any degree
desirable. He was outside of the boundary line of what she called
“society.” By delicate but well-understood allusions, she often put him
into an unfavorable perspective as contrasted with Lord Percival.

That intangible tribunal called “society” is always drawing lines
and fixing limits which prove to be as flimsy as cobwebs. The only
natural aristocracy is that of character. The artificial boundaries
which wealth, pride, and “blue blood” are continually erecting are as
unceasingly swept away by the storms of adversity. They are melted also
by the sunshine of prosperity. Character is the only reality, and is,
therefore, above all circumstances and incidents, and can afford to
bide its time.

On the day of the great failure, the evening press, under sensational
headlines, gave to the world the full particulars of the startling
disaster, and the collapse of the old and respectable firm was
represented as complete and irretrievable. These accounts furnished the
first intimation of the trouble which Burton received, and his impulse
was to go that very evening and tender his sympathy and any assistance
within his power. Upon a second thought he delayed his call until the
following evening.

The next day the hours dragged slowly, and his anxiety increased
to learn of the welfare of the family which had so suddenly been
overwhelmed by adversity. As to Helen, he felt persuaded that no
disaster could affect her seriously, but for the rest it would prove to
be a severe ordeal.

Evening at last arrived, and as he set out and slowly made his
way along the broad avenue he was filled with mingled thoughts and
emotions, and as he walked on through dark shadows, so sharply defined
by the glare of electric light, the contrast seemed to illustrate the
sudden transitions in human life and conditions. The shadows were
black, but they had no substance. Such were material calamities when
viewed from the true standpoint. He felt that it was within his power
to be of service to Helen in dissipating the gloom which enveloped the
stricken family. It was not the _I_ which could accomplish this, but
the _we_. There was a peculiar sweetness about the plural personal
pronoun, which lingered with him until he bounded up the familiar
steps and gave a vigorous pull at the door-bell. He was shown into the
reception-room; and presently Helen entered and cordially greeted him,
and, after the usual salutations, Burton introduced the topic which
weighed heavily on his heart.

“Miss Bonbright,” he began, “I wish to tell you how much I am pained
to learn of the great misfortune that has befallen your father, and I
have come to inquire as to the welfare of the family, and express my
sympathy and solicitude.”

“You are extremely kind to think of us,” replied Helen. “Those whose
friendship is not cooled by our adversity we shall highly appreciate.”

“I trust that your father and mother, and also your sister, bear up
well under the severe shock.”

“My father is prostrated, and confined to his bed,” was the sad
response, “and mother and sister have felt unable to receive any one
to-day. They requested me to beg you to excuse them. Father’s intense
nervous excitement is pathetic to behold.”

“I hope that he may be able to find some intimation of a possible
‘bright side,’ even in such a time of trial as this,” said Burton.

“Thus far I have found it exceedingly difficult to make him realize
that there can be any possible consolation. He feels that all is lost,
and that nothing is left for him but to die, and his life be regarded
as a failure.”

“As a family, I suppose you have not had sufficient time in which to
consider plans for the future. Surely you will appreciate the fact that
my interest and not my curiosity prompts this inquiry?”

“Certainly,” replied Helen, “and, knowing your motive, I will be
perfectly frank with you. In the natural course of events we shall be
obliged soon to vacate this house, and find a small and inexpensive
home in a more secluded street, or possibly in the suburbs. On account
of your friendly interest, I feel at liberty to inform you that my
mother has a small property in her own right that is not involved,
which, with economy, may enable us to live in an humble manner. I shall
probably teach after everything is arranged, and we have become settled
in some cheap but I hope cosey little home.”

Helen Bonbright was well aware that she was talking to a tried friend,
otherwise she would have been less communicative.

“If father feels able to have you sit by his side for a while, I shall
regard it as a great favor if you feel so inclined.”

“I shall be most happy, in case he will not consider it to be an
intrusion.”

“You will do so upon _my_ suggestion, you know,” was Helen’s reply, as
she disappeared from the room. Soon she reappeared, observing as she
came in, “At my request he is willing to see you. I am sure that under
the circumstances you will excuse any impatience and nervousness that
he may exhibit.”

She immediately conducted Burton to the door of a capacious and
luxurious chamber, and in a sweet and subdued voice announced their
entrance, and then quietly withdrew. Burton advanced softly to the
bedside, and, taking Mr. Bonbright’s hand, gave a cordial greeting as
he seated himself near his friend.

“I thank you for your willingness to receive a short call from me,”
said Burton in a gentle and cheerful tone, “and I will try not to weary
you. I shall be glad, if possible, to be of some service.”

Mr. Bonbright looked ten years older than when Burton had last met him,
and his swollen eyes, white face, and unnatural expression were so
marked that elsewhere he scarcely would have recognized him.

“Many thanks for your kindness,” observed Mr. Bonbright, “but I assure
you that it is impossible for any one to render me aid. My fortune and
reputation for business sagacity are gone; my life-work is in ruins,
and the members of my family are thrown on their own resources. The
blow is fatal, and I see nothing before me but a lingering invalidism,
with the end not far away.”

“You speak of having lost all, Mr. Bonbright. I have seen no imputation
upon your business honor and integrity, and surely these are not
destroyed.”

“Oh, no. I did not get so low as that,” was the desponding reply. “But
mere integrity is too common and intangible to count for much, and at
any rate it cannot restore that which is gone.”

“Pardon me, but integrity is more valuable and enduring than wealth or
sagacity. The qualities of moral character belong to the real man, but
wealth, and even financial acumen, are only incidental.”

“From one point of view that may be true, but the fact is that
financiering has been the work of my life, and I have really thought
of little else; and now all is swept away from me, and I am left bare,
absolutely bare, Mr. Burton.”

It was with touching pathos that he uttered these sentiments, and his
positive despair and hopelessness found expression in every movement
and feature.

“You will, I am sure, kindly permit me to offer a few friendly
suggestions with some degree of plainness,” said Burton.

“Ah! well; nothing you will suggest can make me any more miserable, for
that would be impossible; but I am of course ready to listen to your
well-meant and kindly expressions.”

“Pardon me if it startles you to suggest that what you feel is the
loss of all, may eventually prove to be the best thing which ever has
happened. When business pursuits fill the whole horizon of life, and
are separated from their higher connections, their pleasure and profit
soon fade out. That which is material is but the lower half of an
ideal life. As subordinated, or merely _as_ the lower half, and in its
normal place, it may be well; but otherwise it ends in failure. Let us
suppose that that which has been your life had continued as long as
your _natural_ life; is it not better that such a wrenching away should
come now than later, at the end? You have time now in which to develop
_another_ life, which will be real. An exclusively material life is
veritable death, and no one finds his higher or real life until his
lower or sensuous life becomes subordinate.”

“You would not expect one to give up the active exercise of his power
of accumulation so long as he were able to employ it, would you, Mr.
Burton?”

“As an end, or a life, I would say, yes; but as a means, no. The
distinction is as wide as can exist between opposites. A man who
employs wealth as a means, while diffusing the glow of a higher
life all around him, re-enforces his own vital springs. As an _end_,
it shrivels, contracts, and finally crushes its victim who has come
into bondage to it. The vital fact to the soul, or the real man, is
the recognition of his wholeness in his Maker. If he seek to find
completeness in the incidents of material existence, the failure will
be radical. Out of our weakness may come our strength, and I feel
assured that this will be the case with you. If you will permit a
further suggestion, let me urge that while you lie here you will not
again mentally live over your past life; but rather begin laying the
foundations for the real and new. There may be deep and painful effort
at first, but the exercise will grow pleasanter as it progresses. Let
your mental resting-place be in eternal verities. This will prove
a balm to the barrenness and soreness from which you suffer, and a
spiritual glow will follow, which will also find expression in improved
physical conditions. Seek to find a new spiritual environment in such
thoughts by holding them firmly in your consciousness, and let ‘bygones
_be_ bygones.’ I trust that you will pardon the friendly liberty that I
have taken.”

“Oh, most assuredly!”

Only a few words further were said before Burton arose to take his
leave.

“I thank you sincerely for this call, Mr. Burton, and I shall be glad
if you will pay me another visit.”

“I shall be much pleased to come again whenever it will suit your
pleasure and convenience.” Burton offered his hand, and Mr. Bonbright
grasped it with much warmth, and then the former quietly retired.

“What do you think of my father’s condition?” inquired Helen, as Burton
rejoined her in the reception-room.

“I feel very sanguine that he will rally from the shock, and from
the negation of his past life. The law of compensation has broad and
wonderful applications, and, despite his present conditions, it is
indeed quite possible that the seeming disaster may prove a ‘blessing
in disguise.’”

She cordially thanked him for his kindness to her father, and for his
words of cheer, and hoped soon to see him again.

As Burton retraced his steps, the play of the lights and shadows upon
the pavement again aroused fancies, and, this time, of a delicious
nature. His thoughts flew back to the delightful presence, which since
their first meeting had ever been an inspiration. Just as always
before, she seemed utterly unconscious of herself. Scarcely a thought
had been given to the great calamity in its relations to her own
personality. Her mother, sister, and especially her father, were the
objects of her solicitude, and it did not require the poetic fancy of
Burton, as a lover, to invest her with ideal qualities. They existed.
Her rare loveliness was only soul-beauty in outward expression.
Soul-love is a unison of the divine part of two natures, which melts
down the walls which have been built around self.

Burton had always regarded Mr. Bonbright’s large wealth in the light
of an obstacle to the realization of his hopes, and had been conscious
that it rendered impossible that correspondence of outward condition
between Helen and himself which ideally should exist between lovers.
Though himself prospectively well-to-do, there had been such a chasm
between his own position and that of the daughter of a millionnaire
as to seriously complicate the situation, but that chasm had now been
closed. Not that it would have made the slightest difference with
Helen’s decision, if her heart approved; but now opposition and
criticism on the part of others had been disarmed. Helen Bonbright,
personally, had met with no loss of environment, for she had been
always above the incidental in worldly conditions. Up to the present
time, Edward Burton had made no approach to her nearer than the
boundary line of friendship; nor had she in any manner invited a closer
intimacy. He had not received the slightest external token that she
regarded him as more than a sincere friend.

On the fourth day after Mr. Bonbright’s failure, a letter, postmarked
“Chicago,” was received by Rosamond, that read as follows:

  MY DEAR MISS ROSAMOND,--It is with deep pain and regret that I have
  learned from the public press that your esteemed father has been
  overtaken by financial ruin. It seems especially trying that such a
  fate should have befallen one so long eminently successful in every
  undertaking, and whose name has been a synonym for financial sagacity
  and honor. Please convey to him my sincere regard, and hope that
  fortune may again smile upon him, so that in time he may, in no small
  measure, recover from the disaster which has overtaken him.

  Now, my dear Miss Rosamond, as to our relations each to the other:
  why has fate been so cruel to us? I began to be interested in
  you from the first time we met, and as our intimacy increased, I
  realized the remarkable congeniality of our views, tastes, and
  aspirations, and, consequently, my affection for you became more
  deeply established. Your fortune seemed ample to render your alliance
  with one of my station suitable, and even desirable, and I looked
  forward fondly to the full consummation of our plans and hopes. It
  is with the utmost delicacy and consideration that I suggest, what
  you have already recognized, doubtless, that the marked change in
  your prospects puts a new aspect upon the arrangements which we
  had planned. I know that you are sufficiently acquainted with the
  world, my dear Miss Rosamond, to be well aware of what is proper
  and conventional in the making-up of a matrimonial alliance. The
  misfortune which has come in between us is a matter which is neither
  your fault nor mine; but it is really the cruel hand of destiny,
  which by a blow has dashed the cup of bliss from our lips as we were
  about to quaff its nectar. The world is full of such disagreeable
  experiences, and it becomes necessary for us to bring to bear all our
  philosophy, that we may overcome their influence. The _consensus_
  of society has formed certain positive, though perhaps unwritten,
  metes and bounds, and it seems necessary that we should recognize
  them rather than bid them defiance. We are neither of us responsible
  for them. In England an alliance of rank with wealth is tolerated
  as within conventional limits; but the absence of both in one party
  renders it unsuitable.

  Your personal accomplishments qualify you to grace any position,
  and on this account I could wish that the requirements of social
  etiquette were less exacting.

  Now, my dear friend, I beg of you to regard this whole matter as a
  pleasant adventure, which, though it has been of short duration, has
  been enjoyable. I feel certain that your good-sense will lead you to
  consider the whole affair as not at all serious.

  I implore you, let us ever remain friends, and I shall be glad always
  to hear of your welfare. Please forgive anything seemingly abrupt
  or inconsiderate in this friendly communication, for I have great
  respect for you.

  With kind regards to all, I remain

                                          Your friend and admirer,
                                                               PERCIVAL.

  P.S. Letters to the care of my bankers, Grey Brothers & Co., New-York
  City, will be forwarded to me, as they are kept advised of my
  whereabouts.

“The heartless wretch!” exclaimed Rosamond, as she finished reading
the missive. “I don’t love him now, nor never have.” And she tore the
letter into long strips and trampled them under her feet.




CHAPTER XIX.

_MR. BONBRIGHT’S ILLNESS._


Mr. Bonbright grew weaker in body and more distressed in mind, and
Dr. Podram, the family physician, sadly announced to the family that
within a week or two the worst might be expected. The patient was
not surprised at the doctor’s prediction, and looked for nothing
better. Helen paid little attention to the lugubrious prognostication,
and was firm in the conviction that her father would recover. Mrs.
Bonbright and Rosamond were stunned by the prospect which now suddenly
opened before them, for which they were totally unprepared. They had
been so thoroughly occupied in bewailing their own loss of fortune
and position, that they had given little serious attention to Mr.
Bonbright’s condition. Their love for the husband and father could
not be called in question, but it had been greatly obscured by the
uncharitable assumption that he was at fault in bringing about the
present dilemma, and should have prevented it. Such implications were
felt keenly by him, and made the burden heavier which was already
of crushing weight. His only consolation came from Helen. Every day
she would sit by him and strive ingeniously to divert his mind by
arousing new hopes and higher aspirations, and by evoking a new mental
environment. The doctor’s unexpected announcement was like a flash of
lightning in revealing to Mrs. Bonbright and Rosamond the unconscious
selfishness which had darkened the recesses of their own hearts. Their
unfeeling criticism was now softened, and they strove to make amends
for unsympathetic harshness. Added to the grief over words which could
not be unsaid, was the deeper pathos of impending separation and
loneliness.

How the near approach of death brushes away the incidental in life,
tears off its tinsel and its material attachments, revealing their
nothingness!

Helen was untiring in filial love and devotion. As she was sitting
by her father’s side on the evening following the doctor’s memorable
visit, his face brightened up somewhat, and, turning towards her, he
said,--

“Burton made some very plain suggestions to me the other night; but
the more I have thought of them, the more they have impressed me. He
thought that I had lost my life because the things of which it was
composed had been swept away, and told me that it was better that the
wrenching should happen now than at the end of my natural life, because
there was now time to build anew; but I think the time is altogether
too short. I rested entirely upon material foundations, and the fire
of adversity has turned them to ashes. It is too late to repair the
damage. Too late! too late!”

Hot tears coursed down his cheeks, and his features were the picture of
despair.

“My life has been all a mistake,” he continued, as he covered his face
with his hands.

“Dear father, it can be rectified. You can have a new life. The moment
you have a _desire_ for it, it begins to be yours. In the language of
another, ‘All that in any life you know of, or can imagine, that seems
to you lovely and to be longed for, is yours already in that longing.’
Material wealth cannot be had for the asking, but spiritual treasures
are overflowing, and only waiting for room to bestow themselves. ‘Ask,
and ye shall receive.’ I came across some beautiful extracts to-day,
which have been translated from a German book written more than two
hundred years ago. If it would please you, I should be glad to read
them aloud.”

The father looked up into his daughter’s face with the utmost
dependence and tenderness, and said that he would be glad to hear them.

With pathetic sweetness of voice, she read to him quotations from the
book entitled “The Cherubic Pilgrim.”

  “God’s spirit falls on me as dewdrops on a rose,
   If I but like a rose my heart to Him unclose.”

  “The soul wherein God dwells--what church can holier be?--
   Becomes a walking tent of heavenly majesty.”

  “Lo! in the silent night a child to God is born,
   And all is brought again that e’er was lost or lorn.”

  “Could but thy soul, O man, become a silent night,
   God would be born in thee, and set all things aright.”

  “Ye know God but as Lord, hence Lord his name with ye;
   I feel him but as Love, and Love his name with me.”

  “How far from here to heaven? Not very far, my friend;
   A single hearty step will all thy journey end.”

  “Though Christ a thousand times in Bethlehem be born,
   If he’s not born in thee thy soul is all forlorn.”

  “Hold there! Where runnest thou? Know heaven is in thee;
   Seekest thou for God elsewhere, his face thou’lt never see.”

  “In all eternity no tone can be so sweet
   As where man’s heart with God in unison doth beat.”

  “Whate’er thou lovest, man, that, too, become thou must:
   God, if thou lovest God; dust, if thou lovest dust.”

  “Ah! would the heart but be a manger for the birth,
   God would once more become a Child on earth.”

  “Immeasurable is the Highest; who but knows it?
   And yet a human heart can perfectly enclose it.”

“Please read them once more, Helen, and slowly--very slowly.”

Helen read them again with deliberation.

“Beautiful sentiments!” he exclaimed. “I never before saw anything
attractive in a religious life, and I have been blind to the sweet
spirit of what you have read, for it is all new to me.”

“Religion is harmony with God,” replied the faithful daughter. “He
made us for Himself, and we are restless until we find rest in
Him. Believing in Christ is not merely relying upon the historic
Jesus as a substitute for us in the punishment for sin, but means
Christ-_likeness_, thinking like Him, and having His life and nature.
Christ is the everlasting expression of God’s love to man, and
that love, being eternal, is not limited by any special plan which
culminated eighteen hundred years ago. Jesus externally expressed
that everlasting love so that man on his low plane could better grasp
and comprehend it. Otherwise, it would have fallen short of being
intelligible to him. Divine love followed humanity down to its own
level and into its own form, and thus God became man. Such was the
Incarnation.”

“Love like that deserves a response in men’s hearts--in my heart,” said
Mr. Bonbright.

The loving daughter bent forward and kissed her father, pressing his
hand at the same time, and saying, “Such a response is heaven begun.”

“I always thought of heaven as a place, where, if one were fortunate
enough to get inside, one would be happy,” said the father.

“No man can get into heaven until heaven is first within his own
heart,” she replied. “Heaven is love, truth, purity, and, once begun
within, it is the living, ever-present proof of a heaven to come.”

“All my life I have been in the dark,” said the pale invalid, “but
now I behold light. It seems like a bright and beautiful dawn. I have
discovered a new kind of love. My dear daughter, I really feel it.”

“Dear father,” said Helen, again grasping his hand, “heaven is _here_.
Its foundations have been laid within you.”

The patient, overcome by fatigue and weakness, with a trustful
resignation, gently closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful sleep.

The next day Dr. Podram feared that the end was approaching, as
indicated by extreme faintness and weakness. He informed the family
that nothing more could be done, except perhaps by way of making use
of palliatives for temporary relief, and that heart failure might be
anticipated at any hour. With a hopeless tone he observed, “It is
possible that stimulants and concentrated nourishment may prolong his
existence for a day or two, but I am able to make no promise.”

After the doctor took his departure, Helen despatched a note to Burton,
which read as follows:

  MY DEAR MR. BURTON,--My father has expressed a desire to see you
  again. Your interview with him the other evening broke up barren
  fallow ground and made it mellow and receptive, and I have since been
  able to sow some seed which has sprung up. The spiritual man has
  _new_ life, but the physical part is weak--very, very weak. I shall
  deem it a great favor if you will kindly comply with his wishes, and,
  if convenient, come and sit with him this evening,

                                          Cordially yours,
                                                        HELEN BONBRIGHT.

Soon after the shades of night had fallen, Burton again made his way
along the broad avenue to the well-known palatial residence. On the
outside, everything was unchanged, only the light which shone out was
more subdued, and stillness reigned instead of the echoes of music and
voices, which in other days were plainly heard. The deep and vital
transactions and experiences now taking place within these walls, which
would transform the color and character of lives, gave no external hint
of their mighty but silent operation.

Burton was cordially received by Helen, who at once accompanied him to
her father’s bedside. Upon the doctor’s representations, Mrs. Bonbright
and Rosamond had given up all hope, and almost regarded the husband and
father as already gone. Their grief being uncontrollable, they remained
in seclusion.

The invalid was able to converse in a low tone, and expressed great
pleasure in again seeing Burton. Even with his extreme feebleness his
cordiality was in marked contrast with the indifference displayed upon
the occasion of the first visit.

“I have not long to remain,” said he, as he turned his pallid but
cheerful face toward the young man, “but I am glad to inform you that
I have found the new environment and am living in it. When the cords
snapped which bound me to the old, I did not suppose it possible that
I could so soon surround myself with the new. My hold upon it is yet
weak, but while my physical existence is fading out, my spiritual life
is growing stronger.”

“I congratulate you upon the new experiences,” replied Burton. “The
spiritual sun was all the time shining, but now you have opened your
nature and it has shone in and filled you with its brightness. And now
pardon me if I again speak plainly, and urge you to utterly disregard
all suggestions that you are about to die. Deny firmly every such
thought in your own mind, and every such suggestion from others. I
am satisfied that you will _live_. Your new environment includes
substantial life, and you will rapidly receive vital re-enforcement.”

“But the doctor has given me up, and all except Helen and yourself
regard me as already in the confines of the ‘dark valley,’ and past
hope.”

“It is an illusion, and in God’s strength you must utterly dismiss it,”
replied Burton with some emphasis. “With all respect for the doctor, he
takes no account of spiritual forces. From a material standpoint there
is no visible remedy, but that is not the true point of view. _Materia
Medica_ takes no cognizance of the deepest realm of causation, but
deals with effects, externalities. God is your life and strength. ‘In
Him you live and move, and have your being.’ Grasp hold of spiritual
forces which are waiting for your recognition, and they will find
outward expression in bodily vigor.”

“But to regain one’s health by such means would be a miracle, Mr.
Burton. Have not the days for such manifestations long since passed?”

“It might have a miraculous tinge to the eye of material sense,”
said Burton, “but, rising above the mist into the clear sunlight
of spiritual understanding, it becomes divinely natural. From the
standpoint of the _real_, it loses all traces of strangeness,
abnormity, and supernaturalness, and is found to be orderly,
scientific, and available.”

“If so potent and useful, why is it not more generally relied upon?”

“Because from the sensuous plane, where the multitudes are living,
enveloped in the dust of materiality, it is _unintelligible_. Evidence,
to be of value to them, must come within range of the lower senses. In
its essence, the physical man is only a system of instruments for the
convenience of the _intrinsic_ man in communicating with the external
world. Effect is secondary to and lower than causation; in other words,
the lower is always acted upon and moulded by that which is above it.
This principle is scientific and universal. The mental nature is above
the physical, and the latter must therefore be the expression--the
effect. To accomplish a result, we should operate upon the cause.”

“It does seem logical and even scientific, Mr. Burton, but does it
accord with revelation?”

“Perfectly,” replied the visitor. “Promises to those who recognize
this truth, and live in it, are like the stars of heaven for number,
but to dull material sense they have no significance. What a wealth of
blessing is poured out upon those who ‘dwell in the secret place of the
Most High’! In a grand summing-up, St. Paul says, ‘_All_ things are
yours,’ and, again, ‘Ye are complete in Him.’ Jesus says, ‘These signs
shall follow them that believe;’ and among the signs enumerated it is
declared ‘they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.’
Are ‘them that believe’ limited to a single generation? If God withdrew
such gifts after bestowing them upon the apostolic age, would He be a
God ‘without variableness or shadow of turning’?

“But, better than all, practical demonstrations of these principles are
taking place all round us. Many affirm, ‘it cannot be possible,’ and
with those who so express themselves, such a declaration comprehends
_their whole investigation_. In so far as we can free ourselves from
materialistic slavery, and deny the prevailing race acceptance of
physical and mental disorders as God-created entities to be feared and
expected, and constantly _affirm_ our wholeness in God, our minds and
bodies will express health. A positive recognition and earnestly sought
companionship of the Immanent Spirit will guide us into all truth, and
the truth will make us _free_.”

“I believe these beautiful thoughts have already inspired me with added
vigor,” exclaimed the invalid, as his pallid countenance brightened.

“Please _rivet_ your thought upon them, and fasten the world out of
your mentality, and listen in the silence for the ‘still small voice’
which will speak peace and be a healing balm. Sink _self_-consciousness
in a _Divine_ consciousness.”

The weary eyes gently closed, and the pale features were a picture of
restful trust and faith.

A _Presence_ was there, but it was invisible to material sense.

For half an hour profound silence reigned, unbroken save by a gentle
clock-tick which marked the passing moments.

To the two souls, for the time being, there was _no world, no body_;
but only _Universal All-embracing Spirit_.

At length the deep and regular respiration of Mr. Bonbright indicated
that a gentle slumber had fallen upon him.

Burton quietly withdrew.

There was no marked change in the physical condition of the invalid
during the next two or three days, although at intervals he showed more
vigor and a slight recuperation of strength. In his mentality, however,
a wonderful transformation was apparent. The dark shadow of approaching
dissolution had been dispelled, and a sunny hopefulness and almost
buoyancy had taken its place. No conscious experience of suffering
remained. With the utmost confidence, and even exuberance of spirits,
he declared his expectation of speedy recovery.

Dr. Podram was astonished at the unexpected revolution in his
patient’s feelings. He inquired particularly as to everything which
had taken place, and in regard to the possible use of any remedy aside
from his own prescriptions. He found his anodynes unused, and the
patient insisted that they were quite unnecessary. After a few formal
suggestions in regard to the invalid’s diet, he took his leave in a
condition of great perplexity.

At Burton’s request, Helen kept him informed regarding her father’s
progress by brief daily reports.

Mrs. Bonbright could not remain insensible to the influence of the glow
which filled the soul of her husband, and she and Rosamond emerged from
their seclusion.

Adelbert left his studies and pleasures when his father was taken ill,
and had since been attentive to everything pertaining to the care of
the family and estate. He was untiring in his effort to rescue some
remnants from the financial wreck, and this endeavor so engrossed his
attention that he had spent but little time in his father’s company
since the failure.

About a week subsequent to his last visit, Burton again made a
friendly call. On this occasion he received a welcome greeting from
Mrs. Bonbright and Rosamond, and, in response to Mr. Bonbright’s
request, all gathered in his room. He was sitting propped up in bed,
and, as the visitor came near, the invalid grasped his hands and gave
him a hearty benediction. While still pale, there was a light in his
eye and a smile on his face which betokened restoration and, in a
profound sense, _resurrection_. He was the same; yet, in the light
of a deeper discernment, he was another. A man had died, and another
had been born. The environment from which the dead man had drawn his
sustenance was pride, ambition, avarice, self, and the _earth_. Such
nourishment finally expressed itself in unrest, disease, and despair.
The new man was basking in the warm sunshine of love, joy, peace, and
unselfishness, and they brought forth harmony--the Kingdom of Heaven
within.

“I rejoice to see your marked improvement,” exclaimed the young man.
“A single glance shows that the despair which enshrouded you has
vanished. Please accept my congratulations.”

“Your last visit was my turning-point,” responded Mr. Bonbright. “I
can never fully express my thanks for your wonderful influence and
assistance. My debt of gratitude can never be discharged.”

“I am conscious of a debt _to you_,” replied Burton. “The happiness I
have in the thought of having aided you, vastly more than rewards me
for the slight service. Any overflow of kindly interest in another is
as great a boon to the giver as to the recipient.”

“What a glorious principle,” responded Mr. Bonbright, “and how unlike
most commercial transactions.”

“Yes, it is a grand truth that as fast as man can pour out, the Divine
repletion flows in.”

“Is it not strange that the world is so color-blind to that principle?”
said Helen, “for it is the vital force of religion.”

“Yes,” replied Burton, “it is difficult for man to arise out of the
dark tomb of tradition and belief, through the death of self, and
clothe himself with a divine consciousness, although nothing seems
more simple after its accomplishment. The sensuous veil must be rent
in twain before the divine selfhood or ‘mind of Christ’ is revealed.
Rituals, ordinances, sacraments, creeds, and institutions are but the
external letter, while the interaction of Divine and human currents of
love flowing in unison is the spirit. Every page of the New Testament
is redolent with the sweet aroma of ministry and service, while it
hardly hints at organization, or gives any intimation of ritual or
creed even the simplest and most brief. The truth of the Bible is to
the book what the spirit is to flesh.”

“But the Bible contains definite commands,” observed Mrs. Bonbright,
“and is it not our duty to recognize its authority? We designate it as
‘the guide of our lives.’”

“I recall a sentiment,” observed Burton, “which to my mind so admirably
satisfies your inquiry that you will pardon me if I quote it,--

  “‘The outward word is good and true,
    But inward power alone makes new;
    Not even Christ can save from sin
    Until He comes and works within.’”

“What you call a spiritual interpretation of Scripture, I have always
regarded as a lax and unwarranted method of lowering its authority as
the ‘Word of God,’” said Mrs. Bonbright. “If we soften its definite and
pointed declarations, do we not lose the framework of religion?”

“Truth is eternal and harmonious,” replied Burton, “but the most
opposite and inharmonious doctrines are alike based upon the letter
of Scripture. Some one has said that the test of inspiration in any
writing is its efficacy to _inspire_ life with _goodness_. Looking
beneath the letter, the Bible does that in an incomparable degree.
True inspiration is God’s light in the soul, and _all_ can receive it,
differing in degree according to capacity and aspiration. The value
of the Bible consists not merely or mainly in its historic, dogmatic,
and ethical statements, but in its power as spiritual truth to kindle
and arouse that inward illumination which is ‘the Kingdom of Heaven’
within. It is an external means to an internal end. ‘Love is the
fulfilling of the law,’ and in proportion as love is supreme the law is
_outlawed_.”

“That is a beautiful conception, Mr. Burton, but may it not in some
measure detract from the reverence with which we should regard the
Bible?” observed Mrs. Bonbright.

“On the contrary, I think it honors the book more to apply our
discriminating and God-given reason to it in the same manner as to any
other book. It is an unconscious idolatry to make it an oracle and a
fetich.”

“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Bonbright. “That is the view which has
always repelled me from it, on the ground that it was unreasonable and
full of contradictions. I now see and feel its harmony and beauty.”

“The Spirit is a _direct_ teacher, while the Bible reveals truth
indirectly,” observed Burton. “The world, and even the church, has
largely displaced the direct with the indirect method of receiving
truth. That is a grand sentiment which was expressed by Fénelon. He
said: ‘We must lend an attentive ear, for God’s voice is soft and
still, and is only heard by those who hear nothing else. Ah! how rare
it is to find a soul still enough to hear God speak.’”

“I greatly respect your principles, for the remarkable demonstration
they have had upon my dear husband,” feelingly observed Mrs. Bonbright.
“He appears reconstructed physically and spiritually.”

“My dear friends,” exclaimed Mr. Bonbright, “I am yet an invalid and
have been stripped of my property, but from the bottom of my heart I am
thankful for it all. In no other way could I have practically learned
that the body is the least substantial part of man. I am happier than
when in the midst of my greatest successes achieved while in the race
for wealth and position.”




CHAPTER XX.

_HELEN BONBRIGHT’S TRIALS._

  “The world rolls round--mistrust it not,--
     Befalls again what once befell;
   All things return, both sphere and mote,
   And I shall hear my bluebird’s note,
     And dream the dream of Auburndell.”


Nature never falters. The blithesome days of May are upon us. The
gardens are painted with the joyful blaze of tulips, and the willow and
lilac are bursting into forms of soft-toned, plume-like beauty. All
nature is glowing with tender light and youthful cheer. The swelling,
joyous current of inner life is expanding bud and leaf and bough, and
is bursting forth into blossoms redolent with the perfumed breath of
spring. The morning of the long midsummer day has dawned, and flowers
and plants and trees are rejoicing in its brightness. The fresh,
tender green of the turf, the powdery tip of twig and branch, and the
scarlet hue of the bursting maple leaf are eloquent with gladness. The
blackbird, redwing, and robin make the woods echo with social glee
and jubilee. A quickening impulse of life has burst the bars of the
tomb of Winter, and a resurrection has transformed the face of nature
and clothed it with a wealth of forms and flush of hues. In this
happy springtime the vigorous pulsation of exuberant life everywhere
manifests its redundant and overflowing energy.

In the midst of a setting of green turf, flowers, blossoming plants,
and clinging vines, stood a rather small but cosey cottage, a little
removed from the public street. Every detail betokened a snug and
comfortable home; an abode of comfort, though not of luxury, pervaded
with an air of quiet rural felicity.

On a beautiful May morning, while the sun’s rays were shooting
through the waving tree-tops overhead, variegating flowers, turf, and
shrubbery, with trembling lights and shadows, two young ladies were
busily engaged among the flower-beds in front of the cottage. One of
them, with a small trowel, was setting out plants as she deftly removed
them from small pots, and the other was bringing water and aiding in
the process. They were the twin sisters. This vine-clad, rural cottage,
located in an immediate yet quiet suburb less than four miles from the
“gilded dome,” was the home of the Bonbrights.

Let us make a hasty retrospection over the few months which have sped
by since Mr. Bonbright’s illness, so that scattering threads may be
gathered up.

While he was passing through the early stages of his terrible struggle
beneath the ruins of his collapsed physical and mental environment,
some important, helpful influences were at work, of which he was
unaware.

On the day following that upon which the great failure was publicly
announced, Colonel Tapley visited the office of his friend to tender
his sympathy and aid. Much to his regret, he found Mr. Bonbright
absent on account of sudden illness, and affairs at the office in a
demoralized and chaotic condition. The junior partners were almost
paralyzed at the sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, and Adelbert,
from lack of experience, was entirely wanting in such executive ability
as was indispensable in this kind of an emergency.

Adelbert informed Colonel Tapley that his father’s condition was such
that his physician had interdicted any mention of business to him, and
that several weeks would probably elapse before he would be able to
give any attention to financial affairs. He presented Colonel Tapley
to the junior partners as a near friend of his father’s, whose advice
and influence might be of value during the crisis in which they were so
deeply involved.

“I shall be most happy,” said Colonel Tapley, “to be of any possible
service during the enforced absence of my friend, and, if you so
desire, I will confer with you every day in regard to any possible
settlement, or perhaps looking to a resumption, if found to be
practicable.”

“I am unable to express my sense of gratitude for your kindness,”
replied Adelbert, “and if by your counsel and direction you will
aid us, my father, upon his recovery, will highly appreciate your
generosity.”

The junior partners gladly accepted the suggestion, and were anxious
that Colonel Tapley might at once make an examination of their affairs,
and advise them as to the wisest course to be pursued.

“Please make up a complete statement, in a concise form, of the
business of the suspended firm, and have it in readiness when I
call to-morrow,” said the colonel, “and we will give it thorough
consideration.”

After further directions regarding the form and details of the
proposed exhibit, he took his departure. By a rapid movement he was
able to see most of the large creditors that same afternoon, and
at his suggestion they arranged for an informal meeting the next
morning. The rumor immediately became prevalent upon “the street”
that Colonel Tapley had “taken the helm” at Mr. Bonbright’s office,
and that he would render his aid to enable the firm to resume.
Colonel Tapley’s sterling reputation rendered his name, of itself,
“a tower of strength.” The moral effect produced by the news was
important, and confidence became greatly strengthened, even before
it was known whether or not he would consent to make any pecuniary
advances. It resulted from the developments of the next day that all
legal proceedings which had been begun against the suspended firm
were withdrawn, and a proposition received from the largest creditors
offering a long, voluntary extension, and continued good-will towards
the establishment in the event of its resumption of business. Under
Colonel Tapley’s efficient administration, order was rapidly evolved
out of chaos, and in three days after he assumed direction, things
looked promising for a solution of the whole problem. He made advances
of a sufficient amount to pay off the smaller creditors and for other
necessary immediate requirements preliminary to a continuance of the
business. The arrangement by which the larger creditors were to grant
an extension was put into proper form, and it turned out that in one
week from the date of the suspension the house again opened its doors
for business. A marked reaction and recovery in market values also took
place, and confidence was restored to such a degree that there was an
important advance in the prices of the securities which were held by
the suspended firm. It must not be supposed that the immense losses of
several months previous could be speedily recovered, but a snug amount
was rescued from the great wreck, and a continuance of the business
insured, though upon a diminished scale. By the time that Mr. Bonbright
had sufficiently recovered to be able to receive information upon
financial matters, his firm was already upon a reconstructed basis,
with transactions moderate in volume but of promising magnitude.

It will be recalled that at the time of Burton’s visit to Mr.
Bonbright--an account of which was given at the close of the preceding
chapter--a considerable improvement was already apparent in the
condition of the patient. Two or three days later, Burton called again,
and found such a perceptible increase of strength that it was evident
that the introduction of business topics need not longer be delayed,
especially in view of the favorable character of the announcement which
was to be made. The family wished Burton to break the news to him. They
had gained such confidence in the young man’s discretion that they
were inclined to defer every important matter to his judgment. After
congratulating Mr. Bonbright upon his marked improvement, Burton at
once proceeded to impart the proposed information.

“My dear Mr. Bonbright,” he began, “I have the pleasure of informing
you that your affairs are reconstructed, and your firm again doing
business at the old stand.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the banker. “I cannot rightly understand you.”

Burton repeated the announcement.

“What has happened? Who has done it? I gave it all up long ago.”

“It is entirely due to the aid and devotion of Colonel Tapley.”

The invalid covered his face with his hands, and his breast heaved with
violent emotion.

“What a wonderful man! Is it possible that he again came to my rescue?
He was under no obligation to me. In behalf of my dear family I can
never thank him enough.”

“He finds pleasure in doing you this favor. He did not wait to
ascertain if you owed him any obligation. His nature is so noble that
such an opportunity for service comes to him in the light of a boon.
Your adversity gave his friendly devotion and generosity a field for
exercise, which, a failure to improve, would have been a loss to him.”

“That brings to light a grand principle,” replied Mr. Bonbright, “which
the world is slow to learn. My apparent calamity has been a blessing
to me, and also to him. That is a wonderful law, by which a seeming
evil works good at the same time in two directions. In the economy of
humanity, it seems almost necessary that some cups should be empty
to make room for the overflow of others, and for the development of
sweetness in both. I assure you, however, that my gratitude will
be none the less hearty because of his obligation to me for an
‘opportunity.’ Please invite him to call at his earliest convenience.”

Burton took his leave and conveyed the message as desired.

The next day Colonel Tapley paid a visit to the stately mansion on
Commonwealth Avenue. The measure of gratitude poured upon him by Mrs.
Bonbright, Helen, and Rosamond seemed boundless. He modestly disclaimed
any special credit, and assured them that he had called only at Mr.
Bonbright’s urgent invitation. He was shown to the room of his friend.

“My noble benefactor,” exclaimed the invalid, as he grasped Colonel
Tapley’s hands and shook them with much earnestness, “I am unable to
express my thanks and my gratitude.”

“My dear friend,” replied the genial visitor, “quiet yourself; that
would be wholly unnecessary.”

“I have discovered the principle which you work upon,” enthusiastically
observed the banker, “and will give you an assurance which I think will
be the most acceptable thanks which I can offer. _When opportunity
is given to me, I will do likewise._ I have but just found the
‘Philosopher’s Stone’ with which you have had a long acquaintance. I
have wasted my past life in the pursuit of wealth as an end, and have
been in bondage to ambition and selfish acquirement.”

“I rejoice with you, Mr. Bonbright, that you have freed yourself from
the servitude of the masters which you mention, and are now a free man.
Wealth is a blessing, but that peculiar passion in the human mind which
looks past it as a means, and fastens it around self, is slavery and
idolatry.”

The two were in unison. The fire upon the altar of Mr. Bonbright’s
inmost being had not long been kindled, but it burned brightly, and its
flame lighted up the whole apartment.

Burton found his time and energies taxed to their utmost, in the
discharge of his duties as editor of the new magazine, which was
unexpectedly successful from the beginning, as it supplied a great
want. The materialistic trend of the times, and the sullen atheism,
agnosticism, and scepticism, which, like a flood, had come as a
reaction from an unreasonable, scholastic, and dogmatic theology,
imperatively demanded the use of such an agency. Nothing but the white
light of spiritual truth and harmony could cheer and illumine the souls
of men when saturated with prevailing chilliness and pessimism. The
lofty and helpful tone of the new periodical had touched a responsive
chord in thousands of longing, weary hearts. The illuminating power of
its clear-cut and loving spirituality disclosed on the left the sharp
slimy reefs of the “Scylla” of materialism, and on the right the shoal
quicksands of the “Charybdis” of a ceremonial literalism, while between
flowed the warm divine current of spiritual truth through which its
course was set.

The rapidly growing influence and success of the magazine induced
Tapley, also, to actively engage himself upon it, as being the most
promising channel through which he could reach the hearts of the
people. His devotion to Burton seemed deeper than ever before, and it
was reciprocated with equal earnestness. Upon Tapley’s solicitation,
seconded earnestly by his father and mother, Burton was induced to
leave his boarding-place and become one of the family at Colonel
Tapley’s. Among their familiar friends the two young men were often
jocosely referred to as “David and Jonathan.”

Mr. Bonbright rapidly recovered from his illness, and in five weeks
from the time of the failure he was able to go to his office and again
resume the charge of affairs. A week later the family removed from
their palatial residence to the snug little home just outside the
city, which has already been described. On the day of their removal
Mr. Bonbright was in his happiest mood. As the family gathered for the
first time around the fireside in the comfortable parlor, he expressed
himself as delighted with the change.

“In this quiet little haven,” he exclaimed, “the cares of business
shall never enter. I have been emancipated from its servitude. It no
longer owns my soul and body, and its province is subordinate.” He
now enjoyed his family, and they enjoyed him. Before his failure he
was scarcely acquainted with them. Lofty meditation, choice reading,
conversation, flowers, nature, everything which tended to lift him out
of his lower self and stimulate his higher nature, was what he sought.
Things were delightful to him which before had no attractiveness. _He_
had removed from the damp unwholesome basement to the warm sunny upper
story of his nature. That part which comprises all that is substantial
in man had assumed its prerogative, while the incidental in life had
settled to its legitimate level.

Since the re-establishment of Mr. Bonbright’s affairs he had been
prosperous, and his business, while healthy and legitimate, was
steadily on the increase. Speculative enterprises were avoided. Old
customers returned, and new ones gradually came in. The fine property
on Commonwealth Avenue was disposed of at an excellent advantage, and
Colonel Tapley, among their other transactions, purchased the cottage
at Bar Harbor. On the first of May following the suspension, Mr.
Bonbright made a final settlement with his benefactor, and fully repaid
him for moneys advanced during the troublesome days which succeeded the
failure.

On the evening preceding the May morning when the sisters were engaged
among the flowers, Adelbert brought home an important piece of news.
He confidentially informed Rosamond of the fact that an apparently
well authenticated report was in circulation that Burton had become
engaged to Miss Tapley. “There is but little doubt,” said he, “that in
the not distant future Burton will become the colonel’s son-in-law. A
variety of reasons all combine to render the correctness of the report
exceedingly probable. The fact that Burton has left his boarding-place
and is received into the family, is very suggestive; and then the
well-known intense intimacy between him and Tapley adds to the
probability of such a situation.”

“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “and I believe that Burton has not visited us
quite as often of late as formerly, and, now that I recall it, I fancy
that his manner has been a little constrained. Everything considered, I
am convinced that the report is correct.”

“Do you think there has been any sort of understanding between Burton
and Helen?” inquired Adelbert. “You know that we have always fancied
they were fond of each other.”

“She has never told me of any understanding,” replied Rosamond, “and
I do not believe that a word has ever passed between them; but I am
certain that Helen greatly admires him. Whether or not her feeling is
anything deeper than admiration, she and a higher power only know. I
never saw two people before whose interests and opinions were so much
in unison as theirs.”

“I think you had better break the news to her, Rosamond, for it is
preferable that it should come from you, rather than that she should
learn of it accidentally outside. Of course there is no announced
engagement yet; otherwise Helen, being one of his best friends,
would be early informed, but that makes little difference so long as
everything points to the substantial fact. I think you should acquaint
Helen with the true state of affairs without delay, so that when the
announcement comes she may not be taken by surprise.”

“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “I think that to be the best course, but I
will consult mother about it first, and, at any rate, will not mention
the matter to Helen before to-morrow morning.”

Mrs. Bonbright was surprised at the report, but, from all the
circumstances, concluded that it must be true.

“He always seemed very fond of Helen,” said she confidentially to
Rosamond, “and I am not prepared to believe that the change in our
circumstances could have had any effect upon him, for there is nothing
of a mercenary spirit in his nature. It may be that his fondness for
her society has been occasioned by the remarkable agreement of their
views and principles. Their sentiments regarding theology, metaphysics,
sociology, and, indeed, every subject, so perfectly coincide, that his
apparent devotion may have been for that reason only. Do you imagine
that Helen will be depressed by this sudden announcement, which, though
unofficial, seems well founded?”

“You can judge as well as I can, mother. My own opinion is that she
cares more for him than she herself is probably aware.”

The next morning, while the sisters were engaged among the flowers,
after an unusually long pause, Rosamond observed,--

“Helen, there is a piece of news which I hope will not startle you,
though I fear it may prove unwelcome and depressing.”

The serious and formal tone was so unlike Rosamond’s that Helen awaited
the unexpected information with breathless attention.

“Bert came home last night with a report, which is apparently truthful,
that Edward Burton is engaged to Miss Tapley.”

Helen made no immediate response, and nothing but a sudden paleness
revealed the depth of her emotion. At length she rather quietly
suggested,--“I should scarcely think it possible that there has been
any announcement to that effect, for I think Mr. Burton would have
informed us. What is the source of Bert’s information?”

“He had it from some one employed in the office of the magazine, and
there are many circumstances which tend to confirm its truthfulness.”

Helen Bonbright never lost her self-control, for her soul habitually
dwelt above the incidental in life, yet as her conviction grasped the
momentous import of the information, it must be admitted that the
May sun suddenly lost its brightness, and the flowers their gorgeous
hues. She had never formally admitted even to herself that she loved
Edward Burton, but had been conscious of an intense admiration for his
character, spirit, and opinions. While well aware of her deep affection
for all these qualities, she had drawn a line separating them in her
own mind from his personality. On one side of this boundary she had
disported with great freedom, but had not consciously peeped over upon
the other. Perhaps Burton had not been quite as frequent in his visits
of late, but he had been unusually occupied with the magazine. She
could recall no change in his manner, and, indeed, if the report were
true she knew of no reason why there should be. She had felt a peculiar
delight in his society, but it was entirely based upon its quality.
She had not, perhaps, paused to ask herself whether it could be solely
admiration for abstract quality, or if much did not depend upon _his_
peculiar expression of it in the concrete. The various strands of the
cord which she was deeply conscious had bound her, had never been
untwisted and put under inspection.

She left the trowel sticking in the ground, and seated herself upon the
steps, as past experiences and impressions were called up and passed in
procession before her. She had lived so entirely outside of self that
only upon some rare occasion like the present were her thoughts turned
inward.

The hours of that bright May day dragged more slowly than they were
wont, and she felt the influence of an indefinable shadow which had
obscured the brightness of the morning. Could it be that she had loved
Edward Burton for months, and all the time been unaware of the fact? It
became evident to her own mind that this unexpected shock had awakened
certain unconscious impulses of her nature, which had _existence_, but
had been dormant or sleeping.

That evening, after she had retired to her apartment, she seated
herself to indulge in a searching personal examination and “taking of
bearings.” She would be judicial and unsparing. Why had the information
which had come to her been unwelcome? The conviction came over her
strongly that she was not in love with Edward Burton; but yet, before
dismissing that issue, love must be intelligently and clearly defined.
In a deep sense, she was conscious of loving _everybody_. She could
not be blind to the fact that the ruling forces of her nature operated
from the centre outwards. What was love? All souls in themselves were
lovely, notwithstanding unlovable qualities which might temporarily
have fastened themselves upon them. If she loved _all_, she must love
_Burton_. As to his qualities, they were more lovable than those of any
other person she had ever met. She put herself on the witness-stand to
respond to self-propounded queries. Is there necessarily selfishness
in love? Does love really involve a desire to possess the idealized
object? Do we not possess an object in the proportion in which we
hold it in our thought? Do we love a person, quality, or thing, in
the degree in which the thought of them gives us pleasure? These were
some of the problems presented to the witness for solution. The main
issue, and the lesser ones which clustered around it, did not clear up
with the well-defined sharpness of a mathematical proposition. There
were unknown quantities, the value of which could not be determined.
There was fog mingled with the dark shadow, which would not lift
at the bidding. There was a strongly intrenched enemy which made
frequent sallies. Past midnight! More than two hours of retrospection
and introspection, and the atmosphere still murky and uncertain. A
desperate charge must be made. She summoned all her moral forces in
solid phalanx, and with an irresistible rush the shining weapons of the
advance line swept the field. The smoke cleared away, the shadow had
lifted, and light filled her soul. Not a cloud remained in the horizon.
The outward current from her spiritual nature, which for the past
few hours had been diverted into an eddy, again set in with its usual
momentum.

Almost a July temperature prevailed on the following day, and the
quickening pulse of spring beat with feverish vigor, unfolding the
leaves and buds and flowers, and hurrying them onward towards the
robustness of summer. During the early morning and late afternoon
hours, Helen and Rosamond were again among the flowers, which under
their deft management made rapid progress. They closed their labors as
the brightness of the sun’s rays faded out, and was replaced by the
over-spreading gray twilight. The full moon arose in her splendor,
as if ambitious to institute a comparison between herself and the
vanishing god of day.

The sultriness of the evening drew every one out-of-doors, and the
whole family gathered upon their cosey piazza to enjoy the rare beauty
of the scene. Mr. Bonbright was very happy, and pleasantly contrasted
the quiet homelike atmosphere of their snug rural cottage, with the
ostentatious formality which characterized the great house which they
had left behind. The moon, whose silvery lustre fell softly upon the
little group, had witnessed many changes in the hopes, plans, and
aspirations of its members during the few months which had rapidly
flown by. The orb of night in its changing phases, week by week, is no
more inconstant than the great dark earth. As Rosamond looked up at
its bright and frank face, her thoughts flew back to visions of old
castles, baronial halls, and queen’s drawing-rooms, now as attenuated
as the sheen before her; and of an aristocratic and manly form, now no
more to be seen. She could not resist the impression that Fate, in its
allotments bearing upon her own destiny, had been fickle and unkind.
What a wealth of associations is clustered around the Queen of Night!
Her mild effulgence recalls familiar forms and loving companionships,
and restores past situations and scenes, investing them with romantic
hues, and fastening them in a tender and mellowed setting.

To Helen, a perceptible haze overspread the brightness where two nights
before all had been clear. Had her victory not, then, been final?
Hardly, perhaps, for during the day some of her outposts had suffered
from the attacks of persistent skirmishers, and the placidity of her
spirit had not been entirely unruffled.

For some moments all were silent, each apparently absorbed in the
beauty of the scene, or wrapped in thoughts and associations suggested
by it. At length the stillness was broken by the swinging of the front
gate on its hinges, and the footsteps of two persons who approached
side by side along the narrow path. As they drew near, the moonlight
revealed the forms of Edward Burton and Miss Tapley. After the
interchange of the usual salutations, the visitors were shown to seats
among the group already there assembled.

“What a beautiful evening to be out,” said Helen. “The moonlight is
simply perfect.”

“Oh, yes, the walk has been delightful,” replied Miss Tapley. “What an
ideal place you have here, embowered in vines, bushes, and flowers. Mr.
Burton has told me of it, but I think it exceeds his description.”

“It is pleasant,” remarked Helen, “although every place seems clothed
with beauty such an evening as this, but even by prosy daylight we find
it very enjoyable.” The conversation then became general, and included
pleasant and amusing reminiscences of Bar Harbor, Anemone Cave, and
Green Mountain.

Before departing, Miss Tapley said that she brought an invitation for
all to come and dine with them, designating an evening during the
following week. The invitation was accepted, and, after a call of
moderate length, the visitors took their departure. As the two passed
down the path through the gateway, and disappeared arm in arm in the
dim distance, Helen Bonbright discovered that it was possible that a
problem might be brought to a settlement, and yet not _remain_ settled.
Visions of the two, as they passed out of sight along the moonlit walk,
flitted before her, and far into the night they would dissolve, and
again reappear like dark and ominous shadows, which would not take
their departure at the bidding.

More battles must be fought and more Victories won.

  “For Cupid goes behind all law
   And right into himself does draw;
   For he is sovereignly allied--
   Heaven’s oldest blood flows in his side--
   And interchangeably at one,
   With every king on every throne,
   That no god dare say him nay,
   Or see the fault, or seen betray.
   He has the Muses by the heart,
   And the stern Parcæ on his part;
   His many signs cannot be told;
   He has not one mode, but manifold,
   Many fashions and addresses,
   Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses.
   He will preach like a friar,
   And jump like Harlequin;
   He will read like a crier,
   And fight like a Paladin.”






CHAPTER XXI.

_BAR HARBOR AGAIN._

  “I heard or seemed to hear the chiding sea
   Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come?
   Am I not always here, thy summer home?
   Is not my voice thy music, morn and eve?
   My breath thy healthful climate in the heats,
   My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath?
   Was ever building like my terraces?
   Was ever couch magnificent as mine?
   Lie on the warm rock-ledges, and there learn
   A little hut suffices like a town.
   I make your sculptured architecture vain,
   Vain beside mine. I drive my wedges home,
   And carve the coastwise mountain into caves.
   Lo! here is Rome and Nineveh and Thebes,
   Karnak and Pyramid, and Giant Stairs
   Half piled or prostrate; and my newest slab,
   Older than all thy race.”


The years which chase each other by are successive waves on the ocean
of time, which toss us to and fro on the voyage of life. Perchance we
would linger awhile, but the shifting quicksands of the finite state
afford no anchorage. The tide surges on with the same irresistible
momentum, whether under sunny or cloudy skies. “Life,” says Emerson,
“is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through
them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their
own hue, and each shows only what lies in its own focus.”

If there be a barren waste in us, we behold a desert outside. Beauty,
art, and picturesqueness become the possession only of those who
have eyes to see them. The amount of honey which we accumulate from
the years as they pass, depends not so much upon the number of
flower-gardens through which we rove, as upon our powers of extraction.

The yellow, sultry days of August have again thinned out the throngs
who hurry over heated pavements and huddle in feverish masses of
brick and mortar; impelling thousands to seek the felicity of sea and
mountain, and to inhale the rejuvenating aroma of Nature.

Another season at Bar Harbor is at its height. The gay and festive
buckboard is again hurrying through the streets, or perchance awaiting
at the wharves its share of an expected stream of weary tourists, about
to be poured over the gang-plank of an incoming steamer. The hotel
piazzas are again noisy with the voices of enthusiastic visitors,
and the parlors gay every evening with the strains of music, to the
measured beat of which merry dancers disport themselves in graceful
rhythm. Groups of excursionists are hurrying here and there, each
upon pleasure bent, and the bright hues of _négligé_ costumes are
again flitting in the breeze, accompanied by the music of hilarity and
exuberant good cheer. A successive round of “teas,” receptions and
other entertainments among the more exclusive circles of cottagers
is once more in progress, and “society” is in the full flush of
fashionable festivity.

A year has rolled around since the Sea-Foam sailed up Frenchman’s
Bay with the little yacht in tow, upon the day of the rescue of Tom
Bonbright. The noble craft is again floating at anchor in the harbor,
and Colonel Tapley now occupies the already familiar cottage. The new
proprietor has cordially invited its former occupants to enjoy his
hospitality, and Helen and Rosamond are his guests in response to the
earnest invitation.

Three uneventful months have flown by since the important happenings
and personal experiences which characterized the springtime of May.
Edward Burton had always been a welcome visitor at the Bonbright
cottage in the suburbs, but an indefinable feeling had sprung up in
his mind that there was a distance between Helen and himself, which
had not formerly existed. It was impossible for him to call to mind
any lack of cordiality, much less any coolness, in a single instance;
but there seemed to be some unknown barrier, intangible, but real,
between them. Many times he had resolved to seek some explanation, or
to make an avowal of his love and abide the results, but upon every
convenient opportunity the barrier seemed to grow to insurmountable
proportions. As Helen was always cordial, there was no possible ground
for any misunderstanding which would require explanation. There had
been no misunderstanding. There was only an invisible separation. Upon
more than one occasion he had sought to delicately draw near and pay
his homage at the foot of the fair shrine, but upon every such attempt
the hallowed object seemed to retreat and leave behind the offered
incense to be dissipated in thin air. It was no retreat of bodily
presence, no coolness of manner, no air of indifference, but rather a
_soul_ retirement, unobservable to sense, but positive to the inner
intuition. Edward Burton was quick to penetrate the mysteries of the
Unseen, but here was an opaqueness which baffled his usual keen power
of divination. He turned the subject over many times and studied it
carefully in every possible aspect. He felt assured that she had formed
no special _new_ interest, but at length a theory flashed upon him
which he could not refute or dismiss. Tapley must have been mistaken.
It were easy for one so unselfish to misjudge his own case. True, when
his friend had voluntarily put himself in the confessional by the side
of the mountain waterfall the previous summer, he had positively
diagnosed the case against himself, but his very magnanimity would
impel him into so generous an error, notwithstanding his usual rare
insight and power of penetration.

Tapley had been an occasional visitor at the Bonbrights’, but Burton
felt assured that his friend had made no advances beyond the line
of cordial friendship, but yet as to Helen there could be no other
possible solution of the mysterious barrier. It was _there_, and its
solid framework could not have been upreared without some powerful
impelling force. She _loves_ Tapley. For once his friend _was_
mistaken. He is utterly unaware of the fact, but the fact exists. There
could be no possible doubt of it. It would be of no avail to again
enter the confessional with Tapley, for the mystery was not with him.
It was locked in her breast, and nothing could release it. Such were
Burton’s deliberate and positive convictions.

Helen Bonbright had fully accepted the apparently reliable news which
Adelbert brought them, which seemed to be confirmed upon the occasion
of the moonlight call a day or two later, by various indefinable
allusions. She could not offer her congratulations before receiving
a formal announcement, but she expected such definite intelligence
upon every occasion that Burton visited them. At intervals he had
brought Miss Tapley, but oftener had come alone, yet no announcement.
If no other confirmation of the engagement were needed, Burton’s
increased reserve, and the evident existence of an impenetrable veil
between them, was quite sufficient. He was still lovable, noble, her
highest ideal; but yet not quite the same Burton as formerly. There
was a peculiar reserve; but that was not surprising, for, under such
circumstances, what else could be expected? She found herself compelled
to marshal all her forces and win a fresh victory after each of his
visits, and then would quietly and peacefully settle down to the
situation. Why did not the announcement come? She longed that it might,
that once for all a final adjustment would be apparent, and peace and
serenity abide. She busily occupied herself in charitable and hospital
visiting, and found greater pleasure in it than before.

Rosamond, after some special training, became a kindergarten teacher,
and took a deep interest in the children that were placed under her
charge. Subsequent to the family reverses, and the receipt of Lord
Percival’s letter, she came under Helen’s influence to a marked degree.
A oneness of feeling between the sisters rapidly formed, which was a
new experience. Mr. Bonbright was not the only member of the family
to whom the change of circumstances proved a blessing in disguise. A
new life pervaded the household, and a changed environment was about
it. Helen’s influence extended beyond her sister to her mother and
Adelbert, transforming their aims and occupations. Mr. Bonbright’s hand
was in every good work, and the grand principles which became deeply
rooted during his illness were constantly fruitful. The kindergarten
taught by Rosamond received its entire support from him, and nothing
gave him greater pleasure than to have the little flock of charity
pupils gather at his house upon each Saturday afternoon. His business
flourished, but he was free from all servile bondage. He never longed
for a return of the old days of selfishness, luxury, ambition, and
display, which pervaded the atmosphere of his former life.

Thus the summer days sped on, until the proposed visit of Helen and
Rosamond at Colonel Tapley’s was at hand. Helen would have offered
excuses, but could scarcely find ground for a graceful declination
of the repeated and cordial invitations. The colonel had closed his
city home, and both his son and Burton were to pass the month of
August with the rest of the family at the Maine resort. The affairs of
the magazine were running smoothly, and both felt that, for the time
being, editorial work might be more efficiently performed under the
inspiration of natural scenery than in the city sanctum.

A beautiful morning two or three days subsequent to the arrival of
Helen and Rosamond, found them again strolling upon the familiar
Shore-Walk, accompanied by Burton, Tapley, and Miss Tapley. As they
stood gazing across the bay upon the clear-cut outlines of the opposite
shore, Rosamond observed a collection of cottages in the distance,
which formed no part of the landscape in that direction the previous
season.

“What new town has sprung up as if by magic since last year?” she
inquired.

“That is Sorrento,” replied Tapley, “and it has already become quite a
resort. It will soon be time for the boat to leave for that point, and
I suggest that we make the excursion and take our luncheon at the café.
I would like to have you all get a new view of the mountains from that
distance. Here the nearness prevents the fullest appreciation of their
beauty of outline and peculiar picturesqueness.”

All were enthusiastic for the trip, and a little later they were cosily
gathered upon the upper deck of the steamer Sorrento. The air was
crystalline in clearness, and the unruffled surface of the charming
sheet of water was disturbed only by the wake of the steamer, as like
a thing of life she set in motion a long line of retreating waves,
which extended with a graceful diminuendo into the dim distance behind.
Glancing upon the left, the cottages along the Cornice Road and Hull’s
Cove dot the retreating shore, and peep out from the protecting shelter
of overhanging trees, and in the misty distance to the northward the
little village of Sullivan lies ensconced in a setting of evergreen
hills. The islands and main land are everywhere fringed with cracked
and crannied masses of brown rock, half hidden by foliage where the
waves ripple and sport.

When they hastily seated themselves, it chanced that Helen found
herself between Burton and Miss Tapley. Fearing that even so slight
an intrusion might momentarily interrupt the unrestrained freedom of
the pair, she arose, and with a graceful plea of getting new views,
made her way backward and forward upon the deck, enjoying the panorama
of the retreating mountains, and delicately avoiding the immediate
vicinity of the lovers. There was no shadow of jealousy in her thought,
nor conscious disquietude. Weeks before she had driven out the last
“skirmisher,” and peace was complete. In every situation, with the
utmost delicacy and in a quiet, unobtrusive way, she would withdraw
from their society whenever her presence might disturb their felicity.
Her love and respect for Miss Tapley increased with further intimacy
and acquaintance. Her little friend was very retiring, but possessed a
keen intellect and lovable character. The impression of _distance_ was
common to both Burton and Helen, but each thought it all in the other.
It did not disappear even when they were side by side, but it contained
no element of coolness or indifference.

Arriving at Sorrento, they partook of an excellent luncheon served at
the café, and soon after strolled out upon the piazza to enjoy the
charming prospect. Burton thought it was marvellous that such a resort,
containing many handsome cottages, could have come into existence in
a single year. Tapley suggested that it was a notable specimen of
American energy, as well as successful speculation. From this most
perfect focal distance, Green Mountain and its neighbors were changed
and idealized, and their unique outlines, bathed in a purple, dreamy
haze, formed a beautiful panorama of bold grandeur and reposedness of
which a lover of nature never would weary. After an hour’s buckboard
ride about the improvements and environment of Sorrento to enjoy the
surrounding scenery to the utmost, they recrossed the bay by the late
afternoon boat.

A few days subsequent to the Sorrento excursion, a picnic was planned
which included a ride to the southward along the Atlantic coast,
and visits to Thunder Cave and Otter Cliff. A severe easterly storm
of two days duration had prevailed, but the weather was again fine.
Owing to the intensity of the gale just at an end, the waves would be
unusually grand. The ubiquitous buckboard was called into requisition,
and a well-filled hamper provided, and no feature was lacking for a
delightful excursion. When the party was in readiness, Burton seated
himself by Miss Tapley so that Helen might have an opportunity to
sit by Tapley, which he supposed to be her preference. On her part,
Helen hastily took her place by Tapley, that Burton might have full
opportunity to enjoy the society of _his_ undoubted choice. Each
unselfishly sacrificed themselves to render the excursion more
agreeable to the other.

          “Love is not love
  Which alters when it alteration finds--
  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
      If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
      I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.”

So far as word, look, or understanding were necessary to constitute
lovers, Burton and Helen were not lovers. There was a different
and real test, but no one outside of themselves could apply it. The
sensitive thermometer of love is _occupation of thought space_.
Idealized objective beauty and excellence are tenants of the mental
chambers. Helen and Burton were unlike ordinary lovers, for,
notwithstanding their persistent misunderstanding of each other, there
was no mingled bitterness or jealousy. They dwelt upon a plane where
these had no existence.

Love is unique. Lovers love not each other, but their own ideal.
Before Cupid can mount the throne and assume undisputed sway, he must
have idealized his object. This may be a shorter or a longer process,
but it must be effectual. Love is an enchantment which seizes upon
the human complex nature and works a revolution. It is a delicious
fancy, kindling the imagination and gilding its object with beautiful,
heroic, and almost sacred attributes. It matters little to love
whether in the abstract its object be beautiful, or the reverse, for
it invests that counterpart with charms even if they are non-existent.
Pursue this course of logic to its ultimate, and it is found that
objective character, quality, and even existence are all contained in
subjectivity. No one can therefore affirm that the external world has
_real_ existence, but only that it exists to his own consciousness.
Absurd as it at first might appear to material sense, if we delve
_deep_ enough, we may in the ultimate analysis find that all is mind.
Love is divine. It is only when dragged down from its normal realm and
stained with the grossness of materialism, and its expressions mistaken
for its goal, that its heavenly banner is trailed in the dust. Then
it becomes a base counterfeit. Love not only invests its object with
supernal charms, but it illumines the whole horizon. The lover is a
new man, with new perceptions, new powers, new senses. He has become
the graceful abode of sweet sounds and sights, and the pupils in the
eyes of his soul are gently dilated. Nature has been reconstructed for
him. The birds sing a new song, and flowers and trees put on a subtler
beauty, and all the world’s intonations have become more melodious. The
clouds have fair faces, and the sun and moon perceptibly smile upon
him, and sympathize with his gladness. Earth, air, and sky, tender
their congratulations. Nature, as it environs him, becomes a vast
mirror to reflect back and multiply his inspiration.

The felicity of love toward its special object is only a rudimentary
experience in the eternal procession of soul-impulses, from within,
outward. Its limitation is but temporary and educational, for its
outgoing circles are destined to be ever expansive, like the waves
from a pebble dropped in mirror-like water. Special love is only
the kindergarten for the development of ultimate broader love. As
it becomes clarified and free from all baser sediment, it grows
_impersonal_. It is designated by Emerson as “a fire that, kindling
its first embers in the narrow nook of a private bosom caught from a
wandering spark out of another private heart, grows and enlarges until
it warms and beams upon multitudes of men and women, upon the universal
heart of all, and so lights up the whole world and all nature with its
generous flames.”

Love’s grand climax will only be reached when it becomes, not only
impersonal, but blossoms into universal recognition as the _One_
Force of the Universe. All other forces, qualities, and attributes
will at last be discovered to be but colored lens effects of the
_one_ principle varying at each new standpoint in the upward path of
progress. The successive views through higher mediums, as step by step
they gain new transparency, will gradually correct former distorted
views of the One Entity. A recognition of such an Ultimate, is a
recognition of God. All other characteristics which we ascribe to Him
are but reflections of our own states. The “consuming fire” of pure
love may wear a terrible aspect to the persistently base and perverse.

  “Higher far into the pure realm,
   Over sun and star,
   Over the flickering Dæmon film
   Thou must mount for love;
   Into vision where all form
   In one only form dissolves;
   In a region where the wheel
   On which all beings ride,
   Visibly revolves;
   Where the starred, eternal worm
   Girds the world with bound and term;
   Where unlike things are like;
   Where good and ill,
   And joy and moan,
   Melt into one.
   There Past, Present, Future, shoot
   Triple blossoms from one root;
   Substances at base divided,
   In their summits are united;
   There the holy essence rolls,
   One through separated souls.”

That wild and much-cleft chaos of brown rocks, known as Thunder Cave,
was the first stopping-place of the party. Here, through a broad chasm,
the great green waves rush in, until they find themselves stopped in
their mad career by the walls of a rock chamber, and from the mighty
shock they beat an ignominious retreat. As each proud roller meets
with overwhelming defeat, its angry roar causes a reverberation which
renders the name of the locality so realistic. They seated themselves
upon the sun-warmed rocks to enjoy the prospect. Successive watery
ranks were breaking their columns, and sending their misty fragments
high in air, in their vain assaults upon the rocky fortress. The wind
had filled them with anger, and they rushed madly on to destiny.

“How like the roar and fume of human passion,” exclaimed Burton, as he
contemplated the scene.

“Or like the mad rush of the multitudes for power, wealth, and
position, which the eager throng hasten to grasp, but find
disappointing,” suggested Helen. “Each follows in the pursuit, learning
nothing from the fate of its predecessor.”

“To me,” said Tapley, “it illustrates character and circumstance.
The ledge is character, unmoved by the waves either of adversity or
prosperity.”

“Character needs to be tried and tested,” observed Miss Tapley. “The
soul needs rounding and polishing, and this can only be accomplished
by the friction of circumstance. In no other way can the rock of human
character be made symmetrical. The rock, however, may represent the
intrinsic, and the waves the incidental.”

“Then I think that the intrinsic is frequently knocked to pieces by
the incidental,” chimed in Rosamond, “but I vote that moralizing be
tabooed, and that we move on to Otter Cliff.”

A short distance further, brought them to a bend in the road, near
which a narrow footpath branched off through the forest to the “Cliff.”
An easy walk of perhaps fifteen minutes, Indian file, through the
dense woods, brought them to the brow of the rocky declivity. Here an
irregular and almost perpendicular wall of brown rock, from one hundred
to two hundred feet in height, with great masses of _débris_ at its
foot, forms a striking picture of wild, ragged fierceness. In places
the overhanging mass is carpeted with mosses to the very edge, under
which is a steep of dizzy proportions. At other points the upright
wall is broken, and inclined masses of rocky surface interrupt the
perpendicular alignment. Helen and Rosamond were the only members of
the party who had made a previous visit to this picturesque location.

“What incomparable scenery!” exclaimed Miss Tapley, whose enthusiastic
love of the grand in nature was inspired by the prospect.

All seated themselves upon the mossy bank and made a thorough survey of
their surroundings. A steamer slowly made its way past, far below them,
and her deck was black with human specks, moving to and fro. A brisk
waving of handkerchiefs by the little party brought such a response,
that the whole deck was suddenly transformed into a fluttering
mass of whiteness. The rapture of the scene did not grow less, but
after some time the luncheon was spread, and discussed by appetites
keenly sharpened by the long ride and the pure air and exercise of
the morning. After the refreshments had been disposed of, the party
scattered a little, impelled by eager curiosity and a desire for
further exploration.

Burton and Tapley climbed to a higher position a short distance upon
the right, to get a view inland as well as toward the sea, leaving the
young ladies for a few moments upon the mossy couch near where the
luncheon had been served.

“We wish to explore this higher point a little further on,” said
Tapley, “and will return in a few minutes.”

The unusual variety of wild flowers, dainty marine plants, and mosses,
greatly interested Miss Tapley, who was a devoted botanist. By a little
effort she gathered a variety of interesting specimens. Some were found
upon the rocks, where they seemed to thrive almost upon sea air alone,
having but the smallest amount of earth from which to obtain their
sustenance. In her enthusiastic search, she strayed a little from Helen
and Rosamond, though but a short distance out of their sight. Suddenly
a series of piercing screams came from the direction in which she had
gone. The sisters were alarmed, and ran with the greatest haste to find
what had happened. In breathless anxiety they arrived upon the spot,
and a thrilling situation was disclosed. On attempting to pluck some
rare specimen, Miss Tapley had slipped upon a smooth inclined rock, and
had slid down for ten or twelve feet, and only saved herself from a
fatal fall upon the rocks below by grasping the edge of an open seam,
a few inches wide, which extended for some distance along the ledge.
Helen took in the situation at a glance, and promptly reassured her
friend with promises of speedy succor.

“Keep a firm hold,” she exclaimed, “and we will soon find means to
rescue you.”

It was, however, found to be utterly impossible to reach down to the
cleft where she was holding on. All raised their voices to the highest
pitch to alarm the young men, but no response came. A few firmly rooted
bushes grew by the upper edge of the rock, but from that position it
was impossible to reach within some distance of the opening where Miss
Tapley was clinging for dear life. She was not robust, and there was
great danger that her strength might fail before assistance could be
given. An overpowering thought flashed through Helen Bonbright’s mind
with lightning-like rapidity. “She _must_ be saved at all hazards, even
if I perish in the attempt, not only for her own sake, but for _his_!”

“Be perfectly calm and keep a firm hold,” said Helen, “and I will soon
be with you.” Thus reassured, Miss Tapley grew more calm, and hope
revived. But she was beyond reach, and no pole or anything available
to bridge the space could be found. The moments seemed like hours.
Something _must_ be done, and at once. A rapid, comprehensive survey
of the situation impelled Helen to a course of action. She directed
Rosamond to firmly grasp the bushes above the rock, and to lie at full
length upon the decline toward Miss Tapley, then keeping a firm hold
of Rosamond she let herself down, retaining a grasp upon Rosamond’s
feet, until she was able to put her own feet in the seam alongside of
the place where her friend was clinging. This proved to be not very
difficult, for the steepness was perhaps not greater than forty-five
degrees. Deftly removing one foot from the opening, she was able to
reach down to it with one hand, and then with both, finally kneeling
upon the rock below the cleft, directly by the left of Miss Tapley.
Clinging by her left hand, she clasped her right arm around the light
form of her friend, who, by the efforts of both, was able to crawl up
and grasp Rosamond, who easily retained her firm grasp upon the bushes.
By a further climb along the inclined form of Rosamond, she reached the
top, pulled herself up, and was _safe_. It was impossible that Miss
Tapley could have been rescued except by exchanging places with her,
and this Helen had done. Had the rescue been in the least delayed, it
seemed certain that her failing strength would have yielded, as she was
_petite_ and delicate. Helen, being perfectly calm, and possessed of
great energy, could maintain her position as might be necessary. Her
height was not quite sufficient to enable her to reach Rosamond, and
nothing could be done but to heroically await the return of the young
men. Presently the music of their voices was audible as they rapidly
approached. They had heard nothing of the first screams, being beyond
the summit of the hill, and the noise of the waves also prevented any
sound from penetrating for more than a short distance. They quickly
assisted Rosamond to arise, and then could discover no better plan for
the relief of Helen than the one adopted by her for the relief of Miss
Tapley. Grasping the bushes without delay, Tapley acted the part of a
human ladder, down which Burton descended and joyfully rescued Helen
from her perilous position. A few moments, and she was again upon safe
footing. Burton, by his utmost stretch, grasped Tapley’s boots and
quickly made the ascent. All were safe. Miss Tapley, although faint
and at first too weak to stand without assistance, as a result of the
terrible strain, warmly embraced Helen and smothered her with kisses
of love and gratitude. By nature she was undemonstrative, but her
thankfulness was now beyond expression.

“To your unselfish devotion and courage I owe my life,” she exclaimed.
“I can never repay such an obligation.”

“Please dismiss all thought of obligation,” said Helen, as she hugged
and caressed the little form and stroked her forehead to soothe and
restore her. “I love you, and am so thankful that I could help you.”

After resting for some time they slowly made their way back to the
carriage-road.

The next morning revealed the undisputed occupation of one of those
impenetrable gray fogs in which, occasionally, Bar Harbor is submerged
and blotted out. The stillness of the murky atmosphere was only broken
at intervals by the distant shrill whistle of some steamer, carefully
feeling its way through the dense obscurity, or the subdued rumble of
an occasional vehicle as it slowly glided past like a dark shadow. The
thick curtain of mist remained all the morning, but soon after noon
a yellow light began to be diffused through it, transforming it into
a golden vapor which in its turn dissolved, disclosing the bluest of
crystal skies and a pure, transparent atmosphere. “Old Sol” shone out
with intense clearness, as if to offer compensation for his temporary
“shutting-off,” and during the serene afternoon hours Nature was in
one of those rare and dreamy moods when all her voices are attuned to
celestial sweetness and harmony. The air was quivering with brightness,
and a delicate ozone was being distilled, whose vitalizing aroma was
poured out like a universal benediction.

The family and guests at the Tapley cottage had passed the foggy
morning hours in-doors, but the enchantment of the afternoon drew every
one out, for mere living with such an environment was felicity. The day
was waning. Tapley and his sister had gone to the wharf to await the
arrival of friends who were expected by the evening boat. Rosamond was
deeply engaged in poring over the pages of an interesting book, and
Burton and Helen were left to themselves upon the piazza.

“Here we have remained ‘housed up’ most of the day,” exclaimed Burton.
“What do you say to a walk?”

“It will be delightful,” she replied. “Which way shall we go?”

“It is immaterial to me. How would you like to walk up to the hill,
where a fine view of the sunset may be obtained?”

“I shall much enjoy it,” she replied. “With the masses of light clouds
which are just coming up, I fancy it will be unusually gorgeous.”

They set out, leisurely passing along the narrow walk in the direction
of Sunset Hill. The rays of the declining sun rarely fall upon a
fairer form than that of Helen Bonbright. It would be idle to attempt
a pen-photograph of her, as with light elastic step she made her way
by the side of the noble young man, who, though so near, was, in some
intangible sense, _distant_. As he turned his gaze upon the graceful
willowy figure, the pink transparent countenance, the silken blond
hair, and the dreamy blue flashing eyes, all of which were but the
outward expression of the beautiful soul which shone out from within,
two thoughts flashed upon his mind: _nearness_, _distance_.

They followed a narrow shaded carriage-road, and then branched off
through a footpath to a “lookout,” from the top of which a most
extended panorama was spread out. Mounting its flight of steps to
the upper platform, they seated themselves to enjoy the landscape
below. The bay, hills, and forests were suffused and gilded with the
brightness of the declining sun. The two souls were entranced with the
scene, and with each other; but a mysterious _something_, which each
saw in the other, held them aloof.

“What a difference between the beauty apparent in yonder brilliant
expanse, considered as one blended picture, and the material details of
which it is composed,” said Burton. “As a unit, the effect is charming,
and yet how dreary if considered only as a mass of disjointed and
fragmentary components. All the hardness and sharpness of the special
features become beautified when shaded into harmonious combination.”

“Yes,” replied Helen, “just as in life. Within the sensuous details
of time, space, and circumstance, dwell care, friction, and discord,
while with the comprehensive ideal _whole_ is the flush of joy, and the
fulness of beauty.”

“The flood of sunshine upon yonder landscape,” observed Burton, “may
well represent the divine effulgence of love, which warms the earth
with its glow, and which shines upon and is reflected through persons,
as if each with a mirror repeated something of the central brightness.”

“A beautiful illustration,” replied Helen.

“It reminds me,” continued Burton, “of the splendid practical
demonstration which you gave of that principle yesterday, in the rescue
of our friend.”

“There was nothing remarkable in my action,” replied Helen. “Miss
Tapley is my friend, but I hope that I should make as great an effort
for any one.”

“You are deserving of general gratitude,” said he, “and besides, on my
own behalf, I want to thank you. You are aware that for a few months
past my home has been with the family, and I have a special interest in
its welfare. I cannot permit your unselfish goodness to pass over the
event so lightly.”

There was a heightened color in the pink cheek, and an intensity of
heart-beat, which was unusual for Helen Bonbright. She withdrew her
glance from the distant landscape and turned it full upon Burton,
but he was as calm as the distant mirror-like bay. Regaining her
self-command at length, she softly replied,--

“In response to your frankness for giving me such important
information, I am somewhat inclined to tell you what passed in my mind
yesterday, when I first discovered Miss Tapley’s condition; but I must
not, even though it might please you.”

“Oh, yes, please do. What was specially in your thought?”

“Please let it pass. It really is of no importance.”

He cast a quick glance into her face to read, if possible, in the fair
features, the mystery, while his own placidity had been replaced by an
intense curiosity. “I implore you to tell me,” he pleaded. “What was
your peculiar mental experience?”

“Well, if it will content you, I will say that I thought of _you_.”

“Why of me more than Tapley? You needed our mutual help.”

“Having made known the fact,” she replied, “you wish to go deeper and
insist upon the reasons.”

“You are quite correct. I beg that you will not refuse.”

It was a trying moment. Casting her glance again toward the landscape,
she finally responded, “You are my friend, and I will be frank. I
thought of you _especially_, because, while she is Tapley’s _sister_,
she is to you, by your own announcement a few moments ago, _how much
more!_ Although having long been aware of your engagement, I have not
felt at liberty to allude to it, but now, with the report confirmed
by your lips, I may speak freely. No extra motive was necessary
yesterday to induce me to put forth all my efforts, but there existed
motive _upon_ motive. If disaster befell her, added to all else, I saw
desolation in your whole life.”

A mist arose before Burton’s eyes. With a great effort he calmly
inquired, “Please, what did you understand me to _say_ a few moments
ago, in regard to Miss Tapley?”

“Pardon me, I only understood you to allude to the matter which has
long been settled: your engagement to Miss Tapley. As a near friend
I congratulate you, without waiting for more formality in the manner
of your announcement. You are both dear friends, and have my sincere
wishes for your happiness and prosperity.”

She extended her hand, but he drew back, and his own hands fell to his
sides. His lips were pale and open, and he was overcome with emotion.

“My dear friend,” he exclaimed; “pardon me, but I am not conscious of
having spoken of a special interest in Miss Tapley. My reference was to
the _family_ in general, whatever I may have inadvertently said. Miss
Tapley is my dear and respected friend, but I am not engaged to her.”

“I beg a thousand pardons for misunderstanding you,” replied Helen. “I
am forced to explain, and then will drop the subject. Based upon what
seemed to be reliable information, I have long taken your engagement
for granted, and with that in my mind I must have misunderstood your
allusion. The report was of course premature.”

“My dear friend,” he feelingly replied: “do _you_ wish the report were
true?”

The mist was now thick before her eyes. The question was direct. She
was transparent, and it uncovered the deeps. What could she reply? She
_could_ not say _yes_. She _would_ not say no. Her gaze was riveted
upon the distant sunny landscape as if she had not heard the question,
or else expected the answer to be echoed from afar.

“Please pardon such an abrupt question,” he exclaimed.

The foundations were breaking up. Barriers were dissolving, and
distances lessening. Would the fog ever be dispelled?

“I am impelled to delve more deeply into this subject that its
mysteries may be resolved. The atmosphere was murky this morning, but
now the horizon is clear. God grant that it may be so with us. I have
never loved Miss Tapley, and there is not the slightest foundation for
the report which you have believed.”

He resolved to burn the bridges behind him. Might not her
misapprehension regarding _him_ have created the “distance”? Could he
not have been mistaken in _his_ estimate of _her_ feelings, as readily
as she could have so perfectly misapprehended his position? _He would
know._

He quietly kneeled at her feet, but her face was gently inclined toward
the reflection of the sun in the distant water.

“Helen, you are my dearest love! my beautiful ideal! my angel!” he
exclaimed, in low, musical tones. “You are the pure shrine where for a
whole year I have bestowed homage. You are the sacred image which has
been constantly reflected in the mirror of my soul.”

Her face was still slightly inclined toward the distant reflection, but
it shone with a radiance of its own. He clasped her unresisting hand,
and pressed it to his lips. “May I call you my love?”

The blue dreamy eyes had become moist, and they turned from the distant
landscape and sweetly looked into his, and her soul responded through
them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gentle zephyrs among the tree-tops overhead whispered a benediction.
The merry twitter of birds gave expression to their joyful
congratulations. The woods were redolent with sweet perfume, and all
nature smiled upon them. The soft balmy air, so clear and transparent,
seemed like liquid amber distilled over the hills, and a golden halo
suffused two faces now turned _toward_ each other.

The king of day slowly sank to his couch of royal purple, moving
majestically among great masses of fleecy domes, and lighting them
up with a weird gorgeousness. Cloud-forms, like Alps upon Alps, were
piled upon each other, casting a reflection of rainbow shades over the
whole horizon. Soon the resplendent colors deepened in intensity, and
each vapory mass was dyed with a deep crimson; then the evanescent
splendor faded, and the golden orb retired, refulgent to the last.
The transcendent afterglow, marvellous in its richness, lingered,
reflecting its unearthly splendor upon the purple hills, and affording
to the human imagination almost a glimpse of the celestial regions.




  TENTH EDITION

  IDEAL SUGGESTION
  THROUGH
  MENTAL PHOTOGRAPHY

  A Restorative System for Home and Private Use, Preceded
  by a Study of the Laws of Mental Healing

  By HENRY WOOD

  AUTHOR OF “GOD’S IMAGE IN MAN,” “EDWARD BURTON,” “THE
  POLITICAL ECONOMY OF NATURAL LAW,” “STUDIES
  IN THE THOUGHT WORLD,” ETC.

  _Paper, 50 cents_      _Cloth, $1.25_

Part I. of this work is a study of the _Laws_ of Mental Healing, and
Part II. embodies them in a restorative system, formulated and arranged
for home and private use. Visionary and impracticable aspects of the
subject are eliminated, and a scientific basis is found. The book is
not technical, but thoroughly plain and concise, and will prove a boon
to invalids and a valuable addition to the substantial literature of
the subject.


A Few Testimonies and Opinions of the Hundreds that have been received
of like Tenor.

“‘Ideal Suggestion’ marks an epoch in my life.”--J. L. Q.

“At the end of a month I feel a great change for the better,
physically.”--E. W.

_From an English lord_: “‘Ideal Suggestion’ has been a friend in need
to me.”

“It has been a tremendous inspiration to me, and to the twenty or
thirty people I have lent it to, or influenced to buy it.”--A. J. R.

_From a Clergyman_: “Your books are solid food to me.”

“My obligations to ‘Ideal Suggestion’ are very great.”--W. H.

“The meditations go with me as companions from place to place.”--G. H. N.




  FOURTH EDITION

  _Studies in the Thought World
  or Practical Mind Art_

  BY HENRY WOOD

  Author of “Ideal Suggestion” “God’s Image in Man” “Edward
  Burton” “The Political Economy of Natural Law”
  etc. Cloth $1.25

Mr. Wood is a seer as well as a thinker. He searches to find the
secrets of the spirit, and thereby discover many of the mysteries of
life. His pages abound in the sayings of wisdom and truth. They are
crowded with compelling suggestions, and rich in inspiring statements.
His style is clear, penetrative, brilliant, and impressive, like
his thought. He ranks with the foremost writers and thinkers of the
time.--_Boston Courier._

We doubt very much if in the whole range of English literature we have
ever read anything more fascinating than his chapter on “The Divinity
of Nature.” It has all the beauty of Emerson,--another idealist,--and
all the sympathy of Thoreau.--_The Minneapolis Tribune._

The series of papers are redolent of intellectual ozone, of mental
exhilaration, and great spiritual tonicity. The author makes the
somewhat difficult philosophy of the higher life very clear in his able
treatment of the subject from a scientific standpoint.--_The Call,
Philadelphia._

The result of reading this book is to acknowledge Mr. Wood an original
thinker and an idealist, and that he possesses the faculty of
presenting these questions which are growing all the time of greater
importance to the general thinker, in a way that is graphic and
interesting. He has no superior as an essayist.--_Boston Times._

Mr. Wood has the faculty of presenting vital topics in an interesting
and very graphic manner, and has here ably treated the higher unfolding
of humanity from a scientific standpoint.--_Detroit Free Press._

There is not a page in it that does not contain matter for a
fascinating controversy.--_Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston._


_Sent prepaid on receipt of price by_

LEE and SHEPARD Publishers Boston




Edward Burton

AN IDEALISTIC METAPHYSICAL NOVEL

By HENRY WOOD

_Ninth Edition_

In Cloth 299 pages $1.25 In paper covers 50c

“We have found great profit in the various economic and ethical papers
of Henry Wood, and now that his venture in fiction is before us we are
predisposed to favorable judgment. It seems to us that ‘Edward Burton’
will be generally regarded as a story of more than ordinary merit. The
conventional realistic lines are rejected. But of high thinking in
fields of optimistic outlook and of religious meditation, expressed in
the idealization of character, there is abundance.”--_The Christian
Union_, New York.

“A very powerful story, which holds the reader’s attention from
beginning to end. Into a pretty love-idyl the author has woven a
vigorous account of the influence exerted by the numerous systems
of theology, ethics, and sociology, which in our day excite so much
attention.”--_Peterson’s Magazine._


Victor Serenus

A STORY OF THE PAULINE ERA

By HENRY WOOD

Cloth 510 pages $1.50

“The story flows limpidly, style and substance agreeing as water and
light agree, with ever-varying reflections of brilliance. It is not
a story overburdened with moral and religious didactics; but it does
sketch the luminous religious life of the time in a way to project
it boldly and attractively. The character of Saulus is portrayed
with a pen intensely charged. We recommend the book to Christian
readers.”--_N. Y. Independent._

“Is a story that blends art and religion in a wonderfully attractive
way, and is rich in romance, psychology, philosophy, and mystery;
the author does not grow tiresome, although his book is 500 pages
long.”--_Boston Herald._


LEE and SHEPARD Publishers Boston




God’s Image in Man

Some Intuitive Perceptions of Truth

By HENRY WOOD

AUTHOR OF “IDEAL SUGGESTION” “EDWARD BURTON” “THE POLITICAL ECONOMY OF
NATURAL LAW” “STUDIES IN THE THOUGHT WORLD” ETC. ETC.

Ninth Edition Cloth 258 pages $1.00


PRESS NOTICES.

An honest, able, and promising effort to free faith from unnecessary
incumbrances.--_New York Independent._

“God’s Image in Man” is a work which will quicken the aspiration
of every thoughtful reader for a deeper knowledge of spiritual
things.--_Chautauquan._

Its pure and elevated style is wonderfully attractive. This volume is
one of rare value.--_Boston Traveller._

It treats of the different modes of divine revelation and cognate
subjects in the author’s well-known clear and forcible style and in
very attractive form.--_Buffalo Express._

It is both a pleasing and profitable book.--_Inter-Ocean, Chicago._

This work will find a host of readers among those who are interested in
religious affairs.--_Philadelphia Item._

Full of deep and suggestive ideas from the standpoint of theology of
the divine immanence.--_Christian Union._

Mr. Wood’s method is that of Horace Bushnell, of Beecher and of
Swedenborg’s school of thought; all these were mystics; but so may it
be said were Jesus and Paul.--_Home Journal, Boston._

Many who have been hampered by the trammels of mediæval thought may
find help in this book.--_Brooklyn Citizen._

The book cannot fail to be helpful in the renaissance of Christianity
that is going on in our day.--_Unitarian._

Mr. Wood has done us a service, and we trust that many will receive
from the same and subsequent volumes spiritual quickening.--_The
Critic, New York._

The book is suggestive, helpful, and an inspiration to pure thought and
worship.--_Morning Star, Boston._

We commend this volume to the consideration of all who are devoutly and
thoughtfully searching for the truth in the love of it.--_The Salem
Observer._

It is strong in thought, beautiful in its composition, and singularly
helpful in its spirit.--_Kennebec Journal._

Mr. Wood is a keen and logical thinker and a lucid and forcible
writer.--_The Beacon, Boston._

We have found pleasure and profit in this book. The spirit and purpose
of the writer are admirable.--_National Baptist, Phila._

With poetic insight, reverent spirit, and glowing language, the author
of this book seeks to set forth some of the salient facts of the
universe, so far as they afford us a manifestation or revelation of
God.--_Central Christian Advocate, St. Louis._


LEE and SHEPARD Publishers Boston




The Political Economy of Natural Law

BY HENRY WOOD

Author of “Ideal Suggestion through Mental Photography,” “God’s Image
in Man,” “Edward Burton,” etc. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25


CONTENTS.

      I. General Principles
     II. Supply and Demand
    III. The Law of Competition
     IV. The Law of Coöperation
      V. Labor and Production
     VI. Combinations of Capital
    VII. Combinations of Labor
   VIII. Employers and Profit Sharing
     IX. Employés: Their Obligations and Privileges
      X. Governmental Arbitration
     XI. Economic Legislation and Its Proper Limits
    XII. Dependence and Poverty
   XIII. Socialism as a Political System
    XIV. Can Capital and Labor be Harmonized
     XV. Wealth and Its Unequal Distribution
    XVI. The Law of Centralization
   XVII. Action and Reaction, or “Booms” and Panics
  XVIII. Money and Coinage
    XIX. Tariffs and Protection
     XX. The Modern Corporation
    XXI. The Abuses of Corporate Management
   XXII. The Evolution of the Railroad
  XXIII. Industrial Education
   XXIV. Natural Law and Idealism

Mr. Wood possesses the rare art of making an admittedly dry subject,
not only instructive, but positively entertaining, and this art is
demonstrated in the present volume.--_Boston Advertiser._

Mr. Wood’s task has been accomplished in admirable style. The work is
one that breeds reflection. Its perusal broadens the horizon and lifts
the thinker into lofty altitudes--altitudes where mind is seen to be
the worker, and labor, land, capital, and coin to be but the tools;
where altruism is stimulated and the sweetness of charity is realized,
and the fact of racial unity is felt, and a glimpse is had, as from
Pisgah’s summit, of the final fraternization of humanity.--_Chicago
Evening Post._

“The Political Economy of Natural Law” is written in a clear style, and
is in all points an admirable, satisfactory, and original treatment of
the subject.--_San Francisco Call._

It were well for the nation if more works of like facility of
comprehension and dealing with such subjects were disseminated.
--_Philadelphia Item._

It would be difficult to imagine a clearer statement of premises and
conclusions than is therein contained, and there is no profession nor
business to which its teachings do not apply.--_Boston Ideas._

It would be well indeed for the future were this work adopted as a
text-book.--_The Occident_ (_Chicago_).

His mental powers are both analytic and synthetic, and it is a genuine
pleasure--a mental recreation--to follow him through his reasoning
processes.--_Christian Leader_ (_Cincinnati_).

The “Trade Journal” might fill ten of its columns with just such
interesting quotations, but it does not intend to. Every reader of
this paper should lose no time in possessing himself of a copy of the
book.--_Indianapolis Trade Journal._

We wish it might be read by every thoughtful man--laborer and
capitalist--in our country.--_Boston Home Journal._

It is a good book for teachers who want to be fairly intelligent on
these vital questions.--_Ohio Educational Monthly._


Sold by all Booksellers, or sent, postpaid, by the Publishers,

LEE & SHEPARD, Boston, on receipt of the price.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  A Table of Contents has been added by the transcriber for the reader’s
    convenience.

  New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
    public domain.



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