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Going to the Theatre for the First Time

I REMEMBER well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston, and Miss Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I shall never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal costume. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue, though she had been facing an immense audience. I was only just learning to speak, and had previously repeated her name until I could say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I spoke to her!

Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at many points the rich, exuberant life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.

Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written in our literature and dear to the hearts of many, while others would be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their personal influence, though it escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened and ennobled by it.

The beneficent kindness of my friends has touched my life "like a summer wind laden with a thousand invisible seeds, that, dropping everywhere, spring up into flowers and fruit." All that I hold sweetest, all that I hold most precious, I owe to my friends. In a thousand ways they have turned my limitations into beautiful privileges and made it possible for me to walk serene and happy in the shadow cast by my deprivations.

Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet, around the corner of the street of life, people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose hand-shake is brimful of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager, impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is divine. The perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us pass like unpleasant dreams, and we wake to see with new eyes and hear with new ears the beauty and harmony of God's real world. The solemn nothings that fill our every-day life blossom suddenly into bright possibilities. In a word, while they are near us we feel that all is well. Perhaps we never saw them before, and they may never cross our life's path again; but the influence of their calm, mellow natures is a libation poured upon our discontent, and we feel its healing touch, as the ocean feels the mountain stream freshening its brine.

Phillips Brooks and the Key to Heaven

I COUNT it one of the sweetest privileges of my life to I have known and conversed with many men of genius. Only those who knew Bishop Brooks can appreciate the joy his friendship was to those who possessed it. As a child, I loved to sit on his knee and clasp his great hand with one of mine, while Miss Sullivan spelled into the other his beautiful words about God and the spiritual world. I heard him with a child's wonder and delight. My spirit could not reach up to his, but he gave me a real sense of joy in life, and I never left him without carrying away a fine thought that grew in beauty and depth of meaning as I grew. Once, when I was puzzled to know why there were so many religions, he said: "There is one universal religion, Helen -- the religion of love, Love your Heavenly Father with your whole heart and soul, love every child of God as much as ever you can, and remember that the possibilities of good are greater than the possibilities of evil; and you have the key to Heaven." His life was a happy illustration of this truth. In his noble soul love and widest knowledge were blended with faith that had become insight.

Bishop Brooks taught me no special creed or dogma; but he impressed upon my mind two great ideas -- the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man, and made me feel that these truths underlie all creeds and forms of worship. God is love, God is our father, we are His children; therefore the darkest clouds will break, and though right be worsted, wrong shall not triumph. I am too happy in this world to think much about the future except to remember that I have cherished friends awaiting me there in God's beautiful Somewhere. In spite of the lapse of years, they seem so close to me that I should not think it strange if at any moment they should clasp my hand and speak words of endearment as they used to before they went away. Since Bishop Brooks died I have read the Bible through; also some philosophical works on religion, among them Swedenborg's "Heaven and Hell" and Drummond's "Ascent of Man," and I have found no creed or system more soul-satisfying than Bishop Brooks's creed of love. I knew Mr. Henry Drummond, too, and the memory of his strong, warm hand-clasp is like a benediction. He was the most charming and delightful of companions. He knew so much, he had conquered so much, he had seen life from so many sides that it was impossible to feel dull or despairing in his presence.