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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a437979 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54060 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54060) diff --git a/old/54060-0.txt b/old/54060-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1a2f251..0000000 --- a/old/54060-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4793 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beyond the Gates, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Beyond the Gates - -Author: Elizabeth Stuart Phelps - -Release Date: January 27, 2017 [EBook #54060] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEYOND THE GATES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - BEYOND THE GATES. - - BY - - ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, - - AUTHOR OF “THE GATES AJAR,” “THE STORY OF AVIS,” ETC., ETC. - - _Nineteenth Thousand._ - - [Illustration: colophon] - - BOSTON: - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY - New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street. - The Riverside Press, Cambridge. - 1884. - - Copyright, 1883, - BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. - - _All rights reserved._ - - _The Riverside Press, Cambridge_: - Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company. - - _TO MY BROTHER_, - - STUART, - - WHO PASSED BEYOND, AUGUST 29, 1883. - - - - -NOTE. - - -It should be said, that, at the time of the departure of him to whose -memory this little book is consecrated, the work was already in press; -and that these pages owe more to his criticism than can be acknowledged -here. - -E. S. P. - -GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS, - -_September, 1883_. - - - - -BEYOND THE GATES. - - - - -I. - - -I had been ill for several weeks with what they called brain fever. The -events which I am about to relate happened on the fifteenth day of my -illness. - -Before beginning to tell my story, it may not be out of place to say a -few words about myself, in order to clarify to the imagination of the -reader points which would otherwise involve numerous explanatory -digressions, more than commonly misplaced in a tale dealing with the -materials of this. - -I am a woman forty years of age. My father was a clergyman; he had been -many years dead. I was living, at the time I refer to, in my mother’s -house in a factory town in Massachusetts. The town need not be more -particularly mentioned, nor genuine family names given, for obvious -reasons. I was the oldest of four children; one of my sisters was -married, one was at home with us, and there was a boy at college. - -I was an unmarried, but not an unhappy woman. I had reached a very busy, -and sometimes I hoped a not altogether valueless, middle age. I had used -life and loved it. Beyond the idle impulse of a weary moment, which -signifies no more than the reflex action of a mental muscle, and which I -had been in the habit of rating accordingly, I had never wished to die. -I was well, vigorous, and active. I was not of a dependent or a -despondent temperament. - -I am not writing an autobiography, and these things, not of importance -in themselves, require only the briefest allusion. They will serve to -explain the general cast of my life, which in turn may define the -features of my story. - -There are two kinds of solitary: he who is drawn by the inward, and he -who chooses the outward life. To this latter class I had belonged. -Circumstances, which it is not necessary to detail here, had thrust me -into the one as a means of self-preservation from the other, while I was -yet quite young. - -I had been occupied more largely with the experiences of other people -than with my own. I had been in the habit of being depended upon. It had -been my great good fortune to be able to spend a part of my time among -the sick, the miserable, and the poor. It had been, perhaps, my better -chance to be obliged to balance the emotional perils of such occupations -by those of a different character. My business was that of a -school-teacher, but I had traveled somewhat; I had served as a nurse -during the latter years of the war; in the Sanitary Commission; upon the -Freedmen’s Bureau; as an officer in a Woman’s Prison, and had done a -little work for the State Bureau of Labor among the factory operatives -of our own town. I had therefore, it will be seen, been spared the -deterioration of a monotonous existence. At the time I was taken ill I -was managing a private school, rather large for the corps of assistants -which I could command, and had overworked. I had been at home, thus -employed, with my mother who needed me, for two years. - -It may not be unsuitable, before proceeding with my narrative, to say -that I had been a believer in the truths of the Christian religion; not, -however, a devotee. I had not the ecstatic temperament, and was not -known among my friends for any higher order of piety than that which is -implied in trying to do one’s duty for Christ’s sake, and saying little -about it or Him,--less than I wish I had sometimes. It was natural to me -to speak in other ways than by words; that does not prove that it was -best. I had read a little, like all thinking people with any -intellectual margin to their lives, of the religious controversies of -the day, and had not been without my share of pressure from the -fashionable reluctance to believe. Possibly this had affected a -temperament not too much inclined towards the supernatural, but it had -never conquered my faith, which I think had grown to be dearer to me -because I had not kept it without a fight for it. It certainly had -become, for this reason, of greater practical value. It certainly had -become, for this and every reason, the most valuable thing I had, or -hoped to have. I believed in God and immortality, and in the history of -Jesus Christ. I respected and practiced prayer, but chiefly decided what -I ought to do next minute. I loved life and lived it. I neither feared -death nor thought much about it. - - * * * * * - -When I had been ill a fortnight, it occurred to me that I was very sick, -but not that I could possibly die. I suffered a good deal at first; -after that much less. There was great misery for lack of sleep, and -intolerable restlessness. The worst, however, was the continuity of -care. Those who have borne heavy responsibilities for any length of time -will understand me. The incessant burden pressed on: now a pupil had -fallen into some disgraceful escapade; now the investments of my -mother’s, of which I had the charge, had failed on the dividends; then -I had no remittance for the boy at college; then my sister, in a -heart-breaking emergency, confided to me a peril against which I could -not lift a finger; the Governor held me responsible for the typhoid -among the prisoners; I added eternal columns of statistics for the -Charity Boards, and found forever a mistake in each report; a dying -soldier called to me in piercing tones for a cup of water; the black -girl to whom I read the Gospel of John, drowned her baby; I ran six -looms in the mill for the mother of six children till her seventh should -be born; I staked the salvation of my soul upon answering the argument -of Strauss to the satisfaction of an unbelieving friend, and lost my -wager; I heard my classes in Logic, and was unable to repeat anything -but the “Walrus and the Carpenter,” for the “Barbara Celarent.” -Suddenly, one day, in the thick of this brain-battle, I slipped upon a -pause, in which I distinctly heard a low voice say, - - “But Thine eternal thoughts move on, - Thine undisturbed affairs.” - -It was my mother’s voice. I perceived then that she sat at my bedside in -the red easy-chair, repeating hymns, poor soul! in the hope of calming -me. - -I put out my hand and patted her arm, but it did not occur to me to -speak till I saw that there were masses of pansies and some mignonette -upon the table, and I asked who sent them, and she told me the -school-girls had kept them fresh there every day since I was taken ill. -I felt some pleasure that they should take the trouble to select the -flowers I preferred. Then I asked her where the jelly came from, and the -grapes, and about other trifles that I saw, such as accumulate in any -sick-room. Then she gave me the names of different friends and neighbors -who had been so good as to remember me. Chiefly I was touched by the -sight of a straggly magenta geranium which I noticed growing in a pot by -the window, and which a poor woman from the mills had brought the day -before. I asked my mother if there were any letters, and she said, many, -but that I must not hear them read; she spoke of some from the prison. -The door-bell often rang softly, and I asked why it was muffled, and who -called. Alice had come in, and said something in an undertone to mother -about the Grand Army and resolutions and sympathy; and she used the -names of different people I had almost forgotten, and this confused me. -They stopped talking, and I became at once very ill again. - -The next point which I recall is turning to see that the doctor was in -the room. I was in great suffering, and he gave me a few spoonfuls of -something which he said would secure sleep. I desired to ask him what it -was, as I objected to narcotics, and preferred to bear whatever was -before me with the eyes of my mind open, but as soon as I tried to speak -I forgot what I wished to say. - -I do not know how long it was before the truth approached me, but it was -towards evening of that day, the fifteenth, as I say, of my illness, -that I said aloud: - -“Mother, Tom is in the room. Why has Tom come home?” - -Tom was my little brother at college. He came towards the bed as I -spoke. He had his hat in his hand, and he put it up before his eyes. - -“Mother!” I repeated louder than before. “_Why have you sent for Tom?_” - -But Mother did not answer me. She leaned over me. I saw her looking -down. She had the look that she had when my father died; though I was so -young when that happened, I had never forgotten my mother’s look; and I -had never seen it since, from that day until this hour. - -“Mother! am I so sick as _that_? MOTHER!” - -“Oh, my dear!” cried Mother. “Oh my dear, my dear!” ... - -So after that I understood. I was greatly startled that they should feel -me to be dangerously ill; but I was not alarmed. - -“It is nonsense,” I said, after I had thought about it a little while. -“Dr. Shadow was always a croaker. I have no idea of dying! I have nursed -too many sicker people than I am. I don’t _intend_ to die! I am able to -sit up now, if I want to. Let me try.” - -“I’ll hold you,” said Tom, softly enough. This pleased me. He lifted all -the pillows, and held me straight out upon his mighty arms. Tom was a -great athlete--took the prizes at the gymnasium. No weaker man could -have supported me for fifteen minutes in the strained position by which -he found that he could give me comfort and so gratify my whim. Tom held -me a long time; I think it must have been an hour; but I began to suffer -again, and could not judge of time. I wondered how that big boy got such -infinite tenderness into those iron muscles. I felt a great respect for -human flesh and bone and blood, and for the power and preciousness of -the living human body. It seemed much more real to me, then, than the -spirit. It seemed an absurdity that any one should suppose that I was in -danger of being done with life. I said:-- - -“I’m going to live, Tom! Tell Mother I have no idea of dying. I prefer -to live.” - -Tom nodded; he did not speak; I felt a hot dash of tears on my face, -which surprised me; I had not seen Tom cry since he lost the football -match when he was eleven years old. - -They gave me something more out of the spoon, again, I think, at that -moment, and I felt better. I said to Tom:-- - -“You see!” and bade them send Mother to lie down, and asked Alice to -make her beef-tea, and to be sure and make it as we did in the army. I -do not remember saying anything more after this. I certainly did not -suffer any more. I felt quiet and assured. Nothing farther troubled me. -The room became so still that I thought they must all have gone away, -and left me with the nurse, and that she, finding me so well, had -herself fallen asleep. This rested me--to feel that I was no longer -causing them pain--more than anything could have done; and I began to -think the best thing I could do would be to take a nap myself. - -With this conviction quietly in mind I turned over, with my face towards -the wall, to go to sleep. I grew calmer, and yet more calm, as I lay -there. There was a cross of Swiss carving on the wall, hanging over a -picture of my father. Leonardo’s Christ--the one from the drawing for -the Last Supper, that we all know--hung above both these. Owing to my -position, I could not see the other pictures in the room, which was -large, and filled with little things, the gifts of those who had been -kind to me in a life of many busy years. Only these three objects--the -cross, the Christ, and my father--came within range of my eyes as the -power of sleep advanced. The room was darkened, as it had been since I -became so ill, so that I was not sure whether it were night or day. The -clock was striking. I think it struck two; and I perceived the odor of -the mignonette. I think it was the last thing I noticed before going to -sleep, and I remembered, as I did so, the theories which gave to the -sense of smell greater significance than any of the rest; and remembered -to have read that it was either the last or the first to give way in the -dying. (I could not recall, in my confused condition, which.) I thought -of this with pleased and idle interest; but did not associate the -thought with the alarm felt by my friends about my condition. - -I could have slept but a short time when I woke, feeling much easier. -The cross, the Christ, and the picture of my father looked at me calmly -from the wall on which the sick-lamp cast a steady, soft light. Then I -remembered that it was night, of course, and felt chagrined that I could -have been confused on this point. - -The room seemed close to me, and I turned over to ask for more air. - -As I did so, I saw some one sitting in the cushioned window-seat by the -open window--the eastern window. No one had occupied this seat, on -account of the draught and chill, since my illness. As I looked -steadily, I saw that the person who sat there was my father. - -His face was turned away, but his figure and the contour of his noble -head were not to be mistaken. Although I was a mere girl when he died, I -felt no hesitation about this. I knew at once, and beyond all doubt, -that it was he. I experienced pleasure, but little, if any, surprise. - -As I lay there looking at him, he turned and regarded me. His deep eyes -glowed with a soft, calm light; but yet, I know not why, they expressed -more love than I had ever seen in them before. He used to love us -nervously and passionately. He had now the look of one whose whole -nature is saturated with rest, and to whom the fitfulness, distrust, or -distress of intense feeling acting upon a super-sensitive organization, -were impossible. As he looked towards me, he smiled. He had one of the -sweetest smiles that ever illuminated a mortal face. - -“Why, Father!” I said aloud. He nodded encouragingly, but did not speak. - -“Father?” I repeated, “Father, is this _you_?” He laughed a little, -softly, putting up one hand and tossing his hair off from his -forehead--an old way of his. - -“What are you here for?” I asked again. “Did Mother send for _you_, -too?” - -When I had said this, I felt confused and troubled; for though I did not -remember that he was dead--I mean I did not put the thought in any such -form to myself, or use that word or any of its synonyms--yet I -remembered that he had been absent from our family circle for a good -while, and that if Mother had sent for him because I had a brain fever, -it would have been for some reason not according to her habit. - -“It is strange,” I said. “It isn’t like her. I don’t understand the -thing at all.” - -Now, as I continued to look at the corner of the room where my father -was sitting, I saw that he had risen from the cushioned window-seat, and -taken a step or two towards me. He stopped, however, and stood quite -still, and looked at me most lovingly and longingly; and _then_ it was -that he held out his arms to me. - -“Oh,” cried I, “I wish I could come! But you don’t know how sick I am. I -have not walked a step for over two weeks.” - -He did not speak even yet, but still held out his arms with that look of -unutterably restful love. I felt the elemental tie between parent and -child draw me. It seemed to me as if I had reached the foundation of all -human feeling; as if I had gone down--how shall I say it?--below the -depths of all other love. I had always known I loved him, but not like -that. I was greatly moved. - -“But you don’t understand me,” I repeated with some agitation. “I -_can’t_ walk.” I thought it very strange that he did not, in -consideration of my feebleness, come to me. - -Then for the first time he spoke. - -“Come,” he said gently. His voice sounded quite natural; I only noticed -that he spoke under his breath, as if not to awake the nurse, or any -person who was in the room. - -At this, I moved, and sat up on the edge of my bed; although I did so -easily enough, I lost courage at that point. It seemed impossible to go -farther. I felt a little chilly, and remembered, too, that I was not -dressed. A warm white woolen wrapper of my own, and my slippers, were -within reach, by the head of the bed; Alice wore them when she watched -with me. I put these things on, and then paused, expecting to be -overcome with exhaustion after the effort. To my surprise, I did not -feel tired at all. I believe, rather, I felt a little stronger. As I put -the clothes on, I noticed the magenta geranium across the room. These, -I think, were the only things which attracted my attention. - -“Come here to me,” repeated Father; he spoke more decidedly, this time -with a touch of authority. I remembered hearing him speak just so when -Tom was learning to walk; he began by saying, “Come, sonny boy!” but -when the baby played the coward, he said, “My son, come here!” - -As if I had been a baby, I obeyed. I put my feet to the floor, and found -that I stood strongly. I experienced a slight giddiness for a moment, -but when this passed, my head felt clearer than before. I walked -steadily out into the middle of the room. Each step was firmer than the -other. As I advanced, he came to meet me. My heart throbbed. I thought I -should have fallen, not from weakness, but from joy. - -“Don’t be afraid,” he said encouragingly; “that is right. You are doing -finely. Only a few steps more. There!” - -It was done. I had crossed the distance which separated us, and my dear -Father, after all those years, took me, as he used to do, into his -arms.... - -He was the first to speak, and he said:-- - -“You poor little girl!--But it is over now.” - -“Yes, it is over now,” I answered. I thought he referred to the -difficult walk across the room, and to my long illness, now so happily -at an end. He smiled and patted me on the cheek, but made no other -answer. - -“I must tell Mother that you are here,” I said presently. I had not -looked behind me or about me. Since the first sight of my father sitting -in the window, I had not observed any other person, and could not have -told who was in the room. - -“Not yet,” my father said. “We may not speak to her at present. I think -we had better go.” - -I lifted my face to say, “Go where?” but my lips did not form the -question. It was just as it used to be when he came from the study and -held out his hand, and said “Come,” and I went anywhere with him, -neither asking, nor caring, so long as it was with him; and then he used -to play or walk with me, and I forgot the whole world besides. I put my -hand in his without a question, and we moved towards the door. - -“I suppose _you_ had better go this way,” he said, with a slight -hesitation, as we passed out and across the hall. - -“Any way you like best,” I said joyfully. He smiled, and still keeping -my hand, led me down the stairs. As we went down, I heard the little -Swiss clock, above in my room, strike the half hour after two. - -I noticed everything in the hall as we descended; it was as if my -vision, as well as the muscles of motion, grew stronger with each -moment. I saw the stair-carpeting with its faded Brussels pattern, once -rich, and remembered counting the red roses on it the night I went up -with the fever on me; reeling and half delirious, wondering how I could -possibly afford to be sick. I saw the hat-tree with Tom’s coat, and -Alice’s blue Shetland shawl across the old hair-cloth sofa. As we -opened the door, I saw the muffled bell. I stood for a moment upon the -threshold of my old home, not afraid but perplexed. - -My father seemed to understand my thoughts perfectly, though I had not -spoken, and he paused for my reluctant mood. I thought of all the years -I had spent there. I thought of my childhood and girlhood; of the -tempestuous periods of life which that quiet roof had hidden; of the -calms upon which it had brooded. I thought of sorrows that I had -forgotten, and those which I had prayed in vain to forget. I thought of -temptations and of mistakes and of sins, from which I had fled back -asking these four walls to shelter me. I thought of the comfort and -blessedness that I had never failed to find in the old house. I shrank -from leaving it. It seemed like leaving my body. - -When the door had been opened, the night air rushed in. I could see the -stars, and knew, rather than felt, that it was cold. As we stood -waiting, an icicle dropped from the eaves, and fell, breaking into a -dozen diamond flashes at our feet. Beyond, it was dark. - -“It seems to me a great exposure,” I said reluctantly, “to be taken out -into a winter night,--at such an hour, too! I have been so very sick.” - -“Are you cold?” asked my father gently. After some thought I said:-- - -“No, sir.” - -For I was not cold. For the first time I wondered why. - -“Are you tired?” - -No, I was not tired. - -“Are you afraid?” - -“A little, I think, sir.” - -“Would you like to go back, Molly, and rest awhile?” - -“If you please, Papa.” - -The old baby-word came instinctively in answer to the baby-name. He led -me like a child, and like a child I submitted. It was like him to be so -thoughtful of my weakness. My dear father was always one of those rare -men who think of little things largely, and so bring, especially into -the lives of women, the daily comfort which makes the infinite -preciousness of life. - -We went into the parlor and sat down. It was warm there and pleasant. -The furnace was well on, and embers still in the grate. The lamps were -not lighted, yet the room was not dark. I enjoyed being down there again -after all those weeks up-stairs, and was happy in looking at the -familiar things, the afghan on the sofa, and the magazines on the table, -uncut because of my illness; Mother’s work-basket, and Alice’s music -folded away. - -“It was always a dear old room,” said Father, seating himself in his own -chair, which we had kept for twenty years in its old place. He put his -head back, and gazed peacefully about. - -When I felt rested, and better, I asked him if we should start now. - -“Just as you please,” he said quietly. “There is no hurry. We are never -hurried.” - -“If we have anything to do,” I said, “I had rather do it now I think.” - -“Very well,” said Father, “that is like you.” He rose and held out his -hand again. I took it once more, and once more we went out to the -threshold of our old home. This time I felt more confidence, but when -the night air swept in, I could not help shrinking a little in spite of -myself, and showing the agitation which overtook me. - -“Father!” I cried, “Father! _where_ are we going?” - -My father turned at this, and looked at me solemnly. His face seemed to -shine and glow. He looked from what I felt was a great height. He -said:-- - -“Are you really afraid, Mary, to go _any_where with me?” - -“No, no!” I protested in a passion of regret and trust, “my dear father! -I would go any where in earth or Heaven with you!” - -“Then come,” he said softly. - -I clasped both hands, interlocking them through his arm, and we shut the -door and went down the steps together and out into the winter dawn. - - - - -II. - - -It was neither dark nor day; and as we stepped into the village streets -the confused light trembled about us delicately. The stars were still -shining. Snow was on the ground; and I think it had freshly fallen in -the night, for I noticed that the way before us lay quite white and -untrodden. I looked back over my shoulders as my father closed the gate, -which he did without noise. I meant to take a gaze at the old house, -from which, with a thrill at the heart, I began to feel that I was -parting under strange and solemn conditions. But when I glanced up the -path which we had taken, my attention was directed altogether from the -house, and from the slight sadness of the thought I had about it. - -The circumstance which arrested me was this. Neither my father’s foot -nor mine had left any print upon the walk. From the front door to the -street, the fine fair snow lay unbroken; it stirred, and rose in -restless flakes like winged creatures under the gentle wind, flew a -little way, and fell again, covering the surface of the long white path -with a foam so light, it seemed as if thought itself could not have -passed upon it without impression. I can hardly say why I did not call -my father’s attention to this fact. - -As we walked down the road the dawn began to deepen. The stars paled -slowly. The intense blue-black and purple of the night sky gave way to -the warm grays that precede sunrise in our climate. I saw that the gold -and the rose were coming. It promised to be a mild morning, warmer than -for several days. The deadly chill was out of the air. The snow yielded -on the outlines of the drifts, and relaxed as one looked at it, as snow -does before melting, and the icicles had an air of expectation, as if -they hastened to surrender to the annunciation of a warm and impatient -winter’s day. - -“It is going to thaw,” I said aloud. - -“It seems so to you,” replied my father, vaguely. - -“But at least it is very pleasant,” I insisted. - -“I’m glad you find it so,” he said; “I should have been disappointed if -it had struck you as cold, or--gloomy--in any way.” - -It was still so early that all the village was asleep. The blinds and -curtains of the houses were drawn and the doors yet locked. None of our -neighbors were astir, nor were there any signs of traffic yet in the -little shops. The great factory-bell, which woke the operatives at -half-past four, had rung, but this was the only evidence as yet of human -life or motion. It did not occur to me, till afterwards, to wonder at -the inconsistency between the hour struck by my own Swiss clock and the -factory time. - -I was more interested in another matter which just then presented itself -to me. - -The village, as I say, was still asleep. Once I heard the distant hoofs -of a horse sent clattering after the doctor, and ridden by a messenger -from a household in mortal need. Up to this time we two had seemed to -be the only watchers in all the world. - -Now, as I turned to see if I could discover whose horse it was and so -who was in emergency, I observed suddenly that the sidewalk was full of -people. I say full of people; I mean that there was a group behind us; a -few, also, before us; some, too, were crossing the street. They -conversed together standing at the corners, or walked in twos, as father -and I were doing; or strolled, some of them alone. Some of them seemed -to have immediate business and to be in haste; others sauntered as he -who has no occupation. Some talked and gesticulated earnestly, or -laughed loudly. Others went with a thoughtful manner, speaking not at -all. - -As I watched them I began to recognize here and there, a man, or a -woman;--there were more men than women among them, and there were no -children. - -A few of these people, I soon saw, were old neighbors of ours; some I -had known when I was a child, and had forgotten till this moment. -Several of them bowed to us as we passed along. One man stopped and -waited for us, and spoke to Father, who shook hands with him; -intimating, however, pleasantly enough, that he was in haste, and must -be excused for passing on. - -“Yes, yes, I see,” said the man with a glance at me. I then distinctly -saw this person’s face, and knew him beyond a doubt, for an old -neighbor, a certain Mr. Snarl, a miserly, sanctimonious man--I had never -liked him. - -“Father!” I stopped short. “Father, that man is dead. He has been dead -for twenty years!” - -Now, at this, I began to tremble; yet not from fear, I think; from -amazement, rather, and the great confusion which I felt. - -“And there”--I pointed to a pale young man who had been thrown from his -carriage (it was said because he was in no condition to drive)--“there -is Bobby Bend. He died last winter.” - -“Well,” said Father quietly, “and what then?” - -“And over there--why, certainly that is Mrs. Mersey!” - -I had known Mrs. Mersey for a lovely woman. She died of a fever -contracted in the care of a poor, neglected creature. I saw her at this -moment across and far down the street, coming from a house where there -was trouble. She came with a swift, elastic motion, unlike that of any -of the others who were about us; the difference was marked, and yet one -which I should have found it at that time impossible to describe. -Perhaps I might have said that she hovered above rather than touched the -earth; but this would not have defined the distinction. As I looked -after her she disappeared; in what direction I could not tell. - -“So they _are_ dead people,” I said, with a sort of triumph; almost as -if I had dared my father to deny it. He smiled. - -“Father, I begin to be perplexed. I have heard of these hallucinations, -of course, and read the authenticated stories, but I never supposed I -could be a subject of such illusions. It must be because I have been so -sick.” - -“Partly because you have been so sick--yes,” said Father drawing down -the corners of his mouth, in that way he had when he was amused. I went -on to tell him that it seemed natural to see him, but that I was -surprised to meet those others who had left us, and that I did not find -it altogether agreeable. - -“Are you afraid?” he asked me, as he had before. No, I could not say -that I was afraid. - -“Then hasten on,” he said in a different tone, “our business is not with -them, at present. See! we have already left them behind.” - -And, indeed, when I glanced back, I saw that we had. We, too, were now -traveling alone together, and at a much faster speed, towards the -outskirts of the town. We were moving eastward. Before us the splendid -day was coming up. The sky was unfolding, shade above shade, paler at -the edge, and glowing at the heart, like the petals of a great rose. - -The snow was melting on the moors towards which we bent our steps; the -water stood here and there in pools, and glistened. A little winter -bird--some chickadee or wood-pecker--was bathing in one of these pools; -his tiny brown body glowed in the brightness, flashing to and fro. He -chirped and twittered and seemed bursting with joy. As we approached the -moors, the stalks of the sumachs, the mulberries, the golden-rod, and -asters, all the wayside weeds and the brown things that we never know -and never love till winter, rose beautiful from the snow; the icicles -melted and dripped from them; the dead-gold-colored leaves of the low -oaks rustled; at a distance we heard the sweet sough from a grove of -pines; behind us the morning bells of the village broke into bubbles of -cheerful sound. As we walked on together I felt myself become stronger -at every step; my heart grew light. - -“It is a good world,” I cried, “it is a good world!” - -“So it is,” said my father heartily, “and yet--my dear daughter”--He -hesitated; so long that I looked into his face earnestly, and then I saw -that a strange gravity had settled upon it. It was not like any look -that I had ever seen there before. - -“I have better things to show you,” he said gently. - -“I do not understand you, sir.” - -“We have only begun our journey, Mary; and--if you do not -understand--but I thought you would have done so by this time--I wonder -if she _is_ going to be frightened after all!” - -We were now well out upon the moors, alone together, on the side of the -hill. The town looked far behind us and insignificant. The earth -dwindled and the sky grew, as we looked from one to the other. It seemed -to me that I had never before noticed how small a portion of our range -of vision is filled by the surface of earth, and what occupies it; and -how immense the proportion of the heavens. As we stood there, it seemed -to overwhelm us. - -“Rise,” said my father in a voice of solemn authority, “rise quickly!” - -I struggled at his words, for he seemed to slip from me, and I feared to -lose him. I struggled and struck out into the air; I felt a wild -excitement, like one plunged into a deep sea, and desperately swimming, -as animals do, and a few men, from blind instinct, having never learned. -My father spoke encouragingly, and with tenderness. He never once let go -my hand. I felt myself, beyond all doubt, soaring--slowly and -weakly--but surely ascending above the solid ground. - -“See! there is nothing to fear,” he said from time to time. I did not -answer. My heart beat fast. I exerted all my strength and took a -stronger stroke. I felt that I gained upon myself. I closed my eyes, -looking neither above nor below. - -Suddenly, as gently as the opening of a water lily, and yet as swiftly -as the cleaving of the lightning, there came to me a thought which made -my brain whirl, and I cried aloud: - -“Father, _am I_ DEAD?” My hands slipped--I grew dizzy--wavered--and -fluttered. I was sure that I should fall. At that instant I was caught -with the iron of tenderness and held, like a very young child, in my -father’s arms. He said nothing, only patted me on the cheek, as we -ascended, he seeing, and I blind; he strength, and I weakness; he who -knew all, and I who knew nothing, silently with the rising sun athwart -the rose-lit air. - -I was awed, more than there are words to say; but I felt no more fear -than I used to do when he carried me on his shoulder up the garden walk, -after it grew dark, when I was tired out with play. - - - - -III. - - -I use the words “ascension” and “arising” in the superficial sense of -earthly imagery. Of course, carefully speaking, there can be no up or -down to the motion of beings detached from a revolving globe, and set -adrift in space. I thought of this in the first moment, with the -keenness which distinguishes between knowledge and experience. I knew -when our journey came to an end, by the gradual cessation of our rapid -motion; but at first I did not incline to investigate beyond this fact. -Whether I was only tired, or giddy, or whether a little of what we used -to call faintness overcame me, I can hardly say. If this were so, it was -rather a spiritual than a physical disability; it was a faintness of the -soul. Now I found this more energetic than the bodily sensations I had -known. I scarcely sought to wrestle against it, but lay quite still, -where we had come to a halt. - -I wish to say here, that if you ask me where this was, I must answer -that I do not know. I must say distinctly that, though after the act of -dying I departed from the surface of the earth, and reached the confines -of a different locality, I cannot yet instruct another _where_ this -place may be. - -My impression that it was not a vast distance (measured, I mean, by an -astronomical scale) from our globe, is a strong one, which, however, I -cannot satisfactorily defend. There seemed to be flowers about me; I -wondered what they were, but lay with my face hidden in my arm, not -caring yet to look about. I thought of that old-fashioned allegory -called “The Distant Hills,” where the good girl, when she died, sank -upon a bed of violets; but the bad girl slipped upon rolling stones -beneath a tottering ruin. This trifling memory occupied me for some -moments; yet it had so great significance to me, that I recall it, even -now, with pungent gratitude. - -“I shall remember what I have read.” This was my first thought in the -new state to which I had come. Minna was the name of the girl in the -allegory. The illustrations were very poor, but had that uncanny -fascination which haunts allegorical pictures--often the more powerful -because of their rudeness. - -As I lay there, still not caring, or even not daring to look up, the -fact that I was crushing flowers beneath me became more apparent; a -delicate perfume arose and surrounded me; it was like and yet unlike any -that I had ever known; its familiarity entranced, its novelty allured -me. Suddenly I perceived what it was-- - -“Mignonette!” - -I laughed at my own dullness in detecting it, and could not help -wondering whether it were accident or design that had given me for my -first experience in the new life, the gratification of a little personal -taste like this. For a few moments I yielded to the pure and exquisite -perfume, which stole into my whole nature, or it seemed to me so then. -Afterwards I learned how little I knew of my “whole nature” at that -time. - -Presently I took courage, and lifted my head. I hardly know what I -expected to see. Visions of the Golden City in the Apocalypse had -flitted before me. I thought of the River of Death in the “Pilgrim’s -Progress,” of the last scene in the “Voyage of Life,” of Theremin’s -“Awakening,” of several famous books and pictures which I had read or -seen, describing what we call Heaven. These works of the human -imagination--stored away perhaps in the frontal lobes of the brain, as -scientists used to tell us--had influenced my anticipations more than I -could have believed possible till that moment. - -I was indeed in a beautiful place; but it did not look, in any respect, -as I had expected. No; I think not in any respect. Many things which -happened to me later, I can describe more vividly than I can this first -impression. In one way it was a complex, in another, a marvelously -simple one. Chiefly, I think I had a consciousness of safety--infinite -safety. All my soul drew a long breath--“Nothing more can happen to me!” -Yet, at the same time, I felt that I was at the outset of all -experience. It was as if my heart cried aloud, “Where shall I begin?” - -I looked about and abroad. My father stood at a little distance from me, -conversing with some friends. I did not know them. They had great -brightness and beauty of appearance. So, also, had he. He had altered -perceptibly since he met me in the lower world, and seemed to glow and -become absorbent of light from some source yet unseen. This struck me -forcibly in all the people whom I saw--there were many of them, going to -and fro busily--that they were receptive and reflecting beings. They -differed greatly in the degree in which they gave this impression; but -all gave it. Some were quite pale, though pure in color; others glowed -and shone. Yet when I say color, I use an earthly word, which does not -express my meaning. It was more the atmosphere or penumbra, in which -each moved, that I refer to, perhaps, than the tint of their bodies. -They had bodies, very like such as I was used to. I saw that I myself -was not, or so it appeared, greatly changed. I had form and dress, and I -moved at will, and experienced sensations of pleasure and, above all, of -magnificent health. For a while I was absorbed, without investigating -details, in the mere sense of physical ease and power. I did not wish to -speak, or to be spoken to, nor even to stir and exercise my splendid -strength. It was more than enough to feel it, after all those weeks of -pain. I lay back again upon the mignonette; as I did so, I noticed that -the flowers where my form had pressed them were not bruised; they had -sprung erect again; they had not wilted, nor even hung their heads as if -they were hurt--I lay back upon, and deep within, the mignonette, and, -drowned in the delicate odor, gazed about me. - -Yes; I was truly in a wonderful place. It was in the country (as we -should say below), though I saw signs of large centres of life, outlines -of distant architecture far away. There were hills, and vast distances, -and vistas of hill tints in the atmosphere. There were forests of great -depth. There was an expanse of shining water. There were fields of fine -extent and color, undulating like green seas. The sun was high--if it -were the sun. At least there was great brilliance about me. Flowers must -have been abundant, for the air was alive with perfumes. - -When I have said this, I seem to have said little or nothing. Certain it -is that these first impressions came to me in broad masses, like the -sweep of a large brush or blender upon canvas. Of details I received -few, for a long time. I was overcome with a sense of -Nature--freedom--health--beauty, as if--how shall I say it?--as if for -the first time I understood what generic terms meant; as if I had -entered into the secret of all abstract glory; as if what we had known -as philosophical or as poetical phrases were now become attainable -facts, each possessing that individual existence in which dreamers upon -earth dare to believe, and of which no doubter can be taught. - -I am afraid I do not express this with anything like the simplicity -with which I felt it; and to describe it with anything resembling the -power would be impossible. - -I felt my smallness and ignorance in view of the wonders which lay -before me. “I shall have time enough to study them,” I thought, but the -thought itself thrilled me throughout, and proved far more of an -excitant than a sedative. I rose slowly, and stood trembling among the -mignonette. I shielded my eyes with my hand, not from any glare or -dazzle or strain, but only from the presence and the pressure of beauty, -and so stood looking off. As I did so, certain words came to mind with -the haunting voice of a broken quotation: - - “_Neither have entered into the heart of man_”-- - “_The things which God hath prepared_”-- - -It was a relief to me to see my father coming towards me at that moment, -for I had, perhaps, undergone as much keen emotion as one well bears, -compressed into a short space of time. He met me smiling. - -“And how is it, Mary?” - -“My first Bible verse has just occurred to me, Father--the first -religious thought I’ve had in Heaven yet!” I tried to speak lightly, -feeling too deeply for endurance. I repeated the words to him, for he -asked me what they were which had come to me. - -“That is a pleasant experience,” he said quietly. “It differs with us -all. I have seen people enter in a transport of haste to see the Lord -Himself--noticing nothing, forgetting everything. I have seen others -come in a transport of terror--so afraid they were of Him.” - -“And I had scarcely thought about seeing Him till now!” I felt ashamed -of this. But my father comforted me by a look. - -“Each comes to his own by his own,” he said. “The nature is never -forced. Here we unfold like a leaf, a flower. He expects nothing of us -but to be natural.” - -This seemed to me a deep saying; and the more I thought of it the deeper -it seemed. I said so as we walked, separate still from the others, -through the beautiful weather. The change from a New England winter to -the climate in which I found myself was, in itself, not the least of -the great effects and delights which I experienced that first day. - -If nothing were expected of us but to be natural, it was the more -necessary that it should be natural to be right. - -I felt the full force of this conviction as it had never been possible -to feel it in the other state of being, where I was under restraint. The -meaning of _liberty_ broke upon me like a sunburst. Freedom was in and -of itself the highest law. Had I thought that death was to mean release -from personal obedience? Lo, death itself was but the elevation of moral -claims, from lower to higher. I perceived how all demands of the larger -upon the lesser self must be increased in the condition to which I had -arrived. I felt overpowered for the moment with the intensity of these -claims. It seemed to me that I had never really known before, what -obligation meant. Conduct was now the least of difficulties. For -impulse, which lay behind conduct, for all force which wrought out fact -in me, I had become accountable. - -“As nearly as I can make it out, Father,” I said, “henceforth I shall be -responsible for my nature.” - -“Something like that; not altogether.” - -“The force of circumstance and heredity,”--I began, using the old -earthly _patois_. “Of course I’m not to be called to account for what I -start with here, any more than I was for what I started with there. That -would be neither science nor philosophy.” - -“We are neither unscientific nor unphilosophical, you will find,” said -my father, patiently. - -“I am very dull, sir. Be patient with me. What I am trying to say, I -believe, is that I shall feel the deepest mortification if I do not find -it natural to do right. This feeling is so keen, that to be wrong must -be the most unnatural thing in the world. There is certainly a great -difference from what it used to be; I cannot explain it. Already I am -ashamed of the smallness of my thoughts when I first looked about in -this place. Already I cannot understand why I did not spring like a -fountain to the Highest, to the Best. But then, Father, I never was a -devotee, you know.” - -When I had uttered these words I felt a recoil from myself, and sense of -discord. I was making excuses for myself. That used to be a fault of the -past life. One did not do it here. It was as if I had committed some -grave social indecorum. I felt myself blushing. My father noticed my -embarrassment, and called my attention to a brook by which we were -walking, beginning to talk of its peculiar translucence and rhythm, and -other little novelties, thus kindly diverting me from my distress, and -teaching me how we were spared everything we could be in heaven, even in -trifles like this. I was not so much as permitted to bear the edge of my -regret, without the velvet of tenderness interposing to blunt the smart. -It used to be thought among us below that one must be allowed to suffer -from error, to learn. It seemed to be found here, that one learned by -being saved from suffering. I wondered how it would be in the case of a -really grave wrong which I might be so miserable as to commit; and if I -should ever be so unfortunate as to discover by personal experience. - -This train of thought went on while I was examining the brook. It had -brilliant colors in the shallows, where certain strange agates formed -pebbles of great beauty. There were also shells. A brook with shells -enchanted me. I gathered some of them; they had opaline tints, and some -were transparent as spun glass; they glittered in the hand, and did not -dull when out of the water, like the shells we were used to. The shadows -of strange trees hung across the tiny brown current, and unfamiliar -birds flashed like tossed jewels overhead, through the branches and -against the wonderful color of the sky. The birds were singing. One -among them had a marvelous note. I listened to it for some time before I -discovered that this bird was singing a Te Deum. How I knew that it was -a Te Deum I cannot say. The others were more like earthly birds, except -for the thrilling sweetness of their notes--and I could not see this -one, for she seemed to be hidden from sight upon her nest. I observed -that the bird upon the nest sang here as well as that upon the bough; -and that I understood her: “_Te Deum laudamus--laudamus_” as distinctly -as if I had been listening to a human voice. - -When I had comprehended this, and stood entranced to listen, I began to -catch the same melody in the murmur of the water, and perceived, to my -astonishment, that the two, the brook and the bird, carried parts of the -harmony of a solemn and majestic mass. Apparently these were but -portions of the whole, but all which it was permitted me to hear. My -father explained to me that it was not every natural beauty which had -the power to join in such surpassing chorals; these were selected, for -reasons which he did not attempt to specify. I surmised that they were -some of the simplest of the wonders of this mythical world, which were -entrusted to new-comers, as being first within the range of their -capacities. I was enraptured with what I heard. The light throbbed about -me. The sweet harmony rang on. I bathed my face in the musical -water--it was as if I absorbed the sound at the pores of my skin. Dimly -I received a hint of the possible existence of a sense or senses of -which I had never heard. - -What wonders were to come! What knowledge, what marvel, what stimulation -and satisfaction! And I had but just begun! I was overwhelmed with this -thought, and looked about; I knew not which way to turn; I had not what -to say. Where was the first step? What was the next delight? The fire of -discovery kindled in my veins. Let us hasten, that we may investigate -Heaven! - -“Shall we go on?” asked Father, regarding me earnestly. - -“Yes, yes!” I cried, “let us go on. Let us see more--learn all. What a -world have I come to! Let us begin at the beginning, and go to the end -of it! Come quickly!” - -I caught his hand, and we started on my eager mood. I felt almost a -superabundance of vitality, and sprang along; there was everlasting -health within my bounding arteries; there was eternal vigor in my firm -muscle and sinews. How shall I express, to one who has never -experienced it, the consciousness of life that can never die? - -I could have leaped, flown, or danced like a child. I knew not how to -walk sedately, like others whom I saw about us, who looked at me -smiling, as older people look at the young on earth. “I, too, have felt -thus--and thus.” I wanted to exercise the power of my arms and limbs. I -longed to test the triumphant poise of my nerve. My brain grew clearer -and clearer, while for the gladness in my heart there is not any earthly -word. As I bounded on, I looked more curiously at the construction of -the body in which I found myself. It was, and yet it was not, like that -which I had worn on earth. I seemed to have slipped out of one garment -into another. Perhaps it was nearer the truth to say that it was like -casting off an outer for an inner dress. There were nervous and arterial -and other systems, it seemed, to which I had been accustomed. I cannot -explain wherein they differed, as they surely did, and did enormously, -from their representatives below. If I say that I felt as if I had got -into the _soul of a body_, shall I be understood? It was as if I had -been encased, one body within the other, to use a small earthly -comparison, like the ivory figures which curious Chinese carvers cut -within temple windows. I was constantly surprised at this. I do not know -what I had expected, but assuredly nothing like the fact. Vague visions -of gaseous or meteoric angelic forms have their place in the -imaginations of most of us below; we picture our future selves as a kind -of nebulosity. When I felt the spiritual flesh, when I used the strange -muscle, when I heard the new heart-beat of my heavenly identity, I -remembered certain words, with a sting of mortification that I had known -them all my life, and paid so cool a heed to them: “There is a -terrestrial body, and there is a celestial body.” The glory of the -terrestrial was one. Behold, the glory of the celestial was another. St. -Paul had set this tremendous assertion revolving in the sky of the human -mind, like a star which we had not brought into our astronomy. - -It was not a hint or a hope that he gave; it was the affirmation of a -man who presumed to know. In common with most of his readers, I had -received his statement with a poor incredulity or cold disregard. -Nothing in the whole range of what we used to call the Bible, had been -more explicit than those words; neither metaphor, nor allegory, nor -parable befogged them; they were as clear cut as the dictum of -Descartes. I recalled them with confusion, as I bounded over the elastic -and wondrously-tinted grass. - -Never before, at least, had I known what the color of green should be; -resembling, while differing from that called by the name on earth--a -development of a color, a blossom from a bud, a marvel from a -commonplace. Thus the sweet and common clothing which God had given to -our familiar earth, transfigured, wrapped again the hills and fields of -Heaven. And oh, what else? what next? I turned to my father to ask him -in which direction we were going; at this moment an arrest of the whole -current of feeling checked me like a great dam. - -Up to this point I had gone dizzily on; I had experienced the thousand -diversions of a traveler in a foreign land; and, like such a traveler, I -had become oblivious of that which I had left. The terrible incapacity -of the human mind to retain more than one class of strong impressions at -once, was temporarily increased by the strain of this, the greatest of -all human experiences. The new had expelled the old. In an intense -revulsion of feeling, too strong for expression, I turned my back on the -beautiful landscape. All Heaven was before me, but dear, daily love was -behind. - -“Father,” I said, choking, “I never forgot them before in all my life. -Take me home! Let me go at once. I am not fit to be alive if Heaven -itself can lead me to neglect my mother.” - - - - -IV. - - -In my distress I turned and would have fled, which way I knew not. I was -swept up like a weed on a surge of self-reproach and longing. What was -eternal life if she had found out that I was dead? What were the -splendors of Paradise, if she missed me? It was made evident to me that -my father was gratified at the turn my impulses had taken, but he -intimated that it might not be possible to follow them, and that this -was a matter which must be investigated before acting. This surprised -me, and I inquired of him eagerly--yet, I think not passionately, not -angrily, as I should once have done at the thwarting of such a wish as -that--what he meant by the doubt he raised. - -“It is not always permitted,” he said gravely. “We cannot return when we -would. We go upon these errands when it is Willed. I will go and learn -what the Will may be for you touching this matter. Stay here and wait -for me.” - -Before I could speak, he had departed swiftly, with the great and glad -motion of those who go upon sure business in this happy place; as if he -himself, at least, obeyed unseen directions, and obeyed them with his -whole being. To me, so lately from a lower life, and still so choked -with its errors, this loving obedience of the soul to a great central -Force which I felt on every hand, but comprehended not, as yet, affected -me like the discovery of a truth in science. It was as if I had found a -new law of gravitation, to be mastered only by infinite attention. I -fell to thinking more quietly after my father had left me alone. There -came a subsidence to my tempestuous impulse, which astonished myself. I -felt myself drawn and shaped, even like a wave by the tide, by something -mightier far than my own wish. But there was this about the state of -feeling into which I had come: that which controlled me was not only -greater, it was dearer than my desire. Already a calmness conquered my -storm. Already my heart awaited, without outburst or out-thrust, the -expression of that other desire which should decide my fate in this most -precious matter. All the old rebellion was gone, even as the protest of -a woman goes on earth before the progress of a mighty love. I no longer -argued and explained. I did not require or insist. Was it possible that -I did not even doubt? The mysterious, celestial law of gravitation -grappled me. I could no more presume to understand it than I could -withstand it. - -I had not been what is called a submissive person. All my life, -obedience had torn me in twain. Below, it had cost me all I had to give, -to cultivate what believers called trust in God. - -I had indeed tried, in a desperate and faulty fashion, but I had often -been bitterly ashamed at the best result which I could achieve, feeling -that I scarcely deserved to count myself among His children, or to call -myself by the Name which represented the absolute obedience of the -strongest nature that human history had known. Always, under all, I had -doubted whether I accepted God’s will because I wanted to, so much as -because I had to. This fear had given me much pain, but being of an -active temperament, far, perhaps too far, removed from mysticism, I had -gone on to the next fight, or the next duty, without settling my -difficulties; and so like others of my sort, battled along through life, -as best or as worst I might. I had always hurried more than I had grown. -To be sure, I was not altogether to blame for this, since circumstances -had driven me fast, and I had yielded to them not always for my own -sake; but clearly, it may be as much of a misfortune to be too busy, as -to be idle; and one whose subtlest effects are latest perceived. I could -now understand it to be reasonable, that if I had taken more time on -earth to cultivate myself for the conditions of Heaven, I might have had -a different experience at the outset of this life, in which one was -never in a hurry. - -My father returned from his somewhat protracted absence, while I was -thinking of these things thus quietly. My calmer mood went out to meet -his face, from which I saw at once what was the result of his errand, -and so a gentle process prepared me for my disappointment when he said -that it was not Willed that I should go to her at this immediate time. -He advised me to rest awhile before taking the journey, and to seek this -rest at once. No reasons were given for this command; yet strangely, I -felt it to be the most reasonable thing in the world. - -No; blessedly no! I did not argue, or protest, I did not dash out my -wild wish, I did not ask or answer anything--how wonderful! - -Had I needed proof any longer that I was dead and in Heaven, this -marvelous adjustment of my will to that other would in itself have told -me what and where I was. - -I cannot say that this process took place without effort. I found a -certain magnificent effort in it, like that involved in the free use of -my muscles; but it took place without pain. I did indeed ask,-- - -“Will it be long?” - -“Not long.” - -“That is kind in Him!” I remember saying, as we moved away. For now, I -found that I thought first rather of what He gave than of what He -denied. It seemed to me that I had acquired a new instinct. My being was -larger by the acquisition of a fresh power. I felt a little as I used to -do below, when I had conquered a new language. - -I had met, and by his loving mercy I had mastered, my first trial in the -eternal life. This was to be remembered. It was like the shifting of a -plate upon a camera. - -More wearied than I had thought by the effort, I was glad to sink down -beneath the trees in a nook my father showed me, and yield to the -drowsiness that stole upon me after the great excitement of the day. It -was not yet dark, but I was indeed tired. A singular subsidence, not -like our twilight, but still reminding one of it, had fallen upon the -vivid color of the air. No one was passing; the spot was secluded; my -father bade me farewell for the present, saying that he should return -again; and I was left alone. - -The grass was softer than eider of the lower world; and lighter than -snow-flakes, the leaves that fell from low-hanging boughs about me. -Distantly, I heard moving water; and more near, sleepy birds. More -distant yet, I caught, and lost, and caught again, fragments of -orchestral music. I felt infinite security. I had the blessedness of -weariness that knew it could not miss of sleep. Dreams stole upon me -with motion and touch so exquisite that I thought: “Sleep itself is a -new joy; what we had below was only a hint of the real thing,” as I sank -into deep and deeper rest. - -Do not think that I forgot my love and longing to be elsewhere. I think -the wish to see her and to comfort her grew clearer every moment. But -stronger still, like a comrade marching beside it, I felt the pacing of -that great desire which had become dearer than my own. - - - - -V. - - -When I waked, I was still alone. There seemed to have been showers, for -the leaves and grass about me were wet; yet I felt no chill or dampness, -or any kind of injury from this fact. Rather I had a certain -refreshment, as if my sleeping senses had drunk of the peace and power -of the dew that flashed far and near about me. The intense excitement -under which I had labored since coming to this place was calmed. All the -fevers of feeling were laid. I could not have said whether there had -been what below we called night, or how the passage of time had marked -itself; I only knew that I had experienced the recuperation of night, -and that I sprang to the next duty or delight of existence with the -vigor of recurring day. - -As I rose from the grass, I noticed a four-leaved clover, and -remembering the pretty little superstition we used to have about it, I -plucked it, and held it to my face, and so learned that the rain-drop in -this new land had perfume; an exquisite scent; as if into the essence of -brown earth and spicy roots, and aromatic green things, such as summer -rain distills with us from out a fresh-washed world, there were mingled -an inconceivable odor drawn out of the heart of the sky. Metaphysicians -used to tell us that no man ever imagined a new perfume, even in his -dreams. I could see that they were right, for anything like the perfume -of clover after a rain in Heaven, had never entered into my sense or -soul before. I saved the clover “for good luck,” as I used to do. - -Overhead there was a marvel. There seemed to have been clouds--their -passing and breaking, and flitting--and now, behold the heavens -themselves, bared of all their storm-drapery, had drawn across their -dazzling forms a veil of glory. From what, for want of better knowledge, -I still called East to West, and North to South, one supernal prism -swept. The whole canopy of the sky was a rainbow. - -It is impossible to describe this sight in any earthly tongue, to any -dwellers of the earth. I stood beneath it, as a drop stands beneath the -ocean. For a time I could only feel the surge of beauty--mere -beauty--roll above me. Then, I think, as the dew had fallen from the -leaf, so I sunk upon my knees. I prayed because it was natural to pray, -and felt God in my soul as the prism feels the primary color, while I -thanked Him that I was immortally alive. It had never been like this -before, to pray; nay, prayer itself was now one of the discoveries of -Heaven. It throbbed through me like the beat of a new heart. It seemed -to me that He must be very near me. Almost it was, as if He and I were -alone together in the Universe. For the first time, the passionate wish -to be taken into His very visible presence,--that intense desire which I -had heard of, as overpowering so many of the newly dead,--began to take -possession of me. But I put it aside, since it was not permitted, and a -consciousness of my unfitness came to me, that made the wish itself seem -a kind of mistake. I think this feeling was not unlike what we called -below a sense of sin. I did not give it that name at that time. It had -come to me so naturally and gradually, that there was no strain or pain -about it. Yet when I had it, I could no longer conceive of being without -it. It seemed to me that I was a stronger and wiser woman for it. A -certain gentleness and humility different from what I had been used to, -in my life of activity, wherein so many depended on me, and on the -decided faculties of my nature, accompanied the growing sense of -personal unworthiness with which I entered on the blessedness of -everlasting life. - -I watched the rainbow of the sky till it had begun to fade--an event in -itself an exquisite wonder, for each tint of the prism flashed out and -ran in lightning across the heavens before falling to its place in the -primary color, till at last the whole spectacle was resolved into the -three elements, the red, the yellow, and the blue; which themselves -moved on and away, like a conqueror dismissing a pageant. - -When this gorgeous scene had ended, I was surprised to find that though -dead and in Heaven, I was hungry. I gathered fruits which grew near, of -strange form and flavor, but delicious to the taste past anything I had -ever eaten, and I drank of the brook where the shells were, feeling -greatly invigorated thereby. I was beginning to wonder where my father -was, when I saw him coming towards me. He greeted me with his old -good-morning kiss, laying his hand upon my head in a benediction that -filled my soul. - -As we moved on together, I asked him if he remembered how we used to say -below: - -“What a heavenly day!” - -Many people seemed to be passing on the road which we had chosen, but as -we walked on they grew fewer. - -“There are those who wish to speak with you,” he said with a slight -hesitation, “but all things can wait here; we learn to wait ourselves. -You are to go to your mother now.” - -“And not with you?” I asked, having a certain fear of the mystery of my -undertaking. He shook his head with a look more nearly like -disappointment than anything I had seen upon his face in this new life; -explaining to me, however, with cheerful acquiescence, that it was not -Willed that he should join me on my journey. - -“Tell her that I come shortly,” he added, “and that I come alone. She -will understand. And have no fear; you have much to learn, but it will -come syllable by syllable.” - -Now swiftly, at the instant while he spoke with me, I found myself alone -and in a mountainous region, from which a great outlook was before me. I -saw the kingdoms of heaven and the glory of them, spread out before me -like a map. A mist of the colors of amethyst and emerald interfused, -enwrapped the outlines of the landscape. All details grew blurred and -beautiful like a dream at which one snatches vainly in the morning. Off, -and beyond, the infinite ether throbbed. Yonder, like a speck upon a -sunbeam, swam the tiny globe which we called earth. Stars and suns -flashed and faded, revolving and waiting in their places. Surely it was -growing dark, for they sprang out like mighty light-houses upon the -grayness of the void. - -The splendors of the Southern cross streamed far into the strange light, -neither of night nor day, not of twilight or dawn, which surrounded me. - -Colored suns, of which astronomers had indeed taught us, poured -undreamed-of light upon unknown planets. I passed worlds whose -luminaries gave them scarlet, green, and purple days. “These too,” I -thought, “I shall one day visit.” I flashed through currents of awful -color, and measures of awful night. I felt more than I perceived, and -wondered more than I feared. It was some moments before I realized, by -these few astronomical details, that I was adrift, alone upon the -mystery and mightiness of Space. - -Of this strange and solitary journey, I can speak so imperfectly, that -it were better almost to leave it out of my narrative. Yet, when I -remember how I have sometimes heard those still upon earth conceive, -with the great fear and ignorance inseparable from earth-trained -imagination, of such transits of the soul from point to point in ether, -I should be glad to express at least the incomplete impressions which I -received from this experience. - -The strongest of these, and the sweetest, was the sense of safety--and -still the sense of safety; unassailable, everlasting; blessed beyond the -thought of an insecure life to compass. To be dead was to be dead to -danger, dead to fear. To be dead was to be alive to a sense of assured -good chance that nothing in the universe could shake. - -So I felt no dread, believe me, though much awe and amazement, as I took -my first journey from Heaven to earth. I have elsewhere said that the -distance, by astronomical calculation, was in itself perhaps not -enormous. I had an impression that I was crossing a great sphere or -penumbra, belonging to the earth itself, and having a certain relation -to it, like the soul to the body of a man. - -Was Heaven located within or upon this world-soul? The question occurred -to me, but up to this time, I am still unable to answer it. The transit -itself was swift and subtle as a thought. Indeed, it seemed to me that -thought itself might have been my vehicle of conveyance; or perhaps I -should say, feeling. My love and longing took me up like pollen taken by -the wind. As I approached the spot where my dear ones dwelt and sorrowed -for me, desire and speed both increased by a mighty momentum. - -Now I did not find this journey as difficult as that other, when I had -departed, a freshly-freed soul, from earth to Heaven. I learned that I -was now subject to other natural laws. A celestial gravitation -controlled the celestial body, as that of the earth had compelled the -other. I was upborne in space by this new and mysterious influence. Yet -there was no dispute between it and the other law, the eternal law of -love, which drew me down. Between soul and body, in the heavenly -existence, there could be no more conflict than between light and an -ether wave. - -I do not say that I performed this journey without effort or -intelligence. The little knowledge I ever had was taxed in view of the -grandeurs and the mysteries around me. Shall I be believed if I say that -I recalled all the astronomy and geography that my life as a teacher had -left still somewhat freshly imprinted on the memory? that the facts of -physics recurred to me, even in that inroad of feeling? and that I -guided myself to the Massachusetts town as I would have found it upon a -globe at school? Already I learned that no acquisition of one life is -lost in the next. Already I thanked God for everything I knew, only -wishing, with the passion of ignorance newly revealed to itself by the -dawn of wisdom, that my poor human acquirements had ever truly deserved -the high name of study, or stored my thought with its eternal results. - - - - -VI. - - -As I approached the scene of my former life, I met many people. I had -struck a realm of spirits who at first perplexed me. They did not look -happy, and seemed possessed by great unrest. I observed that, though -they fluttered and moved impatiently, none rose far above the surface of -the earth. Most of them were employed in one way or another upon it. -Some bought and sold; some eat and drank; others occupied themselves in -coarse pleasures, from which one could but turn away the eyes. There -were those who were busied in more refined ways:--students with eyes -fastened to dusty volumes; virtuosos who hung about a picture, a statue, -a tapestry, that had enslaved them; one musical creature I saw, who -ought to have been of exquisite organization, judging from his hands--he -played perpetually upon an instrument that he could not tune; women, I -saw too, who robed and disrobed without a glint of pleasure in their -faded faces. - -There were ruder souls than any of these--but one sought for them in the -dens of the earth; their dead hands still were red with stains of blood, -and in their dead hearts reigned the remnants of hideous passions. - -Of all these appearances, which I still found it natural to call -phenomena as I should once have done, it will be remembered that I -received the temporary and imperfect impression of a person passing -swiftly through a crowd, so that I do not wish my account to be accepted -for anything more trustworthy than it is. - -While I was wondering greatly what it meant, some one joined and spoke -to me familiarly, and, turning, I saw it to be that old neighbor, Mrs. -Mersey, to whom I have alluded, who, like myself, seemed to be bent upon -an errand, and to be but a visitor upon the earth. She was a most lovely -spirit, as she had always been, and I grasped her hand cordially while -we swept on rapidly together to our journey’s end. - -“Do tell me,” I whispered, as soon as I could draw her near enough, “who -all these people are, and what it means. I fear to guess. And yet indeed -they seem like the dead who cannot get away.” - -“Alas,” she sighed, “you have said it. They loved nothing, they lived -for nothing, they believed in nothing, they cultivated themselves for -nothing but the earth. They simply lack the spiritual momentum to get -away from it. It is as much the working of a natural law as the progress -of a fever. Many of my duties have been among such as these. I know them -well. They need time and tact in treatment, and oh, the greatest -patience! At first it discouraged me, but I am learning the enthusiasm -of my work.” - -“These, then,” I said, “were those I saw in that first hour, when my -father led me out of the house, and through the street. I saw you among -them, Mrs. Mersey, but I knew even then that you were not of them. But -surely they do not stay forever prisoners of the earth? Surely such a -blot on the face of spiritual life cannot but fade away? I am a -new-comer. I am still quite ignorant, you see. But I do not understand, -any more than I did before, how that could be.” - -“They have their choice,” she answered vaguely. But when I saw the high -solemnity of her aspect, I feared to press my questions. I could not, -however, or I did not forbear saying:-- - -“At least _you_ must have already persuaded many to sever themselves -from such a condition as this?” - -“Already some, I hope,” she replied evasively, as she moved away. She -always had remarkably fine manners, of which death had by no means -deprived her. I admired her graciousness and dignity as she passed from -my side to that of one we met, who, in a dejected voice, called her by -her name, and intimated that he wished to speak with her. He was a pale -and restless youth, and I thought, but was not sure, for we separated so -quickly, that it was the little fellow I spoke of, Bobby Bend. I looked -back, after I had advanced some distance on my way, and saw the two -together, conversing earnestly. While I was still watching them, it -seemed to me, though I cannot be positive upon this point, that they had -changed their course, and were quietly ascending, she leading, he -following, above the dismal sphere in which she found the lad, and that -his heavy, awkward, downward motions became freer, struggling upward, as -I gazed. - -I had now come to the location of my old home, and, as I passed through -the familiar village streets, I saw that night was coming on. I met many -whom I knew, both of those called dead and living. The former recognized -me, but the latter saw me not. No one detained me, however, for I felt -in haste which I could not conceal. - -With high-beating heart, I approached the dear old house. No one was -astir. As I turned the handle of the door, a soft, sickening touch -crawled around my wrist; recoiling, I found that I was entwisted in a -piece of crape that the wind had blown against me. - -I went in softly; but I might have spared myself the pains. No one heard -me, though the heavy door creaked, I thought, as emphatically as it -always had--loudest when we were out latest, and longest when we shut it -quickest. I went into the parlor and stood, for a moment, uncertain what -to do. - -Alice was there, and my married sister Jane, with her husband and little -boy. They sat about the fire, conversing sadly. Alice’s pretty eyes were -disfigured with crying. They spoke constantly of me. Alice was relating -to Jane and her family the particulars of my illness. I was touched to -hear her call me “patient and sweet;”--none the less because she had -often told me I was the most impatient member of the family. - -No one had observed my entrance. Of course I was prepared for this, but -I cannot tell why I should have felt it, as I certainly did. A low -bamboo chair, cushioned with green _crétonne_, stood by the table. I had -a fancy for this chair, and, pleased that they had left it unoccupied, -advanced and took it, in the old way. It was with something almost like -a shock, that I found myself unnoticed in the very centre of their -group. - -While I sat there, Jane moved to fix the fire, and, in returning, made -as if she would take the bamboo chair. - -“Oh, don’t!” said Alice, sobbing freshly. Jane’s own tears sprang, and -she turned away. - -“It seems to me,” said my brother-in-law, looking about with the patient -grimace of a business man compelled to waste time at a funeral, “that -there has a cold draught come into this room from somewhere. Nobody has -left the front door open, I hope? I’ll go and see.” - -He went, glad of the excuse to stir about, poor fellow, and I presume he -took a comfortable smoke outside. - -The little boy started after his father, but was bidden back, and -crawled up into the chair where I was sitting. I took the child upon my -lap, and let him stay. No one removed him, he grew so quiet, and he was -soon asleep in my arm. This pleased me; but I could not be contented -long, so I kissed the boy and put him down. He cried bitterly, and ran -to his mother for comfort. - -While they were occupied with him, I stole away. I thought I knew where -Mother would be, and was ashamed of myself at the reluctance I certainly -had to enter my own room, under these exciting circumstances. - -Conquering this timidity, as unwomanly and unworthy, I went up and -opened the familiar door. I had begun to learn that neither sound nor -sight followed my motions now, so that I was not surprised at attracting -no attention from the lonely occupant of the room. I closed the -door--from long habit I still made an effort to turn the latch -softly--and resolutely examined what I saw. - -My mother was there, as I had expected. The room was cold--there was no -fire,--and she had on her heavy blanket shawl. The gas was lighted, and -one of my red candles, but both burned dimly. The poor woman’s magenta -geranium had frozen. My mother sat in the red easy-chair, which, being a -huge, old-fashioned thing, surrounded and shielded her from the -draught. My clothes, and medicines, and all the little signs of sickness -had been removed. The room was swept, and orderly. Above the bed, the -pictures and the carved cross looked down. - -Below them, calm as sleep, and cold as frost, and terrible as silence, -lay that which had been I. - -_She_ did not shrink. She was sitting close beside it. She gazed at it -with the tenderness which death itself could not affright. Mother was -not crying. She did not look as if she had shed tears for a long time. -But her wanness and the drawn lines about her mouth were hard to see. -Her aged hands trembled as she cut the locks of hair from the neck of -the dead. She was growing to be an old woman. And I--her first-born--I -had been her staff of life, and on me she had thought to lean in her -widowed age. She seemed to me to have grown feeble fast in the time -since I had left her. - -All my soul rushed to my lips, and I cried out--it seemed that either -the dead or the living must hear that cry-- - -“Mother! Oh, my dear _mother_!” - -But deaf as life, she sat before me. She had just cut off the lock of -hair she wanted; as I spoke, the curling ends of it twined around her -fingers; I tried to snatch it away, thinking thus to arrest her -attention. - -The lock of hair trembled, turned, and clung the closer to the living -hand. She pressed it to her lips with the passion of desolation. - -“But, Mother,” I cried once more, “I am _here_.” I flung my arms about -her and kissed her again and again. I called and entreated her by every -dear name that household love had taught us. I besought her to turn, to -see, to hear, to believe, to be comforted. I told her how blest was I, -how bountiful was death. - -“I am alive,” I said. “I am alive! I see you, I touch you, hear you, -love you, hold you!” I tried argument and severity; I tried tenderness -and ridicule. - -She turned at this: it seemed to me that she regarded me. She stretched -her arms out; her aged hands groped to and fro as if she felt for -something and found it not; she shook her head, her dim eyes gazed -blankly into mine. She sighed patiently, and rose as if to leave the -room, but hesitated,--covered the face of the dead body--caressed it -once or twice as if it had been a living infant--and then, taking up her -Bible, which had been upon the chair beside her, dropped upon her knees, -and holding the book against her sunken cheek, abandoned herself to -silent prayer. - -This was more than I could bear just then, and, thinking to collect -myself by a few moments’ solitude, I left her. But as I stood in the -dark hall, uncertain and unquiet, I noticed a long, narrow line of light -at my feet, and, following it confusedly, found that it came from the -crack in the closed, but unlatched door of another well-remembered room. -I pushed the door open hurriedly and closed it behind me. - -My brother sat in this room alone. His fire was blazing cheerfully and, -flashing, revealed the deer’s-head from the Adirondacks, the stuffed -rose-curlew from Florida, the gull’s wing from Cape Ann, the gun and -rifle and bamboo fish-pole, the class photographs over the mantel, the -feminine features on porcelain in velvet frames, all the little -trappings with which I was familiar. Tom had been trying to study, but -his Homer lay pushed away, with crumpled leaves, upon the table. Buried -in his lexicon--one strong elbow intervening--down, like a hero thrown, -the boy’s face had gone. - -“Tom,” I said quietly--I always spoke quietly to Tom, who had a -constitutional fear of what he called “emotions”--“Tom, you’d better be -studying your Greek. I’d much rather see you. Come, I’ll help you.” - -He did not move, poor fellow, and as I came nearer, I saw, to my -heart-break, that our Tom was crying. Sobs shook his huge frame, and -down between the iron fingers, toughened by base-ball matches, tears had -streamed upon the pages of the Odyssey. - -“Tom, Tom, old fellow, _don’t_!” I cried, and, hungry as love, I took -the boy. I got upon the arm of the smoking chair, as I used to, and so -had my hands about his neck, and my cheek upon his curly hair, and would -have soothed him. Indeed, he did grow calm, and calmer, as if he yielded -to my touch; and presently he lifted his wet face, and looked about the -room, half ashamed, half defiant, as if to ask who saw that. - -“Come, Tom,” I tried again. “It really isn’t so bad as you think. And -there is Mother catching cold in that room. Go and get her away from the -body. It is no place for her. She’ll get sick. Nobody can manage her as -well as you.” - -As if he heard me, he arose. As if he knew me, he looked for the -flashing of an instant into my eyes. - -“I don’t see how a girl of her sense can be _dead_,” said the boy aloud. -He stretched his arms once above his head, and out into the bright, -empty room, and I heard him groan in a way that wrung my heart. I went -impulsively to him, and as his arms closed, they closed about me -strongly. He stood for a moment quite still. I could feel the nervous -strain subsiding all over his big soul and body. - -“Hush,” I whispered. “I’m no more dead than you are.” - -If he heard, what he felt, God knows. I speak of a mystery. No optical -illusion, no tactual hallucination could hold the boy who took all the -medals at the gymnasium. The hearty, healthy fellow could receive no -abnormal sign from the love and longing of the dead. Only spirit unto -spirit could attempt that strange out-reaching. Spirit unto spirit, was -it done? Still, I relate a mystery, and what shall I say? His professor -in the class-room of metaphysics would teach him next week that grief -owns the law of the rhythm of motion; and that at the oscillation of the -pendulum the excitement of anguish shall subside into apathy which -mourners alike treat as a disloyalty to the dead, and court as a nervous -relief to the living. - -Be this as it may, the boy grew suddenly calm, and even cheerful, and -followed me at once. I led him directly to his mother, and left them for -a time alone together. - -After this my own calm, because my own confidence, increased. My dreary -sense of helplessness before the suffering of those I loved, gave place -to the consciousness of power to reach them. I detected this power in -myself in an undeveloped form, and realized that it might require -exercise and culture, like all other powers, if I would make valuable -use of it. I could already regard the cultivation of the faculty which -would enable love to defy death, and spirit to conquer matter, as likely -to be one of the occupations of a full life. - -I went out into the fresh air for a time to think these thoughts through -by myself, undisturbed by the sight of grief that I could not remove; -and strolled up and down the village streets in the frosty night. - -When I returned to the house they had all separated for the night, sadly -seeking sleep in view of the events of the morrow, when, as I had -already inferred, the funeral would take place. - -I spent the night among them, chiefly with my mother and Tom, passing -unnoticed from room to room, and comforting them in such ways as I found -possible. The boy had locked his door, but after a few trials I found -myself able to pass the medium of this resisting matter, and to enter -and depart according to my will. Tom finished his lesson in the Odyssey, -and I sat by and helped him when I could. This I found possible in -simple ways, which I may explain farther at another time. We had often -studied together, and his mind the more readily, therefore, responded to -the influence of my own. He was soon well asleep, and I was free to give -all my attention to my poor mother. Of those long and solemn hours, what -shall I say? I thought she would never, never rest. I held her in these -arms the live-long night. With these hands I caressed and calmed her. -With these lips I kissed her. With this breath I warmed her cold brow -and fingers. With all my soul and body I willed that I would comfort -her, and I believe, thank God, I did. At dawn she slept peacefully; she -slept late, and rose refreshed. I remained closely by her throughout the -day. - -They did their best, let me say, to provide me with a Christian funeral, -partly in accordance with some wishes I had expressed in writing, -partly from the impulse of their own good sense. Not a curtain was drawn -to darken the house of death. The blessed winter sunshine flowed in like -the current of a broad stream, through low, wide windows. No ghastly -“funeral flowers” filled the room; there was only a cluster of red pinks -upon the coffin, and the air was sweet but not heavy with the carnation -perfume that they knew I loved. My dead body and face they had covered -with a deep red pall, just shaded off the black, as dark as darkness -could be, and yet be redness. Not a bell was tolled. Not a tear--at -least, I mean, by those nearest me--not a tear was shed. As the body was -carried from the house, the voices of unseen singers lifted the German -funeral chant:-- - - “Go forth! go on, with solemn song, - Short is the way; the rest is long!” - -At the grave they sang:-- - - “Softly now the light of day,” - -since my mother had asked for one of the old hymns; and besides the -usual Scriptural Burial Service, a friend, who was dear to me, read Mrs. -Browning’s “Sleep.” - -It was all as I would have had it, and I looked on peacefully. If I -could have spoken I would have said: “You have buried me cheerfully, as -Christians ought, as a Christian ought to be.” - -I was greatly touched, I must admit, at the grief of some of the poor, -plain people who followed my body on its final journey to the village -church-yard. The woman who sent the magenta geranium refused to be -comforted, and there were one or two young girls whom I had been so -fortunate as to assist in difficulties, who, I think, did truly mourn. -Some of my boys from the Grand Army were there, too,--some, I mean, whom -it had been my privilege to care for in the hospitals in the old war -days. They came in uniform, and held their caps before their eyes. It -did please me to see them there. - -When the brief service at the grave was over, I would have gone home -with my mother, feeling that she needed me more than ever; but as I -turned to do so, I was approached by a spirit whose presence I had not -observed. It proved to be my father. He detained me, explaining that I -should remain where I was, feeling no fear, but making no protest, till -the Will governing my next movement might be made known to me. So I bade -my mother good-by, and Tom, as well as I could in the surprise and -confusion, and watched them all as they went away. She, as she walked, -seemed to those about her to be leaning only upon her son. But I beheld -my father tenderly hastening close beside her, while he supported her -with the arm which had never failed her yet, in all their loving lives. -Therefore I could let her go, without distress. - -The funeral procession departed slowly; the grave was filled; one of the -mill-girls came back and threw in some arbor vitæ and a flower or -two,--the sexton hurried her, and both went away. It grew dusk, dark. I -and my body were left alone together. - -Of that solemn watch, it is not for me to chatter to any other soul. -Memories overswept me, which only we two could share. Hopes possessed me -which it were not possible to explain to another organization. Regret, -resolve, awe, and joy, every high human emotion excepting fear, battled -about us. While I knelt there in the windless night, I heard chanting -from a long distance, but yet distinct to the dead, that is to the -living ear. As I listened, the sound deepened, approaching, and a group -of singing spirits swept by in the starlit air, poised like birds, or -thoughts, above me: - -“_It is sown a natural--it is raised a spiritual body._” - -“_Death! where is thy sting?--Grave!--thy victory?_” - -“_Believing in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live._” - -I tried my voice, and joined, for I could no longer help it, in the -thrilling chorus. It was the first time since I died, that I had felt -myself invited or inclined to share the occupations of others, in the -life I had entered. Kneeling there, in the happy night, by my own -grave, I lifted all my soul and sense into the immortal words, now for -the first time comprehensible to me: - -“_I believe, I believe in the resurrection of the dead._” - -It was not long thereafter that I received the summons to return. I -should have been glad to go home once more, but was able to check my own -preference without wilful protest, or an aching heart. The conviction -that all was well with my darlings and myself, for life and for death, -had now become an intense yet simple thing, like consciousness itself. - -I went as, and where I was bidden, joyfully. - - - - -VII. - - -Upon reëntering the wonderful place which I had begun to call Heaven, -and to which I still give that name, though not, I must say, with -perfect assurance that the word is properly applied to that phase of the -life of which I am the yet most ignorant recorder, I found myself more -weary than I had been at any time since my change came. I was looking -about, uncertain where to go, feeling, for the first time, rather -homeless in this new country, when I was approached by a stranger, who -inquired of me what I sought: - -“Rest,” I said promptly. - -“A familiar quest,” observed the stranger, smiling. - -“You are right, sir. It is a thing I have been seeking for forty years.” - -“And never found?” - -“Never found.” - -“I will assist you,” he said gently, “that is, if you wish it. What will -you have first?” - -“Sleep, I think, first, then food. I have been through exciting scenes. -I have a touch--a faint one--of what below we called exhaustion. Yet now -I am conscious in advance of the rest which is sure to come. Already I -feel it, like the ebbing of the wave that goes to form the flow of the -next. How blessed to know that one _can’t_ be ill!” - -“How do you know that?” asked my companion. - -“On the whole, I don’t know that I do,” I answered, with embarrassment, -“I suppose it is a remnant of one’s old religious teaching: ‘The -inhabitant shall not say I am sick.’ Surely there were such words.” - -“And you trusted them?” asked the stranger. - -“The Bible was a hard book to accept,” I said quickly, “I would not have -you overestimate my faith. I tried to believe that it was God’s message. -I think I _did_ believe it. But the reason was clear to me. I could not -get past that if I wished to.” - -“What, then, was the reason,” inquired my friend, solemnly, “why you -trusted the message called the Word of God, as received by the believing -among His children on earth?” - -“Surely,” I urged, “there is but one reason. I refer to the history of -our Lord. I do not know whether all in this place are Christians; but I -was one.--Sir! I anticipate your question. I was a most imperfect, -useless one--to my sorrow and my shame I say it--but, so far as I went, -I was an honest one.” - -“Did you love Him?--Him whom you called Lord?” asked the stranger, with -an air of reserve. I replied that I thought I could truly say that He -was dear to me. - -I began to be deeply moved by this conversation. I stole a look at the -stranger, whom I had at first scarcely noticed, except as one among many -passing souls. He was a man of surpassing majesty of mien, and for -loveliness of feature I had seen no mortal to vie with him. “This,” I -thought, “must be one of the beings we called angels.” Astonishing -brightness rayed from him at every motion, and his noble face was like -the sun itself. He moved beside me like any other spirit, and -condescended to me so familiarly, yet with so unapproachable a dignity, -that my heart went out to him as breath upon the air. It did not occur -to me to ask him who he was, or whither he led me. It was enough that he -led, and I followed without question or reply. We walked and talked for -a long time together. - -He renewed the conversation by asking me whether I had really staked my -immortal existence upon the promise of that obscure, uneducated Jew, -twenty centuries in his grave,--that plain man who lived a fanatic’s -life, and died a felon’s death, and whose teachings had given rise to -such bigotry and error upon the earth. I answered that I had never been -what is commonly called a devout person, not having a spiritual -temperament, but that I had not held our Master responsible for the -mistakes of either his friends or his foes, and that the greatest regret -I had brought with me into Heaven was that I had been so unworthy to -bear His blessed name. He next inquired of me, if I truly believed that -I owed my entrance upon my present life to the interposition of Him of -whom we spoke. - -“Sir,” I said, “you touch upon sacred nerves. I should find it hard to -tell you how utterly I believe that immortality is the gift of Jesus -Christ to the human soul.” - -“I believed this on earth,” I added, “I believe it in Heaven. I do not -_know_ it yet, however. I am a new-comer; I am still very ignorant. No -one has instructed me. I hope to learn ‘syllable by syllable.’ I am -impatient to be taught; yet I am patient to be ignorant till I am found -worthy to learn. It may be, that you, sir, who evidently are of a higher -order of life than ours, are sent to enlighten me?” - -My companion smiled, neither dissenting from, nor assenting to my -question, and only asked me in reply, if I had yet spoken with the Lord. -I said that I had not even seen Him; nay, that I had not even asked to -see Him. My friend inquired why this was, and I told him frankly that it -was partly because I was so occupied at first--nay, most of the time -until I was called below. - -“I had not much room to think. I was taken from event to event, like a -traveler. This matter that you speak of seemed out of place in every way -at that time.” - -Then I went on to say that my remissness was owing partly to a little -real self-distrust, because I feared I was not the kind of believer to -whom He would feel quickly drawn; that I felt afraid to propose such a -preposterous thing as being brought into His presence; that I supposed, -when He saw fit to reveal Himself to me, I should be summoned in some -orderly way, suitable to this celestial community; that, in fact, though -I had cherished this most sweet and solemn desire, I had not mentioned -it before, not even to my own father who conducted me to this place. - -“I have not spoken of it,” I said, “to any body but to you.” - -The stranger’s face wore a remarkable expression when I said this, as if -I had deeply gratified him; and there glittered from his entire form -and features such brightness as well-nigh dazzled me. It was as if, -where a lesser being would have spoken, or stirred, he shone. I felt as -if I conversed with him by radiance, and that living light had become a -vocabulary between us. I have elsewhere spoken of the quality of -reflecting light as marked among the ordinary inhabitants of this new -life; but in this case I was aware of a distinction, due, I thought, to -the superior order of existence to which my friend belonged. He did not, -like the others, reflect; he radiated glory. More and more, as we had -converse together, this impressed, until it awed me. We remained -together for a long time. People who met us, greeted the angel with -marked reverence, and turned upon me glances of sympathetic delight; but -no one interrupted us. We continued our walk into a more retired place, -by the shore of a sea, and there we had deep communion. - -My friend had inquired if I were still faint, and if I preferred to turn -aside for food and rest; but when he asked me the question I was amazed -to find that I no longer had the need of either. Such delight had I in -his presence, such invigoration in his sympathy, that glorious -recuperation had set in upon my earth-caused weariness. Such power had -the soul upon the celestial body! Food for the first was force to the -other. - -It seemed to me that I had never known refreshment of either before; and -that Heaven itself could contain no nutriment that would satisfy me -after this upon which I fed in that high hour. - -It is not possible for me to repeat the solemn words of that interview. -We spoke of grave and sacred themes. He gave me great counsel and fine -sympathy. He gave me affectionate rebuke and unfathomable resolve. We -talked of those inner experiences which, on earth, the soul protects, -like struggling flame, between itself and the sheltering hand of God. We -spoke much of the Master, and of my poor hope that I might be permitted -after I had been a long time in Heaven, to become worthy to see Him, -though at the vast distance of my unworthiness. Of that unworthiness -too, we spoke most earnestly; while we did so, the sense of it grew -within me like a new soul; yet so divinely did my friend extend his -tenderness to me, that I was strengthened far more than weakened by -these finer perceptions of my unfitness, which he himself had aroused in -me. The counsel that he gave me, Eternity could not divert out of my -memory, and the comfort which I had from him I treasure to this hour. -“Here,” I thought, “here, at last, I find reproof as gentle as sympathy, -and sympathy as invigorating as reproof. Now, for the first time in all -my life, I find myself truly understood. What could I not become if I -possessed the friendship of such a being! How shall I develop myself so -as to obtain it? How can I endure to be deprived of it? Is this too, -like friendship on earth, a snatch, a compromise, a heart-ache, a mirror -in which one looks only long enough to know that it is dashed away? Have -I begun that old pain again, _here_?” - -For I knew, as I sat in that solemn hour with my face to the sea and my -soul with him, while sweeter than any song of all the waves of Heaven -or earth to sea-lovers sounded his voice who did commune with -me,--verily I knew, for then and forever, that earth had been a void to -me because I had him not, and that Heaven could be no Heaven to me -without him. - -All which I had known of human love; all that I had missed; the dreams -from which I had been startled; the hopes that had evaded me; the -patience which comes from knowing that one may not even try not to be -misunderstood; the struggle to keep a solitary heart sweet; the -anticipation of desolate age which casts its shadow backward upon the -dial of middle life; the paralysis of feeling which creeps on with its -disuse; the distrust of one’s own atrophied faculties of loving; the -sluggish wonder if one is ceasing to be lovable; the growing difficulty -of explaining oneself even when it is necessary, because no one being -more than any other cares for the explanation; the things which a lonely -life converts into silence that cannot be broken, swept upon me like -rapids, as, turning to look into his dazzling face, I said: -“This--_all_ this he understands.” - -But when, thus turning, I would have told him so, for there seemed to be -no poor pride in Heaven, forbidding soul to tell the truth to -soul,--when I turned, my friend had risen, and was departing from me, as -swiftly and mysteriously as he came. I did not cry out to him to stay, -for I felt ashamed; nor did I tell him how he had bereft me, for that -seemed a childish folly. I think I only stood and looked at him. - -“If there is any way of being worthy of your friendship,” I said below -my breath, “I will have it, if I toil for half Eternity to get it.” - -Now, though these words were scarcely articulate, I think he heard them, -and turning, with a smile which will haunt my dreams and stir my deeds -as long as I shall live, he laid his hand upon my head, and blessed -me--but what he said I shall tell no man--and so departed from me, and I -was left upon the shore alone, fallen, I think, in a kind of sleep or -swoon. - -When I awoke, I was greatly calmed and strengthened, but disinclined, at -first, to move. I had the reaction from what I knew was the intensest -experience of my life, and it took time to adjust my feelings to my -thoughts. - -A young girl came up while I sat there upon the sands, and employed -herself in gathering certain marvelous weeds that the sea had tossed up. -These weeds fed upon the air, as they had upon the water, remaining -fresh upon the girl’s garments, which she decorated with them. She did -not address me, but strolled up and down silently. Presently, feeling -moved by the assurance of congeniality that one detects so much more -quickly in Heaven than on earth, I said to the young girl:-- - -“Can you tell me the name of the angel--you must have met him--who has -but just left me, and with whom I have been conversing?” - -“Do you then truly not know?” she asked, shading her eyes with her hand, -and looking off in the direction my friend had taken; then back again, -with a fine, compassionate surprise at me. - -“Indeed I know not.” - -“That was the Master who spoke with you.” - -“What did you _say_?” - -“That was our Lord Himself.” - - - - -VIII. - - -After the experience related in the last chapter, I remained for some -time in solitude. Speech seemed incoherence, and effort impossible. I -needed a pause to adapt myself to my awe and my happiness; upon neither -of which will it be necessary for me to dwell. Yet I think I may be -understood if I say that from this hour I found that what we call Heaven -had truly begun for me. Now indeed for the first time I may say that I -believed without wonder in the life everlasting; since now, for the -first time, I had a reason sufficient for the continuance of existence. -A force like the cohesion of atoms held me to eternal hope. Brighter -than the dawn of friendship upon a heart bereft, more solemn than the -sunrise of love itself upon a life that had thought itself unloved, -stole on the power of the Presence to which I had been admitted in so -surprising, and yet, after all, how natural a way! Henceforth the -knowledge that this experience might be renewed for me at any turn of -thought or act, would illuminate joy itself, so that “it should have no -need of the sun to lighten it.” I recalled these words, as one recalls a -familiar quotation repeated for the first time on some foreign locality -of which it is descriptive. Now I knew what he meant, who wrote: “The -Lamb is the Light thereof.” - - * * * * * - -When I came to myself, I observed the young girl who had before -addressed me still strolling on the shore. She beckoned, and I went to -her, with a new meekness in my heart. What will He have me to do? If, by -the lips of this young thing, He choose to instruct me, let me glory in -the humility with which I will be a learner! - -All things seemed to be so exquisitely ordered for us in this new life, -all flowed so naturally, like one sound-wave into another, with ease so -apparent, yet under law so superb, that already I was certain Heaven -contained no accidents, and no trivialities; as it did no shocks or -revolutions. - -“If you like,” said the young girl, “we will cross the sea.” - -“But how?” I asked, for I saw no boat. - -“Can you not, then, walk upon the water yet?” she answered. “Many of us -do, as He did once below. But we no longer call such things miracles. -They are natural powers. Yet it is an art to use them. One has to learn -it, as we did swimming, or such things, in the old times.” - -“I have only been here a short time,” I said, half amused at the little -celestial “airs” my young friend wore so sweetly. “I know but little -yet. Can you teach me how to walk on water?” - -“It would take so much time,” said the young girl, “that I think we -should not wait for that. We go on to the next duty, now. You had better -learn, I think, from somebody wiser than I. I will take you over another -way.” - -A great and beautiful shell, not unlike a nautilus, was floating near -us, on the incoming tide, and my companion motioned to me to step into -this. I obeyed her, laughing, but without any hesitation. “Neither shall -there be any more death,” I thought as I glanced over the rose-tinted -edges of the frail thing into the water, deeper than any I had ever -seen, but unclouded, so that I looked to the bottom of the sea. The girl -herself stepped out upon the waves with a practiced air, and lightly -drawing the great shell with one hand, bore me after her, as one bears a -sledge upon ice. As we came into mid-water we began to meet others, some -walking, as she did, some rowing or drifting like myself. Upon the -opposite shore uprose the outlines of a more thickly settled community -than any I had yet seen. - -Watching this with interest that deepened as we approached the shore, I -selfishly or uncourteously forgot to converse with my companion, who did -not disturb my silence until we landed. As she gave me her hand, she -said in a quick, direct tone: - -“Well, Miss Mary, I see that you do not know me, after all.” - -I felt, as I had already done once or twice before, a certain social -embarrassment (which in itself instructed me, as perpetuating one of the -minor emotions of life below that I had hardly expected to renew) before -my lovely guide, as I shook my head, struggling with the phantasmal -memories evoked by her words. No, I did not know her. - -“I am Marie Sauvée. I _hope_ you remember.” - -She said these words in French. The change of language served instantly -to recall the long train of impressions stored away, who knew how or -where, about the name and memory of this girl. - -“Marie Sauvée! _You_--HERE!” I exclaimed in her own tongue. - -At the name, now, the whole story, like the bright side of a -dark-lantern, flashed. It was a tale of sorrow and shame, as sad, -perhaps, as any that it had been my lot to meet. So far as I had ever -known, the little French girl, thrown in my way while I was serving in -barracks at Washington, had baffled every effort I had made to win her -affection or her confidence, and had gone out of my life as the -thistle-down flies on the wind. She had cost me many of those precious -drops of the soul’s blood which all such endeavor drains; and in the -laboratory of memory I had labelled them, “Worse than Wasted,” and sadly -wondered if I should do the same again for such another need, at just -such hopeless expenditure, and had reminded myself that it was not good -spiritual economy, and said that I would never repeat the experience, -and known all the while that I should. - -Now here, a spirit saved, shining as the air of Heaven, “without spot or -any such thing”--here, wiser in heavenly lore than I, longer with Him -than I, nearer to Him than I, dearer to Him, perhaps, than I--_here_ was -Marie Sauvée. - -“I do not know how to apologize,” I said, struggling with my emotion, -“for the way in which I spoke to you just now. Why should you not be -here? Why, indeed? Why am I here? Why”-- - -“Dear Miss Mary,” cried the girl, interrupting me passionately, “but for -you it might never have been as it is. Or never for ages--I cannot say. -I might have been a ghost, bound yet to the hated ghost of the old life. -It was your doing, at the first--down there--all those years ago. Miss -Mary, you were the first person I ever loved. You didn’t know it. I had -no idea of telling you. But I did, I loved you. After you went away, I -loved you; ever since then, I loved you. I said, I will be fit to love -her before I die. And then I said, I will go where she is going, for I -shall never get at her anywhere else. And when I entered this place--for -I had no friend or relative here that I knew, to meet me--I was more -frightened than it is possible for any one like you to understand, and -wondered what place there could be for one like me in all this country, -and how I could ever get accustomed to their ways, and whether I should -shock and grieve them--you _can’t_ understand _that_; I dreaded it so, I -was afraid I should swear after I got to Heaven; I was afraid I might -say some evil word, and shame them all, and shame myself more than I -could ever get over. I knew I wasn’t educated for any such society. I -knew there wasn’t anything in me that would be at home here, but just”-- - -“But just what, Marie?” I asked, with a humility deeper than I could -have expressed. - -“But just my love for you, Miss Mary. That was all. I had nothing to -come to Heaven on, but loving you and meaning to be a better girl -because I loved you. That was truly all.” - -“That is impossible!” I said quickly. “Your love for me never brought -you here of itself alone. You are mistaken about this. It is neither -Christianity nor philosophy.” - -“There is no mistake,” persisted the girl, with gentle obstinacy, -smiling delightedly at my dogmatism, “I came here because I loved you. -Do you not see? In loving you, I loved--for the first time in my life I -loved--goodness. I really did. And when I got to this place, I found out -that goodness was the same as God. And I had been getting the love of -God into my heart, all that time, in that strange way, and never knew -how it was with me, until--Oh, Miss Mary, who do you think it was, WHO, -that met me within an hour after I died?” - -“It was our Master,” she added in an awe-struck, yet rapturous whisper, -that thrilled me through. “It was He Himself. He was the first, for I -had nobody, as I told you, belonging to me in this holy place, to care -for a wretch like me.--_He_ was the first to meet _me_! And it was He -who taught me everything I had to learn. It was He who made me feel -acquainted and at home. It was He who took me on from love of you, to -love of Him, as you put one foot after another in learning to walk after -you have had a terrible sickness. And it was _He_ who never reminded -me--never once reminded me--of the sinful creature I had been. Never, by -one word or look, from that hour to this day, has He let me feel ashamed -in Heaven. That is what _He_ is!” cried the girl, turning upon me, in a -little sudden, sharp way she used to have; her face and form were so -transfigured before me, as she spoke, that it seemed as if she quivered -with excess of light, and were about to break away and diffuse herself -upon the radiant air, like song, or happy speech, or melting color. - -“Die for Him!” she said after a passionate silence. “If I could die -everlastingly and everlastingly and everlastingly, to give Him any -pleasure, or to save Him any pain-- But then, that’s nothing,” she added, -“I love Him. That is all that means.--And I’ve only got to live -everlastingly instead. That is the way He has treated me--_me_!” - - - - -IX. - - -The shore upon which we had landed was thickly populated, as I have -said. Through a sweep of surpassingly beautiful suburbs, we approached -the streets of a town. It is hard to say why I should have been -surprised at finding in this place the signs of human traffic, -philanthropy, art, and study--what otherwise I expected, who can say? My -impressions, as Marie Sauvée led me through the city, had the confusion -of sudden pleasure. The width and shining cleanliness of the streets, -the beauty and glittering material of the houses, the frequent presence -of libraries, museums, public gardens, signs of attention to the wants -of animals, and places of shelter for travelers such as I had never seen -in the most advanced and benevolent of cities below,--these were the -points that struck me most forcibly. - -The next thing, which in a different mood might have been the first that -impressed me was the remarkable expression of the faces that I met or -passed. No thoughtful person can have failed to observe, in any throng, -the preponderant look of unrest and dissatisfaction in the human eye. -Nothing, to a fine vision, so emphasizes the isolation of being, as the -faces of people in a crowd. In this new community to which I had been -brought, that old effect was replaced by a delightful change. I -perceived, indeed, great intentness of purpose here, as in all -thickly-settled regions; the countenances that passed me indicated close -conservation of social force and economy of intellectual energy; these -were people trained by attrition with many influences, and balanced with -the conflict of various interests. But these were men and women, busy -without hurry, efficacious without waste; they had ambition without -unscrupulousness, power without tyranny, success without vanity, care -without anxiety, effort without exhaustion,--hope, fear, toil, -uncertainty it seemed, elation it was sure--but a repose that it was -impossible to call by any other name than divine, controlled their -movements, which were like the pendulum of a golden clock whose works -are out of sight. I watched these people with delight. Great numbers of -them seemed to be students, thronging what we should call below -colleges, seminaries, or schools of art, or music, or science. The -proportion of persons pursuing some form of intellectual acquisition -struck me as large. My little guide, to whom I mentioned this, assented -to the fact, pointing out to me a certain institution we had passed, at -which she herself was, she said, something like a primary scholar, and -from which she had been given a holiday to meet me as she did, and -conduct me through the journey that had been appointed for me on that -day. I inquired of her what her studies might be like; but she told me -that she was hardly wise enough as yet to explain to me what I could -learn for myself when I had been longer in this place, and when my -leisure came for investigating its attractions at my own will. - -“I am uncommonly ignorant, you know,” said Marie Sauvée humbly, “I have -everything to learn. There is book knowledge and thought knowledge and -soul knowledge, and I have not any of these. I was as much of what you -used to call a heathen, as any Fiji-Islander you gave your missionaries -to. I have so much to learn, that I am not sent yet upon other business -such as I should like.” - -Upon my asking Marie Sauvée what business this might be, she hesitated. -“I have become ambitious in Heaven,” she answered slowly. “I shall never -be content till I am fit to be sent to the worst woman that can be -found--no matter which side of death--I don’t care in what world--I want -to be sent to one that nobody else will touch; I think I might know how -to save her. It is a tremendous ambition!” she repeated. “Preposterous -for the greatest angel there is here! And yet I--_I_ mean to do it.” - -I was led on in this way by Marie Sauvée, through and out of the city -into the western suburbs; we had approached from the east, and had -walked a long distance. There did not occur to me, I think, till we had -made the circuit of the beautiful town, one thing, which, when I did -observe it, struck me as, on the whole, the most impressive that I had -noticed. “I have not seen,” I said, stopping suddenly, “I have not seen -a poor person in all this city.” - -“Nor an aged one, have you?” asked Marie Sauvée, smiling. - -“Now that I think of it,--no. Nor a sick one. Not a beggar. Not a -cripple. Not a mourner. Not--and yet what have we here? This building, -by which you are leading me, bears a device above the door, the last I -should ever have expected to find _here_.” - -It was an imposing building, of a certain translucent material that had -the massiveness of marble, with the delicacy of thin agate illuminated -from within. The rear of this building gave upon the open country, with -a background of hills, and the vision of the sea which I had crossed. -People strolled about the grounds, which had more than the magnificence -of Oriental gardens. Music came from the building, and the saunterers, -whom I saw, seemed nevertheless not to be idlers, but persons busily -employed in various ways--I should have said, under the close direction -of others who guided them. The inscription above the door of this -building was a word, in a tongue unknown to me, meaning “Hospital,” as I -was told. - -“They are the sick at heart,” said Marie Sauvée, in answer to my look of -perplexity, “who are healed there. And they are the sick of soul; those -who were most unready for the new life; they whose spiritual being was -diseased through inaction, _they_ are the invalids of Heaven. There they -are put under treatment, and slowly cured. With some, it takes long. I -was there myself when I first came, for a little; it will be a most -interesting place for you to visit, by-and-by.” - -I inquired who were the physicians of this celestial sanitarium. - -“They who unite the natural love of healing to the highest spiritual -development.” - -“By no means, then, necessarily they who were skilled in the treatment -of diseases on earth?” I asked, laughing. - -“Such are oftener among the patients,” said Marie Sauvée sadly. To me, -so lately from the earth, and our low earthly way of finding amusement -in facts of this nature, this girl’s gravity was a rebuke. I thanked her -for it, and we passed by the hospital--which I secretly made up my mind -to investigate at another time--and so out into the wider country, more -sparsely settled, but it seemed to me more beautiful than that we had -left behind. - -“There,” I said, at length, “is to my taste the loveliest spot we have -seen yet. That is the most homelike of all these homes.” - -We stopped before a small and quiet house built of curiously inlaid -woods, that reminded me of Sorrento work as a great achievement may -remind one of a first and faint suggestion. So exquisite was the carving -and coloring, that on a larger scale the effect might have interfered -with the solidity of the building, but so modest were the proportions -of this charming house, that its dignity was only enhanced by its -delicacy. It was shielded by trees, some familiar to me, others strange. -There were flowers--not too many; birds; and I noticed a fine dog -sunning himself upon the steps. The sweep of landscape from all the -windows of this house must have been grand. The wind drove up from the -sea. The light, which had a peculiar depth and color, reminding me of -that which on earth flows from under the edge of a breaking storm-cloud -at the hour preceding sunset, formed an aureola about the house. When my -companion suggested my examining this place, since it so attracted me, I -hesitated, but yielding to her wiser judgment, strolled across the -little lawn, and stood, uncertain, at the threshold. The dog arose as I -came up, and met me cordially, but no person seemed to be in sight. - -“Enter,” said Marie Sauvée in a tone of decision. “You are expected. Go -where you will.” - -I turned to remonstrate with her, but the girl had disappeared. Finding -myself thus thrown on my own resources, and having learned already the -value of obedience to mysterious influences in this new life, I gathered -courage, and went into the house. The dog followed me affectionately, -rather than suspiciously. - -For a few moments I stood in the hall or ante-room, alone and perplexed. -Doors opened at right and left, and vistas of exquisitely-ordered rooms -stretched out. I saw much of the familiar furniture of a modest home, -and much that was unfamiliar mingled therewith. I desired to ask the -names or purposes of certain useful articles, and the characters and -creators of certain works of art. I was bewildered and delighted. I had -something of the feeling of a rustic visitor taken for the first time to -a palace or imposing town-house. - -Was Heaven an aggregate of homes like this? Did everlasting life move on -in the same dear ordered channel--the dearest that human experiment had -ever found--the channel of family love? Had one, after death, the old -blessedness without the old burden? The old sweetness without the old -mistake? The familiar rest, and never the familiar fret? Was there -always in the eternal world “somebody to come home to”? And was there -always the knowledge that it could not be the wrong person? Was all -_that_ eliminated from celestial domestic life? Did Heaven solve the -problem on which earth had done no more than speculate? - -While I stood, gone well astray on thoughts like these, feeling still -too great a delicacy about my uninvited presence in this house, I heard -the steps of the host, or so I took them to be; they had the indefinable -ring of the master’s foot. I remained where I was, not without -embarrassment, ready to apologize for my intrusion as soon as he should -come within sight. He crossed the long room at the left, leisurely; I -counted his quiet footsteps; he advanced, turned, saw me--I too, -turned--and so, in this way, it came about that I stood face to face -with my own father. - -... I had found the eternal life full of the unexpected, but this was -almost the sweetest thing that had happened to me yet. - -Presently my father took me over the house and the grounds; with a -boyish delight, explaining to me how many years he had been building and -constructing and waiting with patience in his heavenly home for the -first one of his own to join him. Now, he too, should have “somebody to -come home to.” As we dwelt upon the past and glanced at the future, our -full hearts overflowed. He explained to me that my new life had but now, -in the practical sense of the word, begun; since a human home was the -centre of all growth and blessedness. When he had shown me to my own -portion of the house, and bidden me welcome to it, he pointed out to me -a certain room whose door stood always open, but whose threshold was -never crossed. I hardly feel that I have the right, in this public way, -to describe, in detail, the construction or adornment of this room. I -need only say that Heaven itself seemed to have been ransacked to bring -together the daintiest, the most delicate, the purest, thoughts and -fancies that celestial skill or art could create. Years had gone to the -creation of this spot; it was a growth of time, the occupation of that -loneliness which must be even in the happy life, when death has -temporarily separated two who had been one. I was quite prepared for his -whispered words, when he said,-- - -“Your mother’s room, my dear. It will be all ready for her at any time.” - -This union had been a _marriage_--not one of the imperfect ties that -pass under the name, on earth. Afterwards, when I learned more of the -social economy of the new life, I perceived more clearly the rarity and -peculiar value of an experience which had in it the elements of what -might be called (if I should be allowed the phrase) eternal permanency, -and which involved, therefore, none of the disintegration and -redistribution of relations consequent upon passing from temporary or -mistaken choices to a fixed and perfect state of society. - -Later, on that same evening, I was called eagerly from below. I was -resting, and alone;--I had, so to speak, drawn my first breath in -Heaven; once again, like a girl in my own room under my father’s roof; -my heart at anchor, and my peace at full tide. I ran as I used to run, -years ago, when he called me, crying down,-- - -“I’m coming, Father,” while I delayed a moment to freshen my dress, and -to fasten it with some strange white flowers that climbed over my -window, and peered, nodding like children, into the room. - -When I reached the hall, or whatever might be the celestial name for the -entrance room below, I did not immediately see my father, but I heard -the sound of voices beyond, and perceived the presence of many people in -the house. As I hesitated, wondering what might be the etiquette of -these new conditions, and whether I should be expected to play the -hostess at a reception of angels or saints, some one came up from behind -me, I think, and held out his hand in silence. - -“St. Johns!” I cried, “Jamie St. Johns! The last time I saw _you_”-- - -“The last time you saw me was in a field-hospital after the battle of -Malvern Hills,” said St. Johns. “I died in your arms, Miss Mary. Shot -flew about you while you got me that last cup of water. I died hard. You -sang the hymn I asked for--‘Ye who tossed on beds of pain’--and the -shell struck the tent-pole twenty feet off, but you sang right on. I was -afraid you would stop. I was almost gone. But you never faltered. You -sang my soul out--do you remember? I’ve been watching all this while for -you. I’ve been a pretty busy man since I got to this place, but I’ve -always found time to run in and ask your father when he expected you. - -“I meant to be the first all along; but I hear there’s a girl got ahead -of me. She’s here, too, and some more women. But most of us are the -boys, to-night, Miss Mary,--come to give you a sort of -house-warming--just to say we’ve never forgotten!... and you see we want -to say ‘Welcome home at last’ to _our_ army woman--God bless her--as she -blessed us! - -“Come in, Miss Mary! Don’t feel bashful. It’s nobody but your own boys. -Here we are. There’s a thing I remember--you used to read it. ‘_For when -ye fail_’--you know I never could quote straight--‘_they shall receive -you into everlasting habitations_’--Wasn’t that it? Now here. See! Count -us! _Not one missing_, do you see? You said you’d have us all here -yet--all that died before you did. You used to tell us so. You prayed -it, and you lived it, and you did it, and, by His everlasting mercy, -here we are. Look us over. Count again. I couldn’t make a speech on -earth and I can’t make one in Heaven--but the fellows put me up to it. -_Come_ in, Miss Mary! _Dear_ Miss Mary--why, we want to shake hands with -you, all around! We want to sit and tell army-stories half the night. We -want to have some of the old songs, and--What! Crying, Miss -Mary?--_You?_ We never saw you cry in all our lives. Your lip used to -tremble. You got pretty white; but you weren’t that kind of woman. Oh, -see here! _Crying_ in HEAVEN?”-- - - - - -X. - - -From this time, the events which I am trying to relate began to assume -in fact a much more orderly course; yet in form I scarcely find them -more easy to present. Narrative, as has been said of conversation, “is -always but a selection,” and in this case the peculiar difficulties of -choosing from an immense mass of material that which can be most fitly -compressed into the compass allowed me by these few pages, are so great, -that I have again and again laid down my task in despair; only to be -urged on by my conviction that it is more clearly my duty to speak what -may carry comfort to the hearts of some, than to worry because my -imperfect manner of expression may offend the heads of others. All I can -presume to hope for this record of an experience is, that it may have a -passing value to certain of my readers whose anticipations of what they -call “the Hereafter” are so vague or so dubious as to be more of a pain -than a pleasure to themselves. - -From the time of my reception into my father’s house, I lost the sense -of homelessness which had more or less possessed me since my entrance -upon the new life, and felt myself becoming again a member of an -organized society, with definite duties as well as assured pleasures -before me. - -These duties I did not find astonishingly different in their essence, -while they had changed greatly in form, from those which had occupied me -upon earth. I found myself still involved in certain filial and domestic -responsibilities, in intellectual acquisition, in the moral support of -others, and in spiritual self-culture. I found myself a member of an -active community in which not a drone nor an invalid could be counted, -and I quickly became, like others who surrounded me, an exceedingly busy -person. At first my occupations did not assume sharp professional -distinctiveness, but had rather the character of such as would belong to -one in training for a more cultivated condition. This seemed to be true -of many of my fellow-citizens; that they were still in a state of -education for superior usefulness or happiness. With others, as I have -intimated, it was not so. My father’s business, for instance, remained -what it had always been--that of a religious teacher; and I met women -and men as well, to whom, as in the case of my old neighbor, Mrs. -Mersey, there had been set apart an especial fellowship with the spirits -of the recently dead or still living, who had need of great guidance. I -soon formed, by observation, at least, the acquaintance, too, of a wide -variety of natures;--I met artisans and artists, poets and scientists, -people of agricultural pursuits, mechanical inventors, musicians, -physicians, students, tradesmen, aerial messengers to the earth, or to -other planets, and a long list besides, that would puzzle more than it -would enlighten, should I attempt to describe it. I mention these -points, which I have no space to amplify, mainly to give reality to any -allusions that I shall make to my relations in the heavenly city, and to -let it be understood that I speak of a community as organized and as -various as Paris or New York; which possessed all the advantages and -none of the evils that we are accustomed to associate with massed -population; that such a community existed without sorrow, without -sickness, without death, without anxiety, and without sin; that the -evidences of almost incredible harmony, growth, and happiness which I -saw before me in that one locality, I had reason to believe extended to -uncounted others in unknown regions, thronging with joys and activities -the mysteries of space and time. - -For reasons which will be made clear as I approach the end of my -narrative, I cannot speak as fully of many high and marvelous matters in -the eternal life, as I wish that I might have done. I am giving -impressions which, I am keenly aware, have almost the imperfection of a -broken dream. I can only crave from the reader, on trust, a patience -which he may be more ready to grant me at a later time. - -I now began, as I say, to assume regular duties and pleasures; among the -keenest of the latter was the constant meeting of old friends and -acquaintances. Much perplexity, great delight, and some disappointment -awaited me in these _dénouements_ of earthly story. - -The people whom I had naturally expected to meet earliest were often -longest delayed from crossing my path; in some cases, they were -altogether missing. Again, I was startled by coming in contact with -individuals that I had never associated, in my conceptions of the -future, with a spiritual existence at all; in these cases I was -sometimes humbled by discovering a type of spiritual character so far -above my own, that my fancies in their behalf proved to be unwarrantable -self-sufficiency. Social life in the heavenly world, I soon learned, was -a series of subtle or acute surprises. It sometimes reminded me of a -simile of George Eliot’s, wherein she likened human existence to a game -of chess in which each one of the pieces had intellect and passions, and -the player might be beaten by his own pawns. The element of -unexpectedness, which constitutes the first and yet the most unreliable -charm of earthly society, had here acquired a permanent dignity. One of -the most memorable things which I observed about heavenly relations was, -that people did not, in the degree or way to which I was accustomed, -tire of each other. Attractions, to begin with, were less lightly -experienced; their hold was deeper; their consequences more lasting. I -had not been under my new conditions long, before I learned that here -genuine feeling was never suffered to fall a sacrifice to intellectual -curiosity, or emotional caprice; that here one had at last the stimulus -of social attrition without its perils, its healthy pleasures without -its pains. I learned, of course, much else, which it is more than -difficult, and some things which it is impossible, to explain. I testify -only of what I am permitted. - -Among the intellectual labors that I earliest undertook was the command -of the Universal Language, which I soon found necessary to my -convenience. In a community like that I had entered, many nationalities -were represented, and I observed that while each retained its own -familiar earthly tongue, and one had the pleasant opportunity of -acquiring as many others as one chose, yet a common vocabulary became a -desideratum of which, indeed, no one was compelled to avail himself -contrary to his taste, but in which many, like myself, found the -greatest pleasure and profit. The command of this language occupied much -well-directed time. - -I should not omit to say that a portion of my duty and my privilege -consisted in renewed visits to the dearly-loved whom I had left upon the -earth. These visits were sometimes matters of will with me. Again, they -were strictly occasions of permission, and again, I was denied the power -to make them when I most deeply desired to do so. Herein I learned the -difference between trial and trouble, and that while the last was -stricken out of heavenly life, the first distinctly remained. It is -pleasant to me to remember that I was allowed to be of more than a -little comfort to those who mourned for me; that it was I who guided -them from despair to endurance, and so through peace to cheerfulness, -and the hearty renewal of daily human content. These visits were for a -long time--excepting the rare occasions on which I met Him who had -spoken to me upon the sea-shore--the deepest delight which was offered -me. - -Upon one point I foresee that I shall be questioned by those who have -had the patience so far to follow my recital. What, it will be asked, -was the political constitution of the community you describe? What place -in celestial society has worldly caste? - -When I say, strictly none at all, let me not be misunderstood. I -observed the greatest varieties of rank in the celestial kingdom, which -seemed to me rather a close Theocracy than a wild commune. There were -powers above me, and powers below; there were natural and harmonious -social selections; there were laws and their officers; there was -obedience and its dignity; there was influence and its authority; there -were gifts and their distinctions. I may say that I found far more -reverence for differences of rank or influence than I was used to -seeing, at least in my own corner of the earth. The main point was that -the basis of the whole thing had undergone a tremendous change. -Inheritance, wealth, intellect, genius, beauty, all the old passports to -power, were replaced by one so simple yet so autocratic, that I hardly -know how to give any idea at once of its dignity and its sweetness. I -may call this personal holiness. Position, in the new life, I found -depended upon spiritual claims. Distinction was the result of character. -The nature nearest to the Divine Nature ruled the social forces. -Spiritual culture was the ultimate test of individual importance. - -I inquired one day for a certain writer of world-wide--I mean of -earth-wide--celebrity, who, I had learned, was a temporary visitor in -the city, and whom I wished to meet. I will not for sufficient reasons -mention the name of this man, who had been called the genius of his -century, below. I had anticipated that a great ovation would be given -him, in which I desired to join, and I was surprised that his presence -made little or no stir in our community. Upon investigating the facts, I -learned that his public influence was, so far, but a slight one, though -it had gradually gained, and was likely to increase with time. He had -been a man whose splendid powers were dedicated to the temporary and -worldly aspects of Truth, whose private life was selfish and cruel, who -had written the most famous poem of his age, but “by all his searching” -had not found out God. - -In the conditions of the eternal life, this genius had been obliged to -set itself to learning the alphabet of spiritual truth; he was still a -pupil, rather than a master among us, and I was told that he himself -ardently objected to receiving a deference which was not as yet his due; -having set the might of his great nature as strenuously now to the -spiritual, as once to the intellectual task; in which, I must say, I was -not without expectation that he would ultimately outvie us all. - -On the same day when this distinguished man entered and left our city -(having quietly accomplished his errand), I heard the confusion of some -public excitement at a distance, and hastening to see what it meant, I -discovered that the object of it was a plain, I thought in her earthly -life she must have been a poor woman, obscure, perhaps, and timid. The -people pressed towards her, and received her into the town by -acclamation. They crowned her with amaranth and flung lilies in her -path. The authorities of the city officially met her; the people of -influence hastened to beseech her to do honor to their homes by her -modest presence; we crowded for a sight of her, we begged for a word -from her, we bewildered her with our tributes, till she hid her blushing -face and was swept out of our sight. - -“But who is this,” I asked an eager passer, “to whom such an -extraordinary reception is tendered? I have seen nothing like it since I -came here.” - -“Is it possible you do not know ---- ----?” - -My informant gave a name which indeed was not unfamiliar to me; it was -that of a woman who had united to extreme beauty of private character, -and a high type of faith in invisible truths, life-long devotion to an -unpopular philanthropy. She had never been called a “great” woman on -earth. Her influence had not been large. Her cause had never been the -fashion, while she herself was living. Society had never amused itself -by adopting her, even to the extent of a parlor lecture. Her name, so -far as it was familiar to the public at all, had been the synonym of a -poor zealot, a plain fanatic, to be tolerated for her conscientiousness -and--avoided for her earnestness. Since her death, the humane -consecration which she represented had marched on like a conquering army -over her grave. Earth, of which she was not worthy, had known her too -late. Heaven was proud to do honor to the spiritual foresight and -sustained self-denial, as royal as it was rare. - -I remember, also, being deeply touched by a sight upon which I chanced, -one morning, when I was strolling about the suburbs of the city, seeking -the refreshment of solitude before the duties of the day began. For, -while I was thus engaged, I met our Master, suddenly. He was busily -occupied with others, and, beyond the deep recognition of His smile, I -had no converse with Him. He was followed at a little distance, as He -was apt to be, by a group of playing children; but He was in close -communion with two whom I saw to be souls newly-arrived from the lower -life. One of these was a man--I should say he had been a rough man, and -had come out of a rude life--who conversed with Him eagerly but -reverently, as they walked on towards the town. Upon the other side, our -Lord held with His own hand the hand of a timid, trembling woman, who -scarcely dared raise her eyes from the ground; now and then she drew His -garment’s edge furtively to her lips, and let it fall again, with the -slow motion of one who is in a dream of ecstasy. These two people, I -judged, had no connection with each other beyond the fact that they were -simultaneous new-comers to the new country, and had, perhaps, both borne -with them either special need or merit, I could hardly decide which. I -took occasion to ask a neighbor, an old resident of the city, and wise -in its mysteries, what he supposed to be the explanation of the scene -before us, and why these two were so distinguished by the favor of Him -whose least glance made holiday in the soul of any one of us. It was -then explained to me, that the man about whom I had inquired was the -hero of a great calamity, with which the lower world was at present -occupied. One of the most frightful railway accidents of this generation -had been averted, and the lives of four hundred helpless passengers -saved, by the sublime sacrifice of this locomotive engineer, who died -(it will be remembered) a death of voluntary and unique torture to save -his train. All that could be said of the tragedy was that it held the -essence of self-sacrifice in a form seldom attained by man. At the -moment I saw this noble fellow, he had so immediately come among us that -the expression of physical agony had hardly yet died out of his face, -and his eye still blazed with the fire of his tremendous deed. - -“But who is the woman?” I asked. - -“She was a delicate creature--sick--died of the fright and shock; the -only passenger on the train who did not escape.” - -I inquired why she too was thus preferred; what glorious deed had she -done, to make her so dear to the Divine Heart? - -“She? Ah, she,” said my informant, “was only one of the household -saints. She had been notable among celestial observers for many years. -You know the type I mean--shy, silent--never thinks of herself, scarcely -knows she has a self--toils, drudges, endures, prays; expects nothing of -her friends, and gives all; hopes for little, even from her Lord, but -surrenders everything; full of religious ideals, not all of them -theoretically wise, but practically noble; a woman ready to be cut to -inch pieces for her faith in an invisible Love that has never apparently -given her anything in particular. Oh, you know the kind of woman: has -never had anything of her own, in all her life--not even her own -room--and a whole family adore her without knowing it, and lean upon her -like infants without seeing it. We have been watching for this woman’s -coming. We knew there would be an especial greeting for her. But nobody -thought of her accompanying the engineer. Come! Shall we not follow, and -see how they will be received? If I am not mistaken, it will be a great -day in the city.” - - - - -XI. - - -Among the inquiries that must be raised by my fragmentary recital, I am -only too keenly aware of the difficulty of answering one which I do not -see my way altogether to ignore. I refer to that affecting the domestic -relations of the eternal world. - -It will be readily seen that I might not be permitted to share much of -the results of my observation in this direction, with earthly curiosity, -or even earthly anxiety. It is not without thought and prayer for close -guidance that I suffer myself to say, in as few words as possible, that -I found the unions which go to form heavenly homes so different from the -marriage relations of earth, in their laws of selection and government, -that I quickly understood the meaning of our Lord’s few revealed words -as to that matter; while yet I do not find myself at liberty to explain -either the words or the facts. I think I cannot be wrong in adding, -that in a number of cases, so great as to astonish me, the marriages of -earth had no historic effect upon the ties of Heaven. Laws of -affiliation uniting soul to soul in a relation infinitely closer than a -bond, and more permanent than any which the average human experience -would lead to if it were socially a free agent, controlled the -attractions of this pure and happy life, in a manner of which I can only -say that it must remain a mystery to the earthly imagination. I have -intimated that in some cases the choices of time were so blessed as to -become the choices of Eternity. I may say, that if I found it lawful to -utter the impulse of my soul, I should cry throughout the breadth of the -earth a warning to the lightness, or the haste, or the presumption, or -the mistake that chose to love for one world, when it might have loved -for two. - -For, let me say most solemnly, that the relations made between man and -woman on earth I found to be, in importance to the individual, second to -nothing in the range of human experience, save the adjustment of the -soul to the Personality of God Himself. - -If I say that I found earthly marriage to have been a temporary -expedient for preserving the form of the eternal fact; that freedom in -this as in all other things became in Heaven the highest law; that the -great sea of human misery, swelled by the passion of love on earth, -shall evaporate to the last drop in the blaze of bliss to which no human -counterpart can approach any nearer than a shadow to the sun,--I may be -understood by those for whose sake alone it is worth while to allude to -this mystery at all; for the rest it matters little. - -Perhaps I should say, once for all, that every form of pure pleasure or -happiness which had existed upon the earth had existed as a type of a -greater. Our divinest hours below had been scarcely more than -suggestions of their counterparts above. I do not expect to be -understood. It must only be remembered that, in all instances, the -celestial life develops the soul of a thing. When I speak of eating and -drinking, for instance, I do not mean that we cooked and prepared our -food as we do below. The elements of nutrition continued to exist for us -as they had in the earth, the air, the water, though they were available -without drudgery or anxiety. Yet I mean distinctly that the sense of -taste remained, that it was gratified at need, that it was a finer one -and gave a keener pleasure than its coarser prototype below. I mean that -the _soul of a sense_ is a more exquisite thing than what we may call -the body of the sense, as developed to earthly consciousness. - -So far from there being any diminution in the number or power of the -senses in the spiritual life, I found not only an acuter intensity in -those which we already possessed, but that the effect of our new -conditions was to create others of whose character we had never dreamed. -To be sure, wise men had forecast the possibility of this fact, -differing among themselves even as to the accepted classification of -what they had, as Scaliger who called speech the sixth sense, or our -English contemporary who included heat and force in his list (also of -six); or more imaginative men who had admitted the conceivability of -inconceivable powers in an order of being beyond the human. Knowing a -little of these speculations, I was not so much surprised at the facts -as overwhelmed by their extent and variety. Yet if I try to explain -them, I am met by an almost insurmountable obstacle. - -It is well known that missionaries are often thwarted in their religious -labors by the absence in savage tongues of any words corresponding to -certain ideas such as that of purity or unselfishness. Philologists have -told us of one African tribe in whose language exist six different words -descriptive of murder; none whatever expressive of love. In another no -such word as gratitude can be found. Perhaps no illustration can better -serve to indicate the impediments which bar the way to my describing to -beings who possess but five senses and their corresponding imaginative -culture, the habits or enjoyments consequent upon the development of ten -senses or fifteen. I am allowed to say as much as this: that the growth -of these celestial powers was variable with individuals throughout the -higher world, or so much of it as I became acquainted with. It will be -readily seen what an illimitable scope for anticipation or achievement -is given to daily life by such an evolution of the nature. It should be -carefully remembered that this serves only as a single instance of the -exuberance of what we call everlasting life. - -Below, I remember that I used sometimes to doubt the possibility of -one’s being happy forever under any conditions, and had moods in which I -used to question the value of endless existence. I wish most earnestly -to say, that before I had been in Heaven days, Eternity did not seem -long enough to make room for the growth of character, the growth of -mind, the variety of enjoyment and employment, and the increase of -usefulness that practically constituted immortality. - -It could not have been long after my arrival at my father’s house that -he took me with him to the great music hall of our city. It was my first -attendance at any one of the public festivals of these happy people, -and one long to be treasured in thought. It was, in fact, nothing less -than the occasion of a visit by Beethoven, and the performance of a new -oratorio of his own, which he conducted in person. Long before the -opening hour the streets of the city were thronged. People with holiday -expressions poured in from the country. It was a gala-day with all the -young folks especially, much as such matters go below. A beautiful thing -which I noticed was the absence of all personal insistence in the crowd. -The weakest, or the saddest, or the most timid, or those who, for any -reason, had the more need of this great pleasure, were selected by their -neighbors and urged on into the more desirable positions. The music -hall, so-called, was situated upon a hill just outside the town, and -consisted of an immense roof supported by rose-colored marble pillars. -There were no walls to the building, so that there was the effect of -being no limit to the audience, which extended past the line of -luxuriously covered seats provided for them, upon the grass, and even -into the streets leading to the city. So perfect were what we should -call below the telephonic arrangement of the community, that those who -remained in their own homes or pursued their usual avocations were not -deprived of the music. My impressions are that every person in the city, -who desired to put himself in communication with it, heard the oratorio; -but I am not familiar with the system by which this was effected. It -involved a high advance in the study of acoustics, and was one of the -things which I noted to be studied at a wiser time. - -Many distinguished persons known to you below, were present, some from -our own neighborhood, and others guests of the city. It was delightful -to observe the absence of all jealousy or narrow criticism among -themselves, and also the reverence with which their superiority was -regarded by the less gifted. Every good or great thing seemed to be so -heartily shared with every being capable of sharing it, and all personal -gifts to become material for such universal pride, that one experienced -a kind of transport at the elevation of the public character. - -I remembered how it used to be below, when I was present at some musical -festival in the familiar hall where the bronze statue of Beethoven, -behind the sea of sound, stood calmly. How he towered above our poor -unfinished story! As we grouped there, sitting each isolated with his -own thirst, brought to be slaked or excited by the flood of music; -drinking down into our frivolity or our despair the outlet of that -mighty life, it used to seem to me that I heard, far above the passion -of the orchestra, his own high words,--his own music made -articulate,--“_I go to meet Death with joy._” - -When there came upon the people in that heavenly audience-room a stir, -like the rustling of a dead leaf upon crusted snow; when the stir grew -to a solemn murmur; when the murmur ran into a lofty cry; when I saw -that the orchestra, the chorus, and the audience had risen like one -breathless man, and knew that Beethoven stood before us, the light of -day darkened for that instant before me. The prelude was well under -way, I think, before I dared lift my eyes to his face. - -The great tide swept me on. When upon earth had he created sound like -this? Where upon earth had we heard its like? There he is, one listening -nerve from head to foot, he who used to stand deaf in the middle of his -own orchestra--desolate no more, denied no more forever, all the -heavenly senses possible to Beethoven awake to the last delicate -response; all the solemn faith in the invisible, in the holy, which he -had made his own, triumphant now; all the powers of his mighty nature in -action like a rising storm--there stands Beethoven immortally alive. - -What knew we of music, I say, who heard its earthly prototype? It was -but the tuning of the instruments before the eternal orchestra shall -sound. Soul! swing yourself free upon this mighty current. Of what will -Beethoven tell us whom he dashes on like drops? - -As the pæan rises, I bow my life to understand. What would he with us -whom God chose to make Beethoven everlastingly? What is the burden of -this master’s message, given now in Heaven, as once on earth? Do we hear -aright? Do we read the score correctly? - -“Holy--holy”-- - -A chorus of angel voices, trained since the time when morning stars sang -together with the sons of God, take up the words: - -“Holy, _holy_, HOLY is the Lord.” - - * * * * * - -When the oratorio has ended, and we glide out, each hushed as a hidden -thought, to his own ways, I stay beneath a linden-tree to gather breath. -A fine sound, faint as the music of a dream, strikes my ringing ears, -and, looking up, I see that the leaf above my head is singing. Has it, -too, been one of the great chorus yonder? Did he command the forces of -nature, as he did the seraphs of Heaven, or the powers of earth? - -The strain falls away slowly from the lips of the leaf: - -“Holy, holy, holy,”-- - -It trembles, and is still. - - - - -XII. - - -That which it is permitted me to relate to you moves on swiftly before -the thoughts, like the compression in the last act of a drama. The next -scene which starts from the variousness of heavenly delight I find to be -the Symphony of Color. - -There was a time in the history of art, below, when this, and similar -phrases, had acquired almost a slang significance, owing to the -affectation of their use by the shallow. I was, therefore, the more -surprised at meeting a fact so lofty behind the guise of the familiar -words; and noted it as but one of many instances in which the earthly -had deteriorated from the ideals of the celestial life. - -It seemed that the development of color had reached a point never -conceived of below, and that the treatment of it constituted an art by -itself. By this I do not mean its treatment under the form of painting, -decoration, dress, or any embodiment whatever. What we were called to -witness was an exhibition of color, pure and simple. - -This occasion, of which I especially speak, was controlled by great -colorists, some of earthly, some of heavenly renown. Not all of them -were artists in the accepted sense of designers; among them were one or -two select creatures in whom the passion of color had been remarkable, -but, so far as the lower world was concerned, for the great part -inactive, for want of any scientific means of expression. - -We have all known the _color natures_, and, if we have had a fine -sympathy, have compassionated them as much as any upon earth, whether -they were found among the disappointed disciples of Art itself, or -hidden away in plain homes, where the paucity of existence held all the -delicacy and the dream of life close prisoners. - -Among the managers of this Symphony I should say that I observed, at a -distance, the form of Raphael. I heard it rumored that Leonardo was -present, but I did not see him. There was another celebrated artist -engaged in the work, whose name I am not allowed to give. It was an -unusual occasion, and had attracted attention at a distance. The -Symphony did not take place in our own city, but in an adjacent town, to -which our citizens, as well as those of other places, repaired in great -numbers. We sat, I remember, in a luxurious coliseum, closely darkened. -The building was circular in form; it was indeed a perfect globe, in -whose centre, without touching anywhere the superficies, we were seated. -Air without light entered freely, I know not how, and fanned our faces -perpetually. Distant music appealed to the ear, without engaging it. -Pleasures, which we could receive or dismiss at will, wandered by, and -were assimilated by those extra senses which I have no means of -describing. Whatever could be done to put soul and body in a state of -ease so perfect as to admit of complete receptivity, and in a mood so -high as to induce the loftiest interpretation of the purely æsthetic -entertainment before us, was done in the amazing manner characteristic -of this country. I do not know that I had ever felt so keenly as on this -occasion the delight taken by God in providing happiness for the -children of His discipline and love. We had suffered so much, some of -us, below, that it did not seem natural, at first, to accept sheer -pleasure as an end in and of itself. But I learned that this, like many -other fables in Heaven, had no moral. Live! Be! Do! Be glad! Because He -lives, ye live also. Grow! Gain! Achieve! Hope! _That_ is to glorify Him -and enjoy Him forever. Having fought--rest. Having trusted--know. Having -endured--enjoy. Being safe--venture. Being pure--fear not to be -sensitive. Being in harmony with the Soul of all delights--dare to -indulge thine own soul to the brim therein. Having acquired -holiness--thou hast no longer any broken law to fear. Dare to be happy. -This was the spirit of daily life among us. “Nothing was required of us -but to be natural,” as I have said before. And it “was natural to be -right,” thank God, at last. - -Being a new-comer, and still so unlearned, I could not understand the -Color Symphony as many of the spectators did, while yet I enjoyed it -intensely, as an untaught musical organization may enjoy the most -complicated composition. I think it was one of the most stimulating -sights I ever saw, and my ambition to master this new art flashed fire -at once. - -Slowly, as we sat silent, at the centre of that great white globe--it -was built of porphyry, I think, or some similar substance--there began -to breathe upon the surface pure light. This trembled and deepened, till -we were enclosed in a sphere of white fire. This I perceived, to -scholars in the science of color, signified distinct thought, as a grand -chord does to the musician. Thus it was with the hundred effects which -followed. White light quivered into pale blue. Blue struggled with -violet. Gold and orange parted. Green and gray and crimson glided on. -Rose--the living rose--blushed upon us, and faltered -under--over--yonder, till we were shut into a world of it, palpitating. -It was as if we had gone behind the soul of a woman’s blush, or the -meaning of a sunrise. Whoever has known the passion for that color will -understand why some of the spectators were with difficulty restrained -from flinging themselves down into it, as into a sea of rapture. - -There were others more affected by the purple, and even by the scarlet; -some, again, by the delicate tints in which was the color of the sun, -and by colors which were hints rather than expressions. Marvelous -modifications of rays set in. They had their laws, their chords, their -harmonies, their scales; they carried their melodies and “execution;” -they had themes and ornamentation. Each combination had its meaning. The -trained eye received it, as the trained ear receives orchestra or -oratory. The senses melted, but the intellect was astir. A perfect -composition of color unto color was before us, exquisite in detail, -magnificent in mass. Now it seemed as if we ourselves, sitting there -ensphered in color, flew around the globe with the quivering rays. Now -as if we sank into endless sleep with reposing tints; now as if we -drank of color; then as if we dreamed it; now as if we felt it--clasped -it; then as if we heard it. We were taken into the heart of it; into the -mystery of the June sky, and the grass-blade, the blue-bell, the child’s -cheek, the cloud at sunset, the snowdrift at twilight. The apple-blossom -told us its secret, and the down on the pigeon’s neck, and the plume of -the rose-curlew, and the robin’s-egg, and the hair of blonde women, and -the scarlet passion-flower, and the mist over everglades, and the power -of a dark eye. - -It may be remembered that I have alluded once to the rainbow which I saw -soon after reaching the new life, and that I raised a question at the -time as to the number of rays exhibited in the celestial prism. As I -watched the Symphony, I became convinced that the variety of colors -unquestionably far exceeded those with which we were familiar on earth. -The Indian occultists indeed had long urged that they saw fourteen tints -in the prism; this was the dream of the mystic, who, by a tremendous -system of education, claims to have subjected the body to the soul, so -that the ordinary laws of nature yield to his control. Physicists had -also taught us that the laws of optics involved the necessity of other -colors beyond those whose rays were admissible by our present vision; -this was the assertion of that science which is indebted more largely to -the imagination than the worshiper of the Fact has yet arisen from his -prone posture high enough to see. - -Now, indeed, I had the truth before me. Colors which no artist’s -palette, no poet’s rapture knew, played upon optic nerves exquisitely -trained to receive such effects, and were appropriated by other senses -empowered to share them in a manner which human language supplies me -with no verb or adjective to express. - -As we journeyed home after the Symphony, I was surprised to find how -calming had been the effect of its intense excitement. Without fever of -pulse or rebel fancy or wearied nerve, I looked about upon the peaceful -country. I felt ready for any duty. I was strong for all deprivation. I -longed to live more purely. I prayed to live more unselfishly. I -greatly wished to share the pleasure, with which I had been blessed, -with some denied soul. I thought of uneducated people, and coarse -people, who had yet to be trained to so many of the highest varieties of -happiness. I thought of sick people, all their earthly lives invalids, -recently dead, and now free to live. I wished that I had sought some of -these out, and taken them with me to the Symphony. - -It was a rare evening, even in the blessed land. I enjoyed the change of -scene as I used to do in traveling, below. It was delightful to look -abroad and see everywhere prosperity and peace. The children were -shouting and tumbling in the fields. Young people strolled laughing by -twos or in groups. The vigorous men and women busied themselves or -rested at the doors of cosy homes. The ineffable landscape of hill and -water stretched on behind the human foreground. Nowhere a chill or a -blot; nowhere a tear or a scowl, a deformity, a disability, or an evil -passion. There was no flaw in the picture. There was no error in the -fact. I felt that I was among a perfectly happy people. I said, “I am -in a holy world.” - -The next day was a Holy Day; we of the earth still called it the -Sabbath, from long habit. I remember an especial excitement on that Holy -Day following the Color Symphony, inasmuch as we assembled to be -instructed by one whom, above all other men that had ever lived on -earth, I should have taken most trouble to hear. This was no other than -St. John the Apostle. - -I remember that we held the service in the open air, in the fields -beyond the city, for “there was no Temple therein.” The Beloved Disciple -stood above us, on the rising ground. It would be impossible to forget, -but it is well-nigh impossible to describe, the appearance of the -preacher. I think he had the most sensitive face I ever saw in any man; -yet his dignity was unapproachable. He had a ringing voice of remarkable -sweetness, and great power of address. He seemed more divested of -himself than any orator I had heard. He poured his personality out upon -us, like one of the forces of nature, as largely, and as unconsciously. - -He taught us much. He reasoned of mysteries over which we had pored -helplessly all our lives below. He explained intricate points in the -plan of human life. He touched upon the perplexities of religious faith. -He cast a great light backward over the long, dim way by which we had -crept to our present blessedness. He spoke to us of our deadliest -doubts. He confirmed for us our patient belief. He made us ashamed of -our distrust and our restlessness. He left us eager for faith. He gave -vigor to our spiritual ideals. He spoke to us of the love of God, as the -light speaks of the sun. He revealed to us how we had misunderstood Him. -Our souls cried out within us, as we remembered our errors. We gathered -ourselves like soldiers as we knew our possibilities. We swayed in his -hands as the bough sways in the wind. Each man looked at his neighbor as -one whose eyes ask: “Have I wronged thee? Let me atone.” “Can I serve -thee? Show me how.” All our spiritual life arose like an athlete, to -exercise itself; we sought hard tasks; we aspired for far prizes; we -turned to our daily lives like new-created beings; so truly we had kept -Holy Day. When the discourse was over, there followed an anthem sung by -a choir of child-angels hovering in mid-air above the preacher, and -beautiful exceedingly to the sight and to the ear. “God,” they sang, “is -Love--_is_ Love--is LOVE.” In the refrain we joined with our own awed -voices. - -The chant died away. All the air of all the worlds was still. The -beloved Disciple raised his hand in solemn signal. A majestic Form -glided to his side. To whom should the fisherman of Galilee turn with a -look like _that_? Oh, grace of God! what a smile was there! The Master -and Disciple stand together; they rise above us. See! He falls upon his -knees before that Other. So we also, sinking to our own, hide our very -faces from the sight. - -Our Lord steps forth, and stands alone. To us in glory, as to them of -old in sorrow, He is the God made manifest. We do not lift our bowed -heads, but we feel that He has raised His piercéd hands above us, and -that His own lips call down the Benediction of His Father upon our -eternal lives. - - - - -XIII. - - -My father had been absent from home a great deal, taking journeys with -whose object he did not acquaint me. I myself had not visited the earth -for some time; I cannot say how long. I do not find it possible to -divide heavenly time by an earthly calendar, and cannot even decide how -much of an interval, by human estimates, had been indeed covered by my -residence in the Happy Country, as described upon these pages. - -My duties had called me in other directions, and I had been exceedingly -busy. My father sometimes spoke of our dear hearts at home, and reported -them as all well; but he was not communicative about them. I observed -that he took more pains than usual, or I should say more pleasure than -usual, in the little domestic cares of our heavenly home. Never had it -been in more perfect condition. The garden and the grounds were looking -exquisitely. All the trifling comforts or ornaments of the house were to -his mind. We talked of them much, and wandered about in our leisure -moments, altering or approving details. I did my best to make him happy, -but my own heart told me how lonely he must be despite me. We talked -less of her coming than we used to do. I felt that he had accepted the -separation with the unquestioning spirit which one gains so deeply in -Heaven; and that he was content, as one who trusted, still to wait. - -One evening, I came home slowly and alone. My father had been away for -some days. I had been passing several hours with some friends, who, with -myself, had been greatly interested in an event of public importance. A -messenger was needed to carry certain tidings to a great astronomer, -known to us of old on earth, who was at that time busied in research in -a distant planet. It was a desirable embassy, and many sought the -opportunity for travel and culture which it gave. After some delay in -the appointment, it was given to a person but just arrived from below: -a woman not two days dead. This surprised me till I had inquired into -the circumstances, when I learned that the new-comer had been on earth -an extreme sufferer, bed-ridden for forty years. Much of this time she -had been unable even to look out of doors. The airs of Heaven had been -shut from her darkened chamber. For years she had not been able to -sustain conversation with her own friends, except on rare occasions. -Possessed of a fine mind, she had been unable to read, or even to bear -the human voice in reading. Acute pain had tortured her days. -Sleeplessness had made horror of her nights. She was poor. She was -dependent. She was of a refined organization. She was of a high spirit, -and of energetic temperament. Medical science, holding out no cure, -assured her that she might live to old age. She lived. When she was -seventy-six years old, death remembered her. This woman had sometimes -been inquired of, touching her faith in that Mystery which we call God. -I was told that she gave but one answer; beyond this, revealing no more -of experience than the grave itself, to which, more than to any other -simile, her life could be likened. - -“Though He slay me,” she said, “I will trust.” - -“But, do you never doubt?” - -“I _will_ trust.” - -To this rare spirit, set free at last and re-embodied, the commission of -which I have spoken was delegated; no one in all the city grudged her -its coveted advantages. A mighty shout rose in the public ways when the -selection was made known. I should have thought she might become -delirious with the sudden access of her freedom, but it was said that -she received her fortune quietly, and, slipping out of sight, was away -upon her errand before we saw her face. - -The incident struck me as a most impressive one, and I was occupied with -it, as I walked home thoughtfully. Indeed, I was so absorbed that I went -with my eyes cast down, and scarcely noticed when I had reached our own -home. I did not glance at the house, but continued my way up the -winding walk between the trees, still drowned in my reverie. - -It was a most peaceful evening. I felt about me the fine light at which -I did not look; that evening glow was one of the new colors,--one of the -heavenly colors that I find it impossible to depict. The dog came to -meet me as usual; he seemed keenly excited, and would have hurried me -into the house. I patted him absently as I strolled on. - -Entering the house with a little of the sense of loss which, even in the -Happy World, accompanies the absence of those we love, and wondering -when my father would be once more with me, I was startled at hearing his -voice--no, voices; there were two; they came from an upper chamber, and -the silent house echoed gently with their subdued words. - -I stood for a moment listening below; I felt the color flash out of my -face; my heart stood still. I took a step or two -forward--hesitated--advanced with something like fear. The dog pushed -before me, and urged me to follow. After a moment’s thought I did so, -resolutely. - -The doors stood open everywhere, and the evening air blew in with a -strong and wholesome force. No one had heard me. Guided by the voices of -the unseen speakers I hurried on, across the hall, through my own room, -and into that sacred spot I have spoken of, wherein for so many solitary -years my dear father had made ready for her coming who was the joy of -his joy, in Heaven, as she had been on earth. - -For that instant, I saw all the familiar details of the room in a blur -of light. It was as if a sea of glory filled the place. Across it, out -beyond the window, on the balcony which overlooked the hill-country and -the sea, stood my father and my mother, hand in hand. - -She did not hear me, even yet. They were talking quietly, and were -absorbed. Uncertain what to do, I might even have turned and left them -undisturbed, so sacred seemed that hour of theirs to me; so separate in -all the range of experience in either world, or any life. But her heart -warned her, and she stirred, and so saw me--my dear mother--come to us, -at last. - -Oh, what arms can gather like a mother’s, whether in earth or Heaven? -Whose else could be those brooding touches, those raining tears, those -half-inarticulate maternal words? And for her, too, the bitterness is -passed, the blessedness begun. Oh, my dear mother! My dear mother! I -thank God I was the child appointed to give you welcome--thus.... - - * * * * * - -“And how is it with Tom,--poor Tom!” - -“He has grown such a fine fellow; you cannot think. I leaned upon him. -He was the comfort of my old age.” - -“Poor Tom!” - -“And promises to make such a man, dear! A good boy. No bad habits, yet. -Your father is so pleased that he makes a scholar.” - -“Dear Tom! And Alice?” - -“It was hard to leave Alice. But she is young. Life is before her. God -is good.” - -“And you, my dearest, was it hard for you at the last? Was it a long -sickness? Who took care of you? Mother! did you suffer _much_?” - -“Dear, I never suffered any. I had a sudden stroke I think. I was -sitting by the fire with the children. It was vacation and Tom was at -home. They were all at home. I started to cross the room, and it grew -dark. I did not know that I was dead till I found I was standing there -upon the balcony, in your father’s arms.” - -“I had to tell her what had happened. She wouldn’t believe me at the -first.” - -“Were you with her all the time below?” - -“All the time; for days before the end.” - -“And you brought her here yourself, easily?” - -“All the way, myself. She slept like a baby, and wakened--as she says.” - - - - -XIV. - - -But was it possible to feel desolate in Heaven? Life now filled to the -horizon. Our business, our studies, and our pleasures occupied every -moment. Every day new expedients of delight unfurled before us. Our -conceptions of happiness increased faster than their realization. The -imagination itself grew, as much as the aspiration. We saw height beyond -height of joy, as we saw outline above outline of duty. How paltry -looked our wildest earthly dream! How small our largest worldly deed! -One would not have thought it possible that one could even want so much -as one demanded here; or hope so far as one expected now. - -What possibilities stretched on; each leading to a larger, like -newly-discovered stars, one beyond another; as the pleasure or the -achievement took its place, the capacity for the next increased. -Satiety or its synonyms passed out of our language, except as a -reminiscence of the past. See, what were the conditions of this eternal -problem. Given: a pure heart, perfect health, unlimited opportunity for -usefulness, infinite chance of culture, home, friendship, love; the -elimination from practical life of anxiety and separation; and the -intense spiritual stimulus of the presence of our dear Master, through -whom we approached the mystery of God--how incredible to anything short -of experience the sum of happiness! - -I soon learned how large a part of our delight consisted in -anticipation; since now we knew anticipation without alloy of fear. I -thought much of the joys in store for me, which yet I was not perfected -enough to attain. I looked onward to the perpetual meeting of old -friends and acquaintances, both of the living and the dead; to the -command of unknown languages, arts, and sciences, and knowledges -manifold; to the grandeur of helping the weak, and revering the strong; -to the privilege of guarding the erring or the tried, whether of earth -or heaven, and of sharing all attainable wisdom with the less wise, and -of even instructing those too ignorant to know that they were not wise, -and of ministering to the dying, and of assisting in bringing together -the separated. I looked forward to meeting select natures, the -distinguished of earth or Heaven; to reading history backward by contact -with its actors, and settling its knotty points by their evidential -testimony. Was I not in a world where Loyola, and Jeanne d’Arc, or -Luther, or Arthur, could be asked questions? - -I would follow the experiments of great discoverers, since their advent -to this place. What did Newton, and Columbus, and Darwin in the eternal -life? - -I would keep pace with the development of art. To what standard had -Michael Angelo been raising the public taste all these years? - -I would join the fragments of those private histories which had long -been matter of public interest. Where, and whose now, was Vittoria -Colonna? - -I would have the _finales_ of the old Sacred stories. What use had been -made of the impetuosity of Peter? What was the private life of Saint -John? With what was the fine intellect of Paul now occupied? What was -the charm in the Magdalene? In what sacred fields did the sweet nature -of Ruth go gleaning? Did David write the new anthems for the celestial -chorals? What was the attitude of Moses towards the Persistence of -Force? Where was Judas? And did the Betrayed plead for the betrayer? - -I would study the sociology of this explanatory life. Where, if -anywhere, were the Cave-men? In what world, and under what educators, -were the immortal souls of Laps and Bushmen trained? What social -position had the early Christian martyrs? What became of Caligula, whose -nurse, we were told, smeared her breasts with blood, and so developed -the world-hated tyrant from the outraged infant? Where was Buddha, “the -Man who knew”? What affectionate relation subsisted between him and the -Man who Loved? - -I would bide my time patiently, but I, too, would become an experienced -traveler through the spheres. Our Sun I would visit, and scarlet Mars, -said by our astronomers below to be the planet most likely to contain -inhabitants. The colored suns I would observe, and the nebulæ, and the -mysteries of space, powerless now to chill one by its reputed -temperature, said to be forever at zero. Where were the Alps of Heaven? -The Niagara of celestial scenery? The tropics of the spiritual world? -Ah, how I should pursue Eternity with questions! - -What was the relation of mechanical power to celestial conditions? What -use was made of Watts and Stevenson? - -What occupied the ex-hod-carriers and cooks? - -Where were all the songs of all the poets? In the eternal accumulation -of knowledge, what proportion sifted through the strainers of spiritual -criticism? What _were_ the standards of spiritual criticism? What became -of those creations of the human intellect which had acquired -immortality? Were there instances where these figments of fancy had -achieved an eternal existence lost by their own creators? Might not one -of the possible mysteries of our new state of existence be the fact of a -world peopled by the great creatures of our imagination known to us -below? And might not one of our pleasures consist in visiting such a -world? Was it incredible that Helen, and Lancelot, and Sigfried, and -Juliet, and Faust, and Dinah Morris, and the Lady of Shalott, and Don -Quixote, and Colonel Newcome, and Sam Weller, and Uncle Tom, and Hester -Prynne and Jean Valjean existed? could be approached by way of holiday, -as one used to take up the drama or the fiction, on a leisure hour, down -below? - -Already, though so short a time had I been in the upper life, my -imagination was overwhelmed with the sense of its possibilities. They -seemed to overlap one another like the molecules of gold in a ring, -without visible juncture or practical end. I was ready for the -inconceivable itself. In how many worlds should I experience myself? How -many lives should I live? Did eternal existence mean eternal variety of -growth, suspension, renewal? Might youth and maturity succeed each other -exquisitely? Might individual life reproduce itself from seed, to -flower, to fruit, like a plant, through the cycles? Would childhood or -age be a matter of personal choice? Would the affectional or the -intellectual temperaments at will succeed each other? Might one try the -domestic or the public career in different existences? Try the bliss of -love in one age, the culture of solitude in another? Be oneself yet be -all selves? Experience all glories, all discipline, all knowledge, all -hope? Know the ecstasy of assured union with the one creature chosen out -of time and Eternity to complement the soul? And yet forever pursue the -unattainable with the rapture and the reverence of newly-awakened and -still ungratified feeling? - -Ah me! was it possible to feel desolate even in Heaven? - -I think it may be, because I had been much occupied with thoughts like -these; or it may be that, since my dear mother’s coming, I had been, -naturally, thrown more by myself in my desire to leave those two -uninterrupted in their first reunion--but I must admit that I had lonely -moments, when I realized that Heaven had yet failed to provide me with a -home of my own, and that the most loving filial position could not -satisfy the nature of a mature man or woman in any world. I must admit -that I began to be again subject to retrospects and sadnesses which had -been well brushed away from my heart since my advent to this place. I -must admit that in experiencing the immortality of being, I found that I -experienced no less the immortality of love. - -Had I to meet that old conflict _here_? I never asked for everlasting -life. Will He impose it, and not free me from _that_? God forgive me! -Have I evil in my heart still? Can one sin in Heaven? Nay, be merciful, -be merciful! I will be patient. I will have trust. But the old nerves -are not dead. The old ache has survived the grave. - -Why was this permitted, if without a cure? Why had death no power to -call decay upon that for which eternal life seemed to have provided no -health? It had seemed to me, so far as I could observe the heavenly -society, that only the fortunate affections of preëxistence survived. -The unhappy, as well as the imperfect, were outlived and replaced. -Mysteries had presented themselves here, which I was not yet wise enough -to clear up. I saw, however, that a great ideal was one thing which -never died. The attempt to realize it often involved effects which -seemed hardly less than miraculous. - -But for myself, events had brought no solution of the problems of my -past; and with the tenacity of a constant nature I was unable to see any -for the future. - -I mused one evening, alone with these long thoughts. I was strolling -upon a wide, bright field. Behind me lay the city, glittering and glad. -Beyond, I saw the little sea which I had crossed. The familiar outline -of the hills uprose behind. All Heaven seemed heavenly. I heard distant -merry voices and music. Listening closely, I found that the Wedding -March that had stirred so many human heart-beats was perfectly performed -somewhere across the water, and that the wind bore the sounds towards -me. I then remembered to have heard it said that Mendelssohn was himself -a guest of some distinguished person in an adjacent town, and that -certain music of his was to be given for the entertainment of a group of -people who had been deaf-mutes in the lower life. - -As the immortal power of the old music filled the air, I stayed my steps -to listen. The better to do this, I covered my eyes with my hands, and -so stood blindfold and alone in the midst of the wide field. - -The passion of earth and the purity of Heaven--the passion of Heaven and -the deferred hope of earth--what loss and what possession were in the -throbbing strains! - -As never on earth, they called the glad to rapture. As never on earth, -they stirred the sad to silence. Where, before, had soul or sense been -called by such a clarion? What music was, we used to dream. What it is, -we dare, at last, to know. - -And yet--I would have been spared this if I could, I think, just now. -Give me a moment’s grace. I would draw breath, and so move on again, and -turn me to my next duty quietly, since even Heaven denies me, after all. - -I would--what would I? Where am I? Who spoke, or stirred? WHO called me -by a name unheard by me of any living lip for almost twenty years? - -In a transport of something not unlike terror, I could not remove my -hands from my eyes, but still stood, blinded and dumb, in the middle of -the shining field. Beneath my clasped fingers, I caught the radiance of -the edges of the blades of grass that the low breeze swept against my -garment’s hem; and strangely in that strange moment, there came to me, -for the only articulate thought I could command, these two lines of an -old hymn: - -“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood -Stand dressed in living green.” - -“Take down your hands,” a voice said quietly. “Do not start or fear. It -is the most natural thing in the world that I should find you. Be calm. -Take courage. Look at me.” - -Obeying, as the tide obeys the moon, I gathered heart, and so, lifting -my eyes, I saw him whom I remembered standing close beside me. We two -were alone in the wide, bright field. All Heaven seemed to have -withdrawn to leave us to ourselves for this one moment. - -I had known that I might have loved him, all my life. I had never loved -any other man. I had not seen him for almost twenty years. As our eyes -met, our souls challenged one another in silence, and in strength. I was -the first to speak: - -“_Where is she?_” - -“Not with me.” - -“When did you die?” - -“Years ago.” - -“I had lost all trace of you.” - -“It was better so, for all concerned.” - -“Is she--is she”-- - -“She is on earth, and of it; she has found comfort long since; another -fills my place. I do not grieve to yield it. Come!” - -“But I have thought--for all these years--it was not right--I put the -thought away--I do not understand”-- - -“Oh, come! I, too, have waited twenty years.” - -“But is there no reason--no barrier--are you sure? God help me! You have -turned Heaven into Hell for me, if this is not right.” - -“Did I ever ask you to give me one pitying thought that was not right?” - -“Never, God knows. Never. You helped me to be right, to be noble. You -were the noblest man I ever knew. I was a better woman for having known -you, though we parted--as we did.” - -“Then do you trust me? Come!” - -“I trust you as I do the angels of God.” - -“And I love you as His angels may. Come!” - -“For how long--am I to come?” - -“Are we not in Eternity? I claim you as I have loved you, without limit -and without end. Soul of my immortal soul! Life of my eternal life!--Ah, -come.” - - - - -XV. - - -And yet so subtle is the connection in the eternal life between the -soul’s best moments and the Source of them, that I felt unready for my -joy until it had His blessing whose Love was the sun of all love, and -whose approval was sweeter than all happiness. - -Now, it was a part of that beautiful order of Heaven, which we ceased to -call accident, that while I had this wish upon my lips, we saw Him -coming to us, where we still stood alone together in the open field. - -We did not hasten to meet Him, but remained as we were until He reached -our side; and then we sank upon our knees before Him, silently. God -knows what gain we had for the life that we had lost below. The pure -eyes of the Master sought us with a benignity from which we thanked the -Infinite Mercy that our own had not need to droop ashamed. What weak, -earthly comfort could have been worth the loss of a moment such as this? -He blesses us. With His sacred hands He blesses us, and by His blessing -lifts our human love into so divine a thing that this seems the only -life in which it could have breathed. - - * * * * * - -By-and-by, when our Lord has left us, we join hands like children, and -walk quietly through the dazzling air, across the field, and up the -hill, and up the road, and home. I seek my mother, trembling, and clasp -her, sinking on my knees, until I hide my face upon her lap. Her hands -stray across my hair and cheek. - -“What is the matter, Mary?--_dear_ Mary!” - -“Oh, Mother, I have Heaven in my heart at last!” - -“Tell me all about it, my poor child. Hush! There, there! my dear!” - -“_Your poor child?_ ... Mother! What _can_ you mean?”-- - - * * * * * - -What can she mean, indeed? I turn and gaze into her eyes. My face was -hidden in her lap. Her hands stray across my hair and cheek. - -“_What is the matter, Mary?--dear Mary!_” - -“_Oh, Mother, I have Heaven in my heart at last!_” - -“_Tell me all about it, my poor child. Hush! There, there! my dear!_” - -“_Your poor child? Mother!_ _What_ CAN _this mean_?” - - * * * * * - -She broods and blesses me, she calms and gathers me. With a mighty cry, -I fling myself against her heart, and sob my soul out, there. - -“You are better, child,” she says. “Be quiet. You will live.” - -Upon the edge of the sick-bed, sitting strained and weary, she leans to -comfort me. The night-lamp burns dimly on the floor behind the door. The -great red chair stands with my white woollen wrapper thrown across the -arm. In the window the magenta geranium droops freezing. Mignonette is -on the table, and its breath pervades the air. Upon the wall, the cross, -the Christ, and the picture of my father look down. - -The doctor is in the room; I hear him say that he shall change the -medicine, and some one, I do not notice who, whispers that it is thirty -hours since the stupor, from which I have aroused, began. Alice comes -in, and Tom, I see, has taken Mother’s place, and holds me--dear -Tom!--and asks me if I suffer, and why I look so disappointed. - -Without, in the frosty morning, the factory-bells are calling the poor -girls to their work. The shutter is ajar, and through the crack I see -the winter day dawn on the world. - - * * * * * - - Standard and Popular Library Books - - SELECTED FROM THE CATALOGUE OF - - HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. - - -John Adams and Abigail Adams. - - Familiar Letters of, during the Revolution. 12mo, $2.00. - -Oscar Fay Adams. - - Handbook of English Authors. 16mo, 75 cents. - Handbook of American Authors. 16mo, 75 cents. - -Louis Agassiz. - - Methods of Study in Natural History. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Beyond the Gates - -Author: Elizabeth Stuart Phelps - -Release Date: January 27, 2017 [EBook #54060] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEYOND THE GATES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="305" height="500" alt="" title="" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1> -BEYOND THE GATES.</h1> - -<p class="c"> -BY<br /> -<br /> -ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS,<br /> -<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “THE GATES AJAR,” “THE STORY OF AVIS,” ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>Nineteenth Thousand.</i><br /> -<br /> -<img src="images/colophon.jpg" width="85" alt="colophon" title="" /> -<br /> -<br /> -BOSTON:<br /> -HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY<br /> -New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street.<br /> -<span class="eng">The Riverside Press, Cambridge.</span><br /> -1884.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span><br /> -<small>Copyright, 1883,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved.</i><br /> -<br /> -<i>The Riverside Press, Cambridge:</i><br /> -Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.<br /></small> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span><br /> - -<br /> -<i>TO MY BROTHER</i>,<br /> -<br /> -<big>STUART</big>,<br /> -<br /> -<small>WHO PASSED BEYOND, AUGUST 29, 1883.</small><br /> -</p> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c"> -<a href="#I"><span class="smcap">Chapter</span> I., </a> -<a href="#II">II., </a> -<a href="#III">III., </a> -<a href="#IV">IV., </a> -<a href="#V">V., </a> -<a href="#VI">VI., </a> -<a href="#VII">VII., </a> -<a href="#VIII">VIII., </a> -<a href="#IX">IX., </a> -<a href="#X">X., </a> -<a href="#XI">XI., </a> -<a href="#XII">XII., </a> -<a href="#XIII">XIII., </a> -<a href="#XIV">XIV., </a> -<a href="#XV">XV. </a> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="NOTE" id="NOTE"></a>NOTE.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> should be said, that, at the time of the departure of him to whose -memory this little book is consecrated, the work was already in press; -and that these pages owe more to his criticism than can be acknowledged -here.</p> - -<p class="r"> -E. S. P.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="hang"><small> -<span class="smcap">Gloucester, Massachusetts</span>,<br /> -<i>September, 1883</i>.</small> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<h1>BEYOND THE GATES.</h1> - -<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I had</span> been ill for several weeks with what they called brain fever. The -events which I am about to relate happened on the fifteenth day of my -illness.</p> - -<p>Before beginning to tell my story, it may not be out of place to say a -few words about myself, in order to clarify to the imagination of the -reader points which would otherwise involve numerous explanatory -digressions, more than commonly misplaced in a tale dealing with the -materials of this.</p> - -<p>I am a woman forty years of age. My father was a clergyman; he had been -many years dead. I was living, at the time I refer to, in my mother’s -house in a factory town in Massachusetts. The town need not be more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> -particularly mentioned, nor genuine family names given, for obvious -reasons. I was the oldest of four children; one of my sisters was -married, one was at home with us, and there was a boy at college.</p> - -<p>I was an unmarried, but not an unhappy woman. I had reached a very busy, -and sometimes I hoped a not altogether valueless, middle age. I had used -life and loved it. Beyond the idle impulse of a weary moment, which -signifies no more than the reflex action of a mental muscle, and which I -had been in the habit of rating accordingly, I had never wished to die. -I was well, vigorous, and active. I was not of a dependent or a -despondent temperament.</p> - -<p>I am not writing an autobiography, and these things, not of importance -in themselves, require only the briefest allusion. They will serve to -explain the general cast of my life, which in turn may define the -features of my story.</p> - -<p>There are two kinds of solitary: he who is drawn by the inward, and he -who chooses the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> outward life. To this latter class I had belonged. -Circumstances, which it is not necessary to detail here, had thrust me -into the one as a means of self-preservation from the other, while I was -yet quite young.</p> - -<p>I had been occupied more largely with the experiences of other people -than with my own. I had been in the habit of being depended upon. It had -been my great good fortune to be able to spend a part of my time among -the sick, the miserable, and the poor. It had been, perhaps, my better -chance to be obliged to balance the emotional perils of such occupations -by those of a different character. My business was that of a -school-teacher, but I had traveled somewhat; I had served as a nurse -during the latter years of the war; in the Sanitary Commission; upon the -Freedmen’s Bureau; as an officer in a Woman’s Prison, and had done a -little work for the State Bureau of Labor among the factory operatives -of our own town. I had therefore, it will be seen, been spared the -deterioration of a monotonous existence. At the time I was taken ill I -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> managing a private school, rather large for the corps of assistants -which I could command, and had overworked. I had been at home, thus -employed, with my mother who needed me, for two years.</p> - -<p>It may not be unsuitable, before proceeding with my narrative, to say -that I had been a believer in the truths of the Christian religion; not, -however, a devotee. I had not the ecstatic temperament, and was not -known among my friends for any higher order of piety than that which is -implied in trying to do one’s duty for Christ’s sake, and saying little -about it or Him,—less than I wish I had sometimes. It was natural to me -to speak in other ways than by words; that does not prove that it was -best. I had read a little, like all thinking people with any -intellectual margin to their lives, of the religious controversies of -the day, and had not been without my share of pressure from the -fashionable reluctance to believe. Possibly this had affected a -temperament not too much inclined towards the supernatural, but it had -never conquered my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> faith, which I think had grown to be dearer to me -because I had not kept it without a fight for it. It certainly had -become, for this reason, of greater practical value. It certainly had -become, for this and every reason, the most valuable thing I had, or -hoped to have. I believed in God and immortality, and in the history of -Jesus Christ. I respected and practiced prayer, but chiefly decided what -I ought to do next minute. I loved life and lived it. I neither feared -death nor thought much about it.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>When I had been ill a fortnight, it occurred to me that I was very sick, -but not that I could possibly die. I suffered a good deal at first; -after that much less. There was great misery for lack of sleep, and -intolerable restlessness. The worst, however, was the continuity of -care. Those who have borne heavy responsibilities for any length of time -will understand me. The incessant burden pressed on: now a pupil had -fallen into some disgraceful escapade; now the investments of my -mother’s, of which I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> the charge, had failed on the dividends; then -I had no remittance for the boy at college; then my sister, in a -heart-breaking emergency, confided to me a peril against which I could -not lift a finger; the Governor held me responsible for the typhoid -among the prisoners; I added eternal columns of statistics for the -Charity Boards, and found forever a mistake in each report; a dying -soldier called to me in piercing tones for a cup of water; the black -girl to whom I read the Gospel of John, drowned her baby; I ran six -looms in the mill for the mother of six children till her seventh should -be born; I staked the salvation of my soul upon answering the argument -of Strauss to the satisfaction of an unbelieving friend, and lost my -wager; I heard my classes in Logic, and was unable to repeat anything -but the “Walrus and the Carpenter,” for the “Barbara Celarent.” -Suddenly, one day, in the thick of this brain-battle, I slipped upon a -pause, in which I distinctly heard a low voice say,</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“But Thine eternal thoughts move on,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Thine undisturbed affairs.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">It was my mother’s voice. I perceived then that she sat at my bedside in -the red easy-chair, repeating hymns, poor soul! in the hope of calming -me.</p> - -<p>I put out my hand and patted her arm, but it did not occur to me to -speak till I saw that there were masses of pansies and some mignonette -upon the table, and I asked who sent them, and she told me the -school-girls had kept them fresh there every day since I was taken ill. -I felt some pleasure that they should take the trouble to select the -flowers I preferred. Then I asked her where the jelly came from, and the -grapes, and about other trifles that I saw, such as accumulate in any -sick-room. Then she gave me the names of different friends and neighbors -who had been so good as to remember me. Chiefly I was touched by the -sight of a straggly magenta geranium which I noticed growing in a pot by -the window, and which a poor woman from the mills had brought the day -before. I asked my mother if there were any letters, and she said, many, -but that I must not hear them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> read; she spoke of some from the prison. -The door-bell often rang softly, and I asked why it was muffled, and who -called. Alice had come in, and said something in an undertone to mother -about the Grand Army and resolutions and sympathy; and she used the -names of different people I had almost forgotten, and this confused me. -They stopped talking, and I became at once very ill again.</p> - -<p>The next point which I recall is turning to see that the doctor was in -the room. I was in great suffering, and he gave me a few spoonfuls of -something which he said would secure sleep. I desired to ask him what it -was, as I objected to narcotics, and preferred to bear whatever was -before me with the eyes of my mind open, but as soon as I tried to speak -I forgot what I wished to say.</p> - -<p>I do not know how long it was before the truth approached me, but it was -towards evening of that day, the fifteenth, as I say, of my illness, -that I said aloud:</p> - -<p>“Mother, Tom is in the room. Why has Tom come home?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<p>Tom was my little brother at college. He came towards the bed as I -spoke. He had his hat in his hand, and he put it up before his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Mother!” I repeated louder than before. “<i>Why have you sent for Tom?</i>”</p> - -<p>But Mother did not answer me. She leaned over me. I saw her looking -down. She had the look that she had when my father died; though I was so -young when that happened, I had never forgotten my mother’s look; and I -had never seen it since, from that day until this hour.</p> - -<p>“Mother! am I so sick as <i>that</i>? <span class="smcap">Mother!</span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear!” cried Mother. “Oh my dear, my dear!” ...</p> - -<p>So after that I understood. I was greatly startled that they should feel -me to be dangerously ill; but I was not alarmed.</p> - -<p>“It is nonsense,” I said, after I had thought about it a little while. -“Dr. Shadow was always a croaker. I have no idea of dying! I have nursed -too many sicker people than I am. I don’t <i>intend</i> to die! I am able to -sit up now, if I want to. Let me try.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span></p> - -<p>“I’ll hold you,” said Tom, softly enough. This pleased me. He lifted all -the pillows, and held me straight out upon his mighty arms. Tom was a -great athlete—took the prizes at the gymnasium. No weaker man could -have supported me for fifteen minutes in the strained position by which -he found that he could give me comfort and so gratify my whim. Tom held -me a long time; I think it must have been an hour; but I began to suffer -again, and could not judge of time. I wondered how that big boy got such -infinite tenderness into those iron muscles. I felt a great respect for -human flesh and bone and blood, and for the power and preciousness of -the living human body. It seemed much more real to me, then, than the -spirit. It seemed an absurdity that any one should suppose that I was in -danger of being done with life. I said:—</p> - -<p>“I’m going to live, Tom! Tell Mother I have no idea of dying. I prefer -to live.”</p> - -<p>Tom nodded; he did not speak; I felt a hot dash of tears on my face, -which surprised me; I had not seen Tom cry since he lost the football -match when he was eleven years old.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span></p> - -<p>They gave me something more out of the spoon, again, I think, at that -moment, and I felt better. I said to Tom:—</p> - -<p>“You see!” and bade them send Mother to lie down, and asked Alice to -make her beef-tea, and to be sure and make it as we did in the army. I -do not remember saying anything more after this. I certainly did not -suffer any more. I felt quiet and assured. Nothing farther troubled me. -The room became so still that I thought they must all have gone away, -and left me with the nurse, and that she, finding me so well, had -herself fallen asleep. This rested me—to feel that I was no longer -causing them pain—more than anything could have done; and I began to -think the best thing I could do would be to take a nap myself.</p> - -<p>With this conviction quietly in mind I turned over, with my face towards -the wall, to go to sleep. I grew calmer, and yet more calm, as I lay -there. There was a cross of Swiss carving on the wall, hanging over a -picture of my father. Leonardo’s Christ—the one from the drawing for -the Last Supper, that we all know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span>—hung above both these. Owing to my -position, I could not see the other pictures in the room, which was -large, and filled with little things, the gifts of those who had been -kind to me in a life of many busy years. Only these three objects—the -cross, the Christ, and my father—came within range of my eyes as the -power of sleep advanced. The room was darkened, as it had been since I -became so ill, so that I was not sure whether it were night or day. The -clock was striking. I think it struck two; and I perceived the odor of -the mignonette. I think it was the last thing I noticed before going to -sleep, and I remembered, as I did so, the theories which gave to the -sense of smell greater significance than any of the rest; and remembered -to have read that it was either the last or the first to give way in the -dying. (I could not recall, in my confused condition, which.) I thought -of this with pleased and idle interest; but did not associate the -thought with the alarm felt by my friends about my condition.</p> - -<p>I could have slept but a short time when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> woke, feeling much easier. -The cross, the Christ, and the picture of my father looked at me calmly -from the wall on which the sick-lamp cast a steady, soft light. Then I -remembered that it was night, of course, and felt chagrined that I could -have been confused on this point.</p> - -<p>The room seemed close to me, and I turned over to ask for more air.</p> - -<p>As I did so, I saw some one sitting in the cushioned window-seat by the -open window—the eastern window. No one had occupied this seat, on -account of the draught and chill, since my illness. As I looked -steadily, I saw that the person who sat there was my father.</p> - -<p>His face was turned away, but his figure and the contour of his noble -head were not to be mistaken. Although I was a mere girl when he died, I -felt no hesitation about this. I knew at once, and beyond all doubt, -that it was he. I experienced pleasure, but little, if any, surprise.</p> - -<p>As I lay there looking at him, he turned and regarded me. His deep eyes -glowed with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> soft, calm light; but yet, I know not why, they expressed -more love than I had ever seen in them before. He used to love us -nervously and passionately. He had now the look of one whose whole -nature is saturated with rest, and to whom the fitfulness, distrust, or -distress of intense feeling acting upon a super-sensitive organization, -were impossible. As he looked towards me, he smiled. He had one of the -sweetest smiles that ever illuminated a mortal face.</p> - -<p>“Why, Father!” I said aloud. He nodded encouragingly, but did not speak.</p> - -<p>“Father?” I repeated, “Father, is this <i>you</i>?” He laughed a little, -softly, putting up one hand and tossing his hair off from his -forehead—an old way of his.</p> - -<p>“What are you here for?” I asked again. “Did Mother send for <i>you</i>, -too?”</p> - -<p>When I had said this, I felt confused and troubled; for though I did not -remember that he was dead—I mean I did not put the thought in any such -form to myself, or use that word or any of its synonyms—yet I -remembered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> that he had been absent from our family circle for a good -while, and that if Mother had sent for him because I had a brain fever, -it would have been for some reason not according to her habit.</p> - -<p>“It is strange,” I said. “It isn’t like her. I don’t understand the -thing at all.”</p> - -<p>Now, as I continued to look at the corner of the room where my father -was sitting, I saw that he had risen from the cushioned window-seat, and -taken a step or two towards me. He stopped, however, and stood quite -still, and looked at me most lovingly and longingly; and <i>then</i> it was -that he held out his arms to me.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried I, “I wish I could come! But you don’t know how sick I am. I -have not walked a step for over two weeks.”</p> - -<p>He did not speak even yet, but still held out his arms with that look of -unutterably restful love. I felt the elemental tie between parent and -child draw me. It seemed to me as if I had reached the foundation of all -human feeling; as if I had gone down—how shall I say it?—below the -depths of all other love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> I had always known I loved him, but not like -that. I was greatly moved.</p> - -<p>“But you don’t understand me,” I repeated with some agitation. “I -<i>can’t</i> walk.” I thought it very strange that he did not, in -consideration of my feebleness, come to me.</p> - -<p>Then for the first time he spoke.</p> - -<p>“Come,” he said gently. His voice sounded quite natural; I only noticed -that he spoke under his breath, as if not to awake the nurse, or any -person who was in the room.</p> - -<p>At this, I moved, and sat up on the edge of my bed; although I did so -easily enough, I lost courage at that point. It seemed impossible to go -farther. I felt a little chilly, and remembered, too, that I was not -dressed. A warm white woolen wrapper of my own, and my slippers, were -within reach, by the head of the bed; Alice wore them when she watched -with me. I put these things on, and then paused, expecting to be -overcome with exhaustion after the effort. To my surprise, I did not -feel tired at all. I believe, rather, I felt a little stronger. As I put -the clothes on, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> noticed the magenta geranium across the room. These, -I think, were the only things which attracted my attention.</p> - -<p>“Come here to me,” repeated Father; he spoke more decidedly, this time -with a touch of authority. I remembered hearing him speak just so when -Tom was learning to walk; he began by saying, “Come, sonny boy!” but -when the baby played the coward, he said, “My son, come here!”</p> - -<p>As if I had been a baby, I obeyed. I put my feet to the floor, and found -that I stood strongly. I experienced a slight giddiness for a moment, -but when this passed, my head felt clearer than before. I walked -steadily out into the middle of the room. Each step was firmer than the -other. As I advanced, he came to meet me. My heart throbbed. I thought I -should have fallen, not from weakness, but from joy.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be afraid,” he said encouragingly; “that is right. You are doing -finely. Only a few steps more. There!”</p> - -<p>It was done. I had crossed the distance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> which separated us, and my dear -Father, after all those years, took me, as he used to do, into his -arms....</p> - -<p>He was the first to speak, and he said:—</p> - -<p>“You poor little girl!—But it is over now.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is over now,” I answered. I thought he referred to the -difficult walk across the room, and to my long illness, now so happily -at an end. He smiled and patted me on the cheek, but made no other -answer.</p> - -<p>“I must tell Mother that you are here,” I said presently. I had not -looked behind me or about me. Since the first sight of my father sitting -in the window, I had not observed any other person, and could not have -told who was in the room.</p> - -<p>“Not yet,” my father said. “We may not speak to her at present. I think -we had better go.”</p> - -<p>I lifted my face to say, “Go where?” but my lips did not form the -question. It was just as it used to be when he came from the study and -held out his hand, and said “Come,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> and I went anywhere with him, -neither asking, nor caring, so long as it was with him; and then he used -to play or walk with me, and I forgot the whole world besides. I put my -hand in his without a question, and we moved towards the door.</p> - -<p>“I suppose <i>you</i> had better go this way,” he said, with a slight -hesitation, as we passed out and across the hall.</p> - -<p>“Any way you like best,” I said joyfully. He smiled, and still keeping -my hand, led me down the stairs. As we went down, I heard the little -Swiss clock, above in my room, strike the half hour after two.</p> - -<p>I noticed everything in the hall as we descended; it was as if my -vision, as well as the muscles of motion, grew stronger with each -moment. I saw the stair-carpeting with its faded Brussels pattern, once -rich, and remembered counting the red roses on it the night I went up -with the fever on me; reeling and half delirious, wondering how I could -possibly afford to be sick. I saw the hat-tree with Tom’s coat, and -Alice’s blue Shetland shawl across the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> hair-cloth sofa. As we -opened the door, I saw the muffled bell. I stood for a moment upon the -threshold of my old home, not afraid but perplexed.</p> - -<p>My father seemed to understand my thoughts perfectly, though I had not -spoken, and he paused for my reluctant mood. I thought of all the years -I had spent there. I thought of my childhood and girlhood; of the -tempestuous periods of life which that quiet roof had hidden; of the -calms upon which it had brooded. I thought of sorrows that I had -forgotten, and those which I had prayed in vain to forget. I thought of -temptations and of mistakes and of sins, from which I had fled back -asking these four walls to shelter me. I thought of the comfort and -blessedness that I had never failed to find in the old house. I shrank -from leaving it. It seemed like leaving my body.</p> - -<p>When the door had been opened, the night air rushed in. I could see the -stars, and knew, rather than felt, that it was cold. As we stood -waiting, an icicle dropped from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> eaves, and fell, breaking into a -dozen diamond flashes at our feet. Beyond, it was dark.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me a great exposure,” I said reluctantly, “to be taken out -into a winter night,—at such an hour, too! I have been so very sick.”</p> - -<p>“Are you cold?” asked my father gently. After some thought I said:—</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>For I was not cold. For the first time I wondered why.</p> - -<p>“Are you tired?”</p> - -<p>No, I was not tired.</p> - -<p>“Are you afraid?”</p> - -<p>“A little, I think, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Would you like to go back, Molly, and rest awhile?”</p> - -<p>“If you please, Papa.”</p> - -<p>The old baby-word came instinctively in answer to the baby-name. He led -me like a child, and like a child I submitted. It was like him to be so -thoughtful of my weakness. My dear father was always one of those rare -men who think of little things largely, and so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> bring, especially into -the lives of women, the daily comfort which makes the infinite -preciousness of life.</p> - -<p>We went into the parlor and sat down. It was warm there and pleasant. -The furnace was well on, and embers still in the grate. The lamps were -not lighted, yet the room was not dark. I enjoyed being down there again -after all those weeks up-stairs, and was happy in looking at the -familiar things, the afghan on the sofa, and the magazines on the table, -uncut because of my illness; Mother’s work-basket, and Alice’s music -folded away.</p> - -<p>“It was always a dear old room,” said Father, seating himself in his own -chair, which we had kept for twenty years in its old place. He put his -head back, and gazed peacefully about.</p> - -<p>When I felt rested, and better, I asked him if we should start now.</p> - -<p>“Just as you please,” he said quietly. “There is no hurry. We are never -hurried.”</p> - -<p>“If we have anything to do,” I said, “I had rather do it now I think.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span></p> - -<p>“Very well,” said Father, “that is like you.” He rose and held out his -hand again. I took it once more, and once more we went out to the -threshold of our old home. This time I felt more confidence, but when -the night air swept in, I could not help shrinking a little in spite of -myself, and showing the agitation which overtook me.</p> - -<p>“Father!” I cried, “Father! <i>where</i> are we going?”</p> - -<p>My father turned at this, and looked at me solemnly. His face seemed to -shine and glow. He looked from what I felt was a great height. He -said:—</p> - -<p>“Are you really afraid, Mary, to go <i>any</i>where with me?”</p> - -<p>“No, no!” I protested in a passion of regret and trust, “my dear father! -I would go any where in earth or Heaven with you!”</p> - -<p>“Then come,” he said softly.</p> - -<p>I clasped both hands, interlocking them through his arm, and we shut the -door and went down the steps together and out into the winter dawn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was neither dark nor day; and as we stepped into the village streets -the confused light trembled about us delicately. The stars were still -shining. Snow was on the ground; and I think it had freshly fallen in -the night, for I noticed that the way before us lay quite white and -untrodden. I looked back over my shoulders as my father closed the gate, -which he did without noise. I meant to take a gaze at the old house, -from which, with a thrill at the heart, I began to feel that I was -parting under strange and solemn conditions. But when I glanced up the -path which we had taken, my attention was directed altogether from the -house, and from the slight sadness of the thought I had about it.</p> - -<p>The circumstance which arrested me was this. Neither my father’s foot -nor mine had left any print upon the walk. From the front<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> door to the -street, the fine fair snow lay unbroken; it stirred, and rose in -restless flakes like winged creatures under the gentle wind, flew a -little way, and fell again, covering the surface of the long white path -with a foam so light, it seemed as if thought itself could not have -passed upon it without impression. I can hardly say why I did not call -my father’s attention to this fact.</p> - -<p>As we walked down the road the dawn began to deepen. The stars paled -slowly. The intense blue-black and purple of the night sky gave way to -the warm grays that precede sunrise in our climate. I saw that the gold -and the rose were coming. It promised to be a mild morning, warmer than -for several days. The deadly chill was out of the air. The snow yielded -on the outlines of the drifts, and relaxed as one looked at it, as snow -does before melting, and the icicles had an air of expectation, as if -they hastened to surrender to the annunciation of a warm and impatient -winter’s day.</p> - -<p>“It is going to thaw,” I said aloud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span></p> - -<p>“It seems so to you,” replied my father, vaguely.</p> - -<p>“But at least it is very pleasant,” I insisted.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you find it so,” he said; “I should have been disappointed if -it had struck you as cold, or—gloomy—in any way.”</p> - -<p>It was still so early that all the village was asleep. The blinds and -curtains of the houses were drawn and the doors yet locked. None of our -neighbors were astir, nor were there any signs of traffic yet in the -little shops. The great factory-bell, which woke the operatives at -half-past four, had rung, but this was the only evidence as yet of human -life or motion. It did not occur to me, till afterwards, to wonder at -the inconsistency between the hour struck by my own Swiss clock and the -factory time.</p> - -<p>I was more interested in another matter which just then presented itself -to me.</p> - -<p>The village, as I say, was still asleep. Once I heard the distant hoofs -of a horse sent clattering after the doctor, and ridden by a messenger -from a household in mortal need.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> Up to this time we two had seemed to -be the only watchers in all the world.</p> - -<p>Now, as I turned to see if I could discover whose horse it was and so -who was in emergency, I observed suddenly that the sidewalk was full of -people. I say full of people; I mean that there was a group behind us; a -few, also, before us; some, too, were crossing the street. They -conversed together standing at the corners, or walked in twos, as father -and I were doing; or strolled, some of them alone. Some of them seemed -to have immediate business and to be in haste; others sauntered as he -who has no occupation. Some talked and gesticulated earnestly, or -laughed loudly. Others went with a thoughtful manner, speaking not at -all.</p> - -<p>As I watched them I began to recognize here and there, a man, or a -woman;—there were more men than women among them, and there were no -children.</p> - -<p>A few of these people, I soon saw, were old neighbors of ours; some I -had known when I was a child, and had forgotten till this moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> -Several of them bowed to us as we passed along. One man stopped and -waited for us, and spoke to Father, who shook hands with him; -intimating, however, pleasantly enough, that he was in haste, and must -be excused for passing on.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I see,” said the man with a glance at me. I then distinctly -saw this person’s face, and knew him beyond a doubt, for an old -neighbor, a certain Mr. Snarl, a miserly, sanctimonious man—I had never -liked him.</p> - -<p>“Father!” I stopped short. “Father, that man is dead. He has been dead -for twenty years!”</p> - -<p>Now, at this, I began to tremble; yet not from fear, I think; from -amazement, rather, and the great confusion which I felt.</p> - -<p>“And there”—I pointed to a pale young man who had been thrown from his -carriage (it was said because he was in no condition to drive)—“there -is Bobby Bend. He died last winter.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Father quietly, “and what then?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>“And over there—why, certainly that is Mrs. Mersey!”</p> - -<p>I had known Mrs. Mersey for a lovely woman. She died of a fever -contracted in the care of a poor, neglected creature. I saw her at this -moment across and far down the street, coming from a house where there -was trouble. She came with a swift, elastic motion, unlike that of any -of the others who were about us; the difference was marked, and yet one -which I should have found it at that time impossible to describe. -Perhaps I might have said that she hovered above rather than touched the -earth; but this would not have defined the distinction. As I looked -after her she disappeared; in what direction I could not tell.</p> - -<p>“So they <i>are</i> dead people,” I said, with a sort of triumph; almost as -if I had dared my father to deny it. He smiled.</p> - -<p>“Father, I begin to be perplexed. I have heard of these hallucinations, -of course, and read the authenticated stories, but I never supposed I -could be a subject of such illusions. It must be because I have been so -sick.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span></p> - -<p>“Partly because you have been so sick—yes,” said Father drawing down -the corners of his mouth, in that way he had when he was amused. I went -on to tell him that it seemed natural to see him, but that I was -surprised to meet those others who had left us, and that I did not find -it altogether agreeable.</p> - -<p>“Are you afraid?” he asked me, as he had before. No, I could not say -that I was afraid.</p> - -<p>“Then hasten on,” he said in a different tone, “our business is not with -them, at present. See! we have already left them behind.”</p> - -<p>And, indeed, when I glanced back, I saw that we had. We, too, were now -traveling alone together, and at a much faster speed, towards the -outskirts of the town. We were moving eastward. Before us the splendid -day was coming up. The sky was unfolding, shade above shade, paler at -the edge, and glowing at the heart, like the petals of a great rose.</p> - -<p>The snow was melting on the moors towards which we bent our steps; the -water stood here and there in pools, and glistened. A little winter -bird—some chickadee or <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span>wood-pecker—was bathing in one of these pools; -his tiny brown body glowed in the brightness, flashing to and fro. He -chirped and twittered and seemed bursting with joy. As we approached the -moors, the stalks of the sumachs, the mulberries, the golden-rod, and -asters, all the wayside weeds and the brown things that we never know -and never love till winter, rose beautiful from the snow; the icicles -melted and dripped from them; the dead-gold-colored leaves of the low -oaks rustled; at a distance we heard the sweet sough from a grove of -pines; behind us the morning bells of the village broke into bubbles of -cheerful sound. As we walked on together I felt myself become stronger -at every step; my heart grew light.</p> - -<p>“It is a good world,” I cried, “it is a good world!”</p> - -<p>“So it is,” said my father heartily, “and yet—my dear daughter”—He -hesitated; so long that I looked into his face earnestly, and then I saw -that a strange gravity had settled upon it. It was not like any look -that I had ever seen there before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<p>“I have better things to show you,” he said gently.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“We have only begun our journey, Mary; and—if you do not -understand—but I thought you would have done so by this time—I wonder -if she <i>is</i> going to be frightened after all!”</p> - -<p>We were now well out upon the moors, alone together, on the side of the -hill. The town looked far behind us and insignificant. The earth -dwindled and the sky grew, as we looked from one to the other. It seemed -to me that I had never before noticed how small a portion of our range -of vision is filled by the surface of earth, and what occupies it; and -how immense the proportion of the heavens. As we stood there, it seemed -to overwhelm us.</p> - -<p>“Rise,” said my father in a voice of solemn authority, “rise quickly!”</p> - -<p>I struggled at his words, for he seemed to slip from me, and I feared to -lose him. I struggled and struck out into the air; I felt a wild -excitement, like one plunged into a deep<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> sea, and desperately swimming, -as animals do, and a few men, from blind instinct, having never learned. -My father spoke encouragingly, and with tenderness. He never once let go -my hand. I felt myself, beyond all doubt, soaring—slowly and -weakly—but surely ascending above the solid ground.</p> - -<p>“See! there is nothing to fear,” he said from time to time. I did not -answer. My heart beat fast. I exerted all my strength and took a -stronger stroke. I felt that I gained upon myself. I closed my eyes, -looking neither above nor below.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, as gently as the opening of a water lily, and yet as swiftly -as the cleaving of the lightning, there came to me a thought which made -my brain whirl, and I cried aloud:</p> - -<p>“Father, <i>am I</i> <small>DEAD</small>?” My hands slipped—I grew dizzy—wavered—and -fluttered. I was sure that I should fall. At that instant I was caught -with the iron of tenderness and held, like a very young child, in my -father’s arms. He said nothing, only patted me on the cheek, as we -ascended, he seeing, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> blind; he strength, and I weakness; he who -knew all, and I who knew nothing, silently with the rising sun athwart -the rose-lit air.</p> - -<p>I was awed, more than there are words to say; but I felt no more fear -than I used to do when he carried me on his shoulder up the garden walk, -after it grew dark, when I was tired out with play.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I use</span> the words “ascension” and “arising” in the superficial sense of -earthly imagery. Of course, carefully speaking, there can be no up or -down to the motion of beings detached from a revolving globe, and set -adrift in space. I thought of this in the first moment, with the -keenness which distinguishes between knowledge and experience. I knew -when our journey came to an end, by the gradual cessation of our rapid -motion; but at first I did not incline to investigate beyond this fact. -Whether I was only tired, or giddy, or whether a little of what we used -to call faintness overcame me, I can hardly say. If this were so, it was -rather a spiritual than a physical disability; it was a faintness of the -soul. Now I found this more energetic than the bodily sensations I had -known. I scarcely sought to wrestle against it, but lay quite still, -where we had come to a halt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span></p> - -<p>I wish to say here, that if you ask me where this was, I must answer -that I do not know. I must say distinctly that, though after the act of -dying I departed from the surface of the earth, and reached the confines -of a different locality, I cannot yet instruct another <i>where</i> this -place may be.</p> - -<p>My impression that it was not a vast distance (measured, I mean, by an -astronomical scale) from our globe, is a strong one, which, however, I -cannot satisfactorily defend. There seemed to be flowers about me; I -wondered what they were, but lay with my face hidden in my arm, not -caring yet to look about. I thought of that old-fashioned allegory -called “The Distant Hills,” where the good girl, when she died, sank -upon a bed of violets; but the bad girl slipped upon rolling stones -beneath a tottering ruin. This trifling memory occupied me for some -moments; yet it had so great significance to me, that I recall it, even -now, with pungent gratitude.</p> - -<p>“I shall remember what I have read.” This was my first thought in the -new state<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> to which I had come. Minna was the name of the girl in the -allegory. The illustrations were very poor, but had that uncanny -fascination which haunts allegorical pictures—often the more powerful -because of their rudeness.</p> - -<p>As I lay there, still not caring, or even not daring to look up, the -fact that I was crushing flowers beneath me became more apparent; a -delicate perfume arose and surrounded me; it was like and yet unlike any -that I had ever known; its familiarity entranced, its novelty allured -me. Suddenly I perceived what it was—</p> - -<p>“Mignonette!”</p> - -<p>I laughed at my own dullness in detecting it, and could not help -wondering whether it were accident or design that had given me for my -first experience in the new life, the gratification of a little personal -taste like this. For a few moments I yielded to the pure and exquisite -perfume, which stole into my whole nature, or it seemed to me so then. -Afterwards I learned how little I knew of my “whole nature” at that -time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<p>Presently I took courage, and lifted my head. I hardly know what I -expected to see. Visions of the Golden City in the Apocalypse had -flitted before me. I thought of the River of Death in the “Pilgrim’s -Progress,” of the last scene in the “Voyage of Life,” of Theremin’s -“Awakening,” of several famous books and pictures which I had read or -seen, describing what we call Heaven. These works of the human -imagination—stored away perhaps in the frontal lobes of the brain, as -scientists used to tell us—had influenced my anticipations more than I -could have believed possible till that moment.</p> - -<p>I was indeed in a beautiful place; but it did not look, in any respect, -as I had expected. No; I think not in any respect. Many things which -happened to me later, I can describe more vividly than I can this first -impression. In one way it was a complex, in another, a marvelously -simple one. Chiefly, I think I had a consciousness of safety—infinite -safety. All my soul drew a long breath—“Nothing more can happen to me!” -Yet, at the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> time, I felt that I was at the outset of all -experience. It was as if my heart cried aloud, “Where shall I begin?”</p> - -<p>I looked about and abroad. My father stood at a little distance from me, -conversing with some friends. I did not know them. They had great -brightness and beauty of appearance. So, also, had he. He had altered -perceptibly since he met me in the lower world, and seemed to glow and -become absorbent of light from some source yet unseen. This struck me -forcibly in all the people whom I saw—there were many of them, going to -and fro busily—that they were receptive and reflecting beings. They -differed greatly in the degree in which they gave this impression; but -all gave it. Some were quite pale, though pure in color; others glowed -and shone. Yet when I say color, I use an earthly word, which does not -express my meaning. It was more the atmosphere or penumbra, in which -each moved, that I refer to, perhaps, than the tint of their bodies. -They had bodies, very like such as I was used to. I saw that I myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> -was not, or so it appeared, greatly changed. I had form and dress, and I -moved at will, and experienced sensations of pleasure and, above all, of -magnificent health. For a while I was absorbed, without investigating -details, in the mere sense of physical ease and power. I did not wish to -speak, or to be spoken to, nor even to stir and exercise my splendid -strength. It was more than enough to feel it, after all those weeks of -pain. I lay back again upon the mignonette; as I did so, I noticed that -the flowers where my form had pressed them were not bruised; they had -sprung erect again; they had not wilted, nor even hung their heads as if -they were hurt—I lay back upon, and deep within, the mignonette, and, -drowned in the delicate odor, gazed about me.</p> - -<p>Yes; I was truly in a wonderful place. It was in the country (as we -should say below), though I saw signs of large centres of life, outlines -of distant architecture far away. There were hills, and vast distances, -and vistas of hill tints in the atmosphere. There were forests<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> of great -depth. There was an expanse of shining water. There were fields of fine -extent and color, undulating like green seas. The sun was high—if it -were the sun. At least there was great brilliance about me. Flowers must -have been abundant, for the air was alive with perfumes.</p> - -<p>When I have said this, I seem to have said little or nothing. Certain it -is that these first impressions came to me in broad masses, like the -sweep of a large brush or blender upon canvas. Of details I received -few, for a long time. I was overcome with a sense of -Nature—freedom—health—beauty, as if—how shall I say it?—as if for -the first time I understood what generic terms meant; as if I had -entered into the secret of all abstract glory; as if what we had known -as philosophical or as poetical phrases were now become attainable -facts, each possessing that individual existence in which dreamers upon -earth dare to believe, and of which no doubter can be taught.</p> - -<p>I am afraid I do not express this with anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> like the simplicity -with which I felt it; and to describe it with anything resembling the -power would be impossible.</p> - -<p>I felt my smallness and ignorance in view of the wonders which lay -before me. “I shall have time enough to study them,” I thought, but the -thought itself thrilled me throughout, and proved far more of an -excitant than a sedative. I rose slowly, and stood trembling among the -mignonette. I shielded my eyes with my hand, not from any glare or -dazzle or strain, but only from the presence and the pressure of beauty, -and so stood looking off. As I did so, certain words came to mind with -the haunting voice of a broken quotation:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“<i>Neither have entered into the heart of man</i>”—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“<i>The things which God hath prepared</i>”—<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It was a relief to me to see my father coming towards me at that moment, -for I had, perhaps, undergone as much keen emotion as one well bears, -compressed into a short space of time. He met me smiling.</p> - -<p>“And how is it, Mary?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<p>“My first Bible verse has just occurred to me, Father—the first -religious thought I’ve had in Heaven yet!” I tried to speak lightly, -feeling too deeply for endurance. I repeated the words to him, for he -asked me what they were which had come to me.</p> - -<p>“That is a pleasant experience,” he said quietly. “It differs with us -all. I have seen people enter in a transport of haste to see the Lord -Himself—noticing nothing, forgetting everything. I have seen others -come in a transport of terror—so afraid they were of Him.”</p> - -<p>“And I had scarcely thought about seeing Him till now!” I felt ashamed -of this. But my father comforted me by a look.</p> - -<p>“Each comes to his own by his own,” he said. “The nature is never -forced. Here we unfold like a leaf, a flower. He expects nothing of us -but to be natural.”</p> - -<p>This seemed to me a deep saying; and the more I thought of it the deeper -it seemed. I said so as we walked, separate still from the others, -through the beautiful weather. The change from a New England winter to -the climate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> in which I found myself was, in itself, not the least of -the great effects and delights which I experienced that first day.</p> - -<p>If nothing were expected of us but to be natural, it was the more -necessary that it should be natural to be right.</p> - -<p>I felt the full force of this conviction as it had never been possible -to feel it in the other state of being, where I was under restraint. The -meaning of <i>liberty</i> broke upon me like a sunburst. Freedom was in and -of itself the highest law. Had I thought that death was to mean release -from personal obedience? Lo, death itself was but the elevation of moral -claims, from lower to higher. I perceived how all demands of the larger -upon the lesser self must be increased in the condition to which I had -arrived. I felt overpowered for the moment with the intensity of these -claims. It seemed to me that I had never really known before, what -obligation meant. Conduct was now the least of difficulties. For -impulse, which lay behind conduct, for all force which wrought out fact -in me, I had become accountable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<p>“As nearly as I can make it out, Father,” I said, “henceforth I shall be -responsible for my nature.”</p> - -<p>“Something like that; not altogether.”</p> - -<p>“The force of circumstance and heredity,”—I began, using the old -earthly <i>patois</i>. “Of course I’m not to be called to account for what I -start with here, any more than I was for what I started with there. That -would be neither science nor philosophy.”</p> - -<p>“We are neither unscientific nor unphilosophical, you will find,” said -my father, patiently.</p> - -<p>“I am very dull, sir. Be patient with me. What I am trying to say, I -believe, is that I shall feel the deepest mortification if I do not find -it natural to do right. This feeling is so keen, that to be wrong must -be the most unnatural thing in the world. There is certainly a great -difference from what it used to be; I cannot explain it. Already I am -ashamed of the smallness of my thoughts when I first looked about in -this place. Already I cannot understand why I did not spring like a -fountain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> to the Highest, to the Best. But then, Father, I never was a -devotee, you know.”</p> - -<p>When I had uttered these words I felt a recoil from myself, and sense of -discord. I was making excuses for myself. That used to be a fault of the -past life. One did not do it here. It was as if I had committed some -grave social indecorum. I felt myself blushing. My father noticed my -embarrassment, and called my attention to a brook by which we were -walking, beginning to talk of its peculiar translucence and rhythm, and -other little novelties, thus kindly diverting me from my distress, and -teaching me how we were spared everything we could be in heaven, even in -trifles like this. I was not so much as permitted to bear the edge of my -regret, without the velvet of tenderness interposing to blunt the smart. -It used to be thought among us below that one must be allowed to suffer -from error, to learn. It seemed to be found here, that one learned by -being saved from suffering. I wondered how it would be in the case of a -really grave wrong which I might be so miserable as to commit;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> and if I -should ever be so unfortunate as to discover by personal experience.</p> - -<p>This train of thought went on while I was examining the brook. It had -brilliant colors in the shallows, where certain strange agates formed -pebbles of great beauty. There were also shells. A brook with shells -enchanted me. I gathered some of them; they had opaline tints, and some -were transparent as spun glass; they glittered in the hand, and did not -dull when out of the water, like the shells we were used to. The shadows -of strange trees hung across the tiny brown current, and unfamiliar -birds flashed like tossed jewels overhead, through the branches and -against the wonderful color of the sky. The birds were singing. One -among them had a marvelous note. I listened to it for some time before I -discovered that this bird was singing a Te Deum. How I knew that it was -a Te Deum I cannot say. The others were more like earthly birds, except -for the thrilling sweetness of their notes—and I could not see this -one, for she seemed to be hidden from sight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> upon her nest. I observed -that the bird upon the nest sang here as well as that upon the bough; -and that I understood her: “<i>Te Deum laudamus—laudamus</i>” as distinctly -as if I had been listening to a human voice.</p> - -<p>When I had comprehended this, and stood entranced to listen, I began to -catch the same melody in the murmur of the water, and perceived, to my -astonishment, that the two, the brook and the bird, carried parts of the -harmony of a solemn and majestic mass. Apparently these were but -portions of the whole, but all which it was permitted me to hear. My -father explained to me that it was not every natural beauty which had -the power to join in such surpassing chorals; these were selected, for -reasons which he did not attempt to specify. I surmised that they were -some of the simplest of the wonders of this mythical world, which were -entrusted to new-comers, as being first within the range of their -capacities. I was enraptured with what I heard. The light throbbed about -me. The sweet harmony rang on. I bathed my face in the musical -water—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span>it was as if I absorbed the sound at the pores of my skin. Dimly -I received a hint of the possible existence of a sense or senses of -which I had never heard.</p> - -<p>What wonders were to come! What knowledge, what marvel, what stimulation -and satisfaction! And I had but just begun! I was overwhelmed with this -thought, and looked about; I knew not which way to turn; I had not what -to say. Where was the first step? What was the next delight? The fire of -discovery kindled in my veins. Let us hasten, that we may investigate -Heaven!</p> - -<p>“Shall we go on?” asked Father, regarding me earnestly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes!” I cried, “let us go on. Let us see more—learn all. What a -world have I come to! Let us begin at the beginning, and go to the end -of it! Come quickly!”</p> - -<p>I caught his hand, and we started on my eager mood. I felt almost a -superabundance of vitality, and sprang along; there was everlasting -health within my bounding arteries; there was eternal vigor in my firm -muscle and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> sinews. How shall I express, to one who has never -experienced it, the consciousness of life that can never die?</p> - -<p>I could have leaped, flown, or danced like a child. I knew not how to -walk sedately, like others whom I saw about us, who looked at me -smiling, as older people look at the young on earth. “I, too, have felt -thus—and thus.” I wanted to exercise the power of my arms and limbs. I -longed to test the triumphant poise of my nerve. My brain grew clearer -and clearer, while for the gladness in my heart there is not any earthly -word. As I bounded on, I looked more curiously at the construction of -the body in which I found myself. It was, and yet it was not, like that -which I had worn on earth. I seemed to have slipped out of one garment -into another. Perhaps it was nearer the truth to say that it was like -casting off an outer for an inner dress. There were nervous and arterial -and other systems, it seemed, to which I had been accustomed. I cannot -explain wherein they differed, as they surely did, and did enormously, -from their representatives<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> below. If I say that I felt as if I had got -into the <i>soul of a body</i>, shall I be understood? It was as if I had -been encased, one body within the other, to use a small earthly -comparison, like the ivory figures which curious Chinese carvers cut -within temple windows. I was constantly surprised at this. I do not know -what I had expected, but assuredly nothing like the fact. Vague visions -of gaseous or meteoric angelic forms have their place in the -imaginations of most of us below; we picture our future selves as a kind -of nebulosity. When I felt the spiritual flesh, when I used the strange -muscle, when I heard the new heart-beat of my heavenly identity, I -remembered certain words, with a sting of mortification that I had known -them all my life, and paid so cool a heed to them: “There is a -terrestrial body, and there is a celestial body.” The glory of the -terrestrial was one. Behold, the glory of the celestial was another. St. -Paul had set this tremendous assertion revolving in the sky of the human -mind, like a star which we had not brought into our astronomy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<p>It was not a hint or a hope that he gave; it was the affirmation of a -man who presumed to know. In common with most of his readers, I had -received his statement with a poor incredulity or cold disregard. -Nothing in the whole range of what we used to call the Bible, had been -more explicit than those words; neither metaphor, nor allegory, nor -parable befogged them; they were as clear cut as the dictum of -Descartes. I recalled them with confusion, as I bounded over the elastic -and wondrously-tinted grass.</p> - -<p>Never before, at least, had I known what the color of green should be; -resembling, while differing from that called by the name on earth—a -development of a color, a blossom from a bud, a marvel from a -commonplace. Thus the sweet and common clothing which God had given to -our familiar earth, transfigured, wrapped again the hills and fields of -Heaven. And oh, what else? what next? I turned to my father to ask him -in which direction we were going; at this moment an arrest of the whole -current of feeling checked me like a great dam.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span></p> - -<p>Up to this point I had gone dizzily on; I had experienced the thousand -diversions of a traveler in a foreign land; and, like such a traveler, I -had become oblivious of that which I had left. The terrible incapacity -of the human mind to retain more than one class of strong impressions at -once, was temporarily increased by the strain of this, the greatest of -all human experiences. The new had expelled the old. In an intense -revulsion of feeling, too strong for expression, I turned my back on the -beautiful landscape. All Heaven was before me, but dear, daily love was -behind.</p> - -<p>“Father,” I said, choking, “I never forgot them before in all my life. -Take me home! Let me go at once. I am not fit to be alive if Heaven -itself can lead me to neglect my mother.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> my distress I turned and would have fled, which way I knew not. I was -swept up like a weed on a surge of self-reproach and longing. What was -eternal life if she had found out that I was dead? What were the -splendors of Paradise, if she missed me? It was made evident to me that -my father was gratified at the turn my impulses had taken, but he -intimated that it might not be possible to follow them, and that this -was a matter which must be investigated before acting. This surprised -me, and I inquired of him eagerly—yet, I think not passionately, not -angrily, as I should once have done at the thwarting of such a wish as -that—what he meant by the doubt he raised.</p> - -<p>“It is not always permitted,” he said gravely. “We cannot return when we -would. We go upon these errands when it is Willed. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> will go and learn -what the Will may be for you touching this matter. Stay here and wait -for me.”</p> - -<p>Before I could speak, he had departed swiftly, with the great and glad -motion of those who go upon sure business in this happy place; as if he -himself, at least, obeyed unseen directions, and obeyed them with his -whole being. To me, so lately from a lower life, and still so choked -with its errors, this loving obedience of the soul to a great central -Force which I felt on every hand, but comprehended not, as yet, affected -me like the discovery of a truth in science. It was as if I had found a -new law of gravitation, to be mastered only by infinite attention. I -fell to thinking more quietly after my father had left me alone. There -came a subsidence to my tempestuous impulse, which astonished myself. I -felt myself drawn and shaped, even like a wave by the tide, by something -mightier far than my own wish. But there was this about the state of -feeling into which I had come: that which controlled me was not only -greater, it was dearer than my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> desire. Already a calmness conquered my -storm. Already my heart awaited, without outburst or out-thrust, the -expression of that other desire which should decide my fate in this most -precious matter. All the old rebellion was gone, even as the protest of -a woman goes on earth before the progress of a mighty love. I no longer -argued and explained. I did not require or insist. Was it possible that -I did not even doubt? The mysterious, celestial law of gravitation -grappled me. I could no more presume to understand it than I could -withstand it.</p> - -<p>I had not been what is called a submissive person. All my life, -obedience had torn me in twain. Below, it had cost me all I had to give, -to cultivate what believers called trust in God.</p> - -<p>I had indeed tried, in a desperate and faulty fashion, but I had often -been bitterly ashamed at the best result which I could achieve, feeling -that I scarcely deserved to count myself among His children, or to call -myself by the Name which represented the absolute obedience of the -strongest nature that human history had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> known. Always, under all, I had -doubted whether I accepted God’s will because I wanted to, so much as -because I had to. This fear had given me much pain, but being of an -active temperament, far, perhaps too far, removed from mysticism, I had -gone on to the next fight, or the next duty, without settling my -difficulties; and so like others of my sort, battled along through life, -as best or as worst I might. I had always hurried more than I had grown. -To be sure, I was not altogether to blame for this, since circumstances -had driven me fast, and I had yielded to them not always for my own -sake; but clearly, it may be as much of a misfortune to be too busy, as -to be idle; and one whose subtlest effects are latest perceived. I could -now understand it to be reasonable, that if I had taken more time on -earth to cultivate myself for the conditions of Heaven, I might have had -a different experience at the outset of this life, in which one was -never in a hurry.</p> - -<p>My father returned from his somewhat protracted absence, while I was -thinking of these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> things thus quietly. My calmer mood went out to meet -his face, from which I saw at once what was the result of his errand, -and so a gentle process prepared me for my disappointment when he said -that it was not Willed that I should go to her at this immediate time. -He advised me to rest awhile before taking the journey, and to seek this -rest at once. No reasons were given for this command; yet strangely, I -felt it to be the most reasonable thing in the world.</p> - -<p>No; blessedly no! I did not argue, or protest, I did not dash out my -wild wish, I did not ask or answer anything—how wonderful!</p> - -<p>Had I needed proof any longer that I was dead and in Heaven, this -marvelous adjustment of my will to that other would in itself have told -me what and where I was.</p> - -<p>I cannot say that this process took place without effort. I found a -certain magnificent effort in it, like that involved in the free use of -my muscles; but it took place without pain. I did indeed ask,—</p> - -<p>“Will it be long?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<p>“Not long.”</p> - -<p>“That is kind in Him!” I remember saying, as we moved away. For now, I -found that I thought first rather of what He gave than of what He -denied. It seemed to me that I had acquired a new instinct. My being was -larger by the acquisition of a fresh power. I felt a little as I used to -do below, when I had conquered a new language.</p> - -<p>I had met, and by his loving mercy I had mastered, my first trial in the -eternal life. This was to be remembered. It was like the shifting of a -plate upon a camera.</p> - -<p>More wearied than I had thought by the effort, I was glad to sink down -beneath the trees in a nook my father showed me, and yield to the -drowsiness that stole upon me after the great excitement of the day. It -was not yet dark, but I was indeed tired. A singular subsidence, not -like our twilight, but still reminding one of it, had fallen upon the -vivid color of the air. No one was passing; the spot was secluded; my -father bade me farewell for the present, saying that he should return -again; and I was left alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span></p> - -<p>The grass was softer than eider of the lower world; and lighter than -snow-flakes, the leaves that fell from low-hanging boughs about me. -Distantly, I heard moving water; and more near, sleepy birds. More -distant yet, I caught, and lost, and caught again, fragments of -orchestral music. I felt infinite security. I had the blessedness of -weariness that knew it could not miss of sleep. Dreams stole upon me -with motion and touch so exquisite that I thought: “Sleep itself is a -new joy; what we had below was only a hint of the real thing,” as I sank -into deep and deeper rest.</p> - -<p>Do not think that I forgot my love and longing to be elsewhere. I think -the wish to see her and to comfort her grew clearer every moment. But -stronger still, like a comrade marching beside it, I felt the pacing of -that great desire which had become dearer than my own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I waked, I was still alone. There seemed to have been showers, for -the leaves and grass about me were wet; yet I felt no chill or dampness, -or any kind of injury from this fact. Rather I had a certain -refreshment, as if my sleeping senses had drunk of the peace and power -of the dew that flashed far and near about me. The intense excitement -under which I had labored since coming to this place was calmed. All the -fevers of feeling were laid. I could not have said whether there had -been what below we called night, or how the passage of time had marked -itself; I only knew that I had experienced the recuperation of night, -and that I sprang to the next duty or delight of existence with the -vigor of recurring day.</p> - -<p>As I rose from the grass, I noticed a four-leaved clover, and -remembering the pretty little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> superstition we used to have about it, I -plucked it, and held it to my face, and so learned that the rain-drop in -this new land had perfume; an exquisite scent; as if into the essence of -brown earth and spicy roots, and aromatic green things, such as summer -rain distills with us from out a fresh-washed world, there were mingled -an inconceivable odor drawn out of the heart of the sky. Metaphysicians -used to tell us that no man ever imagined a new perfume, even in his -dreams. I could see that they were right, for anything like the perfume -of clover after a rain in Heaven, had never entered into my sense or -soul before. I saved the clover “for good luck,” as I used to do.</p> - -<p>Overhead there was a marvel. There seemed to have been clouds—their -passing and breaking, and flitting—and now, behold the heavens -themselves, bared of all their storm-drapery, had drawn across their -dazzling forms a veil of glory. From what, for want of better knowledge, -I still called East to West, and North to South, one supernal prism -swept. The whole canopy of the sky was a rainbow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<p>It is impossible to describe this sight in any earthly tongue, to any -dwellers of the earth. I stood beneath it, as a drop stands beneath the -ocean. For a time I could only feel the surge of beauty—mere -beauty—roll above me. Then, I think, as the dew had fallen from the -leaf, so I sunk upon my knees. I prayed because it was natural to pray, -and felt God in my soul as the prism feels the primary color, while I -thanked Him that I was immortally alive. It had never been like this -before, to pray; nay, prayer itself was now one of the discoveries of -Heaven. It throbbed through me like the beat of a new heart. It seemed -to me that He must be very near me. Almost it was, as if He and I were -alone together in the Universe. For the first time, the passionate wish -to be taken into His very visible presence,—that intense desire which I -had heard of, as overpowering so many of the newly dead,—began to take -possession of me. But I put it aside, since it was not permitted, and a -consciousness of my unfitness came to me, that made the wish itself seem -a kind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> mistake. I think this feeling was not unlike what we called -below a sense of sin. I did not give it that name at that time. It had -come to me so naturally and gradually, that there was no strain or pain -about it. Yet when I had it, I could no longer conceive of being without -it. It seemed to me that I was a stronger and wiser woman for it. A -certain gentleness and humility different from what I had been used to, -in my life of activity, wherein so many depended on me, and on the -decided faculties of my nature, accompanied the growing sense of -personal unworthiness with which I entered on the blessedness of -everlasting life.</p> - -<p>I watched the rainbow of the sky till it had begun to fade—an event in -itself an exquisite wonder, for each tint of the prism flashed out and -ran in lightning across the heavens before falling to its place in the -primary color, till at last the whole spectacle was resolved into the -three elements, the red, the yellow, and the blue; which themselves -moved on and away, like a conqueror dismissing a pageant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<p>When this gorgeous scene had ended, I was surprised to find that though -dead and in Heaven, I was hungry. I gathered fruits which grew near, of -strange form and flavor, but delicious to the taste past anything I had -ever eaten, and I drank of the brook where the shells were, feeling -greatly invigorated thereby. I was beginning to wonder where my father -was, when I saw him coming towards me. He greeted me with his old -good-morning kiss, laying his hand upon my head in a benediction that -filled my soul.</p> - -<p>As we moved on together, I asked him if he remembered how we used to say -below:</p> - -<p>“What a heavenly day!”</p> - -<p>Many people seemed to be passing on the road which we had chosen, but as -we walked on they grew fewer.</p> - -<p>“There are those who wish to speak with you,” he said with a slight -hesitation, “but all things can wait here; we learn to wait ourselves. -You are to go to your mother now.”</p> - -<p>“And not with you?” I asked, having a certain fear of the mystery of my -undertaking.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> He shook his head with a look more nearly like -disappointment than anything I had seen upon his face in this new life; -explaining to me, however, with cheerful acquiescence, that it was not -Willed that he should join me on my journey.</p> - -<p>“Tell her that I come shortly,” he added, “and that I come alone. She -will understand. And have no fear; you have much to learn, but it will -come syllable by syllable.”</p> - -<p>Now swiftly, at the instant while he spoke with me, I found myself alone -and in a mountainous region, from which a great outlook was before me. I -saw the kingdoms of heaven and the glory of them, spread out before me -like a map. A mist of the colors of amethyst and emerald interfused, -enwrapped the outlines of the landscape. All details grew blurred and -beautiful like a dream at which one snatches vainly in the morning. Off, -and beyond, the infinite ether throbbed. Yonder, like a speck upon a -sunbeam, swam the tiny globe which we called earth. Stars and suns -flashed and faded, revolving and waiting in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> their places. Surely it was -growing dark, for they sprang out like mighty light-houses upon the -grayness of the void.</p> - -<p>The splendors of the Southern cross streamed far into the strange light, -neither of night nor day, not of twilight or dawn, which surrounded me.</p> - -<p>Colored suns, of which astronomers had indeed taught us, poured -undreamed-of light upon unknown planets. I passed worlds whose -luminaries gave them scarlet, green, and purple days. “These too,” I -thought, “I shall one day visit.” I flashed through currents of awful -color, and measures of awful night. I felt more than I perceived, and -wondered more than I feared. It was some moments before I realized, by -these few astronomical details, that I was adrift, alone upon the -mystery and mightiness of Space.</p> - -<p>Of this strange and solitary journey, I can speak so imperfectly, that -it were better almost to leave it out of my narrative. Yet, when I -remember how I have sometimes heard those still upon earth conceive, -with the great fear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> and ignorance inseparable from earth-trained -imagination, of such transits of the soul from point to point in ether, -I should be glad to express at least the incomplete impressions which I -received from this experience.</p> - -<p>The strongest of these, and the sweetest, was the sense of safety—and -still the sense of safety; unassailable, everlasting; blessed beyond the -thought of an insecure life to compass. To be dead was to be dead to -danger, dead to fear. To be dead was to be alive to a sense of assured -good chance that nothing in the universe could shake.</p> - -<p>So I felt no dread, believe me, though much awe and amazement, as I took -my first journey from Heaven to earth. I have elsewhere said that the -distance, by astronomical calculation, was in itself perhaps not -enormous. I had an impression that I was crossing a great sphere or -penumbra, belonging to the earth itself, and having a certain relation -to it, like the soul to the body of a man.</p> - -<p>Was Heaven located within or upon this world-soul? The question occurred -to me, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> up to this time, I am still unable to answer it. The transit -itself was swift and subtle as a thought. Indeed, it seemed to me that -thought itself might have been my vehicle of conveyance; or perhaps I -should say, feeling. My love and longing took me up like pollen taken by -the wind. As I approached the spot where my dear ones dwelt and sorrowed -for me, desire and speed both increased by a mighty momentum.</p> - -<p>Now I did not find this journey as difficult as that other, when I had -departed, a freshly-freed soul, from earth to Heaven. I learned that I -was now subject to other natural laws. A celestial gravitation -controlled the celestial body, as that of the earth had compelled the -other. I was upborne in space by this new and mysterious influence. Yet -there was no dispute between it and the other law, the eternal law of -love, which drew me down. Between soul and body, in the heavenly -existence, there could be no more conflict than between light and an -ether wave.</p> - -<p>I do not say that I performed this journey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> without effort or -intelligence. The little knowledge I ever had was taxed in view of the -grandeurs and the mysteries around me. Shall I be believed if I say that -I recalled all the astronomy and geography that my life as a teacher had -left still somewhat freshly imprinted on the memory? that the facts of -physics recurred to me, even in that inroad of feeling? and that I -guided myself to the Massachusetts town as I would have found it upon a -globe at school? Already I learned that no acquisition of one life is -lost in the next. Already I thanked God for everything I knew, only -wishing, with the passion of ignorance newly revealed to itself by the -dawn of wisdom, that my poor human acquirements had ever truly deserved -the high name of study, or stored my thought with its eternal results.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">As</span> I approached the scene of my former life, I met many people. I had -struck a realm of spirits who at first perplexed me. They did not look -happy, and seemed possessed by great unrest. I observed that, though -they fluttered and moved impatiently, none rose far above the surface of -the earth. Most of them were employed in one way or another upon it. -Some bought and sold; some eat and drank; others occupied themselves in -coarse pleasures, from which one could but turn away the eyes. There -were those who were busied in more refined ways:—students with eyes -fastened to dusty volumes; virtuosos who hung about a picture, a statue, -a tapestry, that had enslaved them; one musical creature I saw, who -ought to have been of exquisite organization, judging from his hands—he -played perpetually upon an instrument that he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> not tune; women, I -saw too, who robed and disrobed without a glint of pleasure in their -faded faces.</p> - -<p>There were ruder souls than any of these—but one sought for them in the -dens of the earth; their dead hands still were red with stains of blood, -and in their dead hearts reigned the remnants of hideous passions.</p> - -<p>Of all these appearances, which I still found it natural to call -phenomena as I should once have done, it will be remembered that I -received the temporary and imperfect impression of a person passing -swiftly through a crowd, so that I do not wish my account to be accepted -for anything more trustworthy than it is.</p> - -<p>While I was wondering greatly what it meant, some one joined and spoke -to me familiarly, and, turning, I saw it to be that old neighbor, Mrs. -Mersey, to whom I have alluded, who, like myself, seemed to be bent upon -an errand, and to be but a visitor upon the earth. She was a most lovely -spirit, as she had always been, and I grasped her hand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> cordially while -we swept on rapidly together to our journey’s end.</p> - -<p>“Do tell me,” I whispered, as soon as I could draw her near enough, “who -all these people are, and what it means. I fear to guess. And yet indeed -they seem like the dead who cannot get away.”</p> - -<p>“Alas,” she sighed, “you have said it. They loved nothing, they lived -for nothing, they believed in nothing, they cultivated themselves for -nothing but the earth. They simply lack the spiritual momentum to get -away from it. It is as much the working of a natural law as the progress -of a fever. Many of my duties have been among such as these. I know them -well. They need time and tact in treatment, and oh, the greatest -patience! At first it discouraged me, but I am learning the enthusiasm -of my work.”</p> - -<p>“These, then,” I said, “were those I saw in that first hour, when my -father led me out of the house, and through the street. I saw you among -them, Mrs. Mersey, but I knew even then that you were not of them. But -surely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> they do not stay forever prisoners of the earth? Surely such a -blot on the face of spiritual life cannot but fade away? I am a -new-comer. I am still quite ignorant, you see. But I do not understand, -any more than I did before, how that could be.”</p> - -<p>“They have their choice,” she answered vaguely. But when I saw the high -solemnity of her aspect, I feared to press my questions. I could not, -however, or I did not forbear saying:—</p> - -<p>“At least <i>you</i> must have already persuaded many to sever themselves -from such a condition as this?”</p> - -<p>“Already some, I hope,” she replied evasively, as she moved away. She -always had remarkably fine manners, of which death had by no means -deprived her. I admired her graciousness and dignity as she passed from -my side to that of one we met, who, in a dejected voice, called her by -her name, and intimated that he wished to speak with her. He was a pale -and restless youth, and I thought, but was not sure, for we separated so -quickly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> that it was the little fellow I spoke of, Bobby Bend. I looked -back, after I had advanced some distance on my way, and saw the two -together, conversing earnestly. While I was still watching them, it -seemed to me, though I cannot be positive upon this point, that they had -changed their course, and were quietly ascending, she leading, he -following, above the dismal sphere in which she found the lad, and that -his heavy, awkward, downward motions became freer, struggling upward, as -I gazed.</p> - -<p>I had now come to the location of my old home, and, as I passed through -the familiar village streets, I saw that night was coming on. I met many -whom I knew, both of those called dead and living. The former recognized -me, but the latter saw me not. No one detained me, however, for I felt -in haste which I could not conceal.</p> - -<p>With high-beating heart, I approached the dear old house. No one was -astir. As I turned the handle of the door, a soft, sickening touch -crawled around my wrist; recoiling, I found that I was entwisted in a -piece of crape that the wind had blown against me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span></p> - -<p>I went in softly; but I might have spared myself the pains. No one heard -me, though the heavy door creaked, I thought, as emphatically as it -always had—loudest when we were out latest, and longest when we shut it -quickest. I went into the parlor and stood, for a moment, uncertain what -to do.</p> - -<p>Alice was there, and my married sister Jane, with her husband and little -boy. They sat about the fire, conversing sadly. Alice’s pretty eyes were -disfigured with crying. They spoke constantly of me. Alice was relating -to Jane and her family the particulars of my illness. I was touched to -hear her call me “patient and sweet;”—none the less because she had -often told me I was the most impatient member of the family.</p> - -<p>No one had observed my entrance. Of course I was prepared for this, but -I cannot tell why I should have felt it, as I certainly did. A low -bamboo chair, cushioned with green <i>crétonne</i>, stood by the table. I had -a fancy for this chair, and, pleased that they had left it unoccupied, -advanced and took it, in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> old way. It was with something almost like -a shock, that I found myself unnoticed in the very centre of their -group.</p> - -<p>While I sat there, Jane moved to fix the fire, and, in returning, made -as if she would take the bamboo chair.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t!” said Alice, sobbing freshly. Jane’s own tears sprang, and -she turned away.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me,” said my brother-in-law, looking about with the patient -grimace of a business man compelled to waste time at a funeral, “that -there has a cold draught come into this room from somewhere. Nobody has -left the front door open, I hope? I’ll go and see.”</p> - -<p>He went, glad of the excuse to stir about, poor fellow, and I presume he -took a comfortable smoke outside.</p> - -<p>The little boy started after his father, but was bidden back, and -crawled up into the chair where I was sitting. I took the child upon my -lap, and let him stay. No one removed him, he grew so quiet, and he was -soon asleep in my arm. This pleased me; but I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> not be contented -long, so I kissed the boy and put him down. He cried bitterly, and ran -to his mother for comfort.</p> - -<p>While they were occupied with him, I stole away. I thought I knew where -Mother would be, and was ashamed of myself at the reluctance I certainly -had to enter my own room, under these exciting circumstances.</p> - -<p>Conquering this timidity, as unwomanly and unworthy, I went up and -opened the familiar door. I had begun to learn that neither sound nor -sight followed my motions now, so that I was not surprised at attracting -no attention from the lonely occupant of the room. I closed the -door—from long habit I still made an effort to turn the latch -softly—and resolutely examined what I saw.</p> - -<p>My mother was there, as I had expected. The room was cold—there was no -fire,—and she had on her heavy blanket shawl. The gas was lighted, and -one of my red candles, but both burned dimly. The poor woman’s magenta -geranium had frozen. My mother sat in the red easy-chair, which, being a -huge, old-fashioned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> thing, surrounded and shielded her from the -draught. My clothes, and medicines, and all the little signs of sickness -had been removed. The room was swept, and orderly. Above the bed, the -pictures and the carved cross looked down.</p> - -<p>Below them, calm as sleep, and cold as frost, and terrible as silence, -lay that which had been I.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> did not shrink. She was sitting close beside it. She gazed at it -with the tenderness which death itself could not affright. Mother was -not crying. She did not look as if she had shed tears for a long time. -But her wanness and the drawn lines about her mouth were hard to see. -Her aged hands trembled as she cut the locks of hair from the neck of -the dead. She was growing to be an old woman. And I—her first-born—I -had been her staff of life, and on me she had thought to lean in her -widowed age. She seemed to me to have grown feeble fast in the time -since I had left her.</p> - -<p>All my soul rushed to my lips, and I cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> out—it seemed that either -the dead or the living must hear that cry—</p> - -<p>“Mother! Oh, my dear <i>mother</i>!”</p> - -<p>But deaf as life, she sat before me. She had just cut off the lock of -hair she wanted; as I spoke, the curling ends of it twined around her -fingers; I tried to snatch it away, thinking thus to arrest her -attention.</p> - -<p>The lock of hair trembled, turned, and clung the closer to the living -hand. She pressed it to her lips with the passion of desolation.</p> - -<p>“But, Mother,” I cried once more, “I am <i>here</i>.” I flung my arms about -her and kissed her again and again. I called and entreated her by every -dear name that household love had taught us. I besought her to turn, to -see, to hear, to believe, to be comforted. I told her how blest was I, -how bountiful was death.</p> - -<p>“I am alive,” I said. “I am alive! I see you, I touch you, hear you, -love you, hold you!” I tried argument and severity; I tried tenderness -and ridicule.</p> - -<p>She turned at this: it seemed to me that she regarded me. She stretched -her arms out;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> her aged hands groped to and fro as if she felt for -something and found it not; she shook her head, her dim eyes gazed -blankly into mine. She sighed patiently, and rose as if to leave the -room, but hesitated,—covered the face of the dead body—caressed it -once or twice as if it had been a living infant—and then, taking up her -Bible, which had been upon the chair beside her, dropped upon her knees, -and holding the book against her sunken cheek, abandoned herself to -silent prayer.</p> - -<p>This was more than I could bear just then, and, thinking to collect -myself by a few moments’ solitude, I left her. But as I stood in the -dark hall, uncertain and unquiet, I noticed a long, narrow line of light -at my feet, and, following it confusedly, found that it came from the -crack in the closed, but unlatched door of another well-remembered room. -I pushed the door open hurriedly and closed it behind me.</p> - -<p>My brother sat in this room alone. His fire was blazing cheerfully and, -flashing, revealed the deer’s-head from the Adirondacks, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> stuffed -rose-curlew from Florida, the gull’s wing from Cape Ann, the gun and -rifle and bamboo fish-pole, the class photographs over the mantel, the -feminine features on porcelain in velvet frames, all the little -trappings with which I was familiar. Tom had been trying to study, but -his Homer lay pushed away, with crumpled leaves, upon the table. Buried -in his lexicon—one strong elbow intervening—down, like a hero thrown, -the boy’s face had gone.</p> - -<p>“Tom,” I said quietly—I always spoke quietly to Tom, who had a -constitutional fear of what he called “emotions”—“Tom, you’d better be -studying your Greek. I’d much rather see you. Come, I’ll help you.”</p> - -<p>He did not move, poor fellow, and as I came nearer, I saw, to my -heart-break, that our Tom was crying. Sobs shook his huge frame, and -down between the iron fingers, toughened by base-ball matches, tears had -streamed upon the pages of the Odyssey.</p> - -<p>“Tom, Tom, old fellow, <i>don’t</i>!” I cried, and, hungry as love, I took -the boy. I got upon the arm of the smoking chair, as I used<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> to, and so -had my hands about his neck, and my cheek upon his curly hair, and would -have soothed him. Indeed, he did grow calm, and calmer, as if he yielded -to my touch; and presently he lifted his wet face, and looked about the -room, half ashamed, half defiant, as if to ask who saw that.</p> - -<p>“Come, Tom,” I tried again. “It really isn’t so bad as you think. And -there is Mother catching cold in that room. Go and get her away from the -body. It is no place for her. She’ll get sick. Nobody can manage her as -well as you.”</p> - -<p>As if he heard me, he arose. As if he knew me, he looked for the -flashing of an instant into my eyes.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how a girl of her sense can be <i>dead</i>,” said the boy aloud. -He stretched his arms once above his head, and out into the bright, -empty room, and I heard him groan in a way that wrung my heart. I went -impulsively to him, and as his arms closed, they closed about me -strongly. He stood for a moment quite still. I could feel the nervous -strain subsiding all over his big soul and body.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span></p> - -<p>“Hush,” I whispered. “I’m no more dead than you are.”</p> - -<p>If he heard, what he felt, God knows. I speak of a mystery. No optical -illusion, no tactual hallucination could hold the boy who took all the -medals at the gymnasium. The hearty, healthy fellow could receive no -abnormal sign from the love and longing of the dead. Only spirit unto -spirit could attempt that strange out-reaching. Spirit unto spirit, was -it done? Still, I relate a mystery, and what shall I say? His professor -in the class-room of metaphysics would teach him next week that grief -owns the law of the rhythm of motion; and that at the oscillation of the -pendulum the excitement of anguish shall subside into apathy which -mourners alike treat as a disloyalty to the dead, and court as a nervous -relief to the living.</p> - -<p>Be this as it may, the boy grew suddenly calm, and even cheerful, and -followed me at once. I led him directly to his mother, and left them for -a time alone together.</p> - -<p>After this my own calm, because my own confidence, increased. My dreary -sense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> helplessness before the suffering of those I loved, gave place -to the consciousness of power to reach them. I detected this power in -myself in an undeveloped form, and realized that it might require -exercise and culture, like all other powers, if I would make valuable -use of it. I could already regard the cultivation of the faculty which -would enable love to defy death, and spirit to conquer matter, as likely -to be one of the occupations of a full life.</p> - -<p>I went out into the fresh air for a time to think these thoughts through -by myself, undisturbed by the sight of grief that I could not remove; -and strolled up and down the village streets in the frosty night.</p> - -<p>When I returned to the house they had all separated for the night, sadly -seeking sleep in view of the events of the morrow, when, as I had -already inferred, the funeral would take place.</p> - -<p>I spent the night among them, chiefly with my mother and Tom, passing -unnoticed from room to room, and comforting them in such ways as I found -possible. The boy had locked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> his door, but after a few trials I found -myself able to pass the medium of this resisting matter, and to enter -and depart according to my will. Tom finished his lesson in the Odyssey, -and I sat by and helped him when I could. This I found possible in -simple ways, which I may explain farther at another time. We had often -studied together, and his mind the more readily, therefore, responded to -the influence of my own. He was soon well asleep, and I was free to give -all my attention to my poor mother. Of those long and solemn hours, what -shall I say? I thought she would never, never rest. I held her in these -arms the live-long night. With these hands I caressed and calmed her. -With these lips I kissed her. With this breath I warmed her cold brow -and fingers. With all my soul and body I willed that I would comfort -her, and I believe, thank God, I did. At dawn she slept peacefully; she -slept late, and rose refreshed. I remained closely by her throughout the -day.</p> - -<p>They did their best, let me say, to provide me with a Christian funeral, -partly in accordance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> with some wishes I had expressed in writing, -partly from the impulse of their own good sense. Not a curtain was drawn -to darken the house of death. The blessed winter sunshine flowed in like -the current of a broad stream, through low, wide windows. No ghastly -“funeral flowers” filled the room; there was only a cluster of red pinks -upon the coffin, and the air was sweet but not heavy with the carnation -perfume that they knew I loved. My dead body and face they had covered -with a deep red pall, just shaded off the black, as dark as darkness -could be, and yet be redness. Not a bell was tolled. Not a tear—at -least, I mean, by those nearest me—not a tear was shed. As the body was -carried from the house, the voices of unseen singers lifted the German -funeral chant:—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Go forth! go on, with solemn song,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Short is the way; the rest is long!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">At the grave they sang:—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Softly now the light of day,”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">since my mother had asked for one of the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> hymns; and besides the -usual Scriptural Burial Service, a friend, who was dear to me, read Mrs. -Browning’s “Sleep.”</p> - -<p>It was all as I would have had it, and I looked on peacefully. If I -could have spoken I would have said: “You have buried me cheerfully, as -Christians ought, as a Christian ought to be.”</p> - -<p>I was greatly touched, I must admit, at the grief of some of the poor, -plain people who followed my body on its final journey to the village -church-yard. The woman who sent the magenta geranium refused to be -comforted, and there were one or two young girls whom I had been so -fortunate as to assist in difficulties, who, I think, did truly mourn. -Some of my boys from the Grand Army were there, too,—some, I mean, whom -it had been my privilege to care for in the hospitals in the old war -days. They came in uniform, and held their caps before their eyes. It -did please me to see them there.</p> - -<p>When the brief service at the grave was over, I would have gone home -with my mother,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> feeling that she needed me more than ever; but as I -turned to do so, I was approached by a spirit whose presence I had not -observed. It proved to be my father. He detained me, explaining that I -should remain where I was, feeling no fear, but making no protest, till -the Will governing my next movement might be made known to me. So I bade -my mother good-by, and Tom, as well as I could in the surprise and -confusion, and watched them all as they went away. She, as she walked, -seemed to those about her to be leaning only upon her son. But I beheld -my father tenderly hastening close beside her, while he supported her -with the arm which had never failed her yet, in all their loving lives. -Therefore I could let her go, without distress.</p> - -<p>The funeral procession departed slowly; the grave was filled; one of the -mill-girls came back and threw in some arbor vitæ and a flower or -two,—the sexton hurried her, and both went away. It grew dusk, dark. I -and my body were left alone together.</p> - -<p>Of that solemn watch, it is not for me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> chatter to any other soul. -Memories overswept me, which only we two could share. Hopes possessed me -which it were not possible to explain to another organization. Regret, -resolve, awe, and joy, every high human emotion excepting fear, battled -about us. While I knelt there in the windless night, I heard chanting -from a long distance, but yet distinct to the dead, that is to the -living ear. As I listened, the sound deepened, approaching, and a group -of singing spirits swept by in the starlit air, poised like birds, or -thoughts, above me:</p> - -<p>“<i>It is sown a natural—it is raised a spiritual body.</i>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Death! where is thy sting?—Grave!—thy victory?</i>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Believing in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.</i>”</p> - -<p>I tried my voice, and joined, for I could no longer help it, in the -thrilling chorus. It was the first time since I died, that I had felt -myself invited or inclined to share the occupations of others, in the -life I had entered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> Kneeling there, in the happy night, by my own -grave, I lifted all my soul and sense into the immortal words, now for -the first time comprehensible to me:</p> - -<p>“<i>I believe, I believe in the resurrection of the dead.</i>”</p> - -<p>It was not long thereafter that I received the summons to return. I -should have been glad to go home once more, but was able to check my own -preference without wilful protest, or an aching heart. The conviction -that all was well with my darlings and myself, for life and for death, -had now become an intense yet simple thing, like consciousness itself.</p> - -<p>I went as, and where I was bidden, joyfully.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Upon</span> reëntering the wonderful place which I had begun to call Heaven, -and to which I still give that name, though not, I must say, with -perfect assurance that the word is properly applied to that phase of the -life of which I am the yet most ignorant recorder, I found myself more -weary than I had been at any time since my change came. I was looking -about, uncertain where to go, feeling, for the first time, rather -homeless in this new country, when I was approached by a stranger, who -inquired of me what I sought:</p> - -<p>“Rest,” I said promptly.</p> - -<p>“A familiar quest,” observed the stranger, smiling.</p> - -<p>“You are right, sir. It is a thing I have been seeking for forty years.”</p> - -<p>“And never found?”</p> - -<p>“Never found.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<p>“I will assist you,” he said gently, “that is, if you wish it. What will -you have first?”</p> - -<p>“Sleep, I think, first, then food. I have been through exciting scenes. -I have a touch—a faint one—of what below we called exhaustion. Yet now -I am conscious in advance of the rest which is sure to come. Already I -feel it, like the ebbing of the wave that goes to form the flow of the -next. How blessed to know that one <i>can’t</i> be ill!”</p> - -<p>“How do you know that?” asked my companion.</p> - -<p>“On the whole, I don’t know that I do,” I answered, with embarrassment, -“I suppose it is a remnant of one’s old religious teaching: ‘The -inhabitant shall not say I am sick.’ Surely there were such words.”</p> - -<p>“And you trusted them?” asked the stranger.</p> - -<p>“The Bible was a hard book to accept,” I said quickly, “I would not have -you overestimate my faith. I tried to believe that it was God’s message. -I think I <i>did</i> believe it. But the reason was clear to me. I could not -get past that if I wished to.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span></p> - -<p>“What, then, was the reason,” inquired my friend, solemnly, “why you -trusted the message called the Word of God, as received by the believing -among His children on earth?”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” I urged, “there is but one reason. I refer to the history of -our Lord. I do not know whether all in this place are Christians; but I -was one.—Sir! I anticipate your question. I was a most imperfect, -useless one—to my sorrow and my shame I say it—but, so far as I went, -I was an honest one.”</p> - -<p>“Did you love Him?—Him whom you called Lord?” asked the stranger, with -an air of reserve. I replied that I thought I could truly say that He -was dear to me.</p> - -<p>I began to be deeply moved by this conversation. I stole a look at the -stranger, whom I had at first scarcely noticed, except as one among many -passing souls. He was a man of surpassing majesty of mien, and for -loveliness of feature I had seen no mortal to vie with him. “This,” I -thought, “must be one of the beings we called angels.” Astonishing -brightness rayed from him at every motion, and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> noble face was like -the sun itself. He moved beside me like any other spirit, and -condescended to me so familiarly, yet with so unapproachable a dignity, -that my heart went out to him as breath upon the air. It did not occur -to me to ask him who he was, or whither he led me. It was enough that he -led, and I followed without question or reply. We walked and talked for -a long time together.</p> - -<p>He renewed the conversation by asking me whether I had really staked my -immortal existence upon the promise of that obscure, uneducated Jew, -twenty centuries in his grave,—that plain man who lived a fanatic’s -life, and died a felon’s death, and whose teachings had given rise to -such bigotry and error upon the earth. I answered that I had never been -what is commonly called a devout person, not having a spiritual -temperament, but that I had not held our Master responsible for the -mistakes of either his friends or his foes, and that the greatest regret -I had brought with me into Heaven was that I had been so unworthy to -bear His blessed name. He next inquired of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> me, if I truly believed that -I owed my entrance upon my present life to the interposition of Him of -whom we spoke.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” I said, “you touch upon sacred nerves. I should find it hard to -tell you how utterly I believe that immortality is the gift of Jesus -Christ to the human soul.”</p> - -<p>“I believed this on earth,” I added, “I believe it in Heaven. I do not -<i>know</i> it yet, however. I am a new-comer; I am still very ignorant. No -one has instructed me. I hope to learn ‘syllable by syllable.’ I am -impatient to be taught; yet I am patient to be ignorant till I am found -worthy to learn. It may be, that you, sir, who evidently are of a higher -order of life than ours, are sent to enlighten me?”</p> - -<p>My companion smiled, neither dissenting from, nor assenting to my -question, and only asked me in reply, if I had yet spoken with the Lord. -I said that I had not even seen Him; nay, that I had not even asked to -see Him. My friend inquired why this was, and I told him frankly that it -was partly because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> I was so occupied at first—nay, most of the time -until I was called below.</p> - -<p>“I had not much room to think. I was taken from event to event, like a -traveler. This matter that you speak of seemed out of place in every way -at that time.”</p> - -<p>Then I went on to say that my remissness was owing partly to a little -real self-distrust, because I feared I was not the kind of believer to -whom He would feel quickly drawn; that I felt afraid to propose such a -preposterous thing as being brought into His presence; that I supposed, -when He saw fit to reveal Himself to me, I should be summoned in some -orderly way, suitable to this celestial community; that, in fact, though -I had cherished this most sweet and solemn desire, I had not mentioned -it before, not even to my own father who conducted me to this place.</p> - -<p>“I have not spoken of it,” I said, “to any body but to you.”</p> - -<p>The stranger’s face wore a remarkable expression when I said this, as if -I had deeply gratified him; and there glittered from his entire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> form -and features such brightness as well-nigh dazzled me. It was as if, -where a lesser being would have spoken, or stirred, he shone. I felt as -if I conversed with him by radiance, and that living light had become a -vocabulary between us. I have elsewhere spoken of the quality of -reflecting light as marked among the ordinary inhabitants of this new -life; but in this case I was aware of a distinction, due, I thought, to -the superior order of existence to which my friend belonged. He did not, -like the others, reflect; he radiated glory. More and more, as we had -converse together, this impressed, until it awed me. We remained -together for a long time. People who met us, greeted the angel with -marked reverence, and turned upon me glances of sympathetic delight; but -no one interrupted us. We continued our walk into a more retired place, -by the shore of a sea, and there we had deep communion.</p> - -<p>My friend had inquired if I were still faint, and if I preferred to turn -aside for food and rest; but when he asked me the question I was amazed -to find that I no longer had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> need of either. Such delight had I in -his presence, such invigoration in his sympathy, that glorious -recuperation had set in upon my earth-caused weariness. Such power had -the soul upon the celestial body! Food for the first was force to the -other.</p> - -<p>It seemed to me that I had never known refreshment of either before; and -that Heaven itself could contain no nutriment that would satisfy me -after this upon which I fed in that high hour.</p> - -<p>It is not possible for me to repeat the solemn words of that interview. -We spoke of grave and sacred themes. He gave me great counsel and fine -sympathy. He gave me affectionate rebuke and unfathomable resolve. We -talked of those inner experiences which, on earth, the soul protects, -like struggling flame, between itself and the sheltering hand of God. We -spoke much of the Master, and of my poor hope that I might be permitted -after I had been a long time in Heaven, to become worthy to see Him, -though at the vast distance of my unworthiness. Of that unworthiness -too, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> spoke most earnestly; while we did so, the sense of it grew -within me like a new soul; yet so divinely did my friend extend his -tenderness to me, that I was strengthened far more than weakened by -these finer perceptions of my unfitness, which he himself had aroused in -me. The counsel that he gave me, Eternity could not divert out of my -memory, and the comfort which I had from him I treasure to this hour. -“Here,” I thought, “here, at last, I find reproof as gentle as sympathy, -and sympathy as invigorating as reproof. Now, for the first time in all -my life, I find myself truly understood. What could I not become if I -possessed the friendship of such a being! How shall I develop myself so -as to obtain it? How can I endure to be deprived of it? Is this too, -like friendship on earth, a snatch, a compromise, a heart-ache, a mirror -in which one looks only long enough to know that it is dashed away? Have -I begun that old pain again, <i>here</i>?”</p> - -<p>For I knew, as I sat in that solemn hour with my face to the sea and my -soul with him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> while sweeter than any song of all the waves of Heaven -or earth to sea-lovers sounded his voice who did commune with -me,—verily I knew, for then and forever, that earth had been a void to -me because I had him not, and that Heaven could be no Heaven to me -without him.</p> - -<p>All which I had known of human love; all that I had missed; the dreams -from which I had been startled; the hopes that had evaded me; the -patience which comes from knowing that one may not even try not to be -misunderstood; the struggle to keep a solitary heart sweet; the -anticipation of desolate age which casts its shadow backward upon the -dial of middle life; the paralysis of feeling which creeps on with its -disuse; the distrust of one’s own atrophied faculties of loving; the -sluggish wonder if one is ceasing to be lovable; the growing difficulty -of explaining oneself even when it is necessary, because no one being -more than any other cares for the explanation; the things which a lonely -life converts into silence that cannot be broken, swept upon me like -rapids, as, turning to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> look into his dazzling face, I said: -“This—<i>all</i> this he understands.”</p> - -<p>But when, thus turning, I would have told him so, for there seemed to be -no poor pride in Heaven, forbidding soul to tell the truth to -soul,—when I turned, my friend had risen, and was departing from me, as -swiftly and mysteriously as he came. I did not cry out to him to stay, -for I felt ashamed; nor did I tell him how he had bereft me, for that -seemed a childish folly. I think I only stood and looked at him.</p> - -<p>“If there is any way of being worthy of your friendship,” I said below -my breath, “I will have it, if I toil for half Eternity to get it.”</p> - -<p>Now, though these words were scarcely articulate, I think he heard them, -and turning, with a smile which will haunt my dreams and stir my deeds -as long as I shall live, he laid his hand upon my head, and blessed -me—but what he said I shall tell no man—and so departed from me, and I -was left upon the shore alone, fallen, I think, in a kind of sleep or -swoon.</p> - -<p>When I awoke, I was greatly calmed and strengthened, but disinclined, at -first, to move. I had the reaction from what I knew was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> intensest -experience of my life, and it took time to adjust my feelings to my -thoughts.</p> - -<p>A young girl came up while I sat there upon the sands, and employed -herself in gathering certain marvelous weeds that the sea had tossed up. -These weeds fed upon the air, as they had upon the water, remaining -fresh upon the girl’s garments, which she decorated with them. She did -not address me, but strolled up and down silently. Presently, feeling -moved by the assurance of congeniality that one detects so much more -quickly in Heaven than on earth, I said to the young girl:—</p> - -<p>“Can you tell me the name of the angel—you must have met him—who has -but just left me, and with whom I have been conversing?”</p> - -<p>“Do you then truly not know?” she asked, shading her eyes with her hand, -and looking off in the direction my friend had taken; then back again, -with a fine, compassionate surprise at me.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I know not.”</p> - -<p>“That was the Master who spoke with you.”</p> - -<p>“What did you <i>say</i>?”</p> - -<p>“That was our Lord Himself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> the experience related in the last chapter, I remained for some -time in solitude. Speech seemed incoherence, and effort impossible. I -needed a pause to adapt myself to my awe and my happiness; upon neither -of which will it be necessary for me to dwell. Yet I think I may be -understood if I say that from this hour I found that what we call Heaven -had truly begun for me. Now indeed for the first time I may say that I -believed without wonder in the life everlasting; since now, for the -first time, I had a reason sufficient for the continuance of existence. -A force like the cohesion of atoms held me to eternal hope. Brighter -than the dawn of friendship upon a heart bereft, more solemn than the -sunrise of love itself upon a life that had thought itself unloved, -stole on the power of the Presence to which I had been admitted in so -surprising, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> yet, after all, how natural a way! Henceforth the -knowledge that this experience might be renewed for me at any turn of -thought or act, would illuminate joy itself, so that “it should have no -need of the sun to lighten it.” I recalled these words, as one recalls a -familiar quotation repeated for the first time on some foreign locality -of which it is descriptive. Now I knew what he meant, who wrote: “The -Lamb is the Light thereof.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>When I came to myself, I observed the young girl who had before -addressed me still strolling on the shore. She beckoned, and I went to -her, with a new meekness in my heart. What will He have me to do? If, by -the lips of this young thing, He choose to instruct me, let me glory in -the humility with which I will be a learner!</p> - -<p>All things seemed to be so exquisitely ordered for us in this new life, -all flowed so naturally, like one sound-wave into another, with ease so -apparent, yet under law so superb, that already I was certain Heaven -contained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> no accidents, and no trivialities; as it did no shocks or -revolutions.</p> - -<p>“If you like,” said the young girl, “we will cross the sea.”</p> - -<p>“But how?” I asked, for I saw no boat.</p> - -<p>“Can you not, then, walk upon the water yet?” she answered. “Many of us -do, as He did once below. But we no longer call such things miracles. -They are natural powers. Yet it is an art to use them. One has to learn -it, as we did swimming, or such things, in the old times.”</p> - -<p>“I have only been here a short time,” I said, half amused at the little -celestial “airs” my young friend wore so sweetly. “I know but little -yet. Can you teach me how to walk on water?”</p> - -<p>“It would take so much time,” said the young girl, “that I think we -should not wait for that. We go on to the next duty, now. You had better -learn, I think, from somebody wiser than I. I will take you over another -way.”</p> - -<p>A great and beautiful shell, not unlike a nautilus, was floating near -us, on the incoming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> tide, and my companion motioned to me to step into -this. I obeyed her, laughing, but without any hesitation. “Neither shall -there be any more death,” I thought as I glanced over the rose-tinted -edges of the frail thing into the water, deeper than any I had ever -seen, but unclouded, so that I looked to the bottom of the sea. The girl -herself stepped out upon the waves with a practiced air, and lightly -drawing the great shell with one hand, bore me after her, as one bears a -sledge upon ice. As we came into mid-water we began to meet others, some -walking, as she did, some rowing or drifting like myself. Upon the -opposite shore uprose the outlines of a more thickly settled community -than any I had yet seen.</p> - -<p>Watching this with interest that deepened as we approached the shore, I -selfishly or uncourteously forgot to converse with my companion, who did -not disturb my silence until we landed. As she gave me her hand, she -said in a quick, direct tone:</p> - -<p>“Well, Miss Mary, I see that you do not know me, after all.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<p>I felt, as I had already done once or twice before, a certain social -embarrassment (which in itself instructed me, as perpetuating one of the -minor emotions of life below that I had hardly expected to renew) before -my lovely guide, as I shook my head, struggling with the phantasmal -memories evoked by her words. No, I did not know her.</p> - -<p>“I am Marie Sauvée. I <i>hope</i> you remember.”</p> - -<p>She said these words in French. The change of language served instantly -to recall the long train of impressions stored away, who knew how or -where, about the name and memory of this girl.</p> - -<p>“Marie Sauvée! <i>You</i>—<small>HERE</small>!” I exclaimed in her own tongue.</p> - -<p>At the name, now, the whole story, like the bright side of a -dark-lantern, flashed. It was a tale of sorrow and shame, as sad, -perhaps, as any that it had been my lot to meet. So far as I had ever -known, the little French girl, thrown in my way while I was serving in -barracks at Washington, had baffled every effort I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> had made to win her -affection or her confidence, and had gone out of my life as the -thistle-down flies on the wind. She had cost me many of those precious -drops of the soul’s blood which all such endeavor drains; and in the -laboratory of memory I had labelled them, “Worse than Wasted,” and sadly -wondered if I should do the same again for such another need, at just -such hopeless expenditure, and had reminded myself that it was not good -spiritual economy, and said that I would never repeat the experience, -and known all the while that I should.</p> - -<p>Now here, a spirit saved, shining as the air of Heaven, “without spot or -any such thing”—here, wiser in heavenly lore than I, longer with Him -than I, nearer to Him than I, dearer to Him, perhaps, than I—<i>here</i> was -Marie Sauvée.</p> - -<p>“I do not know how to apologize,” I said, struggling with my emotion, -“for the way in which I spoke to you just now. Why should you not be -here? Why, indeed? Why am I here? Why”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span>—</p> - -<p>“Dear Miss Mary,” cried the girl, interrupting me passionately, “but for -you it might never have been as it is. Or never for ages—I cannot say. -I might have been a ghost, bound yet to the hated ghost of the old life. -It was your doing, at the first—down there—all those years ago. Miss -Mary, you were the first person I ever loved. You didn’t know it. I had -no idea of telling you. But I did, I loved you. After you went away, I -loved you; ever since then, I loved you. I said, I will be fit to love -her before I die. And then I said, I will go where she is going, for I -shall never get at her anywhere else. And when I entered this place—for -I had no friend or relative here that I knew, to meet me—I was more -frightened than it is possible for any one like you to understand, and -wondered what place there could be for one like me in all this country, -and how I could ever get accustomed to their ways, and whether I should -shock and grieve them—you <i>can’t</i> understand <i>that</i>; I dreaded it so, I -was afraid I should swear after I got to Heaven; I was afraid I might -say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> some evil word, and shame them all, and shame myself more than I -could ever get over. I knew I wasn’t educated for any such society. I -knew there wasn’t anything in me that would be at home here, but just”—</p> - -<p>“But just what, Marie?” I asked, with a humility deeper than I could -have expressed.</p> - -<p>“But just my love for you, Miss Mary. That was all. I had nothing to -come to Heaven on, but loving you and meaning to be a better girl -because I loved you. That was truly all.”</p> - -<p>“That is impossible!” I said quickly. “Your love for me never brought -you here of itself alone. You are mistaken about this. It is neither -Christianity nor philosophy.”</p> - -<p>“There is no mistake,” persisted the girl, with gentle obstinacy, -smiling delightedly at my dogmatism, “I came here because I loved you. -Do you not see? In loving you, I loved—for the first time in my life I -loved—goodness. I really did. And when I got to this place, I found out -that goodness was the same as God. And I had been getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> the love of -God into my heart, all that time, in that strange way, and never knew -how it was with me, until—Oh, Miss Mary, who do you think it was, <small>WHO</small>, -that met me within an hour after I died?”</p> - -<p>“It was our Master,” she added in an awe-struck, yet rapturous whisper, -that thrilled me through. “It was He Himself. He was the first, for I -had nobody, as I told you, belonging to me in this holy place, to care -for a wretch like me.—<i>He</i> was the first to meet <i>me</i>! And it was He -who taught me everything I had to learn. It was He who made me feel -acquainted and at home. It was He who took me on from love of you, to -love of Him, as you put one foot after another in learning to walk after -you have had a terrible sickness. And it was <i>He</i> who never reminded -me—never once reminded me—of the sinful creature I had been. Never, by -one word or look, from that hour to this day, has He let me feel ashamed -in Heaven. That is what <i>He</i> is!” cried the girl, turning upon me, in a -little sudden, sharp way she used to have; her face and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> form were so -transfigured before me, as she spoke, that it seemed as if she quivered -with excess of light, and were about to break away and diffuse herself -upon the radiant air, like song, or happy speech, or melting color.</p> - -<p>“Die for Him!” she said after a passionate silence. “If I could die -everlastingly and everlastingly and everlastingly, to give Him any -pleasure, or to save Him any pain— But then, that’s nothing,” she added, -“I love Him. That is all that means.—And I’ve only got to live -everlastingly instead. That is the way He has treated me—<i>me</i>!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> shore upon which we had landed was thickly populated, as I have -said. Through a sweep of surpassingly beautiful suburbs, we approached -the streets of a town. It is hard to say why I should have been -surprised at finding in this place the signs of human traffic, -philanthropy, art, and study—what otherwise I expected, who can say? My -impressions, as Marie Sauvée led me through the city, had the confusion -of sudden pleasure. The width and shining cleanliness of the streets, -the beauty and glittering material of the houses, the frequent presence -of libraries, museums, public gardens, signs of attention to the wants -of animals, and places of shelter for travelers such as I had never seen -in the most advanced and benevolent of cities below,—these were the -points that struck me most forcibly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span></p> - -<p>The next thing, which in a different mood might have been the first that -impressed me was the remarkable expression of the faces that I met or -passed. No thoughtful person can have failed to observe, in any throng, -the preponderant look of unrest and dissatisfaction in the human eye. -Nothing, to a fine vision, so emphasizes the isolation of being, as the -faces of people in a crowd. In this new community to which I had been -brought, that old effect was replaced by a delightful change. I -perceived, indeed, great intentness of purpose here, as in all -thickly-settled regions; the countenances that passed me indicated close -conservation of social force and economy of intellectual energy; these -were people trained by attrition with many influences, and balanced with -the conflict of various interests. But these were men and women, busy -without hurry, efficacious without waste; they had ambition without -unscrupulousness, power without tyranny, success without vanity, care -without anxiety, effort without exhaustion,—hope, fear, toil, -uncertainty it seemed, elation it was sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span>—but a repose that it was -impossible to call by any other name than divine, controlled their -movements, which were like the pendulum of a golden clock whose works -are out of sight. I watched these people with delight. Great numbers of -them seemed to be students, thronging what we should call below -colleges, seminaries, or schools of art, or music, or science. The -proportion of persons pursuing some form of intellectual acquisition -struck me as large. My little guide, to whom I mentioned this, assented -to the fact, pointing out to me a certain institution we had passed, at -which she herself was, she said, something like a primary scholar, and -from which she had been given a holiday to meet me as she did, and -conduct me through the journey that had been appointed for me on that -day. I inquired of her what her studies might be like; but she told me -that she was hardly wise enough as yet to explain to me what I could -learn for myself when I had been longer in this place, and when my -leisure came for investigating its attractions at my own will.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<p>“I am uncommonly ignorant, you know,” said Marie Sauvée humbly, “I have -everything to learn. There is book knowledge and thought knowledge and -soul knowledge, and I have not any of these. I was as much of what you -used to call a heathen, as any Fiji-Islander you gave your missionaries -to. I have so much to learn, that I am not sent yet upon other business -such as I should like.”</p> - -<p>Upon my asking Marie Sauvée what business this might be, she hesitated. -“I have become ambitious in Heaven,” she answered slowly. “I shall never -be content till I am fit to be sent to the worst woman that can be -found—no matter which side of death—I don’t care in what world—I want -to be sent to one that nobody else will touch; I think I might know how -to save her. It is a tremendous ambition!” she repeated. “Preposterous -for the greatest angel there is here! And yet I—<i>I</i> mean to do it.”</p> - -<p>I was led on in this way by Marie Sauvée, through and out of the city -into the western suburbs; we had approached from the east,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> and had -walked a long distance. There did not occur to me, I think, till we had -made the circuit of the beautiful town, one thing, which, when I did -observe it, struck me as, on the whole, the most impressive that I had -noticed. “I have not seen,” I said, stopping suddenly, “I have not seen -a poor person in all this city.”</p> - -<p>“Nor an aged one, have you?” asked Marie Sauvée, smiling.</p> - -<p>“Now that I think of it,—no. Nor a sick one. Not a beggar. Not a -cripple. Not a mourner. Not—and yet what have we here? This building, -by which you are leading me, bears a device above the door, the last I -should ever have expected to find <i>here</i>.”</p> - -<p>It was an imposing building, of a certain translucent material that had -the massiveness of marble, with the delicacy of thin agate illuminated -from within. The rear of this building gave upon the open country, with -a background of hills, and the vision of the sea which I had crossed. -People strolled about the grounds, which had more than the magnificence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> -of Oriental gardens. Music came from the building, and the saunterers, -whom I saw, seemed nevertheless not to be idlers, but persons busily -employed in various ways—I should have said, under the close direction -of others who guided them. The inscription above the door of this -building was a word, in a tongue unknown to me, meaning “Hospital,” as I -was told.</p> - -<p>“They are the sick at heart,” said Marie Sauvée, in answer to my look of -perplexity, “who are healed there. And they are the sick of soul; those -who were most unready for the new life; they whose spiritual being was -diseased through inaction, <i>they</i> are the invalids of Heaven. There they -are put under treatment, and slowly cured. With some, it takes long. I -was there myself when I first came, for a little; it will be a most -interesting place for you to visit, by-and-by.”</p> - -<p>I inquired who were the physicians of this celestial sanitarium.</p> - -<p>“They who unite the natural love of healing to the highest spiritual -development.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span></p> - -<p>“By no means, then, necessarily they who were skilled in the treatment -of diseases on earth?” I asked, laughing.</p> - -<p>“Such are oftener among the patients,” said Marie Sauvée sadly. To me, -so lately from the earth, and our low earthly way of finding amusement -in facts of this nature, this girl’s gravity was a rebuke. I thanked her -for it, and we passed by the hospital—which I secretly made up my mind -to investigate at another time—and so out into the wider country, more -sparsely settled, but it seemed to me more beautiful than that we had -left behind.</p> - -<p>“There,” I said, at length, “is to my taste the loveliest spot we have -seen yet. That is the most homelike of all these homes.”</p> - -<p>We stopped before a small and quiet house built of curiously inlaid -woods, that reminded me of Sorrento work as a great achievement may -remind one of a first and faint suggestion. So exquisite was the carving -and coloring, that on a larger scale the effect might have interfered -with the solidity of the building, but so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> modest were the proportions -of this charming house, that its dignity was only enhanced by its -delicacy. It was shielded by trees, some familiar to me, others strange. -There were flowers—not too many; birds; and I noticed a fine dog -sunning himself upon the steps. The sweep of landscape from all the -windows of this house must have been grand. The wind drove up from the -sea. The light, which had a peculiar depth and color, reminding me of -that which on earth flows from under the edge of a breaking storm-cloud -at the hour preceding sunset, formed an aureola about the house. When my -companion suggested my examining this place, since it so attracted me, I -hesitated, but yielding to her wiser judgment, strolled across the -little lawn, and stood, uncertain, at the threshold. The dog arose as I -came up, and met me cordially, but no person seemed to be in sight.</p> - -<p>“Enter,” said Marie Sauvée in a tone of decision. “You are expected. Go -where you will.”</p> - -<p>I turned to remonstrate with her, but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> girl had disappeared. Finding -myself thus thrown on my own resources, and having learned already the -value of obedience to mysterious influences in this new life, I gathered -courage, and went into the house. The dog followed me affectionately, -rather than suspiciously.</p> - -<p>For a few moments I stood in the hall or ante-room, alone and perplexed. -Doors opened at right and left, and vistas of exquisitely-ordered rooms -stretched out. I saw much of the familiar furniture of a modest home, -and much that was unfamiliar mingled therewith. I desired to ask the -names or purposes of certain useful articles, and the characters and -creators of certain works of art. I was bewildered and delighted. I had -something of the feeling of a rustic visitor taken for the first time to -a palace or imposing town-house.</p> - -<p>Was Heaven an aggregate of homes like this? Did everlasting life move on -in the same dear ordered channel—the dearest that human experiment had -ever found—the channel of family love? Had one, after death, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> old -blessedness without the old burden? The old sweetness without the old -mistake? The familiar rest, and never the familiar fret? Was there -always in the eternal world “somebody to come home to”? And was there -always the knowledge that it could not be the wrong person? Was all -<i>that</i> eliminated from celestial domestic life? Did Heaven solve the -problem on which earth had done no more than speculate?</p> - -<p>While I stood, gone well astray on thoughts like these, feeling still -too great a delicacy about my uninvited presence in this house, I heard -the steps of the host, or so I took them to be; they had the indefinable -ring of the master’s foot. I remained where I was, not without -embarrassment, ready to apologize for my intrusion as soon as he should -come within sight. He crossed the long room at the left, leisurely; I -counted his quiet footsteps; he advanced, turned, saw me—I too, -turned—and so, in this way, it came about that I stood face to face -with my own father.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span>... I had found the eternal life full of the unexpected, but this was -almost the sweetest thing that had happened to me yet.</p> - -<p>Presently my father took me over the house and the grounds; with a -boyish delight, explaining to me how many years he had been building and -constructing and waiting with patience in his heavenly home for the -first one of his own to join him. Now, he too, should have “somebody to -come home to.” As we dwelt upon the past and glanced at the future, our -full hearts overflowed. He explained to me that my new life had but now, -in the practical sense of the word, begun; since a human home was the -centre of all growth and blessedness. When he had shown me to my own -portion of the house, and bidden me welcome to it, he pointed out to me -a certain room whose door stood always open, but whose threshold was -never crossed. I hardly feel that I have the right, in this public way, -to describe, in detail, the construction or adornment of this room. I -need only say that Heaven itself seemed to have been ransacked to bring -together the daintiest, the most delicate, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> purest, thoughts and -fancies that celestial skill or art could create. Years had gone to the -creation of this spot; it was a growth of time, the occupation of that -loneliness which must be even in the happy life, when death has -temporarily separated two who had been one. I was quite prepared for his -whispered words, when he said,—</p> - -<p>“Your mother’s room, my dear. It will be all ready for her at any time.”</p> - -<p>This union had been a <i>marriage</i>—not one of the imperfect ties that -pass under the name, on earth. Afterwards, when I learned more of the -social economy of the new life, I perceived more clearly the rarity and -peculiar value of an experience which had in it the elements of what -might be called (if I should be allowed the phrase) eternal permanency, -and which involved, therefore, none of the disintegration and -redistribution of relations consequent upon passing from temporary or -mistaken choices to a fixed and perfect state of society.</p> - -<p>Later, on that same evening, I was called<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> eagerly from below. I was -resting, and alone;—I had, so to speak, drawn my first breath in -Heaven; once again, like a girl in my own room under my father’s roof; -my heart at anchor, and my peace at full tide. I ran as I used to run, -years ago, when he called me, crying down,—</p> - -<p>“I’m coming, Father,” while I delayed a moment to freshen my dress, and -to fasten it with some strange white flowers that climbed over my -window, and peered, nodding like children, into the room.</p> - -<p>When I reached the hall, or whatever might be the celestial name for the -entrance room below, I did not immediately see my father, but I heard -the sound of voices beyond, and perceived the presence of many people in -the house. As I hesitated, wondering what might be the etiquette of -these new conditions, and whether I should be expected to play the -hostess at a reception of angels or saints, some one came up from behind -me, I think, and held out his hand in silence.</p> - -<p>“St. Johns!” I cried, “Jamie St. Johns! The last time I saw <i>you</i>”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span>—</p> - -<p>“The last time you saw me was in a field-hospital after the battle of -Malvern Hills,” said St. Johns. “I died in your arms, Miss Mary. Shot -flew about you while you got me that last cup of water. I died hard. You -sang the hymn I asked for—‘Ye who tossed on beds of pain’—and the -shell struck the tent-pole twenty feet off, but you sang right on. I was -afraid you would stop. I was almost gone. But you never faltered. You -sang my soul out—do you remember? I’ve been watching all this while for -you. I’ve been a pretty busy man since I got to this place, but I’ve -always found time to run in and ask your father when he expected you.</p> - -<p>“I meant to be the first all along; but I hear there’s a girl got ahead -of me. She’s here, too, and some more women. But most of us are the -boys, to-night, Miss Mary,—come to give you a sort of -house-warming—just to say we’ve never forgotten!... and you see we want -to say ‘Welcome home at last’ to <i>our</i> army woman—God bless her—as she -blessed us!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span></p> - -<p>“Come in, Miss Mary! Don’t feel bashful. It’s nobody but your own boys. -Here we are. There’s a thing I remember—you used to read it. ‘<i>For when -ye fail</i>’—you know I never could quote straight—‘<i>they shall receive -you into everlasting habitations</i>’—Wasn’t that it? Now here. See! Count -us! <i>Not one missing</i>, do you see? You said you’d have us all here -yet—all that died before you did. You used to tell us so. You prayed -it, and you lived it, and you did it, and, by His everlasting mercy, -here we are. Look us over. Count again. I couldn’t make a speech on -earth and I can’t make one in Heaven—but the fellows put me up to it. -<i>Come</i> in, Miss Mary! <i>Dear</i> Miss Mary—why, we want to shake hands with -you, all around! We want to sit and tell army-stories half the night. We -want to have some of the old songs, and—What! Crying, Miss -Mary?—<i>You?</i> We never saw you cry in all our lives. Your lip used to -tremble. You got pretty white; but you weren’t that kind of woman. Oh, -see here! <i>Crying</i> in <span class="smcap">Heaven</span>?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span>—</p> - -<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">From</span> this time, the events which I am trying to relate began to assume -in fact a much more orderly course; yet in form I scarcely find them -more easy to present. Narrative, as has been said of conversation, “is -always but a selection,” and in this case the peculiar difficulties of -choosing from an immense mass of material that which can be most fitly -compressed into the compass allowed me by these few pages, are so great, -that I have again and again laid down my task in despair; only to be -urged on by my conviction that it is more clearly my duty to speak what -may carry comfort to the hearts of some, than to worry because my -imperfect manner of expression may offend the heads of others. All I can -presume to hope for this record of an experience is, that it may have a -passing value to certain of my readers whose anticipations of what they -call<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> “the Hereafter” are so vague or so dubious as to be more of a pain -than a pleasure to themselves.</p> - -<p>From the time of my reception into my father’s house, I lost the sense -of homelessness which had more or less possessed me since my entrance -upon the new life, and felt myself becoming again a member of an -organized society, with definite duties as well as assured pleasures -before me.</p> - -<p>These duties I did not find astonishingly different in their essence, -while they had changed greatly in form, from those which had occupied me -upon earth. I found myself still involved in certain filial and domestic -responsibilities, in intellectual acquisition, in the moral support of -others, and in spiritual self-culture. I found myself a member of an -active community in which not a drone nor an invalid could be counted, -and I quickly became, like others who surrounded me, an exceedingly busy -person. At first my occupations did not assume sharp professional -distinctiveness, but had rather the character of such as would belong to -one in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> training for a more cultivated condition. This seemed to be true -of many of my fellow-citizens; that they were still in a state of -education for superior usefulness or happiness. With others, as I have -intimated, it was not so. My father’s business, for instance, remained -what it had always been—that of a religious teacher; and I met women -and men as well, to whom, as in the case of my old neighbor, Mrs. -Mersey, there had been set apart an especial fellowship with the spirits -of the recently dead or still living, who had need of great guidance. I -soon formed, by observation, at least, the acquaintance, too, of a wide -variety of natures;—I met artisans and artists, poets and scientists, -people of agricultural pursuits, mechanical inventors, musicians, -physicians, students, tradesmen, aerial messengers to the earth, or to -other planets, and a long list besides, that would puzzle more than it -would enlighten, should I attempt to describe it. I mention these -points, which I have no space to amplify, mainly to give reality to any -allusions that I shall make to my relations in the heavenly city, and to -let it be understood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> that I speak of a community as organized and as -various as Paris or New York; which possessed all the advantages and -none of the evils that we are accustomed to associate with massed -population; that such a community existed without sorrow, without -sickness, without death, without anxiety, and without sin; that the -evidences of almost incredible harmony, growth, and happiness which I -saw before me in that one locality, I had reason to believe extended to -uncounted others in unknown regions, thronging with joys and activities -the mysteries of space and time.</p> - -<p>For reasons which will be made clear as I approach the end of my -narrative, I cannot speak as fully of many high and marvelous matters in -the eternal life, as I wish that I might have done. I am giving -impressions which, I am keenly aware, have almost the imperfection of a -broken dream. I can only crave from the reader, on trust, a patience -which he may be more ready to grant me at a later time.</p> - -<p>I now began, as I say, to assume regular duties and pleasures; among the -keenest of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> latter was the constant meeting of old friends and -acquaintances. Much perplexity, great delight, and some disappointment -awaited me in these <i>dénouements</i> of earthly story.</p> - -<p>The people whom I had naturally expected to meet earliest were often -longest delayed from crossing my path; in some cases, they were -altogether missing. Again, I was startled by coming in contact with -individuals that I had never associated, in my conceptions of the -future, with a spiritual existence at all; in these cases I was -sometimes humbled by discovering a type of spiritual character so far -above my own, that my fancies in their behalf proved to be unwarrantable -self-sufficiency. Social life in the heavenly world, I soon learned, was -a series of subtle or acute surprises. It sometimes reminded me of a -simile of George Eliot’s, wherein she likened human existence to a game -of chess in which each one of the pieces had intellect and passions, and -the player might be beaten by his own pawns. The element of -unexpectedness, which constitutes the first and yet the most unreliable -charm of earthly society, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> here acquired a permanent dignity. One of -the most memorable things which I observed about heavenly relations was, -that people did not, in the degree or way to which I was accustomed, -tire of each other. Attractions, to begin with, were less lightly -experienced; their hold was deeper; their consequences more lasting. I -had not been under my new conditions long, before I learned that here -genuine feeling was never suffered to fall a sacrifice to intellectual -curiosity, or emotional caprice; that here one had at last the stimulus -of social attrition without its perils, its healthy pleasures without -its pains. I learned, of course, much else, which it is more than -difficult, and some things which it is impossible, to explain. I testify -only of what I am permitted.</p> - -<p>Among the intellectual labors that I earliest undertook was the command -of the Universal Language, which I soon found necessary to my -convenience. In a community like that I had entered, many nationalities -were represented, and I observed that while each retained its own -familiar earthly tongue, and one had the pleasant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> opportunity of -acquiring as many others as one chose, yet a common vocabulary became a -desideratum of which, indeed, no one was compelled to avail himself -contrary to his taste, but in which many, like myself, found the -greatest pleasure and profit. The command of this language occupied much -well-directed time.</p> - -<p>I should not omit to say that a portion of my duty and my privilege -consisted in renewed visits to the dearly-loved whom I had left upon the -earth. These visits were sometimes matters of will with me. Again, they -were strictly occasions of permission, and again, I was denied the power -to make them when I most deeply desired to do so. Herein I learned the -difference between trial and trouble, and that while the last was -stricken out of heavenly life, the first distinctly remained. It is -pleasant to me to remember that I was allowed to be of more than a -little comfort to those who mourned for me; that it was I who guided -them from despair to endurance, and so through peace to cheerfulness, -and the hearty renewal of daily human content. These visits were for a -long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> time—excepting the rare occasions on which I met Him who had -spoken to me upon the sea-shore—the deepest delight which was offered -me.</p> - -<p>Upon one point I foresee that I shall be questioned by those who have -had the patience so far to follow my recital. What, it will be asked, -was the political constitution of the community you describe? What place -in celestial society has worldly caste?</p> - -<p>When I say, strictly none at all, let me not be misunderstood. I -observed the greatest varieties of rank in the celestial kingdom, which -seemed to me rather a close Theocracy than a wild commune. There were -powers above me, and powers below; there were natural and harmonious -social selections; there were laws and their officers; there was -obedience and its dignity; there was influence and its authority; there -were gifts and their distinctions. I may say that I found far more -reverence for differences of rank or influence than I was used to -seeing, at least in my own corner of the earth. The main point was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> that -the basis of the whole thing had undergone a tremendous change. -Inheritance, wealth, intellect, genius, beauty, all the old passports to -power, were replaced by one so simple yet so autocratic, that I hardly -know how to give any idea at once of its dignity and its sweetness. I -may call this personal holiness. Position, in the new life, I found -depended upon spiritual claims. Distinction was the result of character. -The nature nearest to the Divine Nature ruled the social forces. -Spiritual culture was the ultimate test of individual importance.</p> - -<p>I inquired one day for a certain writer of world-wide—I mean of -earth-wide—celebrity, who, I had learned, was a temporary visitor in -the city, and whom I wished to meet. I will not for sufficient reasons -mention the name of this man, who had been called the genius of his -century, below. I had anticipated that a great ovation would be given -him, in which I desired to join, and I was surprised that his presence -made little or no stir in our community. Upon investigating the facts, I -learned that his public influence was, so far, but a slight one,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> though -it had gradually gained, and was likely to increase with time. He had -been a man whose splendid powers were dedicated to the temporary and -worldly aspects of Truth, whose private life was selfish and cruel, who -had written the most famous poem of his age, but “by all his searching” -had not found out God.</p> - -<p>In the conditions of the eternal life, this genius had been obliged to -set itself to learning the alphabet of spiritual truth; he was still a -pupil, rather than a master among us, and I was told that he himself -ardently objected to receiving a deference which was not as yet his due; -having set the might of his great nature as strenuously now to the -spiritual, as once to the intellectual task; in which, I must say, I was -not without expectation that he would ultimately outvie us all.</p> - -<p>On the same day when this distinguished man entered and left our city -(having quietly accomplished his errand), I heard the confusion of some -public excitement at a distance, and hastening to see what it meant, I -discovered that the object of it was a plain, I thought in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> her earthly -life she must have been a poor woman, obscure, perhaps, and timid. The -people pressed towards her, and received her into the town by -acclamation. They crowned her with amaranth and flung lilies in her -path. The authorities of the city officially met her; the people of -influence hastened to beseech her to do honor to their homes by her -modest presence; we crowded for a sight of her, we begged for a word -from her, we bewildered her with our tributes, till she hid her blushing -face and was swept out of our sight.</p> - -<p>“But who is this,” I asked an eager passer, “to whom such an -extraordinary reception is tendered? I have seen nothing like it since I -came here.”</p> - -<p>“Is it possible you do not know —— ——?”</p> - -<p>My informant gave a name which indeed was not unfamiliar to me; it was -that of a woman who had united to extreme beauty of private character, -and a high type of faith in invisible truths, life-long devotion to an -unpopular philanthropy. She had never been called a “great” woman on -earth. Her influence had not been large. Her cause had never been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> the -fashion, while she herself was living. Society had never amused itself -by adopting her, even to the extent of a parlor lecture. Her name, so -far as it was familiar to the public at all, had been the synonym of a -poor zealot, a plain fanatic, to be tolerated for her conscientiousness -and—avoided for her earnestness. Since her death, the humane -consecration which she represented had marched on like a conquering army -over her grave. Earth, of which she was not worthy, had known her too -late. Heaven was proud to do honor to the spiritual foresight and -sustained self-denial, as royal as it was rare.</p> - -<p>I remember, also, being deeply touched by a sight upon which I chanced, -one morning, when I was strolling about the suburbs of the city, seeking -the refreshment of solitude before the duties of the day began. For, -while I was thus engaged, I met our Master, suddenly. He was busily -occupied with others, and, beyond the deep recognition of His smile, I -had no converse with Him. He was followed at a little distance, as He -was apt to be, by a group of playing children; but He was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> close -communion with two whom I saw to be souls newly-arrived from the lower -life. One of these was a man—I should say he had been a rough man, and -had come out of a rude life—who conversed with Him eagerly but -reverently, as they walked on towards the town. Upon the other side, our -Lord held with His own hand the hand of a timid, trembling woman, who -scarcely dared raise her eyes from the ground; now and then she drew His -garment’s edge furtively to her lips, and let it fall again, with the -slow motion of one who is in a dream of ecstasy. These two people, I -judged, had no connection with each other beyond the fact that they were -simultaneous new-comers to the new country, and had, perhaps, both borne -with them either special need or merit, I could hardly decide which. I -took occasion to ask a neighbor, an old resident of the city, and wise -in its mysteries, what he supposed to be the explanation of the scene -before us, and why these two were so distinguished by the favor of Him -whose least glance made holiday in the soul of any one of us. It was -then explained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> to me, that the man about whom I had inquired was the -hero of a great calamity, with which the lower world was at present -occupied. One of the most frightful railway accidents of this generation -had been averted, and the lives of four hundred helpless passengers -saved, by the sublime sacrifice of this locomotive engineer, who died -(it will be remembered) a death of voluntary and unique torture to save -his train. All that could be said of the tragedy was that it held the -essence of self-sacrifice in a form seldom attained by man. At the -moment I saw this noble fellow, he had so immediately come among us that -the expression of physical agony had hardly yet died out of his face, -and his eye still blazed with the fire of his tremendous deed.</p> - -<p>“But who is the woman?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“She was a delicate creature—sick—died of the fright and shock; the -only passenger on the train who did not escape.”</p> - -<p>I inquired why she too was thus preferred; what glorious deed had she -done, to make her so dear to the Divine Heart?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span></p> - -<p>“She? Ah, she,” said my informant, “was only one of the household -saints. She had been notable among celestial observers for many years. -You know the type I mean—shy, silent—never thinks of herself, scarcely -knows she has a self—toils, drudges, endures, prays; expects nothing of -her friends, and gives all; hopes for little, even from her Lord, but -surrenders everything; full of religious ideals, not all of them -theoretically wise, but practically noble; a woman ready to be cut to -inch pieces for her faith in an invisible Love that has never apparently -given her anything in particular. Oh, you know the kind of woman: has -never had anything of her own, in all her life—not even her own -room—and a whole family adore her without knowing it, and lean upon her -like infants without seeing it. We have been watching for this woman’s -coming. We knew there would be an especial greeting for her. But nobody -thought of her accompanying the engineer. Come! Shall we not follow, and -see how they will be received? If I am not mistaken, it will be a great -day in the city.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Among</span> the inquiries that must be raised by my fragmentary recital, I am -only too keenly aware of the difficulty of answering one which I do not -see my way altogether to ignore. I refer to that affecting the domestic -relations of the eternal world.</p> - -<p>It will be readily seen that I might not be permitted to share much of -the results of my observation in this direction, with earthly curiosity, -or even earthly anxiety. It is not without thought and prayer for close -guidance that I suffer myself to say, in as few words as possible, that -I found the unions which go to form heavenly homes so different from the -marriage relations of earth, in their laws of selection and government, -that I quickly understood the meaning of our Lord’s few revealed words -as to that matter; while yet I do not find myself at liberty to explain -either the words or the facts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> I think I cannot be wrong in adding, -that in a number of cases, so great as to astonish me, the marriages of -earth had no historic effect upon the ties of Heaven. Laws of -affiliation uniting soul to soul in a relation infinitely closer than a -bond, and more permanent than any which the average human experience -would lead to if it were socially a free agent, controlled the -attractions of this pure and happy life, in a manner of which I can only -say that it must remain a mystery to the earthly imagination. I have -intimated that in some cases the choices of time were so blessed as to -become the choices of Eternity. I may say, that if I found it lawful to -utter the impulse of my soul, I should cry throughout the breadth of the -earth a warning to the lightness, or the haste, or the presumption, or -the mistake that chose to love for one world, when it might have loved -for two.</p> - -<p>For, let me say most solemnly, that the relations made between man and -woman on earth I found to be, in importance to the individual, second to -nothing in the range of human experience,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> save the adjustment of the -soul to the Personality of God Himself.</p> - -<p>If I say that I found earthly marriage to have been a temporary -expedient for preserving the form of the eternal fact; that freedom in -this as in all other things became in Heaven the highest law; that the -great sea of human misery, swelled by the passion of love on earth, -shall evaporate to the last drop in the blaze of bliss to which no human -counterpart can approach any nearer than a shadow to the sun,—I may be -understood by those for whose sake alone it is worth while to allude to -this mystery at all; for the rest it matters little.</p> - -<p>Perhaps I should say, once for all, that every form of pure pleasure or -happiness which had existed upon the earth had existed as a type of a -greater. Our divinest hours below had been scarcely more than -suggestions of their counterparts above. I do not expect to be -understood. It must only be remembered that, in all instances, the -celestial life develops the soul of a thing. When I speak of eating and -drinking, for instance, I do not mean that we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> cooked and prepared our -food as we do below. The elements of nutrition continued to exist for us -as they had in the earth, the air, the water, though they were available -without drudgery or anxiety. Yet I mean distinctly that the sense of -taste remained, that it was gratified at need, that it was a finer one -and gave a keener pleasure than its coarser prototype below. I mean that -the <i>soul of a sense</i> is a more exquisite thing than what we may call -the body of the sense, as developed to earthly consciousness.</p> - -<p>So far from there being any diminution in the number or power of the -senses in the spiritual life, I found not only an acuter intensity in -those which we already possessed, but that the effect of our new -conditions was to create others of whose character we had never dreamed. -To be sure, wise men had forecast the possibility of this fact, -differing among themselves even as to the accepted classification of -what they had, as Scaliger who called speech the sixth sense, or our -English contemporary who included heat and force in his list<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> (also of -six); or more imaginative men who had admitted the conceivability of -inconceivable powers in an order of being beyond the human. Knowing a -little of these speculations, I was not so much surprised at the facts -as overwhelmed by their extent and variety. Yet if I try to explain -them, I am met by an almost insurmountable obstacle.</p> - -<p>It is well known that missionaries are often thwarted in their religious -labors by the absence in savage tongues of any words corresponding to -certain ideas such as that of purity or unselfishness. Philologists have -told us of one African tribe in whose language exist six different words -descriptive of murder; none whatever expressive of love. In another no -such word as gratitude can be found. Perhaps no illustration can better -serve to indicate the impediments which bar the way to my describing to -beings who possess but five senses and their corresponding imaginative -culture, the habits or enjoyments consequent upon the development of ten -senses or fifteen. I am allowed to say as much as this: that the growth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> -of these celestial powers was variable with individuals throughout the -higher world, or so much of it as I became acquainted with. It will be -readily seen what an illimitable scope for anticipation or achievement -is given to daily life by such an evolution of the nature. It should be -carefully remembered that this serves only as a single instance of the -exuberance of what we call everlasting life.</p> - -<p>Below, I remember that I used sometimes to doubt the possibility of -one’s being happy forever under any conditions, and had moods in which I -used to question the value of endless existence. I wish most earnestly -to say, that before I had been in Heaven days, Eternity did not seem -long enough to make room for the growth of character, the growth of -mind, the variety of enjoyment and employment, and the increase of -usefulness that practically constituted immortality.</p> - -<p>It could not have been long after my arrival at my father’s house that -he took me with him to the great music hall of our city. It was my first -attendance at any one of the public<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> festivals of these happy people, -and one long to be treasured in thought. It was, in fact, nothing less -than the occasion of a visit by Beethoven, and the performance of a new -oratorio of his own, which he conducted in person. Long before the -opening hour the streets of the city were thronged. People with holiday -expressions poured in from the country. It was a gala-day with all the -young folks especially, much as such matters go below. A beautiful thing -which I noticed was the absence of all personal insistence in the crowd. -The weakest, or the saddest, or the most timid, or those who, for any -reason, had the more need of this great pleasure, were selected by their -neighbors and urged on into the more desirable positions. The music -hall, so-called, was situated upon a hill just outside the town, and -consisted of an immense roof supported by rose-colored marble pillars. -There were no walls to the building, so that there was the effect of -being no limit to the audience, which extended past the line of -luxuriously covered seats provided for them, upon the grass, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> even -into the streets leading to the city. So perfect were what we should -call below the telephonic arrangement of the community, that those who -remained in their own homes or pursued their usual avocations were not -deprived of the music. My impressions are that every person in the city, -who desired to put himself in communication with it, heard the oratorio; -but I am not familiar with the system by which this was effected. It -involved a high advance in the study of acoustics, and was one of the -things which I noted to be studied at a wiser time.</p> - -<p>Many distinguished persons known to you below, were present, some from -our own neighborhood, and others guests of the city. It was delightful -to observe the absence of all jealousy or narrow criticism among -themselves, and also the reverence with which their superiority was -regarded by the less gifted. Every good or great thing seemed to be so -heartily shared with every being capable of sharing it, and all personal -gifts to become material for such universal pride, that one experienced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> -a kind of transport at the elevation of the public character.</p> - -<p>I remembered how it used to be below, when I was present at some musical -festival in the familiar hall where the bronze statue of Beethoven, -behind the sea of sound, stood calmly. How he towered above our poor -unfinished story! As we grouped there, sitting each isolated with his -own thirst, brought to be slaked or excited by the flood of music; -drinking down into our frivolity or our despair the outlet of that -mighty life, it used to seem to me that I heard, far above the passion -of the orchestra, his own high words,—his own music made -articulate,—“<i>I go to meet Death with joy.</i>”</p> - -<p>When there came upon the people in that heavenly audience-room a stir, -like the rustling of a dead leaf upon crusted snow; when the stir grew -to a solemn murmur; when the murmur ran into a lofty cry; when I saw -that the orchestra, the chorus, and the audience had risen like one -breathless man, and knew that Beethoven stood before us, the light of -day<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> darkened for that instant before me. The prelude was well under -way, I think, before I dared lift my eyes to his face.</p> - -<p>The great tide swept me on. When upon earth had he created sound like -this? Where upon earth had we heard its like? There he is, one listening -nerve from head to foot, he who used to stand deaf in the middle of his -own orchestra—desolate no more, denied no more forever, all the -heavenly senses possible to Beethoven awake to the last delicate -response; all the solemn faith in the invisible, in the holy, which he -had made his own, triumphant now; all the powers of his mighty nature in -action like a rising storm—there stands Beethoven immortally alive.</p> - -<p>What knew we of music, I say, who heard its earthly prototype? It was -but the tuning of the instruments before the eternal orchestra shall -sound. Soul! swing yourself free upon this mighty current. Of what will -Beethoven tell us whom he dashes on like drops?</p> - -<p>As the pæan rises, I bow my life to understand. What would he with us -whom God<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> chose to make Beethoven everlastingly? What is the burden of -this master’s message, given now in Heaven, as once on earth? Do we hear -aright? Do we read the score correctly?</p> - -<p>“Holy—holy”—</p> - -<p>A chorus of angel voices, trained since the time when morning stars sang -together with the sons of God, take up the words:</p> - -<p>“Holy, <i>holy</i>, <small>HOLY</small> is the Lord.”</p> - -<p class="cspc">. . . . . . . . .</p> - -<p>When the oratorio has ended, and we glide out, each hushed as a hidden -thought, to his own ways, I stay beneath a linden-tree to gather breath. -A fine sound, faint as the music of a dream, strikes my ringing ears, -and, looking up, I see that the leaf above my head is singing. Has it, -too, been one of the great chorus yonder? Did he command the forces of -nature, as he did the seraphs of Heaven, or the powers of earth?</p> - -<p>The strain falls away slowly from the lips of the leaf:</p> - -<p>“Holy, holy, holy,”—</p> - -<p>It trembles, and is still.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> which it is permitted me to relate to you moves on swiftly before -the thoughts, like the compression in the last act of a drama. The next -scene which starts from the variousness of heavenly delight I find to be -the Symphony of Color.</p> - -<p>There was a time in the history of art, below, when this, and similar -phrases, had acquired almost a slang significance, owing to the -affectation of their use by the shallow. I was, therefore, the more -surprised at meeting a fact so lofty behind the guise of the familiar -words; and noted it as but one of many instances in which the earthly -had deteriorated from the ideals of the celestial life.</p> - -<p>It seemed that the development of color had reached a point never -conceived of below, and that the treatment of it constituted an art by -itself. By this I do not mean its treatment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> under the form of painting, -decoration, dress, or any embodiment whatever. What we were called to -witness was an exhibition of color, pure and simple.</p> - -<p>This occasion, of which I especially speak, was controlled by great -colorists, some of earthly, some of heavenly renown. Not all of them -were artists in the accepted sense of designers; among them were one or -two select creatures in whom the passion of color had been remarkable, -but, so far as the lower world was concerned, for the great part -inactive, for want of any scientific means of expression.</p> - -<p>We have all known the <i>color natures</i>, and, if we have had a fine -sympathy, have compassionated them as much as any upon earth, whether -they were found among the disappointed disciples of Art itself, or -hidden away in plain homes, where the paucity of existence held all the -delicacy and the dream of life close prisoners.</p> - -<p>Among the managers of this Symphony I should say that I observed, at a -distance, the form of Raphael. I heard it rumored that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> Leonardo was -present, but I did not see him. There was another celebrated artist -engaged in the work, whose name I am not allowed to give. It was an -unusual occasion, and had attracted attention at a distance. The -Symphony did not take place in our own city, but in an adjacent town, to -which our citizens, as well as those of other places, repaired in great -numbers. We sat, I remember, in a luxurious coliseum, closely darkened. -The building was circular in form; it was indeed a perfect globe, in -whose centre, without touching anywhere the superficies, we were seated. -Air without light entered freely, I know not how, and fanned our faces -perpetually. Distant music appealed to the ear, without engaging it. -Pleasures, which we could receive or dismiss at will, wandered by, and -were assimilated by those extra senses which I have no means of -describing. Whatever could be done to put soul and body in a state of -ease so perfect as to admit of complete receptivity, and in a mood so -high as to induce the loftiest interpretation of the purely æsthetic -entertainment before us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> was done in the amazing manner characteristic -of this country. I do not know that I had ever felt so keenly as on this -occasion the delight taken by God in providing happiness for the -children of His discipline and love. We had suffered so much, some of -us, below, that it did not seem natural, at first, to accept sheer -pleasure as an end in and of itself. But I learned that this, like many -other fables in Heaven, had no moral. Live! Be! Do! Be glad! Because He -lives, ye live also. Grow! Gain! Achieve! Hope! <i>That</i> is to glorify Him -and enjoy Him forever. Having fought—rest. Having trusted—know. Having -endured—enjoy. Being safe—venture. Being pure—fear not to be -sensitive. Being in harmony with the Soul of all delights—dare to -indulge thine own soul to the brim therein. Having acquired -holiness—thou hast no longer any broken law to fear. Dare to be happy. -This was the spirit of daily life among us. “Nothing was required of us -but to be natural,” as I have said before. And it “was natural to be -right,” thank God, at last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span></p> - -<p>Being a new-comer, and still so unlearned, I could not understand the -Color Symphony as many of the spectators did, while yet I enjoyed it -intensely, as an untaught musical organization may enjoy the most -complicated composition. I think it was one of the most stimulating -sights I ever saw, and my ambition to master this new art flashed fire -at once.</p> - -<p>Slowly, as we sat silent, at the centre of that great white globe—it -was built of porphyry, I think, or some similar substance—there began -to breathe upon the surface pure light. This trembled and deepened, till -we were enclosed in a sphere of white fire. This I perceived, to -scholars in the science of color, signified distinct thought, as a grand -chord does to the musician. Thus it was with the hundred effects which -followed. White light quivered into pale blue. Blue struggled with -violet. Gold and orange parted. Green and gray and crimson glided on. -Rose—the living rose—blushed upon us, and faltered -under—over—yonder, till we were shut into a world of it, palpitating. -It was as if we had gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> behind the soul of a woman’s blush, or the -meaning of a sunrise. Whoever has known the passion for that color will -understand why some of the spectators were with difficulty restrained -from flinging themselves down into it, as into a sea of rapture.</p> - -<p>There were others more affected by the purple, and even by the scarlet; -some, again, by the delicate tints in which was the color of the sun, -and by colors which were hints rather than expressions. Marvelous -modifications of rays set in. They had their laws, their chords, their -harmonies, their scales; they carried their melodies and “execution;” -they had themes and ornamentation. Each combination had its meaning. The -trained eye received it, as the trained ear receives orchestra or -oratory. The senses melted, but the intellect was astir. A perfect -composition of color unto color was before us, exquisite in detail, -magnificent in mass. Now it seemed as if we ourselves, sitting there -ensphered in color, flew around the globe with the quivering rays. Now -as if we sank into endless sleep with reposing tints;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> now as if we -drank of color; then as if we dreamed it; now as if we felt it—clasped -it; then as if we heard it. We were taken into the heart of it; into the -mystery of the June sky, and the grass-blade, the blue-bell, the child’s -cheek, the cloud at sunset, the snowdrift at twilight. The apple-blossom -told us its secret, and the down on the pigeon’s neck, and the plume of -the rose-curlew, and the robin’s-egg, and the hair of blonde women, and -the scarlet passion-flower, and the mist over everglades, and the power -of a dark eye.</p> - -<p>It may be remembered that I have alluded once to the rainbow which I saw -soon after reaching the new life, and that I raised a question at the -time as to the number of rays exhibited in the celestial prism. As I -watched the Symphony, I became convinced that the variety of colors -unquestionably far exceeded those with which we were familiar on earth. -The Indian occultists indeed had long urged that they saw fourteen tints -in the prism; this was the dream of the mystic, who, by a tremendous -system of education, claims to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> subjected the body to the soul, so -that the ordinary laws of nature yield to his control. Physicists had -also taught us that the laws of optics involved the necessity of other -colors beyond those whose rays were admissible by our present vision; -this was the assertion of that science which is indebted more largely to -the imagination than the worshiper of the Fact has yet arisen from his -prone posture high enough to see.</p> - -<p>Now, indeed, I had the truth before me. Colors which no artist’s -palette, no poet’s rapture knew, played upon optic nerves exquisitely -trained to receive such effects, and were appropriated by other senses -empowered to share them in a manner which human language supplies me -with no verb or adjective to express.</p> - -<p>As we journeyed home after the Symphony, I was surprised to find how -calming had been the effect of its intense excitement. Without fever of -pulse or rebel fancy or wearied nerve, I looked about upon the peaceful -country. I felt ready for any duty. I was strong for all deprivation. I -longed to live more purely. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> prayed to live more unselfishly. I -greatly wished to share the pleasure, with which I had been blessed, -with some denied soul. I thought of uneducated people, and coarse -people, who had yet to be trained to so many of the highest varieties of -happiness. I thought of sick people, all their earthly lives invalids, -recently dead, and now free to live. I wished that I had sought some of -these out, and taken them with me to the Symphony.</p> - -<p>It was a rare evening, even in the blessed land. I enjoyed the change of -scene as I used to do in traveling, below. It was delightful to look -abroad and see everywhere prosperity and peace. The children were -shouting and tumbling in the fields. Young people strolled laughing by -twos or in groups. The vigorous men and women busied themselves or -rested at the doors of cosy homes. The ineffable landscape of hill and -water stretched on behind the human foreground. Nowhere a chill or a -blot; nowhere a tear or a scowl, a deformity, a disability, or an evil -passion. There was no flaw in the picture. There was no error in the -fact.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> I felt that I was among a perfectly happy people. I said, “I am -in a holy world.”</p> - -<p>The next day was a Holy Day; we of the earth still called it the -Sabbath, from long habit. I remember an especial excitement on that Holy -Day following the Color Symphony, inasmuch as we assembled to be -instructed by one whom, above all other men that had ever lived on -earth, I should have taken most trouble to hear. This was no other than -St. John the Apostle.</p> - -<p>I remember that we held the service in the open air, in the fields -beyond the city, for “there was no Temple therein.” The Beloved Disciple -stood above us, on the rising ground. It would be impossible to forget, -but it is well-nigh impossible to describe, the appearance of the -preacher. I think he had the most sensitive face I ever saw in any man; -yet his dignity was unapproachable. He had a ringing voice of remarkable -sweetness, and great power of address. He seemed more divested of -himself than any orator I had heard. He poured his personality out upon -us, like one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> forces of nature, as largely, and as unconsciously.</p> - -<p>He taught us much. He reasoned of mysteries over which we had pored -helplessly all our lives below. He explained intricate points in the -plan of human life. He touched upon the perplexities of religious faith. -He cast a great light backward over the long, dim way by which we had -crept to our present blessedness. He spoke to us of our deadliest -doubts. He confirmed for us our patient belief. He made us ashamed of -our distrust and our restlessness. He left us eager for faith. He gave -vigor to our spiritual ideals. He spoke to us of the love of God, as the -light speaks of the sun. He revealed to us how we had misunderstood Him. -Our souls cried out within us, as we remembered our errors. We gathered -ourselves like soldiers as we knew our possibilities. We swayed in his -hands as the bough sways in the wind. Each man looked at his neighbor as -one whose eyes ask: “Have I wronged thee? Let me atone.” “Can I serve -thee? Show me how.” All our spiritual life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> arose like an athlete, to -exercise itself; we sought hard tasks; we aspired for far prizes; we -turned to our daily lives like new-created beings; so truly we had kept -Holy Day. When the discourse was over, there followed an anthem sung by -a choir of child-angels hovering in mid-air above the preacher, and -beautiful exceedingly to the sight and to the ear. “God,” they sang, “is -Love—<i>is</i> Love—is <span class="smcap">Love</span>.” In the refrain we joined with our own awed -voices.</p> - -<p>The chant died away. All the air of all the worlds was still. The -beloved Disciple raised his hand in solemn signal. A majestic Form -glided to his side. To whom should the fisherman of Galilee turn with a -look like <i>that</i>? Oh, grace of God! what a smile was there! The Master -and Disciple stand together; they rise above us. See! He falls upon his -knees before that Other. So we also, sinking to our own, hide our very -faces from the sight.</p> - -<p>Our Lord steps forth, and stands alone. To us in glory, as to them of -old in sorrow, He is the God made manifest. We do not lift our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> bowed -heads, but we feel that He has raised His piercéd hands above us, and -that His own lips call down the Benediction of His Father upon our -eternal lives.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">My</span> father had been absent from home a great deal, taking journeys with -whose object he did not acquaint me. I myself had not visited the earth -for some time; I cannot say how long. I do not find it possible to -divide heavenly time by an earthly calendar, and cannot even decide how -much of an interval, by human estimates, had been indeed covered by my -residence in the Happy Country, as described upon these pages.</p> - -<p>My duties had called me in other directions, and I had been exceedingly -busy. My father sometimes spoke of our dear hearts at home, and reported -them as all well; but he was not communicative about them. I observed -that he took more pains than usual, or I should say more pleasure than -usual, in the little domestic cares of our heavenly home. Never had it -been in more perfect condition. The garden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> and the grounds were looking -exquisitely. All the trifling comforts or ornaments of the house were to -his mind. We talked of them much, and wandered about in our leisure -moments, altering or approving details. I did my best to make him happy, -but my own heart told me how lonely he must be despite me. We talked -less of her coming than we used to do. I felt that he had accepted the -separation with the unquestioning spirit which one gains so deeply in -Heaven; and that he was content, as one who trusted, still to wait.</p> - -<p>One evening, I came home slowly and alone. My father had been away for -some days. I had been passing several hours with some friends, who, with -myself, had been greatly interested in an event of public importance. A -messenger was needed to carry certain tidings to a great astronomer, -known to us of old on earth, who was at that time busied in research in -a distant planet. It was a desirable embassy, and many sought the -opportunity for travel and culture which it gave. After some delay in -the appointment, it was given to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> person but just arrived from below: -a woman not two days dead. This surprised me till I had inquired into -the circumstances, when I learned that the new-comer had been on earth -an extreme sufferer, bed-ridden for forty years. Much of this time she -had been unable even to look out of doors. The airs of Heaven had been -shut from her darkened chamber. For years she had not been able to -sustain conversation with her own friends, except on rare occasions. -Possessed of a fine mind, she had been unable to read, or even to bear -the human voice in reading. Acute pain had tortured her days. -Sleeplessness had made horror of her nights. She was poor. She was -dependent. She was of a refined organization. She was of a high spirit, -and of energetic temperament. Medical science, holding out no cure, -assured her that she might live to old age. She lived. When she was -seventy-six years old, death remembered her. This woman had sometimes -been inquired of, touching her faith in that Mystery which we call God. -I was told that she gave but one answer; beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> this, revealing no more -of experience than the grave itself, to which, more than to any other -simile, her life could be likened.</p> - -<p>“Though He slay me,” she said, “I will trust.”</p> - -<p>“But, do you never doubt?”</p> - -<p>“I <i>will</i> trust.”</p> - -<p>To this rare spirit, set free at last and re-embodied, the commission of -which I have spoken was delegated; no one in all the city grudged her -its coveted advantages. A mighty shout rose in the public ways when the -selection was made known. I should have thought she might become -delirious with the sudden access of her freedom, but it was said that -she received her fortune quietly, and, slipping out of sight, was away -upon her errand before we saw her face.</p> - -<p>The incident struck me as a most impressive one, and I was occupied with -it, as I walked home thoughtfully. Indeed, I was so absorbed that I went -with my eyes cast down, and scarcely noticed when I had reached our own -home. I did not glance at the house, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> continued my way up the -winding walk between the trees, still drowned in my reverie.</p> - -<p>It was a most peaceful evening. I felt about me the fine light at which -I did not look; that evening glow was one of the new colors,—one of the -heavenly colors that I find it impossible to depict. The dog came to -meet me as usual; he seemed keenly excited, and would have hurried me -into the house. I patted him absently as I strolled on.</p> - -<p>Entering the house with a little of the sense of loss which, even in the -Happy World, accompanies the absence of those we love, and wondering -when my father would be once more with me, I was startled at hearing his -voice—no, voices; there were two; they came from an upper chamber, and -the silent house echoed gently with their subdued words.</p> - -<p>I stood for a moment listening below; I felt the color flash out of my -face; my heart stood still. I took a step or two -forward—hesitated—advanced with something like fear. The dog pushed -before me, and urged me to follow. After a moment’s thought I did so, -resolutely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<p>The doors stood open everywhere, and the evening air blew in with a -strong and wholesome force. No one had heard me. Guided by the voices of -the unseen speakers I hurried on, across the hall, through my own room, -and into that sacred spot I have spoken of, wherein for so many solitary -years my dear father had made ready for her coming who was the joy of -his joy, in Heaven, as she had been on earth.</p> - -<p>For that instant, I saw all the familiar details of the room in a blur -of light. It was as if a sea of glory filled the place. Across it, out -beyond the window, on the balcony which overlooked the hill-country and -the sea, stood my father and my mother, hand in hand.</p> - -<p>She did not hear me, even yet. They were talking quietly, and were -absorbed. Uncertain what to do, I might even have turned and left them -undisturbed, so sacred seemed that hour of theirs to me; so separate in -all the range of experience in either world, or any life. But her heart -warned her, and she stirred, and so saw me—my dear mother—come to us, -at last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span></p> - -<p>Oh, what arms can gather like a mother’s, whether in earth or Heaven? -Whose else could be those brooding touches, those raining tears, those -half-inarticulate maternal words? And for her, too, the bitterness is -passed, the blessedness begun. Oh, my dear mother! My dear mother! I -thank God I was the child appointed to give you welcome—thus....</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>“And how is it with Tom,—poor Tom!”</p> - -<p>“He has grown such a fine fellow; you cannot think. I leaned upon him. -He was the comfort of my old age.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Tom!”</p> - -<p>“And promises to make such a man, dear! A good boy. No bad habits, yet. -Your father is so pleased that he makes a scholar.”</p> - -<p>“Dear Tom! And Alice?”</p> - -<p>“It was hard to leave Alice. But she is young. Life is before her. God -is good.”</p> - -<p>“And you, my dearest, was it hard for you at the last? Was it a long -sickness? Who took care of you? Mother! did you suffer <i>much</i>?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<p>“Dear, I never suffered any. I had a sudden stroke I think. I was -sitting by the fire with the children. It was vacation and Tom was at -home. They were all at home. I started to cross the room, and it grew -dark. I did not know that I was dead till I found I was standing there -upon the balcony, in your father’s arms.”</p> - -<p>“I had to tell her what had happened. She wouldn’t believe me at the -first.”</p> - -<p>“Were you with her all the time below?”</p> - -<p>“All the time; for days before the end.”</p> - -<p>“And you brought her here yourself, easily?”</p> - -<p>“All the way, myself. She slept like a baby, and wakened—as she says.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">But</span> was it possible to feel desolate in Heaven? Life now filled to the -horizon. Our business, our studies, and our pleasures occupied every -moment. Every day new expedients of delight unfurled before us. Our -conceptions of happiness increased faster than their realization. The -imagination itself grew, as much as the aspiration. We saw height beyond -height of joy, as we saw outline above outline of duty. How paltry -looked our wildest earthly dream! How small our largest worldly deed! -One would not have thought it possible that one could even want so much -as one demanded here; or hope so far as one expected now.</p> - -<p>What possibilities stretched on; each leading to a larger, like -newly-discovered stars, one beyond another; as the pleasure or the -achievement took its place, the capacity for the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> increased. -Satiety or its synonyms passed out of our language, except as a -reminiscence of the past. See, what were the conditions of this eternal -problem. Given: a pure heart, perfect health, unlimited opportunity for -usefulness, infinite chance of culture, home, friendship, love; the -elimination from practical life of anxiety and separation; and the -intense spiritual stimulus of the presence of our dear Master, through -whom we approached the mystery of God—how incredible to anything short -of experience the sum of happiness!</p> - -<p>I soon learned how large a part of our delight consisted in -anticipation; since now we knew anticipation without alloy of fear. I -thought much of the joys in store for me, which yet I was not perfected -enough to attain. I looked onward to the perpetual meeting of old -friends and acquaintances, both of the living and the dead; to the -command of unknown languages, arts, and sciences, and knowledges -manifold; to the grandeur of helping the weak, and revering the strong; -to the privilege of guarding the erring or the tried, whether of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> earth -or heaven, and of sharing all attainable wisdom with the less wise, and -of even instructing those too ignorant to know that they were not wise, -and of ministering to the dying, and of assisting in bringing together -the separated. I looked forward to meeting select natures, the -distinguished of earth or Heaven; to reading history backward by contact -with its actors, and settling its knotty points by their evidential -testimony. Was I not in a world where Loyola, and Jeanne d’Arc, or -Luther, or Arthur, could be asked questions?</p> - -<p>I would follow the experiments of great discoverers, since their advent -to this place. What did Newton, and Columbus, and Darwin in the eternal -life?</p> - -<p>I would keep pace with the development of art. To what standard had -Michael Angelo been raising the public taste all these years?</p> - -<p>I would join the fragments of those private histories which had long -been matter of public interest. Where, and whose now, was Vittoria -Colonna?</p> - -<p>I would have the <i>finales</i> of the old Sacred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> stories. What use had been -made of the impetuosity of Peter? What was the private life of Saint -John? With what was the fine intellect of Paul now occupied? What was -the charm in the Magdalene? In what sacred fields did the sweet nature -of Ruth go gleaning? Did David write the new anthems for the celestial -chorals? What was the attitude of Moses towards the Persistence of -Force? Where was Judas? And did the Betrayed plead for the betrayer?</p> - -<p>I would study the sociology of this explanatory life. Where, if -anywhere, were the Cave-men? In what world, and under what educators, -were the immortal souls of Laps and Bushmen trained? What social -position had the early Christian martyrs? What became of Caligula, whose -nurse, we were told, smeared her breasts with blood, and so developed -the world-hated tyrant from the outraged infant? Where was Buddha, “the -Man who knew”? What affectionate relation subsisted between him and the -Man who Loved?</p> - -<p>I would bide my time patiently, but I, too,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> would become an experienced -traveler through the spheres. Our Sun I would visit, and scarlet Mars, -said by our astronomers below to be the planet most likely to contain -inhabitants. The colored suns I would observe, and the nebulæ, and the -mysteries of space, powerless now to chill one by its reputed -temperature, said to be forever at zero. Where were the Alps of Heaven? -The Niagara of celestial scenery? The tropics of the spiritual world? -Ah, how I should pursue Eternity with questions!</p> - -<p>What was the relation of mechanical power to celestial conditions? What -use was made of Watts and Stevenson?</p> - -<p>What occupied the ex-hod-carriers and cooks?</p> - -<p>Where were all the songs of all the poets? In the eternal accumulation -of knowledge, what proportion sifted through the strainers of spiritual -criticism? What <i>were</i> the standards of spiritual criticism? What became -of those creations of the human intellect which had acquired -immortality? Were there instances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> where these figments of fancy had -achieved an eternal existence lost by their own creators? Might not one -of the possible mysteries of our new state of existence be the fact of a -world peopled by the great creatures of our imagination known to us -below? And might not one of our pleasures consist in visiting such a -world? Was it incredible that Helen, and Lancelot, and Sigfried, and -Juliet, and Faust, and Dinah Morris, and the Lady of Shalott, and Don -Quixote, and Colonel Newcome, and Sam Weller, and Uncle Tom, and Hester -Prynne and Jean Valjean existed? could be approached by way of holiday, -as one used to take up the drama or the fiction, on a leisure hour, down -below?</p> - -<p>Already, though so short a time had I been in the upper life, my -imagination was overwhelmed with the sense of its possibilities. They -seemed to overlap one another like the molecules of gold in a ring, -without visible juncture or practical end. I was ready for the -inconceivable itself. In how many worlds should I experience myself? How -many lives<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> should I live? Did eternal existence mean eternal variety of -growth, suspension, renewal? Might youth and maturity succeed each other -exquisitely? Might individual life reproduce itself from seed, to -flower, to fruit, like a plant, through the cycles? Would childhood or -age be a matter of personal choice? Would the affectional or the -intellectual temperaments at will succeed each other? Might one try the -domestic or the public career in different existences? Try the bliss of -love in one age, the culture of solitude in another? Be oneself yet be -all selves? Experience all glories, all discipline, all knowledge, all -hope? Know the ecstasy of assured union with the one creature chosen out -of time and Eternity to complement the soul? And yet forever pursue the -unattainable with the rapture and the reverence of newly-awakened and -still ungratified feeling?</p> - -<p>Ah me! was it possible to feel desolate even in Heaven?</p> - -<p>I think it may be, because I had been much occupied with thoughts like -these; or it may<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> be that, since my dear mother’s coming, I had been, -naturally, thrown more by myself in my desire to leave those two -uninterrupted in their first reunion—but I must admit that I had lonely -moments, when I realized that Heaven had yet failed to provide me with a -home of my own, and that the most loving filial position could not -satisfy the nature of a mature man or woman in any world. I must admit -that I began to be again subject to retrospects and sadnesses which had -been well brushed away from my heart since my advent to this place. I -must admit that in experiencing the immortality of being, I found that I -experienced no less the immortality of love.</p> - -<p>Had I to meet that old conflict <i>here</i>? I never asked for everlasting -life. Will He impose it, and not free me from <i>that</i>? God forgive me! -Have I evil in my heart still? Can one sin in Heaven? Nay, be merciful, -be merciful! I will be patient. I will have trust. But the old nerves -are not dead. The old ache has survived the grave.</p> - -<p>Why was this permitted, if without a cure?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> Why had death no power to -call decay upon that for which eternal life seemed to have provided no -health? It had seemed to me, so far as I could observe the heavenly -society, that only the fortunate affections of preëxistence survived. -The unhappy, as well as the imperfect, were outlived and replaced. -Mysteries had presented themselves here, which I was not yet wise enough -to clear up. I saw, however, that a great ideal was one thing which -never died. The attempt to realize it often involved effects which -seemed hardly less than miraculous.</p> - -<p>But for myself, events had brought no solution of the problems of my -past; and with the tenacity of a constant nature I was unable to see any -for the future.</p> - -<p>I mused one evening, alone with these long thoughts. I was strolling -upon a wide, bright field. Behind me lay the city, glittering and glad. -Beyond, I saw the little sea which I had crossed. The familiar outline -of the hills uprose behind. All Heaven seemed heavenly. I heard distant -merry voices and music. Listening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> closely, I found that the Wedding -March that had stirred so many human heart-beats was perfectly performed -somewhere across the water, and that the wind bore the sounds towards -me. I then remembered to have heard it said that Mendelssohn was himself -a guest of some distinguished person in an adjacent town, and that -certain music of his was to be given for the entertainment of a group of -people who had been deaf-mutes in the lower life.</p> - -<p>As the immortal power of the old music filled the air, I stayed my steps -to listen. The better to do this, I covered my eyes with my hands, and -so stood blindfold and alone in the midst of the wide field.</p> - -<p>The passion of earth and the purity of Heaven—the passion of Heaven and -the deferred hope of earth—what loss and what possession were in the -throbbing strains!</p> - -<p>As never on earth, they called the glad to rapture. As never on earth, -they stirred the sad to silence. Where, before, had soul or sense been -called by such a clarion? What music was, we used to dream. What it is, -we dare, at last, to know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span></p> - -<p>And yet—I would have been spared this if I could, I think, just now. -Give me a moment’s grace. I would draw breath, and so move on again, and -turn me to my next duty quietly, since even Heaven denies me, after all.</p> - -<p>I would—what would I? Where am I? Who spoke, or stirred? <span class="smcap">Who</span> called me -by a name unheard by me of any living lip for almost twenty years?</p> - -<p>In a transport of something not unlike terror, I could not remove my -hands from my eyes, but still stood, blinded and dumb, in the middle of -the shining field. Beneath my clasped fingers, I caught the radiance of -the edges of the blades of grass that the low breeze swept against my -garment’s hem; and strangely in that strange moment, there came to me, -for the only articulate thought I could command, these two lines of an -old hymn:</p> - -<p> -“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood<br /> -Stand dressed in living green.”<br /> -</p> - -<p>“Take down your hands,” a voice said quietly. “Do not start or fear. It -is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> most natural thing in the world that I should find you. Be calm. -Take courage. Look at me.”</p> - -<p>Obeying, as the tide obeys the moon, I gathered heart, and so, lifting -my eyes, I saw him whom I remembered standing close beside me. We two -were alone in the wide, bright field. All Heaven seemed to have -withdrawn to leave us to ourselves for this one moment.</p> - -<p>I had known that I might have loved him, all my life. I had never loved -any other man. I had not seen him for almost twenty years. As our eyes -met, our souls challenged one another in silence, and in strength. I was -the first to speak:</p> - -<p>“<i>Where is she?</i>”</p> - -<p>“Not with me.”</p> - -<p>“When did you die?”</p> - -<p>“Years ago.”</p> - -<p>“I had lost all trace of you.”</p> - -<p>“It was better so, for all concerned.”</p> - -<p>“Is she—is she”—</p> - -<p>“She is on earth, and of it; she has found comfort long since; another -fills my place. I do not grieve to yield it. Come!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span></p> - -<p>“But I have thought—for all these years—it was not right—I put the -thought away—I do not understand”—</p> - -<p>“Oh, come! I, too, have waited twenty years.”</p> - -<p>“But is there no reason—no barrier—are you sure? God help me! You have -turned Heaven into Hell for me, if this is not right.”</p> - -<p>“Did I ever ask you to give me one pitying thought that was not right?”</p> - -<p>“Never, God knows. Never. You helped me to be right, to be noble. You -were the noblest man I ever knew. I was a better woman for having known -you, though we parted—as we did.”</p> - -<p>“Then do you trust me? Come!”</p> - -<p>“I trust you as I do the angels of God.”</p> - -<p>“And I love you as His angels may. Come!”</p> - -<p>“For how long—am I to come?”</p> - -<p>“Are we not in Eternity? I claim you as I have loved you, without limit -and without end. Soul of my immortal soul! Life of my eternal life!—Ah, -come.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> yet so subtle is the connection in the eternal life between the -soul’s best moments and the Source of them, that I felt unready for my -joy until it had His blessing whose Love was the sun of all love, and -whose approval was sweeter than all happiness.</p> - -<p>Now, it was a part of that beautiful order of Heaven, which we ceased to -call accident, that while I had this wish upon my lips, we saw Him -coming to us, where we still stood alone together in the open field.</p> - -<p>We did not hasten to meet Him, but remained as we were until He reached -our side; and then we sank upon our knees before Him, silently. God -knows what gain we had for the life that we had lost below. The pure -eyes of the Master sought us with a benignity from which we thanked the -Infinite Mercy that our own had not need to droop ashamed. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> weak, -earthly comfort could have been worth the loss of a moment such as this? -He blesses us. With His sacred hands He blesses us, and by His blessing -lifts our human love into so divine a thing that this seems the only -life in which it could have breathed.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>By-and-by, when our Lord has left us, we join hands like children, and -walk quietly through the dazzling air, across the field, and up the -hill, and up the road, and home. I seek my mother, trembling, and clasp -her, sinking on my knees, until I hide my face upon her lap. Her hands -stray across my hair and cheek.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, Mary?—<i>dear</i> Mary!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mother, I have Heaven in my heart at last!”</p> - -<p>“Tell me all about it, my poor child. Hush! There, there! my dear!”</p> - -<p>“<i>Your poor child?</i> ... Mother! What <i>can</i> you mean?”—</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>What can she mean, indeed? I turn and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> gaze into her eyes. My face was -hidden in her lap. Her hands stray across my hair and cheek.</p> - -<p>“<i>What is the matter, Mary?—dear Mary!</i>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Oh, Mother, I have Heaven in my heart at last!</i>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Tell me all about it, my poor child. Hush! There, there! my dear!</i>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Your poor child? Mother!</i> <i>What</i> <small>CAN</small> <i>this mean</i>?”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>She broods and blesses me, she calms and gathers me. With a mighty cry, -I fling myself against her heart, and sob my soul out, there.</p> - -<p>“You are better, child,” she says. “Be quiet. You will live.”</p> - -<p>Upon the edge of the sick-bed, sitting strained and weary, she leans to -comfort me. The night-lamp burns dimly on the floor behind the door. The -great red chair stands with my white woollen wrapper thrown across the -arm. In the window the magenta geranium droops<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> freezing. Mignonette is -on the table, and its breath pervades the air. Upon the wall, the cross, -the Christ, and the picture of my father look down.</p> - -<p>The doctor is in the room; I hear him say that he shall change the -medicine, and some one, I do not notice who, whispers that it is thirty -hours since the stupor, from which I have aroused, began. Alice comes -in, and Tom, I see, has taken Mother’s place, and holds me—dear -Tom!—and asks me if I suffer, and why I look so disappointed.</p> - -<p>Without, in the frosty morning, the factory-bells are calling the poor -girls to their work. The shutter is ajar, and through the crack I see -the winter day dawn on the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="eng">Standard and Popular Library Books</p> - -<p class="c"><small>SELECTED FROM THE CATALOGUE OF</small></p> - -<p class="c">HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.</p> - -<p><span class="letra">J</span>ohn Adams and Abigail Adams.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Familiar Letters of, during the Revolution. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Oscar Fay Adams.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Handbook of English Authors. 16mo, 75 cents.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Handbook of American Authors. 16mo, 75 cents.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Louis Agassiz.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Methods of Study in Natural History. 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By John Austin Stevens.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Adams. By John T. Morse, Jr.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">(<i>In Preparation.</i>)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">James Madison. By Sidney Howard Gay.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span></p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Henry Clay. By Hon. Carl Schurz.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Samuel Adams. By John Fiske.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Martin Van Buren. By Hon. Wm. 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Crown 8vo, $1.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>William Cullen Bryant.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Translation of Homer. The Iliad. 1 vol. crown 8vo, $3.00. vols. royal 8vo, $9.00; crown 8vo, $4.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Odyssey. 1 vol. crown 8vo, $3.00. 2 vols. royal 8vo, $9.00; crown 8vo, $4.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Sara C. Bull.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Ole Bull. Portrait and illustrations. 8vo, $2.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>John Burroughs.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. 5 vols. 16mo, each $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Thomas Carlyle.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Essays. With Portrait and Index. 4 vols. 12mo, $7.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Popular Edition.</i> 2 vols. 12mo, $3.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Alice and Phœbe Cary.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Household Edition.</i> 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Library Edition.</i> Including Memorial by Mary Clemmer.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Portraits and 24 illustrations. 8vo, $4.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Lydia Maria Child.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Looking toward Sunset. 12mo, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Letters. With Biography by Whittier. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>James Freeman Clarke.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ten Great Religions. 8vo, $3.00.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ten Great Religions. Part II. Comparison of all Religions. 8vo, $3.00.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Common Sense in Religion. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Memorial and Biographical Sketches. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<p>James Fenimore Cooper.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. <i>Household Edition.</i> Illustrated. 32 vols. 16mo,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">each $1.00; the set, $32.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Globe Edition.</i> Illustrated. 16 vols. 16mo, $20.00. (<i>Sold only in sets.</i>)</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Charles Egbert Craddock.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the Tennessee Mountains.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>F. Marion Crawford.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To Leeward. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>M. Creighton.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Papacy during the Reformation. 2 vols. 8vo, $10.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Richard H. Dana.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To Cuba and Back. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Two Years before the Mast. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Thomas De Quincey.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. <i>Riverside Edition.</i> 12 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; the</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">set, $18.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Madame De Staël.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Germany. 12mo, $2.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Charles Dickens.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. <i>Illustrated Library Edition.</i> With Dickens Dictionary.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">30 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; the set, $45.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Globe Edition.</i> 15 vols. 16mo, each $1.25; the set, $18.75.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>J. Lewis Diman.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Theistic Argument, etc. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Orations and Essays. Crown 8vo, $2.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>F. S. Drake.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dictionary of American Biography. 8vo, $6.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Charles L. Eastlake.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hints on Household Taste. Illustrated. 8vo, $3.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Notes on the Louvre and Brera Galleries. Small 4to, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span></p> - -<p>George Eliot.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Spanish Gypsy. A Poem. 16mo, $1.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Ralph Waldo Emerson.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. <i>Riverside Edition.</i> 11 vols. each $1.75.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>“Little Classic” Edition.</i> 11 vols. 18mo, each $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Parnassus. <i>Household Edition.</i> 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Library Edition.</i> 8vo, $4.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Edgar Fawcett.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A Hopeless Case. 18mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A Gentleman of Leisure. 18mo, $1.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An Ambitious Woman. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>F. de S. de la Motte Fénelon.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Adventures of Telemachus. 12mo, $2.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>James T. Fields.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yesterdays with Authors. 12mo, $2.00; 8vo, $3.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Underbrush. 18mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ballads and other Verses. 16mo, $1.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Family Library of British Poetry. Royal 8vo, $5.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Memoirs and Correspondence. 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>John Fiske.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Myths and Myth-Makers. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy. 2 vols. 8vo, $6.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Unseen World, and other Essays. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Excursions of an Evolutionist. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Darwinism and Other Essays. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Dorsey Gardner.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Quatre Bras, Ligny, and Waterloo. 8vo, $5.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>John F. Genung.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tennyson’s In Memoriam. A Study. Crown 8vo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Faust. Part First. Translated by C. T. Brooks. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Faust. Translated by Bayard Taylor, 1 vol. crown 8vo,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">$3.00. 2 vols. royal 8vo, $9.00; 12mo, $4.50.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Correspondence with a Child. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wilhelm Meister. Translated by Carlyle. 2 vols. 12mo, $3.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Anna Davis Hallowell.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">James and Lucretia Mott. Crown 8vo. (<i>In Press.</i>)</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Arthur Sherburne Hardy.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But Yet a Woman. <i>Nineteenth Thousand.</i> 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Bret Harte.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. <i>New Edition.</i> 5 vols. Crown 8vo, each $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Household Edition.</i> 12mo, $2.00. <i>Red-Line</i></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Edition.</i> Small 4to, $2.50. <i>Diamond Edition</i>, $1.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Nathaniel Hawthorne.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. <i>“Little Classic” Edition.</i> Illustrated. 25 vols.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">18mo, each $1.00; the set $25.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>New Riverside Edition.</i> Introductions by G. P. Lathrop.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">11 Etchings and Portrait. 12 vols. crown 8vo, each $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>John Hay.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pike County Ballads. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Castilian Days. 16mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>George S. Hillard.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Six Months in Italy. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Oliver Wendell Holmes.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Household Edition.</i> 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Illustrated Library Edition.</i> 8vo, $4.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Handy-Volume Edition.</i> 2 vols. 18mo, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Handy-Volume Edition.</i> 18mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Professor at the Breakfast-Table. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Poet at the Breakfast-Table. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Elsie Venner. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Guardian Angel. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Medical Essays. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pages from an old Volume of Life. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Lothrop Motley. A Memoir. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span></p> - -<p>Augustus Hoppin.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A Fashionable Sufferer. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Recollections of Auton House. 4to, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Blanche Willis Howard.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">One Summer. 18mo, $1.25. Sq. 12mo, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">One Year Abroad. 18mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>William D. Howells.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Venetian Life. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Italian Journeys. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Their Wedding Journey. 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Mollett.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Illustrated Dictionary of Words used in Art and Archæology.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Small 4to, $5.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Michael de Montaigne.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Complete Works. Portrait. 4 vols. 12mo, $7.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>William Mountford.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Euthanasy. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>T. Mozley.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Reminiscences of Oriel College, etc. 2 vols. 16mo, $3.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Elisha Mulford.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Nation. 8vo, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Republic of God. 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>T. T. Munger.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On the Threshold. 16mo, $1.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Freedom of Faith. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>J. A. W. Neander.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">History of the Christian Religion and Church, with Index</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">volume, 6 vols. 8vo, $20.00; Index alone, $3.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Joseph Neilson.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Memories of Rufus Choate. 8vo, $5.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Charles Eliot Norton.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Notes of Travel and Study in Italy. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Translation of Dante’s New Life. Royal 8vo, $3.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span></p> - -<p>James Parton.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Benjamin Franklin. 2 vols. 8vo, $4.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Thomas Jefferson. 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Aaron Burr. 2 vols. 8vo, $4.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Andrew Jackson. 3 vols. 8vo, $6.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Horace Greeley. 8vo, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">General Butler in New Orleans. 8vo, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Humorous Poetry of the English Language. 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Famous Americans of Recent Times. 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life of Voltaire. 2 vols. 8vo, $6.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The French Parnassus. 12mo, $2.00. Crown 8vo, $3.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Blaise Pascal.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thoughts. 12mo, $2.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Letters. 12mo, $2.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Gates Ajar. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beyond the Gates. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Men, Women, and Ghosts. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hedged In. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Silent Partner. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Story of Avis. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sealed Orders, and other Stories. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Friends: A Duet. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Doctor Zay. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Carl Ploetz.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Epitome of Universal History. 12mo, $3.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Adelaide A. Procter.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Diamond Ed.</i> $1.00. <i>Red-Line Ed.</i> Sm. 4to, $2.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Abby Sage Richardson.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">History of Our Country. 8vo, $4.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Songs from the Old Dramatists. 4to, $2.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>C. F. Richardson.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Primer of American Literature. 18mo, 30 cents.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Henry Crabb Robinson.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Diary, Reminiscences, etc. Crown 8vo, $2.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<p>A. P. Russell.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Library Notes. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Characteristics. Crown 8vo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Edgar E. Saltus.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Balzac. Crown 8vo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>John Godfrey Saxe.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Red-Line Edition.</i> Illustrated. Small 4to, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Diamond Edition.</i> $1.00. <i>Household Edition.</i> 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Sir Walter Scott.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Waverley Novels. <i>Illustrated Library Edition.</i> 25 vols.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">12mo, each $1.00; the set, $25.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Globe Edition.</i> 100 illustrations. 13 vols. 16mo, $16.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tales of a Grandfather. 3 vols. 12mo, $4.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Red-Line Edition.</i> Illustrated. Small 4to, $2.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Diamond Edition.</i> $1.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Horace E. Scudder.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Bodley Books. Illus. 7 vols. small 4to, each $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Dwellers in Five-Sisters’ Court. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Stories and Romances. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>W. H. Seward.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. 5 vols. 8vo, $15.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Diplomatic History of the War. 8vo, $3.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>John Campbell Shairp.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Culture and Religion. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poetic Interpretation of Nature. 16mo, $1.25.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Aspects of Poetry. 16mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>William Shakespeare.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Works. Edited by R. G. White. <i>Riverside Edition.</i> 3 vols.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">crown 8vo, $7.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Same. 6 vols. 8vo, $15.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Dr. William Smith.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bible Dictionary. <i>American Edition.</i> The set, 4 vols. 8vo,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">$20.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<p>Edmund Clarence Stedman.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poems. <i>Farringford Edition.</i> Portrait. 16mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Household Edition.</i> Portrait. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Victorian Poets. 12mo, $2.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Poetry of America. (<i>In Press.</i>)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Edgar Allan Poe. An Essay. Vellum, 18mo, $1.00.</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Harriet Beecher Stowe.</p> - -<div class="indd"><p class="nind"> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Agnes of Sorrento. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Pearl of Orr’s Island. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Minister’s Wooing. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The May-flower, and other Sketches. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nina Gordon. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oldtown Folks. 12mo, $1.50.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sam Lawson’s Fireside Stories. 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