CHAPTER XXIV.
A VISIT TO ROBERT BURNS.
I had long been pressed and impressed to pay a visit to the spirit home of Robert Burns, Scotland’s favored child of song, where he extends the thorough hospitality of a genial heart, and where all kindred souls are welcomed with royal cordiality.
I had met Burns upon many occasions since my entrance to the joys of spirit life. I had seen him in the public convocations of poets, had been with him at friendly gatherings where souls like his meet to enjoy the rich and varied productions of each other’s minds; I had seen him in hall and bower, amid lofty and amid lowly scenes; and finally I had received a visit from him in my own private domain. But as yet I had never responded to his kindly, urgent invitations, nor to my own promptings, to return the visit. An opportunity at length presented itself for me to do so, and accordingly, with a friend, who wished me to travel leisurely as mortals do, and who accompanied me to point out the natural beauties and points of interest along our route, I set out with a joyful spirit, and anticipations of a rich treat, to visit the spirit home of Scotia’s immortal bard.
I will not weary you by descriptions of our journey. The time is coming when the localities and scenery of spirit life will be described to mortals by those who are fully competent to do so. At present, I will confine myself to the object of my journey, namely, the arrival at the spirit home of the poet.
My companion and myself journeyed along—he interesting me on the way, by relating bits of history or incidents concerning places we passed, together with anecdotes of the people and their customs—until we arrived at the entrance of a natural basin or valley, that lay like a great emerald between two ranges of towering mountains. Upon the right, the mighty pile reared its lofty head in solemn grandeur; the morning shadows resting upon it, only serving to deepen the impressiveness of its height and power. Its base of a dark brown hue supported the rugged pile, which deepened in color as it arose, until its apex presented the appearance of a gigantic amethyst, glittering beneath the light of morning in an indescribable purple splendor.
Upon the left arose a range of polished stone, as white as sculptured marble, which gleamed and glistened in the sunlight like a mountain of frost work. Its numerous crags and peaks shone like so many spears of frozen snow, the rosy light resting upon its sparkling surface causing it to present an appearance at once marvelous and bewitching to the beholder.
In the hollow formed by these mountain ranges nestled the valley I have mentioned, covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation and verdure. Fields of ripening grain, blooming gardens, delighting the senses with their fragrance and beauty, waving trees, in all the glory of exuberant foliage, were to be seen in every direction, while the white cottages of the dwellers gleamed here and there, and in their delightful locality bore every indication of home comfort. The people whom we saw busy about their gardens, or caught glimpses of between the open doorways of their houses, appeared happy and contented; their dress was simple, and seemingly worn for comfort; their countenances betokened peace and liberty. Songs of innocence and mirth arose upon the balmy air, mingling with the tones of children’s merry laughter. In short, here was an Arcadia in real life, such as any poet might be proud to dream of, and to picture out to the delight of his fellow-men.
“These,” said my friend, “are the people who have gathered about Robbie Burns, as a flock of sheep gather around a beloved shepherd; or better, as a group of children gather about a beloved and venerated father, to listen to his advice, and follow his counsel, knowing it is for their good.
“Robert Burns has made these people what they are. They have come to spirit life one by one, worn and weary from the cares of earth; some of them even sin-sick and degraded from unnatural lives, led while in the body. He has gathered them together, taught them self-reliance, preached to them through the opening flower, the running stream, and the songs of birds. He has taught them to forget their cares, and to desire a nobler existence. He has set them at work to cultivate their gardens and build themselves homes. In doing this they have grown happy and found rest.
“From him they have learned patience, self-restraint, and self-abnegation, a belief in the divinity of every spirit, and love for humanity.
“Some of these people, worn and broken down, came to him of themselves. They had heard of Burns while on earth, had read his words of sympathy, of love and tenderness, knew that he had sinned and suffered, and that with all he had faith in man. Through the great desire of their souls to see him, they were drawn to his presence, and his great, kindly heart, understanding their needs, spoke to them words of cheer, which gave relief and strength.
“Others he himself found by the wayside, sunk in misery and degradation; he held to them the helping hand, kindled in their breasts contrition for wrong committed, which brought a desire to do better and be better. He found their loved and loving ones for them; and all reverence him with love and blessing. The children abiding here are little waifs cast off from earth, who have known no tender care before their spirit birth; here they are cared for and educated by those capable of giving instruction to opening minds.”
A group of merry children, laughing and shouting in glee, dashed by us as my companion ceased speaking, their faces radiant with joy and happiness.
We paused at the entrance of a magnificent garden, whose limits extended far and wide. The well-kept walks, the superb parterres of blooming flowers, the shrubs raising their graceful branches as if conscious of their beauty, the grand old trees rearing their mighty heads, and casting grateful shadows, the pond at the further end, gleaming and glittering in the sunlight, rustic seats scattered here and there, banks of velvet-like richness, bright with their vivid hue of emerald green, all betokened this place to be the property of one who loved Nature, and was a willing worker in beautifying and adorning her productions.
This immense garden was not enclosed from the public way, except by a low hedge of evergreens, whose tops were tufted with delicate, creamy-hued, fragrant blossoms, reminding me forcibly of our own native hawthorn. No gate barred the entrance way; it was open to the free admittance of all.
At the farther end of the principal walk arose a plain, unpretentious dwelling, its white walls gleaming with an appearance of purity and peace. So far had we come up the valley that this cottage appeared to us to rest at the base of the purple-crested mountain, like a bird’s nest securely fastened upon a rugged rock.
“Here,” said my guide, “you have the home of Robert Burns. I will now leave you to his care.” Ere he could proceed, a form issued from the open doorway of the house, and hastened down the path to meet us. That beaming countenance, those kindly eyes, and warm, cordial hands extended to greet us; that commanding, yet unassuming figure, clothed in simple, rustic garb, could belong to no man in God’s universe but Robert Burns. It needed no honeyed speech, no formal words of greeting, no conventionalities, to tell us we were welcome; the spirit of our host over flowed with hospitality, and his soul beamed with all the fervor of his joy at meeting us.
Oh, the pleasure that enwrapped my being when I first entered the sanctuary of that good man’s great heart, and felt that we were congenial companions! No constraint, no conventional formalities with him; all was freedom and perfect ease.
My guide pleaded necessities of business as an excuse for leaving me alone with my host, and as we both preferred to roam in his great treasure-garden to entering the house, and feeling refreshed and strong in spirit, as though I had just partaken of food (which was true, as I had been feeding my soul all the way on the many delights I had encountered), we turned down a by-path, and I began to examine the rare plants and elegant shrubbery of the place, my host displaying and explaining his treasures as we went.
“I am surprised,” said I, “at your wealth of luxuriant bloom, and the beauty as well as the delicacy of the perfume of these plants; they surpass everything I have yet seen; you must give them a great deal of attention.”
“Well, lad,” replied my companion, “it’s not that so much. I look after them every day, of course, give them water and just the right degree of light, and trim and train them when there’s muckle need; but I think its adaptability to surroundings that makes ’em fine. I love them,—every one,—and it’s real pleasure to care for them;” and it was with unfeigned fondness that he bent over a rare stock of geraniums, and lifted a magnificent bloom to my view. We wandered along, chatting about this shrub and that plant; the proper treatment of this stock, and the right degree of culture for that variety. Nature and time had made him a thorough floriculturist; it was the spiritual refining of that love of Nature, manifested in the farmer-boy, using the plough and spade, and weaving songs of richest beauty over his work.
Again we paused, this time by the side of a parterre of the most beautiful garden-lilies I ever beheld. The creamy, cup-shaped blossoms, which crowned the slender stems, rose tall and straight from a low mass of deep, dark, and glossy leafage; while the regal flowers, with their tints of snowy richness, flecked with tiny bars of golden hue, emitted a fragrance of the most exquisite yet subtle of delicate odors. There were dozens upon dozens of these royal blossoms, filling the air with their rich perfume, and inviting the honey-bee to visit them in his search for sweets.
As I paused to admire this magnificent group of beauties—mentally likening them to a bevy of pure-souled, white-robed angels—and to drink in the full richness and glory of the scene spread out before me, there came, wafted upon the scent-laden air, a strain of sweetest music,—such as I have often heard in spirit, but which is never produced by any but highly-cultivated or advanced souls,—accompanied in this instance by a female voice in singing; and such singing—so full of melody, of expressive tenderness, with a rich under-current of harmony—mortal tongue or pen is inadequate to describe. I looked at my companion inquiringly. Said he: “It is my Highland Mary, the sainted soul who passed on before me, and who has made me what I am. This patch of lilies is her especial pride. I have named them for her, and call them ‘The Snaw Mary.’ We shall soon be with her, and you will see her for yourself.” I was delighted at the prospect of meeting “Highland Mary,” which delight of course he perceived.
We moved on past beds of beautiful verdure and bloom of every hue, and arrived at the lake, a superb sheet of water, clear as crystal, and extending over a large area, its margin laid with tiny, white cobblestones, presenting a neat, pretty appearance. A fairy-like boat was moored at a landing-place, upon the side of which I observed painted a large, thrifty-looking thistle.
A rustic bridge extended across the lake, over which we passed. At the farther side were a number of tiny arbors, around and above which twined and clung flowering vines, some of which were very familiar to me. Toward the nearest of these flower-wreathed pavilions my companion turned. The sound of singing had ceased, but through the swinging leaflets of the vines I could perceive the white drapery of female garments.
In a moment more we were in the presence of that sweet, long-loved, immortalized “Highland Mary;” and well might Robert Burns have mourned her loss, and well might the poet soul have sung his sweetest song “To Mary in Heaven.” The features of this sainted maiden were almost transparent; a halo of celestial beauty shone about her form as she moved; her beautiful eyes emitted a radiance that must have been dazzling to those not fitted to enter her sphere of purity; her bonny hair rippled down her back in waves of golden light. The beauty of mind, the purity of an innocent heart, the tenderness of soul, expressing itself in sympathy toward the weak and erring, combined with traces of experience in human suffering, manifested themselves in the chastened refinement of that lovely countenance, and the sphere of purity surrounding that angelic being.
I stood before her abashed and humbled; but a moment more, the sweet voice of Burns’ Mary bade me welcome, and I was made to feel at home.
Years of experience in the higher life had been of inestimable value to that maiden; she had had the teaching of highly-developed spirits, and the beauty, brilliancy and grace of a cultured mind, that was accustomed to deep thinking, were plainly discernible in her remarks. I was content to be a listener, and to drink deeply of the living waters of truth that flowed from the gifted mind of my host, and from the tender, loving soul of his companion.
But our stay in the pavilion was short; I would fain have lingered far longer, but the lady, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” after the fashion of woman everywhere, seemed anxious that I should be conducted to the house and have refreshments. My protestations were overruled, and we accordingly started for the abode,—not by the way my host and I had come, but on the outer side of the garden. On our journey I made a new discovery: Mary had turned to me previously, and said: “I would like you to see my aviary, the place where I keep my pets; in fact, their shelterhouse;” and soon I understood to what she referred. We were approaching a thicket of bushes; I recognized furze, gorse, and hawthorn among them. Passing through this thicket, we entered an extension of the garden, still laid out in beds of beautiful flowers. A grove of trees, in the center of which a pretty fountain sent up its jets of crystal water, arrested my attention, and beyond that, the sparkling roof of a large glass building. The bushes and trees resounded with the melody issuing from the gaily-feathered throats of numerous songsters, of every size and variety. It was a bird kingdom upon a small scale. As we entered, the birds surrounded us, alighting upon the heads and shoulders of my companions; but while they flew close to and around me, only one, a tiny white warbler, would alight upon my person. This perched upon my shoulder, and chirped and nodded as pert as possible.
We entered the glass building. Within were planted shrubs and trees, some of them bearing fruit, others seeds. There were no cages, but I observed numerous nests attached to the bushes and trees. The floor was the natural earth; the sun shone warmly, and all was beautiful. There were no doors, but here and there entrance-ways, always open for the convenience of the feathered denizens of the place, who came and went of their pleasure. A stream of water gushed from a rock, and gurgled and plashed over a heap of stones. This was the bird-house belonging to the estate, and the especial pride of “Highland Mary.”
We tarried a few moments, and then continued our way to the house, which we soon reached. How different the scene! A plain, unpretentious, white dwelling, with no attempt at ornamentation, the sun shining down upon it, fully displaying all its simplicity. Within was the same; neat and cheerful, suggestive of comfort and repose, but nothing finical, nothing tawdry; no glitter, no display. There was no covering to the cool, white floors, excepting here and there a rug or mat of green rushes. The walls of the apartment into which I was ushered were draped with a snowy gossamer-like fabric; the chairs round, wide, and comfortable, the tables oval and plain. Here we were served with refreshments,—fruit of various kinds, sweet cake formed of honey and the meat of nuts, and sparkling water.
Afterward I entered the sitting-room of spirit Mary. Here the walls were draped with blue silken stuffs; the furnishings were more elaborate and elegant than the other parts of the house, and all arranged in exquisite taste. My hostess entertained us with her tender, soulful singing, striking a harp-shaped instrument, which sent forth a delicious accompaniment to the song.
In Mary’s apartment, or boudoir, I observed a pot of primroses in full bloom, the yellow petals of the flowers recalling old familiar scenes of earth; and the sight of these flowers recalled to me also that they were the only ones I had noticed within the dwelling. This seemed singular to me; with all that wealth of bloom and fragrance without, it would only be natural to find every room adorned with slips and cuttings. Of course the drift of my thought was perceived. Burns smiled, but Mary enlightened me. “Robbie will never pluck a flower,” said she, “for his own use; he does not think it right to bring them out of their native elements, and deprive them of life on the stalk. He thinks they are hurt when they are culled; he also leaves them all out to be enjoyed by anyone who comes along; but I have seen him often break the flowers for some wee lassie, or poor laddie, who luks at them wistfully. He knows by that they had none too many flowers and pleasures on earth.”
I looked at Burns; his kindly face lighted up with intelligence and spirit beauty; every feature aglow with goodness, and every member of his body filled with energy, with suppressed power, with concentrated activity, now in abeyance, but ready to spring forth for the well-being of another,—he who had risen above all earthly passions through his great love for and faith in humanity; and I thought how characteristic of the man is this abode of peace and rest,—the home, the shrine of his faith and love,—plain, simple, yet full of cheer and interest,—no glitter nor show,—like his own kindly heart, unpretentious, full of kindness, overflowing with interest in God, Nature, and man! Without, all is beauty and fragrance; yet the natural productions of life, refined by care and cultivation, typical of the rich, the beautiful expressions of his poet soul,—refined through love, cultured through sympathy, manifested in sweetest heart songs, exemplified in those peaceful homes I had seen, whose inmates rise up and call him blessed! Characteristic of the soul is this, who would cull a flower to give a poor heart cheer, yet who will pluck none for his own use, to deprive them of natural life,—who, when he had inadvertently uprooted the tiny, wayside flower with his plowshare, immortalized the humble daisy with—
Still the same good man, gentle alike to “mon and beastie,” tender to wayside flower and weed.
Another apartment in the home of the people’s bard is fitted up as a study or library. Here are collected volumes by the true poets and philosophers of all ages. Some are prototypes of what are or what have been on earth; others are the outward productions of minds, grand and glorious in their brilliancy of thought, radiant with exquisite imagery, glowing with descriptive genius, or sweet and pathetic appeals to the tenderest emotions of the soul, through their simple, home-like, heartfelt tales of life and love, and which have never been heard by mortals.
But you must not for a moment suppose Robert Burns to be dependent upon books for intellectual enjoyment, or for the attainment of knowledge. The soul is limitless in its resources, boundless in its capacity for expansion, and that spirit who earnestly desires to gain knowledge, finds a power developing within the mind which enables him or her to comprehend the fields of learning continually opening before the vision; while facilities and opportunities are afforded by which an honest seeker may grasp the truth as it appears before him.
Could you but faintly realize the scope of the spirit, its perfect freedom, its power and right to travel where it listeth, you would understand that in the higher life we have but to earnestly desire to be in the presence of any great soul, in order to gain pleasure and profit from the gems of love, beauty, and wisdom which fall upon receptive minds from those great repositories of thought, and, lo, we are there, drinking in great and mighty truths from those who are above us in grandeur of thought, beauty of expression, and sweetness of spirit.
Robert Burns is by no means confined to his books; but, as he informed me, though his brightest thoughts are drawn from the life of Nature, or the hearts of humanity, he loves to gather about him all the expressions of the sweet, soulful, noblest ideals which others have produced. Much, that by force of circumstances, he was deprived of on earth is his now; all that will tend to ennoble and elevate his soul, which was denied him here, he finds on the other shore. Why he does not ornament his home with those adornments that denote rank and wealth to the external eye is because his soul loathed the arrogance, and learned to despise the superciliousness which he found in the hearts, often stamped on the faces and shown in the mien, of many wealthy aristocratic personages he met with while on earth.
He is Nature’s child to the core of his being, and no glittering pageantry will adorn his heart and home; as well attempt to gild the rose, and paint the lily, to add to their beauty.
Together, he and I went forth into the smiling valley. A low burn wended its way beneath the shade of waving trees, close down to the mountain base; thither we directed our steps, for he wished to show me, with a sort of fatherly pride, the great plumy bunches of purple heather tufting the sides of the gigantic hills.
A tiny child, paddling in the dark waters of the burn, her snowy feet gleaming pearly white amid the shadows thrown by the green branches of the trees, her brown locks hanging in a profusion of luxuriant curls over her dimpled shoulders, and half veiling the azure blue eye and damask cheek, arrested our attention and formed as pretty a picture as one can well imagine; and the poet soul of my companion, drinking in the beauty of the scene, felt all the sweetness of life rushing over him, as he broke out in his quaint Scotch fashion:—
In conveying a pure stream of crystal fluid through a muddy pipe, the liquid loses much of its clearness, and gathers sediment from the channel through which it passes. So, in striving to convey to your understanding a type of the outgushings of a noble spirit, it loses much of its transparency and becomes unsettled through the medium of earthly expression, and perchance distorted by the crude materiality it is sometimes obliged to pass through. Therefore, you are to take this as a symbol only of what I had the good fortune to enjoy.
I learned in our rambles that the inhabitants of this smiling valley were not all the countrymen and women of Robert Burns; neither were they, when on earth, all of one belief or religion. They were of every race and clime. Some had been fierce denouncers of the truth; some earnest defenders of old theologic ideas and doctrines; others had had no religion, no faith either in God or man. But it was plain that all had suffered, had been weary, repentant, lonely, heart-sick, and home-sick; and all had found a home, rest, action for their pent-up energies, development for their repressed powers, love, enjoyment, and peace beneath the ministrations of this good man and his gentle companion.
I met with some of these happy people; conversed with them, after the manner of spirits, read the interior conditions of their souls, and found them all pure, loving, simple, intelligent, respecting man, adorning the divine in humanity, and recognizing God as the author of life, whose spirit was found in everything. How their spirits sent forth a halo of light, which, springing from their unbounded love and veneration for Robert Burns, settled about him like an atmosphere of glory!
Well did I think highly of the good this man had accomplished; of the beauty of his life-work, of the grandeur of his spirit, which, rising above adversity, rejecting the tempter, had outwrought by his example, by his endeavors, such a noble result as this,—the emancipation of souls from bondage. How many, few could tell; for his efforts have been unlimited, and the results of his labors are not confined to this valley, but are scattered far and wide in spirit life and on earth.
What need has Robert Burns to return to earth and sing his songs through the lips of media? He does so rarely; and why? His spirit of love, of faith in God, of hope for human progress is so broad, so free and untrammeled, that it breathes itself out in a benediction of good over all humanity. It is manifested wherever a soul prays to be of use to itself and others; it inspires the weak with strength, and blesses the erring with a determination to redeem past errors; it is felt on earth and in spirit life, purifying, elevating, and regenerating. Is not this the loftiest poem, the sweetest song, the grandest tale that bard or prophet ever could have dreamed? Is it not the outworking, in lines of living glory, of the most sublime yet soulful pæan of praise to God that spirit can conceive? Is it not the breathing, soul-quickening, revivifying poem of life that is outwrought from the inspirations and aspirations of a gifted, struggling soul once in mortal, and which is the perfect culmination of all that has been dreamed of by that soul, manifesting itself in the fruition of a work of beauty, glory, and grandeur,—not of mechanical art, but of natural, quickened, sentient life?
Could the mortal denouncers of Robert Burns witness his noble triumph of spirit over matter, his defeat of all sensual life, his wonderful efforts for the good of others, and his glorious soul, radiant with the light of truth, they would bow before him in abject poverty of spirit. One of a band of noble workers, his spirit flows out in love and forgiveness to all his foes, and in blessing to all humanity.
Even in spirit life this soul remembers and loves his native home and haunts on earth. The rugged rocks and darkling streams, the gowan-gemmed sod, and heather-crowned hills of Scotland, are dear to him still. We were seated upon a mossy bank, enjoying the loveliness of the scene,—the gleaming valley, dotted with its blooming gardens and snowy-white habitations; the crystal stream murmuring at our feet; the birds chirping in the branches; the lofty mountains uprearing their crests but a little way before us; with the glorious sun, throwing a flood of golden splendor over all. Environed with these conditions, I could perceive the thoughts of my companion reverting to earthly scenes, and presently, with bosom heaving, and his great dark eyes glowing with the intensity of his emotions, he broke forth:—
As a ray of light, in passing through a pane of glass, may become broken or refracted, or as a straight staff placed in a vessel of water may present a misshapen appearance to the beholder, so in attempting to present to you the straight, symmetrical lines of thought, the golden rays of light, emanating from a poet’s soul, they become broken and distorted in their passage through matter; but by these refracted rays you may be able to gain a faint comprehension of the glory of the soul in which they originated.
And thus we passed our time, with great profit to myself; for, from the companionship of my friend, I gained a knowledge of the true beauty of the natural life of the spirit, and a larger conception of the grandeur of individualized life, when fulfilling its proper mission and expanding to its full capacity, even while drinking in the beauty of my surroundings, the harmony of the scene, quaffing the crystal drops or inspiring thought which filled the soul of my companion, and imbibing of that deep peace and gladness that imbued his entire being.
In attempting to portray to you a tithe of the pleasure and profit that my spirit gained from this visit to Robert Burns I have sought to give you an idea of the home and occupation of Scotland’s immortalized son, whose songs and poems have enriched the literature of earth, and gladdened the hearts of countless beings here and in the immortal world; but in doing so I have deeply realized that it is impossible for spirits to convey to mortals an adequate conception of life in the soul world as it really is.
I am aware that I have said nothing in regard to the nearest relatives and friends of the poet,—his brave, honest parents, those to whom he ever pays filial respect, and those also who receive fraternal sympathy and regard,—his noble sons, that sweet, gentle daughter, the pet and blessing of his heart, whose early loss he mourned until his death; and last, but by no means least, his faithful, forgiving Jean, his counselor and guide to the end. Though I have not mentioned these, it is not that they are remote or separated from our poet. They are with him, as a cluster of stars gather around one brilliant, far-reaching center; and upon him they bestow that true spirit love and sympathy which he reciprocates in kind.
But I have dwelt longest upon his connection with the beautiful ideal of his early life; for in her is centered the power to draw forth the noblest and purest aspirations of his soul. As a beacon-light, a radiant star, her undefiled spirit, overflowing with the love that has blest and enriched his being, has ever led him onward and upward over the ruts and pitfalls of sensual life until he has reached the heights of self-conquest and self-respect. In every sense, Mary Campbell has been the savior and sustainer of Robert Burns.
CHAPTER XXV.
MY SPIRITUAL WORK
It would ill become me to speak of my own efforts. There is so much to be done that the individual work of one alone is necessarily small; but if we strive to do good, with a will and a desire to benefit others, we cannot fail to be of use; and that you may know how it is a spirit labors in conjunction with mortals, I will briefly speak of my method of work, and give you a few instances of what I have done or have striven to do.
I remember one circumstance well. At a gambling house in a large English city, I encountered a lad, about eighteen years of age, whom I could see had been enticed there by the alluring visions of a fortune to be made, pictured to him by those well versed in the secrets of sinful practices. He was a pale, delicate youth, with an intellectual cast of countenance, a well-bred air, and one evidently worthy of better things. I was attracted to him as he sat at the table, his whole mind concentrated upon the game he was playing.
Suddenly, he pushed back his chair, rubbed his brow in a bewildered manner, and muttering: “Lost, everything lost; I counted on this chance to retrieve my luck, but it is no use, everything is against me;” he seized his hat and fled from the place. I followed him, not knowing what he might do, and wishing to serve him if in my power. It was to his room that we went, the attic floor of a dingy lodging-house in an obscure quarter of the city. I found that he was a student, striving to pay his way by literary labor, while gaining an education. His parents were poor, hard-working people, living back in the country, who had done all they could to assist their son.
Flinging himself upon his humble bed, the youth gave himself up to dismal thoughts, the tenor of which was that he wished he was dead. His money was all gone, nothing left of all he had possessed but his books; remunerative employment he found impossible to procure, and he knew not how to gain the means of livelihood. He could not apply to his friends; indeed, he would not have them know his situation for the world, and nothing remained but to put himself out of the way as soon as possible.
In vain did I strive to turn his thoughts in another direction; in vain I pictured to his mind the horror and anguish of his friends, when they should learn what he had done. He was in no condition to be impressed by any influence that I could bring to bear upon him.
Again he started up and left the house, I still accompanying him. He entered a small drug-store upon the corner, and, nodding nonchalantly to a young lad about his own age behind the counter, said: “Ned, I wish you’d trust me for a few pennies’ worth of arsenic; the rats are becoming such a bore up in my attic that I must do something, especially as the landlady pays no attention to my complaints.”
“All right,” responded the clerk, taking a bottle of white powder from the shelf, and proceeding to do up a small package from its contents. “But you must be very careful of it. I suppose you know how to use it?”
“Yes, thanks; I’ll settle as soon as I can,” replied the youth, and, taking the parcel, he hurried from the shop.
I knew not what to do. I did not like to see that youth throw himself away in the manner he thought of doing; but how could I prevent it?
In a moment more, a doctor’s chaise drove up to the druggist’s door, and a portly, good-natured looking gentleman, of about five-and-forty years of age, alighted and entered the shop.
“Ned,” said he, “prepare a bottle of cough-mixture from this recipe,” handing him the prescription, “and send it with a box of soothing powders to Mrs. Simms. She’s very bad.”
“All right, sir,” replied the clerk; “but look here a minute. Harold H., who lives at No. 8, was here a minute ago for arsenic. He said it was to kill rats. I let him have it, but some how or other just now I feel nervous about it.”
Upon the doctor’s entrance, I saw in an instant he was the one to be influenced in the right direction, and it was I who had produced the uneasiness in the clerk’s mind, and impressed him to speak.
“Ah,” said the doctor, “I’ll stop and see about this; and do you, Master Ned, have a care how you sell poisonous articles to whoever comes for them.”
He hurried from the store over to No. 8, entered, and without ceremony passed up to the attic of the wouldbe suicide. I of course followed. We found the youth engaged in writing a letter, the package of poison close to his hand.
It is needless for me to recount all that passed in that interview. Suffice it to say, that, by a few welldirected inquiries, that good man managed to learn the condition of the lad, and what had been its cause. He then proceeded to talk to him earnestly and firmly, yet kindly, of the sin he contemplated, of the agony of his mother upon hearing of the deed, and the anguish he would cause to all he loved.
The young man broke down, wept bitterly, and promised he would live to be a better man. The physician furnished him with means sufficient for present necessities, promised him he would interest some of his influential friends in his behalf, and, when he left, carried the poison with him.
The man kept his word, and through his influence Harold H. was placed in better circumstances, assisted in his efforts to gain an education, and lives today an ornament and useful member of society, and the pride of his parents and friends.
More than once I have visited liquor saloons, hoping to draw some poor wretch away from the curse of rum and its allurements. I have not always succeeded, but at times have been more successful.
On one of these occasions, a man in the prime of life, who was drinking copiously, and rapidly making himself worse than a beast, arrested my attention, but I could make no impression upon him. While making the effort, a street musician began playing a dancing tune. The musician, a young and delicate boy, accompanied by a still younger female child, who was the dancer, was one whom I could impress, which I did by making him cease the dancing tune, and begin that sweet, pathetic air of Payne’s “Home, Sweet Home.” The little maid stopped her dancing, looked puzzled for a moment, when, catching the inspiration of the moment, she broke out in bird-like tones of sweetness, and sang the words of the song.
I watched the effect upon the drinker. At first he did not seem to hear, but gradually a listening expression stole over his features, and at last his head sank upon his hands. Now was my time. I whispered to him of his mother, of his dear old childhood home, of his wife and child waiting anxiously for him even now, and of the dear one who had died and was calling to him from her heavenly abode.
He, of course, never knew but what they were his own thoughts awakened by that tune. In part they were, but their power was intensified by spirit presence and aid. His spirit child was close by my side, anxious that her father should be drawn away from that place. From her I learned of her mother and invalid sister, who were living, and of whom I whispered in his ear.
The music ceased, and, rising, the drinker passed from the place, unheeding the call of the barkeeper to “stop and take another drink.”
I followed him home, saw his wife and lame daughter, and learned from the state of their minds that he had resisted all their pleadings to remain from the rum-shop, and had even raised his hand threateningly to his child. He said nothing that night, but went quietly to bed. In the morning I was there. Softened and humbled in mind, the man sat looking out of the window. I went to his daughter, influenced her to call her father and talk to him, as she had never done before. It was the voice of the spirit calling to him to look up higher, to pray for a strength to resist temptation, and to strive to live a better life. Amid tears of contrition he promised; by the bedside of his invalid child that man took the pledge, and so far it has been kept, and his family are content, while his spirit child is happy.
On another occasion I was at a home, drawn there by a spirit who solicited my assistance for her brother, who was addicted to drink. He, too, had a wife and family of little ones. At the time of my visit, he was possessed with an insane desire for liquor. I heard him promise his wife he would take none, but I had no faith in his word.
He went out. I influenced his little girl to follow him. She was a child of about eight years of age, and evidently stood in great fear of her father. We followed him, saw him enter a liquor saloon. I tried to induce her to enter, but she was afraid. “I’d like to follow pa,” she said, “but I don’t dare; he’d beat me.” Still I urged, and at last, gathering firmness from the spirit world, she boldly entered the saloon, and addressed the barkeeper, who was mixing a drink for her father, thus:
“Don’t you give my father anything to drink, mister; it makes him crazy and sick, and everything is awful bad at home, and mother cries all the time.” She was greeted with a loud laugh by the bystanders, but taking no heed, she seized her father’s hand, saying: “Come, father, don’t stay here; let’s take a walk.”
“Yes, yes, little girl, let’s take a walk; this is no place for you,” he answered, and, winking to the barkeeper, and whispering: “I’ll be back soon,” he suffered the child to lead him away.
I impressed the child to lead her father toward the water. The evening breeze was blowing cool and refreshing. “Father,” said the child, “doesn’t God see us now?”
The man was evidently startled, but answered: “Yes, I suppose he does, if there is any God.”
“Oh, of course there’s a God,” pursued the child. “Don’t the minister say so, and didn’t grandma use to pray to him? Grandma’s an angel now. Do you ’spose she saw us in that horrid place, papa?”
“Good heavens, I hope not,” answered the man. “Come, you’d better go home.”
“No, let’s stay here a little while; it’s cool here,” went on the child. Her timidity vanished. “I guess grandma did see us, ’cause angels can go everywhere, you know. I don’t believe she liked to see us there. I hope she’ll ask God to keep you from going there any more, ’cause it makes mamma cry all the time.”
“Cry all the time, does she?” muttered the man. “Well, you must go home now.”
The cool breeze had lessened the fire in the man’s veins; the child’s prattle had driven the present thought of liquor away. Subdued and humbled, he led her home, and went out no more that night. In the morning his employer called for him to go to work, and he had no opportunity to visit the saloon.
During the day I influenced one of those royal souls yet encased in flesh, who go about doing good, to visit that home, where he learned the state of affairs. He called again at tea-time, saw the father and husband, and, by interesting himself in his pleasures and pursuits, won his heart, and induced the man to go with him to a temperance lecture.
This was the beginning. Before the winter had set in, that man had signed the pledge, and was a member of a temperance organization. True, the victory was not easily won. There were many battles to fight with his appetite; and had it not been for noble souls in mortal who stood by him, we could have done but little; as it was, the rum fiend was conquered.
This is one method of my spirit work,—allying myself with spirits, in the body and out, whose souls are zealously engaged in laboring for humanity. More has been accomplished than I care to tell; but very little has been done compared to what there is to do, and I am still laboring in co-operation with others, for the good time that is to come to all mankind.
The above are only illustrations of one branch of my efforts to assist those in darkness. My labors have not all been expended in one direction, but I have endeavored to obey the commands laid upon me to go out and give the people light. In my travels I have come across mortals possessing, to a large degree, mediumistic power, which only needed to be awakened into life and activity to be of use to mankind.
Often these parties were surrounded by conditions very unfavorable to the development of mediumship. In such cases I have endeavored to supply, in part, the favorable conditions from the spirit life, and have succeeded in unfolding powers that have proved a source of comfort to others.
To illustrate: a number of years ago I was led to visit a spirit circle, the medium of which I found possessing rare powers and abilities, but which sadly needed culture. She was a young maiden, the child of poor parents, who were alike ignorant of the laws of mediumship, and the conditions necessary to their unfoldment. Of course, the manifestations of spirit presence were crude and variable; but finding I could assimilate my powers with those of that medium, I determined to take her in charge for awhile, and see if I could not stimulate her spirit forces sufficiently to assist them into healthy growth and action.
I did so, all unknown to herself and others, and, by directing her mind in a certain channel, succeeded in my task. I selected certain works for her perusal,—philosophical, moral, poetical,—and impressed her to read them; awakened in her mind a desire to write compositions and rhymes; influenced her to attend lectures and sermons, delivered by the loftiest intellects of the time, brought to her home parties who could assist her in the pursuit of knowledge; and thus, in spite of adverse conditions, she steadily advanced, until today she stands far ahead of her family in literary attainments, and is read and listened to with respect by many intelligent, thinking minds.
The case of that medium presents a striking instance of what spirits can do in educating mortals, and in teaching them immortal truths, which they in turn must give forth to the multitude.
Many times have I given my songs to the world through the lips of mortals. Sometimes they appeared crude and ill-expressed, limited, and warped by the undeveloped channels through which they flowed; but even then I rejoiced to know that they could bear comfort and hope to the sorrowing or the sinning souls they were destined to reach. At other times, my productions have caught a richness of expression, a beautiful and harmonious blending of sentiment and rhythm, from the depths of the mediumistic souls through whom they came that sent them ringing through the hearts of those who read or listened, until they seemed uplifted into the clear air of heaven.
But my greatest joy has been in assisting the inner powers of others to grow and expand, leading them in their cravings for knowledge, and aiding their faltering steps up the rugged heights of life, in search of truth and right. When I find a soul who delights to take a sentiment and to express it clearly in rhyme, I encourage that spirit, no matter how crude or uncertain its efforts may be, for I perceive that the spirit is putting forth its powers, that, like the feelers of a plant, it is groping around to find a support that will bear it in its growth; and that, if it receives the strength and prop it needs, it will develop into a thing of blossoming beauty. But I do not encourage these souls to put forth their first feeble expressions to the world any more than I would advise the florist to place a tiny, fragile slip of plant-life out in the full glare of a summer day. I watch them, and, by directing their thoughts into proper channels, and influencing them what to read in order to expand their minds, sometimes succeed in raising a rare stock, that favors the world with an abundance of rich and fragrant blossoms.
Thousands of spirits are engaged in such work, in divers directions, and in multiplied ways; for they recognize the fact that to have the spirit world peopled by a race of noble, thoughtful, moral, and intellectual souls, we must refine and educate those who are still on earth,—educate them in a knowledge of life and its laws, an understanding of the soul and its requirements, and an appreciation of truth and its unfoldments; and to do this we are teaching and directing those sensitive, intuitive souls who can catch the inspirations of the spheres, and sending them forth as teachers to the masses.
In my wanderings to and fro as a spirit, I have become a cosmopolite,—a citizen of the world,—claiming my home wherever I may be of use to humanity. But my efforts for the amelioration of suffering have not been confined to material life alone. I have met many distressed spirits who passed from the body, scarred and scathed by sin and passion, and who, in consequence, have been plunged in mental darkness; to them I have sought to bring hope and encouragement. The world beyond is thronged with those unhappy souls, and, though we cannot save them, as each one must work out his own salvation, yet we can aid and teach them to find the better way, and encourage them to persevere in their efforts to atone for the past by doing right.
In my anxiety and eagerness to atone for my own past folly by helping others, I had taken no heed of the lapse of time, my whole soul having been wrapped in my work.
I was at a seance in London one night, and had succeeded in gaining partial possession of a youth whom I wished to develop as a medium. While in this condition, unable to make my presence known, one of the party remarked: “We ought to have an exceptionably good seance tonight, as it is the last one of the year; tomorrow brings us 1872.” The words brought to me a vision of New Years’ Eves spent in the past, and with it a longing for the sight of dear and familiar faces. I began to grow home-sick and weary. Five years previous I passed from the body, and most of the intervening time I had spent among strangers. With this thought in my mind I found myself losing control of my subject, and in a moment I was away from material things, and out in the realm of spirit. Long before I had learned to travel by an effort of will as spirits do, and I could now upon desiring to be in any place instantly be there. Time and distance have no power over the ascended soul, and it can travel with the velocity of thought. In a moment I found myself in the magnificent garden I had before visited. All was blooming in richness and beauty. I entered the stately portals of a superb mansion, in the center of which a group of spirits were gathered in social converse. Judge of my delight in recognizing all who were dearest to me,—parents, kindred, and friends. As I entered I heard my mother say: “All day I have been calling Critchley. I am sure he must come, we all want him so much; he is doing a good work,—bless the lad,—but I would like to meet him here.”
My soul leaped forth in response to these words. I was immediately seen and recognized. It is impossible to describe the bliss and rapture of that meeting. None but those who have experienced can understand the like. The welcome more than recompensed me for past pain and sorrow. It brought an infinite peace and calm that the world can never take away. I remained with my friends for a time, but not idle; I had learned that true joy cannot reach the soul that is inert. Action is the law of life.
There was much for me to learn of spirit life and its laws, and I set myself to work to acquire knowledge, not forgetting to return frequently to earth to see if there was anything to do, nor neglecting to minister to the unfortunate spirits I met. At the present writing I have learned but little in comparison with what there is to attain, but with active powers, trained for work and study, assisted by wise, beneficent teachers, and surrounded by loving souls, it would be strange, indeed, if a spirit’s course should not be upward and onward toward the realms of infinite light and truth.
Engaged in the work I had chosen, I had no time for regrets. Retrospection became no longer a scourge, but a guide, which, by showing me wherein I had erred, pointed out the true way to amendment; and in striving to gain knowledge of the higher, better way of living,—the way of the spirit, bound to no avenue of sensual life, but seeking the intellectual haunts of wisdom and truth,—I found peace of mind, and, in seeking to bring happiness to others, I became truly happy myself.
Again I stood in the Temple of Art; again I found myself in the Poet’s Chamber, but no longer an outcast and an alien. Indeed, I was greeted as one whose coming was expected, and welcomed with a warm cordiality and royal fervor that was very refreshing to my soul.
The same kingly company was assembled, but augmented by a number of other souls, rich with their freight of poetic imagery. The assembly was not composed entirely of my own countrymen and women, as heretofore; for among that mighty throng could be seen the smiling, open, intelligent faces of Thomas Moore, the sweet singer of the Emerald Isle, and Robert Burns, he who found his best inspiration amid the rugged heights and heather-crowned hills of Scotia’s land. Many others were present, whom I failed to recognize, clad in the flowing robes and purple vestments of the Roman period, or in the classic garments of ancient Greece.
But England’s delegation was a large one, numbering those of every century and age: Pope and Spenser, Johnson, Cowley, and Butler, Dryden, Gay, Thomson, and Young,—not the sad, melancholy, pensive Edward Young of earth, but the radiant, calm, contented Edward Young of spirit life; gentle Henry Kirke White, liberty-loving Thomas Campbell, and stouthearted, staunch, and true Walter Scott, who, though not English born, yet seemed very near to me.
Addison, whom I had mentioned as occupying the seat of honor before, now sat low at the feet of him who occupied the position of the Master of Ceremonies, and whom I recognized as the true, loyal, long-suffering, yet monarch-crowned soul, Milton. At his right was to be seen the lofty brow, and bold, fearless, speaking countenance of William Shakespeare; while, at the left, Dryden seemed to be acting as assistant or secretary.
In my experience of spirit power and possibilities, I had learned to understand and interpret the waves of thought flowing from soul to soul; therefore I was at no loss to understand the purport and purposes of this convention. It was a gathering of kindred souls, met to communicate the loftiest thoughts and sweetest aspirations to each other, thus dispensing the bountiful gifts of the spirit to all who would partake.
I cannot describe to you the rich, ennobling thoughts, clothed in their draperies of sweetest imagery, which flowed from the soul of him who presided, into ours, the recipients’; nor the grandeur and sublimity of the ideas with which he threaded, like brands of shimmering pearls, the network of his discourse. But all was grand and glorious, beyond the power of mortals to conceive. At the close of his remarks, the company clustered into knots, discussing the discourse, comparing experiences, or revealing to each other the secret depths of their poetic souls, from which were to be drawn lines, glowing with the beauty and fragrance of harmonious lives.
It was then I discovered that every soul that is attuned into harmony with the inner life, that dwells in sympathy with the Divine Mind, as manifested in his outer creations of will, in his natural expressions of love and beauty, is in itself a poem of rare delicacy and power; a living, breathing, animated poem, thrilled with the magic power of thought, and stamped with the eternal glory of individualized liberty; that every poetic soul is itself the production of the Infinite Mind, that must make itself heard in lines of glowing, inspiring thought along the pathway of human toil and suffering, and cannot fail to arouse the hidden energies and sleeping possibilities of power of those it comes in rapport with.
It was then I was made supremely blest by being taken by the hand by such souls as Cowper, Byron,—my boyhood’s ideal,—Burns, Scott, Campbell, Moore, Mrs. Browning, Felicia Hemans, and others, and welcomed to this haunt of the beautiful and the good. And I cannot convey to you my exquisite sense of pleasures when my hand was again grasped by that of my helper and friend, Robert B. Brough, and I was enabled to bless him for the avenues of tranquility and peace he had opened out to me. But I must not linger here, although sweet and pleasant to me are these reminiscences of actual life in the spheres.
Leaving the Poets’ Chamber, I visited in turn the Musicians’ Gallery, the Sculptors’ Hall, and the Artists’ Studio. It is impossible for mortal hands to pen a description of what is to be seen and heard in them. Words fail, and language grows cold and unmeaning before the splendid achievements of the upper world.
Imagine, if you can, all the sweetest sounds your soul has ever heard or dreamed of, blended into one harmonious whole, swelling louder, clearer, and sweeter, or melting away into the far-off distance, like the gentle fading of a glorious sunset, absorbed by a finer and more ethereal beauty of azure brightness, and you will have a faint conception of the music and the singing of the spheres.
Imagine, if you can, all the most graceful, beautifully-molded, perfectly-formed and rounded, exquisitely carved and delicately-sculptured forms of statuary, of which you have ever heard or read grouped together, forming a class of the rarest workmanship and art that human skill and genius can chisel from the marble block, and you have a slight idea of the superb expression of the sculptor’s soul which is perfected in the immortal world. Dream, if you can, of the most magnificent scenery the world affords, the most royal landscapes, the most superb water views, and you may be able to just approach in thought an idea of the productions of the artist’s soul that line the walls of the artists’ studio in spirit life.
Recollect all the sweet, the beautiful, and the various expressions of the human countenance,—the fire, the vigor, and sparkling triumph of the eye, the restless energy or quiet repose of the limbs, the smiling, speaking expression of the lips,—and you can faintly conceive the models and patterns that spirit artists and sculptors seek to emulate. And have they succeeded? To a certain extent, decidedly, yes.
Enter a hall of statuary, and in the marble beauties, grouped together there, you find the expression of peace, hope, or joy depicted with marvelous fidelity; you observe the contour of the limbs as perfect as in life, and all seemingly permeated with that indescribable something that gives them the appearance of having the power to move, act, and walk off at will.
Upon entering the artists’ studio, at the farther end of which is suspended a magnificent landscape painting, you would, at first sight, believe yourself to be gazing upon a scene of natural life and beauty. The lights and shadows seem to be continually shifting, the trees to be waving their branches, and the streamlet running along in murmuring gladness. The clouds appear to be settling slowly down upon the distant mountains, while it distinctly seems to you that the cattle, grazing in the meadows, are moving lazily along, half wearied out by the incessant buzzing of the hovering insects.
So it is with the music of the upper life. It approaches as near the harmonious, perfect blending of the various parts of the human voice as can be imagined; and the utterances of the poets partake of the life of the giver, and are animated with true fire and vigor, which is of itself a part of that Eternal Voice that is the author and sustainer of all life and being.
But these spirit artists are by no means satisfied with what they have produced; they see something grander, more beautiful, sublime, and perfect, which they are striving to attain. Their ideal is as yet unexpressed; but, with the perfect development of the soul and its possibilities, all that is ever dreamed of must find expression in the outworkings of the spirit.
But I have found that, with all its striving to emulate and express the workings of Nature, in its perfect form, that the soul of the true artist, poet, and songster finds its keenest delight in stamping its poems, paintings, and songs upon the receptive human mind that is ready to receive; that the true poet breathes his fiery inspirations upon the slumbering soul, awakening it to life and activity, bringing to it an enjoyment and appreciation of the beauties of the inner life, and of the splendors of natural creation; that the true artist paints in glowing colors on the sensitive souls of mortals a beautiful landscape of the higher life, which arouses those souls to a realizing sense of the beautiful, and develops within them an ideal, for which they will ever strive; that the true musician and singer sends his sweet strains echoing through the souls of mortals, developing their sweetest, noblest powers, to bless and enrich the musical world; and that the true sculptor finds his delight in molding and carving out the possibilities of those he can approach, of chiseling and chipping away all that is detrimental to the spirit’s growth, and bringing forth to light an angel of power and beauty from the rough, unpolished mass of individuality. In short, that the workers of the higher life do not find enjoyment in bringing their own productions to earth, but their highest blessing and privilege is in being able to impress, work upon, and guide the hidden, inner powers of souls in mortal forms until they develop the beauty and glory within them, and awaken their spirits to an understanding of beautiful life, an appreciation of the good and true, and a knowledge of the possibility of the power that is theirs.
Not alone were my visits confined to the Temple of Art; although attracted to that place by the laws of sympathy and association, yet my desire to gain knowledge and a comprehension of truth led me, in company with other inquiring minds, to visit the Spiritual Congress, and to pay marked attention to the learned and honorable body there assembled, and busily employed in devising various schemes for the enlightenment, amelioration, and welfare of humanity; to visit the Wisdom Circles, and receive enlightenment upon the laws governing life and its unfoldments; and to visit our medical colleges and learn of the true method, not of curing disease, but of preventing sickness and preserving health. And I tell you that humanity on earth have yet to learn more of medical and legal jurisprudence than has ever been dreamed of by mortals.
But I must draw this narrative to a close. I might go on multiplying my experiences almost ad infinitum had I the time and space; but such has not been my object in coming. I have endeavored to show you how a spirit, weighed down by its consciousness of misspent days and misapplied powers and energies, bowed down by its load of past wrong-doing and follies, darkened by its work neglected, and duties unfulfilled, may be able, by the desire of his own soul, and the aid and sympathy of others, to rise out of his darkened condition into the light, to work his salvation from sin and his way to righteousness. But it was no easy task. I have not given you an account of all the fiery temptations that assailed me in my search for the better life, or the bitter struggles my soul passed through ere it became the master.
Through devious ways and tortuous paths the soul must pass that has done wrong to itself and others; but if it is in earnest in its desire to become better, if it craves strength and aid from the higher powers, if it reaches its aspirations out toward the better, purer, grander life of the spirit, be sure that it must and will succeed.
I can dimly perceive that away down in the distant future humanity is to broaden and develop into the perfect type of angelhood; that the divinest attributes of the soul are yet to govern and control the body; and ignorance, darkness, and crime flee before the dawning light of knowledge and wisdom; and that human life is to become illuminated with the glory of universal love and harmony.
I can believe that the “good time coming,” “the year of jubilee,” “the millennium,” so long foretold by prophet and seer, so often mentioned in song and story, the poet’s dream and the idealist’s fancy, is yet to dawn upon the awakened world; when man, become strong through the educators of love and sympathy, made wise by the acquirement of knowledge, and the recognition of truth, shall look upon all humans as his brothers and sisters, shall learn that war is a crime against the human family, and tyranny, injustice, and oppression sins against the Holy Ghost. Then shall mankind fraternize, and nations sit down in universal peace. I believe that the human form is yet to bear the stamp and impress of all that is lovely and divine.
I was with a friend at a convocation of spirits, where were gathered together a large throng of refined, intelligent beings, each one marked with a beauty all his or her own, and I amused myself by comparing the different individuals with the beautiful forms in nature which they reminded me of, and the resemblance—so to speak—was so apparent that I called my friend’s attention to it by remarking:
“Did you ever observe that there is a certain resemblance between humanity and the forms of Nature? For instance, yonder lady, with her pure, white face, daintily-carved features, and lithe, willowy form, reminds me of nothing but a stately garden-lily, shimmering with whiteness; and that laughing, rosy-cheeked sprite beside her, with her rounded form and well-developed features, is very like the royal blush-rose of summer.”
“Very true,” replied my friend; “and over there you note the speaker; does not his massive frame, well-proportioned limbs, lofty brow, and shining features remind you of some mighty bowlder, uprearing its head with a consciousness of might and grandeur?”
“He does, indeed; the shadow of a great rock in a weary land; and just beside him rests one whose tall, straight form, beneficent looks, and air of protectiveness calls to mind the forest tree with its ample provision of kindly shade and shelter.”
And so we went on, drawing our comparisons,—one, with her calm, benignant smile, and a wealth of love and sympathy welling up from her nature, and expressing itself in the depths of her shining eyes, we likened to the smiling, open sea, overflowing with its wealth, and watering and refreshing the earth. Another, who was bubbling over with a superabundance of merriment and joy, we likened to the laughing, gurgling streamlet that overleaps all bounds, and speeds merrily along its way. One, of majestic form, replete with vital force, with a look of concentrated determination in his face, and an expression of energetic power impressed upon him, reminded us of the ocean, mighty in its majesty and power. One shone like the sun, another sparkled like a sunbeam; one brought an air of refreshing coolness with her, another glowed and glimmered like the autumn days.
“The fact of it is,” said my friend, “all that there is good and beautiful in nature is personified and individualized, so to speak, in the higher types of humanity. All the richness and splendor of creation culminate their grandest expressions in the human form; and when spirituality has ripened and developed the soul, its outer tenement will become so harmonized with the natural life of creation, so blended with the external manifestations of God, that it will become permeated with His life, and will reflect all the beauty and fragrance, all the grace and symmetry, of His works. Do you understand?”
I did, but I know not that I make it plain to mortals; suffice it to say, that I believe the day is coming when each soul shall have grown so in harmony with the laws of life that it will reflect upon its outward form only the beautiful and the good.
I had not long returned to spirit life ere I again met my former friend and teacher, “Benja, the missionary.” The sage was engaged in his usual employment of aiding souls in need. The pleasure of our meeting was mutual, but cannot be expressed by mortal pen; it was of the soul, true and fervent, and shone in the speaking eye and upon the trembling lip. Since that time I have often sought the company of the sage, and always with profit to myself. He has been an invaluable guide to me in my search for knowledge, and has lifted my spirit into a pure atmosphere. Spirit life is full of such workers, and by their efforts, combined with the desires of sin-sick souls to become better, we look for the redemption of the human race from error.