“Blushing rose!Blown in the morning-thou shalt fade ere noon:What boots a life that in such haste forsakes thee?Thou 'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon,And passing proud a little color makes thee.”
And now came the most interesting point, to see what flowers he would place upon his sister's plate.
First, a handful of violets. “Faithfulness,” thought Dawn, “he is right thus far.” And then, as though his thoughts rose with the sentiment, he laid snowballs gently around them, while these words flashed upon her mind:
“Should sorrow o'er thy browIts darkened shadow fling,And hopes that cheer thee now,Die in their early spring;Should pleasure, at its birth,Fade like the hues of even,Turn thou away from earth—There's rest for thee in heaven.“If ever life should seemTo thee a toilsome way,And gladness cease to beamUpon its clouded day;If, like the weary dove,O'er shoreless ocean driven,Raise thou thine eyes above—There's rest for thee in heaven.”
“And now we will each make a contribution to Basil” said his sister, smiling on him in a manner which told how dear he was to her.
She passed the basket to Dawn, who blushed and trembled at first, not with fear, but pleasure.
“The offering,” said his sister, “is to be an expression of the sentiments, which, in the opinion of each of us, are most in keeping with his character.”
Dawn reached forth, and drew, without hesitation, a cluster of verbenas, and one white water-lily.
“Sensibility and purity of heart. She has read him aright,” thought Miss Bernard.
“Gentle as an angel's ministryThe guiding hand of love should be,Which seeks again those chords to bindWhich human woe hath rent apart.”
“She has seen my brother's very heart, his most noble self,” she repeated to herself, as she passed the basket to Mrs. Austin, who plucked a Clyconthas, and laid it on his plate, with a blossom of Iris.
“Benevolence,” said Dawn, and to her mind these beautiful words were suggested;
“Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief,Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief;Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold?'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a foldClose to its heart, the worm is wasting thereIts life and beauty; not when, all unrolled,Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair,Breathes freely its perfume throughout the ambient air.Rouse to some work of high and holy love,And thou an angel's happiness shalt know.Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;The good began by thee shall onward flowIn many a branching stream, and wider grow;The seed that in these few and fleeting hoursThy hand unsparing and unwearied sow,Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers.”
But one more offering, and that from his sister. She drew the bay leaf, of which the wreath to adorn the conqueror and the poet is made, and, while the eyes of the two women rested on her, drew forth also the pale, but sweet-scented mountain pink, signifying aspiration, beautifully expressed by Percival in these lines:
“The world may scorn me, if they choose-I careBut little for their scoffings. I may sinkFor moments; but I rise again, nor shrinkFrom doing what the faithful heart inspires.I will not falter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink,At what high-mounted wealth or power desires;I have a loftier aim, to which my soul aspires.”
“We regret that we must leave, now,” said Mrs. Austin to her friend, after they had returned to the drawing-room and conversed awhile.
“We would gladly detain you longer, but knowing you have a long drive, we cannot conscientiously do so,” said Miss Bernard; “but may we not hope to see you both, again?”
“Not unless you return our visit; we cannot take another long drive right away, having so many ways to move, and so little time to spare. But come and see us whenever you can.”
“Thank you,” replied Miss Bernard, and Basil bowed, while his eyes rested on Dawn.
“We should both be happy to see you again, Miss Wyman,” he said, taking her hand, and the horses having been brought to the door, he helped her into the saddle first, and then Mrs. Austin.
They bounded away, and were soon far from the hospitable home, discussing, as they rode side by side, the merits and beauties of its occupants.
“I did not tell you Miss Bernard's name. I think her brother did not mention it while we were there; now what do you think it can be?”
“I do not know; perhaps Margaret-a pearl. No, not that; maybe, Agathe, which signifies good; and yet I do not feel I have it yet.”
“No; guess again.”
“I thought once while there, it might be Beatrice, for she seems like one who blesses.”
“You are right. That is her name, and most nobly does she illustrate its signification.”
“I am glad, for I hoped it was. How strange their names should so suit their natures,” said Dawn, musingly.
“Not if you knew them and their ancestry. They are of German descent, and believe in all sorts of traditions, and, as I have said before, supernatural things. They live almost wholly in sentiment, and are little known save by a very few. I like them, yet I cannot tell why. When in their presence I feel a sort of transcendental charm, a something intangible, but restful to my soul. It's only with you and them, Dawn, that I ever feel thus, and that is why I brought you together.”
“I can never thank you enough, but I wish to know them better.”
“You shall. Did I not see how they felt your sphere, as you 'impressionists' say.”
“I hope they felt my desire for a better life, for it is a great rest to be comprehended. It is as though some one took us by the hand, and led us over the hard places of life.”
“I wish I could feel and live as you do, Dawn. You seem to have something so much deeper and richer in your life, than I have in mine-but, I suppose you would say, if I wanted deeper thoughts, I should search and find them.”
“I should, most certainly; you have anticipated my answer. We have what we aspire to—what we feel the need of.”
“We are getting too earnest, it makes me feel almost sad. Come, Arrow, let me see you speed over that shady road;” and away he flew at the sound of his name, leaving Dawn and Jessie, who seemed in no mood just then for galloping, far behind.
It was almost twilight when they reached home together, Mrs. Austin having checked her horse's speed, for her friend to come up with her. They had passed a most delightful day, and cosily seated in their parlor, we will leave them talking as the twilight deepens around, and go to the home of Basil and sister, who are conversing upon the day's events.
“It seems as though somewhere, in this or another existence, I had seen that face and form,” said Basil to his sister.
“She is certainly very lovely, wherever you may have met her. She may have been a dove, brother, and rested on your shoulder. I do not know but that we should hesitate before we condemn the belief in a transmigration of spirits, souls, and forces, when nature seems to somewhat imply its truth in her kingdom?”
“Spirit cannot, in its countless transmigrations, be limited to the little space which we call earth. The life of the universe is the activity of its ever-living forces and existences, and their eternal striving to separate or to unite.
“The belief in the transmigration of souls is of high antiquity, and is worthy of more than a passing thought. A writer has said: 'Being itself does not change, but only its relations. Mind and soul move in other connections, according to divine ordinances. The strength or weakness of the will, which the mind is conscious of, in itself, by a natural necessity creates a distinction between the elevation or the degradation of self. That is its heaven-this is its hell. There is an infinite progress of spirit towards perfection in the Infinite, as the solar systems with their planets wheel through the realm of the immeasurable. All eternal activity! New union to be going on of spirits and souls with new powers, which become their serviceable instruments of contact with the All of things-this is transmigration of souls. Any other kind of continued duration and continued action is inconceivable to us. Whether upon earth, or in other worlds, is a matter of indifference.' But one spirit sees these things more clearly than another.”
Basil stopped, and gazed long into the dim twilight, that light so fitted for communion; and as he gazed he felt his mind going out from his home, towards the being who had so touched his soul-thoughts. Was it his counterpart, or second-self, that made him feel that evening as though he had never known himself? What new quality had so blended with his own, in that brief space of time, as to quicken all his spiritual and intellectual perceptions? Would they meet again? and when and where? were the concluding interrogatories as he came back from his reverie, his thoughts flowing again into audible language.
“You seem freshened, brother,” said Beatrice, perceiving that he lacked words for the full expression of his intense feelings.
“It's the power of a new mind. I am quickened in spirit.”
“I see you are; and is it not wonderful how much a person whom we do not daily meet can inspire us? What an impetus such an one brings to us, even though but a few words may be spoken. Its fresh magnetic life mingles with our own, and tinctures our inspirations and aspirations with a new fervor.
“True; how much we have to learn regarding social intercourse. We have in society so little spontaniety, that it will take many genial natures like that of Miss Wyman to melt the frost away.”
She saw that he was pleased with Dawn, and felt glad. It was almost a relief to feel the strong tension of his love for her relax a little. It is not often that sisters have thus to complain, but Basil Bernard knew what love was, and how to enfold his object in an atmosphere of delight. It was protective and uplifting, refining and broadening, to all who felt it.
There are some natures like that of an infant, ever asking for love, and protecting arms. Such need to be carried on one's bosom, and nestled, through their whole life. There are maternally protecting arms that can bear them thus, and in the sphere of their life and love their souls would rest. There are natures that will ever be as children, and also those who can meet their wants.
Such clinging lives should be all infancy; they should be cared for, until their souls are strong enough to stand alone.
Why is there so much that is fragmentary and unlinked? Why is the vine left to trail, when the strong oak, with its giant trunk, is standing bare? It's all in parts, disjointed, broken, as though some world of glory had been torn asunder, and its portions scattered here and there.
There is completeness somewhere-in the land beyond-where the sighs, the tears, the passionate longings, the hopes and fears will be all adjusted, and our souls rest in celestial harmony.
We cannot question but that it will be well with us there, if we have striven for the good, our souls conceived of, here. If, with good purpose and intent, we have out-wrought the hints and suggestions which have been given us of life, we must find growing states of rest, sometime, to repletion. It will not be all peace there; for the two worlds are interblended, and shadow into each other. There is an interplay of life and emotion forever, and to those who sense it, a joy too deep to be portrayed by human words; a truth which helps us to bear the sorrows of this life serenely, and more fully appreciate its joys.
Basil and his sister sat longer that summer evening than was their wont. There was a deeper intoning of sentiment, a closer blending of thought, or rather, their individual states had been more clearly defined by the day's incidents.
They were of those rare types of mind which know just how far they can be together, and not detract from each other; just when the mental and spiritual assimilation was becoming attenuated, and each needed solitude. Thus they were constantly coming each to the other, and consequently drew from exhaustless fountains of intellectual and physical strength.
Life is replete with harmonies ready to inflow, if we are but receptive and delicate enough to receive and appropriate them. Blest are they who recognize life's indications, its index-fingers which are pointing each hour to some new experience, which will deepen and expand our lives.
Generally there is great danger of two persons settling into themselves, as these two seemed to have done, but Basil and Beatrice were so catholic they could afford it, in fact they needed just the close companionship which they held. The brother, with his colossal spirit, lofty and original, moving forward through life with that slow majesty which indicates the wholeness of the individual, unlike the airy advance of natures which rush with but one faculty quickened, and mistake speed for greatness, supplied the sister with that manly, noble quality, which must ever exist in the real or ideal of every woman. No wonder her warm, beneficent nature expanded daily, until her heart seemed a garden full of flowers of love and gratitude.
Did life at times seem dim and hazy, and the mind full of a thousand doubts, he could dispel the cloud, wrench the truth from its old combinations, and present it to her in striking contrast with its opposite error.
No wonder that new purposes and aspirations were born every hour in that woman's heart, impregnated by his manliness of quality. Yet each drew through the subtle texture of soul a different hue of life, as in a bed of flowers, from the same sunlight, one draws crimson, another azure, as though conscious of the harmony of complement and difference.
“I feel a rich, deep vein of thought to-night,” said Beatrice, “as though I could write a poem or a book, so vivid are my thoughts.”
“Your life has been a poem, full of sweetly blended words. You have lived yours out, while others have written theirs.”
“But there is such power in books, Basil.”
“I know it well. 'Some books are drenched sands on which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, like a wrecked argosy.' And some are sweet and full of passion-tones, and you feel on every leaf that you are turning, as though their heart-beats were going into yours; that they were dying that you might have life. Books are indeed great, but lives are greater; lives that are full of earnest purpose, and that fail not, even though the tide beats strong about them and the heavens hang thick and dark with clouds. The greatest poems are true lives, now surging with grief and passion, now pulsing with joy-notes, thrilling on each page of life. Some books, as well as persons, make us feel as though we stood in the presence of a king, while some give us tears. Some books and some beings dome us like a sky. Sister, you are the dome which ever overarches my life,—if day, with its azure and ermine clouds; if night, with its stars. Nay, do not write a book, but breathe and live your life out each day.”
“Yet I know that you, Basil, could write one, and make it full and perfect.”
“I could make one full of words, if not of thought; but come, the night is passing, we shall scarce have an hour's rest before sunrise.”
“Indeed, I think we are in a fair way to see its early brightness.”
To their dreams and life we will leave them awhile, knowing that to such hearts will ever come peace, whether sleeping or waking.
Past midnight, that silent hour when the earth is peopled with other forms. It is the hour for the brain to receive the most subtle influences, whether sleeping or waking.
Some kinds of sleep bring us brighter states than day gives us. They are awakenings, in which the understanding, instead of being dethroned, acquires a power and vivacity beyond what it possesses when the external form is awake and active. The soul seems emancipated from earthly trammels. The ruling thought of a man's life is not unlikely to shape itself into dreams, the constant thought of the day may encroach on the quiet of the night. Thus Columbus dreamed that a voice said unto him, “God will give thee the keys of the gates of the ocean.” So any earnest longing, resting on our minds when we composed ourselves to sleep, may pass over into our sleeping consciousness, and be reproduced, perhaps in some happier mood.
Modern writers on the phenomena of sleep, usually concur in the assertion that man's sleeping thoughts are meaningless, and that dreams are, therefore, untrustworthy. Such was not the opinion of our ancestors. They attached great importance to dreams and their interpretations. They had resort to them for guidance in cases of difficulty, or great calamity. We do not claim for all dreams, a divine or reliable character, but that some are to be trusted, every individual of any experience can testify. Plato assumes that all dreams might be trusted, if men would only bring their bodies into such a state, before going to sleep, as to leave nothing that might occasion error or perturbation in their dreams.
A young lady, a native of Ross-shire, in Scotland, who was devotedly attached to an officer, with Sir John Moore in the Spanish war, became alarmed at the constant danger to which her lover was exposed, until she pined, and fell into ill health. Finally, one night in a dream, she saw him pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains of the bed, and with a mild look, told her he had been slain in battle, bidding her, at the same time, to be comforted, and not take his death to heart.
The consequence of the dream was fatal to the poor girl, who died a few days afterward, desiring her parents to note down the date of her dream, which she was confident would be confirmed. It was so. The news shortly after reached England that the officer had fallen at the battle of Corunna, on the very day in the night of which his betrothed had beheld the vision.
Another, a lady residing in Rome, dreamed that her mother, who had been several years dead, appeared to her, gave her a lock of hair, and said, “Be especially careful of this lock of hair, my child, for it is your father's, and the angels will call him away from you to-morrow.”
The effect of the dream on her mind was such, that, when she awoke, she experienced the greatest alarm, and caused a telegraphic notice to be instantly dispatched to England, were her father was, to inquire after his health. No immediate reply was received; but, when it did come, it was to the effect that her father had died that morning at nine o'clock. She afterwards learned, that, two days before his death, he had caused to be cut off, a lock of his hair, and handed it to one of his daughters, who was attending on him, telling her it was for her sister in Rome.
Well authenticated cases might be multiplied till they filled volumes; but the two we have cited, suffice to prove that in sleeping, as well as in waking hours, our minds may receive impressions of truth, or, that the spirit goes out to other scenes, and there takes cognizance of events and conditions.
Dawn slept on; her beautiful white face was still and upturned, as though gazing into the heavens. The excitement of the day had gone, and the look of keen pleasure on her features was changed to one of intensest emotion, for she was away, her spirit beside one whose life seemed almost ebbing out of this state of existence. She saw his pale features half hidden in the snowy pillows, the deep, soft eyes looking as though in search of one they loved; and then she heard him call her name, in tones touching and tender. She wept, and awoke. The sun was shining brightly through the window. She arose, and dressed for her departure, and, to the surprise of her friend, announced her intention of leaving that morning for home.
“You are no more to be depended on than the rest of your sex, Miss Wyman,” remarked Mr. Austin, who really enjoyed having her with them.
She was in no mood to reply in the same spirit, but said quietly:
“I have concluded not to tire you out completely this time, for I want to come again.”
“I think your going must be the result of some very hasty conclusion, Dawn. I had no intimation of it last evening. Really, unless you are ill, you are quite unfair to leave us so soon.” Mrs. Austin having made this remark, glanced for the first time at Dawn's white face. What had come over her? Was it Dawn who sat there so still and white? “Are you ill?” she asked, the tremor of her voice betraying her deep solicitude for the welfare of her visitor.
“No; but anxious. I must go to-day, however, or I shall be sick, and on your hands.”
“I'd a deal rather you should be on my hands, than weighing on my heart, as you are now,” and Mrs. Austin expressed the hope, after her husband had left, that she would confide to her the cause of her departure and sudden appearance of illness.
“I have had an unpleasant dream,” said Dawn, when they were alone, feeling that some explanation was due her friend, “and I must go home.”
“A dream! O, fie, I never mind them. Why, I once had a most frightful one about Ned. He was away on a journey, and I dreamt that the boat caught fire, and every one on board was lost. I even went so far as too see a messenger coming to tell me of the disaster.”
“But had not your mind been agitated through the day?”
“Why, I had read of some dreadful disasters, to be sure, and then I had retired at a late hour, after getting my mind wrought up about the liabilities of danger, which, of course, accounted for it-but was your dream about your father?”
“No.”
“Why must you go? Do you think any one is in danger? I think it was the result of the long ride, don't you?
“I do not. My dream was purely impressional, and outside of the effect of daily incidents. Yes, I must go, Fannie, and right away.”
“In that case I shall ride home with you,” and she rang for the man to harness the horse.
Each busy with her own thoughts they rode in silence for a long distance, a silence which was only broken by Dawn's exclamation of pleasure, as they came in sight of her home.
The next day she sat beside the bed of Ralph, whose snow-white face and attenuated form, showed how fast he was passing away.
He gazed long and tenderly into her face, as she sat there, their souls holding their last earthly communion. His spirit was all aglow with life, and trust, while the shadow of separation rested on her, and dimmed her faith and vision.
“But for a little while, Dawn, and then we shall meet again; perhaps, to be united.”
How the words entered her heart, for now, under the cloud, she felt, O how keenly, that her state had hastened him home. His was the vine-like nature that must cling to another, or die. It was all dark to her then, and added to the pang of separation, was the thought of her cold indifference. He, all gentleness and love, lie in rays of light; all her vision and life had gone into him to help him over the river.
“And you do not dread to go, Ralph?” she said, her voice choking with emotion.
“Fear? I only long to do so; to be there, where all is peace and rest;” and the rapt, upturned gaze, confirmed his words.
“It will be always day there,” he continued; “none of these weary nights which have been so long and lonely-”
“O, Ralph, live; live for me. I have been blind and wayward. O, come back, and we will live for each other.”
“In my father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you.”
The words sounded far, far away.
“Yes, we will live together above, not here. God has so ordered it, my own Dawn. I shall be light, perhaps, to you, even in that far-off land. Nay, 'tis not 'far'; 't is here. I shall dwell in your heart close-close-closer than ever.”
He closed his eyes and rested for a few moments. Then, arousing, he clasped her hands firmly, as though he would bear her away with him as he took his heavenward flight.
“Look there,” he said, “the river! go close with me-for this is our last moment. Dawn, I am yours; not even death can part us. I am not going; I am coming closer than any earthly relation could bring me to you; coming-call them.”
Parents and sister stood beside the bed with tearful eyes. To them he was going far away.
Dawn saw not the death-dew on the marble brow, nor heeded the passing breath. Another sight was given her, and while they stood so statue-like with anguish, her eyes beheld a soft mist gather like snowflakes on the head; and while the breath grew quick and short, this seemed to pulsate with life, until a face was outlined there. That face the same, yet not the same, but her own dear Ralph's, immortalized, set in a softer, finer light. Her being pulsated with new joy. A tide of life seemed to have flown into her heart, leaving no room for pain.
A moan struck on her ear; so sad that she started, and the vision fled.
“O, Ralph, my own loved boy; he's gone, he's gone,” burst from the mother's sorrowing heart, as they bore her from the room.
Marion stood dumb with grief, while the poor stricken father bowed his head and wept bitter tears for his lost son.
Had Dawn no grief, that she could stand there and look so calmly on? What made her feel so indifferent to the dead form on which she gazed? Because his life, the life that had once animated it, had passed into hers, and they were one and united. Ralph, warm with life, was imaged in her heart and mind. The clay he bore about him, that husk, had no claim upon her being now, and with scarce a look at the body, she walked away.
“I think she could never have loved him, or she would not seem so cold,” were the words that floated to her as she passed from the room where lay all that was mortal of Ralph.
It was as near as she could expect to be understood here, in a world where so much of her real self was hidden; but such words touched her sensibilities none the less, notwithstanding her philosophy. They went deep, like an arrow, into her heart, and then she knew that the house of mourning was no place for her; that she must go, and to the world appear cold and unfeeling, while her heart was ready to burst with its deep emotion.
She left them, and they never knew how dearly she loved him, nor how close his soul was linked with her own. They mourned him as dead, while to her he became each hour a reality, a tangible, living presence, full of tenderness and love.
Miss Weston met Dawn as she passed out of the house, with that look of tender pity, which says, “I know you suffer.” In that look their souls met and mounted to higher states. They could not speak, for the tears which flowed over the graves of their dead; their sorrows made them one and akin.
“You will return by to-morrow,” said Miss Weston, as she parted with Dawn at the gate, supposing that she designed returning to be present at the funeral.
“No, I cannot.”
“Why, Dawn! not follow dear Ralph to his grave?”
“I have no Ralph to bury. He is resurrected-gone higher.”
“But the family, they surely-”
“They will not miss me. I am not a part of their lives now. They do not know me, nor do I know myself.”
Here trust, light, and vision left; the weakness of flesh uprose, and she went down into the dark valley of grief.
She gave a parting pressure of the hand to her friend, and walked slowly to the station. Alone; O, what relief do our tears give us, when no one can see them flow. In that dim, summer twilight she walked. Fast fell the tears over her cheeks. None but angels knew the sobs, the agony of desolation which swept over her, and like a pall hung between herself and heaven.
It was midnight when she arose from prayer, but morning to her soul. Peace had come; the dove had returned with the olive branch; the waters had gone down, and green banks shored the wild sea of sorrow.
She spent the day of the funeral ceremonies alone in the solitude of the woods. Full of meaning now came to her these words of Christ: “Let the dead bury their dead;” and this was her first personal realization of the truth. Alone, yet not alone. That presence, unseen, but real, was with her, soothing the harshness of sorrow, filling her heart with peace and comfort. Just as the sun sank in clouds of sapphire and crimson, his form stood, radiant, joyous, and life-like before her. It was no myth, no hallucination of the mind. Close, within reach, yet she could not touch him; he stood there, the same Ralph, with all the tenderness of love on his beaming face which he bore in life. No loneliness came over her as the vision faded slowly away; he seemed to dissolve and flow into her heart. The soft twilight, the singing of birds, and charming landscape, with the breath of summer floating on the air, came like sweet accompaniments to the melody which was pulsing her being, and giving her new strength and vigor for life.
She knew, that to her Ralph would each day be a sustaining power, and give life a dual action. When weary of the outer, she could turn within and find one conjoined by the holiest of ties unto her soul.
His life, too, was being unfolded through her, as it could never have been on earth; and as years rolled on she saw how well and good it was that he had passed on before her. There was more completeness to her being than there could possibly have been, had they been united on earth by the form of marriage.
When she emerged from the cloud, all this light transfused her being, and she had no tears, because there was no separation.
We learn in unlearning. We lay aside, one by one, the garments in which we have enwrapped ourselves; garments of various hues, which are our opinions, and so clog and hinder our progress. Happily for us that we find our states changing, and the wrappings of old dogmas too oppressive. Fortunate are we if our freedom of spirit is large enough to enable us to lay aside what was a shield and protection to us yesterday, if it be not fitted for us to-day. He who is strong to do so, benefits all around him, for no good or evil is confined or limited to one. Everything flows; circulation is in all things, natural and spiritual. Life in one is life in another; what is faith in one is also faith in another.
“What is gained by one man is invested in all men, and is a permanent investment for all time.
“A great genius discovers a truth in science, the philosophy of matter; or in philosophy the science of man. He lays it at the feet of humanity, and carefully she weighs in her hand what is so costly to him, and so precious to her.
“She keeps it forever; he may be forgotten, but his truth is a part of the breath of humankind. By a process more magical than magic, it becomes the property of all men, and that forever.
“All excellence is perpetual. A man gets a new truth, a new idea of justice, a new sentiment of religion, and it is a seed of the flower of God, something from the innate substance of the Infinite Father; for truth, justice, love, and faith in the bosom of man are higher manifestations of God than the barren zone of yonder sun; fairer revelations of him than all the brave grandeur of yonder sky. No truth fades out of science, no justice out of politics, no love out of the community, nor out of the family.
“A great man rises, shines a few years, and presently his body goes to the grave, and his spirit to the home of the soul. But no particles of the great man are ever lost; they are not condensed into another great man, they are spread abroad.
“There is more Washington in America now than when he who bore the name stood at the nation's head. Ever since Christ died, there has been a growth of the Christ-like.
“Righteousness grows like corn-that out of the soil, this out of the soul.
“Thus every atom of goodness incarnated in a single person, is put into every person, and ere long spreads over the earth, to create new beauty and sunshine everywhere.”
There was one spot which seemed more attractive to Dawn after Ralph's birth, than her home,—our homes are just where our hearts cling for the time, here or there,—and that spot was the home of Miss Bernard and her brother. This desire to be with them was settling into a fixed purpose to go, when one day her friend, Mrs. Austin, burst into her room, saying, “I've come for you. I think a change will do you good.”
A short time only was needed to pack a few articles of clothing, and they were soon on their way.
It was early autumn, and the skies and trees were glowing with all the tinges and beauties of that season. Scarlet maples flashed here and there from their back-ground of pines and firs along the road, while over the dead limbs clambered the ivy, more brilliant in death than in life. The air was full of life. The voice of her friend chatting by her side was soothing to her nerves and spirits, for her life had been full almost to bursting since he had come so near.
“You astonish me more and more, Dawn,” said her friend, who had dropped her lighter mood, as they rode leisurely by the forest trees, which ever seem to suggest deeper thoughts.
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because your reconciliation to your loss seems so strange and unusual.”
“I have no loss. My friend has come home closer to my heart and understanding. The form is of little value to us when death gives us so much more of an individual.”
“Would I could think as you do, Dawn. You are strange, and yet you seem to get at the very core of life's experiences.”
“We cannot all think alike. There must ever be an individuality of thought, as well as of feature, yet on the common ground of principles we can meet. My serenity of mind is born of vision, for most clearly do I perceive that had I been united on earth to Ralph, our lives would have been limited. We should have gone into each other and remained, for he was the complement of my very self. In a world of so much need of labor, we could not be allowed to be of so little use to mankind.”
“But I do not see why you might not have blessed humanity more by your united efforts.”
“Because we should have been located, spiritually insphered in each other's life. Now I have no excuse for halting. I must be forever moving to some center, and he will find his life in and through me, loving me ever, but yet never quite settling into my life, which he was naturally inclined to do. In his atmosphere I shall gather another kind of strength and life; a life of two-fold power, because he will be so near in affection, so close and indwelling. I shall have the light of his spiritual life within me to guide me on; and can I not labor, yea, bear all things with such strength?”
“O, Dawn, for such light one could call life and toil here, rest and heaven.”
“As it ever will be if we seek the harmonies of our lives.”
“Now you rob death of its gloom to me. You must talk with Basil of these things, he can understand and appreciate them. Did you know that he was a relative of the Seyton's, a cousin to Ralph's mother?”
Dawn started. It was all clear now. Ralph would have her go to them, and that was the cause of her yearning to be there.
“Shall we go to-morrow,” she asked of her friend, who sat abstracted by her side.
“Where?”
“To Miss Bernard's?”
“Yes, to-morrow. They are anxious to see you, as is also your protege, young Mr. Bowen, who has inquired for you every time I have met him.”
“I had almost forgotten him in my deep experiences. Has he changed? Does he seem more hopeful?”
“He seems far away. I think it your mission to send people off the earth, or, at least, into larger orbits.”
“I should like to make their lives larger, for life is not worth anything unless we are daily putting off the old, and taking on the new. We cannot live our experiences over. Fresh breezes and fresh truths correspond-the outer and inner ever correspond. A clean dwelling indicates purity of heart and purpose, while the reverse leads us to beware of the occupant.”
They were now at the home of Mrs. Austin, who considerately conducted Dawn to her room and left her alone until tea-time.
The evening brought Mr. Bowen, who appeared pale and dispirited, but he was speedily assisted to better states through Dawn's efforts.
Again poor Margaret appeared to her sight, this time with a new look on her features, as though she had gathered strength and light from the partial recognition of one who had betrayed her, yet from whose life she could not be separated until the spiritual balance of forgiveness had been given and received.
Clarence was soon engaged in earnest conversation. “Do you not think, Miss Wyman,” said he, “that we may be weakened physically by spirits who come into our atmosphere?”
“I have no doubt of it. If they remain, and are not illuminating, or changing their states; if they come to do us good, even, they may sometimes weaken us, because our magnetism which sustains them becomes attenuated.”
“I have thought that I was at times weaker, from the presence of one whom I feel is near to me.”
“It may be. She cannot rise until you are ready to do so. And when you both go to higher states, or you enter hers, a new life will inflow. There will come relief. There is monotony now in the influence, because she is waiting for new truths to be infused into your mind before others can flow in. Perhaps I cannot make it as clear to your mind as I perceive it.”
“The thought is suggestive, at least, and will help me out. I suppose these things are of slow growth in the human mind, like all things in nature?”
“They would not be of the soul were they not slow, and of little value to us did they not ripen in the warmth and nurture of our own sunshine.”
“True. I would know more of these things. They give me strength to bear life's burdens much better, and although they seem to take my thoughts from my duties, I seem to be brought nearer to them; yet I cannot quite comprehend how it is.”
“This influence does not take your mind away; it lifts it above your cares, and makes you more contentedly subjective to the law that governs. Truth ever renders us content to bear, while it liberates us from thraldom.”
“I know that my life beyond will be richer and nobler for what little I have of these truths here. You have greatly blest me-”
“And blest myself,” she added, seeing the rich gratitude of his soul falter with the poverty of words.
He took her hand, pressed it warmly in token of his deep indebtedness, and they parted, to meet no more on earth, save in spirit. That night the death-angel came. He was seized with hemorrhage of the lungs, and died instantaneously.
The wife of the world, whom position and society had chained him to, put on robes of mourning, and in three months was a gay, flirting widow, while he was happy in the summer land, joined to his mate, the bride of his soul's first love.
For a long time Dawn felt not the presence of either Clarence or Margaret. They were away, reposing in the atmosphere of forgiveness and love, and learning that “it is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die.”
Dawn sat beside Basil as an old friend, holding a likeness of Ralph in her hand.
“I little thought that you knew our dear Ralph,” said Mr. Bernard, breaking the silence they had enjoyed, “and yet I ought to have recognized his life within yours, Miss Wyman.”
Dawn knew well why he did not, for she had kept him away from herself.
“I usually feel the sphere of the one dearest to another, when I come into their presence; but this time I was completely in the dark. There is some reason for it, I know.” She knew it, and also that he could read her mind.
“I will keep nothing back,” she thought, and told him all. Just as she had finished, Mrs. Austin and his sister came in from the garden.
“Your conditions must have blended very closely,” said Beatrice, playfully, “it seems as though there was but one person in the room.”
“You are becoming a dangerous person to have about,” said her brother, while his tone and speech were greatly at variance, for his voice to her was always sweetly modulated and full of tenderness.
Mr. Bernard brought to Dawn a folio of drawings, some of Ralph's early sketches, which they looked over together until the hour of retiring, when the evening closed with a calm and natural prayer, such as was nightly heard in that pleasant home.
“I shall claim Miss Wyman to-morrow,” said Beatrice; “I have a great many subjects which I wish to talk upon with her; so, brother, you will see that our friend, Mrs. Austin, is entertained.”
“We will engage to make you very sorry that you are not of our party,” he answered, as they separated for the night.
“Now you are mine for a few hours,” said Miss Bernard, after breakfast, to her guest, as she led the way, followed by Dawn, to a little room which she had fitted up, and in which she studied or mused, sewed or wrote, as the mood prompted. The walls were hung with pictures, her own work, some in oil, others in crayon; all landscapes of the most poetic conception and delicate finish.
“I have always longed for the power to express my thoughts in pictures. What a keen enjoyment it must be, Miss Bernard, to have such a resource within one's self.”
“I think the power resides in every person, and only waits a quickening, like all other powers.”
Dawn thought of the hour in Germany when Ralph sat and sketched her portrait, and the intervening time was as though it had not been. It was but yesterday, and she sat again by his side watching the deep life of his eyes, eyes on which she would never look again. Were they closed forever? “O, heart so desolate. O, lone and barren shore, where are the waves of joy? All receded; all; and she seemed to stand upon the beach alone, while a chill ran over her.
“You are chilly, Miss Wyman, let me close the window.”
But Dawn heard not, saw not; for before her vision appeared a face all radiant with life, toned by a look of intensest sympathy; while on the brow glittered a star so radiant that mortal might not gaze upon it. Its rays seemed to enter her very soul, and pierce it with life and light, bathing it with a flood of joy. It was no longer dark, her face beamed with a strange light when Miss Bernard turned to call her attention to some pictures which were unfinished.
“You seemed far away, Miss Wyman,” said she. “It's so like Basil. He has such moments of abstraction, and almost takes me with him.”
“I was away for a moment; but what a lovely picture you have here.”
“It's one I am trying to copy, but I make little progress.”
“Truth is not necessarily literal, is it? If so, I should make a poor copyist.”
“It is not; and there is where most persons fail. 'The Divine can never be literal, and there is in all art a vanishing point, where the Divine merges itself into the ideal.' And that vanishing point is seen in the human composition, as well as in natural objects, that point where we lose ourselves in the Divine, and merge our own being into that greater, grander being. You are an artist, Miss Wyman, you group human souls and portray them in all their naturalness; not on canvas, for that could not be, but spiritually to our inner sight.
“I love art in whatever form it may come to glorify life, for true art is catholic, beneficent, touching with its mystic wand every soul within its reach, thrilling even the sluggish and the slumbering with a new sense of the Divine bounty which makes this world so lovely and fair.”
Miss Bernard looked grateful for the rich appreciation of her guest, which she had scarce dared hope to find; and from art they drifted to life and some of its present needs, glowing with friendly recognition as they advanced and found each possessed with similar views. Thus do we meet pilgrims on the way, at some unexpected turn, when we thought ourselves alone upon the road.
“I know by these pictures, Miss Bernard,” said Dawn, “that your life is full of practicality.”
“You surprise me, for every stranger thinks that I do nothing else.”
“If nothing else, you would not do this, or anything of a fanciful nature.”
“I see you have had some experience, for very few entertain that sentiment.”
“I have seen enough to know that those whose time is at their own disposal rarely accomplish anything, either practical or beautiful. The one helps the other, and one who delves hardest in the practical, rises ofttimes highest in the ideal.”
“It is true of my own self, and others. My experiences have been varied and deep in human life and I have learned that time is of no value unless it is estimated by the amount of labor that can be accomplished. When thus estimated, however it may be employed, the results are productive of good to the individual.”
“How I wish, Miss Bernard, that the whole human family might have just enough labor and time for improvement which they need. Life looks so hard and inharmonious at times, when we see thousands toiling from early morn till night, with no moments for thought or culture, that we cannot but ask where justice to God's children is meted out.”
“Life is strangely interspersed with clouds and sunshine. I know that somewhere all will find recompense for such seeming losses, and that what we now look upon as evil will be seen to be good and best for all. Did I not know this, Miss Wyman, I should have little heart to go on. Of one thing I am certain, and that is, we must each keep working, performing the labor of the day, and some time the great united good will come from all this individual work. It is but an atom that each one does, but it counts as the grain of sand on the sea-shore, and helps by its infinitesimal portion toward the aggregate.”
“Did you ever feel, Miss Bernard, that extended vision of life's conditions incapacitated us for real, vigorous service?”
“I have felt at times it might be so, but am convinced that it does not; it only deepens our effort and endeavor.”
“I have often thought that I was unfitted for life, from the very fact that I saw so much to be done.”
“When we see so much it makes us meditate, and that very condition gives birth to greater power.”
“True, and yet I often wish I did not see so much. Why do I not oftener feel a power somewhat commensurate with the demand and wish?”
“I suppose, because the power is born of the time and the need, and not a burden to encumber us on our way. It is not of material nature; cannot be packed and stored away for some occasion that may arise, but is proportioned and adapted to the kind and quality of the requirement.”
“You have explained it just as I felt it somewhere in my soul. The thought in me needed the quickening of another mind. You do me good, Miss Bernard, every moment. O, how much we need interchange of thought.”
“We do, indeed, in order to know ourselves, if nothing more. But I see that you are weary. Stay with us and rest, will you? New atmospheres are good to throw off fatigue in.”
“I should indeed be delighted to stay here. Was Ralph fond of being here?”
“Very; and he is here now.”
“Then you believe in the presence of spirits, and their cognizance of us, and we of them?”
“Yes, for many years, and have been led by their advice.”
“I am at rest. I find many who believe in communion, but not communication. I accept both.”
“And so do I. We will compare experiences, and have many happy hours. How much we shall all enjoy. You must know my brother, Miss Wyman, for he, too, loved Ralph with all the ardor of his deep nature.”
The next hour Dawn sat alone in communion with self, wondering at the daily events of life, and her own deepening womanhood. Life to her was growing richer each day. She felt that she was catching the divine breath, and coming into celestial harmony, which is the soul's true state. O, what bliss awaits us, when we have passed from the exterior to the interior life; a state not of worlds, but of soul, where we come into divine submission, and can say, “Thy will, not mine, be done.”