“Hearts that are broken with losses,And weary with dragging the crosses,Too heavy for mortals to bear.”
It seemed to Herbert to be Florence that they placed in the earth; he could not separate her from that lovely form of clay. How could he see her lowered into the grave, and his two darlings beside her? How bear this great grief? Not alone. Only by the help of Him whose ways are not as ours, and who doeth all things well. Long was the night of sorrow; it seemed as though day would never dawn, so deep and chastening was his grief.
“I would I had your faith to sustain me,” he said to Hugh, a few weeks after the burial.
“It's the only thing which takes the sting of death away, and makes the tomb but a passage to the skies,” was the response. “I would not be without its blessed, consoling influence for all this world can give, aside from the light which we daily receive into our lives from those who have passed the vale.”
“Are they not about us the same, whether we believe in their presence or not?”
“No, not the same. You are not the same to your friend who has little or no faith in your life, and your motives of action, as you are to one who has full trust and belief.”
“No, I am not. In order, therefore, that our unseen friends may fully aid us, we must believe in their presence and ability to do so. Christ could not help some because of their unbelief.”
“Even so. He who gives us no heed, has no communion with us. But the faith of which I speak, is not gained at once; it is of a slow and natural growth. Again and again must we thrust our hand through the darkness, ere we grasp the anchor. Often will the cloud envelope us, and all seem dark as night. There will be hours and days when Florence will come into your atmosphere, bringing her own state of loneliness and longing to be felt by you; days when you must both mourn that the veil is dropped between you; but above all, the sun of spiritual light will shine gloriously.”
“Then you think that they suffer after they have gone?”
“I certainly do. It is perfectly reasonable to suppose that they mourn for us as we for them. Reverse the case. Suppose that you were where she now is, and that she were here, and that you made strong efforts to approach her, and having thus far succeeded, endeavored to impress her with the fact of your presence. If she recognized you, would you not feel rejoiced? and if she did not, would you not feel grieved, and all the more so, if instead of honestly admitting self-evident facts, she sought to evade them?”
“True; all that would be most natural. I have never thought of it in that light before. Do you think I may sometime feel and know that Florence is with me?”
“I trust, indeed, I know you will. In some unexpected manner some human instrument may be used to give your mind the test it needs.”
“Will it be real to me? O, tell me if I shall feel and know that it is really her?”
“If genuine there will be no doubt in your mind. All this is something which must be experienced, and not told. A thrill will come to your heart and brain which you have never felt before, when you first realize the possibility of our departed friends communing with us, and this because the truth will be more intimately related to your inner self than anything you have before felt. Dawn is too much affected by the death of Florence, yet, to see her; too much in her own state. When she returns to herself-becomes disengaged from the anxious condition of Florence, she will see and bring her in communion with you; yet a stranger can do better, and give your mind more satisfactory evidence of her ability to speak to you.”
“One of the conditions of this communion has been, that we must receive it through strangers. This robs it of its sacredness to me.”
“You will never have that feeling after having once felt her presence through another. You will feel the blending of humanity more sensibly, and see how we are all conjoined, that there is very little that is yours or mine exclusively; yet we hold all things, and all hearts that inspire us. Human souls belong to God and humanity. It follows not, because one is near us, blessing us with her daily presence, that she is ours, wholly. She belongs to humanity, and becomes ours through dissemination. It is like a truth which we give unto others; it is more within us, the more we give it forth. Whatever thrills me with joy, is far more to me when I have told it to a multitude. It is the same with those we love; the more humanity claims them, the greater they are to mankind, the more they become to us. Florence was more to you, because she was beloved by Dawn and myself. If she was much to you here, how full and replete with love will be her ministration to you now. Her immortal spirit is with you each hour, and will act on you through all time. When you know that she is with you, you will feel the thrill of her joy, and your hours will be greatly relieved of their present loneliness. It is strange that for so many years we have laid our friends in the tomb and sat sorrowing at its door. But Spiritualism has rolled away the stone, as the angel did of old. It comes with its teachings and humble appeals to earnest, truthful souls. It reaches our daily wants, and is to us a life-book, not a musty, worthless creed. It is a stream of life, flowing from heart to heart; not for one only, not for a few, but for all. It winds by eternal habitations, and flows to the city of our God. Happy is he who drinks from this lowly stream, so untainted by the opinions of men, and clear and crystal. Herbert! happy will thy day be when thou hast tasted of its living waters.”
“Then you do not wholly ignore the church,” said the village pastor to Hugh, after a long and earnest conversation upon religious and social topics.
“I do not. But I deny that its limitations and its dogmas can control the growing mind, and believe it to be wrong for the church to assume or desire to do so. As a great, leading guidance to popular thought, I would combine the church with the theatre-.”
“The theatre!” exclaimed the minister, holding up both hands in holy surprise. “You don't mean that we should turn the sanctuary into a play-house? I tremble for the age, sir, indeed I do, if such views are to be tolerated.”
“Not turn the church into a theatre, but combine the two, and with the good that is to be derived from each, form a perfect temple.”
“But the theatre is a temple of evil,” remarked the pastor.
“Not so. Because it has at times been perverted and made to contribute to what we denominate 'evil,' is no reason why the theatre should be condemned. For the same reason we might condemn the church, for it, also, has in some periods of its history been made the means of base oppression and wrong-doing; it has drenched fields with blood, and slaughtered innocent beings by thousands.”
“But that was not the true church.”
“Neither in the former case, was it the true theatre; for the theatre, when confined to its legitimate purpose, is the greatest moral instructor the world has ever known. Were you accustomed to visit the theatre, as I know you are not, you would find that the triumph of the right is always applauded by the audience, while the tricks and momentary successes of evil-doers are invariably condemned. This proves more correctly the tendency of the theatre than all the homilies of those who spin fine-threaded arguments from the pulpit and the press. Why, my dear sir, the church itself is unconsciously passing to the theatre, and the theatre equally unconsciously passing to the church. Witness the fairs, the school exhibitions, the tableaux, and the private dramatic entertainments of the former, and the Sabbath evening services within the walls of the latter. Does not this condition point to the ultimate combination I have spoken of?”
The pastor sat for a long time in deep thought. At length he looked up to Hugh, as though relenting from his inward desire to be true to what was obviously the right, though contrary to public opinion, and said:
“I hope the day of its coming is far distant, Mr. Wyman; I fear your views would destroy all religious sentiment, and make us a godless people.”
“What do you consider 'religion' sir?” responded Hugh; “merely attending to the outer forms, or living an earnest life?”
“Living a blameless life, to be sure, while attending to the outer forms; not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together.”
“Which is right, but which is the very smallest part of the christian's battle. What I call a religious life, is paying tribute to all the arts of living. Everything which contributes to the health and happiness of mankind, is to me of vital importance, and a chief part of my religion. My christianity leads me to build the best house I can with my means, and to furnish it in good taste, that the sentiment of its inmates may be uplifted. It extends to every department-to the food, the garden, the dress, the amusements, to every social want; in fact to everything which elevates the standard of life. Religion to me, is living in all that elevates, therefore I love the temple in which we all congregate, and believe it ought to be decked with every form of art.”
“I think you are right, thus far; I do not, myself, like the barren walls of the present style of churches.”
“That is one step; you have taken that; I have taken another, and see that the drama is as much a part of God's method of elevating mankind as flowers and music. Ere long you will see it as I do. The church of the present day is too cold for me; it does not call forth the deep sentiment of my being, therefore I come near to God through Nature. When the church is divested of theology, and has enshrined the beautiful within its walls, I shall be happy to be among those who 'assemble,' for all need the magnetic life of assemblies to complete the cycle of their existence. I do not like a fractional life, one which seizes some parts and discards others. In the present age of transition, the best minds are thrown out of the sanctuary, waiting for the perfect temple, where they can worship in fulness of soul and purpose.”
“Yet all are better for the assembling, are they not, even in its imperfect state, as you term it?”
“It is well and good for all, but not so essential to some as to others. Some natures are so alive to sentiment and life, so infused with religious thought, that they live deeper and more prayerful, more Godly in one hour, than others do in a hundred years. Every emotion reveals to such the presence of the Deity. To them each hour is one of worship, and every object a shrine. No words of man can quicken their feeling to a brighter flame, for such commune with God. The dew and the flower, speak unto them of their father's protecting care. The manifestations of their daily lives, replete with heavenly indications, tell that God is nigh. 'Day unto day uttereth speech,' and to such all hours are holy. The heart which is attuned to life, is full of worship. Every manifestation, whether of joy or woe, brings God near; and the world becomes the temple. Religion should come through life and be lived. It is in the dress, in the kitchen, in the parlor, in books, in theatres, in fact in all forms of life. Theology is dead to the people. They want the living, vital present, with no dogmas nor sectarian limitations to keep their souls from growing.”
The pastor felt the force of Hugh's remarks, and the weakness of any argument he might bring to bear against them. The truth kept pressing upon his mind, and he felt that he might be obliged to relinquish his long-cherished opinions.
Thus we lose, day by day, one opinion after another. They wear away, and we lay them aside like worn garments that have served their purpose. The greatest error of the past has been the belief that opinions and surroundings must be continuous and unchanging. When we look to Nature we learn a different lesson. She is ever changing and reproducing. The world's opinion holds too many back. One dare not go forward and live out his or her life, for fear of a neighbor or friend, and in this way is retarded the full flow of inspiration to all. Strength in one, is strength in many; and he who dares to strike out in an individual path, has the strength of all who admire the bravery of the act. Time is too precious to pattern; let each one seek to do his own peculiar work, for each soul has a separate mission upon earth, though we may all labor apparently in the same direction. Of a thousand persons taking the same journey, each would see something which none other would. Each soul we meet in life has a new voice, a new truth to utter, or a new method of presenting an already known truth to our minds. Each arouses a new sentiment within us, touches some tender emotion delicately, while another grates on our senses like harsh music, until we go searching for harmony and rest and we find treasures of thought within us which we should never have known had we not thus been driven to the depths of our being. All help us, then, to higher states; those who tranquilize us, and those who disharmonize us till we fain would withdraw to our soul's innermost for peace. We must look at life on the grandest scale, if we would find rest. A limited vision gives us nought but atoms, fragments floating in seeming disorder; but the mountain view gives the spirit all the vales and hills, and shows them as parts of an extensive landscape, a complete and perfect whole.
“I think it will be a long time before I can see these things as you do,” remarked the pastor, after a long period of thought. “I fear your radicalism on on this and some other questions, Mr. Wyman, will injure society, if broadly disseminated.”
“I do not think that you understand my views upon marriage, any more than you comprehend them on religious subjects.”
“I hear that you give the fullest license to men and women, to sever their bonds and unite themselves to others.”
“In one sense I do, sir; in another, nothing can be farther from me. I boldly assert everywhere, that men and women should not live together in daily inharmony, and give birth to children to inherit and perpetuate their angularities and discordances. You, yourself, if you spoke without prejudice and fear of the world, would say the same.”
“But ought they not to try to live in harmony?”
“Most surely; but what if they cannot; if the magnetic life is consumed? If those whose union is so, merely in a legal sense, feel that in continuing that union they are daily losing life, power, and mental force, they should surely separate. I had much rather see such bonds severed than to witness the soul-harrowing sight I do every day of my life-parties fearing public opinion, and dragging each other down, living false and licentious lives-”
“What, sir! Licentious lives?”
“Certainly. Licentiousness is not all outside of wedlock. Every day and hour, children are being ushered into the world without love or true parentage-left in the hands of hired, and often vicious and ignorant servants, while those who should care for them, spend their time in folly and pleasure,—children undesired, enfeebled mentally and physically, with no love-sphere to enfold them-offspring of legalized prostitution, nothing more nor less.”
“I think myself, sir,” said the pastor, deliberately, “that many children are born thus, but how does this evil affect the other form of licentiousness, which is so on the increase?”
“It is very closely allied to it. Let married parties see that they give birth to pure, harmonious children, and the 'social evil' is blotted out forever. The evil of our life to-day is traceable to offspring, born of false and foolish mothers-of wild and reckless fathers.”
“It's a great evil, I own, but how can we avert it?”
“By making our marriages pure and holy, and by changing our relations after the life of each is exhausted.”
“But what would become of the children?”
“That is another question, and one which would settle itself. The order of all life is by steps; these we cannot overleap. One truth enfolds another. If the marriage system was perfect, or the relation between the sexes understood, we should not see, as we now do, manifestations which force us continually to question the existence of a God, and to be ever in search of the disturbing cause. Something is needed, sir, in our present social system to make us pure, and that something, is less restraint, and more personal freedom. We never become pure under restraint. All who know me, know that I seek to bring the sexes into pure and holy communion of spirit. Walls and partitions have ever produced clandestine movements. Boys and girls in schools should not be separated, but should meet each other daily; their studies, their sports be one as far as possible, thus blending their natures, not hividing them. If men lived more in the society of women they would be astonished to find how much purer and higher-toned their nature would become; how the mental assimilation was refining their wilder dispositions, their grosser passions. If such was your experience, you would tell me in one year that men and women do not mingle enough.”
“I think you mean well,” said the pastor, “and if I had your faith in personal freedom, I should almost dare to hope the earth might see better days.”
“I wish you had my trust in man, and the God-life which is within him, waiting to be out-wrought through his deeds. But my faith cannot be transmitted to another; it is a matter of inward growth with each. It comes to us when our souls soar above the labarynthian forest of opinions and theories, high into the clearer atmosphere, untainted by the dust and smoke of our daily lives. Yes; on the mount must the vision ever come. We must ascend, if we would look beyond; but no words of ours can portray to another the glory of the scenes we there behold.”
Hugh paused, and his face seemed glowing with light. The pastor went home to think over the words and thoughts of an earnest soul-words which sank deep within him, and displaced many of his own opinions.
“I do believe Hugh Wyman is a good man, after all that is said of him,” he remarked to his wife as he opened his Bible that night for the closing service of the day.
The years passed by and left Dawn steadily and peacefully doing her work, giving men and women each day extended views of life and deeper consciousness of their own powers. By the aid of friends and her father, she had succeeded in establishing a home for orphans, of both sexes, in a wild and beautiful locality, where all the varied faculties of their minds could expand. All were required to work a certain number of hours each day; then study and recreation followed. She became daily firmer in her belief that bringing the sexes together was the only way to make them pure and refined. Their labors in the garden and field were together; as also were their studies and lessons. There was a large hall, decorated with wreaths and flowers, where they met every evening and sang, danced, and conversed, as they were disposed; while each day added to their number. The boys were trained in mechanical as well as in agricultural pursuits, and it was pleasing to witness their daily growing delicacy of deportment towards the other sex, as well as the tone of love and sympathy which was growing stronger between them.
Dawn did not succeed in her effort at once; the majority laughed at and ridiculed her plan, but faithful to her inspiration, she continued on, and a few years witnessed the erection of a large, substantial building among the tall pines and spreading oaks. Parents who had passed “over the river,” came and blest her labors for their children; and they who, though living on earth, had left their offspring uncared for, wept when they heard of the happy home among the verdant hills, where their children were being taught the only religion of life-the true art of living.
The leading idea and aim was to educate these children into a harmonious life, and to preserve a proper balance of the physical and mental by an equal exercise of both. The result of her efforts was most gratifying and encouraging to Dawn. Her success was apparent to all, even to those who at first sneered at her course. The mutual respect which was manifest among them; the quick, discerning minds, and the physical activity; the well-cultured fields, the beautiful lawns, the gardens brilliant and fragrant with flowers, the neatly arranged rooms, the books, the pictures and the various means of study, amusement and exercise: and around all, the gentle and loving spirit of Dawn, hovering like a halo of heavenly protection, combined to form a scene which no one could fail to admire. It taught one lesson to all, and that was: make children useful and you will make them happy.
Basil and his sister came often to the home, where Dawn seemed to preside like a guardian angel. It had been the wish of their lives to see such a home for orphans, a wish they never expected to see fulfilled. They gave largely to its support, and were never happier than when within its walls. Mrs. Dalton, whom the world pitied so generously, here found her sphere, as did many others who had felt long unbalanced. She taught the children music, drawing, and the languages, and extended her life and interest throughout the dwelling, to every heart therein. Thus the maternal was satisfied each day, and each hour she felt less need of a union which the wise world predicted she would enter into by the time her divorce was granted. Beatrice came and took Dawn's place whenever she wished to go to her home to refresh herself in the abiding love of her father and mother.
“I never thought sich a beautiful thing could be on airth,” said Aunt Polly Day, one of the eldest of the town's people, to Dawn, the first time that she met her after the “home” was established. “Seems as though the angels had a hand in't, child, and only ter think, you're at the head o'nt. Why, I remember the night, or it was e'en-a-most day though, that you was born. Beats all natur how time does fly. It may be I shan't get out ter see yer home fer them e'er little orphans, in this world, but may be I shall when I goes up above. Do you s'pose the Lord gives us sight of folks on airth, when we're there, Miss Wyman?”
“I know he does. I feel that I have been helped by the angels to do this great work.”
“Well, it's a comfortin' faith, to say the least on 't; and I don't care how much you and your pa has been slandered. I believe yer good folks, and desarving of the kingdom.”
“I suppose no one ever feels worthy of the kingdom, Aunty; but we all know that if we seek the good and the true, that we shall find rest here and hereafter.”
“Them's my sentiment, and I don't see how folks make you out so ungodly, if livin' true, and bein' kind to the poor is unrighteousness, then give me the sinners to dwell among. Think of all the things yer pa has given me, all my life, and there's old Deacon Sims won't take one cent off of his wood he sells me, when the Lord has told him in the good book to be kind to the widow and fatherless. He makes long prayers 'nough, though. Well, I s'pose he has ter kinder reach out to heaven that way, and make up in words what he lacks in deeds.”
“He will make it all up, Aunty, when he has passed into the other life, and becomes conscious how little he has done here.”
“May be; but it's like puttin' all the week's work inter Sat'day night. I reckon he'll have to work smart to make up.”
Dawn could but smile at the quaint, but shrewd remark, and slipping a generous gift of money into the hand of the old lady, departed to spend her last evening with her father, and Herbert, who was now with them every evening, before going to her home among the hills.
How still and white his face looks, thought Dawn, as Herbert, at their request, seated himself at the instrument to play. One long, rapt, upturned gaze, and then the fingers stole over the keys.
Was it the music of the air, or some being of the upper realms breathing on him, infusing his soul with sound, that caused him to produce such searching tones, and send them quivering through the souls of the listeners? Now, moaning like the winds and waves; now, glad as though two beings long separated, had met. Then the song grew sweeter, softer, mellower, till every eye was flowing; on and on, more lovely and imploring till one could only think that
“The angels of Wind and of FireChant only one hymn, and expireWith the song's irresistible stress;Expire in their rapture and wonder,As harp-strings are broken asunderBy music they throb to express.”
The strains died away. Herbert sank back and spoke not; but on the white, uplifted face they read that an angel had been with him, one of the upper air. No words broke the stillness of that atmosphere; not a breath stirred its heavenly spell.
Without speech they separated, and the hallowed sweetness of that hour remained with them in their dreams, which came not to either until long after midnight.
From her own experience, Dawn saw that Herbert must mingle more with people, and become interested in life. She knew that it would not be well for him to think too much of the one whom the world pronounced gone, but who had come nearer than any earthly relation known.
“Come to my mountain home, and see my family,” she said to him the next morning, at parting.
He partly promised by words, but his air of abstraction indicated that he had no intention of so doing.
What was that look which flashed over her features just then? Surely, the expression of his own dear Florence, pleading for something.
“I will come, Dawn, and very soon,” he said, this time decisively.
Dawn's face lit up with another joy beside her own, as she pressed his hand and bade him good bye.
Not many weeks elapsed before Herbert fulfilled his promise to visit the Home. A murmuring sound of voices fell upon his ears as he approached the dwelling, and as he came nearer, the beautiful air of “Home” touched his heart with a new sweetness. The children were singing their evening hymn. Just as he stepped upon the portico the song ceased, and Dawn came gliding from the hall.
“Herbert! Welcome!” she exclaimed, with such an expression upon her face that no words were needed to tell him how glad she felt at his coming.
In her own little sitting room she had his supper brought, which he seemed to enjoy greatly, and then they walked in the garden till the dew hung heavy on the grass.
The days went by, and still he lingered. It was life to him to see so many children happy through labor and usefulness. Soon a desire to benefit them in some way took possession of his mind, and it was not long before he had so won their love by songs and stories of travel and history, that the evening group was not considered perfect without Mr. Temple, or “Uncle Herbert,” as a few of the youngest ventured to call him.
How childhood, youth, and age need each other's companionship. How perfect is the household group which includes them all, from the infant to the white-haired sire. Homes without children! Heaven help those who have not the sunshine of innocent childhood to keep them fresh-hearted.
Through this sphere of life and love, he found his life revived. Gradually the sorrow-clouds passed away, fringed by the sunshine of hope which was rising in his breast.
Dawn was his strength and counsellor every day. Through her he learned how closely we are related to the other life, and yet how firmly we must hold our relation to this, that we may become instruments for good, and not mere sensitives, feeling keenly human wants, but doing nothing to supply them.
“I intend to devote myself to life, and help the human family in some way,” he said to Dawn one evening, as the twilight was robing itself in purple clouds. “I have caught my inspiration from you, and will no longer moan my days away. My treasures lie beyond, and I will strive to make myself worthy of the union when I am permitted to go over the silent stream.
“Do,” answered Dawn, “and thus make her life richer and happier.”
“I make her happier? Has she not gone to rest?”
“A kind of rest, I know; but does she not still live and mingle her life with yours each day? Therefore, whatever the quality of your thought and action is, she must partake of it, and for the time absorb it into her spirit. If your life is vague and full of unrest, her life will become so. On the contrary, if yours is strong and full of purpose, you give her strength and rest of soul.”
“Is it so? Are we so united after death?”
“What part of Florence died, Herbert? The spirit passed out, carrying every faculty, every sense and emotion, to that land where many dream that we lose all consciousness of life, below, and remain in some blest state of dreamy ease. Not so. Our lives at death, so called, are made more sensitive to all we owe our friends on earth, and death is but the clasp that binds us closer.”
“Your words stimulate me to labor and make my dear ones happy through my life. O, that like you, I could know that they at times are with me; or, rather, that they could come and give me that evidence I so much need, of their presence and their power to commune with us.”
“I could not bring to you that evidence, because I know them and you, but I have a lovely girl who has just come to our Home, a stranger to you and to myself, who has this gift of second-sight, and if you wish, I will present her to you.”
“Do so, for nothing would give me more happiness.”
A young girl, with light hair, and blue eyes which ever seemed looking far away, was led into the sitting room by Dawn, and stood silent and speechless as soon as she had entered. Her outer senses seemed closed, as she spoke in a voice full of feeling these words:
“Be comforted, I am here; thy wife, Florence, and thy little ones. The grave has nought of us you hold so dear. Believe, and we will come. I whispered a song to your soul one night, and your fingers gave it words. Farewell, I will come again; nay, I go not away from one I love so well. 'T is Florence speaks to Herbert, her husband, from over the river called Death.”
The child looked wonderingly around, then wistfully to Dawn, who motioned her to the door, that she might join her companions.
“Is she always thus successful?” asked Herbert, after a long silence.
“No. I have often known her to fail; but when the impression comes, it's invariably correct.”
“Wonderful child. How can you educate her, and yet have her retain this strange gift?”
“I obey my impressions, and allow her to play a great deal. She cannot follow her class, therefore I teach her alone, short, easy lessons, and never tax her in any way, physically or mentally.”
“You must love her very much; I long to see more of her wonderful power.”
“You shall; but the hour is late, I must now send my children to bed and happy dreams.”
There was soon a cessasion of the voices, and cheerful “good-nights” echoed through the dwelling. When all was still, Dawn came and sat by him, and long they talked of the land of the hereafter, and its intimate connection with this life, so fraught with pain and pleasure.
Tenderly Dawn looked upon her little group each day, and all the maternal instincts of her nature sprang to the surface, as she thought of their lives coming without their asking, forced upon them to be battled out through storm and fire. Would that all parents might feel the responsibility of maternity, as that pure being did, who gave the richest, warmest current of her life to bear those children on. “He who has most of heart, knows most of sorrow,” and many were the moments of sadness that came to Dawn, as she saw beings who were recklessly brought into life to suffer for the want of love and care. But, though sorrowed, she never became morbid. She lived and worked by the light that was given her, earnestly, which is all a mortal can do.
No season was complete to her which did not bring to her side Miss Bernard, who seemed the complement of her very self. One warm summer evening when the air was sweet with the breath of roses, they sat together; earnest words flowing from soul to soul, and their natures blending like the parts of a sweet melody; Dawn's high hope floating above the rich undertone of the deep life-tide on which the soul of her friend was borne.
“I have often wondered,” said Dawn, as she clasped the friendly palm more tenderly, “if my life will be as firmly rooted as your own; if the same rich calm will pervade my being.”
“If it be once full of agitation, it will surely be calm at last,” said Miss Bernard, in that firm tone which indicates that the storms of life are over, “for we are like the molten silver, which continues in a state of agitation until all impurities are thrown off, and then becomes still. We know no rest until the dross is burned away, and our Saviour's face is seen reflected in our own.”
The moonlight fell on her features just then, almost transfiguring the still, pale countenance. That holy moment brought them nearer than years of common-place emotions, or any of the external excitements of life. A tenderer revealing of their relation to each other flashed through their hearts-a relation which the silvery moon, and still summer night typified, as all our states find their analogies in the external world.
“I often query,” said Dawn, breaking the silence, “what portion of your being I respond to?”
“I have often asked myself the same question. Dawn, of those whom I loved, and in my earlier years felt ambitious to become the counterpart of friends dear to my life. I have grown more humble now, and feel content to fill, as I know I only can, a portion of any soul. I can truly say, you touch and thrill every part of my being, if you do not fill it, and that just now you answer to every part. With some, my being stands still, I forget the past, and know no future. There is one who thus acts upon me now, though many others have stirred me to greater depths, and excited profounder sentiments,—this one calls forth the tenderest emotions of my heart and stimulates me to kindlier deeds. Thus do all in turn act and re-act upon each other, and what we need is to know just how to define this relation, for the emotions it calls forth are so often mistaken for those of love between the sexes, which marriage seals, and in few years reveals the painful fact, that what was supposed to be soul blending with soul, was only the union of a single thought and feeling, while the remainder of their nature was wholly unresponded to, its deepest and holiest aspirations unmated.”
“Do we not answer to each other now, because we are aglow with life, and each susceptible to the others emotion?” asked Dawn.
“Something deeper,” said her friend. “It is because we are both illumined by the divine essence which pervades all space and matter, as the air surrounds this globe. We are both full, and reflect each other's repletion. The theme is grand, and one which I would like to enlarge upon to-night, before our states are changed to those harsher ones, in which diviner truths are ever refracted.”
“I feel the force of your last assertion most thrillingly,” said Dawn, “for I know that a purely mental condition is antagonistic to spiritual light. How beautiful life becomes as we grow into the recognition of its laws, and learn of Him, who is law itself, and whose daily revealings, are the protecting arms around us.”
“Fully realizing this fractional mating of which we have spoken, I am led to question if we ever find one soul who meets every want, or whether we wander, gathering from this one, and that one, until the soul has all its emotions sounded, all its sentiments aroused and responded to. In my deepest, most earnest questioning for truth, this answer seems to be the only one, which gives me rest. How is it with you, whose vision is clearer than my own?”
“I feel that no one soul can meet all the wants of another. Yet seeing this principle, sufficient light does not dawn on the method of its application.”
“The light will come with the labor, as the fire flashes from the flint by strokes of the steel.”
“True,” said Dawn, gathering inspiration from the words, “And I have often felt that the world would be better to-day, if people agreed to live together while life and harmony inflowed to each, and no longer. I think the whole moral atmosphere would be toned and uplifted, the physical and spiritual beauty of children increased, and purer, nobler beings take the place of the angular productions of the day, if our unions were founded on this principle. And yet no one mind can point out the defects of our present system, and apply the remedy. The united voices of all, and the efforts of every individual must be combined, to accomplish a change so urgently demanded. All men and women should fortify themselves, and see that no being comes through their life, unless they have health and harmony to transmit. Maternity should never be forced; woman's highest and most sacred mission should never be prostituted, and yet this sin is every where. When every woman feels this truth, she will purify man, for he rises through her ascension. He needs her thought, her inspiration, her influence, to keep him every hour; and when the world has risen to that point, where minds can mingle; when society grants to man the right, to pass an hour in communion with any one who inspires him, we shall have made an advance towards a purer state. To-day mankind are suffering for mental and spiritual association. Give to men and women their right to meet on high, intellectual, and sympathetic grounds, and each will become better. We should then have no clandestine interviews, and few, if any of the passional evils which now burden every community, for the restraints which the jealousies and selfishness of the married have established, in a great measure create these.”
She paused: and the tall trees waved their branches as though in benediction on her head. Beauty was every where. There, in that summer night, who could utter aught but truth. The soft and gentle light of the hour, silvering with heavenly charms every rock, and tree and singing brook, excited no sophistries, but rather inspired the soul with divinest truths. Their words died away, but the spirit, the influence of their thoughts, will live through ages, and bring, perhaps, to those who read them, states peaceful and calm. That the relation between men and women needs some new revelation, we all know, but the light comes very slowly to us. We must work with such as is vouchsafed to us. Revelation comes to but few, and such can only work and wait, for the multitude. He who has toiled up the mount of vision, cannot reveal to the pilgrim in the vale, the things his eyes behold. The landscape view cannot be handed down, nor the emotions of the beholder, imparted to another.
The day is coming for true and earnest communion between the sexes, and the day is rapidly passing by when the glorious life which has been given us is misdirected and misapplied.
Threads of silver shot through Dawn's silken hair, yet she grew more beautiful as the years matured her. The children under her care grew to be young men and women, and went out into the world qualified to live harmonious lives. She had taught them the true religion of life; had impressed upon their minds the importance of enjoying this life, that they might be prepared to enjoy the life that follows it; that to be happy now is to be happy forever, for the present is always ours, the future never.
“I have one wish more,” she said to her friend, Miss Bernard.
“And pray tell me what modest ambition you have just now?”
“It is one I have long cherished. I wish to see a hospital for invalids erected within sight of this Home.”
“You are so successful in seeing your wishes ultimated, I shall expect to see one in a few months.”
“I should be glad to see a good list of names with generous subscriptions by that time. I think if all the extra plate and jewelry of wealthy families, articles which do them no good, or rather the surplus (for the beautiful in moderation ever does us good) were sold, and the money given to such an object, very much might be done. I see, when I come in contact with people, the great need that exists for an institution where patients can be surrounded with all that is lovely and artistic, and their spiritual and physical needs attended to. Many need only change of magnetism and conditions, with the feeling that they have a protecting care around them, to change the whole tone of the system. Others are weak, have lost mental stamina, and need the tonic of stronger minds; while some need tenderness and love, and to be treated like weary children. Many would need no physical ministration direct, but spiritual uplifting, which would in time project its force through the mental, and harmonize the body. There are many such cases.”
“True, I know we need such an institution to meet those wants which you have so faithfully sketched; and if a few earnest men and women work for that end, may we not hope to see it accomplished, and the blue dome rising somewhere among these hills? I will contribute my part, and give a good portion of my time for its accomplishment.”
“If all felt as you do we might surely see it in our day; but we will hope that the need will develop such a place, for the need is but an index pointing to the establishment of such an institution.”
“I have often wondered if cases of insanity might not be treated more successfully than they are by scientific men.”
“I feel that they could be under pure inspiration, and in nine cases out of ten, the disharmonized mind be restored to harmony.”
“O, Dawn, let us work for this, and though we may never see it in our life, we shall have the consolation and happiness of knowing that we had a part in the beginning.”
“And the beginning is the noblest part, because the least appreciated. The ball in motion will have many following it, but the starting must be done by one or two.”
Their conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of a visitor, who proved to be Miss Weston, whom Dawn was delighted to see.
“I had a singular feeling,” she said, to Dawn “as I came up the steps of the portico, what do you suppose it was?”
“I am not clairvoyant to-day. Be kind enough to tell me.”
“I felt as though I was coming to a home, one which I should never wish to leave.”
“And you need not, so long as you can be happy with me. I have long needed some one like yourself to help me. Will you stay?”
“Dawn, may I?”
“Nothing would give me more happiness, because you have come in this way; of your own spontaniety-simply gravitated to my life-and when the exhaustion of our mental and vital forces demands our separation we will part, and consider that as natural and agreeable to each as our present coming together.”
“O, if these principles could be understood and lived out, how happy, how natural we all should be; and happy because natural.”
“The world is slowly coming to an understanding of them, and you and I may help its advance by living what we feel to be true lives.”
“Dawn, you are life and light to every one, I shall stay here the rest of my life.”
With the clasp of true friendship about them, they lived and worked together. Winter came, and they sat at evening by the fire-side and talked of the past, and the golden future for mankind. The textures of their lives were fast weaving into one web of interest. Dawn's excess of spiritual life flowed into Edith's, who never forgot the hour upon the seashore, and the awakening there of her spiritual trust.
Miss Weston proved to be one of those household angels who see things to do, and seeing, perform. Silently she slipped into her sphere of usefulness, and became Dawn's helper in the thousand ways which a woman of tact and delicacy can ever be.
Silently the pines waved over the graves of Florence and her children. The snow of many winters fell on their tasselled boughs, while her husband learned through the beautiful philosophy, that our loved ones find death no barrier to the affections. Gradually he learned the great lesson of patience, which must be inwrought in every soul-that all our experiences of life are necessary, and in divinest order; that everything which happens is a part of the great whole, and that none of the bitter could have been left out of his cup. The unrest, produced by what he once considered his loss passed away, as the recognition of life's perfect discipline flowed unto his vision.
The nearest person on earth, now, was his friend and sister Dawn, kin of spirit, heart and mind. Regardless of people's speech, he went often to her home, and received the sympathy he needed. To him, she was life and inspiration. Why should he not seek where he could find? It was her soul-life he needed, and long and earnestly they conversed of those interior principles which so few perceive.
“I have learned by experience what true relationship may exist between men and women,” said Dawn to Edith, one day when every moment had been given to Herbert, “and how God intended us for each other?”
“And I see how your own life is increased by giving it to others, as you are every day doing. If I had a husband, Dawn, I should enjoy him most after he had been in your society. Uplifted and toned by the life of another, he could be far more to me,—far dearer and vital. I wonder women do not see this great truth.”
“They cannot on the merely human plane, which is ever selfish. Raise them out of that, place them on the mount of vision, and they would at once see it, and be glad to give their husbands the liberty of true women's society, knowing that they were extending their own lives in so doing. If men are unduly restrained, they take a lower form of freedom.”
“It is too true. I can now see that had I been allowed the earthly alliance, I might have been selfish and contracted. I almost know I should. O, Dawn, how much life is worth to us all; how much we have to thank our heavenly father for,—most of all for the clouds with silver linings.”
“I am glad that you see it thus, my friend, my sister. That is the soul's only sure position. Life is a great and glorious gift. If all its hours were mixed with pain, even to have lived is grand.” Then with her eyes looking afar, as if discerning scenes invisible to others, she repeated these beautiful lines: