In time, the gulf between him and the animal world is thus widened, and in size of brain, which measures as a psychic metre, the growth of the superior life, he is equally distant. It has been remarkedthat the brain of the savage was so much larger than the exigencies of his life demanded, that it was comparable to giving the wing of an eagle to a hedge sparrow, or the arm of a tiger to a mouse. Rightly read, this proves the vast duration of time during the differentiation of man from the animals below him. Psychic growth is marked by enlargement of brain, and as long ago as the earliest preserved geological traces of humanity are found, that organ had attained a size and form about equal to that of the present. Its attainments have become so great that it is difficult at present to compare its intelligent manifestations with the instinctive desires of animals. The brains of all the lower types in certain essentials of organic life are alike, but in the great lobes which, superimposed, mark the degrees of psychic life, the human being stand alone, and is human because of the mental qualities these lobes indicate.
A Spirit Not Necessarily Immortal.—It has been said by a writer whose sensitive mind had received supernatural light: “Supposing the laws governing our spiritual natures operate similarly to those governing our physical, we must naturally infer that the spiritual forms of all parts of life, may be by those laws interpreted. If the spirit of an animal has not intelligence to obey, and the spirit of man wilfully disobeys, will not the law eventually destroy such spirits? The sentient notion that all ignorant and vile spirits, without aspirations for anything that is good, who glory in wickedness and persist in the violation of law, will become perfected I regard as false, for such must go on in a career which ends in annihilation.” This writer errs in the cause he assigns for the continuous individuality of spiritual beings.He places it on moral grounds, making it dependent on moral aspirations, character and desires. Rather is it dependent on development as an entirety. The human being, after a certain stage of mental growth, receives a charter to eternal life which it can not annul, bearing with it all its infinite consequences and responsibilities.
In the “Arcana,” Vol. II., 1864, this subject is thus treated:
“A spirit is not necessarily immortal, but can become gradually extinguished, like a lamp burning for an indefinite time and then going out. Such is the condition of the lowest races of mankind. They exist after death; but with them there is no progress, no desire for the immortal state, and slowly, atom by atom, they are absorbed into the bosom of the universal spirit-essence as the spirit of the animal is immediately after death.”
If it be asked at what age the spirit of man retains its identity, it may be said in reply, that no certain date can be given, for that varies with the development of the parents. Is the idiot immortal? The answer depends on the circumstances, the degree and cause of the idiocy. If the idiot is destitute of a ray of intelligence; if it is only a voiceless, thoughtless being, the inference is not cheering, and the possibilities are largely in favor of its absorption into the bosom of the universal spirit-substance.
A sensitive gave his testimony on this subject as it came under his observation while in a trance. Its value depends on the credence we give to the revelations received from that state. He said that while in the unconscious trance, or clairvoyant state, the dying animal and dying human being were both presented to him, and he saw the same processes go forward in both. The spirit of the animal floatedabove the dying body like a thin cloud; and while he was expecting it to take form and identity, it dissolved and disappeared, just as a cloud would do in a summer sky. The spirit of a human being arose like a cloud in the same manner, took form and identity, and became a counterpart of the body it had left. This is not a speculative belief, but demonstrative by the revelations of trance.
Must Not Immortality Reach Into the Past as well as Into the Future?—A far more potent objection is made by the Metaphysician. To him the preceding arguments that the spirit can not have existed prior to birth, and has a common, a cotemporary origin with the physical body, is fatal to its existence after death. He says: Whatever has a beginning must have an end; therefore, when it is asserted that the spirit of man is immortal, it follows that it must have always pre-existed; had an endless past. This is a startling objection and held to be unanswerable, except by the hypothesis of pre-existence and re-incarnation, which maintain that the spirit is an indestructible entity, constantly rehabilitating itself in forms of flesh; but this hypothesis is only a supposition made in the childhood of the race to meet a doubt and objection. In an age of accurate thought it seems an anachronism. If we accept the doctrine of evolution—and, as the immediate explanation of the phenomena of living beings, it is the only, and a complete explanation—then we must also receive as true the corollary that instinct and intelligence are evolved out of the transformations of living beings, and that individualized spirit, if there be such an entity, must be the last link in the vast organic series from which it has sprung into being. In other words,with an indeterminable future it has had a determinable past. If the spirit has existed for infinite time before its incarnation in this life, it has had infinite opportunity for progress, and, logically, should have attained perfection. Not onlyshould, but must have become perfect. It is readily observed that the fact of its imperfection necessitates a beginning, and the degree of its imperfection shows the nearness or remoteness of its starting point. If it be held that this apparent imperfection is the resultant of the spirit’s connection with matter, it must be remembered that the theory of pre-existence has for its object to account for the evils of this life, and perfected spiritual beings, such as all must be after an infinite past, would have no need of incarnation to attain purity or excellence already theirs; and should they enter physical bodies, as spirits, according to this doctrine, they would not be contaminated or degraded by their contact with earth and earth-life, but would glorify it.
With the physical form given to offspring by their parents is also given spiritual entity which lives after the decay of that body, an independent being, the center of multitudinous forces.
Is this visionary? Lately an eminent physician has claimed that under proper conditions physical life might be indefinitely prolonged, and man be able to live in the body forever. All that is essential is the preservation of the equilibrium between the forces of renovation and decay. If this could be maintained, life would be prolonged, perhaps to the end of time, and an immortal oak or lion be as possible as an immortal man; but with the gross forms of matter this can not be maintained. The forces of growth and renovation are in excess until the full tide of maturity is reached, and then decay is in excess.There is not enough material furnished to replace the waste of the body, and it wears out, when death must follow. It is then that a new entity becomes recognizable. The material has become spiritual. Such an immortality at best would be not only undesirable, but unendurable amidst the changing scenes and vicissitudes of material life. Only within the refined spiritual realm can we expect to find the perfection we seek. It is a new province, subject to new conditions and new laws. There is seemingly an impassable gulf between matter and spirit, yet we shall find it possible to throw an arch across. Nature loves such blank spaces; she loves the black bars in the spectrum as well as the light. Between the tadpole and the frog there is a chasm which, unless the change had been observed, would be deemed impossible. Between the caterpillar and the butterfly; the worm eating rough herbage and the gaudy winged creature floating like a wind-blown leaf from flower to flower, the contrast is even greater.
How shall we pass the abyss between matter and spirit? More correctly, how shall we look beyond the dead physical body to the individualized spirit, and account to the satisfaction of science for the maintenance of immortal individuality from the wreck of organization brought to its most perfected state? While the animal has a similar organization, in its way, and compared to its environment as perfect, why is it that the claim is made that the individuality of the animal is lost at death while that of man is preserved? These are all vital questions, and rest on the logical affirmation that whatever has a beginning must have an end. If man has a spirit, the objector affirms that animals, too, must have one. There is no sharp break in the series, and hence no stopping point from the highestto the lowest, and, consequently, the primitive amœba, and protoplasmic cell must have an immortal spirit. This, byreductio ad absurdum, destroys the affirmation of the immortality of the highest as well as the lowest.
We may regard the physical body as the scaffolding, and when it fails, the incomplete arch of intelligence built thereon falls with it; but this arch becomes more and more perfect, until in man it is perfected; and when the physical platform by which it has been constructed falls at death, the arch remains. This is an illustration of the idea, and not produced as evidence. For this evidence we must consider the more abstruse doctrines of force and its relation to matter. If we go back to the beginning, to the primal chaos, we find visible matter and invisible force. We may take one step further and find force only, regarding matter as the form of its manifestation. This, however, is not an essential admission in this discussion.
This force is the first revealment of an intelligent, ever active, persistent energy, which pulsates through the universe. What lies back of it; from whence it springs, we may not know. It is unknown, though perhaps, not unknowable.
As we can only recognize Force as Motion, and motion only in connection with physical matter, our investigation must begin with the emergence of that Force as the moving energy of the cosmic world-vapor. In this expression with the primal elements, unconditioned, its tendency is to move in direct lines. This is illustrated in crystallization which may be called the first manifestation of life—the dynamic force of life. This force, which as seen in the formation and revolution of worlds, is vorticle; in the vegetable kingdom it becomes spiral, and more andmore circular as it ascends through the animal kingdom to its higher forms, and in man becomes completely so. This statement will be better understood by the accompanying diagram.
Diagram of the Individualization of Force.
Diagram of the Individualization of Force.
The straight linea, represents primary force as manifested in the world-cloud, or nebulous vapor of the “beginning.” It was this force that directed every atom to the common center of the cosmic mass. If its history be traced, it will be found that the motion of the atom starting on a straight line for the center is deflected by the resistance of the crowding atoms, and approaches the center by a parabolic curve. In other words, the cosmic cloud would form a vortex like a whirlpool, and the rotatory motion developed would, before the accumulation of any great mass at the center, prevent further aggregation; and the rotating belts would, after condensation into worlds, continue to revolve in spiral circles which, because of the masses not being homogenous, would correct their variations by spiral orbits which often reaching a minimum distance from the center, retrace themselves by the worlds traveling a spiral orbit that becomes constantly larger, until a maximum of distance had been gained. This explanation of planetary motions has really no connection with the present discussion, except as it illustrates the parallel between the circle gained by individualized masses, and the circle gained by individualized spirit.
The line of force directly acting, is the dynamicenergy of matter. It passes into the world of life in an ascending spiral, that at each ascension, instead of completing itself, rises to a higher degree. The spirals atbrepresent the life of plants; and those atianimal life, now termed vital energy or vital force. There is incompleteness, and the force ever ascends to a higher form. Atdthe spiral becomes a circle. The evoluting or individualizing energy returns within its orbit, and instead of extending to higher forms, seeks the perfection of the human being. If, now, the inflowing forces represented by the dotted linec, be cut off, the individualization of the product of that force is complete. It stands alone. The orbit of the forces of its rotation is fixed by the indestructible. As in the planetary orbit, caused by an oscillation between extremes, there will be variations, but a constant return to the point of departure. The cosmic energy of force having ascended through this pathway becomes individualized, as atd, and death severing the bond atc, the spirit as the centerstance of force becomes as ate, entirely detached from the stream of living beings. The force that apparently had a beginning, at least such to our consciousness, has by the cumulative processes of life embodied all that is valuable, and is enabled to exist alone; returning forever within itself, maintaining a perfect equilibrium between the sentient intellectual and moral natures it has acquired. It is the focus of these. There is no end to the individualized force in this direction; in other words, spirit is immortal. It follows that vegetable and animal types along the spiral represent incompleteness to such an extent as to forbid existence after detachment from the impelling current. This can only be attained by development carried to a certain degree, below which the forcemust disappear with the organization which manifests it.
Death.—Death is the separation of the spirit and the physical body; and as the former carries with it all that enters into the individuality, the self-hood, there can be no change in that individuality. In the processes of evolution, death is as natural as birth—one is entrance into the earthly life; one departure from it to a higher sphere of activity. Ever is it as of old: The angel of the sepulchre is the angel of the resurrection.
After Death.—The student calmly surveying the pathway of evolution, seeing constantly in one age the prophecy of ages that follow; reminded by every form of life, of a striving to realize an ideal, and in man, finally, as the highest work of creative energy, finds that ideal type of physical beauty, and adaptation to the demands of mind, realizes that short of this last crowning work the plan is incomplete, and a failure. The line of advance to man is direct and continuous. He is the perfect fruitage of the Tree of Life. Having reached the perfection of his physical form, progress changes in direction to the perfection of his intellectual and moral being. In this direction it is never completed during the brief years of mortal life; but transposed to an existence after death, the infinitude of years is equal to the infinite possible advancement; for as no one can fathom the centuries of the future, no one can fix the boundary lines circumscribing mental attainment. After death the celestial being holds fast to all that marked its individuality in earth-life—its loves, affections, desires, culture, attainments, its fears—to begin there where it leaves off here, with new environments and happier methods.
It will find belief the rags of the beggar, concealing the one bright reality, that immortal life is an inheritance, governed by laws as fixed as those of the physical world.
Beyond this, in earth life we can but darkly understand. We have words to convey ideas of things well known to us—of lights seen, sounds heard, of tastes, odors and sensations; but mortal senses have not experienced, can not experience, the sensations of this higher life, and so there are no words to convey the sensations or thoughts awakened.
True, there is a correspondence, such as Swedenborg attempted to express, but failed because of the limitations of language. He was, like every one who attempts this task, with ideas formed in the idiom of one language, attempting to express them in a foreign tongue, which has no suitable words. There are barbarous languages, with vocabularies of scarcely one thousand words, yet capable of expressing fully the thoughts of those who use them. It would be impossible to translate the complex thoughts of civilized man into such forms of speech, much less the impressions and thoughts of the celestial life.
If a butterfly, endowed with language to express the beauties of the broad summer landscape, the soft winds, the melting clouds, the fragrance and nectar of flowers, should return to the old bitter herbage, where its hairy, uncouth relatives were feeding on acrid leaves, and spreading its brilliant wings to catch the sunlight, should attempt to relate the wonders of the life that was its own, how little would they understand, how sadly would they misconstrue his meaning.
For them there has been no experience of wafting winds; no sensation of flying; nor of sweet nectarfood, or perfume and brilliant color, and of these no words held in common could convey any meaning.
For the full knowledge of that higher life we must wait. And it is well: for to know earth-life in its completeness is enough, and more, for its short years. As this life is the vestibule to the next, so a true knowledge of it is of priceless value to advancement there, and its culture, its moral growth, its spiritual excellence, are treasures laid up in heaven, and this is all that the freed spirit can carry with it in its transition.
It is difficult to prevent the discussion of Psychic questions from assuming more or less a religious aspect. The reason for this is that all systems of religion are based on Spiritual existence, and from views of that life, true or false, draw their vital sustenance. The moment it dawns upon the mind of an investigator, that in the facts and laws which come under his observation there are expressed forces unknown to the physicist; that beyond, dimly seen, there is an intimation of intelligent, yet impalpable beings, he is conscious of his own high destiny, and the necessity of conforming mortal life to it.
The inquiry of the student becomes the seed-bed for the propagation of religious thought. Herein thisdomain is unlike all others, for the outcome of research within its limits, is the last fruitage of Ethical Systems.
Imperfect understanding, as that of the savage, blindly feeling without comprehending, yields the rank growth of superstition; while scientific and philosophic investigation yield the most refined morality.
The preceding pages show the important part the sensitive holds in the manifestations and study of psychic phenomena. The true position of the psychic individual is not appreciated, even by those who have given the subject much attention.
While in the preceding discussions I have spoken in the impersonal mode, I wish to add my testimony from years of experience, as a sensitive. I do this because it forms a somewhat necessary preface to the narrative which follows.
The mass of mankind understand the delicacy of the conditions which go to make up the sensitive subject; of the acuteness with which the nervous system is strung; its keen susceptibility to pain and pleasure, about as well as the illiterate boor comprehends the chemical tension of the plate in the camera or the subtile ways of electricity. To be a sensitive is to have at times the light of heaven in the heart, and at others the darkness of despair. A thousand influences are always acting, and the brain of the sensitive receives them all, trembles to their vibrations, and finds resistance to them an effort most exhaustive of vitality.
In this state of tension, disagreeable objects, opposing words, or antagonisms which ordinarily would pass unfelt and unnoticed, strike with rude hand, and give excruciating torture. The presence of an object or person may be sufficient to antagonize ordestroy all ethereal influences. I know of nothing that may be compared with the acute depression of the mind after such experiences, which corresponds to the preceding exaltation. While the sensitive is receiving a flood of inspiration he breaths an atmosphere of delight, and lives in an ideal world. Earth and its cares sink out of memory, and the mind is ennobled and purified. When the inspiration departs, the rosy light fades out of the spiritual vision, and the mortal eyes open to the cold, gray rays of earth-life. How drear and sordidly selfish, poor and unprofitable existence seems to him then.
After the flood of inspiration comes its ebb; the valley of despond, after the heights of Alpine splendor. Melancholy and depression of spiritual energy may produce physical disturbance, which runs its swift course to death. Recognizing these facts, the position of the sensitive can not be regarded as desirable, unless the laws of the sensitive state are well known, and the subject learns to protect himself against injurious and painful conditions; even if he does this unexpectedly, conditions will arise and confront him, for those who are his nearest and dearest friends know nothing about the acuteness of his feelings, and may unconsciously produce the very effects they seek to avoid.
The sensitive becomes painfully conscious of a double life, for the psychic is so different from the common state, that the mind receives impressions as from two distinct conditions of existence. One is physical, held in common with the brutes, with physical enjoyments and desires for eating, drinking, and the passions; the other is the psychical, which lives above and beyond the cares of life, and dwells in an ideal realm of purity. One is the night and the other the day. In order to dwellon earth these two lives must be united. The physical body has its imperative needs, which must be satisfied, as the just condition of spiritual growth. There is less imperative demand for spiritual sustenance. So soon as the body has been supplied, mental lethargy supervenes, and desires to tyrannize; physical life overlaps and conceals the spiritual, and men live the life of beasts. At other times the spiritual gains such complete ascendency that this world is forgotten in a blaze of ideality. An equilibrium between these states is the most desirable, but difficult to maintain.
Sensitiveness is a faculty common to mankind and capable of cultivation. Now that we have just entered the vestibule of the temple of Psychic Science, and are beginning to learn its principles we may hope for brilliant results. Nor will the duties of this life be neglected because of the approach to another. To the belief that mortal life is all that can be attended to here, and “that the earth is wanted here, and not in the clouds,” the celestial sense would reply: “We too want the earth here, and not in the clouds, but we want the clouds also.” We want the clouds to distill the soft dew, and bear on their broad shoulders the life-giving rain for the grass and grain, to slake the thirst of the herds and flocks; we want the clouds to spread their protecting mantle over the fields against the scorching sun of summer; and we want them to bring the crystal snows to protect the fields in winter. We want the clouds to beautify the sky, and reflect in loveliness the rays of the rising and setting sun. Half the beauty of the world would be gone without the clouds, which lift the soul on wings of aspiration. We rejoice that there are clouds, and while the earth is good enough for the mortal man, in the clouds there is a granderreality. If it were otherwise, if the human heart were given its intense longings, its exquisite sensibility, its delicate cords responsive to every touch of feeling only to be torn and lacerated at the grave of the loved, we would scorn the pitiable earth, despise the sham called life, hate the force called love, and believe that there is neither benevolence, wisdom, nor intelligence in the Universe. It is the clouds that give value to the earth; without them it would only be a parched and thirsty desert. There are clouds, and by them the spirit is exalted to the contemplation of infinite realities.
Without the ever-present consciousness of eternal being, religion would be impossible, and there could be no ideal of excellence superior to the gratifications of the hour. But man feels the aspirations for a superior life, a soaring out of and above the physical senses; he feels the promptings of duty, of right, of justice and truth, outwrought from his innermost being. The pleasures of the time are cast away; selfishness yields to unselfishness; and the spirit, amid pain, apparent loss, and the scorn of its fellows, proves its kinship to the immutable and ideal. Such is the true spiritual life: The outgrowth of spiritual science, which makes morality a birthright, and its expression in character a consequence of obedience to the laws of its being.
Spiritual life is universal and infinite. It is the answer to our hopes, desires and abiding faith. Whence come they? They are the mutual expression of our inner natures. As the flower expands, its petals bending to the rays of the sun, so we turn to the spiritual sun, and only in the warmth of its invigorating rays expand into completeness. As the foulest slime of the sewer, when exposed to the light, casts down all stains, and sparkles in the crystalwaves, so humanity in the light of spiritual truth is purified and freed from stains. Hope, faith, desire, the poetry of the present, are the prophecy of the future! Their voice proclaims the esoteric wisdom which is wiser than all books; for are not all books children of the mind? Has any thing ever been written that no one knew? As the mind is the receiver, so is it the radiator. It cannot receive what it has not the ability to throw out. It understands because it is the sum of all the elements and forces of the universe. It is akin to the titanic energies which hold the revolving suns and worlds in the hollow of their hands, and can read the ritual of the flashing stars.
Infinity it has never exhausted, it can never exhaust itself. Books are imperfect stutterings of its eternal consciousness. It is as superior to them as the master to his sketch, the sculptor to his clay, the builder to the engine that feebly embodies in brass and steel his ideas, which alone are perfect. We are immortal, and hope and desire tell us the wondrous tale of an unending future. We cannot cast aside its awful responsibilities, escape its duties, or be deprived of its grand possibilities. The very name, Immortality, carries with it the ideas of endless progress, justice, liberty, love, purity, holiness, power and beauty.
Those who have followed the line of thought in these pages will have no difficulty in admitting the possibility, at least on special occasions, of spirit communication. They, in fact, will recognize it as a necessity. If those who have passed through death’s portals should return, they might find even the most sensitive unable to transmit their thoughts, except in a most rudimentary manner.
The following narrative is an attempt of a celestial being to convey by words a conception ofits glorious life. While, in part, the sketch must be taken allegorically, mainly it is a true picture. The communication came from our mother, Jane A. Rood, and the remarkable facts connected with her death are correctly stated. I more minutely describe the entrance into that state wherein the message was received, because it illustrates the preceding discussions, and the communication emphasizes and makes plain many points which have remained unapproachable.
The first stages were like sinking into peaceful slumber, and I felt the scenes of earth melt out of consciousness, while a strange exhilaration, peaceful and delightful, came over me. There were changing flashes of color, rivaling the rainbow, coming and going in receding circles, and then a misty brightness, out of which slowly came, as though the cloudiness were material in the hands of an artist, a form which I recognized as our mother’s. A score or more of years had passed since the fateful hour when we were gathered around her couch, too distressed to weep, and awed by the presence of the silent messenger. Wasted by serious sickness, she was at last free from pain, and a smile of joy came over her pale face when she knew it was soon to be over. We thought her dead, for her eyes closed and her breath ceased, when she repeated with a voice sweet as music:
“Bright spirits await to welcome me home,To that blissful region where you, too, may come;Weep not, for our parting is only to sight,Our spirits may still the more closely unite.“Perform well each day the task which to youIs allotted, and murmur not if you must doWhat now seemeth hardship, for soon you will prove’Tis labor of kindness, an action of love.”
“Bright spirits await to welcome me home,To that blissful region where you, too, may come;Weep not, for our parting is only to sight,Our spirits may still the more closely unite.
“Perform well each day the task which to youIs allotted, and murmur not if you must doWhat now seemeth hardship, for soon you will prove’Tis labor of kindness, an action of love.”
Then her eyes closed again, and her features changed into a glad smile. There was now no mistaking the signs, and we went to our appointed tasks, feeling that it would be sacrilege to weep in the presence of such a triumph over death. We felt that we had been permitted to catch a glimpse of an unseen reality. As travelers in mountain regions are delighted after the valley is wrapped in twilight by glimpses of the crest of some tall mountain catching the rays of the sun, and reflecting its glory, so to us it seemed that the departing spirit had caught a glimpse of the light of its new life, and reflected a smile on the face of the body it was leaving.
How beautiful she was with the graces of youth, and the complete and perfected charms of maturity. No wrinkles were on her brow, no marks of care, anxiety or pain; she was ideal in excellence.
What has happened to you, mother? How are you the same and yet not the same?
The response: I have returned to my youth, and have brought my experience with me. I scarcely realize how many years have passed. Twenty-five, do you say? It seems to me not as many days; and yet, let me recount. There has been a flood of events, and my recollection of the last time you saw me has grown dim. We count not time by years, but by accomplishments; by what we do and gain in thought. I am pained by the memory of the olden time. You say it was twenty-five years or more ago! As I come again in contact with earth, my sickness and sufferings are recalled. How weary and worn I became! How I longed for the end! The love you all bore me and my love for you was the only cord which bound me to life, and as I approached the end I forgot even that. How much I suffered that day I cannot tell, but at last I wasat peace. The terrible struggle between flesh and spirit was done, and the latter rested. I thought I would sleep, and yet it was not sleep. It was a repose of all living functions, and yet my mind was in full activity. For a time I heard all that was said by those who were in the room; but soon I became so absorbed in the thoughts which flowed on my mind that I lost consciousness of everything else. Oh! it was such a delicious sense of comfort and of rest! I was so very weary; I had been so tortured by pain that to be free was indescribable happiness. I had heard them say I was dying, and I expected the dread moment with foreboding. It surely must soon come, yet I thought I had not reached it. The darkness began to lighten, and I thought the morn was breaking. An intense thrill of delight filled my being, and the light grew stronger. I continued to rest, and a new strength came to me. I am getting well again, I thought, and, perhaps, when the morning comes I shall surprise my friends and children by at once arising from my couch. The light streamed in with a soft and a refreshing warmth. There were no walls to prevent its passage. I was floating in a cloud of light, borne gently and softly as a weary child on its mother’s breast. Then out of the light, as though it had formed into shape and substance, I saw three friends, long since dead, and my own blessed mother. To meet them did not appear strange to me, yet I knew they were not of earth. When they came around me, taking my hands in theirs, and caressing my forehead, I was surprised at their beauty, and the sweetness of their expression. They read my thoughts, and answered:
“Yes, truly we are of the dead; and you will find that dying means to live.”
“I thought I was dying; they told me so,” I said, laughing at the absurdity. “But I have become well, never so well since a child. It is a joy to breathe and feel the fresh life come coursing through my veins. But why do you smile?” I asked. They replied: “Do you not know that your new life means death? How much you have to learn, dear sister.”
“Yes, I have everything to learn; my life has been full of cares.”
“They have been for others,” was replied. “And such are treasures in heaven. For us to learn is not labor. If we bring ourselves into the proper condition of receptivity, knowledge flows into our minds. There is no effort, no wearisome study. We may know all that the highest intelligence knows if we are in the right condition.”
“I must bring myself at once into that condition,” I replied, “for there is need.”
“Be not in haste, our sister,” said they gently; “there is time, and you must have repose. The pain you have endured reflects on your spirit, and you have not yet recovered.”
“I infer from your words that I have met the change I so feared,” I said again, smiling at the absurdity of the idea. “When did I pass the limits of earth life, and why do I lose sight of my friends?”
“You need have no more dread,” replied my darling mother. “You do not see them because we are far away from them. It would not be well for you to remain and witness their sorrow. We have taken you away, that you may first recover and grow strong.”
As I felt the swift motion, which I had not before observed, for it had been to me the gentle rock of sustaining arms, I asked: “Am I to be taken away so far I can not return?”
“Fear not, child,” she replied in her old way, “fear not, for whatever we justly demand is granted to us. The craving of the heart is not left unanswered. Presently it will all be made plain to you.”
We were drawn onward as by the tide of a great river, and I saw countless others coming and going, as though on swift errands. Then we paused on an eminence, overlooking a sea of amethyst on our right, and a vast plain on our left. The sky was softest purple, and the light fell with indescribable mellowness over all—there was happiness in the air, and those we greeted were radiant. No words can describe what I saw, or my rapidly changing emotions. There is nothing on earth with which to compare the landscape. The softest earthly colors are opaque in comparison, and the clearest sky a murky cloud. Overcome, I wept for joy, and my companions wept with me.
“Oh!” exclaimed one, “how sweet to know that this is the reality; no more doubts, nor forebodings; no more fears, nor distress; a life that of itself is the highest pleasure, and yields us heaven.”
I started at the word, for it recalled a tide of beliefs: “Heaven! When are we to go there? Where is it and what must we do to go there?”
“Be not impatient, dear sister; we are in heaven already. Where happiness is, there is heaven. Heaven is activity. It is the deed of kindness, the pure loving thought that makes heavens.”
“What is its first principle?” I queried, “for I am weak and undeserving.”
“Doing for others is the full measure of its law. This is the angel code from which every trace of selfishness has been weeded out. To do for others brings gain. The pure and noble angels bending from theirspheres of light, labor for others in self-forgetfulness. When man so far forgets his selfishness as to sacrifice himself for others, he exalts himself in angel-life. To work for self is no better nor worse than the brute world, from worm to elephant, and is devoid of immortal gain.”
How delighted I was at these words. The dross of the world was rapidly disappearing. The sphere of my earthly labor, which to me seemed so narrow, widened. I had been sympathetic with those who suffered, and to those weaker than myself I had given a helping hand. Little things of no account at the time, so humble and narrow had been my life, now had a new meaning.
My companions smiled as they read my thoughts, and one responded: “Dear sister, your weakness was your strength. It will be no effort for you to do as you have always done. They who can be unselfish under the coarse influences of earthly life, how grand must be their career under the purer conditions which here prevail.”
As we conversed there came one from another group, tall, beautiful and radiant with light, and with his companion more exquisitely beautiful than himself. They invited us, and we went to their abode. “How beautiful you are,” I exclaimed involuntarily to her.
“I am glad;” she replied, “for to be truly beautiful means that the thoughts are right and true, for they mold the features and through them gain expression; but it requires time, a great length of time.”
“How long have you been here?” I ventured to ask.
“Many hundred years. I scarcely know how long.”
“And you grow not old here?”
“We grow not old. The spirit knows not age. It is not limited by duration. It is an eternal now, concentrating the past and awaiting the future.”
I had not seen myself since the change. I put my hand to my face; it was smooth and unwrinkled. A happy ripple of laughter came from my companions. He who had come for us said: “Dear sister, you left those with your body. The pure spirit has not the wrinkles of care or of age.”
I looked at him as he spoke and my attention was called to his robe. I had not thought of this subject before. I had been so eagerly watching the faces of my companions, I had not thought of their garments, or of my own. What a change! What was this raiment? I can not describe it. It was a drapery as of a cloud, and its color depended on the spiritual condition of the wearer. I was glad that mine was azure, for that was the color of my companion’s, and thus I knew I was like them. What was it? A cloud or woven light? It fell around me soft and warm, and with a luxurious coolness contrasting with the burning of the fever I had so recently escaped. How different from the roughness of the old garments was this fleecy robe, glinting and reflecting the light.
As we conversed, there came a spirit, who paused in front of us, dark and sullen. His raiment was sombre and grim, like his thoughts. “Can you tell me where heaven is?” he grumbled, “I paid a preacher to gain it for me, and now having lost all else, I want that.”
“Poor brother,” replied the elder, “you search for what you can never find outside of yourself.”
“You are a deceiver!” he muttered as he fled away.
The elder brother gazed after him sadly, and turning said: “On earth he was a miser, and who can count the years before his regeneration? He sought wealth, trusting to others his religious and moral culture. The recording angel has written against his name not one charity, not one unselfish deed. He now must wander in self-torment, seeking and finding not.”
“Was he of consequence on earth?” I asked, for he was proud and haughty in his degradation.
“Thousands trembled at his beck, for he had made them dependents and slaves. He had vast riches, houses and lands, mortgages and deeds. He was wise in getting wealth; but here mortgages and deeds are unknown, and he becomes the least in the kingdom; morally idiotic, mentally dwarfed, and a pitiable object of our compassion.”
“How long before he will gain the light?”
“Ah! who but God can tell!” sighed my instructor. “Who can tell? Centuries may go by. He must first learn to ask; first learn humility and his mistakes. Then some kind angels will attempt his education. They will lead him out of his mental selfishness, and he will begin as a child in the old life. His task will be difficult because he can not enter the sphere of receptivity, as we are able to do, and thus absorb knowledge from others. His nature must first change, and complete regeneration be accomplished.”
The coming of this pitiable one brought a wave of sadness over us, but it passed, and the sun was more gladsome after breaking from the clouds. I had rested in delightful sleep; I do not know how often, and the old life was like a dream. It was not possible I had been sick, for I was so strong, so gladsome in my strength, and activity was a delight. Mymind broadened. Contact with my companions gave me enlarged ideas. To think was to learn; to wish was to know. I was able to look beyond the effect to the cause. I could read the law in the result. Every day brought grander views, and my mental horizon expanded. Even in this larger growth I found rest. The faculties, dwarfed and starved in the old time, called for activity. The weariness of the body I was leaving behind me. How lovingly my companions would surround me with conditions of repose. How they gave me fullness of life, and drew to me those who would reveal the knowledge it was my desire to learn!
Then suddenly one evening I felt an earthward impulse. What power drew me thitherward?
“Is our sister disturbed?” asked my gentle companion.
“Oh! so disturbed! I have been selfish in my new joy, and how could I have been so forgetful; so unnatural? My husband and babe; my son and daughter weeping; and I have not thought of them!”
I wept, and my companion folded her arm around me and gently said: “You have been under our control, and are not responsible. To have been subject to the griefs of those you left, would have been painful and useless. You are now able to bear a full knowledge, you feel that of your family and friends. I will go with you, and you will find what I tell you is true, and you will bless us for our thoughtfulness.”
We were poised, as it were, over a promontory beyond which the earth hung in space, as the full moon in a summer sky. Beyond were the stars. I was aghast at the journey, and fearful of the abyss which seemed deep as infinitude. While I trembled it waspassed. I was in my old home. A great flood of human memories came over me. How I loved the dear familiar walls, the chairs, the glowing fire and, more than all, the family group. My husband sitting with his head bowed in his hand, my daughter performing the tasks that had been mine; my little boy and girl at play; the babe asleep. There were tears in my eyes as I turned to my companion for strength to bear: Did I not leave my body? Was there not a funeral? Why is it so quiet if I have not truly passed the ordeal?
“Listen,” said my companion, supporting me. “Listen. It was in October when you passed away. The bright foliage of the trees, then burning in scarlet and gold, had been blown away by the blasts of winter, and the snow covered the earth with its icy shroud. All you think of has been done. It is finished. Were you to go to the churchyard you would find a mound by the side of relatives gone before.”
It was so unreal and absurd that I was bewildered, and laughed at my misunderstanding, and wept the next moment when I saw my family. I went to my husband and placed my hand on his head and called him by name. I called with all my strength to learn that my lips gave no sound to his ear, and that my touch was imperceptible. Then I turned to my daughter and threw my arms despairingly around her. She was singing a song we had sung together, and continued not heeding my embrace. Oh! how keen my grief when I found I was not known in my own old home. I, who had come from such a distance, my heart beating with love, found no response! My daughter finished her song, and her eyes filled with tears. I read her thoughts for they were of me. “Mother! Mother!” she was saying, and I responded. It was the call I had heard beyond the bars of heaven!I could not bear it, and my companion said as she again placed her arm around me:
“Come, my sister, you can do no good here. There is your child sleeping in its crib. It is cared for as by yourself. Kiss it, and we will go. Be assured whenever you are wanted here you will feel the desire.”
I kissed my child. “Let me stay,” I pleaded; “I want to sit in my old place, in that vacant chair. Then I will go.”
“As you will; and I will endeavor to impress your daughter with some ray of sunshine.”
She bent over my daughter, and by means I did not understand, her mind responded to the spirit’s thoughts: “Your mother is with you, and retains the same affection for you she had in earth-life.” With the influx of that thought a smile lit up her face, and turning to the organ, she sang, “Annie Laurie,” a song we had often sung together. How thankful I was that one ray of sunlight gladdened her heart, and the memory of me was yet dear. I was grateful to the kind spirit who had assisted me, and then she said we must go, for the trial was too great for my strength.
“You must calm yourself,” said my companion, “for this sorrow is without the least benefit. Believe it is for the best, and though the hour is dark, it will bring a perfect day.”
“I can not prevent myself thinking of my children and my husband. My love for them is stronger than ever, and I could not have been persuaded to have left them for a day. Can I not, oh, good angel, remain with them? The fairest scene of your home is desolate compared to the earth!”
With tenderest compassion she said: “You are now in the earth-sphere and take on its conditions.You are seeing through earthly eyes, and affected by earthly ways. When we once leave this scene you will be no longer distressed. Willingly would I leave you. I have no right to force you away. I influence you as I think for your highest good. Here you are unrecognized, and are constantly troubled because you can not make yourself known, and by a reflection of the sorrow of your family. Whenever you can be of use to them you will receive the knowledge and can return. Now we had better go.”
She placed her arm around me, and whether the earth sank away from us, or we flow from the earth, I was unable to tell. I have since learned how to traverse space by the force of will; but then I was ignorant of the method, and dependent on others. Now, when I desire to visit a place, or be with certain friends, the desire creates an attraction, which in spirit is the equivalent of magnetic attraction in the physical world.
When we again reached our spirit home our companions gathered around us, and I was soothed by the kind words of my mother. I felt condemned for my loss of interest in the earth-life which had so recently absorbed my mind, but it became like a dim dream, and ceased to trouble me. What if I should forget it entirely? I was appalled at the idea, and cried at the pang it gave.
“Do not fear, you will not forget, but after a time your affections will strengthen. Our sister has much to learn, and needlessly distresses herself.”
The years passed, and I became accustomed to my new life, when a message came for me. The palpitating waves repeated, “Mother! mother! mother!” It was my youngest daughter, who had grown almost to womanhood. I knew by her cry that shewas in mortal pain, and yielding to the attractions I was soon with her. She was motionless on a couch, surrounded by her relatives, and her cousin held her cold hand. “It is all over,” they said, in tears.
“Can it be?” I eagerly asked. “Oh! can it be that the time has already come when I am to have one of my children with me? To have one of them who will know me, and converse with me? Oh! heavenly Father, I thank thee for this answer to my incessant prayer.”
Then I looked closely and saw the great transition was approaching. I could not assist; I could only stand by her side and receive her. She seemed asleep, which I fully understood from my own experience. Slowly the spirit left the insensible body, and as I saw my spirit-daughter recovering her senses, I drew near and whispered, “Claribel.” She opened wide her blue eyes, and I knew she saw me. I threw my arms around her, and wept for gladness. “Darling Claribel, do you not know me, your mother?”
“Dearest mama,” she said with her old smile, “know you? Why, you are younger, but the same. Where have you been so long? We thought you dead?”
“Do you not know?” I asked, apprehensively.
“Know? What mean you?”
“Yes, I am what they call dead; and were you not likewise, you could not see me!”
“I dead?” she replied, with a laugh which recalled her childhood, throwing her arms gracefully over her head. “Look you, mama, how far from it I am. I have been wretchedly sick, and in such fiery pain; but it is over, and I am perfectly well.”
We drew to one side, and she then turning saw the friends, weeping, and her body on the couch.
“Why do they weep?” she asked, “and who is that on the couch? I am confused, for it is like another self.”
“They are weeping for your loss, and that form on the couch is yours.”
“Am I to return to it? What am I to do, dear mother?”
“No, you will need it no more. Your life is hereafter with me and the angels.”
“What mean you, mother, by saying you and I are dead?”
“That we are, my child. That is what people call dead.”
“I do not understand,” she replied musingly. Then going to her cousin’s side, who was still holding her physical hand, she said, “Cousin Frank, what are you weeping for? Do you not see how well I am?”
He did not hear her words, and she spoke again, playfully patting his face. Then she saw that she was no longer able to be heard or felt, and threw herself into my arms, weeping violently. I soothed her as best I could, upbraiding myself with foolishly teaching her the ways of our life before she was able to receive. “My child,” I said, “how glad I am to have you again with me. They will all come to us sooner or later. Now we will go to my home, for it is not well for you to remain. After a time you will be instructed in these mysteries.”
I attempted to go, but found that although I could depart alone, I could not bear Claribel with me. I had not perfected myself sufficiently in the method, and her attraction was toward that spot alone. I prayed for the coming of a companion, and soon there came one to my aid. On either side we threw our arms around her, and then our wills bore her onward with us.
When we reached our home, and the loving companions came with welcome to Claribel, and she saw beauty and perfection everywhere, and felt how happy her coming had made me, tears trembled in her eyes as she said: “It is wonderful, mother, and I ought not to regret, but you know earth-life was sweet to me, and I had plans for the future.”
“Yes, my child,” I replied, “the days were too short, and your friends were devoted, but your plans are thwarted, yet you must know that all is well.” Her towering air-castles had vanished; but soon she had far greater sources of happiness in the group of beautiful children she instructed.
I said I would not visit earth unless called, for the pain was greater than the pleasure. Even when called, I refused. “My husband,” they said, “was about to wed again.”
“It is well,” I replied; “his is the rough, earth-life, hard to walk alone. If he so desires, I ought to be willing.”
Yet I was not willing or I should have gone. It would have seemed strange, indeed, to have visited my old home, and found another in my place. It would have emphasized my death to me. Thinking the matter over, I said:
“No! I will not go. Let them be happy. I will not enter their sphere.”
When, years after, the message came that he was soon to join me, I hastened to his side. When I reached him he had already nearly passed through the transition, and had regained his spiritual perceptions. As I came to him he at once knew me, and opened wide his arms to receive me. The years were blotted out. We were again to each other all that we had everbeen. By intuition he knew that he had met the change, and the first words he said to me were:
“I am so glad the weary watch is over. I knew heaven was not so large I could not find you, but I did not expect so soon to meet you. It was like you to come, and I ought to have expected it.”
“I heard your call,” I replied, “and heaven is not so wide that I could not come. Now we must go, and I will take you to the most beautiful place you ever saw in dreams. You must not remain to witness the proceedings further.”
He smiled at my words: “Why, you talk as if there was something terrible about death. It has been the most pleasant passage in my life. I have suffered a great deal in its approach, but when it came it brought only joy. When I saw you, I was so pleased, my clay-lips uttered my thoughts, the last words they ever gave. Now it is done, I must stay till it is over. I want to see how the relatives and friends act, and hear what they say. You know it will be strange to hear one’s own funeral sermon.”
As he would not go, I remained with him, and entering again into the earth-sphere, suffered from the contact. My husband was greatly interested in the ceremonies, and when they were over, he said:
“I am glad the old aching body has at last gone to its final rest. The children were grieved, and ought to know how they misunderstand. Perhaps I can tell them some time. Hearts do not break with grief, else mine would have broken. Come, now, my new-found wife, I will go where you wish.”
I need not repeat the story of the journey or describe the meeting with our Claribel. Her father was of so happy a disposition, that he at once assimilated his surroundings, and became one with his companions.
“I have worked and struggled along,” he said, “having little time to think, and I am as ignorant as a savage. I desire at once to commence gaining knowledge. How am I to proceed?”
We all laughed at his eagerness, and one said:
“There is time enough; you must first rest and recover strength.”
“Rest! I was never stronger, and I am anxious for exertion. I feel mentally starved and crave thought food.”
“You will find no difficult task. To desire is to have, and you will soon become in sympathy with the thought-atmosphere of our home.”
Then one of our number, who was a poet, superior to us all, said he had had a singular and painful experience, and we demanded to hear it.
The Poet’s Story.—I had been enthroned, and as I came up the pathway leading to this eminence, I met a boisterous throng of people. Strange faces they had, and yet they were familiar. I looked closely, and imagine my surprise when I found they belonged to me. They were the thoughts I had expressed in my earth-life. Some were dark, repulsive and inexpressibly ugly, while others were exquisitely beautiful. What a horde they were, and though some were pleasing, the greater proportion caused my cheeks to blush with shame.
“Father! father!” they called, rushing toward me.
“Away!” I cried. “I know you not!”
“Then we will follow you. We belong to you, and wherever you go we will go. We will not desert you.”
“If this be so,” I cried in despair, “then I am burdened beyond endurance, and immortality becomesa curse. If I must remain with this throng of tormentors, reminding me continually of early follies, then extinction is preferable.”
What shall I do with this miscreant crowd, deformed and rude? I can not take them home to my companions. If these are embodiments of my earthly thoughts, how they would scorn me. If this is to be my retinue, then I must seek a new home where I am unknown. I must cast aside the companionship of this company. My punishment is terrible. I threw myself down in a paroxysm of grief and remorse. An angel came by, and pausing said:
“Would you escape from your thraldom?”
“Escape!” I cried. “Can I escape?”
“Do you not see that the most repulsive of these spectres are fashioned of the thoughts which are of yourself, recording your former vanity, pride, uncharity, selfishness and forgetfulness of others? See you that lovely being representing a deed of self-sacrifice?”
“Oh! that they were all like her!” I cried.
“Then listen. You must act in such a manner that the good will eclipse these shadows, when they will disappear.”
Saying this he vanished, and I, reflecting, said that I would at once free myself from the dreadful following. Opportunely there came a spirit moaning past me. Her brother on earth was contemplating a horrible crime. He had determined to take the life of his mother in order to become possessed of her estate. The sister had vainly attempted to give a warning or to influence him, and in despair at her failure she had left them to their fate. I said to her:
“Come. I will go with you, and perhaps together we can prevent this crime.”
She fervently expressed her gratitude as she conductedme to her mother’s house. It was midnight when we arrived, as I saw in the dim lamplight by the tall clock, and the mother was sleeping.
“We can only watch,” said my companion, “and if he should come, we can do nothing to save her.”
“Do you not know that sometimes sleep unlocks the avenues of the spirit, and we can approach much nearer than in waking hours? When we thus come, people say they have dreamed.”
I bent over the mother, her white locks fell from beneath her cap over the pillow, and there was something in the expression of her lips and cheeks reminding me of my own. I tested her sensitiveness and found that her mind responded. Then I willed these words:
“Edward intends to kill you with a knife. He will come into your room, and you must awake and charge him with the crime, and say to him that his sister came from heaven to tell you!”
She started as if by a blow, and with a horrified expression, she sprang upright.
“Who is here?” she cried. “Who spoke to me? I have had a fearful dream, so vivid that I thought it reality.”
She sank again on the pillow, and there were light footsteps at the door, which slowly swung open, and the brother entered. The mother waited only a moment when she arose and addressed him in the words of her dream. It came so suddenly that he admitted his intentions, and pleaded for forgiveness. He had been made the victim of bad men, and if he could escape from them he might be saved. By nature he was not so bad, but he was weak.
Leaving them to each other, I started again for our home, my heart full of gladness, for I had followed the advice of the angel, and expected to therebyescape my companions. Judge of my surprise when on looking back, I saw a new form, more ugly than any of the others, the result of this act from which I had expected so much. As I gazed in despair, the angel came again, and with a smile said to me:
“It was a selfish act!”
“Selfish?” I asked.
“Aye; you had not the good of the woman or the salvation of the son or the happiness of the daughter at heart. You had only your own pleasure and gain. You would thereby relieve yourself of a burden. The world is ruined by such benevolence. You will have a long and weary road if you travel in that direction.”
“I am a fool,” I said, overwhelmed by my imbecility and want of spiritual understanding. “What can I do?” I implored.
“If I direct you, there will be no merit. You must determine for yourself.”
As he spoke he vanished, and I sat down, resting like a weary pilgrim, overburdened. Then I saw a spirit coming rapidly toward me, and on approaching she hurriedly said:
“I am told you can influence mortals. My son is captain of a steamer, and having lost his course, is sailing directly on a rocky coast. Come and save not only him, but the hundreds of his slumbering passengers.”
Without a moment’s delay, I followed her, and came to the steamer. The gray of morning was flushing the sky, and the crests of heavily rolling seas gleamed in the cold light. Everything was quiet on deck, for the passengers were asleep, and nothing was heard but the steady pulsations of the engine. I looked beyond the bow, and saw the shore some distance away. It was a high promontory ofblack rocks, against which the surf was violently beating, and the ship was headed directly on the point where it was most violent. Whatever was to be done, must be done quickly. We went into the cabin where the captain sat with his head resting on his hands, between sleeping and waking. Could I impress him with his danger? I made the attempt and failed. I repeated several times with no better success. I became anxious, as the danger increased, for every pulsation of the engine brought the ship nearer to the rocks. The sleeping passengers, strong men, helpless women and children, how soon they would be called to face certain destruction. What agony the now quiet decks would witness! What waiting and hoping against hope there would be in hundreds of desolate homes! The contemplation unnerved me, and I was unfitted to exercise my skill in impressing thoughts on mortal brain. I was recalled by the voice of the mother:
“Can you not save my son?”
I confess that when the picture of agony I have sketched came to my mind, in my wish to prevent the catastrophe, all selfish considerations were forgotten, and I would unhesitatingly have given my existence for the safety of the ship, were it possible to have done so.
“I can do nothing unless I have aid,” I replied, and with my whole strength I invoked our elder brother. Instantly he came. He understands the methods of impressing thought so perfectly that, as you know, he rarely fails. He placed his hand on the captain’s head, and the thought he gave was:
“Ship ahoy, breakers ahead!”
The captain sprang to his feet, and rubbing his eyes in a bewildered manner, rushed on deck.
“Who hailed us?” he demanded of the drowsy watch.
“No one, sir; all is quiet.”
“We were hailed,” he said firmly, and gaining the bridge he sought to penetrate the darkness. He listened, and his face paled, for distinctly came the boom of the surf.
Swift were the commands, and the ship by a sharp curve doubled on her course, the rocky ledge being so near that a few revolutions more and there would have been no escape.
A great many of the passengers came up on deck, aroused by the unusual motion of the ship and the shouting of orders, and when they understood the peril they had so narrowly escaped, they embraced each other and cried for joy.
As I again sought our home, forgetful of everything but the benefit I had conferred by my journey, I glanced behind me, and saw a shining light, and afar off, in dim outline, the group of beings I so strongly desired to escape. Unconsciously I had performed an act that had placed a light between me and them. Rejoice with me, dear friends, I am enabled to be unselfish.
Then the elder said: “Our brother adds to his other good qualities, that of humility.”
“The angel-life became more complete and perfect as year by year the loved ones came up from the shadows of earth, until our family circle was almost restored. After a time its old members will take their new places, and when my earth-friends are all here, there will be little attraction for me in the old life.
“It is yet new and strange, and cannot be describedto mortal comprehension. Language itself must be spiritualized, and words given a new meaning.
“I have mingled tears of pity with those who have been bereft, at the same time knowing that their loss was gain to the departed ones.
“Activity is our happiness, and thinking right and doing our very best are the gateways to heaven. Earth-life is a joy only when the end is known. Here its infinite possibilities are realized. Not in a year or a century, but in the fullness of time can all this come. Weep, for it is human, when your loved ones pass the shadowy portals, remembering, however, that the spiritual sun on the other side will, by comparison, make your brightest day on earth a rayless night.”