CHAPTER XI. THE
CHANGE CALLED DEATH.
"Are God and Nature
then at strife
That Nature lends such evil dreams?
So careful of the
types she seems,
So careless of the
single life?"
—Tennyson.
THE scene again changes to the home of the Sage. The Society are
enchanted by the wonderful loviness of the ethereal landscape,
accustomed as they were to its beauties. The perfumed air came in
rolling gusts, fanning the graceful foliage of the grove, and ruffling
the still bosom of the blue ocean in tiny waves, whose sweet murmurs
joined harmoniously with the zephyrs. Such coloring, man, who sees only
by the common light, cannot appreciate. The splendid views which
sometimes appear before the clairvoyant's eye, rivalling the rainbow in
gorgeous splendor, convey
perhaps the best idea of the vividness of the tints. To one acquainted only with the scenes of
earth, who has not travelled on the swift wings of clairvoyance across
the universe, it is useless to attempt to imagine by words the splendor,
grace, and ethereality of nature in this higher sphere.
The kindred spirits were reposing
beneath the shade of a peaceful grove, which filled the air around with the
sweetest perfume. They were discoursing on the philosophy of nature and
surrounding objects. Leon had begun his rapid advancement. Already bad his
investigating mind sent forth its aspirations, reached far out into the arcana of nature, awake to the full consciousness of its strength, and
as a giant, he strode through spheres
of thought, towards the highest where
the whole universe is comprehended.
As they sat in conversation, a spirit
approached with noble bearing. His countenance shone with the gleam of
the morning, and his thoughts were written on his high forehead. He
moved with the dignity of one for whom nature bad done much and
cultivation more. The body in sympathy with the mind becomes more
beautiful in the spheres. He was greeted with a hearty welcome, and
taking a seat near the Sage, he entered into conversation.
"Here I could dream my life away,"
said the stranger.
I could never cease to admire the
coloring of nature in this grove, so splendid and ethereal. And the
glorious prospect the gods might admire from this Portico."
"Our brother," remarked the Sage,
"has for a long period been engaged in the study of nature, and the
transformation of living forms. Has he forgotten the earth-life?"
"Centuries have passed like summer
clouds since I left the rudimental form, still I remember clearly the
impressions, the change of death, or rather I should say second birth,
awoke in me. Trained in the lore of mythology I believed in a future
state, but it was vague and unreal. How should I have obtained a correct idea of a subject of which I could
receive no proof of my senses,
or receive tidings from those who bad gone before? My reason said, death
is annihilation. I could not throw off its grim influence. Its voice was
ever ringing in my ears. But I dared not think infidelity to the gods, and
bushed my fears. The instinctive idea of a controlling power—a somewhat, a
somewhere, came diffidently into my mind, and prejudice chained it there
Mythology gave me its crude instructions. I tried to subdue my reason, and endeavored to believe.
Ye gods, I never could quite crush
my doubts!
It was a cold starlit night when I
passed from earth. The fields were covered with a pure mantle of virgin
snow. The frost, driven by the northern blast, glistened in the
starlight. There was a charm in the scenery which, to one fain to tarry
longer on earth, would have rendered it hard to close the eyes and say, 'I have
viewed these beauties for the last, last time; I am no more of earth.' I could not
force back the clouds of mantling night as they rolled over my intellect.
Slowly, gradually, I sank down; down
into a great black gulf. Down,
down I sank, beyond all human thought or conception, seemingly millions
of millions of miles with the gloom growing thicker, denser, and more
stifling. It was an awful sensation to be suspended over that black abyss by a
single thread, and, as life ebbed away, to feel one-self going down,
down into its unfathomable depths.
"The last words I heard were the
lamentations of my family and friends, and their sobs and cries as they said
I was gone. Yes, gone! gone from earth, its pleasure and its pains.
Their sighs seemed my death-knell to oblivion.
Down, down I sank for hours
after they said 'he is gone,' when suddenly a flood of light burst upon
my astonished vision as a gleam of lightning, and on its wings my soul
sped upward—up, up, up in that golden light, to earth again. I was
conscious, and, looking about me, saw my body on the couch. I was a short
distance off, but still myself. A slight cord of ethereal matter connected me
with my form. It was soon broken, and I was free. There stood my friends
weeping over my inanimate body, inconsolable for my loss I strove to
convince them that I still lived, but could not, for I found that my
body, though real to me, and perfectly
organized, was far too ethereal to affect physical atoms. My
acquaintances, while on earth, who had gone before me, now welcomed me,
at the same time giving me a beautiful mantle. Then they conducted me to my new
home with the angels.
"Ah! how can I express the
overflowing rapture which thrilled my whole being, when the sublime
reality of immortal life came rushing over my soul! Words can but
faintly express the emotions I experienced, or the ineffable joy which
filled my being."
"Centuries have passed since then,
and standing on the summit of the present I look down my pathway until
its small beginning is lost in the mists. I have been a universal
traveller, but now think I should better enjoy a period of less
activity."
"Accept this, then, as your haven of rest," said the Sage. "We shall
value your companionship, O
Plotinus!"
The latter gazed steadfastly at the
Master for a moment, as one who would recall the past. Tears came to his
eyes, and with a sudden impulse he caught the Sage in his arms.
Twenty-five centuries had not effaced gratitude and love from the pupil's
mind. In all his wanderings, the Master had held supreme place. The
friendship of earth awaits its expanded bloom in the Spirit-world.
Gratitude will be expressed in affection, and the friends of to-day become more
than friends to-morrow.
"Master!" exclaimed Plotinus,
"absorbed as I was I did not recognize you; but I ought to have known that
this Portico, like the one on earth, and yet unlike, could have been none
other than yours. I have found you at last! When I felt an irresistible
attraction this way, I knew it came from an unusual source, but I did not
anticipate this joyful reunion."
"These are the delightful moments of
our lives. The affections are sadly neglected in the earth-life; they luxuriate here. But, I may ask, why
alone? You do not journey thus?" "Ah, no! I could not do that. She is
now absent, but will soon join me." "She, too, is one of us."
"Once I learned the beautiful
lesson," said Albreda,
that death knows no distinction, and
in the associations formed here the pride of wealth and rank are
unrealized by those who see and know the reality." And being pressed to relate the lesson she had received, with
selfdepreciation she
proceeded:—
TO THE SAME HEAVEN.
In a by-street, away from the rush of
the throng, in a room high up, where the noise of the turbulent city
came as an indistinct murmur, was a mother, watching the bedside of her
child—a girl of fourteen years. Pale and forlorn was that mother, and
her history a chapter of life painful to read.
Once she was a happy child, with
every want met by the asking. A happy wife, a blessed mother, and the
girl now on that thin, faded couch had been shielded from the rough
winds by a father's tender care. It was all gone now. The sea had asked
for and received that father. Want came amain, and the tender child, like a
plant ill-nourished, faded away.
"It is cold, mother," said the child,
softly, "lie here and take me in your arms."
Then the poor mother glanced around
the bare room. There was nothing but ashes in the grate. She drew aside the blanket, and lying down drew
the suffering Ava close to her breast.
"This is delightful," mamma she said.
"You have no warmth to spare, yet give it to me; I am naughty to ask you. And papa is here, too. He says
he wants me to go with him on a journey. What does he mean?"
The mother was silent.
"Oh, then, dear papa, you want me!
Well, I want you to have me."
The mother wept. The clocks in the
steeple began to strike the hour of midnight.
"Mamma, mamma," softly spoke the
child, "is A morning? It is growing light"
"Nay, Ava, it is dark yet, and a
long time before morning."
"It is very light. It is full day,
and—dear mother, I think I shall—go away. I love you—much—Father—"
No warmth could restore the lifeless
clay, and the stricken mother clasped her dear child with a dull
and crushed despair.
"I want her," she moaned, "I want
her, and what can I give her? What have I given her? Hunger and cold,
and sickness. I could do nothing more, and yet I would have her back! No, it
is best, for there can be no life worse than this, and perhaps she is
better, warmer, and happier. But I have nothing else, and, O God! I am not
allowed to have even this poor comfort of my child to suffer with me!
A mother sat by the side of her
suffering child. The subdued light from the shaded globe fell softly
over the room, furnished with all the luxuries art could devise. Aldine,
the only loved and worshipped child, had it prepared as her own taste
desired. The walls were exquisite arabesque designs in purple and gold, the
carpet delicate brown, with masses of pale green fern leaves, like a bed of moss; the furniture and bed were a soft
shade of blue, while the deep
window was filled with rare plants, many in bloom, and others trained upward
and looped in festoons over the damask and lace curtains. The air
was warm and perfumed with the breath of roses.
One thing was wanting for perfect
happiness in this Eden. Wealth nor love
cannot exclude pain. It came stealthily in on the soft air of autumn,
and for all the winter months the child had suffered, and loving hearts
had ministered and waited with
intense expectation. Now, Easter was near. To-morrow the world would put on its gayest robes, just as its
generations had done from
countless time, for the resurrection of life from death.
The father came, and softly spoke her
name. She turned her pale, thin face, and wearily opened her large brown
eyes.
"Papa, I had such a sweet dream!
Cousin Ray was here, looking just as he did before he died last year. He
drew aside a curtain, and I looked through, and far away I saw a
landscape of such beauty as I never dreamed of before. Cousin Ray took
my hand and wanted to lead me away, and I thought of you, and awoke."
"It is pleasant to have sweet dreams,
and you will soon be strong, and then we will go to the mountains and
the great lakes, and we shall find many beautiful places."
"Perhaps," she replied, and then
after a pause: "It is growing cold." Her father took her hands in his.
Ah, they were cold! and her eyes were supernaturally bright cold, and no
human power could ever warm them again. In vain, O mother, do you apply
stimulants, and chafe those hands and those chill arms. The warmth, which is life, can never more be
theirs. Oh, it is terrible to
feel our utter helplessness in the presence of death! Love and affection
though they offer life for life, are powerless. Death lowers like the
mantle of darkness, dropping slowly and inevitably from the sky, and we
cannot resist it.
Father and mother stood by that
couch, knowing the hour had come, and that they were
helpless to avert one pang, or assist in any way their child in the terrible ordeal through which she was to,
pass.
Again she spoke: "Ray is here again.
It is warm now, and he says he will take me on a journey. He will show
me the beautiful country. Do not weep, papa! mamma! I'll come back. Oh,
I love you more than I can tell!—kiss me—"
They kissed her again and again, but
she seemed to have sunk to sleep. After a few minutes she opened her
eyes. They were aglow with the light of heaven. They saw what mortal
eyes have never seen. A smile arched the corners of her delicate mouth,
and overspread her pale face, as the setting sun gilds the high mountain
peaks, and she was gone. The departing spirit reflected its glory over
the deserted shrine, abandoned forever. They listened for her breath,
but the cage of the immortal only remained. The clock struck twelve!
it was Easter-morn.
Far away in the ether, where the
zones of the Spirit-world sweep in vast folds around their primary
world, on a jutting promontory, overlooking the earth below, a class of
children are grouped with their guardian and teacher, enjoying the glory
of the scene. They are waiting for the coming of some one from the space
below and soon they are rewarded, for the spirits of Aldine and Cousin
Ray floated up as a beam of light and were greeted by the group.
Scarcely was the welcome over when a
spirit, tall and radiant, stood before them, holding up by the hand
the spirit of Ava.
"I have come with my child," he said
to the teacher, to ask you to take her into your group, and care for her
as it is not possible for me now to do."
