PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION

 

MARY ANNE CAREW,
WIFE, MOTHER, SPIRIT, ANGEL.

 

In presenting as a premium book this amazing narrative of actual experiences in the spirit spheres, we are adding to the premium list one of the books written by the gifted Carlyle Petersilea. We realize that its perusal will arouse widespread interest in all aspects of the Spiritual Philosophy and it is replete with heart interest from first page to the last.

 

No one can read this fascinating book without being thoroughly aroused by the strange story and we know our readers will be pleased at this new addition to our Premium List.

 

M. E. CADWALLADER,

Publisher.

INTRODUCTION.

 

SHE was a young lady not yet thirty; the wife of a fond husband and the mother of three beautiful children, two boys and a girl, the oldest not yet six, the youngest not a year old. She was of medium height, with rounded graceful form, and eyes of heaven's own blue. Her complexion was clear and very fair; her hair a deep golden brown, thick and waving.

 

She was an affectionate wife, a careful and loving mother, a good daughter, and fond sister. Her virtues were many, her vices none. She walked in the midst of her little family like a saint, ministering to her children lovingly, and making home pleasant and cheerful for her husband.

 

It would seem that life to her had, but just commenced in real earnest, and her health had always been excellent.

 

She was born and bred a good Catholic, and had never swerved from the religion of her fathers.

 

A generous, warm-hearted, Irish lady. It had never entered her husband's mind that she would be taken from him and her children. He did not dream that he would be bereaved and his children left motherless. How could he? They were both in the heyday of life and youth, both in robust health, both extremely ambitious and hopeful.

 

And she—the thought of death did not cross her mind, or if she thought of death, it was as something very far removed, something that might occur when she should become an old lady and no longer cared for life: her children would then be men and women, and would no longer need her care. Death was not in her thoughts, but life, life! So she pressed her babes to! her motherly heart, and sung her sweet lullaby blithely, fondly building castles in the air for her darlings to inhabit in the future: her dear, little baby girl, her boy of three, and the pride of her eyes, the man of six.

 

Thus the months glided by on swift and happy wings; but there came a time when the fond mother found herself ill.

 

"Ah! a bad cold," the doctor said. "She would be all right in a day or two."

 

But the days glided on. Still the cold was no better. A hard cough set in; her strength failed, her limbs were weak and trembling; she often pressed her hand to her side, complaining of a sharp pain there'; her, breathing became labored, her cough worse; soon she was confined to her bed altogether, and her husband saw that she must die.

 

The doctor shook his head sadly. The nurse looked pitiful and said:

 

Poor thing! an' she so young an' the childer no more nor babies."

 

But they carefully concealed from the young mother that she was dying. She expected confidently to get well. She did not think herself dying, and thought each day that her cold, as she persisted in calling it, would be better on the morrow. And thus the morrows came and went, until at last one came, and there were no more to follow, at least, no more for her—her last day—her last hour on earth had come—and still she knew it, not. She sunk into unconsciousness, and thus breathed her last without bidding adieu to either husband or children.

 

Her body was soon after prepared for burial, and her heartbroken husband, together with other near and dear relatives, followed her remains to the grave a few days after the sad event, and each and all looked upon the dear one as dead and gone to her final rest. Her husband believed that death was the end: he had no hope of a future life. To him death ended all.

 

Her own family were all good Catholics, and believed she was in glory with the mother of God, and the saints.

 

Thus ended the first chapter of the life of Mary; the wife, the mother, the daughter, the sister! A fair and beautiful life, an unspotted soul, a gifted, loving and generous being.

 

Thousands of just such deaths are taking place, have taken place in the past, and will take place in the future. Babes are robbed of their mothers, husbands of their wives, parents of their daughters, and the earth of young, beautiful womanhood. And why? Where

has this lovely soul gone? What is she doing now? What are her experiences? Has she joys and sorrows as heretofore? What is her daily life—her occupations? Is her life made up of details, such as ours, or does she stand before the throne of God singing praises to His name for evermore? Has she forgotten her babes, her husband, and others, or does she remember them? Is she entirely separated from them, or can she visit them? Would not the thought of their sorrow and loneliness intrude upon her happiness, even if she were in such a heaven as many believe in? Would not the loving heart of the mother yearn for her little, helpless children— yearn for the loves that had become a part of her being? God Himself, as commonly understood, could not fill that mother's heart robbed of its young. The golden heaven, formerly, and even now, by many believed in, would be a place of unrest and unhappiness to the bereaved mother, the sorrowful widow, the orphaned daughter.

 

Dear friends, did you ever stop to think that the departed soul of such an one as we are describing is, in reality, a widow, a bereaved mother, an orphaned daughter? or have you thought that these things belonged only to those left behind, that the disappointment, bereavement, and sorrow belonged only to earth? Very likely such has been your thought: but the day which brings much truth begins to dawn. The departed are making themselves known and understood by those that still remain. The link between the dwellers of earth and those on the thither shore of time is being tightly and strongly forged, and the time is near at hand when it can never more, be broken.

 

This introduction has been written by the spirit of the husband, once so bereaved and widowed, but now, long since a denizen himself of that life to which his young and beautiful wife departed, many, very many, years ago.

 

The soul of this lovely woman, desires to write, her own experience, and give it to the world, that truth may become manifest: she desires to light the way, and relieve many overburdened hearts of sorrowful weights that press and crush them.

 

But one of those dear little children, whom, she left so long ago, remains on earth—the blue-eyed boy of three, now a man: the baby soon Joined its mother: the man of six lived on earth to really become a man, and shortly after, having a little family of his own, went as his mother went before him: and, thus, but one of that family is left, down where the cares of earth fetter the soul.

CHAPTER I. - MARY, THE WIFE AND MOTHER.

 

AFTER lying unconscious for a short time my eyes opened. To faint was not an uncommon occurrence; supposed I had fainted. Did not think I was dying; did not know. I was dead.

 

Had been very weak and ill, but thought I should soon be better, be able to go about attending to my household duties, and properly caring for my three beautiful babes.

 

My eyes opened and slowly my consciousness returned, sweetly pervaded, filled me like the glowing light of the rising sun.

 

Was lying just as I had been when unconsciousness overtook me, and as the light of reason again flooded my being, thought that some wonderful change had taken place in my condition; there was no pain whatever, and I was peculiarly light and happy.

O, surely! I was getting well at last! Had so longed and prayed to be well!

 

Again closed my eyes, fearing that it might be a dream from which I should awake and find myself ill once more. I lay thus, for some time, breathing long and deep, to find if my lungs were really free from pain and soreness; put my hand to my side, moved slightly to find if that also was well. Raised my hand to my head; it felt so clear and free from pain I was astonished. Once more I opened my eyes.

 

"Nurse," I exclaimed, "I believe I am well! Do fetch baby to me. It has been so long since I have been able to fondle her. O! I long to take her in my arms once more, kiss her sweet little lips, and look into her dear eyes. Don't tell me I am not able," I went on pettishly, thinking her rather tardy in obeying my wishes, at the same time wondering at her silence, for she was usually quite voluble.

 

"Ah! perhaps she was not in the room. She might have gone into the kitchen for something. Why! how is it that they have left me all alone? Surely, they were All about my bed when I lost myself. Ah! I remember now—and my dear husband was in tears. Strange, that they should all leave me before I came out of my faint."

 

Thus thinking, with a peculiar fluttering at my heart, I started up in the bed, sat upright, which I had not been able to do for many days.

 

My glance fell first upon my hands, and I held them up before my eyes that I might examine them more closely.

 

"Why, how strangely they looked!" They were as white and beautiful as a dream. Then my eyes travelled up my arms as far as the shoulders, then slowly over my bust.

 

"Really! what have they been dressing me in? This is not my usual night-dress—no, not even my finest and best. I never had anything so fine and beautiful as this—and my arms and bust—how lovely they are! am sure I never thought they were before!"

 

"O! nonsense! I am dreaming! The doctor has been giving me morphine again, or chloral, maybe; or some of that medicine which has an extra amount of ether in it. I wish they would not force so much medicine down my throat. Think I should be better if

 

I did not take so much medicine. Yes; I am under the influence of medicine, so will lie down again until it passes off. That is why they have left me alone—that I may be quiet and sleep."

 

With this thought I lay back on my pillow once more, and tried again to close my eyes. But, no. I never had been so wakeful in all my life. Sleep I could not.

 

"I must fetch myself out of this strange condition," I thought. "I'll shake myself, pinch myself, and see if that will do any good." Suiting my action to my thought, I shook myself violently, and then proceeded to pinch myself in a number of places.

 

The pinching gave me no pain, although I pinched quite hard, and as I shook myself I felt as though I were rising directly up out of the bed, and it was with some difficulty that I kept myself down.

 

My hair now attracted my attention. It was lying all about over the pillow, and adown my arms and shoulders. "I cannot understand why they have unbound my hair like this? Surely, it will get all matted up; and it was all done up nicely when I lost myself. Dear, dear! How strange everything is!"

 

My eyes now began to roam around the room. Everything had rather a strange look. It seemed to me that I was looking through a whitish mist: nothing in the room came out quite clearly, yet it appeared very neat and clean. A door stood ajar, and through it sweet, fresh air struck me. I drew long inspirations that seemed to be the very elixir of life. I felt sweet, new life tingle through all my veins.

 

"Am sure I never saw this, room before. They have placed me in some hospital since I became unconscious. Must, then, have been unconscious a long time—and they would never let any fresh air strike me. Well hospitals are managed better, perhaps. Ah! here is a lovely bouquet of flowers—just here on this little marble table close by my bed. How very kind and thoughtful of someone."

 

With this thought I reached forth my hand and took the flowers, naturally carrying them to my nostrils. Their perfume was delicious. Then I held them at a distance and looked at them.

"O! what beautiful flowers, and how deliciously sweet!" Then I began to take note what kind of flowers they were. There were garden pinks and roses, violets, mignonette, and a number of other modest, sweet flowers. The bouquet was tied with white ribbon.

 

Something on the wall, at the foot of the bed, now attracted my attention—a, picture hanging there in a golden frame. Gradually the forms came out, one by one, as my eyes rested upon it.

 

"Why; how is this? They have been having their portraits painted."

 

There were my husband and my three little darlings as plain as life.

 

"Well; they have been very thoughtful and kind to have that painted and hung there if they really have put me in a hospital," I thought.

 

I started up once more.

 

"I cannot be in a hospital. It is very foolish for me to think so. I know I am not in a hospital. This room is nothing like a hospital-ward, for I have often visited my friends who have been placed in such wards, and this room bears no resemblance to any of them."

This thought caused me to notice, more particularly, the furniture of the room.

 

"O! how exquisite—how beautiful!" A large oriel window was softly draped with white lace and glistening white satin; the floor was carpeted in white velvet, which had a small green vine running through it, and here and there a bunch of violets. There were some chairs covered with white satin, a sofa and ottomans covered with the same. A large easy chair stood near the bed, also covered with white satin. A marble mantel, with a golden grate beneath it, next struck my attention; over the mantel hung another picture, and as I gazed, in utter surprise, the form and features of a lovely sister, who died many years before, distinctly met my view, but her beauty was so heightened and intensified that the sight of the picture enraptured me.

 

"O, how singular! We never had a picture of dear Annie: how many, many times we have all regretted it.

 

"What a singular and beautiful dream I am having. I know my husband and the nurse will be delighted to hear me tell it when I awake. Do not think I should ever care to awake if I did not want to see them all so much. This dream is exceedingly beautiful, but I prefer their warm love, and to feel my darling babies in my arms, than to lie here in this beautiful room and merely look at their pictures.

"There: I have dreamed long enough, and will try another method of awakening myself. I will call—call loudly—for my husband; he, surely, cannot be far away; he has not left me for days; he said he would never leave me until I was better.

"Franz! Franz I" I called. "Where are you, my dear? I am awake now, and want you. Come to me. You said you would not leave me."

No answer.

"O! what has happened?

"Franz! Franz!" I again shouted: "My husband! I want you."

A soft silence was my only answer.

"He may have dropped asleep, being so weary with watching. I'll call the nurse.

"Babbitt! Babbitt!" I screamed. "Mrs. Babbitt! I am awake now. Come here: I want to speak to you."