CHAPTER VIII. - URSULA'S HISTORY.

 

WE soon approached the building used as a school­house and home for these little ones. They were all orphans, so their lovely teacher informed me. None of them had either father or mother in this world.

 

The house was situated near the banks of a beautiful lake. One could see the opposite shore, but quite indistinctly, and all around this exquisite sheet of water were other buildings, all, apparently, about the same size.

 

As we drew near, I perceived that the surface of the lake was literally covered with fairy-like boats, glittering and dancing on the waves: one could plainly hear the gleeful shouts of many voices. The little boats all had occupants, and they were playful, happy, cherubic children.

 

I paused in my surprise, and Ursula—that was the beautiful teacher's name—invited us into an elegant arbor near by, and close to the home. We took seats where we had a clear view of the lake. The children asked if they, too, might go out upon the water. Ursula consented with a playful wave of the hand. My two little girls clamored for a kiss, as they said:

 

"And we may go too, may we not, mama?"

 

I looked at Ursula, for all this was very surprising to me. It appeared quite dangerous for little girls to go sailing out upon such a great lake by themselves.

 

Ursula and Annie smiled.

 

"Run along darlings," said their teacher, "and I will explain it all to your mama, after you are gone."

 

The children all scampered off. Presently I saw four or five little boats join the others, and one of them held my little girls. The boat, in which they were, was in form and color like a half-blown wild rose, and each little girl held a shining, golden paddle.

 

"Mary," said Annie, "Sigismund and I will leave you with Ursula for a short time; we have other work which we wish to be doing just now. Ursula has much to tell you, and it will be pleasant for you to remain awhile with your children."

 

She kissed me farewell; Sigismund took my hand, and, bending his stately head, pressed his lips upon it.

 

"Adieu, for a short time, sweet sister," they said, and left the arbor.

 

I was alone with the lovely Ursula, but the dancing boats and the happy children held my attention, for the sight was so heavenly I could not take my eyes from it.

 

None of the little girls appeared to be more than seven or eight years of age, and there were hundreds of them. Each little boat contained two, and sometimes three, occupants; they were singing and dancing about like flying birds. The lake was a dream of beauty.

 

Dear reader, imagine a sunset in Italy, where the clouds are not so dense and heavy as they are in less favored climes—imagine one of the loveliest of these sunsets, with an expanse of sky all pearl and gold, azure, purple, and white—imagine it really in undulatory waves, dotted all over with fairy-like boats, these boats in various forms of the most beautiful things that can be imagined; some like lovely tinted sea-shells others in the form of roses, lilies, poppies, bluebells, and every beautiful flower that one can think of, besides a hundred other things, which I will not stop to mention: many of the children had little paddles, some like gold, others like silver and ivory; many others were like the stems and petals of flowers; lastly, these beautiful, seraphic children flashing their paddles in the water, swinging their small skiffs around as though keeping time to the strains of a waltz—and, my reader, you will get a faint idea of that which met my astonished eyes.

 

At length I turned toward Ursula. She was looking at me dreamily, her hands, like two white lilies, resting on her lap.

 

"Is there any danger of my children being drowned?" I asked.

 

"No," she replied. "There is no death of any kind in this land; they can sink down through that lake, if they wish to, without injury. I presume many of them will do so before they return; they explore the bottom of the lake equally with the surface."

 

And now I could see many of these children throwing themselves, as in sport, from the boats, playing awhile on the surface of the water, and then sinking out of sight; again, others were rising in groups to the surface, shaking the sparkling drops from their golden curls, joining their little hands, forming circles, and thus whirling around somewhat as earthly children do when at play; occasionally some lovely little head would rise up out of the water, just in the center of one of the circles, and then they would whirl faster than before. I could hear them singing sweet, childish songs; at the same time many of the little boats were drawing near the shore in various places; the children would land, and then go dancing, hand-in-hand, up to one of the houses, or, as Ursula said, the houses were all schools and homes for these sweet, little heavenly orphans, whose parents still remained below. Then, as my attention became fixed, first on one house and then another, I caught glimpses of beautiful young ladies coming forth to meet the children; these were their guides or teachers. Each young lady had her own little group or band of children, and each child went to its own teacher and home.

 

"The heavenly spheres are filled with many thousand beautiful sights like this," said Ursula, "and millions of lovely children are educated in just such homes."

 

"These children all appear to be girls," I said, "and their teachers young ladies. Where are the boys and young men?"

 

"They are not far off," replied Ursula, with a smile, "but our heavenly schools are beautifully graded. You may call all which you see before you one school, if you please, and each home a class. You may call this a school for little girls, all under ten years of age, none less than three. If you look off to the right of the lake, you will observe a narrow channel, just where that large sailing vessel appears to be passing through to other parts. There is a twin lake beyond, very much like this, connected with this by that channel, and around that lake is a corresponding school for boys. We will visit it before you leave, if you like. That vessel, which is just now passing through the channel, has on board visitors who have been paying a visit to this school from the other, probably parents, who have boys there and girls here."

 

"Why do not the boys and girls mingle together in schools, as they do on earth?" I asked.

 

"Higher wisdom orders it otherwise," she answered. "They visit each other, but do not mingle in the schools, and when you understand natural laws better, you will discover a great law regulating these homes."

 

I now desired to know more about this lovely Ursula— this teacher of innocent babes—this loving guide of my own dear little girls, and so I said:

 

"Have you been in this world very long? I feel interested to know something of your past life."

 

"Not very long," she replied. "I will tell you my history if you would like to hear it."

 

"I should like to hear it very much."

 

"When in the earth—life," she said, "I knew nothing of my parents whatever. I was a foundling—that is, I was found on the doorsteps of a rich man's house, by his servant, one summer's morning, about eighteen years ago—a little, wailing infant in a basket. The rich man's wife looked at me in horror, for she had suspicions that I was the offspring, of her faithless husband; and her suspicions were true-he was my father, as I have discovered since I came to this world— so she at once sent me to a foundlings' home. It was a Catholic institution, and I was christened Ursula, after St. Ursula. I love the name, and so retain it. I was under strict discipline until ten years of age, when I was sent to a convent. Of my life in the convent it is useless to speak, except to say that I worked hard, leading a very austere and silent life, scarcely ever leaving the convent. When about seventeen years of age I fell into a decline, and thus came to this world a few months ago. I did not take charge of this school at once, but was placed, myself, in a school for young ladies, and after a preparatory education there, was allowed to take charge of this class of little girls. Have you noticed that little girl with the dark hair and large black eyes? Well; that little one is really my half-sister, the daughter of the rich man, my father; the proud lady, his wife, is her mother. I was the first to receive her soul, and give it the love and care which it needed; now, I am her instructor in this school. My own father would not own me for his child, his lady wife sent me to a foundlings' home, knowing full well that I was her husband's child: I pined on earth for love, the natural love which my parents should have bestowed upon me; from austerity and need of that love, I fell into sickness and, what on earth is called, death. One of the first offices which I am now called upon to perform, is to receive the spirit of the little daughter born in wedlock, petted and acknowledged by my father, give her that love and care which they denied me, and it delights me to be able to do so. But, sweet lady, her wealthy parents, when she fell ill, called in the most skilful doctors who could be found; she was loved, petted and nursed to the amount of thousands of dollars; then, when the body could hold the little soul no longer, it was thrown out as helpless as mine was when I lay in a basket on my father's doorsteps; they sent me to a home for foundlings: I found their helpless little one, and have given her a home, instruction and much love.

 

"The rich lady had the little body, which was of no further use to her daughter, laid in the costliest casket that could be obtained for money; the funeral expenses were simply enormous, the monument over the grave cost a small fortune; the lady wept and mourned for the child and would not be comforted, although she said the little one was in heaven resting in the bosom of Jesus, and she would see her child again at the resurrection. Well; I have taken that little girl nearly every day to see her father and mine and her weeping mother. We have tried in vain to make them feel our presence and understand us, but the fashionable mother will not believe that the spirits of the dead can return, simply, because it would render her unpopular in the church and among her friends; while my father, in secret, does not believe in a future state at all, but openly professes to think as his wife does, and both belong to the same church.

 

"My little half-sister is now an orphan, repudiated and cast off by both parents, although they know it not, but she is as sensible of it as I was when at her age I was repudiated and cast off by my parents, finding a home at a foundlings' hospital. My little half-sister died because of too much love and care. I died for want of enough. If she had been permitted to lead a more natural life, to play and romp about, and take less poisonous medicines, she would have lived out her natural life on earth. If I could have been loved and cherished by my parents, as I ought to have been, I should have lived out my natural life on earth. My little sister is nearly ten. I am almost eighteen.

 

We are both orphans, and I am her guide and teacher. Suppose my unnatural father and her proud society mother knew the truth, do you think he would have cast me off or she would have sent me to a foundlings' home, or now both cast off their most cherished little daughter? Her name is Theresa, mine Ursula, and, dear lady, ours is one of the many touching romances of heaven."

 

Raising my hands and eyes in the earnestness of my desire, I exclaimed:

 

"O, that the gulf between the visible and the life invisible, to mortal sight, might be spanned!

 

"Amen!" echoed my sweet companion, Ursula.

 

"But mortals must meet us half-way," she said, "before the gulf can be spanned: their minds must be receptive before they can receive our teaching and their brains sensitive to spiritual things before they can be sensibly inspired with them."

 

I then related to this lovely girl my own experience— how I had already returned to the earth, but could not make my husband or children understand that I was there with them—how my dear husband's mind was clouded by his unbelief in immortality: but, I have received a promise, or, rather, a prophecy, through my dear sister Annie's mind, that the gulf will be spanned. The prophetic picture was a bow set in the clouds like a bridge, and midway upon it stood a form; dear Annie called this person a medium between heaven and earth."

 

"Yes," replied Ursula," I have already been taught, by one who, loves me, that the bow set in the clouds is the bridge which will surely connect heaven and earth, and those who stand midway are the keystones in the arch; without them the gulf could never be spanned; those persons with large sensitive brains will receive truthful impressions, their souls will be receptive, and being still within mortality while yet they live between the two worlds, one hand grasping heavenly knowledge, the other extending it to the children of earth."

 

"Dear Ursula, we arework together," I said, "for we both earnestly desire the same thing—that our loved ones on the earth may recognize us."

 

"And, when they do," she replied, "we can tell them of ourselves, and the kind of life we lead here: when once this intercourse is fully established it will change the whole face of the earth, and the erroneous opinions of mankind concerning the future life and immortality. All the wrongs and sins that men and women commit, they will commit no more. Think you, my father would have thus wronged my mother and me, and now his own recognized child, if he knew just how it is here in the heavens? Think you, he would have thus wronged his own soul? But he believes that death is the end; that the grave hides all sin and error. He knows that I am dead, for he kept track of me while I lived, although he opened not his lips for fear of detection, and he now thinks the grave has closed over his fault for ever, whereas, it lives on throughout eternity, it visits himevery day, it tries to return good for evil, aye—my poor, unloved father His gold has been his curse but his children still live and he will yet be glad to own his cast-off daughter, some day. The grave cannot hide me. I am immortal!

 

"And your mother?" I asked. "You have told me nothing of her. What of your mother?"

 

Great tears started into Ursula's beautiful eyes.

 

My mother! My heart-broken deserted mother! She is in a convent, hidden from the world behind the veil of a nun: but the veil hides her not from the eyes of her loving Ursula. Ah! my mother knows me not, yet shall she see me shortly, for I shall receive her soul before many months are past. My mother's fault was the fault of a loving heart that gave all, to her own harm; but her wrongs will all be righted as time goes on. My mother was a beautiful Irish girl. Her parents were staunch Catholics, and well to do in life, but very strict disciplinarians. My father, at that time, was a young man and unmarried; he loved my mother as much as it was in his nature to love any one; he had asked her to marry him; she had consented and all the wealth of her affection was lavished upon him; he took advantage of her youth and innocence, and then, shortly before the time set for their marriage, he deserted her, paid his court atanother's shrine, where wealth was his sole object, and love did not enter into his feelings at all; at the time of my birth he had been married nearly six months, long enough for his wife to lose all confidence in his loyalty to herself. When my mother's parents discovered how their daughter had been wronged, they were filled with rage and despair; upon her head they heaped anathemas and curses. There was but one way, so they thought, to wipe out the sin. As soon as her child should be born, she must enter a convent and take the veil. My father was a Protestant, and my grandfather swore that no Protestant's brat should ever find shelter beneath his roof, At last the hour came in which I was ushered into life—the hour that should have been one of rejoicing that an immortal soul was born; it was, instead, an hour for deep cursing, and as soon as my wailing voice was heard, my grandmother packed me in a basket, and my grandfather father carried me to the door of my father, rang the bell, and left me on the steps. Sweet lady, you know the rest. When my mother had somewhat recovered from her illness—they had told her the babe was dead, had died shortly after its birth—they forced her to take the veil, and she has been hidden for eighteen years.

 

"Shortly after coming to this world, I was taken by my guide, or teacher, to visit my mother in the cloister, and put into rapport with her unhappy mind; there I read all her wrongs, but me she knew not. I was then taken to my father, and here I found a world-serving man, whose aims in life were the getting of money, to reside in a palatial mansion, keep a retinue of servants; at the same time living in slavish fear of the fashionable world: these made up the sum of his life. Love, or adaptation, between him and his wife there was none; their only bond of union was little Theresa. She was the idol of both.

 

"When visiting my grand-parents, I learned from their minds how they had disposed of me at my birth, and from the others, all that I knew of myself previous to the time when memory first asserted itself.

 

"At the time of my birth, my grandfather called me, "The brat of the Protestant!" and cast me on his doorstep as he might have done a young puppy—yes," she continued, the tears falling down on her lily-white hands, "my grandfather called me a brat, my own father cast me forth with other off-scourings, whilst Theresa, at her birth, was welcomed with joy, fondled and cradled in love and luxury, yet her father is my father, and my mother was the daughter of my grandfather."

 

I listened intently to Ursula's story. There she sat before me, more beautiful than a dream; graceful as a swan, pure as a lily; her large azure eyes swimming in tears, her sweet red lips trembling with emotion; her long hair had escaped from its confinement, and was sweeping about her like living threads of gold; and I began to realize that every angel in heaven had a romantic story to tell, either of joy or sorrow, guilt or wrong, but more likely all of the foregoing, well mixed, in their lives.

 

"Yes," went on Ursula, "I was a foundling.

 

I am an orphan. My father and mother are both, yet, within the earthly sphere."

 

Calling herself and these children orphans struck me rather strangely, and I said

 

"Why do you call yourself and your little band orphans?"

 

"I merely follow earthly teaching in this respect," she replied, "for it must be clear to you that if a child whose father and mother are here and the child still left or earth is an orphan, the rule holds good that the child who is here and the father and mother on earth must be an orphan also. We often feel ourselves orphaned as much as the corresponding orphan does on earth. As for me, I feel doubly orphaned, for my parents disowned and cast me off even before I knew that I lived."

 

"But why do you take this thing to heart so sadly?" I asked for all the angels in heaven must love you. Certainly, you cannot be unloved. We have been taught on earth that the love of heaven exceedeth that of father, mother, brother, sister, relative, or friend."

 

"Natural laws hold as good here as on the earth," she replied. "One does not dream of saying that the inhabitants of earth love other fathers' and mothers' children better than they do their own. Do you love the children composing my band better than you do your own sweet little girls? You are an inhabitant of heaven now, and are as well able to answer my question as any other resident here."

 

Why, surely, her questions were most surprising!

 

"I love all in a general way, but not at all as I do my own children."

 

"No," she said, "neither does any other spirit. You have also felt your widowhood as much here as you would have done had your husband been the one to come to this life instead of yourself."

 

"Oh, it seems to me I have felt it more keenly than I should the case been reversed."

 

"Then, sweet lady, you have your answer, she said, "and for long periods of time you will be more interested in your own children and will love them better than you possibly can those of another; therefore, dear lady, I am sadder than most daughters, for I am a double orphan."