Part 24

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 nectar food, 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.

Personal Experience--Intelligence from the Sphere of Light.

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 this domain 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 or destroy 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 dwell on 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 grander reality. 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 crystal waves, 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 of its 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 you Is allotted, and murmur not if you must do What 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 was at 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."