X.

From this time, the events which I am trying to relate began to assume

in fact a much more orderly course; yet in form I scarcely find them

more easy to present. Narrative, as has been said of conversation, “is

always but a selection,” and in this case the peculiar difficulties of

choosing from an immense mass of material that which can be most fitly

compressed into the compass allowed me by these few pages, are so great,

that I have again and again laid down my task in despair; only to be

urged on by my conviction that it is more clearly my duty to speak what

may carry comfort to the hearts of some, than to worry because my

imperfect manner of expression may offend the heads of others. All I can

presume to hope for this record of an experience is, that it may have a

passing value to certain of my readers whose anticipations of what they

call “the Hereafter” are so vague or so dubious as to be more of a pain

than a pleasure to themselves.

From the time of my reception into my father’s house, I lost the sense

of homelessness which had more or less possessed me since my entrance

upon the new life, and felt myself becoming again a member of an

organized society, with definite duties as well as assured pleasures

before me.

These duties I did not find astonishingly different in their essence,

while they had changed greatly in form, from those which had occupied me

upon earth. I found myself still involved in certain filial and domestic

responsibilities, in intellectual acquisition, in the moral support of

others, and in spiritual self-culture. I found myself a member of an

active community in which not a drone nor an invalid could be counted,

and I quickly became, like others who surrounded me, an exceedingly busy

person. At first my occupations did not assume sharp professional

distinctiveness, but had rather the character of such as would belong to

one in training for a more cultivated condition. This seemed to be true

of many of my fellow-citizens; that they were still in a state of

education for superior usefulness or happiness. With others, as I have

intimated, it was not so. My father’s business, for instance, remained

what it had always been--that of a religious teacher; and I met women

and men as well, to whom, as in the case of my old neighbor, Mrs.

Mersey, there had been set apart an especial fellowship with the spirits

of the recently dead or still living, who had need of great guidance. I

soon formed, by observation, at least, the acquaintance, too, of a wide

variety of natures;--I met artisans and artists, poets and scientists,

people of agricultural pursuits, mechanical inventors, musicians,

physicians, students, tradesmen, aerial messengers to the earth, or to

other planets, and a long list besides, that would puzzle more than it

would enlighten, should I attempt to describe it. I mention these

points, which I have no space to amplify, mainly to give reality to any

allusions that I shall make to my relations in the heavenly city, and to

let it be understood that I speak of a community as organized and as

various as Paris or New York; which possessed all the advantages and

none of the evils that we are accustomed to associate with massed

population; that such a community existed without sorrow, without

sickness, without death, without anxiety, and without sin; that the

evidences of almost incredible harmony, growth, and happiness which I

saw before me in that one locality, I had reason to believe extended to

uncounted others in unknown regions, thronging with joys and activities

the mysteries of space and time.

For reasons which will be made clear as I approach the end of my

narrative, I cannot speak as fully of many high and marvelous matters in

the eternal life, as I wish that I might have done. I am giving

impressions which, I am keenly aware, have almost the imperfection of a

broken dream. I can only crave from the reader, on trust, a patience

which he may be more ready to grant me at a later time.

I now began, as I say, to assume regular duties and pleasures; among the

keenest of the latter was the constant meeting of old friends and

acquaintances. Much perplexity, great delight, and some disappointment

awaited me in these _dénouements_ of earthly story.

The people whom I had naturally expected to meet earliest were often

longest delayed from crossing my path; in some cases, they were

altogether missing. Again, I was startled by coming in contact with

individuals that I had never associated, in my conceptions of the

future, with a spiritual existence at all; in these cases I was

sometimes humbled by discovering a type of spiritual character so far

above my own, that my fancies in their behalf proved to be unwarrantable

self-sufficiency. Social life in the heavenly world, I soon learned, was

a series of subtle or acute surprises. It sometimes reminded me of a

simile of George Eliot’s, wherein she likened human existence to a game

of chess in which each one of the pieces had intellect and passions, and

the player might be beaten by his own pawns. The element of

unexpectedness, which constitutes the first and yet the most unreliable

charm of earthly society, had here acquired a permanent dignity. One of

the most memorable things which I observed about heavenly relations was,

that people did not, in the degree or way to which I was accustomed,

tire of each other. Attractions, to begin with, were less lightly

experienced; their hold was deeper; their consequences more lasting. I

had not been under my new conditions long, before I learned that here

genuine feeling was never suffered to fall a sacrifice to intellectual

curiosity, or emotional caprice; that here one had at last the stimulus

of social attrition without its perils, its healthy pleasures without

its pains. I learned, of course, much else, which it is more than

difficult, and some things which it is impossible, to explain. I testify

only of what I am permitted.

Among the intellectual labors that I earliest undertook was the command

of the Universal Language, which I soon found necessary to my

convenience. In a community like that I had entered, many nationalities

were represented, and I observed that while each retained its own

familiar earthly tongue, and one had the pleasant opportunity of

acquiring as many others as one chose, yet a common vocabulary became a

desideratum of which, indeed, no one was compelled to avail himself

contrary to his taste, but in which many, like myself, found the

greatest pleasure and profit. The command of this language occupied much

well-directed time.

I should not omit to say that a portion of my duty and my privilege

consisted in renewed visits to the dearly-loved whom I had left upon the

earth. These visits were sometimes matters of will with me. Again, they

were strictly occasions of permission, and again, I was denied the power

to make them when I most deeply desired to do so. Herein I learned the

difference between trial and trouble, and that while the last was

stricken out of heavenly life, the first distinctly remained. It is

pleasant to me to remember that I was allowed to be of more than a

little comfort to those who mourned for me; that it was I who guided

them from despair to endurance, and so through peace to cheerfulness,

and the hearty renewal of daily human content. These visits were for a

long time--excepting the rare occasions on which I met Him who had

spoken to me upon the sea-shore--the deepest delight which was offered

me.

Upon one point I foresee that I shall be questioned by those who have

had the patience so far to follow my recital. What, it will be asked,

was the political constitution of the community you describe? What place

in celestial society has worldly caste?

When I say, strictly none at all, let me not be misunderstood. I

observed the greatest varieties of rank in the celestial kingdom, which

seemed to me rather a close Theocracy than a wild commune. There were

powers above me, and powers below; there were natural and harmonious

social selections; there were laws and their officers; there was

obedience and its dignity; there was influence and its authority; there

were gifts and their distinctions. I may say that I found far more

reverence for differences of rank or influence than I was used to

seeing, at least in my own corner of the earth. The main point was that

the basis of the whole thing had undergone a tremendous change.

Inheritance, wealth, intellect, genius, beauty, all the old passports to

power, were replaced by one so simple yet so autocratic, that I hardly

know how to give any idea at once of its dignity and its sweetness. I

may call this personal holiness. Position, in the new life, I found

depended upon spiritual claims. Distinction was the result of character.

The nature nearest to the Divine Nature ruled the social forces.

Spiritual culture was the ultimate test of individual importance.

I inquired one day for a certain writer of world-wide--I mean of

earth-wide--celebrity, who, I had learned, was a temporary visitor in

the city, and whom I wished to meet. I will not for sufficient reasons

mention the name of this man, who had been called the genius of his

century, below. I had anticipated that a great ovation would be given

him, in which I desired to join, and I was surprised that his presence

made little or no stir in our community. Upon investigating the facts, I

learned that his public influence was, so far, but a slight one, though

it had gradually gained, and was likely to increase with time. He had

been a man whose splendid powers were dedicated to the temporary and

worldly aspects of Truth, whose private life was selfish and cruel, who

had written the most famous poem of his age, but “by all his searching”

had not found out God.

In the conditions of the eternal life, this genius had been obliged to

set itself to learning the alphabet of spiritual truth; he was still a

pupil, rather than a master among us, and I was told that he himself

ardently objected to receiving a deference which was not as yet his due;

having set the might of his great nature as strenuously now to the

spiritual, as once to the intellectual task; in which, I must say, I was

not without expectation that he would ultimately outvie us all.

On the same day when this distinguished man entered and left our city

(having quietly accomplished his errand), I heard the confusion of some

public excitement at a distance, and hastening to see what it meant, I

discovered that the object of it was a plain, I thought in her earthly

life she must have been a poor woman, obscure, perhaps, and timid. The

people pressed towards her, and received her into the town by

acclamation. They crowned her with amaranth and flung lilies in her

path. The authorities of the city officially met her; the people of

influence hastened to beseech her to do honor to their homes by her

modest presence; we crowded for a sight of her, we begged for a word

from her, we bewildered her with our tributes, till she hid her blushing

face and was swept out of our sight.

“But who is this,” I asked an eager passer, “to whom such an

extraordinary reception is tendered? I have seen nothing like it since I

came here.”

“Is it possible you do not know ---- ----?”

My informant gave a name which indeed was not unfamiliar to me; it was

that of a woman who had united to extreme beauty of private character,

and a high type of faith in invisible truths, life-long devotion to an

unpopular philanthropy. She had never been called a “great” woman on

earth. Her influence had not been large. Her cause had never been the

fashion, while she herself was living. Society had never amused itself

by adopting her, even to the extent of a parlor lecture. Her name, so

far as it was familiar to the public at all, had been the synonym of a

poor zealot, a plain fanatic, to be tolerated for her conscientiousness

and--avoided for her earnestness. Since her death, the humane

consecration which she represented had marched on like a conquering army

over her grave. Earth, of which she was not worthy, had known her too

late. Heaven was proud to do honor to the spiritual foresight and

sustained self-denial, as royal as it was rare.

I remember, also, being deeply touched by a sight upon which I chanced,

one morning, when I was strolling about the suburbs of the city, seeking

the refreshment of solitude before the duties of the day began. For,

while I was thus engaged, I met our Master, suddenly. He was busily

occupied with others, and, beyond the deep recognition of His smile, I

had no converse with Him. He was followed at a little distance, as He

was apt to be, by a group of playing children; but He was in close

communion with two whom I saw to be souls newly-arrived from the lower

life. One of these was a man--I should say he had been a rough man, and

had come out of a rude life--who conversed with Him eagerly but

reverently, as they walked on towards the town. Upon the other side, our

Lord held with His own hand the hand of a timid, trembling woman, who

scarcely dared raise her eyes from the ground; now and then she drew His

garment’s edge furtively to her lips, and let it fall again, with the

slow motion of one who is in a dream of ecstasy. These two people, I

judged, had no connection with each other beyond the fact that they were

simultaneous new-comers to the new country, and had, perhaps, both borne

with them either special need or merit, I could hardly decide which. I

took occasion to ask a neighbor, an old resident of the city, and wise

in its mysteries, what he supposed to be the explanation of the scene

before us, and why these two were so distinguished by the favor of Him

whose least glance made holiday in the soul of any one of us. It was

then explained to me, that the man about whom I had inquired was the

hero of a great calamity, with which the lower world was at present

occupied. One of the most frightful railway accidents of this generation

had been averted, and the lives of four hundred helpless passengers

saved, by the sublime sacrifice of this locomotive engineer, who died

(it will be remembered) a death of voluntary and unique torture to save

his train. All that could be said of the tragedy was that it held the

essence of self-sacrifice in a form seldom attained by man. At the

moment I saw this noble fellow, he had so immediately come among us that

the expression of physical agony had hardly yet died out of his face,

and his eye still blazed with the fire of his tremendous deed.

“But who is the woman?” I asked.

“She was a delicate creature--sick--died of the fright and shock; the

only passenger on the train who did not escape.”

I inquired why she too was thus preferred; what glorious deed had she

done, to make her so dear to the Divine Heart?

“She? Ah, she,” said my informant, “was only one of the household

saints. She had been notable among celestial observers for many years.

You know the type I mean--shy, silent--never thinks of herself, scarcely

knows she has a self--toils, drudges, endures, prays; expects nothing of

her friends, and gives all; hopes for little, even from her Lord, but

surrenders everything; full of religious ideals, not all of them

theoretically wise, but practically noble; a woman ready to be cut to

inch pieces for her faith in an invisible Love that has never apparently

given her anything in particular. Oh, you know the kind of woman: has

never had anything of her own, in all her life--not even her own

room--and a whole family adore her without knowing it, and lean upon her

like infants without seeing it. We have been watching for this woman’s

coming. We knew there would be an especial greeting for her. But nobody

thought of her accompanying the engineer. Come! Shall we not follow, and

see how they will be received? If I am not mistaken, it will be a great

day in the city.”