XII.

That which it is permitted me to relate to you moves on swiftly before

the thoughts, like the compression in the last act of a drama. The next

scene which starts from the variousness of heavenly delight I find to be

the Symphony of Color.

There was a time in the history of art, below, when this, and similar

phrases, had acquired almost a slang significance, owing to the

affectation of their use by the shallow. I was, therefore, the more

surprised at meeting a fact so lofty behind the guise of the familiar

words; and noted it as but one of many instances in which the earthly

had deteriorated from the ideals of the celestial life.

It seemed that the development of color had reached a point never

conceived of below, and that the treatment of it constituted an art by

itself. By this I do not mean its treatment under the form of painting,

decoration, dress, or any embodiment whatever. What we were called to

witness was an exhibition of color, pure and simple.

This occasion, of which I especially speak, was controlled by great

colorists, some of earthly, some of heavenly renown. Not all of them

were artists in the accepted sense of designers; among them were one or

two select creatures in whom the passion of color had been remarkable,

but, so far as the lower world was concerned, for the great part

inactive, for want of any scientific means of expression.

We have all known the _color natures_, and, if we have had a fine

sympathy, have compassionated them as much as any upon earth, whether

they were found among the disappointed disciples of Art itself, or

hidden away in plain homes, where the paucity of existence held all the

delicacy and the dream of life close prisoners.

Among the managers of this Symphony I should say that I observed, at a

distance, the form of Raphael. I heard it rumored that Leonardo was

present, but I did not see him. There was another celebrated artist

engaged in the work, whose name I am not allowed to give. It was an

unusual occasion, and had attracted attention at a distance. The

Symphony did not take place in our own city, but in an adjacent town, to

which our citizens, as well as those of other places, repaired in great

numbers. We sat, I remember, in a luxurious coliseum, closely darkened.

The building was circular in form; it was indeed a perfect globe, in

whose centre, without touching anywhere the superficies, we were seated.

Air without light entered freely, I know not how, and fanned our faces

perpetually. Distant music appealed to the ear, without engaging it.

Pleasures, which we could receive or dismiss at will, wandered by, and

were assimilated by those extra senses which I have no means of

describing. Whatever could be done to put soul and body in a state of

ease so perfect as to admit of complete receptivity, and in a mood so

high as to induce the loftiest interpretation of the purely æsthetic

entertainment before us, was done in the amazing manner characteristic

of this country. I do not know that I had ever felt so keenly as on this

occasion the delight taken by God in providing happiness for the

children of His discipline and love. We had suffered so much, some of

us, below, that it did not seem natural, at first, to accept sheer

pleasure as an end in and of itself. But I learned that this, like many

other fables in Heaven, had no moral. Live! Be! Do! Be glad! Because He

lives, ye live also. Grow! Gain! Achieve! Hope! _That_ is to glorify Him

and enjoy Him forever. Having fought--rest. Having trusted--know. Having

endured--enjoy. Being safe--venture. Being pure--fear not to be

sensitive. Being in harmony with the Soul of all delights--dare to

indulge thine own soul to the brim therein. Having acquired

holiness--thou hast no longer any broken law to fear. Dare to be happy.

This was the spirit of daily life among us. “Nothing was required of us

but to be natural,” as I have said before. And it “was natural to be

right,” thank God, at last.

Being a new-comer, and still so unlearned, I could not understand the

Color Symphony as many of the spectators did, while yet I enjoyed it

intensely, as an untaught musical organization may enjoy the most

complicated composition. I think it was one of the most stimulating

sights I ever saw, and my ambition to master this new art flashed fire

at once.

Slowly, as we sat silent, at the centre of that great white globe--it

was built of porphyry, I think, or some similar substance--there began

to breathe upon the surface pure light. This trembled and deepened, till

we were enclosed in a sphere of white fire. This I perceived, to

scholars in the science of color, signified distinct thought, as a grand

chord does to the musician. Thus it was with the hundred effects which

followed. White light quivered into pale blue. Blue struggled with

violet. Gold and orange parted. Green and gray and crimson glided on.

Rose--the living rose--blushed upon us, and faltered

under--over--yonder, till we were shut into a world of it, palpitating.

It was as if we had gone behind the soul of a woman’s blush, or the

meaning of a sunrise. Whoever has known the passion for that color will

understand why some of the spectators were with difficulty restrained

from flinging themselves down into it, as into a sea of rapture.

There were others more affected by the purple, and even by the scarlet;

some, again, by the delicate tints in which was the color of the sun,

and by colors which were hints rather than expressions. Marvelous

modifications of rays set in. They had their laws, their chords, their

harmonies, their scales; they carried their melodies and “execution;”

they had themes and ornamentation. Each combination had its meaning. The

trained eye received it, as the trained ear receives orchestra or

oratory. The senses melted, but the intellect was astir. A perfect

composition of color unto color was before us, exquisite in detail,

magnificent in mass. Now it seemed as if we ourselves, sitting there

ensphered in color, flew around the globe with the quivering rays. Now

as if we sank into endless sleep with reposing tints; now as if we

drank of color; then as if we dreamed it; now as if we felt it--clasped

it; then as if we heard it. We were taken into the heart of it; into the

mystery of the June sky, and the grass-blade, the blue-bell, the child’s

cheek, the cloud at sunset, the snowdrift at twilight. The apple-blossom

told us its secret, and the down on the pigeon’s neck, and the plume of

the rose-curlew, and the robin’s-egg, and the hair of blonde women, and

the scarlet passion-flower, and the mist over everglades, and the power

of a dark eye.

It may be remembered that I have alluded once to the rainbow which I saw

soon after reaching the new life, and that I raised a question at the

time as to the number of rays exhibited in the celestial prism. As I

watched the Symphony, I became convinced that the variety of colors

unquestionably far exceeded those with which we were familiar on earth.

The Indian occultists indeed had long urged that they saw fourteen tints

in the prism; this was the dream of the mystic, who, by a tremendous

system of education, claims to have subjected the body to the soul, so

that the ordinary laws of nature yield to his control. Physicists had

also taught us that the laws of optics involved the necessity of other

colors beyond those whose rays were admissible by our present vision;

this was the assertion of that science which is indebted more largely to

the imagination than the worshiper of the Fact has yet arisen from his

prone posture high enough to see.

Now, indeed, I had the truth before me. Colors which no artist’s

palette, no poet’s rapture knew, played upon optic nerves exquisitely

trained to receive such effects, and were appropriated by other senses

empowered to share them in a manner which human language supplies me

with no verb or adjective to express.

As we journeyed home after the Symphony, I was surprised to find how

calming had been the effect of its intense excitement. Without fever of

pulse or rebel fancy or wearied nerve, I looked about upon the peaceful

country. I felt ready for any duty. I was strong for all deprivation. I

longed to live more purely. I prayed to live more unselfishly. I

greatly wished to share the pleasure, with which I had been blessed,

with some denied soul. I thought of uneducated people, and coarse

people, who had yet to be trained to so many of the highest varieties of

happiness. I thought of sick people, all their earthly lives invalids,

recently dead, and now free to live. I wished that I had sought some of

these out, and taken them with me to the Symphony.

It was a rare evening, even in the blessed land. I enjoyed the change of

scene as I used to do in traveling, below. It was delightful to look

abroad and see everywhere prosperity and peace. The children were

shouting and tumbling in the fields. Young people strolled laughing by

twos or in groups. The vigorous men and women busied themselves or

rested at the doors of cosy homes. The ineffable landscape of hill and

water stretched on behind the human foreground. Nowhere a chill or a

blot; nowhere a tear or a scowl, a deformity, a disability, or an evil

passion. There was no flaw in the picture. There was no error in the

fact. I felt that I was among a perfectly happy people. I said, “I am

in a holy world.”

The next day was a Holy Day; we of the earth still called it the

Sabbath, from long habit. I remember an especial excitement on that Holy

Day following the Color Symphony, inasmuch as we assembled to be

instructed by one whom, above all other men that had ever lived on

earth, I should have taken most trouble to hear. This was no other than

St. John the Apostle.

I remember that we held the service in the open air, in the fields

beyond the city, for “there was no Temple therein.” The Beloved Disciple

stood above us, on the rising ground. It would be impossible to forget,

but it is well-nigh impossible to describe, the appearance of the

preacher. I think he had the most sensitive face I ever saw in any man;

yet his dignity was unapproachable. He had a ringing voice of remarkable

sweetness, and great power of address. He seemed more divested of

himself than any orator I had heard. He poured his personality out upon

us, like one of the forces of nature, as largely, and as unconsciously.

He taught us much. He reasoned of mysteries over which we had pored

helplessly all our lives below. He explained intricate points in the

plan of human life. He touched upon the perplexities of religious faith.

He cast a great light backward over the long, dim way by which we had

crept to our present blessedness. He spoke to us of our deadliest

doubts. He confirmed for us our patient belief. He made us ashamed of

our distrust and our restlessness. He left us eager for faith. He gave

vigor to our spiritual ideals. He spoke to us of the love of God, as the

light speaks of the sun. He revealed to us how we had misunderstood Him.

Our souls cried out within us, as we remembered our errors. We gathered

ourselves like soldiers as we knew our possibilities. We swayed in his

hands as the bough sways in the wind. Each man looked at his neighbor as

one whose eyes ask: “Have I wronged thee? Let me atone.” “Can I serve

thee? Show me how.” All our spiritual life arose like an athlete, to

exercise itself; we sought hard tasks; we aspired for far prizes; we

turned to our daily lives like new-created beings; so truly we had kept

Holy Day. When the discourse was over, there followed an anthem sung by

a choir of child-angels hovering in mid-air above the preacher, and

beautiful exceedingly to the sight and to the ear. “God,” they sang, “is

Love--_is_ Love--is LOVE.” In the refrain we joined with our own awed

voices.

The chant died away. All the air of all the worlds was still. The

beloved Disciple raised his hand in solemn signal. A majestic Form

glided to his side. To whom should the fisherman of Galilee turn with a

look like _that_? Oh, grace of God! what a smile was there! The Master

and Disciple stand together; they rise above us. See! He falls upon his

knees before that Other. So we also, sinking to our own, hide our very

faces from the sight.

Our Lord steps forth, and stands alone. To us in glory, as to them of

old in sorrow, He is the God made manifest. We do not lift our bowed

heads, but we feel that He has raised His piercéd hands above us, and

that His own lips call down the Benediction of His Father upon our

eternal lives.