Produced by Al Haines
Intra Muros
_By_
REBECCA RUTER SPRINGER
DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING CO.
ELGIN, ILLINOIS
Copyright, 1898,
By David C. Cook Publishing Co.
Elgin, Illinois.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
The pages of this little volume contain no fancy sketch, written to
while away an idle hour; but are the true, though greatly condensed,
record of an experience during days when life hung in the balance
between Time and Eternity, with the scales dipping decidedly toward the
Eternity side.
I am painfully aware of the fact that I can never paint for others the
scenes as they appeared to me during those wonderful days. If I can
only dimly show the close linking of the two lives--the mortal with the
divine--as they then appeared to me, I may be able to partly tear the
veil from the death we so dread, and show it to be only an open door
into a new and beautiful phase of the life we now live.
If any of the scenes depicted should seem irreverent in view of our
religious training here, I can only say, "I give it as it came to me."
In those strange, happy hours the close blending of the two lives, so
wrapped about with the Father's watchful care and tender love; the
reunion of friends, with the dear earth-ties unchanged; the satisfied
desires, the glad surprises and the divine joys, all intensified and
illumined by the reverence and love and adoration that all hearts gave
to the blessed Trinity, appeared to me the most perfect revelation of
that "blessed life" of which here we so fondly dream. With the hope
that it may comfort and uplift some who read, even as it then did, and
as its memory ever will do, for me, I submit this imperfect sketch of a
most perfect vision.
R.R.S.
"_Shall we stop at that poor line, the grave, which all our
Christianity is always trying to wipe out and make nothing of, and
which we always insist on widening into a great gulf? Shall we not
stretch our thought beyond, and feel the life-blood of this holy
church, this living body of Christ, pulsing out into the saints who are
living there, and coming back throbbing with tidings of their glorious
and sympathetic life?_"
--_Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks, D. D._
CHAPTER I.
When the holy angels meet us,
As we go to join their band,
Shall we know the friends that greet us,
In the glorious spirit-land?
Shall we see the same eyes shining
On us, as in days of yore?
Shall we feel their dear arms twining
Fondly 'round us as before?
Shall we know each other there?
--[Rev. R. Lowry.
I was many hundred miles away from home and friends, and had been very
ill for many weeks. I was entirely among strangers, and my only
attendant, though of a kindly disposition, knew nothing whatever of the
duties of the sick room; hence I had none of the many delicate
attentions that keep up an invalid's failing strength. I had taken no
nourishment of any kind for nearly three weeks, scarcely even water,
and was greatly reduced in both flesh and strength, and consciousness
seemed at times to wholly desert me. I had an unutterable longing for
the presence of my dear distant ones; for the gentle touch of beloved
hands, and whispered words of love and courage; but they never
came--they could not. Responsible duties, that I felt must not be
neglected, kept these dear ones much of the time in distant scenes, and
I would not recall them.
I lay in a large, comfortable room, on the second floor of a house in
Kentville. The bed stood in a recess at one end of the apartment, and
from this recess a large stained-glass window opened upon a veranda
fronting on the street. During much of my illness I lay with my face
to this window, and my back to the room; and I remember thinking how
easy it would be to pass through the window to the veranda, if one so
desired. When the longing for the loved distant faces and voices
became more than I could bear, I prayed that the dear Christ would help
me to realize his blessed presence; and that since the beloved ones of
earth could not minister to me, I might feel the influence of the other
dear ones who are "all ministering spirits." Especially did I ask to
be sustained should I indeed be called to pass through the dark waters
alone. It was no idle prayer, and the response came swiftly, speedily.
All anxieties and cares slipped away from me, as a worn-out garment,
and peace, Christ's peace, enfolded me. I was willing to wait God's
time for the coming of those so dear to me, and said to myself, more
than once, "If not here, it will be there; there is no fear of
disappointment there." In those wonderful days of agonized suffering,
and great peace, I felt that I had truly found, as never before, the
refuge of "the Everlasting Arms." They lifted me; they upbore me; they
enfolded me; and I rested in them, as a tired child upon its mother's
bosom. One morning, dark and cold and stormy, after a day and night of
intense suffering, I seemed to be standing on the floor by the bed, in
front of the stained-glass window. Some one was standing by me, and,
when I looked up, I saw it was my husband's favorite brother, who
"Crossed the flood" many years ago.
"My dear brother Frank!" I cried out joyously, "how good of you to
come!"
"It was a great joy to me that I could do so, little sister," he said
gently. "Shall we go now?" and he drew me toward the window.
I turned my head and looked back into the room that somehow I felt I
was about to leave forever. It was in its usual good order: a cheery,
pretty room. The attendant sat by the stove at the farther end,
comfortably reading a newspaper; and on the bed, turned toward the
window, lay a white, still form, with the shadow of a smile on the
poor, worn face. My brother drew me gently, and I yielded, passing
with him through the window, out on the veranda, and from thence, in
some unaccountable way, down to the street. There I paused and said
earnestly:
"I cannot leave Will and our dear boy."
"They are not here, dear, but hundreds of miles away," he answered.
"Yes, I know, but they will be here. Oh, Frank, they will need me--let
me stay!" I pleaded.
"Would it not be better if I brought you back a little later--after
they come?" he said, with a kind smile.
"Would you surely do so?" I asked.
"Most certainly, if you desire it. You are worn out with the long
suffering, and a little rest will give you new strength."
I felt that he was right, said so in a few words, and we started slowly
up the street. He had drawn my hand within his arm, and endeavored to
interest me, as we walked. But my heart clung to the dear ones whom I
felt I was not to see again on earth, and several times I stopped and
looked wistfully back the way we had come. He was very patient and
gentle with me, waiting always till I was ready to proceed again; but
at last my hesitation became so great that he said pleasantly:
"You are so weak I think I had better carry you;" and without waiting
for a reply, he stooped and lifted me in his arms, as though I had been
a little child; and, like a child, I yielded, resting my head upon his
shoulder, and laying my arm about his neck. I felt so safe, so
content, to be thus in his care. It seemed so sweet, after the long,
lonely struggle, to have some one assume the responsibility of caring
thus tenderly for me.
He walked on with firm, swift steps, and I think I must have slept; for
the next I knew, I was sitting in a sheltered nook, made by flowering
shrubs, upon the softest and most beautiful turf of grass, thickly
studded with fragrant flowers, many of them the flowers I had known and
loved on earth. I remember noticing heliotrope, violets, lilies of the
valley, and mignonette, with many others of like nature wholly
unfamiliar to me. But even in that first moment I observed how perfect
in its way was every plant and flower. For instance, the heliotrope,
which with us often runs into long, ragged sprays, there grew upon
short, smooth stems, and each leaf was perfect and smooth and glossy,
instead of being rough and coarse-looking; and the flowers peeped up
from the deep grass, so like velvet, with sweet, happy faces, as though
inviting the admiration one could not withhold.
And what a scene was that on which I looked as I rested upon this soft,
fragrant cushion, secluded and yet not hidden! Away, away--far beyond
the limit of my vision, I well knew--stretched this wonderful sward of
perfect grass and flowers; and out of it grew equally wonderful trees,
whose drooping branches were laden with exquisite blossoms and fruits
of many kinds. I found myself thinking of St. John's vision in the
Isle of Patmos, and "the tree of life" that grew in the midst of the
garden, bearing "twelve manner of fruits, and whose leaves were for the
healing of the nations." Beneath the trees, in many happy groups, were
little children, laughing and playing, running hither and thither in
their joy, and catching in their tiny hands the bright-winged birds
that flitted in and out among them, as though sharing in their sports,
as they doubtless were. All through the grounds, older people were
walking, sometimes in groups, sometimes by twos, sometimes alone, but
all with an air of peacefulness and happiness that made itself felt by
even me, a stranger. All were in spotless white, though many wore
about them or carried in their hands clusters of beautiful flowers. As
I looked upon their happy faces and their spotless robes, again I
thought, "These are they who have washed their robes, and made them
white in the blood of the Lamb."
Look where I would, I saw, half hidden by the trees, elegant and
beautiful houses of strangely attractive architecture, that I felt must
be the homes of the happy inhabitants of this enchanted place. I
caught glimpses of sparkling fountains in many directions, and close to
my retreat flowed a river, with placid breast and water clear as
crystal. The walks that ran in many directions through the grounds
appeared to me to be, and I afterward found were, of pearl, spotless
and pure, bordered on either side by narrow streams of pellucid water,
running over stones of gold. The one thought that fastened itself upon
me as I looked, breathless and speechless, upon this scene, was
"Purity, purity!" No shadow of dust; no taint of decay on fruit or
flower; everything perfect, everything pure. The grass and flowers
looked as though fresh-washed by summer showers, and not a single blade
was any color but the brightest green. The air was soft and balmy,
though invigorating; and instead of sunlight there was a golden and
rosy glory everywhere; something like the afterglow of a Southern
sunset in midsummer.
As I drew in my breath with a short, quick gasp of delight, I heard my
brother, who was standing beside me, say softly, "Well?" and, looking
up, I discovered that he was watching me with keen enjoyment. I had,
in my great surprise and delight, wholly forgotten his presence.
Recalled to myself by his question, I faltered:
"Oh, Frank, that I--" when such an overpowering sense of God's goodness
and my own unworthiness swept over me that I dropped my face into my
hands, and burst into uncontrollable and very human weeping.
"Ah!" said my brother, in a tone of self-reproach, "I am
inconsiderate." And lifting me gently to my feet, he said, "Come, I
want to show you the river."
When we reached the brink of the river, but a few steps distant, I
found that the lovely sward ran even to the water's edge, and in some
places I saw the flowers blooming placidly down in the depths, among
the many-colored pebbles with which the entire bed of the river was
lined.
"I want you to see these beautiful stones," said my brother, stepping
into the water and urging me to do the same.
I drew back timidly, saying, "I fear it is cold."
"Not in the least," he said, with a reassuring smile. "Come."
"Just as I am?" I said, glancing down at my lovely robe, which, to my
great joy, I found was similar to those of the dwellers in that happy
place.
"Just as you are," with another reassuring smile.
Thus encouraged, I, too, stepped into the "gently flowing river," and
to my great surprise found the water, in both temperature and density,
almost identical with the air. Deeper and deeper grew the stream as we
passed on, until I felt the soft, sweet ripples playing about my
throat. As I stopped, my brother said, "A little farther still."
"It will go over my head," I expostulated.
"Well, and what then?"
"I cannot breathe under the water--I will suffocate."
An amused twinkle came into his eyes, though he said soberly enough,
"We do not do those things here."
I realized the absurdity of my position, and with a happy laugh said,
"All right; come on," and plunged headlong into the bright water, which
soon bubbled and rippled several feet above my head. To my surprise
and delight, I found I could not only breathe, but laugh and talk, see
and hear, as naturally under the water as above it. I sat down in the
midst of the many-colored pebbles, and filled my hands with them, as a
child would have done. My brother lay down upon them, as he would have
done on the green sward, and laughed and talked joyously with me.
"Do this," he said, rubbing his hands over his face, and running his
fingers through his dark hair.
I did as he told me, and the sensation was delightful. I threw back my
loose sleeves and rubbed my arms, then my throat, and again thrust my
fingers through my long, loose hair, thinking at the time what a tangle
it would be in when I left the water. Then the thought came, as we at
last arose to return, "What are we to do for towels?" for the
earth-thoughts still clung to me; and I wondered, too, if the lovely
robe was not entirely spoiled. But behold, as we neared the shore and
my head once more emerged from the water, the moment the air struck my
face and hair I realized that I would need no towel or brush. My
flesh, my hair, and even my beautiful garments, were soft and dry as
before the water touched them. The material out of which my robe was
fashioned was unlike anything that I had ever seen. It was soft and
light and shone with a faint luster, reminding me more of silk crepe
than anything I could recall, only infinitely more beautiful. It fell
about me in soft, graceful folds, which the water seemed to have
rendered even more lustrous than before.
"What marvelous water! What wonderful air!" I said to my brother, as
we again stepped upon the flowery sward "Are all the rivers here like
this one?"
"Not just the same, but similar," he replied.
We walked on a few steps, and then I turned and looked back at the
shining river flowing on tranquilly. "Frank, what has that water done
for me?" I said. "I feel as though I could fly."
He looked at me with earnest, tender eyes, as he answered gently, "It
has washed away the last of the earth-life, and fitted you for the new
life upon which you have entered."
"It is divine!" I whispered,
"Yes, it is divine," he said.