SPIRIT ECHOES.
What is more beautiful than a morning in the Summer-Land? All things
breathe of harmony and peace. No jarring discords break upon the ambient
air; no sense of unloveliness and distress disturbs the spirit; no
storm-clouds overcast the heavens with threatening anger. The golden sun
tempers his rays in mildness and with beneficent warmth. The birds sing
fearlessly in the tree tops; the waters flow merrily to the laughing
sea; the breezes play in wanton glee, tossing the leaflets upon the
trees, and robbing the flowers of their choicest perfume to greet the
senses of the passer-by.
Pure souls, to whom no taint of materiality clings; sweet spirits, who
have never felt, or having felt, have risen above the influence of
earthly passions, here abide, and, gathering together into
convocations,—convened not for ceremony, nor from pride of station, but
from sympathy and friendship,—interchange the rich treasures of the
mind, cultivate through soul communion, the true graces of the spirit
and work in unity together, thus developing the adaptability of each one
for his peculiar mission, and, above all, seek, by those united efforts,
born of sincerity of purpose, and love for humanity, to devise ways and
means for the amelioration of suffering upon earth, as well as for the
elevation of lowly, undeveloped Beings in the spirit world.
This is the dear Summer-Land of ascended souls. A Summer-Land as far
removed from those spirits who still dwell in the darkness, emitted by
their earthly career, and who continue to cling to the shadow of
material dross, as it is from those inhabitants of clay, whose thoughts
of the future are confined to longings for personal grandeur alone, and
whose souls never mount upon the wings of aspiration in reaching out
toward the higher realms of purity and goodness, or in searching for the
dear Father and his ministering angels.
The silvery chime of bells floats upon the morning air, which bathes my
spirit in waves of sweet, melodious sound. Grandly, solemnly they chime,
lifting the soul above all selfish thoughts and purposes; bearing it
upward and onward upon the wings of sacred music; far upward in
adoration toward the source of all this beautiful, beneficent, and
immortal life. Faint and low the sweet chime flows downward also,
bearing a sense of what is highest and best to those plunged in sorrow,
pain, and doubt, and giving them hope of a sweeter life yet to be
attained through honest endeavor and individual effort. Sweet and low,
floating down, down, into the hearts of loved ones on earth, thrilling
them with a calmness of heavenly peace, a sense of perfect rest, and
bearing into their souls undying echoes of love, sympathy, and
remembrance, from their dear ones who have gone before.
A MEETING OF MISSIONARY SPIRITS.
“Waft, waft, ye winds the story;
And you, ye waters, roll
Till like a sea of glory
It spreads from pole to pole.
Progression, oh, Progression!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till earth’s remotest nation
Hath learned Progression’s name.”
I have just listened to the above rendition of the inspiring missionary
hymn, and my soul thrills in harmony with the aspirations and the desire
to spread the light of truth before all people, which was thus
expressed.
It was in no hall of worship and assembly that the words of the hymn
fell upon my hearing. But in returning from the earthly home of loved
ones, where I had been to whisper my matin greeting of sympathy and
affection, to my peculiar haunts in the spirit world, I found a knot of
spirit missionaries who had met to exchange reports of their labor, and
to unite their powers and energies in doing good to the needy by
shedding a stream of light upon earth’s darkened places.
There were venerable men whose years had been spent in working for
others. Their flowing robes, and the sandals upon their feet rendered
their appearance patriarchal. There were elderly females in whose
countenances appeared the light of pure love and benevolence. These
latter were the nurses, the tender counsellors, the gentle mother
spirits, whose lives are devoted to the ministering unto sin-sick,
battle-worn souls, who enter spirit life without hope or faith. There
were also young men and maidens, novices in the work of teaching others,
but who, from their earnest desire to be of use and to do good, were
drawn to this particular field of toil.
The garb of all but the patriarchs was similar to that worn upon earth;
but the females were clothed in plainer, less elaborate garments than I
think any of their mortal sisters would have been content to wear. No
badge of office glistened upon their breasts, or gleamed from the
shoulder. Nor was this necessary; their credentials shone from their
sparkling eyes, and beamed in their tender, pitying faces. Theirs is a
mission of peace, and only the implements of love and good-will do they
require, such as tender, earnest speech, faithful hearts and helping
hands, to accomplish their work.
I could perceive the purpose of their meeting; here, in a comparatively
isolated spot, where the trees hemmed them in from external scenes,
unmolested by others, they had met to make their reports, and to gain
strength, cheer, and encouragement from their friendly and soul-felt
intercourse. They had just begun to sing the old familiar hymn, a verse
of which I have quoted, as I came up, and the melody, which trickled
through the lines like a stream of light, together with their
earnestness of expression, arrested my attention, and thrilled my being
with a new purpose and aspiration. Oh, thought I, what a glorious
mission, to be of use to others, to be a beacon-star to some lonely
wanderer amid the trials of life, to speak words of kindness, of hope
and love to the broken-hearted and sad. Oh, that I might be like these
people!
Instantly, one of the band, a gentle, beautiful female, turned to me
with out-stretched hand as if in greeting, her whole countenance
suffused with joy, and said: “Dear child, thy mission hath already
begun; thine is the task to bear love and sympathy to weary mortals, to
whisper words of peace and hope, and to point them to a higher life.
What more heavenly task than this! The divinest work for the soul is to
fulfill the duty laid upon it. In thee we see the promise of labor to be
wrought. Go on thy way, inspire the spirits of those thee doth approach
with faith and trust in the love of God; point each to the land of life
beyond the rolling tide of death; carry pure and gentle thoughts to
mortals struggling with the trials of life; drop the sunlight of peace
upon all whom thou dost meet. Thus canst thou and every spirit become a
messenger of joy, a missionary of hope and truth. God bless and guide
thee in thy efforts for good.”
Like a holy benediction the words fell upon my spirit, filling me with a
sense of love for all things. Then and there I resolved to do all in my
power to cheer, enlighten, and instruct the sorrowing and the
uninformed, feeling that in this I could perform my work, and also
brighten the golden links binding me to loved ones on the mortal side.
A SPIRIT RETURNS TO COMFORT HER MOTHER.
Just now my mind is filled with thoughts of an interview I have recently
held with a fair young girl, who but lately burst the bonds confining
her to a material body. She was sad, very sad. All this life is new and
strange to her, and though surrounded by tender care and loving
sympathy, yet filial affection draws her constantly back to those dear
parents who, sorrowing as those without hope, cannot realize her
presence with them.
“My mother,” she said to me, “oh, my mother! if I could _speak_ to her
and tell her of my home in Heaven! But my death was such a heavy blow to
her; she is so sad, so miserable, and I cannot help her!”
“You can; you will bless and comfort your mother,” I replied; “if you
will come with me I will show you how to send a message to those you
love on earth. You have heard of a medium?”
“Oh, yes, but it would be no use for me to visit one. My friends would
not accept anything given them from such a source; they would believe it
all nonsense. No, it is no use.”
“But you can make such an effort to reach your mother, and if you fail
it will be no worse to you than it is at present.”
“Oh, yes, it would,” she exclaimed, “I might not be able to give facts
enough through another organism to establish my identity to my friends,
and I think it would break my heart to have my love rejected. I would
rather not attempt it.”
However, in a little while I gained the young lady’s consent to
accompany me to a spirit circle, and I hope ultimately to induce her to
send a message to her friends on earth. Her evident sorrow and distress
have filled me with deep solicitude to unite her in spirit with her
sorrowing mother.
JUST RECOGNITION OF RETURNING SPIRITS.
How true it is that hundreds of spirits, manifesting through organisms
foreign to their own, and doing the best they can, expressing their love
and sympathy, and bringing words of counsel and cheer to mortals, have
been repulsed with distrust and suspicion, even with a positive denial
of their presence, because they were unable to give every item of
material affairs demanded of them.
Such a reception of their efforts to communicate causes sensitive,
loving spirits untold pain and sorrow; causes them to recoil from
earthly conditions, and thus retards their manifestation to mortals.
Were I upon earth, understanding this matter as I now do, I would accept
a loving, kindly communication, purporting to come from a spirit friend,
not with over credulity, but with the thought it may come from my friend
who is not yet able to give me all I wish to know; but I will not reject
this token of love, lest in doing so I spurn and wound my loving spirit
friend. In this way I would throw out a ladder of reciprocal love, upon
which my dear one could descend and bear me tidings of immortal life,
thereby strengthening conditions, until that spirit gained power to give
me all my soul required.
CONSOLATORY THOUGHTS FOR BEREAVED MOTHERS.
Who can realize the anguish of a loving mother’s heart when called upon
to part with the mortal form of a beloved child? Others may sorrow and
weep; the nearest kindred may realize with pain a vacancy in the family
circle, a niche in their love unfilled, that can never be occupied
again. But they have pursuits, and in time enjoyments, to call their
attention, and soon their grief becomes a tender, sweet, yet holy,
memory. And well that it is so, for death was but a golden bridge over
which their loved one passed to immortal shores, while she who left them
bodily is unseen, simply because she has come so close to their hearts
that she can enter into their love, and permeate them with a spiritual
radiance.
But the mother’s heart is longest in healing. How she looks for her
darling to come to her! How she falls asleep weeping, and awakens with a
sense of loss, of hopelessness that is almost akin to despair; and how
she hourly calls in spirit the name of the one child who is dearest to
her because unseen!
Oh, darling mothers! Oh, sorrowing, heart-broken mothers! weep not; your
dear ones are all around you, bringing love, peace, and comfort to your
souls. They are _not_ lost; sweet and low they whisper tidings of a
happy reunion yet to come; and though you know it not, their loving arms
are around you, sustaining and strengthening. Their sweet lips meet
yours; their white hands lead you onward toward the higher and the
better life! Happy, blessed mother, who accepts this truth! To you it is
a pearl of great price,—a crown of unspeakable glory.
THE MINISTRATION OF SPIRITS.
Oh, let my mission be to impress the glowing truths of immortality upon
the hearts of grief-stricken mortals. To bear to mourning parents,
brothers, and sisters, sorrowing husbands, wives, and children; to those
who murmur because they believe death has torn their beloved ones from
their grasp, this glorious conviction, that the dear ones are not
beneath the sod, nor do they dwell millions of miles away, beyond the
stars, but amid the glowing sunbeams that fail around their mortal
friends, their tender faces shine; and through the golden mists of death
their gentle voices are calling to loved ones here. Oh, friends, your
dear ones are with you. Not one is lost, none are separated from you,
they come to you in the gloom or sorrow, or in the stillness of night.
They walk by your side and bless your lives. Whether your sight can
pierce the clouds of doubt and fear or not, your loved ones surely come,
and by permeating your lives with a holier thought and purer aspiration,
they lead you nearer to the heavenly gates, which you shall one day
enter, and finding your darlings close beside you, shall then know that
they have never died.
THE RAIN OF THE SUMMER-LAND.
A veil of silvery mist has gathered over my Summer-Land home, which is
so fine and ethereal that it scarcely hides the golden sunlight that
shines through the glittering vapor, turning it molten gold, and now and
then changing it to red and blue and every other rainbow hue. The
shining mist, descending from snowy clouds, falls silently like a
blessing of love upon the green sward, the fragrant flowers, and the
branching trees that look up with grateful joy to catch the refreshing
bath. The far-off hills and mountains gleam through the lovely veil,
with a softened and subdued light that adds a new charm to their beauty.
The waters of stream and river murmur more musically sweet, as if
conscious of the new power they will have gained when the mists have
cleared away. The birds chirp contentedly in their leafy bowers, as if
in welcome to this spiritual rain, and all life becomes animated anew,
and thrilled with a sweeter power and strength.
No heavy storms, no tearing whirlwinds, come to sweep away the works of
nature. Those are but the effects of forces working through matter
alone, and belong solely to the mundane world; but softly, silently, and
sweetly descends the rain of the Summer-Land, covering hill and dale,
shrub and tree, with a tiny dew-like moisture, that brings new vigor and
refreshment to all things.
All alone in my quiet sanctum I sit and gaze out upon the golden mist;
half lost in wonder and delight I ask myself, was ever anything so
beautiful as this? The very essence of _life_ seems descending in that
spiritual shower, and under its influence my spirit rises as with new
energy, strength, and power.
HAPPINESS OF SPIRITS IN COMMUNING WITH FRIENDS ON EARTH.
From the contemplation of the beautiful works of God spread out before
me, my thought flows out to dear ones who abide in the mortal form, and
filled with love and sympathy it reaches out to their hearts, forming a
magnetic chain which connects their lives with my own. A quiet peace
stealing over those dear ones on earth, a happy sense of blissful repose
filling their souls, prove them to be _en rapport_ with the Higher Life;
and though I do not leave my apartment in my spirit home, yet I can see
and commune with the loved ones, and send out to them my thoughts upon
the chain of affection that binds each soul to mine; I know they receive
the message, and respond in the inner consciousness of their hearts to
these echoes from the spirit shore.
But though spirits may thus live close to their earthly friends, without
leaving their upper homes, yet it affords us sweet delight to return in
spiritual presence to the homes we loved on earth, and, by mingling with
dear ones in the mortal, partake of their joys, participate in their
sorrows, bless them with our affection, and, by silent impression upon
their minds, permeate their thoughts with our ideas, and ever seek to
draw them upward and onward toward the beautiful and the good. _Such_ is
the blessed mission of many loving and devoted spirits who are working
for the soul elevation of friends on earth.
POETRY OF THE SPIRIT SPHERES.
In my frequent visits to this medium I have sometimes encountered one
who, a poet when on earth, still delights to sing his melodies through
the lips of mortals, and at such times I have felt my spirit bathed in a
halo of light as I listened to his metrical utterances, or better still
came _en rapport_ with his spirit, saw the gems of thought therein, and
watched him weaving them into lines of richest grace and beauty. Oh, ye
mortals, the poems you receive from minds on earth, whether given forth
by the acknowledged poet, or through the organisms of mediums, are but
the shadows of a glorious reality above; they are but as skeletons
compared with the full and perfect forms, clothed with the majesty of
perfected expression in the soul world; a mere outline, which conveys to
you perhaps an idea of the beautiful whole, as it flashes forth from the
realm of spirit.
In poesy as in music, and indeed as in all the arts and sciences, you
can never see its grand revealments, its possibilities and its powers,
its radiance and its glory, until you drop from your shoulders the
mantle of materiality, and stand forth all spirit, with an abiding
desire within your souls to find the beautiful, the holy, and the pure.
This poet soul,[3] of whom I speak, has at times requested me to give
expression to some of my thoughts in the golden light of poesy, to drape
them with the snowy robes of melodious song; but I shrink from the task,
feeling that I cannot do justice to the noble rules of rhyme and rhythm.
Footnote 3:
John Critchley Prince.
Spirits do not, as a rule, underrate their own powers; there is no false
delicacy to be assumed; they understand something of the possibilities
within, and eagerly and thankfully accept the opportunities afforded
them to cultivate their powers, and to develop these possibilities of
the soul.
Therefore, though I do not at present feel to echo these sounds from the
other shore through the channel of poetic expression, yet I do feel that
some time I may so develop my inner powers as to sing in measured tones
and cadences the song of my spirit, the melody of my soul.
But there is one being on earth to whom I would bring the early efforts
of my spirit, to whose name I would sing my first song, and over whose
soul I would pour the melody of my undying love. And so, feeble, crude,
and imperfect though it be, I bring my song and sing it to
MY MOTHER.
Dear mother, when I found that I was dead,
And that my soul had passed beyond the tomb,
The first few, feeble words my spirit said
Were: “Mother’s heart is bowed in sadd’ning gloom;
And so I cannot leave her till you bring
A balm of healing from the world above,
And o’er the anguish of her spirit fling
A perfect peace from God’s eternal love.”
And so the angel forms who met me there
Brought rest and consolation to thy heart,
Which, in the hour of holy, sacred prayer,
Found heavenly peace that never can depart.
Then from the scenes of earth I turned awhile
To roam with spirit feet through realms above,
Where all receive our heavenly Father’s smile,
And bask within the sunlight of His love.
A perfect “home not made with hands” is there,
But built by loving words and kindly deeds;
A heavenly heritage of beauty, where
The spirit finds each attribute it needs;
And friendly faces throng the open door,
With hands out-stretched in welcome to the soul
Who turns in gladness from the earthly shore,
And seeks to gain perfection’s heavenly goal.
Oh, mother! kind and true the angel friends
Who cluster round me at the open gate;
My soul with theirs in perfect concord blends,
As patiently for thee we watch and wait;
We guard thee with the deathless light of love,
We bless thee with the calm of holy peace,
We guide thy spirit on to realms above,
Where sad heart-longings shall forever cease.
The heavenly fields are fair with glistening green,
And gemmed with blossoms of immortal bloom,
That beautify the sweet enchanting scene,
And scent the breezes with their sweet perfume;
The sunlight smiles, and waters flow in glee,
The woods reveal new depths of light and shade;
The song-birds warble in each leafy tree,
Or scatter dewdrops in the flowery glade.
All life is gladness, and the spirit grows
In perfect harmony with God above,
And, catching higher inspiration, flows
In grateful praises to the throne of Love.
And so I cull its rarest gems and flowers
To bless my mother, whom I love so well,
And use its aspirations and its powers
To guide her spirit home where angels dwell.