Life and labor in the spirit world / Being a description of localities, employments, surroundings, and conditions in the spheres.

by Mary T. Longley

PART THIRD.

CHAPTER XX.
JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.—HIS EXPERIENCES IN THE SPIRIT WORLD.

The chapters that follow contain a recital of the spiritual experiences of John Critchley Prince, the poetical control of the medium, which first appeared in the columns of the Voice of Angels, and elicited warm expressions of commendation and approval from the pens of a number of writers. The name of Prince is well-known in England, for his poems have long held a place in the affections of his countrymen; but as he speaks of his earthly life and labors in the first portion of his narrative of experiences, we will not anticipate what is there stated.

It may be well to mention how spirit Prince happened to become attracted to Miss Shelhamer, and to find in her organism elements that so assimilated with certain ones of his own as to render her a fitting instrument for the transmission of his thought to mortals, and we will give the explanation in his own words, as published in the Voice of Nov. 1, 1878:—

“I feel that I owe it to the public to explain my presence here, and how I first happened to control this medium. In early life, comparatively speaking, I met with the present chairman of the Voice of Angels circle,—an old friend, Mr. Robert Anderson, of Morpeth, England,—himself somewhat of a poet, and one possessed of a mind competent to criticise, admire, or condemn the productions of poetical souls.

“He became somewhat interested in me in those early days, at Ashton under-Lyne, England, and we formed a spiritual affinity that has survived physical separation, and even death itself. We lost sight of each other; but after my first experiences in spirit life I determined to visit America. By the law of spiritual affinity I was attracted to a “circle” held by this medium, then a girl in her teens. My old-time friend, Robert Anderson, who had long been a resident of Boston, and had become interested in the revealments of Spiritualism, discovering mediumistic qualities in his own being, that enabled him to perceive and to converse with spirits, was present at that circle. The links of sympathy formerly binding us together immediately revealed themselves, and I gave him spirit-greeting. Since that time, some six years ago, I have been a frequent visitor to this home, meeting my old friend and holding social converse with him. I do not always need to control the medium for that purpose, for he is both clairvoyant and clairaudient, and it sometimes pleases me to enter the sphere of his spiritual aura and converse with him in the Lancashire dialect, which seems to recall old associations to our minds.”

Mr. Prince refers above to the spirit-greeting he gave his friend Mr. Anderson, who had for many years held a devoted friendship for the parents of Miss Shelhamer, the medium, and who was ever a welcome visitor in their home, upon his first appearance from the higher life. This greeting was expressed in verse, and appears below. The recipient of this poetical tribute was highly gratified as well as astonished at the production, for he recognized in its composition the well-remembered style of his old friend Prince, as well as quotations from a poem written by the spirit author in England many years before he passed from the body, and which had never appeared in print in this country. The poem thus delivered is entitled

I COME TO THEE.

When evening shadows lightly fall,

And earth is wrapped in holy peace,

When over cottage roof and wall

The sounds of toil and revel cease,

I come to thee.

When in the fair and cloudless skies

The golden stars their vigils keep,

Like countless hosts of angel eyes

That guard the world while hushed in sleep,

I come to thee.

Not when the roses climb the wall,

And sweetly scent the balmy breeze,

Not when the joyous songs of birds

Make music through the leafy trees,

I come to thee;

When the earth is nobly ruled[^[5]]

By winter’s weird, majestic reign,

“When moonlit snow is on the roof,

And pictured frost is on the pane,”[^[6]]

I come to thee.

Not when earth’s fair and sunny morn

Hath bathed thee in its mellow glow,

But when upon thy honored head

Descends life’s winter’s driven snow,

I come to thee.

From fairy lands, whose silvery gleams

Stream oft across thy earthly way,

Where life more fair than pictured dreams

Glows with the light of perfect day,

I come to thee.

To speak of that eternal shore

Where gently beat the waves of time,

Where zephyrs chant their sweet refrain,

And life is evermore sublime,

I come to thee.

To strew before thy weary feet

The roses of eternal love;

To plant the lily bud of peace,

Transplanted from the world above,

I come to thee.

From fairy lands beyond the tomb,

Where flowers of truth forever bloom,

To guide thy soul through realms of love

To fairer, sunnier climes above,

I come to thee.

And when thy pilgrim feet have trod

The starry road that leads to God,

When thou hast reached the shining strand

And angels clasp thee by the hand,

I’ll come to thee.

To greet thee once again with joy,

Unmixed with sorrow’s dark alloy,

To sing the songs of sweet accord,

To teach thee of the Living Word,

I’ll come to thee.

[5]. The poem was given in mid-winter.

[6]. Quotation from one of his early poems.

A few weeks after the production of the above the spirit author presented his friend with the following poetic effusion:—

HEART TREASURES.

Earth may yield her sordid treasures,—

Purest silver, gold, and gems,—

Fit to crown a kingly forehead

With their royal diadems.

Man may point to forms of beauty,

Rarest works of skillful art,

But he cannot find the equal

Of the treasures of the heart.

Oh, the human heart is glowing

With the gems of truth and love,

Flashing in the radiant splendor

Of their coronal above;

Flashing in their wondrous glory

Through the clouds of doubts and fears,

Gems whose lights shall never tarnish

In the mists of future years.

See the gold of pure affection,

Twice refined and purified!

Gaze on sympathy’s white silver,

Linked together, side by side!

Mark the shrine of honest Friendship,

Rarest work of heavenly art,

And compare thy earthly treasures

With the treasures of the heart!

Oh, the human heart holds truly

Mines of beauty,—wealth untold,—

Richer than earth’s fairest jewels,

Brighter than earth’s shining gold;

Glorious forms of smiling beauty

Fill each recess of the heart,

Fairer than the sculptor’s model

That begems the world of art.

Oh, the heart itself’s a jewel

Hid within these forms of clay,

Flashing in its radiant splendor

With the light of perfect day;

Through the crust of human weakness,

Through the slough of human shame,

Burning with the light eternal

Of affection’s sacred flame.

Here this wondrous, precious jewel

I this evening bring to you,

Shining with unfading luster

Burning steadfast, calm, and true;

Set within the crown of glory

Of infinitude above,

Whose eternal anthems ringing

Tell of Friendship, Truth, and Love.

The spirit, John Critchley Prince, has inspired his medium with a great number of poems, many of which have been published in the Banner of Light, Voice of Angels, and other spiritual and secular journals, and he proposes to have them gathered into book-form, to be published as a volume of poetic gems some time in the future. The following, selected from this mass of poems, are given as specimens of the poetical work this spirit has accomplished in connection with his medium:—

“AND HE WILL MAKE IT PLAIN.”

The path of life seems dark and drear

To mortals toiling on

Through heavy clouds of doubt and fear,

And mists of sin and wrong;

For through the shadows of despair

We often seek in vain

For light to pierce the tangled maze,

And make its meaning plain.

Dear souls are groping in the dark,

And longing for the day,

Who cannot see the lines of truth

Along life’s beaten way;

And spirits, hopeless and forlorn,

Whose tear-drops fall like rain,

Wait anxiously the coming time

When He will make it plain.

We cannot find the tangled end,

So blindly do we seek;

We stumble o’er the rugged path,

With steps grown faint and weak;

We cannot make the crooked straight,

Nor light the darkened road,

Nor can we ease our aching hearts

Of all their weary load;

And so we totter on our way,

And cannot comprehend

The meaning of Life’s mysteries,

And how each one shall end:

Why hearts should ache and spirits bleed,

And faint beneath the rod,

Till, in their agony of need,

They cry to Thee, O God!

Above the clouds that darkly lower

The sun is shining bright.

And through the spirit’s saddest hour

The soul gains strength and might.

We may not find the comforter

For all our woe or pain,

Yet God is the interpreter,

“And he will make it plain.”

Oh, saddened hearts! oh, stricken souls!

Who long for peace and rest,

The Father’s love about you rolls,

And that will make you blest!

Infinitude can never err;

Its mysteries he’ll explain—

“God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.”

Dear teachers of the “Living Word,”

Whose souls are bathed in light,

With every impulse nobly stirred

To battle for the right,

To you belief can never err,

Nor “scan his works in vain,”

For God is your interpreter,

And He hath made it plain.

O Father, God! to thee we pray

For strength to do Thy will,

And as we journey on our way,

Fulfill Thy purpose still;

And through all weakness may we join

The angels’ sweet refrain—

“God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.”

DOWN BY THE SEA.

Down by the sea, the gleaming sands

Forever beckon to the waves,

The seagull flits along the shore

Or nestles in its rocky caves;

The billows chant their sweet refrain

Of life forever grand and free,

And deep-toned harmonies repeat

Their mystic rhythms to the sea.

Down by the sea the morning breaks,

And all the eastern sky is bright

With shining radiance that wakes

The world in rapture to the sight;

And riding on to burning noon

The golden sun in splendor beams

Upon the dimpling, glistening waves,

Half wrapt in soft, delicious dreams.

Down by the sea the western sky

Is all aglow with rosy light,

The fiery monarch sinks to rest

Enwrapped in fleecy garments bright;

And out upon the crystal waves

The sunset’s rainbowed, tinted dyes

Reflect their glories to the soul,

And charm it with a glad surprise.

Down by the sea—the glorious sea—

We watch the white-sailed vessels glide,

Bearing their messages of cheer

Far out upon the silvery tide;

The shining waves caress the sand,

And softly lie upon its breast,

While all the happy peaceful sea

Bespeaks the calm of holy rest.

Down by the sea there sometimes comes

A mighty current strong and deep

That sweeps along the rolling tide,

And wakes the waters from their sleep;

The great green waves with snowy crests

Come grandly rushing wild and free,

Revealing depths of untold power,

Down by the rolling, matchless sea.

Down by the sea the love of God

We feel in every breath we draw,

We listen to His mighty tones

In silent, reverential awe;

The air is all alive with thoughts

Of Him who rules both sea and land,

And holds the deeply-flowing tides

Within the hollow of His hand.

COMING HOME.

Drawing nearer to the portals

Of the angels’ happy home,

Lonely-hearted sighing mortals

In their strength or weakness come

Now their white sails in the distance,

Gleaming on Life’s open sea,

Catch a breath from heavenly breezes

Richly scented, warm and free.

Heavy clouds have gathered o’er them,

Storms and tempests sometimes fell,

Driving every sail before them,

Through the water’s angry swell,

Till again the morning’s splendor

Bursts in triumph o’er each deck,

Lighting up with touches tender

Every trace of storm and wreck.

Seamed and patched, and wearing traces

Of temptation’s cruel power,

Are the weary, pallid faces

Of the voyagers this hour;

But a gleam of tender sweetness

Falls upon them as they glide

Nearer to the full completeness

Of their home beyond the tide;

On and on in stormy weather,

Or when summer sunbeams fall,

Till they enter port together

At the quiet boatman’s call.

Raise the strain, oh, souls immortal,

In one chorus sweet and grand,

As ye gain the heavenly portal

Of fair Eden’s Morning Land!

Spirit Prince found that on certain occasions he could inspire his old friend Anderson with the poetic fire that thrilled and characterized his own being. The following poem is one that this intelligence delivered through the mediumship of that gentleman, and is introduced here to show the evident kinship of the production with some of those delivered through the mediumship of Miss Shelhamer:—

A FRIEND’S ADVICE.

Allow me, my friend, a friend’s privilege

To drop a few words in your ear:

You have lived a long time in the mortal,

And wrought foolish things, I much fear;

But the summer of life is not ended,

And its fruits may be gathered, you know,

By all who will act on this maxim:

Water and weed as you go.

The field of this life is a broad one,

And much precious seed has been sown;

Some of it’s crushed by the wild weeds,

And some of it’s covered with stone;

It needs all the care and attention

That mortals can give it, I know,

So take my advice, and be careful

To water and weed as you go.

The frost and the snow of the winter

The sun’s rays are melting away,

Bringing a sight of the wildwood,

And the beautiful flowers of May;

Teaching us all the importance

To look to the seed that we sow,

And mind well the lesson I’ve told you:

Water and weed as you go.

The spring will be here with its promise,

And speak from the green-covered sod,

In flowers that show by their splendor

The manifold wisdom of God.

Oh, man, heed the lesson they teach thee,—

That life from the Father doth flow;

So make it as pure as the flowers,

And water and weed as you go.

The fruitage will come in its season,

A reward for your toil and your care;

Then see that those in the shadow

A part of your harvest shall share.

This is the voice of the spirit

To brothers and sisters below:

“Be sure, while you dwell in the mortal,

To water and weed as you go.”

Shortly after the physical decease of that grand man, Wm. Lloyd Garrison, John Critchley Prince wrote the following sketch,—through the instrumentality of his regular medium,—which was published in the Voice of Angels, June 15, 1879, and afterward copied into Mind and Matter:—

THE WELCOME ANGELS GIVE.

I have recently had the good fortune to witness a scene, the impressiveness and grandeur of which only those who are unencumbered by the corporeal body, and who are all spirit, all sense, all perception, can fully realize. This scene was the spirit reception, the angelic welcome given to one of life’s noblest heroes, one of the whitest, grandest souls that has ever trod the pathway of mortal existence; and though I cannot hope to convey to earth other than a faint portrayal of the scene, yet I will attempt in this instance to give my readers some idea of the welcome angels give.

After more than the three-score years and ten of earthly existence and experience, William Lloyd Garrison, the friend of the oppressed, the defender of right, the champion of freedom, calmly, quietly, and peacefully laid down the burden of mortality, and rising, grand, majestic, free, a spirit filled with power, passed into the realms of eternal light.

In company with a band of kindred spirits, among whom I may mention my friend Robert Burns, Felicia Hemans, and Elizabeth B. Browning,—noble souls all, who had wept tears of sadness over the oppressed, even while tuning their harps to sweeter melody for freedom’s sake,—I was privileged to witness a spirit reception given to this ascended hero; not the greeting given by the nearest and dearest of the heart, that was too sacred for even the eyes of sympathizing spirit friends, who had no claim upon his love, but the meeting of kindred souls, who had trod the same paths of truth, waded the same seas of opposition and danger, and borne the same battle-flag of freedom on to victory.

Not alone was the spirit of William Lloyd Garrison surrounded by departed friends of his own country; not alone were his hands pressed by such moral heroes as Washington, Adams, Lincoln, Andrew, Sumner, and many more noble souls, men and women of his own country; but there were Lafayette, Lamartine, Wilberforce, Wilcoxson, George Thompson, Harriet Martineau, and countless others, assembled to give their brother greeting. Indeed, all the great reformers of every age and clime, whose souls now watch from the battlements of heaven the advancement of liberty and truth on earth, and who still have a hand in shaping the events of interest to humanity, were gathered to give our friend and the friend of every man—though the foe to all tyranny, persecution, and slavery—a perfect ovation, expressed through love, sympathy, and blessings. But the most beautiful was the sight of John Brown, brave old Ossawottamie, whose soul continues to march on, and Charles Sumner, whose spirit still toils for a recognition of the equality of all before the law, seated at the feet of Mr. Garrison, and looking up to him as to some beloved teacher and guide.

Confined by no limits, unrestrained by the confines of walls and barriers; out in the clear and pleasant sunshine, fanned by the balmy breeze, refreshed through every avenue of sense by the perfume of flowers, the gleam of waters, and the songs of birds, the very poetry of expression, the nectar of loving sympathy gushed from the fountain of each soul, and formed a sea of light which glorified the soul of him who felt its genial, life-imparting flow. You who are in sympathy with great minds, in harmony with all souls earnest for the emancipation of humanity from whatever enthralls and keeps it down, can conceive faintly at best of the grandeur, the beauty, and the joy of such a meeting; countless numbers of gifted, noble souls assembled to give welcome, and to pay tribute to one beloved apostle of truth. No pen, no tongue can do the subject justice.

Outside of the circle of light formed by this celestial company, awed by its brilliancy, surprised by its glory, debarred from enjoying its feast of soul communion because of the remorseless memories within them, I observed a number of faces, faces stamped with the signet of genius as well as intellect, but bearing the impress of infidelity to truth; faces belonging to gifted but ignoble spirits who, when upon earth, stood in high places and publicly denounced the spirits of liberty, of toleration and justice. Today they are repenting for the life spent in ambitious desires.

But this is not all. Coming up from every direction, together and in great numbers, I observed spirits approaching, from the tiny, tottling child to the aged grandsire, singing songs of welcome as they came, the celestial melody of which echoed and re-echoed throughout the spheres, producing a perfect flood of heavenly sweetness that thrilled the soul with ecstasy.

It was a song of gratitude, a mighty pæan of praise, a universal strain of blessing for deliverance; and as it gathered power and rolled on in musical splendor, the sweetness of its tones, the beauty of its expressions, the grandeur of its inspiration clustered and fell in a cascade of divine harmony over and around the soul of him enthroned in our midst, the object of our gathering, the central glory of our galaxy, Wm. Lloyd Garrison.

On, on they came, bearing branches of green and waving palms; garlands of beautiful and odorous blossoms, a profusion of snowy-white lilies, and clusters of royal roses, to strew before his spirit feet.

But sweeter than all other gifts, and dearer far to him who beheld and received them, were the smiles of affection, the tears of gratitude, the whispered blessings showered upon him by these new-comers, the vanguard of this hero; they who were once poor and depressed, scorned, uneducated, and despised, the slaves of tyranny, and used as beasts of burden, but who are now cultured, honored, free!—toilers for the redemption of souls from bondage.

First kneeling before their benefactor came the poor, despised negroes, with hands uplifted in blessing, lips mute from the excess of emotion, eyes eloquent with joy and gratitude. Not only those who had become free before the law while yet on earth, but also those who had died in chains and beneath the lash, came with benedictions for this man who had done so much for their race, and to receive a blessing from his soul, knowing it would impart to them strength, inspiration, and courage.

Following these came hosts of others, men, women, and children, of every race and color, those who had felt the hand of tyranny, injustice, and oppression in some one or more of its many shapes. Red and white, the North American Indian and the Russian serf, delicate women, who had suffered in homes made unhappy by intemperance or by the cruelty of tyrannical brutality,—all came to bless this good man as their benefactor and friend; and their presence brought a joy to his spirit no mortal can understand.

Turning earthward, we perceived great billows of golden light, waves of roseate beauty, clouds of azure and snowy brightness ascending, until they enveloped our guest with their fragrant splendor, irradiating his whole being with a new brilliancy, a new loveliness of expression. Each wave of light that thus arose expressed to us from its peculiar hue and its own delicate aroma the emotion which it represented; the golden hue symbolized truth and earnestness, the roseate love and sympathy, the azure fidelity and gratitude, and the white purity and peace. We perceived these auras mingling and blending together into beautiful harmony, and flowing out from hearts encased in mortal, who, though saddened at the decease of Mr. Garrison, yet sent out after his ascended spirit love, sympathy and blessings.

From the colored people assembled to pay their tribute of love and respect to his memory; from the hearts of earnest women, who speak in solemn sweetness of his helpfulness and cheer; from the souls of good men and women everywhere, who loved and honored him; from the soul of that silver-tongued friend[^[7]] and orator who dares to stand forth and pay honest, just, and loving tribute as a fitting eulogy to his departed friend; from the pure and loving heart of that peaceful poet soul[^[8]] who sings in rhymed sweetness the honor of his friend;—from all these ascended those emanations of light and beauty and fragrance. Musical with the silvery sweetness borne from the souls of friends on earth, they bathed his spirit in a fount of eternal joy and blessing.

[7]. Wendel Phillips.

[8]. John G. Whittier.

What need of golden harps and streets of pearl? He treads the flowery paths of spirit life, not idle, not basking in dreamless rest. The energy of power, the moving force of aspiration, the impulse of desire are all his, and already his soul is marching on in the ranks of those lofty ones whose mission is to toil on until man becomes uplifted into the sphere of universal Love; until all wrong shall flee, tyranny die, and liberty and knowledge dwell in the homes of all people.

Press on, noble soul! The victor’s palm is thine, for thou hast witnessed the triumph of justice and right; the crown of glory is thine, for thy soul is crowned with the diadem of perfect Love.

Press on, white-robed soul! for the bright fruition that awaits thee!

The following chapters are devoted to a recital of the experiences of J. C. Prince, as narrated by himself, and published in the Voice of Angels. We have alluded to letters of approval and of interest concerning these experiences received by the editor of that paper from various quarters. The following extract from a published letter of one of these correspondents is here given, for the reason that it was penned by one intimately acquainted with Mr. Prince in earthly life, and familiar with the general style of his compositions:—

“Nephi, Utah, Sept. 6, 1878.

To the Editor of the Voice of Angels:

Dear Brother,—I have felt like writing to you since you began to publish the spirit experiences of John Critchley Prince, for I have been deeply interested in reading his statements as they appear in your paper. I am from the same part of England where Mr. Prince dwelt when in the body, and was in 1850 a power-loom weaver in the West Mills at Ashton-under-Lyne, where he then resided. I always admired his poems, and, next to Byron, esteemed his poetry the grandest and best I had then read. * * * * * I recognize the mind of John Critchley Prince, the Lancashire poet, in every line of his account of his earth life in your paper; my wife also recognizes it, she having attended select parties where he recited some of his best poems, in Duckenfield and Ashton-under-Lyne, and we read in surprise and astonishment his first contribution to the Voice, not expecting anything of the kind; it was to us most interesting and agreeable. We congratulate you upon the acquisition of so noble a soul to your staff of contributors, and hope he will often give us his rich effusions through your paper.

Your brother and well-wisher,

Thomas J. Schofield.”

CHAPTER XXI.
MY LIFE AND EXPERIENCES ON EARTH.

My Friends,—Bearing the fraternal greetings of not only myself but hosts of higher spirits, whose pleasure and duty it is to mingle with you here, and who strive to teach you wisdom and knowledge concerning the highest, grandest phase of human existence, that of the immortal soul, I come laden with the experiences of a modicum of time passed in the super-mundane spheres, and crave an opportunity of unfolding them before you,—not with a desire for earthly recognition or adulation,—but with the hope that I may be enabled to show humanity the reality of those conditions that we aggregate to ourselves while in mortal, and their practical effects on the soul, trusting that I may enlighten you somewhat as to real life, and its mode of manifestation in the upper spheres; for it is time that mortals should understand more of the life to which they are going.

It is now[^[9]] a period of seventy years since I, John Critchley Prince, was born upon the earthly plane, at Wigan, Lancashire, England, of poor, hard-working, honest parents. My only schooling was given me at a Baptist Sunday school, where I received a slight knowledge of reading and writing. But as I read with avidity all sorts of books that happened to fall in my way, I acquired a certain command of language, and knowledge of composition, that served in after years as a noble substitute for the education I was unable to procure, and which I always craved. At the early age of nine years I was obliged to labor for my living as a reed-maker for weavers, at which I was kept busy for sixteen hours per day, and my only opportunity for indulging in the luxury of reading was stolen from sleep.

[9]. The above was written in the spring of 1878.

In 1821 I accompanied my father to Manchester, where we both obtained employment as machinists. There, for the first time, I came across a copy of Byron’s works, which I devoured with astonishing rapidity, drinking in and retaining all the glory, fire, and beauty of those exquisite lines, and their delicate imagery, that made Byron, despite his faults, one of nature’s poets. What a world of delight, what a scene of enchantment was for the first time opened before me. I seemed to breathe a new atmosphere, one that thrilled my being to its very center; and while reveling in the new fields of splendor I had found, I forgot my poverty and toil; my soul stood forth erect in its conscious dignity and pride, feeling itself to be no longer a poor, toiling slave, but a creature of the universe, with powers and capabilities of expansion and growth. It was then I determined that some day I would sing my songs, and give them forth to the world.

But my life went on in the old routine, still toiling in the shop, and dreaming my dreams all unknown to others, until my father again changed his abode to Hyde, taking me with him. There, in the early flush of awakening manhood, ere nineteen summers had passed over my head, came to my waiting soul that most exquisite of all life’s experiences, “Love’s young dream.” It came upon me like the first sweet dewy blush of early morn, bathing my spirit in a flood-tide of ineffable glory, and thrilling my heart with that ecstatic bliss that I think none but a poetic soul, attuned in harmony with nature and her works, and thus enabled to find happiness in spite of toil or sorrow, can fully realize. And here let me say that to this day, returning as I do from the immortal shore, I thank God for that experience of true, heartfelt emotion. It accompanied me through all my life like the melody of a happy song, and thrilled my despairing soul with its sweetness. It ran through my evil days of wrong-doing like a golden thread, and with its sparkling light revealed to me the glory and honor, the sweetness and purity, of life that might have been mine.

It is useless for me to attempt to depict the image of my charmer to you. To others, she was only a neighbor’s lassie, good enough and pretty in her way, but nothing uncommon. To me she was all that was fair and canny, and as beautiful and good as Eve appeared to her Adam, in all her innocent purity of expression on that first awakening which we are told of in the beautiful allegory of old.

In 1827 I was united to my dear one, and we commenced life anew, as happy as two birds; and, though from my poetic fancy and ardent temperament, I was led to look for more happiness in a life of conjugal felicity than it is possible for mortals to attain, yet, upon the whole, my domestic life was a blessing to my inner self, and in its bowers I wove some of the sweetest garlands that graced my name.

Poverty and toil, with their train of evils, still attended me, and in 1830, work being slack at home, I went to Picardy, leaving my family of wife and three children. The revolution had paralyzed trade in France, and it was impossible to procure employment there; consequently, after experiencing much suffering, I returned home only to find my family in a workhouse, from whence I removed them to a Manchester garret, where we would have starved had it not been for the labors of my wife at power-loom weaving. That was a time of misery. At length I obtained temporary employment, and our prospects began to brighten a little, but through all my life a scarcity of remunerative work seemed to attend me like a fatality.

During my residence at Manchester I began to contribute short poetic pieces to the local papers and periodicals, which, by the kindness of friends, and those powerful in government affairs, whose attention was first called to me by the perusal of my literary productions, were issued in volumes from time to time. The first of these, “Hours with the Muses,” was brought out in 1840, and reached its third edition in two years. The subsequent volumes were: “Dreams and Realities in Verse,” 1847; the “Poetic Rosary,” 1856; “Miscellaneous Poems,” 1861, and one more containing all my principal poems, published the year of my death, 1866. I have been accused of imitating the style of others, but while I may have done so to some extent, I think none of my critics will deny that the ideas expressed, and the thoughts embodied, together with the arrangement of language in my productions, were entirely my own. At the same time I was never satisfied with my efforts; none of them reached my standard of excellence, and they sometimes bore marks of my disappointment and dissatisfaction.

From the disappointments I had encountered in early manhood, I was all too easily induced to hie away from my squalid attic home to the public-house, where, in the company of men who pretended to admire my “genius,” and to court my society, I would spend hours, aye, days, away from home, indulging in sin, thereby seeking to drown the memory of disappointed ambition and blighted hopes. And to this habit, together with a certain unsteadiness of purpose that kept me from holding on to any employment for any length of time, I am indebted for many of my early experiences in spirit life, some account of which I hope to unfold before you, that you may learn how a soul is plunged in darkness from the effects of deeds done in the body, and also how it may progress through degradation and woe to scenes of happiness and peace, if it only desires to do so.

I have been thus prolix concerning my mortal life that you may better understand my experiences in the spirit, and though I may have seemed too personal, it was unavoidable, and I crave your kind indulgence. It is impossible for me to convey to you any adequate conception of the ecstatic bliss I experienced in spirit when lifted above material bonds, and basking in the realm of poetic fancy; of the toil and sorrow of my physical existence, or of my feeling of utter degradation and self-contempt when recovering from a debauch, all of which I was compelled to outlive in spirit.

CHAPTER XXII.
MY LIFE AND EXPERIENCES IN THE SPIRIT WORLD.

May 5, 1866, I parted with my tenement of clay, and was born into the world, not only of primal causes, but also that in which all effects of past living are made manifest. Mind and body were alike a wreck. I had no great satisfaction for the past, and but little hope for the future.

While passing out from the material I was dimly conscious of a crowd of beings pressing around me,—faces I had known long before, but which I had not seen for years, forms once familiar, but which the passing scenes of life had blotted from memory; men whom I had met in times past around the social board, and amid scenes of convivial allurement, where we had wasted the precious, God-given moments in song or story, unfruitful of any profitable result; those of whose destiny I was ignorant, and whom I supposed had forgotten me as I had ceased to remember them; all were here, recalling by their presence scenes and memories that I could wish to be dead and buried beyond possibility of resurrection.

All the events of my life passed before my inner vision like a panorama, and I saw myself as others saw me,—the victim of wasted energies and an ill-spent life. How keenly did I regret much that I had done, and much more that I might have done, but did not! It was then and there, while seemingly unconscious to mortal things, I began to fully realize that omission is oftentimes as great a sin as commission,—that inactivity is as disastrous to the spirit as misplaced volition.

At this time, I did not see the forms and faces of any of those I had loved, and whom it might be supposed would be first at the death-bed of one so near to them. These forms and phantoms that surrounded me were encompassed by a cloud of heavy vapor, that entirely veiled the horizon from my sight. I strove to turn from them, but could not; they hedged me in on every side, and, while they spake no word, they seemed to mock me with their taunting looks and gestures.

This was my first spirit experience. I have since learned that it consisted entirely of the reflection of past recollections upon my mind, but it was extremely annoying and unpleasant.

My next experience was standing by myself, outside of my physical body, alone, so far as I could see, gazing down upon the old, worn-out tenement, that I had recently vacated. I found myself clothed in a body precisely similar to the one I had left, and not in much better condition, apparently. I was perplexed and bewildered; for, though spurning many of the old theologic notions of the Hereafter, this was certainly not the fulfillment of my conceptions of a future life.

I gazed around, hoping to attract the attention of some one who could give me an explanation, or in the expectation of meeting my boon companions; but all in vain,—I could see no one. All was misty, or rather in a smoky fog, like the streets of London at midday, though I have since been informed that I was not alone; that there were loving, helping spirits watching over me, to assist me when possible, but my mental condition prevented me from perceiving them; and that the smoky vapor was an emanation from my own spirit, and did not proceed from the state of the atmosphere.

While ruminating to myself, as collectedly as my condition would allow, I observed a party of individuals approach and take a view of my remains; and what appeared very curious to me, while they seemed very far away from me, I could distinctly hear their remarks. These parties were mortals, still dwelling on earth, drawn by a morbid kind of interest to take a final view of my body. However, I would they had stayed away, for they did my spirit more harm than good.

“Poor devil,” said one, “he’s gone at last. Well, he made a wreck of himself, sure enough.”

“Aye,” replied another; “he might have done better, but he would not; and so he’s gone. I always knew how it would turn out.”

“With all his singing and dreaming,” remarked a third, “he was no better than the rest of us. The old one would show himself pretty often.”

“That’s so,” chimed in the fourth; “wilt thee look at him now, lying there, when he might have been alive and well, like the rest of us! Well, he’s gone to his account now, poor lad!”

I waited to hear no more. Mind and brain were alike maddened by what I had heard. It was all true enough; but every word seemed like a scorpion’s sting, to pierce my soul. Who were these, that they should condemn one who had not the power to defend himself? Were they free from the common taint of sin?

Thus I questioned; but unable to solve the mighty problems that seemed pressing down upon me, I made one herculean effort, and, bursting the bonds that confined me to my useless body, I rushed from the place, away I knew not where, I cared not; only to get relief for my burning, tortured soul.

And here allow, if you please, one digression. Let me warn you, oh, mortals, to mind how you speak and think of those who have departed the mortal life. Let your thoughts and words be as charitable and kind as possible; for by so doing you may furnish a beacon-light that will brighten their paths upward. But if you speak ill of them, if you hurl the stone of censure at departing spirits, you may furnish the heavy weight that will drag them downward.

Alas, I did not understand the cure of sin-sick, tortured souls; and I sought that refuge that had been, and was now again, my curse, but which I vainly thought would drown all recollection and bring relief.

I soon found myself in a well-known spot, one of my former haunts—the back parlor, just beyond the taproom—of a public-house. I seated myself as naturally as ever, and waited for some one to comply with my demand for liquor; but while the bar-maid flitted about, here and there, and several times brushed against my person in passing, she paid no attention to me whatever, and I felt myself neglected indeed.

Presently, I observed, entering the apartment, one whom I had occasionally seen at that resort, and who I understood to be a hard drinker. He called for liquor, and when it was brought, raised the glass to his lips. Suddenly, by a sort of fascination, I was drawn to his side, and while he poured the fiery liquid down his throat, my whole being seemed to vibrate in sympathy, and became saturated with the fumes of the liquor. At every drop he tasted, I seemed to quaff a corresponding one; and I found I could indulge myself in that way to any extent. I remained by his side, drinking long and deep. Our potations lasted for hours. Oh, the craving desire I had for that deadly fluid! My deep delight and utter abandonment of self you cannot realize.

At last our potations ceased. Abused and outraged nature could bear no more, and my companion sunk down in a complete state of insensibility. Then I strove to tear myself from him, but all in vain; I was held to his prostrate form by a cord as unyielding as bands of steel; I could not free myself from the conditions I had brought upon me.

And here my retribution began; for, while the liquid we had drank together had drugged his senses, and benumbed his faculties, it had affected me in an entirely different way, serving to arouse all my sensibilities, fire my nervous system with flames of unquenchable desire, and, in fact, to make me keenly alive to all my surroundings. The least noise fell upon my hearing like the dismal knell of a lost soul; the sound of a passing foot startled me like a peal of thunder; and when the time-piece of the old clockhouse tolled the hour, my whole being vibrated in unison. I wanted to get away from everybody and everything I had known,—to be alone by myself where no one could find me, where life and activity were unknown, and where I could rest my burning brain.

Alas, I could not! Like one tied to a stake, I was condemned to pass what seemed to me a century of time by the side of one with whom I had nothing in common, save the craving of a perverted appetite. I cannot convey to you an idea of the horror, darkness, and despair that rent my soul while thus bound to that form of besotted humanity. The hours dragged, until at last there came a gleam of relief. Boniface entered the apartment, aroused my sleeping companion, and sent him to the pump-room to bathe his head. At the first plash of the water a thrill of exquisite delight passed over me; a second and a third, and the band that had held me snapped in twain, and I was free. Never did weary captive rejoice at his deliverance more than did I at that moment. I made no stay, but hastened from the place, and have never seen it nor its inmates since.

Still drifting along, my only aim and purpose being to gain some lonely, retired spot, where I might find rest and refreshment, I soon found myself rising gradually from the ground, and floating or sailing along, above the heads of the people.

Before long, the city streets vanished from my sight, and I seemed to be approaching a strange part of the country; houses and warehouses disappeared, sunny glades and shady nooks came into view; forest trees, clothed with garments of living green, beneath which tiny flowerets nodded their spicy heads, and scented the balmy air with their rich perfume.

Away to the left I perceived the azure gleam of dimpling, sparkling waters; in the distance, towered the lofty peaks of purple-crested mountains; the sun shone brightly in the heavens, while the atmosphere became melodious with the hum of insects and the chirping of birds. No sound nor sight of human life could I perceive; all was silent, save the murmurings of nature, which fell upon my tortured being like an anthem of peace.

“Surely,” said I to myself, “this must be another country; it is entirely different from any I have ever seen before; the atmosphere wears that peculiar, transparent haze seen only in the lands of a Southern clime.”

But I was too weary for further cognitions. I seemed to drink in the charm and beauty of the scene without any volition of will or thought, and to find comfort and rest in so doing.

At last, I descried a perfect gem of a spot, one that appeared formed for a fairy bower; just beyond a leaping, laughing streamlet of limpid water, nestling quietly at the foot of a moss-covered, arch-shaped rocky wall, I beheld a tiny cove, so beautiful that it seemed almost sacrilege to intrude therein.

Emerald banks, as beautiful as silk pile velvet, starred with a profusion of creamy golden-eyed blossoms; trailing vines like maiden-hair ferns creeping over the rocks; shrubs of vivid green, with scarlet bells, swinging their perfumed censers upon the breeze; sparkling sunbeams and cooling shadows, constituted a place of repose that a monarch might enjoy.

And there, amid the beauties of Nature’s works, surrounded by the splendors of creation, pointing to the wondrous power and beneficence of God, I sank down upon the emerald sod; and, lulled by the peace and quiet of the place, my fevered senses grew calm, my pulses even, the blood cooled in my veins, and I fell into as complete a slumber as it is possible for a disembodied spirit to experience.

I was unconscious of the lapse of time, yet I now know it was several days before I again awoke to a knowledge of my external surroundings.

I was still alone; no human presence could I discern; the flowers still bloomed, the waters danced and gleamed, the sun shone, and all was as beautiful and as real as before. It appeared to me I had reposed there but a few short hours.

I aroused myself, and, stepping down to the banks of the stream, proceeded to lave my face and hands, precisely as I would have done were I in the body. The water refreshed me. I seemed renewed with life and vigor; but with the new strength there also came a remembrance of what I had been, and what I had done, and I sank down upon the mossy bed overwhelmed with the recollection of my folly and madness.

Remorse had again entered my presence, and my soul cowered down before it in bitter agony; tears and sobs mingled together and shook my frame to its very center, and I wrestled in spirit with the “might have been,” which was as tangible to me as any objective form would be to mortals.

As the tempest within my spirit grew less, I began to feel a holy presence approaching. Presently a low, soft strain of exquisitely-modulated music fell upon my hearing; so faint, yet so sweet, did it at first appear that it seemed to blend with and form a part of the music of the murmuring waters and rustling leaves. Gradually it swelled louder, clearer, and sweeter, until it culminated in a burst of triumphant ecstasy, that made the very grasses leap in unison.

My whole being was stilled; a deep peace pervaded my system. I was a man again,—a creature of God, and one worthy to become a representative of his kingdom.

As these thoughts permeated my being, causing it to grow calm and restful, I felt what seemed to be a breath of cool, invigorating air upon my temples, thrilling my whole frame with an indescribable sensation of delight, and, on looking up, I was amazed, but not startled, to observe the form of a venerable patriarch bending over me, and manipulating my brow with the tips of his fingers.

His face was smooth and fair, as though no carking care had ever left its impress thereon, surmounted by a lofty brow, gleaming with a might of intellect, and crowned with a wealth of snowy, silken hair. A long, massy beard, lustrous with whiteness, fell upon his breast. He was clad in a long, purple robe of silken stuff; sandals of glistening brightness were upon his feet, while in his hand he carried a staff that was remarkable for its brilliancy. His features were luminous with the light of reflected love and benevolence; a halo of radiance encircled his whole being, which scintillated with sparks of light as he moved.

Subsequently I learned that this halo was the aura flowing forth from his spiritual structure, the brilliancy of which revealed the purity and beauty of his interior condition.

Abashed and humbled before the majestic glory of this presence, I hid my face from sight, and cowered down as if for concealment.

“Fear not, my son, I have come to help and encourage thee; thy mortal ways were rough and devious; thy spiritual paths shall yet be ways of peace. Lift up thine head, that thy soul may be annointed with the balm of healing.”

I had heard no sound of voice, and yet these were the thoughts that flowed into the interior sensorium of my mind, as the mystic being continued to soothe my brow with his finger-tips. I raised my head in questioning amaze, and gazed upon him in wonder.

“Thee questions who and what I am,” again came the thoughts, not spoken, but impressed upon my mind; “I am one appointed to seek out and instruct souls like thine, who are in need of assistance; thee mayst call me ‘Benja, the Missionary;’ I am drawn to thee, to point out the way of salvation, and to give thee strength and encouragement; thou hast fought the first battle and won the victory; press on, and thou shalt win the goal.”

The thoughts, and indeed the presence of the missionary, sent a thrill of pleasure through my whole being. Hope spread her rosy pinions above me, and I became strong, as I thought, for any conflict.

“Thou hast won thy first victory,” repeated the sage, “but still other trials await thee; self-abnegation and the renunciation of those appetites and passions that have in a measure swayed the spirit come not all at once. Reformation is a work of time. Therefore, my son, trust not too much to thine own strength, but rather let thy soul’s aspirations reach outward and upward toward heavenly things, bearing with them a desire for assistance and guidance. Neither be cast down, for eventually, a noble existence will be thine. Look around thee upon these laughing meadows and leaping waters. Thou wouldst know in what locality thou art.

“This is the valley of self-examination. Every soul in passing out from material life is borne to some spot connected with this place. Certain temperaments are taken to yonder mountains, upon the lofty heights of which their souls are left to take a retrospective glance back upon their past lives, their actions, and motives, and to commune silently with themselves concerning life and its duties; others to that sheet of clear water you observe in the distance, into which they are forced to plunge, that they may be cleansed of the impurities that cling to their spirits.

“Poetic souls like thine are conveyed to this charming valley, where, in the contemplation of Nature’s works, they find peace and strength to go on with the task of self-examination, and the attaining of a desire to become worthy of better things.”

The ideas flowing into my mind from the sage ceased, and in a moment more I was again alone. Suddenly the desire seized me to plunge into the stream babbling at my feet. I did so; the sensation was to me that of bathing in a stream of warm, perfumed water; it seemed to penetrate through the pores of my skin, invigorating my system to a wonderful degree. I remained in the stream for a short time, and upon emerging from the bath and surveying myself, I found I had undergone a decided change. My skin had become soft and fair; the florid appearance had gone, my hair had lost many of its silver threads, and my limbs felt lithe and elastic.

My garments, too, were renovated, having lost their thread-bare appearance, and altogether I felt and acted like a new creature. At the foot of a flowering shrub I perceived a polished staff, which I appropriated, and with it, as a support, I set off to explore the surrounding country.

I traveled leisurely; every step of the way revealed new beauties to me, the splendors of which it is impossible to describe,—shady groves, wherein the dryads of old might have loved to wander; sunny glades, rich with their tapestried carpets of flower-gemmed verdure; gushing streams and natural fountains bursting from the moss-covered rocks. All that could delight the eye and enchant the senses was spread before me, and I trudged on, breathing in the beauty around with no thought of, or desire for, companionship.

By-and-bye I came to an evergreen hedge; it was very long, but after a time I came to a large opening through which I passed, and found myself in an extensive garden, the beauty of which I had never seen surpassed. Parterres of beautiful flowers lay spread out before me, showing the cultivation of art, and scenting the balmy air with their rich perfume. Marble basins received the sparkling water falling from numerous silvery fountains; lofty trees waved their branches high in the air, and cast a grateful shade; here and there mossy banks invited to repose; birds sang in the trees and amid blossoming shrubs. Away in the distance I saw the blue gleam of what appeared to me to be a vast lake, upon the margin of which I could perceive a number of white-robed forms flitting to and fro; the atmosphere was redolent with beauty and sweetness, while above all the golden sun shone in the azure vault of heaven.

Hitherto I had been in the natural country where no effort had been made to alter or improve Nature’s works; but here were to be seen evidences of human art and skill, brought in to cultivate and develop the natural into higher types of beauty. I passed into one of the groves at my left, and seated myself upon a rustic bench before a long table of stone, upon which were spread fruits of every description, some of which were unfamiliar to me. Above the table was suspended an inscription, which read: “All are welcome; partake and refresh thyself.”

I needed no other bidding; I was hungry and faint; and never did viands or nectar taste better to the gods than did the fruit, and the sparkling water which I drew from a fountain close by, to my parched palate.

I rested awhile, and then proceeded on. As I approached the lake, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a bevy of white-robed creatures, all young and fair and beautiful to behold. I contrasted my appearance with theirs, and though I had congratulated myself on my own improvement not long before, I now appeared dark and dust-worn by the side of these fresh young souls.

I sought to withdraw, but this they would not permit; for, closing around me in a circle, they intercepted all means of egress. I stood with downcast eyes, humbled and ashamed, when one young maiden approached, and laying her hand upon my shoulder, said in tones, the flute-like sweetness of which I shall never forget: “Do you not know me? I am one who was very dear to you; I have lived in this beautiful spot so long, waiting for you to come; surely you must know me, and will receive the love I have been keeping for you.”

I raised my eyes and scanned those lovely features. Surely, aye, surely I recognized them; more beautiful, further developed, and stamped with a lovelier grace and more charming expression than I had known; yet the same winning smile, the shining hair, and sparkling eyes of my darling were before me, in more than radiant splendor.

I could not speak; it was too much! Oh, had I known I should meet my loved one thus, how I would have prepared myself to become fit to enter her celestial presence!

Divining my thoughts, the dear one twined her snowy arms around my neck, and whispering, “I am so happy, oh, so happy to meet you!” laid her silken head upon my breast, and all unworthy as I knew myself to be, I clasped her in a tender, loving, soul-full embrace.

Raising her head, my dear one said: “These are my companions, come to welcome you to the Summer-land. They all know of you, and love you for what you are worth; they have been with you when you have given forth the sweet expressions of the soul, and they know what you are capable of becoming.”

She led me to a mossy seat, and the fair group, ranging themselves around us, began to sing a song of welcome, the sweetness of which can never be surpassed.

I do not propose to draw these experiences out to great length, therefore cannot tell you all that transpired in this lovely spot.

I was welcomed, given a happy home for my abiding place, but left free to wander wherever I would. Surrounded by loving faces, and ministered to with tender care, I sank into a state of dreamy bliss, well suited to my peculiar temperament.

You may think I had passed through the temptations of life, I had renounced its follies, and repented of its mistakes. But repentance is not a thing of a day or a month; memory has written her score upon the tablets of the soul, and if blotted and scarred, it takes time and labor to efface their unsightliness. I did not know this at the time, but inactivity is the bane of life, and the soul that is idle cannot go forward.

It was some time after I had entered this paradise, and been welcomed by angels, I was seated within the enclosure of a marble pavilion, and dreamily gazing out upon the sunny slope, when I became conscious of the presence of the missionary I had met in the valley, who spoke these words and vanished: “My son, life is earnest; thou hast queried why thou canst not write the soul-stirring poems of the past. It is because thou art inactive. Look about thee, and see if there is nothing to do, if not for thyself, for some other in need. Wouldst thou become noble and grand? Then work for it. In this world the harvest comes only to him who plants and tends the seed.”

I was confounded and confused. Stung into activity, I waited for no one, but hastened from the place and from the wonderful garden. I determined to do something, to go somewhere; but I knew not what course to pursue. Soon I felt a desire to return to earth and see what was going on there. Perhaps I could find something to do, or some inspiration for poesy. Ah, I knew not that I was still weak, and unable to cope with temptation; that I was again destined to fall into the mire. But thus it was; yet, thank God, for the last time! Of that I will inform you in my next chapter.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE POET’S COUNCIL.

Again I appeared to be drawn toward the earth. Recollections of old associations began to revive in my mind, and I felt a desire to return, and once more mingle with mortal life, urged on by the thought that perchance I should there find something to do.

Impelled onward by an inner impulse, I soon found myself in the crowded streets of a vast city: every thing looked familiar, and when I espied the glittering cross of St. Paul’s gleaming through the smoke and dust, I knew that I was again in the heart of London.

Nobody appeared to take any notice of me; all were hurrying on, intent upon their own affairs, and I was as one virtually alone, even in the crowded, teeming mart of a vast metropolis.

I threaded my way leisurely along (for since I had entered the material plane again the reckless impetuosity that sped me on had vanished), pausing now and again to watch the tide of restless, surging humanity, as it flowed along, with no definite aim or end in view, when I was brought to a sudden stand-still, by hearing my own name pronounced by one of two gentlemen just in front of me.

“Yes,” said he, “we are going to hold a little social levee at the club tonight, and to pay our tribute of respect to the memory of Critchley Prince. Poor fellow, he was his own worst foe, and he blotted his own career; but the works he left, and the songs he sung, show his to have been a gifted, sympathetic soul. For that reason we have drawn up a set of resolutions, and have determined to call our meeting together this evening, in honor of the departed poet. You had better make one of us.”

The other gentleman replied that he would be with them, if possible; and I determined that I would also be there.

I recognized the first speaker as one of the most brilliant and noted literati of the day, one who is even now a dweller on earth, courted for his genius, and loved and respected for his benevolent heart and sympathetic soul; at that time he was about fifty years of age, and full of life and energy. I knew him to be a member of a certain literary club, all the members of which were men of brilliant intellect, not a few of whom were well-known in the literary world; and it was this club-meeting that I had determined to visit, partly out of curiosity to hear what might be said of myself, and partly to witness the proceedings, knowing full well that a feast of intellectual dainties awaited whoever should be fortunate enough to enter.

The two friends parted at a certain corner, but I remained with the man of genius, resolving that I would not leave him until he arrived at the evening gathering; and I did not.

Promptly at the hour appointed, the company gathered in the parlors of the organization, myself among the number.

I do not propose to reveal all that was said and done on the occasion. The meeting was a most enjoyable one; gems of thought, original ideas, brilliant repartee, and flowery bon mots circulated freely from mind to mind; in short, the occasion was a feast of intellectual glory, that could not fail to arouse the enthusiasm of any but the most stupefied spirits. The eulogy and the encomiums paid to the memory of Critchley Prince were kind, and well calculated, coming as they did from the hearts of England’s most gifted sons, to awaken a feeling of pride and gratification in the heart of him of whom they were spoken.

But, alas, this banquet of ennobling thought and chaste, exquisite expression, which alone would have refreshed and invigorated the soul, and at which even the angels of heaven might have been pleased to preside—this festal board—needs must have been polluted by the presence of costly wines, and rich, rare, body-clogging viands. Aye, it is true that there, where no feast of a material nature was needed, where, indeed, it would only serve to lower the time and place into a scene of sensual festivity, the wine-cup passed from hand to hand, brilliant toasts were given and repeated, and I, in company with others, again tasted the perfumed draught that ever tends to degrade humanity.

It is true that I did not drug myself into insensibility, neither did any one of that assembled company; nor did I become so intensely alive in every sense and avenue of feeling as heretofore, yet I partook of the fluid, and again found that I was not strong enough to resist temptation and to overcome the evil habit.

I lingered at this enchanted spot for hours, indeed, until the assembly dispersed, each member seeking his abode, with brain fired by alcoholic stimulants, and yet apparently none the worse for what he had taken.

Highly pleased with my reception and entertainment, I separated from my good friends, and thinking I should like to take a walk, wandered forth, under the glorious orbs of early morn. My brain was heated and all astir with phantom-like thoughts flitting through it. I soon paused upon a bridge of the Thames, and at once a desire entered my mind to fling myself into the river’s depths. I wondered what effect such an act would have upon me; I knew that I was a disembodied spirit, and therefore could not destroy my existence; still I did not know but I might experience some shock to my system, like that felt by drowning mortality.

However, I determined to take the leap, which I did. No sooner had I done so than, instead of sinking under the water, I found myself slowly rising. I could not feel the water at all; it seemed as though I were floating upward upon a cloud.

Rising still higher and higher, I at length found myself resting upon a strip of rocky, barren land; I knew that I was again beyond the bounds of earth, but in what part of spirit life I was entirely ignorant; all was dreary and desolate. By this time I had recovered in a measure from the effects of the wine-bibbing, and thought and memory again went bounding through my mind with startling intensity.

Resting against a giant rock, that reared its head far upward toward the murky sky, I gave myself up to gloomy retrospection. What good had I done,—what work accomplished? Nothing; I had again fallen before the tempter; I was weak and helpless, powerless of will, of no use to myself nor to my kind! Why, oh, why must I continue to drag out such a shameful existence?

Thus I mused and mourned, groaning deep in agony of spirit; my remorse was genuine, but I had not the power (or rather I thought I had not) to again rise after this my latest fall from self-respect.

The hot sun came out and glowed with a lurid light; not a shrub or trace of vegetation were to be seen; all was stony and barren,—no sign of life, except far up, perched on the crags, there sat a bird of sable plumage, that now and then flapped its wings, and seemed to mutter and croak in mockery of my torment. I remembered the “Raven” of the American poet, and wondered if this too was a creation of my fevered brain, and I was to be haunted henceforth with the presence of this ominous creature. At last it flapped its wings and flew away, and I sank into a kind of half-dreamless lethargy, which lasted I know not how long; but at length I was aroused by the touch of a cool hand upon my head, to find the presence of my missionary guide, “Benja.”

“Come, my son,” said he; “thou hast done well; thou needst have no fear. Thou art upon the heights of self-condemnation. It is true thou hast a few more trials to bear ere thou canst enjoy the full glories of spiritual existence; but all the steps thou hast taken were necessary to thy well-being; they were what thou needed to bring thee to a full realization of the past. Arise and come with me, that thou mayst obtain a glimpse of the realities of life, a gleam of the glorious manifestation of power that awaits thee.”

Taking me by the hand, the sainted spirit began to slowly rise, drawing me upward with him. Away, away, over rugged heights and dreary wastes of land we sped until we neared the entrance of a valley more exquisite in beauty than any I had ever beheld. Strains of enchanting music issued from thence, mingled with bursts of merry laughter, and sounds of sweetest singing.

Upon entering the valley, we were saluted by the fragrant breath of beautiful flowers, borne toward us upon the balmy breeze of morning; birds carolled among the leafy branches of the trees, or flitted about the sparkling sprays of gleaming water, issuing from founts of alabaster purity;—all was calm and serene, a picture of contentment and repose. Beautiful homes, gleaming with singular whiteness, and embowered with flowering vines of gorgeous beauty, nestled low down in the heart of the valley.

There were no doors or windows to these houses, but the sides were entirely open, revealing the simple, innocent home life of their inmates; the roofs were supported by marble pillars, around which the vines and tendrils clung with loving tenderness. From these homes issued those sounds of joy and happiness we had heard ere entering the valley.

Away in the distance, on either side, arose the majestic heights of purple-crested mountains; while a beautiful river flashed and sparkled in the sunlight, but a little way before us. Near the center of the vale I observed a massive dome, of marvelous beauty, rising from the midst of a grove of trees, and toward this my guide continued to lead my bewildered spirit.

As we approached, I found the building to be a vast and stupendous temple, wrought with exceeding artistic skill and beauty, the delicate carvings and fretwork of which I had never seen equalled.

The grounds surrounding this magnificent temple presented a scene of unsurpassing loveliness. The green sward, rich with velvet-like softness, glowed and sparkled in the sunlight like a huge emerald of priceless value. Thickets of wild roses here and there shed their royal perfume upon the passing breeze; vines and tendrils twined around the trunks of lofty trees, through the branches of which flitted and carolled birds of brilliant plumage.

I followed my guide up a flight of marble steps, and found myself in a spacious vestibule, at the further end of which hung a heavy curtain of royal purple velvet. The floor of this vestibule was tessellated with blocks of many-hued marble, presenting a most beautiful appearance, in the center of which arose a magnificent fountain of crystal whiteness, most exquisitely sculptured and carved, from which ascended sprays of cool and sparkling water. “Water, water everywhere!” Through all my wanderings in the eternal world I have never been long absent from the sight of clear, leaping, sparkling water. It is the life element of the spirit, next to sunlight and air, and it needs no additional fluid to make it agreeable and palatable.

Through the open interstices of this entrance the perfumed air from without wandered, diffusing a most refreshing breeze throughout the apartment. To the left I observed what appeared to be an inclined plane, the surface of which was as smooth as glass, and as white as porcelain. This glassy road led upward beyond the frescoed ceiling, until it disappeared from sight. I turned an inquiring look upon my companion, who thus replied to my silent questioning: “Thou art now, my son, standing within the walls of one of our temples dedicated to Art. This is the Palace of Delight,—the Artists’ Home! Beyond yonder curtain is the Hall of Poesy, where congregate souls so rounded out and perfected that they may express themselves in measure full and sweet; their lives are breathing, active poems of beauty and love. Yonder spiral stairway,” directing my attention to a stair-case glittering like burnished gold, at my right, “leads to the halls dedicated respectively to the gods of music, painting, and statuary, where souls attuned in harmony with those divine expressions of creative energy gather to pour forth all the hidden richness and glory of their spiritual conceptions of life.

“Yonder crystal pathway leads to the grand temple of all, where gather those poets, artists, sculptors, musicians, prophets, and sages, who are united in the bonds of sympathy and love, to compare notes, and to charm and enlighten each other with the productions of their individual minds. Thee will observe that it is up hill all the way, extending beyond thy vision, and that the road is slippery and seemingly impossible to climb, typifying the pathway over which struggling genius is forced to go, slipping here and there, oftentimes stumbling, until it plumes its wings for bolder flight, and by determined effort and perseverance wins the goal.

“The novitiate who first enters this temple dedicated to the Muses would fain ascend yonder roadway, but, finds himself unable to do so; for he must first visit each one of the halls of learning ere he attempts to enter the grand temple of Art. When he has done so, he finds no need to crawl slowly up yonder plane, but concentrating his will upon the desired spot, by the power thus acquired, mounts upward without fear, and gains the goal.

“But thou, my son, must now pass beyond yonder drapery; there thou wilt find that for which thy soul is to be fitted. Thou wilt find kindred minds, and sometime thy birth-right. I must leave thee; my work calls me away; others will teach thee the lesson of life. Farewell, and God bless thee.”

The sage vanished, and I was again alone. Curiosity and interest led me to approach and push aside the hanging velvet that obscured my sight. I did so, and beheld a vast apartment, the roof of which, fretted with lace-like tracings of golden hue, was supported by richly-carved columns of finely-veined marble. The floor was a mosaic of pearl and ivory, formed into clusters of flowers. At the farther end was a raised dais, covered with a crimson, satin-like fabric, above which, suspended from golden rods, clouds of creamy, fairy-like lace drooped and fluttered.

Upon the dais was seated the stately form of a male spirit, whose majestic-bearing, noble brow, and intelligent, genial, love-lit countenance attracted and held the admiration, esteem, and respect of the beholder. Upon either side was seated a personage, mild and gentle of demeanor, with the unmistakable mark of genius stamped upon his brow. Ranged around the dais in a semi-circle were a number of seats, filled with occupants of both sexes, all seemingly earnestly attentive to the master spirit of the hour.

The inmates of the hall were clothed in various costumes, such as their fancy suggested; but with such correctness of taste that all the colors and styles blended together in perfect harmony, and in company with their surroundings made up a superb and radiant picture, perfect in all its details. I noticed a peculiar halo of mellow light emanating from and surrounding each member of this assembly, graduating from a beautiful tint of yellow down to pearly whiteness, lighting up the features with indescribable beauty. These souls were enveloped in their own wealth of love, sympathy, and perceptive harmony.

I had but to gaze on the massive brow, thoughtful, speaking countenance, and smiling eyes of that central figure when it flashed upon me, that this was Addison,—Addison the gifted, noble and true, whose works I had ever admired, and which I considered beyond emulation. The pale, saint-like face upon the right I recognized as Cowper, the good. At the left, with flashing eye, and impassioned features, was Byron, but Byron purged of the impurities and grossness of sensual life.

I gazed around, and it dawned upon me who these people were. I saw the calm, pure features and love-lit eyes of Felicia Hemans, of Elizabeth B. Browning, of Letitia Landon, and others well-known to me from the melodious outpourings of their spirits. There were Dryden, Thompson, and Pope,—once little, misshapen Alexander Pope, now grown straight, lithe, and willowy with no discontent upon his features, even sitting at the feet of Addison, absorbing the reflected light of that stately presence.

I could not understand what was going on. I heard nothing but a low, sweet, rhythmic sound proceeding from the dais, which was unintelligible to me, though, from the interested looks of those present it was evidently not so to them. I had advanced no farther than to the inner side of the curtain, for I dared not intrude upon that celestial company. I again glanced at myself, and as the contrast between my faded, dust-worn, shabby appearance and the fresh purity and sweetness of these harmonious souls flashed upon me, together with the thought that, had I done more and been more in the past, I too might have been seated here with this angelic host, in place of creeping in like an outcast and an alien, I covered my face and fled from the apartment and the place.

I next found myself standing upon a sandy shore, watching and listening to the roar of the surging waves as they came rolling in to my feet. All was wild and tempestuous. How I had come here I could not tell; through what tortuous, devious paths I had wandered I could not explain. I felt that I had passed through a fiery furnace. I was still scathed and smarting from the sting of accusing memory. I felt a touch upon my shoulder, and turning gazed into a pair of kindly, sympathetic eyes, the eyes of one whom I felt was to be my friend and brother; of one whose name shall yet be sung throughout the length of Old England; one who passed from earth a few years before myself, at the early age of thirty-two. I gazed into the eyes of Robert Brough, poet and friend. Instantly I knew I had met one who would assist and teach me what my spirit required.

“I have come to help you,” he said, grasping my hand in a hearty clasp; “I have long followed you, I was at the Poet’s Council, and saw you enter. Noting your movements, watching the expression of your countenance, I understood your condition, and when you rushed forth I followed, feeling that I might be able to assist you. I have since kept you in sight, but owing to the clouds that enwrapped you, I have been heretofore unable to make my presence known. Now that the force of your emotions is spent, and you are beginning to grow calm and collected, I come to offer you my assistance, and to show you how to nobly retrieve the past, and find perfect peace for your soul. Will you accept my aid?”

I grasped the hand still holding my own, and cried in a voice choked with emotion: “I will! I will! only show me the way, and I will follow you?”

“To you,” continued my friend, pointing to the surging billows before us, “this scene is presented as a type of the desolate, lonely shore, and the warring billows of passion-haunted thoughts, upon which man may recklessly wreck his whole existence; but, beyond the sandy waste, and the ocean’s depths, there are calm waters, and sweet, smiling fields where we may find redemption, and make that restitution necessary to peace of mind. Come with me and I will guide you to health and happiness. Concentrate your thought upon me, and remain passive.”

I did so, and instantly I found my companion and self transported from the dreary shore to the same valley I had entered on my first visit to the immortal world. “You wonder at my mode of transportation,” said Robert, noting my surprise, “but you will soon become used to it, for it is the spirit’s true mode of rapid traveling. We have only to fix our will upon the place to which we wish to go, and instantly space is annihilated, and we are there. When you have thrown off a few more of the conditions of your earth life, you will be able to understand this law, and many others; and in order that you may do so, I wish you to plunge into yonder mist arising before us.”

But a few feet from us there ascended from the depths of a small lake a heavy bank of mist or vapor, and, in compliance with the request of my friend, I plunged into this fog, which, upon my doing so, seemed to penetrate every atom of my being.

When I emerged I seemed indeed to have been born again, to have received a baptism that had washed away much that was heavy and gross in my system, and I felt light as air, and almost imponderable.

“Now you begin to feel something like a spirit,” said my friend, seating himself upon a mossy bank, and motioning me to a seat beside him; “you are becoming regenerated; look at yourself, and you will perceive a change; you can also see, hear, and feel clearer and better; all your senses are awakened and quickened, because the spirit is beginning to work free from the crudities of materiality.”

It was indeed true; my senses did seem to be intensified ten-fold; distance lent no obstruction to my view; my vision appeared to be unlimited. I could perceive forms, radiant in angelic beauty, moving to and fro; towns and cities gleaming white in the sunlight where before my sight was bounded by the horizon, and I could see nothing but the limits of the beautiful valley, and no human being but our two selves.

My hearing, too, was quickened; for sweet, harmonious sounds stole upon my ear, where before I had heard nothing; all my senses seemed to be trebly alive, and awakened to activity; my outer structure, too, had grown so clear and fair as to become almost transparent, while my garments had assumed a purity of appearance I had never noticed before.

“You will soon be able to enter into and enjoy all the true pleasures of existence,” resumed the poet. “I, too, have passed under experiences and trials similar to your own; and though they were not induced by precisely the same cause, yet they were sufficiently severe to lead me to sympathize with and give you strength.”

He ceased, and my soul became too full of gratitude for utterance, perceiving which, he said: “By-and-bye, all these things will be explained to you, and you will thank the good Father for giving you these experiences, by which to develop and strengthen your spirit. But come, I must show you your work. Remain passive, and trust in me.”

Again I followed his bidding, and in a moment more we were gliding along the streets of an earthly town. Again I was in the precincts of old England, but material sights and sounds seemed farther away from me than ever before.

“I am going to take you,” said my guide, “to one who is noble and true to the stern duties of life; one who, in spite of trials and perplexities, of trouble and care, has remained faithful to the higher dictates of his inner spirit; who, reared in poverty, has yet carved out a name for himself, and by turning aside from the glittering allurements of life, has endeared himself to many hearts,—a royal soul, a kingly mind, as yet in the physical body. I bring you to him, that from the example of his life, and the strength of his soul, you may learn your lesson, and draw encouragement to go on and do likewise.”

He ceased to speak, and instantly we were in an apartment which I recognized as the room of a thinker, a student, and a poet. There was but one occupant; a slight figure, bearing a lofty head and noble brow, with an earnest, intellectual cast of features. He was busy perusing a book, which, from the intentness of his gaze, I divined must have been a work requiring deep study.

How calm and peaceful was the atmosphere of that place! The air was replete with quiet and rest. “I shall leave you here,” said my guide. “When we meet again, you will be the worker, and one who has found content and joy. Adieu.”

He was gone; and there, in the quiet sanctuary of the poet’s study, in company with that loyal soul, whose earnest thought was to elevate humanity; in contemplation of his work, and drawing strength and encouragement from his fidelity to truth, and his desire to benefit mankind, I became strong and enduring, enabled to put away the enticing temptations of life, to expand my powers under the light of spirit development; and a desire was kindled in my soul that has never been quenched,—a desire to be of use, to do good to others, to assist the needy, elevate the downtrodden, and enlighten and instruct those sitting in darkness.

Sitting in the companionship of that noble mind, reading with him his works, listening to his songs of beauty, witnessing his dreams for the remission of human ills, painted as they were on the sensorium of his soul, in colors of gorgeous splendor; breathing in the perfume of his holiest aspirations, watching his struggles and triumphs,—I became purified and purged of old crudities, and went out from that presence with a determination to do something for humanity, to be something in the great arena of life; and from that determination I have never strayed.

Born of this desire,—to do something for the good of humanity,—there came to my soul a new strength unlike anything I had known before; and which enabled me to enter dens of vice in search of souls to aid without danger of contamination, or of falling a victim to temptation. Of my work in this direction I shall speak in a future chapter; but first I wish to tell you of a visit I have made to one of our brightest spirits; one whose songs are known and sung the wide world over.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A VISIT TO ROBERT BURNS.

I had long been pressed and impressed to pay a visit to the spirit home of Robert Burns, Scotland’s favored child of song, where he extends the thorough hospitality of a genial heart, and where all kindred souls are welcomed with royal cordiality.

I had met Burns upon many occasions since my entrance to the joys of spirit life. I had seen him in the public convocations of poets, had been with him at friendly gatherings where souls like his meet to enjoy the rich and varied productions of each other’s minds; I had seen him in hall and bower, amid lofty and amid lowly scenes; and finally I had received a visit from him in my own private domain. But as yet I had never responded to his kindly, urgent invitations, nor to my own promptings, to return the visit. An opportunity at length presented itself for me to do so, and accordingly, with a friend, who wished me to travel leisurely as mortals do, and who accompanied me to point out the natural beauties and points of interest along our route, I set out with a joyful spirit, and anticipations of a rich treat, to visit the spirit home of Scotia’s immortal bard.

I will not weary you by descriptions of our journey. The time is coming when the localities and scenery of spirit life will be described to mortals by those who are fully competent to do so. At present, I will confine myself to the object of my journey, namely, the arrival at the spirit home of the poet.

My companion and myself journeyed along—he interesting me on the way, by relating bits of history or incidents concerning places we passed, together with anecdotes of the people and their customs—until we arrived at the entrance of a natural basin or valley, that lay like a great emerald between two ranges of towering mountains. Upon the right, the mighty pile reared its lofty head in solemn grandeur; the morning shadows resting upon it, only serving to deepen the impressiveness of its height and power. Its base of a dark brown hue supported the rugged pile, which deepened in color as it arose, until its apex presented the appearance of a gigantic amethyst, glittering beneath the light of morning in an indescribable purple splendor.

Upon the left arose a range of polished stone, as white as sculptured marble, which gleamed and glistened in the sunlight like a mountain of frost work. Its numerous crags and peaks shone like so many spears of frozen snow, the rosy light resting upon its sparkling surface causing it to present an appearance at once marvelous and bewitching to the beholder.

In the hollow formed by these mountain ranges nestled the valley I have mentioned, covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation and verdure. Fields of ripening grain, blooming gardens, delighting the senses with their fragrance and beauty, waving trees, in all the glory of exuberant foliage, were to be seen in every direction, while the white cottages of the dwellers gleamed here and there, and in their delightful locality bore every indication of home comfort. The people whom we saw busy about their gardens, or caught glimpses of between the open doorways of their houses, appeared happy and contented; their dress was simple, and seemingly worn for comfort; their countenances betokened peace and liberty. Songs of innocence and mirth arose upon the balmy air, mingling with the tones of children’s merry laughter. In short, here was an Arcadia in real life, such as any poet might be proud to dream of, and to picture out to the delight of his fellow-men.

“These,” said my friend, “are the people who have gathered about Robbie Burns, as a flock of sheep gather around a beloved shepherd; or better, as a group of children gather about a beloved and venerated father, to listen to his advice, and follow his counsel, knowing it is for their good.

“Robert Burns has made these people what they are. They have come to spirit life one by one, worn and weary from the cares of earth; some of them even sin-sick and degraded from unnatural lives, led while in the body. He has gathered them together, taught them self-reliance, preached to them through the opening flower, the running stream, and the songs of birds. He has taught them to forget their cares, and to desire a nobler existence. He has set them at work to cultivate their gardens and build themselves homes. In doing this they have grown happy and found rest.

“From him they have learned patience, self-restraint, and self-abnegation, a belief in the divinity of every spirit, and love for humanity.

“Some of these people, worn and broken down, came to him of themselves. They had heard of Burns while on earth, had read his words of sympathy, of love and tenderness, knew that he had sinned and suffered, and that with all he had faith in man. Through the great desire of their souls to see him, they were drawn to his presence, and his great, kindly heart, understanding their needs, spoke to them words of cheer, which gave relief and strength.

“Others he himself found by the wayside, sunk in misery and degradation; he held to them the helping hand, kindled in their breasts contrition for wrong committed, which brought a desire to do better and be better. He found their loved and loving ones for them; and all reverence him with love and blessing. The children abiding here are little waifs cast off from earth, who have known no tender care before their spirit birth; here they are cared for and educated by those capable of giving instruction to opening minds.”

A group of merry children, laughing and shouting in glee, dashed by us as my companion ceased speaking, their faces radiant with joy and happiness.

We paused at the entrance of a magnificent garden, whose limits extended far and wide. The well-kept walks, the superb parterres of blooming flowers, the shrubs raising their graceful branches as if conscious of their beauty, the grand old trees rearing their mighty heads, and casting grateful shadows, the pond at the further end, gleaming and glittering in the sunlight, rustic seats scattered here and there, banks of velvet-like richness, bright with their vivid hue of emerald green, all betokened this place to be the property of one who loved Nature, and was a willing worker in beautifying and adorning her productions.

This immense garden was not enclosed from the public way, except by a low hedge of evergreens, whose tops were tufted with delicate, creamy-hued, fragrant blossoms, reminding me forcibly of our own native hawthorn. No gate barred the entrance way; it was open to the free admittance of all.

At the farther end of the principal walk arose a plain, unpretentious dwelling, its white walls gleaming with an appearance of purity and peace. So far had we come up the valley that this cottage appeared to us to rest at the base of the purple-crested mountain, like a bird’s nest securely fastened upon a rugged rock.

“Here,” said my guide, “you have the home of Robert Burns. I will now leave you to his care.” Ere he could proceed, a form issued from the open doorway of the house, and hastened down the path to meet us. That beaming countenance, those kindly eyes, and warm, cordial hands extended to greet us; that commanding, yet unassuming figure, clothed in simple, rustic garb, could belong to no man in God’s universe but Robert Burns. It needed no honeyed speech, no formal words of greeting, no conventionalities, to tell us we were welcome; the spirit of our host over flowed with hospitality, and his soul beamed with all the fervor of his joy at meeting us.

Oh, the pleasure that enwrapped my being when I first entered the sanctuary of that good man’s great heart, and felt that we were congenial companions! No constraint, no conventional formalities with him; all was freedom and perfect ease.

My guide pleaded necessities of business as an excuse for leaving me alone with my host, and as we both preferred to roam in his great treasure-garden to entering the house, and feeling refreshed and strong in spirit, as though I had just partaken of food (which was true, as I had been feeding my soul all the way on the many delights I had encountered), we turned down a by-path, and I began to examine the rare plants and elegant shrubbery of the place, my host displaying and explaining his treasures as we went.

“I am surprised,” said I, “at your wealth of luxuriant bloom, and the beauty as well as the delicacy of the perfume of these plants; they surpass everything I have yet seen; you must give them a great deal of attention.”

“Well, lad,” replied my companion, “it’s not that so much. I look after them every day, of course, give them water and just the right degree of light, and trim and train them when there’s muckle need; but I think its adaptability to surroundings that makes ’em fine. I love them,—every one,—and it’s real pleasure to care for them;” and it was with unfeigned fondness that he bent over a rare stock of geraniums, and lifted a magnificent bloom to my view. We wandered along, chatting about this shrub and that plant; the proper treatment of this stock, and the right degree of culture for that variety. Nature and time had made him a thorough floriculturist; it was the spiritual refining of that love of Nature, manifested in the farmer-boy, using the plough and spade, and weaving songs of richest beauty over his work.

Again we paused, this time by the side of a parterre of the most beautiful garden-lilies I ever beheld. The creamy, cup-shaped blossoms, which crowned the slender stems, rose tall and straight from a low mass of deep, dark, and glossy leafage; while the regal flowers, with their tints of snowy richness, flecked with tiny bars of golden hue, emitted a fragrance of the most exquisite yet subtle of delicate odors. There were dozens upon dozens of these royal blossoms, filling the air with their rich perfume, and inviting the honey-bee to visit them in his search for sweets.

As I paused to admire this magnificent group of beauties—mentally likening them to a bevy of pure-souled, white-robed angels—and to drink in the full richness and glory of the scene spread out before me, there came, wafted upon the scent-laden air, a strain of sweetest music,—such as I have often heard in spirit, but which is never produced by any but highly-cultivated or advanced souls,—accompanied in this instance by a female voice in singing; and such singing—so full of melody, of expressive tenderness, with a rich under-current of harmony—mortal tongue or pen is inadequate to describe. I looked at my companion inquiringly. Said he: “It is my Highland Mary, the sainted soul who passed on before me, and who has made me what I am. This patch of lilies is her especial pride. I have named them for her, and call them ‘The Snaw Mary.’ We shall soon be with her, and you will see her for yourself.” I was delighted at the prospect of meeting “Highland Mary,” which delight of course he perceived.

We moved on past beds of beautiful verdure and bloom of every hue, and arrived at the lake, a superb sheet of water, clear as crystal, and extending over a large area, its margin laid with tiny, white cobblestones, presenting a neat, pretty appearance. A fairy-like boat was moored at a landing-place, upon the side of which I observed painted a large, thrifty-looking thistle.

A rustic bridge extended across the lake, over which we passed. At the farther side were a number of tiny arbors, around and above which twined and clung flowering vines, some of which were very familiar to me. Toward the nearest of these flower-wreathed pavilions my companion turned. The sound of singing had ceased, but through the swinging leaflets of the vines I could perceive the white drapery of female garments.

In a moment more we were in the presence of that sweet, long-loved, immortalized “Highland Mary;” and well might Robert Burns have mourned her loss, and well might the poet soul have sung his sweetest song “To Mary in Heaven.” The features of this sainted maiden were almost transparent; a halo of celestial beauty shone about her form as she moved; her beautiful eyes emitted a radiance that must have been dazzling to those not fitted to enter her sphere of purity; her bonny hair rippled down her back in waves of golden light. The beauty of mind, the purity of an innocent heart, the tenderness of soul, expressing itself in sympathy toward the weak and erring, combined with traces of experience in human suffering, manifested themselves in the chastened refinement of that lovely countenance, and the sphere of purity surrounding that angelic being.

I stood before her abashed and humbled; but a moment more, the sweet voice of Burns’ Mary bade me welcome, and I was made to feel at home.

Years of experience in the higher life had been of inestimable value to that maiden; she had had the teaching of highly-developed spirits, and the beauty, brilliancy and grace of a cultured mind, that was accustomed to deep thinking, were plainly discernible in her remarks. I was content to be a listener, and to drink deeply of the living waters of truth that flowed from the gifted mind of my host, and from the tender, loving soul of his companion.

But our stay in the pavilion was short; I would fain have lingered far longer, but the lady, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” after the fashion of woman everywhere, seemed anxious that I should be conducted to the house and have refreshments. My protestations were overruled, and we accordingly started for the abode,—not by the way my host and I had come, but on the outer side of the garden. On our journey I made a new discovery: Mary had turned to me previously, and said: “I would like you to see my aviary, the place where I keep my pets; in fact, their shelterhouse;” and soon I understood to what she referred. We were approaching a thicket of bushes; I recognized furze, gorse, and hawthorn among them. Passing through this thicket, we entered an extension of the garden, still laid out in beds of beautiful flowers. A grove of trees, in the center of which a pretty fountain sent up its jets of crystal water, arrested my attention, and beyond that, the sparkling roof of a large glass building. The bushes and trees resounded with the melody issuing from the gaily-feathered throats of numerous songsters, of every size and variety. It was a bird kingdom upon a small scale. As we entered, the birds surrounded us, alighting upon the heads and shoulders of my companions; but while they flew close to and around me, only one, a tiny white warbler, would alight upon my person. This perched upon my shoulder, and chirped and nodded as pert as possible.

We entered the glass building. Within were planted shrubs and trees, some of them bearing fruit, others seeds. There were no cages, but I observed numerous nests attached to the bushes and trees. The floor was the natural earth; the sun shone warmly, and all was beautiful. There were no doors, but here and there entrance-ways, always open for the convenience of the feathered denizens of the place, who came and went of their pleasure. A stream of water gushed from a rock, and gurgled and plashed over a heap of stones. This was the bird-house belonging to the estate, and the especial pride of “Highland Mary.”

We tarried a few moments, and then continued our way to the house, which we soon reached. How different the scene! A plain, unpretentious, white dwelling, with no attempt at ornamentation, the sun shining down upon it, fully displaying all its simplicity. Within was the same; neat and cheerful, suggestive of comfort and repose, but nothing finical, nothing tawdry; no glitter, no display. There was no covering to the cool, white floors, excepting here and there a rug or mat of green rushes. The walls of the apartment into which I was ushered were draped with a snowy gossamer-like fabric; the chairs round, wide, and comfortable, the tables oval and plain. Here we were served with refreshments,—fruit of various kinds, sweet cake formed of honey and the meat of nuts, and sparkling water.

Afterward I entered the sitting-room of spirit Mary. Here the walls were draped with blue silken stuffs; the furnishings were more elaborate and elegant than the other parts of the house, and all arranged in exquisite taste. My hostess entertained us with her tender, soulful singing, striking a harp-shaped instrument, which sent forth a delicious accompaniment to the song.

In Mary’s apartment, or boudoir, I observed a pot of primroses in full bloom, the yellow petals of the flowers recalling old familiar scenes of earth; and the sight of these flowers recalled to me also that they were the only ones I had noticed within the dwelling. This seemed singular to me; with all that wealth of bloom and fragrance without, it would only be natural to find every room adorned with slips and cuttings. Of course the drift of my thought was perceived. Burns smiled, but Mary enlightened me. “Robbie will never pluck a flower,” said she, “for his own use; he does not think it right to bring them out of their native elements, and deprive them of life on the stalk. He thinks they are hurt when they are culled; he also leaves them all out to be enjoyed by anyone who comes along; but I have seen him often break the flowers for some wee lassie, or poor laddie, who luks at them wistfully. He knows by that they had none too many flowers and pleasures on earth.”

I looked at Burns; his kindly face lighted up with intelligence and spirit beauty; every feature aglow with goodness, and every member of his body filled with energy, with suppressed power, with concentrated activity, now in abeyance, but ready to spring forth for the well-being of another,—he who had risen above all earthly passions through his great love for and faith in humanity; and I thought how characteristic of the man is this abode of peace and rest,—the home, the shrine of his faith and love,—plain, simple, yet full of cheer and interest,—no glitter nor show,—like his own kindly heart, unpretentious, full of kindness, overflowing with interest in God, Nature, and man! Without, all is beauty and fragrance; yet the natural productions of life, refined by care and cultivation, typical of the rich, the beautiful expressions of his poet soul,—refined through love, cultured through sympathy, manifested in sweetest heart songs, exemplified in those peaceful homes I had seen, whose inmates rise up and call him blessed! Characteristic of the soul is this, who would cull a flower to give a poor heart cheer, yet who will pluck none for his own use, to deprive them of natural life,—who, when he had inadvertently uprooted the tiny, wayside flower with his plowshare, immortalized the humble daisy with—

“Thou bonny crimson-tipped flower,

Thou’st met me in an evil hour,

For I mun crush amang the stower

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now ’twere past my power,

Thou bonny gem.”

Still the same good man, gentle alike to “mon and beastie,” tender to wayside flower and weed.

Another apartment in the home of the people’s bard is fitted up as a study or library. Here are collected volumes by the true poets and philosophers of all ages. Some are prototypes of what are or what have been on earth; others are the outward productions of minds, grand and glorious in their brilliancy of thought, radiant with exquisite imagery, glowing with descriptive genius, or sweet and pathetic appeals to the tenderest emotions of the soul, through their simple, home-like, heartfelt tales of life and love, and which have never been heard by mortals.

But you must not for a moment suppose Robert Burns to be dependent upon books for intellectual enjoyment, or for the attainment of knowledge. The soul is limitless in its resources, boundless in its capacity for expansion, and that spirit who earnestly desires to gain knowledge, finds a power developing within the mind which enables him or her to comprehend the fields of learning continually opening before the vision; while facilities and opportunities are afforded by which an honest seeker may grasp the truth as it appears before him.

Could you but faintly realize the scope of the spirit, its perfect freedom, its power and right to travel where it listeth, you would understand that in the higher life we have but to earnestly desire to be in the presence of any great soul, in order to gain pleasure and profit from the gems of love, beauty, and wisdom which fall upon receptive minds from those great repositories of thought, and, lo, we are there, drinking in great and mighty truths from those who are above us in grandeur of thought, beauty of expression, and sweetness of spirit.

Robert Burns is by no means confined to his books; but, as he informed me, though his brightest thoughts are drawn from the life of Nature, or the hearts of humanity, he loves to gather about him all the expressions of the sweet, soulful, noblest ideals which others have produced. Much, that by force of circumstances, he was deprived of on earth is his now; all that will tend to ennoble and elevate his soul, which was denied him here, he finds on the other shore. Why he does not ornament his home with those adornments that denote rank and wealth to the external eye is because his soul loathed the arrogance, and learned to despise the superciliousness which he found in the hearts, often stamped on the faces and shown in the mien, of many wealthy aristocratic personages he met with while on earth.

He is Nature’s child to the core of his being, and no glittering pageantry will adorn his heart and home; as well attempt to gild the rose, and paint the lily, to add to their beauty.

Together, he and I went forth into the smiling valley. A low burn wended its way beneath the shade of waving trees, close down to the mountain base; thither we directed our steps, for he wished to show me, with a sort of fatherly pride, the great plumy bunches of purple heather tufting the sides of the gigantic hills.

A tiny child, paddling in the dark waters of the burn, her snowy feet gleaming pearly white amid the shadows thrown by the green branches of the trees, her brown locks hanging in a profusion of luxuriant curls over her dimpled shoulders, and half veiling the azure blue eye and damask cheek, arrested our attention and formed as pretty a picture as one can well imagine; and the poet soul of my companion, drinking in the beauty of the scene, felt all the sweetness of life rushing over him, as he broke out in his quaint Scotch fashion:—

Thou winsome, weesome, smiling creature,

Half formed of human, half of nature,

Thy soul gleams through thy every feature,

This gladsome day;

While life itself becomes thy teacher—

Thou prattling fay!

Thy e’en, as blue as simmer skies,

Reflect the joys of paradise,

An’ glisten wi’ their sweet surprise,

That knows no guile;

While angel praises o’er thee rise,

An’ bless the while.

Thy bonnie tresses veil thy face

Wi’ such a winsome, modest grace,

My spirit fain wad leave its place

An’ clasp thee close

In ane sweet, fervent pure embrace,

Like some rare rose.

Thy snawy feet, like twa fair pearls,

Gleam brightly ’neath the wave that whirls;

The water o’er them softly purls;

God lo’es thee best,

An’ keeps thee ’mang the sweetest girls

That Heaven has blest.

In conveying a pure stream of crystal fluid through a muddy pipe, the liquid loses much of its clearness, and gathers sediment from the channel through which it passes. So, in striving to convey to your understanding a type of the outgushings of a noble spirit, it loses much of its transparency and becomes unsettled through the medium of earthly expression, and perchance distorted by the crude materiality it is sometimes obliged to pass through. Therefore, you are to take this as a symbol only of what I had the good fortune to enjoy.

I learned in our rambles that the inhabitants of this smiling valley were not all the countrymen and women of Robert Burns; neither were they, when on earth, all of one belief or religion. They were of every race and clime. Some had been fierce denouncers of the truth; some earnest defenders of old theologic ideas and doctrines; others had had no religion, no faith either in God or man. But it was plain that all had suffered, had been weary, repentant, lonely, heart-sick, and home-sick; and all had found a home, rest, action for their pent-up energies, development for their repressed powers, love, enjoyment, and peace beneath the ministrations of this good man and his gentle companion.

I met with some of these happy people; conversed with them, after the manner of spirits, read the interior conditions of their souls, and found them all pure, loving, simple, intelligent, respecting man, adorning the divine in humanity, and recognizing God as the author of life, whose spirit was found in everything. How their spirits sent forth a halo of light, which, springing from their unbounded love and veneration for Robert Burns, settled about him like an atmosphere of glory!

Well did I think highly of the good this man had accomplished; of the beauty of his life-work, of the grandeur of his spirit, which, rising above adversity, rejecting the tempter, had outwrought by his example, by his endeavors, such a noble result as this,—the emancipation of souls from bondage. How many, few could tell; for his efforts have been unlimited, and the results of his labors are not confined to this valley, but are scattered far and wide in spirit life and on earth.

What need has Robert Burns to return to earth and sing his songs through the lips of media? He does so rarely; and why? His spirit of love, of faith in God, of hope for human progress is so broad, so free and untrammeled, that it breathes itself out in a benediction of good over all humanity. It is manifested wherever a soul prays to be of use to itself and others; it inspires the weak with strength, and blesses the erring with a determination to redeem past errors; it is felt on earth and in spirit life, purifying, elevating, and regenerating. Is not this the loftiest poem, the sweetest song, the grandest tale that bard or prophet ever could have dreamed? Is it not the outworking, in lines of living glory, of the most sublime yet soulful pæan of praise to God that spirit can conceive? Is it not the breathing, soul-quickening, revivifying poem of life that is outwrought from the inspirations and aspirations of a gifted, struggling soul once in mortal, and which is the perfect culmination of all that has been dreamed of by that soul, manifesting itself in the fruition of a work of beauty, glory, and grandeur,—not of mechanical art, but of natural, quickened, sentient life?

Could the mortal denouncers of Robert Burns witness his noble triumph of spirit over matter, his defeat of all sensual life, his wonderful efforts for the good of others, and his glorious soul, radiant with the light of truth, they would bow before him in abject poverty of spirit. One of a band of noble workers, his spirit flows out in love and forgiveness to all his foes, and in blessing to all humanity.

Even in spirit life this soul remembers and loves his native home and haunts on earth. The rugged rocks and darkling streams, the gowan-gemmed sod, and heather-crowned hills of Scotland, are dear to him still. We were seated upon a mossy bank, enjoying the loveliness of the scene,—the gleaming valley, dotted with its blooming gardens and snowy-white habitations; the crystal stream murmuring at our feet; the birds chirping in the branches; the lofty mountains uprearing their crests but a little way before us; with the glorious sun, throwing a flood of golden splendor over all. Environed with these conditions, I could perceive the thoughts of my companion reverting to earthly scenes, and presently, with bosom heaving, and his great dark eyes glowing with the intensity of his emotions, he broke forth:—

Fair are thy smiling fields of green, oh, vale,

And sweet the flowers that gem thy emerald sod;

Thy zephyrs bring a spice in every gale,

And man and nature here commune with God.

Thy crystal waters flow in melody,

Thy birds make music through the waving trees;

Thy mountains, rising in their majesty,

Survey in grandeur all thy harmonies.

But fair and sweet as thou, my spirit home,

To this fond, loving, clinging heart of mine,

Are Scotia’s fields, where once I loved to roam,

And pluck the gowan and the eglantine.

Thy brooks are clear, but Scotia’s burns are bonnie,

Where once I paddled through the simmer day;

Thy birds recall the times, not few but monny,

I’ve heard the mavis chant her tuneful lay.

And though thy mountains rise in mystic glory,

They are not fairer to my spirit sight

Than Scotia’s grim old crags and peaks so hoary,

That brought my boyhood soul such dear delight.

Aye, Scotia’s lands to me are sweet and canny,

As in the days I roamed her meadows fine,

Wi’ loving frien’, or gleesome, prattling bairnie—

Those sweet, rare blessings of the auld lang syne.

As a ray of light, in passing through a pane of glass, may become broken or refracted, or as a straight staff placed in a vessel of water may present a misshapen appearance to the beholder, so in attempting to present to you the straight, symmetrical lines of thought, the golden rays of light, emanating from a poet’s soul, they become broken and distorted in their passage through matter; but by these refracted rays you may be able to gain a faint comprehension of the glory of the soul in which they originated.

And thus we passed our time, with great profit to myself; for, from the companionship of my friend, I gained a knowledge of the true beauty of the natural life of the spirit, and a larger conception of the grandeur of individualized life, when fulfilling its proper mission and expanding to its full capacity, even while drinking in the beauty of my surroundings, the harmony of the scene, quaffing the crystal drops or inspiring thought which filled the soul of my companion, and imbibing of that deep peace and gladness that imbued his entire being.

In attempting to portray to you a tithe of the pleasure and profit that my spirit gained from this visit to Robert Burns I have sought to give you an idea of the home and occupation of Scotland’s immortalized son, whose songs and poems have enriched the literature of earth, and gladdened the hearts of countless beings here and in the immortal world; but in doing so I have deeply realized that it is impossible for spirits to convey to mortals an adequate conception of life in the soul world as it really is.

I am aware that I have said nothing in regard to the nearest relatives and friends of the poet,—his brave, honest parents, those to whom he ever pays filial respect, and those also who receive fraternal sympathy and regard,—his noble sons, that sweet, gentle daughter, the pet and blessing of his heart, whose early loss he mourned until his death; and last, but by no means least, his faithful, forgiving Jean, his counselor and guide to the end. Though I have not mentioned these, it is not that they are remote or separated from our poet. They are with him, as a cluster of stars gather around one brilliant, far-reaching center; and upon him they bestow that true spirit love and sympathy which he reciprocates in kind.

But I have dwelt longest upon his connection with the beautiful ideal of his early life; for in her is centered the power to draw forth the noblest and purest aspirations of his soul. As a beacon-light, a radiant star, her undefiled spirit, overflowing with the love that has blest and enriched his being, has ever led him onward and upward over the ruts and pitfalls of sensual life until he has reached the heights of self-conquest and self-respect. In every sense, Mary Campbell has been the savior and sustainer of Robert Burns.

CHAPTER XXV.
MY SPIRITUAL WORK

It would ill become me to speak of my own efforts. There is so much to be done that the individual work of one alone is necessarily small; but if we strive to do good, with a will and a desire to benefit others, we cannot fail to be of use; and that you may know how it is a spirit labors in conjunction with mortals, I will briefly speak of my method of work, and give you a few instances of what I have done or have striven to do.

I remember one circumstance well. At a gambling house in a large English city, I encountered a lad, about eighteen years of age, whom I could see had been enticed there by the alluring visions of a fortune to be made, pictured to him by those well versed in the secrets of sinful practices. He was a pale, delicate youth, with an intellectual cast of countenance, a well-bred air, and one evidently worthy of better things. I was attracted to him as he sat at the table, his whole mind concentrated upon the game he was playing.

Suddenly, he pushed back his chair, rubbed his brow in a bewildered manner, and muttering: “Lost, everything lost; I counted on this chance to retrieve my luck, but it is no use, everything is against me;” he seized his hat and fled from the place. I followed him, not knowing what he might do, and wishing to serve him if in my power. It was to his room that we went, the attic floor of a dingy lodging-house in an obscure quarter of the city. I found that he was a student, striving to pay his way by literary labor, while gaining an education. His parents were poor, hard-working people, living back in the country, who had done all they could to assist their son.

Flinging himself upon his humble bed, the youth gave himself up to dismal thoughts, the tenor of which was that he wished he was dead. His money was all gone, nothing left of all he had possessed but his books; remunerative employment he found impossible to procure, and he knew not how to gain the means of livelihood. He could not apply to his friends; indeed, he would not have them know his situation for the world, and nothing remained but to put himself out of the way as soon as possible.

In vain did I strive to turn his thoughts in another direction; in vain I pictured to his mind the horror and anguish of his friends, when they should learn what he had done. He was in no condition to be impressed by any influence that I could bring to bear upon him.

Again he started up and left the house, I still accompanying him. He entered a small drug-store upon the corner, and, nodding nonchalantly to a young lad about his own age behind the counter, said: “Ned, I wish you’d trust me for a few pennies’ worth of arsenic; the rats are becoming such a bore up in my attic that I must do something, especially as the landlady pays no attention to my complaints.”

“All right,” responded the clerk, taking a bottle of white powder from the shelf, and proceeding to do up a small package from its contents. “But you must be very careful of it. I suppose you know how to use it?”

“Yes, thanks; I’ll settle as soon as I can,” replied the youth, and, taking the parcel, he hurried from the shop.

I knew not what to do. I did not like to see that youth throw himself away in the manner he thought of doing; but how could I prevent it?

In a moment more, a doctor’s chaise drove up to the druggist’s door, and a portly, good-natured looking gentleman, of about five-and-forty years of age, alighted and entered the shop.

“Ned,” said he, “prepare a bottle of cough-mixture from this recipe,” handing him the prescription, “and send it with a box of soothing powders to Mrs. Simms. She’s very bad.”

“All right, sir,” replied the clerk; “but look here a minute. Harold H., who lives at No. 8, was here a minute ago for arsenic. He said it was to kill rats. I let him have it, but some how or other just now I feel nervous about it.”

Upon the doctor’s entrance, I saw in an instant he was the one to be influenced in the right direction, and it was I who had produced the uneasiness in the clerk’s mind, and impressed him to speak.

“Ah,” said the doctor, “I’ll stop and see about this; and do you, Master Ned, have a care how you sell poisonous articles to whoever comes for them.”

He hurried from the store over to No. 8, entered, and without ceremony passed up to the attic of the wouldbe suicide. I of course followed. We found the youth engaged in writing a letter, the package of poison close to his hand.

It is needless for me to recount all that passed in that interview. Suffice it to say, that, by a few welldirected inquiries, that good man managed to learn the condition of the lad, and what had been its cause. He then proceeded to talk to him earnestly and firmly, yet kindly, of the sin he contemplated, of the agony of his mother upon hearing of the deed, and the anguish he would cause to all he loved.

The young man broke down, wept bitterly, and promised he would live to be a better man. The physician furnished him with means sufficient for present necessities, promised him he would interest some of his influential friends in his behalf, and, when he left, carried the poison with him.

The man kept his word, and through his influence Harold H. was placed in better circumstances, assisted in his efforts to gain an education, and lives today an ornament and useful member of society, and the pride of his parents and friends.

More than once I have visited liquor saloons, hoping to draw some poor wretch away from the curse of rum and its allurements. I have not always succeeded, but at times have been more successful.

On one of these occasions, a man in the prime of life, who was drinking copiously, and rapidly making himself worse than a beast, arrested my attention, but I could make no impression upon him. While making the effort, a street musician began playing a dancing tune. The musician, a young and delicate boy, accompanied by a still younger female child, who was the dancer, was one whom I could impress, which I did by making him cease the dancing tune, and begin that sweet, pathetic air of Payne’s “Home, Sweet Home.” The little maid stopped her dancing, looked puzzled for a moment, when, catching the inspiration of the moment, she broke out in bird-like tones of sweetness, and sang the words of the song.

I watched the effect upon the drinker. At first he did not seem to hear, but gradually a listening expression stole over his features, and at last his head sank upon his hands. Now was my time. I whispered to him of his mother, of his dear old childhood home, of his wife and child waiting anxiously for him even now, and of the dear one who had died and was calling to him from her heavenly abode.

He, of course, never knew but what they were his own thoughts awakened by that tune. In part they were, but their power was intensified by spirit presence and aid. His spirit child was close by my side, anxious that her father should be drawn away from that place. From her I learned of her mother and invalid sister, who were living, and of whom I whispered in his ear.

The music ceased, and, rising, the drinker passed from the place, unheeding the call of the barkeeper to “stop and take another drink.”

I followed him home, saw his wife and lame daughter, and learned from the state of their minds that he had resisted all their pleadings to remain from the rum-shop, and had even raised his hand threateningly to his child. He said nothing that night, but went quietly to bed. In the morning I was there. Softened and humbled in mind, the man sat looking out of the window. I went to his daughter, influenced her to call her father and talk to him, as she had never done before. It was the voice of the spirit calling to him to look up higher, to pray for a strength to resist temptation, and to strive to live a better life. Amid tears of contrition he promised; by the bedside of his invalid child that man took the pledge, and so far it has been kept, and his family are content, while his spirit child is happy.

On another occasion I was at a home, drawn there by a spirit who solicited my assistance for her brother, who was addicted to drink. He, too, had a wife and family of little ones. At the time of my visit, he was possessed with an insane desire for liquor. I heard him promise his wife he would take none, but I had no faith in his word.

He went out. I influenced his little girl to follow him. She was a child of about eight years of age, and evidently stood in great fear of her father. We followed him, saw him enter a liquor saloon. I tried to induce her to enter, but she was afraid. “I’d like to follow pa,” she said, “but I don’t dare; he’d beat me.” Still I urged, and at last, gathering firmness from the spirit world, she boldly entered the saloon, and addressed the barkeeper, who was mixing a drink for her father, thus:

“Don’t you give my father anything to drink, mister; it makes him crazy and sick, and everything is awful bad at home, and mother cries all the time.” She was greeted with a loud laugh by the bystanders, but taking no heed, she seized her father’s hand, saying: “Come, father, don’t stay here; let’s take a walk.”

“Yes, yes, little girl, let’s take a walk; this is no place for you,” he answered, and, winking to the barkeeper, and whispering: “I’ll be back soon,” he suffered the child to lead him away.

I impressed the child to lead her father toward the water. The evening breeze was blowing cool and refreshing. “Father,” said the child, “doesn’t God see us now?”

The man was evidently startled, but answered: “Yes, I suppose he does, if there is any God.”

“Oh, of course there’s a God,” pursued the child. “Don’t the minister say so, and didn’t grandma use to pray to him? Grandma’s an angel now. Do you ’spose she saw us in that horrid place, papa?”

“Good heavens, I hope not,” answered the man. “Come, you’d better go home.”

“No, let’s stay here a little while; it’s cool here,” went on the child. Her timidity vanished. “I guess grandma did see us, ’cause angels can go everywhere, you know. I don’t believe she liked to see us there. I hope she’ll ask God to keep you from going there any more, ’cause it makes mamma cry all the time.”

“Cry all the time, does she?” muttered the man. “Well, you must go home now.”

The cool breeze had lessened the fire in the man’s veins; the child’s prattle had driven the present thought of liquor away. Subdued and humbled, he led her home, and went out no more that night. In the morning his employer called for him to go to work, and he had no opportunity to visit the saloon.

During the day I influenced one of those royal souls yet encased in flesh, who go about doing good, to visit that home, where he learned the state of affairs. He called again at tea-time, saw the father and husband, and, by interesting himself in his pleasures and pursuits, won his heart, and induced the man to go with him to a temperance lecture.

This was the beginning. Before the winter had set in, that man had signed the pledge, and was a member of a temperance organization. True, the victory was not easily won. There were many battles to fight with his appetite; and had it not been for noble souls in mortal who stood by him, we could have done but little; as it was, the rum fiend was conquered.

This is one method of my spirit work,—allying myself with spirits, in the body and out, whose souls are zealously engaged in laboring for humanity. More has been accomplished than I care to tell; but very little has been done compared to what there is to do, and I am still laboring in co-operation with others, for the good time that is to come to all mankind.

The above are only illustrations of one branch of my efforts to assist those in darkness. My labors have not all been expended in one direction, but I have endeavored to obey the commands laid upon me to go out and give the people light. In my travels I have come across mortals possessing, to a large degree, mediumistic power, which only needed to be awakened into life and activity to be of use to mankind.

Often these parties were surrounded by conditions very unfavorable to the development of mediumship. In such cases I have endeavored to supply, in part, the favorable conditions from the spirit life, and have succeeded in unfolding powers that have proved a source of comfort to others.

To illustrate: a number of years ago I was led to visit a spirit circle, the medium of which I found possessing rare powers and abilities, but which sadly needed culture. She was a young maiden, the child of poor parents, who were alike ignorant of the laws of mediumship, and the conditions necessary to their unfoldment. Of course, the manifestations of spirit presence were crude and variable; but finding I could assimilate my powers with those of that medium, I determined to take her in charge for awhile, and see if I could not stimulate her spirit forces sufficiently to assist them into healthy growth and action.

I did so, all unknown to herself and others, and, by directing her mind in a certain channel, succeeded in my task. I selected certain works for her perusal,—philosophical, moral, poetical,—and impressed her to read them; awakened in her mind a desire to write compositions and rhymes; influenced her to attend lectures and sermons, delivered by the loftiest intellects of the time, brought to her home parties who could assist her in the pursuit of knowledge; and thus, in spite of adverse conditions, she steadily advanced, until today she stands far ahead of her family in literary attainments, and is read and listened to with respect by many intelligent, thinking minds.

The case of that medium presents a striking instance of what spirits can do in educating mortals, and in teaching them immortal truths, which they in turn must give forth to the multitude.

Many times have I given my songs to the world through the lips of mortals. Sometimes they appeared crude and ill-expressed, limited, and warped by the undeveloped channels through which they flowed; but even then I rejoiced to know that they could bear comfort and hope to the sorrowing or the sinning souls they were destined to reach. At other times, my productions have caught a richness of expression, a beautiful and harmonious blending of sentiment and rhythm, from the depths of the mediumistic souls through whom they came that sent them ringing through the hearts of those who read or listened, until they seemed uplifted into the clear air of heaven.

But my greatest joy has been in assisting the inner powers of others to grow and expand, leading them in their cravings for knowledge, and aiding their faltering steps up the rugged heights of life, in search of truth and right. When I find a soul who delights to take a sentiment and to express it clearly in rhyme, I encourage that spirit, no matter how crude or uncertain its efforts may be, for I perceive that the spirit is putting forth its powers, that, like the feelers of a plant, it is groping around to find a support that will bear it in its growth; and that, if it receives the strength and prop it needs, it will develop into a thing of blossoming beauty. But I do not encourage these souls to put forth their first feeble expressions to the world any more than I would advise the florist to place a tiny, fragile slip of plant-life out in the full glare of a summer day. I watch them, and, by directing their thoughts into proper channels, and influencing them what to read in order to expand their minds, sometimes succeed in raising a rare stock, that favors the world with an abundance of rich and fragrant blossoms.

Thousands of spirits are engaged in such work, in divers directions, and in multiplied ways; for they recognize the fact that to have the spirit world peopled by a race of noble, thoughtful, moral, and intellectual souls, we must refine and educate those who are still on earth,—educate them in a knowledge of life and its laws, an understanding of the soul and its requirements, and an appreciation of truth and its unfoldments; and to do this we are teaching and directing those sensitive, intuitive souls who can catch the inspirations of the spheres, and sending them forth as teachers to the masses.

In my wanderings to and fro as a spirit, I have become a cosmopolite,—a citizen of the world,—claiming my home wherever I may be of use to humanity. But my efforts for the amelioration of suffering have not been confined to material life alone. I have met many distressed spirits who passed from the body, scarred and scathed by sin and passion, and who, in consequence, have been plunged in mental darkness; to them I have sought to bring hope and encouragement. The world beyond is thronged with those unhappy souls, and, though we cannot save them, as each one must work out his own salvation, yet we can aid and teach them to find the better way, and encourage them to persevere in their efforts to atone for the past by doing right.

In my anxiety and eagerness to atone for my own past folly by helping others, I had taken no heed of the lapse of time, my whole soul having been wrapped in my work.

I was at a seance in London one night, and had succeeded in gaining partial possession of a youth whom I wished to develop as a medium. While in this condition, unable to make my presence known, one of the party remarked: “We ought to have an exceptionably good seance tonight, as it is the last one of the year; tomorrow brings us 1872.” The words brought to me a vision of New Years’ Eves spent in the past, and with it a longing for the sight of dear and familiar faces. I began to grow home-sick and weary. Five years previous I passed from the body, and most of the intervening time I had spent among strangers. With this thought in my mind I found myself losing control of my subject, and in a moment I was away from material things, and out in the realm of spirit. Long before I had learned to travel by an effort of will as spirits do, and I could now upon desiring to be in any place instantly be there. Time and distance have no power over the ascended soul, and it can travel with the velocity of thought. In a moment I found myself in the magnificent garden I had before visited. All was blooming in richness and beauty. I entered the stately portals of a superb mansion, in the center of which a group of spirits were gathered in social converse. Judge of my delight in recognizing all who were dearest to me,—parents, kindred, and friends. As I entered I heard my mother say: “All day I have been calling Critchley. I am sure he must come, we all want him so much; he is doing a good work,—bless the lad,—but I would like to meet him here.”

My soul leaped forth in response to these words. I was immediately seen and recognized. It is impossible to describe the bliss and rapture of that meeting. None but those who have experienced can understand the like. The welcome more than recompensed me for past pain and sorrow. It brought an infinite peace and calm that the world can never take away. I remained with my friends for a time, but not idle; I had learned that true joy cannot reach the soul that is inert. Action is the law of life.

There was much for me to learn of spirit life and its laws, and I set myself to work to acquire knowledge, not forgetting to return frequently to earth to see if there was anything to do, nor neglecting to minister to the unfortunate spirits I met. At the present writing I have learned but little in comparison with what there is to attain, but with active powers, trained for work and study, assisted by wise, beneficent teachers, and surrounded by loving souls, it would be strange, indeed, if a spirit’s course should not be upward and onward toward the realms of infinite light and truth.

Engaged in the work I had chosen, I had no time for regrets. Retrospection became no longer a scourge, but a guide, which, by showing me wherein I had erred, pointed out the true way to amendment; and in striving to gain knowledge of the higher, better way of living,—the way of the spirit, bound to no avenue of sensual life, but seeking the intellectual haunts of wisdom and truth,—I found peace of mind, and, in seeking to bring happiness to others, I became truly happy myself.

Again I stood in the Temple of Art; again I found myself in the Poet’s Chamber, but no longer an outcast and an alien. Indeed, I was greeted as one whose coming was expected, and welcomed with a warm cordiality and royal fervor that was very refreshing to my soul.

The same kingly company was assembled, but augmented by a number of other souls, rich with their freight of poetic imagery. The assembly was not composed entirely of my own countrymen and women, as heretofore; for among that mighty throng could be seen the smiling, open, intelligent faces of Thomas Moore, the sweet singer of the Emerald Isle, and Robert Burns, he who found his best inspiration amid the rugged heights and heather-crowned hills of Scotia’s land. Many others were present, whom I failed to recognize, clad in the flowing robes and purple vestments of the Roman period, or in the classic garments of ancient Greece.

But England’s delegation was a large one, numbering those of every century and age: Pope and Spenser, Johnson, Cowley, and Butler, Dryden, Gay, Thomson, and Young,—not the sad, melancholy, pensive Edward Young of earth, but the radiant, calm, contented Edward Young of spirit life; gentle Henry Kirke White, liberty-loving Thomas Campbell, and stouthearted, staunch, and true Walter Scott, who, though not English born, yet seemed very near to me.

Addison, whom I had mentioned as occupying the seat of honor before, now sat low at the feet of him who occupied the position of the Master of Ceremonies, and whom I recognized as the true, loyal, long-suffering, yet monarch-crowned soul, Milton. At his right was to be seen the lofty brow, and bold, fearless, speaking countenance of William Shakespeare; while, at the left, Dryden seemed to be acting as assistant or secretary.

In my experience of spirit power and possibilities, I had learned to understand and interpret the waves of thought flowing from soul to soul; therefore I was at no loss to understand the purport and purposes of this convention. It was a gathering of kindred souls, met to communicate the loftiest thoughts and sweetest aspirations to each other, thus dispensing the bountiful gifts of the spirit to all who would partake.

I cannot describe to you the rich, ennobling thoughts, clothed in their draperies of sweetest imagery, which flowed from the soul of him who presided, into ours, the recipients’; nor the grandeur and sublimity of the ideas with which he threaded, like brands of shimmering pearls, the network of his discourse. But all was grand and glorious, beyond the power of mortals to conceive. At the close of his remarks, the company clustered into knots, discussing the discourse, comparing experiences, or revealing to each other the secret depths of their poetic souls, from which were to be drawn lines, glowing with the beauty and fragrance of harmonious lives.

It was then I discovered that every soul that is attuned into harmony with the inner life, that dwells in sympathy with the Divine Mind, as manifested in his outer creations of will, in his natural expressions of love and beauty, is in itself a poem of rare delicacy and power; a living, breathing, animated poem, thrilled with the magic power of thought, and stamped with the eternal glory of individualized liberty; that every poetic soul is itself the production of the Infinite Mind, that must make itself heard in lines of glowing, inspiring thought along the pathway of human toil and suffering, and cannot fail to arouse the hidden energies and sleeping possibilities of power of those it comes in rapport with.

It was then I was made supremely blest by being taken by the hand by such souls as Cowper, Byron,—my boyhood’s ideal,—Burns, Scott, Campbell, Moore, Mrs. Browning, Felicia Hemans, and others, and welcomed to this haunt of the beautiful and the good. And I cannot convey to you my exquisite sense of pleasures when my hand was again grasped by that of my helper and friend, Robert B. Brough, and I was enabled to bless him for the avenues of tranquility and peace he had opened out to me. But I must not linger here, although sweet and pleasant to me are these reminiscences of actual life in the spheres.

Leaving the Poets’ Chamber, I visited in turn the Musicians’ Gallery, the Sculptors’ Hall, and the Artists’ Studio. It is impossible for mortal hands to pen a description of what is to be seen and heard in them. Words fail, and language grows cold and unmeaning before the splendid achievements of the upper world.

Imagine, if you can, all the sweetest sounds your soul has ever heard or dreamed of, blended into one harmonious whole, swelling louder, clearer, and sweeter, or melting away into the far-off distance, like the gentle fading of a glorious sunset, absorbed by a finer and more ethereal beauty of azure brightness, and you will have a faint conception of the music and the singing of the spheres.

Imagine, if you can, all the most graceful, beautifully-molded, perfectly-formed and rounded, exquisitely carved and delicately-sculptured forms of statuary, of which you have ever heard or read grouped together, forming a class of the rarest workmanship and art that human skill and genius can chisel from the marble block, and you have a slight idea of the superb expression of the sculptor’s soul which is perfected in the immortal world. Dream, if you can, of the most magnificent scenery the world affords, the most royal landscapes, the most superb water views, and you may be able to just approach in thought an idea of the productions of the artist’s soul that line the walls of the artists’ studio in spirit life.

Recollect all the sweet, the beautiful, and the various expressions of the human countenance,—the fire, the vigor, and sparkling triumph of the eye, the restless energy or quiet repose of the limbs, the smiling, speaking expression of the lips,—and you can faintly conceive the models and patterns that spirit artists and sculptors seek to emulate. And have they succeeded? To a certain extent, decidedly, yes.

Enter a hall of statuary, and in the marble beauties, grouped together there, you find the expression of peace, hope, or joy depicted with marvelous fidelity; you observe the contour of the limbs as perfect as in life, and all seemingly permeated with that indescribable something that gives them the appearance of having the power to move, act, and walk off at will.

Upon entering the artists’ studio, at the farther end of which is suspended a magnificent landscape painting, you would, at first sight, believe yourself to be gazing upon a scene of natural life and beauty. The lights and shadows seem to be continually shifting, the trees to be waving their branches, and the streamlet running along in murmuring gladness. The clouds appear to be settling slowly down upon the distant mountains, while it distinctly seems to you that the cattle, grazing in the meadows, are moving lazily along, half wearied out by the incessant buzzing of the hovering insects.

So it is with the music of the upper life. It approaches as near the harmonious, perfect blending of the various parts of the human voice as can be imagined; and the utterances of the poets partake of the life of the giver, and are animated with true fire and vigor, which is of itself a part of that Eternal Voice that is the author and sustainer of all life and being.

But these spirit artists are by no means satisfied with what they have produced; they see something grander, more beautiful, sublime, and perfect, which they are striving to attain. Their ideal is as yet unexpressed; but, with the perfect development of the soul and its possibilities, all that is ever dreamed of must find expression in the outworkings of the spirit.

But I have found that, with all its striving to emulate and express the workings of Nature, in its perfect form, that the soul of the true artist, poet, and songster finds its keenest delight in stamping its poems, paintings, and songs upon the receptive human mind that is ready to receive; that the true poet breathes his fiery inspirations upon the slumbering soul, awakening it to life and activity, bringing to it an enjoyment and appreciation of the beauties of the inner life, and of the splendors of natural creation; that the true artist paints in glowing colors on the sensitive souls of mortals a beautiful landscape of the higher life, which arouses those souls to a realizing sense of the beautiful, and develops within them an ideal, for which they will ever strive; that the true musician and singer sends his sweet strains echoing through the souls of mortals, developing their sweetest, noblest powers, to bless and enrich the musical world; and that the true sculptor finds his delight in molding and carving out the possibilities of those he can approach, of chiseling and chipping away all that is detrimental to the spirit’s growth, and bringing forth to light an angel of power and beauty from the rough, unpolished mass of individuality. In short, that the workers of the higher life do not find enjoyment in bringing their own productions to earth, but their highest blessing and privilege is in being able to impress, work upon, and guide the hidden, inner powers of souls in mortal forms until they develop the beauty and glory within them, and awaken their spirits to an understanding of beautiful life, an appreciation of the good and true, and a knowledge of the possibility of the power that is theirs.

Not alone were my visits confined to the Temple of Art; although attracted to that place by the laws of sympathy and association, yet my desire to gain knowledge and a comprehension of truth led me, in company with other inquiring minds, to visit the Spiritual Congress, and to pay marked attention to the learned and honorable body there assembled, and busily employed in devising various schemes for the enlightenment, amelioration, and welfare of humanity; to visit the Wisdom Circles, and receive enlightenment upon the laws governing life and its unfoldments; and to visit our medical colleges and learn of the true method, not of curing disease, but of preventing sickness and preserving health. And I tell you that humanity on earth have yet to learn more of medical and legal jurisprudence than has ever been dreamed of by mortals.

But I must draw this narrative to a close. I might go on multiplying my experiences almost ad infinitum had I the time and space; but such has not been my object in coming. I have endeavored to show you how a spirit, weighed down by its consciousness of misspent days and misapplied powers and energies, bowed down by its load of past wrong-doing and follies, darkened by its work neglected, and duties unfulfilled, may be able, by the desire of his own soul, and the aid and sympathy of others, to rise out of his darkened condition into the light, to work his salvation from sin and his way to righteousness. But it was no easy task. I have not given you an account of all the fiery temptations that assailed me in my search for the better life, or the bitter struggles my soul passed through ere it became the master.

Through devious ways and tortuous paths the soul must pass that has done wrong to itself and others; but if it is in earnest in its desire to become better, if it craves strength and aid from the higher powers, if it reaches its aspirations out toward the better, purer, grander life of the spirit, be sure that it must and will succeed.

I can dimly perceive that away down in the distant future humanity is to broaden and develop into the perfect type of angelhood; that the divinest attributes of the soul are yet to govern and control the body; and ignorance, darkness, and crime flee before the dawning light of knowledge and wisdom; and that human life is to become illuminated with the glory of universal love and harmony.

I can believe that the “good time coming,” “the year of jubilee,” “the millennium,” so long foretold by prophet and seer, so often mentioned in song and story, the poet’s dream and the idealist’s fancy, is yet to dawn upon the awakened world; when man, become strong through the educators of love and sympathy, made wise by the acquirement of knowledge, and the recognition of truth, shall look upon all humans as his brothers and sisters, shall learn that war is a crime against the human family, and tyranny, injustice, and oppression sins against the Holy Ghost. Then shall mankind fraternize, and nations sit down in universal peace. I believe that the human form is yet to bear the stamp and impress of all that is lovely and divine.

I was with a friend at a convocation of spirits, where were gathered together a large throng of refined, intelligent beings, each one marked with a beauty all his or her own, and I amused myself by comparing the different individuals with the beautiful forms in nature which they reminded me of, and the resemblance—so to speak—was so apparent that I called my friend’s attention to it by remarking:

“Did you ever observe that there is a certain resemblance between humanity and the forms of Nature? For instance, yonder lady, with her pure, white face, daintily-carved features, and lithe, willowy form, reminds me of nothing but a stately garden-lily, shimmering with whiteness; and that laughing, rosy-cheeked sprite beside her, with her rounded form and well-developed features, is very like the royal blush-rose of summer.”

“Very true,” replied my friend; “and over there you note the speaker; does not his massive frame, well-proportioned limbs, lofty brow, and shining features remind you of some mighty bowlder, uprearing its head with a consciousness of might and grandeur?”

“He does, indeed; the shadow of a great rock in a weary land; and just beside him rests one whose tall, straight form, beneficent looks, and air of protectiveness calls to mind the forest tree with its ample provision of kindly shade and shelter.”

And so we went on, drawing our comparisons,—one, with her calm, benignant smile, and a wealth of love and sympathy welling up from her nature, and expressing itself in the depths of her shining eyes, we likened to the smiling, open sea, overflowing with its wealth, and watering and refreshing the earth. Another, who was bubbling over with a superabundance of merriment and joy, we likened to the laughing, gurgling streamlet that overleaps all bounds, and speeds merrily along its way. One, of majestic form, replete with vital force, with a look of concentrated determination in his face, and an expression of energetic power impressed upon him, reminded us of the ocean, mighty in its majesty and power. One shone like the sun, another sparkled like a sunbeam; one brought an air of refreshing coolness with her, another glowed and glimmered like the autumn days.

“The fact of it is,” said my friend, “all that there is good and beautiful in nature is personified and individualized, so to speak, in the higher types of humanity. All the richness and splendor of creation culminate their grandest expressions in the human form; and when spirituality has ripened and developed the soul, its outer tenement will become so harmonized with the natural life of creation, so blended with the external manifestations of God, that it will become permeated with His life, and will reflect all the beauty and fragrance, all the grace and symmetry, of His works. Do you understand?”

I did, but I know not that I make it plain to mortals; suffice it to say, that I believe the day is coming when each soul shall have grown so in harmony with the laws of life that it will reflect upon its outward form only the beautiful and the good.

I had not long returned to spirit life ere I again met my former friend and teacher, “Benja, the missionary.” The sage was engaged in his usual employment of aiding souls in need. The pleasure of our meeting was mutual, but cannot be expressed by mortal pen; it was of the soul, true and fervent, and shone in the speaking eye and upon the trembling lip. Since that time I have often sought the company of the sage, and always with profit to myself. He has been an invaluable guide to me in my search for knowledge, and has lifted my spirit into a pure atmosphere. Spirit life is full of such workers, and by their efforts, combined with the desires of sin-sick souls to become better, we look for the redemption of the human race from error.

And now, good friends, you, unto whom I have revealed a few of the most vitalizing experiences of my spiritual life, I feel that I must draw these papers to a close, and, taking each one of you spiritually by the hand, bid you go on with your efforts in self-culture and advancement; and God speed you forward in your work for your own souls and for humanity.

Again I say, it is impossible for me to convey to you anything more than a mere outline of the inner experience of the spirit; each one of you must undergo the process for yourselves ere you can realize how intense in thought and feeling, and how thoroughly quickened into life, are all the sensations of spiritual existence. In fact, spirit is all thought, all sense, and it is as impossible to escape from ourselves, and the consequences of our lives, as it is to exist without the ordinary mode of respiration.

Hence, let me entreat you to endeavor constantly and earnestly to so live that only the reflection of a pure life shall cast itself over your spirit; that only the recollection of good accomplished and evil resisted shall visit your soul when you have attained the immortal heights of the other world.

But, ere I close, I feel that I must say a word in regard to the cause that lies nearest my heart. Interested as I am, and must be, in all movements of reform, all methods of advancement calculated to ameliorate the condition of humanity, and eager as I am to see the race moving along upon a higher, purer, more spiritualized plane of life, yet my soul’s best endeavors must be employed in the temperance cause. As one who has sinned and suffered, as one who has experienced the agony and the vicissitudes of intemperance, I feel it my duty to hang out a warning flag to others that shall be a signal of danger to those who look that way.

Sad, aye, too, too sad it is that, while women weep and children wail because of the misery entailed upon them, spirit life is crowded with souls that have passed out from earth with the taint of intemperance defiling their persons and dragging them downward. No wonder, then, that the angels weep in pity; no wonder that noble souls come thronging back, pleading with you to seek for good, to resist evil, and to uplift your head above the haunts of wrong and wickedness.

How long, aye, how long shall this state of things continue to exist? When shall the morning dawn that shall usher in a new day, a day of universal temperance and purity on earth? When shall the darkness break, and a new era of light, of knowledge and wisdom, come flooding in upon us? Not until man shall study the laws of his own being, and, so studying, learn to live in harmony with those laws. Not until every man and every woman becomes a physiologist, understanding the structure and composition of his or her own organism, and learning of that wisdom which says: “Partake of nothing but what assimilates with the component parts of your body, or satisfies the natural demands of nature.” Not until men and women study the law of heredity, of transmission, which teaches that whatever trait of character, whatever peculiarity of disposition, whatever fatal appetite or habit the parents possess, is transmitted to their offspring, either in a modified or aggravated degree, and is sure to crop out somewhere and at some time in one form or another. Not until humanity, learning these truths, live up to them in obedience to all their requirements will the day of universal happiness, peace, and purity dawn upon earth.

I am rejoiced to find that a public sentiment is being created in regard to this subject,—a public sentiment that is felt throughout the length and breadth of nations,—a sentiment in favor of suppressing the manufacture and sale of alcoholic liquors, and of seeking to elevate and promote the cause of temperance, at all times and in all places. It has crept into the churches, and now the clergy dare utter sentiments in its favor; it makes itself heard in the street, and upon the rostrum; it enters our legislative halls, and demands a hearing; and it has formed organizations, the power and influence of which are felt everywhere. So much for the cause of temperance; and, encouraged by public sentiment, it must and shall prosper, and eventually triumph. A public sentiment in its favor must continue to grow until the manufacture and sale of alcohol as a beverage will be universally admitted to be a crime against humanity; no man who cares for the opinion of his fellows (and what man does not?) dare to engage in the business, and intemperance be so generally looked upon as an evil that no man will or woman will raise the wine-cup to his or her lips. That time must come, and may God and angels hasten the day.

Now, a few closing words to those unfortunates who are addicted to the habit of intemperance: my whole soul goes out to you in sympathy, and, were it possible, I would lift you all upon a platform of mental strength and moral integrity. I do not condemn, I pity; I dare not censure, I sympathize. From my own experience I know the road you have to travel, and, if I could, I would enfold you in that divine strength that would enable you to crush the serpent under your feet. Let me implore you, out of the deep compassion of my soul, to endeavor, with all your determined will-power and firmness, to throw off the fatal habit that binds you; to become free beings, slaves of no appetite nor passion; to crush them down and assert your manhood. Thus, with the love and aid of the angels, you will become pure, and worthy of their companionship. Go on, and heaven bless you in your efforts for selfredemption.

And now, good friends, adieu. May the angels of love and harmony, of purity and peace, abide with you always, fitting your lives for a habitation of light, and an experience of joy in the spirit world.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.