"Of course it has," she answered, "my personality is just the old personality of my earth-life, and I should not wish it to be otherwise. To awaken after the change, which you call death, only to find that one's personality had been transformed into that of another person—no matter how excellent that other person might be—would not be immortality but transmutation. But you were about to ask me a question concerning my brother before we got upon the subject of personality," she continued; "you didn't put your question into words, but your looks expressed it, and thoughts cannot be concealed in the spirit-world."
"Yes," I said, "I had a question to ask you, and it is this: You know how surprised I was to find that heaven and hell are not, as I supposed, separate places. Now what is God's reason for allowing the good and the bad to exist together here, as they do on earth? Is it because He shrinks from breaking up the old family-life (as it must be broken, if right-doers and wrong-doers be set apart), and because He would still use the influence of the good to reclaim the evil?"
"Even that," she said, "I cannot tell you, for I am a mere child in His kingdom. I do know that many of heaven's noblest are engaged, as I am, in striving to stir up souls to repentance; but whether our efforts to save the sinner from his sin after death are of any avail, I cannot say positively, for it has not been given me to know. We are told that after His death our crucified Lord preached to the spirits in prison; and although the theologians will explain it all away for you if you will let them, I believe that He came here to hell in search of the so-called lost, and I don't think I can be doing anything opposed to His will, in trying all I can to save my brother."
"When you and I were on earth together," she continued, after a pause, "you once sent me a copy of the Contemporary Review, containing an article written by Dr. Knighton. The name of the article was 'Conversations with Carlyle,' and the writer related one conversation in which I was very much interested, and which I have often thought of since. I read it so many times, that I think I can remember it word for word.
"'I was going to tell you about an Indian poem which some one sent me translated,' said Carlyle. 'I think it was called the "Mahabarat." It describes seven sons as going off to seek their fortunes. They all go different ways, and six of them land in hell after many adventures. The seventh is of nobler seed; he perseveres, fights his way manfully through great trials. His faithful dog, an ugly little monster, but very faithful, dies at last. He, himself, fainting, and well-nigh despairing, meets an old man, Indra disguised, who offers to open for him the gates of heaven. "But where are my brothers?" he asks; "are they there?" "No, they are all in hell." "Then I will go to hell too, and stop with them, unless you get them out." So saying, he turns off and trudges away. Indra pities him, and gets his brothers out of hell. The six enter heaven first, the seventh stops. "My poor faithful dog," says he; "I will not leave him." Indra remonstrates, but it is useless. The faithful dog, ugly as he was, is too well remembered, and he will not have paradise without it. He succeeds finally, Indra relents, and lets even the dog in. But, sir,' added Carlyle, 'there is more pathos about that dog than in a thousand of our modern novels, pathos enough to make a man sit down and cry almost.'"
"Yes," I said, "I remember the story well. I wonder what old Carlyle would say about it now? Have you ever seen him here? or Emerson? or Richter? or Robertson of Brighton?"
"Robertson!" she answered; "as yet I know only one of the many circles into which the spirit-world seems naturally to resolve it; but I suspect that if you and I could see where Robertson is, we should find him infinitely nearer to the Father-heart of the universe than I at least can for countless ages ever hope to attain!"
"What do you mean by 'circles'?" I said. "Am I to understand that there is a kind of sifting and sorting process going on, by which each human soul is, on its arrival here, assigned a fitting place and level among his or her spiritual fellows?"
"I don't know that I should express it quite in those words," she answered, "although I cannot think just now of a less clumsy way of putting it, but there is some such gathering of like to like as that of which you speak. The majority begin, as we did, in this lower circle, and remain here until they are fitted to move onward to a higher sphere. Others take a place in that higher sphere immediately, and some few are led into the Holy Presence straightway. To die is not to close the eyes on earth merely to open them the next minute in heaven; it is not a sudden transition from darkness to light, or from light to darkness. No, it is a slow and gradual awakening, for no human soul could bear so sudden a shock. Your own transition was, comparatively speaking, an exceptionally rapid one, but I know of some who have been 'changed' for a quarter of a century, and are only now becoming conscious of the fact. Of one thing you may be certain, and that is that God is never in a hurry in the education of a human soul. He works in this world as in the natural one, not by fits and starts and sudden convulsions, but by slow and imperceptible developments, and none but Himself knows what He is going to make of us before He has done—if indeed He ever will have done, which I question. Whatever sphere of work He may assign to us here is the one for which He has all along been preparing us. Our Saviour told the disciples that in His Father's house were many mansions, not one big one where they were all to dwell together, but 'many mansions,' and that He went to prepare a place for them; and you may be positive that He would not so have spoken were not some individual preparation necessary.
"I do not know in which of these 'mansions of the blest' Frederick Robertson, of whom you ask, is now dwelling, but you must not think because his spiritual circle is far removed from mine that all communication and companionship are cut off between us. On the contrary, he is often, very often, here, and I have not seldom held soul-communion with him and felt his spirit near to me. This circle, however, is but the outer edge of the spirit-world—only one step, indeed, removed from the life of the earth and of the body—and I don't think we are capable yet of understanding the finer distinctions of spiritual companionship." And then her voice seemed to sound to me like the voice of one in the far distance, I felt the darkness closing in upon me on every side, and knew that my hour of punishment was again at hand.