A year or two afterwards, this child was very ill, and they told her the doctor said she would die. She looked up smiling in her mother’s face, and said, with joyful simplicity, ‘I shall see dear aunt Betsy before you do, mother.’ What a beautiful lesson!
So important do I consider cheerful associations with death, that I wish to see our grave-yards laid out with walks, and trees, and beautiful shrubs, as places of public promenade. We ought not to draw such a line of separation between those who are living in this world, and those who are alive in another. A cherished feeling of tenderness for the dead is a beautiful trait in the Catholic religion. The prayers that continue to be offered for the departed, the offering of flowers upon the tomb, the little fragrant wreath held in the cold hand of the dead infant,—all these things are beautiful and salutary. It may be thought such customs are merely poetic; but I think they perform a much higher use than merely pleasing the fancy; I believe they help to give permanently cheerful impressions of our last great change. It is difficult for the wisest of us to tell out of what trifles our prejudices and opinions have been gradually composed.
A friend, who had resided some time in Brazil, told an anecdote, which was extremely pleasing to me, on account of the distinct and animating faith it implied. When walking on the beach, he overtook a negro woman, carrying a large tray upon her head. Thinking she had fruit or flowers to sell, he called to her to stop. On being asked what she had in her tray, she lowered the burthen upon the sand, and gently uncovered it. It was a dead negro babe, covered with a neat white robe, with a garland around its head, and a bunch of flowers in the little hands, that lay clasped upon its bosom. ‘Is this your child?’ asked my friend. ‘It was mine a few day’s ago,’ she said; ‘but it is the Madonna’s now. I am carrying it to the church to be buried. It is a little angel now.’ ‘How beautifully you have laid it out!’ said the traveller. ‘Ah,’ replied the negro, ‘that is nothing compared to the beautiful bright wings with which it is flying through heaven!’
With regard to supernatural appearances, I think they should never be spoken of as objects of terror, neither should the possibility be treated as ridiculous. If we treat such subjects with contempt and utter unbelief, we at once involve ourselves in contradiction; for we tell our children they must believe the Bible; and in the Bible they read of angels holding intercourse with men, and of the dead rising from their graves.
Some say, keep children in utter ignorance of such subjects; but that is not possible. They will find them mentioned in Scripture, and in nine tenths of the books not expressly written for childhood. Our utmost care cannot keep such ideas from entering their minds; and my own opinion is, that it is not desirable we should. I believe that children may be taught to think of supernatural appearances, not only without terror, but with actual pleasure. It is a solemn and mysterious subject, and should not be introduced uselessly; but if children asked questions of their own accord, I should answer them according to what I believed to be the truth. I should tell them I believed the dead were living, speaking and thinking beings, just like ourselves; that they were happy in heaven in proportion as they were good on earth; that in ancient times, when men were innocent, angels used to come and see them, and that they loved to see them; but that now men were so wicked they could not see angels—the holy and beautiful privilege had been lost by indulging in evil; that angels full of love watched over the good, and rejoiced when they put away a wicked thought, or conquered a wicked feeling; but that we cannot see them any more than the blind man can see the sun when it is shining upon him. I would tell them that the wicked, by indulging evil, go away from the influence of God and angels, and that is the reason they are afraid; that men who have been bad in this world are bad in another, and delight to see us indulge in sin; but that God protects us always, and we need not be afraid of anything that is evil, except the evil in our own hearts; that if we try to be good, God and his angels will guard over us and teach us what we ought to do; and that evil spirits can have no power to tempt us, or to make us afraid, except the power we give them by indulging our own evil passions.
I am aware that my views on this subject will differ from many of my readers; but through the whole of this book I have endeavored to speak what appeared to me to be the honest truth, without any reference to what might be thought of it. I believe that a child would have no sort of fear of subjects they heard thus familiarly and plainly dealt with. In one or two instances, the experiment has been tried with perfect success. The children to whom I allude never have an idea of seeing spirits; but they think Abraham and Jacob, who used to see them, must have been very happy. They are familiar with the idea that if they indulge in evil, they put themselves under the influence of spirits like themselves; but they have not the slightest fear of seeing them. They know that they have spiritual eyes, with which they see in their dreams, and will see in heaven; and that they have bodily eyes, with which they see the material things of this world; but they know very well that spiritual forms cannot be seen by the natural organs of sight.
If my advice on this mysterious subject seems to you absurd, or impracticable, reject it, in the same freedom that I have given it. But let me ask you one question—Did you ever know fear upon these subjects overcome by ridicule, or by arguments to prove there were no such things as supernatural appearances? I once knew a strong-minded man, who prided himself upon believing nothing which he could not see, touch, and understand. (How he believed in the existence of his own soul, I do not know.) His children, from some cause or other, had their minds excited on the subject of visions. The father told them it was all nonsense—that there was not a word of truth in anything of the sort. ‘But Jesus Christ appeared to his disciples, after he was dead,’ said one of the boys. ‘Oh, that was a miracle,’ replied the father: ‘sit down, and I will tell you a beautiful ghost-story.’ Then he told a long story of a man, who several times saw his deceased friend all dressed in white, seated in his arm-chair, wearing exactly the same wig he had always worn in his life-time. The story was wrought up with a good deal of skill. The gloom of twilight, the melancholy smile of the phantom, the terror of the spectator, were all eloquently described. The children stared their eyes almost out of their heads. At last, the end of the story came,—‘A servant entered with a light, and the old man in the arm-chair proved to be—a great white dog!’
But what was the effect on the children? Did such a story calm or satisfy their minds? No. It terrified them greatly. For months after, they were afraid to go into the dark, lest they should see—a great white dog.
While I represented the intercourse with angels as a privilege that belonged to purity and innocence, I would as much as possible keep from the knowledge of children all those frightful stories to which remorse and disease have given birth. Should any such come in their way, I would represent them as the effects of a guilty conscience, or disordered nerves, both of which produce a species of insanity; and at the same time I would talk of the love and protection of their heavenly Father, reminding them that every time they resisted what was wrong, they put themselves more and more under the blessed influence of God and his holy angels.