 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XVII.
In looking over some of my letters, my spirit stands reproved
for its sadness. In this working-day world, where
the bravest have need of all their buoyancy and strength, it
is sinful to add our sorrows to the common load. Blessed
are the missionaries of cheerfulness!
And see the crown acknowledged, that we earn;
To feel one's self, in hours serene and still,
One of the spirits chosen by Heaven to turn
The sunny side of things to human eyes.”
The fault was in my own spirit rather than in the streets
of New-York. “Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
though all around is beautiful.” Had my soul been
at one with Nature and with God, I should not have seen
only misery and vice in my city rambles. To-day, I have
been so happy in Broadway! A multitude of doves went
careering before me. Now wheeling in graceful circles,
their white wings and breasts glittering in the sunshine;
now descending within the shadow of the houses, like a
cloud; now soaring high up in the sky, till they seemed
immense flocks of dusky butterflies; and ever as I walked
they went before me, with most loving companionship.
If they had anything to say to me, I surely understood
their language, though I heard it not; for through my
whole frame there went a feathery buoyancy, a joyous uprising
from the earth, as if I too had wings, with conscious
power to use them. Then they brought such sweet
images to my mind! I remembered the story of the pirate
hardened in blood and crime, who listened to the notes of
a turtle-dove in the stillness of evening. Perhaps he had
never before heard the soothing tones of love. They spoke
to his inmost soul, like the voice of an angel; and wakened
such response there, that he thenceforth became a holy
man. Then I thought how I would like to have this the
mission of my spirit; to speak to hardened and suffering
hearts, in the tones of a turtle-dove.
My flying companions brought before me another picture
which has had a place in the halls of memory for several
years. I was once visiting a friend in prison for debt;
and through the grated window, I could see the outside of
the criminals' apartments. On the stone ledges, beneath
hands were thrust out between the iron bars, to sprinkle
crumbs for them. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
Hearts that still loved to feed doves certainly must contain
somewhat that might be reached by the voice of kindness.
I had not then reasoned on the subject; but I felt, even
then, that prisons were not such spiritual hospitals as ought
to be provided for erring brothers. The birds themselves
were not of snowy plumage; their little, rose-coloured feet
were spattered with mud, and their feathers were soiled,
as if they, too, were jail birds. The outward influences of
a city had passed over them, as the inward had over those who
fed them; nevertheless, they are doves, said I, and have
all a dove's instincts. It was a significant lesson, and I
laid it to my heart.
But these Broadway doves, ever wheeling before me in
graceful eddies, why did their aërial frolic produce such
joyous elasticity in my physical frame? Was it sympathy
with nature, so intimate that her motions became my own?
Or was it a revealing that the spiritual body had wings,
wherewith I should hereafter fly?
The pleasant, buoyant sensation recalled to my mind a
dream which I read, many years ago, in Doddridge's Life
and Correspondence. I will not vouch for it, that my copy
is a likeness of the original. If anything is added, I know
not where I obtained it, unless Doddridge himself has since
told me. I surely have no intention to add of my own. I
do not profess to give anything like the language; for the
words have passed from my memory utterly. As I remember
the dream, it was thus:
Dr. Doddridge had been spending the evening with his
friend, Dr. Watts. Their conversation had been concerning
the future existence of the soul. Long and earnestly
they pursued the theme; and both came to the conclusion,
(rather a remarkable one for theologians of that day to arrive
eternity; that each soul must necessarily be an individual,
and have its appropriate employment for thought and affection.
As Doddridge walked home, his mind brooded over
these ideas, and took little cognizance of outward matters.
In this state he laid his head upon the pillow and fell asleep.
He dreamed that he was dying; he saw his weeping friends
round his bedside, and wanted to speak to them, but could
not. Presently there came a nightmare sensation. His
soul was about to leave the body; but how would it get
out? More and more anxiously rose the query, how could
it get out? This uneasy state passed away; and he found
that the soul had left his body. He himself stood beside the
bed, looking at his own corpse, as if it were an old garment,
laid aside as useless. His friends wept round the mortal
covering, but could not see him.
While he was reflecting upon this, he passed out of the
room, he knew not how; but presently he found himself
floating over London, as if pillowed on a cloud borne by
gentle breezes. Far below him, the busy multitude were
hurrying hither and thither, like rats and mice scampering
for crumbs. “Ah,” thought the emancipated spirit, “how
worse than foolish appears this feverish scramble. For
what do they toil? and what do they obtain?”
London passed away beneath him, and he found himself
floating over green fields and blooming gardens. How is
it that I am borne through the air? thought he. He looked,
and saw a large purple wing; and then he knew that
he was carried by an angel. “Whither are we going?”
said he. “To Heaven,” was the reply. He asked no
more questions; but remained in delicious quietude, as if
they floated on a strain of music. At length they paused
before a white marble temple, of exquisite beauty. The
angel lowered his flight, and gently placed him on the steps.
“I thought you were taking me to Heaven,” said the spirit.
this temple is of rare beauty; but I could imagine just such
built on earth.” “Nevertheless, it is Heaven,” replied the
angel.
They entered a room just within the temple. A table
stood in the centre, on which was a golden vase, filled with
sparkling wine. “Drink of this,” said the angel, offering
the vase; “for all who would know spiritual things, must
first drink of spiritual wine.” Scarcely had the ruby liquid
wet his lips, when the Saviour of men stood before him,
smiling most benignly. The spirit instantly dropped on
his knees, and bowed down his head before Him. The
holy hands of the Purest were folded over him in blessing;
and his voice said, “You will see me seldom now; hereafter,
you will see me more frequently. In the meantime,
observe well the wonders of this temple!”
The sounds ceased. The spirit remained awhile in
stillness. When he raised his head, the Saviour no longer
appeared. He turned to ask the angel what this could
mean; but the angel had departed also. The soul stood
alone, in its own unveiled presence! “Why did the Holy
One tell me to observe well the wonders of this temple?”
thought he. He looked slowly round. A sudden start of
joy and wonder! There, painted on the walls, in most marvellous
beauty, stood recorded the whole of his spiritual life!
Every doubt, and every clear perception, every conflict and
every victory, were there before him! and though forgotten
for years, he knew them at a glance. Even thus had a
sunbeam pierced the darkest cloud, and thrown a rainbow
bridge from the finite to the infinite; thus had he slept
peacefully in green valleys, by the side of running brooks;
and such had been his visions from the mountain tops. He
knew them all. They had been always painted within the
chambers of his soul; but now, for the first time, was the
veil removed.
To those who think on spiritual things, this remarkable
dream is too deeply and beautifully significant ever to be
forgotten.
Of which the coming life is made,
And fill our Future's atmosphere
With sunshine or with shade.
Still shall the soul around it call
The shadows which it gathered here,
And painted on the eternal wall
The Past shall reappear.”
I do not mean that the paintings, and statues, and houses,
which a man has made on earth, will form his environment
in the world of souls; this would monopolize Heaven for
the wealthy and the cultivated. I mean that the spiritual
combats and victories of our pilgrimage, write themselves
there above, in infinite variations of form, colour, and tone;
and thus shall every word and thought be brought unto judgment.
Of these things inscribed in Heaven, who can tell
what may be the action upon souls newly born into time?
Perhaps all lovely forms of Art are mere ultimates of spiritual
victories in individual souls. It may be that all genius
derives its life from some holiness, which preceded it, in
the attainment of another spirit. Who shall venture to
assert that Beethoven could have produced his strangely
powerful music, had not souls gone before him on earth,
who with infinite struggling against temptation, aspired toward
the Highest, and in some degree realized their aspiration?
The music thus brought from the eternal world
kindles still higher spiritual aspirations in mortals, to be
realized in this life, and again written above, to inspire
anew some gifted spirit, who stands a ready recipient
in the far-off time. Upon this ladder, how beautifully the
angels are seen ascending and descending!
| Letters from New York | |