Dawn

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"Yet I know that you, Basil, could write one, and make it full and
perfect."

"I could make one full of words, if not of thought; but come, the
night is passing, we shall scarce have an hour's rest before
sunrise."

"Indeed, I think we are in a fair way to see its early brightness."

To their dreams and life we will leave them awhile, knowing that to
such hearts will ever come peace, whether sleeping or waking.

Past midnight, that silent hour when the earth is peopled with other
forms. It is the hour for the brain to receive the most subtle
influences, whether sleeping or waking.

Some kinds of sleep bring us brighter states than day gives us. They
are awakenings, in which the understanding, instead of being
dethroned, acquires a power and vivacity beyond what it possesses
when the external form is awake and active. The soul seems
emancipated from earthly trammels. The ruling thought of a man's
life is not unlikely to shape itself into dreams, the constant
thought of the day may encroach on the quiet of the night. Thus
Columbus dreamed that a voice said unto him, "God will give thee the
keys of the gates of the ocean." So any earnest longing, resting on
our minds when we composed ourselves to sleep, may pass over into
our sleeping consciousness, and be reproduced, perhaps in some
happier mood.

Modern writers on the phenomena of sleep, usually concur in the
assertion that man's sleeping thoughts are meaningless, and that
dreams are, therefore, untrustworthy. Such was not the opinion of
our ancestors. They attached great importance to dreams and their
interpretations. They had resort to them for guidance in cases of
difficulty, or great calamity. We do not claim for all dreams, a
divine or reliable character, but that some are to be trusted, every
individual of any experience can testify. Plato assumes that all
dreams might be trusted, if men would only bring their bodies into
such a state, before going to sleep, as to leave nothing that might
occasion error or perturbation in their dreams.

A young lady, a native of Ross-shire, in Scotland, who was devotedly
attached to an officer, with Sir John Moore in the Spanish war,
became alarmed at the constant danger to which her lover was
exposed, until she pined, and fell into ill health. Finally, one
night in a dream, she saw him pale, bloody, and wounded in the
breast, enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains of the bed,
and with a mild look, told her he had been slain in battle, bidding
her, at the same time, to be comforted, and not take his death to
heart.

The consequence of the dream was fatal to the poor girl, who died a
few days afterward, desiring her parents to note down the date of
her dream, which she was confident would be confirmed. It was so.
The news shortly after reached England that the officer had fallen
at the battle of Corunna, on the very day in the night of which his
betrothed had beheld the vision.

Another, a lady residing in Rome, dreamed that her mother, who had
been several years dead, appeared to her, gave her a lock of hair,
and said, "Be especially careful of this lock of hair, my child, for
it is your father's, and the angels will call him away from you
to-morrow."

The effect of the dream on her mind was such, that, when she awoke,
she experienced the greatest alarm, and caused a telegraphic notice
to be instantly dispatched to England, were her father was, to
inquire after his health. No immediate reply was received; but, when
it did come, it was to the effect that her father had died that
morning at nine o'clock. She afterwards learned, that, two days
before his death, he had caused to be cut off, a lock of his hair,
and handed it to one of his daughters, who was attending on him,
telling her it was for her sister in Rome.

Well authenticated cases might be multiplied till they filled
volumes; but the two we have cited, suffice to prove that in
sleeping, as well as in waking hours, our minds may receive
impressions of truth, or, that the spirit goes out to other scenes,
and there takes cognizance of events and conditions.

Dawn slept on; her beautiful white face was still and upturned, as
though gazing into the heavens. The excitement of the day had gone,
and the look of keen pleasure on her features was changed to one of
intensest emotion, for she was away, her spirit beside one whose
life seemed almost ebbing out of this state of existence. She saw
his pale features half hidden in the snowy pillows, the deep, soft
eyes looking as though in search of one they loved; and then she
heard him call her name, in tones touching and tender. She wept, and
awoke. The sun was shining brightly through the window. She arose,
and dressed for her departure, and, to the surprise of her friend,
announced her intention of leaving that morning for home.

"You are no more to be depended on than the rest of your sex, Miss
Wyman," remarked Mr. Austin, who really enjoyed having her with
them.

She was in no mood to reply in the same spirit, but said quietly:

"I have concluded not to tire you out completely this time, for I
want to come again."

"I think your going must be the result of some very hasty
conclusion, Dawn. I had no intimation of it last evening. Really,
unless you are ill, you are quite unfair to leave us so soon." Mrs.
Austin having made this remark, glanced for the first time at Dawn's
white face. What had come over her? Was it Dawn who sat there so
still and white? "Are you ill?" she asked, the tremor of her voice
betraying her deep solicitude for the welfare of her visitor.

"No; but anxious. I must go to-day, however, or I shall be sick, and
on your hands."

"I'd a deal rather you should be on my hands, than weighing on my
heart, as you are now," and Mrs. Austin expressed the hope, after
her husband had left, that she would confide to her the cause of her
departure and sudden appearance of illness.

"I have had an unpleasant dream," said Dawn, when they were alone,
feeling that some explanation was due her friend, "and I must go
home."

"A dream! O, fie, I never mind them. Why, I once had a most
frightful one about Ned. He was away on a journey, and I dreamt that
the boat caught fire, and every one on board was lost. I even went
so far as too see a messenger coming to tell me of the disaster."

"But had not your mind been agitated through the day?"

"Why, I had read of some dreadful disasters, to be sure, and then I
had retired at a late hour, after getting my mind wrought up about
the liabilities of danger, which, of course, accounted for it-but
was your dream about your father?"

"No."

"Why must you go? Do you think any one is in danger? I think it was
the result of the long ride, don't you?

"I do not. My dream was purely impressional, and outside of the
effect of daily incidents. Yes, I must go, Fannie, and right away."

"In that case I shall ride home with you," and she rang for the man
to harness the horse.

Each busy with her own thoughts they rode in silence for a long
distance, a silence which was only broken by Dawn's exclamation of
pleasure, as they came in sight of her home.

The next day she sat beside the bed of Ralph, whose snow-white face
and attenuated form, showed how fast he was passing away.

He gazed long and tenderly into her face, as she sat there, their
souls holding their last earthly communion. His spirit was all aglow
with life, and trust, while the shadow of separation rested on her,
and dimmed her faith and vision.

"But for a little while, Dawn, and then we shall meet again;
perhaps, to be united."

How the words entered her heart, for now, under the cloud, she felt,
O how keenly, that her state had hastened him home. His was the
vine-like nature that must cling to another, or die. It was all dark
to her then, and added to the pang of separation, was the thought of
her cold indifference. He, all gentleness and love, lie in rays of
light; all her vision and life had gone into him to help him over
the river.

"And you do not dread to go, Ralph?" she said, her voice choking
with emotion.

"Fear? I only long to do so; to be there, where all is peace and
rest;" and the rapt, upturned gaze, confirmed his words.

"It will be always day there," he continued; "none of these weary
nights which have been so long and lonely-"

"O, Ralph, live; live for me. I have been blind and wayward. O, come
back, and we will live for each other."

"In my father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for
you."

The words sounded far, far away.

"Yes, we will live together above, not here. God has so ordered it,
my own Dawn. I shall be light, perhaps, to you, even in that far-off
land. Nay, 'tis not 'far'; 't is here. I shall dwell in your heart
close-close-closer than ever."

He closed his eyes and rested for a few moments. Then, arousing, he
clasped her hands firmly, as though he would bear her away with him
as he took his heavenward flight.

"Look there," he said, "the river! go close with me-for this is our
last moment. Dawn, I am yours; not even death can part us. I am not
going; I am coming closer than any earthly relation could bring me
to you; coming-call them."

Parents and sister stood beside the bed with tearful eyes. To them
he was going far away.

Dawn saw not the death-dew on the marble brow, nor heeded the
passing breath. Another sight was given her, and while they stood so
statue-like with anguish, her eyes beheld a soft mist gather like
snowflakes on the head; and while the breath grew quick and short,
this seemed to pulsate with life, until a face was outlined there.
That face the same, yet not the same, but her own dear Ralph's,
immortalized, set in a softer, finer light. Her being pulsated with
new joy. A tide of life seemed to have flown into her heart, leaving
no room for pain.

A moan struck on her ear; so sad that she started, and the vision
fled.

"O, Ralph, my own loved boy; he's gone, he's gone," burst from the
mother's sorrowing heart, as they bore her from the room.

Marion stood dumb with grief, while the poor stricken father bowed
his head and wept bitter tears for his lost son.

Had Dawn no grief, that she could stand there and look so calmly on?
What made her feel so indifferent to the dead form on which she
gazed? Because his life, the life that had once animated it, had
passed into hers, and they were one and united. Ralph, warm with
life, was imaged in her heart and mind. The clay he bore about him,
that husk, had no claim upon her being now, and with scarce a look
at the body, she walked away.

"I think she could never have loved him, or she would not seem so
cold," were the words that floated to her as she passed from the
room where lay all that was mortal of Ralph.

It was as near as she could expect to be understood here, in a world
where so much of her real self was hidden; but such words touched
her sensibilities none the less, notwithstanding her philosophy.
They went deep, like an arrow, into her heart, and then she knew
that the house of mourning was no place for her; that she must go,
and to the world appear cold and unfeeling, while her heart was
ready to burst with its deep emotion.

She left them, and they never knew how dearly she loved him, nor how
close his soul was linked with her own. They mourned him as dead,
while to her he became each hour a reality, a tangible, living
presence, full of tenderness and love.

Miss Weston met Dawn as she passed out of the house, with that look
of tender pity, which says, "I know you suffer." In that look their
souls met and mounted to higher states. They could not speak, for
the tears which flowed over the graves of their dead; their sorrows
made them one and akin.

"You will return by to-morrow," said Miss Weston, as she parted with
Dawn at the gate, supposing that she designed returning to be
present at the funeral.

"No, I cannot."

"Why, Dawn! not follow dear Ralph to his grave?"

"I have no Ralph to bury. He is resurrected-gone higher."

"But the family, they surely-"

"They will not miss me. I am not a part of their lives now. They do
not know me, nor do I know myself."

Here trust, light, and vision left; the weakness of flesh uprose,
and she went down into the dark valley of grief.

She gave a parting pressure of the hand to her friend, and walked
slowly to the station. Alone; O, what relief do our tears give us,
when no one can see them flow. In that dim, summer twilight she
walked. Fast fell the tears over her cheeks. None but angels knew
the sobs, the agony of desolation which swept over her, and like a
pall hung between herself and heaven.

It was midnight when she arose from prayer, but morning to her soul.
Peace had come; the dove had returned with the olive branch; the
waters had gone down, and green banks shored the wild sea of sorrow.

She spent the day of the funeral ceremonies alone in the solitude of
the woods. Full of meaning now came to her these words of Christ:
"Let the dead bury their dead;" and this was her first personal
realization of the truth. Alone, yet not alone. That presence,
unseen, but real, was with her, soothing the harshness of sorrow,
filling her heart with peace and comfort. Just as the sun sank in
clouds of sapphire and crimson, his form stood, radiant, joyous, and
life-like before her. It was no myth, no hallucination of the mind.
Close, within reach, yet she could not touch him; he stood there,
the same Ralph, with all the tenderness of love on his beaming face
which he bore in life. No loneliness came over her as the vision
faded slowly away; he seemed to dissolve and flow into her heart.
The soft twilight, the singing of birds, and charming landscape,
with the breath of summer floating on the air, came like sweet
accompaniments to the melody which was pulsing her being, and giving
her new strength and vigor for life.

She knew, that to her Ralph would each day be a sustaining power,
and give life a dual action. When weary of the outer, she could turn
within and find one conjoined by the holiest of ties unto her soul.

His life, too, was being unfolded through her, as it could never
have been on earth; and as years rolled on she saw how well and good
it was that he had passed on before her. There was more completeness
to her being than there could possibly have been, had they been
united on earth by the form of marriage.

When she emerged from the cloud, all this light transfused her
being, and she had no tears, because there was no separation.

CHAPTER XXIX.

We learn in unlearning. We lay aside, one by one, the garments in
which we have enwrapped ourselves; garments of various hues, which
are our opinions, and so clog and hinder our progress. Happily for
us that we find our states changing, and the wrappings of old dogmas
too oppressive. Fortunate are we if our freedom of spirit is large
enough to enable us to lay aside what was a shield and protection to
us yesterday, if it be not fitted for us to-day. He who is strong to
do so, benefits all around him, for no good or evil is confined or
limited to one. Everything flows; circulation is in all things,
natural and spiritual. Life in one is life in another; what is faith
in one is also faith in another.

"What is gained by one man is invested in all men, and is a
permanent investment for all time.

"A great genius discovers a truth in science, the philosophy of
matter; or in philosophy the science of man. He lays it at the feet
of humanity, and carefully she weighs in her hand what is so costly
to him, and so precious to her.

"She keeps it forever; he may be forgotten, but his truth is a part
of the breath of humankind. By a process more magical than magic,
it becomes the property of all men, and that forever.

"All excellence is perpetual. A man gets a new truth, a new idea of
justice, a new sentiment of religion, and it is a seed of the flower
of God, something from the innate substance of the Infinite Father;
for truth, justice, love, and faith in the bosom of man are higher
manifestations of God than the barren zone of yonder sun; fairer
revelations of him than all the brave grandeur of yonder sky. No
truth fades out of science, no justice out of politics, no love out
of the community, nor out of the family.

"A great man rises, shines a few years, and presently his body goes
to the grave, and his spirit to the home of the soul. But no
particles of the great man are ever lost; they are not condensed
into another great man, they are spread abroad.

"There is more Washington in America now than when he who bore the
name stood at the nation's head. Ever since Christ died, there has
been a growth of the Christ-like.

"Righteousness grows like corn-that out of the soil, this out of the
soul.

"Thus every atom of goodness incarnated in a single person, is put
into every person, and ere long spreads over the earth, to create
new beauty and sunshine everywhere."

There was one spot which seemed more attractive to Dawn after
Ralph's birth, than her home,--our homes are just where our hearts
cling for the time, here or there,--and that spot was the home of
Miss Bernard and her brother. This desire to be with them was
settling into a fixed purpose to go, when one day her friend, Mrs.
Austin, burst into her room, saying, "I've come for you. I think a
change will do you good."

A short time only was needed to pack a few articles of clothing, and
they were soon on their way.

It was early autumn, and the skies and trees were glowing with all
the tinges and beauties of that season. Scarlet maples flashed here
and there from their back-ground of pines and firs along the road,
while over the dead limbs clambered the ivy, more brilliant in death
than in life. The air was full of life. The voice of her friend
chatting by her side was soothing to her nerves and spirits, for her
life had been full almost to bursting since he had come so near.

"You astonish me more and more, Dawn," said her friend, who had
dropped her lighter mood, as they rode leisurely by the forest
trees, which ever seem to suggest deeper thoughts.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Because your reconciliation to your loss seems so strange and
unusual."

"I have no loss. My friend has come home closer to my heart and
understanding. The form is of little value to us when death gives us
so much more of an individual."

"Would I could think as you do, Dawn. You are strange, and yet you
seem to get at the very core of life's experiences."

"We cannot all think alike. There must ever be an individuality of
thought, as well as of feature, yet on the common ground of
principles we can meet. My serenity of mind is born of vision, for
most clearly do I perceive that had I been united on earth to Ralph,
our lives would have been limited. We should have gone into each
other and remained, for he was the complement of my very self. In a
world of so much need of labor, we could not be allowed to be of so
little use to mankind."

"But I do not see why you might not have blessed humanity more by
your united efforts."

"Because we should have been located, spiritually insphered in each
other's life. Now I have no excuse for halting. I must be forever
moving to some center, and he will find his life in and through me,
loving me ever, but yet never quite settling into my life, which he
was naturally inclined to do. In his atmosphere I shall gather
another kind of strength and life; a life of two-fold power, because
he will be so near in affection, so close and indwelling. I shall
have the light of his spiritual life within me to guide me on; and
can I not labor, yea, bear all things with such strength?"

"O, Dawn, for such light one could call life and toil here, rest and
heaven."

"As it ever will be if we seek the harmonies of our lives."

"Now you rob death of its gloom to me. You must talk with Basil of
these things, he can understand and appreciate them. Did you know
that he was a relative of the Seyton's, a cousin to Ralph's mother?"

Dawn started. It was all clear now. Ralph would have her go to them,
and that was the cause of her yearning to be there.

"Shall we go to-morrow," she asked of her friend, who sat abstracted
by her side.

"Where?"

"To Miss Bernard's?"

"Yes, to-morrow. They are anxious to see you, as is also your
protege, young Mr. Bowen, who has inquired for you every time I have
met him."

"I had almost forgotten him in my deep experiences. Has he changed?
Does he seem more hopeful?"

"He seems far away. I think it your mission to send people off the
earth, or, at least, into larger orbits."

"I should like to make their lives larger, for life is not worth
anything unless we are daily putting off the old, and taking on the
new. We cannot live our experiences over. Fresh breezes and fresh
truths correspond-the outer and inner ever correspond. A clean
dwelling indicates purity of heart and purpose, while the reverse
leads us to beware of the occupant."

They were now at the home of Mrs. Austin, who considerately
conducted Dawn to her room and left her alone until tea-time.

The evening brought Mr. Bowen, who appeared pale and dispirited, but
he was speedily assisted to better states through Dawn's efforts.

Again poor Margaret appeared to her sight, this time with a new look
on her features, as though she had gathered strength and light from
the partial recognition of one who had betrayed her, yet from whose
life she could not be separated until the spiritual balance of
forgiveness had been given and received.

Clarence was soon engaged in earnest conversation. "Do you not
think, Miss Wyman," said he, "that we may be weakened physically by
spirits who come into our atmosphere?"

"I have no doubt of it. If they remain, and are not illuminating, or
changing their states; if they come to do us good, even, they may
sometimes weaken us, because our magnetism which sustains them
becomes attenuated."

"I have thought that I was at times weaker, from the presence of one
whom I feel is near to me."

"It may be. She cannot rise until you are ready to do so. And when
you both go to higher states, or you enter hers, a new life will
inflow. There will come relief. There is monotony now in the
influence, because she is waiting for new truths to be infused into
your mind before others can flow in. Perhaps I cannot make it as
clear to your mind as I perceive it."

"The thought is suggestive, at least, and will help me out. I
suppose these things are of slow growth in the human mind, like all
things in nature?"

"They would not be of the soul were they not slow, and of little
value to us did they not ripen in the warmth and nurture of our own
sunshine."

"True. I would know more of these things. They give me strength to
bear life's burdens much better, and although they seem to take my
thoughts from my duties, I seem to be brought nearer to them; yet I
cannot quite comprehend how it is."

"This influence does not take your mind away; it lifts it above your
cares, and makes you more contentedly subjective to the law that
governs. Truth ever renders us content to bear, while it liberates
us from thraldom."

"I know that my life beyond will be richer and nobler for what
little I have of these truths here. You have greatly blest me-"

"And blest myself," she added, seeing the rich gratitude of his soul
falter with the poverty of words.

He took her hand, pressed it warmly in token of his deep
indebtedness, and they parted, to meet no more on earth, save in
spirit. That night the death-angel came. He was seized with
hemorrhage of the lungs, and died instantaneously.

The wife of the world, whom position and society had chained him to,
put on robes of mourning, and in three months was a gay, flirting
widow, while he was happy in the summer land, joined to his mate,
the bride of his soul's first love.

For a long time Dawn felt not the presence of either Clarence or
Margaret. They were away, reposing in the atmosphere of forgiveness
and love, and learning that "it is not all of life to live, nor all
of death to die."

Dawn sat beside Basil as an old friend, holding a likeness of Ralph
in her hand.

"I little thought that you knew our dear Ralph," said Mr. Bernard,
breaking the silence they had enjoyed, "and yet I ought to have
recognized his life within yours, Miss Wyman."

Dawn knew well why he did not, for she had kept him away from
herself.

"I usually feel the sphere of the one dearest to another, when I
come into their presence; but this time I was completely in the
dark. There is some reason for it, I know." She knew it, and also
that he could read her mind.

"I will keep nothing back," she thought, and told him all. Just as
she had finished, Mrs. Austin and his sister came in from the
garden.

"Your conditions must have blended very closely," said Beatrice,
playfully, "it seems as though there was but one person in the
room."

"You are becoming a dangerous person to have about," said her
brother, while his tone and speech were greatly at variance, for his
voice to her was always sweetly modulated and full of tenderness.

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