Dawn

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"Yet we cannot explain our course to those who do not perceive these
truths, and our innocent enjoyment may be misconstrued."

"Can the higher ever be revealed to the lower? Can the less
understand the greater? Never. Through the moral and natural worlds
no recognition takes place, save when the lower comes up to a higher
plane. The rose which needs more sunshine, more air, can never
expect to reveal its need to, or be understood by one of the fungus
order. We must work and wait, and expect to be misunderstood every
day of our lives. We may be in order and in perfect harmony to some
higher law, the relation of which to ourselves it is impossible to
explain to our brother, our sister, or our friend. There would be no
individual life, if there were no separate harmonies and methods of
action. You need, my friend, more of woman's sphere to help you to
live in strength and harmony with the one you are united to. She is
mentally strong, and gives you of your own quality too much. Find
your balance, your mental and spiritual poise, by mingling with
those who supply your deficiency."

"You have given me life, Mrs. Wyman, and hope. If I had your
independent mind, I might be my own helper."

"I may be the one to give you independence of thought and action,
or, rather, to stimulate yours, for all have some independence."

"I feel stronger, now, bodily, than I have for a long time," he
said, looking at his watch, "and hope I shall have the pleasure of
seeing you again soon."

"Come whenever you feel to; you will always be welcome."

They bade each other good night; he, refreshed and encouraged by her
thoughts and words; she, happier, as all are, by extending their
life.

But we must turn another leaf, and look at life as it appears to the
narrow-minded and opinionated.

"You have been gone a long time, Howard; I'm very tired," were the
words that came from the lips of Mrs. Deane, as she looked at the
clock, which was just striking ten as her husband entered.

"Not so very late, my dear. I am sorry your head aches; would you
not feel better to go out a little oftener?"

"Howard, you know I am not able. Besides, I'm weary of society. I do
not find any congenial souls here; the most of them are growing so
radical I feel heart-sick and weary whenever I think of mingling
with them. No, Howard, I must be left to myself; my home and my
husband are all on earth I care for. By the way," she said, a trifle
brighter, "have you heard that Hugh Wyman and his wife have been the
means of separating a Mrs. Dalton and husband? I do wish that man
was at the bottom of the Red-"

"Mabel!"

"Why do you always flare up so when I mention his name? I do believe
that in your soul you care more for him than all the good men in
this village."

"I do."

"You do? Then you are no better than he, in my opinion, and others,
Howard; you will ruin your reputation if you associate with him."

"I wish I was half as good as he is; that I had one fraction of his
independence and manhood to help me through life. O, Mabel, lay
aside your prejudices, and learn to see life for yourself, with
unclouded vision."

"You would have me mingle, then, with people who have no respect for
the holy law of marriage; and people who talk as coolly of
separation of men and women as they would of parting animals?"

"Who told you they were the cause of their separation?"

"Mrs. Ford. She spent an hour with me this evening."

"And you believe her, and think that she has all the facts of the
case?"

"I do. She is a christian woman, and leads a blameless life."

Mr. Deane felt the peaceful state he had that evening gained, fast
leaving him, and he sought his bed, hoping to lose in sleep the
inharmony that swept over him. He did not, however, and morning
found him unrefreshed and weak, the mind restless, seeking for
something which it could not grasp, though within its reach.

"I think I will not go to the office to-day," said he, after trying
to swallow a little breakfast.

"If you are too ill to work, you surely need a doctor. I shall send
for Dr. Barrows when Charley goes to school," said his wife.

"Do no such thing. I am not sick. I only need rest."

"You would have your own way, Howard, if you were dying; but I
really think you do look ill, and ought to have something done."

That "something" she could not do. She could not reach the mind
which needed ministering to, because she had kept her own so
impoverished.

Reader, did you ever have one attempt to do anything for you, and
while the labor was being performed, have your nerves strained to
their highest tension, and the assistance thus kindly and obligingly
rendered, wearying you far more than to have done all yourself? Such
was somewhat the way in which Mrs. Deane administered to her
husband's needs that day. She made him realize every step she took.
She called him a hundred times from his meditations into her sphere
of thought, concerning some petty detail or minor question. She
professed to take care of him, but kept him ever caring for her.

"Howard, these blinds need new fastenings. Howard, the children's
shoes are wearing out. Howard, I wonder if my new dress will fit; I
fear it's spoiled. Howard, I must have fifty dollars to get the
children's hats and dresses for next month, I'm behind-hand now. Now
you are at home, do you suppose you could help me arrange some
magazines I want bound?"

"I'm tired to death. I've been up and down stairs twenty times, at
least, this morning," she said, as she handed him some drink which
he asked to have brought up when convenient. All these questions,
suggestions and requests added to his weakness, so that by night, he
concluded he would have been far better off at his office.

When night came Mrs. Deane was too weary to bathe his aching head.
They occupied, as they should not, the same room, and exhausted each
other, and arose in the same debilitated state in the morning.

"Yesterday was a most fatiguing day to me," said his wife. "Are you
well enough to go to the office, to-day, Howard?" He thought he was,
and thanked heaven that he had strength enough to get there.

It was no wonder he sought what gave him life and strength. It was
his right, and he followed the strong impulse of his being, and went
often to the home of Hugh Wyman. He felt greatly relieved on
learning that Hugh and his wife had no knowledge of the separation
of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton, until it was over; and could not realize
that it made no difference to them what judgment public opinion
passed upon them. They looked only to the right and justice of the
movement; he had not sufficient strength thus to brave the
opposition of popular error. His vital life, the real breath of his
manhood came to him only in the inspiring presence of Hugh and
Arline. In their atmosphere he grew, therefore he felt drawn to them
by a power that he could not withstand, and would not if he could.

The years swept on with majestic step. Many went over the silent
stream; among them Mrs. Temple and her two children, leaving the
home of Herbert desolate and cheerless. Dawn stood beside her to the
last, and saw her go down to the valley, and then she could almost
feel the pulsing of her new birth.

"How fast they travel home," said Hugh, when the rosy lips were
sealed forever, and the poor stricken husband looked on the form
that would never more spring to greet his coming.

"Where is she now?" Again and again the question would force itself
upon Herbert's mind, until his heart so wearied with its long
watching, and waiting, and hoping, sank overpowered with grief
within him. Three days had worked a sad change in his family, by
that disease which was laying parents and children in one grave, and
left few households unvisited.

We have been so poorly schooled in the past, that it is not strange
when one passes from this world, or state of existence, to another,
that we should speak of them as having gone away, little realizing
that loving hearts can never be separated: that what we call spirit
life is but a natural continuation of this, with no "river" running
between.

Words could not add to the impressiveness of the scene, when, as the
friends met to look their last upon those they should know no more
as of earth, the grief-stricken husband and father bowed himself and
kissed the cold lips of the forms that once enshrined the spirits of
his wife and children. Many mourners were there beneath the shadow
of the cloud that had not as yet disclosed its silver lining; but
when was read that beautiful psalm: "The Lord is my shepherd, I
shall not want," every soul was lifted into the region of faith;
that faith so calm and comforting to

"Hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses,
Too heavy for mortals to bear."

It seemed to Herbert to be Florence that they placed in the earth;
he could not separate her from that lovely form of clay. How could
he see her lowered into the grave, and his two darlings beside her?
How bear this great grief? Not alone. Only by the help of Him whose
ways are not as ours, and who doeth all things well. Long was the
night of sorrow; it seemed as though day would never dawn, so deep
and chastening was his grief.

"I would I had your faith to sustain me," he said to Hugh, a few
weeks after the burial.

"It's the only thing which takes the sting of death away, and makes
the tomb but a passage to the skies," was the response. "I would not
be without its blessed, consoling influence for all this world can
give, aside from the light which we daily receive into our lives
from those who have passed the vale."

"Are they not about us the same, whether we believe in their
presence or not?"

"No, not the same. You are not the same to your friend who has
little or no faith in your life, and your motives of action, as you
are to one who has full trust and belief."

"No, I am not. In order, therefore, that our unseen friends may
fully aid us, we must believe in their presence and ability to do
so. Christ could not help some because of their unbelief."

"Even so. He who gives us no heed, has no communion with us. But the
faith of which I speak, is not gained at once; it is of a slow and
natural growth. Again and again must we thrust our hand through the
darkness, ere we grasp the anchor. Often will the cloud envelope us,
and all seem dark as night. There will be hours and days when
Florence will come into your atmosphere, bringing her own state of
loneliness and longing to be felt by you; days when you must both
mourn that the veil is dropped between you; but above all, the sun
of spiritual light will shine gloriously."

"Then you think that they suffer after they have gone?"

"I certainly do. It is perfectly reasonable to suppose that they
mourn for us as we for them. Reverse the case. Suppose that you were
where she now is, and that she were here, and that you made strong
efforts to approach her, and having thus far succeeded, endeavored
to impress her with the fact of your presence. If she recognized
you, would you not feel rejoiced? and if she did not, would you not
feel grieved, and all the more so, if instead of honestly admitting
self-evident facts, she sought to evade them?"

"True; all that would be most natural. I have never thought of it in
that light before. Do you think I may sometime feel and know that
Florence is with me?"

"I trust, indeed, I know you will. In some unexpected manner some
human instrument may be used to give your mind the test it needs."

"Will it be real to me? O, tell me if I shall feel and know that it
is really her?"

"If genuine there will be no doubt in your mind. All this is
something which must be experienced, and not told. A thrill will
come to your heart and brain which you have never felt before, when
you first realize the possibility of our departed friends communing
with us, and this because the truth will be more intimately related
to your inner self than anything you have before felt. Dawn is too
much affected by the death of Florence, yet, to see her; too much in
her own state. When she returns to herself-becomes disengaged from
the anxious condition of Florence, she will see and bring her in
communion with you; yet a stranger can do better, and give your mind
more satisfactory evidence of her ability to speak to you."

"One of the conditions of this communion has been, that we must
receive it through strangers. This robs it of its sacredness to me."

"You will never have that feeling after having once felt her
presence through another. You will feel the blending of humanity
more sensibly, and see how we are all conjoined, that there is very
little that is yours or mine exclusively; yet we hold all things,
and all hearts that inspire us. Human souls belong to God and
humanity. It follows not, because one is near us, blessing us with
her daily presence, that she is ours, wholly. She belongs to
humanity, and becomes ours through dissemination. It is like a truth
which we give unto others; it is more within us, the more we give it
forth. Whatever thrills me with joy, is far more to me when I have
told it to a multitude. It is the same with those we love; the more
humanity claims them, the greater they are to mankind, the more they
become to us. Florence was more to you, because she was beloved by
Dawn and myself. If she was much to you here, how full and replete
with love will be her ministration to you now. Her immortal spirit
is with you each hour, and will act on you through all time. When
you know that she is with you, you will feel the thrill of her joy,
and your hours will be greatly relieved of their present loneliness.
It is strange that for so many years we have laid our friends in the
tomb and sat sorrowing at its door. But Spiritualism has rolled away
the stone, as the angel did of old. It comes with its teachings and
humble appeals to earnest, truthful souls. It reaches our daily
wants, and is to us a life-book, not a musty, worthless creed. It is
a stream of life, flowing from heart to heart; not for one only, not
for a few, but for all. It winds by eternal habitations, and flows
to the city of our God. Happy is he who drinks from this lowly
stream, so untainted by the opinions of men, and clear and crystal.
Herbert! happy will thy day be when thou hast tasted of its living
waters."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"Then you do not wholly ignore the church," said the village pastor
to Hugh, after a long and earnest conversation upon religious and
social topics.

"I do not. But I deny that its limitations and its dogmas can
control the growing mind, and believe it to be wrong for the church
to assume or desire to do so. As a great, leading guidance to
popular thought, I would combine the church with the theatre-."

"The theatre!" exclaimed the minister, holding up both hands in holy
surprise. "You don't mean that we should turn the sanctuary into a
play-house? I tremble for the age, sir, indeed I do, if such views
are to be tolerated."

"Not turn the church into a theatre, but combine the two, and with
the good that is to be derived from each, form a perfect temple."

"But the theatre is a temple of evil," remarked the pastor.

"Not so. Because it has at times been perverted and made to
contribute to what we denominate 'evil,' is no reason why the
theatre should be condemned. For the same reason we might condemn
the church, for it, also, has in some periods of its history been
made the means of base oppression and wrong-doing; it has drenched
fields with blood, and slaughtered innocent beings by thousands."

"But that was not the true church."

"Neither in the former case, was it the true theatre; for the
theatre, when confined to its legitimate purpose, is the greatest
moral instructor the world has ever known. Were you accustomed to
visit the theatre, as I know you are not, you would find that the
triumph of the right is always applauded by the audience, while the
tricks and momentary successes of evil-doers are invariably
condemned. This proves more correctly the tendency of the theatre
than all the homilies of those who spin fine-threaded arguments from
the pulpit and the press. Why, my dear sir, the church itself is
unconsciously passing to the theatre, and the theatre equally
unconsciously passing to the church. Witness the fairs, the school
exhibitions, the tableaux, and the private dramatic entertainments
of the former, and the Sabbath evening services within the walls of
the latter. Does not this condition point to the ultimate
combination I have spoken of?"

The pastor sat for a long time in deep thought. At length he looked
up to Hugh, as though relenting from his inward desire to be true to
what was obviously the right, though contrary to public opinion, and
said:

"I hope the day of its coming is far distant, Mr. Wyman; I fear your
views would destroy all religious sentiment, and make us a godless
people."

"What do you consider 'religion' sir?" responded Hugh; "merely
attending to the outer forms, or living an earnest life?"

"Living a blameless life, to be sure, while attending to the outer
forms; not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together."

"Which is right, but which is the very smallest part of the
christian's battle. What I call a religious life, is paying tribute
to all the arts of living. Everything which contributes to the
health and happiness of mankind, is to me of vital importance, and a
chief part of my religion. My christianity leads me to build the
best house I can with my means, and to furnish it in good taste,
that the sentiment of its inmates may be uplifted. It extends to
every department-to the food, the garden, the dress, the amusements,
to every social want; in fact to everything which elevates the
standard of life. Religion to me, is living in all that elevates,
therefore I love the temple in which we all congregate, and believe
it ought to be decked with every form of art."

"I think you are right, thus far; I do not, myself, like the barren
walls of the present style of churches."

"That is one step; you have taken that; I have taken another, and
see that the drama is as much a part of God's method of elevating
mankind as flowers and music. Ere long you will see it as I do. The
church of the present day is too cold for me; it does not call forth
the deep sentiment of my being, therefore I come near to God through
Nature. When the church is divested of theology, and has enshrined
the beautiful within its walls, I shall be happy to be among those
who 'assemble,' for all need the magnetic life of assemblies to
complete the cycle of their existence. I do not like a fractional
life, one which seizes some parts and discards others. In the
present age of transition, the best minds are thrown out of the
sanctuary, waiting for the perfect temple, where they can worship in
fulness of soul and purpose."

"Yet all are better for the assembling, are they not, even in its
imperfect state, as you term it?"

"It is well and good for all, but not so essential to some as to
others. Some natures are so alive to sentiment and life, so infused
with religious thought, that they live deeper and more prayerful,
more Godly in one hour, than others do in a hundred years. Every
emotion reveals to such the presence of the Deity. To them each hour
is one of worship, and every object a shrine. No words of man can
quicken their feeling to a brighter flame, for such commune with
God. The dew and the flower, speak unto them of their father's
protecting care. The manifestations of their daily lives, replete
with heavenly indications, tell that God is nigh. 'Day unto day
uttereth speech,' and to such all hours are holy. The heart which is
attuned to life, is full of worship. Every manifestation, whether of
joy or woe, brings God near; and the world becomes the temple.
Religion should come through life and be lived. It is in the dress,
in the kitchen, in the parlor, in books, in theatres, in fact in all
forms of life. Theology is dead to the people. They want the living,
vital present, with no dogmas nor sectarian limitations to keep
their souls from growing."

The pastor felt the force of Hugh's remarks, and the weakness of any
argument he might bring to bear against them. The truth kept
pressing upon his mind, and he felt that he might be obliged to
relinquish his long-cherished opinions.

Thus we lose, day by day, one opinion after another. They wear away,
and we lay them aside like worn garments that have served their
purpose. The greatest error of the past has been the belief that
opinions and surroundings must be continuous and unchanging. When we
look to Nature we learn a different lesson. She is ever changing and
reproducing. The world's opinion holds too many back. One dare not
go forward and live out his or her life, for fear of a neighbor or
friend, and in this way is retarded the full flow of inspiration to
all. Strength in one, is strength in many; and he who dares to
strike out in an individual path, has the strength of all who admire
the bravery of the act. Time is too precious to pattern; let each
one seek to do his own peculiar work, for each soul has a separate
mission upon earth, though we may all labor apparently in the same
direction. Of a thousand persons taking the same journey, each would
see something which none other would. Each soul we meet in life has
a new voice, a new truth to utter, or a new method of presenting an
already known truth to our minds. Each arouses a new sentiment
within us, touches some tender emotion delicately, while another
grates on our senses like harsh music, until we go searching for
harmony and rest and we find treasures of thought within us which we
should never have known had we not thus been driven to the depths of
our being. All help us, then, to higher states; those who
tranquilize us, and those who disharmonize us till we fain would
withdraw to our soul's innermost for peace. We must look at life on
the grandest scale, if we would find rest. A limited vision gives us
nought but atoms, fragments floating in seeming disorder; but the
mountain view gives the spirit all the vales and hills, and shows
them as parts of an extensive landscape, a complete and perfect
whole.

"I think it will be a long time before I can see these things as you
do," remarked the pastor, after a long period of thought. "I fear
your radicalism on on this and some other questions, Mr. Wyman, will
injure society, if broadly disseminated."

"I do not think that you understand my views upon marriage, any more
than you comprehend them on religious subjects."

"I hear that you give the fullest license to men and women, to sever
their bonds and unite themselves to others."

"In one sense I do, sir; in another, nothing can be farther from me.
I boldly assert everywhere, that men and women should not live
together in daily inharmony, and give birth to children to inherit
and perpetuate their angularities and discordances. You, yourself,
if you spoke without prejudice and fear of the world, would say the
same."

"But ought they not to try to live in harmony?"

"Most surely; but what if they cannot; if the magnetic life is
consumed? If those whose union is so, merely in a legal sense, feel
that in continuing that union they are daily losing life, power, and
mental force, they should surely separate. I had much rather see
such bonds severed than to witness the soul-harrowing sight I do
every day of my life-parties fearing public opinion, and dragging
each other down, living false and licentious lives-"

"What, sir! Licentious lives?"

"Certainly. Licentiousness is not all outside of wedlock. Every day
and hour, children are being ushered into the world without love or
true parentage-left in the hands of hired, and often vicious and
ignorant servants, while those who should care for them, spend their
time in folly and pleasure,--children undesired, enfeebled mentally
and physically, with no love-sphere to enfold them-offspring of
legalized prostitution, nothing more nor less."

"I think myself, sir," said the pastor, deliberately, "that many
children are born thus, but how does this evil affect the other form
of licentiousness, which is so on the increase?"

"It is very closely allied to it. Let married parties see that they
give birth to pure, harmonious children, and the 'social evil' is
blotted out forever. The evil of our life to-day is traceable to
offspring, born of false and foolish mothers-of wild and reckless
fathers."

"It's a great evil, I own, but how can we avert it?"

"By making our marriages pure and holy, and by changing our
relations after the life of each is exhausted."

"But what would become of the children?"

"That is another question, and one which would settle itself. The
order of all life is by steps; these we cannot overleap. One truth
enfolds another. If the marriage system was perfect, or the relation
between the sexes understood, we should not see, as we now do,
manifestations which force us continually to question the existence
of a God, and to be ever in search of the disturbing cause.
Something is needed, sir, in our present social system to make us
pure, and that something, is less restraint, and more personal
freedom. We never become pure under restraint. All who know me, know
that I seek to bring the sexes into pure and holy communion of
spirit. Walls and partitions have ever produced clandestine
movements. Boys and girls in schools should not be separated, but
should meet each other daily; their studies, their sports be one as
far as possible, thus blending their natures, not hividing them. If
men lived more in the society of women they would be astonished to
find how much purer and higher-toned their nature would become; how
the mental assimilation was refining their wilder dispositions,
their grosser passions. If such was your experience, you would tell
me in one year that men and women do not mingle enough."

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