Wanderer in the Spirit Lands, A (1910)

Front matter

■l

A WAJMOei^GI^

IN THE

Dedication

these spirit wanderers are permitted by the Great Supreme to go hack and tell them the fate of all who outrage the laws of God and man. I woidd have even the idle and frivolous to pause and think whether Spiritualism he not something higher, holier, nobler, than the passing of an idle hour in speculations as to whether there are occult forces which can move a table or rap out the Alphabet, and whether it is not possible that these feeble raps and apparently unmeaning tips and tilts of a table are but the opening doors through wliich a flood of light is being let in upon the dark places of earth and of the Nether "World — faint signs that those who have gone before do now return to earth to warn their brethren.

As a warrior who has fought and conquered I look back upon the scenes of those battles and the toils through which I have passed, and I feel that all has been cheaply won — all has been gained for which I hoped and strove, and I seek now but to point out the Better Way to others who are yet in the storm and stress of battle, that they may use the invaluable time given to them upon earth to enter U])on and follow with unfaltering step the Shining Path which shall lead them home to Eest and Peace at last.

FKANCHEZZO.

CHAPTER I.— My Death 1 CHAPTP:R II.— Despair 6

CHAPTER HI.— Hope— Wanderings on the Earth

Plane — A Door of Spiritual Sight 11

CHAPTER IV.— The Brotherhood of Hope 25

CHAPTER v.— Spirits of the Earth Plane 33

CHAPTER VI.— Twilight Lands— Love's Gifts-The A^alley of Selfishness — The Country of Unrest — The Miser's Land — The Gambler's Land 39

CHAPTER VII.— The Story of Raoul 47

CHAPTER VIII.— Temptation 52

CHAPTER IX.— The Frozen Land— The Caverns of

Slumber 56

CHAPTER X.— My Home in the Twilight Lands- Communion Between the Living and the

Dead 63

CHAPTER XL— Ahrinziman 71

CHAPTER XIL— My Second Death 75

Part II. The Dawn of Light. CHAPTER XIII.— Welcome in the Land of Dawn

My New Home There 79

CHAPTER XIV.— A Father's Love 86

CHAPTER XV.— A New Expedition Proposed. ... 88

CONTENTS.

Begun 92

CHAPTER XVIL— The Astral Plane and Its Inhabitants— Spooks, Elves, Vampires, etc. . . . 97

CHAPTER XVIIL— The Approach to Hell 116

Part III. The Kingdoms of HeU, CHAPTER XIX.— Through the Wall of Fire 121

CHAPTER XX.— The Imperial City , 129

CHAPTER XXL— The Fires of Hell— A Vengeful Spirit— Pirates— The Sea of Foul Mud— The Mountains of Selfish Oppression — The Forest of Desolation — Messages of

Love 137

CHAPTER XXIL— Amusements in a Great City of

Hell— Words of Caution 163

CHAPTER XXIIL— The Palace of My Ancestors- False Brothers Baffled 177

CHAPTER XXIV.— The Story of Benedetto— Plot- '

ters Again Baffled 187

CHAPTER XXV.— A Pitched Battle in Hell 198

CHAPTER XXVL— Farewell to the Dark Land. . . .204

Part IV. Through the Gates of Gold

CHAPTER XXVIL— Welcome on Our Return— A Magic Mirror — Work in the Cities of Earth— The Land of Remorse— The Valley of Phantom Mists— A Home of Rest. .211 CHAPTER XXVIIL— My Home and Work in the

Morning Land 230

CHAPTER XXIX.— The Formation of Planets. . . .231

CHAPTER XXX.— Materialization of Spirits 243

CHAPTER XXXL— Why the Spheres Are Invisible

— Spirit Photographs 252

CHAPTER XXXIL— Through the Gates of Gold— My Mother — My Home in the Land of Bright Day — I Am Joined by Benedetto. . 257 CHAPTER XXXIIL— My Vision of the Spheres.. 269 CHAPTER XXXIV.— Conclusion 278

PART I Baigs of IDarkness

PAET I.

S)a^0 of Darkneee,

CHAPTER I.

I ht^ve been a Wanderer through a far country, in those lands that have no name — no place — for you of earth, and I would set down as briefly as I can my wanderings, that those whose feet are pointed to that bourn may know what may in their turn await them.

On earth and in my life of earth I lived as those do who seek only how the highest point of self gratification can be reached. If I was not unkind to some — if I was indulgent to those I loved — yet it was ever with the feeling that they in return must minister to my gratification — that from them I might purchase by my gifts and my affection the love and homage which was as my life to me.

I was talented, highly gifted both in mind and person, and from my earliest years the praise of others was ever given to me, and was ever my sweetest incense. No thought ever came to me of that all self-sacrificing love which can sink itself so completely in the love for others that there is no thought, no hope of happiness, but in securing the happiness of the beloved ones. In all my life, and amongst all those women whom I loved (as men of earth too often miscall that which is but a passion too low and base to be dignified by the name of love), amongst all those women who from time to time captivated my fancy, there was not one who ever appealed to my higher nature sufficiently to make me feel this was true love, this the ideal for which in secret I sighed. In everyone I found something to disappoint me. They loved me as I loved them — no more, no less. The passion I gave won hut its counterpart from them, and thus I passed on unsatisfied, longing for I knew not what.

^Mistakes 1 made — ah! how many. Sins I committed — not a few; yet the world was often at my feet to praise ]ue and call me good, and noble, and gifted. I was feted — caressed — the spoilt darling of the dames of fashion. I had but to woo to win, and when 1 won all turned to bitter ashes in my teeth. And then there came a time upon which I shall not dwell, when I made the most fatal mistake of all and spoilt two lives where I had wrecked but one before. It was not a golden flowery wreath of roses that I wore, but a bitter chain — fetters as of ijon that galled and bruised me till at last 1 snapped them asunder and walked fortii free. Free? — ah, me! Never again siujuld 1 l)e free, for never for one moment can our past errors and mistakes cease to dog our footsteps and clog our wings wliile we live — aye, and after the life of the body is ended — till one by one we have atoned for them, and thus blotted them from our past.

And then it was — when I deemed myself secure from all love — when I thought I had learned all that love could teach — knew all that woman had to give — that I met one woman. Ah! what shall I call her? She was more than mortal woman in my eyes, and I called her "The (jJood Angel of ^ly Life," and from the first moment that I knew her I bowed down at her feet and gave her all the love of my soul — of my higher self — a love that was poor and selfish when compared to what it shonld have been, but it was all I had to give, and I gave it all. For the first time in my life I thought of another more than of myself, and though I could not rise to the pure thoughts, the bright fancies that filled her soul, I thank Uod I never yielded to the temptation to drag her down to me.

And so time went on — I sunned myself in her sweet presence — I grew in holy thoughts that I deemed had left me for ever — I dreamed sweet dreams in which I was freed from those chains to my past that held me so cruelly, so hardly, now when I sought for better things. And from my dreams I ever woke to the fear that another might win her from me — and to the knowledge that I, alas! had not the right to say one word to hold her back. Ah, me! The bitterness and the suffering of those days! I knew it was myself alone who had built that wall between us. I felt that I was not fit to touch her, soiled as I was in the world's ways. How could I dare to take that innocent, pure life and link it to my own? At times hope would whisper it might be so, but reason said ever, "No!" And though she was so kind, so tender to me that I read the innocent secret of her love, I knew — I felt — that on earth she never would be mine. Her purity and her truth raised between us a barrier I could never pass, I tried to leave her. In vain! As a magnet is drawn to the pole, so was I ever drawn back to her, till at last I struggled no more. I strove only to enjoy the happiness that her presence gave — happy that at least the pleasure and the sunshine of her presence was not denied me.

And then! Ah! then there came for me an awful, an unexpected day, when with no warning, no sign to awaken me to my position,I was suddenly snatched from life and plunged into that gulf, that death of the body which awaits us all.

And I knew not that I had died. I passed from some hours of suffering and agony into sleep — deep, dreamless sleep — and when I awoke it was to find myself alone and in total darkness. I could rise; I could move; surely I was better. But where was I? Why this darkness? Why was no light left with me? I arose and groped as one does in a dark room, but I could find no light, hear no sound. There was nothing but the stillness, the darkness of death around me.

Then I thought I would walk forward and find the door. I could move, though slowly and feebly, and I groped on — for how long I know not. It seemed hours, for in my growing horror and dismay I felt I must find some one — some way out of this place; and to my despair

I seemed never to find any door, any wall, anything. All seemed space and darkness round me.

Overcome at last, I called out aloud! I shrieked, and no voice answered me. Then again and again I called, and still the silence; still no echo, even from my own voice, came back to cheer me. 1 bethought me of her I loved, but something made me shrink from uttering her name there. Then I thought of all the friends I had known, and I called on them, but none answered me. Was I in prison? No. A jirison has walls and this place had none. Was I mad? Delirious? What? I could feel myself, my body. It was the same. Surely the same? Xo. There was some change in me. I could not tell what, but I felt as though I was shrunken and deformed? My features, when I passed my hand over them, seemed larger, coarser, distorted surely? Oh, for a light! Oh, for anything to tell me even the worst that could be told! Would no one come? Was I ((uite alone? And she, my angel of light, oh! where was she? Before my sleep she had been with me — where was she now? Something seemed to snap in my brain and in my throat and I called wildly to her by name, to come to me, if but for once more. I felt a terrible sense as if I had lost her, and I called and called to her wildly; and for the first time my voice had a sound and rang back to me through that awful darkness.

Before me, far, far away, came a tiny speck of light like a star that grew and grew and came nearer and nearer till at last it appeared ])efore me as a large ball of light, in shape like a star, and in the star I saw my beloved. Her eyes were closed as of one in sleep, but her arms were held out to me and her gentle voice said in those tones I knew 80 well, "Oh! my love, my love, where are you now; I cannot see you, I only hear your voice; I only hear you call to me, and my soul answers to yours."

I tried to rush to her, but T could not. Some invisible force held me back, and around her seemed a ring T could not pass through. In an agony I sank to the ground, calling upon her to leave me no more. Then she seemed

A WANDEKEE IN THE SPIRIT LANDS. 5

to grow unconscious; her head sank upon her breast, and I saw her float away from me as though some strong arms had borne her. I sought to rise and follow her, but could not. It was as if a great chain held me fast, and after some fruitless struggles I sank upon the ground in unconsciousness.

When I awoke again I was overjoyed to see that my beloved one had returned to me. She was standing near, looking this time as I had seen her on earth, but pale and sad and all dressed in black. The star was gone, and all around was darkness; yet not utter darkness, since around her was a pale, faint glow of light by which I could see she carried flowers — white flowers — in her hands. She stooped over a long low mound of fresh earth. I drew nearer and nearer and saw that she was silently weeping as she laid down the flowers on that low mound. Her voice murmured softly, "Oh, my love ! Oh. my love, will you never come back to me? Can you be indeed dead, and gone where my love cannot follow you? Where you can hear my voice no more? My love! Oh, my dear love!"

She was kneeling down now, and I drew near, very near, though I could not touch her, and as I knelt down I, too, looked at that long low mound. A shock of horror passed over me, for I knew now, at last, that I was dead, and this was my own grave.

A WANDERER IN THE SPIRIT LANDS.

Chapter II

"Dead! Dead!'' I wildly cried. "Oh, no, surely no! For the dead feel nothing more; they turn to dust; they moulder to decay, and all is gone, all is lost to them; they have no more consciousness of anything, unless, indeed, my boasted philosophy of life has been all wrong, all false, and the soul of the dead still lives even though the body decays."

The priests of my own church had taught me so, but 1 had scorned them as fools, blind and knavish, whu for their own ends taught that men lived again and could only get to heaven through a gate, of which they held the keys, keys that turned only for gold and at the bidding of those who were paid to say masses for the departed soul — priests who made dupes of silly frightened women and weak-minded men who, yielding to the terror inspired by their awful tales of hell and purgatory, gave themselves, Ijodies and souls, to purchase the illusive privilege they l)romised. 1 would iiave none of them. My knowledge of these priests and the inner hidden lives of many of them had been too great for me to listen to their idle tales, their empty promises of a pardon they could not give, and I had said 1 would face death when it came, with the courage of those who know only that for them it must mean total extinction; for if these priests were wrong, who was right? Who could tell us anything of the future, or if there were any God at all? Not the living, for tiiey but theorize and guess, and not the dead, for none came back from them to tell; and now I stood beside this grave — my own grave — and heard my beloved call me dead and strew flowers upon it.

As I looked the solid mound grew transparent before my eyes, and I saw down to the coffin with my own name and the date of my death upon it; and through the coffin I saw the white still form I knew as myself lying within. I saw to my horror that this body had already begun to decay and become a loathsome thing to look upon. Its beauty was gone, its features soon none would recognize; and I stood there, conscious, looking down upon it and then at myself. I felt each limb, traced out with my hands each familiar feature of my face, and knew I was dead, and yet I lived. If this Avere death, then those priests must have been right after all. The dead lived — but where? In what state? Was this darkness hell? For me they would have found no other place. I was so lost, so beyond the pale of their church that for me they would not have found a place even in purgatory.

I had cast off all ties to their church. I had so scorned it, deeming that a church which knew of, and yet tolerated, the shameful and ambitious lives of many of its most honored dignitaries had no claim to call itself a spiritual guide for anyone. There were good men in the church; true, but there was also this mass of shameless evil ones whose lives were common talk, common matter of ridicule; yet the church that claimed to be the example to all men and to hold all truth, did not cast out these men of disgraceful lives. No, she advanced them to yet higher posts of honor. None who have lived in my native land and seen the terrible abuses of power in her church will wonder that a nation should rise and seek to cast off such a yoke. Those who can recall the social and political condition of Italy in the earlier half of this century, and the part the church of Rome played in helping the oppressor to rivet the fetters with which she was bound, and who know how her domestic life was honeycombed with spies — priests as well as laymen — till a man feared to whisper his true sentiments to his nearest and dearest lest she should betray him to the priest and he again to the government — how the dungeons were crowded Avith unhappy men, yea, even with mere lads guilty of no crime save love of their native land and hatred of its oppressors— those, I say, who know all this will not wonder at the fierce indignation and burning passion which smouldered in the breast of Italia's sons, and burst at last into a conflagration which consumed man's faith in God and in his so-called Vicar uj)on earth, and like a mountain torrent that has burst its bounds, swept away men's hopes of immortality, if only through submission to the decrees of the church it was to be obtained. Such, tiicn, had been my attitude of revolt and scorn towards the church in which I had been baptized, and that church could have no place within her ])ale for me. If her anathemas could send a soul to hell surely I must be there.

And yet as I thought thus I looked again upon my beloved, and I thought slie could never have come to hell even to look for me. She seemed mortal enough, and if she knelt by my grave surely I must be still upon earth. Did the dead then never leave the earth at all, but hover near the scenes of their earthly lives? With such and many similar thoughts crowding through my brain I strove to get nearer to her I so loved, but found I could not. An invisible barrier seemed to surround her and keep me back. I could move on either side of her as I pleased — nearer or farther — but her I could not touch. Vain were all my efforts. Then I spoke; I called to her by name. I told her that I was there; that I was still conscious, still the same, though I was dead; and she never seemed to hear — she never saw me. She still wept sadly and silently; still tenderly touched the flowers, murmuring to herself that I had so loved flowers, surely I would know that she had put them there for me. Again and again I spoke to her as loudly as I could, but she heard me not. She was deaf to 7ny voice. She only moved uneasily and passed her hand over her head as one in a dream, and then slowly and sadly she went away.

T strove with all my might to follow her. In vain. I could go })ut a few yards from the grave and my earthly body, and then I saw why. A chain as of dark silk thread — it seemed no thicker than a spider's web — held me to my body; no power of mine could break it; as I moved it stretched like elastiC;, but always drew me back again. Worst of all I began now to be conscious of feeling the corruption of that decaying body affecting my spirit, as a limb that has become poisoned affects with suffering the whole body on earth, and a fresh horror filled my soul.

Then a voice as of some majestic being spoke to me in the darkness, and said: "You loved that body more than your soul. Watch it now as it turns to dust and know what it was that you so worshiped, and ministered and clung to. Know how perishable it was, how vile it has become, and look upon your spirit body and see how you have starved and cramped and neglected it for the sake of the enjoyments of the earthly body. Behold how poor and repulsive and deformed your earthly life has made your soul, which is immortal and divine and to endure forever."

And I looked and beheld myself. As in a mirror held up before me, I saw myself. Oh, horror! It was beyond doubt myself, but, oh! so awfully changed, so vile, so full of baseness did I appear; so repulsive in every feature— even my figure was deformed — I shrank back in horror at my appearance, and prayed that the earth might open before my feet and hide me from all eyes for evermore. Ah! never again would I call upon my love, never more desire that she should see me. Better, far better, that she should think of me as dead and gone from her forever; better that she should have only the memory of me as I had been in earthly life than ever know how awful was the change, how horrible a thing was my real self.

Alas! Alas! My despair, my anguish was extreme, and I called out wildly and struck myself and tore my hair in wild and passionate horror of myself, and then my passion exhausted me and I sank senseless and unconscious of all once more.

*********

Again I waked, and again it was the presence of my love that awaked me. She had brought more flowers, and she murmured more soft tender thoughts of me as she

10 A WANDEliEK IN THE SPIRIT LANDS.

laid tlit'iii on my grave. But 1 did nut seek now to make her see me. No, 1 slirank baek and suiighl to hide myself, and my heart grew hard even to lier, and 1 said: "Katlier let her wee]) lor the one who has gone llian know that he Blill hves," so i k't lier go. xVnd as soon as slie was gone, I called frantically to her to come baek, to come baek in any way, to any knowledge of my awful position, rather than leave me in that place to see her no more. She did not hear, but she felt my call, and afar off I saw her stop and half turn round as though to return, then she passed on again and left me. Twice, three times she came again, and each time when she came 1 felt the same siirinking from ai)proaching her, and each time when she left 1 felt the same wild longing to bring her back and keejj her near me. lUit 1 called to her no more for 1 knew the dead call in vain, the living hear them not. And to all the world I was dead, and only to myself and to my awful fate was I alive. Ah! now 1 knew death was no endless sleep, no calm oblivion. I>etter, far l)etter had it been so, and in my despair I prayed that this total oblivion might l)e granted to me, and as I i)rayed I knew it never could, for man is an immortal soul, and for good or evil, weal or woe, lives on eternally, llis earthly form decays and turns to dust, Init the spirit, which is the true man, knows no decay, no oblivion.

p]ach day — for I felt that days were passing over me — my mind awoke more and more, and I saw clearer and clearer the events of my life pass in a long procession before me — dim at first, then by degrees growing stronger and clearer, and I bowed my head in anguish, helj)lcss, h<)|)cless angnish, for I felt it must be too late now to undo one single act.

Chapter III

I know not how long this lasted; it seemed a long, long time to me. I was sitting wrapped still in my despair when I heard a voice gentle and soft calling to me — the voice of my beloved — and I felt compelled to rise and follow that voice till it should lead me to her; and as I rose to go the thread which had so bomid me seemed to stretch and stretch till I scarce felt its pressure, and I was drawn on and on till at last I found myself in a room which, I could dimly see, even in the darkness that always surrounded me, was familiar to my eyes. It was the home of my beloved one, and in that room I had passed, ah! how many peaceful happy hours in that time which seemed now separated from me by so wide and awful a gulf. She sat at a little table with a sheet of paper before her and a pencil in her hand. She kept repeating my name and saying: "Dearest of friends, if the dead ever return, come back to me, and try if you can make me write a few words from you, even 'yes' or 'no' in answer to my questions."

For the first time since I had died I saw her with a faint smile upon her lips and a look of hope and expectation in those dear e5^es that were so heavy with weeping for me. The dear face looked so pale and sad with her grief and I felt — ah! how I felt — the sweetness of the love she had given me, and which now less than ever dare I hope to claim.

Then I saw three other forms beside her, but they I knew were spirits, yet how unlike myself. These spirits were bright, radiant, so that I could not bear to look at

12 A WxVNDEKEll IN THE SPIRIT LANDS.

them; the sight seemed te scorch my eyes as with a fire. One was a man, tall, calm, dignilied-luuking, who bent over her to protect her as her guardian angel might. Beside him stood two fair young men whom i knew at once to be those brothers wiiom she had so often spoken of to me. They had died when youtli with all its pleasures was before them, and their memories were shrined in her heart as those who were now angels. 1 shrank back, for I felt they saw me, and 1 sought to cover my disligured face and form with the dark mantle which 1 wore. Then my pride awoke, and 1 said: 'Tlas not she herself called me? 1 have come, and shall not she be the arbiter of my destiny? Is it so irrevocable that nothing I can do, no sorrow, no repentance however deep, no deeds however great, no work however hard, can reverse it? Is there indeed no hojjc beyond the grave?"

And a voice, the voice 1 had heard before at my own grave, answered me: "Son of grief, is there no hope on earth for those who sin? Does not even man forgive the sinner who has wronged him if the sin be repented of and pardon sought? And shall God be less merciful, less just? Hast thou repentance even now? Search thine own heart and see whether it is for thyself or for those thou hast wronged that thou art sorry?"

And I knew as he spoke that I did not truly repent. I only suffered. I only loved and longed. Then again my beloved spoke and asked me: '"If I were there and could hear her, to try and write one word through her hand that she nnght know I still lived, still thought of her."