Heaven Revised

Front matter

HEAVEN REVISED.

—BY—

Mrs. E. B. DUFFEY,

Introduction

Old theology has created for the belief of its adherents a future of its own: a heaven of harps and crowns, idleness, palm-bearing and perpetual psalm-singing, to enjoy which even the most devout Christian understands that his nature must be wholly changed; and a hell of physical torture to which the majority of mankind are condemned to infinite punishment for finite transgressions. It is a picture of the future, wearying on the one hand and appalling on the other—the paradise of a fool, the pandemonium of a demon.

It is the mission of Spiritualism, with its direct communication with the inhabitants of both the higher and the lower spheres, to revise these conceptions of the future, and bring them more in harmony with reason and common sense, justice and mercy; to recognize the law of progress as the law of the spiritual as well as of the material universe, and to set the star of hope in the zenith of even the deepest hell; and this is what is meant by the title which this story takes.

I did not think out my narrative; I did not plan or plot. I could not have known less of what was to be written had I been writing at the dictation of another. The ideas were not gathered from various sources, for at that time I had heard little and read less upon the subject of Spiritualism. I had but a superficial acquaintance with the philosophy of Spiritualism, as I was a convert of but a year; and often I was puzzled to know whether what I recorded was strictly in harmony with spiritu- alistic teachings. This was especially true of the chapter entitled, "Into the Depths." During the entire period in which I was engaged in this writing—some three or four months—I lived and moved in a sort of dream. Nothing seemed real to me. Personal troubles did not seem to pain me. I felt as though I had taken a mental anæsthetic. I finished the work one Saturday evening. On Sunday evening I spoke as usual before our spiritual society. On Monday morning I awoke for the first time my usual self. Real life had come back to me.

I believe that I wrote through unseen assistance, but I hesitate to ask others to endorse this belief. I hesitate even to express it, realizing as I do how often well-intentioned Spiritualists mistakingly attribute to the Spirit-world that which emanates only in their own too often ignorant and ill-informed minds. I know how difficult it is to draw the line between one's own thoughts and impressions, and those which result from inspiration from higher sources.

The reader must decide for himself. If he be a believer in spirit inspiration, he will accept my own belief, and think that "Heaven Revised" was written inspirationally. If he be a skeptic, and hesitates to do this, he will be only sharing the doubts and questionings which sometimes possess myself.

Bartow, Fla.

Mrs. E. B. Duffy.

Chapter 1

I am a traveler, and having passed the first stage of my journey, and being now fairly set out upon my second, the impulse seizes me, as it seizes upon all who have left dear friends behind, to let them hear from me—to write them a letter, telling of the new things I have seen, the strange experiences encountered. One of earth's famous poets has spoken of that land in which I am journeying as the "bourne from whence no traveler returns." That is true in a certain sense. We cannot return to take up our old lives again, to resume our old relations, and assume our old duties. We have struck our tents and passed on-into the inevitable future which awaits us. You may not even behold us, until you, too, join us, the first stage of your journey left behind; but we may send you messages; we may impress your minds with pictures of ourselves, both as we have been and as we are, which shall be so vivid that you may be excused for mistaking them for realities. But they are, after all, only faint images of the real living personalities which

still exist, and amid their changed conditions still preserve their identity.

We may, too, write you letters; for in this nineteenth century a postal system has been established between the here and there, the is and the was, which makes communication possible. That which for ages has seemed the greatest difficulty—how to send a letter—has been conquered, only to find a still greater one rising up behind it—how to write a letter which shall be intelligible; how to transcribe conditions and translate ideas into a language which shall be comprehensible to you.

Alas! my dear friends, I shall, I fear, be able only to give you a shadowy idea of this newly discovered country, which is, after all, the real, while your earth is but the shadow and prototype. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive of that which is in this land beyond the grave.

In looking back from where I now stand, I cannot but wonder that the earth-life assumed such importance. The perspective is entirely changed. Much of that which, in the first stage of my journey, seemed of the greatest magnitude, has strangely dwindled in its proportions; and apparently everything concerning it has taken on a new coloring and a new meaning. The reason is that now I begin to perceive, from my present position, the true relations of all earthly conditions and happenings. When I was in the midst of them, I gained only narrow and distorted glimpses. Those nearest me were magnified beyond reality; those at a distance dwarfed in like degree. Thus even I, who prided myself upon being a close and correct observer, a careful analyzer of all that came under my observation, and a deep and original thinker, have been overwhelmed with astonishment, not to say chagrin, in discovering how little I knew of even the surface life around me—how still less of that deeper and inner life which is the real and actuating power of humanity, but of whose existence there is so little realization until it comes to the surface here.

But I did not set out to either moralize or philosophize in writing this letter; though I dare say I shall unwittingly do enough of both before I have finished it; otherwise I should not be true to my own character; but I will suppress the impulse for the present, and tell you of the first stage of my journey, that stage which you call death.

Of the mere happenings of my earthly life, what matters it? What I am is of the only importance; by what means my character was disciplined, my intelligence cultivated, possibly my nature warped in some ways, are of no moment. When you behold a gem, you admire its beauties and deplore its flaws; but it never occurs to you to inquire about the processes by which the lapidary polished it. I am what I am. I shall be some day—a day so far distant in the unending ages of eternity that it seems no nearer to me than to you, save as a clearer comprehension of the fact brings it with fuller force to my mind—united with the great source of power, wisdom and love, which overshadows and permeates the universe, my identity lost in all save memory, which shall forever individualize every soul that has lived and suffered. When memory goes, then comes annihilation; but there is no such thing as annihilation in this vast universe.

I lived, I toiled, I suffered, I loved, I struggled with temptations, and I sometimes sinned—the common lot of humanity. In these words may be summed up, not only my earthly existence, but that of most mortals. For those to whom any of these experiences are not given in the earth life, they are reserved in fuller measure in the life into which I have now entered.

I knew that I was standing face to face with death, but I did not tremble nor shrink. The terrors of orthodoxy had long lost their hold upon me, and I was prepared to meet the inevitable change like a philosopher. Nay, more; I was prepared to watch its approach and analyze its effect upon myself, with all the enthusiasm of a student who did not wish to miss this one supreme opportunity to gain knowledge which had hither- to eluded the grasp of mortals. I would be calm, and note death's approach, step by step. If it were possible to me, I would impart my newly acquired knowledge to others, and, perhaps, do mankind a service by robbing this dread hour of its terrors.

Earth would fade away, and I seemed to be floating out into an unknown realm of existence; of all that which I expected to remember at this hour, nothing occurred to me. There was no review of my life, such as I had read about; no thought of either past or future; only this one feeling, which sprung up in my heart to the exclusion of all else—my loved ones! I had not regarded myself as an excessively affectionate woman. Reason had been trained to govern all my impulses and emotions, and I truly believe my life-work had been better performed in consequence. But in this last hour love seemed the sum and substance—all that was worth cherishing—of life. Then would suddenly come back to me a remembrance of the task to which I had set myself, and in striving to accomplish it, my will, which was always strong, and was strong even in death, would rally my life-forces, and thus defeat its own object. As I had all my life fought and struggled, and sought to attain the unattainable, so, true, to my nature, I would not even allow myself to die in peace, but all unwittingly prolonged and postponed the hour.

At last I became wearied, and fell into a sweet sleep, a sleep so restful that in the half-consciousness which preceded the moment of complete unconsciousness, I remembered that in all my life I had experienced but one or two as perfect and satisfying. For such a sleep I was contented even to postpone the hour of death.

When I awoke it was with that almost guilty sense of one who feels that he has slept longer than custom or prejudice sanctions; and for the instant I was glad that I was very ill, that such an indiscretion might be forgiven me. The waking was even sweeter than the sleeping. I did not care to open my eyes, but lay filled with a sense of peace and rest—peace and rest—such as in the long, weary years of my life I had dreamed of and longed for, but never before experienced. How sweet was the rest, how perfect the peace! If it only might endure forever! But I was better. I was not to die after all, and I must presently submit to the old bondage, and again know the weariness and unquiet of life. Presently I became aware that there was a sound of subdued voices in conversation in an adjoining room. Though I could hear them plainly through the open door, at first I gathered no sense of what they were saying; and then as I became more fully awake, I heard a sentence which fixed my attention in an idle way:

"I have no doubt she meant well; but, then, she was so very peculiar."

The response came: "Yes, very; and very set in her way."

Again the first speaker: "She saw a great deal of trouble, but I have no doubt she brought much of it on herself. You almost always find that that is the case."

"That is so. Why, I know 2," and then followed a grotesquely distorted narration of certain incidents in my own life.

I was startled. Of whom were they speaking? Of me—me? "She was?" What did it all mean? Did they really think me dead? With a guilty consciousness of having played eavesdropper, I hastened to call one of the speakers by name, to assure her that I was still in the land of the living. They were both neighbors, and I knew them well. She paid no heed to my voice, and the conversation went on without interruption. Again I spoke louder than before, and still they heeded not. I was now aroused to the fullest mental activity, and utterly forgetful of my supposed enfeebled condition, started up to manifest myself to them in some manner which should secure their silence, when 2

For an instant I seemed frozen with terror, or something akin to it, by a strange object which met my view. What was that in my chamber, my chamber where I lay so ill—that object lying rigid and white, in the familiar yet ever repulsive attitude of death? There were the outlines of the head, the projection of the arms crossed upon the breast, the extended limbs, and the upturned feet. Over all was thrown a white sheet; but with a new experience in vision, as I looked at it my sight seemed to penetrate beneath the snowy pall, and I recognized my own features. My God! was I then really dead? How can I describe to you the emotion which swept through me, and which seemed to shake my whole being to its very center? Then, and not till then, did the past sweep like a wave over me, and all that I had been taught and hoped and feared of the great transition, and the life which was to follow it, seemed to come out in my memory with unparalleled distinctness. It was a solemn, an awful moment. The terror passed as soon as it came, but its solemnity impressed itself upon me. Yet you will scarcely believe it that the next sensation was one of mirth. Then I was playing eavesdropper in spite of myself; and verifying the truth of the adage that listeners never hear any good of themselves, while I wondered in grim humor if the act under the circumstances in which I was placed, were as dishonorable as if I were still alive.

As in the earth-life the sublime frequently borders upon the ridiculous, and there is often but a single step from solemnity to mirth, from joy to sorrow, from hope to despair, and all this that our characters may acquire their proper equilibrium; so my first experience in the Spirit-world was of the same nature.

I could not silence those babbling women, and so I let them talk, and for the first time in my existence, had an opportunity to see myself as others see me. Well, the lesson was a good one, and not without its uses, even though I had passed beyond the influences and conditions of earth. It held up an imperfect mirror before my spiritual vision in which my defects of character were brought into greater prominence by distortion; and thus the first lesson was imparted to me.

After a time the impulse seized them to look upon the face of the dead whose character they were dissecting so candidly, not to say mercilessly. We were a group of three, although one was invisible to the other two. As they were unconscious of my presence, so I soon forgot theirs, while I looked with a strange wonder upon the form of that which had once been I. As I regarded the pale worn features, and with invisible hand smoothed back the grizzled hair from the forehead, an ineffable pity filled my soul for my old self, which now seemed separated and apart from my present one. In my life I had affected to scorn the earthly tenement which imprisoned my soul. But when I gazed upon it dispassionately from an outside standpoint another feeling overwhelmed me. How wan, how worn it looked! How heavy were the lines of care upon brow and cheek! How the hair had whitened! How the body had struggled and suffered, and toiled for the spirit within—always losing—always losing—first youth and beauty, and then health and strength, in the service of that spirit; and at last when the soul stood triumphant in a newer and fuller life, a complete victor over body—that body had met its final and greatest loss, in that it had lost the life which had animated it. No longer should it love, or suffer, or toil. It was completely vanquished, and yielded all that it had to give. With a new-born love and pity for self, which wore as unselfish as though they had been expended upon another, and with a reverential feeling as well, I tenderly kissed the cold brow, and in that moment forgave it all for which I had reproached it in the past: for its weaknesses which had crippled my spirit; its imperfections which had warped it; its limitations which had chained it. Surely in that moment of triumph over mortality I could afford to be generous. More difficult still, I could be just. I realized and acknowledged how, even through the infirmities of the physical frame, my spirit had been strengthened and disciplined.

Then I was dead! How strange it seemed to be dead, and yet with such superabundant life! How mortals misapprehend the meaning of the word. To be dead means to be alive with a vitality earthly humanity does not know. How long had I been dead? It seemed to be early morning. The watchers were silent, having dozed off to sleep in their arm-chairs. The rays of the lamp were paling before the light of the approaching day, which was heralded in the east by scarlet banners flung across the sky. When I had fallen asleep—into that peaceful sleep from which I had wakened in another world—the night had been far spent. I must have passed away at the ebb of the tide, when day was struggling with darkness, and nature itself was at its lowest ebb. I had probably been dead twenty-four hours. I had fallen asleep on earth; I had awakened in the land of spirits.

The land of spirits! Strange as it may seem, I for the first time realized this fact. My thoughts and emotions up to this point had all been connected in some way with the world and the life I had left behind me. But where were the spirit forms of the loved ones who had passed on before, and whom I had expected to meet me at the gateway, and to welcome and guide me into the life eternal? On the threshold of this new life I felt no fear at my seeming isolation, but a sense of disappointment and loneliness, and of bewilderment also, stole over me. Even as these thoughts passed through my mind, the room and all it contained seemed to dissolve before me. I found myself upon a great plain which gently inclined toward a valley through the depths of which flowed a stream. I cannot describe the beauty of the scene. Earth is beautiful, and its beauties found their way to my heart; but the Spirit-world is far more so. The scene seemed strangely familiar. It was so like, and yet so unlike, an earthly valley, where I had spent many happy hours—perhaps the happiest of my life. It seemed, indeed, the earthly valley glorified and spiritualized, as who shall say that it was not? The grass was intensely yet softly green, and starred with myriads of daisies. When last I had beheld the earthly valley, it was still beautiful, but it had the beauty of death, that sent a chill to my heart, and over it there hung a pall of cloud which completely enshrouded its depths. But my valley was resurrected, and was mine evermore.

I was walking, but strange to say my feet did not touch the ground. I walked along just above the surface of the earth, just as I had done many times in dreams—the realest dreams I ever had. What a strange sensation it was to be freed from the weight of the earthly body—to be released from the physical law of the attraction of gravitation! I felt that I might rise to any height to which I aspired, yet was content for the present to keep near the ground.

But my friends—my spirit friends—where were they? Why was I thus so isolated in my new life? I was not conscious of having uttered a thought aloud, but as if in response to it, I found myself in the presence of two youths whose radiant countenances possessed more than mortal beauty. Years ago I had laid away with an aching heart and many bitter tears, two beautiful babes, first one and then another; and many times thereafter I stretched out my arms with soul-felt longing towards the unknown land whither they had gone, as if to reach to them and bring them back to me. But when I clasped my arms to my breast again, they were always empty. My babes, how I had longed for them, yearned for them! They had always been babes to me in my memory, little tender clinging things, finding their whole world in mother-love. But when I beheld these youths beside me, some subtle instinct revealed to me that they were my babes, now nearly grown to manhood. I felt neither hesitation nor surprise in the recognition. It was as though I had always expected thein to appear thus to me. I only held out my arms with an unutterably glad impulse, crying, "My boys! Mine!"

Is there a more contentful, more blissful word in our language—in any language—than that word "mine"? Whether we say it of child, friend or lover, home or heaven, we have expressed the supremest emotion of our hearts. It indicates the fullest fruition of our hopes and desires, whether they be worthy ones or unworthy ones. Barren and pitiful indeed is the life of that wretch who can not say "mine" of some joy, some hope, or some love. It is the first feeling of the infant heart when it begins to realize its possession of motherly tenderness and care, long before it can give the feeling its appropriate word. It will be the ultimate emotion of the soul, when, having passed through the cycles of eternity, it shall at last have reached the center and source of all, and shall be able to say of infinite wisdom and love, "mine"!

Chapter 2

My lost ones were in my arms, and for a time my soul was filled with a bliss too deep for words. At last emotions struggled into utterance.

"Our mother!" were the glad words I heard from lips which had never learned to pronounce them in their brief earth lives, and then there were eager questionings and glad responses.

"We have been with you, mother," said the elder, "through all these years. Daily we have visited you. We have nestled in your arm. You never called ns that we did not come. And we spoke to you, and tried to comfort you, but you did not always hear us; and sometimes when our messages reached your heart, you did not comprehend from whom they came. You have been our mother still, our helper and our guide; and we in turn have helped and guided you as far as lay in our power, as we could not have done had we remained with you on earth. As far as we could understand your troubles we have helped your to bear them. When they were beyond our comprehension, as they sometimes were, we were still permitted to give you our sympathy and love, and thus you have been unconsciously soothed and strengthened."

This is the substance of what my boy said to me, though not perhaps the very words. I was in such a tremor of joy my memory may not have taken exact note of them.

Then my younger boy spoke: "To us was reserved the privilege of first meeting you on your entrance to the Spirit-world. Others are waiting to see and to welcome you, but we felt that the first hour ought to be ours."

"My blessed guardian angels!" I exclaimed.

"No, not your guardian angels; only your loving children. Your guardian you will presently see. It is through her kindness and considerateness that we are with you first. She is here even now."

I turned, and saw standing at a little distance a woman, apparently of mature years, but with the radiance of heavenly youth and beauty upon her brow. She held out her arms to ne exclaiming, "My child!"

I felt impelled towards her, and yet hesitated for an instant. "You are not my mother?" I said, half by way of assertion, half in inquiry.

"Your spiritual mother, not your earthly one. The ties of spirit are far more real and enduring than those of the flesh."

Her arms were still extended, and as we mutually advanced, they encircled me, and I felt a deep inward conviction of the truth of her words.

"My child," she continued, "the ties which bind us are those of a kindred spiritual nature and kindred earthly experiences. My trials on earth were similar to yours; my struggles and even my failures like yours, only mine more desperate, more complete. When I entered this life, and realized, as I had not done before, the meaning of it all, and saw my own mistakes and failures, and comprehended how I might have avoided many of them, I cried out in agony of spirit that it was unjust that I was not permitted to undo them—to set them right. Then my work was revealed to me, and rebuked and humbled I accepted it. The higher spirits, to whom knowledge is given which is withheld from us who are still so near the earth, pointed out to me a child whose womanly destiny was to be like my own. I must go to her, stay by her, and help her by the light of my experience, Oh! that was so long ago, you were yet a little child. I have been with you all these years, helping, strengthening, comforting; and it makes me glad and grateful to know that my influence has been felt, and has been in many instances attended by good results, so that your life is not the complete failure that mine seemed to be. But remember, only seemed to be, my child; for by my own failures did I know best how to help you; and thus all things have worked together for good."

"But how did you speak to me?" I queried. "I know some are privileged to hear spirit voices, but I have—had, I mean—not that gift."

"There you mistake. There are few mortals to whom some spirits, or class of spirits, cannot speak and make themselves heard. If they draw around them good spirits, then their messages lift them upward, and give them spiritual strength and wisdom. If through their vices they seek the companionship of evil spirits, then their tendency will be downward. We do not speak in audible words, but our messages are to the heart, and are felt rather than heard. You often heard me when you imagined it was only your own mind, your own thought speaking. Sometimes you repulsed me, and then other spirits, whose influences were not good, came in, and you morally retrograded. But at all times your children could approach you. You never even unconsciously repulsed them; and through their loving agency I would find my way back to you again. My child, I have been with you all these years. I know your heart far better than your own mother could know it, who, strange to say, does not possess that spiritual kinship with you which I possess. I know you far better than you know yourself."

Again gathering me in a tender embrace, she kissed me gently, I almost fancied pitifully. It was so sweet to be thus offered and to accept the manifestations of affection. A reserved woman on earth, I was thought to be a cold woman as well; and thus, through many respected, and some few felt a genuine friendship for me, the number of those who really loved me was very small.

I have not narrated the conversation of my guide exactly as it occurred. It was more or less interrupted by questions by myself; but I have given the substance of what she said to me.

"My more than mother," I said at length, "I want to ask you a question about something that perplexes me. I thought our departed friends met us at the threshold of the spirit existence. Why was I condemned to pass from one world to another alone?"

"Condemned is not the word, my child," she replied with a bright smile. "Nor were you alone. You were only seemingly so. We and many more stood near you, anxiously watching and eagerly waiting, ready to make ourselves manifest. To many souls the passage from mortality to immortality is a dread one, and they need all the assistance that loving spirit presences can give, to keep them in courage until they become familiar with their surroundings; but you were not one of these. Alone you chose to walk in most things during your earth life; your thoughts and experiences, even your emotions you kept shut within your own soul. You breasted the tide of death with a brave heart, calling for no help. You needed the apparent solitude and isolation when the new experiences of spirit life were forced upon you, in order that you might the more fully understand them. When the need came to you for companionship, you called for it, and behold how quickly we responded to your call."