Uncanny? Catharsis? Magic Trick?

Horror should never be dissected.

Final Peace?

But more often we talk of the life which she is so soon to begin—of her husband and Roy—of what she will try to say to Christ—how much dearer He has grown to her since she has lain here in pain at His bidding, and how He helps her, at morning and at eventide and in the night-watches. We talk of the trees and the mountains and the lilies in the garden, on which the glory of the light that is not the light of the sun may shine—of the little brooks by which she longs to sit and sing to Faith—of the treasures of art which she may fancy to have about her—of the home in which her husband may be making ready for her coming, and wonder what he has there, and if he knows how near the time is now. But I notice lately that she more often and more quickly wearies of these things—that she comes back, and comes back again to some loving thought as loving as a child's—of Jesus Christ. He seems to be—as she once said she tried that He should be to Faith—her best friend. Sometimes, too, we wonder what it means to pass out of the body, and what one will be first conscious of. I used to have a very human, and by no means slight, dread of the physical pain of death, she said today—but, for some reason or other, that is slowly leaving me. I imagine that the suffering of any fatal sickness is worse than the immediate process of dissolution. Then there is so much beyond it to occupy one's thoughts. One thing I have thought much about—it is that, whatever may be our first experience after leaving the body, it is not likely to be a revolutionary one. It is more in analogy with God's dealings that a quiet process, a gentle accustoming, should open our eyes on the light that would blind if it came in a flash. Perhaps we shall not see Him—perhaps we could not bear it to see Him at once. It may be that the faces of familiar human friends will be the first to greet us—it may be that the touch of the human hand dearer than any but His own shall lead us, as we are able, behind the veil, till we are a little used to the glory and the wonder, and lead us so to Him. Be that as it may, and be heaven where it may, I am not afraid. With all my guessing and my studying and my dreaming over these things, I am only a child in the dark. Nevertheless, I am not afraid of the dark. God bless Mr Robertson for saying that! I'm going to bless him when I see him. How pleasant it will be to see him, and some other friends whose faces I never saw in this world! David, for instance, or Paul, or Cowper, or President Lincoln, or Mrs Browning. The only trouble is that I am nobody to them! However, I fancy that they will let me shake hands with them. No, I am quite willing to trust all these things to God. And what if much be still unknown? Thy Lord shall teach thee that, When thou shalt stand before His throne, Or sit as Mary sat. I may find them very different from what I have supposed. I know that I shall find them infinitely more satisfying than I have supposed. As Schiller said of his philosophy, Perhaps I may be ashamed of my raw design, at sight of the true original. This may happen—I expect it—but then, if reality bears no resemblance to my dreams, it will be a more majestic, a more delightful surprise. I believe nothing that God denies. I cannot overrate the beauty of his promise. So it surely can have done no harm for me to take the comfort of my fancying till I am there—and what a comfort it has been to me, God only knows. I could scarcely have borne some things without it. You are never afraid that anything proving a little different from what you expect might. Might disappoint me? No—I have settled that in my heart with God. I do not think I shall be disappointed. The truth is, he has obviously not opened the gates which bar heaven from our sight, but he has as obviously not shut them—they stand ajar, with the Bible and reason in the way, to keep them from closing—surely we should look in as far as we can, and surely, if we look with reverence, our eyes will be holden, that we may not cheat ourselves with mirages. And, as the little Swedish girl said, the first time she saw the stars—O father, if the wrong side of heaven is so beautiful, what must the right side be?

Our Loved Ones in Heaven?

To my father, whose life, like a perfume from beyond the Gates, penetrates every life which approaches it, the readers of this little book will owe whatever pleasant thing they may find within its pages.

—E. S. P.

Andover, 22 October 186S

How to give such ease to a soul in death?

The bitterness of death came into her marred with the sun face at sight of them, and she raised her hands to Auntie—to the only other mother there—with a sudden helpless cry—I could bear it, I could bear it, if it weren't for them. Without any mother all their lives—such little things—and to go away where I can't do a single thing for them! Aunt Winifred stooped down and spoke low, but decidedly. You will do for them. God knows all about it. He will not send you away from them. You shall be just as much their mother, every day of their lives, as you have been here. Perhaps there is something to do for them which you never could have done here. He sees. He loves them. He loves you. If I could paint, I might paint the look that struck through and through that woman's dying face—but words cannot touch it. If I were Aunt Winifred, I should bless God on my knees tonight for having shown me how to give such ease to a soul in death.

Faith and the Dolly?

Faith and the Dolly?

A little more sunshine in the room! A little more of Faith and the dolly! 

(Adapting a Victorian Classic into a Heartwarming Children’s Story)

She stood by the window a long time, tapping her small fingers against the pane, watching the shadows lengthen across the grass. Mamma says the sun goes to see other folks when he goes away from here, she observed gravely, turning her big, clear eyes up to mine.

The child climbed into the easy chair, curled her little feet up under her short white apron, and began to tell a long, eager story about a dog she had seen down street, with curly ears—so long, Auntie!—and yeller paws, and he didn't have no collar on, and he looked right at me, he did!

Faith was down on the floor with a broken musical box and a family of paper dolls—but she looked up to nod a bright, positive assent. God is good. God is always good, she repeated, in her pretty, parrot-like way, and went back to her paper dolls.

FAITH has behaved like a witch all day. She knocked down three crickets and six hymn books in church this morning, and this afternoon horrified the assembled and devout congregation by turning round in the middle of the long prayer, and, in a loud and distinct voice, asking Mrs Quirk, for nother those pepp'mints such as you gave me one Sunday a good many years ago, you 'member.

Faith, who was Christ's father? Jerusalem! said Faith, promptly. Where did his parents take Jesus when they fled from Herod? O, to Europe. Of course I knew that! Everybody goes to Europe.

Faith does seem to have a hard time with the Lord's Prayer. Tonight, being very sleepy and in a hurry to finish, she proceeded with great solemnity—Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work, and—Oh!

Sometimes Faith comes up and wants to know what we are saying, and lays poor Mary Ann, sawdust and all, upon the pillow, and wants her toofache kissed away. So Auntie kisses away the dolly's toofache—and kisses the dolly's little mother, sometimes with a quiver on her lips, but more often with a smile in her eyes, and Faith runs back to play, and her laugh ripples out, and her mother listens—listens.

Little Clo comes in as often as she is strong enough to see her, and sends over untold jellies and blancmanges, which Faith and I have to eat. But don't let the child know that, Auntie says.

Sleepy, dear? But you won't have many more talks with mamma. Keep awake just a minute, Faith, and hear—can you hear? Mamma will never, never forget her little girl—she won't go away very far—she will always love you. Will you remember as long as you live? She will always see you, though you can't see her, perhaps. Hush, my darling, don't cry! Isn't God naughty? No, God is good—God is always good. He won't take mamma a great way off. One more kiss? There! now you may go to sleep. One more! Come, Cousin Mary. 

The night came on slowly. Showery clouds flitted by, but there was a blaze of golden colour behind them. It broke through and scattered them—it burned them and melted them—it shot great pink and purple jets up to the zenith—it fell and lay in amber mist upon the hills. A soft wind swept by, and darted now and then into the glow, and shifted it about, colour away from colour, and back again. See, Faith! she said softly—put down the little camel a minute, and look! and added after, but neither to the child nor to me, it seemed—At eventide there shall be light.

I was thinking that it was Faith's bedtime, and that I had better light the lamp, when a few distinct, hurried words from the bed attracted my attention. Faith, I think you had better kiss mamma now, and get down. There was a change in the voice. I was there in a moment, and lifted the child from the pillow, where she had crept. But she said, Wait a minute, Mary—wait a minute, for Faith clung to her, with one hand upon her cheek, softly patting it. I went over and stood by the window. It was her mother herself who gently put the little fingers away at last. Mother's own little girl! Good night, my darling, my darling.

So we are waiting for the morning when the gates shall open—Faith and I, and looking forward to guiding her.

The Gates Ajar, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (1868, Boston, Fields, Osgood & Co.), Chapter XI, 160, 161, 163; Chapter XV, 215, 218, 221, Chapter XVI, 224, 225, 229