IN 18—, the late Mr. and Mrs. F who were lost in August, 18—, on board the Rothesay Castle steam packet, were acquainted with three sisters residing in London, who belonged to the higher class of society. Two of them were decidedly pious, but the third was just the contrary and extremely volatile. They were all advanced in life, which rendered the gaiety of the third the less becoming, and also inclined her the more easily to take offence at any remarks made upon it. She hated the piety of her sisters, and opposed it in a very petty and spiteful manner, though they endeavored to accommodate themselves to her wishes, and to render the difference between them as little disagreeable as possible.
One night, towards the close of 18—, she had been at an assembly very late, and the next morning, at breakfast, her behavior was so remarkably different from her usual manner, that the sisters feared she was very unwell, or had met with some misfortune which deeply affected her. Instead of her incessant chat about every person she had met, and everything she had seen, and all that had been said and done, she sat sullen, silent, and absorbed.
As she ate nothing, her sisters asked her if she were not well.
She answered, “No.” “What is the matter?” “Nothing.”
They were afraid something had distressed her. She said, “I have no idea of people prying into matters that do not concern them.”
The whole of the morning was passed alone by her in her own room, and at dinner time the same conduct recurred as in the morning; she scarcely ate anything, never spoke, except when she answered, in an uncivil way, whatever was asked her, and all with an appearance of depression, obstinacy, and melancholy, that spread its influence very painfully over the cheerfulness of her companions.
She retired to rest late, and with the air of one who expects from sleep neither alleviation nor refreshment.
The next morning she scarcely touched her breakfast, and seemed in the same oppressed and uncomfortable state as the preceding day. One of her affectionate sisters again addressed her, “Anna, you are not well; is it your head that pains you?”
She answered, “I am well, and nothing pains me.”
“Then you have something on your mind, and will you not tell us? Do we not love you? Have we not the same earthly interests with you, and can we seek any good but yours, in an anxious wish to share your sorrows?”
“Oh, you have superstition enough of your own, without more being added. I shall not tell you what ails me, so you have no occasion to press any further your curiosity. I daresay you would be delighted to know it, for you would think it some spiritual triumph; but I laugh at these things, I am not quite old enough yet to become the victim of dreams and visions.”
“Anna, we do not live in dreams and visions.”
She answered sharply, “No, and I do not mean that you should.” The sisters looked at each other, and relapsed into silence.
The second day passed as the first; Anna was gloomy and moody, and her sisters, both from pity and anxiety, were unhappy for her sake. The third morning she again began the day as one who loathed the light, who had no interest in existence, and to whom the lapse of time and the prospects of eternity brought neither peace nor hope. As her sisters looked at her, one of them suddenly said, “Anna, what was your dream?”
She started and laughed wildly. “Ah! Oh! what was it indeed? you would give the world to know, but I shall not tell you. I thought you did not believe in dreams and visions.”
The sisters replied, “Nor do we in general; you know they are usually the offspring of a disordered mind, confused images, and fancies, whilst reason is dormant: and the remembrance of them usually passes away the moment that we are fairly engaged in our usual occupation. But there are, no doubt, dreams which are as much sent from God as are our afflictions, or any other warning. There is a verse in the Bible where it mentions God as speaking to a man in a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon man.”
She laughed again and said, “You have verses in the Bible for everything that suits your purpose, but I do not choose to be warned by you in such a way; and I have no doubt but I shall get it out of my head in a day or two.”
“Anna, we do beseech you to tell us; if you really have had a dream from heaven, you surely would not wish to forget it; and if not, we will help you to laugh it off.”
She answered in a sulky mood, “Well, if you must know it, you must. No doubt it was very extraordinary. I should have thought it the effect of the ball, but that I never anywhere saw anything resembling it, and you must not suppose that you can understand what I am going to say, for you never saw, nor can imagine, anything like it:—
The Dream.
I thought that I was walking in the wide street of a great city; many people were walking there besides myself, but there was something in their air that immediately struck me; they seemed thoughtful, yet cheerful, neither occupied with business nor with gaiety, but having about them such dignity of repose, such high settled purpose, such peace and such purity, as were never stamped upon a mortal brow. The light of the city was also strange; it was not the sun, for there was nothing to dazzle; it was not the moon, for all was clear-as noon-day; it seemed an atmosphere of calm, lovely, and changeless light.
As I looked at the buildings, they all seemed like palaces, but not like the palaces of earth. The pavement that I walked on, and the houses that I saw, were all alike of gold, bright and shining, and as clear as glass. The large and glittering windows seemed like divided rainbows, and were made to receive and remit nothing but the light of gladness; it was, indeed, a place where hope might lead, where love might dwell. I could not help crying, as I went along, “Surely these are the habitations of righteousness, and truth and peace!” All was beauty, bright, and perfectness. I could not tell what was wanting to make me wish for eternity in such a place, and yet its very purity oppressed me. I saw nothing congenial, though looks of love and kindness met me in every face of that happy throng. I felt nothing responsive, and walked on, all alone, in the midst of the crowd, oppressed and sad. I saw that they all went one way and I followed, wondering at the reason; and at length I saw them all cross over to one building, much larger and finer than the rest. I saw them ascend its massive steps, and enter beneath its ample porch. I felt no desire to go with them, but I approached as far as the steps, out of curiosity. I saw persons enter who were dressed in every variety of color, and in the costumes of all nations; but they disappeared within the porch, and then I saw them cross the hall all in white. Oh! that I could describe to you that hall! It was not crystal—it was not marble—it was not gold, but light, pure light, consolidated into form; it was the moon without her coldness; it was the sun without his dazzling rays; and within was a staircase mounting upwards all of light, and I saw it touched by the moving feet, and by the white, spotless garments of those who ascended it; it was indeed passing fair, but it made me shudder and turn away. As I turned, I saw one on the lower step looking at me with an interest so intense, and a manner so anxious, that I stopped to hear what he had to say; he spoke like liquid music, and asked me,—
“Why do you turn away? Is there such a place elsewhere? Is there pleasure in the walks of darkness?”
I stood in silence; he pressed me to enter, but I neither answered nor moved. Suddenly he disappeared, and another took his place with the same look and the same manner; I wished to avoid him, but I stood rivetted to the spot.
“Art thou come so far,” he said, “and wilt thou lose thy labor? Put off thine own garments, and take the white livery.”
Here he continued to press me, until I got weary and angry, and said,—
“I will not enter; I do not like your livery; and I am oppressed with your whiteness.” He sighed, and was gone.
ML 12/23/1900