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HPB-SB-8-334: Difference between revisions
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| source title = Spiritualist | | source title = London Spiritualist | ||
| source details = August 15, 1879 | | source details = No. 364, August 15, 1879, pp. 80-1 | ||
| publication date = 1879-08-15 | | publication date = 1879-08-15 | ||
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... | {{Style S-Small capitals| A work}} with the above title, by “Lisette Earle,” has just been published by Messrs. Remington and Co. Without any mention of Spiritualism the work is full of its principles and its facts. It is manifestly written by an authoress who at some period of life has known sorrow, and thought broadly and deeply about things spiritual and the causes of human happiness and human woe. ''Between the Lights ''is the best work of fiction of the kind we have seen for a long time, and it is so true psychologically that it is difficult to assume that some of the spiritual experiences narrated therein are not real ones. | ||
{{Style S-HPB SB. Continues on|8-335}} | The following quotation is from a tale in it, entitled “The Hermit:”— | ||
“Do not jest, Mildred,” she said; “I have indeed heard, thought, and felt what I shall never forget.” | |||
“A dream, Kathleen?” I questioned. “Surely you have nothing worse to tell than some weird dream?” “Perhaps it was a dream,” she murmured, “and yet'' ''I was not asleep.” | |||
“Tell me, Kathleen; I am all anxiety to know.” | |||
“Mildred, I am not superstitious, and attach but little importance to dreams; yet last night, a little past midnight, I was awakened by a gentle tapping at my'' ''casement. I listened, comparing the sounds to a bird’s beak striking the glass. Thinking it might be a little fledgling fallen from its resting-place in the eaves, I hastened to open the window, and, by the moonlight, sought for it all around, but could not find anything, W and so returned to my bed again. Presently the same low tapping began again; this time there seemed a friendliness in the little raps, and, falling as they did upon the glass, a ring in them that sounded like notes from a musical instrument. | |||
“Soon the sweet little sounds died away, and perfect stillness reigned within and without; not a breath of wind stirred the leaves, and a quiet as of death fell upon me. I listened for my own breathing, but could perceive no sound. And yet it was not sleep; I was awake, and my senses were acute as I lay listening, for I knew not what. In a second or two I heard the tones of a voice, at first in murmurs and at a distance, coming, as it were, from over the hills; then nearer, in my'' ''room, by my side, clearly and distinctly: it was the voice of Geoffrey Monkton, and on my ears fell these words:— | |||
“How long the night seems! I am waiting for the morning. How dark the night seems, and so cold! | |||
“What is the matter with me? I have had a long sleep; air unusually long night this has been, and I am waiting for the morning. Oh, it is cold, and I am chill as though I had lost something; yet what have I to lose? | |||
“I look for the morning. What has morning to do with me, or I with the morning? Shall I go and warm myself in the sun of to-morrow when it comes?'' ''No, I will not. Why should I suffer pain, or voluntarily look upon pain? I know it is so, and I have resolved to look upon it no longer. Yet I am waiting for the morning. | |||
“What strange sensations pass over me. Surely it is better to be in the dark, if the sun throws light, and forces me to see suffering and pain. | |||
“It.is coming. I feel it is coming. A great light is coming, and I fear it. I am like a blind man going under the operation of having his eyes opened. Am I prepared? | |||
“There is the first star! I am glad it does not break all at once upon me. I can put it from me no longer; friend or foe, messenger of mercy or monster of evil, the thing that men call Death confronts me. I am slipping away! Where, oh, where? | |||
“I am growing nervous. A childish feeling of fear comes upon me. Am I afraid to die? For years and years I have walked alone, asking no advice, taking no help, refusing to mix with my fellows. Having never seen the image of God reflected as I desired, I lived without Him, and lived in my own world; strong enough to do without aid. Now I find myself in this dark hour, before the new morning, putting forth my hand in the darkness for help, asking to be guided. I have a contempt for myself. I despise this weakness, and yet—oh, how shall I guide me? | |||
“Hark, a voice! Strange word to my ears! Strange sound, yet I listen for it again. There it is—it sounds from afar, but I hear it. ‘Friend!’ I wonder if he is sincere? I called no man friend. I never believed in friendship; yet it sounds pleasant, and there is a ring in it that seems truthful. | |||
“‘Fear not, oh, my friend. Slowly thou art coming to the light. Fear not this breaking of the morning. Put out thy hand; I will guide thee.’ | |||
“So, like a blind child, I submit, and turn me to the sound. The voice comes nearer to me. | |||
“The sky is studded with stars, and the sun is rising. The night of my death is passed, and I am beginning to live. Oh, for what? | |||
“I will talk with this friend, and ask him who he is, for my eyes are bandaged. I just feel that the morning is breaking, and the sun is rising, but I see not, for this bandage shuts out and hides me from all that is fair to look upon. Yes, he is my friend. He shall be my counsellor and my guide. He has known me, and I have never recognised him. Self-appointed, sympathising with, and understanding me better than I understood myself and the world; filled with compassion for the torture I inflicted upon myself; his heart burning with a desire to tear the scales from my eyes, and show me things as they are, and not as they seem; so has he followed and watched me all my way. Driven back oft-times by the blindness and dense darkness that I allowed to gather round, and form itself into a barrier that would not let him show me the light; sometimes turning aside to weep at my refusal of the comfort he brought; yet ever has he followed on, clinging to that part of my nature that Sometimes, yea, ofttimes, yearned for the {{Style S-HPB SB. Continues on|8-335}} | |||
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<gallery widths=300px heights=300px> | |||
london_spiritualist_n.364_1879-08-15.pdf|page=10|London Spiritualist, No. 364, August 15, 1879, pp. 80-1 | |||
</gallery> | |||