You are,however,only on the shore of the ocean of knowledge,and,by continuing to advance in geometric ratio,will soon be able to retain your mortal bodies till the average longevity exceeds Methuselah's;but,except for more opportunities of doing good,or setting a longer example to your fellows by your lives,where would be the gain?
"I now see how what appeared to me while I lived on earth insignificant incidents,were the acts of God,and that what Ithought injustice or misfortune was but evidence of his wisdom and love;for we know that not a sparrow falleth without God,and that the hairs of our heads are numbered.Every act of kindness or unselfishness on my part,also,stands out like a golden letter or a white stone,and gives me unspeakable comfort.At the last judgment,and in eternity following,we shall have very different but just as real bodies as those that we possessed in the flesh.The dead at the last trump will rise clothed in them,and at that time the souls in paradise will receive them also.""I wonder,"thought Ayrault,"on which hand we shall be placed in that last day.""The classification is now going on,"said the spirit,answering his thought,"and I know that in the final judgment each individual will range himself automatically on his proper side.""Do tell me,"said Ayrault,"how you were able to answer my thought.""I see the vibrations of the grey matter of your brain as plainly as the movements of your lips";in fact,I see the thoughts in the embryonic state taking shape."When their meal was ready they sat down,Ayrault placing the spirit on his right,with Cortlandt on his left,and having Bearwarden opposite.On this occasion their chief had given them a particularly good dinner,but the spirit took only a slice of meat and a glass of claret.
"Won't you tell us the story of your life,"said Ayrault to the spirit,"and your experiences since your death?They would be of tremendous interest to us.""I was a bishop in one of the Atlantic States,"replied the spirit gravely,"and died shortly before the civil war.People came from other cities to hear my sermons,and the biographical writers have honoured my memory by saying that I was a great man.
I was contemporaneous with Daniel Webster and Henry Clay.
Shortly after I reached threescore and ten,according to earthly years,I caught what I considered only a slight cold,for I had always had good health,but it became pneumonia.My friends,children,and grandchildren came to see me,and all seemed going well,when,without warning,my physician told me I had but a few hours to live.I could scarcely believe my ears;and though,as a Churchman,I had ministered to others and had always tried to lead a good life,I was greatly shocked.I suddenly remembered all the things I had left undone and all the things I intended to do,and the old saying,'Hell is paved with good intentions,'crossed my mind very forcibly.In less than an hour I saw the physician was right;I grew weaker and my pulse fluttered,but my mind remained clear.I prayed to my Creator with all my soul,'Ospare me a little,that I may recover my strength,before I go hence,and be no more seen.'As if for an answer,the thought crossed my brain,'Set thine house in order,for thou shalt not live,but die.'I then called my children and made disposition of such of my property and personal effects as were not covered by my will.I also gave to each the advice that my experience had shown me he or she needed.
Then came another wave of remorse and regret,and again an intense longing to pray;but along with the thought of sins and neglected duties came also the memory of the honest efforts I had made to obey my conscience,and these were like rifts of sunshine during a storm.These thoughts,and the blessed promises of religion I had so often preached in the churches of my diocese,were an indescribable comfort,and saved me from the depths of blank despair.Finally my breathing became laboured,I had sharp spasms of pain,and my pulse almost stopped.I felt that I was dying,and my sight grew dim.The crisis and climax of life were at hand.'Oh!'I thought,with the philosophers and sages,'is it to this end I lived?The flower appears,briefly blooms amid troublous toil,and is gone;my body returns to its primordial dust,and my works are buried in oblivion.The paths of life and glory lead but to the grave.'
My soul was filled with conflicting thoughts,and for a moment even my faith seemed at a low ebb.I could hear my children's stifled sobs,and my darling wife shed silent tears.The thought of parting from them gave me the bitterest wrench.With my fleeting breath I gasped these words,'That mercy I showed others,that show thou me.'The darkened room grew darker,and after that I died.In my sleep I seemed to dream.All about were refined and heavenly flowers,while the most delightful sounds and perfumes filled the air.Gradually the vision became more distinct,and I experienced an indescribable feeling of peace and repose.
I passed through fields and scenes I had never seen before,while every place was filled with an all-pervading light.Sometimes I seemed to be miles in air;countless suns and their planets shone,and dazzled my eyes,while no bird-of-paradise was as happy or free as I.Gradually it came to me that I was awake,and that it was no dream.Then I remembered my last moments,and perceived that I had died.Death had brought freedom,my work in the flesh was ended,I was indeed alive.
"'O Death,where is thy sting?O Grave,where is thy victory?'
