Chapter 9: Doctor Cortlandt Sees His Grave

“Is it not distasteful to you,” Cortlandt asked, “to live so near these loathsome dragons?”

“Not in the least,” replied the spirit. “They affect us no more than the smallest micro-organism, for we see both with equal clearness. Since we are not obliged to breathe, they cannot injure us; and, besides, they serve to illustrate the working of God’s laws, and there is beauty in everything for those that have the senses required for perceiving it. A feature of the spiritual world is, that it does not interfere with the natural, and the natural, except through faith, is not aware of its presence.”

“Then why,” asked Cortlandt, “was it necessary for the Almighty to bring your souls to Saturn, since there would have been no overcrowding if you had remained on the earth?”

“That,” replied the spirit, “was part of His wisdom; for the spirit, being able at once to look back into the natural world, if in it, would be troubled at the mistakes and tribulations of his friends. Now, as a rule, before a spirit can return to earth, his or her relatives and friends have also died; or, if he can return before that happens, he is so advanced that he sees the ulterior purpose, and therefore the wisdom of God’s ways, and is not distressed thereby. Lastly, as their expanding senses grew, it would be painful for the blessed and condemned spirits to be together. Therefore we are brought here, where God reveals Himself to us more and more, and the flight of the other souls--those unhappy ones--does not cease till they reach Cassandra.”

“Can the souls on Cassandra also leave it in time and roam at will?” asked Cortlandt.

“I have seen none of them myself in my journeys to other planets; but as the sun shines upon the just and the unjust, and there is no exception to Nature’s laws, I can reply that in time they do, and with equal powers their incentive to roam would be greater; for we are drawn together by common sympathy and pure, requited love, while they are mutually repelled. Of course, some obtain a measure of freedom before the rest, and these naturally roam the farthest, and the more they see and the farther they go, the stronger becomes their abhorrence for everything they meet.”

“Cannot you spirits help us, and the mortals now on earth, to escape this fate?”

“The greatest hope for your bodies and souls lies in the communion with those that have passed through death; for the least of them can tell you more than the wisest man on earth; and could you all come or send representatives to the multitudes here who cannot as yet return to you, but few on earth would be so quixotically sinful as to refuse our advice. Since, however, the greatest good comes to men from the learning that they make an effort to secure, it is for you to strive to reach us, who can act as go-betweens from God to you.”

“It seems to me,” said Bearwarden, “that people are better now than formerly. The sin of idolatry, for instance, has disappeared--has it not?”

“Men still set up idols of wealth, passion, or ambition in their hearts. These they worship as in days gone by, only the form has changed.”

“Could the souls on Cassandra do us bodily or mental injury, if we could ever reach their planet?” asked Bearwarden.

“They might oppress and distress you, but your faith would protect you wherever you might go.”

“Can you give us a taste of your sense of prescience?” asked Bearwarden again; “for, since it is not clear in what degree the condemned receive this, and neither is it by any means sure that I shall be saved, I should like for once in my history to experience this sense of divinity, before my entity ends in stone.”

“I will transfer to you my sense of prescience,” replied the spirit, “that you may foresee as prophets have. In so doing, I shall but anticipate, since you will yourselves in time obtain this sense in a greater or less degree. Is there any event in the future you would like to see, in order that, when the vision is fulfilled, it may tend to stablish your faith?”

“Since I am the oldest,” replied the doctor, “and shall probably die before my friends, reveal to us, I pray you, the manner of my death and the events immediately following. This may prove an object-lesson to them, and will greatly interest me.”

“Your death will be caused by blood-poisoning, brought on by an accident,” began the spirit. “Some daybreak will find you weak, after a troubled night, with your bodily resources at a low ebb. Sunset will see you weaker, with your power of resistance almost gone. Midnight will find you weaker still, and but little removed from the point of death. A few hours later a kind hand will close the lids of your half-shut eyes, which never again will behold the light. The coffin will inclose your body, and the last earthly journey begin. Now,” the spirit continued, “you shall all use my sight instead of your own.”

The walls of the cave seemed to expand, till they resembled those of a great cathedral, while the stalactites appeared to be metamorphosed into Gothic columns. They found themselves among a large congregation that had come to attend the last sad rites, while the great organ played Chopin’s “Funeral March.” The high vault and arches received the organ’s tone, and a sombre light pervaded the interior. There was a slight flutter and a craning of necks among those in the pews, as the procession began to ascend the aisle. While the slow step of the pallbearers and those carrying the coffin sounded on the stone floor, the clear voice of the clergyman that headed the procession sounded these words through the cathedral: “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.” As the bier advanced, Bearwarden and Ayrault recognized themselves among the pallbearers--the former with grey mustache and hair, the latter considerably aged. The hermetically sealed lead coffin was inclosed in a wooden case, and the whole was draped and covered with flowers.

“Oh, my faith!” cried Cortlandt, “I see my face within, yet it is but a decomposing mass that I once described as I.”

Then again did the minister’s voice proclaim, “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

The bearers gently set down their burden; the minister read the ever-impressive chapter of St. Paul to the Corinthians; a bishop solemnly and silently sprinkled earth on the coffin; and the choir sang the 398th hymn, beginning with the words, “Hark, hark my soul! angelic songs are swelling,” which had always been Cortlandt’s favourite and the service was at an end. The bearers again shouldered all that was left of Henry Cortlandt, and his relatives accompanied this to the cemetery.