Читать книгу The Missing Link in Modern Spiritualism - A. Leah Underhill - Страница 21

Table of Contents

My mother’s sister, Mrs. Elizabeth Higgins, had much the same faculty. She never left her bed at night to visit scenes about to transpire, but nearly everything of importance was foreshadowed in her dreams. She would frequently relate them on the morning following. One morning, she gave us a relation of her dream. She said, laughingly, to her brother: “I dreamed I had a fall, last night. You and I were riding on horseback, when suddenly my horse stumbled and fell in front of Judge Perry’s door. I rolled down the little embankment, and Tom Foot came and helped me up.” Grandmother said, “That can’t come true, for Tom is, by this time, far away.” They thought no more of it.

Some time after, her brother said to her, “Bessie, would you like to take a ride with me this morning?” She replied that she would, and they soon started off, each on a spirited horse, never thinking of her dream, until the horse stumbled and she fell and rolled down the bank, exactly in front of Judge Perry’s door. Tom came out and helped her up. He had not gone away, as he had contemplated doing.

Mr. Robert Dale Owen, in his “Foot-falls on the Boundary of Another World,” has given a more detailed account of her remarkable dreams. I will only add the last sad fulfilment of a dream which she had some years previously to its fulfilment. She was then in her nineteenth year. She said, “I dreamed I was in a new country, walking alone, when suddenly I came to a small cemetery, and, walking up to one of the most prominent head-stones, read the inscription, which was this:

IN MEMORY

OF

ELIZABETH SMITH,

Wife of H——,

Who departed this life

In the year of our Lord 18—,

Aged 27 years, 8 months and 26 days.”[6]

She was deeply impressed by this dream, and could not rest. She left her bed, and went into her mother’s sleeping-room, sobbing, and related the dream. Her father and mother both endeavored to disabuse her mind of any belief in this unhappy dream. He tenderly folded her in his arms and quoted from Scripture many beautiful sayings, such as: “Of that day and hour knoweth no man: no, not even the angels in Heaven.” She was comforted and seldom referred to her dream. The gentleman to whom she was affianced died. Her father purchased a home, and moved to Sodus, Wayne County, N. Y., where she became acquainted with Mr. C. Higgins. They were married, and enjoyed five years of uninterrupted happiness. The time was drawing near when she expected to become a mother. Uncle Charles was a devoted husband, and regretted that duty called him from home at this time. (He was engaged in Albany on public business.) He could not rest; he must return to his darling little wife, and spend a few days with her, and arrange with his brother, Dr. Higgins, to remain as a protector and physician in his house, until all danger had passed. He came (to her) unexpected, and she was delighted to see him.

The doctor came to remain as long as it was necessary. Her husband had already overstaid his time; and, as it was important for him to be in Albany, he was obliged to leave. There were many anxious hearts that feared, and silently prayed that their hopes of happiness might be realized. (I really do think that she had been reasoned out of belief in that dream.) She rejoiced and was happy when he promised her he would never again accept an office which would take him from home.

It was a bright, lovely morning. The team stood waiting at the gate, to take him to Newark (ten miles), the nearest point from which he could reach the canal packet boat, for Albany. Bessie walked with him to the gate (about two hundred feet from the door), where he tenderly embraced her and kissed her again and again, promising that he would refrain from leaving home on business in the future. He alluded in glowing terms to their prospects of happiness, in the birth of their expected child, and warned her of the danger of yielding to superstition. He begged her not to repeat her dreams, as they were the result of a disordered condition of health. Then, taking her in his arms, he carried her back to the house, saying: “My darling, I cannot part with you here at the gate; permit me to remember you as seated in your pleasant room, surrounded by loving friends, and happy again.” He held her in a long, fond embrace, kissing her with tears and sobs, and gently seating her in her easy-chair, bade her farewell, and rushed to the conveyance, fearing to look back, lest he should see her weeping at the door.

She wept some time after he was gone, but soon felt more cheerful, and frequently repeated what he had promised—that he would never leave home again after that season.

A week had passed, and a little voice was heard. She fondly clasped her babe to her breast and called it “My little Charles, my darling baby! Oh! how happy I am.” They were both doing well. Letters were sent to her husband by every mail, which were duly received by him. She wished the child would resemble his father, who was a splendid man in every sense. She too was perfect in form and feature.

It was the day on which she had attained her age of twenty-seven years, eight months, and twenty-six days, the age marked on the tombstone she had seen in her dream of about nine years before. All the family knew of it, though she gave no sign of thinking of it, and seemed entirely cheerful and happy.

The little one was two weeks old; a letter was received that morning saying, “I shall be at home the last of this week. I shall say farewell to Albany.” Words cannot express her joy at this unexpected announcement. She directed everything, how to dress the baby, and arranged for them to go after her husband’s mother and sister, who had not seen the little one, as they had been absent on a visit. They were delighted to find Bessie and the baby so well, and the little Charles looking “so exactly like his father, except that he had his mother’s curly hair.” The mother seemed perfectly happy, but there were anxious hearts that silently prayed to God to avert the fearful calamity, which they feared might now be hanging over them. The day was passing away. She was well and cheerful. Her family were near her, doing all they could to divert her thoughts from the date. Her minister, Rev. Mark Johnson, and his wife called to spend an hour with the family. She was pleased to see them, and united with them in prayer. She called Mrs. Johnson to see how sweetly the infant nestled in her bosom. Then, turning to the minister she said, “Mr. Johnson, we shall have the baby christened Charles Smith Higgins as soon as his father comes home.”

The last rays of the setting sun shone on the tree tops. Once more she called attention to the child, smiling on it the while; when suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh!” and placed one hand upon her breast, while with the other pressing the babe closer to her bosom.

Mother caught her in her arms, her sister Catharine ran to call the doctor; but before they could enter the room, her spirit had taken its flight to the immortal world.

Her tombstone now records her dream, verbatim, in the old cemetery in Sodus.

They directed letters to her husband and friends in Albany, also sent letters to every packet-boat going east and returning. (There were no railroads nor convenient telegraph wires at that time.) They published the sad news in all the papers, and sent them to every place where he would be likely to get them.

He left Albany on Thursday, expecting to reach home on Sunday. At Lyons he left the boat, thinking he could reach home some hours sooner by taking a private conveyance. He met an acquaintance at the hotel, who handed him a paper containing a “special notice” of the sudden death of Mrs. Elizabeth Higgins. He saw no more, but fell prostrated with overwhelming grief. In vain they tried to rouse him until the reaction came. The funeral was appointed for half-past two o’clock P.M. He had twenty miles to ride, and it was nearly one o’clock then; he called for a horse, and started direct for the church, hoping to reach there before the burial. A large concourse had already assembled at the house, which was about two miles distant from the church. All were anxiously looking and waiting for the absent one. The weather was extremely warm, and they would proceed slowly; so it was thought best to start. Several times they halted on the way. Every eye and ear were strained to catch the faintest sight or sound, but all in vain. The church was reached. The mourners moved slowly up the aisle. There was not a single heart in that large assembly which did not thrill with sorrowful emotion. The congregation prayed in silence, and sobs were heard in every part of the house. The minister stood silent for a moment, then slowly and distinctly said—“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.”

His voice was deep and solemn, and its clear tones penetrated every heart. His eyes beamed with tenderness, as he recounted with touching pathos the scenes of past happiness and this sad reverse. He offered up petitions to the Most High for the bereaved husband and friends. After taking final leave of those dearly loved features, so soon to be closed forever from our mortal vision, we started for the cemetery, distant about a quarter of a mile. Once more we halted. All hearts were high-strung with the hope that Uncle Charles might yet arrive; a prayer was said, the last sad offices were performed, and the friends returned, with aching hearts, to their bereaved home. Just as the family were entering the gateway, a tired, dusty rider came galloping at full speed. He came from the cemetery, where he had been seen to throw himself on the newly made grave, and call, in the bitter anguish of his soul, “My darling, O, my darling, come back to me.” (His sister’s son witnessed the scene.) It was sad to see his manly form so bowed by sorrow. He threw his arms around her sisters and held them in a long embrace; then calling for the child, he clasped it to his heart, crying, “My Bessie’s baby! Oh, my darling child! You are all that is left to me.”

I cannot describe his grief. It can be better imagined, than expressed in language.