A WARNING SLIGHTED

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Apr 15, 1862

A WARNING SLIGHTED.

THE following article has been often published with the title, "A Well-authenticated Fact."

In the year 1814, the late Mr. and Mrs. Foster were acquainted with three sisters, residing in London, two of whom were serious, retiring women, and the third, gay and volatile. They were all elderly, which rendered the gaiety of the third less becoming, and also inclined her the more easily to take offense at any remarks made upon it; she hated the piety of her sisters, and opposed it in many spiteful, petty ways, though they endeavored to render the differences of their opinions as little disagreeable as possible. One night, toward the close of the year 1814, she had been out at an assembly very late, and the next morning at breakfast was remarkably different from her usual manner. Instead of her usual incessant chatter about every person she had met, everything they wore, and said, and did, she sat silent, sullen, and absorbed. The gloom upon her brow was a mixture of temper and distress, which seemed to indicate a fixed determination to pursue her own will, though it should lead her into trouble, rather than pursue the course she knew to be right, that would reduce her to submit to the control of another. As she ate nothing, one of her sisters asked her if she was unwell. No. What is the matter? Nothing. Had nothing distressed her? She had no idea of people's prying into what did not concern them.

The whole of the morning she spent in her own room, and at dinner the same scene as in the morning occurred. She ate little, never spoke but to answer uncivility, and then with an appearance of depression and melancholy, that spread their influence very powerfully over the cheerfulness of her companions. She retired to rest late, and with the spirit of one who expects from sleep neither alleviation nor refreshment.

The next morning she again scarcely tasted breakfast, and seemed in the same distressed, uncomfortable state of mind as on the preceding day. Her sisters again renewed their inquiries. She said, I am well, and nothing pains me. Then you have something on your mind; why will you not tell us? Do we not love you? Have we not the same earthly interest as you? and can we seek any good but yours in our anxious wish to share your sorrow? Oh, you have superstitions enough of your own without mine being added; I shall not tell you what ails me, so you have no occasion to rack your curiosity. I dare say you will think it some spiritual triumph, but I laugh at such things. I am not quite old enough yet to become the victim of dreams and visions. We do not believe in dreams and visions, Anna, was the reply. She answered harshly, No, and I do not intend you shall. The sisters looked at each other, and remained silent.

The second day passed as the first. Anna was gloomy and moody, and her sisters from pity and anxiety, were unhappy. The third morning she again entered on the day as one who loathed the light, who has no object in living, and to whom the lapse of time, in the prospect of futurity, brings neither comfort nor hope. As her sisters looked on her, one of them suddenly said, Anna, what was your dream? Ha! what was it? You would give the world to know, but I shall not tell you. I thought you did not believe in dreams. Neither do we in general. We know them to be the offspring of a disordered stomach, confused images and fancies, when reason is dormant, and the memory of them passes away as soon as we engage in our daily avocations; yet there is no doubt some dreams are no more sent in vain than any other affliction or warning. There is a verse in scripture which mentions God as speaking "in the vision of the night when deep sleep falleth upon man." She laughed again. You have a verse for everything that suits you, but I do not choose to be warned in such a manner, and there is no doubt I shall get it out of my head in a day or two. Anna, we beseech you to tell us. If you really have a dream from heaven, you surely would not wish to forget it; and if not we will help you laugh it off. She answered, Well, if I must tell, I must; no doubt it was very extraordinary and very frightful; I should have thought it the effect of the ball, but that I never saw anything anywhere the least like it.

"I thought I was in the wide street of a great city. Many people were walking there beside myself, but there was something in the air which immediately struck me. They seemed thoughtful and cheerful, neither occupied with business nor with pleasure, but having about them such a dignity of repose, such high and settled purpose, such grace and such purity as never was stamped on 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 day. It seemed an atmosphere of light, calm, lovely, and changeless. The buildings seemed all palaces, but not like palaces of earth. The pavements were all alike of gold, bright and shining, as clear as glass. The large and glittering windows seemed like divided rainbows, and were made to transmit none but the rays of gladness. It was indeed a place to which Hope may bend, and wherein Charity might dwell. I could not help exclaiming, as I passed along, Truly these are the habitations of righteousness and truth. All was beauty, bright and perfect. I could not tell what was wanting to make me wish for an eternity in such a place; and yet its very purity oppressed me. I saw nothing congenial, though looks of kindness met me in every face of that happy throng. I felt nothing responsive. I returned in silence their friendly greeting, and walked on alone, oppressed and sad. I saw that all went one way, and I followed, wondering the reason. At length I saw them approach a building much larger and finer than all the rest. I saw them ascend its massive steps, and enter beneath its ample porch, but I felt no desire to go with them, further than to the foot of the steps. I approached from curiosity. I saw persons enter who were dressed in every variety of costume of the nations, but they disappeared in the porch, then crossed the hall in white. O that I could describe that hall to you! It was not marble—it was not crystal—it was not gold, but light, pure light, consolidated into form. It was the moon, without its coolness, it was the sun, without its dazzling ray; and within was the staircase mounting upward, all of light; and I saw it touched by the snowy feet and white and spotless garments of those who ascended. It was indeed passing fair; but it made me shudder, and I turned away. As I turned, I saw one on the lowest 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 asked me in a voice like liquid music, Why do you turn away? Is there peace elsewhere? Is there pleasure in the works 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 manner. I wished to avoid him, but I seemed riveted 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 till I got weary and angry, and said, I will not enter; I do not like your livery, and I am oppressed by your whiteness.

He sighed, and was gone. Many passed by me with looks of mingled kindness and pity, and pressed me to follow on with them, and offered me a hand up the stairs which led to their mysterious change, but I rejected them, and stood melancholy and distressed. At length one bright young messenger came up to me and entreated me to enter, with a voice and manner that I could not resist. Do not turn away, he said, where canst thou go? Do not linger, for why shouldst thou weary thyself for naught? Enter now, and taste of happiness. Do not all tribes and colors enter into the hall? Are they not clothed, and washed, and comforted? He gave me his hand, and I entered along with him. Here I was sprinkled with pure water, and a garment of pure white was put upon me, and I know not how but I mounted the white staircase with my happy guide. O what a light burst upon me when I reached its summit! Mortal words cannot describe it, nor mortal fancy conceive it. Where are the living sapphires? Where are the glittering stars that are like the bright radiance in which I stood? Where are the forms, or the looks of love that breathed in the innumerable company before me? I sank down overpowered and wretched. I crept into a corner and tried to hide myself, for I felt that I had nothing in unison with the blessed creatures of such a place. They were moving to the harmony of sounds that never fell on mortal ear. My guide joined in raptures and I was left alone. I saw the tall forms all fair and brilliant, in their ineffable felicity, their songs and notes of gratitude forming the circumstances and differences of each. At length I saw one taller than the rest, one every way more fair, more awful—surpassing thought!—and to Him every eye was turned, and in His face every face was brightened. The songs and the praises were to His honor, and all seemed to drink from Him their life and joy. As I gazed in speechless and trembling amazement, one who saw me, left the company, and came where I stood. Why, he asked, art thou silent? Come quickly, and unite in the praises. I felt a sullen anger in my heart, and I answered with sharpness, I will not join in your song, for I know not the strain. He sighed, and with a look of surprising, humiliating pity, returned to his place. About a minute after, another came, and addressed me as he had done; and, with the same temper, I answered him in the same words. He seemed as if he could have resigned his own dazzling glory to have changed me. If Heaven knows anguish, he seemed to feel it: but he left me and returned. What could it be that put such temper into my heart? At length the Lord of the glorious company of the living forms of light and beauty saw me, and came where I stood. I felt my blood curdle, and the flesh upon me tremble, and my heart grew hardened; my voice was bold. He spake, and deep-toned music seemed to drop from his lips. Why sittest thou so still when all around thee are glad? Come, join in the song, for I have triumphed! Come, join in the song, for now my people reign! Love ineffable, unutterable, beamed upon me as though it would have melted a heart of stone, but I melted not. I gazed an instant, and then said, I will not join the song, for I know not the strain. Creation would have fled at the change in his countenance! His glance was lightning, and his voice was thunder! He said, Then what doest thou here? The floor beneath me opened—the earth quaked, and I sunk into tormenting flame. With the fright I awoke."

There was silence for a time, for the sisters were struck with awe. They considered the dream, the impressions it had made. Anna, said they, we cannot wish you to forget this dream; we surely believe it is from God. Your description of the holy city is much the same as we find in the Bible. The city hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to lighten it, for the temple of God is there and the Lamb is the light thereof. All who enter there must put off their garments, that is, their own righteousness, and must be clothed with linen, clean and white, even in the righteousness of the saints, and "their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord." Those that walk in the heavenly temple are "those that have come out of great tribulation, and washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb." Wisdom daily waits on the steps to call the sons of men into that temple, and the people of God try to persuade their followers to tread

in their steps. O, dear sister, you know something of the way; do listen to the faithful warning. Join us, and walk in the path that leads to heaven.

Anna's brow was darkened, and she answered, I will do as I please; I do not intend you to preach to me. She continued in this state till the end of the week, and was found in her room a corpse! No one knew the cause of her death. She died without disease, and without change.—Christian Intelligencer.