CHAPTER XX. ADDRESS OF THE SAGE.

 

I saw the Spirit-world, its mighty minds,

Had oped my vision to its vast designs,

The spheres spread 'round me and I looked far through Into the ocean of space's ether blue."

 

IT was evening when the spirit band departed from their ethereal home to re-visit earth. They paused to gaze for a passing moment on familiar scenes. Silence oppressed them, which Leon interrupted:—

 

"These scenes produce a melancholy which I would gladly throw off, and yet a flood of memories of the old time thrills me with a strange emotion."

 

"Melancholy is often of a holy character," replied the master. "I wish I might feel its influence," said hero with a smile.

 

"It would not accord with your light heart, and for the hour not our seeking; let us at once devote ourselves to the object of our coming."

 

They entered a mansion in which a large circle had convened. The Sage said in satisfaction:—

 

"I have long desired to meet with those to whom I might with at least partial accuracy transmit my thoughts."

 

After several preliminary tests, he proceeded to speak through the organism of the sensitive, and his thoughts appeared in the words of the following:—

 

ADDRESS.

 

Man has an eternity beyond the grave, that his insatiate thirst for wisdom may be satisfied. The perfected Spirit is the end of creative force. For it, the gaseous ocean of the beginning existed; for it, the igneous ball rolled through the vast space for ages; for it, one form of life after another came, type following type, and degree succeeding degree in endless mutations. Man is the bud, the spirit, the unfolding flower of Nature, which will go on unfolding its powers until it reaches the throne of Omnipotent mind.

 

There is no end to the acquisition of wisdom, and though the weary soul pitches its camp each day a day's journey nearer God, the number of those day's journeys are as countless as the leaves of the forest, or the sands of the seashore. March forward as far and as fast as you will, and you need never speculate on the consequences of arriving at a point where progression ends.

 

Draw a circle about you to-day, and to-morrow's circle will encompass it. The growth of the soul is like that of the tree, each new growth encompassing all the rest. The soul is exogenous and endogenous in its growth: not only from within, but also from without. Each age draws its circle around all those which are past. You may think cohesive attraction comprehensive—yet gravitation draws its circle around attraction, and a thousand forces beside; and gravitation itself is not a final cause. Some one will, in the distant future, stretch forth his hand and describe a circle which will include gravitation and all its antagonistic forces. We learn to comprehend great principles, and classify facts. By observing isolated instances, you lose the connection and become confused. Nature is a whole, and should be studied as such.

 

Men am striving to describe circles around their predecessors. The circle which bounded the mental horizon of the ancients has become, as it were, the centre, a point in the circle of to-day, while to-day's circle will be lost in the efforts of the future. A circle which cannot be outgrown exists only in the imagination. Whitherward tend all these effects? To mingle in the grand circle of OMNIPOTENT MIND. The men who draw circles around their farms and cottages, around their stores, their warehouses, or the countries to where their ships go out; those who circumscribe the range of thought to the earth, or in their efforts after wisdom include the starry host in their mightily-expanded sphere—all, all are for the same object—the advance of mind in its efforts after the unattainable.

 

The savage reaches out into the future state, and feels the presence of supreme intelligence. Man has progressed by the efforts of his intuition, in receiving impressions from the Omnipotent Mind. Thus all races, in whatever clime or country, however disadvantageously situated in every age, have acknowledged an incomprehensible wisdom. From this, too, each nation has its own peculiar mythology. Even the half animal, naked savage on the bleak rocks of Patagonia has a glimpse of that Infinite Spirit who he imagines sighs in the evening breeze and echoes his thundering voice in the hoarseness of the mad waves which forever lash the rock­bound shore of his inhospitable clime.

 

The human intellect has astonishing powers. It grasps solar systems at a thought. It would solve the mysteries of the Divine character. The undeveloped mind feels that the external world is controlled by an invisible force which it cannot comprehend; and from this arises the idea of the cosmos, or universe, being a machine with a superior intelligence to direct its motions. Of the character of that force the savage knows nothing, and the civilized man, the theologian, knows no more. The savage regards God as a separate and detached being, the civilized man as the author of creation, penetrating through every atom of matter.

 

This is well expressed in the ALLAH of the Mohammedan, "the Only." How beautiful is the idea contained in this, "God is the Only!" When we speak of Him there is no Nature, for we mean everything. All is a part of the Omnipotent. God is the "Only," the "All," the "I Am." He speaks to you through every sense.

 

Here the question arises, "What and where is God?" This vast subject has engaged the attention of theologians and philosophers through all recorded time, and yet nothing but a vague, unsatisfactory conception has been gained. Still, the mind manifests its inward dissatisfaction in striving for something more—something beyond. In early ages the chiefs and rulers gave their ideas, and their followers were satisfied. They recognized God as a personal being, and their followers worshiped as such. This idea of God's personality has descended to the present time, and the mass still worship a monstrous human potentate instead of the controlling principle of universal nature—The Over Soul.

 

Say to the churchman that you believe the Deity to be the mind of Nature, and he will exclaim in horror: "You are a disbeliever in God; you cannot worship Him unless he is personified," The Chinese bowing before their idols, the Hindoo prostrating himself before the crushing wheels of Juggernaut, the fire-worshipers venerating the rising king of day, are no more idolatrous than those who worship a personified Deity. The germ of true veneration is deeply planted in man's nature, and cannot be suppressed. From beneath the weight of ages of superstition the holy aspirations of our nature will Bash out like beautiful stars from behind the rolling clouds. In olden time I often uttered to myself the sentence, "What and where is God?" Civilization sent back its sullen echoes in a host of answers; individuals and classes assailed me for a separate hearing; all was uproar and confusion; but above the universal din arose the voice of the priests that God was a potentate in the human form dwelling in High Olympus, surrounded by a court of demigods. To deny, was to accept the scourge and death.

 

I wandered over the sands of the desert, revolving the great inquiry in my mind. A son of the waste stood before me. Here is a child of Nature, thought I; he cannot be prejudiced by the myths of their fathers. In this, however, I was mistaken. For a moment, free thought broke through the clouds which hung over his mind, and Nature spoke through him:—

 

"Behold," said he, "these sands are bordered with plants. They grow and give me sustenance. In their growth I behold life and wisdom, and, in proportion as my mind expands, I behold intelligence. Look abroad over this water. See yonder moving pillar of sand. God has moved his breath to do his bidding. I feel his presence in the broad sunshine and in the serene night. The stars reflecting the dim shadows of the waste remind me that he is far off, yet near."

 

Turning to the Indian, who passes his life chasing the deer through the forest, or pursuing the bear to his den—who dwelt most with nature, and had never been led astray from her truthfulness—I presented my bold inquiry. For a moment he was amazed and confounded, when be exclaimed:—

 

"View the mighty forest, the birds caroling in the branches. I hear his voice mingling with the wail of the spirits of my fathers in the breeze. In the echo of the thunder he speaks to me. Where is he? You are now in his presence. He is ever speaking to you, for he dwells in everything and in everywhere."

 

Untutored child of Nature, from whence derived you so much truth? Theologians have long striven to grasp thy simple explanation, and failed. Preconceived opinions and tradition exercise great influence over the mind; and, although fully convinced that the Deity is an intelligent principle, our fancy will personify Him. Reason alone can set the matter right. As soon as you personify and give God a shape, you circumscribe his limits and power. As soon as you measure him by man, in power or shape, and thus bring him down to finite comprehension, you make him a finite personage. You must not compare him with man. The fact that man stands apparently at the head of creation is no evidence that there may not be inhabitants on other planets differing entirely from him in form, yet as far exceeding him in comprehension and power of thought as the most acute philosopher on this globe exceeds the Hottentot who imagines the horizon to be the boundary of the universe. The finite cannot comprehend the Infinite. The idea of God's personality leads us immediately to believe that he is of the human form. The Caucasian thinks he is a Caucasian; the Indian a red man; the African a black chieftain; and so to the limits of intelligence, where God's existence ceases to be recognized. It also compels the assigning of a locality. If God is local, he cannot be universal; he must be finite—and not infinite. A finite being cannot control an infinite empire—hence there would be systems of worlds, situated far, far beyond the control of such a God. The great code of principles created the earth in its present form, and so far as they acted in creating, they now act in controlling. God is eternal; so are these attributes. They are co-eternal, co-existent with matter, and can never be annulled or altered. As man's soul and body are one, so is the Infinite mind and the whole universe.

 

But this idea of Deity will lead to Pantheism. What if it does? Can there be no truth in Pantheism? I care not from whence truth is derived. I never trouble myself as to the origin of an idea. If reason approve it, I am satisfied. Pantheism may contain some correct views, as may the lowest depths of atheism. All errors begin in myth, and would be immediately condemned if not for the few truths upon which they rest. Men who dare not use a new truth for fear of being styled infidel are in want of moral courage. Such are willing to skim the surface, never daring to go deeper than their predecessors and contemporaries.

 

"But how can you worship a principle or a code of laws?"

 

If the ancients called those attributes manifested in Nature by the term God, and we now recognize in what this Deity consists, and if our devotion thus ceases, it is no argument against our conception. This objection is similar to the plea for ignorance, because the learned do not feel the same degree of awe and wonder as the savage when gazing on the fearful tempest or the roaring cataract. If increase of knowledge destroys devotion, then it should be destroyed. But does it do this? The man who regards Deity as the Omnipotent Intelligence will not fall down with blind zeal or bigoted devotion', with fear and trembling, as in the presence of an angry tyrant. Perhaps he will have no stated time to go through the mummery of a formal prayer, only lip deep; but his veneration will speak in the still, small voice, and he will adore the great cause of universal harmony which spreads around him, in which he recognizes the action of those great and comprehensive principles to which his fathers gave the name "Jehovah." The ignorant devotion paid him is the result of superstitious fear, and has not the semblance of true devotion.

 

If man strives to be devout he immediately loses his object: when he strives not at all he is most devotional. When the man who has violated law prays, whence cometh his prayer? Not from the moral organs, but from the selfish and the animal. After men have become miserable by violating law they pray God to forgive them. After doing wrong through the day they pray for forgiveness at night. God receives the homage of the animal propensities. True devotion to Deity, of the developed mind, is obedience to all the laws of his nature. There is no distinction between

Nature and God. Matter and Mind, which have ever been separated, are an indivisible unity. Let this lead to Naturalism or Pantheism; these impressions rest on the immutable basis of creation. The laws of Nature are the will of Deity; the Wisdom and intelligence displayed are his mind; and though in speaking of these it is well to preserve a partial distinction, yet, in reality, all if; one inseparable unity. I recognize nothing superior or external to Nature—nothing above or controlling this unity; but within dwells perfection of principle working forever with indefatigable energy.

 

We have but one guide in our study of Nature, and that is reason. The field is open, and though "infidel" is branded on all who pass through its portals, followers are not wanting. Why has the pursuit of the natural sciences always been thought dangerous to the mind? Why has materialism been said to be the result? Simply because such investigation opens the path to free thought—free communication with Deity.

 

God's attributes are revealed in Nuture, and constitute the justice, benevolence, wisdom, and love of the external world, from which spring harmony and progression. From these man absorbs the attributes he possesses. If they had existed in nature, they could not exist in him. His ideas are all absorbed in this manner. His conception of mathematics is derived from the precision be recognizes in all things. He observes that matter pursues certain fixed courses to accomplish given results, and he calls these laws.

 

Nature is the "All," and from her crystal fount mind absorbs as much as it wills, and still the clear stream flows as bountifully as before, in never­ending currents of truth, love and intelligence.

 

In all your pursuits after knowledge you will make Nature your text­book, and Reason your guide; and learn from every babbling brook, from the majestic river, rolling its tranquil waters to the ocean in its sublimity; team from every mound, towering mountain, tumbling waterfall and fruitful plain. A wonderful intelligence is displayed on every flower. Its signet ring is impressed on every shell of the sea and on every leaf of the forest. Every dewdrop contains a lesson of creation. He who sees not this intelligence in shell and leaf is blind. He who bears it not in storms, and in thunder, is deaf. He who feels it not around and within him, speaking all the time, has not clear intelligence to feel. Thus is Deity ever present, addressing man and spirit from age to age. You stand forever in the presence of Jehovah. He is your teacher; all your mentality and morality are absorbed from him. How, then, should you act? Act true to those attributes. How you can do so I will now inform you: Charity is the basis of greatness.

 

You preach temperance and abolition, yet you shun the drunkard as you would contagion, and the negro, whom you have so shamefully wronged, with disgust. You are against capital punishment and the barbarous abuses of the criminal. Why do you not use all your influence to abolish these abuses?

 

The infant must travel the same road his ancestors have travelled for these thousands of years. The road is a beaten track, and easily followed; hence, under favorable circumstances, at thirty he has travelled over the whole vast space, But one may be hindered, or entirely stopped on the way, and then he becomes a savage, a barbarian', or half civilized, according to the point he reaches before encountering the obstruction. Who arrests the upward journey of a child? Society; and society must bear the recoil of its arbitrary power.

 

If you were in the circumstances of the drunkard, slaveholder, or criminal you would act as they do. Considering this, you should have charity for crime in all its forms.

 

How have the past ages treated the criminal? Humanity shudder and hide thy blushing face! Look down into the loathsome dungeon, where a bundle of straw on the dirty floor is the resting-place of what might have been a man—a mouldy piece of bread and a bottle of water his only sustenance for days together. Look yonder at those State engines, the gallows, the gibbet, the guillotine, the inquisitorial prison, whose secret chambers are the portals of hell; whose officers are incarnate demons!

 

You turn from these in disgust and blush! But enormities as great stare you to-day in the face, from which you withdraw your charity. An age of iron called for blood. These things were necessary concomitants of the struggle for civil freedom. Your jails and prisons, and the manner in which you treat your prisoners, though mild, compared with the past, are harsh, when compared with the standard of humanity.

 

Society has a right to protect itself, but it has none to infringe on the just rights of the individual If a man threatens you with, injury, you are justified in restraining him, and if gentle means will not do, in using strong measures; but never are you justified in taking his life, or maiming him intentionally. The fact that he injured you yesterday does not justify you in retaliating to-day. Revenge is the basest of the animalities. In the undeveloped state of things now existing, the majority are born with bad organizations, in all classes of society. Reared from the embryo in the worst conditions, surrounded by circumstances calculated to excite alone the animalities, why should you be astonished that men are as they are? They are surrounded by objects which excite their acquisitiveness, by companions who allure them on to crime. They are bred amid filth, vice and corruption, with scarce food enough to sustain the life within them, or fuel to keep them from freezing; while all around are wealth, luxury, and comfort. Blame them not, brother; you would lie and steal and cheat if you were similarly situated.

 

The disposition to crime is a disease, like lunacy and other cerebral disorganizations! and charity should teach pity and not revenge.

 

How were lunatics treated a few years ago? You shut them up in dungeons, gave them straw for a couch, and only a little grated window through which to lookout on the beautiful world. Then you appointed iron-hearted men, almost devoid of humanity, to oversee them. When they screamed and tore their clothes, and gnashed their teeth, and twined their fingers through their hair in their agony, they were scourged, lashed, bruised, and beaten. Did you cure lunacy by these means? "Never, never!" echo the cold, damp walls. Enlightened humanity stepped in and said: "Lunacy is a disease;" then insane asylums arose amid beautiful parks; comfort, convenience, and health were consulted; the insane were taught that they were not hated, but loved; and now the consequences are apparent. The lunatic is sent back to society a useful man.

 

Take the criminal, shut him up in a cage as you would a wild beast, give him nothing to divert his mind from his gloomy situation. He feels crushed and insulted; he feels that in him humanity is outraged. What do you shut him up that dismal place for? To protect society? No, but for revenge, cold-blooded, premeditated revenge! He knows this, and resolves, when he regains his freedom, to profit by the example. He passes his gloomy years in concocting desperate plans of revenge, and is turned loose upon society like a fierce tiger from the jungle. Your roofs shall blaze now. Your property and life be in danger. You have made him worse by such training.

 

So of the drunkard. You despise him as you do the criminal fresh from prison. Both feel that their manhood is forever lost; and, do they ever so well, they feel that it is impossible for them to retrieve their former position. You say the murderer is past all hope, and you hang him for an example. Once, and that but a short time since, he was seated on his coffin, and paraded through the streets, and the gallows occupied the most conspicuous position in every town. Crime was more prevalent than now. Such scenes do not intimidate and frighten the lower faculties, but rather excite and feed them. You now acknowledge this, and hang the poor culprit in one corner of the prison yard, out of sight. Crime is not awed by fear, and the gallows cheapens human life, the inviolable sacredness of which should be inculcated by every possible means. In none of these proceedings is charity exhibited. Take the drunkard away from the influence of his associates; take the poisoned cup from his burning lips, and apply healing balms to his wound. If you retain men for revenge and retaliation, and if your, object is to intimidate others, then apply the lash, and invent tortures at which a demon would shudder. But if your object is to reform the unbalanced, and send them home to their friends and to society regenerated men, capable of struggling honestly with the adversities of life, then a great change must be made in your prison system. The offender's morality and intellect should be aroused, and everything which excites the basal or animal propensities avoided.

 

Have charity. Do not say that any one in their present circumstances can do better, but place yourselves in their path, and become a new circumstance in their lives. Copy benevolence from the external world. The rain falls equally on the just and the unjust. Gifts are bestowed alike on the savage in his wild forest home, and the most refined Caucasian in his beautiful mansion.

 

Again you ask: "How can we become exalted in the spheres?" He who seeks exaltation for its own sake will be debased.

 

Genius may soar on eagle's wing, tireless and strong, but the same wings which carry it to heaven will, when used by a perverted mind, depress it downward to perdition. Great men are necessary, and to them the race are loyal at heart. Genius may tread secure in its upward march among the precipices of fame, and so long as it keeps its eye steadfastly fixed on the radiant orb of truth and love, it may go on until it rests upon the summit; but so sure as it looks down with contempt on the masses toiling below, whom it has outstripped in the race of life, with scorn or egotism, so surely will it grow dizzy and fall, mangled and crushed, on the rocks below—its light put out when in its noon-tide glory.

 

Men of genius! a tremendous responsibility rests on you. Strive ever so hard, and you cannot accomplish the work demanded of you. The towering mountain which overlooks all its neighbours is a sublime spectacle to behold. From its craggy sides flow many crystal streams, to water and fertilize the warm valley below; where the flowers bloom in fragrance, and the grass spreads its downy carpet over the hills; where the cool breeze waves the sighing forest, and ruffles the beautiful lake. Away up on its granite brow the storm and the sleet beat in wild fury, and the avalanche plows great furrows in its jagged sides. Thus genius, which towers above common men, must expect to live in a different clime, and encounter storm, tempest, hail, snow and driving sleet, while those on a lower plane enjoy the warm sunshine. The demand is, to manfully combat all opposing forces, and, like the mountain, resting on its strong basis, present a granite front to the battle.

 

All have duties to perform to their fellow-men. It is in vain to cry, "I am not my brother's keeper." Mankind is a great brotherhood. The depression of one individual depresses all, as a blow of the hammer moves the earth. So the elevation of a single mind is felt by all. You cannot progress without dragging the whole world after you. Are you envious of the fame of the great discoverer or inventor? Be not so; the light is not shut from you, for by their efforts has been opened a larger field for your research. Most men make themselves prominent by putting out others' lights. These do not appreciate the truth that, by bringing the world with them, they can accomplish an infinitely greater good. The Nazarene understood this. His precepts, his philanthropy, his pure life, embraced the race and he lives forever. If any one would speak through the coming ages, he must do likewise.

 

Thus you perceive what exalts the man; what depresses him? The pursuit of wealth has no correspondence in the Spirit-world. The miser and speculator are men of this world. They are respected and called great. All their powers of mind are directed in one channel, and that the accumulation of wealth. In their haste for riches their intellect is perverted, and the rank weeds of error luxuriate in the neglected mind. After death they awake the same in every minutiae of thought; but having no real objects upon which to exert their selfish desires, the only channel through which they can receive enjoyment is closed and they are miserable. On earth nature always presented to them the sunny side; now her light flashes up but to reveal their hideous development. You know that these cannot be happy, but miserable, under this recoil of the moral law.

 

Death is a great leveler. When Charon wafts the weary soul over the Styx, he strips it of all its wealth, titles, honors, and ornaments. The mind remains in its unconcealed magnanimity or meanness, and gravitates to its proper sphere. Kings and nobles awake and find themselves kings and nobles no longer, and hence are greatly dissatisfied with heaven's grand republic.

 

The condition in which men are born has great effect on them here. You do not expect the ignorant boor, the vagabond who roams your streets, to be as elevated as yourselves. Why? Because the circumstances in which he was reared, and over which he has no control, made him ignorant, vicious, and criminal. But perhaps in the infinity of future ages, you will behold the power of that vagabond's mind transcend the United strength of Newton and Humboldt.

 

If you would exalt your children through life and eternity, make the family circle harmonious and pure—a primary school where all the virtues and magnanimity are taught.

 

No parents should be guilty of the unanswerable crime of bringing into the world an immortal being, unless able to bestow a healthy constitution, and the long-continued patient care essential to prepare for the race of life; what can be expected of children bred in antagonistic unions and the atmosphere of animal passions?

 

Instead of striving to be born again, have first birth what it ought to be—what every child has the right to exact. Do not talk of correct maternity, for the mother but cherishes the germ given to her care. Correct paternity! A pure and holy fatherhood is demanded. Although the errors and misfortunes of sinful conception and untoward conditions may be and are outgrown in the ages, the demands of earth life alone are more fully answered by being from conception to maturity, at the best,

 

You ask what is the condition of spirits?

 

That is but one law and condition of happiness—to do right; which means adjustment to the laws of being.

 

This is as true of the Spirit-world as of earth, which are intimately blended, and the passing from one to the other, like going from one room to another, the only change being as that of garments.

 

The earth is the first stage in the life of the spirit, and not without profit, as those believe who regard it as an evil to be borne, and escaped from by death.

 

Immortality is necessary because of the constitution of the mind. Every individual has the germ of an intellect which if fully developed would surpass that of the ideal angels. Shall that germ never be allowed to develop? Nay, there is no soul made in vain in creation; and if man cannot be developed on earth, be will have an eternity in which to expand hereafter. Men look on the surface when they speak of greatness. Very few kings, lordlings, or autocrats ate great; he alone is truly great, who not only has love, not only philanthropy, not only wisdom, but all of these combined into one harmonious whole. Then harmonize your being; make this the object of your lives. Eradicate your peculiar evils one by one, with a firm faith in success. Your position, estimated by the world's standard, is nothing. The poor beggar shall stand on a higher plane than the proud king, and many a poor African will be more elevated than his master.

 

The slavery of the body is terrible, but incomparably more that of the spirit.

 

A great incubus hangs over the American nation; stand from under when the weight falls, for fearful will be the crash. That incubus is a small cloud compared with that which rests on the mental firmament. Mankind are ever ready to drag the corpses of their dead ideas after them, travelling slowly onward, but looking wistfully over their shoulders at their old superstitions, and hence are very liable to stumble in their course. How loudly you praise your free-thinkers! But how free are they? How can you clamor about your reformers! Your free-thinkers are bound by superstition, and your reformers have their strong prejudices. Here is one who attenuates his ideas until he becomes as befogged as the fogies he has deserted, and riding his hobby until he is as bigoted as those he decries.

 

There is one who goes out into the future a little way and stops, frames his ideas into a creed, and awaits the coming up of the advance guard of the world. He forms them into an army, looking around to prevent any from passing or leaving him. The stream of life is choked and must stop at the creed until it has accumulated sufficient force to sweep creed, reformer, and all away on its impetuous current. Luther built a strong craft, but must use some parts of expiring Catholicism in its construction, and it was no sooner finished than all progress stopped. Men are slaves to their passions, their creeds, their superstitions, and prejudices. He who dares to stand up nobly, defending his manhood and acting true to his convictions, is but one in millions. You laugh at the Chinese compressing their feet until they can scarcely walk, while you yourselves are greater slaves to fashion.

 

Where is the natural manor woman? All have some distortion. Weil might the rude mind refer the deformities he saw in his companions to judgments of the gods, and look back to a period of perfection from which he had fallen instead of forward to future perfection.

 

Everyman and woman should consider themselves individual sovereigns, to think and to act as best pleases themselves, if they do not infringe on the rights of others. There should be no conformity except to Nature. The thoughts of yesterday, if they cannot bear the light of to-day, should be mat aside. If you take any part of the old craft to build your new one, it will be, bungling and incapable of withstanding the rough waves of reform. Cease lopping off the branches and strike at the roots of error.

 

To be perfect, thereby great, should be the aim of all. Not as Caesar or Alexander as warriors; not as Laplace and Cuvier in intellect; not as Confucius or Plato in morals; but as all of these combined in one. For the advance of the race it is well to have the vanguard go out from the circle in tangents, but for the individual this is injurious. The perfect mind is represented by a circle. Specialists go out in their particular directions until the circle is almost obliterated; and although science has been in this manner advanced, the individual has suffered. It must be accepted that such distorted development—special, narrow, and one-sided—receives and distorts the truth in the same manner, and only an harmonious and full-rounded mind can give it perfect expression.

 

There is one last and greatest subject for consideration, that is, true religion. All creeds, beliefs, and moral systems melt into one fundamental command.

 

DO ALL FOR OTHERS.

 

The golden rule—"then for all things whatsoever ye would men should do unto you do you to them"—is not enough. Jesus himself, by his life, taught a higher rule, for he devoted himself to the good of others and gave himself a sacrifice to that principle. His constant struggle arises from the idealizing of his perfect unselfishness. All great deeds of history, sung in verse and told in story, are the products of self-sacrifice.

 

THE IDEAL ANGEL.

 

When we picture in imagination angelic beings they are arrayed in spotless purity, and no shadow of selfishness is upheld in their actions. They are absorbed in doing for others, and thereby gain the greatest happiness. That we are able to entertain such ideals, proves that we are ourselves capable of actualizing them. We can become all that we aspire to become, for the ideal is a dim prophecy of what is possible for us.

 

Man as an immortal being, with infinite ages for progress before him, occupies the most exalted position conceivable; and as the next life is in continuity with this, the ways of angels are not, and should not be foreign to him. The rule of the conduct of his life should be to do that singly which has relations to his future life as well as the present.

 

The angel-life should begin on earth. Man is a spirit, flesh-clad, and stands in the very courts of heaven if he so desires. Circumstances and cares may impose their burdens, yet it is through such struggles strength of will and nobility of purpose are acquired.

 

You have seen a plant whose lot was cast in a desert spot, growing amidst stones in a sandy soil. It strove to perfect itself in the fullness of its nature, and bear its beautiful chaplet of flowers, and mature its fruits; but the rains ran away and left its roots parched and the air refused its dew. A scraggy stalk, with ill-shaped leaves, and a few pale blossoms, are all of it, yet the fruit matures, under these unfavorable conditions; its fruit is perfect. The plant has been true to the laws of its growth, and made the most of the surroundings.

 

So should the spirit make the most of its environments, comprehending that sunshine or clouds, day or night, success or defeat, are the threads woven by time's shuttle into the web of its destiny.

 

The spirit stands on the eminence of life, and sees before it an infinite vista of joys in acquisition unending. Terrible and sublime position! bringing magnanimity of thought and parity and fervor of purpose. Why should we hate those who injure us? The injury is only of the hour, and to­morrow will be no more than a mark on the sands effaced by the waves. Why anger, when those who call it forth are so far beneath us? Why envy, when we have only to reach, and the qualities envied are ours?

 

Every soul inherits the possibilities of infinite acquirement, and some time we shall deserve this inherent quality, and find those now degraded, perfect and beautiful beyond our present conception.

 

As the angels are perfect and their realm is harmony, so ought you to labor to make the present life as a lower stage. Earth-life is too brief to waste in any pursuit which bears no benefit to the immortal state. Every selfish act is waste, for the deeds of love alone are treasures carried to a higher life."

 

After the address, the group drifted away to the portico, leaving a subtle influence like a delicate perfume, felt but not comprehended by the members of the circle, who were uplifted and ennobled by the contact with the dwellers in the spheres of light.

 

As the group drew close together in their home, Leon, with thoughts still lingering earthward, said:—

 

Once for all the principles of conduct of life, based on an eternal existence, have been clearly presented, and the dominant motives, of its rule disclosed.

 

"The world worships at the shrine of unselfish action, and the real Bible of humanity would be a narrative of self-abnegations without a reflected thought of self. Here Christianity has its fundamental hold of the human heart. Let the sharp winds of criticism blow away everything else, prove miracles idle tales, its doctrines false, even Jesus a myth, and yet there remains the ideal, divine character, exalted, ennobled, purified by the fervid fancy and innate aspiration of man for excellence through all historic time. This ideal has gathered force from intellectual culture, and of necessity is a part that may be called 'the spirit of the age.' Take this away, and Christianity is a dead and withered bough.

 

"The central thought and ideal are held in common by all religions, and are the heritage of the raw. Hence if we cast aside all the dogmas, trappings, creeds, and extraneous teachings, which hedge in and obscure this germ-principle, we still retain all that is essential for the highest and purest moral growth, and herein all religious become one. The idea of superlative excellence expressed in a God, inwrought in every human soul, and possible of complete expression in god-like thoughts and actions, is never assailed, is always tacitly accepted as the spirit of the highest civilization."

 

"Once, in the days of our earth-life, do you remember," said Hero, "that yachting excursion when we sailed by Scotland into the gray northern seas? Aye, you remember! We had recently sailed the Ionian Sea, by the lovely isles of Greece, and the contrast heightened the weirdness of the

rocky coast and turbulent waves. We went as far as the desolate Orkneys, where the poor people fight a desperate battle with nature for their lives.

 

Yet, even there, the fundamental principle which distinguishes humanity from brutality—doing all for others, is recognized and worshiped."

"I also call to mind," replied Leon, "that after we turned our course homeward, you wrote a poem. of an incident of that hard northern life."

"A poem!" exclaimed the Poet; "then you must repeat it."

"I will," he quietly responded, "for it is a pleasure to recall some memories, as it ought to be all that clings to the past"

We sailed into the north, past Pentland Frith.

Where all seemed strange, recalling Northland myth It was a summer day, yet dark the sky, And all around the inky sea flung high Its foaming crests. The wolfish winds howled low Through every bursting sail and moaning shroud The sun went down in flame behind the ledge Of leaping waves on the horizon's edge, And from the landless waste the storm-wind swept The billows leeward, where they chasing leapt Against the headlands, black in sullen pride, That held at bay, their madness on that side.

 

When o’er the desolate waste swept down the night, We saw shine through the dark a cheering light, And by its aid the foaming reefs were cleared, Past sunken rocks and eddying currents steered,

And as we gained the harbor's sheltering bar,

The moon broke through the east with many a star. But vainly sought we there the grateful flame Which o'er the darkling waters hopeful came. Then spake the captain: "Strange it, fail to-night! For fifty years, I ween, that guiding light

Has undiminished shone. You never heard the tale? Nay? It is known in every hill and vale In all the Orkneys. Beautiful and fair Was she with softly waving, flaxen hair, And like its bloom of blue her liquid eyes, Which ever spoke in glances of surprise; And with the sweetness of the gentle south Where wrought the soft of her winsome mouth.

"Her rugged father never shrank for fear

To guide his bark into the foaming mere, An in the early morn she saw his sail

Far out at sea bend to the freshening gale, The long day passed; she waited his return, Watching the storm its angry lightnings burn. The thunder roared, the wind rose high and load, And sudden darkness folded like a cloud The restless earth. In agony she wept, Her fair face pressing hard a blackened pane Against which beat in floods the drifting rain. All night she watched, and in the early mom, Cold, grey with mist most dismal and forlorn, She sought and found half-buried in the sands Her father with the tiller in his hands. Oh, what cannot the soul triumphant bear, Nor break beneath the uttermost despair?

"Though all her charms were crushed by her great grief, She sought in one kind task to gain relief. Each day she spun to buy the constant light She in her window burned the coming night, To warn the sailor from the treacherous reef Where perished all her joy in blasting grief; And countless toilers on the storm-swept main, Have caught its glow and taken heart again."

Our good ship, in the harbor safe at last,

Furled close her weary sails and anchor cast; When o'er the gentle tide the distant bell Moaned on the air a sad funereal knell. Oh, weary hands! Oh, stricken heart, at last Your years of bitter patience all are rot; Your life has burned into the beacon's flame Which made a thousand toilers bless your name.

 

"A beautiful story," exclaimed Hero, "they who would be beautiful, must cultivate the good. It is the poison of hate, envy and selfishness which corrodes the face, and a bad heart makes a lowly countenance."

 

"Aye," said the Sage, "they who do most for others do most for themselves!"

 

"Allow me," said the poet hesitatingly, "allow me after presenting this sad though sweet story of a single life, to recite the history of all life outwrought and concentrated in spirit"

 

"And could you undertake the impossible, to give the hard facts of science the garb of poetry?"

 

"Hard facts of science!" was the reply; "science is crystallized poetry. Can there be fancy in wilder flight than that which hovers around the birth of worlds, the birth of life, or Nature's travail through ages measured only by the origin and death of suns? The story of life on the earth, from the protozoan by successive embodiments to man, where life in spirit leaps the abyss from the perishable and transformable to the imperishable and intransformable. What to it in comparison the grandest poem, 'Odyssey,' 'Iliad,' or the charming 'Idylls of the King?'"

 

"You are justified," said Hero with a smile, "now your poem shall be a demonstration of your words."

 

Thus encouraged, the poet sang of the wonderful line of advance and birthright of spirit, the first fruitage of the tree of life:—

 

Creation is my own. Each atomed world, Suns, planets and the clustering fleets of stars, Out of abysmal chaos fiercely hurled,

Belong to me. And as a-through the bars Of night I gaze into the ether deep— As though I trembled on a dizzy steep— I feel a longing for my former home; For I have dwelt on every star of space—

Through every fathom of abyss have flown, And tarried eons in each new found place.

Before the Earth I sang in measured strains;

I was, I am, existing ever more.

I felt the world-births in my swelling veins, I felt the whirling suns within my brain— Not theirs but mine the vantage and the gain. E'en than I was of force, but now of sense,

Breathed in a convulsed, seething earth: So have I writhed to gain the recompense, And find myself in life receiving birth.

Why, restless gaze I at the stars in tears,

And trembling sigh, like bird confined by bars? I but express my kinship with my peers,

The atoms of myself, the pulsing stars. I own Creation. Thus I claim my own,

Now manacled by flesh, and tortured here; By every adverse breeze a-hither flown, A prey to home sickness, and childish fears, I gaze afar, with prayer that is a moan.

The scale, the tooth, the white and flinty bone, Which tell of monsters of the ages flown:

Teeth which would tear, scales for a safe defence, Strong fins for flight, and stronger to pursue, Or finless forms, with wings for recompense; Huge bones, like broken columns, thickly strew With debris of the world, the wonderous page, Congealed in rock. All these were mine, Not only mine, but in that early age, I was the fish, the saurian of the slime; I was the winged reptile of the sea, I was the flower which bloomed in early prime, I was the grass that waved upon the lea.

Arising from these forms, to which I feel

As heavenly spirit, who, with joyous gaze, Its body leaving when its veins congeal, I love to gather from the rocky maw,

The saurian tooth, the thick enameled scale, Titanic bone and claw, the flinty mail;

For once they served me, once they were my friends; I scorn them not, nor think my being bends, For them I am what I in total am; Else I had been a force, and but a sham The system we call nature. I arose Through all this pulsing dust, and am of all— The harmony of nature, her repose, Her strife; her agony; her life, her pall, Each finds an atom in me of its own.