time. Will you write down here another of that angel’s chants?
When you see me in the green trees and in the green
light under trees, know that you are near to me:
When you hear my voice in the silence, know that I
speak for you.
The immortal loves to speak to the immortal in the mortal,
and there is joy in calling to the joy which
dozes in the heart of a soul of earth.
When joy is awake, the soul is awake.
You look for God in the forms of men and
women, and sometimes you find Him there;
But you look for me in your own soul; the
deeper the gaze, the fairer the vision.
Yes, I am in Nature, and I am in you, when you look for
me there;
For Nature is dual, and the half you carry within you.
All things are one and dual--even I, and that is why
you may find me.
Oh, the charm of being free, to wander at will round
the earth and heaven, and through the souls of
men!
I am lighter than the thistle-down, but more enduring
than the stars:
The permanent is impalpable, and only the impalpable
endures.
The road is not long which leads to the castle of dreams;
the far-away is nearer than next-door, but only the
dreamer finds it.
When labour is light, the pay is sure; when the days
are hard, their reward is tardy.
Be glad, and I will repay you.
I would write my name on the leaves of your heart, but
only the angels can read the writing.
Who bears my unknown name on the petals of his heart
is accepted among the angels for the flower he is;
his perfume reaches heaven.
There is pollen in the heart, child of earth, and it fructifies
the flowers of faith;
There is faith in the soul, child of time, and it bears
the seeds of all things.
The seasons come and the seasons go, but the spring-time
is eternal.
I can find that in you which was lost in the April of the
world.
LETTER LII
A HAPPY WIDOWER
I MET a charming woman the other night, quite different from anyone
else I have met heretofore. She was no less a woman because she weighed
perhaps a milligramme instead of one hundred and thirty pounds.
I was passing along a quiet road, and saw her standing by a fountain.
Who had created the fountain? I cannot say. There are sculptors in this
world who mould for the love of the work more beautiful fountains than
your sculptors mould for money. The joy of the workman in his work!
Why, that _is_ heaven, is it not?
I saw a beautiful woman standing by a fountain; and as I love beauty,
whether in fountains or in women, I paused to regard both.
The lovelier of the two looked up and laughed.
“I was wishing for someone to talk to,” she said. “What a wonderful
world this is!”
“I am glad you find it so,” I answered. “I also do not agree with the
old woman who declared that heaven was a much overrated place.”
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.
“No. Have we met before?”
“We have. And, of course, you could remember me, if you should try.”
Then I recalled who she was. We had met some years before on one of my
journeys to New York, and I had talked with her about the mysteries of
life and death, of will and destiny.
“I have tested many of the things you told me,” she went on, “and I
have found them true.”
“What things, for instance?”
“First and most important, that man may create his own environment.”
“You can easily demonstrate that here,” I said. “But how long have you
been in this world?”
“Only a few months.”
“And how did you come out?”
“I died of too much joy.”
“That was a pleasant death and an unusual one,” I said, smiling. “How
did it happen?”
“The doctor said that I died of heart-failure. For years I had wanted a
certain thing, and when it came to me suddenly, the realisation was too
much for me.”
“And then?”
“Why, I suddenly realised that I had let slip the body through which I
might have enjoyed this thing I had attained.”
“And then?”
“I remembered that I was not my body, that I was my consciousness; and
as long as that was intact, I was intact. So I went right on enjoying
the attainment.”
“Without a regret?”
“Yes.”
“You are indeed a philosopher,” I said. “And though I do not want to
force your confidence, yet I would be much interested to know your
story.”
“It would seem absurd to some people,” she answered, “and even to me it
seems strange sometimes. But I had always wanted money, a great deal of
money. One day a certain person died, leaving me a fortune. It was that
joy which was too strong for me.”
“And how do you enjoy the fortune here?”
“In several ways. My husband and I had planned a beautiful house--if we
should ever have the money. We had planned to travel, too, and to see
the interesting places of the world. We also had two or three friends
who loved to create beauty in the arts, and who were hampered in their
work by lack of means. Now, my husband, being my sole heir, came into
the fortune immediately I passed out. So I enjoy everything with him
and through him just the same as if I were actually in the flesh.”
“And he knows that you are present?”
“Yes. We had each promised not to desert the other in life or death. I
have kept my word, and he knows that I have kept it.”
“And where is he now?”
“Travelling.”
“Alone?”
“Except for me.”
“In what place is he?”
“In Egypt at this time.”
I drew nearer.
“Can you show him to me?” I asked.
“Yes, I think so. Come along.”
It is needless to say that I did not require a second invitation.
We found the man--a handsome fellow about thirty years of age--sitting
alone in a luxurious bedroom in Cairo. It seems to be my destiny to
have strange experiences in Cairo!
The young man was reading as we entered the room; but he looked up
at once, for he felt that _she_ was there. I do not think he
perceived me.
“My darling,” he said, aloud, “I have seen the Pyramids!”
She placed her hand upon his forehead, and he closed his eyes, the
better to see her.
Then his hand moved to the table, he opened his eyes again, and took up
paper and pencil. I saw her guide his hand, which wrote:
“I have brought a friend with me. Can you see him?”
“No.”
The man spoke aloud, she communicating through the pencil in his hand
and by his interior perception of her.
“Then never mind,” she wrote; “he is not an egotist. I only wanted him
to see you. I have told him how happy I am--and now he sees why.”
“This journey of mine is an unalloyed delight,” the man said.
“That is because I am with you,” she replied.
“Were you with me at the Pyramids to-day?”
“Yes, though I cannot see very well in the sunshine. I have been there,
however, and have seen them by moonlight. But where are you going from
here?”
“Where do you want me to go?”
“Up the Nile, to Assouan.”
“I will go. When shall I start?”
“The day after to-morrow. And now _au revoir_, my love. I will
return by and by.”
A moment later we were outside--she and I--in the soft starlight of an
Egyptian evening.
“Did I not tell you the truth?” she demanded, with a little laugh of
triumph.
“But have you no desire to go on in the spiritual world?” I asked.
“Is there anything more spiritual than love?” she asked in return. “Is
not love the fulfilling of the Law?”
“But,” I said, “I recently wrote a letter to the men and women of the
earth, advising those who should come out here to get away from the
earth as soon as possible.”
“Lovers like me will not take your advice,” she answered, with a smile.
“And tell me now: Is it not better for Henry to enjoy my society in the
long evenings--is it not better for him to be happy than to grieve for
me?”
“But at first? Was he not inconsolable at your going out?”
“Yes, until I came to him. He was sitting one night in deep dejection,
and I reached for his hand, and wrote with it: ‘I am here, speak to
me.’ ‘My Love!’ he cried, his face alight, ‘are you really there?’
‘Yes, I am here, and I shall come to you every day until you come out
to me,’ I answered, through the pencil.
“He had never known that he was what you call a ‘writing medium.’ He
would never have been but for my presence in a form of matter different
from his own.
“Come now, my friend,” she added, “would you really advise me not to
visit Harry any more?”
“There are said to be exceptions to all rules,” I answered. “At this
moment you seem to me to be one of those exceptions.”
“And will you add a postscript to your recent letter to the world?”
“If I can,” I said, “I will tell your story. My readers can draw their
own conclusions.”
“Thank you,” was her answer.
“But,” I added, “when Henry comes out here in his turn, you two
together should go away from the world.”
“Have _you_ been away from the world then?”
“To some extent. I am only stopping here now until a certain work is
finished.”
“And then where are you going?”
“To visit other planets.”
“Henry and I will do that, too, when he comes out.”
Now, my friend, I tell you this story for whatever it is worth. There
are cases like hers, where an earthly tie is all-compelling. But in the
case of most persons I stand by my original assertion and my original
advice.
LETTER LIII
THE ARCHIVES OF THE SOUL
I HAVE spoken of a determination to visit other planets when my work of
writing these letters is ended; but I must not neglect to say that I
consider such journeys to and fro in the universe of far less spiritual
value than those other journeys which I have made and shall make into
the deep places of my own self. Travelling in actual space and time
is important to a man, that he may gain knowledge of other lands and
peoples, see the differences between these peoples and himself, and
learn the causes thereof; yet quiet meditation is even a greater factor
in growth. If a man whose spiritual perceptions are open can do but one
of these two things, it would be better for him to sit in a cabin in
the backwoods and seek in his own soul for the secrets which it guards,
than to travel without such self-examination to the ends of the earth.
Get acquainted with your own soul. Know why you do this or that, why
you feel this or that. Sit quietly when in doubt about any matter, and
let the truth rise from the deeps of yourself. Examine your motives
always. Do not say, “I ought to do this act for such and such a reason;
therefore I do it for that reason.” Such argument is self-deception.
If you do a kind act, ask yourself why. Perhaps you can find even in a
kind action a hidden motive of self-seeking. If you should find such a
motive, do not deny it to yourself. Acknowledge it to yourself, though
you need not advertise it on the walls of your dwelling. Such a secret
understanding will give you a greater sympathy and comprehension in
judging the motives of others.
Strive always for the ideal; but do not label every emotion as an ideal
emotion if it is not really that. Speak the truth to yourself. Until
you can dare to do that you will make little progress in the quest of
your own soul.
Between earth lives is a good time to meditate, but one should form the
habit of meditation while in the flesh. Habits formed in the flesh have
a tendency to continue after the flesh is laid aside. That is a reason
why one should keep as free as possible from physical habits.
If my charming acquaintance who comes every night to her husband to
write love messages through his hand would spend the greater part of
her time in acquiring knowledge of this new world, so that she could
enlighten him, then might their communion be an unmixed good; but I
fear it is not so. Therefore I shall look for her again, and give her
some fatherly advice. She has a quick and receptive mind, and I think
she will listen to me. He would be interested in her experiences, if
for no other reason than because they are hers. Yes, I shall have to
find her again.
I have made wonderful discoveries in the archives of my own soul.
There I have found the memories of all my past, back to a time almost
unbelievably distant. In seeing how the causes set up in one life have
produced their effects in another life, I have learned more than I
shall learn on my coming tour of the planets.
Everything exists in the soul; all knowledge is there. Grasp that
idea if you can. The infallible part of us is the hidden part, and it
is for us to bring it to light. Do you understand now why I advise
the disembodied to break away from the distractions and the dazzling
mirages of the earthly life? Only in the stillness of detachment can
the soul yield up her secrets. It is not that I am indifferent to
earthly loves; on the contrary, I love more deeply than ever all those
whom I loved on earth; but I realise that if I can love them wisely
instead of unwisely, it will be better both for them and for me.
Yet the call of the earth is loud sometimes, and my heart answers from
this side of the veil.
LETTER LIV
A FORMULA FOR MASTERSHIP
MY friend, I am going to leave you for a while--perhaps for a long time.
It seems to me that my immediate work with the earth is done. I want
still further to lighten my load, to soar out upon the waves of
ether--far--far--and to forget, in the thrill of exploration, that I
shall some day have to make my way painfully back to the world through
the narrow straits of birth.
I am going out with the Beautiful Being on a voyage of discovery. My
companion has taken this journey before, and can show me the way to
many wonders.
There is a sadness in bidding you good-bye. Do you remember the last
time you saw me in my old body? We neither of us thought that afternoon
that we should next meet in a foreign country, and under conditions so
strange that half the world will doubt that we have ever met again at
all, and the other half will wonder if indeed we have really met.
Tell me, was I ever more real to you than I am this evening? While
sitting with me in the days of the past, did you ever know less of what
I should say a moment afterwards than you know now? Rack your brain
as you will, you cannot tell what I am going to talk about. That will
prove to _you_, at least, that I am as real as ever.
I want to leave a few messages. Tell.... And tell.... And some day tell
my boy to live a brave and clean life. He will be watched over. Tell
him that if sometimes he feels the interior guidance, not to be afraid
to trust it. Tell him to look within for light.
For the present, I have not much more to say to the world at large. But
I want you to publish these letters, leaving out only the very personal
paragraphs.
Yes, I may not see you again for a long time. Do not be sad. When I am
gone, perhaps another will come.
Do not close the door too tight; but guard well the door, and let
no one enter who has not the signs and passwords. You will not be
deceived; I have trained you to that end.
I cannot write much to-night, for there is a sadness in leaving the
earth. But I am--or shall be--all a-thrill with the interest of the
coming voyage. Think of it! I shall see far-away planets and meet
their inhabitants. Shall I find the “square-faced men”? Perhaps so.
In Jupiter, they say, there is a race of beings wonderful to behold. I
shall see them. Will they be fairer than our own Beautiful Being, who
loves the little earth and usually stays near it, because there are
such struggles here?
The joy of the struggle! That is the keynote of immortality, the
keynote of power. Let this be my final message to the world. Tell them
to enjoy their struggles, to thrill at the endless possibilities of
combination and creation, to live in the moment while preparing for
long hence, and not to exaggerate the importance of momentary failures
and disappointments.
When they come out here and get their lives in perspective, they will
see that most of their causes of anxiety were trivial, and that all the
lights and shadows were necessary to the picture.
I had my lights and shadows, too, but I regret nothing. The Master
enjoys difficulties as a swimmer enjoys the resistance of the water.
If I could make you realise the power that comes from facing the
struggle--not only bravely, as all the platitudinous bores will tell
you, but facing it with enjoyment. Why, any healthy boy enjoys a
fight. His blood beats fast, his nerves tingle; but he who keeps his
head cool is likely to come out on top.
Life is a fight. You are in matter to conquer it--lest it conquer you.
There is nothing in this universe stronger than the will of man when it
is directed by a powerful unit of force. Whatever your strength, make
the most of it in the battle of life.
Remember that your opponents are not other men, but conditions. If you
fight men, they will fight you back; but if you fight conditions, they,
being unintelligent, will yield to you with just enough resistance to
keep your muscles in good order.
And do not forget the law of rhythm--that is at the back of everything.
Count on rhythm; it never has failed yet, and it never will. Watch for
the high tides of yourself and flow up with them; when the inevitable
low tides come, either rest or meditate. You cannot escape rhythm. You
transcend it by working with it.
You can even turn and grow young, for time also has its tides; and
there are many ripples in the long sea-swell of life.
I feel that I am leaving much unsaid. But I shall meet you again some
day.
=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES=
Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and
otherwise left unbalanced.
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.