THE MAN WHO FOUND GOD
THERE seems to be no way in which I
can better teach you about this life, so strange to you, than by telling
my experiences and conversations with men and women here.
I said one night not long ago that I
had met more saints than philosophers, and I want to tell you now about
a man who seems to be a
genuine saint. Yes, there are little saints and great saints, as
there are little and great sinners.
One day I was walking on a mountain
top. I say "Walking," for it seemed about the same, though it takes but
little energy to walk here.
On the mountain top I saw a man
standing alone. He was looking out and far away, but I could not see
what he was looking at. He was abstracted and communing with himself, or
with some presence of which I was unaware.
I waited for some time. At last,
drawing a long breath—for we
breathe here—he turned his eyes to me and said, with a kind smile:
THE MAN WHO FOUND
GOD 79 "
I do anything for you, brother?"
I was embarrassed for a moment,
feeling that I might have intruded upon some sweet communion.
"If I am not too bold in asking," I
said, "would you tell me what
you were thinking as you stood there looking into space?"
I was conscious of my presumption;
but being so determined to learn what can be known, if sometimes I am
too bold in making inquiries, I feel that my very earnestness may win
for me the forgiveness of those I question.
This man had a beautiful beardless
face and young-looking eyes; but his garments were the ordinary garments
of one who thinks little or nothing of his appearance. That very
unconsciousness of the outer form may sometimes give it a peculiar
He looked at me in silence for a
moment; then he said: "I was
trying to draw near to God." "And what is God?" I asked; "and where is
He smiled. I never saw a smile like
his, as he answered: "God is
everywhere. God is."
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"What is He?" I persisted; and again
he repeated, but with a different emphasis:
"What do you mean?" I asked. "God
is," he said.
I do not know how his meaning was
conveyed to me, perhaps by sympathy; but it suddenly flashed into my
mind that when he said, "God is", he expressed the completest
realisation of God which is possible to the spirit; and when he said,
he meant me to understand that there
was no being, nothing that is, except God.
There must have been in my face a
reflection of what I felt, for the saint then said to me:
"Do you not also know that He is,
and that all that is, is He?"
"I am beginning to feel what you
mean," I answered, "though I doubtless feel but a little of it."
He smiled, and made no reply; but my
mind was full of questions.
"When you were on earth," I said,
"did you think much about God?"
"Always. I thought of little else. I
sought Him everywhere, but
seemed only at times to get flashes of consciousness as to what He
really was. Sometimes when
praying, for I prayed much, there would come to me suddenly the
THE MAN WHO FOUND
'To what are you praying?' And I
would answer aloud, 'To God, to God!' But though I prayed to Him every
day for years, only occasionally did I get a flash of that true
consciousness of God. Finally, one day when I was alone in the woods,
there came the great revelation. It came not in any form of words, but
rather in a wordless and formless wonder, too vast for the limitation of
thought. I fell upon the ground and must have lost consciousness, for
after a while—how long a time I do not know—I awoke, and got up and
looked about me. Then gradually I remembered the
experience which had been too big
for me while I was feeling it.
"I could put into the form of words
the realisation which had been too much for my mortality to bear, and
the words I used to myself were, 'All that is, is God.' It seemed very
simple, yet it was far from simple. 'All that is, is God.' That must
include me and all my fellow beings, human and animal; even the trees
and the birds and the rivers
must be a part of God, if God were all that is.
"From that moment life assumed a new
meaning for me. I could not see a human face without remembering the
revelation—that that human being I saw was a part of God. When my
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dog looked at me, I said to him
aloud, 'You are a part of God.'
When I stood beside a river and
listened to the sound of its waters, I said to myself, 'I am listening
to the voice of God.' When a fellow
being was angry with me, I asked
myself, 'In what way have I offended God?' When one spoke lovingly to
me, I said, 'God is loving me now,' and the realisation nearly took my
breath away. Life became unbelievably beautiful.
"Therefore I had been so absorbed in
God, in trying to find God, that I had not given much thought to my fellow beings, and had even
neglected those nearest me; but from that day I began to mingle with my
human brethren. I found that as more and more I
sought God in them, more and more God responded to me through
them. And life became still more
"Sometimes I tried to tell others
what I felt, but they did not always understand me. It was thus I began
to realise that God had purposely, for some reason of His own, covered
Himself with veils. Was it that He might have the pleasure of tearing
them away? If so, I would help
Him all I could. So I tried to make other
men grasp the knowledge of God which
I myself had attained. For years I taught men. At
THE MAN WHO FOUND
first I wanted to teach everybody;
but I soon came to see that that
was impossible, and so I selected a
few who called themselves my
disciples. They did not always tell the world that they were my
disciples, because I asked them not to do so. But I urged each of them
to give to someone as much as possible of the knowledge
that I had given to him. And so I
think that many have come to feel
a little of the wonder which was revealed to me that day alone in
the woods, when I awoke to the
knowledge that God is, God is."
Then the saint turned and left me,
with all my questions unanswered. I wanted to ask him when and how he
had left the earth, and what
work he was doing out here—but he was gone!
Perhaps I shall see him again some
day. But whether I do or not,
he has given me something Which I in turn give to you, as he himself
desired to give it to the world.
That is all for to-night.
THE LEISURE OF THE SOUL
ONE of the joys of being here is the
leisure for dreaming and for getting acquainted with oneself.
Of course there is plenty to do; but
though I intend to go back to
the world in a few years, I feel that there is time to get acquainted
with myself. I tried to do
that on earth, more or less; but here there
are fewer demands on me. The mere
labour of dressing and undressing is lighter, and I do not have to earn
my living now, nor anybody else's.
You, too, could take time to loaf, if
you thought you could. You
can do practically anything you think you can do.
I purpose, for instance, in a few
years not only to pick up a general knowledge of the conditions of this
four-dimensional world, but to go back over my other lives and
assimilate what I learned in them. I want to make a synthesis of the
complete experiences of my ego up to this date, and
THE LEISURE OF THE
to judge from that synthesis what I
can do in the future with least resistance. I believe, but am not quite
sure, that I can bring back
much of this knowledge with me when I am born again.
I shall try to tell you—or some of
you—when and about where to look for me again. Oh, don't be startled! It
will not be for sometime yet. An early date would necessitate hurry, and
I do not wish to hurry. I could probably force the coming back, but that
would be unwise, for I should then come back with less power than I
want. Action and reaction being opposite and equal, and the
unit, or ego, being able to generate only so much energy in a given
time, it is better for me to
rest in this condition of light matter until
I have accumulated energy enough to
come back with power. I shall not do, however, as many souls do; they
stay out here until they are as tired of this world as they formerly
were tired of the earth, and then are driven back half unconsciously by
the irresistible force of the
tide of rhythm. I want to guide that rhythm.
Since I have been here one man whom I
know has gone back to the earth. He was about ready to go when I first
found him. The strange part of it was that he himself did not understand
his condition. He complained
of being tired of things
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and of wanting to rest much. That was
probably a natural instinct for rest, in preparation for the supreme
effort of opening the doors of matter again. It is easy to come out
here, but it requires some effort to go from this world into yours.
I know where that soul is now, for
the Teacher told me. I had spoken to the Teacher about him, but he
already knew of his existence. It was rather strange, for the man was
one in whom I should have fancied that the Teacher would have taken
little interest. But one never knows. Perhaps in his next life he may
really begin to study the philosophy which
But I was speaking of the larger
leisure out here. I wish you could arrange your life so as to have a
little more leisure. I do not want you to be lazy, but the passive
conditions of the mind are quite as valuable as the active conditions.
It is when you are passive that we, can reach you. When your mind and
body are always occupied, it
is difficult to impress you with any message of
the soul. Find a little more time
each day for doing nothing at all. It is good to do nothing sometimes;
then the semi-conscious parts of your mind can work. They can remind you
that there is an inner life; for the inner life that is "capable"
THE LEISURE OF THE SOUL
to you on earth is really the point
of contact with the world in which we live.
I have said that the two worlds
touch, and they touch through the inner. You go in to come out. It is a
paradox, and paradoxes conceal great truths. Contradictions are not
truths, but a paradox is not a contradiction.
There is a great difference in the
length of time that people stay
out here. You talk of being homesick.
There are souls here who are homesick for the earth. They sometimes go
back almost at once, which is generally a mistake. Unless one is young
and still has a store of unused energy saved over from the last life, in
going back to the earth too soon one lacks the force of a strong
It is strange to see a man here as
homesick for the earth as
certain poets and dreamers on earth are homesick for the inner life.
This use of the terms "outer" and
"inner" may seem confusing; but you must remember that while you go in
to come to us, we go out to
come to you. In our normal state here we are living almost a
subjective life. We become more and
more objective as we touch your world. You become more and more
subjective as you touch our world. If you only knew it, you could come
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us at almost any time for a brief
visit—I mean, by going deep enough into yourself.
If you want to try the experiment and
will not be afraid, I can take you out here without your quite losing
consciousness in your body—I mean without your being in deep sleep. You
can call me when you want to make a trial. If I do not come at once, do
not be discouraged. Of course at the moment I might be doing something
else; but in that case I will
come at another time.
There is no hurry. That is what I
want to impress upon you. What you do not do this year you can perhaps
do next year; but if you are always rushing after things, you can
accomplish little in this particular work. Eternity is long enough for
the full development of the ego of man. Eternity seems to have been
designed for that end. That was a sound statement which was given at one
time: "The object of life is life." I have realised that more fully
since I had an opportunity to study eternity from a new
angle. This is a very good angle from which to view both time and
eternity. I see now what I did not
see before, that I myself have never wasted any time. Even my failures
were a valuable part of my experience. We lose to gain again. We go in
and out of power sometimes as we go in and out
THE LEISURE OF THE
of life, to learn what is there and
outside. In this, as in all
things, the object of life is life.
Do not hurry. A man may grow
gradually into power and knowledge, or he may take them by force. Will is free.
But the gradual growth has a less
THE SERPENT OF ETERNITY
I WANT to talk to you to-night about
eternity. Until I came out, I never had a grasp on that problem. I
thought only. in terms of months and years and centuries; now I see the
full sweep of the circle. The comings out and the goings into matter are
no more than the systole and the diastole of the ego-heart; and,
speaking from the standpoint of eternity, they are relatively as brief.
To you a lifetime is a longtime. It used to seem so to me, but it does
not seem so now.
People are always saying, "If I had
my life to live over, I would
do so and so." Now, no man has any particular life to live over, any more
than the heart can go back and beat over again the beat of the second
previous; but every man has his next life to prepare for. Suppose you
have made a botch of your existence. Most men have, viewed from the
standpoint of their highest ideal; but every man who can think must have
THE SERPENT OF
assimilated some experience which he
can carry over with him. He
may not, on coming out into the sunlight of another life on earth, be
able to remember the details of his former experience, though some men
can recall them by a sufficient training and a fixed will; but the
tendencies of any given life, the unexplained impulses and desires, are
in nearly all cases brought over.
You should get away from the mental
habit of regarding your present life as the only one, get rid of the
idea that the life you expect to lead on this side, after your death, is
to be an endless existence in one state. You could no more endure such
an endless existence in the subtle matter of the inner world than you
could endure to live forever in the gross matter in which you are now
encased. You would weary of it. You could not support it.
Do get this idea of rhythm into your
brain. All beings are subject to the law of rhythm, even the
gods,—though in a greater way
than ourselves, with longer periods of flux and reflux.
I did not want to leave the earth, I
fought against it until the last;
but now I see that my coming out was
inevitable because of the conditions. Had I begun earlier I might have
provisioned my craft for a longer cruise; but when
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coal and water had run out I had to make port.
It is possible to provision even a
small life-raft for a longer voyage than the allotted threescore years
and ten; but one must economise the coal and not waste the water. There
are some who will understand that water is the fluid of life.
Many persons resent the idea that the
life after death is not
eternal, a never-ending progression in spiritual realms; though few who
so object have much of an idea what they mean when they talk of
Life everlasting is possible to all
souls—yes; but it is not possible to go on forever in one direction.
Evolution is a curve. Eternity is a circle, a serpent that swallows its
own tail. Until you are willing to go in and out of dense matter, you
will never learn to transcend
matter. There are those who can stay in or out at will,
and, relatively speaking, as long as
they choose; but they are never
those who shrink from either form of
I used to shrink from what I called
death. There are those on this
side who shrink from—what they
call death. Do you know
what they call death? It is
rebirth into the world. Yes, even so.
There are many here who are as
THE SERPENT OF ETERNITY
rhythm as most people are on your
side. I have met men and women who did not even know that they would go
back to the earth again, who talked of the "great change" as the men of
earth talk of dying, and of all that lay beyond as "unproved and
unprovable." It would be tragic if it
were not so absurd.
When I knew that I had to die I
determined to carry with me memory, philosophy, and reason.
Now I want to say something which
will perhaps surprise you. There is a man who wrote a book called
The Law of Psychic
Phenomena, and in that
book he said certain things of those two parts of the mind which he
called the subjective and the objective. He said that the subjective
mind was incapable of inductive reasoning, that the subjective mind
would accept any premise given it by the objective mind, and would reason from that premise
with matchless logic; but that it
could not go behind the premise, that it could not reason backwards.
Now, remember that in this form of
matter where I am men are
living principally a subjective life, as men on earth live principally
an objective life. These people here, being in the subjective, reason
from the premises already
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them during their objective or earth
existence. That is why most of
those who last lived in the so-called
Western lands, where the idea of rhythm or rebirth is unpopular, came
out here with the fixed idea that they would not go back into earth
life. Hence most of them still reason from that premise.
Do you not understand that what you
believe you are going to be out here is largely determinative of what
you will be. Those who do not believe in rebirth cannot forever escape
the rhythm of rebirth; but
they hold to their belief until the tide of rhythm sweeps
them along with it and forces them into gross matter again, into which
they go quite unprepared, carrying with them almost no
memory of their life out here. They
carried out here the memory of
the earth life because they expected
so to carry it.
Many Orientals who have always
believed in rebirth remember
their former lives, because they expected to remember them.
Yes, when I realised that I had to
leave the earth I laid a spell
upon myself. I determined to
remember through both the going out
and the subsequent coming in. Of
course I cannot swear now to remember everything when I come into heavy
matter again; but I am determined to do so
THE SERPENT OF
if possible; and I shall succeed to
some extent if I do not get the wrong mother. I intend to take great
care on that point, and to choose a mother who is familiar with the idea
of rebirth. If possible, I want to choose a mother who actually knew me
in my last life as—, and who, if I shall announce in childhood that I am
that same whom she knew when a young girl, will not chide me and drive
me back into myself with her doubts.
I believe that many children carry
over into earth life memories of their lives out here, but that those
memories are afterwards lost by reason of the suggestion constantly
given to children that they
are newly created, "fresh from the hand of God," etc., etc.
Eternity is indeed long, and there
are more things on earth and heaven than are dreamed of in the
philosophy of the average teacher of children.
If you could only get hold of the
idea of immortal life and cling to it! If you could realise yourself as
being without beginning and without end, then you might commence to do
things worth while. It is a wonderful consciousness that consciousness
of eternity. Small troubles seem indeed small to him who thinks of
himself in the
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terms of a million years. You may
make the figure a billion, or whatever you like, but the idea is the
same. No man can grasp the idea of a million years, or a million
dollars, or a million of anything; the figure is merely a symbol for a
great quantity, whether it be years or gold pieces. The idea cannot be
fixed; there will always be something that escapes. No millionaire knows
exactly what he is worth at any given time; for there is always interest
to be counted, and the value is a shifting one. It is so with
immortality. Do not think of yourself as having lived a million years,
or a trillion years, but as truly immortal, without beginning or end.
The man who knows himself to be rich is richer than the man who says
that he has a certain amount of money, be the amount large or small. So
rest in the consciousness of eternity and work in the consciousness of
That is all for to-night.
A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENDANT
TELL the friend who is so anxious
lest I do you harm by writing with your hand that that matter was
thoroughly threshed out on this side between the Teacher and me before
it began to take form on your side.
Ordinary mediumship, where the
organism of a more or less unhealthy person on earth is opened
indiscriminately for the
entrance and obsession of any passing spirit, good or evil, is a very
different proposition from
this. Here I, who was your friend in the world, having passed beyond,
reach back to instruct you from my greater knowledge on this side.
I am not making any opening in your
nervous system through which irresponsible and evil forces can enter and
take possession of you. In fact, if any spirit, good or bad, should make
such an attempt, he would
have to reckon with me, and I am not powerless.
I know now, have both remembered and been taught, secrets by which I can
protect you from what is generally known as mediumship
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Furthermore, I advise you never, even
at the urgent prayer of those
whose loved ones have gone out—never
to lend yourself to them.
The wanderers in the so-called invisible world have no right to come and
demand entrance through your organism, merely because it is so
constituted that they could enter, any more than a street crowd would
have the right to force its way into your home, merely because its
members were curious, hungry, or cold. Do not allow it. Permission was
once given, yes; but the case was exceptional and was not based on the
personal desire or curiosity of anybody—not even yourself. I doubt if
permission will ever be granted again.
Many things have changed since I
began to write with you. At first I used your hand and arm from the
outside—sometimes, as you
remember, with such force as to make them lame the next day.
Then, grown more familiar with the
means at my disposal, I tried another method, and you noticed a change
in the character of the
writing. It began clumsily, with large and badly formed characters,
gradually becoming clearer as
my control of the instrument I was using was better established.
Now, for the last few times I have
used still another and a third method. I enter your mind,
A BRIEF FOR THE
putting myself in absolute telepathic
rapport with your mind, impressing upon your mind itself the things I
wish to say. In order to write in this way, you have to make yourself
utterly passive, stilling all individual thought and yielding yourself
to my thought; but that is no more than you do every day in reading a
fascinating book. You give your mind to the author who leads you along,
rapt and passive, by means of the printed page.
These experiments in perfecting a way
of communication have been very interesting to me.
Tell your friend that I am not a
child, nor a reckless experimentalist. Not only in my last life on earth
but in many former lives I have been a student of the higher science,
giving myself absolutely to truth and to the quest of truth. I have
never wantonly used any human being to his or her detriment, and I
certainly shall not begin with
you, my true friend and student.
Nor shall I interfere in any way with
your life, or with your studies and work. The idea is nonsensical. While
I walked the world on two feet
I was never considered a dangerous man. I have
not changed my character merely by changing my clothes and putting on a
I have certain things to say to the
world. At present you are the only person who can act as
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amanuensis for me. This is neither my
fault nor yours. The question before us is not whether I want the letters written, or even
whether you want to write them, but whether they will be beneficial to
the world. I think they will. You think they may be. B—— thinks that
they are not only immensely valuable, but unique. So-and-so and
So-and-so have doubts and fears. I cannot help that, nor can you.
Bless their hearts! Why should they
be so anxious to bolt the doors behind me? I shall certainly not try to
run their affairs for them from this side. They are equal to their job,
or they would not be able to hold it. But this is quite a different job
which I have given myself, and you have kindly consented to help me.
You may not get much reward for your
labour, save the shake of the
wiseacres' heads and their superior smiles, and the suggestion of the
more scientifically inclined that I am your own "subconscious mind." I
shall not be offended by that hypothesis, nor need you.
Of course you are not worried, for if
you were I could not write. Your mind has to be placid as a lake on a windless night in order for me
to write at all.
Give my love to them.
I HAVE been doing many things of
late. You could never imagine
where I went the other day—to the
great funeral of the Emperor of
Japan. You could not go from Paris to
Japan and return in so short a time, could you? But I did.
An hour before starting I did not
even know that the Emperor of Japan was dead. The Teacher sought me out
and invited me to go with him. He said that something would occur there
which I ought to see.
His prophecy was verified. I saw a
soul, a great soul, go out as a
suicide. It was sad and terrible.
But as I write this the Teacher comes
and stands beside me; he advises me to say no more on that subject.
One sees horrible things out here, as
well as beautiful things. I can only say with regard to
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suicide, that if men knew what awaits
those who go out by their own hand, they would remain with the evil that
they know. I am sorry I cannot tell you more about this, for it would
interest you. The testimony of an eye-witness is always more convincing
than the mere repetition of theories.
The appearance of the Teacher with
his advice has put out of my mind for the moment the desire to write.
But I will come again.
I have been able to do what you so
much desired—to find the boy who came out accidentally by drowning.
As you looked at his photograph, I
saw it through your eyes, and
carried away the memory of the face. I found him wandering about, quite
bewildered. When I spoke to him of you and said that
you had asked me to help him, he
I was able to give him a little aid,
though he has a friend here—
an old man who is nearer to him than I could ever be. He will
gradually adjust himself to the new
You had better not try to speak with
him. He is on a different path, and is being looked after, for he has
friends. The little help I was able to
give was in the nature of
information. He needed diversion from a too-pressing thought, and I
suggested one or two ways of passing time which are both agreeable and
You wonder at the expression "passing
time"? But time exists out here. Wherever there is sequence, there is
time. There may come a "time" when all things will exist simultaneously,
past, present and—shall we say future? But so long as Past, present and
future are more or less distinct, so long time is. It is nothing but
the principle of sequence. Did
you fancy it was anything else?
Interiorly, that is, deep within the
self, one may find a silent place where all things
to exist in unison; but as soon as
the soul even there attempts to examine things separately, then sequence
The union with the All is another
matter. That is, or seems to be,
timeless; but as soon as one attempts
to unite with or to be conscious of things, time is manifest.
A SHADOWLESS WORLD
I HAD been here some time before I
noticed one of the most marked peculiarities of this world.
One night as I was passing slowly
along, I saw a group of persons approaching me. It was very light where
they were, because there were
so many of them. Suddenly, as I saw this light,
a thought came to my mind, a saying from one of the Hermetic books:
"Where the light is strongest, there are. the shadows deepest." But on
looking at these men and women, I saw that
cast no shadows.
I hailed the nearest man—you must
remember that this was soon
after I came out, and when I was still more ignorant than I am
now—and I called his attention to
this peculiar phenomenon of a shadowless yet brilliantly lighted world.
He smiled at my surprise, and said:
"You have not been here long, have
"Then you are not aware that we light
our own place? The substance
of which our bodies are composed is radiant. How could
our forms cast shadows, when light
radiates from them in all directions?"
"And in the sunlight?" I asked.
"Oh," he answered, "you know that in
the sunlight we cannot be seen at all! The light of the sun is coarse and crude, and it puts out
the light of the spirits."
Does it seem strange to you that at
this moment I can feel the warmth of that wood fire by which you sit?
There is a magic in burning wood. The combustion of coal has quite a
different effect upon the
psychic atmosphere. If one who had always been blind to
visions and insensible to the finer
feelings and premonitions of the
invisible world would try meditating
before a blazing wood fire for
an hour or two every day or night,
his eyes and other subtler senses might be opened to things of which he
had theretofore never even dreamed.
Those Orientals who worship their God
with fire are wise and full of visions. The light of burning wax has
also a magical effect, though different from that of a wood fire. Sit sometimes
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in the evening with no light but that
of a solitary candle, and see what visions will come from the "Void."
I have not told you anything for a
long time about the boy
Lionel. He is now much interested in the idea of choosing a family
of engineers in which to be born again. The thought is one to which he is
"Why are you in such a hurry to leave
me?" I asked him, the first time he mentioned the subject.
"But I do not feel as if I should be
leaving you altogether," he replied. "I could come out to you in
"Not at first," I told him. "You
would be prisoned and blind and
deaf for a long time, and you might
not be able to come out to me
here until after I had also gone
back again to the earth."
"Then why not come along with me?" he
asked. "Say, Father, why shouldn't we be born as twins?"
The idea was so absurd that I laughed
heartily; but Lionel could not
see where the joke came in.
"There are such things as twins," he
said, seriously. "I knew a pair of twin brothers when I lived in
But, when I return to earth, it is no part of my
plan to be anybody's twin; so I tell
Lionel that if he wants to enjoy
my society for a time he will have to stay quietly where he is.
"But why can't we go back together?"
he still asks, "and be cousins or neighbours, at least?"
"Perhaps we can," I tell him, "if you
do not spoil everything by an unseemly haste."
It is strange about this boy. Out in
this world there is boundless opportunity to work in subtle matter,
opportunity to invent and experiment; yet he wants to get his hands on
iron and steel. Strange!
Some night I will try to bring the
boy to pay you a visit, so that
you can see him—I mean just before you fall asleep. Those are the
true visions. The ones which come in
sleep are apt to be confused by the jarring of the matter through which
you pass in waking. Do not forget the boy. I have already told him how I
come and write with your hand, and he is much interested.
"Why couldn't I operate a telegraph
in that way?" he asked me; but I advised him not to try it. He might
interrupt some terrestrial message which had been sent and paid for.
Occasionally I take him with me up
to the pattern world. He has
a little model of his own there with which he amuses himself while
108 LETTERS FROM A LIVING
examining other things. It is the
model of a wheel, and he sets it
going by the electricity of his
fingers. No, it is not made of steel—
not as you know steel. Why, what you
call steel is too heavy! It would fall through this world so fast that
it would not even leave a rent behind it.
You must understand that the two
worlds are composed of matter
not only moving at a different rate of vibration, but charged
with a different magnetism. It is
said that two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same
time; but that law does not apply to two objects—one of them belonging
to your world and the other
to ours. As water can be hot and wet at the same time, so
a square foot of space can contain a
square foot of earthly matter and a square foot of etheric matter.
No, do not quibble about terms. You
have no terms for the kind of matter that we use here, because you do
not know anything about it. Lionel and his electric wheel would both be
invisible to you if they were set down on the hearthrug before you at
this moment. Even the magic of that wood fire would not make them
visible at least, not in the daylight.
Some evening—but we will speak of
that at another time. I must