Section 2

Look into yourself and see if your past indicates concentration ; if not, begin.
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PRACTICE.
There is something truly pathetic in the lives of those who preach and do not practice; who revel in the generalities of Philosophy as a sort of intellectual tonic, and are at the same time too lazy to try the formulas and hold fast to that which is good.
I desire you to avoid a method of prac tice that is backed by habit. To take stated times to become good (say Sundays), is not at all after the manner of our system; and if you continually pursue this means, you will grow as fixed as a rock crystal.
Life is your business, all kinds of life; rustling among men, eating — drinking — sleeping — just as Christ did; and the best time for you to practice, is all the time.
I who give you these instructions, know what life is from its pleasures to its agonies;
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from its feasts to its graveyards ; and the more of a Philosopher I am, the more do I know of its fulness. So when I tell you to practice, I mean that you are to stay where you are and practice.
The great need of the world is the living Philosopher. Cloisters are out of date. Monasteries are old fashioned ; they belong to the middle ages.
People must clash with each other in order to live ; must feel each other's pulse, and jostle shoulder to shoulder ; they must mingle magnetism, I might say, and give and take. In this rush, this hurry, is the time to try your cult and test its value.
If you hide a diamond in a box, it loses all its power to be saucy and throw back the sun's rays to the sun; in fact it forgets after a while that it is a diamond at all, and be comes as sullen as a cold pebble. If you have anything good, you must find it out; and you never can do that by shutting your self up in an occult room and imagining.
Do not mistake us; we told you to con centrate, and contemplate the point of a pin,
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but not forever. While a certain amount of daily retirement into "your closet" is good, just as rest is necessary after exercise, too much of it is bad. Learn to concentrate and act too; this is practice of the best kind. Have a purpose, a means, a way, and ACT on it. Having a theory and getting no fact out of it, is like having a friend who will never embrace you.
Concentration and action should go to gether. To be sure, you should reverse and retire into yourself when the occasion de mands, but never periodically and to order. Learn to do it when you have need of it (and you can tell that) but do not do it because you have arranged to.
We preach practice from morning until night; all the time, everywhere. Your Philosophy should stick to you closer than the hairs of your head, and should put in an appearance on every occasion. If it is good for great things, it is good for little things.
This does not mean that you are to be like the self-conscious Christian who can never get rid of his sense of responsibility; on the
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contrary, it assures you the best that there is in life. It shows you how to extract the most honey from the flower, the grestest beauty from the landscape, and the truest love out of a fellow mortal. It is also a sort of accident policy, it bestows on you a weekly allowance in case of something unfortunate and unforeseen; and if you die, it pays up to the last penny those whom you have left behind.
It is practical, practical, practical, and if what you are getting is not, you hav'nt the right thing. Practice at all times, and when ever you fail in making the application, you are that far short of grasping the situation.
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MEMORY.
When you go down into the shadowy place where the sun's rays can not come, you are reconciled to the gloom because you remember. What is it that you remember ? That the sun still shines. You know very well that not a ray can penetrate where you are; that as far as you are concerned, for the time being, the Giver of Life — the Con soler — the Sun — might as well be put out. It is a dark place — gloom — gloom — gloom every where, and along with the gloom, dampness and chill. But what of it — your memory serves you well — you recall the splendor outside — the half hour ago when you basked in heat and color — all the tints that the sun brings out — all the brilliancy — and instead of a realization, you substi tute a memory.
OF THE HERMETICS
In your pursuit of Philosophy, understand that your path will not be all sunshine. Philosophy does not undertake to supply glory and glitter, nor does it guarantee you a freedom from shadows and tears. Philo sophy does not undertake to change nature; it gives you no seven-leagued boots with which to stride over the land — no sandals like those of Pallas Athene, nor wings of a Mercury. Philosophy lets Dame Nature alone so far as changing her is concerned ; in fact she is very self-willed and like all feminine things, has her own way ; but here is a secret — Philosophy deals with nature somewhat as a good husband does with a stubborn spouse ; Philosophy manages nature through her own attributes. A natural attribute by the way, is memory. Philosophy knowing this, brings it to bear at the right time, and reaps the reward. Philosophy has much tact, just as a wise husband has.
To use art in remembering, is an essen tial towards Philosophic life. To be a good forgetter, is as necessary as to be a good
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recaller. There is nothing more uncomfort able and out of place, than to have some thing that you have put under the sod, protrude its head at the wrong time. When you bury, bury deep, and do not dig up the thing unless you want it.
Some memories are bores, just like some people ; they stay and stay out of pure viciousness, and the more you curse them the more staying power they show. A Philosopher will never allow this ; he knows that he can get rid of one memory by sub stituting another, just as you would shove an impertinent person out of a chair and put, another in his place. As you c&nforget by a sort of substitution, you can remem ber by a mental suggestion.
When down in the shadow, recall some thing — a star, a diamond, or a friend's eyes ; and see how quickly the place will glow as if a sun had' been born, with dropped lids — it is the same. There is a flash and a shimmer in the fire of memory which radiates in the now, if you desire it.
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Let us carry this lesson farther. Physi cal darkness is but one phase ; there is a mental and a spiritual blackness which tongue can not speak of, nor pen portray. Even in this dungeon of dungeons memory can send a straight ray, and turn black to white, night to day. When you recall the sun, at the time shadows enshroud you, with that recollection comes the conscious ness that the sun is a fixed fact — that it ex ists, and that shadows can not extinguish it ; this makes you safe ; safe in your mind, safe in your heart ; you wrap the mantle of darkness about you, and laugh in the face of the night — for the sun IS. You have remembered.
When any trouble — gloom — mood, en folds you in a cloud, remember that the sun is, and the rays are warm, love warm, and they shine somewhere even in your recollection, and with the remembering will come a flash like that of Jupiter on Olympus — like that of a friend's eyes — and black will turn to white and night to day.
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This is the office of memory. Memory is your servant, if you can only realize it, memory is your slave, and all slaves impose upon their masters when allowed.
Put impertinent memories to sleep ; wake up the right one at the right time ; and cheat Dame Nature into believing that she has conquered Philosophjr.
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IMAGINATION.
To imagine something is to call up an image in the mind by the will. This is vol untary imagination. Involuntary imagina tion (which is a bad thing always) is that state where the image or images come of their own accord, oftentimes as unwelcome, vulgar or wicked guests.
Most lewd, vile, uncanny people are tools of the imagination. Images which seem to be like conscious entities, persist in dwelling in, and dominating the untrained tenant of an abused brain, and do incalculable mischief to him and those with whom he associates.
Imagination is man's greatest friend and his greatest enemy; if you control him he will serve you; and no artist can paint pic tures as beautiful as his. Command him to
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sketch the sea, the sky, the stars, the unseen and seen wonders of earth and heaven, and he will produce instantaneous results. He will decorate your castle for you and place you in it; he will create an interior environ ment that will so overpower your soul that crude outer surroundings will cease to trouble you.
Imagination controlled by the will, is the one thing to be desired. On the other hand, involuntary imagination, that creature which like a snake slips into your sanctuary in the dark and conceals itself to coil and sting when you are totally unable to combat it, is to be abhorred and dreaded. Not that he is forever ugly — the serpent has an unrivaled grace, and is a marvel in color — not that, but he is unreliable, treacherous and poison ous; he may not sting, but if he does the antidote is hard to find. Worse than that, he is eternally reproducing himself; he brings forth a brood, or rather like the worm, the more you divide him the more alive he becomes; each piece of him in its turn ma turing and producing.
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He turns your mind into a nest, and wal lows in it as the swine wallow in the sty. He loves luxury and splendor as does the har lot; and his beauty, when it glitters has all the fascination of a lewd woman.
The true sage controls his imagination somewhat as he does his memory, putting it out as he would extinguish a lamp, or light ing it as he would kindle a fire. The true sage can build himself an air castle that floats in a cloud, and frescoe it with the pic- - tures of angels. He can conjure forms of grandeur that outrival nature's own work; and create storms, the thunders of which will drown the voice of Jupiter. He can tint the rose and perfume the lily; still further, he can create the NEW, and build palaces that no architect before him has conceived, and design landscapes that as yet, are strangers to the brush. The sage but wills and his servant, the imagination, does.
On the contrary, he who is unwise, is the coward lackey of his Master Imagination."^ He grovels at his feet, and hides his head, and stops his ears against the horrors thrust
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upon him. He fears the dark, and dreads being alone. He is tortured about his health, and magnifies every twinge of pain into the death agony. All symptoms are to him as fatal ; he sleeps in his own coffin every night, and is resurrected from the grave every morning. His dreams are all warnings and prognosticate some future weal or woe.
His animal instincts run riot, while he is 4 fettered and bound; his progeny haunt him like bad children, and lean on him for sup port. The air is peopled with his loathe- some offspring, and they follow him where- ever he goes.
This fate is inevitable to him who allows his imagination to go rampant. In time, his will falls to sleep and he becomes like one in fever — the prey to uncanny dreams — or like the brandy-soaked victim who is ever terrified at the reptiles which his diseased fancy brings forth.
Take your imagination in hand, and hold it as you would a pair of horses ; do not let it break, but pull on the bit even though it foams and writhes. To have
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your imagination run with you, is to have it bring you up any where either throwing you upon the rocks or landing you in the gutter.
Every one has imagination in some form. The power to call up images, is in all normal human minds, and the power to bid them leave is there also.
The sage can free his mind of either unpleasant memories or undesired imagin ation, by an effort of pure will or by a substitution. It is just as easy to substi tute one imagination for another as one memory for another.
The power to conjure is a ready power and easy to handle ; ghosts, hobgoblins, saints and sinners will come at a wave of the magic wand, and if you did but know it, at another wave they will disappear.
Evil imagination leads to suspicion, this (as a rule) is a bad tenant. To be forever suspecting, is to go through life as some people go through a kitchen, sniffing right and left for bad smells ; searching out hidden corners with an eye for finding
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fault; weighing all commodities with a pair of test scales, under pretext of detect ing theft; or like one who steals into places at unsuspected times on the lookout for scandal ; listening at key-holes, prowl ing like a cat at night, peeping into windows, over-hauling coat-pockets, rum maging desk drawers, talking in ambiguous phrases, dealing in hints, implying every thing and saying next to nothing.
All this is the fruit of an ungoverned imagination ; and in its train come jealousy and envy — a hideous pair — who trample on hearts and reputations, and mark their trail with a stream of blood.
Catch your imagination while you can, and wither it with a glance of your eye ; otherwise it will curse you — and in cursing you, will curse the world.
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THE BOOK OF REVELATION.
It is not the Koran, nor the Bible, nor the Tripitaka. It is not the sky with its glittering pattern of stars, nor objective nature as manifested in the sea, the mountains, the rocks nor the rivers. It is not hidden in the debris of the past, nor written upon the tombs of Egyptian Kings. It is not stamped upon tables of stone, nor will it come in handwriting upon the wall. No savant will search it out for you in some concealed vellum covered thickly with hieroglyphics ; nor will some priest of the future reveal it to you, taken down from the mouth of an angel.
To go far to find it will be to waste your time. To wait to have it come to you, will be as fruitless as the waiting for an impos sible Judgment Day.
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The Book of Revelation exists, neverthe less, and its pages can be counted by hundreds. It is in many volumes, bound in skins finer than that of the sheep or the chamois. Its letters are written in the three fundamental colors intershaded by many tints ; some of them flash fire, and some are wet with tears. It is fully illust rated with pictures in pigment mixed with blood, and in etchings of black and white. The scenes are humorous, grotesque, be wildering, sad, ecstatic, divine.
"And where is this book," you ask; I answer, "Look within, read yourself, and behold the revelation"
The skin covers enfolding each volume inclose a life of your being — the fine skin covers — the tale is your own sorrowful, happy story which never ends, but has se quel after sequel eternally. The letters pick out the emotions, in dark or light, in blood or fire. The blank pages are your dream less sleeping hours ; and each sentence points the moral like the finger of fate.
It is the Book of Mystery — the record of
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the dead and the living — its initial letters speak beginnings and the closing word of every page its endings. You can read this book from first to last, or backward from last to first. It reveals, reveals, reveals. The more you read, the more you learn. No two pages are alike; no two scenes are the same, yet one flowers out of the other as naturally as the rose from the bud.
It is an inspired book; inspired by Mother Nature, by the Priest of Friendship, by the God of Love, by the King of Evil.
It contains prophesies innumerable and warnings without number. Its sallies of wit conceal an element of sadness; its snatches of pathos, a strain of gladness. In the read ing, your eyes travel between the lines, and up and down and right and left. The words form into things and the things become alive; even the thoughts march on in file, a long procession holding volume to volume, as an army spans a river and binds land to land.