Section 4

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It is altogether out of the Conventional, and has a close kinship to Mother Nature un- painted and unpowdered by the hand of Civilization.
It is an enigma, and yet you comprehend it in a way and feel that it is the key to your self. Could you discover the meaning of it, you would know who you are, what you have been, and will be. Your Secret Grief is sacred; it dwells in your innermost heart where no other may enter. It puts your character in a strange light — the after-glow of a long gone past floods it, and the dawn of tomorrow gilds its edge. It is not so much something that you have done, as a something that you have felt and still feel; a something that Society says you shall not feel ; that man prohibits. As if Society and man could stop the natural beat of the heart, and escape the brand of Cain.
It may be a secret love which the very secrecy sanctifies. It may be a secret hate, which God suffers. It may be an unful filled aspiration at which the world would laugh. It may be a memory upon which
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Priests frown and God smiles. It may be a regret which grows like a tropic palm, be cause of your scalding tears. Whatever it is, it is not as man would have it, and you are satisfied. You wander in the wilderness with your Ishmael and no one sees. It is your sacred property, the text of your scrip ture. It is the unnatural child, dearer to the mother than the one born in wed-lock. It is the wild flower, sweeter in scent than the garden rose. It is the crystal spring, hid in the height of inaccessible mountains. It is the ocean depth which the plumb line misses. It is the star out of sight which pulls on the planets. Stop a moment ! Think ! Now do you know? Do you understand.
There are open secrets, honorable sor rows, respectable griefs where mourners stand about, and sympathizers swarm. There is priceless crepe, there are flowers and cof fins satin-lined. The minister condoles and prays, and angels stop their ears. There are donated years when sorrows sit down in the house, well dressed in black; when com-
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forters come and go, in black; when light steals into the eyes through black — respect able black — and the clock calculates the time for the wearing of black — and the seasons are ravens in black.
But one with the Secret Grief steals up to his room alone and looks out in the dark on the sky, and catching a glimpse of the moon he melts her with his eyes. The moon of flint floats in the mist — the mist of his eyes. He locks the door and bids his Secret Grief come forth. Her face chiseled by Destiny defiantly meets his own. She kisses him. Her form, hewn by the Fates, enfolds him. Her hair, shaded from dark to light by the ages, entangles him. Her Karmic eyes meet his and absorb them. Her teeth, hardened by time, bite with their passion his tender flesh. He writhes and quivers in throes of delicious despair. He loves her, and the more he loves the more she tortures. She melts into him and is lost again — deep — deep in his heart.
Then, calmly and unflinchingly he carries her about in the mart of trade, to church
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even to his own fire-side. He talks with friends; they know not. He smiles in women's eyes and they smile back. He dances, eats and laughs. He earns gold and spends. He studies and invents. He dies. And when they try to bury him, something weighs the cofim down — the bearers stagger. The Grief is there — 'tis like a stone. He left it when he died.
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COLD DESPAIR.
A feeling of despair once felt, is ever afterward appearing in memory, somewhat as a death escaped comes back torturing like a phantom fiend. Very few on earth have drank the cup to the dregs. To drain the cup, is reserved for the elect.
Sorrow has touched you, and you call it despair. Agony has passed before you, and you name it despair. Pain has vanquished you, and you have imagined despair ; but the horrid thing, the never-forgotten thing, comes rarely. As long as Hope casts a single ray, despair is not, for the creature glows with its own light — the lurid, sulphuric, blue glitter of hell.
Hope shrouds one in white mist through which the eyes cannot penetrate. Where Hope is, all is white mist — the fog of
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illusion. But despair crawls on its belly, and lights up the night with the shine of its scales — phosphorescent like fire-flies. There are things that are light and cold. Despair is light and cold — colder than ice — colder than space — colder than the dead. To feel its touch, checks the flow of your blood, and neither the fire nor the sun can warm you. You shrink back and back into yourself, farther, farther back in search of heat — of the white heat of life. But the furnace is cold, the fire smoulders. Despair waits his chance. He bides his time. He catches Hope napping, and he freezes her ; and then, he seizes you with his eyes. If Hope is not frozen stiff, if she be not stark and dead, she will arouse and veil your face and Despair will wander off ; but Memory, like his slimy trail, will stay.
What can you do, what will you do if he appear ?
"Fore warned, fore armed."
Despair and Hope are twins, born from the same womb at the same hour. The secret sympathy between the two, you can
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not fail to feel. Where one is, there the other dwells. Thongh Hope shrouds you in her veil until Despair is not, beware ! for this illusion veil — this maze of tint and light — this many colored rainbow shroud — this cloud of bubbles and dew — this irides cent lace entwined with opals, amethysts and pearls — this dainty dream of splendor dazzling while it soothes, is but the burial shroud of truth. It is the mist upon the microscopic lens. It is the mote within the telescopic eye. It is the mask upon a woman's face. It is the fool's cap on the Sage's head.
In flying from Despair you leave fair Hope behind. Fair Hope ! The aphrodite of your dreams — the golden-haired — the amber-eyed. Fair Hope ! who points to something yet unseen — who smiles on some thing yet unknown.
Truth will have none of her, for like a harlot, she conceals within her ample skirts her brother — Cold Despair. She hides him mid the draperies and dances madly in the sun — her partner hugged close to her
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breast — but when she tires and falls upon the ground asleep, sometimes alas ! some times the dew trailed mystery of her robe is rent, and from her very vitals does her awful mate come forth. Sometimes — but you who never dance with Hope, see him not. Sorrow, agony and pain have been your guests, but Cold Despair is yet to come. Beware ! beware of Hope, and seek ye wisdom. Truth neither hopes nor fears ; she understands. What she sees is essence, more glittering than illusion in the glare of fire, more brilliant than all the suns above, more real than Karma, more enduring than the Fates. And on the door-post of her temple there is writ in blood, u He who enters here, leaves Hope behind. "
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BEAUTY— ART— POWER.
What is it you desire, Beauty? What for ? Is it to please a friend ? Is it to win a heart ! Is it to gain admiration, flattery or fame, or is it for the love of it ?
The object of this Philosophy is power. You ask for Beauty for the reason, perhaps, that you love it, but still more for the sake of power. Now pay close attention. The sense of Beauty is in some sense the most pleasing of all the abstractions ; for it is a sense and an abstraction. Beauty is that certain combination of things that appeals to us in a manner to fascinate. In this sense it is rather different from all other abstractions. The abstraction lies in the law of the combination. The same things thrown together in some other way, would be gov erned by another abstraction which would not be that of Beauty.
Suppose you desire this result, Beauty, in
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order to please a friend, or to win a heart. What comes ? Beauty, but not in the form which appeals to the heart you desire to engage. // comes to you as you ap preciate, and fails to do the work desired. You are duped, and have missed your end. The love of Beauty not being the ultimate, but the love of the friend, you have neither a reward from the abstraction nor the desired heart. Alas ! desolation. Your premise was wrong. To gain power from Beauty you must seek it for its own sake, leaving out of your mind all thought of what it will do with others, and filling yourself with the idea of what it will do with you. Out of this goes and comes Power. Beauty blesses you, and with the touch of the tips of her fingers, you feel the magnetic thrill. Your magic then over others comes not from your conception of Beauty, nor your passion for her, but from the added power which your consciousness of her bestows.
Your effect upon others comes always from a concealed power; and a love of Beauty
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for itself, aids that power. Having such a devotion to the abstraction, you find it mani fests in form everywhere and always con gruous. Beauty is never incongruous ; she combines well and appropriately. She does not adorn her sea-nymphs in muslin ball dresses, nor her belles of the dance in a bath ing suit. She puts the right thing in the right place, and makes it fit to the landscape and environment.
A woman devoted to the beautiful would endeavor to be so even on a desert where no eye, not even her own, could behold her. She would seek — all things being equal — for the adored one, and would beg her com pany. She would instinctively adorn her self for the Beauty's sake, even though her conception of her be different from all others ; and in this converse with the divine abstraction — harmony manifested in the Real — she would grow strong.
In the world no one can laugh down the Beauty lover. He is supremely happy in his divine association and smiles back on the scorner in his consciousness of power.
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Do you desire Art ? What for — for whom ? If for another, to gain by it, to hold another, your quest is vain; but if your motto is, " Art for Art's sake/' pray on. Like Beauty, Art is an abstraction growing out of combi nation. It has a meaning, subtle, and its own. It includes consistency 'and congruity. But Beauty is not necessarily its divine con sort.
Art brings holy satisfaction, in fact a species of ecstacy; but the rapture is differ ent from that of Beauty or Love. There is a sense of the dual nature of Truth about Art, which is not found in the glamour of Cupid. In the trail of Art is a stream of blood — on the brow of Art is the shadow of hate — in the eyes of Art is the lust of life.
Art like a white star, twinkles in all tints — fire which burns heaven's blue and blackness. Art is master of heaven and hell — he soars to the zenith and dives to the center. He is awful — he is sweet — he appeals to the worst and the best in you. He is a God, all-sided. He fires you with the lust of a fiend, and inspires you with
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the love of an angel. He tempts you to the low, and beckons you to the high. Splendid ! magnificent ! he stands on the rock-granite foundation of earth, and lizards crawl over his feet. But the tower ing head rears itself into the cold spaces where feeling is lost in intellect and fear in knowledge. The heat of the planet's internal fires warm him — the cold of the sky's chilling ethers freeze him — Art the terrible — Art the divine.
Would you know him, touch him — kneel at his feet ? Let me whisper a secret — only for his own sake, will he have you — only for his own sake — And more, while you crawl near his skirts and pick flowers, he is likely to tread on your form. He will think you a worm. Rise up. Stand near, and measure stature with him. Though he towers to the stars, stand near. Dare thou to stand; and gazing on him thou wilt grow taller — taller — elbow to elbow — shoulder to shoulder — taller — taller — neck to neck — head to head — eyes to eyes.
Power — Beauty — Art — Power !
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SPIRITS AND DEVILS.
We have a good deal to say on this sub ject, and what we do not put into words may be easily read between the lines. In the first place, to go spirit hunting is bad business, unless — here we make a dash — , for there are conditions.
If you have the scientific mind, which is nothing other than one bent on knowing for the knowing's sake ; if you are sure of yourself, you may search after ghosts. Anything you can find in the Universe is a good thing, if it comes to you in the form of a hard fact. Do not congratulate yourself; it is possible that you have not as yet evolved the scientific mind.
But wait a moment, there is another condition ; perhaps you have lost a friend — one very much loved ; that the living
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without him is a long agony ; possibly you have not gone far enough in philosophy to understand the full meaning of this, so you call him to come to you — out of the darkness — out of the unseen — if only the vapor him — that you may know his breath on your cheek — cold like the wind of winter, but his. Have you the right to this — you have.
The " touch of the vanished hand " will set you singing again ; only — know this, that where you head, there is danger. In the wet where the lilies grow, the devil is hid ; those pale ghost lilies spring from the slime where the wallowing snake lies low.
In the seance room, His Majesty sits, where the horse-shoe circle divides. He pays no money and laughs in his scarlet sleeve when you pay yours. Respectable ghosts stay away, all SPIRITS except himself — all. If as savant you seek for a ghost, keep clear of the seance room where a fee is paid. And more, look out for the unseen guest who laughs in his scarlet sleeve. If you seek for the loved
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and lost, keep clear of the seance room for they never come that way.
His Majesty cheats you again in the gnise and form of a bride or a friend. Some day we will tell yon how. Satan goes ronnd disguised as a ghost, and devils both great and small emerge from the cur tained box — unseen but real.
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DEATH— WHAT OF IT?
" If I should die," you say, " If I should die just at the moment when I have learned to live, what good? Philosophy is for life, life — but death! What has the frozen corpse, embalmed, shrouded, boxed, to do with truth ? The charnel-house is a dreary place ; the grave is foul ; even the mauso leum, touched up with gold, is a lonesome spot. " If I should die— what then ? "
Philosophy is for life, we still reiterate, for life; nor do we deny that death is stalk ing up and down the world to meet even you — you. Some day the wind will blow — colder than ever before — it will lay you low, and transform you into a fallen statue. The breath of Death! more chill than the winds of the Arctic — Death ! He has a twin
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brother — sleep — a zephyr of him, yet bleak. He lowers your pulse and lays you down and closes your eyes.
Where does Truth sit while you sleep ? Have you watched the sea when the tide is low — have you heard it sigh in its dreams ?
You sleep, and the tide of your life goes down — down to the ebb — and you sigh in your dreams ; but Truth never closes her eyes ; she watches through night and day —and she smiles when you sigh — when the sea sighs.