Section 5

When you die you will grow so cold that you will forget to breathe — your brain will be frozen hard — your lungs will turn to ice —you will even forget to think — to love. But wait ! Philosophy, garbed in the robes of Truth will watch the tomb for three long days, till the butterfly breaks the cocoon ; till the seed bursts open its husk; till the chick is hatched from the egg; till the tide begins to rise; till the stone is rolled away and the Christ comes forth.
Remember that death is the soil of life
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and life is the despair of death. Remember you enter the womb to come out; you come out to return again. What manner of man goeth in, cometh out; what manner of man cometh out, Philosophy knows. She meets her own at the gate of birth, and walks by his side to the gate of death. Three days in the tomb — three days.
When you wake from sleep, you take up the thread and weave it into the warp where it dropped the night before; if you find it knotted — Alas ! you left it so. When you wake from the ebb-tide of death and open your eyes in the realms of self, you pick up your thread and weave again where you ceased to weave the night before. If knotted — Alas! you left it so.
O loved ones do you not see that the silken cord never breaks ; you pick it up, now here, now there, and you spin, and spin, and spin, like the sisters of fate. You spin as the spider spins, and fasten yourself to the web. You spin with the silver cord, as fine as a silken hair, as strong as the fiber of life.
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The fabric you weave hangs high twixt this and the other world. 'Tis a veil of gossa mer stuff, perfect on either side. You look through its meshes without — you look through its meshes within — now standing in front in the cold — now standing behind in the heat. 'Tis an endless veil — and you spin, and spin, and spin — but what do you spin?
The genius seeks his muse and kneels at her feet — " O muse! One look from thee — that I may know eternity."
You who die, remember Philosophy— your muse! She closes your eyelids in sleep, and sits at your side the long night through. Dawn comes in, you open your eyes, your questioning looks melt into hers. She has watched through the night with steady gaze. She saw the stars come up and the moon dip into the sea. Her glance swept the spaces and comprehended the drama of earth. She saw Love's rhapsody and Hate's gore. She beheld sorrow, weeping and pain writhing. She watched the Mother in the pangs of child-birth and the sufferer on his
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bed of death. All this time you breathed softly — your pulse was low — you slept.
When death touches you and the wind blows cold, your muse stands firm. She wraps you in her cloak and lays you out. She braces herself against death as a single will defies the universe. She faces the Arctic winds. She sets her teeth, and for three days challenges hell. Out upon her leap the devils of Inferno. She stands fast. Calmly you sleep on — as calmly as the plant sleeps under the snow.
Your muse calls heaven to help her — the saints — the cherubs — the seraphs — the an gels — the arch-angels — God. She dares with her eyes the terrible glitter of the dog star. She shifts her gaze to the awful flash of Arcturus. She appeals to the majesty of Orion. She draws on the fires of the Pleiades. She summons the combined forces of Hercules. She faces all heaven. Her soul drinks at the firmament — and you sleep on.
When the Sage of Athens drank the hem lock his muse shuddered, but stood firm.
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When the heart of Christ broke, his muse wept, but lived on. When death meets you, your muse will conquer hell, and face the eternal fires. Fear not.
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NATURE'S JEST.
Our whimsical old Mother Nature is ap parently a great jester. So it would seem from the expression of her face, but beware! She may be more in earnest than you imagine.
Madame Beauty stands before her mirror and weeps bitter tears as she drapes herself in rags, but Poverty, off in the corner, laughs and laughs. It is a pitiful picture, but not to Poverty, who laughs and laughs. Beauty might pose for Venus naked — but now ! Ha ! Ha ! How Poverty laughs ! There stands the idol of men in the sun light, with hair that wreathes her round and round — magic hair ! so electric that a glint of fire is in it — perfumed hair ! Nature's own aroma !
But where is the jeweled barb with which
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to fasten it ? Beauty is too poor ! and her eyes! Tears make them brighter as dew freshens the roses! Her white breast is but half covered — Alas ! the rags are rent where the skin is softest, where the cold strikes coldest.
Poor Beauty! She is honest — no daub of rouge, nor puff of powder, nor roue's kiss has touched her, only the wind nipping at her ears, and her shoulders and her pink finger-tips. Her tears freeze in her dimples, she has forgotten to smile, but Poverty laughs — laughs till the wind is lost in her voice — laughs till the sound of the church bell is drowned — laughs till the city's roar is faint — and Beauty stares in her bit of glass, which is lit with the flash of her eyes.
Is Nature playing a joke, or is she adjust ing the scales ?
Madame Ugliness sparkles with gems. They shine in her ears — gross ears that gather scandals and lies, as the pitcher plant gobbles the flies — they shine round her neck, gaunt like the arm of a sycamore tree — wrinkled and old — they shine in her hair
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where it clings to her head, as moss in patches sticks to a stone. They shine on her fingers, knotted like claws and destined to scratch — scratch. She is swathed in satin and silk as a mummy is swathed; bound and banded and draped till her cracking bones, and her shrunken flesh and her bosomless chest are rigid and stiff.
She fears to gaze in the glittering lake, she dreads the mirror and shining pool, she shuns reflecting eyes. Wealth stands by and sneers — wealth, her consort, secretly sneers and jingles his money-bags. She is so ugly he covers her up with things of beauty, and sneers; he piles on more and more and sneers and sneers.
But what of Nature — the Wise? Does she jest when she brings forth Beauty and sends her adrift with rags on her back, while hugging Ugliness close to her breast where the rich milk flows ?
Ah! Beauty! thy rags but emphasize thee — the white of thine arms, the pose of thy limbs. Thine hair is thy robe. The sun is thy love. Thou holdest thy gla ss.
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But Ugliness — thou? Can Nature bal ance the scale where beauty is weighed ? She loads on the silks, the satins, the furs ; she heaps on the rubies and gold, she piles in the diamonds, the emeralds, the pearls, and yet, even yet, Beauty is heavy, gold is a feather, the jewels a speck. And Nature, de spairing, goes down to the sea, she dives for more jewels, and more, she digs into earth and brings up more treasure and more. She slaughters the beast and the bird, she tears off the hide and the plume, but Ugliness crouches, light as the skin of a fish, while Beauty outbalances all.
Ah ! Nature ! you jest, unless time and causes long gone can be caught to weigh down things as they seem.
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YOUR FRIEND.
Is he hateful today — think of tomorrow, remember last week. Is he scowling, recall his smile. Has his tongue twisted itself into harsh words — forget not the sweet ones you have caught from his lips.
Do your friend justice. Place him on the scale of your own conjuring and weigh yourself with him. Perhaps after all he is heavier, a better man than you. When you judge another make two columns in your mind, the pros and cons. Reckon them up as you would a sum, and subtract one result from the other. If there is more good than bad — more that is delightful than repellant —more sweetness than gall , hold fast to him forever. You have found a jewel, one with a flaw to be sure, but a jewel. It is not
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paste nor pebble, but a gem. It will flash in a comparatively dark place, brighter than in the sunshine. Wear it on your breast, and look into the glass when the light is dim. But if the balance is against him, if the cons outweigh the pros, avoid him. He may shine for another, but not for you. By no amount of polishing can you make a diamond of him, or a ruby, or a pearl. Another may, but not you.
Never let your heart deluge your head, when friendship comes your way. The head must be above tears and smiles — in clear cold air — where it can think.
The heart is a fountain whose stream flows forever, warm and gushing. You can not stop it nor would you. But keep your head high, that you may see clearly, to turn the course of the waters where the flowers of friendship can best grow. It is better to overlook a field of ice with cold judging eyes, than to raise a crop of weeds in a soil watered by tears.
Be just to your friend and you will deal squarely with yourself. Await his coming
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— It may be a long time ere he appears — You can afford it — wait.
Jewels are not used for side-walks, nor stars for street-paving. You may find the pearl in the oyster you would eat, possibly at the retailers. Be sure it is a pearl before you set it. If it is precious conceal it, for there are thieves about. If it is luminous hide it, for it might dazzle some one else.
Your friend is your own — not anothers - in that which makes him yours ; otherwise go friendless, and live with the birds, the mountains and the sky. In nature some aspect of you is concealed, find that.
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THE ONE THING.
Man wearies of everything save one. He plucks the flower he has striven after, in hales its perfume and withers with it. Every thing tires him, even the most loved. When the flame goes out, he finds ashes — black and gray. No outer splendor holds his eye long. He turns wearily from the vale to the mountain, and again from the mountain to a star. In the face of the star he closes his eyes. He is tired, even of the smile of his loved friend. At times he would fly from it. He wearies of the days of his youth — He throws no kiss after them —He is glad they have gone — He wearies of his prime and seeks to escape it, into the easy chair of age. He wearies of old age, and of the old clothes which alone suit it. He makes his own coffin while yet alive. He drives the nails himself, and longs to lie down therein, even before he dies. He is tired — surfeited with everything.
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This is the natural man, the man of rhythm. He rubs off the down from the peach and eats it — He wins a heart to trample it — All because he is tired. Be cause the demon — change — has told but half his story, shutting its mouth in the midst of the tale.
But the One Thing— What of the One Thing ? Is there somewhere a bird of para dise whose feet never touch the earth ? Is there a gem that charms the eye to flash ever ? Is there a flower that excites one to ecstasy by its breath ? Is there a song that one sings always? Is there a land where the grass never withers ? Alas ! no. The One Thing is subtle and mighty — It dwells out of sight. No eye has beheld it nor ear heard its voice. Philosophy — Truth — fas cinating as the Ideal, faithful as the Real, ready at all times every where to fit change to change — as the lapidary fits gem to gem — linking incident to incident, mood to mood, hour to hour, day to day, year to year with the goldsmith's art. Of IT— This power which ties and binds, holds and con-
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nects, fits and matches — you never weary. The inood may worry you, the day may ex haust you, but the art to adapt and link them, is the Master Creative Art — the magic power, which if once you feel, will reveal the ONE THING .
The charm of conquering, solving, blend ing, combining, is the charm of God. It is the power which adapted Earth to the Sun and Venus to Mars. It is the potency which patterns the constellations and spangles the sky with starry designs. This master power of adjusting our moods and our hours one to another — this art of sway ing to environment, has in its essence the charm of the new — The ecstasy of creation — This Art is the Philosopher's own. The normal man knows nothing of it — He is forever tired — but the Sage smiles at pros perity, and goes with it, as man does with woman even to the precipice of adversity, where he smiles again and ties a knot — He has bound the two firmly like husband and wife, and he blesses them both. The Phil osopher bares his head to the gale and lets
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the wind's sharp fingers tear at his blowing hair — He suffers the knives of ice to prick to his bones — He tests himself on the grind stone of fate — and finds the new .
Each morn a new sun peers over the bor ders of dawn — Each eve a new splendor melts into the bosom of the night — Each day is a virgin immaculate, who conceives and gives birth to a Christ. A mystery appalling, but sweet, challenges the Wise with each fresh beat of his heart, for to him is given the One Thing — the power to Create.
All other men tire. They sicken with the stench of the old, the fetid, the stale. They shrink from the same dull colors and shapes — the picture comes back at each turn of the wheel — the same. They start at familiar sounds, the shriek of the whistle, the roll of the drum — the same from cradle to grave — the same — But the Sage ! He touches the old — A Philosopher's touch as soft as the falling of snow — the kiss of a friend — and lo ! the new .
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THE DEVIL.
He is out of fashion. He went off the stage with Jonathan Edwards and men of his cult. The masters of the " new theology '' have not fist enough to shake at his phantom, so they deny him. They stand in their pulpits and preach goodness, love, music, flowers, paradise. They believe in an eternal heaven of splendors without the '* great white throne." They have banished the angels and the harps, and they give you Nature (when she smiles). The storms they ignore. When the wind blows they become as deaf as stones — They hear nothing. When it is cold, they sit over their church furnaces and declare it is warm. They are
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as one-sided as the moon. If they have another face, they conceal it. This is " namby-pamby. *' It is gush.
We face facts. We believe that every thing has two sides. If there is an up, there is a down. If there is a white, there is a black. We know very well that lilies thrive in mud, and roses in decay. We have seen the cat eat the mouse and the dog kill the cat. Insects destroy trees, and elephants tread on worms. We are also aware that man builds his ladder to fame out of dead bodies, and climbs to the stars to the tune of dying shrieks. The sea fish gorge them selves with one another, the air fiends in the shape of birds dive out of heaven after helpless victims.
You may call the Devil by whatever name you choose, evil is a fact or good could not be. We believe in the Pairs — the Paral lels. Life and death go arm in arm. Pain and pleasure are close linked. Heaven is on the verge of hell. God implies the Devil. We believe he takes a thousand forms, a million, a billion. He is not con-