gh this inner wheel is 'lifted up
whithersoever the spirit' wills 'to go,' the outer--unlike that in the
vision--is not also lifted up; perhaps _hereafter_ it will be.

The Mohammedans believe that, although unseen by mortals, 'the decreed
events of every man's life are impressed in divine characters on his
forehead.' If so, I shouldn't wonder if there was generally a large
margin of forehead left, unless there is a great deal of repetition....
The record (not the prophecy) of the inner life, though it is
hieroglyphed on the whole face too, is a scant one; not because there is
but little to record, but because only results are chronicled. Like the
_Veni, vidi, vici_, of Caesar. _Veni_; nothing of the weary march.
_Vidi_; nothing of the doubts, fears, and anxieties. _Vici_; nothing of
the fierce struggle.

One thing is certain; though we can not read the divine imprint on the
forehead, we know that either there or on the face, either as prophecy
or record, is written, _grief_. Grief, the burden of the sadly-beautiful
song of the poet; yet we find, alas! that _grief is grief_. And the
poet's woe is also the woe of common mortals, though his soul is so
strung that every breeze that sweeps over it is changed to melody. The
wind that wails, and howls, and shrieks around the corners of streets,
among the leafless branches of trees, through desolate houses, is the
same wind that sweeps the silken strings of the AEolian harp.

Then there is _care_, most often traced on the face of woman, the care
of responsibility or of work, sometimes of both. A man, however hard he
may labor, if he loses a day, does not always find an accumulation of
work; but with poor, over-worked woman, it is, work or be overwhelmed
with work, as in the punishment of prisoners, it is, pump or drown. I
can not understand how women do get along who, with the family of John
Rogers' wife, assisted only by the eldest daughter, a girl of thirteen,
wash, iron, bake, cook, wash dishes, and sew for the family, coats and
pantaloons included, and that too without the help of a machine. Oh!
that pile of sewing always cut out, to be leveled stitch by stitch; for,
unlike water, it never will find its own level, unless its level be Mont
Blanc, for to such a hight it would reach if left to itself. I could
grow eloquent on the subject, but forbear.

Croakers to the contrary notwithstanding, there is in the record of our
past lives, or in the prophecy of our future, anot