they deck themselves with images glowing and radiant as they hover
round you. Rise, rise, to the height where men can see themselves
distinctly, pressed together though they be like grains of sand upon
a sea-shore. Humanity rolls out like a many-colored ribbon. See the
diverse shades of that flower of the celestial gardens. Behold the
beings who lack intelligence, those who begin to receive it, those who
have passed through trials, those who love, those who follow wisdom and
aspire to the regions of Light!

"Canst thou comprehend, through this thought made visible, the destiny
of humanity?--whence it came, whither to goeth? Continue steadfast in
the Path. Reaching the end of thy journey thou shalt hear the clarions
of omnipotence sounding the cries of victory in chords of which a single
one would shake the earth, but which are lost in the spaces of a world
that hath neither east nor west.

"Canst thou comprehend, my poor beloved Tried-one, that unless the
torpor and the veils of sleep had wrapped thee, such sights would rend
and bear away thy mind as the whirlwinds rend and carry into space the
feeble sails, depriving thee forever of thy reason? Dost thou understand
that the Soul itself, raised to its utmost power can scarcely endure in
dreams the burning communications of the Spirit?

"Speed thy way through the luminous spheres; behold, admire, hasten!
Flying thus thou canst pause or advance without weariness. Like other
men, thou wouldst fain be plunged forever in these spheres of light and
perfume where now thou art, free of thy swooning body, and where thy
thought alone has utterance. Fly! enjoy for a fleeting moment the wings
thou shalt surely win when Love has grown so perfect in thee that thou
hast no senses left; when thy whole being is all mind, all love. The
higher thy flight the less canst thou see the abysses. There are none in
heaven. Look at the friend who speaks to thee; she who holds thee above
this earth in which are all abysses. Look, behold, contemplate me yet a
moment longer, for never again wilt thou see me, save imperfectly as the
pale twilight of this world may show me to thee."

Seraphita stood erect, her head with floating hair inclining gently
forward, in that aerial attitude which great painters give to messengers
from heaven; the folds of her raiment fell with the same unspeakable
grace which holds an artist--the man who translates all things into
sentiment--before the exquisite well-known