Some Notes on Light

THIS is an experience of light. Some of it was noted in my journal from time to time, or dashed down on random scraps of paper, only rarely to be read over; but most of it has been floating about in my mind for many years, never until now to be drawn forth in the net of words. I am endeavoring so to capture it at present because, to my own surprise, I have lately discovered that these fragments are all apparently parts of a shining whole, which has revealed itself by the slipping into place of the last essential piece of information.

No doubt many of our familiar experiences are scattered perceptions of some large mosaic, the perfect pattern of which might disclose itself, could we but come upon the last interpretive fragment. Possibly the endeavor to set forth my own small experience may assist some other wayfarer to cast a hopeful eye over some of his own random notes, thus perceiving the hidden pattern.

Of course we do not wish to be too credulous, suspecting secret manifestations in every ordinary event of life; nevertheless, the pricked ear of attention, which listens in case there may be more, is as valuable in the spiritual adventure as it has often proved to be in the material one. So let us also keep our minds open, even though Mr. Chesterton says that an open mind is like an open mouth; for even the vacuity of an open mouth vanishes when the right morsel of food is given it to close upon. Half unconsciously, I kept an open mind toward these various experiences of light, and now what appears to me to be the right morsel of information has come my way, so I wish to ruminate a little upon it.

As soon as I began to put these scattered notes together I was beset by a whole flock of apologies. They sailed up in my mind from every quarter, reminding me of all the criticisms which would probably be made. Very shortly, however, I realized that it was impossible to excuse myself to every critic; that my desire to do so was fathered not by humility but by vanity; that it really did not matter in the least what anyone thought of me, one way or the other; and that if the dog was ever to bite the pig, the pig get over the stile, and I get home with these notes before night, I must drag myself up out of the quagmire of self-abnegation and set about it.

I must first beg the reader to believe that the chief value in discussing this small experience lies in the fact that it came to a perfectly commonplace person like myself, and therefore must be within the reach of almost any other human being. Also, any reader can easily perceive that I have experienced exceedingly little. The mere fact of my writing about it is no doubt evidence enough, to those who know, that it is not a very great matter, for apparently it is only the little fishes which may be landed in a net of words; the big catch breaks through the meshes and escapes.

I

Well, then, to begin. For as long as I can remember I have had days of happiness, when my sense of well-being appeared to be vaguely connected with a feeling of inner light. The sensation of light was not very definite — was rather, perhaps, a glow of well-being; yet it was sufficiently pronounced for one of the earliest notes in my journal, speaking of the times of felicity when the things of the spirit seem very real, to read: ‘Within is a soft, almost tangible, radiance, and for a time I seem to be walking in a streak of sunlight.’

These days of luminous serenity are the ones when I go on what I used to call in my own mind ‘ the golden paths.’ Of course this is to some extent a figure of speech; there are no real paths; nevertheless, my thoughts move easily, I am very happy, and there is a feeling of flowing forth in a golden haze, or else the thoughts are golden, or where I am is so, — it is difficult to say which, — but the interior glow, yellow rather than white, and felt in these early days more than actually perceived, is an accompaniment of this state, coupled with its sensation of spiritual wellbeing. The whole adventure of life appears very beautiful, and my small part in it fraught with more lovely possibilities than I usually detect. My thoughts go out, as it were, like pioneers, tracking a golden wilderness where they may discover buried treasure. They sometimes appear to be dimly in touch with a rhythmic undercurrent, so that occasionally some treasure is turned up and combined with the rhythm, and I make a bit of verse. But usually the thoughts are not so definite, and appear to matter less than the emotion from which they emanate.

For a while I pause, looking happily at life, content to realize its graciousness rather than feverishly endeavoring to make something out of it. These times are to some extent akin to the Indian summer of autumn days, when Nature pauses to mature and contemplate after her tremendous outpouring of growth, and before her retreat into winter. It is possibly, in a small way, what Jakob Boehme called a ‘Sabbath calm of the spirit.’

These periods of happiness and of mellow interior light appear to come more or less of their own free will. I never did anything consciously to induce them, yet, looking back now, I realize that they are apt to follow certain conditions. I am aware of them sometimes merely on account of fine weather; sometimes when I am doing creative work; sometimes in the company of people I am fond of; they frequently follow times of suffering, whether physical or emotional. Most often I experience them when I am traveling. Probably the continuous roar of the train, coupled with the flickering of the landscape past the window, slightly abstracts the surface mind, so that what is just below may emerge.

Here, a trifle amended, is part of an old note, made several years ago while I was traveling: —

‘In the back of my mind, or perhaps, more truly, of my soul, — and I must believe that it is at the back of the souls of all of us, for I am certainly not unique, — is a great flood of beautiful and wonderful thought and emotion, a place of enchantment. The way to it opens, curiously enough, most often when I am on the trains. A sense of peace, combined with power and speed, comes to me. Under the roar of machinery there appears to be a halfheard rhythm, a guessed-at music, and presently I find myself going down one of the golden paths to my enchanted wood of thought, moving, as it were, in a streak of sunlight. Little beneficent thoughts come to me, and committing myself to them I let them lead me away into the enchanted place. But though the place is enchanted, the thoughts I think there are truer, more fraught with insight, than those I think in the everyday places. I see the landscape as more beautiful than I have ever seen it, and the friend sitting opposite me I love more than ever. I see my simple and perhaps prosaic life shot with golden possibilities, and my work with a sudden insight; and all of this is true — more real than our usual perceptions of life. It is somewhat as though one had been straining one’s eyes in a fog to make out certain obscure objects, and all at once the sun leaped out, and one saw what they really were.’

This familiar condition is a very happy one, but is only slightly lifted above the normal. Dressing it up in words must not let it appear more than it is. I am sure it is common enough to everybody — so common, indeed, that probably only a fatuous, open-mouthed person like myself would ever have paused to note it. Even for me it was so well known that, though I did make a few scattered notes, it hardly evoked my curiosity.

Occasionally I perceived a sort of illumination on the faces of other people. It was more perhaps a look than a light. It can hardly be said that I actually saw anything; I seemed to guess a light was there and almost to see it with my physical eyes. It was never pronounced enough for me to say I had ever seen anyone’s ‘aura,’ yet the sense of an inner effulgence, which made the flesh a trifle transparent, was sufficiently marked for me to recall with some distinctness the various times when I have glimpsed it. The person manifesting it has a glorified expression, lifting him a little above his ordinary self. I suppose the reason is that at certain times the spiritual vibrations are so intensified by some cause that they almost shine through the physical — probably quite shine through for people who have a cleared vision. I saw the look once on the face of a man who was giving all his attention, in affectionate sympathy, to a friend who was about to be operated upon. I was aware of the same thing with two patients in an institution where only the incurably ill were received; but most frequently I recall it on the face of my mother, as she ripened gradually into old age — so much so that, when I think of her in those last years, I see her most often with that look of gently shining serenity. Just an old woman, sitting placidly waiting, but through the thinning walls of her bodily temple one might almost see the effulgence within. Indeed, the word ‘serene’ is so connected with her in my mind that, when I think of it, it seems filled with the same silvery light.

Again, I am sure that almost everyone has glimpsed this look of illumination, and there must be any number of people who have seen much more than I have indicated. I am not writing, however, for those who think they have frequently seen auras, or halos, — if they are the same thing, which I rather doubt, — but for those of us who are fairly deeply buried in matter, not having been born with second sight or a ‘leaky consciousness,’ as I believe Professor James called it.

A little later two more experiences came. One took place after a conversation with a friend. We had been speaking intimately of spiritual things that moved us both. Just as we parted, at the moment of leave-taking, I was startled by a sudden swirl of light. It appeared to rush forth from within and catch us both in a momentary whirlpool of glory. I did not speak of it, and I do not know whether my friend was conscious of it or not. It made me a trifle giddy, startling me a little, but it did not appear to be especially surprising, and I dare say it had happened at other times when I was in sympathetic contact with people; but this was the first time it was sufficiently vivid to register upon my surface mind. This occurred, however, several years ago, and I do not recall ever having the same full experience of it again.

II

After I had been practising meditation, off and on, for about six years, following the suggestions for it as given in one of Evelyn Underhill’s books, I began to be aware of an occasional light within myself. This was much more definite than the vague feeling of light connected with what I called the golden paths — more, too, than the dimly glimpsed luminosity in other people’s faces. This light I appear at times actually to see within myself with some interior perception. I take from my journal a note made when I was first beginning to notice this: —

‘In the middle of the night I waked and went into the next room to see about something. As I came back into my own room I suddenly had a great sense of light. It was more perhaps a feeling of light than a sight of it. I was conscious of it when my eyes were shut. It came and went in waves, for a space of probably not more than a minute or two. After I got into bed I was a little frightened and a little excited; nevertheless I went to sleep almost at once. There was no feeling of exaltation or of spirituality connected with it, and it may have been merely a physical sensation due to eyestrain, or a slight supernormal experience not really spiritual. My only reason for recording it is that for some time, perhaps for the last six months or a year, when in meditation or prayer, I have been conscious now and then of a light, and it may be that through these exercises a little extension of inner vision is taking place. I seem to have come into a lovely state of serenity and faith, and more and more I turn to the aspect of God in Christ, and am happy in Him.’

This feeling of yellow interior light, sometimes distinctly perceived, continued to come and go, and I continued to wonder about it and wait for further understanding. I questioned it a good deal. Could anything so unemotional be connected with an inner unfoldment?

I have a great deal of eyestrain, and am very familiar with all the various halfmoons and flashes that come from that, so I could not but wonder if this other light was merely a fresh instance of defective sight. I did not think it was, but I conceded the possibility, and still do.

I am well aware that, when I admit this possibility, a large number of readers will disembark, protesting,

’Why, of course that’s it! Just what I thought all along; and now she’s as good as admitted it!’ Well, good-bye, good-bye, dear skeptics! I kiss a hand to each, and would not detain anyone against his will. But to the faithful few who may yet remain, many of them no doubt because they know far more about this matter than does the writer, let me say that my hopes and theories do not rest merely on my own experience, and I trust that yours do not, either. All that we can ask of this small history is that it should direct our attention to larger possibilities.

To proceed, then. I had been aware of this inner light, which came and went from time to time, for a period of about four years, and had not yet found a satisfactory explanation, when I chanced to speak of it to an acquaintance who has made a long study of occult teaching and is wise in the matter of meditation. She said, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘That means you are getting on with your meditation.’ Later I gathered from her teaching and various other sources that there is a belief that a light is within each one of us, — a real light, not a figurative one, — which may gradually be uncovered, so that its effulgence becomes more and more apparent, through the exercises of prayer, meditation, discipline, and unselfish service. This light belongs to the spiritual and eternal self, and through the above exercises may more and more radiate through the lower self, so that one may occasionally glimpse it interiorly; and in very advanced cases it may become so bright that others may be aware of it. This light, I also learned, was occasionally seen with elderly people as the physical veils grew thin, or with people who had been refined by suffering, which explained, to my mind, the faintly luminous look on my mother’s face as she drew near the next world, and also what I had seen with the two patients who were incurably ill. I gathered, as well, that when two people were in sympathetic accord the interior light from both might sometimes rush out in a momentary swirl — which made me recall that sudden surprising flash between myself and my friend.

There is much more teaching in regard to this interior light, which I do not propose to go into, partly because I do not feel competent to do so. Many people know infinitely more about it than I, and if there are any less wise it would probably be best for them to do a little exploring on their own account. All I wish to emphasize is that, according to this belief, the light is real and not figurative.

I cannot expect anyone else to be as much impressed as I was by this statement. I dare say I should not have been more than mildly interested in it as a possibility, looking at it, as it were, from the outside, had I not for so long been familiar with these various scattered experiences of light. As it was, the statement appeared to me to check up all that I had noted: those earliest remembered times of the golden paths, the sensation of light when doing creative work, the effulgence half glimpsed on the faces of other people, the flash of light, between my friend and me, and finally the coming of the light within myself. It was impressive to me that I had experienced some of these things before I knew that they might have been expected. Certainly I did not know that two persons’ light might rush together; and, though I had read so much that I must have known an interior light sometimes came to people, still I did not think of it as very real, and it was not what I was looking for as a result of meditation.

When I started meditating, a good many years ago, — and in passing let me say that I have not practised it very faithfully, — I did so because I desired to deepen my interior life, strengthen my faith, and if possible draw nearer to God, desires which it seems to me every normal person must have to some extent. I was half afraid, when I began, that the exercise might lead to seeing visions, that some celestial being would appear — a development which I felt might be decidedly upsetting. I need not have been alarmed. When I came into this world of matter, I evidently plunged in very deep, slamming the door tight shut between the two worlds, so that I have almost none of the powers of the medium. No apparitions ever appeared. The angels went on their celestial errands, passing me — as far as I know — completely by. If they ever took any notice, it was, I can well believe, only to exchange smiles over my amusing apprehension that any of them would or could appear to such a meagre entity as myself. Indeed, looking back over many of my groundless fears, I do not doubt that they have provoked laughter higher up. So, although I half feared some startling manifestation, what I did not expect was that through meditation an interior light might be slightly uncovered, which was lovely and beneficent and almost as normal as sunshine. True, after I began to be aware of it I did surmise it might be due to that, and I might have known all along that there was a possibility of such a development.

It is curious how much one may know without really taking it in. It is astonishingly true that we have eyes and see not, ears and hear not; that we may be quite familiar with something and then suddenly perceive, through some extension of interior or exterior knowledge, that we really had only been looking at the outside of the thing. We are in a strange and magic world, which has curiously bewitched us — so much so that I sometimes think the only accounts of it which one should credit are fairy stories. I was certainly familiar enough with the idea of auras and halos, and with tales of people’s faces in the past having been transfigured with light. I knew there was a tradition that once, when Saint Francis and Saint Clare were conversing together, people without saw so bright a light that they rushed in, thinking the house was on fire. But they were saints; it all happened a very long time ago, or was probably a myth anyway; so how could I guess that the same thing, in a very small way, might happen nowadays when two friends talked together?

I knew all these things, but I did not know that there was any likelihood of their coming to me in everyday life. I did believe that the Kingdom of Heaven is within, but I did not know it was possible to open a tiny peephole into it. Have I done so? I know I must shock people by implying such a thing. I know it because I am shocked myself. Yet, if we are startled, is it not because We do not really believe the Bible? Should we consider the Scriptures as too sacred to credit? Is it blasphemy to say our Lord spoke the truth, and was speaking of something very real and present, not a‘far-off divine event,’ when He said that the Kingdom of Heaven is within each one of us, and that by seeking and knocking we might find it; and, moreover, that to find it was the great business of life? Would He be pleased if we were too respectful to His words to believe them, and too humble even to attempt to carry them out?

If we must think of ourselves as worms, we should at least remember that we are glowworms. In our humility we have pushed the Kingdom of Heaven further and further away from us, until at last we pushed it so far aw ay that we came to suppose we could not possibly know anything about it until we had died, while in reality the entering it here in the present life is the great adventure of the Christian religion, and possibly is only a preliminary to an even further adventure that ‘doth not yet appear. ’

III

How some of the old familiar Bible texts shine with renewed inspiration when one may believe that they refer to a real light, rather than a metaphorical one! Take, for instance, a few: ‘To open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light.’ ‘But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another.’ ‘The king’s daughter is all glorious within.’ ‘The shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.’ ‘And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day.’ ‘Then shall thy light break forth as the morning.’ In the fifty-eighth chapter of Isaiah it is clearly set forth that the light — surely the writer means an inner light — is made strong by self-denial and loving kindness. Righteousness and loving service to God make it break forth, but according to Job, ‘The light of the wicked shall be put out, and the spark of his fire shall not shine.’

How we have pulled down to small and material uses that great text, ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven,’ by using it so frequently as an offertory, and letting ourselves suppose that we are obeying Christ’s command when we smugly drop a coin into the contribution plate. To let one’s light shine forth so that other people may actually see it, as has sometimes happened with the truly illuminated ones of the race, must require something much more than dropping a quarter, or even a ten-dollar gold piece, into the alms basin of a Sunday morning. It seems to me, as I have said, that I have almost seen people’s light shining forth, but I never remember any instance of it when the collection was being taken.

I do not mean, of course, that all the references to light in the Scriptures should be taken to mean a real interior light. Some quite obviously are figurative; nevertheless I think many that we have set aside as being metaphorical are really referring to a genuine experience. Is it possible also that this light was more easily perceived by primitive man, and that many phrases in familiar use, which we take now as figures of speech, originated when language was young, in an actual knowledge of the interior illumination?

Evelyn Underhill, in her book on mysticism, says, ‘It is significant that an actual sense of blinding radiance is a constant accompaniment of this state [conversion].’ She recalls Pascal’s broken phrases in his secret record found, after his death, sewn into his doublet: ‘From half past ten to half past twelve — fire! God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, not the God of philosophers and scholars. Certitude. Certitude. Sentiment. Joy. Peace.’ And we all remember the blinding light that flashed upon Saint Paul on the road to Damascus. Occasionally, also, a light is apparently seen shining forth from growing things by people under strong spiritual emotion. One man, quoted in William James’s Varieties of Religious Experience, testifies: —

‘When I went in the morning into the fields to work, the glory of God appeared in all His visible creation. I well remember we reaped oats, and how every straw and head of the oats seemed, as it were, arrayed in a kind of rainbow glory, or to glow, if I may so express it, in the glory of God.’

Some years ago an old lady, near the end of her life, paused to look back and recall some of its great moments. Among other things, she wrote of an occasion when she was walking in the country. She was under a great strain, and suddenly the strain snapped like the breaking of a cord, and, to quote her own words, ‘I was flooded with an ineffable soul-light which seemed to radiate from a great Personality with whom I was in immediate touch. I felt it to be the touch of God. The ecstasy was beyond description. I was passing through a patch of “beggar’s grass,” with its wiry stems ending in feathery heads. Every head shone and glistened like pearls. I could hardly walk for the overwhelming sense of the Divine Presence, and its joy. I almost saw God.’ A little dog that had been walking quietly beside her looked up in her face at this point and began to bark in great excitement. I do not doubt that he saw in her face the same effulgence that she saw in the grass. I am glad to think that the glory of God is at the heart of beggar’s grass as well as the heart of man, and that little dogs as well as human beings may see and rejoice in it.

I have never seen this light in nature, yet for some time past, when I have looked and looked at a flower, a tree, or a mountain, in steady contemplation, I have been conscious, as I suppose most people are, that something more than the outer manifestation is present. I have been half frightened for fear the grass and trees might drop their green dominos, and I be face to face with some strange vision. But perhaps, after all, if Nature were to unveil, what I should see would only be her children illuminated by the same serene light which I have sometimes thought was shining within myself.

IV

Perhaps at this point some physician would like to protest that this sense of light is sometimes a symptom of disordered nerves. I dare say it may be; any perfectly normal thing, as appetite for food, for instance, may become morbid during certain diseases, yet we do not for that reason consider the thing itself abnormal. As to my own mental state, let me say I am sure that both my physician and my friends would be willing to testify that I am quite uninterestingly safe and sane.

I may add in all seriousness, however, that I believe there are certain strange forms of meditation — which I have never gone into — the practice of which might disturb the mental balance. The right form of interior exercise is, as it should be, the devotional kind, which one undertakes, not with any idea of developing abnormal states of consciousness, but simply with the hope of drawing nearer to God. Also it ‘is a true saying, and worthy of all men to be received, ’ that for every step forward in spiritual unfoldment two steps in character building and self-discipline should be taken.

But of what value is this sensation of light, and what practical use can it have in the world? Well, in attempting an answer, let me take a few last notes from my journal: —

‘This morning, when I sat down to meditate, I felt full of inward light, a lovely interior sunshine. Inside of all of us is a vast region which usually appears dark, a “sunless sea,” but to-day, as I shut my eyes and folded my hands, all was bright within. As one knows the feeling of the sun pouring over one from without, so this was the shining of a sun within, and I saw that my everyday life was in shadow. There seemed almost as definite a cleavage between the two as when one climbs up into the sun upon a mountain top, and then descends again to the dusk of the valley. I felt that what obligations or promises I took while in the interior sunlight would be more effective than any number of promises made in the dark self. They would be registered in the real self and, made there, might gradually work out into the shadow existence of every day. I saw that the present enterprise for me was to make this inner light penetrate further and further into each day’s ordinary activity. It is an attempt to carry out the clauses in the Lord’s Prayer, “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven.” From half past nine until ten this morning I was in heaven. Oh, not a seventh heaven, a final heaven, or any great place like that! Just the heaven that is within each of us. Then someone knocked at the door, and with a slight jar I returned to the outer world, where I shall be for the rest of the day. It is easy enough for certain temperaments to go into heaven; the difficult thing is to bring heaven forth; but I am sure that through persistent effort and the gradual removal of obstacles it is possible to make the light shine through more and more hours of the day, until finally the Kingdom comes upon one’s earth, not alone from half past nine to ten, but for every minute of one’s existence.’

V

If the pinning down of my inadequate soul on the dissecting table — and the poor creature is struggling hard enough to escape — offends some readers, do forgive me! My only excuse is that most of the great soids of the past have been thoroughly gone over and commented upon, and that I am not sufficiently intimate with any of the great souls of the present to invite them to this clinic; and even if I were they would n’t accept my invitation, anyway! So the only specimen I can lay hands on is my own, and I think its very inadequacy makes it of value; for, if a ‘common or garden’ soul like mine can derive happiness and inspiration from the interior life, then surely the lists are open to anyone, and all may discover for themselves that the life of the spirit is a life to be led here and now and forever — not a dead-and-gone and far-off tournament in which only those destined for sainthood might dare to break a lance.

I sincerely hope, also, that no one will pin his faith entirely to mine. I may easily be mistaken, as any psychologist would no doubt gladly affirm. Besides, it shows a lack of spiritual backbone to lie down on the faith of other people. One who does so may find himself in the position of the ‘sinner man sittin’ on the gates of hell — gates flew open, an’ the sinner man fell.’ Each one of us must track his own path to some extent. I have not been a very faithful traveler, having sometimes missed the way altogether; nevertheless I know I am a happier person, with more zest for life and less troubled by its surface difficulties, and, I hope, a better one, for having made some exploration within. Therefore it is with some confidence that I invite others to the same undertaking, being willing for this purpose to turn out the pockets of my soul, although the pockets are not very deep and do not contain much fine gold. To refuse to do so might be more reverent than spiritual. One of the most skeptical people I know is the most reverent. He apparently believes nothing, but covers the aching void — I am sure it must ache — with a profound veneration. If we all suddenly became sunworshipers, doubtless some among us would immediately cease to speak of the sun, would pull down all the shades, and consider it shocking to go forth on bright days without covering ourselves with thick veils from a too near approach of the god, while the very, very reverent would retire altogether into the bowels of the earth.

Too much veneration and reserve may make religion appear a dim, unreal, and solemn affair, which it is not always. I may be mistaken, yet I have at times seemed to glimpse beneath the surface of existence a deep vein of laughter — not ironic mirth, but a beneficent, reassuring gayety. If it is there, as I believe, should we not offer it a responsive smile?

But I am far from inviting anyone to a flippant and vulgar surface journey through the world. There are times when one is overwhelmed by the solemnity of life. I have lately had one such experience. A friend of mine had died, and I was allowed to see her in her last repose. She was a woman of great nobility of character, and also very beautiful. Her beauty, however, she had disregarded so completely that to some extent she managed to keep it in the background. We knew, of course, that she was very lovely, but we sometimes lost sight of it a little, swept along as we were by the high tide of her great enthusiasm and schemes for public welfare. But what she had hidden from us in life death unveiled. When I went into the great presence of her death and looked upon her lying there in her solemn repose, still, as it were, in the midst of us, yet completely withdrawn, I was literally awestruck by her beauty. No great work of art, painting, music, or poetry, has ever moved me to the disintegrating point, as did the sight of that face. Only the still grandeur of some great aspect of nature, the awe of the Grand Canyon, perhaps, or an aloof mountain peak far above one, could in any way be compared to it.

There was something almost ironical in death’s revelation of her, as though he, the only true biographer, had for those last brief hours written her life’s history for us to see, and wonder how we had dared to call so great a presence ‘friend.’ I looked and looked, and as I gazed something within me seemed to be breaking up, seemed to be stretching me to a comprehension deeper than I could bear. ‘Awestruck’ is all I can find to express the emotion—awestruck by the immensity of death, by the greatness of life, and by the solemnity of the human experience. The whole event of existence is far more than we even suspect, and we ourselves are infinitely greater than we suppose. In the revelation of her death all of life was lifted up and glorified. I wished that the vulgar and shallow-minded, those who are content to skim through life on its surface, might come and, looking upon this great dignity and beauty, understand how solemn, yes, even terrifying, is this august experience that they are content to take so lightly. It seemed to me that when any of our great ones reveal at death this look of nobility, the spirit at its departure having written a message upon the perishable clay, there to be read for a few hours, then the body should lie in state, and all should come and look upon it for a deeper understanding of existence, the grave beauty of the dead face saying, ‘This is life as I have lived it and, departing, would interpret it somewhat to you. It is vaster than we discern, and we who tenant this flesh are greater than we can know. Do not dare to cheapen it. The gift is from the hand of God, and to Him must account be rendered.’

It is beyond us to conceive the deep importance of life. Could we but come face to face with ourselves unveiled, as death had unveiled her, we should go softly all our days thereafter, only daring to live if our reverence had swept us far enough within to find the great Companion and Comforter. Then, and then only, in the safety of His presence, might we lay hold on life, finding in it not only awe and a most solemn beauty, but confidence and mirth as well. He is that ‘treasure which wishes to be found,’ ‘common to all, and special to each,’ as the mystics of the past have declared; the foundation of life, the hidden base of the soul, which we must touch if we are to find confidence and inspiration for the great adventure. ‘For with thee is the fountain of life: in thy light shall we see light.’