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e-book: Afterlife


War Letters From The Living Dead Man




The Return of "X"
II. A Dweller on the Threshold
III. An Assurance
IV. The Way of Understanding
V. Astral Monsters
VI. The Archduke
VII. The "Chosen People"
VIII. Spectres of the Congo
IX. Unseen Guardians
X. One Day as a Thousand Years
XI. Many Tongues
XII. The Beautiful Being
XIII. The Body of Humanity
XIV. The Foeman Within
XV. Listening in Brussels
XVI. The Sixth Race
XVII. An American on Guard
XVIII. A Master of Compassion
XIX. The Rose-Veiled Stranger
XX. Above the Battlefields
XXI. A Soul in Purgatory
XXII. Peace Propaganda
XXIII. The Mystery of Desire
XXIV. The Scales of Justice
XXV. For Love's Sake
XXVI. A Master of Mind
XXVII. Invisible Enemies
XXVIII. The Glory of War
XXIX. A Friend of "X"
XXX. The Rose and the Cross
XXXI. A Serbian Magician
XXXII. Judas and Typhon
XXXIII. Crowns of Straw
XXXIV. The Sylph and the Father
XXXV. Behind the Dark Veil
XXXVI. The "Lusitania"
XXXVII. Veiled Prophecies
XXXVIII. Advice to a Scribe
XXXIX. One of These Little Ones
XL. The Height and the Depth
XLI. A Conclave of Masters
XLII. A Lesson in the Kabala
XLIII. The Second Coming
XLIV. Poison Gases
XLV. The Superman
XLVI. The Entering Wedge
XLVII. The New Brotherhood
XLVIII. In the Crucible
XLIX. Black Magic in America
L. Things to Remember







             Passing yesterday along the line where the great French army stands before its powerful opponent, and marking the spirit of courage and aspiration which makes it seem like a long line of living light, I saw a familiar face in the regions outside the physical.
            I paused, highly pleased at the encounter, and the sylph—for it was a sylph whom I met—paused also with a little smile of recognition.
            Do you recall in my former book the story of a sylph, Merilene, who was the companion and familiar of a student of magic who lived in the rue de Vaugirard in Paris?
            It was Merilene that I met above the line of light which shows to wanderers in the astral regions where the soldiers of la belle France fight and die for the same ideal which inspired Jeanne d’ Arc—to drive the foreigner out of France.

            “Where is your friend and master?” I asked the sylph, and she pointed below to a trench which spoke loud its determination to conquer.
            “I am here, to be still with him,” she said.
            “And can you speak to him here?” I asked.
            “I can always speak with him,” she answered. “I have been very useful to him—and to France.”
            “To France?” I enquired, with growing interest.
            “Oh, yes! When his commanding officer wants to know what is being plotted over there, he often asks my friend, and my friend asks me.”
            “Truly,” I thought, “the French are an inspired people, when the officers of armies ask guidance from the realm of the invisible! But had not Jeanne her visions?”
            “And how do you gain the information desired?” I asked, drawing nearer to Merilene, who seemed more serious than when we met some years before in Paris.
            “Why,” she answered, “I go over there and look around me. I have learned what to look for, he has taught me, and when I bring him news he rewards me with more love.”
            “And do you love him still, as of old?”

            “As of old?”
            “Yes, as you did back there in Paris.”
            “Time must have passed slowly with you,” said the sylph, “if you call a few years ago ‘as of old’.”
            “Are a few years, then, as nothing?”
            “A few years are as nothing to me,” she replied. “I have lived a long time.”
            “And do you know the future of your friend?” I asked.
            A puzzled look came over the face of Merilene, and she said, slowly:
            “I used to know everything that would happen to him, because I could read his will, and whatever he willed came to pass; but since we have been out here he seems to have lost his will.”
            “Lost his will!” I exclaimed, in surprise.
            “Yes, lost his will; for he prays continually to a great Being whom he loves far more than me, and he always prays one prayer, ‘Thy will be done!’ It used to be his will which was always done; but now, as I say, he seems to have lost his will.”
            “Perhaps,” I said, “it is true of the will as was once said of the life, and he that loses his will shall find it.”

            “I hope he will find it soon,” she answered, “for in the old days he was always giving me interesting things to do, to help him achieve the purposes of his will, and now he only sends me over there. I don’t like over there!
            “Why not?”
            “Because my friend is menaced by something over there.”
            “And what has his will to do with that?”
            “Why, even about that, he says all day to the great Being that he loves so much more than me, ‘Thy will be done’.”
            “Do you think you could learn to say it, too?” I asked.
            “I say it after him sometimes; but I don’t know what it means.”
            “Have you never heard of God?”
            “I have heard of many gods, of Isis and Osiris and Set, and of Horus, the son of Osiris.”
            “And is it to one of these that he says, ‘Thy will be done’?”
            “Oh, no! It is not to any of the gods that he used to call upon in his magical working. This is some new god that he has found.”
            “Or the oldest of all gods that he has returned to,” I suggested. “What does he call Him?”

            “Our Father who art in heaven.”
            “If you also should learn to say ‘Thy will be done’ to our Father who is in heaven,” I said, “it might help you toward the attainment of that soul you were wanting and waiting for, when last we met in Paris.”
            “How could our Father help me?”
            “It was he who gave souls to men,” I said.
            The eyes of the sylph were brilliant with something almost human.
            “And could He give a soul to me?”
            “It is said that He can do anything.”
            “Then I will ask Him for a soul.”
            “But to ask him for a soul,” I said, “is not to pray the prayer your friend prays.”
            “He only says-----”
            “Yes, I know. Suppose you say it after him.”
            “I will, if you will tell me what it means. I like to do what my friend does.”
            “Thy will be done,” I said, “when addressed to the Father in heaven, means that we give up all our desires, whether for pleasure or love or happiness, or anything else, and lay all those desires at His feet, sacrificing all we have or hope for to Him, because we love Him more than ourselves.”

            “That is a strange way to get what one desires,” she said.
            “It is not done to get what one desires,” I answered.
            “But what is it done for?”
            “For love of the Father in heaven.”
            “But I do not know the Father in heaven. What is He?”
            “He is the Source and the Goal of the being of your friend. He is the One that your friend will re-become some day, if he can forever say to Him, Thy will be done.”
            “The One he will re-become?”
            “Yes, for when he blends his will with that of the Father in heaven, the Father in heaven dwells in his heart and the two become one.”
            “Then is the Father in heaven really the Self of my friend?”
            “The greatest philosopher could not have expressed it more truly,” I said.
            “Then indeed do I love the Father in heaven,” breathed the sylph, “and I will say now every day and all day, ‘Thy will be done’ to Him.”
            “Even if it separates you from your friend?”

            “How can it separate me from my friend, if the Father is the Self of him?”
            “I would that all angels were your equal in learning,” I said.
            But Merilene had turned to me in utter forgetfulness, and was saying over and over, with joy in her uplifted face, “Thy will be done! Thy will be done!”
            “Truly,” I said to myself, as I passed along the line, “he who worships the Father as the Self of the beloved has already acquired a soul.”

            April 29.

Letter XXXV