"Work out your own salvation."—ST. PAUL.
I HAD a feeling, when I retired to my room that night, as if years lay between me and the portion of my life which I had spent in Paleveria. But across the wide gulf my soul embraced Severnius. All that was beautiful, and lovable, and noble in that far-off country centered in him, as light centres in a star.
But of Elodia I could not think without pain. I even felt a kind of helpless rage mingling with the pain,—remembering that it was simply the brutality of the social system under which she had been reared, that had stamped so hideous a brand upon a character so fair. I contrasted her in my mind with the women asleep in the rooms about me, whose thoughts were as pure as the thoughts of a child. Had she been born here, I reflected, she would have been like Clytia, like Ariadne. And oh! the pity of it, that she had not! "Do you wish to look in?" he asked, and we turned back and entered. The interior was beautiful and vast, capacious enough to seat several thousand people; and every Sunday it was filled. I thought it a good opportunity for finding out something about the religion of this people, and I began by asking: "Are there any divisions in your Church,—different denominations, I mean?" He seemed unable to comprehend me, and I was obliged to enter into an explanation, which I made as simple as possible, of course, relative to the curse of Adam and the plan of redemption. In order that he might understand the importance attaching to our creeds, I told him of the fierce, sanguinary struggles of past ages, and the grave controversies of modern times, pertaining to certain dogmas and tenets,—as to whether they were essential, or nonessential to salvation. "Salvation from what?" he asked. "Why, from sin." "But how? We know only one way to be saved from sin." "And what is that?" I inquired. "Not to sin." "But that is impossible!" I rejoined, feeling that he was trifling with the subject. Though that was unlike him. "That is heretical," said I. "Don't you believe in the Fall of Man?" "No, I think I believe in the Rise of Man," he answered, smiling. "O, I keep forgetting," I exclaimed, "that I am on another planet!" "And that this planet has different relations with God from what your planet has?" returned he. "I cannot think so, sir; it is altogether a new idea to me, and—pardon me!—an illogical one. We belong to the same system, and why should not the people of Mars have the sentence for sin revoked, as well as the people of Earth? Why should not we have been provided with an intercessor? But tell me, is it really so?—do you upon the Earth not suffer the consequences of your acts?" "Why, certainly we do," said I; "while we live. The plan of salvation has reference to the life after death." He dropped his eyes to the ground. "You believe in that life, do you not?" I asked. "Believe in it!"—he looked up, amazed. "All life is eternal; as long as God lives, we shall live." A little later he said: "You spoke of the fall of man,—what did you mean?" "That Man was created a perfect being, but through sin became imperfect, so that God could not take him back to Himself,—save by redemption." "And God sent His Only Son to the Earth, you say, to redeem your race from the consequences of their own acts?" "So we believe," said I. After another brief silence, he remarked: "Man did not begin his life upon this planet in perfection." It struck me as a remarkable coincidence that he should have used the very words of one of our own greatest logicians. A longer silence followed. The Master walked with his head inclined, in the attitude of profound thought. At last he drew a deep breath and looked up, relaxing his brows. "It may be prodigiously presumptuous," he said, "but I am inclined to think there has been a mistake somewhere." "How, a mistake?" I asked. He paid no heed to the question, but said: "Tell me the story,—tell me the exact words, if you can, of this Great Teacher whom you believe to be the Son of God?" I gave a brief outline of the Saviour's life and death, and it was a gratification to me—because it seemed, in some sort, an acknowledgment, or concession to my interpretation,—to see that he was profoundly affected. "Oh!" he cried,—his hands were clenched and his body writhed as with the actual sufferings of the Man of Sorrows,—"that a race of men should have been brought through such awful tribulation to see God! Why could they not accept the truth from his lips?" "Because they would not. They kept crying 'Give us a sign,' and he gave himself to death." I grouped together as many of the words of Christ as I could "Do you believe in temples of worship?" I asked. "Yes," he replied, "I believe in them; for though walls and stained windows shut out the physical glories of the world, they do not blind the eyes of the spirit. And if there is one in the pulpit who has absorbed enough of the attributes of God into his soul to stand as an interpreter to the people, it is better than waiting outside. Then, too, there is grandeur in the coming together of a multitude to worship in oneness of spirit. And all things are better when shared with others. I believe that art should bring its best treasures to adorn the temples of worship, and that music should voice this supreme adoration. But in this matter, we should be careful not to limit God in point of locality. What does the saying mean, 'I asked for bread, and ye gave me a stone?' I think it might mean, for one thing, 'I asked where to find God, and you pointed to a building.' The finite mind is prone to worship its own creations of God. There are ignorant races upon this planet,—perhaps also upon yours,—who dimly recognize Deity in this way; they bring the best they have of skill in handiwork, He paused a moment and then went on: "I cannot comprehend the importance you seem to place upon the forms and symbols, nor in what way they relate to religion, but they may have some temporary value, I can hardly judge of that. Baptism, you say, is a token and a symbol, but do a people so far advanced in intelligence and perception, still require tokens and symbols? And can you not, even yet, separate the spiritual meaning of Christ's words from their literal meaning? You worship the man—the God, if you will,—instead of that for which he stood. He himself was a symbol, he stood for the things he wished to teach. 'I am the truth," 'I am the life.' Do you not see that he meant, 'I am the exponent of truth, I teach you how to live; hearken unto me.' In those days in which he lived, perhaps, language was still word-pictures, and the people whom he taught could not grasp the abstract, hence he used the more forcible style, the concrete. He could not have made this clearer, than in those remarkable words, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me. "I know," I replied, as he paused for some response from me; "my intellect accepts your interpretation of these things, but this symbolic religion of ours is ingrained in our very consciences, so that neglect of the outward forms of christianity seems almost worse than actual sin." "And it will continue to be so," he said, "until you learn to practice the truth for truth's sake,—until you love your neighbor—not only because Christ commanded it, but because the principle "Yes," I said, glad of this admission, "and these societies are all aiming at the same thing that you teach,—the brotherhood of man. They clothe the poor, they look after the sick, they send missionaries to the heathen, they preach morality and temperance,—all, in His Name, because, to tell the truth, they cannot conceive of any virtue disassociated from the man, Jesus. Jesus is the great leader of the spiritual forces marshaled under the banners of truth upon the Earth. In all their good works, which are so great and so many, good christians give Christ the glory, because, but for him, they would not have had the Truth, the Life,—the world was so dark, so ignorant. All the ancient civilizations upon the Earth,—and some of them were magnificent!—have perished, because they did not possess this truth and this spiritual life which Christ taught. There was a great deal of knowledge, but not love; there was a great deal of philosophy, but it was cold. There was mysticism, but it did not satisfy. Do you wonder, sir, that a world should love the man who brought love into that world,—who brought peace, good-will, to men?" "No, no," said the Master, "I do not wonder. It is grand, sublime! And he gave his body to be destroyed by his persecutors, in order to prove to the world that there is a life higher than the physical, and indestructible,—and that physical death has no other agony than physical pain. Ah, I see, I understand, and I am not surprised that you call this man your redeemer! I think, my friend," After a moment, he remarked, turning to me with a smile, "We are not so far apart as we thought we were, when we first started out, are we?" "No," said I, "the only wonder to me is, that you should have been in possession, from the beginning, of the same truths that were revealed to us only a few centuries ago, through, as we have been taught to believe, special Divine Favor." "Say, rather, Infinite Divine Love," he returned; "then we shall indeed stand upon the same plane, all alike, children of God." As we continued our walk, his mind continued to dwell upon the teachings of Christ, and he sought to make clear to me one thing after another. "Pray without ceasing," he repeated, reflectively. "Well, now, it would be impossible to take that literally; the literal meaning of prayer is verbal petition. The real meaning is, the sincere desire of the soul. You are commanded to pray in secret, and God will reward you openly. Put the two together and you have this: Desire constantly, within your secret soul, to learn and to practice the truth; and your open reward shall be the countless blessings which are attracted to the perfect life, the inner life. 'Ask whatsoever you will, in my name, and it shall be granted you.' That is, 'Ask in the name of truth and love.' Shall you pray for a personal blessing or favor which might mean disaster or injury to another? Prayer is the desire and effort of the soul to keep in harmony with God's great laws of the universe." As it had been in Thursia, so it was here; people came to see me from all parts, and there were some remarkable companies in Clytia's parlors! Usually they were spontaneous gatherings, If the sky was clear, a portion of each evening was spent in the observatory, or out upon the balcony, as the company chose, and the great telescope was always in requisition, and always pointed to the Earth!—if the Earth was in sight. The last evening I spent in Lunismar was such a one as I have described. Ariadne and I happened to be standing together, and alone, in a place upon the balcony which commanded a view of our world. It was particularly clear and brilliant that night, and you may imagine with what feelings I contemplated it, being A strange impulse seized me, and I caught her hands and held them fast in mine. "And I, O, Ariadne! when I return to Earth again, and lift my eyes toward heaven, it will not be Mars that I shall see, but only—Ariadne!" A strange light suddenly flashed over her face and into her eyes as she raised them to mine, and in their clear depths was revealed to me the supreme law of the universe, the law of life, the law of love. In a voice tremulous with emotion—sad, but not hopeless—she murmured: "And I, also, shall forget my studies in the starry fields of space to watch for your far-distant planet—the Earth—which shall forever touch all others with its glory." And there, under the stars, with the plaintive music of the Eudosa in our ears, and seeing dimly through the darkness the white finger of the snowy peaks pointing upward, we looked into each other's eyes and—"I saw a new heaven and a new earth." THE END