cle. Let a poet be the medium; Swedenborg, Dante, Blake, Socrates,
Jacob Boehme, Tasso, Milton, Eckart, Ruysbroek, St. Teresa, Joan of Arc,
Emerson, Shelley, and a few more visionaries, and dreamers be of the
circle. Let our Radiant Being try again. The vibrations of the combined
psychic force would respond more readily to the world-strangeness of the
visitor. There would be fewer mental obstacles raised by the sense of
the impossible. The restraints of logic would be more easily overcome.
The avenues of supersensual impressions would be open. The medium would
transmit the message to a point far beyond that possible to our psychic
judge, and the audience would encourage him by their readiness to grasp
the revelations made. The language of mysticism, philosophy, and
poetry would be strained to its utmost capacity. Then a sense of
incompleteness, of deficiency, of hopeless relativity would overcome the
audience. The medium had exerted every spiritual faculty to receive the
truth. But the visitor could not convey celestial realities to terrene
minds.

Every true artist in words, or colour, or sound is always haunted by the
inexpressible--by spiritual impotence to overcome the laws of
imprisonment in the flesh. He clutches at symbol and suggestion, at
parable and fable, conscious of the truth that the unreal is the most
real.

The goats have gathered round me as I sit musing in the gloaming. The
leading goat is a handsome animal, generally respected and feared by the
rest of the herd. He has excellent knowledge, inherited and acquired, of
the uses of mountains, and his venerable beard adorns a head of
undisputed male ascendancy in the tribe. I bear him a grudge. He is in
the habit of eating my sapling pines, carefully planted by me and
carelessly nipped in the bud by him. I have expostulated with him in a
variety of ways--some gentle, others forceful, but he is incorrigible.
He will not understand that my young pines are beautiful, and that they
are expected to grow into fine trees. He has no sense of beauty, of
symmetry, of fitness. He is only a beast. He has no soul--I pause,
remembering the ineffectual attempts of my Radiant Being to inspire
human souls with a greater vision. Are we not all goats before the gaze
of more finely organized creatures?

The evolutionist need not be disheartened by the thought. Nature is
unexhausted. Desire and experience are ever creating new forms, new
organs. A child's book of beasts wil