hey bathe in the Western seas; while to us, they are again
removed to an incalculable distance,--but at the same time so near,
that, in our hopes, they are the many mansions of our Father's house,
the stepping-stones to our everlasting rest.

But there is also another map, reader, more shadowy in its outline, of
an invisible region, neither of the heavens nor of the earth,--but
having vague relations to each, with a secret history of its own, of
which now and then strange tales and traditions are softly whispered in
our ear,--where each of us has been, though no two ever tell the same
story of their wanderings. Strange to say, each one calls all other
tales superstitions and old-wives' fables; but observe, he always
trembles when he tells his own. But they are all true; there is not one
old-wife's fable on the list. Necromancers have had private interviews
with visitors who had no right to be seen this side the Styx. The Witch
of Endor and the raising of Samuel were literal facts. Above all others,
the Nemesis and Eumenides were facts not to be withstood. And,
philosophize as we may, ghosts have been seen at dead of night, and not
always under the conduct of Mercury;[6] even the Salem witchcraft was
very far from being a humbug. They are all true,--the gibbering ghost,
the riding hag, the enchantment of wizards, and all the miracles of
magic, none of which we have ever seen with the eye, but all of which we
believe at heart. But who is it that weirdly draws aside the dark
curtain? Who is this mystic lady, ever weaving at her loom,--weaving
long ago, and weaving yet,--singing with unutterable sadness, as she
interweaves with her web all the sorrows and shadowy fears that ever
were or that ever shall be? We know, indeed, that she weaves the web of
Fate and the curtain of the Invisible; for we have seen her work. We
know, too, that she alone can show the many-colored web or draw aside
the dark curtain; for we have seen her revelations. But who is _she_?

Ay, reader, the Sphinx puts close questions now and then; but there is
only one answer that can satisfy her or avert death. This person,--the
only real mystery which can exist for you,--of all things the most
familiar, and at the same the most unfamiliar,--is yourself! You need
not speak in whispers. It is true, this lady has a golden quiver as well
as a golden distaff; but her arrows are all for those who cannot solve
her riddle.

Protagoras, then, was right; and, looki