re merely Mental Images, or Thought-Forms in the
Infinite Mind of the Absolute. Their whole existence and appearance
depends upon their Mental Conception and Retention in the Infinite
Mind. In It they have their birth, rise, growth, decline and death.

Then what is Real about ME, you may ask--surely I have a vivid
consciousness of Reality--is this merely an illusion, or shadow? No,
not so! that sense of Reality which you possess and which every
creature or thing possesses--that sense of "I Am"--is the perception by
the Mental Image of the Reality of its Essence--and that Essence is the
Spirit. And that Spirit is the SUBSTANCE OF THE ABSOLUTE embodied in
Its conception, the Mental Image. It is the perception by the Finite,
of its Infinite Essence. Or, the perception by the Relative of its
Absolute Essence. Or, the perception by You, or I, or any other man or
woman, of the Real Self, which underlies all the sham self or
Personality. It is the reflection of the Sun, in the dew-drop, and
thousands of dew-drops--seemingly thousands of Suns, and yet but One.
And yet, that reflection of the Sun in the dewdrop is more than a
"reflection," for it is the substance of the Sun itself--and yet the
Sun shines on high, one and undivided, yet manifesting in millions of
dew-drops. It is only by figures of speech that we can speak of the
Unspeakable Reality.

To make it perhaps plainer to some of you, let us remind you that even
in your finite Mental Images there is evident many forms of life. You
may think of a moving army of thousands of men. And yet the only "I" in
these men is your own "I." These characters in your mind move and live
and have their being, and yet there is nothing in them except "You!"
The characters of Shakespeare, Dickens, Thackeray, Balzac, and the
rest, were such strong Mental Images that not only their creators were
carried away by their power, and apparent ability, but even you who
read of them, many years after, perhaps, feel the apparent reality, and
weep, or smile, or grow angry over their actions. And, yet there was no
Hamlet, outside of Shakespeare's mind; no Micawber outside of Dickens;
no Pere Goriot outside of Balzac.

These illustrations are but finite examples of the Infinite, but still
they will give you an idea of the truth that we are trying to unfold in
your mind. But you must not imagine that You and I, and all others, and
things, are but mere "imaginations," like _our_ created
characters--that