Without the ever-present consciousness of eternal being, religion would be impossible, and there could be no ideal of excellence superior to the gratifications of the hour. But man feels the aspirations for a superior life, a soaring out of and above the physical senses; he feels the promptings of duty, of right, of justice and truth, outwrought from his innermost being. The pleasures of the time are cast away; selfishness yields to unselfishness; and the spirit, amid pain, apparent loss, and the scorn of its fellows, proves its kinship to the immutable and ideal. Such is the true spiritual life: The outgrowth of spiritual science, which makes morality a birthright, and its expression in character a consequence of obedience to the laws of its being. Spiritual life is universal and infinite. It is the answer to our hopes, desires and abiding faith. Whence come they? They are the mutual expression of our inner natures. As the flower expands, its petals bending to the rays of the sun, so we turn to the spiritual sun, and only in the warmth of its invigorating rays expand into completeness. As the foulest slime of the sewer, when exposed to the light, casts down all stains, and sparkles in the crystal waves, so humanity in the light of spiritual truth is purified and freed from stains. Hope, faith, desire, the poetry of the present, are the prophecy of the future! Their voice proclaims the esoteric wisdom which is wiser than all books; for are not all books children of the mind? Has any thing ever been written that no one knew? As the mind is the receiver, so is it the radiator. It cannot receive what it has not the ability to throw out. It understands because it is the sum of all the elements and forces of the universe. It is akin to the titanic energies which hold the revolving suns and worlds in the hollow of their hands, and can read the ritual of the flashing stars. Infinity it has never exhausted, it can never exhaust itself. Books are imperfect stutterings of its eternal consciousness. It is as superior to them as the master to his sketch, the sculptor to his clay, the builder to the engine that feebly embodies in brass and steel his ideas, which alone are perfect. We are immortal, and hope and desire tell us the wondrous tale of an unending future. We cannot cast aside its awful responsibilities, escape its duties, or be deprived of its grand possibilities. The very name, Immortality, carries with it the ideas of endless progress, justice, liberty, love, purity, holiness, power and beauty. Those who have followed the line of thought in these pages will have no difficulty in admitting the possibility, at least on special occasions, of spirit communication. They, in fact, will recognize it as a necessity. If those who have passed through death’s portals should return, they might find even the most sensitive unable to transmit their thoughts, except in a most rudimentary manner.