"It would be quite impossible for me to give you any true idea of the exquisite delight I experienced when now for the first time conscious of untrammelled life. No one would believe how much pain is inseparable from every movement of even the healthiest body until he has once been freed from the burden. We gauge pain and pleasure simply by the sensations that are above or below the average of existence; when less than usually burdened, we call life happy; if more than usually tried, we call it painful. As a bird confined from birth in a tiny cage is unconscious of its cramped suffering, so the spirit of man having no remembrance of freedom, regards its present house with toleration, and is even unwilling to be released. I could hardly feel surprised now that unselfishness is a necessary condition of spiritual growth, as the love of others could alone draw a free spirit back to its chains. "Of what I passed through during this and similar experiences I shall now say nothing. After I am dead you will find a sealed paper, on the cover of which is written ’A spiritual autobiography. If you feel it wise to open and read it, or even to publish part or all of it, you can do so, for by that time you will have my influence to guide you, and I shall be able to judge better which course is the wisest for you to take.’ "I shall not continue my story any further this evening, as you are anxious to ask me some questions, and it is already late." "There is one thing," I replied, "which I cannot understand, namely, the death of your companion. Considering the nobility and kindly disposition of these priests, the tests of worthiness seem almost cruel and barbarous." "Your feeling," Sydney answered, "is very similar to that which I experienced at the time, and though I have not dwelt on the subject for fear of interrupting the narrative, the death of my friend was not only a deep grief to me, but also caused a shock from which it was some time before I could recover; but after my spiritual freedom in the temple I was able to understand things better. Life, which we prize so dearly, is looked upon by those who have the highest knowledge, not as a pleasure, but as a necessary and painful lesson. Death is an upward movement into a more perfect condition; moreover, through the knowledge which these men possessed, they considered themselves but as merciful instruments for saving pain. The duration of life is not determined by an accident to the body, but solely by growth of the spirit. When a man or woman has become fitted for another sphere, the outward growth must be cast off. Sometimes this is done slowly, through disease; sometimes in a moment through what men call accident; but in either case the thing is inevitable. If men only knew it, they could shorten or lengthen life by retarding or aiding the growth of the spirit, but in that way only." "Do you," I asked, "then imply that the more slowly a man learns his lesson the longer he lives?"