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Life Everlasting - ebook
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Life Everlasting - ebook
The heroine of this story accompanies a recovering man and his sick daughter on a yacht trip to Scotland, where she discovers her soul mate and changes her life forever. At the beginning of the story, she is full of life, but does not tolerate her limited and ignorant owners. A chance encounter with a mysterious man sailing on an even more mysterious yacht triggers a past life awakening that sets off a visionary quest to find the true meaning of love, life and death.
| Kategoria: | Romance |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8292-223-3 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,6 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
I
THE HEROINE BEGINS HER STORY
It is difficult at all times to write or speak of circumstances which though perfectly at one with Nature appear to be removed from natural occurrences. Apart from the incredulity with which the narration of such incidents is received, the mere idea that any one human creature should be fortunate enough to secure some particular advantage which others, through their own indolence or indifference, have missed, is sufficient to excite the envy of the weak or the anger of the ignorant. In all criticism it is an understood thing that the subject to be criticised must be UNDER the critic, never above,–that is to say, never above the critic’s ability to comprehend; therefore, as it is impossible that an outsider should enter at once into a clear understanding of the mystic Spiritual-Nature world around him, it follows that the teachings and tenets of that Spiritual-Nature world must be more or less a closed book to such an one,–a book, moreover, which he seldom cares or dares to try and open.
In this way and for this reason the Eastern philosophers and sages concealed much of their most profound knowledge from the multitude, because they rightly recognised the limitations of narrow minds and prejudiced opinions. What the fool cannot learn he laughs at, thinking that by his laughter he shows superiority instead of latent idiocy. And so it has happened that many of the greatest discoveries of science, though fully known and realised in the past by the initiated few, were never disclosed to the many until recent years, when ‘wireless telegraphy’ and ‘light-rays’ are accepted facts, though these very things were familiar to the Egyptian priests and to that particular sect known as the ‘Hermetic Brethren,’ many of whom used the ‘violet ray’ for chemical and other purposes ages before the coming of Christ. Wireless telegraphy was also an ordinary method of communication between them, and they had their ‘stations’ for it in high towers on certain points of land as we have now. But if they had made their scientific attainments known to the multitude of their day they would have been judged as impostors or madmen. In the time of Galileo men would not believe that the earth moved round the sun,–and if anyone had then declared that messages could be sent from one ship to another in mid-ocean without any visible means of communication, he would probably have been put to torture and death as a sorcerer and deliberate misleader of the public. In the same way those who write of spiritual truths and the psychic control of our life-forces are as foolishly criticised as Galileo, and as wrongfully condemned.
For hundreds of years man’s vain presumption and belief in his own infallibility caused him to remain in error concerning the simplest elements of astronomy, which would have taught him the true position of the sphere upon which he dwells. With precisely equal obstinacy man lives to-day in ignorance of his own highest powers because he will not take the trouble to study the elements of that supreme and all-commanding mental science which would enable him to understand his own essential life and being, and the intention of his Creator with regard to his progress and betterment. Therefore, in the face of his persistent egotism and effrontery, and his continuous denial of the ‘superhuman’ (which denial is absurdly incongruous seeing that all his religions are built up on a ‘superhuman’ basis), it is generally necessary for students of psychic mysteries to guard the treasures of their wisdom from profane and vulgar scorn,–a scorn which amounts in their eyes to blasphemy. For centuries it has been their custom to conceal the tenets of their creed from the common knowledge for the sake of conventions; because they would, or might, be shut out from such consolations as human social intercourse can give if their spiritual attainments were found to be, as they often are, beyond the ordinary. Thus they move through the world with the utmost caution, and instead of making a display of their powers they, if they are true to their faith, studiously deny the idea that they have any extraordinary or separate knowledge. They live as spectators of the progress or decay of nations, and they have no desire to make disciples, converts or confidants. They submit to the obligations of life, obey all civil codes, and are blameless and generous citizens, only preserving silence in regard to their own private beliefs, and giving the public the benefit of their acquirements up to a certain point, but shutting out curiosity where they do not wish its impertinent eyes.
To this, the creed just spoken of, I, the writer of this present narrative, belong. It has nothing whatever to do with merely human dogma,–and yet I would have it distinctly understood that I am not opposed to ‘forms’ of religion save where they overwhelm religion itself and allow the Spirit to be utterly lost in the Letter. For ‘the letter killeth,–the spirit giveth life.’ So far as a ‘form’ may make a way for truth to become manifest, I am with it,–but when it is a mere Sham or Show, and when human souls are lost rather than saved by it, I am opposed to it. And with all my deficiencies I am conscious that I may risk the chance of a lower world’s disdain, seeing that the ‘higher world without end’ is open to me in its imperishable brightness and beauty, to live in both NOW, and for ever. No one can cast me out of that glorious and indestructible Universe, for ‘whithersoever I go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions and communion with the gods.’
And so I will fulfil the task allotted to me, and will enter at once upon my ‘story’–in which form I shall endeavour to convey to my readers certain facts which are as far from fiction as the sayings of the prophets of old,–sayings that we know have been realised by the science of to-day. Every great truth has at first been no more than a dream,–that is to say, a thought, or an instinctive perception of the Soul reaching after its own immortal heritage. And what the Soul demands it receives.
* * *
* *
*
At a time of year when the indolent languors of an exceptionally warm summer disinclined most people for continuous hard work, and when those who could afford it had left their ordinary avocations for the joys of a long holiday, I received a pressing invitation from certain persons whom I had met by chance during one London season, to join them in a yachting cruise. My intending host was an exceedingly rich man, a widower with one daughter, a delicate and ailing creature who, had she been poor, would have been irreverently styled ‘a tiresome old maid,’ but who by reason of being a millionaire’s sole heiress was alluded to with sycophantic tenderness by all and sundry as ‘Poor Miss Catherine.’ Morton Harland, her father, was in a certain sense notorious for having written and published a bitter, cold and pitiless attack on religion, which was the favourite reading of many scholars and literary men, and this notable performance, together with the well accredited reports of his almost fabulous wealth, secured for him two social sets,–the one composed of such human sharks as are accustomed to swim round the plutocrat,–the other of the cynical, listless, semi-bored portion of a so-called cultured class who, having grown utterly tired of themselves, presumed that it was clever to be equally tired of God. I was surprised that such a man as he was should think of including me among his guests, for I had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him, and my acquaintance with Miss Harland was restricted to a few casual condolences with her respecting the state of her health. Yet it so chanced that one of those vague impulses to which we can give no name, but which often play an important part in the building up of our life-dramas, moved both father and daughter to a wish for my company. Moreover, the wish was so strong that though on first receiving their invitation I had refused it, they repeated it urgently, Morton Harland himself pressing it upon me with an almost imperative insistence.
“You want rest,”–he said, peering at me narrowly with his small hard brown eyes–”You work all the time. And to what purpose?”
I smiled.
“To as much purpose as anyone else, I suppose,”–I answered–”But to put it plainly, I work because I love work.”
The lines of his mouth grew harder.
“So did I love work when I was your age,”–he said–”I thought I could carve out a destiny. So I could. I have done it. But now it’s done I’m tired! I’m sick of my destiny,–the thing I carved out so cleverly,–it has the stone face of a Sphinx and its eyes are blank and without meaning.”
I was silent. My silence seemed to irritate him, and he gave me a sharp, enquiring glance.
“Do you hear me?” he demanded–”If you do, I don’t believe you understand!”
“I hear–and I quite understand,”–I replied, quietly, “Your destiny, as you have made it, is that of a rich man. And you do not care about it. I think that’s quite natural.”
He laughed harshly.
“There you are again!” he exclaimed–”Up in the air and riding a theory like a witch on a broomstick! It’s NOT natural. That’s just where you’re wrong! It’s quite UN-natural. If a man has plenty of money he ought to be perfectly happy and satisfied,–he can get everything he wants,–he can move the whole world of commerce and speculation, and can shake the tree of Fortune so that the apples shall always fall at his own feet. But if the apples are tasteless there’s something wrong.”
“Not with the apples,” I said.
“Oh, I know what you mean! You would say the fault is with me, not with
Fortune’s fruit. You may be right. Catherine says you are. Poor mopish
Catherine!–always ailing, always querulous! Come and cheer her!”
“But”–I ventured to say–”I hardly know her.”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
THE HEROINE BEGINS HER STORY
It is difficult at all times to write or speak of circumstances which though perfectly at one with Nature appear to be removed from natural occurrences. Apart from the incredulity with which the narration of such incidents is received, the mere idea that any one human creature should be fortunate enough to secure some particular advantage which others, through their own indolence or indifference, have missed, is sufficient to excite the envy of the weak or the anger of the ignorant. In all criticism it is an understood thing that the subject to be criticised must be UNDER the critic, never above,–that is to say, never above the critic’s ability to comprehend; therefore, as it is impossible that an outsider should enter at once into a clear understanding of the mystic Spiritual-Nature world around him, it follows that the teachings and tenets of that Spiritual-Nature world must be more or less a closed book to such an one,–a book, moreover, which he seldom cares or dares to try and open.
In this way and for this reason the Eastern philosophers and sages concealed much of their most profound knowledge from the multitude, because they rightly recognised the limitations of narrow minds and prejudiced opinions. What the fool cannot learn he laughs at, thinking that by his laughter he shows superiority instead of latent idiocy. And so it has happened that many of the greatest discoveries of science, though fully known and realised in the past by the initiated few, were never disclosed to the many until recent years, when ‘wireless telegraphy’ and ‘light-rays’ are accepted facts, though these very things were familiar to the Egyptian priests and to that particular sect known as the ‘Hermetic Brethren,’ many of whom used the ‘violet ray’ for chemical and other purposes ages before the coming of Christ. Wireless telegraphy was also an ordinary method of communication between them, and they had their ‘stations’ for it in high towers on certain points of land as we have now. But if they had made their scientific attainments known to the multitude of their day they would have been judged as impostors or madmen. In the time of Galileo men would not believe that the earth moved round the sun,–and if anyone had then declared that messages could be sent from one ship to another in mid-ocean without any visible means of communication, he would probably have been put to torture and death as a sorcerer and deliberate misleader of the public. In the same way those who write of spiritual truths and the psychic control of our life-forces are as foolishly criticised as Galileo, and as wrongfully condemned.
For hundreds of years man’s vain presumption and belief in his own infallibility caused him to remain in error concerning the simplest elements of astronomy, which would have taught him the true position of the sphere upon which he dwells. With precisely equal obstinacy man lives to-day in ignorance of his own highest powers because he will not take the trouble to study the elements of that supreme and all-commanding mental science which would enable him to understand his own essential life and being, and the intention of his Creator with regard to his progress and betterment. Therefore, in the face of his persistent egotism and effrontery, and his continuous denial of the ‘superhuman’ (which denial is absurdly incongruous seeing that all his religions are built up on a ‘superhuman’ basis), it is generally necessary for students of psychic mysteries to guard the treasures of their wisdom from profane and vulgar scorn,–a scorn which amounts in their eyes to blasphemy. For centuries it has been their custom to conceal the tenets of their creed from the common knowledge for the sake of conventions; because they would, or might, be shut out from such consolations as human social intercourse can give if their spiritual attainments were found to be, as they often are, beyond the ordinary. Thus they move through the world with the utmost caution, and instead of making a display of their powers they, if they are true to their faith, studiously deny the idea that they have any extraordinary or separate knowledge. They live as spectators of the progress or decay of nations, and they have no desire to make disciples, converts or confidants. They submit to the obligations of life, obey all civil codes, and are blameless and generous citizens, only preserving silence in regard to their own private beliefs, and giving the public the benefit of their acquirements up to a certain point, but shutting out curiosity where they do not wish its impertinent eyes.
To this, the creed just spoken of, I, the writer of this present narrative, belong. It has nothing whatever to do with merely human dogma,–and yet I would have it distinctly understood that I am not opposed to ‘forms’ of religion save where they overwhelm religion itself and allow the Spirit to be utterly lost in the Letter. For ‘the letter killeth,–the spirit giveth life.’ So far as a ‘form’ may make a way for truth to become manifest, I am with it,–but when it is a mere Sham or Show, and when human souls are lost rather than saved by it, I am opposed to it. And with all my deficiencies I am conscious that I may risk the chance of a lower world’s disdain, seeing that the ‘higher world without end’ is open to me in its imperishable brightness and beauty, to live in both NOW, and for ever. No one can cast me out of that glorious and indestructible Universe, for ‘whithersoever I go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions and communion with the gods.’
And so I will fulfil the task allotted to me, and will enter at once upon my ‘story’–in which form I shall endeavour to convey to my readers certain facts which are as far from fiction as the sayings of the prophets of old,–sayings that we know have been realised by the science of to-day. Every great truth has at first been no more than a dream,–that is to say, a thought, or an instinctive perception of the Soul reaching after its own immortal heritage. And what the Soul demands it receives.
* * *
* *
*
At a time of year when the indolent languors of an exceptionally warm summer disinclined most people for continuous hard work, and when those who could afford it had left their ordinary avocations for the joys of a long holiday, I received a pressing invitation from certain persons whom I had met by chance during one London season, to join them in a yachting cruise. My intending host was an exceedingly rich man, a widower with one daughter, a delicate and ailing creature who, had she been poor, would have been irreverently styled ‘a tiresome old maid,’ but who by reason of being a millionaire’s sole heiress was alluded to with sycophantic tenderness by all and sundry as ‘Poor Miss Catherine.’ Morton Harland, her father, was in a certain sense notorious for having written and published a bitter, cold and pitiless attack on religion, which was the favourite reading of many scholars and literary men, and this notable performance, together with the well accredited reports of his almost fabulous wealth, secured for him two social sets,–the one composed of such human sharks as are accustomed to swim round the plutocrat,–the other of the cynical, listless, semi-bored portion of a so-called cultured class who, having grown utterly tired of themselves, presumed that it was clever to be equally tired of God. I was surprised that such a man as he was should think of including me among his guests, for I had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him, and my acquaintance with Miss Harland was restricted to a few casual condolences with her respecting the state of her health. Yet it so chanced that one of those vague impulses to which we can give no name, but which often play an important part in the building up of our life-dramas, moved both father and daughter to a wish for my company. Moreover, the wish was so strong that though on first receiving their invitation I had refused it, they repeated it urgently, Morton Harland himself pressing it upon me with an almost imperative insistence.
“You want rest,”–he said, peering at me narrowly with his small hard brown eyes–”You work all the time. And to what purpose?”
I smiled.
“To as much purpose as anyone else, I suppose,”–I answered–”But to put it plainly, I work because I love work.”
The lines of his mouth grew harder.
“So did I love work when I was your age,”–he said–”I thought I could carve out a destiny. So I could. I have done it. But now it’s done I’m tired! I’m sick of my destiny,–the thing I carved out so cleverly,–it has the stone face of a Sphinx and its eyes are blank and without meaning.”
I was silent. My silence seemed to irritate him, and he gave me a sharp, enquiring glance.
“Do you hear me?” he demanded–”If you do, I don’t believe you understand!”
“I hear–and I quite understand,”–I replied, quietly, “Your destiny, as you have made it, is that of a rich man. And you do not care about it. I think that’s quite natural.”
He laughed harshly.
“There you are again!” he exclaimed–”Up in the air and riding a theory like a witch on a broomstick! It’s NOT natural. That’s just where you’re wrong! It’s quite UN-natural. If a man has plenty of money he ought to be perfectly happy and satisfied,–he can get everything he wants,–he can move the whole world of commerce and speculation, and can shake the tree of Fortune so that the apples shall always fall at his own feet. But if the apples are tasteless there’s something wrong.”
“Not with the apples,” I said.
“Oh, I know what you mean! You would say the fault is with me, not with
Fortune’s fruit. You may be right. Catherine says you are. Poor mopish
Catherine!–always ailing, always querulous! Come and cheer her!”
“But”–I ventured to say–”I hardly know her.”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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