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gathered the wealth of the world! All that is yet attained in the representation of the grand, the beautiful, the majestic, the sublime, and the devotional, is collected in the Mother of Churches.
What earthly king, in his noble palace, with its costly architecture, its ornaments of silver and gold, its rare paintings and statuary, the wealth and accumulation of many sovereigns, would admit into its sacred precincts the poor and the lowly, the beggar and the thief, the Magdalen and the Lazarus to sully with their presence his royal abode?
But we erect palaces to the King of Heaven! regal in architecture, and adorned with beauty surpassing in magnificence earthly royalty, in which the lowliest may enter on an equality with the prince; his untutored mind, his uncultivated senses may listen to music of the highest order. The pealing tones of the organ resound under the touch of the highest masters of art for his simple ear. Listening to those strains, his mind forms a conception of the harmony and beatitude of Heaven!
Even death is not looked upon with horror by the Catholic. If he lose a friend in this life, unlike the Protestant, he does not abandon him in oblivion, but his sympathies still extend to him by offering masses for his soul. And it is because it is so adapted to man's spiritual nature that the Catholic religion has withstood the shock and surge of ages!
The restless, heaving billows of time have washed against the seven-hilled Church in vain.
My soul rests in peace. It has taken its abode in Elysium. And in this world among the stars, seeing
clearer and further than when I inhabited the lowly planet earth, I look down upon the struggling, dying race I have left behind, and feel still, that the Roman Catholic religion is the religion for the masses.
A great majority of men are born into the world but little higher than the beasts that perish. Their spiritual natures, though feeble, need food that is adapted to their wants. That food we furnish.
Our priests, our sisters of charity, our holy fathers, our Benedictine monks, our nuns, are to be found in every quarter of the globe. On the mountains of everlasting snow, among the icebergs of the Polar Sea, and in the sandy deserts; on inhospitable shores, in the torrid zone, under the burning rays of the equatorial sun; with the savage and with the sage they are found ever ready to stimulate the spiritual nature, to give earthly advice, and supply material wants.
As a spirit I speak of what I think best adapted to the needs of man. I endeavor to throw aside the prejudices of education. I look upon the Protestant religion as unnatural; a inonstrous belief which deforms man.
So far as I can see, its influence has been blighting. It takes youth, joy, and animation from the world. It grants no indulgence for sin, nor for the mistakes of ignorance. It is cruel and harsh, and men become narrow and self-elated under its teachings.
The Spiritualistic religion resembles the Catholic in its breadth and amplitude, and in its humanizing and equalizing influence. I expect the day will
come when all minor beliefs will be swallowed
in these two great religions.
The Catholic Church in the spirit world is not so extensive as it is upon earth. Its usefulness is more especially adapted to earthly conditions.
There are some noble cathedrals in the spirit world. Mass is offered up every morning at the cathedral of the Five Virgins in my bishopric.
The sisterhood of the Five Wise Virgins, newly organized, inhabit beautiful and commodious edifices adjacent.
It is their business to escort from earth youthful souls who liave been baptized in the Church, and who are friendless and vagrant, having inhabited while on earth such parts of New York City as the Five Points and Water street, and liaving neither kindred nor connection to claim them.
These are received into the beautiful home of the sisterhood. They bathe in the golden fountains of youth, and are instructed in various ways. They are taught the uses of magnetism, mesmerism, and psychology, and return to earth to rap, write, and speak, through media, and to bring back the stray lambs to the fold.
EDGAR A. POE.
THE LOST SOUL.
Hark the bell! the funeral bell,
Calling the soul
To its goal.
Far in hell,
Fiends are rolling,
On my soul,
By a soul I cannot see,
I would go,
Steeped in woe, Down to darkness, down to hell! Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!
JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
A SHIP is on the ocean. The wind is fair.
. All hands are in motion. But a few hours since, it left port. Among its passengers is a gay traveller; he wears a silken cloak fringed with gold. The sailors admire his splendor; they gather around him as he walks the deck with his flying robe. They put forth their rough hands to feel its soft texture; its warm, bright color gives pleasure to their eyes. As they gaze their pulses heighten, their steps become unsteady, their eyes wander from duty, their great sturdy frames quiver with emotion. The captain rallies them, but in vain.
What secret foe is in their midst? Their parched tongues, cleaving to the roofs of their mouths, call for the surgeon. He comes -- he questions, "From whence comest thou?” “From the Orient,” the traveller replies. The surgeon gasps and shakes his head. IIe, too, is stricken with fear. ? Tis the plague! ” he whispers. An unseen, deadly foe is stalking beneath that gay cloak! The traveller hears and shudders; he flings off his gay vestment. The waves