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 other and higher forms, to which the Winged Globe, Man, has transmigrated in its passage from minus to plus—from bad to better, and from better to best. A dog, owl, bat or human body is only so much matter; and the sole business of 'matter' is to furnish so many different sorts of huts, houses, and palaces for spiritual tenants, wherein the primary schools maybe attended by the regal student-soul. I know that even the disenthralled spiritual body is itself but a mere vehicle of Soul, on its next upward transmigration—is still but an adjunct, an out-projection of, and scarcely second cousin to, the tremendous mystery—Soul—the Winged Globe within it. We know that man can live without his carbonaceous body, which is but an incidental assumption in his career, a sort of garb, worn at the longest less than a century; that this period is scarce one second in its immense year; and that he can see without eyes, and know without cerebral organs. It is an axiom that whatever has one end, must also