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 Victim at once, and victor of circumstance and time! Thou enigma, which millions think they have solved, even while thou laughest at them; who imagining they have untied the knot, have not even found the clue! Strange riddle! Thing of which men think they are well informed, because they have learned a few of thy names, and can call thee Psyche, Soul, Spirit, Pneuma and Breath; word-names, which generally convey about as much of thee to the common understanding, as the name-words Algebra, Geometry, Music and Number, do to the barbarians who hear them pronounced, of the vast realities that underlie the sounds or the signs. Soul! Existence, whereof eolists and pedants learnedly prate and bluster in long phrase and loud tone, as if thou didst not command silence of him who would approach thee, and seek to know the awful mysteries slumbering beneath thy titles. Soul! Whereof everybody talks so much, but of which even the wisest of either earth or heaven know so very little. Well, in my ignorance, I felt that unless some one, something material, had opened that door, we must stay imprisoned there in that house upon the hill, forever and for evermore. How little, how very little, I then knew or suspected concerning the mighty powers latent, and never yet fully unfolded in any human being—no matter whom, no matter where located, how high in heaven, on earth, or deep down in the bottomless hell, or the blackest barathrum of the infinitudes Possibility. No one save God can fathom the profounds of Soul. Why? Because, like Him, it is absolutely Infinite: Him, in Conscious Power—it in Capability! Very imperfect