The Ascent.—Marvel: The Woman.
As previously stated, it was not possible for me to understand the nature of the mysterious power by which, in company of the peerless "being, Thotmor, I volitionless clove the ambient air. "O, it was a projection of your soul," says the modern novitiate of the mystic school. Not so, friend; for the Ego then and there ascending, under the influence of a power similar in kind, but immensely superior in volume and display to itself, was not a mere psychical phasma—a thing of appearance only, and possessing no substantiality of its own; it was no flimsy projection from the fancy-faculty; was not a meaningless substance-void image of myself. It was no mere subjective state objectified, but was indeed my very self, wearing the body of immortality for a time, during which certain lessons must be and were learned, fully and practically, demonstratively and perfectly, so far as the lessons went. The man himself, and not his mere shadow or ghost was there, in proper form and essence, to the end, no doubt, "that the mysteries there learned might be given, as they now practically are, to the world of thinkers.
As I, or rather we, ascended toward the zenith, it began to rain; but this did not incommode us, nor in any way hinder the ascent, which was continued until it became necessary to penetrate a dense region of thick, black convolving cloud that was now rolling up in vast and heavy masses from the northern verge of the immense horizon, driven by the fierce breath of a mighty blast. Looking earthward, it seemed as if the deep black night was suddenly going down; the wind howled
