Thus, there were many, very many, sincere preachers who appeared and labored conscientiously, each after his own belief, and officiated in this Cathedral, Nature’s own Temple; some proselyting, others not—only trusting to natural growth. And while all “took up collections,” yet, strange to say, one only possessed the ancient veritable title of Seer, the one in primitive costume, with primitive sincerity; the Venerable Primate who lived in the open “without money and no scrip,” and thus preserved his loud sonorous voice in nature; he who lived very close to his Creator-God, the Creator and Father of all.
What did this Seer see?
Standing in the presence of the storm, none realized his own helplessness more devoutly than this poor Himalaya Seer himself, following in the footsteps of his own primitive ancestry since the beginning of man’s appearance as a religious animal upon earth; hence known, in consequence, as a nature-worshiper. Calling his group of followers about him he spake to them as if in a trance, as if he saw what they could not see: the Evil Spirits, or spirits for evil, flying hither and thither over the land. While in this trance-like condition of religious rapture, he spoke of the wind, the rain, and the lightning as antagonistic personalities. He gesticulated, as if he saw them as such, wild and irresistible, in indiscriminate conflict with things as they are. Being himself human he could not conceive personality as otherwise than subject to human influences; therefore he called upon his fellow-worshipers to send up some sweet odor, to propitiate, to offer a sacrifice, to attract attention to something good and not evil—aye, to crowd out the evil by the good.
The people obeyed him. Then and there arose the good influence, and lo! a marvelous change took place in the heart-life of each primitive worshiper. The evil spirits in the storm ceased their warfare and dispersed—the tempest ceased, nature smiled, each heart was filled with peace. “Peace, be still! I say unto thee, peace, be still! My peace I give unto thee.”
When in due course of nature the heavens had again cleared, the Seer spake anew; but not now from a trance. He had no trances after it cleared off, and he stood in the bright sunlight of nature. No! He was as other men—no more, no less—in all ages. What he now saw was also different, and the tenor of his voice had changed.
He announced a message to be delivered.
His followers fell upon their faces before him.
He kept them waiting; in fact, being no longer in physical fear himself he began to lack his primitive simplicity. The sight of others bowing with their faces to the earth before him was not unpleasant. Weak human nature asserted itself; he posed, after his fashion. He kept the people waiting; and he flattered himself that this was due to his office as Seer, as if the office made the man, and not man the office.
The people waited; they had long since learned to wait, and to wait upon others. The Seer then raised his hands heavenward and spake; a message so ancient that its form now sounds archaic, from before Abraham, from Job, from primitive man; a poet of the Vedas of the South, or a historian of the Northern Sagas, might have said it each after his own fashion; it is recorded in the Holy Bible, the truth from the beginning.
the message of the seer.