George, we will devote a few moments to an observation of the Isle of Man. Gentola̤, on our side there are Spirits who remember a time when the ocean was many fathoms deep above its slowly rising surface. That is the island, and it appears a rather precarious abiding place. Some time I may tell you of its origin, which differs from the accepted scientific view.
Now you may salute the Emerald Isle, the birthland of your nearest ancestors, who were of Scotch blood. You have desired to see Lough Neagh, near which your father was born. Its rippling water is beneath us now. Of Ireland's lakes, mountains, holy wells and fairy lore doubtless your father has told you many strange stories, but the strangely tragic story of wrong and oppression for which Ireland furnishes a piteous theme is as yet, unwritten.
Yes, this southern portion of the island is very picturesque and broken; the same may be said of the inhabitants. No, we will not visit Wales. From Ireland we will pass directly to France and to Paris which, as has been aptly said, is France. Is not it a very beautiful city? During my Earth life I regarded it as being so perfect as to be changeless, but now as I gaze upon it, I see but few vestiges of nearly three hundred years ago.
Oh, Paris, Paris, thou aggregation of opulence and squalor; of much that is admirable and more that is detestable; aye, of all that is good, bad or indifferent in human nature; since first I knew thee in thy beauty, luxury and arrogance, thou hast grown superb, but while decking thyself with costliest raiment and priceless jewels, thy feet tread in the mire of debauchery. In thy hands thou bearest a crucifix yet in thy heart thou art a wanton. With one breath thou chantest Laus Deo, with the next thy lips are smirched with ribald song.
Oh beautiful, oh pitiable Paris! Through whose broad or narrow ways pass unseen angels of mercy, who continually are striving to raise the thoughts and aspirations of thy sensuous people above the insensate follies of vicious tendencies. Not yet, not yet, but in a coming time the tribulations of thy people will turn them away from the spell of thy enchantments, and with clearer eyes and purer aspirations they will seek the heights of Spiritual progress. Beloved France, land of my birth, home of my childhood, youth and manhood, I look backward through the years and I behold thee regnant in power, or tossed as a shuttlecock in the hands of thy foes. Then I behold thee dancing gaily on the brink of a precipice and, as I gaze, out of the shadows emerges the dread Reign of Terror, which stained thy garments with the best blood of thy children. Still I gaze, and out of the blackness of thy despair a strong hand, guided by indomitable will, and measureless ambition, rescues thee from the abyss into which thy mad and ignorant folly hath plunged thee, and then a new day, whose effulgent glory blinds the eyes of other nations, dawns for thee. Again deep shadows eclipse the effulgence of thy glory, whose beams gleam fitfully through some troublous years, and thus amid brightness and shadows the centuries have flown, and again, though in their hearts they spurn the plebeians whom they have chosen as rulers, thy children cry, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," and the fateful years go by.
Liberty and equality are the finest jewels in the crown of any nation, but alas, it is the few, and not the many, who are able to estimate them at their full value.
Now reluctantly my gaze turns toward Alsace and Lorraine, who, like two orphaned children are obliged to carry water on both shoulders, yet no one dares to lift their burthens, or to restore them to their own. With sorrowful sympathy I have watched their changeful history, and the end is not yet.
An Alsatian born am I, and though it is nearer three than two centuries since I passed to the Spirit Side, my heart clings to the land of my birth and I dream of a time that may, nay, will, arrive, when France, regenerated and with garments undefiled, shall take her rightful place amid the galaxy of Earth's greatest nations.
Southward now to Italy, the land of music, of art, of sunshine and of flowers. As we gaze upon the verdure clad slopes, the smiling valleys and upon the cities whose storied greatness reaches backward into classic times, I recall that one has written, "Oh, Italy, thou art in one the glory and the shame of Christianity, for while upon the pages of thy history are names heroic, thy garments are stained with the best blood that hath flowed in the veins of thy children. Alas! that through thy ignorant zeal thou, in a bygone time, didst torture those whom thou shouldst have worn upon thy bosom as jewels beyond price. Tortured them, too, in the name of the genuine Teacher of a religion of peace and good will toward all men."
Gentola̤, two members of our band, Galileo and Giordano Bruno, attest to the horrible cruelties and crimes which, in their days, were, in the name of religion, perpetrated upon helpless men and women. No, Spirits do not forget; but ere they can progress they must and do forgive.