Read Online War Letters from the Living Dead Man by Elsa Barker - Free Book Online
Authors: Elsa Barker
Tags: Death, Paranormal, Survival, Jesus, Ghosts, Consciousness, Materialism, spirits, psychic, God, Reincarnation, Telepathy, heaven, afterlife, medium, Hell, remote viewing, life after death, Spiritualism, clairvoyant, channeling, astral plane, arthur conan doyle, Automatic writing, Letters from Julia, Lucid Dreams, Letters from a living dead man, Spiritism, Karmic law, Summerland, Trance Medium, spheres, Last letters from the living dead man, Scepcop, Theosophy, Inspired writing, Great White Brotherhood, D D Home, Spiritualist, Unseen world, Blavatsky, Judge David Patterson Hatch, Victor Zammit, Akashic Records, Incidents in my life, Swedenborg
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if you but knew it. Recover the memory of past births, you pioneers of the Sixth Race! You can do it. It is part of the heritage of that race. America, the “melting pot” of nations! You were not made to rule an outside empire. When the time comes make over the Philippine Islands to a nation that can be trusted with them. Your empire is within your own body, you race of a score of races, you inheritor of a score of fathers, you mother of the one new race! Increase your army and navy so long as you are nervous. Put lightning rods on your house and burglar alarms on the doors and windows. Feel secure. Then dream about brotherhood—when you can trust in it. Sit by the fire of your own coal dug from the ground by Dutchmen, as it burns in a chimney of your own bricks made by the hands of Irishmen, read your own newspaper printed in the language of Englishmen, by the light of your own lamp made by a German, on your own hearthrug made by a Turk or an Armenian, enjoy the feel of your own muscles trained by a Swede, in your own linen washed by a Chinaman, listen to your daughter playing on your own piano the music of a Russian, an Italian, a Pole or a Frenchman, see all over your own room things made by the sons of a dozen other races, your neighbors, your fellow citizens, your fellow Americans, then tell me whether you dare not to believe in Universal Brotherhood, and in the new race, the synthesis of all races!
April 8
Letter 17
An American on Guard
I want to speak more of France, and of what she can do for America, the land of the coming new race. I have spoken before of her love, which is so great that even her own enemies cannot hate her. I have praised her critical genius, which analyses all things and compares one with another. But now I want to speak of her charm and her courtesy. You have said yourself that good manners are the imitation of kindheartedness. To imitate is to emulate. A race that has charming manners has a heart. A race that is brusque needs to cultivate heart. Employ French teachers in your schools, you Americans. A French teacher or a French mother tells her children not to do a certain thing because it is not pretty, another word for charming, for kind-hearted. If you imitate kind-heartedness this way, perhaps you will some day feel it, you American children.
By setting up the standard of beauty in deportment you need have no fear of forgetting the ethical. You all drank Puritan ethics with your mother’s milk; there is no danger that those precepts will be lost if you practice charm a little by way of variety. Every face in France was once a smiling face. It was not so this afternoon when I passed through France on my way to you. But the faces are still brave, because it is not pretty to make a parade of sorrow. I know the excess of French mourning-apparel might be called a parade of sorrow, but the black is worn as a mark of respect for all the dead of France. Taste! There is a race which has it. And in advising America to learn from the French, I am naturally selecting the good qualities of that nation. We all have faults of our own.
The taste of the French in the United States at this time! Do they print journals in English attacking their enemy? Do they support a lobby in Washington and a press-bureau in New York? If so I have not heard of them, and we hear of most things out here—we who keep our ears to the ground. If they grieve for their stricken country, they do not drop their tears on America’s freshly ironed shirt-bosom. If they hate their enemy, they hate him with a quiet, well-bred hate. If France wins a victory in the field, they do not bluster about it. If France loses in the field, they do not call their enemy a rattlesnake or some other kind of reptile. It would not be pretty. It might not be unethical, but it would be bad taste. Americans bluster too much. I said that when I myself was an American, before I was uprooted and became a citizen of the world invisible and
April 8
Letter 17
An American on Guard
I want to speak more of France, and of what she can do for America, the land of the coming new race. I have spoken before of her love, which is so great that even her own enemies cannot hate her. I have praised her critical genius, which analyses all things and compares one with another. But now I want to speak of her charm and her courtesy. You have said yourself that good manners are the imitation of kindheartedness. To imitate is to emulate. A race that has charming manners has a heart. A race that is brusque needs to cultivate heart. Employ French teachers in your schools, you Americans. A French teacher or a French mother tells her children not to do a certain thing because it is not pretty, another word for charming, for kind-hearted. If you imitate kind-heartedness this way, perhaps you will some day feel it, you American children.
By setting up the standard of beauty in deportment you need have no fear of forgetting the ethical. You all drank Puritan ethics with your mother’s milk; there is no danger that those precepts will be lost if you practice charm a little by way of variety. Every face in France was once a smiling face. It was not so this afternoon when I passed through France on my way to you. But the faces are still brave, because it is not pretty to make a parade of sorrow. I know the excess of French mourning-apparel might be called a parade of sorrow, but the black is worn as a mark of respect for all the dead of France. Taste! There is a race which has it. And in advising America to learn from the French, I am naturally selecting the good qualities of that nation. We all have faults of our own.
The taste of the French in the United States at this time! Do they print journals in English attacking their enemy? Do they support a lobby in Washington and a press-bureau in New York? If so I have not heard of them, and we hear of most things out here—we who keep our ears to the ground. If they grieve for their stricken country, they do not drop their tears on America’s freshly ironed shirt-bosom. If they hate their enemy, they hate him with a quiet, well-bred hate. If France wins a victory in the field, they do not bluster about it. If France loses in the field, they do not call their enemy a rattlesnake or some other kind of reptile. It would not be pretty. It might not be unethical, but it would be bad taste. Americans bluster too much. I said that when I myself was an American, before I was uprooted and became a citizen of the world invisible and
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