Seven is the sacred number in the Buddhist system.  As there are seven worlds in the planetary chain, seven kingdoms in Nature, seven root-races of men, in like manner man is a sevenfold being, continuing, through untold millions of years, his existence as an individual, yet changing, one knows not how many times, many of his component elements.  As the Buddhist sees the mortal body to be dissolved into its molecules, and these molecules to be transferred with their inherent vitality to other organisms, so some of his higher elements, among them his “astral body,” his impulses and desires, under the name, as our author gives it, of animal soul, may separate from the more enduring parts of his composition, and become lost to him in Nature’s great store of material substance.  As there is an animal soul, the seat of those faculties which we possess in common with the lower beings about us, so there is a human soul, the seat of intelligence; and, higher still, a spiritual soul, possessing powers of which as yet we know but little, yet destined to give us, when it shall be more fully developed, new powers of sense, new avenues for the entrance of knowledge, by which we shall be able to communicate directly with Nature, and become as much greater than the present race of men, as that is greater than the lowest brutes.  Above all these elements of man, controlling all, and preserving its individuality throughout, is “spirit.”  Yet even this, when absorbed into Nirvana, is lost in that great whole which includes all things and is Nature herself.  Lost, do I say?—­yes, lost for inconceivable ages upon ages, yet destined to come forth again at some moment in eternity, and to begin its round through the everlasting cycle of evolution.

Here, you will say, is materialism.  As the intelligent man of early ages looked out upon the world, he felt the wind he could not see, he smelt the odor that he could not feel, and he reasoned with himself, I think, as follows; “There is somewhat too subtile for these bodily senses to grasp it.  Something of which I cannot directly take cognizance brings to me the light of sun and stars.”  These somethings were, in his conception, forms of matter.  He saw the intelligence and the moral worth of his friend, and then he saw that friend a lifeless body stretched upon the ground, and he said some thing is gone.  This thing was again to him only another and more subtile form of matter.  We, with all the aids of modern knowledge and thought, are absolutely unable to say what distinction there is between matter and spirit.  The old philosopher was logical.  He could find no point at which to draw his line.  Therefore he drew no line.  He recognized only different manifestations of one substance.  In terms of our language, he was a materialist.  So is the modern scientist; yet I cannot help thinking that the Buddhist stands much nearer to truth than the materialist of to-day.  The various faculties