I am listening to the accents of a grave melodious voice, which, from its slow and measured tones, would seem to be in the action of reading or reciting aloud.  I see a small room sparely furnished, and at a table covered with books and manuscripts is seated a man of noble features and commanding presence.  He is in the full prime of life; his dark hair has no thread of silver to mar its luxuriance; his face is unwrinkled; his forehead unfurrowed by care; his eyes, deeply sunk beneath his shelving brows, are of a singularly clear and penetrating blue, with an absorbed and watchful look in them, like the eyes of one accustomed to gaze far out at sea.  His hand rests on the open pages of a massive volume; he is reading, and his expression is intent and earnest—­as if he were littering his own thoughts aloud, with the conviction and force of an orator who knows the truth of which he speaks: 

“The Universe is upheld solely by the Law of Love.  A majestic invisible Protectorate governs the winds, the tides, the incoming and outgoing of the seasons, the birth of the flowers, the growth of forests, the outpourings of the sunlight, the silent glittering of the stars.  A wide illimitable Beneficence embraces all creation.  A vast Eternal Pity exists for all sorrow, all sin.  He who first swung the planets in the air, and bade them revolve till Time shall be no more—­He, the Fountain-Head of Absolute Perfection, is no deaf, blind, capricious, or remorseless Being.  To Him the death of the smallest singing-bird is as great or as little as the death of a world’s emperor.  For Him the timeless withering of an innocent flower is as pitiful as the decay of a mighty nation.  An infant’s first prayer to Him is heard with as tender a patience as the united petitions of thousands of worshippers.  For in everything and around everything, from the sun to a grain of sand, He hath a portion, small or great, of His own most Perfect Existence.  Should He hate His Creation, He must perforce hate Himself; and that Love should hate Love is an impossibility.  Therefore He loves all His work; and as Love, to be perfect, must contain Pity, Forgiveness, and Forbearance, so doth He pity, forgive, and forbear.  Shall a mere man deny himself for the sake of his child or friend? and shall the Infinite Love refuse to sacrifice itself—­yea, even to as immense a humility as its greatness is immeasurable?  Shall we deny those merciful attributes to God which we acknowledge in His creature, Man?  O my Soul, rejoice that thou hast pierced the veil of the Beyond; that thou hast seen and known the Truth! that to thee is made clear the Reason of Life, and the Recompense of Death:  yet while rejoicing, grieve that thou art not fated to draw more than a few souls to the comfort thou hast thyself attained!”

Fascinated by the speaker’s voice and countenance, I listen, straining my ears to catch every word that falls from his lips.  He rises; he stands erect; he stretches out his hands as though in solemn entreaty.