The particular Hall of Learning of which I am about to write did not obtain its title through the ordinary appellation of a family sitting room, nor yet from the fact that it is inhabited by any one, but for the more impressive reason that the room itself has life. Not the organic life that pulsates through the open, creating in us an exuberance of physical buoyancy as we indraw the vital elements of the always living out of doors, but a subtle force of its own, potent and far reaching.
Our eminent scientist, Dr. Draper, whose photographic experiments led him to so many interesting discoveries in physics, declared that even the passing shadow must leave a trace that could be reproduced did we but know the proper processes. If this be so, what of the psychological tracings which all feel, but few realize, and fewer yet have ever analyzed? Are we satisfied in the most elaborate apartments? Has the decorator really pleased us when he has exhausted his ingenuity to produce high art effects? Or are we sensible of disappointment; of inadequacy; of a paralysis of the feeling that induces a desire for trees and flowers, and the living things of the outer world?
An American lady, conversing with a Japanese, is said to have congratulated that gentleman on his being a resident of a country where works of art abounded; "The beautiful bronzes! the carvings, etc." "Madam," the gentleman seriously responded, "happily in Japan we have passed the bric-a-brac age." A remark worthy of attention. An instant of thought will enable any one to admit that the wood, stone, metal and fabrics of our houses are but lifeless matter in different stages of decay; but the important fact, that these dead things are negatives, receiving and transmitting impressions which are perceptible to many other faculties than those of physical sight and touch, is far more difficult to appreciate. When the pictures, statues, grill work and hangings, approved by connoisseurs, leave us longing for we know not what, it is because the potent force of a high organism has not galvanized them with a meaning. Significant then are the rooms which we describe as cold, for it becomes apparent that they in reality are but tombs of the living dead — of those who yet are dead because their lives are purposeless, or occupied with worthless, deteriorating purposes.
Beginning just a little to realize the vital import of all existing things; awakening just a little to the high privileges and duties of a living being in a living world; thrilled a little by nobler resolves and loftier aspirations, I find, to my surprise, that the nook I call my home has many living words for me, and these, in their own progressive order, I gladly pass along.
Probably nearly every one has found it difficult at times to discriminate as to what benefits to accept and what to refuse. History is full of tragic incidents of both self-denial and self-gratification — travesties more often, either way. This problem my room solved for me, the solution becoming clear to my understanding with the initial lesson.
Securing quiet and pleasant accommodations after a trying experience that has aptly been called "herding," I allowed myself to indulge, during the first days of my occupancy in repeated sighs of gratulation and relief. Indeed, being decidedly of a luxurious temperament, I fairly revelled in the comforts of my new surroundings. Suddenly, with a start, I took myself to task. "What!" said some sickly ascetic, resident in my composition; "are you then only a selfish voluptuary that you take such delight in the gratification of the senses?" Influenced momentarily by the suggestion I bowed my head in confusion and inclined to do penance by trying to cancel the coveted lease and perchance even move into some forsaken attic. Then spoke the other incumbent, the pleasure loving aesthetic, whose present satisfaction vigorously resisted the influence drawing me atticwards. "Come, come. You have been deprived too long. Enjoy the situation or your unsatisfied longing for these fine things will cause you harm." So then temporarily I followed this advice; but the first imp would intrude, and then the second fiend would interfere again, and so I found no peace and followed neither, and the war waged hotly between the two, preventing all possibility of harmony between me and my habitation. The contest ended when that great equalizer of opposing forces, Common Sense, came to my relief with the command: "Accept all and consecrate all." I obeyed and at once became adjusted.
And then I soon discovered how a right thought vitally assists right living, for the whole apartment wherein the sacrifice was made reflected back the impulse. Returning to it sometimes weary and broken, jarred and irritated, a check was placed upon me. "Not here, this place is consecrated," and discords were left outside. So then it came about that to pass its threshold was to feel its peace and to cast aside all care. The next step of realization was therefore easy of accomplishment. It was this:
Our habitations are as much an expression of ourselves as are our bodies; lifeless of themselves, but animated by, and capable of participation in, the thought of the indwelling and inspiring entity. Only the quick can quicken inert material, and only those who recognize themselves as souls are quick. Impelled by a knowledge of its own sublime destiny, the soul, acting through a responsive body, causes all that comes within the radius of its influence to vibrate with the story of the divine in everything. Instead then of encasements for corpses, each home may become the temple of its living God, whether four walls narrowly encompass it, or the dimensions of a palace spread it broad.
How can gifts be consecrated except by truly consecrated beings? How can a great temple be erected, and of service to the world, except it may be placed at the center of many lesser temples? And is not each one whose life is dedicated to the welfare of the race already in the service of the Temple of Universal Brotherhood, although the Sacred Edifice has not yet been reared in stone.
And each such consecrated home, being truly a department of the central structure, should not the home maker strive to pattern after the Great Example as the enlightening imagination suggests the way? Assuredly I think she should.
Although the geometrical proportions, the outer and the inner courts, and the grand symbolism of the Temples of our ancient days, are, of course, unknown to us at present, yet the impulse to conform once more to that which we have known and loved, and which is soon to be restored to us, gives the fancy play enough to suggest many ways in which even now we may begin to imitate.
First of all it is but natural to conceive that from the Temple's center, the Holiest of Holies, there issued forth a great tone of joy, for Life was the subject of our worship in the ancient time, and Joy is Life. Pealing from thence its wondrous message of salvation to all that lived, its notes were heard alone within the sanctuary of the heart and, awakening there responsive echoes, each who heard gave forth in deep, glad tones its vibrant waves again.
Surely it is primarily essential that the genius, the ruling spirit of the Temple Home should be this note of joy; else there can be no light, no sweetness, no operative faith, for is it not the witness of the presence of the Lord of Life Himself?
Then it is easy to imagine that every line and curve of a structure — emblem of Universal Brotherhood — served, by its vital meaning, to elevate the consciousness far above the level of ordinary ways; a presentment in its architectural entirety of an ideal of the destiny of man and his divine possibilities of progression and perfection; a living magnet, calling all things to higher forms of manifestation.
Long time doubtless will be needed to change the prevalent commercial and pretentious style of architecture into closer conformity with this thought, but even now the common furniture of a room may become a little symphony of a life of devotion. All music, poetry and art depends upon the relation of component parts to each other, therefore the most ordinary articles may be so arranged as to convey beautiful lessons in proportion. Accepting the general definition of art as expression, we readily understand that the first requirement of the artist must be the possession of something to express. And as the attainment of an ideal compels words to assist the poet, pigments the painter, and any instrument the musician, so the noble impulse and clearly defined purpose of the true home maker will charge inanimate things until it almost seems that of themselves they find position, and stand in attitude of ready helpfulness, waiting to fulfill their part of a common scheme of work. When the present monotony of incongruity becomes thus broken, and each piece of furniture appears to be especially fitted to the particular work it occupies, then picture poems will be created in our habitations, musical compositions, what you will.
Again it will readily be admitted that the living influence of a great seat of spiritual learning depended upon its vital connections; its close touch everywhere with individuals and events, without which it could not have been established in separate existence. An expression of the collective self of the humanity of its time; at once a focal point and radiating center, it must both have fed and been sustained by radiant home centers that were integral parts and miniature reflections of itself. This great and universal benefaction it is our instant privilege to reproduce, and for it we must learn to live sympathetically, intelligently and with world-wide breadth.
And last it must needs be that the atmosphere of rest within the Temple's walls pervades the consecrated Home. An atmosphere which only can be created where all is unison with the central harmony; where perfect adjustment produces a grand repose of activity and all sense of effort loses itself in the sublime consciousness of power.
To such an ideal as this we may aspire. The possibility of its achievement is even now within our reach. In harmony with the Temple thought; its note of Joy resounding in our hearts; with singleness of purpose to dominate our lives, we ourselves become a self-centered point of adjustment with which all that belongs to us must accord.
Among the posthumous writings of a weary, high souled friend I found these lines:
"Recruited now and strong,
I'll bear my load.
Although the way be dark and long,
I'll tread the road."
Such a haven of rest as the Temple Home shall be will attract and send forth an innumerable company of these recruited ones, into whose lives a sustained calm has entered carrying refreshment, invigoration and inspiration for mightier effort. As to the Temple Fire — emblem of divine, eternal life — without it there could be no Temple Home. Consecrated to the highest destiny of which we can conceive, we seek and find that source of energy, the Soul. Such recognition is the vital spark which ignites the Sacred Flame, and its potential powers expanding, all that it contacts awakes to its own creative life. The "Sacred Woman," who thus knows herself, enters the Temple Home as its High Priestess and the Guardian of this Fire. Regarding nothing as insignificant, she prepares all things for the coming of the yet unborn, and then, self-reverent, awaits before the Altar the wondrous advent. Later, when her cares increase, she forgets not for one moment the high place to which she is assigned, and so she fails not to guide aright the immortal ones committed to her care. Nor do her benefactions stop at this. Dominated by her influence all lesser things must naturally find their own and proper place, that order and equilibrium may provide the channels for the dispensation of that mighty force she knows is resident in her. And so, transforming all she touches, her home becomes a center to attract, a point from which to radiate, in ever widening circles, that golden glory which causes all sterile places to blossom as the rose.