But, what if the healer be morally diseased? The consequences may be infinitely more mischievous; for it is easier to cure a bodily disease than cleanse a constitution infected with moral turpitude. The mystery of Morzine, Cevennes, and that of the Jansenists, is still as great a mystery for physiologists as for psychologists. If the gift of prophecy, as well as hysteria and convulsions, can be imparted by “infection,” why not every vice? The healer, in such a case, conveys to his patient — who is now his victim — the moral poison that infects his own mind and heart. His magnetic touch is defilement; his glance, profanation. Against this insidious taint, there is no protection for the passively-receptive subject. The healer holds him under his power, spell-bound and powerless, as the serpent holds a poor, weak bird. The evil that one such “healing medium” can effect is incalculably great; and such healers there are by the hundred.

But, as we have said before, there are real and God-like healers, who, notwithstanding all the malice and skepticism of their bigoted opponents,

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have become famous in the world’s history. Such are the Cure d’Ars, of Lyons, Jacob, and Newton. Such, also, were Gassner, the clergyman of Klorstele, and the well-known Valentine Greatrakes, the ignorant and poor Irishman, who was endorsed by the celebrated Robert Boyle, President of the Royal Society of London, in 1670. In 1870, he would have been sent to Bedlam, in company with other healers, if another president of the same society had had the disposal of the case, or Professor Lankester would have “summoned” him under the Vagrant Act for practicing upon Her Majesty’s subjects “by palmistry or otherwise.”

But, to close a list of witnesses which might be extended indefinitely, it will suffice to say that, from first to last, from Pythagoras down to Eliphas Levi, from highest to humblest, every one teaches that the magical power is never possessed by those addicted to vicious indulgences. Only the pure in heart “see God,” or exercise divine gifts — only such can heal the ills of the body, and allow themselves, with relative security, to be guided by the “invisible powers.” Such only can give peace to the disturbed spirits of their brothers and sisters, for the healing waters come from no poisonous source; grapes do not grow on thorns, and thistles bear no figs. But, for all this, “magic has nothing supernal in it”; it is a science, and even the power of “casting out devils” was a branch of it, of which the Initiates made a special study. “That skill which expels demons out of human bodies, is a science useful and sanative to men,” says Josephus.

The foregoing sketches are sufficient to show why we hold fast to the wisdom of the ages, in preference to any new theories that may have been hatched from the occurrences of our later days, respecting the laws of intermundane intercourse and the occult powers of man. While phenomena of a physical nature may have their value as a means of arousing the interest of materialists, and confirming, if not wholly, at least inferentially, our belief in the survival of our souls and spirits, it is questionable whether, under their present aspect, the modern phenomena are not doing more harm than good. Many minds, hungering after proofs of immortality, are fast falling into fanaticism; and, as Stow remarks, “fanatics are governed rather by imagination than judgment.”

Undoubtedly, believers in the modern phenomena can claim for themselves a diversity of endowments, but the “discerning of spirits” is evidently absent from this catalogue of “spiritual” gifts. Speaking of the “Diakka,” whom he one fine morning had discovered in a shady corner of the “Summer Land,” A. J. Davis, the great American seer, remarks: “A Diakka is one who takes insane delight in playing parts, in juggling

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tricks, in personating opposite characters; to whom prayer and profane utterances are of equi-value; surcharged with a passion for lyrical narrations; . . . morally deficient, he is without the active feelings of justice, philanthropy, or tender affection. He knows nothing of what men call the sentiment of gratitude; the ends of hate and love are the same to him; his motto is often fearful and terrible to others — SELF is the whole of private living, and exalted annihilation the end of all private life. Only yesterday, one said to a lady medium, signing himself Swedenborg, this: ‘Whatsoever is, has been, will be, or may be, that I AM; and private life is but the aggregative phantasms of thinking throblets, rushing in their rising onward to the central heart of eternal death!’ “