I have certain things to say to the world.

Tell the friend who is so anxious lest I do you harm by writing with your hand that the matter was thoroughly threshed out on this side between the Teacher and me before it began to take form on your side.

Ordinary mediumship, where the organism of a more or less unhealthy person on earth is opened indiscriminately, for the entrance and obsession of any passing spirit, friendly or otherwise, is a very different proposition from this. 

Here I, who was your friend in the world, having passed beyond, reach back to instruct you from my greater knowledge on this side.

I am not making any opening in your nervous system through which irresponsible forces can enter and take possession of you. 

In fact, if any spirit, amiable or harmful, should make such an attempt, he would have to reckon with me, and I am not powerless. 

I know now, have both remembered and been taught, secrets by which I can protect you from what is generally known as mediumship. 

Furthermore, I advise you never, even at the urgent prayer of those whose loved ones have gone out—never to lend yourself to them. 

The wanderers, in the so-called invisible world, have no right to come and demand entrance through your organism, merely because it is so constituted that they could enter, any more than a street crowd would have the right to force its way into your home, merely because its members were curious, hungry or cold. 

Do not allow it. 

Permission was once given, yes; but the case was exceptional, and was not based on the personal desire or curiosity of anybody—not even yourself. 

I doubt if permission will ever be granted again.

Many things have changed since I began to write to you. 

At first, I used your hand and arm from the outside—sometimes, as you remember, with such force, as to make them lame the next day. 

Then, grown more familiar with the means at my disposal, I tried another method, and you noticed a change in the character of the writing. 

It began clumsily, with large and badly-formed characters, gradually becoming clearer, as my control of the instrument I was using was better established.

Now, for the last few times, I have used still another, and a third method. 

I enter your mind, putting myself in absolute telepathic rapport with your mind, impressing upon your mind itself the things I wish to say. 

In order to write in this way, you have to make yourself utterly passive, stilling all individual thought, and yielding yourself to my thought, but that is no more than you do every day in reading a fascinating book. 

You can give your mind to the author who leads you along, rapt and passive, by means of the printed page.

These experiments, in perfecting a way of communication, have been very interesting to me.

Tell your friend that I am not a child, nor a reckless experimentalist. 

Not only in my last life on earth, but in many former lives, I have been a student of the higher science, giving myself absolutely to truth, and the quest of truth. 

I have never wantonly used any human being to his or her detriment, and I certainly shall not begin with you—my true friend and student.

Nor shall I interfere in any way with your life or with your studies and work. 

The idea is nonsensical. 

While I walked the world on two feet, I was never considered a dangerous man. 

I have not changed my character merely by changing my clothes and putting on a lighter suit.

I have certain things to say to the world. 

At present, you are the only person who can act as amanuensis for me. 

This is neither my fault, nor yours. 

The question before us is not whether I want the letters written, or even whether you want to write them, but whether they will be beneficial to the world. 

I think they will. 

You think they may be. 

B— thinks that they are not only immensely valuable, but unique. 

So-and-so, and So-and-so, have doubts and fears. 

I cannot help that, nor can you.

Bless their hearts! 

Why should they be so anxious to bolt the doors behind me? 

I shall certainly not try to run their affairs for them from this side. 

They are equal to their job, or they would not be able to hold it. 

But this is quite a different job, which I have given myself, and you have kindly consented to help me.

You may not get much reward for your labour, save the shake of the wiseacres’ heads and their superior smiles and the suggestion of the more scientifically-inclined that I am your own subconscious mind. 

I shall not be offended by that hypothesis, nor need you.

Of course, you are not worried, for, if you were, I could not write. 

Your mind has to be placid, as a lake on a windless night, in order for me to write at all.

Give my love to them.