cold and still. What seems an individual and a will, is none. There
is an immense chain of intermediation, extending from center to
extremes, which bereaves every agency of all freedom and character.
The universe, in his poem, suffers under a magnetic sleep, and only
reflects the mind of the magnetizer. Every thought comes into each
mind by influence from a society of spirits that surround it, and into
these from a higher society, and so on. All his types mean the same
few things. All his figures speak one speech. All his interlocutors
Swedenborgize. Be they who they may, to this complexion must they come
at last. This Charon ferries them all over in his boat; kings,
counselors, cavaliers, doctors, Sir Isaac Newton, Sir Hans Sloane,
King George II., Mahomet, or whosoever, and all gather one grimness
of hue and style. Only when Cicero comes by, our gentle seer sticks
a little at saying he talked with Cicero, and, with a touch of human
relenting, remarks, "one whom it was given me to believe was Cicero;"
and when the _soi disant_ Roman opens his mouth, Rome and eloquence
have ebbed away,--it is plain theologic Swedenborg, like the rest. His
heavens and hells are dull; fault of want of individualism. The
thousand-fold relation of men is not there. The interest that attaches
in nature to each man, because he is right by his wrong, and wrong by
his right, because he defies all dogmatizing and classification, so
many allowances, and contingencies, and futurities, are to be taken
into account, strong by his vices, often paralyzed by his
virtues,--sinks into entire sympathy with his society. This want reacts
to the center of the system. Though the agency of "the Lord" is in
every line referred to by name, it never becomes alive. There is no
lustre in that eye which gazes from the center, and which should vivify
the immense dependency of beings.

The vice of Swedenborg's mind is its theologic determination. Nothing