Lectures XVI and XVII

 

Mysticism

 

OVER and over again in these lectures I have raised points and left them open and unfinished until we should have come to the subject of Mysticism.  Some of you, I fear, may have smiled as you noted my reiterated postponements.  But now the hour has come when mysticism must be faced in good earnest, and those broken threads wound up together.  One may say truly, I think, that personal religious experience has its root and centre in mystical states of consciousness; so for us, who in these lectures are treating personal experience as the exclusive subject of our study, such states of consciousness ought to form the vital chapter from which the other chapters get their light.  Whether my treatment of mystical states will shed more light or darkness, I do not know, for my own constitution shuts me out from their enjoyment almost entirely, and I can speak of them only at second hand.  But though forced to look upon the subject so externally, I will be as objective and receptive as I can; and I think I shall at least succeed in convincing you of the reality of the states in question, and of the paramount importance of their function.

 

First of all, then, I ask, What does the expression "mystical states of consciousness" mean?  How do we part off mystical states from other states?

 

The words "mysticism" and "mystical" are often used as terms of mere reproach, to throw at any opinion which we regard as vague and vast and sentimental, and without a base in either facts or logic.  For some writers a "mystic" is any person who believes in thought-transference, or spirit-return.  Employed in this way the word has little value:  there are too many less ambiguous synonyms.  So, to keep it useful by restricting it, I will do what I did in the case of the word "religion," and simply propose to you four marks which, when an experience has them, may justify us in calling it mystical for the purpose of the present lectures. In this way we shall save verbal disputation, and the recriminations that generally go therewith.

 

1.  Ineffability.--The handiest of the marks by which I classify a state of mind as mystical is negative.  The subject of it immediately says that it defies expression, that no adequate report of its contents can be given in words.  It follows from this that its quality must be directly experienced; it cannot be imparted or transferred to others.  In this peculiarity mystical states are more like states of feeling than like states of intellect.  No one can make clear to another who has never had a certain feeling, in what the quality or worth of it consists.  One must have musical ears to know the value of a symphony; one must have been in love one's self to understand a lover's state of mind.  Lacking the heart or ear, we cannot interpret the musician or the lover justly, and are even likely to consider him weak-minded or absurd. The mystic finds that most of us accord to his experiences an equally incompetent treatment.

 

2.  Noetic quality.--Although so similar to states of feeling, mystical states seem to those who experience them to be also states of knowledge.  They are states of insight into depths of truth unplumbed by the discursive intellect.  They are illuminations, revelations, full of significance and importance, all inarticulate though they remain; and as a rule they carry with them a curious sense of authority for after-time.

 

These two characters will entitle any state to be called mystical, in the sense in which I use the word.  Two other qualities are less sharply marked, but are usually found. These are:--

 

3.  Transiency.--Mystical states cannot be sustained for long.  Except in rare instances, half an hour, or at most an hour or two, seems to be the limit beyond which they fade into the light of common day.  Often, when faded, their quality can but imperfectly be reproduced in memory; but when they recur it is recognized; and from one recurrence to another it is susceptible of continuous development in what is felt as inner richness and importance.

 

4.  Passivity.--Although the oncoming of mystical states may be facilitated by preliminary voluntary operations, as by fixing the attention, or going through certain bodily performances, or in other ways which manuals of mysticism prescribe; yet when the characteristic sort of consciousness once has set in, the mystic feels as if his own will were in abeyance, and indeed sometimes as if he were grasped and held by a superior power.  This latter peculiarity connects mystical states with certain definite phenomena of secondary or alternative personality, such as prophetic speech, automatic writing, or the mediumistic trance.  When these latter conditions are well pronounced, however, there may be no recollection whatever of the phenomenon, and it may have no significance for the subject's usual inner life, to which, as it were, it makes a mere interruption.  Mystical states, strictly so-called, are never merely interruptive.  Some memory of their content always remains, and a profound sense of their importance.  They modify the inner life of the subject between the times of their recurrence.  Sharp divisions in this region are, however, difficult to make, and we find all sorts of gradations and mixtures.

 

These four characteristics are sufficient to mark out a group of states of consciousness peculiar enough to deserve a special name and to call for careful study.  Let it then be called the mystical group.   Our next step should be to gain acquaintance with some typical examples.  Professional mystics at the height of their development have often elaborately organized experiences and a philosophy based thereupon.  But you remember what I said in my first lecture:  phenomena are best understood when placed within their series, studied in their germ and in their over-ripe decay, and compared with their exaggerated and degenerated kindred.  The range of mystical experience is very wide, much too wide for us to cover in the time at our disposal.  Yet the method of serial study is so essential for interpretation that if we really wish to reach conclusions we must use it.  I will begin, therefore, with phenomena which claim no special religious significance, and end with those of which the religious pretensions are extreme.

 

The simplest rudiment of mystical experience would seem to be that deepened sense of the significance of a maxim or formula which occasionally sweeps over one. "I've heard that said all my life," we exclaim, "but I never realized its full meaning until now."  "When a fellow-monk," said Luther, "one day repeated the words of the Creed:  'I believe in the forgiveness of sins,' I saw the Scripture in an entirely new light; and straightway I felt as if I were born anew.  It was as if I had found the door of paradise thrown wide open."[226] This sense of deeper significance is not confined to rational propositions.  Single words,[227] and conjunctions of words, effects of light on land and sea, odors and musical sounds, all bring it when the mind is tuned aright.  Most of us can remember the strangely moving power of passages in certain poems read when we were young, irrational doorways as they were through which the mystery of fact, the wildness and the pang of life, stole into our hearts and thrilled them.  The words have now perhaps become mere polished surfaces for us; but lyric poetry and music are alive and significant only in proportion as they fetch these vague vistas of a life continuous with our own, beckoning and inviting, yet ever eluding our pursuit.  We are alive or dead to the eternal inner message of the arts according as we have kept or lost this mystical susceptibility.

 

[226] Newman's Securus judicat orbis terrarum is another instance.

 

[227] "Mesopotamia" is the stock comic instance.--An excellent Old German lady, who had done some traveling in her day, used to describe to me her Sehnsucht that she might yet visit "Philadelphia," whose wondrous name had always haunted her imagination.  Of John Foster it is said that "single words (as chalcedony), or the names of ancient heroes, had a mighty fascination over him.  'At any time the word hermit was enough to transport him.' The words woods and forests would produce the most powerful emotion."  Foster's Life, by Ryland, New York, 1846, p. 3.

 

 

 

A more pronounced step forward on the mystical ladder is found in an extremely frequent phenomenon, that sudden feeling, namely, which sometimes sweeps over us, of having "been here before," as if at some indefinite past time, in just this place, with just these people, we were already saying just these things.  As Tennyson writes:

 

     "Moreover, something is or seems       That touches me with mystic gleams,       Like glimpses of forgotten dreams--

 

     "Of something felt, like something here;       Of something done, I know not where;       Such as no language may declare."[228]

 

[228] The Two Voices.  In a letter to Mr. B. P. Blood, Tennyson reports of himself as follows:--

 

"I have never had any revelations through anaesthetics, but a kind of waking trance--this for lack of a better word--I have frequently had, quite up from boyhood, when I have been all alone.  This has come upon me through repeating my own name to myself silently, till all at once, as it were out of the intensity of the consciousness of individuality, individuality itself seemed to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, and this not a confused state but the clearest, the surest of the surest, utterly beyond words--where death was an almost laughable impossibility--the loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no extinction, but the only true life.  I am ashamed of my feeble description.  Have I not said the state is utterly beyond words?"  Professor Tyndall, in a letter, recalls Tennyson saying of this condition:  "By God Almighty! there is no delusion in the matter! It is no nebulous ecstasy, but a state of transcendent wonder, associated with absolute clearness of mind."  Memoirs of Alfred Tennyson, ii. 473.

 

 

 

Sir James Crichton-Browne has given the technical name of "dreamy states" to these sudden invasions of vaguely reminiscent consciousness.[229] They bring a sense of mystery and of the metaphysical duality of things, and the feeling of an enlargement of perception which seems imminent but which never completes itself.  In Dr. Crichton-Browne's opinion they connect themselves with the perplexed and scared disturbances of self-consciousness which occasionally precede epileptic attacks.  I think that this learned alienist takes a rather absurdly alarmist view of an intrinsically insignificant phenomenon.  He follows it along the downward ladder, to insanity; our path pursues the upward ladder chiefly.  The divergence shows how important it is to neglect no part of a phenomenon's connections, for we make it appear admirable or dreadful according to the context by which we set it off.

 

[229] The Lancet, July 6 and 13, 1895, reprinted as the Cavendish Lecture, on Dreamy Mental States, London, Bailliere, 1895.  They have been a good deal discussed of late by psychologists.  See, for example, Bernard-Leroy:  L'Illusion de Fausse Reconnaissance, Paris, 1898.

 

 

 

Somewhat deeper plunges into mystical consciousness are met with in yet other dreamy states.  Such feelings as these which Charles Kingsley describes are surely far from being uncommon, especially in youth:--

 

"When I walk the fields, I am oppressed now and then with an innate feeling that everything I see has a meaning, if I could but understand it.  And this feeling of being surrounded with truths which I cannot grasp amounts to indescribable awe sometimes. . . .  Have you not felt that your real soul was imperceptible to your mental vision, except in a few hallowed moments?"[230]

 

[230] Charles Kingsley's Life, i. 55, quoted by Inge:  Christian Mysticism, London, 1899, p. 341.

 

 

 

A much more extreme state of mystical consciousness is described by J. A. Symonds; and probably more persons than we suspect could give parallels to it from their own experience.

 

"Suddenly," writes Symonds, "at church, or in company, or when I was reading, and always, I think, when my muscles were at rest, I felt the approach of the mood.  Irresistibly it took possession of my mind and will, lasted what seemed an eternity, and disappeared in a series of rapid sensations which resembled the awakening from anaesthetic influence.  One reason why I disliked this kind of trance was that I could not describe it to myself. I cannot even now find words to render it intelligible.  It consisted in a gradual but swiftly progressive obliteration of space, time, sensation, and the multitudinous factors of experience which seem to qualify what we are pleased to call our Self. In proportion as these conditions of ordinary consciousness were subtracted, the sense of an underlying or essential consciousness acquired intensity.  At last nothing remained but a pure, absolute, abstract Self.  The universe became without form and void of content.  But Self persisted, formidable in its vivid keenness, feeling the most poignant doubt about reality, ready, as it seemed, to find existence break as breaks a bubble round about it.  And what then?  The apprehension of a coming dissolution, the grim conviction that this state was the last state of the conscious Self, the sense that I had followed the last thread of being to the verge of the abyss, and had arrived at demonstration of eternal Maya or illusion, stirred or seemed to stir me up again.  The return to ordinary conditions of sentient existence began by my first recovering the power of touch, and then by the gradual though rapid influx of familiar impressions and diurnal interests.  At last I felt myself once more a human being; and though the riddle of what is meant by life remained unsolved I was thankful for this return from the abyss--this deliverance from so awful an initiation into the mysteries of skepticism.

 

"This trance recurred with diminishing frequency until I reached the age of twenty-eight.  It served to impress upon my growing nature the phantasmal unreality of all the circumstances which contribute to a merely phenomenal consciousness. Often have I asked myself with anguish, on waking from that formless state of denuded, keenly sentient being, Which is the unreality--the trance of fiery, vacant, apprehensive, skeptical Self from which I issue, or these surrounding phenomena and habits which veil that inner Self and build a self of flesh-and- blood conventionality?  Again, are men the factors of some dream, the dream-like unsubstantiality of which they comprehend at such eventful moments?  What would happen if the final stage of the trance were reached?"[231]

 

[231] H. F. Brown:  J. A. Symonds. a Biography, London, 1895, pp. 29-31, abridged.

 

 

 

In a recital like this there is certainly something suggestive of pathology.[232]  The next step into mystical states carries us into a realm that public opinion and ethical philosophy have long since branded as pathological, though private practice and certain lyric strains of poetry seem still to bear witness to its ideality.  I refer to the consciousness produced by intoxicants and anaesthetics, especially by alcohol.  The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour.  Sobriety diminishes, discriminates, and says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes.  It is in fact the great exciter of the YES function in man.  It brings its votary from the chill periphery of things to the radiant core.  It makes him for the moment one with truth.  Not through mere perversity do men run after it.  To the poor and the unlettered it stands in the place of symphony concerts and of literature; and it is part of the deeper mystery and tragedy of life that whiffs and gleams of something that we immediately recognize as excellent should be vouchsafed to so many of us only in the fleeting earlier phases of what in its totality is so degrading a poisoning.  The drunken consciousness is one bit of the mystic consciousness, and our total opinion of it must find its place in our opinion of that larger whole.

 

[232] Crichton-Browne expressly says that Symonds's "highest nerve centres were in some degree enfeebled or damaged by these dreamy mental states which afflicted him so grievously."    Symonds was, however, a perfect monster of many-sided cerebral efficiency, and his critic gives no objective grounds whatever for his strange opinion, save that Symonds complained occasionally, as all susceptible and ambitious men complain, of lassitude and uncertainty as to his life's mission.

 

 

 

Nitrous oxide and ether, especially nitrous oxide, when sufficiently diluted with air, stimulate the mystical consciousness in an extraordinary degree.  Depth beyond depth of truth seems revealed to the inhaler.  This truth fades out, however, or escapes, at the moment of coming to; and if any words remain over in which it seemed to clothe itself, they prove to be the veriest nonsense.  Nevertheless, the sense of a profound meaning having been there persists; and I know more than one person who is persuaded that in the nitrous oxide trance we have a genuine metaphysical revelation.

 

Some years ago I myself made some observations on this aspect of nitrous oxide intoxication, and reported them in print.  One conclusion was forced upon my mind at that time, and my impression of its truth has ever since remained unshaken.  It is that our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different.  We may go through life without suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus, and at a touch they are there in all their completeness, definite types of mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application and adaptation.  No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded.  How to regard them is the question--for they are so discontinuous with ordinary consciousness.  Yet they may determine attitudes though they cannot furnish formulas, and open a region though they fail to give a map. At any rate, they forbid a premature closing of our accounts with reality.  Looking back on my own experiences, they all converge towards a kind of insight to which I cannot help ascribing some metaphysical significance.  The keynote of it is invariably a reconciliation.  It is as if the opposites of the world, whose contradictoriness and conflict make all our difficulties and troubles, were melted into unity.  Not only do they, as contrasted species, belong to one and the same genus, but one of the species, the nobler and better one, is itself the genus, and so soaks up and absorbs its opposite into itself.  This is a dark saying, I know, when thus expressed in terms of common logic, but I cannot wholly escape from its authority. I feel as if it must mean something, something like what the hegelian philosophy means, if one could only lay hold of it more clearly.  Those who have ears to hear, let them hear; to me the living sense of its reality only comes in the artificial mystic state of mind.[233]

 

[233] What reader of Hegel can doubt that that sense of a perfected Being with all its otherness soaked up into itself, which dominates his whole philosophy, must have come from the prominence in his consciousness of mystical moods like this, in most persons kept subliminal?  The notion is thoroughly characteristic of the mystical level and the Aufgabe of making it articulate was surely set to Hegel's intellect by mystical feeling.

 

 

 

I just now spoke of friends who believe in the anaesthetic revelation.  For them too it is a monistic insight, in which the OTHER in its various forms appears absorbed into the One.

 

"Into this pervading genius," writes one of them, "we pass, forgetting and forgotten, and thenceforth each is all, in God. There is no higher, no deeper, no other, than the life in which we are founded.  'The One remains, the many change and pass;' and each and every one of us IS the One that remains. . . . This is the ultimatum. . . .  As sure as being--whence is all our care--so sure is content, beyond duplexity, antithesis, or trouble, where I have triumphed in a solitude that God is not above."[234]

 

[234] Benjamin Paul Blood:  The Anaesthetic Revelation and the Gist of Philosophy, Amsterdam, N. Y., 1874, pp. 35, 36.  Mr. Blood has made several attempts to adumbrate the anaesthetic revelation, in pamphlets of rare literary distinction, privately printed and distributed by himself at Amsterdam.  Xenos Clark, a philosopher, who died young at Amherst in the '80's, much lamented by those who knew him, was also impressed by the revelation.  "In the first place," he once wrote to me, "Mr. Blood and I agree that the revelation is, if anything non-emotional.  It is utterly flat.  It is, as Mr. Blood says, 'the one sole and sufficient insight why, or not why, but how, the present is pushed on by the past, and sucked forward by the vacuity of the future.  Its inevitableness defeats all attempts at stopping or accounting for it.  It is all precedence and presupposition, and questioning is in regard to it forever too late.  It is an initiation of the past.' The real secret would be the formula by which the 'now' keeps exfoliating out of itself, yet never escapes.  What is it, indeed, that keeps existence exfoliating?  The formal being of anything, the logical definition of it, is static.  For mere logic every question contains its own answer--we simply fill the hole with the dirt we dug out.  Why are twice two four?  Because, in fact, four is twice two.  Thus logic finds in life no propulsion, only a momentum.  It goes because it is a-going. But the revelation adds:  it goes because it is and WAS a-going.  You walk, as it were, round yourself in the revelation.  Ordinary philosophy is like a hound hunting his own tail.  The more he hunts the farther he has to go, and his nose never catches up with his heels, because it is forever ahead of them.  So the present is already a foregone conclusion, and I am ever too late to understand it.  But at the moment of recovery from anaesthesis, just then, BEFORE STARTING ON LIFE, I catch, so to speak, a glimpse of my heels, a glimpse of the eternal process just in the act of starting.  The truth is that we travel on a journey that was accomplished before we set out; and the real end of philosophy is accomplished, not when we arrive at, but when we remain in, our destination (being already there)--which may occur vicariously in this life when we cease our intellectual questioning. That is why there is a smile upon the face of the revelation, as we view it.  It tells us that we are forever half a second too late-- that's all.  'You could kiss your own lips, and have all the fun to yourself,' it says, if you only knew the trick.  It would be perfectly easy if they would just stay there till you got round to them. Why don't you manage it somehow?"

 

 

 

Dialectically minded readers of this farrago will at least recognize the region of thought of which Mr. Clark writes, as familiar.  In his latest pamphlet, "Tennyson's Trances and the Anaesthetic Revelation," Mr. Blood describes its value for life as follows:--

 

"The Anaesthetic Revelation is the Initiation of Man into the Immemorial Mystery of the Open Secret of Being, revealed as the Inevitable Vortex of Continuity.  Inevitable is the word.  Its motive is inherent--it is what has to be.  It is not for any love or hate, nor for joy nor sorrow, nor good nor ill.  End, beginning, or purpose, it knows not of.

 

"It affords no particular of the multiplicity and variety of things but it fills appreciation of the historical and the sacred with a secular and intimately personal illumination of the nature and motive of existence, which then seems reminiscent--as if it should have appeared, or shall yet appear, to every participant thereof.

 

"Although it is at first startling in its solemnity, it becomes directly such a matter of course--so old-fashioned, and so akin to proverbs that it inspires exultation rather than fear, and a sense of safety, as identified with the aboriginal and the universal.  But no words may express the imposing certainty of the patient that he is realizing the primordial, Adamic surprise of Life.

 

"Repetition of the experience finds it ever the same, and as if it could not possibly be otherwise.  The subject resumes his normal consciousness only to partially and fitfully remember its occurrence, and to try to formulate its baffling import--with only this consolatory afterthought:  that he has known the oldest truth, and that he has done with human theories as to the origin, meaning, or destiny of the race.  He is beyond instruction in 'spiritual things.'

 

"The lesson is one of central safety:  the Kingdom is within.  All days are judgment days:  but there can be no climacteric purpose of eternity, nor any scheme of the whole.  The astronomer abridges the row of bewildering figures by increasing his unit of measurement: so may we reduce the distracting multiplicity of things to the unity for which each of us stands.

 

"This has been my moral sustenance since I have known of it.  In my first printed mention of it I declared:  'The world is no more the alien terror that was taught me.  Spurning the cloud-grimed and still sultry battlements whence so lately Jehovan thunders boomed, my gray gull lifts her wing against the nightfall, and takes the dim leagues with a fearless eye.' And now, after twenty-seven years of this experience, the wing is grayer, but the eye is fearless still, while I renew and doubly emphasize that declaration.  I know--as having known--the meaning of Existence:  the sane centre of the universe-- at once the wonder and the assurance of the soul--for which the speech of reason has as yet no name but the Anaesthetic Revelation." --I have considerably abridged the quotation.

 

This has the genuine religious mystic ring! I just now quoted J. A. Symonds.  He also records a mystical experience with chloroform, as follows:--

 

'After the choking and stifling had passed away, I seemed at first in a state of utter blankness; then came flashes of intense light, alternating with blackness, and with a keen vision of what was going on in the room around me, but no sensation of touch. I thought that I was near death; when, suddenly, my soul became aware of God, who was manifestly dealing with me, handling me, so to speak, in an intense personal present reality.  I felt him streaming in like light upon me. . . .  I cannot describe the ecstasy I felt.  Then, as I gradually awoke from the influence of the anaesthetics, the old sense of my relation to the world began to return, the new sense of my relation to God began to fade.  I suddenly leapt to my feet on the chair where I was sitting, and shrieked out, 'It is too horrible, it is too horrible, it is too horrible,' meaning that I could not bear this disillusionment. Then I flung myself on the ground, and at last awoke covered with blood, calling to the two surgeons (who were frightened), 'Why did you not kill me?  Why would you not let me die?' Only think of it.  To have felt for that long dateless ecstasy of vision the very God, in all purity and tenderness and truth and absolute love, and then to find that I had after all had no revelation, but that I had been tricked by the abnormal excitement of my brain.

 

"Yet, this question remains, Is it possible that the inner sense of reality which succeeded, when my flesh was dead to impressions from without, to the ordinary sense of physical relations, was not a delusion but an actual experience?  Is it possible that I, in that moment, felt what some of the saints have said they always felt, the undemonstrable but irrefragable certainty of God?"[235]

 

[235] Op. cit., pp. 78-80, abridged.  I subjoin, also abridging it, another interesting anaesthetic revelation communicated to me in manuscript by a friend in England.  The subject, a gifted woman, was taking ether for a surgical operation.

 

"I wondered if I was in a prison being tortured, and why I remembered having heard it said that people 'learn through suffering,' and in view of what I was seeing, the inadequacy of this saying struck me so much that I said, aloud, 'to suffer IS to learn.'

 

"With that I became unconscious again, and my last dream immediately preceded my real coming to.  It only lasted a few seconds, and was most vivid and real to me, though it may not be clear in words.

 

"A great Being or Power was traveling through the sky, his foot was on a kind of lightning as a wheel is on a rail, it was his pathway.  The lightning was made entirely of the spirits of innumerable people close to one another, and I was one of them.  He moved in a straight line, and each part of the streak or flash came into its short conscious existence only that he might travel.  I seemed to be directly under the foot of God, and I thought he was grinding his own life up out of my pain.  Then I saw that what he had been trying with all his might to do was to CHANGE HIS COURSE, to BEND the line of lightning to which he was tied, in the direction in which he wanted to go.  I felt my flexibility and helplessness, and knew that he would succeed. He bended me, turning his corner by means of my hurt, hurting me more than I had ever been hurt in my life, and at the acutest point of this, as he passed, I SAW.  I understood for a moment things that I have now forgotten, things that no one could remember while retaining sanity.  The angle was an obtuse angle, and I remember thinking as I woke that had he made it a right or acute angle, I should have both suffered and 'seen' still more, and should probably have died.

 

"He went on and I came to.  In that moment the whole of my life passed before me, including each little meaningless piece of distress, and I UNDERSTOOD them.  THIS was what it had all meant, THIS was the piece of work it had all been contributing to do.  I did not see God's purpose, I only saw his intentness and his entire relentlessness towards his means.  He thought no more of me than a man thinks of hurting a cork when he is opening wine, or hurting a cartridge when he is firing.  And yet, on waking, my first feeling was, and it came with tears, 'Domine non sum digna,' for I had been lifted into a position for which I was too small.  I realized that in that half hour under ether I had served God more distinctly and purely than I had ever done in my life before, or than I am capable of desiring to do.  I was the means of his achieving and revealing something, I know not what or to whom, and that, to the exact extent of my capacity for suffering.

 

"While regaining consciousness, I wondered why, since I had gone so deep, I had seen nothing of what the saints call the LOVE of God, nothing but his relentlessness.  And then I heard an answer, which I could only just catch, saying, 'Knowledge and Love are One, and the MEASURE is suffering'--I give the words as they came to me. With that I came finally to (into what seemed a dream world compared with the reality of what I was leaving), and I saw that what would be called the 'cause' of my experience was a slight operation under insufficient ether, in a bed pushed up against a window, a common city window in a common city street.  If I had to formulate a few of the things I then caught a glimpse of, they would run somewhat as follows:--

 

"The eternal necessity of suffering and its eternal vicariousness. The veiled and incommunicable nature of the worst sufferings;--the passivity of genius, how it is essentially instrumental and defenseless, moved, not moving, it must do what it does;--the impossibility of discovery without its price;--finally, the excess of what the suffering 'seer' or genius pays over what his generation gains.  (He seems like one who sweats his life out to earn enough to save a district from famine, and just as he staggers back, dying and satisfied, bringing a lac of rupees to buy grain with, God lifts the lac away, dropping ONE rupee, and says, 'That you may give them.  That you have earned for them.  The rest is for ME.') I perceived also in a way never to be forgotten, the excess of what we see over what we can demonstrate.

 

"And so on!--these things may seem to you delusions, or truisms; but for me they are dark truths, and the power to put them into even such words as these has been given me by an ether dream."

 

 

 

With this we make connection with religious mysticism pure and simple.  Symonds's question takes us back to those examples which you will remember my quoting in the lecture on the Reality of the Unseen, of sudden realization of the immediate presence of God.  The phenomenon in one shape or another is not uncommon.

 

"I know," writes Mr. Trine, "an officer on our police force who has told me that many times when off duty, and on his way home in the evening, there comes to him such a vivid and vital realization of his oneness with this Infinite Power, and this Spirit of Infinite Peace so takes hold of and so fills him, that it seems as if his feet could hardly keep to the pavement, so buoyant and so exhilarated does he become by reason of this inflowing tide."[236]

 

[236] In Tune with the Infinite, p. 137.

 

 

 

Certain aspects of nature seem to have a peculiar power of awakening such mystical moods.[237] Most of the striking cases which I have collected have occurred out of doors.  Literature has commemorated this fact in many passages of great beauty--this extract, for example, from Amiel's Journal Intime:--

 

[237] The larger God may then swallow up the smaller one.  I take this from Starbuck's manuscript collection:--

 

"I never lost the consciousness of the presence of God until I stood at the foot of the Horseshoe Falls, Niagara.  Then I lost him in the immensity of what I saw.  I also lost myself, feeling that I was an atom too small for the notice of Almighty God."

 

I subjoin another similar case from Starbuck's collection:--

 

"In that time the consciousness of God's nearness came to me sometimes.  I say God, to describe what is indescribable.  A presence, I might say, yet that is too suggestive of personality, and the moments of which I speak did not hold the consciousness of a personality, but something in myself made me feel myself a part of something bigger than I, that was controlling.  I felt myself one with the grass, the trees, birds, insects, everything in Nature.  I exulted in the mere fact of existence, of being a part of it all--the drizzling rain, the shadows of the clouds, the tree-trunks, and so on.  In the years following, such moments continued to come, but I wanted them constantly.  I knew so well the satisfaction of losing self in a perception of supreme power and love, that I was unhappy because that perception was not constant." The cases quoted in my third lecture, pp. 65, 66, 69, are still better ones of this type.  In her essay, The Loss of Personality, in The Atlantic Monthly (vol. lxxxv. p. 195), Miss Ethel D. Puffer explains that the vanishing of the sense of self, and the feeling of immediate unity with the object, is due to the disappearance, in these rapturous experiences, of the motor adjustments which habitually intermediate between the constant background of consciousness (which is the Self) and the object in the foreground, whatever it may be.  I must refer the reader to the highly instructive article, which seems to me to throw light upon the psychological conditions, though it fails to account for the rapture or the revelation-value of the experience in the Subject's eyes.

 

"Shall I ever again have any of those prodigious reveries which sometimes came to me in former days?  One day, in youth, at sunrise, sitting in the ruins of the castle of Faucigny; and again in the mountains, under the noonday sun, above Lavey, lying at the foot of a tree and visited by three butterflies; once more at night upon the shingly shore of the Northern Ocean, my back upon the sand and my vision ranging through the Milky Way;--such grand and spacious, immortal, cosmogonic reveries, when one reaches to the stars, when one owns the infinite!  Moments divine, ecstatic hours; in which our thought flies from world to world, pierces the great enigma, breathes with a respiration broad, tranquil, and deep as the respiration of the ocean, serene and limitless as the blue firmament; . . . instants of irresistible intuition in which one feels one's self great as the universe, and calm as a god. . . .  What hours, what memories! The vestiges they leave behind are enough to fill us with belief and enthusiasm, as if they were visits of the Holy Ghost."[238]

 

[238] Op cit., i. 43-44

 

 

 

Here is a similar record from the memoirs of that interesting German idealist, Malwida von Meysenbug:--

 

"I was alone upon the seashore as all these thoughts flowed over me, liberating and reconciling; and now again, as once before in distant days in the Alps of Dauphine, I was impelled to kneel down, this time before the illimitable ocean, symbol of the Infinite.  I felt that I prayed as I had never prayed before, and knew now what prayer really is:  to return from the solitude of individuation into the consciousness of unity with all that is, to kneel down as one that passes away, and to rise up as one  imperishable.